Loveday's history

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Poor Randall was sent to Oxford, where he went altogether to the bad, ran away leaving more than a hundred pounds of debt behind him, and (so we heard) was cast away on a ship going to Holland. He was his mother's pride and darling, and her heart was almost broken. I have always believed, ever since I was old enough to think about the matter, that Sister Benedict persuaded my lady that her holding back Walter and myself from that service to which we had been promised had brought this judgment upon her.

Walter declared that, though he might consent to be a parish priest, he would never be a monk, and he was one not easy to be moved when once his mind was made up, though he never stuck out about trifles—not like poor Randall, who could be coaxed or flattered out of any principles he ever had, while he would be obstinate even to folly about the trimming of a glove, or the management of a hawk. So my lady was fain to compromise the matter, and Walter was sent to Bridgewater to study with Sir Richard Lambert, a very learned priest with a great reputation for sanctity. (Of course I did not know all this at the time, being but a child.)

I was sent away with Sister Benedict, to go to my father's brother, a rich merchant in London, trading to the Low Countries. That was the story. Sir Edward had all along been opposed to bestowing me in a convent, and after the suppression of the Gray Nuns' house, he had spoken his mind freely to my lady, saying that he would not have me disposed of in that way without my own consent, and that no more should be said about the matter till I was of age to judge for myself. My lady seemed to acquiesce, as indeed she always did on the rare occasions when Sir Edward asserted his will, and I suppose she might really be glad of the excuse to keep me at home, for, as I have said, she liked to have me about her.

But Sir Edward went away, being sent to Scotland on public business by the King, and Sister Benedict came, and the upshot of the matter was, that I was sent to London to see my uncle and little cousins. As soon as Sister Benedict could make proper arrangements, I was to be transferred to the convent of Bernardines at Dartford, a very rich and reputable house. I don't think it was meant that I should know this, but my lady's woman let the cat out of the bag, and my lady, finding I knew so much, told me the rest herself—so I knew what to look for.

The journey to London was longer and harder then than now, and very dangerous withal. But my Lord Abbot of Glastonbury, who was Sister Benedict's uncle, was going up to town with a great following, and we traveled in his train; so we escaped the dangers of the road, and met with far more consideration than we should otherwise have done. Nevertheless, I remember that Sister Benedict was highly indignant at certain instances of disrespect shown to her uncle by the gentry and others whom we met, and mourned over the degeneracy of the times. The truth was, the thunder-cloud was even then lying low in the sky, and men felt its influence as dumb creatures do that of a natural storm before it comes.

Well, we reached London at last, and glad was I when our journey was done, though sorry to part with Sister Benedict, who, her point once gained, was very kind to me. However, I had so much to engage my attention that I did not feel the parting so deeply as might perhaps have been expected.

Mine uncle lived in Portsoken ward, in a very fine house built by his grandfather, but greatly enlarged and embellished by his father and himself. It had a large courtyard, and a garden at the back, wherein were some huge apple trees and a great standard pear tree, besides others for shade and beauty. All the Corbets are fond of gardening, and my Uncle Gabriel was no exception to the rule. At that time (and I suppose the same is true now) the great merchants of London lived very handsomely, and enjoyed many luxuries which had not been so much as heard of in our remote corner of the world. I was met at the door by a most lovely old lady, who kissed me on both cheeks, and informed me that she was my great-aunt, my Grandfather Corbet's sister.

"And so you are poor Richard's child! I remember him well, a little lad no bigger than you, if as big. You don't favor him greatly, and yet there is a Corbet look about you, too. What was your mother's name?"

I managed to say that it was Loveday Carey.

"Yes, yes, I remember. And how old are you? But never mind now. You must need refreshment after your long journey, but I suppose you have not come very far to-day."