AT THE GREAT HOUSE.
WHEN I returned to Suffolk House, which I took care to do in good
season, I bestowed my book of the New Testament in my room, and the
next morning I carried it to Mistress Patience, who received it with
real pleasure. I read to her a little in the beginning of St. Matthew's
Gospel, and left her turning over the leaves and spelling out a verse
here and there. She would by no means take back the price of the book,
but bade me bestow it in charity, if I would not spend it for mine own
pleasure.
It was still early, when I went down stairs. I carried with me two
books, one of songs, the other of lessons for the organ, which Master
Hall had given me. I was playing one of these lessons with great pains,
and stopping now and then, for it was somewhat difficult, when I heard
the door open. Supposing it might be Mistress Mandeville, I did not
speak till I had finished my lesson; when I said, without looking round:
"There, Mistress Mandeville, how do you like that?" (We were always
good friends, though never were two women who had less in common.)
"It is not Mistress Mandeville, but I like it very much, indeed!" said
a pleasant voice.
And, turning quickly, I beheld a young lady whom I had never seen
before. She was, at that time, about fourteen, very pretty, even at
that unformed age, with the yellow gold hair of her Tudor race, a fair
complexion and merry eyes, which had yet a spark in them promising a
choleric disposition, if it were not checked in time. I guessed at once
she was Lady Frances Brandon, the Duke's youngest daughter, and was in
some confusion.
"Nay, do not rise, but play me something else," said she. "I suppose
you are my mother's new gentlewoman, of whom I have heard?"
"Yes, madam."
"And I am Lady Frances, and I love music above all things," said she.
"I never heard any woman touch the organ as you do. I like it far
better than spinet or clavichord, or any of their race, don't you?"
I told her yes, for sacred and solemn music, but for that which was
lighter in character, I preferred the clavichord. She bade me play
something else, and I obeyed, not knowing what else to do. She stood by
in silence, drinking in the sounds with that fixed attention which is
so flattering to the performer, and shows the real lover of music. Then
I ventured to ask her if she did not play herself?
"Oh, yes, a little, but not like you. I shall ask my mother to let you
give me lessons."
Then, at my asking, she sat down to the virginal and played a simple
lesson, not very accurately, but with true feeling.
"There, what say you?" when she had finished. "Shall I ever make a
player?"
"I see no reason why you should not," I answered. "You have but to
cultivate correctness in tone and touch to make a very good player, but
these last are essential."
She colored a little, and then said, with a half laugh:
"You are no courtier, Mistress—Corbet—you should have praised my
playing to the skies, and sworn that you were listening to the music of
the spheres. That is what I am used to."
"Perhaps that is the trouble with your playing," I could not forbear
saying; whereat she laughed again.
"Worse and worse. Why you are downright Dunstable with a witness; but I
like you all the better," she added. "I think you and I shall be good
friends. Say, Mistress Corbet, will you give me lessons on the organ?"
"Surely, Lady Frances, if your mother is willing," said I. "It must be
as she says, you know."
"Of course. Do you know, Mistress Corbet, a lady tried to make me
think I owed no obedience to my step-dame, because the king is mine
uncle—what do you think?"
"I think you are the most imprudent young lady that ever talked to a
stranger," was my thought, but I said—
"I am not the proper person to advise you, my Lady Frances, but if you
will know what mine opinion is, I think that the precept—'Children obey
your parents in the Lord,' comes from one greater than all the kings
and princes of the earth. I think also that any young maid, gentle or
simple, might be thankful to have such a step-dame as my mistress."
"And so do I," she answered warmly. "And I won't be set against her by
any of them."
At this moment the door was opened by a severe-looking lady whom I had
never seen before. Starch was not used in those days, or I might think
she had been fed on nothing else since she was born, so stiffly did she
carry herself.
"My Lady Frances, what are you doing here?" said she, in that kind of
tone which excites rebellion in the heart of the best child that ever
lived. "Methinks you forget what is due to your rank in talking thus
familiarly with this—you are her Grace's chamber-woman if I mistake
not!" she added, turning to me in a way that made her words a downright
insult.
I simply courtesied.
"How do you know whether I was talking familiarly or not?" demanded
Lady Frances, saucily enough. "Were you at your old trick of
eavesdropping?"
The gouvernante, for such she was, colored through all her rouge and
powder, but she deigned no reply, save to bid Lady Frances follow her.
But I think she kept her not long, for when I went to my mistress, I
found Lady Frances kneeling by her side, playing with the tassels of
her girdle and coaxingly preferring some request.
"So, Mistress Corbet, what mischief have you and this child been
hatching up between you?" asked her Grace. "Here she is begging and
beseeching that you may give her lessons, she having, as she says,
fallen in love with your playing. What say you? Will you take such
a troublesome office upon yourself as the instruction of a perverse
child?" she added, pulling her step-daughter's ear.
I told her I would willingly give Lady Frances all the help in my power
if her Grace could spare me the time.
"Well, well, my Frances, we will talk to your father, and see what he
has to say. But mind, Loveday, I am to have you to read aloud to me,
and attend me on the water all the same. 'Tis sheer cruelty to take
poor Mandeville into a boat."
I could not but think my time was likely to be fully occupied, but I
never was afraid of work.
By degrees, I drifted more and more into the position of governess to
my Lady Frances. My Lady Challoner, who had never got on well with
her charge—I never saw the human being that liked her—went away, and
another elderly lady, Mrs. Wardour, the widow of a brave soldier, took
her place. She was a very discreet lady, who knew well how to control
herself, and who soon won the respect of her charge. Lady Frances was
docile enough with her, and soon learned to be ashamed of the tempest
of passionate anger which I used to think Lady Challoner took delight
in provoking, that she might have whereof to complain to the girl's
father. My Lady Frances was different from many high-tempered persons
in this, that she did not always think some one else was to blame
for her outbreaks, but laid the fault where it belonged, on her own
choleric temper. She and I got on very well, and she improved so fast
that it was a pleasure to teach her.
I still read to her Grace whenever she was at home of an evening, and
attended her in her excursions upon the river, but I was excused from
standing behind her chair, and another gentlewoman took my place. It
was on our return from one of these water excursions that an event took
place of which we thought little at the time, but which was destined
to have important consequences for us both. We had landed at our usual
place, when we saw a couple of burly, rude water-men threatening and
bullying a pale man in black, who looked like a scholar of some sort.
Even as we came up, one of them struck him a blow which staggered and
nearly knocked him down.
"Shame, shame!" rang out the dear voice of the Duchess, who was not
one of those over-prudent people who can never do a generous action
without thinking about it till the occasion is past. "Is that the way
for Englishmen to treat a stranger and a poor man? Let him alone, you
brute!"
For the bully, furious with anger, had again raised his hand. His
companion, somewhat cooler, and seeing the Duke's water-men, caught his
arm and began to explain—
"He is no true man, my lady, but a beggarly Frenchman and a spy!—"
"No, no spy!" muttered the man, in imperfect English. He reeled as he
spoke, and would have fallen into the water, had not one of our own
serving men caught him. The two rogues, seeing with whom they had to
deal, began to comprehend that the matter might end badly for them, and
slunk away in a hurry.
"Poor man, is he hurt?" asked the Duchess, compassionately. "Speak to
him, Mistress Corbet; I dare say he knows Latin."
I did so, but his voice was so faint that I could not catch his answer.
"I believe the man is starved, my lady," said John Symonds, who was
supporting him. "He is naught but a bag of bones. Some beef and
strong-water would be the best remedy for his ail."
"With your Grace's leave, I will take this poor man in charge," said a
well-known voice, and Master Hall lifted his cap to the Duchess. "He
hath but fainted, as I think. Loveday, have you your scenting bottle
about you?"
The Duchess looked surprised enough to hear this strange merchant call
me by name. I handed him the bottle of strong perfume, which ladies
then as now carried in their packets, but the poor sufferer had already
opened his eyes.
"Food—food!" said he. "I starve."
By this time a crowd was gathered.
"Please your Grace to move on," said Master Hall, courteously. "I will
care for the poor man, and bring you an account of him, if you will."
"Do so, sir; and we shall be your debtor," said the Duchess, with the
queenly grace which was natural to her. "See that he is comfortably
bestowed and wants for nothing. We take the expense on ourself."
She put two or three gold pieces into Master Hall's hand, and we moved
on. When we were in the house, she sent for me, and asked me, with some
little sharpness, who was that man who called me so familiarly by my
name. I told her he was the son-in-law of my good friend, Master Davis,
and the husband of my dearest friend.
"Ay," said she, "I heard you call him Master Hall, but is he the man
who is noted for selling seditious and heretical books?"
"I dare to say, madam, that he never sold a seditious book in his
life!" I answered. "As to heresy, 'tis not so easy to tell in these
days what is heresy and what is not."
"And that is true!" said she, relapsing into her usual tone of
kindness. "But, Loveday, your friend is in danger. I heard his name
mentioned last night as a principal dealer in forbidden books, and if
Gardiner gets his claws upon him, you know what his case will be."
"I know, madam!" I answered. "But I trust he may be delivered from the
power of that bad man."
"And so do I, but a word to the wise is enough. Mayhap your cousin,
being a scholar, will have occasion to go to this Master Hall's shop to
buy something. And, now I think of it, Frances tells me she wants a new
book of lessons. Doth he deal in music?"
I told her it was a great part of his trade, and she bade me tell my
cousin, in case he went out, to go thither and buy what was needed,
and also some paper and pens for herself. With that, she dismissed me,
and I went at once to find out Walter, and told him what I had heard.
Walter looked very grave.
"Her Grace is right," said he. "There is no time to lose. I will go at
once."
It may be guessed that I spent an anxious day. My fancy pictured
Margaret in all sorts of dreadful predicaments, and imagined the
distress of Master Davis and his family. What a relief it was, and yet
what a start it gave me that evening, as I was reading to the Duchess
and Lady Frances, to hear the gentleman usher say:
"A merchant of the city, Master Hall, hath brought some books and
music, and desires an audience of your Grace upon business."
"Have him in, have him in!" said the Duchess. "Good even to you, good
Master Hall!" as he so entered. "What news of our poor client, whom you
kindly took in charge?"
"He is like to do well, your Grace," answered Master Hall. "All he
needed was food. He told me he had not eaten in three days."
"Alas! poor man. Did he tell you what brought him to such straits?"
"Ay, madam. He is a poor Walloon minister, who had come to this
country to seek a brother, whom he heard was very ill in London. His
brother died, and he himself met with an accident which disabled him
for a time. He spent all his money, and for past few days hath been
absolutely starving. He says he would have died, but for the charity of
a poor woman who keeps a very small eating-house near the water side.
But now the good dame herself is turned out of house and home by a
grasping landlord, who hopes to make a few more pence of rent, and is
herself an object of charity."
"I hope, with all my heart, the next tenant will cheat him of his rent
altogether," said the Duchess, with her usual outspoken freedom. "Who
are these Walloons, Master Hall, and where do they live?"
"They are a people of French origin, an' it please your Grace, and live
mostly about Leinburg, Liege, Namur, and the parts thereto adjacent.
They are an industrious, thriving race, and much given to learning
as well as trade. I have often sojourned among them when I have been
abroad, and have ever found them kind and hospitable to strangers."
"So much the more need that strangers should be hospitable to them,"
remarked the Duchess. "And of what religion are they?"
"They are Protestants, madam, holding by the Augsburg Confession. *
This gentleman is one of their clergy."
* After Flanders fell under the power of Philip Second, a large
number of Walloons emigrated to Holland and afterward to the New
Netherlands. They are, in fact, the ancestors of the Dutch Reformed
Church.
"So! And what would you advise to be done for this poor man and his
old landlady? Speak freely," added the Duchess, "we need fear no spies
here."
"Since your Grace will have me be so bold, I would recommend that the
poor woman be established once more in a house where she can carry on
her business. A small payment in advance would enable her to rent a
much better stand than before, and then Monsieur Claude could lodge
with her till he is sufficiently recovered to return home."
"That sounds like a good scheme!" said the Duchess, thoughtfully: "And
how much would be required for all? I mean to pay this poor woman's
first quarter and Monsieur Claude's traveling expenses!"
Master Hall named the sum, and the Duchess bade me take the money
from her cabinet, and herself put it into his hand, with that sweet,
graceful manner which made every such act on her part a personal favor.
"And now, let us see what books you have brought," said she. "Nothing
seditious, I trust, since Mistress Corbet hath given her personal
security that you do not deal in such matters, and it were a pity to
shame her."
"There is no fear of her being shamed by me!" said Master Hall. "At
least so far as that goes—but knowing your Grace to be fond of prints
and the like, I have ventured to bring two or three, and also some
music books, if your Grace will accept so small an offering."
"In truth, Master Hall, we shall be your debtors!" answered the
Duchess. "My daughter was even now petitioning for new music. Frances,
let me hear you make your acknowledgments to Master Hall for the
pleasure he hath given us."
Lady Frances did so in her usual pretty, frank fashion. Master Hall
answered a question or two about the prints, and was just upon taking
his leave, when the Duke entered. There was an unusual cloud on his
brow, and he looked both grave and angry.
"What gear is here?" he asked. "Ha, my good friend, Master Hall, this
is a fortunate chance. I have business with you, and was about to send
for you. Leave the ladies with their books, and come you to my cabinet.
This is a matter that brooks no delay?"
I saw Master Hall change color for a moment, and then he was himself
again. As he bade me good-night, he whispered in my ear:
"Loveday, if I am not seen again, take my love and blessing to
Margaret."
It may be believed I had no stomach for music that night, and the
Duchess seeing or guessing that something was the matter, dismissed me
at an early hour.
The next morning, she sent for me to come to her at least an hour
earlier than usual. When I entered her dressing room, I found the Duke
there before me.
"Mistress Corbet," said he, after he had himself closed the door, and
made sure there were no eavesdroppers, "my wife tells me that you are a
model of discretion, and can keep secrets."
"Her Grace praises me too highly," said I, wondering what could be
coming next. "I may venture to say that I am no tale-pyet at the least."
"I trust not, for in truth I have to put into your hands a somewhat
weighty matter. A warrant will be issued this morning to take your
friends, Master Hall and his wife, for heresy, and for publishing and
selling heretical books."
The world seemed to turn round with me, but I did not altogether lose
my wits.
"I must warn them!" were the words which seemed to come of themselves
from my lip.
"There is no need!" said his Grace. "They have already escaped, and I
have good hope that they are by this time beyond reach of pursuit."
"May God bless your Grace!" said I.
"Nay, you are not to think that I had any thing to do with the matter,
and it is of this I would warn you!" said he. "But now of warnings that
concern your own safety. Had you any books or other things with your
name on at Mistress Hall's?"
"No, your Grace?"
"That is well; but have you had any communings with her, so as to know
the secrets of the business? Speak freely, maiden. Trust me, I have no
wish but to stand your friend."
Thus reassured, I told his Grace that I had never had aught to do with
Master Hall's business, save that I had helped to correct the proofs of
Erasmus his Paraphrase and Colloquies.
"There was no harm in that. But have you bought no books of them which
might bring you into trouble if known?"
"I have not bought any, your Grace," I answered. "Mistress Patience did
greatly want an English Bible, and Margaret did give me a Testament and
also a Psalter for her use, which I gave her, and which are now in her
room."
"Mistress Patience!" they both exclaimed together.
And the Duke added with some sternness, "Beware what you say, Mistress.
I have ever thought Mistress Patience the most devoted of Papists."
"She thinks herself so still, your Grace!" said I. And then I told him
the matter from first to last.
The Duke could not forbear smiling.
"'Twas a deed of true Christian charity, and most deftly managed!" said
he. "But yet it might make matters worse were it known. Tell me, does
this old dame go to confession?"
"No, your Grace. She is not able to walk the length of the gallery. Her
strength is greatly failed of late, and I think not she will live long."
"And does any priest have access to her?"
"No one, as I think, but my cousin Walter, your Grace's chaplain,"
(for Walter had been promoted to this place some time since, and had
preached in the chapel more than once.) "Walter has prayed with her two
or three times, so she has told me, for I see not as much of her, now
that I live in my Lady Frances's apartment."
"That may be safe enough!" said he, pulling his beard as was his wont
when he was thoughtful. "Hawks will not pick out hawks' eyes, as they
say on the Border. Well, Mistress Corbet, I believe you are safe for
the present, but I would have you keep your chamber this day. Your
mistress will excuse your attendance, and—"
His words received a disagreeable interruption. The house had been
finished in some haste, and more than once small pieces of plaster
had fallen from the ceiling. Now, casting my eyes upward, I saw that
directly over where the Duchess was sitting in a low chair, a great
portion of the ceiling was parting, and even at that moment falling.
There was no time to think. I sprang upon her, pulling her to the
floor, and threw myself over her.
At the very moment, I felt a heavy blow on my shoulders and head, and
knew no more till I heard a familiar voice say, in a tone of utmost
anguish:
"Loveday, Loveday—my darling, for my sake, look up!"
Then I opened mine eyes, and saw my kinsman standing over me, a lancet
in his hand, while the blood was streaming from my arm. There were
others about me, but I saw no one else.
"Her Grace!" I managed to say.
"Is quite unhurt, thanks to you, my brave child," said Mistress Curtis.
"You have saved her life."
"Then all is well," said I, sinking back. That was all I cared to
know. For days I lay in great danger, but not in any great suffering.
Sometimes I recognized those about me, and sometimes not, but I
suffered little, and lay most of the time in a kind of contented
apathy. I had the best attendance, and Master Butts, the king's own
physician, came to see me at the Duke's instance. He was a kind,
benevolent old man, and much valued by the king, though he made no
secret of his leaning to the new doctrine. I understood all his
questions, and made a great effort to answer them clearly, but I was
conscious all the time that I was talking arrant nonsense. I saw him
shake his head as he turned away.
"I fear there is not much hope," I heard him say in a low tone to
Mistress Curtis. "If she lives she will be a lunatic, or more likely,
an idiot."
I understood his words, and they somehow angered me and roused me from
the lethargy which was again stealing over my senses. I made a great
effort to collect myself, and said, rather sharply:
"I won't be an idiot! I know what I wish to say, but—" the wrong word
was near coming again, but I caught it in time—"I don't say the words I
mean."
"Exactly," said the doctor, returning to the bedside, and regarding me
with renewed interest. "You know what you mean, all the time you are
saying something else. Is that so?"
"Yes, sir," I answered.
"Well, you must be a good girl and do as you are bid, and we will
hope for the best. I think, Mistress Curtis, with all respect to Dr.
Benton's opinion—" here he bowed to the other physician, who bowed
again—"I think it would be well to try our patient with a little more
nourishing diet—carefully, and by degrees, Dr. Benton—and watch the
effect, and if there is any friend she specially wishes to see—as I
think you told me she asked for some one?"
"Yes, she has often asked for her Aunt Davis."
"Then, let her see her aunt, for a few moments at a time, only
cautioning her to avoid all exciting topics. In short, Mistress Curtis,
you might as well let her have what she wants, poor thing. I do not
believe it will make any difference."
These words were spoken at the door, and I was not supposed to hear
them, but I did, and knew their import well enough. I was not at
all troubled at the idea of dying, but somehow I seemed to have an
assurance in my mind that the end was not yet. Mistress Curtis brought
me a dainty little mess of frumenty with cream, and having eaten it,
I turned over and went to sleep. I must have slept long, for when I
waked, it was growing dark. I was quite easy in respect of pain, and my
head felt clear. I looked up and thought I was dreaming again, when I
saw an upright little figure seated by the side of my bed.
"Aunt Davis, is this really yourself?" I asked, putting out my hand to
feel if she were a substantial person.
"Yes, my sweet," tranquilly answered the dear woman. She was never one
to give way to fits and transports. "Mistress Curtis gave me leave to
sit with you awhile. Do you feel better?"
"I believe I do," I answered. "My head does not ache now, and I can see
every thing clearly."
It had been one of my worst annoyances that I saw all objects either
double or distorted. My aunt felt my pulse and my forehead, and helped
me to a drink. Then she sat down again, and for awhile I was content
to lie and look at her. She had grown old a good deal, it seemed to
me. And her face had a look of patient endurance which did not use to
belong to it.
"Aunt," I asked, presently, "where is Margaret?"
"Safe, as we hope," answered Mistress Davis. "We know the vessel
reached the Brill in safety, and once there, Master Hall would be among
good friends."
"Thank God—and how is Master Davis?"
"He is well," she answered. "We were in peril for a time, but we have
been unmolested."
Satisfied on these points, I lay awhile longer.
Then I asked again, "How is Philippa?"
A smile played over Mistress Davis's face which made her look like
herself again.
"Why well, and more than well," said she. "Philippa is married."
"Married!" I exclaimed.
"Even so, and to whom, think you? To no one less than Robert Collins."
"Not Robert Collins—Avice's cousin—not the one who was to have become a
brother of the Charter-house," said I.
"Exactly. That very Robert Collins."
I burst out laughing, and somehow that laugh did seem to dissipate the
last cloud from my brain.
"But how did it come about? They used to bewail their hard fate
together in not being allowed to take the vows."
"Exactly, and they continued to bewail them till it came into their
heads that since they could not take those vows they might as well
try some others. Moreover, Robert came unexpectedly into quite a good
estate by the death of his mother's brother. He thought it his duty to
take a wife, as he was the last of his father's family, and so it came
about."
"I dare say Philippa persuaded herself all the time that she was making
a great sacrifice?"
"Oh, of course; but she was as elated at the prospect as any girl I
ever saw, and as much agog for finery, especially for a silk dress. One
of the first things that seemed to strike her was that, as Robert was a
gentleman of landed estate, she might now wear silk and velvet."
"It must be a comfort to have her—" out of the house, I was going to
say, but I changed that phrase to "well settled in life."
My aunt smiled. "I will not deny that it is a relief. She was one of
those people of whom you can never guess what they will do next. But
she has been more amiable of late, and as Robert is a good-humored man
with a will of his own, I hope they may be reasonably happy."
"He would need a good strong will, or none at all, to live peaceably
with her," said I. "In all my life, I never saw so perverse a person."
"Well, well, she was a trial, no doubt, but there are others as bad.
This is a life of trial, sweetheart, in one way and another. But it
grows dark and I must go. I will see you again in a day or two, if you
are no worse for this visit."
I slept well that night and awoke feeling quite myself. From that day
my recovery was rapid. The doctor said I might soon leave my chamber,
and he advised my mistress that it would be well to send me to Master
Davis's, for a while, or else to the country, for change of scene.
"How would you like to go down to Master Yates's farm?" asked my aunt
one day when we were discussing the matter. "You remember you staid
there when you were getting over the ague, before you went to the
convent."
"Then the old people are still living?" I said.
"Oh, yes; hale and hearty and well-to-do, and would be glad to have you
for a guest. I think it would be a very good thing for you."
"And the Duchess?"
"I mentioned the matter to her and she agreed with me that it would be
a sensible move, though she disliked losing your company. But she is
not one to think of herself."
"That she is not," said I. "She is a most sweet creature. She shows the
truth of what dear Margaret used to say, that it is not wealth nor the
want thereof that spoils people, but the spirit in which they take it."
"Then you will like to go out to Holworthy farm?" said my aunt.
"Indeed I shall," I answered, and the Duchess coming in (as indeed she
was used to visit me every day), the matter was settled.
"I must visit Mrs. Patience before I go," said I. "How is the dear old
lady?"
"Why well," answered Mrs. Curtis, but there was something in her tone
that made me ask at once:
"Is she dead?"
"Even so," answered Mistress Curtis, solemnly; "but do not weep for
her, dear Loveday. She passed in the greatest peace and joy that
was ever seen. She told Master Walter, who prayed often beside her,
that you had taught her the true way of peace, and had comforted her
concerning the great sorrow of her life."
"I am most thankful, if it were so," said I, when I could speak; and
then I told Mistress Curtis of the dear loyal soul's trouble because
no one had made the pilgrimage to Walsingham on behalf of her dead
mistress.
"And was it even so, poor soul?" said Mistress Curtis. "I doubt not,
many hearts are aching from the same cause in these days of change and
shaking. May the time soon come when all shall know the blessing of
a free redemption. Master Corbet says he never saw any one pass more
peacefully than Mistress Patience."
"Is my cousin well?" I forced myself to say. I had never yet brought
myself to speak his name.
"I do not think him well," answered Mistress Curtis. "He hath been
very anxious for you, and I think he works and studies too hard, for
he grows pale and thin. He talks of resigning his post, and going back
to his cure in the west, but I trust he will not do so, for the sake
of one young gentleman over whom he hath come to maintain a great
influence."
It was a joy to me to hear Walter praised, but I could not bring myself
to say any more about him. I had had plenty of time to think and to
examine myself since I began to recover, spending as I did a good many
hours alone. I knew well enough what Walter was to me, and I to him.
I had been thrown a deal into his company for a good while before I
was sick, he having undertaken in some degree the direction of my Lady
Frances's education. We had been brought up together as children,
which naturally threw us upon more familiar terms than would otherwise
have subsisted between us. It was not strange that another and dearer
feeling should have arisen, and that without either being aware of it
till the shock of my accident had revealed us to each other.
But what could ever come of it? Only for that fatal vow of celibacy,
we might have married and settled like other folk, for our kinship was
hardly near enough for the need of a dispensation even in the days of
dispensation, and nobody thought of such a thing now. But there it was,
an iron bar in the way, or rather a grated gate fast locked and the key
whereof is held by some one far-away. We could see one another, indeed,
but that was all, and under the circumstances, it was better to avoid
even that.
Yes, it was far better for me to go away, and a wild unreasoning desire
for flight and change of place took possession of me. I do not think
any one guessed at the truth, except the Duchess herself. She has since
told me that she saw it at once, and not at that time perceiving any
remedy, she did the more willingly part with me. Lady Frances was loud
in her lamentations, and inclined to be vexed with me for wishing to
leave her; but a few words from her mother calmed her anger, or rather
turned it upon herself, for being, as she said, so selfish as to desire
to keep me for my hurt.
Both the Duchess and Lady Frances loaded me with presents of every
thing they thought I would like, and I found myself heir to all
Mistress Patience's possessions, among which were a good many jewels of
no small value, which I hesitated about taking till the Duchess pressed
them upon me.
"You cannot well take the cabinet, so I will have it cared for till you
are settled in a home of your own," said she.
"That will never be," said I, involuntarily.
"Oh, you know not that," she answered, and began singing an old song of
which I remember but the last verse:
"If you should deal two loving hearts
The sharpest stroke of woe;
That one should weep above the turf
And one should sleep below:
That one should wear the widow's weed
And one the funeral pall,
You should but prove the force of love,
For true love conquers all!"
"Forgive, me sweet," as she saw that I was weeping, "but I do believe
that this year may yet come to a good ending. Man hath no right to
forbid that which God hath nowhere forbidden. Do but put your trust in
Him, and all will yet be well."
The Duke had insisted upon lending Mistress Davis an easy palfrey,
and me a horse litter, as I was yet too feeble to ride a-horseback
safely, and also a guard for the journey. My mistress would fain have
had me take a maid to attend upon me, but this, with Mistress Curtis
her approval, I declined, knowing that such a person would but be a
nuisance in the family of plain people like Jacob and Hannah Yates. I
was to keep the palfrey, however, and the duke would bear this as well
as all my other expenses.
"Should this change agree with you, you may by and by travel down to
Hereham," said his Grace, "but wherever you are, remember, Mistress
Corbet, that you are to be to us as a daughter. Do what I would, I
could never begin to repay the obligation I owe to you in saving my
dear wife from death or lifelong injury."
"I thought not of any obligation, your Grace," said I.
"That is the beauty of it," he answered, with that sweet, sunny smile
of his; my Lady Frances's eldest boy hath just his grandsire's manner;
"you did not stop to think—that was the beauty of it, as I say—but
acted out of the love and goodness of your heart. It was a happy hour
for all of us when you came under this roof, and I hope you may come
back to it some day. But now, my child, let me give you a word of
serious counsel. Keep you close and guarded, and go not much abroad.
There is no game too small for some hawks to fly at. I would I knew
where your good uncle was, that I might send you to him, out of the
reach of danger. If at any time, I send one to guide you to another
place of safety, I will send with him this token," showing me a ring he
was used to wear, "and do you go with him at once, without any delay or
question."
I promised to do so, and so he bade me farewell, with as much kindness
as ever a great man showed to a poor young gentlewoman. He hath ever
remained in my mind the very mirror and pattern of a noble man. He
was not without his faults (as who is?), but no one could say he ever
curried favor with a great man, or ever oppressed a poor one. Not one
of his family, down to the very scullery boys and wenches, ever passed
him without a smile or a kind word, and nobody ever sat at his table
without feeling himself a welcome guest. He was, indeed, what my uncle
Davis had called him, a mirror of true knighthood.
I saw Walter for a few minutes, and then not alone. It was better so;
yet did my heart yearn for a word, as I am sure his did also. He hath
since told me, he dared not trust himself to speak lest he should say
too much. Our eyes did meet and speak; we could not help that. Oh, how
much have they to answer for, who oppress men's hearts and consciences
by making that to be sin which the Word of God never made so; who
bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men's
shoulders, and will not so much as touch them with one of their fingers!
Our hands met in one long clasp as he helped me to my litter. I never
thought to see him again, for I had heard that he meant speedily to
return to his home in the west. The last farewell was said, and I lost
sight of Sussex House never to enter its doors again.
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