Chapter IX: Her Grace

THE next day at noon, which was the time appointed by Mistress Curtis, my aunt and I presented ourselves at the great new mansion which the Duke of Suffolk had built for himself in Southwarke, over against the church of St. George. This house came afterward into the king's possession, and is now used as a mint for the coinage of money. I had passed the house more than once and admired its ornaments, little thinking that I should ever live there.

The porter was at the door, and seemed to have been expecting us, for he called another man, who led us up the great stairway, and through a grand gallery all hung with weapons, bright armor and pictures, to a parlor, where Mistress Curtis met us and conducted us without delay to the withdrawing-room of the duchess. The room was a small one, but so beautiful with silken hangings, Turkish rugs and other ornaments, that it was like a casket prepared for some precious jewel; and wonderful, indeed, was the jewel it enshrined.

"Good morrow to you, Mistress Davis," said a sweet voice; "so, my good Curtis tells me, you have purveyed me a gentlewoman who is quite a paragon."

"No paragon, an' it please your Grace, but a well-bred and discreet young lady," answered Mistress Davis, modestly yet without servility.

"So much the better; I shall not be afraid of her. Look up, maiden, and let me see you."

I raised my eyes to the lady's face as I spoke, and it is no exaggeration to say that I was dazzled. She was always lovely to the last day of her life, but at that time, her beauty was simply wonderful. Knowing her mother to have been a Spanish lady, I had expected to see some one with black hair and an olive skin. Instead of that, the Duchess was most brilliantly fair, with a complexion of such clearness as to show the delicate blue veins about her temples, while her hair, which was straight and surprisingly abundant, was of the loveliest paly gold. I have since learned that this brilliant fairness belongs to certain very noble families in Spain, and they are extremely proud of it as showing their pure Gothic descent. The eyes were of a violet blue, large and well opened; the mouth firm in outline, with a host of dimples dancing in and out whenever she smiled.

She was very kind and even playful in her manner, yet not so as to invite any unbecoming freedom. She questioned me about my accomplishments, but said kindly that she would not ask me to sing, as it would hardly be a fair trial. Then she asked me why I wished to leave my present home, and I told her—because I would fain earn my own living instead of hanging on the hands of Master Davis.

"I am afraid you are a phœnix, after all," said she, laughing merrily, "and yet I could wish there were more of your kind. How is it, Mistress Davis, that you have not found a husband for this child."

"So please your grace, Loveday might have had a husband had she so chosen, but her mind was not to take him, and beside that, we had no authority to do so; neither my husband nor myself would force a young maid's inclinations in such a matter. I have seen too much of that in my day."

(This was true, though I forgot to mention it in the proper place. A good merchant with quite a family of children had proposed for me, but I had no mind for him. Marry, an' I could have taken the children and the house, without the man, I would have liked it well enough!)

"I think you are right," said the Duchess. "As you say, it is done far too often. Well, my maiden, I am well pleased with your appearance and with all that I hear of you. When can you come to me?"

I told her I knew of nothing to hinder my coming at once.

"Very well; my good Curtis will instruct you in your duties, and see that you are provided with fitting apparel."

"Not so, please your Grace," said Mistress Davis. "I must beg the privilege of myself purveying Loveday's wardrobe on her first going forth into the world."

"As you please, good dame," said the Duchess; "only let her come as soon as possible. Curtis, will you provide some refreshment for your friends and settle every thing needful with them."

We made our obeisance and withdrew to Mistress Curtis's own apartment, where we found a collation already provided.

Now that the thing was done, I must needs confess that I was rather scared, and began to wish that I had followed my first plan of setting up a little school. I had never associated with great ladies, save indeed in the convent, where rank was not much considered. I began to wonder how I should ever find my way about these long galleries and staircases, and whether I should ever feel at home with my new mistress. However, I reflected that, after all, these fine things were but passing shows, and the people I should have to deal with were men and women, and—what was most comforting—that the best Help and Shelter of all would be with me as much in these grand halls as in my room at Master Davis's, and by dint of such reflections and lifting up my heart in prayer, I was prepared to hear and understand when Mistress Curtis was ready to talk with me about my duties.

These were simple enough. I found that I was required to take my turn with the other gentlewomen in attending upon her Grace in her chamber and helping her to dress, to stand behind her chair at mealtimes and when her Grace received or went into company, and, above all, to entertain my mistress with reading and music whenever she was inclined.

"I think you will agree with the other waiting gentlewoman, Mistress Emily Mandeville, very well," said Mistress Curtis. "She is a good creature, and wholly devoted to her lady. As to the rest of the household, you will have little to do with them. You will have your own room, to which you may retire when off duty, and you will share this parlor with myself and Mistress Mandeville. I need not tell you that you are expected, when in her Grace's apartment, to hear all and say nothing, and I trust you need no warning against gossiping and repeating conversation out of the house."

"I trust not, indeed, madam!" I answered, feeling my cheeks grow hot at the very idea that such a caution was needful. "I am not likely to tattle, seeing I know no one in London but Mistress Davis and her family, who are not likely to tempt me to such baseness."

"Nay, be not so warm!" said Mistress Curtis, smiling. "There was no accusation in my words, only a warning, which is quite a different matter."

"I ask pardon, madam!" I answered, feeling ashamed of my hastiness. "Quickness of temper is my failing, but I trust, by God's grace, to correct it time."

"'Tis half the battle to know one's fault," gently answered Mistress Curtis; "but yet I counsel you, maiden, to strive with all your might against it. A hasty temper often does more harm in five minutes than can be undone by the bitter repentance of a lifetime."

I thought I had too much reason to know that.

"I never thought it so bad a fault as some others—as lying and deceit!" observed Mistress Davis.

"True, sister. Deceit is to all other faults as the King's Evil * to other diseases. It infects the whole soul as that the whole body, blood, flesh and bone, and one never knows when it may break out or what form it may take. But there is no single fault which, when indulged, does not drag a chain of other sins along with it. Learn, then, to rule thy spirit, dear maiden, and so to be greater than he that taketh a city, as the wise man says. Now, as to a less important matter, but yet one of weight, especially with young maids—your clothes!" she added, smiling.

* What we now call scrofula. It was named King's Evil from the fact
that the Kings of England were believed to have the power of curing it.

"If it please you, madam, do you and my Aunt Davis settle that between you," I answered. "I am sure you will know best."

"Why, so we will. Meantime, you may go into the next room, where you will find an instrument, some music books, and other volumes with which you may amuse yourself."

I rose, nothing loth, and passed into the next room; a very pretty one with an oriel window, and having a lute and virginals * and a pile of music books, and looking these over I discovered a book of the psalms in French meter with music attached. I could not forbear trying these with the spinet, and was so much engaged with them, that I started as if shot when some one opened the door. I rose in some confusion, when I found my visitor was a tall, stately gentlemen, splendidly dressed, but one who would have shown his dignity in any weeds.

* The spinet, clarichord and virginals wore all ancestors of the
piano-forte. See a very interesting article in Macmillan's "English
Magazine" for January, 1884.

"I crave pardon for startling you, fair lady," said he, with a gesture of courtesy. "I was looking for Mistress Curtis, and hearing your voice, my curiosity would not be satisfied without seeing the singer. Pray, good Curtis—" as she entered by the other door—"what fair lady is this who sings so charmingly?"

Mistress Curtis explained the matter. I had guessed already that I stood in the presence of the Duke of Suffolk. He heard her to the end, glancing at me now and then, as I stood withdrawn into the recess of the window.

"It is well," said he. "I have every reason to trust your discretion, my good Curtis, and glad I am that my dear wife's love of music should be so gratified. What did you call the young lady's name?"

"Loveday Corbet, your Grace."

"Corbet—Corbet!" he repeated, musingly. "That is a west country name and a good old family. Come you from Devon, Mistress Corbet?"

"Yes, your Grace," I answered. "My father was a gentleman of North Devon, though I believe his father removed to London before he was born."

"Have you any friends there living at present?"

"None, your Grace, now that my Lady Peckham is dead. Her first husband was a distant kinsman of my father's."

"Corbet—I have heard the name lately, but I cannot place it," said he. "Well, my young lady, I trust you may be happy and useful in this house. Your mistress is a most lovely lady, and easily pleased. Let me give you a token to hansel your first entrance into my family."

So saying, he placed a gold piece in my hand, and then turned away and left the room. Such was my first sight of Charles Brandon, the good Duke of Suffolk, and ever to my mind the very mirror of all knightly and manly virtues.

I went home in a somewhat dazed and bewildered frame of mind, but once in the solitude of my own room, I soon composed myself and was ready to meet Master Hall's jokes and Philippa's bitter gibes on my promotion with equal serenity. Indeed, however full of fun and merriment Master Hall might be, he never forgot to be kind. It was not so easy to bear the children's remonstrances and tears, especially those of my own little pupil, Helen, a tender, spirited little maid, who had become very dear to me, but the matter was settled now, and there was no help for it.

And, indeed, considering the whole affair calmly in my chamber, I did not wish to help it. I was convinced that I had done right in relieving Master Davis of my maintenance. I also felt sure of a faithful friend and counselor in Mistress Curtis. I was charmed with my new master and mistress, and saw no reason why I need not be happy in serving them. I had a little my doubts of my companion in waiting, Mistress Mandeville. I thought she looked prim and formal, but I would not allow myself to be set against her beforehand.

Yes, I believed I had acted wisely, and was content to leave the result of my action in the hands of Him whom I had learned to consider my best friend. I knew I should always have the Davis family and Margaret Hall to fall back upon, if I needed such support. They had already done for me more than I could ever repay, were it only in bringing me to a knowledge of the Scriptures. Margaret, especially, had opened to me a great new world of thought, which could never be closed again, happen what might.

Surely God had been very good to me, though for so many years I had never learned to love Him—never thought of Him if I could help it, and then only as one to be dreaded and propitiated if possible, and who, if I only made myself uncomfortable enough, might perhaps be won at least not utterly to destroy me. Let those testify who know by their own experience, what a change is made in the life when God's love is shed abroad in our hearts.

But I must hasten on to my tale. 'Tis the nature of old folk to be garrulous, and I find I am no exception to the rule, especially when I have a pen in my hand.

Just a week from my first visit to Suffolk House, I betook myself thither, accompanied by Mistress Davis, and followed by one of the men bearing my bundles. My great mail was to come later in the day. I remember St. George's clock was just striking nine as we passed near it, and I saw a poor woman, whom I knew at once had been a religious of some kind, standing under the porch. I had some loose silver in my pocket, and I could not forbear putting a couple of groats into her hand. She started and colored, and then thanked me eagerly, and turned quickly away. In a moment more, we saw her enter a baker's shop close by.

"Poor thing, did she not look hungry?" said Mistress Davis. "You have given her one good meal, at all events."

"She is, or rather has been, a religious," said I. "I am sure of it."

"Very like, very like! I must try and speak with her when I come back. Theirs is a hard fate, poor souls!"

"Yes, they do not all fall into such warm nests as I did!" I could not help saying, whereat she squeezed my hand lovingly.

I heard afterward that she saw the woman, and finding her clever with her needle, she got her work that made the poor sister very comfortable. Helping one out of the hundreds who were in need, was like helping one fly when hundreds are drowning, yet is it altogether better for that one fly than if you were to leave him to drown too.

I took leave of my dear Aunt Davis, and certainly I did feel rather forlorn as I applied to the fat, surly, consequential porter at the hall-door to be led to Mistress Curtis. However, he was very civil—like master, like man—and I soon found myself conducted into my own little room and left to prepare myself to attend my mistress at dinner. It was by no means as sumptuous as my room at Master Davis his house, but yet comfortable enough. There was a small bed hung with blue stuff, a joint-stool, chair and small table with a mirror hung above it. And in one corner was a sort of cabinet, with drawers, for my clothes. The window commanded a pleasant view. The maid who attended to help me unpack my goods, told me that Mistress Mandeville's room was next mine.

"Who is that?" I asked, as an elderly lady, dressed in deep, but old fashioned, black passed me, giving me a keen glance as she did so.

"That is Mistress Patience. She was a great friend of her Grace's mother—I have heard say she attended on Queen Katherine, and was left in great misery after her death, till her Grace found her. She hath been in clover ever since, but some think she is not quite right in her mind."

I looked with great interest at the old lady, as she walked to the end of the gallery, seemingly only for the exercise. As she met and passed me in returning, she dropped her stick; I picked it up quickly and put it into her hand, whereat she gave me another keen glance and thanked me, adding in a clear though trembling voice, and a somewhat foreign accent:

"You are my new neighbor, I suppose."

"Yes, madam!" I answered.

"Ay. Well, be faithful and you shall have your reward."

I courtesied and followed my guide down the stairs, noting carefully all the turns, that I might be able to find my way back. Mistress Curtis greeted me kindly, saying I was just in time to attend my mistress at dinner. Accordingly, she led me to the duchess her withdrawing-room, where I found her splendidly dressed and beautiful as ever.

"So, here is my singing bird!" said she. "We must make trial of your gifts by and by. Meantime, be you acquainted with Mistress Mandeville, your companion in service."

Mistress Mandeville courtesied and said something civil. She was of medium height, with eyes of that sort which seem to have no particular color, a reasonably good skin and features, and she carried herself remarkably well. She passed for a model of prudence, propriety, and all the other good Ps, because she never expressed an opinion of her own, and, indeed, never talked if she could help it. I lived in the house with her six months, and did not know her one bit better at the end of the time than at the beginning. But we never had an unpleasant word, and I really think she liked me as well as she knew how to like any body.

We stood behind our lady's chair at the dinner, which was very splendid and well furnished, with guests of great quality. The Duke entertained many gentlemen in his household, and the expenses of the table alone were something fabulous. As I glanced down the long board, I saw at the lower end a face and figure which seemed at once to take me back to childish days at Peckham Hall. The dress was that of a priest, but I could not see the face plainly for a great burly count from the Low Countries who sat above. The glimpse I had, excited me to a lively curiosity, and I longed for another, but when I looked again the priest had left the board.

"Now we shall have our dinner," said Mrs. Mandeville, with some appearance of interest. (It was the only subject on which she ever did show any animation.) "I hope they have not eaten up all the sturgeon."

I felt for a moment foolishly humiliated at having to sit down to the board after others had finished, but I might have spared myself that mortification, for I found that the ladies and gentlemen attendant directly upon the Duke and Duchess dined in a chamber by themselves, and as well as any one at the great board, if they chose. It was a fast day, and I, who was accustomed to keep the fasts and feasts of the church, was surprised to see the delicacies which were served to us.

Mistress Curtis presided at the board and kept order, yet was there abundance of lively conversation among the young gentlemen. Only when it seemed verging upon too much freedom did Mistress Curtis, smilingly, call them to order. There were half a dozen pages of noble, or at least gentle, birth, who were being bred up in the Duke's household, and instructed in all sorts of manly exercises in the tilt-yard and manege, besides what book-learning they got with a master entertained for the purpose. Two or three of these were little lads of an age, as it seemed, to be under their mothers, and it pleased me to see how these children came about Mistress Curtis when the meal was done, and how kindly she spoke to them. One of them had been crying, and, on being questioned, owned that he had been in difficulties with his tutor on account of certain pronouns whereof he could by no means understand the declensions.

"Bring your book to me," I ventured to say, (I knew I had an hour to myself at this time) "and, with Mistress Curtis's leave, I will see if I can help you."

"Do so, Roger, since Mistress Corbet is so kind," added Mistress Curtis.

The little fellow—he was no more than seven years old—brightened up and ran off for his book.

"Law's me, Mistress Corbet, what pleasure can there be in spending your play-hour over a Latin grammar and a stupid lad?" said Mrs. Mandeville.

"Oh I like teaching, and I remember mine own troubles with these same declensions," said I; and little Roger returning, I took him into the window-seat and soon made his way plain for him.

"Thank you, madam," said the child, gratefully. "I wish I might do my lessons with you every day. Master Sprat is so cross, and when I am puzzled, he says I could learn if I would—but I can't learn unless I understand. But he is going away to his now cure—much good may it do him," said Roger, brightening up, "and perhaps Master Corbet may be more good-natured."

"Corbet!" said I. "That is my name."

"It is our new master's name, too, and we are to begin with him to-morrow."

"Then see that you have your task well conned, so as not to shame your mistress," said I.

He was such a baby that I could not forbear kissing his round, fair cheek. Then I betook myself to Mistress Curtis's parlor, where I found her, and also Mistress Mandeville, who was making a kerchief at the rate of ten stitches a minute, and lifting every one as though she were prying up stones with a crowbar. It did always make me ache to see her sew.

"Well and what of your pupil?" asked Mistress Curtis.

"Oh, I have sent him away happy," said I. "'Tis a fine little lad, though he says his master calls him stupid because he can not learn what he does not understand."

"I dare say. He is a crabbed, austere man, soured by poverty and hard study before he came here, and his temper is not sweetened by the tricks the mischievous lads play on him. But he goes away very soon to some benefice or other. By the way, the new tutor has the same name as your own."

"So little Roger tells me," said I. "I had a distant cousin of that name, my Lady Peckham's son, who went to study for a priest. I wonder if this could possibly be the same?"

"This young man hath come up to London, as understand, to study the Hebrew tongue," said Mistress Curtis.

"Dear me, why should he want to learn Hebrew?" asked Mrs. Mandeville. "He is not a Jew, is he?"

"If he were, he would probably know Hebrew without learning it," answered Mistress Curtis. (Somehow Mrs. Mandeville's stupid speeches always did seem to put her out of temper.) "I suppose he wishes to study the Scripture in the original tongue."

"Well, I would not like to know so many strange tongues and things. I should be afraid of being burned for a wizard."

"That would be a waste of faggots, certainly," returned Mistress Curtis, dryly. "But there is the clock. Young ladies, it is time you went to your mistress."

Mrs. Mandeville led the way, and I soon found myself behind my lady's chair in the great withdrawing-room, which was crowded with guests, both ladies and gentlemen, come to pay their court. The Duchess seemed to know all, and have a pleasant word for all. The Duke stood near, now and then addressing a word to his wife, and there was ever that interchange of loving and familiar glances so pleasant to see between married people. He was more than old enough to be her father, and, indeed, she was his fourth wife, his third having been the Princess Mary of England, the king's sister, and dowager of France. It was on the occasion of this marriage that he appeared at a tourney in a dress half of cloth of gold and half of frieze, with this motto:

"Cloth of frieze be not too bold.
Though thou be matched with cloth of gold.
Cloth of gold do not despise
Though thou be matched with cloth of frieze."

It was said all his marriages had been love matches, and I could easily believe it, for a nobler pattern of a man I never saw. He was the model of all knightly and gracious exercises in tourney and field, having gained more than one victory by his prowess, and he was counted equally wise and discreet in the council hall. He was also a great patron of the new learning and a protector of those who followed it, nor did he disdain the more trifling arts of music and painting. I, who at that time had never seen a good picture, used to spend half my leisure in looking at those which the duke had brought home from Italy and the Low Countries.

Of course, I had nothing to do but to stand still and use my eyes and ears. It was the grand reception-day of the week, and many were the great people who thronged the splendid rooms. It was not long before I heard the name of Bishop Gardiner, and I looked with eagerness to see this man who had held such an influence over my life. In he came, in his rich churchman's habit, all smiling civility. I believe I should have hated him at first sight if I had not known who he was. He was followed by Father Simon, his chaplain, whose viper face I knew in an instant. He advanced at once to pay his court to the duchess, and no one bowed lower than he or was more fulsome in his flattery.

"Well, my lord, and how goes on your favorite pursuit?" asked the Duchess in her ringing voice.

"To what does your grace allude?" asked the bishop.

"Oh, the turning out of nuns and monks. We all know you like to hunt them as a warrener does rabbits, only your ferrets are learned doctors and divines."

I saw Father Simon's face darken at this gibe, but the bishop only smiled.

"'Tis said the chantries are next to go," continued the Duchess, in the same gay voice. "I much wonder, my lord, what kind of reception you expect to meet with in Purgatory. Will not the poor souls who are waiting to be sung out of their pains fall upon him who hath so cruelly deprived them of their means of escape?"

"Let me remind you, my love, that these are hardly fit subjects for jesting," said the Duke, gently. "My lord, have you seen his majesty within a day. His physician, Dr. Butts, tells me he is ill at ease."

Thus he turned the talk into another channel, while my mistress, though she seemed to pout for a moment, soon recovered her gayety, and began again chatting on indifferent subjects. As for the bishop, he never showed one particle of annoyance either at this time or on other similar occasions. But "what was fristed was not forgotten," as old ladies used to say, and he made the sweet lady pay dearly for her gibes: marry, 'twas through no good will of his that she did not atone for them with her life.

When the company were gone, my mistress bade me sit down to the instrument and play and sing to divert her and her husband. I did my best, and her Grace was pleased to praise me very highly, saying that my voice was one of the finest she had ever heard.

"The voice is not the only beauty," said the Duke. "Mistress Corbet sings with expression, without which the best voice is 'but as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal,' as the apostle says. What other songs do you know?"

I told him not many, as I had learned in the convent, where we had none but sacred music. He then bade some one fetch a book of French Psalms from which I had been playing, and he was pleased to join his voice with me in some of them.

"These psalms are greatly sung in France," said he. "One hears them both in palace and cottage. I would some one would do as much for the psalms in English, that they might replace the ribaldry one hears every where."

"It may be done some time—who knows?" said the Duchess. "Go you abroad to-night, my sweet lord?"

"I must needs do so, since the king commands," he answered. "And what will you do?"

"Stay at home to play with my babes, like a good housewife," said she, with a smile, "and perhaps to visit poor Mistress Patience, whom I have not seen for two days."

"I perceived the old lady was not at table."

"No, she is ill at ease, poor soul. I think not she will live long."

"It is hardly to be wished. Good-by, then, sweetheart."

When the duke had gone, his wife rose and bidding us attend her, she went first to the nursery, where I saw her two little sons, of four and five years, lovely buds of that noble stem, destined to be blighted in their earliest bloom by the dreadful sweating sickness. They were sweet, well-governed children, overjoyed to see their beautiful mother, and coming with shy grace to speak to me when bade to do so. Presently the elder boy asked his mother when sister Frances was coming home, and I then learned for the first time that the duke had an unmarried daughter by his third wife, Margaret of England, who was now visiting some lady about the court.

I was in a hurry for supper to come now, hoping I might see in the new tutor my old friend and playmate, and then telling myself how silly I was to prepare such a disappointment. But I was not destined to be disappointed. The Duke being away, the whole family sat down to supper together, and the very first sight convinced me that Walter Corbet was before me. He had grown older, of course, and looked thin and worn, but there was the old expression of peaceful firmness and resolution in his dark eyes and in the lines of his mouth. I do not think he glanced at me, till the Duchess addressed some kind word to him, when he looked up and our eyes met. Even then, he did not recognize me at once, and no great wonder, as he had not seen me since I was eight years old; yet his eyes lingered on my face with puzzled expression, which the Duchess observing, (as she always saw every thing,) said:

"Master Corbet, my new gentlewoman hath the same name as yourself and comes also from the West Country. It may be you are of kin."

I could not but smile at his look of bewilderment, and seeing he was still uncertain, I touched with my finger a small but deep scar on my brow, which I had gotten in one of our childish expeditions after nuts.

"Surely!" said he. "This cannot be my little cousin Loveday, who used to live at Peckham Hall with my mother?"

"Even so," I answered, as my mistress's eye and smile gave me leave to speak. "I knew you in a moment; but then you are changed less than I."

"And you are little Loveday," said he, as though he could hardly believe it even yet.

"Not so very little at present," said the Duchess. "You must make acquaintance, since you are old friends and kinsfolk."

This was all that passed at that time. The evening was spent in reading aloud to my mistress and playing of cards, about which I knew nothing till she taught me, and which I never learned to like. The Duchess, not being very well, went to bed early, and I waited on her to her chamber and helped her to undress, as was part of my duty. My service, however, was not much more than nominal, as she had an old maid-servant who had attended her since she was a child. She then dismissed me, and I went to bed, feeling more tired than I had ever done in my life.

Next morning, I was astir in good time. I had been used, of late, to read a portion in the Bible every morning, and, as the sun shone pleasantly into the gallery, and my room was something dark, I ventured to walk up and down there, while reading in St. John's Gospel. I had not done so long, when a door opened, and the old lady I had heard called Mistress Patience, put her head out.

"Can I do aught for you, madam?" I asked, seeing her looking as if she would call somebody.

"Oh, I would not trouble you, Mistress—I forget your name," answered the old lady. "I was but looking for the woman who helps me to dress; I am rheumatic, as you see. She is long in coming, I think, or else I am earlier than my wont."

"It has not yet gone six by the church-bell," said I. "But, Mistress Patience, please let me help you; I shall love to do so."

"Nay, child, 'tis no office for such as thou—thou a gentlewoman."

"I am a Christian," I answered; "and what should such do but help each other? Besides, I shall like it. It will remind me of the time when I used to help dear Sister Sacristine, in the convent. Please allow me."

The old lady consented, and I helped her to dress. She was much crippled with rheumatism, and I feared hurting her; but I suppose I did not, for she said I was a deft maid.

"And what book have you there?" said she, as I took up the volume I had laid on the table.

I told her.

"What, you are an heretic, then?" said she, sharply.

"Nay, madam, why should you think so?" I answered.

"Because you read the Bible, like that snake-in-the-grass that brought my dear mistress to her doom. Away, I have naught to do with heretics. They murdered my dear mistress."

"But, dear madam, listen a moment," said I. "Don't you know that both Luther and Tyndale wrote against the king's divorce of Queen Katherine, as did many others whom men call heretics? For myself, I do not pretend to judge of state matters, being nothing but a simple maid, but my heart hath ever been with your mistress. And you know it was the great Cardinal who first helped on the matter of the divorce. I have heard say that the queen herself accused him of blowing the coal betwixt her and the king."

"So she did, so she did, poor soul!" said the old lady, relenting a little. "But, oh, my maiden, for your soul's sake, beware of heresy, and of reading and judging in matters too high for you. It is that which is drawing down vengeance on this realm."

I soothed her, as well as I could, and, getting her comfortably seated in her great chair, I fetched my "Imitation," and read to her a few minutes.

"There is the bell, Mistress Corbet," said she, as a bell rang in the gallery. "You must go, but you will come again, won't you?"

"Yes, indeed!" said I, venturing to kiss her forehead; whereat she gave me a smile and her blessing.

As I have said, breakfast was not at that time the serious matter it has since become. I had been bidden to repair to the small dining-room for mine, and did so. There, to my great joy, I found Walter, eating his bread and milk, with a book open by his basin, as he used to do at the hall. It may be guessed that we found plenty to say to each other. He told me that the hall was shut up and empty, save for the old servants who staid to look after it. Sir John Lambert, with whom he had studied, had gone abroad to save his life, being accused of heresy and he, himself, had had a narrow escape from the clutches of Father Barnaby.

"I know not how he let me go, only that he could not find in his heart to burn so good a Latinist," said he, smiling. "When my kind friend went abroad, I betook myself to my parish of Coombe Ashton, and there I have lived till now. But I have left my cure in good hands, and am come up to London, for a time, to study the Greek and Hebrew to more advantage. The Duke of Suffolk hath kindly given me a place in his household, where I hope to serve well both my earthly and Heavenly Master. But now tell me of yourself. Where have you been, all these years?"

"'Tis a long tale," said I. "I can only give you the outlines thereof," which I did, only saying naught of the cause which sent me from London to Dartford.

"But, Walter," I added ('twas a wonder to see how easily we went back to the old names), "how does it happen that you have not heard all this before? Did you not care enough for your old playmate to ask your mother about her?"

Walter's face clouded, and I saw that I had touched on a tender chord.

"My mother and myself have seen very little of each other of late," said he, sadly. "You know she was somewhat arbitrary in her disposition," (I thought I did, indeed), "and she was greatly displeased with me for taking up with the new learning, and, as she said, abetting Sir John in the destroying of souls. She made the price of her blessing the abandonment of my most dear and inward convictions of truth, and as I could not comply, she even cast me off and disinherited me, so far as it was in her power to do so. Think you, I was wrong not to give way?"

"Whoso loveth his father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me," said I.

His face brightened in a moment, and he said, in a low tone:

"Then you, too, are a reader of the Evangel. Where did you learn that?"

I told him, adding, "I do wish you knew the Davis family. They are the best people in the world."

"I know Master Hall and his wife, at least to speak to," said he. "She seems, indeed, like a most generous woman, such as the wise man calls a crown to her husband."

"But did your mother then disinherit you?" I asked.

"So far as it was in her power. Sir Edward left me certain lands which were not entailed, and a sum of money, and I had a small inheritance from my own father, so I have more than enough for all my wants—except books," he added, smiling; then sadly again: "I cared not for the inheritance, but it was hard to want a mother's last blessing."

"It was, indeed. But what do you here?"

"The duke hath given me a place as master, to teach the young gentlemen their academe. His grace intimated to me that I might do as much or as little as I would, but I mean to earn his protection, which is of great value to me."

The entrance of Mistress Mandeville put an end to our talk for this time. The day was spent much as the last had been, save that we went abroad on the river with our mistress. She was fond of the water, and went out almost every day, and as I liked it also, while as Mistress Mandeville was terribly afraid of it, I came to be her usual companion in these expeditions.

Kind as were my master and mistress, and much as I learned to love them, it was a trying life, and one that I should never covet for a daughter of mine. It was a fatiguing, and yet an idle, life. Oh, how my fingers used to ache for something wherewith to busy themselves, during the hours when I stood by my mistress's chair, and how weary grew my ears of the endless tittle-tattle of compliment and repartee. Sometimes, indeed, we had talk which was worth hearing. The Duke entertained all the great scholars of the day, and I heard many discussions which made me forget all my weariness and disgust.

One day I had the great pleasure of seeing my old friend, Dr. Hooper, and my lady, with her usual kindness, hearing that we were acquainted, made an opportunity for us to talk together. He told me he had seen Master Davis's family the day before, and that they were all well.

"And you, my daughter, how fares it with you?" he asked, gently. "I do not mean in health, since your face speaks for itself, but how fares it with your soul? Do you keep your lamp trimmed and burning in the midst of all this splendor, and yourself as one who waiteth for the bridegroom?"

"Indeed, I try to," I answered, feeling the tears very near mine eyes. "But I do find it hard, many times, to collect my thoughts and keep them where they should be. My prayers seem forced, and as though they did not get out of the room."

Dr. Hooper smiled. "They have no need to do so, perhaps, since He to whom they are addressed is Himself in the room. But tell me, do you at such times give up and forbear to pray for that time?"

"Sometimes I have done so," I answered, blushing.

"And do you not find prayer and meditation all the harder the next time for such omissions?" he asked.

I confessed that it was so.

"And so it will ever be," said he. "Believe me, daughter, the times when we need prayers most is when we enjoy them least. Then is the time to seek the mercy seat more earnestly than ever, and not to leave it till we have an answer of peace. Even though your prayers are but matters of simple obedience, they are of infinite value to your own soul. Tell me, is there not some charitable work that you can do to keep the springs of love fresh in your heart?"

I thought of Mistress Patience, whom I had somewhat neglected of late, excusing myself on the ground of having so little time to myself, and because she was often fretful and hard to please.

"Yes!" I answered. "I might do such work if I chose—but—the truth is, Dr. Hooper, in the multitude of business and distractions, I have forgotten God, and He I fear hath forgotten me."

"Do you not believe that, dear maid," said Dr. Hooper, earnestly. "He hath not forgotten you, but even now waits for you to return, and holds open the gate that you may enter. Go you to Him before you sleep, in penitence and prayer, and having confessed your sins and begged for pardon and cleansing, believe that you have them, and go on serving your Heavenly Master to the best of your ability, not expecting thereby to win salvation, since that has already been purchased for you, but that you may showy your faith by your works, and set forward the kingdom of your Master."

This is not a record of religious experience; but I may just say that I followed the good man's advice, and found peace in so doing.

The next morning, I was up early, and while dressing I tried to think of some way to make my peace with Mistress Patience, who, I knew, had felt the loss of those attentions which I had begun by giving her. At last a plan struck me, which I hastened to put into execution. I found the old lady dressed, and sitting in her great chair.

"So, Mistress Corbet, I have not seen you for long," said she, drawing herself up; "but I am nobody now—only a poor old woman whom nobody cares for. I thought at first you were going to be like a daughter to me, but I see how it is."

"Now you discourage me," said I, feeling her reproach all the more that I deserved it. "I had come to ask a great favor, and now I am afraid."

"And what favor may that be?" she asked me, rather suspiciously, but yet relenting a little, as I thought.

"Even that you will teach me to knit," I answered. "My mistress says that you know how to knit hosen like those which come from Spain, and that you taught her mother."

"So I did, so I did," she answered; "and a sweet creature she was. How well I remember when my Lord Willowby came a suitor for her hand;" and therewith she went off in a long description of the wedding, and bedding, and so forth, which kept her amused till it was time for me to go.

"But you will teach me to knit?" said I, as I rose to leave her.

"That I will, that I will, dear maiden. I will hunt up my knitting-pins to-day, and will show you the motion, and how to put up the stitches. Just wheel my chair near to yonder cabinet, if you will, and I will see what I can find."

And so I left her happy in rummaging her drawers.

The next morning, she had found her pins, and gave me a lesson in knitting, over which we became quite good friends again. By degrees she opened her mind to me, and I found out what was the trouble which embittered her life. It seems that Queen Katherine, in her will, had provided that some one should make a pilgrimage to our Lady of Walsingham, for the benefit of her soul. This had never been done, and the poor, faithful old servant was eating her heart with grief lest her mistress was still suffering in Purgatory on account of this omission.

"I would gladly have gone myself," said she, "but I had a broken leg; and now there is no more any holy shrine at Walsingham. Oh, me! Oh, me! That my poor mistress, who would have gone on foot to Rome to save the soul of a poor beggar, should suffer for want of such a charity as that."

She wept, and I could not forbear weeping with her, and trying to comfort her.

"Dear Mistress Patience," said I; "Queen Katherine was a Christian woman and trusted in her Saviour, who is all pity and compassion. Think you he loves her less than you do?"

"No," said she, wonderingly, "I suppose not."

"Would he not love her just as much more than you, as he is greater than you—that is, infinitely?"

"Yes, belike He does. What then?"

"Then—do not be angry, dear lady—but would He leave her in such a dreadful place, because some one did not do what was impossible. The Scripture saith that his blood cleanseth us from all sin. What need then of any further cleansing?"

She looked doubtfully on me, and I had to leave her at that time; but the next morning, as I took my knitting, she said, abruptly:

"Mistress Loveday, is what you said yesterday—about cleansing from sin—is that in the Bible? I mean the true Latin Bible, not that which the heretics have put forth."

"It is, indeed," I answered.

She sighed. "I wish I could read it," said she; "but I was never good at Latin, and now my eyes are failed, so I can scarce read English."

"I will read it for you, dear madam," said I. "I have a Latin Bible, and I will read it into English for you, if you will."

"Do so," she answered.

I fetched my book, and read to her such places as bore on the subject, as long as I had time. When I was obliged to go away, she laid her hand on my arm, and fixing her eyes on mine, she said, with touching earnestness:

"You are a good maid and a fine scholar. You would not deceive me?"

"Not for the whole world," I told her.

"Then tell me—are all these things in the English Bible?"

"They are indeed, dear madam, and much more."

"I would I had one, that I could see for myself," said she.

"Mine is fine print—I fear you could not read it," said I. And then, as a thought struck me: "My lady hath given me leave to visit my friends to-day, and I think I may be able to bring you the New Testament in fair, large print."

Her face brightened, and then fell again. "But that may bring you into trouble," said she.

"I think not," I answered. "At all events, I will see what can be done."

She consented at last, giving me a gold piece to pay for the book, and to buy a fairing for myself. As I said, my mistress had given me leave to go spend the day with my friends, and Mistress Curtis sent one of the men to attend me to Master Hall's, where I purposed to go first. I had been used to run back and forth between his house and Master Davis's, but I was now a lady in a great house, so I must needs have a blue-coated serving man at my heels.

I found them all well and overjoyed to see me, but methought Master Hall was more sober than his wont, and Margaret's fair brow had a shade of care. When: we were alone together, I asked her if any ill fortune had befallen.

"Nothing as yet," she answered, "but, Loveday, we are living, as it were, on the edge of a quicksand which may any day open and engulf us. It hath somehow become known that my husband has been engaged in the printing and selling of English Bibles, or at least so we think. We are beset with spies. One of our best workmen, James Wells, hath disappeared, and we can get no news of him."

"He may have been murdered in some street brawl," said I; "you know there have been many of late."

"True; and he may have turned informer, perhaps by force of the rack—who knows? I am glad you came to-day, for nobody knows when we shall meet again."

She looked about her, went to the door to see that it was fast, and then whispered in mine ear: "In a week or two, perhaps in a few days, my husband will go to the Low Countries, and I shall follow him as soon as I can settle up our matters here."

This was news, indeed, and the worst I had heard for many a day. I could not forbear weeping over it, and Margaret joined her tears to mine.

"But we must not spend our last meeting in tears," said she, presently, drying her eyes. "Tell me, dear maid, how it fares with you and what you are doing?"

With that, we fell into our old strain of talk, and it was a wonder to me to see how she seemed to forget her own concerns in mine, when I told her of Mrs. Patience.

"Alas, poor soul. She shall have what she wants, but not for hire or reward."

And going to one of the secret recesses, of which the house was full, she brought forth a fairly printed New Testament and a Psalter.

"Give these to the poor lady and bid her bestow the price in charity," said she. "My husband will be only too glad to give the bread of life to one more perishing soul. But conceal them carefully. I would not have you brought into jeopardy. Your cousin, Sir Walter, tells me you are in great favor with your good lady."

"She is, indeed, good—far beyond my deserts," I answered: "I never saw a sweeter young creature. She hath but one fault, and I sometimes fear that may bring her into trouble. She cannot refrain her tongue from any gibe or jest that comes to her. Bishop Gardiner comes often to our house, and never, I think, without their having an encounter of wits, in which he is sure to come by the worst. I like not the way he looks at her, and believe, though he says not a word but of the most honeyed courtesy, he doth cherish in his heart both anger and revenge."

"It is a pity," said Margaret. "He is a wicked and cruel man—one of the true Pharisees which Scripture says do shut up the Kingdom of Heaven, not entering himself nor suffering others to do so. He is a dangerous enemy."

"I know I would not like him for mine, but I am too insignificant to draw his notice."

I dined with Margaret, and then we went together to her father's house, she giving me a caution not to speak of what she had told me about her husband affairs, specially before Philippa.

"She would surely never betray you," said I, startled.

Margaret shook her head.

"She might not be able to help herself. I trust nobody who goes to confession."

We found all well, and the children came near eating me up in the warmth of their welcome. I had brought my knitting, and Mistress Davis was at once on fire to learn the art, so I taught her as far as it could be learned in one lesson. I had made a little pair of red hosen for my pupil Helen, and great was the wonderment over them, for knitted hose were even mere rare then than now. The only ones ever seen were brought out of Spain and sold for great prices.

Philippa was in a generous mood, and full of curiosity about my new way of living. I was willing to gratify her as far as was discreet, but she wanted to hear more, and began asking me questions about the family.

"They say the Duke and Duchess do not well agree, and that he reproaches her with her wastefulness and love of dress, even before visitors," said she.

"Nonsense," I answered. "The Duke is the very mirror and pink of courtesy to all, and especially to his wife."

"But is she extravagant?" persisted Philippa.

I hardly knew how to answer, for, in truth, I had thought my mistress more expenseful in her habits than was discreet at all times, even with such a princely income as the Duke's. Philippa went on, without waiting for a reply.

"I have heard that her grace never wears the same gown twice, and that she hath as many sets of jewels as there are days in the year. Is that true, think you?"

"I don't know; I never counted my mistress's jewels," I answered rather shortly, for I was vexed and embarrassed. "Take care, dear aunt, you have dropped a stitch. Let me take it up for you."

"But you must have the chance to see all her fine things," continued Philippa. "Do you not take care of her jewels?"

"No; she always puts them away herself."

"Is the Lady Frances at home?" was the next question.

"No; she returns next week."

"Folk say she hath the king's temper," observed Philippa. "They say that she and her step-mother do not agree, and that when the Duchess cuffed her for her impertinence, she struck back and gave her mother a black eye. Was that so, think you?"

"I don't believe it. I know nothing about my Lady Frances's relations with her mother, and if I did, I would not tell it out of the family."

"Why, what harm would it do?" asked Philippa.

"It would be treason to those whose bread she eats, and under whose protection she lives," said Mistress Davis, with emphasis. "And Loveday is right to refuse. There can be no greater or baser act of treachery, than for a servant in any station to tattle of the private concerns of her employers."

Philippa pouted. "She told the children how the little lord rode his pony in the tilt-yard."

"That was but child's play," said I, "very different from what you have asked. How would you like to have some one tell of all that happened in your family, supposing you had one?"

"Any how, a great many people do it, and think no harm."

"They do harm, whether they think it or not," answered Mistress Davis. "Many a scandal and shame grows out of such tittle-tattle."

Philippa was silent for awhile, but her curiosity was too lively to allow her to sulk, as usual, and she presently began to ask me about the last court fashions, in gowns and headgear. I was willing to do her a pleasure, though surprised at her interest in such a matter, for she had always affected a great indifference to dress. I had observed, indeed, a change in her own attire. She no longer wore her everlasting black gown, but was becomingly dressed in blue damask; and her veil and close coif were exchanged for a becoming hood. When she left the room, I noticed the change to Mistress Davis, who smiled, somewhat mischievously.

"Yes, she came to me not long since, and, saying she thought it her duty to submit to my wishes more than she had done, she asked my counsel about her attire. I have my own ideas about what the change portends, but I shall say nothing."

Master Davis now coming in, the subject was dropped, and did not come up again.