alway deterred me from the same. But if she hath told you, Sir, that
she gave me no encouragement to love and serve her, nor no hope of
wedding with her in due time,--why, then, she hath played you false as
well as me."
It was manifest that Arthur was not only much distressed, but also very
angry.
"And thou never spakest word to me, my son!" came in gentle tones of
rebuke from his mother.
"Ah, the young folks make not the confessor of the father nor the
mother," said Mrs Rose smiling, and shaking her head. "It were the
better that they did it, Arthur."
"Mother, it was not my fault," pleaded Arthur earnestly. "I would have
spoken both to you and to Sir Thomas here, if she had suffered me. Only
the very last time I urged it on her--and that no further back than this
last week--she threatened me to have no further dealing with me, an' I
spake to either of you."
"Often-times," observed Mrs Rose thoughtfully, "the maidens love not
like the mothers, _mon cheri_."
"God have mercy!" groaned poor Sir Thomas, who was not least to be
pitied of the group. "I am afeared Rachel hath the right. Lucrece hath
not been true in this matter."
"There is no truth in her!" cried Arthur bitterly. "And for the matter
of that, there is none in woman!"
"_Le beau compliment_!" said his grandmother, laughing.
His mother looked reproachfully at him, but did not speak.
"And Rachel saith there is none in man," returned Sir Thomas with grim
humour. "Well-a-day! what will the world come to?"
These little pebbles in her path did not seem to trouble the easy
smoothness of Lucrece's way. She prepared her trousseau with her
customary placidity; debated measures and trimmings with her aunt as if
entirely deaf to that lady's frequent interpolations of wrath; consulted
Blanche on the style of her jewellery, and Clare on the embroidery of
her ruffs, as calmly as if there were not a shadow on her conscience nor
her heart. Perhaps there was not.
Sir Piers took Jack down to London, and settled him in his post of
deputy gentleman usher to the Queen; and at the end of six months, he
returned to Enville Court for his marriage. Everything went off with
the most absolute propriety. Lucrece's costume was irreproachable; her
manners, ditto. The festivities were prolonged over a week, and on
their close, Sir Piers and Lady Feversham set out, for their home in
Norfolk. No sign of annoyance was shown from the parsonage, except that
Arthur was not at home when the wedding took place; and that Lysken,
whom Lucrece graciously requested to be one of her bridesmaids,
declined, with a quiet keenness of manner which any one but Lucrece
would have felt.
"If it should like thee to have me for thy bridesmaid, Lucrece," she
said, looking her calmly in the face, "it should not like me." [In
modern phraseology,--I should not like it.]
The bride accepted the rebuke with unruffled suavity.
Of course there were the ceremonies then usual at weddings, and a shower
of old slippers greeted bride and bridegroom as they rode away.
"Aunt Rachel, you hit her on the head!" cried Blanche, looking
astonished.
"I took metely good aim," assented Rachel, with grim satisfaction. "A
good riddance of--Blanche, child, if thou wouldst have those flowers to
live, thou wert best put them in water."
CHAPTER TWELVE.
A GLIMPSE OF THE HOT GOSPELLER.
"In service which Thy love appoints
There are no bonds for me;
My secret heart has learned the truth
Which makes Thy children free:
A life of self-renouncing love
Is a life of liberty."
_Anna L. Waring_.
"I hold not with you there, Parson!"
The suddenness of this appeal would have startled any one less calm and
self-controlled than the Reverend Robert Tremayne, who was taking off
his surplice in the vestry after morning prayers one Wednesday, when
this unexpected announcement reached him through the partially open
door. But it was not the Rector's habit to show much emotion of any
kind, whatever he might feel.
"Pray you, come forward," he said quietly, in answer to the challenge.
The door, pushed wide open by the person without, revealed a handsome
old man, lithe and upright still,--whose hair was pure white, and his
brown eyes quick and radiant. He marched in and seated himself upon the
settle, grasping a stout oaken stick in both hands, and gazing up into
the Rector's face. His dress, no less than his manners, showed that
notwithstanding the blunt and eccentric nature of his greeting, he was
by birth a gentleman.
"And wherein hold you not with me, Sir, I pray you?" inquired Mr
Tremayne with some amusement.
"In your tolerating of evil opinion."
"I cry you mercy. What evil opinion have I tolerated?"
"If you will tolerate men which hold evil opinions, you must needs
tolerate evil opinion."
"I scantly see that."
"Maybe you see this?" demanded the stranger, pulling a well-worn Bible
from a capacious pocket.
"My sight is sharp enough for so much," returned Mr Tremayne
good-naturedly.
"Well, and I tell you," said the stranger, poising the open Bible
between his hands, "there is no such word as toleration betwixt the two
backs of this book!"
The two backs of the book were brought together, by way of emphasising
the assertion, with a bang which might almost have been heard to the
parsonage.
"There is no such _word_, I grant you."
"No, Sir!--and there is no such thing."
"That hangeth, I take it, on what the word is held to signify."
"Shall I tell you what it signifieth?"
"Pray you, so do."
"Faint-heartedness, Sir!--weakness--recreancy--cowardliness--shamedness
of the truth!"
"An ill-sounding list of names," said Mr Tremayne quietly. "And one of
none whereof I would by my good-will be guilty.--Pray you, whom have I
the honour to discourse withal?"
"A very pestilent heretic, that Queen Mary should have burned, and
forgat."
"She did not that with many," was the significant answer.
"She did rare like to it with a lad that I knew in King Edward's days,
whose name was Robin Tremayne."
"Master Underhill, my dear old friend!" cried the Rector, grasping his
visitor's hand warmly. "I began these two minutes back to think I
should know those brown eyes, but I might not set a name thereto all at
once."
"Ha! the `pestilent heretic' helped thee to it, I reckon!" replied the
guest laughing. "Ay, Robin, this is he thou knewest of old time. We
will fight out our duello another time, lad. I am rare glad to see thee
so well-looking."
"From what star dropped you, Master Underhill? or what fair wind blew
you hither?"
"I am dropped out of Warwickshire, lad, if that be a star; and I came
hither of a galloway's back (but if he were the wind, 'twas on the
stillest night of the year!) And how goes it with Mrs Thekla? I saw
her last in her bride's gear."
"She will be rarely glad to see you, old friend; and so, I warrant you,
will our mother, Mistress Rose. Will you take the pain to go with me to
mine house?--where I will ensure you of a good bed and a rare welcome."
"Wilt thou ensure me of twain, lad?" asked the old man, with a comic
twinkle in his eyes.
"Twain! What, which of all my small ancient friends be with you?--Ay,
and that as hearty as to yourself.--Is it Hal or Ned?"
"Thou art an ill guesser, Robin: 'tis neither Ned nor Hal. Thy _small_
friends, old lad, be every man and woman of them higher than their
father. Come, let us seek the child. I left her a-poring and posing
over one of the tombs in the church.--What, Eunice!--I might as well
have left my staff behind as leave her."
It was plainly to be perceived, by the loud call which resounded through
the sacred edifice, that Mr Underhill was not fettered by any
superstitious reverence for places. A comely woman answered the call,--
in years about thirty-seven, in face particularly bright and pleasant.
The last time that Mr Tremayne had seen her, Eunice Underhill was about
as high as the table.
"And doth Mistress Rose yet live?" said her father, as they went towards
the parsonage. "She must be a mighty old grandame now. And all else be
gone, as I have heard, that were of old time in the Lamb?"
"All else, saving Barbara Polwhele,--you mind Barbara, the chamber--
maiden?--and Walter's daughter, Clare, which is now a maid of twenty
years."
"Ah, I would fain see yon lass of little Walter's. What manner of wife
did the lad wed?"
"See her--ask not me," said the Rector smiling.
"Now, how read I that? Which of the Seven Sciences hath she lost her
way in?"
"In no one of them all."
"Come, I will ask Mrs Thekla."
Mr Tremayne laughed.
"You were best see her for yourself, as I cast no doubt you soon will.
How long time may we hope to keep you?"
"Shall you weary of us under a month?"
Mr Underhill was warmly enough assured that there was no fear of any
such calamity.
Most prominent of his party--which was Puritan of the Puritans--was
Edward Underhill of Honyngham, the Hot Gospeller. His history was a
singular one. Left an heir and an orphan at a very early age, he had
begun life as a riotous reveller. Soon after he reached manhood, God
touched his heart--by what agency is not recorded. Then he "fell to
reading the Scriptures and following the preachers,"--throwing his whole
soul into the service of Christ, as he had done before into that of
Satan. Had any person acquainted with the religious world of that day
been asked, on the outbreak of Queen Mary's persecution, to name the
first ten men who would suffer, it is not improbable that Edward
Underhill's name would have been found somewhere on the list. But, to
the astonishment of all who knew his decided views, and equally decided
character, he had survived the persecution, with no worse suffering than
a month spent in Newgate, and a tedious illness as the result. Nor was
this because he had either hidden his colours, or had struck them.
Rather he kept his standard flying to the breeze, and defied the foe.
No reason can be given for his safety, save that still the God of Daniel
could send His angel and shut the lions' mouths, that they should do His
prophets no hurt.
On the accession of Elizabeth, Underhill returned for a short time to
his London home in Wood Street, Cheapside; but die soon went back to the
family seat in Warwickshire, where he had since lived as a country
squire. [Note 1.]
"Yet these last few months gone have I spent in London," said he, "for
my Hal [name true, character imaginary] would needs have me. Now,
Robin, do thou guess what yon lad hath gat in his head. I will give
thee ten shots."
"No easy task, seeing I ne'er had the good fortune to behold him. What
manner of lad is he?"
"Eunice?" said her father, referring the question to her.
Eunice laughed. "Hal is mighty like his father, Master Tremayne. He
hath a stout will of his own, nor should you quickly turn him thence."
"Lo you, now, what conditions doth this jade give me!" laughed
Underhill. "A stubborn old brute, that will hear no reason!"
"Hal will not hear o'ermuch, when he is set on aught," said Eunice.
"Well," said Mr Tremayne thoughtfully, "so being, I would guess that he
had set his heart, to be Archbishop of Canterbury, or else Lord Privy
Seal."
"_Ma foi_!" interposed Mrs Rose, "but I would guess that no son of Mr
Underhill should tarry short of a king. Mind you not, _hermano_, that I
did once hear you to say that you would not trust your own self, had you
the chance to make your Annette a queen?"
"Dear heart, Mistress Rose! I would the lad had stayed him at nought
worser. Nay, he is not for going up the ladder, but down. Conceive
you, nought will serve him but a journey o'er seas, and to set him up a
home in the Queen's Majesty's country of Virginia--yea, away in the
plantations, amongst all the savages and wild beasts, and men worser
than either, that have been of late carried thither from this land, for
to be rid of them. `Come, lad,' said I to him, `content thee with
eating of batatas [the Spanish word of which _potato_ is a corruption]
and drinking of tobacco [smoking tobacco was originally termed
_drinking_ it], and leave alone this mad fantasy.' But not he, in good
sooth! Verily, for to go thither as a preacher and teacher, with hope
to reform the ill men,--that had been matter of sore peril, and well to
be thought on; yet would I not have said him nay, had the Lord called
him to it;--but to make his _home_!"
And Mr Underhill stopped short, as if words were too weak adequately to
convey his feelings.
"Maybe the Lord hath called him to that, old friend," said the Rector.
"His eyes be on Virginia, no less than England."
"God forbid I should deny it! Yet there is such gear as tempting the
Lord. For my part,--but la! I am an old man, and the old be less
venturesome than the young,--yet for me, I see not what should move a
man to dwell any whither out of his own country, without he must needs
fly to save his life."
"Had all men been of your mind," observed Mr Tremayne with a smile,
"there had ne'er been any country inhabited save one, until men were
fairly pushed thence by lack of room."
"Well!--and wherefore should any quit home until he be pushed out?"
"Ask at Hal," said the Rector laughing.
"No have I so? Yea, twenty times twice told: but all I may win from the
young ne'er-do-well is wise saws that the world must be peopled (why so,
I marvel?),--and that there is pleasure in aventure (a deal more, I
reckon, in keeping of one's carcase safe and sound!)--and that some men
must needs dwell in strange lands, and the like. Well-a-day! wherefore
should they so? Tell me that, Robin Tremayne."
"I will, old friend, when mine amaze is o'er at hearing of such words
from one Ned Underhill."
"Amaze!--what need, trow?"
"But little need, when one doth call to mind that the most uncommon of
all things is consistency. Only when one hath been used for forty years
and more to see a man (I name him not) ever foremost in all perilous
aventure, and thrusting him forward into whatsoever danger there were as
into a bath of rosewater, 'tis some little surprise that taketh one to
hear from the self-same party that 'tis never so much sweeter to keep
safe and sound at home."
Mr Underhill threw his head back, and indulged in a hearty peal of
laughter.
"On my word, Robin, thou ticklest me sore! But what, lad!--may a man
not grow prudent in his old age?"
"By all manner of means, or in his youth no less; but this will I say,
that the last prudent man I looked to set eyes on should bear the name
of Underhill."
"Well-a-day! Here is Eunice made up of prudence."
"She taketh after her mother, trow," replied the Rector dryly.
"Come, I'll give o'er, while I have some bones left whole.--And what
thinkest, lad, of the outlook of matters public at this time?"
"Nay, what think you, that have been of late in London?"
"Robin," said Mr Underhill gravely, "dost mind, long years gone, when
King Edward his reign was well-nigh o'er, the ferment men's minds gat in
touching the succession?"
"_Eh, la belle journee_!" said Mrs Rose waggishly. "I do well mind the
ferment _you_ were in, Mr Underhill, and how you did push your Queen
Mary down all the throats of your friends: likewise how sweetly she did
repay you, bidding you for a month's visit to her palace of Newgate!
Pray you, shall it be the same again, _hermano_?"
"Dear heart! What a memory have you, Mistress Rose!" said Mr
Underhill, with another hearty laugh. "It shall scantly be Newgate
again, metrusteth: the rather, since there is no Queen Mary to thrust
adown your throats--thank the Lord for that and all other His mercies.
He that we may speak of is no Papist, whatso else; but I mistake
greatly, Robin, if somewhat the same matter shall not come o'er again,
should it please God to do a certain thing."
Mr Underhill spoke thus vaguely, having no wish to finish his days on
the gallows; as men had done ere now, for little more than a hint that
the reigning Sovereign might not live for ever.
"And when the ferment come, under what flag must we look for you, Mr
Underhill?" asked. Mrs Tremayne.
"Well," said he, "Harry Eighth left a lad and two lasses, and we have
had them all. But Harry Seventh left likewise a lad and two lasses; and
we have had the lad, but ne'er a one of the lasses."
"Both these lasses be dead," responded the Rector.
"They be so. But the first left a lad and a lass; and that lad left a
lass, and that lass left a lad--which is alive and jolly."
This meant, that Queen Margaret of Scotland, elder sister of Henry the
Eighth, had issue King James the Fifth, whose daughter was Mary Queen of
Scots, and her son was James the Sixth, then living.
"You count the right lieth there?" queried Mr Tremayne.
Mr Underhill nodded his head decidedly.
"And is--yonder party--well or ill affected unto the Gospellers?--how
hear you?"
"Lutheran to the back-bone--with no love for Puritans, as men do now
begin to call us Hot Gospellers."
"Thus is the Queen, mecounteth: and we have thriven well under her, and
have full good cause to thank God for her."
"Fifty years gone, Robin--when she was but a smatchet [a very young
person]--I said that lass would do well. There is a touch of old Hal in
her--not too much, but enough to put life and will into her."
"There shall scantly be that in him."
"Nay, I'll not say so much. Meg had a touch of Hal, too. 'Twas ill
turning her down one road an' she took the bit betwixt her teeth, and
had a mind to go the other. There was less of it in Mall, I grant you.
And as to yon poor luckless loon, Mall's heir,--if he wit his own mind,
I reckon 'tis as much as a man may bargain for. England ne'er loveth
such at her helm--mark you that, Robin. She may bear with them, but she
layeth no affiance in them."
Mr Underhill's hearers knew that by the poor luckless loon, he meant
Edward Seymour, Lord Beauchamp, the representative of the Princess Mary,
younger sister of Henry the Eighth. He was heir of England under
Henry's will, and might, if he had chosen it, have been a very
formidable opponent of King James.
"There was trial made, in King Harry's days," said the Rector
thoughtfully, "to join the two Crowns of England and Scotland, by
marrying of King Edward, that then was Prince, with their young Queen
Mary."
"Well-a-day!--what changes had been, had that matter come to
perfection!"
"It were a mighty great book, friend, that should be writ, were all set
down that might have happened if things had run other than they have
done. But I pray you, what outlook is now for the Gospellers--or
Puritans, if they be so called--these next few years? Apart from the
Court--be they in good odour in London, or how?"
"Be they in good odour in Heaven, you were better to ask. What is any
great town but a sink of wickedness? And when did ill men hold good men
in esteem?"
"Ah, Mr Underhill, but there is difficulty beside that," said Mrs
Rose, shaking her head. "Wherefore, will you tell me, cannot the good
men be content to think all the same thing, and not go quarrel, quarrel,
like the little boys at play?"
"So they should, Mistress Rose!--so they should!" said Mr Underhill
uncompromisingly. "What with these fantasies and sectaries and
follies--well-a-day! were I at the helm, there should be ne'er an
opinion save one."
"That is the very thing Queen Mary thought," said Mr Tremayne, looking
amused.
"Dear heart! what will the lad say next?" demanded Mr Underhill in a
surprised tone.
"'Tis truth, old friend. See you not that to keep men of one opinion,
the only way is to slay them that be of the contrary? Living men must
differ. Only the dead ne'er wrangle touching aught."
"Eh, Robin, man! `Live peaceably with all men.'"
"`As much as lieth in you.' Paul was wiser than you, saving your
presence."
"But, Robin, my son," said Mrs Rose, "I would not say only, for such
matters as men may differ in good reason. They cannot agree on the
greater things, _mon cheri_,--nay, nor on the little, littles no more.--
Look you, Mr Underhill, we have in this parish a man that call himself
a Brownist--I count he think the brown the only colour that is right; if
he had made the world, all the flowers should be brown, and the leaves
black: eh, _ma foi_! what of a beautiful world to live in!--_Bien_! this
last May Day, Sir Thomas Enville set up the maypole on the green.
`Come, Master,' he said to the Brownist, `you dance round the
maypole?'--`Nay, nay,' saith he, `it savoureth of Popery.' `Well,'
quoth he, `then you come to prayer in the church! There is nothing
against that, I trow?'--`Good lack, nay!' saith he, `'tis an idle form.
I cannot pray without the Spirit aid me; and the Spirit will not be
bounden down unto dead forms.' And so, Mr Underhill, they fall to
wrangling. Now, is it not sad? Not only they will not take their
pleasure together, but they will not say their prayers together no more.
Yet they all look to meet in Heaven. They will not wrangle and quarrel
there, I trow? Then why can they not be at peace these few days the
sooner?"
This was a long speech for Mrs Rose.
"Well, to speak truth," said Mr Underhill, "I could find in mine heart
to cry `Hail, fellow!' to your Brownist over the maypole: though I see
not wherein it savoureth of Popery, but rather of Paganism. Howbeit, as
I well know, Popery and Paganism be sisters, and dwell but over the way
the one from the other. But as to the Common Prayer being but a form,
and that dead,--why, I pray you, what maketh it a dead form save the
dead heart of him that useth the same? The very Word of God is but a
dead thing, if the soul of him that readeth it be dead."
A certain section of the laity are earnestly petitioning the clergy for
"a hearty service." Could they make a more absurd request? The heart
is in the worshipper, not in the service. And who can bring his heart
to it but himself?
"_Ma foi_!" said Mrs Rose, with a comical little grimace, "but indeed I
did think, when we were set at rest from the Queen Mary and her
burnings, that we could have lived at peace the ones with the others."
"Then which counted you to be rid of, Mistress Rose--the childre of God
or the childre of the devil?. So long as both be in the world, I reckon
there'll not be o'er much peace," bluntly replied Underhill.
"Mind you what my dear father was used to say," asked Mr
Tremayne,--"`Afore the kingdom must come the King'? Ah, dear friends,
we have all too little of Christ. `We shall be satisfied,' and we shall
be of one mind in all things, only when we wake up `after His
likeness.'"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Clare Avery and Eunice Underhill struck up a warm friendship. Eunice
[name and dates true, character imaginary] was one of the few women who
keep "the dew of their youth," and in freshness, innocence, and
ignorance of this evil world, she was younger than many girls not half
her age. Her simplicity put Clare at ease, while her experience of life
awoke respect. Clare seized her opportunity one day, while taking a
long walk with Eunice, to obtain the opinion of the latter on the point
which still interested her, and compare it with that of Mrs Tremayne.
Why it was easier to talk to Eunice than to those at home, Clare could
not decide. Perhaps, had she discovered the reason, she might not have
found it very flattering to her self-love.
"Mistress Eunice, think you it easy to be content with small gear?"
"You would say with lack of goods?" asked Eunice.
"Nay; but with the having to deal with petty, passing matter, in the
stead of some noble deed that should be worthy the doing."
"I take you now, Mistress Clare. And I can feel for your perplexity,
seeing I have known the same myself."
"Oh, you have so?" responded Clare eagerly.
"Ay, I have felt as though the work set me to do were sheer waste of
such power and knowledge as God had given unto me; and have marvelled (I
would speak it with reverence) what the Lord would be at, that He thus
dealt with me. Petty things--mean things--little passing matter, as you
said, that none shall be the better for to-morrow; wherefore must I do
these? I have made a pudding, maybe; I have shaken up a bed; I have cut
an old gown into a kirtle. And to-morrow the pudding shall be eaten,
and the bed shall lack fresh straw, and ere long the gown shall be worn
to rags. But I shall live for ever. Wherefore should a soul be set to
such work which shall live for ever?"
"Ay,--you know!" said Clare, drawing a deep breath of satisfaction.
"Now tell me, Mistress Eunice, what answer find you to this question?
Shall it be with you, as with other, that these be my tasks at school?"