"Nor have I," answered Sir John, while my Lady laughed a scornful, affected laugh. "This is no child of mine. She is the daughter of Jeffrey Copplestone of your parts, and a king's ward. I bought her of her guardian, old Master Earle, for two hundred pound ready money."
"And a poor pennyworth you got of her," struck in his Lady. "'Twas an ill day for us when she crossed the threshold."
"I thought as she had a fair portion, and a decent estate in land to her breastlace, she might make a wife to my son," continued the old man, never heeding his wife's interruption: "but he would none of her. Welladay, I thought not how 'twould end! What say you, Sir Stephen, will you take the wench off my hands, and give me a quittance of my debt to you? Her land lies handy to your moorland estate, and you may marry her up to your son yonder."
"For shame, Sir John! Think you such a fine young squire would wed such a scarecrow as our black Joyce?" said my Lady Carey, with that scornful laugh again. "Not but it would be a good riddance to get her off our hands, I am sure. Better send her to the nunnery, and let her estate go for masses, I say."
My blood boiled to hear them so speak of the maid to her very face, as though she had been no better than a brute. Looking at her, I saw her great eyes raised and fixed on my mother's, with such a look of imploring entreaty, as one sometimes sees in those of a dumb creature.
"And so you are Jeffrey Copplestone's maid?" said my father, turning to Joyce, and speaking kindly, as he ever does to the weak and dumb: "I knew your father well, for an honest and brave gentleman, and we stood more than one stricken field together. I knew not that he had left a child."
The eyes turned on my father this time with the same imploring look, but not a word did Joyce say. Sir John seemed in earnest in the matter, and at last my father said they would talk it over again.
When my mother and I were withdrawn to our chamber, where a fire was lighted by this time, which did us little good, save to replace the smell of mold by that of smoke—when I say we were withdrawn to our chamber, and were talking of the day's adventures, the door opened softly, and Joyce showed her pale, scared face, as doubting whether she should venture in. My mother smiled and stretched out her hand, and the action seemed to re-assure Joyce, for she rushed to my mother's side and fell on her knees, bending down as if she would kiss her very feet.
"Oh, madam, save me!" she cried, imploringly, yet low, as if afraid of being overheard. "Beg the kind gentleman, your husband, to buy me. I will serve you on my knees! I will herd cows or weed corn, anything so I may but be near you and away from here. They will kill me or drive me mad among them! Oh, take me away!"
"Poor maid," said my Lady, "poor motherless, fatherless child! Has the world dealt so hardly with thee?"