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"Antonio Ferrari, your Ladyship's humble servant. I am Sir William Roden's secretary."
"An Italian—of noble birth, Sir?"
Antonio flushed with pleasure, but answered very meekly: "No, Madam; but I was brought to England by Master John Roden as his page, and it has been my privilege to wait upon Mistress Margaret."
"As her page?"
"Her page, and playfellow, till Sir William took me specially into his service."
"Where, I suppose, you will remain?"
"Surely, Madam, unless my young mistress, when she comes hither as Baroness Marlowe, should command me to follow her."
Antonio spoke with such quiet correctness that Lady Marlowe, occupied for the moment with himself, noticed nothing strange in his words. But young Richard was in a different case. The manner and the looks of Antonio had quite a contrary effect on his mother and on him. He disliked him from the first, thought him a presumptuous ape, and swore to himself that his wife should be attended by no such playfellows. He marvelled at the gentleness of his mother's manner to a foreign secretary fellow of no birth,— who, by the way, talked egregious nonsense when he was not telling her his own unnecessary history.
"You lie, fellow," Dick said coolly. "Have a care, Madam. This man does not come from Sir William Roden, or he would know better what he is talking about."
Antonio gave him a quick glance, and went a little white, but did not speak.
"Why this discourtesy, Richard?" said Lady Marlowe.
"You did not hear him. He talked of Mistress Margaret Roden coming here as Baroness Marlowe. What did he mean?"
"Ay, what?" said she. and Antonio
saw her eyes harden. "Have you any letter or token from Sir William, Master Secretary?"
Antonio instantly produced the letter he carried. "Madam, pardon me," he said, "but my master desired me to speak with you before handing you this letter, which is indeed the expression of his perplexity."
"What then perplexes him?" said her Ladyship, as with a sharp little knife she cut the cord of the letter. "Let us see,—but before I weary my eyes with this long epistle, explain your words, Sir. For you also seem to be perplexed, and ignorant of facts. My son there is not Baron Marlowe, and Swanlea is no house of his, that he should bring his bride here,—except indeed by his brother's hospitality."
"Madam, I very humbly crave your pardon."
Antonio's tone was almost grovelling, but in his heart there was triumph. So! he had read the riddle right. There sat the Popinjay, cheated of his bride. How would they take the news, these two, who were not, he could see, over-burdened with scruples? A moment's fear touched him. Would my Lady punish the bearer of the news? Her unlikeness to Sir William's imaginary portrait was somewhat alarming, and for a moment he wished himself safe back at Ruddlford. However, the thing was begun and must be gone through with, as boldly as one might.
"I am miserable enough to have offended you, I do not know how," he said, bowing before her. "My mission is not concerned with your worshipful son, here present, but with my Lord Marlowe's suit to Mistress Margaret Roden, and with the strange manner in which his Lordship left Ruddiford for the north, without even awaiting Sir William's answer."
Isabel lifted her fine brows and gazed at him, consideringly. Richard was beginning to stammer out some angry exclamation, but she checked him with a wave of her hand.
"Young man," she said, "I counsel you to pray to St. Anthony, your patron, to grant me patience. With what foolish inventions are you filling our ears? If you truly come from Sir William Roden to me, you must know that my Lord Marlowe visited Ruddiford with the purpose of asking Mistress Margaret's hand for his brother, whom you see there. He bore letters from me to Sir William. This letter is surely a reply to them, and I make no doubt at all that Sir William accepts my proposal, and Lord Marlowe's. You are ill instructed, Master Secretary, unless your ignorance be feigned. I cannot tell your object, but I advise you to beware."
Antonio, trembling, went down on one knee. "Madam, have pity, and be just," he said, with eyes that implored. "I can only tell you what happened; your anger is a mystery to me. Lord Marlowe arrived at Ruddiford on Christmas Eve. At once, in my hearing and that of others, he offered himself,—himself, I do solemnly assure you —in marriage to Mistress Margaret. There was no word of marriage with this gentleman," he turned his head towards Richard, who suddenly laughed aloud.
"Is she beautiful, this Mistress Margaret of yours?" he said.
"She is a fair young lady," Antonio answered, with lowered eyes.
"And Sir William? And my letters?" Lady Marlowe asked, with quick fierceness.
Antonio, still kneeling, with natural eloquence told his story. "The whole affair seemed to Sir William passing strange," he said. "He felt that he could do but one thing,—lay it before your ladyship. Therefore, as no letter could fully explain it, he sent me."
His voice faltered a little. Lady Marlowe, leaning on her desk, shading her
eyes with long white fingers loaded with rings, watched him so that the young fellow, bold, cunning, but with little experience, shivered to the marrow of his bones; yet it was not quite with fear, but rather with the fascination of a bird before a snake. He had been fairly sure that in all this strange business it would be wiser to find himself on Lady Marlowe's side. Now he seemed to know that this position might mean more than he had reckoned on.
"Mother, what shall we do?" young Richard's voice broke in roughly. "Must I lose Ruddiford? Can I now marry this woman whom Harry has left behind?"
"Peace, Dick," said Lady Marlowe. Then she looked again at Antonio. "Go, and rest," she said. "Come back to me in the evening, and you shall hear my will."
Then Richard Marlowe watched his mother as she read Sir William Roden's letter, smiling over it, but not pleasantly. There was something in her look which kept the young man silent till she had done.
"Yes, Dick," she said at last "And they say that your brother is not mad?"
"Nor is he. Mother. I do not trust that foreign fellow. It may be all a string of lies."
"But with what object? No, he has told the truth,—or part of it I would put him to the question, but the boy is too pretty," and she laughed.
"His face does not please me; 'tis black and villainous," said Richard. "But, Mother. I counted on being Master of Ruddiford; you had promised. Will Harry come back from the wars and marry this maiden, and take the castle and estates for himself? And all without a word to you and me?"
"I suppose." said Lady Marlowe, "after this Wakefield battle, the Queen and Harry will do as they please. But
do you obey me, Dick, and you shall shaking his curls and shrugging his
yet be master of this fair girl and of shoulders, had strolled off and left her.
Ruddiford. And Ruddiford shall be for "This Italian has qualities that will
you, my Lord Edward, my White Rose serve; I must make a slave of him." King!" she muttered, when the boy,
MacmMan's Magazine. (To be continued.)
BISHOPS AND HISTORIANS.*
So bishop's letters are less episcopal, or more amusing, than the letters of Dr. Stubbs. Stubbs was thoroughly clerical, and severely orthodox. But a bishop, except in name, he was not. From the bottom of his soul, and in almost equal proportions, he hated ceremony, fuss, and waste of time. An oldfashioned High Churchman by conviction, detesting Erastianism with all the fervor of Becket, he had no respect for the outward symbols of Ritualism, and preferred an umbrella to a pastoral staff. Simply and deeply religious, he could not resist making fun of what he despised, and he despised everything that was not real. Learned as Germans are learned, to an extent and in a degree which make an Englishman a prodigy, he passed the second half of his long and active career among men who hardly knew what it was that he studied. He described himself as unable to read any book except one which began with a B, meaning Bradshaw, and as having no time to take a seidlitz powder. About his friend and younger contemporary, Dr. Creighton, there may be much argument, and two opinions. For, though there were many bishops, and only one man who could finish the History of the Papacy during the Reformation, nobody ever denied that Creighton made a very good bishop indeed.
> " Letters of William Stubbs, Bishop of Oxford." Edited by William Holden Hatton, B.D. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co.
Not even his faithful editor, Mr. Hutton, can assert as much of Stubbs. Except personal religion and personal kindness, he had no episcopal qualities at all. He was not a preacher, or an administrator, or an organizer, or a man of business. He did not suffer fools gladly; he cared nothing for music; he thoroughly disliked all shows; he was not at home in Convocation, or in London society, or in the House of Lords; his politics were pure Toryism of the most uncompromising kind. Of the statesmanship which restrains followers, or conciliates opponents, he never showed a trace. He would have thought it "underhand." He could not away with dissenters; and when a Wesleyan school asked for an "occasional monitor" suggested that the Nonconformist conscience was meant. Of lawyers he had a holy horror, so that the mere fact of a clergyman being under the ban of the Courts gave him a claim upon Stubbs's sympathies. He was so little a man of the world that, when he sat with Lord Coleridge on the Ritual Commission, he marvelled to find the Lord Chief Justice of England an Erastian, or believer in the supreme authority of the State. None of these peculiarities prevented Stubbs from being a true historian, or a most lovable man. A clergyman who had them all could only have become a good bishop by a miracle; and the age of miracles has ceased. The character of Dr. Stubbs must inspire even those who did not know
him with reverence and affection. It is indeed wholesome to read of a life so honest, simple, manly, and true. The idea of cant or pretence was loathsome to him. When he was bored by a long service, with many hymns, he said so. Most things did bore him, except history, real religion, and fun. His humor was irrepressible; and he seldom attempted to repress it. He did not even require an audience. I remember, when I was at Oxford, contemplating with awe the Professor of History, as he read in the Union a magazine which contained a review by Mr. Froude of Sir George Trevelyan's Life of Macaulay. Suddenly he got up, and put down his Fraser with the muttered words: "When rhetoricians fall out, historians may come by their own." That seems to me more artistic than Mr. Hutton's solemn description of Hallam as "the strangest of all pretenders to impartiality where any Churchman or Church question was concerned." Hallam was a Whig. Stubbs was a Tory. It Is possible to admire one without sneering at the other; and Stubbs, at least, paid Hallam the compliment of stopping where he began. Mr. Hutton is apparently a prey to the delusion that there can be only one kind of history and one kind of historian. Stubbs never forgot that he was a clergyman, or, as Mr. Hutton says, a Churchman. But it would be as bigoted to complain of him on that ground, as to find fault with Hallam for taking the side of the laity. Stubbs, like Hallam, had his prejudices; like Hallam, he was human, and he was always loyal to the Church he served. What was perhaps most admirable and most touching was the quaint homeliness, the simple modesty with which he concealed his vast store of laboriously acquired information. Not even the self-sacrificing generosity with which, in spite of his large family, he cut down all needless expenses that
he might have more to give away, is more truly Christian than his unnatural freedom from the pride of intellect or knowledge.
It was no easy path to learning that he took. Although he came of a good old Yorkshire stock, and his forbears had been yeomen time out of mind, his father could not send him to a public school, or to a good school of any kind; and he would not have gone to Oxford if he had not been taken as a servitor at Chrlstchurch. He had, of course, great natural ability, and a memory which never failed him. But he read prodigiously before he won his First Class and his Fellowship at Trinity. If he owed his early chance to Archbishop Longley, whom he always gratefully revered, from the moment he set foot in Christchurch he did everything for himself. He was never tired of reading, and he never forgot what he read. If he had become a College Tutor, he would certainly have been popular, and would probably have written some of the wittiest rhymes in the Oxford anthology. In this respect he began badly, as Mr. Hutton needlessly illustrates. But he steadily improved; and his well-known lines on Froude and Kingsley, too familiar for quotation, have all the marks of a good epigram, except brevity. On the other hand, he found the country, as Creighton found it after him, propitious for a student's life. He had no great love of it in itself; and he regarded two daily services in his church as an obligation. Like Creighton, he took pupils, one of whom was Mr. Swinburne. Here, again, Mr. Hutton is unfortunate, and with less excuse than before. Because Mr. Swinburne wrote him a warm and affectionate letter about his old tutor, Mr. Hutton must needs make a personal attack upon the late Master of Balliol, to whom Mr. Swinburne was sincerely and deeply attached. Although there
was not much in common between Stubbs and Jowett, they were on friendly terms; and Stubbs became Chaplain at Balliol while Jowett was Master. But even a "Churchman" is intolerable to Mr. Hutton, when he happens to be a Broad Churchman. While vicar of Navestock, in Essex, Stubbs was also a guardian of the poor and a diocesan inspector of schools. When Archbishop Longley was translated from York to Canterbury, in 1862, he made Stubbs librarian at Lambeth, and in 1803 his appointment by Sir John Romilly, to edit for the famous Rolls Series the Chronicles of Richard the First, was a vast benefit to learning. His characters of Richard himself, of Dunstan, of Henry the Second, of Edward the First, proved to historical students that a new historian had arisen, compared with whom Brewer, and Luard, and Shirley were mere antiquaries and Dryasdusts. Although Stubbs was rather afraid of eloquence, and picturesque historians, such as Macaulay, did not appeal to him, yet few men could be more eloquent than he, or more vividly epigrammatic. Take, for instance, the contrast between Richard and Saladin, which is much more than the "trick of telling phrase" that Mr. Hutton calls It.
Saladin was a good heathen, Richard a bad Christian; set side by side, there is not much to choose between them; judged each by his own standard, there is very much. Could they have changed faith and place, Saladin would have made a better Christian than Richard, and Richard, perhaps, no worse heathen than Saladin; but Saladin's possible Christianity would have been as far above his actual heathenism as Richard's possible heathenism would have been above his actual Christianity.
Mr. Hutton has missed the point. Tricks of phrase do not produce passages like this. It Is because Stubbs
knew the two men, by study and insight, as a contemporary knew them, that he could describe them from the soul outwards, not from the skin inwards. Stubbs's perfect singleness of mind and disinterested love of truth for its own sake, his native Yorkshire shrewdness, combined with the thoroughness and accuracy of his research, qualified him, as no other man was qualified, to find the living among the dead, and to draw from musty documents a human drama. Although he said, in reference to Buckle, that he did not believe in the philosophy of history, he certainly did not treat history as a science. He was full of historic aversions and predilections, from the days of Dunstan to his own. He communicated his politics without reserve to Freeman, who certainly did not share them. In 1859, he was for Austria against the "wretched Italians," and felt "extreme contempt" for Victor Emmanuel. Perhaps Freeman may have felt more inclined to agree when Stubbs told him that no dissenter could write a History of England, because they had no ancestors and could see nothing good before the Reformation. Stubbs was fond of drawing pedigrees; and he must have known that every one has the same number of ancestors, whether they are ennobled, beheaded, or left to themselves. If he were joking, one can only say that he usually jokes with less difficulty and more success. As, for example. In a letter about Froude:
He mauls Cardinal Pole pretty considerably, but / think it is the cheapest thing to do, as Gardiner and Bonner both come so much better out of any examination than he does;
or about Capitular Masses, when
the question turned Into what were Chapter-Houses used for, to which I cannot give an answer; nor, think, can he—probably to get cold In;