“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 forth1 and see if thy father and Robin2 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 placid3 demeanour which indicates that great provocation4 would be needed to evoke5 any disturbance6 of temper. Gathering7 up the garment on which she was at work, Arbel (Note 1) crossed the long, low room to a wide casement8, on the outer mullions of which sundry9 leafless boughs10 were tapping as if to ask shelter from the cold; and after standing11 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 touching12 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 annoyance14. The tenor15 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, plentifully16 streaked18 with grey, was thinned to slight baldness on the summit of the head; his features, otherwise rather strong and harsh, wore an expression of benevolence19 which redeemed20 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 placidity21 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.”
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 naught23 else.”
“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 poker25.”
“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 heartily26. 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.
“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 repeal28 the Bloody29 Statute30, 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 Majesty31, Edward the Sixth! God save him!”
From all except Custance there came in answer such a cry—half amazement32, half exultation—as we in this nineteenth century can scarcely imagine for such an event. For the last eight years of the reign33 of Henry the Eighth, England had been in slavery—“fast bound in misery34 and iron.” Every year it had grown heavier. Murmuring was treated as rebellion, and might have entailed35 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 requisite37 buildings; and when the gentlemen arrived, Tom (Note 4), the general factotum38, was meandering39 about the flower-garden, under the impression that he was at work, while Avery’s little daughter, Kate (Note 4) aged40 nearly four years, was trotting41 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-room42 when particular privacy was not desired. Here they were met by a lady, a little under middle height, with a fair pale complexion43, 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 situated44, 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 apparently45 not a cardinal46 virtue47.
“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 shrill48, 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 apothecary49 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 imperative50. 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 abruptness51: 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 falter52, and those bright, quick, grey-blue eyes grow dim with tears. Whatever she did, she did thoroughly53 and heartily: she loved fervently54 and hated fervently. That “capacity for indignation” which it has been said lies at the root of all human virtues55, was very fully17 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.”
In the little parlour of the little house at Crowe sat a solitary57 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 remains58 of what had been delicate loveliness. Her complexion was still exquisitely59 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 marvel60, for she had been all but a queen. For twelve years of her life, her velvet61 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 supreme62 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 desolate63.” 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;
Than they me never sawe.’”
(Note 6).
Of the scores of distinguished65 persons who had enjoyed the princely hospitality of Lady Lisle at Calais, not one ever condescended66 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 ail36 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 abruptly67 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 peculiar68 pure oval shape, and those serene69, 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 perfectly70. 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 varied71 suffering; she had known both the climax72 of happiness and the depth of sorrow. The crushing blow of her House’s fall had been followed by two years of agonising suspense74, which had closed in the lonely and far-off death of the father from whom she derived75 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 ebbing76 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 bent77 over her, a smile broke on the thin wan78 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 dread79, 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 Christian80 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 traitor81 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 traitors82 unto God, and are all under the condemnation83 of His holy law. Shall the traitor arraign84 the Judge? And unto the repenting85 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 loathsome86; 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 guilt87 of our sins; but so tied to sin are we, that we must needs be set under correction for to make us to loathe88 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 longings89, 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 assent90 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 mingling91 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 heresy92 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 wilt93 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 fixed94 on something unseen by the rest, and they shone like stars. Then suddenly a shiver came over her, her eyelids95 drooped96, and she sank back into her mother’s arms.
“Is she gone?” asked Lady Lisle.
“With God,” said Dr Thorpe reverently97.
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 maternal98 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 feud99 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 affinity100 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 professed101 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 bereaved102 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 inflicted103; 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 distress104 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 bespoke105 her sympathy.
“Frances is but foolish and fantastical,” she said, “or she should wed73 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.”
“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 gainsay108 her in whatsoever109 she would. Doth the jade110 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 distressing111 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 scantly112 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.
“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 wont115, as men do know.”
“Humph!” was all Lady Lisle said.
“Men’s consciences do lead them by mighty116 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 spoke106 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 kindle117.
“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 kindled118 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 taunted119 Frances with “caring nought120 for him save for his Gospelling;” while Philippa took part, first with one side, and then with the other. In all this turmoil121 Isoult could see but one bright spot, which was the hope of an approaching visit from Sir Henry and Lady Ashley. Lady Ashley (née Katherine Basset) was Lady Lisle’s second daughter, and there was some reason to expect, from the gentleness of her disposition122, 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 riddles123 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 kin13 writ124 unto me from Spain, to desire me to search and find a discreet125 maiden126 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 ware127 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 discretion128 with Annis Holland, which hath learned the French from her, and the Latin from Mr Hungerford, of the King’s house, and can chatter129 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 sluggard130 (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 interval131 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 vogue132. 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 clotted133 cream; and of course there was junket. There were apple puffs134, 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 jugs135 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 Bishop114 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 twilight136 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 batch137 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 persecutor138, 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 fictitious139 character.
Note 5. The lost adjective of compassion140.
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 chestnut141 horse, as Bayard for a bay, and Lyard for a grey. From this proverb has been corrupted142 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.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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3
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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7
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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13
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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15
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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16
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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17
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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18
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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19
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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21
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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23
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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24
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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25
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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28
repeal
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| n.废止，撤消；v.废止，撤消 | |
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29
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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35
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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ail
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| v.生病，折磨，苦恼 | |
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37
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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factotum
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| n.杂役；听差 | |
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meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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42
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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43
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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48
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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50
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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51
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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52
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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53
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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54
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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55
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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56
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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57
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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58
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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59
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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60
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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61
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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62
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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63
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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64
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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65
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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66
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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67
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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68
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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69
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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70
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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71
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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72
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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73
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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74
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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75
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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76
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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77
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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78
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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79
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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80
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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81
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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82
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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83
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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84
arraign
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| v.提讯；控告 | |
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85
repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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86
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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87
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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88
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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90
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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91
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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92
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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93
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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94
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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95
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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102
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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103
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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105
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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106
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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110
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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111
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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scantly
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| 缺乏地，仅仅 | |
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113
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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115
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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120
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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121
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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122
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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124
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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125
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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127
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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128
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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129
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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130
sluggard
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| n.懒人；adj.懒惰的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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132
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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133
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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136
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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137
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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138
persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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139
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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140
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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141
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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142
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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