“That’s what I always say - if you wish a thing to be well done,
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others.”
Longfellow.
The month of May was the liveliest and gayest of the year at Oxford1, for not only were the May Day games common to the whole country, but another special attraction lay in Saint Frideswide’s Fair, held on Gloucester Green early in that month. Oxford was a privileged town, in respect of the provision trade, the royal purveyors being forbidden to come within twenty miles of that city. In those good old times, the King was first served, then the nobility, lay and clerical, then the gentry2, and the poor had to be content with what was left. It was not unusual, when a report of anything particularly nice reached the monarch—such as an import of wine, a haul of fish, or any other dainty,—for the Sheriff of that place to receive a mandate3, bidding him seize for the royal use a portion or the whole thereof. Prices, too, were often regulated by proclamation, so that tradesmen not unfrequently found it hard to live. If a few of our discontented and idle agitators4 (I do not mean those who would work and cannot) could spend a month or two in the olden time, their next speeches on Tower Hill might be somewhat differently flavoured.
Saint Frideswide’s Fair was a sight to see. For several days before it was held, a multitude of carpenters were employed in putting up wooden booths and stalls, and Gloucester Green became a very lively place. Fairs in the present day, when they are held at all, are very different exhibitions from what they were seven hundred years ago. The stalls then were practically shops, fully5 stocked with goods of solid value. There was a butcher’s row, a baker’s row, a silversmith’s row, and a mercer’s row—ironmongers, saddlers, shoemakers, vintners, coopers, pelters (furriers), potters, hosiers, fishmongers, and cooks (confectioners)—all had their several streets of stalls. The Green—larger than now—became a town within a town. As the fair was held by licence of Saint Frideswide, and was under her especial protection, the Canons of that church exacted certain dues both from the Crown and the stall-holders, which were duly paid. From the Crown they received 25 shillings per annum. It was deemed a point of honour to keep the best of everything for the fair; and those buyers who wished to obtain good value for their money put off their purchases when it grew near fair time. When the third of May came, they all turned out in holiday costume to lay in necessaries, so far as possible, for the year—meat excepted, which could be purchased again at the cattle fair in the following September.
There was one serious inconvenience in shopping at that time, of which we know nothing at the present day. With the exception of the penny and still smaller coins (all silver) there was no money. The pound, though it appears on paper, was not a coin, but simply a pound weight of pence; the mark was two-thirds, and the noble (if used so early) one-third of that amount. When a woman went out to buy articles of any value, she required to carry with her an enormous weight of small silver cash. Purses were not therefore the toys we use, but large bags of heavy leather, attached to the girdle on the left side; and the aim of a pickpocket6 was to cut the leather bag away from its metal fastening—hence the term cut-purse.
Every woman in Kepeharme Lane—and it might be added, in Oxford—appeared in the street with a basket on her arm as soon as daylight had well dawned. The men went at their own time and convenience. For many of them a visit to the fair was merely amusement; but the ladies were on business. Even Derette followed her mother, armed with a smaller basket than the rest. Little Rudolph was left with Countess, who preferred him to the fair; and such is the power of habit that our friends had now become quite accustomed to this, and would give a nod and a smile to Countess when they met, just as they did to any other neighbour. This does not mean that they entertained an atom less of prejudice against Jews in general; they had merely got over their prejudice in the case of that one Jewish girl in particular.
Isel’s business was heavy enough. She wanted a pig, half an ox, twenty ells of dark blue cloth, a cloak for herself and capes8 for her daughters, thirty pairs of slippers10—a very moderate allowance for three women, for slippers were laid in by the dozen pairs in common—fifty cheeses (an equally moderate reckoning) (Note 1), a load of flour, another of oatmeal, two quarters of cabbage for salting, six bushels of beans, five hundred herrings, a barrel of ale, two woollen rugs for bedclothes, a wooden coffer, and a hundred nails. She had already bought and salted two sheep from Martin, so mutton was not needed.
“Now, Agnes, what do you want?” she asked.
Agnes, who was following with another basket, replied that she wanted some stuff for a dress, some flannel11 for Rudolph, and a few pairs of shoes. Shoes must have worn only a very short time, considering the enormous quantity of them usually bought at once.
“And you, Ermine?”
“You’re easily satisfied. Well, I’ll go first after my pig.”
They turned into the Butcher’s Row, where in a minute they could scarcely hear each other speak. The whole air seemed vocal13 with grunts14, lowing, and bleating15, and, the poulterers’ booths lying close behind, crowing and cackling also.
“How much for a good bacon pig?” screamed Isel to a fat butcher, who was polishing a knife upon a wooden block.
“Hertford kids? I have none.”
“Bacon pig!” screamed Isel a little louder.
“Oh! Well, look you, there’s a nice one—twenty pence; there’s a rare fine one—twenty-two; there’s a—”
“Bless thee, man! dost thou think I’m made of money?”
“Shouldn’t wonder if you’d a pot laid by somewhere,” said the butcher with a knowing wink16. He was an old acquaintance.
“Well, I haven’t, then: and what’s more, I’ve plenty to do with the few marks I have. Come now, I’ll give you sixteen pence for that biggest fellow.”
The butcher intimated, half in a shout and half by pantomime, that he could not think of such a thing.
“Well, eighteen, then.”
The butcher shook his head.
“Nineteen! Now, that’s as high as I’ll go.”
“Not that one,” shouted the butcher; “I’ll take nineteen for the other.”
Isel had to execute a gymnastic feat17 before she could answer, to save herself from the horns of an inquisitive18 cow which was being driven up the row; while a fat pig on the other side was driving Flemild nearly out of the row altogether.
“Well! I’ll agree to that,” said Isel, when she had settled with the cow.
A similar process having been gone through for the half ox, for which Isel had to pay seventeen pence (Salted cow was much cheaper, being only 2 shillings each.)—a shameful19 price, as she assured her companions—the ladies next made their way to Drapers’ Row. The draper, then and for some centuries later, was the manufacturer of cloth, not the retail20 dealer21 only: but he sold retail as well as wholesale22. Isel found some cloth to her mind, but the price was not to her mind at all, being eighteen pence per ell.
“Gramercy, man! wouldst thou ruin me?” she demanded.
A second battle followed with the draper, from which Isel this time emerged victorious23, having paid only 1 shilling 5 pence per ell. They then went to the clothier’s, where she secured a cloak for a mark (13 shillings 4 pence) and capes for the girls at 6 shillings 8 pence each. At the shoemaker’s she laid in her slippers for 6 pence per pair, with three pairs of boots at a shilling. The cheeses were dear, being a halfpenny each; the load of flour cost 14 pence, and of meal 2 shillings; the beans were 1 shilling 8 pence, the cabbage 1 shilling 2 pence, the herrings 2 shillings. The coffer came to 5 shillings, the nails to 2 shillings 4 pence. (Note 2.) Isel looked ruefully at her purse.
Rugs were costly25 articles. There was no woollen manufacture in England, nor was there to be such for another hundred years. A thick, serviceable coverlet, such as Isel desired, was not to be bought much under two pounds.
“We must do without them,” she said, with a shake of her head. “Girls, you’ll have to spread your cloaks on the bed. We must eat, but we needn’t lie warm if we can’t afford it.”
“Isel, have you de one pound? Look, here is one,” said Agnes timidly, holding out her hand.
“But you want that, my dear.”
“No, I can do widout. I will de gown up-mend dat I have now. Take you de money; I have left for de shoes and flannel.”
She did not add that the flannel would have to be cut down, as well as the new dress resigned.
“And I can do very well without a hood,” added Ermine quickly. “We must help Mother Isel all we can.”
“My dears, I don’t half like taking it.”
“We have taken more from you,” said Ermine.
Thus urged, Isel somewhat reluctantly took the money, and bought one rug, for which she beat down the clothier to two marks and a half, and departed triumphant26, this being her best bargain for the day. It was then in England, as it yet is in Eastern lands, an understood thing that all tradesmen asked extortionate prices, and must be offered less as a matter of course: a fact which helps to the comprehension of the Waldensian objection to trade as involving falsehood.
Isel returned to Agnes the change which remained out of her pound, which enabled her to get all the flannel she needed. Their baskets being now well filled, Isel and her party turned homewards, sauntering slowly through the fair, partly because the crowd prevented straightforward27 walking, but partly also because they wished to see as much as they could. Haimet was to bring a hand-cart for the meat and other heavy purchases at a later hour.
Derette, who for safety’s sake was foremost of the girls, directly following her mother and Agnes, trudged28 along with her basket full of slippers, and her head full of profound meditation29. Had Isel known the nature of those meditations30, she certainly would never have lingered at the silversmiths’ stalls in a comfortable frame of mind, pointing out to her companions various pretty things which took her fancy. But she had not the remotest idea of her youngest daughter’s private thoughts, and she turned away from Gloucester Green at last, quite ignorant of the fashion wherein her feelings of all sorts were about to be outraged31.
Derette was determined33 to obtain a dress for Agnes. She had silently watched the kindly34 manner in which the good-natured German gave up the thing she really needed: for poor Agnes had but the one dress she wore, and Derette well knew that no amount of mending would carry it through another winter. But how was a penniless child to procure35 another for her? If Derette had not been a young person of original ideas and very independent spirit, the audacious notion which she was now entertaining would never have visited her mind.
This was no less than a visit to the Castle, to beg one of the cast-off gowns of the women of the household. Dresses wore long in the Middle Ages, and ladies of rank were accustomed to make presents of half-worn ones to each other. Derette was not quite so presumptuous36 as to think of addressing the Countess—that, even in her eyes, seemed a preposterous37 impossibility; but surely one of her waiting-women might be reached. How was she to accomplish her purpose?
That she must slip away unseen was the first step to be taken. Her mother would never dream of allowing such an errand, as Derette well knew; but she comforted herself, as others have done beside her, with the reflection that the excellence38 of her motive39 quite compensated40 for the unsatisfactory details of her conduct. Wedged as she was in the midst of the family group, and encumbered41 with her basket, she could not hope to get away before they reached home; but she thought she saw her chance directly afterwards, when the baskets should have been discharged of their contents, and every body was busy inspecting, talking about, and putting away, the various purchases that had been made.
Young girls were never permitted to go out alone at that time. It was considered less dangerous in town than country, and a mere7 run into a neighbouring house might possibly have been allowed; but usually, when not accompanied by some responsible person, they were sent in groups of three or four at once. Derette’s journey must be taken alone, and it involved a few yards of Milk Street, as far as Saint Ebbe’s, then a run to Castle Street and up to the Castle. That was the best way, for it was both the shortest and comparatively the quietest. But Derette determined not to go in at the entrance gate, where she would meet Osbert and probably Anania, but to make for the Osney Gate to the left, where she hoped to fall into the kindlier hands of her cousin Stephen. The danger underlying42 this item was that Stephen might have gone to the fair, in which case she would have to encounter either the rough joking of Orme, or the rough crustiness of Wandregisil, his fellow-watchmen. That must be risked. The opportunity had to be bought, and Derette made up her mind to pay the necessary price.
The Walnut43 Tree was reached, the baskets laid down, and while Agnes was divesting44 herself of her cloak, and Isel reiterating45 her frequent assertion that she was “that tired,” Derette snatched her chance, and every body’s back being turned for the moment, slipped out of the door, and sped up Kepeharme Lane with the speed of a fawn46. Her heart beat wildly, and until she reached Milk Street, she expected every instant to be followed and taken back. If she could only get her work done, she told herself, the scolding and probable whipping to follow would be easily borne.
Owing to its peculiar47 municipal laws, throughout the Middle Ages, Oxford had the proud distinction of being the cleanest city in England. That is to say, it was not quite so appallingly48 smothered49 in mire50 and filth51 as others were. Down the midst of every narrow street ran a gutter52, which after rain was apt to become a brook53, and into which dirt of every sort was emptied by every householder. There were no causeways; and there were frequent holes of uncertain depth, filled with thick mud. Ownerless dogs, and owned but equally free-spoken pigs, roamed the streets at their own sweet will, and were not wont55 to make way for the human passengers; while if a cart were met in the narrow street, it was necessary for the pedestrian to squeeze himself into the smallest compass possible against the wall, if he wished to preserve his limbs in good working order. Such were the delights of taking a walk in the good old times. It may reasonably be surmised56 that unnecessary walks were not frequently taken.
Kepeharme Lane left behind, where the topography of the holes was tolerably familiar, Derette had to walk more guardedly. After getting pretty well splashed, and dodging57 a too attentive58 pig which was intent on charging her for venturing on his beat, Derette at last found herself at the Osney Gate. She felt now that half her task was over.
“Who goes there?” demanded the welcome voice of Stephen, when Derette rapped at the gate.
“It’s me, Stephen,—Derette: do let me in.”
The gate stood open in a moment, and Stephen’s pleasant face appeared behind it, with a look of something like consternation59 thereon.
“Derette!—alone!—whatever is the matter?”
“Nothing, Stephen; oh, nothing’s the matter. I only came alone because I knew Mother wouldn’t let me if I asked her.”
“Hoity-toity!—that’s a nice confession60, young woman! And pray what are you after, now you have come?”
“Stephen—dear, good Stephen, will you do me a favour?”
“Oh, but I want it so much! You see, she gave it up because Mother wanted a rug, and she let her have the money—and I know it won’t mend up to wear any thing like through the winter—and I do want so to get her another—a nice soft one, that will be comfortable, and—You’ll help me, won’t you, Steenie?”
“I’m a heathen Jew if I have the shadow of a notion what I’m wanted to help! ‘A nice soft one!’ Is it a kitten, or a bed-quilt, or a sack of meal, you’re after?”
“O Stephen!—what queer things you guess! It’s a gown—.”
“I don’t keep gowns, young woman.”
“No, but, Steenie, you might help me to get at somebody that does. One of the Lady’s women, you know. I’m sure you could, if you would.”
Steenie whistled. “Well, upon my word! You’ll not lose cakes for want of asking for. Why don’t you go to Anania?”
“You know she’d only be cross.”
“How do you know I sha’n’t be cross?” asked Stephen, knitting his brows, and pouting63 out his lips, till he looked formidable.
“Oh, because you never are. You’ll only laugh at me, and you won’t do that in an ugly way like some people. Now, Steenie, you will help me to get a gown for Agnes?”
“Agnes, is it? I thought you meant Flemild.”
“No, it’s Agnes; and Ermine gave up her hood to help: but Agnes wants the gown worse than Ermine does a hood. You like them, you know, Steenie.”
“Who told you that, my Lady Impertinence? Dear, dear, what pests these children are!”
“Now, Stephen, you know you don’t think any thing of the sort, and you are going to help me this minute.”
“How am I to help, I should like to know? I can’t leave my gate.”
“You can call somebody. Now do, Steenie, there’s a darling cousin!—and I’ll ask Mother to make you some of those little pies you like so much. I will, really.”
A lad of about twelve years old, who was crossing the court-yard at the other side, turned and came up at the call.
“Will you take this maid in, and get her speech of Cumina? She’s very good-natured, and if you tell her your story, Derette, I shouldn’t wonder if she helps you.”
“Oh, thank you, Steenie, so much!”
Derette followed Henry, who made faces at her, but gave her no further annoyance66, into the servants’ offices at the Castle, where he turned her unceremoniously over to the first person he met—a cook in a white cap and apron—with the short and not too civil information that—
“She wants Cumina.”
The cook glanced carelessly at Derette.
“Go straight along the passage, and up the stairs to the left,” he said, and then went on about his own business.
Never before had Derette seen a house which contained above four rooms at the utmost. She felt in utter confusion amid stairs, doors, and corridors. But she managed to find the winding67 staircase at the end of the passage, and to mount it, wishing much that so convenient a mode of access could replace the ladder in her mother’s house. She went up till she could go no further, when she found herself on the top landing of a round tower, without a human creature to be seen. There were two doors, however; and after rapping vainly at both, she ventured to open one. It led to the leads of the tower. Derette closed this, and tried the other. She found it to open on a dark fathomless68 abyss,—the Castle well (Note 3), had she known it—and shut it quickly with a sensation of horror. After a moment’s reflection, she went down stairs to the next landing.
Here there were four doors, and from one came the welcome sound of human voices. Derette rapped timidly on this. It was opened by a girl about the age of Flemild.
“Please,” said Derette, “I was to ask for Cumina.”
“Oh, you must go to the still-room,” answered the girl, and would have shut the door without further parley69, had not Derette intercepted70 her with a request to be shown where the still-room was.
With an impatient gesture, the girl came out, led Derette a little way along the corridor running from the tower, and pointed71 to a door on the left hand.
Derette’s hopes rose again. She was one of those persons whom delays and difficulties do not weary out or render timid, but rather inspire to fresh and stronger action.
“Well, what do you want?” asked the pleasant-faced young woman who answered Derette’s rap. “Please, is there somebody here called Cumina?”
“I rather think there is,” was the smiling answer. “Is it you?”
“Ay. Come in, and say what you wish.” Derette obeyed, and poured out her story, rather more lucidly72 than she had done to Stephen. Cumina listened with a smile.
“Well, my dear, I would give you a gown for your friend if I had it,” she said good-humouredly; “but I have just sent the only one I can spare to my mother. I wonder who there is, now—Are you afraid of folks that speak crossly?”
“No,” said Derette. “I only want to shake them.” Cumina laughed. “You’ll do!” she said. “Come, then, I’ll take you to Hagena. She’s not very pleasant-spoken, but if any body can help you, she can. The only doubt is whether she will.”
Derette followed Cumina through what seemed to her endless corridors opening into further and further corridors, till at last she asked in a tone of astonishment73—
“How can you ever find your way?”
“Oh, you learn to do that very soon,” said Cumina, laughing, as she opened the door of a long, low chamber74. “Now, you must tread softly here, and speak very respectfully.”
Derette nodded acquiescence75, and they went in.
The room was lined with presses from floor to ceiling. On benches which stood back to back in its midst, several lengths of rich silken stuffs were spread out; and on other benches near the windows sat two or three girls busily at work. Several elder ladies were moving about the room, and one of them, a rather stout76, hard-featured woman, was examining the girls’ work. Cumina went up to her.
“If you please, Hagena,” she said, “is there any where an old gown which it would please you to bestow77 on this girl, who has asked the boon78?”
Hagena straightened herself up and looked at Derette.
“No,” answered Derette. “My mother’s house is her own.”
“Well, if ever I heard such assurance! Perchance, Madam, you would like a golden necklace to go with it?”
If Derette had not been on her good behaviour, Hagena would have received as much as she gave. But knowing that her only chance of success lay in civil and submissive manners, she shut her lips tight and made no answer.
“Who sent you?” pursued Hagena, who was the Countess’s mistress of the household, and next in authority to her.
“Nobody. I came of myself.”
“Ha, chétife! I do wonder what the world’s coming to! The impudence80 of the creature! How on earth did she get in? Just get out again as fast as you can, and come on such an errand again if you dare! Be off with you!”
Derette’s voice trembled, but not with fear, as she turned back to Cumina. To Hagena she vouchsafed81 no further word.
“I did not know I was offending any body,” she said, in a manner not devoid82 of childish dignity. “I was trying to do a little bit of good. I think, if you please, I had better go home.”
Derette’s speech infuriated Hagena. The child had kept her manners and her dignity too, under some provocation83, while the mistress of the household was conscious that she had lost hers.
“How dare—” she was beginning, when another voice made her stop suddenly.
“What has the child been doing? I wish to speak with her.”
Cumina hastily stopped Derette from leaving the room, and led her up to the lady who had spoken and who had only just entered.
“What is it, my little maid?” she said kindly.
“I beg your pardon,” said the child. She was but a child, and her brave heart was failing her. Derette was very near tears. “I did not mean any harm. Somebody had given up having a new gown—and she wanted it very much—to let somebody else have the money; and I thought, if I could beg one for her—but I did not mean to be rude. Please let me go home.”
“Thou shalt go home, little one,” answered the lady; “but wait a moment. Does any one know the child?”
Nobody knew her.
“Stephen the Watchdog knows me,” said Derette, drawing a long breath. “He is my cousin. So is Osbert the porter.”
The lady put her arm round Derette.
“What sort of a gown wouldst thou have, my child?”
Derette’s eyes lighted up. Was she really to succeed after all?
“A nice one, please,” she said, simply, making every one smile except Hagena, who was still too angry for amusement. “Not smart nor grand, you know, but warm and soft. Something woollen, I suppose, it should be.”
The lady addressed herself to Hagena.
“Have I any good woollen robe by the walls?”
When a dress was done with, if the materials were worth using for something else, it was taken to pieces; if not, it was hung up “by the walls,” ready to give away when needed.
Hagena had some difficulty in answering properly.
“No, Lady; the last was given to Veka, a fortnight since.”
“Then,” was the quiet answer, which surprised all present, “it must be one of those I am wearing. Let Cumina and Dora bring such as I have.”
Derette looked up into the face of her new friend.
“Please, are you the Lady Countess?”
“Well, I suppose I am,” replied the Countess with a smile. “Now, little maid, choose which thou wilt84.”
Seven woollen gowns were displayed before the Countess and Derette, all nearly new—blue, green, scarlet85, tawny86, crimson87, chocolate, and cream-colour. Derette looked up again to the Countess’s face.
“Nay, why dost thou look at me? Take thine own choice.”
The Countess was curious to see what the child’s selection would be.
“I looked to see which you liked best,” said Derette, “because I wouldn’t like to choose that.”
“True courtesy here!” remarked the Countess. “It is nothing to me, my child. Which dost thou like?”
“I like that one,” said Derette, touching88 the crimson, which was a rich, soft, dark shade of the colour, “and I think Agnes would too; but I don’t want to take the best, and I am not sure which it is.”
“Fold it up,” said the Countess to Cumina, with a smile to Derette; “let it be well lapped in a kerchief; and bid Wandregisil go to the Osney Gate, so that Stephen can take the child home.”
The parcel was folded up, the Countess’s hand kissed with heartfelt thanks, and the delighted Derette, under the care of Cumina, returned to the Osney Gate with her load.
“Well, you are a child!” exclaimed Stephen. “So Cumina has really found you a gown? I thought she would, if she had one to give away.”
“No,” said Derette, “it is the Countess’s gown.”
“And who on earth gave you a gown of the Lady’s?”
“Her own self!—and, Stephen, it is of her own wearing; she hadn’t done with it; but she gave it me, and she was so nice!—so much nicer than all the others except Cumina.”
“Well, if ever I did!” gasped89 Stephen. “Derette, you are a terrible child! I never saw your like.”
“I don’t know what I’ve done that’s terrible,” replied the child. “I’m sure Agnes won’t think it terrible to have that pretty gown to wear. What is terrible about it, Stephen?”
They had left the Castle a few yards behind, were over the drawbridge, and winding down the narrow descent, when a sharp call of “Ste-phen!” brought them to a standstill.
“Oh dear, that’s Cousin Anania!” exclaimed Derette. “Let me run on, Stephen, and you go back and see what she wants.”
“Nay, I must not do that, child. The Lady sent orders that I was to see you home. You’ll have to go back with me.”
“But she’ll worry so! She’ll want to know all about the gown, and then she’ll want it undone90, and I’m sure she’ll mess it up—and Cumina folded it so smooth and nice:” urged Derette in a distressed91 tone.
“We won’t let her,” answered Stephen, quietly, as they came to the entrance gate. “Well, what’s up, Anania?”
“What’s Derette doing here? Who came with her? Where are you going?—and what’s in that fardel?”
“Oh, is that all you’re after? I’ll answer those questions when I come back. I’ve got to take Derette home just now.”
“You’ll answer them before you go an inch further, if you please. That child’s always in some mischief93, and you aid and abet94 her a deal too often.”
“But I don’t please. I am under orders, Anania, and I can’t stop now.”
“At least you’ll tell me what’s in the fardel!” cried Anania, as Stephen turned to go on his way without loosing his hold of the parcel.
“A gown which the Lady has given to Derette,” said Stephen mischievously95, “and she sent commands that I was to escort her home with it.”
“A gown!—the Lady!—Derette!” screamed Anania. “Not one of her own?—why on earth should she give Derette a gown?”
“That’s the Lady’s business, not mine.”
“Yes, one of her own,” said Derette proudly.
“But what on earth for? She hasn’t given me a gown, and I am sure I want it more than that child—and deserve it, too.”
“Perhaps you haven’t asked her,” suggested Derette, trotting96 after Stephen, who was already half-way across the bridge.
“Asked her! I should hope not, indeed—I know my place, if you don’t. You never mean to say you asked her?”
“I can’t stop to talk, Cousin Anania.”
“But which gown is it?—tell me that!” cried Anania, in an agony of disappointed curiosity.
“It’s a crimson woollen one. Good morrow.”
“What! never that lovely robe she had on yesterday? Saints bless us all!” was the last scream that reached them from Anania.
Stephen laughed merrily as Derette came up with him.
“We have got clear of the dragon this time,” said he.
A few minutes brought them to the Walnut Tree.
“Haimet—Oh, it’s Stephen!” cried Isel in a tone of sore distress92, as soon as he appeared at the door. “Do, for mercy’s sake—I’m just at my wits’ end to think whatever—Oh, there she is!”
“Yes, she’s here, and no harm done, but good, I reckon,” added Stephen. “Still, I think it might be as well to look after her a bit, Aunt Isel. If she were to take it into her head to go to London to see the Lady Queen, perhaps you mightn’t fancy it exactly.”
“What has she been doing?” asked Isel in consternation.
“Only paying a visit to the Countess,” said Stephen, laughing.
By this time Derette had undone the knots on the handkerchief, and the crimson robe was revealed in all its beauty.
“Agnes,” she said quietly, but with a little undertone of decided98 triumph, “this is for you. You won’t have to give up your gown, though you did give Mother the money.”
A robe, in the Middle Ages, meant more than a single gown, and the crimson woollen was a robe. Under and upper tunics99, a mantle100, and a corset or warm under-bodice, lay before the eyes of the amazed Agnes.
“Derette, you awful child!” exclaimed her mother almost in terror, “what have you been after, and where did you get all that? Why, it’s a new robe, and fit for a queen!”
“Don’t scold the child,” said Stephen. “She meant well, and I believe she behaved well; she got more than she asked for, that’s all.”
“Please, it isn’t quite new, Mother, because the Lady wore it yesterday; but she said she hadn’t one done with, so she gave me one she was wearing.”
Bit by bit the story was told, while Isel held up her hands in horrified101 astonishment, which she allowed to appear largely, and in inward admiration102 of Derette’s spirit, of which she tried to prevent the appearance. She was not, however, quite able to effect her purpose.
“Meine Kind!” cried Agnes, even more amazed and horrified than Isel. “Dat is not for me. It is too good. I am only poor woman. How shall I such beautiful thing wear?”
“But it is for you,” pleaded Derette earnestly, “and you must wear it; because, you see, if you did not, it would seem as if I had spoken falsely to the Lady.”
“Ay, I don’t see that you can do aught but take it and wear it,” said Stephen. “Great ladies like ours don’t take their gifts back.”
Gerhardt had come in during the discussion.
“Nor does the Lord,” he said, “at least not from those who receive them worthily103. Take it from Him, dear, with thankfulness to the human instruments whom He has used. He saw thy need, and would not suffer thee to want for obeying His command.”
“But is it not too fine, Gerhardt?”
“It might be if we had chosen it,” answered Gerhardt with a smile; “but it seems as if the Lord had chosen it for thee, and that settles the matter. It is only the colour, after all.”
There was no trimming on the robe, save an edging of grey fur,—not even embroidery104: and no other kind of trimming was known at that time. Agnes timidly felt the soft, fine texture105.
“It is beautiful!” she said.
“Oh, it is beautiful enough, in all conscience,” said Isel, “and will last you a life-time, pretty nigh. But as to that dreadful child—”
“Now, Mother, you won’t scold me, will you?” said Derette coaxingly, putting her arms round Isel’s neck. “I haven’t done any harm, have I?”
“Well, child, I suppose you meant well,” said Isel doubtfully, “and I don’t know but one should look at folks’ intentions more than their deeds, in especial when there’s no ill done; but—”
“Oh, come, let’s forgive each other all round!” suggested Stephen. “Won’t that do?”
Isel seemed to think it would, for she kissed Derette.
“But you must never, never do such a thing again, child, in all the days of your life!” said she.
“Thank you, Mother, I don’t want to do it again just now,” answered Derette in a satisfied tone.
The afternoon was not over when Anania marched into the Walnut Tree.
“Well, Aunt Isel! I hope you are satisfied now!”
“With what, Anania?”
“That dreadfully wicked child. Didn’t I tell you? I warned you to look after her. If you only would take good advice when folks take the trouble to give it you!”
“Would you be so good as to say what you mean, Anania? I’m not at all satisfied with dreadfully wicked children. I’m very much dissatisfied with them, generally.”
“I mean Derette, of course. I hope you whipped her well!”
“What for?” asked Isel, in a rather annoyed tone.
“‘What for?’” Anania lifted up her hands. “There now!—if I didn’t think she would just go and deceive you! She can’t have told you the truth, of course, or you could never pass it by in that light way.”
“If you mean her visit to the Castle,” said Isel in a careless tone, “she told us all about it, of course, when she got back.”
“And you take it as coolly as that?”
“How did you wish me to take it? The thing is done, and all’s well that ends well. I don’t see that it was so much out of the way, for my part. Derette got no harm, and Agnes has a nice new gown, and nobody the worse. If anybody has a right to complain, it is the Countess; and I can’t see that she has so much, either; for she needn’t have given the robe if she hadn’t liked.”
“Oh, she’s no business to grumble106; she has lots more of every thing. She could have twenty robes made like that to-morrow, if she wanted them. I wish I’d half as many—I know that!”
Agnes came down the ladder at that moment, carrying one of her new tunics, which she had just tried on, and was now going to alter to fit herself.
“That’s it, is it?” exclaimed Anania in an interested voice. “I thought it was that one. Well, you are in luck! That’s one of her newest robes, I do believe. Ah, folks that have more money than they know what to do with, can afford to do aught they fancy. But to think of throwing away such a thing as that on you!”
Neither words nor tone were flattering, but the incivility dropped harmless from the silver armour107 of Agnes’s lowly simplicity108.
“Oh, but it shall not away be t’rown,” she said gently; “I will dem all up-make, and wear so long as they will togeder hold. I take care of dat, so shall you see!”
“How good lady must de Countess be!” added Agnes.
“Oh, she can be good to folks sometimes,” snarled110 Anania. “She’s just as full of whims111 as she can be—all those great folks are—proud and stuck-up and crammed112 full of caprice: but they say she’s kind where she takes, you know. It just depends whether she takes to you. She never took to me, worse luck! I might have had that good robe, if she had.”
“I shouldn’t think she would,” suddenly observed the smallest voice in the company.
“Because, Cousin Anania, I don’t think there’s much in you to take to.”
Derette’s prominent feeling at that moment was righteous indignation. She could not bear to hear the gentle, gracious lady, who had treated her with such unexpected kindness, accused of being proud and full of whims, apparently114 for no better reason than because she had not “taken to” Anania—a state of things which Derette thought most natural and probable. Her sense of justice—and a child’s sense of justice is often painfully keen—was outraged by Anania’s sentiments.
“Well, to be sure! How high and mighty115 we are! That comes of visiting Countesses, I suppose.—Aunt Isel, I told you that child was getting insufferable. There’ll be no bearing her very soon. She’s as stuck-up now as a peacock. Just look at her!”
“I don’t see that she looks different from usual,” said Isel, who was mixing the ingredients for a “bag-pudding.”
Anania made that slight click with her tongue which conveys the idea of despairing compassion116 for the pitiable incapacity of somebody to perceive patent facts.
Isel went on with her pudding, and offered no further remark.
“Well, I suppose I’d better be going,” said Anania—and sat still.
Nobody contradicted her, but she made no effort to go, until Osbert stopped at the half-door and looked in.
“Oh, you’re there, are you?” he said to his wife. “I don’t know whether you care particularly for those buttons you bought from Veka, but Selis has swallowed two, and—”
“Those buttons! Graven silver, as I’m a living woman! I’ll shake him while I can stand over him! And only one blessed dozen I had of them, and the price she charged me—The little scoundrel! Couldn’t he have swallowed the common leaden ones?”
“Weren’t so attractive, probably,” said Osbert, as Anania hurried away, without any leave-taking, to bestow on her son and heir, aged32 six, the shaking she had promised.
“But de little child, he shall be sick!” said Agnes, looking up from her work with compassionate118 eyes.
“Oh, I dare say it won’t hurt him much,” replied Osbert coolly, “and perhaps it will teach him not to meddle119. I wish it might teach his mother to stay at home and look after him, but I’m afraid that’s hopeless. Good morrow!”
Little Selis seemed no worse for his feast of buttons, beyond a fit of violent indigestion, which achieved the wonderful feat of keeping Anania at home for nearly a week.
“You’ve had a nice quiet time, Aunt Isel,” said Stephen. “Shall I see if I can persuade Selis to take the rest of the dozen?”
Life went on quietly—for the twelfth century—in the little house in Kepeharme Street. That means that nobody was murdered or murderously assaulted, the house was not burned down nor burglariously entered, and neither of the boys lost a limb, and was suffered to bleed to death, for interference with the King’s deer. In those good old times, these little accidents were rather frequent, the last more especially, as the awful and calmly-calculated statistics on the Pipe Rolls bear terrible witness.
Romund married, and went to live in the house of his bride, who was an heiress to the extent of possessing half-a-dozen houses in Saint Ebbe’s parish. Little Rudolph grew to be seven years old, a fine fearless boy, rather more than his quiet mother knew how to manage, but always amenable120 to a word from his grave father. The Germans had settled down peaceably in various parts of the country, some as shoemakers, some as tailors, some as weavers121, or had hired themselves as day-labourers to farmers, carpenters, or bakers122. Several offers of marriage had been made to Ermine, but hitherto, to the surprise of her friends, all had been declined, her brother assenting123 to this unusual state of things.
“Why, what do you mean to do, Gerard?” asked Isel of her, when the last and wealthiest of five suitors was thus treated. “You’ll never have a better offer for the girl than Raven117 Soclin. He can spend sixty pound by the year and more; owns eight shops in the Bayly, and a brew-house beside Saint Peter’s at East Gate. He’s no mother to plague his wife, and he’s a good even-tempered lad, as wouldn’t have many words with her. Deary me! but it’s like throwing the fish back into the sea when they’ve come in your net! What on earth are you waiting for, I should just like to know?”
“Dear Mother Isel,” answered Ermine softly, “we are waiting to see what God would have of me. I think He means me for something else. Let us wait and see.”
“But there is nothing else, child,” returned Isel almost irritably124, “without you’ve a mind to be a nun125; and that’s what I wouldn’t be, take my word for it. Is that what you’re after?”
“No, I think not,” said Ermine in the same tone.
“Then there’s nothing else for you—nothing in this world!”
“This is not the only world,” was the quiet reply.
“It’s the only one I know aught about,” said Isel, throwing her beans into the pan; “or you either, if I’m not mistaken. You’d best be wise in time, or you’ll go through the wood and take the crookedest stick you can find.”
“I hope to be wise in time, Mother Isel; but I would rather it were God’s time than mine. And we Germans, you know, believe in presentiments126. Methinks He has whispered to me that the way He has appointed for my treading is another road than that.”
Ermine was standing127, as she spoke54, by the half-door, her eyes fixed128 on the fleecy clouds which were floating across the blue summer sky.
“Can you see it, Aunt Ermine?” cried little Rudolph, running to her. “Is it up there, in the blue—the road you are going to tread?”
“It is down below first,” answered Ermine dreamily. “Down very low, in the dim valleys, and it is rough. But it will rise by-and-bye to the everlasting129 hills, and to the sapphire130 blue; and it leads straight to God’s holy hill, and to His tabernacle.”
They remembered those words—seven months later.
Note 1. The Pipe Rolls speak of large cheeses, which cost from threepence to sixpence each, and the ordinary size, of which two or three were sold for a penny. They were probably very small.
Note 2. Modern value of above prices:—Pig, 1 pound, 19 shillings 7 pence; half ox, 1 pound, 15 shillings 5 pence; cloth, 1 pound 16 shillings 5 and a half pence per ell; cloak, 13 pounds 6 shillings 8 pence; cape9, 6 pounds, 13 shillings 4 pence; pair of slippers, 12 shillings 6 pence; boots, per pair, 25 shillings; cheeses, 2 shillings 1 penny each; flour and cabbage, each 1 pound 9 shillings 2 pence; meal and herrings, each 2 pounds, 10 shillings; beans, 2 pounds 1 shilling 8 pence; coffer, 6 pounds, 5 shillings; nails, 2 pounds, 18 shillings 4 pence; rug, 50 pounds. It will be seen that money was far cheaper than now, and living much more expensive.
Note 3. For the sinking of which King Henry paid 19 pounds, 19 shillings 5 pence near this time.
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1
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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agitators
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| n.（尤指政治变革的）鼓动者( agitator的名词复数 )；煽动者；搅拌器；搅拌机 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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capes
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| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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15
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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divesting
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| v.剥夺( divest的现在分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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reiterating
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的现在分词 ) | |
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fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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appallingly
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| 毛骨悚然地 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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51
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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52
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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53
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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54
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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55
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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56
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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57
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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60
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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61
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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62
coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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wheedler
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| 行骗者 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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lucidly
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| adv.清透地，透明地 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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77
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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78
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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79
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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81
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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82
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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83
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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84
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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85
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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86
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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87
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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88
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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89
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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90
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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91
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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94
abet
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| v.教唆，鼓励帮助 | |
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mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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96
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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98
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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99
tunics
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| n.（动植物的）膜皮( tunic的名词复数 )；束腰宽松外衣；一套制服的短上衣；（天主教主教等穿的）短祭袍 | |
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100
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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101
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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102
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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103
worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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104
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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105
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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106
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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107
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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108
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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109
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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110
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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111
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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112
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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113
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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114
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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115
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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116
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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117
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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118
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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119
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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120
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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121
weavers
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| 织工，编织者( weaver的名词复数 ) | |
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122
bakers
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| n.面包师( baker的名词复数 )；面包店；面包店店主；十三 | |
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123
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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124
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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125
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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126
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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127
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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128
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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129
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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130
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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