"Robin Tremayne" (continued 6)

“And none other message, Tremayne?” said Austin, when he paused. “Ay,” resumed he, “one other. ‘Ye now therefore have sorrow; but I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you.’” Austin did not ask him to whom he should give this; but he showed how well he knew, by waiting till Thekla was present before he gave it.

Afterwards, he told them Mr Rose’s words. “Brethren, the Devil hath so great wrath, that he must needs know he hath but a short time. Yet for the elect’s sake the days shall be shortened. The trouble shall be very quickly over, and the joy shall be eternal. Our way may be rough; yet shall it not be painful, for we go to God. Jesus Christ hath wrought for us everlasting righteousness; He now waiteth to see of the travail of His soul and to be satisfied. He died for us, with the fearful weight of the wrath of God upon Him; we die for Him, with the sweet and certain hope of eternal life.”

So much was for all the Gospellers; but there were added a few special words for those at the Lamb.

“I ask not Avery and his wife to have a care of my beloved ones,” said he, “for I well know they will. Say only from me to those beloved, that the time is very short, and the glory of God is very near. There shall be no persecution, no death, no parting, in the presence of the Master, whereunto I go. Bid them come to me; I only pass on a few moments before them. We shall meet at Home.”

“God bless Austin Bernher! He is a Barnabas unto us all—the very son of consolation.” So wrote Isoult in her diary—and well she might. During the progress of the Marian persecution, no man was more blessed by the victims and mourners than Austin.

Austin came again, four days later, with yet further bad news. Bishop Bonner had sent his sumner to lay hands upon Mr Holland’s shop and goods, and Mrs Holland had suffered some ill usage, because she could not, or would not, tell where her husband was gone. They had not, however, apprehended her; and for Mr Holland, who was expected to return to London that week, Austin was on the look-out.

“Isoult,” said her husband to her that night, “when this befell, I was about to tell thee that methought I had now laid up a sufficiency of money for our returning to Bradmond. What sayest thou?”

“O Jack! how can we?” cried Isoult. “Could we leave Robin in prison? and could we either forsake Mrs Rose and Thekla in their extremity, or carry them with us into Cornwall? But what is thine own thought?”

“Truly, dear heart,” he answered, “my thought is that the Lord hath spoken to us reasonable plain, and hath said, ‘Tarry where ye are until I bring you word again.’”

“Yes,” said she after a pause; “I think we must.”

“And take for thy comfort, sweeting,” said he tenderly, “one word that hath been much laid upon mine heart of late: ‘I know where thou dwellest, even where Satan’s seat is.’ God’s letters be never wrong directed.”

On the 10th of January, Austin came again, and brought some notes of Mr Rose’s examination before Gardiner. It was plain that Mr Rose had stood forth boldly, and braved the Bishop to his face.

“I wonder, my Lord,” said he, “that I should be troubled for that which by the Word of God hath been established, and by the laws of this realm hath been allowed, and by your own writing, so notably in your book De Vera Obedientia, confirmed.”

“Ah sirrah, hast thou gotten that?” said the Bishop, who now could not bear to hear of his heretical work.

“Yea, my Lord,” calmly answered Mr Rose, “and do confess myself thereby confirmed.”

“But,” continued Austin, “have you heard that my Lady of Suffolk’s Grace is clean escaped?”

“O Austin!” cried Isoult, “tell us all you know touching her.”

“Why,” said he, “it should seem to have been agreed betwixt her Grace and Mr Bertie ere he left England, but none was told save one Master Robert Cranwell, an ancient gentleman of Mr Bertie’s acquaintance, in whom he had great trust. So last New Year, early in the morrow, afore any were stirring, her Grace took her little daughter, and seven of the meanest of her servants, and at four of the clock departed from the Barbican in silence. The Duchess, that was donned like a mean merchant’s wife, through much trouble, came safe to Lyon’s Quay, where (the morning being misty) the waterman was loth to launch out, yet her Grace persuaded him, and so away rowed they toward Gravesend. I have yet heard with no certainty whither she hath reached; but assuredly she is gone. The Lord keep her safe, and grant her good landing whither He shall see meet to provide the same!”

“Amen, with all mine heart!” said Isoult. “Good Austin, if you hear any further, I would earnestly pray you to do me to wit thereof.”

“That will I,” said he, “and with a very good will.”

The 29th of January was a painful day to the prisoners. Every one of them, from all the prisons, was brought up before the Bishop of Winchester, Dr Gardiner, in his house at Saint Mary Overy, and asked if he would recant. Mr Rose and Robin of course were amongst them. But all answered alike, that “they would stand to what they had believed and taught.” When he heard this, the Bishop raved and stormed, and commanded them to be committed to straiter prison than before.

The same day, in the general meeting of the Bishops assembled at Lambeth, Cardinal Pole reproved some for too much harshness, these doubtless being London and Winchester. Of Cardinal Pole himself people spoke diversely; some saying that he was the gentlest of all the Popish Bishops, and had been known to visit Bishop Bonner’s burnings ere the fire was lighted, and to free all of his own diocese: while others maintained that under the appearance of softness he masked great severity. Old Bishop Tunstal was perhaps the best to deal with; for he “barked the more that he might bite the less.” If a Protestant were brought before him, he would bluster and threaten, and end after all in fining the man a few nobles, or locking him up for three days, and similar slight penalties. Worst of all was Bonner: who scourged men, ay, and little children, with his own hands, and seemed to revel in the blood of the martyrs. Yet there came a time when even this monster cried out that he was weary of his work. As Bishop of London, said he, he was close under the eyes of the Court, and two there gave him no rest. For those two—King Philip and Dr Gardiner—were never weary. Drunk with the blood of the saints, they yet cried ceaselessly for more; they filled London and the whole land, as Manasseh did Jerusalem, with innocent blood, which the Lord would not pardon.

In the same month, by command of Bishop Bonner, Mr Prebendary Rogers was removed from the Marshalsea to Newgate, and there set among the common felons. At this time, the worst of all the prisons was Newgate (excepting the Bishop of London’s coal-hole, where Archdeacon Philpot and others were placed); somewhat better was the Marshalsea; still better the Fleet; and easiest of all the Counter, where untried prisoners were commonly kept to await their trial. Alexander, the keeper of Newgate, was wont to go to Bishop Bonner, crying, “Ease my prison! I am too much pestered with these heretics.” And then an easement of the prison was made, by the burning of the prisoners.

Men grow not into monsters all at once. It is a gradual proceeding, though they generally run the faster as they near the end. But the seeds of the very same sin lie in all human hearts, and the very same thing, by the withdrawal of God’s Spirit, would take place in all. God’s restraining grace is no less marvellous than His renewing grace. This world would be a den of wild beasts but for it.

On the same 29th of January—a black day in the Protestant calendar—Bishop Hooper was condemned to death, and also Mr Prebendary Rogers; but with the latter the Bishop said he would yet use charity. “Ay,” observed Mr Rogers to Austin Bernher, “such charity as the fox useth with the chickens.” And such charity it proved. Dr Rowland Taylor of Hadleigh, and Mr Bradford of Manchester, were also adjudged to death: both of whom, by God’s grace, stood firm. But Mr Cardmaker, who was brought to trial with them, and had been a very zealous preacher against Romanism, was overcome by the Tempter, recanted, and was led back to prison. Yet for all this he did not save himself. More than once during this persecution, he who loved his life was seen to lose it; and he that hated his life to keep it,—even the lower life of this world.

During this season of trial, Augustine Bernher was almost ubiquitous. On the 29th of January, he brought a letter of which he had been the bearer, from Bishop Hooper to Mr Rose and the others who were taken with him; Mr Rose having desired him to show the letter to his friends. The good Bishop wrote, “Remember what lookers-on you have, God and His angels.” Again, “Now ye be even in the field, and placed in the forefront of Christ’s battle.”

Mr Rose remained in the Tower very strictly guarded, yet Austin was allowed to see him at will.

“Austin,” said Isoult to him, “I marvel they never touch you.”

“In very deed, Mrs Avery, no more than I,” replied he; “but I do think God hath set me to this work, seeing He thus guardeth me.”

On January 27, Parliament broke up, having repealed all laws against the Pope enacted since 1528; and re-enacted three old statutes against heresy, the newest being of the reign of Henry the Fifth. And “all speaking against the King or Queen, or moving sedition,” was made treason; for the first offence one ear was to be cut off, or a hundred marks paid; and for the second both ears, or a fine of 100 pounds. The “writer, printer, or cipherer of the same,” was to lose his right hand. All evil prayers (namely, for the Queen’s death) were made treason. The Gospellers guessed readily that this shaft was aimed at Mr Rose, who was wont to pray before his sermon, “Lord, turn the heart of Queen Mary from idolatry; or if not so, then shorten her days.”

The Council now released the three sons of the Duke of Northumberland who were yet in the Tower; Lord Ambrose (now Earl of Warwick), Lord Henry, and Lord Robert Dudley; with several others, who had been concerned in Wyatt’s rebellion. Dr Thorpe said bitterly that they lacked room for the Gospellers. The Duchess of Northumberland, mother of these gentlemen, died a few days before their deliverance. Her imprisoned sons came forth for her burial.

And before they broke up, Parliament received the Cardinal’s blessing; only one of eight hundred speaking against it. This was Sir Ralph Bagenall, as Mr Underhill told his friends. Isoult asked him what sort of man he was, and if he were a true Gospeller.

“Gospeller! no, not he!” cried Mr Underhill. “Verily, I know not what religion he professeth; but this know I, that he beareth about in his heart and conversation never a spark of any. He and I were well acquaint once, in my blind days, ere I fell to reading the Scriptures, and following the preachers. I have sat many a night at the dice with him and Miles Partridge, and Busking Palmer—”

“Mr Underhill!” exclaimed Isoult, “knew you Sir Thomas Palmer?”

“Knew him?” said he; “yea, on my word, did I, and have lost many a broad shilling to him, and many a gold noble to boot. Ay,” he pursued, for him very sadly, “there were a parcel of losels (profligates) of us, that swallowed down iniquity like water, in that old time. And now—Partridge is dead, and Palmer is dead, and Bagenall is yet as he was then. And wherefore God should have touched the heart of one of the worst of those sinners, named Edward Underhill”—(and he rose, and lifted his cap from his head, as he looked on high)—“Lord, Thou hast mercy on whom Thou wilt have mercy!”

Isoult thought she had never heard Mr Underhill speak so solemnly before.

When Dr Thorpe came from the barber’s, on the 4th of February, he looked very thoughtful and pensive.

“What news abroad, Doctor?” inquired Isoult.

“The first drop of the thunder-shower, child,” he answered. “This morrow Mr Prebendary Rogers was burned in Smithfield.”

“Gramercy!” cried John. “I saw flame shoot up beyond the gate, and I thought there was some fire near Newgate. I never thought of that fire.”

In the evening came Austin, who had been last with the martyr. Isoult asked him if he suffered much.

“I would say, no,” replied he. “He died very quietly, washing his hands in the flame as it rose. His wife and his eleven childre (one born sithence he was put in prison) met him in his last journey.”

“God help them, poor souls!” cried Isoult.

“When Sheriff Woodroofe said he was an heretic,” pursued he, “he said, ‘That shall be known at the Day of Judgment.’ Then said he, ‘I will never pray for thee.’ ‘But I will pray for you,’ he answered. He sang Miserere by the way, and refused the pardon which was offered him.”

“Is it very fearful, Austin,” said Isoult, “to see any burn?”

“Only not so,” he answered, his face changing, “when you think of the Home whereto they are going, and of the glorious welcome which Christ the King shall give them.”

“And what think you?” said John. “Shall there be yet more burnings, or is this merely to strike terror, and shall stand alone?”

“I think,” replied he, “nor am I alone in my thought,—that it is the first drop of the thunder-storm.”

Isoult was struck by his use of the very words of Dr Thorpe.

“Ill times these,” remarked Mr Underhill, entering the Lamb, ten days later.

“Ill, in very sooth,” said Dr Thorpe. “It shall take us the rest of this month to get over the burning of Mr Rogers.”

“Marry, is that all you know!” said Mr Underhill, standing and looking round. “You live a marvellous quiet life; thank God for it.”

“What mean you?” cried Mrs Rose, springing to her feet.

“Sit down, Mrs Rose, sit down,” said he, gently. “I am sorry I frighted you—there was no need. But is it possible you know not, all, that Mr Lawrence Saunders of All Hallows hath been burned at Coventry, and Bishop Hooper at Gloucester?”

“Bishop Hooper!” cried all the voices together.

“Ay,” replied he, “or so was to be, five days gone; and this day is Bishop Ferrar departed toward Saint David’s, where he also shall die.”

They sat silent from very horror.

At last John said, “Methinks there shall be some stir among the angels at such a time.”

“Among the devils, I should think,” answered Mr Underhill. “There be no particular tidings yet; but when Austin cometh to London we shall hear all. They say, moreover, Mr Bradford shall die ere long; and, for all his turning, Mr Cardmaker.”

“The fiends!” cried Dr Thorpe. “If they will rob a man of Heaven, they might leave him earth!”

“Friend,” said John, softly, “they can rob the most of us of earth, but they must leave us Heaven.”

When the ladies retired, Isoult asked Mrs Rose why she was so pale and heavy-eyed. The tears sprang to her eyes.

“O Isoult!” cried she, “since the burning of Mr Rogers I have scarcely slept at all. And when I do sleep—” she shuddered, and turned away her head.

“Hermana mia (my sister), I see him—and the fire.”

She did not mean Mr Rogers.

The party gathered on Ash Wednesday at Mr Underhill’s house in Wood Street, where Austin Bernher was come with news; and Mr Underhill desiring to know all, had asked his friends from the Lamb to come and hear also; yet he dared not ask more than those from one house, lest the bloodhounds should get scent of it, and mischief should ensue.

So Austin told all the horrible story; for a horrible story it was. He was not at Mr Saunders’ burning, but he had seen some one who told him particulars of it. To the Bishop of London, who degraded him, Saunders said, “I thank God I am none of your Church.” And when he came to the stake, he embraced and kissed it, saying, “Welcome the cross of Christ! Welcome everlasting life!” And so “being fastened to the stake, and fire put to him, full sweetly he slept in the Lord.” (Foxe, Acts and Monuments, Pratt’s Townshend’s edition, six, 428.)

But Austin himself was at Gloucester, where Bishop Hooper suffered his passion. “A passion indeed,” said he, “for I think never man was burned that had more pains of death. Afore he went into the fire, the gentle Bishop lift up his hands, and said, ‘Lord, I am Hell, but Thou art Heaven!’ And ‘Strengthen me, of Thy goodness, that in the fire I break not the rules of patience; or else assuage the terror of the pains, as shall seem most to Thy glory.’ And God did strengthen him, for he was patience herself, though the wood laid to him was all green, and the wind blew the fire away from him, so that he was long dying, and had an hard death. It was a lowering, cold morning, and the fire first kindled went out, having only touched his lower half. You have seen him, and know how high of stature he was. But he said only, in a mild voice, ‘O Jesus, Son of David! have mercy upon me, and receive my soul.’ Then they fetched fresh faggots, but that fire was spent also. He did but say softly, ‘For God’s love, good people, let me have more fire.’ This was the worst his agony could wring from him. The third fire kindled was more extreme, and reached at last the barrels of gunpowder. Then, when he saw the flame shoot up toward them, he cried, ‘Lord Jesus, have mercy upon me! Lord Jesus, receive my spirit!’ And so, bowing forward his head, he died at last as quietly as a child in his bed.” (Note 1.)

“O Austin, how frightful!” cried Isoult: and though she said no more, she wondered secretly if that would ever be the case with her.

“On his way to the stake,” resumed Austin, “they essayed to make him turn. Saith Sir Anthony Kingston unto him, ‘Life is sweet, and death bitter.’ ‘Truth, friend,’ quoth the Bishop; ‘yet is the death to come more bitter, and the life to come more sweet.’”

“He hath found it so ere now,” said John, softly.

“But have you,” pursued Austin, “heard of Dr Taylor’s burning?”

“Not of the inwards thereof,” answered Mr Underhill, “only of the act.”

“Well,” said Austin, “when Bishop Bonner came to degrade him, quoth the Bishop, ‘I wish you would remember yourself, and turn to your mother, holy Church.’ Then said Dr Taylor, ‘I wish you and your fellows would turn to Christ. As for me, I will not turn to Antichrist.’ And at the first, when he come afore my Lord Keeper (Bishop Gardiner), quoth he—‘Art thou come, thou villain? How darest thou look me in the face for shame? Knowest thou not who I am?’ with a great and big voice. Then said Dr Taylor, ‘Yes, I know who you are. Ye are Dr Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, and Lord Chancellor; and yet but a mortal man, I trow. But if I should be afraid of your lordly looks, why fear you not God, the Lord of us all? How dare ye for shame look any Christian man in the face, seeing ye have forsaken the truth, denied our Saviour Christ and His Word, and done contrary to your own oath and writing?’ with more to the same end.”

“My word on’t,” saith Dr Thorpe, “but yonder is a jolly hearing. I am right glad my Lord Chancellor got so well swinged!”

“Suffered Dr Taylor much, Austin?” asked Isoult.

“I trow not,” answered he. “When he came nigh Hadleigh, the Sheriff asked him how he did. Quoth he, ‘Well, God be praised, good Master Sheriff, never better; for now I know I am almost at home. I lack not past two stiles to go over, and I am even at my Father’s house.’ He was a very tall and great man, with long snow-white beard and head; and he stood in the fire with his hands folded, and never moved nor spake, till one struck him on the head with a halberd (I know not whether it were in malice or in compassion) and he fell down dead into the midst of the fire.”

“Well!” said Dr Thorpe, “I will tell you a thing: I would my gossips had named me any thing but Stephen.”

“There was a Stephen the first martyr,” suggested Austin; “comfort you with that remembrance.”

“Verily,” answered he; “yet I love not to be called the name which Satan hath chose for himself on his incarnation.”

One thing strange to human, reason is worthy of note, as showing the good hand of our God upon those who suffered for Him. In the case of the majority of these martyrs, those who had the fear of physical suffering had not the suffering. Ridley and Hooper bore themselves bravely, and knew no terror; and they endured awful anguish at the last. But Archbishop Cranmer, who at first held back for fear, uttered no cry in the fire; Latimer, who did not hold back, yet trembled at what he had to pass through, died to all appearance without pain. Most marvellous of all was the case of Lawrence Saunders, the gentle Rector of All Hallows, a man of delicate feeling, who shrank from the bitter cup, yet drank it off bravely for Christ’s sake. And Christ failed him not, but carried him in His own arms over the dark river; for no sooner was he chained to the stake than a deep sleep from God fell upon him, and he never woke to feel the fire at all, but slept sweetly as a child while his body was consuming. “Is any thing too hard for the Lord?”

When Isoult and Thekla came in from the market one morning in March, Dr Thorpe, who sat in the chimney-corner, asked them to go up to Mrs Rose.

“Yon dolt Carter hath been hither,” said he, “and sat with her half an hour; and from what I heard since over mine head, I am afeard he gave her to wit some ill news, for she hath been sobbing ever since his departing. Go you and comfort her.”

Thekla was up the stairs in a moment; and Isoult followed. Mr Carter (a fictitious person) was the clergyman who had stepped into Mr Rose’s place of minister to the Gospellers’ gatherings, when they dared to hold them; a good man, but very cold and harsh.

“O Thekla! Isoult!” cried Mrs Rose when they came in. “Am I so very wicked as Mr Carter saith me to be?”

Poor soul! she had been weeping bitterly.

“Mother!” cried Thekla, in amazement, “what meanest thou?”

“If you be very wicked, dear Marguerite,” said Isoult, “you have hidden it from me hitherto. But what saith Mr Carter?”

“He saith that I love my husband too much, and it is idolatry, which God will punish; and (ay de mi!) I ought not to grieve for him, but rather rejoice that he is called unto the high honour of martyrdom. M’amie, c’est impossible! And he saith that by such sinful and extravagant grieving, I shall call down on me, and on him also, the great displeasure of God. He saith God alway taketh away idols, and will not suffer idolatry in His people. It is an abominable sin, which He hateth; and we ought to pray to be kept from loving overmuch. Ça peut-il être, ma soeur? Que digas, niña?” (What sayest thou, child?)

Isoult looked at Thekla in dismay; for this was a new doctrine to her, and a very unpleasant one. Thekla’s lip trembled, and her eyes flashed, but she did not speak; so Isoult answered herself: for poor Mrs Rose’s wailings in French and Spanish showed that she was sorely troubled.

“Well, dear Marguerite,” said she, “if it be thus, I fear I am to the full as guilty as thou. I never prayed in all my life to be kept from loving Jack or my childre overmuch. I thought in mine ignorance that I was bound to love them as much as ever I could. Doth not Scripture tell us to love our neighbour as ourself?”

“Ay,” answered Mrs Rose, sobbing again, “and so I said to Mr Carter; but he answered that I loved him more than myself, because I did say I would rather to have died than he; and that was wicked, and idolatry.”

Thekla knelt down, and passed her arm round her mother, drawing her to herself, till Mrs Rose’s head lay upon her bosom.

“Mother,” she said, “whatsoever Mr Carter or any other shall say, I dare say that this is not God’s Gospel. There is an whole book of Scripture written to bid us love; but I never yet fell in with any to bid us hate. Nay, Mother dear, the wrong is not, assuredly, that we love each other too much, but only that we love God too little.”

“Thekla, thou art God’s best gift to me!” said Mrs Rose, drying her eyes, and kissing her. “It made me so miserable, mi querida (my darling—literally, my sought-for one), to think that God should be displeased with him because I loved him too much.”

“I wish Mr Carter would keep away!” answered Thekla, her eyes flashing anew. “If he hath no better Gospel than this to preach to God’s tried servants, he might as well tarry at home.”

“But, hija mia (my daughter)! thou knowest God’s Word so well!—tell me an other, if there be, to say whether it is wrong to grieve and sorrow when one is troubled. I do not think God meaneth to bid us do what we cannot do; and I cannot help it.”

“Methinks, dear Mother,” said Thekla, more quietly, “that Mr Carter readeth his Bible upside down. He seemeth to read Saint Paul to say that no chastening for the present is grievous, but joyous. An unmortified will is one thing; an unfeeling heart an other. God loveth us not to try to shake off His rod like a wayward and froward child; but He forbiddeth us not to moan thereunder when the pain wringeth it from us. And it may be the moan soundeth unto other at times that which it is not. He knoweth. He shall not put our tears into the wrong bottle, nor set down the sum of our groans in the wrong column of His book. Hezekiah should scantly be told ‘I have seen thy tears,’ if he did very evil in shedding them; nor Moses twice over, ‘I have seen, I have seen the affliction of My people, and am come down to deliver them,’ if they had sinned in being afflicted. When God wipeth away all tears from our eyes, shall He do it as some do with childre—roughly, shaking the child, and bidding it have done? ‘Despise not thou the chastening of the Lord’ cometh before ‘faint not when thou art rebuked of Him.’”

“Of a truth, I never could abide to see any so use a child,” said Isoult, innocently; “but, Thekla, sweet heart, it should as little serve to run unto the further extremity, and give all that a babe should cry for.”

“Were that love at all?” said Thekla; “unless it were the mother’s love for herself, and her own ease.”

Isoult saw that Mrs Rose seemed comforted, and Thekla was well able to comfort, so she gently withdrew. But when she came down-stairs, John having now returned, she asked him and Dr Thorpe to tell her their opinions.

“My thought is,” replied Dr Thorpe, “that the fellow knoweth not his business. He must have cold blood in his veins, as a worm hath. I might search the Decalogue a great while ere I came to his two commandments—‘Thou shalt not sorrow,’ and ‘Thou shalt not love thy neighbour any better than thyself.’”

“I have little patience with such doctrines, and scantly with such men,” said John. “They would ‘make the heart of the righteous sad, whom God hath not made sad.’ They show our loving and merciful Father as an harsh, stern ruler, ‘an austere man,’ meting out to His servants no more joy nor comfort than He can help. For joy that is put on is not joy. If it arise not of itself, ’tis not worth having. Paul saith, ‘As sorrowful, yet alway rejoicing;’ but that joy showeth not alway in the face: and Father Carter hath forgot the first half. I do believe (as I have said to thee, dear heart, ere now) that God taketh more pleasure to see His people joyful than sorrowful; but He never taketh pleasure, sure am I, to see them make up an hypocrite’s face, and fall to dancing, when their hearts are like to break. Why, sweeting! thou lovest rather to see Frank happy than woeful; but dost thou therefore desire her to smother her tears, and force a smile, rather than come and lodge her little troubles with thee? Nay, rather do I believe that to do such were to insult God. I could tell thee of that I have seen, where I do verily believe that pride, and naught else—that abominable sin that God hateth—kept His afflicted child up, and smirking with a false smile over the breaking heart; and no sooner was that self-righteous pride subdued, and the child brake forth into open sobbing,—crying, ‘Father, Thy rod doth hurt, and I have been a fool!’—no sooner, I say, was this confession made, than God threw away His rod, and took His humbled child to His heart. Dear heart, when God taketh His rod in hand, He meaneth us to feel it. Methinks a man that can speak to one in such trouble as Mrs Rose, as Father Carter hath spoken, hath not himself known neither much love, neither much sorrow, neither much of God.”

Bishop Ferrar was burnt in Wales on the 30th of March. Soon after this, the Queen declared her intention of restoring all the suppressed lands to the Church; nor was she content with that, but plainly intimated that she desired her nobles to follow where she had paved the way. The old Earl of Bedford had but lately died—he who said that he held his sweet Abbey of Woburn worth more than all the fatherly counsels, that could come from Rome; but comparatively few of the Lords followed her Majesty in this matter.

On the 4th of April, the Queen took her chamber at Hampton Court. The Papists made great rejoicing over the young master for whom they hoped, but the Gospellers were very sorrowful, seeing that he would take precedence of the Lady Elizabeth, in whom after God was all their hope; and also that he would unquestionably be brought up a Papist. During the last evening in April came news that a Prince was born, and through all London there were ringing of bells and bonfires. But the next day came contrary tidings. God had written next upon the Crown of England the name of Queen Elizabeth, and no power less than His own could change that label.

Early in May, Isoult went alone to market, which was not her custom; and coming back along Cornhill, she suddenly heard a voice say,—“Is it not Mrs Barry?”

Wondering who could thus recognise her who was not also aware of her marriage, she looked up into the face of a handsome, courtly gentleman, splendidly apparelled.

“Sir,” said she, “I pray you of your pardon; I am Isoult Barry, but I am not so fortunate as to know your name.”

“Do you not so?” replied he, and he smiled.

And when he smiled, Isoult thought she knew him.

“Is it Mr James Basset?” said she.

“Truly so,” answered he; “and I am very glad of thus meeting you. I cry you mercy for wrongly naming you, but in very deed I have forgot your present name. Dwell you hereabout?”

Isoult told him her name, and that she lived near London, yet not in the City; but she did not give her exact address.

“I trust we may be better acquainted,” said he, “and that I may find in you (as I cast no doubt) a woman faithful unto God and the Queen’s Grace.”

The terrible peril in which she stood stared her all at once in the face. James Basset was a gentleman of the chamber, and “a stout Papist.”

“Sir,” said she, “I would be right sorry to be less.”

“Of that I am well assured,” replied he. “Saw you of late my sister?”

Isoult answered that she had not seen Philippa lately; and he, bowing low, bade our Lady keep her, and departed. Isoult came home trembling like an aspen leaf. She knew well that, did his faith come into question, ties of friendship would have little weight with James Basset.

The next morning brought Philippa Basset.

“Well,” said she, “Isoult, so thou fellest in with my brother James yesterday?”

“I did so,” answered Isoult, rather shortly.

“He told me so much,” pursued she; “and said he had forgot to ask where thou dwelledst. So I told him.”

Isoult drew her breath hard.

“I know not whether to thank you for that, Mrs Basset,” observed John.

Philippa began to laugh.

“Do you take me for a fool, both of you?” said she. “Or for worse—a traitor? If I be a Catholic, yet am I a woman, not a stone. I told him you dwelt on the thither side of Lambeth. You have nought to fear from me. If all the Gospellers in the world were wrapped up in thy single person, Isoult, none should ever lay hand on an hair of thine head by means of Philippa Basset. Yea, though mine own life were the forfeit,—’tis not worth much to any now.”

“I thank thee dearly for thy love, sweet Philippa,” said Isoult, “but I hardly know how to thank thee for lying.

“’Twere a venial sin, I am assured,” said she, lightly. “Why, dear heart! James would burn thee in Smithfield as soon as eat his dinner!”

About a fortnight passed uneventfully—a rare occurrence in the year 1555. But as it was growing dusk on the 21st of May, there was a quick rap at the door, and Mr Underhill hastily entered.

“Coming from the light, I may scantly see who is here,” said he; “but I wish to speak quickly with Mrs Rose—Mrs Thekla, I mean.”

Mrs Rose and Isoult were sitting in the little chamber. The latter rose to call Thekla.

“What for Thekla?” asked her mother, earnestly. “Can you not tell me, Mr Underhill? Is there some evil news for me?”

“I knew not you were here till I heard you speak, Mrs Rose,” he answered, in the gentle manner in which he always spoke to her. “Well, I suppose you may as well know it first as last. Your husband is ordered to Norwich for examination, and shall set forth this even. He shall pass the postern in half an hour, and I came to tell Mrs Thekla, if she desired to speak with him, she should come at once with me.”

Thekla ran up-stairs to fetch her hood.

“To Norwich!” cried poor Mrs Rose, “what for to Norwich?”

“I know not,” said Mr Underhill; “is he Norfolk-born?”

“He was born at Exmouth,” she answered; “is Exmouth in Norfolk?”

“Nay, surely,” said Isoult; “’tis in Devon, as I well know.”

“Then what for Norwich?” she said again. “But, Mr Underhill! you take Thekla—and you take not me?”

“I cannot, Mrs Rose,” said he; “your peril—”

“What care I for my peril?” she cried, passionately.

“Doth he belong to them? or doth he belong only to Thekla? Let me go, Mr Underhill! He is mine—mine—mine! Mi alma, mi bien (my soul, my own)! I will go, if it be the last sight of him! Who shall let me?”

“Marry, I would, if I could,” said Mr Underhill, under his voice. “Mrs Avery, what am I to do?” and he looked helplessly at Isoult.

“Leave me to speak to her, Mr Underhill,” she answered. “Dear sister Marguerite, remember Mr Rose is not yet condemned: and there is the shadow of hope that he may not be so. But if they can prove him to have been in your company, that hope will perish. Will you go, knowing that?”

Mrs Rose had knelt down by the table, and buried her head in her hands upon it. She gave no answer save a low, deep moan of unutterable anguish.

“Seigneur, pour combien de temps regarderas-tu cela?”

“Go, Mr Underhill,” said Isoult, softly. “If I know her, she will not follow.”

Mr Underhill hurried Thekla away.

It was an hour before they came back. Mrs Rose had gone up-stairs, and Isoult sat alone in the chimney-corner. She heard the latch lifted, and Mr Underhill’s voice bidding Thekla good-night. He was not returning with her. Then her soft step came forward. She paused as soon as she entered the chamber.

“Who is here?” she said, under her breath.

“It is I, Thekla,” answered Isoult. “Thy mother is above, dear heart; I am alone.”

“I am glad of that.”

And she came forward to the hearth, where suddenly she flung herself down on her knees, and buried her face in Isoult’s lap.

“I cannot see her just now!” she said in a choked voice. “I must be over mine own agony ere I can bear hers. O Mrs Avery! he is so white, and worn, and aged! I hardly knew him till he smiled on me!”

And laying down her head again, she broke forth into sobbing—such a very passion of woe, as Isoult had never heard before from the lips of Thekla Rose. Then in a little while—for she did not check her, only smoothed down her hair lovingly—Thekla lifted her head again, and her first gushing of pain seemed over.

“The Sheriff was good to me,” she whispered. “Mr Underhill said, ‘Would it please you of your gentleness, to stay your prisoner five minutes? Here is his daughter that would speak with him.’ And he stayed, and gave us leave to speak—more than five minutes.”

She dried her eyes, and smoothed back her hair.

“Now,” she said, “I can go to her.”

“God go with you, my poor child!” answered Isoult Thekla paused a moment before she set her foot on the stairs. “I feel,” she said, “as if I wanted Him very near to-night.”

On Thursday, the 30th of May, Cardmaker and Warne were burned in Smithfield. And on the 10th of June, in the same place, died John Bradford, saying he should have a merry supper with the Lord that night.

Four days afterwards came Austin Bernher.

“How do you all?” asked he.

“Marry, I shall do better when I know whence you come,” said poor Mrs Rose, lifting her heavy eyes.

“Then I come from Norwich,” saith he, “and, I hope, with good news. Mr Rose hath been examined twice afore the Bishop, the last day of this last month, and the seventh of this, but is not yet sentenced. He is kept in the Green Yard, next the Cathedral; and the charge against him is that he hath held and defended in public that in the Eucharist, or Sacrament of the Altar, the true, natural, and real body of Christ, and the true, natural, and real blood of Christ, under the espèce of bread and wine, be not in verity; but that after consecration, the substance of bread and wine remaineth; and that whoso shall adore that substance shall commit idolatry, and shall give Divine honour unto a creature of God. And then he was asked but one question, ‘Whether you will be obedient to the laws of the Catholic Church, whereof the Church of England is a member?’ This was in the indictment; but the Bishop talked with him no little, and saith unto him, ‘You have preached (quoth he) that the presence of Christ is not in the sacrament. What say you to that?’ ‘Verily, I say,’ Mr Rose answered, ‘that you are a bloody man, and seek to quench your thirst in the blood of an innocent. I have so preached,’ saith he, ‘yea, and I will so preach again.’”

“Gramercy!” cried Isoult.

“Ay, he was bold enough,” said Austin. “Well, after examination, afore I set forth, come to me my old Lord of Sussex, and that gentle knight Sir William Woodhouse, who told me they meant to see Mr Rose, and to do whatsoever they might in his behalf. And a word in your ear: the Queen is very, very grievous sick. My Lord of Sussex, and other likewise, have told me that the Bishops dare not sentence more heretics. They think Mr Rose shall have a lighter sentence than death—imprisonment it may be. But until they see how the Queen shall fare, they be sore afraid.”

“They were not afeard to burn Mr Bradford,” suggested Isoult.

“Truth,” he answered. “But he, you see, was already sentenced. Mrs Avery, there is one thing I must needs tell you, and I pray you, let me get the same out ere Mrs Thekla come in. I am sore diseased touching Mr Tremayne.”

“For Robin!” she cried. “Austin, have they sentenced him?”

“I know not what they have done unto him,” saith he, “and that is the very truth. He is no longer in the Marshalsea. They have carried him thence some whither, and I, which am alway rambling up and down the realm, have not yet discovered whither. Trust me, you shall know as soon as I.”

Early in the morning, six days afterwards, before all were down, and Isoult herself had but just descended the stairs, there came a hasty rap, and in ran Austin.

“Where is Mrs Rose?” said he. “I have good news for her.”

“O Austin! is Mr Rose sentenced?” said Isoult, when she had called Mrs Rose.

“Ay,” he answered, “but to no worse than imprisonment in his lodging. It is as I told you—the Bishops dare not act. And Sir William Woodhouse, being present, maketh offer (under the Bishop’s leave) to keep Mr Rose in his house, seeing he had no lodging in Norwich. Whereto the Bishop assents, but that he should come up when called for. Sir William therefore taketh him away, and at the very next day sendeth him thence. I cannot tell you where: Sir William will tell none. Only this I know; he is to be passed secretly from hand to hand, until means be had to convey him over seas. And now my Lord of Norwich is come to London, and shall not be back for nigh a month; in which time Mr Rose may win far enough ere he be bidden.—Why, Mrs Rose! is it matter for weeping?”

“I think it is for weeping, Austin, but not for sorrow,” said Isoult.

“One word, Augustine,” said Mrs Rose, drying her eyes. “Whither shall they take him over seas?”

“In your ear, then,” said he. “To Calais, to Mr Stevens, whence he shall be passed again through France, until he reach Geneva.”

“Then I go thither,” answered she.

“Softly, Mrs Rose!” said Austin, doubtfully. “You must not, methinks, stir out of the realm; a great mischief might ensue. They should guess presently that whither you went would he go.”

“But what can I do?” she said plaintively.

“‘Wait on the Lord,’” softly answered Isoult.

July brought a little respite to the horrible slaughter. In the beginning of August, came Austin, and with him Mr Underhill.

“There is somewhat merry news from Norwich,” cried Mr Underhill. “My Lord the Bishop, returned thither, summons Rose afore his saintly presence: who is no whither to be found. Whereupon my Lord sendeth for a wizard, and in his holiness biddeth him consult with the infernal powers touching the whereabout of the prisoner. Who answereth that Rose is gone over the water, and is in keeping of a woman. Wherein he spake sooth, though maybe he knew it not; for Rose at that very minute lay hidden in the mean cottage of a certain godly woman, and had to ford more rivers than one to win thither. So my Lord the Bishop, when he gets his answer of the Devil, flieth at the conclusion that Rose is gone over seas, and is safe in Germany, and giveth up all looking for him. Wherefore, for once in our lives, we may thank the Devil.”

“Nay, good Ned,” said Jack; “we will thank the living God (this phrase was another symbolum hereticorum), that did overrule both the Bishop and the Devil.”

“And what of Robin?” said Isoult.

“Mrs Avery, I am puzzled and bewildered as I never was before,” replied Austin. “I cannot find him.”

A week later, when the dusk had fallen, but John had not yet come home, and Dr Thorpe and Isoult sat alone in the chamber, a quick footstep approached the door.

“What he! is the door locked?” cried Mr Underhill’s voice outside.

Barbara ran and let him in.

“Where is Mrs Rose?” was his first question.

“Above,” said Isoult. “Is there news for her?”

“Good,” said he, without replying: “and Mrs Thekla?”

“Above likewise.”

“Let her stay there a moment. But tell her (whenas you can without her mother’s ears) that her father is in London again, in the keeping of Speryn, my wife’s brother; and there she may see him. Tell her to come to my house, and I or my wife shall go with her to the other. But she must not tarry in coming, for we hope to have him away to Calais on Tuesday night.”

And away he went.

Mrs Rose was not told a word; but Thekla saw her father before he left England. Then he was passed secretly across the Channel, and on Rysbank Mr Stevens met him, and took him to his house. The next day he was sent away to Boulogne, and so on to Paris, always in the keeping of Huguenots, and thence to Lyons, and so to Switzerland.

On the 26th of August, the King set out for Spain, the Queen going with him as far as Greenwich, where she remained, and the Princess Elizabeth with her.

The respite from the slaughter was short; and it was only the enemy’s breathing-time for a more terrible onslaught. The next entry in Isoult’s diary ran thus:—

“By Austin Bernher woeful news is come. My Lord Archbishop, that stood so firm for God’s truth—that was already doomed for his faithfulness—that all we have so loved, and honoured, and mourned—Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, is fallen away from Christ, and hath recanted and rejected the truth by which he stood so firm. I knew never any thing that so cut me to the heart after this sort, sithence Sir Will Smith’s recanting at Calais. Surely, surely, Christ will rescue this His sheep from the jaws of the wolf whereinto he is fallen! Of them whom the Father hath given Him, can He lose this one?”

Mr Underhill came in on the 19th of October strangely sad and pensive for him.

“Have you the news this even?” said he.

“What news?” inquired John. “Is it death or life?”

“It is martyrdom,” he answered, solemnly. “Is that death, or life?”

His manner fairly frightened Isoult. She was afraid lest he should have come to give them dreadful tidings of Robin; or, it might be, that Mr Rose had been recaptured on his journey through France.

“O Mr Underhill!” she cried, tremblingly, “pray you, the name of the martyr?”

It was neither Mr Rose’s nor Robin’s. But no name, short of those two, would have thrilled to her heart straighter than the other two he gave.

He said, “Nicholas Ridley, and Hugh Latimer.”

Note 1. If the reader think this narrative horrible, let him know that all the worst details have been omitted. They are written in God’s book in letters of fire, and shall not be forgotten in the day when He maketh up His jewels.

Chapter Eleven.

Hope Deferred.

“Ah, would we but only leave All things to our Father! Would we only cease to grieve, Wait His mercy rather! Meek resigning childish choice, Graceless, thankless pressing— Listen for His gentle voice, ‘Child, receive this blessing!’ Faithless, foolish hearts! see you Seeds’ earth-hidden growing? What our God for us will do, He Himself is knowing.”

It was on the 4th of November 1555, that Annis Holland came home from Spain. Queen Juana was dead, and she had no longer any tie to a country in which she had certainly not been happy.

“Please it you, Mistress!” said Ursula’s voice at the chamber door, where Isoult sat sewing.

“Well, Ursula?” replied her mistress.

“Mistress Holland would have speech of you, Mistress,” said she.

Of course Isoult supposed her visitor to be Roger Holland’s wife, and thanked God in her heart that she was better off than Bessy; but she came down into the chamber—not to see Bessy. On another face her eyes lighted, and a cry of gladness broke from her.

“What, Annis!”

When the first welcomings were over, and they sat down again, Isoult thought she saw a grave, sad look on Annis’ face that was not wont to be there.

“I trusted to have seen thee home ere this, dear Annis,” she said, “for we heard that the Queen thy mistress was dead, and I thought thou wouldst not be like to tarry yonder.”

“Ay,” she said, sadly. “She is gone to God; and laud be to Him for it! No, Isoult, I had no mind to abide there.”

She shuddered, as with very horror, so that Isoult answered—“Methinks, sweet heart, thy Lord Marquis of Denia could be no worser than Bishop Gardiner.”

“There be eviller things in Spain than even he is,” said she, and shook her head.

“And where wilt thou go, Annis?” asked Isoult, “for my Lady’s Grace of Suffolk is out of this kingdom. I would have loved dearly to have thee hither till thou mightest fit thyself with a service, but verily all my chambers be full filled, and I would not lodge thee in the nursery, where be already Esther and the childre, except for a short space.”

A little smile played about the lips of Annis.

“Isoult,” she said, “after all I have said and writ touching Spain (and in good sooth may yet say and write), I fear thou shalt think me a marvellous contrarious maid, if I own to thee that I am about to wed a Spanish gentleman.”

“Well,” answered her friend, “that hangeth upon the Spanish gentleman’s particular.”

“Truth,” replied she; “and if I did not verily believe the grace of God to be in his heart, trust me, Isoult, I would never have him.”

“But wilt thou, then, go back to dwell in Spain?”

“God forbid!” cried she, heartily.

“I am afeard, sweet heart,” suggested Isoult, “thou shalt find this country little better. There be nigh every week burnings some whither.”

“O Isoult, Isoult!” cried she, vehemently. “There may be any thing of horrible and evil; but that all were not so much as worthy to be cast into the scale against the Inquisition!”

“Well,” said she, “I have not dwelt there as thou hast; but I have dwelt here these last three years, the which thou hast not. But who, prithee, is thy servant (suitor)? He is not in the King’s house, trow?”

“No, nor like to be,” said Annis. “It is Don Juan de Alameda, brother’s son to Doña Isabel, of whom I writ to thee.”

“Thou wrotest marvellous little to me, Annis,” said Isoult, smilingly.

“Nay, I writ twice in every year, as I promised,” answered she.

“Then know thou,” said Isoult, “that I never had those thy letters, saving two, which were (as I judge) the first thou didst write, and one other, two years gone or more, writ on the 14th day of August.”

“I writ thee three beside them,” answered she. “I suppose they were lost at sea, or maybe they lie in the coffers of the Inquisition. Any way, let them be now. I thank God I am come safe out of that land, where, if any whither, Satan hath his throne.”

“Then,” said Dr Thorpe, who had come in while she was speaking, “he must have two; for I am assured there is one set up at Westminster, nor is he oft away from it.”

Annis passed the rest of the day with Isoult, and Don Juan came in the evening to escort her to the inn where she was staying.

“I must needs allow Don Juan a very proper gentleman, and right fair in his ways; but I would Annis’ husband had been an Englishman. I feel not to trust any Spaniard at all,” said Isoult, after Annis was gone.

“Why,” said Marguerite Rose, “they are like us women. Some of the good ones may be very good; but all the bad ones be very bad indeed.”

Austin Bernher brought full news of the death of Ridley and Latimer. Isoult asked especially “if they had great suffering, and if they abode firm in the truth.”

“To the abiding firm,” said he, “yea, firm as the Mount Zion, that standeth fast for ever. For the suffering, it seemed me that my dear master suffered nothing at all, but with Dr Ridley (I sorrow to say it) it was far otherwise. But hearken, and you shall wit all.

“The night afore they suffered, Dr Ridley was very pleasant at supper, and bade them all that were at the table to his wedding; ‘for,’ saith he, ‘I must be married to-morrow. And though my breakfast be somewhat sharp and painful, yet I am sure my supper shall be more pleasant and sweet.’ Then saith Mr Shipside, his brother (Note 1), ‘I will bide with you this night.’ ‘Nay,’ answered he, ‘not so, for I mean to go to bed, and sleep as quietly as ever I did in my life.’

“The stake was made ready on the north side of the town, in the town-ditch, over against Balliol College; and my Lord Williams of Thame had the ordering thereof. As Dr Ridley passed Bocardo, he looked up, thinking to have seen my Lord Archbishop at the glass-window; but they had provided against that, by busying him in disputation with a Spanish friar. Then Dr Ridley, looking back, espied my master coming after. ‘Oh!’ saith he, ‘be you there?’—‘Yea,’ saith my master; ‘have after as fast as I can follow.’ So when they came to the stake, Dr Ridley embraced him, saying, ‘Brother, be of good heart, for God will either assuage the fury of the flame, or else strengthen us to abide it.’ Then they knelt and prayed; and after, talked a little to each other, but what they said none heard. Dr Smith (Robert Smith, a renegade from Lutheranism) preached the sermon, from ‘Though I give my body to be burned,’ and so forth, but his discourse lasted but a few minutes, and was nought save railing against heretics. Then Dr Ridley entreated of my Lord Williams leave of speech; which he would have given, but Mr Vice-Chancellor and the bailiffs would not suffer it, only that they might speak if they would recant, Dr Ridley cried then, ‘I will never deny my Lord Christ!’ and arising from his knees, he cried again with a loud voice, ‘Well, then, I commit our cause to Almighty God, who shall indifferently judge all.’ Whereto my master added his old posy (motto, maxim), ‘Well, there is nothing hid but it shall be opened.’ So that after they made them ready, and were fastened to the stake; and Mr Shipside brought two bags of gunpowder and tied around their necks. Then they brought a lighted faggot, and laid it at Dr Ridley’s feet. Then said my master, ‘Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man; we shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.’

“When Dr Ridley saw the fire flaming up towards him, he cried, with a wondrous loud voice, ‘Into Thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit!’ And oft afterwards, ‘Lord, Lord, receive my spirit!’ My master, on the other side, did as vehemently cry, ‘O Father of Heaven, receive my soul!’ Who (Latimer) received the flame as it were embracing it, and after he had stroked his face, and bathed his hands a little in the fire, soon died, to the sight of all present having no pain. Dr Ridley’s suffering, on the contrary side, was fearful, and only to compare with Bishop Hooper. Ask me not to say more touching it. But at last the flame reached the gunpowder, and after that he was seen to stir no more, only to fall down at Mr Latimer’s feet. I will but say more, that hundreds of them which saw the sight shed tears thereover.”

No one spoke when Austin ended.

At last, John said softly, “‘Never to be put out!’ Lord, grant this word of Thy martyr, and let that bright lamp lighted unto Thee give light for ever!”

Three hundred years have run out since that dread October day, when the candle was lighted at Oxford which should never be put out. And put out it has never been. Satan and all his angels may blow against it, but God holds it in the hollow of His hand, and there it is safe.

Yet there is a word of warning, as well as a word of hope. To the Church at Ephesus saith our Lord, “I know thy works,”—yea, “and thy labour,”—yea, “and thy patience, and how thou canst not bear them which are evil; and thou hast tried them which say they are apostles, and are not, and hast found them liars; and hast borne, and hast patience, and for my name’s sake hast laboured, and hast not fainted.” Can more than this be said to our Church? Nay, can all this be said to her? God grant it. “Nevertheless”—nevertheless!—“I have somewhat against thee, because thou hast left thy first love.” O Lord, how tenderly Thou dealest! Not “left thy love:” it was not so bad as that. Yet see how He notes the leaving of the first love! A little colder; a little deader; a little less ready to put on the coat, to defile the feet, to rise and open to the Beloved. Only a little; but how that little grieves His heart, who hath never left His first love. And what is the end? “I will come unto thee quickly, and will remove thy candlestick out of his place, except thou repent.”

“O earth,” and O England, “hear the word of the Lord!” Art thou yet warm in thy first love? Has there been no looking back to Sodom, no longing for the flesh-pots of Egypt, no eyes wandering toward the house of Baal? God grant that thou mayest not lose thy candle! It was wrought of blood and in tears: is it a light thing that thou shouldst let it be put out?

One night in November came in Mr Underhill, and an hour after him, Mr Ferris.

“Welcome, George!” said Mr Underhill. “Any news abroad?”

“Have you heard none to-night?” said he.

“Not so much as would go by the eye of a needle,” he answered. “Is there tidings?”

“The Bishop of Winchester is dead.”

Mr Underhill sprang to his feet with a cry of exultation.

“‘Glory to God in the highest!’ yea, I might go further—‘on earth peace!’ Jack, let us sing the Te Deum.”

“Not in my house,” said John, quietly.

“Thou recreant faint-heart! What meanest?”

“I am ready enough to sing the Te Deum, Ned,” pursued John, “but not for so terrible a thing as the casting of that poor sinner, with the blood of God’s saints red upon his soul, into the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone.”

“How can you stay to think of it?” cried Mr Underhill in his ringing voice. “Is that blood even now not crying unto God? Are Rogers and Bradford, are Ridley and Latimer, yet avenged? Shall not the saints wash their feet in the blood of the ungodly? Yea, let them fall, and never rise up again! Shall we be thus slack to praise God for freedom?”

“Wait till we are free,” said John, drily.

“And moderate your voice, Ned Underhill,” added Mr Ferris, “if you would be free long.”

Mr Underhill laid his hands upon John’s shoulders.

“Look me in the face, John Avery,” answered he, “and tell me what you mean. Think you this great palace of cruelty and injustice built up by him shall not crumble to dust along with Stephen Gardiner?”

“I doubt it very greatly,” he replied.

“Assuredly not,” said Marguerite Rose, “so long as the King Philip is in this country, and the Bishop of London. It might ask Dr Gardiner to build the palace, but I think they shall be able to keep it standing.”

“But King Philip is not in this country,” said Mr Underhill.

“He is master of it,” said John.

“Alas for my Te Deum, then!” sighed Mr Underhill, shrugging his shoulders. “But I hope you may yet find you mistaken, Jack Avery.”

“Not more than I, Ned,” said John, sadly.

John Avery did not find himself mistaken; but it was not long ere Mr Underhill did so. He allowed that his Te Deum had been too soon, when on the 18th of December Archdeacon Philpot was burned. And the burnings in Smithfield were then not half over.

On the 12th of January, at Mr Underhill’s house in Wood Street, by Mr Carter, was christened little Anne Underhill, born on Epiphany Eve (see Note in Appendix). Her sponsors were Mr Ferris, Helen Ive, and Isoult Avery.

Ere this, a few days before Christmas, Mr Rose’s first letter had reached his wife’s hands. It brought the welcome tidings that he had arrived safely at Geneva, yet through such perils that he would not advise her to follow. When Isoult had read the letter, she remarked—

“I do see Mr Rose accounteth not himself to be lawfully divorced, for he maketh account of her as his wife all through the letter, and signeth himself at the end thereof, her loving and faithful husband.”

“Doth that astonish thee?” said John, laughing.

“Well, of a truth,” she answered, “I had thought the worse of him for any other dealing.”

Annis Holland came again in March to spend a day at the Lamb. On this occasion she told the rest of her story, or, it may rather be called, the story of Queen Juana. For many months after that first accidental meeting, she told them, she never again saw her royal mistress. But Doña Leonor Gomez, who was exceedingly loquacious when she had no fear of consequences, and sometimes when she had, told her that so long as she was in her right senses, nothing would ever induce the Queen to attend mass. To persuade her to do any thing else, they would tell her they acted under command of the King her father (who had in reality been dead many years); and she, loving him dearly, and not having sufficient acuteness left to guess the deceit practised upon her, would assent readily to all they wished, except that one thing. Even that influence failed to induce her to be present at mass.

“And one day,” said Annis, “about the Christmastide, two years gone, I was sitting and sewing in my chamber, Maria being forth, and I had been chanting to myself the hymn, ‘Christe Redemptor Omnium.’ When I had ended and was silent, thinking me alone, a voice from the further end of the chamber saith, ‘Sing again, Doña Ines.’ I looked up in very terror, for here was the Queen’s Highness herself. I marvelled how she should have come forth of her chamber, and what my Lord of Denia should say. ‘Señora,’ said I, ‘I kiss the soles of your feet. But allow me to entreat your Highness to return to your chamber.’—‘I will not return till you have sung to me,’ saith she. And she sat right down on the floor, and clasped her hands around her knees. So I had no choice but to sing my hymn over again. When I ended, she saith, ‘What means it, Doña Ines? Is it somewhat of our Lord?’—‘Ay, Señora,’ I made answer, ‘it is all touching Him,’—‘I understood the Church hymns once,’ she said; ‘but that was before the cuerda. Sing some more.’ Then I sang ‘Victimae Paschali!’ ‘Miserere!’ she repeated, dreamily, as if that word had woke some old echoes in her memory. ‘Ay de mi! child, I lack the mercy very sorely.’—‘He knoweth that, Señora,’ said I gently. ‘And His time is the best time.’ And she answered, as she had aforetime,—‘I would He would come!’ I knew scarce what to answer; but I had no time to answer at all, ere the door opened, which the Queen had closed behind her, and my dread Lord of Denia stood before me. ‘What is this, Señora?’ he said to her Highness. ‘Your Highness here!’ And turning to me, ‘Doña Ines,’ quoth he, ‘explain it if you can.’ I thought the wisest thing should be to speak very truth, as well as the right, and I told him even how matters stood with me. ‘I see,’ he answered. ‘You have not been to blame, except that you should have called immediately for help, and have put her back into her chamber. Rise, Señora!’ The Queen clasped her hands closer around her knees. ‘I am at ease here,’ she said. ‘And I want Doña Ines to sing.’ The Marquis took a step nearer her. ‘Alteza,’ he said, ‘I desire your Highness to rise. You should be ashamed—you, a Queen!’ She looked up on him with a look I had not seen in her eyes aforetime. ‘Am I a Queen?’ she said. ‘If so, a Queen captive in the enemy’s hands! If I be your Queen, obey me—depart from this chamber when you hear my “Yo la Reyna.” (Note 2.) Begone, señor Marques! Leave me in peace.’ ‘Señora!’ he answered, unmoving, ‘I am surprised. You are in your own Palace, where your father detains you; and you call it captivity! Rise at once, Señora, and return to your chamber.’ He spoke sternly and determinedly. The captive lioness heard the keeper’s voice, and obeyed. ‘My father—ay Don Fernando!’ she said only. And holding out both her hands to him, as a child should do, he led her away. After that, I saw her no more for many weary months. At times the terrible screams would arouse me from sleep, and then I prayed for her, that God would strengthen her, and ease the torment to her; but, above all, that God would take her. I trust it were not sin in me, Isoult. But if thou hadst seen her as I saw her!

“Well, I saw her no more until this last April. Then there came a night when the shrieks awoke me, more terrible than I had ever heard them yet. When Doña Leonor came into my chamber on the morrow, which was Good Friday, I asked if she knew the cause. She told me ay. Her Highness lay dying, and had refused to receive (that is, to receive the sacrament). Fray Domingo de Soto would not suffer her to depart without the host. While she yet talked with me, entered Doña Ximena de Lara, that had never been in my chamber afore, and alway seemed to hold her much above me. ‘Doña Ines,’ quoth she, ‘my Lord of Denia commands you to follow me quickly. The Queen is in a fearful frenzy, and sith she hath alway much loved music, and divers times hath desired you should be fetched to sing to her, my Lord Marquis would have you try whether that will serve to abate her rage.’

“‘And they gave her the cuerda?’ said I, as I followed Doña Ximena. ‘Ay, for two hours and more,’ saith she, ‘but alas! to no end. She refuseth yet to receive His Majesty.’ Know thou, Isoult, that these strange folk call the wafer ‘His Majesty’—a title that they give at once to God and the King. ‘They gave her the premia early last night,’ saith she, ‘but it was to no good; wherefore it was found needful to repeat the same, more severely, near dawn. Her screams must have been heard all over the town. A right woeful frenzy followed, wherein (she being ignorant of what she did) they caused her to swallow His Majesty. Whereupon, in the space of some few minutes, by the power of our Lord, she calmed; but the frenzy is now returned, and they think her very near her departing.’ In her Highness’ chamber a screen was drawn afore the bed, that I could not see her; but her struggles and her cries could too well be heard. My Lord of Denia stood without the screen, and I asked what it was his pleasure I should sing. He answered, what I would, but that it should be soft and soothing. And methought the Hymn for the Dead should be the best thing to sing for the dying.

“‘Rex tremendae majestatis, Qui salvandos salvas gratis, Salve me, Fons Pietatis!’

“I had sung but one verse when her crying ceased; and ere I had sung two, she saith with a deep sigh, ‘Ay Jesus!’ and lay quiet. Then, when I paused, she said, ‘Is it Doña Ines?’—‘Speak to her,’ quoth my Lord Marquis. ‘Señora,’ I answered, ‘I am your Highness’ servant Ines, that kisseth your feet.’—‘Come hither to me,’ the Queen said. ‘Child, God hath looked on long in silence, but He is come at last.’ My Lord of Denia made me a sign to pass within the screen. There lay she, her snow-white hair scattered over the pillow; her ladies standing or kneeling around the bed. ‘It is over!’ she said, speaking slowly, and with pauses. ‘I shall suffer no longer. I shall go to God.’—‘Señora,’ quoth my Lord Marquis, ‘I entreat your Highness to be silent. You have received His Majesty, and cannot be allowed to soil your soul by evil words, when Christ is within you.’—‘Ye forced me, did ye?’ she answered, a quick flash of anger breaking the calm of her face. ‘Ah! well, God knoweth. I did it not. God knoweth. And God will receive me. He witteth what I have been, and what ye.’ She lay silent a season; and then, slowly, as if it pained her, she drew her hands together, and folded them as if she prayed, Fray Domingo began a Latin prayer. ‘Silence!’ saith the Queen, royally. And for this once—the last time—her gaolers obeyed her. She fetched a long weary sigh, and laid her hands one over the other on her breast. Then, in low, calm, quiet tones, her last words were spoken. ‘Father, into Thine hands I commit my spirit. Jesus Christ, the Crucified, be with me! I thank God that my life is over.’ It was over, only a few minutes later. And I think He was with her through the valley of the shadow of death.” (Note 2.)

“Isoult,” said Annis, as she ended her woeful story, “thinkest thou this were martyrdom—this daily dying for six and twenty years? Was it any less, borne for our Lord’s love, than any of His martyrs? They that are burned or beheaded, they do but suffer once, and then no more. It must be easier, methinks, than to die piecemeal, as she did. And she knew so little! Isoult, dost thou think Christ will count her in the number of His martyrs?”

“It soundeth very like, Annis,” she answered.

“I do not fancy,” said John, “that the Lord is so ill off for martyrs’ crowns that He will have none to spare for her.”

“Well!” responded Dr Thorpe. “It should be no great wonder if they were used up, seeing how many must have been fetched within the last two years.”

“I could believe any thing of Don Carlos,” answered Marguerite Rose. “He that so ill used his aunt, that had been a mother unto him, the Lady Marguerite of Savoy, that was Governess of Flanders,—he should not have much love for his own mother.”

And Thekla said,—“I think the crown of the Queen Doña Juana must have been a very bright one. It is so hard to watch and wait.”

“My poor Thekla!” murmured Isoult, “thou hast had much thereof.”

“I!” she answered, with a smile. “I have done nothing. I have not been forsaken and ill dealt withal, as she was, of my best beloved, throughout many years. Compare me not with her! If I may sit down some whither in Heaven where I can but see her on the heights, that would be too good for me.”

“But art thou willing to see Christ only on the heights, Thekla?” said John.

“No,” she said, again with her sweet smile. “I should want to be close to Him. No, I could not be content to look on Him afar off.”

“In that case,” said John, “there is no fear that He shall ask it of thee.”

No, there is no fear of His keeping us afar off. It is we who follow afar off. “Father, I will that they also, whom Thou hast given Me, be with Me where I am; that they may behold My glory, which Thou hast given Me.” With our dear Master, it is never “Go, and do this hard thing, go and suffer this heavy sorrow, go and bear this weary waiting.” It is always “Come and do it;” or at least, “Let us go.”

And now there came another martyrdom: the highest, and in some sense, the sorest of them all; yet, by many, not the last. There was room for many souls under the Altar: ay, and on the Throne.

On the 22nd of March, with great pomp and splendour, “The Lord Raynald Pole, Cardinal Legate,” was consecrated Archbishop of Canterbury. It was therefore apparent that Dr Cranmer had been degraded. Isoult said so to Mr Underhill, whom she met at the service at Mr Ferris’ lodging, and his answer troubled her no little.

“Nay, Mrs Avery,” he replied; “’tis a sign that my Lord Archbishop is dead, for I do know by letter from Bernher, which is now at Oxford, that yesterday was appointed for his burning.”

And they had never heard one word after his recantation. Dead, without recanting it! Dead, denying Christ at his end, after confessing Him in his life! This was worse than many martyrdoms, for it was martyrdom of the soul. Was there no hope? Must this death be the second death? They knew that in the last hour, ay, even in the last minute, he might have repented unto life, and have again caught hold of Christ: but should they who had prayed so fervently for the lost brother, have no word to say so—no “this thy brother is alive again?” Must they never know whether to look for him on the right or the left hand of the King, till they should see him there in the last day?

“I told you too true, Mrs Avery; my Lord Archbishop is dead.”

These were the first words which Isoult heard, when she came down the stairs on the following morning.

“But how died he, Mr Underhill?” she cried anxiously.

“Gloriously! Like a martyr and a Prince of God’s Church, as he was, publicly repenting the recantation whereto he had set his hand from fear, and confessing Christ nobly before men, till at last they would not hear a word further—they haled and hurried him to the stake.”

“Thank God!” Her voice failed her; she could say no more.

“It was a foul and rainy day,” he went on; “so Austin told me. My Lord Archbishop was led from Bocardo to Saint Mary Church, betwixt two friars that mumbled certain Psalms, and at the church door they began the Nunc Dimittis. My Lord was ill-favouredly clad, in a bare and ragged gown, and an old square cap. Dr Cole preached, and more than twenty times during the sermon, the Archbishop was seen to have the water in his eyes. Then they did desire him to get up into the pulpit, and openly to retract his preaching, and show all the people that he was become a true Catholic.”

“And did he that?”

“‘Fair and softly go far in a day.’ Have a little patience, I pray you. Well, he spake a long season, first, against the world; item, unto obedience; item, to brotherly love; item, against money-love; and lastly, he said over the Creed. ‘And now (quoth he) I come to the great thing which so much troubleth my conscience.’ He said his hand had offended against God, in signing his recantation; and when he should come to the fire, it should be first burned. And so he spake bravely, renouncing the Pope as Antichrist, and Christ’s enemy and his, and that he utterly abhorred all his false doctrine. And touching the Sacrament, the doctrine ‘which (saith he) I have taught in my book is true, and will stand at the last day before the judgment of God, when the Papistical doctrine contrary thereto shall be ashamed to show her head.’

“Well, like Paul, they gave him audience unto this word, and then cried out, Away with such a fellow from the earth! They cried that he was false, and dissembled. ‘Ah, my masters!’ quoth our good Archbishop, ‘do you take it so? Always since I lived hitherto, I have been a hater of falsehood, and a lover of simplicity, and never before this time have I dissembled.’ The water stood in his eyes; and he would have spoken more against the Pope and the mass, but Cole crieth out, ‘Stop the heretic’s mouth! Take him away!’ Then the friars set upon him, and pulled him down out of the pulpit, and so hurried him away to the place where, five months before him, Dr Ridley had died.

“Then there he knelt and prayed, and made him, ready; and stood on the stones robed in his long white shirt, barefoot, and his head (whenas his cap were off) without one hair thereon, though his beard was long and thick. Then (he giving the hand to such as he knew about the stake), they bound the chain around him, and lit the fire. And until it was full burned, he held forth his right hand in the fire, crying ever and anon, ‘This unworthy right hand!’ At last he saith, ‘Lord Jesus, receive my spirit!’ And so he yielded it up to Him. But afterward, when his ashes were cold, amid the charred faggots his heart was found entire.

“So passed that great heart away from us, that perchance we knew not fully how to prize. Beshrew my weak eyes! I am but a fool; yet ’tis hard to think that we shall see his reverend countenance no more.”

And Mr Underhill dashed away the tears from his eyes, much like Philippa Basset. Isoult never had seen him thus affected before.

But on their knees in their chambers, the Gospellers thanked God from their hearts that day, for this pouring forth of His Spirit upon the dry ground; for His glory thus exalted in the awakening of that dear brother from sleep which seemed as though it might be death; for His strength, so gloriously shown forth in mortal weakness, that warmed and quickened the last beatings of the noble heart of Archbishop Cranmer.

“Jack,” said Isoult that night to her husband, “I would I had asked Mr Underhill if Austin had yet heard anything of Robin.”

“Ah!” said he.

“Thou art not used to answer so short,” she replied. “Hast thou heard any thing, Jack?”

“I have heard—nothing—certain,” he answered, hesitatingly.

“Jack, what hast thou heard?” she cried in terror.

“With any surety, dear heart, nothing whatever,” he said, lovingly; “only that Austin hath spoken to me touching him, and therefore I could not say I had heard nothing. And at most ’tis only a guess. I cry thee mercy not to have told thee, but seeing how unsure it were, I thought it more kindlier not to trouble thee. Well, sweeting, what Austin said was this: he hath made all search in every prison he hath visited, and spake unto divers prisoners, but no word of the dear lad may he have. And he is afeard, Isoult—it is but a guess, thou wist!—that all is over already.”

Before he had half finished, his meaning struck on her heart, like a passing bell. “All over!” she knew what that meant.

“O my God! wilt thou not give us one word that we may know? This watching and waiting is so hard to bear. I desire to be, to do, to suffer Thy will; but, Father, it is very weary work to wait! ‘If it be possible,’ send us some word of our lost darling! ‘Make no long tarrying, O my God!’”

It was not to John, and not aloud, that this was spoken.

It is not only children who are afraid of the dark. We all love to walk by sight. We are rarely content to see only the next step we must take; yet it is all we need see, and often all that God will show us. The darkness and the light are both alike to Him; and if only we would let Him see for us, we should act the part of wise children. It is easy, when the light comes, to cry out at our past foolishness in being afraid of the dark. We never think so while the darkness is upon us.

A few days later came Philippa Basset, full of Court news, which she had from her brother James.

“Yesterday,” said she, “came a letter or messenger from King Philip, denying his present return hither: whereupon the Queen fell into so great a chafe, that she commanded his picture borne out of the privy chamber. Thus far my brother; but Jack Throgmorton saith that she fetched a knife and scored the picture twice or thrice all the way down, and then kicked it out of the chamber. (Throgmorton denied having said this, when a judicial inquiry was held.) ‘Saint Mary worshipped might she be!’ said I to James, ‘is her Grace a woman like to do that?’ ‘Nay,’ saith he, ‘not half so like as thou shouldst be in her place.’” Whereat Philippa laughed merrily.

Isoult was in a mood for any thing rather than laughter. It was too near Easter for mirth. Easter, which should be the most blessed festival of the year, was now turned into an occasion of offence and of mourning to the servants of God.

In the evening all from the Lamb were at Mr Underhill’s farewell supper, at his house in Wood Street, whence he purposed to set out for Coventry the next day as soon as the gates were opened. He said he would not remain another Easter in London.

The last day of June came a letter to John Avery from Mr Underhill, saying that they had all arrived safely at Coventry, and he had taken a house a mile out of the city, “in a wood side,” where he trusted to keep quiet until the tyranny were overpast.

The darkness was growing thicker.

In that month of June began the procession in every church, at which the Bishop commanded the attendance of every child in London, bearing books or beads in hand, and of one adult from each house to take charge of them. “Ours are not like to go,” said Isoult, tenderly; “but ’tis harder work to set them in peril than to go therein one’s self.”

Sir John Gage died on the 18th of April, an old man full of years. It was he who had been on the Commission to Calais, and had brought Isoult to England after Lord Lisle’s arrest; and he had also endeavoured to have Mr Underhill sent to Newgate.

The search against Lutheran books was now very strict (and laughable enough in less sorrowful circumstances). Among these Lutheran books the most strictly forbidden were my Lord Chancellor’s book “De Vera Obedientia” and one written by the Queen herself when a girl, under the auspices of Katherine Parr,—a translation of a work of Erasmus.

Another letter came from Mr Rose in July, bringing good news of his welfare; and in August Annis Holland was married to Don Juan de Alameda.

Writing on the 21st of August, in her diary, Isoult said—

“Not one word more touching Robin. There be times when I feel as though I could bear it no longer, though what I could do to end it, soothly I cannot tell. I conceive well what David signified, when he saith he did roar through the very disquietness of his heart. I dare not tell this to Marguerite, for she is too nearly of the same complexion to give me any comfort; and to say a word to Esther is no good, for she silenceth me at once with some passage of Holy Writ as ‘Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?’ And what can I say to that but Amen? Jack is always loving and tender, but he can (I well perceive) see little comfort herein himself; and to do so much as name the thing to Thekla were wanton cruelty, though I do fancy she should be the best comforter. So I must wait on, and cry unto God. It may be that is the very thing He would have of me.”

Bad news came by Austin, early in 1557—the death of the Earl of Sussex (Note 4), Mr Rose’s chief friend in high places. Poor Marguerite was much downcast, saying they had now lost their best friend.

“No, Mother dear,” answered Thekla, “not our best Friend. He is in an higher place; and He dieth no more.”

Another Easter came and passed; and King Philip returned to England.

Every now and then Austin visited the Lamb; but he brought no news of Robin. Isoult thought she had never realised how dearly she loved the lad till now. It was hard to thank God for such a blank in the home as this; and yet deep in the inmost heart she knew, as every Christian knows, that the Father was doing all things well, and that “there was no must be without a needs be.” To wait on the Lord is no easy task to flesh and blood; but there is one thing yet harder, and that is to rest in the Lord while waiting.

And meanwhile Thekla drooped and faded, day by day. She never spoke now of Robin; but it was easy to see that she had not forgotten him. Slower and more languid grew her step, and her face whiter and graver, with an expression of sorrowful patience, which did not quit its hold upon the lips even when they smiled.

“She is worn to a shadow,” said Marguerite, bitterly. “Why cannot we go home to God? What profit is it to Him that we do suffer?”

And Isoult was silent; but she remembered Robin’s words about “believers in the dark.”

On the 7th of June, which was Whit Monday, there was a Passion Play at Court. Isoult, coming in from a call upon her neighbour, Mrs Brent, observed in a rather disgusted tone—

“Gillian Brent must needs go to see this mystery. For me, I might as easily or as willingly go to see a martyrdom. She saith ’tis right sweet and devotional, and maketh her to feel so good she cannot tell how much. ’Tis a sort of goodness I covet not. It were like murdering the Son of God over again, to see His blessed name taken upon himself of a sinful man, and His bitter passion set forth to divert men. Gillian saith none will see the thing as I do; but that cannot I help. Perchance He may, when He looketh down upon it.”

At her house at Chelsea, on the 16th of July, died Anna of Cleve, one of the two widows of Henry the Eighth. She came to England a Lutheran, and died a Papist. King Philip went to Flanders on the 5th of July; on the 14th of August came news of the great victory of Saint Quentin, which the King had won there; and the next day there were great thanksgivings and rejoicings over all the City. And on the 20th of October died Mary Countess of Arundel, at Arundel House; she was cousin of Philippa Basset, and when she was Countess of Sussex, Isoult had lived for some time in her house with Anne Basset.

A fortnight previous, London was requested to rejoice again, for peace was concluded with the Pope.

“Verily,” said Dr Thorpe, “this is a marvellous thing, to bid us rejoice, and to give us cause for mourning.”

“Marry,” responded Mr Ferris, “for me, when the war brake forth, I sang the Te Deum under my breath; now will I clothe me in sackcloth under my raiment, and so shall I have both sorrowed and rejoiced, and none can grudge against me.”

The year 1557 closed heavily. The burnings went on, but they were chiefly of poor men and women: sometimes, but not often, of children or girls. On the 12th of December a Gospellers’ meeting was dispersed, and many taken by the Sheriff; but no friends of the Averys. All this time Mr Holland, with his wife and child, were at his father’s house in Lancashire, and Mr Underhill with his household at Coventry. Isoult’s last entry in her diary for this year ran as follows:—

“Austin came yesterday, to tell us my Lady of Suffolk and Mr Bertie did quit Germany, where they had refuged, in April last, and be now safe in Poland, at a town called Crossen, and the King’s Grace of Poland hath set Mr Bertie over a province of his. I am glad to hear this. They had, nathless, many and great troubles in their journey, but sith ’tis all over, it is not worth grieving for.

“Ah, faithless heart and foolish! and will not all troubles be so, when the last mile of the journey cometh? Yea, may we not find we had most cause to thank God for the roughest parts of the way? So saith my sense and judgment: yet for all this will mine heart keep crying out, and will not be silent. O Robin, Robin! an other year!”

The Gospellers never entered on any year with heavier hearts than on the year 1558. The year of all the century! the year that was to close so gloriously—to go out with trumpets, and bells, and bonfires, and Te Deums, and all England in a wild ferment of delight and thanksgiving! And how often do we enter on a year of mourning with our hearts singing anthems?

It is well that it should be so. We have abundant cause to thank God that He has hidden the future from us. It is enough for us to know that all things work together for good to them that love Him, to them that are the called according to His purpose.

But very, very mournfully came this year in; for it opened with the loss of Calais. Isoult had dwelt there for two years with Lady Lisle; and there were few places nearer to her heart. Perhaps we can hardly picture to ourselves how nearly that loss touched every English heart. It was as if each man in the land had lost a piece of his estate. Calais belonged to every Englishman.

“Well, my friends in the monastery!” was the greeting of Mr Ferris, “that I promised Underhill I would look to by times. Hath your secluded ear been yet pierced with the tidings this morrow—that be making every man all over London to swear and curse, that loveth not his soul better than his anger?”

“What now?” said John. “Nay, the Courts be not yet opened again, so I have bidden at home.”

“And I am an old man, burdened with an access,” (a fit of the gout) said Dr Thorpe. “Come, out with your news! What platform (Note 5) toucheth it?”

“Every platform in the realm. Have it here—Calais is lost.”

“Calais!” They said no more.

But a vision rose before the eyes of Isoult—of George Bucker in the pulpit of the Lady Church, and Lord and Lady Lisle in the nave below: of the Market Place, where his voice had rung out true and clear: of the Lantern Gate whereon his head had been exposed: of the gallows near Saint Pierre whereon he had died. His voice came back to her, and Lord Lisle’s—both which she had heard last in the Tower, but both which were to her for ever bound up with Calais. Her eyes were swimming, and she could not speak. And before another word had been uttered by any one, the latch was lifted by Philippa Basset.

“There is not a man left in England!” she cried. “Calais had never been lost, had I been there to fire the culverins.”

“No, Madam,” said Mr Ferris (who did not know that she was a Papist). “They have all been burned or beheaded.”

“Upon my word, but I am coming to think so!” cried she. “Shame upon every coward of them! Were there not enough to fill the first breach with a wall of men’s bodies, rather than lose the fairest jewel of the Crown? Beshrew the recreants! but I had never come away from that breach alive! I would have died with Calais!”

“I am sorry you were not there, Madam,” said he, “for the sake of Calais. For your own sake, ’tis well.”