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Robin Tremayne

by Emily Sarah Holt · English · Gutenberg #28040 · 654,839 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Robin Tremayne

Author: Emily Sarah Holt


        
Release date: February 9, 2009 [eBook #28040]
                Most recently updated: April 16, 2010

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28040

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROBIN TREMAYNE ***




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 are
set 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 Mary
was on the throne, and Catholicism was enforced as the official
religion.  It was also the time when Protestantism, which had been on
the rise, was checked, and many Protestants burnt at the stake.  When
Elizabeth came to the throne this was reversed, and Protestantism was
once more the official religion.

This book, which is quite largely based on well-researched fact, tells
of the family life of a few people who were Protestants, and who
preached the Gospel unerringly throughout, despite in the end some of
them being imprisoned, including Robin Tremayne himself.  His account of
the prison in which he was held is quite amazing--how wickedly unkind
people can be to one another.  At one stage in the story people were
being burnt at the stake quite wholesale.  When Elizabeth came to the
throne all the Bishops were Catholic, and at first none could be
persuaded to officiate at the Coronation.  Eventually the Bishop of
Carlisle agreed to do it, but as he hadn't any suitable vestments he
had to borrow some from Bonner, the Bishop of London, who wouldn't do
the 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 decades
before Shakespearean English, and so reasonably understandable. The
footnotes 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 narrated
in the following pages stirred the souls of men; since John Bradford sat
down to his "merry supper with the Lord;" since Lawrence Saunders slept
peacefully at the stake, lifted over the dark river in the arms of God;
since Ridley and Latimer, on that autumn morning at Oxford, lighted that
candle in England which they trusted by God's grace should never be put
out.

And how stands it with England now?  For forty-three years, like a bird
fascinated by the serpent, she has been creeping gradually closer to the
outstretched arms of the great enchantress.  Is she blind and deaf?  Has
she utterly forgotten all her history, all the traditions of her
greatness?  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 the
bird be hushed in the jaws of the serpent?

The candle which was lighted on that autumn morning is burning dim.  It
burns dimmer every year, as England yields more and more to Rome.  And
every living soul of us all is responsible to God for the preservation
of its blessed light.  O sons and daughters of England, shall it be put
out?



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 fear
the pie shall be overbaken."

The speaker was a woman of about forty years of age, of that quiet and
placid demeanour which indicates that great provocation would be needed
to evoke any disturbance of temper.  Gathering up the garment on which
she was at work, Arbel [Note 1] crossed the long, low room to a wide
casement, on the outer mullions of which sundry leafless boughs were
tapping as if to ask shelter from the cold; and after standing there for
two or three minutes, announced that the missing members of the family
were approaching.

"And a third party withal," added she; "that seemeth me, so far as I may
hence discern, to be Doctor Thorpe."

"He is very welcome, an' it be he," returned her mother, still calmly
spinning.  "I trust to ask his counsel touching Robin."

Figuratively speaking, for more than a century was yet to elapse ere
George Fox founded the Society of Friends, it might be said that
Custance [Note 2] Tremayne was born a Quakeress.  It had hitherto proved
impossible, through all the annals of the family experience, to offend
or anger her.  She was an affectionate wife and mother, but nothing
roused in her any outward exhibition of anxiety or annoyance.  The tenor
of her way was very even indeed.

Before Arbel had done much more than resume her seat and her needle, the
room was entered by two men and a lad of sixteen years.  The master of
the house, Mr Anthony Tremayne, [Note 3] who came in first, was a man of
more demonstrative manners than his quiet partner.  He who entered
second was shorter and stronger-built, and had evidently seen a longer
term of life.  His hair, plentifully streaked with grey, was thinned to
slight baldness on the summit of the head; his features, otherwise
rather strong and harsh, wore an expression of benevolence which
redeemed them; his eyes, dark grey, were sharp and piercing.  When he
took 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 a
slow and almost languid step, though in face resembling his father, was
evidently not without an element of his mother in his mental
composition.  His hair was dark, and his eyes brown: but the same calm
placidity of expression rested on his features as on hers, and his
motions were quiet and deliberate.

"Good morrow, Dr Thorpe," [Note 4] said Mistress Tremayne, rising from
her work.

"The like to you, my mistress," was the response.  "Well, how fare you
all?  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," he
replied.  "Our noble friends at Crowe are in sore trouble, for their
little maid is grievous sick."

"What, little Honor?" cried Arbel, pityingly.

"Ay, methinks the Master is come, and hath called for her.  We might
thank God, if we could see things as He seeth.  The sorrows of her House
shall never trouble her."

"Poor child!" said Custance in her quiet voice.  "Why, good Doctor, we
be none of us truly sick, I thank God; but in sooth I did desire you
should step in hither, touching Robin."

"Touching whom?" asked Dr Thorpe with a faint sound of satire in his
tone.

But the tone had no effect on Custance.

"Touching Robin," she repeated.  "I would fain have you to send him some
physic, an' it like you."

"What shall I send him?" said the Doctor with a grim smile.  "A bottle
of cider?  He lacketh naught else."

"Nay, but I fear me he groweth too fast for his strength," answered his
mother.

"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 lacketh
but 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 grim
smile.  "But the boy is all right; women be alway looking out for
trouble 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.  I
know all women be fools, saving a handful, of whom Isoult Avery, at
Bradmond yonder, is queen."

Mr Anthony Tremayne laughed heartily.  His wife merely replied as
quietly as before.  "So be it, Doctor.  I suppose men do fall sick at
times, and then they use not to think so for a little while at the
least."

"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," said
Tremayne.  "Ah!  Doctor, your bark did alway pass your bite.  But who
goeth yonder?  Come within!"

The door opened in answer to his call, and disclosed a good-looking man
in the prime of life, whose dark hair and beard were particularly
luxuriant in growth.

"Ah!  Jack Avery, God save thee!" resumed Tremayne, heartily.  "Thou art
right welcome.  What news?"

"Such news," was the response, in a clear, musical voice, "as we be
scarce like to hear twice this century.  May I pray you of a cup of
wine, 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 making
him more compatient [Note 5] unto his poor subjects?  That were good
news!"

"I sorrow to say it," replied Avery, "but this is better news than that
should be."  And holding up the cup of wine which Robin offered him, he
said solemnly,--"The King's Majesty, Edward the Sixth!  God save him!"

From all except Custance there came in answer such a cry--half
amazement, half exultation--as we in this nineteenth century can
scarcely imagine for such an event.  For the last eight years of the
reign of Henry the Eighth, England had been in slavery--"fast bound in
misery and iron."  Every year it had grown heavier.  Murmuring was
treated as rebellion, and might have entailed death.  To know that Henry
was dead was to be free--to be at liberty to speak as a man thought, and
to act as a man believed right.

"Ay," resumed Avery gravely, "King Henry the Eight is gone unto the
mercy of God.  How much mercy God could show him, let us not presume to
think.  We can only know this--that it was as much as might stand with
His glory."

Dr Thorpe and John Avery left Tremayne together, for both were on their
way to Crowe.  A walk of twenty minutes brought them to the house of the
latter, an erection of some fifty years' standing.  Bradmond comprised
not only the house, but a large garden and a paddock, in which Avery's
horse Bayard took his ease.  There was also a small farm attached, with
its requisite buildings; and when the gentlemen arrived, Tom [Note 4],
the general factotum, was meandering about the flower-garden, under the
impression that he was at work, while Avery's little daughter, Kate
[Note 4] aged nearly four years, was trotting after him from one spot to
another, also under the impression that she was affording him material
assistance in his labours.

John Avery brought his guest into the hall, then the usual family
sitting-room when particular privacy was not desired.  Here they were
met by a lady, a little under middle height, with a fair pale
complexion, but dark brown eyes and hair, her manners at once very quiet
and yet very cordial.  This was Isoult Avery.

In due time the next morning the party set forth,--namely, John and
Isoult Avery, and Dr Thorpe,--and after two days' travelling reached
Crowe.

Crowe was a smaller house than Bradmond, less pleasantly situated, and
with more confined grounds.  The door was opened by a girl who, to judge
from her dress and appearance, was a maid-of-all-work, and with whom
tidiness 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 thee
and busk [dress] thee ere thou open the door to any again!" said a
rather shrill, yet not unpleasant, voice behind Deb; and that damsel
disappeared with prompt celerity.  "The maid is enough to provoke all
the saints in the calendar.  Isoult, sweet heart, be a thousand times
welcomed!"  And the speaker, advancing, kissed her guest with as much
affection 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 apothecary
feareth much."

Very unlike either of the women already described was Philippa Basset.
There was nothing passive about her; every thing was of the most active
type, and the mood in which she chiefly lived was the imperative.  While
really under the common height of women, in some mysterious way she
appeared much taller than she was.  Her motions were quick even to
abruptness: her speech sincere even to bluntness.  Every body who knew
her loved her dearly, yet every body would have liked to alter her
character a little.  Generally speaking, she seemed to take no part in
those softer feminine feelings supposed to be common to the sex; yet
there were times when that firm voice could falter, and those bright,
quick, grey-blue eyes grow dim with tears.  Whatever she did, she did
thoroughly and heartily: she loved fervently and hated fervently.  That
"capacity for indignation" which it has been said lies at the root of
all human virtues, was very fully developed in Philippa.  Her age was
thirty-one, but she looked nearer forty.  Perhaps Isoult Avery, who had
gone with her through the storm of suffering which fell on the House of
Lisle, could have guessed how that look of age had come into the once
bright and lively face of Philippa Basset.

"Come in, dear heart," continued Philippa, "and speak with my Lady my
mother; and I will carry up Dr Thorpe to see the child."

So John and Isoult went into the parlour, and Philippa conducted Dr
Thorpe 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 remove
from white; and though lines of thought and suffering were marked on her
pale 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 and
grace.  She was a small, slightly-made woman; she sat as upright as a
statue; and she inclined her head like a queen.  It was no marvel, for
she had been all but a queen.  For twelve years of her life, her velvet
robes had swept over palace pavements, and her diamonds had glittered in
the light of royal saloons; and for seven of those years she had herself
occupied the highest place.  An invitation from her had been an envied
honour; a few minutes' conversation with her, a supreme distinction.
For this was Honor Plantagenet, Viscountess Lisle, sometime Lady
Governess of Calais.  But that was all over now.  She was "a widow
indeed, and desolate."  The House of Lisle had fallen seven years
before; and Honour's high estate, as well as her private happiness, fell
with it.  And with her, as with so many others, it ended in the old
fashion--

  "`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 princely
hospitality of Lady Lisle at Calais, not one ever condescended to glance
into the little house at Crowe.  She had friends left, but they were not
distinguished persons.  And foremost among these was Isoult Avery, who
for two years had been bower-woman to the Viscountess, in those old days
when she sat in the purple as Governess of Calais.

Many minutes had not elapsed before Philippa and Dr Thorpe entered the
parlour 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 to
that lonely woman's heart.

"Madam, the child is dying."

"Alack, my poor lamb!"  And Lady Lisle rose and went above to the little
sufferer.

Dr Thorpe turned to Isoult.  "What aileth the mother?" he asked her
shortly.

"Frances?" she replied.  "In good sooth, I wis not.  I have not yet seen
her.  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 under
discussion entered the room.  Taller than Lady Lisle or Philippa, she
was more slender and fragile-looking than either.  Hair of pale shining
gold framed a face very white and fair, of that peculiar pure oval
shape, and those serene, regular Grecian features, which marked the
royal Plantagenets.  For this lady was of the bluest blood, and but for
an act of cruel treachery on the part of King Edward the Fourth, she
might have been the Princess Royal of England.  And never had England a
daughter who could have graced that position more perfectly.  To a
character so high and pure, and a taste so delicate and refined, as were
almost out of place in that coarsest and most blunt of all the
centuries, she united manners exquisitely gentle, gracious, and winning.
The Lady Frances Basset was a woman taught by much and varied
suffering; she had known both the climax of happiness and the depth of
sorrow.  The crushing blow of her House's fall had been followed by two
years of agonising suspense, which had closed in the lonely and far-off
death of the father from whom she derived the fairest features of her
character, and whom she loved more than life.  Three years ensued,
filled by the bitter pain of watching the gradual fading of the husband
whom she loved with yet tenderer fervour; and at the end of that time
she 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 cherished
darlings.  Joseph was not, and Simeon was not, yet Benjamin must be
taken away.  But no tears stood in the soft, clear blue eyes, as Frances
came forward to greet Isoult.  They would come later; but the time for
them was not now, when little Honour's life was ebbing away.  The mother
was tearless.

"Come!" she said softly; and Isoult rose and followed her.

On a little truckle-bed in the chamber above, lay the dying child.  Had
she survived till the following spring, she would then have been eight
years 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 name
for her friend; for there was no tie of relationship between them.
Isoult softly stroked the fair hair.  "Aunt Isoult," the faint voice
pursued, "I pray you, tell me if I shall die?  My Lady my grandmother
will 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 be
more sorrowful than we are, I count.  Yet I do marvel what we have
sinned more than others, that God punisheth us so much the sorer."

A grieved look came into Isoult's eyes, but she only answered the
question of the little child.

"Ay, dear Honor," she replied; "methinks the Lord Jesus shall send His
angels 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 gladder
to see Him than them."

Isoult's voice failed her a minute, and Frances laid her head down on
the 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 for
Him to give?  Will He take this child likewise, and maybe Frances and
Philippa as well, and leave me to creep on alone into my grave?  What
have I done to Him, that He should use me thus?  Was I not ever just to
all men, and paid my dues to the Church, and kept my duty, like a
Christian woman?  Are there no women in this world that have lived
worser 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 it
wicked 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 no
traitor 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, am
I, thus to speak?  But wherefore so?  Come, Isoult, I await thine
answer."

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 the
condemnation of His holy law.  Shall the traitor arraign the Judge?  And
unto the repenting traitor, God's hand falleth not in punishment, but
only in loving discipline and fatherly training.  You slack not, I
count, to give Honor her physic, though she cry that it is bitter and
loathsome; 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, but
only because He would heal you of the deadly plague of your sins.  Our
Lord's blood shed upon the rood delivereth us from the guilt of our
sins; but so tied to sin are we, that we must needs be set under
correction for to make us to loathe it.  I pray your Ladyship mercy for
my rude speaking, but it is at your own commandment."

"Ah! 'tis pity thou art not a man, that thou mightest have had the
tonsure," replied Lady Lisle drily.  "Ah me, children!  If this be
physic, 'tis more like to kill than cure."

Little Honor lived through the night; and when the morning came, they
were still awaiting the King's messenger.  As those who loved her sat
round her bed, the child opened her eyes.

"Aunt Isoult," she said in her little feeble voice, "how soon will Jesus
come and take me?"

Isoult looked for an answer to Dr Thorpe, who was also present.  He
brushed 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 for
mine, I would He might come soon.  There will be no more physic, will
there--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.  "She
hath 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 as
she could speak, "but not, methinks, in this world."

But her voice failed her, for she remembered a time when that smile had
been 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 there
waiting--is not he?"

"I think he is, Honor," answered Isoult.

"That would be so good," she said, as she closed her eyes.  "Aunt
Isoult, 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 down
in tears.  "Ask Him thyself, little maid," said Dr Thorpe.  The child
folded her little hands on her breast.  "Lord Jesus!" she said, in her
faint voice, "I would like Thee to come and take me soon.  I would like
Thee to take us all together--specially Mother and Grandmother--with me.
And please to make Grandmother love Thee, for I am afeard she doth not
much; 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 the
singing of the angels will not stay that little prayer from reaching His
ear."

"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 to
send the angels, but come and fetch me Thyself."

And her eyes closed again.  Frances came softly in, and sat down near
the bed; and a few minutes after her, Philippa looked in, and then came
forward and stood in the window.  She and Dr Thorpe looked at each
other, 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 be
long 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 hour
disturbed."

"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 shall
touch thee.--Mother! forgive me for disobeying you this once.  But I
pray you, by all that you hold dear and blessed, let my child die in
peace!  If not for my sake, or if not for hers, for their sakes--the
dead 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 of
sorrow and anger in her voice.  "There is more parting us than time or
earth, as I can see.  I thought it sore enough, when Jack set him on his
dying bed against the priest's coming; and then thou saidst never a
word.  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 to
boast there was no heresy in my house.  Ah, well! we live and learn.  If
thou canst fashion to reach Heaven by a new road, prithee do it.
Methinks it will little matter for her.  And when my time cometh, thou
wilt leave him come to me, maybe."

There was silence for a little while afterwards, and their eyes were all
turned where Honor lay, the little life ebbing away like the tide of the
ocean.  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 come
Himself!"

What she saw, how could they know?  The dying eyes were clear: but a
film of earth over the living ones hindered their seeing Him.  For an
instant hers kept fixed on something unseen by the rest, and they shone
like 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 found
Isoult Avery in the painful position (for it is both painful and
perplexing) of a general confidante.  Each member of the family at Crowe
took her aside in turn, and poured into her ear the special story of her
troubles.  This, as it always does, involved complaints of the others.

Of these complaints Lady Frances uttered the fewest, and had the
greatest reason.  And Isoult now found that Dr Thorpe was right; for
more was troubling her than her maternal sorrow.  In the first place,
they were very poor.  The Priory of Frithelstoke, granted some years
before to Lord and Lady Lisle by the King their nephew, was all that
remained to the widow: and from this piece after piece of land was
detached and sold, to supply pressing necessities.  The second trouble
was of older standing.  For the House of Lisle was divided against
itself; and the Gospel had brought to them, not peace, but a sword.
Nine years before, while he was yet Governor of Calais, Lord Lisle's
heart had been opened to receive the truth, while his wife's remained
closed.  Frances followed her father, Philippa her mother.  And there
was in consequence a standing feud in the family, as to which religion
should be taught to Arthur, the remaining child left to Frances.  But
the third trouble was at that moment pressing the sorest.  Mr Monke of
Potheridge, a gentleman of good family and fortune, had requested Lady
Lisle's permission to seek the hand of her widowed daughter.  For
Frances was Lady Lisle's child by affinity in a double manner, being
both her husband's daughter and her son's widow.  Lady Lisle, under the
impression that Mr Monke was of the "old doctrine" which she professed
herself, not only gave him her leave, but aided him by every means in
her power, in the hope that Frances might thus be converted from the
error of her ways.  Very bitter was this to the bereaved mother of the
dead child.  To be asked to marry again at all was no light matter; but
to have the subject continually pressed upon her by the mother and
sister of the lost husband whose memory she cherished with unabated
devotion,--this was painful indeed.  Philippa was less to blame in the
matter than her mother.  Being herself of less delicate mould than her
sister-in-law, she really did not see half the pain she inflicted; and
her energetic nature would have led her to endeavour to forget sorrow,
rather than to nurse it, at any time.  In her belief, Frances thought
and mourned too much; she wanted rousing; she ought to make an effort to
shake off all her ills, physical and mental.  Philippa had honestly
mourned for her dead brother, as well as for his child; but now it was
over and done with; they were gone, and could not be recalled: and life
must go on, not be spent in moping and moaning.  This was Philippa's
view of matters; and under its influence she gave more distress to the
sister whom she dearly loved than, to do her justice, she had the
faintest idea that she was giving.

When Lady Frances had unburdened herself, by pouring her troubles into
her friend's sympathising ear, Philippa in her turn took Isoult aside
and bespoke her sympathy.

"Frances is but foolish and fantastical," she said, "or she should wed
with Jack's old friend Mr Monke, that would fain have her.  My Lady my
mother desireth the same much.  It should ease her vastly as matter of
money.  This very winter doth she sell two parcels of the Frithelstoke
lands, for to raise money; and at after, there is but Frithelstoke
itself, and Crowe; after the which sold, we may go a-begging."

"An' you so do, Mrs Philippa," said Isoult with a smile, "metrusteth you
shall come the first to Bradmond, after the which you shall need to go
no 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 a
jointure of eighty pounds by the year, and he spendeth two hundred by
the year and more.  And is a gentleman born, and hath a fair house, and
ne father ne mother to gainsay her in whatsoever she would.  Doth the
jade look for a Duke or a Prince, trow?  Methinks she may await long ere
she find them."

Isoult thought, but she did not say, that in all probability what
Frances wished was only to be let alone.  The result of these repeated
confidences was that Isoult began to want a confidante also; and as Dr
Thorpe had asked her to find out what was distressing Lady Frances, she
laid the whole matter before him.  When he was put in possession of as
much 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 follow
my Lady her mother; and should trouble her but little an' she did
cease."

"She will cease ere long," he answered sadly.

"You think so, Dr Thorpe?" said Isoult, mistaking his meaning.  "I shall
verily be of good cheer when she doth so."

"You do misconceive me, Mrs Avery," said he.  "I do not signify that she
shall 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 worth
twelve 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, "but
with her 'tis rather the soul than the body that doth suffer.  Rest from
sorrow and vexations might yet avail for her.  But neither rest, nor
physic, nor aught save a miracle from God, can avail, as methinks, for
the Lady Lisle."

When Isoult came down into the little parlour the day after, she was
surprised to find there a stranger, in close conversation with Lady
Lisle and Philippa.  She hesitated a moment whether to enter, but Lady
Lisle desired her to come in; so she sat down and began to work.  Little
of the conversation reached her, for it was conducted almost in
whispers; until the door opened, and Lady Frances came slowly into the
room.  A quick colour rose to her cheek, and she slightly compressed her
lips; 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 the
conversation.

"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 to
curry Favelle."  [Note 8.]

"Very little, as I think," answered Mr Monke.  "As to the wherefore,
Madam, mecounteth my Lord Archbishop is gone according unto his
conscience.  '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 one
fashion of belief, as they were aforetime.  Thirty years gone, all was
peace in religion."

"The dead are at peace ever, Sister," said Frances, softly.  "The living
it is that differ."

"`Living,' quotha!" exclaimed Lady Lisle.  "Thy fashion of talk is aside
of me, Frank.--But what think you, Mr Monke?  Hath every man the born
right to do that which is good in his eyes, or should he bow and submit
his conscience and will unto holy Church and the King's Highness'
pleasure?"

Lady Lisle spoke scornfully; but Frances turned and looked earnestly at
Mr Monke.  Isoult did the same, and she wondered to see his face change
and his eyes kindle.

"Madam," said he, "maybe your Ladyship doth but set a trap for to hear
what I shall say touching this matter.  But verily, if I must tell mine
opinion, in matters so near to a man's heart and conscience as are his
soul and her affinity with God, methinks neither the King's Highness'
pleasure, neither the teaching of the Church, hath much ado.  I would
say that a man should submit his will to God's will, and his conscience
to God's Word, and no otherwise."

Lady Frances' eyes were radiant, and a quick flush was kindled on her
cheeks.  Her mother rose from her chair.

"Are you a Gospeller?" she said, yet in a tone from which no one could
have guessed whether she were one herself or not.

"I am so, Madam," answered Mr Monke, his colour deepening, but his voice
as firm as ever.

"Then get you gone out of mine house," cried she in a rage, "and come
hither no more a-tempting of my daughter!"

Mr Monke rose, and endeavoured to kiss her Ladyship's hand; but she drew
it from him as if he had been a snake.  He came over to where Isoult
sat, 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 I
have 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.  Lady
Lisle had turned completely against Mr Monke, and now taunted Frances
with "caring nought for him save for his Gospelling;" while Philippa
took part, first with one side, and then with the other.  In all this
turmoil Isoult could see but one bright spot, which was the hope of an
approaching visit from Sir Henry and Lady Ashley.  Lady Ashley (_nee_
Katherine Basset) was Lady Lisle's second daughter, and there was some
reason to expect, from the gentleness of her disposition, that her
influence would be exerted on the side of peace.

A letter was waiting for Isoult Avery at Bradmond, from an old friend
and 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 shall
call you so.

"Annis fareth right well, and is a maid of most sweet conditions.  Now I
see your brow to wrinkle, and that you shall say, How cometh my Lady of
Suffolk to wit any thing of Annis?  If all riddles were as readily
solute as this, it were scantly worth the trouble to make them.  But
have here mine explication of the mystery.  Three months gone, certain
of my kin writ unto me from Spain, to desire me to search and find a
discreet maiden of good degree, that should be apt at the tongues, and
that 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, but
endeavoured myself to serve them with all the haste in my power: but
though maids be many, discreet maids be few, and discreet maids of good
degree be fewer yet.  Hereon writ I unto Mistress Anne Basset, the
discreetest maid I know, to ask at her if she were ware of an other as
discreet maid as herself, that would of her good will learn the Spanish
tongue, and dwell in Spain.  And what doth Mrs Anne but write me word in
answer that there is in all this world no maid to compare for discretion
with Annis Holland, which hath learned the French from her, and the
Latin from Mr Hungerford, of the King's house, and can chatter like a
pie in both the one and the other.  Wherefore I, being aweary of
searching for discreet maids, did lay hands with all quickness and
pleasure on this maid, and she is now in mine house a-learning of the
Spanish from Father Alonso, and Don Jeronymo, and me.  And so, being
weary, I commend you and Mr Avery to God.  From Grimsthorpe, this
Wednesday, at six of the clock in the morning; and like a sluggard [Note
9], in my bed.

"Your assured loving friend,--

"K. Suffolk."

The reader will need more explanation of this lively epistle than did
Isoult.  Anne Basset, the third of Lady Lisle's four daughters, had been
successively Maid of Honour to the four latter Queens of Henry the
Eighth; during much of which period (with an interval for her Calais
experience) Isoult Barry had been her bower-woman.  When Isoult quitted
Anne's service for that of the Duchess of Suffolk, she begged that her
old friend Annis Holland might be promoted to the vacant place,--a
request readily granted by Anne.  Since Isoult Barry became Isoult
Avery, she had seen little of either Anne or Annis; and the transference
of the latter to the Duchess's service was no little wonder to her.

Meanwhile public news poured in on all sides.  Mr Tremayne, who had
occasion to journey to Exeter, came back armed at all points with fresh
tidings of what was doing in the world; and as such live newspapers
supplied all that was to be had, every body in Bodmin immediately asked
him to dinner.  Mr Tremayne declined the majority of the invitations;
but he accepted that from Bradmond, which included his family also.  So
he, in a brown velvet suit, and Custance in the gravest drab, and Arbel
with some bright blue ribbons neutralising her sober "sad-coloured"
dress, and Robin, whose cap bore a white feather stuck in it in a style
not suggestive of Quakerism, walked up to Bradmond one Thursday
afternoon, to four-hours.

It is scarcely needful to explain that four-hours was a meal taken at
four p.m., and in style and custom corresponding to the "afternoon tea"
now in vogue.  It may be more desirable to indicate of what it
consisted, seeing that tea and coffee were yet mysteries of the future.
There were cakes of all varieties; there was clotted cream; and of
course there was junket.  There were apple puffs, and syllabubs, and
half-a-dozen different kinds of preserves.  In the place which is now
occupied by the tea-pot was a gallon of sack, flanked by a flagon of
Gascon wine; beside which stood large jugs of new milk and home-brewed
ale.  One thing at least was evident, there was no fear of starvation.
When the ladies had finished a little private conference, and all the
party were gathered round the table, Mr Tremayne was requested to open
his budget of news.

It was glad news for the Gospellers, for the grand item which in their
eyes overwhelmed every other, was that Bishop Gardiner had left Court--
not exactly in disgrace, yet with a tacit understanding that his stay
was 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 of
Lutheranism into the full Gospel day.

After the great subject came the smaller ones.  The knighting of the
young King by his uncle Somerset; the creation of a large batch of
peers,--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 made
Earl of Southampton.  These were only a few of the number, but of them
we shall hear again.  Then came the account of the coronation on Shrove
Sunday: how that grave, blue-eyed child of nine years old, had been
crowned and anointed in the venerable Abbey, by Archbishop Cranmer, in
the presence of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal; and how he had sat in
the throne at the coronation-feast in the Hall, with the crown of
England on the little head, and all the nobles at separate tables below.
[Note 10.]  And throughout England rang the cry, "God bless him!" for
England's hope was all in God and him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  Arabella; originally spelt Orabele or Orabilia, now Arbel or
Arbella.

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 come
first."--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 a
bay, and Lyard for a grey.  From this proverb has been corrupted our
modern phrase "to curry favour."  The word is sometimes spelt Fauvelle.

Note 9.  These expressions do no violence to her Grace's epistolary
style.  They are to be found in her genuine letters.

Note 10.  Diary of Edward the Sixth, Cott. Ms. Nero, c. x. folio 9, b.



CHAPTER TWO.

THE SILVER AND THE SABLE.

  "`We measure life by years and tears,' he said;
  `We live a little; then life leaves us dead,
  And the long grass grows greenly overhead.'"

While the party were still conversing, the post came in--always an
important event at that day--and brought two letters for Isoult.  The
first was from Beatrice Dynham [fictitious persons], who had been her
fellow bower-woman with the Duchess of Suffolk, and requested her old
friend to remember her in the first week in May, when she was to marry
Mr Vivian [a fictitious person], a gentleman of the late King's
household.  She also informed her that the young Duke of Suffolk, a boy
of eleven years, had been placed about the person of the young
Sovereign, under the care of the Duke of Somerset.  The second letter
was from Crowe.  Lady Ashley had arrived, and had tried hard to effect a
truce between the contending parties, she hoped not entirely without
good results.  Lady Lisle had been obliged to sell two pieces of land
from the Frithelstoke estate, called Choldysoke and Meryfield; and
Philippa Basset sent Isoult word that it was well Meryfield was sold,
seeing that all mirth had departed from them long ago.

"When shall my mistress your friend be wed, Mrs Avery?" very gravely
inquired Jennifer Trevor, Isoult's bower-woman.

"The first week in May," repeated Isoult, referring to the letter.

"Ay, methought you read so much," responded Jennifer, looking still more
solemn.

"Come, out with your thought, Mrs Trevor," said Tremayne; "for I do see
plainly that you have one."

"Why, Mr Tremayne," replied she, "'tis but that I would not be wed in
May for all the gold in Cornwall."

"But how if your servant [suitor] were a sailor, Mrs Jennifer, and
should set forth the last day of May?" queried Avery.

"Then," she said, "I would either be wed in April, or he should wait
till he came back.  But 'tis true, Mrs Avery, a May babe never liveth,
no more than a May chick thriveth; nor is a May kit ever a mouser.  'Tis
the unluckiest month in all the year.  I never brake in all my life a
steel glass [looking-glass] saving once, and that was in May; and sure
enough, afore the same day next May died one on that farm."

"One of the household?" asked Avery.

"Well, nay," answered Jennifer, "'twas but the old black cow, that had
been sick a month or more."

"Ah!" was the grave answer; "her dying was a marvel!"

"But there was a death, Mr Avery!" urged Jennifer.

"An' there had not been," said he, "I count you should have drowned the
cat, to make one.  But, Mrs Jennifer, in sober sadness, think you that
God keepeth record of the breaking of steel glasses and the ticking of
death-watches?"

"Eh, those death-watches!" cried she; "I were out of my wit if I heard
one."

"Then I trust you shall not hear one," answered he, "for I desire that
you should keep in your wit."

"Well, Mr Avery!" said Jennifer, "I could tell you somewhat an' I
listed."

"Pray give us to hear it," replied he.  "What is it? and whom threatens
it?  The red cow or the tabby cat?  Poor puss!" and he stooped down and
stroked her as she lay on the hearth.

"There shall come a stranger hither!" pursued Jennifer, solemnly.  "I
saw him yestereven in the bars of the grate."

"What favoured he?" asked Avery.

"'Twas a fair man, with a full purse," she replied.

"Then he is welcome, an' he come to give us the purse," was the answer.
"It shall be an other post, I cast little doubt; for he shall be a
stranger, and maybe shall have full saddlebags."

"You shall see, Mr Avery!" said Jennifer, pursing her lips.

"So I shall, Mrs Jennifer," responded he.  "But in how long time shall
he be here?"

"That I cannot tell," said she.

"Then the first fair man that cometh, whom you know not, shall serve?"
answered he.  "'Tis mighty easy witchery that.  I could fall to
prophesying mine own self at that rate.  It shall rain, Mrs Jennifer,
and thunder likewise; yea, and we shall have snow.  And great men shall
die, and there shall be changes in this kingdom, and some mighty ill
statutes shall be passed.  And you and I shall grow old, Mrs Jennifer
(if we die not aforetime), and we shall suffer pain, and likewise shall
enjoy pleasure.  See you not what a wizard I am?"

Tremayne laughed merrily as he rose to depart.

"I shall look to hear if Mrs Trevor be right in her prophecy," said he.

"We will give you to know that in a month's time," answered John Avery
rather drily.

In less than a month the news had to be sent, for a stranger arrived.
It was Mr Monke.  Jennifer was delighted, except for one item.  She had
announced that the stranger would be fair, and Mr Monke was dark.  In
this emergency she took refuge, as human nature is apt to do, in
exaggerating the point in respect to which she had proved right, and
overlooking or slighting that whereon she had proved wrong.

"I might readily blunder in his fairness," she observed in a
self-justifying tone, "seeing it did but lie in the brightness of the
flame."

"Not a doubt thereof," responded John Avery in a tone which did not
tranquillise Jennifer.

When there happened to be no one in the hall but himself and Isoult, Mr
Monke came and stood by her as she sat at work.

"Wish me happiness, Mrs Avery," he said in a low but very satisfied
voice.

Isoult Avery was a poor guesser of riddles.  She looked up with an air
of perplexed simplicity.

"Why, Mr Monke, I do that most heartily at all times," she answered.
"But what mean you?"

"That God hath given me the richest jewel He had for me," he said, in
the same tone as before.

Then Isoult knew what he meant.  "Is it Frances?" she asked, speaking as
softly as he had done.

"It is that fair and shining diamond," he pursued, "known among men as
the Lady Frances Basset."

For a moment Isoult was silent, and if Mr Monke could have read the
thoughts hidden behind that quiet face, perhaps he would not have felt
flattered.  For Isoult was wondering in her own mind whether she ought
to be glad or sorry.  But the next moment her delicate instinct had told
her what to answer.

"Mr Monke," she said, looking up again, "I do most heartily wish
happiness to both you and her."

And Mr Monke never guessed from any thing in the quiet face what the
previous thought had been.

The next day brought a letter to Isoult from Lady Frances herself; and
the last relic of Jennifer's uneasiness was appeased by the fair hair
and beard of the messenger.  She only said now that there might have
been two strangers in the fire; she ought to have looked more carefully.

All was smooth water now at Crowe.  Lady Lisle had given way, but not
until Frances plainly told her that she had urged this very match
earnestly before, and now that she was reluctantly endeavouring to
conform to her wishes, had turned round to the opposing side.  Philippa
was more readily won over.  Lady Frances had told Mr Monke honestly that
a great part of her heart lay in the grave of John Basset; but that she
thoroughly esteemed himself, and such love as she could give him he
should have.

"I trust," she wrote to Isoult, "that we may help, not hinder, the one
the other on the way to Heaven.  We look to be wed in June next, after
the new fashion, in the English tongue.  Pray meanwhile for me, dear
heart, that I may `abide in Him.'"

When Isoult came down-stairs from the careful perusal of her letter, she
heard Dr Thorpe's voice in the hall, and soon perceived that her husband
and he were deep in religious conversation.

"Softly, Jack!"  Dr Thorpe was saying as she entered.  "Methinks thou
art _somewhat_ too sweeping.  We must have priests, man (though they
need not be ill and crafty men); nor see I aught so mighty wrong in
calling the Lord's Table an altar.  Truly, myself I had liefer say
`table'; yet would I not by my good will condemn such as do love that
word `altar.'  Half the mischief that hath arisen in all these battles
of religion now raging hath come of quarrelling over words.  And 'tis
never well to make a martyr or an hero of thine adversary."

"I have no mind to make a martyr of you, my dear old friend," answered
Avery, "in whatsoever signification.  I see well what you would be at,
though I see not with you.  And I would put you in mind, by your leave,
that while true charity cometh of God, there is a false charity which
hath another source."

"But this is to split straws, Jack," said the Doctor.

"I pray you pardon me," replied he, "but I think not so.  I know,
Doctor, you do incline more toward the Lutheran than I, and therefore
'tis like that such matters may seem smaller unto you than to me.  But
when--"

"I incline toward the truth," broke in Dr Thorpe, bluntly.

"We will both strive our best so to do, friend," gently answered Avery.
"But, as I was about to say, when you come to look to the ground of this
matter, you shall see it (if I blunder not greatly) to be far more than
quarrelling over words or splitting of straws.  The calling of men by
that name of priest toucheth the eternal priesthood of the Lord Christ."

"As how?" queried the old man, resting his hands on his staff, and
looking Avery in the face.

"As thus," said he.  "Cast back your eyes, I pray you, to the times of
the old Jewish laws, and tell me wherefore they lacked so many priests
as all the sons of Aaron should needs be.  I mean, of course, so many at
one time."

"Why, man! one at once should have been crushed under the work!"
answered Dr Thorpe.  "If one man had been to slay Solomon his twenty-two
thousand sacrifices, he should not have made an end by that day month."

"Good.  Then the lesser priests were needed, because of the
insufficiency of the high priest for all that lacked doing?"

"That I allow," said Dr Thorpe, after some meditation.

"See you what you allow, friend?"  Avery answered, softly.  "If, then,
the lesser priests be yet needed, it must be by reason that the High
Priest is yet insufficient, and the sacrifice which He offered is yet
incomplete."

"Nay, nay, Jack, nay!" cried the old man, much moved, and shaking his
head.

"It must be so, dear friend.  To what good were those common and
ordinary priests, save to aid the high priest in that which, being but a
man, he might not perform alone?  Could the high priest have sufficed
alone, what need were there of other?  But our High Priest sufficeth,
and hath trodden the wine-press alone.  His sacrifice is perfect, is
full, is eternal.  There needeth no repeating--nay, there can be no
repeating thereof.  What do we, then, with priests now?  Where is their
sacrifice?  And a priest that sacrificeth not is a gainsaying of words.
Friend, whoso calleth him a priest now, by that word denieth the
sufficiency of the Lord Jesus."

"And whoso calleth the Table an altar--" began Dr Thorpe.

"Is guilty of the same sin," pursued he; "the same affront unto the
Majesty of Him that will not give His glory to an other."

"They mean it not so, I verily believe," responded Dr Thorpe, a little
uneasily.  "They mean assuredly to do Him honour."

"And He can see the difference," said Avery, tenderly, "betwixt the
denial of Peter that loved Him, and the betrayal of Judas that hated
Him.  Our eyes are rarely fine enough for that.  More than once or
twice, had the judgment lain with us, we had, I think, condemned Peter
and quitted Judas."

"I would all this variance betwixt Lutherans and Gospellers might
cease!" resumed Dr Thorpe, rather bitterly.  "When we should be pointing
our spears all against the enemy, we are bent on pricking of each
other!"

"A vain wish, friend," answered he.  "So far as I can see, that hath
been ever since the world began, and will last unto the world's end.  I
am not so fond as to look for Christ's kingdom until I see the King.
The fair Angel of Peace flieth in His train; but, methinks, never out of
it."

"It seemeth," said Dr Thorpe, "as though the less space there were
betwixt my doctrine and thine, the more bitterly must thou and I
wrangle!"

"Commonly it is so," replied Avery.

"And while these real battles be fighting," pursueth he, "betwixt
Christ's followers and Christ's foes,--what a sight is it to see the
followers dividing them on such matters as--whether childre shall be
baptised with the cross or no; whether a certain garment shall be worn
or no; whether certain days shall be kept with public service or no!
Tush! it sickeneth a man with the whole campaign."

Both rose, but after his farewell Dr Thorpe broke out again, as though
he could not let the matter drop.

"Do the fools think," asked the old man, "that afore the angels will
open the gate of Heaven unto a man, they fall a-questioning him--to wit,
whether salt were used at his baptism; whether his body were buried
looking toward the East or the West; whether when he carried his Bible
he held it in his right hand or his left?  Dolts, idiots, patches!
[Fools.]  It should do me a relief to duck every man of them in the
Tamar."

"And cause them to swallow a dose of physic at afterward?" laughed
Avery.

"It were hemlock, then," said Dr Thorpe, grimly.

"Nay, friend, not so bad as that, methinks.  But shall I give you one
dose of a better physic than any of yours?  `By this shall all men know
that ye are My disciples, if ye have love one toward another.'"

"How are they to know it now?" said Dr Thorpe, despairingly.  "How are
they to know it?  Well, I know not; maybe thou art not so far-off, Jack;
but for all other I know--"

And away he went, shaking his grey head.

Lady Frances and Mr Monke were married when the summer came.  John Avery
and Isoult were invited to the wedding; and Philippa sent a special
message requesting that their little Kate might be included; for, said
she, "Arthur shall be a peck of trouble, and an' he had one that he
might play withal he should be the less."

"List thee, sweet heart! thou art bidden to a wedding!" said Jennifer to
Kate.

"What is a wedding?" inquired four-year-old Kate, in her gravest manner.
"Is it a syllabub?"

"Ay, sweet heart; 'tis a great syllabub, full of sugar," answered
Jennifer, laughing.

"That is as it may be, Mrs Jennifer," observed Dr Thorpe, who was
present.  "I have known that syllabub full of vinegar.  That is,
methinks, a true proverb,--`If Christ be not asked at the match, He will
never make one at the marriage-feast.'  And 'tis a sorry feast where He
sitteth not at the table."

"I think He shall not be absent from this," said Isoult, softly.

So Kate went to Crowe with her parents; but her baby brother Walter, a
year old, was left behind in charge of Jennifer.

The evening after their arrival, the bride took Isoult apart, and,
rather to her surprise, asked her if she thought that the dead knew what
was passing in this world.  To such a question there was but one answer.
Isoult could not tell.

"Isoult," she said, her eyes filling with tears, "I would not have him
know of this, if it be so.  And can that be right and good which I would
not he should know?"

Isoult needed not to ask her who "he" was.

"Nay, sweet heart!" said she, "thinkest thou he would any thing save thy
comfort and gladness?  He is passed into the land where (saith David)
all things are forgotten--to wit, (I take it) all things earthly and
carnal, all things save God; and when ye shall meet again in the body,
it shall be in that resurrection where they neither marry nor are given
in marriage, but are equal unto the angels."

"All things forgotten!" she faltered.  "Hath he forgot me?  They must
sleep, then; that is a kind of forgetting.  But if I were awake and
witful, I never could forget him.  It were not _I_ that did so."

"Let us leave that with God, beloved," answered Isoult.

"O Isoult," she murmured, her tears beginning to drop fast, "I would do
God's will, and leave all to Him: but is this God's will?  Thou little
knowest how I am tortured and swayed to and fro with doubt.  It was
easier for thee, that hadst but a contract to fulfil."

Isoult remembered the time before she had ever seen her husband, when it
did not look very easy.  She scarcely knew what she ought to answer.
She only said--

"Dear heart, if thou do truly desire to do only God's will, methinks He
will pardon thee if thou lose thy way."

"It looketh unto me at times," she said, "as if it scarce could be
right, seeing it should lift me above want, and set me at ease."

This was a new thought to Isoult, and she was puzzled what to say.  But
in the evening she told John, and asked his advice.  Much to her
astonishment, he, usually gentle, pulled to the casement with a bang.

"Is that thine answer, Jack?" said Isoult, laughing.

"Somewhat like it," answered he drily.  "'Tis no marvel that ill men
should lose the good way, when the true ones love so much to walk in
byepaths."

"Thou riddlest, Jack," said Isoult.

"Tell me, dear heart," he answered, "doth God or Satan rule the world?"

"God ruleth the world, without doubt," said she, "but if Satan spake
sooth unto our Lord, he hath the power of the glory of it."

"Did Satan ever speak sooth, thinkest?" he replied smiling somewhat
bitterly.  "Howbeit to leave that point,--doth God, or doth Satan, mete
out the lives of God's people, and give them what is best for them?"

"God doth, assuredly," said she.

"Well said," answered he.  "Then (according unto this doctrine) when God
giveth His child a draught of bitter physic, he may with safety take and
drink it; but when He holdeth forth a cup of sugared succades
[sweetmeats], that must needs be refused.  Is it so?"

"Jack!" wonderingly cried Isoult.

"There be that think so," he made answer, "but I had scarce accounted my
Lady Frances one ere now.  Set the thing afore her in that light.  This
is the self spring whence cometh all the monasteries and nunneries, and
anchorites' cells in all the world.  Is God the author of darkness, and
not of light?  Doth He create evil, and not good?  Tell her, when the
Lord holdeth forth an honeycomb, He would have her eat it, as assuredly
as, when He giveth a cup of gall into her hand, He meaneth she should
drink it.  And methinks it can scarce be more joyful to Him to watch her
drink the gall than eat the honeycomb."

The last words were uttered very tenderly.

When Isoult told Frances what John had said, the tears rose to her eyes.

"O Isoult! have I been wronging my God and Father?" she said in a
quivering voice.  "I never meant to do that."

"Tell Him so, sweet heart," answered Isoult.

Isoult thought her husband was right, when, on the following day, she
came across the text, "The Lord that hath pleasure in the prosperity of
His people."  But in her innocent way she showed it to John, and asked
him if he thought it meant that it was a pleasure to the Lord Himself to
bestow happiness on His people.  John smiled at her, as he often did.

"Sweet heart," he answered, "doth it please or offend thee, when thou
dost kiss Kate, and comfort her for some little trouble, and she stayeth
her crying, and smileth up at thee?"

"Why, Jack, 'tis one of my greatest pleasures," answered Isoult.

Very gravely and tenderly he answered,--"`As one whom his mother
comforteth, so will I comfort you.'"

On the 17th of June, Isoult Avery wrote in her diary:--

"The church-bells are making music in mine ears as I sit to write.  An
hour gone, Frances and Mr Monke went forth, no longer twain, but one.
God go with her, and bless her, this dear sister of mine heart, and
comfort her for all she hath lost--ay, as `one whom his mother
comforteth!'"

The ink was scarcely dry from this entry when Philippa Basset marched
in, with unrecognised step, for her shoes were new.

"Why, Mrs Philippa! your new shoes wrought that I knew not your step,"
said Isoult, with a smile.

"New shoes!" said she, "yea, in good sooth.  I flung both mine old ones
after Frank; and had I had an hundred pairs in my cupboard, I had sent
them all flying."

The thought of a hundred pairs of shoes falling about, was too much for
Isoult's gravity.

"One of them smote the nag on his tail," continued Philippa; "I warrant
you it gave him a smart, for I sent it with all my might.  'Tis a good
omen that--saving only that it might cause the beast to be restive."

"Believe you in omens, Mrs Philippa?" answered Isoult.

"Not one half so much as I do believe in mine own good sense," said she.
"Yet I have known some strange things in my time.  Well, what thinkest
thou of this match of Frank's?"

"I trust with all mine heart she may find it an happy and a
comfortable," was the reply.

"Ay, maybe a scrap of happiness shall not hurt her overmuch," said
Philippa in her dry way.  "As to Mr Monke, I will wish him none, for
methought from his face he were as full as he could hold; and an' he had
some trouble, he demeriteth it, for having away Frank."

And so away she went, both laughing.

News that stirred _every_ Gospeller's heart reached Bradmond ere the
Christmas of 1547.  The Bloody Statute was repealed; and in every parish
church, by royal order, a Bible and a copy of the Paraphrases of Erasmus
were set open, for all the people to read.

But the repeal of the Bloody Statute, ardently as she desired it, was
not without sad memories to Isoult Avery.  The Act now abrogated had
brought death, four years before, to one very dear to her heart; and it
was not in human nature for her to hear of its destruction without a
sigh given to the memory of Grace Rayleigh.  In the churchyard at Bodmin
were two nameless graves--of a husband and wife whom that Bloody Statute
had parted, and who had only met at last in its despite, and to die.
And when Grace had closed the eyes of her beloved, she lay down to her
own long rest.  Her work was finished in this world; and very welcome
was the summons to her--"Come up higher."

  "From her long heart-withering early gone,
  She hath lived--she hath loved--her task is done."

Yet how was it possible to wish her back?  Back to pain, and sorrow, and
fear, and mournful memory of the far-off husband and the dead child!
Back from the lighted halls of the Father's Home, to the bleak, cold,
weary wilderness of earth!  Surely with Christ it was far better.

When Isoult came in comforted after her visit to Grace's grave, Barbara,
her parlour-maid, met her at the door.

"Mistress, a letter came for you in all haste shortly after you went
forth," said she.  "I had come unto you withal, had I known whither you
were gone."

Isoult took the letter from Barbara's hand.  On the outside was
written--the energetic ancient form of our mild direction "To be
delivered immediately"--a rather startling address to the postman.

"Haste, haste, for thy life, haste!"

With forebodings travelling in more than one direction, Isoult cut the
ribbon which fastened the letter and broke the seal.  There were not a
dozen lines written within; but her heart sank like lead ere she had
read half of them.

The letter was from Crowe, and was signed by Mr George Basset, the
eldest surviving son of Lady Lisle.  He desired John Avery and his wife
to hasten with all speed to Crowe, for Lady Lisle had been taken ill
suddenly and dangerously, and they feared for her life.  There was also
an entreaty to bring Dr Thorpe, if he could possibly come; for at Crowe
there was only an apothecary.  Doctors, regularly qualified, were scarce
in those days.  All the scattered members of the family within
reasonable distance had been summoned.

In as short a time as it was possible to be ready, John and Isoult set
forth with Dr Thorpe, who said he could accompany them without more than
temporary inconvenience to any of his patients.  It was two days'
journey to Crowe; and Isoult's heart sank lower and lower as they
approached the house.  But when they reached the end of the long lane
which led to it, they suddenly encountered, at a turn in the road, the
writer of the letter which had summoned them.  It was an instant relief
to see Mr George Basset smile and hold out his hand in welcome.

"Better news, thank God!" he said at once.  "My mother hath rested well
these two nights past, and is fairly amended this morrow.  I am glad
with all mine heart this bout is well over.  It hath feared us no
little, as I can tell you."

With lighter hearts they rode to the door, where Isoult had no sooner
alighted than she found herself drawn from behind into the arms of Lady
Frances Monke, who had arrived the day before.  Isoult followed her into
the little parlour, where in a large carved chair she saw a very stiff
and rich silk dress; and on looking a little higher, she found that
chair and silk were tenanted by Mrs Wollacombe, Lady Lisle's youngest
daughter.

"Ah, Isoult, art thou come?" inquired that young lady, playing with her
chatelaine.  "I hope thou hast left thy childre behind.  These childre
be such plagues."

"Hand me thine for a silver groat," interrupted Philippa, coming in.

"Thou art welcome, an' thou choose to take them," replied her sister.
"They do but rumple my ruffs and soil my gowns.  They be for ever in
some manner of mischievousness.  I cannot keep them out thereof, for all
I have two nursemaids, and Jack to boot."

"Thou art little like, Mall, an' thou add not thyself to the bargain,"
answered Philippa, in her old mocking way.  "Isoult, but for the
pleasure of seeing thee, I could be sorry I sent after thee.  My Lady my
mother is so sweetly amending (thank all the saints for it!) that I am
little pleased to have put thee to such charges and labour."

"I pray you say no word of that, Mrs Philippa," said Isoult, "for in
very sooth it giveth me right hearty pleasure to see you."

"Dr Thorpe," continued Philippa, turning to him, "I am right glad to
welcome you, and I thank you with all mine heart that you are come.
Will you grant us the favour of your skill, though it be less needed
than we feared, and take the pain to come up with me to see my Lady?"

Dr Thorpe assenting, she took him up-stairs; and the next minute Mr
Monke, coming in, greeted his friends cordially.  Then came Lady Ashley,
sweet and gentle as ever, and afterwards Sir Henry Ashley and Mr
Wollacombe.

"Mrs Philippa," said Isoult, when she returned, "we will not be a charge
on her Ladyship.  Jack and I will lie at the inn, for assuredly she
cannot lodge all us in this her house."

"I thank thee truly, dear heart," responded Philippa affectionately.
"In good sooth, there is not room for all, howsoever we should squeeze
us together; wherefore we must need disparkle [scatter] us.  Verily, an'
we had here but James and Nan, there were not one of us lacking."

"How fareth Mr James?" returned Isoult; "is he yet a priest?"

"He is now in London, with my Lord of Winchester," [Bishop Gardiner]
answered Philippa.  "Nay, so far from priesthood that he is now on the
eve of his wedding, unto one Mrs Mary Roper [daughter of the well-known
Margaret Roper], grand-daughter of Sir Thomas More."

It was late in the evening before Isoult could contrive to speak with Dr
Thorpe in private; and then she asked him to tell her frankly how he
thought Lady Lisle.

"Better this time," said he, significantly.

"Think you as you did, then?" she asked.

"Ay, Mrs Avery," said he, sadly, "I think as I did."

After this, Isoult saw Lady Lisle herself, but only for a moment, when
she struck her as looking very ill; but Philippa assured her that there
could be no comparison with what she had been two days before.

The next morning, Isoult, with Lady Frances, Lady Ashley, and Philippa,
sat for an hour in the invalid's chamber.  The conversation turned upon
public affairs; and at last they began to talk of the pulling down of
the roods, which Philippa opposed, while both Frances and Isoult
pronounced them idols.

"Fight it out an' ye will," said the sick lady, laughing feebly, "only
outside of my chamber."

"Go thou down, Kate, and fetch up Mr Monke first," responded Philippa;
"for I am well assured my first blow should kill Frank an' she had not
his help."

Thus playfully they chatted for a while, but Isoult fancied that Lady
Lisle was scarcely so angrily earnest in her opposition to the doctrines
of the Gospel as was generally her wont.  Presently up came the untidy
Deb, in all her untidiness, to say that dinner was served; and was
parenthetically told by Philippa that she was a shame to the family.

"Which of us would you with you, Mother?" asked Frances.

"Why, none of you," she replied.  "Go down all, children; I lack nought;
I am going to sleep."

And she laid back her head on the pillow of her chair.

"Shall I not abide, Madam?" suggested Lady Ashley.

"No, child," she answered.  "When you come above ye shall find me
asleep, if all go well."

So, seeing she preferred to be left alone, they all went to dinner.
When they returned, Lady Frances, Lady Ashley, and Isoult, went towards
Lady Lisle's chamber.  Lady Ashley opened the door softly, and put her
head in.

"Doth she sleep, Kate?" whispered Frances.

"Softly!" said Lady Ashley, withdrawing her head.  "Let us not disturb
her--she is so sweetly sleeping."

Sleeping! ay, a sleep that should have no waking, From that sleep not
the roaring of the winds, not the thunder of the tempest, not even the
anguished voices of her children, should ever arouse her again.

"She had no priest, after all," said Frances under her breath to Isoult,
the same evening.

Lady Ashley added very softly, "She said we should find her asleep, if
all went well.  We found her asleep.  Is it an omen that all did go
well?"

Isoult could make no answer.

Where Honor Plantagenet was buried, no record remains to tell us, unless
it be some early entry in a parish register of Cornwall or Devon.  It
might be in the family burying-place of her own kindred, the Grenvilles
of Stow; or it might be with her first husband, Sir John Basset, at
Umberleigh.  Only it may be asserted without fear of contradiction, that
it was not with the royal lord whom she had so bitterly lamented, and
whose coffin lay, with many another as illustrious as his own, in the
old Norman Chapel of the Tower.  No stranger admixture can there be on
earth, than among those coffins crowding that Norman Chapel,--from
traitors of the blackest dye, up to saints and martyrs.

The first news which the Averys heard after their return home, was not
encouraging to that religious party to which they belonged.  Bishop
Gardiner had been set free, and had gone back to his Palace at Farnham,
Mr James Basset accompanying him.  This was an evil augury; for wherever
Gardiner was, there was mischief.  But it soon appeared that Somerset
kept his eye upon the wolf, and on his first renewed attempt upon the
fold, he was quietly placed again in durance.  Meanwhile the leaven of
reformation was working slowly and surely.  On Candlemas Day there were
no candles in the Chapel Royal; no ashes on Ash Wednesday; no palms on
Palm Sunday.  At Paul's Cross, after eight years' silence, the earnest
voice of Hugh Latimer was heard ringing: and to its sound flocked such a
concourse, that the space round the Cross could not hold them, and a
pulpit was set up in the King's garden at Westminster Palace, where four
times the number of those at the Cross might assemble.  For eight years
there had been "a famine of the word of the Lord" in England, and now
men and women came hungering and ready to be fed.  Perhaps, if we had
borne eight years' famine, we should not quite so readily cry out that
the provisions are too abundant.  An outcry for short sermons has always
hitherto marked the spiritual decadence of a nation.  "Behold, what a
weariness is it!"  There is another inscription on the reverse side of
the seal.  "I have no pleasure in you, saith the Lord of Hosts."

The English service began with the following Easter.  Confession--not
yet abolished, yet so far relaxed as to be required of none who
preferred to omit it--was made in English, and the Lord's Supper was
also celebrated in English at the King's Chapel.

Isoult Avery began to think that she was to spend the year 1548 in
visiting.  She had not been long back from Crowe, when a letter reached
her from her own home at Wynscote, inviting her to the wedding of her
brother Hugh with Mrs Alice Wikes, which was to take place on the
fourteenth of May.  Jennifer Trevor shook her head in her most ominous
style at the date.  But Hugh, though a sailor, was nevertheless not at
all superstitious, so far as concerned the point in question; and he had
already sturdily declined to change the date selected by Alice, though
half the gossips round Wynscote prophesied all manner of consequent
evil.  For a maiden of the sixteenth century, Alice also was remarkably
free from the believing in omens and the observing of times: so Hugh and
she were married on the fourteenth of May, and Isoult Avery was never
able to discover that any harm had come of it.

On arrival at Wynscote, they found the house full and running over.  Not
only the family who ordinarily occupied it were there--namely, Mrs
Barry, the widowed mother; Henry Barry, the head of the house, who was
by calling a gentleman farmer, and by inclination the gentleman without
the farmer; his wife Margaret, who would have made a better farmer than
himself; and his three exceedingly noisy and mischievous boys, by name
Michael, William, and Henry.  But these, as I have said, were not by any
means all.  There was the bridegroom Hugh, who grumbled good-humouredly
at being banished to Farmer Northcote's for the night, for there was no
room for him except in the day-time; there was Bessy Dennis, the eldest
sister, and John Dennis her husband, and William, Nicholas, Anne, and
Ellen, their children.  No wonder that Isoult told her husband in
confidence that she did not expect to lose her headache till she reached
home.  Will Barry was the incarnation of mischief, and Will Dennis, his
cousin and namesake, followed him like his shadow.  The discipline which
ensued was of doubtful character, for Bessy's two notions on the subject
of rearing children were embodied in cakes or slaps, as they were
respectively deserved, or rather, as she thought they were: while Mr
Barry's ideas of education lay in very oracular exhortations, stuffed
with words of as many syllables as he had the good fortune to discover.
His wife's views were hardly better.  Her interference consisted only in
the invariable repetition of a formula--"Come, now, be good lads, do!"--
which certainly did not err on the side of severity.  But the
grandmother, if possible, made matters worse.  She had brought up her
own children in abject terror and unanswering submission; and Nature, as
usual, revenged herself by causing her never to cross the wills of her
grandchildren on any consideration.  Accordingly, when Will set fire to
the barn, let the pony into the bean-field, and the cows into Farmer
Northcote's meadow, Grandmother only observed quietly that "Boys will be
boys"--an assertion which certainly could not be contradicted--and went
on spinning as before.

The amazement of Isoult Avery--who had not previously visited home for
some time--was intense.  Her childhood had been a scene of obedience,
both active and passive; a birch-rod had hung behind the front door, and
nobody had ever known Anne Barry hesitate to whip a child, if there were
the slightest chance that he or she deserved it: the "benefit of the
doubt" being commonly given on the side of the birch-rod.  And now, to
see these boys--wild men of the woods as they were--rush unreproached up
to the inaccessible side of Grandmother, lay violent hands upon her
inviolable hood, kiss her as if they were thinking of eating her, and
never meet with any worse penalty than a fig-cake [the Devonshire name
for a plum-cake]--this was the source of endless astonishment and
reflection to Isoult.  On the whole, she congratulated herself that she
had left Kate and Walter at Bradmond.

The bride was a stranger to Isoult.  She talked to Bessy about her, and
found that lady rather looked down upon her.  "She was all very well,
but--"

Ah, these unended _buts_! what mischief they make in this world of ours!

Then Isoult talked to Hugh, and found that if his description were to be
trusted, Alice Wikes would be no woman at all, but an angel from Heaven.
Bessy offered to take her sister to visit the bride, and Isoult
accepted the offer.  Meanwhile, she sketched a mental portrait of Alice.
She would be short, and round-faced, and merry: the colour of her hair
and eyes Isoult discreetly left blank.

So, three days before the wedding, her future sisters-in-law called upon
the bride.

They found Alice's mother, Mrs Wikes, busy with her embroidery; and as
soon as she saw who her guests were, she desired Mrs Alice to be
summoned.  After a little chat with Mrs Wikes upon things in general,
the door opened to admit a girl the exact opposite of Isoult's imaginary
picture.  Alice proved tall, oval-faced, and grave.

The wedding was three days later, and on Sunday.  Blue was the colour of
the bride's costume, and favel-colour--a bright yellowish-brown--that of
the bridesmaids.  After the ceremony there was a banquet at Wynscote,
and dancing, and a Maypole, and a soaped pig, and barley-break--an old
athletic sport, to some extent resembling prisoner's base.  Then came
supper, and the evening closed with hot cockles and blind-hoodman--the
latter being blindman's buff.  And among all the company, to none but
John and Isoult Avery did it ever occur that in these occupations there
was the least incongruity with the Sabbath day.  For they only were
Gospellers; and at that time the Gospellers alone remembered to keep it
holy.  Rome strikes her pen through the third and fourth commandments,
if less notoriously, yet quite as really, as through the second.

The Averys returned home about the 20th of May.  They had left all well,
and they found all well.  And neither they nor any one else saw on the
horizon a little cloud like a man's hand, which was ere long to break in
a deluge of hail and fire upon Devonshire and Cornwall.

One evening in the beginning of June, when John Avery sat at the table
making professional notes from a legal folio before him, and Isoult, at
work beside him, was beginning to wonder why Barbara had not brought the
rear-supper, a knock came at the door.  Then the latch was lifted, and
Mr Anthony Tremayne walked in.

"Heard you the news in Bodmin?" was the question which followed close
upon his greeting.

"No," answered John.  "I have not been in Bodmin for nigh a week, nor
hath any thence been here."

"One Master Boddy, the King's Commissioner for Chantries," saith he,
"came hither o' Friday; and the folk be all up at Bodmin, saying they
will not have the chantries put down; and 'tis thought Father Giles is
ahead of them.  I much fear a riot, for the people are greatly
aggrieved."

"I pray God avert the same, if His will is!" exclaimed Isoult.

This was the beginning of the first riots in Cornwall and Devon.  There
were tumults elsewhere, but the religious riots were worst in these
parts.  They began about the chantries, the people disliking the
visitation: and from that they went to clamouring for the re-enactment
of the Bloody Statute.  On the 4th of June there were riots at Bodmin
and Truro; and Father Giles, then priest at Bodmin, and a "stout
Papist," helped them to the best of his ability.  But on the 6th came
the King's troops to Bodmin, and took Father Giles and others of the
rioters, whom they sent to London to be tried; and about the 8th they
reached Truro, where Mr Boddy, the King's Commissioner for the
chantries, had been cruelly murdered five days before.  For a little
while after this, all was quiet in Bodmin; but the end was not come yet.

Father Giles, the priest of Bodmin, was hanged at London on the 7th of
July for his share in the riots: and Government fondly imagined that the
difficulty was at an end.  How fond that imagination was, the events of
the following year revealed.

Anthony Monke, the eldest child of Mr Monke and Lady Frances, was born
in the summer of 1548 [date unknown].  In June of that year, a civil
message from the Protector reached Bishop Gardiner at Farnham,
requesting him to preach at Court on the 29th, Saint Peter's Day,
following.  This message perturbed Gardiner exceedingly.  James Basset
found him walking up and down his chamber, his hands clasped behind him,
uttering incoherent words, indicative of apprehension; and this
continued for some hours.  On the 28th the Bishop reached London; on the
29th he preached before the King; and on the 30th he was in the Tower.
Probably the wily prelate's conscience, never very clear, had already
whispered the cause before he quitted Farnham.

On the 8th of September, at Sudeley Castle, Gloucestershire, died the
Lutheran Queen, Katherine Parr.  She had taken a false step, and had
lived to mourn it.  Neglecting the command not to be unequally yoked
together with unbelievers, she had married Sir Thomas Seymour very
shortly after King Henry's death.  It can be no lack of charity to call
a man an unbeliever, a practical Atheist at least, whose daily habit it
was to swear and walk out of the house when the summons was issued for
family prayers.  Poor Katherine had all the piety on her own side, but
she had not to bear the penalty she had brought on herself long.  She
left behind her a baby daughter, Mary Seymour, who was sent to the care
of the Duchess of Suffolk; for very soon after the Queen's death,
Seymour was arrested and committed to the Tower.  He died on Tower Hill,
on the 20th of March following.  That Seymour was a bad man there can be
no question; whether he really were a traitor is much more doubtful.
The Lutheran party accused his brother the Protector of having brought
about his death.  It might be so; yet any evidence beyond probability
and declamation is lacking.  "It was Somerset's interest to get rid of
his brother; therefore he is responsible for his death."  This may be
assertion, but it surely is not argument.

Meanwhile in high places there was a leaven quietly working, unperceived
as yet, which was ere long to pervade the whole mass.  The government of
Edward the Sixth had come into power under the colours of the Gospel.
The Protector himself was an uncompromising Gospeller; and though many
Lords of the Council were Lutherans, they followed at first in his wake.
There was one member of the Council who never did so.

Nearly fifty years before that day, Henry the Seventh, whose
"king-craft" was at least equal to that of James the First, had
compelled the young heiress of Lisle, Elizabeth Grey, to bestow her hand
upon his unworthy favourite, Edmund Dudley.  It is doubtful whether she
was not even then affianced to Sir Arthur Plantagenet (afterwards Lord
Lisle), whose first wife she eventually became; but Henry Tudor would
have violated all the traditions of his house, had he hesitated to
degrade the estate, or grieve the heart, of a son of the House of York.
This ill-matched pair--the covetous Edmund and the gentle Elizabeth--
were the parents of four children: the first being John Dudley, who was
born in 1502.  It is of him I am about to speak.

His countenance, from a physiognomist's point of view, might be held to
announce his character.  The thick, obstinate lips, the cruel, cold blue
eyes, intimated with sufficient accuracy the disposition of the man.
Like all men who succeed, Dudley set before him one single aim.  In his
case, it was to dethrone Somerset, and step into his place.  He held,
too, in practice if not in theory, the diabolical idea, that the end
sanctifies the means.  And to hold that view is to say, in another form,
"I will be like the Most High."

Such was John Dudley, and such the goal at which he aimed.  And he just
touched it.  His hand was already stretched forth, to grasp the
glittering thing which was in his eyes the crown imperial of his world,
and then God's hand fell on him out of Heaven, and "he was brought down
to Hell, to the sides of the pit."

We shall see how this man prospered, as the tale advances: how he said
in his heart, "There is no God."  But to Isoult Avery it was a standing
marvel, how John Dudley could be the brother of Frances Monke.  And the
distance between them was as wide as from Hell to Heaven; for it was the
distance between a soul sold to the devil, and a temple of the Holy
Ghost.

The first introduction of Kate Avery to the grave and decorous behaviour
required in church, was made on the third of February, 1549.  Suffice it
to say, that Isoult was satisfied with the result of the experiment.
The new priest's name was Edmund Prideaux; and he was a Lutheran.
Coming home from church, John and Isoult fell in with the Tremaynes; and
were told by Mr Tremayne that all was now settled, and there was no fear
of any further riots.

Some weeks later, Robin and Arbel Tremayne again rode over to Bradmond
for four-hours.  Arbel's favourite was Walter, but Robin was fonder of
Kate, who on her part was greatly attached to him.  While they were
there Dr Thorpe came in.  When Robin and Arbel were gone home, the old
man remarked in confidence to John Avery, that he did not by any means
share Mr Tremayne's opinion that all was settled at Bodmin.  He thought
rather that the present tranquillity was like the crust of a volcano,
through which the fiery force might at any moment burst with little
warning.

That which finally broke the crust seemed at first a very little matter.
A proclamation came from the King, permitting land-owners to enclose
the waste lands around, within certain limitations.  And the old
Socialist spirit which is inherent in man rose up in arms at this favour
granted to the "bloated aristocrats"--this outrage upon "the rights of
the people."  For the three famous tailors of Tooley Street, who began
their memorial, "We, the people of England," had many an ancestor and
many a successor.

Mr Tremayne enclosed a piece of common behind his garden; John Avery
enclosed nothing.  The storm that fell swept away not only the guilty,
but as is generally the case, the innocent suffered with them.



CHAPTER THREE.

GOING FORTH.

  "O Day of endless brightness, dawn o'er these darkened skies!
  O Land of changeless beauty, break on these weary eyes!
  O Home whence no outgoing shall blind us with our tears--
  O rest and peace!  O life and love!  O summer of all years!"

The night of the fourth of July came hot and sultry, without a breath of
wind.  Isoult Avery had sunk to sleep after a weary day.  The very
warmth brought languor, and Walter had been naughty and peevish, needing
all her patience; and Mr Tremayne had had a large party to supper, of
which she had been one; and a multitude of little worries had pressed
upon her--those worries which seem too insignificant to repeat or care
about, yet form in the mass a large portion of our troubles.  Hardly
knowing it herself, her last thought before she slept had been a prayer
for rest.  But it was not rest that she really needed, and therefore it
was not rest she was to have.  Our Father giveth us often what we ask,
but always what we need.

From a troubled dream Isoult was now aroused, by a sound which at first
wove itself into her dream, and made her imagine herself in the great
hall of the Palace of Westminster, where carpenters were busy pulling
down the throne.

Knock, knock, knock!

Isoult hardly roused herself enough to recognise what the reality was
which answered to her imaginary carpenters, and John Avery slept calmly.

The knocking was repeated more loudly.

"Jack!" said Isoult at last--much too faintly to arouse any but a very
light sleeper.

Again came the knocking, and this time a voice with it.  "Mr Avery!"

Isoult, thoroughly awake at last, sat up, and succeeded after a minute
in bringing John to consciousness.  The knocking went on.  John sprang
up, and threw open the window.

"Who are you, and what do you lack?" he called to the unseen visitant
below.

"Let me in, and in haste, for God's sake!" cried a voice in answer,
which both the listeners immediately recognised as Robin Tremayne's.

"There is somewhat gone wrong," said John, and hurrying down, he
unbarred the door, and let in Robin.  Isoult followed as quickly as she
could.

"Why, Robin, lad, what is the matter?" she cried in dismay.  "What can
ail thee?  Is somewhat amiss at Tremayne?"

For Robin's face was white with terror, and he trembled from head to
foot, and his clothes were soiled and torn.

"All that can ail me in this world," murmured the poor lad, dropping
upon the settle.  "There is no Tremayne.  The enclosure men came thither
yestereven, and burned every brick of it to the ground."

"The rascals!" exclaimed Avery.  "And what came of thy father, and
mother, and sister, poor Robin?"

The lad looked up with tearless eyes.  "I am all of us."

Isoult was silent.  This was a sorrow beyond human comforting.  It had
been mockery to bid him be of good cheer then.

"My father had enclosed, as you know," resumed Robin in a low voice.
"And these rioters would no enclosures."

"Would to God he had let it alone!" murmured Avery under his breath.

"God would not, Mr Avery," quietly answered Robin, "or he had let it
alone."

And dropping his head upon his hands, the poor boy rocked himself to and
fro silently.  He seemed very faint and weary, yet Isoult doubted if he
could eat; but she fetched a jug of milk, and set it before him, bidding
him drink if he could.

"It would choke me, Mrs Avery," he answered.  "But you are exceeding
good unto me."

"Poor child!" said Avery, pityingly.  "Thou wilt be safe here at the
least.  I have not enclosed, I thank God."

"I thought you would take me in for a few days," said the lad, "until I
may see my way afore me, and win some little heart to pursue it."

"Thy way shall be my way, Robin," replied Avery tenderly.  "Twenty years
and more gone, when I was a stripling about thy years, thy father helped
me unto my calling with a gift of twenty pounds, which he never would
give me leave to pay him.  Under thy leave, I will pay it thee."

"You are exceeding good," he said again, not lifting his head.

"And how didst thou get away, poor Robin?" asked Isoult.

"I dropped from the window," said he.  "My chamber window was low built;
and when I heard the horrid shouts and yells at the front of the house,
I jumped out at the back, and hid me in the bushes beyond.  And there,
not daring to creep away till they were gone, lest they should discover
me, I heard and saw all."

"Then the bushes took not fire?" suggested Avery.

"Nay," said he, "the fish-pond lieth atween them and the house, mind
you."

He was silent a little while.  Then he said softly, under his
breath--"Mr Avery, when I saw the fiends lay hold upon Mother and Arbel,
I thought God must surely strike from Heaven for us.  But when, ten
minutes later, I saw the flames shooting up to the welkin, I thanked Him
in mine heart that He had taken them to His rest ere that."

"But, Robin, lad! didst thou not strike for them?" cried Avery, who
could not bear anything that seemed like cowardice.

"Should I, think you?" he made answer, in that low, hopeless tone that
goes to the heart.  "There were seventy or more of the enclosure men.  I
could but have died with them.  Maybe I ought to have done that.  I
think it had cost less."

"Forgive me, Robin!" said John, laying his hand on the lad's shoulder.
"Poor heart!  I meant not to reproach thee.  I spake hastily, therefore
unadvisedly."

"Let me have thee abed, poor Robin," said Isoult.  "'Tis but one of the
clock.  Canst thou sleep, thinkest?"

"Sometime, I count I shall again," he answered; "but an' I were to judge
by my feeling, I should think I never could any more."

"Time healeth," whispered Avery, rather to his wife than Robin; but the
lad heard him.

"God doth, Mr Avery," he said.  "And they are with God."

"Art thou less, Robin?" asked Avery tenderly.

"God is with me; that is the difference," he replied.

Robin Tremayne had always been a quiet, thoughtful boy; and even when
the first gush of his agony was over, there remained upon him a gentle,
grave pensiveness which it appeared as if he would never lose.

The next day proved as uneventful as other days at Bradmond.  No rioters
came near them.

In the evening Dr Thorpe appeared.  When the old man saw Robin, he cast
up his hands, and thanked God.

"Lad," said he, "I thought thou wert dead."

"I count God hath somewhat for me to do," answered Robin.  "But if He
hath not, I would I were."

"Hush thee, Robin dear!" said Isoult, uneasily.

"What wouldst thou be, Robin?" inquired Kate, her eyes wide open.

"Dead and buried," answered he.

"Then may I be dead and buried too?" she asked.

"Nay, Kate, not so!" cried Isoult, in dismay.

"It will not do, Robin," said Dr Thorpe, smiling.  And his face growing
grave, he pursued, "Lad, God setteth never too hard a lesson, nor layeth
on us more than we are able to bear."

"Too hard for what?" answered Robin.  "There have been that have had
lessons set that they might not learn and live.  Is that not too hard?"

"Nay, child!"  Dr Thorpe answered.  "If it be not too hard to learn, and
keep hold on eternal life, the lesser life of this little world is of no
matter."

"Nor the happiness of it, I suppose?" said Robin, gloomily.

"The plant God careth to grow now in us is holiness," he answered.
"That other fair flower, happiness, He keepeth for us in His own garden
above, where it is safer than in our keeping.  'Tis but stray fragments
and single leaves thereof that find their way down hither."

"I think so," said Robin, bitterly.

"Lad, lad! kick not against the pricks!" exclaimed Dr Thorpe, more
sternly.  "God's will is the best for us.  His way is the safe way, and
the only way."

"Easy to say so," answered Robin, slowly.  "And it was easy to think
so--yesterday morning."

Dr Thorpe looked on him and did not reply.

"O Robin!" cried Kate, running to him from the door.  "The sun is
shining again.  It was raining so fast all the morn; and now the sun is
come, and all the little drops are so pretty in the sunshine.  Come and
see!  They are so pretty shining on the roses."

Robin rose to follow her, with the first smile (though a mournful one)
that Isoult had seen flit across his face.

"Kate is the better comforter, Dr Thorpe, and hath learned the sweeter
lesson," he said.  "At least she hath learned it me.  You would have me
count the chastening joyous, even at this present: God's word pointeth
to the joyousness to come.  `Blessed are they that mourn,--for they
shall be comforted.'"

And he went after Kate.

For a few days more after Robin's coming all was quiet.  No one came to
inquire for him, and they began to hope the worst was over.  But late on
the Sunday evening, which was the seventh of July, suddenly there came a
rapping on the door.  And there, to the surprise of all, stood Dr
Thorpe.

"Welcome, good friend!" said Avery; "but your occasion should be great
to have you forth this even."

"So it is," said he.  "Is it not bed-time, Mrs Avery?"

"In very deed, Doctor," she answered.  "We were going above but now."

"Leave the lad and the maids go, then," said he, "and you and Jack bide
a space."

So the maids and Robin departed.

"What is it, Doctor?" asked Avery, when they were gone.

"What it is, Jack," said Dr Thorpe, who sat in the corner with his hands
upon his knees, "is a great burning mountain that is at this moment
quiet.  What it may be, is a great rushing and overflowing of the fiery
matter, that shall deal death all around.  And what it will be--the Lord
God knoweth, and He only."

"You speak in parables, Doctor," replied Avery.

"The safest matter to speak at this time," answered he.

"You look for a new riot, an' I take you rightly."

"Hardly for a riot," the other answered.  "Is the door fast?"

"I bolted it after you," said Avery.

Doctor Thorpe drew his chair closer, and spoke in a low, earnest voice.
"Not a riot," he said.  "Say an uprising--a civil war--a mighty
rebellion of all that be under, against all that be above.  Men that
will know no ruler, and bear no curb--little afraid to speak evil of
dignities, or to do evil against them.  `We are, and there is none
beside us:' yea, `we are the people, and wisdom shall die with us.'"

"There be such spirits alway," answered Avery, "but, I thank God, rarely
so many come together as shall do a mischief."

"There shall be mischief enough done in Cornwall and Devon within the
next month or twain," said Dr Thorpe, gloomily.  "I see more than you;
and I am come to tell you of somewhat that nearly toucheth both you and
me.  A year gone or thereabout, I was a-riding from Bodmin on the Truro
way, when I was aware of a little ragged lad that sat by the roadside,
the tears a-rolling down his not over clean face.  I drew bridle, and
asked the lad what ailed him.  He told me his mother did lie at death's
door, not far thence.  `Hath she any doctor or apothecary?' quoth I.
`Nay,' saith he, `neither the priest nor the apothecary would come
without money, and father hath not a penny.'  Well, I 'light from mine
horse, and throwing his bridle athwart mine arm, I bade the lad lead me
to his mother, for I was a physician, and could maybe do her some good.
I found her under an hedge, with nought save a ragged rug to cover her,
twain other children beside clamouring for bread, and her husband, a
rugged sullen-faced man, weaving of rushes for baskets.  All they were
dark-faced folk, and were, I take it, of that Egyptian [gipsy] crew that
doth over-run all countries at times.  I saw in a moment that though
beyond their skill, her disorder was not (with God's blessing) beyond
mine; yet it did require speedy remedy to serve her.  The physic that I
fetched for her quickly gave her ease, and I was something astonied at
the blessings which the husband did heap upon me when I departed from
them.  Methought, though he were rugged of face, yet he must be a man
that had some power of affection.  Well, the woman amended, and all they
left that part.  I heard no more of them sithence, until late last
night, as I was a-riding home, very nigh the same place, all suddenly an
hand was laid upon my bridle.  An highwayman, thought I; and I
remembered that I had little money upon me.  But in the stead of easing
me of my purse, mine highwayman put unto me a strange question.--`What
is your name, and where dwell you?'--`Verily,' said I, `I might ask the
same of you.  But sithence I am in no wise ashamed neither of my name
nor my dwelling-place, know you, that the one is Stephen Thorpe, and the
other is Bodmin.  What more would you?'--`Your calling?'--`A
physician.'--`Enough,' quoth my strange questioner.  `I pray you to
alight from your horse, and have no fear of me.  I will do you no harm;
I would not hurt you for a thousand pieces in good red gold.  I want
neither your money (howsoever much it be) nor your valuables that may be
on you.  Only, I pray you, let us two whisper together a season.'--`In
good sooth,' said I, `I have nought to whisper unto you.'--`But I have
to you,' saith he, `and what I say must not be spoken aloud.  You would
trust me if you knew what I would have.'--`Well, friend,' quoth I, `for
a friend metrusteth you be, I will do as you bid me.  All the money I
have upon me is but some few shillings, and to them, if you lack, you
are welcome.  For valuable matter, I carry none; and I myself am an old
man, no longer of much service unto any.  If you desire me to ply my
trade of healing, I am content; but I warn you that by murdering of me
you should gain little beside an evil conscience.'--So with that I
'lighted down.--`Throw the bridle on your arm,' saith he, `and follow
me.'--So, linking his arm in mine, he drew me (for it was pitch dark,
and how he found his way I know not) aside from the road, unto a small
forsaken and ruinated hut that stood on the common.--`Stand where you be
a moment,' quoth he; and striking the tinder, he lit a rush candle.
`Now, know you me?' saith he.  `Not a whit better than afore,' quoth
I.--He blew out the candle.--`You have forgot my face,' he saith.  `Mind
you a year gone, ministering unto a dying woman (as was thought), in
this place, under an hedge, whereby you did recover her of her
malady?'--`I know you now,' said I; `you are that woman's husband.'
`Then you are aware,' answereth he, `that I would do you no hurt.'--`Say
on,' quoth I.--`Suffer me,' saith he, `to ask you certain
questions.'--`So be it,' said I.--Then he,--`Is your house in Bodmin
your own?'--`It is so,' answered I, marvelling if he were about to ask
me for mine house.--`Sell it,' quoth he, `and quickly.'--`Wherefore?'
answered I.--`I passed no word touching your questions,' quoth he,
grimly.--`In good sooth,' said I, `this is a strange matter, for a man
to be bidden to sell his house, and not told wherefore.'--`You shall see
stranger things than that,' he answered, `ere your head be hoarier by
twain s'ennight from now.'--`Well! say on,' quoth I.--`Have you,'
pursueth he, `any money lent unto any friend, or set out at usury?  You
were best to call it in, if you would see it at all.'--`Friend,' said I,
`my money floweth not in so fast that my back lacketh it not so soon as
it entereth my purse.'--`The better,' quo' he.--`Good lack!' said I, `I
alway thought it the worse.'--`The worse afore, the better now,' he
answered.  `But once more--have you any friend you would save from
peril?'--And I,--`Why, I would save any from peril that I saw like to
fall therein.'--`Then,' quoth he, `give them privily the counsel that I
now give you.  If the sun find you at Bodmin,--yea, any whither in
Cornwall or Devon--twain s'ennights hence, he shall not set on you
alive.  Speak not another word.  Mount your horse, and go.'--I strave,
however, to say another word unto him, but not one more would he
hearken.  `Go!' he crieth again, so resolute and determinedly that I did
go.  Now, I fear greatly that this man did tell me but truth, and that
some fearful rising of the commons is a-brewing.  I shall surely take
his counsel, and go hence.  What say you, Jack?  Shall we go together?"

There was dead silence for a minute.  Isoult's head was in a whirl.

At last her husband said slowly, "What sayest thou, Isoult?"

"Jack," she replied, "whither thou art will I be."

"And that shall be--whither?" asked Dr Thorpe.  "It must be no whither
within Cornwall or Devon."

"But we have not enclosed," objected Avery, answering rather his
thoughts than his words.

"I doubt," he answered, "whether they shall wait to ask that."

"For me," Avery resumed, "I have friends in London, and Isoult likewise;
and if I thought it should be long ere we may turn again, thither should
I look to go rather than otherwhere.  But an' it be for a few weeks, it
should be unworth so long a journey."

"Weeks!" cried Dr Thorpe.  "Say months, Jack, or years.  For my part, I
look not to see Bodmin again.  But there be thirty years betwixt thee
and me."

"In that case," said he, "and methinks you have the right--I say,
London, if Isoult agree therewith.  There should be room in that great
city, I account, for both you and me to ply our several callings."

"Whither thou wilt, be it, Jack," said his wife, softly.  "But Mother,
and Hugh, and Bessy!  And Frances at Potheridge, and Mrs Philippa at
Crowe--what is to come of them, and who shall warn them?"

Dr Thorpe shook his head.

"Little time for all that, Mrs Avery," answered he.  "Send, an' you
will, to the two places--Potheridge and Crowe; but leave Potheridge to
warn Wynscote, and Wynscote to warn Matcott and Bindon."

"Let Robin take the brown horse," suggested Avery, "and ride post with a
letter from thee to Mrs Philippa; and Tom the white nag, and I will send
him likewise to Mr Monke.  I might have gone myself to one of the twain,
but--"

"Nay, Jack! bide thou with me," entreated Isoult, fearfully.

"Well said," answered Dr Thorpe.

"Well!"  Avery replied, "there seemeth little time to choose or bowne
[prepare] us; but as the Italians have it, `_Che sara, sara_.'  [`What
will be, will be.'] When set we forth, Doctor?"

"Now, if we could," answered Dr Thorpe, significantly.

Preparations for the journey were made in haste, and without waiting for
daylight.  Robin and Tom were sent on horseback to Crowe and Potheridge,
starting with the earliest gleam of dawn.  Isoult summoned Jennifer,
Barbara, and Ursula the cook, and asked whether they would cast in their
lot with hers or remain in Cornwall.  Jennifer answered that she feared
the journey more than the commons, and the fourth of July was a very
unlucky day on which to commence any undertaking: she would stay where
she was.  Ursula and Barbara, both of whom had been with their mistress
ever since her marriage, replied that they would go with her now.

"Nor have I any of mine own that I may well go unto," Ursula added.
"Mine only brother dwelleth in Somerset, and he is but an husbandman,
with little wages and a great sort of childre; and beside him I have no
kin."

"My mother is wed again," Barbara explained, "and my father that now is
should grudge to be troubled with me; and my sister, that is newly
wedded, hath but one chamber in a poor man's house.  I will hie after
you, Mistress, an' you will have me."

This question being settled, another arose.  Who should be left at
Bradmond?  Tom was too necessary for the journey; besides which, he was
ignorant of the arts of reading and writing, and would not be able to
send word how matters went on after their departure.  In this emergency,
while Isoult and John were talking over the subject, Barbara presented
herself with a deprecatory courtesy, or rather lout.

"Mistress," said she, "if you and our master bethink not yourselves
readily of any that should serve for to dwell here in your absence, I
would you would think on Marian my sister, and her husband [fictitious
persons].  They should, I do know, be right willing to be set in charge;
and Simon Pendexter (that is my brother) can right well read and write,
for he hath been a schoolmaster; and is (though I say it) a sad and
sober honest man, such as I do know you should be willing to use in this
matter."

This information settled the question.  Barbara was despatched to ask
Simon and Marian if they would be willing to come, and she returned with
a reply that they were not only willing, but thankful for the offer, and
had no fear of the rioters.

In such arrangements time passed on until the Friday evening, when Robin
reached home from Crowe, bringing Philippa Basset with him.  She
expressed her gratitude for the warning sent, and said that she was
ready to go to London.

"As for Crowe," she said, "'tis Arthur his house, not mine; and to me
all places be nigh alike.  I set some seeds that I looked to see come up
this next spring; but that is all I have to lose, save an old gown or
twain, and the like.  And," added she, turning away her head, "they will
not harm what alone I care for--my dead."

On the Sunday morning came Dickon, Dr Thorpe's man, with a message from
his master, desiring that all should be ready to set out by five o'clock
on the following morning.  "Bodmin," said he, "was plainly ill at ease:
men gathered together in knots in the streets, and the like, with all
manner of rumours and whisperings about; and if they were to go, go they
must."

"But Tom is not yet back," said Isoult.

It was settled, however, that it would not do to wait for him; but to
their relief, two or three hours before the time fixed for starting, Tom
came.  He brought letters from Mr Monke to John, and from Lady Frances
to Isoult; but he arrived alone.  Mr Monke thanked them heartily for
their loving care, and would readily undertake to warn Wynscote and
Combe; but he declined to join them.  Potheridge was well fortified with
walls and moat; and he had seven able-bodied men-servants, and double
the number of tenants, who could be called within at a few minutes'
notice: the house was well provisioned, and his armoury equipped: and he
ended his letter by saying,--"My trust is in God.  You do well to go;
yet methinks I do as well to abide."

"Metrusteth all shall be well," said Isoult, with a sigh; "yet if I
might have known how it should be with them, I had gone with an heart
the lighter."

"A wilful man," responded Philippa; "let him be."

Lady Frances said in her letter, "Dear heart, God is not gone from
Devon.  Fear not for us, only pray; and wheresoever we be, and
howsoever, let us abide in Him."

At last the preparations were completed.  Simon and Marian Pendexter had
been installed in office, with orders to write in a month: three sumpter
mules were laden with the family luggage: and the last farewells were
taken.  The party mounted their horses.  First rode John Avery on
Bayard, with his wife behind him on the pillion; then, on Blanche, a
white mare, came Ursula, with Kate strapped before her; on the black
farm mare, which had no particular name, rode Tom, with Barbara behind,
and Walter before him; and lastly, on a wiry white nag, came Robin, with
Philippa on the pillion.  So they moved slowly away from the home which,
for aught they knew, they might never see again.

It was a trial which cost Isoult Avery many tears.  Barbara, too, wept;
but no one else, only when Philippa spoke, it was in that short,
constrained manner with which some people hide sorrow.  Little Kate was
in high glee, until she saw her mother weep; and then she looked grave
and thoughtful--for about ten minutes.

When they reached the end of the lane which led into the high road from
Bradmond, they found Dr Thorpe seated on his bay horse, awaiting them.
Behind, on a brown nag, was Dickon, with a bundle strapped at his back.

"Come, friends mine!" cried Dr Thorpe.  "If you urge on your horses no
faster, we shall sleep on the common to-night."  Then as Bayard came up
with him, he added in a lower tone, "It was too true, Jack.  Fourteen
houses were sacked in Bodmin last night."

"Of them that had enclosed?"

"Mostly, but not all," he answered.  "They opened the cellars, and set
the conduits a-flowing with wine; then, having well drunken, marched to
the church, where they cast the new service-book into a bonfire [Note
1]; and at after surrounded Father Prideaux [a fictitious person] his
house, shouting and singing in uproarious wise, calling upon him to come
forth and set himself at their head.  (A fair body to be head of!)  By
God's providence, he was not within; but it was full two hours ere they
would depart, for all the handmaid's telling of them that her master was
from home.  At long last they did go thence, and down the streets,
shrieking and yelling like fiends."

"And is it over, think you?" suggested Avery.

"Is it begun?" answered Dr Thorpe.  "Tidings came yestre'en of riots in
Somerset; and, Jack, the commons have taken Exeter."

"Taken Exeter!" cried John and Isoult in a breath.

"Taken Exeter!" repeated he.  "What think you now?"

"Lord, have mercy upon us!" said Isoult under her breath.

"A letter is come from the King," pursued Dr Thorpe, "exhorting the
commons to obedience and patience, and they shall receive redress of
their griefs."

Philippa and Robin now came ambling alongside, for here they could ride
three abreast.

"But what profess the commons to be their griefs?" said Isoult; "for I
did never yet rightly understand."

"Firstly," said Dr Thorpe, "they do allege the young age of the King,
and the having a Protector over them."

"What foolishness!" exclaimed Avery.  "Would they have the King grow
unto manhood in a day? or think they that he abideth a child of set
purpose?"

"Then," pursueth Dr Thorpe, "their second matter is, the 'stablishing of
Lutheranism within the realm.  They would fain see the mass set up
again, and have the Six Articles back."

"The Bloody Statute!" cried Isoult.  "God forgive them!"

"And the third matter is the enclosures," added he.

"Methinks men are not over weighted with religion, that be so ready to
pull it down," remarked Philippa.

"That hangeth on whether it be truth or error," replied he.

"Nay," said she, "you draw lines too fine for me.  What I learnt in my
youth is truth enough for me."

"So do many think," said Avery.  "But there is yet an other question,
Mrs Basset, which they shall some day have to front, though they will
not now; and that is, whether it be truth enough for God?"

But to that she made no answer.

The fugitives journeyed as quietly as possible, yet as quickly as was
safe, until the Saturday.  And then, about four o'clock, as they gained
the ridge of a hill, Dr Thorpe, who rode first, suddenly drew bridle.

"Back, all of you!" cried he.  "Hide you behind the rocks yonder.  An
immense crowd of men is in the valley, advancing this way.  If these be
the commons, God be our help, for we can have none other."

"We can sell our lives dearly, at least," said Avery, looking to his
matchlock.

"We that be men were best to light off our horses," pursued Dr Thorpe,
"and leave the women thereon, that they may fly the faster if need be.
Set them and the childre behind, and thou, Jack, with me and Tom and
Dickon, stand out afore."

"They shall fly cruel slow on yon old black jade," said Tom, grinning.

"Master," inquired Dickon (who was a Somerset man), "if they catch I,
what shall they do to I?"

"Hold your idle tongues!" answered Dr Thorpe sternly, "and see that your
arms are in good order.  Robin, shall we count thee a man, or as one of
the childre?"

"You shall not count me to be guarded, but to guard," said Robin,
stoutly.

"Well said," replied Dr Thorpe.

"Truly, good Doctor, on my word," interposed Philippa, "but you shall
not count me as a sely woman.  I have handled a matchlock afore now, and
I can knock down a man an' I have hold of a poker.  I stand to the
front, an' it like you."

"Well said, brave heart!" answered he.  "So do."

So set, they awaited the death that might be at hand, and prayed to God
to guard them.  All were brave enough but Dickon, and he shivered like
an aspen leaf.

"Thou white-livered [our ancestors believed literally that cowards had
white livers] dolt!" cried Dr Thorpe sharply, and took the matchlock out
of his hands.  "Go behind for a child as thou art."

"And give me his matchlock," said Philippa.

"Take it," he answered.  "You are ten times over the man that he is."

Slowly they heard the tramp of feet advancing nearer and nearer.  All
were silent now.  The feet gained the ridge of the hill--they crossed
it--they came forward on the road.  All at once Avery, who was next that
side, threw down his matchlock with a shout.

"Forward, friends!" cried he triumphantly.  "These are no rebels--these
are the King's Majesty's troops.  See you not the royal lions flying at
the van?  God be with the armies of England!"

The revulsion was great from such terror to comfort, joy, and
thankfulness.  All came forward.  The leader of the army looked at the
group, stayed his horse, and lifted his visor.  A cry of joy broke from
Philippa and Isoult, for they saw beneath his helm a face that they had
known well in the old Calais days.

"Mrs Philippa Basset!" exclaimed he in amazement; "at the least if mine
eyes bewray me not.  And Mrs Barry!  God keep you both!  How come you
here? and do you lack aid?"

"Your eyes be true men, my Lord Grey de Wilton," [Note 2] said Philippa,
"and right glad are mine to light on no unfriendlier face.  Truly at the
first we took you for rebels, and had it not been for your coats and
your standard, I had picked you off with my matchlock ere I wist who it
were."

Lord Grey laughed merrily.

"Nay," said he, "we are marching against the rebels, by the King's
gracious commission.  What may I do for you, my mistresses?  Whither go
you?"

"We be on our way to London," answered Philippa, "if it like the saints
to have us there."

"It may like the troops, maybe, the better," said Lord Grey.  "Well, I
will then send with you certain picked soldiers, good men and true, to
see you safe on your way, if God permit."

"We thank you heartily, and will accept of your goodness with a very
good will," she replied.  "And what news, now?"

"Very ill news," answered he.  "The rebels be up all through Somerset,
and Kent, and Essex, and Lincoln, and Norfolk, and Suffolk."

"Thanks be to our Lady!" cried she; "none of those lie in our way to
London."

"Laud be to God therefor!" answered Lord Grey, gravely; "yet be wary.
How soon may Dorset and Wilts be up likewise?  My Lord of Northampton
layeth siege to Norwich, and ere this, I trust, is my Lord Russell and
his troops around Exeter.  But our work is not yet done by many a day's
labour."

"I pray you, noble sir," asked Dr Thorpe, "if I may aventure myself to
speak unto your Lordship, what think you of this rebellion?  Shall it be
a thing easily crushed, or a more graver matter?"

"I know not," said Lord Grey, turning his head to the speaker.  "It
should seem a very grave matter--another Jack Cade's rebellion.  Yet it
may be subdued readily.  I know not.  This only I know--that `unless the
Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.'"

Lord Grey, turning, called to him one of his officers, and spoke quietly
with him a moment.  Then turning again to Philippa, he said, "Look you
here, Mrs Basset, an't like you.  I will send with you twelve picked
men, that shall be a guard unto you, and shall not leave you until (by
God's allowing), they have you safe in London.  And there come," pursued
he to the captain of the men, "report yourself unto Sir Francis Jobson,
and await his order.  Stay--take with you a token."

Lord Grey drew a ring from his finger, and gave it to that officer who
seemed to be in authority as captain over the twelve men forming the
guard.  Then bowing low, he bade God keep them; and the troops marched
forward at his giving the word.

The little group journeyed on towards Dorset, their guard marching
before with their halberds in their hands.  The captain [a fictitious
person] had some talk with Dr Thorpe and Avery; he told them he was a
London man, and that his mother--a widow--dwelt in the Minories; and
both were Gospellers.  So in due time they reached Dorchester; and
thence Salisbury, both which they found quiet.  And at Windsor they
heard a rumour that Norwich had yielded; which on coming to London they
found true.  They heard further that Exeter was taken by Lord Russell;
and that Lord Grey de Wilton had reached Cornwall.

The captain of their guard took them to his mother, Mistress Brent,
[fictitious persons] whom they found a pleasant and pious woman.  The
next day they began looking for a house; and being inclined to settle in
the Minories [Note 3], Mrs Brent told them of a comfortable house which
was empty next door to her own.  John and Isoult went to see it, liked
it, and took it.  Philippa went to her sister, Lady Elizabeth Jobson, in
the Tower; and Dr Thorpe agreed to remain with the Averys until he
should make up his mind what to do.  Perhaps it was difficult to make
up; for without any regular agreement on the subject, yet to everybody's
satisfaction, they formed one family thereafter.

Meantime there was sad work at Exeter.

The Lord Privy Seal [John Russell, afterwards first Earl of Bedford],
who was sent there with his troops, finding his own forces fewer than
the rebels, stayed at Honiton, while the rebels besieged Exeter: and
right valiantly the men of Exeter kept their town.  [King Edward, from
whose Diary these details are taken, spells these names Honington and
Outrie.]  The rebels burnt the gates, but those within "kept them off by
hot fire, till they had made a rampart; and when they were undermined,
they drowned the mine and the powder with water."  The Lord Privy Seal,
hearing of their bravery, endeavoured to go round a bye-way to reinforce
them; but the rebels, having spies, discovered his movements, and cut
down all the trees between Saint Mary Ottery and Exeter.  Lord Russell
then burnt the town, intending to return home.  But the rebels held a
bridge against him, forcing him with his small band to fall upon them;
when he gained a great victory, killing some hundreds of them, and
retreating homeward without any loss of his own men.  Then Lord Grey
came to his help, and together they raised the siege of Exeter.

At Bodmin, Sir Anthony Kingston, who was sent there, hanged the Mayor, a
fervent Papist: and Father Prideaux would have fared ill at his hands,
had not all the Lutherans and Gospellers in the town risen in his
favour, and testified that he had not joined with other priests in the
rising (for the priests urged and fomented all these risings), but was a
good Protestant and faithful subject.

The fugitives were at first too busy to have much time for lamentation.
But when the pressure of constant occupation was relaxed, and the
furnishing and arranging of matters ended, they began to feel a little
like ship-wrecked men, thrown upon a strange coast.  Isoult Avery was
astonished to find what a stranger she felt in London, where she had
lived some years with Anne Basset and the Duchess of Suffolk.  One
afternoon in September she was peculiarly oppressed by this sense of
solitude in a crowd--the most painful solitude of any--but was trying to
bear up bravely.  She sat at her work, with Kate at her hornbook beside
her, when the door was unlatched, and Isoult heard her husband's
well-known voice say,--"Come in,--you shall see her now."

Isoult rose to receive her unknown visitor.

He was a man of some fifty years or upwards, neither stout nor spare,
but tall, and of an especially stately and majestic carriage.  His face
was bronzed as if with exposure to a southern sun; his hair and eyes
were dark, and he had a long dark beard.  Grave and deliberate in all
his actions, his smile was exquisitely sweet, and his expression
thoughtfully gentle.

"Isoult," said her husband, "this is Mr Rose, an ancient friend of mine,
and now parson of West Ham, nigh unto Richmond.  He would be acquaint
with thee, and so would his wife and daughter."

Isoult rose and louted to the visitor, and gave him her hand; and to her
surprise, Kate, who was commonly very shy with strangers, went up at
once to Mr Rose, and suffered him to lift her upon his knee and kiss
her.

"I knew not you were a man so much to childre's liking," said Avery;
"methinks I never saw my little maid so friendly unto a stranger afore."

"I love them dearly," answered Mr Rose.  "And I pray you, Mrs Avery, if
it will please you to take the pain to visit my wife, that you bring
this little maid withal."

This was Isoult's first introduction to one of the most remarkable men
of the sixteenth century.  Not so, perhaps, as the world sees eminence;
but as God and His angels see it.  Thomas Rose was a Devonshire man, and
had begun to preach about the same time as Latimer.  He was one of the
earliest converts of the Reformation, and was constantly and
consistently persecuted by the Papal party.  Much of his life had been
spent: abroad to escape their machinations.  The entire history of this
man was full of marvellous providences and hairbreadth escapes; and it
was to be fuller yet.  Weary of dealing in this manner, Rome had at
length tried upon him those poisoned shafts which she launched at many a
Gospeller--suborning false witnesses to accuse him of uncommitted
crimes.  Mr Rose stood the trial, and came unscathed out of it.

Isoult readily promised to visit Mrs Rose, though she was slightly
dismayed on afterwards hearing from John that Mr Rose had married a
foreigner.

"A Protestant, I trust?" she asked doubtfully, for she knew little of
foreigners, and with the exception of a handful of Lutherans and
Huguenots, thought they were all Papists--with a margin, of course, for
Jews, Turks, heretics, and infidels.

John laughed as if the question amused him exceedingly.  "Were it
possible," he responded, "that Thomas Rose's wife should be any thing
else?"

The train of visitors was only just beginning.  When Isoult came in from
the market, feeling very tired and overworked, on the following morning,
she found Philippa Basset in her large chair, looking very much at home,
while Kate, on her knee, was chattering away to her with the utmost
freedom.

"Well, Isoult!" was Philippa's greeting.  "Thou dost well to go
a-cheapening of carrots, and leave thy friends that come to visit thee
to find none in the house that they know save this," pointing to Kate.
"How dost thou, dear heart?"

"The better to see you, Mrs Philippa," said she.  "I will not ask how
you do, for you look rarely well.  Verily, I left more in the house than
Kate, or I had taken her withal."

"Isoult, dost thou mean to call me mistress all the days of thy life?"
she asked in answer.

"I mean to call you what it list you," said Isoult, "but truly you never
gave me leave to do other."

"And truly you never asked for it," replied she.  "Howbeit, take it now,
prithee, for ever henceforward."

Isoult thanked her, and asked her "if any news were abroad."

"Any news, quotha?" she answered.  "But a yard or twain.  Hast heard
that my Lord Protector is not in very good case?"

"Nay!" cried Isoult.  "My Lord Protector! what mean you, Mrs Philippa?"

"This, Mrs Avery," answered she.  "My Lord Protector, being no Lutheran,
but a Gospeller, is not over well liked of some that be Lutherans, and
no Gospellers: and as for us poor Catholics, we never (you know) held
him for a saint.  So this being the case (this in thine ear,
Isoult--'tis under _benedicite_ [under the seal of confession]),
certain, if not all of the King's Council, be resolved to be rid of my
high and mighty Lord.  And ere thou be ten days older, I count thou
shalt hear somewhat thereof.  I have so much from a good hand, that can
be trusted; the name I utter not."

"Then," said Isoult, "be the Catholics and Lutherans conspiring together
for this?"

"Truth," answered she; "they that be least Christians of both."

"You say well, Mrs Philippa," replied Isoult.

"Do I so, Mrs Avery?" she answered.

"I cry you mercy!" said Isoult; "Philippa, then, if you will have it
so."

"Ay, I will have it so," said she, laughing.

"But," answered Isoult, "what saith the King's Highness thereto?"

"The King!" exclaimed she.  "The King marketh but his twelfth birthday
this month, dear heart.  What can he know? or an' he spake, who would
heed him?"

"But," said Isoult, "we hear for ever of his Highness' sageness and
wisdom, such as 'tis said never had Prince afore him."

"Did we not so of his father?" asked she, with a short laugh.  "There be
alway that will sing loud hymns to the rising or risen sun.  Sageness
and wisdom, forsooth! of a lad of twelve years!  He may be as sage as he
will, but he will not match Dr Stephen Gardiner yet awhile."

A shudder ran through Isoult Avery at the name of the deviser of the
Bloody Statute.  But the danger of the Protector was too serious a
question to every Gospeller not to be recurred to and prayed against.

"It doth seem to me, Jack," said Isoult that evening, when the story had
been told, "as though the cause of the Gospel should stand or fall with
my Lord Protector.  What thinkest thou?"

"Sweet wife," he answered, "if my Lord Protector were the only prop of
the Gospel, it had fallen long ago.  The prop of the Gospel is not my
Lord or thy Lord, but the Lord of the whole earth.  His strength is
enough to bear it up."

"I know that, Jack," she said.  "Yet God worketh by means; and my Lord
Protector gone, who else is there?"

"Nay, child!" answered Dr Thorpe.  "Is God so lately become unable of
these stones to raise up children unto Abraham?  Shall He, by whose word
a nation shall be born in a day, be too weak to strengthen the King, in
despite of his tender years, or to raise up another man that shall
follow in the wake of my Lord Protector?"

"I know God can do miracles," said Isoult, somewhat despondingly.

"`For all but me'--is that thy thought, sweeting?" asked Avery, smiling.

"But where is there a man?" cried Isoult.

"How know I?" said Dr Thorpe.  "Some whither in the Indies, it may be.
But the Lord shall surely fetch him thence when the time cometh.
Prithee, Jack, bid thy friend the Hot Gospeller to dinner, and leave us
see if he (that I gather from thy talk to be mighty busy in public
matters) can find us a man for the time."

Avery smiled, and said he would ask Mr Underhill to dinner.  But Isoult
shook her head, averring that neither Dr Thorpe nor even the Hot
Gospeller could find a man for the time.

For some days, at her husband's desire, Isoult had been on the look-out
for a bower-woman to replace Jennifer.  She inquired from Mrs Brent and
other neighbours, but could nowhere hear of a satisfactory person.  On
the Sunday evening following Philippa's visit, as they were coming home
from Saint Botolph's, the church which stood at the top of the Minories,
Isoult heard her name softly called from the crowd of dispersing
worshippers.  She looked up into a pair of black, pensive eyes, which
she knew to belong to an old friend--a converted Jewess, who had been
one of her bridesmaids, but whom she had never met since that time.  The
friends halted and clasped hands.

"I knew not you were in this vicinage," said Esther in her grave manner,
"but methought that face could belong to none other."

"We dwell at this present in the Minories," said Isoult, "and are but
now come hither, by reason of certain riots in the western parts.  And
where dwell you?"

"I am now abiding," she replied, "with a friend, one Mistress Little,
until I may find conveniency to meet with a service: for I have left the
one, and am not yet fallen in with the other."

"And I am but now looking for a bower-woman," said Isoult.

"Have you covenanted with any?" asked she quickly.

"Nay," was the answer, "I have not yet fallen in with any with whom to
covenant."

"Mrs Avery, will you take me?" she said, earnestly.

"Nay," answered Isoult, "but will you come to me?  I had thought you
should look for a much better service than mine."

"I could not have a better, methinks," she responded, with a rather
sorrowful smile.  "I would right fain come to you, if that might be."

"Then it may be, dear heart!" said Isoult, much moved by her urgency.
"I would fainer have you than any which I do know, unless it were Annis
Holland, that I have known from the cradle.  But should it like you to
follow me into Devon? for we do look to return thither when the troubles
are past."

"I will follow you any whither," answered she.  "I care nothing where I
am, only this,--that I would liefer be out of London than in it."

So Esther came, and took up her quarters at the sign of the Lamb.  Every
house in London had then its sign, which served the purpose of a number.

Meanwhile the clouds gathered more darkly over the only man in power
(excepting the boy-King himself), who really cared more for the welfare
of England than for his own personal aggrandisement.  And it was not
England which forsook and destroyed Somerset.  It was the so-called
Lutheran faction, to the majority of whom Lutheranism was only the cloak
which hid their selfish political intrigues.  There had been a time when
Somerset was one of them, and had sought his own advancement as they now
did theirs.  And the deserted regiment never pardons the deserter.  The
faction complained that Somerset was proud and self-willed: he worked
alone; he acted on his own responsibility; he did not consult his
friends.  This of course meant in the case of each member of the faction
(as such complaints usually do), "He did not consult _me_."  Somerset
might truthfully have pleaded in reply that he had not a friend to
consult.  The Court held no friend to him; and, worst of all, his own
home held none.  He had, unquestionably, a number of acquaintances, of
that class which has been well and wittily defined as consisting of
"intimate enemies;" and he had a wife, who loved dearly the high title
he had given her, and the splendid fortune with which she kept it up.
But neither she nor any one else loved _him_--except One, who was
sitting above the Water-floods, watching His tried child's life, and
ready, when his extremity should have come, to whisper to that weary and
sorrowful heart, "Come and rest with Me."

But that time was not yet.  The battle must be fought before the rest
could come.

On Friday, the 5th of October, a private gathering of nineteen of the
Council was held at Lord Warwick's house in Holborn--that Lord Warwick
of whom I have already spoken as John Dudley, the half-brother of Lady
Frances Monke.  No man on earth hated Somerset more heartily than
Warwick, and perhaps only one other man hated him quite as much.  While
they were yet debating how to ruin Somerset, a letter came in the King's
name from Secretary Petre, inquiring for what cause they thus gathered
together: if they wished to speak with the Protector they must come
peaceably.  This letter sealed the fate of the conference--and of
Somerset.  The victim, it was evident, was awake and watching.  Ruin
might have served the original purpose: now only one end would serve
it--death.  But Warwick was one of the few who know how to wait.

In this emergency--for he manifestly feared for his life--Somerset
appealed to the only friends he had, the people of England.  And England
responded to the appeal.  Hour after hour thickened the crowd which
watched round Hampton Court, where the King and Protector were; and in
the middle of Sunday night, when he thought it safe, Somerset hastened
to take refuge with his royal nephew in the strong-hold of Windsor [Note
4], the crowd acting as guards and journeying with them.

It was a false move.  The populace were with Somerset, but the army was
with Warwick.  The crowd melted away; the Lords held London; and on
every gate of the city a list of the charges against the Protector was
posted up.  The bird, struggling vainly in the toils of the serpent, was
only exhausting its own life.

These were the charges (in substance), which Isoult Avery found Dr
Thorpe carefully reading when she came home from the market on Monday
morning.  The old man was making comments as he proceeded, not very
complimentary to my Lord of Warwick and his colleagues.

"One.  That he hath made inward divisions.

"Two.  That he hath lost his Majesty's pieces beyond the sea.

"Three.  That he did enrich himself in the war, and left the King's poor
soldiers unpaid of their wages.

"Four.  That he hath laboured to make himself strong in all countries.

"Five.  That he hath subverted all law, justice, and good order, whereby
he hath fearfully shaken the chair of the King's seat.

"Six.  That he hath little esteemed the grave advice of the King's good
and faithful councillors.

"Seven.  That he hath little regarded the order appointed by King Henry,
for the government of his son.

"Eight.  That he hath laboured to sow dissension in the kingdom among
the nobles, gentlemen, and commoners.

"Nine.  That the King and kingdom hath suffered great loss by his wilful
negligence."

"`Shaken the chair of the King's seat!'" cried he.  "If the men be not
rebels that writ this paper, I have little wit to know what a rebel is.
How dare they speak or think of shaking the King's seat, which is in the
hands of God, and is accountable unto none save Him?--`Little esteemed
the advice of the King's faithful councillors'--to wit, the runagates
that writ this paper.  `Laboured to sow dissension betwixt the gentry
and the commoners!'  'Tis the enclosures they point at, I reckon.  What!
was he the only man that allowed them? and who could have thought the
commons had been such dolts?  Now let us see the names of these wise,
good, and faithful councillors.  `R. Rich, W. Saint John, W.
Northampton, J. Warwick,'" [Note 5] and he paused a minute.  "Isoult,"
said he again, "methinks that Earl of Warwick is a knave."

"I never thought him otherwise, Dr Thorpe," said Isoult quietly.

Sir Anthony Wingfield was sent by the Lords of the Council to Windsor on
the following Friday.  He parted the Lord Protector from the King, and
set a strong guard to watch him until the coming of the Lords.  On the
Saturday the Lord Chancellor and the Council rode to Windsor, and that
night the Protector was set in ward in the Beauchamp Tower of Windsor
Castle.  And on the Monday afternoon was the Duke of Somerset (no longer
Lord Protector) brought to the Tower of London, riding between the Earls
of Southampton and Huntingdon, accompanied by many gentlemen, and three
hundred horse.  At his own desire, he came into London by way of Saint
Giles in the Fields; and opposite Soper Lane were knights sitting on
horseback, and all the officers with halberds.  And so they led him from
Holborn Bridge to Cheapside; where, with a loud voice, he cried to the
bystanders, "Good people, I am as true a man to the King as any here."
In all the streets were Aldermen or their deputies, on horseback; and
the householders, each man at his door, all standing with bills in their
hands, as he passed.  And so he was conducted to the Tower, where he
remained.

"As true a man to the King!"  Poor little Edward, bewildered and
deceived!  He did not know there was none other half so true.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  The enclosure riots had a more religious aspect in the West
than in the East or the Midland Counties.

Note 2.  William Lord Grey de Wilton was an eminent General, and a
staunch Gospeller.  He had been a member of the Council at Calais during
the persecution, and his close friendship with Lord and Lady Lisle is
shown by the fact that of his three children, two bore their names.
Lord Grey died at Cheston, near Waltham, December 25, 1562.

Note 3.  The Minories was then to all intents in the country.  A single
street, Whitechapel Bars, lay between it and the Spital Field on the
north; in front (west) was the city wall, with its gardens; on the east
lay Goodman's Fields, and an open space to the south, bounded by the
Tower enclosure and the Thames.  It must have been a very pleasant
suburb.

Note 4.  Most historians say that the removal was against Edward's will.
The account given by himself shows no trace of any such feeling.

Note 5.  At this era, peers did not use their titles only in signature,
but added at least the initial of the Christian name.



CHAPTER FOUR.

BENEATH BLUE SKY.

  "Ere suns and moons could wax and wane
  Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled
  The heavens, God thought on me His child,
  Ordained a life for me, arrayed
  Its circumstances every one
  To the minutest; ay, God said
  This head this hand should rest upon
  Thus, ere He fashioned star or sun."

  Robert Browning.

The 24th of October brought the expected letter from Simon Pendexter to
the master of Bradmond, and another from Marian to the mistress.
Simon's epistle was read first; but it proved to require both an English
dictionary and a Latin lexicon.  Simon wrote of "circumstances," [then a
new and affected word], of the "culpable dexterity" of the rebels who
had visited Bradmond, of their "inflammatory promulgation," of the
"celerity" of his own actions in reply, and of his "debarring from
dilation the aforesaid _ignis_."  He left them in a cloud of words, of
which Dr Thorpe understood about half, and Isoult much less.  John,
being a little wiser, was called upon for a translation.  "Hang me if I
know what the fellow is a-writing about!" testily cried Dr Thorpe.
"Jack, do thou put this foolery into decent English!"

"The enclosure men burnt your house, old friend," said John.  "Have
there the English."

"Plain enough at last, by my troth!" cried he.

A little more progress was made with Mr Pendexter's missive, when Isoult
interrupted it by exclaiming--

"Do tell me what he meaneth, Jack!"

"They set our house afire, dear heart, but he soon put it out,"
translated John.

"It was likely afeard of his big ruffling words!" said Dr Thorpe.

The letter concluded thus:--"With the which considerations, I do commit
your Honour to the tuition of God.  Inscribed at Bodmin, _die Veneris_,
the fourth in the month of October.  By the hand of your Honour's most
undemeritous and obeisant _paedagogus_, Simon Pendexter."

"This companion is clean out of his wits!" exclaimed Dr Thorpe.

"Isoult, read thy little letter," said John.  "Metrusteth it shall be
more clear than Simon's, and, at all charges, 'tis shorter."

"Unto Mistress Avery, At the Minories in London."

"Mistress,--This shall be to advertise you (my lowly duties first
remembered), that the fourteenth of July come unto Bradmond the ill men
you wot of, and after casting mine husband and me forth of the house
with little gentleness, did spread themselves thereabout, drinking up
the wine in the cellar, and otherwise making great bruit and disorder.
And in the end they set fire thereto, and departed.  God helping us, we
shortly had the fire under, for it began to rain; but the whole house is
ruinated, and a deal of mischief done.  Mistress, all the hangings be
burned or torn, and the furniture is but splinters; and the very walls
so knocked about, and the garden all trampled and desolated, that I am
well assured, were you this minute on the ground you should not find
conveniency to enter and abide for many a long day yet.  And in good
sooth, 'twill lack a mint of money spent thereon ere the house be meet
for any, let be a gentleman and gentlewoman of your honourableness.
Mistress, they tare away all the shutters, and tare up the planks of
some of the floors: and they left not a latch nor an andiron whole in
all the house.  Mine husband hath writ to Mr Avery.  From Bodmin, this
fourth day of October.  Mistress, I do beseech you of your gentleness to
give my poor sister to know that I do fare well, and trust so doth she
likewise.

"By the rude hand of her that is your servant, Marian Pendexter."

"Rude hand!" said John.  "Commend me to Marian Pendexter for the writing
of a letter.  'Tis one-half so long as Simon's, and tells us twice so
much as he; and her round letters be as clear as print, while his be all
quips and flourishes.  Well, I account we shall needs abide hither for
some time, Isoult; but methinks I must ride home, and see how matters
stand; and if the garden be truly desolated as for roses and the like,
well, the ground may as well be set with carrots and cabbages, that can
be sold.  And on my return hither, I must set me, as fast as I may, unto
the making of _pecunia_, as Simon hath it, in my calling.  Metrusteth
the house shall not need to be pulled down and built up again; for that
should take, methinks, some years to raise.  Howbeit, 'tis no good
looking forward too far."

Dr Thorpe said, when he had sat for a time in silence, "Ah, well! the
will of the Lord be done!  I trow they shall scantly burn mine other
house, in that city which hath foundations."

"Mr Edward Underhill, the Hot Gospeller."

Isoult Avery looked up and rose when John made this announcement, to the
evident amusement of the person introduced.

The Hot Gospeller's age was thirty-seven; of his personal appearance we
have no trustworthy account.  It may safely be asserted that his
feelings were strong, his affections warm, his partisanship fervent, and
his organ of humour decidedly developed.  I picture him lithe and quick,
with ready tongue and brilliant eyes; but perhaps I am as much mistaken
as Isoult was concerning Alice Wikes.  If the mania "_de faire son
portrait_" which was so much the fashion in France in the reign of Louis
the Fourteenth had pervaded England in the sixteenth century, we might
have obtained much curious information which is now lost to us.

When all the members of our little group were gathered round the
dinner-table,--which was not until eleven a.m., for the Averys dined
unusually late that day--Dr Thorpe laid the subject which had been
discussed before Mr Underhill, and requested his opinion on the matter.
Could he find a man for the time?

Isoult shook her head dubiously.

"With whom take you part?" said Dr Thorpe.

"With both of you," answered Mr Underhill.  "I lean to Mistress Avery's
thought that there is no man for the time; but I do partly share your
opinion, in that methinks there may be a woman."

"A woman, Mr Underhill?" cried Isoult, in amazement.

"What woman?" said Dr Thorpe.  "My Lady Duchess of Suffolk, I ween.
Nay, Master; she is good enough as may be, but her money-bags are a
sight scantier than when my Lord Duke was in life."

"My Lady of Suffolk! not she, forsooth," replied he.  "Nay, good Doctor;
mine hopes are anchored (under God) on none other than the King's `sweet
sister Temperance'--my young Lady Elizabeth's Grace."

"The Lady Elizabeth!" repeated Dr Thorpe, in a voice which intimated his
meaning.  "A child at her book and needle, Master Underhill!"

"She will not alway be so," answered he.  "Nor shall she be such long."

"And afore her standeth another," continued the doctor.

"Afore her standeth another," repeated Mr Underhill.  "Nor shall any man
alive ever see me to do evil that good may come.  But I scantly
signified all you would make me to say.  I did but point to my Lady
Elizabeth's power with the King, not to her being one to stand in her
own power, which God long defend!"

Dr Thorpe shook his head in turn, but did not further explain himself.

"You have friends at Court," said John to Mr Underhill.  "Which of these
ladies is commonly thought to stand best with the King her brother?"

"The Lady Elizabeth, by many a mile," answered he.  "And to go by what I
hear from her tutor Mr Ascham, a fair and ready wit enough she hath.
The Lady Frances [Note 1] her daughters, likewise, be great with the
King, and are young damsels of right sweet nature and good learning, so
far as their young age may show the same."

"What say men of the King's wedding?" quoth Dr Thorpe.  "Is it yet the
Queen of Scots?"

"The friends of my Lord Protector say 'tis a Princess of France; and his
foes will have it that had he not fallen too soon, it should have been--
the Lady Jane Seymour."

"What, my Lord Protector his daughter?" inquired Isoult.

"She," said Mr Underhill.

"That hath an ill look, an' it were so," remarked John, thoughtfully.

"`Less like than Paul's steeple to a dagger sheath,'" quoted Dr Thorpe,
who was rather fond of proverbs.

"Go to, Jack! we are all for ourselves in this world," responded Mr
Underhill philosophically.  "As to like, it may be no more like than
chalk to cheese, and yet be in every man's mouth from Aldgate to the
Barbican.  My Lord Protector is neither better nor worse than other men.
If you or I were in his shoes, we should do the like."

"I trust not, friend," said John, smiling.

"A rush for your trust!" laughed Mr Underhill.  "I would not trust
either of us."

"But I would so!" said Isoult warmly.  "Mr Underhill, you surely think
not that if Jack were Lord Protector, he should strive and plot for the
King to espouse our Kate?"

"Of course he would," said Underhill coolly.  "And so would you."

"Never!" she cried.

"Well, I am sure I should.  Think you I would not by my good will see my
Nan a queen?" answered he.

"With a reasonable chance of Tower Hill?" suggested Avery.  "You and I
have seen queens come to _that_, Ned Underhill."

"Well, there is better air at the Lime Hurst," replied Underhill
sententiously.

A long conference was held concerning the repairs at Bradmond.  The
resolution finally adopted was that John should ride home and ascertain
what the state of affairs really was.  Hitherto the family had been
living on their rents, with little need for professional work on John's
part unless it pleased him.  Slight repairs, however, would entail
saving; and serious ones might keep them in London for years, until he
had laid up sufficient money to defray them.

"'Tis all in the day's work," he said lightly, to cheer his wife.  "I
must have a factor to see unto the place, and for that Simon Pendexter
shall serve, if he affright not the poor tenants with his long words;
and I myself must needs set to work hard.  'Twill do me good, dear
heart; (for he saw Isoult look sad) I have hitherto been lazy, and only
have played at working."

So John left London on the first of November, along with a convoy of
travellers bound for Exeter; charging Isoult to make acquaintance in his
absence with Mrs Rose and Mrs Underhill, with the object of giving her
something to do.

"And think not, sweet wife," said he, "that we be all going a-begging,
because of what I said touching money.  I cast no doubt to make more
than enough thereof in my calling to keep all us, and that comfortably;
only if there lack much outlay at Bodmin, it shall need time to gather
wherewith to pay it.  Above all, I would not with my good will have any
stint in mine hospitality, specially unto them that be of the household
of faith.  Leave us not turn Christ our Master out at the doors, at the
least unless we need go there ourselves with Him."

A week after John's departure, Isoult put his advice into action, rather
because he had given it, than with any real hope of dispelling the
intense loneliness she felt.  Robin went with her, and Kate, all riding
upon Bayard, to West Ham, where they were directed to a small house near
the church as the residence of the parson.  For in those days parson had
not lost its original honourable meaning, whereby the clergyman was
spoken of as _par excellence_ "the person" in the parish.  The trio
alighted, and Isoult rapped at the door.  A girl of fifteen answered the
knock.

She was tall for her age, but slenderly built.  Her hair was of the
fairest shade of golden--the pale gold of our old poets--and her eyes
were brown.  Not a bright, shining brown; this brown was deep and misty,
and its light was the light given back from a lake, not the light of a
star.  In her face there was no rose at all; it was pure and pale as a
snowdrop; and her look, Isoult thought, was like the look of an angel.
Her smile was embodied sweetness; her voice soft and low, clear as a
silver bell.  There are few such voices out of England, but the
combination of fair hair with dark eyes is the Venetian style of beauty.
Rare in any land, yet there are occasional instances in each.  For
such, in Italy, was Dante's Beatrice; such, in Germany, was Louise of
Stolberg, the wife of the last Stuart; and such, with ourselves, was
"England's Elizabeth."

"Doth Mistress Rose here dwell, and may one have speech of her?"
inquired Isoult of the vision before her.

"Will it please you to take the pain to come within?" answered the sweet
voice.  "I am Thekla Rose."

Wondering at a name which she had never heard before, Isoult suffered
Thekla to lead her into a small, pleasant parlour, where Mrs Rose sat
spinning.  She was a comely, comfortable-looking woman of middle height,
round-faced and rosy, with fair hair like her daughter's, but grey eyes.
Isoult had forgotten her foreign origin till she heard her speak.  Her
English, however, was fluent and pleasant enough; and she told her
visitors that she came from a town in Flanders, close to the German
border.

"Where," pursued Mrs Rose, "people are bred up in their common life to
speak four tongues; which shall say, Flemish--that is the language of
Flanders; and Spanish--the Spaniards do rule over us; and Low Dutch
[German],--because we have much to do with the Low Dutch; and the better
bred women also French.  And I teach my Thekla all these tongues, saving
the Flemish; for they speak not Flemish only in Flanders; it should do
her not much good.  But in all these four tongues have I kinsfolk; for
my father was a true-born Fleming, and to him I alway spake Flemish; and
my mother was a Spanish woman, and I spake Spanish with her; and my
father's brother was wedded unto a dame of Low Dutchland (for whom my
daughter is named Thekla, which is a Low Dutch name); and his sister did
marry a Frenchman.  So you shall see I am akin to all this world!"

Mistress Rose entreated her guests to stay for four-hours, when she
hoped Mr Rose would be at home; but Isoult was somewhat afraid of losing
her way in the dark, and declined.  So she called her maid, and bade her
bring cakes and ale, and take Bayard to the shed where their nag was
stabled, and give him a mess of oats; begging them at least to stay an
hour or two.  Then Robin came in, and talked to Thekla and Kate, while
Isoult was occupied with Mrs Rose.  Mr Rose they did not see; his wife
said he was in his parish, visiting the people.  So at two o'clock they
departed, and reached home just as the dusk fell.

The next day Isoult rode to the Lime Hurst, to see Mrs Underhill.  She
found her a pleasant motherly woman, full of kindness and cordiality.
As they sat and talked Mr Underhill came in, and joined the
conversation; telling Isoult, among other matters, how he had once saved
Lord Russell from drowning, the heir of the House of Bedford.  The boy
had been thrown into the Thames opposite his house, in a bitterly cold
winter; and Underhill, springing in after him, rescued him, carried him
to his own house, and nursed him back to life.  Since that time the Earl
of Bedford had been the attached friend of his child's preserver.
[Underhill's Narrative, Harl. Ms. 425, folio 87, b.]

When Isoult returned home, she found a letter from Annis Holland
awaiting her.  It contained an urgent invitation from the Duchess of
Suffolk to visit her at her little villa at Kingston-on-Thames.  Isoult
hesitated to accept the invitation, but Dr Thorpe, who thought she
looked pale and tired, over-ruled her, chiefly by saying that he was
sure John would prefer her going; so she wrote to accept the offer, and
started with Robin on the following Monday.

Skirting the City wall, they passed through Smithfield and Holborn, and
turned away from Saint Giles into the Reading road, the precursor of
Piccadilly.  The roads were good for the time of year, and they reached
Kingston before dark.  The next morning Robin returned home, with strict
charges to fetch Isoult in a week, and sooner should either of the
children fall ill.

After Robin's departure, Isoult waited on the Duchess, whom she found
sitting in a cedar chamber, the casement looking on the river and the
terrace above it.  As the friends sat and talked in came a small white
dog, wagging its tail, but with very dirty paws.

"Get out, Doctor Gardiner!" cried her Grace, rising hastily, as the
soiled paws endeavoured to jump upon her velvet dress.  "I cannot abide
such unclean paws.  Go get you washed ere you come into my chamber!--
Bertie!"

Mr Bertie came in from the antechamber at her Grace's call; and smiling
when he saw what she wanted, he lifted the dog and set it outside.

"Have Dr Gardiner washed, prithee!" said the Duchess.  "I love a clean
dog, but I cannot abide a foul one."

Isoult could not help laughing when she heard her Grace call her dog by
Bishop Gardiner's name.

"He is easier cleansed than his namesake," she resumed, shaking her
head.  "If my Lord of Winchester win again into power, I count I shall
come ill off.  As thou wist, Isoult, I have a wit that doth at times
outrun my discretion; and when I was last in London, passing by the
Tower, I did see Master Doctor Gardiner a-looking from, a little window.
And `Good morrow, my Lord!' quoth I, in more haste than wisdom; `'tis
merry with the lambs, now the wolves be kept close!'  I count he will
not forgive me therefor in sharp haste."

Mr Bertie smiled and shook his head.

"Now, Bertie, leave thine head still!" said her Grace.  "I know what
thou wouldst say as well as if I had it set in print.  I am all
indiscreetness, and thou all prudence.  He that should bray our souls
together in a mortar should make an excellent wit of both."

"Your Grace is too flattering, methinks," said Mr Bertie, still smiling.

"Am I so, verily?" answered she.  "Isoult, what thinkest thou?  'Twas
not I that gave the dog his name; it was Bertie here (who should be
'shamed of his deed, and is not so at all) and I did but take up the
name after him.  And this last summer what thinkest yon silly maid
Lucrece did?  (one of the Duchess's waiting-women, a fictitious person).
Why, she set to work and made a rochet in little, and set it on the
dog's back.  Heardst thou ever the like?  And there was he, a-running
about the house with his rochet on him, and all trailing in the mire.  I
know not whether Annis were wholly free of some knowledge thereof--nor
Bertie neither.  He said he knew not; I marvel whether he spake truth!"

"That did I, an't like your Grace," replied Mr Bertie, laughing.  "I saw
not the rochet, neither knew of it, afore yourself."

"Well, I count I must e'en crede thee!" said she.

It struck Isoult that the Duchess and her gentleman usher were
uncommonly good friends; rather more so than was usual at that time.
She set it down to their mutual Lutheranism; but she might have found
for it another and a more personal reason, which they had not yet
thought proper to declare openly.  The Duchess and Bertie were privately
engaged, but they told no one till their marriage astonished the world.

Isoult reached home on the sixteenth of December; and on Twelfth Day,
1550, John returned from Cornwall.  He brought word that the repairs
needed were more extensive than any one had supposed from the Pendexter
epistles.  Part of the house required rebuilding; and he was determined
not to begin before he could finish.  The result was, that they would
have to remain in London, probably, for five or six years more.

Shortly after John's return, a gentleman called to see him.  His name
was Roger Holland, and he was a merchant tailor in the City, but of
gentle birth, and related to the Earl of Derby.  Isoult wished to know
if he could be any connection of her friend Annis.  John thought not:
but "thereby hung a tale."

"This gentleman," said John Avery, "was in his young years bound
apprentice unto one Master Kempton, of the Blade Boy in Watling Street:
and in this time he (being young and unwary) did fall into evil company,
which caused him to game with them, and he all unskilfully lost unto
them not only his own money, but (every groat) thirty pounds which his
master had entrusted unto him to receive for him of them that ought it
[owed it].  Moreover, at this time was he a stubborn Papist, in which
way he had been bred.  So he, coming unto his master's house all
despairing, thought to make up his bundle, and escape away out of his
master's house, (which was a stern man) and take refuge over seas, in
France or Flanders.  But afore he did this indiscreet thing, he was
avised [he made up his mind] to tell all unto a certain ancient and
discreet maid that was servant in this his master's family, by name
Elizabeth Lake, which had aforetime showed him kindness.  So he gat up
betimes of the morrow, and having called unto her, he saith--`Elizabeth,
I would I had followed thy gentle persuadings and friendly rebukes;
which if I had done, I had never come to this shame and misery which I
am now fallen into; for this night have I lost thirty pounds of my
master's money, which to pay him, and to make up mine accounts, I am not
able.  But this much I pray you, desire my mistress, that she would
entreat my master to take this bill of my hand that I am this much
indebted unto him; and if I be ever able, I will see him paid; desiring
him that the matter may pass with silence, and that none of my kindred
nor friends may ever understand this my lewd part; for if it should come
unto my father's ears, it would bring his grey hairs over-soon unto his
grave.'

"And so would he have departed, like unto Sir Richard at the Lea, in the
fair old ballad--

  "`Fare wel, frende, and have good daye--
  It may noo better be.'

  [From "A Litel Geste of Robyn Hode."]

"But Elizabeth was as good unto him as ever Robin Hood unto the Knight
of Lancashire; yea, and better, as shall be seen.  `Stay,' saith she,
and away went she forth of the chamber.  And afore he was well over his
surprise thereat, back cometh she, and poured out of a purse before him
on the table thirty pound in good red gold.  This money she had by the
death of a kinsman of hers, but then newly come unto her.  Quoth she,
`Roger, here is thus much money; I will let thee have it, and I will
keep this bill.  But since I do thus much for thee, to help thee, and to
save thy honesty, thou shalt promise me to refuse all wild company, all
swearing, and unseemly talk; and if ever I know thee to play one
twelve-pence at either dice or cards, then will I show this thy bill
unto my master.  And furthermore, thou shalt promise me to resort every
day to the lecture at All Hallows, and the sermon at Poules every
Sunday, and to cast away all thy books of Papistry and vain ballads, and
get thee the Testament and Book of Service, and read the Scriptures with
reverence and fear, calling unto God still for His grace to direct thee
in His truth.  And pray unto God fervently, desiring Him to pardon thy
former offences, and not to remember the sins of thy youth; and ever be
afraid to break His laws, or offend His majesty.  Then shall God keep
thee, and send thee thy heart's desire.'

"So Mr Holland took her money, and kept his obligations unto her.  And
in the space of one half-year, so mightily wrought God's Spirit with
him, that of a great Papist he became as fervent a Gospeller; and going
into Lancashire unto his father, he took with him divers good books, and
there bestowed them, so that his father and others began to taste of the
gospel, and to leave their idolatry and superstition: and at last his
father, seeing the good reformation wrought in this his son, gave him
fifty pounds to begin the world withal, and sent him again to London,
where he now driveth a fair trade."

"And hath he met again with Mistress Lake," said Isoult, "and restored
unto her her thirty pounds?"

"That I cannot tell," returned John.

A letter came before long from Mr Barry, written at Christmas, and
informing his sister that matters were now settled and peaceable.
Indeed, at Wynscote they had heard nothing of the rioters.  But
Potheridge had been surrounded, and in answer to the rebels' summons to
surrender, Mr Monke had sent them a dauntless message of defiance: upon
which they had replied with threats of terrible vengeance, but had
retired, discomfited at the first trial of strength, and never came near
the place more.

Darker grew the clouds, meanwhile, over the prisoner in the Tower.  His
enemies drew up twenty-nine articles against him, and, going to him in
his captivity, read them to him, and informed the world that he had
humbly confessed them.

"Well," said John Avery, "some of these be but matter for laughter.  To
wit, that the Duke did command multiplication [coining] and alcumistry,
whereby the King's coin was abated.  As though my Lord of Somerset
should take upon him to abate the King's coin!"

"Nay, better men than he have dealt with alcumistry," answered Dr
Thorpe.  "The former charge moveth my laughter rather,--That my said
Lord hath done things too much by himself: to wit, without the knowledge
and sage avisement of these my Lords of the King's Council.  Is there so
much as one of them that would not do the same an' he had the chance?"

"Why," said Avery, "he had the chance, and therein lieth his offence.
They had not, and therein lieth their virtue."

From two poor innocent lambs cruelly pent up by the Protector, now that
he was himself in durance, there came a great outcry for relief.  These
were the imprisoned prelates, Bonner and Gardiner.  The latter said that
"he had been in prison one year and a quarter and a month; and he lacked
air to relieve his body, and books to relieve his mind, and good company
(the only solace of this world), and lastly, a just cause why he should
have come thither at all."  How well can the wolf counterfeit the lamb!
Had none of his prisoners lacked air, and books?  And had my Lord Bishop
of Winchester been so careful to see to a just cause in the case of
every man he sent to Tower or Fleet?

On the 27th of January the leaders of the Devon riots were hanged at
Tyburn; the chief of whom was Humphrey Arundel.  And on the 6th of
February the Duke of Somerset was delivered from the Tower, and suffered
to go home; but four days before a change had been made in the Council,
the Earls of Arundel and Southampton being dismissed and ordered to keep
their houses in London during the King's pleasure.

Mrs Rose and Thekla came several times to visit Isoult, and she returned
the compliment.  And one day in February came Philippa Basset, who was
about to go into Cheshire, to visit her sister, Lady Bridget Carden,
with whom she passed nearly a year before Isoult saw her again.  Lady
Bridget really was not her sister at all, she being Lord Lisle's
daughter, and Philippa Lady Lisle's; but they had been educated as
sisters, and as sisters they loved.  Not long afterwards, Sir Francis
Jobson resigned his office at the Tower, and went home to his own estate
of Monkwich, in Essex.  His wife was the Lady Elizabeth, sister of Lady
Bridget; and with her Philippa had lived ever since she came to London.
When she came back, therefore, she was forced to look out for another
home, for she did not wish to follow them into Essex: and she went to
her own youngest brother, Mr James Basset, who had a house in London.

All this while the Reformation was quietly progressing.  On the 19th of
April, Bishop Ridley came to Saint Paul's Cathedral, in communion-time,
and received the sacrament, together with Dr May, the Dean, and Dr
Barne; both the Dean and the Bishop took the consecrated bread in their
hands, instead of holding out the tongue, for the priest to put the
wafer upon it.  And before the Bishop would come into the choir, he
commanded all the lights that were on the Lord's Table to be put out.
The Dean, who was a Lutheran, was well pleased at all this; but not so
other men who were more kindly disposed towards Popery; and there was
much murmuring and disputing.

At this time the Princess Mary was hanging between life and death at
Kenninghall.  We know now how all things had been changed had she died.
But God could not spare her who was to be (however unwittingly or
unwillingly) the purifier of His Church, to show which was the dross,
and which the gold.

Some turmoil was also made concerning Joan Boucher, an Anabaptist girl
who had been condemned for heresy, and was burned in Smithfield on the
2nd of May.  The Papal party, ever ready to throw stones at the
Protestants, cried that "the old burning days were come again," and that
Archbishop Cranmer was just as much a persecutor as Bishop Gardiner.
They saw no difference between a solitary victim of the one (if Joan
Boucher can be called so), and the other's piles of martyrs.  Isoult,
rather puzzled about the question, referred it to her husband--the
manner in which she usually ended her perplexities.

"Dear heart," said he, "there be so few that can keep the mean.  When
men take God's sword in hand, is it any wonder that they handle it ill?"

"But wouldst thou leave such ill fawtors unchastened, Jack?" exclaimed
Dr Thorpe rather indignantly.

"That were scantly the mean, I take it," quietly returned he.

Mr Underhill was just then busied in presenting before the Archbishop of
Canterbury his parish priest, Mr Albutt, Vicar of Stepney, for his
unseemly behaviour to the Lutheran clergy who came, by order of the King
and the Archbishop, to preach in his church.  For he disturbed the
preachers in his church (writes Underhill), "causing bells to be rung
when they were at the sermon, and sometimes began to sing in the choir
before the sermon were half done, and sometimes would challenge
[publicly dispute his doctrines] the preacher in the pulpit; for he was
a strong stout Popish prelate.  But the Archbishop was too full of
lenity; a little he rebuked him, and bade him do no more so."

"My Lord," said Mr Underhill, "I think you are too gentle unto so stout
a Papist."

"Well," said he, "we have no law to punish them by."

"No law, my Lord!" cried Mr Underhill; "If I had your authority, I would
be so bold as to un-vicar him, or minister some sharp punishment unto
him and such other.  If ever it come to their turn, they will show you
no such favour."

"Well," said the Archbishop in his gentle manner, "if God so provide, we
must all bide it."

"Surely," answered Mr Underhill in his manner, which was blunt and
fearless, "God shall never con you thanks [owe you thanks] for this, but
rather take the sword from such as will not use it upon his enemies."
[Note 2.]

Mr and Mrs Rose, Thekla, and Mr Underhill, dined at the sign of the Lamb
one day in June.  Unfortunately, their conversation turned upon the
succession: and owing to the warmth of the weather, or of Mr Edward
Underhill, it became rather exciting.  Mr Rose was unexpectedly found to
hold what that gentleman considered heretical political views: namely,
that if the King should die childless, it would be competent to the
Gospellers to endeavour to hinder the succession of the Princess Mary in
favour of the Princess Elizabeth.  This, Underhill hotly protested,
would be doing evil that good might come.

"And," said he, "if it come to that pass, I myself, though I would a
thousand times rather have my Lady Elizabeth to reign, yet would I gird
on my sword over my buff jerkin, and fight for the Lady Mary!"

Mr Rose shook his head, but did not speak.

"Right is right, Thomas Rose!" cried Underhill, somewhat hotly.

"Truth, friend," answered he, "and wrong is wrong.  But which were the
right, and which were the wrong, of these two afore God, perchance you
and I might differ."

"Differ, forsooth!" cried Underhill again.  "Be two and two come to make
five? or is there no variance in your eyes betwixt watchet [pale blue]
and brasil [red]?  The matter is as plain to be seen as Westminster
Abbey, if a man shut not his eyes."

"I have known men do such things," said Mr Rose, with his quiet smile.

"I thank you, my master!" responded Underhill.  "So have I."

"Now, Ned Underhill, leave wrangling," said Avery.  "We be none of us
neither prophets nor apostles."

"`Brethren, be ye all of one mind,'" repeated Dr Thorpe.

"I am ready enough to be of one mind with Rose," said Underhill, "an' he
will listen to reason."

"That is," answered John, smiling, "an' he will come over to you, and
look through your spectacles."

"Man o' life! we can't be both right!" cried Underhill, striking his
hand heavily on the table.

"You may be both wrong, Ned," gently suggested John.

"Come, Rose!" said Underhill, cooling as suddenly as he had heated, and
holding out his hand.  "We are but a pair of fools to quarrel.  I
forgive you."

"I knew not that I quarrelled with you, friend," said Mr Rose, with his
quiet smile; "and I have nothing to forgive."

But he put his hand in Underhill's readily enough.

"You are a better Christian than I, methinks," muttered Underhill,
somewhat ashamed.  "But you know what a hot fellow I am."

"We will both essay to be as good Christians as we can," quietly
answered Mr Rose; "and that is, as like Christ as we can.  Methinks He
scantly gave hot words to Peter, whether the Emperor Tiberius Caesar
should have reigned or no."

"Ah!" said John, gravely, "he that should think first how Christ should
answer, should rarely indeed be found in hot words, and in evil, never."

"Well," replied Mr Underhill, "I am of complexion somewhat like Peter.
I could strike off the ear of Malchus an' I caught him laying hands on
my Master (yea, I know not if I should stay at the ear); and it had been
much had I kept that sword off the High Priest himself.  Ay, though I
had been hanged the hour after."

"The cause seemeth to lack such men at times," said John, thoughtfully,
"and then the Lord raiseth them up.  But we should not forget, Ned, that
`they which take the sword shall perish with the sword.'"

"Well!" cried Underhill, "I care not if I do perish with the sword, if I
may first mow down a score or twain of the enemies of the Gospel."

"Such men commonly do so," said Mr Rose aside to Isoult, by whom he sat.

"Do what?" broke in Underhill, who heard it.

"Do perish with the sword," answered he firmly, looking him full in the
face.

"Amen!" cried the other.  "I am abundantly ready--only, pray you, let me
have a good tilt with the old _mumpsimuses_ first."  [Note 3.]

"I would I were a little more like you, Underhill," said Mr Rose.  "I
could suffer, as methinks, and perchance fly, an' I had the opportunity;
but resist or defend me, that could I not."

"Call me to resist and defend you," answered Underhill.  "It were right
in my fashion."

"You may not be within call," said Mr Rose somewhat gloomily.  "But God
will be so."

"Mr Rose," said Isoult, "look you for a further persecution, that you
speak thus?"

Thekla's eyes filled with tears.

"As Jack saith, Mrs Avery," he answered, "I am neither prophet nor
apostle.  But methinks none of us is out of his place upon the
watch-tower.  There be black clouds in the sky--very black
thunder-clouds.  How know I whether they shall break or pass over?  Only
God knoweth; and He shall carry us all safe through them that have
trusted ourselves to Him.  That is a word full of signification--`Some
of you shall they cause to be put to death...  _Yet_ shall not an hair
of your heads perish.'  Our Master may leave any of His servants to die
or suffer; He will never allow so much as one of them to perish.  O
brethren! only let the thunder find us watching, praying always; and
whether we escape or no, we are assured that we shall be `counted worthy
to stand before the Son of Man.'  I would not like to `be _ashamed_
before Him at His coming.'"

No one answered.  All were too full of thought for words.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  The Lady Frances was the eldest daughter of Charles Duke of
Suffolk by his fourth wife, the Princess Mary, and was therefore in the
line of succession to the throne.  Her daughters were the Ladies Jane,
Katherine, and Mary Grey.

Note 2.  Harl. Ms. 425, folio 93.--Underhill gives no date for this
incident beyond saying "In King Edward's time."

Note 3.  In the reign of Henry the Eighth, an old priest was found who
for forty years had read the word _sumpsimus_ in his breviary as
_mumpsimus_.  On being remonstrated with, he retorted that "He would not
leave his old _mumpsimus_ for their new _sumpsimus_."  This story was
long popular with the Gospellers, who dubbed the Popish priests
_mumpsimuses_.



CHAPTER FIVE.

GATHERING CLOUDS.

  "God lays His burden on each back;
  But who
  What is within the pack
  May know?"

Half of the reign of Josiah, as his people loved to call him, was run
out in the summer of 1550.  The breathing-time of hope was nearly over.

A June morning in that summer found Isoult Avery seated by the window at
work, and Robin Tremayne holding a book which he was _not_ reading.  His
eyes were intently watching the light feathery clouds which floated
across the blue space beyond, and his thoughts were equally intent on
some subject not yet apparent.  Except Walter, who was busy in the
corner, manufacturing paper boats, there was no one else in the room.

Robin broke the silence, and rather suddenly.

"Mother,"--he had come to call her so,--"what think you of Mr Rose?"

"What think I of him, Robin?" repeated Isoult, looking up, while a faint
expression of surprise crossed her gentle countenance.  "Why, he liketh
me very well!"

"And what think you of Mrs Rose, Mother?"

The surprise increased in Isoult's look, and it was accompanied now by
perplexity.  But she only answered--

"She liketh me only less than her husband.  I would she had been
English-born, but that cannot she well help; and I have none other fault
to find with her."

"And what think you, Mother, of Mrs Thekla?"

Robin said this in a very low voice.  Dr Thorpe was coming in as he
spoke, and the old man turned and faced round on the lad.

"O ho!" cried the Doctor, "blows the wind from that quarter?"

Apparently it did so, for Robin coloured scarlet.

"Come, come, lad!" said he, "thou art but now out of thy
swaddling-clothes, and what dost thou with such gear?  Put it away, and
go whip thy top, like a good lad!"

"Dr Thorpe!" said Robin in an aggrieved voice, and drawing himself to
his utmost height, "I was nineteen years of age last Saint Agnes!"
[January 21.]

"Thou art as many years of discretion as there be crowns o' the sun
[Note 1] in a halfpenny," said he.  "Nineteen, quotha!  Why, thou idle
hilding [youth], I have years sixty-nine, and I never thought of
marrying yet."

Isoult laughed, but Robin was grave as a bishop, and plainly deemed
himself affronted.

"That is your affair, Dr Thorpe," said he, demurely, "and this is mine,
an't like you."

"A pretty plain hint to mind mine own business, whether it like me or
no," replied the old man, with a little merry laugh.  "Well, Robin, hie
after.  Are ye agreed? and is the wedding-day fixed?  Shall it be
Midsummer Day?  Give me a jolly piece of the cake, as what else thou
dost; and Isoult! mind thou set it mighty thick with plums."

"Dr Thorpe," said Robin, his patience woefully tried, "I wish you would
let me be.  I was talking with my mother."

"Say on!" answered he.  "I will strive hard to set mine old legs
a-dancing at thy wedding, though I promise not a galliardo [a dance
wherein high leaps were taken, requiring great agility].  My word on't,
it shall be a jovial sight!  Hast seen the tailor touching thine attire?
Purple satin, or cramoisie?"  [Crimson velvet.]

Robin's forbearance was plainly worn out.  He rose and walked toward the
door.

"Nay, lad, come!" called the old man.  "I meant not in deed to grieve
thee.  Come back, Robin, and I will cease flouting thee, if it trouble
thee.  Come back, thou silly child!"

Robin turned back, after a moment's thought, and sat down on the settle
he had left.

"I take your word for it, Dr Thorpe," he said, soberly.  "But think you
it not too grave a matter for jesting?"

"Grave!" cried Dr Thorpe.  "What, wouldst thou have it spoken of like an
execution?"

"I cry you mercy, Doctor," said Isoult, now joining in; "but in this
matter I do take part with Robin.  It alway seemeth me that men (ay, and
women too), do speak with too much jesting and lightness touching this
matter, which should be right serious.  A man's choice of a wife is a
choice for life, and is hardly to be talked of, meseemeth, in the same
fashion with his choice of a partlet [neck ruff].  I pray you, pardon me
if in so speaking, I fail aught in the reverence due unto your years."

"Why, dear child," saith he, "thou wist more of the matter than I, which
was never married; so talk away, and I will hold my peace, and trouble
my master the bridegroom no further.  Say on, Mr Robert Tremayne."

"Methinks enough is said," answered Robin, staidly.  "I await my
mother's answer."

"Which may scarce be given in a moment, Robin," said Isoult, "nor
without talk with mine husband thereupon.  Moreover, Mr Rose shall have
a word to say touching the matter."

John was hardly allowed to speak on his return from the law courts,
before he had heard Isoult's story.  He received the news at first as
something irresistibly comic, but the next minute he grew grave, and
evidently began to consider the matter seriously.

"I would fain hear thy thought hereon, Jack," said his wife, "for
methinks I do see in Robin his manner that this is no lad's fantasy
only, as Dr Thorpe did suppose, but a set purpose, that must be fairly
faced, and said yea or nay to."

"We must not forget, dear heart," was John's answer, "that though we are
unto him in place of elders [parents], Robin is truly his own master,
even afore he be of full age.  He is not our ward in law, neither in
articles nor apprenticeship; and he hath but himself to please.  And
even were we to let [hinder] him now (when I doubt not his natural
kindly and obedient feeling for us should cause him to assent thereto),
yet bethink thee that in a year and an half, when he cometh to his
mature age, he shall be at liberty in every way.  There be many husbands
in the realm younger than he; and truly, I see no way but leaving him to
his will, so soon only as we can be satisfied that it is no mere passing
fantasy that swayeth him, but that his heart and mind are verily set and
engaged therein.  Remember, we have no right over him; and think yet
again, that his choice (so far as I am able to judge) is a thorough good
one.  I see not what else may be done."

"But he did refer him unto our judgment by asking me thereon," said
Isoult.

"Truth," he answered; "wherein he showed his own judgment and wisdom,
and himself to be a good and gentle lad, as he is alway.  The more
reason, sweet heart, that our judgment should be gracious, and should
lean unto his wishes, so far as we may in right dealing and love unto
himself consent thereto.  And in good sooth, I see no cause for
dissent."

"Then," said Isoult, somewhat surprised, though she scarcely knew why
she should have expected any other decision, "thou wilt speak unto Mr
Rose?"

"Certainly," said he, "if Robin desire it."

"And we really shall have a wedding!" said Isoult.

"I said not that, dear heart," answered John, smiling.

"Mr Rose may refuse consent; or were he to give it, methinks I should
allgates [at all events] move (wherein I would look for Rose to agree
with me) that it should not be by and bye [immediately]; but to wait
until Robin be fairly settled in his calling."

The calling which Robin had chosen was holy orders.  He was studying
divinity, and Bishop Ridley had already promised to ordain him when he
should arrive at the proper age, if he were satisfied as to his fitness
on examination.  Mr Rose directed his reading--a fact which had caused
him to be thrown rather more into Thekla's society than he might
otherwise have been, in his frequent visits to West Ham, and occasional
waiting required when the Vicar happened to be absent.  "But, Jack!"
cried Isoult, with a sudden pang of fear, "supposing that the King were
to die issueless (as God defend!) and the Lady Mary to come in, and set
up again the mass, and--"

"And the Bloody Statute," he answered, reading her thought.  "Then we
should have a second Walter Mallet."

"And Thekla to be Grace!" murmured Isoult, her voice faltering.  "O
Jack, that were dreadful!  Could we do nought to let it?"

"Yes," he said in a constrained tone.  "We might do two things to let
it.  Either to hinder their marriage, or to let Robin from receiving
orders."

"But thinkest thou we ought so?"

"I think, sweet wife," answered he, tenderly, "that we ought to follow
God's leading.  He can let either; and if He see it best, whether for
Robin or for Thekla, that will He.  But for myself, I do confess I am
afeard of handling His rod.  I dare not walk unless I see Him going
afore.  And here, beloved, I see not myself that He goeth afore, except
to bid us leave things take their course.  Dost thou?"

"I see nothing," she answered; "I feel blind and in a maze touching it
all."

"Then," said he, "let us `tarry the Lord's leisure.'"

It was finally settled between John and Isoult that the former should
see Mr Rose after the evening service on the following Sunday, when he
was to preach at Bow Church, and speak to him on the subject of Robin
and Thekla.  So after the service they all returned home but John; and
though no one told Robin why he stayed behind, Isoult fancied from the
lad's face that he guessed the cause.  It was a long time before John's
return.  Isoult dismissed Esther to bed, determining to wait herself;
and with some indistinct observation about "young folk that could turn
night into day," Dr Thorpe took up his candle and trudged up-stairs
also.  Robin sat on; and Isoult had not the heart to say anything to
him; for she saw that his thoughts were at Bow Church, not occupied with
the copy of Latimer's sermon on the Plough, which lay open before him.

At last John came, with a slow, even step, from which his wife augured
ill before he entered the room.  He smiled when he saw Robin still
there.

"Ill news, Father!" said Robin.  "You need not to tell me."

"Thou art a sely prophet, lad," answered John, kindly.  "At this time I
have no news at all for thee, neither good nor ill, only that Mr Rose
giveth no absolute nay, and doth but undertake to think upon the matter,
and discourse with Mrs Rose.  Is that such ill news, trow?"

"Thank you," answered Robin in a low voice.  "You did your best, I know.
Good-night."

And he lifted his candle and departed.  But Isoult thought the lad
looked sad and disappointed; and she was sorry for him.

"Well, Jack, how spedst thou?" said she, when Robin was gone.

"Ah, grandmother Eva!" replied Jack, smiling.  "Wouldst know all?"

"Now, Jack!" said she, "flout me not for my womanly curiosity, but tell
me.  I am but a woman."

"Pure truth, dear heart," answered he, yet smiling.  "Well, I had to
await a short space, for I found Thekla with her father, and I could not
open the matter afore her.  So at last I prayed her of leave [asked her
to go] (seeing no other way to be rid of her), for I would speak with Mr
Rose privily.  Then went she presently away, and I brake Robin's
matter."

"And what said he?"

"He looked more amazed than thou; and trust me that was no little."

"But what said he?" repeated Isoult.

"He said he had never thought touching the marriage of Thekla, for he
looked thereon until now as a thing afar off, like as we of Robin.  But
(quoth he) he did suppose in all likelihood she should leave him
sometime, if God willed it thus; but it should be sore when it came.
And the water stood in his eyes."

"Looked he thereon kindly or no, thinkest?"

"I am somewhat doubtful," and John dropped his voice, "though I would
not say so much to Robin, whether or no he looketh kindly on her
marrying at all.  Thou wist, sweet heart, for thou heardst him to say so
much,--that he hath some thought that there shall yet be great
persecution in this land, and that Gospellers shall (in a worldly and
temporal sense) come but ill off.  And to have Thekla wife unto a
priest--I might see it liked him very evil for her sake.  Yet he
dimitted it not lightly, but passed word to talk it over with his wife:
but he said he would never urge Thekla to wed any, contrariwise unto her
own fantasy."

The Monday morning brought Mrs Rose.  Isoult felt glad, when she saw
her, that John had taken Robin with him to Westminster.  The two ladies
had a long private conference in Isoult's closet or boudoir.  Mrs Rose
evidently was not going to stand in the way; she rather liked the
proposed match.  She had strongly urged her husband to tell Thekla,
which, against his own judgment, he had at last consented to do.  For
Thekla's mother regarded her as a marvel of wisdom and discretion, while
her father, being himself a little wiser, thought less of her wonderful
powers, though he admitted that she was very sensible--for her years.

"She is a good child--Thekla," said Mrs Rose, in her foreign manner; "a
good child--but she dreameth too much.  She is not for the life, rather
a dreamer.  She would read a great book each day sooner than to spin.
But she doth the right; she knoweth that she must to spin, and she spin.
But she carrieth her thoughts up a great way off, into strange gear
whither I cannot follow.  See you, Mistress Avery, how I would say?  I,
I am a plain woman: I make the puddings, I work the spinning--and I love
the work.  Thekla, she only work the spinning and make the puddings,
because she must to do it.  She will do the right, alway, but she will
not love the work."

Isoult quite understood her, and so she told her.

"She do not come after me in her liking," pursued she, "rather it is her
father.  And it is very good, very good to read the great books, and
look at the stars, and to talk always of what the great people do, and
of what mean the prophet by this, and the saint by that: but for me it
is too much.  I do not know what the great people should do.  I make my
puddings.  The great people must go their own way.  They not want my
pudding, and I not want their great things.  But Thekla and Mr Rose are
both so good!  Only, when they talk together, they sit both of them on
the top of my head; I am down beneath, doing my spinning."

Nothing more was heard until Wednesday.  Then, before Isoult was down in
the morning, having apparently risen at some unearthly hour, Mr Rose
presented himself, and asked for John.  The two went out of doors
together, to Robin's deep concern, and not much less to Isoult's, for
she had her full share of womanly curiosity in an innocent way.

At last she saw them come up the street, in earnest conversation.  And
as John turned in at the door (for Mr Rose would not follow) she heard
him say almost mournfully, "Alack! then there is no likelihood thereof.
Good morrow!"

"Not the least," Mr Rose replied; and then away he went down the street.

"An augury of evil!" murmured Robin, under his breath.

"What dost thou with evil this morrow, Robin?" asked John, cheerily,
coming into the room.  "Be of good cheer, dear lad; the Lord sitteth
above all auguries, and hath granted thee the desire of thine heart."

Robin rose, and the light sprang to his eyes.

"Thekla Rose," pursued John, "seeth no good cause why she should not
change her name to Tremayne.  But bide a minute, Robin, man; thou art
not to be wed to-morrow morning.  Mr Rose addeth a condition which I
doubt not shall stick in thy throat."

"What?" said Robin, turning round, for he was on his way to leave the
room.

"But this," said John, lightly, "that will soon be over.  Ye are not to
wed for three years."

Robin's face fell with a look as blank as though it had been thirty
years.

"How now?" asked Dr Thorpe, coming in from the barber.  "Sir Tristram
looketh as woebegone as may lightly be.  I am afeard the Princess Isoude
hath been sore cruel."

John told him the reason.

"And both be such ancient folk," resumed he, "they are afeard to be dead
and buried ere then.  How now, Robin! take heart of grace, man! and make
a virtue of necessity.  Thou art neither seventy nor eighty, nor is
Mistress Thekla within a month or twain of ninety.  Good lack! a bit of
a younker of nineteen, quotha, to be a-fretting and a-fuming to be let
from wedding a smatchet of a lass of seventeen or so, until either have
picked up from some whither a scrap of discretion on their green
shoulders!"

"Thekla hath but sixteen years," said John; "and Rose thinketh her too
young to be wed yet."

"So should any man with common sense," replied Dr Thorpe.  "Why, lad!
what can a maid of such tender years do to rule an house?  I warrant
thee she should serve thy chicken at table with all the feathers on, and
amend thy stockings wrong side afore!"

"Nay," said Isoult, laughing; "her mother shall have learned her
something better than that."

"Get thee to thine accidence," said Dr Thorpe to Robin.  "_Hic, haec,
hoc_, is a deal meeter for the like o' thee than prinking of wedding
doublets!"

"Dr Thorpe!" answered Robin, aggrievedly, "you alway treat me as though
I were a babe."

"So thou art! so thou art!" said the old man.  "But now out of thy
cradle, and not yet fit to run alone; for do but see what folly thou
hadst run into if Jack and Mr Rose had not been wiser than thou!"

Robin's lip trembled, and he walked slowly away.  Isoult was sorry for
the lad's disappointment, for she saw that it was sore; yet she felt
that John and Mr Rose were right, and even Dr Thorpe.

"Rose saith," resumed John, "that he thinketh not his daughter to be as
yet of ripe judgment enough to say more than shall serve for the time;
and he will therefore have no troth plighted for this present.  In good
sooth, had not her mother much urged the consulting of her, methinks he
should rather have said nought unto her of the matter.  `But (quoth he)
let three years pass, in the which time Robin shall have years
twenty-two, and Thekla nineteen; and if then both be of like mind, why,
I will say no further word against it.'"

"Bits o' scraps o' childre!" said Dr Thorpe, under his voice, in a tone
of scorn and yet pity which would sorely have grieved Robin, had he not
gone already.

"Be not too hard on the lad, old friend," urged John, gently.  "Many
younger than he be wed daily, and I take it he hath had a disappointment
in hearing my news.  I thought best not to make too much thereof in the
telling; but scorn not the lad's trouble."

"I want not to scorn neither the lad nor the trouble," answered the
Doctor.  "I did but tell him it was folly; and so it is."

After this, for a while, there were fewer visits exchanged between the
Minories and West Ham; and Robin found himself quietly set to the study
of larger books, which took longer to get up than heretofore, so that
his appearances at the Vicarage were fewer also.  When the families did
meet, it was as cordially as ever.  Manifestly, Mr Rose's feelings were
not a whit less kindly than before; but he thought it better for Robin
that his affections should not be fed too freely.

"Jack," said Isoult, suddenly, "what discoursedst thou with Mr Rose o'
Wednesday morn, whereof I heard thee to say there was no likelihood?
Was it touching this matter of Robin?"

John had to search his memory before he could recall the incident.

"Dear heart, no!" he said, when he had done so; "it touched my Lord of
Somerset."

On the last day of July, Esther, going to the market, came in with news
which stirred Isoult's heart no little.  Thomas Wriothesley, Earl of
Southampton, had died on the previous day, at his house in London, to
which he had been confined by order of the King.

"An ill man and an unkindly," wrote Isoult in the diary she always kept,
"specially unto them which loved the Gospel.  But how those tidings
taketh me back to the days that be over and gone!  For the last time
that ever I saw this man was that black third of March, the year of our
Lord 1542, when the King that then was, sent him to bear his diamond and
message unto my dear master [Lord Lisle] in the Tower.  Can I ever
forget that even?

"Of this Thomas Wriothesley I dare say nothing.  I would think rather of
him whose voice I did hear last after his, in the commending of his
blessed and gentle spirit into the hands of God.  How many times
sithence that day have I thanked God for him!  Ay, Lord, we thank Thee
for Thy saints, and for Thy care and guidance of them.  For the longer I
do live, the surer am I that Thy way Home is not only the right way, but
for each of Thine, the only way.  I take it, we shall not think of the
thorns that tare us, nor shall we be ready for tears over the sharp
stones that wounded us, in that day when I and my dear-loved Lord may
sing to Thee together--`Thou hast redeemed us, O Lord God of truth!'"

Mrs Underhill walked into the Lamb, one warm afternoon in the beginning
of August, and remained to four-

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