Chapter Four.

Chapter Four.Beneath Blue Sky.“Ere suns and moons could wax and waneEre stars were thundergirt, or piledThe heavens, God thought on me His child,Ordained a life for me, arrayedIts circumstances every oneTo the minutest; ay, God saidThis head this hand should rest uponThus, ere He fashioned star or sun.”Robert Browning.The 24th of October brought the expected letter from Simon Pendexter to the master of Bradmond, and another from Marian to the mistress. Simon’s epistle was read first; but it proved to require both an English dictionary and a Latin lexicon. Simon wrote of “circumstances,” (then a new and affected word), of the “culpable dexterity” of the rebels who had visited Bradmond, of their “inflammatory promulgation,” of the “celerity” of his own actions in reply, and of his “debarring from dilation the aforesaidignis.” He left them in a cloud of words, of which Dr Thorpe understood about half, and Isoult much less. John, being a little wiser, was called upon for a translation. “Hang me if I know what the fellow is a-writing about!” testily cried Dr Thorpe. “Jack, do thou put this foolery into decent English!”“The enclosure men burnt your house, old friend,” said John. “Have there the English.”“Plain enough at last, by my troth!” cried he.A little more progress was made with Mr Pendexter’s missive, when Isoult interrupted it by exclaiming—“Do tell me what he meaneth, Jack!”“They set our house afire, dear heart, but he soon put it out,” translated John.“It was likely afeard of his big ruffling words!” said Dr Thorpe.The letter concluded thus:—“With the which considerations, I do commit your Honour to the tuition of God. Inscribed at Bodmin,die Veneris, the fourth in the month of October. By the hand of your Honour’s most undemeritous and obeisantpaedagogus, Simon Pendexter.”“This companion is clean out of his wits!” exclaimed Dr Thorpe.“Isoult, read thy little letter,” said John. “Metrusteth it shall be more clear than Simon’s, and, at all charges, ’tis shorter.”“Unto Mistress Avery, At the Minories in London.”“Mistress,—This shall be to advertise you (my lowly duties first remembered), that the fourteenth of July come unto Bradmond the ill men you wot of, and after casting mine husband and me forth of the house with little gentleness, did spread themselves thereabout, drinking up the wine in the cellar, and otherwise making great bruit and disorder. And in the end they set fire thereto, and departed. God helping us, we shortly had the fire under, for it began to rain; but the whole house is ruinated, and a deal of mischief done. Mistress, all the hangings be burned or torn, and the furniture is but splinters; and the very walls so knocked about, and the garden all trampled and desolated, that I am well assured, were you this minute on the ground you should not find conveniency to enter and abide for many a long day yet. And in good sooth, ’twill lack a mint of money spent thereon ere the house be meet for any, let be a gentleman and gentlewoman of your honourableness. Mistress, they tare away all the shutters, and tare up the planks of some of the floors: and they left not a latch nor an andiron whole in all the house. Mine husband hath writ to Mr Avery. From Bodmin, this fourth day of October. Mistress, I do beseech you of your gentleness to give my poor sister to know that I do fare well, and trust so doth she likewise.“By the rude hand of her that is your servant, Marian Pendexter.”“Rude hand!” said John. “Commend me to Marian Pendexter for the writing of a letter. ’Tis one-half so long as Simon’s, and tells us twice so much as he; and her round letters be as clear as print, while his be all quips and flourishes. Well, I account we shall needs abide hither for some time, Isoult; but methinks I must ride home, and see how matters stand; and if the garden be truly desolated as for roses and the like, well, the ground may as well be set with carrots and cabbages, that can be sold. And on my return hither, I must set me, as fast as I may, unto the making ofpecunia, as Simon hath it, in my calling. Metrusteth the house shall not need to be pulled down and built up again; for that should take, methinks, some years to raise. Howbeit, ’tis no good looking forward too far.”Dr Thorpe said, when he had sat for a time in silence, “Ah, well! the will of the Lord be done! I trow they shall scantly burn mine other house, in that city which hath foundations.”“Mr Edward Underhill, the Hot Gospeller.”Isoult Avery looked up and rose when John made this announcement, to the evident amusement of the person introduced.The Hot Gospeller’s age was thirty-seven; of his personal appearance we have no trustworthy account. It may safely be asserted that his feelings were strong, his affections warm, his partisanship fervent, and his organ of humour decidedly developed. I picture him lithe and quick, with ready tongue and brilliant eyes; but perhaps I am as much mistaken as Isoult was concerning Alice Wikes. If the mania “de faire son portrait” which was so much the fashion in France in the reign of Louis the Fourteenth had pervaded England in the sixteenth century, we might have obtained much curious information which is now lost to us.When all the members of our little group were gathered round the dinner-table,—which was not until eleven a.m., for the Averys dined unusually late that day—Dr Thorpe laid the subject which had been discussed before Mr Underhill, and requested his opinion on the matter. Could he find a man for the time?Isoult shook her head dubiously.“With whom take you part?” said Dr Thorpe.“With both of you,” answered Mr Underhill. “I lean to Mistress Avery’s thought that there is no man for the time; but I do partly share your opinion, in that methinks there may be a woman.”“A woman, Mr Underhill?” cried Isoult, in amazement.“What woman?” said Dr Thorpe. “My Lady Duchess of Suffolk, I ween. Nay, Master; she is good enough as may be, but her money-bags are a sight scantier than when my Lord Duke was in life.”“My Lady of Suffolk! not she, forsooth,” replied he. “Nay, good Doctor; mine hopes are anchored (under God) on none other than the King’s ‘sweet sister Temperance’—my young Lady Elizabeth’s Grace.”“The Lady Elizabeth!” repeated Dr Thorpe, in a voice which intimated his meaning. “A child at her book and needle, Master Underhill!”“She will not alway be so,” answered he. “Nor shall she be such long.”“And afore her standeth another,” continued the doctor.“Afore her standeth another,” repeated Mr Underhill. “Nor shall any man alive ever see me to do evil that good may come. But I scantly signified all you would make me to say. I did but point to my Lady Elizabeth’s power with the King, not to her being one to stand in her own power, which God long defend!”Dr Thorpe shook his head in turn, but did not further explain himself.“You have friends at Court,” said John to Mr Underhill. “Which of these ladies is commonly thought to stand best with the King her brother?”“The Lady Elizabeth, by many a mile,” answered he. “And to go by what I hear from her tutor Mr Ascham, a fair and ready wit enough she hath. The Lady Frances (Note 1) her daughters, likewise, be great with the King, and are young damsels of right sweet nature and good learning, so far as their young age may show the same.”“What say men of the King’s wedding?” quoth Dr Thorpe. “Is it yet the Queen of Scots?”“The friends of my Lord Protector say ’tis a Princess of France; and his foes will have it that had he not fallen too soon, it should have been—the Lady Jane Seymour.”“What, my Lord Protector his daughter?” inquired Isoult.“She,” said Mr Underhill.“That hath an ill look, an’ it were so,” remarked John, thoughtfully.“‘Less like than Paul’s steeple to a dagger sheath,’” quoted Dr Thorpe, who was rather fond of proverbs.“Go to, Jack! we are all for ourselves in this world,” responded Mr Underhill philosophically. “As to like, it may be no more like than chalk to cheese, and yet be in every man’s mouth from Aldgate to the Barbican. My Lord Protector is neither better nor worse than other men. If you or I were in his shoes, we should do the like.”“I trust not, friend,” said John, smiling.“A rush for your trust!” laughed Mr Underhill. “I would not trust either of us.”“But I would so!” said Isoult warmly. “Mr Underhill, you surely think not that if Jack were Lord Protector, he should strive and plot for the King to espouse our Kate?”“Of course he would,” said Underhill coolly. “And so would you.”“Never!” she cried.“Well, I am sure I should. Think you I would not by my good will see my Nan a queen?” answered he.“With a reasonable chance of Tower Hill?” suggested Avery. “You and I have seen queens come tothat, Ned Underhill.”“Well, there is better air at the Lime Hurst,” replied Underhill sententiously.A long conference was held concerning the repairs at Bradmond. The resolution finally adopted was that John should ride home and ascertain what the state of affairs really was. Hitherto the family had been living on their rents, with little need for professional work on John’s part unless it pleased him. Slight repairs, however, would entail saving; and serious ones might keep them in London for years, until he had laid up sufficient money to defray them.“’Tis all in the day’s work,” he said lightly, to cheer his wife. “I must have a factor to see unto the place, and for that Simon Pendexter shall serve, if he affright not the poor tenants with his long words; and I myself must needs set to work hard. ’Twill do me good, dear heart; (for he saw Isoult look sad) I have hitherto been lazy, and only have played at working.”So John left London on the first of November, along with a convoy of travellers bound for Exeter; charging Isoult to make acquaintance in his absence with Mrs Rose and Mrs Underhill, with the object of giving her something to do.“And think not, sweet wife,” said he, “that we be all going a-begging, because of what I said touching money. I cast no doubt to make more than enough thereof in my calling to keep all us, and that comfortably; only if there lack much outlay at Bodmin, it shall need time to gather wherewith to pay it. Above all, I would not with my good will have any stint in mine hospitality, specially unto them that be of the household of faith. Leave us not turn Christ our Master out at the doors, at the least unless we need go there ourselves with Him.”A week after John’s departure, Isoult put his advice into action, rather because he had given it, than with any real hope of dispelling the intense loneliness she felt. Robin went with her, and Kate, all riding upon Bayard, to West Ham, where they were directed to a small house near the church as the residence of the parson. For in those days parson had not lost its original honourable meaning, whereby the clergyman was spoken of aspar excellence“the person” in the parish. The trio alighted, and Isoult rapped at the door. A girl of fifteen answered the knock.She was tall for her age, but slenderly built. Her hair was of the fairest shade of golden—the pale gold of our old poets—and her eyes were brown. Not a bright, shining brown; this brown was deep and misty, and its light was the light given back from a lake, not the light of a star. In her face there was no rose at all; it was pure and pale as a snowdrop; and her look, Isoult thought, was like the look of an angel. Her smile was embodied sweetness; her voice soft and low, clear as a silver bell. There are few such voices out of England, but the combination of fair hair with dark eyes is the Venetian style of beauty. Rare in any land, yet there are occasional instances in each. For such, in Italy, was Dante’s Beatrice; such, in Germany, was Louise of Stolberg, the wife of the last Stuart; and such, with ourselves, was “England’s Elizabeth.”“Doth Mistress Rose here dwell, and may one have speech of her?” inquired Isoult of the vision before her.“Will it please you to take the pain to come within?” answered the sweet voice. “I am Thekla Rose.”Wondering at a name which she had never heard before, Isoult suffered Thekla to lead her into a small, pleasant parlour, where Mrs Rose sat spinning. She was a comely, comfortable-looking woman of middle height, round-faced and rosy, with fair hair like her daughter’s, but grey eyes. Isoult had forgotten her foreign origin till she heard her speak. Her English, however, was fluent and pleasant enough; and she told her visitors that she came from a town in Flanders, close to the German border.“Where,” pursued Mrs Rose, “people are bred up in their common life to speak four tongues; which shall say, Flemish—that is the language of Flanders; and Spanish—the Spaniards do rule over us; and Low Dutch (German),—because we have much to do with the Low Dutch; and the better bred women also French. And I teach my Thekla all these tongues, saving the Flemish; for they speak not Flemish only in Flanders; it should do her not much good. But in all these four tongues have I kinsfolk; for my father was a true-born Fleming, and to him I alway spake Flemish; and my mother was a Spanish woman, and I spake Spanish with her; and my father’s brother was wedded unto a dame of Low Dutchland (for whom my daughter is named Thekla, which is a Low Dutch name); and his sister did marry a Frenchman. So you shall see I am akin to all this world!”Mistress Rose entreated her guests to stay for four-hours, when she hoped Mr Rose would be at home; but Isoult was somewhat afraid of losing her way in the dark, and declined. So she called her maid, and bade her bring cakes and ale, and take Bayard to the shed where their nag was stabled, and give him a mess of oats; begging them at least to stay an hour or two. Then Robin came in, and talked to Thekla and Kate, while Isoult was occupied with Mrs Rose. Mr Rose they did not see; his wife said he was in his parish, visiting the people. So at two o’clock they departed, and reached home just as the dusk fell.The next day Isoult rode to the Lime Hurst, to see Mrs Underhill. She found her a pleasant motherly woman, full of kindness and cordiality. As they sat and talked Mr Underhill came in, and joined the conversation; telling Isoult, among other matters, how he had once saved Lord Russell from drowning, the heir of the House of Bedford. The boy had been thrown into the Thames opposite his house, in a bitterly cold winter; and Underhill, springing in after him, rescued him, carried him to his own house, and nursed him back to life. Since that time the Earl of Bedford had been the attached friend of his child’s preserver. (Underhill’s Narrative, Harl. Ms. 425, folio 87, b.)When Isoult returned home, she found a letter from Annis Holland awaiting her. It contained an urgent invitation from the Duchess of Suffolk to visit her at her little villa at Kingston-on-Thames. Isoult hesitated to accept the invitation, but Dr Thorpe, who thought she looked pale and tired, over-ruled her, chiefly by saying that he was sure John would prefer her going; so she wrote to accept the offer, and started with Robin on the following Monday.Skirting the City wall, they passed through Smithfield and Holborn, and turned away from Saint Giles into the Reading road, the precursor of Piccadilly. The roads were good for the time of year, and they reached Kingston before dark. The next morning Robin returned home, with strict charges to fetch Isoult in a week, and sooner should either of the children fall ill.After Robin’s departure, Isoult waited on the Duchess, whom she found sitting in a cedar chamber, the casement looking on the river and the terrace above it. As the friends sat and talked in came a small white dog, wagging its tail, but with very dirty paws.“Get out, Doctor Gardiner!” cried her Grace, rising hastily, as the soiled paws endeavoured to jump upon her velvet dress. “I cannot abide such unclean paws. Go get you washed ere you come into my chamber!—Bertie!”Mr Bertie came in from the antechamber at her Grace’s call; and smiling when he saw what she wanted, he lifted the dog and set it outside.“Have Dr Gardiner washed, prithee!” said the Duchess. “I love a clean dog, but I cannot abide a foul one.”Isoult could not help laughing when she heard her Grace call her dog by Bishop Gardiner’s name.“He is easier cleansed than his namesake,” she resumed, shaking her head. “If my Lord of Winchester win again into power, I count I shall come ill off. As thou wist, Isoult, I have a wit that doth at times outrun my discretion; and when I was last in London, passing by the Tower, I did see Master Doctor Gardiner a-looking from, a little window. And ‘Good morrow, my Lord!’ quoth I, in more haste than wisdom; ‘’tis merry with the lambs, now the wolves be kept close!’ I count he will not forgive me therefor in sharp haste.”Mr Bertie smiled and shook his head.“Now, Bertie, leave thine head still!” said her Grace. “I know what thou wouldst say as well as if I had it set in print. I am all indiscreetness, and thou all prudence. He that should bray our souls together in a mortar should make an excellent wit of both.”“Your Grace is too flattering, methinks,” said Mr Bertie, still smiling.“Am I so, verily?” answered she. “Isoult, what thinkest thou? ’Twas not I that gave the dog his name; it was Bertie here (who should be ’shamed of his deed, and is not so at all) and I did but take up the name after him. And this last summer what thinkest yon silly maid Lucrece did? (one of the Duchess’s waiting-women, a fictitious person). Why, she set to work and made a rochet in little, and set it on the dog’s back. Heardst thou ever the like? And there was he, a-running about the house with his rochet on him, and all trailing in the mire. I know not whether Annis were wholly free of some knowledge thereof—nor Bertie neither. He said he knew not; I marvel whether he spake truth!”“That did I, an’t like your Grace,” replied Mr Bertie, laughing. “I saw not the rochet, neither knew of it, afore yourself.”“Well, I count I must e’en crede thee!” said she.It struck Isoult that the Duchess and her gentleman usher were uncommonly good friends; rather more so than was usual at that time. She set it down to their mutual Lutheranism; but she might have found for it another and a more personal reason, which they had not yet thought proper to declare openly. The Duchess and Bertie were privately engaged, but they told no one till their marriage astonished the world.Isoult reached home on the sixteenth of December; and on Twelfth Day, 1550, John returned from Cornwall. He brought word that the repairs needed were more extensive than any one had supposed from the Pendexter epistles. Part of the house required rebuilding; and he was determined not to begin before he could finish. The result was, that they would have to remain in London, probably, for five or six years more.Shortly after John’s return, a gentleman called to see him. His name was Roger Holland, and he was a merchant tailor in the City, but of gentle birth, and related to the Earl of Derby. Isoult wished to know if he could be any connection of her friend Annis. John thought not: but “thereby hung a tale.”“This gentleman,” said John Avery, “was in his young years bound apprentice unto one Master Kempton, of the Blade Boy in Watling Street: and in this time he (being young and unwary) did fall into evil company, which caused him to game with them, and he all unskilfully lost unto them not only his own money, but (every groat) thirty pounds which his master had entrusted unto him to receive for him of them that ought it (owed it). Moreover, at this time was he a stubborn Papist, in which way he had been bred. So he, coming unto his master’s house all despairing, thought to make up his bundle, and escape away out of his master’s house, (which was a stern man) and take refuge over seas, in France or Flanders. But afore he did this indiscreet thing, he was avised (he made up his mind) to tell all unto a certain ancient and discreet maid that was servant in this his master’s family, by name Elizabeth Lake, which had aforetime showed him kindness. So he gat up betimes of the morrow, and having called unto her, he saith—‘Elizabeth, I would I had followed thy gentle persuadings and friendly rebukes; which if I had done, I had never come to this shame and misery which I am now fallen into; for this night have I lost thirty pounds of my master’s money, which to pay him, and to make up mine accounts, I am not able. But this much I pray you, desire my mistress, that she would entreat my master to take this bill of my hand that I am this much indebted unto him; and if I be ever able, I will see him paid; desiring him that the matter may pass with silence, and that none of my kindred nor friends may ever understand this my lewd part; for if it should come unto my father’s ears, it would bring his grey hairs over-soon unto his grave.’“And so would he have departed, like unto Sir Richard at the Lea, in the fair old ballad—“‘Fare wel, frende, and have good daye—It may noo better be.’(From “A Litel Geste of Robyn Hode.”)“But Elizabeth was as good unto him as ever Robin Hood unto the Knight of Lancashire; yea, and better, as shall be seen. ‘Stay,’ saith she, and away went she forth of the chamber. And afore he was well over his surprise thereat, back cometh she, and poured out of a purse before him on the table thirty pound in good red gold. This money she had by the death of a kinsman of hers, but then newly come unto her. Quoth she, ‘Roger, here is thus much money; I will let thee have it, and I will keep this bill. But since I do thus much for thee, to help thee, and to save thy honesty, thou shalt promise me to refuse all wild company, all swearing, and unseemly talk; and if ever I know thee to play one twelve-pence at either dice or cards, then will I show this thy bill unto my master. And furthermore, thou shalt promise me to resort every day to the lecture at All Hallows, and the sermon at Poules every Sunday, and to cast away all thy books of Papistry and vain ballads, and get thee the Testament and Book of Service, and read the Scriptures with reverence and fear, calling unto God still for His grace to direct thee in His truth. And pray unto God fervently, desiring Him to pardon thy former offences, and not to remember the sins of thy youth; and ever be afraid to break His laws, or offend His majesty. Then shall God keep thee, and send thee thy heart’s desire.’“So Mr Holland took her money, and kept his obligations unto her. And in the space of one half-year, so mightily wrought God’s Spirit with him, that of a great Papist he became as fervent a Gospeller; and going into Lancashire unto his father, he took with him divers good books, and there bestowed them, so that his father and others began to taste of the gospel, and to leave their idolatry and superstition: and at last his father, seeing the good reformation wrought in this his son, gave him fifty pounds to begin the world withal, and sent him again to London, where he now driveth a fair trade.”“And hath he met again with Mistress Lake,” said Isoult, “and restored unto her her thirty pounds?”“That I cannot tell,” returned John.A letter came before long from Mr Barry, written at Christmas, and informing his sister that matters were now settled and peaceable. Indeed, at Wynscote they had heard nothing of the rioters. But Potheridge had been surrounded, and in answer to the rebels’ summons to surrender, Mr Monke had sent them a dauntless message of defiance: upon which they had replied with threats of terrible vengeance, but had retired, discomfited at the first trial of strength, and never came near the place more.Darker grew the clouds, meanwhile, over the prisoner in the Tower. His enemies drew up twenty-nine articles against him, and, going to him in his captivity, read them to him, and informed the world that he had humbly confessed them.“Well,” said John Avery, “some of these be but matter for laughter. To wit, that the Duke did command multiplication (coining) and alcumistry, whereby the King’s coin was abated. As though my Lord of Somerset should take upon him to abate the King’s coin!”“Nay, better men than he have dealt with alcumistry,” answered Dr Thorpe. “The former charge moveth my laughter rather,—That my said Lord hath done things too much by himself: to wit, without the knowledge and sage avisement of these my Lords of the King’s Council. Is there so much as one of them that would not do the same an’ he had the chance?”“Why,” said Avery, “he had the chance, and therein lieth his offence. They had not, and therein lieth their virtue.”From two poor innocent lambs cruelly pent up by the Protector, now that he was himself in durance, there came a great outcry for relief. These were the imprisoned prelates, Bonner and Gardiner. The latter said that “he had been in prison one year and a quarter and a month; and he lacked air to relieve his body, and books to relieve his mind, and good company (the only solace of this world), and lastly, a just cause why he should have come thither at all.” How well can the wolf counterfeit the lamb! Had none of his prisoners lacked air, and books? And had my Lord Bishop of Winchester been so careful to see to a just cause in the case of every man he sent to Tower or Fleet?On the 27th of January the leaders of the Devon riots were hanged at Tyburn; the chief of whom was Humphrey Arundel. And on the 6th of February the Duke of Somerset was delivered from the Tower, and suffered to go home; but four days before a change had been made in the Council, the Earls of Arundel and Southampton being dismissed and ordered to keep their houses in London during the King’s pleasure.Mrs Rose and Thekla came several times to visit Isoult, and she returned the compliment. And one day in February came Philippa Basset, who was about to go into Cheshire, to visit her sister, Lady Bridget Carden, with whom she passed nearly a year before Isoult saw her again. Lady Bridget really was not her sister at all, she being Lord Lisle’s daughter, and Philippa Lady Lisle’s; but they had been educated as sisters, and as sisters they loved. Not long afterwards, Sir Francis Jobson resigned his office at the Tower, and went home to his own estate of Monkwich, in Essex. His wife was the Lady Elizabeth, sister of Lady Bridget; and with her Philippa had lived ever since she came to London. When she came back, therefore, she was forced to look out for another home, for she did not wish to follow them into Essex: and she went to her own youngest brother, Mr James Basset, who had a house in London.All this while the Reformation was quietly progressing. On the 19th of April, Bishop Ridley came to Saint Paul’s Cathedral, in communion-time, and received the sacrament, together with Dr May, the Dean, and Dr Barne; both the Dean and the Bishop took the consecrated bread in their hands, instead of holding out the tongue, for the priest to put the wafer upon it. And before the Bishop would come into the choir, he commanded all the lights that were on the Lord’s Table to be put out. The Dean, who was a Lutheran, was well pleased at all this; but not so other men who were more kindly disposed towards Popery; and there was much murmuring and disputing.At this time the Princess Mary was hanging between life and death at Kenninghall. We know now how all things had been changed had she died. But God could not spare her who was to be (however unwittingly or unwillingly) the purifier of His Church, to show which was the dross, and which the gold.Some turmoil was also made concerning Joan Boucher, an Anabaptist girl who had been condemned for heresy, and was burned in Smithfield on the 2nd of May. The Papal party, ever ready to throw stones at the Protestants, cried that “the old burning days were come again,” and that Archbishop Cranmer was just as much a persecutor as Bishop Gardiner. They saw no difference between a solitary victim of the one (if Joan Boucher can be called so), and the other’s piles of martyrs. Isoult, rather puzzled about the question, referred it to her husband—the manner in which she usually ended her perplexities.“Dear heart,” said he, “there be so few that can keep the mean. When men take God’s sword in hand, is it any wonder that they handle it ill?”“But wouldst thou leave such ill fawtors unchastened, Jack?” exclaimed Dr Thorpe rather indignantly.“That were scantly the mean, I take it,” quietly returned he.Mr Underhill was just then busied in presenting before the Archbishop of Canterbury his parish priest, Mr Albutt, Vicar of Stepney, for his unseemly behaviour to the Lutheran clergy who came, by order of the King and the Archbishop, to preach in his church. For he disturbed the preachers in his church (writes Underhill), “causing bells to be rung when they were at the sermon, and sometimes began to sing in the choir before the sermon were half done, and sometimes would challenge (publicly dispute his doctrines) the preacher in the pulpit; for he was a strong stout Popish prelate. But the Archbishop was too full of lenity; a little he rebuked him, and bade him do no more so.”“My Lord,” said Mr Underhill, “I think you are too gentle unto so stout a Papist.”“Well,” said he, “we have no law to punish them by.”“No law, my Lord!” cried Mr Underhill; “If I had your authority, I would be so bold as to un-vicar him, or minister some sharp punishment unto him and such other. If ever it come to their turn, they will show you no such favour.”“Well,” said the Archbishop in his gentle manner, “if God so provide, we must all bide it.”“Surely,” answered Mr Underhill in his manner, which was blunt and fearless, “God shall never con you thanks (owe you thanks) for this, but rather take the sword from such as will not use it upon his enemies.” (Note 2.)Mr and Mrs Rose, Thekla, and Mr Underhill, dined at the sign of the Lamb one day in June. Unfortunately, their conversation turned upon the succession: and owing to the warmth of the weather, or of Mr Edward Underhill, it became rather exciting. Mr Rose was unexpectedly found to hold what that gentleman considered heretical political views: namely, that if the King should die childless, it would be competent to the Gospellers to endeavour to hinder the succession of the Princess Mary in favour of the Princess Elizabeth. This, Underhill hotly protested, would be doing evil that good might come.“And,” said he, “if it come to that pass, I myself, though I would a thousand times rather have my Lady Elizabeth to reign, yet would I gird on my sword over my buff jerkin, and fight for the Lady Mary!”Mr Rose shook his head, but did not speak.“Right is right, Thomas Rose!” cried Underhill, somewhat hotly.“Truth, friend,” answered he, “and wrong is wrong. But which were the right, and which were the wrong, of these two afore God, perchance you and I might differ.”“Differ, forsooth!” cried Underhill again. “Be two and two come to make five? or is there no variance in your eyes betwixt watchet (pale blue) and brasil (red)? The matter is as plain to be seen as Westminster Abbey, if a man shut not his eyes.”“I have known men do such things,” said Mr Rose, with his quiet smile.“I thank you, my master!” responded Underhill. “So have I.”“Now, Ned Underhill, leave wrangling,” said Avery. “We be none of us neither prophets nor apostles.”“‘Brethren, be ye all of one mind,’” repeated Dr Thorpe.“I am ready enough to be of one mind with Rose,” said Underhill, “an’ he will listen to reason.”“That is,” answered John, smiling, “an’ he will come over to you, and look through your spectacles.”“Man o’ life! we can’t be both right!” cried Underhill, striking his hand heavily on the table.“You may be both wrong, Ned,” gently suggested John.“Come, Rose!” said Underhill, cooling as suddenly as he had heated, and holding out his hand. “We are but a pair of fools to quarrel. I forgive you.”“I knew not that I quarrelled with you, friend,” said Mr Rose, with his quiet smile; “and I have nothing to forgive.”But he put his hand in Underhill’s readily enough.“You are a better Christian than I, methinks,” muttered Underhill, somewhat ashamed. “But you know what a hot fellow I am.”“We will both essay to be as good Christians as we can,” quietly answered Mr Rose; “and that is, as like Christ as we can. Methinks He scantly gave hot words to Peter, whether the Emperor Tiberius Caesar should have reigned or no.”“Ah!” said John, gravely, “he that should think first how Christ should answer, should rarely indeed be found in hot words, and in evil, never.”“Well,” replied Mr Underhill, “I am of complexion somewhat like Peter. I could strike off the ear of Malchus an’ I caught him laying hands on my Master (yea, I know not if I should stay at the ear); and it had been much had I kept that sword off the High Priest himself. Ay, though I had been hanged the hour after.”“The cause seemeth to lack such men at times,” said John, thoughtfully, “and then the Lord raiseth them up. But we should not forget, Ned, that ‘they which take the sword shall perish with the sword.’”“Well!” cried Underhill, “I care not if I do perish with the sword, if I may first mow down a score or twain of the enemies of the Gospel.”“Such men commonly do so,” said Mr Rose aside to Isoult, by whom he sat.“Do what?” broke in Underhill, who heard it.“Do perish with the sword,” answered he firmly, looking him full in the face.“Amen!” cried the other. “I am abundantly ready—only, pray you, let me have a good tilt with the oldmumpsimusesfirst.” (Note 3.)“I would I were a little more like you, Underhill,” said Mr Rose. “I could suffer, as methinks, and perchance fly, an’ I had the opportunity; but resist or defend me, that could I not.”“Call me to resist and defend you,” answered Underhill. “It were right in my fashion.”“You may not be within call,” said Mr Rose somewhat gloomily. “But God will be so.”“Mr Rose,” said Isoult, “look you for a further persecution, that you speak thus?”Thekla’s eyes filled with tears.“As Jack saith, Mrs Avery,” he answered, “I am neither prophet nor apostle. But methinks none of us is out of his place upon the watch-tower. There be black clouds in the sky—very black thunder-clouds. How know I whether they shall break or pass over? Only God knoweth; and He shall carry us all safe through them that have trusted ourselves to Him. That is a word full of signification—‘Some of you shall they cause to be put to death...Yetshall not an hair of your heads perish.’ Our Master may leave any of His servants to die or suffer; He will never allow so much as one of them to perish. O brethren! only let the thunder find us watching, praying always; and whether we escape or no, we are assured that we shall be ‘counted worthy to stand before the Son of Man.’ I would not like to ‘beashamedbefore Him at His coming.’”No one answered. All were too full of thought for words.Note 1. The Lady Frances was the eldest daughter of Charles Duke of Suffolk by his fourth wife, the Princess Mary, and was therefore in the line of succession to the throne. Her daughters were the Ladies Jane, Katherine, and Mary Grey.Note 2. Harl. Ms. 425, folio 93.—Underhill gives no date for this incident beyond saying “In King Edward’s time.”Note 3. In the reign of Henry the Eighth, an old priest was found who for forty years had read the wordsumpsimusin his breviary asmumpsimus. On being remonstrated with, he retorted that “He would not leave his oldmumpsimusfor their newsumpsimus.” This story was long popular with the Gospellers, who dubbed the Popish priestsmumpsimuses.

“Ere suns and moons could wax and waneEre stars were thundergirt, or piledThe heavens, God thought on me His child,Ordained a life for me, arrayedIts circumstances every oneTo the minutest; ay, God saidThis head this hand should rest uponThus, ere He fashioned star or sun.”Robert Browning.

“Ere suns and moons could wax and waneEre stars were thundergirt, or piledThe heavens, God thought on me His child,Ordained a life for me, arrayedIts circumstances every oneTo the minutest; ay, God saidThis head this hand should rest uponThus, ere He fashioned star or sun.”Robert Browning.

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

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

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

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

“Do tell me what he meaneth, Jack!”

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

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

The letter concluded thus:—“With the which considerations, I do commit your Honour to the tuition of God. Inscribed at Bodmin,die Veneris, the fourth in the month of October. By the hand of your Honour’s most undemeritous and obeisantpaedagogus, Simon Pendexter.”

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

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

“Unto Mistress Avery, At the Minories in London.”

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

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

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

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

“Mr Edward Underhill, the Hot Gospeller.”

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

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

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

Isoult shook her head dubiously.

“With whom take you part?” said Dr Thorpe.

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

“A woman, Mr Underhill?” cried Isoult, in amazement.

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

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

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

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

“And afore her standeth another,” continued the doctor.

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

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

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

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

“What say men of the King’s wedding?” quoth Dr Thorpe. “Is it yet the Queen of Scots?”

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

“What, my Lord Protector his daughter?” inquired Isoult.

“She,” said Mr Underhill.

“That hath an ill look, an’ it were so,” remarked John, thoughtfully.

“‘Less like than Paul’s steeple to a dagger sheath,’” quoted Dr Thorpe, who was rather fond of proverbs.

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

“I trust not, friend,” said John, smiling.

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

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

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

“Never!” she cried.

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

“With a reasonable chance of Tower Hill?” suggested Avery. “You and I have seen queens come tothat, Ned Underhill.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Bertie smiled and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

“Well, I count I must e’en crede thee!” said she.

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Fare wel, frende, and have good daye—It may noo better be.’(From “A Litel Geste of Robyn Hode.”)

“‘Fare wel, frende, and have good daye—It may noo better be.’(From “A Litel Geste of Robyn Hode.”)

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

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

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

“That I cannot tell,” returned John.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Rose shook his head, but did not speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Brethren, be ye all of one mind,’” repeated Dr Thorpe.

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

“That is,” answered John, smiling, “an’ he will come over to you, and look through your spectacles.”

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

“You may be both wrong, Ned,” gently suggested John.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do what?” broke in Underhill, who heard it.

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

“Amen!” cried the other. “I am abundantly ready—only, pray you, let me have a good tilt with the oldmumpsimusesfirst.” (Note 3.)

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

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

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

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

Thekla’s eyes filled with tears.

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

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

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

Note 2. Harl. Ms. 425, folio 93.—Underhill gives no date for this incident beyond saying “In King Edward’s time.”

Note 3. In the reign of Henry the Eighth, an old priest was found who for forty years had read the wordsumpsimusin his breviary asmumpsimus. On being remonstrated with, he retorted that “He would not leave his oldmumpsimusfor their newsumpsimus.” This story was long popular with the Gospellers, who dubbed the Popish priestsmumpsimuses.

Chapter Five.Gathering Clouds.“God lays His burden on each back;But whoWhat is within the packMay know?”Half of the reign of Josiah, as his people loved to call him, was run out in the summer of 1550. The breathing-time of hope was nearly over.A June morning in that summer found Isoult Avery seated by the window at work, and Robin Tremayne holding a book which he wasnotreading. His eyes were intently watching the light feathery clouds which floated across the blue space beyond, and his thoughts were equally intent on some subject not yet apparent. Except Walter, who was busy in the corner, manufacturing paper boats, there was no one else in the room.Robin broke the silence, and rather suddenly.“Mother,”—he had come to call her so,—“what think you of Mr Rose?”“What think I of him, Robin?” repeated Isoult, looking up, while a faint expression of surprise crossed her gentle countenance. “Why, he liketh me very well!”“And what think you of Mrs Rose, Mother?”The surprise increased in Isoult’s look, and it was accompanied now by perplexity. But she only answered—“She liketh me only less than her husband. I would she had been English-born, but that cannot she well help; and I have none other fault to find with her.”“And what think you, Mother, of Mrs Thekla?”Robin said this in a very low voice. Dr Thorpe was coming in as he spoke, and the old man turned and faced round on the lad.“O ho!” cried the Doctor, “blows the wind from that quarter?”Apparently it did so, for Robin coloured scarlet.“Come, come, lad!” said he, “thou art but now out of thy swaddling-clothes, and what dost thou with such gear? Put it away, and go whip thy top, like a good lad!”“Dr Thorpe!” said Robin in an aggrieved voice, and drawing himself to his utmost height, “I was nineteen years of age last Saint Agnes!” (January 21.)“Thou art as many years of discretion as there be crowns o’ the sun (Note 1) in a halfpenny,” said he. “Nineteen, quotha! Why, thou idle hilding (youth), I have years sixty-nine, and I never thought of marrying yet.”Isoult laughed, but Robin was grave as a bishop, and plainly deemed himself affronted.“That is your affair, Dr Thorpe,” said he, demurely, “and this is mine, an’t like you.”“A pretty plain hint to mind mine own business, whether it like me or no,” replied the old man, with a little merry laugh. “Well, Robin, hie after. Are ye agreed? and is the wedding-day fixed? Shall it be Midsummer Day? Give me a jolly piece of the cake, as what else thou dost; and Isoult! mind thou set it mighty thick with plums.”“Dr Thorpe,” said Robin, his patience woefully tried, “I wish you would let me be. I was talking with my mother.”“Say on!” answered he. “I will strive hard to set mine old legs a-dancing at thy wedding, though I promise not a galliardo (a dance wherein high leaps were taken, requiring great agility). My word on’t, it shall be a jovial sight! Hast seen the tailor touching thine attire? Purple satin, or cramoisie?” (Crimson velvet.)Robin’s forbearance was plainly worn out. He rose and walked toward the door.“Nay, lad, come!” called the old man. “I meant not in deed to grieve thee. Come back, Robin, and I will cease flouting thee, if it trouble thee. Come back, thou silly child!”Robin turned back, after a moment’s thought, and sat down on the settle he had left.“I take your word for it, Dr Thorpe,” he said, soberly. “But think you it not too grave a matter for jesting?”“Grave!” cried Dr Thorpe. “What, wouldst thou have it spoken of like an execution?”“I cry you mercy, Doctor,” said Isoult, now joining in; “but in this matter I do take part with Robin. It alway seemeth me that men (ay, and women too), do speak with too much jesting and lightness touching this matter, which should be right serious. A man’s choice of a wife is a choice for life, and is hardly to be talked of, meseemeth, in the same fashion with his choice of a partlet (neck ruff). I pray you, pardon me if in so speaking, I fail aught in the reverence due unto your years.”“Why, dear child,” saith he, “thou wist more of the matter than I, which was never married; so talk away, and I will hold my peace, and trouble my master the bridegroom no further. Say on, Mr Robert Tremayne.”“Methinks enough is said,” answered Robin, staidly. “I await my mother’s answer.”“Which may scarce be given in a moment, Robin,” said Isoult, “nor without talk with mine husband thereupon. Moreover, Mr Rose shall have a word to say touching the matter.”John was hardly allowed to speak on his return from the law courts, before he had heard Isoult’s story. He received the news at first as something irresistibly comic, but the next minute he grew grave, and evidently began to consider the matter seriously.“I would fain hear thy thought hereon, Jack,” said his wife, “for methinks I do see in Robin his manner that this is no lad’s fantasy only, as Dr Thorpe did suppose, but a set purpose, that must be fairly faced, and said yea or nay to.”“We must not forget, dear heart,” was John’s answer, “that though we are unto him in place of elders (parents), Robin is truly his own master, even afore he be of full age. He is not our ward in law, neither in articles nor apprenticeship; and he hath but himself to please. And even were we to let (hinder) him now (when I doubt not his natural kindly and obedient feeling for us should cause him to assent thereto), yet bethink thee that in a year and an half, when he cometh to his mature age, he shall be at liberty in every way. There be many husbands in the realm younger than he; and truly, I see no way but leaving him to his will, so soon only as we can be satisfied that it is no mere passing fantasy that swayeth him, but that his heart and mind are verily set and engaged therein. Remember, we have no right over him; and think yet again, that his choice (so far as I am able to judge) is a thorough good one. I see not what else may be done.”“But he did refer him unto our judgment by asking me thereon,” said Isoult.“Truth,” he answered; “wherein he showed his own judgment and wisdom, and himself to be a good and gentle lad, as he is alway. The more reason, sweet heart, that our judgment should be gracious, and should lean unto his wishes, so far as we may in right dealing and love unto himself consent thereto. And in good sooth, I see no cause for dissent.”“Then,” said Isoult, somewhat surprised, though she scarcely knew why she should have expected any other decision, “thou wilt speak unto Mr Rose?”“Certainly,” said he, “if Robin desire it.”“And we really shall have a wedding!” said Isoult.“I said not that, dear heart,” answered John, smiling.“Mr Rose may refuse consent; or were he to give it, methinks I should allgates (at all events) move (wherein I would look for Rose to agree with me) that it should not be by and bye (immediately); but to wait until Robin be fairly settled in his calling.”The calling which Robin had chosen was holy orders. He was studying divinity, and Bishop Ridley had already promised to ordain him when he should arrive at the proper age, if he were satisfied as to his fitness on examination. Mr Rose directed his reading—a fact which had caused him to be thrown rather more into Thekla’s society than he might otherwise have been, in his frequent visits to West Ham, and occasional waiting required when the Vicar happened to be absent. “But, Jack!” cried Isoult, with a sudden pang of fear, “supposing that the King were to die issueless (as God defend!) and the Lady Mary to come in, and set up again the mass, and—”“And the Bloody Statute,” he answered, reading her thought. “Then we should have a second Walter Mallet.”“And Thekla to be Grace!” murmured Isoult, her voice faltering. “O Jack, that were dreadful! Could we do nought to let it?”“Yes,” he said in a constrained tone. “We might do two things to let it. Either to hinder their marriage, or to let Robin from receiving orders.”“But thinkest thou we ought so?”“I think, sweet wife,” answered he, tenderly, “that we ought to follow God’s leading. He can let either; and if He see it best, whether for Robin or for Thekla, that will He. But for myself, I do confess I am afeard of handling His rod. I dare not walk unless I see Him going afore. And here, beloved, I see not myself that He goeth afore, except to bid us leave things take their course. Dost thou?”“I see nothing,” she answered; “I feel blind and in a maze touching it all.”“Then,” said he, “let us ‘tarry the Lord’s leisure.’”It was finally settled between John and Isoult that the former should see Mr Rose after the evening service on the following Sunday, when he was to preach at Bow Church, and speak to him on the subject of Robin and Thekla. So after the service they all returned home but John; and though no one told Robin why he stayed behind, Isoult fancied from the lad’s face that he guessed the cause. It was a long time before John’s return. Isoult dismissed Esther to bed, determining to wait herself; and with some indistinct observation about “young folk that could turn night into day,” Dr Thorpe took up his candle and trudged up-stairs also. Robin sat on; and Isoult had not the heart to say anything to him; for she saw that his thoughts were at Bow Church, not occupied with the copy of Latimer’s sermon on the Plough, which lay open before him.At last John came, with a slow, even step, from which his wife augured ill before he entered the room. He smiled when he saw Robin still there.“Ill news, Father!” said Robin. “You need not to tell me.”“Thou art a sely prophet, lad,” answered John, kindly. “At this time I have no news at all for thee, neither good nor ill, only that Mr Rose giveth no absolute nay, and doth but undertake to think upon the matter, and discourse with Mrs Rose. Is that such ill news, trow?”“Thank you,” answered Robin in a low voice. “You did your best, I know. Good-night.”And he lifted his candle and departed. But Isoult thought the lad looked sad and disappointed; and she was sorry for him.“Well, Jack, how spedst thou?” said she, when Robin was gone.“Ah, grandmother Eva!” replied Jack, smiling. “Wouldst know all?”“Now, Jack!” said she, “flout me not for my womanly curiosity, but tell me. I am but a woman.”“Pure truth, dear heart,” answered he, yet smiling. “Well, I had to await a short space, for I found Thekla with her father, and I could not open the matter afore her. So at last I prayed her of leave (asked her to go) (seeing no other way to be rid of her), for I would speak with Mr Rose privily. Then went she presently away, and I brake Robin’s matter.”“And what said he?”“He looked more amazed than thou; and trust me that was no little.”“But what said he?” repeated Isoult.“He said he had never thought touching the marriage of Thekla, for he looked thereon until now as a thing afar off, like as we of Robin. But (quoth he) he did suppose in all likelihood she should leave him sometime, if God willed it thus; but it should be sore when it came. And the water stood in his eyes.”“Looked he thereon kindly or no, thinkest?”“I am somewhat doubtful,” and John dropped his voice, “though I would not say so much to Robin, whether or no he looketh kindly on her marrying at all. Thou wist, sweet heart, for thou heardst him to say so much,—that he hath some thought that there shall yet be great persecution in this land, and that Gospellers shall (in a worldly and temporal sense) come but ill off. And to have Thekla wife unto a priest—I might see it liked him very evil for her sake. Yet he dimitted it not lightly, but passed word to talk it over with his wife: but he said he would never urge Thekla to wed any, contrariwise unto her own fantasy.”The Monday morning brought Mrs Rose. Isoult felt glad, when she saw her, that John had taken Robin with him to Westminster. The two ladies had a long private conference in Isoult’s closet or boudoir. Mrs Rose evidently was not going to stand in the way; she rather liked the proposed match. She had strongly urged her husband to tell Thekla, which, against his own judgment, he had at last consented to do. For Thekla’s mother regarded her as a marvel of wisdom and discretion, while her father, being himself a little wiser, thought less of her wonderful powers, though he admitted that she was very sensible—for her years.“She is a good child—Thekla,” said Mrs Rose, in her foreign manner; “a good child—but she dreameth too much. She is not for the life, rather a dreamer. She would read a great book each day sooner than to spin. But she doth the right; she knoweth that she must to spin, and she spin. But she carrieth her thoughts up a great way off, into strange gear whither I cannot follow. See you, Mistress Avery, how I would say? I, I am a plain woman: I make the puddings, I work the spinning—and I love the work. Thekla, she only work the spinning and make the puddings, because she must to do it. She will do the right, alway, but she will not love the work.”Isoult quite understood her, and so she told her.“She do not come after me in her liking,” pursued she, “rather it is her father. And it is very good, very good to read the great books, and look at the stars, and to talk always of what the great people do, and of what mean the prophet by this, and the saint by that: but for me it is too much. I do not know what the great people should do. I make my puddings. The great people must go their own way. They not want my pudding, and I not want their great things. But Thekla and Mr Rose are both so good! Only, when they talk together, they sit both of them on the top of my head; I am down beneath, doing my spinning.”Nothing more was heard until Wednesday. Then, before Isoult was down in the morning, having apparently risen at some unearthly hour, Mr Rose presented himself, and asked for John. The two went out of doors together, to Robin’s deep concern, and not much less to Isoult’s, for she had her full share of womanly curiosity in an innocent way.At last she saw them come up the street, in earnest conversation. And as John turned in at the door (for Mr Rose would not follow) she heard him say almost mournfully, “Alack! then there is no likelihood thereof. Good morrow!”“Not the least,” Mr Rose replied; and then away he went down the street.“An augury of evil!” murmured Robin, under his breath.“What dost thou with evil this morrow, Robin?” asked John, cheerily, coming into the room. “Be of good cheer, dear lad; the Lord sitteth above all auguries, and hath granted thee the desire of thine heart.”Robin rose, and the light sprang to his eyes.“Thekla Rose,” pursued John, “seeth no good cause why she should not change her name to Tremayne. But bide a minute, Robin, man; thou art not to be wed to-morrow morning. Mr Rose addeth a condition which I doubt not shall stick in thy throat.”“What?” said Robin, turning round, for he was on his way to leave the room.“But this,” said John, lightly, “that will soon be over. Ye are not to wed for three years.”Robin’s face fell with a look as blank as though it had been thirty years.“How now?” asked Dr Thorpe, coming in from the barber. “Sir Tristram looketh as woebegone as may lightly be. I am afeard the Princess Isoude hath been sore cruel.”John told him the reason.“And both be such ancient folk,” resumed he, “they are afeard to be dead and buried ere then. How now, Robin! take heart of grace, man! and make a virtue of necessity. Thou art neither seventy nor eighty, nor is Mistress Thekla within a month or twain of ninety. Good lack! a bit of a younker of nineteen, quotha, to be a-fretting and a-fuming to be let from wedding a smatchet of a lass of seventeen or so, until either have picked up from some whither a scrap of discretion on their green shoulders!”“Thekla hath but sixteen years,” said John; “and Rose thinketh her too young to be wed yet.”“So should any man with common sense,” replied Dr Thorpe. “Why, lad! what can a maid of such tender years do to rule an house? I warrant thee she should serve thy chicken at table with all the feathers on, and amend thy stockings wrong side afore!”“Nay,” said Isoult, laughing; “her mother shall have learned her something better than that.”“Get thee to thine accidence,” said Dr Thorpe to Robin. “Hic, haec, hoc, is a deal meeter for the like o’ thee than prinking of wedding doublets!”“Dr Thorpe!” answered Robin, aggrievedly, “you alway treat me as though I were a babe.”“So thou art! so thou art!” said the old man. “But now out of thy cradle, and not yet fit to run alone; for do but see what folly thou hadst run into if Jack and Mr Rose had not been wiser than thou!”Robin’s lip trembled, and he walked slowly away. Isoult was sorry for the lad’s disappointment, for she saw that it was sore; yet she felt that John and Mr Rose were right, and even Dr Thorpe.“Rose saith,” resumed John, “that he thinketh not his daughter to be as yet of ripe judgment enough to say more than shall serve for the time; and he will therefore have no troth plighted for this present. In good sooth, had not her mother much urged the consulting of her, methinks he should rather have said nought unto her of the matter. ‘But (quoth he) let three years pass, in the which time Robin shall have years twenty-two, and Thekla nineteen; and if then both be of like mind, why, I will say no further word against it.’”“Bits o’ scraps o’ childre!” said Dr Thorpe, under his voice, in a tone of scorn and yet pity which would sorely have grieved Robin, had he not gone already.“Be not too hard on the lad, old friend,” urged John, gently. “Many younger than he be wed daily, and I take it he hath had a disappointment in hearing my news. I thought best not to make too much thereof in the telling; but scorn not the lad’s trouble.”“I want not to scorn neither the lad nor the trouble,” answered the Doctor. “I did but tell him it was folly; and so it is.”After this, for a while, there were fewer visits exchanged between the Minories and West Ham; and Robin found himself quietly set to the study of larger books, which took longer to get up than heretofore, so that his appearances at the Vicarage were fewer also. When the families did meet, it was as cordially as ever. Manifestly, Mr Rose’s feelings were not a whit less kindly than before; but he thought it better for Robin that his affections should not be fed too freely.“Jack,” said Isoult, suddenly, “what discoursedst thou with Mr Rose o’ Wednesday morn, whereof I heard thee to say there was no likelihood? Was it touching this matter of Robin?”John had to search his memory before he could recall the incident.“Dear heart, no!” he said, when he had done so; “it touched my Lord of Somerset.”On the last day of July, Esther, going to the market, came in with news which stirred Isoult’s heart no little. Thomas Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, had died on the previous day, at his house in London, to which he had been confined by order of the King.“An ill man and an unkindly,” wrote Isoult in the diary she always kept, “specially unto them which loved the Gospel. But how those tidings taketh me back to the days that be over and gone! For the last time that ever I saw this man was that black third of March, the year of our Lord 1542, when the King that then was, sent him to bear his diamond and message unto my dear master (Lord Lisle) in the Tower. Can I ever forget that even?“Of this Thomas Wriothesley I dare say nothing. I would think rather of him whose voice I did hear last after his, in the commending of his blessed and gentle spirit into the hands of God. How many times sithence that day have I thanked God for him! Ay, Lord, we thank Thee for Thy saints, and for Thy care and guidance of them. For the longer I do live, the surer am I that Thy way Home is not only the right way, but for each of Thine, the only way. I take it, we shall not think of the thorns that tare us, nor shall we be ready for tears over the sharp stones that wounded us, in that day when I and my dear-loved Lord may sing to Thee together—‘Thou hast redeemed us, O Lord God of truth!’”Mrs Underhill walked into the Lamb, one warm afternoon in the beginning of August, and remained to four-hours. And of course the conversation turned before long upon the Protestant controversy 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 confession? 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 chamber.”“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.Robin assented with a smile; but Dr Thorpe was so rude as to say, “All mothers’ geese be swans.”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?”Dr Thorpe’s reply disarmed all the enemy’s forces.“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 proxy; and Lady Frances Monke, whose deputy was Mrs Underhill; and, last and greatest, the young King, by Sir Humphrey Ratcliffe, Captain of the Gentlemen Pensioners, and a Gospeller. The mania for asking persons of distinction to stand as sponsors was at its height during the reigns of the Tudor sovereigns. Every one of them was godfather or godmother to countless 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 momentary reign.During the illness of Isoult—for she was so ill that for some days Dr Thorpe considered her life in danger—the breach, 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 entirely 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 undertaking to sit up with her invalid friend for several nights.On the 13th of February 1551, Dr Gardiner was fully 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 consecration 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 armour 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 rumours, in which he had no faith. “The three suns,” said he, “were but some matter of optical philosophy, which could readily be expounded 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 omens of coming ill, but from Esther they won very scant 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 wondrous bright, and her smile exceeding sweet.”“Sweeter than Thekla Rose’s?” asked Mrs Underhill, herself smiling.“Scantly, 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 Pensioner, 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 renounce the succession.”Mr Rose smiled, and said, “A happy ending of a troublous matter, if it were so.”But, as the reader well knows, the troublous matter was not doomed to have so happy an end.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 relishing 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 phenomena held in God’s hand, whereby He saith to poor, puny, arrogant 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 clatter. 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 calamity, no one thought of doubting.Whether the earthquake were its forerunner or not, a fearful calamity did certainly follow. On the 7th of July the sweating sickness broke out in London. This terrible malady was almost peculiar to the sixteenth century. It was unknown before the Battle of Bosworth Field, in 1485, when it broke out in the ranks of the victorious army; and it has never been seen again since this, its last and most fatal epidemic, in 1551. It is said to have been of the character of rheumatic fever, but its virulence 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 grooms and a gentleman of the chamber were already dead. The fury of the plague, for a veritable plague it was, began to abate 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 suspense 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 measles, 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 inscribed on the tablet of death given to the angel.John Avery was very indignant at the cant names given by the populace to the sweating sickness. “The new acquaintance”—“Stop-gallant”—“Stoop, knave, and know thy master”—so men termed it, jesting on the very brink 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 disorder 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 deprivation 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 elevation, it transpired 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 blot on the character of a Protestant Bishop was an oasis of supreme pleasure.The Gospellers were downcast and distressed. 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 lesser his sin than hers; and trust me, God shall not doom 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 knaves 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 commodious handle, a pipe through which their venom 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 abatement 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 testily; “’tis yonder rascally 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 treasury, and draw it out full of rose nobles? The scurvy rogue! 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 Treasurer (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 marvelled. 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, dolts, 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, dolt, and dizard (fool) of a Northumberland,” cried Dr Thorpe in great indignation. “I would the whole Dudley race had never been born! Knavery 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 veins (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 condemn 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 throng of gentlemen—what they have done I wis not. Maybe one of them sent the Duke a peacock, and another doffed his bonnet 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 bosoms 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 dire foe, 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 manor 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 Guise, 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 caustic 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 Majesty.”“How had she served for the King?” inquired John.“Right well, I would say,” answered Mr Rose. “But men say she is destined otherwhere.”“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 rascal 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 bass voice; for even in that musical age, he was renowned for his proficiency 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?” groaned Dr Thorpe. “‘Such apple-tree, such fruit’ If the leopard leave ten or a dozen cubs, we be little better for shooting him.”“My Lord Henry, allgates, is no leopard cub,” 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 worthy honourable 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.”“He shall carry on, then, in his father’s place,” said Dr Thorpe, with a groan.“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 arraigned that day in Westminster Hall. And round the doors England pressed, yet in more hope than fear. A mere farce, she thought: he must be acquitted, 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 interfere, 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 fictitious person), her neighbour’s daughter, who was struggling frantically 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 beckoned 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 remitted 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 Christian, 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 procuring his death that my Lord of Somerset is held guilty.”“Knave! scoundrel! murderer!” cried Dr Thorpe, in no softened tone. “Jack, if I were that man’s physician, I were sore tempted 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 bind 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; andthen‘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 distinguished 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, eldest 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 soundedah.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.

“God lays His burden on each back;But whoWhat is within the packMay know?”

“God lays His burden on each back;But whoWhat is within the packMay know?”

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

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

Robin broke the silence, and rather suddenly.

“Mother,”—he had come to call her so,—“what think you of Mr Rose?”

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

“And what think you of Mrs Rose, Mother?”

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

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

“And what think you, Mother, of Mrs Thekla?”

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

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

Apparently it did so, for Robin coloured scarlet.

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

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

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

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

“That is your affair, Dr Thorpe,” said he, demurely, “and this is mine, an’t like you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Methinks enough is said,” answered Robin, staidly. “I await my mother’s answer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certainly,” said he, “if Robin desire it.”

“And we really shall have a wedding!” said Isoult.

“I said not that, dear heart,” answered John, smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

“But thinkest thou we ought so?”

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

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

“Then,” said he, “let us ‘tarry the Lord’s leisure.’”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what said he?”

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

“But what said he?” repeated Isoult.

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

“Looked he thereon kindly or no, thinkest?”

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

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

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

Isoult quite understood her, and so she told her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robin rose, and the light sprang to his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

John told him the reason.

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

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

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

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

“Get thee to thine accidence,” said Dr Thorpe to Robin. “Hic, haec, hoc, is a deal meeter for the like o’ thee than prinking of wedding doublets!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs Underhill walked into the Lamb, one warm afternoon in the beginning of August, and remained to four-hours. And of course the conversation turned before long upon the Protestant controversy 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 confession? 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 chamber.”

“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.

Robin assented with a smile; but Dr Thorpe was so rude as to say, “All mothers’ geese be swans.”

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?”

Dr Thorpe’s reply disarmed all the enemy’s forces.

“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 proxy; and Lady Frances Monke, whose deputy was Mrs Underhill; and, last and greatest, the young King, by Sir Humphrey Ratcliffe, Captain of the Gentlemen Pensioners, and a Gospeller. The mania for asking persons of distinction to stand as sponsors was at its height during the reigns of the Tudor sovereigns. Every one of them was godfather or godmother to countless 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 momentary reign.

During the illness of Isoult—for she was so ill that for some days Dr Thorpe considered her life in danger—the breach, 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 entirely 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 undertaking to sit up with her invalid friend for several nights.

On the 13th of February 1551, Dr Gardiner was fully 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 consecration 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 armour 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 rumours, in which he had no faith. “The three suns,” said he, “were but some matter of optical philosophy, which could readily be expounded 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 omens of coming ill, but from Esther they won very scant 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 wondrous bright, and her smile exceeding sweet.”

“Sweeter than Thekla Rose’s?” asked Mrs Underhill, herself smiling.

“Scantly, 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 Pensioner, 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 renounce the succession.”

Mr Rose smiled, and said, “A happy ending of a troublous matter, if it were so.”

But, as the reader well knows, the troublous matter was not doomed to have so happy an end.

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 relishing 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 phenomena held in God’s hand, whereby He saith to poor, puny, arrogant 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 clatter. 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 calamity, no one thought of doubting.

Whether the earthquake were its forerunner or not, a fearful calamity did certainly follow. On the 7th of July the sweating sickness broke out in London. This terrible malady was almost peculiar to the sixteenth century. It was unknown before the Battle of Bosworth Field, in 1485, when it broke out in the ranks of the victorious army; and it has never been seen again since this, its last and most fatal epidemic, in 1551. It is said to have been of the character of rheumatic fever, but its virulence 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 grooms and a gentleman of the chamber were already dead. The fury of the plague, for a veritable plague it was, began to abate 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 suspense 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 measles, 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 inscribed on the tablet of death given to the angel.

John Avery was very indignant at the cant names given by the populace to the sweating sickness. “The new acquaintance”—“Stop-gallant”—“Stoop, knave, and know thy master”—so men termed it, jesting on the very brink 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 disorder 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 deprivation 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 elevation, it transpired 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 blot on the character of a Protestant Bishop was an oasis of supreme pleasure.

The Gospellers were downcast and distressed. 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 lesser his sin than hers; and trust me, God shall not doom 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 knaves 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 commodious handle, a pipe through which their venom 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 abatement 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 testily; “’tis yonder rascally 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 treasury, and draw it out full of rose nobles? The scurvy rogue! 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 Treasurer (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 marvelled. 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, dolts, 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, dolt, and dizard (fool) of a Northumberland,” cried Dr Thorpe in great indignation. “I would the whole Dudley race had never been born! Knavery 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 veins (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 condemn 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 throng of gentlemen—what they have done I wis not. Maybe one of them sent the Duke a peacock, and another doffed his bonnet 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 bosoms 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 dire foe, 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 manor 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 Guise, 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 caustic 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 Majesty.”

“How had she served for the King?” inquired John.

“Right well, I would say,” answered Mr Rose. “But men say she is destined otherwhere.”

“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 rascal 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 bass voice; for even in that musical age, he was renowned for his proficiency 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?” groaned Dr Thorpe. “‘Such apple-tree, such fruit’ If the leopard leave ten or a dozen cubs, we be little better for shooting him.”

“My Lord Henry, allgates, is no leopard cub,” 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 worthy honourable 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.”

“He shall carry on, then, in his father’s place,” said Dr Thorpe, with a groan.

“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 arraigned that day in Westminster Hall. And round the doors England pressed, yet in more hope than fear. A mere farce, she thought: he must be acquitted, 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 interfere, 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 fictitious person), her neighbour’s daughter, who was struggling frantically 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 beckoned 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 remitted 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 Christian, 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 procuring his death that my Lord of Somerset is held guilty.”

“Knave! scoundrel! murderer!” cried Dr Thorpe, in no softened tone. “Jack, if I were that man’s physician, I were sore tempted 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 bind 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; andthen‘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 distinguished 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, eldest 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 soundedah.

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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