“I want not to scorn neither the lad nor the trouble,” answered the Doctor. “I did but tell him it was folly; and so it is.”
After this, for a while, there were fewer visits exchanged between the Minories and West Ham; and Robin found himself quietly set to the study of larger books, which took longer to get up than heretofore, so that his appearances at the Vicarage were fewer also. When the families did meet, it was as cordially as ever. Manifestly, Mr Rose’s feelings were not a whit less kindly than before; but he thought it better for Robin that his affections should not be fed too freely.
“Jack,” said Isoult, suddenly, “what discoursedst thou with Mr Rose o’ Wednesday morn, whereof I heard thee to say there was no likelihood? Was it touching this matter of Robin?”
John had to search his memory before he could recall the incident.
“Dear heart, no!” he said, when he had done so; “it touched my Lord of Somerset.”
On the last day of July, Esther, going to the market, came in with news which stirred Isoult’s heart no little. Thomas Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, had died on the previous day, at his house in London, to which he had been confined by order of the King.
“An ill man and an unkindly,” wrote Isoult in the diary she always kept, “specially unto them which loved the Gospel. But how those tidings taketh me back to the days that be over and gone! For the last time that ever I saw this man was that black third of March, the year of our Lord 1542, when the King that then was, sent him to bear his diamond and message unto my dear master (Lord Lisle) in the Tower. Can I ever forget that even?
“Of this Thomas Wriothesley I dare say nothing. I would think rather of him whose voice I did hear last after his, in the commending of his blessed and gentle spirit into the hands of God. How many times sithence that day have I thanked God for him! Ay, Lord, we thank Thee for Thy saints, and for Thy care and guidance of them. For the longer I do live, the surer am I that Thy way Home is not only the right way, but for each of Thine, the only way. I take it, we shall not think of the thorns that tare us, nor shall we be ready for tears over the sharp stones that wounded us, in that day when I and my dear-loved Lord may sing to Thee together—‘Thou hast redeemed us, O Lord God of truth!’”
Mrs Underhill walked into the Lamb, one warm afternoon in the beginning of August, and remained to four-hours. And of course the conversation turned before long upon the Protestant controversy with Rome. In the Hot Gospeller’s family, it rarely kept off that subject for many minutes together.
“Mother!” said Kate, when she was gone, “what meaneth Mistress Underhill by confession? She said it was bad. But it is not bad, is it, for me to tell you and Father when I have done wrong?”