Chapter II: More Remembrances

ABOUT four o'clock my uncle came in from his business, and we had each a bun and somewhat else—at least we young ones did—for my uncle never ate between dinner and supper. He greeted me kindly, asked how I had passed my day, looked at and commended my work and that of his daughters, and asked them if they had somewhat to repeat to him. Whereat Katherine recited the twenty-third psalm in English, and Avice a part of the hundred and nineteenth.

"And what can my little niece say for me?" he asked.

"I can say the penitential psalms in Latin," I answered; "but I do not know them in English."

"Then you shall read a little for me instead," said he; and drawing me to his side he took from his desk a bound book, and turning over the leaves, he pointed out a passage, which I read. It was new and strange to me, for it talked of God's care for flowers and little fowls, and bade men consider that, as they were worth much more than these things, so our Heavenly Father would provide for all our needs. It ended thus:

"Care not therfore for the daye foloynge. For the daye foloynge shall care ffor yt sylfe. Eche dayes trouble ys sufficient for the same silfe day."

"Do you know whose words these are?" asked my uncle, as I finished.

"No, uncle," I answered.

"They are our dear Lord's own words," said he, "and spoken for our comfort. Do not you forget them."

"I suppose Our Lady made Him say them!" I ventured to remark.

"No, dear child. Our Lord needs no one to make Him send us comfort and help, since He himself loves us, and died to redeem us. Never doubt his love, my child. That never fails those who seek him, and even though he leads them through dark and troubled waters—nay, even through the very fiery furnace—it is but to guide them to his rest at last."

I saw my aunt sigh at these words, as if they had some meaning more than met the ear. For my own part, they filled me with amazement. I had always been taught to think of our Lord as a harsh and severe judge, who relented toward us—when he did relent—only at the intercession, or rather commands, of Our Lady, his mother. It seemed very strange; but I was presently diverted from the consideration thereof by my uncle's next words.

"Did my Lady Peckham send me no letter by you, dear child?"

"Oh, yes, uncle!" I answered, remembering all at once the packet my lady had placed among my things, with a strict injunction to deliver it to Master Gabriel Corbet directly on my arrival. I ran up to my room, and finding the package safe and sound in my book of Hours, where it had been laid for safe keeping, I brought it down and put it into my uncle's hand. He cut the band of floss silk which confined it, and was soon engaged in its perusal. Seeing, I suppose, that I was watching his face, my aunt directed my attention to some pageant passing in the street. My eyes, however, soon stole back to my uncle's face, and I was startled to see the change and the look of grief which had come over it. Forgetting all decorum in my anxiety, I cried out:

"Oh, uncle, must I go to the convent? I will be so good if you will only let me stay here."

Katherine and Avice looked scared, and so was I when I bethought me of what I had done. My uncle, however, did not seem angry. On the contrary, he put out his hand and drew me toward him.

"Listen to me, Loveday, and you also, my children, and learn what it costs to nourish a grudge," said he. "When we were both young, my brother and I quarreled. No matter about what. I thought myself wholly the injured party, and, despite all our good mother's efforts, I would not be reconciled. So my brother, who was the younger of us two, after vainly trying to bring me to a better mind, betook himself with his young wife to a little estate in the west country, which had been left him by a kinsman."

"More than once did he send overtures for a reconciliation, but I—miserable sinner that I was—would not even read his letters. Meantime he, riding home from market, was set upon by robbers and miserably murdered. A brother of the kinsman who left him the estate started up with a claim which was made good, by the help of some great man his patron. My sister died from the effects of grief, and this poor child was thrown upon the world without a protector, and but for the kindness of my Lady Peckham, whose husband was her kinsman, she might have grown up a wretched, forlorn beggar."

"I humbly thank my dearest Lord," and here he raised his cap, "who hath both granted me conviction of sin and His forgiveness for the same; but He, like earthly parents, sometimes leaves the offender to smart for his fault, even though he is forgiven. I, who would give my hand, could it avail, to call my brother's daughter my own and bring her up as such, have forfeited that right by my cruel and unfeeling conduct. My Lady Peckham has the right to dispose of Loveday, and it is her will that she should go to be brought up at the convent of Gray Nuns not far from Dartford."

So there was no help for it. I had much ado to restrain my sobs, and I saw the gray eyes of the twins fill with tears.

"But, uncle," I faltered and then stopped.

"Loveday does not like the thought of being a nun!" said my aunt Joyce, finishing the sentence for me.

"She is not to become one just now!" said my uncle. "It seems my lady has promised her husband, Sir Edward, that she shall not be professed till she is twenty-one, nor then, unless by her own choice."

"Heaven help her, what choice will she have by that time?" said my aunt.

"A good many things may happen in twelve years!" answered my uncle, dryly. "These are days of change and shaking, you know, aunt. But as Loveday is not to go to this same convent till she is sent for, we will enjoy her company while she is here. 'Each day's trouble is sufficient for the same selfe day,' as we have just read. But, my children, if your father has humbled himself before you, let not the lesson be lost upon you. Remember, never to let the seed of anger and malice take root in your hearts—no, not for an hour. Sure you may see in my case what evil and bitter fruit it may—nay, must bring forth—yea, even after the sin hath been confessed and done away by Christ His own blood and sacrifice."

Young as I was, these words of my uncle made an impression on my mind which was never wholly defaced, though covered by the teachings of later years. My lady's contrivance for evading her promise to her husband was certainly ingenious. In these days we should call it Jesuitical, but we had not then begun to hear very much about the Jesuits, though there has been coil enough since.

"It is a pleasant evening, and the air is fresh and cool after the warm day," said my uncle, after a little pause. "Get your hoods, my children, and we will walk out to the Minories, and then visit the old people at the almshouse."

Children's hearts are light. Of course I was pleased at the notion of a walk, and by the time I had been out half an hour I had persuaded myself that something might come to pass to prevent my going to the nunnery after all; and I was ready to observe and enjoy all the sights of the way. We had not gone far before I heard a great whining and grunting behind us, and looking round I perceived that we were followed by two lusty, well-fed pigs, which showed every desire for a better acquaintance. I had a dislike to hogs, and was always a little afraid of them. I pressed closer to my uncle, who was leading me by the hand, the twins going before us, and Sambo following with a great can, the use of which I did not understand.

"What is it?" said my uncle—then seeing the direction of my eyes. "Oh, the pigs; they will not hurt you. Why a country maid should not fear pigs, surely. But you wonder why they follow us; I will show you."

He took from his pockets some crusts of bread which he threw to the pigs, and of which they partook with little grunts of content and much shaking of broad ears and curly tails. I even fancied they cast glances of positive regard and affection from their queer little eyes. Their repast being ended, they turned and trotted back, I suppose, to wait for some other patron.

"Those are St. Anthony's pigs," said my uncle. "The proctors of St. Anthony's Hospital are used to take from the market people such pigs as are ill-fed and unfit for meat. These have the ear slit and a bell tied round their necks, and being thus, as it were, made free of the city, they wander about at will, and being fed by charitable persons become very tame and familiar, and learn to know and watch for their patrons, as you see. But these fellows are growing so fat, I fear I shall not have them to feed much longer. As soon as they grow plump and well-liking, the proctor takes them up and they are slaughtered for the use of the hospital."

It seemed to me rather odd even then, I remember, that a saint should be a patron of pigs, but I could not help thinking I should have liked St. Anthony far better than St. Dominic, who tore the poor sparrow in pieces for coming into church. We had now gone quite a little way from home, when we passed an abbey or convent shut in behind a high wall, and I saw that there was an open space before us.

In effect, we soon came to a great green field, where were collected many fine cows, some lying down chewing the cud, others in the milker's hands, and still others patiently waiting their turn. A sturdy, farmer-looking man was overseeing the work, and a neat woman was straining the milk and pouring it warm and rich into the vessels brought for its reception. I noticed that she gave good measure and many a kind word to the feeble old bodies and little children who brought their jugs and their half-pence. *

"Well, Dame Goodman," said my uncle, "you are busy as ever."

* This was that tract now known as Goodman's fields.

"Oh, yes, your worship, we are always busy at this hour," answered the dame. "More people come to us at night than in the morning. Where is your half-penny, Cicely Higgins?"

"I have none to-night," answered a pale scared-looking child. "Mother has been sick all week, and we have no money."

"And where is your father?"

"I don't know," answered the child sadly. "We have not seen him in many days, and mother cries so I can't ask her."

"He is where he deserves to be, and that is in prison, from which he will come to be burned with the next batch of heretics!" said a sour, thin-faced old woman. "And serve him right, too, for speaking slightingly of the Blessed Virgin. I would they were all served with the same sauce."

"For shame, dame! Have you a woman's heart in your breast, that you speak so to the worse than orphan child?" said my uncle, indignantly.

"Oh, ho! I did not know your worship was so near," answered the old woman, with a cackling laugh. "Methinks we are very tender to heretics—we are!"

"We are tender to other sinners besides heretics, or a wicked, hard-hearted old woman, who owes two quarters rent, would be turned into the street as she deserves," rejoined my aunt, severely. "You had better keep civil words, Dame Davis, at least until you can pay your debts."

The old woman turned pale at this home thrust, and muttering something about meaning no harm, retired into the crowd. My uncle asked the child a few questions, and then, turning to the dame who was measuring the milk, he bade her fill the child's pitcher, at the same time putting a piece of silver into her hand.

"That I will, your worship, and give her good measure too!" answered Dame Goodman. "Jenny Higgins is a good, hard-working creature, and not to be blamed for her husband's follies. Drat the man, why can't he believe as his betters tell him, and not go prying where he has no business?"

My uncle smiled, but sadly methought, and Sambo's great can being filled, we walked away by another road.

"Who was that old woman, aunt? You seemed to know her," said he presently.

"Who was it but old Madge Davis, who lives in your house in the Minories, and has paid no rent for six months," answered my aunt. "She is a bad handful, and keeps the other tenants in constant hot water by her meddling and tattling."

"That must be seen to. I think we will put her in the cottage with old John. He is so deaf she can not tattle to him, and there will be no one else to quarrel with."

"Most people would turn her into the street," said my aunt; "and indeed she deserves nothing better."

"Ah, dear aunt, were we all to have our deserts, who should escape?" asked my uncle, sighing. "It would ill become me, to whom have been forgiven ten thousand talents, to take my fellow-servant by the throat who owes me but an hundred pence."

I did not understand the allusion at the time, but afterward I read the story aloud to my uncle in his great book.

We had now come some distance and were arrived at another field, inclosed, but with convenient paths and turnstiles for foot passengers. On the side of this field toward the street were about half a dozen small, but neat and well-built two-story cottages, each with its little garden-plot stocked with pot herbs and some homely flowers. In most of them the windows were open, and on the sills, which were quite low, lay a clean white cloth and a rosary. The inmates were mostly bed-rid, but in one or two the old man or woman might be seen sitting bolstered up in a great chair. I at once guessed that these were almshouses of some sort. My cousins told me afterward that they were founded by some prior of the Priory of Trinity, a kinsman of our own, who had left a provision for the care of the poor bedesmen and women.

I now found out the use of the great can of milk which Sambo had brought from the abbey field. In every window stood a little brown jug, which the blackamoor proceeded to fill from the vessel he carried. The good fellow seemed to enjoy his work of charity, to judge by the grins and nods he bestowed on the old folks. Most thanked him heartily, but one old woman turned away her head, and when my aunt rather mischievously asked her if she did not want any milk, she muttered that it turned her against it to see that heathen pour it out.

"Never mind her," said my uncle to Sambo, who looked greatly affronted, as well he might. "She is a poor childish creature you know," and, taking the can from the black man's hand, he filled the jug himself, and passed on smiling, while Sambo muttered that Massa was a heap too good.

The last cottage was the neatest in the row, and a hale-looking old man was training a honeysuckle round the door. I wondered why he was there, till I looked in at the window and espied a wasted old woman propped up in the bed, looking more like death than life. My uncle stopped and entered into conversation with the old man, while we young ones made acquaintance with a white cat and two kittens which were basking in the sun.

"With all my heart—with all my heart!" we heard the old man say, presently. "There is plenty of room up stairs and the little lass can wait on Mary at odd times. Poor soul, poor soul! But will not your worship come in and have a word with my poor dame? It does her so much good. And meantime the young ladies can look at the garden and the birds."

We went round to the back of the house accordingly, where we found a neat little garden-plot in which was a tame sea-gull running about in company with a hedge-pig, a lame goose, and a queer little dog, which always seemed to go on three legs. We amused ourselves with the animals, which came to us at once, as if quite used to being noticed, till my uncle called us.

On the way home, he told my aunt that he had arranged with the old man to let Cicely Higgins's mother live in the upper room of his cottage for the present. It seems each of the old people were entitled to an attendant, but John being a hale man for his great age, did not avail himself of the privilege, but cared for his wife himself.

My uncle had some control over these houses by virtue of his relationship to the founder, I believe, and, therefore, could put in whom he pleased. There were many such small charitable foundations about London in those days, but they were mostly swept away in the great storm which destroyed all the religious houses in the land. It was a storm which cleared the air, no doubt, but it left some sad wrecks behind it, as is the way of tempests.

When we reached home we had supper, at which two or three of my uncle's friends joined us—elderly, sober men like himself. We young ones went to bed directly after, and thus ended my first day of London.