"Ask no questions," I said; "it will be the safest; but I have a clue at
length to the object of which we are in search, and I trust that we may
be able to carry out the Lady Anne's beneficent designs."
Having concluded our rambles about the city, and James Brocktrop having
gained all the information he required, we returned to our hostelry. I
begged that I might go forth alone when it was dark. I had full
confidence in the faithfulness of Brocktrop, as well as in the
discretion of A'Dale; but yet I was sure that the fewer who knew
Overton's secret the better. One who like him had left the Church of
Rome, if discovered, would be sure to meet with no mercy.
I accordingly set out by myself through the streets of Norwich. I had
noted the house where I had seen him, and fully believed that I should
find it again. There are, however, so many ups and downs in the city,
and the streets wind about so much, that it is no easy matter to find
the way, especially dark as it then was. Here and there only a light
gleamed forth from some artisan's workshop, making the obscurity in
other places still more dense. At last I recognised a building I had
seen in the morning, and knew that Master Overton's house was not far on
one side of it. I hastened on and knocked. A voice told me to come in,
and I saw him, as before, with a small lamp by his side, working away at
his loom.
"I thank you very much, my young friend, for coming," he said; "I am
anxious, as you are, to try and discover my niece. I have no doubt,
however, that she will be found. We will soon go forth in search of the
worthy Flemings in whose company I saw her."
Saying this, he threw a cloak round him such as was worn by the
Flemings, and taking me by the arm we together left the house, which he
locked carefully behind him. My eyes had now become accustomed to the
darkness of the streets, and I could without difficulty walk on by the
side of my companion. We had not gone far, when he stopped at the door
of a low cottage. We listened, for a sweet, low hymn was being sung by
some one within. It was one of Marot's, such as my own dear parents had
delighted in. The sound melted me almost to tears. Now another voice
joined in: it was that of a woman. And now a man's tones were heard,
full and rich. I would not for much have interrupted that hymn.
Perhaps the singers scarcely knew the risk they ran, for had any Romish
priests heard them they might have recognised the hymns as those of the
Protestant poet of France; he whose verses had afforded consolation to
many a persecuted Christian, to many an exile from his native land. At
length the hymn ceased. Overton knocked gently at the door. It was
opened by a woman, the light from within falling on her person, showing
by her costume that she was a Fleming.
"I am a friend," said Overton; "you know me. I have come to see you,
and ask a few questions."
"You are welcome, Master Holt," she said in broken English. "Come in,
for I know you to be a friend to the people of our faith."
We entered. The woman looked at me. "He is trustworthy," said Overton.
"I saw a young girl in your company the other day," he continued; "I am
anxious to talk with her, for a strange communication has been made me,
and I think I know more about her than you may suppose." The woman
listened attentively.
"She is in the back room," she said; "I will call her. I told you that
she is not my child, but I love her as if she were. I would not part
with her, unless it was greatly to her benefit."
"If she is the child I believe her to be, she is my niece," answered
Overton, "and a lady of wealth and distinction is ready to take charge
of her. A sound Protestant, moreover. Would you not then yield her
up?"
"I would not selfishly prevent the dear girl from doing anything which
would advance her interests. But you may be wrong; perhaps she is not
the child you seek. However, I will call her, and you can speak to her
yourself."
The Flemish woman, opening a door, called, and in an instant a girl
eleven or twelve years old came bounding into the room. She was very
fair, with blue eyes, her countenance full of animation, her light-brown
hair long and silky.
"Aveline," she said, "here is a worthy gentleman who wishes to speak
with you. He thinks he knew your dear mother. Will you describe her to
him, that he may judge whether he is right?"
Aveline ran up to Overton, and taking his hand, exclaimed:
"Oh yes! she was an angel, so sweet and loving and kind, and her figure
so tall and graceful."
"Yes, yes," said Overton, looking eagerly in the child's face; "but her
name, what was her name?"
"My dear father, before he went away, always called her Barbara."
"Ah! yes," said Overton, "that was the name; but the surname; by what
name was your father known?"
"My father's name was Radford--Captain Radford. He went away a long
time ago, in a big ship, belonging to some merchant adventurers, and he
has never since come back, and poor dear mamma was accused of reading
the Bible, and of loving God's people more than the ways of the world,
and some cruel men came and dragged her off to prison. They very nearly
took me, but she told me to fly away, and to get clear of them, and that
I must throw myself on the mercy of the first Protestant family I could
meet. I ran and ran on, wishing to obey my mother, and fearing that the
Queen's guards would be in pursuit of me, till I came upon an encampment
of travellers by the roadside. I stopped and listened; they were
singing a hymn. I knew that it was a Protestant hymn, and thus I knew
that I might trust them. They did not understand much I said, for they
had not been long in the country. Yet I made myself understood, and
when they heard my tale they undertook to afford me protection. In vain
I have since frequently begged that I might go forth and search for my
mother, but they always shook their heads, and said it was of no use.
Still I am sure that I shall meet her again. Do you not think so, sir?"
"Yes, dear child; there is a place where all who are clothed in the
robes of the Lamb will assuredly meet, and there I trust that you will
meet with your mother."
Aveline looked up in Overton's face with an inquiring glance. "What do
you mean?" she asked eagerly; and then in a deep low whisper, painfully
drawing her breath, she said, "Is she dead?"
"The body in which you knew her has returned to dust, but she herself is
now rejoicing with a joy unspeakable. Do not mourn for her, my child.
Only accept the same gracious offer she accepted, and follow the course
she has followed, and assuredly you will be reunited to her."
"Yes, yes, I will indeed!" exclaimed Aveline, clasping her hands and
looking upwards.
Never had I seen a countenance more beautiful and radiant. Already an
angelic expression rested on it, such as I am sure it will wear when
glorified in heaven.
The husband, Crugeot, now came forward, for before his wife had opened
the door he had concealed himself in the further room; even a humble
family, such as I have described, in those days lived in dread of
persecution. Yet even they would not altogether hold their tongues, but
desired to witness for the truth.
We had interrupted, I found, their usual evening service, and on our
knocking they had scattered, not knowing who might be about to enter.
Overton now explained to Aveline that he was her uncle, and asked her
whether she would go and reside with a rich lady who would be her
patroness. She looked at Dame Crugeot.
"I cannot leave her," she said, "unless she wishes to part with me."
"I do not wish to part with you, my child; but yet I would advise you to
accept the generous offer which has been made."
"But will they talk to me as you have done, of the Saviour and of my
dear mother? I cannot go to people who will not do that," said the
little girl firmly.
Her uncle explained that she could enjoy all the advantages of wealth;
but promised amusements and luxuries did not tempt her. Almost
unwillingly, however, at last, by the urgent advice of her uncle, she
consented to leave her Flemish friends. Hitherto I had said very
little. I merely again repeated Lady Anne's offer, and told her how
kind and generous a friend she had been to me, and that I was sure she
would prove the same to her.
"But you will not take me to-morrow," she said; "let me have another day
with my kind nurse, or more than nurse--my second mother."
I was sure that James Brocktrop would consent to remain another day;
indeed, our horses required a longer rest before they were fit for the
return journey.