“Alma real, dignissima d’impero,
Se non fossi fra noi scesa si tardo.”
Petrarch.
Thus, to soft music, with sufficient minor1 chords to form a pleasant contrast to the glad notes of the grand chorus, glided2 in upon the stage of England the five awful years of the Marian persecution3.
Never had there been five such years in England. The sanguinary struggles of the Roses, the grinding oppression of Henry the Seventh, the spasmodic cruelties of Henry the Eighth, were not to be compared with this time. Of all persecutors, none is, because none other can be, so coldly, mercilessly, hopelessly unrelenting, as he who believes himself to be doing God service.
And now the floods of the great waters came nigh the struggling Church. The storm fell upon her, as it never fell in this island before or since. The enemy had gathered his forces for one grand effort to crush the life out of her.
But the life was immortal5. The waves beat powerlessly against the frail6 barque; for it held One who, though He seemed verily “asleep on a pillow,” was only waiting the moment to arise and say, “Peace, be still!”
The Lord sat above the water-floods; yea, the Lord sitteth a King for ever.
Yet the “rough wind was stayed in the day of the east wind.” When forty years are to be spent in the wilderness8, then the shoes wax not old, nor does the strength, fail. But when the furnace is heated seven times hotter than its wont9, then the pain is not for long, and the furnace holds a more visible Fourth, like to the Son of God. Only dying men see angels. The sweet soft light of the Master’s shining raiment, which we may pass by in the glaring sunshine, is not so easily left unperceived when it is the sole light of the martyr10’s dungeon11.
And God was with His Church, during those five sharp, short years of agony wherein so many of her members went to God.
And all opened with a flourish of silver trumpets12. There were flashings of jewels, set where jewels should flash no more; white bridal robes, soon to be drenched13 in blood; ghostly crowns, glimmering14 for an instant over heads that should be laid upon the block ere one poor year were over. “Man proposed, and God disposed.” The incorruptible crown was the fairer and brighter.
The last brilliant day which England was to know before that tempest broke, dawned on the morning of the 21st of May, 1553. Early on that day all London was astir. Three noble marriages were to be celebrated15 at Durham House, in the King’s presence; and to Durham House London was crowding, to see the sight. Among the crowd were John Avery, Dr Thorpe, and Robin16. Isoult had declined to run the risk of having the clothes torn off her back, or herself squeezed into a mummy; and it was agreed on all sides that there would be danger in taking the children: but nothing could keep Dr Thorpe at home—not even a sharp attack of rheumatism17, from which he had been suffering more or less all the spring. Mr Underhill of course would be there, in his place as Gentleman Pensioner18; and after a good deal of pressing from more than one of his friends, a dubious19 consent to go, if he could find time, had been wrung20 from Mr Rose.
The bridegrooms and brides were apportioned21 in the following order.
The Lady Jane Grey to Lord Guilford Dudley.
The Lady Katherine Grey to Lord Herbert of Pembroke.
The Lady Katherine Dudley to Lord Hastings. (Note 1.)
It was six o’clock before any of the birds flew home; and the first to come was John Avery, who said he had left Robin in charge of Dr Thorpe,—“or Dr Thorpe in charge of Robin, as it may please thee to take it. I know not when they will be back. In all my life did I never see a man so unweary and unwearyable as that our old friend.”
“Three very fine ladies and three very fine gentlemen,” answered he; “with a great many more ladies and gentlemen, not quite so fine.”
“Was the King there?” Isoult inquired.
“What ware they, Moppet?” said John, taking up Kate; “why, many a yard of cloth of gold, and satin, and velvet24, and I cannot tell thee what else. They were as fine as ever the tailor could make them.—Ay, dear heart, the King was there.”
But his voice changed, so that Isoult could read in it a whole volume of bad news.
“Is he sick, then, as we heard?” she asked.
“Hardly,” he answered in a low voice, “say rather dying.”
“O Jack!” cried she.
“O Isoult, if thou hadst seen him!” said he, his voice quivering. “The fierce, unnatural25 radiance in those soft, meek26 grey eyes, as though there were a fire consuming him within; the sickly dead-white colour of his face, with burning red spots on the cheeks; the languor27 and disease of his manner, ever leaning his head upon his hand, as though he could scarce bear it up; and when he smiled—I might scantly29 endure to look on him. And above all this, the hollow cough that ever brake the silence, and seemed well-nigh to tear his delicate frame in twain—it was enough to make a strong man weep.”
“But tell me all about it!” cried Kate, laying her little hand upon her father’s face to make him turn round to her; “I want to know all about it. How old are these great ladies? and what are they like to? and what ware they? Was it blue, or red, or green?”
John turned to her with a smile, and his manner changed again.
“What a little queen art thou!” said he. “Well, I must needs strive to content thy majesty30. How old are the ladies that were married? Well, the Lady Jane is the eldest31, and she is, I take it, sixteen or seventeen years of age. She looketh something elder than her years, yet rather in her grave, quiet manner than in her face. Then her sister the Lady Katherine is nigh fourteen. And the years of my Lady Katherine Dudley I know not. Item, what are they like unto? That was the next question, methinks.”
“Ay,” replied Kate. “Which is the nicest?”
“Which thou shouldst think the nicest I cannot tell,” said John. “But in so far as mine opinion lieth, the Lady Jane’s face liked me the best. Maybe my Lady Kate Dudley should have stricken thy fancy the rather, for she ware a mighty32 brave blue satin gown, and her face was all smiles and mirth.”
“And what ware the other?”
“The Lady Jane and her sister were both donned in white velvet.”
“My Lady Katherine Dudley’s amber-colour, set with sapphires35; the other ruby36 velvet, and their jewels rubies37.”
“And who married them, Jack?” asked Isoult.
“Body o’ me! who ever looked at Bishop Ridley, I would like to know!” cried Dr Thorpe, coming halting in as though he had hurt himself. “Isoult, if thou canst ever get my left shoe off, I will give thee a gold angelet (half-angel; in other words, a gold crown). Yonder dolt39 of a shoemaker hath pinched me like a pasty. But O the brave doings! ’Tis enough to make a man set off to church and be married himself!”
And the old man sat down in a great chair.
“I will strive to earn it, Doctor,” said Isoult, laughing, as she sat down on the hearth40 before him, and took his lame41 foot in her lap. “Art thou weary, Robin?”
“Not much,” said Robin, smiling. “The shoemaker did not pinch me.”
“Beshrew him for an owl42 that he did not!” answered Dr Thorpe, testily43. “Thou hadst stood it the better. Eh, child, if thou hadst seen the—mind thy ways, Isoult!—the brave gear, and the jewels, and the gold chains, and the estate (Note 2), and the plumes44 a-nodding right down—Oh!”
His shoe hurt him in coming off, and he sat rubbing his foot.
“Was Mr Rose there?” said Isoult, when they had finished laughing.
“No,” said Robin.
“And Mr Underhill?”
“Ay, that was he, in the bravest and marvellousest velvet gown ever thou sawest in all thy days, and a doublet and slop (very wide breeches introduced from Holland) of satin, and a gold chain thick enough to tie up a dog with. And there, sweet heart, was my most gracious Lord of Northumberland—in a claret velvet gown sewed with gold braid—and for as many inches as could be found of the plain velvet in that gown, I will give any man so many nobles. There was not one! And the bonnet46 in ’s hand!—with a great ruby for a button!—and all set with seed-pearl!—and the jewels in the hilt of’s sword!—and great rubies in face of his shoes! The dolt and patch that he is!”
“I do believe Dr Thorpe had beheaded my Lord of Northumberland,” said John, laughing, “if that sword had been in his belt in lieu of the other.”
“I never saw him afore,” replied he, “and I never do desire to see him again. He looketh the rogue47 (then a stronger word than now) that he is.”
“And now, as a physician, what think you of the King?” asked John, sadly.
“I will give him three months to die in,” was Dr Thorpe’s short and woeful answer.
By the second of July, England knew that the King was dying. No longer could there be any question of the sorrowful truth. He was at Greenwich Palace, Archbishop Cranmer and Bishop Ridley in frequent waiting on him; and summons was sent to his sisters to come quickly. On the 3rd of July, which was Sunday, Dr Ridley preached at the Cross, where he dimly foreshadowed the disposition48 of the Crown that was coming. All who heard him were much astonished, for not a word had crept out before. It was plain from what he said that the King’s sisters were to be passed over (to the no little surprise of all who knew his love for the Princess Elizabeth); but it was not plain who was to come instead; and the rumour49 ran that it would be the Lady Frances, Duchess of Suffolk, the niece of King Henry, and mother of the Lady Jane Grey.
On the evening of the 6th of July, came a comforting rumour that the King was better, and a hope sprang up that he would yet recover. Those who knew the Duke of Northumberland might have guessed at treachery. In truth, the King died that day; but the Duke kept it secret, until he thought his plans secure for the Lady Jane’s succession.
On the morning of the 10th of July, came Dr Thorpe in great haste, from the barber’s.
“What is now to do?” said she to herself; but she tied on her hood, and brought down the children with her.
“Where be Jack and Robin?” asked the old man.
“They must shift for themselves, then,” said he. “Come away.”
“But whither, Doctor?” she wished to know.
“Down to the river side by Saint Katherine’s, with all the haste that may be,” answered he. “Isoult, the King is dead, and the Lady Jane Dudley proclaimed Queen of England, and she cometh apace from Shene to the Tower. We may chance to see her land, if we lose no time.”
“The King dead!”
Isoult said no more, but away they ran down the street, till they reached Saint Katherine by the Tower. A crowd of people were already there. They took up their places by the church, whence they could see the river; and they had not been there two minutes, ere they heard a sound of cheering from the watermen below; and presently the royal barge53 of England glided into sight. At the bow played the standard of the realm; and about the cloth of estate were several ladies and gentlemen, all clad in mourning, surrounding a lady who sat under the canopy54. This was all that could be seen till the barge stopped at the Tower-stairs. Then from it (a blue cloth being first laid to the gate) came the Duke of Northumberland, robed in a long, black gown trimmed with fox, leading a fair, slender girl also in mourning, and Frances, Duchess of Suffolk (Note 3), bore her train. After them came the Duke of Suffolk, the Earl of Arundel, a slim comely55 youth unknown to the crowd, and Lord Grey de Wilton. And the minute after, from the crowd thronging56 the postern, Mr Ive, the High Constable58 (Mr Underhill’s friend and neighbour at the Lime Hurst), made his way to our little group.
“Ah! how do you?” said he. “You are in fair time to see our new Queen.”
“I pray you, Mr Ive,” said Isoult, “is yonder damsel her Highness, that my Lord’s Grace of Northumberland hath by the hand?”
“Even so,” replied he; “and yonder young gentleman that followeth is her husband, the Lord Guilford Dudley.”
Very earnestly they looked then on the face of their new Sovereign. A soft, gentle face, fair and clear complexion60, brown hair, and meek, thoughtful brown eyes; and eyes that had shed tears but very lately. But Northumberland bore himself proudly, as though he felt himself a King already. And very few voices said “God save Queen Jane!” Isoult did hear a few, but few they were.
In the evening, throughout the City, and without the gates, was the new Queen proclaimed. It was now known that the King had died on the Thursday previous, and that Northumberland had kept the matter secret, until he thought Jane’s succession ensured. And by letters patent, dated the 21st of June, King Edward had bequeathed the realm to the heirs-male of his cousin the Lady Frances, Duchess of Suffolk; and should she have no heirs-male before his death, the reversion was to pass to her eldest daughter, the Lady Jane Dudley, now Queen; and for lack of her issue, to her cousin Lady Margaret Clifford. The sisters of Jane were passed over, and also the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth, sisters of the late King.
All the Queen’s officers, and her Council, were sworn to serve her on the 9th of July; and troops were sent to take the Lady Mary, who had already been proclaimed Queen at Kenninghall in Norfolk.
Every body was glad to see Mr Rose come in that evening.
“My friend, had the Lady Mary not been exempted63 of the King her brother, I had bowed to her sceptre,” said Mr Rose. “But she is lawfully64 put forth; and Queen Jane as lawfully proclaimed.”
“Who talks treason here?” cried Mr Underhill’s voice behind, which all dreaded65 to hear. “What say you—‘God save Queen Jane?’ I say, God save Queen Mary! I serve not my Lord of Northumberland, for all the Papists nick (give me the nick-name) me his spy! I have not proclaimed King John—whereof, as all men do know, Queen Jane is but the feminine. I am a servant of the Queen’s Majesty that reigneth by right, and that Queen is Mary. God defend the right, as assuredly He will!”
Mr Rose looked quietly on him.
“You may live to forethink (regret) the setting of her up, if it were so,” was all he said.
“I may live to be sorry she was ever born,” answered Mr Underhill. “I know that, Father Rose! But right is right, and wrong is wrong; and I say this is a wrong, and I stand forth for the right.”
“God’s will is the right,” gently answered Mr Rose. “Let us not fight against God.”
“And be you ware you do not!” cried Mr Underhill in his ringing voice. “How look you to know what His will is herein?”
“We shall all know that ere it be long,” said Mr Rose, sadly.
On the 13th of July (exact date unrecorded) was born Guilford Underhill, Mr Underhill’s eldest son. He had already five daughters. The 19th was appointed for christening the child, and the sponsors were the Queen (that is to say, Lady Jane), her father the Duke of Suffolk, and the Earl of Pembroke. John Avery was greatly amused that Mr Underhill should believe the Lady Jane had no right to be Queen, and yet, because she was Queen, would have her his child’s sponsor. It was an instance of the consistent inconsistency inherent in human nature.
The 14th of July was a day of contrary rumours66, and great trouble, and running to and fro in the streets of the city. From all sides news poured in that the Lady Mary was proclaimed Queen—at Kenninghall, and Framlingham, and Norwich, and in all the eastern parts. The Council would have sent the Duke of Suffolk against her; but Lady Jane his daughter entreated68 with tears that he might remain with her; and they then sent the Duke of Northumberland. He and Lord Grey de Wilton (who went unwillingly69, being of Mr Underhill’s way of thinking) set forth on the 14th, with six hundred men. That evening came news that Mary was proclaimed in Buckinghamshire.
On the 16th, at seven o’clock at night, the gates of the Tower were suddenly locked, and the keys carried to Lady Jane. This was to secure the Lord Treasurer70, (the Marquis of Winchester), who was considered of doubtful faith, and proved to be as he was considered.
As the party reached Saint Katherine’s on their way to the christening, the Lords of the Council were just riding out of the western gate of the Tower. These were the Earls of Pembroke, Shrewsbury, and Arundel, the Lord Warden71 of the Cinque Ports, the Lord Mayor, and sundry72 knights73. The Duke of Suffolk was left behind. The truth was, that he would have been in the way. The Council said that it was going to give audience to the French Ambassador; but it was really bound on a very different errand. Lady Throgmorton was the Queen’s deputy at the christening, and named the child Guilford.
“Named for a Dudley!” whispered the irrepressible Dr Thorpe to Isoult. “He will not thrive, take my word for it—unless he turn out a rascal74.”
Before the ceremony was ended, a great noise was heard in the City: shouting, singing, and roaring all together. The baptism over, Lady Throgmorton returned into the Tower; and the rest of the party went on to the Lamb, where they were all going to pass the afternoon. Mistress Helen Ive (a fictitious75 person), the High Constable’s daughter, carried the baby, and accompanied Isoult; but Mr Ive said he would go up to Aldgate, and see what all the tumult76 had been; so away he went, while the others rested and talked, and ate ale-brew (ale and bread, sometimes called aleberry) and spiced cake; and Kate was wonderfully pleased with the baby. All at once, as they sat thus, Mr Ive returned, his face showing that he brought strange tidings.
“They have proclaimed Queen Mary!” he cried breathlessly.
“Who have?” asked Mr Underhill, turning round.
“The Lords of the Council,” answered he.
“Robin Hood’s tales!” cried Mr Underhill.
“’Tis truth,” responded Mr Ive.
“The Council of Queen Jane to proclaim Queen Mary!” said Mr Underhill, scornfully. “Ive, you are mad as a March hare.”
“Bate your aces52, and catch your March hares,” answered Mr Ive, who took all this banter77 very pleasantly; “but this is truth that I do tell you. An hour gone, we being in the church, when we heard that mighty bruit78 from the City, was Queen Mary proclaimed in Cheapside by the Council. Their audience to the French King’s Ambassador was but a feint, to get well and all together out of the Tower. And when they came to the Chepe, they called an halt; and my Lord of Arundel, stepping forwards, did there, in the hearing of all the people, proclaim—‘Mary, by the grace of God, of England, France, and Ireland, Queen’—and so forth. And no sooner said than every man in the street flung up his cap, and the people cheered as they had gone mad for joy. The Earl of Pembroke threw down in the street his cap full of angelets.”
“My word on’t, but I would Walter had been there, to run about and gather them up!” said Dr Thorpe. “We might have gleaned79 that comfort thence, at least.”
“And at the windows of many houses in the City,” continued Mr Ive, “money was thrown out; and bonfires all along the Chepe and Poultry80 be a-lighting, and at all the gates, and in Cornhill, and Fleet Street, and Aldersgate Street, and I know not where else; and (say they) such shouting, crying, and singing of the people, ringing of bells, playing of organs, tables of meal and drink setting forth in every street; and such racket and bruit, as a man might scantly hear his own voice. And after the proclamation in Cheapside, all the Council rade to Poules, and there was Te Deum to be sung at evensong.”
“But who be ‘they’?” cried Mr Underhill. “Who told you all this jolly tale?”
“The keeper of Aldgate, and your friend Mr Newman, and George Ferris, and divers81 other. I gat not all from one man.”
“Newman and Ferris! Then it is true,” murmured Mr Underhill, very gravely.
It was true. Before night they knew all concerning this deed of treachery.
And—last and worst of all—no sooner did the Duke of Suffolk, within the Tower, hear that the Council had proclaimed Queen Mary without, than out he came upon the hill, and saying “he was but one man, and would not withstand all the Council,” proclaimed Queen Mary on Tower Hill, to the ruin of his own daughter: and then went into London, leaving poor Lady Jane almost alone in the Tower,—for only Lord Guilford, and the Duchess of Northumberland, and Lady Throgmorton and her husband Sir Nicholas, and Sir John Bridges, were left with her. And when Lady Throgmorton returned from Saint Katherine’s to the Tower, she found the cloth of estate already taken down, and all changed; and when she would have quitted the Tower again, she was not permitted to do so.
That evening, there was a gathering82 at the Lamb. Mr Underhill stayed to rejoice; Mr Rose came to mourn; Philippa Basset came to rail; and Mr Holland came to pacify83 them. And no very soft nor sweet words were bestowed84 on Lord Sussex by Mr Holland (whose words were not all peace); nor on Lord Arundel by Mr Rose; nor on Lord Grey by Mr Underhill; nor on the Duke of Suffolk by any body; nor on any body by Philippa. Only to one no hard words were given by any; and that was the Lady Jane, whom all united to excuse and pity. But all agreed in calling Lord Arundel a traitor85, and Suffolk a man too weak and pitiful to be blamed.
All hope of the Lady Jane’s success was now gone. The Duke of Northumberland himself proclaimed Queen Mary when he discovered it; but notwithstanding this feeble attempt to curry86 favour, on the 22nd he was apprehended88 at Cambridge. Lord Grey de Wilton and others who submitted themselves early were pardoned. Lady Jane, Lord Guilford, and those with them, were kept prisoners in the Tower.
Towards the end of July, Isoult and Esther were coming along the riverside by the Tower, when they saw a great crowd shouting and running towards them. Neither John nor Robin being with them, Isoult was rather frightened, and turned aside into the porch of Saint Katherine’s for safety. But when they came nearer, she saw that here were the prisoners borne under guard to the Tower. First rode the traitor Earl of Arundel, who had them in his guard; and had he received his deserts, he would have been among them. And after him, riding upon horses, their bridles89 tied to those of the guards, came the Duke of Northumberland, his sons, the Earl of Warwick, Lord Ambrose, and Lord Henry Dudley; Lord Huntingdon, Lord Hastings, Sir John Gates, and his brother Sir Henry, Sir Andrew Dudley (brother to the Duke), and Dr Sands, Chancellor90 of Cambridge. But when Isoult saw the face of the last prisoner, she was unspeakably startled. Esther asked if she were ill; “for (said she), you look ever so white and faint!” It was no wonder, when she looked up into the unforgotten face of Sir Thomas Palmer.
Thirteen years had passed since she saw him; but Isoult knew him in a moment. All the old Calais memories came flashing back on her like an overwhelming flood, drowning the newer evil he had done, as she saw this man, who had persecuted91 the saints of God, who had done the Duke of Somerset to death, who had been one of the four destroyers of her beloved master—led to his prison and to his suffering in turn.
Sir Thomas looked at Isoult as he passed, seeing her eyes fixed92 on him; but it was the look of a stranger to a stranger.
The storm broke now. Few days passed unmarked by fresh arrests. The phrase “the Queen” had almost insensibly passed from Jane to Mary. But for a little while yet the crisis was political, not religious. When the danger was over, and before Mary reached her metropolis93, the scene was shifted, and the first Protestant arrest took place. And so sudden and unexpected was the blow, that it fell upon the Gospellers like a thunderbolt. Thirty hours had barely elapsed since her meeting with Sir Thomas Palmer, when Isoult, coming down into the parlour, heard her husband’s voice say sorrowfully—“Ay, this is the beginning of sorrows.”
“Is there any more news?” cried Isoult, fearfully; for fresh news then meant bad news.
“The worst we have had yet,” he said; “the Bishop of London is committed to the Tower.”
“And that all suddenly, with scantly a minute’s warning,” added Dr Thorpe.
“Woe worth the day!” she wailed94. “Ay, thou mayest say so,” answered he. “God grant this be not the first step of a longer and dreader persecution than we have yet known.”
On Friday the Duke of Suffolk was brought to the Tower, where his hapless daughter remained a prisoner. But on the Monday following, Suffolk was released.
“To ease the Tower dungeons96, which must now be choke-full,” suggested Dr Thorpe; “or it may be the Queen thought him a sely (harmless, simple) fellow, not worth the turning of an axe97 edge.”
The Queen’s grand entry into London took place on the 3rd of August. There was no need for any in the Minories to go far to see her, for she came to them, riding down Shoreditch and in at Aldgate. She was preceded by a guard of seven hundred and forty “velvet coats;” then rode that “honourable man” my Lord of Arundel, bearing in his hand the sword of state; then (after reaching Aldgate) the Lord Mayor; then the Queen, royally arrayed, riding by herself on a richly-caparisoned barb50, Sir Anthony Browne bearing up her train. What were the thoughts of that long-persecuted woman, now in her turn to become a persecutor4? Then followed her sister, the Lady Elizabeth. What, too, were her thoughts? After the royal sisters rode Elizabeth Stafford, wife of the imprisoned98 Duke of Norfolk, and Gertrude, Marchioness of Exeter, mother of the imprisoned Edward Courtenay. Ladies and gentlemen followed to the number of a hundred and eighty. Lastly came the guard, with a crowd of men from Northampton, Buckingham, and Oxford100 shires, all in armour101, and the peers’ servants. The number of horsemen, we are assured, was about ten thousand.
And when the Queen came to the Tower, there, beside the gate, kneeling upon the Tower green, were the old prisoners of her father and brother, the old Duke of Norfolk, and Dr Stephen Gardiner, and the Duchess of Somerset, and the young Lord Courtenay, who had scarcely ever been out of the Tower in his life. They, kneeling there, saluted102 her; and no sooner had the Queen alighted, than she went to them and kissed them, and said, “These are my prisoners.”
The time-serving Earl of Pembroke had been ordered to wait upon the Queen, but was too terrified to obey. He felt himself too deeply compromised for pardon. One point, however, he was careful not to neglect. His son, Lord Herbert, was divorced in all haste and fear from Lady Katherine Grey, the hapless sister of the “nine days’ Queen.”
On Saturday night, Mr Underhill walked into the Lamb, and tacitly asked himself to supper. He was in feverish104 delight.
“The good cause hath triumphed! and Queen Mary being known to be of merciful complexion, I cast no doubt all shall be spared that can be.”
“But meantime,” responded John Avery, “some are being spared that should not be—all them that have troubled the realm in King Edward’s time, or yet sooner. Bishop Day is delivered; and Bishop Bonner not only delivered, but restored to his see, and shall henceforth be Bishop of London in the stead of Dr Ridley. And what shall become of that our good Bishop no man knoweth. Moreover, Bishop Tunstal is delivered out of prison; and Dr Gardiner (woe worth the day!) was this morrow sworn of the Council. Howso merciful be the Queen, the Council shall be little that way inclined, if they have him amongst them.”
It was not yet dinner-time on the following morning, when Barbara came up-stairs to tell her mistress that Mrs Helen Ive wished to see her. Her first words were ominous106.
“Mrs Avery, I come from the Lime Hurst, with rare ill tidings.”
“Alack!” said Isoult. “Is Mistress Underhill worser? or the little babe sick?”
“Neither,” said she; “but Mr Underhill is in Newgate.”
“Mr Underhill!” cried Isoult. “For what cause?”
“God knoweth, and they that have him,” said she; “for the rest, I wis not whether he know himself. But he was taken in the midst of the night, being ten of the clock, and after long trial by the Council, is now sent unto Newgate. The Sheriff of Middlesex come unto my father’s house thus late, and brake the matter to my father, whom he desired to go with him, as being Mr Underhill’s very friend; and my father did entreat67 him to leave him go and fetch his prisoner, for frightening of Mrs Underhill in her weakness. So my father, followed of the Sheriff and his men bearing bills and glaives, knocked on the door, and there came one to the door, unto whom he desired that he should ask Mr Underhill to come out. But upon this he heard Mr Underhill’s voice, calling to him to go within. So he went within, and found Mr Underhill in his bed; who demanding of him in his merry fashion what he did breaking into a man’s house at that hour of the night, my father answered him that the Sheriff, and with him a great company were come to fetch him. Upon which Mr Underhill rose, and made him ready; and willing not that Mistress Underhill should know anything of the matter, he would not go into her chamber107 for any other gear, but cast about him such as he had there, which was a brave satin gown that he had worn the even afore.”
“Ay,” said Isoult, “a tawny108 satin night-gown (evening costume) laced with green; he had it here at supper.”
“Well,” pursued Helen, “so out came he to the Sheriff, and demanded what he would. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I have commandment from the Council to apprehend87 you, and forthwith to bring you unto them.’—‘Why,’ answers Mr Underhill, ‘it is now ten of the clock in the night; you cannot now carry me unto them.’—‘No, Sir,’ said he; ‘ye shall go with me to my house to London, where ye shall have a bed; and to-morrow I shall bring you unto them at the Tower.’—‘In the Name of God!’ (Note 4) quoth Mr Underhill; and so went with the Sheriff. ‘Know you the cause?’ saith he also; who (the Sheriff) answered that he knew of none. Then said Mr Underhill, ‘This needed not; any one messenger might have fetched me unto them.’ So away went they, and my father turned home. And this morning went my father early unto the Tower, where the Council were sitting, and took his place at the gate, where was a great throng57 of people, that he might hear what should befall. It was a mighty long time ere Mr Underhill came forth; but at long last out came he, led betwixt two of the guard, and my father (with a great throng) followed to Mr Garret’s house, the Sheriff, in the Stock Market. There they took Mr Underhill in, and after a while, to my father’s great easement, came forth without him. Then, after some time, came forth Mr Underhill again, with two of the Sheriff’s men; but they had no bills with them, nor they led him not, but followed a pretty way behind. So he coming into the street, my father, seeing him have such liberty, and such distance between him and the officers, he stepped before them, and so went talking with him through Cheapside. And Mr Underhill told him that my Lord of Sussex would have ordered him to the Fleet, and Sir Richard Southwell cried out to have him to the Marshalsea: but neither should content Sir John Gage109 nor Secretary Bourne, and they made great ado that he were sent to Newgate, and prevailed. Arrived thither110, Mr Underhill was delivered of the officers to Alisaunder the keeper (Note 5), who unlocked a door, and bade him go up-stairs into the hall. My father would not yet leave him, but went up with him, and there they sat down and had some talk one with the other. And Mr Underhill did require my father not to let Mrs Underhill know that he was sent to Newgate, but to the Counter, until such time as she were near her churching, and better to abide111 ill news; and that she should send him his night-gown, his Bible, and his lute103. So my father took his leave; and meeting me at Aldgate on his way home, desired me to turn aside hither and tell you thereof; and to ask you that you would come and visit Mrs Underhill in her trouble, if it might stand with your conveniency.”
“That will I, assuredly,” said Isoult; “and it shall be the very first thing I do on the morrow.”
Isoult fulfilled her promise. She rode to the Lime Hurst, with Tom as escort; and found Mrs Underhill lying on the day-bed (the predecessor112 of the sofa), with Helen Ive sitting by her; while Anne, her eldest girl, was nursing her baby brother, and looked very much gratified to be trusted with him. Mrs Underhill burst into tears the moment her visitor approached. Taking the seat which Helen vacated for her, Isoult endeavoured to cheer her invalid113 friend. When she was able to speak, Mrs Underhill was found very resolute114.
“So soon as ever my strength shall serve,” she said, “I will hie me to the Lords of the Council, to entreat them for Ned’s deliverance; and methinks my Lord of Bedford at the least shall hear me, for the good hap95 that we had to recover his son. And I will moreover get help of Jack Throgmorton, Master of the Quest, that is Ned’s countryman and kinsman115.”
“But, dear heart,” cried Isoult, “you are not strong enough to bear so weary a burden.”
“I will be strong enough!” she answered, determinately. “And to that end I do mean to be churched this next Sunday. But to tell you the very truth, Mrs Avery, I do fear this shall not be all. Men do say Mr Rose shall be deprived ere many days; and it may be, set in ward61 likewise. Ah, well-a-day I we have need to take heed116 to our ways. My way lieth toward the Counter; if I might be there with Ned, I would not much lay to heart for what cause. Methinks when they take a man, they should seize both halves of him.”
Isoult smiled, but made no reply.
“And ’tis whispered about,” she pursued, “that my Lord Archbishop should forsake117 the Gospel, and be again a Lutheran, if not a Papist; and that the mass shall be again set up; and that proclamation shall be made to put forth from their cures all married priests. Mrs Avery, have a care of your Robin, that he either receive not orders, or wed45 not. When looked you for his being a priest?”
“Why,” said Isoult, “he had been ordained118 of Bishop Ridley this next Rogation-tide; but now I know not what shall fall, for no Popish Bishop will admit him, nor would we ask it if he would so do. May be, if Mr Rose would speak with him (Robin being Cornwall-born), Bishop Coverdale should grant him, an’ he knew the case.”
“Bishop Coverdale, and Mr Rose to boot,” said she, “shall shortly have enough to do to see to themselves. Mrs Rose is sorely distressed119 touching120 the forbiddance of wedded121 priests, which ’tis thought shall shortly be had. And ’twill be no gain to be Mr Rose his son when the storm come. An’ I were you and Mr Avery, I would put him off both his orders and his wedding.”
“We have no right over him, Mrs Underhill,” said Isoult.
“No right!” answered she. “Doth not every man that knoweth you and him know that you have but to whisper, and he shall run at your bidding? Mrs Avery, if you asked that lad for his head, I do very nigh believe he should cut it off for you.”
“I must talk with Jack of this matter,” responded Isoult, thoughtfully.
So, when she left the Lime Hurst, she came home to dinner, and after dinner rode on to West Ham. In the parlour there she found Thekla at her spinning; but Mrs Rose (a most unwonted thing for her), sat by the casement122 idle, with her hands lying before her.
“Hear you Mr Underhill is in prison?” were her first words.
“Ay,” said Isoult; “and that you, dear friend, are sore disquieted123, for the which cause I come.”
“Disquieted!” she answered, the tears springing to her eyes. “Is it like I shall be quiet? How know I who shall be in prison to-morrow? They may burn mine husband and banish124 me before a month. And what is to come of Thekla?”
“Dear mother,” said Thekla, gently, “they will not put God in prison.”
“They may put there every servant that He hath,” said she, bitterly.
“I think you know, dear heart,” replied Isoult, “that so long as we have any shelter to offer unto her, Thekla shall not be without one.”
“But how long may be that?” she answered; and, burying her face in her handkerchief, she began sobbing125.
Isoult hardly knew what to say, but she heard Mr Rose’s step, and awaited his coming. He greeted her kindly126, and then turning at once to his wife, said, “Sweet heart, why weepest thou?”
“Mrs Rose feareth we may all be prisoned or execute afore a month be over,” said Isoult, for Mrs Rose was sobbing too heartily127 to speak.
“Truth,” he answered. “What then?”
“What then?” she cried through her tears. “Why, Tom, art thou mad? ‘What then,’ to such matter as the breaking of our hearts and the burning of our bodies? ‘What then!’”
“Then,” said he, gently, “thou art not ready (as Paul was) ‘not only to be bound, but also to die’ for the Lord Jesus? Is it so, my Marguerite?”
“I know not what I were ready to do myself,” she said, “but I am not ready to see thee nor Thekla to do so.”
“Well, sweet heart,” said he, “methinks I am ready. Ready—to be confessed before the angels of God, and the Father which is in Heaven: ready—to wear a martyr crown before all the world: ready—to reign with Christ a thousand years! Is that matter to be wept for, Marguerite?”
“There is something else to come first,” she said, shaking her head.
“There is so,” replied he. “To confess Christ, ere He confess us: to be envied of angels, that have no such means of showing forth His glory: to give a very little thing for the Redeemer who gave all He is, and all He hath, for us. Is that, also, matter for tears?”
“Ah, Tom!” said she, smiling through her tears, “thou turnest it all to the contrary. But thou knowest what I mean.”
“The brighter and better way,” he answered. “But I do know thy meaning, dear heart. And in truth, it is hard, and the flesh is weak. But remember, our Lord knoweth that as well as we. He hath not forgotten the days of His flesh, when He offered up prayer, with strong crying and tears, to Him that was able to save Him from death; though there were one thing (and that the worst thing) in His sorrow, that there can never be in ours. The way may be rough and stony—but, mind thou, it is only very short.”
“When it may last for all the life, Tom! Hard prison, and scant28 fare, and loneliness, and bitter mourning! Methinks the death were better than that.”
“Very short, still,” repeated he, “to the endless days of eternity128. The days of the journey be few indeed, compared with the number of those to be spent in the Father’s House. And, sweet heart, even should we be forced to go that journey apart, we will strive to look forward to the glad meeting in the Home.”
“I meant not to make thee weep again,” he said, tenderly; “and yet there is no good in shutting our eyes on a sorrow that must come, though there be little use in grieving over such as may never come. It is not yet come; and when it so doth, it is only a little while. Only a little while, my Marguerite! ‘In the world ye shall have tribulation130; but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world!’”
Thekla ceased her spinning, and coming forward to her mother, she passed her arm round her, and kissed her brow.
“Mother!” she said, sweetly, “it may be God will let us go to Him together. Need we mourn for the night ere it be dark! It will be so sweet to go to Him. Will it not help us to bear almost any thing, to know that presently thereafter we shall see Christ, and be with Him for ever?”
Mrs Rose was crying more quietly now, and Isoult rose to depart. Mr Rose said he would help her to mount, and she fancied that he wished to speak with her in private. And so she found it; for no sooner had he shut the door, than he said—
“Mrs Avery, what do you touching Robin’s orders?”
Isoult replied as she had done to Mrs Underhill, and added that she meant to talk the matter over with John, when she could do so quietly. “But, Mr Rose,” she said, “your three years be already gone.”
“Friend,” he answered, his lip quivering, “had I made it three hundred years, maybe it had been the better.”
“I pray you say not that you will not give her unto him!” cried Isoult—for she guessed what that would be to Robin, and perchance to Thekla.
“I will say no such thing,” he answered. “It should seem that Robin’s orders can now scarce be had; and if it were so, I tell you the truth, mine heart were the lighter131. Thekla must choose for herself. She is now of ripe age to know what is for and against the same; and if she would have rather Robin and what may hap than to leave both, I will not gainsay132 her choice. But if she seeketh mine avisement—”
“Can I say any thing else?” answered Mr Rose in a low voice. “Were it worse for Thekla to be let from wedding him, or to be roughly parted from him ere they had been wed a year—perchance a month? If Robin should choose not to endeavour himself for the priesthood, then of force is there no such difficulty. But can I look forward to the parting that must ere long come between my Marguerite and me, and lightly choose the same doom133 for our child?”
Mr Rose’s voice fell, and his face changed so painfully that the listener could scarcely bear to see it.
“Think you that must come?” she said in a voice hardly above a whisper.
“It must come, if the Queen continue as she hath begun,” answered he, in a low voice. “It may not be for long, if the Lord only try us, to humble134 us, and to prove us, whether we will keep His commandments or no: it may be for all this life. Beyond this life, it cannot be. The keys of Heaven and earth are in the hands of Jesus Christ, not in those of Mary Tudor!”
No more was said for that time. The friends clasped hands and parted.
But when Isoult and John had their quiet talk together, she found that he had already been thinking on the subject; and had conversed135 with Robin.
“I did somewhat marvel,” she admitted, “seeing the three years for the which Mr Rose did covenant136 were run out in June, that Robin made no motion thereunto. But verily I did think he should speak the first.”
“He hath spoken, dear heart,” said John, “and I did entreat him to await a season the upshot of this matter, till we should see who should succeed the King, and what manner of government we were like to fall under. And I pressed him with much of the same reasoning that (as I hear) Mr Rose hath given thee.”
“And what saith he touching his priesthood?”
“I think he hardly knew what to say.”
When all else had gone to bed, John and Isoult took Robin aside, and John told him what Mr Rose had said. Robin’s eyes filled with tears.
“Then,” said he, “it comes to this; I must either give up mine orders, or give up—”
He uttered not, nor did they need, the name of Thekla Rose.
“But one other point, Robin, leave not out of thine account,” said John. “It may be thou canst not receive orders.”
“Why, then,” replied he, “if I cannot, I cannot. But when shall I know that I cannot?”
“Were it not better, Robin,” suggested Isoult, “to fix thee a time, not unreasonable138 distant, whereat, if thou mayest not hap to receive orders afore, thou shalt resign that expectation, and be free to wed?”
“Good and wise counsel!” cried John. “Thou hast hit the nail on the head. Thinkest not so, Robin?”
Robin sat silent for a moment. Then he said,—“Ay—if Mr Rose agree thereto.”
“We will ask him that,” answered John, “so soon as we may.”
On the 11th of August, to borrow the expression of the Gospellers, the abominable139 thing was once more set up in England. For the first time for six years, an old priest sang the Latin mass in Saint Bartholomew’s Church, to the awakening140 of such burning indignation on the part of his hearers, that he was compelled to escape for his life by a side door.
The application to Mr Rose was made on the Sunday evening following, when John and Isoult, with Robin, rode over to the evening service at West Ham. Mr Rose’s sermon was a very solemn one, on the text, “I am now ready to be offered.”
Ready to be offered! how many of the Gospellers needed to be so, in that autumn of 1553!
After the sermon, they waited for Mr Rose, and he walked with them for one or two miles on their way home. Robin led the horses a short distance behind them. Mr Rose was quite satisfied with Isoult’s proposal to fix a time beyond which Robin should resign the hope of entering the ministry141, and indeed seemed relieved by the suggestion. At his request, Robin was waited for, and when he came up with them, Mr Rose asked him what was the reason of his unwillingness142 to resign the hope of receiving holy orders.
Robin answered, that “having offered himself and his service unto God, he counted it not right to withdraw the same, unless it should be plain that this was not the way wherein God would have him to serve.”
And Mr Rose’s reply was,—“Then, Robin, wouldst thou give up rather Thekla than thine orders?”
“It were well-nigh giving up my life; yet I would do as God will have me,” said Robin, softly.
Mr Rose grasped his hand, and called him a brave lad, adding that “if God so would, he would be right glad of such a son.”
This speech made the tears no further from Robin’s eyes, but he smiled and thanked him. And he continued,—“Mr Rose, I would have you to know that I do desire only to know and do what is God’s will for me. If He will make me His minister, I will be thankful for so great an honour; for I do account the service of God higher than the dominion143 over men. Yet, if I can serve Him better as a door-porter or a scullion, I would have Him do His will with me.”
“Ah Robin, God bless thee!” answered Mr Rose, earnestly. “Thou hast learned a lesson which many a scholar of threescore and ten can yet hardly spell.”
Note 1. The two ladies first named were second cousins of the King, and stood in the line of the succession. The details here given are almost entirely144 fictitious (except such as concern Edward himself), for little is really known beyond the time, the place, and the King’s presence.
Note 2. The canopy over the throne was called the cloth of estate, often abbreviated145 into the estate.
Note 3. The Duchess Frances appears to have played a quiescent146 part in this drama, so soon to turn into tragedy. Otherwise she (from whom alone the title was derived) would scarcely have borne so meekly147 the train of her own daughter.
Note 4. This must not be mistaken for swearing. It was an expression used in the most reverential manner, and equivalent to “God’s will be done.”
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1
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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2
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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3
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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5
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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8
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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10
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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11
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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12
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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13
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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14
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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15
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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19
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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21
apportioned
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| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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22
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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23
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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24
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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26
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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scantly
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| 缺乏地，仅仅 | |
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30
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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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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hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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35
sapphires
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| n.蓝宝石，钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 )；蔚蓝色 | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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dolt
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| n.傻瓜 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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41
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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43
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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44
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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45
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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46
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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47
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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48
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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49
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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50
barb
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| n.（鱼钩等的）倒钩，倒刺 | |
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51
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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52
aces
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| abbr.adjustable convertible-rate equity security (units) 可调节的股本证券兑换率；aircraft ejection seat 飞机弹射座椅；automatic control evaluation simulator 自动控制评估模拟器n.擅长…的人( ace的名词复数 )；精于…的人；（ 网球 ）（对手接不到发球的）发球得分；爱司球 | |
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53
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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54
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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55
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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56
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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57
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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58
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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59
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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60
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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61
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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62
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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63
exempted
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| 使免除[豁免]( exempt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
lawfully
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| adv.守法地，合法地；合理地 | |
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65
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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66
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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67
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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68
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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70
treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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71
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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72
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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73
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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74
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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75
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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76
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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77
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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78
bruit
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| v.散布；n.（听诊时所听到的）杂音；吵闹 | |
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79
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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80
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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81
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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82
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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83
pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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84
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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86
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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87
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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88
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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89
bridles
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| 约束( bridle的名词复数 )； 限动器； 马笼头； 系带 | |
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90
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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91
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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92
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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93
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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94
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
hap
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| n.运气；v.偶然发生 | |
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96
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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97
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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98
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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100
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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101
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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102
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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103
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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104
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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105
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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107
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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108
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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109
gage
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| n.标准尺寸，规格；量规，量表 [=gauge] | |
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110
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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111
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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112
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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113
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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114
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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115
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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116
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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117
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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118
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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119
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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120
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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121
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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123
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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125
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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126
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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127
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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128
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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129
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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130
tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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131
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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132
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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133
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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134
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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135
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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136
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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137
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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138
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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139
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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140
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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141
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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142
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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143
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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144
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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145
abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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146
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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147
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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148
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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