I . 1^
Hi
^•4;
U-f.
V V'
^-4.
U n •
, 1
V- j
4 >_
X •
7ii
'1
’fc-
• 1 ,
- r: s
♦ V
V5D'
m.
VIk - ^ v®
^ ST^
-4\*‘-
* *
■fj
.5 rii ^ * u&tuv.
-f * Ki '
V v/
*- Cl
U li-
9 ^.
J f
Works of
Edith Robinson
A Little Puritan Pioneer A Little Puritan Rebel A Little Daughter of Liberty A Little Puritan's First Christmas A Loyal Little Maid A Puritan Knight Errant
*
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY 200 Summer St*, Boston, Mass*
“‘THOU SHALT BE MY LADY, AND IN ALL THINGS WILL I BE THY FAITHFUL SQUIRE’” {See page tS)
€rrant
Cliiti) 3^olJtnson
Author of
“ A Little Puritan Pioneer ”
“ A Little Puritan's First Christmas "
“ A Little Puritan Rebel f etc.
fo JWTrctccitt
THt LIBRARY OF CONGRESS,
COPVRIOHT ENTRY
£liC4t ,
CLASS (PL XXo No.
u- C U-
COr*Y 8.
Copyright, igo2 By L. C. Page & Company
(incorporated)
All rights reserved
,c. Published, August, 1902
Colonial ^reaa
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
The spirit of chivalry — let worldlings say what they will — is the very spirit of our spirit, the salt which keeps our characters from utter decay, the very instinct which raises us above the selfishness of the brute. Yea, it is the Spirit of God Himself. For what is the feeling of horror at wrong, of pity for the wronged, of burning desire to set wrong right, save the Spirit of the Father and the Son, — the Spirit which brought down the Lord Jesus out of the highest heaven, to stoop, to serve, to suffer, and to die, — that He might seek and save that which was lost.
The age of chivalry is never past, so long as there is a wrong left unredressed on earth and a man or woman left to say, ‘‘I will redress that wrong, or spend my life in the attempt.” The age of chivalry is never past, as long as men have faith enough in God to say, ** God will help me to redress that wrong ; or if not me, those that come after me. For His eternal will it is, to overcome evil with good.”
— Charles Kingsley.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“ ‘ Thou shalt be my lady, and in all things
WILL I BE THY FAITHFUL SQUIRE ’ ” Frontispiece ^
“ The habit of obedience conquered ” . . . 48
“A HAND WAS PLACED UPON HIS SHOULDER” . . I05
“ The next instant, the clumsy craft had upset AND THE two BOYS WERE IN THE WATER” 202
Chapter I
** See, ’tis the ship, sure,” repeated Faith. ** Look yonder, beyond the Castle.”
But her companion was less far-sighted or more credulous.
** ’Tis a gull or a light dancing on the water,” he answered, positively. <‘Thou hast seen whole fleets of vessels, ere now, that never landed.”
“But it must be the Abigail^ — is long overdue ; only this morning my honoured father said that she was four months out from England,” insisted the girl, unheeding that her basket of bayberries was overturned in the impulsive movement that followed her alleged discovery of the long delayed ship. “Thy sight will be better when thou hast dwelt a little longer in this land of sunshine,” she went lO on ; ’tis true that at home we could not see from this distance to the water’s edge, because of the rain and fog.”
“I have been in New England as long as thou,” answered Thomas. “ Did we not both come in the same ship — the Griffin — that landed in Boston fourteen months ago } And glad enough I was to see land, — e’en such a land as this has proved to be,” added the boy; ‘‘for what with a voyage that I thought would never end, and the deadly seasickness that made me long to be at the bottom of the sea, never should I have reached Boston had it not been for thy mother and her care of me on shipboard.”
The girl made no reply, being, indeed, so absorbed in gazing out at sea as scarce to have heard her companion’s words. With arms upraised, and hands shading her eyes. Faith Hutchinson’s figure was well defined against the soft sky of mid-October. Her face, a round oval in contour, was brown with exposure to the summer’s sun ; little time, indeed, did Faith spend within doors, unless compelled thereto by parental authority ; her eyes, soft and large, were of a darker hue than was common amongst her country folk; their heavy lids, habitually downcast, were fringed with long, curling lashes, that, well-nigh as thick on the lower as upon the upper lid, aided to give the girl’s eyes, when raised, a certain intent, starry look that in somewise seemed out of keeping with certain other traits of her character. Her gown, of heavy gray stuff, reached nearly to her ankles, showing heavy wooden shoes that made light-footedness a marvel ; over the little shawl that was folded, kerchief-wise, upon her breast, was a round white linen collar. The masses of dark hair might have seemed almost too heavy for the slender head — poised so delicately upon the shoulders — were it not of a silky, clinging quality that allowed its plaits to lie compactly beneath a close-fitting muslin cap.
Her companion, perhaps a twelvemonth older than herself, was taller by many inches, and of a figure of which the lithe grace, manifest in its every line, could not be disfigured even by the shabby clothes, though the leather doublet was torn in many places, and the breeches gave token of long-sustained rough usage. Brilliant dark eyes, a nose perhaps something overlarge for absolute beauty, but giving character to the whole face, and golden-brown curls worn much longer than was usual amongst boys of the time and place, made Thomas Savage a lad whose appearance seldom failed to attract attention.
Boy and girl looked intently seaward for some minutes in silence.
Verily, I believe thou art right, Faith," cried Thomas, at last. “ I can see the sails plainly. 'Tis the Abigaily past doubt."
The news had apparently spread rapidly through the town, for even as they looked, it seemed as though every house below was emptying itself of people, all hastening in the direction of the wharf.
‘‘ Come, let us hurry ! " cried the boy, making a movement to pull his companion down the steep path by which they had ascended ; but Faith held back.
Nay, I want my bayberries," she said; ‘^my mother would be sore disappointed did I return without them; besides, she hath promised some of our fine bayberry candles to Mistress Winthrop, who hath been so ill of the distemper as to leave no time for the work. Though I think, indeed," added the girl, reflectively, ‘‘that however gracious of speech Mistress Winthrop may be for such neighbourly service, at heart she likes it not that my mother hath the name of being a more notable housewife than she."
Thomas good-naturedly helped to pick up the scattered berries till the birch basket was refilled.
“Tis great fun to see the people come ashore,"
said Faith. “Think’st thou there will be any children aboard ? I should be right glad an there were nice maids of mine own age.”
“ Nay, I think thou wouldst rather go walking and climbing and fishing with Francis and me though every one aboard were a maid,” observed Thomas, laughing. But thou must not go to the wharf with me. Faith,” he added. ‘‘Tis no place for a girl, and thine honoured mother would like it not an I let thee go.”
Then let us stay here on the hill and watch the ship come in,” pleaded Faith. “ As soon as she nears the wharf, thou canst run to meet her ; thou canst run very fast, Thomas, and wilt be with the other boys ere the people aboard have come ashore,” she added, persuasively, as her companion’s frown warned her that her proposition was ill received.
“ But I would be with the other lads now,” answered Thomas, impatiently. Wilt ever be a marplot, Faith ? Thou art a maid and ’tis time thou learnt that a maid cannot do as her brothers.”
“ But I can,” retorted Faith, her plea based on substantial fact rather than airy theory. I can row and fish and walk as far without being wearied as either thou or Francis. Ay, and when he and thou and my father were all ill of the distemper, did I not chop wood and fetch water and catch the biggest lobster ever seen in Boston — all of three feet long — and did I not even wring a fowl’s neck with my eyes shut — ”
**And cried the rest of the day over the slaughter,” interrupted Thomas, scoffingly. “ There goes Francis,” he cried, as a boy's figure was seen to leave a house at the foot of the Tramount. can wait no longer.” With the last words, he gathered himself up for a run.
Then will I go with thee,” said Faith, stubbornly.
Thomas made a gesture of impatience, paused, and looked at the approaching vessel. Abigail — for
there could be little doubt that it was she — was warping slowly up the harbour, the numerous islands making navigation difficult. It would certainly be an hour or more before she reached the wharf. He knew from experience that when Faith’s face wore an expression like the present, argument or remonstrance was useless. So, though with no very good grace, he yielded, on the promise from his companion that she would return to her home when he joined the other boys at the wharf.
Except to baffied impatience, it was not an ill place in which to pass the time of waiting. They were on the summit of Cotton’s Hill, — as the highest peak of the Tramount was known, — a rocky, dome-shaped mass topped by a plateau of several rods in extent. On the hill to the south, the walls of a fort, its foundations just outlined upon the ground, were visible; upon the heights to the north, the sails of a windmill were slowly revolving. The tide had risen over the narrow neck that connected Boston with the mainland, converting the three-hilled peninsula, for the time, into an island. Seaward, beyond the Castle that watched the channel, could be seen the fifty islands of the bay ; from one of them a lighter was making its way, laden with the resinous pine upon which Boston depended for its firewood. In the broad arm of the sea into which the river Charles widened, lay the Mary Rose^ from Bristol, England, to set sail that very night, at turn of the tide, for Virginia. On the lower slopes and about the base of the Tramount, were scattered the houses of the settlement, — for the most part cabins of rough hewn logs ; a few of the mud huts that had sheltered the earliest pioneers were still standing, while here and there the growing prosperity of the town was evidenced by frame houses with Elizabethan fronts and overhanging gables. These domiciles were connected by unpaved lanes, following the lines of the hills and coast, something more than cowpaths, not yet streets.
Thomas was looking meditatively out at sea, as though his thoughts were retracing the course of the approaching vessel.
‘‘Thou art looking for news from thy friends, Thomas } ” queried the girl. “ Perchance thou art expecting a letter from her of whom thou hast told me } ” she went on, and there was a new note, almost as of wistfulness, in her voice. “ Nay, I would not keep thee here against thy will,” she added. “ I spake, but now, out of haste. Go thou to the wharf, with Francis and the other boys.”
“ I have told thee I would stay with thee,” answered Thomas, with becoming dignity, but mollified, notwithstanding, by his companion’s altered tone. “ It would scarce become a squire, and one who some day hopes to be a knight, to desert a lady.”
“But I am not a lady,” returned Faith, simply; “ at least, not such an one as thy Lady Emilia of the Castle, though my dear and honoured father was a gentleman of good estate, and my honoured mother is the daughter of a minister, one held in high esteem in our old home in Alford,” the girl added, not without pride. “ But we are not Castle folk.
and I do recall that once, when my father took me to old Boston, in Lincolnshire, we passed the great Castle of Sempringham, where thou dwelt, — only I did not know thee then, nor dreamt that thou wouldst ever become my brother. I do recall with what wonder I gazed at the high frowning castle, the moat and drawbridge, thinking that not even his gracious Majesty, King Charles, could live in so splendid a place. But how canst thou be a squire when thy lady is a thousand miles away, and thou hast no knight, either, to whom to offer thy services, nor any services, either, to offer, except thy work on thy books, — and that is little enough, I fear me, — or digging on the roads, or carrying stones to help build the wharf ? ” queried the girl, with dancing eyes, and another of her swift changes of mood.
Thou shalt play thou art my lady — for the time,” rejoined Thomas, discreetly.
“ Nay, take my poppet for thy lady,” retorted the girl. 1 put her away for good and all yesternight, having reached my thirteenth birthday, and have no further use for her.”
“ Of course thou knowest. Faith,” went on Thomas, seriously, ** that Lady Emilia, and she only, is the lady of my heart, and that I came to this country so that I might win fame and honour for her. But since that it is well for a squire to have some one to whom to pay his devoirs, and since, also, thou needest a proper squire, and there being none other to play the part in this town,” added Thomas, with fine scorn, ‘‘ I tell thee. Faith, that thou shalt be my lady, and in all things will I be thy faithful squire.”
*^And I tell thee that I’ll have none of thy make-believe. Master Thomas,” retorted Faith. <‘Think’st thou I’ll let thee practise thy rules of knightly conduct on me, so that when thou goest back to Sempringham, with a name of right gallant worth and a record of deeds with which all England rings, thy Lady Emilia may marvel that we in the wilderness had bred so true a knight as to make even that Sir Philip Sidney, of whom thou lovest to speak, as tame and dull a figure as my poppet,” cried Faith, without a pause for breath.
** Thou need’st not speak with such scorn,” returned Thomas, somewhat uneasily. Many a maid would not take it ill that I offered her my services as true and loyal squire, telling her, fairly and squarely, as beseems such a case, that mine heart was long ago given to another, — and hers to me, — ay, and she one who could choose betwixt me and an earl’s son.”
** Then find such a maid ! ” retorted Faith. “ Only, let me tell thee, she is not my mother’s daughter. Besides, an I need a squire, — which I do not, for I can take care of myself, — I would take Dean Winthrop.”
“A matchlock may befit him,” returned Thomas, haughtily. ’Twould ill become a gentleman’s son to carry other weapons than sword and dagger or a lance in battle.”
Dean is a right honest, trusty lad, not afraid of hard work, and his father hath been our honoured governor, and is like to be again, folks say,” answered Faith, sturdily. “ Thou hast no better reason for thy mislike than that Dean hath red hair and shoots the long bow better than thou ! ”
He hath warts, too,” returned Thomas, doggedly; ‘Hhere hath been two-headed knights, and even knights without arms or legs, but never since the world was made, six thousand years ago, hath there been a knight with warts.”
He counts himself more than thine equal,” returned Faith. “ His father is one of the richest men in the Colony, and none here held in higher honour.”
“ Dean Winthrop may hold his head high because that his father hath been governor,” said Thomas.
He may even sit side by side with me in the meeting-house ; but, were we at home, he would have to remember that he is but the son of an attorney, whilst I have the right to the same coat of arms as the most noble Lady Bridget, Countess of Lincoln.”
I like right well to hear thee tell of her,” answered Faith; ‘‘far better than to hearken to tales of thy Lady Emilia, who, I make no doubt, was a vain, high-tempered minx, — nay, I meant not to vex thee again ! ” cried the girl in quick repentance, as her companion’s brow clouded. “ ’Twas good of thee to stay with me instead of running with the other lads, and I will say no more to make thee frown. The countess must indeed have been a right gracious, noble lady, and, as thou knowest, I love to hear thee tell of thy Castle life,” she added, tentatively.
“ The earl, too, was ever my friend,” went on the boy, in mollified tones, “ not less, I think, because it was my good fortune to be the kinsman of his noble lady, than that my father was his right trusty companion in arms when, many years ago, the Earl of Lincoln, at the head of a gallant regiment of horse and foot, went to the aid of the Palatine. When war and pestilence and famine had killed a woful number of the Lincolnshire men, and the earl himself lay wounded and sick unto death, my father never quitted his side, and so, by God’s merciful will, the earl recovered. But scarce had he quitted his bed, when my father sickened — and died. Ah, I cannot bear to think of his death,” went on the lad, in a choked voice. “ Had he fallen in battle, that were a glorious ending to a noble life ! But to die, as do cattle of the murrain — that were no fit death for a brave and honourable man. My mother was at the Castle of Sempringham when the earl returned, with scarce a tenth of the gallant men with whom he had set forth. She died shortly after, when I was born. The earl and countess, from my very cradle, charged themselves with my bringing up, and right generously have they acquitted themselves of the burden. I think, indeed, if any difference was ever made betwixt me and their only son and heir. Lord Eaton, it was in my favour.”
Those were sad, troubled times, Thomas,” said the girl ; “ I am glad we live in a country and in a time that nobody could call heroic, when there is nothing to be done save spinning and soap-making and candle-dipping and sweeping, with something of study of the Westminster Catechism ; and, maybe, a whipping or two thrown in by way of ill luck.”
‘‘Nay, those were glorious days,” cried the boy.
with flashing eyes. Thou knowest not what it is, Faith, to be born with fighting blood in thy veins, yet forced to live such a life as one is constrained unto in yonder town. Ah, if I had been born in the time, not so long ago, when there was fighting and cruising and glory for brave men and true ! If God sent death instead, who feared it? Old Dickory — one of the bowmen in my father’s troop, who, in his age, was given a home at the Castle — would tell us lads, of an evening, in the Castle hall, stories that made one long to seize his sword and go forth to instant battle, — tales that would have stirred a coward’s blood — and there were no cowards who listened. He told of fighting in the Low Countries, of persecution for the right, of wrong steadfastly resisted, unflinching bravery against overwhelming odds ; of times when Protestant faced Papist, counting it glory to die for the one true faith, when blood ran like water in the streets of Antwerp and men fought on, unknowing how to yield ! Think of sailing with Drake, the fearless and true, in his voyage around the world, struggling with wind and wave and danger of every sort for three years, and coming home with a shipload of gold dust and ingots and pearls and emeralds and diamonds, the wonder and glory of England and of the world ! ”
“ May not one be a knight nowadays ? ” queried the girl, with an odd wistfulness in her tone.
“Nay, the age of chivalry is past,” answered Thomas, gravely ; “ and there be no more such knights as once walked the earth — although, on payment of some wretched, paltry eighty pounds a year, men may still be called by that once so lofty name — shame be it said ! Once, to be a knight was to be held the equal of kings and emperors, and was the guerdon of a brave and blameless life, of lofty aims and noble achievements. Such an one was mine own ancestor, Brian le Sauvage, a squire of ancient lineage attending the knight. Sir Walter de Bartelot, who came over with William the Conqueror. At the battle of Hastings, ’twas said the Normans would have been driven from the field had it not been for the gallant stand made by Brian le Sauvage over his master’s body, when the dead lay twenty thick about, thus giving Sir Walter time to rise and rally his men and hasten to the side of the king, hard pressed by the Saxon hordes. For this service, Brian was knighted on the field of battle by the king himself,” related Thomas, proudly, “ and as further meed of his valour was given an estate covering nearly the whole of Sussex ; on him was also bestowed the right to keep swans. Therefore it is that thou mayst see the swans, to-day, upon our coat of arms. That were a knighthood worthy of its aims ! ” cried Thomas.
Faith, thou art a girl and knowst not what the very sound of deeds of high emprise may mean, to one who hath the blood of many knights within his veins, but perchance thou mayst in some sort picture the scene in which mine ancestor bore chief part,’' the boy went on, with flashing eyes. ** Listen ! Then knelt the squire before the king. ‘To what end,’ asked the king, ‘ do you desire to enter this order } If it be that you may repose yourself and be honoured without doing honour to knighthood, then you are unworthy of it.’ And Brian le Sauvage gave answer as became him.
“ Then dubbed the king, saying :
“ ‘ In the name of God, St. George, and St. Michael, I make thee knight.’ ”
“Some day, thou, too, shalt be knight,” cried Faith, eagerly. “ Even such an one as thine ancestor, gallant Sir Brian, — or better still, our own St. George, who slew the dragon ! ”
“One worthier of knighthood than my father never lived,” returned Thomas, soberly, “ and so said the noble earl, and old Dickory, and all who knew him; and had he lived in the days of chivalry, he would have won the golden spurs when no older than
I. But like many a poor gentleman, nowadays, he could not be at the cost of maintaining proper state as knight, and so remained squire all his life.”
“ Thou knowest that before we sailed for America I had scarce set foot beyond our quiet town,” said Faith. “I know not what a knight should look like. There was my dear father and our honoured minister, and sometimes Master Dudley, the steward of the Earl of Lincoln, rode into Alford on his lordship’s business. Would Master Dudley have made a knight, had he lived long ago, when men were brave and ready to die for a comrade, or so that they knew they were doing right and pleasing God ? Master Dudley was so big and tall and strong that I used to think he must be one of those of whom the minister spake, — of the * shining hosts of Gideon,’” questioned Faith, earnestly, “and when I went to his house in old Boston, with mine honoured father, I thought none could be sweeter lady, whether in castle or cabin, than his daughter. Mistress Anne.”
“Master Dudley was a right faithful, painstaking steward,” answered Thomas, a shade of condescension mingling with the genuine respect in his tones. “ But thou art a girl. Faith, and understand est not of what stuff true knighthood is made,” he added, decidedly but not unkindly. “ In truth, there are no knights in the town yonder, and if there were,” he added, discontentedly, there would be nought for them to draw swords upon — for even the savage, brutish men of the forest have ceased fighting.”
“ But somewhere in the world there are still giants and dwarfs and dragons and the Paynim and the Spanish — such foes to righteousness as thou hast told me about, — are there not.^” persisted Faith.
“Truly there are,” cried Thomas, eagerly, “and some day — perhaps, who knows, ere very long .? — I may go forth to do battle with them. I may yet have tales written about me, as there were of the Seven Champions and of the Knights of King Arthur’s Round Table. ’Twas in the hope of such adventures, indeed, that I besought his Lordship to let me come to America ; for there were wonderful tales told of this country by returning sailors, even such as were related by Marco Polo and Prester John, when those bold travellers returned from their journeyings in the far East — of gold mines and diamond fields sparkling in the sun ; of strange beasts bigger and fiercer than the dragon conquered by our own St. George; creatures with seven horns, like the beast of the Apocalypse, and a race of one-legged men who lived to the far north, and other marvellous people whose heads grew beneath their shoulders.
But none of all these wonders have I seen,” sighed Thomas, “and there is no more glory to be won here than at home, with as much hard study and more disagreeable work than at Sempringham. Here I thought at least I should be a man, but Master Dudley, in whose care, as thou knowest, I was placed by the Earl of Lincoln, saw fit to put me at school, with no livelier prospect than of going, later, to the college school of which they are talking,” added the lad, with discontent in every line of his handsome face.
“ Thou hast scarce o’ertasked thy brains with study,” returned Faith, laughing. “ Take heed lest the tithing-men visit thee for an idle good-for-nothing, as I fear me thou art sometimes called.”
“A murrain on the tithing-men!” said Thomas, sulkily. “ At any rate, ’twas Master Dudley himself who placed me at school, and if Master Eaton turned out, later on, after all his professions of piety and learning, to have a greater fondness for the bottle, and for the pages of him whom Master Winthrop calls ‘that wanton playwright. Will Shakespeare,’ sure I am not to blame for being idle. ’Tis an ill wind that blows no good, and as long as Master Eaton seemeth content to take the shillings that my guardian hath agreed to pay for my keep and instruction in Latin and what not, and asks nothing of me, why, matters might well be worse. The chaplain at the Castle was ever for giving Theophilus and me a flogging, when we rightly thought it a sin and shame to spend the day at our books in a stuffy room when we might be bird’s-nesting or swimming in the river. But, in sooth, I am sick of this town of tradespeople, where there is no chance to win the name and fortune of which I came in quest. To the south, in the Colony of Virginia, are men of a different breed ! ”
“Thou wilt not go thither.?” cried Faith, in alarm. “ Thou couldst not walk so great a distance, — thou wouldst meet wolves and lions and savages and all manner of evil spirits that dwell in the forests.”
“That would suit me right well,” answered Thomas, fervently, his eyes straying, as he spoke, to the Mary Rose below.
“Thou and Francis have had thy heads much together of late,” said Faith, quickly — but Thomas was gazing so intently at the Bristol vessel as scarce to heed her words. And on the next instant, almost as though she repented of her hasty speech, the girl arose and held out her hand.
“Come, let us go,” she said, “the Abigail is nearly in.”
The opening of the book is shown; the full text loads in the reader.
Loading the full text…
The end
You’ve reached the end of A Puritan knight errant.