Shakspere.
“It is so cold, Mother!”
The woman addressed languidly roused herself from the half-sheltered nook of the forest in which she and her child had taken refuge. She was leaning with her back supported by a giant oak, and the child was in her arms. The age of the child was about eight. The mother, though still young in years, was old before her time, with hard work and exposure, and it might be also with sorrow. She sat up, and looked wearily over the winter scene before her. There was nothing of the querulous, complaining tone of the little girl’s voice in hers; only the dull, sullen1 apathy2 of hopeless endurance.
“Cold, child!” she said. “’Tis like to be colder yet when the night cometh.”
“O Mother! and all snow now!”
“There be chiller gear than snow, maid,” replied the mother bitterly.
“But it had been warmer in London, Mother?—if we had not lost our road.”
“May-be,” was the answer, in a tone which seemed to imply that it did not signify.
The child did not reply; and the woman continued to sit upright, and look forward, with an absent expression in her face, indicating that the mind was not where the eyes were.
“Only snow and frost!” she muttered—not speaking to the child. “Nought3 beyond, nor here ne there. Nay4, snow is better than snowed-up hearts. Had it been warmer in London? May-be the hearts there had been as frosty as at Pleshy. Well! it will be warm in the grave, and we shall soon win yonder.”
“Be there fires yonder, Mother?” asked the child innocently.
The woman laughed—a bitter, harsh laugh, in which there was no mirth.
“The devil keepeth,” she said. “At least so say the priests. But what wit they? They never went thither5 to see. They will, belike, some day.”
The little girl was silent again, and the mother, after a moment’s pause, resumed her interrupted soliloquy.
“If there were nought beyond, only!” she murmured; and her look and tone of dull misery6 sharpened into vivid pain. “If a man might die, and have done with it all! But to meet God! And ’tis no sweven, (dream) ne fallacy, this dread7 undeadliness (immortality)—it is real. O all ye blessed saints and martyrs8 in Heaven! how shall I meet God?”
“Is that holy Mary’s Son, Mother?”
“Ay.”
“Holy Mary will plead for us,” suggested the child. “She can alway peace her Son. But methought He was good to folks, Mother. Sister Christian9 was wont10 to say so.”
“To saints and good women like Sister Christian, may-be.”
“Art thou not good, Mother?”
The question was put in all innocence11. But it struck the heart of the miserable12 mother like a poisoned arrow.
“Good!” she cried, again in that tone of intense pain. “I good? No, Maude!—I am bad, bad, bad! From the crown of mine head to the sole of my foot, there is nothing in me beside evil; such evil as thou, unwemmed (undefiled, innocent) dove as thou art, canst not even conceive! God is good to saints—not to sinners. Sister Christian—and thou, yet!—be amongst the saints. I am of the sinners.”
“But why art thou not a saint, Mother?” demanded the child, as innocently as before.
“I was on the road once,” said the woman, with a heavy sigh. “I was to have been an holy sister of Saint Clare. I knew no more of ill than thou whiteling in mine arms. If I had died then, when my soul was fair!”
Suddenly her mood changed. She clasped the child close to her breast, and showered kisses on the little wan13 face.
“My babe Maude, my bird Maude!” she said. “My dove that God sped down from Heaven unto me, thinking me not too ill ne wicked to have thee! The angels may love thee, my bird in bower14! for thou art white and unwemmed. The robes of thy chrism (see Note 1) are not yet soiled; but, O sinner that I am! how am I to meet God? And I must meet Him—and soon.”
“Did not God die on the rood, Mother?”
“Wherefore, Mother?”
“God wot, child.”
“Sister Christian told me He had no need for Himself, but that He loved us; yet why that should cause Him to die I wis not.”
The mother made no answer. Her thoughts had drifted away, back through her weary past, to a little village church where a fresco16 painting stood on the wall, sketched17 in days long before, of a company of guests at a feast, clad in Saxon robes; and of One, behind whom knelt a woman weeping and kissing His feet, while her flowing hair almost hid them from sight. And back to her memory, along with the scene, came a line from a popular ballad19 (“The Ploughman’s Complaint”) which referred to it. She repeated it aloud—
“‘Christ suffered a sinful to kisse His fete.’
“Suffered her, for that she was a saint?” she asked of herself, in the dreamy languor20 which the intense cold had brought over her. “Nay, for she was ‘a sinful.’ Suffered her, then, for that she sinned? Were not that to impeach21 His holiness? Or was He so holy and high that no sin of hers could soil the feet she touched? What good did it her to touch them? Made it her holy?—fit to meet God in the Doom22 (Judgment), when she had thus met Him here in His lowliness? How wis I? And could it make me fit to meet Him? But I can never kiss His feet. Nor lack they the ournment (adornment) of any kiss of mine. Yet methinks it were she, not He, which lacked it then. And He let her kiss His feet. O Christ Jesu! if in very deed it were in love for us that Thou barest death on the bitter rood, hast Thou no love left to welcome the dying sinner? Thou who didst pity her at yonder feast, hast Thou no mercy for Eleanor Gerard too?”
The words were spoken only half aloud, but they were heard by the child cradled in her arms.
“Mother, why christened you me not Eleanor?” she asked dreamily.
“Hush, child, and go to sleep!” answered the mother, startled out of her reverie.
Maude was silent, and Eleanor wrapped her closer in the old cloak which enfolded both of them. But before the woman yielded herself up to the stupor24 which was benumbing her faculties25, she passed her hand into her bosom26, and drew out a little flat parcel, folded in linen27, which she secreted28 in the breast of the child’s dress.
“Keep this, Maude,” she said gravely.
“What is it, Mother?” was Maude’s sleepy answer.
“It is what thou shalt find it hereafter,” was the mysterious rejoinder. “But let none take it away, neither beguile29 thee thereof. ’Tis all I have to give thee.”
Maude seemed too nearly asleep for her curiosity to be roused; and Eleanor, leaning back against the tree, resigned herself to slumber30 also.
Not long afterwards, a goatherd passing that way in search of a strayed kid, came on the unconscious pair, wrapped in each other’s arms. He ran for help to his hut, and had them conveyed to a convent at a little distance, which the wanderers had failed to find. The rescue was just in time to bring the life back to the numbed31 limbs of the child. But for the mother there was no waking in this world. Eleanor Gerard had met God.
Four years after that winter evening, in the guest-chamber of the Convent of Sopwell sat a nun32 of middle age and cheerful look, in conversation with a woman in ordinary costume, but to whom the same description would very nearly apply.
“Then what were the manner of maid you seek, good Ursula?” inquired the nun.
“By Saint Luke’s face, holy Sister, but I would not have her too cunning (clever). I count (though I say it that need not) I am none ill one to learn her her work; and me loveth not to be checked ne taunted33 of mine underlings.”
The nun, who had known Ursula Drew for some time, was quite aware that superfluity of meekness34 did not rank among that worthy35 woman’s failings.
“I would fain have a small maid of some twelve or thirteen years. An’ ye have them elder, they will needs count they know as much as you, and can return a sharp answer betimes. I love not masterful childre.”
“But would you not she were something learned?”
“Nay! So she wit not a pig’s head from a crustade Almayne, (A kind of pie of custard or batter36, with currants) ’tis all one to me, an’ she will do my bidding.”
“Then methinks I could right well fit you. We have here at this instant moment a small maid of twelve years, that my Lady the Prioress were well fain to put with such as you be, and she bade me give heed37 to the same. ’Tis a waif that Anthony, our goatherd, found in the forest, with her mother, that was frozen to death in an hard winter; but the child abode38, and was saved. Truly, for cunning there is little in her; but for meekness and readiness to do your will, the maid is as good as any. But ye shall see her I think on.”
Sister Oliva stepped to the door, and spoke23 in a low tone to some person outside. She came back and reseated herself, and a minute afterwards there was a low, timid tap at the door.
“Come in, child,” said the nun.
And Maude came in.
She was small and slight for her twelve years, and preternaturally grave. A quantity of long dark hair hung round her head in a condition of seemingly hopeless tanglement, and the dark eyes, proportionately larger than the rest of the features, wore an expression of mingled39 apathy and suspicion, alike strange and painful to see in the eyes of a child.
“Come forward, Maude, and speak with Mistress Drew. Mercy on us, child! how hast moiled thine hair like a fowl40 his pennes!” (Feathers.)
Maude made no reply. She came a few steps nearer, dropped a rustic41 courtesy, and stood to be questioned.
“What is thy name?” inquired Mistress Ursula, as though she were beginning the catechism.
“Maude,” said the child under her breath.
“And what years hast—twelve?”
“Twelve, the last Saint Margaret.”
“And where wert born? Dost know?”
Maude knew, though for some reason with which she herself was best acquainted, she had been much more chary42 of her information to my Lady the Prioress than she now chose to be.
“At Pleshy, in Essex.”
“And what work did thy father?”
Maude looked up with a troubled air, as if the idea of that relative’s possible existence had never suggested itself to her.
“I never had any father!” she said, in a pained tone. “Cousin Hawise had a father, and he wrought43 iron on the anvil44. But I had none—never! I had a mother—that was all.”
“And what called men thy mother?”
“Eleanor Gerard.”
“Then thy name is Maude Gerard,” said Oliva, sharply.
Maude’s silence appeared to indicate that she declined to commit herself either affirmatively or negatively.
“And what canst do, maid?” inquired Ursula, changing the subject to one of more practical purport45.
Perhaps the topic was too large for reply, for Maude’s only response was a nervous twisting of her fingers. Sister Oliva answered for her.
“Marry, she can pluck a chick, and roll pastry46, and use a bedstaff, and scour47 a floor, and sew, and the like. She hath not been idle, I warrant you.”
“Ay,” said Maude, under her breath.
“And couldst run of a message?”
“Ay.”
“And couldst do as folk bid thee?”
“Ay.”
But each time the child’s voice grew fainter.
“Sister Oliva, I will essay the little maid, by your leave.”
“And with my very good will, friend Ursula.”
“Me counteth I shall make the best cook of her in all Herts. What sayest, maid?—wilt49 of thy good will be a cook?”
Maude looked up, looked down, and said nothing. But nature had not made her a cook, and the utmost Ursula Drew could do in that direction was to spoil a good milliner.
So little Maude went with Ursula—into a very different sphere of life from any which she could hitherto remember. The first home which she recollected51 was her grandfather’s cottage, with the great elms on one side of it and the forge on the other, at which the old man had wrought so long as his strength permitted, and had then handed over, as the family inheritance, to his son. Since the world began for Maude, that cottage and the forge had always stood there, and its inhabitants had always been Grandfather, and Uncle David, and Aunt Elizabeth, and Cousin Hawise, and Cousin Jack52, and Mother.
At some unknown time in the remote past there had been a grandmother, for Maude had heard of her; but with that exception, there had never been anybody else, and her father was to her an utterly53 mythic individual. She had never heard such a person named until Ursula Drew inquired his calling. And then, one awful winter night, something dreadful had happened. What it was Maude never precisely54 knew. She only knew that there was a great noise in the night, and strange voices in the cottage, and cries for mercy; and that when morning broke Uncle David was gone, and was seen afterwards no more. So then they tried to keep on the old forge a little longer; but Grandfather was past work, and Cousin Jack was young and inexperienced, and customers would not come as they had done to brawny-armed Uncle David, to whose ringing blows on the anvil Maude had loved to listen. And one day she heard Aunt Elizabeth say to Grandfather that the forge brought in nothing, and they must go up to the castle and ask the great Lord there, whose vassals55 they were, to find them food until Jack was able to work: but the old man rose up from the settle and answered, his voice trembling with passion, that he would starve to death ere he would take food from the cruel hand which had deprived him of his boy. So then, Cousin Jack used to go roaming in the forest and bring home roots and wild fruits, and sometimes the neighbours would give them alms in kind or in money, and so for a while they tried to live. But Grandfather grew weaker, and Mother and Aunt Elizabeth very thin and worn, and the bloom faded from Cousin Hawise’s cheeks, and the gloss56 died away from her shining hair. And at last Grandfather died. And then Aunt Elizabeth went to a neighbouring franklin’s farm, to serve the franklin’s dame57; and Cousin Jack went away to sea; and Maude could not recollect50 how they lived for a time. And then came another mournful day, when strange people came to the cottage and roughly ordered the three who were left to go away. They took Cousin Hawise with them, for they said she would be comely58 if she were well fed, and the Lady had seen her, and she must go and serve the Lady. And Maude never knew what became of her. But Mother wept bitterly, and seemed to think that Hawise’s lot was a very unhappy one. So then they set out, Mother and Maude, for London. The reasons for going to London were very dim and vague to Maude’s apprehension59. They were going to look for somebody; so much she knew: and she thought it was some relation of Grandmother’s, who might perchance give them a home again. London was a very grand place, only a little less than the world: but it could not fill quite all the world, because there was room left for Pleshy and one or two other places. The King lived in London, who never did any thing all day long but sit on a golden throne, with a crown on his head, and eat bread and marmalade, and drink Gascon wine; and the Queen, who of course sat on another golden throne, and shared the good things, and wore minever dresses and velvet60 robes which trailed all across the room. Perhaps the houses were not all built of gold; some of them might be silver; but at any rate the streets were paved with one or other of the precious metals. And of course, nobody in London was at all poor, and everybody had as much as he could possibly eat, and was quite warm and comfortable, and life was all music, and flowers, and sunshine. Poor little Maude! was her illusion much more extravagant61 than some of ours?
But, as we have seen, the hapless travellers never reached their bourne. And now even Mother was gone, and Maude was left alone in all the world. The nuns62 had not been particularly unkind to her; they had taught her many things, though they had not made her work beyond her strength; yet not one of them had given her what she missed most—sympathy. The result was that the child had been unhappy in the convent, and yet she could not have said why, had she been asked. But nobody ever asked that of little Maude. She was alone in all the world—the great, bare, hard, practical world.
For this was the side of the world presented to Maude.
The world is many-sided, and it presents various sides and corners to various people. The side which Maude saw was hard and bare. Hard bed, hard fare, hard work, hard words sometimes. Had she any opportunity of thinking the world a soft, comfortable, cushioned place, as some of her sisters find it?
This had been the child’s life up to the moment when Ursula Drew made her appearance on the scene. But now a new element was introduced; for Maude’s third home was a stately palace, filled with beautiful carvings63, and delicate tracery, and exquisite64 colours, all which, lowest of the low as she was, she enjoyed with an intensity65 till then unknown to herself, and certainly not shared by any other in her sphere. That sense of the beautiful, which, trained in different directions, makes men poets, painters, and architects, was very strong in little Maude. She could not have explained in the least how it was that the curves in the stonework, or the rich colours in the windows of the great hall, gave her a mysterious sensation of pleasure, which she could not avoid detecting that they never gave to any of her kitchen associates; and she obtained many a scolding for her habit of what my Lady the Prioress had called “idle dreaming,” and Mistress Drew was pleased to term “lither laziness;” when, instead of cleaning pans, Maude was thinking poetry. Alas66 for little Maude! her vocation67 was not to think poetry; and it was to scour pans.
The Palace of Langley, which had become the scene of Maude’s pan-cleaning, was built in a large irregular pile. The kitchen and its attendant offices were at one end, and over them reigned68 Ursula Drew, who, though supreme69 in her government of Maude, was in reality only a vice70-queen. Over Ursula ruled a man-cook, by name Warine de la Misericorde, concerning whom his subordinate’s standing71 joke was that “Misericorde was rarely (extremely) merciless.” But this potentate72 in his turn owed submission73 to the master of the household, a very great gentleman with gold embroidery74 on his coat, concerning whom Maude’s only definite notion was that he must be courtesied to very low indeed.
Master and mistress were mere75 names to Maude. The child was near-sighted, and though, like every other servant in the Palace, she ate daily in the great hall, her eyes were not sufficiently76 clear, from her low place at the extreme end, to make out anything on the distant dais beyond a number of grey shapeless shadows. She knew when the royal, and in her eyes semi-celestial persons in question were, or were not, at home; she had a dim idea that they bore the titles of Earl and Countess of Cambridge, and that they were nearly related to majesty77 itself; she now and then heard Ursula informed that my Lord was pleased to command a certain dish, or that my Lady had condescended78 to approve a particular sauce. She had noticed, moreover, that two of the grey shadows at the very top of the hall, and therefore among the most distinguished79 persons, were smaller than the rest; she inferred that these ineffable80 superiors had at least two children, and she often longed to inspect them within comfortable seeing distance. But no such good fortune had as yet befallen her. Their apartments were inaccessible81 fairy-land, and themselves beings scarcely to be gazed on with undazzled eyes.
Very monotonous82 was Maude’s new life:—cleaning pans, washing jars, sorting herbs, scouring83 pails, running numberless infinitesimal errands, doing everything that nobody else liked, hard-worked from morning to night, and called up from her hard pallet to recommence her toil84 before she had realised that she was asleep. Ursula’s temper, too, did not improve with time; and Parnel, the associate and contemporary of Maude, was by no means to be mistaken for an angel.
Parnel was three years older than Maude, and much better acquainted with her work. She could accomplish a marvellous quantity within a given time, when it pleased her; and it generally did please her to rush to the end of her task, and to spend the remaining time in teasing Maude. She had no positive unkind feeling towards the child, but she was extremely mischievous85, and Maude being extremely teasable, the temptation of amusing her leisure by worrying the nervous and inexperienced child was too strong to be resisted. The occupations of her present life disgusted Maude beyond measure. The scullery-work, of which Ursula gave her the most unpleasant parts, was unspeakably revolting to her quick sense of artistic86 beauty, and to a certain delicacy87 and refinement88 of nature which she had inherited, not acquired; and which Ursula, if she could have comprehended it, would have despised with the intense contempt of the coarse mind for the fine. The child was one morning engaged in cleaning a very greasy89 saucepan, close to the open window, when, to her surprise, she was accosted90 by a strange voice in the base court, or back yard of the palace.
“Is that pleasant work—frotting (rubbing) yonder thing?”
Maude looked up into a pair of bright, kindly91 eyes, which belonged to a boy attired92 as a page, some three or four years older than herself. Something in the lad’s good-natured face won her confidence.
“No,” she answered honestly, “’tis right displeasant to have ado with such feune!” (dirt.)
“So me counted,” replied the boy. “What name hast thou, little maid?”
“Maude.”
“I have not seen thee here aforetime,” resumed the page.
“Nor I you,” said Maude. “I have bidden hither no long time. Whereabout sit you in hall?”
“Nigh the high end,” said he. “But we are only this day come from Clarendon with the Lord Edward, whom I and my fellows serve. Fare thee well, little maid!”
The bright eyes smiled at her, and the head nodded kindly, and passed on. But insignificant93 as the remarks were, Maude felt as if she had found a friend in the great wilderness94 of Langley Palace.
The next time the page’s head paused at her window, Maude summoned courage to ask him his name.
“Bertram Lyngern,” said he smilingly. “I have a longer name than thou.” (See Note 2.)
“And a father and mother?” asked Maude.
“A father,” said the boy. “He is one of my Lord’s knights95; but for my mother,—the women say she died the day I was born.”
“I have ne father ne mother,” responded Maude, sorrowfully, “ne none to care for me in all the wide world.”
“Careth Mistress Drew nought for thee?”
Maude’s laugh was bitterly negative.
“Ne Parnel, thy fellow?”
“Poor Maude!” said Bertram, looking concerned. “Wouldst have me care for thee? May be I could render thy life somewhat lighter97. If I talked with Parnel—”
“It were to no good,” said Maude, brushing away to get her sink clean. “There is nothing but sharp words and snybbyngs (scoldings) all day long; and if I give her word back, then will she challenge (accuse) me to Mistress, and soothly I am aweary of life.”
Weary of life at twelve years old! It was a new idea to Bertram, and he had found no answer, when the sharp voice of Ursula Drew summoned Maude away.
“Haste, child!” cried Ursula. “Thou art as long of coming as Advent98 Sunday at Christmas. Now, by the time I be back, lay thou out for me on the table four bundles of herbs from the dry herb closet—an handful of knot-grass, and the like of shepherd’s pouch99, and of bramble-seeds, and of plantain. Now, mark thou, the top leaves of the plantain only! Leave me not find thee idling; but have yonder row of pans as bright as a new tester when I come, and the herbs ready.” (See note 3.)
Ursula bustled100 off, and Maude set to work at the pans. When they were sufficiently scrubbed, she pulled off the dirty apron101 in which she had been working, and went towards the dry herb closet. But she had not reached it, when her wrist was caught and held in a grasp like that of a vice.
“Whither goest, Mistress Maude?” demanded an unwelcome voice.
“Stay me not, I pray thee, Parnel!” said the child entreatingly102. “Mistress Drew hath bidden me lay out divers103 herbs against she cometh.”
“What herbs be they?” inquired Parnel demurely104, with an assumption of gravity and superior knowledge which Maude knew, from sad experience, to mask some project of mischief105. But knowing also that peril106 lay in silence, no less than in compliance107, she reluctantly gave the information.
“There is no shepherd’s pouch in the closet,” responded Parnel.
“Then whither must I seek it?” asked Maude.
“In the fields,” said Parnel.
“Ay me!” exclaimed the child.
“What can I do?” cried Maude in dismay.
Still keeping tight hold of her wrist, Parnel answered the query109 by the execution of a war-dance around Maude.
“Parnel, do leave go!” supplicated110 the prisoner.
“Mistress Maude is bidden lay out herbs!” sang the gaoler in amateur recitative. “Mistress Maude hath no shepherd’s pouch! Mistress Maude is loth to go and pluck it!”
“Parnel, do leave me go!”
“Mistress Maude doth not her mistress’ bidding! Mistr—”
Suddenly breaking off, Parnel, who could be as quick as a lizard111 when she chose, quitted her hold, and vanished out of sight in some incomprehensible manner, as Ursula Drew marched into the kitchen.
“Now, then, where be those herbs?” demanded that authority, in a tone indicative of a whipping.
“By’r Lady, but thou canst help it if thou wilt!” returned Ursula. “Reach me down the rod; thy laziness shall be well a-paid for once.”
Maude sobbed helplessly, but made no effort to obey.
“Where be thine ears? Reach the rod!” reiterated113 Ursula.
“Whom chastise114 you, Mistress Drew?” inquired Bertram’s voice through the door; “she that demeriteth the same, or she that no doth?”
“This lazy maid demeriteth fifty rods!” was the pleasing answer.
“I cry you mercy, but I think not so,” said Bertram judicially115. “An’ you whipped the demeritous party, it should be Parnel. I saw all that chanced, by the lattice, but the maids saw not me.”
Parnel was not whipped, for her quickness made her a favourite; but neither was Maude, for Bertram’s intercession rescued her.
“The saints bless you, Master Bertram!” said Maude, at the next opportunity. “And the saints help me, for verily I have an hard life. I am all of a bire (hurry, confusion), and sore strangled (tired), from morn to night.”
“Poor little Maude!” answered Bertram pityingly. “Would I might shape thy matters better-good. Do the saints help, thinkest? Hugh Calverley saith no.”
“Talk you with such like evil fawtors, (factor, doer), Master Bertram?” asked Maude in a shocked voice.
“Evil fawtors, forsooth! Hugh is no evil fawtor. How can I help but rede (attend to) his sayings? He is one of my fellows. And ’tis but what he hath from his father. Master Calverley is a squire116 of the Queen’s Grace, and one of Sir John de Wycliffe’s following.”
“Who is Sir John de Wycliffe?” said Maude.
“One of the Lord Pope his Cardinals,” laughed Bertram. “Get thee to thine herbs and pans, little Maude; and burden not thy head with Sir John de Wycliffe nor John de Northampton neither. Fare thee well, my maid. I must after my master for the hawking117.”
But before Bertram turned away, Maude seized the opportunity to ask a question which had been troubling her for many a month.
“If you be not in heavy bire, Master Bertram—”
“Go to! What maketh a minute more nor less?”
“Would it like you of your goodness to tell me, an’ you wit, who dwelleth in the Castle of Pleshy?”
“‘An’ I wit’! Well wis I. ’Tis my gracious Lord of Buckingham, brother unto our Lord of Cambridge.”
“Were you ever at Pleshy, Master Bertram?”
“Truly, but a year gone, for the christening of the young Lord Humphrey.”
Maude awaited the answer in no little suppressed eagerness. She had loved Cousin Hawise; and if she yet lived, though apart, she would not feel herself so utterly alone. Perhaps they might even meet again, some day. But Bertram shook his head.
“I heard never the name,” he said. “The Lady of Buckingham her maidens be Mistress Polegna and Mistress Sarah (fictitious119 persons): their further names I wis not. But no Mistress Hawise saw I never.”
“I thank you much, Master Bertram, and will not stay you longer.”
But another shadow fell upon Maude’s life. Poor, pretty, gentle, timid Cousin Hawise! What had become of her? The next opportunity she had, Maude inquired from Bertram, “What like dame were my Lady of Buckingham’s greathood?”
“Marry, she is a woman!” said he; “and all women be alike. There is not one but will screech121 an’ she see a spider.”
“Mistress Drew and Mother be not alike,” answered Maude, falling back on her own small experience. “Neither were Hawise and I alike. She would alway stay at holy Mary her image, to see if the lamp were alight; but I—the saints forgive me!—I never cared thereabout. So good was Cousin Hawise.”
“Maude,” suggested Bertram in a low voice, as if he felt half afraid of his own idea, “Countest that blessed Mary looketh ever her own self to wit if the lamp be alight?”
Maude was properly shocked.
“Save you All Hallows, Master Bertram! How come you by such fantasies?”
Bertram laughed and went away, chanting a stave of the “Ploughman’s Complaint”— (See Note 4.)
“Christ hath twelve apostles here;
Now, say they, there may be but one,
That may not erre in no manere—
Who ’leveth (believeth) not this ben lost echone. (each one)
Peter erred—so did not Jhon;
Why is he clepèd the principal? (See note 5.)
Christ clepèd him Peter, but Himself the Stone—
Late that evening a mounted messenger crossed the drawbridge, and stayed his weary horse in the snows-prinkled base court. He was quickly recognised by the household as a royal letter-bearer from London.
“And what news abroad, Master Matthew?”
“Why, the King’s Highness keepeth his Christmas at Eltham; and certain of the Council would fain have the Queen’s Bohemians sent forth122, but I misdoubt if it shall be done. And Sir Nicholas Brembre is the new mayor. There is no news else. Oh, ay! The parson of Lutterworth, Sir John de Wycliffe—”
“The lither heretic!” muttered Warine, for he was the questioner. “What misturnment (perversion) would he now?”
“He will never turn ne misturn more,” said the messenger. “The morrow after Holy Innocents a second fit of the palsy took him as he stood at the altar at mass, and they bare him home to die. And the eve of the Circumcision (December 31st, 1384), two days thereafter, the good man was commanded to God.”
“Master Warine,” said Hugh Calverley’s voice behind him, “the day may come when thou and I would be full fain to creep into Heaven at the heels of the Lutterworth parson.”
Note 1. The anointing at baptism, when a white cloth was always placed on the head.
Note 2. Bertram, Ursula, Parnel, Warine, and Maude and her family, are all fictitious persons.
Note 3. The herbs were to be boiled and the liquid drunk, for a sprain124, bruise125, or broken bone.
Note 4. Wright’s Political Poems, one 304, et seq. The date of the poem given by Wright is anticipated by about nine years.
Note 5. Why is Peter called the “Prince of the Apostles?”
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1
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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2
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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14
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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impeach
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| v.弹劾；检举 | |
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22
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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23
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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24
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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25
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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26
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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27
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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28
secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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29
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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30
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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31
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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34
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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35
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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36
batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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37
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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38
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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39
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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40
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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41
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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42
chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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43
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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44
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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45
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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46
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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47
scour
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| v.搜索；擦，洗，腹泻，冲刷 | |
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48
cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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49
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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50
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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51
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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53
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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54
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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55
vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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56
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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57
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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58
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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59
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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60
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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61
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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62
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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63
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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64
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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65
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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66
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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67
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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68
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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69
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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70
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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71
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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72
potentate
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| n.统治者；君主 | |
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73
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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74
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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75
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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76
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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78
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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79
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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80
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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81
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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82
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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83
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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84
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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85
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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86
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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87
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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88
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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89
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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90
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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91
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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92
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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94
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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95
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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96
abash
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| v.使窘迫，使局促不安 | |
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97
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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98
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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99
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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100
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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101
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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102
entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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103
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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104
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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105
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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106
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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107
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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108
tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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109
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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110
supplicated
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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112
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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113
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
chastise
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| vt.责骂，严惩 | |
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115
judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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116
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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117
hawking
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| 利用鹰行猎 | |
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118
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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119
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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120
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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121
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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122
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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123
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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124
sprain
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| n.扭伤,扭筋 | |
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125
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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