"Yes, I think he looks very well," replied Lettice, in her simplicity.
Dorothy bit her lip again. "He is not so well-favoured as Mr Jeremy
Stone," said she, "though he hath the better name, and comes of an elder
line by much."
By this time Aubrey had come up. "Ah, Lettice!" said he, kissing her.
"Mrs Dorothy, your most obedient, humble servant."
"Are you?" responded she.
"Surely I am. Lay your commands on me."
"Then bring Mr Stone to speak with me."
Aubrey gave a little shrug of his shoulders, a laugh, and turned away as
if to seek Mr Stone: while Dorothy, the moment his back was turned, put
her finger on her lip, and slipped out of sight behind a screen, with
her black eyes full of mischievous fun.
"Why, my dear," said a voice beside Lettice, "is none with you? I
thought I saw Doll by your side but now."
"She was, Gentlewoman," answered Lettice, looking up at Mrs Rookwood,
and beginning to wish herself at home again. Might she slip away? "May
I pray you of the time?"
Mrs Rookwood was neither of wealth nor rank to carry a watch, so she
went to look at the clock before replying, and Aubrey came up with Mr
Stone.
"Why, where is gone Mrs Dorothy?" asked the former, knitting his brows.
"All the beauty has not departed with her," responded Mr Stone
gallantly, bowing low to Lettice, who felt more and more uncomfortable
every minute.
"'Tis on the stroke of four, my dear," said Mrs Rookwood, returning:
"but I beg you will not hurry away."
"Oh, but I must, if you please!" answered Lettice, feeling a sensation
of instant and intense relief. "Grandmother bade me not tarry beyond
four o'clock. I thank you very much, Gentlewoman, and I wish you
farewell.--Aubrey, you will come with me?"
Aubrey looked extremely indisposed to do so, and Lettice wondered for
what reason he could possibly wish to stay: but Mrs Rookwood, hearing
of Lady Louvaine's order, made no further attempt to delay her young
guest. She called her daughters to take their leave, and in another
minute the Golden Fish was left behind, and Lettice ran into the door of
the White Bear. She went straight upstairs, and in the chamber which
they shared found her Aunt Edith.
Lettice had no idea how uneasy Edith had been all that day. She had a
vague, general idea that she was rather a favourite with Aunt Edith--
perhaps the one of her nieces whom on the whole she liked best: but of
the deep pure well of mother-like love in Edith's heart for Dudley
Murthwaite's daughter, Lettice had scarcely even a faint conception.
She rather fancied herself preferred because, as she supposed, her
mother had very likely been Aunt Edith's favourite sister. Little
notion therefore had Lettice of the network of feeling behind the
earnest, wistful eyes, as the aunt laid a hand on each shoulder of the
niece, and said--
"Well, Lettice?"
"Aunt Edith," was the answer, "if that is the world I have been in
to-day, I hope I shall never go again!"
"Thank God!" spoke Edith's heart in its innermost depths; but her voice
only said, quietly enough, "Ay so, dear heart? and what misliked thee?"
"It is all so queer! Aunt Edith, they think the world is something
good. And they want me to paint my face. And they call Aunt Temperance
`Starch.' And they say I am only two years old. And they purse up
their faces, and look as if it were something strange, if I quote the
Bible. And they talk about being married as if it must happen, whether
you would or not, and as if it were the only thing worth thinking about.
And they seemed to think it was quite delightful to have a lot of
gentlemen bowing at yon, and saying all sorts of silly things, and I
thought it was horrid. And altogether, I didn't like it a bit, and I
wanted to get home."
"Lettice, I prayed God to keep thee, and I think He has kept thee. My
dear heart, mayest thou ever so look on the world which is His enemy,
and His contrary!"
Edith's voice was not quite under her control--a most unusual thing with
her.
"Aunt Edith, I did think at first--when Mrs Rookwood came--that I
should like it very well. I felt as if it would be such a pleasant
change, you know, and--sometimes I have fancied for a minute that I
should like to know how other maids did, and to taste their life, as it
were, for a little while; because, you see, I knew we were so quiet, and
other people seemed to have more brightness and merriment, and--well, I
wanted to see what it was like."
"Very natural, sweet heart, at thy years. I can well believe it."
"And so, when Mrs Rookwood asked, I so hoped Grandmother would let me
go. And I did enjoy the apple-gathering in the garden, and the games
afterward in the hall. But when we sat down, and girls came up and
talked to me, and I saw what they had inside their hearts--for if it had
not been in their hearts, it would not have come on their tongues--Aunt
Edith, I hope I shall never, never, _never_ have anything more to do
with the world! I'd rather peel onions and scrub tiles every day of my
life than live with people, and perhaps get like them, who could call my
dear old Grandmother `Knitting-pins' in scorn, and tell God Himself that
they only wanted to think of Him on Sundays. That world's another
world, and I don't belong to it, and please, I'll keep out of it!"
"Amen, and Amen!" said Aunt Edith. "My Lettice, let us abide in the
world where God is King and Father, and Sun, and Water of Life. May
that other world where Satan rules ever be another and a strange world
to thee, wherein thou shalt feel thyself a traveller and a stranger. My
child, there is very much merriment which hath nought to do with
happiness, and very much happiness which hath nought to do with mirth.
'Tis one thing to shut ourselves from God's world which He made, and
quite another to keep our feet away from Satan's world which he hath
ruined. When God saith, `Love not the world,' He means not, Love not
flowers, and song-birds, and bright colours, and sunset skies, and the
innocent laughter of little children. Those belong to His world; and
'tis only as we take them out thereof, and hand them unto Satan, and
they get into the Devil's world, that they become evil and hurtful unto
us. Satan hath ruined, and will yet, so far as he may, all the good
things of God; and beware of the most innocent-seeming thing so soon as
thou shalt see his touch, upon it. Thank God, my darling, that He
suffered thee not to shut thine eyes thereto! Was Aubrey there,
Lettice?"
"He came but late, Aunt, and therefore it was, I suppose, that as it
seemed, he had no list to come with me. He said he might look in,
perchance, at after."
"And Mr Tom Rookwood?"
"Ay, he was there, though I saw scarce anything of him but just at
first."
Edith was privately glad to hear it. She had been a little afraid of
designs upon Lettice from that quarter.
"Aunt, was it not rude to give nicknames?"
"Very rude, and very uncomely, Lettice."
"I thought it was horrid!" said Lettice.
"Louvaine," Tom Rookwood was saying, next door, "I met Mr Tom Winter
this afternoon, and he asked me if you had gone to the Low Countries to
take service under the Archduke. He hath seen nought of you, saith he,
these three weeks."
"I know it," said Aubrey, sulkily.
"Well, he told me to bid you to supper with him o' Thursday even next.
I shall be there, and Sir Josceline Percy, Sir Edward Bushell, and Mr
Kit Wright."
"I can't. Wish I could."
"Why, what's to hinder?"
"Oh, I'm--ah--promised beforehand," said Aubrey, clumsily.
"Can't you get off?"
"_No_. But I've as great a mind to go--"
"You come, and never mind the other fellows. You'll find us much
jollier grigs of the twain."
"I know that. Hang it, Tom, I'll go!"
"There's a brave lad! Four o'clock sharp, at the Duck. I'll meet you
there."
"Done!"
"Where was he promised, I marvel?" asked Dorothy in a whisper, with a
yawn behind her hand.
"Oh, didn't you see how he flushed and stammered?" said Gertrude,
laughing. "I vow, I do believe old Knitting-pins had made him swear on
her big Bible that he wouldn't speak another word to Mr Winter. Had it
been but another merry-making, he should never have looked thus."
There was no visit from Aubrey at the White Bear that evening. He felt
as if he could not meet his grandmother's eyes. He was not yet
sufficiently hardened in sin to be easy under an intention of deliberate
disobedience and violation of a solemn promise; yet the sin was too
sweet to give up. This once, he said to himself: only this once!--and
then, no more till the month was over.
When the Saturday evening arrived, Aubrey made a very careful toilet,
and set forth for the Strand. It was a long walk, for the Earl of
Oxford lived in the City, near Bishopsgate. Aubrey was rather elated at
the idea of making the acquaintance of Sir Josceline Percy and Sir
Edward Bushell. He was concerned at the family disgrace, as he
foolishly considered it, of Hans's connection with the mercer, and
extremely desirous to attain knighthood for himself. The way to do
that, he thought, was to get into society. Here was an opening which
might conduct him to those Elysian fields--and at the gate stood his
grandmother, trying to wave him away. He would not be deprived of his
privileges by the foolish fancies of an old woman. What did old women
know of the world? Aubrey was not aware that sixty years before, that
very grandmother, then young Lettice Eden, had thought exactly the same
thing of those who stood in her way to the same visionary Paradise.
Temple Bar was just left behind him, and the Duck was near, when to
Aubrey's surprise, and not by any means to his satisfaction, a hand was
laid upon his shoulder.
"Hans! you here?"
"Truly so. Where look you I should be an half-hour after closing time?"
This was a most awkward contretemps. How should Hans be got rid of
before the Duck was reached?
"You are on your way to the White Bear," said Hans, in the tone of one
who states an incontrovertible fact, "Have with you."
Aubrey privately wished Hans in the Arctic Sea or the torrid zone, or
anywhere out of the Strand for that afternoon. And as if to render his
discomfiture more complete, here came Mr Winter and Tom Rookwood, arm
in arm, just as they reached Mrs More's door. What on earth was to be
done?
Mr Thomas Rookwood, whose brain was as sharp as a needle, guessed the
situation in a moment, and with much amusement, from a glance at
Aubrey's face. He, of course, at once recognised Hans, and was at least
as well aware as either that Hans represented the forces of law and
order, and subordination to lawful authority, while Aubrey stood as the
representative of the grand principle that every man should do what is
right in his own eyes. A few low-toned words to Mr Winter preceded a
doffing of both the plumed hats, and the greeting from Tom Rookwood as
they passed, of--
"Good even to you both. Charming weather!"
A scarcely perceptible wink of Tom's left eye was designed to show
Aubrey that his position was understood, and action taken upon it.
Aubrey saw and comprehended the gesture. Hans saw it also, but did not
comprehend it except as a sign of some private understanding between the
two. They walked on together, Aubrey engaged in vexed meditation as to
how he was to get rid of Hans. But Hans had no intention of allowing
himself to be dismissed. He began to talk, and Aubrey had to answer,
and could not satisfy himself what course to pursue, till he found
himself at the door of the White Bear.
Charity was at the door, doing what every housemaid was then compelled
to do, namely, pouring her slops into the gutter.
"Eh, Mestur Aubrey, is that yo'?" said she. "'Tis a month o' Sundays
sin' we've seen you. You might come a bit oftener, I reckon, if you'd a
mind. Stand out o' th' way a minute, do, while I teem these here slops
out. There's no end to folks' idleness down this road. Here's Marg'et
Rumboll, at th' back, been bidden by th' third-borough to get hersen
into service presently, under pain of a whipping, and Mary Quinton, up
yon, to do th' same within a month, at her peril. [Note 1.] I reckon,
if I know aught of either Mall or Marg'et, they'll both look for a place
where th' work's put forth. Dun ye know o' any such, Mestur Aubrey, up
City way?"
Aubrey was not sufficiently sharp to notice the faint twinkle in
Charity's eyes, and the slight accent of sarcasm in her tone. Hans
perceived both.
"I do not, Charity, but I dare be bound there are plenty," said Aubrey,
stepping delicately over the puddle which Charity had just created, so
as to cause as little detriment as possible to his Spanish leather shoes
and crimson silk stockings.
"Ay, very like there will. They'll none suit you, Mestur 'Ans; you're
not one of yon sort. Have a care o' th' puddle, Mestur Aubrey, or
you'll mire your brave hose, and there'll be wark for somebody."
With which Parthian dart, Charity bore off her pail, and Aubrey and Hans
went forward into the parlour, "Good even, my gracious Lord!" was the
greeting with which the former was received. "Your Lordship's visits be
scarcer than the sun's, and he has not shown his face none wist when.
Marry, but I do believe I've seen that suit afore!"
"Of course you have, Aunt Temperance," answered the nettled Aubrey. He
was exceedingly put out. His evening was spoiled; he was deprived of
his liberty, of his friends' company, of a good dinner--for Mr Winter
gave delightful little dinners, and Mrs Elizabeth More, the housewife
at the Duck, was an unusually good cook. Moreover, he was tied down to
what he contemptuously designated in his lofty mind "a parcel of women,"
with the unacceptable and very unflattering sarcasms of Aunt Temperance
by way of seasoning. It really was extraordinary, thought Mr Aubrey,
that when women passed their fortieth milestone or thereabouts, they
seemed to lose their respect for the nobler sex, and actually presumed
to criticise them, especially the younger specimens of that interesting
genus. Such women ought to be kept in their places, and (theoretically)
he would see that they were. But when he came in contact with the
obnoxious article in the person of Aunt Temperance, in some inscrutable
manner, the young lord of creation never saw it. At the Duck, the
company were making merry over Tom Rookwood's satirical account of
Aubrey's discomfiture. For his company they cared little, and the only
object they had for cultivating it was the consideration that he might
be useful some day. Their conversation was all the freer without him,
since all the rest were Papists.
Something, at that moment, was taking place elsewhere, with which the
company at the Duck, and even Aubrey Louvaine, were not unconcerned.
Lord Monteagle was entertaining friends to supper at his house at
Hoxton, where he had not resided for some time previously. Just before
the company sat down to table, a young footman left the house on an
errand, returning a few minutes later. As he passed towards his
master's door, a man of "indifferent stature," muffled in a cloak, and
his face hidden by a slouched hat drawn down over the brow, suddenly
presented himself from amongst the trees.
"Is your Lord within, and may a man have speech of him?" asked the
apparition.
"His Lordship is now sitting down to supper," was the answer.
The stranger held out a letter.
"I pray you, deliver this into your Lord's own hand," said he, "seeing
it holdeth matter of import."
The young man took the letter, and returned to the house. Lord
Monteagle was just crossing the hall to the dining-room, when his
servant delivered the letter. Grace having been said, and the business
of supper begun, he unfolded the missive. His Lordship found it
difficult to read, which implies that his education was not of the most
perfect order, for the writing is not at all hard to make out. But
gentlemen were much less versed in the three R's at that date than at
the present time [Note 2], and Lord Monteagle, calling one of his
servants, named Thomas Ward, desired him to read the letter.
Now, Mr Thomas Ward was in the confidence of the conspirators,--a fact
of which there is no doubt: and that Lord Monteagle was the same may not
inaptly be described as a fact of which there is doubt--an extremely
strong probability, which has been called in question without any
disproof [see Appendix]. Both these gentlemen, however, conducted
themselves with perfect decorum, and as if the subject were entirely new
to them.