"`We measure life by years and tears,' he said;
`We live a little; then life leaves us dead,
And the long grass grows greenly overhead.'"
While the party were still conversing, the post came in--always an
important event at that day--and brought two letters for Isoult. The
first was from Beatrice Dynham [fictitious persons], who had been her
fellow bower-woman with the Duchess of Suffolk, and requested her old
friend to remember her in the first week in May, when she was to marry
Mr Vivian [a fictitious person], a gentleman of the late King's
household. She also informed her that the young Duke of Suffolk, a boy
of eleven years, had been placed about the person of the young
Sovereign, under the care of the Duke of Somerset. The second letter
was from Crowe. Lady Ashley had arrived, and had tried hard to effect a
truce between the contending parties, she hoped not entirely without
good results. Lady Lisle had been obliged to sell two pieces of land
from the Frithelstoke estate, called Choldysoke and Meryfield; and
Philippa Basset sent Isoult word that it was well Meryfield was sold,
seeing that all mirth had departed from them long ago.
"When shall my mistress your friend be wed, Mrs Avery?" very gravely
inquired Jennifer Trevor, Isoult's bower-woman.
"The first week in May," repeated Isoult, referring to the letter.
"Ay, methought you read so much," responded Jennifer, looking still more
solemn.
"Come, out with your thought, Mrs Trevor," said Tremayne; "for I do see
plainly that you have one."
"Why, Mr Tremayne," replied she, "'tis but that I would not be wed in
May for all the gold in Cornwall."
"But how if your servant [suitor] were a sailor, Mrs Jennifer, and
should set forth the last day of May?" queried Avery.
"Then," she said, "I would either be wed in April, or he should wait
till he came back. But 'tis true, Mrs Avery, a May babe never liveth,
no more than a May chick thriveth; nor is a May kit ever a mouser. 'Tis
the unluckiest month in all the year. I never brake in all my life a
steel glass [looking-glass] saving once, and that was in May; and sure
enough, afore the same day next May died one on that farm."
"One of the household?" asked Avery.
"Well, nay," answered Jennifer, "'twas but the old black cow, that had
been sick a month or more."
"Ah!" was the grave answer; "her dying was a marvel!"
"But there was a death, Mr Avery!" urged Jennifer.
"An' there had not been," said he, "I count you should have drowned the
cat, to make one. But, Mrs Jennifer, in sober sadness, think you that
God keepeth record of the breaking of steel glasses and the ticking of
death-watches?"
"Eh, those death-watches!" cried she; "I were out of my wit if I heard
one."
"Then I trust you shall not hear one," answered he, "for I desire that
you should keep in your wit."
"Well, Mr Avery!" said Jennifer, "I could tell you somewhat an' I
listed."
"Pray give us to hear it," replied he. "What is it? and whom threatens
it? The red cow or the tabby cat? Poor puss!" and he stooped down and
stroked her as she lay on the hearth.
"There shall come a stranger hither!" pursued Jennifer, solemnly. "I
saw him yestereven in the bars of the grate."
"What favoured he?" asked Avery.
"'Twas a fair man, with a full purse," she replied.
"Then he is welcome, an' he come to give us the purse," was the answer.
"It shall be an other post, I cast little doubt; for he shall be a
stranger, and maybe shall have full saddlebags."
"You shall see, Mr Avery!" said Jennifer, pursing her lips.
"So I shall, Mrs Jennifer," responded he. "But in how long time shall
he be here?"
"That I cannot tell," said she.
"Then the first fair man that cometh, whom you know not, shall serve?"
answered he. "'Tis mighty easy witchery that. I could fall to
prophesying mine own self at that rate. It shall rain, Mrs Jennifer,
and thunder likewise; yea, and we shall have snow. And great men shall
die, and there shall be changes in this kingdom, and some mighty ill
statutes shall be passed. And you and I shall grow old, Mrs Jennifer
(if we die not aforetime), and we shall suffer pain, and likewise shall
enjoy pleasure. See you not what a wizard I am?"
Tremayne laughed merrily as he rose to depart.
"I shall look to hear if Mrs Trevor be right in her prophecy," said he.
"We will give you to know that in a month's time," answered John Avery
rather drily.
In less than a month the news had to be sent, for a stranger arrived.
It was Mr Monke. Jennifer was delighted, except for one item. She had
announced that the stranger would be fair, and Mr Monke was dark. In
this emergency she took refuge, as human nature is apt to do, in
exaggerating the point in respect to which she had proved right, and
overlooking or slighting that whereon she had proved wrong.
"I might readily blunder in his fairness," she observed in a
self-justifying tone, "seeing it did but lie in the brightness of the
flame."
"Not a doubt thereof," responded John Avery in a tone which did not
tranquillise Jennifer.
When there happened to be no one in the hall but himself and Isoult, Mr
Monke came and stood by her as she sat at work.
"Wish me happiness, Mrs Avery," he said in a low but very satisfied
voice.
Isoult Avery was a poor guesser of riddles. She looked up with an air
of perplexed simplicity.
"Why, Mr Monke, I do that most heartily at all times," she answered.
"But what mean you?"
"That God hath given me the richest jewel He had for me," he said, in
the same tone as before.
Then Isoult knew what he meant. "Is it Frances?" she asked, speaking as
softly as he had done.
"It is that fair and shining diamond," he pursued, "known among men as
the Lady Frances Basset."
For a moment Isoult was silent, and if Mr Monke could have read the
thoughts hidden behind that quiet face, perhaps he would not have felt
flattered. For Isoult was wondering in her own mind whether she ought
to be glad or sorry. But the next moment her delicate instinct had told
her what to answer.
"Mr Monke," she said, looking up again, "I do most heartily wish
happiness to both you and her."
And Mr Monke never guessed from any thing in the quiet face what the
previous thought had been.
The next day brought a letter to Isoult from Lady Frances herself; and
the last relic of Jennifer's uneasiness was appeased by the fair hair
and beard of the messenger. She only said now that there might have
been two strangers in the fire; she ought to have looked more carefully.
All was smooth water now at Crowe. Lady Lisle had given way, but not
until Frances plainly told her that she had urged this very match
earnestly before, and now that she was reluctantly endeavouring to
conform to her wishes, had turned round to the opposing side. Philippa
was more readily won over. Lady Frances had told Mr Monke honestly that
a great part of her heart lay in the grave of John Basset; but that she
thoroughly esteemed himself, and such love as she could give him he
should have.
"I trust," she wrote to Isoult, "that we may help, not hinder, the one
the other on the way to Heaven. We look to be wed in June next, after
the new fashion, in the English tongue. Pray meanwhile for me, dear
heart, that I may `abide in Him.'"
When Isoult came down-stairs from the careful perusal of her letter, she
heard Dr Thorpe's voice in the hall, and soon perceived that her husband
and he were deep in religious conversation.
"Softly, Jack!" Dr Thorpe was saying as she entered. "Methinks thou
art _somewhat_ too sweeping. We must have priests, man (though they
need not be ill and crafty men); nor see I aught so mighty wrong in
calling the Lord's Table an altar. Truly, myself I had liefer say
`table'; yet would I not by my good will condemn such as do love that
word `altar.' Half the mischief that hath arisen in all these battles
of religion now raging hath come of quarrelling over words. And 'tis
never well to make a martyr or an hero of thine adversary."
"I have no mind to make a martyr of you, my dear old friend," answered
Avery, "in whatsoever signification. I see well what you would be at,
though I see not with you. And I would put you in mind, by your leave,
that while true charity cometh of God, there is a false charity which
hath another source."
"But this is to split straws, Jack," said the Doctor.
"I pray you pardon me," replied he, "but I think not so. I know,
Doctor, you do incline more toward the Lutheran than I, and therefore
'tis like that such matters may seem smaller unto you than to me. But
when--"
"I incline toward the truth," broke in Dr Thorpe, bluntly.
"We will both strive our best so to do, friend," gently answered Avery.
"But, as I was about to say, when you come to look to the ground of this
matter, you shall see it (if I blunder not greatly) to be far more than
quarrelling over words or splitting of straws. The calling of men by
that name of priest toucheth the eternal priesthood of the Lord Christ."
"As how?" queried the old man, resting his hands on his staff, and
looking Avery in the face.
"As thus," said he. "Cast back your eyes, I pray you, to the times of
the old Jewish laws, and tell me wherefore they lacked so many priests
as all the sons of Aaron should needs be. I mean, of course, so many at
one time."
"Why, man! one at once should have been crushed under the work!"
answered Dr Thorpe. "If one man had been to slay Solomon his twenty-two
thousand sacrifices, he should not have made an end by that day month."
"Good. Then the lesser priests were needed, because of the
insufficiency of the high priest for all that lacked doing?"
"That I allow," said Dr Thorpe, after some meditation.
"See you what you allow, friend?" Avery answered, softly. "If, then,
the lesser priests be yet needed, it must be by reason that the High
Priest is yet insufficient, and the sacrifice which He offered is yet
incomplete."
"Nay, nay, Jack, nay!" cried the old man, much moved, and shaking his
head.
"It must be so, dear friend. To what good were those common and
ordinary priests, save to aid the high priest in that which, being but a
man, he might not perform alone? Could the high priest have sufficed
alone, what need were there of other? But our High Priest sufficeth,
and hath trodden the wine-press alone. His sacrifice is perfect, is
full, is eternal. There needeth no repeating--nay, there can be no
repeating thereof. What do we, then, with priests now? Where is their
sacrifice? And a priest that sacrificeth not is a gainsaying of words.
Friend, whoso calleth him a priest now, by that word denieth the
sufficiency of the Lord Jesus."
"And whoso calleth the Table an altar--" began Dr Thorpe.
"Is guilty of the same sin," pursued he; "the same affront unto the
Majesty of Him that will not give His glory to an other."
"They mean it not so, I verily believe," responded Dr Thorpe, a little
uneasily. "They mean assuredly to do Him honour."
"And He can see the difference," said Avery, tenderly, "betwixt the
denial of Peter that loved Him, and the betrayal of Judas that hated
Him. Our eyes are rarely fine enough for that. More than once or
twice, had the judgment lain with us, we had, I think, condemned Peter
and quitted Judas."
"I would all this variance betwixt Lutherans and Gospellers might
cease!" resumed Dr Thorpe, rather bitterly. "When we should be pointing
our spears all against the enemy, we are bent on pricking of each
other!"
"A vain wish, friend," answered he. "So far as I can see, that hath
been ever since the world began, and will last unto the world's end. I
am not so fond as to look for Christ's kingdom until I see the King.
The fair Angel of Peace flieth in His train; but, methinks, never out of
it."
"It seemeth," said Dr Thorpe, "as though the less space there were
betwixt my doctrine and thine, the more bitterly must thou and I
wrangle!"
"Commonly it is so," replied Avery.
"And while these real battles be fighting," pursueth he, "betwixt
Christ's followers and Christ's foes,--what a sight is it to see the
followers dividing them on such matters as--whether childre shall be
baptised with the cross or no; whether a certain garment shall be worn
or no; whether certain days shall be kept with public service or no!
Tush! it sickeneth a man with the whole campaign."
Both rose, but after his farewell Dr Thorpe broke out again, as though
he could not let the matter drop.
"Do the fools think," asked the old man, "that afore the angels will
open the gate of Heaven unto a man, they fall a-questioning him--to wit,
whether salt were used at his baptism; whether his body were buried
looking toward the East or the West; whether when he carried his Bible
he held it in his right hand or his left? Dolts, idiots, patches!
[Fools.] It should do me a relief to duck every man of them in the
Tamar."
"And cause them to swallow a dose of physic at afterward?" laughed
Avery.
"It were hemlock, then," said Dr Thorpe, grimly.
"Nay, friend, not so bad as that, methinks. But shall I give you one
dose of a better physic than any of yours? `By this shall all men know
that ye are My disciples, if ye have love one toward another.'"
"How are they to know it now?" said Dr Thorpe, despairingly. "How are
they to know it? Well, I know not; maybe thou art not so far-off, Jack;
but for all other I know--"
And away he went, shaking his grey head.
Lady Frances and Mr Monke were married when the summer came. John Avery
and Isoult were invited to the wedding; and Philippa sent a special
message requesting that their little Kate might be included; for, said
she, "Arthur shall be a peck of trouble, and an' he had one that he
might play withal he should be the less."
"List thee, sweet heart! thou art bidden to a wedding!" said Jennifer to
Kate.
"What is a wedding?" inquired four-year-old Kate, in her gravest manner.
"Is it a syllabub?"
"Ay, sweet heart; 'tis a great syllabub, full of sugar," answered
Jennifer, laughing.
"That is as it may be, Mrs Jennifer," observed Dr Thorpe, who was
present. "I have known that syllabub full of vinegar. That is,
methinks, a true proverb,--`If Christ be not asked at the match, He will
never make one at the marriage-feast.' And 'tis a sorry feast where He
sitteth not at the table."
"I think He shall not be absent from this," said Isoult, softly.
So Kate went to Crowe with her parents; but her baby brother Walter, a
year old, was left behind in charge of Jennifer.
The evening after their arrival, the bride took Isoult apart, and,
rather to her surprise, asked her if she thought that the dead knew what
was passing in this world. To such a question there was but one answer.
Isoult could not tell.
"Isoult," she said, her eyes filling with tears, "I would not have him
know of this, if it be so. And can that be right and good which I would
not he should know?"
Isoult needed not to ask her who "he" was.
"Nay, sweet heart!" said she, "thinkest thou he would any thing save thy
comfort and gladness? He is passed into the land where (saith David)
all things are forgotten--to wit, (I take it) all things earthly and
carnal, all things save God; and when ye shall meet again in the body,
it shall be in that resurrection where they neither marry nor are given
in marriage, but are equal unto the angels."
"All things forgotten!" she faltered. "Hath he forgot me? They must
sleep, then; that is a kind of forgetting. But if I were awake and
witful, I never could forget him. It were not _I_ that did so."
"Let us leave that with God, beloved," answered Isoult.
"O Isoult," she murmured, her tears beginning to drop fast, "I would do
God's will, and leave all to Him: but is this God's will? Thou little
knowest how I am tortured and swayed to and fro with doubt. It was
easier for thee, that hadst but a contract to fulfil."
Isoult remembered the time before she had ever seen her husband, when it
did not look very easy. She scarcely knew what she ought to answer.
She only said--
"Dear heart, if thou do truly desire to do only God's will, methinks He
will pardon thee if thou lose thy way."
"It looketh unto me at times," she said, "as if it scarce could be
right, seeing it should lift me above want, and set me at ease."
This was a new thought to Isoult, and she was puzzled what to say. But
in the evening she told John, and asked his advice. Much to her
astonishment, he, usually gentle, pulled to the casement with a bang.
"Is that thine answer, Jack?" said Isoult, laughing.
"Somewhat like it," answered he drily. "'Tis no marvel that ill men
should lose the good way, when the true ones love so much to walk in
byepaths."
"Thou riddlest, Jack," said Isoult.
"Tell me, dear heart," he answered, "doth God or Satan rule the world?"
"God ruleth the world, without doubt," said she, "but if Satan spake
sooth unto our Lord, he hath the power of the glory of it."
"Did Satan ever speak sooth, thinkest?" he replied smiling somewhat
bitterly. "Howbeit to leave that point,--doth God, or doth Satan, mete
out the lives of God's people, and give them what is best for them?"
"God doth, assuredly," said she.
"Well said," answered he. "Then (according unto this doctrine) when God
giveth His child a draught of bitter physic, he may with safety take and
drink it; but when He holdeth forth a cup of sugared succades
[sweetmeats], that must needs be refused. Is it so?"
"Jack!" wonderingly cried Isoult.
"There be that think so," he made answer, "but I had scarce accounted my
Lady Frances one ere now. Set the thing afore her in that light. This
is the self spring whence cometh all the monasteries and nunneries, and
anchorites' cells in all the world. Is God the author of darkness, and
not of light? Doth He create evil, and not good? Tell her, when the
Lord holdeth forth an honeycomb, He would have her eat it, as assuredly
as, when He giveth a cup of gall into her hand, He meaneth she should
drink it. And methinks it can scarce be more joyful to Him to watch her
drink the gall than eat the honeycomb."
The last words were uttered very tenderly.
When Isoult told Frances what John had said, the tears rose to her eyes.
"O Isoult! have I been wronging my God and Father?" she said in a
quivering voice. "I never meant to do that."
"Tell Him so, sweet heart," answered Isoult.
Isoult thought her husband was right, when, on the following day, she
came across the text, "The Lord that hath pleasure in the prosperity of
His people." But in her innocent way she showed it to John, and asked
him if he thought it meant that it was a pleasure to the Lord Himself to
bestow happiness on His people. John smiled at her, as he often did.
"Sweet heart," he answered, "doth it please or offend thee, when thou
dost kiss Kate, and comfort her for some little trouble, and she stayeth
her crying, and smileth up at thee?"
"Why, Jack, 'tis one of my greatest pleasures," answered Isoult.
Very gravely and tenderly he answered,--"`As one whom his mother
comforteth, so will I comfort you.'"