“Nay, truly, Mistress Edith, I’ll do naught to anger thee; but, forsooth, what came upon yonder Lady Dacre was meet; that thou shouldst go to succor her—thou, and no other; for, thou seest, she was mistress of all this land of her own right, and was a Dacre born, and wedded a kinsman—she could not help but wed him—it was none of her choosing, I trow, to wed a poor knight. And thy mother was of kin to them both—cousin-german to her, and a distant kinswoman to him also, which made it the greater sin. Ah, Mistress Edith! I do so well remember the sweet, white face that lay down on that pillow to die! and to think that they had shut the door on her, who were of her own blood!”
Edith was thinking of all these things sadly; her own young mother, and yonder gentle Mary—and contrasting their dim lot with the flashes of youthful hope, the bright vistas of sunny life which now and then through these last painful months had opened to herself. Might these not be all illusions—shadows and mists destined only to condense into darker gloom?
“Thou wouldst see yonder cavalier, I reckon, while thou wert in London?” said Dame Dutton, inquisitively. “Truly I did marvel within myself what the omen might be that ye were both journeying on one morrow—and they tell me he is a gracious youth, yonder Sir Philip, and hath a savor of godliness. He do begin to make the old house liker a dwelling for living folk, ’tis certain; for if spirits came back—I know not, Mistress Edith—the Word saith naught of whether they may—yonder dark rooms were most like a place for them; and he is a good master to his serving folk, and has a kind hand to the poor. How sayest thou of this gallant, sweetheart? thou hast marked him, I wot.”
“Nay I know not, Dame Dutton,” said Edith, blushing. “He did well among the sick, and served them; but in sooth no man, methinks, could have held back when he saw their misery.”
“Ay, ye have done wonderful, truly, for young folk,” said Dame Dutton, “a strange beginning I trow—but an it be to a good lot, Mistress Edith, never think more of the evil say I, for if it were ever so bad, it be past now, and should e’en be forgotten. But it glads me that thou dost like this gentleman—for all men speak kindly of him.”
“Nay, Dame Dutton,” said Edith eagerly, “I said not I liked him, more than it be needful. I like all who serve the one Lord—and as he is my kinsman—”
“Yea, sweatheart, did I trouble thee?” answered the Dame. “What didst think I meant, truly? and thou wouldst not hate the gentleman sure—why shouldst thou?”
But Dame Dutton went about her household work thereafter with smiles and secret whispers—and Edith standing at the cottage door with a tremulous gladness about her heart, to look out upon the far stretching slopes of those blue hills of Cumberland, retreated to her own chamber, with a nervous haste, for which she could not very well account, when she saw her kinsman, Sir Philip Dacre, ascending the narrow pathway over the hills.
And so it came to pass ere long, that a second Edith Dacre entered the old halls of Thornleigh to be lady and mistress there, where her mother’s clouded youth had past. A dim beginning—yonder sad time of the plague in London, was indeed the dawning of a pleasant day.
And there followed sunny years—years of household quietness, of growing wisdom, and of such generous labor, full of all bounties and kindnesses, as doth become so well those gentlefolk of God’s appointing, whose errand is to bind together the different circles of His earth in the wide sympathies of one humanity. Never houseless man again sat vainly at the gate of Thornleigh, waiting the issue of his wearied wife’s petition, as he did once, whose manly head began to whiten within, under the snow of peaceful years. Never wayfarer sought shelter vainly—never poor turned without hope or help away. Gentle alms—deeds, and charities—gentler words of brotherhood and kindness—gentlest and highest, merciful teachings of the Gospel, fell pleasantly like summer dew about the old house of Thornleigh!