The English service began with the following Easter. Confession--not yet abolished, yet so far relaxed as to be required of none who preferred to omit it--was made in English, and the Lord's Supper was also celebrated in English at the King's Chapel.

Isoult Avery began to think that she was to spend the year 1548 in visiting. She had not been long back from Crowe, when a letter reached her from her own home at Wynscote, inviting her to the wedding of her brother Hugh with Mrs Alice Wikes, which was to take place on the fourteenth of May. Jennifer Trevor shook her head in her most ominous style at the date. But Hugh, though a sailor, was nevertheless not at all superst.i.tious, so far as concerned the point in question; and he had already st.u.r.dily declined to change the date selected by Alice, though half the gossips round Wynscote prophesied all manner of consequent evil. For a maiden of the sixteenth century, Alice also was remarkably free from the believing in omens and the observing of times: so Hugh and she were married on the fourteenth of May, and Isoult Avery was never able to discover that any harm had come of it.

On arrival at Wynscote, they found the house full and running over. Not only the family who ordinarily occupied it were there--namely, Mrs Barry, the widowed mother; Henry Barry, the head of the house, who was by calling a gentleman farmer, and by inclination the gentleman without the farmer; his wife Margaret, who would have made a better farmer than himself; and his three exceedingly noisy and mischievous boys, by name Michael, William, and Henry. But these, as I have said, were not by any means all. There was the bridegroom Hugh, who grumbled good-humouredly at being banished to Farmer Northcote's for the night, for there was no room for him except in the day-time; there was Bessy Dennis, the eldest sister, and John Dennis her husband, and William, Nicholas, Anne, and Ellen, their children. No wonder that Isoult told her husband in confidence that she did not expect to lose her headache till she reached home. Will Barry was the incarnation of mischief, and Will Dennis, his cousin and namesake, followed him like his shadow. The discipline which ensued was of doubtful character, for Bessy's two notions on the subject of rearing children were embodied in cakes or slaps, as they were respectively deserved, or rather, as she thought they were: while Mr Barry's ideas of education lay in very oracular exhortations, stuffed with words of as many syllables as he had the good fortune to discover.

His wife's views were hardly better. Her interference consisted only in the invariable repet.i.tion of a formula--"Come, now, be good lads, do!"-- which certainly did not err on the side of severity. But the grandmother, if possible, made matters worse. She had brought up her own children in abject terror and unanswering submission; and Nature, as usual, revenged herself by causing her never to cross the wills of her grandchildren on any consideration. Accordingly, when Will set fire to the barn, let the pony into the bean-field, and the cows into Farmer Northcote's meadow, Grandmother only observed quietly that "Boys will be boys"--an a.s.sertion which certainly could not be contradicted--and went on spinning as before.

The amazement of Isoult Avery--who had not previously visited home for some time--was intense. Her childhood had been a scene of obedience, both active and pa.s.sive; a birch-rod had hung behind the front door, and n.o.body had ever known Anne Barry hesitate to whip a child, if there were the slightest chance that he or she deserved it: the "benefit of the doubt" being commonly given on the side of the birch-rod. And now, to see these boys--wild men of the woods as they were--rush unreproached up to the inaccessible side of Grandmother, lay violent hands upon her inviolable hood, kiss her as if they were thinking of eating her, and never meet with any worse penalty than a fig-cake [the Devonshire name for a plum-cake]--this was the source of endless astonishment and reflection to Isoult. On the whole, she congratulated herself that she had left Kate and Walter at Bradmond.

The bride was a stranger to Isoult. She talked to Bessy about her, and found that lady rather looked down upon her. "She was all very well, but--"

Ah, these unended _buts_! what mischief they make in this world of ours!

Then Isoult talked to Hugh, and found that if his description were to be trusted, Alice Wikes would be no woman at all, but an angel from Heaven.

Bessy offered to take her sister to visit the bride, and Isoult accepted the offer. Meanwhile, she sketched a mental portrait of Alice.

She would be short, and round-faced, and merry: the colour of her hair and eyes Isoult discreetly left blank.

So, three days before the wedding, her future sisters-in-law called upon the bride.

They found Alice's mother, Mrs Wikes, busy with her embroidery; and as soon as she saw who her guests were, she desired Mrs Alice to be summoned. After a little chat with Mrs Wikes upon things in general, the door opened to admit a girl the exact opposite of Isoult's imaginary picture. Alice proved tall, oval-faced, and grave.

The wedding was three days later, and on Sunday. Blue was the colour of the bride's costume, and favel-colour--a bright yellowish-brown--that of the bridesmaids. After the ceremony there was a banquet at Wynscote, and dancing, and a Maypole, and a soaped pig, and barley-break--an old athletic sport, to some extent resembling prisoner's base. Then came supper, and the evening closed with hot c.o.c.kles and blind-hoodman--the latter being blindman's buff. And among all the company, to none but John and Isoult Avery did it ever occur that in these occupations there was the least incongruity with the Sabbath day. For they only were Gospellers; and at that time the Gospellers alone remembered to keep it holy. Rome strikes her pen through the third and fourth commandments, if less notoriously, yet quite as really, as through the second.

The Averys returned home about the 20th of May. They had left all well, and they found all well. And neither they nor any one else saw on the horizon a little cloud like a man's hand, which was ere long to break in a deluge of hail and fire upon Devonshire and Cornwall.

One evening in the beginning of June, when John Avery sat at the table making professional notes from a legal folio before him, and Isoult, at work beside him, was beginning to wonder why Barbara had not brought the rear-supper, a knock came at the door. Then the latch was lifted, and Mr Anthony Tremayne walked in.

"Heard you the news in Bodmin?" was the question which followed close upon his greeting.

"No," answered John. "I have not been in Bodmin for nigh a week, nor hath any thence been here."

"One Master Boddy, the King's Commissioner for Chantries," saith he, "came hither o' Friday; and the folk be all up at Bodmin, saying they will not have the chantries put down; and 'tis thought Father Giles is ahead of them. I much fear a riot, for the people are greatly aggrieved."

"I pray G.o.d avert the same, if His will is!" exclaimed Isoult.

This was the beginning of the first riots in Cornwall and Devon. There were tumults elsewhere, but the religious riots were worst in these parts. They began about the chantries, the people disliking the visitation: and from that they went to clamouring for the re-enactment of the b.l.o.o.d.y Statute. On the 4th of June there were riots at Bodmin and Truro; and Father Giles, then priest at Bodmin, and a "stout Papist," helped them to the best of his ability. But on the 6th came the King's troops to Bodmin, and took Father Giles and others of the rioters, whom they sent to London to be tried; and about the 8th they reached Truro, where Mr Boddy, the King's Commissioner for the chantries, had been cruelly murdered five days before. For a little while after this, all was quiet in Bodmin; but the end was not come yet.

Father Giles, the priest of Bodmin, was hanged at London on the 7th of July for his share in the riots: and Government fondly imagined that the difficulty was at an end. How fond that imagination was, the events of the following year revealed.

Anthony Monke, the eldest child of Mr Monke and Lady Frances, was born in the summer of 1548 [date unknown]. In June of that year, a civil message from the Protector reached Bishop Gardiner at Farnham, requesting him to preach at Court on the 29th, Saint Peter's Day, following. This message perturbed Gardiner exceedingly. James Ba.s.set found him walking up and down his chamber, his hands clasped behind him, uttering incoherent words, indicative of apprehension; and this continued for some hours. On the 28th the Bishop reached London; on the 29th he preached before the King; and on the 30th he was in the Tower.

Probably the wily prelate's conscience, never very clear, had already whispered the cause before he quitted Farnham.

On the 8th of September, at Sudeley Castle, Gloucestershire, died the Lutheran Queen, Katherine Parr. She had taken a false step, and had lived to mourn it. Neglecting the command not to be unequally yoked together with unbelievers, she had married Sir Thomas Seymour very shortly after King Henry's death. It can be no lack of charity to call a man an unbeliever, a practical Atheist at least, whose daily habit it was to swear and walk out of the house when the summons was issued for family prayers. Poor Katherine had all the piety on her own side, but she had not to bear the penalty she had brought on herself long. She left behind her a baby daughter, Mary Seymour, who was sent to the care of the d.u.c.h.ess of Suffolk; for very soon after the Queen's death, Seymour was arrested and committed to the Tower. He died on Tower Hill, on the 20th of March following. That Seymour was a bad man there can be no question; whether he really were a traitor is much more doubtful.

The Lutheran party accused his brother the Protector of having brought about his death. It might be so; yet any evidence beyond probability and declamation is lacking. "It was Somerset's interest to get rid of his brother; therefore he is responsible for his death." This may be a.s.sertion, but it surely is not argument.

Meanwhile in high places there was a leaven quietly working, unperceived as yet, which was ere long to pervade the whole ma.s.s. The government of Edward the Sixth had come into power under the colours of the Gospel.

The Protector himself was an uncompromising Gospeller; and though many Lords of the Council were Lutherans, they followed at first in his wake.

There was one member of the Council who never did so.

Nearly fifty years before that day, Henry the Seventh, whose "king-craft" was at least equal to that of James the First, had compelled the young heiress of Lisle, Elizabeth Grey, to bestow her hand upon his unworthy favourite, Edmund Dudley. It is doubtful whether she was not even then affianced to Sir Arthur Plantagenet (afterwards Lord Lisle), whose first wife she eventually became; but Henry Tudor would have violated all the traditions of his house, had he hesitated to degrade the estate, or grieve the heart, of a son of the House of York.

This ill-matched pair--the covetous Edmund and the gentle Elizabeth-- were the parents of four children: the first being John Dudley, who was born in 1502. It is of him I am about to speak.

His countenance, from a physiognomist's point of view, might be held to announce his character. The thick, obstinate lips, the cruel, cold blue eyes, intimated with sufficient accuracy the disposition of the man.

Like all men who succeed, Dudley set before him one single aim. In his case, it was to dethrone Somerset, and step into his place. He held, too, in practice if not in theory, the diabolical idea, that the end sanctifies the means. And to hold that view is to say, in another form, "I will be like the Most High."

Such was John Dudley, and such the goal at which he aimed. And he just touched it. His hand was already stretched forth, to grasp the glittering thing which was in his eyes the crown imperial of his world, and then G.o.d's hand fell on him out of Heaven, and "he was brought down to h.e.l.l, to the sides of the pit."

We shall see how this man prospered, as the tale advances: how he said in his heart, "There is no G.o.d." But to Isoult Avery it was a standing marvel, how John Dudley could be the brother of Frances Monke. And the distance between them was as wide as from h.e.l.l to Heaven; for it was the distance between a soul sold to the devil, and a temple of the Holy Ghost.

The first introduction of Kate Avery to the grave and decorous behaviour required in church, was made on the third of February, 1549. Suffice it to say, that Isoult was satisfied with the result of the experiment.

The new priest's name was Edmund Prideaux; and he was a Lutheran.

Coming home from church, John and Isoult fell in with the Tremaynes; and were told by Mr Tremayne that all was now settled, and there was no fear of any further riots.

Some weeks later, Robin and Arbel Tremayne again rode over to Bradmond for four-hours. Arbel's favourite was Walter, but Robin was fonder of Kate, who on her part was greatly attached to him. While they were there Dr Thorpe came in. When Robin and Arbel were gone home, the old man remarked in confidence to John Avery, that he did not by any means share Mr Tremayne's opinion that all was settled at Bodmin. He thought rather that the present tranquillity was like the crust of a volcano, through which the fiery force might at any moment burst with little warning.

That which finally broke the crust seemed at first a very little matter.

A proclamation came from the King, permitting land-owners to enclose the waste lands around, within certain limitations. And the old Socialist spirit which is inherent in man rose up in arms at this favour granted to the "bloated aristocrats"--this outrage upon "the rights of the people." For the three famous tailors of Tooley Street, who began their memorial, "We, the people of England," had many an ancestor and many a successor.

Mr Tremayne enclosed a piece of common behind his garden; John Avery enclosed nothing. The storm that fell swept away not only the guilty, but as is generally the case, the innocent suffered with them.

CHAPTER THREE.

GOING FORTH.

"O Day of endless brightness, dawn o'er these darkened skies!

O Land of changeless beauty, break on these weary eyes!

O Home whence no outgoing shall blind us with our tears-- O rest and peace! O life and love! O summer of all years!"

The night of the fourth of July came hot and sultry, without a breath of wind. Isoult Avery had sunk to sleep after a weary day. The very warmth brought languor, and Walter had been naughty and peevish, needing all her patience; and Mr Tremayne had had a large party to supper, of which she had been one; and a mult.i.tude of little worries had pressed upon her--those worries which seem too insignificant to repeat or care about, yet form in the ma.s.s a large portion of our troubles. Hardly knowing it herself, her last thought before she slept had been a prayer for rest. But it was not rest that she really needed, and therefore it was not rest she was to have. Our Father giveth us often what we ask, but always what we need.

From a troubled dream Isoult was now aroused, by a sound which at first wove itself into her dream, and made her imagine herself in the great hall of the Palace of Westminster, where carpenters were busy pulling down the throne.

Knock, knock, knock!

Isoult hardly roused herself enough to recognise what the reality was which answered to her imaginary carpenters, and John Avery slept calmly.

The knocking was repeated more loudly.

"Jack!" said Isoult at last--much too faintly to arouse any but a very light sleeper.

Again came the knocking, and this time a voice with it. "Mr Avery!"

Isoult, thoroughly awake at last, sat up, and succeeded after a minute in bringing John to consciousness. The knocking went on. John sprang up, and threw open the window.

"Who are you, and what do you lack?" he called to the unseen visitant below.

"Let me in, and in haste, for G.o.d's sake!" cried a voice in answer, which both the listeners immediately recognised as Robin Tremayne's.