The house of the wizard

Thus a great change came into Betty Carew’s life. After her introduction to the court at Greenwich, Sir William formally placed her in the charge of his eccentric relative and went back alone to Mohun’s Ottery. The young girl, left thus among strangers, endeavored to adapt herself to their ways as she had before taken up existence at her uncle’s house. Deep in her heart were hidden wounded pride and a feeling of desolation. She was poor and felt herself but a toy in the hands of her wealthier relations, and she was alone amidst a throng of strangers. She had not a nature which repines; the harder elements of resolution and reserve grew faster in her heart than impulses of love and happiness. She found her new life far more full of interest and event than any she had ever known. Her guardian was so strange and active an old woman that she alone furnished no little entertainment to an observer. My Lady Wildrick Crabtree, as she was called, was the daughter of Lord Wildrick of Wildrick Hall at Deptford; her Christian name was Zenobia, but she was rarely called by it. She married, late in life, Lord Crabtree, who promptly died, as the husbands of such women always do. He was poor, but from her father Lady Crabtree inherited a large property, as she was an only child. It had been said of her mother that, having borne Zenobia, she could do no more in this world or the next. Yet Lady Crabtree was a woman of strong intellect, keen wit, and an untiring energy, and was more sought after than any woman of her age in London. Every man’s business was her business; she knew all the gossip of the court; she knew all the miseries of the poor, and she was quick to right a wrong and to take up the cause of the oppressed. She could be in the saddle all day and show no fatigue, although she had passed seventy-five; a litter was ever scorned by her, and she walked miles through the muddy roads to aid the sick or destitute. Time she counted as of great value; no hour could be wasted; and so as to be out early in the morning, it was no uncommon thing for her to have her tirewoman arrange her white hair, of which she had a quantity, over night. At such seasons, her ladyship slept with her head propped up, that the great superstructure might not be injured. Her boots were all made heavy and clumsy, after the fashion of those worn by men, and her feet being large, she had the tread of a man. The strength of her wrist and fist had been rated high, since she knocked down the largest man upon the street in a group that laughed at her mannish stride. A valiant protector she was for any young woman, and as she came to know Mistress Betty, she took a fancy to her, so that this strangely assorted couple lived very peacefully together.

In the early part of February, when Queen Anne’s illness cast a gloom over the court, Lady Crabtree retired for a while to her house at Deptford, where she held a little court of her own. Wildrick Hall was a great house of stone, built by the Normans and prepared for defence, its battlements being heavy and its windows little more than arrow-headed slits in the thick walls. Within, the household was like that of Mohun’s Ottery, upon a smaller scale, and many people were daily fed under the hospitable roof. The old gentlewoman ruling with a rod of iron, and knowing well every detail of the house, from the kitchen to the banquet hall, was something of a terror to her servants and attendants. In her own domain she was judge and jury, and no man dared gainsay her will; while she drove the women like a flock of startled chickens cackling as they fled pell-mell before my lady’s tongue, a scourge which she was quick to supplement with a blow. She was full of great oaths as any man, and knew how to hurl them at the ears of an offender; yet she had, too, a large sympathy for the unfortunate and a keen judgment of men. In this household Mistress Carew, finding her place beside its mistress, was often diverted by her strange ways. Although there were always many guests, it often happened that these two ate together, while at the lower end of the large hall were long tables for the others.

One wintry day, early in February, Lady Crabtree and Betty sat at breakfast. It was seven in the morning, my lady’s hour for breaking her fast, and all the tables were set with tapers which flared in the gloom, only a little light creeping in through the narrow windows. Betty’s fresh face and brilliant coloring made a sharp contrast to the hook-nosed, strong countenance of the old woman, whose white hair, dressed over night, was nearly concealed by a great coif of yellow velvet. She wore a gown of gay brocade, the tight body, full sleeves, and huge farthingale being in the style first introduced by Queen Catherine. At her waist, on one side, hung a heavy bunch of keys, and on the other she wore a dagger. A fur-lined mantle was thrown over her shoulders, and was needed, for the sharp wind poured in at many crevices and swept through the hall in gusts. She was a marvellous figure, her spreading skirts, full sleeves, and huge headdress making her seem twice her natural size, which was above that of woman. She performed her trencher duties like a man, and a hungry one. On the table was set a chine of beef, and with this, for the two women, a quart of ale and a pint of wine with a square loaf of bread. It was well known that the salting tubs were numerous at Wildrick Hall at Michaelmas, and the stores of beef and mutton as great as any in the land; for my lady was one who lived well and drank well, as her father had before her, and ever quarrelled with the statute of the third Edward, which regulated the diet of both rich and poor. No man should be served “with more than two courses,” said the law, “and each mess of two sorts of victuals at the utmost, be it flesh or fish, with the common sorts of pottage, without sauce or any other sorts of victuals.”

My Lady Crabtree had received a letter from Mrs. Wyatt the previous day, and she read from it to Betty as she ate her breakfast, making her own comments upon it in her usual fashion.

“The queen recovers slowly from her illness and is in sore distress of mind at the loss of her boy, so says Mistress Wyatt,” remarked the old woman; “like enough, there be other causes for her sorrow and rumors be true.”

“You mean the king’s fancy is caught by another?” asked Betty, quietly.

“Ay, that is the talk,” Lady Crabtree rejoined. “Wyatt is too close to the queen to speak of it, but I have my information from a sure hand. They do say that my Lady Anne surprised him making love to the little Seymour. The queen came suddenly upon them; Jane sat on the king’s knee, looking as demure as ever. ’Tis said this brought Anne to her present case; and that the king’s grace is furious at the loss of a boy.”

“I wonder if she—the queen—thinks now of Queen Catherine,” remarked Betty, thoughtfully; “poor lady! she bore enough from this same Anne Boleyn.”

“Yet the statesmen would have us believe that the king does all this because he would have a boy to leave to rule in this realm,” said Lady Crabtree, cutting the beef with a free stroke of her knife. “’Tis an excellent excuse to marry a young wife to cheat the King of Scots. There be others that would rejoice to find a King of Scots in a like case, I doubt not.”

“Yet the succession is a serious matter,” said Betty, smiling; “I have heard my uncle speak of it with deep concern.”

“Serious enough,” retorted the old woman, grimly. “My Lady Salisbury is busy hatching an egg of conspiracy, if I mistake not; and there is Lord Hussey, who but lately had charge of the Lady Mary, a man who knows not the color of his own shirt from morn till evening. As for Reginald Pole, he fancies himself a pope already, and has thrown filth enough upon the king and will endeavor to pull down his grace, albeit he owes him much. ’Tis a lovely muddle, and my lord privy seal is as much hated as the devil. As for this queen, she has put away from her, by some misfortune, the Duke of Norfolk, her uncle, while his grace of Suffolk hates her. As for Percy, whom she loved, he is like to be of more harm than help to her. ’Tis the devil’s pot and he is here to brew it. Ah, what have we here, Bronson?” This to a servant who stood near her.

At the moment there was a hubbub at the other end of the great apartment. The members of the household who were eating at the lower tables rose and peered over each other’s shoulders, while at the door was heard the sound of a dispute. Lady Crabtree stood up and struck the table with the handle of her knife, her whole manner changing at once to that of a ruler of the domain.

“Silence!” she called, in her loud voice. “What fools make such an uproar at the door?”

Instantly her guests and retainers sank abashed into their places, and thus a view was given of the entrance. There the steward, a small, shrewd-visaged man, and the porter were struggling to bring in a great-limbed, burly fellow who resisted with all his might though his hands were tied behind him.

“Who have you there, Sir Steward?” asked his mistress, her eagle eye upon them and her clenched fist resting on the table.

“Madam, ’tis a vagrant caught in the third offence,” panted the steward, as he and the porter pulled the prisoner forward by main force.

Old Madam, as she was so often called, looked searchingly at the prisoner, a stout, ill-favored man dressed in ragged clothing and hanging his head, as if ashamed of his plight.

“How can you prove the charge?” Lady Crabtree asked sharply.

“Look at his slit ear, my lady,” said the steward; “his second offence of begging in this parish was here too, yet he hath the boldness to come here again, with his ear bored at that.”

“A very valiant beggar certainly,” she remarked, eying the vagrant with pitiless contempt. “You are a rogue,” she added, addressing the captive; “but what have you to say?”

“I asked but for a herring,” the man replied sullenly, looking up, and Betty saw that he was cross-eyed, with an evil cast of countenance.

“And will hang for a herring, fool!” said old Madam, harshly; “and it would be right, for with that body you should work or die. Take him to the justice,” she added to her steward, “and tell him I will pay for the rope.”

The two servants began to drag the prisoner back, and he offered no great resistance, seeming to accept his fate with sullen indifference; but Betty Carew rose from her seat.

“Surely, madam,” she cried, “you will not hang this poor man for asking for a herring?”

Lady Crabtree looked up with grim indifference.

“He is a valiant beggar, wench,” she said coolly, “and you know King Henry’s law?”

Betty looked at her with passionate scorn in her young face.

“By heaven, madam,” she cried, “you are a brute!”

Now this honest expression of her own feelings so pleased the strange old woman that she burst into a hearty fit of laughter. Meanwhile the steward and the porter had paused in amazement, and the prisoner stood between them with a look of dogged wretchedness upon his face.

“Go talk to the king’s grace, Mistress Betty,” said old Madam, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes; “this realm is full of these knaves, and we must hang them or they will cut our throats.”

“Is life so cheap?” cried Betty, looking at her with shining eyes; “have we not all to answer for our doings? I pray you, madam, spare this fellow for shame of the herring!”

Lady Crabtree looked thoughtfully at the vagrant, and then some strange notion moved her again to laughter.

“You shall have your will, mistress,” she said; “here, Bronson, go out and get a dozen—nay, twenty stout rods and distribute them.”

The servant went to execute her order, while Betty remained standing, a puzzled expression on her face. In a few moments the company, to the number of sixteen or seventeen, were armed with stout hickory staffs, and Lady Crabtree directed that these men should form in two lines from the door, leaving a small aisle in the middle. This was done, while all the members of the household were on their feet, women and girls and gray-headed men all looking on curiously. The light of day, now much brighter, shone in the room, and many of the tapers were extinguished. When her orders were carried out, Lady Crabtree rose and stood by the table, pointing her finger at the culprit.

“Hark ye, villain,” she said harshly, “this young lady has interceded for you, and though I am breaking law thereby, yet would I pleasure her. I give you this chance for your life. Yonder is the door; make it, but take your fortune with a beating and the magistrate upon the other side. You, my servants, belabor him well as he runs through the passage; spare not the rogue, I charge ye. Now, Sir Steward, loose him and let him go.”

The cords were cut from the man’s arms and the two men stepped back to give him room. For a moment he stood as if bewildered, and then, turning, he started at a run down the long hall. As he reached the middle of the place, he came in contact with the staffs of the men servants, who obeyed the mistress’s behests with good will. The beggar dodged wildly, but only to receive two blows for one that he evaded. They fell on every side, and he was driven in a zigzag course by the force of the encounter. The dull sound of the blows which hit the mark was mingled with shrill laughter and shouts of approval, for it was an entertainment to the household. Lady Crabtree stood up and clapped her hands.

“Well hit there, Jacob!” she cried; “strike again, Andrew, but spare his skull; cheat not the hangman of an honest job.”

There was a wild scuffle at the door, and then the vagrant, with a strong blow from his fist, sent a serving-man sprawling upon his back and effected his escape amid a great outcry.

“Well done, marvellously well done!” laughed Lady Crabtree; “he will beg here no more. Sit down, Betty; you have won, and may finish your breakfast.”

But Betty remained standing, her face pale and her dark eyes full of fire.

“Madam,” she said, “I have no appetite; I could not eat the herring that you saved.”

“What ails you, wench?” the old woman asked grimly; “your stomach is too dainty. Know you not that the king would hang all such?”

“I care not,” Mistress Carew cried; “that scene was one to turn a stouter heart than mine. The man was a knave, but I have no love of seeing misery made a sport of.”

“Tush, mistress,” retorted old Madam, coolly, “you are a fool, as young women often are. I have no pity for a man who would live dishonestly, if he could; a dirty, lazy lout, who begs and steals. Sit down, my girl, for here is a guest who comes to look at your fair face and hopes that I may die and leave you rich, which I shall not.”

Betty looked up and saw Sir Barton Henge. He had just been ushered into the hall, and wore a rich riding-suit and carried his plumed hat in his hand. He advanced with an air of eager pleasure, his bold eyes fixed on Mistress Carew.

“I crave your pardon, Lady Crabtree,” he said, with a graceful salutation, “for coming so early, but I knew the morning star shone ever at Wildrick Hall.”

“A very pretty compliment to an old woman, Sir Barton,” Lady Crabtree said. “You find us much upset; my young mistress here flies out at me because I will not coddle a valiant beggar.”

Betty closed her lips tightly and drew further away; her instinctive dislike for Henge increased every time she saw him, though his passionate admiration for her was plain enough to flatter the vanity of one so young.

“Mistress Carew has a tender heart,” said Henge, smiling blandly; “I can see that in her eyes.”

At this, old Madam burst out with a harsh laugh.

“Mercy on your imagination, sir,” she said in great amusement, “if you can fancy any tenderness in the glance that Mistress Betty casts at you! You are in no favor in that quarter.”

Betty blushed furiously, but held her peace. She was not entirely displeased at Lady Crabtree’s frankness, for Sir Barton had pushed his addresses with such violent warmth and haste that she dreaded his visits.

“You are gay this morning, madam,” he said sharply, with a glance of ill-disguised anger at the old woman; “happily, you are not the interpreter of Mistress Carew’s heart or eyes.”

“You fool,” retorted Lady Crabtree, laughing, “Betty’s eyes need no interpreter—”

“Madam,” interrupted the young girl, sharply, “I crave your permission to withdraw;” and without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked from the room, holding her head high and with crimson cheeks.

“There, Sir Barton,” laughed the old woman, “see how welcome you are! The wench has sense, I tell you, and will none of you.”

“I am not so confident of that as you, my Lady Crabtree,” he retorted angrily; “I can find a way to bring this haughty young mistress to reason.”

The old woman looked at him sharply.

“You have an air of mystery,” she said coldly, “but look you, Barton Henge, I love this wench, and I swear that you shall not disturb her, nay, or trouble her one whit. Sit down and eat; you are hungry, doubtless; but nourish no dreams of conquest, unless the maid is willing, which she may be in time, for all girls are fools once, else there would be fewer marriages.”