Chapter 11. A Meeting With Master Overton

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_ CHAPTER ELEVEN. A MEETING WITH MASTER OVERTON

I left Smithfield far behind me, and found myself again amidst the streets of the City, when, overcome by my feelings, I sank on one side of the road, just within an archway. How long I remained there I know not, when I heard a voice addressing me by name:

"Rise, my boy; rise, Ernst Verner; I will conduct you to your home."

I looked up and saw the friar whom I had met in the morning.

"I am thankful I found you," he said, "or in your fainting state you might have suffered injury from some of the thieves and cut-purses who infest this City. What has happened to you?"

I told him that I had fled from the burnings at Smithfield.

"I do not wonder at that," he answered; "it was a fearful sight."

"And the poor lady with whom I saw you on her way thither, has she escaped?" I asked.

"No; she was among those who suffered death. She witnessed a good confession, and died, I believe, rejoicing, without feeling one pang of pain."

While the friar was speaking I gradually recovered.

"We will now set forward," he said, "for I must leave this City, and continue my search for my friend, who has, I believe, returned to England. I did not say this to you before, but I do so now I know that I may trust you. Should you by chance meet him, let him know that he who was once Friar Roger is so no longer, and earnestly desires to see him."

I assured him that I should be ready to help him, as well as Master Overton, and that I believed nothing would induce me to betray them.

"Yes, I know that I can trust you," he said. "And now I have to ask you, did not the lady give you a packet, desiring you to carry out the wishes which are therein expressed?"

"Yes," I answered, feeling in the bosom of my frock, in which I placed it. "I have it here safe, and hope to do as she desired."

"It might, however, be better if you were to give it to me," he observed. "You are but a youth, and might lose it, or may be unable to fulfil her request."

I could not help looking at the speaker suspiciously as he said this. Was his object to deprive me of the packet, that he might make use of it for his own purposes? If such was the case, he might have done so while I lay in a swoon.

"You will pardon me, my friend," I answered, after a minute's consideration; "that poor lady confided the packet to me, almost with her dying breath, and I purpose, if I have the power, to carry out her wishes."

Friar Roger looked at me and smiled.

"You act wisely," he answered. "You have not yet proved my fidelity, and are right not to trust me; and, besides, I think you have a greater prospect of remaining in this life than I have, for assuredly if my heresy were discovered I should speedily be brought into the same state as the poor people you saw this morning."

We had not gone far when A'Dale came hurrying after me. He had not at first missed me when I fled from Smithfield, but hearing some one remark with a laugh that a lad had been frightened by the fires, and had taken to flight, he concluded that I was the person spoken of. Friar Roger expressed his satisfaction at the appearance of A'Dale, and, confiding me to his charge, wished us farewell.

At length I reached Master Gresham's house in Lombard Street. The Lady Anne remarked upon my pale face and haggard features, and inquired what had occurred. Knowing her kind disposition, I told her the occurrences of the morning.

"Alas! alas!" she answered. "We must commiserate their fate, though I believe firmly that all of them are tasting the joys of heaven. But for that poor lady you speak of I feel more particularly. Can you tell me her name?"

I bethought me of the packet, for to the Lady Anne I knew that I could confide it properly.

"That will tell us," I observed.

We carefully opened the packet, which I drew from my bosom. Lady Anne read it.

"Alas! alas!" she said; "even while you were describing the poor lady I had an idea that she might be one I knew well in my early days, and for whom I had a warm affection. Even at that time I thought her opinions dangerous. And, my sweet Barbara, has such been indeed your fate? I would that I had the means of discovering her daughter; this document gives but a slight clue, saying little more than she told you. She believes that her child will be found among certain Flemish artisans settled at Norwich. There are many in that city, and thus among them it will be difficult to discover her. Still it must be done, and I will consult my husband on his return."

"Could I not go down to Norwich and search among the artisans there?" I asked. "I have indeed a fellow-feeling for the poor young lady, and I would thankfully be employed on such a service."

"I will think about it," answered Lady Anne; "but Norwich is a long way off, and you are young to undertake such a journey alone. If James Brocktrop can be spared I will send him, though he might not undertake the task with the zeal I should desire."

"But could not I accompany him?" I asked. "The holidays will soon begin, and if Master Gresham does not return, I shall be at liberty."

"Have patience, my boy; I will consider it," repeated Lady Anne.

When I told A'Dale, he was eager to accompany me. I knew I could trust him. It wanted but two weeks to the holidays; and we agreed that if Lady Anne could not then send Brocktrop, we ourselves, with her permission and that of my patron, would set forth together.

At length term time was over, and I was at liberty.

"I have consulted my lord's factor, Master John Elliot, and he will send James Brocktrop, for the purpose of inquiring into the trade and produce of Norwich, where he is given to understand a considerable amount of manufactures has been produced by the Flemish refugees settled in that city," said Lady Anne. "You can accompany him, and you will thus have a favourable opportunity of inquiring for the young girl."

I was greatly pleased at this arrangement; it was so exactly what I wished. A'Dale likewise obtained leave to make holiday and to accompany us. Horses were provided for our journey, and with a change of clothes and other necessaries packed in our valises and strapped before us, with thick cloaks to guard us from the inclemency of the weather, our equipment was complete.

To enable us to defend ourselves, we each of us also had a brace of pistolets, and an arquebus, which hung at the saddlebow. Thus well provided, we set forth to the North. I found the roads very different to those I had been accustomed to in the Low Countries. Instead of affording a broad level way, they were full of ruts and inequalities. Sometimes we had to pass through a wide extent of mud, and at other times to pick our way amidst the boulders, rocks, and stones which lay before us. This prevented us from proceeding as rapidly as we should have desired. We could talk, however, as we rode along, and had many subjects of conversation.

At length we reached the ancient town of Norwich, standing on its ten hills. In the late reign numerous Flemish families, driven out of the Netherlands by dread of the Edicts and the Inquisition, had settled here.

Brocktrop had been supplied with a sufficient excuse for his visit, being sent thither by the well-known mercer, Master Gresham, to examine into the state of trade and make purchases accordingly, assisted by me; while A'Dale had a similar commission from his employer. We were thus able to go about through the town and to visit the houses of the settlers for the purpose of examining the produce of their looms. Some we found employed in the manufacture of lutestrings, brocades, paduasoys, tabinets, and velvets, while a considerable number were engaged in making cutlery, knives, daggers, swords, lancets and other articles for the use of surgeons, as also clocks and watches. Lace-making we also found carried on extensively.

Still during our search we had not discovered the child of the martyred lady. At last one day we entered a humble cottage where a man was seated at a loom. His back was turned towards us. Even to my eye he did not appear to be as expert as others we had visited. Still he worked on diligently; the material he was producing being of a somewhat rough character, Brocktrop turned away, seeing that the stuff would not suit his purpose, when I apologised to the workman for intruding: on him. He turned round as I did so, and I saw a countenance with the features of which I was acquainted. Brocktrop and A'Dale had just gone out of the door. The workman rose.

"I would speak with you," he said. "Are those to be trusted?"

"Yes, sir, I am sure they are," I answered; and I at once saw that the person speaking to me was he whom I had first known as Father Overton.

He greeted me cordially, and so I ran out and begged Brocktrop and A'Dale to wait for me for a few minutes.

"I have been anxious to hear of you since we parted at Antwerp," I said. "John Foxe, too, in his letters has inquired of you, and we feared that you had fallen into evil plight."

"I left Antwerp secretly," he answered, "for I was in danger. Besides, I had a longing to return to England, first to minister to these poor refugees who had been driven by persecution from their native land, and also to spread the truth among my own countrymen. Having learned the art of weaving, I have remained here for some time in disguise; though I believe I am already suspected, and perhaps may again have to seek for safety in flight--though ready, if needs be, to suffer as a martyr for the truth."

I replied that I hoped he would yet escape till better times, which might come, seeing that there was no prospect of the Queen's Majesty having a son to succeed her. I then told him of the happy conversion of Friar Roger, by means of the letters he had written from Antwerp, and that he desired once more to meet with him.

A gleam of satisfaction passed over the countenance of Overton.

"I trust it is so," he answered; "and yet it may be prudent in me not to place myself in his power until I am sure of his fidelity." He then inquired what had brought me to Norwich. I at once told him the secret object of our visit, mentioning the name of the unhappy lady who had been put to death.

"Barbara Radford, did you say? Alas! alas! has she been murdered by these bloodthirsty bigots? Tell me how she looked; what she said. My sister, my dear sister, you were ever true and faithful! It would have rejoiced your heart to know that the brother you ever treated so affectionately had been brought to a knowledge of the truth. But oh! Ernst Verner, think what are my feelings when I tell you that it was I, in my blindness and bigotry, who first brought the family of the Radfords before the notice of the cruel Bonner as firm and uncompromising Protestants. Yet I loved my sister as much as any priest of Rome, imbued with its principles, can entertain love; but I thought it right to crush all such feelings, for the sake of advancing the cause I advocated. In what a different light do I now view such conduct!"

"The great Apostle Paul was a fearful persecutor, and yet he became one of the most mighty instruments in God's hands for spreading the truth," I replied.

"Yes, yes; but it becomes not me to liken myself to such a man," he answered. "You say that you believe that my sister's child is even now in this town? Then my heart did not deceive me. Not many days ago I met a lovely little girl in the family of some poor Flemish weavers. They told me that she was not their own child, but that they felt themselves bound to support her as if she were, and would sacrifice all that they possess rather than allow her to want. I made no further inquiries then, for a stranger coming in they were silent. Yet I well remember that while I spoke to her, a look came over her countenance which reminded me of my once-loved sister. I thought it was fancy, and banished it from my mind. I now feel sure that my feelings did not mislead me. But I cannot leave my work. I owe my safety, I believe, to never going forth during the day; for so well-known are my features, that I might be recognised. When evening sets in, return hither, and I will accompany you to the cottage where the family of Crugeot reside."

I bade my friend farewell, and hurried after my companions.

"Ask no questions," I said; "it will be the safest; but I have a clue at length to the object of which we are in search, and I trust that we may be able to carry out the Lady Anne's beneficent designs."

Having concluded our rambles about the city, and James Brocktrop having gained all the information he required, we returned to our hostelry. I begged that I might go forth alone when it was dark. I had full confidence in the faithfulness of Brocktrop, as well as in the discretion of A'Dale; but yet I was sure that the fewer who knew Overton's secret the better. One who like him had left the Church of Rome, if discovered, would be sure to meet with no mercy.

I accordingly set out by myself through the streets of Norwich. I had noted the house where I had seen him, and fully believed that I should find it again. There are, however, so many ups and downs in the city, and the streets wind about so much, that it is no easy matter to find the way, especially dark as it then was. Here and there only a light gleamed forth from some artisan's workshop, making the obscurity in other places still more dense. At last I recognised a building I had seen in the morning, and knew that Master Overton's house was not far on one side of it. I hastened on and knocked. A voice told me to come in, and I saw him, as before, with a small lamp by his side, working away at his loom.

"I thank you very much, my young friend, for coming," he said; "I am anxious, as you are, to try and discover my niece. I have no doubt, however, that she will be found. We will soon go forth in search of the worthy Flemings in whose company I saw her."

Saying this, he threw a cloak round him such as was worn by the Flemings, and taking me by the arm we together left the house, which he locked carefully behind him. My eyes had now become accustomed to the darkness of the streets, and I could without difficulty walk on by the side of my companion. We had not gone far, when he stopped at the door of a low cottage. We listened, for a sweet, low hymn was being sung by some one within. It was one of Marot's, such as my own dear parents had delighted in. The sound melted me almost to tears. Now another voice joined in: it was that of a woman. And now a man's tones were heard, full and rich. I would not for much have interrupted that hymn. Perhaps the singers scarcely knew the risk they ran, for had any Romish priests heard them they might have recognised the hymns as those of the Protestant poet of France; he whose verses had afforded consolation to many a persecuted Christian, to many an exile from his native land. At length the hymn ceased. Overton knocked gently at the door. It was opened by a woman, the light from within falling on her person, showing by her costume that she was a Fleming.

"I am a friend," said Overton; "you know me. I have come to see you, and ask a few questions."

"You are welcome, Master Holt," she said in broken English. "Come in, for I know you to be a friend to the people of our faith."

We entered. The woman looked at me. "He is trustworthy," said Overton. "I saw a young girl in your company the other day," he continued; "I am anxious to talk with her, for a strange communication has been made me, and I think I know more about her than you may suppose." The woman listened attentively.

"She is in the back room," she said; "I will call her. I told you that she is not my child, but I love her as if she were. I would not part with her, unless it was greatly to her benefit."

"If she is the child I believe her to be, she is my niece," answered Overton, "and a lady of wealth and distinction is ready to take charge of her. A sound Protestant, moreover. Would you not then yield her up?"

"I would not selfishly prevent the dear girl from doing anything which would advance her interests. But you may be wrong; perhaps she is not the child you seek. However, I will call her, and you can speak to her yourself."

The Flemish woman, opening a door, called, and in an instant a girl eleven or twelve years old came bounding into the room. She was very fair, with blue eyes, her countenance full of animation, her light-brown hair long and silky.

"Aveline," she said, "here is a worthy gentleman who wishes to speak with you. He thinks he knew your dear mother. Will you describe her to him, that he may judge whether he is right?"

Aveline ran up to Overton, and taking his hand, exclaimed:

"Oh yes! she was an angel, so sweet and loving and kind, and her figure so tall and graceful."

"Yes, yes," said Overton, looking eagerly in the child's face; "but her name, what was her name?"

"My dear father, before he went away, always called her Barbara."

"Ah! yes," said Overton, "that was the name; but the surname; by what name was your father known?"

"My father's name was Radford--Captain Radford. He went away a long time ago, in a big ship, belonging to some merchant adventurers, and he has never since come back, and poor dear mamma was accused of reading the Bible, and of loving God's people more than the ways of the world, and some cruel men came and dragged her off to prison. They very nearly took me, but she told me to fly away, and to get clear of them, and that I must throw myself on the mercy of the first Protestant family I could meet. I ran and ran on, wishing to obey my mother, and fearing that the Queen's guards would be in pursuit of me, till I came upon an encampment of travellers by the roadside. I stopped and listened; they were singing a hymn. I knew that it was a Protestant hymn, and thus I knew that I might trust them. They did not understand much I said, for they had not been long in the country. Yet I made myself understood, and when they heard my tale they undertook to afford me protection. In vain I have since frequently begged that I might go forth and search for my mother, but they always shook their heads, and said it was of no use. Still I am sure that I shall meet her again. Do you not think so, sir?"

"Yes, dear child; there is a place where all who are clothed in the robes of the Lamb will assuredly meet, and there I trust that you will meet with your mother."

Aveline looked up in Overton's face with an inquiring glance. "What do you mean?" she asked eagerly; and then in a deep low whisper, painfully drawing her breath, she said, "Is she dead?"

"The body in which you knew her has returned to dust, but she herself is now rejoicing with a joy unspeakable. Do not mourn for her, my child. Only accept the same gracious offer she accepted, and follow the course she has followed, and assuredly you will be reunited to her."

"Yes, yes, I will indeed!" exclaimed Aveline, clasping her hands and looking upwards.

Never had I seen a countenance more beautiful and radiant. Already an angelic expression rested on it, such as I am sure it will wear when glorified in heaven.

The husband, Crugeot, now came forward, for before his wife had opened the door he had concealed himself in the further room; even a humble family, such as I have described, in those days lived in dread of persecution. Yet even they would not altogether hold their tongues, but desired to witness for the truth.

We had interrupted, I found, their usual evening service, and on our knocking they had scattered, not knowing who might be about to enter.

Overton now explained to Aveline that he was her uncle, and asked her whether she would go and reside with a rich lady who would be her patroness. She looked at Dame Crugeot.

"I cannot leave her," she said, "unless she wishes to part with me."

"I do not wish to part with you, my child; but yet I would advise you to accept the generous offer which has been made."

"But will they talk to me as you have done, of the Saviour and of my dear mother? I cannot go to people who will not do that," said the little girl firmly.

Her uncle explained that she could enjoy all the advantages of wealth; but promised amusements and luxuries did not tempt her. Almost unwillingly, however, at last, by the urgent advice of her uncle, she consented to leave her Flemish friends. Hitherto I had said very little. I merely again repeated Lady Anne's offer, and told her how kind and generous a friend she had been to me, and that I was sure she would prove the same to her.

"But you will not take me to-morrow," she said; "let me have another day with my kind nurse, or more than nurse--my second mother."

I was sure that James Brocktrop would consent to remain another day; indeed, our horses required a longer rest before they were fit for the return journey. _

Read next: Chapter 12. Disappearance Of Aveline

Read previous: Chapter 10. Ernst Verner Begins His Journal

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