MARGERY'S DOWRY.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XVII, Issue 48, 21 March 1890, Page 25

MARGERY'S DOWRY.

(From The Month.)

" Fair Mistress Joyce," I replied, smiling, " an auspicious wave hath cast thee upon my lands, eurely 1 can claim thee as flotsam and jetsam. Tuou art my guest until I give thee leave to depart." " Nay, not so. it would not be seemly . I ask advice, and do not beg hospitality, Sir Roland." " My mother and sister are with me, Mistress Joyce, and will give thea hearty welcome." " Ah, no, Sir Roland. When my dearest friend will not receive me, how can I tresspass on the kiudnes9 of a strange lady J Surely thy mother hath fear of the pest ?" " We all have fear, dear lady, but surely God's hand is over all ; our trust and hope is in His goodness."

" True. I will return to town and gain entry into one of those refuges where bands of good women are aiding the priests in tending the plague-stricken— all other ministers have fled away in fear. Sir Roland, 1 thank you, you have revived my spirits ; I was dejected, and my fail h and trust grew weak," and she wiped away her last tears. " Farewell," she added, " and thanks for thy good advice and kind intentions on my behalf."

" Joyce," said I, boldly, " my house must be thy shelter in this strait, or I go with thee to town. Lonely and dejected, thou wouldst fall a prey at ooce. Stay here, I implore thee, until I bring my mother to assure thee of thy welcome."

"Indeed and in truth it will be better ao, madame," said the maid. "I am going to my home near Wells with this my cousin," indicating the driver. "Igo no more to town, not for the Duchess herself. My Lord, ask thy lady mother to send hither a total chang* of raiment, and Mistress Joyce shall cast off in this chariot all that she now wearetb, that no possible contagion be conveyed to thy household."

I thanked the woman for her forethought, and acted on her suggestion. My mother hastened at once to the distressed girl, bearing an entire suit of Margery's clothes. Hitherto she had regarded Court ladies with high disfavour, but the first glance at poor Joyce Beaton's tear-stained face and clear, honest eyes, reassured her. She felt that her unexpected guest was as good and as pure as her own Madge.

" Hearty welcome, my child," said she, as Joyce stepped from the coach, arrayed in Madge's Sunday garments. Then she kissed Joyce on her fair brow. Joyca fell to weeping afresh.

"May God find such another Samiman for thy own fair daughter, if she ever fi id herself in such sorry plight as I was this day," sobbed she.

Presently my mother bore her away, and tba coach was driven onwards. Now my pretty Joyce is domiciled in my house for some time at least— yea, and furthermore It will go hard with me if I ever suffer her to depart.

September 4,— Time hath flown on winged feat since my last entry a month ago ; so many things have happened I know not where to start. First my sister aad Joyce hath started a mighty friendship, even now they are walking the weedy paths of the pleasaunce with arms entwined. Margery, fair and freckled, tall, and full of strength of vigour. Joyce, shoner, slighter, darker— yea, more lovely in my eyes, but somewhat delicate withal — they make a pretty picture. We have had a pleasant time during Joyce's sojourn ; there was the hay-making, which we needs must do ourselves, not daring to hire labourers from PengryfEe, where the plague hath raged. Thanks to God and the prayers of my household, it hath not yet appeared at the bamlet or Chace. We tossed and stacked tae fragrant hay ourselves, and the mother brought us sweet syllabubs and curds to appease our thirst and hunger. We live abstemiously, believing that temperance may do something towards averting the impending danger. We walk only in the park or forest for safety ; once we went almost to that old ruin of Dame Ursula's, when Margery became excited at some rooks oveihead cawing and noisy — Gra' mercy, how timid the child hath grown with her superstitious fancies I Most important of all to me is that Joyce and me have discovered our love for each other and are affianced 1 Our marriage will take place as soon as Joyce can proceed to her kinswoman's home in Scotland. I would fain have had the rite performed at once, even by Master Jo,uas Bolger, though I love him not. Joyce is as devout a Catholique as my people and will not give heed to my wishes, and my mother and Madge uphold her in her resolution.

Many in PengryfEe have died of the plague ; one of the first to succumb was that poor, terror-stricken Lady PengryfEe, and my forgiving Joyce bewailed her sorely, though she had demeaned herself harshly ou that occasion. Joyce saith it was surely born of terror and panic, for Maud was ever loving and kind. Lord Pen?ryffe is still anxious to buy those Chantry farms. Twice ha*h Drew been over to negotiate, but despite our search, no clear title is yet brought to light. Colvia and 1 will make a final s?arch of the muoiinents shortly, but this past month I have troubled but little with business, verily I have rarely set foot ia tte library. Joyce saith I must go to work diligently, for Margery must have a snug dowry and have a bridegroom found speedily. She hath even promised to help in the search for the missing papers. She hath no timid feare, and hath heard no story of the family ghost. Metbinks for a family ghost it is a right well-behaved spirit, as hitherto it hath not troubled me with its presence.

September 6. — Alas ! the evil day hath come ; four families in the bamlet are seized with the peat. Many devices have been arranged for dealing with the dread invader. My mother hath taken food, wine, and warm clothing, placing them on a wide stone by fie park g>tte (ouce on a horse block j, which an infected one is to take away. Margery and Joyce are i a their closet praying. My mother hath such surfi trust iq a protecting Hand, she keepth all of us strong, and amid her busy offices of charity she findeth time to pray, "for industry and devotion," saith she, " were ever twin slaters." I

can do little — the girls will not walk abroad being somewhat panicstricken, and the serving maids have lost their wits ntterly. I feel in the way everywhere, but meeting John Colvin, we agree that work will prevent our giving way to morbid thoughts ; so we bie to the library, thence to the muniment-room or cellar which hetb immediately belpw, and to which access can be obtained only by raising the *slate slab of hearthstone, which hath rings attached for that purpose. Then we put down the ladder oi the library and affix it in place ; and with rushlights and a tin sconce we descend to the muniments. Placing the sconce on the wall in fear lest a spark drop among record* and charters, we fall to work upon the papers accumulated during the life-time of Sir Rupert, Ursula the nun's father. The room was dark, damp, and chilly, and it bad a musty odour. As it behoveth us to live under healthiest conditions at thia fearsome time, we agree to carry the parchment up into the library, where we can have warmth and sunlight. As we ascended the ladder, John first, carrying the parchments in a bundle, that self-same grey-hued dove, which startled me some time agone, flew up past us almost noiselessly from the muniment-room. " God's truth and justice ? " screamed John Colvin in dire alarm, dropping his bundle of parchments in terror. I decended, brought up the papers to the libr.iry to fiud that John Colvin hath vanished. Was ever anything so foolish as to grow affrighted at a poor wooddrove ? Poor birdie, I wonder hath it been prisoner here since a month back when it took refuge in my room. How hath it subsisted meanwhile? It hah again perched on the helmet of Sieur Bigot's coat of mail, close under the oaken beams of the ceiling. I throw on more logs and spread out the broad sheets of Sir Rupert's will and try to interpret all the legal verbiage with which its words are encnmbered. I cannot comprehend it, and that old dotard, John Colvin, cometh not back to enlighten me with his knowledge. Presently the dove growing bold cometh with noisless flight and ligbteth on my table. It seeming so tame, I throw to it crumbs of biscuits which Meg the cook hath laid for my lunch on a small tray. Tbe dove took no heed of my crumbs, thua it was not hunger-stricken, So tame was it that I even ventured to stroke its glossy plumage. I could not but admire the stately carriage of the creature as it strutted about before returning to its perch on the helmet, and I fell to my dry taßk of perusing the ancient document. I gathered from it that Bir Rupert bestowed the whole of the lands of Deep-Soil farms and tbe North Forests to his well-be'oved and grievously ill-used daughter, Ursula, in religion Mother Marie Ursula, who had been dispossessed of her Convent of Our Lady and St. Ursula, of which she was Superioress, He gave the laod to her to hare and to hold for her sole benefit, and, as it was unentailed, with full powers to use and bestow it to her sole pleasure. Those lands, it appeareth, were not then known as the Chantry farm ; how came they by the name ? The measurements as given are identical with those of the Chantry lands. Referring to an early and rude chart of the demesne, I note that they are styled the Deep-Soil and North Forest lands. Now I have before me the exact manner in which these lands passed from the male to the female branch of my family. Here is the will with the signature of Sir Rupert, fourth Baronet, with his sigillum and crest, " a serpent coiled on a field azure, with a bead or." Then there is the second smaller document acknowledging due possession of the lands and all charters and titles thereunto pertaining, with the signature of Marie Ursula de Mortisland, writ in the clerky hand affected by cultured ladies of Qu«en Bess's times. The family aeal was attached, but Marie Ursula had caused to be engraved thereon as her especial quartering " a dove voland on the bend or," as typical of hsr life — a dove sent out wan dering from its ark of refuge. I smiled at seeing this, surely here was the origin of the country superstition anent Dame Ursula's doves. September 12. — All well at the Chace yet, thank God ! Many are stricken in the hamlet, ten deaths in three days 1 out of a total population of 95 1 Joyce and Margery are less panic-Btricken, and strive to busy themselves constantly to dwell less on the dreaded visitation. Every morning we meet trembling, fearing that by close of day Rome among us may have crossed the river 1 To-day came a despatch from the King written in merry mood. "The plague decreaßeth." he writes, " and the Court will soon return to town." Saith he mi6Beth me hugely, and then detaileth some right merry wagers which hath been laid in his presence lately. Methought it was but frivolity in such a season to talk of wagera and merry-making, but Charleß Stuart ever loved mirth more than mourning. I tpend my evenings in the library, but John Colvin will not set foot within its portal since that unlucky mischance of the dove (tying past him from the muniment-room. In vain I laugh at or reason with him. "It waß Dame Ursula's dove," saith he stoutly, "and never appeareth for good to mortal man. When last she was seen, our King was martyred, and our honoured master, thy father, taken captive and slain." " But this creature is a mere wood-quest, a wild dove, John, that entered my room through inadvertence. There are scores such in the forests. Now this one hath made itself at home here, and in the room below." •• Ay, ay," quoth John, " but how could a common dove get access to the muniment-room when the slab had not been raised 1" " Verily, I had not thought of that, John, but of a surety there are rat-holes in the flooring where a bird might squeeze thorough." Then went I out to walk with the girls in the park, and we tried to make a somewhat forced merriment over Margery's prospective dowry, as we termed these Cbantry lands. " In truth, Koland, thou must find me a handsome youth, if I am to have all the gold," Baid Margery, " remember, no old and faded courtier for me." September 16. — Sat alone in the library last night, save for my constant companion, the dove, on its usual perch. I had with me the panel on which was Dame Ursula's portrait. I had brought it hither to cleanse more perfectly at leisure. With sponges, soap, and fine linen rubbers I cleansed away the whitewash and impurity, re•toring it almost to its form or beauty and freekoess. The calm face

of the nun looked so life-like, I fear that if I questioned her ai to th« manner in which she had bestowed her lands she would vouchsafe some response.

" Mother Marie Ursula," I said, " clear up this mystery. Didst give thy lands to another, or to Rupert thy brother and natural heir ? " Perhaps I was half asleep. I cannot explain it, but some mysterious presence seemed to pervade the room — or was it my overwrought fancy ? — and seemed to whisper in mine ear, " I gave them unto God, but my brother Rupert proved a traitor." I shivered and grew cold ; but, calling reason to my aid, I knew it was but imagination.

Just then the dove flew down to the table with more noise than its worn, and settlel close to my hand. Now, with the features on that panel so impressed on my memory through Ions; gazing daring the cleansing thereof, small wonder that they coloured my vision.— Even that dove, as it strutted over parchments, records, and booki of heraldry, seemed to my mind to hava some resemblance to the features on the panel. Yea, the same meek eyes, the dignified look, and the stiff little row of feathers around the neck enggeated the small Tudor ruff of Ursula. A tap at my door and bonny Joyce enters, and the mists of fancy vanish. She cometh to tell me that Margery's maid bath fallen sick I Some of this girl's kinsfolk deceased of plague in th* hamlet last night, it may hap that this poor wench vieited them in their need, and bath brought hither the contagion.

September 19. — Yea, the plague is within my house. Margery's maid died during the night. I wish for Joyce and Margery to retire to a lodge in the forest, even to the old ruin if need be, but my mother saith that contagion hath been so near it mattereth little where they are so long as they keep in God's sight. My poor mother is sorely distraught, but keeping her wits about her, Joyce, sweet darling, is her right hand and willing worker. Margery seemeth much more cast down and oppressed by fear, and can do nought but prty. May God help us in our needs 1 Amen.

Came to us to-day an old man dressed in farmer's attire, who my mother addressed as Father Gabriel. She telleth me privately that he is a seminary priest, and bath dwelt for some years past in safety in tbe old rums, and the stories of the country people have their origin in his occasional appearances in the forest when he hat a been to visit those of tbe faith who yet remain in these parts. Meg, the cook, and two other maids sickened of plague 1 September 22. — To-day John Colvin, my faithful servant, de* ceased of the plague, making the fifth death in my household. We live in hourly dread ! My mother saith in tbe darkest hour there is some light, and Joyce hath been as a light to her eyea and a tower of strength to her in her constant helpfulness. Verily the bread we cast upon tbe waters bath been returned to us ten-fold. The plague is happily on tbe decrease ; in tbe hamlet but threa cases, at Pen* gryffe but one ! I and my pet dove are sole companions, my people being always busy : the maids beine; dead, there is much lowly work to be got through. My Joyce's fingers are roughened with toil, my mother's face drawn and pinched with unaccustomed labour, but by God's grace they are in good health. Father Gabriel hath been the only man to minister to the sick in the hamlet, Master Jonas Bolger having fled none knew whither.

October i. — My sweet sister Margery hath been called to her reit after eight hours of agony I My mother md Joyce are distraught with grief. In Paradise there now bloometh another fair flower. My bonny Margery, my loving sister, best and purest of maidens, thy dowry is to be with the angels. Rcquieteat in pace. Amen, Father Gabriel gave to her the Blessed Eucharist, and I, most unworthy of men, had the piivilege of being received into the Church at that time. In the midst of her sufferings my sister besoight me to dally no more. (1 had already promised to be received openly at the Bavoy by the Queen's cbapiain, when tbe court returned). At Madge's entreaty 1 confessed to Father Gabriel, and received the Holy Commnnion, as did my mother and Joyce. It was a happy sight, and sweet Margery cried, •' Now can I depart in peace ; all that I love are with me." Then turning to me with a poor attempt at a emile, " Roland, my brother," she Baith, '' do not defraud me of my dowry. I must have my dowry all the same." What could the mean ? Was e&e wandering 1 They were her last words, for the disease advanced rapidly.

November 2, All Souls' Day. — Slowly recovering from an attack, which by God's mercy was not unto death. I have been lovingly nursed back into partial strength by my devoted mother and Joyce ; this is my first visit to my library. Father Gabriel hath used the room as a chapel ever since our Margery was taken. I glanoed round my room, so different doth all places appear when recovering from illness. I look for my old companion, my pet dove. It ii perched on the helmet as usual 1

"We could never dislodge thy wood-dove, my son," said my mother, " so we regarded it as a good augury of thy recovery." " And thou seest it is but a common stock-dove, mother. Why wsre poor Madge and John Colvin bo alarmed by it ? "

" There hath been foolish stories anent the fact that many wooddoves built in the Chantry ruins, Roland", she replied. " But I thought those doves always flew about in pairs," laid Joyce. " Why ib this one always alone, mother dear ? "

''Roland bath made of it a domestic pet, child," said my lady, uneußily. " I would hunt it away, I like it not sittiug blinking there so uncannily."

" Nay, nay, mother ; my dove must not be disturbed," I cry, hastily. "It hath been my sole companion many an hour." " Perhaps it bath a nest up there, as it keepeth alway to the same spot," laid quick-witted Joyce. "Here is a ladder, Roland. May I mount and explore ? " " Nay, sweetheart, I will spare thee thy pains. I will mount."

" Verily, thou wilt not, sir. Mount a ladder, good faith, when 'tis more than thou canst do to walk steadily on a floor ? Sir there, Roland, and thou, mother, hold the ladder steady."

No sooner said than done, the nimble Joyce is at the topmoat stave. Alas, lam yet so weak I fear I would have fallen ere I had reached a dozen rungs. The dove wasi> disturbed at tbe intrusion

into its domains, but calmly submitted to be taken by Joyce's small hands and caressed. Joyce then peered all around the top shelf and brackets f uitlessly.

" " There is nothing here but dust, cobwebs, and lumber." she cried, *' unle-s there be something inside this old coat of mail." She unbarred the corselet, the dove fluttering from her hands, and again perching ou tbe helmet. "There is nothing within but a block of wood," she said, "and dust enough to choke one," and she fell to coughing. " Unbar the helmet, dear Joyce," I asked, more for idleness than aught beside. " Lift up that bar, and the visor will fall." With iome difficulty she did this, crying, " How could a dove build in here, sinoe 1 find it so hard to unbolt?" The dove still held its position, perched on the topmost spike of Sieur Bigot's helmet.

" Surely, 'tis a strange and unearthly dove," said my mother, tremulously. " They are ever timid creatures, and flee from strangers, but that uncanny bird eitteth all calm, though Joyce hath shaken the coat of mail rudely."

" There," said Joyce, in triumph, " it is open at last," as the visor slipped down on to tbe corselet. " Roland, see, thy ancestors mayhap thought it would serve as a reflection on the long since dead Sieur Bigot if they filled bis helmet with blocks of wood, so they crammed it full (f old papers and parchments." " Bring th-m all down, sweatheart," said I. "We will see what treasures the old belmet hath concealed."

Joyce drew forth the paicbmen's carefully, amid a cloud of dust aid cobwebs, and descended fhe ladder. Meantime that strange dove fluttered on to the pap. rs in Joyie's hanis, and came down with h» r. Tt en did Jo\ cc drag the (able c(ae to the heanu Wiere 1 sa" and placed the pare men s the/em, def iy cltanng fr >m them wuh ariaj kin the dust ot many yeais' accumulation, and we begin our scrutiny . Many of the papers were very old and yellow, some even were written or engrossed in th-- N irman French of the Coi queror and his sons. Then was lhe r e a formidable d jciiment of more rednt date, an i I g'an^ed at us end jrs j ment : " The last Will and Tes ament of Marie Ursula de Mortislani in regaid of the lands known as Deep-Soil and North Forest l^nds, heuceforth to be know. i as Chantry Farm°. The-e to my brother Kupert, fifth Baronet de Mortisland, in trust."

" Joyce, mother, look, loc k," I ciied in excitement. '• Poor Margery'- dowry, the records and titles of the Chantry lands !" '• Too late, my son. My Margery, my bonny Mirgery, will need no dowry now, ' said my mother, weeping plenteously. " They must be Joyce's dowry tow," (A cms ry giru.ee at other endorsement 3 , and I saw that here were all the old chaiUrs and records bel >ngint{ to thjse lands )

••Nay, not bo, mv mother," s*id Joyce. Coining softly to my side, she "wh.spetid : ' Roland, do you not think thai in tnnse last mi merits torn, thing rajs e.ijus w*b reve*le4 to Margery? Why did she ask }ou so carnestl) no' to defraud her ot her dowry ? You must erect a rhapel or chantn , and expend her dowry in prayers for her B'iul. Ylu know, de,.r Roland, they were Maigery'a l^s' spoken words, ' Do no defraud me of my dowry.' A dying prayer is ever facrtd.'"

I was completely dazed and stupefied at the singular discovery of the long-missing titles, and was still weak from my illness, and the first thought in my mind was that the dove that had persisted in perching on that belmet had been in gome measure an instrument tent for their recovery. I felt that some supernatural agency had been among us 1 " Dame Ursula's dove, mother,"' I gasped. " Surely Margery and John Col via were right after all. The dove, where is it now ?" But the dove was nowhere to be seen, though every do> r, casement, and cranny was closed to prevent mv taking cold in the large room. Then an unreasoning terror seized U9 !

" Roland, Roland," cried my mother, " verily, the dove was Dime Ursula's messenger, or perhaps herself, sent on a mission to right some wrongr, to make known her final wishes, and to restore those hidden rtcord^.

•• I will fetch Father Gabriel," said Joyce, in an awe-struck whisper. '' Oh, we know not in whose presence we are standing. Father Gabriel must come and exorcise this wandering spirit."

Father Gabriel's earnest voice was speedily heard in the quiet ro m, pleading, exhorting, imploring, and for awhile to me the room set mcd filled again with some mysterious and indefinable presence, then all things taded from sight and hearing, and mercifully I fell in a dead faint on the rush-strewn hearthstone.

[An entry in brackets on the margin of the diary, of morp recent date reads thus . " From that day to the end of his long and useful life, my father, Sir Roland, never again saw that mysterious grey woud-dove. If there was ever a curae on the Chantry lands, it hath been icmoved. We, Sir Roland's sot and daughter, attest this with our signatuies. " Charles Jamks de Mortisland, " HENBIt-TfA JOTCK DX MuRTI&LAND."]

When I recovered consciousness wriles Sir Roland, Father Gabr el lead ah ud to up, at my i> quest, Damn Ursula's will. There we found that she In. 1 devis.-d a large sum of money for the erection cf a Chan ly chapel, which was to be so constructed as alwajs to i fiord ii stcure lufuge f. r a fu^i i\e priest, hhe willed that her huu'e in the foies was to be k pt outward. y as a mere ranger's or forester s abode, but witli nit — .1 t.ou-e within a hou eas it weie— lie Chantry w<is to be erec cI. (.Tn eg wire th^ days of persecution whin the nun died. Now, by God s m-'c\, we have nut to bear more than the pa>ment of toilette.) T. c Chantry was to be most costly and [.dutiful in every de'ail. The rents ot the Cbantry lands were left as a pert etu il endowment for the bunpurt of a priest, bhe left her only biotbt r Kupert her sole executor, ti wing strong faith in his truth and bontsty. bhe left to Rup. it's daughter a substantial legacy; to Kupert 6he bequeathed no'hing, " be being already overburdened with riches and lande."

Rupert had proved himself a traitor to his trust, had misappropriated the accumulated moneys for the erection of the Chantry, received the rents of Deep-Soil and North Forest, and concealed hia sister's will and all papers pertaining to the lands. He was her natural heir, and cast aside Ursula's bequests. " Tben you could not sell those lands, even if you wished?" said Joyce. " Poor Margery will be defrauded of her dowry after all."

" I know not, sweetheart, what I could do in legality. Possession of the titles, and undisputed holding of the lands for a century, may have established my right to possess of them if I wished. Bat ia honour I could not dispose of them. Father Gabriel, I had promised to devote the purchase money of theae lands to provide a dowry for my sister, and she begged me not to defraud her of her dowry, even when at the point of death. Instead of selling those ill-gotten lands, as assuredly I might after this lapse of time, I will fulfil the wishes of the donor. Dame Ursula gave the lands to God." " And cannot rest in peace while He is defrauded," said my ( mother, reverentially, "I will not rob my Margery of her dowry. I will bnild the Chantry from mine own funds— that is Margery's dower from me— and the rents of the Chantry farms shall be handed over in trust to the proper authorities for a perpetual endowment ; and you, Father Gabriel, must be appointed our first Chantrj priest. But I will set aside Dame Ursula's wish in respect to the site. Ws no longer hare to conceal onr faith, though we have to pay penalties for breaking the Act of Uniformity. Tbis room, large and stately, which hath been hallowed by some strange presence, must be the site of the new Chantry. A fitnoua architect must be S3t to work at once to construct the plans." "S > M ngery is to have her dowry after all," said Joyce. " Oh, Roland, how good you are, h )w different from that traitor Rupert, who robbed his sister, and defrauded his God, to make riot and revelry with bis stolen wealth "

' Wny, Joyce darling, I could scarcely a3t otherwise, the lands are not mine to give away. But as we hive so often spoken of them as ' Margery's dowry,' let us not speak more of th ■ sin of my ancestor ; to us this Chantry must always remain as Margery's dower." " But for that dove, D tme Ursula's dove, we might have remained for ever ignorant of Dame Ursula's bequest," said my mother, crossing herself.

[We need follow the diary no farther. Sir Roland and Joyce Beaton were manied, shortly after the events narrated, in the chapel of the S.ivov, the Kmg himself giving away the bride to his favourite friend. A later entry shows that the Kin? was sponsor for Sir R)laniVs tint-born s)n,Caarleß James. An entry, six years later, shows that the Duke of York was present at the formal consecration ot the exquisite Chantry erece 1 in memory of Ursula de Mortisland and of Margery, sister of Sir Roland de Mortisland. A stained glass window above Dame Ursula's tomb has the family crest, " a serpent coiled, on a fi j ld azure, with a bend or, ot which is a dove volant." On the outer door of the Chantry is a shield engraved " Margery's Dowry."

[the end.]