revealed a costume indicating a very high rung on the social ladder.
That gold chain and those slashed sleeves marked an esquire at the
lowest; the gilt spurs could be worn by none under a knight; and the
peculiar cut of the cloak revealed to the initiated that he who bore it
must be a peer of the realm. It was no wonder if Jack and his
grandmother felt slightly nervous when they discovered that the friend
whom Master William Sterys--himself the grandest person they knew--had
asked leave to bring, was no other than his noble master, Henry Duke of
Exeter.
There was one person in the room, however, who was not in the least
affected by the discovery. This was the Austin Friar who was about to
conduct the little conventicle. He felt, as one long after him
expressed it, that he had always one Hearer of such supreme distinction,
that the rank of all the remainder faded into nothingness. Now he said
simply, before the others had time to recover themselves,--"Let us
pray."
They knelt down on the brick floor--peer, and parchment-maker, and
poor--and the voice of the Austin Friar rose in prayer.
"Lord, Thou art made a refuge to us, from generation to generation!"
Oldest of all Psalms, that has been and will be the Psalm of the
wilderness Church for ever. First sung in the desert, there is in it a
breathing of desert air, a perpetual reminiscence of those who had no
city to dwell in, but who sought one to come. These who prayed it that
night were all desert-dwellers: and no one of them felt the journey so
weary, or the wilderness air so keen, as that one handsomely robed
worshipper with the gold chain about his neck, whom one or two of the
poorer ones were almost unconsciously envying, and imagining that he had
never breathed the air, nor felt a second's weariness from the journey.
"His thoughts they scanned not: but I ween
That could their import have been seen,
The meanest groom in all the hall
That e'er tied courser to a stall,
Would scarce have wished to be their prey,
For Lutterward and Fountenay."[#]
[#] Scott's Marmion.
After the prayer came the monition. There was no singing. The voice of
the spiritual singer was silent during the corrupt ages of the Church.
Britons and Anglo-Saxons had sung hymns freely: but one after another
the voices were hushed, and no new ones rose. Except in her authorised
services, and to words chosen by herself, the Church frowned upon sacred
music. This was especially remarkable, in an age when the popular love
for secular music was at a height to which, in England at least, it has
never risen since. It was reserved for Martin Luther to unlock the
sealed spring, and let the frozen waters dash downwards in a joyous
cataract.
The text was taken from the fifty-fifth Psalm,[#] "There is no mutation
to them, and they fear not God." The preacher touched lightly, first,
on the changes and chances of this mortal life. In the eyes of
inexperienced youth, change is a glad thing, for it is always expected
to be for the better, and it accords with that eager restlessness which
is the natural feeling of youthful minds. But when middle age is
reached, and when men have known trouble, change ceases to be so
welcome. It may be good still: we are not so ready to take it for
granted that it must be. And when old age is come, or when men have
lived through much sorrow, we become afraid of all change, and averse to
it. What we desire then is not change and variety; it is rest and
peace.
[#] Verse 19.
"Brethren," said the monk in that low, quiet voice of his, which yet was
so distinct that it penetrated every corner, "this is a world of change,
wherein we ourselves are the most changeable of all things. There is
only one Man that changeth not, who is the same to-day, and yesterday,
and to all the ages. There is only one Land where is no autumn. Change
is not needed there, for all is perfect. But here, no mutation
signifieth no betterment. It is the nature of earthly things to become
worser: it is the nature of heavenly things to grow fairer, purer,
better. And here, were there no worser changes in things around us,
there would be no better change in things within us. Nay! but all we be
apt to think the very contrary. Oh! saith one, if I had not lost mine
having--if I had not lost my children--if I were but better off, with no
fear of losing the same, then I would live to God. Brethren, if ye
cannot live to God in the place where He has set you, ye will never do
the same in the place where you set yourselves.
"Think you, in spiritual things, no change is death. Growth is life.
While a plant liveth, it must needs grow and bud and put forth leaves.
Let that cease, and what say you at once? The plant is dead.
"Look, I pray you, what the prophet saith of Moab. Quoth he, 'Moab hath
prospered from his youth up, and hath rested on the dregs of him: nor
hath he been poured from bowl to bowl, and hath not gone a-journeying:
wherefore his taste abideth in him, and his scent is not changed.'[#]
And what saith God unto His people that had gone far from
Him--'Wherefore should ye be stricken more?'[#]
[#] Jer. xlviii. 11, Vulgate.
[#] Isaiah i. 5.
"These late years, brethren, have been changeful ones. Verily we have
been poured from bowl to bowl. Are we the better for it? How many of
us be resting on our dregs? How many of us be choked up, and bringing
no fruit to perfection? Fruit, may-be: the plant is not dead; but poor,
little, stunted fruits, half blasted before they be grown. Note, I pray
you, in that our Lord's parable which methinks ye know, touching the
sower and his seed, He saith the fruit is choked, not only by
deceitfulness of riches, but by cares of this life as well. Beware how
ye move God to shake you out of slumber! Keep yourselves awake: so
shall He not need to wake you with sudden terror. There is scarce a
fearfuller passage in all His Word than this: 'Because I desired to
cleanse thee, and thou art not cleansed from thy filthiness, therefore
cleansed shalt thou not be, until I have caused Mine indignation to rest
upon thee.'[#]
[#] Ezek. xxiv. 13.
"But ye whom the Lord hath poured from bowl to bowl, thank Him if the
dregs be left behind. This is His purpose, that ye should be partakers
of His holiness. Grudge not if ye be poured, even with violence, so
long as thereby ye are purified. Look you, the dregs must be got rid of.
'Blessed are the clean in heart: for they shall see God.'[#]
[#] Matt v. 8
"But ere I go further, friends, I must cast up a fence, that ye stray
not on wrong paths. Herein is the weakness of mortal man, and of the
tongues of men. One emblem showeth but one side of the matter. If we
would show all sides, we must have so many emblems as there be sides to
show.
"Our Lord saith, 'Be ye perfect.'[#] Yet perfect we cannot be. To the
very last day of life, the dregs will be left in the wine so long as it
abideth in earthly vessels. There be three kinds of perfectness,
brethren: the perfectness of imputation, which is Christ's work done for
us; this we have of Him. 'Perfect in His comeliness, which He hath put
on us.'[#] This we have now, on earth. But this is not wrought in us,
much less by us: it is wrought for us. The second fashion of
perfectness is the perfectness of a sincere heart and a single eye.
This we must see to, each man for himself. This it is to which our Lord
pointeth us when He saith, Be perfect. This it is which is said of
David and other, that their hearts were perfect with the Lord. But that
whereof I speak now is neither of these, but the third fashion of
perfectness; to wit, the perfectness of a soul hallowed unto God, and
set apart for Him. This is not done for us, like the first manner; nor
by us, like the second manner; but in us, by the power of the Holy
Ghost. This is the cleansing out of these dregs, which shall leave the
wine pure and meet for the King's use. And this, though it be begun the
very moment the heart turneth unto God, will never be ended till we
stand before Him in glory.
[#] Matt v. 48.
[#] Ezek. xvi. 14.
"Doth one of you say in his heart, How can I tell what be dregs? Well,
oft-times we cannot. We be apt to mistake therein. But He can. Pray Him
to purge you from your dregs, and then let Him take what He will. Lord,
give to us what we need! But look you, it must be what He seeth you to
need, not what ye see.
"Brethren, let us thank God that in His infinite perfectness He changeth
not. Let us thank Him also that He is changing us, into the likeness of
that perfectness. Let us thank Him that the day is at hand when we
shall need no further mutation, but shall be with Him, and shall be like
Him, for ever."
Then the Friar read from his leather book a portion of the Gospel of St.
John in Wycliffe's version: offered another short prayer: blessed his
hearers, and departed with rapid steps, like a man who had much work to
do, and but little time to do it.
One by one, the little congregation took leave of host and hostess, and
passed out into the fresh night air. But the Duke of Exeter sat on: and
William Sterys waited his Lord's pleasure. When all were gone, the
noble guest rose.
"May I pray you of your name, good master?" he said to Jack.
"Truly, my gracious Lord, it might be bettered. I am but a Goose, at
your Lordship's bidding--John Goose, an' it like you."
"I would fain wit, good Master Goose, if you do ever lodge any in your
house? Is there a spare chamber that you were willing to let out to
any?"
John's eyes went to his grandmother for a reply.
"Well-a-day!" murmured the old woman, apparently rather staggered by the
suddenness of the proposition, and requiring some time to consider it.
"I scarce can tell. There is the chamber o'er here, that might be
cleared forth, and the gear set in the porch-chamber. Yet mefeareth,
did we our best, it should scarce be meet for any servant of such as
your gracious Lordship."
"I ask it not for my servant; I want it for myself," said the Duke
quietly.
Poor Mrs. Goose looked dumb-foundered, as she felt.
"My gracious Lord, so poor a lodging as we could"---- began John Goose.
"Nay, Master Goose, but my need is to lie hid. I desire to be where men
shall not think lightly to look for me. And I seek an house whereon
God's peace cometh. Moreover, I would gladly hear more of Father
Alcock's monitions."
"My Lord," said the old woman with some dignity, "if that be what your
Lordship seeks, you shall find it here. You be not the first peer of
England that hath lain hid in this house. Sixty years gone, when he
that was sometime mine husband was a little lad, for divers weeks
concealed in this house was Sir John Oldcastle, sometime Lord Cobham,
that died for Christ's sake and the Gospel's. If it content your
Lordship to be as well--nay, better lodged than he was, come."
"Abundantly, good Mother!" said the Duke. "And was that true man in the
chamber where ye would put me?"
"Nay, my Lord, he had worser lodging than you shall find.--Jack, light a
candle, and show his Lordship where my Lord Cobham lay."
John obeyed, and the Duke followed him, out of the kitchen and through
the workshop, into a large closet in the wall of the latter room.
Clearing away an armful of skins from the latter, John slipped back a
sliding panel, by some mechanism known to himself, and disclosed a
small, dark, dusty room, a little larger than the closet into which it
opened, and furnished only with a leaf-table and a stool.
"Here, as I have heard," said John, "his Lordship lay during the day:
and at night, when work was over, he came forth into the chamber which
your Lordship shall have, and there he commonly sat a-writing till late
into the night. Once, when a party came that 'twas thought might know
the chamber, his Lordship donned an apron and a jerkin, and was set to
work in the shop. 'Tis said," added John with a merry laugh, "he
spoiled a skin thereby: but my grandfather recked not, but would have it
set by as a precious thing, and 'twas so kept, some years."
"And did the men at work here never hear him?"
"Nay, I reckon they made too much noise themselves. Only one that was
next unto him when he was in the shop said after unto my grandsire that
he had taken a raw hand a-work, which should be some cost to train,"
said John, laughing.
"That can I conceive," replied the Duke, with a smile. "Well, Master
Goose, so you and yours be willing, I will gladly engage this chamber.
For the hire, charge you what is meet."
The whole transaction was so unwonted that the Duke really did not know
what to offer.
"Oh, my gracious Lord, we shall find no bones in that matter," returned
John Goose, metaphorically. "I will leave that to Mother, seeing the
charge shall be hers and my sisters'. Mefeareth, howbeit, that our rude
cookery shall little content your good Lordship."
"Bread and water would content me," answered the Duke, "so your cookery
is little like to fail."
There were at this time as many delicate gradations of rank in cooking
as in costume. Peers were entitled to five dishes at a meal; gentlemen
to three, and meaner persons to two, exclusive of pottage. The
distinctions of bread have been already mentioned. The daily provision
made for the household of the Duke of Clarence is on record, and it
reads almost like the details of an army commissariat. For a man who
was accustomed to a provision of two oxen, twelve sheep, twelve pigs,
and thirty-six barrels of fish--with a great many other things--as the
daily consumption of his household, to come down to the style of living
of a small tradesman, was a descent indeed. Trade was then held in very
low estimation, even a first-class merchant being reckoned below a
gentleman's servant. The supply customary for such a house as that of
John Goose, was bread and dripping for breakfast, with ale to drink; one
dish of meat, with a vegetable and bread, for dinner; the same for
supper on grand occasions, perhaps with a pudding or pie in addition;
but in all ordinary cases, the supper was brown bread and buttermilk.
Only one thing, therefore, could more have astonished old Mrs. Goose
than the Duke's expressed indifference on this point; and that would
have been to find that he was willing to sleep on a mattress. Down beds
for the upper ten--mattresses for the common folks--was the arrangement
in the fifteenth century. I said, only one thing; but there was indeed
a lower depth even than this, which to see would have reduced Mrs. Goose
to the furthest point of amazement. Had the Duke--for any purpose short
of disguise--made his appearance with a long cloak, a buff jerkin, a
fustian doublet, and neither gloves nor rings, she would almost have
thought the world was coming to an end.
It was, therefore, as may be conjectured, with some trepidation, that
Mrs. Goose ventured to superintend her grand-daughters, Joan and Cicely,
in the preparation of the room destined for so superior an occupant.
The estimation in which a Brahmin of the highest caste is held by a
Pariah is alone to be compared with the feelings wherewith Mrs. Goose
regarded her lodger elect. She was deeply concerned to remember that
the Duke would be accustomed to sleep on cambric sheets, and to eat from
gold plate, while she had nothing better to offer him than blankets in
the first place, and wooden trenchers in the second. But she was far
from realising that, during many years now, the Duke had been accustomed
to sleep on whatever he could get to sleep on; and that a good meal
served on a wooden trencher was luxury to a man who had begged his bread
for months in exile. The cloth of Rennes and the gold plate which were
the proper adjuncts of his rank had receded into the far distance,
behind the long years of want and pain which Providence had decreed for
him.
"Eh dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Goose, surveying her preparations when
complete, with her head on one side, as if that would assist her sight.
"Gramercy, but it shall be a come-down for the like of him!"
"'Tis the best we can do, Mother," said Cicely. "And 'somewhat is
better than nought.'"
"Eh, good lack, but 'tis a small somewhat!" returned the old woman.
"Why, I trow he shall have washed him in silver basins set with turkey
stones,[#] and drank out of cups of gold all bordered with pearls."
[#] Turquoise.
"Mighty discomfortous, in good sooth!" said Cicely. "I would liefer
have a good cow's horn any day. It should hold the drink every whit as
well, and be a deal smoother to take in your lips."
"And, dear heart! how shall we find to our hands aught fit for such an
one to drink? Why, the meanest matter that hath passed his lips, I
warrant you, shall be Malmsey or claret wine at sixpence the gallon.[#]
And I doubt not he hath ate pike[#] and marmalade every day to his
dinner; aye, peacocks and rice, too."
[#] A high price at this time; threepence or fourpence a gallon was the
cost of ordinary wine.
[#] Pike was now the most costly fish in the market, being ten times the
value of cod and turbot. Marmalade was about two shillings or
half-a-crown the pound; peacocks, about three shillings each, were
reserved for the nobility; rice was very scarce and dear.
"Well, then," rejoined Cicely, "it shall be a change for him to come
down to cod and bacon. I dare reckon he never tasted them."
A few days later, Mrs. Goose made a deprecatory remark of the same kind
to the Duke himself. It was met with a smile which was a blending of
sadness and amusement, and an assurance that for eighteen mouths of his
life he had never dined at all, and could therefore easily afford to put
up with inexpensive fare now. Mrs. Goose was struck to silence--until
she reached the kitchen, when she made up for it in notes of
exclamation.
The life passed by the Duke in his retirement was very quiet. He had
brought with him a collection of books which struck the unaccustomed
eyes of his hosts with the magnitude of a public library. But John, who
was used to make quiet observation of all that passed under his eyes,
noticed that one after another of these was gradually laid aside upon
the shelf and left unused, until the number was reduced to two, which
continued in daily employment. He was curious to know what they were:
but as he could not read, it was of no use to open them. At last, one
day when Father Alcock came, and the Duke was out, John brought the two
books to the Friar, and asked to be told what they were.
"The Confessions of St. Austin, my son," answered the monk, opening the
one that came first: "an holy volume, and good."
"And this, Father?" pursued John, offering the other.
"A better, my son, for it is the best of all--the true Word of God, that
liveth and abideth for ever. Here be the Psalms of David, and the New
Testament, bound in one, and in the Latin tongue."
John put the volumes back in his lodger's room with a feeling of
satisfaction. It gratified him also to see how regularly the Duke
attended the weekly "monition." In all other respects, the lodger made
little impression on the household, and less on the world outside. He
dressed as an ordinary gentleman: and as soon as he had ceased to be a
nine days' wonder to the Joans and Megs of the neighbourhood, nobody
took further notice of him. John Goose found him a very silent man, who
dealt chiefly in matter-of-fact when he spoke at all, and sometimes
heaved sighs which went to his young host's tender heart. No one ever
came to see him but his servant Will Sterys: and he kept indoors until
the dusk had fallen. And so the days went on.
*CHAPTER XI.*
*A LAST INTERVIEW.*
"Now all these things are over,--yes, all thy pretty ways,
Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays:
And none will grieve when I go forth, nor smile when I return,
Nor watch beside the old man's bed, nor weep upon his urn."
--LORD MACAULAY.
The two youthful Annes of the royal House at this period, who were
nearly of an age, were very similar in character in all points but one.
Both the Princess of Wales and Lady Anne Grey were gentle, amiable,
refined, and gifted with deep affections: but the one was strong, and
the other weak. For the strong nature was carved out a heavy cross.
For the weak one, there was a light structure appointed, which so
crushed down her feeble frame, that it was as oppressive to her as the
greater burden to her cousin.
The sorrows of the one were close to their ending, while those of the
other had little more than begun. Treated at first with apparent
kindness and lenity--placed in the keeping of her uncle, and suffered to
visit her beloved mother-in-law,--the Princess of Wales maintained so
dauntless a front, and so unswerving a resolution, that Gloucester saw
plainly that to wait for any change in her would be to wait for ever.
No earthly consideration would ever make her willingly wed with him.
So, as she refused to change front, he changed his. One dark evening in
the March of 1473;[#] the Princess was removed from her place of
detention by a band of armed men. Whither she knew not, until she found
herself, to her amazement, in the lighted aisles of Westminster Abbey,
with robed priests awaiting her in the chancel, and the Duke of
Gloucester, in gorgeous array, standing before the altar. Then the full
perception of the gulf of misery in which she was to be plunged rushed
upon Anne Neville. She tried to fly, but the armed men held her down.
She poured out passionate protests--she refused to utter the words
prescribed by the service--she screamed in agony for the help that was
not to come. Every thing she did which a lonely, captive girl could do,
to show that this detested marriage was accompanied by no good-will and
no consent of hers. But she might as well have cried to the stone
pillars, or have fled for refuge to the dead kings lying around her.
The priests went on with their ceremonies, the choir sang calmly, the
bridegroom performed his part of the service, the ring was forced on her
finger, and Richard Plantagenet and Anne Neville were pronounced man and
wife, in the name of that God who looked silently down upon the
iniquitous scene, and seemed as though He had forgotten the girl who
cried in vain even to Him for mercy. With how much more truth may that
dying appeal which has echoed through a hundred years be made, not to
liberty, but to the God of all truth and righteousness,--"What crimes
are committed in Thy name!" It may have been,--nay, if she were His, it
must have been,--that eleven years later, when Anne Neville's spirit
returned to the God who gave it, she found that His mercy towards her
was better than the mercy she desired of Him, and that but for that
painful and weary beating of the gold, the vessel would have been unfit
for its place in the sanctuary above.
[#] The exact date cannot be ascertained, but circumstances point to
this period.
But meanwhile to Anne Grey the mercy came. The period of her married
life, to which she had looked forward with so much dread, proved the
least painful time of her life. Not because Mr. Thomas Grey was any
better than she had expected to find him, but because, after the first
week, he relieved her of his company almost entirely. Affection for her
he had none. So long, therefore, as the duties prescribed by civility
and custom were properly performed, he had no scruple about leaving her
to herself--which was exactly what she most desired.
One troublesome item remained, for no separate residence had been
provided for the young pair, and Mr. Grey continued to occupy his old
apartments in the Palace of his royal stepfather. This was the last
place where Lady Anne could have wished to be. To her uncle she felt no
dislike, for he had always shown his best side to her, and her pure and
simple nature was incapable of entering into the darker features of his
character. Towards the Queen her feeling was a curious mixture of
affection and misgiving. The soft caresses and tender words could not
be resented, nor even coldly received, yet they were unavoidably
provocative of an under-current of doubt as concerned their
whole-heartedness.
"The lady did protest too much."
With the children Lady Anne was at home, especially with that grave-eyed
boy in whom much of her own temperament was reproduced.
It had not been intended that the young pair should reside in the
Palace. The King fully meant to provide them with a separate abode: but
one of his practical rules being never to do to-day that which could be
put off till to-morrow, the provision remained unmade, and day after day
followed its fellow to the silent chambers of the past.
The chief difficulty of Lady Anne's married life concerned her father.
If it had been scarcely possible to receive him at Coldharbour, to do it
at Westminster was absolutely impossible. But it might be comparatively
easy to meet elsewhere, could she ascertain where he might be met. The
Duke had as much difficulty in communicating with her as she with him.
But
"Under floods that are deepest
Which Neptune obey,
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way"--