“so,” prayed we, “when our feet draw near
the river dark with mortal fear,
and the night cometh, chill with dew,
o father, let thy light break through!
so let the hills of doubt divide—
so bridge with faith the sunless tide—
so let the eyes that fail on earth
on thine eternal hills look forth;
and, in thy beckoning angels, know
the dear ones whom we loved below.”
whittier.
this eventful year closed with death. not a martyr death; god’s martyr train was closed in england now, for the last to join it had been roger holland. another kind of death was this. softly, and tenderly, as he called to samuel, the lord came and stood and called her—her who was loved so dearly, whose going out made the world darker. with a “talitha cumi”—a “come up higher”—he summoned the beloved to the home where his beloved dwell with him. and what answer was left for her but “lord, here am i”? so she spread the angel wings which had been folded, that they could not be seen; and as she soared gladly up into the heavenly light, the darkness of time and of earth thickened around those she left behind.
o lord our master! thy voice is very sweet here below. not only thy staff, but even thy rod comforteth; yea, it is with thy rod that thou dost feed thy people. how much sweeter, when as one whom his mother comforteth, so dost thou comfort us! and sweetest of all it must be, to arise and go to thee.
wherefore, then, are we so unwilling? what mean we continually to talk of being “spared”—spared from that happy journey, from that heavenly home! they that are not journeying home are spared indeed: but how faithless, how loveless is it in us to bring up an evil report of the good land, to show such fear and distance from the forgiving and welcoming father!
“he that is washed needeth only to wash his feet.” but, o our father! the feet of thy children need a perpetual washing, an hourly dipping in the blessed waters of the fountain which thou hast opened for sin and for uncleanness.
this was the last entry in isoult avery’s diary for the year 1558:—
“the minories, saint stephen.
“‘god knoweth best when his corn is ripe.’
“i have been told this to-day, and i need remember it this even. otherwise, methinks a shower of tears should blot out my writing. i thought that sheaf could be no riper, years ago. the storms had beaten on it, but had not hurt it, and it was very fair; and now it lacked but a season of sunshine, and to that i looked forward in hope. how little did i know that the sunshine was but making it ready for the harvest, meet for heaven, nearer god!
“o my love, my own darling frances! shall i say it is hard to think of you in heaven? shall i say it is hard that, in the stead of your coming to me, i must now go to you? shall i grieve in the first hour of my hope and england’s, that god saw it best to take you gently to himself, ere that hope could do more than to throw the beam of his rising on your dying pillow?
“you have seen your beloved father, my dear master. and i do not think he told you that the lord dealt ungently with him.”
four hours earlier, as i was sewing in my chamber, barbara came to me.
“mistress,” said she, “below is mrs basset, and with her two ladies in doole.”
methought these might perhaps be the lady elizabeth jobson and mr james basset’s widow, whom she had brought with her; and down went i to greet philippa. but i found the two ladies were strangers; at the least i knew not their faces. i greeted philippa, and sat down, when i had louted to the others; but to mine amaze one of the ladies saith—
“mrs avery, have you forgot kate ashley?”
i rose in astonishment, and begged my lady ashley’s pardon, for of a surety i had not known her. so i took her by the hand and kissed her; and was about to sit down again, when, with a smile that i could scarce fail to know, the other stranger saith—
“and hath isoult barry forgot anne basset?”
“my darling nan!” cried i, “that i should not have known thee.”
“nay,” saith she, again with her own sweet smile, “’tis no marvel, dear heart, seeing thou hast not seen me for sixteen years.” for i had missed seeing her in the procession at queen mary’s coronation.
then after we had embraced, philippa said—
“i scantly know, isoult, if thou wilt be glad to see us, considering the ill news we bring.”
“why, philippa, what ill news?” asked i. “i heard of thy brother’s death,—mr james,—and writ to thee thereupon,”—for methought philippa had not received my letter.
“ay, i had thy letter, and i thank thee for it,” answered she. “but hast heard aught further?”
“no,” said i, fearfully. “what is it, philippa?”
“kate,” she pursued, “hath brought us woeful news from potheridge—the death of frances, twenty days ago.”
“frances?” i well-nigh startled at mine own cry.
“an ill time,” addeth philippa, “close on james’s death. we have hardly time to dry our eyes betwixt them.”
“the right time, dear heart,” said my lady ashley, gently. “god knoweth best when his corn is ripe.”
“was she ever other, if thou mean ripe for heaven?” said she.
“perhaps,” answered my lady ashley, “we could not see much difference, but he might.”
i begged her to tell me, if she were present, any particulars of the matter.
“ay, i was there,” she said. “i went straight to potheridge from wimborne, on receiving of a letter from mr monke, who told me that frank had brought him another daughter, and, he could not but fear, was not faring over well. i came to potheridge upon the 4th of december, when i found her in her bed, very weak and white. still i feared no instant peril then. on the 5th, methought she seemed somewhat better in the morning; but that even she grew worse, and thence she sank quickly until she died, at sunset on wednesday, the 7th. she remembered you, mrs avery, and bade me give you her most hearty and loving commendations, and to say that she was but journeying home a little while afore you, and that however long the time were to you, it would be short to her, ere you should meet again. and only an hour ere her death (she was in her sense to the last), came a messenger to mr monke with news of the queen’s death, and that the lady elizabeth was proclaimed queen. he brake the tidings gently to her. she smiled when she heard them, as i should think an angel might smile in heaven, and she saith softly, ‘lord, thou hast seen, thou hast seen the affliction of thy people.’ i answered her, ‘ay, god hath been very gracious to us.’ she said, ‘he hath been very good to me.’ quoth i, ‘thou dost not think he hath given thee too much thought (anxiety) and sorrow?’ and as fervently as her weakness did allow, she answered, ‘o no, no! i shall clasp them all to my heart to-night.’ in another minute she repeated softly, ‘and so shall we ever be with the lord.’ i do not think she spoke again.”
“did she die hardly?” i faltered amid my tears.
“as softly as a child falling asleep in his mother’s arms,” answered my lady ashley. “we could not tell the very moment. her life went out like a star hidden behind a cloud. we only knew that it was gone.”
“farewell, sister of mine heart, my fair-souled frances! the world is darker now thou art thence; but thou shalt never see evil any more. the storms shall not rave above thine head, nor the winds beat around thee and chill thee. god hath removed thee, his beautiful lily, from this rude and barren moor, to that great garden of his paradise, where thou shall bloom for ever. ‘there shall in no wise enter into it any thing that defileth—but they that are written in the lamb’s book of life.’”
so isoult avery wrote: but she did not hear until afterwards that lady frances had not passed through the marian persecution without suffering. her blood royal had not saved her. only one child of her first marriage was left; and on the 10th of march 1554, men—not god—took that dearly-prized darling from her. the custody of the person and marriage of arthur basset was granted to james basset, his popish uncle (rot. parl., 1 mary, part 7). this is sufficient to indicate that the roman proclivities of mr monke and lady frances were at least doubtful. the double death—of the queen and james basset—freed arthur; and by dint of hard riding night and day—he scarcely knew why—he reached devon just in time to kneel and receive the last blessing of that beloved mother. she died two hours after her hand had rested on his head. if the queen’s object had been to make arthur basset a papist, she scarcely succeeded in her aim.
this was the last sad entry in that volume of isoult’s diary. god did help the gospellers when the morning appeared; and the morning was dawning now. there is a ringing of church-bells through all that was written in england, throughout that happy year, 1559. new year’s day was the gladdest sunday since the persecution began. for at bow church mr carter ministered openly; and throughout london the gospel and epistle were read in english. after the evening service was over, the averys received a visit from annis and her husband; and before they had sat and talked for ten minutes, who should follow them but mr underhill, of whose return to london they had heard, but had not yet seen him.
“is it not glorious?” were the first words he spoke. “we shall have the english service next sunday, and the service-book restored ere february.”
“what a leaper art thou,” said john, laughing. “none that know thee need ask wherefore men call thee the hot gospeller!”
“but can there be any other?” answered he.
“why,” said john, “wert thou king of england, by the name of edward the seventh, i reckon we had had all ere november were fairly run out. but the queen is a little more prudent and wary than thou, and remember thou (as i bade ferris, but he did little) that she is not a gospeller.”
“a truce to thy wariness and prudence!” cried mr underhill.
“that shall be, assuredly, where thou art,” answered john.
“i have no patience,” said he, “with such faintheartedness (for i can call it by no better name). who ever saw a lutheran burn a gospeller?”
“ned underhill,” said john, sadly, “hast thou forgot so soon that we have seen a gospeller beheaded by lutherans?”
“whom point you at there?”
“the duke of somerset.”
“come! go not back to the time afore the flood,” exclaimed he. “let bygones be bygones.”
“i have no objection,” said john, “if bygones will be bygones.”
“jack avery, hold thy peace, or we shall quarrel! i will not have cold water flung over my fair bonfire of rejoicing!”
“it should take much to put it out, methinks,” said dr thorpe.
“what say you, my master?” inquired mr underhill, turning with one of his quick motions to don juan.
“marry,” answered don juan, smiling (he spoke english fairly), “i say, we shall all know more about it a year hence.”
“gramercy! you are one of the wary ones,” grumbled mr underhill. “come, let me see if i cannot find one of my way of thinking. mrs avery, are you only jack in a gown, or have you a mind of your own?”
“verily, mr underhill, i know not how things shall go,” said she, “and therefore i were wisest to hold my peace.”
“alas!” answered he. “dr thorpe, you are prudence herself, and a lutheran to boot, wherefore—”
“lutheran!” cried the old man, hastily. “i am no more a lutheran than you!”
they all laughed at dr thorpe, thus brought to confession at last.
“are you not so?” said mr underhill, laughing and bowing. “in good sooth, i am rejoiced to hear it.—well! mrs rose, allow me to ask at you if you go with me or no?”
“assuredly, mr underhill, no,” said she. “if i had ever any belief in the goodness of the world, it did fly away from me a long time ago; and i do not look to see the peace or the right all over it, as you seem to look. it may be that i answer rather your thoughts than your words; but it seemed me you had that thought.”
“but, mrs rose,” said he, “if you take us all for ill and wicked, you must find it hard work to love your neighbour as yourself. we are leaving our subject-matter, but let that pass.”
“ah, mr underhill!” she answered, with a smile, “i am as bad as any one else; and i do not think we wait for people to become angels before we love them.”
“we do wait—for them to become angels, sometimes,” said annis, softly, “before we know how well we love them.”
they sat silent for a while after this: even mr underhill seemed to be meditating; neither did he pursue his inquiry any further. marguerite rose and went up-stairs, where thekla was already; but the rest kept their places. and while they sat, there came a very soft rapping at the door. the party looked one on another in doubt, for the rapping was in the form of the old signal-tap which the gospellers were wont to use when they assembled for prayer in each others’ houses. and there was no gathering at the lamb to-night.
barbara rose and went to the door. the minute she opened it, they heard her cry “eh!” but no more. the person outside spoke, and barbara answered, more than once, but too low for those within to hear words, or even whose voice it was; then barbara stepped forward, and opened the door of the chamber. all felt some strange thing at hand, and they held their breath. and the next minute they were saluted by a voice which had been silent to them for four long, weary years.
“how do you all, dear friends?” said mr rose.
all gathered round him with joyful greeting, but isoult. she never stayed to think, but she found herself at the head of the stairs before she had time to consider. thekla was just closing the door of the chamber to come down.
“thekla!” cried isoult, seizing her by the arm.
“who is come?” asked she. “i heard something.”
“tell thy mother, darling,” said isoult—“but canst thou bear glad news thyself?”
“i see them in your eyes,” she answered. “they are too glad but for one of two things. is it my father?”
ah! it was only one. thekla prepared her mother, in the gentle way she knew, and then running below, was clasped in her father’s arms. she took him up-stairs, and no more was seen of any of them; for, anticipating that they would prefer to be alone, isoult sent esther above with a dish from the supper-table.
it was four years to a day since mr rose was taken. in his case, god had been very gracious to them. the four years were the same for robin; but how should the end be? and—a thought at once joyous and yet terrible—the end could not be far-off now.
isoult saw that mr rose had aged in those four years, when she had time to study his countenance. if such a thing were possible, she thought him even gentler and kinder than he used to be; yet even more grave and quiet. she asked him what he thought of thekla, and was slightly comforted to hear him say that he found her better than he dared to hope.
“she hath suffered much, poor child!” said isoult.
“poor child!” he echoed. “it was not in her nature to do other.”
“and what think you,” she asked, “of the chances touching robin?”
“mrs avery,” said he, “there are no chances in god’s government. and this is a matter wherein we cannot so much as guess what may have been his will. yet if you would know what i think most likely in mere human reasoning, i confess i have little hope of his life.”
isoult’s heart sank like lead: she felt now how much hope she had nursed, though she thought it so little. but her faith in mr rose’s forecast was great. and lady ashley’s words came back to her—“god knoweth best when his corn is ripe.” ah! how afraid she was that that sheaf was ripe, and had been carried into the garner! yet could she tell god that he had judged ill, or that he should have left his fair sheaf to the spoiling, for her pleasure?
when john came home one evening, he told them that he had met with mr underhill, who held by the hand his little guilford. and coming through cornhill, at the shop-door of a bowyer were bows and quivers of shafts; and guilford, pulling his father’s hand, cried, “father, father, do buy me a bow and arrows!”—“buy thee a bow and arrows, quotha!” answered mr underhill, “a shred and snip like thee!”
“what wouldst thou do an’ thou hadst a bow and arrows, guilford?” said john. “shoot all the papists,” replied the child. “thou bloodthirsty little ruffian!” cried mr underhill, yet laughing. “nay,” said john to him, “blame not the child: he doth but take mightily after a certain father of his, that i know.” whereat (said john) mr underhill laughed till the tears ran from his eyes.
mr rose preached his first sermon since coming home, in the pulpit of bow church, on the 8th of january. it was a glad day to the gospellers. his text was, “when the lord turned again the captivity of zion, we were like them that dream.” he spoke highly of the queen, saying that “she had suffered for the gospel, and should know how to be compatient (sympathising) with other that had suffered.” of himself he said little; but of christ much.
and when he came out of the church, dozens and dozens of hands were held forth to welcome him, till the tears came into his eyes at such a greeting. one old gospeller woman cried out, “lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!”
“nay, good joan,” answered mr rose. “the reason wherefore the lord hath kept us alive is, that we have not yet done all our work. at least so i take it. ’tis somewhat too early to be singing the harvest-home afore all the corn be gathered in. let us hasten to finish the reaping, and then we may sing.”
then came mr underhill with great strides, and held out his hand. (john said aside to his wife, “i would ned underhill could learn, without any telling him, that a man’s hand, and yet more a woman’s, is not made of mill-stones. he hath given me some cruel gripes ere now: ’tis a painful form of love.”)
“welcome home the second time!” cried mr underhill, cheerily. “mrs rose, your servant. but i say, man! do you not know you are divorced by process of law?”
“nay,” answered mr rose, smiling; “i neither do nor will.”
“what an ungovernable piece of merchandise are you!” said mr underhill, laughing. “but in good sooth, i have not talked with one of our ministers that holdeth not the same view.”
“men parted us,” said marguerite, her voice trembling a little; “but i think god never did. at any rate, he hath undone it now.”
mr rose talked with the averys about his future, and they entreated him to stay with them a little longer. it was expected that the queen would present the deprived ministers to such benefices as would now be left vacant by the papists’ deprivations; and at least, they urged, it would be well to do nothing rashly. and though they said little to each other, all were waiting to see what would happen on the coronation day. this was fixed for the ensuing sunday, the queen having consulted dr dee, and heard from him that sunday would be a fortunate day. all were now preparing for the coronation. isoult had cloths ready to hang out, and kate and frances were as busy as they could be, sewing green leaves upon white linen, to form the queen’s name—elizabeth.
frances said “it was well her highness had so long a name, for the work should not be by the half so handsome were she called jane or anne.” but thekla’s work was by far the most beautiful. she was skilled at making wax-flowers, and had wreathed a garland of white roses, which, set upon a green ground, was to encircle the name with which kate and frances were busied (green and white were the queen’s colours). it was intended to be a magnificent piece of work; and the only grief was that the queen would never see it, for she was going from the tower.
mr underhill had ordered a new velvet coat, wherein (said his wife) he should be as fine as my lord high treasurer. moreover, dr thorpe would needs have a new doublet.
“why, dear child, my sunday doublet hath a patch on it,” said he; “and if the queen’s highness’ gracious eyes should chance to alight on me, thou wouldst not have them to light on a patch.” (dr thorpe might have spared his concern; for queen elizabeth was much too near-sighted to detect the patch.)
“maybe they should take little hurt,” said john. “but, doctor, if you have a new doublet, i must needs have a new coat; and then isoult shall want a new gown; and we shall have walter clamouring for a gaberdine, and kate for an hood. certes, but the coronation shall be as chargeable unto her highness’ lieges as to herself!”
“nay, father, i lack no new hood,” said kate, laughing; “i want only to see the queen’s grace, and i can do that as well in an old hood as a new.”
“ay, sweet heart,” answered he; “but dr thorpe would have one thing more, to wit, that the queen’s grace should see him.”
sir henry and lady ashley came on the 12th to bid their friends farewell, for they were about to leave town early on the morning after the coronation, and they expected to have little time at liberty. they advised the averys not to take their stand in bow churchyard, as they intended to do, but to beg the loan of some friend’s window. mr underhill had too many customers to help them; but annis, whose lodging was in saint paul’s churchyard, was very glad to be of service.
in the afternoon they went down early to the waterside, to see the queen come to the tower from westminster palace. her majesty came about two o’clock, royally arrayed, in her state barge, and landed at the privy stairs. little frances was in the greatest glee, because she said she was most unfeignedly certain that the queen looked on her. “and she walketh about the house,” said john, “a fair foot the higher in her own account, that she hath been seen of the queen’s majesty.”
the next day came mr underhill, bringing news that the queen had dubbed many knights of the bath, and had also created edward seymour, eldest son of the late duke of somerset, earl of hertford.
“but which edward?” said john, in his quiet way.
“which?” replied mr underhill. “why, my lord had but one son of his own name.”
“no had?” said john. “i thought he had two.”
“what mean you, jack avery?” said mr underhill.
“i know well what he meaneth,” answered mr rose. “it was the worst blot on my lord of somerset’s life. i trust he did repent thereof ere god called him.”
“i was thinking,” said john, in a low voice, “of one katherine folliott, an humble violet plucked from her mossy bed, and after, flung withering away to reach a peony.”
“a black-thorn rather, if you would picture her complexion,” suggested dr thorpe.
“what, the duke’s first wife?” answered mr underhill. “why, man! the whole world hath forgot her!”
“so did himself,” responded john.
“i see,” said mr underhill. “you think, all, that my lord did wickedly in divorcing of her, in order to wed the great heir of the stanhopes. well, it may be so: but, my word for it! he had leisure for repentance. i would not lightly have been my lady duchess her lackey, much less her lord.”
“well!” answered john, “i meant not to speak ill of the dead; surely not of one whom i do hope and believe that god hath pardoned and taken to himself. i did but signify the very thing i did ask—to wit, which of the edwards had been create earl of herts.”
“the son of the lady anne stanhope, of course!” said mr underhill.
“it might have been more just and righteous,” pursued john, “had it been the son of katherine folliott. it may be that his last thought in this world, just ere the axe slid down, was of that woeful wrong he never could right more. alas for men’s hearts in this wicked world! and yet rather, alas for men’s consciences! well, god forgive us all!”
at two o’clock on the morning of the 14th, forth sallied all, and trudged amongst a moving crush of men and women to annis’ lodging, where she and don juan willingly gave them standing-room with themselves at their two windows. john lifted frances on his shoulder, where, said he, she should have the best sight of all; and walter was perched upon a high chair in the window. kate stood below, in front of her father. her majesty sat in a rich chariot, covered with crimson velvet, splendidly attired, and a canopy was borne over her head by knights. many pageants and gifts were offered to her; but one must not be left untold, which is that a copy of the english bible was given to her at the little conduit in cheapside, and she, receiving it let down into her chariot by a silken string, in both hands, kissed it, clasped it to her bosom, and thanked the city for it, “the which,” said she, “i do esteem above all other, and will diligently read therein.” mr george ferris and mr underhill were in the procession. (strange to say, hardly any details are preserved of the procession and coronation of elizabeth.) the bishop of carlisle (dr oglethorpe) had at last been prevailed upon to crown the queen, but that so lately, that vestments were not ready for him, and they had to be borrowed of bishop bonner. he was the only bishop to meet her majesty at westminster abbey. the day following was the coronation day of queen elizabeth.
first thing in the morning, barbara and ursula hung out the garland and name that kate and thekla had made, which had been taken in over-night, after the queen’s procession. then the party breakfasted; and, there being no service anywhere, mr rose read the common prayer to the assembled household, and gave them a short discourse on a passage from the psalms,—“with joy and gladness shall they be brought, and shall enter into the king’s palace.” he could hardly be said to preach, for he only sat on a chair in the midst of the group. he spoke of the coronation day; bidding them not to forget “that other fairer day of the more glorious coronation, when christ shall see of the travail of his soul, and shall be satisfied: when all his people shall be gathered together, a full and perfected church, the lamb’s bride: when he shall take unto him his great power and reign.”
the afternoon was spent quietly, no one looking in upon them; and when the dark began to fall, and the candles were lighted, mr rose read the evening prayers, and spoke again, this time on a text in the revelation,—“they are without fault before the throne of god.” “because,” said he, “betwixt them and that throne standeth christ to present (represent) them before god; and while all faults be in them, in him is no fault; and he covereth them with the fair white robe of his own righteousness, that god’s justice cannot see them apart from it and him that gave and wrought it.”
when evensong was over, john and mr rose went out for a half-hour’s walk: and there were left in the chamber dr thorpe, esther, isoult and the children, and thekla. isoult called to barbara for candles, for those they had were burning low in the socket; and while she was gone to fetch them, came a low gentle tapping at the door.
“may i open it, mother?” said kate; and leave being given, away she ran.
nothing was audible at the door, but kate, coming back, said—
“mother, ’tis a gentleman that would have speech of father. will you speak with him?”
isoult lifted her eyes, and saw behind kate a gentleman, it seemed to her, of some thirty years or more, tall and spare, indeed, very thin and worn, hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed, with long dark brown hair, a long beard lying low upon his breast, and a moustache curling round his upper lip. a stranger—at least, she knew neither his face nor his name.
“sir,” she said, “i am sorry mine husband is not within at this present; but if it should please you to wait a little season, i am assured—”
“that he shall not be long,” she was about to say: but she never got any further. her speech was cut in two by a sharp, sudden cry from behind her, that must have rung through every room in the house, and that broke from the lips of thekla rose.
“robin! robin! robin!”
it seemed to isoult for a moment as though her very heart stood still. was it thus that god had given her its desire? was this white, worn, bearded man verily “our robin,” who had passed away from them so very different? she seemed neither to know nor to see any thing, till she felt two arms clasped around her, and a voice, that no time nor prison could wholly alter, called her to herself, with—“mother, i think you have not forgot me?” and then she awoke, and her heart was loosed, and her eyes with it. she bowed her head down upon robin’s breast, and wept passionately. verily god had visited them! god had heard their cry, and had given them back their darling.
what followed was confusion. thekla’s cry brought her mother down in haste. kate and walter ran to the new-comer, hailing him as “dear brother robin!” while little frances hung back shyly, and had to be coaxed to come. dr thorpe said he would never have known him, had he not been helped; but robin answered that “he was then the better off of the two, for he knew him the minute he stepped within.” esther said she thought she could have guessed at him with a little time and consideration.
“i am very glad to see you, mrs esther,” said he, “for i did never look again to see any that were bound with me that night.”
“then thou lookest not,” answered isoult, “to see mr rose, which i trust shall be in some few minutes.”
“i did not, in good sooth,” said he, “only i dared not to ask.”
while he spoke, they heard john’s hand upon the latch.
kate instantly rushed upon him, crying, “father, come and see!”
“come and see what, sweeting?” said he.
“come and see!” she answered, pulling him after her into the room.
mr rose followed more quietly. john, come into the room, stood gazing at robin as though he knew not what to make of it. mr rose passed him and came forward.
“robin tremayne!” said he. “i scarce dared to hope it.”
so when all the glad greetings were over, they sat down, and drew their chairs round the fire. barbara came in with the supper-board, and stared when robin said, “good even, barbara.”
“sir!” queried she, looking at him in amazement. “nay, sure! ’tis never master robin come back? well, i be cruel glad!”
“and now, robin,” said john, “we want thine history, writ fair in a great book.”
“then, father,” he answered, and smiled, “you must tarry the writing. but i count i take you. mine history is not very long, for there was but little change in it.”
“but, robin,” said isoult, “where hast thou been, dear lad? austin bernher hath searched all the prisons for thee, yea, over and over, for months past, and asked at many prisoners; yet could never bring us tidings.”
“i trow, mother,” answered robin, again smiling, “he searched every whither but the right. and few prisoners should have known anything of me, seeing i was kept alone.”
“did they count thee a prisoner of import?” said john, in an astonished tone.
“from what i heard them say,” answered robin, looking at mr rose, “i may thank you for that. taking me with you, and standing close by you, they counted me a very pestilent heretic, and treated me as such.”
“ah! see what it is to fall into bad company!” said mr rose, smiling.
“well, robin,” said isoult, “thou shalt tell us all after supper, an’ thou wilt. but now all is ready, an’t please you.”
so they gathered round the supper-table, and mr rose had only just said grace, when the latch was lifted, and mr underhill’s cheery voice cried—
“may an heretic come in?”
“come forward, ned!” shouted john in return.
and forward he came.
“i am weary as a dog!” said he. “and i see yonder some eggs and butter (‘buttered eggs’ survive north of the trent) that doth make my mouth water; and a warden-pie (the warden was a very late pear, used chiefly for pies), if mine eyes bewray me not. mrs avery—” but here, his eye catching robin, he broke off short. “do you bid ghosts to supper? if those be not robin tremayne’s eyes, they are the fairest copies ever mine saw!”
“robin tremayne’s eyes are very glad to see you, mr underhill,” said he, laughingly: and mr underhill wrung his hand till robin’s fingers must have tingled no little.
“draw a chair and fall to, man,” said john.
“go to!” replied mr underhill; and did so with much apparent gusto.
“well, so your work is over,” said john. “how passed all? and where is the queen?”
“in her bed, i hope,” answered mr underhill, “unless she be somewhat more than other women. marry, but she must be aweary to-night! ’twas a splendrous matter, and worth seeing; but as cold as charity. and when ’tis january other where, ’tis not august in westminster abbey. we heretics fared uncommon well; george ferris and i got a red deer pie betwixt us, and we made it look ashamed of himself ere we had done, i warrant you.”
“ned underhill!” said john, “’tis a standing marvel to me that austin bernher and thou should have come out of queen mary’s persecution alive.”
“’tis a greater marvel to me that thou shouldst,” replied mr underhill, a second time attacking the buttered eggs. “mrs avery, i hope you have more eggs in the house?—with all thy prudence, and cautiousness, and wariness, sweet jack, thou earnest not off a whit better than thy rash and foolish neighbour.”
“nay,” answered john, “i came off thus much better, that i never yet saw the inside of newgate.”
“tush! that was for a ballad i writ,” said he. “but thou canst not say i fared the worse, saving that.”
“i cannot,” answered john, “and thereat i marvel no little.”
“o wise and sagacious jack! didst ever pluck a nettle?”
“i have done such a thing,” replied he.
“then thou wist that the gentler ’tis handled, the more it stingeth. now for my moral: take queen mary as the nettle, and thou seest my way of dealing.”
“your pardon, friend underhill!” said mr rose, “but i can in no wise allow that either of you were saved by your way of dealing. let him have all the glory unto whom it belongeth.”
“amen!” responded mr underhill. “jack, may we sing the te deum in thine house to-night, an’t like thy squeamishness?”
“with a very good will, ned,” answered john. when supper was over, mr underhill (who, for all his weariness, seemed in no haste to be at home) drew up his chair to the fire, in the midst of the group, and said—
“now, tremayne,—your first sermon!”
thus bidden, robin began his story.
“when mr rose and i were parted, i was sent first to the marshalsea. here i abode a full year, during the which i several times saw austin bernher. but afore i had been there a month, i was had up afore my lord of london. so soon as he saw me, he put on a very big and ruffling air, and quoth he,—‘come hither, thou wicked heretic! what canst thou say for thyself?’—‘nothing, my lord,’ said i, ‘save that though i be sinful, yet am i no heretic,’—‘ha! sayest thou so?’ quoth my lord. ‘i will soon see whether thou be an heretic or no. tell me, dost thou hold the very presence of christ’s body and blood to be in the sacrament of the altar?’ to whom i—‘my lord, i do believe verily, as christ hath said, that where two or three be gathered together in his name, there is he in the midst of them.’—‘ho, thou crafty varlet!’ quoth he, ‘wouldst turn the corner after that manner? by saint mary her kirtle, but it shall not serve thy turn. tell me now, thou pestilent companion; when the priest layeth the bread and wine upon the altar, afore the consecration, what then is there?’ then said i,—‘bread and wine, my lord.’—‘well said,’ quoth he. ‘and after the words of consecration be spoken, what then is there?’—‘bread and wine, my lord,’ i answered again.—‘ha!’ saith he, ‘i thought i could catch thee, thou lither (wicked, abandoned) heretic. dost not then believe that after consecration done, there in the body and blood of christ, verily and alone, nor any more the substance of bread and wine remaining?’—‘my lord,’ said i, ‘my sense doth assure me that the wine is yet wine, and the bread, bread; mine understanding doth assure me that the body of our lord is a true natural human body, and cannot therefore be on an hundred altars at one and the same time; and i am therein confirmed of saint paul, which saith, that so oft as we do eat this bread, we do show forth the death of the lord.’—‘ha, thou runagate!’ he roareth out; ‘wilt thou quote from scripture in english? hast thou no latin? i have a whip that shall make thee speak latin.’—‘my lord,’ said i, ‘i can quote from the scripture in latin, if that like your lordship the better; and likewise in greek, the which (being the tongue wherein they were written at the first) should be all the surer; but i, being an englishman born (for the which i thank god), do more naturally read the scripture in english.’—‘i will not have thee to speak greek!’ crieth he. ‘’tis the devil that did invent greek of late years, to beguile unwary men. and i do thee to wit that the scripture was not writ in greek, thou lying varlet! but in the holy tongue, latin.’—‘it would ill become me to gainsay your lordship,’ said i.—‘i will have thee back,’ saith he, ‘to the first matter. and i bid thee answer me without any cunning or evasion: dost thou believe that our lord’s body was eaten of the blessed apostles, or no?’—‘my lord,’ i answered, ‘with all reverence unto your lordship’s chair and office, seeing the lord’s body was crucified on the friday, i do not believe, nor cannot, that it was eaten of the apostles the even afore.’ then he arose up out of his seat, and gnashed his teeth, and railed on me with great abuse; crying, ‘ha, thou heretic! thou lither knave! (and worser words than these) i have thee! i have outwitted thee! thou art fairly beat and put down.—have the heretic knave away, and keep him close.’ and so i was carried back to the marshalsea.”
“marry,” said mr underhill, “but i think it was edmund bonner that was put down. i never knew what a witty fellow thou wert.”
“robin,” said isoult, “it should have aggrieved me sorely to be so unjustly handled. to hear him say that he had beat thee, when it was thou that hadst beat him! it should have gone mightily against the grain with me.”
“the old story,” answered mr rose. “‘is not that he whose high places and whose altars hezekiah hath taken away?’ methinks that should rankle sore in hezekiah’s mind, and in the hearts of them that lovest him. bishop bonner is somewhat coarser and less subtle, yet ’tis the same thing in both cases.”
“well,” said robin, with a smile to those who had spoken, “after that i was not called up again. when at last i was brought out from the marshalsea, i counted it would be surely either for an other examination or for burning. but, to my surprise, they set me on an horse, that was tied to the horse of one of the sheriff’s men, and i (with some twelve other prisoners likewise bound) was taken a long journey of many days. i could see by the sun that we were going west; but whither i wist not, and the man to whom i was bound refused to tell me. at the last we entered into a great city, walled and moated. here we were brought afore a priest, that demanded of each of us what was the cause of our sentence; to whom i answered, ‘sir, i have not yet been sentenced, but i believe the cause of my prison to be that i do put faith in saint paul’s words, that when we do show forth the lord’s death in the sacrament of his supper, it is bread the which we do eat.’ whereat he smiled somewhat, but after scowled, and bade an officer have me thence. of whom i was taken down into a cell or little dungeon, and there set by myself. i asked of the officer where i was; and he laughed, and at first would not tell me. but after he said, ‘well, you are in exeter, but say not unto any that i told it you.’ in the prison at exeter (where i was alone) i lay methinks over two years. ah!” pursued robin, dropping his voice, “it was hard work lying there! men had forgotten me, i thought; i began to marvel whether god had. i saw none but my gaoler, that brought me meat (then the generic term for food) morning and evening, but scarce ever spake to me: and i fell at times to talking with myself, that i should not forget mine own tongue, nor be affrighted at the sound of mine own voice. at last, just as the warm days of spring were coming, i was brought out, and again set on an horse. we went north this time; and one even, after passing by certain monastical buildings, we stayed at the door of a stately palace. here i was bidden to ’light, for that we should go no further. they carried me away through many lobbies, and down stairs, and at length we came unto a chamber where was a gaoler sitting, with his keys at his girdle. he and my guide spake together, and he then bare me unto a cell, wherein i was locked. i asked again where i was, but to no end beyond being bidden to hold my peace, and stricken on the head with his keys. here i passed not many days, ere one even the gaoler came unto me, and bade me to follow him. he led me down further stairs, and at the very bottom opened a heavy door. i could see nothing within. ‘go in,’ said he, gruffly, ‘and fall no further than you can help. you were best to slide down.’ i marvelled whither i were going; but i took his avisement, and grasping the door-sill with mine hands, i slid down into the darkness. at length my feet found firm ground, though i were a little bruised in the descent; but i lighted on no floor, but a point only—all the walls sloping away around me. ‘are you there?’ growls the gaoler—but his voice sounded far above me. ‘i am some whither,’ said i, ‘but i can find no floor.’ he laughed a rough laugh, and saith ‘you can find as much as there is. there is little ease yonder.’ and he shut to the door and left me. all at once it flashed on me where i was: and so terrible was the knowledge, that a cold sweat brake forth all over me. i had heard of the horrible prison in the bishop of lincoln’s palace of woburn, called little ease (note 1), which tapered down to a point, wherein a man might neither stand, nor sit, nor lie. somewhat like despair came over me. were they about to leave me to lie here and die of hunger? i shouted, and my voice came back to me with a mocking echo. i held my breath to listen, and i heard no sound. i was an outcast, a dead man out of mind; ‘the earth with her bars was about me for ever.’ i had borne all easily (so to speak) save this. but now i covered my face with mine hands, and wept like a child.”
“my poor robin!” said isoult. “tell me when this was.”
“it was at the beginning of the hot weather,” he answered. “i fancy it might be about june. i thanked god heartily that it was not winter.”
“ay,” said she, “thou wouldst have more light.”
“light!” he said, and smiled. “no light ever came into little ease. i never knew day from night all the while i was there. once in three days my gaoler unlocked the door, and let down to me a rope, at the end whereof was a loaf of bread, and after a tin pitcher of water; and i had to fasten thereto the empty pitcher. such thirst was on me that i commonly drank the water off, first thing.”
“but how didst thou go to bed?” asked walter.
robin smiled, and told the child there was no bed to go to.
“and did the gaoler never forget thee?” kate wished to know.
“twice he did,” answered robin, “for a day. but that would not kill me, thou wist. i became very weak ere i came forth. but to continue:—i wept long and bitterly, but it gave me no comfort. i felt as if nothing ever would give me comfort again. the devil was very near me. it was all folly, he whispered. i had hoped a vision, and had believed a lie. god was dead, if there ever were any god; he never came into little ease. none would ever know where and what i was become. i should die here, and if fifty years hence my whitened bones were found, none would know whose they had been. your dear faces rose around me, and i could have wept again, to think i should never see you any more. but the fountain of my tears was dried now. mine heart seemed to be freezing into rock than which the walls of little ease were no harder. i sat or lay, call it what you will, thinking gloomily and drearily, until at last nature could bear no more, and i slept, even there.”
“well, robin!” said kate, “if thine heart were frozen, methinks it thawed again afore thou earnest hither.”
“it did so, sweet heart,” said he, smiling on her. “even as i awoke, a text of scripture darted into my memory, well-nigh as though one had spoken it to me. a strange text, you will say,—yet it was the one for me then:—‘then jonah prayed unto the lord his god out of the fish’s belly.’ well, i was no worse off than jonah. it seemed yet more unlike, his coming forth of that fish’s belly, than did my coming forth of little ease. methought i, so near in jonah’s case, would try jonah’s remedy. to have knelt i could not; no more, i fancy, could jonah. but i could pray as well as he. that was the first gleam of inward light; and after that it grew. ay—grew till i was no more alone, because god companied with me; till i was no more an hungred, because god fed me; till i thirsted no more, because god led me unto living fountains of waters; till i wept no more, because god wiped away all tears from mine eyes. ere i came forth, i would not have changed little ease for the fairest chamber of the queen’s palace, if thereby i had left him behind. it gained on me, till my will grew into god’s will—till i was absolutely content to die or live, as he would; to be burned in smithfield, or to come home and clasp you all to mine heart—as should be most to his glory. the heats of summer, i thought, must be come; but on the hottest summer day, there was but cold and damp in little ease. the summer, methought, must be passing; and then, it must be past. i had left hoping for change. i only thought how very fair and sweet the house of the father would be to me after this. so the hours rolled away, until one morrow, out of the wonted order, i heard the door unlocked. ‘are you there?’ calls the gaoler in his gruff voice. ‘ay,’ said i. ‘feel about for a rope,’ quoth he, ‘and set the noose under your arms; you are to come forth.’ was this god calling to me? i did not think of the pains of death; i only remembered the after-joy of seeing him. i found the rope, and the loop thereof, which i set under mine arms. ‘cry out when you are ready,’ saith he. i cried, and he slung me up. can i tell you what pain it was? the light—the sweet summer light of heaven—was become torture; and i could neither stand nor walk. ‘ha!’ saith he, when he saw this, ‘you have not grown stronger. how liked you little ease?’—‘i like what god liketh for me,’ i made answer. he looked on me somewhat scornfully. ‘methinks you be but half rocked yet,’ saith he. ‘maybe you shall come back. matt!’ at the shout an under-gaoler came forth of a door. ‘take thou this fellow by the arm,’ saith he. ‘we shall be like to bear him.’ himself took mine other arm, and so, more borne than walking, i reached the hall of the palace. here they took me into a little light chamber, suffered me to wash, and gave me clean garments, to my great ease. then they sat me down at a table, and set before me a mess of sodden meat, with bread and drink, and bade me to eat well. i thought i was going afore the bishop for sentence. but, to my surprise, they let me alone; locked me into the chamber, and there left me. this chamber had a barred window, looking out on the palace court, in the midst whereof was a round of green grass. i cannot set in words the exquisite delight that window gave me. the green grass and the blue sky—i could never tire of them. here they fed me well three times in the day; and at night i lay on a mattress, which was softer to me then than i ever felt afore a bed of down. when at last i was strong enough to ride, i was set on an horse, and his bridle tied to the horse of the sheriff’s man. so we rade away from woburn, twenty or more in company. this time i saw we went south. at the last (i will not essay to tell you with what feelings), i knew we were nearing london. i wonder where were you, beloved, that even that i rade in at aldgate? i looked longingly down the minories, but i could see no familiar face.”
“why, robin dear, what even was it?” said isoult.
“how shall i tell thee, sweet mother, when i know not yet what even is this?” said he, and smiled. “it was fifteen weeks from to-day, saving three days.”
“there is a sum!” said mr underhill. “jack, whether can thou or i do it? fifteen—two thirty-ones and a thirty—saving three—the 5th of october, i make it.”
“i think so,” assented john.
“october!” said robin, still smiling. “i fancied it earlier. it is january, then, now? i thought we were not past christmas. well, through the city went we, and into newgate, where, as afore, i was lodged alone.”
“newgate!” cried mr underhill. “and how doth mine old friend alisaunder, and my most gentlest mistress his wife?”
“i saw not her,” replied robin; “but to judge from his face, i should say he doth rarely well. here, then, in newgate, i lay, marvelling that i was never sentenced and burned; but i knew nothing of the cause nor of what passed, until this even all the doors were unlocked, and we prisoners all were bidden to go forth, whither we would, for queen elizabeth reigned, and this was her coronation day. how strange it was to be free!”
“i marvelled what thou wert suffering, robin dear,” said isoult, “but we never thought of little ease. we took thee for dead.”
“so i thought you would,” said he. “and now that i am returned to men’s life again, tell me, i pray you, what day is this—of the month and week?”
“’tis the 15th of january,” said she, “and sunday.”
“and the year,” he resumed, pausing, “i suppose, is fifteen hundred and fifty-eight?” (by the old reckoning from easter to easter.)
“it is so, dear heart,” answered isoult.
“it seemeth me,” said robin, “a little picture of the resurrection.”
“come, friends!” cried mr underhill, springing up, “i must be going, and i will not be balked of my te deum. jack, thou promisedst it me.”
“so i did,” answered he, smiling. “strike up, and we will all follow.”
he struck up the chant, in his fine deep voice, and all joined in. then mr underhill took his leave, and went home; after which the rest sat a little while in silence. mr rose was the first to break it.
“robin, hast thou still a purpose to receive orders?”
“more than ever!” cried robin, eagerly. “i never could before have told the people one-half of what i can tell now. i knew that god was sufficient for some things, but now i see him all-sufficient and for all. i knew he could lift man up to him, like a mother learning a child day by day; but i scantly knew how he could come down to man, like the same mother bending her sense down to the stature of her child, entering into his difficulties, feeling his troubles, making her a child for him. ‘i, even i, am he that comforteth you;’ ‘i will comfort you, and ye shall be comforted;’ yea, ‘as one whom his mother comforteth, so will i comfort you.’”
“i think thou art right,” said mr rose, softly.
again they sat in silence till the clock struck eight—the hour at which they commonly parted for the night. before any one moved, mr rose called thekla to him. when she obeyed, he took her hand, and laid it in robin’s.
“the lord bless you, and keep you!” he said tenderly. “my son, thou hast been in sorrow, and god hath been with thee: see thou leave him not out of thy joy. may jesus, who was the chief guest at the wedding in cana of galilee, be with you also, and turn the water of earthly hope into the best wine of heavenly peace. we have asked him to the match; lord, make one at the marriage!”
there was no voice silent in the amen.
and then, as if the very act of lifting up his heart to god had borne him above earth, and he had forgotten the thing that caused it, mr rose went on:—
“‘for thou only art holy, thou only art the lord! thou only, o christ, with the holy ghost, art most high in the glory of god the father!’”
note 1. there were several prisons which bore this name, one of them in london. the most horrible of all was that at woburn, and was, i believe, the only one constructed on this cruel principle.
