CHAPTER XIII.

THE RECEPTION.

Alice De Clinton had been made acquainted with the arrival of Lord De Freston and his daughter, even before they had made their appearance in the presence of the Bishop. She was engaged in her own private apartment, working a cross for the altar of the chapel of Goldwell Hall, when her maid informed her of the arrival of the expected guests. She scarcely raised her head from the embroidery to receive the tidings. She ordered her maid to hand her some threads, and pursued her work. It was neither her custom nor her inclination to do otherwise. She had actually received the Bishop's message before she condescended to lay aside her work. None, however, of those she called her friends were more highly esteemed than Lord De Freston and Ellen.

She rose in due time, with perfect composure, from the embroidery of the cross, and leaving the work as if she intended to pursue it again after a pause, came very slowly, and with great state, into the presence-chamber of the Bishop.

Alice was handsome. She had a remarkably fine face and figure, but her beauty was of that nature which the eye can look upon with wonder, without feeling any degree of affection. She was like some of the finely-chiselled figures of the ancients, admirable to look upon, but cold indeed to touch. Nay more, when she approached the party assembled in the palace hall, so pale, so stately, so immoveably placid, fixed, settled, cool and composed was the smooth, white face of the maiden, that, she looked more like beauty in the winding-sheet of death, than a creature of life, whose veins contained a circulating fluid, warm from the heart.

She approached to meet her guest; not a smile passed over her features. Her high and lofty brow, with its wintry air, formed a strange contrast to the sunny brow of the happy Ellen. The frozen expression of one face contrasted with the glow on the features of the other. That eye, too, so large, so glassy, and so stern, was strangely opposed to the beaming vivacity of Ellen's.

Ellen received the salutation of Alice with that ease which innocence and virtue ever maintain in the presence of pride. She knew the dignity of Alice, and left her to bend as she thought fit, whilst she retained her standing place, leaning on the arm of her noble father. The haughty maiden broke the silence; but with words that rather confirmed than altered the position of pride she had assumed.

'Thou art changed, indeed, maiden, since I knew thee in thy childish years. I can scarcely believe thou art Ellen De Freston, but that I see the lord of Freston Hall supporting thee. I must forget, I presume, the day I found thee playful as the young fawn; since, now I behold thee grown up to woman's estate. Thou art Ellen De Freston, art thou not?'

'I am the same Ellen, Alice De Clinton, as I was when, in the days of friendship, you condescended to treat me as your companion. I am unaltered in heart. I have often thought of your visit to my father's hall, and have longed to see you there again. I hope we shall soon know each other better.'

This reply had the effect of somewhat thawing the icy distance between them, for the haughty Alice gave her hand to Ellen, and led the way back to her own apartment, leaving the Bishop and Lord De Freston to converse upon politics or the more eloquent theme of the day, the growing plant of heresy, as it was called, which then began to spring up in Ipswich, and in various other parts of the diocese of Norwich.

'I am much concerned,' said Bishop Goldwell, 'to observe the increasing propensity to heresy which seems to be spreading far and wide throughout the kingdom, unsettling the minds of our people, and inducing them to call in question our authority as agents of the See of Rome. Thou knowest well, De Freston, that I hold my churchman's station as far preferable to my worldly state; that the supremacy of the Holy See over all causes ecclesiastical is part of my acknowledged creed; that, looking upon the Pope alone, as Christ's vice-gerent upon earth, is vicar-general, who has the power of St. Peter's keys, to loose and bind, to curb dissent, and to give absolute decision in cases of dispute, I refer every difficult case to his court, and rest contented in my own conscience with his commands. There are two youths, now inmates of my palace, come on purpose to plead with me, concerning the state of their consciences, and to ask my ghostly counsel and advice. One of them is of such amiable deportment, such gentle manners, and of such godly fear, and disposition to respect his superiors, that I cannot refuse to admit him to an audience, and to argue with him upon the state of his mind. He speaks with ease and fluency; but I discover much strong prejudice under this quick manner, and I know not how to root it out. Thou art learned, De Freston, and canst, perchance, afford me some assistance, for thou art a true churchman.'

'I hope I am, my lord, without being a blind one. I know the liberality of your mind, and that you have seen more of men of wisdom and letters than most men now living; and I think that you act as a Bishop ought in giving audience to a conscientious man. There are many innovations crept into the church by means of the supineness of the clergy, and the love of money in the higher powers, which you know, as well as I do, ought not to have been admitted. So many fraternities joined to the Papal power, and receiving therefrom a sanction for their superstitions, may, perhaps, have created a jealousy in the minds of some, which may require much soothing to correct. I heartily wish, churchman as I am, that many of the miscalled relics of the priories, and the absurd fallacies of miscalled pious customs, were done away with. What is the name of this disputant who has sought you, and whence does he spring?'

'The youth I speak of is John Bale, of Cove. He is a Carmelite of the strictest order of mendicants, claiming his descent from the prophet Elisha; rigid and austere in his deportment, and yet so humble, and enlightened in letters, I heartily wish his conscience was not so tender. It burns him, he says, so sore, that he cannot help complaining to his Bishop, and seeking, at my mouth, some consolation. When I argue with him, he hesitates not to tell me how far he admits my authority, and how far he disputes it: prays my patience towards himself, and towards my own self when he states where he thinks I am wrong. He says he prays for me, that I may see the error of my ways, and may come to the full truth. They cannot conceive in Rome to what state things are coming in England. I fear that these two men, John Bale and Thomas Bilney, are incorrigible heretics. As they claim the privilege of asking my advice, I can but be courteous towards them. I only wish they would attend to my suggestions, and be obedient to my mandates. Thomas Bilney, the other disputant, is a man of warm temper though of very clear head. I have asked some of my clergy in this town to meet them at the hour of noon; and as thou dost know that I admit all kinds of addresses without fear of persecution, loving, as I do, discussion, thou wilt probably take part therein, and I am sure with discretion.'

'If, in the least degree, I ventured to give my opinion, it would, I trust, be on the side of that which I consider truth. If these scholars be not too profound for me, I shall take some interest in the discussion, having thought very deeply upon the prevailing notions of the times.'

A servant came at that moment to announce a stranger to the Bishop, and to deliver a note to Lord De Freston.

'Ah!' exclaimed the noble, 'I have notice of a visitor to your lordship's palace, who, though unexpected here, was not totally unexpected by me at my home. He will be quite an acquisition to the interest of the discussion, as he is a learned theologian from Oxford, alike eminent for his modesty as well as his superior attainments.'

'Who is the stranger?'

'It is William Latimer, the friend of the celebrated Grocyn, and of the Ipswich scholar, now so distinguished at the University.'

'Latimer I have heard of, and I know Grocyn well. I presume thou dost refer to the Boy Bachelor, whom I have heard of--Thomas Wolsey, the son of one of the best tenants I have for the Priory Farm at Alneshbourne.'

'The same, father, the same, and will you permit me to welcome to your hospitable palace, this friend of mine?'

'Any friend of thine, De Freston, shall find a welcome here, even were he not the learned man thou hast represented him to be. Pray bid him welcome.'

The lord followed the servant to the corridor, and there he found Latimer waiting.

The greeting was of that kindly nature which had ever subsisted between the family of the Latimers and the De Frestons. De Freston was, indeed, attached to Latimer, as a superior in experience and wisdom would be to a young friend whom he patronized. Yet De Freston felt a degree of attachment to him, peculiarly interesting for his daughter's sake; for, to this young man's perception, plan, and proposition, was owing the health, happiness, and comfort of his child, through the daily course of intellectual employment to which she had become an assiduous and habitual devotee.

'I am glad to see you, Latimer, but sorry it is not in my own hall; but you can go on thitherward before our return, for we must stay our appointed time here.'

'I heard, in my route, that you were a guest of Bishop Goldwell. Knowing his hospitality, I did not hesitate to wait upon you here, as I should have found even the beauty of your castle and the lovely Freston Tower insipid without their cheerful tenants.'

'The Bishop gives you welcome, and, to say truth, I am doubly glad you are come, for I want your aid. Come with me into my private room: I have some minutes of discussion which I would share with you before we enter the hall of reception.'

The domestic in waiting soon showed the friends the apartments prepared for De Freston; and there, for a few minutes, did Latimer converse with his relative upon the all-important matters of the day.'

'First tell me of Wolsey! He seems to have forgotten us. How is the youth, and does he not send us his greeting?'

'I am the bearer to you of his first prize at Oxford. So that you see he renders to his early patron the first fruits of his success. He has sent by me a very valuable Testament, the earliest which has issued from the press.'

'I said he would not desert us. He has been very silent of late, and Ellen and myself were fearful lest he was ill.'

'Wolsey is well! I have delivered letters to his parents and friends in Ipswich. This one is for you; and I can assure you and Ellen that you both live in his heart and memory. He has great cares just at the present time, having undertaken to superintend the schools of his college. He is extremely anxious in mind, and though with no bodily ailment, yet, at times, I fear the intense application which he bestows upon study should affect his spirits. He is sometimes depressed by this over-anxiety, beyond what is usual in youth. It is then I talk to him of home, Ipswich, and yourselves; this rouses him and he revives.'

'You should have persuaded him to have come with you, the change would have done him good. We always remember your mutual visit to the Tower.'

'I did endeavor to persuade him, but he has a high notion of duty. He spoke with enthusiasm of the Tower: told me he never had such delightful days as those which he spent there, and dwelt upon them with so many sighs, that I am sure the Isis, which passes close by his college window, is, in his eyes, insignificant compared with the Orwell: still he says Oxford is his theatre of action, and he will not leave it until he has seen certain works he has undertaken completed.'

'Ellen will be glad to hear you speak of him, for she has certainly accused him of being proud, negligent, and almost ungrateful.'

'He is not the latter, though I will own there is too much of the former in his composition. She would not think him either had she heard him deliver to me the message of remembrance which he gave.'

'Of these things you must convince her. We must prepare for the public banquet hour; and, but that I know your readiness, I should tell you that you will be rather put to it for wisdom, since, at the Bishop's table this day, you will meet, I suspect, some stormy disputants. One thing in Bishop Goldwell I greatly admire--his hospitality to strangers. Whilst, at the same time, such is his courtesy and kindness towards his inferior clergy, that I believe he would support the poorest at the expense of his mitre sooner than see him wronged. He rules them not with a rod of iron, but maintains his own dignity, whilst his sons in the church look up to him with the assurance of protection.'

'I have heard this spoken of him; but I have heard also that he is swayed greatly by the influence of his niece, who is not the counterpart of his reverence in suavity.'

'You have heard right, but you must judge for yourself. Come and see, for the hour of meeting him approaches.'

The friends were soon in readiness, and descended together to the grand banquet-hall of the Bishop's palace. It was a spacious chamber, more than one hundred feet in length, with six windows of Gothic architecture and stained glass, representing six different periods of the world. The first, the Temptation in the Garden of Eden; the second, the Flood; the third, the Sacrifice of Abraham; the fourth, the Delivery of the Law; the fifth, the Building of the Temple of Solomon; and the sixth, the Crucifixion.

The designs were much more splendid in colors than in conception, for singular contradictions of unity existed in all the windows. A lady's lap-dog, with a bright gilt collar round his neck, was found in the garden of Eden; Abraham had philacteries on his forehead and robes; in the Flood, some monks with crosses were seen descending down a rushing cataract; in the Delivery of the Law, Moses had a mitre on his head; at the building of the Temple, there stood several orders of the Roman Brotherhood celebrating high mass, and so many impossibilities of fancy crowded into the ornamental portions of the sides of the windows, that it was difficult to say what they were. Still the light gleaming through the different colored glasses had a brilliant effect at noonday.

Thirty guests were expected. The Bishop's chair was at the centre of that long table, and his own family of friends were to be seated on his right and left hand, whilst, on the opposite side, were ranged the seats of strangers, travellers, pilgrims, or any who might chance to claim the hospitality of the palace. These all waited in a spacious receiving-ward, where there was water to wash their feet, and clean apparel, if required. A peep into that room would have put to flight all the ideas of modern luxury and modern notions of hospitality, even in a bishop's palace.

Various monks from distant parts were there--with various priests of various parishes, who came to pay their court to their diocesan. Those who came without express invitation were all received into this apartment, and prepared for the table of the Bishop. They had to wait with the rest, be they who they might, and were never seen or heard until the hour of public entertainment.

In the common room were waiting, amidst friars, pilgrims, monks, and mendicants, Thomas Bilney and John Bale, men who, at that day, took advantage of the opportunity offered them to speak without reserve to Goldwell, who was generally looked upon as friendly at least to intellectual discussion.

The noon-bell sounded long and sonorous, so that, in all parts of the town, strangers knew that it was the hour of hospitality, and, whoever was so disposed, might pass the drawbridge and partake of the benediction of the Bishop, sure to find a seat at his board, an attentive ear to his history, and, if he had any cause of complaint, promise, if he lived within the jurisdiction of the diocese of Norwich, that his suit should be attended to.