Loveday's history

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Somehow—I know not how—I saw it all in an instant. I burst from her detaining grasp, flew down the stairs, and the next minute was in my husband's arms.

Yes, it was Walter himself—thin, gray-headed, worn, but yet mine own true love. I would have known him any where changed as he was. I asked no questions. I was not oven surprised to see him. There he was and that was enough for me.

When we had come to ourselves a little, he told us his story. He had been left for dead in the crisis of the fever, and the turnkey's wife really believed she was telling the truth. When she returned to the prison, however, and sought the body to do for it some last decent offices, she found that Walter still lived, though the life was hardly perceptible. She had never forgotten what I had done for their child, and taking counsel with my husband, they procured a rough coffin, and removing Walter in it as if for burial, they took him to a secret nook, where the woman nursed him, pretending he was a brother of her own, who had taken the fever while waiting on the prisoners.

Walter lay long in extreme weakness, and longer still before his guardians judged it safe for him to try to escape. At last, however, he adventured it, and got away in a French vessel, whose master was a Huguenot. He had learned of our whereabouts by means of that secret intelligence, which, as I have said, exists among the reformed all over Europe, and after many wanderings and trials, he had made his way to Wesel.

And now it is time for me to bring this story to a close. We lived in Wesel some two years. Then, Mr. Batie, unwisely as we thought, made another move to the dominions of the Palsgrave. However, we went with them, for Mistress Curtis had died in the meantime, and my mistress depended much upon me. Here we lived a while longer, poor enough, for all the money and jewels we had brought from home were exhausted. Mr. Batie, with all his learning, could find little to do, and, indeed, we were hungry more than once. In this strait, it was my privilege to help the lady who had done so much for me. I had always kept up my music, and I was fortunate in obtaining pupils on the lute and in singing, enough at least to find us bread, and buy clothes for my godson.

At the end of another year, a great piece of good fortune befell us. Mr. Batie found an old schoolmate in a Polish nobleman who was high in the favor of Julius, King of Poland. He interested the king in his friend's behalf, and by and by we heard that the king had assigned Mr. Batie quite a princely domain. We had a hard journey thither, and a harder time still, or so I thought, in cleaning the old rookery of a castle, and making it decent for Christians to live in. I would like to tell you of our life in that far-away land, but this book of mine hath run too long already. Be it enough to say, that we lived in great peace and comfort till the accession of our present gracious queen brought us back to England once more.

When I had seen my dear lady settled in her own house, we went down to Coombe Ashton, taking with us one I never thought to see again—Father Austin, whom we found absolutely starving in the streets of London.

The dear old man hath lived with us ever since. He will not say out and out that he hath abandoned his old religion, but he reads all the Scriptures, and goes to hear my husband preach. Mr. Batie exerted himself to procure the arrears of Father Austin's small pension, which is now paid regularly. He is as happy as possible, his only trouble arising from the performances of the Jesuits, as the new order is called.

Katherine and her husband still live at Wesel. Her oldest girl—my adopted daughter—is well married, and lives near us, and I have two boys and a girl of mine own. My uncle died full of years, just in time to escape the storm of persecution and war which Philip of Spain hath let loose on the Netherlands. We have heard nothing of Avice and her husband for years.

And now this hand of mine, feeble and wrinkled, lays down the pen. I have seen many changes in my time, and passed through many sorrows. It is some times hard for me to feel that this is the same England, where, when I was young, a man who read the Bible in his family, took his life in his hand. Truly the Lord hath been bountiful to us beyond all our deserts. May we never be so unmindful of His favor as to draw down His judgments once more upon us.