“‘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 conversing1, the post came in—always an important event at that day—and brought two letters for Isoult. The first was from Beatrice Dynham (fictitious2 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 truce4 between the contending parties, she hoped not entirely5 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 wed6, 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 forth8 the last day of May?” queried9 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 kit10 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, nay11,” answered Jennifer, “’twas but the old black cow, that had been sick a month or more.”
“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 hearth13.
“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 mighty14 easy witchery that. I could fall to prophesying15 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 statutes16 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 riddles18. She looked up with an air of perplexed19 simplicity20.
“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 relic23 of Jennifer’s uneasiness was appeased24 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 thoroughly25 esteemed26 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 ‘abide27 in Him.’”
When Isoult came down-stairs from the careful perusal28 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, Jack29!” Dr Thorpe was saying as she entered. “Methinks thou art somewhat too sweeping30. We must have priests, man (though they need not be ill and crafty31 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 condemn32 such as do love that word ‘altar.’ Half the mischief33 that hath arisen in all these battles of religion now raging hath come of quarrelling over words. And ’tis never well to make a martyr34 or an hero of thine adversary35.”
“I have no mind to make a martyr of you, my dear old friend,” answered Avery, “in whatsoever36 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 slay38 Solomon his twenty-two thousand sacrifices, he should not have made an end by that day month.”
“Good. Then the lesser39 priests were needed, because of the insufficiency of the high priest for all that lacked doing?”
“That I allow,” said Dr Thorpe, after some meditation40.
“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 insufficient41, 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 gainsaying42 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 affront43 unto the Majesty44 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 judgment45 lain with us, we had, I think, condemned46 Peter and quitted Judas.”
“I would all this variance47 betwixt Lutherans and Gospellers might cease!” resumed Dr Thorpe, rather bitterly. “When we should be pointing our spears all against the enemy, we are bent48 on pricking49 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 doctrine50 and thine, the more bitterly must thou and I wrangle51!”
“Commonly it is so,” replied Avery.
“And while these real battles be fighting,” pursueth he, “betwixt Christ’s followers52 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? Dolts53, idiots, patches! (Fools.) It should do me a relief to duck every man of them in the Tamar.”
“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 disciples56, 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 faltered57. “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 astonishment58, he, usually gentle, pulled to the casement59 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, mete60 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 draught61 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 monasteries62 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 gall63 into her hand, He meaneth she should drink it. And methinks it can scarce be more joyful64 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 bestow65 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.
“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 smote67 the nag68 on his tail,” continued Philippa; “I warrant you it gave him a smart, for I sent it with all my might. ’Tis a good omen22 that—saving only that it might cause the beast to be restive69.”
“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 scrap71 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 Bloody72 Statute17 was repealed74; and in every parish church, by royal order, a Bible and a copy of the Paraphrases75 of Erasmus were set open, for all the people to read.
But the repeal73 of the Bloody Statute, ardently76 as she desired it, was not without sad memories to Isoult Avery. The Act now abrogated77 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 bleak78, cold, weary wilderness79 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 eldest80 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 entreaty81 to bring Dr Thorpe, if he could possibly come; for at Crowe there was only an apothecary82. Doctors, regularly qualified83, were scarce in those days. All the scattered84 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 amended85 this morrow. I am glad with all mine heart this bout3 is well over. It hath feared us no little, as I can tell you.”
With lighter86 hearts they rode to the door, where Isoult had no sooner alighted than she found herself drawn87 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 rumple88 my ruffs and soil my gowns. They be for ever in some manner of mischievousness90. 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 amending91 (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 hearty92 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 assenting93, 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 lodge94 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,” (Bishop95 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 contrive96 to speak with Dr Thorpe in private; and then she asked him to tell her frankly97 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 chamber98. 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 idols99.
“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 opposition100 to the doctrines101 of the Gospel as was generally her wont102. 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.
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 anguished104 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 remains105 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 lamented106, and whose coffin107 lay, with many another as illustrious as his own, in the old Norman Chapel108 of the Tower. No stranger admixture can there be on earth, than among those coffins109 crowding that Norman Chapel,—from traitors111 of the blackest dye, up to saints and martyrs112.
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 augury113; 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 leaven114 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 decadence115 of a nation. “Behold, what a weariness is it!” There is another inscription116 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 celebrated117 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, inviting118 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 ominous119 style at the date. But Hugh, though a sailor, was nevertheless not at all superstitious120, 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 prophesied121 all manner of consequent evil. For a maiden122 of the sixteenth century, Alice also was remarkably123 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 inclination124 the gentleman without the farmer; his wife Margaret, who would have made a better farmer than himself; and his three exceedingly noisy and mischievous89 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 grumbled125 good-humouredly at being banished126 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 embodied127 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 exhortations128, stuffed with words of as many syllables129 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 err7 on the side of severity. But the grandmother, if possible, made matters worse. She had brought up her own children in abject130 terror and unanswering submission131; 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 pony132 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 amazement133 of Isoult Avery—who had not previously134 visited home for some time—was intense. Her childhood had been a scene of obedience135, 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 inaccessible136 side of Grandmother, lay violent hands upon her inviolable hood37, 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 sketched137 a mental portrait of Alice. She would be short, and round-faced, and merry: the colour of her hair and eyes Isoult discreetly138 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 embroidery139; 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 athletic140 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 incongruity141 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 deluge142 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 latch143 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 Commissioner144 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 aggrieved145.”
This was the beginning of the first riots in Cornwall and Devon. There were tumults147 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 perturbed148 Gardiner exceedingly. James Basset found him walking up and down his chamber, his hands clasped behind him, uttering incoherent words, indicative of apprehension149; 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 yoked150 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 Atheist151 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 piety152 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 traitor110 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 declamation153 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 pervade154 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 covetous155 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 countenance156, from a physiognomist’s point of view, might be held to announce his character. The thick, obstinate157 lips, the cruel, cold blue eyes, intimated with sufficient accuracy the disposition158 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 diabolical159 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 prospered160, as the tale advances: how he said in his heart, “There is no God.” But to Isoult Avery it was a standing161 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, Robin162 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 tranquillity163 was like the crust of a volcano, through which the fiery164 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 Socialist165 spirit which is inherent in man rose up in arms at this favour granted to the “bloated aristocrats”—this outrage166 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.
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1
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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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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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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prophesying
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的现在分词 ) | |
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statutes
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| 成文法( statute的名词复数 )； 法令； 法规； 章程 | |
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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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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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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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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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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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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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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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gainsaying
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的现在分词 ) | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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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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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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51
wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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dolts
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| n.笨蛋，傻瓜( dolt的名词复数 ) | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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mete
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| v.分配；给予 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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71
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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72
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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73
repeal
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| n.废止，撤消；v.废止，撤消 | |
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74
repealed
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| 撤销，废除( repeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
paraphrases
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| n.释义，意译( paraphrase的名词复数 )v.释义，意译( paraphrase的第三人称单数 ) | |
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76
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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77
abrogated
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| 废除（法律等）( abrogate的过去式和过去分词 )； 取消； 去掉； 抛开 | |
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78
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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79
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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80
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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81
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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82
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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83
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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84
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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85
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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86
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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87
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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88
rumple
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；n.褶纹，皱褶 | |
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89
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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90
mischievousness
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| 恶作剧 | |
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91
amending
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| 改良，修改，修订( amend的现在分词 )； 改良，修改，修订( amend的第三人称单数 )( amends的现在分词 ) | |
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92
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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93
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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94
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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95
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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96
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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97
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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98
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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99
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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100
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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101
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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102
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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103
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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104
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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105
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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106
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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108
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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109
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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110
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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111
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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112
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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113
augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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114
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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115
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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116
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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117
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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118
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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119
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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120
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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121
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
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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123
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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124
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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125
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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126
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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128
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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129
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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130
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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131
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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132
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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133
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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134
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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135
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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136
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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137
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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138
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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139
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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140
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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141
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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142
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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143
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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144
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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145
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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146
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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147
tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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148
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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150
yoked
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| 结合（yoke的过去式形式） | |
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151
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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152
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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153
declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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154
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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155
covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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156
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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157
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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158
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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159
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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160
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
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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162
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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163
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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164
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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165
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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166
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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