Chapter 25

When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray--

Julian Avenel saw with surprise the demeanour of the reverend
stranger. "Beshrew me," he said, "these new-fashioned religioners have
fast-days, I warrant me--the old ones used to confer these blessings
chiefly on the laity."

"We acknowledge no such rule," said the preacher--"We hold that our
faith consists not in using or abstaining from special meats on special
days; and in fasting we rend our hearts, and not our garments."

"The better--the better for yourselves, and the worse for Tom Tailor,"
said the Baron; "but come, sit down, or, if thou needs must e'en give
us a cast of thy office, mutter thy charm."

"Sir Baron," said the preacher, "I am in a strange land, where neither
mine office nor my doctrine are known, and where, it would seem, both
are greatly misunderstood. It is my duty so to bear me, that in my
person, however unworthy, my Master's dignity may be respected, and
that sin may take not confidence from relaxation of the bonds of
discipline."

"Ho la! halt there," said the Baron; "thou wert sent hither for thy
safety, but not, I think, to preach to me, or control me. What is it
thou wouldst have, Sir Preacher? Remember thou speakest to one
somewhat short of patience, who loves a short health and a long
draught."

"In a word, then," said Henry Warden, "that lady--"

"How?" said the Baron, starting--"what of her?--what hast thou to
say of that dame?"

"Is she thy house-dame?" said the preacher, after a moment's pause, in
which, he seemed to seek for the best mode of expressing what he had
to say--"Is she, in brief, thy wife?"

The unfortunate young woman pressed both her hands on her face, as if
to hide it, but the deep blush which crimsoned her brow and neck,
showed that her cheeks were also glowing; and the bursting tears,
which found their way betwixt her slender fingers, bore witness to her
sorrow, as well as to her shame.

"Now, by my father's ashes!" said the Baron, rising and spurning from
him his footstool with such violence, that it hit the wall on the
opposite side of the apartment--then instantly constraining himself,
he muttered, "What need to run myself into trouble for a fool's
word?"--then resuming his seat, he answered coldly and
scornfully--"No, Sir Priest or Sir Preacher, Catherine is not my
wife--Cease thy whimpering, thou foolish wench--she is not my wife,
but she is handfasted with me, and that makes her as honest a woman."