Loveday's history

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

My lady laughed, while Master Batie said, in his grave way: "Nay, John, there are many good Christians in the world who do not speak English. As to our being in safety, I hope we are so at least for the present. We will go to-morrow to Saulin, a small town, where I have hired a house with its furniture, and where we may, I trust, find a refuge till this tyranny be overpast. But it will behoove us to live quiet and retired, and to be very prudent."

"Perhaps, then, it is as well for us that nobody but Loveday can speak Dutch," observed my mistress. "As for me, I can read French well enough, but my accent is incurably English."

Well, we removed to Saulin next day, and took up our abode in our own hired house—not a spacious one by any means, but neat and comfortable. It was an odd little town, once a place of some importance, but old and decaying.

There were no English in the place but ourselves, and one other family—that of a gentleman named Giggs, who had fled from England on some political ground, and had lived in this place ever since. The wife and daughter were well enough—sober, plodding women, much given to fine spinning and embroidery—just the women who will sit stitching at a counterpane or hanging, from year's end to year's end, with no more change than from blue silk to red cloth, or from the history of King Arthur to Moses in the bulrushes. Withal they were kindly souls, and would even neglect their beloved tapestry to help some poor woman in trouble.

But the husband I liked not at all. He was a busybody in other men's matters—with a mighty conceit of his own knowledge of state craft, as he called it—in short, just the man to be made a spy and a pump of, all the time he was fancying himself as secret as the grave. Of course, he was bound to find out all about us. He tried in vain to pump John Symonds, who was always afflicted with deafness when it did not suit him to hear, and whose tongue was not to be unlocked even by beer. Then he tried Mr. Batie himself, but he might as well have tried to extract a secret from the crypt of St. Peter's at Rome. At last he took himself off, on some secret mission, he said, and we were glad to be rid of him. But we were not done with him yet.

The time went on to November, and we were fallen into a very quiet, orderly way of living, as, indeed, every thing was orderly where Mr. Batie was. He was a wonderful grave, staid man, loving all sorts of head-breaking, mathematical studies, and caring little or nothing for the music and poetry which his wife loved. I never saw a man so slow to take a joke, or one who enjoyed it more when he did understand it. But he was a pleasant gentleman to live with. His temper was perfect, and he was faithfulness itself.

If Mr. Batie promised to do a thing, 'twas as sure to be done as the sun to rise, unless something made the fulfillment downright impossible. He always did seem to me a little like a schoolmaster, he was so fond of setting one right and giving little bits of information. All the poetry and enthusiasm in him was bestowed on his religion. I never saw one, not even my Walter, to whom the other world seemed at all times so near, and when he read a story in the Bible and commented thereon, he made you see the very place and people. He had been in the Holy Land, where, I suppose, things have not changed a great deal since our Lord's time, and when he told us of Bethlehem and of Nazareth, he fairly carried us into the carpenter's shop and the stable.

'Twas he who first won me to talk of my husband, by telling me how he had met him at Suffolk house. It was a great relief, once I brought my mind to it, and his wise, gentle counsels and prayers did a great deal toward dispelling the dull cloud which seemed to settle down upon me after the immediate need for action was past. I found comfort once more in devotion, and began to take up some of my old pursuits.

My dear lady liked me to read and sing to her, and she needed something to divert her, for she was far from well. Mistress Giggs' youngest daughter, Amy, had fallen into a rapid consumption—a waste, as we call it in these parts. Her mother, though she loved the child tenderly, was no great things of a nurse, and poor little Amy liked me about her. My mistress, ever self-forgetful, would have me do what I could for the child, and Mr. Batie often visited and prayed by her. The women were of the Reformed persuasion. As for Mr. Giggs, his religion varied with the company he kept.

It was now the end of November, and we were looking for my lady's trial to come on any day. The nights were long and dark, and the ground was covered with snow, but it was not very cold. Mr. Batie had been away for a few days, and we were anxious for his return.