Then I arose, bathed my face, and put myself into decent trim. As I was mending my tattered gown, Dame Giles entered the room. I made her sit down by me, and told her where I had been. She shook her head disapprovingly.
"'Twas a great risk, and yet I can not blame you," said she; "but how did you bruise your face so sadly?"
I told her my adventure with the child.
"'Twas a great deal to do for a child no ways akin to you," said she; "but I dare to say you never thought of that."
"No, indeed!" I answered. "Since mine own babe was given me, I feel that all children are akin to me, for her sweet sake. But now that I am decent once more, I will finish your ruffle while I have time, since one can not tell from one hour to another what will happen, or would you rather I made some more cakes, that you may be sure you understand the confection?"
For I had learned in Holland to make certain light sweet-cakes, which, boiled in hot lard, were both toothsome and wholesome, and I had been practicing my skill for the benefit of the good woman, my hostess.
Dame Giles looked at me in wonder, and indeed I could not but wonder at myself. I seemed somehow so strangely held up above my sorrow and care.
The bewilderment of my senses was all gone—I could think calmly as ever in my life, and I was conscious of a kind of calmness and serenity—of a trust in my Heavenly Father, and a confidence in His mercy such as I had never felt before, and which came not from myself, I am sure. I was able, while giving due attention to what I was about, to look beyond all earthly things, and by faith to behold that shore where are no more griefs, neither sorrow nor crying, because the former things are passed away. I knew that I had seen my husband probably for the last time on earth, unless I were allowed one last embrace when he was led forth to the stake or the gallows, but I felt that I could even give him up if called to do so, knowing that our parting would be but for a time. It is, I believe, only in circumstances of great trial that this state of mind comes to pass. It is the Lamb's mystical gift to His own—the white stone wherein is a name written which no one knows but he who receives it.
That night, after dark, John Symonds came to conduct me to his mistress's presence. I learned, during the walk, that he had followed his lady's fortunes in her second marriage, and that Mistress Curtis was still my lady's manager and housekeeper, though growing old. My mistress received me with more than her old kindness. She was lovely as ever, and even more so, for her face had gained in expression and in thought. She presented me to her husband, a fine-looking, sober gentleman he was no doubt, and as good as the day was long. But how she could ever take him into the Duke's place—however, that was no business of mine. I am sure he was ever most kind to me, and I should be an ingrate not to own what I owe to him.
"Mistress Corbet is come in good time, my love, since you needed a waiting gentlewoman," said he. "You will be better pleased with her than with a stranger, specially in these troublous times when one knows not whom to trust."