Loveday's history

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

I remained in attendance upon my mistress, who was as kind and considerate as any one could be. All the change in her was for the better. The death of her husband and her two little sons, had brought her to think more seriously than she used, and made real to her the things which were unseen and eternal. We used to take sweet counsel together over the Scriptures I read to her. (Already the English Bible was a proscribed book, and the Prayer Book declared an abomination.) I could see plainly that while she was ready, if she could, to flee from persecution, as indeed she had Scripture warrant, she would, if need were, die at the stake as bravely as Mistress Askew herself.

I had been with my mistress in her house at Barbican some two weeks. The weather was very hot, and we began to hear of fevers among the prisoners in the crowded jails, but I could not learn that there had been any cases in Newgate.

One evening, however, John Symonds called me aside as I was passing through the hall, and told me there was one to speak with me from the prison, who had a token from my husband. There was a strange sound of pity in his voice as I now remember, but I did not think of it at the time. I followed him eagerly to a little room on the ground floor, and there sat the turnkey's wife, whose child I had saved. She spoke not a word, but with tears running down her rough face, she held out to me a little book. Mechanically I took and opened it. It was my own little Latin Psalter, which I had given to Walter at our sad parting in the prison. On the fly leaf was traced with a trembling hand, "Farewell, dear heart, to meet above."

"They have killed him then," said I, as calmly as though speaking of an indifferent person.

"Nay, madam; 'twas the fever. He gave me that token for you, and I promised to put it into your own hand."

"When?" I asked.

"Only to-day."

I heard no more, for sight and sense failed me, and when they carried me to my room, they thought I had gone to join my husband.

I was like one turned to stone for a few days, unable to think, almost to feel, and only saying to myself again and again, "My husband is dead. My husband is dead."

I know not how long this state lasted, but it was Mistress Curtis who roused me from it. She came to my room, and sitting down by my side, she took my hand, saying in her crisp, kindly, imperative tone: