The Chaplet of Pearls | Page 9

one of the
Prayer-book. The ornaments of the oaken mantelpiece culminated in a
shield bearing a cross boutonnee, i.e. with trefoil terminations. It was
supported between a merman with a whelk shell and a mermaid with a
comb, and another like Siren curled her tail on the top of the gaping
baronial helmet above the shield, while two more upheld the main
weight of the chimney-piece on either side of the glowing wood-fire.
In the seat of honour was an old gentleman, white-haired, and feeble of
limb, but with noble features and a keen, acute eye. This was Sir
William, Baron of Hurst Walwyn, a valiant knight at Guingate and
Boulogne, a statesman of whom Wolsey had been jealous, and a ripe
scholar who had shared the friendship of More and Erasmus. The lady
who sat opposite to him was several years younger, still upright, brisk
and active, though her hair was milk- white; but her eyes were of
undimmed azure, and her complexion still retained a beauteous pink
and white. She was highly educated, and had been the friend of
Margaret Roper and her sisters, often sharing their walks in the bright
Chelsea garden. Indeed, the musk-rose in her own favourite nook at
Hurst Walwyn was cherished as the gift of Sir Thomas himself.
Near her sat sister, Cecily St. John, a professed nun at Romsey till her
twenty-eight year, when, in the dispersion of convents, her sister's home
had received her. There had she continued, never exposed to tests of
opinion, but pursuing her quiet course according to her Benedictine
rule, faithfully keeping her vows, and following the guidance of the
chaplain, a college friend of Bishop Ridley, and rejoicing in the use of
the vernacular prayers and Scriptures. When Queen Mary had sent for
her to consider of the revival of convents, her views had been found to
have so far diverged from those of the Queen that Lord WalWyn was
thankful to have her safe at home again; and yet she fancied herself
firm to old Romsey doctrine. She was not learned, like Lady Walwyn,
but her knowledge in all needlework and confectionery was
consummate, so that half the ladies in Dorset and Wilts longed to send
their daughters to be educated at Hurst Walwyn. Her small figure and
soft cheeks had the gentle contour of a dove's form, nor had she lost the

conventual serenity of expression; indeed it was curious that, let Lady
Walwyn array her as she would, whatever she wore bore a nunlike air.
Her silken farthingales hung like serge robes, her ruffs looked like
mufflers, her coifs like hoods, even necklaces seemed rosaries, and her
scrupulous neatness enhanced the pure unearthly air of all belonging
to her.
Eager and lively, fair and handsome, sat the Baronne de Ribaumont, or
rather, since the higher title had been laid aside, Dame Annora
Thistlewood. The health of M. de Ribaumont had been shattered at St.
Quentin, and an inclement night of crossing the Channel had brought
on an attack on the lungs, from which he only rallied enough to amaze
his English friends at finding the gay dissipated young Frenchman they
remembered, infinitely more strict and rigid than themselves. He was
never able to leave the house again after his first arrival at Hurst
Walwyn, and sank under the cold winds of the next spring, rejoicing to
leave his wife and son, not indeed among such strict Puritans as he
preferred, but at least where the pure faith could be openly avowed
without danger.
Sir Marmaduke Thistlewood, the husband to whom Annora Walwyn
had been destined before M. de Ribaumont had crossed her path, was
about the same time left a widower with one son and daughter, and as
soon as a suitable interval had passed, she became a far happier wife
than she had been in either the Baron's gay or grave days. Her son had
continued under the roof of his grandfather, to whose charge his father
had specially committed him, and thus had been scarcely separated
from his mother, since Combe Manor was not above three miles across
the downs from Hurst Walwyn, and there was almost daily intercourse
between the families. Lucy Thistlewood had been brought to Hurst
Walwyn to be something between a maid of honour and a pupil to the
ladies there, and her brother Philip, so soon as he was old enough,
daily rode thither to share with Berenger the instructions of the
chaplain, Mr. Adderley, who on the present occasion formed one of the
conclave, sitting a little apart as not quite familiar, though highly
esteemed.

With an elbow on the table, and one hand toying with his long
riding-whip, sat, booted and spurred, the jovial figure of Sir
Marmaduke, who called out, in his hearty voice, 'A