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said thoughtfully. "Yes, 'twas a lucky thought, that marriage for you. That ancient place Ruddiford, with its old master and his traditions of Agincourt, all that may save your head and mine, Dick, in case this battle means real victory for the House of Lancaster. Queen Margaret may hear what she will, but I should be safe, I think, Marlowe on one side, you and your Rodens on the other. Yes, and in the other case, 'tis a strong position, worth much to either side; in a certain way 'tis the key to the north, though neither side has armed it, for I think the old knight must be well-nigh in his dotage. Something might be done, and if he were out of the way—”

"Are you talking of Ruddiford, my Lady," Richard asked, frowning in impatient bewilderment as he stood before the desk over which she was bending.

She started slightly, and looked up with staring eyes, for he had broken in on a sudden train of thought which was carrying her far. "Go back to your dogs and your music, Dick," she said. "Wait patiently. Your brother will send a messenger to tell us how his suit for you has sped. He has been long on the road, I fancy; he should be here now."

Even as she spoke, there were sounds outside. A servant darted into the room: "A messenger from Sir William Roden."

Lady Marlowe looked up, startled; this was not exactly what she expected, but she was not ill pleased. "Send the man in," she said. "So, Dick,"-when they were alone for a moment-"Ruddiford is at your feet, it seems. Harry has done his work well."

The boy laughed consciously, at once good-humored again. He pushed a white hand through his curls, moved back towards the fire and threw himself into a chair, so that the messenger, coming in, should face both himself and

his mother. This the messenger did, greeting them both with profound bows. They saw at once that Sir William had not sent an ordinary servant to carry his mind to Lady Marlowe, but a person of confidence, a person in whose air there was even something of the gentleman; so much the more complimentary. Richard smiled and

blushed in spite of himself, at this important moment, and then tried hard to look dignified. Lady Marlowe, upright in her chair, met the messenger with a full, keen gaze from dark eyes that were wont to see through men. She was very pale and her lips, slightly parted, showed strong white teeth. He would be a bold man who tried to deceive such a woman. Yet now, if ever, the Lady Isabel met her match, and she instantly felt it. The young man who entered might be a menial by position, though his plain riding-dress bore no sign of this, but he was beautiful and clever beyond the range of ordinary men. The truth was that Sir William, more and more perplexed by the strange turn events had taken, had decided at last on sending his precious Antonio with the letter he had written to tell Lady Marlowe all, and to ask, on his side, for an explanation.

So now Tony found himself on his knees beside her Ladyship. After a moment's delay,-what kind of man was this?-she gave him her white hand to kiss. It seemed, certainly, that he had been brought up as a gentleman, and, one must confess, among all the handsome young men who had ever courted my Lady in her varied experience, he took easily the first place. Nor was she by any means above making him aware of her admiration. Dick's presence, however, there was no lapse from her Ladyship's dignity.

In

As the young man stood up and waited for her to speak, she said very courteously, "Favor us with your name, Sir."

"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 Ruddiford. 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 yet be master of this fair girl and of Ruddiford. And Ruddiford shall be for you, my Lord Edward, my White Rose King!" she muttered, when the boy, Macmillan's Magazine.

shaking his curls and shrugging his shoulders, had strolled off and left her. "This Italian has qualities that will serve; I must make a slave of him."

(To be continued.)

BISHOPS AND HISTORIANS.*

No 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.

1" Letters of William Stubbs, Bishop of Oxford." Edited by William Holden Hutton, B.D. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co.

all

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 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 miraele; 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 $0. 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 Christchurch. 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

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