"It does seem strange he should stay so long away."
"Anania will have it he is never coming again."
"I dare say she is right there," said Derette suddenly.
"Saints alive! what dost thou mean, child? Never coming again?"
"I shouldn't wonder," said Derette quietly.
"Well, I should. I should wonder more than a little, I can tell you.
Whatever gives you that fancy, child?"
"I have it, Mother; why I cannot tell you."
"I hope you are not a prophetess!"
"I don't think I am," said Derette with a smile.
"I think Ermine was a bit of one, poor soul! She seemed to have some
notion what was coming to her. Eh, Derette! I'd give my best gown to
know those poor things were out of Purgatory. Father Dolfin says we
shouldn't pray for them: but I do--I can't help it. If I were a priest,
I'd say mass for them every day I lived--ay, I would! I never could
understand why we must not pray for heretics. Seems to me, the more
wrong they've gone, the more they want praying for. Not that _they_
went far wrong--I'll not believe it. Derette, dost thou ever pray for
the poor souls?"
"Ay, Mother: every one of them."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it. And as to them that ill-used them, let them
look to themselves. Maybe they'll not find themselves at last in such a
comfortable place as they look for. The good Lord may think that
cruelty to Christian blood [Note 3]--and they were Christian blood, no
man can deny--isn't so very much better than heresy after all. Hope he
does."
"I remember Gerard's saying," replied Derette, "that all the heresies in
the world were only men's perversions of God's truths: and that if men
would but keep close to Holy Scripture, there would be no heresies."
"Well, it sounds like reason, doesn't it?" answered Isel with a sigh.
"But I remember his saying also," pursued Derette, "that where one man
followed reason and Scripture, ten listened to other men's voices, and
ten more to their own fancies."
Dusk was approaching on the following day, when a rap came on the door
of the anchorhold, and a voice said--
"Leuesa, pray you, ask my cousin to come to the casement a moment."
"Stephen!" cried Derette, hurrying to her little window when she heard
his voice. "So you have come back!"
"Shall I go now, Lady, for the fresh fish?" asked Leuesa, very
conveniently for Stephen, who wondered if she good-naturedly guessed
that he had a private communication to make.
"Do," said Derette, giving her three silver pennies.
As soon as Leuesa was out of hearing, Stephen said--"I am only here for
a few hours, Derette, and nobody knows it save my Lord, you, and my
brother. I have obtained my discharge, and return to London with the
dawn."
"Are you not meaning to come back, Stephen? Folks are saying that."
"Folks are saying truth. I shall live in London henceforth. But
remember, Derette, that is a secret."
"I shall not utter it, Stephen. Truly, I wish you all happiness, but I
cannot help being sorry."
There were tears in Derette's eyes. Stephen had ever been more
brotherly to her than her own brothers. It was Stephen who had begged
her off from many a punishment, had helped her over many a difficulty,
had made her rush baskets and wooden boats, and had always had a
sweetmeat in his pocket for her in childhood. She was grieved to think
of losing him.
"You may well wish me happiness in my honeymoon," he said, laughingly.
"Are you married? Why, when--O Stephen, Stephen! is it Ermine?"
"You are a first-rate guesser, little one. Yes, I have Ermine safe; and
I will keep her so, God helping me."
"I am so glad, Steenie!" said Derette, falling into the use of the old
pet name, generally laid aside now. "Tell Ermine I am so glad to hear
that, and so sorry to lose you both: but I will pray God and the saints
to bless you as long as I live, and that will be better for you than our
meeting, though it will not be the same thing to me."
"`So glad, and so sorry!' It seems to me, Cousin, that's no inapt
picture of life. God keep thee!--to the day when--Ermine says--it will
be all `glad' and no `sorry.'"
"Ay, we shall meet one day. Farewell!"
The days passed, and no more was seen or heard of Stephen in Oxford.
What had become of him was not known at the Walnut Tree, until one
evening when Osbert looked in about supper-time, and was invited to stay
for the meal, with the three of whom the family now consisted--Manning,
Isel, and Haimet. As Isel set on the table a platter of little pies,
she said--
"There, that's what poor Stephen used to like so well. Maybe you'll
fancy them too, Osbert."
"Why do you call him poor Stephen?" questioned Osbert, as he
appropriated a pie. "He is not particularly poor, so far as I know."
"Well, we've lost him like," said Isel, with a sigh. "When folks vanish
out of your sight like snow in a thaw, one cannot help feeling sorry."
"Oh, I'm sorry for myself, more ways than one: but not so much for
Stephen."
"Why, Osbert, do you know where he is, and what he's doing?"
"Will you promise not to let on to Anania, if I tell you?"
"Never a word that I can help, trust me."
"Her knowing matters nought, except that she'll never let me be if she
thinks I have half a notion about it. Well, he's gone south somewhere--
I don't justly know where, but I have a guess of London way."
"What for?"
"Dare say he had more reasons than he gave me. He told me he was going
to be married."
"Dear saints!--who to?"
"Didn't ask him."
Isel sat looking at Osbert in astonishment, with a piece of pie
transfixed on the end of her knife.
"You see, if I did not know, I shouldn't get so much bothered with folks
asking me questions: so I thought I'd let it be."
That Osbert's "folks" might more properly be read "Anania," Isel knew
full well.
"Saints love us!--but I would have got to know who was my sister-in-law,
if I'd been in your place."
"To tell the truth, Aunt, I don't care, so long as she is a decent woman
who will make Stephen comfortable; and I think he's old enough to look
out for himself."
"But don't you know even what he was going to do?--seek another watch,
or go into service, or take to trade, or what?"
"I don't know a word outside what I have just told you. Oh, he'll be
all right! Stephen has nine lives, like a cat. He always falls on his
feet."
"But it don't seem natural like!"
Osbert laughed. "I suppose it is natural to a woman to have more
curiosity than a man. I never had much of that stuff. Anania's got
enough for both."
"Well, I'm free to confess she has. Osbert, how do you manage her? I
can't."
"Let her alone as long as I can, and take the mop to her when I can't,"
was the answer.
"I should think the mop isn't often out of your hand," observed Haimet
with painful candour.
"It wears out by times," returned Osbert drily.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. "Into the worlds of worlds" is the Primer's translation of "_in
saecula saeculorum_."
Note 2. That witchcraft is no fable, but a real sin, which men have
committed in past times, and may commit again, is certain from Holy
Scripture. But undoubtedly, in the Middle Ages, numbers of persons
suffered under accusation of this crime who were entirely innocent: and
the so-called "white witches" were in reality mere herbalists and
dealers in foolish but harmless charms, often consisting in a kind of
nursery rhyme and a few Biblical words.
Note 3. The wrong of cruelty to men and women, as such, whether they
were Christians or not, had not dawned on men's minds in the twelfth
century, nor did it till the Reformation. But much pity was often
expressed for the sufferings of "Christian blood," and a very few
persons had some compassion for animals.