"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 espece 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 Dona 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 Dona 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, Dona 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. 'Senora,' 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, Dona Ines? Is it somewhat of our Lord?'—'Ay, Senora,' 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, Senora,' 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, Senora?' he said to her Highness. 'Your Highness here!' And turning to me, 'Dona 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, Senora!' The Queen clasped her hands closer around her knees. 'I am at ease here,' she said. 'And I want Dona 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, senor Marques! Leave me in peace.' 'Senora!' 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, Senora, 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 Dona 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 Dona Ximena de Lara, that had never been in my chamber afore, and alway seemed to hold her much above me. 'Dona 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 Dona 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 Dona Ines?'—'Speak to her,' quoth my Lord Marquis. 'Senora,' 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.'—'Senora,' 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 Dona 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."

"I am sorry all over," answered she. "The Queen taketh it most heavily of all. She said to her ladies that when she should be dead, they should find 'Calais' graved upon her heart."

Hitherto the storm of persecution had not come inside the little walled circle of friends dear to the hearts of the Averys. It had raged around them, had broken fiercely upon men whom they reverenced and loved as afar off. But now it was to come within. One whose eyes had looked into theirs, whose lips had smiled on them, whose voice had bidden God bless them,—ay, upon whose knee the children had sat, and chattered to him in childish wise,—was summoned from the midst of them, to go up in the chariot of fire into the presence of the Lord.

Austin and Mr Underhill came together, both very pensive, on the night of the 6th of May.

"There is ill news with you, I fear," said John.

"There is ill news, and that right heavy," answered Mr Underhill. "Roger Holland is taken."

"Where and how?" they asked.

"With six other, in a quiet close near Saint John's Wood, where they were met to read God's Word and pray together, this last May Day; and carried afore my Lord of London. He had better have tarried at his father's in Lancashire, whence he was but newly come."

"And Bessy?" said Isoult, compassionately.

"Roger left her and the child in Lancashire," said he; "where, if she will take mine avisement, she will remain."

Mr Holland was examined before Bishop Bonner, Lord Strange being present, with others of his Lancashire kinsmen. Austin reported that "he confessed Christ right nobly, and kept up the Bishop in a corner by his wise and gentle learning—such as I had not thought had been in him:" and at last, after much discussion, the Bishop lost his patience (a commodity of which he never carried much to market), called Mr Holland a blasphemous heretic, and sentenced him to be burned.

Mr Holland replied, as the gaoler was about to remove him,—"My Lord, I beseech you, suffer me to speak two words."

"Nay!" cried he, "I will not hear thee: have him away!"

Lord Strange interfered, and begged that his cousin might be heard.

"Speak?" growled Bonner, "what hast thou to say?"

Mr Holland answered, "Even now I told you that your authority was from God, and by His sufferance; and now I tell you, God hath heard the prayer of His servants, which hath been poured forth with tears for His afflicted saints, whom you daily persecute, as now you do us. But this I dare be bold in God to say (by whose Spirit I am moved), that God will shorten your hand of cruelty, that for a time you shall not molest His Church. And this you shall in a short time well perceive, my dear brethren, to be most true. For after this day, in this place, there shall not be any by him put to the trial of fire and faggot."

The Bishop replied that "he should yet live to burn, yea, and he would burn, for all this prattling:" and so went his way, and Mr Holland was taken back to Newgate.

But the Bishop, like many another, laid his plans without reference to Him who sat above the water-floods. Roger Holland had an unction from the Holy One, and his prescience was true. The commandment was gone forth from the presence of the King—"Hitherto shalt thou come, and no further." After that once, by Bonner, and in Smithfield, there was never another "trial of fire and faggot."

Yet for that once, the Devil and Edmund Bonner had their way. Waiting for Roger Holland were the white robe and the martyr's palm; and with his name the muster-roll of soldiers slain in the great battle of England was closed in Heaven.

It is not entirely unedifying to note why this man was martyred. So long as he pursued the profligate course on which he had embarked in early youth, Rome had not a word to say to him. Sin does not come under her cognisance, except to be muffled up in absolution, and hidden from the eyes of the sinner—but not from the eyes of God. But the moment that Holland's course was altered, and he began to try so to walk as to please God, that moment he came under the ban of her who dares to stand up in the face of the world, and with unblushing effrontery to call herself the Church of God.

Very late on the 28th of June, Augustine Bernher brought the news of the last martyrdom. His face told, before he spoke, that he came to say something terrible. The first thoughts of those at the Lamb, as usual, flew to Robin and Mr Rose; but Austin quickly turned them into a different channel.

"I am come," he said, "from Roger Holland's martyrdom."

"Eh, Austin! is it over with Mr Holland?" cried Isoult.

"It is over with him, and he shall suffer no more pains of death for ever. He and the other six taken with him were burned to-day in Smithfield."

"And how went it with him?"

"When he was come to the stake," answered Austin, "he embraced it, and looking up unto Heaven, he saith:—'Lord, I most humbly thank Thy Majesty that Thou hast called me from the state of death unto the light of Thy heavenly Word, and now unto the fellowship of Thy saints, that I may sing and say, Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts. And, Lord, into Thy hands I commit my spirit. Lord, bless these Thy people, and save them from idolatry.' And so, looking up unto Heaven, and praising God,—God stooped and took him."

"Alas, poor Bessy!" said Isoult, after a while.

"I must write unto her," said Austin. "I trust she is yet safe in Lancashire."

Isoult did not forget her before God that night. It was easy for the mass of the Gospellers to think of Mr Holland as he now was, at Home, in the safe rest of the Father's house, and to praise God for him. But his Bessy was not likely to do so as yet. When the night is very dark, we cannot always lift our heads to see how fair the light shines on the further side of the Jordan; and to us who are in the thickness of the darkness, it is at times no lighter for that knowledge. And the night was very dark now.

And yet some tell us—ay, some of us, Englishmen whose fathers passed through these dreadful scenes, leaving to their sons such awful memories,—they tell us it were better to leave those memories sleeping. "Why rake up such disagreeable reminiscences? They belong to past ages. Rome is different now, just as society is different. Is this charity, peace, forbearance?"

I reply, it is charity, and of the highest type. When a man sees his friend in the grasp of a tiger, he does not drop his levelled gun on the plea of charity to the tiger. And Rome is not different. She only looks so, because the wisdom of our fathers circumscribed her opportunities, just as the tiger looks harmless in a cage in the Zoological Gardens. Shall we therefore open the cage door?

And we, who are bent on pulling down as fast as we can those bars which our fathers forged in tears and blood,—let us be a little more consistent. Let us take away the locks from our doors, because for ten years there has been no attempt at burglary in that street. Let us pull down the hurdles which surround our sheep-pens, because for some time no lamb has been lost from that particular flock. We are not such fools as to do these things. Men's bodies, and still more men's property, are safely protected among us. But how is it about men's souls? How will it be when the rulers of England shall stand at the Bar whence there is no appeal, and hear from the great Judge the awful requirement,—"Where is thy flock that was given thee, thy beautiful flock?" Shall we hear about "want of power"—which generally means want of will—about "the voice of the nation," and "the spirit of the age," and "respect to the opinions of others," and the numberless little fictions with which men wile their souls to sleep, here and now? Will the Bishop who swore before God to "drive away all erroneous and strange doctrine contrary to His Word," offer to the Judge then those convenient excuses with which he salves over his conscience now? Will the statesman who followed the multitude to do evil, instead of leading them to do good, urge in His presence who seeth in secret the platitudes about majorities and the national will which he finds satisfactory now? There is a very solemn passage in God's neglected and despised Word, concerning him who knew his Lord's will, and did it not.

Another Easter passed away, and left them safe. The summer was a season, not so much of suffering, as of fear and waiting. They were tarrying the Lord's leisure. A few months later, Isoult Avery wrote in her diary—

"My birthday, and I am now forty-five years of age. It is not unmeet that I should tarry a while at the milestones, and look back on the way by which the Lord hath led me. This last year hath been very woeful and weary. What shall the next be?

"O Lord, Thou knowest. All the way is of Thine ordering, all guided by wisdom that never erreth, by love that never waxeth faint. I will trust Thy wisdom to devise, and Thy love to effect. Father in Heaven! let me not faint under Thy correction, neither let me despise Thy chastening. Be merciful unto me, O Lord, be merciful unto me! And Thou (not I) knowest best how and when I need Thy mercy. Hear (and if need be, forgive) the cry which echoes in mine heart for ever—'If it be possible,' give us back our darling!"

The great Emperor Charles the Fifth died on the 21st of September in this year, in the monastery of San Yuste, whither he went to "make his salvation" in his old age.

"I trust," said Isoult, when she heard it, "that he repented him, among other sins, of his ill-using of his mother. There shall doubtless be many masses for him here."

"Il faut beaucoup prier!" said Marguerite Rose, drily.

The end was at hand now. The eventful November of 1558 had set in.

Philippa told Isoult that the Queen suffered fearfully. She sat many days on the floor of her chamber, her knees higher than her head. The pain in her head was dreadful; and people began to say that she, who was originally accounted merciful, had been merciful all through, for that others had given orders for the burnings, and she, even in sceptring the Acts, had scarcely known what she did. The last time that she went to the House of Lords, she was too ill to walk, but was borne by her gentlemen in waiting to the throne. James Basset told his sister, that "he counted all burned or beheaded in the Queen's reign had not suffered so much, body nor soul, as she."

James Basset, who had been ailing for some time, grew worse on the 16th, when the Queen and the Cardinal were both so ill, that it was thought doubtful which of them would die the sooner. All matters of state, and many of business, were held as it were in the air, waiting the Queen's death. Many of the Council had already set forth for Hatfield. "That should not like me," said Isoult, "were I either the dying sister or the living." And she who lay in that palace of White Hall must have known (if she were not beyond knowing anything) that round her grave would be no mourners—that she had done little to cause England to weep for her, and much to cause rejoicing that she could harm England no more. Did she know that men without were naming the day Hope Wednesday, because every hour they expected news of her end?

"God save Queen Elizabeth! Long live the Queen! Yea, may the Queen live for ever!"

These were the first sounds which Isoult heard when she was awoke from sleep on the Friday morning. Indeed, there was far too much tumult for sleep. Great crowds of men were pouring through Aldgate; and as she looked from the window she saw men kissing, and embracing, and weeping, and laughing, and shouting, all at once, and all together. And but one was the burden of all—"The Queen is dead! The Lady Elizabeth is Queen! God save Queen Elizabeth!"

"Hurrah!" said Mr Ferris, an hour later, flinging up his cap to the ceiling as he came in. "Hurrah! now is come the Golden Age again! We may breathe now. Long life to the Queen of the Gospellers!"

"I thought she were rather the Queen of the Lutherans," suggested John.

"All one," answered he. "Lutherans burn not Gospellers, nor clap them into prison neither. What have Gospellers to fear from Queen Anne's daughter?"

"They may have something from King Henry's," answered John.

"Jack, thou deservest—I cannot stay to tell thee what: and I have shouted and danced myself an hungered. Mrs Avery, have you to spare of that goodly round of beef?"

"Pray you, sit down with us, Mr Ferris," said she; "we shall not lack a shive for you."

"Ah, but if I lack half-a-dozen shives, how then?" said he.

"Sit down, man," responded John. "Why, George Ferris! you are in a fever!"

"Pretty nigh," answered he. "Is there any man in London out of one this morrow?—except you."

"I am too thankful to be merry," he replied. "But how goes it with Cardinal Pole?"

"His death is hourly looked for," said Mr Ferris.

That afternoon, at the Cross and other places, was Queen Elizabeth proclaimed. Even by night men scarcely seemed to have cooled down: so glad was England of her Protestant Queen, so freely she breathed when the hand of the oppressor was withdrawn. In the afternoon of Friday died Cardinal Pole, outliving his cousin Queen Mary only twenty-four hours. John reported that the very faces he met in the streets looked freer and gladder, as if every man were now at his ease and king of himself. Now, he thought, or, at the farthest, when the Queen was crowned, would the prisons be opened. Who would come out of them?—was a very anxious question; and yet more, Who would not come? That day Marguerite wrote to Mr Rose, by Austin, who set out immediately to carry the news to the banished Gospellers; and they looked forward hopefully to seeing him ere long [Note 6]. Might they look, with any thing like hope, to see another? Their judgment had given up hope long ago. But the heart will hope, even against all, until it knows assuredly that there can be hope no longer.

"Isoult," said her husband, when he came home in the evening, "I have heard tidings that methinks shall make thee a little sorry."

"What be they, Jack?" said she.

"The death of Mr James Basset," he answered, "yestereven."

Isoult wrote a little loving note to Philippa; but she heard nothing from her.

Again on the 28th was all London in a ferment of eager joy: for the Queen came to the Tower, in readiness for her coronation. She came from the Charter House, sitting in a rich chariot, arrayed in a riding-dress of purple velvet, and a scarf tied over her shoulder. All London Wall was hung with tapestry; and beside her rode Lord Robert Dudley, who had been made Master of the Horse.

"Lack-a-daisy!" said Dr Thorpe, "must we be ridden with Dudleys yet again? Is the quotidian ague throughout England all this autumn not plague enough, that my Lord Robin Dudley must needs bear the bell? A fig for all the Dudleys—nor are they worth that!"

On the 4th of December the Queen went through the City to Somerset House. Some trouble was feared concerning her coronation. The Archbishop of York and all the Popish Bishops refused to crown her; nor would they consecrate any not of their way of thinking. Thirteen Bishops had died of the pestilence; but not Dr Bonner, to whom (alone of all of them) Elizabeth refused her hand to kiss when they met her in progress. How differently this year had closed from the last! The Gospellers looked back, indeed, with trembling, yet with great thankfulness; and there was no need to look forward (but for one thing) save with hope. They must know soon now the fate of the missing one. At least the waiting and fearing would be over. The knowledge might leave their hearts sick; yet, even at the worst, it would be no longer with hope deferred.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. An interesting notice of George Shipside, husband of Alice Ridley, with an account of his Bible annotated by himself, will be found in the Sunday at Home, 1871, page 789 et seq.

Note 2. Spanish Sovereigns sign in a manner peculiar to themselves, not by the Christian name, but "I the King," or "I the Queen."

Note 3. With the exception of a few minor details, chiefly relating to others than herself, this account of Queen Juana's gradual martyrdom is strictly true.

Note 4. He died February 15, 1557, at "Sir Harry Sydney's house, Chanon Roo, Westminster" (Harl. Ms. 897, folio 79).

Note 5. This old English word for party we have so utterly lost, that we fancy it a new one recently introduced from America.

Note 6. It might have been expected that the banished or escaped Protestants would wait to see the line which Elizabeth's policy would take before venturing to return: but no such misgivings troubled their minds. So perfect was their confidence in her, that they flocked home like doves to their windows.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

POST TENEBRAS LUX.

"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?"