Chapter XII: The Old Hall

SO here was I, being carried off at a breakneck speed through the dim moonlight of the August night, like a damsel in Romance whom some enchanter has trussed up and borne away on a hip-pogriff. My conductor spake never a word, and I was too busy keeping my seat to have any breath to spare for questions, had I dared to ask them. I was sure my companion was some one I had seen, but where and when I could not say. He had the Duke's ring, which none but a trusted servant could have gotten into his hands, and at all events, I could do nothing but abide the result of mine adventure.

At last, after we had ridden more than an hour at this headlong pace, and I was far from any place I had ever seen before, my guide slackened his paces and turning toward me, asked how I fared.

"Why, well enough, an' I had but a little breathing time," said I; "but, sir, may I ask your name?"

"So you do not know me?" said he. "And yet we are not strangers. See what it is to trust the memory of a young lady."

A wild notion crossed my mind—too wild, I thought, to be entertained for a single moment.

"At least," said I, "you will perhaps have the goodness to tell me whither you are conveying me at such a rate."

"To a place of safety, I hope," he answered. "Have no fears. Did not the Duke himself bid you trust the messenger who brought his ring? But now we are to pass a village, and you must be silent. Wrap your cloak well about you, for the air is chill."

I obeyed, and we rode on through a village where every one seemed to be abed and asleep, save at the vicarage near the church, where there were lights, and from which proceeded a savory smell of cooking, and the chorus of a song, which was certainly not one of the canticles of the church.

"The knaves are cooking venison!" muttered my conductor. "This gear must be looked to. It were as good a deed as eating to give them a fright."

He rode close to the window as he spoke, and, striking thereon with his riding whip, he called with a sepulchral, hollow tone: "Who is the profane, drunken priest who steals the Duke's deer?"

Then putting spurs to his horse, he galloped on, but looking back, I saw the poor, fat vicar gazing after us, his very cassock seeming to bristle with alarm.

My conductor said never a word, only laughed softly to himself. We now entered a deep wood, where the path was none of the best, and where the tired horse made more than one stumble. Muttering that this would not do, his master bade me hold fast to the saddle, and, jumping off, he led the animal by the bridle. We went on in this way for half an hour, when we came out into a small cleared space, or lawn, and I saw before me a very old timbered house, of dignity enough to be called a hall.

It was growing light by this time—just that dazzling, bewildering mingling of dawn and moonlight which makes even accustomed objects look strange and unreal. I could see a cluster of chimneys, from one of which smoke was issuing. A light shone out through panes of colored glass, and a moment after showed by its clearer and broader beam that a door was opened.

"They are up, and expecting us, you see," said my conductor, and again that wild fancy crossed my mind.

As we drew near to the steps which led up to the hall-door, a figure appeared upon them, and in another minute I was clasped in my uncle's arms and led by him into the hall, where a fire on the hearth gave out a warmth and light which seemed almost miraculous.

"I have brought her safely, you see, good Master Corbet!" said a gay voice. "Give me credit for being a faithful messenger."

I looked around in utter amazement, as my first idea returned to my mind. There stood the Duke himself, smiling in his old genial fashion at my surprise.

"It can never be!" I exclaimed.

"And why not? You are a reader of romances, Mistress Loveday. Tell me, is it not the duty of a true knight to save distressed damsels from the power of wicked enchanters?"

"Your Grace is another King Arthur," said mine uncle.

"I would I were, and had Merlin at my command," said the Duke. "I would soon rid this land of some its dragons."

"How can I ever repay your Grace what you have done for me and this poor child?" said mine uncle, bending his knee as he kissed the hand the Duke held out to him.

"Tut, old man. I love an adventure old as I am, as well as when I was a wild lad of twenty, and beside, to say truth, I had no one near me to whom I cared to trust this gear. But where is Dame Joan?"

At these words, an exquisitely neat elderly woman came forward into the light. She was dressed like any country dame, but still there was about her an indescribable air of refinement.

"I bring you a weary damsel, my good cousin," said the Duke, addressing her with marked courtesy. "Do you have her to bed, and when we are all rested, we will talk over our plans."

The old lady, for such she clearly was, courtesied, and then taking my hand she led me through a gallery and up a stair to a chamber where all was neat and comfortable, though every thing in the room seemed as old as the Wars of the Roses at least.

"Here you may rest safely," said she. "No one ever comes to this house, save now and then a messenger from my good master and yours. I guess from all I see that you are a sufferer for the faith!"

"Indeed, madam, I hardly know myself," I answered. "I have suffered nothing worthy of the name as yet, but I trust I should have grace to endure should such trouble come upon me."

"Well, you are young, but the cross comes to all, young as well as old. There, sweetheart, get thee to bed, and rest well."

She kissed my forehead and left me. Oh, how delightful was that clean, well-lavendered linen, albeit my bed was somewhat harder than I had been used to. But young bones do not mind such trifles, and I was soon asleep, and did not stir till toward ten o'clock. I sprang up and dressed myself as soon as I was fairly awake, and hurried down stairs to find mine uncle thoughtfully pacing up and down the hall.

"Where is his Grace?" I inquired, so soon as I had asked and received his blessing.

"Up and away three hours ago!" was the answer. "He did but tarry till his horse was fed and refreshed, and then took his way to a hunting lodge he hath in these parts. He saith his people are well used to his freaks, so no one will wonder to see him."

"Yes, he often rides alone," I answered. "I would he did not, for his life is too precious to be risked. And what are we to do now, uncle—"

"Why, nothing just at present, except what the partridge does when the hawk is abroad—keep close and wait. His Grace assures me, we are safe in this place, which, indeed, is lonely enough, if that were all, and bids us remain here till the heat of the pursuit is passed, after which he will purvey means for us to go abroad."

"Then there is pursuit?"

"Ay, hot enough just now, but I fancy it will soon cool. The king is busy about his new marriage, and he seems, with all reverence, not to be in the same mind for two days together."

"And how are our friends the Davis family?"

"Well, so far, save from suspense and anxiety. They hear nothing of Margaret and her husband, and Andrew hath been gone longer than usual."

"And did you see my dear mistress?"

"Yes, and her daughter. I wonder not at your regard for them. They are two most lovely ladies."

"But how did you gain audience?"

"Oh, as I told you, I had some pictures to sell, and certain East country trinkets of gold and ivory, such as the Dutch merchants now bring from China and the Indies. I had also a token for the Duke from a friend abroad which I had promised to deliver, and which gained me a private interview. All the rest was easy. But tell me, had you any notion of your conductor?"

I told him the fancy had crossed my mind, but I had dismissed it as too wild to be entertained.

"He seems to have thought of the adventure as a mere frolic," said mine uncle. "I do not think the idea of any personal risk ever crossed his mind."

"If it had, it would have made no difference," said I. "Men who know him well, say he is an utter stranger to fear. I would he were not, for he adventures his life needlessly in hunting and hawking, and he ought to be careful, if only for his family's sake."

The old lady I had seen the night before, now entered the room followed by a woman bearing a cloth and trenchers, who proceeded to set the board. I spoke to her, but she only shook her head.

"She is deaf as an adder!" said Mrs. Joan. "But she is a good creature, and having dwelt together so long, we understand each other very well. I sometimes marvel what will become of the other when one of us is taken away; but that is no business of mine."

By this time the servant, whom Dame Joan called Martha, had a goodly dish of young pigeons and bacon smoking upon the board, with sweet brown bread and whatever else was needed, and we sat down to dinner, while old Martha waited on us with wonderful deftness considering her infirmity.

After the meal was over, my uncle betook himself to walking up and down the garden path, for there was a small garden behind the house where grew many neatly tended beds for potage and physic, and not a few hardy flowers.

I, who had had enough of exercise the night before to last me for some time, sought my room to look for my knitting, which I had brought away with me. I found Mrs. Joan arranging my bed, which I would by no means suffer, but took the matter out of her hands. I did never like to be waited upon by an old person. She smiled and acquiesced.

"It is long since I have seen a young face!" said she, sighing, methought, as she spoke. "If my own Loveday had lived, I believe she would have been like you. But the dear babe hath long been in a better place."

"I often think there is, if not a bright, yet a peaceful side to the death of little children," I ventured to say. "One feels so safe about them. The most promising child who lives to grow up may change for the worse. But once in the Saviour's arms, there is no room for sin or falling. All is well forevermore."

"That is true, but yet the mother's arms are not less sadly empty, and none but God knows the hunger of her heart!" said she sighing. "But now tell me of your life at Dartford. Were you happy there after you were professed?"

"I was never professed," said I, rather surprised, for I could not remember speaking of the place. "By Sir Edward's will, my dowry was forfeit if I took the veil before I was twenty-one at the least, and I lacked some years of that when the convent was broken up. I dare say I should have been professed at last, for I had learned to look upon the house as home, and was well enough content on the whole, though I do not think I had any special vocation. But were you ever at Dartford, madam?"

"Yes, once in my young days," she answered, stooping to pick up a needle.

"I suppose that was long before my time," said I.

"Oh, yes, of course. Am I not old enough to be your mother, child?"

I thought my grandmother would have been nearer the mark, but, after all, I was not so sure. Mrs. Joan's face was pale and wrinkled, and her hair was snowy white, but her movements were quick and decided, and her step firm. Only her voice was tremulous and her head had an odd shake—not trembling all the time, but now and then moving slowly from side to side, as though in stern protest against some evil she could not help.

At all events she was pleasant company. I taught her to knit, and she showed me some wonderful devices in embroidery and netting. We sometimes walked together in the wood round the house. I often read to her, for her eyes were beginning to fail, and told her tales of my life at Dartford, to which she seemed to listen with interest, though she seldom made any remark.

I think my uncle chafed far more than I did at our enforced retreat. As I have said before, he had a choleric temper, though age and stern self-discipline had done much to tame it. But he longed to be once more among men and at his business. I do not mean to say that he gave way to impatience or fretfulness, but the suspense and delay were very hard on him, and I could not help telling him one day how much better off he would be if he could only knit.

"That is true," said he seriously. "If only I had something to do. I suppose there are no books in the house."

"I will ask Mistress Joan," said I; which accordingly I did, and was conducted to a little room on the second floor, which I had never entered. Mistress Joan unlocked the door, and showed me a small apartment in which were several cases of books—dusty, indeed, but in fair preservation.

"I have been meaning to show you this room ever since you came here, and now is as good a time as any. There is a secret here which may concern you." So saying she gave a push to one of the presses which seemed fast to the wall. It slipped aside the width of a foot and showed a dark space behind it.

"There is a staircase in there which leads down to the very foundations of the house," said she. "By it, you may at any time reach a place of concealment which will defy all your enemies to find you."

She showed me how to open and close the spring door, and then making all secure, she bade me keep the key till I went away, and take what books I could. I found a Latin Livy in very fair print, and some other volumes, which I carried to my uncle after I had deposited the key in a secure place. I found him reading a letter which a messenger had just brought. The man was waiting in the hall, and I recognized in him one of his Grace of Suffolk's most trusted servants.

"News, my child," said my uncle. "This very night we are to make for a small seaport—" which he named but I have forgotten—"where a vessel will be awaiting to carry us to Holland. Put up what things are absolutely needful in the smallest compass that you may be ready at any moment."

This was news, indeed. I forgot all about my books and every thing else, but the prospect of seeing my aunt and cousins once more. I flew to my room and soon had all my preparations made. I was just finishing my bundles when Mistress Joan entered.

"So I am to lose you, dear child," said she, sadly, but in that inexpressible tone of resignation which shows that sorrow has become a part of one's very nature. "Oh, well. It will not be long, and I am glad to have seen you again, though you have never known me all these days that we have been together."

"Dear mother, how could I know you?" I asked in amazement. "I never saw you before."

"Are you sure?" she asked, looking at me with a smile.

I stared at her, and somehow the old face did seem to drop like a mask, and I saw behind it the face of Sister Denys—of Sister Denys who had gone to Dartford in my company, and had disappeared so suddenly and strangely.

"It is even so, child," said she, as I called her by name, throwing my arms around her neck. "Oh, Loveday, you can never know how I have longed to speak to you when I have had a glimpse of you from the high grated window of my cell."

"But where—but how?" I asked, too all amazed to ask a reasonable question.

"Sit down awhile and I will tell you my story," said she.

We did sit on the side of the bed, and with her arms still about me, she gave me the outline of her tale—as strange and sad as ever I heard. She had been betrothed to a far-away kinsman, with the full consent of her father. Her mother had died when she was young. But some family quarrel arising, she was forbid ever to see or speak with her lover more, and commanded to marry another person. This last she flatly refused to do, and persisting in her refusal, she was placed in the convent at Dartford. She would not take the veil, however, till she was sent a note as from her lover, saying that he was married. Then she gave way.

"But it was a wicked falsehood, whoever penned it," said Denys. "Loveday, do you remember the lame gardener?"

"Yes, very well. Why?"

The rest was soon told. Denys's bridegroom had found her out at last, and carried her off to some lonely house, she did not rightly know where, first marrying her before a village priest. Here they lived for a few—a very few—happy weeks, meaning as soon as the heat of pursuit was over to go abroad. But alas, one day the poor man ventured forth too far, was seen, tracked, and their concealment found out. The poor young man was killed before his wife's eyes, and Denys was carried back to her convent.

"I expected nothing but the walled up cell, and the 'part in peace,'" continued Denys, "but I did not care; I knew it would be soon over at the worst. But it was not to be. Loveday, do you remember a range of rooms which opened back from the Mother Superior's room—perhaps you never saw them."

"Never till the day I left the house."

"In one of those rooms I found myself when I recovered my senses, and there I lived for ten years, never seeing a face till my babe was born—my little Loveday. They were kind to me then, and my child lived and seemed like to thrive. But when she was a month old, she drooped and died all in one day like a broken flower. It was as well. Thank Heaven I can now say so. They had given her some of their saints' names, but I called her Loveday after you, child, for I always loved you. She was a sweet little thing, the picture of her father. Oh how empty were my arms and heart for many a long day!"

I was weeping too much to speak as that poor mother bent her head and kissed me.

"I know not how the time passed after that for a long while. I took no note of it, but at last one morning I waked from a blessed dream of my husband and child in Paradise, and, looking up at the high grated lattice, I saw the sun shining. I had a joint-stool and table, and with their help, I climbed up and looked upon the world once more. The sisters were walking in the orchard, and I could see the very tree where Harry made himself known to me. The fountains of the deep were broken up then, which had been fast sealed in all my trouble. I had not shed a tear before, but now they came in a flood, and with them, some of the bitterness of my grief seemed to pass away, and the cloud lifted from my mind so I could understand and remember. When the mother came with my meals, I made bold to ask her for some work. She seemed pleased—she was always kind in her ways, though she rarely spoke to me—and from that day I had plenty to do."

"One day Mother Joanna brought me a heavier basket than usual, and came into the cell instead of passing it through the tour. I rose as she entered, but she bade me sit down again."

"'Denys!' said she, after a little silence, 'do you know what is the usual fate of a nun who breaks her convent vows?'"

"I bowed, thinking with a kind of dull horror of all I had heard of such things."

"'Yours would have been either the closed vault or a lifelong confinement in darkness. We have been lenient to you—perhaps more so than we had any right to be—and now,' she paused."

"'Am I to be set at liberty?' I asked."

"'Nay, I said not so.'"

"An hour before I should have said I did not care enough for life to escape if the door was left open, but now a wild, overmastering desire for liberty took possession of me. I threw myself at the mother's feet and begged her to let me go, were it to beg my bread or serve as household drudge in the meanest farmhouse."

"'Hush, hush!' said she. 'You will spoil all by this vehemence. You must do exactly as you are bid and all will be well, at last. Dress yourself in the clothes you will find in this basket, and be ready when the bell rings for the midnight service.'"

"'Where am I to go?' I ventured to ask."

"'To a safe asylum which has been found for you, and where you may spend the rest of your days in penitence and prayer.'"

"I thought I knew what that meant well enough, but I did not care. At midnight I was taken from my prison blindfolded, and carried down stairs and into the fresh air. I was placed in a litter and traveled for two days, I think, stopping now and then in some secluded place for a little rest and refreshment. On the third day there was an unexpected end put to my journey. We were attacked by outlaws. My two conductors fled, as I guessed, without exchanging many blows. With many jests, but not unkindly, the robbers drew me out of my litter. I was so stiff with sitting I could hardly stand upright."

"'Why, 'tis a poor feeble old woman!' said the leader of the gang. 'Hey, what! Cannot you walk?' he asked, as I tried to take a step."

"'My feet are tied' I managed to say, and so they had been, whether by command to my attendants or to save themselves trouble, I do not know."

"'And so they are,' said another man, with indignation. 'The brutes, to use an old white-headed woman like that. Where were they taking you, good mother?'"

"'I do not know,' I answered. 'They said to a safe asylum—to some cell or convent, I suppose—but I promised not to tell,' I added. 'Please do not heed my words, I am something dazed.'"

"The men glanced at each other and whispered together. Then the man who seemed to be the leader asked me where I wished to go."

"'I know not,' I answered. 'I have not, a friend on earth.'"

"'Tis a piteous case,' said the outlaw. Then, after a little more conference, two of the men took me between them and led me into the thicket, where I was made to sit down and eat. At night, the man in charge of me made me a kind of bed of leaves, and bade me lie down and sleep without fear."

"Curiously enough, I was not at all afraid, and did as I was bid as calmly as if I had been in the convent. In the first gray of the morning, I was again blindfolded and led for some distance without a word being said on either side. Finally I was bade to sit down."

"'You must remain here without uncovering your eyes till you hear the church clock strike five,' said my conductor. 'You will find yourself not far from a house, where they will, no doubt, feed and shelter you. Obey and no harm will befall you, if you keep your own counsel.'"

"'I would I had something wherewith to reward your kindness,' said I."

"'Nay, we want no reward from such as you,' answered the man. 'You are not our game. Farewell, good mother, and good luck to you.'"

"I heard the outlaws' retreating steps, and then all was still, save for the singing of the birds and the other woodland noises. I waited patiently till I heard a distant clock strike five. Then I unbound my eyes and looked about me."

"I found myself in a thick wood like a neglected park. There was a narrow vista through the trees, at the end of which I saw an old building from one chimney of which smoke was rising, showing that it was inhabited, and thither I bent my way. I found nobody but one old woman—poor Martha—and as she was not so deaf as she is now, I made her understand so much as I thought fit to tell her: namely, that I had been traveling, had lost my way, and been out all night, and I prayed her to give me hospitality."

"'Ay, ay!' said she. 'Meat and drink you shall have, and as to lodging, we will see what my master says. He is here now, my good dame?'"

"'Who is your master?' I ventured to ask."

"'Why, his Grace of Suffolk, no less,' was the answer. 'This tumble down old house belongs to him, and it pleases him to come hither now and then for a day's sport.'"

"I had gathered my wits together by the time I had rested and eaten my breakfast, and I made up my mind what to do. I knew my husband had been a far-away kinsman of the Brandons, and I determined to tell his Grace the whole story, and to throw myself on his mercy. I did so. He heard me with many expressions of pity and kindness."

"'Your husband was a gallant young man,' said he. 'I knew him well, but knew not what had become of him. I will consider your case and see what shall be best for you.'"

"The next day as he was going away, he called me."

"'I can think of no better counsel than for you to remain here and keep close,' said he. 'Nobody ever comes hither but myself or some trusted servant. This old hall hath sheltered the wanderer before now. Bide you here, then, and go not forth—not even to church at present. Your own family doubtless think you dead, and the convent authorities are too full of their own troubles just now to make much search for you, but yet it is best to be on the safe side. How it comes that you are alive, I cannot guess.'"

"'They were not unkind to me beyond keeping me confined,' said I. 'I pray, your Grace, what year is this?'"

"He told me."

"'Then I have been in prison nine years,' I said, 'and in that time I have not seen a human face more than three times, save when I was ill.'"

"'Poor thing, no wonder you are so sadly aged,' he said, 'but there will be an end of all that soon, and full time it was so.'"

"How long is it since you came here?" I asked, as she paused.

"Two years come next spring."

"Then you must have been sent away just before the convent was broken up."

"'Tis likely they found it convenient to get rid of me," she returned, a little bitterly. "But I bear them no malice. I have been pardoned too much myself not to forgive others. I had not said even the form of a prayer for years before I came here. I had lost all faith in the old religion, and I knew no other. But one day looking for something wherewith to divert myself, I found a Latin Bible. I read and read, and by degrees the light came to me, and the truth made me free."

"And what then, dear sister?"

"There is little more to tell," she answered. "His Grace was good enough to call me cousin before Martha, and bade her treat me with all respect. She is a good, faithful creature, and I love her as a sister. She grows infirm, and I fear may not last long. But I am old, too," she added, with a smile. "Loveday, the first time I looked into a mirror, I started back in affright. I did not know my own face."

I would have liked to ask her a hundred questions, but there was no more time. It was drawing toward sunset, and I had been told to be ready by nightfall. Denys helped me to finish my packing and to arrange securely the money and jewels I had about me, and I was soon all ready. As soon as it was dark, the same messenger who had brought the litter, appeared with two horses, and we took a last farewell of our woodland Patmos. Denys kissed and blessed me at parting.

"We shall never meet again, but I am most thankful to have seen your face once more," said she. "You were my first comforter, little Loveday, and if my prayers can call down blessings, you will not want them. Farewell, dear, precious child, till we meet in the Paradise above."

I had to go at last. As we rode down the overgrown avenue I looked backed and saw her standing in the door. She waved her hand, and then the trees closed in, and I never saw her again.

I heard afterward that she died, after all, before poor old Martha. But she was ready to go, and it was a blessed release. How little I guessed, when I used to look at our house at Dartford and speculate as to the rooms I was not allowed to enter, that my old friend and teacher was pining away her young life in one of them. They meant it for mercy, and I dare say ran a great risk in keeping her where they did, but it was a doubtful mercy, after all.