Great Britain -- History -- Stuarts, 1603-1714 -- Fiction
From the house there came often the noise of singing, drinking, and
loud talking when other planters would ride over for a drinking
bout. There was also sometimes to be heard the music of the theorbo,
upon which Madam played very sweetly, singing Spanish songs; so
that it seemed a pity for music so sweet to be thrown away upon
this selfish crew. It made me think of Humphrey, and of the sweet
and holy thoughts which he would put into rhymes, and then fit the
rhymes with music which seemed to breathe those very thoughts. Alas!
In the village of Bradford Orcas there would be now silence and
desolation! The good old Squire dead, my father dead, the young
men sent to the Plantations, no one left at all but the Rector and
Madam his sister-in-law, and I, alas! a slave. Perchance at that
moment the Rector might be slowly drawing his bow across the strings
of his violoncello thinking of those who formerly played with him;
or perhaps he would be sorrowfully taking out his cases and gazing
for a little consolation upon the figures of his goddesses and his
nymphs. Only to think of the place, and of those who once lived
there, tore my poor heart to pieces.
One evening, when there was a great noise and talking at the house,
while we were sitting upon our beds with no other light than that of
the moon, Madam herself came to the cottage.
'Child,' she said, 'nothing will do but that the gentlemen must see
thy beauty. Nay, no harm shall happen while I am there: so much
they know. But he hath so bragged about thy beauty and the great
price he will demand for ransom that the rest are mad to see thee.
I swear that not the least rudeness shall be offered thee. They are
drinking, it is true; but they are not yet drunk. Come!'
So I arose and followed her. First, she took me to her own room,
where she took off my hood and threw over me a long white lace
mantilla, which covered my head and fell over my shoulders and below
the waist.
She sighed as she looked at me.
'Poor innocent!' she said. 'If money could buy that face, there is
not a man in the room but would give all he hath and count it gain.
Canst thou play or sing?'
I told her that I had some knowledge of the theorbo. Therefore she
brought me hers, and bade me sing to the gentlemen and then retire
quickly. So I followed her into the living or keeping room, where a
dozen gentlemen were sitting round the table. A bowl of punch was
on the table, and every man had his glass before him, and a pipe of
tobacco in his hand. Some of their faces were flushed with wine.
'Gentlemen,' said Madam, 'our prisoner hath consented to sing
one song to you, after which she will ask permission to bid you
good-night.'
So they all clapped their hands and rapped the table, and I, being
indeed terrified, but knowing very well that to show fear would be
the worst thing I could do, touched the strings and began my song. I
sang the song which Humphrey made, and which he sang to the officers
at Taunton when the Duke was there.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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