“Ah! thou foolish daw! Crow that thou art! Had I known thou hadst such a word in thy beak, I’d have wrung thy neck sooner than have brought thee,” muttered Perronel. “I had best take thee home without more ado.”
It was too late, however, the children were delighted, and perfectly willing that Aldonza should own the bird, so they might hear it speak, and thus the introduction was over. Aldonza and her daw were conveyed to Dame Alice More, a stout, good-tempered woman, who had too many dependents about her house to concern herself greatly about the introduction of another.
And thus Aldonza was installed in the long, low, two-storied red house which was to be her place of home-like service.
CHAPTER XX.
CLOTH OF GOLD ON THE SEAMY SIDE
Then you lost
The view of earthly glory: men might say
Till this time pomp was single; but now married
To one above itself.”
—Shakespeare.
If Giles Headley murmured at Aldonza’s removal, it was only to Perronel, and that discreet woman kept it to herself.
In the summer of 1519 he was out of his apprenticeship, and though Dennet was only fifteen, it was not uncommon for brides to be even younger. However, the autumn of that year was signalised by a fresh outbreak of the sweating sickness, apparently a sort of influenza, and no festivities could be thought of. The King and Queen kept at a safe distance from London, and escaped, so did the inmates of the pleasant house at Chelsea; but the Cardinal, who, as Lord Chancellor, could not entirely absent himself from Westminster, was four times attacked by it, and Dean Colet, a far less robust man, had it three times, and sank at last under it. Sir Thomas More went to see his beloved old friend, and knowing Ambrose’s devotion, let the young man be his attendant. Nor could those who saw the good man ever forget his peaceful farewells, grieving only for the old mother who had lived with him in the Deanery, and in the ninetieth year of her age, thus was bereaved of the last of her twenty-one children. For himself, he was thankful to be taken away from the evil times he already beheld threatening his beloved St. Paul’s, as well as the entire Church both in England and abroad; looking back with a sad sweet smile to the happy Oxford days, when he, with More and Erasmus,
“Strained the watchful eye
If chance the golden hours were nigh
By youthful hope seen gleaming round her walls.”
“But,” said he, as he laid his hand in blessing for the last time on Ambrose’s head, “let men say what they will, do thou cling fast to the Church, nor let thyself be swept away. There are sure promises to her, and grace is with her to purify herself, even though it be obscured for a time. Be not of little faith, but believe that Christ is with us in the ship, though He seem to be asleep.”