THE PRINCE.
"GOOD evening to you, madam! So you have absolutely condescended,
for as great lady as you are, to come and visit the house of your
father's own brother! That is more than I expected. Girl, this is my
lady's adopted daughter, a lady of quality. Why do you not make your
reverences at once, and acknowledge the honor she does us!"
Such was the affectionate greeting which Dame Evans bestowed on her
husband's niece, who had hastened to come and see her as soon as she
heard through a neighbor of their return to Bristol. In truth, the poor
woman's narrow soul was boiling over with envy and spite at her niece's
change of fortune. She was one of those unlucky people who regard every
piece of preferment falling to any one else as just so much taken from
themselves.
Simon Evans had given his full and free consent when Lady Peckham had
informed him, on occasion of her visit to Holford, of her intentions
with regard to Winifred, adding that Winifred was half a lady by birth,
and wholly so in her bringing up; and much better, suited to be a
companion to Lady Peckham than a household help to such as they were.
"I trust Winifred has not failed in her duty to you or to her aunt,"
said Lady Peckham.
"By no means, my lady! She has been everything that she should be, and
more!"
"I don't know what you mean by that," grumbled Dame Evans, by no means
pleased with this unqualified praise of Winifred. "I am sure, the pains
I had to wean her from her books and her dreaming, and make her do
anything useful! And now to have her snatched away, and by a stranger,
as it were! I must say, 'tis very hard!"
Master Evans gave his wife a glance that she well understood as a
signal to hold her tongue. "If the girl is alive, as I trust she may
be, your ladyship is heartily welcome to her, and I hope she may repay
your kindness towards her," continued her uncle. "'Tis not every great
lady to whom I would trust her in these times, but you, my lady, and
Sir Edward, are well-known: as befit no favorers of court follies and
sins."
So the matter was settled, to the great chagrin of Margery Evans, who
would have liked at least to throw some difficulties in the way. But
even this was not the worst. Simon Evans had been much surprised at
the circumstance that his father had died without making a will. It
was very unlike his ordinary business-like habits, which caused him to
make a matter of conscience of doing everything in the right time and
way. Magdalen Evans had always been a great favorite with her father,
and with good reason. For, ever since her marriage, she had kept his
house, looked after his interests, and waited upon him with more than
the devotion of a daughter. And never by word or sign had she shown
any consciousness of superiority to the family of the yeoman. Under
these circumstances it seemed incredible to Simon Evans that his father
should have left Magdalen and her child unprovided for; especially as
his brother Gilbert was in the habit of putting his wages into his
father's hands to be invested for the benefit of his family. No will,
however, had been found, and Simon, an honest and upright though rather
thick-headed man, had ever since been casting about in his mind for the
best way to set right the injustice his father had committed.
No sooner had the Evans family arrived at the farm, than Dame Margery
began the necessary process of cleaning the long shut up house. And
great was the rummaging and wonderful the objurgations bestowed upon
the dirty sluts of maids, and the carelessness and neglect of poor
sister Magdalen, who, it was plain to be seen, had never given the
place a thorough cleaning since she went into it. It was well for
Winifred's peace of mind that she was not present to hear the remarks
made upon her mother's management.
One day she attacked old Master Evans' room, and turned all the
furniture out of doors, that she might, as she said, have the place to
herself. Out went the ancient chair and table, the heavy bedstead was
denuded of its hangings and dragged out into the middle of the floor,
and Dame Margery called upon her husband to come and help move out
the heavy old secretary and chest of drawers, in which Master Evans
had always kept his papers and other more valuable possessions. Simon
had looked through this secretary more than once without finding what
he sought. Now, however, as he drew the end away from the wall, he
perceived a paper sticking out through a crevice, at the back. With
some difficulty he pulled it out, and unfolded it, and a moment's
glance showed him it was the will he had sought.
"Well, what now?" said his wife, sharply. "What is in that paper, that
you stare at it like an owl at a mouse?"
"I believe, Margery," said Simon, slowly, "that I have found my
father's will."
"And what if you have? What difference will that make?"
"It may make a great deal of difference!" said Simon. "I must find some
one who can make me understand this paper. I am sorry that my good lady
is gone from the Hall. I believe I will go to the vicar."
"Better keep it to yourself, good man," suggested Margery, somewhat
alarmed. "What does it signify? You are the eldest son, and have the
best right to your father's property, and Winifred is provided for.
Better let well alone."
"Woman!" said Simon Evans sternly. "Wouldst thou have me build up my
house by wrong and robbery, and thus bring upon these young ones the
curse of ill-gotten gain? I have ever thought it strange that my father
left nothing to my brother Gilbert's family. I doubt not this will set
the matter right."
So it proved. The new vicar examined the will, and read it to Simon
Evans. By this instrument, he discovered that his father had put no
less than six hundred pounds into the hands of Sir Edward Peckham, to
be invested for the benefit of Magdalen Evans and her children. A great
part of this sum, it was stated, consisted of the earnings of Gilbert
Evans, and the result of some fortunate speculations in the china jars
and Indian brocades and cottons which were just becoming fashionable.
In addition, Winifred was to have for life the rents of certain
tenements in the village of Holford. Vouchers and all other papers
relating to the transaction would be found in the secret drawer where
the will was deposited. The clue being given, it was not difficult
to discover the drawer, in which were all the documents, arranged in
perfect order.
Sir Edward's former lawyer had died of the fever, but his son and
successor at Bridgewater easily discovered among Sir Edward's papers
additional evidence of the transaction. And as the baronet was
perfectly methodical in all business affairs, and left abundance of
ready money for the discharge of all debts, there seemed no doubt that
Winifred's portion would be immediately forthcoming.
It would be more easy to imagine than to describe the wrath of Dame
Margery Evans at this discovery. In vain did her husband represent
to her that the money in question had belonged to Winifred's father,
and not to his own, and was therefore no concern of his. In vain did
he tell her that, as they had never known of the existence of this
six hundred pounds, they were no poorer without them. Dame Margery
persisted in considering it as just so much bread taken out of the
mouths of her own children. She lamented and scolded day and night,
till her husband, worn out, assumed his rare tone of authority, and
bade her never mention the subject in his hearing again, under pain of
certain penalties not unusual in those days.
It may be believed that Margery's gall was none the less bitter for
this enforced suppression. She had come back to Bristol, determined, as
she said, to see Winifred, and give her a piece of her mind. And the
opportunity had come sooner than she expected. Winifred's affectionate
anxiety to meet and greet her relatives had, so to speak, led her
directly into the lion's jaws. She had as yet heard nothing of her good
fortune, Lady Peckham having thought it better that the matter should
be settled entirely before it was spoken of; and she stood perfectly
aghast at the reception she met with.
Dame Margery perceived her confusion, and followed up her advantage
with a torrent of abuse of Winifred herself, and all her friends,
including her mother, Lady Peckham, and the whole Corbet family.
There was no telling how far she might have gone, if Betsey, becoming
alarmed at her mother's violence, had not run down to the water-side
and called her father. The presence of Master Evans at once restored
quiet. Margery's storm of words subsided into a low mutter, and
presently dissolved into a shower of tears, in which she bewailed her
unhappy fate in meeting with such black ingratitude from those she had
nourished as her own, alluded to frozen vipers which stung those who
warmed them, and finally, having fairly worn out her fit of temper,
was ready to meet Winifred with a sort of mournful solemnity, when she
came down-stairs from packing up such of her possessions as remained
at her aunt's, and dividing between the little girls the presents she
had brought them: to hope that her sins would not be visited on her
head, and that she would not come to shame and destruction among the
fine folks who had taken her up, now that it was known she had a little
money of her own.
"You forget, dame," said her husband, "that my lady has known Winifred
longer than we have, and that Sir John's family took her up because she
was useful to them in teaching the young ladies."
But Dame Evans did not choose to remember. Winifred had chosen her
lot, and she must abide by it, she said. She washed her hands of the
whole matter. Thank goodness, she had no reason to be running after
gentlefolks. She had kept her own house over her head and the heads of
her family—much thanks she got for it—and she hoped to do so, though
the bread "had" been taken out of the mouths of her children to enrich
strangers. And here, the temper coming uppermost once more, she fell
into a regular screaming and kicking fit of hysterics.
"Go, Winifred, you can do no good here," said her uncle. "May God
bless you, child! I trust and will believe you are provided for, but
if ever you are in need, remember my house is always open to you. Give
my grateful duty to my lady, and as you go by the goldsmith's, send in
Dame Joyce to see to your aunt. She is a good-natured woman, and knows
how to manage her."
Winifred never saw her aunt again. The dame died not very long after
from a cold taken in scrubbing the bricks of the little court one cold
day, while she was wet through and through from washing of windows.
After waiting a decent time, Simon Evans took to wife a younger sister
of Dame Joyce, who had been well-educated in one of the excellent
foundation schools of Bristol. With all the kindness of heart and
cheerfulness of spirit of her elder sister, she possessed more sense
and steadiness of purpose. She proved a real blessing to the household
of Simon Evans, and was more truly a mother to his daughters than ever
their own had been. Simon Evans grew rich and prospered, and, feeling
a certain longing after his old home, he sold out his business, and
retired with his family to the Stonehill farm, where he and his wife
lived and died in peace, respected by all who knew them.
In the course of a week Lady Peckham returned to her house at Exeter,
taking Paulina and Winifred, and the two girls were soon settled
into a regular course of study and work, under the direction of Lady
Peckham and the vigorous supervision of Mrs. Alwright. Relieved from
the annoyance of curious and reproachful eyes, and influenced by the
calm and cheerful spirit of her cousin, Paulina rapidly regained health
and spirits. She took a new interest in the accomplishments she had
heretofore despised, when shown that they, like all other advantages,
were talents committed to her charge to be used for the glory of God
and the good of those about her. She threw herself into study and
work with an energy which nobody had believed was in her, and daily
surprised her kind teacher by her progress, and astonished Alwright
by her skill in inventing new patterns and improving old ones, and by
baking a saffron cake and an almond pastry as well as her teacher or
Winifred.
To Winifred all seemed more like a happy dream than like any possible
reality; and she almost feared to wake and find herself again scouring
trenchers or washing casements under the supervision of Dame Margery.
Not that even now she was perfectly happy. She could not but regret the
terms on which she had parted with her aunt, though her own reason told
her she was not in fault. And she was conscious of a sharp pang of pain
and regret whenever anything was said about Arthur Carew.
Lady Peckham seldom mentioned her brother, though Winifred believed
that she often heard from him. She only knew that he was in Holland,
and, openly or covertly, in the service of the Prince of Orange, and
that if the now much talked of expedition of the prince should take
place, Arthur Carew would doubtless accompany him. But suppose she
should ever see him again, what good would that do her? Was it at all
likely that after so long a time he would remember the little country
girl to whom he had given the locket and said those words under the
great pear-tree? Had those words ever been anything more than the empty
compliments of a courtier? Or, if he had been sincere at the time,
would not Lord Carew be a very different person from the wounded and
half-starved adventurer whom she had guided to Dame Sprat's cottage on
that memorable midnight? And what would my lady say to such a match?
But with all these questionings and a hundred more, Winifred's faith
did not fail. She knew that her fate was in better hands than those
of any earthly friend, however kind and wise, and that all would be
ordered for the best. So she took up her cross bravely, and bore
it silently, as many a woman has done both before and since, never
allowing her thoughts to dwell upon her trouble more than she could
help, and thankful that she had at least one Friend to whom she could
pour out her heart, and whom she could ask for blessings upon all those
dearest to her.
Meantime she gave her whole mind and attention to the studies she was
pursuing with Paulina, under Lady Peckham's direction, went to prayers
at the grand old cathedral on Sundays and holidays, worked for the
poor, and was introduced to Lady Peckham's visitors as "Mrs. Evans,
a young kinswoman whom I have taken to bring up." Thus the little
household in the fine old house at Exeter pursued its quiet way amid
all the disturbances of the time, seeing little company and hearing
little news. Though Winifred shrewdly suspected that her lady knew more
of what went on in the great world outside than she always saw fit to
communicate.
One afternoon in November, Lady Peckham sat in the bow-windowed parlor,
looking into the garden with her two young friends, busied with her
knitting, while Paulina and Winifred read aloud in turn. Either the
chronicler was not very entertaining or the readers were preoccupied,
for Lady Peckham often let her knitting fall as she looked absently
into the garden, Paulina seemed in imminent danger of going to sleep
over her frame, and Winifred more than once lost her place, when they
were suddenly startled and effectually aroused by the entrance of Mrs.
Alwright, in a state of perturbation and alarm most unusual in that
staid and discreet spinster.
"O madam! O my lady! John Footman has just come home, and he says there
is certain news come that the Prince of Orange has landed at Torbay
with all his army, and is marching direct upon Exeter by this very
road. What shall we do? What will become of us?"
The whole party started, and Winifred turned pale as death. She well
remembered the undisciplined rabble of Monmouth's army and the horrors
which followed its defeat. Lady Peckham seemed the least disturbed of
the three.
"I do not think there is any cause for present alarm," said she. "Yes,
my poor Winifred, I see well of what you are thinking, but I believe
this will be a very different matter from that wretched affair of the
Duke of Monmouth. The Prince of Orange is a worthy Christian gentleman,
and his wife the next heir to the throne. I have reason to know that he
has been invited over at this time by some of the foremost men in the
kingdom. His troops are famous for their discipline and good order, and
he has with him many English gentlemen."
"Then your ladyship does not think we had better begin to pack up our
goods?" said Alwright.
"On the contrary, I think you had better prepare for the reception of
guests—especially of some one who loves sweet sausages and saffron
cakes—for I am mistaken if we do not have a visitor before long!"
The next few days were days of great excitement to all the people of
Exeter, and our friends had their full share of interest in what was
going on. Some of the cathedral authorities, as soon as they heard
of the landing of the troops at Torbay, left their posts and went up
to London. The magistrates who favored King James remained in their
places, but they could do nothing against the universal feeling of the
inhabitants, and, wisely enough probably, did not try.
All sorts of rumors were afloat about the men the prince had brought
with him. It was said that they were a race of giants; that they
carried such arms and accoutrements as had never been seen before; that
some of them were savages from the far north where the sun never shone
and the ocean was frozen solid. The people of Exeter, whose notions
of armies were taken from the lawless rabble of Monmouth or the more
highly organized rapacity and ruffianism of Kirke's band, began to
anticipate with terror the entrance of the troops into the city. But
all the rumors which came from the now rapidly advancing army concurred
in saying that the soldiers were under the strictest discipline, took
nothing without paying for it, and were civil to all who came in their
way.
"Only think, madam," said a young servant one morning, "they say the
prince has two or three hundred blackamoors with him—real blackamoors
from the Indies!"
"Well," said Lady Peckham, not at all discomposed by the news, "I dare
say they are harmless enough."
"I cannot help liking blackamoors!" said Paulina. "Poor Jack, my
father's black, was so good when we were all ill!"
"They are good and bad, like other people, I suppose!" said Lady
Peckham. "I do not think you have any cause for fear, Dolly. Only
attend to your work, and all will go well enough."
"Poor Dolly!" said Winifred, laughing, as the girl retreated. "She
seems rather disappointed that her story has made no more stir."
"Yes, people of her sort have a great fondness for horrors. But I do
not think there is any cause for alarm. The prince himself, I am well
advised, will be here to-morrow or the next day, and no disorder is
likely to go on in his neighborhood!"
The next day but one all Exeter was in the street or at the windows.
The houses were hung with tapestry or ornamented with flowers to
welcome the man who had come to save England from popish domination.
Lady Peckham's house, in the principal street, by which the prince must
pass to the lodgings assigned him, had its windows crowded with gazers,
but one little balcony was reserved for Lady Peckham herself and her
family. And not a few eyes turned from the crowds in the street to rest
upon the stately figure of the widowed lady, supported by her two young
cousins, both so lovely and in such different styles.
Peace of mind and improving health had brought the carnation to
Paulina's cheek and the light to her dark eyes. Winifred was outwardly
calm and pale as usual, but her mind was in a flutter of expectation
of she knew not what. She told herself again and again that she had
nothing to look for, that Lord Carew was and could be nothing to her,
that she owed it to herself and to her lady to think no more about him.
But not the less did her heart bound every time the thought crossed her
mind that she might perhaps see him again before she slept.
"Here they come at last!" said Lady Peckham. "I hear the music; and
see, the crowd parts! Who comes first?"
First came a troop of gentlemen, many of them English, splendidly
mounted, and attended by their negro servants in turbans and white
feathers, rolling their eyes and showing their white teeth as though
they considered the whole pageant had been got up for their exclusive
honor.
Winifred gazed intently, but saw no face that she knew.
"What a pity Jack is not here!" said Paulina. "He might find some
friends among all these black people. But who are these with the fur
cloaks and black armor?"
"They must be the Swedes of whom we heard," said Lady Peckham. "They
are indeed a formidable troop! Here comes the prince's banner. Can you
read the device, Winifred?"
"'The Protestant Religion and the Liberties of England!'" said
Winifred. "I hope it may be well, but I cannot help thinking of the
poor, unhappy Duke of Monmouth."
"I do not wonder you think of him, but this is a very different
matter," replied Lady Peckham. "Monmouth brought with him no such
troops as these, and, besides, he had not a shadow of right or reason
upon his side. The very proclamation he put forth was enough to have
ruined his cause with all reasonable people. But look! Who comes here?
The Prince of Orange himself!"
"How grave and thoughtful he looks!" observed Paulina. "One would not
think he could ever smile."
"It is his nature to be grave, and even gloomy, and he has, besides,
had much in his life to make him so," said Lady Peckham. "Moreover, his
present enterprise is one which may well cause him to look grave. He
has aged greatly since I saw him last, but he had always that austere
and settled regard even as a young boy."
"See, see! What is that old dame about?" cried Winifred, as a very aged
woman pressed through the crowd towards the prince. "Oh, Lady Peckham!
It is Dame Oldmixon! Do you not remember her?"
"It is our old neighbor indeed! I fear she will be trampled under
foot," said Lady Peckham. "But no, the crowd makes way for her! She
touches the prince's hand! See, he speaks to her, and smiles! You see
he can smile, Paulina, and very brightly too! Poor old dame, she is
thinking of her son and husband!"
"What of them?" asked Paulina.
"The son was killed at Sedgemoor, and his father, though, I believe,
perfectly innocent of any share in the rebellion, was put to death by
Jeffreys. Winifred, send some one to bring the poor old woman in, and
give her some refreshment. She is not fit to be abroad in this press
and crowd."
The messenger was sent, and returned: "She will not come, my lady. She
sends her grateful duty to you, but says she will go home and die, now
that she has seen the deliverer of England."
"We will find her out, and see that she is comfortably provided for,"
said Lady Peckham. "I heard that she had come to Exeter to live."
After the prince came a long train of infantry, mostly Swiss soldiers
in the employ of the Dutch government, and then various bands,
distinguished, as was the fashion of those times, by the names of their
leaders.
"See there, Winifred!" said Lady Peckham, suddenly. "Who is that
gentleman with the fair hair and mustache—there on the black horse?
See, Alwright!"
"It is Master Arthur! It is my lord!" cried Alwright, in great
excitement. "But how old he has grown, and what a great scar he has on
his cheek!"
"That scar came from a Turkish sabre," said Lady Peckham. "Stop, he
sees us! He waves his hat!"
[Illustration: Arthur's face was upturned; all at once he started,
raised his hat and looked earnestly at the group in the balcony.]
Arthur's face was upturned, and his eyes were earnestly perusing the
crowds of ladies in the windows and balconies. All at once he started,
raised his hat, looked earnestly at the group in the balcony, and then
waved his plumed hat once more, with a smile and gesture of triumph.
"Is that my cousin?" asked Paulina, in a tone of some disappointment.
"I had thought him a much younger man. Did not you, Winifred?"
"He looks thin and very brown," said Winifred, commanding herself to
speak, "but I do not think he has grown old so very much, considering
all he has gone through."
"Why, did you ever see him before?" asked Paulina, curiously. "You
never told me that! What an odd girl you are, Winifred!"
Winifred did not reply, and Lady Peckham answered for her.
"Winifred knew my brother when she was a little girl. I hardly know
whether he will recognize her!"
Winifred said nothing, but she could not help thinking that Arthur
"had" recognized her, and that the wave of the hat and the smile were
for her. All the rest of the pageant passed before her eyes like a
dream, and she was only glad when she could escape to her room, and be
alone for awhile to collect her thoughts and compose herself.
But she could not be spared long. She was wanted here, there, and
everywhere, for the house was full of company, and Alwright in such a
flurry and fever that, as she herself said, she did not know whether
she was on her head or her heels. Winifred must set out the cakes and
sweetmeats, see that every one was helped, assist the ladies to find
their cloaks and hoods, and make herself generally useful.
At last, the last guest departed, and Winifred, tired in body and
wearied with excitement and hope deferred, returned to Lady Peckham's
withdrawing-room. There was no one in the room, and Winifred dropped
into a chair and covered her face with her hands.
"Oh, give me strength! Only give me strength!" was her prayer. "Let me
know the truth, and give me grace to bear it, whatever it may be!"
The door opened, and Winifred started up, to be confronted face to face
by a tall figure in a colonel's uniform. The two looked at each other
for one moment. Then all uncertainty was at an end.
"Winifred, my own Winifred, you have not forgotten me in all these
years that I have worn your piece of gold next my heart!"
Lady Peckham had heard her brother's step, and, hastening to meet him,
had been just in time to see the greeting.
"Oho, Master Arthur!" said she to herself, with a smile. "You have
found your young friend already, have you? Well, well, better Winifred
than some others! But we shall see!"
"And so you have really come back again safe and sound, Master Arthur—I
mean, my lord," said Alwright, "from the Turks and all! But you have
got an ugly scar on your face!"
"Yes, a Turkish janizary spoiled my beauty for me," replied Arthur,
laughing, "and came near doing worse; for he fired his pistol at me,
and the ball struck me just here above my heart!"
"Goodness me!" exclaimed Alwright. "Why did he not kill you?"
"Through no good will of his, I assure you. I bore a charm in the shape
of a certain piece of Moorish gold which hung round my neck by a chain
and turned the ball!"
"Well!" said the sage Alwright, "say what you will, I shall always
maintain that there is something in charms and amulets, and so I told
my brother when he refused to wear the hare's foot I was at the pains
to provide for his colic. 'Depend upon it,' said I, 'there is more in
such things than you think!' I shall just tell him this story and see
what he has to say. But where did you get your charm, Master Arthur—I
mean, my lord?"
"Oh, that is a secret!" said Arthur, laughing. "If I should tell where
it came from, the charm would be spoiled."
"To be sure, you ought not to tell," said Alwright. "I always did hear
it would break the spell of such things, and you may need its help
yet—who knows?"
"Who knows, indeed?" said Arthur. "I trust this same amulet of mine may
yet bring me the greatest blessing of my life!"