CHAPTER SEVEN.
AN APPLE-CAST AND A LETTER.
"Better the blind faith of our youth Than doubt, which all truth braves; Better to die, God's children dear, Than live, the Devil's slaves."
Dinah Mulock.
"Good-morrow, Lady Lettice! I am come to ask a favour."
"Ask it, I pray you, Mrs Rookwood."
"Will you suffer Mrs Lettice to come to our apple-cast on Tuesday next?We shall have divers young folks of our neighbours--Mrs Abbott's Mary,Dorcas, and Hester, Mrs Townsend's Rebecca, my Lady Woodward's Dulcibeland Grissel, and such like; and our Doll, I am in hopes, shall be backfrom Suffolk, and maybe her cousin Bessy with her. I have asked MrLouvaine to come, and twain more of my Lord Oxford's gentlemen; and MrManners, Mr Stone, and our Tom, shall be there. What say you?"
Lady Louvaine looked with a smile at her granddaughter, who sat in thewindow with a book. She was not altogether satisfied with theRookwoods, yet less from anything they said or did than from what theyomitted to say and do. They came regularly to church, they attended theSacrament, they asked the Vicar to their dinner-parties, they were veryaffable and friendly to their neighbours. There was absolutely nothingon which it was possible to lay a reproving finger, and say, This iswhat I do not like. And yet, while she could no more give a reason fordistrusting them than the schoolboy for objecting to the famous DrFell, she did instinctively distrust them. Still, Lettice was a goodgirl, on the whole a discreet girl; she had very few pleasures,especially such as took her outside her home, and gave her thecompanionship of girls of her own age. Lettice had been taught, as allPuritan maidens were, that "life is, to do the will of God," and thatpleasure was not to be sought at all, and scarcely to be accepted exceptin its simplest forms, and as coming naturally along with the duties oflife. An admirable lesson--a lesson which girls sadly need to learnnow, if only for the lowest reason--that pleasures thus taken areinfinitely more pleasing than when sought, and the taste for them iskeener and more enduring. To the moral taste, no less than thephysical, plain fare with a good appetite is incomparably more enjoyablethan the finest dainties with none: and the moral appetite can cloy andpall at least as soon as the physical. Lettice's healthy moral naturehad been content with the plain fare, and had never cried out fordainties. But, like all young folks, she liked a pleasant change, andher grandmother, who had thought her looking pale and somewhat languidwith the summer heat in town, was glad that she should have theenjoyment. She knew she might trust her.
Not even to herself did Lady Louvaine confess her deepest reason forallowing Lettice to go to the apple-cast--an assembly resembling in itsnature the American "bee," and having an apple-gathering and storing forits object. It was derived from the fact that Aubrey had been invited.It occurred to her that something might transpire in Lettice's free andinnocent narrative of her enjoyment, which would be of service in thedifficult business of dealing with Aubrey at this juncture.
Lettice, as beseemed a maiden of her years, was silent, though her eyessaid, "Please!" in very distinct language.
"I thank you, Mrs Rookwood; Lettice may go."
Lettice's eyes lighted up.
"Then, Mrs Lettice, will you step in about nine o'clock? My maids'llbe fain to see you. And if any of you gentlewomen should have a likingto look in--"
"Nay, the girls should count us spoil-sports," said Edith, laughingly.
"Now come, Mrs Edith! 'tis not so long since you were a young maid."
"Twelve good years, Mrs Rookwood: as long, pretty nigh, as HesterAbbott has been in the world."
"Eh, but years don't go for much, not with some folks."
"Not with them that keep the dew of their youth," said Lady Louvainewith a smile. "But to do that, friend, a woman should dwell very nearto Him who only hath immortality."
It was something so unusual for one of this sober household to go out toa party, that a flutter arose, when Mrs Rookwood had departed,concerning Lettice's costume.
"She had best go in a washing gown," was the decision of her practicalAunt Temperance. "If she's to be any good with the apples, she must notwear her Sunday best."
Lettice's Sunday best was not of an extravagant character, being a darkgreen perpetuana gown, trimmed with silver lace, a mantle ofplum-coloured cloth, and a plum-coloured hood lined with dark green.
"But a washing gown, Temperance! It should look so mean," objected MrsLouvaine.
"Her best gown'll look meaner, if all the lace be hung with cobwebs, andall the frilling lined with apple-parings," said Temperance.
"She'll take better care of it than so, I hope," said Edith. "And alawn gown should be cold for this season."
"Well, let the child wear her brown kersey. That'll not spoil so muchas some."
In her heart Lettice hoped she would not have to wear the brown kersey.Brown was such an ugly colour! and the kersey, already worn two seasons,was getting shabby--far too shabby to wear at a party. She would haveliked to put on her best. But no girl of twenty, unmarried, at thatdate decided such matters for herself.
"Oh, never that ugly thing!" said Mrs Louvaine. "I mean her to wear mypearls, and that brown stuff--"
Wear Aunt Faith's pearls! Lettice's heart beat.
"Faith, my dear, I would not have the child use ornaments," said LadyLouvaine quietly. "You wot, those of our way of thinking do commonlydiscard them. Let us not give occasion for scandal. I would haveLettice go neat and cleanly, and not under her station, but no more."
The palpitations of Lettice's heart sobered down. Of course she couldnot expect to wear pearls and such worldly vanities. Grandmother wasalways right.
"I can tell you, Mrs Gertrude and Mrs Anne shall not be in brownkersey," said Mrs Louvaine, in her usual petulant tone. "And if Aubreydon him not in satin and velvet, my name is not Faith."
"It shouldn't have been, my dear, for it isn't your nature," was hersister's comment.
"We need not follow a multitude to do evil," quietly responded LadyLouvaine, as she sat and knitted peacefully.
"Well, Madam, what comes that to--the brown kersey, trow? Edith saithtruth, lawn is cold this weather."
"I think, my dear, the green perpetuana were not too good, with cleanapron, ruff, and cuffs, and a silver lace: but I would have noughtmore."
So Lettice made her appearance at the apple-cast in her Sunday gown, butdecked with no pearls, and her own brown hair turned soberly back underher hood. She put no hat on over it, as she had only to slip into thenext house. In the hall Tom Rookwood met her, and bowing, requested thehonour of conducting her into the garden, where his sisters and cousinwere already busy with the day's duties.
On the short ladder which rested against one of the apple-trees stoodDorothy, the tallest of the Rookwoods, clad in a long apron of whitelawn edged with lace, over a dress of rich dark blue silk, gatheringapples, and passing them to Anne at the foot of the ladder, by whom theywere delivered to Gertrude, who packed them in sundry crates ready forthe purpose. By Gertrude's side stood a dark, rosy, merry-looking childof six, whom she introduced to Lettice as her cousin Bessy. Lettice,who had expected Bessy to be much older, was disappointed, for she wascurious to know what kind of a creature a female Papist might be.
"Now, Tom, do your duty!" cried Dorothy, as Tom was about to retire. "Iam weary of gathering, and you having the longest legs and arms amongstus, should take my place. Here come Mr Montague and Rebecca Townsend;I'm coming down. Up with you!"
Tom pulled a face and obeyed: but showing a disposition to pelt Dorothyand Bessy, instead of carefully delivering the apples unbruised to Anne,he was screamed at and set upon at once, Gertrude leading theopposition.
"Tom, you wicked wretch! Come down this minute, or else behaveproperly. I shall--"
The--accidental?--descent of an enormous apple on the bridge ofGertrude's nose put her announcement of her intentions to speedy flight:and in laughing over the _fracas_, the ice rapidly melted between theyoung strangers.
The apple-gathering proceeded merrily, relieved by a few scenes of thissort, until the trees were stripped, the apples laid carefully in thecrates for transportation to the garrets, and on their arrival, ascarefully taken out and spread on sheets of grey paper on the floor.When all was done, the girls were marshalled into Gertrude's room totidy themselves: after which they went down to the dining-room. MrsRookwood had provided an excellent dinner for her youthful guests,including geese, venison, and pheasants, various pies and puddings,Muscadel and Canary wines. After dinner they played games in the halland dining-room, hood-man blind, and hunt the slipper, and when tired ofthese, separated into little groups or formed _tete-a-tetes_ forconversation. Lettice, who could not quite get rid of an outsidefeeling, as if she did not belong to the world in which she foundherself, was taken possession of by her oldest acquaintance, Gertrude,and drawn into a window-seat for what that young lady termed "a properchat."
"I thought my cousin was to be here," said Lettice, glancing over thecompany.
"Ay, Tom asked him, I believe," said Gertrude. "Maybe his Lord couldnot spare him. Do you miss him?"
"I would like to have seen him," said Lettice innocently.
"Tom would not love to hear you say so much, I can tell you," laughedGertrude. "He admires you very much, Lettice. Oh, do let us drop the`Mistress'--it is so stiff and sober--I hate it."
"Me!" was all that it occurred to Lettice to answer.
"You. Don't you like men to admire you?"
"I don't know; they never did."
Gertrude went off into a soft explosion of silvery laughter.
"O Lettice, you are good! You have been brought up with all thosesober, starched old gentlewomen, till you don't know what life is--why,my dear, you might as well be a nun!"
"Don't I know what life is?" said Lettice. "I've had twenty years ofit."
"You haven't had twenty days of it--not _life_. You've been ruled likea copy-book ever since you were born. I have pitied you, poor littlevictim, you cannot guess how much! I begged Mother to try and win youfor to-day. She said she did not believe Starch and Knitting-Pins wouldsuffer it, but she would try. Wasn't I astonished when I heard youreally were to come!"
"What do you mean by Starch and Knitting-Pins?" asked the bewilderedLettice.
"Oh, that awful aunt of yours who looks as if she had just come out ofthe wash, and your sweet-smiling grandmother who is always fiddling withknitting-pins--"
Gertrude stopped suddenly. She understood, better than Lettice didherself, the involuntary, unpremeditated gesture which put a greaterdistance between them on the window-seat, and knew in a moment that shehad scandalised her guest.
"My dear creature!" she said with one of her soft laughs, "if youworship your starchy aunt, I won't say another word! And as to my LadyLouvaine, I am sure I never meant the least disrespect to her. Ofcourse she is very sweet and good, and all that: but dear me! have youbeen bred up to think you must not label people with funny names?Everybody does, my dear--no offence meant at all, I assure you."
"I beg your pardon!" said Lettice stiffly--more so, indeed, than sheknew or meant. "If that be what you call `life,' I am afraid I knowlittle about it."
"And wish for no more!" said Gertrude, laughing. "Well, if I offendedyou, I ought to beg pardon. I did not intend it, I am sure. But, mydear, what a pity you do not crisp your hair, or curl it! Thatold-fashioned roll back is as ancient as my grandmother. And a partlet,I declare! They really ought to let you be a _little_ more properlydressed. You never see girls with turned-back hair now."
Lettice did not know whether to blush for her deficiencies, or to beangry with Gertrude for pointing them out. She felt more inclined tothe latter.
"Now, if I had you to dress," said Gertrude complacently, "I should justput you in a decent, neat corset, with a white satin gown, puffed withcrimson velvet, a velvet hood lined with white satin, a girdle of goldand pearls, crimson stockings, white satin slippers, a lace rebato, anda pearl necklace. Oh, how charming you would look! You would not knowyourself. Then I should put a gold bodkin in your hair, and a head-dropof pearls set round a diamond, and bracelets instead of these lawncuffs, and a fan; and wash your face in distilled waters, andodoriferous oils for your hands."
"But I should not like my hands oily!" said Lettice in amazement.
Gertrude laughed. "Oh yes, you would, when you were accustomed to it.And then just the least touch on your forehead and cheeks, and--OLettice, my dear, you would have half London at your feet!"
"The `least touch' of what?" inquired Lettice.
"Oh, just to show the blue veins, you know."
"`Show the blue veins!' What can you show them with?"
"Oh, just a touch of blue," said Gertrude, who began to fear she hadgone further than Lettice would follow, and did not want to be tooexplicit.
"You never, surely, mean--_paint_?" asked Lettice in tones of horror.
"My dear little Puritan, be not so shocked! I do, really, mean paint;but not all over your face--nothing of the sort: only a touch here andthere."
"I'll take care it does not touch me," said Lettice decidedly. "I don'twant to get accustomed to such abominable things. And as to having halfLondon at my feet, there isn't room for it, and I am sure I should notlike it if there were."
"O Lettice, Lettice!" cried Gertrude amidst her laughter. "I never sawsuch a maid. Why, you are old before you are young."
"I have heard say," answered Lettice, laughing herself, "that such as sobe are young when they are old."
"Oh, don't talk of being old--'tis horrid to think on. But, my dear,you should really have a little fine breeding, and not be bred up amusty, humdrum Puritan. I do hate those she-precise hypocrites, that goabout in close stomachers and ruffles of Geneva print, and cannot somuch as cudgel their maids without a Scripture to back them. Nobodylikes them, you know. Don't grow into one of them. You'll never bemarried if you do."
Lettice was silent, but she sat with slightly raised eyebrows, and apuzzled expression about her lips.
"Well, why don't you speak?" said Gertrude briskly.
"Because I don't know what to say. I can't tell what you expect me tosay: and you give such queer reasons for not doing things."
"Do I so?" said Gertrude, looking amused. "Why, what queer reasons haveI given?"
"That nobody will like me, and I shall never be married!"
"Well! aren't they very good reasons?"
"They don't seem to me to be reasons at all. I may never be married,whether I do it or not; and that will be as God sees best for me, so whytrouble myself about it? And as to people not liking me because I am aPuritan, don't you remember the Lord's words, `If the world hate you, yeknow that it hated Me before it hated you'?"
"Oh, you sucked in the Bible with your mother's milk, I suppose," saidGertrude pettishly, "and have had it knitted into you ever since by yourgrandmother's needles. I did not expect you to be a spoil-sport,Lettice. I thought you would be only too happy to come out of yourconvent for a few hours."
"Thank you, I don't want to be a spoil-sport, and I do not think theBible is, unless the sports are bad ones, and they might as well bespoiled, might they not?"
"There's Mr Stone!" cried Gertrude inconsequently, and in a relievedtone, for Lettice was leading in a direction whither she had no wish tofollow. "Look! isn't he a fine young man? What a shame to havechristened so comely a man by so ugly a name as Jeremy!"
"Do you think so? It is a beautiful name; it means `him whom God hathappointed,'--Aunt Edith says so."
"Think you I care what it _means_!" was the answer, in a rather vexedtone, though it was accompanied by a laugh. "'Tis ugly andold-fashioned, child. Now your cousin, Mr Louvaine, has a charmingname. But fancy having a name with a sermon wrapped up in it!"
"I do not understand!" said Lettice a little blankly. "You seem tothink little of those things whereof I have been taught to think much;and to think much of those things whereof I have
been led to thinklittle. It puzzles me. Excuse me."
Gertrude laughed more good-naturedly.
"My dear little innocence!" said she. "I am sorry to let the cold,garish daylight in upon your pretty little stained-glass creed: it isnever pleasant to have scales taken from your eyes. But really, youlook on things in such false colours, that needs must. Why, my child,if you were to go out into the world, you would find all those fancieslaughed to scorn. 'Tis only Puritans love sermons and Bibles and suchthings. No doubt they are all right, and good, and all that; quiteproper for Sunday, and sick-beds, and so on. I am not an infidel, ofcourse. But then--well?"
Lettice's face of utter amazement arrested the flow of words onGertrude's lips.
"Would your mother think you loved her, Gertrude, if you told her younever wanted to see her except on Sundays and when you were sick? Andif God hears all we say, is it not as good as telling Him that? Youpuzzle me more and more. I have been taught that the world is the enemyof God, and refuses to guide its ways by His Word: but you speak as ifit were something good, that we ought to look up to, and hearken what itbids us. It cannot be both. And what God says about it _must_ betrue."
"Lettice, whatever one says, you always come back to your Puritan stuff.I wish you would be natural, like other maids. See, I am about to turnyou over to Dorothy. Let us see if she can make something of you--Icannot.--Here, Doll! come and sit here, and talk with Lettice. I wantto go and speak to Grissel yonder."
Dorothy sat down obediently in the window-seat.
"I thought Mr Louvaine was to be here to-day," she said.
"So did I likewise. I cannot tell why he comes not."
"Have you seen him lately?"
"No, not in some time. I suppose he is busy."
Dorothy looked amused. "What think you he doth all the day long?"
Lettice had not been present when Aubrey detailed his day's occupations,and she was under the impression that he led a busy life, with few idlehours.
"Truly, I know not what," she answered; "but the Earl, no doubt, hathhis duties, and 'tis Aubrey's to wait on him."
"The Earl, belike, reads an hour or two with his tutor, seeing he is buta child: and the rest of the time is there music and dancing, riding thegreat horse, playing at billiards, tennis, bowls, and such like. Thatis your cousin's business, Mrs Lettice."
"Only that?--but I reckon he cannot be let go, but must come after hismaster's heels?"
"He is on duty but three days of every week, save at the _lever_ and_coucher_, and may go whither he list on the other four."
"Then I marvel he comes not oftener to visit us," said innocent Lettice.
"Do you so? I don't," answered Dorothy, with a little laugh.
"Why?"
"How old are you, Mrs Lettice?"
The notion of discourtesy connected with this query is modern.
"I was twenty last June," said Lettice.
"Dear heart! I should have supposed you were about two," said Dorothy,with a little curl of her lip.
"But my grandmother thinks so likewise, and she is near eighty," saidLettice.
"Ah! Extremes meet," answered Dorothy, biting her lip.
Lettice tried to think out this obscure remark, but had not made muchprogress, when at the other end of the room she caught a glimpse ofAubrey. Though he stood with his back to her, she felt sure it wasAubrey. She knew him by the poise of his head and the soft golden glosson his hair; and a moment later, his voice reached her ear. He came uptowards them, stopping every minute to speak with some acquaintance, sothat it took him a little time to reach them.
"There is Cousin Aubrey," said Lettice.
Dorothy answered by a nod. "You admire your cousin?"
"Yes, I think he looks very well," replied Lettice, in her simplicity.
Dorothy bit her lip again. "He is not so well-favoured as Mr JeremyStone," said she, "though he hath the better name, and comes of an elderline by much."
By this time Aubrey had come up. "Ah, Lettice!" said he, kissing her."Mrs Dorothy, your most obedient, humble servant."
"Are you?" responded she.
"Surely I am. Lay your commands on me."
"Then bring Mr Stone to speak with me."
Aubrey gave a little shrug of his shoulders, a laugh, and turned away asif to seek Mr Stone: while Dorothy, the moment his back was turned, puther finger on her lip, and slipped out of sight behind a screen, withher black eyes full of mischievous fun.
"Why, my dear," said a voice beside Lettice, "is none with you? Ithought I saw Doll by your side but now."
"She was, Gentlewoman," answered Lettice, looking up at Mrs Rookwood,and beginning to wish herself at home again. Might she slip away? "MayI pray you of the time?"
Mrs Rookwood was neither of wealth nor rank to carry a watch, so shewent to look at the clock before replying, and Aubrey came up with MrStone.
"Why, where is gone Mrs Dorothy?" asked the former, knitting his brows.
"All the beauty has not departed with her," responded Mr Stonegallantly, bowing low to Lettice, who felt more and more uncomfortableevery minute.
"'Tis on the stroke of four, my dear," said Mrs Rookwood, returning:"but I beg you will not hurry away."
"Oh, but I must, if you please!" answered Lettice, feeling a sensationof instant and intense relief. "Grandmother bade me not tarry beyondfour o'clock. I thank you very much, Gentlewoman, and I wish youfarewell.--Aubrey, you will come with me?"
Aubrey looked extremely indisposed to do so, and Lettice wondered forwhat reason he could possibly wish to stay: but Mrs Rookwood, hearingof Lady Louvaine's order, made no further attempt to delay her youngguest. She called her daughters to take their leave, and in anotherminute the Golden Fish was left behind, and Lettice ran into the door ofthe White Bear. She went straight upstairs, and in the chamber whichthey shared found her Aunt Edith.
Lettice had no idea how uneasy Edith had been all that day. She had avague, general idea that she was rather a favourite with Aunt Edith--perhaps the one of her nieces whom on the whole she liked best: but ofthe deep pure well of mother-like love in Edith's heart for DudleyMurthwaite's daughter, Lettice had scarcely even a faint conception.She rather fancied herself preferred because, as she supposed, hermother had very likely been Aunt Edith's favourite sister. Littlenotion therefore had Lettice of the network of feeling behind theearnest, wistful eyes, as the aunt laid a hand on each shoulder of theniece, and said--
"Well, Lettice?"
"Aunt Edith," was the answer, "if that is the world I have been into-day, I hope I shall never go again!"
"Thank God!" spoke Edith's heart in its innermost depths; but her voiceonly said, quietly enough, "Ay so, dear heart? and what misliked thee?"
"It is all so queer! Aunt Edith, they think the world is somethinggood. And they want me to paint my face. And they call Aunt Temperance`Starch.' And they say I am only two years old. And they purse uptheir faces, and look as if it were something strange, if I quote theBible. And they talk about being married as if it must happen, whetheryou would or not, and as if it were the only thing worth thinking about.And they seemed to think it was quite delightful to have a lot ofgentlemen bowing at yon, and saying all sorts of silly things, and Ithought it was horrid. And altogether, I didn't like it a bit, and Iwanted to get home."
"Lettice, I prayed God to keep thee, and I think He has kept thee. Mydear heart, mayest thou ever so look on the world which is His enemy,and His contrary!"
Edith's voice was not quite under her control--a most unusual thing withher.
"Aunt Edith, I did think at first--when Mrs Rookwood came--that Ishould like it very well. I felt as if it would be such a pleasantchange, you know, and--sometimes I have fancied for a minute that Ishould like to know how other maids did, and to taste their life, as itwere, for a little while; because, you see, I knew we were so quiet, andother people seemed to have more brightness and merriment, and--well, Iwanted to see what it was like."
/> "Very natural, sweet heart, at thy years. I can well believe it."
"And so, when Mrs Rookwood asked, I so hoped Grandmother would let mego. And I did enjoy the apple-gathering in the garden, and the gamesafterward in the hall. But when we sat down, and girls came up andtalked to me, and I saw what they had inside their hearts--for if it hadnot been in their hearts, it would not have come on their tongues--AuntEdith, I hope I shall never, never, _never_ have anything more to dowith the world! I'd rather peel onions and scrub tiles every day of mylife than live with people, and perhaps get like them, who could call mydear old Grandmother `Knitting-pins' in scorn, and tell God Himself thatthey only wanted to think of Him on Sundays. That world's anotherworld, and I don't belong to it, and please, I'll keep out of it!"
"Amen, and Amen!" said Aunt Edith. "My Lettice, let us abide in theworld where God is King and Father, and Sun, and Water of Life. Maythat other world where Satan rules ever be another and a strange worldto thee, wherein thou shalt feel thyself a traveller and a stranger. Mychild, there is very much merriment which hath nought to do withhappiness, and very much happiness which hath nought to do with mirth.'Tis one thing to shut ourselves from God's world which He made, andquite another to keep our feet away from Satan's world which he hathruined. When God saith, `Love not the world,' He means not, Love notflowers, and song-birds, and bright colours, and sunset skies, and theinnocent laughter of little children. Those belong to His world; and'tis only as we take them out thereof, and hand them unto Satan, andthey get into the Devil's world, that they become evil and hurtful untous. Satan hath ruined, and will yet, so far as he may, all the goodthings of God; and beware of the most innocent-seeming thing so soon asthou shalt see his touch, upon it. Thank God, my darling, that Hesuffered thee not to shut thine eyes thereto! Was Aubrey there,Lettice?"
"He came but late, Aunt, and therefore it was, I suppose, that as itseemed, he had no list to come with me. He said he might look in,perchance, at after."
"And Mr Tom Rookwood?"
"Ay, he was there, though I saw scarce anything of him but just atfirst."
Edith was privately glad to hear it. She had been a little afraid ofdesigns upon Lettice from that quarter.
"Aunt, was it not rude to give nicknames?"
"Very rude, and very uncomely, Lettice."
"I thought it was horrid!" said Lettice.
"Louvaine," Tom Rookwood was saying, next door, "I met Mr Tom Winterthis afternoon, and he asked me if you had gone to the Low Countries totake service under the Archduke. He hath seen nought of you, saith he,these three weeks."
"I know it," said Aubrey, sulkily.
"Well, he told me to bid you to supper with him o' Thursday even next.I shall be there, and Sir Josceline Percy, Sir Edward Bushell, and MrKit Wright."
"I can't. Wish I could."
"Why, what's to hinder?"
"Oh, I'm--ah--promised beforehand," said Aubrey, clumsily.
"Can't you get off?"
"_No_. But I've as great a mind to go--"
"You come, and never mind the other fellows. You'll find us muchjollier grigs of the twain."
"I know that. Hang it, Tom, I'll go!"
"There's a brave lad! Four o'clock sharp, at the Duck. I'll meet youthere."
"Done!"
"Where was he promised, I marvel?" asked Dorothy in a whisper, with ayawn behind her hand.
"Oh, didn't you see how he flushed and stammered?" said Gertrude,laughing. "I vow, I do believe old Knitting-pins had made him swear onher big Bible that he wouldn't speak another word to Mr Winter. Had itbeen but another merry-making, he should never have looked thus."
There was no visit from Aubrey at the White Bear that evening. He feltas if he could not meet his grandmother's eyes. He was not yetsufficiently hardened in sin to be easy under an intention of deliberatedisobedience and violation of a solemn promise; yet the sin was toosweet to give up. This once, he said to himself: only this once!--andthen, no more till the month was over.
When the Saturday evening arrived, Aubrey made a very careful toilet,and set forth for the Strand. It was a long walk, for the Earl ofOxford lived in the City, near Bishopsgate. Aubrey was rather elated atthe idea of making the acquaintance of Sir Josceline Percy and SirEdward Bushell. He was concerned at the family disgrace, as hefoolishly considered it, of Hans's connection with the mercer, andextremely desirous to attain knighthood for himself. The way to dothat, he thought, was to get into society. Here was an opening whichmight conduct him to those Elysian fields--and at the gate stood hisgrandmother, trying to wave him away. He would not be deprived of hisprivileges by the foolish fancies of an old woman. What did old womenknow of the world? Aubrey was not aware that sixty years before, thatvery grandmother, then young Lettice Eden, had thought exactly the samething of those who stood in her way to the same visionary Paradise.
Temple Bar was just left behind him, and the Duck was near, when toAubrey's surprise, and not by any means to his satisfaction, a hand waslaid upon his shoulder.
"Hans! you here?"
"Truly so. Where look you I should be an half-hour after closing time?"
This was a most awkward contretemps. How should Hans be got rid ofbefore the Duck was reached?
"You are on your way to the White Bear," said Hans, in the tone of onewho states an incontrovertible fact, "Have with you."
Aubrey privately wished Hans in the Arctic Sea or the torrid zone, oranywhere out of the Strand for that afternoon. And as if to render hisdiscomfiture more complete, here came Mr Winter and Tom Rookwood, armin arm, just as they reached Mrs More's door. What on earth was to bedone?
Mr Thomas Rookwood, whose brain was as sharp as a needle, guessed thesituation in a moment, and with much amusement, from a glance atAubrey's face. He, of course, at once recognised Hans, and was at leastas well aware as either that Hans represented the forces of law andorder, and subordination to lawful authority, while Aubrey stood as therepresentative of the grand principle that every man should do what isright in his own eyes. A few low-toned words to Mr Winter preceded adoffing of both the plumed hats, and the greeting from Tom Rookwood asthey passed, of--
"Good even to you both. Charming weather!"
A scarcely perceptible wink of Tom's left eye was designed to showAubrey that his position was understood, and action taken upon it.Aubrey saw and comprehended the gesture. Hans saw it also, but did notcomprehend it except as a sign of some private understanding between thetwo. They walked on together, Aubrey engaged in vexed meditation as tohow he was to get rid of Hans. But Hans had no intention of allowinghimself to be dismissed. He began to talk, and Aubrey had to answer,and could not satisfy himself what course to pursue, till he foundhimself at the door of the White Bear.
Charity was at the door, doing what every housemaid was then compelledto do, namely, pouring her slops into the gutter.
"Eh, Mestur Aubrey, is that yo'?" said she. "'Tis a month o' Sundayssin' we've seen you. You might come a bit oftener, I reckon, if you'd amind. Stand out o' th' way a minute, do, while I teem these here slopsout. There's no end to folks' idleness down this road. Here's Marg'etRumboll, at th' back, been bidden by th' third-borough to get herseninto service presently, under pain of a whipping, and Mary Quinton, upyon, to do th' same within a month, at her peril. [Note 1.] I reckon,if I know aught of either Mall or Marg'et, they'll both look for a placewhere th' work's put forth. Dun ye know o' any such, Mestur Aubrey, upCity way?"
Aubrey was not sufficiently sharp to notice the faint twinkle inCharity's eyes, and the slight accent of sarcasm in her tone. Hansperceived both.
"I do not, Charity, but I dare be bound there are plenty," said Aubrey,stepping delicately over the puddle which Charity had just created, soas to cause as little detriment as possible to his Spanish leather shoesand crimson silk stockings.
"Ay, very like there will. They'll none suit you, Mestur 'Ans; you'renot one of yon sort. Have a care o' th' puddle, Mestur Aubre
y, oryou'll mire your brave hose, and there'll be wark for somebody."
With which Parthian dart, Charity bore off her pail, and Aubrey and Hanswent forward into the parlour, "Good even, my gracious Lord!" was thegreeting with which the former was received. "Your Lordship's visits bescarcer than the sun's, and he has not shown his face none wist when.Marry, but I do believe I've seen that suit afore!"
"Of course you have, Aunt Temperance," answered the nettled Aubrey. Hewas exceedingly put out. His evening was spoiled; he was deprived ofhis liberty, of his friends' company, of a good dinner--for Mr Wintergave delightful little dinners, and Mrs Elizabeth More, the housewifeat the Duck, was an unusually good cook. Moreover, he was tied down towhat he contemptuously designated in his lofty mind "a parcel of women,"with the unacceptable and very unflattering sarcasms of Aunt Temperanceby way of seasoning. It really was extraordinary, thought Mr Aubrey,that when women passed their fortieth milestone or thereabouts, theyseemed to lose their respect for the nobler sex, and actually presumedto criticise them, especially the younger specimens of that interestinggenus. Such women ought to be kept in their places, and (theoretically)he would see that they were. But when he came in contact with theobnoxious article in the person of Aunt Temperance, in some inscrutablemanner, the young lord of creation never saw it. At the Duck, thecompany were making merry over Tom Rookwood's satirical account ofAubrey's discomfiture. For his company they cared little, and the onlyobject they had for cultivating it was the consideration that he mightbe useful some day. Their conversation was all the freer without him,since all the rest were Papists.
Something, at that moment, was taking place elsewhere, with which thecompany at the Duck, and even Aubrey Louvaine, were not unconcerned.Lord Monteagle was entertaining friends to supper at his house atHoxton, where he had not resided for some time previously. Just beforethe company sat down to table, a young footman left the house on anerrand, returning a few minutes later. As he passed towards hismaster's door, a man of "indifferent stature," muffled in a cloak, andhis face hidden by a slouched hat drawn down over the brow, suddenlypresented himself from amongst the trees.
"Is your Lord within, and may a man have speech of him?" asked theapparition.
"His Lordship is now sitting down to supper," was the answer.
The stranger held out a letter.
"I pray you, deliver this into your Lord's own hand," said he, "seeingit holdeth matter of import."
The young man took the letter, and returned to the house. LordMonteagle was just crossing the hall to the dining-room, when hisservant delivered the letter. Grace having been said, and the businessof supper begun, he unfolded the missive. His Lordship found itdifficult to read, which implies that his education was not of the mostperfect order, for the writing is not at all hard to make out. Butgentlemen were much less versed in the three R's at that date than atthe present time [Note 2], and Lord Monteagle, calling one of hisservants, named Thomas Ward, desired him to read the letter.
Now, Mr Thomas Ward was in the confidence of the conspirators,--a factof which there is no doubt: and that Lord Monteagle was the same may notinaptly be described as a fact of which there is doubt--an extremelystrong probability, which has been called in question without anydisproof [see Appendix]. Both these gentlemen, however, conductedthemselves with perfect decorum, and as if the subject were entirely newto them.
This was what Mr Ward read:--
"My Lord out of the loue i beare you [this word was crossed out, andinstead of it was written] some of youere trends i haue a caer of youerpreseruacion. Therfor i would aduyse yowe as yowe tender youer lyf todeuyse some exscuse to shift of youer attendance at this parleament.For god and man hathe concurred to punishe the wickednes of this tymeand thinke not slightlye of this aduertisment but retire youer self intoyoure contri wheare yowe maye expect the euent in safti for thowghetheare be no apparance of anni stir yet i saye they shall receyue aterrible blowe this Parleament and yet they shall not seie who hurtsthem This councel is not to be acontemned because it maye do yowe goodand can do yowe no harm for the dangere is passed as soon as yowe haveburnt the letter and I hope god will giue yowe the grace to mak good useof it to whose holy proteccion I commend yowe."
The writing was tall, cramped, and angular. There was neither signaturenor date.
The hearers gazed on each other in perplexed astonishment, not unmixedwith fear.
"What can it mean?" asked one of the guests.
"Some fool's prating," replied Lord Monteagle. "How else could thedanger be past so soon as I had burnt the letter?"
This question no one could answer. Lord Monteagle took the letter fromthe reader, pocketed it, and turned the conversation to other topics.The thoughts of the company soon passed from the singular warning; andoccupied by their own fancies and amusements, they did not notice thattheir host quitted them as soon as they left the dining-room.
With the letter in his pocket, Lord Monteagle slipped out of his gardengate, mounted his horse, and rode to his house in the Strand. Leavingthe horse here, he went down to the water-side, where he hailed a boat,and was rowed to Westminster Stairs. To hail a boat was as natural andcommon an incident to a Londoner of that day as it is now to call a cabor stop an omnibus. Lord Monteagle stepped lightly ashore, made his wayto the Palace of Whitehall, and asked to speak at once with the Earl ofSalisbury, Lord High Treasurer of England.
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Note 1. These exemplary women really resided at Southampton, a fewyears later.
Note 2. A letter of Lord Chief-Justice Popham would be a suitablesubject for a competitive examination.