"That's what I always say--if you wish a thing to be well done,
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others."
Longfellow.
The month of May was the liveliest and gayest of the year at Oxford, for
not only were the May Day games common to the whole country, but another
special attraction lay in Saint Frideswide's Fair, held on Gloucester
Green early in that month. Oxford was a privileged town, in respect of
the provision trade, the royal purveyors being forbidden to come within
twenty miles of that city. In those good old times, the King was first
served, then the nobility, lay and clerical, then the gentry, and the
poor had to be content with what was left. It was not unusual, when a
report of anything particularly nice reached the monarch--such as an
import of wine, a haul of fish, or any other dainty,--for the Sheriff of
that place to receive a mandate, bidding him seize for the royal use a
portion or the whole thereof. Prices, too, were often regulated by
proclamation, so that tradesmen not unfrequently found it hard to live.
If a few of our discontented and idle agitators (I do not mean those who
would work and cannot) could spend a month or two in the olden time,
their next speeches on Tower Hill might be somewhat differently
flavoured.
Saint Frideswide's Fair was a sight to see. For several days before it
was held, a multitude of carpenters were employed in putting up wooden
booths and stalls, and Gloucester Green became a very lively place.
Fairs in the present day, when they are held at all, are very different
exhibitions from what they were seven hundred years ago. The stalls
then were practically shops, fully stocked with goods of solid value.
There was a butcher's row, a baker's row, a silversmith's row, and a
mercer's row--ironmongers, saddlers, shoemakers, vintners, coopers,
pelters (furriers), potters, hosiers, fishmongers, and cooks
(confectioners)--all had their several streets of stalls. The Green--
larger than now--became a town within a town. As the fair was held by
licence of Saint Frideswide, and was under her especial protection, the
Canons of that church exacted certain dues both from the Crown and the
stall-holders, which were duly paid. From the Crown they received 25
shillings per annum. It was deemed a point of honour to keep the best
of everything for the fair; and those buyers who wished to obtain good
value for their money put off their purchases when it grew near fair
time. When the third of May came, they all turned out in holiday
costume to lay in necessaries, so far as possible, for the year--meat
excepted, which could be purchased again at the cattle fair in the
following September.
There was one serious inconvenience in shopping at that time, of which
we know nothing at the present day. With the exception of the penny and
still smaller coins (all silver) there was no money. The pound, though
it appears on paper, was not a coin, but simply a pound weight of pence;
the mark was two-thirds, and the noble (if used so early) one-third of
that amount. When a woman went out to buy articles of any value, she
required to carry with her an enormous weight of small silver cash.
Purses were not therefore the toys we use, but large bags of heavy
leather, attached to the girdle on the left side; and the aim of a
pickpocket was to cut the leather bag away from its metal fastening--
hence the term _cut-purse_.
Every woman in Kepeharme Lane--and it might be added, in Oxford--
appeared in the street with a basket on her arm as soon as daylight had
well dawned. The men went at their own time and convenience. For many
of them a visit to the fair was merely amusement; but the ladies were on
business. Even Derette followed her mother, armed with a smaller basket
than the rest. Little Rudolph was left with Countess, who preferred him
to the fair; and such is the power of habit that our friends had now
become quite accustomed to this, and would give a nod and a smile to
Countess when they met, just as they did to any other neighbour. This
does not mean that they entertained an atom less of prejudice against
Jews in general; they had merely got over their prejudice in the case of
that one Jewish girl in particular.
Isel's business was heavy enough. She wanted a pig, half an ox, twenty
ells of dark blue cloth, a cloak for herself and capes for her
daughters, thirty pairs of slippers--a very moderate allowance for three
women, for slippers were laid in by the dozen pairs in common--fifty
cheeses (an equally moderate reckoning) [Note 1], a load of flour,
another of oatmeal, two quarters of cabbage for salting, six bushels of
beans, five hundred herrings, a barrel of ale, two woollen rugs for
bedclothes, a wooden coffer, and a hundred nails. She had already
bought and salted two sheep from Martin, so mutton was not needed.
"Now, Agnes, what do you want?" she asked.
Agnes, who was following with another basket, replied that she wanted
some stuff for a dress, some flannel for Rudolph, and a few pairs of
shoes. Shoes must have worn only a very short time, considering the
enormous quantity of them usually bought at once.
"And you, Ermine?"
"Nothing but a hood, Mother Isel."
"You're easily satisfied. Well, I'll go first after my pig."
They turned into the Butcher's Row, where in a minute they could
scarcely hear each other speak. The whole air seemed vocal with grunts,
lowing, and bleating, and, the poulterers' booths lying close behind,
crowing and cackling also.
"How much for a good bacon pig?" screamed Isel to a fat butcher, who was
polishing a knife upon a wooden block.
"Hertford kids? I have none."
"Bacon pig!" screamed Isel a little louder.
"Oh! Well, look you, there's a nice one--twenty pence; there's a rare
fine one--twenty-two; there's a--"
"Bless thee, man! dost thou think I'm made of money?"
"Shouldn't wonder if you'd a pot laid by somewhere," said the butcher
with a knowing wink. He was an old acquaintance.
"Well, I haven't, then: and what's more, I've plenty to do with the few
marks I have. Come now, I'll give you sixteen pence for that biggest
fellow."
The butcher intimated, half in a shout and half by pantomime, that he
could not think of such a thing.
"Well, eighteen, then."
The butcher shook his head.
"Nineteen! Now, that's as high as I'll go."
"Not that one," shouted the butcher; "I'll take nineteen for the other."
Isel had to execute a gymnastic feat before she could answer, to save
herself from the horns of an inquisitive cow which was being driven up
the row; while a fat pig on the other side was driving Flemild nearly
out of the row altogether.
"Well! I'll agree to that," said Isel, when she had settled with the
cow.
A similar process having been gone through for the half ox, for which
Isel had to pay seventeen pence [Salted cow was much cheaper, being only
2 shillings each.]--a shameful price, as she assured her companions--the
ladies next made their way to Drapers' Row. The draper, then and for
some centuries later, was the manufacturer of cloth, not the retail
dealer only: but he sold retail as well as wholesale. Isel found some
cloth to her mind, but the price was not to her mind at all, being
eighteen pence per ell.
"Gramercy, man! wouldst thou ruin me?" she demanded.
A second battle followed with the draper, from which Isel this time
emerged victorious, having paid only 1 shilling 5 pence per ell. They
then went to the clothier's, where she secured a cloak for a mark (13
shillings 4 pence) and capes for the girls at 6 shillings 8 pence each.
At the shoemaker's she laid in her slippers for 6 pence per pair, with
three pairs of boots at a shilling. The cheeses were dear, being a
halfpenny each; the load of flour cost 14 pence, and of meal 2
shillings; the beans were 1 shilling 8 pence, the cabbage 1 shilling 2
pence, the herrings 2 shillings. The coffer came to 5 shillings, the
nails to 2 shillings 4 pence. [Note 2.] Isel looked ruefully at her
purse.
"We must brew at home," she said, easily dismissing that item; "but how
shall I do for the rugs?"
Rugs were costly articles. There was no woollen manufacture in England,
nor was there to be such for another hundred years. A thick,
serviceable coverlet, such as Isel desired, was not to be bought much
under two pounds.
"We must do without them," she said, with a shake of her head. "Girls,
you'll have to spread your cloaks on the bed. We must eat, but we
needn't lie warm if we can't afford it."
"Isel, have you de one pound? Look, here is one," said Agnes timidly,
holding out her hand.
"But you want that, my dear."
"No, I can do widout. I will de gown up-mend dat I have now. Take you
de money; I have left for de shoes and flannel."
She did not add that the flannel would have to be cut down, as well as
the new dress resigned.
"And I can do very well without a hood," added Ermine quickly. "We must
help Mother Isel all we can."
"My dears, I don't half like taking it."
"We have taken more from you," said Ermine.
Thus urged, Isel somewhat reluctantly took the money, and bought one
rug, for which she beat down the clothier to two marks and a half, and
departed triumphant, this being her best bargain for the day. It was
then in England, as it yet is in Eastern lands, an understood thing that
all tradesmen asked extortionate prices, and must be offered less as a
matter of course: a fact which helps to the comprehension of the
Waldensian objection to trade as involving falsehood.
Isel returned to Agnes the change which remained out of her pound, which
enabled her to get all the flannel she needed. Their baskets being now
well filled, Isel and her party turned homewards, sauntering slowly
through the fair, partly because the crowd prevented straightforward
walking, but partly also because they wished to see as much as they
could. Haimet was to bring a hand-cart for the meat and other heavy
purchases at a later hour.
Derette, who for safety's sake was foremost of the girls, directly
following her mother and Agnes, trudged along with her basket full of
slippers, and her head full of profound meditation. Had Isel known the
nature of those meditations, she certainly would never have lingered at
the silversmiths' stalls in a comfortable frame of mind, pointing out to
her companions various pretty things which took her fancy. But she had
not the remotest idea of her youngest daughter's private thoughts, and
she turned away from Gloucester Green at last, quite ignorant of the
fashion wherein her feelings of all sorts were about to be outraged.
Derette was determined to obtain a dress for Agnes. She had silently
watched the kindly manner in which the good-natured German gave up the
thing she really needed: for poor Agnes had but the one dress she wore,
and Derette well knew that no amount of mending would carry it through
another winter. But how was a penniless child to procure another for
her? If Derette had not been a young person of original ideas and very
independent spirit, the audacious notion which she was now entertaining
would never have visited her mind.
This was no less than a visit to the Castle, to beg one of the cast-off
gowns of the women of the household. Dresses wore long in the Middle
Ages, and ladies of rank were accustomed to make presents of half-worn
ones to each other. Derette was not quite so presumptuous as to think
of addressing the Countess--that, even in her eyes, seemed a
preposterous impossibility; but surely one of her waiting-women might be
reached. How was she to accomplish her purpose?
That she must slip away unseen was the first step to be taken. Her
mother would never dream of allowing such an errand, as Derette well
knew; but she comforted herself, as others have done beside her, with
the reflection that the excellence of her motive quite compensated for
the unsatisfactory details of her conduct. Wedged as she was in the
midst of the family group, and encumbered with her basket, she could not
hope to get away before they reached home; but she thought she saw her
chance directly afterwards, when the baskets should have been discharged
of their contents, and every body was busy inspecting, talking about,
and putting away, the various purchases that had been made.
Young girls were never permitted to go out alone at that time. It was
considered less dangerous in town than country, and a mere run into a
neighbouring house might possibly have been allowed; but usually, when
not accompanied by some responsible person, they were sent in groups of
three or four at once. Derette's journey must be taken alone, and it
involved a few yards of Milk Street, as far as Saint Ebbe's, then a run
to Castle Street and up to the Castle. That was the best way, for it
was both the shortest and comparatively the quietest. But Derette
determined not to go in at the entrance gate, where she would meet
Osbert and probably Anania, but to make for the Osney Gate to the left,
where she hoped to fall into the kindlier hands of her cousin Stephen.
The danger underlying this item was that Stephen might have gone to the
fair, in which case she would have to encounter either the rough joking
of Orme, or the rough crustiness of Wandregisil, his fellow-watchmen.
That must be risked. The opportunity had to be bought, and Derette made
up her mind to pay the necessary price.
The Walnut Tree was reached, the baskets laid down, and while Agnes was
divesting herself of her cloak, and Isel reiterating her frequent
assertion that she was "that tired," Derette snatched her chance, and
every body's back being turned for the moment, slipped out of the door,
and sped up Kepeharme Lane with the speed of a fawn. Her heart beat
wildly, and until she reached Milk Street, she expected every instant to
be followed and taken back. If she could only get her work done, she
told herself, the scolding and probable whipping to follow would be
easily borne.
Owing to its peculiar municipal laws, throughout the Middle Ages, Oxford
had the proud distinction of being the cleanest city in England. That
is to say, it was not quite so appallingly smothered in mire and filth
as others were. Down the midst of every narrow street ran a gutter,
which after rain was apt to become a brook, and into which dirt of every
sort was emptied by every householder. There were no causeways; and
there were frequent holes of uncertain depth, filled with thick mud.
Ownerless dogs, and owned but equally free-spoken pigs, roamed the
streets at their own sweet will, and were not wont to make way for the
human passengers; while if a cart were met in the narrow street, it was
necessary for the pedestrian to squeeze himself into the smallest
compass possible against the wall, if he wished to preserve his limbs in
good working order. Such were the delights of taking a walk in the good
old times. It may reasonably be surmised that unnecessary walks were
not frequently taken.
Kepeharme Lane left behind, where the topography of the holes was
tolerably familiar, Derette had to walk more guardedly. After getting
pretty well splashed, and dodging a too attentive pig which was intent
on charging her for venturing on his beat, Derette at last found herself
at the Osney Gate. She felt now that half her task was over.
"Who goes there?" demanded the welcome voice of Stephen, when Derette
rapped at the gate.
"It's me, Stephen,--Derette: do let me in."
The gate stood open in a moment, and Stephen's pleasant face appeared
behind it, with a look of something like consternation thereon.
"Derette!--alone!--whatever is the matter?"
"Nothing, Stephen; oh, nothing's the matter. I only came alone because
I knew Mother wouldn't let me if I asked her."
"Hoity-toity!--that's a nice confession, young woman! And pray what are
you after, now you have come?"
"Stephen--dear, good Stephen, will you do me a favour?"
"Hold off, you coaxing sinner!"
"Oh, but I want it so much! You see, she gave it up because Mother
wanted a rug, and she let her have the money--and I know it won't mend
up to wear any thing like through the winter--and I do want so to get
her another--a nice soft one, that will be comfortable, and--You'll help
me, won't you, Steenie?"
And Derette's small arms came coaxingly round her cousin's wrist.
"I'm a heathen Jew if I have the shadow of a notion what I'm wanted to
help! `A nice soft one!' Is it a kitten, or a bed-quilt, or a sack of
meal, you're after?"
"O Stephen!--what queer things you guess! It's a gown--."
"I don't keep gowns, young woman."
"No, but, Steenie, you might help me to get at somebody that does. One
of the Lady's women, you know. I'm sure you could, if you would."
Steenie whistled. "Well, upon my word! _You'll_ not lose cakes for
want of asking for. Why don't you go to Anania?"
"You know she'd only be cross."
"How do you know I sha'n't be cross?" asked Stephen, knitting his brows,
and pouting out his lips, till he looked formidable.
"Oh, because you never are. You'll only laugh at me, and you won't do
that in an ugly way like some people. Now, Steenie, you _will_ help me
to get a gown for Agnes?"
"Agnes, is it? I thought you meant Flemild."
"No, it's Agnes; and Ermine gave up her hood to help: but Agnes wants
the gown worse than Ermine does a hood. You like them, you know,
Steenie."
"Who told you that, my Lady Impertinence? Dear, dear, what pests these
children are!"
"Now, Stephen, you know you don't think any thing of the sort, and you
are going to help me this minute."
"How am I to help, I should like to know? I can't leave my gate."
"You can call somebody. Now do, Steenie, there's a darling cousin!--and
I'll ask Mother to make you some of those little pies you like so much.
I will, really."
"You outrageous wheedler! I suppose I shall have no peace till I get
rid of you.--Henry!"
A lad of about twelve years old, who was crossing the court-yard at the
other side, turned and came up at the call.
"Will you take this maid in, and get her speech of Cumina? She's very
good-natured, and if you tell her your story, Derette, I shouldn't
wonder if she helps you."
"Oh, thank you, Steenie, so much!"
Derette followed Henry, who made faces at her, but gave her no further
annoyance, into the servants' offices at the Castle, where he turned her
unceremoniously over to the first person he met--a cook in a white cap
and apron--with the short and not too civil information that--
"She wants Cumina."
The cook glanced carelessly at Derette.
"Go straight along the passage, and up the stairs to the left," he said,
and then went on about his own business.
Never before had Derette seen a house which contained above four rooms
at the utmost. She felt in utter confusion amid stairs, doors, and
corridors. But she managed to find the winding staircase at the end of
the passage, and to mount it, wishing much that so convenient a mode of
access could replace the ladder in her mother's house. She went up till
she could go no further, when she found herself on the top landing of a
round tower, without a human creature to be seen. There were two doors,
however; and after rapping vainly at both, she ventured to open one. It
led to the leads of the tower. Derette closed this, and tried the
other. She found it to open on a dark fathomless abyss,--the Castle
well [Note 3], had she known it--and shut it quickly with a sensation of
horror. After a moment's reflection, she went down stairs to the next
landing.
Here there were four doors, and from one came the welcome sound of human
voices. Derette rapped timidly on this. It was opened by a girl about
the age of Flemild.
"Please," said Derette, "I was to ask for Cumina."
"Oh, you must go to the still-room," answered the girl, and would have
shut the door without further parley, had not Derette intercepted her
with a request to be shown where the still-room was.
With an impatient gesture, the girl came out, led Derette a little way
along the corridor running from the tower, and pointed to a door on the
left hand.
Derette's hopes rose again. She was one of those persons whom delays
and difficulties do not weary out or render timid, but rather inspire to
fresh and stronger action.
"Well, what do you want?" asked the pleasant-faced young woman who
answered Derette's rap. "Please, is there somebody here called Cumina?"
"I rather think there is," was the smiling answer. "Is it you?"
"Ay. Come in, and say what you wish." Derette obeyed, and poured out
her story, rather more lucidly than she had done to Stephen. Cumina
listened with a smile.
"Well, my dear, I would give you a gown for your friend if I had it,"
she said good-humouredly; "but I have just sent the only one I can spare
to my mother. I wonder who there is, now--Are you afraid of folks that
speak crossly?"
"No," said Derette. "I only want to shake them." Cumina laughed.
"You'll do!" she said. "Come, then, I'll take you to Hagena. She's not
very pleasant-spoken, but if any body can help you, she can. The only
doubt is whether she will."
Derette followed Cumina through what seemed to her endless corridors
opening into further and further corridors, till at last she asked in a
tone of astonishment--
"How can you ever find your way?"
"Oh, you learn to do that very soon," said Cumina, laughing, as she
opened the door of a long, low chamber. "Now, you must tread softly
here, and speak very respectfully."
Derette nodded acquiescence, and they went in.
The room was lined with presses from floor to ceiling. On benches which
stood back to back in its midst, several lengths of rich silken stuffs
were spread out; and on other benches near the windows sat two or three
girls busily at work. Several elder ladies were moving about the room,
and one of them, a rather stout, hard-featured woman, was examining the
girls' work. Cumina went up to her.
"If you please, Hagena," she said, "is there any where an old gown which
it would please you to bestow on this girl, who has asked the boon?"
Hagena straightened herself up and looked at Derette.
"Is she the child of one of my Lord's tenants?"
"No," answered Derette. "My mother's house is her own."
"Well, if ever I heard such assurance! Perchance, Madam, you would like
a golden necklace to go with it?"
If Derette had not been on her good behaviour, Hagena would have
received as much as she gave. But knowing that her only chance of
success lay in civil and submissive manners, she shut her lips tight and
made no answer.
"Who sent you?" pursued Hagena, who was the Countess's mistress of the
household, and next in authority to her.
"Nobody. I came of myself."
"_Ha, chetife_! I do wonder what the world's coming to! The impudence
of the creature! How on earth did she get in? Just get out again as
fast as you can, and come on such an errand again if you dare! Be off
with you!"
Derette's voice trembled, but not with fear, as she turned back to
Cumina. To Hagena she vouchsafed no further word.
"I did not know I was offending any body," she said, in a manner not
devoid of childish dignity. "I was trying to do a little bit of good.
I think, if you please, I had better go home."
Derette's speech infuriated Hagena. The child had kept her manners and
her dignity too, under some provocation, while the mistress of the
household was conscious that she had lost hers.
"How dare--" she was beginning, when another voice made her stop
suddenly.
"What has the child been doing? I wish to speak with her."
Cumina hastily stopped Derette from leaving the room, and led her up to
the lady who had spoken and who had only just entered.
"What is it, my little maid?" she said kindly.
"I beg your pardon," said the child. She was but a child, and her brave
heart was failing her. Derette was very near tears. "I did not mean
any harm. Somebody had given up having a new gown--and she wanted it
very much--to let somebody else have the money; and I thought, if I
could beg one for her--but I did not mean to be rude. Please let me go
home."
"Thou shalt go home, little one," answered the lady; "but wait a moment.
Does any one know the child?"
Nobody knew her.
"Stephen the Watchdog knows me," said Derette, drawing a long breath.
"He is my cousin. So is Osbert the porter."
The lady put her arm round Derette.
"What sort of a gown wouldst thou have, my child?"
Derette's eyes lighted up. Was she really to succeed after all?
"A nice one, please," she said, simply, making every one smile except
Hagena, who was still too angry for amusement. "Not smart nor grand,
you know, but warm and soft. Something woollen, I suppose, it should
be."
The lady addressed herself to Hagena.
"Have I any good woollen robe by the walls?"
When a dress was done with, if the materials were worth using for
something else, it was taken to pieces; if not, it was hung up "by the
walls," ready to give away when needed.
Hagena had some difficulty in answering properly.
"No, Lady; the last was given to Veka, a fortnight since."
"Then," was the quiet answer, which surprised all present, "it must be
one of those I am wearing. Let Cumina and Dora bring such as I have."
Derette looked up into the face of her new friend.
"Please, are you the Lady Countess?"
"Well, I suppose I am," replied the Countess with a smile. "Now, little
maid, choose which thou wilt."
Seven woollen gowns were displayed before the Countess and Derette, all
nearly new--blue, green, scarlet, tawny, crimson, chocolate, and
cream-colour. Derette looked up again to the Countess's face.
"Nay, why dost thou look at me? Take thine own choice."
The Countess was curious to see what the child's selection would be.
"I looked to see which you liked best," said Derette, "because I
wouldn't like to choose that."
"True courtesy here!" remarked the Countess. "It is nothing to me, my
child. Which dost thou like?"
"I like that one," said Derette, touching the crimson, which was a rich,
soft, dark shade of the colour, "and I think Agnes would too; but I
don't want to take the best, and I am not sure which it is."
"Fold it up," said the Countess to Cumina, with a smile to Derette; "let
it be well lapped in a kerchief; and bid Wandregisil go to the Osney
Gate, so that Stephen can take the child home."
The parcel was folded up, the Countess's hand kissed with heartfelt
thanks, and the delighted Derette, under the care of Cumina, returned to
the Osney Gate with her load.
"Well, you are a child!" exclaimed Stephen. "So Cumina has really found
you a gown? I thought she would, if she had one to give away."
"No," said Derette, "it is the Countess's gown."
"And who on earth gave you a gown of the Lady's?"
"Her own self!--and, Stephen, it is of her own wearing; she hadn't done
with it; but she gave it me, and she was so nice!--so much nicer than
all the others except Cumina."
"Well, if ever I did!" gasped Stephen. "Derette, you are a terrible
child! I never saw your like."
"I don't know what I've done that's terrible," replied the child. "I'm
sure Agnes won't think it terrible to have that pretty gown to wear.
What is terrible about it, Stephen?"
They had left the Castle a few yards behind, were over the drawbridge,
and winding down the narrow descent, when a sharp call of "Ste-phen!"
brought them to a standstill.
"Oh dear, that's Cousin Anania!" exclaimed Derette. "Let me run on,
Stephen, and you go back and see what she wants."
"Nay, I must not do that, child. The Lady sent orders that I was to see
you home. You'll have to go back with me."
"But she'll worry so! She'll want to know all about the gown, and then
she'll want it undone, and I'm sure she'll mess it up--and Cumina folded
it so smooth and nice:" urged Derette in a distressed tone.
"We won't let her," answered Stephen, quietly, as they came to the
entrance gate. "Well, what's up, Anania?"
"What's Derette doing here? Who came with her? Where are you going?--
and what's in that fardel?"
"Oh, is that all you're after? I'll answer those questions when I come
back. I've got to take Derette home just now."
"You'll answer them before you go an inch further, if you please. That
child's always in some mischief, and you aid and abet her a deal too
often."
"But I don't please. I am under orders, Anania, and I can't stop now."
"At least you'll tell me what's in the fardel!" cried Anania, as Stephen
turned to go on his way without loosing his hold of the parcel.
"A gown which the Lady has given to Derette," said Stephen
mischievously, "and she sent commands that I was to escort her home with
it."
"A gown!--the Lady!--Derette!" screamed Anania. "Not one of her own?--
why on earth should she give Derette a gown?"
"That's the Lady's business, not mine."
"Yes, one of her own," said Derette proudly.
"But what on earth for? She hasn't given me a gown, and I am sure I
want it more than that child--and deserve it, too."
"Perhaps you haven't asked her," suggested Derette, trotting after
Stephen, who was already half-way across the bridge.
"Asked her! I should hope not, indeed--I know my place, if you don't.
You never mean to say you asked her?"
"I can't stop to talk, Cousin Anania."
"But which gown is it?--tell me that!" cried Anania, in an agony of
disappointed curiosity.
"It's a crimson woollen one. Good morrow."
"What! never that lovely robe she had on yesterday? Saints bless us
all!" was the last scream that reached them from Anania.
Stephen laughed merrily as Derette came up with him.
"We have got clear of the dragon this time," said he.
A few minutes brought them to the Walnut Tree.
"Haimet--Oh, it's Stephen!" cried Isel in a tone of sore distress, as
soon as he appeared at the door. "Do, for mercy's sake--I'm just at my
wits' end to think whatever--Oh, there she is!"
"Yes, Mother, I'm here," said Derette demurely.
"Yes, she's here, and no harm done, but good, I reckon," added Stephen.
"Still, I think it might be as well to look after her a bit, Aunt Isel.
If she were to take it into her head to go to London to see the Lady
Queen, perhaps you mightn't fancy it exactly."
"What has she been doing?" asked Isel in consternation.
"Only paying a visit to the Countess," said Stephen, laughing.
By this time Derette had undone the knots on the handkerchief, and the
crimson robe was revealed in all its beauty.
"Agnes," she said quietly, but with a little undertone of decided
triumph, "this is for you. You won't have to give up your gown, though
you did give Mother the money."
A robe, in the Middle Ages, meant more than a single gown, and the
crimson woollen was a robe. Under and upper tunics, a mantle, and a
corset or warm under-bodice, lay before the eyes of the amazed Agnes.
"Derette, you awful child!" exclaimed her mother almost in terror, "what
have you been after, and where did you get all that? Why, it's a new
robe, and fit for a queen!"
"Don't scold the child," said Stephen. "She meant well, and I believe
she behaved well; she got more than she asked for, that's all."
"Please, it isn't quite new, Mother, because the Lady wore it yesterday;
but she said she hadn't one done with, so she gave me one she was
wearing."
Bit by bit the story was told, while Isel held up her hands in horrified
astonishment, which she allowed to appear largely, and in inward
admiration of Derette's spirit, of which she tried to prevent the
appearance. She was not, however, quite able to effect her purpose.
"_Meine Kind_!" cried Agnes, even more amazed and horrified than Isel.
"Dat is not for me. It is too good. I am only poor woman. How shall I
such beautiful thing wear?"
"But it is for you," pleaded Derette earnestly, "and you must wear it;
because, you see, if you did not, it would seem as if I had spoken
falsely to the Lady."
"Ay, I don't see that you can do aught but take it and wear it," said
Stephen. "Great ladies like ours don't take their gifts back."
Gerhardt had come in during the discussion.
"Nor does the Lord," he said, "at least not from those who receive them
worthily. Take it from Him, dear, with thankfulness to the human
instruments whom He has used. He saw thy need, and would not suffer
thee to want for obeying His command."
"But is it not too fine, Gerhardt?"
"It might be if we had chosen it," answered Gerhardt with a smile; "but
it seems as if the Lord had chosen it for thee, and that settles the
matter. It is only the colour, after all."
There was no trimming on the robe, save an edging of grey fur,--not even
embroidery: and no other kind of trimming was known at that time. Agnes
timidly felt the soft, fine texture.
"It is beautiful!" she said.
"Oh, it is beautiful enough, in all conscience," said Isel, "and will
last you a life-time, pretty nigh. But as to that dreadful child--"
"Now, Mother, you won't scold me, will you?" said Derette coaxingly,
putting her arms round Isel's neck. "I haven't done any harm, have I?"
"Well, child, I suppose you meant well," said Isel doubtfully, "and I
don't know but one should look at folks' intentions more than their
deeds, in especial when there's no ill done; but--"
"Oh, come, let's forgive each other all round!" suggested Stephen.
"Won't that do?"
Isel seemed to think it would, for she kissed Derette.
"But you must never, never do such a thing again, child, in all the days
of your life!" said she.
"Thank you, Mother, I don't want to do it again just now," answered
Derette in a satisfied tone.
The afternoon was not over when Anania marched into the Walnut Tree.
"Well, Aunt Isel! I hope you are satisfied _now_!"
"With what, Anania?"
"That dreadfully wicked child. Didn't I tell you? I warned you to look
after her. If you only would take good advice when folks take the
trouble to give it you!"
"Would you be so good as to say what you mean, Anania? I'm not at all
satisfied with dreadfully wicked children. I'm very much dissatisfied
with them, generally."
"I mean Derette, of course. I hope you whipped her well!"
"What for?" asked Isel, in a rather annoyed tone.
"`What for?'" Anania lifted up her hands. "There now!--if I didn't
think she would just go and deceive you! She can't have told you the
truth, of course, or you could never pass it by in that light way."
"If you mean her visit to the Castle," said Isel in a careless tone,
"she told us all about it, of course, when she got back."
"And you take it as coolly as that?"
"How did you wish me to take it? The thing is done, and all's well that
ends well. I don't see that it was so much out of the way, for my part.
Derette got no harm, and Agnes has a nice new gown, and nobody the
worse. If anybody has a right to complain, it is the Countess; and I
can't see that she has so much, either; for she needn't have given the
robe if she hadn't liked."
"Oh, she's no business to grumble; she has lots more of every thing.
She could have twenty robes made like that to-morrow, if she wanted
them. I wish I'd half as many--I know that!"
Agnes came down the ladder at that moment, carrying one of her new
tunics, which she had just tried on, and was now going to alter to fit
herself.
"That's it, is it?" exclaimed Anania in an interested voice. "I thought
it was that one. Well, you are in luck! That's one of her newest
robes, I do believe. Ah, folks that have more money than they know what
to do with, can afford to do aught they fancy. But to think of throwing
away such a thing as that on _you_!"
Neither words nor tone were flattering, but the incivility dropped
harmless from the silver armour of Agnes's lowly simplicity.
"Oh, but it shall not away be t'rown," she said gently; "I will dem all
up-make, and wear so long as they will togeder hold. I take care of
dat, so shall you see!"
Anania looked on with envious eyes.
"How good lady must de Countess be!" added Agnes.
"Oh, she can be good to folks sometimes," snarled Anania. "She's just
as full of whims as she can be--all those great folks are--proud and
stuck-up and crammed full of caprice: but they say she's kind where she
_takes_, you know. It just depends whether she takes to you. She never
took to me, worse luck! I might have had that good robe, if she had."
"I shouldn't think she would," suddenly observed the smallest voice in
the company.
"What do you mean by that, you impudent child?"
"Because, Cousin Anania, I don't think there's much in you to take to."
Derette's prominent feeling at that moment was righteous indignation.
She could not bear to hear the gentle, gracious lady, who had treated
her with such unexpected kindness, accused of being proud and full of
whims, apparently for no better reason than because she had not "taken
to" Anania--a state of things which Derette thought most natural and
probable. Her sense of justice--and a child's sense of justice is often
painfully keen--was outraged by Anania's sentiments.
"Well, to be sure! How high and mighty we are! That comes of visiting
Countesses, I suppose.--Aunt Isel, I told you that child was getting
insufferable. There'll be no bearing her very soon. She's as stuck-up
now as a peacock. Just look at her!"
"I don't see that she looks different from usual," said Isel, who was
mixing the ingredients for a "bag-pudding."
Anania made that slight click with her tongue which conveys the idea of
despairing compassion for the pitiable incapacity of somebody to
perceive patent facts.
Isel went on with her pudding, and offered no further remark.
"Well, I suppose I'd better be going," said Anania--and sat still.
Nobody contradicted her, but she made no effort to go, until Osbert
stopped at the half-door and looked in.
"Oh, you're there, are you?" he said to his wife. "I don't know whether
you care particularly for those buttons you bought from Veka, but Selis
has swallowed two, and--"
"_Those_ buttons! Graven silver, as I'm a living woman! I'll shake him
while I can stand over him! And only one blessed dozen I had of them,
and the price she charged me--The little scoundrel! Couldn't he have
swallowed the common leaden ones?"
"Weren't so attractive, probably," said Osbert, as Anania hurried away,
without any leave-taking, to bestow on her son and heir, aged six, the
shaking she had promised.
"But de little child, he shall be sick!" said Agnes, looking up from her
work with compassionate eyes.
"Oh, I dare say it won't hurt him much," replied Osbert coolly, "and
perhaps it will teach him not to meddle. I wish it might teach his
mother to stay at home and look after him, but I'm afraid that's
hopeless. Good morrow!"
Little Selis seemed no worse for his feast of buttons, beyond a fit of
violent indigestion, which achieved the wonderful feat of keeping Anania
at home for nearly a week.
"You've had a nice quiet time, Aunt Isel," said Stephen. "Shall I see
if I can persuade Selis to take the rest of the dozen?"
Life went on quietly--for the twelfth century--in the little house in
Kepeharme Street. That means that nobody was murdered or murderously
assaulted, the house was not burned down nor burglariously entered, and
neither of the boys lost a limb, and was suffered to bleed to death, for
interference with the King's deer. In those good old times, these
little accidents were rather frequent, the last more especially, as the
awful and calmly-calculated statistics on the Pipe Rolls bear terrible
witness.
Romund married, and went to live in the house of his bride, who was an
heiress to the extent of possessing half-a-dozen houses in Saint Ebbe's
parish. Little Rudolph grew to be seven years old, a fine fearless boy,
rather more than his quiet mother knew how to manage, but always
amenable to a word from his grave father. The Germans had settled down
peaceably in various parts of the country, some as shoemakers, some as
tailors, some as weavers, or had hired themselves as day-labourers to
farmers, carpenters, or bakers. Several offers of marriage had been
made to Ermine, but hitherto, to the surprise of her friends, all had
been declined, her brother assenting to this unusual state of things.
"Why, what do you mean to do, Gerard?" asked Isel of her, when the last
and wealthiest of five suitors was thus treated. "You'll never have a
better offer for the girl than Raven Soclin. He can spend sixty pound
by the year and more; owns eight shops in the Bayly, and a brew-house
beside Saint Peter's at East Gate. He's no mother to plague his wife,
and he's a good even-tempered lad, as wouldn't have many words with her.
Deary me! but it's like throwing the fish back into the sea when
they've come in your net! What on earth are you waiting for, I should
just like to know?"
"Dear Mother Isel," answered Ermine softly, "we are waiting to see what
God would have of me. I think He means me for something else. Let us
wait and see."
"But there is nothing else, child," returned Isel almost irritably,
"without you've a mind to be a nun; and that's what I wouldn't be, take
my word for it. Is that what you're after?"
"No, I think not," said Ermine in the same tone.
"Then there's nothing else for you--nothing in this world!"
"This is not the only world," was the quiet reply.
"It's the only one I know aught about," said Isel, throwing her beans
into the pan; "or you either, if I'm not mistaken. You'd best be wise
in time, or you'll go through the wood and take the crookedest stick you
can find."
"I hope to be wise in time, Mother Isel; but I would rather it were
God's time than mine. And we Germans, you know, believe in
presentiments. Methinks He has whispered to me that the way He has
appointed for my treading is another road than that."
Ermine was standing, as she spoke, by the half-door, her eyes fixed on
the fleecy clouds which were floating across the blue summer sky.
"Can you see it, Aunt Ermine?" cried little Rudolph, running to her.
"Is it up there, in the blue--the road you are going to tread?"
"It is down below first," answered Ermine dreamily. "Down very low, in
the dim valleys, and it is rough. But it will rise by-and-bye to the
everlasting hills, and to the sapphire blue; and it leads straight to
God's holy hill, and to His tabernacle."
They remembered those words--seven months later.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. The Pipe Rolls speak of _large_ cheeses, which cost from
threepence to sixpence each, and the ordinary size, of which two or
three were sold for a penny. They were probably very small.
Note 2. Modern value of above prices:--Pig, 1 pound, 19 shillings 7
pence; half ox, 1 pound, 15 shillings 5 pence; cloth, 1 pound 16
shillings 5 and a half pence per ell; cloak, 13 pounds 6 shillings 8
pence; cape, 6 pounds, 13 shillings 4 pence; pair of slippers, 12
shillings 6 pence; boots, per pair, 25 shillings; cheeses, 2 shillings 1
penny each; flour and cabbage, each 1 pound 9 shillings 2 pence; meal
and herrings, each 2 pounds, 10 shillings; beans, 2 pounds 1 shilling 8
pence; coffer, 6 pounds, 5 shillings; nails, 2 pounds, 18 shillings 4
pence; rug, 50 pounds. It will be seen that money was far cheaper than
now, and living much more expensive.
Note 3. For the sinking of which King Henry paid 19 pounds, 19
shillings 5 pence near this time.