"Come and see what, sweeting?" said he.
"Come and see!" she answered, pulling him after her into the room.
Mr Rose followed more quietly. John, come into the room, stood gazing
at Robin as though he knew not what to make of it. Mr Rose passed him
and came forward.
"Robin Tremayne!" said he. "I scarce dared to hope it."
So when all the glad greetings were over, they sat down, and drew their
chairs round the fire. Barbara came in with the supper-board, and
stared when Robin said, "Good even, Barbara."
"Sir!" queried she, looking at him in amazement. "Nay, sure! 'tis never
Master Robin come back? Well, I be cruel glad!"
"And now, Robin," said John, "we want thine history, writ fair in a
great book."
"Then, Father," he answered, and smiled, "you must tarry the writing.
But I count I take you. Mine history is not very long, for there was
but little change in it."
"But, Robin," said Isoult, "where hast thou been, dear lad? Austin
Bernher hath searched all the prisons for thee, yea, over and over, for
months past, and asked at many prisoners; yet could never bring us
tidings."
"I trow, Mother," answered Robin, again smiling, "he searched every
whither but the right. And few prisoners should have known anything of
me, seeing I was kept alone."
"Did they count thee a prisoner of import?" said John, in an astonished
tone.
"From what I heard them say," answered Robin, looking at Mr Rose, "I may
thank you for that. Taking me with you, and standing close by you, they
counted me a very pestilent heretic, and treated me as such."
"Ah! see what it is to fall into bad company!" said Mr Rose, smiling.
"Well, Robin," said Isoult, "thou shalt tell us all after supper, an'
thou wilt. But now all is ready, an't please you."
So they gathered round the supper-table, and Mr Rose had only just said
grace, when the latch was lifted, and Mr Underhill's cheery voice
cried--
"May an heretic come in?"
"Come forward, Ned!" shouted John in return.
And forward he came.
"I am weary as a dog!" said he. "And I see yonder some eggs and butter
[`Buttered eggs' survive north of the Trent] that doth make my mouth
water; and a warden-pie [the warden was a very late pear, used chiefly
for pies], if mine eyes bewray me not. Mrs Avery--" but here, his eye
catching Robin, he broke off short. "Do you bid ghosts to supper? If
those be not Robin Tremayne's eyes, they are the fairest copies ever
mine saw!"
"Robin Tremayne's eyes are very glad to see you, Mr Underhill," said he,
laughingly: and Mr Underhill wrung his hand till Robin's fingers must
have tingled no little.
"Draw a chair and fall to, man," said John.
"Go to!" replied Mr Underhill; and did so with much apparent gusto.
"Well, so your work is over," said John. "How passed all? and where is
the Queen?"
"In her bed, I hope," answered Mr Underhill, "unless she be somewhat
more than other women. Marry, but she must be aweary to-night! 'Twas a
splendrous matter, and worth seeing; but as cold as charity. And when
'tis January other where, 'tis not August in Westminster Abbey. We
heretics fared uncommon well; George Ferris and I got a red deer pie
betwixt us, and we made it look ashamed of himself ere we had done, I
warrant you."
"Ned Underhill!" said John, "'tis a standing marvel to me that Austin
Bernher and thou should have come out of Queen Mary's persecution
alive."
"'Tis a greater marvel to me that thou shouldst," replied Mr Underhill,
a second time attacking the buttered eggs. "Mrs Avery, I hope you have
more eggs in the house?--With all thy prudence, and cautiousness, and
wariness, sweet Jack, thou earnest not off a whit better than thy rash
and foolish neighbour."
"Nay," answered John, "I came off thus much better, that I never yet saw
the inside of Newgate."
"Tush! that was for a ballad I writ," said he. "But thou canst not say
I fared the worse, saving that."
"I cannot," answered John, "and thereat I marvel no little."
"O wise and sagacious Jack! didst ever pluck a nettle?"
"I have done such a thing," replied he.
"Then thou wist that the gentler 'tis handled, the more it stingeth.
Now for my moral: take Queen Mary as the nettle, and thou seest my way
of dealing."
"Your pardon, friend Underhill!" said Mr Rose, "but I can in no wise
allow that either of you were saved by your way of dealing. Let Him
have all the glory unto whom it belongeth."
"Amen!" responded Mr Underhill. "Jack, may we sing the _Te Deum_ in
thine house to-night, an't like thy squeamishness?"
"With a very good will, Ned," answered John. When supper was over, Mr
Underhill (who, for all his weariness, seemed in no haste to be at home)
drew up his chair to the fire, in the midst of the group, and said--
"Now, Tremayne,--your first sermon!"
Thus bidden, Robin began his story.
"When Mr Rose and I were parted, I was sent first to the Marshalsea.
Here I abode a full year, during the which I several times saw Austin
Bernher. But afore I had been there a month, I was had up afore my Lord
of London. So soon as he saw me, he put on a very big and ruffling air,
and quoth he,--`Come hither, thou wicked heretic! what canst thou say
for thyself?'--`Nothing, my Lord,' said I, `save that though I be
sinful, yet am I no heretic,'--`Ha! sayest thou so?' quoth my Lord. `I
will soon see whether thou be an heretic or no. Tell me, dost thou hold
the very presence of Christ's body and blood to be in the sacrament of
the altar?' To whom I--`My Lord, I do believe verily, as Christ hath
said, that where two or three be gathered together in His name, there is
He in the midst of them.'--`Ho, thou crafty varlet!' quoth he, `wouldst
turn the corner after that manner? By Saint Mary her kirtle, but it
shall not serve thy turn. Tell me now, thou pestilent companion; when
the priest layeth the bread and wine upon the altar, afore the
consecration, what then is there?' Then said I,--`Bread and wine, my
Lord.'--`Well said,' quoth he. `And after the words of consecration be
spoken, what then is there?'--`Bread and wine, my Lord,' I answered
again.--`Ha!' saith he, `I thought I could catch thee, thou lither
[wicked, abandoned] heretic. Dost not then believe that after
consecration done, there in the body and blood of Christ, verily and
alone, nor any more the substance of bread and wine remaining?'--`My
Lord,' said I, `my sense doth assure me that the wine is yet wine, and
the bread, bread; mine understanding doth assure me that the body of our
Lord is a true natural human body, and cannot therefore be on an hundred
altars at one and the same time; and I am therein confirmed of Saint
Paul, which saith, that so oft as we do eat this _bread_, we do show
forth the death of the Lord.'--`Ha, thou runagate!' he roareth out;
`wilt thou quote from Scripture in English? Hast thou no Latin? I have
a whip that shall make thee speak Latin.'--`My Lord,' said I, `I can
quote from the Scripture in Latin, if that like your Lordship the
better; and likewise in Greek, the which (being the tongue wherein they
were written at the first) should be all the surer; but I, being an
Englishman born (for the which I thank God), do more naturally read the
Scripture in English.'--`I will not have thee to speak Greek!' crieth
he. `'Tis the Devil that did invent Greek of late years, to beguile
unwary men. And I do thee to wit that the Scripture was not writ in
Greek, thou lying varlet! but in the holy tongue, Latin.'--`It would ill
become me to gainsay your Lordship,' said I.--`I will have thee back,'
saith he, `to the first matter. And I bid thee answer me without any
cunning or evasion: Dost thou believe that our Lord's body was eaten of
the blessed Apostles, or no?'--`My Lord,' I answered, `with all
reverence unto your Lordship's chair and office, seeing the Lord's body
was crucified on the Friday, I do not believe, nor cannot, that it was
eaten of the Apostles the even afore.' Then he arose up out of his
seat, and gnashed his teeth, and railed on me with great abuse; crying,
`Ha, thou heretic! thou lither knave! (and worser words than these) I
have thee! I have outwitted thee! Thou art fairly beat and put down.--
Have the heretic knave away, and keep him close.' And so I was carried
back to the Marshalsea."
"Marry," said Mr Underhill, "but I think it was Edmund Bonner that was
put down. I never knew what a witty fellow thou wert."
"Robin," said Isoult, "it should have aggrieved me sorely to be so
unjustly handled. To hear him say that he had beat thee, when it was
thou that hadst beat him! It should have gone mightily against the
grain with me."
"The old story," answered Mr Rose. "`Is not that He whose high places
and whose altars Hezekiah hath taken away?' Methinks that should rankle
sore in Hezekiah's mind, and in the hearts of them that lovest him.
Bishop Bonner is somewhat coarser and less subtle, yet 'tis the same
thing in both cases."
"Well," said Robin, with a smile to those who had spoken, "after that I
was not called up again. When at last I was brought out from the
Marshalsea, I counted it would be surely either for an other examination
or for burning. But, to my surprise, they set me on an horse, that was
tied to the horse of one of the Sheriff's men, and I (with some twelve
other prisoners likewise bound) was taken a long journey of many days.
I could see by the sun that we were going west; but whither I wist not,
and the man to whom I was bound refused to tell me. At the last we
entered into a great city, walled and moated. Here we were brought
afore a priest, that demanded of each of us what was the cause of our
sentence; to whom I answered, `Sir, I have not yet been sentenced, but I
believe the cause of my prison to be that I do put faith in Saint Paul's
words, that when we do show forth the Lord's death in the Sacrament of
His Supper, it is bread the which we do eat.' Whereat he smiled
somewhat, but after scowled, and bade an officer have me thence. Of
whom I was taken down _into_ a cell or little dungeon, and there set by
myself. I asked of the officer where I was; and he laughed, and at
first would not tell me. But after he said, `Well, you are in Exeter,
but say not unto any that I told it you.' In the prison at Exeter
(where I was alone) I lay methinks over _two_ years. Ah!" pursued
Robin, dropping his voice, "it was hard work lying there! Men had
forgotten me, I thought; I began to marvel whether God had. I saw none
but my gaoler, that brought me meat [then the generic term for food]
morning and evening, but scarce ever spake to me: and I fell at times to
talking with myself, that I should not forget mine own tongue, nor be
affrighted at the sound of mine own voice. At last, just as the warm
days of Spring were coming, I was brought out, and again set on an
horse. We went north this time; and one even, after passing by certain
monastical buildings, we stayed at the door of a stately palace. Here I
was bidden to 'light, for that we should go no further. They carried me
away through many lobbies, and down stairs, and at length we came unto a
chamber where was a gaoler sitting, with his keys at his girdle. He and
my guide spake together, and he then bare me unto a cell, wherein I was
locked. I asked again where I was, but to no end beyond being bidden to
hold my peace, and stricken on the head with his keys. Here I passed
not many days, ere one even the gaoler came unto me, and bade me to
follow him. He led me down further stairs, and at the very bottom
opened a heavy door. I could see nothing within. `Go in,' said he,
gruffly, `and fall no further than you can help. You were best to slide
down.' I marvelled whither I were going; but I took his avisement, and
grasping the door-sill with mine hands, I slid down into the darkness.
At length my feet found firm ground, though I were a little bruised in
the descent; but I lighted on no floor, but a point only--all the walls
sloping away around me. `Are you there?' growls the gaoler--but his
voice sounded far above me. `I am some whither,' said I, `but I can
find no floor.' He laughed a rough laugh, and saith `You can find as
much as there is. There is _little ease_ yonder.' And he shut to the
door and left me. All at once it flashed on me where I was: and so
terrible was the knowledge, that a cold sweat brake forth all over me.
I had heard of the horrible prison in the Bishop of Lincoln's Palace of
Woburn, called Little Ease [Note 1], which tapered down to a point,
wherein a man might neither stand, nor sit, nor lie. Somewhat like
despair came over me. Were they about to leave me to lie here and die
of hunger? I shouted, and my voice came back to me with a mocking echo.
I held my breath to listen, and I heard no sound. I was an outcast, a
dead man out of mind; `the earth with her bars was about me for ever.'
I had borne all easily (so to speak) save this. But now I covered my
face with mine hands, and wept like a child."
"My poor Robin!" said Isoult. "Tell me when this was."
"It was at the beginning of the hot weather," he answered. "I fancy it
might be about June. I thanked God heartily that it was not winter."
"Ay," said she, "thou wouldst have more light."
"Light!" he said, and smiled. "No light ever came into Little Ease. I
never knew day from night all the while I was there. Once in three days
my gaoler unlocked the door, and let down to me a rope, at the end
whereof was a loaf of bread, and after a tin pitcher of water; and I had
to fasten thereto the empty pitcher. Such thirst was on me that I
commonly drank the water off, first thing."
"But how didst thou go to bed?" asked Walter.
Robin smiled, and told the child there was no bed to go to.
"And did the gaoler never forget thee?" Kate wished to know.
"Twice he did," answered Robin, "for a day. But that would not kill me,
thou wist. I became very weak ere I came forth. But to continue:--I
wept long and bitterly, but it gave me no comfort. I felt as if nothing
ever would give me comfort again. The Devil was very near me. It was
all folly, he whispered. I had hoped a vision, and had believed a lie.
God was dead, if there ever were any God; He never came into Little
Ease. None would ever know where and what I was become. I should die
here, and if fifty years hence my whitened bones were found, none would
know whose they had been. Your dear faces rose around me, and I could
have wept again, to think I should never see you any more. But the
fountain of my tears was dried now. Mine heart seemed to be freezing
into rock than which the walls of Little Ease were no harder. I sat or
lay, call it what you will, thinking gloomily and drearily, until at
last nature could bear no more, and I slept, even there."
"Well, Robin!" said Kate, "if thine heart were frozen, methinks it
thawed again afore thou earnest hither."
"It did so, sweet heart," said he, smiling on her. "Even as I awoke, a
text of Scripture darted into my memory, well-nigh as though one had
spoken it to me. A strange text, you will say,--yet it was the one for
me then:--`Then Jonah prayed unto the Lord his God out of the fish's
belly.' Well, I was no worse off than Jonah. It seemed yet more
unlike, his coming forth of that fish's belly, than did my coming forth
of Little Ease. Methought I, so near in Jonah's case, would try Jonah's
remedy. To have knelt I could not; no more, I fancy, could Jonah. But
I could pray as well as he. That was the first gleam of inward light;
and after that it grew. Ay--grew till I was no more alone, because God
companied with me; till I was no more an hungred, because God fed me;
till I thirsted no more, because God led me unto living fountains of
waters; till I wept no more, because God wiped away all tears from mine
eyes. Ere I came forth, I would not have changed Little Ease for the
fairest chamber of the Queen's Palace, if thereby I had left Him behind.
It gained on me, till my will grew into God's will--till I was
absolutely content to die or live, as He would; to be burned in
Smithfield, or to come home and clasp you all to mine heart--as should
be most to His glory. The heats of summer, I thought, must be come; but
on the hottest summer day, there was but cold and damp in Little Ease.
The summer, methought, must be passing; and then, it must be past. I
had left hoping for change. I only thought how _very_ fair and sweet
the House of the Father would be to me after this. So the hours rolled
away, until one morrow, out of the wonted order, I heard the door
unlocked. `Are you there?' calls the gaoler in his gruff voice. `Ay,'
said I. `Feel about for a rope,' quoth he, `and set the noose under
your arms; you are to come forth.' Was this God calling to me? I did
not think of the pains of death; I only remembered the after-joy of
seeing Him. I found the rope, and the loop thereof, which I set under
mine arms. `Cry out when you are ready,' saith he. I cried, and he
slung me up. Can I tell you what pain it was? The light--the sweet
summer light of heaven--was become torture; and I could neither stand
nor walk. `Ha!' saith he, when he saw this, `you have not grown
stronger. How liked you Little Ease?'--`I like what God liketh for me,'
I made answer. He looked on me somewhat scornfully. `Methinks you be
but half rocked yet,' saith he. `Maybe you shall come back. Matt!' At
the shout an under-gaoler came forth of a door. `Take thou this fellow
by the arm,' saith he. `We shall be like to bear him.' Himself took
mine other arm, and so, more borne than walking, I reached the hall of
the Palace. Here they took me into a little light chamber, suffered me
to wash, and gave me clean garments, to my great ease. Then they sat me
down at a table, and set before me a mess of sodden meat, with bread and
drink, and bade me to eat well. I thought I was going afore the Bishop
for sentence. But, to my surprise, they let me alone; locked me into
the chamber, and there left me. This chamber had a barred window,
looking out on the Palace court, in the midst whereof was a round of
green grass. I cannot set in words the exquisite delight that window
gave me. The green grass and the blue sky--I could never tire of them.
Here they fed me well three times in the day; and at night I lay on a
mattress, which was softer to me then than I ever felt afore a bed of
down. When at last I was strong enough to ride, I was set on an horse,
and his bridle tied to the horse of the Sheriff's man. So we rade away
from Woburn, twenty or more in company. This time I saw we went south.
At the last (I will not essay to tell you with what feelings), I knew we
were nearing London. I wonder where were you, beloved, that even that I
rade in at Aldgate? I looked longingly down the Minories, but I could
see no familiar face."
"Why, Robin dear, what even was it?" said Isoult.
"How shall I tell thee, sweet mother, when I know not yet what even is
this?" said he, and smiled. "It was fifteen weeks from to-day, saving
three days."
"There is a sum!" said Mr Underhill. "Jack, whether can thou or I do
it? Fifteen--two thirty-ones and a thirty--saving three--the 5th of
October, I make it."
"I think so," assented John.
"October!" said Robin, still smiling. "I fancied it earlier. It is
January, then, now? I thought we were not past Christmas. Well,
through the City went we, and into Newgate, where, as afore, I was
lodged alone."
"Newgate!" cried Mr Underhill. "And how doth mine old friend
Alisaunder, and my most gentlest mistress his wife?"
"I saw not her," replied Robin; "but to judge from his face, I should
say he doth rarely well. Here, then, in Newgate, I lay, marvelling that
I was never sentenced and burned; but I knew nothing of the cause nor of
what passed, until this even all the doors were unlocked, and we
prisoners all were bidden to go forth, whither we would, for Queen
Elizabeth reigned, and this was her Coronation Day. How strange it was
to be free!"
"I marvelled what thou wert suffering, Robin dear," said Isoult, "but we
never thought of Little Ease. We took thee for dead."
"So I thought you would," said he. "And now that I am returned to men's
life again, tell me, I pray you, what day is this--of the month and
week?"
"'Tis the 15th of January," said she, "and Sunday."
"And the year," he resumed, pausing, "I suppose, is Fifteen Hundred and
Fifty-Eight?" [By the old reckoning from Easter to Easter.]
"It is so, dear heart," answered Isoult.
"It seemeth me," said Robin, "a little picture of the resurrection."
"Come, friends!" cried Mr Underhill, springing up, "I must be going, and
I will not be balked of my _Te Deum_. Jack, thou promisedst it me."
"So I did," answered he, smiling. "Strike up, and we will all follow."
He struck up the chant, in his fine deep voice, and all joined in. Then
Mr Underhill took his leave, and went home; after which the rest sat a
little while in silence. Mr Rose was the first to break it.
"Robin, hast thou still a purpose to receive orders?"
"More than ever!" cried Robin, eagerly. "I never could before have told
the people one-half of what I can tell now. I knew that God was
sufficient for some things, but now I see Him all-sufficient and for
all. I knew He could lift man up to Him, like a mother learning a child
day by day; but I scantly knew how He could come down to man, like the
same mother bending her sense down to the stature of her child, entering
into his difficulties, feeling his troubles, making her a child for him.
`I, even I, am He that comforteth you;' `I will comfort you, and ye
shall be comforted;' yea, `as one whom his mother comforteth, so will I
comfort you.'"
"I think thou art right," said Mr Rose, softly.
Again they sat in silence till the clock struck eight--the hour at which
they commonly parted for the night. Before any one moved, Mr Rose
called Thekla to him. When she obeyed, he took her hand, and laid it in
Robin's.
"The Lord bless you, and keep you!" he said tenderly. "My son, thou
hast been in sorrow, and God hath been with thee: see thou leave Him not
out of thy joy. May Jesus, who was the chief guest at the wedding in
Cana of Galilee, be with you also, and turn the water of earthly hope
into the best wine of heavenly peace. We have asked Him to the match;
Lord, make One at the marriage!"
There was no voice silent in the Amen.
And then, as if the very act of lifting up his heart to God had borne
him above earth, and he had forgotten the thing that caused it, Mr Rose
went on:--
"`For Thou only art holy, Thou only art the Lord! Thou only, O Christ,
with the Holy Ghost, art most high in the glory of God the Father!'"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. There were several prisons which bore this name, one of them in
London. The most horrible of all was that at Woburn, and was, I
believe, the only one constructed on this cruel principle.