It Might Have Been: The Story of the Gunpowder Plot

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  It might have been, by Emily Sarah Holt.

  _______________________________________________________________________This book is mainly about the treasonable plot to blow up Parliament, bymining through to its lowest floor, or basement, from an adjacent house.This plot was hatched by a number of Catholic gentlemen, and was quiteingenious. These people came from a wide area of England, and numberedabout thirty. One point of interest to your reviewer is that one of theplaces where they met, or retreated to when not personally involved inmining, was a house called White Webbs, just on what is now the northernlimit of London. This house is now in use as a very nice and popularrestaurant, well known to me. It was at the time a disused huntinglodge in Enfield Chase.

  The discovery of the plot, and the execution of its participants iscelebrated every year in Britain, with great displays of fireworks, on aday (5th November) named after one of the plotters, Guy Fawkes. It isinteresting to learn so much more about the background of this plot.

  Emily Holt wrote a large number of books with a historical background.This book is the third of a series involving a family from Derwent-waterin the north of England. The link with the Gunpowder plot is ratherweak, but worth reading if you enjoyed the first two books of theseries. On the other hand the majority of the book deals with the plot,and is very well researched, and told in a very plausible manner.

  As usual with this author you will find that there are a good manyfootnotes, which we have done our best to make available but notintrusive. There is a great deal of conversation in ElizabethanEnglish, but this will not bother you if you are used to reading theplays of Shakespeare. Finally, there are a few short extracts fromcontemporary letters, in which the spelling would not pass muster thesedays, but there were no real standards of spelling in those times. Ina very few cases in these letters we have adjusted the spelling to giveyou, the reader, greater ease in comprehending them.

  You may care to make this book into an audiobook, in which case it willtake about 12.5 hours to play. We hope you will do this because it willmake it much easier for you to enjoy the book.

  ________________________________________________________________________IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT.

  PREFACE.

  "There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof arethe ways of death." That is one of the main lessons to be learned fromthe strange story of the Gunpowder Plot.

  The narrative here given, so far as its historical portion is concerned,is taken chiefly from original and contemporaneous documents. It hasbeen carefully kept to facts--in themselves more interesting than anyfiction--and scarcely a speech or an incident has been admitted, howeversmall, for which authority could not be adduced.

  Those of my Readers who have made the acquaintance of _Lettice Eden_,and _Joyce Morrell's Harvest_, will meet some old friends in this tale.

  CHAPTER ONE.

  THE LAST NIGHT IN THE OLD HOME.

  "Which speaks the truth--fair Hope or ghastly Fear? God knoweth, and not I. Only, o'er both, Love holds her torch aloft, And will, until I die."

  "Fiddle-de-dee! Do give over snuffing and snivelling and sobbing, andtell me if you want your warm petticoat in the saddle-bag. You'd make asaint for to swear!" More sobs, and one or two disjointed words, wereall that came in answer. The sobbing sister, who was the younger of thepair, wore widow's mourning, and was seated in a rocking-chair near thewindow of a small, but very comfortable parlour. Her complexion waspale and sallow, her person rather slightly formed, and her wholeappearance that of a frail, weak little woman, who required perpetualcare and shielding. The word require has two senses, and it is hereused in both. She needed it, and she exacted it.

  The elder sister, who stood at the parlour door, was about as unlike theyounger as could well be. She was quite a head taller, rosy-cheeked,sturdily-built, and very brisk in her motions. Disjointed though hersister's words were, she took them up at once.

  "You'll have your thrum hat, did you say? [Note 1.] Where's the goodof crying over it? You've got ne'er a thing to cry for."

  Another little rush of sobs replied, amid which a quick ear could detectthe words "unfeeling" and "me a poor widow."

  "Unfeeling, marry!" said the elder sister. "I'm feeling a whole warmpetticoat for you. And tears won't ward off either cramp or rheumatism,my dear--don't think it; but a warm petticoat may. Will you have it, orno?"

  "Oh, as you please!" was the answer, in a tone which might have suitedarrangements for the speaker's funeral.

  "Then I please to put it in the saddle-bag," cheerily responded theelder. "Lettice, come with me, maid. I can find thee work above in thechamber."

  A slight sound behind the screen, at the farther end of the parlour,which sheltered the widow from any draught proceeding from the window,was followed by the appearance of a young girl not hitherto visible.She was just eighteen years of age, and resembled neither of the elderladies, being handsomer than either of them had ever been, yet notsufficiently so to be termed beautiful. A clear complexion, rosy butnot florid, golden-brown hair and plenty of it, dark grey eyes shaded bydark lashes, and a pleasing, good-humoured, not self-consciousexpression--this was Lettice, who said in a clear musical voice, "Yes,Aunt," and stood ready for further orders.

  As the door shut upon the aunt and niece, the former said, as if to thesister left behind in the parlour--

  "A poor widow! Ay, forsooth, poor soul, that you are! for you have madeof your widowhood so black a pall that you cannot see God's blue skythrough it. Dear heart, but why ever they called her Faith, and meTemperance! I've well-nigh as little temperance as she has faith, andneither of them would break a cat's back."

  By this time they were up in the bedchamber; and Lettice was kept busyfolding, pinning, tying up, and smoothing out one garment after another,until at last her aunt said--

  "Now, Lettice, bring thine own gear, such as thou wilt need till welight at Minster Lovel, for there can we shift our baggage. Thy blackbeaver hat thou wert best to journey in, for though it be good, 'tiswell worn; and thy grey kirtle and red gown. Bring the blue gown, andthe tawny kirtle with the silver aglets [tags, spangles] pendant, andthy lawn rebatoes, [turn-over collar] and a couple of kerchiefs, and thysatin hat Thou wert best leave out a warm kerchief for the journey."

  "And my velvet hood, Aunt, and the green kirtle?"

  "Nay, I have packed them, not to be fetched out till we reach London.Thou mayest have thy crimson sleeves withal, an' it list thee."

  Lettice fetched the things, and her aunt packed them in one of the greatleather trunks, with beautiful neatness. As she smoothed out the bluekirtle, she asked--"Lettice, art thou sorry to be gone?"

  "Truly, Aunt, I scarce know," was the answer. "I am sorry to leave AuntMilisent and my cousins, and Aunt Frances,"--but Aunt Frances was anevident after-thought--"and I dare say I shall be sorry to leave all theplaces I know, when the time comes. But then so many of us are going,--you, and Grandmother, and Aunt Edith, and Cousin Aubrey, and AuntFaith--and there are so many new places to see, that on the whole Idon't think I am very sorry."

  "No, very like not, child."

  "Not now," said a third voice, softly, and Lettice looked up at anotheraunt whose presence she had not previously noticed. This was certainlyno sister of the two plain women whose acquaintance we have just made.Temperance Murthwaite had outlived her small share of good looks, andFaith's had long since been washed away in tears; but Edith Louvaine hadbeen extremely beautiful, and yet was so notwithstanding her fortyyears. Her hair was da
rk brown, with a golden gleam when the sun caughtit, and her eyes a deep blue, almost violet. Her voice was sweet andquiet--of that type of quietness which hides behind it a reserve ofpower and feeling. "At eighteen, Lettice, we are not commonly sorry toleave home. Much sorrier at thirty-eight: and at eighty, I think, thereis little to leave but graves."

  "Ay, but they're not all dug by the sexton," remarked Temperance,patting the blue kirtle to make it lie in the hole she had left for it."At any rate, the sorest epitaphs are oft invisible save to them thathave eyes to see them."

  Edith did not answer, and the work went on. At length, suddenly, thequestion was asked--

  "Whence came you, Edith?"

  "From Mere Lea, whither I have been with Mother and Aubrey, to sayfarewell."

  "And for why came you hither? Not to say farewell, I reckon."

  "Nay," replied Edith, smiling. "I thought I might somewhat help you,Temperance. We must all try to spare poor Faith."

  "Spare poor Faith!" repeated Temperance, in a sarcastic tone. "Tell youwhat, Edith Louvaine,--if you'd think a bit less of sparing her, andshe'd think a bit more of sparing you, it would be a sight better forpoor Faith and poor Edith too."

  "I? I don't want to be spared," answered Edith.

  "No, you don't, and that's just it. And Faith does. And she oughtn't.And you oughtn't."

  "Nay, Temperance. Remember, she is a widow."

  "Small chance of my forgetting it. Doesn't she tell me so six dozentimes a day? Ask Faith to do any thing she loveth not, and she's alwaysa widow. I've had my thoughts whether I could not be an orphan when I'mwanted to do something disagreeable. What think you?"

  "I think your bark is worse than your bite, Temperance," said Edith,smiling.

  "I'm about weary of barking," answered Temperance, laying smooth a pieceof cobweb lawn. "I think I'll bite, one of these days. Deary me, butthere are widows of divers sorts! If ever there were what Paul calls `awidow indeed,' it is my Lady Lettice; and she doesn't make a screen ofit, as Faith does, against all the east winds that blow. Well, well!Give me that pin-case, Lettice, and the black girdle yonder; I lacksomewhat to fill up this corner. What hour must we be at Selwick,Edith?"

  "At five o' the clock the horses are bidden."

  "Very good. You'll bide to supper?"

  "Nay, not without I can help you."

  "You'll not help me without you'll tell Faith she's a snivellinglazy-bones, and that you'll not, I know. Go and get your beauty-sleep--and comfort Lady Lettice all you can."

  When Edith had departed, and the packing was finished, the aunt andniece went down to supper. It consisted of Polony sausages, sweetmeats,and an egg-pie--a Lancashire dainty, which Rachel the cook occasionallysent up, for she was a native of that county. During the entire meal,Faith kept up a slow rain of lamentations, for her widowhood, the sadnecessity of leaving her home, and the entire absence of sympathy whichshe experienced in all around her: till at last her sister inquired--

  "Faith, will you have any more pie?"

  "N-o," said Faith with a sob, having eaten nearly half of it.

  "Nor any more sausage?"

  "Oh no!" she answered, heaving a weary sigh.

  "Nor sucketts [sweetmeats; subsequently spelt _succadet_] neither?"

  Faith shook her head dolefully.

  "Then I'll help you to a little of one other thing, which you needsorely; and that's a bit of advice."

  Faith moaned behind her handkerchief.

  "As to quitting home, that's your own choice; so don't go and pretend tofret over it. And as to sparing you, you've been spared a deal toomuch, and I've been a fool to do it. And just bethink you, Faith, thatif we are now to make one family with my Lady Lettice and Edith, you'dbest be thinking how you can spare them. My Lady Lettice is a dealnewer widow than you, and she's over seventy years on her back, andyou've but forty--"

  "Thirty-nine," corrected Faith in a choked voice.

  "And she's leaving her home not from choice, but because she has nochoice; and she has spent over fifty years in it, and is like an old oakwhich can ill bear uprooting. I only trust those Newcastle Louvaineswill get what they deserve. I say it's a burning shame, never to comeforward nor claim aught for fifty years, until Sir Aubrey and both hissons were gone, and then down they pounce like vultures on the widow andher orphan grandson, and set up a claim, forsooth, to the estate--afterall these years! I don't believe they have any right--or at any rate,they've no business to have it: and if my Lady Lettice had been of mymind, she'd have had a fight for it, instead of giving in to them; andif Aubrey Banaster had had a scrap of gumption, he'd have seen to it.He is the eldest man of the family, and they're pretty nigh all lads buthim. Howbeit, let that pass. Only I want you, Faith, to think of it,and not go treating my Lady Lettice to a dish of tears every meal shesits down to, or she'll be sorry you're her daughter-in-law, if sheisn't now; and if her name were Temperance Murthwaite it's much if shewouldn't be."

  "Oh, you can say what you like--you always do--"

  "Beg your pardon, Faith; I very generally don't."

  "You haven't a bit of feeling for a poor widow. I hope you may never bea widow--"

  "Thank you; I'll have a care of that. Now, Lettice! jump up, maid, anddon your hat and mantle, and I will run down with you to Selwick whilethere's a bit of light. My Lady Lettice thought you'd best be thereto-night, so you could be up early and of some use to your Aunt Edith."

  It was not Temperance Murthwaite's custom to let the grass grow underher feet, and the three miles which lay between the little house atKeswick and Selwick Hall were put behind her and Lettice when anotherhour was over.

  Selwick Hall stood on the bank of Derwentwater, and was the residence ofLettice's grandmother, the widowed Lady Louvaine, her daughter Edith,her grandson Aubrey, and Hans Floriszoon, the orphan nephew of an oldfriend, Mynheer Stuyvesant, who had been adopted into the family when alittle child. It was also theoretically the abode of Lettice's AuntFaith, who was Aubrey's mother, and who practically flitted from the onehouse to the other at her rather capricious will. It had become herhabit to depart to Keswick whenever her feelings were outraged atSelwick; and as Faith's feelings were of that order which any thingmight outrage, and nobody knew of it till they were outraged, her abodeduring the last six years had been mainly with the sister who neverpetted her, but from whom she would stand ten times more than from thetenderer hearts at Selwick.

  Lettice's hand was on the door when it opened, and there stood herCousin Aubrey.

  "Good even, Aunt Temperance," said he. "You are right in time forsupper."

  "Thank you, Master Aubrey Late-hours," replied she; "'tis a bit too latefor my supper, and Lettice's likewise, without she can eat two of anight. How is it with my Lady Lettice? I hope, lad, you help andcomfort her all you can."

  Aubrey looked rather astonished.

  "Comfort her?" he said. "She's all right."

  "How old are you, Aubrey?"

  "Why, Aunt Temperance, you know I was twenty last month."

  "One makes blunders betimes, lad. That speech of thine sounded aboutten."

  "What mean you, Aunt Temperance?"

  "Nay, lad, if God have not given thee eyes and brains, I shall beill-set to do it.--Run in, Lettice. _No_, I'm not coming--not whileto-morrow morning. Remember to be up early, and help all you can--bothof you. Good even."

  Temperance shut the door, and they heard her quick foot tread sharplydown the gravel walk.

  "I say, 'tis jolly moving house, isn't it?" said Aubrey.

  "I can't think why Aunt Temperance supposes that Grandmother or any bodyshould want comforting."

  "Well, we are young, and she is old," replied Lettice; "I suppose oldfolks care more about those things, perhaps."

  "Oh, 'tis but because they are lazy and have the rheumatism," saidAubrey, laughing. "Beside, Grandmother cares not about things likeMother. Mother's for ever fretting, but Grandmother's always cheery."

  The cous
ins left the deep whitewashed porch and the oak-panelled hall,and went forward into the chief sitting-room of the house, known as thegreat parlour. The word "withdrawing-room" was still restricted topalaces and palatial mansions, and had not descended so low as to acountry gentleman's house like Selwick Hall. The great parlour was alarge room with a floor of polished oak, hung with tapestry in which theprevailing colour was red, and the chairs held cushions of red velvet.On the tiled hearth a comfortable fire burned softly away, and in alarge chair of dark carved wood beside it, propped up with cushions ofred velvet, sat an old lady of seventy-six, looking the very picture ofcomfort and sweetness. And though "her golden hairs time had to silverturned," and she was now a widow indeed, and desolate, some of myreaders may recognise their old friend Lettice Eden. Her eyes, though alittle sunken, kept their clear blue, and her complexion was still fairand peach-like, with a soft, faint rose-colour, like a painting onchina. She had a loving smile for every one, and a gentle, soothingvoice, which the children said half cured the little troubles whereinthey always ran to Grandmother. Aunt Faith was usually too deep in herown troubles, and Aunt Edith, though always kind, was also invariablybusy; while there was considerable hesitation in making an appeal toAunt Temperance, who might answer it with a box on the ear instead of acomforting kiss, or at best had an awkward way of turning the tables onthe plaintiff by making him out to be the offender instead of thedefendant. But nobody ever hesitated to appeal to Grandmother, whosevery rebukes fell as softly as rose-leaves, and were always so justlydeserved that they had twice the effect of those which came fromperpetual fault-finders. Aubrey had grown up in this atmosphere, but itwas much newer to his cousin Lettice, the daughter of Dudley Murthwaiteand Helen Louvaine. Until she was twelve years old, Lettice had dweltwith her father at Skiddaw Force, her Aunt Temperance having suppliedthe place of the dead mother who had faded from her child's memory, forHelen passed away when her daughter was only two years old. It had notbeen exactly Dudley's choice which had placed Temperance in thatposition. He would have preferred his wife's youngest sister, Edith, tofill the vacant place of mother to his little girl; but Edith firmlythough kindly declined to make her home away from Selwick Hall. Thenatural explanation of course was that she, being the only unmarrieddaughter of the house, preferred to remain with her parents. Edith saidso, and all her friends repeated it, and thought it very natural andproper. And no one knew, except God and Edith, that the reason givenwas only half the truth, and that the last place in this world whichEdith Louvaine could take was the place of that dead sister Helen whohad so unconsciously taken the one thing which Edith coveted forherself. Thus thrown back on one of his own sisters, Dudley tried nextto persuade Faith to make her home with him. It might have been betterfor Faith if she had done so. But she liked the more luxurious life ofSelwick Hall, where she had only to represent herself as tired or poorlyto have any exertion taken for her by some one else; and she was one ofthose unconscious impostors who begin by imposing on themselves.Whatever she wished to do, she was always capable of persuading herselfthat she ought to do. Faith therefore declined to remove to herbrother's house. The last resource was Temperance, who, when appealedto, averred herself perfectly ready to go wherever she was most wanted.One baggage-horse would be enough for her luggage, she thanked goodness;she had two gowns for winter and two for summer, and no reasonable womanought to have any more. As to ruffs and puffs, cuffs and muffs, shetroubled herself with none of those ridiculous vanities. A plain lacedbodice and skirt were good enough to work in, and a pair of stout shoesto keep her out of the mire, with a hat and kerchief for outdoor wear,and a warm cloak for cold weather. Her miscellaneous possessions werelimited to a big work-basket, two silver spoons and a goblet, and threebooks--namely, a copy of the four Gospels, a Prayer-book, and Luther onthe Lord's Prayer. Packing and unpacking were small matters. In thesecircumstances, and Temperance's change of residence was the affair of anafternoon. Six years afterwards her brother Dudley died; andTemperance, taking into consideration the facts that Skiddaw Force was avery lonely place, having no house within some miles save a few isolatedcottages of charcoal-burners and shepherds; that a small house atKeswick belonged to Lettice; and that the child's grand-parents on themother's side were desirous to have her near them, let the house atSkiddaw Force, and came to live at Keswick.

  The family at Selwick Hall had once been much larger than now. All weregone but these few--Milisent to another home; Anstace, Walter, and Helenlay in the churchyard, and Ned, the father of young Aubrey, under thewaves of the North Atlantic; and then Mynheer Stuyvesant, the old Dutchgentleman who had been driven from his own land for the faith's sake,and having been the boys' tutor, had stayed for love after necessity wasover, took his last journey to the better country; and dear, honest,simple Cousin Bess Wolvercot, friend and helper of all, went to receiveher reward, with--

  "Nothing to leave but a worn-out frame, And a name without a stain; Nothing to leave but an empty place, That nothing could fill again--"

  And after that, Lady Lettice felt herself growing old. The eveningshadows crept further, and her right hand in household affairs was gone;but with the constant love and aid of Edith, she held on her way, untilthe sorest blow of all fell on her, and the husband who had been evercounsellor and comforter and stay, left her side for the continuingCity. Since then, Lettice Louvaine had been simply waiting for the daywhen she should join him again, and in the interim trying throughgrowing infirmities to "do the next thing,"--remembering the wordsuttered so long ago by his beloved cousin Anstace, that some day thenext step would be the last step.

  When Sir Aubrey Louvaine died, at the age of seventy-nine, two yearsbefore the story opens, Aubrey, his grandson and namesake, became theowner of Selwick Hall: but being under age, every thing was left in thehands of his grandmother.

  The pang of Lady Louvaine's bereavement was still fresh when anotherblow fell on her. Her husband had inherited Selwick from a distantcousin, known in the neighbourhood as the Old Squire. The Old Squire'stwo sons, Nicholas and Hugh, had predeceased him, Sir Aubrey had takenpeaceable possession of the estate, and no one ever doubted his titlefor fifty years, himself least of all. Three months after his death,Lady Louvaine was astounded to receive a lawyer's letter, claiming theSelwick lands on behalf of one Oswald Louvaine of Newcastle, a young manwho asserted himself to be the grandson of the long-deceased Hugh. Hisdocumentary proofs were all in order, his witnesses were numerous andpositive, and Lady Louvaine possessed no counter-proof of any kind torebut this unheard-of claim. After a vain search among her husband'spapers, and a consultation with such of her friends and relatives as shejudged suitable, she decided not to carry the matter into a court oflaw, but to yield peaceable possession to young Oswald, on considerationof his giving her a writ of immunity from paying back dues of any kind,which indeed it would have been quite out of her power to discharge.Sir Aubrey's income was comfortably sufficient for the family wants, butthere was little to spare when both ends had met. Mr Oswald acceptedthe terms as an immense favour on his part; and at the age ofseventy-six Lady Louvaine was deprived of the home wherein she had dweltfor fifty-six years, and summoned like Abraham to go forth into the landwhich God would show her.

  Where to go was the next question. Her daughter Milisent, with herhusband Robert Lewthwaite, would gladly have received her, and imploredher to come to them; but nine children, a full house, and a smallincome, barred the way in that direction. No offer of a home came fromRed Banks, where the children of her eldest daughter Anstace lived, andwhere the income was twice as large as at Mere Lea, while the family didnot amount to half the number. Temperance Murthwaite trudged up toSelwick to offer the tiny house which was part of Lettice's littlepatrimony, actually proposing herself to go to service, and leaveLettice in her grandmother's care. This Faith regarded as a cruelinjury, and Lady Louvaine would not hear of it. From herdaughter-in-law. Mrs Walter Louvaine, at Kendal, came asweetly-perfumed and swe
etly-worded letter, wherein the writer offered--a thousand apologies, and a dozen excuses for not receiving her dear andrevered mother. Her grief in having so to write, she assured them, wasincalculable and inconsolable. She begged that it might be taken intoconsideration that Diana was shortly to be married, and would require atrousseau--which, she did not add, comprised a pound of gold lace, andsix pairs of silk stockings at two guineas the pair: that Montague,being in a nobleman's household, was an appalling expense to her; thatthe younger boys were growing up and would require situations found forthem, while Jane and Frances would some day need portioning: all whichfacts were so many heavy burdens,--and had not the Apostle said that hewho neglected to provide for his own was worse than an infidel? LadyLouvaine received this letter with a slight sigh, a gentle smile, and"Poor Frances!" But the usually calm, sunny temper of Edith was notproof against it. She tore the letter in two and flung the fragmentsinto the fire.

  "Edith, my dear daughter!" ejaculated her astonished mother.

  "Mother, I can't stand it!" was the response. "I must either do this orsomething worse. And to drag in the Apostle Paul as a prop for suchhypoc--I'll just go and churn, and perhaps I can talk like a Christianwhen I come back!"

  Such things as these did not move Lady Louvaine. But there were twothings which did move her, even to tears. The first was when Hansbrought her a little box in which lay five silver pieces, entreating herto accept them, such as they were--and she found after closecross-examination that part of the money was the boy's savings to buycherished books, and part the result of the sale of his solitaryvaluable possession, a pair of silver buckles. The other took placewhen notice was given to all the servants. Each received his or herwages, and a little token of remembrance, with bow or courtesy, and anexpression of regret on leaving so kind a mistress, mingled with goodwishes for her future welfare: all but one. That one was Charity, theunder-housemaid from Pendle. Charity rolled up her arms in her apron,and said curtly--"Nay!"

  "But, Charity, I _owe_ you this," responded her mistress in somesurprise.

  "If you're bound to reckon up, my Lady, betwixt you and me, there mun besomewhat set down o' tother side o' th' book," announced Charitysturdily. "Yo' mun mind you 'at yo' took me ba'at [without] acommendation, because nob'ry [nobody] 'd have me at after MistressWatson charged me wi' stealing her lace fall, 'at she found at afteramongst her kerchiefs; that's a hundred pound to th' good. And yo'nursed me through th' fever--that's another. And yo' held me back fro'wedding wi' yon wastrel [scoundrel] Nym Thistlethwaite, till I'd seen abit better what manner of lad he were, and so saved me fro' being apoor, bruised, heart-broke thing like their Margery is now, 'at he didwed wi'--and that counts for five hundred at least. That's sevenhundred pound, Madam, and I've nobut twelve i' th' world--I'm bankrupt.So, if you please, we'll have no reckonings, or I shall come off warst.And would you please to tell me when you look to be i' London town, andwhere you'll 'light first?"

  "My good Charity! they named thee not ill," answered Lady Louvaine. "Itrust to be in London the end of March--nigh on Lady Day; and I light atthe White Bear, in the King's Street, Westminster."

  "Pray you, Madam, how many miles is it hence?"

  "'Tis about two hundred miles, Charity."

  For a moment Charity was silent. Then she said, "An't like you, Madam,I'd fain go the first o' March."

  Lady Louvaine was a little surprised, for she had given her servants amonth's notice, which would expire on the fifteenth of March. However,if Charity preferred to be paid in time instead of money, that was herown affair. She assented, and Charity, dropping another courtesy, leftthe room.

  Lady Louvaine's house in London had been obtained through the Earl ofOxford, a distant cousin of her husband, in whose household her sonWalter had long before taken unwholesome lessons in fashion andextravagance. The Earl, now in his grand climacteric, had outlived hisyouthful frivolity, and though he had become a hard and austere man, wasyet willing to do a kindness to his kinsman's widow by engaging a housefor her, and offering for her grandson a squire's place which happenedto be vacant in his household. She would have preferred some less showyand more solid means of livelihood for Aubrey, whose character was yetunfixed, and whose disposition was lighter than she liked to see it: butno other offered, and she accepted this.

  A few days before the time for departure, up trudged TemperanceMurthwaite again.

  "Madam," said she, "I'm something 'feared I'm as welcome as water into aship, for I dare guess you've enough to do with the hours, but truth totell, I'm driven to it. Here's Faith set to go after you to London."

  "Poor child! let her come."

  "I can get as far as `poor,' Madam, but I can go no further with you,"answered Temperance grimly. "Somebody's poor enough, I cast no doubt,but I don't think it's Faith. But you have not yet beheld all yourcalamities. If Faith goes, I must go too--and if I go, and she, thenmust Lettice."

  "Dear Temperance, I shall be verily glad."

  "Lady Lettice, you're too good for this world!--and there aren't tenfolks in it to whom I ever said that. Howbeit, you shall not lose byme, for I purpose to take Rachel withal and she and I can do thehousework betwixt us, and so set Edith free to wait on you. Were youthinking to carry servants, or find them there?"

  "I thought to find one there. More than one, methinks, we can scarceafford."

  "Well then for that shall Rachel serve: and I'll work the cost of mykeep and more, you shall see. I can spin with the best, and weave too;you'll never come short of linen nor linsey while I'm with you--andLettice can run about and save steps to us all. What think you?--said Iwell?"

  "Very well indeed, my dear: I were fain to have you."

  "Then you'll look for us. Good-morrow!" The last evening was a busyone for all parties, and there was little time to spare for indulgencein remembrance or regret. It was two hours later than usual, whenLettice at last lay down to sleep and even then, sleep seemed long incoming. She heard her Aunt Edith's soft movements in the neighbouringgallery, where she was putting final touches to the packing, andpresently they slid unconsciously into the sound of the waterfall atSkiddaw Force, by the side of which Lettice was climbing up to the Towerof London. She knew nothing of the tender, cheerful "Good-night, Motherdear!" given to Lady Louvaine--of the long, pathetic gaze at the moonlitlandscape--of the silently-sobbed prayer, and the passionate rain oftears--such different tears from those of Faith!--which left a wet stainupon Edith's coverlet. It was hard to leave the old home--hard to leavethe new graves. But the next thing the young niece heard wasonly--"Time to rise, Lettice!" spoken in the usual bright manner--and,looking up, she saw Aunt Edith fully dressed.

  Lettice sprang up in a fright, and scrambled into her clothes with allthe haste possible. She, who was to have helped Aunt Edith, to be fastasleep in bed when she was ready! It was not many minutes beforeLettice was dressed, but her morning prayer had in it sundry thingswhich were not prayers.

  Breakfast was nearly over when a curious rolling sound was heard,followed by the tramp of horses: and Aubrey jumped up to look, for itwas half-an-hour too soon for the baggage-horses to be brought. He hadto run into the porch-chamber to see what it was, and before he returnedcame old Roger the serving-man, with a letter in his hand, which he gaveto his mistress. She opened the letter, but finding it somewhatdifficult for dim eyes to make out, she gave it back to Roger, desiringhim to read it. [Note 2.] So Roger read:--

  "Madam,--Since I need be in London this next weekend, where I look to tarry some time, and am offered a seat in my good Lord of Northumberland's caroche, it were pity that my caroche should go thither empty, in especial when so good and old a friend is likewise on her journey. May I therefore beg that your Ladyship will so far favour me as to use the caroche as your own, from this day until Friday week, when, if it serve your convenience, it may return to me at Radcliffe House? My servants have orders to obey your Ladyship's directions, and to serve you in all regards as myself.
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  "I kiss the hands of fair Mistress Edith, and beg my best compliments to your young gentlemen, and am, Madam, yours to my little power, Dilston."

  Aubrey had come back whilst Roger was reading, and scarcely gave himleave to make an end of the letter.

  "Madam, 'tis my Lord Dilston's caroche, with six great Flanders horses,and three serving-men, all as fine as fiddlers, and never a soul in thecaroche--"

  "Truly, this is of the Lord's goodness," said Lady Louvaine. "I didindeed fear the journey on horseback, but there seemed none othermeans."

  "The like did I for you, dear Mother," added Edith. "I am most thankfulfor my Lord Dilston's kindly proffer. It shall ease the journey to youmore than all we could do."

  Lady Louvaine bade Edith write an answer, and ordered Roger to take backto Mere Lea the three saddle-horses lent her by Mr Lewthwaite,explaining why they were no longer needed. It was then settled that thefour ladies and Lettice should travel in the coach, Aubrey, Hans, andRachel going on horseback.

  Hans had gone out, and they saw him talking in the front with LordDilston's postillion. Now he came back. "Well, Hans, what wormed youout of the postillion?" inquired Aubrey.

  "His master's goodness," said Hans. "Have you a bit left for me? or doyou want it all for yourself?"

  "It is all for my Lady. My Lord Dilston was meaning to have gone toTown himself in his own caroche, till he heard of your Ladyship'strouble, and then he cast about to know of some friend that was going,so he might leave it for you. Then he heard of my Lord ofNorthumberland, and he begged a seat in his caroche; and Madam Penelopestuffed the caroche with all the cushions that were in the house, and ahamper of baked meats, and wine, and a great fur mantle to lap yourLadyship in; and my Lord bade the postillion to drive very soft, thatyou should not be shaken, without you told him to go fast, and thefootmen were to have a care of you and save you all that they could.Said I not well, his goodness?"

  "Truly, Hans, you did so," answered Edith; "and right thankful should weall be, first to the Lord, and then to my Lord Dilston, that my dearmother can now journey in safety and comfort."

  Lady Louvaine said, softly, "Bless the Lord! and may He bless this kindfriend! Truly, I marvel wherefore it is that every one is so good tome. It must be, surely, for my dead Aubrey's sake."

  "Oh, of course," said young Aubrey, laughing; "they all hate _you_,Madam, you may be sure."

  His grandmother smiled on him, for she understood him.

  Now came the Murthwaite sisters trudging up the path, Temperancecarrying a heavy basket, and Faith bearing no greater weight than herhandkerchief, behind which, as usual, she was weeping.

  "Good-morrow, Madam," said Aunt Temperance as she came in. "A fine dayfor our journey."

  "You're to ride in a caroche, Aunt Temperance!" cried Aubrey.

  "Who--me? No, I thank you, my young Master. I never set foot in such athing in my life, nor never will by my good will. I like the feel of ahorse under me well enough; but that finicky gingerbread thing, all o'ergilding--I'd as soon go on a broomstick. Whose is it?"

  "'Tis my Lord Dilston's, that hath most kindly proffered it to Motherfor the journey," replied Edith. "We had settled that we four, withLettice, should journey therein; but if you would rather be onhorseback, Temperance--"

  "That would I, by ten mile," said she. "I hate being cooped up in afour-post bed, with all the curtains drawn; and that lumbering thing'sno better. Faith'll go, I don't doubt; any thing that's a bit smart andshowy!! take her: and Lettice may please herself. I dare say the childwill have a fantasy to ride in a caroche for once in her life."

  "Indeed, Aunt, I would like it," answered Lettice, "for very like I maynever have such another chance while I live."

  "Truly, that's little like," retorted Temperance with a laugh. "So havethy ride, child, if thou wilt.--Dear heart! Lady Lettice, I ask yourpardon."

  "For what, Temperance, my dear?"

  "Taking your place, Madam, instead of my own. Here am I, deciding whatLettice shall do or not do, when you being in presence, it belongs toyou to judge."

  Lady Louvaine gave her gentle smile.

  "Nay, if we must stand upon our rights, you, Temperance, as her father'ssister, have the right to choose."

  "Then I choose to obey you, Lady Lettice," said Temperance with acourtesy.

  "Madam," now announced Hans from the door, "the baggage is packed, andthe caroche awaiteth your Ladyship."

  Edith helped her mother to rise from, her chair. She stood one moment,her hand on Edith's arm; and a look came into her eyes such as adrowning man might give to the white cliffs whereon his home stood,where his wife and his little children were waiting for him. So shestood and looked slowly round the chamber, her eyes travelling from onething to another, till she had gone all over it. And then she said, ina low, pathetic voice--

  "`Get thee out of thy country, and from thy father's house, unto theland that I will show thee.' Once before I had that call, and it led meto him who was the stay and blessing of my life. Yet again I go forth:O my Father, let it lead to Thee, unto Thy holy hill, and to Thytabernacle! Remember Thy word unto Thy servant, wherein Thou hastcaused me to hope--`Certainly I will be with thee,'--`I will not failthee, nor forsake thee,'--`Fear not, for I have redeemed thee: I havecalled thee by thy name; thou art Mine.' Lord, keep Thine own!--Now, mychildren, let us go hence with God."

  In something like a procession they went forth from Selwick Hall. LadyLouvaine first, leaning on Edith and Hans, to whom Aubrey was alwaysready to resign troublesome duties; then Faith, Temperance, Aubrey, andLettice.

  At the door stood the great coach, painted in dark mulberry-colour andpicked out with gilding, the lining and cushions of blue: and harnessedto it were the six great horses, dark roan, with cream-coloured manes,knotted likewise in blue. The servants wore mulberry-coloured livery,corded with blue.

  Lady Louvaine took her place on the right hand of the coach, facing thehorses, Faith being at her side. Opposite sat Edith, and Lettice by thedoor.

  "Aunt Temperance!" called out Aubrey from the doorstep, "you shall havemy horse, if you will; I am going in the caroche."

  "You are _what_, Sirrah?" demanded Aunt Temperance, with the severity ofat least one Lord Chief-Justice.

  "I shall ride in the caroche," repeated Aubrey calmly.

  "Northumberland, Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham!" was the awfulanswer.

  The young people knew what that meant. When Temperance said "Dearheart!" she was just a little surprised or put out; when it was"Lancaster and Derby!" she was very much astonished or provoked; butwhen she supplicated the help of "Northumberland, Cumberland,Westmoreland, and Durham!" it meant from Aunt Temperance what swearingwould from any one else.

  "I should like to know, if you please, Mr Aubrey Louvaine, whether youare a king, a sick woman, or a baby?"

  "Well, Aunt, I don't think I am any of them at present."

  "Then you have no business to ride in a caroche till you are. I neverheard of such a thing in my life. A man to ride in a caroche! We shallhave them hemming handkerchiefs to-morrow."

  "You won't have me," said Aubrey.

  "I won't have you in there," retorted Temperance bluntly, "without myLady Lettice call you in, and that she won't. Will you, Madam?"

  "Certainly not, my dear, after your decision," she replied. "Indeed, Ido think it too effeminate for men, persons of high honour except, orthem that are sick and infirm."

  "That rascal's not sick, any more than he's a person of honour.--Theebestride thy horse, lad--without thou canst find an ass, which wouldsuit with thee better.--Now, Hans, come and help me to mount."

  When all were mounted, the six great horses tugged and strained at thebig coach, and with a good push from the four farm-servants, it movedforwards, at first slowly, then faster. The farm-servants stoodbareheaded, to see the family depart, crying, "God bless you, my Lady,and bring you home in peace!"

  Faith sank back sobbing into the corner,
and there were tears in Edith'seyes which she would not let fall.

  "Farewell!" said Lady Louvaine, leaning forward. "Farewell, my good,kind old friends--Thomas, William, Isaac, and Gideon--I wish you God'sblessing, and a better head than I."

  "Nay, nay, that'll ne'er be, nor couldn't, no wise!" cried old Gideon,and the rest all echoed his "Nay, nay!"

  "Farewell!" said his mistress again, somewhat faintly, as she sank backinto the corner. "Friends, God will bless me, and He shall bring mehome in peace."

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  Note 1. The thrum is the fringed end of a weaver's web; a thrum hat wasmade of very coarse tufted woollen cloth.

  Note 2. This was quite a common occurrence at that time, whenmen-servants were usually better educated, and ladies and gentlemen muchless so, than now.