OLD MADAM AT HOME
THUS a great change came into Betty Carew’s life. After her
introduction to the court at Greenwich, Sir William formally placed
her in the charge of his eccentric relative and went back alone to
Mohun’s Ottery. The young girl, left thus among strangers, endeavored
to adapt herself to their ways as she had before taken up existence at
her uncle’s house. Deep in her heart were hidden wounded pride and a
feeling of desolation. She was poor and felt herself but a toy in the
hands of her wealthier relations, and she was alone amidst a throng
of strangers. She had not a nature which repines; the harder elements
of resolution and reserve grew faster in her heart than impulses of
love and happiness. She found her new life far more full of interest
and event than any she had ever known. Her guardian was so strange and
active an old woman that she alone furnished no little entertainment
to an observer. My Lady Wildrick Crabtree, as she was called, was the
daughter of Lord Wildrick of Wildrick Hall at Deptford; her Christian
name was Zenobia, but she was rarely called by it. She married, late in
life, Lord Crabtree, who promptly died, as the husbands of such women
always do. He was poor, but from her father Lady Crabtree inherited
a large property, as she was an only child. It had been said of her
mother that, having borne Zenobia, she could do no more in this world
or the next. Yet Lady Crabtree was a woman of strong intellect, keen
wit, and an untiring energy, and was more sought after than any woman
of her age in London. Every man’s business was her business; she knew
all the gossip of the court; she knew all the miseries of the poor,
and she was quick to right a wrong and to take up the cause of the
oppressed. She could be in the saddle all day and show no fatigue,
although she had passed seventy-five; a litter was ever scorned by
her, and she walked miles through the muddy roads to aid the sick or
destitute. Time she counted as of great value; no hour could be wasted;
and so as to be out early in the morning, it was no uncommon thing for
her to have her tirewoman arrange her white hair, of which she had a
quantity, over night. At such seasons, her ladyship slept with her
head propped up, that the great superstructure might not be injured.
Her boots were all made heavy and clumsy, after the fashion of those
worn by men, and her feet being large, she had the tread of a man. The
strength of her wrist and fist had been rated high, since she knocked
down the largest man upon the street in a group that laughed at her
mannish stride. A valiant protector she was for any young woman, and as
she came to know Mistress Betty, she took a fancy to her, so that this
strangely assorted couple lived very peacefully together.
In the early part of February, when Queen Anne’s illness cast a gloom
over the court, Lady Crabtree retired for a while to her house at
Deptford, where she held a little court of her own. Wildrick Hall
was a great house of stone, built by the Normans and prepared for
defence, its battlements being heavy and its windows little more than
arrow-headed slits in the thick walls. Within, the household was
like that of Mohun’s Ottery, upon a smaller scale, and many people
were daily fed under the hospitable roof. The old gentlewoman ruling
with a rod of iron, and knowing well every detail of the house, from
the kitchen to the banquet hall, was something of a terror to her
servants and attendants. In her own domain she was judge and jury,
and no man dared gainsay her will; while she drove the women like a
flock of startled chickens cackling as they fled pell-mell before my
lady’s tongue, a scourge which she was quick to supplement with a blow.
She was full of great oaths as any man, and knew how to hurl them at
the ears of an offender; yet she had, too, a large sympathy for the
unfortunate and a keen judgment of men. In this household Mistress
Carew, finding her place beside its mistress, was often diverted by her
strange ways. Although there were always many guests, it often happened
that these two ate together, while at the lower end of the large hall
were long tables for the others.
One wintry day, early in February, Lady Crabtree and Betty sat at
breakfast. It was seven in the morning, my lady’s hour for breaking
her fast, and all the tables were set with tapers which flared in the
gloom, only a little light creeping in through the narrow windows.
Betty’s fresh face and brilliant coloring made a sharp contrast to the
hook-nosed, strong countenance of the old woman, whose white hair,
dressed over night, was nearly concealed by a great coif of yellow
velvet. She wore a gown of gay brocade, the tight body, full sleeves,
and huge farthingale being in the style first introduced by Queen
Catherine. At her waist, on one side, hung a heavy bunch of keys, and
on the other she wore a dagger. A fur-lined mantle was thrown over
her shoulders, and was needed, for the sharp wind poured in at many
crevices and swept through the hall in gusts. She was a marvellous
figure, her spreading skirts, full sleeves, and huge headdress making
her seem twice her natural size, which was above that of woman. She
performed her trencher duties like a man, and a hungry one. On the
table was set a chine of beef, and with this, for the two women, a
quart of ale and a pint of wine with a square loaf of bread. It was
well known that the salting tubs were numerous at Wildrick Hall at
Michaelmas, and the stores of beef and mutton as great as any in the
land; for my lady was one who lived well and drank well, as her father
had before her, and ever quarrelled with the statute of the third
Edward, which regulated the diet of both rich and poor. No man should
be served “with more than two courses,” said the law, “and each mess
of two sorts of victuals at the utmost, be it flesh or fish, with the
common sorts of pottage, without sauce or any other sorts of victuals.”
My Lady Crabtree had received a letter from Mrs. Wyatt the previous
day, and she read from it to Betty as she ate her breakfast, making her
own comments upon it in her usual fashion.
“The queen recovers slowly from her illness and is in sore distress of
mind at the loss of her boy, so says Mistress Wyatt,” remarked the old
woman; “like enough, there be other causes for her sorrow and rumors be
true.”
“You mean the king’s fancy is caught by another?” asked Betty, quietly.
“Ay, that is the talk,” Lady Crabtree rejoined. “Wyatt is too close to
the queen to speak of it, but I have my information from a sure hand.
They do say that my Lady Anne surprised him making love to the little
Seymour. The queen came suddenly upon them; Jane sat on the king’s
knee, looking as demure as ever. ’Tis said this brought Anne to her
present case; and that the king’s grace is furious at the loss of a
boy.”
“I wonder if she--the queen--thinks now of Queen Catherine,” remarked
Betty, thoughtfully; “poor lady! she bore enough from this same Anne
Boleyn.”
“Yet the statesmen would have us believe that the king does all this
because he would have a boy to leave to rule in this realm,” said Lady
Crabtree, cutting the beef with a free stroke of her knife. “’Tis an
excellent excuse to marry a young wife to cheat the King of Scots.
There be others that would rejoice to find a King of Scots in a like
case, I doubt not.”
“Yet the succession is a serious matter,” said Betty, smiling; “I have
heard my uncle speak of it with deep concern.”
“Serious enough,” retorted the old woman, grimly. “My Lady Salisbury is
busy hatching an egg of conspiracy, if I mistake not; and there is Lord
Hussey, who but lately had charge of the Lady Mary, a man who knows
not the color of his own shirt from morn till evening. As for Reginald
Pole, he fancies himself a pope already, and has thrown filth enough
upon the king and will endeavor to pull down his grace, albeit he owes
him much. ’Tis a lovely muddle, and my lord privy seal is as much hated
as the devil. As for this queen, she has put away from her, by some
misfortune, the Duke of Norfolk, her uncle, while his grace of Suffolk
hates her. As for Percy, whom she loved, he is like to be of more harm
than help to her. ’Tis the devil’s pot and he is here to brew it. Ah,
what have we here, Bronson?” This to a servant who stood near her.
At the moment there was a hubbub at the other end of the great
apartment. The members of the household who were eating at the lower
tables rose and peered over each other’s shoulders, while at the door
was heard the sound of a dispute. Lady Crabtree stood up and struck the
table with the handle of her knife, her whole manner changing at once
to that of a ruler of the domain.
“Silence!” she called, in her loud voice. “What fools make such an
uproar at the door?”
Instantly her guests and retainers sank abashed into their places, and
thus a view was given of the entrance. There the steward, a small,
shrewd-visaged man, and the porter were struggling to bring in a
great-limbed, burly fellow who resisted with all his might though his
hands were tied behind him.
“Who have you there, Sir Steward?” asked his mistress, her eagle eye
upon them and her clenched fist resting on the table.
“Madam, ’tis a vagrant caught in the third offence,” panted the
steward, as he and the porter pulled the prisoner forward by main
force.
Old Madam, as she was so often called, looked searchingly at the
prisoner, a stout, ill-favored man dressed in ragged clothing and
hanging his head, as if ashamed of his plight.
“How can you prove the charge?” Lady Crabtree asked sharply.
“Look at his slit ear, my lady,” said the steward; “his second offence
of begging in this parish was here too, yet he hath the boldness to
come here again, with his ear bored at that.”
“A very valiant beggar certainly,” she remarked, eying the vagrant
with pitiless contempt. “You are a rogue,” she added, addressing the
captive; “but what have you to say?”
“I asked but for a herring,” the man replied sullenly, looking up, and
Betty saw that he was cross-eyed, with an evil cast of countenance.
“And will hang for a herring, fool!” said old Madam, harshly; “and it
would be right, for with that body you should work or die. Take him to
the justice,” she added to her steward, “and tell him I will pay for
the rope.”
The two servants began to drag the prisoner back, and he offered no
great resistance, seeming to accept his fate with sullen indifference;
but Betty Carew rose from her seat.
“Surely, madam,” she cried, “you will not hang this poor man for asking
for a herring?”
Lady Crabtree looked up with grim indifference.
“He is a valiant beggar, wench,” she said coolly, “and you know King
Henry’s law?”
Betty looked at her with passionate scorn in her young face.
“By heaven, madam,” she cried, “you are a brute!”
Now this honest expression of her own feelings so pleased the strange
old woman that she burst into a hearty fit of laughter. Meanwhile the
steward and the porter had paused in amazement, and the prisoner stood
between them with a look of dogged wretchedness upon his face.
“Go talk to the king’s grace, Mistress Betty,” said old Madam, wiping
the tears of laughter from her eyes; “this realm is full of these
knaves, and we must hang them or they will cut our throats.”
“Is life so cheap?” cried Betty, looking at her with shining eyes;
“have we not all to answer for our doings? I pray you, madam, spare
this fellow for shame of the herring!”
Lady Crabtree looked thoughtfully at the vagrant, and then some strange
notion moved her again to laughter.
“You shall have your will, mistress,” she said; “here, Bronson, go out
and get a dozen--nay, twenty stout rods and distribute them.”
The servant went to execute her order, while Betty remained standing,
a puzzled expression on her face. In a few moments the company, to the
number of sixteen or seventeen, were armed with stout hickory staffs,
and Lady Crabtree directed that these men should form in two lines from
the door, leaving a small aisle in the middle. This was done, while all
the members of the household were on their feet, women and girls and
gray-headed men all looking on curiously. The light of day, now much
brighter, shone in the room, and many of the tapers were extinguished.
When her orders were carried out, Lady Crabtree rose and stood by the
table, pointing her finger at the culprit.
“Hark ye, villain,” she said harshly, “this young lady has interceded
for you, and though I am breaking law thereby, yet would I pleasure
her. I give you this chance for your life. Yonder is the door; make
it, but take your fortune with a beating and the magistrate upon the
other side. You, my servants, belabor him well as he runs through the
passage; spare not the rogue, I charge ye. Now, Sir Steward, loose him
and let him go.”
The cords were cut from the man’s arms and the two men stepped back
to give him room. For a moment he stood as if bewildered, and then,
turning, he started at a run down the long hall. As he reached the
middle of the place, he came in contact with the staffs of the men
servants, who obeyed the mistress’s behests with good will. The beggar
dodged wildly, but only to receive two blows for one that he evaded.
They fell on every side, and he was driven in a zigzag course by the
force of the encounter. The dull sound of the blows which hit the mark
was mingled with shrill laughter and shouts of approval, for it was an
entertainment to the household. Lady Crabtree stood up and clapped her
hands.
“Well hit there, Jacob!” she cried; “strike again, Andrew, but spare
his skull; cheat not the hangman of an honest job.”
There was a wild scuffle at the door, and then the vagrant, with a
strong blow from his fist, sent a serving-man sprawling upon his back
and effected his escape amid a great outcry.
“Well done, marvellously well done!” laughed Lady Crabtree; “he will
beg here no more. Sit down, Betty; you have won, and may finish your
breakfast.”
But Betty remained standing, her face pale and her dark eyes full of
fire.
“Madam,” she said, “I have no appetite; I could not eat the herring
that you saved.”
“What ails you, wench?” the old woman asked grimly; “your stomach is
too dainty. Know you not that the king would hang all such?”
“I care not,” Mistress Carew cried; “that scene was one to turn a
stouter heart than mine. The man was a knave, but I have no love of
seeing misery made a sport of.”
“Tush, mistress,” retorted old Madam, coolly, “you are a fool, as young
women often are. I have no pity for a man who would live dishonestly,
if he could; a dirty, lazy lout, who begs and steals. Sit down, my
girl, for here is a guest who comes to look at your fair face and hopes
that I may die and leave you rich, which I shall not.”
Betty looked up and saw Sir Barton Henge. He had just been ushered
into the hall, and wore a rich riding-suit and carried his plumed hat
in his hand. He advanced with an air of eager pleasure, his bold eyes
fixed on Mistress Carew.
“I crave your pardon, Lady Crabtree,” he said, with a graceful
salutation, “for coming so early, but I knew the morning star shone
ever at Wildrick Hall.”
“A very pretty compliment to an old woman, Sir Barton,” Lady Crabtree
said. “You find us much upset; my young mistress here flies out at me
because I will not coddle a valiant beggar.”
Betty closed her lips tightly and drew further away; her instinctive
dislike for Henge increased every time she saw him, though his
passionate admiration for her was plain enough to flatter the vanity of
one so young.
“Mistress Carew has a tender heart,” said Henge, smiling blandly; “I
can see that in her eyes.”
At this, old Madam burst out with a harsh laugh.
“Mercy on your imagination, sir,” she said in great amusement, “if you
can fancy any tenderness in the glance that Mistress Betty casts at
you! You are in no favor in that quarter.”
Betty blushed furiously, but held her peace. She was not entirely
displeased at Lady Crabtree’s frankness, for Sir Barton had pushed
his addresses with such violent warmth and haste that she dreaded his
visits.
“You are gay this morning, madam,” he said sharply, with a glance
of ill-disguised anger at the old woman; “happily, you are not the
interpreter of Mistress Carew’s heart or eyes.”
“You fool,” retorted Lady Crabtree, laughing, “Betty’s eyes need no
interpreter--”
“Madam,” interrupted the young girl, sharply, “I crave your permission
to withdraw;” and without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked
from the room, holding her head high and with crimson cheeks.
“There, Sir Barton,” laughed the old woman, “see how welcome you are!
The wench has sense, I tell you, and will none of you.”
“I am not so confident of that as you, my Lady Crabtree,” he retorted
angrily; “I can find a way to bring this haughty young mistress to
reason.”
The old woman looked at him sharply.
“You have an air of mystery,” she said coldly, “but look you, Barton
Henge, I love this wench, and I swear that you shall not disturb
her, nay, or trouble her one whit. Sit down and eat; you are hungry,
doubtless; but nourish no dreams of conquest, unless the maid is
willing, which she may be in time, for all girls are fools once, else
there would be fewer marriages.”