LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 BYE-WORDS
 
 B Y E - W O R D S 
 
 A COLLECTION OF TALES 
 NEW AND OLD 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLOTTE M. YONGE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'the heir OF REDCLYFFE' ETC 
 
 Honlion 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK 
 1889 
 
 AH rij^hts rcser~u-d
 
 
 Fiist Edition 1879 
 Reprinted 1889
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Some of these Tales in illustration of proverbs 
 and bye-words have previously appeared, the others 
 see the light for the first time. All the historical 
 ones are intended to describe what might have been 
 rather than what actually was, except ' Buy a Broom,' 
 which is founded on one of the many stories of the 
 adventures of Charles V. in disguise. 
 
 ' Our Ghost at Fantford,' ' Anna's Wedding Cake,' 
 and even ' Patty Applecheeks,' all have a certain slight 
 foundation in fact. 
 
 C. M. YONGE. 
 November 6, 1879.
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Boy Bishop i 
 
 One Will and Three Ways 39 
 
 Kaspar's Summer Dream 8i 
 
 Buy a Broom 125 
 
 The Travels of Two Kits 185 
 
 Selma's Secret Sighs 229 
 
 Our Ghost at Fantford 257 
 
 Anna's Wedding Cake 273 
 
 Autobiography of Patty Applecheeks . . . ■ 285 
 
 A Holiday Engagement ; or, The Campbells are Coming 309
 
 THE BOY BISHOP. 
 
 To ilka blade of grass its ain drap o' dew. 
 
 B
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Four hundred and seventy years count for little in 
 the history of those huge circles of enormous stones 
 that stand mysteriously upon Salisbury Plain. Their 
 massive triplets rose in the same strange loneliness 
 then as now, and cast the selfsame strange shadows 
 as they barred the light of the September sun, whose 
 low beams, coming from the east, made all the Down 
 one glancing, sparkling frosted sheet of dew, netted 
 over with countless diamond-hung lines of gossamer 
 strung from one bent to another. 
 
 The stones — perhaps a little more complete and 
 with a few more stones lying across the top of their sup- 
 porters—struck the eye with wonder as they do still, but 
 the explanation given to the traveller was uttered much 
 more unhesitatingly. * Those stones, my Lord } They 
 are the same which the great wizard Merlin brought 
 in one night from Africa at the bidding of King 
 Vortigern, by art magic. P>om which the saints 
 defend us ! ' Wherewith Sir Martin, the Parson of 
 Ambresbury, or Amesbur}-, crossed himself. 
 
 He was riding among a numerous cavalcade of 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE EOY BISIIO? 
 
 clergy and their attendants, in close attendance upon 
 a slightly- made man, with a keen, thoughtful, refined 
 face, wrapped in a dark robe lined with lamb's skin, 
 whose hood covered his shaven head. His cross-bearer, 
 and the other chief attendants were some way in the 
 rear, riding at ease until they should enter some 
 village or town, when the Church bells would ring, 
 and they would form into procession, as befitted the 
 new Bishop, Robert Hallam, making his first visitation 
 of his diocese. He had slept at Amesbury, and was 
 on his way to his Cathedral, where he was to be 
 welcomed with all due pomp and splendour. His 
 reply was, ' So have I read in the " Chronicles of 
 Geoffrey of Monmouth." Shall we lose too much time 
 if we view them nearer } ' 
 
 ' Your Lordship's way lies not far from them,' 
 returned the priest, who was convoying him ; ' and by 
 this fair rising sun, in such holy company, methinks 
 no ill can befall ; but the stones have an ill-fame, my 
 Lord. They were brought hither by magic, and it is 
 said that on yonder altar-stone offerings of men were 
 made, and that their spirits yet haunt the place.' 
 
 *Yea,' added the Bishop's secretary, who rode not 
 far off, a young scholar from Oxford, 'it was there 
 that foul slaughter was done upon the Britons by 
 Henghist, wherefore they be called Stone Heng — the 
 stones of Henghist ! Hark ! '
 
 THE EOY BISHOP 5 
 
 'They moan still!' exclaimed the fat sumpnour. 
 ' Go no farther, my Lord.' 
 
 ' Nay, if such poor spirits be in bondage here, it 
 were well to enquire whether they may be released,' 
 said the Bishop. ' How say you, Master Dixon ? ' 
 
 ' I say,' replied the secretary, smiling, that the 
 spirits must be near akin to the Egyptian stone that 
 made sweet music when the morning sunbeams 
 played upon it — ' 
 
 For a sweet childish voice was heard coming as it 
 were out of the midst of the circle of stones. The 
 sumpnour crossed himself, and an awe-struck whisper 
 went round. ' Tht^y moan and gibber.' 
 
 ' No ill spirit walks after sunrise,' said the chaplain 
 reprovingly. 
 
 * Nor singcth such joyous noels,' added the Bishop. 
 * Hearken again ! ' 
 
 And this time there was no doubt that it was a 
 clear, childish voice that was singing sweetl}-, with 
 joyous, ringing notes the quaint old carol — 
 
 ' The moon shone bright, and the stars gave a light, 
 
 A httlc before it was day ; 
 Our Lord, our God, He called on us. 
 
 And bade us awake and pray. 
 The fields were green as green could be, 
 
 When from His glorious scat 
 Our Lord, our God, He watered us 
 
 With His heavenly dew so sweet.'
 
 6 THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 Pushing forward a little on his mule, Bishop 
 Hallam saw, as though framed by three massive stones, 
 a number of sheep, the low sun lighting on their 
 woolly backs as they browsed on the short grass 
 within the mystic circle, and seated on the very altar- 
 stone itself, their little shepherd, the singer, his fair 
 hair glancing in the morning sun, and his little crook 
 in his hand, all unknowing that he was observed, as 
 with the joyous unconsciousness of the birds them- 
 selves, he poured forth his sweet notes of song. 
 
 The Bishop made a motion with his hand to hinder 
 any interruption, and his eyes filled with tears as he 
 whispered to his chaplain the Latin words, * "The 
 weaned child shall put his hand on the cockatrice 
 den." I thank Heaven for such a sparkling dew-drop 
 of the morning of my episcopate ! ' 
 
 By this time a rough-looking dog had run up 
 from the opposite side of the circle, and begun to 
 bark. The little shepherd broke off his song and 
 turned, much amazed at the various dark figures he 
 saw invading his solitude. 
 
 'Come hither, my child,' called the Bishop, as the 
 face, fair-featured and rosy with true Saxon beauty, 
 was turned tov/ards him. ' Come hither, and tell me 
 thy name.' 
 
 'I see who it is,' said Sir Martin. ' It is the child 
 who herds the sheep of the nunnery at Amesbury.
 
 THE TOY I3ISII0P 7 
 
 His motlicr, a widow, died in the hospitium, and the 
 Sisters have fed and clothed him, and bred him up 
 at their porter's lodge. Make thine obedience, boy ; 
 this is the Lord Bishop,' 
 
 .The child, with a readiness that did credit to the 
 nurture of the good nuns, came fonvard, bared his 
 fair flaxen head, kneeling down for the blessing of 
 the Bishop. 
 
 ' What is thy name, my fair child } ' asked Hallam 
 when he had blessed him with uplifted hand. 
 
 * Oswald, an it please your reverence,' replied the 
 little fellow, who seemed about nine years old, and 
 looked up with a face as winning as it was fair. 
 
 ' Who taught thee to sing so sweetly ? ' 
 
 * The good Sisters,' shyly answered the boy. 
 
 ' They taught thee whatever thou knowest, I'll be 
 sworn,' said Sir Martin. ' How art thou not afraid to 
 be all alone in the midst of the Wizard's stones? 
 Not another lad would dare feed his flock there > ' 
 
 The boy's bright blue eyes were full of a sort of 
 amused wonder as he simply said, ' I crossed me.* 
 
 ' Thou art right, my son,' said the Bishop. ' There 
 is nothing in these heathen stones to hurt a Christian 
 child who does his duty well and singeth such goodly 
 songs. So the good Sisters have taught thee to sing } 
 Knowest thou thy Credo ? ' 
 
 The boy, with feet close together, stood straight
 
 8 THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 up and rehearsed the Creed in the strange form to 
 which tradition had reduced the Latin. Yet it had 
 a musical sweetness of cadence, and the Bishop found 
 he Hkewise knew the English version. 
 
 ' It is well, my fair child,' said Bishop Robert. 
 ' Here is a silver groat for thee, and thou mayst tell 
 the good Lady Prioress that the new shepherd doth 
 bless and thank her for so tending a lamb of his 
 flock.' 
 
 ' Yea,' he added, as he rode on, ' it is a sight I 
 thank God for. Would that I may tend my flock as 
 carefully, if not as blithesomely, as yonder little child 
 in the morning sunshine ! ' 
 
 ' Poor child,' said another of the Amesbury clergy, 
 ' I trow he seeks the spot because none of the other 
 herd boys dare enter the ring of magic stones, and 
 he is safe from being mocked and jeered at as my 
 Lady Prioress' messan dog, when he will not share in 
 their ill-doings.' 
 
 ' It were well,' said the Chaplain, ' to have so 
 goodly a voice in your Lordship's choir.' 
 
 * Cage the singing-bird, quotha ? ' returned the 
 Bishop. ' Were that a good deed } ' 
 
 ' So please you, my Lord, I think it were,' said 
 the Parson of Amesbury. ' As Brother Giles hath 
 been telling me, the child hath been somewhat 
 cockered by the good Sisters, to whom he hath
 
 THE DOY BISHOP 9 
 
 been a right pleasant toy, as a cosset lamb might be, 
 ever since his mother came d}'ing to their door. 
 Now, even like the lamb, he hath grown too big for 
 a nun's toy, and they wot not what to do with him. 
 They have of late sent him out with their sheep, and 
 put him to the like acts of service ; but he is tenderly 
 nurtured, and of a meek and godly frame, so that the 
 lads of his own degree flout and chase him, till he is 
 fain to hide himself from them in the Wizard's ring, 
 where none of them will enter.' 
 
 * Yea,' added Brother Giles, as the Bishop's look 
 of enquiry rested on him, * it is but a few days since 
 that the Lady Prioress spake to me of her care on 
 his account, and asked whether he could not fmd a 
 place in some chapel ; or even become a scholar 
 at St. Mary's at Winchester. He hath good gifts, 
 and might well rise, even like the Lord Archbishop 
 himself, from being a shepherd on the Downs to being 
 a shepherd of men.' 
 
 ' Ah well ! ' said the Bishop. ' It might seem pity 
 to take the shepherd lad from his hills of glistening 
 dew to the dust and clamour of cities, but it seems 
 there are perils for him even here. If the Prioress 
 will let him go, let us ask for him, and strive that at 
 least the dew of Grace be never witlidrawn or parched 
 up from him ! '
 
 10 THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 * Is It well to license this children's procession ? ' said 
 Bishop Robert Hallam to the Dean of his Cathedral, 
 as they paced up and down the cloistered walk, in 
 the alternate light and shadow of its arches. 
 
 'The common folk will be much displeased if it 
 be hindered another year,' returned the Dean. ' They 
 claim it as their right in all Cathedral Churches, and 
 as your reverent Lordship well knows, there is a 
 special rite provided for it in the great book of the 
 holy Saint Osmond himself, proper to our own Cathe- 
 dral of New Sarum.' 
 
 'True,' replied Bishop Robert. 'The custom 
 was devised by some pious man to show how truly 
 out of the mouths of babes and sucklin"-s micrht 
 come forth praise ; but what with the naughtiness 
 of childhood, and the lewdness of the people, and 
 far more the neglect of the clergy, it may become 
 a mere day of profane ribaldry, even within the sanc- 
 fuary.' 
 
 'Even so,' returned the Dean. 'They deem it
 
 THE BOY BISHOP II 
 
 their day of license. The last Childermas Day, when 
 the Episcopus Pucroruin came in procession, the 
 rabble spread through the whole building. They 
 sat in the stalls, and sang profane songs. One of 
 the best stoles was lost, four windows cracked, an arm 
 of St. Edward's image was broken, and the tail of 
 St. Margaret's dragon ; one woman was trodden to 
 death, and two men fought with staves at the west 
 door so hotly that a lay brother who tried to part 
 thfMii, got his hand maimed for life ; more than a score 
 of purses were cut in the scuffle ; I myself stumbled 
 over a man lying in a dead drunken fit by this very 
 cloister door that same night, and the foulness and 
 filth that were left were such that the sacristan had 
 to borrow six lay brothers to help in the cleansing. 
 Since that we have tried to stave off such a day of 
 riot. One winter there was a fever in the town, the 
 next there was a flood, such that the water came 
 half-way up the pillars in the nave, then came the 
 death of the last Bishop ; and from one cause or 
 another we have contiived to hinder it ; but now, as I 
 am told, the townsfolk declare they will no longer see 
 their children baulked of their lawful sport, and if 
 we take not the lead, and cause the Boy Bishop to 
 be elected from among our own choiisters, the\- will 
 make one of their own, burst into the Cathedral, and 
 there will be nought but mad re\-eh-}' and ribaldry.'
 
 13 THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 ' We have a right, then, Master Dean, to elect our 
 own chorister-bishop ? ' 
 
 ' Aye, my Lord. By the statutes he must be one 
 of the choristers, who hath sung long in the Church, 
 and is also handsome and wellformed in face and 
 limb. No other choice is valid. Moreover in the 
 twelfth year of King Edward the Second, it was 
 ordained that the Episcopus Pucronun should make 
 no feast, since such tended only to riot and debau- 
 chery.' 
 
 'Then,' said the Bishop, 'we must do our best to 
 turn the feast to edification, as the good men designed 
 who intended it ! Methinks we have one child in the 
 choir who will not only fulfil the statute by his fairness 
 of face and limb, but will lead the holy song with a 
 heart full of praise, and do his best to hinder any 
 profanity.' 
 
 ' Your Lordship means little Oswald of Amesbury,' 
 said the Dean. ' He is a fair and towardly child, and 
 hath a sweet voice, though he be not quick of wit. 
 Moreover being a lone orphan, he is the more 
 suitable, as none will have claims upon him. Your 
 Lordship is aware that any benefice in your gift 
 which falls vacant between the feast of St, Nicolas 
 and Childermas Day, is at the bestowal of the Boy 
 Bishop.' 
 
 'So I had heard.'
 
 THE BOY BISHOP 13 
 
 ' Indeed,' added the Dean, ' I was credibly told 
 that much of this vehemence on the part of the com- 
 monalty was the work of Denis, the Fletcher, in the 
 hope that his son Diccon may play the part of Bishop, 
 and bestow any preferment there may be to give on 
 his brother Piers, a fellow whom, for his evil life and 
 rude brawls, we had to cast out from the choir some 
 years since, and who hath since — as I hear — become 
 a begging friar, and goeth his rounds as a oar- 
 doner.' 
 
 ' This Diccon is a chorister, I think,' said the 
 Bishop. ' A black-browed lad — not ill-favoured, save 
 that he hath a scowl — and with a good voice, if he 
 would pay heed to what he is doing, and would not 
 sing as though he were in an ale-house.' 
 
 'The very lad, my Lord. If he were chosen, only 
 mischief could ensue ; and yet if he be not chosen, his 
 father may belike work even worse harm.' 
 
 'Worse he cannot work,' said Hallam, 'than the 
 profanity it would be in us to entrust the leading of 
 such holy rites to a lad like Diccon, who as yet knows 
 nought of holy fear, and would make them a mere 
 jest. See, Master Dean, this shall be what we will do. 
 We will gather the children of the choir in the Chapter- 
 house, and I will there speak to them, and make them 
 understand the meaning of the service. After which 
 v/e will cause the most meet to be elected, and en-
 
 14 THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 deavour our utmost that the day shall be to the glory 
 of God, and not to His dishonour.' 
 
 The Dean agreed, for Bishop Hallam was not a 
 man to be gainsaid, and moreover had a power of 
 infusing something of his own spirit into those whom 
 he addressed. Hitherto the Chapter had been wont 
 to think of the Procession of the Boy Bishop as a 
 kind of crisis to be tided over with as little damage 
 and scandal as might be, but the manner of Bishop 
 Hallam was awakening the Dean to a sense of its 
 original intention. 
 
 For Hallam was a man of deep devotion, and 
 was keenly alive to the abuses of the Church of the 
 fifteenth century, and anxious to revive the true spirit 
 of piety. In the two years since he had come to 
 Salisbury, much that was amiss had been amended 
 in the diocese, and there had been much quickening 
 of zeal and devotion, while proportionate discontent 
 and anger had been excited in those who hated inter- 
 ference with their ease, their profits, their vices, or 
 their superstitions. 
 
 Among the improvements he had introduced, was 
 the much greater attention paid to the children of the 
 choir. Till his time they had been drilled and flogged 
 into performing their parts in the service, but with utter 
 indifference whether they understood the words which 
 their voices chanted, and likewise to their conduct, both
 
 THE EOY BISHOP 1 5 
 
 in and out of Church. The same lad who would be 
 beaten savagely for a false note, might tell falsehoods, 
 steal apples, and devour them in the Cathedral with 
 impunity so far as the authorities were concerned. 
 Now, however, the boys were carefully schooled under 
 the care of a clerk appointed by the Precentor, who was 
 deservedly viewed as a gentle master, in spite of his 
 profuse employment of the rod, the only means of 
 discipline. However, he heartily loved his boys, and 
 most of them loved him, though none so well as little 
 Oswald of Amesbury, the very flower of the choir for 
 his fair face, sweet voice, and gentle reverence, though 
 his wit was perhaps less keen and bright than some of 
 the others. 
 
 Slow he was in learning to read either manuscript 
 or prick song, and still slower in comprehension of 
 the Latinity which the boys were taught. At least, 
 each of the others could more quickly translate a 
 word, or conjugate a verb, and yet he could chant 
 Psalms for ever, and there were looks and tones that 
 made his master sure that he entered into the mean- 
 ing, even though he could not explain it. 
 
 At the summons, the choir boys trooped into the 
 beautiful Chapter-house, rnd stood round the tall 
 central column of Purbeck marble supporting the 
 groined roof. Their eyes did not as usual rest on the 
 quaint figures in which the Scripture history is por-
 
 i6 The boy bishop 
 
 trayed round the walls, but were eagerly fixed on the 
 Bishop, who with the Dean, and others of the clergy 
 round him, stood beneath the pillar. The foremost 
 boy, dark-eyed and haired, with heavy brows, was 
 Richard, or Diccon, the son of the Fletcher, or arrow- 
 maker. He stood forth with a confident and eager 
 air, while the others hung back a little, and among 
 their brown heads could be seen the bright, light 
 flaxen locks of the little shepherd of Stonehenge. 
 
 ' Children,' asked the Bishop, * do ye understand 
 wherefore I have called you hither ? ' 
 
 'To choose our Bishop !' said Diccon (he had very 
 nearly said to choose me). 
 
 ' Know you wherefore the Procession of the Boy 
 Bishop was instituted ? ' further demanded the 
 Bishop. 
 
 ' To make sport, and get alms,' replied Diccon 
 without hesitation. 
 
 ' Can none of you render me any other reason ? ' 
 asked the Bishop. 
 
 No one spoke, but Oswald looked up with an 
 eagerness in his eyes, as if he knew something, but 
 could not utter it. 
 
 Then Bishop Robert told the boys in words they 
 could understand, how the Holy Innocents had been 
 the first to glorify the Saviour in His infancy by their 
 martyrdom, and how they were now sharing His
 
 THE BOY BISHOP I7 
 
 victory and triumph In Heaven ; and how It had been 
 planned by good men of old that the little children 
 trained to sing the praise of God on earth, should, on 
 the day of the Innocents, set forth before men's eyes 
 some slight sign and token of how these children and 
 the like pure and holy souls, redeemed out of this 
 sinful world, while yet their baptismal dew was un- 
 dried, and they were untainted by sin, follow the 
 Lamb in Heaven, and sing the song that none other 
 can learn. The boys all listened with bent heads, 
 some with thoughtful faces ; and Oswald's eyes were 
 moist. No one spoke. ' None can be worthy enough, 
 you are thinking, my children, to represent thus on 
 earth the holy ones in Heaven. It is sooth, only too 
 sooth. But we must do our best by God's grace to 
 cleanse ourselves, body and soul, to set forth His 
 praise and honour. Now speak, my dear children, 
 and say which of you ye think most true and pure, 
 and most meet to be your leader in this solemn work 
 of praise.' 
 
 There was a pause ; the boys were unwilling to 
 speak, and the Precentor again put the question — 
 
 'Speak, lads; tell my Lord whom you think the 
 best and meetest to lead you In the holy work on 
 Childermas Day. What sayest thou, Harry of the 
 Forge } Fear not. Say on.' 
 
 Harry, an open-faced boy, was the first to say — 
 
 C
 
 1 8 THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 * Little Oswald is the best lad of us,' 
 
 And then, one after another made the same 
 reply — 
 
 * Little Oswald is mectest.' 
 
 Only three had not yet spoken — Oswald, Diccon, 
 and a timid, shy boy, who always seemed trying to 
 hide himself. When the question was put to the last, 
 he faltered out — 
 
 * Diccon, sir.' 
 
 And Diccon himself looked up with bold, un- 
 abashed brow, and said — 
 
 ' I'm oldest here, sin' 
 
 'Thou mayst be oldest,' said the Bishop, 'but that 
 is not what we are bidden to think of. The matter 
 in hand is to take him who will most heartily and 
 truly strive to praise God, and lead men to think of 
 the choirs of the saints before His throne. My son, 
 is that what thou dost think of in desiring this pre- 
 ferment .'' ' 
 
 * As much as another,' muttered Diccon, as sulkily 
 as he durst. 
 
 But out of the four-and-twenty lads there had been 
 twenty-one voices declaring little Oswald the best. 
 There was no doubt about his election. He had 
 indeed replied ' Harry,' when asked for his vote, and 
 when the Bishop laid his hand on him, and declared
 
 THE BOY BISHOP I9 
 
 him elected as Episcopus Piicroriim, he looked dazed 
 
 and bewildered. 
 
 Some of the chapter observed to one another — 
 * Fair as an Angel indeed, but a mere puppet' 
 And Diccon went away muttering that his father 
 
 would see him righted, or know the reason why.
 
 20 THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Whoever devised the ritual of the Boy Bishop must 
 
 have been 
 
 Trying to wind himself too high 
 For sinful men beneath the sky. 
 
 Beautiful as was the idea, and exquisite as the service 
 was, it could scarce be carried out consistently by 
 any human creatures on earth ; and, in the Middle 
 Ages, in a tongue not ' understanded of the people,' 
 and left to rude provincial ecclesiastics amid a ruder 
 mob, the ceremony had degenerated into a popular 
 holiday when sacrilegious profanity was in a manner 
 hcensed. 
 
 It was on St. Nicolas' day, the 6th of December, 
 that the election took place, and the little Bishop 
 continued in office till Innocents' day, the 28th. The 
 early part of these three weeks was spent in training 
 and singing, after which, when Mass was over on 
 Christmas Day, the whole band of choristers went 
 from house to house, in miniature ecclesiastical vest- 
 ments, singing hymns and Christmas carols, and the 
 two appointed deacons presenting bags, where alms
 
 THE BOY BISHOP 21 
 
 were collected to maintain the lads if they continued 
 to be educated for the priesthood. To prevent these 
 customs from degenerating into idle roaming and 
 shouting, the Dean had provided that the troop 
 should be attended by trustworthy men, who kept 
 order, and prevented them from being disturbed. It 
 was fine frosty weather, and the boys went blithely 
 forth, crackling through the ice-bound meadows, or 
 climbing the downs, ever getting fresh views of the 
 majestic spire, then only recently finished, and com- 
 pleting the wondrous grace of the whole building, 
 which, in its freshness and unity yet variety, of peak, 
 roof, and pinnacle, seemed like some magnificent ice- 
 berg rising in the midst of its valley. 
 
 Little Oswald was very happy that first morning. 
 What he would have liked would have been to have 
 gone to Amesbury, and to have sung before the kind 
 nuns there, who would have rejoiced to see him in 
 such array. The master, however, decided that this 
 would be too far on these short days, and scarcely 
 safe ; for Salisbury Plain was not free from robbers, 
 under the disturbed reign of Henry IV., and they 
 might not even respect a Boy Bishop's bag of alms. 
 However, Oswald was consoled by hearing that notice 
 of his promotion had been sent, and that it was not 
 impossible that his dear Lady Prioress might be 
 present at the Cathedral itself on Childermas Day.
 
 22 THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 The only drawback was the surly manner and 
 continual petty taunts and vexations he suffered from 
 Diccon Fletcher. The lad had been, by way of con- 
 solation, made one of the attendant deacons, who 
 had their share both of finery and of money ; but 
 this gave him the opportunity of venting his spite in 
 many a ' nip and bob,' sly pushes, threats, and attempts 
 to put him out in his singing, and what Oswald .hated 
 far more, introducing idle parodies on the sacred words, 
 which long had been part of the traditional grotes- 
 queness attached to the ceremony in the popular 
 mind. These set the other boys — even Harry — 
 giggling, and disposed Oswald to cry, while their 
 master never was able to detect them, and the whole 
 choir were too much afraid of Diccon to betray him. 
 The master only saw that as the day went on the 
 boys were harder to manage, and that the little 
 Bishop's head drooped under his small mitre, and he 
 was glad to bring them home after they had rested 
 and been regaled with wassail bread and spiced ale, 
 and presented with a comfit apiece by the kind 
 admiring nuns of the Abbey at Wilton. 
 
 Their next day's rounds were in the city of 
 Salisbury itself, where they sang in each of the chief 
 houses of the nobles and gentry, who were apt to 
 come into the city for the winter, and likewise in the 
 streets and courts where the shops consisted of open
 
 THE BOY EISIIOP 23 
 
 Stalls or booths, with the wares arranged in front, or 
 hanging from the beams of the floor above. Thus it 
 was they came to the stall of Denis the Fletcher, 
 father to Diccon, where long }-ew bows and cloth- 
 yard shafts in quivers, or arranged in a clicvaux de 
 /rise, were the chief decoration. 
 
 Friar Piers, a red-faced, bronzed man, about thirty, 
 in a Franciscan's gown and hood, was sitting at his 
 ease in the corner of the stall, and joined the carol 
 in a loud, lusty voice, unblushingly using the worst 
 form of parody. When the song was over, he broke 
 into a loud laugh, and on some remonstrance from 
 the master, answered — 
 
 'What, sir clerk, I'm no slave to your Bishop. 
 He can't mar the jolly friar's sport, do what he will 
 to these poor boys. Times are changed since I lifted 
 up my voice in the choir.' 
 
 'Aye, aye,' said his father, a big, brawny man, 
 leaning over the window, 'then 'twas worth one's 
 while to be Boy Bishop. Now I wouldn't give a tuft of 
 goose down for it, nor Diccon either — only bedizen- 
 ing and psalm-singing, like mean beggarly Lollards. 
 But come in, my lads, come in, and we'll show you 
 some sport for once.' 
 
 The master here interfered, and said the Dean's and 
 Precentor's orders were precise that the boys should 
 enter no houses.
 
 24 THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 Friar Piers on this laughed, and said — 
 
 ' They mistook the season, Master. Dost think 
 they are creeping to the cross ? It's merry Christmas, 
 man, not Lent.' 
 
 'There! there's gospel for it. Hear the reverend 
 brother,' cried Denis. 'Come in, boys— come in, 
 gossips ; there's a brimming cup of hot ale for you 
 this cold day, better than any your Dean e'er gav e 
 you.' 
 
 The master still refused, but half the boys had 
 been already led in by Diccon, and some of the escort 
 were not proof against the good ale and good fellow- 
 ship, and entered after the boys. 
 
 The master hardly knew what to do, whether to 
 follow them in and try to bring them away, or to take 
 home such as he could detain. While he was still in 
 the gathering twilight, calling and entreating, Oswald 
 suddenly felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. 
 
 ' I don't want to come in,' he tried to say, a good 
 deal frightened ; but he was dragged along, with 
 a hand over his mouth, into a dark entry beside the 
 shop, and heard Denis's rough voice in his car — 
 
 * Stand still, thou nuns' mammct, a plague on thee, 
 or it shall be the worse for thee. Hold thy tongue 
 and hearken. Knowcst thou what thou deservest for 
 thrusting thyself into the office that belonged of right 
 to my Dick ? '
 
 THE BOY BISHOP 2$ 
 
 ' Oh, sir, 'twas none of my seeking. Let me go.' 
 
 * Whisht ! I say, I grudge thee not thy fool's cap 
 and sorry sport, so long as thou makcst up for it in 
 weightier matters. Listen ! Sir Edward Fleming, 
 the Canon, is dead. Thou must get thee back to thy 
 Bishop and Dean, stand before them, and speak thus : 
 " I, Episcopus Piieroriim Piicrariim, or however the 
 gibberish runs, do appoint the Brother Piers Fletcher, 
 of the Friars' Minorite, to the vacant canonry." Dost 
 hear } ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; but, sir,' said Oswald with a trembling 
 voice, ' I am told that the Bishop and my master 
 would not have it so.' 
 
 'What of that.;" Willy, nilly, if thou sayest it 
 It must be done. None can gainsay the appointments 
 of the Bairn Bishop. Now, mark me. If thou dost 
 this at my bidding, I'll overlook the wrong that was 
 done in thy foolish person to my son Richard. If 
 not, thou shalt never live to rue the day ! Not a word 
 to any man, remember, that I have thus spoken. If 
 thou dost, 'tis at thy peril. But if those words, 
 appointing Piers Fletcher to the canonry, be not 
 spoken, ere thy mummeries to-morrow be over, 
 thou wilt never see another morn. There ! Denis 
 Fletcher is a man of his word ! ' 
 
 Wherewith Oswald, with his mitre knocked over 
 his eyes, was pushed out into the street again, just as
 
 26 THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 the master, with Harry and two or three of the 
 steadier boys and men, came forth through the shop. 
 The schoolmaster, beheving that Diccon's family were 
 most likely to vent their jealous spite on the little 
 fellow, and unwilling to involve the choir in a 
 quarrel with the townspeople at such a critical 
 moment, asked no questions, but contented himself 
 with returning to the monastery with the pupils he 
 had been able to bring off, and winked at the dis- 
 orderly manner in which the others straggled in later. 
 
 No one but Harry saw that the little Boy Bishop 
 looked pale and dazed in the light of the big fire on 
 the hearth of the refectory, and that he scarce 
 touched food, and passed the horn of Christmas ale 
 that was handed round. Moreover, when in the 
 dormitory, Harry had fallen asleep, and wakened again 
 to hear Diccon, who had come in much later, thus 
 threatening the child — 
 
 ' What, mumbling thy prayers still, thou beggars' 
 brat ! None of that, I say. Bishop orno Bishop, I'm 
 master here. Into bed, I say.' 
 
 And a sounding box on the ear was heard. On 
 this Harry started out of bed with a yell of wrath, and 
 fell on the tyrant ; but therewith a torch shone on 
 them, and the master was heard calling fie on them 
 for such a brawl, and threatening Diccon and Harry 
 alike with stripes if another sound were heard. Good-
 
 THE 130V BISHOP 2/ 
 
 naturcd Harry tumbled into bed, and tried to warm 
 and comfort the shivering, sobbing little being who 
 clung to him ; but it was not then possible to speak, 
 and Harry slept, and woke again, with the moonlight 
 streaming through the chinks of the rude wooden 
 shutter of the unglazed window, and the snores of the 
 other boys around. He knew, however, that his bed- 
 fellow was awake, and he ventured a whisper — 
 
 ' Tell me, Oswald, what is it ? Did that felon 
 misuse thee ? ' 
 
 * Nay,' said Oswald. 
 
 ' What then ? Did he scare thee out of thy five 
 wits that thou prayedst so long ? ' 
 
 'Aye,' said Oswald. But he said no more, only 
 as Harry muttered some sharp and angry words the 
 child trembled again, and prayed him to be still, and 
 utter no word to anyone. 
 
 Harry was very sleepy, and gave the promise, then 
 fell asleep. In aftertimes he greatly longed to have 
 been more alive to the child's distress, and to have 
 guessed what troubled him ; but Oswald was at times 
 dreamy, and always had little power of expressing 
 himself, so that no one could have guessed whether 
 he understood what Denis required of him, or entered 
 ■into the threat, or whether he were merely frightened 
 and bewildered. 
 
 Morning dawned at last. The choir boys were
 
 28 THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 not whipped out of bed like their fellows in the city, 
 but they were arrayed, not in the less costly garb in 
 which they had gone about singing, but in the full 
 vestments made for their use. 
 
 Oswald was, on first waking, handed over to the 
 brother who had charge of the robes. He was bathed, 
 and his fair hair carefully arranged, after which he 
 was arrayed in a robe of scarlet worked with silver 
 lions and a border of gold birds : over this came the 
 alb starred over with gold, and above a white cope 
 lichly bordered with embroidery in red silk and gold. 
 A ring with a large sapphire in it was placed on his 
 finger, and on his head a mitre 'well garnished with 
 pearl and precious stone.' A book — the Pontificate, 
 richly bound, with a blue stone set on its cover, was 
 to be carried in one hand, and a small processional 
 cross, adorned with the figure of St. Nicolas, was to 
 be borne before him by one of the boys. Another 
 carried a banner of St. Nicolas, and all Were richly 
 arrayed, the tw^o deacons in scarlet above and blue 
 beneath. Oswald seemed to have slept off his fright, 
 and to be pleased with his splendid dress, though still 
 somewhat as if in a dream, for he asked — 
 
 * Be these like the robes the Innocents wear ? Me- 
 thought they had made them white.' 
 
 The great west door of the Cathedral was thrown 
 open, and up the broad aisle, beneath the graceful
 
 THE BOY BISHOP 29. 
 
 pointed arches, beneath the tall-ckistcred columns, 
 came the goodly procession. The Dean and his 
 chapter going first, in gorgeous array — then the 
 banner of St. Nicolas and a little cross ; then the 
 chorister children in their rich array, t\vo-and-t\vo, 
 each with a lighted taper in his hand ; the little 
 Bishop, a quaint but yet a lovely figure, walking, 
 attended by his two deacons, chanting the words, 
 Centiun quatiior qiiadragmta signati siuit. They 
 were the familiar words of Revelation vii. ' A 
 hundred and forty and four thousand were sealed.' 
 Up the long nave went the procession, beautiful as 
 a miniature ; the clear, sweet voice of little Bishop 
 Oswald beginning each verse, Ex tribu Jnda ; ex 
 iribic Reuben ; and the deacons, and the full body of 
 the choristers taking up the chorus, Duodccim inillia 
 signati. 
 
 The loveliness of the sight and sound was un- 
 speakable, while the gleam of the tapers vied with the 
 wintry sunshine, in the south-east, in casting strange 
 glances from their gold and jewels upon the roof. 
 There was something unearthly in the whole scene, 
 above all when, at the Altar of the Holy Innocents, 
 the chant changed to our actual Innocents'-day epistle, 
 ' I looked,' &c. Three voices then sung Illisunt einti 
 (' These are redeemed from among men, being the 
 firstfruits unto God and unto the Lamb. And in
 
 3© THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 their mouth was found no guile, for they are without 
 fault before the throne of God.' ) 
 
 Meantime with a censer in his hand, the Chorister 
 Bishop fumed the Altar, and then said (in Latin), * Let 
 us be glad,' to which the answer was, 'And let us 
 rejoice.' 
 
 The little one's face was rapt and beautiful to 
 behold, as he stood swinging his censer, and there- 
 with he knelt and uttered in Latin the collect we 
 know so well for that day, though our translation is 
 slightly altered at the opening, which then was : 
 ' Almighty God, Whose fame on this day the innocent 
 martyrs confessed not by speech but by death. Mor- 
 tify and kill all vices in us, and so strengthen us by 
 Thy Grace, that by our tongue we may speak, and by 
 our life we may set forth, the glory of Thy Holy Name, 
 Who with the Father and Holy Ghost art ever wor- 
 shipped and glorified. — Amen. 
 
 Then the procession entered the Choir, being now 
 joined by the clergy of the Cathedral, the Dean and 
 his canons going first, and taking the places around 
 the Altar ; and then the children's procession coming 
 last, with the little Bishop and his small chapter at the 
 end, so that he was seated in the place of honour on 
 one side of the gate into the choir, and his chief 
 deacon on the opposite side, preparatory to high Mass 
 being celebrated by the real Bishop.
 
 THE BOY BISHOP 3 1 
 
 No one took note when Diccon Fletcher, as they 
 were ranging themselves, grasped Oswald's shoulder, 
 and whispered in his ear — 
 
 'Remember, now's the time. Speak when thou 
 get to thy scat.' 
 
 Nor was the surging and shouting of a multitude 
 without, at first heard through the singing, and the 
 orderly tread of feet. The stalls were reached, and 
 ere Diccon turned into his own, he gave the Bishop 
 another grip, and said — 
 
 'Now! out with it — /, Episcopus Piierorum. 
 Speak, or it will be the worse for thee.' 
 
 Here a minor canon, seeing that there was whis- 
 pering among the boys, summarily showed Diccon 
 into his place, and the Child Bishop took his seat, 
 looking a little pale under his mitre. 
 
 At that moment the surging sound came nearer. 
 The comparatively well-behaved throng, who had 
 hitherto filled the nave, save where the gangway was 
 kept free for the procession, was pushed hither and 
 thither. The sacristan and his fellows, who had been 
 keeping order, were driven in from the doors, and up 
 the aisles rushed tumultuously a rush of merry- 
 makers, some with cocks' combs, some with caps 
 and bells, fools' coats, birds' beaks, asses' heads, stags' 
 or bullocks' horns, all manner of carnival foolery, 
 making the nave, where the children's chant had so
 
 32 THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 lately resounded, echo to foul and ludicrous songs 
 set to sacred tunes. 
 
 No one was so near the choir gates as Os- 
 wald on the one side, Diccon on the other. Each 
 started forward, the one to close them, the other 
 to prevent him from doing so, and therewith the 
 elder boy caught the younger in a tight clutch, say- 
 ing— 
 
 ' Speak.' 
 
 At the same moment a black-masked and horned 
 figure sprang forth, and laid a black hand and arm 
 on the child's shoulder. 
 
 ' Face about,' he said. ' Say the words and I let 
 thee go ! ' 
 
 The eyes stared as if fixed, lips quivered, recur- 
 ring as it were to their recent lesson, Laiidamini ct 
 Gloriamini. Priests and canons rallying from their 
 amazement, were coming to the rescue ; but at that 
 moment the demoniacal form seemed to vanish, while 
 the Boy Bishop, released from his grasp with violence, 
 fell headlong down the step between the nave and 
 choir, and lay motionless at the bottom. There was 
 one shriek from one of the boys. Then came the 
 stillness of horror. Then the master of the choristers 
 was kneeling beside the little prostrate figure, lifting 
 him up. His cross-bearer had rushed to his side, and 
 at the same moment the black-veiled and hooded
 
 THE BOY BISHOP 33 
 
 Prioress broke from her seat in the choir, and Bishop 
 Robert hurried from the Altar. 
 
 * Oswald, dear child, look up,' said the Prioress^ 
 taking a feeble, nerveless hand in hers, as the master 
 drew off the mitre. At her voice, as regardless of 
 rule in that moment, she threw back her veil, the blue 
 eyes unclosed, the lips seemed to continue their 
 lesson, and the words came forth, ^ Nou loquendo sed 
 moricndo' There was an instant's struggle, then 
 the fair head fell back, and Hallam looked up 
 and, with uplifted hand, said to the people, ^ Non 
 loquendo scd' moriendo. Not by speech, but death, 
 the innocent hath glorified God, by dying in hinder- 
 ing your profane and heedless folly. Go home, you 
 who know not what ye did. Go home, and repent 
 of your folly and madness, if perchance, it may be 
 forgiven.' 
 
 Then — as the dismayed multitudes, many of the 
 women weeping and sobbing — began to drift away, 
 remembering with dread the heavy anathemas that 
 those incurred who should interfere with the proces- 
 sion of the children, the Bishop turned again to the 
 Prioress who was weeping soft tears as she knelt 
 beside the dead child. 
 
 * Good Mother,' he said, ' thou hast cause to re- 
 joice. Thy nursling hath truly followed the Lamb 
 in life and death. Now will he indeed follow Him 
 
 P
 
 34 THE BOY BISHOP 
 
 whithersoever He goeth, having gone with the dew of 
 Grace still fresh on his brow.' 
 
 The Prioress looked up through her natural tears 
 of pity, and soon was comforted, to think of the 
 sweet child who had been her nuns' plaything, being 
 thus delivered from the heavy trials of this rude and 
 troublesome world, but the Bishop took — as he said 
 • — grief and repentance to himself for having endeav- 
 oured to carry out an ordinance fit indeed, as Holy 
 Writ showed, only for the very highest and holiest 
 saints in Heaven, among those who could not by any 
 means represent it rightly or without profane imita- 
 tion at the best. 
 
 There was a mark of a blow on the child's temple, 
 but whether given by hand or received in the fall, no 
 one could tell. For three days Oswald lay in state 
 before the Altar of the Holy Innocents, his childish 
 face full of unearthly beauty. Then he was buried 
 amid the tears of all Salisbury, and his effigy in his 
 robes was set up over his tomb, and it is still within 
 the Cathedral, though it has been moved from his 
 actual grave, and now lies between two of the pillars 
 of the nave. 
 
 There was no attempt to trace who was the 
 masker who had attacked him. He was beyond the 
 reach of the laws of the country, since the child was 
 reckoned as a clerk. Nor indeed did anyone guess
 
 THE BOY BISHOP 35 
 
 that more had been at stake than the protection of 
 the choir from the intrusion of the mob. More than 
 a year after, however, Bishop Hallam was sought 
 out by a miserable, broken-hearted man, Denis the 
 Fletcher. Diccon had run away from home in dis- 
 grace ; Piers had been caught in a drunken brawl, 
 and was under restraint by the Prior of his order; he 
 himself had lost his trade and had nearly come to 
 beggary, and convinced that all was the effect of the 
 curses his sin had incurred, he came to pour out all 
 to the Bishop. lie had 'not intended murder, but 
 had been driven into blind passion by being thwarted 
 by the passive resistance which to him appeared 
 stupid obstinacy. 
 
 And what was it .'' Had Oswald really known 
 what he was doing ? Had he embraced death rather 
 than promote an unworthy man ? Could the young 
 and simple little shepherd have understood the grave 
 issues of the matter ? Or had he been merely too 
 timid and awestruck, and too dull to understand what 
 was required of him .'' Or, what might be more likely, 
 did he faithfully act on a sound instinct that to do the 
 bidding of a man like Denis would be disobedience to 
 those whom he was bound to obey ? 
 
 None could say, not even Harry, who had known 
 the child best, and who was growing up to be a youth 
 
 D 2
 
 35 THE BOY ElSIIOt' 
 
 of much promise. All that could be known was that 
 Oswald, the Boy Bishop, had gone to join the Inno- 
 cents in the midst of defending the honour of his God, 
 whether consciously or unconsciously. 
 
 Seven years later the Cardinal Bishop, Robert 
 Hallam, lay dying in the chamber of an over-crowded 
 hostel at Constance. He was spent with months of 
 effort to reform the abuses of the Church (among 
 them this very festival of the Boy Bishop), and to 
 make her clergy into real shepherds instead of hirelings, 
 so that profaneness and violence might not so often 
 defile the holiest things. And now he was dying, 
 worn out by the conflict, baffled, and, as some deemed, 
 poisoned by the men who ' hated to be reformed, and 
 had cast God's words behind them.' 
 
 'Ah, well,' he said, to his sorrowing chaplain, 
 * there arc times when all that is left for a man to do, 
 is to die like little Oswald in guarding the sanctuary 
 gates. Non loqiiendo scd moricndo, said he. I have 
 spoken. Since they will not hear, I can only die, 
 trusting that the Dew of His Grace will never be 
 dried up from His Church.' 
 
 Darker days did indeed follow on his death, but 
 in the shortly ensuing Council of Basle, the festival of 
 the Boy Bishop was abolished ; and thwarted, and 
 turned aside, as it has often been, the quickening Dev/
 
 The bov bishop 37 
 
 has never been wanting. Even in the darkest, driest 
 ages, some green spots have testified to that refreshing 
 grace ; and ever and anon, vigour and energy improv- 
 ing and shaking off old evil, prove that still that 
 Spirit Who ' maketh all things new ' is poured upon 
 the Church.
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS. 
 
 Where there's a will there's a way.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE THREE MAIDENS. 
 
 Three maidens were crouching together on one large 
 bed, with a high carved oaken back and canopy, 
 and heavy tapestry curtains. They were linked 
 tightly in one another's arms, as if clinging together 
 lessened their sense of desolation, and when one or 
 other broke into sobs and wailing, the others kissed 
 and cheered, and soothed her as best they might. 
 
 Their castle, by name the Tower of the Mere, from 
 its situation on a small remote lake in the heart of the 
 Cumberland mountains, had that afternoon received 
 the Earl of Pembroke's pursuivant on his way from 
 Scotland, and through him they had learnt the tidings 
 that their father, Sir Thomas d'Estouteville, com- 
 monly called Stout Tom of the Meres, had been 
 made prisoner in a skirmish with Sir Edward de 
 Bruce. 
 
 Gilbert Button, the grey-haired pursuivant, 
 scrupled not to declare that a charge of twenty men- 
 at-arms would have saved the knight ; but the King
 
 42 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 had forbidden this lest it should bring on a battle, 
 and fiercely had my Lord of Pembroke chafed at him- 
 self for having waited for orders, and still more at the 
 deadly blight which had come over the manhood of 
 England, when the ' Hammer of the Scots ' had 
 breathed his last at Burgh-on-the-Sands. 
 
 The earl, an old friend and patron of Sir Thomas, 
 had sent Button to bear the tidings to the Tower, and 
 tell the daughters that their father's ransom had been 
 fixed at 15,000 crowns, which they ought to regard as 
 the greatest possible compliment to his valour. The 
 pursuivant was on hfs way to London, but he would 
 visit the Tower again in returning to Scotland, in 
 case they had any greetings to send Sir Thomas, or 
 an instalment of his ransom. 
 
 The eldest sister, Ankaret, had thanked him, and 
 inquired the time of his return, with so much compo- 
 sure and dignity, that the younger ones, Blanche and 
 little Gillian, never doubted that she knew where to 
 lay her hands on the sum required. Ankaret was five 
 years older than the next sister, and looked much 
 more. She was pale and worn, and halted a little in 
 her gait, having never quite recovered a bad fall on her 
 way home from the convent at Whitby. Her accident 
 had deferred her wedding with young Nigel Bruce, 
 whose brother was at that time a Cumbrian, as well as 
 a Scottish, noble and an obedient vassal of Edward I.
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 43 
 
 Before she had quitted her sick bed, the Bruces were 
 at the head of the national party in Scotland, and the 
 next winter, Nigel was taken in Kildrummie Castle, 
 and suffered a traitor's death. From thenceforth, 
 Ankaret had looked on the cloister as her destination 
 and refuge ; but her mother's death threw the whole 
 household care upon her, together with the charge of 
 her little sister Gillian. Her countenance, bearing the 
 tokens of peace won after a great storm of sorrow, 
 her still calm voice and demeanour, and her avowed 
 dedication to a religious life, made her be regarded as 
 a sufficient authority in the family, where she main- 
 tained excellent order and discipline ; while she was 
 devotedly loved by all who came under her influence. 
 Blanche, who was just sixteen, had been brought 
 home a few months previously from a small country 
 priory not far off, to be inspected by a baron, who 
 wanted an Estouteville heiress for his son, but finding 
 her portion less than he had expected, had withdrawn 
 from the contract. However, as the parties had never 
 met, this had not much hurt her spirits. Little Gillian 
 had never left home. Her father could not make up his 
 mind to part with her, and she had climbed the moun- 
 tains, ridden her rough pony, hunted and hawked, and 
 delighted to be called his bonnic lad, trying to forget 
 that she was but a lass. She was eleven years old, 
 and her sister w^as supposed to teach her all convent
 
 44 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 arts of stitchery and confections ; but she was the 
 least amenable of all Ankaret's subjects ; she tore 
 more garments than she sewed, and could gather and 
 eat whortleberries much better than preserve them 
 with honey. However, since her chief playfellow, 
 her father, had been in Scotland, her sisters had 
 made her spin a little, but very ' silly ' was the 
 thread, and often was the spinster missed, and found 
 careering round the court with the dogs, paddling 
 in the mere, or climbing the craig to call home the 
 goats. 
 
 But now little Gillian's merry eyes were swollen 
 with such tears as she had never shed before, for 
 Ankaret had declared that all the coin in the casket 
 had been spent on arms for the men who had gone to 
 Scotland with Sir Thomas. It was the remnant of 
 the ransom of his last captives. Rents there were 
 none ; dues were paid in kind or by labour ; and ready 
 money was not to be had ! What could be done .'' 
 To pledge the castle and lands to some rich monas- 
 tery, or to the Bishop, had been Ankaret's first thought, 
 and she had held counsel with the chaplain about it ; 
 but he had told her that the worth of the whole of 
 the little mountain nook was not a third of the ransom, 
 and that, moreover, all the Church property had been 
 so much harried of late by the Scots, and so much 
 had been called for by the King's extravagances, that
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 45 
 
 she must not hope to borrow from prelate, abbot, nor 
 Lombard. 
 
 The King could never let a brave warrior waste in 
 a dungeon. He would set him free. So said little 
 Gillian ; but her sisters knew too well that King 
 Edward had rather deck Piers Gaveston in gold and 
 jewels than spare a mark to deliver a brave man from 
 captivity ; and they wept again for the good and great 
 King Edward, whose death -bed at Burgh-on-the-Sands 
 their father had attended. 
 
 At last, little Gillian, worn out with tears, fell 
 asleep in Ankaret's arms ; the others kept still in 
 order not to disturb her, and Blanche soon slumbered 
 too ; but Ankaret, though motionless and dry-eyed, 
 Lny long, with a terrible ache at her heart, that the 
 harshness of such an excessive ransom should have 
 come from the Bruces, of all others. Could they not 
 have dealt kindly with her father for Nigel's sake, 
 instead of dooming him to what they must know 
 would be, to a man of his means, endless captivity ? 
 
 She la}', while the moonlight passed from the 
 south loophole to the western, and then was lost in 
 the morning light. The other two may have 
 awakened, but none moved till the morning stir 
 began, and then Gillian started to her feet, crying, 'I 
 know what I will do. Father shall not be left in 
 prison ! '
 
 46 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 Blanche sat up, and parting back her hair with 
 her hands, looked resolute, and said, ' I have my plan. 
 Father shall not be left in prison ! ' 
 
 Ankaret crossed their brows with drops from the 
 holy-water stoup, and said — ' If it be God's will — 
 Father shall not be left in prison ! ' 
 
 * I shall go to him, and file his fetters through,' 
 cried Gillian, her dark eyes glittering. Her sisters 
 smiled at her confident proposal, and she cried, * Yea, 
 it was the mouse that freed the lion in the barefoot 
 Friar's sermon ! Father is the lion, and his little Jill 
 is the mouse.' 
 
 'Well spoken, mighty mouse,' said Blanche, eager 
 to tell her own scheme. * Ankaret, I will to the 
 Court, when high festival is holden, and will pray 
 King Edward to grant me a champion. I will offer 
 myself and all that I have to the good knight and 
 true who shall deliver my father. If there be knight- 
 hood in England, or power in a fair face, he shall be 
 freed ! ' And Blanche swept back her profuse flaxen 
 tresses, showing a face between so white-skinned and 
 rose-tinted, with such lovely features, that her fond 
 elder sister thought no true knight or squire could 
 hold back from such a suppliant's request. 
 
 * But how canst thou reach the Court ? ' she asked. 
 *ril find the way. My noble godfather — my Lord 
 
 of Pembroke will aid me.'
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 4/ 
 
 'And what wilt thou do for father, sister?' said 
 the httle one, turning to Ankaret, almost as if it were 
 a game. 
 
 ' I can but aid with my prayers,' said she. 'Add 
 my third of our heritage to thine, Blanche, if that will 
 serve to win thee a champion. Lands may profit 
 thee, and they are not needed by a poor bcdcs- 
 woman.'
 
 4^ ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 CHAPTER II, 
 
 THE MOUSE. 
 
 Spring was making the bonnic north countrie green 
 and beautiful. The mountains rose hke purple clouds, 
 with fantastic masses of white in their hollows, the 
 torrents rushed headlong down their clefts, to dance 
 and babble in the clear streams below, the grass grew 
 rich and lush, the trees were white with blossom, the 
 flowers carpeted every bank, the bushes rang with the 
 notes of the blackbird and thrusli, the lakes reflected 
 the clear brilliancy of the sky and the rich colouring 
 of the mountains. 
 
 Young Maurice Button thought he had never seen 
 a fairer spot, as his heart leapt within him, and he 
 longed for a gallop on the green sward that bordered 
 lovely Ulswater. He was the pursuivant's grandson, 
 a lad of fifteen, making his first outset in the train of 
 his grandsire. The previous day had been spent at 
 the Tower of the Mere, which, according to promise, 
 Gilbert Button had visited on his return to carry a 
 message from Pembroke to the Scottish enemy. He
 
 One will and three ways '45 
 
 had received from the young ladies for their father's 
 behoof, a purse, a letter, and a bundle of raiment, and 
 Gillian's coaxing entreaties htid also prevailed with 
 him to take with him the knight's favourite hound as 
 a solace to his captivity. Maurice had undertaken 
 the charge, but he was beginning to rue the attention 
 he had paid to the little maiden's blandishments, for 
 Lenoir would by no means consent to be dragged 
 away from home, and tugged at the leash so as 
 nearly to pull him off his horse, and the men-at-arms 
 who were riding near advised that the beast should 
 be let go, while he could still find his way back. 
 
 Suddenly Lenoir made a bound, which broke the 
 leash, and began with frantic barks to dance round a 
 young boy on a rough pony who was alongside of 
 them. 
 
 ' Hallo, there ! ' called Maurice ; ' dost know the 
 dog ? ' 
 
 ' Aye, sir,' was the answer, in a clear young voice ; 
 ' he will follow mc without the Icash.' 
 
 ' Thou are not going with us ? ' 
 
 'Yes, I am, sir ; I have a charge.' 
 
 ' What from the ladies of the Mere .?' 
 
 ' From Sir Thomas d'Estouteville's daughters. 1 
 could not set off with you, but I followed.' 
 
 ' I knew nought of this. Didst thou. Will .' ' asked 
 young Button. 
 
 E
 
 50 ONE WILL AND TItREE WAYS 
 
 * Not I, sir. Belike the ladies settled it with the 
 pursuivant.' 
 
 Maurice came to the same conclusion ; but he 
 could not consult his grandfather, for the priest of 
 Keswick, delighted to fall in with anyone fresh from 
 court, was riding with the party conversing. The 
 pursuivant himself, a man of peace, had only four 
 attendants, but they were accompanied by twenty 
 men-at-arms, on the way to reinforce one of Lord 
 Pembroke's Scottish garrisons. No sooner did the 
 captain observe the boy than he called out, ' Hallo ! 
 what have we here ? ' 
 
 Maurice made answer, * 'Tis a page whom Sir 
 Thomas d'Estoutevilie's daughters are sending 
 him.' 
 
 'A page! Another mammet to dandle,' laughed 
 the captain. ' How now, youngster, what's thy 
 name .'' ' 
 
 ' Giles, at your service,' and the boy turned on his 
 saddle to face the inquirer with a sort of frightened 
 audacity. He was a pretty fellow, with a brightly 
 tinted, somewhat weather-browned face, quicc dark 
 eyes, and hair roughly trimmed under a little crimson 
 cap, to which a black cock's double-curved tail gave 
 a jaunty air, and he was dressed in a grey homespun 
 suit. His expression was saucy and yet half scared, 
 and some of the soldiers would have baited him with
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS $1 
 
 rough jokes, but that Maurice first answered for him, 
 and then kept Iiini out of their way. 
 
 Old Gilbert Button himself ma)' have thought the 
 child belonged to the soldiers, for he never noticed 
 him during the mid-day rest. In the evening there 
 was a halt at a peel tower on the Sohvay, held by an 
 English knight. Here the grandfather, anxious to 
 practise Maurice in the duties of a page, kept him 
 employed at the supper table, so that he could not 
 snatch his own meal till the knight and squire had 
 finished ; and the former was listening to the oft-told 
 tale of Gaveston's insults to the nobles, how he called 
 their own Lord Pembroke himself, Joseph the Jew, the 
 Earl of Warwick, the black dog of Ardennes, and the 
 Earl of Lancaster, the stage-player ; also how the 
 king demeaned himself by going about in a barge on 
 the Thames chaffering for cabbages like any coster- 
 monger. Amid the growls of vexation and censure, 
 and the whispers that measures must be taken against 
 the arrogant minion, Maurice looked about for the small 
 Giles, and finding him nowhere in the hall, betook 
 himself to the lower story of the tower, which was 
 used as stable, byre, pigstyc, henroost, and likewise 
 bedroom for all not of exalted rank. 
 
 The human inhabitants were at supper in the hall 
 above, and though there it was still daylight, dark- 
 ness was fast coming over this vaulted almost un- 
 
 E 2
 
 52 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 lighted place, as Maurice descended the stone stair 
 hearing all around the rattling of chains, the champ- 
 ing of horses' teeth, and the hollow tramp of their 
 hoofs, but through all he distinguished a little sobbing. 
 Directed by which he found his way to where the rough 
 pony stood. There, with arms around Lenoir, sitting 
 up, startled, and trying to choke down the sobs as a 
 step approached, was their volunteer comrade. 
 
 * Ho, Mistress Gillian ! ' was Maurice's address. 
 ' Art ready to go back again .-• ' 
 
 ' Gillian me no Gillians,' was the answer, with a 
 passionate leap on her feet. 'Thou art a malapert 
 lad to spy me out and flout me.' 
 
 Amazed at the ready wit which repelled his greet- 
 ing as the mere twitting a boy with girlish tears, Maurice 
 added in his teasing voice, ' There was more of Gillian 
 than of Giles in thy courtesy when Sir John met us.' 
 
 ' Oh, Maurice,' she said, abandoning her disguise, 
 'thou wilt not tell. Did anyone see it but thou .'' ' 
 
 ' I thought thou wast crying to get home to thy 
 sisters.' 
 
 * No, indeed ! I'm going to deliver my father ! ' 
 ' A fine deliverer, sobbing in the straw ! ' 
 
 'I shall never do that again.' 
 ' For thou wilt be at home to-morrow night.' 
 ' Thou hast not told .'' ' she cried, passionately. 
 Perhaps he would have tormented her longer had not
 
 ONK WILL AND THREE WAYS 53 
 
 ringing steps on the stairs warned them that they 
 should not be alone much longer, so they dropped 
 down together in the straw by the pony's nose while 
 Gillian pleaded. ' If thou hadst a father in prison, 
 wouldst thou not go to him ?' 
 
 ' I'm not a wench. I could do some good,' 
 ' But father has no son. I always was his boy. I 
 I must go ; and see — I've got the armourer's file, and 
 shall break his chain for him. Good Maurice Button, 
 remember the whortleberries and cream I gave thee, 
 and betray me not ! And I will give you Sweetheart's 
 blackest pup and love }'ou for evermore.' 
 
 Maurice had a soft heart, and admired her spirit, 
 while, boylike, he enjoyed outwitting his elders ; and 
 he let her eloquence prevail, but v.ith many warnings 
 not to betray herself, as his grandfather would be sure 
 to think smuggling her in, not consistent with the 
 honour of the heraldic profession, of which he was 
 very jealous. At present, he thought she belonged to 
 the soldiers, as they thought she belonged to him, but 
 if he discovered who she was, she would certainly be 
 sent home. Ilcr tears had sprung from loneliness 
 and the first experience of neglect and longing for her 
 sisters and home ; but when she had Maurice to speak 
 to, her spirit revived, and she was happy again. She 
 did not mind roughing it ; and was pretty well inured 
 to hardships in hunting excursions with her father ;
 
 54 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 the mode of riding was no novelty to her, so that 
 among a party who cared not at all about a very 
 small page, she attracted no observation, while 
 Maurice was ever ready to shield, help, and protect 
 her, letting no one tease her except himself. 
 
 When the pursuivant and the captain came to an 
 understanding that the stranger belonged to neither 
 of them, Maurice was applied to about him, and 
 answered warily : ' ITe is from the Meres. He says 
 his name is Giles, and that the ladies have sent him 
 under your care to their father.' 
 
 Gilbert Dutton taxed his memory whether he had 
 received such a request, knowing that he should not 
 have granted it ; but he was an old man, and had had a 
 long ride, followed by a hearty meal of mountain kid 
 and spiced Malvolsie, and he knew he had nodded, 
 while Ankaret had been talking to him. In his uncer- 
 tainty, he sent for ' Giles * and cross-examined him ; 
 but Gillian's readiness was a match for all questions, 
 and he became so well convinced that his consent had 
 been asked and given in his slumberous oblivion, as to 
 make no further doubt about tills member of his party. 
 
 In due time they reached Stirling, then the limit 
 of Edward II.'s possessions. There the soldiers r^e- 
 maincd while the pursuivant went forward to Ayr, 
 where Robert Bruce was recruiting his health at the 
 baths, which arc still, from his sojourn there, called
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 55 
 
 King's Ease, and where he founded an hospital for 
 sufferers from the same disease as his own. 
 
 The whole country lay desolate with black patches 
 and broken walls, marking where homesteads had 
 once stood ; and as the party went further west, it 
 vvas over moorland and moss with scarce a sign of 
 habitation till they approached the coast. 
 
 In a valley round the healing springs were a 
 cluster of wooden houses and tents, and from a mound 
 in the centre waved the Lion of Scotland. Here 
 Maurice had told Gillian they should hear in what 
 castle her father was imprisoned, and learn whether 
 it was possible for her to reach him. 
 
 Button, in his heraldic surcoat of the blue and 
 gold fcsscs of Valence, with the Fairy Melusina 
 embroidered as the badge on his cap, was free to pass 
 in with his suite, and was at once taken to the large 
 barnlike.erection which sheltered the national monarch 
 and hero of Scotland. The great Robert was on a 
 large carved chair, with his feet swathed and on a 
 stool, by a smouldering peat fire in the centre of the 
 room under a hole for the issue of the smoke. The 
 walls were hung with pine branches, and decked with 
 deer and wolf skins. Hooded hawks sat upon the 
 antlers that projected from them, and dogs bayed at 
 the entrance of the strangers. 
 
 But Gillian saw none of this. She only saw a
 
 55 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 knight standing near King Robert, in the long robes 
 of peace, not chained nor fettered, moving as freely as 
 an}-one present. She forgot that she was a boy, for- 
 got that she was a humble little supernumerary page 
 in the presence of a crowned king, forgot everything 
 in that sight, and with a wild shriek of ecstasy, 
 ' Father ! father ! father ! ' she flew past everyone, 
 darted into his arms, and hid her face on his breast. 
 
 It was perhaps a fortunate interruption of the for- 
 malities, since no true Englishman could grant Bruce 
 the title of the king, and he could listen to nothing 
 addressed to him as Earl of Carrick. All Button 
 could do was to show himself as much astounded 
 as the rest ; but he was hardly heeded. The king was 
 watching the meeting with tears in his eyes, as he 
 thought of his own Marjorie, his only child, a captive 
 from her babyhood in England. Eittle Gillian was 
 the heroine of the hour, and when her father led her 
 to the king to ask his pardon, the royal warrior bent 
 down and kissed her brow, telling her she was a leal 
 wee lassie. Slie sat between him and her father at 
 supper, and made them sport with her lively prattle 
 on the incidents of her journey. But when her father 
 took her to his own tent where she was to sleep, he 
 was much graver, and asked her what Ankaret had 
 said to her enterprire. 
 
 ' Ankaret and Blanche treated it all as folly,' said 
 she, pouting.
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 57 
 
 * And thou earnest away unknown to them. Poor 
 Ankaret, thou hast brought more trouble on her.' 
 
 ' She must know where I am gone!' 
 
 ' Great comfort in that ! Akack ! it is true that I 
 have cockered thee over much, else wouldst thou 
 never have dared this.' 
 
 * I came to set thee free. I have a file to break 
 thy fetters, father. Why hast thou none 'i ' she asked 
 as if she were balked. 
 
 ' I'ecause a knight's word is stronger than iron, 
 Gillian. I am a captive on parole to Sir Edward 
 Bruce ; and so, sweetheart, thy file is of no avail.' 
 
 The poor little mouse had found her lion under an 
 impalpable net, against which her teeth were of no 
 service. She hid her face and wept bitterly. 
 
 Moreover, all the ladies of the Scottish court 
 being captive, her father knew not how to bestow her, 
 save in a convent. He would r.ot listen for a moment 
 to her scheme of attending him in her page's trim. 
 Dutton had to go to the Lord of Lorn in the north, 
 and then return with all speed to his lord, so that he 
 could not take her home, and all poor little Gillian 
 gained by her attempt was incarceration in a solemn 
 and strict Cistercian nunnery, among a number of 
 little Scots, who called her a false Southron and 
 thought more of her unfeminine freak, than of the 
 filial devotion that had prompted it.
 
 58 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE VOW OF THE SWAN. 
 
 The next October, King Edward kept his court at 
 York, and there was high banquetting in the great 
 hall where sat the king and queen, the two most 
 beautiful people in England, crowned and gorgeously- 
 robed, surrounded by all that was young and splendid 
 in the realm. 
 
 Blanche d'Estouteville thought nothing could rival 
 the scene, as dazzled, flushed, and trembling, she 
 waited behind a tall carved screen under the care of 
 good old Gilbert Button. The Earl of Pembroke had 
 at first undertaken to escort her himself; but on find- 
 ing that Edward had recalled his unworthy favourite 
 from Ireland, he had refused to attend the parliament 
 of York, and had sent word to his god-daughter that 
 she must wait for a more favourable opportunity. 
 Blanche, however, would brook no delay. She 
 thought the earl dull and lukewarm in his friend's 
 cause, and believed that he was only making excuses. 
 Sir Thomas had already been in prison a year, and he
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE \YAYS 59 
 
 would die there unless she exerted herself at once, 
 without waiting for slack friendship. Besides, York 
 was the right place in which to look for the champion 
 of a northern knight. 
 
 Lord Pembroke shrugged his shoulders at the 
 folly and impatience of women, and foretold that she 
 would make a bootless quest ; but he permitted his old 
 pursuivant to go and take care that the silly damsel 
 came to no harm among the roistering gallants of the 
 court. So while the maiden stood entranced by the 
 magnificence of gold and jewels, feathers and robes, 
 Button thought of the contrast with the court of a few 
 years back, when noble, resolute men, grown grey in 
 war and council, had sat in the seats now occupied 
 by young fops with pointed hoods, witless ; long 
 coats, graceless. The Earl of Cornwall, as men, under 
 severe penalties, were bidden to call Gaveston, a 
 Gascon, with regular dark features, set off to the acme 
 of extravagant foppery, sat next to Queen Isabel, a 
 brilliant blonde of sixteen, but with an expression of 
 sullen discontent, while the king and his favourite 
 laughed and talked across her, as if she were a mere 
 child not worth attention. Edward himself had the 
 perfect features of his race, and when at rest, there was 
 something kingly and even pathetic in his face, but 
 his laugh instantly betrayed his weakness and folly. 
 Blanche, however, only beheld the splendour of his
 
 Co ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 royalty, though it was- more in his crown than his 
 countenance. A kin^r so fair must needs be kind. 
 Did they say her father's cause would have been safe 
 v/ith stern old Longshanks ? Far more must it 
 prosper with so young and gracious a king. Music 
 sounded in the gallery above. The Archbishop's choir 
 and that of the Cathedral sang and made addresses ; 
 the first course had been eaten, and was being re- 
 mo\-cd when Button touched the lady, and showed 
 her Maurice and another page supporting between 
 them an enormous silver dish on which was placed a 
 stuffed swan, its neck arched, and its wings erected 
 and crossed, after the graceful manner of its kind upon 
 the water. 
 
 This was Blanche's signal. With her dark blue 
 hood falling back and showing the long tresses of fair 
 hair plaited with gold, that hung down on cither side 
 to her waist ; and a rich blue robe, with long hanging 
 gold embroidered sleeves, opening in front to show 
 her white velvet skirt, she moved forward, closely 
 followed by the pages carrying the swan, till, as she 
 came in front of the king, she dropped on her knee 
 on the step of the dais, and holding up her hands 
 joined in supplication, exclaimed, 'A boon, a boon, 
 my liege. I seek a knight who will deliver my 
 father.' 
 
 There had been a moment's pause in the music
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 6t 
 
 and revelry, in the expectation of a pageant, but long 
 before Blanche had begun to speak, the buzz had 
 begun again, and she could not hear what passed 
 between the king and his immediate surroundings. 
 
 ' Is't a device ? ' 
 
 ' A mighty sorry one if it be.' 
 
 ' That monster goose only comes forth as the shoe- 
 ing horn to some wild goose chase.' 
 
 ' 'Tis some insolence of the Stage player's.' 
 
 ' Nay, I smell not Tom of Lancaster in this paltry 
 device. Yonder is Aymar of Pembroke's old esquire 
 bringing up Uie rear.' 
 
 * In sooth, the scantness of the trapping smacks of 
 Joseph the Jew.' 
 
 ' The wench is fair enough. We'll hear her.' 
 ' Have a care, my lord. She has got by heart a 
 speech three ells long, on the Scots' war, and the 
 Commons' murmurs, and your poor Piers's mis- 
 deeds.' 
 
 * Never fear, gossip Piers. So soon as she runs into 
 length, we bid pipe and cymbal strike up. Peace there ! 
 Can none of you keep your tongues still a moment .' ' 
 Then turning to Blanche, who still knelt on the step, 
 * Speak, maiden ; who sent thee here ? ' 
 
 'No man, my liege,' said Blanche, crimsoning, as 
 she felt curious eyes scanning her. * I came of my 
 free will.'
 
 62 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 * Out with it then,' said the king. ' On with the 
 mumming.' 
 
 * I am no mummer, sir ! ' cried the girl, on her 
 feet in an instant, her eyes sparkHng with indignation. 
 ' I am daughter to Sir Thomas d'Estouteville of the 
 Meres, foully made captive in Scotland. I am here 
 to crave your permission to ofifer my hand and 
 portion to any good knight and true who v/ill take up 
 my cause, and obtain the freedom of my lord and 
 father.' 
 
 She looked with eager passionate pleading along 
 the rows of knights and dames, but she did not meet 
 the return glance she expected. Some ladies were 
 whispering, ' Her hood is in the fashion of the days 
 of old Queen Eleanor ! ' Others, ' Brazen lass ! thus 
 to make a show of herself like a damosel in a Geste 
 book ; ' while gentler dames sighed, that so fair and 
 sweet-faced a maid should have no parents to guard 
 and guide her. 
 
 Men muttered together a few criticisms on the 
 beautiful imploring face, but cliiefly questions on the 
 worth of the Mere lands, and jokes upon the prize, as 
 idle youth, in times of degeneracy, is ever wont to 
 make game of what would have stirred their fathers 
 to the very heart. 
 
 * Thou'dst best undertake it. The Tower will 
 patch up thy debts.'
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 6^ 
 
 ' Who — I ? Dost think mc such an oaf as to bury 
 me alive in a grim Border castle ? What sayest thou, 
 Hugo ? Thou hast a turn for castles and damosels. 
 Here's a faite worthy of the docipairs themselves.' 
 
 * Did the docipairs ever undertake an emprise for 
 a grim old father-in-law ? Stout Tom would scarce 
 give his daughter's husband seisin while he could hold 
 a grip.' 
 
 ' Dullard ! As though his rescue might not be 
 attempted in such sort as to make the Bruce tighten 
 his grip, and maybe bestow him where he would 
 trouble thee no more.' 
 
 This passed, while on the king signing consent, a 
 horn was wound, and Dutton proclaimed — • 
 
 ' Oyez, oyez, oyez ! Here standcth the noble 
 damosel, Blanche d'Estouteville, of the Tower of the 
 Mere, offering her fair hand and her inheritance of 
 two-thirds of the Mere lands, to whomsoever of this 
 company, being a knight, or esquire about to win 
 his spurs, who will make the Vow of the Swan, to 
 redeem from captivity, by ransom or exchange, her 
 father, Sir Thomas d'Estouteville, the prisoner of the 
 attainted traitor Sir Edward de Bruce.' 
 
 Three times the horn sounded, and Dutton made 
 his proclamation. Blanche stood mute, with a crystal 
 tear on each burning cheek. The second time a 
 goodly youth would have sprung up, but was held
 
 64 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 down forcibly between his motlicr and elder brother, 
 the one saying, ' No daring wench for my son's wife ! ' 
 —the other — ' Senseless lad, a mere bit of bare rock.' 
 The youth was quenched, and the third proclamation 
 followed. Blanche, with beating heart and tear- 
 dimmed eye, was about to retreat, when there ad- 
 vanced a light slim figure, gaily clad in crimson, tawny, 
 and blue robes, which made a brave appearance at 
 first sight, though they were perhaps a little frayed and 
 greasy. He had a brown face, dark, small glitter- 
 ing eyes, black hair, and moustache, and he bowed 
 to the very floor, as he exclaimed, in a French accent, 
 ' Never be it said that fair damsel craved succour in 
 vain before Ferrand de Honifort. Madame, I offer 
 myself, my sword, my horse, my purse, and an arm 
 not unknown to fame, to deliver the doughty and 
 renowned Sir Thomas d'Estouteville, deeming myself 
 amply repaid by permission to kiss but once that fair 
 hand.' 
 
 Button made a step forward, but held back, as 
 Blanche, with a beaming look of joy, held out her 
 hand, and he kissing it, and holding the tips of her 
 fingers, asked the king's permission to undertake the 
 feat of arms. 
 
 ' Certes,' replied Edward. ' Thou art free to make 
 thy fortune — if yonder goose will lay thee golden 
 eggs,' he muttered aside.
 
 One will anG three ways 0$ 
 
 Sir Fcrrand dc Honifort laid his hand on the 
 Swan, and swore by it, to become the champion of 
 the Lady Blanche, and win her father's freedom. 
 There was a great outburst of applause, and the king 
 called out, * Well said, my Fcrrand. To-morrow 
 we'll see thy bridal to the Lady of the Swan. Ha, 
 maiden, what sayest thou .'' ' 
 
 ' If he will deliver my father,' she faltered. 
 
 'Dost doubt me, lady.'' cried Honifort. 'It ill 
 beseems a man's tongue to speak of his own deeds, 
 but Gascony, Navarre, Castille, France, Wales, Ire- 
 land, yea, and Scotland, can testify to the deeds of 
 Ferrand de Honifort ! ' 
 
 Therewith he led her to a seat at the banquet 
 table, and there, while fresh ' subtilties ' and devices 
 came in, and music brayed louder, she listened with 
 wondering and delighted ear to stories of six Welsh- 
 men at once impaled on Honifort's lance ; of Irish 
 kernes slaughtered like sheep ; of Poitevin castles 
 won by escalade ; and though she had imagined that 
 her champion would be English, not Gascon, and 
 likewise a good deal younger, she was completely 
 won over, and quite believed that her Paladin would, 
 as he promised, broil the Black Douglas in his own 
 larder, and overthrow every castle in Scotland, to 
 bring home Sir Thomas.
 
 C6 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 So she treated with scorn Button's entreaties at 
 least to submit her wedding to the approval of Pem- 
 broke as mere jealousy of the opposite faction ; and 
 two days later, she became the bride of Honifort in 
 York Minster, then in its first glory.
 
 ONE WILL AND tllREE WAYS 67 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE BEDESWOMAN. 
 
 'One castle could not hold two mistresses.' So said 
 Sir Ferrand de Honifort., 
 
 Probably he also thought it could hardly have 
 two masters ; for he had received investiture of the 
 Tower of the Meres, and done homage for it, as he 
 told Blanche to make all things sure. As to offering 
 ransom for Sir Thomas, he could not in conscience 
 send good coin to the Scottish rebels. In less than a 
 week, his lady had found that all the gold belonging 
 to him was the clasp of his belt, nay, even that was 
 pledged, and so was one of his black moustaches, 
 which she had to redeem from a Lombard merchant 
 before they could leave York. It was not for Scot- 
 land. He must first raise means from the churls. In 
 P'rance, people knew how to make Jaques Bonhomme 
 pay, and not grow surly, as easiness made him here ! 
 So Blanche rode home in the trust that the six 
 ruffianly-looking fellows in his train were the begin- 
 ning of the band that was to uproot rebellion among 
 
 V 2
 
 68 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 the Scots, and bring home the heads of the two 
 Bruces on the two points of a hayfork ! 
 
 With ill-disguised vexation, he beheld the fond 
 greeting of the sisters ; and no sooner had he ob- 
 served the complete obedience of the meinie of the 
 castle to Ankaret, than he told his wife, loud enough 
 to be heard by her sister, that nuns were best in their 
 cells, and that it made him sick to see that white- 
 faced devotee, for ever spinning save when she was 
 telling her beads. 
 
 Blanche, who had begun to be possessed with a 
 nameless fear of her lord, pleaded to keep her sister 
 while he was pricking against the Scot ; but she was 
 told that he was waiting for the great expedition that 
 the king was going to lead, so soon as he should have 
 freed himself from the disloyal traitors who hindered 
 him. She burst into tears, and said that such delays 
 were not what she wedded him for ; whereupon an evil 
 look came into his small black eyes, and with uplifted 
 arm he bade her beware of questioning the honour of 
 a Honifort. 
 
 Ankaret saw that it would be better for all if she 
 were away. Silent as she was, her presence inflamed 
 Sir Ferrand, the retainers appealed to her against his 
 Commands, and not only they, but his wife, suffered 
 when he had worked himself up into a true Gascon 
 fury. So she told the weeping Blanche that she
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 69 
 
 should leave her ; and when her sister entreated that 
 it might not be for so distant a cloister as Whitby, 
 she said she should not enter a convent, as she could 
 not give up her goods, till the ransom was paid. 
 
 ' Alas ! ' sighed Blanche, ' my lord took thee at thy 
 word, as to thy share of the lands.' 
 
 ' I need no lands,' said Ankaret. * There were 
 three motherless lambs, which Gillian named after us 
 three sisters, Nance, Blanche, and Jill. We bred them 
 by the hall-fire, and now they graze on the hill-side. 
 Those, and my own white goat, are all I would take 
 with me, save what I ha\^e in my coffer.' 
 
 'Thy Book of the Hours,' said Blanche, carelessly ; 
 * thou art welcome.' 
 
 'Somewhat more than that,' and Ankaret showed 
 in the corner of the coffer a bag full of silver coins. 
 
 ' I thought we had emptied our stores,' said 
 Blanche. ' Didst thou keep back a hoard ? ' 
 
 ' Nay, truly,' and Ankaret pointed to the distaff in 
 her girdle. ' Dickon, the huckster, takes my )-arn to 
 the great chepe at York, and pays me for it in coined 
 money. I hoard it towards the ransom,' and she 
 smiled. 
 
 * Ah ! ' sighed poor Blanche, and then she whis- 
 pered furtively, ' Let not my lord guess at it ! Keep 
 it in thy bosom, not thy coffer, when thou goest. 
 And, oh ! woe is mc ! Where wilt thou go .'' '
 
 70 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 * Knowest thou not that the old anchoress, whose 
 cell was in the wall of S. Oswald's, died last winter ? 
 By favour of the good parson, Sir Matthew, there 
 mean I to abide, with my work and my beads.' 
 
 ' Alas, how canst thou live ? ' 
 
 * My sheep and goat will graze on the hill-side, 
 and there is an anchoress' croft which the good folks, 
 of their charity, fill on the holy-days ; also, they bring 
 peats from the mountain. Fear not, sweet sister; I 
 long for peace and rest.' 
 
 * There's little enough here,' moaned Blanche. 
 *Yet, didst thou spin night and day, what would 
 that be towards the ransom ? Alack, poor father ! ' 
 
 * It is my best,' said Ankaret. ' Spinning can do 
 little, but God can do all. He bids us strive and 
 pray, pray and strive ; nor have I any other way of 
 striving.' 
 
 *Woe is me, I strove without praying!' said 
 Blanche. 
 
 ' The way of prayer is never closed,' replied the 
 elder sister. 
 
 So Ankaret repaired to one of the cells built for 
 female hermits in the thickness of the church walls, 
 with a scarce visible window and door outside, but a 
 larger one of each into the Church. The anchoress 
 could hear mass without quitting her cell, if she wished 
 for total seclusion, ; but if she became a lay sister of
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 7 1 
 
 mercy to the parish, she opened her door and was 
 easily accessible. 
 
 To Ankaret the cell was a blessed shelter and home, 
 where she span and prayed, prayed and span, with- 
 out distraction, living on goats' milk and barley cakes, 
 which the goodwives of the dales left in plenty for the 
 noble recluse, together with butter, cheeses, and moun- 
 tain fruits ; and fuel was willingly brought her by the 
 peasants, also hay for the animals, which she housed in 
 winter in a vault below her chamber. To a hardy 
 North-countrywoman, trained in monastic rigour, there 
 was nothing terrible in the cold, which made the tem- 
 per of the Gascon knight so villanous that he nearly 
 killed his wife, by throwing his heavy boot at her. 
 
 His temper was the worse for news of the fall of 
 his patron, Gaveston, and for viewing poor Blanche as 
 a connection of the Earl of Pembroke, one of the fore- 
 most in the overthrow ; nor would he join the royal 
 army the following year, because he professed not to 
 be safe among Gaveston's enemies. The repulse the 
 troops met was wholly due, he declared, to the absence 
 of his doughty arm. 
 
 Then came a great Scottish invasion. It did not 
 greatly affect the Lakes ; for there was little promise 
 of anything but hard blows in the mountain passes, 
 and Honister Crag and Borrowdale Pass offered few 
 temptations. So BUnche, from her battlements, and
 
 72 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 Ankaret, from her church-tower, only beheld the sky 
 lighted by distant flames, and prayed for the sufferers, 
 as the horrid light went southwards ; for Bruce swept 
 on as far as Chester, and thence visited the Isle of 
 IMan, leaving his brother Edward to carry on the war 
 in Scotland. 
 
 Edward Bruce was besieging Stirling, and had 
 forced the governor, Mowbray, to pledge himself to 
 yield unless he was relieved before Midsummer-day. 
 Summonses- to meet King Edward at Berwick were 
 sent out to all his vassals, and a troop of gentlemen 
 set forth with their yeomen for the muster, and among 
 them Sir Ferrand de Honifort. 
 
 On the greensward of the ravine, at the head of 
 which stood S. Oswald's Church, they encountered a 
 small band of Scotsmen, coming from the north, all 
 on horseback, and well armed. After the first shock, 
 however, the enemy turned and fled from the larger and 
 stronger body of English, as if they were leaderless, 
 straight towards the Sohvay Firth, hotly pursued by 
 the victors, 
 
 Ankaret had known nothing of this within the 
 thick walls of her cell, murmuring her Psalms as she 
 twisted her thread, until she was interrupted by the 
 priest. Sir Matthew, who came to tell her that he 
 needed her aid in dealing with a wounded man. She 
 followed him to the northern end of the valley, where,
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 73 
 
 on some rough ground hidden by fern and he?.ther, 
 beyond where the encounter had taken place, lay a 
 man, senseless, in bright but plain armour. They 
 loosed his helmet, and disclosed a sunburnt, rugged 
 face of rufous complexion, a short beard, and hair of 
 the same ruddy tint. 
 
 'A Scot ! ' exclaimed the priest, with some recoil. 
 
 ' A Scot has a life to save,' said Ankaret. ' He 
 
 seems to be only stunned. If we can shelter him from 
 
 the people till night, he could, maybe, get over the 
 
 Border.' 
 
 ' Look you, daughter,' said the parson ; ' I would 
 gladly save any man's life ; but a false Scot is not 
 to be trusted with the knowledge of our lurking- 
 places.' 
 
 Ankaret did not reply. She was putting wine to 
 the knight's lips. He drank, looked at her with dazed 
 eyes, and asked where were his loons. 
 
 'Do not speak, sir,' she said. 'You have been 
 thrown, and your horse has run off. Can you walk a 
 few paces to shelter and sanctuary ? ' 
 
 Still too much stunned for clear understanding, 
 the Scot let himself be assisted to rise and move 
 forward between the priest and Ankaret. At first he 
 was too giddy to see or hear ; but before they reached 
 the Church he began to glare fiercely about him, to 
 utter imprecations against his horse for stumbling
 
 74 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 and his men for deserting him, and to shake off his 
 supporters. 
 
 * Trust us, sir,' said Ankaret. * The Church is the 
 only refuge from the dalesmen's knives.' 
 
 ' How do I know that I may trust thee ? ' hotly 
 demanded their prisoner. 
 
 • Because I am Ankaret d'Estouteville ! ' was the 
 answer. 
 
 He was instantly silent, and went on with them to 
 the Church. The dalesmen respected sanctuary ; but 
 their forbearance would be so sorely tried by knowing 
 a Scottish foe to be near that it was thought best to 
 dispose of the stranger in the vault where Ankaret 
 stabled her sheep ; and having left him there with a 
 promise of fetching him food. Sir Matthew demanded 
 of the lady whether she knew the man. She made 
 a sign of assent, adding, * But, dear sir, suffer me to 
 hold my peace. It may be the better if questions be 
 put to thee. Enough that now, if ever, I see hopes 
 for my father.' 
 
 Sir Matthew had great trust in the noble anchoress, 
 and, though a true lover of England, had no desire to 
 see a gallant gentleman either murdered by dalesmen 
 or given up to die as a traitor ; so he consented 
 to keep watch as he recited his breviary in the 
 Church, while Ankaret carried provisions to the vault, 
 in whose narrow bounds her captive was pacing
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 75 
 
 like a panther in a cage, so that the clang of his 
 armour was phiinly audible above. She raised her 
 hand, and warned him that his safety depended on 
 being unheard, * Safety ! ' he repeated. ' Means 
 that captiv ity or freedom ? ' 
 
 ' Thou knowest, Edward Bruce,' she answered. 
 * None, save myself — not even the parson — guesses 
 thy name. We will do our best to speed thee over the 
 Border safely, and I trust to the honour of the Bruces 
 too much to think it needful to bind thee to the 
 exchange.* 
 
 ' Aha ! thou hast a kindness for the traitors still ! ' 
 said the rougli Edward. ' Is't true that thou hast 
 forsworn wedlock for poor Nigel's sake ? Nay, I 
 meant not to gar thee greet. ]ktter for thee that 
 thou wast not wed, or thou mightest be in an 
 iron cage, like Robin's poor gudewife, who has had 
 little joy of her queendom. Look ye ! Dinna greet 
 like that, mine old playmate. I'm not so ill a man 
 as you English deem me. I should have driven 
 my lance home, and never cried " Yield ! " when I 
 had stout Sir Thomas down, but for a thought of 
 that merry Yule-tide, ere Rob became a hunted 
 king instead of a merry earl ; and then Rob 
 laid on so weighty a ransom — in all honour to 
 thy father's valour, mark'st thou ! But I'll have 
 my will for once ; and Rob himself cannot gain-
 
 '](S ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 say that a king's brother is a fair exchange for a 
 knight.' 
 
 He further explained that he had set out by the 
 swiftest route to meet his brother returning from 
 Man, and concert plans with him for the defence of 
 the kingdom, intending to avoid notice. This had 
 been disconcerted by the chance encounter with the 
 English troop. Even before the charge, his stum- 
 bling horse had deprived his men of their leader, so 
 that they had fled home, panic-stricken and deserted. 
 
 * My prisoner is mine own,' he repeated, ' and I 
 may do as I will with him ; but, to content Rob, I 
 shall bind him over to bear no arms in this coming 
 fight. If I deem rightly, it will do his fame no 
 harm to be out of the fray that is at hand. Since 
 
 Edward's death you have such a set of leaders 
 that Hector of Troy himself could avail you little. 
 So, if thou canst speed me on the way, thou shalt 
 keep Beltane with him.* 
 
 That night Sir Edward Bruce, clad as a friar, set 
 forth for the Sohvay, and, before Midsummer, Sir 
 Thomas rode up the steep leading to his own castle, 
 and beside him, on a little pony, a blooming and 
 graceful maiden, in whom the sisters hardly recognised 
 their wild Gillian. 
 
 ' Child,' said he, as Ankaret knelt for his blessing, 
 * I should rather call on thee to bless me. Talk of
 
 ONE WILL AND TIIUr.E WAYS y) 
 
 Sons to maintain a man's cause ! My daughters have 
 all been true and leal, but thou, Ankaret, hast done 
 more than ten sons for me ! ' 
 
 ' It was God's blessing on my poor prayers,' she 
 said. 
 
 'Thanks and blessings be to Him,' said the 
 knight. ' Only, my wench, I would thou hadst not 
 let me be tied by yon plagucy condition ! My 
 hand itches for my lance ; and they are gathering 
 for such a fiel d as there has not been since the fight 
 of Falkirk.' 
 
 ' Fie, father ! ' cried Gillian. ' Fight with our 
 good friends and hosts? ' 
 
 ' All in good fellowship, minion. But Blanche's 
 lord, Sir Ferrand, must do his devoir in the name of 
 the Meres.' 
 
 The sisters rejoiced in his detention ; and, when 
 sad stragglers came home from Bannockburn, he 
 owned that he had little to regret. Among them 
 came not Ferrand de Honifort. Some said he had 
 last been seen tumbling over his horse's neck as it 
 trod into a calthorp ; and Pursuivant Button, on his 
 way home from his doleful task of identifying the 
 slain, brought Blanche a fragment of a surcoat, in 
 which she recognised her own embroidery ; and 
 thenceforth she believed her Knight of the Swan to 
 have been all he professed when he came forward in
 
 78 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 
 
 her cause. Her father had made her very happy 
 by declaring that her notion of her knight setting out 
 at once on his own account had been fooHsh and 
 impossible; and she recurred to her entire faith in 
 her Gascon Paladin ; tearfully recounted the mighty 
 deeds she had on the best authority, namely, his own ; 
 and firmly believed, moreover, that it was his lance 
 which had brought Edward Bruce to the ground, 
 and that thus he had been the real deliverer of her 
 father. 
 
 They let her alone in the belief that took away 
 the sting of her sorrow. Gillian, who would have 
 been the most likely to disabuse her, was far too 
 happy to trouble herself in the matter ; for Gilbert 
 Button had come to propose an alliance between 
 the families in the persons of herself and his grand- 
 son. 
 
 And so it was that Maurice Button became a 
 worthy maintainer of the good old house of Estoute- 
 ville, and Gillian's boys and girls were the delight of 
 old Sir Thomas's heart, though he ever told them 
 that no lad nor lass of them all would ever be worth 
 their Aunt Ankaret, who still span, and still prayed, 
 but in the fair convent of Whitby, instead of S. 
 Oswald's cell. 
 
 There, in the Church, stood for two centuries a 
 richly-carved shrine, on which had been spent the
 
 ONE WILL AND THREE WAYS 79 
 
 proceeds of Ankarct's spinning, as a thank-offering 
 for her father's deliverance, while to many a wor- 
 shipper it served as a memorial that the very weakest 
 can win all things by the united power of faithful 
 prayer and effort.
 
 KASPAR'S SUMMER DREAM 
 
 OR, 
 
 NOBLESSE OBLIGE.
 
 KASPAR'S SUMMER DREAM. 
 
 I could not love thee, dear, so much, 
 Loved I not honour more. 
 
 * It will be vain. Master, we shall but wreck ourselves. 
 The hounds are behind us.' 
 
 * Think of the drag a set of helpless women will 
 be on us 1 ' 
 
 * We have beasts to set them on, for that matter ! ' 
 
 * Aye, and our merchandise .'' ' 
 
 'Weigh merchandise in the scale with the lives of 
 holy women! I speak for my father! He would 
 rather lose every ounce of wool in his warehouse than 
 let a hair of their heads be touched.' 
 
 'Meinherr Kaspar talks of he kens not what. 
 If ' 
 
 * If,' said the first speaker, ' we tarry to bandy 
 
 words, we shall save neither ourselves nor the nuns. 
 
 To the vote be it ! Hold up hands. Do we hurry to 
 
 shelter at once, or do wc warn the nuns and take them 
 
 with us } ' 
 
 It was a terrible question, for it was the year i 525. 
 
 G 2
 
 84 KASPAR'S SUMMER DREAM 
 
 They were Flemish merchants on their way from the 
 great fair of Dantzig, with a long string of pack-horses 
 and mules laden with furs, agates, and amber. Not 
 twenty miles behind them raged the fanatic peasantry 
 of Munzer, and in the wooded valley below the ridge 
 on which they were travelling lay Marienhulf, a little 
 secluded priory of nuns, certain to be the prey of the 
 maddened wretches, and to suffer unspeakable horrors 
 if they -fell into their hands. 
 
 Hands were counted of the five merchants, and 
 some dozen of the chief men in charge of the baggage. 
 Eight for hastening on, nine for warning the nuns. 
 Some of the eight murmured that Kaspar Vorstein 
 was a mere lad, with no right to decide on men's lives, 
 and that Peter Kuper had no right to a voice ; but 
 the Burgomaster Rossfeldt gave no more opening for 
 discussion, but took the way down the road which led 
 down the hill to the little convent. 
 
 It was like the stillness before a thunderstorm. 
 The shingle-covered spire peered above the chestnut 
 trees, the vine covered the walls, the homely brown 
 stone building seemed to bask in quiet sunshine, all 
 unaware of the imminent peril. The portress stared 
 to see the cavalcade, and would rather have asked 
 questions than have called the Prioress. The Burgo- 
 master found it hard to make her understand that the 
 heretic peasants, mad as wolves, would soon be on
 
 kaspar's summer dream 8s 
 
 them. 'All! what harm have we done them ? We 
 have bound their wounds ! we have given them soup ! 
 we have taught their children ! ' 
 
 Alas! little did the furious host reck of such benefits. 
 Rossfcldt had to tell her fearful tales of murder and 
 torture ere she would hearken, and even then the 
 Prioress herself spoke words about martyrdom in the 
 house in her own charge ; but she thought of the tender 
 maidens round her, and consented, even as some of 
 those left to watch on the hill hurried to tell of fresh 
 outbursts of smoke in villages nearer. 
 
 If the holy Mothers were coming at all, come they 
 must, instantly. Too much time had been lost 
 already. No farewell could be attempted. The nuns 
 and their pupils, some five-and- twenty in number, 
 could only be almost snatched up, and placed on the 
 mules, leaving all their gear behind them, weeping 
 and wailing amid the murmurs and oaths of many 
 of the Flemings, who foresaw utter ruin and destruc- 
 tion in this freak of the Burgomaster and Kaspar 
 Vorstein. 
 
 Happily, the nuns did not understand the language 
 in which the threats were uttered. Neither did they 
 perceive how, as the road became steep, and the 
 beasts distressed, Kaspar and the men under his 
 authority quietly cut the ropes which bound the 
 packs, and let them fall off. On, on, through the
 
 86 kaspar's summer dream 
 
 forests and over the hills of Thuringia, were they 
 struggling ; and even when they reached a rising 
 ground where they could sec over the tree-tops, there 
 were more burning villages and nearer ! The Flem- 
 ings were at least fifty in number, and armed to the 
 teeth, but they avoided villages when it was possible, 
 though those they passed seemed deserted. Only 
 here and there a grim charcoal-burner, with an axe 
 over his shoulder, scowled at them, and skulked past, 
 evidently on his way to have a share of the spoil. 
 
 By-and-by it was plain that the enemy was gaining 
 on them. The men of the party noted the curl of 
 smoke from the double-cleft hill, beneath which the 
 Priory of Marienhulf had stood, but would not point 
 it out to the women. Perhaps the spoil there would 
 detain the plunderers till there would be time to reach 
 the shelter of the walls of Eulenberg. But the beasts 
 were growing weary : there were sounds upon the air 
 of yells and cries : the women asked no more ques- 
 tions : the men set their faces, and kept silence. They 
 were about to go down the last hill into the open, 
 bare plain, when, on the summit behind them, was seen 
 the unmistakable dark mass of people — the multitude 
 — broken, confused, irregular, easily to be destroyed 
 by a regular army, but able to crush entirely that small 
 troop of Fleming.s, who, on the road, now white and 
 treeless, must be visible to them !
 
 KASrAR'S SUMMER DREAM 87 
 
 'Courage,' cried the Burgomaster, 'only one 
 league yet to Eulenberg ! ' 
 
 Those who had objected to the care of the women 
 were already far in advance ; the remainder, cumbered 
 as they were, hurried on. It was absolute flight along 
 the road, smoother and better, but sandy, and choking 
 with dust the failing beasts. There was nothing but 
 a downhill rush now for the peasants to overtake 
 them ! Already their shouts had been heard at the 
 sight of such a prey as were riding on at their best 
 speed, when, in a sudden bit of broken ground, the 
 mule of one of the nuns stumbled — fell — rolled over. 
 Two alone saw the fall, and drew up — one a young 
 girl, the other Kaspar Vorstein, who was riding last, 
 with a pistol ready in his hand. 
 
 Both with one impulse were off their animals, 
 freeing the nun from the mule, and trying to help it 
 to rise. ' It cannot ! its work is done,' said Kaspar. 
 ' Ride on, lady. Reverend Mother, mount behind 
 me.' 
 
 His trained horse stood by him faithfully ; but the 
 maiden's animal had followed its companions, and was 
 already far off. 
 
 ' Take her ! take her, the Lady Ediltrude ! ' cried 
 the nun. ' No matter for me ; I am old ! Go, my 
 child ! ' 
 
 But Ediltrude clung to her. ' Never ! I will
 
 88 CASPAR'S SUMMER DREAM 
 
 never leave thee, Sister Veronica. Save her ; save 
 her, sir.' 
 
 The horrible cries — the sound of trampling and 
 rushing came nearer. 
 
 ' I will take care of the good Mother. Mount, 
 lady,' said Kaspar ; ' my horse is fleet. You, gra- 
 cious Lady, can quickly overtake the rest.' And 
 he would have lifted Ediltrude into the saddle, but 
 she dashed aside his hand, drawing herself up pas- 
 sionately. 
 
 ' I — I fly, and leave others to die for me ! I — a 
 daughter of Sachs-Odinstcin. All must be saved, or 
 none ! ' And her blue eyes flashed, as she stood as 
 like a rock as a slender maiden could stand. 
 
 ' It might be too late now ; ' and in one second of 
 thought, Kaspar decided that the insurgents would 
 hurry on in pursuit of the main body, so that to swerve 
 aside and lie concealed would serve best for him and 
 the women. The sudden turn in the road, round a large 
 stone, overshadowed by a tree, had probably hidden 
 them, and he saw that a fence and ditch enclosed a field. 
 Without a word he let his horse go, giving it a sign by 
 which it knew it was to trot away. He could not at 
 such a moment even sigh for the faithful creature. He 
 merely whispered his plan to the two ladies, threw 
 the grey lining of his cloak over Sister Veronica's 
 black robes, made them descend with him into the
 
 KASPAR'S SUMMER DREAM 89 
 
 ditch, and creep along to where it was overgrown with 
 rank weeds. 
 
 Pkingcd among these, waving over their heads, the 
 three sat in the damp, the two women in each other's 
 arms, whispering prayers — the man with pistol in 
 hand and sword across his knees. There they sat, 
 and heard the host pass by. It was but a small por- 
 tion, in truth, but the trampling of feet, the shouts, 
 the yells, the cries of all kinds, the broken singing of 
 hymns, the blasts of horns seemed endless. Once, 
 when a step came nearer, Ediltrude held out her hand, 
 and said, ' The other pistol, sir ; ' and he gave it. 
 
 Again her eyes glittered with strange light, her 
 checks glowed, and, as her hair fell round her, her 
 white-feathered head-gear having been torn off, Kaspar, 
 even in those terrible moments, beheld her wondrous 
 beauty. Still they crouched, none coming nearer ; 
 the steps grew fewer, the sounds more distant ; yet, 
 cramped, wet, and shivering as they were, they durst 
 not move, lest stragglers should be in sight. They 
 heard a dull booming of cannon, and sharper shots. 
 Eulenberg must be firing on the enemy. Twilight 
 began to fall. Kaspar stood up ; Ediltrude followed 
 his example. Nothing was to be seen, but it was 
 dark enough to venture to move, and they dragged 
 out poor Sister Veronica, stiff, chilled, and hardly 
 able to stand, and crept back to the more open
 
 90 kaspar's summer dream 
 
 ground. Distant sounds and an occasional shot con- 
 vinced Kaspar that the peasants were lying round 
 Eulenbcrg, and that their way thither was cut off. 
 He told the ladies that he thought the wisest way 
 would be to get back within the forest. He remem- 
 bered an empty charcoal-burner's hut, and thought 
 there would be others where shelter might be found 
 till the wild army had gone on its way. They 
 assented, but poor Sister Veronica, as she tried to 
 climb the hill, panted with sobbing breath and halting 
 pace. She had been badly bruised in her fall, and 
 could hardly walk, even when the young people sup- 
 ported her on either side. Again she bade them leave 
 her to the Holy Mother and the Saints ; again Edil- 
 trude repeated that none born of Sachs-Odinstein 
 would do so base a deed. At that moment the 
 clatter of hoofs approached. Kaspar's ever-ready 
 pistol was raised, when, just ere he fired, a low whinny 
 was heard, and he cried, ' Star ! my good Star, is it 
 thou ? ' and as the good horse's white-starred fore- 
 head showed in the darkness, and it laid its nose 
 lovingly on his shoulder, he added, ' Now, ladies, will 
 all be well ! We merchants ride not all unprovided ; ' 
 , and from beside his holster he drew out a small flask 
 and a piece of bread and sausage, little enough, indeed, 
 but even a mouthful was enough to revive the nun, 
 and to strengthen Ediltrude's voice.
 
 KASPAR'S SUMMER DREAM 91 
 
 Star must carry the nun. Her faint protests 
 oied away as she was raised in Kaspar's arms ; though 
 she would at that moment, poor thing, have been well 
 content to lie on the ditch side, hap what might, 
 rather than be placed on horseback, though the 
 Fleming supported her there, holding her in the 
 saddle, and assuring her of the quietness of ' Star of 
 Ypres ; ' but she had the great merit of patient silence, 
 and Ediltrude walked on bravely beside her, rejoicing 
 in the gathering darkness. The moon did not rise 
 till they were within the wood, now entirely deserted, 
 except for the rustle of a prowling animal here and 
 there, which made the women tremble and press 
 closer to their guardian. 
 
 At last they came to the hut, standing under a 
 great pile of faggots, and, as Kaspar expected, per- 
 fectly lonely and deserted. ' You may rest here 
 safely, dear ladies,' he said ; ' the fellow who harbours 
 here will scarce return for many a day, if at all.' 
 
 The nun, with a sigh of relief, was lifted down, and 
 Ediltrude ran into the house, joyfully proclaiming 
 that here was a cat, and a goat, and a kettle — aye, 
 and all man could want, hens even, and no doubt 
 eggs! 
 
 The immediate danger over, the spirit of adven- 
 ture and a pleasant sense of freedom seemed to have 
 seized on the maiden, for while Kaspar provided for
 
 92 KASrARS SUMMER DREAM 
 
 the wants of his horse from a heap of lately-cut hay, 
 and the nun sank on her knees before a rude Crucifix, 
 she ran about making discoveries ; the cat imped- 
 ing her by rubbing itself against her feet, and the 
 goat bleating to be milked, both creatures evidently 
 having been miserable in their desertion. The hut 
 must have belonged to a somewhat well-to-do forester, 
 for it had two chambers, the inner one with a straw 
 bed, and the outer one with two chests, one of coarse 
 meal, the other of clothes. So much the moonlight 
 had shown Ediltrude, when Kaspar came in, with the 
 brand he had kindled at the fire, which he knew the 
 charcoal-burner would have left to smoulder under 
 his pile. It was a warm evening in summer, and fire 
 was not needed, except to toast the eggs which had 
 been found* near the roost where the hens had pro- 
 claimed them, and which served the party for their 
 supper, with some milk drawn by Ediltrude's hands, 
 not without mirth, as Kaspar held the goat for her, 
 marvelling at the dexterity of the soft, little, un- 
 accustomed fingers. 
 
 He assured the ladies that they might sleep safely 
 in the inner room while he kept watch, and Sister 
 Veronica trusted him all the more, when he joined 
 with them in the devotions of the evening hour, 
 making the responses in much better Latin than she 
 knew, and with a readiness which made her observe
 
 KASrAR'S SUMMER DREAM 93 
 
 at the end, that the gracious gentleman prayed like 
 a divinity scholar, to which Kaspar replied that the 
 holy fathers had good schools at Ghent. 
 
 The nun and her pupil slept the sleep of excessive 
 fatigue, and when they awoke and came forth from 
 their very small and gloomy den, they were startled at 
 first by the apparition of a figure in the peasant dress, 
 rough dark-blue homespun guarded by untanned 
 leather ; but the bow and greeting reassured them in 
 a moment. Kaspar had thought it wise to make 
 free with the Sunday clothes of the master of the hut, 
 and having found a bundle of feminine gear, advised 
 the ladies to do the same. He said he had money 
 tnough about him to make full compensation to the 
 owners. 
 
 * Ah, sir ! and what will ever make compensation 
 to you ? ' cried Ediltrude. 
 
 ' It is enough for me if I have saved you,' was his 
 answer, with an eager look passing over his face ; 
 then tendering to her a large bowl of water, he added, 
 ' I have found the good man's arrows, and slain a 
 rabbit ; I will make it ready for the cooking, while 
 the gracious ladies change their dress.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' cried Ediltrude as he moved away, ' when 
 would a German have shown such courtesy .-' Did 
 you ever see one so goodly or so noble, dear mother ? ' 
 
 Poor Sister Veronica assented, though she was very
 
 94 KASPAR'S SUMMER DREAM 
 
 miserable about the change of dress, which was such a 
 dreadful irregularity as no Sister of Marienhulf had 
 ever been guilty of ; but she was forced to submit, 
 while Ediltrude danced about in absolute delight at 
 the fun of arraying her as an old woman, with dark 
 blue gown, bright apron, and white hood, tied down 
 with a red kerchief, comparing her in turn to all the 
 old women who haunted the gates of the convent, 
 
 Ediltrude herself was soon clad in much the same 
 costume, only with head bare of all but its own light 
 brown hair, which she plaited in two long tails, and 
 allowed to hang down her back. In this masquerad- 
 ing garb she darted out at the door, and made a 
 splendid curtsey to the seeming peasant, demanding 
 how he approved of ' Triidchen, the woodman's 
 daughter,' 
 
 For all answer, he took off his cap, and with a 
 deep red mounting in his cheek, bowed to her very 
 feet. 
 
 Yes, Kaspar Vorstein was a noble-looking youth, 
 not only tall, straight, and easy of bearing, like one well 
 trained, but with thought, depth, and force in his 
 clear, frank, dark eyes, and the mould of his mouth 
 and chin just marked by the young moustache of the 
 earlier years after twenty. And his was not the 
 courtesy of court training, but true delicate considera- 
 tion towards the two helpless women for whom he
 
 kaspar's summer dream 95 
 
 had perilled himself already. In the council held over 
 the morning meal, the contriving of which was sport 
 to the maiden, he advised them to tarry where they 
 were for at least that day, while the provisions sufficed 
 them ! Since the open country was dangerous, from 
 the parties of peasants who would be plundering there, 
 even if beaten off by Eulenberg, and on any token of 
 danger it would be easy to hide in the wood. 
 
 The resolution was adopted, nor did any peril 
 approach the trio. Kaspar reconnoitred from a tree 
 on the outskirts of the forest, and saw curls of smoke 
 that told of other burning abbeys and granges, and he 
 counselled another day of concealment. The nun 
 was nothing loth. Poor thing, she was stiff, bruised, 
 exhausted, and felt the quiet a respite ; and as to 
 Ediltrude, it was the most charming holiday she ever 
 had in her life, in that green wood, in all its summer 
 glory, Avith the thousand flowers at her feet, and the 
 playing at homely occupations, with that devoted 
 Kaspar to save her from all that was rough and 
 troublesome, and he evidently impressed and charmed 
 with all she achieved. 
 
 Kaspar Vorstcin was a very different being from 
 all she had known or heard of. Son of a wealthy 
 cloth merchant of Ghent, he had been bred in all the 
 scholarship and cultivation of the golden age of the 
 Netherlands, had a nature trained by books, an eye
 
 g6 kaspar's sUxMMEr dream 
 
 by art, a tongue, by converse with men of all nations, 
 and by travel in several countries, even to Italy and 
 Spain. Sister Veronica heard with delight of the 
 shrines at which he had prayed, and thought herself 
 repaid for all her trials when she kissed his rosary, 
 blest by the Pope — the good Flemish Pope Adrian — 
 who had once, when tutor to the Emperor, given his 
 blessing to Kaspar as a boy in Ghent. 
 
 Day after day passed, and still it was plainly un- 
 safe to venture from the shelter of the forest. Kaspar, 
 when he had arranged a retreat for the ladies, and 
 found that Ediltrude at least would let him leave her 
 without too much terror, for an hour, went down, con- 
 fident in his disguise and his knowledge of German, 
 to learn the state of things and buy provisions. The 
 peasants were collecting constantly in large numbers 
 round Miinzer's ensign, the golden shoe, and there 
 were stories, too horrible to tell his charge, of their 
 usage of monks, nuns, knights, and ladies, on all of 
 whom they were wreaking the vengeance of years of 
 grinding oppression, with the brutal, stolid cruelty of 
 the German peasant. Eulenberg's walls had resisted 
 them, but they filled the country round, gradually 
 tending however towards Frankenhausen, Thus, 
 neither to Eulenberg, nor to any other sufficient 
 shelter, was the way open. 
 
 After all, were the young people very sorry to
 
 kaspar's summer dream gj 
 
 have it so ? Were not these long days in the good 
 greenwood full of untold enjoyment to the convent- 
 bred maid, when she milked the goat, gathered the 
 eggs, fed the chickens, or stirred the meal, or when 
 she gathered the flowers to weave into wreaths to lay 
 at the foot of the Crucifix, or sat on the grass listening 
 to Kaspar's replies to her questions about the great 
 Flemish towns, and the noble Churches, grand paint- 
 ings, splendid processions, and great men, that were 
 to him constant sights ! She had little drawback in 
 her enjoyment. There was hardly a doubt that her 
 friends of the Convent were safe in Eulenberg ; and she 
 was an orphan who had spent her life there ever since 
 her mother's death, and had only once or twice seen 
 her father, who three years since had fallen in an 
 Italian battlefield ; so she had no one to care for 
 nearer than the Prioress, a distant cousin, under 
 whose care she had been placed. Of course those 
 happy days were rendered the deeper, the richer, the 
 sweeter, by a feeling which the maiden understood as 
 little as simple-hearted Sister Veronica was able to 
 perceive those tokens which a secular eye would have 
 noted long ago. Yet Kaspar Vorstein, as he became 
 conscious of what made him rejoice in every report 
 which prolonged this woodland sojourn, felt less doubt 
 and fear than might have been expected. 
 
 Flemish burghers, under their countryman Charles 
 
 H
 
 98 kaspar's summer dream 
 
 of Ghent, ranked high in power and esteem ; and 
 though he knew Ediltrude was noble, the orphan 
 daughter of a penniless Saxon lord was no unfitting 
 mate for one who could count burgomasters and pro- 
 vosts among his forefathers as long as Ghent had 
 stood, had wealth enough in his family to buy up a 
 hundred Saxon baronies, and, young as he was, 
 already stood high in the guild of cloth-workers. 
 
 And so, when he had heard in the neighbouring 
 village a report that the insurgents had been routed 
 at Frankcnhausen by tlie Landgraf of Hesse and the 
 Duke of Brunswick, and had been slaughtered like 
 sheep with ferocity equal to their own ; he felt that it 
 was time to leave the forest before any stragglers 
 should return in the madness of revenge ; but he did 
 not feel that he need yet wake from his summer 
 dream. It seemed to him a good omen that when 
 he came to the hut, he found Ediltrude with her lap 
 full of forget-me-nots from the brook, which she was 
 weaving into a garland. 
 
 There is no need to say how each anticipated the 
 other's thought that never would these days be for- 
 gotten, nor how the tenderness of his eyes even 
 more than his words awoke the full perception in 
 "Ediltrude's heart that he was to her, all, and more 
 than all, that ever knight of song or tale was to lady 
 — her Parzeval, her Hiidebrand, her Siegfried !
 
 kaspar's summer dream 99 
 
 He had told her of his g^rave, wise father, and 
 gentle, dignified, housewifely mother, in the grand 
 old house with high gables and many windows, and 
 the wide, dark-timbered, polished hall with the wind- 
 ing staircase ; and now he pleaded with her to 
 come home with him, and be their child, and share 
 the citizen life that seemed already to her so rich and 
 sweet and fair with all life's best. He knew, indeed, 
 that he was beneath her. 
 
 * Oh no ! wiser, better, truer than any I ever 
 knew ! ' and the eyes gazed into his, and the hand 
 stole into his clasp. * Oh ! it would be happiness ! ' 
 
 'Then tell me, sweet love, canst thou give thyself 
 to me, when we can find a priest ? ' 
 
 ' So truly would it be best. Then none would 
 gainsay us.' 
 
 ' Is there any that would have the right ^ Must I 
 ask thee of any ^ ' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! I do not own the right of any over me,' 
 she said. * My father is dead. None can bind me — 
 I am surely my own.' 
 
 There was a sort of assertion and defiance in her 
 tone that made him uneasy, and he reiterated the 
 question — 
 
 ' Thou hast no kinsman — no claim to which thou 
 owest thyself.'' ' 
 
 ' None like thee ! None like him to whom I owe 
 
 H 2
 
 100 KASPARS SUMMER DREAM 
 
 life and love, ana more. I freely — oh ! how freely — 
 give all up for thee ! ' 
 
 ' Tell me, my own lady, what dost thou give up for 
 the poor burgher ? ' 
 
 * So ! just the old castle and Duchy.' , 
 ' Duchy ? ' 
 
 * Yea, the Duchy of Sachs-Odinstein. Thou dost 
 not seek after it, my Kaspar, dost thou } The castle 
 is grim and ruinous, and there are such strange howl- 
 ings in the galleries ! ' 
 
 ' Thou art Duchess of Sachs-Odinstein .? ' 
 ' Yes, of course. Didst not know it ? My cousin, 
 the Elector, has managed it since my blessed father 
 and brothers died in Italy, and he may manage it still, 
 unless he will give it to Albrecht Wilhelm.' 
 
 'Who is Albrecht Wilhelm.^' said Kaspar, grow- 
 ing more gloomy. 
 
 * Albrecht Wilhelm ! It is he to whom my father 
 promised me and my dukedom ; but be not afraid, 
 Kaspar. He is forty years old, and has lost one 
 eye, and is terrible to look at. Father brought him 
 to Marienhulf once to see me, and give me this 
 ring ; but it was five years ago, and I cried, and the 
 Mother Prioress whipped me for it when they were 
 
 gone.' 
 
 ' Thou art promised to another } ' he cried, with a 
 
 look of despair and agony on his face.
 
 kaspar's summer dream lor 
 
 ' But not by my own will. Kaspar, I vow myself 
 
 to- 
 
 He interrupted her by a gesture of command, as if 
 from exceeding pain — almost horror — that he could 
 hardly endure ; and she stopped, alarmed. There 
 was a dead pause, while he hid his face in both hands, 
 and she looked at him with wide-open, terrified eyes. 
 At last he uncovered his face, entirely altered in ex- 
 pression, drew a long breath, and said — 
 
 'It has been a summer dream. Her Hicrhness 
 must forgive me.' 
 
 'Away with Highness! away with dukedoms and 
 all the rest ! I hate them ! ' cried the girl passionately. 
 ' Take me to Handers. What .-• art afraid .-' ' she 
 added, with infinite scorn in her voice. 
 
 ' Yes, lady, afraid of a broken vow and a dis- 
 honourable action, or of living a lie, as we must do, 
 unless we would bring vengeance on my city and 
 family.' 
 
 She sat with clasped hands looking fixedly at 
 him, her bosom heaving with emotion. Presently 
 she murmured — 
 
 ' Thou saidst thou didst love me.' 
 
 'Love thee! Heaven knows how much ! I love 
 thee so much, lady, that I would not soil thy perfect 
 truth and honour, nor mine own. That were not love, 
 lady ; it would be baseness.'
 
 102 KASPAR'S SUMMER DREAM 
 
 'And thou wilt leave me to hard, iron-handed, 
 one-eyed Albrecht ? ' moaned Ediltrude ; ' me, who 
 would have given up all for thee.' 
 
 'Nay, not thy father's plighted word. Listen, 
 lady ; I know how it is" with you princes. You may 
 not live and die for yourselves. You have people 
 under you, and you must act for them. I have heard 
 of this Duke Albrecht Wilhclm the one-eyed— nay, I 
 have seen him in the Emperor's train. He is a good 
 man and true, and will not deal amiss.' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' broke in the poor girl. ' How dare you ? 
 — I cannot bear it. See now, let him have my lands. 
 All will deem me taken and slain by the peasants. 
 They will say masses for me, and write " Ediltrudis 
 ob. 1522" in the family tree, and none will miss me, 
 nor need any know in Ghent that I ever was aught 
 but the maid whom thou didst save.' 
 Kaspar shook his head. 
 
 'The faithful burgher may not steal a wife,' he 
 said. ' No, Serene Lady, thou knowest not what 
 thou sayest. Forgive me when thou dost awaken to 
 the knowledge.' 
 
 The sad gravity, with which he bowed, bared his 
 head, and moved away, awed her too much for her to 
 follow him, and she gave way to bitter weeping and 
 framing of wild schemes, which looked possible and 
 plausible at one moment, then collapsed again at the
 
 kaspar's summer dream 103 
 
 thought of Kaspar's countenance. At last Sister 
 Veronica came to her, found out what was the matter, 
 and was thunderstruck, laying all the blame on 
 Kaspar. Who could have thought of such wickedness 
 and presumption in a young man who could make all 
 the responses in the Hours as well as the precentrix 
 herself? But all men were evil, and when once out 
 of this dreadful wood, Sister Veronica hoped never to 
 speak to another save her father confessor. Fighting 
 Kaspar's battles, albeit all in vain, did somewhat 
 restore Ediltrudc. One question she longed to ask, 
 but the evening passed by, and the burgher did not 
 come in to supper, and was seen nowhere. 
 
 The good mother began to be seriously alarmed 
 lest Ediltrude should have actually driven him away ; 
 but after much restlessness and terror, she looked forth 
 and detected his dark outline, wrapped in his cloak, 
 leaning against the wall of the house, which he v/as 
 watching as a sentinel. 
 
 He came forward as he perceived her, and in a 
 low tone, so sunken and altered that she hardly knew 
 it, explained to her that the time was come for de- 
 scending into the open country, and making their way 
 to Meissen, where the Lady Duchess Ediltrude might 
 be delivered to the head of her family, the Elector. 
 
 He thought that if the gracious ladies could be 
 ready, it would be best to depart at daybreak.
 
 104 kaspar's summer dream 
 
 Always obedient, Sister Veronica assented, and 
 tried to persuade him to come in for food and rest ; 
 but he thanked her, and said he wanted nothing, 
 and would rather watch outside. The notion of the 
 need of watching filled her with renewed terror, and 
 she sat up, nodding in her chair all night, while 
 Ediltrude sobbed herself to sleep, torn, poor child, 
 by many a strange, new feeling, in which began to 
 predominate above disappointment, wounded love, 
 and indignation, together with a dread lest Kaspar 
 should be despising her for wishing what he thought 
 unworthy. 
 
 The morning came, the last meal was eaten in 
 haste and silence, gold enough for ample compensa- 
 tion was placed on the table, food was left within 
 reach of the animals, and the charcoal-burner's hut 
 was left, Kaspar leading the horse, and the nun 
 mounted on it, since she and Ediltrude were to ride 
 by turns. 
 
 Scarcely a needless word had passed, but the two 
 young people's eyes met as they turned for a last look 
 at what each one's heart declared to have been where 
 their happiest days had been passed. 
 
 . It was then that Ediltrude ventured on the ques- 
 tion she had been longing to ask. 
 
 * Is it because I am a duchess, or because I am 
 promised .-* '
 
 kaspar's summer dream 105 
 
 'Because your Highness is promised/ he said, as 
 briefly as he could. 
 
 He never omitted the title now, as if to mark the 
 space between them. He looked pale, downcast, and 
 sad, like a man who had steadfastly passed through a 
 great tempest. 
 
 Once more she spoke. 
 
 *We will commit it to my cousin Friedrich.' 
 
 And then Sister Veronica, who had been vowing 
 penances on her foolish, blind, unwatchful self for 
 having ever left the two young people to their own 
 mischievous devices, was seized with a desire to walk, 
 and insisted on getting down. 
 
 Kaspar was aware that there was no reasonable 
 hope of ' Cousin Friedrich ' making a decision in his 
 favour, but he knew the wise Elector Friedrich to be a 
 man not as other men are, more generous, more liberal- 
 minded, more conscientious ; and the fragment of 
 hope, though he despised its folly, buoyed him up on 
 the way to Meissen, through a desolated countiy, 
 where Abbey and Church had been sacked and burnt 
 by the insurgents; and even more recently the villages 
 and hamlets of the rioters had been furiously ravaged 
 by the nobility and their men-at-arms, both sides 
 alike with deadly wrongs to avenge. 
 
 Sister Veronica shuddered, wept, and prayed 
 silently as they passed the ruins, or the more terrible
 
 io6 kaspar's summer dream 
 
 sight of unburicd corpses by the wayside. The stress 
 of personal feehng — it can hardly be called suspense 
 — was too strong upon Kaspar for conscious feeling 
 of what he saw ; but his eye took it in, and his 
 memory was imprinted with all, in a passive way, 
 which perhaps for that very reason was deeper ; while 
 Ediltrude's most defined sensation was of desire to 
 prolong the present — a feeling akin to that of a truant 
 who must fall into severe hands when once more 
 within bounds, but, above all, did she dread losing the 
 presence of Kaspar, changed as he was. 
 
 They fell in by-and-by with a party of horsemen, 
 bearing a banner with the black and gold bars and 
 green bend of the princely Saxon families, and Kaspar 
 saw it was the only safe course to lead his little party 
 straight up to them, if he wished to save his party 
 from being shot down as peasants escaping with their 
 spoil. 
 
 Even as they advanced, muskets were levelled at 
 them, and possibly the perception that the horse was 
 worth having was their chief protection from being 
 fired upon, without enquiry, by the first reckless lands- 
 kncchts who had caught sight of them. 
 
 ' Hold, fellows ! ' shouted Kaspar. * This is the 
 Duchess Ediltrudc of Sachs-Odinstein I Fetch your 
 leader.' 
 
 There was a shout of laughter.
 
 kaspar's summer dream 107 
 
 *We know better than that. Duchess Ediltrude 
 was slain at Maricnhulf ' 
 
 ' Knaves that yc arc, silence ! ' said Ediltrude, 
 holding herself upright in her saddle. ' I forbid you 
 to touch this gentleman ! ' 
 
 Her face and gesture made the landsknechts hold 
 back and presently perceive that she was indeed the 
 Duchess. An officer came up saluting her respectfully 
 as she said — 
 
 ' Lead us to my kinsman, sir,' while she took good 
 heed that Kaspar Vorstein should hold her bridle. 
 
 Before they had gone many steps she was hailed 
 by a large, heavy man on horseback — 
 
 ' Ha, my little cousin, we had given thee up for 
 lost ! This will be good news for Albrecht ! How 
 didst escape the ruffians ? ' 
 
 ' By means of this gentleman, Sir Cousin Johann,' 
 replied Ediltrude, with defensive dignity. ' Herr 
 Kaspar Vorstein, of Ghent, whom I commend to your 
 especial care. Herr Vorstein, I present you to Duke 
 Johann.' 
 
 * So .-• A fine squire of dames. Look to him, 
 Rambold,' said Johann of Saxony gruffly, as he 
 scanned Kaspar's fair, youthful face. 
 
 Netherlanders were viewed with much dislike and 
 jealousy as favourites of the Emperor ; and only the 
 certainty, that any outrage on one of them would be
 
 io8 kaspar's summer dream 
 
 severely punished, protected Vorstein. The young 
 lady's evident solicitude did him rather harm than 
 good ; but he was unmolested, though watched like a 
 prisoner by the Saxons, who thought it presumption in 
 a mechanical Fleming to have rescued their young 
 lady, and worse presumption still to be young and 
 handsome. 
 
 Of course there was no more speech for him with 
 Ediltrude, though at the first halt Duke Johann, the 
 Elector's brother and heir, came towards him and 
 said, employing the second person plural, as used by 
 nobles towards inferiors, where there was no famil- 
 iarity : 
 
 ' I understand. Master Vorstein, from the Serene 
 Lady and from the holy Mother, that you have pro- 
 tected them, and conducted yourself towards them 
 with respect. Our family is obliged to you, and the 
 Elector will consider your claims.' 
 
 Kaspar's spirit glowed so hotly that it well nigh 
 burst forth into flame, though he forced himself to 
 keep back all words save — 
 
 'As to claims, your Highness, I make none. 
 Man is bound to defend woman.' 
 
 ' The house of Saxony knows its obligations,* said 
 Johann, coldly, taking perhaps offence at the mention 
 of a daughter of that house as a woman, or else gather- 
 ing an impression of suppressed fervour in the young
 
 kaspar's summer dream 109 
 
 man's look ; for when he returned to the ladies he 
 spoke of ' the insolence of these Flemish knaves.' 
 
 Ediltrude broke forth, 'Never did I see knight or 
 junker so courteous as he." 
 
 * Courteous ? So ! Mayhap too courteous ! What 
 will Albrecht say to that, my lady ? ' 
 
 ' I hate Albrecht,' muttered the girl. 
 
 'So! So!' again exclaimed Duke Johann. 
 ' How now, Duchess Ediltrude ? A little more of this, 
 and I shall think my jest earnest, and find a tree and 
 a noose for the upstart weaver who has dared to turn 
 thy silly head. Well for him that Albrecht is not here.' 
 
 The threat closed Ediltrude's lips in terror, in- 
 finitely dreading lest her outbreak should already 
 have excited suspicion, and still more fearing what 
 Sister Veronica might say in her simplicity, and what 
 construction might be put on it. But fortunately Sister 
 Veronica was so much shocked at finding herself in 
 the hands of so well-known a Lutheran as Duke 
 Johann that she never opened her lips if she could 
 help it, except to murmur constantly a low whisper 
 of the penitential Psalms so as to close her ears against 
 the heretic conversation around. 
 
 So they rode to Meissen, where the good Elector, 
 Friedrich the Wise, had his dwelling in a grand old 
 mansion, half castle, but with more likeness to a hos- 
 pitable burgher house.
 
 no kaspar's summer dream 
 
 Sister Veronica was dropped at a convent, where 
 she hoped to rest apart from all those strange rude 
 beings, men, till she could again regain her own com- 
 munity. Ediltrude cast one wistful glance as she was 
 assisted from her horse, and met Kaspar's eye. 
 
 That was all. He saw her no more that evening, 
 and was entertained with grave courtesy at a sort of 
 second table of the Elector's, where supped stewards, 
 comptrollers of the household, and the like, with a 
 few students, and some reverend, acute-looking men, 
 whom he supposed to be Lutheran teachers. 
 
 Saying as little as he could, and answering as few 
 questions on the young Duchess's adventures as was 
 possible without exciting suspicion, he found that 
 there was great joy at her safety, and that Duke 
 Friedrich, already in failing health, had been seriously 
 ill from sorrow and anxiety on her account, grieving 
 at having left in a nunnery, exposed to such danger, 
 the orphan of one kinsman, the bride of another. 
 
 Yes, and it was spoken of as a strange weakness 
 in the good Elector that he was actually mourning 
 over the rascals of peasants — the rogues, the ruffians 
 who had done such outrages — and saying it was on 
 themselves, that the princes of the Empire should 
 be taking vengeance for their own oppression ; not on 
 these sheep whom they themselves had transformed 
 into wolves.
 
 KASPAR'S summer dream III 
 
 * All that came of Brother Martin's doctrine,' said 
 a tight-capped be-rufifed, black-gowned housekeeper, 
 shaking her head, 
 
 * Nay, Brother Martin was as keen against the 
 rogues as any landsknecht of them all,' added an- 
 other. ' Cut and slay was the best word he had 
 for them when they came nigh the walls of Witten- 
 berg.' 
 
 'The princely Elector hath not of late held in all 
 things with Brother Martin since he came back from 
 the Wartburg.' 
 
 Whereon a clamour arose, some declaring the 
 Elector's perfect confidence in, and adherence to, 
 Brother Martin, others declaiming on his mere suffer- 
 ance of the meddling Augustinian, whose pride and 
 obstinacy were the real cause of all the troubles. 
 
 Kaspar, too sad at heart to take his part in the 
 controversy, soon ceased to listen when he had once 
 gathered that the Elector looked on things in a fashion 
 of his own, which those around him often found past 
 their comprehension. He was glad that the decorous 
 rules of the Electoral household caused the supper to 
 end without the usual German excess ; and though he 
 was startled by hearing a chapter read aloud, ere the 
 tables were removed, from Luther's newly-published 
 New Testament in German, the beauty of the render- 
 ing of the sixteenth chapter of St. John sent him to
 
 112 kaspar's summer dream 
 
 his rest calmed and peaceful. It had to him only the 
 novelty resulting from the new language, and from his 
 own state of mind, for he had studied it both in the 
 Vulgate and in Erasmus' version ; but the ' yet a little 
 while ' seemed to win power over his heart and brain, 
 and, worn out with wakeful nights and days of anxiety 
 and emotion, he slept with ' iiber ein Kleines ' in his 
 ears. 
 
 Mass was said in the Electoral chapel in the 
 morning, for as yet there was no abandonment of the 
 old ritual, save by such as Carlstadt, whose doings had 
 not only brought Luther back from the Wartburg, but 
 had opened the Elector's eyes to the tendency of what 
 he had hoped for as the beginning of the purifying of 
 the Church. 
 
 Not long after the solid breakfast which followed, 
 came a summons to the Elector's chamber : the page 
 who brought it looking round at Master Vorstein with 
 a sort of sly curiosity and awe, as if the monkey had 
 some inkling of the reason. 
 
 Friedrich, called the Wise, sat in a dark loose 
 gown, trimmed with fur, in a pillowed chair, near the 
 fire, which he needed even on that summer day. He 
 had a noble head, bald, and with white locks behind, 
 and a countenance of that beauty so notable in aged 
 men of the Saxon race, even when the features have 
 not been moulded and inspired by a soul such as that
 
 ICASPAR'S SUMMER DREA^t llj 
 
 of Friedrich of Saxony. A blameless and stainless 
 hero in his youth, full of religious enthusiasm, which 
 even in that degenerate century had carried him to 
 make his knighthood's vows beside the Holy Sepul- 
 chre ; and in elder life he had been equally brave and 
 merciful, and so loved and revered that he had been 
 actually chosen Emperor ; and only did not wear the 
 crowns of Germany and Italy because he held that 
 the lord of so small a hereditary state as his own was 
 incapable of making head against the Turkish invaders 
 who threatened Christendom. A sense of the evils 
 of the Church system around him had made him foster 
 and protect Luther, and provide for his safety after 
 the Diet of Wurms ; but the development of the doc- 
 trine of the reformer had greatly disappointed him, 
 and while his brother and nephew accepted it eagerly, 
 he was turning back to first principles, going far 
 deeper than it was in their nature to do. He was, in 
 fact, wasting away under his grief at the state of 
 Christendom and the Empire, while his age and 
 broken health forbade him to come forward. 
 
 Little did Kaspar Vorstein think of all this, or 
 indeed perceive aught but that the Elector was alone, 
 save for one young girlish figure at his side, her veil 
 drawn forward, as if she had been weeping very 
 bitterl}'. 
 
 The old man held out his hand, and the princely 
 
 I
 
 114 kaspar's summer dream 
 
 courtesy of his greeting was a contrast to the proud 
 roughness of his brother and followers. 
 
 * The dear Herr will pardon a sick man for not 
 rising to thank him for being good enough to come to 
 him.' 
 
 Constrained by the majesty of the gracious brow, 
 Kaspar knelt on one knee and kissed the hand ; then 
 ventured on a silent kiss to a hand that hung near, 
 and was moved towards him, while a dim, extrava- 
 gant hope infinitely quickened his already throbbing 
 heart. 
 
 * Yes,' said Friedrich, answering the gesture, ' the 
 child has told me all, and how her defender acted 
 like a true and faithful man, for which I heartily 
 thank him.' 
 
 'And will his gracious Highness pardon the pre- 
 sumption of which only ignorance could make me 
 guilty .'' ' ventured Kaspar. 
 
 ' Nay, an old man must needs know human nature 
 enough to see that a youth and maiden can hardly be 
 left to wander in the woods together — without feeling 
 that minstrels spake the truth. Children,' he added, 
 changing from his formality to the kindest, most 
 fatherly tone, * I blame you not, nay, I heartily 
 pity you both. From what this maid tells me, Herr 
 Kaspar, thou hast treated her as too few of our highest 
 born would have done — with all the honour that I
 
 kaspar's summer dream 115 
 
 well know ill the true and faithful burghers of the 
 Netherlands. I would verily that I had the power to 
 bid you both be happy. Were I in my strength and 
 vigour, and were she wholly free, I could be tempted 
 to let one, who has been trained to wider and juster 
 views than are held by some of us, rule her dukedom 
 and guard her vassals. But in the eyes of all those 
 around, a Fleming burgher on the Ducal seat would 
 be but a mark for insult and enmity. His very im- 
 provements would be hated and scorned by his own 
 vassals, and Sachs-Odinstein, with its 700 men, could 
 not stand against the whole force of Saxony. It 
 would be death and shame to'both of you, and ruin 
 to the vassals whom she is bound to guard.' 
 
 They could not but make mute assent, and he 
 proceeded : ' She has even besought me, the foolish 
 child, to let her resign all and go with thee.' 
 
 He looked at Ediltrudc, but her scheme did not 
 seem to dissolve in confusion as the elder lips spoke 
 it. She looked up in her tears and said, ' I would.' 
 
 'Yes, so thou mightest were it only the choice 
 
 between the being princess of a poor little petty state, 
 
 and housewife to a wealthy merchant that wove for 
 
 thy choice,' said the Elector ; ' but thou art a born 
 
 princess, and the duties of a princess must thou have 
 
 to thy vassals whom God gave thee. Duke Albrecht 
 
 is the tit man to have the charge of thee and of them, 
 
 I 2
 
 ii6 IsASpar's summer dream 
 
 and thou canst not rob him nor them of what thy 
 blessed father appohited, Wert thou away, seest 
 thou not Albrecht, but Georg were the heir, and how 
 would it be with thy people then? Maiden, thou seest 
 thou art not thine own. Thy birth constrains thee ! 
 This good youth, thou sayest, had already perceived 
 this, when he first knew thy rank ! He sees that the 
 kindest part he can act is to pass from thy sight, and 
 let this summer vision fade like yonder rainbow.' 
 
 They both looked up, Ediltrude, through her tears, 
 to the window, where over the woods to the northward 
 the noonday sun had painted a bright arch on the 
 passing shower. 
 
 ' The rainbow,' murmured Kaspar almost to him- 
 self. ' The rainbow is fleeting, but eternal ! ' There 
 was a look on his face that neither of them understood 
 as he added, ' I thank your Highness for the token ! 
 Lady, fair and blessed lady, fare thee well. Forget. 
 It is all I can ask of thee, and so shall I have done 
 thee no harm. But bear away my thanks for the days 
 of joy that nought can take from me ' 
 
 The Elector interposed, fearing perhaps that the 
 young man might be betrayed into marring the effect 
 of his resignation. 
 
 ' That is enough, sir ; Ediltrude, let him kiss thine 
 hand and retire.' 
 
 They obeyed ; their hearts might be bursting, but
 
 kaspar's summer dream 117 
 
 they were silent and endured, while tlie door shut on 
 Ediltrude. 
 
 Kaspar by a gesture craved dismissal, but the 
 Elector held out his hand. ' A few words more, sir, 
 if you can bear them. I grieve for you, sorely grieve ; 
 but you are too true a man not to know that all gives 
 way to honour and to duty. Do not feel insulted, but 
 forgive me if, as an old man and a friend, I ask you 
 the favour of telling me if I can do anything for you.' 
 
 'Nothing, your Electoral Highness. There are 
 merchants here who have traffic with my father, and 
 will forward me on my way home.' 
 
 ' That is well. And I need hardly say, as you said 
 but now to the poor child, that I trust this dream will 
 not have h.armed thee. A noble love, whether its fate 
 be prosperous or adverse, cannot harm a man, but 
 must rather lead him higher.' 
 
 Years had come and gone. The Duchess Edil- 
 trude had been a good and duteous, and fairly happ\', 
 wife to a brave and upright husband, who ruled her 
 tiny principality on the lines of the good Elector. 
 She was a beneficent princess and a good mother, and 
 there was sorrow \\hen in her age and widowhood, she 
 resigned her rule to her eldest son, and went to dwell 
 for a time with her daughter, who had married a 
 Flemish nobleman.
 
 iiS kaspar's summer dream 
 
 She took her full grandmotherly share of the fears 
 and joys of the family, when the sons were fighting in 
 the armies of Philip II. One gained much honour at 
 the battle of Lepanto, the other, the youngest and the 
 darling of the family, with a fair German face that 
 might have been a maiden's, was given up as lost. 
 He was known to have been carried wounded to a 
 farm-house, which on the next day, the troops had 
 been forced to leave to the Dutch, and there had 
 been no means of carrying him away. 
 
 But in the midst of the mourning, a letter arrived 
 from the Prince of Orange, stating that young Marquis 
 Albert was a prisoner, and fixing his ransom. The 
 sum was raised, and in time the lad was brought home 
 by boat and litter, pale, wasted, helpless, with a shat- 
 tered limb, which had nearly cost him his life. 
 
 He was even then too weak and exhausted to 
 reply to many questions. He only said something 
 about having been saved by a good priest, who stayed 
 by him when his fellow-soldiers were forced to leave 
 him to the enemy ; but, like many men who have seen 
 and suffered much, he was slow to talk of what he had 
 gone through. 
 
 One day, however, when he had been left alone 
 with his grandmother, the nurse he liked best, there 
 had been a sudden shower, and the setting sun was 
 lighting up a magnificent rainbow on the dark cloud
 
 kaspar's summer dream TI9 
 
 flitting away to the cast. The Duchess Ediltrude let 
 her hands drop on her lap, and sat gazing at it with a 
 strange, rapt expression in her aged face. Young 
 Albert lay and watched her, and at last he said, ' The 
 Lady grandmother looks at the rainbow as did the good 
 Father Kaspar.' 
 
 ' Kaspar ! ' She breathed the word in a sort of 
 gasp, and a youthful carnation spread over the pure 
 though wrinkled pallor of her aged cheek. * Kaspar ! 
 Was it he .'' Why did you never tell me ! ' 
 
 ' I knew not how,' said Albert. 
 
 ' And Kaspar saved thee,' she repeated. ' Did he 
 know who thou wert ? ' 
 
 'At last, not at first, I think. See, grandmother, 
 it was thus.' And the lad told how, in the defence of 
 an outpost, he had been shot down, carried into a 
 house and laid on a bed, whence it w-as not possible to 
 move him when, the next day, the Duke of Alva had 
 to retreat, for the bleeding had been so excessive that 
 his life hung on a thread, and the slightest movement 
 would have been death to him. All depended on 
 perfect stillness, and food every half hour, and no one 
 was willing to risk a life for a man as good as dead, 
 lie himself had known nothing of all this. It was 
 not till after hours of faintness, followed by a long, 
 refreshing sleep, that he woke to see that an aged 
 priest was bending over him, and giving him wine.
 
 120 kaspar's summer dream 
 
 During that day he rallied much in the stillness, and 
 learnt the state of things. Being fully aware that the 
 clergy ran especial danger from the Dutch Calvinists, 
 he asked whether the Father had any pass from them. 
 A smile and shake of the head was the answer, as if 
 it mattered but little ; and the priest went on to say, 
 ' It is strange joy to me to do aught for one who 
 bears that look and tone. Does not the gracious lord 
 own some German kindred .-' ' Then when Albert 
 answered that his mother was a Sachs- Odinstein 
 Felsen, to his amazement, the old man fell on his 
 knees in thanksgiving. All the explanation he then 
 gave was that he had known the Duchess in his 
 youth. Then having once learnt that she was living 
 and well, he spoke no more of the matter. 
 
 * But why not bring him hither .'' Would that I 
 could see him, and tell him how his upright sense 
 of duty has a thousand times guided and strengthened 
 me ! Why didst not bring him, Albert } ' 
 
 ' Alas, grandmother ! ' and Albert went on to tell 
 how ere many hours were past, the Dutch were upon 
 them, and how Father Kaspar forced on the know- 
 ledge of the first-comers that the wounded man was a 
 son of the Marquis of Hautroncel, and a cousin of the 
 Prince of Orange, well worth taking alive. But for him- 
 self, he was instantly recognised as the Jesuit Kaspar 
 Vorstein, who had turned back so many converts to
 
 KASPAR'S summer dream 121 
 
 his Church again, and who was doubly detestable and 
 dangerous because he was loved and praised by all 
 who came under his influence. 
 
 Some were for shooting him down at once, but the 
 most part were for reserving him for the Provost- 
 Marshal, and for examination in case he should know 
 any state secrets. These latter prevailed, and at the 
 entreaty of Albert, and of the priest himself, he was 
 allowed to continue at his post of nurse all night, 
 sentries being placed to prevent his escape. 
 
 There was nothing about him by which the youth 
 could have guessed that he well knew that examina- 
 tion meant torture. He was gravely kind and earnest 
 as ever, and divided the night watches between prayer 
 and care of the young man ; but towards morning, 
 seeing that Albert was awake, he spoke more, bidding 
 him, when he should sec the Duchess again, thank her 
 for what she had been to himself through life, though 
 unseen since that summer dream. Kaspar had 
 vowed that no less noble bride should ever take her 
 place. It had then been, as he said, a foolish vow of 
 earthly disappointment, but it had led him to the 
 thought of the Mystic Bride, the noblest of all. As 
 he went home in his sadness to see her shrines over- 
 thrown, her Altars defiled, her votaries driven out, 
 and all because her shepherds had fed themselves 
 instead of the flock, and fouled the waters with their
 
 122 KASPAR'S SUMMER DREAM 
 
 feet, a spirit of self-devotion to her cause took .pos- 
 session of him. He might not have the lady of his 
 love, but the Church should be his lady. 
 
 How he gave up his wealth and traffic to his 
 brother, and devoted himself to the priestly life. How 
 his love passed ev^en above the earthly Church to her 
 Lord and Pvlaster in Heaven, he had scarcely told 
 Albert ; but many a voice could have said what he 
 had been to the desolated country in his steadfast faith, 
 untiring love, and brave rebuke of evil. 
 
 It was a stormy night, and the sun was rising 
 behind the house, and painting a splendid rainbow on 
 the western cloud. When the priest was summoned 
 to be taken before the Prince of Orange, Albert had 
 contrived to write on his tablets an earnest entreaty 
 for his life and safety, to be given to the prince, and 
 thus could bear to see him depart, in the hope of 
 his return. 
 
 Father Kaspar had bent down and kissed his brow, 
 crossed him, and blessed him, then said, * I thank my 
 Lord for this. Thou hast been one rainbow to me. 
 He hath given me another yonder. The earthly one 
 is fleeting. That about the Throne is for ever and 
 ever.' 
 
 Albert never saw him more. The Prince of 
 Orange durst not rescue a Jesuit from the hatred of 
 the Dutch. But Albert's note had so far prevailed
 
 kaspar's summer dream 123 
 
 that there was no torture, and the death was sharp 
 and sudden, which raised the self-devoted priest to the 
 glorious army of martyrs. 
 
 So had the noble love led to a nobler, the love 
 that was denied to the Love that never denies those 
 who seek it !
 
 BUY A BROOM.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 English people naturally think of the Wood of 
 Soignies in connection with the Battle of Waterloo, 
 but my story is concerned with it nearly three hun- 
 dred years before the time of that great victory, 
 when the name of Belgium had not yet been revived, 
 or more properly invented, and when Brussels was 
 only known as the chief city of the duchy of Brabant. 
 Soignies formed part of the great forest of Ardennes, 
 the favourite hunting-ground of the Dukes, first of 
 Brabant, and then of Burgund)-. It was later much 
 loved of the Emperor Charles V., who, though lord of 
 so many nations, was most entirely a Fleming at heart 
 and in language. 
 
 In some parts of the forest there were large trees 
 and impenetrable thici-cets, but the greater portion 
 consisted (as it docs still) of broken ground, covered 
 with scattered copsewood of holly and birch, with 
 an undergrowth of fern and bracken, and glades 
 of short grass between, affording pasturage for the 
 deer, swine, and other animals of the chase that 
 haunted the forest.
 
 12S tUY A BROOM 
 
 Lodges for the Emperor's foresters and woodmen 
 were found at long intervals, one or two of them 
 furnished with sylvan spoils and with conveniences 
 for a night's rest, in case any of the princely hunts- 
 men might wish to sleep there ; and in the depths 
 and glades there squatted a few other inhabitants. 
 Some were outlaws, who preyed upon the deer, and 
 eluded the pursuit of the keepers ; and others were 
 woodmen, who were permitted to cut faggots to sell 
 in Brussels, and ' kohlers,' who made smouldering 
 underground fires, wherewith to convert the tough 
 gnarled roots and stumps of trees into charcoal. 
 And there were also swine-herds and broom-makers, 
 but none were regarded with much favour by the 
 foresters, who suspected, often justly, that these 
 peaceful trades were only a cover for poaching upon 
 their special charge, the deer and wild boars. 
 
 So Master Piquard, the under-forester, was by no 
 means pleased when, in a well-sheltered opening 
 under a beautiful spreading beech-tree, he came upon 
 a little woodland hut that he did not remember to 
 have seen before. It was very low and built of sods 
 of turf, but neater than such huts usually were ; it 
 was thatched with reeds, had a doorway and a win- 
 dow, the door and shutter both made of reeds set 
 into a frame. The ground had been broken up near 
 the house, and fenced round to })rotect a few scanty
 
 BUY A BROOM 1 29 
 
 vegetables of the pea and cabbage kind ; a pretty 
 white goat with a kid by her side was tethered near ; 
 and in front of the door sat a young man with a red 
 cap, a somewhat soldierly-looking beard, and a brown 
 face, busily making a broom with the assistance of a 
 boy and girl of about eleven and twelve years old. 
 
 * Ha, fellow ! who gav^e thee leave to sit down 
 here, and slay the Emperor's deer ? * 
 
 * I'm no slayer of deer ! ' replied the man. ' I am 
 a broom-maker.' 
 
 ' You'll not take me in after that sort ! ' shouted 
 the keeper, offended that no tokens of respect were 
 paid him; 'canst not rise to hear the Emperor's 
 orders .' ' 
 
 Both at once the children here broke in, the boy 
 crying, ' Never heed the brute, Adrian ; ' the girl, ' Oh 
 sir, don't you see how lame he is. It hurts him to 
 rise ! ' 
 
 Nevertheless Adrian, with one hand on the boy's 
 shoulder, and the other on a crutch-handled staff, 
 struggled to his feet and limped forward, saving 
 with a smile, ' There, sir, you sec I am not likely to 
 be a dangerous foe to the Imperial deer.' 
 
 There was something in his frank air of equality 
 that angered the forester, who answered roughly, 
 * Hurt in some poaching brawl.' 
 
 ' If you list to call it so,' said Adrian, ' since it 
 
 K
 
 130 BUY A BROOM 
 
 was verily when the King of France was poaching on 
 the Duke of Savoy's ground in Piedmont. I was 
 then in one of the Walloon regiments under the 
 Marquis of Guasto, and in a fight at a little place 
 called Susa, whereof Meinherr Forester may have 
 heard, I got an arquebus bolt in the knee, which 
 made an end of my wars, alike with men or deer.' 
 
 'What proof have you of this.''' demanded 
 Piquard, who knew he would not be borne out in any 
 harshness towards a good soldier. Adrian bit his long 
 moustache, but knowing the need of patience, said : 
 * If the Herr Forester will deign to enter my hut, I 
 will give him what proof he needs beyond the word 
 of an honest man.' 
 
 ' Here you boy, hold my horse,' roughly called 
 the forester, swinging himself down, and throv/ing 
 the rein to the boy, then striding over the threshold 
 into the hut, which though only consisting of two 
 chambers, presented an air of homely neatness and 
 comfort which savoured far more of the habits of a 
 Netherlandish boer of the lower class than of those 
 of a squatter in the forest. Over the holy water 
 stoup on one wall was suspended a Crucifix, and near 
 at hand in a kind of trophy, a sword, a long pair of 
 spurs, a brace of pistols, two belts and an arquebus 
 ■ — the equipments, in fact, of a trooper or man-at- 
 arms. Moreover the owner silently produced from a
 
 BUY A BROOM I31 
 
 small case attached to the belt, a paper from Captain 
 Vorstander, a well-known leader of his troop, attest- 
 ing that Adrian Renslaer, of Brussels, a good and true 
 soldier, holding the rank of sergeant, had been dis- 
 charged on account of being maimed in the knee by 
 a wou-nd at the battle of Susa. 
 
 The forester growled and grunted over it, partly 
 from the difficulty he found in reading it, and partly 
 from the desire he felt to discover some flaw in it. 
 
 ' Sergeant, quotha ! ' muttered he. * And pray, 
 what does Master Sergeant if he be an honest man, 
 settled down here in the Emperor's woods, without 
 saying by your leave ? ' 
 
 ' What do I ? I maintain myself and my young 
 brother and sister by making these brooms, which 
 Pieter sells in Brussels. The Emperor is scarce 
 likely to object to an honest soldier driving an honest 
 trade.' 
 
 ' Honest indeed, as the cat said when she found 
 the dairy so handy for catching mice,' growled 
 Piquard. * How am I to let that armoury of yours 
 hang on the walls, in the heart of the Emperor's 
 game ? ' 
 
 ' Men don't usually shoot deer with arquebuses 
 in time of peace, even when they have the use of 
 both legs to go after them,' returned Adrian coolly. 
 
 'Do you bandy words with me, fellow.'" said 
 
 K 2
 
 132 BUY A BROOM 
 
 Piquard. ' Show me reason good why I should not 
 bring half a dozen prickers to-morrow morning to tear 
 up this hovel of yours and send you and your brooms 
 packing.' 
 
 'As you please, Herr Forester,' said Adrian coolly. 
 * Only whereas I sell my brooms to Captain Vor- 
 stander's good hausfrau, and some others, it might 
 come to the Emperor's ears how his old soldiers are 
 treated.' 
 
 ' His old soldiers ! His vile plunderers,' sneered 
 Piquard ; but Renslaer's firm front had its effect so far 
 that he added, ' Look you, Herr Sergeant, 'tis not 
 within my duty to leave you all this gunnery. Be 
 you as lame as you show yourself, that boy has a pair 
 of stout legs, and might do no small damage with 
 them.' 
 
 'Without powder, eh!' and Adrian's moustache 
 bristled ; for he loved his weapons. His arquebus was 
 beautifully carved and inlaid with steel, and his 
 pistols, the spoil of a slain P^renchman, were mounted 
 v/ith silver, but their value only increased Piquard's 
 determination to secure them, and he sharply ex- 
 claimed, ' In the Emperor's name ! Silence, rogue. 
 Thou mayst think thyself lucky to get off so cheaply. 
 Now, I will leave you here,' he added, after taking 
 down the firearms, 'so long as no injury is done to 
 any living thing belonging to his Highness, boar,
 
 BUY A BROOM 133 
 
 deer, hare or coney, pheasant, partridge or quail. 
 The first you touch, woe be to you. Neither may 
 you keep a dog on any pretext.' 
 
 ' Certainly not,' said Adrian, 
 
 ' Nor can I have the Emperor's trees and coverts 
 hacked and cut for these brooms of yours. Look 
 you, not a stick is to be touched within yonder dyke, 
 at your peril. There ! You hear the terms on which 
 you may remain. And hark ! You may send my wife 
 up at St. Hubert's Lodge, a couple of good birch 
 brooms every month by way of fee for my winking 
 at trespassers like you. I shall send a pricker down 
 to fetch away the arquebus. See you have it ready. 
 Soh ! boy, can't you hold the horse still ? Remember 
 the brooms : the best birch, mind ! ' 
 
 ' I'd rather lay it about his back,' cried Pieter pas - 
 .sionately, as Master Piquard disappeared among the 
 trees. 
 
 ' So would I, the rascal ! ' growled Adrian. ' If I 
 were but as once I was, I should like to see the 
 villain that would so have dared to speak to me.* 
 
 ' How could you bear it ! ' cried his little sister, * to 
 let him take the arquebus Captain Groot gave you, 
 and the pistols you won in single combat .'' ' 
 
 ' 'Tis hard enough,' said Adrian, ' but when one is 
 down, one gets the less trampled on if one lies still, 
 my little Gudulc; and he was within the letter of
 
 134 ^UY A BROOM 
 
 his rules. Firearms are not permitted within the 
 forest ' 
 
 * And do you mean to send him his brooms ? ' de- 
 manded Pieter, fiercely. 
 
 ' I don't mean to be swept out of the forest,' 
 answered Adrian. 
 
 'You'll not find me carrying them,' returned 
 Pieter, loftily. 
 
 * Wait till they are made,' returned Adrian. 
 
 ' How are they, or any other brooms, to be made 
 if we are not to go within the dyke ? ' dem.anded 
 Gudule. 
 
 * There's plenty of good stuff outside if you only 
 look for it,' said Adrian. 
 
 'No thanks to him,' returned Pieter; 'he has 
 taken our bread away, and expects us to kiss 
 his feet for it, as if he were the blessed Genoveva 
 herself.' 
 
 'Well,' said Adrian, 'he zvas more merciful than 
 I expected. I should not have wondered to see our 
 sods flying about our ears, and to find myself hopping 
 off to get a wallet and a dish, wherewith to sit on 
 Church steps ! A little more of thy tongue, Piet, and 
 we should have come to that.' 
 
 ' Never, Adrian. The Saints forcfend.' 
 
 ' Then you must be careful, little ones, both with 
 tongue, and knife, and string, for wc live among foes
 
 BUY A BROOM 135 
 
 and must be as wary as if wc were walking over 
 mines. I have been expecting a visit of this sort ever 
 since we settled down here, and it is very well it is no 
 worse.' 
 
 'What? when you lose your arquebus,' sighed 
 Pieter, as Adrian took it down and tenderly rubbed it 
 with a bit of chamois leather. ' Show me once more 
 how you hit the tall Gascon over the stockade ! ' 
 
 ' You'll not lose your sword at least, brother,' said 
 Gudulc. 
 
 ' I hope not, but it may be well to put it under my 
 bed, child. Aye and the spurs, lest the pricker should 
 take a fancy to them. We are in their power, and 
 they will have of us what they please. Though, after 
 all, what should it be to me ? I shall never wield 
 sword nor wear spurs again ! ' 
 
 ' But I may,' cried Pieter proudly. 
 'Better wield the scales or the ell wand,' said 
 Adrian ; ' but Piet, if soldier thou shouldst ever be, or 
 man in authority, bear this hour in mind, and be not 
 hard with them that be at thy mercy. I never was 
 as bad as some of us ! I never set fire on peaceful 
 dwelling, nor raised my hand to hurt priest, woman, 
 or child, and vet it comes on me now how the black- 
 eyed Italian mother wailed when we killed her goat, 
 and burnt her mulberry tree for the very gaiety of our 
 hearts, as a bonfire ! Ah well ! May be the Saints
 
 136 BUY A BROOM 
 
 heard her, and sent this ball to disable me, and make 
 me go through what she did.' 
 
 A long discordant bray was here heard. It made 
 Pietcr start up, and, by Adrian's advice, tie his donkey 
 in the depths of a secluded thicket, lest the pricker 
 should seize him on pretence cf respect to the 
 Emperor's woods. 
 
 -.*'(% . 4if\"^
 
 BUY A BROOM 137 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Adrian Rexslaer was the son of a linen dealer at 
 Brussels. The family were respectable burghers, not 
 of the great commercial princely degree, but well-to- 
 do in a homely style, and forming part of the demo- 
 cracy of the great guild of linen weavers. 
 
 Adrian's father and mother had been swept off 
 early in life by one of the pestilences that so often 
 ravaged medi<xval cities, and which caused the wide 
 gap between him and the little brother and sister, who 
 had been spared in consequence of having been put out 
 to nurse at a country farm. Adrian, a big schoolboy, 
 nearly old enough to be apprenticed, came under the care 
 of his grandfather whose second wife did not love the 
 lad, and made home as unpleasant to him as she could. 
 His one comfort was in Vrow Renslaer's own daughter 
 by a former marriage, Doucette Flandrin, a girl about 
 his own age, who rejoiced in having a young companion. 
 
 When poor little Pieter and Gudule were brought 
 home, Doucette had done her best to save them 
 from the tyranny of their baby uncle, and the jealousy
 
 138 BUY A BROOM 
 
 of her mother. Much she could not do, but she was a 
 good girl who did justice to the education she received 
 from the Beguines, who taught her better things than 
 the lace she made so exquisitely ; and she was the 
 one bright spot in Adrian's life. 
 
 He was a high-spirited lad, with natural aspirations 
 beyond the loom and ell wand ; but these would have 
 been satisfied by sharing in the discipline of the city 
 guard and trained bands if he had found a cheerful 
 kindly welcome at home, or even if he had been 
 allowed to hope for the hand of sweet Doucette in 
 her tight round cap, and formal little white collar. 
 
 He was a fair match for her, as indeed her father 
 had been a far poorer man than his own ; and for 
 her sake, encouraged by the smile on her dimpled 
 cheek and the welcome in her honest blue eyes, he 
 had endured to be scolded for idleness and all 
 manner of faults whenever he came in, to be ordered 
 about, to live on mere scraps of food, and to see 
 his little brother and sister harshly used. Would 
 not he and Doucette make it all up to them, as soon 
 as his apprenticeship was over, and the rules of the 
 guild permitted him to marry ? 
 
 His grandfather was growing feeble, and the vrow 
 had shown him reason good not to interfere, so he only 
 durst say a kind word to the children when she was out 
 of hearing. Adrian, at the workshop, had the most of
 
 BUY A BROOM 139 
 
 such words, and was secure of his good will. Na}', in 
 the old man's very sight, at the great annual fair, the 
 youth and maiden had exchanged two little, silver 
 hearts, and he had looked on and smiled. They were 
 not sixteen, and perhaps he fancied it child's play. 
 
 Of course Vrow Renslaer had other views for her 
 daughter, and Doucette was pretty enough to attract 
 glances that excited her ambition. There was a dis- 
 reputable young man, son to one of the richest burgo- 
 masters, who had been spoilt by unlimited supplies from 
 a foolish mother, and by dangling about among the 
 young nobles, incurring their mockery even while they 
 preyed upon him. This youth admired Doucette 
 Flandrin, and her mother, full of hopes and schemes, 
 tried to lure him to her house, and scorned all warnings 
 and entreaties, in the trust to see Doucette one of the 
 richest dames of Brussels. 
 
 Everyone save herself knew this to be an utterly 
 delusive hope, and at last the crisis came. Adrian, 
 coming home from practice with the train bands, 
 found Doucette beset by young Dahler. The old 
 servant who accompanied her was incapable of pro- 
 tecting her, and they were in a lonely square in front 
 of a small slightly frequented Church, which Doucette 
 used to visit as that of her patron saint. 
 
 Adrian rushed up to the rescue with drawn sword, 
 struck Dahler down, and the two horrified young
 
 140 BUY A BROOM 
 
 people saw him lying at their feet, whether dead or 
 alive they knew not; either way the peril to Adrian 
 was great, for the family was powerful. Adrian was 
 only an apprentice, violence in the streets was severely 
 punished, and the evidence of Doucette and her 
 servant was most likely to be set aside. 
 
 ' Fly ! ' was reiterated in the ears of the young 
 man alike by the servant, by Doucette, and by the 
 priest who had come out of the Church. * Fly ! ' cried 
 Doucette, with streaming eyes, ' I will be faithful ! Fly, 
 or it is death ! ' 
 
 Adrian had no other choice, if he would escape 
 prison and probably death. He strove to walk with 
 an indifferent air, though expecting every moment to 
 hear an alarm behind him, and thus at last reached 
 the more frequented streets, where, mingling with the 
 crowd that followed a party of minstrels and jugglers, 
 he had quitted the town, and struck off into the 
 forest. 
 
 Among the many little provinces into which the 
 Netherlands were divided, each with its own jurisdic- 
 tion, it was by no means difficult to escape justice : 
 but so precise were the regulations of trade, that a 
 runaway apprentice was a sort of pariah, and could 
 not hope to find employment in any of the other 
 mercantile cities, which were all closely connected by 
 commercial relations with one another. Indeed a
 
 BUY A BROOM 141 
 
 Stranger could not enter a city without being closely- 
 interrogated at the gates, and it did not take Adrian 
 long to realise that soldiership was his only resource. 
 Fortune favoured him, for he had hardly gained the 
 Roman road which popular tradition ascribed to 
 Queen Brunehault, before he heard the clank of arms 
 and tramp of horses' feet, and was overtaken by a 
 troop of Walloon men-at-arms in the service of 
 Charles V. Tall, strong, and active, and not without 
 military training, the young burgher was a promising 
 recruit, and was accepted with a rough but friendly 
 welcome, and made one of the five attendants who fell 
 to the share of each of those highly equipped horse- 
 men. There was nothing for him to do but to cast 
 in his lot with the band, a fairly respectable one as 
 times went, under a loyal and faithful leader, who 
 kept his engagements, did his best to pay his soldiers, 
 enforce good discipline, and restrain all outrageous 
 violence, except when the fury of his men was both 
 licensed and irresistible. The profession of the mer- 
 cenary was an evil one at the best, but Adrian was 
 fortunate in his comrades, and saw it on its most 
 honourable and least ferocious side, nor did he lose in 
 it his true, warm, and reverent heart. He wrote twice 
 to his father, but never heard from home during his 
 eight years of service in the wars of Charles V. His 
 courage, and still more his steadiness, intelligence,
 
 142 BUY A BROOM 
 
 and education had gradually raised him to the rank 
 of sergeant, a high and responsible one as things then 
 stood, and he had begun to look forward to the pos- 
 sibility of obtaining a command, such as, if Doucette 
 were stiil free and faithful, would justify him in calling 
 on her to follow his fortunes. It was a wild impro- 
 bability at that period, but Adrian still cherished the 
 hope, was as loyal to his Doucette as ever noble 
 knight-errant to his only love, and was thereby pre- 
 served from incalculable evil. A shattered knee laid 
 him prostrate at Susa in Savoy, and destroyed all future 
 hope. The disabled soldier was merely a blunted 
 instrument, and if he were never likely to be useful 
 again, he was not even worth taking care of He had 
 to provide for his own expenses, and when defenceless 
 in an enemy's country, his fate must often have been a 
 terrible retribution for all his savage deeds of oppres- 
 sion. Did not three whole French armies absolutely 
 perish in Italy, to say nothing of individual Germans 
 and Spaniards, when every man's hand was against 
 * the stranger ' .-* 
 
 However, Adrian was sufficiently beloved by his 
 comrades, and esteemed by his officers, to secure his 
 personal safety, and even to prevent his being robbed 
 of the heavy belt of coins and the triple gold chain 
 in which the poor fellow had tried to secure his pro- 
 vision for Doucette. There was no preventing them
 
 BUY A BROOM I43 
 
 from melting away under the expenses of his long ill- 
 ness and helplessness ; and when he could again 
 move about, utterly incapacitated for service, he re- 
 tained little more than sufficed to secure for him a 
 passage from Nice to Antwerp in a merchant vessel, 
 in which his former captain was likewise going home, 
 to repose upon his laurels as a wealthy householder at 
 Brussels. 
 
 Captain Vorstandcr had an indolent kindness for 
 the promising young soldier, from whom he had ex- 
 pected so much, though he was not inclined to be at 
 any expense or trouble for him. So Adrian had tlie 
 benefit of the canal boat which carried home the cap- 
 tain, and thence with throbbing heart, leaning on his 
 crutch, went forth in search of the home he had 
 left. 
 
 The linen shop bore still the sign of the Purple 
 Lamb he knew of old, but as he stumbled up the 
 steps, it was an unfamiliar voice that asked the 
 browned and bearded soldier what he lacked. 
 
 He leant on the front of the stall, trembling as he 
 asked for Meinherr Jacob Renslaer. 
 
 * I know of no Renslaer,' was the answer. ' It is 
 Meinherr Bork who holds it now. Any Holland 
 shirting, Herr soldiers ; we have it of the best .-' ' 
 
 'Not now, friend,' returned Adrian, 'but can j'ou 
 tell me nothing of the family of Renslaer ? '
 
 144 I^UY A BROOM 
 
 'Not I, sir,' said the man, for people paid an 
 awful respect to soldierly bearing and accoutrements 
 even while they hated them ; ' I am serving my 
 wandering year here, and am from Mechlin. Please 
 you, make way ; here are fresh bales coming in.' 
 
 Two stout porters were bending under heavy loads 
 of linen, and Adrian had to move out of their way, 
 but one grizzled face was familiar to him, and though 
 too well trained in business habits to speak at the 
 moment, he watched them pass, followed to the ware- 
 house, and exclaimed, ' Matthias Matsen ! ' 
 
 ' Who calls me ? ' demanded the porter turning 
 round with a brawny hand to his heated brow, ' a 
 man-at-arms, by St. Gudule ! What do you here, sir ? ' 
 
 ' I came on the part of a comrade of mine to 
 enquire after Meinhcrr Renslaer who formerly held 
 the Purple Lamb,' said Adrian. 
 
 ' Dead these seven years. Heaven rest his scul,' 
 replied the grizzled giant. ' Look you now, sir, these 
 are working hours, and Ilerr Bork is a sharp man, 
 but if you'll be at my door, a few paces round the 
 corner, just when the convent bell opposite rings 
 out, ril answer whatever }-ou please about the old 
 folks.' 
 
 With this Adrian was forced to be contented. He 
 knew perfectly well old Matthias' den, a sort of open 
 stall or cellar under one of the warehouses ; and, not
 
 CUY A BROOM 145 
 
 venturing to make himself known nor claim acquaint- 
 ance with anyone till he could learn the state of 
 affairs, he limped across the place to the nearest 
 Church, where he waited till the working hours were 
 nearly over, and then made his way to the cellar, to 
 which he descended by shallow steps from the street, 
 from which its only light was received. It was under 
 the vault which supported the building, and had a door 
 which could be closed against bad weather. Matthias 
 came hurrying home just as he was making his painful 
 descent, but did not speak till he had seen him safely 
 down, seated him on the only chair, and stirred up 
 the slumbering embers of the fire on the hearth. 
 Then he looked up and said, The young master.* 
 
 'Even so,' replied i^drian holding out his hand. 
 ' How goes it with them all, good old friend ? ' 
 
 Matthias' story was given with many asigh and grunt. 
 He did not exactly know where Doucette was ; lie 
 believed that she was a serving woman to some Court 
 lady. Pieter and Gudulewereat Tirlemont with their 
 stepmother, who had married a third time, and the 
 little half-brother was dead. That was what Adrian 
 first discovered. Next he heard that Dahler had not 
 been killed by his blow, but had been severely 
 injured, and that he and his father had shown a bitter 
 spirit of hatred and revenge against all the Renslaer 
 family, insisting on their producing the culprit, and 
 
 L
 
 146 BUY A BROOM 
 
 then doing their utmost to ruin their trade and hunt 
 them down. Old Renslaersoon died, and on his death 
 h.is affairs were found to be in a state of hopeless con- 
 fusion. Dahler's spite had hindered his grandchildren 
 from being adopted by the guild to which the old 
 man had belonged, and his widow had taken them 
 away with her to Tirlcmont, whence she had originally 
 come. That was all the old man knew, except that 
 Doucette had kept all suitors at bay by declaring a 
 previous contract with Adrian, sanctioned by his grand- 
 father and her stepfather ; and he had actually seen 
 her, wathin the last year, come to the shop to purchase 
 a fine web of linen for some great Countess or Duchess 
 in whose service she was. 
 
 He made Adrian welcome with all his heart to his 
 supper and his bed, but told him that the Dahlersi 
 were a vindictive race, and both for his blow and 
 his flight he might be called to account. 
 
 Adrian slept in the cellar that night, then made 
 his way with great perseverance, but terrible pain and 
 toil to Tirlemont, leaving his weapons with Matthias, 
 and spending on the way nearly his last few coins, 
 coming into the place with a troop of market people, 
 one of whom had good-naturedly given the lame 
 soldier a ride in a cart. He decided on sitting for a time 
 on some steps that overlooked the market-place, both 
 to rest and to observe, since he was nearly certain that
 
 BUY A BROOM I47 
 
 the market would afford a full muster of the women 
 of Tirlemont. 
 
 In truth it did so, and Adrian had no difficulty in 
 recognising the portly form and ill-tempered face of 
 his grandfather's wife, as she marched in with her 
 wide flapping cap and the bunch of keys at her girdle. 
 There were no signs of poverty about her, but she was 
 followed by two almost ragged, half-starved little 
 children, carrying a basket between them. Adrian's 
 teeth were set, and his hand grasped the hilt of his 
 dagger in his rage at the sight of the load of heavy 
 roots and fruits under which the poor little things 
 staggered away behind her, so slowly perforce, in spite 
 of her scolding, that he had no difficulty in keeping 
 them in sight till they disappeared in an open doorway. 
 By making enquiries in the street he learnt that Vrow 
 Renslaer had joined a sister of hers, and that together 
 they took in the washing of various citizen families, 
 and the getting up of the delicate Flemish rufts and 
 cuffs that make such a figure at the time. His in- 
 formant, a burly Franciscan friar, added with a shrug 
 that it was a hard and ungodly house, and that he 
 pitied the two poor children. Vrow Renslaer, it 
 seemed, excused herself from all charitable con- 
 tributions on the ground of being saddled with 
 her husband's orphan grandchildren; and 'the 
 
 Saints help them,' said the gossiping friar, ' the poor 
 
 L 2
 
 i48 fcUY A EROOM 
 
 things arc worked harder than any galley slave at 
 Tangier ! ' 
 
 On this Adrian ventured to communicate to the 
 good-natured friar who he was, and to consult him 
 how to find means of speaking to his brother. The 
 little mystery delighted Brother Andreas, who laboured 
 under the misfortune of having far too little to do, 
 and he undertook to invent an errand which should 
 bring Pieter out without loss of time. 
 
 Upsetting his wallet on the ground, he waddled 
 hastily into the door, exclaiming, 'Vrow, dear Vrow, 
 I ask no bounty to-day, but lend me Pieter; my wallet 
 is fallen ! All the alms of the faithful are in the dirt, 
 and how am I to get them to the house without 
 help.-* Here, Pieter — Ah! the good boy is already 
 gone ' 
 
 He was gone, without waiting to hear the Vrow's 
 scoldings and charges to him not to idle on the 
 way ; but she had her irons hot, and could not stir to 
 pursue or look after him. 
 
 Sooth to say. Brother Andreas did not concern 
 himself much about his quest, and the whole contents 
 of the wallet were one sausage and half a loaf; but the 
 boy was already in the arms of his brother, and had 
 come to the knowledge that the battered, bearded, 
 crippled soldier was really Adrian. The cunning 
 friar hastily filled his wallet with stones, and taking
 
 DUY A BROOM 1 49 
 
 one corner, while Pictcr took the other, the trio slowly 
 proceeded towards the convent. Pieter had full time 
 to tell his talc. Doucette, he said, had stood by 
 them, and shielded them as much as possible, but he 
 verily believed Vrow Renslaer would have turned them 
 out to beg, if Doucette had not taken service with the 
 young Countess d'Espinay, one of the Empress' ladies, 
 and promised to send all the money she earned in wages 
 for their maintenance. ' We had rather beg than live as 
 we do,' said poor little Pieter, ' but Doucette always 
 begged us to bear it, lest you should not be able to 
 find us when you came home ! O Adrian, I looked 
 to see you come on horseback with a hat and 
 feather.' 
 
 A terrible account of blows, overwork, and starva- 
 tion was elicited from the boy ; and he implored 
 Adrian to take them away. 
 
 It was early summer, and life in the woods looked 
 fresh and fair. Adrian thought at first of openly 
 demanding his brother and sister from the Vrow ; 
 but the friar dissuaded him, lest she should de- 
 nounce him to the authorities at Brussels, and Pieter 
 and Gudule were therefore to watch their opportunity 
 run away, and meet their brother at the Church of the 
 convent. There Friar Andreas promised the soldier 
 a meal and a night's lodging in case of need, and in 
 f^ct the time Pieter resolved on was early morning-,
 
 150 BUY A BROOM 
 
 when he and his sister were sure to be sent to take 
 home the Hnen for the Sunday wear of the neighbour- 
 ing burgomaster. 
 
 Trembling and panting, but supremely happy, 
 poor little Gudule, a mere skeleton dressed in thread- 
 bare rags, darted into Adrian's arms. Just as the 
 first Mass was over at five o'clock in the morningf 
 Brother Andreas, almost as much delighted as the 
 children, gave them their breakfast, and borrowed 
 for Adrian's use the donkey which accompanied 
 the brethren on their more distant quests, coming with 
 them himself for the earlier part of their journey, 
 which he directed with the sagacity of one well used 
 to roaming the country. 
 
 He was a kind and honest man, though not by any 
 means of a high tone, and with him, ways and means 
 were discussed. Every trade was so close a corpora- 
 tion that the runaway apprentice and disabled soldier 
 had no chance of employment ; no city accepted 
 strangers except in the most menial situations ; and 
 besides Adrian, after the free open air life of the camp, 
 knew not how to brook confinement in one of the 
 horrible dens to which city life in such a capacity 
 would have condemned him. 
 
 The accident of meeting an ass loaded with 
 brooms decided him. He knew he could make them, 
 for he had had in the beginning of his warlike career
 
 BUY A BROOM 15 1 
 
 a Dutch man-at-arms, who had forced his grooms to 
 sweep his tent and their own stables into tidiness Hke 
 the village of Brock, and had even been critical about 
 the brooms they made for the purpose. He remem- 
 bered too that there had been a scarcity of the 
 article at Brussels, for the Vrow's shrill murmurs at 
 the cost of besoms still rang in his ears. So he 
 resolved that, for the summer at least, he would take 
 shelter in the outskirts of the wood of Soignies, near 
 enough to Brussels to send Picter in to dispose of them, 
 when old Matthias would be able to give him advice 
 and patronage ; near Brussels too it was just possible 
 that something might be heard of Doucette, whose 
 mistress was one of the ladies of the Empress Isabel. 
 Poor Adrian knew himself to have sunk far beneath 
 her level in society, but he knew her to be still un- 
 wedded and to be still holding to her contract, and 
 thus hope was not dead. His lameness might 
 diminish enough to enable him to obtain some better 
 employment. In short, hope can with difficulty be 
 killed when a man has lived but a quarter of a 
 century. 
 
 Thus it was that the brothers and their little sister 
 made their way to the outskirts of Soignies on the 
 Brussels side, where game was not so thick as to lead 
 many huntsmen that way, and there was plenty of 
 material for their trade. A soldier like Adrian was
 
 152 BUY A BROOM 
 
 experienced in the resources of the bivouac, and 
 devised shelter for Gudule under branches of trees 
 till the hut could be built. Pieter was sent in to tell 
 Matthias Matsen,and under his supervision to sell some 
 of Adrian's more costly accoutrements and lay out 
 the sum on a few necessaries of life, which the stout 
 porter carried out to them on the first holy day. 
 Holy days came thickly in early May, and Matthias 
 had no scruple in devoting all their later hours, and 
 those of the Sundays, to the raising of Master Adrian's 
 roof-tree, and the general comfort of the little settle- 
 ment. 
 
 It was he too that showed Pieter where to carry his 
 brooms, and who spoke words of recommendation that 
 made the trade flourish. The children had never been 
 so happy in their lives. Gudule could not remember 
 a time when she had not been cowed and misused, 
 and it was like Paradise to have to live a full life with 
 an indulgent brother instead of being scolded, driven, 
 and kept to liard toil all day long. 
 
 All play had long been driven out of her, and she 
 was a solemn little housewifely Fleming ; but she 
 knew how to fulfil all sorts of household tasks, and 
 the blissful change was to do them for love, be thanked, 
 praised and wondered at, then to hear the birds sing, 
 listen to Adrian's stories of strange lands, and neither 
 be beaten herself nor see Pieter beaten.
 
 BUY A BROOM 1 53 
 
 Thus the summer months were passing with very 
 fair prosperity, and much enjoyment to the children, 
 who were growing plump and strong ; and Pieter's 
 trade had become fairly established when Master 
 Piquard's visit filled them with uneasiness.
 
 154 BUY A BROOM 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The pricker did not fail to come the next morning to 
 take away the firearms ; but he turned out to be an 
 old soldier, who had fought in Maximilian's Italian 
 campaigns, and was pleased to find someone who 
 could talk about Lombardy, and join with him in 
 vituperation of landsknechts, Swiss, and all in fact 
 who were not Netherlanders, He sympathised with 
 Adrian on the loss of his weapons, but observed that 
 it had been a mere folly to keep them when they 
 might have been turned into good guilders for their 
 owner instead of for Master Piquard. However, he 
 liked Adrian the better for clinging to them, and, so 
 far from making any further perquisitions, told him 
 that if anyone below the degree of the forester Piquard 
 annoyed him, he might appeal to the protection of 
 himself, Hans Rink. 
 
 This protection stood them in good stead, other- 
 wise they could hardly have held their ground against 
 Piquard's petty persecutions. Pieter had to go farther 
 for his material, and to bring home what was not
 
 BUY A BROOM 1 55 
 
 available without double the amount of sorting and 
 picking, and he often grumbled heartily, if he did not 
 sometimes transgress. lie had fewer brooms to take 
 to Brussels, and not only did Piquard make him pay 
 toll on them, but the under-prickers and their boys 
 used to hoot at him, and drive him away when he was 
 within bounds. There were outlaws haunting the 
 forest, who expected Adrian to make common cause 
 with them, and \\hcn they found him too true to his 
 training both as citizen and soldier, began to hold him 
 in sufficient distrust and dislike to make him heartily 
 regret the loss of his arquebus. 
 
 One morning Gudule, going into the wood to 
 gather berries, found a poor little fawn running round 
 and vainly caressing its dead mother, who, poor 
 thing, must have fled pierced by an outlaw's arrow, 
 only to die. 
 
 Gudule caught the poor little creature with some 
 difficulty, brought it home, and with much patience 
 and tenderness managed to make it drink some goat's 
 milk and water. She was so happy with it, that 
 Adrian, though he thought it a perilous possession, 
 could not bear to deprive her of it, but by way of pre- 
 caution, he sent Pieter to Hans Rink to report on the 
 discovery. 
 
 Rink was not at home, and Pieter most unwillincrlv 
 was forced to follow him to Piquard's lodge. There
 
 156 BUY A BROOM 
 
 was a terrible baying of hounds, which almost daunted 
 the boy's heart, as the dogs stood at the length of 
 their chains, leaping and growling at him, and the 
 forester and prickers, coming forth at the sound, to 
 laugh at the alarm of the boy, and to shout at them 
 till they sprang at their chains half maddened. 
 
 Rink, however, no sooner recognised the boy 
 than he came forward, took him by the hand, and 
 led him up to tell his business, whereat Piquard 
 laughed with a sneer, but sent down two prickers to 
 secure the venison. Pieter tried to guide them to the 
 spot, but either the doe was gone, or else he missed 
 the spot, though he called Gudule to help him. 
 Round and round the ash-tree she remembered did 
 they wander in vain, and even the two prickers 
 laughed at Adrian for being too dull or too scrupu- 
 lous to have helped himself to it. Indeed one at 
 least believed that he had done so, and had only sent 
 Pieter with the information as a blind — nay, Piquard's 
 reading of the matter was that one or other of the 
 Irothers had been the slaughterer of the deer. He 
 was sure Renslaer was not as lame as he pretended. 
 In truth, Adrian was less lame than when he had 
 arrived, and could stand and walk much longer ; his 
 health was recovering itself, and if he had ventured 
 to make his hut more solid and comfortable, or do 
 anything to attract the notice and suspicion of his
 
 BUY A BRCOM I 57 
 
 petty tyrant, his situation would liavc been very com- 
 fortable. 
 
 Looking forward, however, to the winter, when 
 the paths would be blocked with snow, and the keen 
 winds would blow through the frail hut, he doubted 
 whether Gudule could safely remain through the in- 
 clement season, and whether, indeed, all three might 
 not perish with cold and hunger, if they did not find 
 lodging in some town or village. For this he strove to 
 save ; but the daily needs were absorbing all the profits 
 of the trade, and the immediate expectation of the 
 Court at Brussels made the foresters all the more alert. 
 
 ' You, Renslaer, here ! ' shouted Piquard, veiy 
 splendid in a new hunting suit of green. ' The Em- 
 peror is come to Brussels. There's to be no cutting 
 of so much as a sprig of heather or spray of birch 
 while he is here.' 
 
 ' That is just starvation,' said Adrian. 
 
 'What care I whether beggars starve or not .-' I 
 have left you here too long, to steal the Emperor's 
 deer, and take his eggs ; but I'm too good-natured, 
 and shall have to answer for it if he finds this tres- 
 passing hut.' 
 
 ' It is beyond the bounds ' 
 
 ' Do you bandy words with me, you plunderer ? 
 I give you a week to be off, and then down comes this 
 house.'
 
 158 BUY A BROOM 
 
 Whether this was meant in earnest or as a means 
 oi extortion, Adrian knew not, for Piquard gallopped 
 away, while Gudule stood weeping, sobbing, and cHng- 
 ing to her brother. 
 
 Pieter was sent that evening to consult Hans Rink, 
 but again could not find him. However, late in the 
 evening, the old man came down with a big basket 
 over his shoulder. 
 
 ' PIcre ! ' he said ; ' there's been a mighty chase, and 
 the great folk have killed more than they listed to 
 carry away, so I brought down a breast and shoulder 
 for the little maid to try her skill on.' 
 
 ' O dear good Hans, thanks ; but hast thou heard 
 what Master Piquard swears,' she anxiously answered. 
 ' That he gives us but a week, and then he will pull 
 down the hut over our heads ? ' 
 
 'Piquard swears to do more than he doth,' said 
 Adrian. 
 
 * That is true, and for my part, were I you, I 
 would virait till the worst came. You could but be off 
 then. The whole of us will be far too busy attending 
 on the Emperor for the pulling down of huts ; and it 
 might even be, if the chase came this way, you might 
 get a word to the Emperor himself. He is a 
 kindly man to speak to, they say, and loves an old 
 soldier and a Fleming. They tell me he is never so 
 much at home, nor so merry, in all his lands, as here
 
 BUY A EROOM 159 
 
 in good old Brabant. No, no ! Ilcrr Serjeant, stick to 
 your hut as long as you can, and call St. Hubert to 
 aid, for I believe you are a lucky man, and will get off 
 this time. Keep your fawn and your goat close, little 
 maid, or the dogs may be on them, and bring you into 
 trouble. And for you young Pieter, you come with 
 me, and I'll show you a bundle of heather you can 
 carry off, that will serve you for a week's work. No, 
 no ! Serjeant, no thanks. I was a soldier before I was 
 a pricker, and we of the Walloons always stand by 
 one another.' 
 
 ' At least you will come and see how Gudule deals 
 with your venison ? ' 
 
 ' That must be as the hunters will it ! I can't tell 
 where I may be, at this end of the forest or far away 
 by Ardennes, after the boars. But be cautious, and 
 good St. Hubert have you in his keeping ! '
 
 l60 BUY A BROOM 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Sounds of the chase, the winded horn and the bay- 
 ing of the dogs, had been fitfully heard, now near, now 
 farther off, all day, but as the twilight of a September 
 evening fell, they died away in the distance. Then 
 it was that Gudule went out with her pitcher to the 
 spring to fetch water for the evening meal. As she 
 stood holding it to catch the drops that oozed from 
 a high bank and were collected by a hollow tile before 
 falling into the pool below, she caught the sound of 
 a horse's feet on the short turf behind her, and dread- 
 ing Master Piquard, was snatching back her pitcher, 
 and taking the first bound for her intended flight, 
 when a voice of far different tone called, * Ho 1^, my 
 little maiden.' 
 
 She paused and saw, coming through the bushes, 
 the figure of a man, leading a weary stumbling horse, 
 with its head hanging down. 
 
 ' You have water there, maiden,' he said. * Can 
 my horse drink .■' ' 
 
 ' Here is a pool, sir,' said Gudule, half frightened,
 
 BUY A BROOM l6l 
 
 half reassured, as the stranger led his white horse 
 forward, and removed the bit, so that it might drink 
 freely. Gudule shyly held out her pitcher to the man 
 himself, and he said, ' Thanks, dear little one,' in a 
 more courtly and gentle tone than she had ever heard, 
 took the earthenware pitcher, drained it, with his 
 head thrown back, and restored it with renewed 
 thanks, for ' as welcome a draught as ever I tasted. 
 And now, little maid,' he added, ' canst thou tell a 
 wearied hungry hunter where to find rest and food 
 for himself and his horse, and then guidance out of 
 this forest where I have lost my way ? ' 
 
 ' My brothers live near at hand, sir,' replied Gudule, 
 quite reassured by the gentleness of the voice, and 
 fearlessly leading the way to the hut, where the fire- 
 light gleamed through the open door. 
 
 Adrian and Pieter both started up at the sound 
 of horses' hoofs, and Gudule darted forward. ' O 
 brother, he is a lost hunter ! and his poor horse is so 
 weary — may I not bring him in ? ' 
 
 ' I will reward you well, dear sirs,' said the hunter, 
 in a voice that did indeed show weariness and ex- 
 haustion. ' A mouthful of food for myself and my 
 steed, an hour's rest, and a guide to set me on my 
 way, is all I ask.' 
 
 'You are welcome, sir,' replied Adrian. ' Come in, 
 and sit down. At least we can give )"ou shelter, and 
 
 M
 
 1 62 BUY A BROOM 
 
 a share of our supper, rude though it be,' he added 
 apologetically, for as the stranger came forward into 
 the light, his bearing as well as his voice showed him 
 to be of gentle blood. 
 
 'Thanks, comrade,' was his reply. *A soldier 
 knows how to be thankful for a roof and a crust ; and 
 you are a soldier,' he added, recognising Adrian's 
 military salute. 
 
 ' I have served, sir,' replied Adrian shortly. 
 
 ' Then you know that a man's horse is his first care. 
 Can you bestow my poor Ali safely for me, and give 
 him a feed .-' There is a storm coming up, and I 
 would not leave him outside.' 
 
 * He deserves care,' said Adrian, taking the bridle. 
 'Why ! this is a true barb, such as I have seldom seen 
 save belonging to Spanish Dons !' continued he, as he 
 fastened the horse to a hook in the wall of the cottage, 
 bade Pieter bring in a bundle of the hay stored for the 
 goat and donkey, and with ' by your leave, sir,' began 
 to rub down the tired animal in true groom-fashion. 
 He could not help doing so for love and pity for the 
 beautiful Barbary horse, guessing that the horse's 
 master, however willing, might not be able to per- 
 form these services, for in these degenerate days, 
 pages and squires left such occupations to grooms and 
 horseboys instead of deeming them part of noble 
 training. His guest thanked him heartily, looked on
 
 BUY A BROOM 1G3 
 
 with great satisHiction, and sat down on a low bench 
 by the fire, where Gudule was stirring up hcr/>o/ an 
 fat. His dress was the plainest possible green hunt- 
 ing suit, with a sheathed knife stuck in the belt, and 
 a low-crowned, narrow-brimmed hat, such as was 
 worn in Flanders. When the flame played on his 
 features, the face was that of a man of about forty 
 years old, with a light-coloured beard and hair in- 
 clining to red, a pale complexion, a peculiar long 
 heavy chin and underlip, and keen blue eyes that 
 seemed to each person in the room to be fixed on him 
 or her, observing every movement. His speech was 
 the native Flemish, very quiet, gentle, and courteous ; 
 but he was plainly exceedingly weary, and was grateful 
 when on a whisper from Gudule, Pieter fetched some 
 slippers that Adrian had brought home, and offered to 
 pull off his heavy boots. 
 
 * Thanks,* said the guest. * This is comfort I 
 expected not.' 
 
 ' I brought them from Nizza,' said Adrian, rather 
 ashamed of the luxury. ' My wound was my excuse. 
 It was long before I could wear aught else.' 
 
 ' You were in Piedmont then. Where were you 
 hurt } ' 
 
 Adrian answered, and various military recollections 
 were discussed, while Adrian completed the grooming 
 of the horse, and Gudule, fetching from some recess 
 
 M 2
 
 164 BUY A BROOM 
 
 a big earthenware dish, one wooden bowl, and three 
 horn spoons, proceeded to lift her caldron from over 
 the fire and pour the contents into the dish on the 
 table. She had the pie made of Rink's venison safe 
 in her larder (the bottom of an old cask), but that 
 was kept in reserve to be used in case, according to 
 his threat, Piquard cut off the supplies. And Gudule's 
 pot an feu was considered as almost dainty, though it 
 was little but a stew of barley broth thickened with 
 meal, flavoured with earth nuts, sorrel, and such 
 woodland vegetables as Flemish thrift employed ; 
 and as the present brew was enriched by all the 
 scraps of meat, fat and bones which had not gone 
 into the pasty, Gudule viewed it with pride as a dish 
 fit to set before a king. 
 
 She put some barley cakes by each dish, observed 
 that all was ready, and took up her pitcher to fetch 
 some more water, but a heavy storm of rain drove her 
 back. 
 
 ' We wait for the hostess/ said the guest. 
 
 ' That is noble fashion, not burgher fashion,' said 
 Adrian. ' Gudule had rather sup after us, so please 
 you, sir.' 
 
 The sign of the Cross was made, the Benedicite 
 said, and for the first few mouthfuls from the bowl 
 the stranger seemed only conscious of the satisfaction 
 of the warmth, then he slackened a little, and as a
 
 BUY A BROOM 1 65 
 
 slight sound outside caused Gudulc to open the door 
 and admit her fawn, he noticed it and held out his 
 hand with a bit of bread. The creature with a 
 frightened eye, hid itself behind its mistress, and 
 Adrian knowing it was dangerous possession, explained 
 how his little sister had found it by its dead mother, 
 and they had not the heart to turn it away to starve. 
 
 ' Ay, ay,' said the guest, ' the bravest soldier, the 
 softest heart. So say the English, and I would that 
 our warriors would take the lesson from them.' 
 
 ' The Emperor taught them so far,' said Adrian, 
 * when he would not have his tent struck because the 
 swallows had there made their nest.' 
 
 * Ah, ha ! thou wast there, friend,* said the guest. 
 'You and your Walloons stood us in good stead. 
 By my faith, the Frenchman came on like a thunder 
 cloud.' ' 
 
 ' True, sir, but as an old captain said — Once stand 
 firm and break the Frenchmen, and they will dash 
 themselves to pieces for very spite.' 
 
 * Was that old Groot .' a stout old Dutchman, a 
 very stone wall for the furia Francese to launch 
 against .' ' 
 
 So the two soldiers talked ; but on arriving at the 
 bottom of his bowl, the stranger, now quite at home, 
 paused and said, ' Excellent broth, my good little maid ; 
 methinks it hath a flavour of the late parent of yonder
 
 1 66 BUY A BROOM 
 
 favourite of thine. You who live in these woods have 
 your opportunities, and I trow those skilful hands 
 find exercise on something better than barley broth.' 
 
 ' We never touch the Emperor's deer/ said Adrian. 
 ' I know my orders too well for that ; but one of the 
 prickers, an old soldier, hath at times brought us 
 portions of his share.' 
 
 'So I guessed,' said the visitor drily ;'' but never 
 fear, I'm not the man to betray the secrets of a kindly 
 host and comrade in the wars. Ah, ah ! I thought as 
 much,' as Gudule, at a sign from her brother, and 
 with thorough good will, produced the pasty of her 
 pride, into the depths of which he forthwith plunged, 
 devouring at a rate, which might be complimentary 
 to her cookery, but which made her heart quail at the 
 thought of her week's provision, and Picter sigh at 
 *the rapid vanishing of so rate a dainty. 
 
 Of drink there was nothing to be had but a horrible 
 brew which Gudule had attempted to make with 
 v/ild fruits, and which all her guest's courtesy could 
 not induce him to swallow. He accepted a draught 
 of goat's milk and water, over which he sat talking in 
 a friendly manner with Adrian over the campaigns in 
 Provence and at Tunis, in which both had been con- 
 cerned, and obtaining the Fleming's whole story, 
 though he was not himself equally communicative. All 
 he said of himself was that he came from Ghent, and
 
 BUY A BROOM 1 67 
 
 had been a good many years at Court ; he had gone 
 out with the Imperial hunt that day, and had lost him- 
 self in the forest, and taken a wrong turn after the 
 killing of a great wild boar. He wished the beast's 
 collops were there for his kind little hostess to fry. 
 Could he do nothing for his good friends, in case he 
 had speech of the Emperor ? 
 
 ' O yes,' cried Pieter, ' to get leave for us to cut 
 wood and heather for our brooms where we will, in 
 spite of Piquard ! ' 
 
 'To hinder Piquard from driving us out of house 
 and home,* added Gudule. 
 
 ' Mayhap my interest may go so far,' said the 
 guest; 'but even if so much were granted, }'ou could 
 hardly spend a winter here.' 
 
 ' I thought once we could have weathered it 
 through,' said Adrian, 'had we leave to cut wood to 
 make the house weather-tight, and means enough to 
 lay in a stock of salt meat and fish to serve us when 
 the way to the town is blocked ; but since the forester 
 has set himself against us, our trade has lessened, and 
 we have naught beforehand.' 
 
 ' 'Tis a hard life for a little maiden and a crippled 
 man,' said the stranger thoughtfully. 
 
 ' We did well in the summer,' said Adrian, ' and 
 for the winter we must bide Heaven's will, either nest- 
 ing here, or taking shelter in town or village. I'm
 
 l6S 15UV A EROOM 
 
 loth to go into Brussels, for let a man have served 
 ever so many years, our burghers can't forget that he 
 is but a runaway apprentice ; and Dahler might any 
 day bring me to my trial, or throw me into prison, 
 which would be worse.' 
 
 No more was said that night, for the stranger 
 applied himself to the telling of his beads. He would 
 not have a bed given up to him, but wrapped himself 
 in a horseman's cloak that was rolled up in front of 
 his saddle, and lay down before the fire. 
 
 Probably he was used to an easier couch, for before 
 it was light, he was on foot, spending a long time on 
 his knees before the Crucifix and asking where his 
 hosts heard Mass. Pieter and Gudule used to go to 
 Mont St. Jean on Sunday, but it was too far off for 
 Adrian as yet, though he had improved so much that 
 he hoped to be able to hear Mass on All Saints Day. 
 The stranger gave up the notion of going to Mass 
 when he heard the distance, and after fortifying him- 
 self with another large wedge of pie, requested Pieter 
 to put him on the road back into Brussels. 
 
 Out they went, just as morning sunshine was 
 beginning to touch the tops of the trees, and to 
 sparkle in the drops left by the storm of the previous 
 evening. Adrian had saddled the horse, and stood 
 holding the bridle. There was a soldierly erectness 
 about his figure, and a satisfaction in handling a good
 
 BUY A BROOM 169 
 
 horse, whicli were not lost on his guest, who said, 
 * Warm thanks, friend ; the Walloons have lost a good 
 soldier, and Brussels a good citizen in thee. Would 
 that something could be done for thee ! I'are thee 
 well, my little housewife ! I wish thee plenty of pasties 
 to make and better berries to brew.' And away he 
 rode, with as courtly a wave of his hat to little 
 Gudule as though she had been a young baroness in 
 a balcony. 
 
 * I would he had come when that pasty had been 
 further off,' sighed Adrian. 
 
 ' He has eaten it almost all up,' said Gudule dis- 
 consolately. ' What shall we say to IMaster Rink ? ' 
 
 ' Psha ! that is not what I am thinkinq; of! ' 
 
 ' He would never betray us, brother !' 
 
 ' I would I knew that ! Those court gentlemen 
 are mad where game is concerned, and a court gentle- 
 man he is, and half a Spaniard too ; I knew it by his 
 hands, and by the air with which he flung on his cloak. 
 None but the Don has that trick ; and once in their 
 hands, all is at an end with you. They know not 
 what mercy means, and they are bitterly jealous of 
 us Flemings because the Emperor loves us best, 
 Heaven preserve him ! ' 
 
 ' The Emperor is half Spanish too,' said Gudule. 
 
 ' Morc's the pit}', but he is a Fleming born, a 
 man of Ghent like this gentleman.'
 
 170 BUY A BROOM 
 
 * A gentleman, Adrian ? He had not even a gold 
 chain ! ' 
 
 ' Child, canst not tell a gentleman but by the gold 
 chain ? ' 
 
 * If gentleman he be,' said the little housewife, 
 bustling about to put things away, * I hope he may 
 pay Pieter well, for he has eaten enough of* our pasty 
 to last the whole three of us for two days ! '
 
 BUY A BROOM 17 1 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 PlETER came home, holding by the edge a big sih'er 
 coui, new and bright, with a scalloped edge, and 
 stamped wirh two shields, crowned, and flanked by 
 two columns, i.e., the pillars of Hercules, with the 
 proud legend * Plus ultra.' A Spanish doubloon it 
 was without doubt, and in spite of Adrian's detesta- 
 tion of things Spanish, he was very glad to welcome 
 it, and took it as a proof of the high quality of the 
 bewildered huntsman, for the worth was nominally 
 about nine shillings of our money, an enormous sum 
 for a bed and supper, even to a man of such voracious 
 appetite. 
 
 Pieter said he had acted as guide as far as a con- 
 vent in the suburbs of Brussels, where the gentleman 
 had gone in to hear Mass, giving his horse to the 
 porter, and rewarding Pictcr with this piece of silver. 
 The boy had gone with him iiito the Church, but had 
 lost sight of him there. 
 
 Far as he had walked, the boy was ready to set 
 out again to take the coin to Matthias to be changed.
 
 172 BUY A BROOM 
 
 but Gudule wanted to keep it to look at, or to wear 
 on Sundays as a medal round her neck, and Adrian 
 thought that it ought to be kept in reserve against 
 times of trouble ; so Pieter had to return to the cut- 
 ting of heather, and revolve in his mind all the pur- 
 chases that could be made with this great wealth ; 
 while Gudule sat down to her spinning. 
 
 The day did not, however, pass without a great 
 shock. One of the men-at-arms of the Emperor's 
 own guard rode up on a large black horse, and in 
 much mispronounced Flemish, said, 'Adrian Renslaer, 
 you are summoned to appear before the Ducal 
 Chamber.' 
 
 Adrian, in no small consternation, demanded why ; 
 but the emissary, a Spaniard, could or would under- 
 stand nothing but pure CastilHan, and turned a deaf 
 ear to the lingua franca that Adrian had acquired as 
 a soldier. He pointed to a rough cart that had lum- 
 bered up behind him, and made it plain that he would 
 brook no delay. Adrian could hardly take the certi- 
 ficate of his services from his belt, muttering to him- 
 self and to the sobbing weeping children, * Betrayed, 
 denounced ! I ought not to have trusted the Spanish 
 blood. A plague upon the venison ! Look you, 
 Pieter, it will be of no use, they will swear away my 
 life : or what amounts to the same, my good right 
 hand. But as a last hope, go thou to seek out Hans
 
 EUY A BROOM 1/3 
 
 Rink, and bring him to bear testimony as to that 
 venison. Yet he too may have aided in baiting the 
 trap.' 
 
 Pieter's attempt to set forth was, however, frus- 
 trated by the Spaniard, who laid a heavy hand on him 
 and said, ' Losniflos van' With sinking hearts, then, 
 all were bestowed in the cart, which was led by a dull 
 heavy boor to whom their escort would not permit 
 them to speak. 
 
 Gudule sat sobbing and moaning to herself, ' If 
 I had but guessed ! Oh the viper ! Who would 
 have thought it when he spoke so kindly .'' ' 
 
 Adrian remained silent with his face hidden on his 
 knees till the wood was nearly passed, and then he 
 looked up, and said, 'Children, if the worst betide me, 
 and I go to prison or to death without seeing you 
 more, you had best go to old Matthias. He will give 
 you shelter for a night or two. Mayhap then, one of 
 the good Beguines would concern herself about Gudule 
 and find a place as a servant-wench for her. It would 
 be a hard life, but not so hard as going back to the 
 Vrow grandmother ; and the good sister Ursula, who 
 bred up Doucette, would seek thee a good home, my 
 poor little one. For thee, Pietcr, Matthias might find 
 a service, or Captain Groot would say a good word for 
 thee in my old troop, where there are many that 
 would befriend a Renslaer.'
 
 174 BUY A BROOM- 
 
 Poor little Gudulc wept and sobbed so much that 
 she hardly gathered the sense of his words, but Pleter 
 looked up In his face without a word, only nodding 
 his head to Intimate that he heard. 
 
 * And,' concluded Adrian, in a lower tone, ' If ever 
 either one of you should ever meet her again, let her 
 know that I have been faithful to the last, and that 
 the little heart she wots of will go with me to the end. 
 And so the good God and the Saints have )'ou In 
 keeping ! ' 
 
 Through the gates, through the familiar streets, 
 meeting many wondering but few pitying eyes, went 
 the melancholy cartload, even to the gateway of the 
 grand old ducal palace. Inhabited at present by the 
 Court, with the many quartered banner of the Emperor 
 floating high above it. The word was given and they 
 entered the gates, and were halted in the outer court- 
 yard, where they were ordered to descend from the 
 cart, and conducted Into an Inner quadrangle, belong- 
 ing to the household itself, and surrounded by long 
 balconies or galleries communicating with one another 
 by outside staircases. Here the guards stopped their 
 prisoners, while a message was sent into the in- 
 terior of the palace. Then It was that Gudule, look- 
 ing up to gaze drearily, yet not incuriously round 
 through her tears, saw a trimly dressed young serving 
 woman, in stiff white cap, neat dark stuff gown, and
 
 BUY A BROOM 1/5 
 
 gaily trimmed apron, looking pitifully over the richly 
 pieced stone balustrade at their mournful group. Their 
 eyes met, and in another moment, witli a little cry, 
 the girl had sprung down the stairs and was beside 
 them. 'Gudulc! Picter ! ' she said. 'How are you 
 here } What trouble is this ? ' 
 
 'Ah! Doucette ! my heart is light,' cried Adrian, 
 with a start of joy that altered his whole face and 
 person. ' Now 1 fear nothing. I have seen thee.' 
 ' Thou ! oh ! my poor Adrian, is it thus .? ' 
 ' Mistress Doucette, what do you .'' Pie ! lingering 
 thus in the court with the men folk !' cried a sharp 
 voice from above. ' The Countess shall hear of this ! ' 
 
 * He is my betrothed ! I have found him ! ' was 
 Doucctte's cry. 
 
 'A prisoner! evil girl ! under guard. Come away 
 instantly.' 
 
 * Were he ten times a prisoner he is my betrothed,' 
 exclaimed the girl. ' Oh Adrian ! why art thou thus ? 
 what hast thou done } ' 
 
 But Adrian had not had time to answer before 
 the summons came, 'Lead him into the hall.' He 
 could only mutter, 'Naught — it is a trap,' before he was 
 hurried on, as fast as his stiff limb would permit, 
 leaning on his brother ; but the crowd closed in and 
 Gudule was left crying in Doucette's arms. 
 
 I^Ieantimc Adrian and Picter were led into the
 
 Ij6 BUY A BROOM 
 
 hall. It was full of people — soldiers, yeomen, citizens, 
 crowds of all sorts standing below, having been 
 admitted to see the Emperor dine. Above, there 
 were ranks of the most splendid chivalry in Europe — 
 Spanish, Italian, Flemish, Dutch, German, in their 
 graceful sixteenth century costume, preserving a touch 
 of nationality in dress, besides the Golden Fleece round 
 some necks, and the Cross of Santiago round others. 
 
 The centre of all this s^Dlendour was a table, laid 
 for one. The meal was over, but tall Venice flasks 
 and silver glasses were on the board, with walnuts and 
 apples. Two jesters in cap and bells stood behind a 
 chair of state, in which was seated a figure in black 
 velvet, the Golden Fleece round his neck, beneath his 
 rufous beard. 
 
 Adrian dropped, as well as he could, on his sound 
 knee, Pietcr on both. A hearty laugh, in a not un- 
 familiar tone, greeted them. ' Ho ! ho, my good 
 comrade ! I owe you a supper ! Where is your little 
 housewife and capital cook .-' ' 
 
 ' She is here, Sire,' said Adrian, looking up so much 
 startled at missing her that he forgot all else. 
 
 ' Fetch her in,' said the Emperor. ' You, Pieter, 
 go with that good fellow, who kncv/s you.' 
 
 Then Adrian saw that Rink and Piquard, as well 
 as Captain Vorstander, were all standing not far off. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Charles, * my good gossips here would
 
 BUY A BROOM 177 
 
 have given me no peace had I not looked into your 
 story, though I knew better than to distrust the word 
 of an honest Brabanter. 
 
 * Ha, here comes our httle pic-maker, and on 
 my word, another damsel ^\•ith her, What's this ? 
 Another sister ? ' 
 
 ' No, Sire,' said Doucette, coming fonvard with a 
 boldness that electrified all present, ' I am his be- 
 trothed ; I have not scon him since he was forced to 
 flee because of the blow he struck in my defence nine 
 years ago, but he is mine, and I am his, and I claim 
 to share his lot ; ' and she took his hand. 
 
 The two jesters, as was their cue, muttered some- 
 thing about surpassing fools, and the Emperor, 
 putting on a grim face, said : ' Share it thou shalt, 
 maiden. Art thou ready for prison, or for exile } 
 Knowest thou the penalty of eating our ducal deer .'' ' 
 
 ' No hand to give thee,' put in one of the jesters, 
 as Doucette looked up scared. 
 
 ' Then will I work for him,' said she, with a face 
 so full of dauntless love and bitter grief that none 
 there could ever forget it. 
 
 ' Give her to me, friend Charles/ cried the jester ; 
 ' she's a hopeless fool' 
 
 ' Here,' said Charles, holding out a paper — ' Here 
 is thy sentence, bold broom maker. Canst read it 
 aloud?' 
 
 N
 
 178 BUY A BROOM 
 
 Adrian, as a soldier well used to obeying orders, 
 made his salute, took the paper, and read aloud : — 
 
 * We, Charles, by the grace of God King of Ger- 
 many, of the Romans, Italy and Lombardy, King of 
 Castille and Arragon,of thetwo Sicilies and Jerusalem, 
 Archduke of Austria, Duke of Brabant, and Count of 
 Holland, Zealand and Friesland, hereby give and 
 grant unto trusty Adrian Renslaer, late serjeant in the 
 Walloon infantry, two hundred acres of land in the 
 parish of St. Jean, in the wood of Soignies, to be held 
 by him and his heirs for ever, with licence to graze his 
 cattle and cut birch and heather within our forest of 
 Soignies, on the tenure of the delivery of a broom to our 
 chamberlain at our palace at Brussels, on the feast of 
 St Matthew, yearly by him and his heirs for ever. 
 Given at our palace at Brussels this feast of St. 
 Matthew in the year of grace 1540. 
 
 ' I the King.' 
 
 Adrian could but kiss the hand the Emperor held 
 
 out. 
 
 ' Will that do, kind host, and little maid ? ' said 
 the Emperor. ' It seemed to me better than trying 
 to set matters straight with these fellow-burghers of 
 thine, who stickle for privileges even against their 
 lawful Duke.'
 
 BUY A BROOM 170 
 
 ' Verily, Sire,' said Adrian, ' I love to hear the merle 
 sing better than the mouse squeak.' 
 
 * I thought as much,' said Charles. ' Now, my 
 steward shall do his best to repay thy hospitality in 
 kind, and thou, little maiden, shalt see whether our 
 pasties equal thine. Come hither, my guide,' he 
 added ; ' I have an order for thee ;' and as the wonder- 
 ing Pieter obeyed, he said, ' I give thee a fortnight. On 
 this day fortnight bring as many brooms as ye all can 
 make, and stand at the corner of St. Gudulc's Church. 
 So fare ye all well.' 
 
 They were dismissed, but were led off by crowds 
 congratulating them. Even Piquard begged them to 
 remember that he had always stood their friend ! 
 The Count d'Espinay, who had recognised his wife's 
 ser\Mng woman, came to them as they crossed the hall, 
 and bade Doucettc take Gudulc to her lady, who, 
 like everyone else, was burning with curiosity to 
 understand the story of the Emperor's pleasantry. 
 
 The difficulty remained, how the farm v.-as to be 
 stocked or the house built. Adrian's means amounted 
 to little more than the doubloon given to Pieter, and 
 Douccttc's fees, small enough in themselves, had all 
 been sent to her mother for the support of the children, 
 whom she had supposed still to be at Tirlemont. 
 They must still work, and she must continue in service 
 find save. So agreed the patient Flemish spirits, 
 
 N 2
 
 I So BUY A BROOM 
 
 grateful that the long severance of these nhie years 
 was over ; and Adrian went back with the children 
 to the hut, where all fear and peril had ceased, to 
 fulfil the Emperor's behest as to the brooms. 
 
 Heartily they worked, and Rink came to aid them 
 whenever he could. He even brought two donkeys 
 on the appointed morning to carry in the brooms, 
 with which in due time Pieter took his stand close 
 beneath the steps of beautiful St. Gudule's Church. 
 
 His first customer was a dainty languid-looking 
 Italian, with disdainful eyes. ' Una — conic si dice? una 
 scopa, u?i balai, viio ragazzo! 
 
 By the gesture rather than the words, Pieter under- 
 stood, and held out a broom, A great silver coin was 
 in his hand ; he looked about for change, and tried to 
 say it was far too much ; but the Italian was dreamily 
 dragging his birch behind him, and as the boy was 
 about to run after him, a stout Dutch ecclesiastic ar- 
 rested him. ' How now, knave, don't be off when I 
 want thy wares, thy brooms.' 
 
 ' He has paid me over-much,' said Pieter, panting. 
 ' Look here, holy sir, what is this .'' ' 
 
 ' A ducat : over much, yea ; but don't trouble thy- 
 self, boy, 'tis a whim we all have to follow. Give me a 
 besom, I say. There! Thou'ltnot get the like another 
 day.' 
 
 It was a piece not equal to a ducat, but far beyond
 
 BUY A BROOM l8l 
 
 the value of the broom. The astonished Picter had 
 no time to remonstrate, for a German baron came 
 growHng and strutting up, and gave him so small a 
 coin that he doubted whether it were even the full 
 value of his broom ; but to make up for that, two 
 exceedingly splendid young Flemish knights strolled 
 laughing towards him, each seized on a broom, threw 
 down a gold piece, and walked off sparring at each other 
 with the broom-sticks. Then followed a lean, shrewd, 
 much disgusted, black-gowned, square-capped lawyer- 
 statesman, who laid hold of his broom-handle, scarcely 
 looking at it, threw down its exact market price, and 
 hurried away with it over his shoulder, only pausing 
 at the instance of an exceedingly haughty Spanish 
 grandee, with drooping hat and feather, and mantle 
 over one shoulder, who was evidently asking him if it 
 were necessary to saddle himself with so degrading 
 a badge, but being assured that it was, twirled up his 
 moustaches, stalked forward, and in a voice far gentler 
 than his appearance, said, ' Una escoba, mi 7iino,' hand- 
 ing over another of those beautiful doubloons, and 
 .shaking his head when Picter proffered change. Then 
 came Doucette's master, the Count d'Espinay, and 
 with him a tall beautiful lad of eighteen with long 
 brown curled hair and bright soft brown eyes. 
 
 ' Howgoes it, my little fellow,' demanded Espinay ; 
 ' are you winning a fortune for your brother } '
 
 I 82 BUY A BROOM 
 
 'It is marvellous, my lord ; they snatch them from 
 me, and will stay for no change, and I always was a 
 honest lad and dealt fairly,' said poor Picter much 
 distressed. 
 
 * He has not found it out,' said the younger man. 
 ' What ! knowest thou not the Emperor's trick for 
 making thy fortune ? He has issued an order that 
 not a man shall be admitted to his reception without 
 carr}'ing a broom ! Here they come, half a dozen 
 more of them ! How many more brooms hast thou .'' 
 Only a dozen and a half ? Oh ! this will never do ! 
 This is a full court day, and there are at least two 
 hundred more who have to come. Monsieur d'Espi- 
 nay, lend me your purse. Keep them in play, little 
 man, till I return.' 
 
 ' Be prudent, my dear Lamoral,' began the Count 
 d'Espinay. But the youth was already gone, and just 
 as Pieter's stock was waxing low, back he came with 
 two stout porters bending under piles of brooms, and 
 followed by two more with barrows full. Moreover 
 he stood by Pieter, and assisted in the sale, with all 
 the zest of a young lady at a bazaar, commanding the 
 largest coins out of the purses of his young fellow- 
 nobles ; and when at last the whole market had been 
 ransacked, yet the few remaining brooms still fell 
 short of the number of despairing courtiers bent on 
 gaining an audience, he put them up to auction, and
 
 BUY A BROOM 1 83 
 
 forced the impatient gentlemen to bid one against 
 other. ' Excellent broom this ! heather closely cut. 
 Twelve guildern did your Excellency say ? Fourteen, 
 your High Mightiness ? Here's a stout broom-stick in 
 case any lady housewife should need a little discipline. 
 " Sixteen," said the Signior Capitano-Gencralc ? ' 
 
 * Come, come, Egmont,' was the impatient answer. 
 *Wc have no time for foolery, I must see the 
 Emperor. Here's a couple of ducats and have done 
 with it ! ' 
 
 * Two ducats ! will no one go beyond that .-' 
 Excellent heather broom,' and as the Signior Capitano 
 muttered ugly words, ' What said his Excellency, three 
 ducats ? Knocked down to his Excellency il Signior 
 Capitano-Generale Orsini, for three ducats ! ' 
 
 So went on the self-elected auctioneer, young 
 Count Egmont, till the last broom, an old worn-out 
 stump which he had actually pounced upon in a 
 gutter, was disposed of for no less than seven Spanish 
 dollars to a magnificently attired Cardinal in all his 
 purple ! 
 
 Peter's gains proved to be sufficient, in those days 
 when the value of money was high, to make the little 
 hut a substantial Flemish farmhouse, purchase cows, 
 horses and tools, and, in short, to provide such a home 
 as Doucette could be taken to as a happy bride, when 
 sh(i,lcft the Countess d'Espinay in the spring.
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS. 
 
 Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you tccn? 
 I've been to London to see the good queen. 
 Tussy cat, pussy cat, what saw you there? 
 I saw a little mouse under the chair.
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS. 
 
 Vi\ daughter tells me that though my grandchildren 
 have so many charming little gilt books written on 
 purpose for them, there is nothing they care for so 
 much as for the story of their grandmamma's journey 
 to London, in the days of good Queen Anne, and that 
 they would like to have it written out for them, that 
 she may read it to them as often as they wish. There- 
 fore, I will do my best to set the whole down in order 
 for them ; but they must excuse it if I make mistakes, 
 for I had no such education as they are blessed with. 
 In truth, I knew nothing but how to read and sew 
 until I was quite a great girl. Nobody taught me 
 after my mother died, except that I went for a little 
 while to a school that old Dame Redford kept in the 
 village ; but I could read as well as any of her scholars, 
 and Nurse thought that I learnt country words, and 
 rude manners there, such as were not becoming to 
 the daughter of Sir Christopher Theobald, and so she 
 took me away. 
 
 I was nearly seven years old when my mamma
 
 l88 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 died, and my little brother was only a week old. My 
 poor father could not bear to look at cither of us. I 
 remember running up to him as he sat in his chair at 
 the breakfast table with his hands over his face, and 
 trying to pull them down and make him kiss me ; but 
 he only groaned and cried out, ' Take her away. I 
 cannot endure the sight,' and then he stamped with 
 his foot, so that I thought he was angry, and ran 
 away crying. 
 
 Then Nurse IMalkin did her best to comfort me, 
 and told me I was not naughty, but that my poor 
 papa was too unhappy to know what he did, and she 
 let me hold the baby, which always made me content. 
 I loved Nurse Malkin. She had been a maid at the 
 Hall when I was a very little child, and had often 
 played with me, before she married Farmer Malkin, 
 and now she had come to be foster-mother to our 
 poor little baby, and was to take him to Clover Farm 
 to bring up with her own child. Seeing that my father 
 could not bear the very sight of me, our cousin Rey- 
 nold Theobald proposed that I should go with her 
 likewise, which I was very glad to do, for Nurse 
 Malkin was always kind, and no one at the Hall 
 seemed to want me, or know what to do with me, and 
 it was all so sad now my dear mamma wa«, gone. 
 
 There came a clergyman in a gown and bands, 
 with a wig on, and he christened my little brother by the
 
 THE TRAVELS OF T^YO KITS 1 09 
 
 name of Christopher. And he laid his hand on my 
 head, and blessed me, and pitied mc, and said I did 
 not know what I had lost. Then Nurse Malkin tied 
 on my little black hood and mantle, and walked up 
 with the baby in her arms, and said, 'Bless }-our 
 children, Sir Christopher.' 
 
 He looked up, and he tried to speak, with a hand 
 on each of our heads, but he could only sob and weep, 
 so that I burst out crying again, and Cousin Reynold 
 hurried us away into a coach that was waiting at the 
 hall door, and away we went, while the Church bell 
 was tolling, and Nurse crying bitterly, for my dear 
 mamma was to be buried that day. 
 
 Clover Farm was in the midst of grass fields, and 
 there were belonging to it thirty fine cows, whose milk 
 was saved for making cheese. I liked running about 
 there, feeding the fowls and ducks, and finding the 
 eggs, or watching the milking of the cows ; and when- 
 ever she had time, Nurse INIalkin made me read a bit 
 in the Bible or Prayerbook, and sew, or knit, or spin ; 
 though she could not read herself. She took care of 
 my manners too. I always sat at the head of the 
 table, and she made mc eat nicely with my knife and 
 fork, not as the milkmaids and plough-boys did at the 
 other end ; and mj' brother and I were always called 
 Little Master and Little Missy, till most people forgot 
 that our true names were Christopher and Katharine.
 
 190 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 For we did not see our father again for many years. 
 He went away two or tlirce days after tlie funeral, with- 
 out having been able to make up his mind to look at us 
 poor motherless children, to go and visit my mother's 
 father and mother. They had followed King James 11. 
 when he fled from England, and were living at St. Ger- 
 main's in France, and my father only meant to 
 make them a visit and tell them about the death of 
 their daughter ; but when he was once gone, he could 
 not come back again. I did not understand it then ; I 
 only knew that I grew tired of the life at the Farm, 
 as the days grew short, and the farm-yard was all 
 one swamp, so that Nurse would not let me run out. I 
 used to fret and ask when we should go home, and she 
 always answered, * when my papa came back.' And if 
 I asked * When would that be ? ' she said something I 
 never could make out about God's will, and evil men. 
 
 So the time went on, and the winter was over, but 
 still my papa never came. Farmer Malkin was a 
 hard gruff man, who never took much notice of us, 
 except to scold me for doing mischief; and indeed I 
 could hardly do anything that he did not call mischief. 
 If I climbed a hay-cock, I spoilt the hay ; if I played 
 with the calves, I scared them ; and I could not even 
 hug the kitten but he said I should spoil it for a good 
 mouser. Indeed, after poor little Will, our Kit's foster- 
 brother, died in teething, I think he quite hated us
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS IQI 
 
 both, and that was why Nurse sent me to school that 
 I might be out of his way. 
 
 Still we stayed on at the Farm, for when he went up 
 to the Hall to pay his rent, Cousin Reynold, who man- 
 aged everything, threw him back something for our 
 board and lodging. Cousin Reynold was a lawyer in 
 London, but he came down twice a year to take the 
 rents and see about the estate, and he used to write 
 to my father, and send him money abroad. I heard 
 the old people talk of Reynold's having lived at the 
 Hall when my grandfather was away in Oliver Crom- 
 well's time, and how hard a man he had been, so that 
 all had feared him and rejoiced to have their old 
 landlord back again. 
 
 So five years went away, and wc were still living 
 on at Clover Farm. Nurse had had another baby of 
 her own by that time, and though she was never un- 
 kind, I do not think she cared for 'Little Master' nearly 
 so much after the new comer was born ; and the Farmer 
 was quite cross and rough to my brother when he 
 fretted and cried. Poor little dear, he often did, for he 
 was a sickly little fellow, and often nothing would please 
 him or make him happy, whatever I could do. Some- 
 times he could not eat the food at dinner, and then the 
 Farmer would mutter about a beggarly brat having 
 no right to be nice ; sometimes he woke up screaming 
 at night, and if I did not rush up and stop him in time.
 
 192 THE TRAVELS OF T\VO KITS 
 
 Master Malkin would threaten him with the rod ; and 
 if c\-cr he pla}'cd with even the hay and the straw, he 
 would be found fault with and sometimes beaten. No- 
 body really cared for the poor little dear but myself, and 
 he was all I had, so I loved him with all my heart and 
 soul. I carried him about, gave him rides on the donkey, 
 which had come from the Hall for our use, and was our 
 own. I kept him out of the Farmer's way, and when 
 we could curl up together in a corner, and he would 
 stroke my face, and call me his Kitty, we were happy. 
 
 But when he was five years old, he began to get 
 worse rather than better. It was a wet spring, and 
 the floods were out all over the fields ever so long, and 
 there were thick white fogs l}ang about the valleys. 
 Kit went on catching cold, and wherever he cut or 
 bruised himself there came a bad sore place which 
 seemed as if it would never get well. He was always 
 a thin pale child, with great brown eyes that seemed 
 too big for his face, and now he grew thinner and whiter 
 than ever, and seemed shrunk away just to nothing, so 
 that I could lift and carry him about as easily as I coula 
 sturdy little Nancy, who was three years younger. 
 
 There was not much thought of doctors in our 
 parts, except for great folks, but there was a wise 
 woman at Southernhay, who had great skill in herbs ; 
 and at last one day. Dame Malkin took Kit to see her. 
 The master had gone to Bath, for Mr. Theobald had
 
 The travels of two kits 193 
 
 ordered him to give him the meeting there. He was 
 not expected at home for three days, or I do not 
 beHeve poor Nurse would have ventured so far, lest he 
 should say she was wasting time and money, but I 
 begged her so hard to try to get someone to cure my 
 poor little brother of that sore in his neck, that she 
 said she would try it. 
 
 We put Kit and Nancy into the two panniers on 
 the donkey, and Nurse and I trudged a long way by 
 its side, taking our food with us, till at last we came 
 to a little low hovel, almost sunk in the side of a hill, 
 where there was a goat browsing on the grass that 
 grew on the roof, and an old woman in a little pointed 
 hat, sitting at the door, spinning with a distaff, for 
 wheels had not come in then. 
 
 Kit screamed, and I was a little afraid, but she was 
 not a witch, though she looked like one. The parson 
 knew her well, and she was a real godly woman who 
 always came to Church. She had learnt her skill 
 from having lived with a great lady, who was a 
 herbalist, and had got her learning from Sir Walter 
 Raleigh when he was in the Tower. She spoke very 
 kindly and tenderly so that Kit forgot his fear, and let 
 her lift him down, and give him some nice sweetened 
 elder wine and water ; and he sat quite happily in 
 her lap, and let her look at the place in his neck. 
 Then she put some ointment to it, which he said 
 
 O
 
 194 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 was 'good, good,' and presently he fell asleep in her 
 lap. 
 
 Nurse and I were much pleased, and begged to 
 know what she would take for a pot of the ointment. 
 She said we might either give her one of our cheeses, 
 or else half a crown, but that she would be true and 
 faithful with us. ' Poor lamb,' she said, * it ain't oint- 
 ments as can do him good for long. It will only be 
 healing it in one place for it to break out in another. 
 There's nothing that cures this disease but the King's 
 or Queen's touch, and couldn't ye get the poor child 
 to London to be touched by Queen Anne, bless her .'' ' 
 
 Nurse began to cry and say there was no hope 
 then, for though we were quality children, our father 
 was over the water, and his lands were managed by 
 one that did not wish us well, and it was as good as 
 giving up the child for lost. 
 
 But I opened my eyes wide, for there was a little 
 chap-book at home, that I had bought of a pedlar 
 with a new penny, which told how good King Edward 
 the Confessor had given his hand to help a poor 
 leprous beggar, and how in the night he had seen 
 a vision that told him that he and his heirs should for 
 ever have the power of healing diseases, with but a 
 touch of the right hand. So I said, ' My little brother 
 shall go to London to see the Queen, if you will only 
 tell me the way.'
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS IQS 
 
 # 
 
 Then they both laughed and called mc 'poor 
 little Missy,' Avhich vexed me much, for I was eleven 
 years and seven months old, and almost as tall as 
 Nurse. 
 
 Their laughing could not put it out of my mind. I 
 knew which was the road to London, for once we 
 had gone in the coach to meet my papa, when he 
 was coming back from thence, and I was sure that 
 all wc had to do was to go on, and on, and ask the 
 way. I told Nurse so as we came home, but she 
 only said, 'Lawk a day, what will the child say 
 next .? ' 
 
 I wished I could ask someone what to do, but the 
 farming men knew less than Nurse ; and as to the 
 parson, we only saw him when he came once in three 
 Sundays to the Church, where we went, if it was not 
 too wet to walk the half mile to it. Pie was not like 
 the clergyman who used to talk to my mamma, and 
 say grace for us ; he had a red face, and a wig like a 
 cauliflower, and I never looked at him if I could help 
 it. The only time I ever heard him speak except in 
 Church was after he had christened little Nancy. 
 Then he asked ^^ho we were, and when Nurse told 
 him, 'Poor Sir Christopher's children,' he growled 
 like a dog, and said, ' Jacobite spawn.' So I was not 
 likely to get help from him, and all our own old 
 servants had been turned out of the Hall, and strangers 
 
 O 2
 
 196 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 of Cousin Reynold's had been put in, who spoke so 
 uncivilly that we never went up to the Hall. 
 
 The day after our visit to the wise woman, the 
 farmer came home, and with him came, likewise 
 riding, Cousin Reynold. His horse was led away by 
 his servant, and he came striding into the kitchen 
 and sat down. 
 
 ' Oh ! so these are the children, are they .'* Come 
 here, mistress Kitty. Do you remember me ?' 
 
 I made my curtsey and bridled, as my dear 
 mamma had taught me, whenever a gentleman or lady 
 spoke to me, and said, ' Yes, sir ; I hope my papa is 
 well' 
 
 ' Oh yes,' he said, ' and finding it convenient to 
 stay in foreign parts. Do you write to him, child ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir,' I said, and how my face burnt. ' I can- 
 not write, but I think my papa would wish me to 
 learn.' 
 
 * It shall be seen to,' he said. ' You grow a 
 great lass, and it is time you were .set to learn to do 
 something for yourself. And this is the boy. Come 
 here, sirrah.' 
 
 Of course Kit would not come, but clung crying 
 behind my skirts, and kicked when Nurse tried to 
 pull him away. The Farmer declared he was the 
 most rude and troublesome child he had ever seen, 
 always fractious and sickly.
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS I97 
 
 Then I broke out. ' Cousin Reynold,' I said, 
 'our papa trusted us to Farmer IMalkin, and this is the 
 way he speaks of my poor Httle brother ! Little 
 Master is not naughty or fractious, but he is weak and 
 sickly, and the good woman says nothing will cure 
 him but the Queen's touch. Our papa would wish us 
 to be taken to London that the Queen may touch 
 him.' 
 
 I believe that was what I said. I know that the 
 man broke out into a horrid derisive laugh. * Ho, 
 ho ! you crow loud for a barn-door fowl. Mistress 
 Katharine ! What would Sir Christopher say to his 
 son being touched by a usurper .'' 'Tis the King at 
 St. Germain he would have his son taken to.* 
 
 I knew, by his voice, he was but mocking me ; I 
 would have no more of it. I made him my lowest 
 curtsey, such as I used to make long ago, when my 
 mamma taught me to dance the minuet, and I walked 
 off, taking Kit with me, followed by still louder 
 laughter. 
 
 We ran away as hard as Kit's little legs would go, 
 as soon as we were out of sight. I did not choose to be 
 called back to the fellow again who had thus insulted 
 us, so I took Kit to my favourite hiding-place, the 
 hay-loft over the stable, where no one ever thought of 
 looking for us. It was hard work to drag him up the 
 ladder, but when wc were there, I made him a nest in
 
 198 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 the hay, and comforted him till he fell asleep in my 
 lap. 
 
 By and by, I heard voices below. Cousin Rey- 
 nold had come with the Farmer to look at the colt, 
 but that was not all they were talking about. I 
 heard Farmer Malkin say, ' Then, however, you'll let 
 me have the lease of the farm at the lower terms. 
 'Tis but fair, I'm sure, after the trouble me and my 
 dame have had with that there lad and lass.' 
 
 ' Well, that will be over soon. I hear their father 
 is on the point of volunteering in the French army, 
 and. that will cut him off for ever from returning, even 
 if he be not knocked on the head by Prince Eugene 
 or some of them ! Then as to the boy, anyone can 
 see he is not long for this world, and as soon as he 
 has puled himself out of it, we will have the girl 
 apprenticed to a mantua maker, or some other honest 
 trade.' 
 
 What a hearing was this for me ! Nothing but the 
 fear of wakening my poor little brother, and making 
 him betray us by crying, prevented me from hugging 
 him desperately. I thought we were, indeed, the 
 children in the wood, our cousin the cruel uncle, 
 and Farmer Malkin and his wife the two murderers. 
 Even Nurse seemed to me no better than the ruffian 
 milder in mood, and I made up my mind, while still 
 sitting in that loft, that nothing should hinder me
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 1 99 
 
 from myself taking my little brother to London to 
 receive the royal touch. I was sure that the people 
 about us wished him to die rather than live, and there 
 was no safety for him but in getting him away. If I 
 thought at all about what was to come after, I varied 
 between notions of making our way to my father, and 
 of maintaining Kit and myself by selling watercresses 
 in the streets. 
 
 It was too late to set off that day, even when 
 Cousin Reynold was safe gone. I saw his horse 
 being saddled, through the chinks in the floor, and I 
 heard Nurse's voice calling ' Missy and Master ' all 
 over the farm-yard, that we might come and wish our 
 cousin good-bye, but Kit did not waken, and I took 
 good care not to stir till he was gone, and Farmer 
 IMalkin with him for part of the way. 
 
 When we came down Nurse Malkin began scold- 
 ing me for hiding away, but I drew up my head and 
 told her I was not going to stand there to be 
 insulted. 
 
 Then she began to cry with her apron over her 
 head, and to wish she had never seen the day, and to 
 declare that she had only wished for my good, for 
 them that had the power wanted to be spoken fair. 
 And then Kit declared that the nasty man should 
 be shot with his gun, which only made her sob the 
 more, and take him in her arms and call him her
 
 200 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 dear lamb. Thinking her not after all even the milder 
 ruffian, I ventured to say, 'What did Cousin Reynold 
 mean by saying my papa would have us go to the 
 King at St. Germains .?' 
 
 ' ]\Ieant ! meant ! Why, nowt but his own wicked 
 devices,' broke out Nurse. ' As though I hadn't heard 
 poor Sir Christopher drink health to King William 
 and Queen Mary, and he would no doubt to this 
 here Oueen Anne, if it weren't for the cruel lies of 
 them as keeps him from his own place that is 
 his right ! Lawk a day, is that the master ? 
 Hush you up. Missy, this moment, or what will he 
 do to us } ' 
 
 Nothing more was wanting to settle my mind. It 
 was May, and the days were long and fine. There 
 was a great deal of cheese-making going on, and we 
 were much left to ourselves except that we were bur- 
 dened with the care of Nancy, who always cried to run 
 after us. Lately her father had taken to saying that, 
 if I was of no other use, I might at least mind the 
 child, and this made me very angry, for I certainly 
 had not been sent to Clover Farm to act as his nurse- 
 maid. I was proud and angry, my dears, I do not 
 hide it, for I knew little that was good. I said my 
 prayers at night as my mamma had taught me, and 
 made my brother do so too, when he would, and on a 
 Sunday, Nurse tried to make me say the Catechism,
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 201 
 
 but she scarce knew it herself, and the long words 
 used to run into nonsense. 
 
 I knew that I must choose my opportunity either 
 before Nancy was up in the morning, or while she 
 was asleep in the forenoon. It was quite impossible, 
 I found, to get off in the morning, for all the men and 
 maids were astir by four o'clock, milking and turning 
 C'ut the cows ; but I was able in the meantime to roll 
 up a change of linen for each of us, and to climb up 
 to the corner where, in the bottom of an old broken 
 India china jar, nurse had stowed away my beautiful 
 pocket piece, a five-guinea piece of King Charles II. 
 It was rolled up in a curious-looking paper with 
 writing on it, and a groat One in the corner. I re- 
 membered my mamma saying, ' Give it to Kitty, it 
 shall be kept for a curiosity.' So I took it with me, 
 put it in a little bag, and hung it round my neck, and 
 likewise a crown-piece inside the bosom of my frock, 
 and two shillings that Nurse had kept, when the ped- 
 lar changed my one gold guinea for her to buy me a 
 frock. I was glad of the silver now, for the pedlar 
 liad made a work about changing the guinea, and I 
 knew it might be hard to use my pocket piece ; be- 
 sides that, I did not want to part with it, .so I put 
 them into a little box in ni}- pocket. 
 
 We broke our fast on milk porridge at six o'clock, 
 and then Nurse and all her maids went off to the
 
 202 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 cheese room. I thought Nancy never would have gone 
 to sleep that day, but at last she did, for it was very 
 hot. Kit was asleep too, but that mattered less, and 
 I was able to pack a little basket with Kit's oint- 
 ment, and some bread and cheese, and a bit of bacon. 
 I did not think it was stealing, as our board was paid 
 for. I caught the donkey in the yard, and put on his 
 halter, for we cared for nothing else, being used to 
 ride him bare-backed. 
 
 Then, all being ready, and our hats and cloaks laid 
 under the hedge, I came back and fetched Kit, telling 
 him 1 would take him to London to see the good 
 Queen and be made well. But as we came to the 
 door, what should the child do but call out for his 
 mousie .-• He could not leave his mousie behind. One 
 of the farm boys had brought him a dormouse, rolled 
 up in a ball, and he loved and cared for it better than 
 anything else. I knew he would break out in loud 
 crying if mousie were left, so I could only jump up 
 and take down the little earthen jar where we kept 
 it, in a bed of moss. He was quiet when he knew 
 mousie was going with him, and I led him safely to 
 the nook under the hedge, where the donkey stood. 
 He had on his little leather breeches, the grey stock- 
 ings I had knitted for him, and his best blue coat, not 
 at all what a young gentleman as he was should have 
 worn, but that turned out well for us in the end. His
 
 TllK TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 203 
 
 long light hair hung on his neck, I never could make 
 it curl, and I put on his hat, and gave it a cock. 
 I laid his cloak and mine on the donkey's neck, for 
 it was too hot to use them then. And I put on my 
 own Sunday hat of felt, high-crowned and broad- 
 brimmed. I had my grey every-day frock, I durst 
 not take out my Sunday one, and it was not much 
 better, only newer and less faded. 
 
 I knelt down, and made Kit kneel down and say, 
 'Bless our journey, O God, and keep us in the way. 
 Amen ;' and then I lifted him upon the donkey, took 
 the halter, and we set out. 
 
 I knew we must cross the park and get out on the 
 Warminster road, and that was done without diffi- 
 culty. I led the donkey, and when Kit grew fretful 
 and tired, we crept into the wood out of sight, and ate 
 our food. He wanted drink, and I knew where one 
 of the lodges was. The keeper's mother, a kind old 
 woman, gave us some milk, and said, * Dear, dear, you 
 didn't ought to be so far from home, little Miss and 
 little Master. Dame Malkin will be in a way about 
 you. Get you home as soon as you can. I wish Tom 
 was in to go with )ou. That I do ! ' 
 
 That I did not, and I took Kit, and as quick as I 
 could for fear that either she should say we were not 
 going ,homc, or that Tom should come back. 
 
 We had kept to byways instead of crossing the
 
 204 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 park, where we could be seen by the windows, and it 
 was four o'clock at least, when at last we were out of 
 it, and I found my feet on the hard ruts on the high 
 road. It was very hot, and I was tired already ; but I 
 thought if I gave up so soon, how should I ever reach 
 London ? When Kit began to fret, I scrambled up 
 behind him on the donkey, and tried to comfort him, 
 though my heart began to sink as I thought, how 
 should we contrive to rest for the night ? 
 
 Presently we saw, on the open side of the road, a 
 number of gipsies resting and eating their supper, 
 We were both dreadfully afraid of gipsies, and Kit 
 threw his arms round me, and began to scream so 
 loud that all our chance of slipping by them unseen 
 was over. Out came numerous dogs and children 
 and women, all gathering round us, while Kit clung 
 to me and shrieked. 
 
 * Whisht, whisht, my pretty darling, I won't hurt 
 thee,' said one of the women, with fierce black eyes, 
 and long gold earrings under her bright yellow ker- 
 chief. * My pretty maid, yc'U cross my hand with 
 silver, and hear yer fortune ? ' 
 
 And when I begged her to let us go on, not 
 able to hide the trembling of my voice, she laid hold 
 of the halter of the donkey, stood full in our way, 
 and demanded where we were going. ' To London. 
 Do let me go,' I said.
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 205 
 
 'O ho ! Ye'vc run away, my lass/ she said, her 
 eyes looking me through, so that I thought she 
 knew all by her magic power, and that it was of no 
 use to conceal anything. 
 
 * Yes,' I said, ' I am taking my little brother to 
 see the Queen, and be cured by her touch ! 
 pray, good woman, let us go on.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' she said in a more wheedling tone. 
 ' We'll put >'0U on )-our wa}', my dear. Come you on 
 with us.' 
 
 'We had rather go alone,' I said. She assured m? 
 that I should miss the way, fall in with thieves, and I 
 know not what besides, and at the same time she had 
 firm hold of the donkey's halter, so that we were her 
 prisoners. 
 
 Most likely she thought we were runaway farmer's 
 children, and her purpose was to carry us out of 
 reach of rescue or pursuit, in case our home was near, 
 for she kept on in her coaxing way, as the whole 
 party moved on, carts, rough ponies, donkeys, rough 
 wild men, barefooted children, dogs and all. When I 
 made an effort to get free, she raised a great stick and 
 threatened me. Then I knew that we were stolen by 
 gipsies, and a terror and almost a cold sickness came 
 over me as I recollected stories that I had heard, and 
 as I thought of my dear little tender brother, the one 
 thing I cared for, being bred up to be a thief and a
 
 206 THE TRAVELS OF T\YO KITS 
 
 vagabond, all stained with walnut juice. I implored 
 her to let us go, and Kit cried bitterly, but she told us 
 to hold our noise ; and on, and on, and on, we went, till 
 it began to grow dark ; and, meantime, Kit had grown 
 so weary that he could only moan and could not keep 
 upright on the donkey, and my legs were so tired 
 and my feet so sore, that I could only limp and 
 shuffle along. Then the gipsies tumbled us into a 
 cart among some straw, and I fancy some little chil- 
 dren of their own. We slept, feeling all through our 
 sleep the bumping and jolting. By and by, there 
 was a stop in the dark ; I was hauled out, and 
 half asleep, took Kit in my arms, as he was handed 
 after me, and tried to hush his crying. Happily he 
 did not wake up enough to take it all in ; and I could 
 hardly stand, I was so stiff with sleep. We both slept 
 again almost instantly, and never woke again till 
 it was broad daylight, and then we found ourselves 
 quite alone under the dewy hedge on the side of the 
 hill. Gipsies, children, horses, dogs and all were gone, 
 and what was worse, our poor donkey. 
 
 I imagine that the design of the gipsies all along 
 had been to steal the poor ass, and that this was the 
 reason they had taken us so far from where they 
 found us, and left us sleeping, that we might not give 
 the alarm till they had gone out of reach. We did 
 not look worth kidnapping. I was too old, and my
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 20/ 
 
 brother too sickly, and there was nothing about us to 
 show that wc were not Httle rustics of the better 
 
 class. 
 
 They had carried off our cloaks, and had rifled my 
 pocket of the silver crown and the shilling, but they 
 had never suspected that I had a gold piece in my 
 bosom, and had not meddled with the clothes we wore. 
 Indeed they were not wholly cruel, for they had left us 
 my basket with Kit's pot of ointment, and mousie in 
 his jar, and had even put in the basket a great piece 
 of oaten cake. 
 
 Kit began to cry when he found we were in a 
 strange place all alone, but I was so glad the gipsies 
 were gone that I felt quite happy and hopeful ; I 
 showed Kit his mouse, which comforted him a little, 
 and made him kneel and say his prayers. Then I 
 gave him some of the oat cake. It was rough and dry, 
 but we were terribly hungry ; and as we ate it, we held 
 one another by the hand, and crept along, hoping to 
 recover our ass. Then, indeed, I found myself so 
 footsore that my heart failed me as to how I should 
 ever get along myself, to say nothing of Kit, if 
 poor Jack were indeed gone. Alas ! we could find 
 him no where. I knew not where we were. E\'er)-- 
 thing was quite still, except that a lark was singing 
 merrily away high up in the sky, so merrily that I 
 felt as if he were laughing at mc. I longed to sit
 
 2o3 The travels of two kits 
 
 down and ci-}', but what would become of Kit if I 
 did so ? 
 
 Just at that moment, I caught a sound of someone 
 singing, and there was something friendly in the 
 sound. It was not a milk-maid's morning song, but 
 it gave me the feeling as if I were going to Church 
 with my papa and mamma as in the olden times. I 
 limped on towards the sound, which grew clearer, and 
 I presently distinguished that it was a Psalm Tune 
 and a man's voice, an old's man's voice, though very 
 sweet, and almost as blithe as that of the lark, and 
 these words were the first I heard distinctly : — 
 
 Wake and lift up thyself my heart, 
 And with the Angels bear thy part. 
 Who all night long unwearied sing 
 High praise to the Eternal King. 
 
 Awake, awake, ye heavenly choir ; 
 May your devotion me inspire, 
 That I like you my age may spend, 
 Like you may on my God attend. 
 
 Just then we came beyond the hedge, and this is 
 what we saw through an opening. There were trees 
 falling back on either side of a steep slope, almost a 
 cliff of green grassy turf, beneath which lay the level 
 ground of a park, studded with magnificent trees, 
 reaching to a fine house, beyond which lay a beautiful 
 undulating country of wood and park and field, rising 
 to very high ground, and all lighted up by the rays
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 209 
 
 of the morning sun, which made everything sparkle, 
 while the trees were in the youngest, freshest green. 
 You know the place, my dears, it is what is called 
 Heaven's Gate. And in front, on the top of the cliff, 
 stood a slight old man, with his back to us, his grey 
 hair coming out beneath his black velvet cap, and in 
 a clergyman's gown. That gave me courage, I was 
 sure that I had found a helper, and I went forward 
 with Kit, and knelt down on the grass, as we had 
 been taught to do,' to ask his blessing ; but he was so 
 wrapt in his devotion that he did not sec us. The 
 sun shone on his face ; and when I hear the Lesson 
 read of the glory of Moses's countenance when he had 
 been communing with the Lord on Mount Sinai, I 
 always think of the face of the holy Bishop Ken as 
 we saw him on that morning. For he it was, 
 though I knew nothing about him then. His look, 
 and his hymn, seemed to take me away from my- 
 self and my troubles, and I would have knelt on, 
 happy in hearing and watching him ; but little 
 Kit, growing impatient, plucked his gown, and made 
 him look down, when I put ni)- hands over my face 
 as in the good old da}'s and said, 'Your blessing, 
 sir.' 
 
 He put one of his long slender hands on each of 
 our heads and blessed us. And then he said kindly, 
 seeing' perhaps Kit's tear-stained face, ' And whence 
 
 P
 
 210 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 have you come, my little ones, to ask an old man's 
 blessing ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! sir, help us,' I said. ' I am taking my little 
 brother to London to be touched by the Queen, and 
 the gipsies have stolen our donkey, and we have lost 
 our way, and we don't know what to do ! ' And there, 
 though I tried to stop myself, I could not help burst- 
 ing into tears. 
 
 The good Bishop must have been very much sur- 
 prised, but he said, 'Come, come, my little dear, we 
 will have no crying. Come with me to the house 
 yonder,' and he took a hand of each of us. ' You 
 shall break your fast, and then you shall tell me 
 where you come from, and I will let your friends 
 know.' 
 
 ' O no, sir,' I cried. 'We have no friends except 
 our father over the sea ! And Nurse Malkin would 
 stop us ! ' 
 
 Then he asked our names ; and when we told 
 them, he stood still with amazement, and said, ' The 
 children of Sir Christopher Theobald of Catlinch 
 Hall ^ ' And when we replied, he said, ' I know 
 your honoured father, my children, and your good 
 mother. I have been at Catlinch Hall, and I have 
 seen you before. Mistress Katharine, though you do 
 not know it.' 
 
 Then as a man-servant came out to meet him and
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 211 
 
 say ' his lordsliip's breakfast was served,' he bade him 
 carry Master Theobald. I think he would have done 
 so himself long before he knew us, seeing how the 
 poor little fellow lagged, but that he was an old man 
 and had scarcely strength. Meanwhile, he held my 
 hand, and I had told him all my story, by the 
 time we came to the house of Longleat, where we 
 found another clergyman at the door, the Reverend 
 Mr. Harbin, who was chaplain. 
 
 Breakfast was ready in his room. It was of beef 
 and ale, but the Bishop sent for some milk for us, 
 and bade the servant ask the housekeeper to be good 
 enough to come to speak with him. She came in 
 curtseying low. 
 
 'Mistress Deborah,' he said, * these are Miss and 
 Master Theobald of Catlinch. They have been 
 robbed by the gipsies, and have slept the night upon 
 the ground, and I should hold myself much obliged 
 if you would let them rest, and have attendance and 
 comfort in one of the bedrooms, until dinner-time, 
 when I request the favour of their company.' 
 
 ' Only please sir, you will not send us back ? ' I 
 entreated, ready to cry. 
 
 * Indeed, my little lady, you need not fear me. 
 We will talk of what )'ou will do next, after dinner. 
 Go now, and rest with Mrs. Deborah.' 
 
 The housekeeper led us to a beautiful large room, 
 
 P 2
 
 212 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 as fine as our best at home, and the maids brought 
 warm water, and we were undressed and made very- 
 comfortable. She pitied Kit very much, and asked 
 us many questions, thinking we had been stolen from 
 home ; but she looked grave when she found we had 
 run away, and I feared again that we should be sent 
 back. However, I was stiff and tired, and not at all 
 unwilling to lie down by Kit on the big state bed, 
 and try to make out the stones in the tapestry in a 
 dreamy kind of way, till nearly one o'clock, when 
 Mrs. Deborah came back, and we were made ready for 
 dinner. I know now that though the good Bishop had 
 taken us at our word directly, there were some who 
 doubted my story, or whether two such shabby 
 beggarly-looking children could belong to Sir Chris- 
 topher Theobald. Thus it was very well for us that 
 Nurse had bred me up to nice ways, for Mrs. Deborah 
 afterwards said she had no misgivings after I took 
 out my ivory comb, and put my own hair, and Kit's, in 
 order for dinner, making his little lovelock hang over 
 his shoulder, shining like silk ; and he was as good as 
 gold, and made his bow as I told him, when we came 
 down, waving his hat as prettily as could be. 
 
 Then, when the Bishop said that little master 
 should be chaplain, I had but to give him a hint, and 
 he said his grace. I cut his meat and spread his nap- 
 kin, and he behaved himself like a little gentleman as
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 213 
 
 he was, all through the dinner. More than once I saw 
 nods pass between the Bishop and Mr. Harbin, which 
 meant, I believe, that we were no impostors, but of 
 gentle blood and breeding. I knew my maoners 
 better than to ask for anything, or to speak at table, 
 except when I was addressed ; and though Kit broke 
 out with a little cry of joy when he saw a great bowl 
 of custard and strawberries, he was so little that it did 
 not matter. 
 
 After dinner, the Bishop led us out into the flower- 
 garden behind the house ; and he told me that he saw 
 I was a good little maid, and careful of my brother, 
 and that he was sure that I had been taught my 
 duty. Then he said he should like to know if I could 
 say the Catechism. I could only go very red and say 
 I did not know it well ; for Nurse could not say 
 it herself, and I had not learnt it all when my 
 mamma died. However, I made a shift to repeat 
 the Creed, and though I stumbled through the 
 Commandments, and did not know their numbers, 
 still he said I was doing well, if I were trying to act 
 them out ; and that he would teach me a fresh prayer 
 to say, fitter than the baby one I was used to. He 
 was so gentle that he never frightened me at all, but 
 I felt almost as if I had my papa again ; and Kit sat 
 on his knee all the time playing with his watch and 
 seals.
 
 214 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 After that he called Mr. Harbin, and they ques- 
 tioned me over again, much more closely, about 
 Reynold Theobald and Farmer Malkin, and my plans 
 for running away. I would have shown them Kit's 
 neck, but they said Mrs. Deborah had told them how 
 bad it was, and that I was a good child for wishing 
 to take him to the Queen, only that I must remember 
 it was not she, but God, who wrought cures. 
 
 The Bishop said he would not send us back, nor 
 help Mr. Theobald to lay hands on us. He would 
 only let Nurse know that we were safe ; and he 
 ■would help us on our way. The next day the stage- 
 waggon would pass on the way to London, and he 
 knew the carrier to be a good and careful man, to 
 whom he would commit us, with a charge to deliver 
 us to one Mrs. Boardman, a friend of his in Fenchurch 
 Street, to whom he would give us a letter, praying her 
 to take care of us, lodge us, and bring us to the 
 Chapel Royal of St. James's when the Queen should 
 be touching for the Evil, as she did several times in 
 the summer months. 
 
 ' And, my lord,' I said, (Mrs. Deborah had told me 
 how to call him) ' I could pay my way, if I could get 
 my pocket-piece changed, but the gipsies took my 
 new crown-piece.' 
 
 Then I pulled out the string, and the Bishop said 
 he would change the gold piece, and keep it for me,
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 215 
 
 for maybe I should like to redeem it in time to come. 
 And so I have done, and I have left it in my will to 
 my brother's eldest son. 
 
 He sent us away with a young servant-maid to 
 play in the garden, and wc did not see him again that 
 night, but in the morning, we broke our fast with him, 
 and went to prayers in the Chapel, and these were 
 scarce over before a groom, who had been set to 
 watch, brought word that Will Carrier was at the foot 
 of the hill. 
 
 Mrs. Deborah had done wonders for us. She had 
 found two outgrown cloaks of Lord Weymouth's 
 children, she had sought out a large soft cushion on 
 which Kit might lie, she had packed my basket with 
 slices of bread and meat, with gooseberry pasties and 
 strawberries, and she had given Kit a cage for his 
 mouse, in which he could see the little creature, and 
 keep him far more safely than in our jar. 
 
 She kissed us, and gave all these things to one of 
 the servants to carry ; and even then she put on her 
 hood and pattens, for she must come out to settle us 
 in the waggon herself. However, the waggon had 
 turned out of the way and was coming up to the hall, 
 so soon as Will Carrier understood that my Lord 
 Bishop wanted him. 
 
 It was a big broad-wheeled waggon, painted blue, 
 with red wheels, and covered with an arched tilt,
 
 2l6 TIIi: TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 under which, as hi the mouth of a deep cavern, sat 
 Will Carrier, with his honest ruddy face and curly hair, 
 ruling over the four strong broad-chested horses that 
 drew us, two abreast, two of them black, and two 
 dapple grey. 
 
 He took off his slouched hat as he approached, and, 
 leaping down from his perch, made a low obeisance as 
 his lad stood at the horses' heads, while he asked 
 what commands his lordship had. 
 
 The Bishop and Mr. Harbin then committed us 
 to his care, and he engaged to make us over to Mrs. 
 Boardman, as well as to see that we were well fed, 
 lodged, and attended to upon the way. Indeed he 
 said he had a good dame in his waggon, going up 
 from Glastonbury to live with her son in London, and 
 that no doubt she would have an eye to us. I think 
 the Bishop, when he thought I was not looking, gave 
 both the carrier and the woman some money to attend 
 to us, and then he kissed my little brother, and blessed 
 us botli, and gave me a thick letter to deliver to Mrs 
 Boardman, and so away we went. 
 
 It was comfortable in the waggon, all the larger 
 boxes and bundles were piled up in the end, and there 
 were seats across, besides a square space behind where 
 the driver sat. When Kit was tired, I laid him down 
 on his cushion on the bottom of the waggon, and he 
 slept. Sometimes people got in to go a stage or two,
 
 Till-: TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 1\'J 
 
 but no one went the whole way except Mrs. Lee, and 
 she was very kind to us, and used to tell us stories as 
 we went slowly along between the hedges. Some- 
 times we got down to have a run, when we were going 
 between flowery banks, where we could gather posies, 
 and sometimes the carrier would lift Kit up, and give 
 him a ride on the broad back of one of* his horses. 
 We used to halt three times a day, for breakfast, 
 dinner, and supper, besides the putting up for the 
 night ; generally at way-side inns, standing on village 
 greens, where Kit and I were taken into the parlour, 
 with a sanded floor, and peacock's feathers over the 
 mantel shelf, and they gave us nice bowls of milk, 
 and fresh fruit. Sometimes we found in the evening 
 parties of gentlemen playing at bowls outside ; and 
 when we had had our supper, and Kit had been put 
 to sleep in the white curtained bed with sheets smell- 
 ing of lavender, I used to stay up longer, standing in 
 the deep bay window to watch the game, which my 
 father used to play on our ov\'n bowling green at 
 home. 
 
 At one inn, the last but one I think, where we 
 slept before reaching London, we were close to the 
 broad beautiful river Thames, and there I saw two 
 gentlemen fishing by the river's bank. In the morn- 
 ing at breakfast there was a beautiful dish of broiled 
 fish with Mr. Izaak Walton's service to Mistress and
 
 2l8 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 Master Theobald, and he hoped that they had left the 
 good Bishop Ken in good health. Mrs. Lee told us 
 that he had been so polite as to leave the parlour for 
 us, and that it would be due courtesy to invite him 
 and his friend to breakfast with us. So I did, and 
 they came in, making such reverences and thanks that 
 I scarcely knew which way to look, and they were very 
 kind and good, giving us a beautiful box of comfits to 
 eat upon the road. 
 
 At last we come in through the streets of London. 
 Kit looked out to see them paved with gold and 
 silver, but they seemed to me even fouler and dirtier 
 than the streets of Warminster on a wet day. There 
 w^ere throngs of people, and carts and great folk's 
 coaches, painted and gilt, with four and six horses, so 
 choking up the ways that Will Carrier had much ado 
 to get along to the great inn-yard where he put up in 
 London. Mrs. Lee kissed us and bade us good-bye, 
 and then the carrier brought us through the streets to 
 Mrs. Boardman's house, taking Kit in his arms, while 
 I was fain to cling to his carter's frock where the 
 crowd was thickest. Even so I had like to have been 
 knocked into the gutter by a great beam they were 
 carrying to build one of the new Churches in the City. 
 
 Mrs. Boardman was the widow of an Alderman, 
 and lived in a house of her own with a paved court in 
 front and a lilac and laburnum tree in the midst, the
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 219 
 
 first wc had ever seen, and Kit cried out ' There, there, 
 it is true ! there's a tree dropping gold ; ' and he 
 wanted to be set down to pick up the blossoms. 
 
 Will Carrier knocked at the door, and when a man 
 came out, he said he had commands from the Lord 
 Bishop at Longleat and that he must speak with the 
 mistress herself. We waited in a wainscoted chamber, 
 panelled with some sweet foreign woods, and polished 
 like the inside of a workbox, with a little round 
 table, and a big china beaupot in the middle. 
 
 Mrs. Boardman came down in her shining black 
 taffeta gown, with a long waist, and the skirt tucked 
 through the pocket holes, showing her quilted grey- 
 petticoat ; she had a white apron, long white pinners 
 and a white cap, and her face was as gentle as the 
 Bishop's and looked like a mother's. She was lame 
 and walked with a ivory-headed, crutch-handled cane, 
 that went tap, tap, all down the stairs, before she 
 came to us, then Will pulled his forelock, and said, 
 'My zarvice to you, Madam Boardman, and my Lord 
 Bishop sends this here little Miss and Master to you. 
 I was to zee them into your own hands, and Miss will 
 tell you the rest. Mayhap ye'd give me a line to 
 zartify to his Reverence as how they be delivered in 
 good condition.' 
 
 ' Well and good. Master Carrier,' said Mrs. Board- 
 man. ' If you will wait a few minutes, Peter shall bring
 
 220 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 you a draught of ale, and I will talk with this young 
 gentlewoman, and write the acknowledgment you 
 wish. Anyone recommended by my Lord Bishop 
 must be welcome.' 
 
 Then I went forward to ask the carrier for his 
 account. He had it all scored on a tally, for the 
 Bishop had bidden him pay for us at all the inns, and 
 the sum came to three pounds five shillings and six 
 pence, which I duly paid him, and I thanked him for 
 having been so good to us. Kit clung to him, and 
 kissed him, and said he would like to ride on broad- 
 backed Dobbin again ; while Will Carrier said he 
 would never forget us, and he would like to have such 
 travellers every time. 
 
 Then he went away, and Mrs. Boardman took us 
 into her parlour, which was wainscoted likewise, but 
 had a bay window looking into a garden, and a Turkey 
 carpet under our feet, the like of which for softness 
 wc had never trod. She gave us each a little cricket 
 to sit upon, and a piece of plum cake to eat, while she 
 cut round the big seal of the Bishop's letter, and sat 
 down to read it, putting on her spectacles. Presently 
 she began sighing, ' Dear heart ! Bless me ! ' and at 
 last she broke out, * Well, this is a strange thing ! You 
 don't mean to tell me that a mere slip of a girl like 
 you, saving your presence, my young lady, set out to 
 take this child all the way from Somerset to London ! '
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 221 
 
 And when she had heard the story and under- 
 stood the letter, she fell to kissing us both, and 
 promising that she would do all that in her lay to 
 bring us to the Queen, and that in the meantime 
 we should be as welcome in her house as flowers in 
 May. But already Kit was much better and stronger 
 and rosier, though the place on his neck was not yet 
 well. 
 
 There was another letter enclosed within Mrs. 
 Boardman's, to the Court surgeon, asking him to give 
 a ticket for Christopher Theobald, and to obtain for 
 us admission to St. James's Palace. Mrs. Boardman 
 sent this by her man Peter, and he brought back 
 an answer that on Monday we should be at the 
 Palace at eleven o'clock, and enclosing the paper with 
 the name written on it. In the mean time, we were 
 very happy with ]\Irs. Boardman. She was too lame 
 to take us out, but we played in her garden, and on 
 Sunday she went to Church, being carried in a sedan 
 chair, in which she took Kit, while I trudged behind 
 with her woman, whose name was Charity. 
 
 She was very good to us, and much wished to 
 make us look more as the son and daughter of a 
 baronet should look when before her Majesty, but 
 Sunday intervening, there was no time to get us new 
 suits of clothes, even if we had had the price of them, 
 and she could only brush and mend our clothes up as
 
 222 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 far as was possible in one Friday and Saturday. Kit's 
 hat was very shabby, but that mattered the less that he 
 would be bareheaded before Her Majesty, and no one 
 had finer or silkier hair than my little brother. What 
 grieved me more was that good Mrs. Boardman could 
 not go with us. She said she knew that she should 
 have to stand for hours, and that was more than her 
 poor leg would bear, and mayhap we should be 
 better among the Quality by ourselves, than with any- 
 one she could think of. 
 
 So she made Peter fetch a hackney coach, wherein 
 we went, with Charity to take care of us on the way, 
 and she waited in the coach outside the gates, while 
 Peter with Kit in his arms, forced his way on through 
 the throng, showing the ticket to the guards as we 
 went. They say that poor children sometimes were 
 pressed to death in the crowd or ever they came to 
 the palace door ; and I can well believe it, for I never 
 was so much frightened, not even by the gipsies, and 
 if we had not been helped by a strong man like 
 Peter, who knew the ways of a London crowd, we 
 should never have come to the face of the Queen 
 after all. 
 
 But pushing and squeezing, first up one step then 
 another, we came to a doorway, and there Peter set 
 Kit down and delivered me the ticket, saying, ' There, 
 Mistress, I can go no farther, but I will wait for you
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 223 
 
 outside, and call the coach when you come out. 
 There will be no such throng then.' 
 
 The sentry, who had a scarlet coat, and tall 
 pointed cap, let us through, and wc followed, without 
 further crowding, amongst some twenty or more 
 women, some carrying, some leading, little children, 
 through a lane of servants, till we came forth into the 
 great banqueting-hall, where all the afflicted, and 
 those ^vho brought them, were ranged at the end of 
 the hall. 
 
 There was a great chair of state at the upper end 
 of the hall, and after we had stood long in waiting, 
 all the great folks began coming in, the gentlemen 
 in their velvet and laced coats, with embroidered 
 waistcoats, curled white full-bottomed wigs, and dia- 
 mond buckles in their shoes ; and the ladies in their 
 rustling brocades, with rich lace ruffles hanging to 
 their waists. They all spread out in a semicircle, 
 round the chair of state, and then in came the Queen 
 herself, a portly and stately lady, with her hair 
 dressed high and her gown of white satin, with a 
 purple velvet train. She was handed in by a gentle- 
 man in a blue velvet coat with diamond buttons and 
 a blue ribbon across his white waistcoat, and by her 
 other side stood a tall lady with a long neck, light 
 hair falling over it, a bright colour, and a face short, 
 but very fair to look on. This Avas lady Marl-
 
 224 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 borough, the Mistress of the Robes, the wife of the 
 great General who was fightnig in Bavaria. 
 
 Close by, at a desk a little in front were three 
 clergymen in their robes and bands. One had a 
 number of white ribbons with pieces of gold hanging 
 to them, lying across his arm. 
 
 Then the service began. I need not tell you all, 
 you can read it for yourselves in my large Prayer- 
 book. It was not long, and after the Lord's Prayer 
 had been said, the persons to be healed moved up, 
 and one by one the Queen laid a white soft hand 
 upon them, stroked them several times, and her lips 
 moved in silent prayer as she bound one of the white 
 ribbons from which the gold pieces were suspended, 
 about the arms of each whom she touched, the chaplains 
 going on with the prayers all the time. One or two 
 were grown up persons, others were quite young 
 children, carried by their mothers, and as I was not 
 quite sure whether Kit was to go alone, or whether I 
 was to lead him, he came last. Indeed he turned 
 bashful, and would never have gone up at all, had 
 I not been there to draw him on. Little did I think 
 that the naughty boy had, unknown to me, carried 
 his dormouse to Court in his bosom. When I un- 
 buttoned his collar that the Queen might stroke his 
 neck, I never guessed what would happen ; but while 
 she was hanging the gold piece upon his arm, he
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 225 
 
 slipped down, with a cry of ' My mouse, my mouse ! ' 
 and went on his hands and knees under the Queen's 
 chair. 
 
 Up started the Queen in no small haste. The 
 gentleman in the blue ribbon sdi'id,' Est-il possible? ' 
 Some of the ladies screamed, 'A mouse, a mouse ! ' and 
 darted away as far as they could go with one skid 
 before they bethought themselves where they were. 
 Others lower down murmured, ' A Jacobite plot,' and 
 one or two gentlemen near laid their hands on their 
 swords, while others farther off drew them. Yet they 
 frightened me even less than Lady Marlborough, who 
 stood frowning, and saying, ' Remove the ill-nurtured 
 little wretch, and let him be well flogged,' Kit did 
 not hear her. He had wriggled out again, back- 
 wards, and regained his feet, and there he stood with 
 his mouse in his hand, quite satisried to have recovered 
 it. 
 
 'Who is in charge of this boy.? ' demanded Lady 
 Marlborough. 'Let him be taken away and well 
 chastised.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Madam ! ' I cried, falling down on my knees, 
 and putting my arm round Kit, ' spare him, I pray 
 you. He knows no better. He is my little brother, 
 and so frail and weak ! Tlease beat me instead of 
 him.' 
 
 * He is but a babe,' said the Queen more kindly, 
 
 Q
 
 2 26 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 looking down at him pitifully. ' The blame rests with 
 those who have him in charge. Who are they .-' ' 
 
 ' Only I, ma'am — your Grace — your Majesty — ' I 
 scrambled out in desperate haste. ' I never guessed 
 he had his mouse — and I brought him all the way 
 from Somersetshire in hopes your most religious and 
 gracious Majesty would touch him and cure him.' 
 
 ' Est-il possible ? ' said the gentleman with the 
 blue ribbon again. 
 
 Another gentleman here came forward saying, 
 * I\Iay it please your Majesty, I think these are the 
 children respecting whom I have a letter from the 
 retired Bishop of Bath and Wells, What is your name, 
 young mistress ? ' 
 
 ' I am Katharine Theobald, sir, and this is my 
 little brother Christopher.' 
 
 * Even so,' said the gentleman, whom I found after- 
 wards was Lord Weymouth, ' the children of Sir 
 Christopher Theobald.' 
 
 ' Impossible,' said the Queen. ' Sir Christopher 
 Theobald is a gentleman of good estate — I knew him 
 and his lady well — she was Lady Katharine Carshal- 
 ton. How should her children be reduced to such a 
 state as this .-* For in truth the girl reminds me of my 
 old playmate. Do you not see the likeness, my dear 
 Mrs. Freeman .-' ' she added in an under tone, looking up 
 to Lady Marlborough, who did not make much reply.
 
 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 22/ 
 
 Then Lord Weymouth asked the Queen's leave to 
 explain, and she granted it, seating herself on her 
 chair again. He told, what I had never understood 
 the half of before, namely, that our father had in his 
 first grief for his wife's death, gone abroad to see her 
 parents, who were living at Paris. He himself had 
 never shown any lack of obedience to King William, 
 but his kinsman, Reynold Theobald, in the hope of gain, 
 had sent him false information that he was suspected 
 of disloyalty, that a warrant was out against him, and 
 that he could not safely return. Meanwhile Reynold 
 had authority to manage the estate, he sent a yearly 
 sum to my father, and kept us at Clover Farm. 
 
 * And thence,' Lord Weymouth explained, ' this 
 brave young lady,' as he was pleased to call me, ' had 
 set forth all alone, like a very Pcnthesilca,' (so he said) 
 • to bring her little brother to enjoy the benefits of the 
 royal touch ! ' 
 
 ^ Est-il possible ? ' said the blue ribbon again. 
 
 Then happened the wonder of my life, for the good 
 Oueen held out both those white soft hands of hers, 
 and the tears were in her eyes as she said, ' You are a 
 good girl. Mistress Katharine,' and she kissed us both 
 on the forehead. 
 
 ' And }'0u will not have Kit whipped,' I said 
 hastily. 
 
 ' No, no, indeed,' she said, her hand on his soft 
 
 Q2
 
 228 THE TRAVELS OF TWO KITS 
 
 hair; 'I love not whippings. Go, children. My Lord 
 Weymouth, will you take them in charge. Have you 
 more to say, my child .-' ' she added. 
 
 ' If your Majesty will only let my papa come 
 home ! ' I said. 
 
 ' There is nothing against him,' she said. ' My 
 Lord Weymouth will see to it that Sir Christopher is 
 summoned home. We cannot spare our loyal subjects 
 to be exiled on a misapprehension.' 
 
 That is the chief of my story, I need scarce tell 
 how we were lodged in Lady Weymouth's house with 
 the Misses and Master Thynne, and how Kit's neck 
 was entirely cured long before my father came home. 
 I strove hard to learn all that the Misses Thynne 
 knew, that I might not be a mere rustic when my father 
 came ; and Kit had grown plump and rosy, and when 
 he had his new scarlet coat, silk stockings, and lace 
 cravat, he looked such a darling little gentleman that 
 my father when he came home, could at first do no- 
 thing but stand and say, ' Kitty, Kitty, you have 
 indeed been a mother to that child ! ' And was I not 
 a happy maiden .-*
 
 SELMA'S SECRET SIGHS. 
 
 ' Speech is silver, silence is golden.'
 
 SELMA'S SECRET SIGHS. 
 
 My dear Lucy, 
 
 Ygu said you could not understand what 
 had gone amiss, and in the short time that we spent 
 together it v/at. impossible to explain, so I will profit 
 by my present leisure to tell you the history. 
 
 You knew how happy my governess life at 
 Fairleigh was. When I first was in negotiation with 
 Mrs. Nutley, I thought I ought to mention my en- 
 gagement, explaining that there was no chance of 
 my seeing Bryan Arrowsmith at Fairleigh, nor of our 
 being able to marry for years to come. Mrs. Nutley 
 was quite satisfied, and there was no occasion for any- 
 body else to know of it ; nor did anyone, until there 
 came to the Vicarage, as governess, no other than my 
 dear old friend and school-fellow, Bryan's cousin, 
 Aurelia Stillwood, who knew all, and to whom I could 
 talk of Bryan— a delight for which I sometimes quite 
 hungered. 
 
 Nor indeed was I disappointed. In the few hours 
 we could spend alone together, there could not be a 
 kinder or pleasanter listener than Aurelia, whose
 
 2 32 SELMA'S SECRET SIGHS 
 
 eyes and smile and soft little words were just enough 
 to carry one on. She was just like what she had 
 been at school, where she used to be called the Little 
 Grey Mouse. She has the neatest of little figures, 
 and dresses in soft greys and fawns, that never fade 
 or spot with her as they do with ordinary mortals, 
 with dainty white accompaniments, always crisply 
 fresh ; and her clear brown eyes shone out of their dark 
 fringes and seemed to speak instead of her lips. Her 
 pupils — a delicate boy, who could not be sent to school, 
 and a little wild tomboy of a girl — were more devoted 
 to her than suited me ; for whenever we spent an 
 afternoon together, and thought the children would 
 amuse one another, Wilfred would always grow tired, 
 and come to lie on the ground or the sofa, wanting her 
 to stroke his forehead, and there ended all intimate 
 conversation. Though I own the intimacy was 
 chiefly on my side — for she never said a word about 
 her pupils, or their tempers, not even to consult me, 
 though I am a year older, and had had two years' 
 more experience. She never asked my advice, except 
 once when Wilfred's sum would not come right, and 
 another time when there was a misprint in the gram- 
 mar. I used often to tell her of my joys and trials 
 with my three girls ; and when I heard of Mrs. 
 Halstead telling the story of Agnes being caught 
 preaching a sermon in a pulpit of towel-horses, with
 
 selma's secret sighs 233 
 
 a sheet for a surplice, and a scarlet comforter for a 
 stole, and all her dolls for audience, I did think it 
 hard that Aurelia had never told me, and I scolded 
 her a little for it ; but she said she thought it not 
 fair to tell such things. So stupid, thought I, when 
 there was no fear of my repeating them. Aurelia 
 might trust me ! 
 
 We two must have made a favourable impression ; 
 for one day Mrs. Nutley asked me to recommend 
 another pupil from St. Kathanne's to Mrs. Robinson 
 for her little girls, just out of the nursery. I thought 
 at once of my old crony, Sally Shilling — the merry 
 eager girl, so clever and bright, and such a favourite 
 with all — and I spoke of her merits so enthusiastically, 
 that Mrs. Robinson wrote to her that very evening. 
 I eagerly told Aurelia, and, in spite of my experience, 
 was discomfited by her sober ' Indeed ! ' 
 
 ' Don't you think her equal to such little scraps of 
 children ? ' I asked, getting hot and frightened, 
 
 * Yes, I think she is.' 
 
 'Don't you think her good and high principled.? 
 Don't you remember how well she behaved about 
 that key to the exercises ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, she is very upright.' 
 
 ' Do you mean that you think her too rough and 
 ready .■' ' 
 
 ' Certainly not ; ' looking rather funny.
 
 234 selma's secret sighs 
 
 ' Then \\'hat do you mean ? Provoking girl ! you 
 are enough to distract one. Say it at once, if you 
 know anything against her ? ' 
 
 ' But I don't.' 
 
 ' Then why in the world should you not be glad 
 to see her ? ' 
 
 * I am glad.* 
 
 * Then why speak in that way ? ' 
 
 * What did I say .? ' 
 
 I had to examine, and confess that she had only 
 said ' Indeed,' and then she smiled ! But I remember 
 maintaining that she ought to be more cordial, and 
 then fearing that she thought the Robinsons would 
 not be kind to Sally. However, she cleared herself 
 of any such suspicion, and I was obliged to forgive 
 her for her ' Indeed,' and think it only * her way.' 
 
 Sally wrote a rapturous letter about her joy at 
 being near the two dearest of her friends, and the 
 compensation of our society in this melancholy 
 position. It made me wonder whether any mis- 
 fortune had happened to the Shillings, for Sally's 
 family had always seemed to me a joyous one. To be 
 sure the father was dead, but that had happened before 
 anyone could recollect; and Mrs. Shilling was a capital 
 manager, who paid the rent of her house in the City 
 by letting the first floor to a curate, and who kept her 
 sons together. They were excellent fellows ; one
 
 selma's secret sighs 235 
 
 was in an office, another walking the hospitals, and 
 the other two at King's College and King's College 
 School, while the youngest girl had just gone to St. 
 Katharine's. I had sometimes spent a holiday among 
 them, and their hearty good-nature and merriment 
 always charmed me. Mrs. Shilling allowed that she 
 preferred boys to girls, and was always full of busi- 
 ness ; but she looked after her daughters well, and I 
 was grieved to think of her being in trouble. I asked 
 Aurelia, if she knew what was amiss, but she could not 
 guess. I wondered, too, at the signature of the letter. 
 ' Selina ? ' I said ; ' I had always thought her 
 name was Sarah ! ' 
 
 * So it is : Sarah Mary.' 
 
 * The letter is certainly hers! but Selina alone is 
 not exactly a signature, with no surname ! ' 
 
 ' It is not Selina, but Sclma ! ' 
 
 ' A fancy name ! ' 
 
 'She found it in an old "Ossian," and thought it 
 so combined Sarah and Mary, that she insisted on our 
 all calling her so.' 
 
 ' Did she get her brothers to do so ,-*' 
 
 Aurelia laughed, but observed that we must not 
 betray such an absurd fancy; and indeed she had never 
 let me disclose her own peculiar Christian name, and 
 never openly called me anything but Miss Lipscombe, 
 till I quite longed for once to hear the sound of Effie.
 
 236 SELMAS SECRET SIGHS 
 
 I had that pleasure soon. We two were sent to 
 the station to meet the new-comer, and the first 
 greeting was a happy shriek of ' Effie ! dear Effie ! 
 dearest Aurelia ! how sweet of you !' 
 
 I don't know whether I should have known her ; 
 for the girl who used to be all legs and arms and hair, 
 untidy and boisterous, was now tall and elegant, and 
 fashionably dressed, though still warm and im- 
 petuous, as she rushed up to kiss both of us ; and I 
 know Aurelia winced, as she thought of the porters. 
 
 Her luggage went in the omnibus, and we walked 
 together, telling her the names of the streets, and 
 answering her inquiries about the Robinsons, explain- 
 ing how they consisted of the Doctor, his wife, the 
 two grown-up sons of the first marriage, and the four 
 or five little ones of the second. Just as Sally's 
 inquiries were becoming more individual, the pru- 
 dent Aurelia chose to ask after Mrs. Shilling, as if 
 anything ever were the matter with her ! 
 
 'Very well, and absorbed in cares as usual ! Ah! 
 you have one another, you happy girls ! You cannot 
 have known what it is to meet no sympathy or 
 attention when one most needs it.' 
 
 Here comes the melancholy position, thought I ; 
 and I put a leading question, hoping there was 
 nothing amiss. 
 
 ' Oh no, not to a casual observer ! But though it
 
 selma's secret sighs 237 
 
 was all very well when we were little, mamma v/ould 
 be much better advised to cease to have inmates. 
 Curates are human, though they be vowed to 
 celibacy.' 
 
 * Are they ? ' said the Grey Mouse. 
 
 ' Everyone knows that Mr, Shelburne is, I don't 
 mind telling you, dearest darlings, for I know it safe 
 with you ; but I fear the mischief is irreparable, and 
 I am sure it wasn't my fault* 
 
 ' What ! ' I cried, in spite of a poke from the un- 
 feeling Aurelia's parasol ; ' did you refuse him ? ' 
 
 * No ! Toor man ! I did not let it come to that, 
 but I refused the "Appendix to Hymns Ancient and 
 Modern ; " and I saw he could hardly command his 
 countenance, for he was forced to bite his lip. When 
 mamma told me to mend his hood when it caucrht 
 on a nail in the vestry, she little thought of the con- 
 sequences ; and I never could open her eyes, though 
 even Jack used to chaff about it,' 
 
 ' Mr. Shilling chafted > ' said Aurelia, 
 
 ' Yes, as if he thought it serious ! I was quite 
 thankful to be leaving home. It is enough to recon- 
 cile me to the painful present.' 
 
 I began to protest that she would be very happy ; 
 but she shook her head pathetically, and said, 'At 
 the best, a governess's is a trying position.' 
 
 I don't think she was I'ciy unhappy, after all.
 
 238 SELMA'S SECRET SIGHS 
 
 She was a winning creature, with the family high 
 spirits ; the Httle girls were charmed with her, and so 
 was their mother ; but she said Dr. Robinson 
 scrupulously avoided her, and was civil by rule and 
 measure, and that the man-servant always looked at 
 her with a covert sneer, while the maids offered her 
 as many slights as they durst. I thought it very 
 odd that the Robinson servants should be so unlike 
 those we lived with : but once when I said so to 
 Aurelia, she answered, ' Cest selou Ics ri'gles ! ' 
 
 Indeed, she soon drove Selma out of all patience 
 by her cold caution ; and in fact they were seldom 
 alone together, and Wilfred's presence hushed all 
 confidences. 
 
 Now Mr. Nutley's house stood on the road most 
 convenient for walks, and Selma timed her prome- 
 nades so as to meet us coming out for ours, an arrange- 
 ment which did not please my trio ; for they were 
 between fifteen and twelve, and did not want to be 
 encumbered day after day with little Katie and Laura 
 Robinson. Ellen had a passion for ferns, and Alice 
 for grasses, and they wanted to collect and discuss 
 them with mo, so that they much disliked to have me 
 engrossed by Miss Shilling ; while I was hearing of 
 her dread of a letter from the celibate curate : though 
 he never wrote, he only went to spend a month in 
 Switzerland — we alone knew why !
 
 selma's secret sighs 239 
 
 A hint from Mrs. Nutlcy made me aware that I 
 must give up these walks ; but we still had a good 
 deal of time together on Saturdays and Sundays, not 
 interrupted by the parish matters that came to the 
 Vicar's wife, and in which Aurelia had volunteered her 
 assistance. Selnia was a much more interesting com- 
 panion than poor Aurelia, and we used to discuss our 
 pupils' characters together, and laugh over their mis- 
 takes or naughtinesses. I knew when Laura was put 
 into a corner and began to sing 'Begone dull care,' and 
 how her papa had wickedly laughed and taken her out ; 
 and I told anecdotes of Frances's incredible turn for 
 mis-spelling ; but I had nothing to communicate 
 comparable to Selma's knowledge of the aspects of 
 Dr. Robinson's patients (for she could see the front 
 gate from her bedroom window), nor to her descrip- 
 tion of his temper at breakfast, when she was certain 
 that he was being hard on his sons, and that dear 
 Mrs. Robinson was trying to excuse them. Another 
 time she found out, by the sharp ringing of the dining- 
 room bell, that they had had a great dispute, and that 
 it must have been on economy : for Mrs. Robinson 
 bought a new bonnet at Fairleigh, though she had 
 been talking over London bonnet-shops only a week 
 before. It was evidently a sacrifice ; but dear Mrs. 
 Robinson thought nothing of such things when family 
 peace was at stake.
 
 240 SELMA'S SECRET SIGHS 
 
 However, Selma's feelings were a good deal injured 
 by her Christmas holidays being fixed to begin and 
 end just after the young Robinsons' vacation. She 
 thought the motive transparent, and that it need not 
 have so openly been shown that a poor governess was 
 out of the pale of humanity ; but we viewed her as 
 lucky, since neither of us had any holidays. Poor 
 Aurelia had had no home since Bryan's mother had 
 died ; and though she was asked to go home with 
 Selma, Wilfred was so unwell that she would not 
 leave him. My journey to York was too costly to be 
 made more than once a year ; and as Bryan was 
 laying down a railroad in Wallachia, I should not 
 have seen him even if I had gone to my brother's. 
 
 Selma was so free with her confidences, and so 
 anxious for mine, that I had allowed her to know of my 
 engagement ; but I never told her Bryan's name, for 
 after keeping it for three years from my kind friends, 
 I could not let it come round to them through Sally 
 Shilling ; and I began to perceive that it would 
 certainly do so, for I was much annoyed by finding 
 that she had told Miss Leeson, the organist's daughter, 
 that Alice had no ear, and that I much regretted 
 Ellen's being allowed to read ' Lorna Doone ' rather 
 than * Guy Mannering.' I trembled for a week, lest it 
 should come round to Mrs. Nutley that I had found 
 fault, but I heard no more of it.
 
 selma's secret sighs 241 
 
 In the spring, the scarlatina broke out in Fairlcigh, 
 and Mr. and Mrs. Nutleyhad such a dread of it, that 
 we were all carried off to Dieppe without loss of time 
 and settled in lodgings there. I\Ir. Nutlcy went home 
 to his business at the bank, to his wife's great anxiety. 
 He escaped ; but it was a very severe visitation in tiie 
 town, and went through both the Halstead and 
 Robinson families. Selma had it slightly, but Aurelia 
 nursed both her children through it while their mother 
 was ill; and Dr. Robinson said that she saved little 
 Wilfred's life. Afterwards, both families went to 
 Clackniouth for sea air ; and when Selma had thus 
 been disinfected, she went home. We only heard all 
 this from Mr. Nutley, for all letters from infected 
 houses were forbidden. 
 
 We, meantime, travelled about, seeing Churches, 
 Cathedrals, and v/onderful old towns in Normandy 
 and Brittany, as soon as Mr. Nutley had time to join 
 us ; and on our return my visit to my brother was to 
 begin. It was very kind of the Nutleys to give me the 
 opportunity of seeing so much, but they said they 
 wanted me as interpreter, for certainly their Frc-nch 
 was funny. I found Mr. Nutley describing himself 
 one day as banqucroitte, instead of baugiiicr ; and he 
 always said ' ^d I'm' \\\\cn he meant ' that will {\o.' 
 The worst of it was, that I never knew where to tell 
 13r}an to write to me. 
 
 R
 
 242 SELMA'S secret SIGHS 
 
 We were to cross to Dover, and according to Mrs, 
 Shilling's kind standing invitation, I wrote to ask to 
 spend a night at her house before starting for York. 
 I received one of Selma's aftcctionate outpourings, 
 declaring that she had an immense deal to tell me, 
 but she was going out with Dick, and could only tell 
 me she had found the Jiini of all her life ! She felt it. 
 
 When, tired and battered after my crossing, and 
 yearning for a letter from Bryan, I arrived at the 
 kindly door on that sultry summer evening, I found 
 all the party in the down-stair rooms doubly radiant, 
 and I had not taken off my hat before I heard the 
 cause. It was not Selma's engagement to ' hivi^ as I 
 expected, but a legacy, which added fifty pounds a 
 year to Mrs. Shilling's little income. Moreover, Jack 
 had been taken into the firm as a partner, Dick had 
 got a situation as house-surgeon at a county hospital, 
 Jem had achieved a scholarship, and the whole family 
 were beaming vv'ith good-nature and prosperity. 
 
 They would not let me mount the many stairs 
 before regaling me with their little feast, including 
 penny ices — over which how we talked ! all sorts 
 of scraps of news flying about, and drolleries flying 
 between the boys, while Mrs. Shilling's round full 
 voice merrily scolded them for their nonsense, and 
 declared poor Mr. Shelburne would not be able to 
 write his sermon.
 
 selma's secret sighs 243 
 
 I saw Selma trying to look pensive, and concluded 
 that he was not Mr. Shelburne ; but I had not long 
 finished the meal before Mrs. Shilling said I was too 
 much tired to laugh any more, and she herself took 
 me up to the room I was to share with Sally, and left 
 us with strict injunctions not to talk all night. Would 
 that we had obeyed her ! 
 
 I began by asking after the Halsteads. Wilfred 
 was much better, and seemed likely to improve in 
 health ; but Agnes's was a very slow recover}'-, and it 
 was feared she would become delicate. ' So I saw 
 hardly anything of Aurelia at Clackmouth,' Selma 
 said ; ' she was wrapped up in those children. But 
 there was her cousin.' 
 
 ' What cousin .-• ' I asked, thinking over the family. 
 
 ' Mr. Arrowsmith. He knows you, he said so.' 
 
 * Is he in England 1 ' I asked, amazed. 
 
 * He came back from Vienna a month ago, and 
 
 was at Clackmouth superintending the suspension 
 
 bridge. O Effie ! such a noble-looking figure ! such 
 
 a picturesque head, with auburn hair and beard ; he 
 
 might be a model for Sir Lancelot, or Michel Angelo, 
 
 or anybody —with the grace of a foreigner, and the 
 
 dignity of an Englishman ! He might be an Austrian 
 
 prince. Oh ! I am so happy ! Such a distinguished 
 
 name too — Bryan Maxwell Arrowsmith ! ' 
 
 I only remember sitting bolt upright, feeling dizzy 
 
 R 2
 
 244 selma's secret sighs 
 
 and sick, but desperate to hide all and hear the worst. 
 I suppose I asked what right the wretched girl had 
 to be so happy, for I know she answered, * Every right 
 that meeting hearts can give.' 
 
 Much was not wanting to make her run on : ' No, 
 he had not spoken to her formally, he had given her 
 to understand that he could not in honour ; indeed 
 from what Aurelia said, she was sure there was some 
 unfortunate entanglement. What had Aurelia said ? 
 Just nothing, I might be sure, poor dear little Grey 
 Mouse ! but she had hinted that her cousin Bryan was 
 engaged, and that it was nonsense to fancy anything, 
 but she would tell no more ; and of course it was 
 some old master engineer's horrid daughter who had 
 drawn him in.' 
 
 I must have said something about treachery to an 
 old master engineer's horrid daughter ; for the next 
 thing I heard was, ' Of course not ; but circumstances 
 were strong, would be strong.' She should never forget 
 that dreadful evening, when two horrible odious ruffians 
 pursued her with loud shouts ; and there he stood, 
 like Amyas Leigh — like all that was chivalrous, and 
 — yes, she must say it — encircled her waist with his 
 arm, and told her there was nothing to fear ; while 
 they shrank daunted from his very look, scathed and 
 blighted, while he pressed her half fainting to his 
 heart. Ah I the thrill of those beating hearts would
 
 selma's secret sighs 245 
 
 be with her for ever! He assisted her to the beach, 
 placed her on a bench, called Aurelia, and attended 
 on her like the very soul of chivalry. 
 
 And dien there was the pic-nic ! See ! And deep 
 in her dressing-box was tl:e forget-me-not he had 
 gathered for her, and with such a look I can't think 
 how I kept my fingers from crushing the miserable 
 little dried flower ! And lastly there was his photo- 
 graph — a new one I had never seen before, handsomer 
 than ever ; but what was that to me now ? 
 
 I don't know how I could have borne it if Mrs. 
 Shilling had not come back, insisting that we must 
 not talk a moment longer, or I should be ill to-mor- 
 row, for I looked like a ghost ; and she carried off her 
 daughter to help Dick, who was raving for her to 
 accompany him in practising for a concert. 
 
 I put m)'self to bed in haste, that Sally might 
 think me asleep when she came back, though sleep 
 was far enough off. Nothing was present with me but 
 the one idea that Bryan only thought of me as a 
 troublesome encumbrance, to whom he was bound in 
 honour ! I need not tell you the stunned misery of 
 that night, nor how desolate it seemed to hav^e to get 
 up and go about the world — just as if one had to begin 
 without any sun in the sky ! 
 
 Mrs. Shilling thought I looked so poorly, that she 
 hardly consented to my travelling, though I was
 
 246 selma's secret sighs 
 
 desperate to get away ; for that house was perfectly 
 intolerable to me, and I thought there would be some 
 relief in moving on. I only wished there was no 
 arriving ! 
 
 I could not speak of it to my brother and his wife ; 
 I could only tell them that Bryan was at Vienna when 
 I heard last ; and I acted cheerfulness with all my 
 might, excitement giving me a little success for the 
 first three days. 
 
 Then, one afternoon, as Mary and I were coming 
 home, we heard a quick step behind us, and there was 
 Bryan with his little bag over his shoulder ! The first 
 thing, after the old instinctive leap of my foolish heart, 
 was the thought, ' Auburn hair and eyes, the traitor's 
 complexion.' I was proud ; I recollected the photo- 
 graph and forget-me-not, and steeled myself I 
 would be generous. One heart was enough for him to 
 break ! 
 
 He followed us into the drawing-room, and Mary 
 left us together. I tried to follow her, but he caught 
 me, saying he could not spare me to take off my things, 
 for he had to go on by the next train to Glasgow, but 
 he had stolen this hour to tell mc he had hopes of an 
 excellent appointment. 
 
 ' Had you not better tell Miss Shilling ^ ' I coldly 
 said. 
 
 I remember his wondering eyes ; but the wrath I
 
 SELMA'S SECRET SIGHS 247 
 
 had nursed for a fortnight was too hot not to break 
 forth. I told him, though my throat seemed bursting, 
 that 1 knew what his professions were worth ; I knew 
 how he hked to play with his attentions, and count 
 hearts as savages count heads. He pleaded some- 
 thing about noticing a nice girl as my friend. I said 
 that was a fine excuse ; I knew how far he had gone, 
 and what expectations he had raised. 
 
 * You don't mean,' he said, ' that the girl is fool 
 enough to talk of expectations ! ' 
 
 ' Making fools of poor women is such a favourite 
 pastime, that I will not indulge )'ou with hearing,' I 
 said. 
 
 Then he grew displeased. He said if this were 
 only a little jealous petulance, it was hard to waste 
 this single hour on it ; and as I repeated the words 
 in intense disgust, he gravely demanded whether I 
 seriously distrusted him. 
 
 * How could I help it ? ' I said. 
 
 Then he answered that if so, he was of my mind, 
 that all must be at an end between us, for there could 
 be no love where there was no trust in a man's word 
 and honour. 
 
 I would not look round : the cab came for him 
 at the moment, and he was gone. 
 
 O Lucy ! the wretchedness of it ! Resentment 
 and fancied generosity to Selma bore me up a little.
 
 248 selma's secret sighs 
 
 and so did the great anger of George and Mary, 
 who thought me ridiculous beyond conception, 
 George had been hearing accounts of Bryan's abiHty 
 and power of resource, which made him declare that 
 by my own abominable folly and jealousy I had thrown 
 away fame, fortune, baronetcies, and I can't tell what ; 
 while Mary lectured me on the folly of heeding what 
 a man said to a pretty girl in one's absence. It was 
 very horrid, but the strife helped to bear me up ; and I 
 never gave way except at night ; and even then, except 
 at the very worst, there was a sort of savage comfort in 
 thinking of my grand sacrifice, and imagining myself 
 listening to scales, while Sclma was being presented 
 at court ! For I had opened the way of happiness 
 to both ; for it was plain that Byran was glad to be 
 released, or he would have sought reconciliation ; 
 but as the lingering hope died out, and I ceased to 
 start at every knock, I was convinced that he had 
 carried out his inconstancy. 
 
 I was glad to get back where no one but Aurelia 
 knew anything, and I braced myself to hear of Selma's 
 engagement ; but I would not go to Mrs. Shilling's 
 on the way, and made only one long day's journey. 
 Mrs. Nutley saw I was very tired, and would not let 
 my dear girls hang about me long, but sent me to my 
 room, where I think I had my first good night's rest 
 for weeks. Everybody said my holiday had done
 
 SELMA'S SECRET SIGHS 249 
 
 me little good, and the next day Mrs. Nutley seriously 
 asked after my health. Presently she said that she 
 wished to put me on my guard, for she feared Miss 
 Shilling was a great talker ; Mrs. Robinson had been 
 annoyed at finding that all her family affairs were 
 discussed at the organist's, and she would have 
 parted with Miss Shilling but that the children were 
 so fond of her, and she was so nice with them. Mrs. 
 Nutley did not blame me, as I knew in my secret soul 
 I deserved ; she only gave me a caution. 
 
 She thought me too much tired to go out with the 
 children, and bade me lie down, bringing me the most 
 interesting books in her box, Alas ! I could only 
 think of the change since I last had been in that 
 scliool-room. 
 
 By-and-by there was a knock : Selma, tender and 
 kind as ever, and greatly grieved to find me poorly, 
 but brimful of confidences. I shut my eyes and turned 
 my head away, to be able to bear it ; but behold, it was 
 to consult her only sympathising friend on the painful 
 subject of Edward Robinson's manifest attentions ; 
 and the evident annoyance that they caused his 
 stepmother, whose manner had become quite 
 altered. 
 
 * Arc you sure that is the reason .'' ' I asked. 
 
 ' Quite sure ! It has been most distressingly 
 marked ever since we came home. And Aurelia is
 
 250 SELMA*S SECRET SIGHS 
 
 SO cold ! If the Leesons were not a resource, I don't 
 know what I should have done.' 
 
 I was in a mood to say something dissagreeablc, 
 so I observed, 'Are you sure it may not be the 
 gossiping at the Leesons that she objects to ? ' 
 
 ' I never gossip ! ' said Selma, with dignity. ' I 
 thought you a friend, Euphemia Lipscombe ; and 
 this is the way you treat my confidence ! Gossip, 
 indeed ! as if I ever gossipped ! * 
 
 I did not go on then, I was too sick and faint of 
 heart. I longed to see Aurelia again, but she did not 
 come to me ; we only shook hands coldly when we 
 met in society. 
 
 At last, I felt so unutterably miserable and lonely, 
 that one day Avhen we had chanced to meet in 
 the lane, I said, ' O Aurelia, do not cast me off too ! ' 
 
 * I am sorry,' she said, in a hesitating way. 
 
 And then I broke out, asking her why she had 
 never written to me, nor warned me when Bryan's 
 heart was being stolen away from me before her VQry 
 eyes. I was so unhappy, that I knew not what I said. 
 She listened, and I believe all she said was 'Poor 
 Effie ! ' and once she asked me what made me think 
 his heart was gone. I told her all Selma had said, 
 and asked what I could gather from it. To which 
 she answered, ' Selma ! ! ! ' 
 
 The next afternoon — it was Saturday — there came
 
 SELMA'S SECRET SIGHS 2$! 
 
 into my school-room Aurclia and Selma, the latter 
 looking rather like a little spaniel led in a string. 
 Aurelia gravely said, ' Sarah, I should be obliged if 
 you would explain to Effie Lipscombe your reasons 
 for claiming my cousin, Bryan Arrowsmith, as your 
 admirer.' 
 
 I began something desperate and incoherent 
 about no use and never minding ; but Aurelia looked 
 stern. ' I do mind,' she said. ' I demand that justice 
 should be done to my cousin ! I wish to know what 
 grounds Sarah has for announcing that he was paying 
 her attention.' 
 
 ' Don't talk of it in that dreadful formal way ! ' 
 cried poor Selma, beginning to cry ; while I broke 
 out with ' No, Aurelia, let her alone. She has the 
 proofs — the flower, the photograph.' 
 
 ' When did he give you the flower } ' said 
 Aurelia. 
 
 ' The day — the day of the pic-nic at the castle,* 
 said Selma. And at a stern * Well ! ' * He climbed 
 down into the moat, and pulled up a whole armful of 
 water-plants, and said, "Here's a contribution for the 
 ladies ! " and you pulled out a flowering rush, and I a 
 forget-me-not. But he really gave it.' 
 
 'And the photograph.-' How many more did he 
 distribute .-' ' asked Aurclia. 
 
 ' Five or six,' faintly said Selma. ' We all had them.'
 
 252 selma's secret sighs 
 
 Aurelia looked so judicial, that she withheld my 
 outcry, and made Selma go on to the catastrophe in 
 the lane. It sounded very different now. Selma had 
 been frightened, and had flown up to Bryan and caught 
 his arm, being really agitated enough to need support 
 to a seat. Aurelia here contributed what his summons 
 to herself had been. ' I say, Relia, do come to this girl, 
 or she will go into fits on my hands about two navvies 
 who were minding their own business.' 
 
 And when I vehemently demanded how she could 
 have made such representations to me, she looked 
 down and declared I had taken it too seriously. 
 * One always does fancy things,' she said. 
 
 ' I hope only one does, not two,' I said ; * and if 
 fancied, they should go no further.' 
 
 ' Oh ; but it would be so stupid ! There would be 
 no interest in life.' 
 
 There it dawned on her that it was my happiness 
 that had been sacrificed to making life interesting to 
 her ; and she was despairing and furious, reproaching 
 Aurelia for not telling her ; and when Aurelia re- 
 minded her of the warning, she said there was a great 
 difference between a tiresome abstraction of a stranger 
 and her own dear darling Effie ; nor could she see 
 that it would have been equally wrong in Bryan to 
 desert the abstraction of a stranger. Indeed, she 
 went off, firmly believing it was all the fault of
 
 selma's secret sighs 253 
 
 Aurclia's unkind silence, and much aggrieved that I 
 could not be persuaded to say so, since Aurclia had 
 had no permission to speak ; and in fact, there had 
 been no flirtation at all on Bryan's part, while, as to 
 Selma, I must do her the justice to say that however 
 she might dwell in imagination and in confidence on 
 ordinary little civilities, her manner was never amiss ; 
 and I don't believe that either the celibate, or Edward 
 Robinson, or Bryan, or the organist, ever suspected 
 that she was breaking their hearts. 
 
 She was a warm-hearted creature, and hung so 
 pathetically about me, that I had more comfort in her 
 than in Aurelia, who, though she had caused justice to 
 be done to her cousin, could not overlook my accept- 
 ing Selma's rhapsodies vastis his honour and word. 
 The dismal days went on : I tried to work, but every- 
 thing — music, lessons, and all — seemed to be one 
 weary whirl in my head, and my one thought, sleeping 
 and waking, was of my baseness in distrusting him 
 for a moment, when he had trusted me so wholly. 
 
 Then came a Sunday morning : Selma rushed in 
 full of horror to tell me that Mr. Arrowsmith had an 
 appointment to lay down a railroad in Guinea. She 
 knew it, for it was for the firm for which John worked, 
 high pay and certain death ! She had done it — she 
 knew she had, and she wanted my forgiveness. 
 
 I knew I had done it. My heart seemed dead
 
 254 SELMA'S SECRET SIGHS 
 
 within mc, }-ct I put on my bonnet and went to 
 Church, but the pestilential air of Africa seemed closing 
 round and stifling me and the insects buzzing in my ears, 
 and once I thought I heard Bryan's voice in the surg- 
 ing tones behind me. Then I knew I was growing 
 faint, for people were looking at me ; and I thought I 
 had better get out while I could. I couldn't, though. 
 Pillars and arches and all seemed reeling and sinking 
 into the crypt. Then I found myself with the fresh wind 
 blowing on me, and the words in my ears through the 
 buzz — ' Poor dear child, it was all chatter ! ' 'It has 
 half killed her, though.' Then came Dr. Robinson's 
 voice, * You have the remedy, I see ; come. Miss 
 Shilling.' 
 
 Yes, there I was, on a flat tombstone, with my 
 head on Bryan's shoulder, and Aurelia keeping guard, 
 and it was as if we had never parted. 
 
 * And we never will ! ' said Bryan. 
 
 * Never ! ' I said. I had rather have been under 
 that tombstone at once than have had any more such 
 tossings, 
 
 Bryan had been telegraphed for to London on 
 Friday — had accepted the appointment, been busy 
 all Saturday, and had come down by the early train. 
 For he had found a card at the office with the words, 
 'Pure gossip; Comeback. A. C. S.' 
 
 lie begged Mrs. Nutlcy to forgive him for his
 
 selma's secret sighs 255 
 
 sudden robbery of her : but he had only a month in 
 which to prepare, and he could not go without me. 
 She was very kind, but she said, ' How could I get an 
 outfit in the time ? ' 
 
 ' One doesn't want much outfit for Guinea,' I said. 
 
 'My dear Effie, should I ever hcivc dreamt of 
 taking you there .?' 
 
 And then it turned out that he was to arrange 
 telegraphic communications between Guiana and the 
 islands, and our home for the present is to be beautiful 
 Trinidad. 
 
 So that was the history of my trouble. Dear 
 Aurelia and Selma, they were both my bridesmaids, 
 and both were equally happy. Selma says she has 
 learnt a lesson for life ; but she talks so much 
 about it, that Aurelia evidently doubts her ; yet I 
 think there will be a little more watch on that eager 
 toneue of hers when it breaks into confidences. 
 
 Bryan gave each a locket, and only my strongest 
 representations hindered him from making one golden, 
 the other silver. But Selma says that hers will 
 always warn her that ' Least said is soonest mended.' 
 And so no more from 
 
 Your loving and happy 
 
 EUPHEMIA ARROWSMITII.
 
 OUR GHOST AT FANTFORD.
 
 OUR GHOST AT FANTFORD. 
 
 A DELIGHTED damselwas I, Fanny Fanshaw, when 
 my brother Frank proposed to take me, some thirty 
 years ago, to spend six weeks at Fantford Rectory. 
 
 It was his first experience in pastoral Hfe, for he 
 was at that time a tutor at Oxford. Our family home 
 was in London, and our summer vacations were spent 
 either abroad or by the sea-side, so that we knew little 
 of country life. 
 
 Frank's friend, Harry Vaughan, was to be mar- 
 ried, and during his wedding trip, my brother undertook 
 to fill his place during his absence. Frank was assured, 
 to his great relief, that, as it was near harvest-time, 
 he need not trouble himself about the school ; and 
 as he felt that he must have a sister as a companion, T, 
 the youngest of the family, was told off to accompany 
 him. 
 
 Fantford was as far from everything as it is possible 
 for any place to be within the limits of our island, and 
 the natives were reported to be charmingly unspoilt 
 and unsophisticated. 
 
 s 2
 
 26o OUR GHOST AT FANTFORt) 
 
 My notions of it were a mixture of the village in 
 'The Old Curiosity Shop,' where little Nelly died, and 
 of a German toy box, peopled by the children in 
 reward books. 
 
 I knew the parsonage was overgrown with roses, 
 and felt as if I were going to spend six weeks in 
 Dreamland. 
 
 We had a long journey by train, and one that 
 seemed twice as long by a fly. Quite in the twilight 
 of the long summer day, at the very bottom of a pit, 
 between two hills, we saw a square tower of a church. 
 Fantford at last ! 
 
 * To the rectory,' we said, in our joy. 
 
 We turned in at a sweep-gate, and stopped at an 
 ivied porch. There was great excitement ; shouts of 
 ' Johnny, Johnny ! ' girls rushed out with flying locks ; 
 boys rushed in with flags ; a beaming mother came 
 forward ; then all stood still, with blank looks. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said -Frank. ' There is some 
 mistake. Is not this Fantford ? ' 
 
 ' Fantford St. Magnus.' 
 
 ' Fantford St. Agnes — exactly so. Would you 
 kindly direct us to the rectory ? I am come to take 
 your rector's place during his wedding tour,' said 
 Frank. 
 
 There was a stifled explosion among the young 
 people, and the lady's eyes twinkled merrily as she
 
 OUR GHOST AT FANTFORD 26 1 
 
 gravely said, ' The rector of Fantford St. Magnus 
 went on his wedding tour fifteen years ago, and I went 
 with him. It is Fantford St. Agnes you are looking 
 for. Mr, Fanshaw, I think.' 
 
 I don't know which was worst, our confusion at 
 our blunder, or our despair at the miles we had to 
 retrace before we could get to the right turn. 
 
 However, the hospitable woman would not let us 
 go till she had recruited us with tea from her comfort- 
 able board, to which her rector presently returned ; and 
 we found that Mr. Vaughan had specially recommended 
 us to their good offices. Indeed, they were so friendly 
 that we did not start till late. 
 
 There was not much darkness that summer night, 
 but the way was an endless winding in and out of 
 lanes, up and down, and when we did get to the right 
 rectory, and heard the welcome sound of ground under 
 our wheels, every window was dark, and we knocked 
 and rang in vain. At last a window was thrown up, 
 and a voice shouted : 
 
 ' Be it Jem Richards, up to the George } ' 
 
 'Aye, sure enough ! Get up, can't you ? ' 
 
 * And ye' re not the ghost of the coach and 
 horses .' ' 
 
 ' Not as I knows on, you great numbskull ! Come 
 and let in the parson and the lady ! ' 
 
 • Coming ! ' responded from within, while I whis-
 
 262 OUR GHOST AT FANTFORD 
 
 pered my raptures at being taken for a ghost, and 
 Frank replied by grunts, as if the personation of one. 
 
 By this time, a shock-headed lad was opening the 
 door. Behind it a tidy old housekeeper body wel- 
 comed us with a hundred excuses for having given us 
 up and gone to bed, when a reasonable time had past 
 since the last train at the distant station. 
 
 We had supped so well that we went off at once 
 to our beds, I trying on the way to extract the legend 
 of the coach and horses. But Mrs. Thorpe held her- 
 self superior to such folly, saying that — 
 
 ' Will Owselbird was a very ignorant man, but she 
 had made him sleep in the back kitchen because it 
 always " made her creep to think of what might happen 
 without no man in the house." Coach and horses ! 
 No, I need not be afraid. She never saw it nor heard 
 it. If I was nervous, she would come and sleep in my 
 room.' 
 
 The more I tried to persuade her that I was only 
 curious, not alarmed, the more she tried to reassure 
 me by protests against my superstition, till at last I 
 bade her good-night, intending to resume my re- 
 searches for the coach and horses on the Monday. 
 
 I may as well say that it always did elude me. 
 Nobody in broad daylight would allow before a young 
 lady from London, that there was any such thing. 
 Will Owselbird looked stolid and silent over the pig-
 
 OUR GHOST AT FANTFORD 263 
 
 sty when he was questioned, and only the great com- 
 motion respecting tJic ghost, elicited that everyone 
 had 'heerd tell' that a coach and six was wont to 
 drive up the street at midnight, and was always a sign 
 for death. Our fly was certainly a mitigated form 
 of it. 
 
 Daylight showed me a cozy room, and a lovely 
 view of a rocky river, pasture and hill ; but, alas, all 
 the roses I had hoped to sec, and other creepers, were 
 sprawling uncomfortably over the path, or tied back, 
 while the house was being new ' painted,' to keep it 
 weather-tight. The first of the country's 'odorous 
 sweet' thai met my enthusiastic nostrils was the smell 
 of paint mixed with varnish. 
 
 Good old Mrs. Thorpe was full of apologies, and 
 liad made superhuman efforts to get three rooms 
 habitable ; but the rest of the house was full of poles, 
 and pails of whitewash, and pots of paint, left there 
 by faithless workmen, who ought to have finished 
 their work a week before. 
 
 On our second Sunday at Fantford there was a 
 funeral. One of the numerous Owselbirds had died 
 in the county hospital, and his body had been sent 
 home for burial. 
 
 The poor wife and children cried most bitterly all 
 the time of the service, and but that we saw them 
 surrounded with Owselbirds of all ages, we should
 
 2^4 OUR GHOST AT FANTFORD 
 
 have gone home with them to endeavour to comfort 
 them. 
 
 When we went to condole the next day, we found 
 a stout girl turning a mangle, and the widow folding 
 vigorously, though she paused at once, and in the 
 midst, burst forth into floods of tears, while she told 
 us what a turn her poor husband's death had given 
 her, coming so unexpected. 
 
 ' It was,' she said, * an attachment such as he had 
 had often before.' ('Rather a startling communica- 
 tion for a wife,' thought I, but she went on.) ' He 
 was always having them attachments, and then he 
 couldn't do no good, not for a week at a time. Bilious 
 attachments they were, so old Granny Owselbird said ! 
 but Dr. Elsted — he's a feeling man, is Dr. Elsted — 
 "John my poor man," says he, " they'll do you more 
 good up to the hospital than I can, for you'll be dieted 
 there." 
 
 'And John, he was set upon it, so Mr. Vaughan 
 gets an order just before he went away, and sent him 
 in George Owselbird's market-cart, little thinking how 
 it would turn out. 
 
 'And yet my mind misgave me, for there was a 
 little robin come flapping its wings, that very morning 
 and pecking at the window, as if 'twas for somebody. 
 And then a-Thursday comes a paper to say there had
 
 OUR GHOST AT FANTFORD 265 
 
 been a information, and m)' poor man, lie were gone 
 like the grass of the field.' 
 
 We had reason to believe the fatal information 
 was inflammation, but the suddenness of his death had 
 astonished everyone. John Owsclbird had, it seemed, 
 always been sickly and ailing, seldom able for much 
 work, and chiefly maintained by his wife's exertions as 
 washerwoman. So she did not seem to need assist- 
 ance so much as sympathy, and this she had in plenty, 
 for her poor John was, the public voice said, * a chap 
 as kept himself to his self, and was so steady he was 
 like to fall asleep standing, and never had words with 
 no one. A quiet man was John Owselbird,' was al- 
 ways the climax of his praise. 
 
 We spent as much time out of doors in the lovely 
 country as we could, and when at home, chiefly sat in 
 the shade of a large plane-tree, where we luxuriated 
 with our books and drawing. 
 
 There we were one evening, when with a tread like 
 a charge of horse, hair flying, eyes starting out of her 
 head, in upon us rushed a great girl, sobbing and 
 panting out something about ' Father I ' 
 
 ' Is your father ill .? ' asked Frank. 
 
 She stretched out her hand and uttered, ' No ! No, 
 sir, but them as buries 'em can lay 'em.' 
 
 She began shuddering and crying, and perceiving
 
 266 OUR GHOST AT FANTFORD 
 
 by this time that she was the daughter of the newly- 
 made widow, wc made her swallow some tea, and she 
 brought out the words, — 
 
 'Father's corned again.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' cried Frank. 
 
 And as the poor girl shivered and cried, and was 
 obviously frightened out of her wits, he began assuring 
 her that it was some fancy or some trick. But the 
 girl stuck to it that her father's ghost had really looked 
 at her from his own house door, when she came home 
 from gleaning. 
 
 She had rushed back to her mother, who at first 
 told her not to be such a gawk as to make her believe 
 such a story as that. The mother had, however, 
 looked in at the cottage window, seen the apparition, 
 and 'now,' said poor Betsy, 'she be in at Tailor 
 Owselbird's, in the screaming asterisks, so strong that 
 it takes two of 'em to hold her.' 
 
 ' I suppose I must come down, at any rate,' said 
 Frank, getting up. 
 
 ' There must be something in it,' said I. 
 
 ' Either some effect of light in the window, or, 
 what might be worse, a tramp in the house,' said 
 Frank. 
 
 Just as I was feeling a little balked, the gate 
 clicked, and in came the parish clerk, David Cambridge, 
 a fine old man, with a beautiful head, and reverent.
 
 OUR GHOST AT FANTFORD 267 
 
 apostolic air, and a gentle simplicity of manner that I 
 never saw surpassed in any station. 
 
 He was reckoned ' a fine scholar,' and being a 
 sensible man, was an oracle with his neighbours, and 
 our great counsellor in parish matters. He had the 
 key of the church in his hand, and touching his hat, 
 demanded, — 
 
 ' If you please, sir, shall you not want the surplice 
 and the great church Bible to exercise the wandering 
 spirit of John Owselbird, deceased } ' 
 
 ' I must see him first, Master Cambridge ! What ! 
 do you believe in him, too .' ' 
 
 ' There ain't no manner of doubt about it, sir,' so 
 quoth the clerk, to my mingled terror and satisfaction. 
 ' He have been seen by a many, a flitting up the road 
 with just his stumbling manner of gait. A knock- 
 kneed chap always was Jock Owselbird, poor fellow ; 
 and by what they tells me, there's good cause as he 
 shouldn't rest in his grave — not without you exercises 
 your office, your reverence, and exercises him.' 
 
 * He seems to be exercising himself without my 
 assistance,' muttered my brother ; but I, struck with 
 pleasurable awe and excitement, began, — 
 
 ' But you will exorcise him.' 
 
 ' We shall sec.' 
 
 ' You know you must get a license Trcm the 
 Bishop.'
 
 268 OUR GHOST AT FANTFORD 
 
 'And let the ghost walk all the time ? ' 
 
 'Don't you remember that authentic case where 
 the woman's ghost used to meet the boy going to 
 school, till he told the clergyman, who drew a pen- 
 tacle, and interrogated her? Can you draw a pentacle, 
 Frank ? ' 
 
 ' With the assistance of a pair of compasses.' 
 
 There was something incredulous in Frank's tone, 
 that made me doubtful whether he were worthy of an 
 encounter with a live ghost. We set forth, my trepi- 
 dation growing on me so much, as we saw the reality 
 of the commotion, that I began to doubt whether the 
 appearance of an undoubted ghost were so great a 
 treat as I had fancied in the abstract. But then, what 
 a distinction it would be to have seen it ! 
 
 Every cottage had a woman at its door, all stand- 
 ing out to see the parson going to lay the ghost, and 
 each looking so awestruck that my heart beat faster 
 and faster. 
 
 One woman — sister, as we understood, to the 
 deceased — ^joined us, with her apron to her eyes, cry- 
 ing and sobbing, but evidently enjoying the melan- 
 choly distinction. Presently, however, she darted for- 
 ward, exclaiming : 
 
 * That's he ! That's he as has done what is a 
 hindering of my poor brother from lying quiet in his 
 grave ! Don't be after hiding of yourself.'
 
 oDr ghost at fantford 269 
 
 ' Speak up, Jabez Mortlock,' added the clerk, ' and 
 it will be the better for you.' 
 
 Jabez Mortlock, the very big man who usually 
 predominated over the cheese, bacon, and candles in 
 the village shop, had assumed a wonderful yellow 
 lividness of complexion, and with his corduroy knees 
 knocking together, and his knuckles up to his eyes, 
 like a naughty bo}-, sobbed out : 
 
 ' Don't ye make me come and see him, sir, don't 
 ye now, and I'll tell you all.' 
 
 Then coming up close, he uttered, in what was 
 meant for a whisper. 'Tell him not to come after 
 that 'ere pig no more, for his wife shall have the full 
 value of it, and you and Master Cambridge shall be 
 the judges, sir. Tell him I would not have done it, if 
 I'd known it would have preyed on him like this, but 
 a poor man like me can't afford no bad debts, sir, and 
 when he was took off to the hospital, there seemed no 
 other way but fur to take the pig. 'Tis sold, sir, but 
 I'd try to get it back at a loss, if it would be more 
 agreeable, or Betsy could take it out in groceries. 
 Anything not to have him haunting of me like this ; ' 
 and he began to cry again. 
 
 ' He ain't used to it, ain't Jabez,' chimed in a tall, 
 tough, wiry dame, who looked as if she had enforced 
 her husband's seizure of the pig for his debt. 
 
 ' Have you seen this > ' demanded Frank.
 
 270 OUR GHOST AT FANTFORD 
 
 The man's whole bulk shuddered. The woman 
 said, ' O yes, sir. Jabez was just bringing in thi 
 lamps, and I was serving little Polly Smart with a 
 quarter of a pound of lard, when we both seen his face 
 as white as miss's gownd there, looking over the half 
 door. We up and ran out at the back in one moment, 
 and there's the child still in under the counter and 
 won't come out. It will be well if Jabez ever gets the 
 better of the turn.' 
 
 'Well,' said Frank, oracularly, 'if your conscience 
 reproaches you with having been hard on the dis- 
 tressed family, you had better make full restitution.' 
 
 And as w-e moved on, followed at a respectful dis- 
 tance by the whole population, my brother observed : 
 
 ' I understand it now. It is a figment of this 
 Mortlock's uneasy conscience which has infected the 
 rest of the parish.' 
 
 I don't know whether I was relieved or disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 We crossed the village green — Frank and I, sup- 
 ported by the valiant David Cambridge grasping the 
 church key, poor Mrs. Owselbird and her daughters 
 emerging from a neighbour's cottage to observe us a 
 little in the rear, and a crowd behind. 
 
 Manfully we advanced up the path, but I suspect 
 Frank's heart was as near his mouth as mine wlien in 
 the darkening twilight of the cottage room, we actually
 
 OUR CIIOST AT FANTFORD 2/1 
 
 did see a white, lank, shadowy form bending ov'cr the 
 hearth. I think we all started back, but Frank rallied 
 first. 
 
 Is it the man ? ' he whispered to the Clerk. 
 
 O yes, sir, not a doubt of it,' in an awestruck 
 whisper. 
 
 ' John Owselbird, is it you .-* ' said Frank at the 
 door, with great resolution, and only a very faint 
 quiver. 
 
 * Yes, sure,' was the answer, in a weak, frail tone. 
 'What brings you here?' demanded Frank, still 
 
 more solemnly. 
 
 ' George Owselbird's cart, sir. He set me down 
 at the bottom o' the lane. I thought they'd be glad 
 to see me, but they be all runned away.' 
 
 * Why, my good man, no wonder. Didn't we bury 
 you on Sunday .-* ' 
 
 At that moment, a pony carriage pulled up at the 
 door, and the cheery voice of the neighbour clergyman 
 was heard exclaiming : 
 
 ' Is Mr. Fanshaw there ? Why, Mr. Fanshaw, what 
 have you been doing ? Burying one of my flock, have 
 you } ' 
 
 ' Aye, aye,' quoth our rcvenant, ' That's the way 
 of it. It was poor John Owselbird of Fantford St. 
 Magnus as is dead, and they must have sent him 
 home instead of me. I had no time to let my missus
 
 272 OUR GHOST AT FANTFORD 
 
 know I was discharged, for there's a fever broke out 
 in the hospital, and they wanted to clear their wards 
 of all as could go out. So that's where it is.' 
 
 Then we shouted for the woman to come in and 
 attend on her husband, for he looked thin and ex- 
 hausted enough soon to become a ghost in good 
 earnest, if not fed and warmed. 
 
 * But bless me,' cried she, while we were adminis- 
 tering some port wine we had sent for from the rec- 
 tory, ' Whatever shall I do with my beautiful suit of 
 weeds .-' ' 
 
 The rector of Fantford St. Agnes instantly pur- 
 chased them at a liberal valuation, as a consolation to 
 the right widow — whose husband, we heard, had been 
 a sad ne'er-do-weel. 
 
 Jabez Mortlock could not for very shame retract 
 his promise about the pig, and Betsy had the price 
 out in groceries at different times ; but I am afraid he 
 drove very hard bargains with her, and that poor John 
 in the flesh was not nearly so effective a protector as 
 his disembodied self.
 
 ANNA'S WEDDING CAKE.
 
 ANNA'S WEDDING-CAKE. 
 
 'I'll give the cake,' said my Aunt Susan. 'You 
 write and order it, Susie.' 
 
 I was the one told off from the rest of the family 
 to attend upon Aunt Susan, who lived in 'the Dower 
 House,' about a mile from our merry home in the 
 vicarage. 
 
 I was her god-daughter, and so I had, as I used 
 to tell the rest, to do all the work of a companion, not 
 for mone}', but 
 
 Well, it would have been better for us both if it 
 had been more for love. And as Anna used to tell 
 me when she lectured me, it was hardty fair to say it 
 was not for mone}', for Aunt Susan did give me more 
 pocket-money than any of the others had, and such 
 lovely bonnets and good silk dresses that I was 
 sometimes quite ashamed of going out in them, when 
 my sisters were only in serge^- with home-made imi- 
 tations of my bonnets upon their heads, 
 
 I would have given them all my finery to have 
 shared their merry evenings of fun and frolic, and 
 their glorious expeditions. I know now that Aunt 
 
 T 2
 
 276 anna's wedding-cake 
 
 Susan meant to be very kind, and spared me often 
 to her own inconvenience ; and mannna, Anna and 
 Emily used to change places with me, whenever they 
 could. However, it used to seem to me that I was 
 at home just enough to be tantalized by hearing of 
 all that was delightful, in which I could not share. 
 
 Of course, I felt it all the more all that summer 
 when George Barton was hanging about at the 
 vicarage, and more pleasant things happened than 
 ever, while Anna never did come as of old to read to 
 my aunt and write her letters. 
 
 For poor Aunt Susan had a cataract coming, and 
 was entirely dependent on one of her great-nieces for 
 eyes. She was very much delighted when Anna 
 accepted George Barton, because she had knowai his 
 father in old times, and when the wedding-day was 
 fixed, she declared that she would give the cake, and 
 that I must write for it to Gunter's, without delay ; 
 since George had to go out as acting partner to 
 Smyrna, and there was no time to lose. 
 
 'Let it be a really handsome cake,' said my aunt, 
 'big enough to cut up and distribute all round. In 
 my time, no one thought of sending wedding-cards 
 without a good w-edge of the cake in a three-cornered 
 box, and there were always two cards tied up with 
 v/hitc satin ribbon and silver twist.' 
 
 * But that would be thought vulgar now, aunt.'
 
 anna's wedding-cake 277 
 
 • Vulgar, indeed ! As if I had not helped to direct 
 the cards when all the Ladies St. Piers were married. 
 Then they came to omitting the cake, then to having 
 both names together on one card, and sending them 
 by the penny-post,' (I wish I could render the disgust 
 with which Aunt Susan uttered the words, penny- 
 post,) * and now they would put you off with " No 
 cards " at the end of the notice in the newspaper. 
 No, no ; Anna shall have a proper cake to cut up for 
 her friends, and you write at once for it.' 
 
 * How large shall I say, Aunt Susan .' ' I asked, 
 after writing the date, and " Mrs. Railston requests 
 Messrs. Gunter" 
 
 ' How large } Let me see. My cake was about 
 as big round as a bandbox, and it had a temple with 
 two little doves upon the top of it.' 
 
 ' One can't say as big as a bandbox,' I said, 
 doubtfully. ' How big is a bandbox } ' 
 
 ' You had better measure.' 
 
 So I got ni)' ribbon-yard, found a bandbox, and 
 measured. 
 
 It was — speaking roundly — a yard and a half in 
 girth. Aunt Susan said that would do very well. 
 
 I wrote her order with patience and minuteness, 
 for which I highly commended myself, and then — as 
 my father had promised to look in on her that after- 
 noon — I ran, rather than walked, all the way home,
 
 278 anna's wedding-cake 
 
 to discuss with Emily the bridemaids' dresses, and 
 hear all her recent discoveries on the manners and 
 customs of people in love. 
 
 The next day, when I came home from an errand 
 in the village, I found my poor aunt very much 
 flustered by a yellow telegram envelope, which had 
 just been brought in. 
 
 The boy was waiting to take back an answer, and 
 she did not like to ask one of the servants to open it, 
 being fully persuaded that it was something dreadful 
 about that good-for-nothing Philip, who was always 
 tormenting her. 
 
 ' What is it, my dear child .'' Shall I send for 
 your father .'' Don't be afraid to tell mc. Let me 
 hear at once.* 
 
 * What's this ? ' said I, puzzling out the rough 
 writing. "Are the dimensions of the cake cor- 
 rect.?'" 
 
 ' Correct .'' What did you say, my dear } ' 
 
 ' A 5'ard and a half, as you told mc ! How can 
 they be so stupid .'' I had better write " Yes," I 
 suppose, at once, or "All right." ' 
 
 And all the evening, in the intervals of reading, 
 Aunt Susan bewailed the degeneracy of the age that 
 thought a yard and a half an excessive size for a 
 wedding-cake. 
 
 Preparations went on, and we did not think much
 
 anna's wedding-cake 279 
 
 more about this order till a day or two before the 
 wedding, when the bill came by post, with the infor- 
 mation that our esteemed order had been executed, 
 and it was hoped would give satisfaction. 
 
 Such a bill it was, too ! I was quite afraid to 
 read the amount to Aunt Susan ; and then we agreed 
 cither that London prices were fearfully exorbitant, or 
 that there must be some mistake, about which I must 
 write when the cake had arrived. 
 
 Worse and worse ! The cake didn't come ! 
 
 Everybody who went to the station was bidden 
 to enquire for it ; and the porters, guards, and every 
 creature about the railway, must have been worn out 
 with inquiries for the cake. 
 
 We were getting into an agony about it. On the 
 very eve of the great day, we were at the vicarage, 
 Aunt Susan and myself, she advising, and I helping 
 in the setting up of the flowers, and we were consider- 
 ing whether the most rational person who could be 
 spared should not be sent off to the nearest town to 
 get the best ready-made cake it could offer, or 
 whether by any violent effort, the supplementary cake 
 that had been provided for the village people could be 
 iced up, and an old ornament, kept under a glass case 
 by the chief farmer's wife from her own wedding, 
 could be borrowed. In the midst there arrived the
 
 2So anna's wedding-cake 
 
 bridegroom and his best man, who were to sleep at the 
 Dower House ; and as soon as the greetings were over, 
 in the midst of whole baskets of flowers and pots of 
 hot-house plants standing wildly about the entry, just 
 as George was to be dragged in to see the trophy of 
 wedding presents, he said : 
 
 ' By-the-by, there's an enormous thing waiting at 
 the station. We couldn't get it into the dog-cart, and 
 I said we'd tell you to send a cart for it.' 
 
 Further pressed, he said it looked more as if it 
 might hold a table than anything else. So we fixed 
 our hopes on its being a Japan work-table from 
 the only connection of ours whose contribution had 
 not yet come in; but George warned Anna that she 
 would have to leave it behind ; he could never think 
 of paying the freight in the steamer. 
 
 The baker's empty return cart was bidden to call, 
 and we waited on the tiptoe of expectation, only oc- 
 casionally breathing a word about the cake, until, at 
 last, wheels were heard. 
 
 Everybody rushed out, to cause the cart to bring 
 its precious burden to the front door instead of the 
 back. 
 
 There stood the little light cart, entirely filled up 
 by a huge round box, which little Mary suggested 
 might contain the great Pennard cheese, which was 
 made of one morning's milk of seven hundred cows.
 
 anna's wedding-cake 2O1 
 
 It was lifted safely down by the efforts of all the 
 male kind who stood round, and without crushing 
 anyone's toes. 
 
 The next thing was to look at the card upon it, 
 and Anna was the first to read, ' " From Gunter's." I 
 declare, it's the cake, after all ! ' 
 
 Some said, ' Impossible ! ' and others — I was one — 
 suggested that the box was so large in order to 
 protect the ornaments. 
 
 Futile hope. Those tools that had done so much 
 unpacking did their work, and there it stood, a solid 
 monster wedding-cake, white and sparkling as the 
 driven snow, crowned with a whole garden of temples, 
 Cupids and doves, but 
 
 If it could come in at our front door, it would be 
 lucky. It was vain to think of getting it into the 
 dining-room. 
 
 ' Susan,' said my aunt, whose poor eyes, dim as 
 they were, were dazzled by this mass of white, * Susan,' 
 said she, panting, ' what have you done ? ' 
 
 * I did as you told me,' said I, in self-defence. 
 
 ' What ? ' was the general shout. ' What did you 
 write .'' ' 
 
 ' I wrote what Aunt Susan told me. A yard 
 
 and a half — yes, I said a yard and a half in di 
 
 Oh!' 
 
 It came over me then I had written diamcttr, by
 
 282 anna's WEDDING-CAKE 
 
 way of a fine word, when I really meant girth, or 
 circumference, and so the cake was more than three 
 times as large as it was meant to be. 
 
 I ran right away to the darkest closet in the house, 
 and cried. If Aunt Susan had not been mercifulness 
 itself, and if Anna had not actually shed tears, and 
 besought George himself to insist, I should never have 
 appeared at the wedding. It was a day of misery to 
 me, but I believe my mistake was an immense diver- 
 sion to eveiybody except my poor aunt and myself. 
 
 They set up that dreadful cake in the hall ; it 
 would not go any farther, and an innocent little 
 cousin of ours seeing it there, asked — 
 
 ' Is tJiat their honeymoon .'' ' thinking it had come 
 down bodily. 
 
 We bridemaids had to go out and hack at it, 
 while the best man suggested sending for an ice-saw. 
 And then, when boxes of it had been sent to every- 
 body, and all the parish had been presented with 
 enough to cause a pestilence, there was still an in- 
 tolerable quantity left. As to dreaming on it, it was 
 a nightmare to us all, and the vicarage was half 
 poisoned with the smell. 
 
 Papa declared that his Confirmation class sat round 
 the study sniffing the fragrance ; and mamma said she 
 expected that all the rats and mice in the country 
 would meet and jiold revels in her hall.
 
 anna's wedding-cake 283 
 
 At last wc were told that wedding cake was an 
 excellent thing in small quantities for a long sea 
 voyage ; so we sent off the remnant of the mighty cake 
 to one of the agencies for supplying poor emigrants 
 with comforts, spiritual, mental, and bodil}'. Then we 
 breathed freely again, but I never hear the word 
 diameter without thinking of the horrors I suffered 
 about Anna's wedding-cake.
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 OF 
 
 PATTY APPLECHEEKS.
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLE- 
 CHEEKS. 
 
 Autobiography ! Yes, that's the right word. It 
 means one's self talking about one's self. I like a 
 good long word. It is worthy of myself, and every 
 one knows that I am of distinguished extraction, or 
 why am I seated in the place of honour on Miss 
 Martha's davenport, after a course of adventures, 
 which will be found to prove how personal merit can 
 overcome prejudice .' 
 
 I have not been more than three or four years ni 
 my present shape, but my recollections go much 
 farther back, to a very different life. Instead of being 
 one of the lovely models on which those great awk- 
 ward, restless creatures, women and girls, try to form 
 themselves, I was then part of the trunk of a Ouar- 
 endon apple-tree, covered by a rough, dark coating of 
 bark, yet full of a life and energy I have never since 
 known. How beautiful it v/as to wake up and feel 
 the rush of sap in the Spring, to fnid the bullfinches 
 busy seeking the worms in the buds, to hear the 
 blackbirds singing on our branches, and then to
 
 288 AUTOBIOGRAPIIY OF TATTY ArPLECHEEKS 
 
 cover every twig with crimson buds, and rosy white 
 blossoms which fell off only to give place to little 
 green apples. These grew and deepened till they 
 became splendid fruit, of the deepest and most 
 shining crimson, surpassing even the much admired 
 tint of my own checks. 
 
 Then it was that I saw most of the two-legged 
 creatures formed on my present pattern. The lesser 
 ones used to flock round to gather the fruits we 
 kindly let fall for them on the grass, eating, filling 
 their pinafores, pelting one another, and sometimes 
 climbing into the tree for the finest. We were sorry 
 when the man came with the ladder, and cleared the 
 branches, for though that was the merriest day of all, 
 no one came near us after it for the whole Autumn, 
 our leaves fell off, and we fell asleep. 
 
 We always waked on one night, I think they 
 called it Twelfth Night, when lights and voices came 
 out into the darkness, and all the noisiest of the two- 
 legged creatures came round to drink our healths, to 
 wassail the apple-trees, as they called it. They always 
 began with us. The farmer, and a very big man was 
 he, with his cheeks flaming in the light of the lantern, 
 used to dip a great silver tankard into a bucket full of 
 cider with roasted apples floating in it, and drink our 
 health, then fling the rest of the liquor in the cup at 
 the trunk, singing witli tlic rest in full chorus :
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLECHEEKS 289 
 
 Here's to thee, old apple-tree ! 
 
 Hence thou mayst bud, and hence thou mayst blow, 
 
 And hence thou mayst bear apples enow, 
 
 Hats full, caps full, 
 
 Bushel, bushel sacks full, 
 
 And my pockets full, too ! Hurra ! 
 
 The farmer always aimed just at the part of the 
 stock that enfolded me, and hence, no doubt, I derive 
 the peculiar strength and geniality of my consti- 
 tution. 
 
 Those were merry days, and there were many of 
 them. The children grew from toddling things to 
 shouting, scrambling boys and girls, then to youths 
 and maidens ; some passed out of sight, the jolly 
 stout farmer grew old and bent, and his son grew to 
 his breadth, but then became old in his turn. Over 
 and over again this happened, but still our blossoms 
 were as fair and our fruit as large and ruddy as ever, 
 though our trunk did begin to lean forward a 
 good deal, our branches crooked themselves, and we 
 felt the winter winds more painfully ; indeed, our 
 right main limb was torn off one stormy night in 
 March, and yet our flowers were of as lovely a pink 
 and white, our fruit, as red and as shapely as ever. 
 
 But a new master had come — one of the bo}'s who 
 had played under us. How I do hate ingratitude ! 
 He never wassailed us on Twelfth Night ! Oh, no ! 
 he was going to a party, and the wassailing was all 
 
 U
 
 290 AUTOBIOGRArHY OF PATTY APPLECHEEKS 
 
 nonsense. We could not believe that we heard such 
 words from one of the very children whom we had 
 fed year after year ! Alas ! worse was to come. We 
 saw him walking about with a smart fellow like him- 
 self, talking of laying out the grounds. ' And,' said 
 he, ' this old Ouarendon must come down. It's quite 
 a desight.' 
 
 A desight ! Think of that from a lad who had 
 learnt to climb on our branches, had fondled our 
 apples till their red skin shone with polish, and whose 
 teeth had often met in their juicy flesh ! A desight, 
 indeed ! 
 
 ' You may have the old stock for the stubbing 
 it up, Dick,' he called out to one of his men, who said, 
 ' Thank ye, sir,' as readily as if he, too, had not gorged 
 our fruit, whenever he had a chance ! 
 
 Yes, he came with his axe, and his wedge, and his 
 pick ! If we had made such a noise about it as those 
 poor sof"t-fleshed animals do, what an outcry there 
 would have been, whereas we only gave one great 
 shivering groan as we came crashing down. There 
 was an end for us of blue sky and fostering sunshine, 
 of fresh, still dew bathing our leaves, and winds 
 dancing in our twigs, of birds singing in our boughs, 
 bees humming in our flowers, and black and red 
 butterflies clustering on our fruit. Over for us was the 
 spring of life and joy in every vein ! I've seen much of
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF TATTY APPLECHEEKS 29 1 
 
 life since that, but I would give up everything for 
 that feeling once more. 
 
 We were divided, too, for Dick's axe split us up, 
 and, all dismembered, we were thrown into a barrow 
 and driven away, to a cottage door. 
 
 ' See, mammy, what a fine blaze I ' cried a little 
 wretch of a boy, picking me up in his little arms, and 
 he was just going to have thrown me into the fire, but 
 a woman interposed. I always observe that the women 
 have more sense than the men, no doubt because they 
 arc more like us ! 
 
 'Don't, Dickie,' she said. 'Apple-wood is too 
 good for burning. My sister's husband, that is 
 good for nothing but to carve toys, sets great store by 
 it.' 
 
 'All right, mother,' said Dick. 'It don't cost me 
 nothing, and he is welcome to it, poor chap.' 
 
 I was then tossed into a dark place, a shed, I 
 believe, Vihcre I was perched upon by cocks and hens, 
 and run over by rats and mice, till one morning, when 
 we were all tumbled into a cart, where we went bump, 
 bump, along without seeing or hearing anything but 
 the grating beneath us, till we stopped, and after a 
 little while someone said : 
 
 ' Thank ye, thank ye kindly, Dick. It is just 
 what my man likes, is a bit of apple-wood. Those 
 bits of stick will be ever so much to him.' 
 
 U 2
 
 29-2 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLECHEEKS 
 
 Here was appreciation again ! My spirits rose, 
 and ere long I began to awaken to my new, my 
 present life, my true destiny. I was no longer a bit 
 of a tree, or a mere log, but was shaped into a form of 
 my own. It was to Dick's wife's sister's husband that 
 I owe my figure, features, complexion. I cannot 
 describe the process, but here is the result : My well- 
 rounded head, and my body so conveniently tapered 
 to a sharp point, were first formed, and then my com- 
 plexion was added, pink with a deeper flush in the 
 cheeks, two dots in my neat little nose, eyes black as 
 sloes, looking confidently straight before me, without 
 any of that winking nonsense which I hear has recently 
 come in among dolls, and a smiling little mouth, ever 
 benignant and complacent, as befits my never ruffled 
 temper. My dark locks came, I believe, out of a 
 mattress ; my legs were rolls of calico ; my arms, 
 ready gloved in deep red, came from a store of such 
 useful articles, and were nailed on to my shoulders. 
 So charmed was the sister's husband with me that he 
 called out, ' There, Polly, there's a regular Miss Apple- 
 cheeks, ain't she ? ' 
 
 I wondered he did not touch up his own cheeks, 
 as he had done by mine, for they were very thin and 
 white, and his legs seemed like mine — for show, not 
 vulgar things for use, for I never saw him stand upon 
 them, but he always lay on a bed in the corner of the
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLECIIEEKS 293 
 
 room. When he called, a woman in a white cap, with 
 a face puckered up and ruddy-brown, Hke my old 
 neighbours, the russet apples, in a frost, bustled up, 
 and she was struck with me at once. 
 
 ' Sweetly pretty, Jem, to be sure. Let her get dry, 
 and I'll dress her in a bit of my old missus's curtains, 
 that I've always kept for something out of the 
 common. We ought to get something extra for she.' 
 
 So the good creature sewed me into a beautiful 
 dress, a crimson, glazed ground, with large blue roses 
 on a bush with yellow leaves. One rose was so large 
 that it covered my whole lap, though my skirts stood 
 out from my elegant taper waist as if I had worn 
 crinoline. 
 
 I expected to be set up in the window to attract the 
 passers-by, but I found myself again shut up in the 
 dark, until one morning T was taken out and seated 
 in a large, flat basket, comfortably lined for my recep- 
 tion, with a pincushion at my feet for my support, 
 five or six lesser dolls to attend on me, three monkeys to 
 leap over sticks for my amusement, and four black and 
 white-spotted horses, of the peculiar breed intended 
 for the use of dolls. It was plain that I was going 
 forth to sock my fortune, fully equipped with my 
 proper suite. 
 
 The sister's husband put the whole in order, and 
 showed much care that I should be comfortable and
 
 294 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLECHEEKS 
 
 not feel the jolts, and his wife seemed quite over- 
 powered with the honour of carrying me. ' You'll not 
 be dull, Jem,' she said ; ' I'm loth to leave you.' 
 
 ' Dull ! ' why, I am never dull, missus,' he said. 
 ' I'll have the fellow to that there doll finished before 
 you come home.' 
 
 Another like me .^ No, no ! I knew full well that 
 I was matchless, but I had no tongue to tell him 
 so, and we left him to his vain task, A cloth was 
 spread over our heads, and the woman took us up, 
 saying, ' I am going, then, Jem ! I'll do the best I can, 
 and I'm sure the work deserves it ! I hope the 
 young ladies will come down. Miss Annie, she's sure 
 to buy something for old sake's sake, else I'd never 
 leave ye for so long, Jem.' 
 
 * Nonsense, missus,' said Jem ; ' you wouldn't miss 
 Donwell feast and the sight of Miss Annie, not for 
 pounds, and ye knows it. So get along with ye, and 
 come back light in the basket and heavy in the 
 pocket.' 
 
 He laughed, and she gave him a kiss, and I never 
 saw him again ; but I must say I never saw anyone 
 more cheery and kindly than that good man, always 
 lying in his little bed in the corner of his room. 
 
 When I saw daylight next, it was under a tree, 
 taller and larger than my parent, but not fruit-bear- 
 ing. It was in the midst of a village green, with
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLECIIEEKS 295 
 
 canvas booths around, filled with toys of all sorts, 
 sweets, gingerbread, nuts, apples, poor wretched 
 things compared with our old ones. Numbers of the 
 human race were moving about, laughing, talking, 
 screaming, shouting ; there were louder cracks, shrieks 
 of Punch, blasts of penny trumpets — enough to distract 
 one. The good woman took her seat, set her basket 
 down, and put all in order. I had slipped down on 
 the journey, and an insolent monkey had fallen across 
 my lap ; but she set me up, so as to display me to 
 the best advantage in the midst of my court. But 
 taste was not good under that tree ! Little mean- 
 looking dolls were carried away by dirty children — 
 — even that monkey went off, whisking over his stick, 
 and giving me an impudent glance of triumph. I 
 actually heard one low creature sa}-, 'Well, I never! 
 What a guy }-ou'\-e got there, missus!' However, I 
 did not let my spirits sink, for I knew real excellence 
 is never appreciated by the vulgar, and — had I not 
 heard that the young ladies were sure to come ? 
 
 Presently I heard a voice say, ' Oh, there she is ! 
 How do you do, Mrs. Brown ? Alwajs at Donwell 
 feast. How's your husband ? ' 
 
 While Mrs. Brown was talking about her Jem, I 
 saw two young girls and an elderly person standing 
 by us. One had a little face rather like a new wax 
 doll, the other was taller and plumper, with yellow
 
 ?c;6 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLECHEEKS 
 
 hair, and she talked faster and more merrily than any 
 one I ever heard. 
 
 ' Now, what have you got for us ? ' she cried. * Oh, 
 look, look. Bertha, did you ever see such a likeness .'' ' 
 
 * What likeness .'' ' said the other. ' Do you mean 
 that doll — the beauty ? She really is like Maud.' 
 
 * Exactly ! You see it too ! The mild look of 
 contempt, the supercilious mouth ! Oh, delicious ! 
 Did your husband paint that, Mrs. Brown .-' ' 
 
 ' Yes, Miss Annie. He've got a very pretty taste 
 of his own, has Jem, and that doll is as good a piece 
 of work as ever he did.' 
 
 ' A real work of art ! ' exclaimed Annie. 
 
 And for once I felt that justice was done me. 
 
 I heard the clink as I was paid for, not in trumpery 
 silver, but handsome heavy coppers, and I was daintily 
 taken by the waist, not wrapped up, for Miss Annie 
 said she could not have my charms hidden. I believe 
 she bought all that Mrs. Brown had left in her basket, 
 and a great deal besides. Most of it she gave away 
 to the little children who thronged about her, but she 
 would not part with me on any account, and through 
 all her laughter she held me fast. 
 
 ' Oh, what fun we have had,' said Bertha at last, 
 as we left the fair. ' What a pity poor Maud's back 
 ached too much for her to come.' 
 
 ' Ilcr back ached no more than licr likeness does,'
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLECIIEEKS 297 
 
 said Anne, tossing mc in the air. 'It's the affectation 
 ache ! * 
 
 * For shame, Annie ! ' 
 
 ' See whether it aches if the boys come home in 
 time to play at lawn tennis. No, no, it was only 
 that she was too grand to come to the village feast 
 with us and Nurse.' 
 
 I was enchanted to hear that I was to be presented 
 to a lady not only my rival in personal graces, but 
 with the same refinement and contempt of the vulgar. 
 It was still more interesting to learn that I was to be 
 named after her, Patty. 
 
 ' But is not her name Maud, if it is not Matilda .-• ' 
 asked Bertha, 
 
 ' Not a bit of it,' returned Annie. ' She is plain 
 Martha. She used to be Patty as a little girl, then 
 next time I saw her, it was Matt\', and now she has 
 turned into Maud, She has it on her writing paper, 
 I hate such humbug ! ' 
 
 They laughed again, I always observe that I am 
 greeted with peals of merriment, and I smile benig- 
 nantly. I like to make people cheerful. 
 
 By-and-by we passed through a park and a garden, 
 and coming into a house, found on the sofa, in the 
 state in which poor restless mortals most approach our 
 serenity, the person who was compared to me. There 
 was a resemblance. We had the same round face, pink
 
 298 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLECHEEKS 
 
 complexion deepened to damask on the cheeks. The 
 mouth was wider than mine, but she used to purse it 
 up in imitation, and the waist less taper, but, as I 
 found, she did her best to remedy that defect. Annie 
 began to prop me upright at the opposite end of the 
 sofa, making ripples of giggling, which awoke the 
 sleeper, crying, ' Annie, what are you about .'' ' 
 
 ' Installing your double, my dear,' said Annie. 
 ' Miss Matty, let me introduce Miss Patty,' and she 
 bent me forward so as to make a gracious bow. 
 
 * We said we would bring you a fairy,' said 
 Bertha. 
 
 ' That hideous thing ! ' she cried. 
 
 I was cut to the heart, but I smiled serenely 
 on. 
 
 ' You don't know yourself ! She's your very image. 
 Everyone was struck by it.' 
 
 Matty's answer was to snatch me up, and hurl me 
 from her ; then jumping up she stalked out of the 
 room, while Annie ran to pick me up, smoothed my 
 ruffled dress, and composed my outraged feelings by 
 saying : 
 
 ' Never mind, my dear, you were too much for her 
 feelings,' 
 
 ' Really she is comically like ! ' said Bertha. ' I 
 shall never be able to help laughing when Maud has 
 done herself up to perfection, and pulled her broad,
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF TATTY APPLECHKEKS 299 
 
 honest face into that prim look as if she had been 
 saying, " Papa, prunes and prism," hoping everyone 
 will think her grown up, and come out.' 
 
 ' This doll shall do a work upon her ! ' raid Annie 
 in a solemn voice, carrying me off. 
 
 I was consigned to darkness till evening came, 
 and candles were lighted in a large room ^\•ith two 
 little white beds, and a door opening into a smaller 
 room with another bed. I found that the house was 
 crowded with a large family party, and that the three 
 girls — I think they called one another cousins — were 
 sharing these rooms. They were going through tl:at 
 troublesome process which comes of not having one's 
 clothes comfortably sewed on, once for all, like mine, 
 though, by-the-by, there lived upstairs some dolls who 
 were so affected as actually to be undressed every night, 
 and who had beds of their own. They might as well be 
 human beings — indeed they arc nearly as soft and 
 perishable. One is perfectly shocking ; she wears no 
 clothes, and is always bathing, and another makes a 
 weak-minded little squeak when she is pinched. 
 Perfectly disgusting ! 
 
 To return to my adventures. Matty plaited her 
 hair in two long plaits, and after going through a 
 good deal more trouble, washed her hands (which 
 were nearly as plump and red as mine) in some milky- 
 looking stuff, and then drew on a pair of gloves.
 
 300 AUTORIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLFXHEEKS 
 
 At that moment Annie whisked up to her bed, and 
 while she was not looking, placed me snugly on the 
 soft, white pillow, covering me with the sheet, all but 
 m}' head. Scarcely had I begun to enjoy this 
 delicious repose when Matty, clad in white, hands and 
 all, turned back the clothes, and lay down, but no 
 sooner did she touch me than Avith a loud scream she 
 bounded out of bed, crying, ' A frog ! Oh, I declare 
 I'll tell my aunt ! ' 
 
 Annie and Bertha were meantime making the 
 oddest of noises and contortions, dancing about with 
 bare feet in their night-dresses, with their hair flying ; 
 but when Matty caught up a loose red wrapper, and 
 was putting it on, they seized her and made her look 
 into the bed, when, I grieve to say, she demeaned 
 herself by calling me ' that nasty thing,' and throw- 
 ing me to the far corner of the room, where I fell 
 headlong into a huge lake of water, into which I 
 sank at once. Annie flew after me, fished me out 
 and comforted me. ' Poor little Patty ! did 
 your namesake and likeness call you bad names 
 and want to drown you, though you have got such 
 nice gloves on to make your hands dainty and 
 white ? ' 
 
 ' I only hope she is done for ! ' said Matty, 
 savagely, and she retired into bed, under the clothes. 
 
 But Annie's attentions to me were more tender.
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLLCIIEKKS 3OI 
 
 She spread me out to dry upon ;i white cloth 
 before she went to bed, and got up very early in the 
 morning to attend to me, taking off my blue-rose dress, 
 which had been made distressingly limp by my plunge 
 and dressing me afresh in a blue and white stripe, 
 with a huge bunch behind, just like Martha's, and 
 then she added some coils and braids of hair to my 
 head, so that I cut a wonderfully fashionable appear- 
 ance by the time a great bell sounded, and Bertha 
 and Matty began to dress themselves. Presently 
 Matty came to the table, where lay what looked like a 
 last year's bird's nest, and after brushing her own hair, 
 she put this upon her head, and covered it with a 
 great broad plait that also lay on the table. She 
 must have wished to nail it on safely like mine, but 
 her poor soft brains could not bear that sensible treat- 
 ment, and she skewered it on with pins till she made 
 her head look quite top-heavy. 
 
 Just as she had put on her dress and come for a 
 last look at the glass, I was placed in front of it, 
 looking full at her with my most encouraging and be- 
 nignant gaze. 
 
 * Annie .' you wretch ! ' she cried ! ' that fright ! ' 
 
 ' I wonder you have not more regard for yourself 
 than to call her a fright.' 
 
 ' It really is too bad ! You mean to drive me dis- 
 tracted .'' I do think it is very unkind of you.'
 
 303 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLECHEEKS 
 
 ' What, when it is your great object to make your- 
 self her living image ? ' 
 
 ' Living nonsense ! ' cried Matty, redder than ever. 
 
 ' Exactly so,' said Annie, laughing. ' Now, Matty, 
 }-ou must know that this is your fetch, and whenever 
 you are worshipping that idol of yours she will appear 
 to you,' 
 
 ' I'm sure I don't know what idol you mean.' 
 
 But another great bell rang at that moment, and 
 Annie threw me into a big box, in company with a 
 hat and a bonnet, and they all ran away. 
 
 I came forth several times more. Once, when 
 Matty was striving and straining to pinch in her 
 waist to be as delicate as mine, I was made to pop 
 out on the dressing-table before her ; and another 
 time, when she had, as she thought, very secretly ob- 
 tained a bottle of some mixture to improve her com- 
 plexion, she found me serenely seated on the largest 
 sponge on her washing-stand. 
 
 She was alone then, and though I smiled up in her 
 face undauntedly, she looked so vindictive that if I had 
 had a heart, it would have quailed in my protector's 
 absence. There was no fire, happily for me, and she 
 vvas a good creature, after all. She would not do 
 me any bodily harm, but she opened a very black 
 closet, and climbing up to the topmost shelf, laid 
 me there, muttering as she did so, ' There ! nobody
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLECHEEKS 303 
 
 will find you out. I hope you arc buried in oblivion, 
 you monster ! ' 
 
 She was scarcely gone before another step was 
 heard. Annie was not the girl to leave me to her 
 mercy. She had been watching all the time, and in 
 another minute, she had rescued me from the gloom of 
 oblivion, whatever that means, and was caressing me. 
 ' So ! did she think she had disposed of you, my dear ? 
 No, no, we know better ! You shall haunt her yet ! 
 Ah ! I have an idea ! ' And Annie began to caper 
 about, first on one foot, then on the other, hugging me 
 all the time. 
 
 Then she took me downstairs into the kitchen. 
 My fears were excited lest I should be condemned to 
 low company, perhaps to be the slave of some cottage 
 child ; but my fate was far more distinguished. I 
 found myself laid in a deep, smooth, shining dish, 
 v.hilc Annie took some white j)asL\' stuff, and roofed 
 me in with it so that I was all in the dark, except for a 
 few little holes at the top. What next .' thought I. 
 Have they taken me for one of m\- ow n apples ? I 
 know apples go into pies, but dolls, never ! I listened 
 for some hint as to what was to become of me, but could 
 make out nothing but tittering, and now and then, ' O 
 Miss Annie, don't, pray ! ' 'O Miss Annie, you arc a 
 one ! ' Presently my dish was snatched up, then all was 
 dark, an iron door was shut, and there was a terrible dull
 
 30 1 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLECHEEKS 
 
 roaring all round, while it grew hotter, and hotter, and 
 hotter, so that if I had had a crazy human constitution, 
 I must have died under it. At last the door again 
 opened, and I heard Annie exclaim, ' That's my pie ! 
 Hurrah for my pate\ Oh, lovely!' with more of the 
 same kind, in the midst of which Bertha said, * How 
 will you get her to cut it ? ' ' Oh, Matty will eat any- 
 thing that has a French name, because she thinks it a 
 grown-up thing to do. She quite deserves it, for now 
 she thinks her counterpart is gone she has broken out 
 more ridiculously than ever with her hair frizzed out, 
 and her Alexandra limp, and all her most unnatural 
 airs ! She must have another lesson ! ' Then presently 
 I heard Annie directing the parlour maid, ' Bring it in 
 at dinner, Jane, and take care you put it just before her, 
 wherever she sits, and just whisper to her it \spdte a 
 poiipee! 
 
 ' Patty a puppy,' repeated Jane. ' She won't like 
 that, Miss Annie.' 
 
 Annie laughed convulsively, as she gasped out 
 an exclamation by which I understood "^v^t poiipc'e \'i 
 the name for my French sisters ; but Jane exploded 
 so whenever she tried to sdij pate a ptip-piip-p-p-p-p-p ' 
 that they gave up the attempt to teach her. 
 
 I heard the clatter of knives and forks, and knew 
 that eating and talking were going on. I heard 
 Matty's voice, saying, ' Oh, I am quite an enthusiast
 
 AUTOIilOGRAPIIY OF PATTY ATPLECHEEKS 305 
 
 in the hunting licld,' and Annie's voice breaking in, 
 'Very odd when you can't ride.' 
 
 But the crisis was coming. I felt myself set down 
 on the tabic, Maud's voice was closer to me. She was 
 saying in a low confidential tone, ' Dear Annie is so 
 very unconventional.' 
 
 ' Matty, will you cut ihdXpdte? ' said Annie's voice, 
 breaking in. 
 
 ' Shall I offer you some .-* ' said Matty. ' I don't 
 know what it is.' 
 
 ' Oh, it is a new receipt — a French one,' said Annie ; 
 '■ pate a poiipt'el hurrying over the words, so that Matty 
 serenely said, ^ pdtt^ a poisson,' and as already four 
 sharp spikes and a steel blade had come through my 
 roof, a three-cornered piece was removed, and a spoon 
 vvas inserted, while Matty began, * Shall I send you 
 some pdh' a poissoji ? What fish is it .'* — ah — ah — ah 
 — ah— h ! ' 
 
 * A maid, I should say,' observed one voice, as I 
 sat where Matty had raised me, gazing tranquilly out 
 on the party from the open piece of pie, wondering 
 to see everyone shaking with laughter. There were 
 full sixteen of them round the table, and they all vied 
 with one another in applauding mc — all save poor 
 Matty, who was so jealous of the attention I received, 
 that she bit her lip, the tears came into her eyes, and 
 at last she pushed back her chair and ran away. 
 
 X
 
 306 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF TATTY ArPLECHEEKS 
 
 That was my great triumph, but my last. Annie 
 and I were alone together, and she was praising me 
 and settling my skirt after my sojourn in the dish, 
 when the gentle voice of one of the really grown-up 
 people broke on us : ' My dear, are not you carrying 
 the joke a little too far ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, mother, it is such fun ! ' said Annie. 
 
 ' But is it kind fun, my child ? ' 
 
 ' I only do it for Matty's good — to laugh her out 
 of her ridiculous affectations. Whenever she does any- 
 thing humbugging or nonsensical her double appears 
 — not otherwise.' 
 
 ' If it were a laughing matter to her, I would say 
 nothing, though it is well not to make game of people 
 too long or publicly ; but do you think it hospitable 
 or generous to torment and ridicule your guest, who 
 has not been carefully brought up ? ' 
 
 Annie grew red and had tears in her eyes as she 
 said, ' I did not mean unkindness, mother.' 
 
 ' No, my child ; but high spirits betrayed you.' 
 
 ' I'll not do it again, mother,' she said, kissing her. 
 ' Patty, my dear, your mission is over ! I'll put you 
 by for the next Christma-s-tree.' 
 
 I am sure she sighed — I think she dropped a tear 
 — as she laid me up in a drawer, in dread of the 
 slavery to which I might be any day consigned. 
 
 My merits, however, have won a nobler fate. I
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PATTY APPLFXIIEEKS 307 
 
 don't know whether I was forgotten ; I only know that 
 I was untouched for a very long time— years, I think 
 — and that when first I saw the light again I heard a 
 well-known voice say, 'There she is, the dear old 
 thing ! — Patty herself! ' and it was Matty who uttered 
 the cry,. and held me up — Matty, taller, older-looking ; 
 I fear much less like me than in former times. 
 
 * I am ashamed to remember how I teased you 
 with it,' said Annie, Avho looked older also, but less 
 rough, though quite as merry and downright. 
 
 'My dear, nothing ever did me so much good,' 
 said Matty. ' It was the first lesson I ever had against 
 my vanity and conceit. What an affected little wretch 
 I was ! Yes, I know I was very cross, but it worked 
 afterwards. Dear old Patty ! May I keep her, Annie, 
 she will put me in mind of the folly of it, whenever I 
 am relapsing ? Ah, Patty, you have the same prim, 
 self-complacent, pursed-up mouth as ever, as if you 
 thought yourself a paragon of paragons, just as I did 
 three years ago. But if a doll can't improve, a girl 
 may.' 
 
 So my triumph is complete and acknowledged. A 
 girl may improve, for she belongs to poor human kind, 
 but I, the true youth's companion, am a nobler, more 
 unchanging being, perfect from the first, and incapable 
 of improvement. 
 
 X 2
 
 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE CAMl'DELLS ARE COMING,
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Mr. Deane, 35 St. Clement's Road. 
 
 Robert Deane, his son, clerk in a London Office. 
 
 Mrs. Deane. 
 
 Alice -i , , , 
 
 _ )■ her daughters. 
 
 Edith J 
 
 Mr. Dean, 53 St. Clement's Road. 
 
 Mrs. Dean. 
 
 Missy -^ , , , 
 
 ^ > her daughters. 
 
 Pussy J ^ 
 
 Miss Campbell, a governess. 
 
 Mary Campbell, engaged to Robert. 
 
 Scene: dra%uing-rooins of No. 35, and No. 53. 
 
 The change of scene might be managed by altering the table orna- 
 ments and shifting a screen, or curtain with a window painted on it,
 
 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT; OR, THE 
 CAMPBELLS ARE COMING. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCEKE I. — Dnizuiiig-room of No. 35 St. Clemen fs 
 Road ; 5 clock tea-table. MRS. Dkane, Alice, 
 EDlTli. 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 Was that papa's knock .'' I wish he would come 
 in. How awkward.! 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Never mind, mamma. Mary Campbell may 
 prefer taking us by instalments. 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 Poor child, it is most trying for her that Robert 
 should not have been able to bring her down. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 We shall have the better chance of making 
 friends with her. 
 
 KDITH. 
 
 I wish I had gone to meet her instead of sending 
 that stupid Alfred, whose brains have run to buttons.
 
 313 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT; OR, 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 I could not let you renew your cold before the 
 ball. Still I almost wish I had sent you. It might 
 have been a little less formidable for the poor girl. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 To descend alone and unsupported on the family 
 of her lover ! Yes, it is an awful undertaking. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 And she so shy ! Hark ! 
 
 Enter servant annoiLucing Miss Campbell. 
 
 MRS. DEANE {embracing her\ 
 My dear ! I am glad to see you. Mr. Deane 
 was so sorry to be called away, but here are the 
 girls. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL {embracing them). 
 I hope soon to know you better, my dears. They 
 are taller than I expected, Mrs. Deane. 
 
 \K\AC^ pours out tea and gives it. 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 Papa was greatly vexed at being prevented from 
 meeting you at the station. I hope the page made 
 himself useful, and saved you all trouble. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Thank you, Mrs. Deane, I am an old traveller.
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 313 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 It was SO unfortunate that dear Robert could not 
 come down with you. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Your son ? I should have been glad to be of 
 any service. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 It was very good of you not to wait for him, and 
 come down to-morrow too much tired for the ball. 
 
 Miss CAMPBELL, 
 
 A juvenile ball, my dear ? 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 What, did not that foolish fellow tell you all about 
 it ? How dreadful ! 
 
 ALICE. • • 
 
 Far gone in indifference to all sublunary matters ! 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 Hush, my dear girls ! Mary looks quite bewildered. 
 She is not used to such rattles, and indeed we ought 
 not to have trusted to him. I fear }'ou have brought 
 no dress, my dear ? 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 I never supposed one would be required. 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 Never mind ; Edith shall contrive your equipment. 
 She is a good dressmaker spoilt.
 
 314 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT ; OR, 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL {stiffly). 
 
 If I had understood 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 It was all the fault of that foolish boy. You 
 must punish him well. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 That is not a pleasant commencement for our 
 connection. Surely inadvertence may be excused the 
 first time. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 You must not spoil him. We trust to you for 
 keeping him in order. 
 
 Miss CAMPBELL. 
 
 That was hardly a part of my specified duties. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 What model submission 1 
 
 MRS. DEANE {hastily). 
 Hush, Alice ! My dear Mary, if you will not 
 take another cup of tea, you will like to see your 
 room. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Thank you, but pray do not trouble yourself, Mrs. 
 Deane. If one of the young ladies would kindly 
 show me the school-room.
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 315 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 Certainly. Young people can get on best together. 
 \Excimt Edith and Miss Campbell. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Kc7«;/^'people ! 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 Allow something for a lover's eye, my dear. 
 Besides, we see her at a disadvantage after her 
 journey. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 The journey of life, as it seems. She must have 
 set off nineteen and arrived thirty-nine, like the people 
 who go to sleep in fairy land. 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 So strange, too, that Robert should not have 
 mentioned the ball ! 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 He must have been afraid. She is clearly of the 
 sort that despises such formalities. 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 Poor dear boy ! He ought to have prepared us. 
 Then we would have had her later, in Lent perhaps. 
 
 ALICE {laughing). 
 For penance ! O mother, who is severe now }
 
 ^i6 A HOLIDAY engagement; or, 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 Hush, Alice ! No doubt she is highly estimable, 
 and her travelling dress may be very disfiguring, but 
 I own that I am astonished ! 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Above all when he declared that she was a regular 
 kitten, ready to play with us. 
 
 EDrrH {entering). 
 I'm annihilated ! I've had such a snub ! 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 You look as if she had boxed your ears. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 » Metaphorically she has. She told me that Mrs. 
 Deane was at liberty to call her what she pleased, 
 but she could not permit herself to be called Mary by 
 me. She had not been used to it. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 What are we to call her.? La Signora Donna 
 Maria t 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 I never stopped to ask ! I made a low curtsey 
 and ran away! 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 My dear Edith, I am so sorry ! You misunder- 
 stood. Robert said she was always called Molsie at 
 home, and no doubt she wishes you to take it up.
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 317 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Catch me ! 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 Now, girls, I entreat you not to take offence too 
 easily at little eccentricities of manner. Remember, 
 she is a stranger, just off a long journey, and that's a 
 trying position. Weariness makes people look hag- 
 gard, and excess of bashfulness affects the manner. 
 Do not let us try to judge of her by this first evening, 
 or we shall repent it all our lives. \Excunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Drawing-room at No. 53. Mrs. Dean, 
 
 Missy, Pussy. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Take care, Pussy ! What will Miss Campbell say 
 to such attitudes .? 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 Please, darling mother, let us be comfortable till 
 our six weeks of durance yile begin. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. •. 
 
 Idle child, you show how much you want a 
 governess. 
 
 MISSY. 
 
 It is so late, I think she must have missed her 
 train. What fun that would be !
 
 3l8 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT; OR, 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 No such good luck ! There's the 'bus. 
 
 MISSY. 
 
 You'll never venture to call it anything but an 
 omnibus again. 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 There's the door bell ! the knell of our freedom 
 and peace. 
 
 MISSY. 
 
 Only for six weeks. 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 Hohdays the wrong way for us, like 'Through the 
 looking-glass.' 
 
 MRS. DEAN, 
 
 Silence, my dear child ! There, she must be on 
 the stairs ! You can't be less frightened than I am. 
 Ought I to kiss her, I wonder .'' 
 
 Enter maid aniioimciiig- MiSS CAMPBELL, MARY riuis 
 confi'dingly tip to Mrs, Dean, and the two girls 
 and they all embrace. 
 
 MRS. DE.\N, 
 
 Good morning— evening. I mean. I hope you had 
 a pleasant journey and no difficulty in finding your 
 way here ,''
 
 THE CAMTDELLS ARE COMING 319 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Not much, thank you. There was a good-natured 
 porter who advised mc to take the 'bus, after I had 
 extricated my boxes from a Buttons who laid violent 
 hands upon them. 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 that must be the ridiculous Buttons that lives 
 opposite, and gives himself such airs. 
 
 Enter Mr. Dean. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Mr. Dean — Miss Campbell. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 1 am glad to see you, Miss Campbell. I hoped to 
 have been able to meet you, but I was detained till 
 too late. I hope it caused you no inconvenience. 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 The absurd tiger opposite tried to run away with 
 Miss Campbell's things, papa ! 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 Mischievous beast of prey ! I fmd too that the 
 family there arc named Deanc, so that we may pre- 
 pare for many more encounters. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 I saw him — your son— just before I came away.
 
 320 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT ; OK, 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Indeed ! Where ? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 At the station. He sent his love, and said he 
 would not fail. 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 Dear old fellow ! Of course not. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 I am sure Mi-ss Campbell is tired. My dears, you 
 had better take her to the school-room. You will 
 find tea there. Miss Campbell, and then I hope )-ou 
 will join us at dinner to-day at seven. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Thank you, [Exi/ ivith tJie girls. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 What a pretty }'Oung creature ! 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 What could your sister have been thinking of.-' 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 She is very lady-like and prepossessing. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 That's all that gentlemen heed I I might as well 
 have another child in the school-room.
 
 TIIK CAMPBKLLS ARE COMING 32 1 
 
 MR. DEAN 
 
 The young generation have outrun the old in 
 science, language, and all the rest of it. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 That is not what I want so much as a sober, staid 
 person to look after the children and walk with them 
 when I am engaged. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 Can't she walk ? 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 So can the baby. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 If you wanted age and experience you should 
 have told Harriet so. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Exactly what I did ! She assured me she hi;d 
 just what I wanted — a person about forty. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 Youthful looks — ! 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Nonsense ! I doubt if this girl is twenty. I must 
 find your sister's letter. [Turns over letters in a basket. 
 
 ' Experienced woman, best families, can send up 
 gravy-soup.' No, No. ' About eighteen — objects to 
 twice-cooked meat.' No, that's the scullery maid. 
 
 Y
 
 322 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT ; OR, 
 
 What are servants coming to ? But I am sure I told 
 Harriet I must have a superior person, able to restrain 
 the girls and form their manners, but not too old. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 Not too old — precisely. 
 
 Enter tJic Girls. j- 
 
 MISSV. 
 
 Oh ! Mamma, she is a regular duck ! 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 There's an opinion for you ! 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 We are to call her Molsie. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 What do you think of that for a governess ? 
 
 MISSY. 
 
 She calls us*her dear little sisters, and says we 
 shall be awfully jolly together. What is papa laugh- 
 ing at .-' 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 Was that what she said. Missy } 
 
 MISSY. 
 
 Perhaps it wasn't quite, but it came to the same 
 thing.
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 323 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 And she has the loveliest dress, all white tulle, 
 done up with white jessamine and lady grass. 
 
 MISSY. 
 
 And a wreath of white jessamine with lady grass. 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 She said white jessamine was Bertie's favourite 
 flower. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 What should she know about Bertie } 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 As 2. protig^e of Harriet's, no doubt she has met 
 him in her house. 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 She made quite sure that he is coming home to- 
 morrow, and cannot believe he is not to be here till 
 Thursday. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 What difference can it make to her .-' A great boy 
 of fifteen ! He will not be one of her pupils. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 If she can induce him to turn his attention to 
 modern languages, I shall be very grateful to her. 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT ; OR, 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Indeed I cannot have him loitering about the 
 school-room. My object is to have the children 
 safely kept out of mischief while I am engaged with 
 our visitors. Miss Campbell does not come either to 
 share the gaieties or to play with Bertie. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 Poor young thing ! 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 It is what she undertook — a holiday engagement 
 — and I shall make it pfain that I can have no non- 
 sense. \Exeunt.
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 325 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Drawing-rooin at No 35. MRS. DeanE, 
 Miss Campbell, Alice, Edith, coming iji from 
 dinner. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Is that your drawing, my dear ? 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Do you see any likeness .-' 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 I should have taken it for a much younger person. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Did you think it was meant for my father .■' It 
 is Bob. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 There is a family likeness of course ; but is it not 
 a pity to begin on portraits before you have studied 
 the principles of art ? You soon degenerate into 
 caricature. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 I never went in for much more.
 
 326 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT; OR, 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 I trust soon to see higher aims. Have you bcfun 
 study at the school of art ? 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Yes, we have drawn onions and eggs, square blocks 
 and round blocks, till we are heartily sick of it. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 I shall be delighted to see the style taught here. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 You will never get Robert to let you go there. 
 He growls at our doing so. 
 
 Miss CAMPBELL. 
 
 I shall not permit him to interfere with my duties 
 to you. When does the next lesson take place ? 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 To-morrow, but of course we do not go ; Robert 
 will be coming, and there will be the ball. 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 For which we must lit you out, Mary, so that 
 here will be no time to spare. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Do you attend the ball, Mrs. Deane ?
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING .327 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 Certainly ; I had looked forward to introducing 
 you. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 If my presence be not needed as an escort, I should 
 be glad to be excused. Gaiety is not in my line and 
 unfits me for my duties. 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 I should never think of requiring anything. You 
 will do exactly as you please. 
 
 Enter Mr. Deane. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Coffee, papa .'' 
 
 MR. DEANE. 
 
 Thank you. Well, Mary, I hope you will soon 
 feel at home with us. Did you leave your mother quite 
 well .> 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Thank you, Mr. Deane, as well as she ever is. She 
 is a great sufferer. 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 Indeed ! I was not aware of that. 
 
 Miss CAMPBELL. 
 
 She hardly knows what case means.
 
 328 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT; OR, 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Fancy ! I thought she went about everywhere ! 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 She has tried many places in vain, but no change 
 seems to relieve her. 
 
 MRS, DEANE. 
 
 Is anyone with her ? 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 My sister never leaves her. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 I did not know you had a sister. 
 
 Miss CAMPBELL. 
 
 She is quite devoted to my mother and never leaves 
 her day or night. 
 
 MRS. DEANE. 
 
 I had no notion of this ! I am very sorry. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 You are very kind. {Taking 7 tp a dook.] 'The 
 Unseen Universe.' Have you read it, my dears } 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 It is so stiff! 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 But well worth pains and patience. If it be too 
 advanced a study at present, we might work up to it 
 throutih 'Light Science for Leisure Moments.'
 
 THE CAMriiELLS ARE COMING 329 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Suppose I have no leisure moments for light 
 science ! 
 
 MR. DEANE. 
 
 You arc thinking my little girls very frivolous 
 beings. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Perhaps they prefer languages to science ; in which 
 case I shall be happy to assist them. What have you 
 been reading lately in German ? 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 I detest German far too much to touch it. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 May I ask what you have read .-' 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 What was the last, Alice ? ' Cometh up as a Flower ' 
 or, ' The World she awoke in ' ? 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Do you ever touch anything so trumpery .'' 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Never in the school-room. I do not wonder you 
 have a distaste for what is really improving. 
 
 MR. DEANE. 
 
 Just what I am always telling these foolish girls. 
 I wish you would give them a taste for something 
 better.
 
 330 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT ; OR, 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 I will do my best, Mr. Deanc, but I fear there is 
 little opportunity in so short a time, especially with 
 such distractions. Perhaps Archbishop Trench's lec- 
 tures would serve to give a general view. Have you 
 seen them ? 
 
 MR. DEANE. 
 
 O, pray don't examine me ! If you are not tired, 
 perhaps you would favour us with a little music. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Certainly, Mr. Deanc. 
 
 [Mr. Deane and Edith arrange the piano. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Can I fetch your music for you .-' 
 
 Miss CAMPBELL. 
 
 No, thank you. No music seems to me really 
 learnt if it cannot be played without notes. 
 
 \Begins to play a difficult piece. 
 
 MR. DEANE [meantime). 
 Wonderful execution ! Robert had not prepared 
 me for this. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Nor for a good deal more. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 How shall we live through it }
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 33 I 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Shall you submit to the course ? 
 
 EDITH, 
 
 I leave that to Bob. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Can you account for the hallucination .'* 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 The music perhaps. Papa is quite entranced. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 The strange fellow said she could only accompany 
 herself in a few Scotch songs. 
 
 MR. DEANE. 
 
 Come girls, show Mary what you can do, though I 
 am afraid it will be a great disappointment. 
 
 [Curtain falls. 
 
 Scene II.— No. 53. Mr., Mrs. Dean, Missy, Pussy, 
 
 Mary. 
 
 MRS. DEAN, 
 
 Have you studied abroad. Miss Campbell .? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 We spent last winter at Paris. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 I lay great stress^on a good French accent. Let 
 Miss Campbell hear you speak French, Missy.
 
 332 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT; OR, 
 
 MISSY. 
 
 Oh ! mother, may not we spend one evening in 
 peace ? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 A motion that I second with all my might. 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 That's right ! I knew you were a dear ! 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 There is not much time to loiter away. You will 
 look over their books to-morrow. No doubt you are 
 a good German scholar .-' 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Not good — oh no ! 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 Come, mamma, I echo Missy's sentiment. No 
 examination to-night, you must not defraud me of my 
 song. [Mrs. Dean plays and sings. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Lovely indeed ! I shall scold Bertie for not tell- 
 ing me how sweet his mother's voice is. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Now you will favour us. Miss Campbell. I have 
 heard so much of your execution that I am longing 
 for a piece.
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 333 
 
 MARY. 
 
 You have heard far more than I deserve. I can 
 only accompany myself. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 We know what that means. That is just what 
 mamma there says of herself 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Pray don't say so ! No one but your son ever 
 liked my music. 
 
 MRS. DEAN, 
 
 I beg you will let us hear. If your music be not 
 yet unpacked, no doubt there is something here that 
 you know. 
 
 [Mary sJmffles over the music nervously. Shakes her 
 head in despair at the pieces presented to her, then 
 murmurs, I'll fetch a song. \And exit. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 That stuff and sentiment about Bertie I cannot 
 away with. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 Nonsense, dear, a boy of fifteen ! 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Quite old enough for folly. 
 \^K^'^ returns with a music book, plays and sings luith 
 a trembling voice, almost breaking down at first, then, 
 growing clearer^ ' My Heart's in the Highlands'
 
 334 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT ; OR, 
 
 MRS. DEAN {meantime). 
 Just what pleases a boy. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 Thank you — very sweet. Those old Scottish songs 
 charm me. Have you any more of my old favourites ? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 I have ' Charlie is my Darling.' 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 There is nothing I should like so well. [She sings. 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 O I do love Prince Charlie ! You'll teach us that; 
 you dear darling, won't you .-' 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Hush, Pussy, don't be silly. Those Scotch ballads 
 are pretty slight things. But I do not wish the children 
 to begin to sing too early, but to improve themselves 
 in classical music. I should like to hear something 
 of that kind. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 What a goose you must think me ! My cousin 
 Flora, our clever one, went in once for a classical 
 music society, but everyone grumbled so whenever 
 she practised that she had to drop it. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 A great mistake. Nine o'clock, children. Good-
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 335 
 
 night ! Miss Campbell, you look so tired, that I think 
 you would prefer going up with the children. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Thank you, perhaps it will be best. 
 \ Good-nights exchanged and kisses to the children. 
 Exeunt PusSY, MissY, and Mary. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 What do you think now, Henry ? 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 That we have a very pleasant, though rather timid 
 inmate. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Timid ! She talked like one of the family. It 
 was all I could do to repress her. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 As you did effectually, poor child ! You brought 
 tears into her eyes more than once. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 She has much to learn before she knows her place. 
 That is, if she every succeeds in being a governess. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 She is a thorough lady. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 What can she be as a teacher } Your sister has 
 just sent me down some spoilt pet of her own. I'll
 
 336 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT ; OR, 
 
 never engage another person without seeing her, and 
 unfortunately there's no being off with her. It is a 
 hohday engagement and for six weeks ! 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 She will do no harm. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 How can I tell .'' She has come evidently to 
 share in all the gaieties, and she will fill the children's 
 heads with murmurs and repinings about dress and 
 nonsense, when I meant them to be improved. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 So they will or may — in manners at least. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 When she has no notion of manners to her 
 superiors ! 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 You don't allow for woman's rights. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 If she was one of those Graduates, I might put up 
 with her forwardness for the children's sake, but she 
 quite shuddered when I asked her if she had been up 
 for a degree. She has read nothing, knows nothing, 
 can do nothing. Did Harriet think I wanted a play- 
 fellow for the children ! 
 
 \Curtain falls .
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 3:57 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. -No. 35. Miss Campbell, Alice, 
 
 Edith. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 You have not shown me the school-room, my 
 dears. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 We have none. Our brother turned us out, when 
 I was sixteen, to make a smokincf-room of ours, and 
 we never had the ghost of one in this house. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Do you study in the drawing-room .? 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 We practise here, and do our Essay Society work 
 anywhere. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 1 should like to draw up some definite plan. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Very well. Of course you are free to do what- 
 ever you like. 
 
 Z
 
 338 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT ; OR, 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Till Robert comes. 
 
 I\IISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 My engagement did not contemplate such inter- 
 ruptions. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Didn't it .'' It is the oddest engagement I ever 
 heard of. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Robert will call us the interruptions. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Never mind Robert. My engagement is to you, 
 not your brother. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 That beats everything ! 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 I never undertake male pupils, but I will enter on 
 that with your mamma. At present, I wish to 
 ascertain the progress you have made in order to lay 
 out a plan of study. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Mary Campbell, you may do what you like with 
 Robert, but we are not to be bullied into being 
 learned prigs. 
 
 Miss CAMPBELL. 
 
 I must report this to your mother.
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 339 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Do! 
 
 KDITH. 
 
 No, no, you would not come into the family to 
 make mischief. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 It is my duty to maintain my position. [Exit. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Run after her and make it up, there's a dear, or 
 it will be most distressing for mother and Bob. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 I'm not going to put myself under her feet. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Luckily she won't find mother, who is in the inner- 
 most recesses of the kitchen by this time. 
 
 Enter Robert. Embraces. 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 Where is she .-' 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Oh ! Bob, dear fellow, we did not expect you so 
 soon. 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 I started at six. Where is she .'' 
 
 EDITH, 
 
 She was Lero an instant ago. I'll fetch her. \_Exit.
 
 340 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT ; OR, 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 Well, Alice ! 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Well, Robert ! 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 Isn't she all I ever told you ? 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 And more too ! 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 Did you ever see such eyes ? 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Such spectacles ? 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 My poor darling ! She must have hurt her eyes ! 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 I see ! You had better confess ! 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 Confess what ? 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Your plot for terrifying us with a fearful old 
 duenna in spectacles, who abhors balls, examines us 
 on our studies, and pins us down to read a book 
 about the Universe. 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 Impossible ! Molsie is full of fun, but she hasn't 
 the cheek for that style of thing.
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 341 
 
 Enter Edith and Miss Campbell. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 You hav'C done it very well, Mary, but you had 
 better confess. 
 
 ROBERT, 
 
 Where is she } 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 You see you are even taking him in. It has gone 
 far enough. Take off your spectacles and drop it. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Is this deliberate insult t 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 There must be some dreadful mistake. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 I begin to think so. I was engaged- 
 
 ROBERT {shrinking). 
 But not to me ! 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL {with dignity). 
 Certainly not, Sir. It was a holiday engagement 
 to Mrs. Dean, St. Clement's Road. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 It must be that awful boy ! 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 The page } He accosted me by my name.
 
 342 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT ; OR, 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 Girls ! It is no laughing matter. What on earth 
 can have become of my poor darling ? 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Can she have set off.? 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 I saw her into the train myself ! 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 May she not be with the lady who expected me } 
 
 Stay, Mr. Robert Deane, if you will wait a moment, I 
 
 will fetch your mother's — no, the other lady's — letter. 
 
 [Exit. 
 ALICE {throwing herself into a ehair). 
 
 O I shall die of it ! What have we not all gone 
 
 through ! 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 How could you be so absurd .'' You should have 
 acted at once, instead of gaping at her. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 How were we to know 1 We only thought your 
 taste peculiar. 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 You were crazy ! As if that creature c6uld be my 
 Molsie ! You ought to have made enquiry instantly, 
 and saved her from — I know not what.
 
 TiIE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 343 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Hush, Alice ! Poor fellow, it is of no use to talk 
 to him. [Curtain falls. 
 
 Scene III. — No. 53. Mary, ivriting at the tabic 
 Missy, Pussy, both dressed for going out. 
 
 MISSY. 
 
 Do come out, Mary ; we want to show you our 
 gardens. 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 And Bertie's dear black dog. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Presently, my dears, when I have finished my 
 letters. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Dean. 
 
 You here still, children '>. I wish them to take an 
 early walk before beginning work. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Very well, I shall soon be ready, dears. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Did you not understand me, Miss Campbell ? 
 You would write better in the school-room, if }-ou 
 must write at all, at a time when I wish my daughters 
 to be out of doors.
 
 3/14 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT; OR, 
 
 ]\IARY. 
 
 I'll go presently, but as he — Bertie — does not come, 
 to-day I must catch the early post. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Once for all, Miss Campbell, I permit no foolish 
 intercourse with my son. 
 
 MARY [sp/'i/lgi/lg tif). 
 
 O Mrs. Dean, how could you bring me here if our 
 engagement had not your sanction ! 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 It must have been a mistake, but as it is only a 
 holiday engagement 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Oh ! do not be so cruel ! It was in all seriousness! 
 
 \Enter Mr. Dean ivitJi the letters, and gives one to 
 Mary, and others to Mrs. Dean. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 None from him ! What can it mean .'' This letter 
 can't be meant for me. It asks whether I can take 
 charge of three little girls. 
 
 Mrs. Dean {looking tip from her letter). 
 Young lady, if you are playing a trick, it had 
 better come to an end. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Someone must have played a cruel trick on me !
 
 THE CAMrni-LLS ARE COMING 345 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 You do not pretend that you are Miss Campbell ? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Indeed my name is Mary Campbell. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Listen to what mysister-in-law, Miss Dean, Avrites. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 I never heard of Miss Dean. 
 
 Mrs. Dean {reads). 
 'Miss Campbell will have arrived by this time. 
 Don't let the little maidens be daunted by her spec- 
 tacles. She looks rather elderly and stern, but she is 
 only thirty-six, though her appearance Avould make 
 you think her ten years older.' 
 
 Mary hysterically sobs and laughs. 
 Ten years older — oh ! 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 Don't be frightened, Miss Campbell ; it is plain that 
 there has been a blunder. Compose yourself and try to 
 explain. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 I did not mean to alarm you. Pray try to explain. 
 We expected a governess for a few weeks, named 
 Campbell.
 
 34^ A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT ; OR, 
 
 JIARY. 
 
 Oh ! I'm no impostor. I can't help being called 
 Campbell. ]\Iy brother is the Campbell of Glen Senn- 
 achie, and I came from London yesterday to stay at 
 Mr. Deane's of St. Clement's Road, because I am 
 engaged to his son. See, there is my ring. You 
 believe me — oh ! don't you ? 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Quite, my dear. I am sorry I seemed so unkind, 
 
 MARY. 
 
 I never saw any of his family, and he was to have 
 come with me ; but some business hindered him, and 
 he was to follow this morning. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 Not my Herbert, who is only fifteen. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 My Robert is twenty-six. 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 I see daylight. A family named Deane has come 
 to the opposite house ; but as we are well known here, 
 the omnibus naturally set you down here. I will run 
 across, and find out whether they are expecting a 
 Miss Campbell. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Let me come with you.
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 347 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 3Jo, no, )-ou must not run the risk of more adven- 
 tures. {Exit Mr. Dean.) Let me bathe those eyes, 
 my dear. How cruel I must have seemed. You must 
 have been crying all night. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 I beg your pardon, but your reception did provoke 
 me, after the warm letters I had received. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 No wonder. It was very absurd. Fetch some wine. 
 Missy ! I v>ant to see Miss Campbell able to laugh 
 before your papa returns. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Oh ! please no wine. Your kindness is all I want. 
 
 MISSY. 
 
 Then you are not going to stay with us, after all ! 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 What a horrid pity ! We should have had such 
 fun ! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 I should have been a frightful]\- bad [joverness ! 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 But you were going to teach us to play at Conse- 
 quences.
 
 348 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT ; OR, 
 
 MARY, 
 
 Perhaps I can still do that 
 [A sudden peal at the bell. Enter ROBERT hastily, soon 
 folloived by MisS CAMPBELL and Mr. Dean. 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 My darling Molsie ! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Oh ! Robert, Robert ! Now I don't mind anything. 
 ( They clasp hajids.) 
 
 MR. DEAN. 
 
 Here, mamma, here is your Miss Campbell. 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 I am rejoiced to welcome her. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 I fear the error has caused much embarrassment. 
 I ought to have looked at the address, but I thought 
 myself safe in the hands of the page, 
 
 MARY, 
 
 I think I gave the number, but the omnibus man 
 
 could not have attended, 
 
 MR, DEAN {at the window). 
 Are not those ladies your sisters, Mr. Deane. Let 
 me fetch them in. 
 
 \Exit, and enter zvith ALICE a?id EDITH.
 
 THE CAMTBELLS ARE COMING 349 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 There, girls — the true Mary is found. 
 
 {Embraces exchanged^ 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Dear Mary, I am so glad. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 There ! I can trust my own senses once more. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 So can I ! I began to believe I saw through the 
 looking-glass. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 Or that the manners and customs of St. Clement's 
 Road were very peculiar. No — I mean that's what the 
 other must have thought of us. 
 
 MRS. DEAN, 
 
 Too true of us likewise, I fear. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Indeed you were very kind and forbearing. 
 
 PUSSY. 
 
 I do wish we could keep you ! We do like you so ! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 You wouldn't on better acquaintance perhaps ! I 
 might whip you !
 
 350 A HOLIDAY ENGAGEMENT ; OR, 
 
 MRS. DEAN. 
 
 You will let us have better acquaintance, I hope, 
 only forgetting- our first meeting. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 I will try to prevent these little folks from too 
 much regretting tlie charming lady they lose. Only 
 I must first ask the elder Misses Deane to pardon the 
 spirit of instruction that must have seemed most pre- 
 sumptuous and unpleasing. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 And you must forgive us for being so shockingly 
 disagreeable. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 You see we weren't worthy of such a wise sister-in- 
 law, though no doubt you would have done us a great 
 deal of good. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Come, Mary, we must bear you home in triumph. 
 
 MISS CAMPBELL. 
 
 And exchange the boxes. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 That miserable Buttons shall do it by way of 
 penance.
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING 35 I 
 
 MRS. DKAN. 
 
 I shall see you in that ball-dress to-night. What 
 a shock it gave me ! My dear, in token of forgiveness 
 you must let me kiss you, and say how glad I am that 
 yours is not only a Holiday Engagement ! 
 
 [Curtain falls. 
 
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