Chapter VIII: Her Grace's Gentlewoman

I STAID with Master Davis two months or more, always hoping to hear from my uncle and always disappointed.

Every one was kind to me. Master and Mistress Davis treated me like a daughter in every respect, and I strove to behave like a dutiful child to them. Mistress Davis found me plenty to do, knowing, dear soul that she ever was, that to make me useful was the way to make me feel at home. I have learned a good many precious recipes for distilling and preserving, and I liked nothing better than putting them in practice.

Then Mistress Andrew Davis fell in love with my playing, and must needs have me give her lessons on the clarichord. She had a fair talent for music, and a sweet, bird-like voice, and I shall never forget her pretty, child-like joy when she was able to surprise her grave husband with a song and a lesson on the instrument he had given her. I pursued my Latin and French, and persuaded Mistress Davis to let me begin to teach the little Helen to read. She proved an apt scholar, and we had pleasant times over our books.

It was a wonderful new world that opened to me during those two months. As I said, I never in my life before had any deep convictions of religion. I had gone through the usual routine in the convent just as I worked my lace and sewed my white seam, but that was all. I had a great dread of death, and when any thing brought it home to me, I would redouble my observances and try to feel as I supposed really religious people felt. But it was all outside of me, so to speak. I believed in God, of course, but it was as a stern judge I thought of him—not by any means as a tender Father. The blessed Virgin was, indeed, kind and gentle, and if I coaxed her enough, she would perhaps command her son to be good to me at that dreadful day of doom.

But ever and always in the background of my mind—that is, after I began to think at all—was that fearful specter of Purgatory, the dread ordeal which must be passed before I could hope for the smallest taste of the bliss of Paradise. I do not mean to say that this was the case with all of our number. Some sweet souls there were who sucked the honey in spite of the thorn, and albeit sorely cumbered and distressed by the barriers which the pride and folly of men had piled in their way, did find access to the very Mercy Seat. Some found a real satisfaction in piling up prayer upon prayer; observance upon observance, thinking they were thereby heaping up merit not only for themselves but their friends. Others, and they were the most, were content to perform such tasks as they could not escape, in as easy a manner as possible, trusting to their religious profession and the offices of their patron saint to help them out at the last.

I had all my life been curious about books, ever since a chit of five years old, I had tumbled off a joint-stool whereon I had climbed to look at the great volume of the Morte d'Arthur which lay in the window-seat in the hall. I got a sound switching across my fingers for meddling, but neither the switching nor the tumble cured me of my hunger for books. This hunger had very little to feed it at Dartford, but it never died out, and I used to read over and over the few volumes we had till I knew them by heart.

It was not to be supposed that with such a disposition I would let the New Testament lie very long on my table without looking into it. I chanced to begin at the first chapter of the Acts of the Apostles—that wonderful book, which always seems to me to have the rushing, mighty wind of the Pentecost blowing through it from beginning to end. It was a Sunday afternoon, I remember, and the streets were full of people waiting to see the King pass by going to see some great lord. I was not well, yet not so ill but I was sitting up by my window to watch the show. To while away the time, I took up the book, and I soon became so lost in it that the whole pageant passed by without my seeing it at all. I was still deep in its pages when Mistress Davis came to see how I fared, and so fully was I absorbed in the story that when she asked me where I had been, I answered her—

"At Jerusalem, madam!"

Whereat she laughed, and answered that "it was a good place to be of a Sunday," adding more seriously: "But I see how it is, and right glad am I to see you so well employed. Only remember this, chick: the Scripture is not made to be read for diversion, like a Canterbury tale, or even like any other good book. 'Tis the Lord's own word sent down for the comfort of us poor sinners, and to guide us to that Home which He hath prepared for them that love Him; and as such, we must study it with reverence and ask for the enlightenment of the Spirit to be shed on its pages."

This was a new idea to me, and I closed the volume for that time with a strange bewilderment of ideas. I could not sleep for thinking of it, and the more I thought, the more bewildered I became. Here was a history of the first age of the church under the apostles themselves, and yet not a word said about the worship of the Holy Mother, the adoration of saints, the sacrifice of the mass, and many other things which I had been led to consider essential to salvation.

"But perhaps they are in the Epistles and Gospels," I thought, "only it is very strange that no more should be said about the Holy Mother after the first chapter, and that then she should only be spoken of in the same way as the other women."

But when I came to read the Gospels it was surprise piled upon surprise. At first it was sheer enjoyment. How lovely were those narratives into which I threw myself with an earnestness which made me forget every thing else for the time being. How real to me were the gatherings to hear the word, the feeding of the multitudes, the sower who went forth to sow, the laborers waiting to be hired and grumbling over their pay, not because they had not enough, but because some one else had as much.

But by degrees other thoughts occupied my mind and heart. I began to compare myself with the full requirements of God's holy law. I stood for the first time face to face with that awful spirit whom men call Conviction of Sin. I was shown that I was condemned under the law, and unless some way of escape were provided, there was nothing before me but destruction—nay, that I was condemned already.

My first thought was to reform myself; but it seemed to me that the more I tried the worse I grew. I am sure I never in all my life gave way so far to temper and fretfulness (always my besetting sins) as at that time. Looking back at those days I can not but wonder at the wise and tender patience of Master and Mistress Davis toward me. As for Philippa, I don't think I am uncharitable when I say that she openly exulted over every outburst. But I don't mean to speak of her more than I can help it. She was, indeed, one of those thorns in the side which seem to have no other use than to try the patience of those who are affected by them, and which only rankle the more the more they are plucked at.

Thus was I shut up under the law, and that which was ordained to life I found to be unto death. It was Margaret Hall who led me out of this prison into the light and life of heaven. She had me to stay with her under pretext of having my help in correcting the press, which I had learned to do with tolerable dexterity. She was one of those blessed saints whose very presence is comfort though they do not speak. By degrees she won from me the secret of my trouble, and then taking my hand, as it were, she led me to the fountain opened for sin, and showed me that spring of living water which has never failed me since, though, woe is me, I have many a time choked its overflow, and turned from it to those broken cisterns that can hold no water.

Oh, what a load she took from my mind. I was, as I suppose a man might be who had worn fetters ever since he could remember, and though dimly conscious of them, did not fully know their weight and hinderance till they were struck off. It was as a new creature that I came back to Master Davis's friendly roof.

But those were trying times—in some respects more trying even than the more bloody days that came under Queen Mary. Then, at least, one knew what to expect. The king was growing more and more infirm and capricious all the time, and worked changes in church and state till it took a good head to know what was heresy and treason and what was not.

Already my Lord Cromwell had been filled with the fruit of his own devices, and now, within six short months after he had been created Earl of Essex (that title which hath proved almost as unlucky to its possessor as the famous horse Sejanus), he lay in the Tower, attainted of treason, and waiting for the very block and as to which he himself had sent so many. His real offense lay in purveying to the king a wife who did not please him—the Lady Anne of Cleves, already divorced and living in her own house, treated by the king as his sister, happy in her endless tapestry work and in munching the suckets and comfits her Flemish ladies-in-waiting purveyed for her. She was not one to take any thing very much to heart which did not interfere with her bodily comfort. The king had already turned his dangerous fancy toward the ill-fated Katherine Howard, but I don't believe the Lady Anne felt one pang of jealousy thereat. She was, with all reverence, like a gentle, fat cow, perfectly content so long as she had food and drink, and the flies were not too troublesome.

But it was not the alterations in state matters and the rise and fall of one great man or another which troubled our peace. It was the dreadful uncertainty in matters of religion.

Just now, the bloody statute of the Six Articles was law, but it was enforced rigidly or not, as the king's humor was, or the influence of Archbishop Cranmer or of Bonner and Gardiner came uppermost. These two last were the moving and ruling spirits in all persecutions at this time, as they were afterward in the more bloody days of Queen Mary. They had consented to the suppression of the convents, and were even most forward in the matter, being willing, I suppose, to swim with the current so far if but they might have their way as to the reading of the Scriptures and some other matters.

They were wise enough to know that all was naught with their cause if the Bible came to be generally read; but they were not far-seeing enough to understand that the same Bible, having once been given to the people, they could no more take it back than they could bring back again the day that is past. They could not imprison or burn every one who read it, and who thought out conclusions for himself, else must they have put the whole city of London under sentence of death, as King Philip the Second of Spain did to the Netherlands. But they picked up one here and another there, and nobody felt any security, or knew but some spy was observing his movements in order to betray him.

One week the king hanged six monks, with their prior at their head, for defending a monastic life; the next, he threatened with a like fate any monk or nun who, having taken the vows of that life, should presume to marry. As his infirmities increased, his temper grew more uncertain, till at last any man seemed to take his life in his hand who had to do with the king.

Then there were great disorders every where, some rising out of religion, others from the excessive taxation which pressed heavily upon all classes. Discontent was smouldering in all quarters, and now and then broke out into open flame, as in the two Pilgrimages of Grace, and other insurrections. It is not to be denied that the Protestants, as they began to be called, were also guilty of indecencies and extravagance. If you dam up a rapid stream, though never so clear, and your dam be swept away, the first overflow will be turbid and violent, and likely enow to do mischief.

Moreover, if the people enacted ridiculous plays, and sang ribald songs in the churches, they had seen these very same things allowed, nay, encouraged by the church, in the spectacles of the Boy Bishop and the Pope of Fools—those strange and extravagant parodies of the most sacred offices of the church.

Yes, it was indeed a troublesome time, and every man who, despite the commands of the king and his ministers, continued to read the Holy Scripture, and to frame his belief and life thereby, took that life in his hand; yet many households did it, and lived happy in the midst of disaster, and peaceful on the very field where the battle was raging.

Such a household was ours. One there was, indeed, who would not enter in herself, and who would fain have hindered those who would do so. I confess I used to be afraid of Philippa at times, not that in her sober senses she would have been so base as to put the brand with her own hands to the thatch which sheltered her, but in her fits of temper there was no saying what she might do. Besides, she was one of those unhappy people to whom it seems absolutely necessary to hate something. In those days it was the Protestants. Now, she thinks I am greatly to blame in harboring poor, harmless old Father Austin; looks upon the book of Common Prayer as a remnant of popery, and upon bishops as at best very doubtful characters. She hates all Romanists and Prelatists, as she calls them, in just the same spirit that she used to hate the Scripture-readers—because they do not agree with her.

But at that time she contented herself with hating, and did no covert act, save by keeping away from the Scripture-readings—for which no one blamed her, as she made it matter of conscience, and with bitter gibes and taunts whenever the subject was introduced, and, above all, if the talk turned upon personal religion and inward experience. But as she had taken to solitude and keeping of her hours, and the like, so she was out of the way a good deal. Meantime, our household went on its way, in the midst of the commotion, like a stanch ship in a troubled sea. There was anxiety, indeed, which became sharp fear and agonized suspense, when the master of the family did not come home at the accustomed hours; but as yet, this was the worst which had befallen us.

Master Hall no more printed Bibles openly, but I knew well that they were both made and sold in secret. However, he multiplied copies of the vulgate, and of Erasmus's Paraphrase of the New Testament, so that every one who could make shift to read the very easy Latin could have one. Afterward, the universal reading even of the vulgate came to be forbidden, but it was not so at that time. People grew eager to have their children taught to read, and all the day-schools were full. Greek, too, was more and more studied, and many ladies, especially about the Court, were good Grecians. I had a great fancy to learn it myself, and made, with Margaret Hall's help, a good beginning; which, however, never came to be much more.

I was all this time growing very uneasy at my state of dependence. It was true, as Master Davis had told me at first, that God had blessed him with abundant means, but then he had a great many uses for those means. The old mother of his first wife was still living, and as she persisted in keeping up her own house, and had little or nothing whereon to do it, somebody had to do it for her. I had been in the house some weeks, and had visited her several times, before I found out that she was wholly dependent upon her son-in-law's bounty. She was only one of many pensioners. Besides, I fancy a good deal of the profit of the silk money wont in another way.

There was then in England a sort of secret society called the Christian Brothers. This society was composed of well-to-do merchants and tradesmen, for the most part, though it numbered both priests and gentlemen among its members. It had its correspondents and branches all over the country, and its object was to scatter far and wide copies of the sacred Word. As the merchant journeyed with his string of packhorses, laden with cloth, or silk, or hangings, or whatever might be his commodity, there was cunningly hidden under the bales a case or two of Bibles, Testaments, and such portions thereof as might be more easily concealed.

When he came to a town, he had usually knowledge beforehand who was like to be well-affected to the faith, or he inquired, like the disciples of old, who therein was worthy, and there he took up his abode, disposing of his merchandise, and giving of his books as he found occasion.

The truth was, that ever since the times of Master Wickliffe and the Lollards, there were those scattered about both this kingdom and Scotland, who had kept the faith and handed it down from father to son, together with some written copies of Master Wickliffe's Bible. But these copies, being gradually outworn, and becoming more and more hard to understand, from the change of language in all those years, it may be guessed how eagerly and joyfully these poor, faithful ones would welcome the Word of Life fairly imprinted, and in such a shape as could be easily hid away, if need were, or carried about when there was no danger.

I have heard old folk, who remembered far back, say that the Lollards, as men called them, were in the habit of putting certain marks and signs upon their houses which were known to no one else, and which served to guide those of them who traveled to the homes of their friends. I vouch not for the story, but 'tis like enow to be true.

Master Davis and his sons were members of this society, and I now learned that mine uncle had been a great promoter of it. Of course such service was not only perilous, but it cost a great deal in money, and brought no return as the riches of this world. I could not but notice how plain was Mistress Davis's own dress and that of her children, and how both she and Margaret did forego many of the luxuries and ornaments indulged in by others of their station. They could not carry their practice in this respect too far, however, since this very simplicity in attire and living might throw suspicion upon them.

Mistress Davis was kind enough to say that the help I gave her about the house, and the care of the little ones, did more than offset the expense she was at for me; but I knew, in truth, that help was very little, though the dear soul took pains to make many occasions for my services that I might not feel myself a burden.

I was young and strong. I was able to work, and had been blest with a good education, and it did not seem right that these good friends, on whom I had no claim, should be burdened with my maintenance. I began to cast about for some business whereby I could earn my bread, and had almost made up my mind to set up a little school, when fate, or rather Providence, (to speak like a Christian instead of a heathen), cast in my way the very thing for which I was best suited.

I have mentioned before that Mistress Davis had an elder sister who held an important place in the household of Katherine, Duchess of Suffolk. This lady, the daughter and heir of Lord Willowby by a beautiful Spanish lady, whilom maid of honor to the unfortunate Queen Katherine, had been left in ward to the Duke of Suffolk, her father's best friend. She was bred up under his care, and when she came to woman's estate, he married her.

Mistress Isabel Curtis—that was the name of Mistress Davis's sister—had been about the young lady since her infancy, and, as was natural, she still continued in her service and affection, and had a great deal to do in the management of that great household. She had been out of town with her mistress at the duke's new manor of Hereham, given him by the king in exchange for the suppressed priory of Leiston; but the family were now at their house in London, and on the first occasion possible, Mistress Curtis had come to visit her sister, between whom and herself there subsisted a devoted affection not often seen—more's the pity—in that relation.

I had just come home from Master Hall's, where I had been helping Margaret correct the sheets of Erasmus his Paraphrase. (I was not allowed to help in the work done by the secret press, lest I should be brought into trouble thereby.) I had also been giving a lesson on the lute to Mistress Alice, Andrew's wife, and I was feeling very elate because her mother, a stately dame, had rewarded me with a broad Spanish gold piece for the pains I had taken in teaching Mistress Alice some old ditty which the lady had liked in her youth. I heard below that there was a guest in the parlor, and not liking to intrude unasked, I was passing to my room, when Mistress Davis called me in and presented me to her sister. I made my courtesy, and fell in love with her then and there, even as I had done with Mistress Davis.

Mistress Curtis would have made two of her little sister. She was tall and inclining to be stout, but not unbecomingly so. Her features, though large, were regular, her mouth somewhat thin, her chin beautifully formed. But it was her eyes that gave the chief beauty to her face. I hardly ever heard any two people agree about their color. They were, in fact, gray, but the pupils were so large and had such a trick of dilating that they looked black. Like all the gray eyes I have ever seen, they had great powers of expression, and a wonderful keenness and brilliancy, which seemed to look one through and through. Associating, as she had always done with great people, and having such a responsible charge, her manner had in it something of command, yet not mingled with aught haughty or supercilious. I never saw the like of Mistress Curtis before, and I am quite sure I never shall again.

She received me very graciously, and, Mistress Davis having invited me to do so, I fetched my work and took a stool near the window. I was at that time bestowing all my skill on the embroidery of a set of kerchiefs and mufflers for Mistress Davis—and I may say, without vanity, that I was not ashamed to show my white seam and sprigs with any body.

Mistress Curtis looked at and commended my work, and then pursued her conversation with her sister.

"And so Mrs. Anne is married!" said Mistress Davis. "I trust she hath done well."

"Why yes, I think so!" answered Mistress Curtis. "The match is, perhaps, somewhat below her degree, since Master Agnew is but a yeoman born, but then he hath a fair estate and is himself a man of good conditions. Mrs. Anne was ever one who loved housewifery and a country life, and she hath an easy, patient temper. Yes, I think she may be very happy."

"And who hath filled her place?"

"Nobody as yet. The Duke will have none but gentlewomen about his wife, at least in her chamber, and her Grace would like some young lady who can read aloud in Latin and English, and hath skill with the lute and voice. She loves music above any one I ever saw, though she does not sing."

I could not help looking eagerly up at this. Mistress Davis saw it, and smiled.

"Here is Loveday thinking, 'Now that is just the place for me,'" said she. "Were you not, chick?"

I confessed that some such matter had been in my thought.

"And why should it be in your thought?" asked Mistress Curtis, a little severely, as it seemed. "Are you not happy and content with my sister?"

"More than happy, madam," I answered. "I should be the basest of ingrates were it otherwise. But Master and Mistress Davis have many burdens on their hands already, and it seems not right that I should add to them, being young and strong, and having (under your favor, madam) a good education, which ought to stand in stead in earning a living."

"Why that is speaking well, and like a sensible woman," said Mistress Curtis. "How old are you?"

I told her that I was eighteen.

"It is full young, her Grace herself being so youthful; and yet better the follies of youth than those of age," she added, in a musing tone.

"Loveday is not perfect more than other young people," said Mistress Davis; "but yet I think she hath as few of these follies as fall to the lot of most maidens. I hope my own wenches * may grow up as good and towardly as she. But Loveday, why should you wish to leave us?"

"Only because I would not be a burden on your hands, dear aunt," (so I had called her of late, by her own desire). "You have many to do for who are really helpless from age and sickness, and I cannot but feel that I am robbing some such person when I eat the bread of idleness in your house."

* Wench and wretch were terms of endearment in those days, and the
former is so still in some parts of England. Sir Thomas More uses
it to his daughters.

"Oh, ho! I see that we can think for ourselves, and that to purpose," said Mistress Curtis, with a smile. Hers was one of those faces in which the eyes smile before the lips. "But what of your family, damsel? Are you of gentle blood?"

I satisfied her on that point. Indeed the Corbets are among the oldest of our old Devon families, and go back far beyond the Conqueror. (N. B.—'Tis no great wonder he conquered, seeing how many people's ancestors came over with him.) Then she would have me read and sing for her. Being naturally somewhat agitated, I did not acquit myself as well as usual, but Mistress Curtis seemed to be satisfied.

"I see, indeed, that you have been well taught," said she. "You are convent-bred, you say. Where?"

I told her. "It was a good house," she said, musingly: "I much wonder, sister, what young ladies will do for schools of education now that the convents are all gone. 'Twere a good deed for some one to set up a school where such might board and study under good mistresses. Well, my young lady, I like your conditions, so far as I see them. With my sister's permission, I will now ask you to withdraw, that I may talk the matter over with her."

Mistress Davis called me aside and gave me some commission or other about dainties for the supper table. I had often exercised my skill in this way since I came to London. I went to the kitchen and asked Madge, the cook, to have all things in readiness for me, and then retiring to my closet, I prayed earnestly that all things might be ordered for the best. Then, leaving the matter where it belonged, I betook myself to the making of such a device in blanc-manger as should adorn the supper table and do honor to our guest.

After the meal was over and Mistress Curtis had departed, Master and Mistress Davis called me into the parlor and bade me sit down. They told me that while I was most welcome to remain in their house and family as long as I needed a home, yet they could not but commend the spirit which led me to wish to earn mine own living.

"It is not every great family to which I should like to send a young lady," said Master Davis, "but the Duke of Suffolk's household hath ever had a reputation for man-loving and godliness."

"What like is his Grace?" I ventured to ask.

Master Davis smiled.

"Like a knight of the past age," said he. "More I will not tell you. The present Duchess is very young, but she hath been well brought up and comes of a good stock. She shows her sense in keeping my good sister Curtis at the head of her household. Well, then, my child, you shall wait upon the Duchess to-morrow, and if you are mutually pleased, you shall take the place my sister offers you. But remember, Loveday, that you are always to have a home in this house."

I thanked him for his goodness as well as I could—for the rebellious tears would come in spite of me—saying I should never forget the kindness shown me in that house, and Mistress Hall's goodness.

"The obligation hath been mutual, my dear," said Mistress Davis. "I do not know what the children will say, especially Bess and Helen."

"And you will let me know so soon as you hear from mine uncle," said I.

"Yes, indeed," answered Master Davis, but he sighed and the sigh was echoed by his wife.

I knew that he had little hope of ever hearing from Gabriel Corbet again. Those were days (as they are still abroad) when a man could easily drop out of sight and never be found or heard of again.

I have thought since that one reason why Master Davis was so ready to let me go, was a consideration for mine own safety. The Duke of Suffolk was in great favor with Henry, and was, indeed, his brother-in-law as well as god-father to the little Prince Edward, and he was one of the few men who dared cross the King's humor now and then. Gardiner hated him, but he was rather too high a quarry for that foul kite to fly at, bold as he was in those days.