Chapter XI A Last Interview
“Now all these things are over,—yes, all thy pretty ways,
Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays:
And none will grieve when I go forth, nor smile when I return,
Nor watch beside the old man’s bed, nor weep upon his urn.”
—LORD MACAULAY.
The two youthful Annes of the royal House at this period, who were nearly of an age, were very similar in character in all points but one. Both the Princess of Wales and Lady Anne Grey were gentle, amiable, refined, and gifted with deep affections: but the one was strong, and the other weak. For the strong nature was carved out a heavy cross. For the weak one, there was a light structure appointed, which so crushed down her feeble frame, that it was as oppressive to her as the greater burden to her cousin.
The sorrows of the one were close to their ending, while those of the other had little more than begun. Treated at first with apparent kindness and lenity—placed in the keeping of her uncle, and suffered to visit her beloved mother-in-law,—the Princess of Wales maintained so dauntless a front, and so unswerving a resolution, that Gloucester saw plainly that to wait for any change in her would be to wait for ever. No earthly consideration would ever make her willingly wed with him. So, as she refused to change front, he changed his. One dark evening in the March of 1473;57 the Princess was removed from her place of detention by a band of armed men. Whither she knew not, until she found herself, to her amazement, in the lighted aisles of Westminster Abbey, with robed priests awaiting her in the chancel, and the Duke of Gloucester, in gorgeous array, standing before the altar. Then the full perception of the gulf of misery in which she was to be plunged rushed upon Anne Neville. She tried to fly, but the armed men held her down. She poured out passionate protests—she refused to utter the words prescribed by the service—she screamed in agony for the help that was not to come. Every thing she did which a lonely, captive girl could do, to show that this detested marriage was accompanied by no good-will and no consent of hers. But she might as well have cried to the stone pillars, or have fled for refuge to the dead kings lying around her. The priests went on with their ceremonies, the choir sang calmly, the bridegroom performed his part of the service, the ring was forced on her finger, and Richard Plantagenet and Anne Neville were pronounced man and wife, in the name of that God who looked silently down upon the iniquitous scene, and seemed as though He had forgotten the girl who cried in vain even to Him for mercy. With how much more truth may that dying appeal which has echoed through a hundred years be made, not to liberty, but to the God of all truth and righteousness,—“What crimes are committed in Thy name!” It may have been,—nay, if she were His, it must have been,—that eleven years later, when Anne Neville’s spirit returned to the God who gave it, she found that His mercy towards her was better than the mercy she desired of Him, and that but for that painful and weary beating of the gold, the vessel would have been unfit for its place in the sanctuary above.
But meanwhile to Anne Grey the mercy came. The period of her married life, to which she had looked forward with so much dread, proved the least painful time of her life. Not because Mr. Thomas Grey was any better than she had expected to find him, but because, after the first week, he relieved her of his company almost entirely. Affection for her he had none. So long, therefore, as the duties prescribed by civility and custom were properly performed, he had no scruple about leaving her to herself—which was exactly what she most desired.
One troublesome item remained, for no separate residence had been provided for the young pair, and Mr. Grey continued to occupy his old apartments in the Palace of his royal stepfather. This was the last place where Lady Anne could have wished to be. To her uncle she felt no dislike, for he had always shown his best side to her, and her pure and simple nature was incapable of entering into the darker features of his character. Towards the Queen her feeling was a curious mixture of affection and misgiving. The soft caresses and tender words could not be resented, nor even coldly received, yet they were unavoidably provocative of an under-current of doubt as concerned their whole-heartedness.
“The lady did protest too much.”
With the children Lady Anne was at home, especially with that grave-eyed boy in whom much of her own temperament was reproduced.
It had not been intended that the young pair should reside in the Palace. The King fully meant to provide them with a separate abode: but one of his practical rules being never to do to-day that which could be put off till to-morrow, the provision remained unmade, and day after day followed its fellow to the silent chambers of the past.
The chief difficulty of Lady Anne’s married life concerned her father. If it had been scarcely possible to receive him at Coldharbour, to do it at Westminster was absolutely impossible. But it might be comparatively easy to meet elsewhere, could she ascertain where he might be met. The Duke had as much difficulty in communicating with her as she with him. But
“Under floods that are deepest
Which Neptune obey,
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way”—
and here also love found it out, though it was not until three months had elapsed since the marriage, and their time for meeting was growing very short. They met again only twice—once under the wing of the Lady Douglas, the Duke’s half-sister; and once by appointment at a draper’s shop in Lombard Street. And each time the father saw with a pang that the end drew nearer, and that the likelihood was that the next meeting would be in the Garden of God. He let her go very reluctantly the last time.
“Somewhat tells me,” he whispered to his sole friend and companion, William Sterys, “that this shall be the last time.”
“Dear my Lord,” was the sympathising answer, “can you not look on to the next time?”
The Duke understood him. “Domine, ne moreris!” broke passionately from his lips.
After that last parting the white rosebud withered quickly. She passed away when the summer began, fading with the May-flowers. The last word upon her lips was “Father!” Was she thinking of the earthly or the heavenly Father? Perhaps of both. She was safe now in the keeping of the Father of spirits: and the one earthly creature whom she loved would join her before long.
The Duchess of Exeter showed little feeling on the death of her daughter; scarcely more than Mr. Grey, who looked on an invalid wife as a nuisance which he felt glad to have removed. It had been unfortunately necessary to marry her in order to obtain her vast inheritance; and it was an additional grievance that she left no child behind her to give him a continued lien upon the estates. However, better luck next time. He could now secure a lady with good health and lively spirits, of a disposition akin to his own: and of course the larger purse she had, the better. He soon found her, in the person of Cicely Bonvile, heiress to both parents, and a girl who suited his taste infinitely better than the heiress of Exeter had ever done. Decency was respected by a proper mourning of twelve months: and in the July of the following year, Mr. Grey repaired his loss to his entire satisfaction.
The mother was longer in repairing hers. She had considered herself a most ill-used woman, through the necessity for delaying her marriage until after her daughter’s death. There were two reasons for this. The Duchess knew that public opinion would cry shame upon her for marrying while her own and only child was standing face to face with death: and little as she cared for public opinion in general, in this instance she could not afford to disregard it. Her marriage with Mr. St. Leger—a mere squire in her brother’s service—would at any time bring upon her as much obloquy as she cared to brave: and it was not desirable to increase it by choosing such a time. Moreover, there remained a further and very awkward consideration, that King Edward might be irremediably offended: and while the adverse verdict of public opinion represented a mere loss of character—an article not of very high value in the eyes of the Duchess—the adverse verdict of her royal brother might represent a very substantial loss of gold and silver, which was a far more serious matter. She had never dared to unfold her intentions to Edward; nor did she mean to do so until she had secured her prize. And as Mr. St. Leger, in losing his master’s favour, would have lost even more than the royal lady, he was quite as willing as herself to keep the project secret. However unwillingly or impatiently, she was accordingly bound to wait.
It seemed, therefore, as though no creature mourned for Anne Grey beyond a few of her dependants. The gulf had opened, and the fair, gentle, loving girl had disappeared from sight: and then it had closed again, and the world was dancing over it, and she was forgotten as though she had not been. Frideswide Marston was one of those few who wore mourning for her in their hearts. She had lived in her household only for three months, but she had been her immediate and favourite attendant, and had learned to love her. Now that phase of life was over, and Frideswide was preparing to return home. There was a good deal of shopping to be done first, for Frideswide meant to bring her trousseau from London; and accompanied by one of Lady Anne’s ushers, she went to and fro to West Chepe, where the mercers and haberdashers congregated; Guthrum’s Lane (afterwards corrupted to Gutter Lane) where the goldsmiths dwelt; Lombard Street, the habitat of drapers; St. Mary Axe, where the furriers were found; and Cordwainer Street, where the shoemakers lived. Of course she visited Paternoster Row for a new rosary and copies of the Psalter and Gospels in Latin; purchased a pair of pattens in Pattens Lane; and, as the most acceptable present she could carry to her stepmother, bought a sugar-loaf, weighing twenty pounds, price twenty-six shillings and eightpence, from the druggist in Soper’s Lane. A handsome piece of scarlet cloth—the most esteemed material for a dress58—was also procured for Lady Margery, at a cost of eight shillings the yard: and twelve yards—a very handsome quantity—of black satin of Bruges, to make a gown for the Lady Idonia. For her father she provided a hat in the newest fashion, small, round, edged with fur, and adorned with a single ostrich feather, small but full, which was fastened by a jewelled button. Ladies never wore feathers in the fifteenth century. The present for Agnes was a gold chain, which cost two pounds; and—a far more precious article—a silver cramp-ring which cost nothing. But it had been solemnly consecrated, as was done every year, by her on whom Frideswide looked as the rightful and only Queen of England; and no one who wore it could possibly be troubled with cramp. For a ring which owed its value to the touch of “Dame Bessy Grey,” Frideswide would not have paid a halfpenny, nor would Agnes have deigned to soil her fingers by wearing it. What she should bring for Dorathie was a matter of severe reflection to Frideswide. She would have liked a parrot: but parrots were not only rare and costly, but scarcely portable articles. A mirror would not find favour with the authorities, as likely to foster vanity in the immature mind of youth. Her final choice was a silver girdle-clasp and a primer. The latter was not a book from which to learn reading, as we should suppose, but rather a collection of elegant extracts, chiefly of a religious cast. Primers varied in price from about a shilling to fifteen shillings, according to size and binding; and were put forth by authority, containing such things as were considered proper for the people to know.
Frideswide’s purchases were at last complete, and her bags packed. Comparatively few boxes were used, when all luggage had to be carried on the backs of mules or galloways. She was to leave London on the first of June, escorted as far as St. Albans by one of her late Lady’s ushers. Here she was pretty sure to fall in with a train of pilgrims to Newark or Whitby, or possibly with a convoy of merchants going to York. On the last evening, it occurred to her that she might as well take with her a few ells of fringe to trim the dresses, as they would pack in no great compass, and would doubtless be of better quality than such as could easily be procured at Lovell Tower. Calling the usher to attend her, she went out to the nearest mercer’s in West Chepe. The fringe was soon bought, and she was turning homewards, when her attention was roused by a young man who kept walking close behind them. Taking the bull by the horns, Frideswide said at once,—
“Would you have speech of us, Master?”
“If your name be Marston, that would I,” was the answer: “but pray you go a little farther, for we shall come anon to a dark passage where there is more conveniency for talk.”
Guessing in an instant that the young man was entrusted with some message for her ear only, Frideswide followed his directions, when he said,—
“Mistress, there is one would speak with you ere you leave London—one that you knew of old time.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
“What manner of man?” Frideswide was cautious.
“A cresset-bearer.”
No further explanation was required. The Duke of Exeter wished for an interview.
“Go to: where shall it be?”
“At my house, an’ it like you.”
“May it be done this even? for I should set forth on my journey by morning light.”
“It can be done this minute, an’ you will come with me.”
“Is it far?—and who be you?”
“I am a parchment-maker, of Smithfield, and a Goose by name and nature,” said the young man with a smile.
“By name, may-be,” replied Frideswide, with an answering smile: “methinks scarce by nature, else had not your master and mine trusted you with such an errand. But have you no token for me?”
“Ay, one of gold forged in the King’s mint.—‘Alle thingis, and in alle thingis, Crist.’”
There could be no further question to a Lollard mind of the trustworthiness of the Duke’s messenger. Frideswide came out of the dark passage, and dismissed her usher, giving him her parcels to take back with him.
“This worthy master will see me home, and I have ado with him first,” she said. “Now, pray you, Master Goose, if your name be so, lead on.”
Silently Frideswide followed her guide up to Aldersgate, through Little Britain,—where of old time stood the town mansion of the Counts of Bretagne, who through several centuries were Earls of Richmond—across Smithfield, and paused before a small house at the north-west corner of that open space. Mr. Goose unlocked the door by a key from his pocket, and led Frideswide up a very narrow staircase, into a small room fitted as a sitting-room. Leaving her there, he disappeared for a moment; and the next minute, a stately step crossed the chamber, and the Duke stood before her.
It was rather more than two years since they had met, but Frideswide was unprepared to find him so sadly changed. He looked rather as if twenty years than two had passed over him. Yet only in his forty-fourth year, he had the appearance of broken-down, premature old age: and every tone of his voice was like a moan of pain.
“Mistress Frideswide, I have heard, in this my retreat, that which hath broken mine heart. Tell me, is it true?”
Frideswide did not ask what he meant. She knew that only too well.
“My Lord, it is true indeed. Our sweet young Lady went her way to God, on Sunday se’nnight in the even.”
“On whose soul Jesu have mercy!” broke almost mechanically from the lips of the desolate father.
“Amen!” responded Frideswide.
“Was he with her?” demanded the Duke almost fiercely. He had neither affection nor respect for “Tom Grey,” as his Lancastrian instincts contemptuously termed him.
“Master Grey? No.”
Frideswide did not tell the Duke, though she knew it, that the young gentleman in question was playing bowls at Lambeth.
“My Lady her mother was, I count?”
Frideswide was thankful that she could truthfully say that the Duchess had been in her daughter’s apartments on the night of her death. She had just looked in for ten minutes. She would have been glad to say no more: but the Duke’s queries were persistent. He put one after another till he knew all she could tell him: and then, folding his arms upon the table, he laid his head upon them, and a low moan of bitter pain broke from him.
For some minutes there was dead silence in the little chamber. At length the Duke spoke.
“If only a man might die when he would! The sun is gone down, and there be no stars for me.”
“Nay, my gracious Lord, I cry you mercy!” said Frideswide gently. “The sun is but gone behind a cloud, for our Lord Jesu Christ is the sun of His people. It is the star which has set. The sun is there as aforetime.”
“Then the cloud is sore thick, for I see no light.”
“Not now, my Lord. It will break forth again.”
“Is that so sure?” said the Duke, mournfully. “Ah, you are young and hopeful; to you the birds always chant ‘To-morrow.’ But I—I am a man old before his time, and hope is gone from me.”
“Christ is not, my Lord.”
“Mistress Frideswide,” was the earnest answer, “wit you what it is to stretch forth numb hands into the darkness, and not find them taken?—to feel none other hands meeting yours?”
“So long as the numbness is but in mine hands, my Lord, I know not that it signifieth much. They may be taken, yet be too numb to feel it. Truly, I am but a poor maid and a young, and of little wit: some doctor of the Church could aid your Lordship, but not I. Yet if I might speak one word, it should be,—dear my Lord, if our Lord have gripped hold of your Lordship, will it matter whether your hands have hold of Him or no? They be safe borne, methinks, whom Christ carrieth.”
“Yet if one feel not the carrying—only a sense of falling down, down, into a pit whereto is no bottom”——
“My gracious Lord, can that be if you have trusted our Lord to carry you? Shall your feeling be put in enmity to His word? Have you come to Him? for if so, you give Him the lie to say He hath cast you out.”
The Duke rose. “My maid,” he said, “there be times when it looks to mine eyes as though mine whole life had been but one mighty blunder, and one great sin.”
“Be it so, my Lord. Is Christ strong enough to bear it?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Is He reluctant to bear it?”
“I dare not say so much.”
“Then, my Lord, what wait you for?”
“I have no strength to give it to Him.”
“Have you any need? If a burden lay at my feet that I could not lift, and my brother stood by, think you I should tarry to ask him to bear it for me till I could lift it up and give it to him? Is He that carried our sins away upon His cross become so weak that He cannot bear our sorrows now? If He can hold heaven and earth, verily He can hold you and me.”
“Amen!” said the Duke softly. “Mistress Frideswide, we may never set eyes again each on other: and you and your sister have been true friends to me. Pray you, do me so much pleasure as to wear this gold chain for my sake. I would I had a better gift to mine hand, but a man that hath spent half his life in exile, and hath his lands proscribed, is not he that can make rich gifts.”
“My Lord, a far smaller matter should be more than enough to pleasure your handmaid. I thank your good Lordship right heartily.”
“And what shall I send unto Mistress Annis?” said the Duke thoughtfully, as he turned over some dozen of jewels and trinkets, which were all now left to him of his once splendid fortune. “I would not by my good-will she were had in oblivion, for she was very good unto me, more than once or twice. What say you, Mistress Frideswide, should like her best of these?”
Frideswide glanced rapidly over the articles indicated.
“I am somewhat afeared to pick and choose, under your Lordship’s allowance: for that which may seem the least precious matter unto a stranger, may be the dearest thing in all the treasure-house to him that ought59 it.”
“Nay, go to,” replied the Duke. “There is nought dear to me now, save a ring my Nan once gave me—and I put not that on my list of tokens.”60
Thus invited, Frideswide picked out a plain silver ring, set with the badge of the fiery cresset in minute rubies. “This, methinks, should like her, if your Lordship set no store thereby.”
“Certes, none at all: yet this is poor matter.”
“It is enough, my gracious Lord, and I thank you right heartily for my sister.”
“Tell her, I pray you, Mistress Frideswide, that the last words we spake each to other be the parting message of love61 that I shall send her,—and may God give me to find it true for myself, as I pray she may for her.”
“What were they, an’ it like your Lordship?”
“They were the words I told Jack Goose to give you as token of his trustworthiness, the which I thought should bring quickly one of our doctrine. ‘Alle thingis, and in all thingis, Crist.’”
“May you so find it, my gracious Lord!”
The Duke gave her his hand at parting—an unusual condescension from his position to hers. Frideswide bent low, and kissed the hand of him whom she was no longer to call master, and whose face she would never see any more.
John Goose took her home with a lantern. As they threaded their way along St. Martin’s Lane, which led from Aldersgate to St. Paul’s Churchyard, he said to her,—
“Pray you, my mistress, is aught heard at this time of any ado against them of our doctrine?”
“In good sooth I trust not, Master Goose,” was the reply. “I have nought heard of any such matter. Eh, good lack! it should be hard for some to be staunch, if so were!”
“I count it should be hard to them that had it to do for themselves,” said John Goose.
“How mean you, my master?”
“Look you, I told you afore I was a Goose by name and nature,” said the youth with a merry laugh. “So being, I know well I have no wits to cope with my learned masters the doctors of the Church. Herein I must needs betake me wholly unto my Master. He will give me the endurance, if He send me the need to endure. And that which cometh down from Heaven is like to be better than aught a man hath of his own.”
“Then look you for troubles, Master Goose?”
“I look for nought, Mistress. My Master doth the work for me, and I take mine ease. So merry is Christ’s service.”
“It should be little ease that you should take at the stake, methinks,” said Frideswide with a shake of her head. “Verily, methinks it were past all endurance.”
“For Him, or for me?” significantly asked John Goose.
“It were over hard for you,” said Frideswide to the second question, meeting the first with a deprecatory smile.
“Nay, my Mistress. The enduring was with Him that bare the wrath of God for me: surely not with me that do but bear a few earthly pains for Him. At the least, if it should please Him to call me to that honour.”
“Would you covet it, Master Goose?”
“Mistress, I am Christ’s servant. Is it for the servant to admonish the Master of the work whereunto He shall set him?”
“But the suffering should be your own!”
“Nay! When I bid my journeyman get a-work, he doth it at my charges, not his own.”
“Yet you must needs feel it, Master Goose?”
They had reached the gate of Coldharbour. John Goose swung the lantern into his left hand, and unlatched the outer gate for Frideswide, calling for the porter as he did so.
“Mistress, if our dear Lord list to have me to His presence without an hair of mine head singed, think you He could compass it, or no?”
“Most certainly!”
“Farewell; and God be with you!”
And the smile with which he took leave of her, she remembered later.
Early the next morning, Frideswide left Coldharbour and London: and she left them readily enough. Her sojourn in the south had been productive of any thing rather than pleasure. Now she was journeying home to all she loved; and of course hope told a flattering tale, and she expected to live happily ever after her arrival at Lovell Tower. Her journey was pleasant and prosperous: and she reached York on the evening of the eighth of June, in company with a party of whom one portion were bound for that city, and another for Beverley Minster.
As Frideswide entered the hotel at York, to her surprise she found an old friend leaning against the sidepost of the door.
“Why, Mistress Marston, is it you?” said he, starting up.
“Why, Master Strangeways! whence came you?”
“Truly, at the heels of my good Lady, that is but now out of Beverley Sanctuary, and goeth northward under convoy of Sir James Tyrell.”
“Whither?”
“That shall we see when we be there,” returned Mr. Strangeways, jovially, as though such a journey were the pleasantest amusement in the world.
“Is it of the King’s Grace’s pleasure?”
“Who is the King’s Grace?” returned Mr. Strangeways, putting his hands in his pockets, with as little concern about possible spies or enemies as though he had lived in the nineteenth century.
“‘When we be at Rome, we do as Rome doth,’” quoted Frideswide, with a smile. Not only had her ears become accustomed to the term as applied to Edward, but, like many Lancastrians, she considered that the regal right had now become vested in the House of York. Mr. Philip Strangeways, on the contrary, held politics of so very red a dye that the young Earl of Richmond was his King. “You know, Master Philip,” concluded she.
“I know more than I profit by, mayhap. Howbeit, your question tarrieth his answer. Nay, ’tis not Merry Ned this time. ’Tis Crookback Dickon. His soul is not as straight as his body. Now I marvel,” said Mr. Strangeways, reflectively, “if that companion reckoneth he is going to Heaven. I’ll lay you a broad shilling he so doth.”
“What did he, my Master?”
“Kicked my Lady up into Yorkshire, when she fled to that her dearworthy62 son, and begged him of his protection. And ne’er a plack63 in her pocket withal. I do pray the blessed saints to give him his deserts, and I rather count they will.”
“Dear heart! but sure he would not thus evil entreat his own mother-in-law?”
This innocent query seemed to cause Mr. Philip Strangeways inextinguishable amusement.
“Be men so fond of their mothers-in-law?” said he. “He is, take my word for it: for both he and his brother have set down the foot that never a penny shall my old Lady finger that their fingers can keep from her. She hath scarce more gowns than backs, nor more hoods than heads; and as to her botews,64 I took them myself to the cobbler this morrow to be patched. Be thankful, Mistress Marston, that you have lighted on your feet like a cat, and are well out of an ill service.”
“Eh, dear heart! but my poor Lady—I am sorry for her!”
“So am I,” said Philip, suddenly dropping his mask of light nonchalance, and becoming another man. “So am I, Mistress Marston: and trust me, I am worser than sorry for the Lady Anne, that is wed against her will and allowing to the man she hated most. Eh, well! God be lauded in all His works!”
And Philip turned into the inn, without vouchsafing any explanation of the manner in which he meant his words to be taken.
His news was only too true. The poor Countess of Warwick, the richest heiress in England, had been stripped of every penny of her vast inheritance by the rapacious greed of her own sons-in-law. Their cruel and wicked deed was formally sanctioned by Act of Parliament about a year later—May 9th, 1474—by which statute it was decreed that George Duke of Clarence and Isabel his wife, and Richard Duke of Gloucester and Anne his wife, were to have and hold all possessions of the said Countess “as if she were naturally dede, and the said Countess is to be barrable, barred, and excluded as well of all jointours, dower, actions, executions, right, title, and interesse, of, in, and for all honours, lordships, castles, manors, etc., as were at any time the said Earl’s her husband:” and “the said dukes and their said wives may make partition of all the premisses.”65 More sweeping language could scarcely be. No notice was taken of poor Lady Warwick’s piteous allegation of “noon offence by her doon,” nor of her fervent assurance that she had “duly kept her fidelity and ligeance, and obeyed the King’s commandments.” Naboth’s title to his vineyard, even though Divine, was accounted of small matter, so long as King Ahab wanted it for a garden of herbs.
How Lady Warwick lived through the next twelve years is not recorded. We only know that she had nothing to live on. Perhaps, like Warwick’s sister, his widow kept herself alive by means of her needle, deeming herself happy when she could buy a few yards of serge for a new dress, while her daughters were decked with pearls and diamonds, and trailed velvet and ermine trains over palace floors. One of the daughters at least was not to blame. The Duchess Anne of Gloucester was as helpless in her palace as her destitute mother in her northern refuge. Gloucester kept her in watch and ward as closely as if she had been his prisoner, which in fact she was: for the first three years of her hated marriage were spent in perpetual efforts to escape its cruel toils. The Act of Parliament just quoted contains the significant entry that if a divorce shall take place between Gloucester and Anne, he shall nevertheless continue to enjoy her property as if she were still his wife, so long as he “doo his effectuell diligence and continuell deuoir by all conuenient and laufull meanes to be lawfully maried to the said Anne.” No words could have shown more plainly that the caged bird was constantly working at the fastenings of the cage, and that the jailer was afraid lest it should compass its end some time.
Less than this can be said for Isabel of Clarence. She was in no durance, and her influence over her husband was great. She was, in fact, the only person who was permanently able to do any thing with Clarence. It is difficult to believe that if she had chosen to exert herself, some small pension at least—which would have made all the difference between comfort and care—should not have been conferred on her lonely and destitute mother. But she did it not. Are we justified in assuming that it was by more than fortuitous coincidence or the action of sanitary laws, that her days were not long in the land?
“God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”
Notes
57 The exact date cannot be ascertained, but circumstances point to this period.
58 Writing about this time, Lady Fasten assures her husband that she would prefer his return home to a new gown, “yea, though it were of scarlet.”
59 Owned.
60 Gifts.
61 Then a word used generally in the sense of friendship or kindliness.
62 Beloved.
63 Coin.
64 Boots.
65 Patent Roll, 14 Edw. IV.