"Why, Philippa, what ill news?" asked I. "I heard of thy brother's death,--Mr James,--and writ to thee thereupon,"--for methought Philippa had not received my letter.

"Ay, I had thy letter, and I thank thee for it," answered she. "But hast heard aught further?"

"No," said I, fearfully. "What is it, Philippa?"

"Kate," she pursued, "hath brought us woeful news from Potheridge--the death of Frances, twenty days ago."

"Frances?" I well-nigh startled at mine own cry.

"An ill time," addeth Philippa, "close on James's death. We have hardly time to dry our eyes betwixt them."

"The right time, dear heart," said my Lady Ashley, gently. "G.o.d knoweth best when His corn is ripe."

"Was she ever other, if thou mean ripe for heaven?" said she.

"Perhaps," answered my Lady Ashley, "we could not see much difference, but He might."

I begged her to tell me, if she were present, any particulars of the matter.

"Ay, I was there," she said. "I went straight to Potheridge from Wimborne, on receiving of a letter from Mr Monke, who told me that Frank had brought him another daughter, and, he could not but fear, was not faring over well. I came to Potheridge upon the 4th of December, when I found her in her bed, very weak and white. Still I feared no instant peril then. On the 5th, methought she seemed somewhat better in the morning; but that even she grew worse, and thence she sank quickly until she died, at sunset on Wednesday, the 7th. She remembered you, Mrs Avery, and bade me give you her most hearty and loving commendations, and to say that she was but journeying Home a little while afore you, and that however long the time were to you, it would be short to her, ere you should meet again. And only an hour ere her death (she was in her sense to the last), came a messenger to Mr Monke with news of the Queen's death, and that the Lady Elizabeth was proclaimed Queen. He brake the tidings gently to her. She smiled when she heard them, as I should think an angel might smile in Heaven, and she saith softly, 'Lord, Thou hast seen, Thou hast seen the affliction of Thy people.' I answered her, 'Ay, G.o.d hath been very gracious to us.' She said, 'He hath been very good to me.' Quoth I, 'Thou dost not think He hath given thee too much thought [anxiety] and sorrow?' And as fervently as her weakness did allow, she answered, 'O no, no! I shall clasp them all to my heart to-night.' In another minute she repeated softly, 'And so shall we ever be with the Lord.' I do not think she spoke again."

"Did she die hardly?" I faltered amid my tears.

"As softly as a child falling asleep in his mother's arms," answered my Lady Ashley. "We could not tell the very moment. Her life went out like a star hidden behind a cloud. We only knew that it was gone."

"Farewell, sister of mine heart, my fair-souled Frances! The world is darker now thou art thence; but thou shalt never see evil any more. The storms shall not rave above thine head, nor the winds beat around thee and chill thee. G.o.d hath removed thee, His beautiful lily, from this rude and barren moor, to that great garden of His Paradise, where thou shall bloom for ever. 'There shall in no wise enter into it any thing that defileth--but they that are written in the Lamb's Book of Life.'"

So Isoult Avery wrote: but she did not hear until afterwards that Lady Frances had not pa.s.sed through the Marian persecution without suffering.

Her blood royal had not saved her. Only one child of her first marriage was left; and on the 10th of March 1554, men--not G.o.d--took that dearly-prized darling from her. The custody of the person and marriage of Arthur Ba.s.set was granted to James Ba.s.set, his Popish uncle [Rot. Parl., 1 Mary, part 7]. This is sufficient to indicate that the Roman proclivities of Mr Monke and Lady Frances were at least doubtful.

The double death--of the Queen and James Ba.s.set--freed Arthur; and by dint of hard riding night and day--he scarcely knew why--he reached Devon just in time to kneel and receive the last blessing of that beloved mother. She died two hours after her hand had rested on his head. If the Queen's object had been to make Arthur Ba.s.set a Papist, she scarcely succeeded in her aim.

This was the last sad entry in that volume of Isoult's diary. G.o.d did help the Gospellers when the morning appeared; and the morning was dawning now. There is a ringing of church-bells through all that was written in England, throughout that happy year, 1559. New Year's Day was the gladdest Sunday since the persecution began. For at Bow Church Mr Carter ministered openly; and throughout London the Gospel and Epistle were read in English. After the evening service was over, the Averys received a visit from Annis and her husband; and before they had sat and talked for ten minutes, who should follow them but Mr Underhill, of whose return to London they had heard, but had not yet seen him.

"Is it not glorious?" were the first words he spoke. "We shall have the English service next Sunday, and the service-book restored ere February."

"What a leaper art thou," said John, laughing. "None that know thee need ask wherefore men call thee the _Hot Gospeller_!"

"But can there be any other?" answered he.

"Why," said John, "wert thou King of England, by the name of Edward the Seventh, I reckon we had had all ere November were fairly run out. But the Queen is a little more prudent and wary than thou, and remember thou (as I bade Ferris, but he did little) that she is _not_ a Gospeller."

"A truce to thy wariness and prudence!" cried Mr Underhill.

"That shall be, a.s.suredly, where thou art," answered John.

"I have no patience," said he, "with such faintheartedness (for I can call it by no better name). Who ever saw a Lutheran burn a Gospeller?"

"Ned Underhill," said John, sadly, "hast thou forgot so soon that we have seen a Gospeller beheaded by Lutherans?"

"Whom point you at there?"

"The Duke of Somerset."

"Come! go not back to the time afore the Flood," exclaimed he. "Let bygones be bygones."

"I have no objection," said John, "if bygones will be bygones."

"Jack Avery, hold thy peace, or we shall quarrel! I will not have cold water flung over my fair bonfire of rejoicing!"

"It should take much to put it out, methinks," said Dr Thorpe.

"What say you, my master?" inquired Mr Underhill, turning with one of his quick motions to Don Juan.

"Marry," answered Don Juan, smiling (he spoke English fairly), "I say, we shall all know more about it a year hence."

"Gramercy! you are one of the wary ones," grumbled Mr Underhill. "Come, let me see if I cannot find one of my way of thinking. Mrs Avery, are you only Jack in a gown, or have you a mind of your own?"

"Verily, Mr Underhill, I know not how things shall go," said she, "and therefore I were wisest to hold my peace."

"Alas!" answered he. "Dr Thorpe, you are Prudence herself, and a Lutheran to boot, wherefore--"

"Lutheran!" cried the old man, hastily. "I am no more a Lutheran than you!"

They all laughed at Dr Thorpe, thus brought to confession at last.

"Are you not so?" said Mr Underhill, laughing and bowing. "In good sooth, I am rejoiced to hear it.--Well! Mrs Rose, allow me to ask at you if you go with me or no?"

"a.s.suredly, Mr Underhill, no," said she. "If I had ever any belief in the goodness of the world, it did fly away from me a long time ago; and I do not look to see the peace or the right all over it, as you seem to look. It may be that I answer rather your thoughts than your words; but it seemed me you had that thought."

"But, Mrs Rose," said he, "if you take us all for ill and wicked, you must find it hard work to love your neighbour as yourself. We are leaving our subject-matter, but let that pa.s.s."

"Ah, Mr Underhill!" she answered, with a smile, "I am as bad as any one else; and I do not think we wait for people to become angels before we love them."

"We do wait--for them to become angels, sometimes," said Annis, softly, "before we know how well we love them."

They sat silent for a while after this: even Mr Underhill seemed to be meditating; neither did he pursue his inquiry any further. Marguerite rose and went up-stairs, where Thekla was already; but the rest kept their places. And while they sat, there came a very soft rapping at the door. The party looked one on another in doubt, for the rapping was in the form of the old signal-tap which the Gospellers were wont to use when they a.s.sembled for prayer in each others' houses. And there was no gathering at the Lamb to-night.

Barbara rose and went to the door. The minute she opened it, they heard her cry "Eh!" but no more. The person outside spoke, and Barbara answered, more than once, but too low for those within to hear words, or even whose voice it was; then Barbara stepped forward, and opened the door of the chamber. All felt some strange thing at hand, and they held their breath. And the next minute they were saluted by a voice which had been silent to them for four long, weary years.

"How do you all, dear friends?" said Mr Rose.

All gathered round him with joyful greeting, but Isoult. She never stayed to think, but she found herself at the head of the stairs before she had time to consider. Thekla was just closing the door of the chamber to come down.

"Thekla!" cried Isoult, seizing her by the arm.

"Who is come?" asked she. "I heard something."

"Tell thy mother, darling," said Isoult--"but canst thou bear glad news thyself?"