Robin Tremayne

by Emily Sarah Holt

  CHAPTER TWO.

  THE SILVER AND THE SABLE.

  "`We measure life by years and tears,' he said; `We live a little; then life leaves us dead, And the long grass grows greenly overhead.'"

  While the party were still conversing, the post came in--always animportant event at that day--and brought two letters for Isoult. Thefirst was from Beatrice Dynham [fictitious persons], who had been herfellow bower-woman with the Duchess of Suffolk, and requested her oldfriend to remember her in the first week in May, when she was to marryMr Vivian [a fictitious person], a gentleman of the late King'shousehold. She also informed her that the young Duke of Suffolk, a boyof eleven years, had been placed about the person of the youngSovereign, under the care of the Duke of Somerset. The second letterwas from Crowe. Lady Ashley had arrived, and had tried hard to effect atruce between the contending parties, she hoped not entirely withoutgood results. Lady Lisle had been obliged to sell two pieces of landfrom the Frithelstoke estate, called Choldysoke and Meryfield; andPhilippa Basset sent Isoult word that it was well Meryfield was sold,seeing that all mirth had departed from them long ago.

  "When shall my mistress your friend be wed, Mrs Avery?" very gravelyinquired Jennifer Trevor, Isoult's bower-woman.

  "The first week in May," repeated Isoult, referring to the letter.

  "Ay, methought you read so much," responded Jennifer, looking still moresolemn.

  "Come, out with your thought, Mrs Trevor," said Tremayne; "for I do seeplainly that you have one."

  "Why, Mr Tremayne," replied she, "'tis but that I would not be wed inMay for all the gold in Cornwall."

  "But how if your servant [suitor] were a sailor, Mrs Jennifer, andshould set forth the last day of May?" queried Avery.

  "Then," she said, "I would either be wed in April, or he should waittill he came back. But 'tis true, Mrs Avery, a May babe never liveth,no more than a May chick thriveth; nor is a May kit ever a mouser. 'Tisthe unluckiest month in all the year. I never brake in all my life asteel glass [looking-glass] saving once, and that was in May; and sureenough, afore the same day next May died one on that farm."

  "One of the household?" asked Avery.

  "Well, nay," answered Jennifer, "'twas but the old black cow, that hadbeen sick a month or more."

  "Ah!" was the grave answer; "her dying was a marvel!"

  "But there was a death, Mr Avery!" urged Jennifer.

  "An' there had not been," said he, "I count you should have drowned thecat, to make one. But, Mrs Jennifer, in sober sadness, think you thatGod keepeth record of the breaking of steel glasses and the ticking ofdeath-watches?"

  "Eh, those death-watches!" cried she; "I were out of my wit if I heardone."

  "Then I trust you shall not hear one," answered he, "for I desire thatyou should keep in your wit."

  "Well, Mr Avery!" said Jennifer, "I could tell you somewhat an' Ilisted."

  "Pray give us to hear it," replied he. "What is it? and whom threatensit? The red cow or the tabby cat? Poor puss!" and he stooped down andstroked her as she lay on the hearth.

  "There shall come a stranger hither!" pursued Jennifer, solemnly. "Isaw him yestereven in the bars of the grate."

  "What favoured he?" asked Avery.

  "'Twas a fair man, with a full purse," she replied.

  "Then he is welcome, an' he come to give us the purse," was the answer."It shall be an other post, I cast little doubt; for he shall be astranger, and maybe shall have full saddlebags."

  "You shall see, Mr Avery!" said Jennifer, pursing her lips.

  "So I shall, Mrs Jennifer," responded he. "But in how long time shallhe be here?"

  "That I cannot tell," said she.

  "Then the first fair man that cometh, whom you know not, shall serve?"answered he. "'Tis mighty easy witchery that. I could fall toprophesying mine own self at that rate. It shall rain, Mrs Jennifer,and thunder likewise; yea, and we shall have snow. And great men shalldie, and there shall be changes in this kingdom, and some mighty illstatutes shall be passed. And you and I shall grow old, Mrs Jennifer(if we die not aforetime), and we shall suffer pain, and likewise shallenjoy pleasure. See you not what a wizard I am?"

  Tremayne laughed merrily as he rose to depart.

  "I shall look to hear if Mrs Trevor be right in her prophecy," said he.

  "We will give you to know that in a month's time," answered John Averyrather drily.

  In less than a month the news had to be sent, for a stranger arrived.It was Mr Monke. Jennifer was delighted, except for one item. She hadannounced that the stranger would be fair, and Mr Monke was dark. Inthis emergency she took refuge, as human nature is apt to do, inexaggerating the point in respect to which she had proved right, andoverlooking or slighting that whereon she had proved wrong.

  "I might readily blunder in his fairness," she observed in aself-justifying tone, "seeing it did but lie in the brightness of theflame."

  "Not a doubt thereof," responded John Avery in a tone which did nottranquillise Jennifer.

  When there happened to be no one in the hall but himself and Isoult, MrMonke came and stood by her as she sat at work.

  "Wish me happiness, Mrs Avery," he said in a low but very satisfiedvoice.

  Isoult Avery was a poor guesser of riddles. She looked up with an airof perplexed simplicity.

  "Why, Mr Monke, I do that most heartily at all times," she answered."But what mean you?"

  "That God hath given me the richest jewel He had for me," he said, inthe same tone as before.

  Then Isoult knew what he meant. "Is it Frances?" she asked, speaking assoftly as he had done.

  "It is that fair and shining diamond," he pursued, "known among men asthe Lady Frances Basset."

  For a moment Isoult was silent, and if Mr Monke could have read thethoughts hidden behind that quiet face, perhaps he would not have feltflattered. For Isoult was wondering in her own mind whether she oughtto be glad or sorry. But the next moment her delicate instinct had toldher what to answer.

  "Mr Monke," she said, looking up again, "I do most heartily wishhappiness to both you and her."

  And Mr Monke never guessed from any thing in the quiet face what theprevious thought had been.

  The next day brought a letter to Isoult from Lady Frances herself; andthe last relic of Jennifer's uneasiness was appeased by the fair hairand beard of the messenger. She only said now that there might havebeen two strangers in the fire; she ought to have looked more carefully.

  All was smooth water now at Crowe. Lady Lisle had given way, but notuntil Frances plainly told her that she had urged this very matchearnestly before, and now that she was reluctantly endeavouring toconform to her wishes, had turned round to the opposing side. Philippawas more readily won over. Lady Frances had told Mr Monke honestly thata great part of her heart lay in the grave of John Basset; but that shethoroughly esteemed himself, and such love as she could give him heshould have.

  "I trust," she wrote to Isoult, "that we may help, not hinder, the onethe other on the way to Heaven. We look to be wed in June next, afterthe new fashion, in the English tongue. Pray meanwhile for me, dearheart, that I may `abide in Him.'"

  When Isoult came down-stairs from the careful perusal of her letter, sheheard Dr Thorpe's voice in the hall, and soon perceived that her husbandand he were deep in religious conversation.

  "Softly, Jack!" Dr Thorpe was saying as she entered. "Methinks thouart _somewhat_ too sweeping. We must have priests, man (though theyneed not be ill and crafty men); nor see I aught so mighty wrong incalling the Lord's Table an altar. Truly, myself I had liefer say`table'; yet would I not by my good will condemn such as do love thatword `altar.' Half the mischief that hath arisen in all these battlesof religion now raging hath come of quarrelling over words. And 'tisnever well to make a martyr or an hero of thine adversary."

  "I have no mind to make a martyr of you, my dear old friend," answeredAvery, "in whatsoever signification. I see well what you would be at,though I se
e not with you. And I would put you in mind, by your leave,that while true charity cometh of God, there is a false charity whichhath another source."

  "But this is to split straws, Jack," said the Doctor.

  "I pray you pardon me," replied he, "but I think not so. I know,Doctor, you do incline more toward the Lutheran than I, and therefore'tis like that such matters may seem smaller unto you than to me. Butwhen--"

  "I incline toward the truth," broke in Dr Thorpe, bluntly.

  "We will both strive our best so to do, friend," gently answered Avery."But, as I was about to say, when you come to look to the ground of thismatter, you shall see it (if I blunder not greatly) to be far more thanquarrelling over words or splitting of straws. The calling of men bythat name of priest toucheth the eternal priesthood of the Lord Christ."

  "As how?" queried the old man, resting his hands on his staff, andlooking Avery in the face.

  "As thus," said he. "Cast back your eyes, I pray you, to the times ofthe old Jewish laws, and tell me wherefore they lacked so many priestsas all the sons of Aaron should needs be. I mean, of course, so many atone time."

  "Why, man! one at once should have been crushed under the work!"answered Dr Thorpe. "If one man had been to slay Solomon his twenty-twothousand sacrifices, he should not have made an end by that day month."

  "Good. Then the lesser priests were needed, because of theinsufficiency of the high priest for all that lacked doing?"

  "That I allow," said Dr Thorpe, after some meditation.

  "See you what you allow, friend?" Avery answered, softly. "If, then,the lesser priests be yet needed, it must be by reason that the HighPriest is yet insufficient, and the sacrifice which He offered is yetincomplete."

  "Nay, nay, Jack, nay!" cried the old man, much moved, and shaking hishead.

  "It must be so, dear friend. To what good were those common andordinary priests, save to aid the high priest in that which, being but aman, he might not perform alone? Could the high priest have sufficedalone, what need were there of other? But our High Priest sufficeth,and hath trodden the wine-press alone. His sacrifice is perfect, isfull, is eternal. There needeth no repeating--nay, there can be norepeating thereof. What do we, then, with priests now? Where is theirsacrifice? And a priest that sacrificeth not is a gainsaying of words.Friend, whoso calleth him a priest now, by that word denieth thesufficiency of the Lord Jesus."

  "And whoso calleth the Table an altar--" began Dr Thorpe.

  "Is guilty of the same sin," pursued he; "the same affront unto theMajesty of Him that will not give His glory to an other."

  "They mean it not so, I verily believe," responded Dr Thorpe, a littleuneasily. "They mean assuredly to do Him honour."

  "And He can see the difference," said Avery, tenderly, "betwixt thedenial of Peter that loved Him, and the betrayal of Judas that hatedHim. Our eyes are rarely fine enough for that. More than once ortwice, had the judgment lain with us, we had, I think, condemned Peterand quitted Judas."

  "I would all this variance betwixt Lutherans and Gospellers mightcease!" resumed Dr Thorpe, rather bitterly. "When we should be pointingour spears all against the enemy, we are bent on pricking of eachother!"

  "A vain wish, friend," answered he. "So far as I can see, that hathbeen ever since the world began, and will last unto the world's end. Iam not so fond as to look for Christ's kingdom until I see the King.The fair Angel of Peace flieth in His train; but, methinks, never out ofit."

  "It seemeth," said Dr Thorpe, "as though the less space there werebetwixt my doctrine and thine, the more bitterly must thou and Iwrangle!"

  "Commonly it is so," replied Avery.

  "And while these real battles be fighting," pursueth he, "betwixtChrist's followers and Christ's foes,--what a sight is it to see thefollowers dividing them on such matters as--whether childre shall bebaptised with the cross or no; whether a certain garment shall be wornor no; whether certain days shall be kept with public service or no!Tush! it sickeneth a man with the whole campaign."

  Both rose, but after his farewell Dr Thorpe broke out again, as thoughhe could not let the matter drop.

  "Do the fools think," asked the old man, "that afore the angels willopen the gate of Heaven unto a man, they fall a-questioning him--to wit,whether salt were used at his baptism; whether his body were buriedlooking toward the East or the West; whether when he carried his Biblehe held it in his right hand or his left? Dolts, idiots, patches![Fools.] It should do me a relief to duck every man of them in theTamar."

  "And cause them to swallow a dose of physic at afterward?" laughedAvery.

  "It were hemlock, then," said Dr Thorpe, grimly.

  "Nay, friend, not so bad as that, methinks. But shall I give you onedose of a better physic than any of yours? `By this shall all men knowthat ye are My disciples, if ye have love one toward another.'"

  "How are they to know it now?" said Dr Thorpe, despairingly. "How arethey to know it? Well, I know not; maybe thou art not so far-off, Jack;but for all other I know--"

  And away he went, shaking his grey head.

  Lady Frances and Mr Monke were married when the summer came. John Averyand Isoult were invited to the wedding; and Philippa sent a specialmessage requesting that their little Kate might be included; for, saidshe, "Arthur shall be a peck of trouble, and an' he had one that hemight play withal he should be the less."

  "List thee, sweet heart! thou art bidden to a wedding!" said Jennifer toKate.

  "What is a wedding?" inquired four-year-old Kate, in her gravest manner."Is it a syllabub?"

  "Ay, sweet heart; 'tis a great syllabub, full of sugar," answeredJennifer, laughing.

  "That is as it may be, Mrs Jennifer," observed Dr Thorpe, who waspresent. "I have known that syllabub full of vinegar. That is,methinks, a true proverb,--`If Christ be not asked at the match, He willnever make one at the marriage-feast.' And 'tis a sorry feast where Hesitteth not at the table."

  "I think He shall not be absent from this," said Isoult, softly.

  So Kate went to Crowe with her parents; but her baby brother Walter, ayear old, was left behind in charge of Jennifer.

  The evening after their arrival, the bride took Isoult apart, and,rather to her surprise, asked her if she thought that the dead knew whatwas passing in this world. To such a question there was but one answer.Isoult could not tell.

  "Isoult," she said, her eyes filling with tears, "I would not have himknow of this, if it be so. And can that be right and good which I wouldnot he should know?"

  Isoult needed not to ask her who "he" was.

  "Nay, sweet heart!" said she, "thinkest thou he would any thing save thycomfort and gladness? He is passed into the land where (saith David)all things are forgotten--to wit, (I take it) all things earthly andcarnal, all things save God; and when ye shall meet again in the body,it shall be in that resurrection where they neither marry nor are givenin marriage, but are equal unto the angels."

  "All things forgotten!" she faltered. "Hath he forgot me? They mustsleep, then; that is a kind of forgetting. But if I were awake andwitful, I never could forget him. It were not _I_ that did so."

  "Let us leave that with God, beloved," answered Isoult.

  "O Isoult," she murmured, her tears beginning to drop fast, "I would doGod's will, and leave all to Him: but is this God's will? Thou littleknowest how I am tortured and swayed to and fro with doubt. It waseasier for thee, that hadst but a contract to fulfil."

  Isoult remembered the time before she had ever seen her husband, when itdid not look very easy. She scarcely knew what she ought to answer.She only said--

  "Dear heart, if thou do truly desire to do only God's will, methinks Hewill pardon thee if thou lose thy way."

  "It looketh unto me at times," she said, "as if it scarce could beright, seeing it should lift me above want, and set me at ease."

  This was a new thought to Isoult, and she was puzzled what to say. Butin the evening she told John, and asked his advice. Much to
herastonishment, he, usually gentle, pulled to the casement with a bang.

  "Is that thine answer, Jack?" said Isoult, laughing.

  "Somewhat like it," answered he drily. "'Tis no marvel that ill menshould lose the good way, when the true ones love so much to walk inbyepaths."

  "Thou riddlest, Jack," said Isoult.

  "Tell me, dear heart," he answered, "doth God or Satan rule the world?"

  "God ruleth the world, without doubt," said she, "but if Satan spakesooth unto our Lord, he hath the power of the glory of it."

  "Did Satan ever speak sooth, thinkest?" he replied smiling somewhatbitterly. "Howbeit to leave that point,--doth God, or doth Satan, meteout the lives of God's people, and give them what is best for them?"

  "God doth, assuredly," said she.

  "Well said," answered he. "Then (according unto this doctrine) when Godgiveth His child a draught of bitter physic, he may with safety take anddrink it; but when He holdeth forth a cup of sugared succades[sweetmeats], that must needs be refused. Is it so?"

  "Jack!" wonderingly cried Isoult.

  "There be that think so," he made answer, "but I had scarce accounted myLady Frances one ere now. Set the thing afore her in that light. Thisis the self spring whence cometh all the monasteries and nunneries, andanchorites' cells in all the world. Is God the author of darkness, andnot of light? Doth He create evil, and not good? Tell her, when theLord holdeth forth an honeycomb, He would have her eat it, as assuredlyas, when He giveth a cup of gall into her hand, He meaneth she shoulddrink it. And methinks it can scarce be more joyful to Him to watch herdrink the gall than eat the honeycomb."

  The last words were uttered very tenderly.

  When Isoult told Frances what John had said, the tears rose to her eyes.

  "O Isoult! have I been wronging my God and Father?" she said in aquivering voice. "I never meant to do that."

  "Tell Him so, sweet heart," answered Isoult.

  Isoult thought her husband was right, when, on the following day, shecame across the text, "The Lord that hath pleasure in the prosperity ofHis people." But in her innocent way she showed it to John, and askedhim if he thought it meant that it was a pleasure to the Lord Himself tobestow happiness on His people. John smiled at her, as he often did.

  "Sweet heart," he answered, "doth it please or offend thee, when thoudost kiss Kate, and comfort her for some little trouble, and she stayethher crying, and smileth up at thee?"

  "Why, Jack, 'tis one of my greatest pleasures," answered Isoult.

  Very gravely and tenderly he answered,--"`As one whom his mothercomforteth, so will I comfort you.'"

  On the 17th of June, Isoult Avery wrote in her diary:--

  "The church-bells are making music in mine ears as I sit to write. Anhour gone, Frances and Mr Monke went forth, no longer twain, but one.God go with her, and bless her, this dear sister of mine heart, andcomfort her for all she hath lost--ay, as `one whom his mothercomforteth!'"

  The ink was scarcely dry from this entry when Philippa Basset marchedin, with unrecognised step, for her shoes were new.

  "Why, Mrs Philippa! your new shoes wrought that I knew not your step,"said Isoult, with a smile.

  "New shoes!" said she, "yea, in good sooth. I flung both mine old onesafter Frank; and had I had an hundred pairs in my cupboard, I had sentthem all flying."

  The thought of a hundred pairs of shoes falling about, was too much forIsoult's gravity.

  "One of them smote the nag on his tail," continued Philippa; "I warrantyou it gave him a smart, for I sent it with all my might. 'Tis a goodomen that--saving only that it might cause the beast to be restive."

  "Believe you in omens, Mrs Philippa?" answered Isoult.

  "Not one half so much as I do believe in mine own good sense," said she."Yet I have known some strange things in my time. Well, what thinkestthou of this match of Frank's?"

  "I trust with all mine heart she may find it an happy and acomfortable," was the reply.

  "Ay, maybe a scrap of happiness shall not hurt her overmuch," saidPhilippa in her dry way. "As to Mr Monke, I will wish him none, formethought from his face he were as full as he could hold; and an' he hadsome trouble, he demeriteth it, for having away Frank."

  And so away she went, both laughing.

  News that stirred _every_ Gospeller's heart reached Bradmond ere theChristmas of 1547. The Bloody Statute was repealed; and in every parishchurch, by royal order, a Bible and a copy of the Paraphrases of Erasmuswere set open, for all the people to read.

  But the repeal of the Bloody Statute, ardently as she desired it, wasnot without sad memories to Isoult Avery. The Act now abrogated hadbrought death, four years before, to one very dear to her heart; and itwas not in human nature for her to hear of its destruction without asigh given to the memory of Grace Rayleigh. In the churchyard at Bodminwere two nameless graves--of a husband and wife whom that Bloody Statutehad parted, and who had only met at last in its despite, and to die.And when Grace had closed the eyes of her beloved, she lay down to herown long rest. Her work was finished in this world; and very welcomewas the summons to her--"Come up higher."

  "From her long heart-withering early gone, She hath lived--she hath loved--her task is done."

  Yet how was it possible to wish her back? Back to pain, and sorrow, andfear, and mournful memory of the far-off husband and the dead child!Back from the lighted halls of the Father's Home, to the bleak, cold,weary wilderness of earth! Surely with Christ it was far better.

  When Isoult came in comforted after her visit to Grace's grave, Barbara,her parlour-maid, met her at the door.

  "Mistress, a letter came for you in all haste shortly after you wentforth," said she. "I had come unto you withal, had I known whither youwere gone."

  Isoult took the letter from Barbara's hand. On the outside waswritten--the energetic ancient form of our mild direction "To bedelivered immediately"--a rather startling address to the postman.

  "Haste, haste, for thy life, haste!"

  With forebodings travelling in more than one direction, Isoult cut theribbon which fastened the letter and broke the seal. There were not adozen lines written within; but her heart sank like lead ere she hadread half of them.

  The letter was from Crowe, and was signed by Mr George Basset, theeldest surviving son of Lady Lisle. He desired John Avery and his wifeto hasten with all speed to Crowe, for Lady Lisle had been taken illsuddenly and dangerously, and they feared for her life. There was alsoan entreaty to bring Dr Thorpe, if he could possibly come; for at Crowethere was only an apothecary. Doctors, regularly qualified, were scarcein those days. All the scattered members of the family withinreasonable distance had been summoned.

  In as short a time as it was possible to be ready, John and Isoult setforth with Dr Thorpe, who said he could accompany them without more thantemporary inconvenience to any of his patients. It was two days'journey to Crowe; and Isoult's heart sank lower and lower as theyapproached the house. But when they reached the end of the long lanewhich led to it, they suddenly encountered, at a turn in the road, thewriter of the letter which had summoned them. It was an instant reliefto see Mr George Basset smile and hold out his hand in welcome.

  "Better news, thank God!" he said at once. "My mother hath rested wellthese two nights past, and is fairly amended this morrow. I am gladwith all mine heart this bout is well over. It hath feared us nolittle, as I can tell you."

  With lighter hearts they rode to the door, where Isoult had no sooneralighted than she found herself drawn from behind into the arms of LadyFrances Monke, who had arrived the day before. Isoult followed her intothe little parlour, where in a large carved chair she saw a very stiffand rich silk dress; and on looking a little higher, she found thatchair and silk were tenanted by Mrs Wollacombe, Lady Lisle's youngestdaughter.

  "Ah, Isoult, art thou come?" inquired that young lady, playing with herchatelaine. "I hope thou hast left thy childre behind. These childrebe such plagues."

&nbs
p; "Hand me thine for a silver groat," interrupted Philippa, coming in.

  "Thou art welcome, an' thou choose to take them," replied her sister."They do but rumple my ruffs and soil my gowns. They be for ever insome manner of mischievousness. I cannot keep them out thereof, for allI have two nursemaids, and Jack to boot."

  "Thou art little like, Mall, an' thou add not thyself to the bargain,"answered Philippa, in her old mocking way. "Isoult, but for thepleasure of seeing thee, I could be sorry I sent after thee. My Lady mymother is so sweetly amending (thank all the saints for it!) that I amlittle pleased to have put thee to such charges and labour."

  "I pray you say no word of that, Mrs Philippa," said Isoult, "for invery sooth it giveth me right hearty pleasure to see you."

  "Dr Thorpe," continued Philippa, turning to him, "I am right glad towelcome you, and I thank you with all mine heart that you are come.Will you grant us the favour of your skill, though it be less neededthan we feared, and take the pain to come up with me to see my Lady?"

  Dr Thorpe assenting, she took him up-stairs; and the next minute MrMonke, coming in, greeted his friends cordially. Then came Lady Ashley,sweet and gentle as ever, and afterwards Sir Henry Ashley and MrWollacombe.

  "Mrs Philippa," said Isoult, when she returned, "we will not be a chargeon her Ladyship. Jack and I will lie at the inn, for assuredly shecannot lodge all us in this her house."

  "I thank thee truly, dear heart," responded Philippa affectionately."In good sooth, there is not room for all, howsoever we should squeezeus together; wherefore we must need disparkle [scatter] us. Verily, an'we had here but James and Nan, there were not one of us lacking."

  "How fareth Mr James?" returned Isoult; "is he yet a priest?"

  "He is now in London, with my Lord of Winchester," [Bishop Gardiner]answered Philippa. "Nay, so far from priesthood that he is now on theeve of his wedding, unto one Mrs Mary Roper [daughter of the well-knownMargaret Roper], grand-daughter of Sir Thomas More."

  It was late in the evening before Isoult could contrive to speak with DrThorpe in private; and then she asked him to tell her frankly how hethought Lady Lisle.

  "Better this time," said he, significantly.

  "Think you as you did, then?" she asked.

  "Ay, Mrs Avery," said he, sadly, "I think as I did."

  After this, Isoult saw Lady Lisle herself, but only for a moment, whenshe struck her as looking very ill; but Philippa assured her that therecould be no comparison with what she had been two days before.

  The next morning, Isoult, with Lady Frances, Lady Ashley, and Philippa,sat for an hour in the invalid's chamber. The conversation turned uponpublic affairs; and at last they began to talk of the pulling down ofthe roods, which Philippa opposed, while both Frances and Isoultpronounced them idols.

  "Fight it out an' ye will," said the sick lady, laughing feebly, "onlyoutside of my chamber."

  "Go thou down, Kate, and fetch up Mr Monke first," responded Philippa;"for I am well assured my first blow should kill Frank an' she had nothis help."

  Thus playfully they chatted for a while, but Isoult fancied that LadyLisle was scarcely so angrily earnest in her opposition to the doctrinesof the Gospel as was generally her wont. Presently up came the untidyDeb, in all her untidiness, to say that dinner was served; and wasparenthetically told by Philippa that she was a shame to the family.

  "Which of us would you with you, Mother?" asked Frances.

  "Why, none of you," she replied. "Go down all, children; I lack nought;I am going to sleep."

  And she laid back her head on the pillow of her chair.

  "Shall I not abide, Madam?" suggested Lady Ashley.

  "No, child," she answered. "When you come above ye shall find measleep, if all go well."

  So, seeing she preferred to be left alone, they all went to dinner.When they returned, Lady Frances, Lady Ashley, and Isoult, went towardsLady Lisle's chamber. Lady Ashley opened the door softly, and put herhead in.

  "Doth she sleep, Kate?" whispered Frances.

  "Softly!" said Lady Ashley, withdrawing her head. "Let us not disturbher--she is so sweetly sleeping."

  Sleeping! ay, a sleep that should have no waking, From that sleep notthe roaring of the winds, not the thunder of the tempest, not even theanguished voices of her children, should ever arouse her again.

  "She had no priest, after all," said Frances under her breath to Isoult,the same evening.

  Lady Ashley added very softly, "She said we should find her asleep, ifall went well. We found her asleep. Is it an omen that all did gowell?"

  Isoult could make no answer.

  Where Honor Plantagenet was buried, no record remains to tell us, unlessit be some early entry in a parish register of Cornwall or Devon. Itmight be in the family burying-place of her own kindred, the Grenvillesof Stow; or it might be with her first husband, Sir John Basset, atUmberleigh. Only it may be asserted without fear of contradiction, thatit was not with the royal lord whom she had so bitterly lamented, andwhose coffin lay, with many another as illustrious as his own, in theold Norman Chapel of the Tower. No stranger admixture can there be onearth, than among those coffins crowding that Norman Chapel,--fromtraitors of the blackest dye, up to saints and martyrs.

  The first news which the Averys heard after their return home, was notencouraging to that religious party to which they belonged. BishopGardiner had been set free, and had gone back to his Palace at Farnham,Mr James Basset accompanying him. This was an evil augury; for whereverGardiner was, there was mischief. But it soon appeared that Somersetkept his eye upon the wolf, and on his first renewed attempt upon thefold, he was quietly placed again in durance. Meanwhile the leaven ofreformation was working slowly and surely. On Candlemas Day there wereno candles in the Chapel Royal; no ashes on Ash Wednesday; no palms onPalm Sunday. At Paul's Cross, after eight years' silence, the earnestvoice of Hugh Latimer was heard ringing: and to its sound flocked such aconcourse, that the space round the Cross could not hold them, and apulpit was set up in the King's garden at Westminster Palace, where fourtimes the number of those at the Cross might assemble. For eight yearsthere had been "a famine of the word of the Lord" in England, and nowmen and women came hungering and ready to be fed. Perhaps, if we hadborne eight years' famine, we should not quite so readily cry out thatthe provisions are too abundant. An outcry for short sermons has alwayshitherto marked the spiritual decadence of a nation. "Behold, what aweariness is it!" There is another inscription on the reverse side ofthe seal. "I have no pleasure in you, saith the Lord of Hosts."

  The English service began with the following Easter. Confession--notyet abolished, yet so far relaxed as to be required of none whopreferred to omit it--was made in English, and the Lord's Supper wasalso celebrated in English at the King's Chapel.

  Isoult Avery began to think that she was to spend the year 1548 invisiting. She had not been long back from Crowe, when a letter reachedher from her own home at Wynscote, inviting her to the wedding of herbrother Hugh with Mrs Alice Wikes, which was to take place on thefourteenth of May. Jennifer Trevor shook her head in her most ominousstyle at the date. But Hugh, though a sailor, was nevertheless not atall superstitious, so far as concerned the point in question; and he hadalready sturdily declined to change the date selected by Alice, thoughhalf the gossips round Wynscote prophesied all manner of consequentevil. For a maiden of the sixteenth century, Alice also was remarkablyfree from the believing in omens and the observing of times: so Hugh andshe were married on the fourteenth of May, and Isoult Avery was neverable to discover that any harm had come of it.

  On arrival at Wynscote, they found the house full and running over. Notonly the family who ordinarily occupied it were there--namely, MrsBarry, the widowed mother; Henry Barry, the head of the house, who wasby calling a gentleman farmer, and by inclination the gentleman withoutthe farmer; his wife Margaret, who would have made a better farmer thanhimself; and his three exceedingly noisy and mischievous boys, by nameMichael, William,
and Henry. But these, as I have said, were not by anymeans all. There was the bridegroom Hugh, who grumbled good-humouredlyat being banished to Farmer Northcote's for the night, for there was noroom for him except in the day-time; there was Bessy Dennis, the eldestsister, and John Dennis her husband, and William, Nicholas, Anne, andEllen, their children. No wonder that Isoult told her husband inconfidence that she did not expect to lose her headache till she reachedhome. Will Barry was the incarnation of mischief, and Will Dennis, hiscousin and namesake, followed him like his shadow. The discipline whichensued was of doubtful character, for Bessy's two notions on the subjectof rearing children were embodied in cakes or slaps, as they wererespectively deserved, or rather, as she thought they were: while MrBarry's ideas of education lay in very oracular exhortations, stuffedwith words of as many syllables as he had the good fortune to discover.His wife's views were hardly better. Her interference consisted only inthe invariable repetition of a formula--"Come, now, be good lads, do!"--which certainly did not err on the side of severity. But thegrandmother, if possible, made matters worse. She had brought up herown children in abject terror and unanswering submission; and Nature, asusual, revenged herself by causing her never to cross the wills of hergrandchildren on any consideration. Accordingly, when Will set fire tothe barn, let the pony into the bean-field, and the cows into FarmerNorthcote's meadow, Grandmother only observed quietly that "Boys will beboys"--an assertion which certainly could not be contradicted--and wenton spinning as before.

  The amazement of Isoult Avery--who had not previously visited home forsome time--was intense. Her childhood had been a scene of obedience,both active and passive; a birch-rod had hung behind the front door, andnobody had ever known Anne Barry hesitate to whip a child, if there werethe slightest chance that he or she deserved it: the "benefit of thedoubt" being commonly given on the side of the birch-rod. And now, tosee these boys--wild men of the woods as they were--rush unreproached upto the inaccessible side of Grandmother, lay violent hands upon herinviolable hood, kiss her as if they were thinking of eating her, andnever meet with any worse penalty than a fig-cake [the Devonshire namefor a plum-cake]--this was the source of endless astonishment andreflection to Isoult. On the whole, she congratulated herself that shehad left Kate and Walter at Bradmond.

  The bride was a stranger to Isoult. She talked to Bessy about her, andfound that lady rather looked down upon her. "She was all very well,but--"

  Ah, these unended _buts_! what mischief they make in this world of ours!

  Then Isoult talked to Hugh, and found that if his description were to betrusted, Alice Wikes would be no woman at all, but an angel from Heaven.Bessy offered to take her sister to visit the bride, and Isoultaccepted the offer. Meanwhile, she sketched a mental portrait of Alice.She would be short, and round-faced, and merry: the colour of her hairand eyes Isoult discreetly left blank.

  So, three days before the wedding, her future sisters-in-law called uponthe bride.

  They found Alice's mother, Mrs Wikes, busy with her embroidery; and assoon as she saw who her guests were, she desired Mrs Alice to besummoned. After a little chat with Mrs Wikes upon things in general,the door opened to admit a girl the exact opposite of Isoult's imaginarypicture. Alice proved tall, oval-faced, and grave.

  The wedding was three days later, and on Sunday. Blue was the colour ofthe bride's costume, and favel-colour--a bright yellowish-brown--that ofthe bridesmaids. After the ceremony there was a banquet at Wynscote,and dancing, and a Maypole, and a soaped pig, and barley-break--an oldathletic sport, to some extent resembling prisoner's base. Then camesupper, and the evening closed with hot cockles and blind-hoodman--thelatter being blindman's buff. And among all the company, to none butJohn and Isoult Avery did it ever occur that in these occupations therewas the least incongruity with the Sabbath day. For they only wereGospellers; and at that time the Gospellers alone remembered to keep itholy. Rome strikes her pen through the third and fourth commandments,if less notoriously, yet quite as really, as through the second.

  The Averys returned home about the 20th of May. They had left all well,and they found all well. And neither they nor any one else saw on thehorizon a little cloud like a man's hand, which was ere long to break ina deluge of hail and fire upon Devonshire and Cornwall.

  One evening in the beginning of June, when John Avery sat at the tablemaking professional notes from a legal folio before him, and Isoult, atwork beside him, was beginning to wonder why Barbara had not brought therear-supper, a knock came at the door. Then the latch was lifted, andMr Anthony Tremayne walked in.

  "Heard you the news in Bodmin?" was the question which followed closeupon his greeting.

  "No," answered John. "I have not been in Bodmin for nigh a week, norhath any thence been here."

  "One Master Boddy, the King's Commissioner for Chantries," saith he,"came hither o' Friday; and the folk be all up at Bodmin, saying theywill not have the chantries put down; and 'tis thought Father Giles isahead of them. I much fear a riot, for the people are greatlyaggrieved."

  "I pray God avert the same, if His will is!" exclaimed Isoult.

  This was the beginning of the first riots in Cornwall and Devon. Therewere tumults elsewhere, but the religious riots were worst in theseparts. They began about the chantries, the people disliking thevisitation: and from that they went to clamouring for the re-enactmentof the Bloody Statute. On the 4th of June there were riots at Bodminand Truro; and Father Giles, then priest at Bodmin, and a "stoutPapist," helped them to the best of his ability. But on the 6th camethe King's troops to Bodmin, and took Father Giles and others of therioters, whom they sent to London to be tried; and about the 8th theyreached Truro, where Mr Boddy, the King's Commissioner for thechantries, had been cruelly murdered five days before. For a littlewhile after this, all was quiet in Bodmin; but the end was not come yet.

  Father Giles, the priest of Bodmin, was hanged at London on the 7th ofJuly for his share in the riots: and Government fondly imagined that thedifficulty was at an end. How fond that imagination was, the events ofthe following year revealed.

  Anthony Monke, the eldest child of Mr Monke and Lady Frances, was bornin the summer of 1548 [date unknown]. In June of that year, a civilmessage from the Protector reached Bishop Gardiner at Farnham,requesting him to preach at Court on the 29th, Saint Peter's Day,following. This message perturbed Gardiner exceedingly. James Bassetfound him walking up and down his chamber, his hands clasped behind him,uttering incoherent words, indicative of apprehension; and thiscontinued for some hours. On the 28th the Bishop reached London; on the29th he preached before the King; and on the 30th he was in the Tower.Probably the wily prelate's conscience, never very clear, had alreadywhispered the cause before he quitted Farnham.

  On the 8th of September, at Sudeley Castle, Gloucestershire, died theLutheran Queen, Katherine Parr. She had taken a false step, and hadlived to mourn it. Neglecting the command not to be unequally yokedtogether with unbelievers, she had married Sir Thomas Seymour veryshortly after King Henry's death. It can be no lack of charity to calla man an unbeliever, a practical Atheist at least, whose daily habit itwas to swear and walk out of the house when the summons was issued forfamily prayers. Poor Katherine had all the piety on her own side, butshe had not to bear the penalty she had brought on herself long. Sheleft behind her a baby daughter, Mary Seymour, who was sent to the careof the Duchess of Suffolk; for very soon after the Queen's death,Seymour was arrested and committed to the Tower. He died on Tower Hill,on the 20th of March following. That Seymour was a bad man there can beno question; whether he really were a traitor is much more doubtful.The Lutheran party accused his brother the Protector of having broughtabout his death. It might be so; yet any evidence beyond probabilityand declamation is lacking. "It was Somerset's interest to get rid ofhis brother; therefore he is responsible for his death." This may beassertion, but it surely is not argument.

  Meanwhile in high places there was a leaven quietly working, un
perceivedas yet, which was ere long to pervade the whole mass. The government ofEdward the Sixth had come into power under the colours of the Gospel.The Protector himself was an uncompromising Gospeller; and though manyLords of the Council were Lutherans, they followed at first in his wake.There was one member of the Council who never did so.

  Nearly fifty years before that day, Henry the Seventh, whose"king-craft" was at least equal to that of James the First, hadcompelled the young heiress of Lisle, Elizabeth Grey, to bestow her handupon his unworthy favourite, Edmund Dudley. It is doubtful whether shewas not even then affianced to Sir Arthur Plantagenet (afterwards LordLisle), whose first wife she eventually became; but Henry Tudor wouldhave violated all the traditions of his house, had he hesitated todegrade the estate, or grieve the heart, of a son of the House of York.This ill-matched pair--the covetous Edmund and the gentle Elizabeth--were the parents of four children: the first being John Dudley, who wasborn in 1502. It is of him I am about to speak.

  His countenance, from a physiognomist's point of view, might be held toannounce his character. The thick, obstinate lips, the cruel, cold blueeyes, intimated with sufficient accuracy the disposition of the man.Like all men who succeed, Dudley set before him one single aim. In hiscase, it was to dethrone Somerset, and step into his place. He held,too, in practice if not in theory, the diabolical idea, that the endsanctifies the means. And to hold that view is to say, in another form,"I will be like the Most High."

  Such was John Dudley, and such the goal at which he aimed. And he justtouched it. His hand was already stretched forth, to grasp theglittering thing which was in his eyes the crown imperial of his world,and then God's hand fell on him out of Heaven, and "he was brought downto Hell, to the sides of the pit."

  We shall see how this man prospered, as the tale advances: how he saidin his heart, "There is no God." But to Isoult Avery it was a standingmarvel, how John Dudley could be the brother of Frances Monke. And thedistance between them was as wide as from Hell to Heaven; for it was thedistance between a soul sold to the devil, and a temple of the HolyGhost.

  The first introduction of Kate Avery to the grave and decorous behaviourrequired in church, was made on the third of February, 1549. Suffice itto say, that Isoult was satisfied with the result of the experiment.The new priest's name was Edmund Prideaux; and he was a Lutheran.Coming home from church, John and Isoult fell in with the Tremaynes; andwere told by Mr Tremayne that all was now settled, and there was no fearof any further riots.

  Some weeks later, Robin and Arbel Tremayne again rode over to Bradmondfor four-hours. Arbel's favourite was Walter, but Robin was fonder ofKate, who on her part was greatly attached to him. While they werethere Dr Thorpe came in. When Robin and Arbel were gone home, the oldman remarked in confidence to John Avery, that he did not by any meansshare Mr Tremayne's opinion that all was settled at Bodmin. He thoughtrather that the present tranquillity was like the crust of a volcano,through which the fiery force might at any moment burst with littlewarning.

  That which finally broke the crust seemed at first a very little matter.A proclamation came from the King, permitting land-owners to enclosethe waste lands around, within certain limitations. And the oldSocialist spirit which is inherent in man rose up in arms at this favourgranted to the "bloated aristocrats"--this outrage upon "the rights ofthe people." For the three famous tailors of Tooley Street, who begantheir memorial, "We, the people of England," had many an ancestor andmany a successor.

  Mr Tremayne enclosed a piece of common behind his garden; John Averyenclosed nothing. The storm that fell swept away not only the guilty,but as is generally the case, the innocent suffered with them.