It Might Have Been. Emily Sarah Holt

apparent commotion. Aubrey reined in his horse accordingly, as he passed a gentleman in clerical attire, which at that date implied a cassock, bands, and black stockings. Had Aubrey known it, the narrowness of the bands, the tall hat, the pointed shoes, and the short garters, also indicated that the clergyman in question was a Puritan.

      “Pray you, Sir, is there news of import come?” inquired the youth: “or what means this ado?”

      The clergyman stopped suddenly, and looked up at his questioner.

      “What means it?” he said sadly. “Friend, the great bell of Paul’s was rung this morrow.”

      “I cry you mercy, Sir. Being a countryman, I take not your meaning.”

      “The great bell of Paul’s,” explained the stranger, “tolls never but for one thing, and hath been silent for over forty years.”

      “Good lack! not the plague, I trust?” cried Aubrey.

      “Would it were no worse! Nay, this means that we are sheep without a shepherd—that she who hath led us for three-and-forty years, who under God saved us from Pope and Spaniard, can lead us no more for ever. Lad, no worser news could come to Englishmen than this. Queen Elizabeth hath passed away.”

      So, under the shadow of that dread sorrow, and that perilous uncertain future, they entered their new home.

Chapter Three.

       Table of Contents

      How it first began.

      “O Conspiracy!

       Sham’st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night,

       When evils are most free? Oh, then, by day,

       Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough

       To mask thy monstrous visage?”

       Shakespeare.

      The new home was the midmost of three contiguous houses, standing on the western side of King Street, and nearly opposite to what is now the entrance to New Palace Yard. They were a little larger and more pretentious than most of the houses in this street, and a goodsized garden ran backwards from each towards Saint James’s Park. As every house had then its name and a signboard to exhibit it—numbers being not yet applied to houses—these were no exception to the rule. That one of the trio nearest to the Abbey displayed a golden fish upon its signboard; the middle one hung out a white bear; while from the northernmost swung a panel representing an extremely stiff and angular creature apparently intended to suggest an angel. The young people made merry over their sign, Aubrey insisting that Hans was the White Bear, and Lettice retorting that it was Aubrey himself.

      Hans and Aubrey sprang from their horses at the door; and while the latter rang the bell, the former busied himself in helping the ladies to alight. Whether any one would be inside the house was a problem requiring solution; and they thought it worth while to ascertain this before going further. In a moment, quick steps were heard approaching, and the door was opened by a woman who hardly showed herself behind it.

      Lady Louvaine came in first, leaning on Hans.

      “Good evening,” she said to the portress. “It was good of my Lord Oxford to provide—nay! Charity!”

      “Ay, Madam, it’s me,” said the familiar voice of the old servant, whom her mistress believed she had left behind in Cumberland.

      “Why, old friend! when earnest thou hither?”

      “You’d best sit you down afore you hear folks their catechisms,” said Charity, coolly, leading the way to a pleasant parlour hung and upholstered in green, where a fire was burning on the hearth, and a large cushioned chair stood beside it. “When did I come? Well, let’s see?—it was o’ Tuesday last.”

      “But how?” queried her mistress, in a tone which was a mixture of astonishment and perplexity.

      “Same how as I get to most places, Madam—on my feet.”

      “You walked to London, Charity?”

      “Ay, I did. I’m good for fifteen miles at a stretch.”

      “And whence gat you the money for your lodging?”

      Charity laughed. “I never paid a halfpenny for lodging nobut (Note 1) once, and that was th’ last night afore I got here. Some nights I lay in a barn upo’ th’ hay: but most on ’em I got took in at a farm-house, and did an hour or two’s work for ’em i’ th’ morn to pay for my lodging and breakfast. But some on ’em gave it me right out for nought—just for company like. I bought my victuals, of course: but I should ha’ wanted them wherever I’d been.”

      “And what led you to wish for life in London, Charity?”

      “Eh! bless you, I want none to live i’ London. It’s a great, smoky, dirty place.”

      “Then what did you want?”

      “I wanted yo’,” said Charity, with a nod at her mistress. “Lady Lettice, yo’ll not turn me away? If things is so bad you cannot afford to keep me, you shalln’t: I can earn enough by my spinning half th’ day, and serve you i’ t’ other half. But yo’ll want two: I’m sure Rachel can ne’er do all th’ work, and you’d best have me, for nob’ry else ’ll put so much heart into ’t as I shall. Do let me stop, for I cannot abear to leave you.”

      It was a moment before Lady Louvaine could speak. Then she held out her hand to Charity.

      “My faithful Charity, I will not turn thee away! So long as I have two loaves of bread, thou mayest be sure of one.”

      “Thank God, that’s all right!” said Charity with a sigh of evident relief. “We’s (we shall) get on famous, Rachel and me, and nother on us ’ll feel as if we’d been cast away of a desert island, as I’ve been feeling afore yo’ come. Eh, but it is a town, is this!”

      “Charity, I wonder how you won in the house,” said Edith. “My Lord Oxford—”

      “I’ve got a bit more gumption, Mrs. Edith, than you credit me with. I brought a letter to my Lord, or I should ne’er ha’ looked to get in else.”

      “A letter!—from whom?”

      “Fro’ Mrs. Joyce Morrell, to tell him who I were, and a bit more, I reckon.”

      “I asked my Lord Oxford of his goodness to speak to some upholder (upholsterer) to send in a little necessary furnishing,” said Lady Louvaine, looking round, “such as were strictly needful, and should last us till we could turn us about: but methinks he hath done somewhat more than that.”

      “You’ll turn you round middling easy, Madam,” answered Charity. “Th’ upholder were bidden to put th’ house to rights all through, and send the bill to Mistress Joyce. She gave me lodging fro’ Setterday to Monday, and bade me see to ’t that yo’ had all things comfortable. ‘Don’t split sixpences,’ she saith; ‘the bigger the charges the better, so long as they be for true comfort and not for gimcracks.’ So, Madam, I hope we’ve hit your Ladyship’s liking, for me and Mrs. Joyce, we tried hard—me at choosing, and she at paying. So that’s how it were.”

      And dropping a quick courtesy, Charity departed with too much alacrity for thanks.

      Lady Louvaine’s eyes followed her.

      “The lines are fallen unto us in pleasant places,” quoted Edith, softly.

      “Ay,” answered her mother. “And the pillar of the cloud hath gone before.”

      Charity found Rachel in the kitchen, carrying a carpet-bag and a great bundle, and gazing round her with a bewildered air.

      “Well, lass,