IN THE APPLE ORCHARD
MY Lady Crabtree hurried Mistress Betty from Greenwich. At sunset
of that fateful day, the two went by water to Deptford. The barge
glided gently along the placid river; the soft spring air was full of
fragrance and the banks of the Thames on either hand were clad in a
mantle of varied green, while above the blue sky was flecked with rosy
clouds. Betty and old Madam sat in the center of the boat, and the
young girl was silent and manifestly unhappy. After casting one or two
of her eagle glances at the beautiful, downcast face, Lady Crabtree
accosted her with her accustomed frankness.
“What ails you, wench?” she asked sharply; “you had no love for this
queen when you were sent to her, and now you pull as long a face as
ever you did for the Lady Catherine.”
“I had only condemnation for her when I went first to Greenwich,” Betty
answered, “nor do I love her as does poor Mary Wyatt, and a few of the
others also; but it seems a cowardly thing to leave her now--it hurts
me to seem a time-server.”
“Tush!” retorted the old woman, calmly, “the queen cares naught for
you. Nor would they let you go if you would. They took her to the Tower
without even giving her time to change her farthingale,--like men it is
to do it so,--and I hear that the king’s grace will have her aunt, Lady
Boleyn, and Mrs. Cousins, whom she hates, attend her. Doubtless they
will strive to wring some confession from her, poor thing!”
“She is charged with high treason, so Mary Wyatt told me, weeping,”
Betty said; “but the whole matter has been conducted so secretly that
the unhappy lady knows not the charges.”
Lady Crabtree’s stern face stiffened.
“That may and may not be,” she retorted dryly; “Anne Boleyn has been
more foolish than ever she was wise. The greatest fool was she to think
that the man whom she had made unfaithful to his wife would be faithful
to her. Poor shallow pate! she but taught him the door by which he
should slip out. Well, well, there will be a great trial, and what will
my lord of Wiltshire do?”
“The queen’s father?” Betty said; “alas, poor gentleman!”
“Alas, poor ass!” retorted Lady Crabtree; “yet was he clever enough to
wring a promise from the king’s grace to marry Mistress Anne before
Queen Catherine was put away. They tell a tale of his visit to the
Bishop of Rome,” she added, laughing. “The king sent him upon this
business of the divorce, and he, getting there, refused to kiss the
pope’s toe. ’Tis added that his dog bit it, in which case it is no
great wonder that his highness’s cause suffered at Rome.”
“My Lady Rochford does not love the queen,” Betty remarked
thoughtfully, “nor does the queen love her.”
“There is gossip about her as a witness against Anne,” old Madam
replied, “but there is scandal enough now to raise the stones of the
palace. ’Twas the rumor of this matter that reached your uncle through
his kinsman, the master of horse. Whereat I get a letter, writ in
haste, to tell me to propound some excuse to get you to Deptford.
William Carew must take me for a liar; that I never was, because I
could not cover one without a thousand, and it is a weariness to the
flesh.”
There was a pause between them; they were approaching Deptford, and
Betty’s mind was full of those last melancholy hours with the unhappy
queen.
“Hast seen thy lover, Henge, of late?” Lady Crabtree asked, as they
reached the landing.
Betty raised her head haughtily. “I pray you call him by some other
name,” she said coldly; “I am happy that I have not seen him.”
“And did Master Raby--I beg his pardon--Lord Raby not tell thee of the
game in Greenwich Park?”
A deep blush came into Betty’s face.
“I saw Lord Raby but once before he went away,” she answered, “and he
told me but little, albeit I have heard much since.”
Taking a grim pleasure in the recital, Lady Crabtree told the story of
the ambush and the rescue, and her sharp eyes did not lose a blush or
quiver of the face beside her.
“’Tis a mercy that the matter is so ended,” Betty said in a low voice;
“now I think he will scarcely dare to show his face again.”
Old Madam laughed harshly. “Little you know of Barton Henge,” she said;
“he will remember the injury and the disgrace until he has avenged
it. Lay no such unction to your soul; he is a devil and he will do a
devil’s work.”
With these threatening words still ringing in her ears, Betty went with
a heavy heart to take up her life again with this strange woman.
For a while, however, all hearts were absorbed in the terrible tidings
that came from London. The indictment and the trial of a Queen of
England, the pitiful spectacle of a woman who had sacrificed all to
obtain a crown now forced to such a shameful ignominy. The minds of
honest Englishmen were stunned; the sadness of the fate of Catherine
was as nothing compared with this.
Moved by pity for the wretched queen, awed by the recognition of the
fearful workings of retribution, Betty Carew was filled with amazement,
sympathy, unbelief. Finding small matter in common with old Madam, the
young girl was much alone. Sitting in her own room, which overlooked
the river, or walking through the garden and orchards of the manor
house, her mind found plenty of food for reflection. In a few short
months she had attended two queens, each doomed to misery,--one a
sternly virtuous woman, dying as a Christian should; the other--she
could not think of Anne’s great beauty, the attraction of her manner,
without commiseration. She had seen her in a brief hour of triumph at
Catherine’s death; she knew that it was commonly reported that her
malice had pulled down the great cardinal, but she could only think of
her in her distress; she heard still her shrieks in the wizard’s house,
her anguish at the sight of the king’s gift to Jane Seymour.
Betty had been ten days at Deptford, and one morning walked alone in
the apple orchard. Beneath her feet the soft green turf was broken here
and there by the gnarled root of an apple tree; overhead the low boughs
made a network, white and pink with bloom, and through the beauty
of the fragrant blossoms she saw the soft blue sky, and before her,
through the trees, was the river. The birds sang with the joy of the
spring. She went on down to the river bank, and watched the wherries
going to London; then, as she came slowly back, she looked up and saw,
coming through the avenue of trees, a stalwart figure, and a face she
knew. She had not seen Simon Raby since that morning in the quadrangle
court, and she blushed a little as she saw the glad look on his face.
But she had profited by her lessons in the world, and she met him with
an air of demure dignity.
“You are welcome, my Lord Raby,” she said gravely; “you have been long
in Sussex, and I was sorry that you went on so sad an errand. Sir, I
am an orphan too, and do commiserate your case.”
Despite his black garments, Simon Raby was wearing a cheerful
countenance, having been long separated from his father, a close-fisted
man, whose only love was gold, which had made his son run to the
opposite extreme. Having little in common, Raby had not felt his loss
too deeply; but at this speech from Mistress Betty, he pulled down his
face and tried to make a proper answer, although all the while he was
thinking how radiant was her dark beauty in the white gown she wore,
and what a picture she made with the apple-blooms overhead and in her
hands. And she knew his thoughts well enough, but chose to turn the
talk away.
“How long have you been back in London?” she asked, arranging her
flowers; “we have been ten days here, but at this dreadful time it
seems much longer.”
“Alas, poor queen of a day!” Raby said compassionately; “’tis a great
misfortune for this realm, nor do we see the end of it. I came back
but yesterday, and heard the tidings at an inn. They stunned me; I
could not believe it until I made inquiries of the matter. ’Tis said
that my lord privy seal sent for Sir Francis Bryan, but he is quit of
it. And Archbishop Cranmer wept; he hath a gentle heart. I thought of
the wizard’s house, Mistress Carew, and of the shrieks of the queen.
’Tis a marvellous thing, and makes an honest man shun the bandy-legged
creature. I passed that house as I came on the river; the shutters
were open and the windows--verily, they shone like evil eyes in the
sunlight.”
Betty shuddered. “’Twas a fearful place,” she said, and added: “I owe
you a debt, Lord Raby. My Lady Crabtree told me more of that encounter
with Henge than ever you did.”
Raby’s face flushed as he laughed.
“It was a petticoat rescue,” he said, “of which I have little cause to
be vainglorious. Hath the villain troubled you again?”
“Nay,” Betty answered, “though my lady tells me that he will avenge his
grief. I pray you, beware of this dangerous foe.”
“I would right cheerfully encounter more such in your cause, Mistress
Carew,” he answered softly, and then added after a brief pause, “I was
not only in Sussex; I have been down to Mohun’s Ottery.”
“To my uncle?” asked Betty, in surprise. “How fared they all?”
“Well, and sent loving greetings to you,” he replied. “Can you not
divine my errand, Mistress Carew, down there in Devon?”
Betty looked up archly, but meeting the ardent glance of his brown
eyes, looked down again and colored like a rose.
“Nay, sir,” she said, “I never yet could read a riddle.”
A soft breeze shaking the bough overhead, some apple blossoms dropped
upon her like a fragrant snowfall.
“I saw your uncle, Mistress Carew,” Simon said softly, “and I pleaded
my cause with him and won it; ’tis for you to condemn me now, or bless
me.”
They stood near the high wall of the orchard; it was very still, and
Mistress Betty kept her eyes upon the ground.
He put out his hand and took hers gently; his manner was tender as to a
child; her stately beauty did not make her a great lady in his eyes, he
saw beyond it the tender heart.
“Mistress Carew, Betty,” he said softly, “I have no scar upon my brow.”
At this, a smile stole over Betty’s rosy face and she gave him an arch
glance.
“You might have had one, sir, but for my Lady Crabtree,” she said
roguishly.
He kissed her hands. “I love you,” he whispered tenderly; “will you
make me happy, or must I go hence with a heavy heart?”
“My Lord Raby,” Betty said quietly, “I see my uncle and my Lady
Crabtree coming through the orchard; did my uncle come with you?”
“I must have my answer,” he exclaimed, between hope and doubt, still
detaining her hand though he heard the others coming.
“Bethink you,” she said proudly, “I should be but a portionless bride.”
“To me the noblest and the richest in the kingdom,” he exclaimed.
She looked at him with radiant eyes.
“Sir,” she said roguishly, “my uncle calleth thee!”