Chapter VI A First Parting
Queen Henrietta had been loath to part from Agnes, and she would have kept the child about her person had it been possible for her to do so, and had Agnes been a few years older; but to take a child just budding into girlhood alone, without any other companion, or without any definite object in view, to the French court seemed folly.
It had been settled that Patience should make a home for her in England. The queen had spoken seriously to the king about Agnes, and he had settled a pension on her, “until I can do better,” he said. “But we must first find out to whom her estates have passed. I’ll enquire into the matter. I do not suppose I shall be able to restore them to her; but something shall be done either when she marries or comes of age. Till then I will give her a suite of apartments at Hampton Court.”
“That is good,” said Henrietta, “and my little lady shall have her town house too, for I will leave Patience in charge of my private apartments in Somerset House. I do not care for all manner of people to have access to them, and so Agnes can come to town when she likes.”
“And to court when she is old enough,” said Charles, with a merry laugh and twinkling eye.
“No, your majesty,” answered Henrietta, “she must wait for that till my return, and until her position is settled. She has no womankind to watch over her except Patience, so she must abide at home.”
“As you please,” said Charles carelessly. So the matter was settled.
Henrietta explained all this to Patience, Agnes standing by and listening. They even went out to Hampton Court and looked at the apartments which the king had ordered to be prepared for her. The rooms were bright enough, looking out upon a sort of private garden, in a wing of the palace. The queen thought them poorly furnished, and added many little comforts and graceful remembrances, which made them look more home-like.
At times over this unfortunate queen’s soul, seared and wounded by sorrow, the old gaiety, the warm, affectionate nature with which she was endowed, would once more show itself, oftener perhaps to Agnes than to anyone else, even oftener than to her own daughter.
“She grows so like her mother,” she said one day to Patience, tears filling her eyes, and then she would give Agnes some present, and make much of her.
“My little girl,” she said at parting, “it costs me a great deal to leave you behind, but I think Patience is right. You have much to learn. Apply yourself to study; both you and Henrietta have been neglected. It does not matter for her—the women at the French court are for the most part ignorant, some of them can scarcely read or write; but your home will be in England—your father and mother desired it—and some women are very learned in England. I have left you good teachers, a tutor, and a governess, so see that your time is well employed.”
Then she kissed her.
It was a very lonely little maiden who walked on the terrace of Somerset House, a beautiful dove-coloured greyhound, which the queen had given her, her only companion. The animal kept close to its little mistress, thrusting its long muzzle into her hand as if to console her, its speaking brown eyes looking up at her as if to say, “Never mind. We are both young; we shall see them again”; and so she paced up and down the terrace, then, bidding Duke lie down and wait for her, she entered the chapel—a lovely piece of architecture, the work of Inigo Jones—the doors of which were always kept open, though, now the queen was gone, they would be closed.
It required considerable tact in those difficult religious times to bring up a child born of English parents in the midst of the French court. But Patience was a wise woman, broad-minded, and with what was then an almost unknown quality, a vast toleration. She held an anomalous position in the queen’s household, even as Agnes herself did; but the marked deference the queen-mother showed her, made it evident that she was a person of high station. The education both of Agnes and the Princess Henrietta was left, to a very great extent, in her hands; it was the same with the religious teaching, the princess had the court chaplain, but Agnes knelt with Patience and learnt the great truths of religion from her lips; she guarded her soul as she guarded her body, she would allow of no religious discussions in her presence. To the grand services of the Church of Rome she did not take her. “You are too young, you would not understand,” she said; but morning and evening she would go with her into one of the many beautiful churches in Paris, and in silence and devotion watch and pray. So the child learnt all reverence and the great gospel truths. The Bible was a familiar book to her, read in their quiet chamber. “When you are older you will learn many other things,” she told her; and since they had come to England Agnes had awakened to the knowledge that the Christian Church was divided against itself. Sometimes the thought troubled her. Her soul was growing, she was striving to see and understand. Instinctively now, in this her first sorrow, she sought comfort where alone she knew it could be found, and so she entered the beautiful chapel and knelt and prayed that her friends might be given back to her. Then she crossed her arms on the back of the prie-Dieu, and her tears flowed fast and little sobs escaped her. Suddenly she felt a hand laid on her shoulder, and looking up she saw Patience. They both gazed into each other’s eyes and smiled.
“Be comforted, sweetheart,” whispered Patience; and the beauty of her face, the saintliness of it, struck Agnes as it had never done before.
In truth, Patience, even in appearance, was by no means an ordinary woman. She had a marked personality, was tall and slight, holding herself very erect, always dressed in black, plainly but not inelegantly. She had a certain distinction about her. In age she could not have been more than forty, and she did not look that even. Under her white coif her brown hair waved softly; there were no wrinkles or marks of age upon her face; her hazel eyes were clear, but with an ineffable sadness in them—indeed, sadness was the note which Patience struck. She was seldom seen to smile; even when Agnes was a little child she played with her sadly; but she loved her so intensely that the child did not feel this sadness. She would sooner be with Patience than with anyone; Patience meant home to her. She seldom openly caressed her, but then her whole life toward Agnes was one caress, and instinctively the child felt this.
Now she rose quickly from her knees, and threw her arms round her neck, murmuring:
“At least I have you, my own dear Patience; you have not forsaken me.”
“Did you think that possible, my darling?” And taking her by the hand, she led her out into the open. With a short bark of joy and a prolonged whine, Duke sprang upon them.
“I was looking for you,” said Patience, “and could not find you. Duke saw me coming along the terrace, and bounded whining to me. ‘Where is Agnes?’ I asked him. He turned, leapt towards the chapel, looking round to see that I followed him.”
“Ah, he is a dear dog!” said Agnes, laying her hand on his head. “Why were you looking for me, Patience? You knew I should not be far.”
“Because you forget you are alone now,” was the quiet answer, “and you must not wander away; it is not safe for a young girl like you to be alone. You know how seldom I left you and the princess, and then you had an attendant.”
“I thought that was for the princess,” said Agnes, “because of her high dignity. It does not matter about me; I am nobody.”
A slight smile played round Patience’s mouth. “We are all somebody,” she said; “we have our honour to safeguard, and a young maiden cannot be seen alone, in these times especially.”
“Is that why I am to have a governess?” asked Agnes sharply. “I do not like it; let me stay with you, Patience.”
“For you to run away as you have done now?” was the answer. “Besides, you need someone to teach you many things of which I am ignorant.”
“And I am to have a tutor too; I cannot require both,” Agnes continued. “We shall be happier alone, Patience, you and I. I will promise you I will work and never run away; and when you want to leave me, to see after the queen’s affairs, Ann Newbolt will come and sit with me or stay with me if her mother will let her. I cannot have a governess sending me to the right and to the left; it would drive me wild; that would make me run away.”
“Well, we will see,” said Patience; “I am not much inclined for it.”
“Oh, you are not inclined for it at all!” said Agnes. “Think of someone always present in our quiet evenings, or when we stroll about as we are doing now; a third party would not be pleasing to either of us. If I must needs always have someone with me, then there is old Martha; surely she will frighten anyone away, and snarl like an angry dog if man, woman, or child come within ten yards of me.”
Again Patience smiled—she never laughed. It was a sad smile, as if there lay beneath it a whole world of memories.
They moved to the edge of the terrace and looked up and down the river. The waters sparkled and shone in the sunlight of this lovely June day. Barges went and came, boatmen shouted to one another, the sky was blue, the light of the sun was dazzling: it was one of those days which have a touch of Italy in them—the very air was warm with perfume, and the scene was so bright that it seemed to sweep away the great sadness which had oppressed Agnes.
“Yes, you will think about it, Patience,” she persisted. “We must be happy together, you and I. After all, I knew the princess would go one day.”
Once more the tears gathered in her eyes; but they did not fall, for coming towards them was Reginald Newbolt.
He made them a deep bow, his plumed hat sweeping the ground, and his young handsome face alight with kindly sympathy. He saw the tears in Agnes’s eyes, but taking no note of them, said:
“My mother has sent me to ask you on this lovely day to go with her in our barge to the park at Greenwich, which adjoins the palace. It is well in the country, and the air is fresher there than it is here in the city. You must come, because my mother so seldom proposes anything approaching a diversion. I have not known her go beyond the precincts of her own home for years. I think, Mistress Agnes, you have thrown your spell upon her.”
Agnes blushed. “I should like to go,” she said. “Can we, Patience?”
“Why not?” was the quiet answer, for Patience knew that Mistress Newbolt had conceived this plan to divert Agnes from her sadness.
“Yes, we will go,” she said. “Where is the barge?”
“At London Bridge. You can use your own till you get there, then you will use ours. Ann and mother will be waiting for us.”
A barge not unlike a Venetian gondola always stood moored to the steps leading down from the terrace to the water’s edge, so they had not far to go. The distance to London Bridge was but short, and during the journey to Greenwich Agnes found herself made much of, not allowed to grieve or feel herself alone. She was verily a spoilt child, and whilst Patience and Mistress Newbolt sat beneath the trees in the Park, Agnes, Reginald, and Ann wandered into the quaint old garden of the palace known as “The Queen’s House”, filled with all the blossoms of summer, scented with great bunches of lavender and sweet marjoram. As they strolled about there the strength of her youth overcame the sorrow of her heart, and the great world in which Agnes had lived so lonely, fine gentlemen and ladies, valets and maid-servants, all those accessories to court life, seemed to drop away from her as useless and cumbersome. The sweetness and simplicity of nature, as she had never known it before, crept over her. She had lived all her life in palaces surrounded by etiquette, now for the first time in her life she walked with quiet folk, with neither queens nor princesses, only with this simple maiden Ann and this young man, who, notwithstanding his military attire, was so easy and kindly of manner that she had no fear of him. To divert her thoughts Reginald and his sister talked to her about things of which she knew little—the country, the flowers. They told her, too, of Newbolt Manor, and how pleasant it was up in the bonnie north.
“But you have not always dwelt there?” said Agnes.
“No,” answered Ann, “we are new people. Cromwell gave it to my father for his services. One thing comforts me,” continued Ann, “we have turned no one out, for there was no heir; the last owner was killed fighting for King Charles.”
“It would not have mattered if there had been an heir,” said Agnes, a little bitterly; “we Royalists were dispossessed of all we had. What was the name of the people who came before you in the land?”
“De Lisle,” said Reginald shortly.
An old man busy weeding a pathway suddenly drew himself up and said sharply:
“De Lisle! Who talks of the De Lisles? They were accursed and driven out, possessors of church lands. Fire and sword have purified them; they will come back again.”
He looked from one to another till his eyes rested on Agnes. Pointing at her, he added:
“Yea, verily, they will come back to their own again. Hate drove them out; love will bring them back.”
There was a prophetic tone in his voice and a flash in his eye; both died out, and he went back to his weeding.
“Let us go into the park,” said Agnes; “he has frightened me, I know not why.”
Passing through a side gate they entered the park, crossed a stretch of level grass, and came to the foot of a steep hill.
“Let’s see who will reach the top first,” said Ann gleefully. “Not you, Reginald, that would not be fair.” And off she went, Agnes running beside her, the one a strong north-country girl, the other a fairy creature, who had never climbed a hill in her life. But Agnes was so light, so swift, that she outran her companion, and stood at the top of the hill clapping her hands and laughing with pleasure. Reginald with long strides had followed them.
“You are a fay,” he said. “Now let us run down.”
“All of us!” exclaimed Agnes, excited with the unusual motion, and the fresh breezes which came from land and river.
“Give me your hand,” said Reginald, “or you will be tripping.”
She would have resisted, but he took it. And it was well he did, for she had not reckoned on the impetus of a downhill race, and more than once her foot slipped on the green sward; but he held her firmly, and they reached the bottom, laughing merrily, her pretty golden hair all ruffled with the wind, her face flushed, and her eyes bright.
Ann was equally joyous. They were a merry trio when they joined Patience and Mistress Newbolt under a great oak tree, where a cloth had been spread, pies, and cakes, and a heap of ripe strawberries presenting a tempting meal.
Verily there are bright days in life which leave their mark in our hearts, and bring a rush of gladness to the eyes and a smile to the lips when we recall them.
This day was a red-letter day; it had begun sadly, but it ended brightly. They re-entered the barge, and in the quiet evening twilight they floated up the great river on the top of the tide, and, landing once more at Somerset House, bade each other farewell, with a feeling of regret that so lovely a day had its ending.