"I pray thee, make my commendations unto Mr Avery and all thine."

When Christmas Day came, the Averys did what half London was doing: they walked down to Westminster, to the great pulpit set up in the King's garden. Into the pulpit came a rather tall, spare old man, with a wrinkled face, a large Roman nose, s.h.a.ggy eyebrows, and radiant, shining eyes. And before the sermon was over, the eyes had kindled with a live coal from the altar of the Lord, and the firm voice was ringing clearly to every corner of that vast gathering. The preacher was Hugh Latimer.

He was about to leave London the next morning for Grimsthorpe, where he had undertaken, at the request of the d.u.c.h.ess of Suffolk, to deliver to her and her household a series of lectures on the Lord's Prayer. After the sermon, those quick bright eyes speedily found out Edward Underhill, and the old man came down from the pulpit and shook hands with him.

Then he turned to Isoult Avery, who stood near. He remembered meeting her at Ampthill and Guildford, some ten years before; and he blessed her, and asked what family she had; and when she told him, "Three," he said, "G.o.d bless them, and make them His childre." Then he laid his hand upon little Kate's head and blessed her; and then away, walking with a quick firm step, like a man whose work was but half done; with Augustine Bernher behind him, carrying the old man's Bible.

This year Saint Nicholas "went not about." The ceremony had previously taken place on his eve, December 5, when the priests carried his image round from house to house, and gave small presents to the children as from the saint. The modern American custom of "Santa Claus" is a relic of the old procession of Saint Nicholas; though the Dutch form of the name shows it to have been derived not from the English, but the Dutch, settlers. Kate's Protestantism was not yet sufficiently intelligent to prevent her from regretting Saint Nicholas; but Dr Thorpe coaxed Esther to make a handful of sugar-plums, whereon he regaled his disappointed pet.

The close of the year brought treats for both parents and children. At Saint Paul's, Bishop Ridley preached for five evenings together; and at Cheapside, with the new year, came the Lord of Misrule--again George Ferris--making his proclamations, and dining in state with the Lord Mayor. And at Shene, my Lord of Northumberland founded the first hot-house, and presented a nosegay of living flowers to the King on New Year's Day.

So, in flowers and laughter, came in the awful year 1553--most awful year of all the century.

One morning in January, as Isoult stood waiting for John, to go with him to Latimer's sermon, who should walk in but Philippa Ba.s.set, whose stay in Cheshire had been much longer than she antic.i.p.ated. She brought many a sc.r.a.p of Northern news, and Lady Bridget's loving commendations to Isoult. And "Whither away?" asked she.

"Truly," said Isoult, "to the King's Garden, to hear Mr Latimer preach."

"Marry," said she, "I did never yet hear that mighty Gospeller. Have [I will go] with you, an' you will take me."

"With a very good will," said Isoult.

So she went with them, and listened to Latimer's sermon, wherein there were some things which Isoult felt would vex her; for the subject was praying to saints, and he said, "Invocation declareth an omnipotency."

But not a word could Isoult get from her when they came home (for she stayed and dined with them), which showed how she liked it. Only she would say, "The man speaketh well; he hath good choice of words," and similar phrases; but on all points concerning his doctrine she kept silence.

As Isoult sat at her sewing the next morning, with Walter at his hornbook, and Kate at her arithmetic beside her, a rap on the door brought Ursula to open it. Isoult fancied she knew the voice which asked "if Mistress Avery there dwelt," but she could not think all at once whose it was; yet the minute she came into the chamber, she well knew her old friend and colleague, Beatrice Vivian.

Beatrice was fair and rosy, and looked well and happy, as she said she was. So when the ladies had sat and talked a little, and Beatrice had kissed the children, and told Isoult that she had two, whose names were Muriel and Alice, and that Mr Vivian was well, and other details: she said--

"Isoult, I have news for thee, which by thy leave I will have thee to guess."

"Is it good or bad?" said Isoult.

"Why, good, I hope," said Beatrice. "'Tis a wedding, and both bride and bridegroom we know."

"Dear heart," sighed Isoult, "I am an ill guesser, as thou wist of old.

Is it Mr Dynham?" [Fict.i.tious person.]

"What, my brother Leonard?" said she. "Nay, sweet heart; he hath been wed these six years."

"Is it over, or to come?"

"Over, this New Year, or should be," answered Beatrice. "Dost thou lack help? what thinkest of my Lady of Suffolk her own self?" [The date is fict.i.tious. It was probably about Christmas, 1552.]

"Beatrice, dear heart!" cried Isoult. "Thou meanest not that?"

"Ay, but I do," said she, laughing. "And now, whom hath her Grace wedded?"

"I would guess," said Isoult, "some gentleman of great riches and very high degree."

"Well, as to riches," she answered, "I fancy he hath hitherto earned every penny he hath spent; and in respect of degree, hath been used to the holding of his mistress' stirrup. Canst thou guess now?"

"Mr Bertie!" cried Isoult, in amazement. "Surely no!"

"Surely so," answered Beatrice, again laughing. "Her Grace of Suffolk and Mr Bertie be now man and wife. And for my poor opinion, methinks she hath chosen well for her own comfort."

"I am rarely glad to hear it," Isoult answered; "so think I likewise."

But for all that, she was exceedingly surprised.

There was some murmuring in May. The Duke of Northumberland, in the King's name, had ordered all the churches to furnish an account of their goods; and on the first day of that month, the treasuries were robbed of all the plate, money, jewels, and vestments, which were confiscated to the King's use; and the very bells of the churches shared their fate.

Dr Thorpe had been growling over the matter in April, when it was but a project; averring that "when he had caught a man's hand in his own pocket, it little amazed him afterward to see it in his neighbour's:"

but now, when the project reached open burglary, his anger found vent in hotter words.

"Lo' you now! this cut-purse hath got his hand into an other man's pocket, even as I said. _Will_ no man put this companion into the Tower? Can none clap him therein under any manner of warrant?"

Note 1. A gesture well understood at that time, when plain speech was often perilous--the half-clasped hands resting upon the head in the form of a crown. By this gesture, fifty years later, when past speech, Queen Elizabeth answered the question of Robert Cecil concerning her successor. She meant, and he understood her to mean--"Let it be a King."

Note 2. The cause of the first tumult was a sudden panic, occasioned by the running of some of the guards who arrived late; the second was due to the appearance of Sir Anthony Browne, whom the people fancied had been sent with a reprieve.

Note 3.

"Kingdoms are but cares, State is devoid of stay, Riches are ready snares, And hasten to decay."

_King Henry the Sixth_.

Note 4. Don and Dona are prefixes restricted to the Christian name. An Englishman using Don with the surname (an error to which our countrymen are strangely p.r.o.ne) commits the very same blunder for which he laughs at the Frenchman who says "Sir Peel."

Note 5. A common Spanish greeting, the absurdity of which makes us sympathise with Lope de Vega's Diana, in her matter-of-fact reply,--"Estan a los pies asidas" (They are fixed to my feet).

Note 6. Inez, the form more familiar to English readers, is the Portuguese spelling.

Note 7. Katherine is not really a translation of Catalina, but they were considered interchangeable at this time.

Note 8. Denia was at one time anxious to get rid of De Avila, because he was too gentle and lenient!

CHAPTER SEVEN.

HOW HOPE DIED WITH EDWARD.

"Alma real, dignissima d'impero, Se non fossi fra noi scesa si tardo."

Petrarch.

Thus, to soft music, with sufficient minor chords to form a pleasant contrast to the glad notes of the grand chorus, glided in upon the stage of England the five awful years of the Marian persecution.

Never had there been five such years in England. The sanguinary struggles of the Roses, the grinding oppression of Henry the Seventh, the spasmodic cruelties of Henry the Eighth, were not to be compared with this time. Of all persecutors, none is, because none other can be, so coldly, mercilessly, hopelessly unrelenting, as he who believes himself to be doing G.o.d service.