"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.