"Aye, that has it," said another voice—that of old Dorothy, who had come in like a mouse. "Joyce, you should not be here! Think if my Lady should come in and find you!"
Joyce shrank and shivered at the words, as if actually beaten, but she did not move, till after a little more coaxing and threatening she arose, and kissing my mother's hand more than once, crept slowly away.
"I dare not let her stay, and that is the truth," said Dorothy, after she had closed the door, coming near us and speaking low; "my Lady would so beat her for it if she knew."
"Is she then such an ill-conditioned child?" asked my mother.
"Nay, she was well enough conditioned when she came here, five years agone," answered Dorothy. "She is all but crazed now, and no wonder; but she does not want for mother wit, though she hath had no teaching such as a young lady should have. You see her father was killed in a duel before she was born, and her mother dying in child-bed, she became a King's ward, and old Master Earle of Biddeford got her of the King in lieu they say of moneys advanced to his Majesty's father. Mistress Earle was no lady, but a bustling, kindly housewife, and the girl did well enough with her I fancy, but her husband was a true usurer and cared for naught but money. When the good dame died, Master Earle would no more be plagued with Joyce, but sold her to our knight, and got, so our old steward says, by far the best of the bargain. Sir John thought to mate Joyce with our young master. But Master Walter would have none of her, though he was always kind and brotherly in his rough way. He had grown up at home, and learned nothing as he ought, and nothing would serve him but to fall in love—fall indeed—with Cicely Woodson, our bailiff's fair daughter."
My mother here glanced at me.
"Oh, there was nothing wrong then, madam!" said the old woman, interpreting the look. "Cicely was as proud and modest as any young lady, aye, and as beautiful too—a fine spirited lass, as you will see. It might have turned out well enough, only Sir John was so bent on making up the match between Walter and Mistress Joyce. So he told his son he must be ready on a certain day. Walter tried at first to put the matter off, and then it all came out that he and Cicely were already married by a begging friar. My master and her father were equally enraged—the marriage was pronounced null—poor Cicely was hurried away to a convent, and Walter warned that he must submit to his father. But mark what followed! That very night he disappeared, and next day word came that Cicely had escaped from her convent. But they followed them—alas, poor things!—and found them at last. The woman was dragged back to her cell—to what fate I leave you to guess—and Master Walter was brought home and shut up in the west tower. But he went raving mad—alack, and woe is me!—threw himself from the window, and all to break his skull on the stones below. Poor young thing! 'Twould have been better to own the marriage and live in peace—think you not so, madam?"
"I do, indeed!" answered my mother, wiping her eyes. "'Tis a woeful tale! But I see not how poor Joyce was to blame in all this?"
"No, nor I; but 'twas visited on her, for all that!" returned the old woman. "My Lady said that Joyce might have won him if she had tried; and that she drove him away, and what not. Poor simple child! She would have been ready enough to wed him, methinks, as he was ever kind to her. And indeed, madam, it would be a deed of charity to take the maid out of her hands, for my Lady is a hard woman. And poor Mistress Joyce would do well enough with one who was kind to her. She is ever biddable with me."
My father coming in, old Dorothy bade us good-night and departed.