“‘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.’”
(Note 6).
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.