Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Robin Tremayne, by Emily Sarah Holt.
________________________________________________________________________Emily Holt was a historian of no mean calibre. Many of her books areset in the Middle Ages or a little later. This one is set in the 1550s,and a little before and after. This was the time when the Catholic Marywas on the throne, and Catholicism was enforced as the officialreligion. It was also the time when Protestantism, which had been onthe rise, was checked, and many Protestants burnt at the stake. WhenElizabeth came to the throne this was reversed, and Protestantism wasonce more the official religion.
This book, which is quite largely based on well-researched fact, tellsof the family life of a few people who were Protestants, and whopreached the Gospel unerringly throughout, despite in the end some ofthem being imprisoned, including Robin Tremayne himself. His account ofthe prison in which he was held is quite amazing--how wickedly unkindpeople can be to one another. At one stage in the story people werebeing burnt at the stake quite wholesale. When Elizabeth came to thethrone all the Bishops were Catholic, and at first none could bepersuaded to officiate at the Coronation. Eventually the Bishop ofCarlisle agreed to do it, but as he hadn't any suitable vestments hehad to borrow some from Bonner, the Bishop of London, who wouldn't dothe Coronation himself.
Full of anecdotes like this, based on fact, the book is fascinating.There is a watered-down version of Elizabethan speech, a few decadesbefore Shakespearean English, and so reasonably understandable. Thefootnotes are there to explain the more unusual words and phrases.________________________________________________________________________ROBIN TREMAYNE, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT.
PREFACE.
More than three hundred years have rolled away since the events narratedin the following pages stirred the souls of men; since John Bradford satdown to his "merry supper with the Lord;" since Lawrence Saunders sleptpeacefully at the stake, lifted over the dark river in the arms of God;since Ridley and Latimer, on that autumn morning at Oxford, lighted thatcandle in England which they trusted by God's grace should never be putout.
And how stands it with England now? For forty-three years, like a birdfascinated by the serpent, she has been creeping gradually closer to theoutstretched arms of the great enchantress. Is she blind and deaf? Hasshe utterly forgotten all her history, all the traditions of hergreatness? It is not quite too late to halt in her path of destruction;but how soon may it become so? How soon may the dying scream of thebird be hushed in the jaws of the serpent?
The candle which was lighted on that autumn morning is burning dim. Itburns dimmer every year, as England yields more and more to Rome. Andevery living soul of us all is responsible to God for the preservationof its blessed light. O sons and daughters of England, shall it be putout?
CHAPTER ONE.
THE FOLDING OF THE LAMB.
"And then she fell asleep; but God Knew that His Heaven was better far, Where little children angels are; And so, for paths she should have trod Through thorns and flowers, gave her this sod.
"He gave her rest for troublousness, And a calm sleep for fitful dreams Of what is, and of more that seems For tossings upon earth and seas Gave her to see Him where He is."
W.M. Rossetti.
"Arbel, look forth and see if thy father and Robin be at hand. I fearthe pie shall be overbaken."
The speaker was a woman of about forty years of age, of that quiet andplacid demeanour which indicates that great provocation would be neededto evoke any disturbance of temper. Gathering up the garment on whichshe was at work, Arbel [Note 1] crossed the long, low room to a widecasement, on the outer mullions of which sundry leafless boughs weretapping as if to ask shelter from the cold; and after standing there fortwo or three minutes, announced that the missing members of the familywere approaching.
"And a third party withal," added she; "that seemeth me, so far as I mayhence discern, to be Doctor Thorpe."
"He is very welcome, an' it be he," returned her mother, still calmlyspinning. "I trust to ask his counsel touching Robin."
Figuratively speaking, for more than a century was yet to elapse ereGeorge Fox founded the Society of Friends, it might be said thatCustance [Note 2] Tremayne was born a Quakeress. It had hitherto provedimpossible, through all the annals of the family experience, to offendor anger her. She was an affectionate wife and mother, but nothingroused in her any outward exhibition of anxiety or annoyance. The tenorof her way was very even indeed.
Before Arbel had done much more than resume her seat and her needle, theroom was entered by two men and a lad of sixteen years. The master ofthe house, Mr Anthony Tremayne, [Note 3] who came in first, was a man ofmore demonstrative manners than his quiet partner. He who enteredsecond was shorter and stronger-built, and had evidently seen a longerterm of life. His hair, plentifully streaked with grey, was thinned toslight baldness on the summit of the head; his features, otherwiserather strong and harsh, wore an expression of benevolence whichredeemed them; his eyes, dark grey, were sharp and piercing. When hetook off his hat, he carefully drew forth and put on a black skull-cap,which gave him a semi-priestly appearance. The lad, who entered with aslow and almost languid step, though in face resembling his father, wasevidently not without an element of his mother in his mentalcomposition. His hair was dark, and his eyes brown: but the same calmplacidity of expression rested on his features as on hers, and hismotions were quiet and deliberate.
"Good morrow, Dr Thorpe," [Note 4] said Mistress Tremayne, rising fromher work.
"The like to you, my mistress," was the response. "Well, how fare youall? Be any of you sick? or can you do without me for a se'nnight?"
"Whither go you, Doctor?" gently asked Custance.
The Doctor's brow grew graver. "On a sorrowful errand, friend," hereplied. "Our noble friends at Crowe are in sore trouble, for theirlittle maid is grievous sick."
"What, little Honor?" cried Arbel, pityingly.
"Ay, methinks the Master is come, and hath called for her. We mightthank God, if we could see things as He seeth. The sorrows of her Houseshall never trouble her."
"Poor child!" said Custance in her quiet voice. "Why, good Doctor, webe none of us truly sick, I thank God; but in sooth I did desire youshould step in hither, touching Robin."
"Touching whom?" asked Dr Thorpe with a faint sound of satire in histone.
But the tone had no effect on Custance.
"Touching Robin," she repeated. "I would fain have you to send him somephysic, an' it like you."
"What shall I send him?" said the Doctor with a grim smile. "A bottleof cider? He lacketh naught else."
"Nay, but I fear me he groweth too fast for his strength," answered hismother.
"Then give him more meat and drink," was the rather contemptuous reply."The lad is as strong as a horse: he is only a trifle lazy. He lackethbut stirring up with a poker."
"Send us the poker," said his father, laughing.
"I am not an ironmonger," retorted the Doctor, again with the same grimsmile. "But the boy is all right; women be alway looking out fortrouble and taking thought."
"But I count you know a mother's fears," answered Custance calmly.
"How should I?" said he. "I was never a woman, let alone a mother. Iknow all women be fools, saving a handful, of whom Isoult Avery, atBradmond yonder, is queen."
Mr Anthony Tremayne laughed heartily. His wife merely replied asquietly as before. "So be it, Doctor. I suppose men do fall sick attimes, and then they use not to think so for a little while at theleast."
"Well, I said not you were not in the handful," said he, smiling again.
"All that you yourself do know make the handful, I count
," saidTremayne. "Ah! Doctor, your bark did alway pass your bite. But whogoeth yonder? Come within!"
The door opened in answer to his call, and disclosed a good-looking manin the prime of life, whose dark hair and beard were particularlyluxuriant in growth.
"Ah! Jack Avery, God save thee!" resumed Tremayne, heartily. "Thou artright welcome. What news?"
"Such news," was the response, in a clear, musical voice, "as we bescarce like to hear twice this century. May I pray you of a cup ofwine, to drink the health of the King?"
"Fetch it, Robin," said Tremayne. "But what hath the King's Grace done,Avery? Not, surely, to repeal the Bloody Statute, his sickness makinghim more compatient [Note 5] unto his poor subjects? That were goodnews!"
"I sorrow to say it," replied Avery, "but this is better news than thatshould be." And holding up the cup of wine which Robin offered him, hesaid solemnly,--"The King's Majesty, Edward the Sixth! God save him!"
From all except Custance there came in answer such a cry--halfamazement, half exultation--as we in this nineteenth century canscarcely imagine for such an event. For the last eight years of thereign of Henry the Eighth, England had been in slavery--"fast bound inmisery and iron." Every year it had grown heavier. Murmuring wastreated as rebellion, and might have entailed death. To know that Henrywas dead was to be free--to be at liberty to speak as a man thought, andto act as a man believed right.
"Ay," resumed Avery gravely, "King Henry the Eight is gone unto themercy of God. How much mercy God could show him, let us not presume tothink. We can only know this--that it was as much as might stand withHis glory."
Dr Thorpe and John Avery left Tremayne together, for both were on theirway to Crowe. A walk of twenty minutes brought them to the house of thelatter, an erection of some fifty years' standing. Bradmond comprisednot only the house, but a large garden and a paddock, in which Avery'shorse Bayard took his ease. There was also a small farm attached, withits requisite buildings; and when the gentlemen arrived, Tom [Note 4],the general factotum, was meandering about the flower-garden, under theimpression that he was at work, while Avery's little daughter, Kate[Note 4] aged nearly four years, was trotting after him from one spot toanother, also under the impression that she was affording him materialassistance in his labours.
John Avery brought his guest into the hall, then the usual familysitting-room when particular privacy was not desired. Here they weremet by a lady, a little under middle height, with a fair palecomplexion, but dark brown eyes and hair, her manners at once very quietand yet very cordial. This was Isoult Avery.
In due time the next morning the party set forth,--namely, John andIsoult Avery, and Dr Thorpe,--and after two days' travelling reachedCrowe.
Crowe was a smaller house than Bradmond, less pleasantly situated, andwith more confined grounds. The door was opened by a girl who, to judgefrom her dress and appearance, was a maid-of-all-work, and with whomtidiness was apparently not a cardinal virtue.
"Good morrow, Deb [Note 4]; how fareth the child?"
"Good lack, Mistress!" was all that could be extracted from Deb.
"Get thee down to the kitchen for a slattern as thou art, and wash theeand busk [dress] thee ere thou open the door to any again!" said arather shrill, yet not unpleasant, voice behind Deb; and that damseldisappeared with prompt celerity. "The maid is enough to provoke allthe saints in the calendar. Isoult, sweet heart, be a thousand timeswelcomed!" And the speaker, advancing, kissed her guest with as muchaffection as though they had been sisters.
"And how goeth it with the child, Mrs Philippa?"
A quick shake of the head seemed to give an unfavourable answer.
"Demand that of Dr Thorpe, when he hath seen her; but our apothecaryfeareth much."
Very unlike either of the women already described was Philippa Basset.There was nothing passive about her; every thing was of the most activetype, and the mood in which she chiefly lived was the imperative. Whilereally under the common height of women, in some mysterious way sheappeared much taller than she was. Her motions were quick even toabruptness: her speech sincere even to bluntness. Every body who knewher loved her dearly, yet every body would have liked to alter hercharacter a little. Generally speaking, she seemed to take no part inthose softer feminine feelings supposed to be common to the sex; yetthere were times when that firm voice could falter, and those bright,quick, grey-blue eyes grow dim with tears. Whatever she did, she didthoroughly and heartily: she loved fervently and hated fervently. That"capacity for indignation" which it has been said lies at the root ofall human virtues, was very fully developed in Philippa. Her age wasthirty-one, but she looked nearer forty. Perhaps Isoult Avery, who hadgone with her through the storm of suffering which fell on the House ofLisle, could have guessed how that look of age had come into the oncebright and lively face of Philippa Basset.
"Come in, dear heart," continued Philippa, "and speak with my Lady mymother; and I will carry up Dr Thorpe to see the child."
So John and Isoult went into the parlour, and Philippa conducted DrThorpe to the sick chamber.
In the little parlour of the little house at Crowe sat a solitary lady.She was not yet fifty years of age, but her hair was only one removefrom white; and though lines of thought and suffering were marked on herpale face, it yet bore the remains of what had been delicate loveliness.Her complexion was still exquisitely fair, and her eyes were a light,bright blue. Though she moved quickly, it was with much dignity andgrace. She was a small, slightly-made woman; she sat as upright as astatue; and she inclined her head like a queen. It was no marvel, forshe had been all but a queen. For twelve years of her life, her velvetrobes had swept over palace pavements, and her diamonds had glittered inthe light of royal saloons; and for seven of those years she had herselfoccupied the highest place. An invitation from her had been an enviedhonour; a few minutes' conversation with her, a supreme distinction.For this was Honor Plantagenet, Viscountess Lisle, sometime LadyGoverness of Calais. But that was all over now. She was "a widowindeed, and desolate." The House of Lisle had fallen seven yearsbefore; and Honour's high estate, as well as her private happiness, fellwith it. And with her, as with so many others, it ended in the oldfashion--
"`Where be thy frendes?' sayd Robin. `Syr, never one wyll me know; Whyle I was ryche enow at home Grete boste then wolde they blowe; And now they renne awaye fro me, As bestes on a rowe; They take no more heed of me, Than they me never sawe.'"
[Note 6].
Of the scores of distinguished persons who had enjoyed the princelyhospitality of Lady Lisle at Calais, not one ever condescended to glanceinto the little house at Crowe. She had friends left, but they were notdistinguished persons. And foremost among these was Isoult Avery, whofor two years had been bower-woman to the Viscountess, in those old dayswhen she sat in the purple as Governess of Calais.
Many minutes had not elapsed before Philippa and Dr Thorpe entered theparlour together.
"Well, what cheer?" asked Lady Lisle, quickly, even before her greeting:for the grandchild who lay ill in the chamber above was very dear tothat lonely woman's heart.
"Madam, the child is dying."
"Alack, my poor lamb!" And Lady Lisle rose and went above to the littlesufferer.
Dr Thorpe turned to Isoult. "What aileth the mother?" he asked hershortly.
"Frances?" she replied. "In good sooth, I wis not. I have not yet seenher. Doth aught ail her save sorrow?"
"The Lady Frances," he repeated. "Methinks somewhat else doth ail her.What it is essay you to discover."
He broke off rather abruptly as the door opened, and the lady underdiscussion entered the room. Taller than Lady Lisle or Philippa, shewas more slender and fragile-looking than either. Hair of pale shininggold framed a face very white and fair, of that peculiar pure ovalshape, and those serene, regular Grecian features, which marked theroyal Plantagenets. For this lady was of the bluest blood, and but foran act of cruel treachery on the part of King Edward
the Fourth, shemight have been the Princess Royal of England. And never had England adaughter who could have graced that position more perfectly. To acharacter so high and pure, and a taste so delicate and refined, as werealmost out of place in that coarsest and most blunt of all thecenturies, she united manners exquisitely gentle, gracious, and winning.The Lady Frances Basset was a woman taught by much and variedsuffering; she had known both the climax of happiness and the depth ofsorrow. The crushing blow of her House's fall had been followed by twoyears of agonising suspense, which had closed in the lonely and far-offdeath of the father from whom she derived the fairest features of hercharacter, and whom she loved more than life. Three years ensued,filled by the bitter pain of watching the gradual fading of the husbandwhom she loved with yet tenderer fervour; and at the end of that timeshe was left a widow, but with two children to comfort her. And now,two years later, the Lord came and called the elder of those cherisheddarlings. Joseph was not, and Simeon was not, yet Benjamin must betaken away. But no tears stood in the soft, clear blue eyes, as Francescame forward to greet Isoult. They would come later; but the time forthem was not now, when little Honour's life was ebbing away. The motherwas tearless.
"Come!" she said softly; and Isoult rose and followed her.
On a little truckle-bed in the chamber above, lay the dying child. Hadshe survived till the following spring, she would then have been eightyears old. As Isoult bent over her, a smile broke on the thin wan face,and the little voice said,--"Aunt Isoult!" This was Honour's pet namefor her friend; for there was no tie of relationship between them.Isoult softly stroked the fair hair. "Aunt Isoult," the faint voicepursued, "I pray you, tell me if I shall die? My Lady my grandmotherwill not say, and it hurteth my mother to ask her."
Isoult glanced at Lady Lisle for permission to reply.
"Speak thy will, child!" she said in a steeled voice. "We can scarce bemore sorrowful than we are, I count. Yet I do marvel what we havesinned more than others, that God punisheth us so much the sorer."
A grieved look came into Isoult's eyes, but she only answered thequestion of the little child.
"Ay, dear Honor," she replied; "methinks the Lord Jesus shall send Hisangels for thee afore long."
"Send His angels?" she repeated feebly.
"Ay, dear heart. Wouldst thou not love to see them?"
"I would rather He would come Himself," said the child. "I were gladderto see Him than them."
Isoult's voice failed her a minute, and Frances laid her head down onthe foot of the bed, and broke into a passion of tears.
"Go thy ways, child!" murmured Lady Lisle, her voice a little softer."It shall not take much labour to make _thee_ an angel."
"Aunt Isoult," said Honor again faintly, "will He not come Himself?"
"Maybe He will, sweet heart," answered she.
"Doth He know I want Him to come?" she said and shut her eyes wearily.
"Ay, He knoweth, darling," said Isoult.
"Doth He know how tired I am, thinkest?" broke in Lady Lisle, bitterly."Are three dread, woeful, crushing sorrows in six years not enough forHim to give? Will He take this child likewise, and maybe Frances andPhilippa as well, and leave me to creep on alone into my grave? Whathave I done to Him, that He should use me thus? Was I not ever just toall men, and paid my dues to the Church, and kept my duty, like aChristian woman? Are there no women in this world that have livedworser lives than I, that He must needs visit me? Answer me, Isoult!Canst thou see any cause? Frank will tell me 'tis wicked to speak thus,if she saith aught; or maybe she shall only sit and look it. Is itwicked for the traitor on the rack to cry out? Why, then, should not I,who am on God's rack, and have so been these six years, and yet am notraitor neither to Him nor to the Church?"
"Mother, dear Mother!" whispered Frances, under her breath.
"Well?" she resumed. "Is that all thou hast to say? I am so wicked, amI, thus to speak? But wherefore so? Come, Isoult, I await thineanswer."
It was a minute before Isoult Avery could speak; and when she did so,her voice trembled a little. She lifted up her heart to God for wisdom,and then said--
"Dear my Lady, we be all traitors unto God, and are all under thecondemnation of His holy law. Shall the traitor arraign the Judge? Andunto the repenting traitor, God's hand falleth not in punishment, butonly in loving discipline and fatherly training. You slack not, Icount, to give Honor her physic, though she cry that it is bitter andloathsome; nor will God set aside His physic for your Ladyship's crying.Yet, dear my Lady, this is not because He loveth to see you weep, butonly because He would heal you of the deadly plague of your sins. OurLord's blood shed upon the rood delivereth us from the guilt of oursins; but so tied to sin are we, that we must needs be set undercorrection for to make us to loathe it. I pray your Ladyship mercy formy rude speaking, but it is at your own commandment."
"Ah! 'tis pity thou art not a man, that thou mightest have had thetonsure," replied Lady Lisle drily. "Ah me, children! If this bephysic, 'tis more like to kill than cure."
Little Honor lived through the night; and when the morning came, theywere still awaiting the King's messenger. As those who loved her satround her bed, the child opened her eyes.
"Aunt Isoult," she said in her little feeble voice, "how soon will Jesuscome and take me?"
Isoult looked for an answer to Dr Thorpe, who was also present. Hebrushed his hand over his eyes.
"Would you liefer it were soon or long, little maid?" said he.
"For Mother's sake, I would liefer He waited," she whispered; "but formine, I would He might come soon. There will be no more physic, willthere--nor no more pain, after He cometh?"
"Poor heart!" exclaimed Lady Lisle, who sat in the window.
"Nay, little maid," answered Dr Thorpe.
"Nor no more crying, Honor," said Isoult.
"I would He would take Mother along with me," pursued the child. "Shehath wept so much these two years past. She used to smile so brightly,and it was so pretty to see her. I would she could do that again."
"Thou shalt see her do that again, dear Honor," said Isoult, as well asshe could speak, "but not, methinks, in this world."
But her voice failed her, for she remembered a time when that smile hadbeen brighter than ever Honor saw it.
"If He would take us all," the child continued faintly: "me, and Mother,and Arthur, and Grandmother, and Aunt Philippa! And Father is therewaiting--is not he?"
"I think he is, Honor," answered Isoult.
"That would be so good," she said, as she closed her eyes. "AuntIsoult, would it be wrong to ask Him?"
"It is never wrong to tell Him of our wants and longings, dear heart,"was the answer. "Only we must not forget that He knoweth best."
"Please to ask Him," the child whispered. But Isoult's voice broke downin tears. "Ask Him thyself, little maid," said Dr Thorpe. The childfolded her little hands on her breast. "Lord Jesus!" she said, in herfaint voice, "I would like Thee to come and take me soon. I would likeThee to take us all together--specially Mother and Grandmother--with me.And please to make Grandmother love Thee, for I am afeard she doth notmuch; and then make haste and fetch her and Mother to me. Amen."
"God bless thee, little maid!" said Dr Thorpe in a low voice. "All thesinging of the angels will not stay that little prayer from reaching Hisear."
"But list the child!" whispered Lady Lisle under her breath.
Honor lay a minute with her eyes closed, and then suddenly opened them,and clasped her little hands again.
"I forgot to ask Him one thing," she said. "Please, Lord Jesus, not tosend the angels, but come and fetch me Thyself."
And her eyes closed again. Frances came softly in, and sat down nearthe bed; and a few minutes after her, Philippa looked in, and then cameforward and stood in the window. She and Dr Thorpe looked at eachother, and he nodded. Philippa whispered a word or two to Lady Lisle,who appeared to assent to something; and then she came to Frances.
"Dr Thorpe confirmeth me in my thought," said she, "that 'twill not belong now; therefore I will fetch Father Dell."
But Frances rose, and laid her hand on her sister's arm.
"Nay, Philippa!" she said. "I will not have the child's last hourdisturbed."
"Disturbed by the priest!" exclaimed Philippa, opening her eyes.
"What do ye chaffer about?" cried Lady Lisle, in her old sharp manner."Go thy ways, Philippa, and send for the priest."
The noise aroused the dying child.
"Must the priest come?" asked the faint little voice from the bed."Will Jesus not be enough?"
Frances bent down to kiss her with a resolved look through all her pain.
"Ay, beloved--Jesus will be enough!" she answered, "and no priest shalltouch thee.--Mother! forgive me for disobeying you this once. But Ipray you, by all that you hold dear and blessed, let my child die inpeace! If not for my sake, or if not for hers, for their sakes--thedead which have linked you and me--let her depart in peace!"
Philippa shook her head, but she sat down again.
"Have your way, Frank!" answered Lady Lisle, with a strange mingling ofsorrow and anger in her voice. "There is more parting us than time orearth, as I can see. I thought it sore enough, when Jack set him on hisdying bed against the priest's coming; and then thou saidst never aword. But now--"
"There was no need," said Frances in a quivering voice.
"Have thy way, have thy way!" said her mother again. "I was used toboast there was no heresy in my house. Ah, well! we live and learn. Ifthou canst fashion to reach Heaven by a new road, prithee do it.Methinks it will little matter for her. And when my time cometh, thouwilt leave him come to me, maybe."
There was silence for a little while afterwards, and their eyes were allturned where Honor lay, the little life ebbing away like the tide of theocean. Her eyes were shut, and her breathing slow and laboured.Suddenly, while they watched her, she opened her eyes, lifted her head,and stretched forth her arms with a cry of pleasure.
"Oh!" she said, delightedly. "Mother--it is not the angels--He is comeHimself!"
What she saw, how could they know? The dying eyes were clear: but afilm of earth over the living ones hindered their seeing Him. For aninstant hers kept fixed on something unseen by the rest, and they shonelike stars. Then suddenly a shiver came over her, her eyelids drooped,and she sank back into her mother's arms.
"Is she gone?" asked Lady Lisle.
"With God," said Dr Thorpe reverently.
Little Honor was buried at Crowe. The evening of her funeral foundIsoult Avery in the painful position (for it is both painful andperplexing) of a general confidante. Each member of the family at Crowetook her aside in turn, and poured into her ear the special story of hertroubles. This, as it always does, involved complaints of the others.
Of these complaints Lady Frances uttered the fewest, and had thegreatest reason. And Isoult now found that Dr Thorpe was right; formore was troubling her than her maternal sorrow. In the first place,they were very poor. The Priory of Frithelstoke, granted some yearsbefore to Lord and Lady Lisle by the King their nephew, was all thatremained to the widow: and from this piece after piece of land wasdetached and sold, to supply pressing necessities. The second troublewas of older standing. For the House of Lisle was divided againstitself; and the Gospel had brought to them, not peace, but a sword.Nine years before, while he was yet Governor of Calais, Lord Lisle'sheart had been opened to receive the truth, while his wife's remainedclosed. Frances followed her father, Philippa her mother. And therewas in consequence a standing feud in the family, as to which religionshould be taught to Arthur, the remaining child left to Frances. Butthe third trouble was at that moment pressing the sorest. Mr Monke ofPotheridge, a gentleman of good family and fortune, had requested LadyLisle's permission to seek the hand of her widowed daughter. ForFrances was Lady Lisle's child by affinity in a double manner, beingboth her husband's daughter and her son's widow. Lady Lisle, under theimpression that Mr Monke was of the "old doctrine" which she professedherself, not only gave him her leave, but aided him by every means inher power, in the hope that Frances might thus be converted from theerror of her ways. Very bitter was this to the bereaved mother of thedead child. To be asked to marry again at all was no light matter; butto have the subject continually pressed upon her by the mother andsister of the lost husband whose memory she cherished with unabateddevotion,--this was painful indeed. Philippa was less to blame in thematter than her mother. Being herself of less delicate mould than hersister-in-law, she really did not see half the pain she inflicted; andher energetic nature would have led her to endeavour to forget sorrow,rather than to nurse it, at any time. In her belief, Frances thoughtand mourned too much; she wanted rousing; she ought to make an effort toshake off all her ills, physical and mental. Philippa had honestlymourned for her dead brother, as well as for his child; but now it wasover and done with; they were gone, and could not be recalled: and lifemust go on, not be spent in moping and moaning. This was Philippa'sview of matters; and under its influence she gave more distress to thesister whom she dearly loved than, to do her justice, she had thefaintest idea that she was giving.
When Lady Frances had unburdened herself, by pouring her troubles intoher friend's sympathising ear, Philippa in her turn took Isoult asideand bespoke her sympathy.
"Frances is but foolish and fantastical," she said, "or she should wedwith Jack's old friend Mr Monke, that would fain have her. My Lady mymother desireth the same much. It should ease her vastly as matter ofmoney. This very winter doth she sell two parcels of the Frithelstokelands, for to raise money; and at after, there is but Frithelstokeitself, and Crowe; after the which sold, we may go a-begging."
"An' you so do, Mrs Philippa," said Isoult with a smile, "metrusteth youshall come the first to Bradmond, after the which you shall need to gono further."
Last came Lady Lisle's secrets. Her complaint was short and decided,like most things she said.
"Frank is a born fool to set her against Mr Monke. He would make her ajointure of eighty pounds by the year, and he spendeth two hundred bythe year and more. And is a gentleman born, and hath a fair house, andne father ne mother to gainsay her in whatsoever she would. Doth thejade look for a Duke or a Prince, trow? Methinks she may await long ereshe find them."
Isoult thought, but she did not say, that in all probability whatFrances wished was only to be let alone. The result of these repeatedconfidences was that Isoult began to want a confidante also; and as DrThorpe had asked her to find out what was distressing Lady Frances, shelaid the whole matter before him. When he was put in possession of asmuch as Isoult knew, he said thoughtfully--
"'Tis my Lady Lisle, then, that doth chiefly urge her?"
"I think so much," she replied. "Methinks Mrs Philippa doth but followmy Lady her mother; and should trouble her but little an' she didcease."
"She will cease ere long," he answered sadly.
"You think so, Dr Thorpe?" said Isoult, mistaking his meaning. "I shallverily be of good cheer when she doth so."
"You do misconceive me, Mrs Avery," said he. "I do not signify that sheshall leave it of her good will; nay, nor perchance ere death take her.But that will be ere long."
"Dr Thorpe!" cried Isoult. "You would say--"
"I would say," answered he, "that my Lady Lisle's life is scantly worthtwelve months' purchase. Methought it better to let you know so much,Mrs Avery, for I would not give you but Scarborough warning." [Note 7.]
"Woe worth the day!" said Isoult.
"The Lady Frances is but ill off touching her health," replied he, "butwith her 'tis rather the soul than the body that doth suffer. Rest fromsorrow and vexations might yet avail for her. But neither rest, norphysic, nor aught save a miracle from God, can avail, as methinks, forthe Lady Lisle."
When Isoult came down into the little parlour the day after, she wassurprised to find there a stranger, in close conversation with LadyLisle and P
hilippa. She hesitated a moment whether to enter, but LadyLisle desired her to come in; so she sat down and began to work. Littleof the conversation reached her, for it was conducted almost inwhispers; until the door opened, and Lady Frances came slowly into theroom. A quick colour rose to her cheek, and she slightly compressed herlips; but she came forward, the stranger, a dark good-looking man,kissing her hand before she sat down.
"Is there aught new, Mr Monke?" asked Philippa, changing theconversation.
"I have heard but one thing," said he, "yet is that somewhat strange.My Lord's Grace of Canterbury is become a Gospeller."
"Wherefore, gramercy?" inquired Lady Lisle, scornfully.
"Wherefore not, I can say," said Philippa. "'Twill scarce serve tocurry Favelle." [Note 8.]
"Very little, as I think," answered Mr Monke. "As to the wherefore,Madam, mecounteth my Lord Archbishop is gone according unto hisconscience. 'Tis his wont, as men do know."
"Humph!" was all Lady Lisle said.
"Men's consciences do lead them by mighty diverse ways now o' days,"observed Philippa. "I little wis wherefore all men cannot be of onefashion of belief, as they were aforetime. Thirty years gone, all waspeace in religion."
"The dead are at peace ever, Sister," said Frances, softly. "The livingit is that differ."
"`Living,' quotha!" exclaimed Lady Lisle. "Thy fashion of talk is asideof me, Frank.--But what think you, Mr Monke? Hath every man the bornright to do that which is good in his eyes, or should he bow and submithis conscience and will unto holy Church and the King's Highness'pleasure?"
Lady Lisle spoke scornfully; but Frances turned and looked earnestly atMr Monke. Isoult did the same, and she wondered to see his face changeand his eyes kindle.
"Madam," said he, "maybe your Ladyship doth but set a trap for to hearwhat I shall say touching this matter. But verily, if I must tell mineopinion, in matters so near to a man's heart and conscience as are hissoul and her affinity with God, methinks neither the King's Highness'pleasure, neither the teaching of the Church, hath much ado. I wouldsay that a man should submit his will to God's will, and his conscienceto God's Word, and no otherwise."
Lady Frances' eyes were radiant, and a quick flush was kindled on hercheeks. Her mother rose from her chair.
"Are you a Gospeller?" she said, yet in a tone from which no one couldhave guessed whether she were one herself or not.
"I am so, Madam," answered Mr Monke, his colour deepening, but his voiceas firm as ever.
"Then get you gone out of mine house," cried she in a rage, "and comehither no more a-tempting of my daughter!"
Mr Monke rose, and endeavoured to kiss her Ladyship's hand; but she drewit from him as if he had been a snake. He came over to where Isoultsat, and held out his hand.
"Farewell, Mrs Avery," he said, in a low voice, which trembled a little."I have made an end of all mine hopes in this quarter. Yet how could Ihave done other?"
"Forgive me, Mr Monke, I pray you," she said, glancing at Frances' face,whence the light and the colour had not yet died away. "I think rather,you have but now made a beginning."
Isoult Avery returned home in anything but a happy frame of mind. LadyLisle had turned completely against Mr Monke, and now taunted Franceswith "caring nought for him save for his Gospelling;" while Philippatook part, first with one side, and then with the other. In all thisturmoil Isoult could see but one bright spot, which was the hope of anapproaching visit from Sir Henry and Lady Ashley. Lady Ashley (_nee_Katherine Basset) was Lady Lisle's second daughter, and there was somereason to expect, from the gentleness of her disposition, that herinfluence would be exerted on the side of peace.
A letter was waiting for Isoult Avery at Bradmond, from an old friendand mistress whom she had not seen since her marriage. It ran thus:--
"My Good Isoult,--But shall I call you _so_, now you be Mistress Avery?Choose you if you will not have it so, for until you deny it I shallcall you so.
"Annis fareth right well, and is a maid of most sweet conditions. Now Isee your brow to wrinkle, and that you shall say, How cometh my Lady ofSuffolk to wit any thing of Annis? If all riddles were as readilysolute as this, it were scantly worth the trouble to make them. Buthave here mine explication of the mystery. Three months gone, certainof my kin writ unto me from Spain, to desire me to search and find adiscreet maiden of good degree, that should be apt at the tongues, andthat she should be reader of English unto the Queen's Grace of Spain,the Emperor Charles his mother. Truly I slept not on the matter, butendeavoured myself to serve them with all the haste in my power: butthough maids be many, discreet maids be few, and discreet maids of gooddegree be fewer yet. Hereon writ I unto Mistress Anne Basset, thediscreetest maid I know, to ask at her if she were ware of an other asdiscreet maid as herself, that would of her good will learn the Spanishtongue, and dwell in Spain. And what doth Mrs Anne but write me word inanswer that there is in all this world no maid to compare for discretionwith Annis Holland, which hath learned the French from her, and theLatin from Mr Hungerford, of the King's house, and can chatter like apie in both the one and the other. Wherefore I, being aweary ofsearching for discreet maids, did lay hands with all quickness andpleasure on this maid, and she is now in mine house a-learning of theSpanish from Father Alonso, and Don Jeronymo, and me. And so, beingweary, I commend you and Mr Avery to God. From Grimsthorpe, thisWednesday, at six of the clock in the morning; and like a sluggard [Note9], in my bed.
"Your assured loving friend,--
"K. Suffolk."
The reader will need more explanation of this lively epistle than didIsoult. Anne Basset, the third of Lady Lisle's four daughters, had beensuccessively Maid of Honour to the four latter Queens of Henry theEighth; during much of which period (with an interval for her Calaisexperience) Isoult Barry had been her bower-woman. When Isoult quittedAnne's service for that of the Duchess of Suffolk, she begged that herold friend Annis Holland might be promoted to the vacant place,--arequest readily granted by Anne. Since Isoult Barry became IsoultAvery, she had seen little of either Anne or Annis; and the transferenceof the latter to the Duchess's service was no little wonder to her.
Meanwhile public news poured in on all sides. Mr Tremayne, who hadoccasion to journey to Exeter, came back armed at all points with freshtidings of what was doing in the world; and as such live newspaperssupplied all that was to be had, every body in Bodmin immediately askedhim to dinner. Mr Tremayne declined the majority of the invitations;but he accepted that from Bradmond, which included his family also. Sohe, in a brown velvet suit, and Custance in the gravest drab, and Arbelwith some bright blue ribbons neutralising her sober "sad-coloured"dress, and Robin, whose cap bore a white feather stuck in it in a stylenot suggestive of Quakerism, walked up to Bradmond one Thursdayafternoon, to four-hours.
It is scarcely needful to explain that four-hours was a meal taken atfour p.m., and in style and custom corresponding to the "afternoon tea"now in vogue. It may be more desirable to indicate of what itconsisted, seeing that tea and coffee were yet mysteries of the future.There were cakes of all varieties; there was clotted cream; and ofcourse there was junket. There were apple puffs, and syllabubs, andhalf-a-dozen different kinds of preserves. In the place which is nowoccupied by the tea-pot was a gallon of sack, flanked by a flagon ofGascon wine; beside which stood large jugs of new milk and home-brewedale. One thing at least was evident, there was no fear of starvation.When the ladies had finished a little private conference, and all theparty were gathered round the table, Mr Tremayne was requested to openhis budget of news.
It was glad news for the Gospellers, for the grand item which in theireyes overwhelmed every other, was that Bishop Gardiner had left Court--not exactly in disgrace, yet with a tacit understanding that his staywas no longer welcome--and that the King's uncle, the Earl of Hertford,now created Duke of Somerset, was placed at the head of public affairs.Somerset was a Lutheran, but just emerging from the twilight ofLutheranism into the full Gospel day.
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After the great subject came the smaller ones. The knighting of theyoung King by his uncle Somerset; the creation of a large batch ofpeers,--Somerset himself and his brother, the brother of Queen Katherine(made Marquis of Northampton), the half-brother of Lady Frances Basset(created Earl of Warwick), and Wriothesley the persecutor, who was madeEarl of Southampton. These were only a few of the number, but of themwe shall hear again. Then came the account of the coronation on ShroveSunday: how that grave, blue-eyed child of nine years old, had beencrowned and anointed in the venerable Abbey, by Archbishop Cranmer, inthe presence of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal; and how he had sat inthe throne at the coronation-feast in the Hall, with the crown ofEngland on the little head, and all the nobles at separate tables below.[Note 10.] And throughout England rang the cry, "God bless him!" forEngland's hope was all in God and him.
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Note 1. Arabella; originally spelt Orabele or Orabilia, now Arbel orArbella.
Note 2. Constance, at this time pronounced Custance.
Note 3. The members of the Tremayne family are imaginary persons.
Note 4. A fictitious character.
Note 5. The lost adjective of _compassion_.
Note 6. "A Litel Geste of Robyn Hode."
Note 7. "Scarborough warning--a word and a blow, and the blow comefirst."--Then a very popular proverb.
Note 8.
"He that would in Court dwell Must curry Favelle."
Favelle was the mediaeval name for a chestnut horse, as Bayard for abay, and Lyard for a grey. From this proverb has been corrupted ourmodern phrase "to curry favour." The word is sometimes spelt Fauvelle.
Note 9. These expressions do no violence to her Grace's epistolarystyle. They are to be found in her genuine letters.
Note 10. Diary of Edward the Sixth, Cott. Ms. Nero, c. x. folio 9, b.