The mercer, whom Stephen remembered as a slim youth, presented himself
in the changed character of a stout man of five-and-thirty, and warmly
seconded his wife's invitation, as soon as he recognised an old
acquaintance.
"I'm glad enough to hear of old friends," said Stephen, "for I haven't
heard a single word since I left Oxford about any one of them. Tell me
first of my brother. Is he living and in the old place?"
"Ay, and Anania too, and all the children. I don't think there have
been any changes in the Castle."
"Uncle Manning and Aunt Isel?"
"Manning died three years ago, and Isel dwells now with Raven and
Flemild, who have only one daughter, so they have plenty of room for
her."
"Then what has become of Haimet?"
"Oh, he married Asselot, the rich daughter of old Tankard of Bicester.
He lives at Bicester now. Romund and Mabel are well; they have no
children, but Haimet has several."
"Both my cousins married heiresses? They have not done badly, it
seems."
"N-o, they have _not_, in one way," said Leuesa. "But I do not think
Haimet is bettered by his marriage. He seems to me to be getting very
fond of money, and always to measure everything by the silver pennies it
cost. That's not the true ell-wand; or I'm mistaken."
"You are not, Leuesa. I'd as soon be choked with a down pillow as have
my soul all smothered up with gold. Well, and how do other folks get
on?--Franna, and Turguia, and Chembel and Veka, and all the rest?"
"Turguia's gone, these five years; the rest are well--at least I don't
recall any that are not."
"Is old Benefei still at the corner?"
"Ay, he is, and Rubi and Jurnet. Regina is married to Jurnet's wife's
nephew, Samuel, and has a lot of children--one pretty little girl, with
eyes as like Countess as they can be."
"Oh, have you any notion what is become of Countess?"
"They removed from Reading to Dorchester, I believe, and then I heard
old Leo had divorced Countess, and married Deuslesalt's daughter and
heir, Drua. What became of her I don't know."
"By the way, did either of you know aught of the Wise Woman of
Bensington? Mother Haldane, they used to call her. She'll perhaps not
be alive now, for she was an old woman eight years gone. She did me a
good turn once."
"I don't know anything about her," said Leuesa.
"Ah, well, I do," answered Roscius. "I went to her when our cow was
fairy-led, twelve years gone; and after that for my sister, when she had
been eating chervil, and couldn't see straight before her. Ay, she was
a wise woman, and helped a many folks. No, she's not alive now."
"You mean more than you say, Roscius," said Stephen, with a sudden
sinking of heart. What had happened to Haldane?
"Well, you see, they ducked her for a witch."
"And killed her?" Stephen's voice was hard.
"Ay--she did not live many minutes after. She sank, though--she was no
witch: though it's true, her cat was never seen afterwards, and some
folks would have it he'd gone back to Sathanas."
"Then it must have been that night!" said Stephen to himself. "Did she
know, that she sent us off in haste? Was _that_ the secret she would
not tell?" Aloud, he said,--"And who were `they' that wrought that ill
deed?"
"Oh, there was a great crowd at the doing of it--all the idle loons in
Bensington and Dorchester: but there were two that hounded them on to
the work--the Bishop's sumner Malger, and a woman: I reckon they had a
grudge against her of some sort. Wigan the charcoal-burner told me of
it--he brought her out, and loosed the cord that bound her."
"God pardon them as He may!" exclaimed Stephen. "She was no more a
witch than you are. A gentle, harmless old woman, that healed folks
with herbs and such--shame on the men that dared to harm her!"
"Ay, I don't believe there was aught bad in her. But, saints bless
you!--lads are up to anything," said Roscius. "They'd drown you, or
burn me, any day, just for the sake of a grand show and a flare-up."
"They're ill brought up, then," said Stephen. "I'll take good care my
lads don't."
"O Stephen! have you some children?--how many?"
"Ay, two lads and three lasses. How many have you?"
"We're not so well off as you; we have only two maids. Why, Stephen,
I'd forgot you were married. I must come and see your wife. But I
never heard whom you did marry: was she a stranger?"
Poor Stephen was sorely puzzled what to say. On the one hand, he
thought Leuesa might safely be trusted; and as Ermine had already
suffered the sentence passed upon her, and the entire circumstances were
forgotten by most people, it seemed as if the confession of facts might
be attended by no danger. Yet he could not know with certainty that
either of his old acquaintances was incorruptibly trustworthy; and if
the priests came to know that one of their victims had survived the
ordeal, what might they not do, in hatred and revenge? A moment's
reflection, and an ejaculatory prayer, decided him to trust Leuesa. She
must find out the truth if she came to see Ermine.
"No," he said slowly; "she was not a stranger."
"Why, who could it be?" responded Leuesa. "Nobody went away when you
did."
"But somebody went away before I did. Leuesa, I think you are not the
woman who would do an old friend an ill turn?"
"Indeed, I would not, Stephen," said she warmly. "If there be any
secret, you may trust me, and my husband too; we would not harm you or
yours for the world."
"I believe I may," returned Stephen. "My cousin Derette knows, but
don't name it to any one else. My wife is--Ermine."
"Stephen! You don't mean it? Well, I am glad to know she got safe
away! But how did you get hold of her?"
Stephen told his story.
"You may be very certain we shall not speak a word to injure Ermine,"
said Leuesa. "Ay, I'll come and see her, and glad I shall be. Why,
Stephen, I thought more of Ermine than you knew; I called one of my
little maids after her. Ermine and Derette they are. I can never
forget a conversation I once had with Gerard, when he took me back to
the Castle from Isel's house; I did not think so much of it at the time,
but it came to me with power afterwards, when he had sealed his faith
with his blood."
"Ah! there's nothing like dying, to make folks believe you," commented
Roscius.
"Can't agree with you there, friend," answered Stephen with a smile.
"There is one other thing, and that is living. A man may give his life
in a sudden spurt of courage and enthusiasm. It is something more to
see him spend his life in patient well-doing through many years. That
is the harder of the two to most."
"Maybe it is," assented Roscius. "I see now why you were so anxious
about old Haldane."
"Ay, we owed her no little. And I cannot but think she had some notion,
poor soul! of what was coming: she was in such haste to get us off by
dawn. If I had known--"
"Eh, what could you have done if you had?" responded Roscius. "Wigan
told me there were hundreds in the crowd."
"Nothing, perchance," answered Stephen sadly. "Well! the good Lord knew
best, and He ordered matters both for us and her."
"Wigan said he thought she had been forewarned--I know not why."
"Ay, I think some one must have given her a hint. That was why she sent
us off so early."
"I say, Stephen," asked Roscius rather uneasily, "what think you did
become of that cat of hers? The thing was never seen after she died--
not once. It looks queer, you know."
"Does it?" said Stephen, with a little laugh.
"Why, yes! I don't want to think any ill of the poor old soul--not I,
indeed: but never to be seen once afterwards--it _does_ look queer. Do
you think Sathanas took the creature?"
"Not without I am Sathanas. That terrible cat that so troubles you,
Roscius, sits purring on my hearth at this very moment."
"You! Why, did you take the thing with you?"
"We did. It came away in Ermine's arms."
"Eh, Saint Frideswide be our aid! I wouldn't have touched it for a
king's ransom."
"I've touched it a good few times," said Stephen, laughing, "and it
never did aught worse to me than rub itself against me and mew. Why,
surely, man! you're not feared of a cat?"
"No, not of a real cat; but that--"
"It is just as real a cat as any other. My children play with it every
day; and if you'll bring your little maids, I'll lay you a good venison
pasty that they are petting it before they've been in the house a
Paternoster. Trust a girl for that! Ah, yes! that was one reason why I
thought she had some fancy of what was coming--the poor soul begged us
to take old Gib. He'd been her only companion for years, and she did
not want him ill-used. Poor, gentle, kindly soul! Ermine will be
grieved to hear of her end."
"Tell Ermine I'll come to see her," said Leuesa, "and bring the children
too."
"We have a Derette as well as you," replied Stephen with a smile. "She
is the baby. Our boys are Gerard and Osbert, and our elder girls Agnes
and Edild--my mother's name, you know."
As Stephen opened the door of his house that evening, Gib came to meet
him with erect tail.
"Well, old fellow!" said Stephen, rubbing his ears--a process to which
Gib responded with loud purrs. "I have seen a man to-day who is afraid
to touch you. I don't think you would do much to him--would you, now?"
"That's nice--go on!" replied Gib, purring away.
Leuesa lost no time in coming to see Ermine. She brought her two little
girls, of whom the elder, aged five years, immediately fell in love with
the baby, while the younger, aged three, being herself too much of a
baby to regard infants with any sentiment but disdain, bestowed all her
delicate attentions upon Gib. Stephen declared laughingly that he saw
he should keep the pasty.
"Well, really, it does look very like a cat!" said the mercer, eyeing
Gib still a little doubtfully.
"Very like, indeed," replied Stephen, laughing again. "I never saw
anything that looked more like one."
"There's more than one at Oxford would like to see you, Ermine, and
Stephen too," said Leuesa.
"Mother Isel would, and Derette," was Ermine's answer. "I am not so
sure of any one else."
"I am sure of one else," interpolated Stephen. "It would be a perfect
windfall to Anania, for she'd get talk out of it for nine times nine
days. But would it be safe, think you?"
"Why not?" answered Roscius. "The Earl has nought against you, has he?"
"Oh no, he has nought against me; I settled every thing with him--went
back on purpose to do so. I was thinking of Ermine. The Bishop is not
the same [Note 2], but for aught I know, the sumners are."
"Only one of them: Malger went to Lincoln some two years back."
"Well, I should be glad not to meet that villain," said Stephen.
"You'll not meet him. Then as to the other matter, what could they do
to her? The sentence was carried out. You can't execute a man twice."
"That's a point that does not generally rise for decision. But you see
she got taken in, and that was forbidden. They were never meant to
survive it, and she did."
"I don't believe any penalty could fall on her," said Roscius. "But if
you like, I'll ask my cousin, who is a lawyer, what the law has to say
on that matter."
"Then don't mention Ermine's name."
"I'll mention nobody's name. I shall only say that I and a friend of
mine were having a chat, and talking of one thing and another, we fell
a-wondering what would happen if a man were to survive a punishment
intended to kill him."
"That might serve. I don't mind if you do."
The law, in 1174, was much more dependent on the personal will of the
sovereign than it is now. The lawyer looked a little doubtful when
asked the question.
"Why," said he, "if the prisoner had survived by apparent miracle, the
chances are that he would be pardoned, as the probability would be that
his innocence was thus proved by visitation of God. I once knew of such
a case, where a woman was accused of murdering her husband; she held her
mute of malice at her trial, and was adjudged to suffer _peine forte et
dure_."
When a prisoner refused to plead, he was held to be "mute of malice."
The _peine forte et dure_, which was the recognised punishment for this
misdemeanour, was practically starvation to death. In earlier days it
seems to have been pure starvation; but at a later period, the more
refined torture was substituted of allowing the unhappy man on alternate
days three mouthfuls of bread with no liquid, and three sips of water
with no food, for a term which the sufferer could not be expected to
survive. At a later time again, this was exchanged for heavyweights,
under which he was pressed to death.
"Strange to say," the lawyer went on, "the woman survived her sentence;
and this being an undoubted miracle, she received pardon to the laud of
God and the honour of His glorious mother, Dame Mary. [Such a case
really happened at Nottingham in 1357.] But if you were supposing a
case without any such miraculous intervention--"
"Oh, we weren't thinking of miracles, any way," answered Roscius.
"Then I should say the sentence would remain in force. There is of
course a faint possibility that it might not be put in force; but if the
man came to me for advice, I should not counsel him to build much upon
that. Especially if he happened to have an enemy."
"Well, it does not seem just, to my thinking, that a man should suffer a
penalty twice over."
"Just!" repeated the lawyer, with a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders.
"Were you under the impression, Cousin Roscius, that law and justice
were interchangeable terms?"
"I certainly was," said Roscius.
"Then, you'd better get out of it," was the retort.
"I daren't take Ermine, after that," said Stephen, rather sorrowfully,
"The only hope would be that she might be so changed, nobody would know
her; and then, as my wife, she might pass unharmed But the risk seems
too great."
"She's scarcely changed enough for that," replied Leuesa. "Very likely
she would not be recognised by those to whom she was a comparative
stranger; but such as had known her well would guess in a moment.
Otherwise--"
"Then her name would tell tales," suggested Stephen.
"Oh, you might change that," said Roscius. "Call her Emma or Aymeria--
folks would never think."
"And tell lies?" responded Stephen.
"Why, you'd never call that telling lies, surely?"
"It's a bit too like it to please me. Is Father Dolfin still at Saint
Frideswide's?"
"Ay, he's still there, but he's growing an old man, and does not get
outside much now. He has resigned Saint Aldate's."
"Then that settles it. He'd know."
"But he's not an unkindly man, Stephen."
"No, he isn't. But he's a priest. And maybe the priest might be
stronger than the man. Let's keep on the safe side."
"Let us wait," said Ermine quietly.
"I don't see how waiting is to help you, unless you wait till every body
is dead and buried--and it won't be much good going then."
"Perhaps we may have to wait for the Better Country. There will be no
sumners and sentences there."
"But are you sure of knowing folks there?"
"Saint Paul would scarcely have anticipated meeting his friends with joy
in the resurrection if they were not to know each other when they met.
There are many passages in Scripture which make it very plain that we
shall know each other."
"Are you so sure of getting there yourself?" was the query put by
Roscius, with raised eyebrows.
"I am quite sure," was Ermine's calm answer, "because Christ is there,
and I am a part of Christ. He wills that His people shall be with Him
where He is."
"But does not holy Church teach rather different?" [Note 3.]
Stephen would fain have turned off the question. But it was answered as
calmly as before.
"Holy Church is built on Christ our Lord. She cannot therefore teach
contrary to Him, though we may misunderstand either."
Roscius was satisfied. He had not, however, the least idea that by that
vague term "holy Church," while he meant a handful of priests and
bishops, Ermine meant the elect of God, for whom His words settle every
question, and who are not apt to trouble themselves for the
contradictions either of priests or critics. "For the world passeth
away, and the lust thereof"--the pleasures, the opinions, the prejudices
of the world--"but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever."
The times of Henry Second knew neither post-offices nor carriers. When
a man wanted to send a parcel anywhere, he was obliged to carry it
himself or send a servant to do so, if he could not find some
acquaintance journeying in that direction who would save him the
trouble.
A few weeks after Stephen had come to the conclusion that he could not
take Ermine to Oxford, he was passing down Bread Street to his shop
early one morning, when Odinel hailed him from the door.
"Hi, Stephen! Just turn in here a minute, will you?--you don't happen
to be going or sending up into the shires, do you, these next few days?"
"Which of the shires?" inquired Stephen, without committing himself.
"Well, it's Abingdon I want to send to--but if I could get my goods
carried as far as Wallingford, I dare say I could make shift to have
them forwarded."
"Would Oxford suit you equally well?"
"Ay, as well or better."
Stephen stood softly whistling for a moment. He might work the two
things together--might at least pay a visit to Derette, and learn from
her how far it was safe to go on. He felt that Anania was the chief
danger; Osbert would placidly accept as much or as little as he chose to
tell, and Isel, if she asked questions, might be easily turned aside
from the path. Could he be sure that Anania was out of the way, he
thought he would not hesitate to go himself, though he no longer dared
to contemplate taking Ermine.
"Well, I might, mayhap, be going in that direction afore long,--I can't
just say till I see how things shape themselves. If I can, I'll let you
know in a few days."
"All right! I'm in no hurry to a week or two."
Stephen meditated on the subject in the intervals of superintendence of
his oven, and serving out wassel and cocket, with the result that when
evening came, he was almost determined to go, if Ermine found no good
reasons to the contrary. He consulted her when he went home, for she
was not at the shop that day. She looked grave at first, but her
confidence in Stephen's discretion was great, and she made no serious
objection. No sooner, however, did the children hear of such a
possibility as their father's visiting the country, than they all, down
to three-year-old Edild, sent in petitions to be allowed to accompany
him.
"Couldn't be thought of!" was Stephen's decided though good-tempered
answer: and the petitioners succumbed with a look of disappointment.
"I might perchance have taken Gerard," Stephen allowed to his wife, out
of the boy's hearing: "but to tell truth, I'm afraid of Anania's hearing
his name--though, as like as not, she'll question me on the names of all
the children, and who they were called after, and why we selected them,
and if each were your choice or mine."
"Better not, I think," said Ermine, with a smile. "I almost wish I
could be hidden behind a curtain, to hear your talk with her."
Stephen laughed. "Well, I won't deny that I rather enjoy putting spokes
in her wheels," said he.
The next morning he told Odinel to make up his goods, and he would carry
them to Oxford on the following Monday.
Odinel's parcel proved neither bulky nor heavy. Instead of requiring a
sumpter-mule to carry it, it could readily be strapped at the back of
Stephen's saddle, while the still smaller package of his own necessaries
went in front. He set out about four o'clock on a spring morning,
joining himself for the sake of safety to the convoy of travellers who
started from the Black Bull in the Poultry, and arrived at the East Gate
of Oxford before dark, on the Tuesday evening. His first care was to
commit Odinel's goods to the safe care of mine host of the Blue Boar
[Note 4] in Fish Street, as had been arranged. Here he supped on fried
fish, rye bread, and cheese; and having shared the "grace-cup" of a
fellow-traveller, set off for Saint John's anchorhold. A young woman in
semi-conventual dress left the door just as he came up. Stephen doffed
his cap as he asked her--"I pray you, are you the maid of the Lady
Derette?"
"I am," was the reply. "Do you wish speech of her?"
"Would you beseech her to let me have a word with her at the casement?"
The girl turned back into the anchorhold, and the next minute the
casement was opened, and the comely, pleasant face of Derette appeared
behind it. She looked a little older, but otherwise unaltered.
There was nothing unusual in Stephen's request. Anchorites lived on
alms, and were also visited to desire their prayers. The two ideas
likely to occur to the maid as the object of Stephen's visit were
therefore either a present to be offered, or intercession to be asked
and probably purchased.
"Christ save you, Lady!" said Stephen to his cousin. "Do you know me?"
"Why, is it Stephen? Are you come back? I _am_ glad to see you."
When the natural curiosity and interest of each was somewhat satisfied,
Stephen asked Derette's advice as to going further.
"You may safely go to see Mother," said she, "if you can be sure of your
own tongue; for you will not meet Anania there. She has dislocated her
ankle, and is lying in bed."
"Poor soul! It seems a shame to say I'm glad to hear it; but really I
should like to avoid her at Aunt Isel's, and to be able to come away at
my own time from the Lodge."
"You have the chance of both just now."
Stephen thought he would get the worse interview over first. He
accordingly went straight on into Civil School Lane, which ran right
across the north portion of Christ Church, coming out just above Saint
Aldate's, pursued his way forward by Pennyfarthing Street, and turning
up a few yards of Castle Street, found himself at the drawbridge leading
to the porter's lodge where his brother lived. There were voices inside
the Lodge; and Stephen paused for a moment before lifting the latch.
"Oh dear, dear!" said a querulous voice, which he recognised as that of
Anania, "I never thought to be laid by the heels like this!--not a soul
coming in to see a body, and those children that ungovernable--Gilbert,
get off that ladder! and Selis, put the pitchfork down this minute! Not
a bit of news any where, and if there were, not a creature coming in to
tell one of it! Eline, let those buttons alone, or I'll be after--Oh
deary dear, I can't!"
Stephen lifted the latch and looked in. Anania lay on a comfortable
couch, drawn up by the fire; and at a safe distance from it, her four
children were running riot--turning out all her treasures, inspecting,
trying on, and occasionally breaking them--knowing themselves to be safe
from any worse penalty than a scolding, for which evidently they cared
nothing.
"You seem to want a bit of help this afternoon," suggested Stephen
coolly, collaring Selis, from whom he took the pitchfork, and then
lifting Gilbert off the ladder, to the extreme disapprobation of both
those young gentlemen, as they showed by kicks and angry screams.
"Come, now, be quiet, lads: one can't hear one's self speak."
"Stephen! is it you?" cried Anania incredulously, trying to lift herself
to see him better, and sinking back with a groan.
"Looks rather like me, doesn't it? I am sorry to find you suffering,
Sister."
"I've suffered worse than any martyr in the Calendar, Stephen!--and
those children don't care two straws for me. Nobody knows what I've
gone through. Are you come home for good? Oh dear, this pain!"
"No, only for a look at you. I had a little business to bring me this
way. How is Osbert?"
"He's well enough to have never a bit of sympathy for me. Where are you
living, Stephen, and what do you do now?"
"Oh, up London way; I'm a baker. Have you poulticed that foot, Anania?"
"I've done all sorts of things to it, and it's never--Julian, if you
touch that clasp, I declare I'll--Are you married, Stephen?"
"Married, and have one more trouble than you," answered Stephen
laughingly, as he took the clasp from his youthful and inquisitive
niece; "but my children are not troublesome, I am thankful to say. I
was going to tell you that marsh-mallows makes one of the finest
poultices you can have. Pluck it when Jupiter is in the ascendant, and
the moon on the wane, and you'll find it first-rate for easing that foot
of yours.--Gilbert, I heard thy mother tell thee not to go up the
ladder."
"Well, what if she did?" demanded Gilbert sulkily. "She's only a
woman."
"Then she must be obeyed," said Stephen.
"But who did you marry, for I never--Oh deary me, but it does sting!"
"Now, Anania, I'll just go to the market and get you some marsh mallow;
Selis will come with me to carry it. I've to see Aunt Isel yet, and
plenty more. Come, Selis."
"_Ha, chetife_!--you've no sooner come than you're off again! Who did
you marry? That's what I want to know."
"The sooner you get that poultice on the better. I may look in again,
if I have time. If not, you'll tell Osbert I've been, and all's well
with me."
Stephen shut the door along with his last word, disregarding Anania's
parting cry of--"But you haven't told me who your wife is!" and marched
Selis off to the market, where he laded him with marsh mallow, and sent
him home with strict injunctions not to drop it by the way. Then,
laughing to himself at the style wherein he had disposed of Anania, he
turned off to Turlgate Street (now the Turl) where Raven Soclin lived.
The first person whom he saw there was his cousin Flemild.
"Why, Stephen, this is an unexpected pleasure!" she said warmly.
"Mother, here's Cousin Stephen come."
"I'm glad to see thee, lad," responded Isel: and the usual questions
followed as to his home and calling. But to Stephen's great
satisfaction, though Isel expressed her hope that he had a good wife,
nobody asked for her name. The reason was that they all took it for
granted she must be a stranger to them; and when they had once satisfied
themselves that he was doing well, and had learnt such details as his
present calling, the number of his family, and so forth, they seemed
more eager to impart information than to obtain it. At their request,
Stephen promised to sleep there, and then went out to pay a visit to
Romund and Mabel, which proved to be of a very formal and uninteresting
nature. He had returned to Turlgate Street, but they had not yet gone
to rest, when Osbert lifted the latch.
"So you're real, are you?" said he, laughing to his brother. "Anania
couldn't tell me if you were or not; she said she rather thought she'd
been dreaming,--more by reason that you did not tarry a minute, and she
could not get an answer to one question, though she asked you three
times."
Stephen too well knew what that question was to ask for a repetition of
it "Nay, I tarried several minutes," said he; "but I went off to get
some marsh mallow for a poultice for the poor soul; she seemed in much
pain. I hope Selis took it home all right? Has she got it on?"
"I think she has," said Osbert. "But she wants you very badly to go
back and tell her a lot more news."
"Well, I'll see," replied Stephen; "I scarcely think I can. But if she
wants news, you tell her I've heard say women's head-kerchiefs are to be
worn smaller, and tied under the chin; that's a bit of news that'll take
her fancy."
"That'll do for a while," answered Osbert; "but what she wants to know
most is your wife's name and all the children's."
"Oh, is that it?" said Stephen coolly. "Then you may tell her one of
the children is named after you, and another for our mother; and we have
an Agnes and a Derette: and if she wants to know the cat's name too--"
Osbert roared. "Oh, let's have the cat's name, by all means," said he;
and Stephen gravely informed him that it was Gib.
As Agnes was at that time one of the commonest names in England, about
as universal as Mary or Elizabeth now, Stephen felt himself pretty safe
in giving it; but the name of his eldest son he did not mention.
"Well, I'd better go home before I forget them," said Osbert. "Let's
see--Osbert, Edild, Agnes, and Derette--and the cat is Gib. I think I
shall remember. But I haven't had your wife's."
"I'll walk back with you," said Stephen, evading the query; and they
went out together.
"Stephen, lad," said Osbert, when they had left the house, "I've a
notion thou dost not want to tell thy wife's name. Is it true, or it's
only my fancy?"
"Have you?" responded Stephen shortly.
"Ay, I have; and if it be thus, say so, but don't tell me what it is.
It's nought to me; so long as she makes thee a good wife I care nought
who she is; but if I know nothing, I can say nothing. Only, if I knew
thou wouldst as lief hold thy peace o'er it, I would not ask thee
again."
"She is the best wife and the best woman that ever breathed," replied
Stephen earnestly: "and you are right, old man--I don't want to tell
it."
"Then keep thine own counsel," answered his brother. "Farewell, and God
speed thee!"
Stephen turned back, and Osbert stood for a moment looking after him.
"If I thought it possible," said the porter to himself,--"but I don't
see how it could be any way--I should guess that the name of Stephen's
wife began and ended with an _e_. I am sure he was set on her once--and
that would account for any reluctance to name her: but I don't see how
it could be. Well! it doesn't matter to me. It's a queer world this."
With which profoundly original and philosophical remark, Osbert turned
round and went home.
"Well, what is it?" cried Anania, the moment he entered.
"Let me unlade my brains," said Osbert, "for I'm like a basket full of
apples; and if they are not carefully taken out, they'll be bruised and
good for nought. Stephen's children are called Edild, Agnes, Osbert,
and Derette--"
"But his wife! it's his wife I want to know about."
"Dear, now! I don't think he told me that," said Osbert with lamb-like
innocence, as if it had only just occurred to him.
"Why, that was what you went for, stupid!"
"Well, to be sure!" returned Osbert in meek astonishment, which he acted
to perfection. "He told me the cat's name, if that will suit you
instead."
"I wish the cat were inside you this minute!" screamed Anania.
"Thank you for your kind wishes," replied Osbert with placid amiability.
"I'm not sure the cat would."
"Was there ever any mortal thing in this world so aggravating as a man?"
demanded Anania, in tones which were not placid by any means. "Went
down to Kepeharme Lane to find something out, and came back knowing
ne'er a word about it! Do you think you've any brains, you horrid
tease?"
"Can't say: never saw them," answered Osbert sweetly.
"I wonder if you have your match in the county!"
"Oh, I don't think there's any doubt of that."
"Well, at any rate, first thing to-morrow morning, if you please, back
you go and ask him. And mind you don't let him slip through your
fingers this time. He's as bad as an eel for that."
"First thing! I can't, Anania. The Earl has sent word that he means to
fly the new hawks at five o'clock to-morrow morning."
"Bother the--hawks! Couldn't you go again to-night?"
"No, they'll be gone to bed by now. Why, wife, what on earth does it
matter to thee?"
Anania's reply to this query was so sharp a snarl that Osbert let her
alone thereafter.
The next morning, when released from his duties, he went again to
Kepeharme Lane--to hear that Stephen had set out on his return journey
half-an-hour before. "Well, now, it's plain to me what _that_ means!"
announced Anania solemnly, when this distressing fact was communicated
to her. "He's married somebody he's ashamed of--some low creature,
quite beneath him, whom he doesn't care to own. That must be the
explanation. She's no better than she should be; take my word for it!"
"That's quite possible," said Osbert drily. "There's another or two of
us in that predicament."
Anania flounced over on her couch, thereby making herself groan.
"You are, and no mistake!" she growled.
"Father Vincent said, when he married us, that you and I were
thenceforth one, my dearest!" was the pleasing response.
"What in the name of wonder I ever wished to marry you for--!"
"I will leave you to consider it, my darling, and tell me when I come
back," said Osbert, shutting the door and whistling the _Agnus_ as he
went up Castle Street.
"Well, if you aren't the worst, wickedest, aggravatingest man that ever
worrited a poor helpless woman," commented Anania, as she turned on her
uneasy couch, "my new boots are made of pear jelly!"
But it did not occur to her to inquire of what the woman was made who
habitually tormented that easy-tempered man, nor how much happier her
home might have been had she learnt to bridle her own irritating tongue.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. Close Roll, 32 Henry Third. About 5 pence per loaf according
to modern value.
Note 2. The Bishop of Lincoln who sat on the Council of Oxford was
Robert de Chesney. He died on January 26th, 1168, and was succeeded by
the King's natural son, Geoffrey Plantagenet, a child of only nine years
of age. Such were the irregularities in the "apostolical succession"
during the "ages of faith!"
Note 3. Even Wycliffe taught that no man could know whether he were
elected to salvation or not.
Note 4. The Blue Boar in Saint Aldate's Street really belongs to a
later date than this.