Freston Tower

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE ARREST.

Amongst those who were considered disaffected to the church, complaints were made to Nix, Bishop of Norwich, that Lord De Freston of Freston was a notorious heretic; that he fostered Bilney, Arthur, Bale, Latimer, and half the seditiously disposed, and spoke disrespectfully of the Cardinal as Legate, and accused him of depravity.

It is one thing to be accused of a crime, and another to be guilty of it. Fear under an accusation lest the world should think there might be some truth or foundation for the report, has made many an innocent person shrink from defending himself.

But De Freston, conscious of his loyalty, integrity, faith, and good intentions, received the news of his impeachment without any fear of consequences.

Wentworth's orders were taken by the bailiffs and constables to seize the body of De Freston of Freston, and convey him without any further let or hindrance into my lord's court at Westminster.

All Ipswich was in a commotion at the intelligence. The reformers rose and formed a formidable body to go to Freston.

Some talked of pulling down Bourne Bridge, by which the officers of attachment were to proceed, and a riot would have taken place but for the interference of the junior Mr. Daundy, who was then as influential as his father had previously been, and who, in this instance, displayed the courage and wisdom of a good man. As it was, he could scarcely prevent the mob from impeding the progress of Wentworth to Freston Tower.

Bourne Bridge, which until the year previous, had been but a narrow horse-bridge, had been enlarged for heavy carriages, and was then a stout brick and stone structure. The beginning of riot was only required to have it soon levelled with the Orwell.

Good sense, however, prevailed, and the multitude, though accompanying the Bailiff and messengers to arrest De Freston, were overruled and persuaded to keep order and submit.

It was not until they were told that any rioting on their parts would probably prove fatal to the cause of De Freston, that they subsided into a settled determination to show their respect to that good man, by not giving way to the vengeance of popular excitement.

De Freston and his friends were seated in the tower, conversing about the early days of the Cardinal, and calling to mind his youthful vivacity, his liberality of opinion, his love, his philanthropy, his erudition, his distinguished talents, and his wonderful advance to power, when Ellen espied the people coming in a mass along the shore, and with astonishment exclaimed:

'All Ipswich is coming to the tower!'

The friends looked out of the bay window, and a sudden paleness spread over the face of the father, as he said to his daughter:

'Depend upon it, Ellen, they are coming for me.'

'For what, father?'

'To take me to prison. I can see the scarlet robe of authority which the Lord Wentworth wears, and I have known too well his marked displeasure against me, not to perceive that such a multitude would not be at his heels, if he did not come upon some obnoxious matter concerning the reformers.

'He is active and generous by nature; but of such an absolute and fiery disposition, that whereinsoever he conceives an offence, he is sure to put the law in execution without mercy. Hark! I can hear their murmurs! open the window!'

It was done, and distinctly the sound of voices, raised is short and gibing tones could be distinguished, and as they drew near,

'Shame! shame to the Cardinal!'

'Long live his noble patron!'

'Success to the Reformers! Hail to the truth!'

And 'Down with persecutors!' came sweeping upon the wind to the ears of the terrified Ellen.

'Oh, my dear father! will you not fly whilst there is time? Cross the waters to Fastolf's Halls. Take ship, and avoid a dungeon—perhaps the stake, oh! my father!'

'Hush! my child, calm thyself. Fear not, put thy trust in God. Have faith in Him. It is too late to flee, and too late in life for me to be afraid of death. Hush! hush!'

'But a dungeon! a dungeon! four years' imprisonment like that of Sir Amias Pawlet! Oh! my father, I cannot bear the thought of it.'

'I suffer, my child, nothing for myself, but only for the thought of thee. But let us not judge too prematurely. Come, let us descend to the castle, and if they do take me, let them take me prepared. Come, child, your arm. William, is it not best to be resigned?'

Latimer's spirit was too full of agitation to reply as he could wish. He felt a sudden fearfulness which made him think it was no easy thing to be a martyr. He suppressed the bitterness of his feelings, and followed his dear friends to the castle.

It was not long before acclamations reached their ears, and coming from the very vicinity of the walls; and the commissioner, with his authority, soon entered the court.

De Freston received them courteously; he looked at their credentials. The seal of authority was upon them and he submitted.

'As thou art thyself obedient to our authority, canst thou not warn thy people of disobedience?' said Wentworth.

'I will do what I can,' and what he said and did, proved sufficient; for the multitude became as patient as a child, and submitted to the guidance of him whom they respected.

Lord De Freston had a severe struggle with his daughter in which she proved successful. She determined to accompany her father, together with her husband, to London.

She did so, of which the next chapter will give more ample detail.

'She was a daughter and a wife,
Loving her father, and beloved through life.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE LETTER.

Nothing but the calm wisdom of De Freston could prevent an outbreak. The people of Ipswich and its vicinity were so attached to him, that, had not Daundy been there to exercise his influence and control over his fellow-townsmen, the Cardinal's mandate would not have been carried into execution without violence.

But De Freston had discreet friends who offered to be bound with and for him, but he would hear of none so committing themselves. He was content when Wentworth consented that his son-in-law and his lovely daughter should accompany him.

She also accounted it an honor to be able to share her father's afflictions. Her principles were of that pure and holy kind, they would not shrink in the hour of trial from filial affection. She regarded the fifth commandment of God, by the grace which she received so to do, and was fully determined to suffer with her father, let the penalty be what it might.

Father and daughter were indeed Christians. They knew how to suffer for the truth's sake, as will appear by their conversation on the evening of their arrival and detention at Westminster, by order of Tonstal, Bishop of London.

Lodged in a mean apartment, ill-becoming their respectability in the eyes of men, it was for that daughter, by the power of that quiet, commanding interest which her virtuous carriage and external appearance claimed, to secure for her father better treatment than he would otherwise have received.

For herself, she would have written nothing to the great man: but when did a daughter's piety fail in behalf of a father, when innocence and a righteous cause demanded her exertion?

Where a son might have failed she succeeded, as the sequel will show, to Wolsey's honor and the development of the best feelings of his heart.

She insisted upon writing a letter to the Cardinal.

'Tell the keeper of this prison,' she said, 'that I insist upon seeing him.'

One of the creatures of Tonstal made his appearance.

'Is your master, the Bishop, to be seen?'

'My lord may be seen at proper hours, but not at this time.'

'Can you convey a letter to the Cardinal?'

'From whom?'

'From me, sir.'

'I cannot have any communication conveyed to the Cardinal from you father without the Bishop's previous knowledge. But for you, lady, as you are not in custody, I can send a messenger.'

'Can you furnish me with pen and paper?'

'They shall be at your command; but will you retire into my private apartments for such a purpose?'

'I thank you for the offer; but I will write here.'

'I fear, if you do, I shall have to send it first to the Bishop of London for his inspection, as it will be issued direct from the prisoner's presence.'

'Then will I accompany you for such a period as may be sufficient for my purpose. I will be soon with you again, dearest father.'

'For what purpose, my daughter,' added De Freston, upon whom years had begun to make their accustomed ravages, 'will you write to the great man? Let me be content without your making any humiliating concessions for me. I am old, and in a common course of nature must soon depart this life. Degrade me not, my daughter, by any compromise of your own dignity, for the ephemeral phantom of this man's dominion. We have had proof enough that he thinks nothing about us, or he would not have forgotten, for so many years, his old friends and companions in Freston Tower. Write to him not, but let all things proceed as if we were strangers to him.'

'You may safely trust your honor, my dear father, to my keeping. Fear not, for one moment, that I should write anything derogatory to the nicest sense of Christian delicacy, nor that I should court even the Cardinal's smiles at the expense of integrity. I will not compromise faith, truth, or righteousness. But human greatness, dearest father, is sometimes misrepresented, and we may have wronged him—even the friend we knew when he was young—and may have attributed false motives to those actions which regard ourselves. Wolsey may not really be insensible to the truth as we ourselves profess it, and may be ignorant of our being brought to London. I cannot think the Cardinal can so far forget us as to neglect us in our necessity.'

'Ah, my daughter, power and greatness are dangerous possessions, where the heart is hardened beyond the calls of nature, grace, or gratitude. He who could revenge an insult, after years of daily prayer himself to be forgiven, is not a likely man to liberate even an old friend if he finds him an opponent. Wolsey knows our sentiments. Did he spare Sir Amias Pawlet? No. How then can we hope for anything but justice, one-sided justice, from the Cardinal? Severity and injustice will be shown to us as heretics, and we shall be rejected, and—'

'Hold, hold, dear father; I am ready to suffer with you, upon any matter of faith and duty; but let us not condemn his greatness merely because we may appear to have been neglected by him. He must have had his great mind so fully occupied even with the King's business, that we may have been overlooked. I have still some returning regard for the friend of my youth; and, though Latimer may not forgive him, I am sure he will forgive me for saying I forgive him. Trust me, dear father, trust me! Farewell for an hour. Latimer is gone to seek a lodging, as he is not permitted to remain here. I may, however, by the indulgence of the gaoler, on account of the increasing infirmities of your years, wait upon you. I will write to the Cardinal. There can be no hurt in it.'

'Go, my child, thou art confident of the innocence of thine intentions, and of the perfect justice of thy cause. I will add no more. Go!'

She retired into the gaoler's private apartments, and wrote her letter in simple dignity of style, according to the method of the day.

'MY LORD CARDINAL,

'This comeyth unto thee by suffrance of the gaoler in Cannon Street prison, unto which place, committed by thine order through Lord Wentworth, the commissioner for the suppression of heresies and heretics, my venerable father, thy former patron, is now thy prisoner.

'I say thy prisoner, but presume it to be but nominally thine, and really the prisoner of the Bishop of London. I cannot think that thou wouldst permit an old man, and a steadfast friend of thy youth, to sleep in a dungeon, whilst thou dost occupy a palace.

'Thou knowest well the free mynde of my father, and canst best judge of his state who did ever open unto thee the store-house of his intellect, and did keep nothing from thee, which his readyne and his studye could attain.

'I pray thee, my Lord Cardinal, remember that thy greatness can never better become thee than when thou dost shield from disdain and dyscomfort those who can no longer defend themselves. The aged man, now growing infirm, but only in bodye, doth well remember thy younger days; and I, his daughter, whom thou dydst once call thy friend, am unwilling to thynke thou canst forget us.

'Tears do alter moste men, but Christian men never lose the goodness of their hearts, but the rather, as their years do increase, they themselves do grow better-hearted.

'The Lord De Freston, though grey and thyn, ys not thyn within, for he ys stout-hearted and as warm in spirit as he ever was.

'He would cheerfullie endure even the cold of a prison, not would have me wryte to thee now in any tone of complaynte; but nathlesse I do, for I do see an aged parent suffrynge for the want of better fare and lodgment; and I do not think so bad of thee as to beleeve that thou art so steeled against all righteousnesse, as to permit an ould friend to be so discomfytted.

'By thy authority, we myght procure better lodgment, if thou wouldst gyve an orderre for our permission to seek them; gyving, as we would cheerfully do, our honourable word to appear at any hour before thee, my Lord Cardinal, or thy high Commissioner touching any inquiries as to our accusation.

'My Lord will readily forgive a daughter's anxiety for one who has ever been all in all to her from her infancy, and attribute thys appeel to filial affection, as well as to a certayne sense she has of Cardinal Wolsey's greatness, that he will not deny her thys very symple requeste, to be permyttede to convey her father to some better lodgment.

'This favour granted, will give comfort to your humble servant,

'ELLEN DE FRESTON, now
'ELLEN LATYMER.'

This letter was handed to the Cardinal the last day he ever presided in Westminster Hall as Lord Chancellor.

It was the first day of Michaelmas Term, 1529, when he had put forth all his accustomed pomp to go from York Place to Westminster. It was on that very day Ellen De Freston's letter was handed to him in Court.

The Cardinal was observed to turn deadly pale, and some thought he had received a letter from Mistress Anne, conveying some more direct intimation of his downfall.

What were the depths of his real thoughts no one could tell. He wrote on a scrap of paper—'Summon Cavendish.'

To him he gave commission to go and bring to his house forthwith Lord De Freston and all his retinue; and 'let one and all,' said he, 'be well entreated.'

It was observed that Wolsey gave that day such evidences of abstraction of mind as bordered upon aberration. Men prognosticated his speedy decline, and plenty there were among the nobles who were glad to give him a kick, to let him see how truly they despised the man whom they once had feared.

When Ellen returned to her parent's prison she narrated, as nearly as she could, the words she had made use of; but the old man, Lord De Freston, shook his head, and said—

'Men forget their benefactors when ambition has brought them to the pinnacle of fame. Pride likes not to remember it had a patron. Good men only take pleasure in looking upon the past, and calling to mind the ministering kindnesses of any, rich or poor, whoever they might be, that gave them even a cup of cold water in the day of their necessity. The Cardinal has too much pride.'

'Wait, dear father, the return of the messenger. We can but then moralize upon the hardness of the human heart. Let us pray that God will not desert him, though he be so great a man. Something whispers to my heart that we have wronged him.'

O! when did female pity fail to hope the best of one for whom it has felt even the slightest regard?

Ellen had a wise heart, a kind spirit—the very soul of purity and love—which would not think evil until proof should be given of a hardened heart; and she was not deceived.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE SUMMONS.

Whilst they were yet talking of the impenetrable nature of pride, and of all they had heard of Wolsey's magnificence, Cavendish arrived to conduct them all to the Cardinal's palace of York Place.

Ellen did but look one moment's triumph before she checked herself for the impiety. She said to herself, 'My father knows not what I do; and it is impious to triumph over a parent's weakness.'

The thought of speech, which might injudiciously have come forth as it might have done from thousands—'There, father, who is right?' was but a momentary impression on her soul. Christian delicacy rose superior to all feelings of triumphant boasting, and she suppressed the proud words which died away in her, even with the thought, before the pure spirit of charity.

Oh, that all daughters were like her! Where trained in holiest love they will ever be so.

De Freston felt the delicacy of his dear child, who spake not one word of reproach to him, but looked all readiness to accompany him, either to the dungeons of an inquisition, or to the palace of a cardinal.

Circumstances reprove sometimes the best of men, or rather make them reprove themselves for things which they had too hastily decided upon. So was it with Lord De Freston. He felt he might be wrong, though he was most marvellously astonished at the change which he considered must have come over the Cardinal.

He received those gentle and generous attentions from Cavendish which none but he could so feelingly exercise. He knew how to behave wisely in prosperous or adverse circumstances, and how to qualify the duties of an exalted position with all the devotion of a servant.

There was such sincerity in Cavendish and his proceedings, both for and with his master, as laid the foundation of his family greatness for ages. In nothing was he greater than in speaking his master fair, when his fortunes had deserted him. The servant who does his duty faithfully, is quite free from the sins of his master.

'My lord desired me expressly,' said Cavendish, 'to inquire in what way he could serve you. He insists upon your being his guest, and will hear of no denial. I am a stranger to you, and you equally the same to me, as I have never chanced to hear my master mention you.'

De Freston smiled as he replied—

'In that last sentence we are not surprised. Your master has been known to us from his youth; and when he was small in reputation, he esteemed me for my support. I only marvel that, now he is a great man, he should remember us at all.'

'My master and greatness have been long familiar. He is a prince in all things but a crown; yet his Cardinal's hat is more exalted than the King's crown, and goes before him to his duties. I am quite sure he remembers you pleasantly, or I should not have received such special orders to conduct your lordship, with all ceremony, to his palace. You, and all your retainers, and whomsoever you may choose to accompany you, are to be received at York Place. Will you order all your retinue to be in readiness?'

'Alas, young man, you know not how few they be. This, my daughter, is my only mistress, the wife of William Latimer. Her husband is with her. He was an old college companion of thy master's. Dost thou think he will receive him?'

'Even as a king would! You will yourselves be the witness, for my master is, of all men, the most courteous. Towards every one he is gentle and dignified, and has the singular gift of forgetting manners to no one. I will answer for Master Latimer's most grateful reception.'

'He comes, my son, to speak for himself.'

Latimer bowed to the stranger, and proceeded to explain to his wife that he had obtained lodgings close at hand, and should be able to be in constant attendance; when she explained that they were all to go to York Place; that the gentleman then before him was Wolsey's secretary, and sent on purpose to conduct them.

He looked inexpressible things at Ellen, who assured him it was the fact, and that she had made up her mind to go, and should be glad of his company.

'"Will wonders ever cease?" my dear, has been the exclamation from the foundation of Babylon, and will be an exclamation when old England shall cease to have a Cardinal, and Rome a Pope; but that Thomas Wolsey should at length condescend to notice us after so many years!—surely he and his fortunes must be about to change together.'

'And if they are, Master Latimer, let me advertise thee that they may change for the better, even in the opinion of you all.'

It was then that surprise overcame them all, and the question arose: 'Will Wolsey become a Reformer?'

'He is a reformer of many things; and if the King's favor and the King's disfavor be both silent, my master will be a greater man than ever.'

'Thou art a wise young man, Mr. Cavendish, and canst see the ticklish nature of these times; but those two "ifs" are like the base pillars, I fear, upon which the Colossus of Rhodes stood, which the earthquake precipitated into the sea. They cannot bear the weight of Wolsey. Favor falling, disfavor will remain, but the Cardinal cannot stand on one leg, and that a bad one. A subject's head in these days, once in disrepute, will soon roll off his shoulders. But come, my child, let us away. Time flies, and our new acquaintance must be glad to dispose of us according to his instructions. I rejoice always.'

'We are at your command, sir.'

'So then again strange trials will increase.
And wonders, ever new, will never cease.'

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE ARRIVAL.

It was in the evening of that memorable day when Wolsey had sat long in state at Westminster, and had been detained by causes which he was anxious, whilst he had the seals, to see concluded, that Cavendish conducted the prisoner, as De Freston really was, to York Place.

He had sent one of his master's servants to apprise Wolsey's chamberlain, and master of ceremonies, and household servants, of the expected arrival of guests of distinction; but who they were to be, and how many, he had not revealed. He was ignorant himself; but, from his taking twelve of his master's men, with mules and sumpter mules, it, was evident he expected rather a cavalcade and procession, than merely to have to conduct an old man, his daughter, and her husband.

All Wolsey's household had been upon the 'qui vive,' and were, no doubt, as great men's servants frequently are, disappointed at no great state arrivals, when they saw so small a party approaching.

They were ushered, with quiet gentleness, into the great reception-hall, where one of the strangest adventures—as unexpected as unwished-for—presented itself to view. There stood, full in her sight, as Ellen entered the Alice De Clinton, together with two female attendants near her.

What a picture did these females then present to view. Had not the description been given from ocular demonstration, imagination could not have depicted the surprise.

Neither Alice nor Ellen had seen each other, and heard but little of one another, for years. They had been friends in their early days. One, at least, had been a warm-hearted one. Both had been intimate; but there stood Alice to receive Ellen in the Cardinal's house at York Place; and there entered Ellen, Lord De Freston, and Latimer into the presence of one who had left upon their memories a chilling impression of hauteur, which formerly disgusted them, and did not, at that moment, allow of any softening sensation for better impression.

Of all conjunctions, of all positions in which persons are unexpectedly placed, the memory of rivalship, in which personal dislike more than any honest contention or provocation had been the cause of disunion, is the most difficult feeling to disperse.

Surprise was for the moment the expression of every face. Even Ellen's confessed it, and there was nothing pleasurable in the meeting. As to Alice, if an apparition had risen out of the earth, she could not have been more petrified with astonishment. Her cold, dark eye, wide open, and fixed upon Ellen, told, by its intensely rivetted stare, that it saw too much—more than it could bear; and yet it dwelt with hard, cruel, inquisitive firmness on the party before it.

Is it possible to meet a person who hates you—literally hates you even unto death, and makes you know it by the very contempt of the eye—and not to feel a shudder at the enormity of hatred?

Here stood, confronted in the forms of female self-possession, the dignity of the highest worldly pride, and the dignity of true humility. The one conscious of being introduced to the other by the very power to which alone that other had been known to bend.

Here was Alice De Clinton, the proudest spirit that ever daughter of Eve possessed, and Ellen Latimer, at once the meekest and humblest, but, at the same time, the most faithful spirit, conscious of duty and love, met to confront each other by the order of the Cardinal, who, at the time he gave the invitation, was so engrossed with the affairs of his declining grandeur, that he forgot the opposing powers meeting in his mansion.

'Coming events cast their shadows before them.' The downfall of the favorite was precipitate enough; but the downfall of a portion of his domestic arrangements preceded it. The Cardinal had no motive in his heart but that which softened pride is apt to feel when it sees greatness fallen before it. Wolsey saw only Lord De Freston in distress, and his lovely daughter, the early companion of his youthful day, appealing to him for help.

Through the vista of years gone by, he had never forgotten, though ambition had diverted his mind, the learned Ellen and Freston Tower; and though those years had, as an early dream, visited him with pleasure and with pain, yet they recurred to him now, in his decline, with a degree of softness and tenderness which positively subdued the grand and lofty-minded man from ambition to affection.

That can scarcely be called a subduing. It ought to be named an exaltation; but the world, which judged then, as now, that human weakness displayed in a great man is worthy of condemnation, did not spare the declaration that the mighty Cardinal had lost his mind.

He was, indeed, greatly affected by the arrival of these early friends at such a time, and the abstruse decisions of the law were then most irksome. He determined, however, to see all cases somehow or other decided which could be brought before him, and he remained a longer time than usual upon his judgment seat.

Time enough, indeed, to let the ladies see each other, and become acquainted before he should return.

The haughty Alice De Clinton had grown more proud, more portly, more stately, since she had consented to abide with the Cardinal, than she was while under the roof of the Bishop of Norwich. Report had stated that the Cardinal, in seeking to get her made Abbess of Winton Priory, had private motives of self-gratification therein, and the ear of royalty had been so whispered into, as well as advertised thereof loudly, that Henry's letter to the Cardinal upon that subject still exists, and certainly was the occasion of her not being appointed to that situation which no one was better fitted to fill than such a cold, heartless, stern, unnatural, and superstitious woman as Alice De Clinton.

De Freston and his daughter had been infected with the report before they stood confronted with the lady herself; so that it did not add to their comfort when they saw her in the position of domestic hostess in York Place.

They were relieved, however, from her presence by one of those haughty departures, which, in her early years, she had shown to the guests of Goldwell. She could not fail to recognise De Freston, Latimer, and Ellen; but her mind was made up in a moment, namely, that York Place should not hold her and her rival at the same time.

Turning to Cavendish, she promptly asked—

'Did your master know who they were he had ordered you to conduct hither?'

'He did, lady, but I did not.'

'How long will it be before the Cardinal returns?'

'I cannot tell, my lady.'

'Then be pleased, sir, to tell me when he does return. Dames, show that lady to the apartments prepared for her, and then wait upon me. Cavendish, remember your duty.'

The haughty lady glided from the hall without one word of charity, or look of kindness, or even an intimation of respect for any one of the party.

Her pride, however, could injure no one but herself. She retired, a specimen of fallen Lucifer's dignity, whilst Ellen retired humbled to the dust by the exhibition of such an unwarrantable indignity.

A few minutes' prayer restored the disturbed mind of the latter, and as she was fatigued and overcome by the circumstances which then crowded upon her, she requested the femme-de-chambre to let the Cardinal know that she was not equal to the ceremony of introduction to him till the morrow. She wished to be conducted to her father's apartment before she retired.

It need not be stated what a sweet hour of communion those dear souls had, even in that place. Oh! how calm is true piety: and what a disturbed, restless being is man without it. The dear friends who talked of their then singular position, spake but little of the haughty Alice. The little they did speak was spoken in charity, and without any bitterness, saving only of regret for her sake. They parted, praying for blessings upon each other.

What a position was it for all parties! It was the very climax of circumstances, and of what it was to be productive none could divine.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE DEPARTURE.

Cavendish attended upon his master as the long retinue of state arrived on the very last day they ever formed a cavalcade for him as the Chancellor.

'Have all things been attended to, my faithful servant?' said Wolsey, as, dismissing his retainers, Cavendish alone conducted his master to his private room. There was a more than common suavity in the Cardinal's manner, a greater unbending than he had before witnessed in him; a more than usual sweetness, even approaching to tenderness.

'All is done as my lord desired; but Mistress Alice requested me to acquaint her with my lord's return.'

'Ha! ha! I forgot; yes, Cavendish, I forgot. Well, it is well. How could I forget? Go! yes, go! the sooner the better. I am as anxious to see Mistress Alice, as she can be to see me. I am at leisure. Quick, Cavendish. I am in my own house. Perhaps so! may be not—or may be so. Go, good Cavendish! summon the Lady Alice.'

It was evident that Wolsey had, in his own remembrance of his friends, forgotten that Alice was their enemy. Had he thought of their early feud he would probably have devised some other plan of accommodation for his friend. It is a painful one to any man to entertain guests when the mistress of his house is set against them.

These things came as things unwelcome to a great man's mind; but the greatest minds are frequently found to have to bend before female caprice. A good man is as jealous of hospitality being shown to his friends, as he is fond of domestic happiness; and she is a poor partner who receives not her lord's friends with complacency.

A truly wise wife never compromises her husband's dignity or her own, by behaving with incivility towards her husband's visitors. But when a servant assumes the position of a wife, and treats her master's visitors with contempt, it is time for her to be discharged.

Alice De Clinton occupied a superior station in the Cardinal's family, and did the honors of his house, where female interference was required, with the nicest propriety. She was, however, accounted a very cold, unbending person, though to the Cardinal himself all obsequiousness.

Her very manner to others gave occasion to the invention of evil reports concerning her; and when a female is haughty, and knows not how to conduct herself with gentleness, the world is glad to hear unfavorable reports of her, and as readily believes them. Even frailties are pitied where humility is not lost.

Alice entered the room where the Cardinal was reposing after the fatigues and anxieties of business, relaxed both in mind and body. He could not fail, however, to be struck with the singular appearance of the lady.

She came in her riding costume. The Cardinal marvelled, and well he might; but he was soon enlightened.

'You look astonished, my lord, to see me prepared for travel; but I am come to speak my mind, and to bid you farewell for ever. I little thought that I should ever be called upon to receive pestilent heretics in the house of Cardinal Wolsey; heretics, too, at this very moment under the ban of Tonstall, Bishop of London, summoned to appear before my Lord Cardinal; and to be treated forthwith as if they were the very best Catholics in the land. And who are these, my lord's guests? Have not I often told my lord that they were the greatest enemies he had? Have I not, years gone by, proclaimed them to be what they are now brought under my lord's hands for; and are they to come here and to expect favor from him who is appointed by the head of the church to suppress and punish them?

'I ever thought that my lord made advances to my friendship through the desire to refute and put down the enemies of the church. I ever thought that the wisdom, talents, learning, and power with which the favored of the Pope was gifted, were to be exercised for the honor of the chief Pontiff, and for the welfare of all good Catholics in this land.

'How is it, then, that one who has been bound by ties of friendship, based upon such principle, should now be called upon to act upon the contrary side? Is the memory of private regard to be weighed in the balance with the public good? And am I, who was expecting to be an Abbess of my lord's appointment, to be his panderer to a taste for heresy?

'Forbid it! O, shade of Goldwell! O, deceased Bishop! thou didst confide me to the guardianship of one whom thou didst deem a friend to the church, and lo! that one turns upon his charge, and commands her to receive, as her friends, these heretics against Rome.

'But my lord must be obtuse—my lord must be changed—my lord must be about to lose all his dignity, and to become a driveller, a poor, weak, mean-spirited man, and no longer the great Cardinal; the Lord Chancellor—the most learned Bishop, the future candidate for the Popedom, the great friend of Christendom.

'At all events, my lord cannot expect me to remain in his house under existing circumstances. No, my lord, no; perish York House, before I sleep in it whilst heretics lie under the same roof. Heretics, too, who once dared to insult my guardian, and now affront me in this house.

'Oh, my Lord Cardinal, this is a blow I did not expect from you. Farewell, my lord's greatness; farewell, my hopes of preferment in your grace's mansion. When the days of heresy come, it will be remembered that the Cardinal of York fostered them in his own palace; but let it be remembered, also, that she who dwelt with him as his friend for twenty years, on that day took her departure.

'I shall return to Goldwell Hall, near the seat of my lord's birth, and in that very house where I first knew him, shall I learn to forget him, My Lord Cardinal—Farewell!'

'Alice De Clinton, hear me. One word. Nay—I insist upon giving you an explanation. Care and I have of late been close companions. Greatness and sorrow have been closeted in my soul for these many days. Dignity and distress have been accompanying my lot wheresoever I have gone; and now, Mistress Alice, that I return home, I find that hospitality and heresy are to be the cause of separating Cardinal Wolsey and Alice De Clinton for ever.

'This is what I call a domestic consummation of my calamitous career. I did not think of heresy. I did not think of animosity. I forgot your distaste, and I thought only of my former acquaintance with these friends when I was poor and they were rich; and should I desert them in distress, when the only opportunity I have, or ever may have, in life, to repay them for their early kindness to me, is to befriend them in the day of adversity.

'Shall I forget, Alice, that I am a man, because I am a Cardinal? Is every feeling of gratitude to be totally extinct towards those who have watched over my early years, and helped me in my studies, and befriended me?

'Oh! Alice, if we forget those who have been kind to us in our youth, God will forget us when we grow old. Read that letter from Ellen, and let your heart feel its simplicity and truth, and then say whether I ought or ought not to have exercised the duties of hospitality.'

Alice read it. Yes, she read it. The tears started in her eyes, but they were tears of bitterness, not of love; for love had no share in her proud heart. It was ready to burst with vexation; but without pity. She read it—she returned it; and she looked as if she felt a sovereign contempt for the Cardinal's weakness; but she replied—

'My lord, it is not usual for a judge to entertain his prisoner before he is honorably acquitted; and very seldom then. Judges seldom have innocent persons tried before them. They know well that they are set on high for the punishment of evil men, and not for the encouragement of them.

'My Lord Cardinal is now the judge of this heretic De Freston. Can there be any doubt of his acquittal when he can receive him before trial, and treat him as his most intimate friend?

'My lord has grown wonderfully tender all at once; and merely from this letter. I see nothing in it but the language of a beggar and an impostor—who is now, through my lord's weakness, enjoying the beggar's joy, the glorious reward of imposition; lodging, food, and comfort.

'They smile at your humility, they laugh at your divinity, and they applaud with vociferous exclamations your charity. But how will my lord acquit himself before the Propaganda? All the house of Cardinals will cry out "Wolsey is a heretic." You will acquit De Freston; you must do it for Ellen's sake. Sweet letter, that can make even a Cardinal merciful.

'I leave, my lord. I have a friend's house to go to. I shall at once to Tonstall, and when he hears that his prisoners are your guests, he will at least rejoice that one of your Grace's free servants has sought his protection. Farewell, my Lord Cardinal.'

There are moments in a man's life, even when he is beaten down by his enemies, when his bold spirit is prompt to speak righteousness; witness Wolsey's speech to Suffolk, in reply to his reproach about Cardinals in England. 'If I poor Cardinal had not been, you would not at this present have had a head on your shoulders;' so witness the Cardinal's cool but gentle reply to Mistress Alice De Clinton.

I would rather exercise hospitality to the distressed than punish heretics. The former has pleasure here, and the promise of reward hereafter; the latter was nothing but pain, and great doubt of any satisfaction hereafter. If, therefore, Mistress Alice, the price of thy remaining be the forfeit of the duties of hospitality, I would rather thy departure than thy residence. Farewell.'

A haughty woman cut to the quick by calm wisdom is such a mortified spectacle of discomfort, that it is well she should be hidden in darkness as soon as possible. Her retirement, the more solitary the more congenial. She may brood over her possessions, her hardships, her mortifications, her injuries, her disappointments; but she can never attain any happiness without a change of heart. If that should come, she will be a joyful wonder to herself; if not, she will be a miserable wretch, and live and die unhappy.

Alice De Clinton departed, leaving York Place and its inmates to a day of rest.

The Cardinal summoned Cavendish after the lady's departure; and to him he most graciously unburdened his mind.

'I shall not go out at all to-morrow, but remain entirely within my own walls; but summon the Bishop of London by authority of mine hand, to wait upon me at ten o'clock to-morrow. Remember, Cavendish, that I do not wish it to be known, the cause why I remain at home to-morrow. I have old friends, dear friends, whom I have deserted for many years now sleeping beneath my roof. Let the utmost respect be paid them; for if it were the last day of my grandeur, I could not devote it to a better purpose than the revival of friendship.

'Alas, Master Cavendish, I fear my fortunes will not long stand. How happy I ought to feel that they have stood thus long, so as to permit me to gratify the friends of my youth. Mistress Alice is gone; and I know not how it is, I feel as if a load of care was gone along with her.

'Thou shall sup with me this night. My aged friend did well to retire. I shall have much to talk to thee about; meantime prepare.'

The Cardinal never was so happy, or so truly great, as he was that evening in speaking of all the days of his youth, and relating anecdotes which came, as they always do come, with great grace from great men.

'When great men speak, the falling pin is heard,
But when the poor—his case must be deferred.'

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE CHANGE.

What a wonderful softening thing is adversity. It may come in the shape of poverty; it may come in the severity of calamity; it may come in the loss of a friend; or it may come suddenly by seeming accident. But when it does really come, when the poor mortal, great and powerful, is made to feel it—oh! how heartily does he desire the return of his mother's tenderness, or his father's generosity.

A great man like Wolsey, a companion to one of England's proudest, though not her best nor her worst monarch, one of superior ability, as well as most absolute authority, was likely to feel the neglect of such a prince; and, falling from the favor of ambition, his great mind was softened to think of the friends of his youth.

Ambition is a bold horse; he mounts his fences well; he leaps over walls, gates, ditches, and hedges, and goes at a slashing pace over the country. He requires to be well kept in hand, and not to be pushed too hard at first. He must be well trained, well directed, and curbed in at first.

He is apt to be like Grey Hermit, the royal huntsman's old favorite, so well depicted in Grant's picture of the 'Queen's Stag Hounds.' Davis had enough to do to keep him in order for the first burst of the hunt; for he was 'wild as the wild deer' and threw himself over his fences like a mad horse; but by dint of a master manager, he would sober down into a steady pace, and 'shine at the last when all others were in shade.'

So, affliction coming upon the ambitious man, sobers him down to the steady realities of his work.

The Cardinal had one day's respite from the cares of pomp and state. He had been expecting to be called upon to give up the great seal, and well knew that when his enemies once got the advantage of him, they would not long rest without injuring him.

He had lost his master's favor; he had loved that master. Yes, with all his pomp and greatness, Wolsey never was otherwise, or felt otherwise, than a servant. Had he obtained the summit of his ambition, and been made Pope, he might have then assumed a very different tone with Henry. He would have been removed from outward subjection; and his was master-mind enough to rule princes absolutely under the tiara of the papal glory.

It was not to be. The subject whom the King had exalted as his favorite was to be an example to all England, as Napoleon was to all the world, that power, when too much self-exalted, is to be humbled very low before it departs, or before a man departs from it.

Wolsey perhaps never was greater than in his humiliation, when he lost the favor of the King; and Napoleon never was greater than when on the Rock of St. Helena. Ambition was destroyed in them both. Happy they whose only ambition in this life is to subdue themselves.

Experience will soon teach the proudest they are unhappy, though they subdue kingdoms; and experience will soon prove that the humbler a man is, so much the more he makes others happy, and promotes his own comfort.

The Cardinal rose at his usual hour, read his despatches, answered the messengers from various quarters, and inquired after his guests. He sent to say that he would be happy to receive them in his own room at nine o'clock. In the meantime they had been supplied with all the bountiful care of hospitality, and were themselves softened, all of them, towards the Cardinal.

At nine o'clock the interview was to take place between him and those early friends, whom he had been instrumental in uniting by a bond which he would have been glad to have called his own.

There is a strange sensation in hearts long estranged coming together again. Even in the common intercourse of life, when accident causes two friends to meet, between whom, in early years, the pure friendship of social good-will had existed, how does the heart expand with the remembrance of incidents, events, accidents, or words wherein was no guile, but the simple fervor of youthful respect!

That heart which cannot so feel in love, will know no pleasure in the prospect of meeting its generation when it rises from the dust. Oh! that ever a word or a deed should make the human heart unkind! Men ought to learn to love one another here, that they may be happy hereafter.

When years have parted friends between whom love was as a precious pearl, the very bond of the soul's peace, and a day brings them together, it is indeed a foretaste of joy which immortal spirits only can fully appreciate. It is something like to a glorious, everlasting sunshine, when clouds, and tempests, and dangers, and deaths, and darkness, and night have passed away, and one eternal day smiles upon the soul in bliss.

Wolsey's heart was softened by his coming fall. It had commenced; it was about to be severed from greatness; and no wonder that its early impressions of love, the desire of shining in the eyes of one whom it then accounted a marvel of acquirement to be admired by an enlightened mind, should return with vivacity into the soul divested of the glitter of the world.

Cardinal Wolsey had transferred his first love for Ellen to ambition. He had now had twenty years' experience of the tortuous paths of human greatness, and had found that the smiles of men could never rest long upon one object; that to serve even a king, a man must never be exalted by him, but be always ready to give up all into the hands of the Giver. What such a man, with such a partner for life as Ellen, might have been, is another question—it can but be a surmise.

Ellen, however, was in his house, she whom he once had loved with a devotion even beyond the wisdom of Solomon to comprehend; and though another had loved her with an ardor perhaps more truly humble—certainly not more noble—yet even at that moment Wolsey felt that between them, though years had passed away, there was, there must be, an honorable estimation. He had not felt this in the day of his pride; it was only when he was humbled that this returned to him.

It returned to him too in the sweetest way it could possibly come—that of being a benefactor to his former benefactors. His hospitality, the last opportunity he ever had of showing it at York Place, was the most gratifying to his spirit; and that day of calmness intervening between his last presiding as Chancellor, and his resigning the office, was spent in the happiest society he had ever enjoyed.

The hour came for the interview. Ellen felt it—Ellen knew the secret of Wolsey's heart—Latimer, his friend, knew it also, though Wolsey had believed them ignorant of what he schooled himself to think was his weakness. De Freston never did suppose Wolsey to have been attached to his daughter.

It was well they had all rested a night under the same roof previously to their interview. It was well, also, that proud Alice De Clinton had departed; it was well, likewise, that the Cardinal's state affairs permitted him a day's calm, that he might be disencumbered of his consequence. All things favored the interview, and the parties met with mutual respect, the sure forerunner to a happy conversation.

CHAPTER XL.

THE INTERVIEW.

De Freston entered first, and was most graciously welcomed; Ellen entered next, and the Cardinal's heart beat with a pulsation which would require quicker counting than any physician could enumerate.

Yet the very man who had denied himself the slightest natural movement of affection, so many years before, when he gave her hand to his rival, could now seize both, and unite them with cordiality, in which his own soul liberally rejoiced.

His first words gave indication of a good heart.

'I rejoice to see you both. I am glad that years have not separated you, and that I have greater felicity, as a Cardinal, in joining your hands with my own, after the long lapse of years, than I had as a priest, when standing at the altar of St. Lawrence. Come, my dear friends, be seated, and, if ye can imagine yourselves in Freston Tower, do so.'

This was the honest, simple, undisguised language of a great heart, and could not be heard without emotion. Ellen and Latimer felt it, and each thought, though they did not say it, 'Wolsey is a great man.'

De Freston thanked Wolsey for his kindness, and for the reception he had given them.

'I have done you no kindness, but I have pleased myself; and now, to be very candid with you, I must tell you at once that I must inquire into the cause of your being a prisoner in London.'

'That is soon told. You know well, Wolsey, my sentiments upon religious matters. I need hardly tell you that I am a Reformer—a friend to the true church—hating, abjuring, and detesting those dreadful doctrines of the Papacy, against which I conceive every lover of truth should struggle with uncompromising and unconquerable determination.

'You cannot be a stranger to my love of truth. You know me well, and that I have entertained Bilney, Bale, and others, whom I account worthy of honor; men of learned and enlightened minds, instruments of spreading the truth.

'For these things I became distasteful to some nobles, and was accounted a disaffected member of the church, and even accused of being a heretic. Lord Wentworth, acting under the orders of the Bishops of London and Norwich, and by your mandate, has seized my person and brought me hither; but I have not offended my conscience, and, therefore, hope to be acquitted.'

I have seen and known many abuses in the church,' replied Wolsey, 'from very early days; and had I been elected Pope of Rome, I should have endeavored to restore the Church of Rome to her ancient purity, and have raised her to what she truly is—the successor of St. Peter; but that cannot be. I have now no hopes thereof, but I am still desirous of reforming many corruptions prevalent in that portion of the Romish Church which abides in England. I have punished many priests, I have issued my mandates against all irregularities, and will yet hope to see a great improvement in the church.

'But, at the same time, I shall not conceal from thee that I do not approve of those heretical tenets which upstart preachers are now everywhere disseminating. I love the truth, and am glad to find that yesterday thy friend Bilney recanted his bold heresies, and has returned to the body of the church a penitent.'

'Bilney recanted!' was the involuntary exclamation of all. 'Bilney recanted!

'Yes, I am informed he did penance, and stood at Paul's Cross weeping.'

'Weep he will do,' replied De Freston, 'weep he will do, bitterly. That man has an honest heart. He loves truth purely for truth's sake, and in a moment's fear he has forsaken the truth. I am sure he will repent of this step more than of any he ever took in his whole life.'

Ellen wept. She wept to see her father's earnest emotion, and she felt as if something of life and happiness had left her.

'Let not the Lady Ellen weep,' said the Cardinal. 'I shall not condemn thy father because he speaks boldly. Thou needest not be afraid; I am thy friend and his. I pray thee, weep not.'

Tender words from great men are apt to make tears flow the faster. Ellen's mortification was extreme; for she had hoped the firmness of faith in this good man would not have been shaken by any terrors. She sighed, but spake not.

It was not in Wolsey to triumph over the sufferings of any one, and much less over those of a woman, and that woman one whom he loved in his youth, and for whom he then felt such a sincere respect that he would rather spare it a pang than create it one.

He was sincere in his hope that, as Bilney had been so intimate with Lord De Freston, and had been so much admired by him, that, in mentioning his recantation, he should prevail upon him likewise to recant privately before Tonstall, without any further exposure.

He had not succeeded, but had rather created in that venerable nobleman's mind an additional argument for his own firmness.

De Freston sighed and said—

'Great minds are overcome by terrors, where little minds are often supported. Bilney has been a leader, a master-spirit, one to whom men have looked for example as well as precept. I do, therefore, grieve the more at his defalcation, and take it as a warning to myself, lest, in the hour of adversity, I should fall away.

'O, my Lord Cardinal! I loved that man as I used to do thyself. I had great hopes of him. I had formed the highest expectations of him, and even now I will not despair of him.'

'Nor I either; I think he will become an ornament to the church.'

'And so do I; but not to the Church of Rome.'

'To what church then?'

'To the church of Christ.'

'Is not the Church of Rome the church of Christ?'

'Not whilst she holds the doctrines of presumption instead of those of faith; not whilst she propagates falsehood for truth; not "whilst she loveth and maketh a lie;" not whilst she debases her communicants by giving them half a sacrament for the whole, and even makes that half idolatrous by her false persuasions.'

'She is one of those evils under the sun which King Solomon saw—viz., "a servant when he reigneth," for she ought to be the servant of God; but she pretends to reign with a king's dominion, and cannot therefore be a true servant. Thou hast sought this at my tongue, Cardinal, and I am not ashamed thereof, neither do I ask pardon for giving thee a plain answer.'

'I can pardon thee without thine asking; but here comes Tonstall, and if thou wouldst return in peace to thine own dear Freston Tower, let me advise thee to speak more cautiously before him than before one who feels some gratitude for the past.'

'I can but speak to thee, my lord, as I would before my judge. I will not compromise the truth for any Bishop of London.'

CHAPTER XLI.

THE ARGUMENT.

Cuthbert Tonstall was ushered into the presence of the Cardinal, and it was curious to see how soon the dignitary of Rome assumed that position of manner and behaviour which even then, though declined in royal favor, Wolsey could not forget.

They bowed reverentially to each other. Both were eminently learned men, and each had a great respect for letters.

'Has Bilney submitted to the orders of the church, good father?'

'He has, my lord, and is committed unto safe custody in prison to wait thy fiat of detention or release. He has conformed, and I have here his written recantation, delivered by the heretic himself into our hands.'

It was agony indeed to De Freston to recognise the handwriting of his friend, and the tears rolled down his face as he read, line by line, that document which told so sad a tale. But the old man's prayer ascended even then for such a friend. Tonstall exchanged looks of curiosity with the Cardinal, as to what this strong feeling could mean. He said—

'Thou oughtest rather to rejoice than weep at a heretic's arising from the depths of the deluge to the safe footing of the ark of the church.'

'I weep to think,' replied De Freston, 'that he has fallen away from grace.

It would have been a marvel to Tonstall to find such a man in such company—a heretic in the Cardinal's palace! But he had been forewarned thereof by Alice De Clinton, and yet could he scarcely believe his ears and eyes.

'These are friends of Bilney,' replied the Cardinal, 'and they are my friends too, to whom I am indebted for many things. I would therefore intercede with thee, father, for thy mercy. Spare my aged friend for his grey hairs; and this, his daughter, for the love I bear her; and this, her husband, for the friendship's sake of early college days.'

'But will they promise to abjure the tenets of Bilney, and be obedient to the discipline of the church?'

'I will promise for them.'

'What?' asked De Freston.

'That they shall do nothing contrary to the authority of the church.'

'If the church command me to worship the Virgin Mary, the angels, and the host of heaven, I will not do it. If she says I ought to pay respect to pictures at altars, candles and candlesticks, saints and their statues, I will call her idolatrous. If she tells me that the blood of any of her martyrs, male or female, will wash away my sins, I will tell her she lies.

'In a word, my Lord Cardinal, and my Lord Bishop, if you think I would recant the doctrines which Bilney has preached at Ipswich, or elsewhere, you are mistaken. I desire to be tried even by the learned Tonstall, and before thyself; I will answer any question thou dost put.'

It is not the intention of these pages to record that long but interesting discussion, which then took place between four as learned men as could be well found in the realm at that day. Pain and grief did it give all parties to see that no mutual bond of union could settle the dispute between them.

Tonstall was convinced of the very superior antagonist he had met with in De Freston; and he was made to feel his lash when they talked of the destruction of those who professed to believe in Christ, and strove not to act up to that belief.

'How can the Pope make laws,' said De Freston, 'to burn, or put to the rack, or torture, or destroy any soul professing Christ's religion?

'Come, I will dispute the authority of the Church of Rome in this respect. I will maintain her to be an engine of Satan if she dares to shed any blood whatsoever, especially the blood of believers.

'Show me any authority for her putting any one to death. Did even the Apostles put Ananias and Sapphira to death? They saw that God would visit the wicked, and they told the wicked that it would be so; but they left the visitation for the Almighty's hand, in whose power alone is the life of every living thing.'

'Wouldst thou, then,' replied Tonstall, 'have the murderer live?'

'No: an apostle says, "If I have done anything worthy of death, I refuse not to die." The sword of justice is borne by the civil, not the ecclesiastical power; and if an offender against human and divine laws will not hear the voice of the preacher calling him to repentance, if neither private nor public rebuke will convince him of his danger, all the authority of the church cannot go beyond his rejection from their companionship or fellowship.

'They must then leave him to the mercies of the civil law, or criminal jurisprudence of the country he lives in, and God will do with him as he sees best. I deny the power of Rome justly to punish any man whatsoever with death, where his life is one of faith, though that faith may be exercised to overthrow all the superstitions of Rome.'

'Then the church errs in punishing heretics?'

'With persecution unto death she does; and she will have to answer for all the murders she has thus unrighteously, violently, passionately, and horribly committed. If she were to condemn me, I would protest against her power to the last, and though I might rejoice in suffering, I should sorrow for thee, Bishop Tonstall, to be my executioner.'

It was in this strain, with the purest Protestant feeling, and yet with such pious consideration for those bigoted followers of the Pope, that De Freston combatted the arguments of Tonstall, and made him shudder at his own position. Whether it was that the Cardinal interceded, countermanded, over-ruled, or prevailed with the Bishop, perhaps all these things, or whether Cuthbert Tonstall was himself confounded at the boldness and soundness of the head and heart of De Freston, it is certain that he proceeded no further with the prosecution of De Freston, as a heretic, but left York Place with a heart stricken at the very thought of the cruelties which he had in some measure been accessory to, in the supposed defence of his church.

'We will leave off our polemical divinity,' said Wolsey, 'and if you will spend one day of quiet hospitality with me, we will talk over Ipswich and early associations, and leave these heart-burnings for other thoughts.'

Well said was this by the Cardinal. It was like a spark of glory striking light into his soul. Oh, would that every member of his high and mighty, pompous church could have seen the joy which then diffused itself over the Cardinal's features.

''Twas for a day, a day of such pure bliss
As friendship nurtures in a world like this:
Few such are found midst sorrows to prevail;
If one such visit thee, O! give it hail.'