THE GREAT STORM.
WELL, the school feast was held with great success, and was all the
more enjoyed that we had my lady with us, for she was one of those who
carry sunshine wherever they go.
Our little Kate was taken to the arms and heart of the parish at once,
and many were the "dear souls" and "tender lambs" bestowed upon her
by the warm-hearted Devon women, and much the wonder that coming from
outlandish parts she should speak English as well as any body. Poor
Kate found it a good deal easier to make herself understood than to
understand, for the Devon dialect is almost as different from that
of London as the Dutch tongue itself. But she was a cheerful, brave
little maid, always disposed to make the best of every thing and every
body, and though scandalized at the sluttery of the housekeeping,
and a little scared at the cliffs and the hills (having never in her
life seen any thing higher than a church steeple), yet she soon made
herself at home, and was a wonderful help and comfort to me. The
children worshiped her as though she had come direct from Heaven,
and if the good dames did not spoil her digestion with clotted cream
and honey-cakes, and her mind with flattery, 'twas more owing to her
discretion than theirs.
We passed two more happy years in our quiet country home—happier years
I am sure no one ever spent any where. We had, 'tis true, one great
grief in the death of a dear little maid, who was sent to stay with
us three months, and then taken back to her home in the skies. 'Twas
a grievous loss, but yet I took great comfort in the babe, even after
I had seen the dear little body laid away under the daisies in our
pretty, green churchyard. I felt that she had been given to me—yea,
given and not lent—and that she would always be mine, though we were
separated for a season. 'Twas a sweet thought that one more blessed
spirit was resting in Jesus, and that it was my child; and I was able
to take comfort in it, even when I was folding the clothes she had not
worn out, and putting away the cradle she would never need. The dear
Father comforted me as one whom his mother comforteth, and I know the
meaning of His precious promises better by far than I had ever done
before.
It was in the spring of 1563 that Walter was summoned to London, on
business. That same distant relation of Sir Edward Peckham's who had
inherited his property was dead, and had left Walter a considerable
legacy, which his son was ready to pay over. Besides there were some
difficulties about the estate which Walter's testimony might help to
settle, and Sir John was anxious to have him come at once to London.
He was considerate enough to send a sum of money for expenses, and a
couple of stout, well-mounted serving men for attendants on the road.
Somehow, the whole scheme of the journey was distasteful to me—not
for any reason that I could give, but because of a feeling I had that
trouble would come of it; and I would willingly have foregone the money
to remain quietly and safely at home. My husband, on the contrary, was
delighted with the prospect of seeing London once more, and mixing with
the world of scholars and reformers. It was no more than natural, I am
sure. He was, a born scholar and divine, and he had been for a long
time buried where he had little or no society of his own kind.
"But you will go with me," he said, as we were talking it over. "I must
have you with me."
"A fine showing that you can not go up to London without your wife,"
said I, though my heart did give a great leap at the thought of seeing
my old friends again.
True, the Davis family no longer lived in London, having returned to
the country, but my dear mistress lived there. The Duke of Suffolk had
been dead some years, and her Grace was married again to a Mr. Batie,
a gentleman of somewhat obscure family, but an admirable scholar and
a very excellent man. It did seem strange to me that her Grace should
take a second partner, but I do think her attachment to the Duke was
rather that of an affectionate daughter to an indulgent father, than
that of a wife to her husband. He had, as it were, brought her up, and
he had married her very young, and before her heart had time to open.
Never was happier wife, I am sure; but still I do not think the Duke
ever was to her what Mr. Batie was, or what my good man was to me.
Besides my desire to see London, I could not but feel that Walter would
be the better of me at his elbow. A wife may reverence her husband
according to the Scripture, as I am sure I have ever done by mine, and
yet be conscious of his little infirmities. I knew Walter would not be
so likely to spend half his legacy in old manuscripts and new books,
and the rest in buying finery for Katherine and myself, if I were at
hand, nor would he forget half his engagements and remember the other
half wrong if he had me to look over the pocket-book where he carefully
set them down, and which he never looked at afterward.
The great difficulty seemed to be how to dispose of Katherine. I did
not like to leave her with Mary Thornton, whose temper did not mend
with age, and who was always a little disposed to be jealous of the
child. Any of the farmers' dames about would have been glad of her;
but there were objections to that plan also. Just in the nick of time,
however, my lady came forward and claimed Katherine for her own while
we should be away. Kate would be invaluable to her, she was pleased to
say, as a companion to herself and a teacher to the elder little girl.
I knew my lady well enough to know that while she would be kind to the
child, she would not spoil her, and so it was agreed that Katherine
should stay at Stanton Court during our absence. Little did we think
how long that absence was like to be, or how many things were to happen
before we saw the dear maiden again.
At last, the day of departure came, and we set out, taking Stanton
Court in our way, and leaving Katherine in her new home. My lady had
given me a good horse for my own riding, an arrangement far more
pleasant to me than being trussed up on a pillion. The two servants
Sir John Peckham sent were staid, sober, middle-aged serving men, real
old fashioned blue-coats, such as they tell me are going out of vogue
now-a-days, when gentlemen must have their grooms, their footmen, pages
and what not.
The time was just past the middle of June. The weather was lovely and
the roads as good as they ever are in England. We did not hurry, but
traveled in the cool mornings and afternoons, stopping in the heat of
the day at some country inn, or in some little town, two or three times
with old friends of my husband's settled in quiet country rectories.
It was at one of these last named places that we heard a rumor of the
young king's rapidly declining health.
"Heaven help us!" said my husband. "What will become of this land if he
dies?"
"There may be better days in store for England than she hath ever yet
seen!" answered our host, who was a dignified clergyman. "My brother,
from whom I have most of my news, tells me that there is a prospect of
the Lady Jane Grey succeeding to the throne. She is, as every one says,
a young lady of excellent parts and sweet disposition, and loyal to the
reformed faith to the bottom of her heart."
My husband shook his head. "That may all be, but I do not believe she
will ever wear the crown. King Edward's will, whatever it may be—and I
fancy no one knows that—will never set aside his father's. Poor Lady
Jane and her husband are but puppets in the hands of their ambitious
relations."
"Ay, and unwilling puppets, some say," answered our host. "Mine
excellent friend, Master Roger Ascham, tells me that her liking is all
for retirement and study, and that she would rather read a dialogue
of Plato or a chapter in the Hebrew Scriptures than join in any gay
pastime whatever."
"Alas, poor young lady!" said I. "And of what like is her husband?"
"A gracious youth enow, but not over and above wise, unless he be
belied," answered the archdeacon. "Nevertheless, they are a most loving
couple. But I can not but fear lest great trouble should arise. Perhaps
a war of the succession, like those which have heretofore distracted
this poor kingdom. I know well enough what will happen to you and me
and our likes, Brother Corbet, if the Lady Mary come to the throne—and
that will be to have our beards singed an' we do not make up our minds
to conform!"
"Think you so?" said my husband. "Then will there be many singed beards
in England."
"Ay, but not so great a number as you think. I do believe more than
half of those who have used the books of Common Prayer in this reign
will burn them in the next, should it be their interest to do so. They
are Papists at heart, and do but wait the occasion to throw off the
mask!"
"Nay, I think you are uncharitable," said my husband.
"May be so. Mind, I say not all. There is old Latimer; he is of your
kind, and would be burned by inch pieces before he would do such a
baseness; and there are others like him."
"And the Archbishop?"
"I am not so very sure of the Archbishop," said our host, slowly. "He
is a man who greatly fears the wrath of the king. I did never like his
sending away his lawful wife to Holland so readily, because his late
majesty took up against the married clergy. Courtiers are not the stuff
to make martyrs. Nevertheless, if driven to the wall, he might die as
bravely as another."
The next day we met the news of the king's death. (He had been dead
two or three days, but they about him concealed the matter as long as
they could for the better furtherance of their plans.) In one town we
passed through they had already proclaimed Queen Jane, and the mob were
rejoicing after their senseless fashion, glad of any event, good or
bad, which gave them the chance of eating and drinking.
But I could not but observe many sullen and discontented faces, and
in one village we passed through we were hooted with, "Shame on the
married priest. Go on with thy leman, false priest, and see what awaits
thee!"
I must say my courage failed, and I prayed my husband to turn back, or
at least seek some safe shelter till we should know how matters would
turn. But Walter believed that his duty called him to go on, and when
he began to talk about duty, I knew he had taken the bit between his
teeth, and I might as well be silent; so I went forward, but with a
heavy heart, and all the more because I had heard from the serving men,
that their master was a devoted adherent of Queen Jane. I need not,
however, have minded that. The Peckhams in general have a wonderful
knack of turning up on the winning side just at the right moment. My
old friend, Sir Edward, was an exception to the rule; one always knew
where to find him—but in general they were a timeserving race, I must
say.
Well, we reached London at last, and went to a decent hostel close by
Sir John's town residence. I thought he might have asked us to his
house, seeing we had come all that way on his errand, but he did not;
and as it turned out, it was just as well. All was in utter confusion
at this time, for Queen Mary had been proclaimed in Norwich, and people
were flocking to her standard every day. The Popish party raised their
heads more and more, and I was fain to keep close within doors, for I
could not go out with my husband without being insulted; I did not even
go to see my old mistress though my heart yearned toward her, finding
myself so near. Walter would fain have finished the business that had
brought him hither, but Sir John kept putting him off and putting him
off, and he could hardly gain an audience.
So matters dragged along with us till the nineteenth of July, when the
Queen Mary was proclaimed in Cheapside by some of the very men who had
been most forward in the cause of poor Lady Jane. They did not save
their own necks by their baseness, that is one comfort. It was the very
day after this proclamation that Sir John sent for my husband. I went
with him, understanding from the messenger that he desired to see me
also, but this it seems was a mistake. Nevertheless, I was glad I did,
as it turned out. When we entered his presence, Sir John was sitting in
his great chair, and near him was one whom I knew I had seen before,
though I could not tell where, but he seemed to bring my old life at
Peckham Hall before me in a moment. Sir John made my husband a slight
salutation, and me none at all. His lady was even less civil, for she
turned away from me and exchanged a marked look of contempt and disgust
with the priest.
"I have sent for you, Master Corbet, to tell you that I have no more
need of your services," said Sir John, curtly. "This worthy priest,
Father Barnaby, has given me all the information I need as to the
matter of the legacy. I will attend to it. Father Simon is of opinion
that my respected father was weak in mind when he made his will, and
therefore it will not stand in law, but we will see—we will see," he
added pompously. "You shall have justice done. But who is this woman
you have brought with you?" he added, as though just then aware of my
presence. "Your sister?"
"My lawful and beloved wife, Sir John, as you very well know," answered
Walter, firmly, "whom I brought up to London at your own written
request, as thinking her early recollections might throw some light on
the matter in hand."
Sir John did look a little confused, but Father Simon took up the
cudgels for him. I knew all about him the moment I heard his name
called.
"Your wife. I thought you were a priest. What do you with a wife?"
"The same as did St. Peter," answered Walter. "Take her with me on my
journeys."
"Blasphemy!" exclaimed my lady, with a shudder.
"And you, mistress—do I understand that you have the effrontery to call
yourself a married woman, after having been the professed spouse of
Christ?"
"An apostate nun. Worse and worse," said my lady.
"Apostate I can not be, since I never was professed, as you, Sir
Priest, very well know," said I. "As to the rest I am proud to call
myself Walter Corbet's wife, and the mother of his child."
"You are—" said the priest, and he called me by a vile name I will not
write here.
Walter resembled some other very good-tempered people. He was like one
of our long-horned Devon bulls, very quiet and even stolid to a certain
point of provocation, after which it were best to get out of the way.
He walked up to Father Simon, and with one sound cuff sent him
sprawling and tumbling over my lady's embroidery frame and into a
basket holding a slut and a litter of puppies. It was an ill-judged
blow; I do not justify him in it, and it had terrible consequences
for us. The offended mother-dog seized Father Barnaby by the ear and
bit him furiously, the pups meantime all yelling in concert—the lady
squalled and Sir John swore, while a crowd of serving men rushing into
the room, added to the confusion. How it all came about, I hardly know
myself, but I presently found myself lying on the street, outside the
door, my head supported on the lap of a poor woman, who was fanning me
with her apron.
"What has happened?" said I, starting up. "Where is my husband?"
"Hush, hush, poor thing! They will not let you go after him," said
the woman, and with that she fell a-weeping. "They have taken him to
prison, and serve him right for a fool," said a queer, cracked voice
beside me. "Only he does not know enough to let his folly make him a
living, I would even give him my cap and bauble."
I looked up and saw a man in the garb of a fool, or jester, whom I had
before remarked, in Sir John's presence chamber.
"Good fool," said I, "tell me what they have done with my husband."
"Nay, how can I tell; I am but a fool," he answered, tossing up his
bauble and catching it with many extravagant gestures; "but fool as I
am, I know you should not sit here."
"Harry speaks truth, madam, this is no place for you," said one of the
serving men who had come up with us from Devon. He helped me to my
feet, and whispered in my ear: "Go you to your lodging, and so soon as
I can, I will bring you news of your husband. This woman, who is mine
own sister, will conduct you thither."
There was no other counsel, so I went. Once alone, I sat down and
strove to collect my scattered thoughts. Walter had been carried to
prison—that I was sure of—but where and how long was he like to stay
there? I remembered all I had heard of Father Simon's relentless
character, and I felt that Walter's chance was a slender one.
"Oh, had I but staid at home," was my thought. "Had we but kept quiet
in Devon."
It seemed to me as though he had been purposely entrapped, but in that
I believe I did Sir John injustice. It was no pre-conceived plan.
Sir John had been for Queen Jane, when that unhappy lady seemed like
to succeed, and now that she was overthrown, he was willing to save
himself and cover up his transgression by any means in his favor.
Oh, what a distracted creature I was. I walked up and down till I was
tired and then threw myself on the floor to walk again as my goading
thoughts and fears would not let me be still. At last tears came to my
relief and I could pray.
It was dark when Ned Harris rapped at my door, accompanied by his
sister, the old woman who had first taken pity on me.
"Well, madam, I bring you but cold comfort," said he bluntly. "Your
husband is in Newgate prison, and in evil case—so I hear from Harry,
who learned the same from Sir John. Have you any friends in this place?"
"None that I can go to unless it be mine old mistress, the Dowager
Duchess of Suffolk," I answered, "and I know not even where she lives
or whether she is in town."
"That we will find out. Meantime, you were best leave this place at
once. My good sister here hath a lodging house, though a humble one,
which she owes to her Grace's goodness, and she will give you a shelter
for the present."
"That I will, that I will, dear madam," said Dame Giles. "You don't
remember me, and no wonder, but I mind you well, as you used to go on
the water with her Grace. Yes, and you was once at my place to ask
after the poor, foreign gentleman her Grace sent to lodge with me."
"But shall I not bring trouble upon you, good dame?" I asked.
"Never fear, madam. I fancy I am too small game for them at present. Do
you come with me and I will make you as comfortable as my poor house
will allow."
"I care not for comfort, so I may be near my husband," I answered. "Oh,
Harris, do but get me news of him, and I will bless you forever."
"I will do what I can, but it will be no easy matter," said Harris.
"Have you money, madam, wherewith to discharge your score?"
"It is paid," I answered. "My husband settled it this morning."
"That is well. Then the sooner we are gone the better."
It was not long before I found myself in a small but clean little
waterside inn, frequented, as it seemed by the better class of sailors.
My room, though plain, was decent and retired, and I never left it.
It was three or four days before Harris got news of my husband, and
bad news it was, when it came. Walter had been committed to Newgate,
among the common rabble of rebels, and upon some trumped-up charge of
rebellion. I asked if there were any chance of my seeing him.
"I fear not," answered Harris, shaking his head. "And, mistress, I
would not have you seen in the street. My master and yonder black
priest—Heaven's malison on him and his like!—have made strict inquiry
after you, and you would fare ill, did you once get into his hands.
Have you ne'er a friend to whom you can turn?"
"I know of none unless it be my old mistress, the Dowager Duchess of
Suffolk," I answered, "as I told you before."
"Alas, poor lady, she is like enow to be in evil ease herself. The
Suffolk family are in bad odor. You were best make your way down to the
west as soon as maybe. Have you money?"
"Yes," I answered, "but I can not leave town so long as my husband's
fate is in suspense. How can I?"
"'Tis a piteous case, mistress. I would I knew how to help you, for you
have been mortal kind to me. Ah, well. Bide you still where you are,
and we will see what can be done."
I don't think I realized mine own condition or danger at all. I thought
only of one thing—to see my husband once more, and aid in his escape
if possible. I lay awake all night, and in the very first gray of the
dawn, I stole out and found my way to the prison. I would at any rate
see the walls which held my love. When I arrived under those frowning
wails, I found two or three other women on the same errand as myself.
As I gazed at the barred windows, the desire to see my husband's face
once more overmastered every other consideration, and I began to sing
a Dutch psalm, which we had used in our church at Amsterdam. The other
women looked at me with surprise and pity in their faces.
"Poor thing, she is outlandish, too," said one, forgetting for the
moment her trouble in mine. "Is it your husband you seek, dame?"
It went to my heart to refuse her sympathy, but I only pressed her
hand, and shook my head in token that I did not understand. I ventured
another verse of the psalm. Oh, joy! Walter's face appeared for a
moment at a grated casement—pale, but serene as ever. I could not
suppress a cry.
"Ah, poor thing, she sees her goodman," said the kind woman who had
spoken before.
"Wait," said Walter, and his face disappeared. Presently he came to
the casement again, and threw something which fell at my feet. It was
a paper wrapped round a stone, and I quickly picked it up and hid it
in my bosom. I was not a minute too soon, for at that moment a wicket
was opened and a surly voice bade us begone for a pack of idle jades.
As the man spoke, a little maid of three or four summers, slipped under
his arm and ran toddling into the middle of the street. I saw what
was coming, and sprang after her. A troop of horsemen were galloping
recklessly down the street. I snatched her out of the way just in time,
and threw her, as I may say, to her father, falling myself so near the
horses that one of them stepped on and tore my gown. I was stunned and
shaken with the force of my fall and could not rise for the moment. As
I did so the turnkey, for such he was, came to my assistance.
"'Twas a brave deed, and you are a brave wench," said he. "Come in now
and rest. You have saved my child from those brutes who would ride over
a living babe as soon as a dead cat. Come in, come in, and my dame
shall get you a cool draught."
So there was a heart at any rate under that bulldog face. I was only
too glad to obey, for I trembled so I could hardly stand. The man set
me a stool, and the wife, finding her child was not hurt, bestirred
herself to get me some refreshment. Meantime I implored the turnkey to
let me see my husband, were it but for one moment.
"Who is your husband?" he asked.
I told him.
"I dare not," said he gruffly. "'Twere as much as my life is worth."
I fell a-weeping with that, for almost the first time since I parted
from Walter.
The turnkey's wife pitied and poor-deared me, and then whispered
eagerly in her husband's ear. He shook his head at first, but seemed at
last to relent.
"I would I were not a fool," said he, gruffly. "After all, you risked
your life in the midst of your own trouble to save the little wench who
was naught to you—well, come along—I will give you five minutes, but I
must be within hearing—come along."
I did not say a word for fear he might change his mind, but followed
him through grim passages till he came to a door which he unlocked with
a clash of keys which seemed to hurt my ears.
"Here, Master Parson, here is some one to speak to you; but be short.
Come, you here."
I gathered together my scattered senses, and held them, as it were,
tightly with both hands. I saw, as a dream, figures lying stretched out
or walking listlessly to and fro. I saw one disengage himself from the
crowd and come toward me, and in a moment I was in my husband's arms.
"But what is this?" said he, touching my forehead, which had been cut
and bruised by the fall.
"Nothing," said I, hastily. "Waste no time on me. Tell me what I can do
for you."
"Naught in the world, dear heart, but pray for me and take care of
yourself. Come not here again—they will set a trap for you. Go to
her Grace of Suffolk. She will shelter you for old sake's sake, and
her husband is a wise gentleman, and will tell you if there is aught
possible for me. If you ever loved your husband, dear heart, obey now
what may be his last command. You have ever been a dutiful wife."
"I will. I will," I answered, though the words seemed to choke me.
Other things we said, too sacred to write here, and then the parting
time came. I gave my husband what money I had about me, and the little
Latin Psalter I had been accustomed to carry in my pocket ever since I
left Dartford. Then we bade farewell. I must not dwell on the anguish
of that hour.
The turnkey and his wife detained me when I would have gone forth.
The good woman—for good she was, I am sure, though rude and rough in
manner—arranged my dress and made me decent again.
"Now, an' you will, you shall go out with me to the market, and then
you can easily find your way home," said she.
I felt the kindness under the rough exterior, and still, as it were,
holding my senses together by main force, I followed the turnkey's wife
to the market, feeling all the time like one in a bad dream. Presently
a decent old serving man ran against me.
"I crave pardon," said a familiar voice, hastily, and then in a tone of
utmost wonder: "Can it be—surely it is Mistress Loveday, who used to
wait upon my lady."
I looked at him in surprise, and recognized John Symonds.
"But how came you here, in such a plight and in such company?" he
asked, in a tone which it was perhaps as well the dame did not hear.
"It is a long story," said I; "but, John, will my mistress see me,
think you? I am in deep trouble, and not a friend to help me."
"I dare be sworn she will," he answered. "But where are you staying?"
I told him.
"Ay, I know the place. Well, Mistress Corbet, I will come to see you
after nightfall. The sun does not shine on our side of the hedge any
more than on yours, but my lady is not any lady if she find not some
way to help you."
[Illustration]