It Might Have Been: The Story of the Gunpowder Plot

  CHAPTER TWO.

  THE JOURNEY TO LONDON.

  "And yet, I do remember, some dim sense Of vague presentiment Swept o'er me, as beyond the gates we turned To make the long descent."

  At the bridge-end, as they came up, were Milisent and her husband, withseven of their nine children,--even little Fortune, but five years old,whom Milisent lifted into the coach and set on her Aunt Edith's knee,saying "she should say all her life that she had sat in my LordDilston's earache." Then Milisent came in herself and sat down for amoment between her mother and Faith, whilst her husband talked withAubrey, and all the children crowded about Hans, always a favourite withchildren. After a few minutes' conversation, Robert came up to thecoach-door with--"Time to go, Milly. We must not tarry Mother on herjourney, for she is like to be weary enough ere she come to its end."

  Then Milisent broke down, and threw her arms around her mother, andcried,--"O Mother, Mother, how shall I do without you? Must I never seeyou again?"

  "My Milisent," said Lady Louvaine, "I shall not carry God from thee.And thou wilt surely see me again, sweet heart, where we shall part nomore for ever."

  For a few minutes Milisent wept as if her heart would break; then shewiped her eyes, and kissed them all round, only breaking down a littleagain when she came to her sister Edith.

  "O Edith, darling sister, I never loved thee half well enough!"

  Edith was calm now. "Send me the other half in thy letters, Milly," shereplied, "and I will return it to thee."

  "Ay, we can write betimes," said Milisent, looking a little comforted.Then to her niece,--"Now, Lettice, I look to thee for all the news. Thefirst day of every month shall we begin to look out for a letter at MereLea; and if my sister cannot write, then must thou. Have a care!"

  "So I will, Aunt," said Lettice.

  Milisent alighted with a rather brighter look--she was not wont to lookany thing but bright--Robert took his leave and then came all thecousins pouring in to say good-bye. So the farewells were spoken, andthey went on their journey; but as far as they could see until hidden bythe hill round which they drove, Milisent's handkerchief was wavingafter them.

  Lady Louvaine bore the journey better than her daughters had feared; andour friends deemed themselves very happy that during the whole of it,they were not once overturned, and only four times stuck in the mud. Atthe end of the fourth day, which was Friday, they came up to the door ofthe Hill House at Minster Lovel. And as they lumbered round the sweepwith their six horses, Edith cried joyously,--"Oh, there's old Rebecca!"

  To Edith Louvaine, a visit to the Hill House was in a sense coming home,for its owner, her father's cousin, Joyce Morrell, had been to heralmost a second mother. When people paid distant visits in thesixteenth century, it was not for a week's stay, but for half a year, orat least a quarter. During many years it had been the custom thatvisits of this length should be exchanged between Selwick Hall and theHill House at Minster Lovel alternately, at the close of every twoyears. But Edith, who was Aunt Joyce's special favourite, had paid nowand then a visit between-times; and when, as years and infirmitiesincreased, the meetings were obliged to cease for the elders, Edith'syearly stay of three or four months with the old and lonely cousin hadbecome an institution instead of them. Her feeling, therefore, was muchlike that of a daughter of the house introducing her relatives to herown home; for Lady Louvaine was the only other of the party to whom theHill House had been familiar in old times.

  Its owner, the once active and energetic old lady, now confined to hercouch by partial paralysis, had been called Aunt Joyce by the Louvainesof the second generation ever since their remembrance lasted. To theyounger ones, however, she was a stranger; and they watched with curiouseyes their Aunt Edith's affectionate greeting of the old servantRebecca, who had guarded and amused her as a baby, and loved her as agirl. Rebecca, on her part, was equally glad to see her.

  "Run you in, Mrs Edith, my dear," said she; "you'll find the mistressin the Credence Chamber. Eh, she has wearied for you!--Good evening,Madam, and I'm fain to see your Ladyship again. Would you please toallow of my help in 'lighting?"

  While Rebecca and Hans assisted her mother to descend, Edith ran intothe house with as light and fleet a step as if she were fourteen insteadof forty, and entered a large, low chamber, hung with dark leatherhangings, stamped in gold, where a bright lamp burned on a little table,and on a low couch beside it lay an old lady, covered over with a furcoverlet. She had a pleasant, kindly old face, with fresh rose-colourin her cheeks, and snow-white hair; and her face lighted up when she sawEdith, like a candle set in a dark window. Edith ran to her, and casther arms about her, and she said, "My Edith, mine own dear child!" astenderly as if she had been her own mother.

  Lady Louvaine followed her daughter, leaning on Hans and Rebecca, whotook her up to the couch, and set her down in a large chair furnishedwith soft cushions, which stood close beside, as if it were there onpurpose. She laid her hand upon Joyce's, who fondled it in both hers.Then Joyce gave a little laugh.

  "Lettice, dost thou wonder to hear me laugh?" asked she. "I seemed likeas if I saw, all at once, that sunshine afternoon when thou earnestfirst over from the Manor House, sent of my Lady Norris to make friendswith us. Dost remember?"

  "And thou earnest tripping lightly down the stairs, clad of a russetgown, and leddest me up to see Anstace. `Do I remember it!' Ah, Joyce,my sister, there be sore changes since that day!"

  "Be there so?" said Joyce, and smiled brightly enough. "A good numberof miles nearer Home, Lettice, and a good number of treasures laid upfor both of us, where neither moth nor rust shall hurt them. Mytreasures are all there which are not likewise thine. And now let mesee the new gems in thy jewel-box. Who art thou, my maid?"

  "I am Lettice Murthwaite, Madam, if you please."

  "My dear heart, I do not please to be called Madam. I am thine AuntJoyce. Come here and kiss me, if thou wilt."

  Lettice knelt down by the couch, and kissed the old lady.

  "There is not much of Nell here, Lettice," said Joyce to Lady Louvaine."'Tis her father the child is like. Now then, which of these two ladsis Aubrey--he with the thinking brow, or he with the restless eyes?"

  Lady Louvaine called Aubrey, and he came up.

  "Why, thou art like nobody," said Aunt Joyce. "Neither Ned nor Faith,nor any of Ned's elders. Lettice, where is Faith? hast not brought herwithal?"

  Faith was in the hall, listening to a lecture from Temperance,embellished by such elegancies as "Stuff and nonsense!" and "Listen toreason!" which ended up at last with "Lancaster and Derby!" and Faithcame slowly in, with her everlasting handkerchief at her eyes.

  "Nay, Faith, sweet heart, no tears!" cried the old lady. "Sure there'snought to weep for this even, without thou art so dog-weary that thoucanst not keep them back."

  "Mistress Morrell, I wish you good even," said Temperance, coming inafter her sister. "If you'll but learn Faith to keep that handkerchiefof hers in her pocket, you'll have done the best work ever you did sincewe saw you last in Derwent-dale. She's for ever and the day aftera-fretting and a-petting, for why she'd better tell you, for I'm aDutchman if I can make out."

  Aunt Joyce looked from one to the other.

  "So unfeeling!" came Faith's set form, from behind the handkerchief."And me a poor widow!"

  The old lady's face went very grave, and all the cheeriness passed outof it.

  "Faith, you are not the only widow in the chamber," she said gently."Temperance, my dear, she is weary, maybe."

  "She hasn't got a bit of call," rejoined Temperance. "Sat all day longin my Lord Dilston's smart caroche, lolling back in the corner, justlike a feather-bed. Mistress Joyce, 'tis half ill-temper and halffolly--that's what it is."

  "Well, well, my dear, we need not judge our neighbours.--Edith, mychild, thou knowest the house as well as I; wilt thou carry thy friendsabove? Rebecca hath made ready My Lady's Chamber for my Lady,"--with asmile at her old friend--"and
the Fetterlock Chamber for Faith andTemperance. The Old Wardrobe is for thee and Lettice, and the ladsshall lie in the Nursery."

  Names to every room, after this fashion, were customary in old houses.The party were to stay at Minster Lovel for four days, from Friday toTuesday, and then to pursue their journey to London.

  In the Old Wardrobe, a pleasant bedchamber on the upper floor, Letticewashed off the dust of the journey, and changed her clothes when thelittle trunk came up which held the necessaries for the night. Then shetried to find her way to the Credence Chamber, and--as was not verysurprising--lost it, coming out into a long picture-gallery where shewas at once struck and entranced by a picture that hung there. Itrepresented a young girl about her own age, laid on a white couch, anddressed in white, but with such a face as she had never seen on anywoman in this life. It was as white as the garments, with large darkeyes, wherein it seemed to Lettice as if her very soul had been melted;a soul that had gone down into some dreadful deep, and having come upsafe, was ever afterwards anxiously ready to help other souls out oftrouble. She would have thought the painter meant it for an angel, butthat angels are not wont to be invalids and lie on couches. Beside thispicture hung another, which reminded her of her Grandfather Louvaine;but this was of a young man, not much older than Aubrey, yet it had hergrandfather's eyes, which she had seen in none else save her Aunt Edith.Now Lettice began to wonder where she was, and how she should find herway; and hearing footsteps, she waited till they came up, when she sawold Rebecca.

  "Why, my dear heart, what do you here?" said she kindly.

  "Truly, I know not," the youthful visitor answered. "I set forth to godown the stairs, and missed the right turning, as I guess. But prayyou, Rebecca, ere you set me in the way, tell me of whom are these twopictures?"

  "Why," said she, "can you not guess? The one is of your owngrandfather, Sir Aubrey Louvaine."

  "Oh, then it is Grandfather when he was young. But who is this,Rebecca? It looks like an angel, but angels are never sick, and sheseems to be lying sick."

  "There be angels not yet in Heaven, Mistress Lettice," softly answeredthe old servant. "And if you were to live to the age of Methuselah,you'd never see a portrait of one nearer the angels than this. 'Tis apicture that old Squire--Mistress Joyce's father--would have taken, nighsixty years since, of our angel, our Mistress Anstace, when she was noneso many weeks off the golden gate. They set forth with her in a litterfor London town, and what came back was her coffin, and that picture."

  "Was she like that?" asked Lettice, scarcely above her breath, for shefelt as if she could not speak aloud, any more than in church.

  "She was, and she was not," said old Rebecca. "Them that knew her mightbe minded of her. She was like nothing in this world. But, my dearheart, I hear Mrs Edith calling for you. Here be the stairs, and theCredence Chamber, where supper is laid, is the first door on your leftafter you reach the foot."

  On the Saturday evening, as they sat round the fire in the CredenceChamber, Edith asked Aunt Joyce if old Dr Cox were still parson ofMinster Lovel.

  "Nay," said she; "I would he were. We have a new lord and new laws, thewhich do commonly go together."

  "What manner of lord?" inquired Edith.

  "And what make of laws?" said Temperance.

  "Bad, the pair of them," said the old lady.

  "Why, is he a gamester or drunkard?" asked Lady Louvaine.

  "Or a dumb dog that cannot bark?" suggested Temperance.

  "Well, I'd fain have him a bit dumber," was Aunt Joyce's answer. "Atleast, I wish he'd dance a bit less."

  "Dance!" cried Edith.

  "Well!" said Aunt Joyce, "what else can you call it, when a man measureshis steps, goes two steps up and bows, then two steps down and bows,then up again one step, with a great courtesy, and holds up his hands asif he were astonished--when there's nothing in the world to astonish himexcept his own foolish antics?"

  "But where doth he this?" said Lady Louvaine: "here in the chamber, orout of door?"

  "Dear heart! in the church."

  "But for why?"

  "Prithee ask at him, for I can ne'er tell thee."

  "Did you ne'er ask him, Aunt?" said Edith.

  "For sure did I, and gat no answer that I could make aught of: only somefolly touching Catholic practice, and the like. And, `Master Twinham,'said I, `I know not well what you would be at, but I can tell you, Ilived through the days of Queen Mary, and, if that be what you mean byCatholic practices, they are practices we don't want back again.' Well,he mumbled somewhat about being true to the Church, and such like: butif he be an honest man, my shoes be made of Shrewsbury sweet bread. Wetumbled all such practices out of the Church, above forty years gone;and what's more, we'll not stand to have them brought in again, thoughthere be some may try."

  "They will not bring any such folly in while the Queen liveth, I guess,"answered Edith.

  "Amen! but the Queen, God bless her! is seventy this year."

  "Would you have her live for ever, Aunt Joyce?" asked Aubrey.

  "Would she could!" she answered. "As to this fellow, I know not whathe'll be at next. He told me to my face that a Papist was better than aPuritan. `Well, Mr Twinham,' said I, `you may be a Papist, but I am aPuritan, and there I tarry till I find somewhat better.'"

  "Why, Joyce!" said Lady Louvaine, smiling, "thou wert not wont to callthyself a Puritan, in the old days when thou and Bess Wolvercot used topick a crow betwixt you over Dr Meade's surplice at Keswick."

  "No, I wasn't," said she. "But I tell you, Lettice, there be thingshuman nature cannot bear. A clean white surplice and Christ's Gospel isone thing, and a purple vestment and an other Gospel is another. And ifI'm to swallow the purple vestment along with the white surplice, I'llhave neither. As to old Bess, dear blessed soul! she's in her rightplace, where she belongs; and if I may creep in at a corner of Heaven'sdoor and clean her golden sandals, I shall be thankful enough, the Lordknows."

  "But, Mrs Morrell! sure you never mean to say that surplices be givingplace to purple vestments down this road!" cried Temperance in muchhorror.

  "Children," said the old lady very solemnly, "we two, in God's mercy,shall not live to see what is coming, but very like you will. And Itell you, all is coming back which our fathers cast forth into theValley of Hinnom, and afore you--Temperance, Faith, and Edith--be oldwomen, it will be set up in the court of the Temple. Ay, much if itcreep not into the Holy of Holies ere those three young folks have asilver hair. The Devil is coming, children: he's safe to be first; andin his train are the priests and the Pope. They are all coming: andyou'll have to turn them out again, as your grandfathers did. And don'tyou fancy that shall be an easy task. It'll be the hardest whereto youever set your shoulders. God grant you win through it! There are twodangers afore you, and when I say that, I mean not the torture-chamberand the stake. Nay, I am thinking of worser dangers than those--snareswherein feet are more easily trapped, a deal. List to me, for ere manyyears be over, you will find that I speak truth. The lesser danger isif the Devil come to you in his black robes, and offer to buy you withthat which he guesseth to be your price--and that shall not be the samefor all: a golden necklace may tempt one, and a place at Court another,and a Barbary mare a third. But worse, far worse, is the danger whenthe Devil comes in his robes of light; when he gilds his _lie_ with acover of outside truth; when he quotes Scripture for his purpose,twisting it so subtilely that if the Spirit of God give you not theanswer, you know not how to answer him. Remember, all you young ones,and Aubrey in especial, that no man can touch pitch and not be denied.`Evil communications corrupt good manners:' and they corrupt them worstand quickest when you see not that they be evil. If you think thescales be falling from your eyes, make very sure that they are notgrowing on them. And you can do that only by keeping very close toGod's footstool and to God's Word. Be sure of this: whatsoever leadsyou away from that Book leads you wrong. I care not what it be--King orPope, priest or layman, blind faith or
blind reason,--he that neglectsand sets aside the Word of God, for whatever cause, and whatever thinghe would put in his place--children, his ways incline unto Hell, and hispaths unto the dead. Go not after him, nor follow him. Mark my words,and see, twenty and yet more forty years hence, if they come not true."

  Aubrey whispered to Lettice, "What made her pick out me in `especial,'trow? I'm not about to handle no pitch."

  But Hans said, with his gravest face, "I thank you, Madam," and seemedto be thinking hard about something all the rest of the evening.

  On the Sunday morning, all went to church except the two old ladies, whocould honestly plead infirmity.

  When they came out, Lettice, who was burning to speak her mind,exclaimed,--"Saw you ever a parson so use himself, Aubrey? Truly I knownot how to specify it--turning, and twisting, and bowing, and casting upof his hands and eyes--it well-nigh made me for to laugh!"

  "Like a merry Andrew or a cheap Jack," laughed Aubrey.

  "I thought his sermon stranger yet," said Hans, "nor could I see what ithad to do with his text."

  "What was his text?" inquired heedless Aubrey.

  "`Thou shalt love the Lord thy God,'" repeated Hans.

  "Ay, and all he did, the hour through," cried Lettice, "was to bid usobey the Church, and hear the Church, and not run astray after nonovelties in religion. And the Church is not the Lord our God, neitheris religion, so far as I see."

  "I mind Sir Aubrey once saying," added Hans, "that when a bride talkedever of herself, and nothing of her bridegroom, it was a very ill auguryof the state of her heart."

  "But saw you those two great candlesticks on the holy table?--what forbe they?" said Lettice.

  "Oh, they be but ornaments of the church," answered Aubrey, carelessly.

  "But we have none such in Keswick Church: and what is the good ofcandlesticks without candles?"

  "The candles will come," quietly replied Hans.

  "Ah! you're thinking of what the old gentlewoman said last night--confess, Master Sobersides!" said Aubrey.

  "I have thought much on it," answered Hans, who walked along, carryingthe ladies' prayer-books; for the road being dirty, they had enough todo in holding up their gowns. "And I think she hath the right."

  "Hans, I marvel how old thou wert when thou wert born!" said Aubrey.

  "I think, very like, about as old as you were," said Hans.

  "Well, Mr Louvaine, you are a complete young gentleman!" cried his AuntTemperance, looking back at him. "To suffer three elder gentlewomen totrudge in the mire, and never so much as offer to hand one of them!Those were not good manners, my master, when I was a young maid--butseeing how things be changed now o' days, maybe that has gone along withthem. Come hither at once, thou vagrant, and give thine hand to thymother, like a dutiful son as thou shouldest be, and art not."

  "Oh, never mind me!" sighed Faith. "I have given over expecting such athing. I am only a poor widow."

  "Madam," apologised Hans, very red in the face, "I do truly feel ashamedthat I have no better done my duty, and I entreat you not--"

  "I was not faulting thee, lad," said Temperance. "We have already ladenthee with books; and it were too much to look for thee to do thine ownduty and other folks' too. It's this lazy lad I want. I dare be boundhe loveth better to crack jests with his cousins than to be dutiful tohis old mother and aunts."

  "Temperance, I am only thirty-nine," said Faith in an injured voice. "Iam the youngest of us three."

  "Oh deary me! I ask your pardon," cried Temperance, with a queer set ofher lips. "Yes, Madam, you are; Edith is an old woman of forty, and I adecrepit creature of forty-five; but you are a giddy young thing ofthirty-nine. I'll try to mind it, at least till your next birthday."

  Lettice laughed, and Aunt Temperance did not look angry, though shepulled a face at her. Edith smiled, and said pleasantly--

  "Come, Aubrey, hand thy mother on my side; I will walk with Lettice andHans."

  "Aunt Edith," said Lettice, "pray you, why be those candlesticks on theholy table, with never a candle in them?"

  "I cannot tell, Lettice," replied she; "I fear, if the parson dared,there would be candles in them, and belike will, ere long."

  "Think you Aunt Joyce is right in what she said last night?"

  "I fear so, Lettice," she answered very gravely. "We have not yet seenthe last, I doubt, of Satan and his Roman legion."

  The same afternoon, Lettice had a talk with old Rebecca, which almostfrightened her. She went up to the gallery for another look at the twopictures, and Rebecca passing by, Lettice begged that if she were notvery busy, she would tell her something about them. In reply she hearda long story, which increased her reverential love for the deadgrandfather, and made her think that "Cousin Anstace" must have been anangel indeed. Rebecca had lived in the Hill House for sixty years, andshe well remembered her mistress's sister.

  "Mind you Queen Mary's days, Rebecca?" asked Lettice.

  "Eh, sweet heart!" said the old servant. "They could ne'er be forgot byany that lived in them."

  "Saw you any of the dreadful burnings?"

  "Ay, did I, Mrs Lettice," said she,--"even the head and chief of themall, of my Lord's Grace of Canterbury. I saw him hold forth his righthand in the flame, that had signed his recantation: and after all wasover, and the fire out, I drew nigh with the crowd, and beheld his heartentire, uncharred amongst the ashes. Ah my mistress! if once you sawsuch a sight as that, you could never forget it, your whole lifethereafter."

  "It must have been dreadful, Rebecca!" said Lettice.

  "Well, it was, in one way," she answered: "and yet, in another, it wasright strengthening. I never felt so strong in the faith as that hour,and for some while after. It was like as if Heaven had been opened tome, and I had a glimpse of the pearly portals, and the golden street,and the white waving wings of the angels as he went in."

  "Saw you the Bishops burned, Rebecca--Dr Ridley and Dr Latimer?"

  "I did not, Mrs Lettice; yet have I seen them both, prisoners, ledthrough Oxford streets. Dr Ridley was a man with a look so grave thatit was well-nigh severe: but Dr Latimer could break a jest with anyman, and did, yea, with his very judges."

  "Were you ever in any danger, Rebecca?--or Mrs Morrell?"

  "I never was, Mrs Lettice; but my good mistress was once well-nightaken of the catchpoll [constable]. You ask her to tell you the story,how she came at him with the red-hot poker. And after that full quicklyshe packed her male, and away to Selwick to Sir Aubrey and her Ladyship,where she tarried hid until Queen Elizabeth came in."

  "Think you there shall ever be such doings in England again?"

  "The Lord knoweth," and old Rebecca shook her white head. "There's nota bit of trust to be put in them snakes of priests and Jesuits and suchlike: not a bit! Let them get the upper hand again, and we shall havethe like times. Good Lord, deliver us from them all!"

  Lettice went down, intending to ask Aunt Joyce to tell her the story ofthe red-hot poker; but she never thought of it again, so absorbed wasshe with what the two old ladies were saying as she came in. They didnot hear her enter: and the first word she heard made her so desirous ofmore, that she crept as softly as she could to a seat. Curiosity washer besetting sin.

  "She used not to be thus," said Lady Louvaine. "Truly, I know not whathath thus sorrowfully changed the poor child; but I would some meansmight be found to undo the same. Even for some years after Ned's death,I mind not this change; it came on right slowly and by degrees."

  Lettice felt pretty sure that "she" was Aunt Faith.

  "'Tis weakness, I suppose," said Lady Louvaine, in a questioning tone.

  "Ay, we are all weak some whither," replied Aunt Joyce; "and Faith'sweakness is a sort to show. She is somewhat too ready to nurse herweaknesses, and make pets of them. 'Tis bad enough for a woman to pether own virtues; but when she pets her vices, 'tis a hard thing tobetter her. But, Lettice, there is a strong soul among you--a raresoul, in good sooth; and there is o
ne other, of whose weakness, and whatare like to be its consequences, I am far more in fear than of Faith's."

  "Nay, who mean you?" asked Lady Louvaine in a perplexed voice.

  "I mean the two lads--Hans and Aubrey."

  "Hans is a good lad, truly."

  "Hans has more goodness in him than you have seen the end of, by many amile. But Aubrey!"

  "You reckon not Aubrey an ill one, I hope?"

  "By which you mean, one that purposes ill? Oh no, by no means. He is afar commoner character--one that hath no purpose, and so being, dothmore real ill than he that sets forth to do it of malicious intent."

  "Are you assured you wrong not the lad, Joyce, in so saying?"

  "If I do, you shall full shortly know it. I trust it may be so. But heseems to me to have a deal more of Walter in him than Ned, and to beright the opposite of our Aubrey in all main conditions."

  "Ah," sighed the widow, in a very tender tone, "there can be no two ofhim!" Then after a little pause, "And what sayest thou to Lettice--mylittle Lettice?"

  The concealed listener pricked up both her ears.

  Aunt Joyce gave a little laugh. "Not so very unlike an other Letticethat once I knew," said she. "Something less like to fall in the sametrap, methinks, and rather more like to fall in an other."

  "Now, tell me what other?"

  "I mean, dear heart, less conceit of her favour [beauty], and more ofher wisdom. A little over-curious and ready to meddle in matters thatconcern her not. A good temper, methinks, and more patience than eitherof her aunts on the father's side: as to humility--well, we have none ofus too much of that."

  "Joyce, wouldst thou like to have us leave Lettice a while with thee?She could wait on thee and read to thee, and be like a daughter to thee.I will, if thou wouldst wish it."

  "Nay, that would I not, Lettice, for the child's own sake. It were farbetter for her to go with you. There is an offer thou couldst make me,of that fashion, that my self-denial were not equal to refuse. So seethou make it not."

  "What, now? Not Hans, trow?"

  "Edith."

  "O Joyce!"

  "Ay, dear heart, I know. Nay, fear not. I'll not take the last bud offthe old tree. But, thyself saved, Lettice, there is none left in allthe world that I love as I love her. Perchance she will find it out oneday."

  "Joyce, my dear sister--"

  "Hold thy peace, Lettice. I'll not have her, save now and again on avisit. And not that now. Thou shouldst miss her sorely, in settlingdown in thy new home. Where shall it be?"

  "In the King's Street of Westminster. My good Lord Oxford hath madeearnest with a gentleman, a friend of his, that hath there an estate, tolet us on long lease an house and garden he hath, that now be standingempty."

  "Ay, that is a pleasant, airy place, nigh the fields. At what rent?"

  "Twenty-four shillings the quarter. Houses be dearer there than up inHolborn, yet not so costly as in the City; and it shall not be far forAubrey, being during the day in the Court with his Lord."

  "Lettice, you shall need to pray for that boy."

  "What shall I ask for him, Joyce?"

  "`That he may both perceive and know what things he ought to do, andalso may have grace and power faithfully to fulfil the same.' Don't lethim rule you. He is very like to try it, the only man in a family ofwomen--for he shall make little account of Hans Moriszoon, though thereis more sense in Hans's little finger than in all Aubrey's brains. If Ican see into the future, Aubrey is not unlike to push you o'er, and Hansto pick you up again. Have a care, Lettice. You remember when Walterwas in Court, with my Lord Oxford?"

  "O Joyce!"

  Lettice wondered what they meant, for she had never heard of her UncleWalter being with Lord Oxford. She had never much liked Uncle Walter.He was always rather stiff and stern, and he used to come down sharplyon niece or nephew if they did any thing wrong, yet not like herGrandfather Murthwaite, who was slow and solemn, and seemed to mournover their evil deeds; but Uncle Walter was quick and sharp, and hesnapped at them. They were under the impression that he never couldhave done a naughty thing in the whole course of his life, because healways seemed so angry and astonished to see the children do so.Lettice, therefore, was curious to hear about Uncle Walter.

  "Well," said Aunt Joyce, "not exactly the same, yet too like. He'lltake the colour of his company, like Walter: and he shall be evenlyfree-handed with his money--"

  Lettice stared, though there was nothing to stare at but Aunt Joyce'sbig grey cat, curled up in the window-seat Uncle Walter a spendthrift!she could not even imagine it. Did she not remember her Cousin Jane'ssurprise when her father gave her a shilling for a birthday present?When Lettice listened again, Aunt Joyce was saying--

  "He's no standing-ground. Whatso be the fantasy of the moment, after ithe goes; and never stays him to think what is like to come thereof, farless what might come. But that which causes me fear more for him thanWalter, is the matter of friends. Walter was not one to run afterfolks; he was frighted of lowering himself in the eyes of them he knew,but methinks he ran not after them as Aubrey doth. Hast ever watched adog make friends of other dogs? for Aubrey hath right the dog's way.After every dog he goes, and gives a sniff at him; and if the savoursuit, he's Hail, fellow, well met! with him the next minute. Bewarethat Aubrey makes no friend he bringeth not home, so far as you can: andyet, Beware whom he bringeth, for Lettice' sake. 'Tis hard matter:`good for the head is evil for the neck and shoulders.' To govern thatlad shall ask no little wisdom; and if thou have it not, thou knowestwhere to ask. I would his mother had more, or that his father hadlived. Well! that's evil wishing; God wist better than I. But the lad'll be a sore care to thee, and an heavy."

  "I fear so much, indeed," said Lady Louvaine, and she sighed.

  Then Edith came in, and exclaimed, "What, all in the dark?" and AuntJoyce bade her call Rebecca to bring light. So the naughty Letticeslipped out, and in five minutes more came boldly in, and no one knewwhat she had heard.

  As they sat round the fire that evening, Aunt Joyce asked suddenly,"Tell me, you three young folks, what be your ambitions? What desireyou most of all things to be, do, or have?--Lettice?"

  "Why, Aunt, I can scarce tell," said Lettice, "for I never thoughtthereupon."

  "She should choose to be beautiful, of course," suggested Aubrey. "Allwomen do."

  "Marry come up, my young Master!" cried his Aunt Temperance.

  "Oh, let him be, Temperance," answered Aunt Joyce. "He knows a dealmore about women than thou and I; 'tis so much shorter a time since hewas one."

  Temperance laughed merrily, and Aubrey looked disconcerted.

  "I think I care not much to be beautiful, Aunt, nor rich," said Lettice:"only sufficient to be not uncomely nor tried of poverty. But so far asI myself can tell what I do most desire is to know things--all thingsthat ever there be to know. I would like that, I think, above all."

  "To know God and all good things were a very good and wise wish,Lettice," was Aunt Joyce's answer; "but to know evil things, this wasthe very blunder that our mother Eve made in Eden. Prithee, repeat itnot. Now, Aubrey, what is thy wish?"

  "I would like to be a rich king," said he. "Were I a fairy queen,Aubrey, I would not give thee thy wish: for thou couldst scarce make aworser. `They that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare,' andthey that seek power be little behind them. `Godliness is greatriches,' lad, `if a man be content with that he hath.'"

  "Methinks, Aunt, that is one of your favourite texts," remarked Edith.

  "Ay," said she, "it is. `Enough is as good as a feast.' Hans, 'tis thyturn."

  Hans had sat gravely looking into the fire while the others talked. Nowhe looked up, and answered--

  "Madam, I am ambitious more than a little. I desire to do God's will,and to be content therewith."

  "Angels could win no further," answered Aunt Joyce, with much feeling inher voice. "Ay, lad; thou hast flown at highest game of all."

  "Why,
Aunt!" said Aubrey, "never heard I a meaner wish. Any man coulddo that."

  "Prithee do it, then," replied Aunt Joyce, "and I for one shall be fullfain to see thee."

  "No man ever yet fulfilled that wish," added Edith, "save only Christour Lord."

  Lady Louvaine sighed somewhat heavily; and Joyce asked, "What is it,dear heart?"

  "Ah!" said she, "thy question, Joyce, and the children's answers, sendme back a weary way, nigh sixty years gone, to the time when I dweltbowerwoman with my Lady of Surrey, when one even the Lady of Richmondwilled us all to tell our desires after this manner. I mind not wellall the answers, but I know one would see a coronation, and an otherfair sights in strange lands: and I, being then young and very foolish,wished for a set of diamond, and my Lady of Richmond herself to be aqueen. But my Aubrey's wish was something like Hans's, for he said hedesired to be an angel. Ah me! nigh sixty years!"

  "He hath his wish," responded Aunt Joyce softly. "And methinks Hans islike to have his also, so far as mortal man may compass it. There besome wishes, children, that fulfil themselves: and aspirations after Godbe of that sort. `He meeteth them that remember Him.' Lettice, I trustthou mayest have thy wish to a reasonable length, so far as is good forthee: and, Aubrey, I can but desire the disappointment of thine, for itwere very evil for thee. But thou, Hans Floriszoon, `go in peace; andthe God of Israel grant thee thy petition that thou hast asked of Him.'"

  It was hard work for those two old friends to part, each knowing that itwas almost certain they would never again meet until they clasped handsin the Paradise of God. When it came to the farewell, Lady Louvaineknelt down, though with difficulty--for Joyce could not raise herself--and the adopted sisters exchanged one long fervent embrace.

  "O Joyce, my friend, my sister! my one treasure left to me from longago! We shall never kiss again till--"

  Lettice Louvaine's voice was lost in sobs.

  "Maybe, dear heart--maybe not. Neither thou nor I can know the purposesof God. If so, farewell till the Golden City!--and if thou win in aforeme at the pearly portals, give them all my true love, and say I shallsoon be at home."

  "Farewell, love! There is none to call me Lettice but thee, left now."

  "Nay, sweet heart, not so. `I have called thee by thy name.' Therewill be One left to call thee `Lettice,' until He summon thee by thatfamiliar name to enter the Holy City."

  So they journeyed on towards London. It was on the afternoon of thetwenty-fourth of March that they sighted the metropolis at last from thesummit of Notting Hill. They drove down the Oxford road, bounded oneither side by green hedges, with here and there a house--the busyOxford Street of our day--turned down the Hay Market to Charing Cross,and passed by Essex Gate and its companion portal, the Court Gate,through "the Court," now known as Whitehall, emerging upon "the King'sStreet." There was no Parliament Street in those days.

  As they turned into King Street, it struck the elders of the party thatthere seemed to be an unusual stir of some kind. The streets were morecrowded than usual, men stood in little knots to converse, and the talkwas manifestly of a serious kind. Lady Louvaine bade Edith look out andcall Aubrey, whom she desired to inquire of some responsible person themeaning of this apparent commotion. Aubrey reined in his horseaccordingly, as he passed a gentleman in clerical attire, which at thatdate implied a cassock, bands, and black stockings. Had Aubrey knownit, the narrowness of the bands, the tall hat, the pointed shoes, andthe short garters, also indicated that the clergyman in question was aPuritan.

  "Pray you, Sir, is there news of import come?" inquired the youth: "orwhat means this ado?"

  The clergyman stopped suddenly, and looked up at his questioner.

  "What means it?" he said sadly. "Friend, the great bell of Paul's wasrung this morrow."

  "I cry you mercy, Sir. Being a countryman, I take not your meaning."

  "The great bell of Paul's," explained the stranger, "tolls never but forone thing, and hath been silent for over forty years."

  "Good lack! not the plague, I trust?" cried Aubrey.

  "Would it were no worse! Nay, this means that we are sheep without ashepherd--that she who hath led us for three-and-forty years, who underGod saved us from Pope and Spaniard, can lead us no more for ever. Lad,no worser news could come to Englishmen than this. Queen Elizabeth hathpassed away."

  So, under the shadow of that dread sorrow, and that perilous uncertainfuture, they entered their new home.