Walter declared that, though he might consent to be a parish priest, he would never be a monk, and he was one not easy to be moved when once his mind was made up, though he never stuck out about trifles—not like poor Randall, who could be coaxed or flattered out of any principles he ever had, while he would be obstinate even to folly about the trimming of a glove, or the management of a hawk. So my lady was fain to compromise the matter, and Walter was sent to Bridgewater to study with Sir Richard Lambert, a very learned priest with a great reputation for sanctity. (Of course I did not know all this at the time, being but a child.) I was sent away with Sister Benedict, to go to my father's brother, a rich merchant in London, trading to the Low Countries. That was the story. Sir Edward had all along been opposed to bestowing me in a convent, and after the suppression of the Gray Nuns' house, he had spoken his mind freely to my lady, saying that he would not have me disposed of in that way without my own consent, and that no more should be said about the matter till I was of age to judge for myself. My lady seemed to acquiesce, as indeed she always did on the rare occasions when Sir Edward asserted his will, and I suppose she might really be glad of the excuse to keep me at home, for, as I have said, she liked to have me about her. But Sir Edward went away, being sent to Scotland on public business by the King, and Sister Benedict came, and the upshot of the matter was, that I was sent to London to see my uncle and little cousins. As soon as Sister Benedict could make proper arrangements, I was to be transferred to the convent of Bernardines at Dartford, a very rich and reputable house. I don't think it was meant that I should know this, but my lady's woman let the cat out of the bag, and my lady, finding I knew so much, told me the rest herself—so I knew what to look for. The journey to London was longer and harder then than now, and very dangerous withal. But my Lord Abbot of Glastonbury, who was Sister Benedict's uncle, was going up to town with a great following, and we traveled in his train; so we escaped the dangers of the road, and met with far more consideration than we should otherwise have done. Nevertheless, I remember that Sister Benedict was highly indignant at certain instances of disrespect shown to her uncle by the gentry and others whom we met, and mourned over the degeneracy of the times. The truth was, the thunder-cloud was even then lying low in the sky, and men felt its influence as dumb creatures do that of a natural storm before it comes. Well, we reached London at last, and glad was I when our journey was done, though sorry to part with Sister Benedict, who, her point once gained, was very kind to me. However, I had so much to engage my attention that I did not feel the parting so deeply as might perhaps have been expected.