CHAPTER ELEVEN.
WELL MET.
"O God, we are but leaves upon Thy stream, Clouds in Thy sky."
Dinah Mulock.
A busy place on a Monday morning was Bread Street, in the city ofLondon. As its name denotes, it was the street of the bakers; for ourancestors did not give names, as we do, without reason, for meredistinction's sake. If a town gate bore the name of York Gate, that wasequivalent to a signpost, showing that it opened on the York road. Theymade history and topography, where we only make confusion.
The fat, flour-besprinkled baker at the Harp, in Bread Street, was infull tide of business. His shelves were occupied by the eight differentkinds of bread in common use--wassel, used only by knights and squires;cocket, the kind in ordinary use by smaller folk; maslin, a mixture ofwheat, oats, and barley; barley, rye, and brown bread, the fare oftradesmen and monks; oaten, the food of the poorest; and horse bread.There were two or three varieties finer and better than these, only usedby the nobles, which were therefore made at home, and not commonly to befound at the baker's: simnel, manchet or chet, and paynemayne or _painde main_ (a corruption of _panis dominicus_). We read also of _pain leRei_, or the King's bread, but this may be paynemayne under anothername. Even in the large towns, at that time, much of the baking wasdone at home; and the chief customers of the bakers were the cookshopsor eating houses, with such private persons as had not time orconvenience to prepare their own bread. The price of bread at this timedoes not appear to be on record; but about seventy years later, fourloaves were sold for a penny. [Note 1.]
The cooks, who lived mainly in Eastcheap and along the water-side, ofcourse had to provide bread of various kinds, to suit their differentcustomers; and a young man, armed with a huge basket, came to have itfilled with all varieties. Another young man had entered after him, andnow stood waiting by the wall till the former should have finished hisbusiness.
"Now then," said the baker, turning to the man in waiting, as the othertrudged forth with his basket: "what shall I serve you with?"
"I don't want you to serve me; I want to serve you," was the answer.
The baker looked him over with a good-natured but doubtful expression.
"Want to serve me, do you? Whence come you?"
"I'm an upland man." [From the country.]
"Got any one to speak for you?"
"A pair of eyes, a pair of hands, a fair wit, and a good will to work."
The fat baker looked amused. "And an honest repute, eh?" said he.
"I have it, but I can't give it you, except from my wife, and I scarcelysuppose you'll be satisfied to go to her for my character."
"I'm not so sure of that!" laughed the baker. "If she'd speak truth,she could give you the character best worth having of any."
"She never yet spoke any thing else, nor did I."
"_Ha, jolife_!--you must be a fine pair. Well, now, speak the truth,and tell me why a decent, tidy-seeming young fellow like you can't get acharacter to give me."
"Because I should have to put my wife in peril, if I went back to doit," was the bold answer.
"Ha, so!" Such a possibility, in those rough days, was only tooapparent to the honest baker. "Well, well! Had to run from a badmaster, eh? Ay, ay, I see."
He did not see exactly the accurate details of the facts; but theapplicant did not contradict him.
"Well! I could do with another hand, it's true; and I must say I likethe look of you. How long have you been a baker's man?"
"When I've been with you seven days, it'll be just a week," was thehumorous reply.
"What, you've all to learn? That's a poor lookout."
"A man that has all to learn, and has a will to it, will serve youbetter than one that has less to learn, and has no will to it."
"Come, I can't gainsay that. What have you been, then?"
"I have been watchman in a castle."
"Oh, ho!--how long?"
"Fifteen years."
"And what gives you a mind to be a baker?"
"Well, more notions than one. It's a clean trade, and of good repute;wholesome, for aught I know: there's no killing in it, for which Ihaven't a mind; and as folks must eat, it does not depend on fashionlike some things. Moths don't get into bread and spoil it, nor rustneither; and if you can't sell it, you can eat it yourself, and you'reno worse off, or not much. It dries and gets stale, of course, in time:but one can't have every thing; and seems to me there's as little riskin bread, and as little dirt or worry, as there is in any thing one canput one's hand to do. I'm not afraid of work, but I don't like dirt,loss, nor worry."
The fat baker chuckled. "Good for you, my lad!--couldn't have put itbetter myself. Man was made to labour, and I like to see a man that'snot afraid of work. Keep clear of worry by all means; it eats a man'sheart out, which honest work never does. Work away, and sing at yourwork--that's my notion: and it's the way to get on and be happy."
"I'm glad to hear it; I always do," said the applicant. "And mind you,lad,--I don't know an unhappier thing than discontent. When you want tomeasure your happiness, don't go and set your ell-wand against himthat's got more than you have, but against him that's got less. Breadand content's a finer dinner any day than fat capon with grumble-sauce.We can't all be alike; some are up, and some down: but it isn't them atthe top of the tree that's got the softest bed to lie on, nor them thatsup on the richest pasties that most enjoy their supper. If a man wantsto be comfortable, he must keep his heart clear of envy, and put a goodwill into his work. I believe a man may come to take pleasure in anything, even the veriest drudgery, that brings a good heart to it anddoes his best to turn it out well."
"I am sure of that," was the response, heartily given.
The baker was pleased with the hearty response to the neat epigrammaticapothegms wherein he delighted to unfold himself. He nodded approval.
"I'll take you on trial for a month," he said. "And if you've givenyourself a true character, you'll stay longer. I'll pay you--No, we'llsettle that question when I have seen how you work."
"I'll stay as long as I can," was the answer, as the young man turned toleave the shop.
"Tarry a whit! What's your name, and how old are you?"
"I am one-and-thirty years of age, and my name is Stephen."
"Good. Be here when the vesper bell begins to ring."
Stephen went up to Cheapside, turned along it, up Lady Cicely's Lane,and out into Smithfield by one of the small posterns in the City wall.Entering a small house in Cock Lane, he went up a long ladder leading toa tiny chamber, screened-off from a garret. Here a tabby cat came tomeet him, and rubbed itself against his legs as he stooped down tocaress it, while Ermine, who sat on the solitary bench, looked upbrightly to greet him.
"Any success, Stephen?"
"Thy prayer is heard, sweet heart. I have entered the service of abaker in Bread Street,--a good-humoured fellow who would take me at myown word. I told him I had no one to refer him to for a character butyou,--I did not think of Gib, or I might have added him. You'd speakfor me, wouldn't you, old tabby?"
Gib replied by an evidently affirmative "Me-ew!"
"I'll give you an excellent character," said Ermine, smiling, "and sowill Gib, I am sure."
The baker was well satisfied when his new hand reached the Harp exactlyas the vesper bell sounded its first stroke at Saint Mary-le-Bow.
"That's right!" said he. "I like to see a man punctual. Take this dampcloth and rub the shelves."
"Clean!" said he to himself a minute after. "Have you ever rubbedshelves before?"
"Not much," said Stephen.
"How much do you rub 'em?"
"Till they are clean."
"You'll do. Can you carry a tray on your head?"
"Don't know till I try."
"Best practise a bit, before you put any thing on it, or else we shallhave mud pies," laughed the baker.
When work was over, the baker called Stephen to him.
&n
bsp; "Now," said he, "let us settle about wages. I could not tell how muchto offer you, till I saw how you worked. You've done very well for anew hand. I'll give you three-halfpence a-day till you've fairly learntthe trade, and twopence afterwards: maybe, in time, if I find youuseful, I may raise you a halfpenny more: a penny of it in bread, therest in money. Will that content you?"
"With a very good will," replied Stephen.
His wages as watchman at the Castle had been twopence per day, so thathe was well satisfied with the baker's proposal.
"What work does your wife do?"
"She has none to do yet. She can cook, sew, weave, and spin."
"I'll bear it in mind, if I hear of any for her."
"Thank you," said Stephen; and dropping the halfpenny into his purse, hesecured the loaves in his girdle, and went back to the smallscreened-off corner of the garret which at present he called home.
It was not long before the worthy baker found Stephen so useful that heraised his wages even to the extravagant sum of threepence a day. Hiswife, too, had occasional work for Ermine; and the thread she spun wasso fine and even, and the web she wove so regular and free fromblemishes, that one employer spoke of her to another, until she had asmuch work as she could do. Not many months elapsed before they wereable to leave the garret where they had first found refuge, and take alittle house in Ivy Lane; and only a few years were over when Stephenwas himself a master baker and pastiller (or confectioner), Erminepresiding over the lighter dainties, which she was able to vary bysundry German dishes not usually obtainable in London, while he wasrenowned through the City for the superior quality of his bread.Odinel, the fat baker, who always remained his friend, loved to point amoral by Stephen's case in lecturing his journeymen.
"Why, do but look at him," he was wont to say; "when he came here, eightyears ago, he scarcely knew wassel bread from cocket, and had never seena fish pie save to eat. Now he has one of the best shops in BreadStreet, and four journeymen under him. And how was it done, think you?There was neither bribery nor favour in it. Just by being honest,cleanly, and punctual, thorough in all he undertook, and putting heartand hands into the work. Every one of you can do as well as he did, ifyou only bestir yourselves and bring your will to it. Depend upon it,lads, `I will' can do a deal of work. `I can' is _very_ well, but if `Iwill' does not help him, `I can' will not put many pennies in hispocket. `I can'--`I ought'--`I will'--those are the three good fairiesthat do a man's work for him: and the man that starts work without themis like to turn out but a sorry fellow."
It was for Ermine's sake, that he might retain a hiding place for her ifnecessary, that Stephen continued to keep up the house in Ivy Lane. Theordinary custom was for a tradesman to live over or behind his shop.The excuse given out to the world was that Stephen and his wife, beingcountry people, did not fancy being close mewed up in city streets; andbetween Ivy Lane and the fresh country green and air, there were only afew lanes and the city walls.
Those eight years passed quietly and peacefully to Stephen and Ermine.A small family--five in number--grew up around them, and Gib purredtranquilly on the hearth. They found new friends in London, and thankedGod that He had chosen their inheritance for them, and had set theirfeet in a large room.
At that time, and for long afterwards, each trade kept by itself to itsown street or district. The mercers and haberdashers lived in WestChepe or Cheapside, which Stephen had to go down every day. Onemorning, at the end of those eight years, he noticed that a shop longempty had been reopened, and over it hung a newly-painted signboard,with a nun's head. As Stephen passed, a woman came to the door to hangup some goods, and they exchanged a good look at each other.
"I wonder who it is you are like!" said Stephen to himself.
Then he passed on, and thought no more about her.
On two occasions this happened. When the third came, the woman suddenlyexclaimed--
"I know who you are now!"
"Do you?" asked Stephen, coming to a halt. "I wish I knew who you are.I have puzzled over your likeness to somebody, and I cannot tell who itis."
The woman laughed, thereby increasing the mysterious resemblance whichwas perplexing Stephen.
"Why," said she, "you are Stephen Esueillechien, unless I greatlymistake."
"So I am," answered Stephen, "or rather, so I was; for men call me nowStephen le Bulenger. But who are you?"
"Don't you think I'm rather like Leuesa?"
"That's it! But how come you hither, old friend? Have you left mycousin? Or is she--"
"The Lady Derette is still in the anchorhold. I left her when I wedded.Do you remember Roscius le Mercer, who dwelt at the corner of NorthGate Street? He is my husband--but they call him here Roscius deOxineford--and we have lately come to London. So you live in BreadStreet, I suppose, if you are a baker?"
Stephen acknowledged his official residence, mentally reserving theprivate one, and purposing to give Ermine a hint to confine herself forthe present to Ivy Lane.
"Do come in," said Leuesa hospitably, "and let us have a chat about oldfriends."
And lifting up her voice she called--"Roscius!"
The mercer, whom Stephen remembered as a slim youth, presented himselfin the changed character of a stout man of five-and-thirty, and warmlyseconded his wife's invitation, as soon as he recognised an oldacquaintance.
"I'm glad enough to hear of old friends," said Stephen, "for I haven'theard a single word since I left Oxford about any one of them. Tell mefirst of my brother. Is he living and in the old place?"
"Ay, and Anania too, and all the children. I don't think there havebeen any changes in the Castle."
"Uncle Manning and Aunt Isel?"
"Manning died three years ago, and Isel dwells now with Raven andFlemild, who have only one daughter, so they have plenty of room forher."
"Then what has become of Haimet?"
"Oh, he married Asselot, the rich daughter of old Tankard of Bicester.He lives at Bicester now. Romund and Mabel are well; they have nochildren, but Haimet has several."
"Both my cousins married heiresses? They have not done badly, itseems."
"N-o, they have _not_, in one way," said Leuesa. "But I do not thinkHaimet is bettered by his marriage. He seems to me to be getting veryfond of money, and always to measure everything by the silver pennies itcost. That's not the true ell-wand; or I'm mistaken."
"You are not, Leuesa. I'd as soon be choked with a down pillow as havemy soul all smothered up with gold. Well, and how do other folks geton?--Franna, and Turguia, and Chembel and Veka, and all the rest?"
"Turguia's gone, these five years; the rest are well--at least I don'trecall any that are not."
"Is old Benefei still at the corner?"
"Ay, he is, and Rubi and Jurnet. Regina is married to Jurnet's wife'snephew, Samuel, and has a lot of children--one pretty little girl, witheyes as like Countess as they can be."
"Oh, have you any notion what is become of Countess?"
"They removed from Reading to Dorchester, I believe, and then I heardold Leo had divorced Countess, and married Deuslesalt's daughter andheir, Drua. What became of her I don't know."
"By the way, did either of you know aught of the Wise Woman ofBensington? Mother Haldane, they used to call her. She'll perhaps notbe alive now, for she was an old woman eight years gone. She did me agood turn once."
"I don't know anything about her," said Leuesa.
"Ah, well, I do," answered Roscius. "I went to her when our cow wasfairy-led, twelve years gone; and after that for my sister, when she hadbeen eating chervil, and couldn't see straight before her. Ay, she wasa wise woman, and helped a many folks. No, she's not alive now."
"You mean more than you say, Roscius," said Stephen, with a suddensinking of heart. What had happened to Haldane?
"Well, you see, they ducked her for a witch."
"And killed her?" Stephen's voice was hard.
"Ay--she did not live many minutes after. She sank,
though--she was nowitch: though it's true, her cat was never seen afterwards, and somefolks would have it he'd gone back to Sathanas."
"Then it must have been that night!" said Stephen to himself. "Did sheknow, that she sent us off in haste? Was _that_ the secret she wouldnot tell?" Aloud, he said,--"And who were `they' that wrought that illdeed?"
"Oh, there was a great crowd at the doing of it--all the idle loons inBensington and Dorchester: but there were two that hounded them on tothe work--the Bishop's sumner Malger, and a woman: I reckon they had agrudge against her of some sort. Wigan the charcoal-burner told me ofit--he brought her out, and loosed the cord that bound her."
"God pardon them as He may!" exclaimed Stephen. "She was no more awitch than you are. A gentle, harmless old woman, that healed folkswith herbs and such--shame on the men that dared to harm her!"
"Ay, I don't believe there was aught bad in her. But, saints blessyou!--lads are up to anything," said Roscius. "They'd drown you, orburn me, any day, just for the sake of a grand show and a flare-up."
"They're ill brought up, then," said Stephen. "I'll take good care mylads don't."
"O Stephen! have you some children?--how many?"
"Ay, two lads and three lasses. How many have you?"
"We're not so well off as you; we have only two maids. Why, Stephen,I'd forgot you were married. I must come and see your wife. But Inever heard whom you did marry: was she a stranger?"
Poor Stephen was sorely puzzled what to say. On the one hand, hethought Leuesa might safely be trusted; and as Ermine had alreadysuffered the sentence passed upon her, and the entire circumstances wereforgotten by most people, it seemed as if the confession of facts mightbe attended by no danger. Yet he could not know with certainty thateither of his old acquaintances was incorruptibly trustworthy; and ifthe priests came to know that one of their victims had survived theordeal, what might they not do, in hatred and revenge? A moment'sreflection, and an ejaculatory prayer, decided him to trust Leuesa. Shemust find out the truth if she came to see Ermine.
"No," he said slowly; "she was not a stranger."
"Why, who could it be?" responded Leuesa. "Nobody went away when youdid."
"But somebody went away before I did. Leuesa, I think you are not thewoman who would do an old friend an ill turn?"
"Indeed, I would not, Stephen," said she warmly. "If there be anysecret, you may trust me, and my husband too; we would not harm you oryours for the world."
"I believe I may," returned Stephen. "My cousin Derette knows, butdon't name it to any one else. My wife is--Ermine."
"Stephen! You don't mean it? Well, I am glad to know she got safeaway! But how did you get hold of her?"
Stephen told his story.
"You may be very certain we shall not speak a word to injure Ermine,"said Leuesa. "Ay, I'll come and see her, and glad I shall be. Why,Stephen, I thought more of Ermine than you knew; I called one of mylittle maids after her. Ermine and Derette they are. I can neverforget a conversation I once had with Gerard, when he took me back tothe Castle from Isel's house; I did not think so much of it at the time,but it came to me with power afterwards, when he had sealed his faithwith his blood."
"Ah! there's nothing like dying, to make folks believe you," commentedRoscius.
"Can't agree with you there, friend," answered Stephen with a smile."There is one other thing, and that is living. A man may give his lifein a sudden spurt of courage and enthusiasm. It is something more tosee him spend his life in patient well-doing through many years. Thatis the harder of the two to most."
"Maybe it is," assented Roscius. "I see now why you were so anxiousabout old Haldane."
"Ay, we owed her no little. And I cannot but think she had some notion,poor soul! of what was coming: she was in such haste to get us off bydawn. If I had known--"
"Eh, what could you have done if you had?" responded Roscius. "Wigantold me there were hundreds in the crowd."
"Nothing, perchance," answered Stephen sadly. "Well! the good Lord knewbest, and He ordered matters both for us and her."
"Wigan said he thought she had been forewarned--I know not why."
"Ay, I think some one must have given her a hint. That was why she sentus off so early."
"I say, Stephen," asked Roscius rather uneasily, "what think you didbecome of that cat of hers? The thing was never seen after she died--not once. It looks queer, you know."
"Does it?" said Stephen, with a little laugh.
"Why, yes! I don't want to think any ill of the poor old soul--not I,indeed: but never to be seen once afterwards--it _does_ look queer. Doyou think Sathanas took the creature?"
"Not without I am Sathanas. That terrible cat that so troubles you,Roscius, sits purring on my hearth at this very moment."
"You! Why, did you take the thing with you?"
"We did. It came away in Ermine's arms."
"Eh, Saint Frideswide be our aid! I wouldn't have touched it for aking's ransom."
"I've touched it a good few times," said Stephen, laughing, "and itnever did aught worse to me than rub itself against me and mew. Why,surely, man! you're not feared of a cat?"
"No, not of a real cat; but that--"
"It is just as real a cat as any other. My children play with it everyday; and if you'll bring your little maids, I'll lay you a good venisonpasty that they are petting it before they've been in the house aPaternoster. Trust a girl for that! Ah, yes! that was one reason why Ithought she had some fancy of what was coming--the poor soul begged usto take old Gib. He'd been her only companion for years, and she didnot want him ill-used. Poor, gentle, kindly soul! Ermine will begrieved to hear of her end."
"Tell Ermine I'll come to see her," said Leuesa, "and bring the childrentoo."
"We have a Derette as well as you," replied Stephen with a smile. "Sheis the baby. Our boys are Gerard and Osbert, and our elder girls Agnesand Edild--my mother's name, you know."
As Stephen opened the door of his house that evening, Gib came to meethim with erect tail.
"Well, old fellow!" said Stephen, rubbing his ears--a process to whichGib responded with loud purrs. "I have seen a man to-day who is afraidto touch you. I don't think you would do much to him--would you, now?"
"That's nice--go on!" replied Gib, purring away.
Leuesa lost no time in coming to see Ermine. She brought her two littlegirls, of whom the elder, aged five years, immediately fell in love withthe baby, while the younger, aged three, being herself too much of ababy to regard infants with any sentiment but disdain, bestowed all herdelicate attentions upon Gib. Stephen declared laughingly that he sawhe should keep the pasty.
"Well, really, it does look very like a cat!" said the mercer, eyeingGib still a little doubtfully.
"Very like, indeed," replied Stephen, laughing again. "I never sawanything that looked more like one."
"There's more than one at Oxford would like to see you, Ermine, andStephen too," said Leuesa.
"Mother Isel would, and Derette," was Ermine's answer. "I am not sosure of any one else."
"I am sure of one else," interpolated Stephen. "It would be a perfectwindfall to Anania, for she'd get talk out of it for nine times ninedays. But would it be safe, think you?"
"Why not?" answered Roscius. "The Earl has nought against you, has he?"
"Oh no, he has nought against me; I settled every thing with him--wentback on purpose to do so. I was thinking of Ermine. The Bishop is notthe same [Note 2], but for aught I know, the sumners are."
"Only one of them: Malger went to Lincoln some two years back."
"Well, I should be glad not to meet that villain," said Stephen.
"You'll not meet him. Then as to the other matter, what could they doto her? The sentence was carried out. You can't execute a man twice."
"That's a point that does not generally rise for decision. But you seeshe got taken in, and that was forbidden. They were never meant tosurvive it, and she did." r />
"I don't believe any penalty could fall on her," said Roscius. "But ifyou like, I'll ask my cousin, who is a lawyer, what the law has to sayon that matter."
"Then don't mention Ermine's name."
"I'll mention nobody's name. I shall only say that I and a friend ofmine were having a chat, and talking of one thing and another, we fella-wondering what would happen if a man were to survive a punishmentintended to kill him."
"That might serve. I don't mind if you do."
The law, in 1174, was much more dependent on the personal will of thesovereign than it is now. The lawyer looked a little doubtful whenasked the question.
"Why," said he, "if the prisoner had survived by apparent miracle, thechances are that he would be pardoned, as the probability would be thathis innocence was thus proved by visitation of God. I once knew of sucha case, where a woman was accused of murdering her husband; she held hermute of malice at her trial, and was adjudged to suffer _peine forte etdure_."
When a prisoner refused to plead, he was held to be "mute of malice."The _peine forte et dure_, which was the recognised punishment for thismisdemeanour, was practically starvation to death. In earlier days itseems to have been pure starvation; but at a later period, the morerefined torture was substituted of allowing the unhappy man on alternatedays three mouthfuls of bread with no liquid, and three sips of waterwith no food, for a term which the sufferer could not be expected tosurvive. At a later time again, this was exchanged for heavyweights,under which he was pressed to death.
"Strange to say," the lawyer went on, "the woman survived her sentence;and this being an undoubted miracle, she received pardon to the laud ofGod and the honour of His glorious mother, Dame Mary. [Such a casereally happened at Nottingham in 1357.] But if you were supposing acase without any such miraculous intervention--"
"Oh, we weren't thinking of miracles, any way," answered Roscius.
"Then I should say the sentence would remain in force. There is ofcourse a faint possibility that it might not be put in force; but if theman came to me for advice, I should not counsel him to build much uponthat. Especially if he happened to have an enemy."
"Well, it does not seem just, to my thinking, that a man should suffer apenalty twice over."
"Just!" repeated the lawyer, with a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders."Were you under the impression, Cousin Roscius, that law and justicewere interchangeable terms?"
"I certainly was," said Roscius.
"Then, you'd better get out of it," was the retort.
"I daren't take Ermine, after that," said Stephen, rather sorrowfully,"The only hope would be that she might be so changed, nobody would knowher; and then, as my wife, she might pass unharmed But the risk seemstoo great."
"She's scarcely changed enough for that," replied Leuesa. "Very likelyshe would not be recognised by those to whom she was a comparativestranger; but such as had known her well would guess in a moment.Otherwise--"
"Then her name would tell tales," suggested Stephen.
"Oh, you might change that," said Roscius. "Call her Emma or Aymeria--folks would never think."
"And tell lies?" responded Stephen.
"Why, you'd never call that telling lies, surely?"
"It's a bit too like it to please me. Is Father Dolfin still at SaintFrideswide's?"
"Ay, he's still there, but he's growing an old man, and does not getoutside much now. He has resigned Saint Aldate's."
"Then that settles it. He'd know."
"But he's not an unkindly man, Stephen."
"No, he isn't. But he's a priest. And maybe the priest might bestronger than the man. Let's keep on the safe side."
"Let us wait," said Ermine quietly.
"I don't see how waiting is to help you, unless you wait till every bodyis dead and buried--and it won't be much good going then."
"Perhaps we may have to wait for the Better Country. There will be nosumners and sentences there."
"But are you sure of knowing folks there?"
"Saint Paul would scarcely have anticipated meeting his friends with joyin the resurrection if they were not to know each other when they met.There are many passages in Scripture which make it very plain that weshall know each other."
"Are you so sure of getting there yourself?" was the query put byRoscius, with raised eyebrows.
"I am quite sure," was Ermine's calm answer, "because Christ is there,and I am a part of Christ. He wills that His people shall be with Himwhere He is."
"But does not holy Church teach rather different?" [Note 3.]
Stephen would fain have turned off the question. But it was answered ascalmly as before.
"Holy Church is built on Christ our Lord. She cannot therefore teachcontrary to Him, though we may misunderstand either."
Roscius was satisfied. He had not, however, the least idea that by thatvague term "holy Church," while he meant a handful of priests andbishops, Ermine meant the elect of God, for whom His words settle everyquestion, and who are not apt to trouble themselves for thecontradictions either of priests or critics. "For the world passethaway, and the lust thereof"--the pleasures, the opinions, the prejudicesof the world--"but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever."
The times of Henry Second knew neither post-offices nor carriers. Whena man wanted to send a parcel anywhere, he was obliged to carry ithimself or send a servant to do so, if he could not find someacquaintance journeying in that direction who would save him thetrouble.
A few weeks after Stephen had come to the conclusion that he could nottake Ermine to Oxford, he was passing down Bread Street to his shopearly one morning, when Odinel hailed him from the door.
"Hi, Stephen! Just turn in here a minute, will you?--you don't happento be going or sending up into the shires, do you, these next few days?"
"Which of the shires?" inquired Stephen, without committing himself.
"Well, it's Abingdon I want to send to--but if I could get my goodscarried as far as Wallingford, I dare say I could make shift to havethem forwarded."
"Would Oxford suit you equally well?"
"Ay, as well or better."
Stephen stood softly whistling for a moment. He might work the twothings together--might at least pay a visit to Derette, and learn fromher how far it was safe to go on. He felt that Anania was the chiefdanger; Osbert would placidly accept as much or as little as he chose totell, and Isel, if she asked questions, might be easily turned asidefrom the path. Could he be sure that Anania was out of the way, hethought he would not hesitate to go himself, though he no longer daredto contemplate taking Ermine.
"Well, I might, mayhap, be going in that direction afore long,--I can'tjust say till I see how things shape themselves. If I can, I'll let youknow in a few days."
"All right! I'm in no hurry to a week or two."
Stephen meditated on the subject in the intervals of superintendence ofhis oven, and serving out wassel and cocket, with the result that whenevening came, he was almost determined to go, if Ermine found no goodreasons to the contrary. He consulted her when he went home, for shewas not at the shop that day. She looked grave at first, but herconfidence in Stephen's discretion was great, and she made no seriousobjection. No sooner, however, did the children hear of such apossibility as their father's visiting the country, than they all, downto three-year-old Edild, sent in petitions to be allowed to accompanyhim.
"Couldn't be thought of!" was Stephen's decided though good-temperedanswer: and the petitioners succumbed with a look of disappointment.
"I might perchance have taken Gerard," Stephen allowed to his wife, outof the boy's hearing: "but to tell truth, I'm afraid of Anania's hearinghis name--though, as like as not, she'll question me on the names of allthe children, and who they were called after, and why we selected them,and if each were your choice or mine."
"Better not, I think," said Ermine, with a smile. "I almost wish Icould be hidden behind a curtain, to hear your talk with her."
Step
hen laughed. "Well, I won't deny that I rather enjoy putting spokesin her wheels," said he.
The next morning he told Odinel to make up his goods, and he would carrythem to Oxford on the following Monday.
Odinel's parcel proved neither bulky nor heavy. Instead of requiring asumpter-mule to carry it, it could readily be strapped at the back ofStephen's saddle, while the still smaller package of his own necessarieswent in front. He set out about four o'clock on a spring morning,joining himself for the sake of safety to the convoy of travellers whostarted from the Black Bull in the Poultry, and arrived at the East Gateof Oxford before dark, on the Tuesday evening. His first care was tocommit Odinel's goods to the safe care of mine host of the Blue Boar[Note 4] in Fish Street, as had been arranged. Here he supped on friedfish, rye bread, and cheese; and having shared the "grace-cup" of afellow-traveller, set off for Saint John's anchorhold. A young woman insemi-conventual dress left the door just as he came up. Stephen doffedhis cap as he asked her--"I pray you, are you the maid of the LadyDerette?"
"I am," was the reply. "Do you wish speech of her?"
"Would you beseech her to let me have a word with her at the casement?"
The girl turned back into the anchorhold, and the next minute thecasement was opened, and the comely, pleasant face of Derette appearedbehind it. She looked a little older, but otherwise unaltered.
There was nothing unusual in Stephen's request. Anchorites lived onalms, and were also visited to desire their prayers. The two ideaslikely to occur to the maid as the object of Stephen's visit weretherefore either a present to be offered, or intercession to be askedand probably purchased.
"Christ save you, Lady!" said Stephen to his cousin. "Do you know me?"
"Why, is it Stephen? Are you come back? I _am_ glad to see you."
When the natural curiosity and interest of each was somewhat satisfied,Stephen asked Derette's advice as to going further.
"You may safely go to see Mother," said she, "if you can be sure of yourown tongue; for you will not meet Anania there. She has dislocated herankle, and is lying in bed."
"Poor soul! It seems a shame to say I'm glad to hear it; but really Ishould like to avoid her at Aunt Isel's, and to be able to come away atmy own time from the Lodge."
"You have the chance of both just now."
Stephen thought he would get the worse interview over first. Heaccordingly went straight on into Civil School Lane, which ran rightacross the north portion of Christ Church, coming out just above SaintAldate's, pursued his way forward by Pennyfarthing Street, and turningup a few yards of Castle Street, found himself at the drawbridge leadingto the porter's lodge where his brother lived. There were voices insidethe Lodge; and Stephen paused for a moment before lifting the latch.
"Oh dear, dear!" said a querulous voice, which he recognised as that ofAnania, "I never thought to be laid by the heels like this!--not a soulcoming in to see a body, and those children that ungovernable--Gilbert,get off that ladder! and Selis, put the pitchfork down this minute! Nota bit of news any where, and if there were, not a creature coming in totell one of it! Eline, let those buttons alone, or I'll be after--Ohdeary dear, I can't!"
Stephen lifted the latch and looked in. Anania lay on a comfortablecouch, drawn up by the fire; and at a safe distance from it, her fourchildren were running riot--turning out all her treasures, inspecting,trying on, and occasionally breaking them--knowing themselves to be safefrom any worse penalty than a scolding, for which evidently they carednothing.
"You seem to want a bit of help this afternoon," suggested Stephencoolly, collaring Selis, from whom he took the pitchfork, and thenlifting Gilbert off the ladder, to the extreme disapprobation of boththose young gentlemen, as they showed by kicks and angry screams."Come, now, be quiet, lads: one can't hear one's self speak."
"Stephen! is it you?" cried Anania incredulously, trying to lift herselfto see him better, and sinking back with a groan.
"Looks rather like me, doesn't it? I am sorry to find you suffering,Sister."
"I've suffered worse than any martyr in the Calendar, Stephen!--andthose children don't care two straws for me. Nobody knows what I'vegone through. Are you come home for good? Oh dear, this pain!"
"No, only for a look at you. I had a little business to bring me thisway. How is Osbert?"
"He's well enough to have never a bit of sympathy for me. Where are youliving, Stephen, and what do you do now?"
"Oh, up London way; I'm a baker. Have you poulticed that foot, Anania?"
"I've done all sorts of things to it, and it's never--Julian, if youtouch that clasp, I declare I'll--Are you married, Stephen?"
"Married, and have one more trouble than you," answered Stephenlaughingly, as he took the clasp from his youthful and inquisitiveniece; "but my children are not troublesome, I am thankful to say. Iwas going to tell you that marsh-mallows makes one of the finestpoultices you can have. Pluck it when Jupiter is in the ascendant, andthe moon on the wane, and you'll find it first-rate for easing that footof yours.--Gilbert, I heard thy mother tell thee not to go up theladder."
"Well, what if she did?" demanded Gilbert sulkily. "She's only awoman."
"Then she must be obeyed," said Stephen.
"But who did you marry, for I never--Oh deary me, but it does sting!"
"Now, Anania, I'll just go to the market and get you some marsh mallow;Selis will come with me to carry it. I've to see Aunt Isel yet, andplenty more. Come, Selis."
"_Ha, chetife_!--you've no sooner come than you're off again! Who didyou marry? That's what I want to know."
"The sooner you get that poultice on the better. I may look in again,if I have time. If not, you'll tell Osbert I've been, and all's wellwith me."
Stephen shut the door along with his last word, disregarding Anania'sparting cry of--"But you haven't told me who your wife is!" and marchedSelis off to the market, where he laded him with marsh mallow, and senthim home with strict injunctions not to drop it by the way. Then,laughing to himself at the style wherein he had disposed of Anania, heturned off to Turlgate Street (now the Turl) where Raven Soclin lived.
The first person whom he saw there was his cousin Flemild.
"Why, Stephen, this is an unexpected pleasure!" she said warmly."Mother, here's Cousin Stephen come."
"I'm glad to see thee, lad," responded Isel: and the usual questionsfollowed as to his home and calling. But to Stephen's greatsatisfaction, though Isel expressed her hope that he had a good wife,nobody asked for her name. The reason was that they all took it forgranted she must be a stranger to them; and when they had once satisfiedthemselves that he was doing well, and had learnt such details as hispresent calling, the number of his family, and so forth, they seemedmore eager to impart information than to obtain it. At their request,Stephen promised to sleep there, and then went out to pay a visit toRomund and Mabel, which proved to be of a very formal and uninterestingnature. He had returned to Turlgate Street, but they had not yet goneto rest, when Osbert lifted the latch.
"So you're real, are you?" said he, laughing to his brother. "Ananiacouldn't tell me if you were or not; she said she rather thought she'dbeen dreaming,--more by reason that you did not tarry a minute, and shecould not get an answer to one question, though she asked you threetimes."
Stephen too well knew what that question was to ask for a repetition ofit "Nay, I tarried several minutes," said he; "but I went off to getsome marsh mallow for a poultice for the poor soul; she seemed in muchpain. I hope Selis took it home all right? Has she got it on?"
"I think she has," said Osbert. "But she wants you very badly to goback and tell her a lot more news."
"Well, I'll see," replied Stephen; "I scarcely think I can. But if shewants news, you tell her I've heard say women's head-kerchiefs are to beworn smaller, and tied under the chin; that's a bit of news that'll takeher fancy."
"That'll do for a while," answered Osbert; "but what she wants to knowmost is your wife's name and all
the children's."
"Oh, is that it?" said Stephen coolly. "Then you may tell her one ofthe children is named after you, and another for our mother; and we havean Agnes and a Derette: and if she wants to know the cat's name too--"
Osbert roared. "Oh, let's have the cat's name, by all means," said he;and Stephen gravely informed him that it was Gib.
As Agnes was at that time one of the commonest names in England, aboutas universal as Mary or Elizabeth now, Stephen felt himself pretty safein giving it; but the name of his eldest son he did not mention.
"Well, I'd better go home before I forget them," said Osbert. "Let'ssee--Osbert, Edild, Agnes, and Derette--and the cat is Gib. I think Ishall remember. But I haven't had your wife's."
"I'll walk back with you," said Stephen, evading the query; and theywent out together.
"Stephen, lad," said Osbert, when they had left the house, "I've anotion thou dost not want to tell thy wife's name. Is it true, or it'sonly my fancy?"
"Have you?" responded Stephen shortly.
"Ay, I have; and if it be thus, say so, but don't tell me what it is.It's nought to me; so long as she makes thee a good wife I care noughtwho she is; but if I know nothing, I can say nothing. Only, if I knewthou wouldst as lief hold thy peace o'er it, I would not ask theeagain."
"She is the best wife and the best woman that ever breathed," repliedStephen earnestly: "and you are right, old man--I don't want to tellit."
"Then keep thine own counsel," answered his brother. "Farewell, and Godspeed thee!"
Stephen turned back, and Osbert stood for a moment looking after him."If I thought it possible," said the porter to himself,--"but I don'tsee how it could be any way--I should guess that the name of Stephen'swife began and ended with an _e_. I am sure he was set on her once--andthat would account for any reluctance to name her: but I don't see howit could be. Well! it doesn't matter to me. It's a queer world this."
With which profoundly original and philosophical remark, Osbert turnedround and went home.
"Well, what is it?" cried Anania, the moment he entered.
"Let me unlade my brains," said Osbert, "for I'm like a basket full ofapples; and if they are not carefully taken out, they'll be bruised andgood for nought. Stephen's children are called Edild, Agnes, Osbert,and Derette--"
"But his wife! it's his wife I want to know about."
"Dear, now! I don't think he told me that," said Osbert with lamb-likeinnocence, as if it had only just occurred to him.
"Why, that was what you went for, stupid!"
"Well, to be sure!" returned Osbert in meek astonishment, which he actedto perfection. "He told me the cat's name, if that will suit youinstead."
"I wish the cat were inside you this minute!" screamed Anania.
"Thank you for your kind wishes," replied Osbert with placid amiability."I'm not sure the cat would."
"Was there ever any mortal thing in this world so aggravating as a man?"demanded Anania, in tones which were not placid by any means. "Wentdown to Kepeharme Lane to find something out, and came back knowingne'er a word about it! Do you think you've any brains, you horridtease?"
"Can't say: never saw them," answered Osbert sweetly.
"I wonder if you have your match in the county!"
"Oh, I don't think there's any doubt of that."
"Well, at any rate, first thing to-morrow morning, if you please, backyou go and ask him. And mind you don't let him slip through yourfingers this time. He's as bad as an eel for that."
"First thing! I can't, Anania. The Earl has sent word that he means tofly the new hawks at five o'clock to-morrow morning."
"Bother the--hawks! Couldn't you go again to-night?"
"No, they'll be gone to bed by now. Why, wife, what on earth does itmatter to thee?"
Anania's reply to this query was so sharp a snarl that Osbert let heralone thereafter.
The next morning, when released from his duties, he went again toKepeharme Lane--to hear that Stephen had set out on his return journeyhalf-an-hour before. "Well, now, it's plain to me what _that_ means!"announced Anania solemnly, when this distressing fact was communicatedto her. "He's married somebody he's ashamed of--some low creature,quite beneath him, whom he doesn't care to own. That must be theexplanation. She's no better than she should be; take my word for it!"
"That's quite possible," said Osbert drily. "There's another or two ofus in that predicament."
Anania flounced over on her couch, thereby making herself groan.
"You are, and no mistake!" she growled.
"Father Vincent said, when he married us, that you and I werethenceforth one, my dearest!" was the pleasing response.
"What in the name of wonder I ever wished to marry you for--!"
"I will leave you to consider it, my darling, and tell me when I comeback," said Osbert, shutting the door and whistling the _Agnus_ as hewent up Castle Street.
"Well, if you aren't the worst, wickedest, aggravatingest man that everworrited a poor helpless woman," commented Anania, as she turned on heruneasy couch, "my new boots are made of pear jelly!"
But it did not occur to her to inquire of what the woman was made whohabitually tormented that easy-tempered man, nor how much happier herhome might have been had she learnt to bridle her own irritating tongue.
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Note 1. Close Roll, 32 Henry Third. About 5 pence per loaf accordingto modern value.
Note 2. The Bishop of Lincoln who sat on the Council of Oxford wasRobert de Chesney. He died on January 26th, 1168, and was succeeded bythe King's natural son, Geoffrey Plantagenet, a child of only nine yearsof age. Such were the irregularities in the "apostolical succession"during the "ages of faith!"
Note 3. Even Wycliffe taught that no man could know whether he wereelected to salvation or not.
Note 4. The Blue Boar in Saint Aldate's Street really belongs to alater date than this.