It was about a fortnight after this court day that the fortunate yeoman one morning led his mother, Edith Holgrave, to the cottage he had built on the land that was now his own.
Edith entered the cottage, her hand resting for support upon the shoulder of her son—for she was feeble, though not so much from age as from a weak constitution. As she stepped over the threshold she devoutly crossed herself; and when they stood upon the earthen floor, she withdrew her left hand from the arm that supported her, and, sinking upon her knees, and raising up her eyes, exclaimed—
"May He, in whose hands are the ends of the earth, preserve thee, my son, from evil. And oh! may He bless this house!"
While she spoke, her eyes brightened, and her pale face for a short time glowed with the fervor of her soul.
"Stephen, my son," she continued (as with his aid she arose and seated herself upon a wooden stool), "many days of sorrow have I seen, but this proud day is an atonement for all. My father was a freeman, but thy father was a serf;—but all are alike in His eyes, who oftentimes gives the soul of a churl to him who dwelleth in castles, and quickens the body of the base of birth with a spirit that might honour the wearer of crimson and gold. My husband was a villein, but his soul spurned the bondage; and oftentimes, my son, when you have been an infant in my arms, thy father wished that the free-born breast which nourished you, could infuse freedom into your veins. He did not live to see it; but oh! what a proud day was that for me, when my son no longer bore the name of slave! I had prayed—I had yearned for that day; and it at length repaid me for all the taunts of our neighbours, who reviled me because my spirit was not such as theirs!"
"Come, come, mother," interrupted Holgrave, "don't agitate yourself; there is time to talk of all this by-and-bye."
"And so there is, child—but I am old; and the aged, as well as the young, love to be talking. Stephen, you must bear with your mother."
"Aye, that I will, mother," replied Holgrave, kissing her cheek which had assumed its accustomed paleness; "and ill befall the son that will not!"
Leaving his mother to attend to the visitors who crowded in to drink success to the new proprietor in a cup of ale, Stephen Holgrave stole unobserved out of the cottage towards nightfall.
Passing through Winchcombe, he arrived at a small neat dwelling, in a little sequestered valley, about a quarter of a mile from the town—the tenant of which lowly abode is of no small consequence to our story.