“God lays His burden on each back;
But who
What is within the pack
May know?”
Half of the reign1 of Josiah, as his people loved to call him, was run out in the summer of 1550. The breathing-time of hope was nearly over.
A June morning in that summer found Isoult Avery seated by the window at work, and Robin2 Tremayne holding a book which he was not reading. His eyes were intently watching the light feathery clouds which floated across the blue space beyond, and his thoughts were equally intent on some subject not yet apparent. Except Walter, who was busy in the corner, manufacturing paper boats, there was no one else in the room.
Robin broke the silence, and rather suddenly.
“Mother,”—he had come to call her so,—“what think you of Mr Rose?”
“What think I of him, Robin?” repeated Isoult, looking up, while a faint expression of surprise crossed her gentle countenance3. “Why, he liketh me very well!”
“And what think you of Mrs Rose, Mother?”
The surprise increased in Isoult’s look, and it was accompanied now by perplexity. But she only answered—
“She liketh me only less than her husband. I would she had been English-born, but that cannot she well help; and I have none other fault to find with her.”
“And what think you, Mother, of Mrs Thekla?”
Robin said this in a very low voice. Dr Thorpe was coming in as he spoke4, and the old man turned and faced round on the lad.
“O ho!” cried the Doctor, “blows the wind from that quarter?”
“Come, come, lad!” said he, “thou art but now out of thy swaddling-clothes, and what dost thou with such gear? Put it away, and go whip thy top, like a good lad!”
“Dr Thorpe!” said Robin in an aggrieved7 voice, and drawing himself to his utmost height, “I was nineteen years of age last Saint Agnes!” (January 21.)
“Thou art as many years of discretion8 as there be crowns o’ the sun (Note 1) in a halfpenny,” said he. “Nineteen, quotha! Why, thou idle hilding (youth), I have years sixty-nine, and I never thought of marrying yet.”
“A pretty plain hint to mind mine own business, whether it like me or no,” replied the old man, with a little merry laugh. “Well, Robin, hie after. Are ye agreed? and is the wedding-day fixed13? Shall it be Midsummer Day? Give me a jolly piece of the cake, as what else thou dost; and Isoult! mind thou set it mighty14 thick with plums.”
“Dr Thorpe,” said Robin, his patience woefully tried, “I wish you would let me be. I was talking with my mother.”
“Say on!” answered he. “I will strive hard to set mine old legs a-dancing at thy wedding, though I promise not a galliardo (a dance wherein high leaps were taken, requiring great agility). My word on’t, it shall be a jovial16 sight! Hast seen the tailor touching17 thine attire18? Purple satin, or cramoisie?” (Crimson velvet19.)
Robin’s forbearance was plainly worn out. He rose and walked toward the door.
“Nay21, lad, come!” called the old man. “I meant not in deed to grieve thee. Come back, Robin, and I will cease flouting23 thee, if it trouble thee. Come back, thou silly child!”
Robin turned back, after a moment’s thought, and sat down on the settle he had left.
“I take your word for it, Dr Thorpe,” he said, soberly. “But think you it not too grave a matter for jesting?”
“Grave!” cried Dr Thorpe. “What, wouldst thou have it spoken of like an execution?”
“I cry you mercy, Doctor,” said Isoult, now joining in; “but in this matter I do take part with Robin. It alway seemeth me that men (ay, and women too), do speak with too much jesting and lightness touching this matter, which should be right serious. A man’s choice of a wife is a choice for life, and is hardly to be talked of, meseemeth, in the same fashion with his choice of a partlet (neck ruff). I pray you, pardon me if in so speaking, I fail aught in the reverence24 due unto your years.”
“Why, dear child,” saith he, “thou wist more of the matter than I, which was never married; so talk away, and I will hold my peace, and trouble my master the bridegroom no further. Say on, Mr Robert Tremayne.”
“Methinks enough is said,” answered Robin, staidly. “I await my mother’s answer.”
“Which may scarce be given in a moment, Robin,” said Isoult, “nor without talk with mine husband thereupon. Moreover, Mr Rose shall have a word to say touching the matter.”
John was hardly allowed to speak on his return from the law courts, before he had heard Isoult’s story. He received the news at first as something irresistibly25 comic, but the next minute he grew grave, and evidently began to consider the matter seriously.
“I would fain hear thy thought hereon, Jack26,” said his wife, “for methinks I do see in Robin his manner that this is no lad’s fantasy only, as Dr Thorpe did suppose, but a set purpose, that must be fairly faced, and said yea or nay to.”
“We must not forget, dear heart,” was John’s answer, “that though we are unto him in place of elders (parents), Robin is truly his own master, even afore he be of full age. He is not our ward20 in law, neither in articles nor apprenticeship27; and he hath but himself to please. And even were we to let (hinder) him now (when I doubt not his natural kindly28 and obedient feeling for us should cause him to assent29 thereto), yet bethink thee that in a year and an half, when he cometh to his mature age, he shall be at liberty in every way. There be many husbands in the realm younger than he; and truly, I see no way but leaving him to his will, so soon only as we can be satisfied that it is no mere30 passing fantasy that swayeth him, but that his heart and mind are verily set and engaged therein. Remember, we have no right over him; and think yet again, that his choice (so far as I am able to judge) is a thorough good one. I see not what else may be done.”
“Truth,” he answered; “wherein he showed his own judgment and wisdom, and himself to be a good and gentle lad, as he is alway. The more reason, sweet heart, that our judgment should be gracious, and should lean unto his wishes, so far as we may in right dealing32 and love unto himself consent thereto. And in good sooth, I see no cause for dissent33.”
“Then,” said Isoult, somewhat surprised, though she scarcely knew why she should have expected any other decision, “thou wilt34 speak unto Mr Rose?”
“Certainly,” said he, “if Robin desire it.”
“And we really shall have a wedding!” said Isoult.
“I said not that, dear heart,” answered John, smiling.
“Mr Rose may refuse consent; or were he to give it, methinks I should allgates (at all events) move (wherein I would look for Rose to agree with me) that it should not be by and bye (immediately); but to wait until Robin be fairly settled in his calling.”
The calling which Robin had chosen was holy orders. He was studying divinity, and Bishop Ridley had already promised to ordain35 him when he should arrive at the proper age, if he were satisfied as to his fitness on examination. Mr Rose directed his reading—a fact which had caused him to be thrown rather more into Thekla’s society than he might otherwise have been, in his frequent visits to West Ham, and occasional waiting required when the Vicar happened to be absent. “But, Jack!” cried Isoult, with a sudden pang37 of fear, “supposing that the King were to die issueless (as God defend!) and the Lady Mary to come in, and set up again the mass, and—”
“And the Bloody38 Statute,” he answered, reading her thought. “Then we should have a second Walter Mallet39.”
“And Thekla to be Grace!” murmured Isoult, her voice faltering40. “O Jack, that were dreadful! Could we do nought41 to let it?”
“Yes,” he said in a constrained42 tone. “We might do two things to let it. Either to hinder their marriage, or to let Robin from receiving orders.”
“But thinkest thou we ought so?”
“I think, sweet wife,” answered he, tenderly, “that we ought to follow God’s leading. He can let either; and if He see it best, whether for Robin or for Thekla, that will He. But for myself, I do confess I am afeard of handling His rod. I dare not walk unless I see Him going afore. And here, beloved, I see not myself that He goeth afore, except to bid us leave things take their course. Dost thou?”
“Then,” said he, “let us ‘tarry the Lord’s leisure.’”
It was finally settled between John and Isoult that the former should see Mr Rose after the evening service on the following Sunday, when he was to preach at Bow Church, and speak to him on the subject of Robin and Thekla. So after the service they all returned home but John; and though no one told Robin why he stayed behind, Isoult fancied from the lad’s face that he guessed the cause. It was a long time before John’s return. Isoult dismissed Esther to bed, determining to wait herself; and with some indistinct observation about “young folk that could turn night into day,” Dr Thorpe took up his candle and trudged44 up-stairs also. Robin sat on; and Isoult had not the heart to say anything to him; for she saw that his thoughts were at Bow Church, not occupied with the copy of Latimer’s sermon on the Plough, which lay open before him.
At last John came, with a slow, even step, from which his wife augured45 ill before he entered the room. He smiled when he saw Robin still there.
“Ill news, Father!” said Robin. “You need not to tell me.”
“Thou art a sely prophet, lad,” answered John, kindly. “At this time I have no news at all for thee, neither good nor ill, only that Mr Rose giveth no absolute nay, and doth but undertake to think upon the matter, and discourse46 with Mrs Rose. Is that such ill news, trow?”
“Thank you,” answered Robin in a low voice. “You did your best, I know. Good-night.”
And he lifted his candle and departed. But Isoult thought the lad looked sad and disappointed; and she was sorry for him.
“Well, Jack, how spedst thou?” said she, when Robin was gone.
“Ah, grandmother Eva!” replied Jack, smiling. “Wouldst know all?”
“Pure truth, dear heart,” answered he, yet smiling. “Well, I had to await a short space, for I found Thekla with her father, and I could not open the matter afore her. So at last I prayed her of leave (asked her to go) (seeing no other way to be rid of her), for I would speak with Mr Rose privily47. Then went she presently away, and I brake Robin’s matter.”
“And what said he?”
“He looked more amazed than thou; and trust me that was no little.”
“But what said he?” repeated Isoult.
“He said he had never thought touching the marriage of Thekla, for he looked thereon until now as a thing afar off, like as we of Robin. But (quoth he) he did suppose in all likelihood she should leave him sometime, if God willed it thus; but it should be sore when it came. And the water stood in his eyes.”
“Looked he thereon kindly or no, thinkest?”
“I am somewhat doubtful,” and John dropped his voice, “though I would not say so much to Robin, whether or no he looketh kindly on her marrying at all. Thou wist, sweet heart, for thou heardst him to say so much,—that he hath some thought that there shall yet be great persecution48 in this land, and that Gospellers shall (in a worldly and temporal sense) come but ill off. And to have Thekla wife unto a priest—I might see it liked him very evil for her sake. Yet he dimitted it not lightly, but passed word to talk it over with his wife: but he said he would never urge Thekla to wed12 any, contrariwise unto her own fantasy.”
The Monday morning brought Mrs Rose. Isoult felt glad, when she saw her, that John had taken Robin with him to Westminster. The two ladies had a long private conference in Isoult’s closet or boudoir. Mrs Rose evidently was not going to stand in the way; she rather liked the proposed match. She had strongly urged her husband to tell Thekla, which, against his own judgment, he had at last consented to do. For Thekla’s mother regarded her as a marvel49 of wisdom and discretion, while her father, being himself a little wiser, thought less of her wonderful powers, though he admitted that she was very sensible—for her years.
“She is a good child—Thekla,” said Mrs Rose, in her foreign manner; “a good child—but she dreameth too much. She is not for the life, rather a dreamer. She would read a great book each day sooner than to spin. But she doth the right; she knoweth that she must to spin, and she spin. But she carrieth her thoughts up a great way off, into strange gear whither I cannot follow. See you, Mistress Avery, how I would say? I, I am a plain woman: I make the puddings, I work the spinning—and I love the work. Thekla, she only work the spinning and make the puddings, because she must to do it. She will do the right, alway, but she will not love the work.”
Isoult quite understood her, and so she told her.
“She do not come after me in her liking,” pursued she, “rather it is her father. And it is very good, very good to read the great books, and look at the stars, and to talk always of what the great people do, and of what mean the prophet by this, and the saint by that: but for me it is too much. I do not know what the great people should do. I make my puddings. The great people must go their own way. They not want my pudding, and I not want their great things. But Thekla and Mr Rose are both so good! Only, when they talk together, they sit both of them on the top of my head; I am down beneath, doing my spinning.”
Nothing more was heard until Wednesday. Then, before Isoult was down in the morning, having apparently risen at some unearthly hour, Mr Rose presented himself, and asked for John. The two went out of doors together, to Robin’s deep concern, and not much less to Isoult’s, for she had her full share of womanly curiosity in an innocent way.
At last she saw them come up the street, in earnest conversation. And as John turned in at the door (for Mr Rose would not follow) she heard him say almost mournfully, “Alack! then there is no likelihood thereof. Good morrow!”
“Not the least,” Mr Rose replied; and then away he went down the street.
“What dost thou with evil this morrow, Robin?” asked John, cheerily, coming into the room. “Be of good cheer, dear lad; the Lord sitteth above all auguries52, and hath granted thee the desire of thine heart.”
Robin rose, and the light sprang to his eyes.
“Thekla Rose,” pursued John, “seeth no good cause why she should not change her name to Tremayne. But bide53 a minute, Robin, man; thou art not to be wed to-morrow morning. Mr Rose addeth a condition which I doubt not shall stick in thy throat.”
“What?” said Robin, turning round, for he was on his way to leave the room.
“But this,” said John, lightly, “that will soon be over. Ye are not to wed for three years.”
Robin’s face fell with a look as blank as though it had been thirty years.
“How now?” asked Dr Thorpe, coming in from the barber. “Sir Tristram looketh as woebegone as may lightly be. I am afeard the Princess Isoude hath been sore cruel.”
John told him the reason.
“And both be such ancient folk,” resumed he, “they are afeard to be dead and buried ere then. How now, Robin! take heart of grace, man! and make a virtue54 of necessity. Thou art neither seventy nor eighty, nor is Mistress Thekla within a month or twain of ninety. Good lack! a bit of a younker of nineteen, quotha, to be a-fretting and a-fuming to be let from wedding a smatchet of a lass of seventeen or so, until either have picked up from some whither a scrap55 of discretion on their green shoulders!”
“Thekla hath but sixteen years,” said John; “and Rose thinketh her too young to be wed yet.”
“So should any man with common sense,” replied Dr Thorpe. “Why, lad! what can a maid of such tender years do to rule an house? I warrant thee she should serve thy chicken at table with all the feathers on, and amend56 thy stockings wrong side afore!”
“Nay,” said Isoult, laughing; “her mother shall have learned her something better than that.”
“Get thee to thine accidence,” said Dr Thorpe to Robin. “Hic, haec, hoc, is a deal meeter for the like o’ thee than prinking of wedding doublets!”
“Dr Thorpe!” answered Robin, aggrievedly, “you alway treat me as though I were a babe.”
“So thou art! so thou art!” said the old man. “But now out of thy cradle, and not yet fit to run alone; for do but see what folly57 thou hadst run into if Jack and Mr Rose had not been wiser than thou!”
Robin’s lip trembled, and he walked slowly away. Isoult was sorry for the lad’s disappointment, for she saw that it was sore; yet she felt that John and Mr Rose were right, and even Dr Thorpe.
“Rose saith,” resumed John, “that he thinketh not his daughter to be as yet of ripe judgment enough to say more than shall serve for the time; and he will therefore have no troth plighted58 for this present. In good sooth, had not her mother much urged the consulting of her, methinks he should rather have said nought unto her of the matter. ‘But (quoth he) let three years pass, in the which time Robin shall have years twenty-two, and Thekla nineteen; and if then both be of like mind, why, I will say no further word against it.’”
“Bits o’ scraps59 o’ childre!” said Dr Thorpe, under his voice, in a tone of scorn and yet pity which would sorely have grieved Robin, had he not gone already.
“Be not too hard on the lad, old friend,” urged John, gently. “Many younger than he be wed daily, and I take it he hath had a disappointment in hearing my news. I thought best not to make too much thereof in the telling; but scorn not the lad’s trouble.”
“I want not to scorn neither the lad nor the trouble,” answered the Doctor. “I did but tell him it was folly; and so it is.”
After this, for a while, there were fewer visits exchanged between the Minories and West Ham; and Robin found himself quietly set to the study of larger books, which took longer to get up than heretofore, so that his appearances at the Vicarage were fewer also. When the families did meet, it was as cordially as ever. Manifestly, Mr Rose’s feelings were not a whit50 less kindly than before; but he thought it better for Robin that his affections should not be fed too freely.
“Jack,” said Isoult, suddenly, “what discoursedst thou with Mr Rose o’ Wednesday morn, whereof I heard thee to say there was no likelihood? Was it touching this matter of Robin?”
John had to search his memory before he could recall the incident.
“Dear heart, no!” he said, when he had done so; “it touched my Lord of Somerset.”
On the last day of July, Esther, going to the market, came in with news which stirred Isoult’s heart no little. Thomas Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, had died on the previous day, at his house in London, to which he had been confined by order of the King.
“An ill man and an unkindly,” wrote Isoult in the diary she always kept, “specially60 unto them which loved the Gospel. But how those tidings taketh me back to the days that be over and gone! For the last time that ever I saw this man was that black third of March, the year of our Lord 1542, when the King that then was, sent him to bear his diamond and message unto my dear master (Lord Lisle) in the Tower. Can I ever forget that even?
“Of this Thomas Wriothesley I dare say nothing. I would think rather of him whose voice I did hear last after his, in the commending of his blessed and gentle spirit into the hands of God. How many times sithence that day have I thanked God for him! Ay, Lord, we thank Thee for Thy saints, and for Thy care and guidance of them. For the longer I do live, the surer am I that Thy way Home is not only the right way, but for each of Thine, the only way. I take it, we shall not think of the thorns that tare61 us, nor shall we be ready for tears over the sharp stones that wounded us, in that day when I and my dear-loved Lord may sing to Thee together—‘Thou hast redeemed62 us, O Lord God of truth!’”
Mrs Underhill walked into the Lamb, one warm afternoon in the beginning of August, and remained to four-hours. And of course the conversation turned before long upon the Protestant controversy63 with Rome. In the Hot Gospeller’s family, it rarely kept off that subject for many minutes together.
“Mother!” said Kate, when she was gone, “what meaneth Mistress Underhill by confession64? She said it was bad. But it is not bad, is it, for me to tell you and Father when I have done wrong?”
“No, sweeting, neither to tell God,” answered Isoult. “Mrs Underhill meant not that, but spake only of confession unto a priest.”
“Thou must know, Kate,” explained Robin, “that some men will tell their sins unto any priest, in the stead of seeking forgiveness of God in their own chamber65.”
“But what toucheth it the priest?” asked the child.
“Why, never a whit,” he answered.
“If the man have stole from the priest,” resumed she, “it were right he should tell him; like as I tell Father and Mother if I have done any wrong, because it is wrong to them. But if I had disobeyed Mother, what good were it that I should ask Mr Rose to forgive me? I should not have wronged him.”
“She hath a brave wit, methinks, our Kate,” observed Isoult to Robin, when the child had left the room.
The smile on Robin’s lips developed into laughter; Isoult answered, with as much indignant emphasis as her gentle nature could indulge in, “Were you no swan to yours, Dr Thorpe?”
“Ah, child, I never knew her,” the old man said, sadly. “Maybe I had been a better man had I known a mother.”
It was not in Isoult Avery, at least, to respond angrily to such a speech as that.
Before mid-winter was reached, the swans were increased by one in the house in the Minories. On the 29th of November, a baby daughter was born to John and Isoult Avery; and on the 4th of December the child was christened at Saint Botolph’s, Mr Rose officiating. The name given her was Frances. The sponsors were the Duchess of Suffolk, for whom Mrs Rose stood proxy68; and Lady Frances Monke, whose deputy was Mrs Underhill; and, last and greatest, the young King, by Sir Humphrey Ratcliffe, Captain of the Gentlemen Pensioners69, and a Gospeller. The mania71 for asking persons of distinction to stand as sponsors was at its height during the reigns72 of the Tudor sovereigns. Every one of them was godfather or godmother to countless73 multitudes of his or her subjects, though they rarely, if ever, acted in person. We shall find on a later page, that even “the nine days’ queen,” Lady Jane Grey, was not without this distinction during her momentary74 reign.
During the illness of Isoult—for she was so ill that for some days Dr Thorpe considered her life in danger—the breach75, if it may be called so, with West Ham was made up. Both Mr and Mrs Rose were in constant attendance at the Minories, and Thekla came with them several times, her charge being the children, so that Esther might be entirely76 free to wait on her sick mistress. The subject was not discussed again, but from this date, on both sides, it appeared to be quietly taken for granted that Robin and Thekla henceforward belonged to each other. The Underhills, too, were very kind, Mrs Underhill undertaking77 to sit up with her invalid78 friend for several nights.
On the 13th of February 1551, Dr Gardiner was fully15 deprived of his bishopric. The Gospellers hoped it was for ever, but it will shortly be seen how deceived they were.
And at Easter the holy table in Saint Paul’s Cathedral was carried down below the veil that had been hung up to hide from the non-communicants the consecration80 of the elements, and set north and south; for, as yet, the customary place of the table was east and west.
Strange tales were told this Lent of fearful and marvellous visions and sights seen by many persons. Beside Merton Abbey, and in other places, men in armour81 were seen in the air, who came down to the earth and faded; and in Sussex were three suns shining at once. John Avery made himself merry over these rumours82, in which he had no faith. “The three suns,” said he, “were but some matter of optical philosophy, which could readily be expounded83 of such as were learned in it; and for the men in armour, when he saw them he would believe them.” Dr Thorpe considered the wonderful sights omens84 of coming ill, but from Esther they won very scant85 respect.
In May the party from the Lamb dined with Mr Holland, at whose house they met Mr Rose, and Mr and Mrs Underhill. The last-named gentleman could talk of nothing but the expected marriage of the young King with a Princess of France. This Princess was the hapless Elizabeth, afterwards affianced to Don Carlos, and eventually married to his father, the wretched Philip the Second. At this time she was just five years old.
“But,” said Isoult, “she shall be a Papist, trow?”
“She shall be a Papist of mighty few years old,” said Mr Underhill, laughing; “and we will quickly make a Protestant of her. I hear she is a mighty pretty child, her hair dark and shining, her eyes wondrous86 bright, and her smile exceeding sweet.”
“Sweeter than Thekla Rose’s?” asked Mrs Underhill, herself smiling.
“Scantly87, methinks,” answered Mr Underhill. “How like to a man’s fantasy of an angel doth that maid look!”
Robin looked very unlike an angel, for he appeared extremely uncomfortable, but he said nothing.
From the King’s marriage they came to that of the Princess Mary; and Mr Underhill—who, being a Gentleman Pensioner70, with friends at Court, was allowed to speak with authority—gave the name of her projected bridegroom as “the Lord Lewis of Portugal. Wherein,” pursued he, “Father Rose and I may amend our differences, seeing that she should first be called to renounce88 the succession.”
Mr Rose smiled, and said, “A happy ending of a troublous matter, if it were so.”
The next topic was the new Act to allow the marriage of priests. All the party being Gospellers, were, of course, unanimous upon this subject. But Mr Underhill, who was not in the family secrets, unfortunately took it into his head to clap Robin rather smartly on the back, and congratulate him that he might now be a priest without being necessarily a bachelor. Poor Robin looked unhappy again, but still wisely remained silent, not relishing91 the opening of the subject in Mr Rose’s presence. But Mr Rose only smiled, and quietly suggested that it would be well for Mr Underhill to satisfy himself that he was not making his friends sorrier instead of merrier, by coming down upon them with such personal assaults. John, by way of corollary, intimated in an aside to Isoult, that the gentleman in question “had a sore heavy hand when he was in right earnest.”
The night after this day was one not soon forgotten in London. In the still darkness came an earthquake—that most terrible of phenomena92 held in God’s hand, whereby He saith to poor, puny93, arrogant94 man, “Be still, and know that I am God.” Isoult awoke to hear sounds on all sides of her—the bed creaking, and below the dishes and pans dancing with a noisy clatter95. In the next chamber she heard Walter crying, and Kate asking if the end of all the world were come; but John would not permit her to rise and go to them. And she also heard Esther talking with them and comforting them in a low voice, so she was comparatively satisfied. The baby, Frances, slept peacefully through all.
The next morning Kate said,—“Mother, were you affrighted last night with the great rocking and noise?”
“A little afeard lest some of us should be hurt, sweet heart, if any thing should chance to fall down, or the like; but that was all.”
“I thought,” said she, “that the end of the world was come. What should have come unto us then, Mother?”
“Why, then,” replied Isoult, “we should have seen the Lord Jesus Christ coming in the clouds, with all the angels.”
“Well,” answered Kate, thoughtfully, “I would not have been afeard of Him, for He took up the little babes in His arms, and would not have them sent away. If it had been some of them that desired for to have them away, I might have been afeard.”
“Ay,” said Dr Thorpe, looking up from his book, “the servants are worse to deal withal than the Master. We be a sight harder upon one the other than He is with any of us.”
The Averys were visited, a day or two after the earthquake, by an old acquaintance of Isoult, the companion—“servant” he was called at that time—of Bishop Latimer. Augustine Bernher was by nation a German-Swiss, probably from Basle or its vicinity; and unless we are to take an expression in one of Bradford’s letters as figurative, he married the sister of John Bradford.
Like every one else just then, Bernher’s mind was running chiefly on the earthquake. He brought news that it had been felt at Croydon, Reigate, and nearly all over Kent; and the question on all lips was—What will come of it? For that it was a prognostic of some fearful calamity96, no one thought of doubting.
Whether the earthquake were its forerunner97 or not, a fearful calamity did certainly follow. On the 7th of July the sweating sickness broke out in London. This terrible malady98 was almost peculiar99 to the sixteenth century. It was unknown before the Battle of Bosworth Field, in 1485, when it broke out in the ranks of the victorious100 army; and it has never been seen again since this, its last and most fatal epidemic101, in 1551. It is said to have been of the character of rheumatic fever, but its virulence102 and rapidity were scarcely precedented. In some cases death ensued two hours only after the attack; and few fatal instances were prolonged to two days. On the tenth of July, the King was hurried away to Hampton Court, for one of his grooms103 and a gentleman of the chamber were already dead. The fury of the plague, for a veritable plague it was, began to abate104 in London on the 20th; and between the 7th and 20th died in the City alone, about nine hundred persons (Note 2). Nor was the disease confined to London. It broke out at Cambridge—in term time—decimating the University. The Duchess of Suffolk, who was residing there to be near her sons, both of whom were then at Saint John’s, hastily sent away her boys to Bugden, the Bishop of Lincoln’s Palace. But the destroying angel followed. The young Duke and his brother reached Bugden on the afternoon of July 13; and at noon on the following day, the Duchess was childless.
The suspense105 was dreadful to those who lived in and near London. Every day Isoult watched to see her children sicken—for children were the chief victims of the malady; and on the 15th, when Walter complained of his head, and shivered even in the July sun, she felt certain that the sword of the angel had reached to her. The revulsion of feeling, when Dr Thorpe pronounced the child’s complaint to be only measles106, was intense. The baby, Frances, also suffered lightly, but Kate declined to be ill of any thing, to the great relief of her mother. So the fearful danger passed over. No name in the Avery family was inscribed107 on the tablet of death given to the angel.
John Avery was very indignant at the cant79 names given by the populace to the sweating sickness. “The new acquaintance”—“Stop-gallant108”—“Stoop, knave109, and know thy master”—so men termed it, jesting on the very brink110 of the grave.
“Truly,” said he, “’tis enough to provoke a heavier visitation at God’s hand, when His holy ears do hear the light and unseemly manner wherein men have received this one.”
“Nor is the one of them true,” replied Dr Thorpe. “This disorder111 is no new acquaintance, for we had it nigh all over one half of England in King Henry’s days. I know I had in Bodmin eight sick therewith at one time.”
When this terror was passing away, an event happened which rejoiced the Papists, and sorely grieved the Gospellers.
On the 5th of April previous, after the deprivation112 of Gardiner, Dr Poynet had been appointed Bishop of Winchester, and 2000 marks in land assigned for his maintenance. The new Bishop was married; and soon after his elevation113, it transpired114 that his wife had a previous husband yet living. Whether the Bishop knew this at the time of his marriage does not appear; but we may in charity hope that he was ignorant. He was publicly divorced in Saint Paul’s Cathedral on the 28th of July; to the extreme delight of the Papists, in whose eyes a blot115 on the character of a Protestant Bishop was an oasis116 of supreme117 pleasure.
The Gospellers were downcast and distressed118. Isoult Avery, coming in from the market, recounted with pain and indignation the remarks which she had heard on all sides. But John only smiled when she told him of them.
“It is but like,” said he. “The sin of one member tainteth the whole body, specially in their eyes that be not of the body. Rest thee, dear heart! The Judge of all the earth shall not blunder because they do, neither in Bishop Poynet’s case nor in our own.”
“But,” said Isoult, “we had no hand in marrying Bishop Poynet.”
“Little enough,” he answered. “He shall bear his own sin (how much or little it be) to his own Master. If he knew not that the woman was not free, it is lesser119 his sin than hers; and trust me, God shall not doom90 him for sin he did not. And if he knew, who are we, that we should cast stones at him, or say any thing unto him (confessing and amending) beyond ‘Go, and sin no more’?”
“Nay,” she said, “it is not we that flout him, but these Papistical knaves120 which do flout us for his sake.”
“Not for his sake,” replied John, solemnly; “for an Other’s sake. We know that the world hated Him before it hated us. Bishop Poynet is not the man they aim at; he is but a commodious121 handle, a pipe through which their venom122 may conveniently run. He whom they flout thus is an other Man, whom one day they as well as we shall see coming in the clouds of Heaven, coming to judge the earth. The question asked of Paul was not ‘Why persecutest thou these men and women at Damascus?’ It is not, methinks, only ‘Inasmuch as ye did’ this good, but likewise ‘Inasmuch as ye did’ this evil, ‘unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye did it unto Me.’”
The next thing which aggrieved the people was an order for the abatement123 of the coinage. Henceforward, the nine-penny piece was to pass for sixpence, the groat or four-penny piece for twopence, the two-penny piece for a penny, the penny for a halfpenny, and the halfpenny for a farthing. Yet notwithstanding this, or perhaps in consequence of it, the price of provisions rose instead of falling.
“Why,” said Dr Thorpe, “this is plainly putting an hand in a man’s pocket, and robbing him of half his money!”
“Softly, good friend!” interposed John. “You would not call the King’s Grace a robber?”
“The King’s Grace is the King’s Grace, and may do as it liketh him,” said Dr Thorpe, a little testily124; “’tis yonder rascally125 Council whereof I speak, and in especial that cheating knave of Warwick. I would we had my Lord of Somerset back, for all he is not a Lutheran, but a Gospeller. He never thrust his hand into my pocket o’ this fashion.”
“Ah!” replied John, laughing, “touch a man’s pocket, and how he crieth apace!”
“A child newly burnt dreadeth the fire, Jack,” answered the old man. “This is not the first time we have had the King’s coin pulled down. I am as true a man to the King as any here; but I have taken no oath to that dotipole (blockhead) of Warwick; and if he play this game once too oft, he may find he hath fished and caught a frog.”
“I count,” suggested John, soberly, “that my Lord of Warwick’s testers shall not pass for any more than ours.”
“What matters that to him, lad,” cried Dr Thorpe, “when he can put his hand into the King’s treasury127, and draw it out full of rose nobles? The scurvy128 rogue129! I would he were hanged!”
John laid his hand very gently and lovingly on the old man’s shoulder.
“Would you truly that, friend?” said he, softly.
“A man meaneth not alway every thing he saith,” replied Dr Thorpe, somewhat ashamed. “Bring me not to bar, prithee, for every word, when I am heated.”
“Dear old friend,” John answered, softly, “we shall stand at one Bar for every word.”
“Then I shall look an old fool, as I do now,” said he. “Sit thee down, lad! and hold that soft tongue o’ thine. I can stand a fair flyting (scolding: still a Northern provincialism) or a fustigation (beating), but I never can one of those soft tongues like thine.”
John sat down, a little smile playing round his lips, and said no more.
One day in October, Mr Underhill dined at the Lamb. He brought news that at Hampton Court, that day, the Earl of Warwick was to be made Duke of Northumberland; the Marquis Dorset (Henry Grey, husband of the late Duke’s elder daughter), Duke of Suffolk; the Lord Treasurer130 (William Paulet, Lord Saint John), Marquis of Winchester; and Mr William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke.
“Duke of Northumberland!” cried Dr Thorpe, fairly roused at this news. “Duke of Blunderhead! Had the King made him Duke of Cumberland I had little marvelled131. Wherefore did his Grace (saving the reverence due) not likewise make me Duke of Truro or Marquis of Bodmin? I have been a truer man unto his Highness than ever my Lord of Warwick, and have done the kingdom a sight less harm.”
“Less harm, quotha!” laughed Mr Underhill. “Why, friend, if all were made dukes and marquises that have done no harm to the kingdom, we should have the Minories choke-full of noble houses.”
“We should have mighty few of the Lords keeping their titles,” said Dr Thorpe, grimly.
A few days later, Dr Thorpe, having gone to the barber’s near Aldgate, returned with a budget of news, as was usual when he came from that quarter.
“What will you give me for my news?” cried he, as he came in. “Rare news! glorious news!—for all knaves, dolts132, and runagates!”
John entered likewise just after him.
“I will give you nought, Doctor, at that rate,” said Isoult, laughing.
“I know it, friend,” replied John, so sadly that her mirth vanished in a moment. “It is a woeful blow to the Gospel. Isoult, the Duke of Somerset and my Lord Grey de Wilton are committed to the Tower.”
“The Duke of Somerset again!” she cried. “But my Lord Grey de Wilton!—what hath he done?”
“Served the King well in Cornwall,” answered John; “I know of nothing worse.”
“’Tis that idiot, knave, dolt133, and dizard (fool) of a Northumberland,” cried Dr Thorpe in great indignation. “I would the whole Dudley race had never been born! Knavery134 runs in their blood—’twill not out of them!”
“There are a few honest men in England—but a few,” said John, mournfully, “and two of the foremost shall lie this night in the Tower of London. And for what? Is it because my Lord Grey hath many times shed his blood for England (the royal blood of England herself which runneth in his veins135 (Note 3)), that now England herself shall shed it on Tower Hill? Is it because my Lord of Somerset hath given her the best laws she had for many a day, that now she will needs strain her laws to condemn136 him? Shame upon England if it be so! She shall not be held guiltless for it either before God or men.”
“And yestereven,” continued Dr Thorpe, “was my Lady of Somerset sent also to the Tower, for the great crime, I take it, of being wife unto her husband. And with her a fair throng137 of gentlemen—what they have done I wis not. Maybe one of them sent the Duke a peacock, and another doffed138 his bonnet139 to the Lord Grey.”
“The Duchess, too!” exclaimed John, turning to him. “I heard not of her committal. What can they lay to her charge?”
“Marry, she must have trade on the tail (train) of my Lady of Northumberland last Garter day,” scornfully answered Dr Thorpe. “Were not this a crime well deserving of death?”
“Surely,” said Isoult, “my Lady of Warwick (Note 4) will plead for her own father and mother with her father of Northumberland?”
“Plead with the clouds that they rain not!” said he, “or with a falling rock that it crush you not. Their bosoms140 were easier to move than John Dudley’s heart of stone.”
“And what saith the King to it all, mewondereth?” said Isoult.
“Poor child!” answered Jack, “I am sorry for him. Either he pleadeth in vain, or else they have poured poison into his ears, persuading him that his uncle is his dire36 foe141, and they his only friends (the last was the truth). God have pity on his gentle, childly heart, howsoever it be.”
“More news, Isoult!” said Dr Thorpe, coming home on the following Thursday. “’Tis my Lord Paget this time that hath had the great misfortune to turn his back upon King Northumberland, while the knave was looking his way. We shall have all the nobles of the realm accommodated in the Tower afore long.”
“Ah me!” said Isoult, with a shiver, “are those dreadful ’headings to begin again?”
“Most likely so,” answered he, sitting down. “And the King’s Grace hath given his manor142 of Ashridge unto his most dear sister the Lady Elizabeth. I marvel, by the way, which of those royal ladies shall ride the first unto Tower Hill. We are getting on, child! How the Devil must be a-rubbing his hands just now!”
In the midst of these troubles came the Queen Dowager of Scotland, Marie of Guise143, to visit the King; upon which rumours instantly arose that the King should even yet marry the young Queen of Scots. But Mary Stuart was never to be the wife of Edward Tudor: and there came days when, looking back on this day, Isoult Avery marvelled that she could ever have thought such events troubles at all. The clouds were returning after the rain.
In came Dr Thorpe from evensong on the Sunday night.
“One bit more of tidings, Isoult!” said he in his caustic144 style. “’Tis only my Lord of Arundel—nothing but an Earl—let him be. Who shall be the next, trow?”
“Mean you,” said she, “that my Lord of Arundel is had to the Tower?”
“To the Tower,” replied he, “ay; the general meeting-place now o’ days.”
“I wonder how it is with my Lady of Arundel,” said Isoult.
“Why,” answered he, “if she would get in likewise after her lord, she hath but to tell my Lord of Northumberland to his face that he may well be ’shamed of himself (a truer word was never spoke!) and she shall find her there under an hour.”
During the following month came an invitation to dine at West Ham. There, beside the party from the Lamb, were Mr and Mrs Underhill and Mr Holland. The conversation turned on politics. It was the usual topic of that eventful decade of years.
Mr Rose said,—“I know one Master Ascham, now tutor unto my Lady Elizabeth’s Grace, which hath also learned the Lady Jane Grey, and hath told me how learned and studious a damsel is she; and can speak and read with all readiness not only French, and Spanish, and Italian, but also Latin and Greek: and yet is she only of the age of fourteen years. And so gentle and lovely a maid to boot, as is scantly to be found in the three kingdoms of the King’s Majesty145.”
“How had she served for the King?” inquired John.
“Whither, I pray you?” said Mr Holland.
“Unto a son of my Lord of Northumberland, as ’tis thought,” he answered.
Whereupon, hearing the name of his enemy, as though touched by a match, Dr Thorpe exploded.
“A son of my Lord of Northumberland, forsooth!” cried he. “Doth earth bear no men but such as be sons of my Lord of Northumberland? Would the rascal126 gather all the coronets of England on his head, and those of his sons and daughters? ’Tis my Lord of Northumberland here, and there, and everywhere—”
“Up-stairs and down-stairs, and in my Lady’s chamber,” sang Mr Underhill, in a fine bass147 voice; for even in that musical age, he was renowned148 for his proficiency149 in the art.
“In the King’s chamber, certes,” said Dr Thorpe. “I would with all mine heart he could be thence profligated.” (Driven out.)
“Methinks I can see one in the far distance that may do that,” said Mr Rose in his grave manner. “At the furthest, my Lord of Northumberland will not live for ever.”
“But how many sons hath he?” groaned151 Dr Thorpe. “‘Such apple-tree, such fruit’ If the leopard152 leave ten or a dozen cubs154, we be little better for shooting him.”
“My Lord Henry, allgates, is no leopard cub153,” said Mr Underhill. “I know the boy; and a brave, gallant lad he is.”
“Go on,” said Dr Thorpe. “The rest?”
“My Lord of Warwick,” pursued he, “is scarce the equal of his brother, yet is he undeserving of the name of a leopard cub; and my Lord Ambrose, as meseemeth, shall make a worthy155 honourable156 man. For what toucheth my Lord Guilford, I think he is not unkindly, but he hath not wit equal to his father; and as for Robin (the famous Earl of Leicester)—well, you shall call him a leopard cub an’ you will. He hath all his father’s wit and craft, and more than his father’s grace and favour; and he looketh to serve as a courtier.”
“Methinks he shall either make a right good man, or a right bad one,” answered Mr Underhill. “He hath wit for aught.”
“And who,” said Dr Thorpe, “ever heard of a Dudley a good man?”
“Is that the very gentleman,” asked Mrs Rose, “that did marry with the great heir, Mistress Robsart?”
“Ay,—Mrs Amie,” answered Mr Underhill; “and a gentle one she is. A deal too good for Robin Dudley.”
“Must we then look to my Lord Robert as the Cerberus of the future?” said Mr Rose, smiling.
“The Devil is not like to run short of servants,” answered Dr Thorpe, grimly. “If it be not he, it will be an other.”
The clouds returned after the rain; but they gathered softly. Unheralded by any suspicion on the part of England as to the fate which it bore, came that fatal first of December which was the beginning of the end.
Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, was arraigned157 that day in Westminster Hall. And round the doors England pressed, yet in more hope than fear. A mere farce158, she thought: he must be acquitted159, of course. She prepared to welcome him home in triumph.
With such feelings in her heart—for was she not a part of England?—Isoult Avery stood at her door about six o’clock that evening, waiting for John’s return from the trial which was the one occurrence of the day. Robin had gone with him; but Dr Thorpe remained at home. For a time there was nothing but silence. The usual hum of the City was stilled: everybody was at Westminster. From Goodman’s Fields the cows came lowing home; now and then a single person, intent on business with which nothing might interfere160, passed quickly up the Minories; the soft chime of the bells of Saint Katherine floated past the Tower wall, for the ringers were practising after evensong; and one great gun rang out sharply from the Tower, to inform the world that it was six o’clock. Five minutes afterwards, a low sound, like the roll of distant thunder, came from the City side of Aldgate. It grew louder every moment. It became first a noise, then a roar. At last the sound was articulate and distinguishable.
“A Somerset! a Somerset!” (Note 5.)
But what had happened? Were they voices of Papists, or of Gospellers?
All at once they came pouring out of Aldgate. In front colours were flying and fifes screaming, and behind ran the crowd, their voices drowning the fifes. Isoult began to think of retreating and closing her door, when she caught sight of Gillian Brent (a fictitious161 person), her neighbour’s daughter, who was struggling frantically162 to reach her mother’s house, being nearly carried off her feet by the press of people. Gillian, with much difficulty, fought her way through, and reached Isoult, who had beckoned163 her to take refuge with her. She came in almost breathless, and sank upon the settle, completely worn out, before she had strength to speak. When she was a little recovered, Gillian said—
“My Lord Protector is quit (acquitted) of all ill, Mistress; and therefore the folk be thus glad.”
“In very deed!” said Isoult, “and therefore am I right glad. But, Gillian, are you certain thereof?”
“Nay,” said she; “I do know no more than that all the folk say so much.”
Two hours more passed before John came home.
“Well, Jack!” said Dr Thorpe, so soon as he heard his foot on the threshold, “so my Lord of Somerset is quit of all charges?”
“Who told you so much?” inquired John.
“All the folk say so,” answered Isoult.
“All the folk mistake, then,” answered he, sadly. “He is quit of high treason, but that only; and is cast for death (Note 6) of felony, and remitted164 again unto the Tower.”
“Cast for death!” cried Dr Thorpe and Isoult together.
Avery sat down with a weary air.
“I have been all this day in Westminster Hall,” said he, “for I saw there Mr Bertie, of my Lady of Suffolk’s house, and he gat space for me so soon as he saw me; and we stood together all the day to listen. My Lord of Somerset pleaded his own cause like a gentleman and a Christian165, as he is: verily, I never heard man speak better.”
“Well!” said Isoult, “then wherefore, thinkest, fared he ill?”
“Ah, dear heart!” replied he, “afore a jury of wolves, a lamb should be convicted of the death of a lion.”
“Who tried him?” asked Dr Thorpe.
“My Lord of Northumberland himself hath been on the Bench,” said John, “and it is of the act of compassing and procuring166 his death that my Lord of Somerset is held guilty.”
“Knave! scoundrel! murderer!” cried Dr Thorpe, in no softened167 tone. “Jack, if I were that man’s physician, I were sore tempted168 to give him a dose that should end his days and this realm’s troubles!”
“Good friend,” said John, smiling sadly, “methinks his days shall be over before the troubles of this realm.”
“But is there an other such troubler in it?” asked he.
“Methinks I could name two,” said John; “the Devil and Dr Stephen Gardiner.”
“Dr Gardiner is safe shut up,” he answered.
“He may be out to-morrow,” said John. “And if not so, the Devil is not yet shut up, nor shall be till the angel be sent with the great chain to bind169 him.”
“Nay, Jack! the wise doctors say that was done under Constantine the Emperor, and we have enjoyed the same ever sithence,” answered he.
“Do they so?” replied John, somewhat drily. “We be enjoying it now, trow?—But the thousand years be over, and he is let out again. And if he were ever shut up, methinks all the little devils were left free scope. Nay, dear friend! before the Kingdom, the King. The holy Jerusalem must first come down from Heaven; and then ‘there shall be no more pain, neither sorrow, nor crying.’”
When the two were alone, John said to his wife—“Isoult, who thinkest thou is the chief witness against my Lord of Somerset, and he that showed this his supposed plot to the King and Council?”
“Tell me, Jack,” said she. “I cannot guess.” He said, “Sir Thomas Palmer, sometime of Calais.”
“God forgive that man!” cried Isoult, growing paler. “He did my dear master (Lord Lisle) to death,—will he do my Lord of Somerset also?”
“‘Ye shall be hated of all men for My name’s sake.’ They that are so shall have their names written in Heaven.” Avery spoke solemnly, and said no more.
Note 1. Crowns were coined with either a rose or a sun on the obverse; and were distinguished170 accordingly.
Note 2. 872 (Machyn’s Diary, page 8); 938 (News Letter, Harl. Ms. 353, folio 107).
Note 3. The line of Grey de Wilton is the youngest branch of the royal House of York.
Note 4. John Earl of Warwick, eldest171 son of Northumberland, had married Anne, eldest daughter of Somerset.
Note 5. This ancient English shout is always spelt thus; but there is reason to think that the first word was sounded ah.
Note 6. Convicted. The Duke was acquitted on the first count, of high treason; and the people, hearing the announcement, “Not Guilty,” supposed that the trial was ended, and the Duke completely acquitted.
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1
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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3
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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4
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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5
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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6
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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7
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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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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9
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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10
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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11
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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12
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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13
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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14
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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15
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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flout
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| v./n.嘲弄，愚弄，轻视 | |
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flouting
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的现在分词 ) | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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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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apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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28
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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ordain
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| vi.颁发命令；vt.命令，授以圣职，注定，任命 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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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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39
mallet
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| n.槌棒 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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41
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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44
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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46
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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47
privily
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| adv.暗中，秘密地 | |
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48
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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49
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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50
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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51
augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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52
auguries
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| n.（古罗马）占卜术，占卜仪式( augury的名词复数 )；预兆 | |
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53
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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54
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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55
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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56
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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57
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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58
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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59
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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60
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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61
tare
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| n.皮重；v.量皮重 | |
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62
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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63
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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64
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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65
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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66
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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68
proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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69
pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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70
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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71
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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72
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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73
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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74
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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75
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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76
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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77
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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78
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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79
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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80
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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81
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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82
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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83
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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85
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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86
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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87
scantly
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| 缺乏地，仅仅 | |
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88
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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89
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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90
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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91
relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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92
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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93
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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94
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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95
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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96
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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97
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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98
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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99
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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100
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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101
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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102
virulence
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| n.毒力，毒性；病毒性；致病力 | |
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103
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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104
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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105
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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106
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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107
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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108
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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109
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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110
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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111
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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112
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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113
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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114
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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115
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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116
oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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117
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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118
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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119
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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120
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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121
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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122
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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123
abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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124
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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125
rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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126
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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127
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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128
scurvy
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| adj.下流的，卑鄙的，无礼的；n.坏血病 | |
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129
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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130
treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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131
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
dolts
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| n.笨蛋，傻瓜( dolt的名词复数 ) | |
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133
dolt
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| n.傻瓜 | |
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134
knavery
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| n.恶行，欺诈的行为 | |
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135
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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136
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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137
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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138
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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140
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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141
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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142
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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143
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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144
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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145
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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146
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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147
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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148
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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149
proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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150
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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151
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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152
leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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153
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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154
cubs
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| n.幼小的兽，不懂规矩的年轻人( cub的名词复数 ) | |
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155
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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156
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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157
arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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158
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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159
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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160
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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161
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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162
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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163
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
remitted
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的过去式和过去分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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165
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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166
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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167
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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168
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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169
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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170
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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171
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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