Read Ebook: Robin Tremayne A Story of the Marian Persecution by Holt Emily Sarah

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Ebook has 2375 lines and 117442 words, and 48 pages

"And how goeth it with the child, Mrs Philippa?"

A quick shake of the head seemed to give an unfavourable answer.

"Demand that of Dr Thorpe, when he hath seen her; but our apothecary feareth much."

Very unlike either of the women already described was Philippa Basset. There was nothing passive about her; every thing was of the most active type, and the mood in which she chiefly lived was the imperative. While really under the common height of women, in some mysterious way she appeared much taller than she was. Her motions were quick even to abruptness: her speech sincere even to bluntness. Every body who knew her loved her dearly, yet every body would have liked to alter her character a little. Generally speaking, she seemed to take no part in those softer feminine feelings supposed to be common to the sex; yet there were times when that firm voice could falter, and those bright, quick, grey-blue eyes grow dim with tears. Whatever she did, she did thoroughly and heartily: she loved fervently and hated fervently. That "capacity for indignation" which it has been said lies at the root of all human virtues, was very fully developed in Philippa. Her age was thirty-one, but she looked nearer forty. Perhaps Isoult Avery, who had gone with her through the storm of suffering which fell on the House of Lisle, could have guessed how that look of age had come into the once bright and lively face of Philippa Basset.

"Come in, dear heart," continued Philippa, "and speak with my Lady my mother; and I will carry up Dr Thorpe to see the child."

So John and Isoult went into the parlour, and Philippa conducted Dr Thorpe to the sick chamber.

In the little parlour of the little house at Crowe sat a solitary lady. She was not yet fifty years of age, but her hair was only one remove from white; and though lines of thought and suffering were marked on her pale face, it yet bore the remains of what had been delicate loveliness. Her complexion was still exquisitely fair, and her eyes were a light, bright blue. Though she moved quickly, it was with much dignity and grace. She was a small, slightly-made woman; she sat as upright as a statue; and she inclined her head like a queen. It was no marvel, for she had been all but a queen. For twelve years of her life, her velvet robes had swept over palace pavements, and her diamonds had glittered in the light of royal saloons; and for seven of those years she had herself occupied the highest place. An invitation from her had been an envied honour; a few minutes' conversation with her, a supreme distinction. For this was Honor Plantagenet, Viscountess Lisle, sometime Lady Governess of Calais. But that was all over now. She was "a widow indeed, and desolate." The House of Lisle had fallen seven years before; and Honour's high estate, as well as her private happiness, fell with it. And with her, as with so many others, it ended in the old fashion--

"`Where be thy frendes?' sayd Robin. `Syr, never one wyll me know; Whyle I was ryche enow at home Grete boste then wolde they blowe; And now they renne awaye fro me, As bestes on a rowe; They take no more heed of me, Than they me never sawe.'"

Of the scores of distinguished persons who had enjoyed the princely hospitality of Lady Lisle at Calais, not one ever condescended to glance into the little house at Crowe. She had friends left, but they were not distinguished persons. And foremost among these was Isoult Avery, who for two years had been bower-woman to the Viscountess, in those old days when she sat in the purple as Governess of Calais.

Many minutes had not elapsed before Philippa and Dr Thorpe entered the parlour together.

"Well, what cheer?" asked Lady Lisle, quickly, even before her greeting: for the grandchild who lay ill in the chamber above was very dear to that lonely woman's heart.

"Madam, the child is dying."

"Alack, my poor lamb!" And Lady Lisle rose and went above to the little sufferer.

Dr Thorpe turned to Isoult. "What aileth the mother?" he asked her shortly.

"Frances?" she replied. "In good sooth, I wis not. I have not yet seen her. Doth aught ail her save sorrow?"

"The Lady Frances," he repeated. "Methinks somewhat else doth ail her. What it is essay you to discover."

He broke off rather abruptly as the door opened, and the lady under discussion entered the room. Taller than Lady Lisle or Philippa, she was more slender and fragile-looking than either. Hair of pale shining gold framed a face very white and fair, of that peculiar pure oval shape, and those serene, regular Grecian features, which marked the royal Plantagenets. For this lady was of the bluest blood, and but for an act of cruel treachery on the part of King Edward the Fourth, she might have been the Princess Royal of England. And never had England a daughter who could have graced that position more perfectly. To a character so high and pure, and a taste so delicate and refined, as were almost out of place in that coarsest and most blunt of all the centuries, she united manners exquisitely gentle, gracious, and winning. The Lady Frances Basset was a woman taught by much and varied suffering; she had known both the climax of happiness and the depth of sorrow. The crushing blow of her House's fall had been followed by two years of agonising suspense, which had closed in the lonely and far-off death of the father from whom she derived the fairest features of her character, and whom she loved more than life. Three years ensued, filled by the bitter pain of watching the gradual fading of the husband whom she loved with yet tenderer fervour; and at the end of that time she was left a widow, but with two children to comfort her. And now, two years later, the Lord came and called the elder of those cherished darlings. Joseph was not, and Simeon was not, yet Benjamin must be taken away. But no tears stood in the soft, clear blue eyes, as Frances came forward to greet Isoult. They would come later; but the time for them was not now, when little Honour's life was ebbing away. The mother was tearless.

"Come!" she said softly; and Isoult rose and followed her.

On a little truckle-bed in the chamber above, lay the dying child. Had she survived till the following spring, she would then have been eight years old. As Isoult bent over her, a smile broke on the thin wan face, and the little voice said,--"Aunt Isoult!" This was Honour's pet name for her friend; for there was no tie of relationship between them. Isoult softly stroked the fair hair. "Aunt Isoult," the faint voice pursued, "I pray you, tell me if I shall die? My Lady my grandmother will not say, and it hurteth my mother to ask her."

Isoult glanced at Lady Lisle for permission to reply.

"Speak thy will, child!" she said in a steeled voice. "We can scarce be more sorrowful than we are, I count. Yet I do marvel what we have sinned more than others, that God punisheth us so much the sorer."

A grieved look came into Isoult's eyes, but she only answered the question of the little child.

"Ay, dear Honor," she replied; "methinks the Lord Jesus shall send His angels for thee afore long."

"Send His angels?" she repeated feebly.

"Ay, dear heart. Wouldst thou not love to see them?"

"I would rather He would come Himself," said the child. "I were gladder to see Him than them."

Isoult's voice failed her a minute, and Frances laid her head down on the foot of the bed, and broke into a passion of tears.

"Aunt Isoult," said Honor again faintly, "will He not come Himself?"

"Maybe He will, sweet heart," answered she.

"Doth He know I want Him to come?" she said and shut her eyes wearily.

"Ay, He knoweth, darling," said Isoult.

"Doth He know how tired I am, thinkest?" broke in Lady Lisle, bitterly. "Are three dread, woeful, crushing sorrows in six years not enough for Him to give? Will He take this child likewise, and maybe Frances and Philippa as well, and leave me to creep on alone into my grave? What have I done to Him, that He should use me thus? Was I not ever just to all men, and paid my dues to the Church, and kept my duty, like a Christian woman? Are there no women in this world that have lived worser lives than I, that He must needs visit me? Answer me, Isoult! Canst thou see any cause? Frank will tell me 'tis wicked to speak thus, if she saith aught; or maybe she shall only sit and look it. Is it wicked for the traitor on the rack to cry out? Why, then, should not I, who am on God's rack, and have so been these six years, and yet am no traitor neither to Him nor to the Church?"

"Mother, dear Mother!" whispered Frances, under her breath.

"Well?" she resumed. "Is that all thou hast to say? I am so wicked, am I, thus to speak? But wherefore so? Come, Isoult, I await thine answer."

It was a minute before Isoult Avery could speak; and when she did so, her voice trembled a little. She lifted up her heart to God for wisdom, and then said--

"Dear my Lady, we be all traitors unto God, and are all under the condemnation of His holy law. Shall the traitor arraign the Judge? And unto the repenting traitor, God's hand falleth not in punishment, but only in loving discipline and fatherly training. You slack not, I count, to give Honor her physic, though she cry that it is bitter and loathsome; nor will God set aside His physic for your Ladyship's crying. Yet, dear my Lady, this is not because He loveth to see you weep, but only because He would heal you of the deadly plague of your sins. Our Lord's blood shed upon the rood delivereth us from the guilt of our sins; but so tied to sin are we, that we must needs be set under correction for to make us to loathe it. I pray your Ladyship mercy for my rude speaking, but it is at your own commandment."

"Ah! 'tis pity thou art not a man, that thou mightest have had the tonsure," replied Lady Lisle drily. "Ah me, children! If this be physic, 'tis more like to kill than cure."

Little Honor lived through the night; and when the morning came, they were still awaiting the King's messenger. As those who loved her sat round her bed, the child opened her eyes.

"Aunt Isoult," she said in her little feeble voice, "how soon will Jesus come and take me?"

Isoult looked for an answer to Dr Thorpe, who was also present. He brushed his hand over his eyes.

"Would you liefer it were soon or long, little maid?" said he.

"For Mother's sake, I would liefer He waited," she whispered; "but for mine, I would He might come soon. There will be no more physic, will there--nor no more pain, after He cometh?"

"Poor heart!" exclaimed Lady Lisle, who sat in the window.

"Nay, little maid," answered Dr Thorpe.

"Nor no more crying, Honor," said Isoult.

"I would He would take Mother along with me," pursued the child. "She hath wept so much these two years past. She used to smile so brightly, and it was so pretty to see her. I would she could do that again."

"Thou shalt see her do that again, dear Honor," said Isoult, as well as she could speak, "but not, methinks, in this world."

But her voice failed her, for she remembered a time when that smile had been brighter than ever Honor saw it.

"If He would take us all," the child continued faintly: "me, and Mother, and Arthur, and Grandmother, and Aunt Philippa! And Father is there waiting--is not he?"

"I think he is, Honor," answered Isoult.

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