"Better not, I think," said Ermine, with a smile. "I almost wish I could be hidden behind a curtain, to hear your talk with her."

Stephen laughed. "Well, I won't deny that I rather enjoy putting spokes in her wheels," said he.

The next morning he told Odinel to make up his goods, and he would carry them to Oxford on the following Monday.

Odinel's parcel proved neither bulky nor heavy. Instead of requiring a sumpter-mule to carry it, it could readily be strapped at the back of Stephen's saddle, while the still smaller package of his own necessaries went in front. He set out about four o'clock on a spring morning, joining himself for the sake of safety to the convoy of travellers who started from the Black Bull in the Poultry, and arrived at the East Gate of Oxford before dark, on the Tuesday evening. His first care was to commit Odinel's goods to the safe care of mine host of the Blue Boar [Note 4] in Fish Street, as had been arranged. Here he supped on fried fish, rye bread, and cheese; and having shared the "grace-cup" of a fellow-traveller, set off for Saint John's anchorhold. A young woman in semi-conventual dress left the door just as he came up. Stephen doffed his cap as he asked her--"I pray you, are you the maid of the Lady Derette?"

"I am," was the reply. "Do you wish speech of her?"

"Would you beseech her to let me have a word with her at the cas.e.m.e.nt?"

The girl turned back into the anchorhold, and the next minute the cas.e.m.e.nt was opened, and the comely, pleasant face of Derette appeared behind it. She looked a little older, but otherwise unaltered.

There was nothing unusual in Stephen's request. Anchorites lived on alms, and were also visited to desire their prayers. The two ideas likely to occur to the maid as the object of Stephen's visit were therefore either a present to be offered, or intercession to be asked and probably purchased.

"Christ save you, Lady!" said Stephen to his cousin. "Do you know me?"

"Why, is it Stephen? Are you come back? I _am_ glad to see you."

When the natural curiosity and interest of each was somewhat satisfied, Stephen asked Derette's advice as to going further.

"You may safely go to see Mother," said she, "if you can be sure of your own tongue; for you will not meet Anania there. She has dislocated her ankle, and is lying in bed."

"Poor soul! It seems a shame to say I'm glad to hear it; but really I should like to avoid her at Aunt Isel's, and to be able to come away at my own time from the Lodge."

"You have the chance of both just now."

Stephen thought he would get the worse interview over first. He accordingly went straight on into Civil School Lane, which ran right across the north portion of Christ Church, coming out just above Saint Aldate's, pursued his way forward by Pennyfarthing Street, and turning up a few yards of Castle Street, found himself at the drawbridge leading to the porter's lodge where his brother lived. There were voices inside the Lodge; and Stephen paused for a moment before lifting the latch.

"Oh dear, dear!" said a querulous voice, which he recognised as that of Anania, "I never thought to be laid by the heels like this!--not a soul coming in to see a body, and those children that ungovernable--Gilbert, get off that ladder! and Selis, put the pitchfork down this minute! Not a bit of news any where, and if there were, not a creature coming in to tell one of it! Eline, let those b.u.t.tons alone, or I'll be after--Oh deary dear, I can't!"

Stephen lifted the latch and looked in. Anania lay on a comfortable couch, drawn up by the fire; and at a safe distance from it, her four children were running riot--turning out all her treasures, inspecting, trying on, and occasionally breaking them--knowing themselves to be safe from any worse penalty than a scolding, for which evidently they cared nothing.

"You seem to want a bit of help this afternoon," suggested Stephen coolly, collaring Selis, from whom he took the pitchfork, and then lifting Gilbert off the ladder, to the extreme disapprobation of both those young gentlemen, as they showed by kicks and angry screams.

"Come, now, be quiet, lads: one can't hear one's self speak."

"Stephen! is it you?" cried Anania incredulously, trying to lift herself to see him better, and sinking back with a groan.

"Looks rather like me, doesn't it? I am sorry to find you suffering, Sister."

"I've suffered worse than any martyr in the Calendar, Stephen!--and those children don't care two straws for me. n.o.body knows what I've gone through. Are you come home for good? Oh dear, this pain!"

"No, only for a look at you. I had a little business to bring me this way. How is...o...b..rt?"

"He's well enough to have never a bit of sympathy for me. Where are you living, Stephen, and what do you do now?"

"Oh, up London way; I'm a baker. Have you poulticed that foot, Anania?"

"I've done all sorts of things to it, and it's never--Julian, if you touch that clasp, I declare I'll--Are you married, Stephen?"

"Married, and have one more trouble than you," answered Stephen laughingly, as he took the clasp from his youthful and inquisitive niece; "but my children are not troublesome, I am thankful to say. I was going to tell you that marsh-mallows makes one of the finest poultices you can have. Pluck it when Jupiter is in the ascendant, and the moon on the wane, and you'll find it first-rate for easing that foot of yours.--Gilbert, I heard thy mother tell thee not to go up the ladder."

"Well, what if she did?" demanded Gilbert sulkily. "She's only a woman."

"Then she must be obeyed," said Stephen.

"But who did you marry, for I never--Oh deary me, but it does sting!"

"Now, Anania, I'll just go to the market and get you some marsh mallow; Selis will come with me to carry it. I've to see Aunt Isel yet, and plenty more. Come, Selis."

"_Ha, chetife_!--you've no sooner come than you're off again! Who did you marry? That's what I want to know."

"The sooner you get that poultice on the better. I may look in again, if I have time. If not, you'll tell Osbert I've been, and all's well with me."

Stephen shut the door along with his last word, disregarding Anania's parting cry of--"But you haven't told me who your wife is!" and marched Selis off to the market, where he laded him with marsh mallow, and sent him home with strict injunctions not to drop it by the way. Then, laughing to himself at the style wherein he had disposed of Anania, he turned off to Turlgate Street (now the Turl) where Raven Soclin lived.

The first person whom he saw there was his cousin Flemild.

"Why, Stephen, this is an unexpected pleasure!" she said warmly.

"Mother, here's Cousin Stephen come."

"I'm glad to see thee, lad," responded Isel: and the usual questions followed as to his home and calling. But to Stephen's great satisfaction, though Isel expressed her hope that he had a good wife, n.o.body asked for her name. The reason was that they all took it for granted she must be a stranger to them; and when they had once satisfied themselves that he was doing well, and had learnt such details as his present calling, the number of his family, and so forth, they seemed more eager to impart information than to obtain it. At their request, Stephen promised to sleep there, and then went out to pay a visit to Romund and Mabel, which proved to be of a very formal and uninteresting nature. He had returned to Turlgate Street, but they had not yet gone to rest, when Osbert lifted the latch.

"So you're real, are you?" said he, laughing to his brother. "Anania couldn't tell me if you were or not; she said she rather thought she'd been dreaming,--more by reason that you did not tarry a minute, and she could not get an answer to one question, though she asked you three times."

Stephen too well knew what that question was to ask for a repet.i.tion of it "Nay, I tarried several minutes," said he; "but I went off to get some marsh mallow for a poultice for the poor soul; she seemed in much pain. I hope Selis took it home all right? Has she got it on?"

"I think she has," said Osbert. "But she wants you very badly to go back and tell her a lot more news."

"Well, I'll see," replied Stephen; "I scarcely think I can. But if she wants news, you tell her I've heard say women's head-kerchiefs are to be worn smaller, and tied under the chin; that's a bit of news that'll take her fancy."

"That'll do for a while," answered Osbert; "but what she wants to know most is your wife's name and all the children's."

"Oh, is that it?" said Stephen coolly. "Then you may tell her one of the children is named after you, and another for our mother; and we have an Agnes and a Derette: and if she wants to know the cat's name too--"

Osbert roared. "Oh, let's have the cat's name, by all means," said he; and Stephen gravely informed him that it was Gib.

As Agnes was at that time one of the commonest names in England, about as universal as Mary or Elizabeth now, Stephen felt himself pretty safe in giving it; but the name of his eldest son he did not mention.

"Well, I'd better go home before I forget them," said Osbert. "Let's see--Osbert, Edild, Agnes, and Derette--and the cat is Gib. I think I shall remember. But I haven't had your wife's."

"I'll walk back with you," said Stephen, evading the query; and they went out together.

"Stephen, lad," said Osbert, when they had left the house, "I've a notion thou dost not want to tell thy wife's name. Is it true, or it's only my fancy?"

"Have you?" responded Stephen shortly.

"Ay, I have; and if it be thus, say so, but don't tell me what it is.