The Project Gutenberg eBook of By What Authority?, by Robert Hugh Benson
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Title: By What Authority?
Author: Robert Hugh Benson
Release Date: November 2, 2006 [eBook #19697]
[Most recently updated: May 1, 2023]
Language: English
Produced by: Geoff Horton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BY WHAT AUTHORITY? ***
By
Robert Hugh Benson
Author of
“The Light Invisible,” “The King’s Achievement,”
“A Book of the Love of Jesus,” etc.
BENIZIGER BROS.
PRINTERS TO THE HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE,
NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO.
I wish to acknowledge a great debt of
gratitude to the Reverend Dom Bede
Camm., O.S.B., who kindly read this book
in proof, and made many valuable corrections
and suggestions.
ROBERT HUGH BENSON
Tremans
Horsted Keynes
October 27, 1904
PENATIBVS · FOCISQVE · CARIS
NECNON · TRIBVS · CARIORIBVS
APVD · QVAS · SCRIPSI
IN · QVARVM · AVRES · LEGI
A · QVIBVS · ADMONITVS · EMENDAVI
HVNC · LIBRVM
D.
CONTENTS
PART I |
I. The Situation |
II. The Hall and the House |
III. London Town |
IV. Mary Corbet |
V. A Rider From London |
VI. Mr. Stewart |
VII. The Door in the Garden Wall |
VIII. The Taking of Mr. Stewart |
IX. Village Justice |
X. A Confessor |
XI. Master Calvin |
XII. A Winding Up |
PART II |
I. Anthony in London |
II. Some New Lessons |
III. Hubert’s Return |
IV. A Counter March |
V. The Coming of the Jesuits |
VI. Some Contrasts |
VII. A Message From the City |
VIII. The Massing-House |
IX. From Fulham to Greenwich |
X. The Appeal to Cæsar |
XI. A Station of the Cross |
XII. A Strife of Tongues |
XIII. The Spiritual Exercises |
XIV. Easter Day |
PART III |
I. The Coming of Spain |
II. Men of War and Peace |
III. Home-Coming |
IV. Stanfield Place |
V. Joseph Lackington |
VI. A Departure |
VII. Northern Religion |
VIII. In Stanstead Woods |
IX. The Alarm |
X. The Passage To the Garden-house |
XI. The Garden-house |
XII. The Night Ride |
XIII. In Prison |
XIV. An Open Door |
XV. The Rolling of the Stone |
BY WHAT AUTHORITY?
PART I
THE SITUATION
To the casual Londoner who lounged, intolerant and impatient, at theblacksmith’s door while a horse was shod, or a cracked spoke mended, GreatKeynes seemed but a poor backwater of a place, compared with the rush of theBrighton road eight miles to the east from which he had turned off, or thewhirling cauldron of London City, twenty miles to the north, towards which hewas travelling.
The triangular green, with its stocks and horse-pond, overlooked by the greybenignant church-tower, seemed a tame exchange for seething Cheapside and thecrowded ways about the Temple or Whitehall; and it was strange to think thatthe solemn-faced rustics who stared respectfully at the gorgeous stranger wereof the same human race as the quick-eyed, voluble townsmen who chattered andlaughed and grimaced over the news that came up daily from the Continent or theNorth, and was tossed to and fro, embroidered and discredited alternately, allday long.
And yet the great waves and movements that, rising in the hearts of kings andpoliticians, or in the sudden strokes of Divine Providence, swept over Europeand England, eventually always rippled up into this placid country village; andthe lives of Master Musgrave, who had retired upon his earnings, and of oldMartin, who cobbled the ploughmen’s shoes, were definitely affected and changedby the plans of far-away Scottish gentlemen, and the hopes and fears of theinhabitants of South Europe. Through all the earlier part of Elizabeth’s reign,the menace of the Spanish Empire brooded low on the southern horizon, and aresponsive mutter of storm sounded now and again from the north, where MaryStuart reigned over men’s hearts, if not their homes; and lovers of secularEngland shook their heads and were silent as they thought of their tinycountry, so rent with internal strife, and ringed with danger.
For Great Keynes, however, as for most English villages and towns at this time,secular affairs were so deeply and intricately interwoven with ecclesiasticalmatters that none dared decide on the one question without considering itsrelation to the other; and ecclesiastical affairs, too, touched them morepersonally than any other, since every religious change scored a record ofitself presently within the church that was as familiar to them as their owncottages.
On none had the religious changes fallen with more severity than on the Maxwellfamily that lived in the Hall, at the upper and southern end of the green. OldSir Nicholas, though his convictions had survived the tempest of unrest andtrouble that had swept over England, and he had remained a convinced and astubborn Catholic, yet his spiritual system was sore and inflamed within him.To his simple and obstinate soul it was an irritating puzzle as to how any mancould pass from the old to a new faith, and he had been known to lay his whipacross the back of a servant who had professed a desire to try the newreligion.
His wife, a stately lady, a few years younger than himself, did what she couldto keep her lord quiet, and to save him from incurring by his indiscretion anyfurther penalties beyond the enforced journeys before the Commission, and thefines inflicted on all who refused to attend their parish church. So the oldman devoted himself to his estates and the further improvement of the house andgardens, and to the inculcation of sound religious principles into the minds ofhis two sons who were living at home with their parents; and strove to hold histongue, and his hand, in public.
The elder of these two, Mr. James as he was commonly called, was rather amysterious personage to the village, and to such neighbours as they had. He wasoften in town, and when at home, although extremely pleasant and courteous,never talked about himself and seemed to be only very moderately interested inthe estate and the country-life generally. This, coupled with the fact that hewould presumably succeed his father, gave rise to a good deal of gossip, andeven some suspicion.
His younger brother Hubert was very different; passionately attached to sportand to outdoor occupations, a fearless rider, and in every way a kindly, franklad of about eighteen years old. The fifth member of the family, Lady Maxwell’ssister, Mistress Margaret Torridon, was a quiet-faced old lady, seldom seenabroad, and round whom, as round her eldest nephew, hung a certain air ofmystery.
The difficulties of this Catholic family were considerable. Sir Nicholas’religious sympathies were, of course, wholly with the spiritual side of Spain,and all that that involved, while his intense love of England gave him a horrorof the Southern Empire that the sturdiest patriot might have envied. And sowith his attitude towards Mary Stuart and her French background. While hiswhole soul rose in loathing against the crime of Darnley’s murder, to whichmany of her enemies proclaimed her accessory, it was kindled at the thoughtthat in her or her child lately crowned as James VI. of Scotland, lay the hopeof a future Catholic succession; and this religious sympathy was impassioned bythe memory of an interview a few years ago, when he had kissed that graciouswhite hand, and looked into those alluring eyes, and, kneeling, stammered outin broken French his loyalty and his hopes. Whether it was by her devilishcraft as her enemies said, or her serene and limpid innocence as her friendssaid, or by a maddening compound of the two, as later students have said—atleast she had made the heart and confidence of old Sir Nicholas her own.
But there were troubles more practical than these mental struggles; it was amisery, beyond describing, to this old man and his wife to see the church,where once they had worshipped and received the sacraments, given over to whatwas, in their opinion, a novel heresy, and the charge of a schismatic minister.There, in the Maxwell chapel within, lay the bones of their Catholic ancestors;and there they had knelt to adore and receive their Saviour; and now for themall was gone, and the light was gone out in the temple of the Lord. In the daysof the previous Rector matters were not so desperate; it had been their customto receive from his hands at the altar-rail of the Church hosts previouslyconsecrated at the Rectory; for the incumbent had been an old Marian priest whohad not scrupled so to relieve his Catholic sheep of the burden of recusancy,while he fed his Protestant charges with bread and wine from the Communiontable. But now all that was past, and the entire family was compelled year byyear to slip off into Hampshire shortly before Easter for their annual duties,and the parish church that their forefathers had built, endowed and decorated,knew them no more.
But the present Rector, the Reverend George Dent, was far from a bigot; and thePapists were more fortunate than perhaps, in their bitterness, they recognised;for the minister was one of the rising Anglican school, then strange andunfamiliar, but which has now established itself as the main representativesection of the Church of England. He welcomed the effect but not the rise ofthe Reformation, and rejoiced that the incrustations of error had been removedfrom the lantern of the faith. But he no less sincerely deplored the fanaticismof the Puritan and Genevan faction. He exulted to see England with a churchtruly her own at last, adapted to her character, and freed from the avarice andtyranny of a foreign despot who had assumed prerogatives to which he had noright. But he reverenced the Episcopate, he wore the prescribed dress, he usedthe thick singing-cakes for the Communion, and he longed for the time whennation and Church should again be one; when the nation should worship through aChurch of her own shaping, and the Church share the glory and influence of herlusty partner and patron.
But Mrs. Dent had little sympathy with her husband’s views; she had assimilatedthe fiery doctrines of the Genevan refugees, and to her mind her husband wasbalancing himself to the loss of all dignity and consistency in an untenableposition between the Popish priesthood on the one side and the Gospel ministryon the other. It was an unbearable thought to her that through her husband’sweak disposition and principles his chief parishioners should continue to livewithin a stone’s throw of the Rectory in an assured position of honour, and inpersonal friendliness to a minister whose ecclesiastical status and claims theydisregarded. The Rector’s position then was difficult and trying, no less inhis own house than elsewhere.
The third main family in the village was that of the Norrises, who lived in theDower House, that stood in its own grounds and gardens a few hundred yards tothe north-west of the village green. The house had originally been part of theHall estate; but it had been sold some fifty years before. The present owner,Mr. Henry Norris, a widower, lived there with his two children, Isabel andAnthony, and did his best to bring them up in his own religious principles. Hewas a devout and cultivated Puritan, who had been affected by the New Learningin his youth, and had conformed joyfully to the religious changes that tookplace in Edward’s reign. He had suffered both anxiety and hardships in Mary’sreign, when he had travelled abroad in the Protestant countries, and made theacquaintance of many of the foreign reformers—Beza, Calvin, and even the greatMelancthon himself. It was at this time, too, that he had lost his wife. It hadbeen a great joy to him to hear of the accession of Elizabeth, and there-establishment of a religion that was sincerely his own; and he had returnedimmediately to England with his two little children, and settled down once moreat the Dower House. Here his whole time that he could spare from his childrenwas divided between prayer and the writing of a book on the Eucharist; and ashis children grew up he more and more retired into himself and silence andcommuning with God, and devoted himself to his book. It was beginning to be agreat happiness to him to find that his daughter Isabel, now about seventeenyears old, was growing up into active sympathy with his principles, and thatthe passion of her soul, as of his, was a tender deep-lying faith towards God,which could exist independently of outward symbols and ceremonies. But unlikeothers of his school he was happy too to notice and encourage friendlyrelations between Lady Maxwell and his daughter, since he recognised thesincere and loving spirit of the old lady beneath her superstitions, and knewvery well that her friendship would do for the girl what his own love couldnot.
The other passion of Isabel’s life at present lay in her brother Anthony, whowas about three years younger than herself, and who was just now moreinterested in his falcons and pony than in all the religious systems and humanrelationships in the world, except perhaps in his friendship for Hubert, whobesides being three or four years older than himself, cared for the samethings.
And so relations between the Hall and the Dower House were all that they shouldbe, and the path that ran through the gardens of the one and the yew hedge andorchard of the other was almost as well trodden as if all still formed oneestate.
As for the village itself, it was exceedingly difficult to gauge accurately thetheological atmosphere. The Rector despaired of doing so. It was true that atEaster the entire population, except the Maxwells and their dependents,received communion in the parish church, or at least professed theirwillingness and intention to do so unless prevented by some accident of thepreceding week; but it was impossible to be blind to the fact that many of theold beliefs lingered on, and that there was little enthusiasm for the newsystem. Rumours broke out now and again that the Catholics were rising in thenorth; that Elizabeth contemplated a Spanish or French marriage with a returnto the old religion; that Mary Stuart would yet come to the throne; and witheach such report there came occasionally a burst of joy in unsuspectedquarters. Old Martin, for example, had been overheard, so a zealous neighbourreported, blessing Our Lady aloud for her mercies when a passing traveller hadinsisted that a religious league was in progress of formation between Franceand Spain, and that it was only a question of months as to when mass should besaid again in every village church; but then on the following Sunday thecobbler’s voice had been louder than all in the metrical psalm, and on theMonday he had paid a morning visit to the Rectory to satisfy himself on thedoctrine of Justification, and had gone again, praising God and not Our Lady,for the godly advice received.
But again, three years back, just before Mr. Dent had come to the place, therehad been a solemn burning on the village-green of all such muniments ofsuperstition as had not been previously hidden by the priest and Sir Nicholas;and in the rejoicings that accompanied this return to pure religion practicallythe whole agricultural population had joined. Some Justices had ridden overfrom East Grinsted to direct this rustic reformation, and had reportedfavourably to the new Rector on his arrival of the zeal of his flock. The greatRood, they told him, with SS. Mary and John, four great massy angels, thestatue of St. Christopher, the Vernacle, a brocade set of mass vestments and apurple cope, had perished in the flames, and there had been no lack of hands tocarry faggots; and now the Rector found it difficult to reconcile the zeal ofhis parishioners (which indeed he privately regretted) with the sudden andunexpected lapses into superstition, such as was Mr. Martin’s gratitude to OurLady, and others of which he had had experience.
As regards the secular politics of the outside world, Great Keynes took butlittle interest. It was far more a matter of concern whether mass or morningprayer was performed on Sunday, than whether a German bridegroom could be foundfor Elizabeth, or whether she would marry the Duke of Anjou; and more importantthan either were the infinitesimal details of domestic life. Whether Mary wasguilty or not, whether her supporters were rising, whether the shadow of Spainchilled the hearts of men in London whose affair it was to look after suchthings; yet the cows must be milked, and the children washed, and the falconsfed; and it was these things that formed the foreground of life, whether thesky were stormy or sunlit.
And so, as the autumn of ’69 crept over the woods in flame and russet, and thesound of the sickle was in folks’ ears, the life at Great Keynes was far moretranquil than we should fancy who look back on those stirring days. Thevillage, lying as it did out of the direct route between any larger towns, wasnot so much affected by the gallop of the couriers, or the slow creepingrumours from the Continent, as villages that lay on lines of frequentcommunication. So the simple life went on, and Isabel went about her businessin Mrs. Carroll’s still-room, and Anthony rode out with the harriers, and SirNicholas told his beads in his room—all with nearly as much serenity as ifScotland were fairyland and Spain a dream.
THE HALL AND THE HOUSE
Anthony Norris, who was now about fourteen, went up to King’s College,Cambridge, in October. He was closeted long with his father the night before heleft, and received from him much sound religious advice and exhortation; and inthe morning, after an almost broken-hearted good-bye from Isabel, he rode outwith his servant following on another horse and leading a packhorse on thesaddle of which the falcons swayed and staggered, and up the curving drive thatled round into the village green. He was a good-hearted and wholesome-mindedboy, and left a real ache behind him in the Dower House.
Isabel indeed ran up to his room, after she had seen his feathered capdisappear at a trot through the gate, leaving her father in the hall; and aftershutting and latching the door, threw herself on his bed, and sobbed her heartout. They had never been long separated before. For the last three years he hadgone over to the Rectory morning by morning to be instructed by Mr. Dent; butnow, although he would never make a great scholar, his father thought it wellto send him up to Cambridge for two or three years, that he might learn to findhis own level in the world.
Anthony himself was eager to go. If the truth must be told, he fretted a littleagainst the restraints of even such a moderate Puritan household as that of hisfather’s. It was a considerable weariness to Anthony to kneel in the hall on afresh morning while his father read, even though with fervour and sincerity,long extracts from “Christian Prayers and Holy Meditations,” collected by theReverend Henry Bull, when the real world, as Anthony knew it, laughed andrippled and twinkled outside in the humming summer air of the lawn and orchard;or to have to listen to godly discourses, however edifying to elder persons,just at the time when the ghost-moth was beginning to glimmer in the dusk, andthe heavy trout to suck down his supper in the glooming pool in the meadowbelow the house.
His very sports, too, which his father definitely encouraged, were obviouslydispleasing to the grave divines who haunted the house so often from Saturdayto Monday, and spoke of high doctrinal matters at meal-times, when, so Anthonythought, lighter subjects should prevail. They were not interested in hishorse, and Anthony never felt quite the same again towards one good ministerwho in a moment of severity called Eliza, the glorious peregrine that sat onthe boy’s wrist and shook her bells, a “vanity.” And so Anthony trotted offhappy enough on his way to Cambridge, of which he had heard much from Mr. Dent;and where, although there too were divines and theology, there were boys aswell who acted plays, hunted with the hounds, and did not call high-bred hawks“vanities.”
Isabel was very different. While Anthony was cheerful and active like hismother who had died in giving him life, she, on the other hand, was quiet anddeep like her father. She was growing up, if not into actual beauty, at leastinto grace and dignity: but there were some who thought her beautiful. She waspale with dark hair, and the great grey eyes of her father; and she loved andlived in Anthony from the very difference between them. She frankly could notunderstand the attraction of sport, and the things that pleased her brother;she was afraid of the hawks, and liked to stroke a horse and kiss his soft nosebetter than to ride him. But, after all, Anthony liked to watch the toweringbird, and to hear and indeed increase the thunder of the hoofs across themeadows behind the stomping hawk; and so she did her best to like them too; andshe was often torn two ways by her sympathy for the partridge on the one hand,as it sped low and swift across the standing corn with that dread shadowfollowing, and her desire, on the other hand, that Anthony should not bedisappointed.
But in the deeper things of the spirit, too, there was a wide differencebetween them. As Anthony fidgeted and sighed through his chair-back morning andevening, Isabel’s soul soared up to God on the wings of those sounding phrases.She had inherited all her father’s tender piety, and lived, like him, on themost intimate terms with the spiritual world. And though, of course, bytraining she was Puritan, by character she was Puritan too. As a girl offourteen she had gone with Anthony to see the cleansing of the village temple.They had stood together at the west end of the church a little timid at thesight of that noisy crowd in the quiet house of prayer; but she had felt nodisapproval at that fierce vindication of truth. Her father had taught her ofcourse that the purest worship was that which was only spiritual; and whilesince childhood she had seen Sunday by Sunday the Great Rood overhead, she hadnever paid it any but artistic attention. The men had the ropes round it now,and it was swaying violently to and fro; and then, even as the childrenwatched, a tie had given, and the great cross with its pathetic wide-armedfigure had toppled forward towards the nave, and then crashed down on thepavement. A fanatic ran out and furiously kicked the thorn-crowned head twice,splintering the hair and the features, and cried out on it as an idol; and yetIsabel, with all her tenderness, felt nothing more than a vague regret that apiece of carving so ancient and so delicate should be broken.
But when the work was over, and the crowd and Anthony with them had stampedout, directed by the justices, dragging the figures and the old vestments withthem to the green, she had seen something which touched her heart much more.She passed up alone under the screen, which they had spared, to see what hadbeen done in the chancel; and as she went she heard a sobbing from the cornernear the priest’s door; and there, crouched forward on his face, crying andmoaning quietly, was the old priest who had been rector of the church fornearly twenty years. He had somehow held on in Edward’s time in spite ofdifficulties; had thanked God and the Court of Heaven with a full heart for theaccession of Mary; had prayed and deprecated the divine wrath at the return ofthe Protestant religion with Elizabeth; but yet had somehow managed to keep theold faith alight for eight years more, sometimes evading, sometimes resisting,and sometimes conforming to the march of events, in hopes of better days. Butnow the blow had fallen, and the old man, too ill-instructed to hear theaccents of new truth in the shouting of that noisy crowd and the crash of hisimages, was on his knees before the altar where he had daily offered the holysacrifice through all those troublous years, faithful to what he believed to beGod’s truth, now bewailing and moaning the horrors of that day, and, it is tobe feared, unchristianly calling down the vengeance of God upon his faithlessflock. This shocked and touched Isabel far more than the destruction of theimages; and she went forward timidly and said something; but the old man turnedon her a face of such misery and anger that she had run straight out of thechurch, and joined Anthony as he danced on the green.
On the following Sunday the old priest was not there, and a fervent youngminister from London had taken his place, and preached a stirring sermon on thelife and times of Josiah; and Isabel had thanked God on her knees after thesermon for that He had once more vindicated His awful Name and cleansed HisHouse for a pure worship.
But the very centre of Isabel’s religion was the love of the Saviour. ThePuritans of those early days were very far from holding a negative orcolourless faith. Not only was their belief delicately dogmatic to excess; butit all centred round the Person of the Lord Jesus Christ. And Isabel had drunkin this faith from her father’s lips, and from devotional books which he gaveher, as far back as she could remember anything. Her love for the Saviour waseven romantic and passionate. It seemed to her that He was as much a part ofher life, and of her actual experience, as Anthony or her father. Certainplaces in the lanes about, and certain spots in the garden, were sacred andfragrant to her because her Lord had met her there. It was indeed a trouble toher sometimes that she loved Anthony so much; and to her mind it was a lessworthy kind of love altogether; it was kindled and quickened by such littleexternal details, by the sight of his boyish hand brown with the sun, andscarred by small sporting accidents, such as the stroke of his bird’s beak ortalons, or by the very outline of the pillow where his curly head had restedonly an hour or two ago. Whereas her love for Christ was a deep and solemnpassion that seemed to well not out of His comeliness or even His marred Faceor pierced Hands, but out of His wide encompassing love that sustained andclasped her at every moment of her conscious attention to Him, and that wokeher soul to ecstasy at moments of high communion. These two loves, then, one soearthly, one so heavenly, but both so sweet, every now and then seemed to herto be in slight conflict in her heart. And lately a third seemed to be risingup out of the plane of sober and quiet affections such as she felt for herfather, and still further complicating the apparently encountering claims oflove to God and man.
Isabel grew quieter in a few minutes and lay still, following Anthony with herimagination along the lane that led to the London road, and then presently sheheard her father calling, and went to the door to listen.
“Isabel,” he said, “come down. Hubert is in the hall.”
She called out that she would be down in a moment; and then going across to herown room she washed her face and came downstairs. There was a tall,pleasant-faced lad of about her own age standing near the open door that ledinto the garden; and he came forward nervously as she entered.
“I came back last night, Mistress Isabel,” he said, “and heard that Anthonywas going this morning: but I am afraid I am too late.”
She told him that Anthony had just gone.
“Yes,” he said, “I came to say good-bye; but I came by the orchard, and so wemissed one another.”
Isabel asked a word or two about his visit to the North, and they talked for afew minutes about a rumour that Hubert had heard of a rising on behalf of Mary:but Hubert was shy and constrained, and Isabel was still a little tremulous. Atlast he said he must be going, and then suddenly remembered a message from hismother.
“Ah!” he said, “I was forgetting. My mother wants you to come up this evening,if you have time. Father is away, and my aunt is unwell and is upstairs.”
Isabel promised she would come.
“Father is at Chichester,” went on Hubert, “before the Commission, but we donot expect him back till to-morrow.”
A shadow passed across Isabel’s face. “I am sorry,” she said.
The fact was that Sir Nicholas had again been summoned for recusancy. It was anexpensive matter to refuse to attend church, and Sir Nicholas probably paid notless than £200 or £300 a year for the privilege of worshipping as hisconscience bade.
In the evening Isabel asked her father’s leave to be absent after supper, andthen drawing on her hood, walked across in the dusk to the Hall. Hubert waswaiting for her at the boundary door between the two properties.
“Father has come back,” he said, “but my mother wants you still.” They wenton together, passed round the cloister wing to the south of the house: the bellturret over the inner hall and the crowded roofs stood up against the stars, asthey came up the curving flight of shallow steps from the garden to the talldoorway that led into the hall.
It was a pleasant, wide, high room, panelled with fresh oak, and hung with alittle old tapestry here and there, and a few portraits. A staircase rose outof it to the upper story. It had a fret-ceiling, with flower-de-luce and rosependants, and on the walls between the tapestries hung a few antlers and piecesof armour, morions and breast-plates, with a pair of pikes or halberds here andthere. A fire had been lighted in the great hearth as the evenings were chilly;and Sir Nicholas was standing before it, still in his riding-dress, pouring outresentment and fury to his wife, who sat in a tall chair at her embroidery. Sheturned silently and held out a hand to Isabel, who came and stood beside her,while Hubert went and sat down near his father. Sir Nicholas scarcely seemed tonotice their entrance, beyond glancing up for a moment under his fierce whiteeyebrows; but went on growling out his wrath. He was a fine rosy man, with greymoustache and pointed beard, and a thick head of hair, and he held in his handhis flat riding cap, and his whip with which from time to time he cut at hisboot.
“It was monstrous, I told the fellow, that a man should be haled from his homelike this to pay a price for his conscience. The religion of my father and hisfather and all our fathers was good enough for me; and why in God’s name shouldthe Catholic have to pay who had never changed his faith, while every hereticwent free? And then to that some stripling of a clerk told me that a religionthat was good enough for the Queen’s Grace should be good enough for her loyalsubjects too; but my Lord silenced him quickly. And then I went at them again;and all my Lord would do was to nod his head and smile at me as if I were achild; and then he told me that it was a special Commission all for my sake,and Sir Arthur’s, who was there too, my dear.... Well, well, the end was that Ihad to pay for their cursed religion.”
“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” said Lady Maxwell, glancing at Isabel.
“Well, I paid,” went on Sir Nicholas, “but I showed them, thank God, what Iwas: for as we came out, Sir Arthur and I together, what should we see butanother party coming in, pursuivant and all; and in the mid of them that priestwho was with us last July.—Well, well, we’ll leave his name alone—him that saidhe was a priest before them all in September; and I went down on my knees,thank God, and Sir Arthur went down on his, and we asked his blessing beforethem all, and he gave it us: and oh! my Lord was red and white with passion.”
“That was not wise, sweetheart,” said Lady Maxwell tranquilly, “the priestwill have suffered for it afterwards.”
“Well, well,” grumbled Sir Nicholas, “a man cannot always think, but we showedthem that Catholics were not ashamed of their religion—yes, and we got theblessing too.”
“Well, but here is supper waiting,” said my lady, “and Isabel, too, whom youhave not spoken to yet.”
Sir Nicholas paid no attention.
“Ah! but that was not all,” he went on, savagely striking his boot again, “atthe end of all who should I see but that—that—damned rogue—whom Godreward!”—and he turned and spat into the fire—“Topcliffe. There he was, bowingto my Lord and the Commissioners. When I think of that man,” he said, “when Ithink of that man—” and Sir Nicholas’ kindly old passionate face grew pale andlowering with fury, and his eyebrows bent themselves forward, and his lower lippushed itself out, and his hand closed tremblingly on his whip.
His wife laid down her embroidery and came to him.
“There, sweetheart,” she said, taking his cap and whip. “Now sit down and havesupper, and leave that man to God.”
Sir Nicholas grew quiet again; and after a saying a word or two of apology toIsabel, left the room to wash before he sat down to supper.
“Mistress Isabel does not know who Topcliffe is,” said Hubert.
“Hush, my son,” said his mother, “your father does not like his name to bespoken.”
Presently Sir Nicholas returned, and sat down to supper. Gradually his goodnature returned, and he told them what he had seen in Chichester, and the talkhe had heard. How it was reported to his lordship the Bishop that the oldreligion was still the religion of the people’s hearts—how, for example, atLindfield they had all the images and the altar furniture hidden underground,and at Battle, too; and that the mass could be set up again at a few hours’notice: and that the chalices had not been melted down into communion cupsaccording to the orders issued, and so on. And that at West Grinsted, moreover,the Blessed Sacrament was there still—praise God—yes, and was going to remainthere. He spoke freely before Isabel, and yet he remembered his courtesy too,and did not abuse the new-fangled religion, as he thought it, in her presence;or seek in any way to trouble her mind. If ever in an excess of anger he wascarried away in his talk, his wife would always check him gently; and he wouldalways respond and apologise to Isabel if he had transgressed good manners. Infact, he was just a fiery old man who could not change his religion even at thebidding of his monarch, and could not understand how what was right twentyyears ago was wrong now.
Isabel herself listened with patience and tenderness, and awe too; because sheloved and honoured this old man in spite of the darkness in which he stillwalked. He also told them in lower tones of a rumour that was persistent atChichester that the Duke of Norfolk had been imprisoned by the Queen’s orders,and was to be charged with treason; and that he was at present at Burnham, inMr. Wentworth’s house, under the guard of Sir Henry Neville. If this was true,as indeed it turned out to be later, it was another blow to the Catholic causein England; but Sir Nicholas was of a sanguine mind, and pooh-poohed the wholeaffair even while he related it.
And so the evening passed in talk. When Sir Nicholas had finished supper, theyall went upstairs to my lady’s withdrawing-room on the first floor. This wasalways a strange and beautiful room to Isabel. It was panelled like the roombelow, but was more delicately furnished, and a tall harp stood near the windowto which my lady sang sometimes in a sweet tremulous old voice, while SirNicholas nodded at the fire. Isabel, too, had had some lessons here from theold lady; but even this mild vanity troubled her puritan conscience a littlesometimes. Then the room, too, had curious and attractive things in it. A highniche in the oak over the fireplace held a slender image of Mary and her HolyChild, and from the Child’s fingers hung a pair of beads. Isabel had a strangesense sometimes as if this holy couple had taken refuge in that niche when theywere driven from the church; but it seemed to her in her steadier moods thatthis was a superstitious fancy, and had the nature of sin.
This evening the old lady went to her harp, while Isabel sat down near her inthe wide window seat and looked out over the dark lawn, where the white dialglimmered like a phantom, and thought of Anthony again. Sir Nicholas went andstretched himself before the fire, and closed his eyes, for he was old, andtired with his long ride; and Hubert sat down in a dark corner near him whencehe could watch Isabel. After a few rippling chords my lady began to sing a songby Sir Thomas Wyatt, whom she and Sir Nicholas had known in their youth; andwhich she had caused to be set to music by some foreign chapel master. It was asorrowful little song, with the title, “He seeketh comfort in patience,” andpossibly she chose it on purpose for this evening.
“Patience! for I have wrong,
And dare not shew wherein;
Patience shall be my song;
Since truth can nothing win.
Patience then for this fit;
Hereafter comes not yet.”
While she sang, she thought no doubt of the foolish brave courtier who lackedpatience in spite of his singing, and lost his head for it; her voice shookonce or twice: and old Sir Nicholas shook his drowsy head when she hadfinished, and said “God rest him,” and then fell fast asleep.
Then he presently awoke as the others talked in whispers, and joined in too:and they talked of Anthony, and what he would find at Cambridge; and ofAlderman Marrett, and his house off Cheapside, where Anthony would lie thatnight; and of such small and tranquil topics, and left fiercer questions alone.And so the evening came to an end; and Isabel said good-night, and wentdownstairs with Hubert, and out into the garden again.
“I am sorry that Sir Nicholas has been so troubled,” she said to Hubert, asthey turned the corner of the house together. “Why cannot we leave one anotheralone, and each worship God as we think fit?”
Hubert smiled in the darkness to himself.
“I am afraid Queen Mary did not think it could be done, either,” he said. “Butthen, Mistress Isabel,” he went on, “I am glad that you feel that religionshould not divide people.”
“Surely not,” she said, “so long as they love God.”
“Then you think—” began Hubert, and then stopped. Isabel turned to him.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Nothing,” said Hubert.
They had reached the door in the boundary wall by now, and Isabel would not lethim come further with her and bade him good-night. But Hubert still stood, withhis hand on the door, and watched the white figure fade into the dusk, andlistened to the faint rustle of her skirt over the dry leaves; and then, whenhe heard at last the door of the Dower House open and close, he sighed tohimself and went home.
Isabel heard her father call from his room as she passed through the hall; andwent in to him as he sat at his table in his furred gown, with his books abouthim, to bid him good-night and receive his blessing. He lifted his hand for amoment to finish the sentence he was writing, and she stood watching the quillmove and pause and move again over the paper, in the candlelight, until he laidthe pen down, and rose and stood with his back to the fire, smiling down ather. He was a tall, slender man, surprisingly upright for his age, with adelicate, bearded, scholar’s face; the little plain ruff round his neck helpedto emphasise the fine sensitiveness of his features; and the hands which hestretched out to his daughter were thin and veined.
“Well, my daughter,” he said, looking down at her with his kindly grey eyes solike her own, and holding her hands.
“Have you had a good evening, sir?” she asked.
He nodded briskly.
“And you, child?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling up at him.
“And was Sir Nicholas there?”
She told him what had passed, and how Sir Nicholas had been fined again for hisrecusancy; and how Lady Maxwell had sung one of Sir Thomas Wyatt’s songs.
“And was no one else there?” he asked.
“Yes, father, Hubert.”
“Ah! And did Hubert come home with you?”
“Only as far as the gate, father. I would not let him come further.”
Her father said nothing, but still looked steadily down into her eyes for amoment, and then turned and looked away from her into the fire.
“You must take care,” he said gently. “Remember he is a Papist, born and bred;and that he has a heart to be broken too.”
She felt herself steadily flushing; and as he turned again towards her, droppedher eyes.
“You will be prudent and tender, I know,” he added. “I trust you wholly,Isabel.”
Then he kissed her on the forehead and laid his hand on her head, and lookedup, as the Puritan manner was.
“May the God of grace bless you, my daughter; and make you faithful to theend.” And then he looked into her eyes again, smiled and nodded; and she wentout, leaving him standing there.
Mr. Norris had begun to fear that the boy loved Isabel, but as yet he did notknow whether Isabel understood it or even was aware of it. The marriagedifficulties of Catholics and Protestants were scarcely yet existing; andcertainly there was no formulated rule of dealing with them. Changes ofreligion were so frequent in those days that difficulties, when they did arise,easily adjusted themselves. It was considered, for example, by politiciansquite possible at one time that the Duke of Anjou should conform to the Churchof England for the sake of marrying the Queen: or that he should attend publicservices with her, and at the same time have mass and the sacraments in his ownprivate chapel. Or again, it was open to question whether England as a wholewould not return to the old religion, and Catholicism be the only toleratedfaith.
But to really religious minds such solutions would not do. It would have beenan intolerable thought to this sincere Puritan, with all his tolerance, thathis daughter should marry a Catholic; such an arrangement would mean eitherthat she was indifferent to vital religion, or that she was married to a manwhose creed she was bound to abhor and anathematise: and however willing Mr.Norris might be to meet Papists on terms of social friendliness, and howevermuch he might respect their personal characters, yet the thought that the lifeof any one dear to him should be irretrievably bound up with all that theCatholic creed involved, was simply an impossible one.
Besides all this he had no great opinion of Hubert. He thought he detected inhim a carelessness and want of principle that would make him hesitate to trusthis daughter to him, even if the insuperable barrier of religion weresurmounted. Mr. Norris liked a man to be consistent and zealous for his creed,even if that creed were dark and superstitious—and this zeal seemed to himlamentably lacking in Hubert. More than once he had heard the boy speak of hisfather with an air of easy indulgence, that his own opinion interpreted ascontempt.
“I believe my father thinks,” he had once said, “that every penny he pays infines goes to swell the accidental glory of God.”
And Hubert had been considerably startled and distressed when the elder man hadtold him to hold his tongue unless he could speak respectfully of one to whomhe owed nothing but love and honour. This had happened, however, more than ayear ago; and Hubert had forgotten it, no doubt, even if Mr. Norris had not.
And as for Isabel.
It is exceedingly difficult to say quite what place Hubert occupied in hermind. She certainly did not know herself much more than that she liked the boyto be near her; to hear his footsteps coming along the path from the Hall. Thismorning when her father had called up to her that Hubert was come, it was notso hard to dry her tears for Anthony’s departure. The clouds had parted alittle when she came and found this tall lad smiling shyly at her in the hall.As she had sat in the window seat, too, during Lady Maxwell’s singing, she wasfar from unconscious that Hubert’s face was looking at her from the darkcorner. And as they walked back together her simplicity was not quite sotransparent as the boy himself thought.
Again when her father had begun to speak of him just now, although she was ableto meet his eyes steadily and smilingly, yet it was just an effort. She had notmentioned Hubert herself, until her father had named him; and in fact it isprobably safe to say that during Hubert’s visit to the north, which had lastedthree or four months, he had made greater progress towards his goal, and hadbegun to loom larger than ever in the heart of this serene grey-eyed girl, whomhe longed for so irresistibly.
And now, as Isabel sat on her bed before kneeling to say her prayers, Hubertwas in her mind even more than Anthony. She tried to wonder what her fathermeant, and yet only too well she knew that she knew. She had forgotten to lookinto Anthony’s room where she had cried so bitterly this morning, and now shesat wide-eyed, and self-questioning as to whether her heavenly love were aslucid and single as it had been; and when at last she went down on her kneesshe entreated the King of Love to bless not only her father, and her brotherAnthony who lay under the Alderman’s roof in far-away London; but Sir Nicholasand Lady Maxwell, and Mistress Margaret Hallam, and—and—Hubert—and JamesMaxwell, his brother; and to bring them out of the darkness of Papistry intothe glorious liberty of the children of the Gospel.
LONDON TOWN
Isabel’s visit to London, which had been arranged to take place the Christmasafter Anthony’s departure to Cambridge, was full of bewildering experiences toher. Mr. Norris from time to time had references to look up in London, anddivines to consult as to difficult points in his book on the Eucharist; andthis was a favourable opportunity to see Mr. Dering, the St. Paul’s lecturer;so the two took the opportunity, and with a couple of servants drove up to theCity one day early in December to the house of Alderman Marrett, the woolmerchant, and a friend of Mr. Norris’ father; and for several days both beforeand after Anthony’s arrival from Cambridge went every afternoon to see thesights. The maze of narrow streets of high black and white houses with theiriron-work signs, leaning forward as if to whisper to one another, leavingstrips of sky overhead; the strange play of lights and shades after nightfall;the fantastic groups; the incessant roar and rumble of the crowded alleys—allthe commonplace life of London was like an enchanted picture to her, opening aglimpse into an existence of which she had known nothing.
To live, too, in the whirl of news that poured in day after day borne bysplashed riders and panting horses;—this was very different to the slow roundof country life, with rumours and tales floating in, mellowed by doubt andlapse of time, like pensive echoes from another world. For example, morning bymorning, as she came downstairs to dinner, there was the ruddy-faced Aldermanwith his fresh budget of news of the north;—Lords Northumberland andWestmoreland with a Catholic force of several thousands, among which were twocousins of Mrs. Marrett herself—and the old lady nodded her head dolorously incorroboration—had marched southwards under the Banner of the Five Wounds, andtramped through Durham City welcomed by hundreds of the citizens; the Cathedralhad been entered, old Richard Norton with the banner leading; the new Communiontable had been cast out of doors, the English Bible and Prayer-book torn toshreds, the old altar reverently carried in from the rubbish heap, the tapersrekindled, and amid hysterical enthusiasm Mass had been said once more in theold sanctuary.
Then they had moved south; Lord Sussex was powerless in York; the Queen,terrified and irresolute, alternately storming and crying; Spain was about tosend ships to Hartlepool to help the rebels; Mary Stuart would certainly berescued from her prison at Tutbury. Then Mary had been moved to Coventry; thencame a last flare of frightening tales: York had fallen; Mary had escaped;Elizabeth was preparing to flee.
And then one morning the Alderman’s face was brighter: it was all a lie, hesaid. The revolt had crumbled away; my Lord Sussex was impregnably fortified inYork with guns from Hull; Lord Pembroke was gathering forces at Windsor; LordsClinton, Hereford and Warwick were converging towards York to relieve thesiege. And as if to show Isabel it was not a mere romance, she could see theactual train-bands go by up Cheapside with the gleam of steel caps andpike-heads, and the mighty tramp of disciplined feet, and the welcoming roar ofthe swarming crowds.
Then as men’s hearts grew lighter the tale of chastisement began to be told,and was not finished till long after Isabel was home again. Green after greenof the windy northern villages was made hideous by the hanging bodies of thenatives, and children hid their faces and ran by lest they should see what herGrace had done to their father.
In spite of the Holy Sacrifice, and the piteous banner, and the call to fightfor the faith, the Catholics had hung back and hesitated, and the catastrophewas complete.
The religion of London, too, was a revelation to this country girl. She wentone Sunday to St. Paul’s Cathedral, pausing with her father before they went into see the new restorations and the truncated steeple struck by lightning eightyears before, which in spite of the Queen’s angry urging the citizens had neverbeen able to replace.
There was a good congregation at the early morning prayer; and the organs andthe singing were to Isabel as the harps and choirs of heaven. The canticleswere sung to Shephard’s setting by the men and children of St. Paul’s all insurplices: and the dignitaries wore besides their grey fur almuces, which hadnot yet been abolished. The grace and dignity of the whole service, though toolder people who remembered the unreformed worship a bare and miserable affair,and to Mr. Norris, with his sincere simplicity and spirituality, a somewhatelaborate and sensuous mode of honouring God, yet to Isabel was a first glimpseof what the mystery of worship meant. The dim towering arches, through whichthe dusty richly-stained sunbeams poured, the far-away murmurous melodies thatfloated down from the glimmering choir, the high thin pealing organ, allcombined to give her a sense of the unfathomable depths of the DivineMajesty—an element that was lacking in the clear-cut personal Puritan creed, inspite of the tender associations that made it fragrant for her, and the love ofthe Saviour that enlightened and warmed it. The sight of the crowds outside,too, in the frosty sunlight, gathered round the grey stone pulpit on thenorth-east of the Cathedral, and streaming down every alley and lane, thepacked galleries, the gesticulating black figure of the preacher—this impressedon her an idea of the power of corporate religion, that hours at her ownprayer-desk, or solitary twilight walks under the Hall pines, or the uneventfuldivisions of the Rector’s village sermons, had failed to give.
It was this Sunday in London that awakened her quiet soul from the lonelycompanionship of God, to the knowledge of that vast spiritual world of men ofwhich she was but one tiny cell. Her father observed her quietly andinterestedly as they went home together, but said nothing beyond an indifferentword or two. He was beginning to realise the serious reality of her spirituallife, and to dread anything that would even approximate to coming between hersoul and her Saviour. The father and daughter understood one another, and werecontent to be silent together.
Her talks with Mrs. Marrett, too, left their traces on her mind. The Alderman’swife, for the first time in her life, found her views and reminiscenceslistened to as if they were oracles, and she needed little encouragement topour them out in profusion. She was especially generous with her tales ofportents and warnings; and the girl was more than once considerably alarmed bywhat she heard while the ladies were alone in the dim firelit parlour on thewinter afternoons before the candles were brought in.
“When you were a little child, my dear,” began the old lady one day, “therewas a great burning made everywhere of all the popish images and vestments; allbut the copes and the altar-cloths that they made into dresses for theministers’ new wives, and bed-quilts to cover them; and there were books andbanners and sepulchres and even relics. I went out to see the burning atPaul’s, and though I knew it was proper that the old papistry should go, yet Iwas uneasy at the way it was done.
“Well,” went on the old lady, glancing about her, “I was sitting in this veryroom only a few days after, and the air began to grow dark and heavy, and allbecame still. There had been two or three cocks crowing and answering oneanother down by the river, and others at a distance; and they all ceased: andthere had been birds chirping in the roof, and they ceased. And it grew so darkthat I laid down my needle and went to the window, and there at the end of thestreet over the houses there was coming a great cloud, with wings like a hawk,I thought; but some said afterwards that, when they saw it, it had fingers likea man’s hand, and others said it was like a great tower, with battlements.However that may be, it grew nearer and larger, and it was blue and dark likethat curtain there; and there was no wind to stir it, for the windows hadceased rattling, and the dust was quiet in the streets; and still it came onquickly, growing as it came; and then there came a far-away sound, like a heavywaggon, or, some said, like a deep voice complaining. And I turned away fromthe window afraid; and there was the cat, that had been on a chair, down in thecorner, with her back up, staring at the cloud: and then she began to run roundthe room like a mad thing, and presently whisked out of the door when I openedit. And I went to find Mr. Marrett, and he had not come in, and all the yardwas quiet. I could only hear a horse stamp once or twice in the stable. Andthen as I saw calling out for some one to come, the storm broke, and the skywas all one dark cloud from side to side. For three hours it went on, rollingand clapping, and the lightning came in through the window that I had darkenedand through the clothes over my head; for I had gone to my bed and rolledmyself round under the clothes. And so it went on—and, my dear—” and Mrs.Marrett put her head close to Isabel’s—“I prayed to our Lady and the saints,which I had not done since I was married; and asked them to pray God to keep mesafe. And then at the end came a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning morefearful than all that had gone before; and at that very moment, so Mr. Marretttold me when he came in, two of the doors in St. Denys’ Church in FanshaweStreet were broken in pieces by something that crushed them in, and the stonesteeple of Allhallow Church in Bread Street was broken off short, and a part ofit killed a dog that was beneath, and overthrew a man that played with thedog.”
Isabel could hardly restrain a shiver and a glance round the dark old room, soawful were Mrs. Marrett’s face and gestures and loud whispering tone, as shetold this.
“Ah! but, my dear,” she went on, “there was worse happened to poor King Hal,God rest him—him who began to reform the Church, as they say, and destroyed themonasteries. All the money that he left for masses for his soul was carried offwith the rest at the change of religion; and that was bad enough, but this isworse. This is a tale, my dear, that I have heard my father tell many a time;and I was a young woman myself when it happened. The King’s Grace wasthreatened by a friar, I think of Greenwich, that if he laid hands on themonasteries he should be as Ahab whose blood was licked by dogs in the veryplace which he took from a man. Well, the friar was hanged for his pains, andthe King lived. And then at last he died, and was put in a great coffin, andcarried through London; and they put the coffin in an open space in Sion Abbey,which the King had taken. And in the night there came one to view the coffin,and to see that all was well. And he came round the corner, and there stood thegreat coffin—(for his Grace was a great stout man, my dear)—on trestles in themoonlight, and beneath it a great black dog that lapped something: and the dogturned as the man came, and some say, but not my father, that the dog’s eyeswere red as coals, and that his mouth and nostrils smoked, and that he cast noshadow; but (however that may be) the dog turned and looked and then ran; andthe man followed him into a yard, but when he reached there, there was no dog.And the man went back to the coffin afraid; and he found the coffin was burstopen, and—and—”
Mrs. Marrett stopped abruptly. Isabel was white and trembling.
“There, there, my dear. I am a foolish old woman; and I’ll tell you no more.”
Isabel was really terrified, and entreated Mrs. Marrett to tell her somethingpleasant to make her forget these horrors; and so she told her old tales of heryouth, and the sights of the city, and the great doings in Mary’s reign; and sothe time passed pleasantly till the gentlemen came home.
At other times she told her of Elizabeth and the great nobles, and Isabel’sheart beat high at it, and at the promise that before she left she herselfshould see the Queen, even if she had to go to Greenwich or Nonsuch for it.
“God bless her,” said Mrs. Marrett loyally, “she’s a woman like ourselves forall her majesty. And she likes the show and the music too, like us all. Ideclare when I see them all a-going down the water to Greenwich, or to theTower for a bear-baiting, with the horns blowing and the guns firing and thebanners and the barges and the music, I declare sometimes I think that heavenitself can be no better, God forgive me! Ah! but I wish her Grace ’d take ahusband; there are many that want her; and then we could laugh at them all.There’s so many against her Grace now who’d be for her if she had a son of herown. There’s Duke Charles whose picture hangs in her bedroom, they say; andLord Robert Dudley—there’s a handsome spark, my dear, in his gay coat and hisfeathers and his ruff, and his hand on his hip, and his horse and all. I wishshe’d take him and have done with it. And then we’d hear no more of the nastySpaniards. There’s Don de Silva, for all the world like a monkey with his brownface and mincing ways and his grand clothes. I declare when Captain Hawkinscame home, just four years ago last Michaelmas, and came up to London with hismen, all laughing and rolling along with the people cheering them, I could havekissed the man—to think how he had made the brown men dance and curse and showtheir white teeth! and to think that the Don had to ask him to dinner, and grinand chatter as if nought had happened.”
And Mrs. Marrett’s good-humoured face broke into mirth at the thought of theAmbassador’s impotence and duplicity.
Anthony’s arrival in London a few days before Christmas removed the oneobstacle to Isabel’s satisfaction—that he was not there to share it with her.The two went about together most of the day under their father’s care, when hewas not busy at his book, and saw all that was to be seen.
One afternoon as they were just leaving the courtyard of the Tower, which theyhad been visiting with a special order, a slight reddish-haired man, who camesuddenly out of a doorway of the White Tower, stopped a moment irresolutely,and then came towards them, bare-headed and bowing. He had sloping shouldersand a serious-looking mouth, with a reddish beard and moustache, and had an airof strangely mingled submissiveness and capability. His voice too, as he spoke,was at once deferential and decided.
“I ask your pardon, Mr. Norris,” he said. “Perhaps you do not remember me.”
“I have seen you before,” said the other, puzzled for a moment.
“Yes, sir,” said the man, “down at Great Keynes; I was in service at the Hall,sir.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Norris, “I remember you perfectly. Lackington, is itnot?”
The man bowed again.
“I left about eight years ago, sir; and by the blessing of God, have gained alittle post under the Government. But I wished to tell you, sir, that I havebeen happily led to change my religion. I was a Papist, sir, you know.”
Mr. Norris congratulated him.
“I thank you, sir,” said Lackington.
The two children were looking at him; and he turned to them and bowed again.
“Mistress Isabel and Master Anthony, sir, is it not?”
“I remember you,” said Isabel a little shyly, “at least, I think so.”
Lackington bowed again as if gratified; and turned to their father.
“If you are leaving, Mr. Norris, would you allow me to walk with you a fewsteps? I have much I would like to ask you of my old master and mistress.”
The four passed out together; the two children in front; and as they wentLackington asked most eagerly after the household at the Hall, and especiallyafter Mr. James, for whom he seemed to have a special affection.
“It is rumoured,” said Mr. Norris, “that he is going abroad.”
“Indeed, sir,” said the servant, with a look of great interest, “I had heardit too, sir; but did not know whether to believe it.”
Lackington also gave many messages of affection to others of the household, toPiers the bailiff, and a couple of the foresters: and finished by entreatingMr. Norris to use him as he would, telling him how anxious he was to be ofservice to his friends, and asking to be entrusted with any little errands orcommissions in London that the country gentleman might wish performed.
“I shall count it, sir, a privilege,” said the servant, “and you shall find meprompt and discreet.”
One curious incident took place just as Lackington was taking his leave at theturning down into Wharf Street; a man hurrying eastwards almost ran againstthem, and seemed on the point of apologising, but his face changed suddenly,and he spat furiously on the ground, mumbling something, and hurried on.Lackington seemed to see nothing.
“Why did he do that?” interrupted Mr. Norris, astonished.
“I ask your pardon, sir?” said Lackington interrogatively.
“That fellow! did you not see him spit at me?”
“I did not observe it, sir,” said the servant; and presently took his leave.
“Why did that man spit at you, father?” asked Isabel, when they had comeindoors.
“I cannot think, my dear; I have never seen him in my life.”
“I think Lackington knew,” said Anthony, with a shrewd air.
“Lackington! Why, Lackington did not even see him.”
“That was just it,” said Anthony.
Anthony’s talk about Cambridge during these first evenings in London wasfascinating to Isabel, if not to their father, too. It concerned of coursehimself and his immediate friends, and dealt with such subjects ascock-fighting a good deal; but he spoke also of the public disputations and thetheological champions who crowed and pecked, not unlike cocks themselves, whilethe theatre rang with applause and hooting. The sport was one of the mostpopular at the universities at this time. But above all his tales of theQueen’s visit a few years before attracted the girl, for was she not to see theQueen with her own eyes?
“Oh! father,” said the lad, “I would I had been there five years ago when shecame. Master Taylor told me of it. They acted the Aulularia, you know,in King’s Chapel on the Sunday evening. Master Taylor took a part, I forgetwhat; and he told me how she laughed and clapped. And then there was a greatdisputation before her, one day, in St. Mary’s Church, and the doctors argued,I forget what about, but Master Taylor says that of course the Genevans had thebest of it; and the Queen spoke, too, in Latin, though she did not wish to, butmy lord of Ely persuaded her to it; so you see she could not have learned it byheart, as some said. And she said she would give some great gift to theUniversity; but Master Taylor says they are still waiting for it; but it mustcome soon, you see, because it is the Queen’s Grace who has promised it; butMaster Taylor says he hopes she has forgotten it, but he laughs when I ask himwhat he means, and says it again.”
“Who is this Master Taylor?” asked his father.
“Oh! he is a Fellow of King’s,” said Anthony, “and he told me about theProvost too. The Provost is half a Papist, they say: he is very old now, and hehas buried all the vessels and the vestments of the Chapel, they say, somewherewhere no one knows; and he hopes the old religion will come back again someday; and then he will dig them up. But that is Papistry, and no one wants thatat Cambridge. And others say that he is a Papist altogether, and has a priestin his house sometimes. But I do not think he can be a Papist, because he wasthere when the Queen was there, bowing and smiling, says Master Taylor; andlooking on the Queen so earnestly, as if he worshipped her, says Master Taylor,all the time the Chancellor was talking to her before they went into the chapelfor the Te Deum. But they wished they had kept some of the things, likethe Provost, says Master Taylor, because they were much put to it when herGrace came down for stuffs to cover the communion-tables and for surplices, forCecil said she would be displeased if all was bare and poor. Is it true,father,” asked Anthony, breaking off, “that the Queen likes popish things, andhas a crucifix and tapers on the table in her chapel?”
“Ah! my son,” said Mr. Norris, smiling, “you must ask one who knows. And whatelse happened?”
“Well,” said Anthony, “the best is to come. They had plays, you know, the Dido, and one called Ezechias, before the Queen. Oh! and she sentfor one of the boys, they say, and—and kissed him, they say; but I think thatcannot be true.”
“Well, my son, go on!”
“Oh! and some of them thought they would have one more play before she went;but she had to go a long journey and left Cambridge before they could do it,and they went after her to—to Audley End, I think, where she was to sleep, anda room was made ready, and when all was prepared, though her Grace was tired,she came in to see the play. Master Taylor was not there; he said he wouldrather not act in that one; but he had the story from one who acted, but no oneknew, he said, who wrote the play. Well, when the Queen’s Grace was seated, theactors came on, dressed, father, dressed”—and Anthony’s eyes began to shinewith amusement—“as the Catholic Bishops in the Tower. There was Bonner in hispopish vestments—some they had from St. Benet’s—with a staff and his tallmitre, and a lamb in his arms; and he stared at it and gnashed his teeth at itas he tramped in; and then came the others, all like bishops, all inmass-vestments or cloth cut to look like them; and then at the end came a dogthat belonged to one of them, well-trained, with the Popish Host in his mouth,made large and white, so that all could see what it was. Well, they thought theQueen would laugh as she was a Protestant, but no one laughed; some one saidsomething in the room, and a lady cried out; and then the Queen stood up andscolded the actors, and trounced them well with her tongue, she did, and saidshe was displeased; and then out she went with all her ladies and gentlemenafter her, except one or two servants who put out the lights at once withoutwaiting, and broke Bonner’s staff, and took away the Host, and kicked the dog,and told them to be off, for the Queen’s Grace was angered with them; and sothey had to get back to Cambridge in the dark as well as they might.”
“Oh! the poor boys!” said Mrs. Marrett, “and they did it all to please herGrace, too.”
“Yes,” said the Alderman, “but the Queen thought it enough, I dare say, to putthe Bishops in prison, without allowing boys to make a mock of them and theirfaith before her.”
“Yes,” said Anthony, “I thought that was it.”
When the Alderman came in a day or two later with the news that Elizabeth wasto come up from Nonsuch the next day, and to pass down Cheapside on her way toGreenwich, the excitement of Isabel and Anthony was indescribable.
Cheapside was joyous to see, as the two, with their father behind them talkingto a minister whose acquaintance he had made, sat at a first-floor window soonafter mid-day, waiting to see the Queen go by. Many of the people had hungcarpets or tapestries, some of taffetas and cloth-of-gold, out of theirbalconies and windows, and the very signs themselves,—fantastic ironwork, withhere and there a grotesque beast rampant, or a bright painting, or anescutcheon;—with the gay, good-tempered crowds beneath and the strip of frostyblue sky, crossed by streamers from side to side, shining above the toweringeaves and gables of the houses, all combined to make a scene so astonishingthat it seemed scarcely real to these country children.
It was yet some time before she was expected; but there came a sudden stir fromthe upper end of Cheapside, and then a burst of cheering and laughter andhoots. Anthony leaned out to see what was coming, but could make out nothingbeyond the head of a horse, and a man driving it from the seat of a cart,coming slowly down the centre of the road. The laughter and noise grew louderas the crowds swayed this way and that to make room. Presently it was seen thatbehind the cart a little space was kept, and Anthony made out the grey head ofa man at the tail of the cart, and the face of another a little way behind;then at last, as the cart jolted past, the two children saw a man stripped tothe waist, his hands tied before him to the cart, his back one red wound; whilea hangman walked behind whirling his thonged whip about his head and bringingit down now and again on the old man’s back. At each lash the prisoner shrankaway, and turned his piteous face, drawn with pain, from side to side, whilethe crowd yelled and laughed.
“What’s it for, what’s it for?” inquired Anthony, eager and interested.
A boy leaning from the next window answered him.
“He said Jesus Christ was not in heaven.”
At that moment a humorist near the cart began to cry out:
“Way for the King’s Grace! Way for the King’s Grace!” and the crowd took theidea instantly: a few men walking with the cart formed lines like gentlemenushers, uncovering their heads and all crying out the same words; and one eagerplayer tried to walk backwards until he was tripped up. And so the dismalpageant of this red-robed king of anguish went by; and the hoots and shouts ofhis heralds died away. Anthony turned to Isabel, exultant and interested.
“Why, Isabel,” he said, “you look all white. What is it? You know he’s ablasphemer.”
“I know, I know,” said Isabel.
Then suddenly, far away, came the sound of trumpets, and gusts of distantcheering, like the sound of the wind in thick foliage. Anthony leaned outagain, and an excited murmur broke out once more, as all faces turnedwestwards. A moment more, and Anthony caught a flash of colour from the cornernear St. Paul’s Churchyard; then the shrill trumpets sounded nearer, and thecheering broke out at the end, and ran down the street like a wave of noise.From every window faces leaned out; even on the roofs and between the highchimney pots were swaying figures.
Masses of colour now began to emerge, with the glitter of steel, round the bendof the street, where the winter sunshine fell; and the crowds began to surgeback, and against the houses. At first Anthony could make out little but twomoving rippling lines of light, coming parallel, pressing the people back; andit was not until they had come opposite the window that he could make out thesteel caps and pikeheads of men in half-armour, who, marching two and two witha space between them, led the procession and kept the crowds back. There theywent, with immovable disciplined faces, grounding their pike-butts sharply nowand again, caring nothing for the yelp of pain that sometimes followed.Immediately behind them came the aldermen in scarlet, on black horses thattossed their jingling heads as they walked. Anthony watched the solemn faces ofthe old gentlemen with a good deal of awe, and presently made out his friend,Mr. Marrett, who rode near the end, but who was too much engrossed in themanagement of his horse to notice the two children who cried out to him andwaved. The serjeants-of-arms followed, and then two lines again ofgentlemen-pensioners walking, bare-headed, carrying wands, in short cloaks andelaborate ruffs. But the lad saw little of them, for the splendour of the lordsand knights that followed eclipsed them altogether. The knights came first, insteel armour with raised vizors, the horses too in armour, moving sedately witha splendid clash of steel, and twinkling fiercely in the sunshine; and then,after them (and Anthony drew his breath swiftly) came a blaze of colour andjewels as the great lords in their cloaks and feathered caps, metal-clasped andgemmed, came on their splendid long-maned horses; the crowd yelled and cheered,and great names were tossed to and fro, as the owners passed on, each talkingto his fellow as if unconscious of the tumult and even of the presence of theseshouting thousands. The cry of the trumpets rang out again high and shattering,as the trumpeters and heralds in rich coat-armour came next; and Anthony lookeda moment, fascinated by the lions and lilies, and the brightness of theeloquent horns, before he turned his head to see the Lord Mayor himself,mounted on a great stately white horse, that needed no management, while hisrider bore on a cushion the sceptre. Ah! she was coming near now. The two sawnothing of the next rider who carried aloft the glittering Sword of State, fortheir eyes were fixed on the six plumed heads of the horses, with grooms andfootmen in cassock-coats and venetian hose, and the great gilt open carriagebehind that swayed and jolted over the cobbles. She was here; she was here; andthe loyal crowds yelled and surged to and fro, and cloths and handkerchiefsflapped and waved, and caps tossed up and down, as at last the great creakingcarriage came under the window.
This is what they saw in it.
A figure of extraordinary dignity, sitting upright and stiff like a pagan idol,dressed in a magnificent and fantastic purple robe, with a great double ruff,like a huge collar, behind her head; a long taper waist, voluminous skirtsspread all over the cushions, embroidered with curious figures and creatures.Over her shoulders, but opened in front so as to show the ropes of pearls andthe blaze of jewels on the stomacher, was a purple velvet mantle lined withermine, with pearls sewn into it here and there. Set far back on her head, overa pile of reddish-yellow hair drawn tightly back from the forehead, was a hatwith curled brims, elaborately embroidered, with the jewelled outline of alittle crown in front, and a high feather topping all.
And her face—a long oval, pale and transparent in complexion, with a sharpchin, and a high forehead; high arched eyebrows, auburn, but a little darkerthan her hair; her mouth was small, rising at the corners, with thin curvedlips tightly shut; and her eyes, which were clear in colour, looked incessantlyabout her with great liveliness and good-humour.
There was something overpowering to these two children who looked, too awed tocheer, in this formidable figure in the barbaric dress, the gorgeous climax ofa gorgeous pageant. Apart from the physical splendour, this solitary glitteringcreature represented so much—it was the incarnate genius of the laughing,brutal, wanton English nation, that sat here in the gilded carriage and smiledand glanced with tight lips and clear eyes. She was like some emblematic giant,moving in a processional car, as fantastic as itself, dominant and serene abovethe heads of the maddened crowds, on to some mysterious destiny. A sovereign,however personally inglorious, has such a dignity in some measure; andElizabeth added to this an exceptional majesty of her own. Henry would not havebeen ashamed for this daughter of his. What wonder then that these crowds weredelirious with love and loyalty and an exultant fear, as this overwhelmingpersonality went by:—this pale-faced tranquil virgin Queen, passionate, wanton,outspoken and absolutely fearless; with a sufficient reserve of will to befickle without weakness; and sufficient grasp of her aims to be indifferent toher policy; untouched by vital religion; financially shrewd; inordinately vain.And when this strange dominant creature, royal by character as by birth, asstrong as her father and as wanton as her mother, sat in ermine and velvet andpearls in a royal carriage, with shrewd-faced wits, and bright-eyed lovers, andsolemn statesmen, and great nobles, vacuous and gallant, glittering andjingling before her; and troops of tall ladies in ruff and crimson mantleriding on white horses behind; and when the fanfares went shattering down thestreet, vibrating through the continuous roar of the crowd and the shrill criesof children and the mellow thunder of church-bells rocking overhead, and theendless tramp of a thousand feet below; and when the whole was framed in thisfantastic twisted street, blazing with tapestries and arched with gables andbanners, all bathed in glory by the clear frosty sunshine—it is little wonderthat for a few minutes at least this country boy felt that here at last was theincarnation of his dreams; and that his heart should exult, with an enthusiasmhe could not interpret, for the cause of a people who could produce such aqueen, and of a queen who could rule such a people; and that his imaginationshould be fired with a sudden sense that these were causes for which thesacrifice of a life would be counted cheap, if they might thereby be furthered.
Yet, in this very moment, by one of those mysterious suggestions that rise fromthe depth of a soul, the image sprang into his mind, and poised itself therefor an instant, of the grey-haired man who had passed half an hour ago, sobbingand shrinking at the cart’s tail.
MARY CORBET
The spring that followed the visit to London passed uneventfully at GreatKeynes to all outward appearances; and yet for Isabel they were significantmonths. In spite of herself and of the word of warning from her father, herrelations with Hubert continued to draw closer. For one thing, he had been thefirst to awaken in her the consciousness that she was lovable in herself, andthe mirror that first tells that to a soul always has something of the glow ofthe discovery resting upon it.
Then again his deference and his chivalrous air had a strange charm. WhenIsabel rode out alone with Anthony, she often had to catch the swinging gate ashe rode through after opening it, and do such little things for herself; butwhen Hubert was with them there was nothing of that kind.
And, once more, he appealed to her pity; and this was the most subtle elementof all. There was no doubt that Hubert’s relations with his fiery old fatherbecame strained sometimes, and it was extraordinarily sweet to Isabel to bemade a confidant. And yet Hubert never went beyond a certain point; his wooingwas very skilful: and he seemed to be conscious of her uneasiness almost beforeshe was conscious of it herself, and to relapse in a moment into frank andbrotherly relations again.
He came in one night after supper, flushed and bright-eyed, and found her alonein the hall: and broke out immediately, striding up and down as she sat andwatched him.
“I cannot bear it; there is Mr. Bailey who has been with us all Lent; he isalways interfering in my affairs. And he has no charity. I know I am a Catholicand that; but when he and my father talk against the Protestants, MistressIsabel, I cannot bear it. They were abusing the Queen to-night—at least,” headded, for he had no intention to exaggerate, “they were saying she was a truedaughter of her father; and sneers of that kind. And I am an Englishman, andher subject; and I said so; and Mr. Bailey snapped out, ‘And you are also aCatholic, my son,’ and then—and then I lost my temper, and said that theCatholic religion seemed no better than any other for the good it did people;and that the Rector and Mr. Norris seemed to me as good men as any one; and ofcourse I meant him and he knew it; and then he told me, before the servants,that I was speaking against the faith; and then I said I would sooner speakagainst the faith than against good Christians; and then he flamed up scarlet,and I saw I had touched him; and then my father got scarlet too, and my motherlooked at me, and my father told me to leave the table for an insolent puppy;and I knocked over my chair and stamped out—and oh! Mistress Isabel, I camestraight here.”
And he flung down astride of a chair with his arms on the back, and dropped hishead on to them.
It would have been difficult for Hubert, even if he had been very cleverindeed, to have made any speech which would have touched Isabel more than this.There was the subtle suggestion that he had defended the Protestants for hersake; and there was the open defence of her father, and defiance of the priestswhom she feared and distrusted; there was a warm generosity and franknessrunning through it all; and lastly, there was the sweet flattering implicationthat he had come to her to be understood and quieted and comforted.
Then, when she tried to show her disapproval of his quick temper, and hadsucceeded in showing a poorly disguised sympathy instead, he had flung awayagain, saying that she had brought him to his senses as usual, and that hewould ask the priest’s pardon for his insolence at once; and Isabel was leftstanding and looking at the fire, fearing that she was being wooed, and yet notcertain, though she loved it. And then, too, there was the secret hope that itmight be through her that he might escape from his superstitions, and—andthen—and she closed her eyes and bit her lip for joy and terror.
She did not know that a few weeks later Hubert had an interview with hisfather, of which she was the occasion. Lady Maxwell had gone to her husbandafter a good deal of thought and anxiety, and told him what she feared; askinghim to say a word to Hubert. Sir Nicholas had been startled and furious. It wasall the lad’s conceit, he said; he had no real heart at all; he only flatteredhis vanity in making love; he had no love for his parents or his faith, and soon. She took his old hand in her own and held it while she spoke.
“Sweetheart,” she said, “how old were you when you used to come riding toOverfield? I forget.” And there came peace into his angry, puzzled old eyes,and a gleam of humour.
“Mistress,” he said, “you have not forgotten.” For he had been just eighteen,too. And he took her face in his hands delicately, and kissed her on the lips.
“Well, well,” he said, “it is hard on the boy; but it must not go on. Send himto me. Oh! I will be easy with him.”
But the interview was not as simple as he hoped; for Hubert was irritable andshamefaced; and spoke lightly of the Religion again.
“After all,” he burst out, “there are plenty of good men who have left thefaith. It brings nothing but misery.”
Sir Nicholas’ hands began to shake, and his fingers to clench themselves; buthe remembered the lad was in love.
“My son,” he said, “you do not know what you say.”
“I know well enough,” said Hubert, with his foot tapping sharply. “I say thatthe Catholic religion is a religion of misery and death everywhere. Look at theLow Countries, sir.”
“I cannot speak of that,” said his father; and his son sneered visibly; “youand I are but laymen; but this I know, and have a right to say, that tothreaten me like that is the act of a—is not worthy of my son. My dear boy,”he said, coming nearer, “you are angry; and, God forgive me! so am I; but Ipromised your mother,” and again he broke off, “and we cannot go on with thisnow. Come again this evening.”
Hubert stood turned away, with his head against the high oak mantelpiece; andthere was silence.
“Father,” he said at last, turning round, “I ask your pardon.”
Sir Nicholas stepped nearer, his eyes suddenly bright with tears, and his mouthtwitching, and held out his hand, which Hubert took.
“And I was a coward to speak like that—but, but—I will try,” went on the boy.“And I promise to say nothing to her yet, at any rate. Will that do? And I willgo away for a while.”
The father threw his arms round him.
As the summer drew on and began to fill the gardens and meadows with wealth,the little Italian garden to the south-west of the Hall was where my lady spentmost of the day. Here she would cause chairs to be brought out for MistressMargaret and herself, and a small selection of devotional books, an orangeleather volume powdered all over with pierced hearts, filled with extracts in aclear brown ink, another book called Le Chappellet de Jésus, whilefrom her girdle beside her pocket-mirror there always hung an olive-coloured“Hours of the Blessed Virgin,” fastened by a long strip of leather prolongedfrom the binding. Here the two old sisters would sit, in the shadow of the yewhedge, taking it by turns to read and embroider, or talking a little now andthen in quiet voices, with long silences broken only by the hum of insects inthe hot air, or the quick flight of a bird in the tall trees behind the hedge.
Here too Isabel often came, also bringing her embroidery; and sat and talkedand watched the wrinkled tranquil faces of the two old ladies, and envied theirpeace. Hubert had gone, as he had promised his father, on a long visit, and wasnot expected home until at least the autumn.
“James will be here to-morrow,” said Lady Maxwell, suddenly, one hotafternoon. Isabel looked up in surprise; he had not been at home for so long;but the thought of his coming was very pleasant to her.
“And Mary Corbet, too,” went on the old lady, “will be here to-morrow or theday after.”
Isabel asked who this was.
“She is one of the Queen’s ladies, my dear; and a great talker.”
“She is very amusing sometimes,” said Mistress Margaret’s clear little voice.
“And Mr. James will be here to-morrow?” said Isabel.
“Yes, my child. They always suit one another; and we have known Mary foryears.”
“And is Miss Corbet a Catholic?”
“Yes, my dear; her Grace seems to like them about her.”
When Isabel went up again to the Hall in the evening, a couple of days later,she found Mr. James sitting with his mother and aunt in the same part of thegarden. Mr. James, who rose as she came through the yew archway, and stoodwaiting to greet her, was a tall, pleasant, brown-faced man. Isabel noticed asshe came up his strong friendly face, that had something of Hubert’s look init, and felt an immediate sense of relief from her timidity at meeting thisman, whose name, it was said, was beginning to be known among the poets, andabout whom the still more formidable fact was being repeated, that he was arising man at Court and had attracted the Queen’s favour.
As they sat down again together, she noticed, too, his strong delicate hand inits snowy ruff, for he was always perfectly dressed, as it lay on his knee; andagain thought of Hubert’s browner and squarer hand.
“We were talking, Mistress Isabel, about the play, and the new theatres. I wasat the Blackfriars’ only last week. Ah! and I met Buxton there,” he went on,turning to his mother.
“Dear Henry,” said Lady Maxwell. “He told me when I last saw him that he couldnever go to London again; his religion was too expensive, he said.”
Mr. James’ white teeth glimmered in a smile.
“He told me he was going to prison next time, instead of paying the fine. Itwould be cheaper, he thought.”
“I hear her Grace loves the play,” said Mistress Margaret.
“Indeed she does. I saw her at Whitehall the other day, when the children ofthe Chapel Royal were acting; she clapped and called out with delight. ButMistress Corbet can tell you more than I can—Ah! here she is.”
Isabel looked up, and saw a wonderful figure coming briskly along the terraceand down the steps that led from the house. Miss Corbet was dressed with whatshe herself would have said was a milkmaid’s plainness; but Isabel looked inastonishment at the elaborate ruff and wings of muslin and lace, the shiningpeacock gown, the high-piled coils of black hair, and the twinkling buckledfeet. She had a lively bright face, a little pale, with a high forehead, andblack arched brows and dancing eyes, and a little scarlet mouth that twitchedhumorously now and then after speaking. She rustled up, flicking herhandkerchief, and exclaiming against the heat. Isabel was presented to her; shesat down on a settle Mr. James drew forward for her, with the handkerchiefstill whisking at the flies.
“I am ashamed to come out like this,” she began. “Mistress Plesse would breakher heart at my lace. You country ladies have far more sense. I am the slave ofmy habits. What were you talking of, that you look so gravely at me?”
Mr. James told her.
“Oh, her Grace!” said Miss Corbet. “Indeed, I think sometimes she is never offthe stage herself. Ah! and what art and passion she shows too!”
“We are all loyal subjects here,” said Mr. James; “tell us what you mean.”
“I mean what I say,” she said. “Never was there one who loved play-acting moreand to occupy the centre of the stage, too. And the throne too, if there beone,” she added.
Miss Corbet talked always at her audience; she hardly ever looked directly atany one, but up or down, or even shut her eyes and tilted her face forwardwhile she talked; and all the while she kept an incessant movement of her lipsor handkerchief, or tapped her foot, or shifted her position a little. Isabelthought she had never seen any one so restless.
Then she went on to tell them of the Queen. She was so startlingly frank thatLady Maxwell again and again looked up as if to interrupt; but she always cameoff the thin ice in time. It was abominable gossip; but she talked with such agenial air of loyal good humour, that it was very difficult to find fault. MissCorbet was plainly accustomed to act as Court Circular, or even as lecturer andshow-woman on the most popular subject in England.
“But her Grace surpassed herself in acting the tyrant last January; you wouldhave sworn her really angry. This was how it fell out. I was in the anteroomone day, waiting for her Grace, when I thought I heard her call. So I tapped; Igot no clear answer, but I heard her voice within, so I entered. And there washer Majesty, sitting a little apart in a chair by herself, with theSecretary—poor rat—white-faced at the table, writing what she bade him, andlooking at her, quick and side-ways, like a child at a lifted rod; and therewas her Grace: she had kicked her stool over, and one shoe had fallen; and shewas striking the arm of her chair as she spoke, and her rings rapped as loud asa drunken watchman. And her face was all white, and her eyes glaring”—and Marybegan to glare and raise her voice too—“and she was crying out, ‘By God’s Son,sir, I will have them hanged. Tell the——’ (but I dare not say what she calledmy Lord Sussex, but few would have recognised him from what she said)—‘tell himthat I will have my will done. These—’ (and she called the rebels a name I darenot tell you)—‘these men have risen against me these two months; and yet theyare not hanged. Hang them in their own villages, that their children may seewhat treason brings.’ All this while I was standing at the open door, thinkingshe had called me; but she was as if she saw nought but the gallows andhell-fire beyond; and I spoke softly to her, asking what she wished; and shesprang up and ran at me, and struck me—yes; again and again across the facewith her open hand, rings and all—and I ran out in tears. Yes,” went on MissCorbet in a moment, dropping her voice, and pensively looking up at nothing,“yes; you would have said she was really angry, so quick and natural were hermovements and so loud her voice.”
Mr. James’ face wrinkled up silently in amusement; and Lady Maxwell seemed onthe point of speaking; but Miss Corbet began again:
“And to see her Grace act the lover. It was a miracle. You would have said thatour Artemis repented of her coldness; if you had not known it was butplay-acting; or let us say perhaps a rehearsal—if you had seen what I once sawat Nonsuch. It was on a summer evening; and we were all on the bowling green,and her Grace was within doors, not to be disturbed. My Lord Leicester was tocome, but we thought had not arrived. Then I had occasion to go to my room toget a little book I had promised to show to Caroline; and, thinking no harm, Iran through into the court, and there stood a horse, his legs apart, allsteaming and blowing. Some courier, said I to myself, and never thought to lookat the trappings; and so I ran upstairs to go to the gallery, across which laymy chamber; and I came up, and just began to push open the door, when I heardher Grace’s voice beyond, and, by the mercy of God, I stopped; and dared notclose the door again nor go downstairs for fear I should be heard. And therewere two walking within the gallery, her Grace and my lord, and my lord was alldisordered with hard riding, and nearly as spent as his poor beast below. Andher Grace had her arm round his neck, for I saw them through the chink; and shefondled and pinched his ear, and said over and over again, ‘Robin, my sweetRobin,’ and then crooned and moaned at him; and he, whenever he could fetch abreath—and oh! I promise you he did blow—murmured back, calling her his queen,which indeed she was, and his sweetheart and his moon and his star—which shewas not: but ’twas all in the play. Well, again by the favour of God, they didnot see how the door was open and I couched behind it, for the sun was shininglevel through the west window in their eyes; but why they did not hear me as Iran upstairs and opened the door, He only knows—unless my lord was too sorelyout of breath and her Grace too intent upon her play-acting. Well, I promiseyou, the acting was so good—he so spent and she so tender—that I nearly criedout Brava as I saw them; but that I remembered in time ’twas meant to be aprivate rehearsal. But I have seen her Grace act near as passionate a partbefore the whole company sometimes.”
The two old ladies seemed not greatly pleased with all this talk; and as forIsabel she sat silent and overwhelmed. Mary Corbet glanced quickly at theirfaces when she had done, and turned a little in her seat.
“Ah! look at that peacock,” she cried out, as a stately bird steppeddelicately out of the shrubbery on to the low wall a little way off, and stoodbalancing himself. “He is loyal too, and has come to hear news of his Queen.”
“He has come to see his cousin from town,” said Mr. James, looking at MissCorbet’s glowing dress, “and to learn of the London fashions.”
Mary got up and curtseyed to the astonished bird, who looked at her with hishead lowered, as he took a high step or two, and then paused again, with hisburnished breast swaying a little from side to side.
“He invites you to a dance,” went on Mr. James gravely, “a pavane.”
Miss Corbet sat down again.
“I dare not dance a pavane,” she said, “with a real peacock.”
“Surely,” said Mr. James, with a courtier’s air, “you are too pitiful for him,and too pitiless for us.”
“I dare not,” she said again, “for he never ceases to practise.”
“In hopes,” said Mr. James, “that one day you will dance it with him.”
And then the two went off into the splendid fantastic nonsense that the witsloved to talk; that grotesque, exaggerated phrasing made fashionable by Lyly.It was like a kind of impromptu sword-exercise in an assault of arms, where therhythm and the flash and the graceful turns are of more importance than theactual thrusts received. The two old ladies embroidered on in silence, buttheir eyes twinkled, and little wrinkles flickered about the corners of theirlips. But poor Isabel sat bewildered. It was so elaborate, so empty; she hadalmost said, so wicked to take the solemn gift of speech and make it dance thiswild fandango; and as absurdity climbed and capered in a shower of sparks andgleams on the shoulders of absurdity, and was itself surmounted; and the namesof heathen gods and nymphs and demi-gods and loose-living classical womenwhisked across the stage, and were tossed higher and higher, until the wholemad erection blazed up and went out in a shower of stars and gems of allusionsand phrases, like a flight of rockets, bright and bewildering at the moment,but leaving a barren darkness and dazzled eyes behind—the poor little Puritancountry child almost cried with perplexity and annoyance. If the two talkershad looked at one another and burst into laughter at the end, she would haveunderstood it to be a joke, though, to her mind, but a poor one. But when theyhad ended, and Mary Corbet had risen and then swept down to the ground in agreat silent curtsey, and Mr. James, the grave, sensible gentleman, hadsolemnly bowed with his hand on his heart, and his heels together like aMonsieur, and then she had rustled off in her peacock dress to the house, withher muslin wings bulging behind her; and no one had laughed or reproved orexplained; it was almost too much, and she looked across to Lady Maxwell withan appeal in her eyes.
Mr. James saw it and his face relaxed.
“You must not take us too seriously, Mistress Isabel,” he said in his kindlyway. “It is all part of the game.”
“The game?” she said piteously.
“Yes,” said Mistress Margaret, intent on her embroidery, “the game of playingat kings and queens and courtiers and ruffs and high-stepping.”
Mr. James’ face again broke into his silent laugh.
“You are acid, dear aunt,” he said.
“But——” began Isabel again.
“But it is wrong, you think,” he interrupted, “to talk such nonsense. Well,Mistress Isabel, I am not sure you are not right.” And the dancing light inhis eyes went out.
“No, no, no,” she cried, distressed. “I did not mean that. Only I did notunderstand.”
“I know, I know; and please God you never will.” And he looked at her withsuch a tender gravity that her eyes fell.
“Isabel is right,” went on Mistress Margaret, in her singularly sweet oldvoice; “and you know it, my nephew. It is very well as a pastime, but somefolks make it their business; and that is nothing less than fooling with thegifts of the good God.”
“Well, aunt Margaret,” said James softly, “I shall not have much more of it.You need not fear for me.”
Lady Maxwell looked quickly at her son for a moment, and down again. He made analmost imperceptible movement with his head, Mistress Margaret looked across athim with her tender eyes beaming love and sorrow; and there fell a littleeloquent silence; while Isabel glanced shyly from one to the other, andwondered what it was all about.
Miss Mary Corbet stayed a few weeks, as the custom was when travelling meant somuch; but Isabel was scarcely nearer understanding her. She accepted her, assimple clean souls so often have to accept riddles in this world, as a mysterythat no doubt had a significance, though she could not recognise it. So she didnot exactly dislike or distrust her, but regarded her silently out of her owncandid soul, as one would say a small fearless bird in a nest must regard theman who thrusts his strange hot face into her green pleasant world, and triesto make endearing sounds. For Isabel was very fascinating to Mary Corbet. Shehad scarcely ever before been thrown so close to any one so serenely pure. Shewould come down to the Dower House again and again at all hours of the day,rustling along in her silk, and seize upon Isabel in the little upstairsparlour, or her bedroom, and question her minutely about her ways and ideas;and she would look at her silently for a minute or two together; and thensuddenly laugh and kiss her—Isabel’s transparency was almost as great a riddleto her as her own obscurity to Isabel. And sometimes she would throw herself onIsabel’s bed, and lie there with her arms behind her head, to the deplorableruin of her ruff; with her buckled feet twitching and tapping; and go on and ontalking like a running stream in the sun that runs for the sheer glitter andtinkle of it, and accomplishes nothing. But she was more respectful to Isabel’ssimplicity than at first, and avoided dangerous edges and treacherous ground ina manner that surprised herself, telling her of the pageants at Court and fairexterior of it all, and little about the poisonous conversations and jests andthe corrupt souls that engaged in them.
She was immensely interested in Isabel’s religion.
“Tell me, child,” she said one day, “I cannot understand such a religion. Itis not like the Protestant religion at Court at all. All that the Protestantsdo there is to hear sermons—it is all so dismal and noisy. But here, with you,you have a proper soul. It seems to me that you are like a little herb-garden,very prim and plain, but living and wholesome and pleasant to walk in atsunset. And these Protestants that I know are more like a paved court atnoon—all hot and hard and glaring. They give me the headache. Tell me all aboutit.”
Of course Isabel could not, though she tried again and again. Her definitionswere as barren as any others.
“I see,” said Mary Corbet one day, sitting up straight and looking at Isabel.“It is not your religion but you; your religion is as dull as all the rest. Butyour soul is sweet, my dear, and the wilderness blossoms where you set yourfeet. There is nothing to blush about. It’s no credit to you, but to God.”
Isabel hated this sort of thing. It seemed to her as if her soul was beingdragged out of a cool thicket from the green shadow and the flowers, and set,stripped, in the high road.
Another time Miss Corbet spoke yet more plainly.
“You are a Catholic at heart, my dear; or you would be if you knew what theReligion was. But your father, good man, has never understood it himself; andso you don’t know it either. What you think about us, my dear, is as much likethe truth as—as—I am like a saint, or you like a sinner. I’ll be bound now thatyou think us all idolaters!”
Isabel had to confess that she did think something of the sort.
“There, now, what did I say? Why haven’t either of those two old nuns at theHall taught you any better?”
“They—they don’t talk to me about religion.”
“Ah! I see; or the Puritan father would withdraw his lamb from the wolves. Butif they are wolves, my dear, you must confess that they have the decency towear sheep’s clothing, and that the disguise is excellent.”
And so it gradually came about that Isabel began to learn an immense deal aboutwhat the Catholics really believed—far more than she had ever learnt in all herlife before from the ladies at the Hall, who were unwilling to teach her, andher father, who was unable.
About half-way through Miss Corbet’s visit, Anthony came home. At first hepronounced against her inexorably, dismissing her as nonsense, and as a finelady—terms to him interchangeable. Then his condemnation began to falter, thenceased; then acquittal, and at last commendation succeeded. For Miss Corbetasked his advice about the dogs, and how to get that wonderful gloss on theircoats that his had; and she asked his help, too, once or twice and praised hisskill, and once asked to feel his muscle.
And then she was so gallant in ways that appealed to him. She was not in theleast afraid of Eliza. She kissed that ferocious head in spite of the glare ofthat steady yellow eye; and yet all with an air of trusting to Anthony’sprotection. She tore her silk stocking across the instep in a bramble andscratched her foot, without even drawing attention to it, as she followed himalong one of his short cuts through the copse; and it was only by chance thathe saw it. And then this gallant girl, so simple and ignorant as she seemed outof doors, was like a splendid queen indoors, and was able to hold her own, orrather to soar above all these elders who were so apt to look over Anthony’shead on grave occasions; and they all had to listen while she talked. In fact,the first time he saw her at the Hall in all her splendour, he could hardlyrealise it was the same girl, till she laughed up at him, and nodded, and saidhow much she had enjoyed the afternoon’s stroll, and how much she would have totell when she got back to Court. In short, so incessant were her poses and soskilful her manner and tone, and so foolish this poor boy, that in a very fewdays, after he had pronounced her to be nonsense, Anthony was at her feet,hopelessly fascinated by the combination of the glitter and friendliness ofthis fine Court lady. To do her justice, she would have behaved exactly thesame to a statue, or even to nothing at all, as a peacock dances and posturesand vibrates his plumes to a kitten; and had no more deliberate intention ofgiving pain to anybody than a nightshade has of poisoning a silly sheep.
The sublime conceit of a boy of fifteen made him of course think that she haddetected in him a nobility that others overlooked, and so Anthony began agorgeous course of day-dreaming, in which he moved as a kind of king,worshipped and reverenced by this splendid creature, who after adisillusionment from the empty vanities of a Court life and a Queen’s favour,found at last the lord of her heart in a simple manly young countryman. Thesedreams, however, he had the grace and modesty to keep wholly to himself.
Mary came down one day and found the two in the garden together.
“Come, my child,” she said, “and you too, Master Anthony, if you can sparetime to escort us; and take me to the church. I want to see it.”
“The church!” said Isabel, “that is locked: we must go to the Rectory.”
“Locked!” exclaimed Mary, “and is that part of the blessed Reformation? Well,come, at any rate.”
They all went across to the village and down the green towards the Rectory,whose garden adjoined the churchyard on the south side of the church. Anthonywalked with something of an air in front of the two ladies. Isabel told her asthey went about the Rector and his views. Mary nodded and smiled and seemed tounderstand.
“We will tap at the window,” said Anthony, “it is the quickest way.”
They came up towards the study window that looked on to the drive; whenAnthony, who was in front, suddenly recoiled and then laughed.
“They are at it again,” he said.
The next moment Mary was looking through the window too. The Rector was sittingin his chair opposite, a small dark, clean-shaven man, but his face was setwith a look of distressed determination, and his lower lip was sucked in; hiseyes were fixed firmly on a tall, slender woman whose back was turned to thewindow and who seemed to be declaiming, with outstretched hand. The Rectorsuddenly saw the faces at the window.
“We seem to be interrupting,” said Mary coolly, as she turned away.
A RIDER FROM LONDON
“We will walk on, Master Anthony,” said Mistress Corbet. “Will you bring thekeys when the Rector and his lady have done?”
She spoke with a vehement bitterness that made Isabel look at her in amazement,as the two walked on by the private path to the churchyard gate. Mary’s facewas set in a kind of fury, and she went forward with her chin thrustdisdainfully out, biting her lip. Isabel said nothing.
As they reached the gate they heard steps behind them; and turning saw theminister and Anthony hastening together. Mr. Dent was in his cassock and gownand square cap, and carried the keys. His little scholarly face, with a sharpcurved nose like a beak, and dark eyes set rather too close together, was notunlike a bird’s; and a way he had of sudden sharp movements of his headincreased the likeness. Mary looked at him with scarcely veiled contempt. Heglanced at her sharply and uneasily.
“Mistress Mary Corbet?” he said, interrogatively.
Mary bowed to him.
“May we see the church, sir; your church, I should say perhaps; that is, if weare not disturbing you.”
Mr. Dent made a polite inclination, and opened the gate for them to go through.Then Mary changed her tactics; and a genial, good-humoured look came over herface; but Isabel, who glanced at her now and again as they went round to theporch at the west-end, still felt uneasy.
As the Rector was unlocking the porch door, Mary surveyed him with a pleasedsmile.
“Why, you look quite like a priest,” she said. “Do your bishops, or whateveryou call them, allow that dress? I thought you had done away with it all.”
Mr. Dent looked at her, but seeing nothing but geniality and interest in herface, explained elaborately in the porch that he was a Catholic priest,practically; though the word minister was more commonly used; and that it wasthe old Church still, only cleansed from superstitions. Mary shook her head athim cheerfully, smiling like a happy, puzzled child.
“It is all too difficult for me,” she said. “It cannot be the same Church, orwhy should we poor Catholics be so much abused and persecuted? Besides, what ofthe Pope?”
Mr. Dent explained that the Pope was one of the superstitions in question.
“Ah! I see you are too sharp for me,” said Mary, beaming at him.
Then they entered the church; and Mary began immediately on a running comment.
“How sad that little niche looks,” she said. “I suppose Our Lady is in piecessomewhere on a dunghill. Surely, father—I beg your pardon, Mr. Dent—it cannotbe the same religion if you have knocked Our Lady to pieces. But then I supposeyou would say that she was a superstition, too. And where is the old altar? Isthat broken, too? And is that a superstition, too? What a number there musthave been! And the holy water, too, I see. But that looks a very nice table upthere you have instead. Ah! And I see you read the new prayers from a new deskoutside the screen, and not from the priest’s stall. Was that a superstitiontoo? And the mass vestments? Has your wife had any of them made up to beuseful? The stoles are no good, I fear; but you could make charming stomachersout of the chasubles.”
They were walking slowly up the centre aisle now. Mr. Dent had to explain thatthe vestments had been burnt on the green.
“Ah! yes; I see,” she said, “and do you wear a surplice, or do you not likethem? I see the chancel roof is all broken—were there angels there once? Isuppose so. But how strange to break them all! Unless they are superstitions,too? I thought Protestants believed in them; but I see I was wrong. What do you believe in, Mr. Dent?” she asked, turning large, bright, perplexedeyes upon him for a moment: but she gave him no time to answer.
“Ah!” she cried suddenly, and her voice rang with pain, “there is thealtar-stone.” And she went down on her knees at the chancel entrance, bendingdown, it seemed, in an agony of devout sorrow and shame; and kissed with agentle, lingering reverence the great slab with its five crosses, set in theground at the destruction of the altar to show there was no sanctity attachedto it.
She knelt there a moment or two, her lips moving, and her black eyes cast up atthe great east window, cracked and flawed with stones and poles. The Puritanboy and girl looked at her with astonishment; they had not seen this side ofher before.
When she rose from her knees, her eyes seemed bright with tears, and her voicewas tender.
“Forgive me, Mr. Dent,” she said, with a kind of pathetic dignity, putting outa slender be-ringed hand to him, “but—but you know—for I think perhaps you havesome sympathy for us poor Catholics—you know what all this means to me.”
She went up into the chancel and looked about her in silence.
“This was the piscina, Mistress Corbet,” said the Rector.
She nodded her head regretfully, as at some relic of a dead friend; but saidnothing. They came out again presently, and turned through the old iron gatesinto what had been the Maxwell chapel. The centre was occupied by an altar-tombwith Sir Nicholas’ parents lying in black stone upon it. Old Sir James held hisright gauntlet in his left hand, and with his right hand held the right hand ofhis wife, which was crossed over to meet it; and the two steady faces gazedupon the disfigured roof. The altar, where a weekly requiem had been said forthem, was gone, and the footpace and piscina alone showed where it had stood.
“This was a chantry, of course?” said Mistress Corbet.
The Rector confessed that it had been so.
“Ah!” she said mournfully, “the altar is cast out and the priest gone;but—but—forgive me, sir, the money is here still? But then,” she added, “Isuppose the money is not a superstition.”
When they reached the west entrance again she turned and looked up the aisleagain.
“And the Rood!” she said. “Even Christ crucified is gone. Then, in God’s namewhat is left?” And her eyes turned fiercely for a moment on the Rector.
“At least courtesy and Christian kindness is left, madam,” he said sternly.
She dropped her eyes and went out; and Isabel and Anthony followed, startledand ashamed. But Mary had recovered herself as she came on to the head of thestone stairs, beside which the stump of the churchyard cross stood; standingthere was the same tall, slender woman whose back they had seen through thewindow, and who now stood eyeing Mary with half-dropped lids. Her face was verywhite, with hard lines from nose to mouth, and thin, tightly compressed lips.Mary swept her with one look, and then passed on and down the steps, followedby Isabel and Anthony, as the Rector came out, locking the church door againbehind him.
As they went up the green, a shrill thin voice began to scold from over thechurchyard wall, and they heard the lower, determined voice of the ministeranswering.
“They are at it again,” said Anthony, once more.
“And what do you mean by that, Master Anthony?” said Mistress Corbet, whoseemed herself again now.
“She is just a scold,” said the lad, “the village-folk hate her.”
“You seem not to love her,” said Mary, smiling.
“Oh! Mistress Corbet, do you know what she said—” and then he broke off,crimson-faced.
“She is no friend to Catholics, I suppose,” said Mary, seeming to noticenothing.
“She is always making mischief,” he went on eagerly. “The Rector would be wellenough but for her. He is a good fellow, really.”
“There, there,” said Mary, “and you think me a scold, too, I daresay. Well,you know I cannot bear to see these old churches—well, perhaps I was—” and thenshe broke off again, and was silent.
The brother and sister presently turned back to the Dower House; and Mary wenton, and through the Hall straight into the Italian garden where MistressMargaret was sitting alone at her embroidery.
“My sister has been called away by the housekeeper,” she explained, “but shewill be back presently.”
Mary sat down and took up the little tawny book that lay by Lady Maxwell’schair, and began to turn it over idly while she talked. The old lady by herseemed to invite confidences.
“I have been to see the church,” said Mary. “The Rector showed it to me. Whata beautiful place it must have been.”
“Ah!” said Mistress Margaret “I only came to live here a few years ago; so Ihave never known or loved it like my sister or her husband. They can hardlybear to enter it now. You know that Sir Nicholas’ father and grandfather areburied in the Maxwell chapel; and it was his father who gave the furniture ofthe sanctuary, and the images of Our Lady and Saint Christopher that theyburned on the green.”
“It is terrible,” said Mary, a little absently, as she turned the pages of thebook.
Mistress Margaret looked up.
“Ah! you have one of my books there,” she said. “It is a little collection Imade.”
Miss Corbet turned to the beginning, but only found a seal with an inscription.
“But this belonged to a nunnery,” she said.
“Yes,” said Mistress Margaret, tranquilly, “and I am a nun.”
Mary looked at her in astonishment.
“But, but,” she began.
“Yes, Mistress Corbet; we were dispersed in ’38; some entered the othernunneries; and some went to France; but, at last, under circumstances that Ineed not trouble you with, I came here under spiritual direction, and haveobserved my obligations ever since.”
“And have you always said your offices?” Mary asked astonished.
“Yes, my dear; by the mercy of God I have never failed yet. I tell you this ofcourse because you are one of us, and because you have a faithful heart.”Mistress Margaret lifted her great eyes and looked at Mary tenderly andpenetratingly.
“And this is one of your books?” she asked.
“Yes, my dear. I was allowed at least to take it away with me. My sister hereis very fond of it.”
Mary opened it again, and began to turn the pages.
“Is it all in your handwriting, Mistress Torridon?”
“Yes, my child; I continued writing in it ever since I first entered religionin 1534; so you see the handwriting changes a little,” and she smiled toherself.
“Oh, but this is charming,” cried Mary, intent on the book.
“Read it, my dear, aloud.”
Mary read:
“Let me not rest, O Lord, nor have quiet,
But fill my soul with spiritual travail,
To sing and say, O mercy, Jesu sweet;
Thou my protection art in the battail.
Set thou aside all other apparail;
Let me in thee feel all my affiance.
Treasure of treasures, thou dost most avail.
Grant ere I die shrift, pardon, repentance.”
Her voice trembled a little and ceased.
“That is from some verses of Dan John Lydgate, I think,” said MistressMargaret.
“Here is another,” said Mary in a moment or two.
“Jesu, at thy will, I pray that I may be,
All my heart fulfil with perfect love to thee:
That I have done ill, Jesu forgive thou me:
And suffer me never to spill, Jesu for thy pity.”
“The nuns of Hampole gave me that,” said Mistress Margaret. “It is by RichardRolle, the hermit.”
“Tell me a little,” said Mary Corbet, suddenly laying down the book, “aboutthe nunnery.”
“Oh, my dear, that is too much to ask; but how happy we were. All was so still;it used to seem sometimes as if earth were just a dream; and that we walked inParadise. Sometimes in the Greater Silence, when we had spoken no word norheard one except in God’s praise, it used to seem that if we could but besilent a little longer, and a little more deeply, in our hearts as well, weshould hear them talking in heaven, and the harps; and the Saviour’s softfootsteps. But it was not always like that.”
“You mean,” said Mary softly, “that, that—” and she stopped.
“Oh, it was hard sometimes; but not often. God is so good. But He used to allowsuch trouble and darkness and noise to be in our hearts sometimes—at least inmine. But then of course I was always very wicked. But sitting in the nymph-haysometimes on a day like this, as we were allowed to do; with just tall thintrees like poplars and cypresses round us: and the stream running through thelong grass; and the birds, and the soft sky and the little breeze; and thenpeace in our hearts; and the love of the Saviour round us—it seemed, it seemedas if God had nothing more to give; or, I should say, as if our hearts had nomore space.”
Mary was strangely subdued and quiet. Her little restless movements were stillfor once; and her quick, vivacious face was tranquil and a little awed.
“Oh, Mistress Margaret, I love to hear you talk like that. Tell me more.”
“Well, my dear, we thought too much about ourselves, I think; and too littleabout God and His poor children who were not so happy as we were; so then thetroubles began; and they got nearer and nearer; and at last the Visitor came.He—he was my brother, my dear, which made it harder; but he made a good end. Iwill tell you his story another time. He took away our great crucifix and ourjewelled cope that old Mr. Wickham used to wear on the Great Festivals; andleft us. He turned me out, too; and another who asked to go, but I went backfor a while. And then, my dear, although we offered everything; our cows andour orchard and our hens, and all we had, you know how it ended; and onemorning in May old Mr. Wickham said mass for us quite early, before the sun wasrisen, for the last time; and,—and he cried, my dear, at the elevation; and—andwe were all crying too I think, and we all received communion together for thelast time—and,—and, then we all went away, leaving just old Dame Agnes to keepthe house until the Commissioner came. And oh, my dear, I don’t think the houseever looked so dear as it did that morning, just as the sun rose over theroofs, and we were passing out through the meadow door where we had sat sooften, to where the horses were waiting to take us away.”
Miss Corbet’s own eyes were full of tears as the old lady finished: and she putout her white slender hand, which Mistress Torridon took and stroked for amoment.
“Well,” she said, “I haven’t talked like this for a long while; but I knew youwould understand. My dear, I have watched you while you have been here thistime.”
Mary Corbet smiled a little uneasily.
“And you have found me out?” she answered smiling.
“No, no; but I think our Saviour has found you out—or at least He is drawingvery near.”
A slight discomfort made itself felt in Mary’s heart. This nun then was likeall the rest, always trying to turn the whole world into monks and nuns byhints and pretended intuitions into the unseen.
“And you think I should be a nun too?” she asked, with just a shade ofcoolness in her tone.
“I should suppose not,” said Mistress Margaret, tranquilly. “You do not seemto have a vocation for that, but I should think that our Lord means you toserve Him where you are. Who knows what you may not accomplish?”
This was a little disconcerting to Mary Corbet; it was not at all what she hadexpected. She did not know what to say; and took up the leather book again andbegan to turn over the pages. Mistress Margaret went on serenely with herembroidery, which she had neglected during the last sentence or two; and therewas silence.
“Tell me a little more about the nunnery,” said Mary in a minute or two,leaning back in her chair, with the book on her knees.
“Well, my dear, I scarcely know what to say. It is all far off now like achildhood. We talked very little; not at all until recreation; except by signs,and we used to spend a good deal of our time in embroidery. That is where Ilearnt this,” and she held out her work to Mary for a moment. It was anexquisite piece of needlework, representing a stag running open-mouthed throughthickets of green twining branches that wrapped themselves about his horns andfeet. Mary had never seen anything quite like it before.
“What does it mean?” she asked, looking at it curiously.
“Quemadmodum cervus,”—began Mistress Margaret; “as the hart brayethafter the waterbrooks,”—and she took the embroidery and began to go on withit.—“It is the soul, you see, desiring and fleeing to God, while the things ofthe world hold her back. Well, you see, it is difficult to talk about it; forit is the inner life that is the real history of a convent; the outer thingsare all plain and simple like all else.”
“Well,” said Mary, “is it really true that you were happy?”
The old lady stopped working a moment and looked up at her.
“My dear, there is no happiness in the world like it,” she said simply. “Idream sometimes that we are all back there together, and I wake crying for joy.The other night I dreamed that we were all in the chapel again, and that it wasa spring morning, with the dawn beginning to show the painted windows, and thatall the tapers were burning; and that mass was beginning. Not one stall wasempty; not even old Dame Gertrude, who died when I was a novice, was lacking,and Mr. Wickham made us a sermon after the creed, and showed us the crucifixback in its place again; and told us that we were all good children, and thatOur Lord had only sent us away to see if we would be patient; and that He wasnow pleased with us, and had let us come home again; and that we should neverhave to go away again; not even when we died; and then I understood that wewere in heaven, and that it was all over; and I burst out into tears in mystall for happiness; and then I awoke and found myself in bed; but my cheekswere really wet.—Well, well, perhaps, by the mercy of God it may all come truesome day.”
She spoke so simply that Mary Corbet was amazed; she had always fancied thatthe Religious Life was a bitter struggle, worth, indeed, living for those whocould bear it, for the sake of the eternal reward; but it had scarcely evenoccurred to her that it was so full of joy in itself; and she looked up underher brows at the old lady, whose needle had stopped for a moment.
A moment after and Lady Maxwell appeared coming down the steps into the garden;and at her side Anthony, who was dressed ready for riding.
Old Mistress Margaret had, as she said, been watching Mary Corbet those lastfew weeks; and had determined to speak to her plainly. Her instinct had toldher that beneath this flippancy and glitter there was something that wouldrespond; and she was anxious to leave nothing undone by which Mary might beawakened to the inner world that was in such danger of extinction in her soul.It cost the old lady a great effort to break through her ordinary reserve, butshe judged that Mary could only be reached on her human side, and that therewere not many of her friends whose human sympathy would draw her in the rightdirection. It is strange, sometimes, to find that some silent old lady has apower for sounding human character, which far shrewder persons lack; and thisquiet old nun, so ignorant, one would have said, of the world and of themotives from which ordinary people act, had managed somehow to touch springs inthis girl’s heart that had never been reached before.
And now as Miss Corbet and Lady Maxwell talked, and Anthony lolled embarrassedbeside them, attempting now and then to join in the conversation, MistressMargaret, as she sat a little apart and worked away at the panting stag dreamedaway, smiling quietly to herself, of all the old scenes that her ownconversation had called up into clearer consciousness; of the pleasant littlemeadow of the Sussex priory, with the old apple-trees and the straightbox-lined path called the nun’s walk from time immemorial; all lighted with thepleasant afternoon glow, as it streamed from the west, throwing the slenderpoplar shadows across the grass; and of the quiet chatter of the brook as itover-flowed from the fish ponds at the end of the field and ran through themeadows beyond the hedge. The cooing of the pigeons as they sunned themselvesround the dial in the centre of this Italian garden and on the roof of the hallhelped on her reminiscences, for there had been a dovecote at the priory. Wherewere all her sisters now, those who had sat with her in the same sombre habitsin the garth, with the same sunshine in their hearts? Some she knew, andthanked God for it, were safe in glory; others were old like her, but stillsafe in Holy Religion in France where as yet there was peace and sanctuary forthe servants of the Most High; one or two—and for these she lifted up her heartin petition as she sat—one or two had gone back to the world, relinquishedeverything, and died to grace. Then the old faces one by one passed before her;old Dame Agnes with her mumbling lips and her rosy cheeks like wrinkled apples,looking so fresh and wholesome in the white linen about her face; and then theothers one by one—that white-faced, large-eyed sister who had shown suchpassionate devotion at first that they all thought that God was going to raiseup a saint amongst them—ah! God help her—she had sunk back at the dissolution,from those heights of sanctity towards whose summits she had set her face, downinto the muddy torrent of the world that went roaring down to the abyss—and whowas responsible? There was Dame Avice, the Sacristan, with her businesslikemovements going about the garden, gathering flowers for the altar, with herqueer pursed lips as she arranged them in her hands with her head a little onone side; how annoying she used to be sometimes; but how good and tender atheart—God rest her soul! And there was Mr. Wickham, the old priest who had beentheir chaplain for so many years, and who lived in the village parsonage,waited upon by Tom Downe, that served at the altar too—he who had got thehorses ready when the nuns had to go at last on that far-off May morning, andhad stood there, holding the bridles and trying to hide his wet face behind thehorses; where was Tom now? And Mr. Wickham too—he had gone to France with someof the nuns; but he had never settled down there—he couldn’t bear the Frenchways—and besides he had left his heart behind him buried in the little Sussexpriory among the meadows.
And so the old lady sat, musing; while the light and shadow of reminiscencemoved across her face; and her lips quivered or her eyes wrinkled up withhumour, at the thought of all those old folks with their faces and theirmovements and their ways of doing and speaking. Ah! well, please God, some dayher dream would really come true; and they shall all be gathered again fromFrance and England with their broken hearts mended and their tears wiped away,and Mr. Wickham himself shall minister to them and make them sermons, and TomDowne too shall be there to minister to him—all in one of the many mansions ofwhich the Saviour spoke.
And so she heard nothing of the talk of the others; though her sister looked ather tenderly once or twice; and Mary Corbet chattered and twitched her bucklesin the sun, and Anthony sat embarrassed in the midst of Paradise; and she knewnothing of where she was nor of what was happening round her, until Mary Corbetsaid that it was time for the horses to be round, and that she must go and getready and not keep Mr. James and Mr. Anthony waiting. Then, as she and Anthonywent towards the house, the old lady looked up from the braying stag and foundherself alone with her sister.
Mistress Margaret waited until the other two disappeared up the steps, and thenspoke.
“I have told her all, sister,” she said, “she can be trusted.”
Lady Maxwell nodded gently.
“She has a good heart,” went on the other, “and our Lord no doubt will findsome work for her to do at Court.”
There was silence again; broken by the gentle little sound of the silk beingdrawn through the stuff.
“You know best, Margaret,” said Lady Maxwell.
Even as she spoke there was the sound of a door thrown violently open and oldSir Nicholas appeared on the top of the steps, hatless and plainly in a stateof great agitation; beside him stood a courier, covered with the dust of thewhite roads, and his face crimson with hard riding. Sir Nicholas stood there asif dazed, and Lady Maxwell sprang up quickly to go to him. But a moment afterthere appeared behind him a little group, his son James, Miss Corbet and aservant or two; while Anthony hung back; and Mr. James came up quickly, andtook his father by the arm; and together the little company came down the stepsinto the still and sunny garden.
“What is it?” cried Lady Maxwell, trying to keep her voice under control;while Mistress Margaret laid her work quietly down, and stood up too.
“Tell my lady,” said Sir Nicholas to the courier, who stood a little apart.
“If you please, my lady,” he said, as if repeating a lesson, “a Bull of theHoly Father has been found nailed to the door of the Bishop of London’s palace,deposing Elizabeth and releasing all her subjects from their allegiance.”
Lady Maxwell went to her husband and took him by the arm gently.
“What does it mean, sweetheart?” she asked.
“It means that Catholics must choose between their sovereign and their God.”
“God have mercy,” said a servant behind.
MR. STEWART
Sir Nicholas’ exclamatory sentence was no exaggeration. That terrible choice ofwhich he spoke, with his old eyes shining with the desire to make it, did notindeed come so immediately as he anticipated; but it came none the less. Fromevery point of view the Bull was unfortunate, though it may have been anecessity; for it marked the declaration of war between England and theCatholic Church. A gentle appeal had been tried before; Elizabeth, who, it mustbe remembered had been crowned during mass with Catholic ceremonial, and hadreceived the Blessed Sacrament, had been entreated by the Pope as his “deardaughter in Christ” to return to the Fold; and now there seemed to him nopossibility left but this ultimatum.
It is indeed difficult to see what else, from his point of view, he could havedone. To continue to pretend that Elizabeth was his “dear daughter” would havediscredited his fatherly authority in the eyes of the whole Christian world. Hehad patiently made an advance towards his wayward child; and she had repudiatedand scorned him. Nothing was left but to recognise and treat her as an enemy ofthe Faith, an usurper of spiritual prerogatives, and an apostate spoiler ofchurches; to do this might certainly bring trouble upon others of his lessdistinguished but more obedient children, who were in her power; but to pretendthat the suffering thus brought down upon Catholics was unnecessary, and thatthe Pope alone was responsible for their persecution, is to be blind to thefact that Elizabeth had already openly defied and repudiated his authority, andhad begun to do her utmost to coax and compel his children to be disobedient totheir father.
The shock of the Bull to Elizabeth was considerable; she had not expected thisextreme measure; and it was commonly reported too that France and Spain werelikely now to unite on a religious basis against England; and that at least oneof these Powers had sanctioned the issue of the Bull. This of course helpedgreatly to complicate further the already complicated political position. Stepswere taken immediately to strengthen England’s position against Scotland withwhom it was now, more than ever, to be feared that France would co-operate; andthe Channel Fleet was reinforced under Lord Clinton, and placed with respect toFrance in what was almost a state of war, while it was already in an informalstate of war with Spain. There was fierce confusion in the Privy Council.Elizabeth, who at once began to vacillate under the combined threats of LaMothe, the French ambassador, and the arguments of the friend of Catholics,Lord Arundel, was counter-threatened with ruin by Lord Keeper Bacon unless shewould throw in her lot finally with the Protestants and continue her hostilityand resistance to the Catholic Scotch party. But in spite of Bacon Elizabeth’sheart failed her, and if it had not been for the rashness of Mary Stuart’sfriends, Lord Southampton and the Bishop of Ross, the Queen might have beeninduced to substitute conciliation for severity towards Mary and the Catholicparty generally. Southampton was arrested, and again there followed the furtherencouragement of the Protestant camp by the rising fortunes of the Huguenotsand the temporary reverses to French Catholicism; so the pendulum swung thisway and that. Elizabeth’s policy changed almost from day to day. She wastormented with temporal fears of a continental crusade against her, and by thespiritual terrors of the Pope’s Bull; and her unfathomable fickleness was thedespair of her servants.
Meanwhile in the religious world a furious paper war broke out; and volleysfrom both sides followed the solemn roar and crash of Regnans inExcelsis.
But while the war of words went on, and the theological assaults and chargeswere given and received, repulsed or avoided, something practical must, it wasfelt, be done immediately; and search was made high and low for other copies ofthe Bull. The lawyers in the previous year had fallen under suspicion ofreligious unsoundness; judges could not be trusted to convict Catholics accusedof their religion; and counsel was unwilling to prosecute them; therefore thefirst inquisition was made in the Inns of Court; and almost immediately a copyof the Bull was found in the room of a student in Lincoln’s Inn, who upon therack in the Tower confessed that he had received it from one John Felton, aCatholic gentleman who lived upon his property in Southwark. Upon Felton’sarrest (for he had not attempted to escape) he confessed immediately, withoutpressure, that he had affixed the Bull to the Bishop of London’s gate; butalthough he was racked repeatedly he would not incriminate a single personbesides himself; but at his trial would only assert with a joyous confidencethat he was not alone; and that twenty-five peers, six hundred gentlemen, andthirty thousand commoners were ready to die in the Holy Father’s quarrel. Hebehaved with astonishing gallantry throughout, and after his condemnation hadbeen pronounced upon the fourth of August at the Guildhall, on the charge ofhigh-treason, he sent a diamond ring from his own finger, of the value of£400, to the Queen to show that he bore her no personal ill-will. He hadbeen always a steadfast Catholic; his wife had been maid of honour to Mary anda friend of Elizabeth’s. On August the eighth he suffered the abominablepunishment prescribed; he was drawn on a hurdle to the gate of the Bishop’spalace in S. Paul’s Churchyard, where he had affixed the Bull, hanged upon anew gallows, cut down before he was unconscious, disembowelled and quartered.His name has since been placed on the roll of the Blessed by the Apostolic Seein whose quarrel he so cheerfully laid down his life.
News of these and such events continued of course to be eagerly sought after bythe Papists all over the kingdom; and the Maxwells down at Great Keynes kept inas close touch with the heart of affairs as almost any private persons in thekingdom out of town. Sir Nicholas was one of those fiery natures to whomopposition or pressure is as oil to flame. He began at once to organise hisforces and prepare for the struggle that was bound to come. He establishedfirst a kind of private post to London and to other Catholic houses round; forpurposes however of defence rather than offence, so that if any steps werethreatened, he and his friends might be aware of the danger in time. There wasgreat sorrow at the news of John Felton’s death; and mass was said for his soulalmost immediately in the little oratory at Maxwell Court by one of theconcealed priests who went chiefly between Hampshire and Sussex ministering tothe Catholics of those districts. Mistress Margaret spent longer than ever ather prayers; Lady Maxwell had all she could do to keep her husband from somefurious act of fanatical retaliation for John Felton’s death—some uselessprovocation of the authorities; the children at the Dower House began to cometo the Hall less often, not because they were less welcomed, but because therewas a constraint in the air. All seemed preoccupied; conversations ceasedabruptly on their entrance, and fits of abstraction would fall from time totime upon their kindly hosts. In the meanwhile, too, the preparations for JamesMaxwell’s departure, which had already begun to show themselves, were nowpushed forward rapidly; and one morning in the late summer, when Isabel came upto the Hall, she found that Lady Maxwell was confined to her room and could notbe seen that day; she caught a glimpse of Sir Nicholas’ face as he quicklycrossed the entrance hall, that made her draw back from daring to intrude onsuch grief; and on inquiry found that Mr. James had ridden away that morning,and that the servants did not know when to expect him back, nor what was hisdestination.
In other ways also at this time did Sir Nicholas actively help on his party.Great Keynes was in a convenient position and circumstances for agents who cameacross from the Continent. It was sufficiently near London, yet not so near tothe highroad or to London itself as to make disturbance probable; and its veryquietness under the spiritual care of a moderate minister like Mr. Dent, andits serenity, owing to the secret sympathy of many of the villagers andneighbours, as well as from the personal friendship between Sir Nicholas andthe master of the Dower House—an undoubted Protestant—all these circumstancescombined to make Maxwell Hall a favourite halting-place for priests and agentsfrom the Continent. Strangers on horseback or in carriages, and sometimes evenon foot, would arrive there after nightfall, and leave in a day or two forLondon. Its nearness to London enabled them to enter the city at any hour theythought best after ten or eleven in the forenoon. They came on very variousbusinesses; some priests even stayed there and made the Hall a centre for theirspiritual ministrations for miles round; others came with despatches fromabroad, some of which were even addressed to great personages at Court and atthe Embassies where much was being done by the Ambassadors at this time to aidtheir comrades in the Faith, and to other leading Catholics; and others againcame with pamphlets printed abroad for distribution in England, some of themindeed seditious, but many of them purely controversial and hortatory, and withother devotional articles and books such as it was difficult to obtain inEngland, and might not be exposed for public sale in booksellers’ shops: AgnusDeis, beads, hallowed incense and crosses were being sent in large numbers fromabroad, and were eagerly sought after by the Papists in all directions. It wasremarkable that while threatening clouds appeared to be gathering on all sidesover the Catholic cause, yet the deepening peril was accompanied by a greatoutburst of religious zeal. It was reported to the Archbishop that “massing”was greatly on the increase in Kent; and was attributed, singularly enough, tothe Northern Rebellion, which had ended in disaster for the Papists; but thevery fact that such a movement could take place at all probably heartened manysecret sympathisers, who had hitherto considered themselves almost alone in aheretic population.
Sir Nicholas came in one day to dinner in a state of great fury. One of hiscouriers had just arrived with news from London; and the old man came in fumingand resentful.
“What hypocrisy!” he cried out to Lady Maxwell and Mistress Margaret, who wereseated at table. “Not content with persecuting Catholics, they will not evenallow us to say we are persecuted for the faith. Here is the Lord Keeperdeclaring in the Star Chamber that no man is to be persecuted for his privatefaith, but only for his public acts, and that the Queen’s Grace desires nothingso little as to meddle with any man’s conscience. Then I suppose they would saythat hearing mass was a public act and therefore unlawful; but then how if aman’s private faith bids him to hear mass? Is not that meddling with hisprivate conscience to forbid him to go to mass? What folly is this? And yet myLord Keeper and her Grace are no fools! Then are they worse than fools?”
Lady Maxwell tried to quiet the old man, for the servants were not out of theroom; and it was terribly rash to speak like that before them; but he would notbe still nor sit down, but raged up and down before the hearth, growling andbreaking out now and again. What especially he could not get off his mind wasthat this was the Old Religion that was prescribed. That England forgenerations had held the Faith, and that then the Faith and all that itinvolved had been declared unlawful, was to him iniquity unfathomable. He couldwell understand some new upstart sect being persecuted, but not the oldReligion. He kept on returning to this.
“Have they so far forgotten the Old Faith as to think it can be held in a man’sprivate conscience without appearing in his life, like their miserable damnablenew fangled Justification by faith without works? Or that a man can believe inthe blessed sacrament of the altar and yet not desire to receive it; or inpenance and yet not be absolved; or in Peter and yet not say so, nor bereconciled. You may believe, say they, of their clemency, what you like; bejustified by that; that is enough! Bah!”
However mere declaiming against the Government was barren work, and SirNicholas soon saw that; and instead, threw himself with more vigour than everinto entertaining and forwarding the foreign emissaries.
Mary Corbet had returned to London by the middle of July; and Hubert was notyet returned; so Sir Nicholas and the two ladies had the Hall to themselves.Now it must be confessed that the old man had neither the nature nor thetraining for the rôle of a conspirator, even of the mildestdescription. He was so exceedingly impulsive, unsuspicious and passionate thatit would have been the height of folly to entrust him with any weighty secret,if it was possible to dispense with him; but the Catholics over the waterneeded stationary agents so grievously; and Sir Nicholas’ name commanded suchrespect, and his house such conveniences, that they overlooked the riskinvolved in making him their confidant, again and again; besides it need not besaid that his honour and fidelity was beyond reproach; and those qualitiesafter all balance favourably against a good deal of shrewdness and discretion.He, of course, was serenely unable to distinguish between sedition andreligion; and entertained political meddlers and ordinary priests with an equalenthusiasm. It was pathetic to Lady Maxwell to see her simple old husbandshuffling away his papers, and puzzling over cyphers and perpetually leavingthe key of them lying about, and betraying again and again when he leastintended it, by his mysterious becks and nods and glances and oracular sayings,that some scheme was afoot. She could have helped him considerably if he hadallowed her; but he had an idea that the capacities of ladies in general wentno further than their harps, their embroidery and their devotions; and besides,he was chivalrously unwilling that his wife should be in any way privy tobusiness that involved such risks as this.
One sunny morning in August he came into her room early just as she wasfinishing her prayers, and announced the arrival of an emissary from abroad.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “will you prepare the east chamber for a young man whomwe will call Mr. Stewart, if you please, who will arrive to-night. He hopes tobe with us until after dusk to-morrow when he will leave; and I shall beobliged if you will—— No, no, my dear. I will order the horses myself.”
The old man then bustled off to the stableyard and ordered a saddle-horse to betaken at once to Cuckfield, accompanied by a groom on another horse. These wereto arrive at the inn and await orders from a stranger “whom you will call Mr.Stewart, if you please.” Mr. Stewart was to change horses there, and ride onto Maxwell Hall, and Sir Nicholas further ordered the same two horses and thesame groom to be ready the following evening at about nine o’clock, and to beat “Mr. Stewart’s” orders again as before.
This behaviour of Sir Nicholas’ was of course most culpably indiscreet. A childcould not but have suspected something, and the grooms, who were of courseCatholics, winked merrily at one another when the conspirator’s back wasturned, and he had hastened in a transport of zeal and preoccupation back againto the house to interrupt his wife in her preparations for the guest.
That evening “Mr. Stewart” arrived according to arrangements. He was a slimred-haired man, not above thirty years of age, the kind of man his enemieswould call foxy, with a very courteous and deliberate manner, and he spoke witha slight Scotch accent. He had the air of doing everything on purpose. He lethis riding-whip fall as he greeted Lady Maxwell in the entrance hall; butpicked it up with such a dignified grace that you would have sworn he had letit fall for some wise reason of his own. He had a couple of saddle-bags withhim, which he did not let out of his sight for a moment; even keeping his eyeupon them as he met the ladies and saluted them. They were carried up to theeast chamber directly, their owner following; where supper had been prepared.There was no real reason, since he arrived with such publicity, why he shouldnot have supped downstairs, but Sir Nicholas had been peremptory. It was by hisdirections also that the arrival had been accomplished in the manner it had.
After he had supped, Sir Nicholas receiving the dishes from the servants’ handsat the door of the room with the same air of secrecy and despatch, his hostsuggested that he should come to Lady Maxwell’s drawing-room, as the ladieswere anxious to see him. Mr. Stewart asked leave to bring a little valise withhim that had travelled in one of the bags, and then followed his host whopreceded him with a shaded light along the gallery.
When he entered he bowed again profoundly, with a slightly French air, to theladies and to the image over the fire; and then seated himself, and asked leaveto open his valise. He did so with their permission, and displayed to them thenumerous devotional articles and books that it contained. The ladies and SirNicholas were delighted, and set aside at once some new books of devotion, andthen they fell to talk. The Netherlands, from which Mr. Stewart had arrived twodays before, on the east coast, were full at this time of Catholic refugees,under the Duke of Alva’s protection. Here they had been living, some of themeven from Elizabeth’s accession, and Sir Nicholas and his ladies had manyinquiries to make about their acquaintances, many of which Mr. Stewart was ableto satisfy, for, from his conversation he was plainly one in the confidence ofCatholics both at home and abroad. And so the evening passed away quietly. Itwas thought better by Sir Nicholas that Mr. Stewart should not be present atthe evening devotions that he always conducted for the household in thedining-hall, unless indeed a priest were present to take his place; so Mr.Stewart was again conducted with the same secrecy to the East Chamber; and SirNicholas promised at his request to look in on him again after prayers. Whenprayers were over, Sir Nicholas went up to his guest’s room, and found himawaiting him in a state of evident excitement, very unlike the quiet vivacityand good humour he had shown when with the ladies.
“Sir Nicholas,” he said, standing up, as his host came in, “I have not toldyou all my news.” And when they were both seated he proceeded:
“You spoke a few minutes ago, Sir Nicholas, of Dr. Storey; he has beencaught.”
The old man exclaimed with dismay. Mr. Stewart went on:
“When I left Antwerp, Sir Nicholas, Dr. Storey was in the town. I saw himmyself in the street by the Cathedral only a few hours before I embarked. He isvery old, you know, and lame, worn out with good works, and he was hobblingdown the street on the arm of a young man. When I arrived at Yarmouth I wentout into the streets about a little business I had with a bookseller, beforetaking horse. I heard a great commotion down near the docks, at the entrance ofBridge Street; and hastened down there; and there I saw pursuivants and seamenand officers all gathered about a carriage, and keeping back the crowd that waspressing and crying out to know who the man was; and presently the carriagedrove by me, scattering the crowd, and I could see within; and there sat oldDr. Storey, very white and ill-looking, but steady and cheerful, whom I hadseen the very day before in Antwerp. Now this is very grievous for Dr. Storey;and I pray God to deliver him; but surely the Duke and the King of Spain mustmove now. They cannot leave him in Cecil’s hands; and then, Sir Nicholas, wemust all be ready, for who knows what may happen.”
Sir Nicholas was greatly moved. There was one of the perplexities which so muchharassed all the Papists at this time. It seemed certain that Mr. Stewart’sprediction must be fulfilled. Dr. Storey was a naturalised subject of KingPhilip and in the employment of Alva, and he had been carried off forcibly bythe English Government. It afterwards came out how it had been done. He hadbeen lured away from Antwerp and enticed on board a trader at Bergen-op-Zoom,by Cecil’s agents with the help of a traitor named Parker, on pretext offinding heretical books there arriving from England; and as soon as he had setfoot on deck he was hurried below and carried straight off to Yarmouth. Herethen was Sir Nicholas’ perplexity. To welcome Spain when she intervened and towork actively for her, was treason against his country; to act against Spainwas to delay the re-establishment of the Religion—something that appeared tohim very like treason against his faith. Was the dreadful choice between hissovereign and his God, he wondered as he paced up and down and questioned Mr.Stewart, even now imminent?
The whole affair, too, was so formidable and so mysterious that the hearts ofthese Catholics and of others in England when they heard the tale began to failthem. Had the Government then so long an arm and so keen an eye? And if it wasable to hale a man from the shadow of the Cathedral at Antwerp and theprotection of the Duke of Alva into the hands of pursuivants at Yarmouth withinthe space of a few hours, who then was safe?
And so the two sat late that night in the East Chamber; and laid schemes anddiscussed movements and probabilities and the like, until the dawn began toglimmer through the cracks of the shutters and the birds to chirp in the eaves;and Sir Nicholas at last carried to bed with him an anxious and a heavy heart.Mr. Stewart, however, did not seem so greatly disturbed; possibly because onthe one side he had not others dearer to him than his own life involved inthese complex issues: and partly because he at any rate has not the weight ofsuspense and indecision that so drew his host two ways at once, for Mr. Stewartwas whole-heartedly committed already, and knew well how he would act shouldthe choice present itself between Elizabeth and Philip.
The following morning Sir Nicholas still would not allow his guest to comedownstairs, and insisted that all his meals should be served in the EastChamber, while he himself, as before, received the food at the door and set itbefore Mr. Stewart. Mr. Stewart was greatly impressed and touched by thekindness of the old man, although not by his capacity for conspiracy. He hadintended indeed to tell his host far more than he had done of the movements ofpolitical and religious events, for he could not but believe, before hisarrival, that a Catholic so prominent and influential as Sir Nicholas wasbecoming by reputation among the refugees abroad, was a proper person to beentrusted even with the highest secrets; but after a very little conversationwith him the night before, he had seen how ingenuous the old man was, with hislaughable attempts at secrecy and his lamentable lack of discretion; and so hehad contented himself with general information and gossip, and had really toldSir Nicholas very little indeed of any importance.
After dinner Sir Nicholas again conducted his guest to the drawing-room, wherethe ladies were ready to receive him. He had obtained Mr. Stewart’s permissionthe night before to tell his wife and sister-in-law the news about Dr. Storey;and the four sat for several hours together discussing the situation. Mr.Stewart was able to tell them too, in greater detail, the story of LordSussex’s punitive raid into Scotland in the preceding April. They had heard ofcourse the main outline of the story with the kind of embroideries attachedthat were usual in those days of inaccurate reporting; but their guest was aScotchman himself and had had the stories first-hand in some cases from thoserendered homeless by the raid, who had fled to the Netherlands where he had metthem. Briefly the raid was undertaken on the pretended plea of an invitationfrom the “King’s men” or adherents of the infant James; but in reality tochastise Scotland and reduce it to servility. Sussex and Lord Hunsdon in theeast, Lord Scrope on the west, had harried, burnt, and destroyed in the wholecountryside about the Borders. Especially had Tiviotdale suffered. Altogetherit was calculated that Sussex had burned three hundred villages and blown upfifty castles, and forty more “strong houses,” some of these latter, however,being little more than border peels. Mr. Stewart’s accounts were the moremoving in that he spoke in a quiet delicate tone, and used little picturesquephrases in his speech.
“Twelve years ago,” said Mr. Stewart, “I was at Branxholme myself. It was apleasant house, well furnished and appointed; fortified, too, as all need to bein that country, with sheaves of pikes in all the lower rooms, and Sir WalterScott gave me a warm welcome, for I was there on a business that pleased him.He showed me the gardens and orchards, all green and sweet, like these ofyours, Lady Maxwell. And it seemed to me a home where a man might be content tospend all his days. Well, my Lord Sussex has been a visitor there now; and whathe has left of the house would not shelter a cow, nor what is left of thepleasant gardens sustain her. At least, so one of the Scots told me whom I metin the Netherlands in June.”
He talked, too, of the extraordinary scenes of romance and chivalry in whichMary Queen of Scots moved during her captivity under Lord Scrope’s care atBolton Castle in the previous year. He had met in his travels in France one ofher undistinguished adherents who had managed to get a position in the castleduring her detention there.
“The country was alive with her worshippers,” said Mr. Stewart. “They swarmedlike bees round a hive. In the night voices would be heard crying out to herGrace out of the darkness round the castle; and when the guards rode out theywould find no man but maybe hear just a laugh or two. Her men would lie out atnight and watch her window (for she would never go to rest till late), and praytowards it as if it were a light before the blessed sacrament. When she rodeout a-hunting, with her guards of course about her, and my Lord Scrope or SirFrancis Knollys never far away, a beggar maybe would be sitting out on the roadand ask an alms; and cry out ‘God save your Grace’; but he would be a beggarwho was accustomed to wear silk next his skin except when he went a-begging.Many young gentlemen there were, yes and old ones too, who would thank God fora blow or a curse from some foul English trooper for his meat, if only he mighthave a look from the Queen’s eyes for his grace before meat. Oh! they wouldplot too, and scheme and lie awake half the night spinning their webs, not tocatch her Grace indeed, but to get her away from that old Spider Scrope; andmany’s the word and the scrap of paper that would go in to her Grace, rightunder the very noses of my Lord Scrope and Sir Francis themselves, as they satat their chess in the Queen’s chamber. It’s a long game of chess that the twoQueens are playing; but thank our Lady and the Saints it’s not mate yet—notmate yet; and the White Queen will win, please God, before the board’sover-turned.”
And he told them, too, of the failure of the Northern Rebellion, and thewretchedness of the fugitives.
“They rode over the moors to Liddisdale,” he said, “ladies and all, in bitterweather, wind and snow, day after day, with stories of Clinton’s troopers allabout them, and scarcely time for bite or sup or sleep. My lady Northumberlandwas so overcome with weariness and sickness that she could ride no more atlast, and had to be left at John-of-the-Side’s house, where she had a littlechamber where the snow came in at one corner, and the rats ran over my lady’sface as she lay. My Lords Northumberland and Westmoreland were in worse case,and spent their Christmas with no roof over them but what they could find outin the braes and woods about Harlaw, and no clothes but the foul rags that somebeggar had thrown away, and no food but a bird or a rabbit that they could pickup here and there, or what their friends could get to them now and againprivately. And then my Lord Northumberland’s little daughters whom he wasforced to leave behind at Topcliff—a sweet Christmas they had! Their money andfood was soon spent; they could have scarcely a fire in that bitter hardseason; and God who feeds the ravens alone knows how they were sustained; andfor entertainment to make the time pass merrily, all they had was to see thehanging of their own servants in scores about the house, who had served themand their father well; and all their music at night was the howling of the windin those heavily laden Christmas-trees, and the noise of the chains in whichthe men were hanged.”
Mr. Stewart’s narratives were engrossing to the two ladies and Sir Nicholas.They had never come so close to the struggles of the Catholics in the northbefore; and although the Northern Rebellion had ended so disastrously, yet itwas encouraging, although heartbreaking too, to hear that delicate women andchildren were ready gladly to suffer such miseries if the religious cause thatwas so dear to them could be thereby helped. Sir Nicholas, as has been said,was in two minds as to the lawfulness of rising against a temporal sovereign indefence of religious liberties. His whole English nature revolted against it,and yet so many spiritual persons seemed to favour it. His simple consciencewas perplexed. But none the less he could listen with the most intense interestand sympathy to these tales of these co-religionists of his own, who were soclearly convinced of their right to rebel in defence of their faith.
And so with such stories the August afternoon passed away. It was a thunderyday, which it would have been pleasanter to spend in the garden, but that, SirNicholas said, under the circumstances was not to be thought of; so they threwthe windows wide to catch the least breath of air; and the smell of theflower-garden came sweetly up and flooded the low cool room; and so they satengrossed until the evening.
Supper was ordered for Mr. Stewart at half-past seven o’clock; and this mealSir Nicholas had consented should be laid downstairs in his own private roomopening out of the hall, and that he and his ladies should sit down to table atthe same time. Mr. Stewart went to his room an hour before to dress for riding,and to superintend the packing of his saddle-bags; and at half-past seven hewas conducted downstairs by Sir Nicholas who insisted on carrying thesaddle-bags with his own hands, and they found the two ladies waiting for themin the panelled study that had one window giving upon the terrace that ranalong the south of the house above the garden. When supper had been brought inby Sir Nicholas’ own body-servant, Mr. Boyd, they sat down to supper after agrace from Sir Nicholas. The horses were ordered for nine o’clock.
THE DOOR IN THE GARDEN-WALL
On the morning of the day after Mr. Stewart’s secret arrival at Maxwell Hall,the Rector was walking up and down the lawn that adjoined the churchyard.
He had never yet wholly recovered from the sneers of Mistress Corbet; thewounds had healed but had not ceased to smart. How blind these Papists were, hethought! how prejudiced for the old trifling details of worship! how ignorantof the vital principles still retained! The old realities of God and the faithand the Church were with them still, in this village, he reminded himself; itwas only the incrustations of error that had been removed. Of course thetransition was difficult and hearts were sore; but the Eternal God can bepatient. But then, if the discontent of the Papists smouldered on one side, thefanatical and irresponsible zeal of the Puritans flared on the other. Howdifficult, he thought, to steer the safe middle course! How much cool faith andclearsightedness it needed! He reminded himself of Archbishop Parker who nowheld the rudder, and comforted himself with the thought of his wise moderationin dealing with excesses, his patient pertinacity among the whirling gusts ofpassion, that enabled him to wait upon events to push his schemes, and histender knowledge of human nature.
But in spite of these reassuring facts Mr. Dent was anxious. What could eventhe Archbishop do when his suffragans were such poor creatures; and whenLeicester, the strongest man at Court, was a violent Puritan partisan? TheRector would have been content to bear the troubles of his own flock andhousehold if he had been confident of the larger cause; but the vagaries of thePuritans threatened all with ruin. That morning only he had received a longaccount from a Fellow of his own college of Corpus Christi, Cambridge, and aman of the same views as himself, of the violent controversy raging there atthat time.
“The Professor,” wrote his friend, referring to Thomas Cartwright, “isplastering us all with his Genevan ways. We are all Papists, it seems! He wouldhave neither bishop nor priest nor archbishop nor dean nor archdeacon, nordignitaries at all, but just the plain Godly Minister, as he names it. Or if hehas the bishop and the deacon they are to be the Episcopos and the Diaconos of the Scripture, and not the Papish counterfeits! Then it seemsthat the minister is to be made not by God but by man—that the people are tomake him, not the bishop (as if the sheep should make the shepherd). Then itappears we are Papists too for kneeling at the Communion; this he names a‘feeble superstition.’ Then he would have all men reside in their benefices orvacate them; and all that do not so, it appears, are no better than thieves orrobbers.
“And so he rages on, breathing out this smoky stuff, and all the young men dorun after him, as if he were the very Pillar of Fire to lead them to Canaan.One day he says there shall be no bishop—and my Lord of Ely rides through PettyCury with scarce a man found to doff cap and say ‘my lord’ save foolish‘Papists’ like myself! Another day he will have no distinction of apparel; andthe young sparks straight dress like ministers, and the ministers like youngsparks. On another he likes not Saint Peter his day, and none will go tochurch. He would have us all to be little Master Calvins, if he could have hisway with us. But the Master of Trinity has sent a complaint to the Council withcharges against him, and has preached against him too. But no word hath yetcome from the Council; and we fear nought will be done; to the sore injury ofChrist His holy Church and the Protestant Religion; and the triumphing of theirpestilent heresies.”
So the caustic divine wrote, and the Rector of Great Keynes was heavy-heartedas he walked up and down and read. Everywhere it was the same story; theextreme precisians openly flouted the religion of the Church of England;submitted to episcopal ordination as a legal necessity and then mocked at it;refused to wear the prescribed dress, and repudiated all other distinctions tooin meats and days as Judaic remnants; denounced all forms of worship exceptthose directly sanctioned by Scripture; in short, they remained in the Churchof England and drew her pay while they scouted her orders and derided herclaims. Further, they cried out as persecuted martyrs whenever it was proposedto insist that they should observe their obligations. But worse than all, forsuch conscientious clergymen as Mr. Dent, was the fact that bishops preferredsuch men to livings, and at the same time were energetic against the Papistparty. It was not that there was not an abundance of disciplinary machineryready at the bishop’s disposal or that the Queen was opposed to coercion—rathershe was always urging them to insist upon conformity; but it seemed rather tosuch sober men as the Rector that the principle of authority had been lost withthe rejection of the Papacy, and that anarchy rather than liberty had prevailedin the National Church. In darker moments it seemed to him and his friends asif any wild fancy was tolerated, so long as it did not approximate too closelyto the Old Religion; and they grew sick at heart.
It was all the more difficult for the Rector, as he had so little sympathy inthe place; his wife did all she could to destroy friendly relations between theHall and the Rectory, and openly derided her husband’s prelatical leanings; theMaxwells themselves disregarded his priestly claims, and the villagers thoughtof him as an official paid to promulgate the new State religion. The only housewhere he found sympathy and help was the Dower House; and as he paced up anddown his garden now, his little perplexed determined face grew brighter as hemade up his mind to see Mr. Norris again in the afternoon.
During his meditations he heard, and saw indistinctly, through the shrubberythat fenced the lawn from the drive, a mounted man ride up to the Rectory door.He supposed it was some message, and held himself in readiness to be calledinto the house, but after a minute or two he heard the man ride off again downthe drive into the village. At dinner he mentioned it to his wife, who answeredrather shortly that it was a message for her; and he let the matter drop forfear of giving offence; he was terrified at the thought of provoking morequarrels than were absolutely necessary.
Soon after dinner he put on his cap and gown, and to his wife’s inquiries toldher where he was going, and that after he had seen Mr. Norris he would step ondown to Comber’s, where was a sick body or two, and that she might expect himback not earlier than five o’clock. She nodded without speaking, and he wentout. She watched him down the drive from the dining-room window and then wentback to her business with an odd expression.
Mr. Norris, whom he found already seated at his books again after dinner, tookhim out when he had heard his errand, and the two began to walk up and downtogether on the raised walk that ran along under a line of pines a little wayfrom the house.
The Rector had seldom found his friend more sympathetic and tender; he knewvery well that their intellectual and doctrinal standpoints were different, buthe had not come for anything less than spiritual help, and that he found. Hetold him all his heart, and then waited, while the other, with his thin handsclasped behind his back, and his great grey eyes cast up at the heavy pines andthe tender sky beyond, began to comfort the minister.
“You are troubled, my friend,” he said, “and I do not wonder at it, by theturbulence of these times. On all sides are fightings and fears. Of course Icannot, as you know, regard these matters you have spoken of—episcopacy,ceremonies at the Communion and the like—in the grave light in which you seethem; but I take it, if I understand you rightly, that it is the confusion andlack of any authority or respect for antiquity that is troubling you more. Youfeel yourself in a sad plight between these raging waves; tossed to and fro,battered upon by both sides, forsaken and despised and disregarded. Now,indeed, although I do not stand quite where you do, yet I see how great thestress must be; but, if I may say so to a minister, it is just what you regardas your shame that I regard as your glory. It is the mark of the cross that ison your life. When our Saviour went to his passion, he went in the same plightas that in which you go; both Jew and Gentile were against him on this side andthat; his claims were disallowed, his royalty denied; he was despised andrejected of men. He did not go to his passion as to a splendid triumph, bearinghis pain like some solemn and mysterious dignity at which the world wonderedand was silent; but he went battered and spat upon, with the sweat and theblood and the spittle running down his face, contemned by the contemptible,hated by the hateful, rejected by the outcast, barked upon by the curs; and itwas that that made his passion so bitter. To go to death, however painful, withhonour and applause, or at least with the silence of respect, were easy; it isnot hard to die upon a throne; but to live on a dunghill with Job, that isbitterness. Now again I must protest that I have no right to speak like this toa minister, but since you have come to me I must needs say what I think; and itis this that some wise man once said, ‘Fear honour, for shame is not far off.Covet shame, for honour is surely to follow.’ If that be true of thephilosopher, how much more true is it of the Christian minister whoseprofession it is to follow the Saviour and to be made like unto him.”
He said much more of the same kind; and his soft balmy faith soothed theminister’s wounds, and braced his will. The Rector could not help half envyinghis friend, living, as it seemed, in this still retreat, apart from wranglesand controversy, with the peaceful music and sweet fragrance of the pines, andthe Love of God about him.
When he had finished he asked the Rector to step indoors with him; and there inhis own room took down and read to him a few extracts from the German mysticsthat he thought bore upon his case. Finally, to put him at his ease again, forit seemed an odd reversal that he should be coming for comfort to hisparishioners, Mr. Norris told him about his two children, and in his turn askedhis advice.
“About Anthony,” he said, “I am not at all anxious. I know that the boyfancies himself in love; and goes sighing about when he is at home; but hesleeps and eats heartily, for I have observed him; and I think Mistress Corbethas a good heart and means no harm to him. But about my daughter I am lesssatisfied, for I have been watching her closely. She is quiet and good, and,above all, she loves the Saviour; but how do I know that her heart is notbleeding within? She has been taught to hold herself in, and not to show herfeelings; and that, I think, is as much a drawback sometimes as wearing theheart upon the sleeve.”
Mr. Dent suggested sending her away for a visit for a month or two. His hostmused a moment and then said that he himself had thought of that; and now thathis minister said so too, probably, under God, that was what was needed. Thefact that Hubert was expected home soon was an additional reason; and he hadfriends in Northampton, he said, to whom he could send her. “They hold stronglyby the Genevan theology there,” he said smiling, “but I think that will do herno harm as a balance to the Popery at Maxwell Hall.”
They talked a few minutes more, and when the minister rose to take his leave,Mr. Norris slipped down on his knees as if it was the natural thing to do andas if the minister were expecting it; and asked his guest to engage in prayer.It was the first time he had ever done so; probably because this talk hadbrought them nearer together spiritually than ever before. The minister wastaken aback, and repeated a collect or two from the Prayer-book; then they saidthe Lord’s Prayer together, and then Mr. Norris without any affectation engagedin a short extempore prayer, asking for light in these dark times and peace inthe storm; and begging the blessing of God upon the village and “upon theirshepherd to whom Thou hast given to drink of the Cup of thy Passion,” and uponhis own children, and lastly upon himself, “the chief of sinners and the leastof thy servants that is not worthy to be called thy friend.” It touched Mr.Dent exceedingly, and he was yet more touched and reconciled to the incidentwhen his host said simply, remaining on his knees, with eyes closed and hisclear cut tranquil face upturned:
“I ask your blessing, sir.”
The Rector’s voice trembled a little as he gave it. And then with realgratitude and a good deal of sincere emotion he shook his friend’s hand, andrustled out from the cool house into the sunlit garden, greeting Isabel who waswalking up and down outside a little pensively, and took the field-path thatled towards the hamlet where his sick folk were expecting him.
As he walked back about five o’clock towards the village he noticed there wasthunder in the air, and was aware of a physical oppression, but in his heart itwas morning and the birds singing. The talk earlier in the afternoon had shownhim how, in the midst of the bitterness of the Cup, to find the fragrance wherethe Saviour’s lips had rested and that was joy to him. And again, his truepastor’s heart had been gladdened by the way his ministrations had beenreceived that afternoon. A sour old man who had always scowled at him for anupstart, in his foolish old desire to be loyal to the priest who had held thebenefice before him, had melted at last and asked his pardon and God’s forhaving treated him so ill; and he had prepared the old man for death with greatcontentment to them both, and had left him at peace with God and man. Onlooking back on it all afterwards he was convinced that God had thusstrengthened him for the trouble that was awaiting him at home.
He had hardly come into his study when his wife entered with a strange look,breathing quick and short; she closed the door, and stood near it, looking athim apprehensively.
“George,” she said, rather sharply and nervously, “you must not be vexed withme, but——”
“Well?” he said heavily, and the warmth died out of his heart. He knewsomething terrible impended.
“I have done it for the best,” she said, and obstinacy and a kind of impatienttenderness strove in her eyes as she looked at him. “You must show yourself aman; it is not fitting that loose ladies of the Court should mock—” He got up;and his eyes were determined too.
“Tell me what you have done, woman,” he cried.
She put out her hand as if to hold him still, and her voice rang hard and thin.
“I will say my say,” she said. “It is not for that that I have done it. Butyou are a Gospel-minister, and must be faithful. The Justice is here. I sentfor him.”
“The Justice?” he said blankly; but his heart was beating heavily in histhroat.
“Mr. Frankland from East Grinsted, with a couple of pursuivants and a companyof servants. There is a popish agent at the Hall, and they are come to takehim.”
The Rector swallowed with difficulty once or twice, and then tried to speak,but she went on. “And I have promised that you shall take them in by the sidedoor.”
“I will not!” he cried.
She held up her hand again for silence, and glanced round at the door.
“I have given him the key,” she said.
This was the private key, possessed by the incumbent for generations past, andSir Nicholas had not withdrawn it from the Protestant Rector.
“There is no choice,” she said. “Oh! George, be a man!” Then she turned andslipped out.
He stood perfectly still for a moment; his pulses were racing; he could notthink. He sat down and buried his face in his hands; and gradually his braincleared and quieted. Then he realised what it meant, and his soul rose in blindfurious resentment. This was the last straw; it was the woman’s devilishjealousy. But what could he do? The Justice was here. Could he warn hisfriends? He clenched his fingers into his hair as the situation came out clearand hard before his brain. Dear God, what could he do?
There were footsteps in the flagged hall, and he raised his head as the dooropened and a portly gentleman in riding-dress came in, followed by Mrs. Dent.The Rector rose confusedly, but could not speak, and his eyes wandered round tohis wife again and again as she took a chair in the shadow and sat down. Butthe magistrate noticed nothing.
“Aha!” he said, beaming, “You have a wife, sir, that is a jewel. Solomon neverspoke a truer word; an ornament to her husband, he said, I think; but you as aminister should know better than I, a mere layman”; and his face creased withmirth.
What did the red-faced fool mean? thought the Rector. If only he would not talkso loud! He must think, he must think. What could he do?
“She was very brisk, sir,” the magistrate went on, sitting down, and theRector followed his example, sitting too with his back to the window and hishand to his head.
Then Mr. Frankland went on with his talk; and the man sat there, still glancingfrom time to time mechanically towards his wife, who was there in the shadowwith steady white face and hands in her lap, watching the two men. Themagistrate’s voice seemed to the bewildered man to roll on like a wheel overstones; interminable, grinding, stupefying. What was he saying? What was thatabout his wife? She had sent to him the day before, had she, and told him ofthe popish agent’s coming?—Ah! A dangerous man was he, a spreader of seditiouspamphlets? At least they supposed he was the man.—Yes, yes, he understood;these fly-by-nights were threateners of the whole commonwealth; they must behunted out like vermin—just so; and he as a minister of the Gospel should bethe first to assist.—Just so, he agreed with all his heart, as a minister ofthe Gospel. (Yes, but, dear Lord, what was he to do? This fat man with the faceof a butcher must not be allowed to—) Ah! what was that? He had missed that.Would Mr. Frankland be so good as to say it again? Yes, yes, he understood now;the men were posted already. No one suspected anything; they had come by thebridle path.—Every door? Did he understand that every door of the Hall waswatched? Ah! that was prudent; there was no chance then of any one sending awarning in? Oh, no, no, he did not dream for a moment that there was anyconcealed Catholic who would be likely to do such a thing. But he onlywondered.—Yes, yes, the magistrate was right; one could not be too careful.Because—ah!—What was that about Sir Nicholas? Yes, yes, indeed he was a goodlandlord, and very popular in the village.—Ah! just so; it had better be donequietly, at the side door. Yes, that was the one which the key fitted. But,but, he thought perhaps, he had better not come in, because Sir Nicholas washis friend, and there was no use in making bad blood.—Oh! not to the house;very well, then, he would come as far as the yew hedge at—at what time did themagistrate say? At half-past eight; yes, that would be best as Mr. Franklandsaid, because Sir Nicholas had ordered the horses for nine o’clock; so theywould come upon them just at the right time.—How many men, did Mr. Franklandsay? Eight? Oh yes, eight and himself, and—he did not quite follow the plan.Ah! through the yew hedge on to the terrace and through the south door into thehall; then if they bolted—they? Surely he had understood the magistrate to saythere was only one? Oh! he had not understood that. Sir Nicholas too? But why,why? Good God, as a harbourer of priests?—No, but this fellow was an agent,surely. Well, if the magistrate said so, of course he was right; but he wouldhave thought himself that Sir Nicholas might have been left—ah! Well, he wouldsay no more. He quite saw the magistrate’s point now.—No, no, he was nofavourer; God forbid! his wife would speak for him as to that; Marion wouldbear witness.—Well, well, he thanked the magistrate for his compliments, andwould he proceed with the plan? By the south door, he was saying, yes, into thehall.—Yes, the East room was Sir Nicholas’ study; or of course they might besupping upstairs. But it made no difference; no, the magistrate was right aboutthat. So long as they held the main staircase, and had all the other doorswatched, they were safe to have him.—No, no, the cloister wing would not beused; they might leave that out of their calculations. Besides, did not themagistrate say that Marion had seen the lights in the East wing last night?Yes, well, that settled it.—And the signal? Oh, he had not caught that; thechurch bell, was it to be? But what for? Why did they need a signal? Ah! heunderstood, for the advance at half-past eight.—Just so, he would send Thomasup to ring it. Would Marion kindly see to that?—Yes, indeed, his wife was awoman to be proud of; such a faithful Protestant; no patience with theseseditious rogues at all. Well, was that all? Was there anything else?—Yes, howdark it was getting; it must be close on eight o’clock. Thomas had gone, hadhe? That was all right.—And had the men everything they wanted?—Well, yes;although the village did go to bed early it would perhaps be better to have nolights; because there was no need to rouse suspicion.—Oh! very well; perhaps itwould be better for Mr. Frankland to go and sit with the men and keep themquiet. And his wife would go, too, just to make sure they had all theywanted.—Very well, yes; he would wait here in the dark until he was called. Notmore than a quarter of an hour? Thank you, yes.—
Then the door had closed; and the man, left alone, flung himself down in hischair, and buried his face again in his arms.
Ah! what was to be done? Nothing, nothing, nothing. And there they were at theHall, his neighbours and friends. The kind old Catholic and his ladies! Howwould he ever dare to meet their eyes again? But what could be done? Nothing!
How far away the afternoon seems; that quiet sunny walk beneath the pines. Hisfriend is at his books, no doubt, with the silver candles, and the open pages,and his own neat manuscript growing under his white scholarly fingers. AndIsabel; at her needlework before the fire.—How peaceful and harmless and sweetit all is! And down there, not fifty yards away, is the village; every lightout by now; and the children and parents, too, asleep.—Ah! what will the newsbe when they wake to-morrow?—And that strange talk this afternoon, of theSaviour and His Cup of pain, and the squalor and indignity of the Passion! Ah!yes, he could suffer with Jesus on the Cross, so gladly, on that Tree ofLife—but not with Judas on the Tree of Death!
And the minister dropped his face lower, over the edge of his desk; and the hottears of misery and self-reproach and impotence began to run. There was nohelp, no help anywhere. All were against him—even his wife herself; and hisLord.
Then with a moan he lifted his hot face into the dusk.
“Jesus,” he cried in his soul, “Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest that Ilove Thee.”
There came a tapping on the door; and the door opened an inch.
“It is time,” whispered his wife’s voice.
THE TAKING OF MR. STEWART
They were still sitting over the supper-table at the Hall. The sun had setabout the time they had begun, and the twilight had deepened into dark; butthey had not cared to close the shutters as they were to move so soon. The fourcandles shone out through the windows, and there still hung a pale glimmeroutside owing to the refraction of light from the white stones of the terrace.Beyond on the left there sloped away a high black wall of impenetrable darknesswhere the yew hedge stood; over that was the starless sky. Sir Nicholas’ studywas bright with candlelight, and the lace and jewels of Lady Maxwell (for hersister wore none) added a vague pleasant sense of beauty to Mr. Stewart’s mind;for he was one who often fared coarsely and slept hard. He sighed a little tohimself as he looked out over this shining supper-table past the genial smilingface of Sir Nicholas to the dark outside; and thought how in less than an hourhe would have left the comfort of this house for the grey road and itshardships again. It was extraordinarily sweet to him (for he was a man of tasteand a natural inclination to luxury) to stay a day or two now and again at ahouse like this and mix again with his own equals, instead of with the roughcompany of the village inn, or the curious foreign conspirators with theirabsence of educated perception and their doubtful cleanliness. He was a man ofdomestic instincts and good birth and breeding, and would have been perfectlyat his ease as the master of some household such as this; with a chapel and alibrary and a pleasant garden and estate; spending his days in great leisureand good deeds. And instead of all this, scarcely by his own choice but by whathe would have called his vocation, he was partly an exile living from hand tomouth in lodgings and inns, and when he was in his own fatherland, a huntedfugitive lurking about in unattractive disguises. He sighed again once ortwice. There was silence a moment or two.
There sounded one note from the church tower a couple of hundred yards away.Lady Maxwell heard it, and looked suddenly up; she scarcely knew why, andcaught her sister’s eyes glancing at her. There was a shade of uneasiness inthem.
“It is thundery to-night,” said Sir Nicholas. Mr. Stewart did not speak. LadyMaxwell looked up quickly at him as he sat on her right facing the window; andsaw an expression of slight disturbance cross his face. He was staring out onto the quickly darkening terrace, past Sir Nicholas, who with pursed lips and alittle frown was stripping off his grapes from the stalk. The look ofuneasiness deepened, and the young man half rose from his chair, and sat downagain.
“What is it, Mr. Stewart?” said Lady Maxwell, and her voice had a ring ofterror in it. Sir Nicholas looked up quickly.
“Eh, eh?”—he began.
The young man rose up and recoiled a step, still staring out.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I have just seen several men pass thewindow.”
There was a rush of footsteps and a jangle of voices outside in the hall; andas the four rose up from table, looking at one another, there was a rattle atthe handle outside, the door flew open, and a ruddy strongly-built man stoodthere, with a slightly apprehensive air, and holding a loaded cane a littleostentatiously in his hand; the faces of several men looked over his shoulder.
Sir Nicholas’ ruddy face had paled, his mouth was half open with dismay, and hestared almost unintelligently at the magistrate. Mr. Stewart’s hand closed onthe handle of a knife that lay beside his plate.
“In the Queen’s name,” said Mr. Frankland, and looked from the knife to theyoung man’s white determined face, and down again. A little sobbing broke fromLady Maxwell.
“It is useless, sir,” said the magistrate; “Sir Nicholas, persuade your guestnot to make a useless resistance; we are ten to one; the house has been watchedfor hours.”
Sir Nicholas took a step forward, his mouth closed and opened again. LadyMaxwell took a swift rustling step from behind the table, and threw her armround the old man’s neck. Still none of them spoke.
“Come in,” said the magistrate, turning a little. The men outside filed in, tothe number of half a dozen, and two or three more were left in the hall. Allwere armed. Mistress Margaret who had stood up with the rest, sat down again,and rested her head on her hand; apparently completely at her ease.
“I must beg pardon, Lady Maxwell,” he went on, “but my duty leaves me nochoice.” He turned to the young man, who, on seeing the officers had laid theknife down again, and now stood, with one hand on the table, rather pale, butapparently completely self-controlled, looking a little disdainfully at themagistrate.
Then Sir Nicholas made a great effort; but his face twitched as he spoke, andthe hand that he lifted to his wife’s arm shook with nervousness, and his voicewas cracked and unnatural.
“Sit down, my dear, sit down.—What is all this?—I do not understand.—Mr.Frankland, sir, what do you want of me?—And who are all these gentlemen?—Won’tyou sit down, Mr. Frankland and take a glass of wine. Let me make Mr. Stewartknown to you.” And he lifted a shaking hand as if to introduce them.
The magistrate smiled a little on one side of his mouth.
“It is no use, Sir Nicholas,” he said, “this gentleman, I fear, is well knownto some of us already.—No, no, sir,” he cried sharply, “the window isguarded.”
Mr. Stewart, who had looked swiftly and sideways across at the window, facedthe magistrate again.
“I do not know what you mean, sir,” he said. “It was a lad who passed thewindow.”
There was a movement outside in the hall; and the magistrate stepped to thedoor.
“Who is there?” he cried out sharply.
There was a scuffle, and a cry of a boy’s voice; and a man appeared, holdingAnthony by the arm.
Mistress Margaret turned round in her seat; and said in a perfectly naturalvoice, “Why, Anthony, my lad!”
There was a murmur from one or two of the men.
“Silence,” called out the magistrate. “We will finish the other affairfirst,” and he made a motion to hold Anthony for a moment.—“Now then, do anyof you men know this gentleman?”
A pursuivant stepped out.
“Mr. Frankland, sir; I know him under two names—Mr. Chapman and Mr. Wode. He isa popish agent. I saw him in the company of Dr. Storey in Antwerp, four monthsago.”
Mr. Stewart blew out his lips sharply and contemptuously.
“Pooh,” he said; and then turned to the man and bowed ironically.
“I congratulate you, my man,” he said, in a tone of bitter triumph. “In AprilI was in France. Kindly remember this man’s words, Mr. Frankland; they willtell in my favour. For I presume you mean to take me.”
“I will remember them,” said the magistrate.
Mr. Stewart bowed to him; he had completely regained his composure. Then heturned to Sir Nicholas and Lady Maxwell, who had been watching in a bewilderedsilence.
“I am exceedingly sorry,” he said, “for having brought this annoyance on you,Lady Maxwell; but these men are so sharp that they see nothing but guilteverywhere. I do not know yet what my crime is. But that can wait. SirNicholas, we should have parted anyhow in half an hour. We shall only saygood-bye here, instead of at the door.”
The magistrate smiled again as before; and half put up his hand to hide it.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Chapman; but you need not part from Sir Nicholas yet. Ifear, Sir Nicholas, that I shall have to trouble you to come with us.”
Lady Maxwell drew a quick hissing breath; her sister got up swiftly and went toher, as she sat down in Sir Nicholas’ chair, still holding the old man’s hand.
Sir Nicholas turned to his guest; and his voice broke again and again as hespoke.
“Mr. Stewart,” he said, “I am sorry that any guest of mine should be subjectto these insults. However, I am glad that I shall have the pleasure of yourcompany after all. I suppose we ride to East Grinsted,” he added harshly tothe magistrate, who bowed to him.—“Then may I have my servant, sir?”
“Presently,” said Mr. Frankland, and then turned to Anthony, who had beenstaring wild-eyed at the scene, “Now who is this?”
A man answered from the rank.
“That is Master Anthony Norris, sir.”
“Ah! and who is Master Anthony Norris? A Papist, too?”
“No, sir,” said the man again, “a good Protestant; and the son of Mr. Norrisat the Dower House.”
“Ah!” said the magistrate again, judicially. “And what might you be wantinghere, Master Anthony Norris?”
Anthony explained that he often came up in the evening, and that he wantednothing. The magistrate eyed him a moment or two.
“Well, I have nothing against you, young gentleman. But I cannot let you go,till I am safely set out. You might rouse the village. Take him out till westart,” he added to the man who guarded him.
“Come this way, sir,” said the officer; and Anthony presently found himselfsitting on the long oak bench that ran across the western end of the hall, atthe foot of the stairs, and just opposite the door of Sir Nicholas’ room wherehe had just witnessed that curious startling scene.
The man who had charge of him stood a little distance off, and did not troublehim further, and Anthony watched in silence.
The hall was still dark, except for one candle that had been lighted by themagistrate’s party, and it looked sombre and suggestive of tragedy. Floor wallsand ceiling were all dark oak, and the corners were full of shadows. A streakof light came out of the slightly opened door opposite, and a murmur of voices.The rest of the house was quiet; it had all been arranged and carried outwithout disturbance.
Anthony had a very fair idea of what was going forward; he knew of course thatthe Catholics were always under suspicion, and now understood plainly enoughfrom the conversation he had heard that the reddish-haired young man, standingso alert and cheerful by the table in there, had somehow precipitated matters.Anthony himself had come up on some trifling errand, and had run straight intothis affair; and now he sat and wondered resentfully, with his eyes and earswide open.
There were men at all the inner doors now; they had slipped in from the outerentrances as soon as word had reached them that the prisoners were secured, andonly a couple were left outside to prevent the alarm being raised in thevillage. These inner sentinels stood motionless at the foot of the stairs thatrose up into the unlighted lobby overhead, at the door that led to the innerhall and the servants’ quarters, and at those that led to the cloister wing andthe garden respectively.
The murmur of voices went on in the room opposite; and presently a man slippedout and passed through the sentinels to the door leading to the kitchens andpantry; he carried a pike in his hand, and was armed with a steel cap andbreast-piece. In a minute he had returned followed by Mr. Boyd, Sir Nicholas’body-servant; the two passed into the study—and a moment later the dark innerhall was full of moving figures and rustlings and whisperings, as the alarmedservants poured up from downstairs.
Then the study door opened again, and Anthony caught a glimpse of the lightedroom; the two ladies with Sir Nicholas and his guest were seated at table;there was the figure of an armed man behind Mr. Stewart’s chair, and anotherbehind Lady Maxwell’s; then the door closed again as Mr. Boyd with themagistrate and a constable carrying a candle came out.
“This way, sir,” said the servant; and the three crossed the hall, and passingclose by Anthony, went up the broad oak staircase that led to the upper rooms.Then the minutes passed away; from upstairs came the noise of doors opening andshutting, and footsteps passing overhead; from the inner hall the sound of lowtalking, and a few sobs now and again from a frightened maid; from SirNicholas’ room all was quiet except once when Mr. Stewart’s laugh, high andnatural, rang out. Anthony thought of that strong brisk face he had seen in thecandlelight; and wondered how he could laugh, with death so imminent—and worsethan death; and a warmth of admiration and respect glowed at the lad’s heart.The man by Anthony sighed and shifted his feet.
“What is it for?” whispered the lad at last.
“I mustn’t speak to you, sir,” said the man.
At last the footsteps overhead came to the top of the stairs. The magistrate’svoice called out sharply and impatiently:
“Come along, come along”; and the three, all carrying bags and valises camedownstairs again and crossed the hall. Again the door opened as they went in,leaving the luggage on the floor; and Anthony caught another glimpse of thefour still seated round the table; but Sir Nicholas’ head was bowed upon hishands.
Then again the door closed; and there was silence.
Once more it was flung open, and Anthony saw the interior of the room plainly.The four were standing up, Mr. Stewart was bowing to Lady Maxwell; themagistrate stood close beside him; then a couple of men stepped up to the youngman’s side as he turned away, and the three came out into the hall and stoodwaiting by the little heap of luggage. Mr. Frankland came next, with theman-servant close beside him, and the rest of the men behind; and the lastclosed the door and stood by it. There was a dead silence; Anthony sprang tohis feet in uncontrollable excitement. What was happening? Again the dooropened, and the men made room as Mistress Margaret came out, and the door shut.
She came swiftly across, with her little air of dignity and confidence, towardsAnthony, who was standing forward.
“Why, Master Anthony,” she said, “dear lad; I did not know they had keptyou,” and she took his hand.
“What is it, what is it?” he whispered sharply.
“Hush,” she said; and the two stood together in silence.
The moments passed; Anthony could hear the quick thumping beat of his ownheart, and the breathing of Mistress Margaret; but the hall was perfectlyquiet, where the magistrate with the prisoner and his men stood in an irregulardark group with the candle behind them; and no sound came from the room beyond.
Then the handle turned, and a crack of light showed; but no further sound; thenthe door opened wide, a flood of light poured out and Sir Nicholas totteredinto the hall.
“Margaret, Margaret,” he cried. “Where are you? Go to her.”
There was a strange moaning sound from the brightly lighted room. The old ladydropped Anthony’s hand and moved swiftly and unfalteringly across, and oncemore the door closed behind her.
There was a sharp word of command from the magistrate, and the sentries fromevery door left their posts, and joined the group which, with Sir Nicholas andhis guest and Mr. Boyd in the centre, now passed out through the garden door.
The magistrate paused as he saw Anthony standing there alone.
“I can trust you, young gentleman,” he said, “not to give the alarm till weare gone?”
Anthony nodded, and the magistrate passed briskly out on to the terrace,shutting the door behind him; there was a rush of footsteps and a murmur ofvoices and the hall was filled with the watching servants.
As the chorus of exclamations and inquiries broke out, Anthony ran straightthrough the crowd to the garden door, and on to the terrace. They had gone tothe left, he supposed, but he hesitated a moment to listen; then he heard thestamp of horses’ feet and the jingle of saddlery, and saw the glare of torchesthrough the yew hedge; and he turned quickly and ran along the terrace, pastthe flood of light that poured out from the supper room, and down the path thatled to the side-door opposite the Rectory. It was very dark, and he stumbledonce or twice; then he came to the two or three stairs that led down to thedoor in the wall, and turned off among the bushes, creeping on hands and feettill he reached the wall, low on this side, but deep on the other; and lookedover.
The pursuivants with their men had formed a circle round the two prisoners, whowere already mounted and who sat looking about them as the luggage was beingstrapped to their saddles before and behind; the bridles were lifted forwardover the horses’ heads, and a couple of the guard held each rein. The groom whohad brought round the two horses for Mr. Stewart and himself stood white-facedand staring, with his back to the Rectory wall. The magistrate was justmounting at a little distance his own horse, which was held by the Rectory boy.Mr. Boyd, it seemed, was to walk with the men. Two or three torches wereburning by now, and every detail was distinct to Anthony, as he crouched amongthe dry leaves and peered down on to the group just beneath.
Sir Nicholas’ face was turned away from him; but his head was sunk on hisbreast, and he did not stir or lift it as his horse stamped at the strapping onof the valise Mr. Boyd had packed for him. Mr. Stewart sat erect andmotionless, and his face as Anthony saw it was confident and fearless.
Then suddenly the door in the Rectory wall opposite was flung open, and afigure in flying black skirts, but hatless, rushed out and through the guardstraight up to the old man’s knee. There was a shout from the men and amovement to pull him off, but the magistrate who was on his horse and justoutside the circle spoke sharply, and the men fell back.
“Oh, Sir Nicholas, Sir Nicholas,” sobbed the minister, his face half buried inthe saddle. Anthony saw his shoulders shaking, and his hands clutching at theold man’s knee. “Forgive me, forgive me.”
There was no answer from Sir Nicholas; he still sat unmoved, his chin on hisbreast, as the Rector sobbed and moaned at his stirrup.
“There, there,” said the magistrate decidedly, over the heads of the guard,“that is enough, Mr. Dent”; and he made a motion with his hand.
A couple of men took the minister by the shoulders and drew him, still cryingout to Sir Nicholas, outside the group; and he stood there dazed and gropingwith his hands. There was a word of command; and the guard moved off at a sharpwalk, with the horses in the centre, and as they turned, the lad saw in thetorchlight the old man’s face drawn and wrinkled with sorrow, and great tearsrunning down it.
The Rector leaned against his own wall, with his hands over his face; andAnthony looked at him with growing suspicion and terror as the flare of thetorches on the trees faded, and the noise of the troop died away round thecorner.
VILLAGE JUSTICE
The village had never known such an awakening as on the morning that followedSir Nicholas’ arrest. Before seven o’clock every house knew it, and childrenran half-dressed to the outlying hamlets to tell the story. Very little workwas done that day, for the estate was disorganised; and the men had littleheart for work; and there were groups all day on the green, which formed andre-formed and drifted here and there and discussed and sifted the evidence. Itwas soon known that the Rectory household had had a foremost hand in theaffair. The groom, who had been present at the actual departure of theprisoners had told the story of the black figure that ran out of the door, andof what was cried at the old man’s knee; and how he had not moved nor spoken inanswer; and Thomas, the Rectory boy, was stopped as he went across the green inthe evening and threatened and encouraged until he told of the stroke on thechurch-bell, and the Rectory key, and the little company that had sat all theafternoon in the kitchen over their ale. He told too how a couple of hours agohe had been sent across with a note to Lady Maxwell, and that it had beenreturned immediately unopened.
So as night fell, indignation had begun to smoulder fiercely against theminister, who had not been seen all day; and after dark had fallen the name“Judas” was cried in at the Rectory door half a dozen times, and a stone or twofrom the direction of the churchyard had crashed on the tiles of the house.
Mr. Norris had been up all day at the Hall, but he was the only visitoradmitted. All day long the gate-house was kept closed, and the same message wasgiven to the few horsemen and carriages that came to inquire after the truth ofthe report from the Catholic houses round, to the effect that it was true thatSir Nicholas and a friend had been taken off to London by the Justice from EastGrinsted; and that Lady Maxwell begged the prayers of her friends for herhusband’s safe return.
Anthony had ridden off early with a servant, at his father’s wish, to followSir Nicholas and learn any news of him that was possible, to do him any servicehe was able, and to return or send a message the next day down to Great Keynes;and early in the afternoon he returned with the information that Sir Nicholaswas at the Marshalsea, that he was well and happy, that he sent his wife hisdear love, and that she should have a letter from him before nightfall. He rodestraight to the Hall with the news, full of chastened delight at his officialimportance, just pausing to tell a group that was gathered on the green thatall was well so far, and was shown up to Lady Maxwell’s own parlour, where hefound her, very quiet and self-controlled, and extremely grateful for hiskindness in riding up to London and back on her account. Anthony explained toothat he had been able to get Sir Nicholas one or two comforts that the prisondid not provide, a pillow and an extra coverlet and some fruit; and he left herfull of gratitude.
His father had been up to see the ladies two or three times, and in spite ofthe difference in religion had prayed with them, and talked a little; and LadyMaxwell had asked that Isabel might come up to supper and spend the evening.Mr. Norris promised to send her up, and then added:
“I am a little anxious, Lady Maxwell, lest the people may show their angeragainst the Rector or his wife, about what has happened.”
Lady Maxwell looked startled.
“They have been speaking of it all day long,” he said, “they know everything;and it seems the Rector is not so much to blame as his wife. It was she whosent for the magistrate and gave him the key and arranged it all; he was onlybrought into it too late to interfere or refuse.”
“Have you seen him?” asked the old lady.
“I have been both days,” he said, “but he will not see me; he is in his study,locked in.”
“I may have treated him hardly,” she said, “I would not open his note; but atleast he consented to help them against his friend.” And her old eyes filledwith tears.
“I fear that is so,” said the other sadly.
“But speak to the people,” she said, “I think they love my husband, and woulddo nothing to grieve us; tell them that nothing would pain either of us morethan that any should suffer for this. Tell them they must do nothing, but bepatient and pray.”
There was a group still on the green near the pond as Isabel came up to supperthat evening about six o’clock. Her father, who had given Lady Maxwell’smessage to the people an hour or two before, had asked her to go that way andsend down a message to him immediately if there seemed to be any disturbance orthreatening of it; but the men were very quiet. Mr. Musgrave was there, shesaw, sitting with his pipe, on the stocks, and Piers, the young Irish bailiff,was standing near; they all were silent as the girl came up, and saluted herrespectfully as usual; and she saw no signs of any dangerous element. Therewere one or two older women with the men, and others were standing at theiropen doors on all sides as she went up. The Rectory gate was locked, and no onewas to be seen within.
Supper was laid in Sir Nicholas’ room, as it generally was, and as it had beentwo nights ago; and it was very strange to Isabel to know that it was here thatthe arrest had taken place; the floor, too, she noticed as she came in, allabout the threshold was scratched and dented by rough boots.
Lady Maxwell was very silent and distracted during supper; she made efforts totalk again and again, and her sister did her best to interest her and keep hertalking; but she always relapsed after a minute or two into silence again, withlong glances round the room, at the Vernacle over the fireplace, the prie-dieuwith the shield of the Five Wounds above it, and all the things that spoke sokeenly of her husband.
What a strange room it was, too, thought Isabel, with its odd mingling of thetwo worlds, with the tapestry of the hawking scene and the stiff herons andladies on horseback on one side, and the little shelf of devotional books onthe other; and yet how characteristic of its owner who fingered his cross-bowor the reins of his horse all day, and his beads in the evening; and howstrange that an old man like Sir Nicholas, who knew the world, and had as muchsense apparently as any one else, should be willing to sacrifice home andproperty and even life itself, for these so plainly empty superstitious thingsthat could not please a God that was Spirit and Truth! So Isabel thought toherself, with no bitterness or contempt, but just a simple wonder andamazement, as she looked at the painted tokens and trinkets.
It was still daylight when they went upstairs to Lady Maxwell’s room aboutseven, but the clear southern sky over the yew hedges and the tall elms wherethe rooks were circling, was beginning to be flushed with deep amber and rose.Isabel sat down in the window seat with the sweet air pouring in and looked outon to the garden with its tiled paths and its cool green squares of lawn, andthe glowing beds at the sides. Over to her right the cloister court ran out,with its two rows of windows, bedrooms above with galleries beyond, as sheknew, and parlours and cloisters below; the pleasant tinkle of the fountain inthe court came faintly to her ears across the caw of the rooks about the elmsand the low sounds from the stables and the kitchen behind the house. Otherwisethe evening was very still; the two old ladies were sitting near the fireplace;Lady Maxwell had taken up her embroidery, and was looking at it listlessly, andMistress Margaret had one of her devotional books and was turning the pages,pausing here and there as she did so.
Presently she began to read, without a word of introduction, one of the musingsof the old monk John Audeley in his sickness, and as the tender lines steppedon, that restless jewelled hand grew still.
“As I lay sick in my languor
In an abbey here by west;
This book I made with great dolour,
When I might not sleep nor rest.
Oft with my prayers my soul I blest,
And said aloud to Heaven’s King,
‘I know, O Lord, it is the best
Meekly to take thy visiting.
Else well I wot that I were lorn
(High above all lords be he blest!)
All that thou dost is for the best;
By fault of Thee was no man lost,
That is here of woman born.’”
And then she read some of Rolle’s verses to Jesus, the “friend of all sick andsorrowful souls,” and a meditation of his on the Passion, and the tranquilthoughts and tender fragrant sorrows soothed the torn throbbing soul; andIsabel saw the old wrinkled hand rise to her forehead, and the embroidery, withthe needle still in it slipped to the ground; as the holy Name “like ointmentpoured forth” gradually brought its endless miracle and made all sweet andhealthful again.
Outside the daylight was fading; the luminous vault overhead was deepening to aglowing blue as the sunset contracted on the western horizon to a few vividstreaks of glory; the room was growing darker every moment; and MistressMargaret’s voice began to stumble over words.
The great gilt harp in the corner only gleamed here and there now in singlelines of clear gold where the dying daylight fell on the strings. The room wasfull of shadows and the image of the Holy Mother and Child had darkened intoobscurity in their niche. The world was silent now too; the rooks were gonehome and the stir of the household below had ceased; and in a moment moreMistress Margaret’s voice had ceased too, as she laid the book down.
Then, as if the world outside had waited for silence before speaking, therecame a murmur of sound from the further side of the house. Isabel started up;surely there was anger in that low roar from the village; was it this that herfather had feared? Had she been remiss? Lady Maxwell too sprang up and facedthe window with wide large eyes.
“The letter!” she said; and took a quick step towards the door; but MistressMargaret was with her instantly, with her arm about her.
“Sit down, Mary,” she said, “they will bring it at once”; and her sisterobeyed; and she sat waiting and looking towards the door, clasping andunclasping her hands as they lay on her lap; and Mistress Margaret stood byher, waiting and watching too. Isabel still stood by the window listening. Hadshe been mistaken then? The roar had sunk into silence for a moment; and therecame back the quick beat of a horse’s hoofs outside on the short drive betweenthe gatehouse and the Hall. They were right, then; and even as she thought it,and as the wife that waited for news of her husband drew a quick breath andhalf rose in her seat at the sound of that shod messenger that bore them, againthe roar swelled up louder than ever; and Isabel sprang down from the low stepof the window-seat into the dusky room where the two sisters waited.
“What is that? What is that?” she whispered sharply.
There was a sound of opening doors, and of feet that ran in the house below;and Lady Maxwell rose up and put out her hand, as a man-servant dashed in witha letter.
“My lady,” he said panting, and giving it to her, “they are attacking theRectory.”
Lady Maxwell, who was half-way to the window now, for light to read herhusband’s letter, paused at that.
“The Rectory?” she said. “Why—Margaret——” then she stopped, and Isabel closebeside her, saw her turn resolutely from the great sealed letter in her hand tothe door, and back again.
“Jervis told us, my lady; none saw him as he rode through—they were breakingdown the gate.”
Then Lady Maxwell, with a quick movement, lifted the letter to her lips andkissed it, and thrust it down somewhere out of sight in the folds of her dress.
“Come, Margaret,” she said.
Isabel followed them down the stairs and out through the hall-door; and there,as they came out on to the steps that savage snarling roar swelled up from thegreen. There was laughter and hooting mixed with that growl of anger; but eventhe laughter was fierce. The gatehouse stood up black against the glare oftorches, and the towers threw great swinging shadows on the ground and thesteps of the Hall.
Isabel followed the two grey glimmering figures, and was astonished at thespeed with which she had to go. The hoofs of the courier’s horse rang on thecobbles of the stable-yard as they came down towards the gatehouse, and the twowings of the door were wide-open through which he had passed just now; but theporter was gone.
Ah! there was the crowd; but not at the Rectory. On the right the Rectory gatelay wide open, and a flood of light poured out from the house-door at the endof the drive. Before them lay the dark turf, swarming with black figurestowards the lower end; and a ceaseless roar came from them. There were half adozen torches down there, tossing to and fro; Isabel saw that the crowd wasstill moving down towards the stocks and the pond.
Now the two ladies in front of her were just coming up with the skirts of thecrowd; and there was an exclamation or two of astonishment as the women andchildren saw who it was that was coming. Then there came the furious scream ofa man, and the crowd parted, as three men came reeling out together, two ofthem trying with all their power to restrain a fighting, kicking, plunging manin long black skirts, who tore and beat with his hands. The three ladiesstopped for a moment, close together; and simultaneously the struggling manbroke free and dashed back into the crowd, screaming with anger and misery.
“Marion, Marion—I am coming—O God!”
And Isabel saw with a shock of horror that sent her crouching and clingingclose to Mistress Margaret, that it was the Rector. But the two men were afterhim and caught him by the shoulders as he disappeared; and as they turned theyfaced Lady Maxwell.
“My lady, my lady,” stammered one, “we mean him no harm. We——” But his voicestopped, as there came a sudden silence, rent by a high terrible shriek and asplash; followed in a moment by a yell of laughter and shouting; and LadyMaxwell threw herself into the crowd in front.
There were a few moments of jostling in the dark, with the reek and press ofthe crowd about her; and Isabel found herself on the brink of the black pond,with Lady Maxwell on one side, and Piers on the other keeping the crowd back,and a dripping figure moaning and sobbing in the trampled mud at Lady Maxwell’sfeet. There was silence enough now, and the ring of faces opposite staredastonished and open-mouthed at the tall old lady with her grey veiled headupraised, as she stood there in the torchlight and rated them in her fearlessindignant voice.
“I am ashamed, ashamed!” cried Lady Maxwell. “I thought you were men. Ithought you loved my husband; and—and me.” Her voice broke, and then once moreshe cried again. “I am ashamed, ashamed of my village.”
And then she stooped to that heaving figure that had crawled up, and laid holdtenderly of the arms that were writhed about her feet.
“Come home, my dear,” Isabel heard her whisper.
It was a strange procession homeward up the trampled turf. The crowd had brokeninto groups, and the people were awed and silent as they watched the four womengo back together. Isabel walked a little behind with her father and Anthony,who had at last been able to come forward through the press and join them; anda couple of the torchbearers escorted them. In front went the three, on oneside Lady Maxwell, her lace and silk splashed and spattered with mud, and herwhite hands black with it, and on the other the old nun, each with an armthrown round the woman in the centre who staggered and sobbed and leanedagainst them as she went, with her long hair and her draggled clothes streamingwith liquid mud every step she took. Once they stopped, at a group of threemen. The Rector was sitting up, in his torn dusty cassock, and Isabel saw thatone of his buckled shoes was gone, as he sat on the grass with his feet beforehim, but quiet now, with his hands before him, and a dazed stupid look in hislittle black eyes that blinked at the light of the torch that was held overhim; he said nothing as he looked at his wife between the two ladies, but hislips moved, and his eyes wandered for a moment to Lady Maxwell’s face, and thenback to his wife.
“Take him home presently,” she said to the men who were with him—and thenpassed on again.
As they got through the gatehouse, Isabel stepped forward to MistressMargaret’s side.
“Shall I come?” she whispered; and the nun shook her head; so she with herfather and brother stood there to watch, with the crowd silent and ashamedbehind. The two torchbearers went on and stood by the steps as the three ladiesascended, leaving black footmarks as they went. The door was open and faces ofservants peeped out, and hands were thrust out to take the burden from theirmistress, but she shook her head, and the three came in together, and the doorclosed.
As the Norrises went back silently, the Rector passed them, with a little groupaccompanying him too; he, too, could hardly walk alone, so exhausted was hewith his furious struggles to rescue his wife.
“Take your sister home,” said Mr. Norris to Anthony; and they saw him slip offand pass his arm through the Rector’s, and bend down his handsome kindly faceto the minister’s staring eyes and moving lips as he too led him homewards.
Even Anthony was hushed and impressed, and hardly spoke a word until he andIsabel turned off down the little dark lane to the Dower House.
“We could do nothing,” he said, “father and I—until Lady Maxwell came.”
“No,” said Isabel softly, “she only could have done it.”
A CONFESSOR
Sir Nicholas and the party were lodged at East Grinsted the night of theirarrest, in the magistrate’s house. Although he was allowed privacy in his room,after he had given his word of honour not to attempt an escape, yet he wasallowed no conversation with Mr. Stewart or his own servant except in thepresence of the magistrate or one of the pursuivants; and Mr. Stewart, since hewas personally unknown to the magistrate, and since the charge against him wasgraver, was not on any account allowed to be alone for a moment, even in theroom in which he slept. The following day they all rode on to London, and thetwo prisoners were lodged in the Marshalsea. This had been for a long while theplace where Bishop Bonner was confined; and where Catholic prisoners were oftensent immediately after their arrest; and Sir Nicholas at any rate found to hisjoy that he had several old friends among the prisoners. He was confined in aseparate room; but by the kindness of his gaoler whom he bribed profusely asthe custom was, through his servant, he had many opportunities of meeting theothers; and even of approaching the sacraments and hearing mass now and then.
He began a letter to his wife on the day of his arrival and finished it thenext day which was Saturday, and it was taken down immediately by the courierwho had heard the news and had called at the prison. In fact, he was allowed agood deal of liberty; although he was watched and his conversation listened to,a good deal more than he was aware. Mr. Stewart, however, as he still calledhimself, was in a much harder case. The saddle-bags had been opened on hisarrival, and incriminating documents found. Besides the “popish trinkets” theywere found to contain a number of “seditious pamphlets,” printed abroad fordistribution in England; for at this time the College at Douai, under itsfounder Dr. William Allen, late Principal of St. Mary’s Hall, Oxford, wasactive in the production of literature; these were chiefly commentaries on theBull; as well as exhortations to the Catholics to stand firm and to perseverein recusancy, and to the schismatic Catholics, as they were called, to giveover attending the services in the parish churches. There were letters alsofrom Dr. Storey himself, whom the authorities already had in person under lockand key at the Tower. These were quite sufficient to make Mr. Stewart a prize;and he also was very shortly afterwards removed to the Tower.
Sir Nicholas wrote a letter at least once a week to his wife; but writing wassomething of a labour to him; it was exceedingly doubtful to his mind whetherhis letters were not opened and read before being handed to the courier, and ashis seal was taken from him his wife could not tell either. However they seemedto arrive regularly; plainly therefore the authorities were either satisfiedwith their contents or else did not think them worth opening or suppressing. Hewas quite peremptory that his wife should not come up to London; it would onlyincrease his distress, he said; and he liked to think of her at Maxwell Hall;there were other reasons too that he was prudent enough not to commit to paper,and which she was prudent enough to guess at, the principal of which was, ofcourse, that she ought to be there for the entertaining and helping of otheragents or priests who might be in need of shelter.
The old man got into good spirits again very soon. It pleased him to think thatGod had honoured him by imprisonment; and he said as much once or twice in hisletters to his wife. He was also pleased with a sense of the part he wasplaying in the rôle of a conspirator; and he underlined and putsigns and exclamation marks all over his letters of which he thought his wifewould understand the significance, but no one else; whereas in reality the oldlady was sorely puzzled by them, and the authorities who opened the lettersgenerally read them of course like a printed book.
One morning about ten days after his arrival the Governor of the prison lookedin with the gaoler, and announced to Sir Nicholas, after greeting him, that hewas to appear before the Council that very day. This, of course, was what SirNicholas desired, and he thanked the Governor cordially for his good news.
“They will probably keep you at the Tower, Sir Nicholas,” said the Governor,“and we shall lose you. However, sir, I hope you will be more comfortable therethan we have been able to make you.”
The knight thanked the Governor again, and said good-day to him with greatwarmth; for they had been on the best of terms with one another during hisshort detention at the Marshalsea.
The following day Sir Nicholas wrote a long letter to his wife describing hisexamination.
“We are in royal lodgings here at last, sweetheart; Mr. Boyd broughtmy luggage over yesterday; and I am settled for the present in a roomof my own in the White Tower; with a prospect over the Court. I was had beforemy lords yesterday in the Council-room; we drove hither from the Marshalsea.There was a bay window in the room. I promise you they got little enough fromme. There was my namesake, Sir Nicholas Bacon, my lords Leicester and Pembroke,and Mr. Secretary Cecil; Sir James Crofts, the Controller of the Household, andone or two more; but these were the principal. I was set before the table on achair alone with none to guard me; but with men at the doors I knew very well.My lords were very courteous to me; though they laughed more than was seemly atsuch grave times. They questioned me much as to my religion. Was I a papist? Ifthey meant by that a Catholic, that I was, and thanked God for it everyday—(those nicknames like me not). Was I then a recusant? If by that theymeant, Did I go to their Genevan Hotch-Potch? That I did not nor never would. Ithought to have said a word here about St. Cyprian his work De UnitateEcclesiae, as F——r X. told me, but they would not let me speak. Did I knowMr. Chapman? If by that they meant Mr. Stewart, that I did, and for a courteousGod-fearing gentleman too. Was he a Papist, or a Catholic if I would have itso? That I would not tell them; let them find that out with their pursuivantsand that crew. Did I think Protestants to be fearers of God? That I did not;they feared nought but the Queen’s Majesty, so it seemed to me. Then they alllaughed at once—I know not why. Then they grew grave; and Mr. Secretary beganto ask me questions, sharp and hard; but I would not be put upon, and answeredhim again as he asked. Did I know ought of Dr. Storey? Nothing, said I, savethat he is a good Catholic, and that they had taken him. He is a seditiousrogue, said my Lord Pembroke. That he is not, said I. Then theyasked me what I thought of the Pope and his Bull, and whether he can deposeprinces. I said I thought him to be the Vicar of Christ; and as to his power todepose princes, that I supposed he could do, if he said so. Then two or threecried out on me that I had not answered honestly; and at that I got wrath; andthen they laughed again, at least I saw Sir James Crofts at it. And Mr.Secretary, looking very hard at me asked whether if Philip sent an armamentagainst Elizabeth to depose her, I would fight for him or her grace. Forneither, said I: I am too old. For which then would you pray? saidthey. For the Queen’s Grace, said I, for that she was mysovereign. This seemed to content them; and they talked a little amongthemselves. They had asked me other questions too as to my way of living;whether I went to mass. They asked me too a little more about Mr. Stewart. DidI know him to be a seditious rascal? That I did not, said I. Then how,asked they, did you come to receive him and his pamphlets? Of hispamphlets, said I, I know nothing; I saw nothing in his bags save beads and afew holy books and such things. (You see, sweetheart, I did him no injury bysaying so, because I knew that they had his bags themselves.) And I said I hadreceived him because he was recommended to me by some good friends of mineabroad, and I told them their names too; for they are safe in Flanders now.
“And when they had done their questions they talked again for a while; and Iwas sent out to the antechamber to refresh myself; and Mr. Secretary sent a manwith me to see that I had all I needed; and we talked together a little, and hesaid the Council were in good humour at the taking of Dr. Storey; and he hadnever seen them so merry. Then I was had back again presently; and Mr.Secretary said I was to stay in the Tower; and that Mr. Boyd was gone alreadyto bring my things. And so after that I went by water to the Tower, and here Iam, sweetheart, well and cheerful, praise God....
“My dearest, I send you my heart’s best love. God have you in his holykeeping.”
The Council treated the old knight very tenderly. They were shrewd enough tosee his character very plainly; and that he was a simple man who knew nothingof sedition, but only had harboured agents thinking them to be as guileless ashimself. As a matter of fact, Mr. Stewart was an agent of Dr. Storey’s; and wastherefore implicated in a number of very grave charges. This of course was avery serious matter; but both in the examination of the Council, and in papersin Mr. Stewart’s bags, nothing could be found to implicate Sir Nicholas in anypolitical intrigue at all. The authorities were unwilling too to put such a manto the torture. There was always a possibility of public resentment against thetorture of a man for his religion alone; and they were desirous not to arousethis, since they had many prisoners who would be more productive subjects ofthe rack than a plainly simple and loyal old man whose only crime was hisreligion. They determined, however, to make an attempt to get a little more outof Sir Nicholas by a device which would excite no resentment if it evertranspired, and one which was more suited to the old man’s nature and years.
Sir Nicholas thus described it to his wife.
“Last night, my dearest, I had a great honour and consolation. I was awakenedsuddenly towards two o’clock in the morning by the door of my room opening anda man coming in. It was somewhat dark, and I could not see the man plainly, butI could see that he limped and walked with a stick, and he breathed hard as heentered. I sat up and demanded of him who he was and what he wanted; andtelling me to be still, he said that he was Dr. Storey. You may be sure,sweetheart, that I sprang up at that; but he would not let me rise; and himselfsat down beside me. He said that by the kindness of a gaoler he hadbeen allowed to come; and that he must not stay with me long; that he had heardof me from his good friend Mr. Stewart. I asked him how he did, for I heardthat he had been racked; and he said yes, it was true; but that by the mercy ofGod and the prayers of the saints he had held his peace and they knew nothingfrom him. Then he asked me a great number of questions about the men I hadentertained, and where they were now; and he knew many of their names. Someof them were friends of his own, he said; especially the priests. We talked agood while, till the morning light began; and then he said he must be gone orthe head gaoler would know of his visit, and so he went. I wish I could haveseen his face, sweetheart, for I think him a great servant of God; but it wasstill too dark when he went, and we dared not have a light for fear it shouldbe seen.”
This was as a matter of fact a ruse of the authorities. It was not Dr. Storeyat all who was admitted to Sir Nicholas’ prison, but Parker, who had betrayedhim at Antwerp. It was so successful, for Sir Nicholas told him all that heknew (which was really nothing at all) that it was repeated a few months laterwith richer results; when the conspirator Baily, hysterical and almost besidehimself with the pain of the rack, under similar circumstances gave up a cypherwhich was necessary to the Council in dealing with the correspondence of MaryStuart. However, Sir Nicholas never knew the deception, and to the end of hisdays was proud that he had actually met the famous Dr. Storey, when they wereboth imprisoned in the Tower together, and told his friends of it with reverentpride when the doctor was hanged a year later.
Hubert, who had been sent for to take charge of the estate, had come to Londonsoon after his father’s arrival at the Tower; and was allowed an interview withhim in the presence of the Lieutenant. Hubert was greatly affected; though hecould not look upon the imprisonment with the same solemn exultation as thatwhich his father had; but it made a real impression upon him to find that hetook so patiently this separation from home and family for the sake ofreligion. Hubert received instructions from Sir Nicholas as to the managementof the estate, for it was becoming plain that his father would have to remainin the Tower for the present; not any longer on a really grave charge, butchiefly because he was an obstinate recusant and would promise nothing. The lawand its administration at this time were very far apart; the authorities werenot very anxious to search out and punish those who were merely recusants orrefused to take the oath of supremacy; and so Hubert and Mr. Boyd and otherCatholics were able to come and go under the very nose of justice without anyreal risk to themselves; but it was another matter to let a sturdy recusant gofrom prison who stoutly refused to give any sort of promise or understanding asto future behaviour.
Sir Nicholas was had down more than once to further examination before theLords Commissioners in the Lieutenant’s house; but it was a very tame and evenan amusing affair for all save Sir Nicholas. It was so easy to provoke him; hewas so simple and passionate that they could get almost anything they wantedout of him by a little adroit baiting; and more than once his examinationformed a welcome and humorous entr’acte between two real tragedies. SirNicholas, of course, never suspected for a moment that he was affording anyamusement to any one. He thought their weary laughter to be sardonic andironical, and he looked upon himself as a very desperate fellow indeed; andwrote glowing accounts of it all to his wife, full of apostrophic praises toGod and the saints, in a hand that shook with excitement and awe at the thoughtof the important scenes in which he played so prominent a part.
But there was no atmosphere of humour about Mr. Stewart. He had disappearedfrom Sir Nicholas’ sight on their arrival at the Marshalsea, and they had notset eyes on one another since; nor could all the knight’s persuasion and offerof bribes make his gaoler consent to take any message or scrap of paper betweenthem. He would not even answer more than the simplest inquiries about him,—thathe was alive and in the Tower, and so forth; and Sir Nicholas prayed often andearnestly for that deliberate and vivacious young man who had so charmed andinterested them all down at Great Keynes, and who had been so mysteriouslyengulfed by the sombre majesty of the law.
“I fear,” he wrote to Lady Maxwell, “I fear that our friend must besick or dying. But I can hear no news of him; when I am allowed sometimes towalk in the court or on the leads he is never there. My attendant Mr.Jakes looks glum and says nothing when I ask him how my friend does. Mydearest, do not forget him in your prayers nor your old loving husbandeither.”
One evening late in October Mr. Jakes did not come as usual to bring SirNicholas his supper at five o’clock; the time passed and still he did not come.This was very unusual. Presently Mrs. Jakes appeared instead, carrying the foodwhich she set down at the door while she turned the key behind her. SirNicholas rallied her on having turned gaoler; but she turned on him a face withred eyes and lined with weeping.
“O Sir Nicholas,” she said, for these two were good friends, “what a wickedplace this is! God forgive me for saying so; but they’ve had that young mandown there since two o’clock; and Jakes is with them to help; and he told me tocome up to you, Sir Nicholas, with your supper, if they weren’t done by five;and if the young gentleman hadn’t said what they wanted.”
Sir Nicholas felt sick.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Why, who but Mr. Stewart?” she said; and then fell weeping again, and wentout forgetting to lock the door behind her in her grief. Sir Nicholas sat stilla moment, sick and shaken; he knew what it meant; but it had never come soclose to him before. He got up presently and went to the door to listen for heknew not what. But there was no sound but the moan of the wind up the draughtystaircase, and the sound of a prisoner singing somewhere above him a snatch ofa song. He looked out presently, but there was nothing but the dark well of thestaircase disappearing round to the left, and the glimmer of an oil lampsomewhere from the depths below him, with wavering shadows as the light wasblown about by the gusts that came up from outside. There was nothing to bedone of course; he closed the door, went back and prayed with all his might forthe young man who was somewhere in this huge building, in his agony.
Mr. Jakes came up himself within half an hour to see if all was well; but saidnothing of his dreadful employment or of Mr. Stewart; and Sir Nicholas did notlike to ask for fear of getting Mrs. Jakes into trouble. The gaoler took awaythe supper things, wished him good-night, went out and locked the door,apparently without noticing it had been left undone before. Possibly his mindwas too much occupied with what he had been seeing and doing. And the faithfulaccount of all this went down in due time to Great Keynes.
The arrival of the courier at the Hall on Wednesday and Saturday was a greataffair both to the household and to the village. Sir Nicholas sent his lettergenerally by the Saturday courier, and the other brought a kind of bulletinfrom Mr. Boyd, with sometimes a message or two from his master. These letterswere taken by the ladies first to the study, as if to an oratory, and LadyMaxwell would read them slowly over to her sister. And in the evening, whenIsabel generally came up for an hour or two, the girl would be asked to readthem slowly all over again to the two ladies who sat over their embroidery oneither side of her, and who interrupted for the sheer joy of prolonging it. Andthey would discuss together the exact significance of all his marks of emphasisand irony; and the girl would have all she could do sometimes not to feel adisloyal amusement at the transparency of the devices and the simplicity of theloving hearts that marvelled at the writer’s depth and ingenuity. But she wasnone the less deeply impressed by his courageous cheerfulness, and by the powerof a religion that in spite of its obvious weaknesses and improbabilities yetinspired an old man like Sir Nicholas with so much fortitude.
At first, too, a kind of bulletin was always issued on the Sunday and Thursdaymornings, and nailed upon the outside of the gatehouse, so that any who pleasedcould come there and get first-hand information; and an interpreter stood theresometimes, one of the educated younger sons of Mr. Piers, and read out to thegroups from Lady Maxwell’s sprawling old handwriting, news of the master.
“Sir Nicholas has been had before the Council,” he read out one day in a highcomplacent voice to the awed listeners, “and has been sent to the Tower ofLondon.” This caused consternation in the village, as it was supposed by thecountry-folk, not without excuse, that the Tower was the antechamber of death;but confidence was restored by the further announcement a few lines down that“he was well and cheerful.”
Great interest, too, was aroused by more domestic matters.
“Sir Nicholas,” it was proclaimed, “is in a little separate chamber of hisown. Mr. Jakes, his gaoler, seems an honest fellow. Sir Nicholas hath a littlemattress from a friend that Mr. Boyd fetched for him. He has dinner at elevenand supper at five. Sir Nicholas hopes that all are well in the village.”
But other changes had followed the old knight’s arrest. The furious indignationin the village against the part that the Rectory had played in the matter, madeit impossible for the Dents to remain there. That the minister’s wife shouldhave been publicly ducked, and that not by a few blackguards but by the solidfathers and sons with the applause of the wives and daughters, made herhusband’s position intolerable, and further evidence was forthcoming in thebehaviour of the people towards the Rector himself; some boys had guffawedduring his sermon on the following Sunday, when he had ventured on a word ortwo of penitence as to his share in the matter, and he was shouted after on hisway home.
Mrs. Dent seemed strangely changed and broken during her stay at the Hall. Shehad received a terrible shock, and it was not safe to move her back to her ownhouse. For the first two or three nights, she would start from sleep again andagain screaming for help and mercy and nothing would quiet her till she waswide awake and saw in the fire-light the curtained windows and the bolted door,and the kindly face of an old servant or Mistress Margaret with her beads inher hand. Isabel, who came up to see her two or three times, was both startledand affected by the change in her; and by the extraordinary mood of humilitywhich seemed to have taken possession of the hard self-righteous Puritan.
“I begged pardon,” she whispered to the girl one evening, sitting up in bedand staring at her with wide, hard eyes, “I begged pardon of Lady Maxwell,though I am not fit to speak to her. Do you think she can ever forgive me? Doyou think she can? It was I, you know, who wrought all the mischief, as I havewrought all the mischief in the village all these years. She said she did, andshe kissed me, and said that our Saviour had forgiven her much more. But—but doyou think she has forgiven me?” And then again, another night, a day or twobefore they left the place, she spoke to Isabel again.
“Look after the poor bodies,” she said, “teach them a little charity; I havetaught them nought but bitterness and malice, so they have but given me my ownback again. I have reaped what I have sown.”
So the Dents slipped off early one morning before the folk were up; and by thefollowing Sunday, young Mr. Bodder, of whom the Bishop entertained a highopinion, occupied the little desk outside the chancel arch; and Great Keynesonce more had to thank God and the diocesan that it possessed a proper ministerof its own, and not a mere unordained reader, which was all that many parishescould obtain.
Towards the end of September further hints began to arrive, very muchunderlined, in the knight’s letters, of Mr. Stewart and his sufferings.
“You remember our friend,” Isabel read out one Saturday evening,“not Mr. Stewart.” (This puzzled the old ladies sorely till Isabelexplained their lord’s artfulness.) “My dearest, I fear the worst for him. I donot mean apostacy, thank God. But I fear that these wolves have tornhim sadly, in their dens.” Then followed the story of Mrs. Jakes, withall its horror, all the greater from the obscurity of the details.
Isabel put the paper down trembling, as she sat on the rug before the fire inthe parlour upstairs, and thought of the bright-eyed, red-haired man with hissteady mouth and low laugh whom Anthony had described to her.
Lady Maxwell posted upon the gatehouse:
“Sir Nicholas fears that a friend is in sore trouble; he hopes he maynot yield.”
Then, after a few days more, a brief notice with a black-line drawn round it,that ran, in Mr. Bodder’s despite:
“Our friend has passed away. Pray for his soul.”
Sir Nicholas had written in great agitation to this effect.
“My sweetheart, I have heavy news to-day. There was a great company of folksbelow my window to-day, in the Inner Ward, where the road runs up below theBloody Tower. It was about nine of the clock. And there was a horse there whosehead I could see; and presently from the Beauchamp Tower came, as I thought, anold man between two warders; and then I could not very well see; the men werein my way; but soon the horse went off, and the men after him; and I could hearthe groaning of the crowd that were waiting for them outside. And when Mr.Jakes brought me my dinner at eleven of the clock, he told me it was ourfriend—(think of it, my dearest—him whom I thought an old man!)—that had beentaken off to Tyburn. And now I need say no more, but bid you pray for hissoul.”
Isabel could hardly finish reading it; for she heard a quick sobbing breathbehind her, and felt a wrinkled old hand caressing her hair and cheek as hervoice faltered.
Meanwhile Hubert was in town. Sir Nicholas had at first intended him to go downat once and take charge of the estate; but Piers was very competent, and so hisfather consented that he should remain in London until the beginning ofOctober; and this too better suited Mr. Norris’ plans who wished to send Isabeloff about the same time to Northampton.
When Hubert at last did arrive, he soon showed himself extremely capable andapt for the work. He was out on the estate from morning till night on his cob,and there was not a man under him from Piers downwards who had anything butpraise for his insight and industry.
There was in Hubert, too, as there so often is in country-boys who love andunderstand the life of the woods and fields, a balancing quality of a deep veinof sentiment; and this was now consecrated to Isabel Norris. He had pleasantdreams as he rode home in the autumn evening, under the sweet keen sky wherethe harvest moon rose large and yellow over the hills to his left and shed astrange mystical light that blended in a kind of chord with the dying daylight.It was at times like that, when the air was fragrant with the scent of dyingleaves, with perhaps a touch of frost in it, and the cottages one by one openedred glowing eyes in the dusk, that the boy began to dream of a home of his ownand pleasant domestic joys; of burning logs on the hearth and lighted candles,and a dear slender figure moving about the room. He used to rehearse to himselflittle meetings and partings; look at the roofs of the Dower House against theprimrose sky as he rode up the fields homewards; identify her window, dark nowas she was away; and long for Christmas when she would be back again. The onlyshadow over these delightful pictures was the uncertainty as to the future.Where after all would the home be? For he was a younger son. He thought aboutJames very often. When he came back would he live at home? Would it all beJames’ at his father’s death, these woods and fields and farms and statelyhouse? Would it ever come to him? And, meanwhile where should he and Isabellive, when the religious difficulty had been surmounted, as he had no doubtthat it would be sooner or later?
When he thought of his father now, it was with a continually increasingrespect. He had been inclined to despise him sometimes before, as one of asimple and uneventful life; but now the red shadow of the Law conferreddignity. To have been imprisoned in the Tower was a patent of nobility, addingdistinction and gravity to the commonplace. Something of the glory even restedon Hubert himself as he rode and hawked with other Catholic boys, whose fathersmaybe were equally zealous for the Faith, but less distinguished by sufferingfor it.
Before Anthony went back to Cambridge, he and Hubert went out nearly every daytogether with or without their hawks. Anthony was about three years theyounger, and Hubert’s additional responsibility for the estate made the youngerboy more in awe of him than the difference in their ages warranted. Besides,Hubert knew quite as much about sport, and had more opportunities for indulginghis taste for it. There was no heronry at hand; besides, it was not thebreeding time which is the proper season for this particular sport; so they didnot trouble to ride out to one; but the partridges and hares and rabbits thatabounded in the Maxwell estate gave them plenty of quarreys. They preferred togo out generally without the falconer, a Dutchman, who had been taken into theservice of Sir Nicholas thirty years before when things had been moreprosperous; it was less embarrassing so; but they would have a lad to carry the“cadge,” and a pony following them to carry the game. They added to theexcitement of the sport by making it a competition between their birds; andflying them one after another, or sometimes at the same quarry, as in coursing;but this often led to the birds’ crabbing.
Anthony’s peregrine Eliza was almost unapproachable; and the lad was the moreproud of her as he had “made” her himself, as an “eyess” or young falconcaptured as a nestling. But, on the other hand, Hubert’s goshawk Margaret, afiery little creature, named inappropriately enough after his tranquil aunt, asa rule did better than Anthony’s Isabel, and brought the scores level again.
There was one superb day that survived long in Anthony’s memory andconversation; when he had done exceptionally well, when Eliza had surpassedherself, and even Isabel had acquitted herself with credit. It was one of thoseglorious days of wind and sun that occasionally fall in early October, with apale turquoise sky overhead, and air that seems to sparkle and intoxicate likewine. They went out together after dinner about noon; their ponies and spanielsdanced with the joy of life; Lady Maxwell cried to them from the north terraceto be careful, and pointed out to Mr. Norris who had dined with them what agraceful seat Hubert had; and then added politely, but as an obviousafterthought, that Anthony seemed to manage his pony with great address. Theboys turned off through the village, and soon got on to high ground to the westof the village and all among the stubble and mustard, with tracts of richsunlit country, of meadows and russet woodland below them on every side. Thenthe sport began. It seemed as if Eliza could not make a mistake. There rose asolitary partridge forty yards away with a whirl of wings; (the coveys werebeing well broken up by now) Anthony unhooded his bird and “cast off,” withthe falconer’s cry “Hoo-ha, ha, ha, ha,” and up soared Eliza with the tinkleof bells, on great strokes of those mighty wings, up, up, behind the partridgethat fled low down the wind for his life. The two ponies were put to the gallopas the peregrine began to “stoop”; and then down like a plummet she fell withclosed wings, “raked” the quarry with her talons as she passed; recoveredherself, and as Anthony came up holding out the tabur-stycke, returnedto him and was hooded and leashed again; and sat there on his gloved wrist withwet claws, just shivering slightly from her nerves, like the aristocrat shewas; while her master stroked her ashy back and the boy picked up the quarry,admiring the deep rent before he threw it into the pannier.
Then Hubert had the next turn; but his falcon missed his first stoop, and didnot strike the quarry till the second attempt, thus scoring one to Anthony’saccount. Then the peregrines were put back on the cadge as the boys got near toa wide meadow in a hollow where the rabbits used to feed; and the goshawksMargaret and Isabel were taken, each in turn sitting unhooded on her master’swrist, while they all watched the long thin grass for the quick movement thatmarked the passage of a rabbit;—and then in a moment the bird was cast off. Thegoshawk would rise just high enough to see the quarry in the grass, then flystraight with arched wings and pounces stretched out as she came over thequarry; then striking him between the shoulders would close with him; and hermaster would come up and take her off, throw the rabbit to the game-carrier;and the other would have the next attempt.
And so they went on for three or four hours, encouraging their birds, whoopingthe death of the quarry, watching with all the sportsman’s keenness the soaringand stooping of the peregrines, the raking off of the goshawks; listening tothe thrilling tinkle of the bells, and taking back their birds to sittriumphant and complacent on their master’s wrists, when the quarry had beenfairly struck, and furious and sullen when it had eluded them two or threetimes till their breath left them in the dizzy rushes, and they “canceliered”or even returned disheartened and would fly no more till they hadforgotten—till at last the shadows grew long, and the game more wary, and thehawks and ponies tired; and the boys put up the birds on the cadge, and leashedthem to it securely; and jogged slowly homewards together up the valley roadthat led to the village, talking in technical terms of how the merlin’s feathermust be “imped” to-morrow; and of the relative merits of the “varvels” orlittle silver rings at the end of the jesses through which the leash ran, andthe Dutch swivel that Squire Blackett always used.
As they got nearer home and the red roofs of the Dower House began to glow inthe ruddy sunlight above the meadows, Hubert began to shift the conversationround to Isabel, and inquire when she was coming home. Anthony was rather boredat this turn of the talk; but thought she would be back by Christmas at thelatest; and said that she was at Northampton—and had Hubert ever seen suchcourage as Eliza’s? But Hubert would not be put off; but led the talk backagain to the girl; and at last told Anthony under promise of secrecy that hewas fond of Isabel, and wished to make her his wife;—and oh! did Anthony thinkshe cared really for him. Anthony stared and wondered and had no opinion at allon the subject; but presently fell in love with the idea that Hubert should behis brother-in-law and go hawking with him every day; and he added a privateromance of his own in which he and Mary Corbet should be at the Dower House,with Hubert and Isabel at the Hall; while the elders, his own father, SirNicholas, Mr. James, Lady Maxwell, and Mistress Torridon had all taken upsubmissive and complacent attitudes in the middle distance.
He was so pensive that evening that his father asked him at supper whether hehad not had a good day; which diverted his thoughts from Mistress Corbet, andled him away from sentiment on a stream of his own talk with long backwaters ofdescription of this and that stoop, and of exactly the points in which hethought the Maxwells’ falconer had failed in the training of Hubert’s Jane.
Hubert found a long letter waiting from his father which Lady Maxwell gave himto read, with messages to himself in it about the estate, which brought himdown again from the treading of rosy cloud-castles with a phantom Isabelwhither his hawks and the shouting wind and the happy day had wafted him, downto questions of barns and farm-servants and the sober realities of harvest.
MASTER CALVIN
Isabel reached Northampton a day or two before Hubert came back to GreatKeynes. She travelled down with two combined parties going to Leicester andNottingham, sleeping at Leighton Buzzard on the way; and on the evening of thesecond day reached the house of her father’s friend Dr. Carrington, that stoodin the Market Square.
Her father’s intention in sending her to this particular town and household wasto show her how Puritanism, when carried to its extreme, was as orderly anddisciplined a system, and was able to control the lives of its adherents, aswell as the Catholicism whose influence on her character he found himselfbeginning to fear. But he wished also that she should be repelled to someextent by the merciless rigidity she would find at Northampton, and thus, afteran oscillation or two come to rest in the quiet eclecticism of that middleposition which he occupied himself.
The town indeed was at this time a miniature Geneva. There was something in thetemper of its inhabitants that made it especially susceptible to the wave ofPuritanism that was sweeping over England. Lollardy had flourished among themso far back as the reign of Richard II; when the mayor, as folks told oneanother with pride, had plucked a mass-priest by the vestment on the way to thealtar in All Saints’ Church, and had made him give over his mummery till thepreacher had finished his sermon.
Dr. Carrington, too, a clean-shaven, blue-eyed, grey-haired man, churchwardenof Saint Sepulchre’s, was a representative of the straitest views, anddesperately in earnest. For him the world ranged itself into the redeemed andthe damned; these two companies were the pivots of life for him; and everysubject of mind or desire was significant only so far as it bore relations tobe immutable decrees of God. But his fierce and merciless theologicalinsistence was disguised by a real human tenderness and a marked courtesy ofmanner; and Isabel found him a kindly and thoughtful host.
Yet the mechanical strictness of the household, and the overpowering sense ofthe weightiness of life that it conveyed, was a revelation to Isabel. Dr.Carrington at family prayers was a tremendous figure, as he kneeled upright atthe head of the table in the sombre dining-room; and it seemed to Isabel in herplace that the pitiless all-seeing Presence that kept such terrifying silenceas the Doctor cried on Jehovah, was almost a different God to that whom sheknew in the morning parlour at home, to whom her father prayed with morefamiliarity but no less romance, and who answered in the sunshine that lay onthe carpet, and the shadows of boughs that moved across it, and the chirp ofthe birds under the eaves. And all day long she thought she noticed the samedifference; at Great Keynes life was made up of many parts, the love of family,the country doings, the worship of God, the garden, and the company of the Hallladies; and the Presence of God interpenetrated all like light or fragrance;but here life was lived under the glare of His eye, and absorption in anydetail apart from the consciousness of that encompassing Presence had thenature of sin.
On the Saturday after her arrival, as she was walking by the Nen with KateCarrington, one of the two girls, she asked her about the crowd of ministersshe had seen in the streets that morning.
“They have been to the Prophesyings,” said Kate. “My father says that there isno exercise that sanctifies a godly young minister so quickly.”
Kate went on to describe them further. The ministers assembled each Saturday atnine o’clock, and one of their number gave a short Bible-reading or lecture.Then all present were invited to join in the discussion; the less instructedwould ask questions, the more experienced would answer, and debate would runhigh. Such a method Kate explained, who herself was a zealous and wellinstructed Calvinist, was the surest and swiftest road to truth, for every oneheld the open Scriptures in his hand, and interpreted and checked the speakersby the aid of that infallible guide.
“But if a man’s judgment lead him wrong?” asked Isabel, who professedlyadmitted authority to have some place in matters of faith.
“All must hold the Apostles’ Creed first of all,” said Kate, “and must set hisname to a paper declaring the Pope to be antichrist, with other truths uponit.”
Isabel was puzzled; for it seemed now as if Private Judgment were not supremeamong its professors; but she did not care to question further. It began todawn upon her presently, however, why the Queen was so fierce againstProphesyings; for she saw that they exercised that spirit of exclusiveness, theproperty of Papist and Puritan alike; which, since it was the antithesis of thetolerant comprehensiveness of the Church of England, was also the enemy of thetheological peace that Elizabeth was seeking to impose upon the country; andthat it was for that reason that Papist and Puritan, sundered so far intheology, were united in suffering for conscience’ sake.
On the Sunday morning Isabel went with Mrs. Carrington and the two girls to theround Templars’ Church of Saint Sepulchre, for the Morning Prayer at eighto’clock, and then on to St. Peter’s for the sermon. It was the latter functionthat was important in Puritan eyes; for the word preached was considered tohave an almost sacramental force in the application of truth and grace to thesoul; and crowds of people, with downcast eyes and in sombre dress, werepouring down the narrow streets from all the churches round, while the greatbell beat out its summons from the Norman tower. The church was filled from endto end as they came in, meeting Dr. Carrington at the door, and they all passedup together to the pew reserved for the churchwarden, close beneath the pulpit.
As Isabel looked round her, it came upon her very forcibly what she had begunto notice even at Great Keynes, that the religion preached there did not fitthe church in which it was set forth; and that, though great efforts had beenmade to conform the building to the worship. There had been no half measures atNorthampton, for the Puritans had a loathing of what they called a“mingle-mangle.” Altars, footpaces, and piscinæ had been swept away and allmarks of them removed, as well as the rood-loft and every image in thebuilding; the stained windows had been replaced by plain glass painted white;the walls had been whitewashed from roof to floor, and every suspicion ofcolour erased except where texts of Scripture ran rigidly across the open wallspaces: “We are not under the Law, but under Grace,” Isabel read opposite her,beneath the clerestory windows. And, above all, the point to which all linesand eyes converged, was occupied no longer by the Table but by the tribunal ofthe Lord. Yet underneath the disguise the old religion triumphed still. Beneaththe great plain orderly scheme, without depth of shadows, dominated by thetowering place of Proclamation where the crimson-faced herald waited to begin,the round arches and the elaborate mouldings, and the cool depths beyond thepillars, all declared that in the God for whom that temple was built, there wasmystery as well as revelation, Love as well as Justice, condescension as wellas Majesty, beauty as well as awfulness, invitations as well as eternaldecrees.
Isabel looked up presently, as the people still streamed in, and watched theminister in his rustling Genevan gown, leaning with his elbows on the Biblethat rested open on the great tasselled velvet cushion before him. Everythingabout him was on the grand scale; his great hands were clasped and protrudedover the edge of the Book; and his heavy dark face looked menacingly round onthe crowded church; he had the air of a melancholy giant about to engage insome tragic pleasure. But Isabel’s instinctive dislike began to pass intopositive terror so soon as he began to preach.
When the last comers had found a place, and the talking had stopped, hepresently gave out his text, in a slow thunderous voice, that silenced the lastwhispers:
“What shall we then say to these things? If God be on our side, who can beagainst us?”
There were a few slow sentences, in a deep resonant voice, uttering eachsyllable deliberately like the explosion of a far-off gun, and in a minute ortwo he was in the thick of Calvin’s smoky gospel. Doctrine, voice, and man werealike terrible and overpowering.
There lay the great scheme in a few minutes, seen by Isabel as though throughthe door of hell, illumined by the glare of the eternal embers. The hugemerciless Will of God stood there before her, disclosed in all its awfulness,armed with thunders, moving on mighty wheels. The foreknowledge of God closedthe question henceforth, and, if proof were needed, made predestination plain.There was man’s destiny, irrevocably fixed, iron-bound, changeless andimmovable as the laws of God’s own being. Yet over the rigid and awful Face ofGod, flickered a faint light, named mercy; and this mercy vindicated itsexistence by demanding that some souls should escape the final and endless doomthat was the due reward of every soul conceived and born in enmity against Godand under the frown of His Justice.
Then, heralded too by wrath, the figure of Jesus began to glimmer through thethunderclouds; and Isabel lifted her eyes, to look in hope. But He was not asshe had known him in His graciousness, and as He had revealed Himself to her intender communion, and among the flowers and under the clear skies of Sussex.Here, in this echoing world of wrath He stood, pale and rigid, with lightningin His eyes, and the grim and crimson Cross behind him; and as powerless as Hisown Father Himself to save one poor timid despairing hoping soul against whomthe Eternal Decree had gone forth. Jesus was stern and forbidding here, withthe red glare of wrath on His Face too, instead of the rosy crown of Love uponHis forehead; His mouth was closed with compressed lips which surely would onlyopen to condemn; not that mouth, quivering and human, that had smiled andtrembled and bent down from the Cross to kiss poor souls that could not hope,nor help themselves, that had smiled upon Isabel ever since she had known Him.It was appalling to this gentle maiden soul that had bloomed and rejoiced solong in the shadow of His healing, to be torn out of her retreat and set thusunder the consuming noonday of the Justice of this Sun of white-hotRighteousness.
For, as she listened, it was all so miserably convincing; her own little essaysof intellect and flights of hopeful imagination were caught up and whirled awayin the strong rush of this man’s argument; her timid expectancy that God wasreally Love, as she understood the word in the vision of her Saviour’sPerson,—this was dashed aside as a childish fancy; the vision of the Father ofthe Everlasting Arms receded into the realm of dreams; and instead therelowered overhead in this furious tempest of wrath a monstrous God with a stonyFace and a stonier Heart, who was eternally either her torment or salvation;and Isabel thought, and trembled at the blasphemy, that if God were such asthis, the one would be no less agony than the other. Was this man bearing falsewitness, not only against his neighbour, but far more awfully, against his God?But it was too convincing; it was built up on an iron hammered framework of agreat man’s intellect and made white hot with another great man’s burningeloquence. But it seemed to Isabel now and again as if a thunder-voiced viriledevil were proclaiming the Gospel of Everlasting shame. There he bent over thepulpit with flaming face and great compelling gestures that swayed thecongregation, eliciting the emotions he desired, as the conductor’s baton drawsout the music (for the man was a great orator), and he stormed and roared andseemed to marshal the very powers of the world to come, compelling them by hisnod, and interpreting them by his voice; and below him sat this poor child,tossed along on his eloquence, like a straw on a flood; and yet hating andresenting it and struggling to detach herself and disbelieve every word hespoke.
As the last sands were running out in his hour-glass, he came to harbour fromthis raging sea; and in a few deep resonant sentences, like those with which hebegan, he pictured the peace of the ransomed soul, that knows itself safe inthe arms of God; that rejoices, even in this world, in the Light of His Faceand the ecstasy of His embrace; that dwells by waters of comfort and lies downin the green pastures of the Heavenly Love; while, round this little island ofsalvation in an ocean of terror, the thunders of wrath sound only as the noiseof surge on a far-off reef.
The effect on Isabel was very great. It was far more startling than her visitto London; there her quiet religion had received high sanction in the mysteryof S. Paul’s. But here it was the plainest Calvinism preached with immensepower. The preacher’s last words of peace were no peace to her. If it wasnecessary to pass those bellowing breakers of wrath to reach the Happy Country,then she had never reached it yet; she had lived so far in an illusion; herlife had been spent in a fool’s paradise, where the light and warmth andflowers were but artificial after all; and she knew that she had not the heartto set out again. Though she recognised dimly the compelling power of thisreligion, and that it was one which, if sincerely embraced, would make thesmallest details of life momentous with eternal weight, yet she knew that hersoul could never respond to it, and whether saved or damned that it could onlycower in miserable despair under a Deity that was so sovereign as this.
So her heart was low and her eyes sad as she followed Mrs. Carrington out ofchurch. Was this then really the Revelation of the Love of God in the Person ofJesus Christ? Had all that she knew as the Gospel melted down into this fierylump?
The rest of the day did not alter the impression made on her mind. There waslittle talk, or evidence of any human fellowship, in the Carrington householdon the Lord’s Day; there was a word or two of grave commendation on the sermonduring dinner; and in the afternoon there was the Evening Prayer to be attendedin St. Sepulchre’s followed by an exposition, and a public catechising onCalvin’s questions and answers. Here the same awful doctrines reappeared,condensed with an icy reality, even more paralysing than the burningpresentation of them in the morning’s sermon. She was spared questions herself,as she was a stranger; and sat to hear girls of her own age and older men andwomen who looked as soft-hearted as herself, utter definitions of the method ofsalvation and the being and character of God that compelled the assent of herintellect, while they jarred with her spiritual experience as fiercely asbrazen trumpets out of tune.
In the evening there followed further religious exercises in the darkdining-room, at the close of which Dr. Carrington read one of Mr. Calvin’sGenevan discourses, from his tall chair at the head of the table. She looked athim at first, and wondered in her heart whether that man, with his clear gentlevoice, and his pleasant old face crowned with iron-grey hair seen in the mellowcandlelight, really believed in the terrible gospel of the morning; for sheheard nothing of the academic discourse that he was reading now, and presentlyher eyes wandered away out of the windows to the pale night sky. There stillglimmered a faint streak of light in the west across the Market Square; itseemed to her as a kind of mirror of her soul at this moment; the tenderdaylight had faded, though she could still discern the token of its presencefar away, and as from behind the bars of a cage; but the night of God’s wrathwas fast blotting out the last touch of radiance from her despairing soul.
Dr. Carrington looked at her with courteous anxiety, but with approval too, ashe held her hand for a moment as she said good-night to him. There were shadowsof weariness and depression under her eyes, and the corners of her mouthdrooped a little; and the doctor’s heart stirred with hope that the Word of Godhad reached at last this lamb of His who had been fed too long on milk, andsheltered from the sun; but who was now coming out, driven it might be, andunhappy, but still on its way to the plain and wholesome pastures of the Wordthat lay in the glow of the unveiled glory of God.
Isabel in her dark room upstairs was miserable; she stood long at her windowher face pressed against the glass, and looked at the sky, from which the laststreak of light had now died, and longed with all her might for her own oakroom at home, with her prie-dieu and the familiar things about her; and thepines rustling outside in the sweet night-wind. It seemed to her as if anirresistible hand had plucked her out from those loved things and places, andthat a penetrating eye were examining every corner of her soul. In one senseshe believed herself nearer to God than ever before, but it was heartbreakingto find Him like this. She went to sleep with the same sense of a burdeningPresence resting on her spirit.
The next morning Dr. Carrington saw her privately and explained to her a noticethat she had not understood when it had been given out in church the daybefore. It was to the effect that the quarterly communion would be administeredon the following Sunday, having been transferred that year from the Sundayafter Michaelmas Day, and that she must hold herself in readiness on theWednesday afternoon to undergo the examination that was enforced in everyhousehold in Northampton, at the hands of the Minister and Churchwardens.
“But you need not fear it, Mistress Norris,” he said kindly, seeing her alarm.“My daughter Kate will tell you all that is needful.”
Kate too told her it would be little more than formal in her case.
“The minister will not ask you much,” she said, “for you are a stranger, andmy father will vouch for you. He will ask you of irresistible grace, and of theSacrament.” And she gave her a couple of books from which she might summarisethe answers; especially directing her attention to Calvin’s Catechism, tellingher that that was the book with which all the servants and apprentices wereobliged to be familiar.
When Wednesday afternoon came, one by one the members of the household wentbefore the inquisition that held its court in the dining-room; and last of allIsabel’s turn came. The three gentlemen who sat in the middle of the long sideof the table, with their backs to the light, half rose and bowed to her as sheentered; and requested her to sit opposite to them. To her relief it was theMinister of St. Sepulchre’s who was to examine her—he who had read the serviceand discoursed on the Catechism, not the morning preacher. He was a man whoseemed a little ill at ease himself; he had none of the superb confidence ofthe preacher; but appeared to be one to whose natural character this stern rôle was not altogether congenial. He asked a few very simplequestions; as to when she had last taken the Sacrament; how she would interpretthe words, “This is my Body”; and looked almost grateful when she answeredquietly and without heat. He asked her too three or four of the simplerquestions which Kate had indicated to her; all of which she answeredsatisfactorily; and then desired to know whether she was in charity with allmen; and whether she looked to Jesus Christ alone as her one Saviour. Finallyhe turned to Dr. Carrington, and wished to know whether Mistress Norris wouldcome to the sacrament at five or nine o’clock, and Dr. Carrington answered thatshe would no doubt wish to come with his own wife and daughters at nineo’clock; which was the hour for the folks who were better to do. And so theinquisition ended much to Isabel’s relief.
But this was a very extraordinary experience to her; it gave her a firstglimpse into the rigid discipline that the extreme Puritans wished to seeenforced everywhere; and with it a sense of corporate responsibility that shehad not appreciated before; the congregation meant something to her now; shewas no longer alone with her Lord individually, but understood that she waspart of a body with various functions, and that the care of her soul was notmerely a personal matter for herself, but involved her minister and theofficers of the Church as well. It astonished her to think that this processwas carried out on every individual who lived in the town in preparation forthe sacrament on the following Sunday.
Isabel, and indeed the whole household, spent the Friday and Saturday in rigidand severe preparation. No flesh food was eaten on either of the days; and allthe members of the family were supposed to spend several hours in their ownrooms in prayer and meditation. She did not find this difficult, as she waswell practised in solitude and prayer, and she scarcely left her room allSaturday except for meals.
“O Lord,” Isabel repeated each morning and evening at her bedside during thisweek, “the blind dulness of our corrupt nature will not suffer us sufficientlyto weigh these thy most ample benefits, yet, nevertheless, at the commandmentof Jesus Christ our Lord, we present ourselves to this His table, which He hathleft to be used in remembrance of His death until His coming again, to declareand witness before the world, that by Him alone we have received liberty andlife; that by Him alone dost thou acknowledge us to be thy children and heirs;that by Him alone we have entrance to the throne of thy grace; that by Himalone we are possessed in our spiritual kingdom, to eat and drink at His table,with whom we have our conversation presently in heaven, and by whom our bodiesshall be raised up again from the dust, and shall be placed with Him in thatendless joy, which Thou, O Father of mercy, hast prepared for thine elect,before the foundation of the world was laid.”
And so she prepared herself for that tryst with her Beloved in a foreign landwhere all was strange and unfamiliar about her: yet He was hourly drawingnearer, and she cried to Him day by day in these words so redolent to her withassociations of past communions, and of moments of great spiritual elevation.The very use of the prayer this week was like a breeze of flowers to one in awilderness.
On the Saturday night she ceremoniously washed her feet as her father hadtaught her; and lay down happier than she had been for days past, for to-morrowwould bring the Lover of her soul.
On the Sunday all the household was astir early at their prayers, and abouthalf-past eight o’clock all, including the servants who had just returned fromthe five o’clock service, assembled in the dining-room; the noise of the feetof those returning from church had ceased on the pavement of the squareoutside, and all was quiet except for the solemn sound of the bells, as Dr.Carrington offered extempore prayer for all who were fulfilling the Lord’sordinance on that day. And Isabel once more felt her heart yearn to a God whoseemed Love after all.
St. Sepulchre’s was nearly full when they arrived. The mahogany table had beenbrought down from the eastern wall to beneath the cupola, and stood there witha large white cloth, descending almost to the ground on every side; and a rowof silver vessels, flat plates and tall new Communion cups and flagons, shoneupon it. Isabel buried her face in her hands, and tried to withdraw into thesolitude of her own soul; but the noise of the feet coming and going, and thetalking on all sides of her, were terribly distracting. Presently fourministers entered and Isabel was startled to see, as she raised her face at thesudden silence, that none of them wore the prescribed surplice; for she had notbeen accustomed to the views of the extreme Puritans to whom this was a remnantof Popery; an indifferent thing indeed in itself, as they so often maintained;but far from indifferent when it was imposed by authority. One entered thepulpit; the other three took their places at the Holy Table; and after ametrical Psalm sung in the Genevan fashion, the service began. At the properplace the minister in the pulpit delivered an hour’s sermon of the type towhich Isabel was being now introduced for the first time; but bearing again andagain on the point that the sacrament was a confession to the world of faith inChrist; it was in no sense a sacrificial act towards God, “as the Papistsvainly taught”; this part of the sermon was spoiled, to Isabel’s ears at least,by a flood of disagreeable words poured out against the popish doctrine; andthe end of the sermon consisted of a searching exhortation to those whocontemplated sin, who bore malice, who were in any way holding aloof from God,“to cast themselves mightily upon the love of the Redeemer, bewailing theirsinful lives, and purposing to amend them.” This act, wrought out in thesilence of the soul even now would transfer the sinner from death unto life;and turn what threatened to be poison into a “lively and healthful food.” Thenhe turned to those who came prepared and repentant, hungering and thirstingafter the Bread of Life and the Wine that the Lord had mingled; andcongratulated them on their possession of grace, and on the rich access ofsanctification that would be theirs by a faithful reception of this comfortablesacrament; and then in half a dozen concluding sentences he preached Christ, as“food to the hungry; a stream to the thirsty; a rest for the weary. It is Healone, our dear Redeemer, who openeth the Kingdom of Heaven, to which may Hevouchsafe to bring us for His Name’s sake.”
Isabel was astonished to see that the preacher did not descend from the pulpitafter the sermon, but that as soon as he had announced that the mayor would sitat the Town Hall with the ministers and churchwardens on the following Thursdayto inquire into the cases of all who had not presented themselves forCommunion, he turned and began to busy himself with the great Bible that lay onthe cushion. The service went on, and the conducting of it was shared among thethree ministers standing, one at the centre of the table which was placedendways, and the others at the two ends. As the Prayer of Consecration wasbegun, Isabel hid her face as she was accustomed to do, for she believed it tobe the principal part of the service, and waited for the silence that in herexperience generally followed the Amen. But a voice immediately began from thepulpit, and she looked up, startled and distracted.
“Then Jesus said unto them,” pealed out the preacher’s voice, “All ye shall beoffended by me this night, for it is written, I will smite the shepherd and thesheep shall be scattered. But after I am risen, I will go into Galilee beforeyou.”
Ah! why would not the man stop? Isabel did not want the past Saviour but thepresent now; not a dead record but a living experience; above all, not theminister but the great High Priest Himself.
“He began to be troubled and in great heaviness, and said unto them, My soul isvery heavy, even unto the death; tarry here and watch.”
The three ministers had communicated by now; and there was a rustle and clatterof feet as the empty seats in front, hung with houselling cloths, began to befilled. The murmur of the three voices below as the ministers passed along withthe vessels were drowned by the tale of the Passion that rang out overhead.
“Couldest thou not watch one hour? Watch and pray, that ye enter not intotemptation. The spirit indeed is ready, but the flesh is weak.”
It was coming near to Isabel’s turn; the Carringtons already were beginning tomove; and in a moment or two she rose and followed them out. The people werepressing up the aisles; and as she stood waiting her turn to pass into thewhite-hung seat, she could not help noticing the disorder that prevailed; someknelt devoutly, some stood, some sat to receive the sacred elements; and allthe while louder and louder, above the rustling and the loud whispering of theministers and the shuffling of feet, the tale rose and fell on the cadences ofthe preacher’s voice. Now it was her turn; she was kneeling with palmsoutstretched and closed eyes. Ah! would he not be silent for one moment? Couldnot the reality speak for itself, and its interpreter be still? Surely the Kingof Love needed no herald when Himself was here.
“And anon in the dawning, the high Priests held a Council with Elders and theScribes and the whole Council, and bound Jesus and led Him away.” ...
And so it was over presently, and she was back again in her seat, distractedand miserable; trying to pray, forcing herself to attend now to the reader, nowto her Saviour with whom she believed herself in intimate union, and findingnothing but dryness and distraction everywhere. How interminable it was! Sheopened her eyes, and what she saw amazed and absorbed her for a few moments;some were sitting back and talking; some looking cheerfully about them as if ata public entertainment; one man especially overwhelmed her imagination; with agreat red face and neck like a butcher, animal and brutal, with a heavy hangingjowl and little narrow lack-lustre eyes—how bored and depressed he was by thislong obligatory ceremony! Then once more she closed her eyes in self-reproachat her distractions; here were her lips still fragrant with the Wine of God,the pressure of her Beloved’s arm still about her; and these were her thoughts,settling like flies, on everything....
When she opened them again the last footsteps were passing down the aisle, thedripping Cups were being replaced by the ministers, and covered with napkins,and the tale of Easter was in telling from the pulpit like the promise of abrighter day.
“And they said one to another, Who shall roll us away the stone from the doorof the sepulchre? And when they looked, they saw that the stone was rolled away(for it was a very great one).”
So read the minister and closed the book; and Our Father began.
In the evening, when all was over, and the prayers said and the expounding andcatechising finished, in a kind of despair she slipped away alone, and walked alittle by herself in the deepening twilight beside the river; and again shemade effort after effort to catch some consciousness of grace from thisSacrament Sunday, so rare and so precious; but an oppression seemed to dwell inthe very air. The low rain-clouds hung over the city, leaden and chill, thepath where she walked was rank with the smell of dead leaves, and the trees andgrass dripped with lifeless moisture. As she goaded and allured alternately herown fainting soul, it writhed and struggled but could not rise; there was nopungency of bitterness in her self-reproach, no thrill of joy in heraspiration; for the hand of Calvin’s God lay heavy on the delicate languidthing.
She walked back at last in despair over the wet cobblestones of the emptymarket square; but as she came near the house, she saw that the square was notquite empty. A horse stood blowing and steaming before Dr. Carrington’s door,and her own maid and Kate were standing hatless in the doorway looking up anddown the street. Isabel’s heart began to beat, and she walked quicker. In amoment Kate saw her, and began to beckon and call; and the maid ran to meether.
“Mistress Isabel, Mistress Isabel,” she cried, “make haste.”
“What is it?” asked the girl, in sick foreboding.
“There is a man come from Great Keynes,” began the maid, but Kate stopped her.
“Come in, Mistress Isabel,” she said, “my father is waiting for you.”
Dr. Carrington met her at the dining-room door; and his face was tender andfull of emotion.
“What is it?” whispered the girl sharply. “Anthony?”
“Dear child,” he said, “come in, and be brave.”
There was a man standing in the room with cap and whip in hand, spurred andsplashed from head to foot; Isabel recognised one of the grooms from the Hall.
“What is it?” she said again with a piteous sharpness.
Dr. Carrington laid his hands gently on her shoulders, and looked into hereyes.
“It is news of your father,” he said, “from Lady Maxwell.”
He paused, and the steady gleam of his eyes strengthened and quieted her, thenhe went on deliberately, “The Lord hath given and the Lord hath taken it.”
He paused as if for an answer, but no answer came; Isabel was staringwhite-faced with parted lips into those strong blue eyes of his: and hefinished:
“Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
A WINDING-UP
The curtained windows on the ground-floor of the Dower House shone red fromwithin as Isabel and Dr. Carrington, with three or four servants behind, roderound the curving drive in front late on the Monday evening. A face peeped fromMrs. Carroll’s window as the horse’s hoofs sounded on the gravel, and by thetime that Isabel, pale, wet, and worn-out with her seventy miles’ ride, wasdismounted, Mistress Margaret herself was at the door, with Anthony’s face ather shoulder, and Mrs. Carroll looking over the banisters.
Isabel was not allowed to see her father’s body that night, but after she wasin bed, Lady Maxwell herself, who had been sent for when he lay dying, camedown from the Hall, and told her what there was to tell; while MistressMargaret and Anthony entertained Dr. Carrington below.
“Dear child,” said the old lady, leaning with her elbow on the bed, andholding the girl’s hand tenderly as she talked, “it was all over in an hour ortwo. It was the heart, you know. Mrs. Carroll sent for me suddenly, on Saturdaymorning; and by the time I reached him he could not speak. They had carried himupstairs from his study, where they had found him; and laid him down on hisbed, and—yes, yes—he was in pain, but he was conscious, and he was praying Ithink; his lips moved. And I knelt down by the bed and prayed aloud; he onlyspoke twice; and, my dear, it was your name the first time, and the name of HisSaviour the second time. He looked at me, and I could see he was trying tospeak; and then on a sudden he spoke ‘Isabel.’ And I think he was asking me totake care of you. And I nodded and said that I would do what I could, and heseemed satisfied and shut his eyes again. And then presently Mr. Bodder began aprayer—he had come in a moment before; they could not find him at first—andthen, and then your dear father moved a little and raised his hand, and theminister stayed; and he was looking up as if he saw something; and then he saidonce, ‘Jesus’ clear and loud; and, and—that was all, dear child.”
The next morning she and Anthony, with the two old ladies, one of whom wasalways with them during these days, went into the darkened oak room on thefirst floor, where he had died and now rested. The red curtains made a pleasantrosy light, and it seemed to the children impossible to believe that thatserene face, scarcely more serene than in life, with its wide closed lids underthe delicate eyebrows, and contented clean-cut mouth, and the scholarly handsclosed on the breast, all in a wealth of autumn flowers and darkcopper-coloured beech leaves, were not the face and hands of a sleeping man.
But Isabel did not utterly break down till she saw his study. She drew thecurtains aside herself, and there stood his table; his chair was beside it,pushed back and sideways as if he had that moment left it; and on the tableitself the books she knew so well.
In the centre of the table stood his inlaid desk, with the papers lying uponit, and his quill beside them, as if just laid down; even the ink-pot wasuncovered just as he had left it, as the agony began to lay its hand upon hisheart. She stooped and read the last sentence.
“This is the great fruit, that unspeakable benefit that they do eat and drinkof that labour and are burden, and come—” and there it stopped; and theblinding tears rushed into the girl’s eyes, as she stooped to kiss the curvedknob of the chair-arm where his dear hand had last rested.
When all was over a day or two later the two went up to stay at the Hall, whilethe housekeeper was left in charge of the Dower House. Lady Maxwell andMistress Margaret had been present at the parish church on the occasion of thefuneral, for the first time ever since the old Marian priest had left; and hadassisted too at the opening of the will, which was found, tied up and docketedin one of the inner drawers of the inlaid desk; and before its instructionswere complied with, Lady Maxwell wished to have a word or two with Isabel andAnthony.
She made an opportunity on the morning of Anthony’s departure for Cambridge,two days after the funeral, when Mistress Margaret was out of the room, andHubert had ridden off as usual with Piers, on the affairs of the estate.
“My child,” said she to Isabel, who was lying back passive and listless on thewindow-seat. “What do you think your cousin will direct to be done? He willscarcely wish you to leave home altogether, to stay with him. And yet, youunderstand, he is your guardian.”
Isabel shook her head.
“We know nothing of him,” she said, wearily, “he has never been here.”
“If you have a suggestion to make to him you should decide at once,” the otherwent on, “the courier is to go on Monday, is he not, Anthony?”
The boy nodded.
“But will he not allow us,” he said, “to stay at home as usual? Surely——”
Lady Maxwell shook her head.
“And Isabel?” she asked, “who will look after her when you are away?”
“Mrs. Carroll?” he said interrogatively.
Again she shook her head.
“He would never consent,” she said, “it would not be right.”
Isabel looked up suddenly, and her eyes brightened a little.
“Lady Maxwell—” she began, and then stopped, embarrassed.
“Well, my dear?”
“What is it, Isabel?” asked Anthony.
“If it were possible—but, but I could not ask it.”
“If you mean Margaret, my dear”; said the old lady serenely, drawing her needlecarefully through, “it was what I thought myself; but I did not know if youwould care for that. Is that what you meant?”
“Oh, Lady Maxwell,” said the girl, her face lighting up.
Then the old lady explained that it was not possible to ask them to livepermanently at the Hall, although of course Isabel must do so until anarrangement had been made; because their father would scarcely have wished themto be actually inmates of a Catholic house; but that he plainly had encouragedclose relations between the two houses, and indeed, Lady Maxwell interpretedhis mention of his daughter’s name, and his look as he said it, in the sensethat he wished those relations to continue. She thought therefore that therewas no reason why their new guardian’s consent should not be asked to MistressMargaret’s coming over to the Dower House to take charge of Isabel, if the girlwished it. He had no particular interest in them; he lived a couple of hundredmiles away, and the arrangement would probably save him a great deal of troubleand inconvenience.
“But you, Lady Maxwell,” Isabel burst out, her face kindled with hope, for shehad dreaded the removal terribly, “you will be lonely here.”
“Dear child,” said the old lady, laying down her embroidery, “God has beengracious to me; and my husband is coming back to me; you need not fear forme.” And she told them, with her old eyes full of happy tears, how she had hada private word, which they must not repeat, from a Catholic friend at Court,that all had been decided for Sir Nicholas’ release, though he did not know ithimself yet, and that he would be at home again for Advent. The prison feverwas beginning to cause alarm, and it seemed that a good fine would meet the oldknight’s case better than any other execution of justice.
So then, it was decided; and as Isabel walked out to the gatehouse after dinnerbeside Anthony, with her hand on his horse’s neck, and as she watched him atlast ride down the village green and disappear round behind the church, halfher sorrow at losing him was swallowed up in the practical certainty that theywould meet again before Christmas in their old home, and not in a stranger’shouse in the bleak North country.
On the following Thursday, Sir Nicholas’ weekly letter showed evidence that thegood news of his release had begun to penetrate to him; his wife longed to tellhim all she had heard, but so many jealous eyes were on the watch forfavouritism that she had been strictly forbidden to pass on her information.However there was little need.
“I am in hopes,” he wrote, “of keeping Christmas in a merrier place thanprison. I do not mean heaven,” he hastened to add, for fear ofalarming his wife. “Good Mr. Jakes tells me that Sir John is ill to-day, andthat he fears the gaol-fever; and if it is the gaol-fever, sweetheart, whichpray God it may not be for Sir John’s sake, it will be the fourteenthcase in the Tower; and folks say that we shall all be let home again; but withanother good fine, they say, to keep us poor and humble, and mindful of theQueen’s Majesty her laws. However, dearest, I would gladly pay a thousandpounds, if I had them, to be home again.”
But there was news at the end of the letter that caused consternation in one ortwo hearts, and sent Hubert across, storming and almost crying, to Isabel, whowas taking a turn in the dusk at sunset. She heard his step beyond the hedge,quick and impatient, and stopped short, hesitating and wondering.
He had behaved to her with extraordinary tact and consideration, and she wasvery conscious of it. Since her sudden return ten days before from the visitwhich had been meant to separate them, he had not spoken a word to herprivately, except a shy sentence or two of condolence, stammered out withdowncast eyes, but which from the simplicity and shortness of the words hadbrought up a sob from her heart. She guessed that he knew why she had been sentto Northampton, and had determined not to take advantage in any way of hersorrow. Every morning he had disappeared before she came down, and did not comeback till supper, where he sat silent and apart, and yet, when an occasionoffered itself, behaved with a quick attentive deference that showed her wherehis thoughts had been.
Now she stood, wondering and timid, at that hurried insistent step on the otherside of the hedge. As she hesitated, he came quickly through the doorway andstopped short.
“Mistress Isabel,” he said, with all his reserve gone, and looking at herimploringly, but with the old familiar air that she loved, “have you heard? Iam to go as soon as my father comes back. Oh! it is a shame!”
His voice was full of tears, and his eyes were bright and angry. Her heartleapt up once and then seemed to cease beating.
“Go?” she said; and even as she spoke knew from her own dismay how dear thatquiet chivalrous presence was to her.
“Yes,” he went on in the same voice. “Oh! I know I should not speak; and—andespecially now at all times; but I could not bear it; nor that you should thinkit was my will to go.”
She stood still looking at him.
“May I walk with you a little,” he said, “but—I must not say much—I promisedmy father.”
And then as they walked he began to pour it out.
“It is some old man in Durham,” he said, “and I am to see to his estates. Myfather will not want me here when he comes back, and, and it is to be soon. Hehas had the offer for me; and has written to tell me. There is no choice.”
She had turned instinctively towards the house, and the high roofs and chimneyswere before them, dark against the luminous sky.
“No, no,” said Hubert, laying his hand on her arm; and at the touch shethrilled so much that she knew she must not stay, and went forward resolutelyup the steps of the terrace.
“Ah! let me speak,” he said; “I have not troubled you much, Mistress Isabel.”
She hesitated again a moment.
“In my father’s room,” he went on, “and I will bring the letter.”
She nodded and passed into the hall without speaking, and turned to SirNicholas’ study; while Hubert’s steps dashed up the stairs to his mother’sroom. Isabel went in and stood on the hearth in the firelight that glowed andwavered round the room on the tapestry and the prie-dieu and the table whereHubert had been sitting and the tall shuttered windows, leaning her headagainst the mantelpiece, doubtful and miserable.
“Listen,” said Hubert, bursting into the room a moment later with the sheetopen in his hand.
“‘Tell Hubert that Lord Arncliffe needs a gentleman to take charge of hisestates; he is too old now himself, and has none to help him. I have had theoffer for Hubert, and have accepted it; he must go as soon as I have returned.I am sorry to lose the lad, but since James——’” and Hubert broke off. “I mustnot read that,” he said.
Isabel still stood, stretching her hands out to the fire, turned a little awayfrom him.
“But what can I say?” went on the lad passionately, “I must go; and—and Godknows for how long, five or six years maybe; and I shall come back and findyou—and find you——” and a sob rose up and silenced him.
“Hubert,” she said, turning and looking with a kind of wavering steadinessinto his shadowed eyes, and even then noticing the clean-cut features and thesmooth curve of his jaw with the firelight on it, “you ought not——”
“I know, I know; I promised my father; but there are some things I cannot bear.Of course I do not want you to promise anything; but I thought that if perhapsyou could tell me that you thought—that you thought there would be no one else;and that when I came back——”
“Hubert,” she said again, resolutely, “it is impossible: our religions——”
“But I would do anything, I think. Besides, in five years so much may happen.You might become a Catholic—or—or, I might come to see that the ProtestantReligion was nearly the same, or as true at least—or—or—so much mighthappen.—Can you not tell me anything before I go?”
A keen ray of hope had pierced her heart as he spoke; and she scarcely knewwhat she said.
“But, Hubert, even if I were to say——”
He seized her hands and kissed them again and again.
“Oh! God bless you, Isabel! Now I can go so happily. And I will not speak of itagain; you can trust me; it will not be hard for you.”
She tried to draw her hands away, but he still held them tightly in his ownstrong hands, and looked into her face. His eyes were shining.
“Yes, yes, I know you have promised nothing. I hold you to nothing. You are asfree as ever to do what you will with me. But,”—and he lifted her hands oncemore and kissed them, and dropped them; seized his cap and was gone.
Isabel was left alone in a tumult of thought and emotion. He had taken her bystorm; she had not guessed how desperately weak she was towards him, until hehad come to her like this in a whirlwind of passion and stood trembling andalmost crying, with the ruddy firelight on his face, and his eyes burning outof shadow. She felt fascinated still by that mingling of a boy’s weakness andsentiment and of a man’s fire and purpose; and she sank down on her kneesbefore the hearth and looked wonderingly at her hands which he had kissed soardently, now transparent and flaming against the light as if with love. Thenas she looked at the red heart of the fire the sudden leaping of her heartquieted, and there crept on her a glow of steady desire to lean on the power ofthis tall young lover of hers; she was so utterly alone without him it seemedas if there were no choice left; he had come and claimed her in virtue of themaster-law, and she—how much had she yielded? She had not promised; but she hadshown evidently her real heart in those half dozen words; and he hadinterpreted them for her; and she dared not in honesty repudiate hisinterpretation. And so she knelt there, clasping and unclasping her hands, in awhirl of delight and trembling; all the bounds of that sober inner life seemedfor the moment swept away; she almost began to despise its old coldnesses andlimitations. How shadowy after all was the love of God, compared with thisburning tide that was bearing her along on its bosom!...
She sank lower and lower into herself among the black draperies, clasping thoseslender hands tightly across her breast.
Suddenly a great log fell with a crash, the red glow turned into leapingflames; the whole dark room seemed alive with shadows that fled to and fro, andshe knelt upright quickly and looked round her, terrified and ashamed.—What wasshe doing here? Was it so soon then that she was setting aside the will of herfather, who trusted and loved her so well, and who lay out there in the chancelvault? Ah! she had no right here in this room—Hubert’s room now, with his capand whip lying across the papers and the estate-book, and his knife and thebroken jesses on the seat of the chair beside her. There was his step overheadagain. She must be gone before he came back.
There was high excitement on the estate and in the village a week or two laterwhen the rumour of Sir Nicholas’ return was established, and the paper had beenpinned up to the gatehouse stating, in Lady Maxwell’s own handwriting, that hewould be back sometime in the week before Advent Sunday. Reminiscences wereexchanged of the glorious day when the old knight came of age, over forty yearsago; of the sports on the green, of the quintain-tilting for the gentlefolks,and the archery in the meadow behind the church for the vulgar; of the highmass and the dinner that followed it. It was rumoured that Mr. Hubert and Mr.Piers had already selected the ox that was to be roasted whole, and thatmaterials for the bonfire were in process of collection in the woodyard of thehome farm.
Sir Nicholas’ letters became more and more emphatically underlined andincoherent as the days went on, and Lady Maxwell less and less willing forIsabel to read them; but the girl often found the old lady hastily putting awaythe thin sheets which she had just taken out to read to herself once again, onwhich her dear lord had scrawled down his very heart itself, as if his courtingof her were all to do again.
It was not until the Saturday morning that the courier rode in through thegatehouse with the news that Sir Nicholas was to be released that day, andwould be down if possible before nightfall. All the men on the estate wereimmediately called in and sent home to dress themselves; and an escort of adozen grooms and servants led by Hubert and Piers rode out at once on the northroad, with torches ready for kindling, to meet the party and bring them home;and all other preparations were set forward at once.
Towards eight o’clock Lady Maxwell was so anxious and restless that Isabelslipped out and went down to the gatehouse to look out for herself if therewere any signs of the approach of the party. She went up to one of the littleoctagonal towers, and looked out towards the green.
It was a clear starlight night, but towards the village all was bathed in thedancing ruddy light of the bonfire. It was burning on a little mound at theupper end of the green, just below where Isabel stood, and a heavy curtain ofsmoke drifted westwards. As she looked down on it she saw against it the tallblack posts of the gigantic jack and the slowly revolving carcass of the ox;and round about the stirring crowd of the village folk, their figures black onthis side, luminous on that. She could even make out the cassock and square capof Mr. Bodder as he moved among his flock. The rows of houses on either side,bright and clear at this end, melted away into darkness at the lower end of thegreen, where on the right the church tower rose up, blotting out the stars,itself just touched with ruddy light, and on the top of which, like a largestar itself, burned the torch of the watcher who was looking out towards thenorth road. There was a ceaseless hum of noise from the green, pierced by theshrill cries of the children round the glowing mass of the bonfire, but therewas no disorder, as the barrels that had been rolled out of the Hall cellarsthat afternoon still stood untouched beneath the Rectory garden-wall. Isabelcontrasted in her mind this pleasant human tumult with the angry roaring shehad heard from these same country-folk a few months before, when she hadfollowed Lady Maxwell out to the rescue of the woman who had injured her; andshe wondered at these strange souls, who attended a Protestant service, butwere so fierce and so genial in their defence and welcome of a Catholic squire.
As she thought, there was a sudden movement of the light on the church tower;it tossed violently up and down, and a moment later the jubilant clangour ofthe bells broke out. There was a sudden stir in the figures on the green, and aburst of cheering rose. Isabel strained her eyes northwards, but the road tooka turn beyond the church and she could see nothing but darkness and low-hungstars and one glimmering window. She turned instinctively to the house behindher, and there was the door flung wide, and she could make out the figures ofthe two ladies against the brightly lit hall beyond, wrapped like herself, incloak and hood, for the night was frosty and cold.
As she turned once more she heard the clear rattle of trotting hoofs on thehard road, and a glow began to be visible at the lower dark end of the village.The cheering rose higher, and the bells were all clashing together in melodiousdiscord, as in the angle of the road a group of tossing torches appeared. Thenshe could make out the horsemen; three riding together, and the others asescort round them. The crowd had poured off the grass on to the road by now,and the horses were coming up between two shouting gesticulating lines whichclosed after them as they went. Now she could make out the white hair of SirNicholas, as he bowed bare-headed right and left; and Hubert’s feathered cap,on one side of him, and Mr. Boyd’s black hat on the other. They had passed thebonfire now, and were coming up the avenue, the crowds still streaming afterthem, and the church tower bellowing rough music overhead. Isabel leaned outover the battlements, and saw beneath her the two old ladies waiting justoutside the gate by the horse-block; and then she drew back, her eyes full oftears, for she saw Sir Nicholas’ face as he caught sight of his wife.
There was a sudden silence as the horses drew up; and the crowds ceasedshouting, and when Isabel leaned over again Sir Nicholas was on thehorse-block, the two ladies immediately behind him, and the people pressingforward to hear his voice. It was a very short speech; and Isabel overheadcould not catch more than detached phrases of it, “for the faith”—“my wife andyou all”—“home again”—“my son Hubert here”—“you and your families”—“theCatholic religion”—“the Queen’s grace”—“God save her Majesty.”
Then again the cheering broke out; and Isabel crossed over to see them pass upto the house and to the bright door set wide for them, and even as she watchedthem go up the steps, and Hubert’s figure close behind, she suddenly droppedher forehead on to the cold battlement, and drew a sharp breath or two, for sheremembered again what it all meant to him and to herself.
PART II
ANTHONY IN LONDON
The development of a nation is strangely paralleled by the development of anindividual. There comes in both a period of adolescence, of the stirring of newpowers, of an increase of strength, of the dawn of new ideals, of the awakingof self-consciousness; contours become defined and abrupt, awkward and hastymovements succeed to the grace of childhood; and there is a curious mingling ofrefinement and brutality, stupidity and tenderness; the will is subject towhims; it is easily roused and not so easily quieted. Yet in spite of theattendant discomforts the whole period is undeniably one of growth.
The reign of Elizabeth coincided with this stage in the development of England.The young vigour was beginning to stir—and Hawkins and Drake taught the worldthat it was so, and that when England stretched herself catastrophe abroad mustfollow. She loved finery and feathers and velvet, and to see herself on thedramatic stage and to sing her love-songs there, as a growing maid dresses upand leans on her hand and looks into her own eyes in the mirror—and Marlowe andGreene and Shakespeare are witnesses to it. Yet she loved to hang over thearena too and watch the bear-baiting and see the blood and foam and listen tothe snarl of the hounds, as a lad loves sport and things that minister death.Her policy, too, under Elizabeth as her genius, was awkward and ill-consideredand capricious, and yet strong and successful in the end, as a growing lad,while he is clumsier, yet manages to leap higher than a year ago.
And once more, to carry the parallel still further, during the middle period ofthe reign, while the balance of parties and powers remained much the same,principles and tendencies began to assert themselves more definitely, just asmuscles and sinews begin to appear through the round contour of the limbs of agrowing child.
Thus, from 1571 to 1577, while there was no startling reversal of elements inthe affairs of England, the entire situation became more defined. The variousparties, though they scarcely changed in their mutual relations, yet continuedto develop swiftly along their respective lines, growing more pronounced andless inclined to compromise; foreign enmities and expectations became moreacute; plots against the Queen’s life more frequent and serious, and thecountermining of them under Walsingham more patient and skilful; competitionand enterprise in trade more strenuous; Scottish affairs more complicated;movements of revolt and repression in Ireland more violent.
What was true of politics was also true of religious matters, for the two wereinextricably mingled. The Puritans daily became more clamorous and intolerant;their “Exercises” more turbulent, and their demands more unreasonable andone-sided. The Papists became at once more numerous and more strict; and theGovernment measures more stern in consequence. The act of ’71 made it no less acrime than High Treason to reconcile or be reconciled to the Church of Rome, togive effect to a Papal Bull, to be in possession of any muniments ofsuperstition, or to declare the Queen a heretic or schismatic. The Church ofEngland, too, under the wise guidance of Parker, had begun to shape her coursemore and more resolutely along the lines of inclusiveness and moderation; torealise herself as representing the religious voice of a nation that was widelydivided on matters of faith; and to attempt to include within her fold everyindividual that was not an absolute fanatic in the Papist or Puritan direction.
Thus, in every department, in home and foreign politics, in art and literature,and in religious independence, England was rising and shaking herself free; thelast threads that bound her to the Continent were snapped by the Reformation,and she was standing with her soul, as she thought, awake and free at last,conscious of her beauty and her strength, ready to step out at last before theworld, as a dominant and imperious power.
Anthony Norris had been arrested, like so many others, by the vision of thisyoung country of his, his mother and mistress, who stood there, waiting to beserved. He had left Cambridge in ’73, and for three years had led a somewhataimless life; for his guardian allowed him a generous income out of hisfather’s fortune. He had stayed with Hubert in the north, had yawned andstretched himself at Great Keynes, had gone to and fro among friends’ houses,and had at last come to the conclusion, to which he was aided by a chorus ofadvisers, that he was wasting his time.
He had begun then to look round him for some occupation, and in the finalchoice of it his early religious training had formed a large element. It hadkept alive in him a certain sense of the supernatural, that his exuberance ofphysical life might otherwise have crushed; and now as he looked about to seehow he could serve his country, he became aware that her ecclesiasticalcharacter had a certain attraction for him; he had had indeed an idea of takingOrders; but he had relinquished this by now, though he still desired if hemight to serve the National Church in some other capacity. There was much inthe Church of England to appeal to her sons; if there was a lack of unity inher faith and policy, yet that was largely out of sight, and her bearing wasgallant and impressive. She had great wealth, great power and great dignity.The ancient buildings and revenues were hers; the civil power was at herdisposal, and the Queen was eager to further her influence, and to protect herbishops from the encroaching power of Parliament, claiming only for the crownthe right to be the point of union for both the secular and ecclesiasticalsections of the nation, and to stamp by her royal approval or annul by her vetothe acts of Parliament and Convocation alike. It seemed then to Anthony’s eyesthat the Church of England had a tremendous destiny before her, as thereligious voice of the nation that was beginning to make itself so dominant inthe council of the world, and that there was no limit to the influence shemight exercise by disciplining the exuberant strength of England, andcounteracting by her soberness and self-restraint the passionate fanaticism ofthe Latin nations. So little by little in place of the shadowy individualismthat was all that he knew of religion, there rose before him the vision of aliving church, who came forth terrible as an army with banners, surrounded byall the loyalty that nationalism could give her, with the Queen herself as herguardian, and great princes and prelates as her supporters, while at the wheelsof her splendid car walked her hot-blooded chivalrous sons, who served her andspread her glories by land and sea, not perhaps chiefly for the sake of herspiritual claims, but because she was bone of their bone; and was no lesszealous than themselves for the name and character of England.
When, therefore, towards the end of ’76, Anthony received the offer of aposition in the household of the Archbishop of Canterbury, through therecommendation of the father of one of his Cambridge friends, he accepted itwith real gratitude and enthusiasm.
The post to which he was appointed was that of Gentleman of the Horse. Hisactual duties were not very arduous owing to the special circumstances ofArchbishop Grindal; and he had a good deal of time to himself. Briefly, theywere as follows—He had to superintend the Yeoman of the Horse, and see that hekept full accounts of all the horses in stable or at pasture, and of all thecarriages and harness and the like. Every morning he had to present himself tothe Archbishop and receive stable-orders for the day, and to receive from theyeoman accounts of the stables. Every month he examined the books of the yeomanbefore passing them on to the steward. His permission too was necessary beforeany guest’s or stranger’s horse might be cared for in the Lambeth stables.
He was responsible also for all the men and boys connected with the stable; toengage them, watch their morals and even the performance of their religiousduties, and if necessary report them for dismissal to the steward of thehousehold. In Archbishop Parker’s time this had been a busy post, as the stateobserved at Lambeth and Croydon was very considerable; but Grindal was of amore retiring nature, disliking as was said, “lordliness”; and although stillthe household was an immense affair, in its elaborateness and splendour beyondalmost any but royal households of the present day, still Anthony’s duties werefar from heavy. The Archbishop indeed at first dispensed with this officealtogether, and concentrated all the supervision of the stable on the yeoman,and Anthony was the first and only Gentleman of the Horse that ArchbishopGrindal employed. The disgrace and punishment under which the Archbishop fellso early in his archiepiscopate made this particular post easier than it wouldeven otherwise have been; as fewer equipages were required when the Archbishopwas confined to his house, and the establishment was yet further reduced.
Ordinarily then his duties were over by eleven o’clock, except when specialarrangements were to be made. He rose early, waited upon the Archbishop byeight o’clock, and received his orders for the day; then interviewed theyeoman; sometimes visited the stables to receive complaints, and was ready byhalf-past ten to go to the chapel for the morning prayers with the rest of thehousehold. At eleven he dined at the Steward’s table in the great hall, withthe other principal officers of the household, the chaplain, the secretaries,and the gentlemen ushers, with guests of lesser degree. This great hall withits two entrances at the lower end near the gateway, its magnificenthammer-beam roof, its daïs, its stained glass, was a worthy place ofentertainment, and had been the scene of many great feasts and royal visits inthe times of previous archbishops in favour with the sovereign, and of asplendid banquet at the beginning of Grindal’s occupancy of the see. Now,however, things were changed. There were seldom many distinguished persons todine with the disgraced prelate; and he himself preferred too to entertainthose who could not repay him again, after the precept of the gospel; andbesides the provision for the numerous less important guests who dined daily atLambeth, a great tub was set at the lower end of the hall as it had been inParker’s time, and every day after dinner under the steward’s direction wasfilled with food from the tables, which was afterwards distributed at the gateto poor people of the neighbourhood.
After dinner Anthony’s time was often his own, until the evening prayers atsix, followed by supper again spread in the hall. It was necessary for himalways to sleep in the house, unless leave was obtained from the steward. Thisgentleman, Mr. John Scot, an Esquire, took a fancy to Anthony, and wasindulgent to him in many ways; and Anthony had, as a matter of fact, littledifficulty in coming and going as he pleased so soon as his morning duties weredone.
Lambeth House had been lately restored by Parker, and was now a very beautifuland well-kept place. Among other repairs and buildings he had re-roofed thegreat hall that stood just within Morton’s gateway; he had built a long pierinto the Thames where the barge could be entered easily even at low tide; hehad rebuilt the famous summerhouse of Cranmer’s in the garden, besides doingmany sanitary alterations and repairs; and the house was well kept up inGrindal’s time.
Anthony soon added a great affection and tenderness to the awe that he felt forthe Archbishop, who was almost from the first a pathetic and touching figure.When Anthony first entered on his duties in November ’76, he found theArchbishop in his last days of freedom and good favour with the Queen.Elizabeth, he soon learnt from the gossip of the household, was as determinedto put down the Puritan “prophesyings” as the popish services; for both aliketended to injure the peace she was resolved to maintain. Rumours were flying toand fro; the Archbishop was continually going across the water to confer withhis friends and the Lords of the Council, and messengers came and went all day;and it was soon evident that the Archbishop did not mean to yield. It was saidthat his Grace had sent a letter to her Majesty bidding her not to meddle withwhat did not concern her, telling her that she, too, would one day have torender account before Christ’s tribunal, and warning her of God’s anger if shepersisted.
Her Majesty had sworn like a trooper, a royal page said one day as he loungedover the fire in the guard-room, and had declared that if she was like Ozeasand Ahab and the rest, as Grindal had said she was, she would take care thathe, at least, should be like Micaiah the son of Imlah, before she had done withhim. Then it began to leak out that Elizabeth was sending her commands to thebishops direct instead of through their Metropolitan; and, as the days went by,it became more and more evident that disgrace was beginning to shadow Lambeth.The barges that drew up at the watergate were fewer as summer went on, and thelong tables in hall were more and more deserted; even the Archbishop himselfseemed silent and cast down. Anthony used to watch him from his window going upand down the little walled garden that looked upon the river, with his handsclasped behind him and his black habit gathered up in them, and his chin on hisbreast. He would be longer than ever too in chapel after the morning prayer,and the company would wait and wonder in the anteroom till his Grace came inand gave the signal for dinner. And at last the blow fell.
On one day in June, Anthony, who had been on a visit to Isabel at Great Keynes,returned to Lambeth in time for morning prayer and dinner just before the gateswere shut by the porter, having ridden up early with a couple of grooms. Thereseemed to him to be an air of constraint abroad as the guests and members ofthe household gathered for dinner. There were no guests of high dignity thatday, and the Archbishop sat at his own table silent and apart. Anthony, fromhis place at the steward’s table, noticed that he ate very sparingly, and thathe appeared even more preoccupied and distressed than usual. His short-sightedeyes, kind and brown, surrounded by wrinkles from his habit of peering closelyat everything, seemed full of sadness and perplexity, and his hand fumbled withhis bread continually. Anthony did not like to ask anything of his neighbours,as there were one or two strangers dining at the steward’s table that day; andthe moment dinner was over, and grace had been said and the Archbishop retiredwith his little procession preceded by a white wand, an usher came running backto tell Master Norris that his Grace desired to see him at once in the innercloister.
Anthony hastened round through the court between the hall and the river, andfound the Archbishop walking up and down in his black habit with the roundflapped cap, that, as a Puritan, he preferred to the square head-dress of themore ecclesiastically-minded clergy, still looking troubled and cast down,continually stroking his dark forked beard, and talking to one of hissecretaries. Anthony stood at a little distance at the open side of the courtnear the river, cap in hand, waiting till the Archbishop should beckon him. Thetwo went up and down in the shade in the open court outside the cloisters,where the pump stood, and where the pulpit had been erected for the Queen’sfamous visit to his predecessor; when she had sat in a gallery over thecloister and heard the chaplain’s sermon. On the north rose up the roof of thechapel. The cloisters themselves were poor buildings—little more than passageswith a continuous row of square windows running along them the height of aman’s head.
After a few minutes the secretary left the Archbishop with an obeisance, andhastened into the house through the cloister, and presently the Archbishop,after a turn or two more with the same grave air, peered towards Anthony andthen called him.
Anthony immediately came towards him and received orders that half a dozenhorses with grooms should be ready as soon as possible, who were to receiveorders from Mr. Richard Frampton, the secretary; and that three or four horsesmore were to be kept saddled till seven o’clock that evening in case furthermessages were wanted.
“And I desire you, Mr. Norris,” said the Archbishop, “to let the men underyour charge know that their master is in trouble with the Queen’s Grace; andthat they can serve him best by being prompt and obedient.”
Anthony bowed to the Archbishop, and was going to withdraw, but the Archbishopwent on:
“I will tell you,” he said, “for your private ear only at present, that I havereceived an order this day from my Lords of the Council, bidding me to keep tomy house for six months; and telling me that I am sequestered by the Queen’sdesire. I know not how this will end, but the cause is that I will not do herGrace’s will in the matter of the Exercises, as I wrote to tell her so; and Iam determined, by God’s grace, not to yield in this thing; but to govern thecharge committed to me as He gives me light. That is all, Mr. Norris.”
The whole household was cast into real sorrow by the blow that had fallen atlast on the master; he was “loving and grateful to servants”; and was free andliberal in domestic matters, and it needed only a hint that he was in trouble,for his officers and servants to do their utmost for him.
Anthony’s sympathy was further aroused by the knowledge that the Papists, too,hated the old man, and longed to injure him. There had been a great increase ofCatholics this year; the Archbishop of York had reported that “a morestiff-necked, wilful, or obstinate people did he never hear of”; and fromHereford had come a lament that conformity itself was a mockery, as even thePapists that attended church were a distraction when they got there, and JohnHareley was instanced as “reading so loud upon his Latin popish primer (that heunderstands not) that he troubles both minister and people.” In Novembermatters were so serious that the Archbishop felt himself obliged to take stepsto chastise the recusants; and in December came the news of the execution ofCuthbert Maine at Launceston in Cornwall.
How much the Catholics resented this against the Archbishop was brought toAnthony’s notice a day or two later. He was riding back for morning prayerafter an errand in Battersea, one frosty day, and had just come in sight ofMorton’s Gateway, when he observed a man standing by it, who turned and ran, onhearing the horse’s footsteps, past Lambeth Church and disappeared in thedirection of the meadows behind Essex House. Anthony checked his horse,doubtful whether to follow or not, but decided to see what it was that the manhad left pinned to the door. He rode up and detached it, and found it was aviolent and scurrilous attack upon the Archbishop for his supposed share in thedeath of the two Papists. It denounced him as a “bloody pseudo-minister,”compared him to Pilate, and bade him “look to his congregation of lewd andprofane persons that he named the Church of England,” for that God wouldavenge the blood of his saints speedily upon their murderers.
Anthony carried it into the hall, and after showing it to Mr. Scot, put itindignantly into the fire. The steward raised his eyebrows.
“Why so, Master Norris?” he asked.
“Why,” said Anthony sharply, “you would not have me frame it, and show to mylord.”
“I am not sure,” said the other, “if you desire to injure the Papists. Suchfoul nonsense is their best condemnation. It is best to keep evidence against atraitor, not destroy it. Besides, we might have caught the knave, and now wecannot,” he added, looking at the black shrivelling sheet half regretfully.
“It is a mystery to me,” said Anthony, “how there can be Papists.”
“Why, they hate England,” said the steward, briefly, as the bell rang formorning prayer. As Anthony followed him along the gallery, he thought halfguiltily of Sir Nicholas and his lady, and wondered whether that was true ofthem. But he had no doubt that it was true of Catholics as a class; they hadceased to be English; the cause of the Pope and the Queen were irreconcilable;and so the whole incident added more fuel to the hot flame of patriotism andloyalty that burnt so bright in the lad’s soul.
But it was fanned yet higher by a glimpse he had of Court-life; and he owed itto Mary Corbet whom he had only seen momentarily in public once or twice, andnever to speak to since her visit to Great Keynes over six years ago. He hadblushed privately and bitten his lip a good many times in the interval, when hethought of his astonishing infatuation, and yet the glamour had never whollyfaded; and his heart quickened perceptibly when he opened a note one day,brought by a royal groom, that asked him to come that very afternoon if hecould, to Whitehall Palace, where Mistress Corbet would be delighted to see himand renew their acquaintance.
As he came, punctual to the moment, into the gallery overlooking the tilt-yard,the afternoon sun was pouring in through the oriel window, and the yard beyondseemed all a haze of golden light and dust. He heard an exclamation, as hepaused, dazzled, and the servant closed the door behind him; and there cameforward to him in the flood of glory, the same resplendent figure, all muslinand jewels, that he remembered so well, with the radiant face, looking scarcelyolder, with the same dancing eyes and scarlet lips. All the old charm seemed toenvelop him in a moment as he saluted her with all the courtesy of which he wascapable.
“Ah!” she cried, “how happy I am to see you again—those dear days at GreatKeynes!” And she took both his hands with such ardour that poor Anthony wasalmost forced to think that he had never been out of her thoughts since.
“How can I serve you, Mistress Corbet?” he asked.
“Serve me? Why, by talking to me, and telling me of the country. What does thelad mean? Come and sit here,” she said, and she drew him to the window seat.
Anthony looked out into the shining haze of the tilt-yard. Some one with a longpole was struggling violently on the back of a horse, jerking the reins andcursing audibly.
“Look at that fool,” said Mary, “he thinks his horse as great a dolt ashimself. Chris, Chris,” she screamed through her hands—“you sodden ass; bequieter with the poor beast—soothe him, soothe him. He doesn’t know what youwant of him with your foul temper and your pole going like a windmill about hisears.”
The cursing and jerking ceased, and a red furious face with thick black beardand hair looked up. But before the rider could speak, Mary went on again:
“There now, Chris, he is as quiet as a sheep again. Now take him at it.”
“What does he want?” asked Anthony. “I can scarcely see for the dust.”
“Why, he’s practising at the quintain;—ah! ah!” she cried out again, as thequintain was missed and swung round with a hard buffet on the man’s back as hetore past. “Going to market, Chris? You’ve got a sturdy shepherd behind you.Baa, baa, black sheep.”
“Who’s that?” asked Anthony, as the tall horseman, as if driven by the stormof contumely from the window, disappeared towards the stable.
“Why that’s Chris Hatton—whom the Queen calls her sheep, and he’s as silly asone, too, with his fool’s face and his bleat and his great eyes. He trots aboutafter her Grace, too, like a pet lamb. Bah! I’m sick of him. That’s enough ofthe ass; tell me about Isabel.”
Then they fell to talking about Isabel; and Mary eyed him as he answered herquestions.
“Then she isn’t a Papist, yet?” she asked.
Anthony’s face showed such consternation that she burst out laughing.
“There, there, there!” she cried. “No harm’s done. Then that tall lad, who wasaway last time I was there—well, I suppose he’s not turned Protestant?”
Anthony’s face was still more bewildered.
“Why, my dear lad,” she said, “where are your eyes?”
“Mistress Corbet,” he burst out at last, “I do not know what you mean. Huberthas been in Durham for years. There is no talk——” and he stopped.
Mary’s face became sedate again.
“Well, well,” she said, “I always was a tattler. It seems I am wrong again.Forgive me, Master Anthony.”
Anthony was indeed astonished at her fantastic idea. Of course he knew thatHubert had once been fond of Isabel, but that was years ago, when they had beenall children together. Why, he reflected, he too had been foolish once—and heblushed a little.
Then they went on to talk of Great Keynes, Sir Nicholas, and Mr. Stewart’sarrest and death; and Mary asked Anthony to excuse her interest in suchmatters, but Papistry had always been her religion, and what could a poor girldo but believe what she was taught? Then they went on to speak of more recentaffairs, and Mary made him describe to her his life at Lambeth, and everythinghe did from the moment he got up to the moment he went to bed again; andwhether the Archbishop was a kind master, and how long they spent at prayers,and how many courses they had at dinner; and Anthony grew more and moreanimated and confidential—she was so friendly and interested and pretty, as sheleaned towards him and questioned and listened, and the faint scent of violetfrom her dress awakened his old memories of her.
And then at last she approached the subject on which she had chiefly wished tosee him—which was that he should speak to the steward at Lambeth on behalf of ayoung man who was to be dismissed, it seemed, from the Archbishop’s service,because his sister had lately turned Papist and fled to a convent abroad. Itwas a small matter; and Anthony readily promised to do his best, and, ifnecessary, to approach the Archbishop himself: and Mistress Corbet wasprofusely grateful.
They had hardly done talking of the matter, when a trumpet blew suddenlysomewhere away behind the building they were in. Mary held up a white fingerand put her head on one side.
“That will be the Ambassador,” she said.
Anthony looked at her interrogatively.
“Why, you country lad!” she said, “come and see.”
She jumped up, and he followed her down the gallery, and along throughinterminable corridors and ante-chambers, and up and down the stairs of thisenormous palace; and Anthony grew bewildered and astonished as he went at thedoors on all sides, and the roofs that ranged themselves every way as he lookedout. And at last Mary stopped at a window, and pointed out.
The courtyard beneath was alive with colour and movement. In front of theentrance opposite waited the great gilded state carriage, and another was justdriving away. On one side a dozen ladies on grey horses were drawn up, tofollow behind the Queen when she should come out; and a double row of liveriedservants were standing bare-headed round the empty carriage. The rest of thecourt was filled with Spanish and English nobles, mounted, with their servantson foot; all alike in splendid costumes—the Spaniards with rich chains abouttheir necks, and tall broad-brimmed hats decked with stones and pearls, and theEnglishmen in feathered buckled caps and short cloaks thrown back. Two or threetrumpeters stood on the steps of the porch. Anthony did not see much state atLambeth, and the splendour and gaiety of this seething courtyard exhilaratedhim, and he stared down at it all, fascinated, while Mary Corbet poured out acaustic commentary:
“There is the fat fool Chris again, all red with his tilting. I would like tobaa at him again, but I dare not with all these foreign folk. There isLeicester, that tall man with a bald forehead in the cap with the red feather,on the white horse behind the carriage—he always keeps close to the Queen. Heis the enemy of your prelate, Master Anthony, you know.... That is Oxford, justbehind him on the chestnut. Yes, look well at him. He is the prince of thetilt-yard; none can stand against him. You would say he was at his nine-pins,when he rides against them all.... And he can do more than tilt. Thesesweet-washed gloves”—and she flapped an embroidered pair before Anthony—“thesehe brought to England. God bless and reward him for it!” she addedfervently.... “I do not see Burghley. Eh! but he is old and gouty these days;and loves a cushion and a chair and a bit of flannel better than to kneelbefore her Grace. You know, she allows him to sit when he confers with her. Butthen, she is ever prone to show mercy to bearded persons.... Ah! there is dearSidney; that is a sweet soul. But what does he do here among the stones andmortar when he has the beeches of Penshurst to walk beneath. He is not so wiseas I thought him.... But I must say I grow weary of his nymphs and his airs ofOlympus. And for myself, I do not see that Flora and Phœbus and Maia and therest are a great gain, instead of Our Lady and Saint Christopher and the courtof heaven. But then I am a Papist and not a heathen, and therefore blind andsuperstitious. Is that not so, Master Anthony?... And there is Maitland besidehim, with the black velvet cap and the white feather, and his cross eyes andmouth. Now I wish he were at Penshurst, or Bath—or better still, at Jericho,for it is further off. I cannot bear that fellow.... Why, Sussex is going onthe water, too, I see. Now what brings him here? I should have thought hisaffairs gave him enough to think of.... There he is, with his groom behind him,on the other chestnut. I am astonished at him. He is all for this Frenchmarriage, you know. So you may figure to yourself Mendoza’s love for him! Theywill be like two cats together on the barge; spitting and snarling softly atone another. Her Grace loves to balance folk like that; first one stretches hisclaws, and then the other; then one arches his back and snarls, and the otherscratches his face for him; and then when all is flying fur and blasphemy, offslips her Grace and does what she will.”
It was an astonishing experience for Anthony. He had stepped out from hisworkaday life among the grooms and officers and occasional glimpses of hislonely old master, into an enchanted region, where great personages whose verynames were luminous with fame, now lived and breathed and looked cheerful orsullen before his very eyes; and one who knew them in their daily life stood byhim and commented and interpreted them for him. He listened and stared, dazedwith the strangeness of it all.
Mistress Corbet was proceeding to express her views upon the foreign elementthat formed half the pageant, when the shrill music broke out again in thepalace, and the trumpeters on the steps took it up; and a stir and bustlebegan. Then out of the porch began to stream a procession, like a river ofcolour and jewels, pouring from the foot of the carved and windowed wall, andeddying in a tumbled pool about the great gilt carriage;—ushers and footmen andnobles and ladies and pages in bewildering succession. Anthony pressed hisforehead to the glass as he watched, with little exclamations, and Mary watchedhim, amused and interested by his enthusiasm.
And last moved the great canopy bending and swaying under the doorway, andbeneath it, like two gorgeous butterflies, at the sight of whom all thestanding world fell on its knees, came the pale Elizabeth with her auburn hair,and the brown-faced Mendoza, side by side; and entered the carriage with thefive plumes atop and the caparisoned horses that stamped and tossed theirjingling heads. The yard was already emptying fast, en route forChelsea Stairs; and as soon as the two were seated, the shrill trumpets blewagain, and the halberdiers moved off with the carriage in the midst, the greatnobles going before, and the ladies behind. The later comers mounted as quicklyas possible, as their horses were brought in from the stable entrance, andclattered away, and in five minutes the yard was empty, except for a fewsentries at their posts, and a servant or two lounging at the doorway; and asAnthony still stared at the empty pavement and the carpeted steps, far awayfrom the direction of the Abbey came the clear call of the horns to tell theloyal folk that the Queen was coming.
It was a great inspiration for Anthony. He had seen world-powers incarnatebelow him in the glittering rustling figure of the Queen, and the dark-eyedcourtly Ambassador in his orders and jewels at her side. There they had sattogether in one carriage; the huge fiery realm of the south, whose very namewas redolent with passion and adventure and boundless wealth; and the littleself-contained northern kingdom, now beginning to stretch its hands, and quiverall along its tingling sinews and veins with fresh adolescent life. And Anthonyknew that he was one of the cells of this young organism; and that in him aswell as in Elizabeth and this sparkling creature at his side ran the fresh redblood of England. They were all one in the possession of a common life; and hisheart burned as he thought of it.
After he had parted from Mary he rode back to Westminster, and crossed theriver by the horse-ferry that plied there. And even as he landed and got hisbeast, with a deal of stamping and blowing, off the echoing boards on to theclean gravel again, there came down the reaches of the river the mellow soundof music across a mile of water, mingled with the deep rattle of oars, andsparkles of steel and colour glittered from the far-away royal barges in theautumn sunshine; and the lad thought with wonder how the two great powers sosavagely at war upon the salt sea, were at peace here, sitting side by side onsilken cushions and listening to the same trumpets of peace upon the flowingriver.
SOME NEW LESSONS
The six years that followed Sir Nicholas’ return and Hubert’s departure for theNorth had passed uneventfully at Great Keynes. The old knight had beenprofoundly shocked that any Catholic, especially an agent so valuable as Mr.Stewart, should have found his house a death-trap; and although he continuedreceiving his friends and succouring them, he did so with more real caution andless ostentation of it. His religious zeal and discretion were furtherincreased by the secret return to the “Old Religion” of several of hisvillagers during the period; and a very fair congregation attended Mass sooften as it was said in the cloister wing of the Hall. The new rector, like hispredecessor, was content to let the squire alone; and unlike him had no wife tomake trouble.
Then, suddenly, in the summer of ’77, catastrophes began, headed by theunexpected return of Hubert, impatient of waiting, and with new plans in hismind.
Isabel had been out with Mistress Margaret walking in the dusk one Augustevening after supper, on the raised terrace beneath the yews. They had beenlistening to the loud snoring of the young owls in the ivy on the chimney-stackopposite, and had watched the fierce bird slide silently out of the gloom,white against the blackness, and disappear down among the meadows. Once Isabelhad seen him pause, too, on one of his return journeys, suspicious of the dimfigures beneath, silhouetted on a branch against the luminous green westernsky, with the outline of a mouse with its hanging tail plain in his crookedclaws, before he glided to his nest again. As Isabel waited she heard the bangof the garden-door, but gave it no thought, and a moment after MistressMargaret asked her to fetch a couple of wraps from the house for them both, asthe air had a touch of chill in it. She came down the lichened steps, crossedthe lawn, and passed into the unlighted hall. As she entered, the door oppositeopened, and for a moment she saw the silhouette of a man’s figure against thebright passage beyond. Her heart suddenly leapt, and stood still.
“Anthony!” she whispered, in a hush of suspense.
There was a vibration and a step beside her.
“Isabel!” said Hubert’s voice. And then his arms closed round her for thefirst time in her life. She struggled and panted a moment as she felt hisbreath on her face; and he released her. She recoiled to the door, and stoodthere silent and panting.
“Oh! Isabel!” he whispered; and again, “Isabel!”
She put out her hand and grasped the door-post behind her.
“Oh! Hubert! Why have you come?”
He came a step nearer and she could see the faint whiteness of his face in thewestern glimmer.
“I cannot wait,” he said, “I have been nearly beside myself. I have left thenorth—and I cannot wait so long.”
“Well?” she said; and he heard the note of entreaty and anxiety in her voice.
“I have my plans,” he answered; “I will tell you to-morrow. Where is myaunt?”
Isabel heard a step on the gravel outside.
“She is coming,” she said sharply. Hubert melted into the dark, and she sawthe opposite door open and let him out.
The next day Hubert announced his plans to Sir Nicholas, and a conflictfollowed.
“I cannot go on, sir,” he said, “I cannot wait for ever. I am treated like aservant, too; and you know how miserably I am paid, I have obeyed you for sixyears, sir; and now I have thrown up the post and told my lord to his face thatI can bear with him no longer.”
Sir Nicholas’ face, as he sat in his upright chair opposite the boy, grewflushed with passion.
“It is your accursed temper, sir,” he said violently. “I know you of old.Wait? For what? For the Protestant girl? I told you to put that from your mind,sir.”
Hubert did not propose as yet to let his father into all his plans.
“I have not spoken her name, sir, I think. I say I cannot wait for my fortune;I may be impatient, sir—I do not deny it.”
“Then how do you propose to better it?” sneered his father.
“In November,” said Hubert steadily, looking his father in the eyes, “I sailwith Mr. Drake.”
Sir Nicholas’ face grew terrific. He rose, and struck the table twice with hisclenched fist.
“Then, by God, sir, Mr. Drake may have you now.”
Hubert’s face grew white with anger; but he had his temper under control.
“Then I wish you good-day, sir,” and he left the room.
When the boy had left the house again for London, as he did the same afternoon,Lady Maxwell tried to soothe the old man. It was impossible, even for her, toapproach him before.
“Sweetheart,” she said tranquilly, as he sat and glowered at his plate whensupper was over and the men had left the room, “sweetheart, we must have Hubertdown here again. He must not sail with Mr. Drake.”
The old man’s face flared up again in anger.
“He may follow his own devices,” he cried. “I care not what he does. He hasgiven up the post that I asked for him; and he comes striding and ruffling homewith his hat cocked and—and——”; his voice became inarticulate.
“He is only a boy, sweetheart; with a boy’s hot blood—you would sooner have himlike that than a milk-sop. Besides—he is our boy.”
The old man growled. His wife went on:
“And now that James cannot have the estate, he must have it, as you know, andcarry on the old name.”
“He has disgraced it,” burst out the angry old man, “and he is going now withthat damned Protestant to harry Catholics. By the grace of God I love mycountry, and would serve her Grace with my heart’s blood—but that my boy shouldgo with Drake——!” and again his voice failed.
It was a couple of days before she could obtain her husband’s leave to write aconciliatory letter, giving leave to Hubert to go with Drake, if he had madeany positive engagement (because, as she represented to Sir Nicholas, there wasnothing actually wrong or disloyal to the Faith in it)—but entreating him withmuch pathos not to leave his old parents so bitterly.
“Oh, my dear son,” the end of the letter ran, “your father is old; and God, inwhose hand are our days, alone knows how long he will live; and I, too, my son,am old. So come back to us and be our dear child again. You must not think toohardly of your father’s words to you; he is quick and hot, as you are, too—butindeed we love you dearly. Your room here is ready for you; and Piers wants afirm hand now over him, as your father is so old. So come back, my darling, andmake our old hearts glad again.”
But the weeks passed by, and no answer came, and the old people’s hearts grewsick with suspense; and then, at last, in September the courier brought aletter, written from Plymouth, which told the mother that it was too late; thathe had in fact engaged himself to Mr. Drake in August before he had come toGreat Keynes at all; and that in honour he must keep his engagement. He askedpardon of his father for his hastiness; but it seemed a cold and half-heartedsorrow; and the letter ended by announcing that the little fleet would sail inNovember; and that at present they were busy fitting the ships and engaging themen; and that there would be no opportunity for him to return to wish themgood-bye before he sailed. It was plain that the lad was angry still.
Sir Nicholas did not say much; but a silence fell on the house. Lady Maxwellsent for Isabel, and they had a long interview. The old lady was astonished atthe girl’s quietness and resignation.
Yes, she said, she loved Hubert with all her heart. She had loved him for along while. No, she was not angry, only startled. What would she do about thedifference in religion? Could she marry him while one was a Catholic and theother a Protestant? No, they would never be happy like that; and she did notknow what she would do. She supposed she would wait and see. Yes, she wouldwait and see; that was all that could be done.—And then had come a silent burstof tears, and the girl had sunk down on her knees and hidden her face in theold lady’s lap, and the wrinkled jewelled old hand passed quietly over thegirl’s black hair; but no more had been said, and Isabel presently got up andwent home to the Dower House.
The autumn went by, and November came, and there was no further word fromHubert. Then towards the end of November a report reached them from Anthony atLambeth that the fleet had sailed; but had put back into Falmouth after aterrible storm in the Channel. And hope just raised its head.
Then one evening after supper Sir Nicholas complained of fever andrestlessness, and went early to bed. In the night he was delirious. MistressMargaret hastened up at midnight from the Dower House, and a groom galloped offto Lindfield before morning to fetch the doctor, and another to fetch Mr.Barnes, the priest, from Cuckfield. Sir Nicholas was bled to reduce the feverof the pneumonia that had attacked him. All day long he was sinking. Abouteleven o’clock that night he fell asleep, apparently, and Lady Maxwell, who hadwatched incessantly, was persuaded to lie down; but at three o’clock in themorning, on the first of December, Mistress Margaret awakened her, and togetherthey knelt by the bedside of the old man. The priest, who had anointed him onthe previous evening, knelt behind, repeating the prayers for the dying.
Sir Nicholas lay on his back, supported by pillows, under the gloom of theblack old four-posted bed. A wood-fire glowed on the hearth, and the air wasfragrant with the scent of the burning cedar-logs. A crucifix was in the oldman’s hands; but his eyes were bright with fever, and his fingers every now andthen relaxed, and then tightened their hold again on the cool silver of thefigure of the crucified Saviour. His lips were moving tremulously, and hisruddy old face was pale now.
The priest’s voice went on steadily; the struggle was beginning.
“Proficiscere, anima christiana, de hoc mundo.—Go forth, Christian soul,from this world in the name of God the Father Almighty, who created thee; inthe name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, Who suffered for thee; in thename of the Holy Ghost, who was shed forth upon thee; In the name of Angels andArchangels; in the name of Thrones and Dominions; in the name of Principalitiesand Powers——”
Suddenly the old man, whose head had been slowly turning from side to side,ceased his movement, and his open mouth closed; he was looking steadily at hiswife, and a look of recognition came back to his eyes.
“Sweetheart,” he said; and smiled, and died.
Isabel did not see much of Mistress Margaret for the next few days; she wasconstantly with her sister, and when she came to the Dower House now and then,said little to the girl. There were curious rumours in the village; strangerscame and went continually, and there was a vast congregation at the funeral,when the body of the old knight was laid to rest in the Maxwell chapel. Thefollowing day the air of mystery deepened; and young Mrs. Melton whispered toIsabel, with many glances and becks, that she and her man had seen lightsthrough the chapel windows at three o’clock that morning. Isabel went into thechapel presently to visit the grave, and there was a new smear of black on theeast wall as if a taper had been set too near.
The courier who had been despatched to announce to Hubert that his father haddied and left him master of the Hall and estate, with certain conditions,returned at the end of the month with the news that the fleet had sailed againon the thirteenth, and that Hubert was gone with it; so Lady Maxwell, now moresilent and retired than ever, for the present retained her old position and Mr.Piers took charge of the estate.
Although Isabel outwardly was very little changed in the last six years, greatmovements had been taking place in her soul, and if Hubert had only known thestate of the case, possibly he would not have gone so hastily with Mr. Drake.
The close companionship of such an one as Mistress Margaret was doing itsalmost inevitable work; and the girl had been learning that behind thebrilliant and even crude surface of the Catholic practice, there lay still andbeautiful depths of devotion which she had scarcely dreamed of. The old nun’slife was a revelation to Isabel; she heard from her bed in the black wintermornings her footsteps in the next room, and soon learnt that Mistress Margaretspent at least two hours in prayer before she appeared at all. Two or threetimes in the day she knew that she retired again for the same purpose, andagain an hour after she was in bed, there were the same gentle movements nextdoor. She began to discover, too, that for the Catholic, as well as for thePuritan, the Person of the Saviour was the very heart of religion; that her owndevotion to Christ was a very languid flame by the side of the ardentinarticulate passion of this soul who believed herself His wedded spouse; andthat the worship of the saints and the Blessed Mother instead of distractingthe love of the Christian soul rather seemed to augment it. The King of Lovestood, as she fancied sometimes, to Catholic eyes, in a glow of ineffablesplendour; and the faces of His adoring Court reflected the ruddy glory on allsides; thus refracting the light of their central Sun, instead of, as she hadthought, obscuring it.
Other difficulties, too, began to seem oddly unreal and intangible, when shehad looked at them in the light of Mistress Margaret’s clear old eyes andcandid face. It was a real event in her inner life when she first began tounderstand what the rosary meant to Catholics. Mistress Corbet had told herwhat was the actual use of the beads; and how the mysteries of Christ’s lifeand death were to be pondered over as the various prayers were said; but it hadhitherto seemed to Isabel as if this method were an elaborate and superstitioussubstitute for reading the inspired record of the New Testament.
She had been sitting out in the little walled garden in front of the DowerHouse one morning on an early summer day after her father’s death, and MistressMargaret had come out in her black dress and stood for a moment looking at herirresolutely, framed in the dark doorway. Then she had come slowly across thegrass, and Isabel had seen for the first time in her fingers a string of ivorybeads. Mistress Margaret sat down on a garden chair a little way from her, andlet her hands sink into her lap, still holding the beads. Isabel said nothing,but went on reading. Presently she looked up again, and the old lady’s eyeswere half-closed, and her lips just moving; and the beads passing slowlythrough her fingers. She looked almost like a child dreaming, in spite of herwrinkles and her snowy hair; the pale light of a serene soul lay on her face.This did not look like the mechanical performance that Isabel had alwaysassociated with the idea of beads. So the minutes passed away; every time thatIsabel looked up there was the little white face with the long lashes lying onthe cheek, and the crown of snowy hair and lace, and the luminous look of asoul in conscious communion with the unseen.
When the old lady had finished, she twisted the beads about her fingers andopened her eyes. Isabel had an impulse to speak.
“Mistress Margaret,” she said, “may I ask you something?”
“Of course, my darling,” the old lady said.
“I have never seen you use those before—I cannot understand them.”
“What is it,” asked the old lady, “that you don’t understand?”
“How can prayers said over and over again like that be any good?”
Mistress Margaret was silent for a moment.
“I saw young Mrs. Martin last week,” she said, “with her little girl in herlap. Amy had her arms round her mother’s neck, and was being rocked to and fro;and every time she rocked she said ‘Oh, mother.’”
“But then,” said Isabel, after a moment’s silence, “she was only a child.”
“‘Except ye become like little children—’” quoted Mistress Margaret softly—“yousee, my Isabel, we are nothing more than children with God and His BlessedMother. To say ‘Hail Mary, Hail Mary,’ is the best way of telling her how muchwe love her. And then this string of beads is like Our Lady’s girdle, and herchildren love to finger it, and whisper to her. And then we say ourpaternosters, too; and all the while we are talking she is shewing us picturesof her dear Child, and we look at all the great things He did for us, one byone; and then we turn the page and begin again.”
“I see,” said Isabel; and after a moment or two’s silence Mistress Margaretgot up and went into the house.
The girl sat still with her hands clasped round her knee. How strange anddifferent this religion was to the fiery gospel she had heard last year atNorthampton from the harsh stern preacher, at whose voice a veil seemed to rendand show a red-hot heaven behind! How tender and simple this was—like a bluesummer’s sky with drifting clouds! If only it was true! If only there were agreat Mother whose girdle was of beads strung together, which dangled intoevery Christian’s hands; whose face bent down over every Christian’s bed; andwhose mighty and tender arms that had held her Son and God were still stretchedout beneath her other children. And Isabel, whose soul yearned for a mother,sighed as she reminded herself that there was but “one Mediator between God andman—the man, Christ Jesus.”
And so the time went by, like an outgoing tide, silent and steady. The old nundid not talk much to the girl about dogmatic religion, for she was in adifficult position. She was timid certainly of betraying her faith by silence,but she was also timid of betraying her trust by speech. Sometimes she felt shehad gone too far, sometimes not far enough; but on the whole her practice wasnever to suggest questions, but only to answer them when Isabel asked; and tooccupy herself with affirmative rather than with destructive criticism. Morethan this she hesitated to do out of honour for the dead; less than this shedared not do out of love for God and Isabel. But there were three or fourconversations that she felt were worth waiting for; and the look on Isabel’sface afterwards, and the sudden questions she would ask sometimes after a fitof silence, made her friend’s heart quicken towards her, and her prayers morefervent.
The two were sitting together one December day in Isabel’s upstairs room andthe girl, who had just come in from a solitary walk, was half kneeling on thewindow-seat and drumming her fingers softly on the panes as she looked out atthe red western sky.
“I used to think,” she said, “that Catholics had no spiritual life; but now itseems to me that in comparison we Puritans have none. You know so much aboutthe soul, as to what is from God and what from the Evil One; and we have togrope for ourselves. And yet our Saviour said that His sheep should know Hisvoice. I do not understand it.” And she turned towards Mistress Margaret whohad laid down her work and was listening.
“Dear child,” she said, “if you mean our priests and spiritual writers, it isbecause they study it. We believe in the science of the soul; and we consultour spiritual guides for our soul’s health, as the leech for our body’shealth.”
“But why must you ask the priest, if the Lord speaks to all alike?”
“He speaks through the priest, my dear, as He does through the physician.”
“But why should the priest know better than the people?” pursued Isabel,intent on her point.
“Because he tells us what the Church says,” said the other smiling, “it is hisbusiness. He need not be any better or cleverer in other respects. The bakermay be a thief or a foolish fellow; but his bread is good.”
“But how do you know,” went on Isabel, who thought Mistress Margaret a littleslow to see her point—“how do you know that the Church is right?”
The old nun considered a moment, and then lifted her embroidery again.
“Why do you think,” she asked, beginning to sew, “that each single soul thatasks God’s guidance is right?”
“Because the Holy Ghost is promised to such,” said Isabel wondering.
“Then is it not likely,” went on the other still stitching, “that the millionsof souls who form Holy Church are right, when they all agree together?” Isabelmoved a little impatiently.
“You see,” went on Mistress Margaret, “that is what we Catholics believe ourSaviour meant when He said that the gates of hell should not prevail againstHis Church.”
But Isabel was not content. She broke in:
“But why are not the Scriptures sufficient? They are God’s Word.”
The other put down her embroidery again, and smiled up into the girl’s puzzledeyes.
“Well, my child,” she said, “do they seem sufficient, when you look atChristendom now? If they are so clear, how is it that you have the Lutherans,and the Anabaptists, and the Family of Love, and the Calvinists, and the Churchof England, all saying they hold to the Scriptures alone. Nay, nay; theScriptures are the grammar, and the Church is the dame that teaches out of it,and she knows so well much that is not in the grammar, and we name thattradition. But where there is no dame to teach, the children soon falla-fighting about the book and the meaning of it.”
Isabel looked at Mistress Margaret a moment, and then turned back again to thewindow in silence.
At another time they had a word or two about Peter’s prerogatives.
“Surely,” said Isabel suddenly, as they walked together in the garden, “Christis the one Foundation of the Church, St. Paul tells us so expressly.”
“Yes, my dear,” said the nun, “but then Christ our Lord said: ‘Thou art Peter,and on this rock I will build my Church.’ So he who is the only Good Shepherd,said to Peter, ‘Feed My sheep’; and He that is Clavis David and thatopeneth and none shutteth said to him, ‘I will give thee the keys, andwhatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven.’ That is why wecall Peter the Vicar of Christ.”
Isabel raised her eyebrows.
“Surely, surely——” she began.
“Yes, my child,” said Mistress Margaret, “I know it is new and strange to you;but it was not to your grandfather or his forbears: to them, as to me, it isthe plain meaning of the words. We Catholics are a simple folk. We hold thatwhat our Saviour said simply He meant simply: as we do in the sacred mystery ofHis Body and Blood. To us, you know,” she went on, smiling, with a hand on thegirl’s arm, “it seems as if you Protestants twisted the Word of God against alljustice.”
Isabel smiled back at her; but she was puzzled. The point of view was new toher. And yet again in the garden, a few months later, as they sat out togetheron the lawn, the girl opened the same subject.
“Mistress Margaret,” she said, “I have been thinking a great deal; and itseems very plain when you talk. But you know our great divines could answeryou, though I cannot. My father was no Papist; and Dr. Grindal and the Bishopsare all wise men. How do you answer that?”
The nun looked silently down at the grass a moment or two.
“It is the old tale,” she said at last, looking up; “we cannot believe thatthe babes and sucklings are as likely to be right in such matters as the wiseand prudent—even more likely, if our Saviour’s words are to be believed. Dearchild, do you not see that our Lord came to save all men, and call all men intoHis Church; and that therefore He must have marked His Church in such a mannerthat the most ignorant may perceive it as easily as the most learned? Learningis very well, and it is the gift of God; but salvation and grace cannot dependupon it. It needs an architect to understand why Paul’s Church is strong andbeautiful, and what makes it so; but any child or foolish fellow can see thatit is so.”
“I do not understand,” said Isabel, wrinkling her forehead.
“Why this—that you are as likely to know the Catholic Church when you see it,as Dr. Grindal or Dr. Freake, or your dear father himself. Only a divine canexplain about it and understand it, but you and I are as fit to see it and walkinto it, as any of them.”
“But then why are they not all Catholics?” asked Isabel, still bewildered.
“Ah!” said the nun, softly, “God alone knows, who reads hearts and calls whomHe will. But learning, at least, has nought to do with it.”
Conversations of this kind that took place now and then between the two weresufficient to show Mistress Margaret, like tiny bubbles on the surface of aclear stream, the swift movement of this limpid soul that she loved so well.But on the other hand, all the girl’s past life, and most sacred and dearassociations, were in conflict with this movement; the memory of her quiet,wise father rose and reproached her sometimes; Anthony’s enthusiastic talk,when he came down from Lambeth, on the glorious destinies of the Church ofEngland, of her gallant protest against the corruptions of the West, and of herfuture unique position in Christendom as the National Church of the mostprogressive country—all this caused her to shrink back terrified from thebourne to which she was drifting, and from the breach that must follow with herbrother. But above all else that caused her pain was the shocking suspicionthat her love for Hubert perhaps was influencing her, and that she was livingin gross self-deception as to the sincerity of her motives.
This culminated at last in a scene that seriously startled the old nun; it tookplace one summer night after Hubert’s departure in Mr. Drake’s expedition.Mistress Margaret had seen Isabel to her room, and an hour later had finishedher night-office and was thinking of preparing herself to bed, when there was ahurried tap at the door, and Isabel came quickly in, her face pale andmiserable, her great grey eyes full of trouble and distraction, and her hair onher shoulders.
“My dear child,” said the nun, “what is it?”
Isabel closed the door and stood looking at her, with her lips parted.
“How can I know, Mistress Margaret,” she said, in the voice of a sleep-walker,“whether this is the voice of God or of my own wicked self? No, no,” she wenton, as the other came towards her, frightened, “let me tell you. I mustspeak.”
“Yes, my child, you shall; but come and sit down first,” and she drew her to achair and set her in it, and threw a wrap over her knees and feet; and sat downbeside her, and took one of her hands, and held it between her own.
“Now then, Isabel, what is it?”
“I have been thinking over it all so long,” began the girl, in the sametremulous voice, with her eyes fixed on the nun’s face, “and to-night in bed Icould not bear it any longer. You see, I love Hubert, and I used to think Iloved our Saviour too; but now I do not know. It seems as if He was leading meto the Catholic Church; all is so much more plain and easy there—it seems—itseems—to make sense in the Catholic Church; and all the rest of us arewandering in the dark. But if I become a Catholic, you see, I can marry Hubertthen; and I cannot help thinking of that; and wanting to marry him. But thenperhaps that is the reason that I think I see it all so plainly; just because Iwant to see it plainly. And what am I to do? Why will not our Lord shew me myown heart and what is His Will?”
Mistress Margaret shook her head gently.
“Dear child,” she said, “our Saviour loves you and wishes to make you happy.Do you not think that perhaps He is helping you and making it easy in this way,by drawing you to His Church through Hubert. Why should not both be His Will?that you should become a Catholic and marry Hubert as well?”
“Yes,” said Isabel, “but how can I tell?”
“There is only one thing to be done,” went on the old lady, “be quite simpleand quiet. Whenever your soul begins to be disturbed and anxious, put yourselfin His Hands, and refuse to decide for yourself. It is so easy, so easy.”
“But why should I be so anxious and disturbed, if it were not our Lord speakingand warning me?”
“In the Catholic Church,” said Mistress Margaret, “we know well about allthose movements of the soul; and we call them scruples. You must resist them,dear child, like temptations. We are told that if a soul is in grace anddesires to serve God, then whenever our Lord speaks it is to bring sweetnesswith Him; and when it is the evil one, he brings disturbance. And that is why Iam sure that these questionings are not from God. You feel stifled, is it notso, when you try to pray? and all seems empty of God; the waves and storms aregoing over you. But lie still and be content; and refuse to be disturbed; andyou will soon be at peace again and see the light clearly.”
Mistress Margaret found herself speaking simply in short words and sentences asto a child. She had seen that for a long while past the clouds had beengathering over Isabel, and that her soul was at present completely overcast andunable to perceive or decide anything clearly; and so she gave her this simpleadvice, and did her utmost to soothe her, knowing that such a clean soul wouldnot be kept long in the dark.
She knelt down with Isabel presently and prayed aloud with her, in a quiet evenvoice; a patch of moonlight lay on the floor, and something of its whiteserenity seemed to be in the old nun’s tones as she entreated the merciful Lordto bid peace again to this anxious soul, and let her see light again throughthe dark.
And when she had taken Isabel back again to her own room at last, and had seenher safely into bed, and kissed her good-night, already the girl’s face wasquieter as it lay on the pillow, and the lines were smoothed out of herforehead.
“God bless you!” said Mistress Margaret.
HUBERT’S RETURN
After the sailing of Mr. Drake’s expedition, the friends of the adventurers hadto wait in patience for several months before news arrived. Then the Elizabeth, under the command of Mr. Winter, which had been separated fromMr. Drake’s Pelican in a gale off the south-west coast of America,returned to England, bringing the news of Mr. Doughty’s execution fordesertion; but of the Pelican herself there was no further news untilcomplaints arrived from the Viceroy of New Spain of Mr. Drake’s ravages up thewest coast. Then silence again fell for eighteen months.
Anthony had followed the fortunes of the Pelican, in which Hubert hadsailed, with a great deal of interest: and it was with real relief that afterthe burst of joy in London at the news of her safe return to Plymouth with anincalculable amount of plunder, he had word from Lady Maxwell that she hoped hewould come down at once to Great Keynes, and help to welcome Hubert home. Hewas not able to go at once, for his duties detained him; but a couple of daysafter the Hall had welcomed its new master, Anthony was at the Dower Houseagain with Isabel. He found her extraordinarily bright and vivacious, and wasdelighted at the change, for he had been troubled the last time he had seen hera few months before, at her silence and listlessness; but her face was radiantnow, as she threw herself into his arms at the door, and told him that theywere all to go to supper that night at the Hall; and that Hubert had beenkeeping his best stories on purpose for his return. She showed him, when theygot up to his room at last, little things Hubert had given her—carved nuts, aSpanish coin or two, and an ingot of gold—but of which she would say nothing,but only laugh and nod her head.
Hubert, too, when he saw him that evening seemed full of the same sort ofhalf-suppressed happiness that shone out now and again suddenly. There he sat,for hours after supper that night, broader and more sunburnt than ever, withhis brilliant eyes glancing round as he talked, and his sinewy man’s hand, inthe delicate creamy ruff, making little explanatory movements, and drawing amap once or twice in spilled wine on the polished oak; the three ladies satforward and watched him breathlessly, or leaned back and sighed as each taleended, and Anthony found himself, too, carried away with enthusiasm again andagain, as he looked at this gallant sea-dog in his gold chain and satin andjewels, and listened to his stories.
“It was bitter cold,” said Hubert in his strong voice, telling them of Mr.Doughty’s death, “on the morning itself: and snow lay on the decks when werose. Mr. Fletcher had prepared a table in the poop-cabin, with a white clothand bread and wine; and at nine of the clock we were all assembled where wemight see into the cabin: and Mr. Fletcher said the Communion service, and Mr.Drake and Mr. Doughty received the sacrament there at his hands. Some of Mr.Doughty’s men had all they could do to keep back their tears; for you know,mother, they were good friends. And then when it was done, we made two linesdown the deck to where the block stood by the main-mast; and the two came downtogether; and they kissed one another there. And Mr. Doughty spoke to the men,and bade them pray for the Queen’s Grace with him; and they did. And then heand Mr. Drake put off their doublets, and Mr. Doughty knelt at the block, andsaid another prayer or two, and then laid his head down, and he was shivering alittle with cold, and then, when he gave the sign, Mr. Drake——” and Hubertbrought the edge of his hand down sharply, and the glasses rang, and the ladiesdrew quick hissing breaths; and Lady Maxwell put her hand on her son’s arm, ashe looked round on all their faces.
Then he told them of the expedition up the west coast, and of the towns theysacked; and the opulent names rolled oddly off his tongue, and seemed to bringa whiff of southern scent into this panelled English room,—Valparaiso,Tarapaca, and Arica—; and of the capture of the Cacafuego off Quibdo;and of the enormous treasure they took, the great golden crucifix with emeraldsof the size of pigeon’s eggs, and the chests of pearls, and the twenty-six tonsof silver, and the wedges of pure gold from the Peruvian galleon, and of thegolden falcon from the Chinese trader that they captured south of Guatulco. Andhe described the search up the coast for the passage eastwards that neverexisted; and of Drake’s superb resolve to return westwards instead, by theMoluccas; and how they stayed at Ternate, south of Celebes, and coasted alongJava seeking a passage, and found it in the Sunda straits, and broke out fromthe treacherous islands into the open sea; crossed to Africa, rounded the Capeof Good Hope; came up the west coast, touching at Sierra Leone, and so homeagain along the Spanish and French coasts, to Plymouth Sound and the pealing ofPlymouth bells.
And he broke out into something very like eloquence when he spoke of Drake.
“Never was such a captain,” he cried, “with his little stiff beard and hisobstinate eyes. I have seen him stand on the poop, when the arrows were likehail on the deck, with one finger in the ring round his neck,—so”: and Hubertthrust a tanned finger into a link of his chain, and lifted his chin, “justmaking little signs to the steersman, with his hand behind his back, to bringthe ship nearer to the Spaniard; as cool, I tell you, as cool as if he wereplaying merelles. Oh! and then when we boarded, out came his finger from hisring; and there was none that struck so true and fierce; and all in silencetoo, without an oath or a cry or a word; except maybe to give an order. But hewas very sharp with all that angered him. When we sighted the Madre diDios, I ran into his cabin to tell him of it, without saluting, so full wasmy head of the chase. And he looked at me like ice; and then roared at me toknow where my manners were, and bade me go out and enter again properly, beforehe would hear my news; and then I heard him rating the man that stood at hisdoor for letting me pass in that state. At his dinner, too, which he tookalone, there were always trumpets to blow, as when her Grace dines. When helaughed it seemed as if he did it with a grave face. There was a piece of grandfooling when we got out from among those weary Indian islands; where the greatcrabs be, and flies that burn in the dark, as I told you. Mr. Fletcher, theminister, played the coward one night when we ran aground; and bade us think ofour sins and our immortal souls, instead of urging us to be smart about theship; and he did it, too, not as Mr. Drake might do, but in such a melancholyvoice as if we were all at our last hour; so when we were free of our trouble,and out on the main again, we were all called by the drum to the forecastle,and there Mr. Drake sat on a sea-chest as solemn as a judge, so that not a mandurst laugh, with a pair of pantoufles in his hand; and Mr. Fletcher wasbrought before him, trying to smile as if ’twas a jest for him too, between twoguards; and there he was arraigned; and the witnesses were called; and TomMoore said how he was tapped on the shoulder by Mr. Fletcher as he was gettinga pick from the hold; and how he was as white as a ghost and bade him think onMr. Doughty, how there was no mercy for him when he needed it, and so therewould be none for us—and then other witnesses came, and then Mr. Fletcher triedto make his defence, saying how it was the part of a minister to bid men thinkon their souls; but ’twas no good. Mr. Drake declared him guilty; and sentencedhim to be kept in irons till he repented of that his cowardice; and then, whichwas the cream of the joke, since the prisoner was a minister, Mr. Drakedeclared him excommunicate, and cut off from the Church of God, and given overto the devil. And he was put in irons, too, for a while; so ’twas not all ajoke.”
“And what is Mr. Drake doing now?” asked Lady Maxwell.
“Oh! Drake is in London,” said Hubert. “Ah! yes, and you must all come toDeptford when her Grace is going to be there. Anthony, lad, you’ll come?”
Anthony said he would certainly do his best; and Isabel put out her hand to herbrother, and beamed at him; and then turned to look at Hubert again.
“And what are you to do next?” asked Mistress Margaret.
“Well,” he said, “I am to go to Plymouth again presently, to help to get thetreasure out of the ships; and I must be there, too, for the spring and summer,for Drake wants me to help him with his new expedition.”
“But you are not going with him again, my son?” said his mother quickly.
Hubert put out his hand to her.
“No, no,” he said, “I have written to tell him I cannot. I must take myfather’s place here. He will understand”; and he gave one swift glance atIsabel, and her eyes fell.
Anthony was obliged to return to Lambeth after a day or two, and he carriedwith him a heart full of admiration and enthusiasm for his friend. He hadwondered once or twice, too, as his eyes fell on Isabel, whether there wasanything in what Mistress Corbet had said; but he dared not speak to her, andstill less to Hubert, unless his confidence was first sought.
The visit to Deptford, which took place a week or two later, gave an additionalspurt to Anthony’s nationalism. London was all on fire at the return of thebuccaneers, and as Anthony rode down the south bank of the river from Lambethto join the others at the inn, the three miles of river beyond London Bridgewere an inspiriting sight in the bright winter sunshine, crowded with craft ofall kinds, bright with bunting, that were making their way down to the navaltriumph. The road, too, was thick with vehicles and pedestrians.
It was still early when he met his party at the inn, and Hubert took themimmediately to see the Pelican that was drawn up in a little creek onthe south bank. Mistress Margaret had not come, so the four went together allover the ship that had been for these years the perilous home of this sunburntlad they all loved so well. Hubert pointed out Drake’s own cabin at the poop,with its stern-windows, where the last sacrament of the two friends had beencelebrated; and where Drake himself had eaten in royal fashion to the sound oftrumpets and slept with all-night sentries at his door. He showed them too hisown cabin, where he had lived with three more officers, and the upper poop-deckwhere Drake would sit hour after hour with his spy-glass, ranging the horizonsfor treasure-ships. And he showed them, too, the high forecastle, and the men’squarters; and Isabel fingered delicately the touch-holes of the very guns thathad roared and snapped so fiercely at the Dons; and they peered down into thedark empty hold where the treasure-chests had lain, and up at the three mastsand the rigging that had borne so long the swift wings of the Pelican.And they heard the hiss and rattle of the ropes as Hubert ordered a man to runup a flag to show them how it was done; and they smelled the strange tarrybriny smell of a sea-going ship.
“You are not tired?” Anthony said to his sister, as they walked back to theinn from which they were to see the spectacle. She shook her head happily; andAnthony, looking at her, once more questioned himself whether Mistress Corbetwere right or not.
When they had settled down at last to their window, the crowds were gatheringthicker every moment about the entrance to the ship, which lay in the creekperhaps a hundred yards from the inn, and on the road along which the Queen wasto come from Greenwich. Anthony felt his whole heart go out in sympathy tothese joyous shouting folk beneath, who were here to celebrate the gallantpluck of a little bearded man and his followers, who for the moment stood forEngland, and in whose presence just now the Queen herself must take secondplace. Even the quacks and salesmen who were busy in their booths all roundused patriotism to push their bargains.
“Spanish ointment, Spanish ointment!” bellowed a red-faced herbalist in adoctor’s gown, just below the window. “The Dons know what’s best for wounds andknocks after Frankie Drake’s visit”; and the crowd laughed and bought up hisboxes. And another drove a roaring business in green glass beads, reported tobe the exact size of the emeralds taken from the Cacafuego; and otherssold little models of the Pelican, warranted to frighten away Dons andall other kinds of devils from the house that possessed one. Isabel laughedwith pleasure, and sent Anthony down to buy one for her.
But perhaps more than all else the sight of the seamen themselves stirred hisheart. Most of them, officers as well as men, were dressed with absurdextravagance, for the prize-money, even after the deduction of the Queen’slion-share, had been immense, but beneath their plumed and jewel-buckled caps,brown faces looked out, alert and capable, with tight lips and bright, puckeredeyes, with something of the terrier in their expression. There they swaggeredalong with a slight roll in their walk, by ones or twos, through the crowd thatformed lanes to let them pass, and surged along in their wake, shouting afterthem and clapping them on the back. Anthony watched them eagerly as they madetheir way from all directions to where the Pelican lay; for it wasclose on noon. Then from far away came the boom of the Tower guns, and then thenearer crash of those that guarded the dockyard; and last the deafening roar ofthe Pelican broadside; and then the smoke rose and drifted in a heavyveil in the keen frosty air over the cheering crowds. When it lifted again,there was the flash of gold and colour from the Greenwich road, and the highbraying of the trumpets pierced the roaring welcome of the people. But thewatchers at the windows could see no more over the heads of the crowd than theplumes of the royal carriage, as the Queen dismounted, and a momentary glimpseof her figure and the group round her as she passed on to the deck of the Pelican and went immediately below to the banquet, while the parish churchbells pealed a welcome.
Lady Maxwell insisted that Isabel should now dine, as there would be no more tobe seen till the Queen should come up on deck again.
Of the actual ceremony of the knighting of Mr. Drake they had a very fair view,though the figures were little and far away. The first intimation they had thatthe banquet was over was the sight of the scarlet-clad yeomen emerging one byone up the little hatchway that led below. The halberdiers lined the decksalready, with their weapons flashing in long curved lines; and by the time thatthe trumpets began to sound to show that the Queen was on her way from below,the decks were one dense mass of colour and steel, with a lane left to the footof the poop-stairs by which she would ascend. Then at last the two figuresappeared, the Queen radiant in cloth of gold, and Mr. Drake, alert and brisk,in his Court suit and sword. There was silence from the crowd as the adventurerknelt before the Queen, and Anthony held his breath with excitement as hecaught the flash of the slender sword that an officer had put into the Queen’shand; and then an inconceivable noise broke out as Sir Francis Drake stood up.The crowd was one open mouth, shouting, the church bells burst into pealsoverhead, answered by the roll of drums from the deck and the blare oftrumpets; and then the whole din sank into nothingness for a moment under theheart-shaking crash of the ship’s broadside, echoed instantly by the deeperroar of the dockyard guns, and answered after a moment or two from far away bythe dull boom from the Tower. And Anthony leaned yet further from the windowand added his voice to the tumult.
As he rode back alone to Lambeth, after parting with the others at LondonBridge, for they intended to go down home again that night, he was glowing withnational zeal. He had seen not only royalty and magnificence but an apotheosisof character that day. There in the little trim figure with the curly hairkneeling before the Queen was England at its best—England that sent two shipsagainst an empire; and it was the Church that claimed Sir Francis Drake as ason, and indeed a devoted one, in a sense, that Anthony himself was servinghere at Lambeth, and for which he felt a real and fervent enthusiasm.
He was surprised a couple of days later to receive a note in Lady Maxwell’shandwriting, brought up by a special messenger from the Hall.
“There is a friend of mine,” she wrote, “to come to Lambeth House presently,he tells me, to be kept a day or two in ward before he is sent to Wisbeach. Heis a Catholic, named Mr. Henry Buxton, who showed me great love during thesorrow of my dear husband’s death; and I write to you to show kindness to him,and to get him a good bed, and all that may comfort him: for I know not whetherLambeth Prison is easy or hard; but I hope perhaps that since my LordArchbishop is a prisoner himself he has pity on such as are so too; and so mypains be in vain. However, if you will see Mr. Buxton at least, and have sometalk with him, and show him this letter, it will cheer him perhaps to see afriend’s face.”
Anthony of course made inquiries at once, and found that Mr. Buxton was toarrive on the following afternoon. It was the custom to send prisonersoccasionally to Lambeth, more particularly those more distinguished, or who, itwas hoped, could be persuaded to friendly conference. Mr. Buxton, however, wasthought to be incorrigible, and was only sent there because there was somedelay in the preparations for his reception at Wisbeach, which since theprevious year had been used as an overflow prison for Papists.
On the evening of the next day, which was Friday, Anthony went straight outfrom the Hall after supper to the gateway prison, and found Mr. Buxton at afish supper in the little prison in the outer part of the eastern tower. Heintroduced himself, but found it necessary to show Lady Maxwell’s letter beforethe prisoner was satisfied as to his identity.
“You must pardon me, Mr. Norris,” he said, when he had read the letter andasked a question or two, “but we poor Papists are bound to be shy. Why, in thisvery room,” he went on, pointing to the inner corner away from the door, andsmiling, “for aught I know a man sits now to hear us.”
Anthony was considerably astonished to see this stranger point so confidentlyto the hiding-hole, where indeed the warder used to sit sometimes behind abrick partition, to listen to the talk of the prisoners; and showed hissurprise.
“Ah, Mr. Norris,” the other said, “we Papists are bound to be well informed;or else where were our lives? But come, sir, let us sit down.”
Anthony apologised for interrupting him at his supper, and offered to comeagain, but Mr. Buxton begged him not to leave, as he had nearly finished. SoAnthony sat down, and observed the prison and the prisoner. It was fairly wellprovided with necessaries: a good straw bed lay in one corner on trestles; andwashing utensils stood at the further wall; and there was an oil lamp that hunghigh up from an iron pin. The prisoner’s luggage lay still half unpacked on thefloor, and a row of pegs held a hat and a cloak. Mr. Buxton himself was adark-haired man with a short beard and merry bright eyes; and was dressedsoberly as a gentleman; and behaved himself with courtesy and assurance. But itwas a queer place with this flickering lamp, thought Anthony, for a gentlemanto be eating his supper in. When Mr. Buxton had finished his dish of roach anda tankard of ale, he looked up at Anthony, smiling.
“My lord knows the ways of Catholics, then,” he said, pointing to the bones onhis plate.
Anthony explained that the Protestants observed the Friday abstinence, too.
“Ah yes,” said the other, “I was forgetting the Queen’s late injunctions. Letus see; how did it run? ‘The same is not required for any liking of PapishSuperstitions or Ceremonies (is it?) hitherto used, which utterly are to bedetested of all Christian folk’; (no, the last word or two is a gloss), ‘butonly to maintain the mariners in this land, and to set men a-fishing.’ That isthe sense of it, is it not, sir? You fast, that is, not for heavenly reasons,which were a foolish and Papish thing to do; but for earthly reasons, which isa reasonable and Protestant thing to do.”
Anthony might have taken this assault a little amiss, if he had not seen alaughing light in his companion’s eyes; and remembered, too, that imprisonmentis apt to breed a little bitterness. So he smiled back at him. Then soon theyfell to talking of Lady Maxwell and Great Keynes, where it seemed that Mr.Buxton had stayed more than once.
“I knew Sir Nicholas well,” he said, “God rest his soul. It seems to me he isone of those whose life continually gave the lie to men who say that a Catholiccan be no true Englishman. There never beat a more loyal heart than his.”
Anthony agreed; but asked if it were not true that Catholics were indifficulties sometimes as to the proper authority to be obeyed—the Pope or thePrince.
“It is true,” said the other, “or it might be. Yet the principle is clear, Date Cæsari quae sunt Cæsaris. The difficulty lies but in the applicationof the maxim.”
“But with us,” said Anthony—“Church of England folk,—there hardly can be everany such difficulty; for the Prince of the State is the Governor of the Churchas well.”
“I take your point,” said Mr. Buxton. “You mean that a National Church isbetter, for that spiritual and temporal authorities are then at one.”
“Just so,” said Anthony, beginning to warm to his favourite theme. “The Churchis the nation regarded as religious. When England wars on land it is throughher army, which is herself under arms; when on sea she embarks in the navy; andin the warfare with spiritual powers, it is through her Church. And surely inthis way the Church must always be the Church of the people. The Englishman andthe Spaniard are like cat and dog; they like not the same food nor the samekind of coat; I hear that their buildings are not like ours; their language,nay, their faces and minds, are not like ours. Then why should be their prayersand their religion? I quarrel with no foreigner’s faith; it is God who made usso.”
Anthony stopped, breathless with his unusual eloquence; but it was the subjectthat lay nearest to his heart at present, and he found no lack of words. Theprisoner had watched him with twinkling eyes, nodding his head as if inagreement; and when he had finished his little speech, nodded again inmeditative silence.
“It is complete,” he answered, “complete. And as a theory would be convincing;and I envy you, Master Norris, for you stand on the top of the wave. That iswhat England holds. But, my dear sir, Christ our Lord refused such a kingdom asthat. My kingdom, He said, is not of this world—is not, that is, ruled by theworld’s divisions and systems. You have described Babel,—every nation with itsown language. But it was to undo Babel and to build one spiritual city that ourSaviour came down, and sent the Holy Ghost to make the Church at Pentecost outof Arabians and Medes and Elamites—to break down the partition-walls, as theapostle tells us,—that there be neither Jew nor Greek, barbarian norScythian—and to establish one vast kingdom (which for that very reason we nameCatholic), to destroy differences between nation and nation, by lifting each tobe of the People of God—to pull down Babel, the City of Confusion, and buildJerusalem the City of Peace. Dear God!” cried Mr. Buxton, rising in hisexcitement, and standing over Anthony, who looked at him astonished andbewildered. “You and your England would parcel out the Kingdom of heaven intonational Churches, as you name them—among all the kingdoms of the world; andyet you call yourselves the servants of Him who came to do just theopposite—yes, and who will do it, in spite of you, and make the kingdoms ofthis world, instead, the Kingdom of our Lord and of His Christ. Why, if eachnation is to have her Church, why not each county and each town—yes, and eachseparate soul, too; for all are different! Nay, nay, Master Norris, you areblinded by the Prince of this world. He is shewing you even now from an highmountain the kingdoms of this world and the glory of them: lift your eyes, dearlad, to the hills from whence cometh your help; those hills higher than themountain where you stand; and see the new Jerusalem, and the glory of her,coming down from God to dwell with men.”
Mr. Buxton stood, his eyes blazing, plainly carried away wholly by enthusiasm;and Anthony, in spite of himself, could not be angry. He moistened his lipsonce or twice.
“Well, sir; of course I hold with what you say, in one sense; but it is notcome yet; and never will, till our Lord comes back to make all plain.”
“Not come yet?” cried the other, “Not come yet! Why, what is the one HolyCatholic and Apostolic Church but that? There you have one visible kingdom,gathered out of every nation and tongue and people, as the apostle said. I havea little estate in France, Master Norris, where I go sometimes; and there arefolk in their wooden shoes, talking a different human tongue to me, but, thankGod! the same divine one—of contrition and adoration and prayer. There we havethe same mass, the same priesthood, the same blessed sacrament and the sameFaith, as in my own little oratory at Stanfield. Go to Spain, Africa, Rome,India; wherever Christ is preached; there is the Church as it is here—the Cityof Peace. And as for you and your Church! with whom do you hold communion?”
This stung Anthony, and he answered impulsively.
“In Geneva and Frankfort, at least, there are folk who speak the same divinetongue, as you call it, as we do; they and we are agreed in matters of faith.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Burton sharply, “then what becomes of your Nationalism, andthe varied temperaments that you told me God had made?”
Anthony bit his lip; he had overshot his mark. But the other swept on; and ashe talked began to step up and down the little room, in a kind of rhapsody.
“Is it possible?” he cried, “that men should be so blind as to prefer thelittle divided companies they name National Churches—all confusion anddenial—to that glorious kingdom that Christ bought with his own dear blood, andhas built upon Peter, against which the gates of hell shall not prevail. Yes, Iknow it is a flattering and a pleasant thought that this little nation shouldhave her own Church; and it is humbling and bitter that England should becalled to submit to a foreign potentate in the affairs of faith—Nay, cry theylike the Jews of old, not Christ but Barabbas—we will not have this Man toreign over us. And yet this is God’s will and not that. Mark me, Mr. Norris,what you hope will never come to be—the Liar will not keep his word—you shallnot have that National Church that you desire: as you have dealt, so will it bedealt to you: as you have rejected, so will you be rejected. England herselfwill cast you off: your religious folk will break into a hundred divisions.Even now your Puritans mock at your prelates—so soon! And if they do thus now,what will they do hereafter? You have cast away Authority, and authority shallforsake you. Behold your house is left unto you desolate.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Norris,” he added after a pause, “if I have beendiscourteous, and have forgotten my manners; but—but I would, as the apostlesaid, that you were altogether as I am, except these bonds.”
A COUNTER-MARCH
Isabel was sitting out alone in the Italian garden at the Hall, one afternoonin the summer following the visit to Deptford. Hubert was down at Plymouth,assisting in the preparations for the expedition that Drake hoped to conductagainst Spain. The two countries were technically at peace, but the object withwhich he was going out, with the moral and financial support of the Queen, wasa corporate demonstration against Spain, of French, Portuguese, and Englishships under the main command of Don Antonio, the Portuguese pretender; it wasproposed to occupy Terceira in the Azores; and Drake and Hawkins entertainedthe highest hopes of laying their hands on further plunder.
She was leaning back in her seat, with her hands behind her head, thinking overher relations with Hubert. When he had been at home at the end of the previousyear, he had apparently taken it for granted that the marriage would becelebrated; he had given her the gold nugget, that she had showed Anthony,telling her he had brought it home for the wedding-ring; and she understoodthat he was to come for his final answer as soon as his work at Plymouth wasover. But not a word of explanation had passed between them on the religiousdifficulty. He had silenced her emphatically and kindly once when she hadapproached it; and she gathered from his manner that he suspected the directionin which her mind was turning and was generously unwilling for her to commitherself an inch further than she saw. Else whence came his assurance? And, forherself, things were indeed becoming plain: she wondered why she had hesitatedso long, why she was still hesitating; the cup was brimming above the edge; itneeded but a faint touch of stimulus to precipitate all.
And so Isabel lay back and pondered, with a touch of happy impatience at theworkings of her own soul; for she dared not act without the final touch ofconviction. Mistress Margaret had taught her that the swiftest flight of thesoul was when there was least movement, when the soul knew how to throw itselfwith that supreme effort of cessation into the Hands of God, that He might bearit along: when, after informing the intellect and seeking by prayer for God’sbounty, the humble client of Heaven waited with uplifted eyes and ready heartuntil God should answer. And so she waited, knowing that the gift was at hand,yet not daring to snatch it. But, in the meanwhile, her imagination at leastmight act without restraint; so she sent it out, like a bird from the Ark, tobring her the earnest of peace. There, in the cloister-wing, somewhere, lay thechapel, where she and Hubert would kneel together;—somewhere beneath that greyroof. That was the terrace where she would walk one day as one who has a rightthere. Which of these windows would be hers? Not Lady Maxwell’s, of course; shemust keep that.... Ah! how good God was!
The tall door on to the terrace opened, and Mistress Margaret peered out with aletter in her hand. Isabel called to her; and the old nun came down the stepsinto the garden. Why did she walk so falteringly, the girl wondered, as if shecould not see? What was it? What was it?
Isabel rose to her feet, startled, as the nun with bent head came up the path.“What is it, Mistress Margaret?”
The other tried to smile at her, but her lips were trembling too much; and thegirl saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. She put the letter into herhand.
Isabel lifted it in an agony of suspense; and saw her name, in Hubert’shandwriting.
“What is it?” she said again, white to the lips.
The old lady as she turned away glanced at her; and Isabel saw that her facewas all twitching with the effort to keep back her tears. The girl had neverseen her like that before, even at Sir Nicholas’ death. Was there anything, shewondered as she looked, worse than death? But she was too dazed by the sight tospeak, and Mistress Margaret went slowly back to the house unquestioned.
Isabel turned the letter over once or twice; and then sat down and opened it.It was all in Hubert’s sprawling handwriting, and was dated from Plymouth.
It gave her news first about the squadron; saying how Don Antonio had leftLondon for Plymouth, and was expected daily; and then followed this paragraph:
“And now, dearest Isabel, I have such good news to give you. I have turnedProtestant; and there is no reason why we should not be married as soon asI return. I know this will make you happy to think that our religions are nolonger different. I have thought of this so long; but would not tell you beforefor fear of disappointing you. Sir Francis Drake’s religion seems to me thebest; it is the religion of all the ‘sea-dogs’ as they name us; and of theQueen’s Grace, and it will be soon of all England; and more than all it is thereligion of my dearest mistress and love. I do not, of course, know very muchof it as yet; but good Mr. Collins here has shown me the superstitions ofPopery; and I hope now to be justified by faith without works as the gospelteaches. I fear that my mother and aunt will be much distressed by this news; Ihave written, too, to tell them of it. You must comfort them, dear love; andperhaps some day they, too, will see as we do.” Then followed a few messages,and loving phrases, and the letter ended.
Isabel laid it down beside her on the low stone wall; and looked round her witheyes that saw nothing. There was the grey old house before her, and theterrace, and the cloister-wing to the left, and the hot sunshine lay on it all,and drew out scents and colours from the flower-beds, and joy from the insectsthat danced in the trembling air; and it all meant nothing to her; like apicture when the page is turned over it. Five minutes ago she was regarding herlife and seeing how the Grace of God was slowly sorting out its elements fromchaos to order—the road was unwinding itself before her eyes as she trod on itday by day—now a hand had swept all back into disorder, and the path was hiddenby the ruins.
Then gradually one thought detached itself, and burned before her, vivid andstartling; and in all its terrible reality slipped between her and the visibleworld on which she was staring. It was this: to embrace the Catholic Faithmeant the renouncing of Hubert. As a Protestant she might conceivably havemarried a Catholic; as a Catholic it was inconceivable that she should marry anapostate.
Then she read the letter through again carefully and slowly; and was astonishedat the unreality of Hubert’s words about Romish superstition and gospelsimplicity. She tried hard to silence her thoughts; but two reasons forHubert’s change of religion rose up and insisted on making themselves felt; itwas that he might be more in unity with the buccaneers whom he admired; second,that there might be no obstacle to their marriage. And what then, she asked,was the quality of the heart he had given her?
Then, in a flash of intuition, she perceived that a struggle lay before her,compared with which all her previous spiritual conflicts were as child’s play;and that there was no avoiding it. The vision passed, and she rose and wentindoors to find the desolate mother whose boy had lost the Faith.
A month or two of misery went by. For Lady Maxwell they passed with recurringgusts of heart-broken sorrow and of agonies of prayer for her apostate son.Mistress Margaret was at the Hall all day, soothing, encouraging, evendistracting her sister by all the means in her power. The mother wrote onepassionate wail to her son, appealing to all that she thought he held dear,even yet to return to the Faith for which his father had suffered and in whichhe had died; but a short answer only returned, saying it was impossible to makehis defence in a letter, and expressing pious hopes that she, too, one daywould be as he was; the same courier brought a letter to Isabel, in which heexpressed his wonder that she had not answered his former one.
And as for Isabel, she had to pass through this valley of darkness alone.Anthony was in London; and even if he had been with her could not have helpedher under these circumstances; her father was dead—she thanked God for thatnow—and Mistress Margaret seemed absorbed in her sister’s grief. And so thegirl fought with devils alone. The arguments for Catholicism burned pitilesslyclear now; every line and feature in them stood out distinct and hard.Catholicism, it appeared to her, alone had the marks of the Bride, visibleunity, visible Catholicity, visible Apostolicity, visible Sanctity;—there theywere, the seals of the most High God. She flung herself back furiously into theProtestantism from which she had been emerging; there burned in the dark beforeher the marks of the Beast, visible disunion, visible nationalism, visibleErastianism, visible gulfs where holiness should be: that system in which nowshe could never find rest again glared at her in all its unconvincingincoherence, its lack of spirituality, its adulterous union with the civilpower instead of the pure wedlock of the Spouse of Christ. She wondered oncemore how she dared to have hesitated so long; or dared to hesitate still.
On the theological side intellectual arguments of this kind started out, strongand irrefutable; her emotional drawings towards Catholicism for the presentretired. Feelings might have been disregarded or discredited by a strong effortof the will; these apparently cold phenomena that presented themselves to herintellect, could not be thus dealt with. Yet, strangely enough, even now shewould not throw herself resolutely into Catholicism: the fierce stimulusinstead of precipitating the crisis, petrified it. More than once she startedup from her knees in her own dark room, resolved to awaken the nun and tell hershe would wait no longer, but would turn Catholic at once and have finishedwith the misery of suspense: and even as she moved to the door her will founditself against an impenetrable wall.
And then on the other side all her human nature cried out forHubert—Hubert—Hubert. There he stood by her in fancy, day and night, thatchivalrous, courteous lad, who had been loyal to her so long; had waited sopatiently; had run to her with such dear impatience; who was so wholesome, sostrong, so humble to her; so quick to understand her wants, so eager to fulfilthem; so bound to her by associations; so fit a mate for the very differencesbetween them. And now these two claims were no longer compatible; in his verylove for her he had ended that possibility. All those old dreams; the littlescenes she had rehearsed, of their first mass, their first communion together;their walks in the twilight; their rides over the hills; the new ties that wereto draw the old ladies at the Hall and herself so close together—all this waschanged; some of those dreams were now for ever impossible, others onlypossible on terms that she trembled even to think of. Perhaps it was worst ofall to reflect that she was in some measure responsible for his change ofreligion; she fancied that it was through her slowness to respond to light, herdelaying to confide in him, that he had been driven through impatience to takethis step. And so week after week went by and she dared not answer his letter.
The old ladies, too, were sorely puzzled at her. It was impossible for them toknow how far her religion was changing. She had kept up the same reservetowards them lately as towards Hubert, chiefly because she feared to disappointthem; and so after an attempt to tell each other a little of their mutualsympathy, the three women were silent on the subject of the lad who was so muchto them all.
She began to show her state a little in her movements and appearance. She waslanguid, soon tired and dispirited; she would go for short, lonely walks, andfall asleep in her chair worn out when she came in. Her grey eyes looked longerand darker; her eyelids and the corners of her mouth began to droop a little.
Then in October he came home.
Isabel had been out a long afternoon walk by herself through the reddeningwoods. They had never, since the first awakening of the consciousness of beautyin her, meant so little to her as now. It appeared as if that keen unity of alife common to her and all living things had been broken or obscured; and thatshe walked in an isolation all the more terrible in that she was surrounded bythe dumb presence of what she loved. Last year the quick chattering cry of theblackbird, the evening mists over the meadows, the stir of the fading life ofthe woods, the rustling scamper of the rabbit over the dead leaves, the solemncall of the homing rooks—all this, only last year, went to make up the sweetnatural atmosphere in which her spirit moved and breathed at ease. Now she wasexcommunicate from that pleasant friendship, banned by nature and forgotten bythe God who made it and was immanent within it. Her relations to the Saviour,who only such a short time ago had been the Person round whom all the joys oflife had centred, from whom they radiated, and to whom she referred themall—these relations had begun to be obscured by her love for Hubert, and nowhad vanished altogether. She had regarded her earthly and her heavenly lover astwo persons, each of whom had certain claims upon her heart, and each of whomshe had hoped to satisfy in different ways; instead of identifying the two, andserving each not apart from, but in the other. And it now seemed to her thatshe was making experience of a Divine jealousy that would suffer her to besatisfied neither with God nor man. Her soul was exhausted by internalconflict, by the swift alternations of attraction and repulsion between thepoles of her supernatural and natural life; so that when it turned wearily fromself to what lay outside, it was not even capable, as before, of making thatsupreme effort of cessation of effort which was necessary to its peace. Itseemed to her that she was self-poised in emptiness, and could neither touchheaven or earth—crucified so high that she could not rest on earth, so low thatshe could not reach to heaven.
She came in weary and dispirited as the candles were being lighted in hersitting-room upstairs; but she saw the gleam of them from the garden with nosense of a welcoming brightness. She passed from the garden into the door ofthe hall which was still dark, as the fire had nearly burned itself out. As sheentered the door opposite opened, and once more she saw the silhouette of aman’s figure against the lighted passage beyond; and again she stoppedfrightened, and whispered “Anthony.”
There was a momentary pause as the door closed and all was dark again; and thenshe heard Hubert’s voice say her name; and felt herself wrapped once more inhis arms. For a moment she clung to him with furious longing. Ah! this is atangible thing, she felt, this clasp; the faint cleanly smell of his roughfrieze dress refreshed her like wine, and she kissed his sleeve passionately.And the wide gulf between them yawned again; and her spirit sickened at thesight of it.
“Oh! Hubert, Hubert!” she said.
She felt herself half carried to a high chair beside the fire-place and setdown there; then he re-arranged the logs on the hearth, so that the flamesbegan to leap again, showing his strong hands and keen clear-cut face; then heturned on his knees, seized her two hands in his own, and lifted them to hislips; then laid them down again on her knee, still holding them; and soremained.
“Oh! Isabel,” he said, “why did you not write?”
She was silent as one who stares fascinated down a precipice.
“It is all over,” he went on in a moment, “with the expedition. The Queen’sGrace has finally refused us leave to go—and I have come back to you, Isabel.”
How strong and pleasant he looked in this leaping fire-light! how real! and shewas hesitating between this warm human reality and the chilly possibilities ofan invisible truth. Her hands tightened instinctively within his, and thenrelaxed.
“I have been so wretched,” she said piteously.
“Ah! my dear,” and he threw an arm round her neck and drew her face down tohis, “but that is over now.” She sat back again; and then an access of purposepoured into her and braced her will to an effort.
“No, no,” she began, “I must tell you. I was afraid to write. Hubert, I mustwait a little longer. I—I do not know what I believe.”
He looked at her, puzzled.
“What do you mean, dearest?”
“I have been so much puzzled lately—thinking so much—and—and—I am sorry youhave become a Protestant. It makes all so hard.”
“My dear, this is—I do not understand.”
“I have been thinking,” went on Isabel bravely, “whether perhaps the CatholicChurch is not right after all.”
Hubert loosed her hands and stood up. She crouched into the shadow of theinterior of the high chair, and looked up at him, terrified. His cheek twitcheda little.
“Isabel, this is foolishness. I know what the Catholic faith is. It is nottrue; I have been through it all.”
He was speaking nervously and abruptly. She said nothing. Then he suddenlydropped on his knees himself.
“My dearest, I understand. You were doing this for me. I quite understand. Itis what I too——” and then he stopped.
“I know, I know,” she cried piteously. “It is just what I have feared soterribly—that—that our love has been blinding us both. And yet, what are we todo, what are we to do? Oh! God—Hubert, help me.”
Then he began to speak in a low emphatic voice, holding her hands, delicatelystroking one of them now and again, and playing with her fingers. She watchedhis curly head in the firelight as he talked, and his keen face as he lookedup.
“It is all plain to me,” he said, caressingly. “You have been living here withmy aunt, a dear old saint; and she has been talking and telling you all aboutthe Catholic religion, and making it seem all true and good. And you, my dearchild, have been thinking of me sometimes, and loving me a little, is it notso? and longing that religion should not separate us; and so you began to wishit was true; and then to hope it was; and at last you have begun to think itis. But it is not your true sweet self that believes it. Ah! you know in yourheart of hearts, as I have known so long, that it is not true; that it is madeup by priests and nuns; and it is very beautiful, I know, my dearest, but it isonly a lovely tale; and you must not spoil all for the sake of a tale. And Ihave been gradually led to the light; it was your—” and his voicefaltered—“your prayers that helped me to it. I have longed to understand whatit was that made you so sweet and so happy; and now I know; it is your ownsimple pure religion; and—and—it is so much more sensible, so much more likelyto be true than the Catholic religion. It is all in the Bible you see; soplain, as Mr. Collins has showed me. And so, my dear love, I have come tobelieve it too; and you must put all these fancies out of your head, thesedreams; though I love you, I love you,” and he kissed her hand again, “forwishing to believe them for my sake—and—and we will be married beforeChristmas; and we will have our own fairy-tale, but it shall be a true one.”
This was terrible to Isabel. It seemed as if her own haunting thought that shewas sacrificing a dream to reality had become incarnate in her lover and wasspeaking through his lips. And yet in its very incarnation, it seemed to revealits weakness rather than its strength. As a dark suggestion the thought wasmighty; embodied in actual language it seemed to shrink a little. But then, onthe other hand—and so the interior conflict began to rage again.
She made a movement as if to stand up; but he pressed her back into the chair.
“No, my dearest, you shall be a prisoner until you give your parole.”
Twice Isabel made an effort to speak; but no sound came. It seemed as if theraging strife of thoughts deafened and paralysed her.
“Now, Isabel,” said Hubert.
“I cannot, I cannot,” she cried desperately, “you must give me time. It is toosudden, your returning like this. You must give me time. I do not know what Ibelieve. Oh, dear God, help me.”
“Isabel, promise! promise! Before Christmas! I thought it was all to be sohappy, when I came in through the garden just now. My mother will hardly speakto me; and I came to you, Isabel, as I always did; I felt so sure you would begood to me; and tell me that you would always love me, now that I had given upmy religion for love of you. And now——” and Hubert’s voice ended in a sob.
Her heart seemed rent across, and she drew a sobbing sigh. Hubert heard it, andcaught at her hands again as he knelt.
“Isabel, promise, promise.”
Then there came that gust of purpose into her heart again; she made adetermined effort and stood up; and Hubert rose and stood opposite her.
“You must not ask me,” she said, bravely. “It would be wicked to decide yet. Icannot see anything clearly. I do not know what I believe, nor where I stand.You must give me time.”
There was a dead silence. His face was so much in shadow that she could nottell what he was thinking. He was standing perfectly still.
“Then that is all the answer you will give me?” he said, in a perfectly evenvoice.
Isabel bowed her head.
“Then—then I wish you good-night, Mistress Norris,” and he bowed to her,caught up his cap and went out.
She could not believe it for a moment, and caught her breath to cry out afterhim as the door closed; but she heard his step on the stone pavement outside,the crunch of the gravel, and he was gone. Then she went and leaned her headagainst the curved mantelshelf and stared into the logs that his hands hadpiled together.
This, then, she thought, was the work of religion; the end of all heraspirations and efforts, that God should mock them by bringing love into theirlife, and then when they caught at it and thanked him for it, it was whiskedaway again, and left their hands empty. Was this the Father of Love in whom shehad been taught to believe, who treated His children like this? And so thebitter thoughts went on; and yet she knew in her heart that she was powerless;that she could not go to the door and call Hubert and promise what he asked. Agreat Force had laid hold of her, it might be benevolent or not—at this momentshe thought not—but it was irresistible; and she must bow her head and obey.
And even as she thought that, the door opened again, and there was Hubert. Hecame in two quick steps across the room to her, and then stopped suddenly.
“Mistress Isabel,” he asked, “can you forgive me? I was a brute just now. I donot ask for your promise. I leave it all in your hands. Do with me what youwill. But—but, if you could tell me how long you think it will be before youknow——”
He had touched the right note. Isabel’s heart gave a leap of sorrow andsympathy. “Oh, Hubert,” she said brokenly, “I am so sorry; but I promise Iwill tell you—by Easter?” and her tone was interrogative.
“Yes, yes,” said Hubert. He looked at her in silence, and she saw strangelines quivering at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes large and brilliantin the firelight. Then the two drew together, and he took her in his armsstrongly and passionately.
There was a scene that night between the mother and son. Mistress Margaret hadgone back to the Dower House for supper; and Lady Maxwell and Hubert weresupping in Sir Nicholas’ old study that would soon be arranged for Hubert nowthat he had returned for good. They had been very silent during the meal, whilethe servants were in the room, talking only of little village affairs and ofthe estate, and of the cancelling of the proposed expedition. Hubert hadexplained to his mother that it was generally believed that Elizabeth had neverseriously intended the English ships to sail, but that she only wished to drawSpain’s attention off herself by setting up complications between that countryand France; and when she had succeeded in this by managing to get the Frenchsquadron safe at Terceira, she then withdrew her permission to Drake andHawkins, and thus escaped from the quarrel altogether. But it was a poormakeshift for conversation.
When the servants had withdrawn, a silence fell. Presently Hubert looked acrossthe table between the silver branched candlesticks.
“Mother,” he said, “of course I know what you are thinking. But I cannotconsent to go through all the arguments; I am weary of them. Neither will I seeMr. Barnes to-morrow at Cuckfield or here. I am satisfied with my position.”
“My son,” said Lady Maxwell with dignity, “I do not think I have spoken thatpriest’s name; or indeed any.”
“Well,” said Hubert, impatiently, “at any rate I will not see him. But I wishto say a few words about this house. We must have our positions clear. Myfather left to your use, did he not, the whole of the cloister-wing? I amdelighted, dear mother, that he did so. You will be happy there I know; and ofcourse I need not say that I hope you will keep your old room overhead as well;and, indeed, use the whole house as you have always done. I shall be gratefulif you will superintend it all, as before—at least, until a new mistresscomes.”
“Thank you, my son.”
“I will speak of that in a moment,” he went on, looking steadily at thetable-cloth; “but there was a word I wished to say first. I am now a loyalsubject of her Grace in all things; in religion as in all else. And—and I fearI cannot continue to entertain seminary priests as my father used to do. My—myconscience will not allow that. But of course, mother, I need not say that youare at perfect liberty to do what you will in the cloister-wing; I shall ask noquestions; and I shall set no traps or spies. But I must ask that the priestsdo not come into this part of the house, nor walk in the garden. Fortunatelyyou have a lawn in the cloister; so that they need not lack fresh air orexercise.”
“You need not fear, Hubert,” said his mother, “I will not embarrass you. Youshall be in no danger.”
“I think you need not have said that, mother; I am not usually thought acoward.”
Lady Maxwell flushed a little, and began to finger her silver knife.
“However,” Hubert went on, “I thought it best to say that. The chapel, yousee, is in that wing; and you have that lawn; and—and I do not think I amtreating you hardly.”
“And is your brother James not to come?” asked his mother.
“I have thought much over that,” said Hubert; “and although it is hard to sayit, I think he had better not come to my part of the house—at least not when Iam here; I must know nothing of it. You must do what you think well when I amaway, about him and others too. It is very difficult for me, mother; please donot add to the difficulty.”
“You need not fear,” said Lady Maxwell steadily; “you shall not be troubledwith any Catholics besides ourselves.”
“Then that is arranged,” said the lad. “And now there is a word more. Whathave you been doing to Isabel?” And he looked sharply across the table. Hismother’s eyes met his fearlessly.
“I do not understand you,” she said.
“Mother, you must know what I mean. You have seen her continually.”
“I have told you, my son, that I do not know.”
“Why,” burst out Hubert, “she is half a Catholic.”
“Thank God,” said his mother.
“Ah! yes; you thank God, I know; but whom am I to thank for it?”
“I would that you could thank Him too.”
Hubert made a sharp sound of disgust.
“Ah! yes,” he said scornfully, “I knew it; Non nobis Domine, and therest.”
“Hubert,” said Lady Maxwell, “I do not think you mean to insult me in thishouse; but either that is an insult, or else I misunderstood you wholly, andmust ask your pardon for it.”
“Well,” he said, in a harsh voice, “I will make myself plain. I believe thatit is through the influence of you and Aunt Margaret that this has been broughtabout.”
At the moment he spoke the door opened.
“Come in, Margaret,” said her sister, “this concerns you.”
The old nun came across to Hubert with her anxious sweet face; and put her oldhand tenderly on his black satin sleeve as he sat and wrenched at a nut betweenhis fingers.
“Hubert, dear boy,” she said, “what is all this? Will you tell me?”
Hubert rose, a little ashamed of himself, and went to the door and closed it;and then drew out a chair for his aunt, and put a wine-glass for her.
“Sit down, aunt,” he said, and pushed the decanter towards her.
“I have just left Isabel,” she said, “she is very unhappy about something. Yousaw her this evening, dear lad?”
“Yes,” said Hubert, heavily, looking down at the table and taking up anothernut, “and it is of that that I have been speaking. Who has made her unhappy?”
“I had hoped you would tell us that,” said Mistress Margaret; “I came up toask you.”
“My son has done us—me—the honour——” began Lady Maxwell; but Hubert broke in:
“I left Isabel here last Christmas happy and a Protestant. I have come backhere now to find her unhappy and half a Catholic, if not more—and——”
“Oh! are you sure?” asked Mistress Margaret, her eyes shining. “Thank God, ifit be so!”
“Sure?” said Hubert, “why she will not marry me; at least not yet.”
“Oh, poor lad,” she said tenderly, “to have lost both God and Isabel.”
Hubert turned on her savagely. But the old nun’s eyes were steady and serene.
“Poor lad!” she said again.
Hubert looked down again; his lip wrinkled up in a little sneer.
“As far as I am concerned,” he said, “I can understand your not caring, but Iam astonished at this response of yours to her father’s confidence!”
Lady Maxwell grew white to the lips.
“I have told you,” she began—“but you do not seem to believe it—that I havehad nothing to do, so far as I know, with her conversion, which”—and she raisedher voice bravely—“I pray God to accomplish. She has, of course, asked mequestions now and then; and I have answered them—that is all.”
“And I,” said Mistress Margaret, “plead guilty to the same charge, and to noother. You are not yourself, dear boy, at present; and indeed I do not wonderat it; and I pray God to help you; but you are not yourself, or you would notspeak like this to your mother.”
Hubert rose to his feet; his face was white under the tan, and the ruffle roundhis wrist trembled as he leaned heavily with his fingers on the table.
“I am only a plain Protestant now,” he said bitterly, “and I have been withProtestants so long that I have forgotten Catholic ways; but——”
“Stay, Hubert,” said his mother, “do not finish that. You will be sorry for itpresently, if you do. Come, Margaret.” And she moved towards the door; her sonwent quickly past and opened it.
“Nay, nay,” said the nun. “Do you be going, Mary. Let me stay with the lad,and we will come to you presently.” Lady Maxwell bowed her head and passedout, and Hubert closed the door.
Mistress Margaret looked down on the table.
“You have given me a glass, dear boy; but no wine in it.”
Hubert took a couple of quick steps back, and faced her.
“It is no use, it is no use,” he burst out, and his voice was broken withemotion, “you cannot turn me like that. Oh, what have you done with myIsabel?” He put out his hand and seized her arm. “Give her back to me, AuntMargaret; give her back to me.”
He dropped into his seat and hid his face on his arm; and there was a sob ortwo.
“Sit up and be a man, Hubert,” broke in Mistress Margaret’s voice, clear andcool.
He looked up in amazement with wet indignant eyes. She was looking at him,smiling tenderly.
“And now, for the second time, give me half a glass of wine, dear boy.”
He poured it out, bewildered at her self-control.
“For a man that has been round the world,” she said, “you are but a foolishchild.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you never thought of a way of yet winning Isabel,” she asked.
“What do you mean?” he repeated.
“Why, come back to the Church, dear lad; and make your mother and me happyagain, and marry Isabel, and save your own soul.”
“Aunt Margaret,” he cried, “it is impossible. I have truly lost my faith inthe Catholic religion; and—and—you would not have me a hypocrite.”
“Ah! ah!” said the nun, “you cannot tell yet. Please God it may come back. Oh!dear boy, in your heart you know it is true.”
“Before God, in my heart I know that it is not true.”
“No, no, no,” she said; but the light died out of her eyes, and she stretcheda tremulous hand.
“Yes, Aunt Margaret, it is so. For years and years I have been doubting; but Ikept on just because it seemed to me the best religion; and—and I would not bedriven out of it by her Grace’s laws against my will, like a dog stoned fromhis kennel.”
“But you are only a lad still,” she said piteously. He laughed a little.
“But I have had the gift of reason and discretion nearly twenty years, a priestwould tell me. Besides, Aunt Margaret, I could not be such a—a cur—as to comeback without believing. I could never look Isabel in the eyes again.”
“Well, well,” said the old lady, “let us wait and see. Do you intend to behere now for a while?”
“Not while Isabel is like this,” he said. “I could not. I must go away for awhile, and then come back and ask her again.”
“When will she decide?”
“She told me by next Easter,” said Hubert. “Oh, Aunt Margaret, pray for usboth.”
The light began to glimmer again in her eyes.
“There, dear boy,” she said, “you see you believe in prayer still.”
“But, aunt,” said Hubert, “why should I not? Protestants pray.”
“Well, well,” said the old nun again. “Now you must come to your mother;and—and be good to her.”
THE COMING OF THE JESUITS
The effect on Anthony of Mr. Buxton’s conversation was very considerable. Hehad managed to keep his temper very well during the actual interview; but hebroke out alone afterwards, at first with an angry contempt. The absurdarrogance of the man made him furious—the arrogance that had puffed awayEngland and its ambitions and its vigour—palpable evidences of life andreality, and further of God’s blessing—in favour of a miserable Latin nationwhich had the presumption to claim the possession of Peter’s Chair and of theperson of the Vicar of Christ! Test it, said the young man to himself, by theancient Fathers and Councils that Dr. Jewel quoted so learnedly, and thepreposterous claim crumbled to dust. Test it, yet again, by the finger ofProvidence; and God Himself proclaimed that the pretensions of the spiritualkingdom, of which the prisoner in the cell had bragged, are but a blasphemousfable. And Anthony reminded himself of the events of the previous year.
Three great assaults had been made by the Papists to win back England to theold Religion. Dr. William Allen, the founder of Douai College, had already forthe last seven or eight years been pouring seminary priests into England, andover a hundred and twenty were at work among their countrymen, preparing thegrand attack. This was made in three quarters at once.
In Scotland it was chiefly political, and Anthony thought, with a bittercontempt, of the Count d’Aubigny, Esmé Stuart, who was supposed to be anemissary of the Jesuits; how he had plotted with ecclesiastics and nobles, andprofessed Protestantism to further his ends; and of all the stories of hisduplicity and evil-living, told round the guard-room fire.
In Ireland the attempt was little else than ludicrous. Anthony laughed fiercelyto himself as he pictured the landing of the treacherous fools at Dingle, ofSir James FitzMaurice and his lady, very wretched and giddy after their voyage,and the barefooted friars, and Dr. Sanders, and the banner so solemnlyconsecrated; and of the sands of Smerwick, when all was over a year later, andthe six hundred bodies, men and women who had preferred Mr. Buxton’s spiritualkingdom to Elizabeth’s kindly rule, stripped and laid out in rows, like deadgame, for Lord Grey de Wilton to reckon them by.
But his heart sank a little as he remembered the third method of attack, and ofthe coming of the Jesuits. By last July all London knew that they were here,and men’s hearts were shaken with apprehension. They reminded one another ofthe April earthquake that had tolled the great Westminster bell, and throwndown stones from the churches. One of the Lambeth guards, a native of Blunsdon,in Wiltshire, had told Anthony himself that a pack of hell-hounds had beenheard there, in full cry after a ghostly quarry. Phantom ships had been seenfrom Bodmin attacking a phantom castle that rode over the waves off the Cornishcoast. An old woman of Blasedon had given birth to a huge-headed monster withthe mouth of a mouse, eight legs, and a tail; and, worse than all, it waswhispered in the Somersetshire inns that three companies of black-robed men,sixty in number, had been seen, coming and going overhead in the gloom. Thesetwo strange emissaries, Fathers Persons and Campion—how they appealed to theimagination, lurking under a hundred disguises, now of servants, now ofgentlemen of means and position! It was known that they were still in England,going about doing good, their friends said who knew them; stirring up thepeople, their enemies said who were searching for them. Anthony had seen withhis own eyes some of the papers connected with their presence—that containing astatement of their objects in coming, namely, that they were spiritual notpolitical agents, seeking recruits for Christ and for none else; Campion’s“Challenge and Brag,” offering to meet any English Divine on equal terms in apublic disputation; besides one or two of the controversial pamphlets,purporting to be printed at Douai, but really emanating from a privateprinting-press in England, as the Government experts had discovered from anexamination of the water-marks of the paper employed.
Yet as the weeks went by, and his first resentment cooled, Mr. Buxton’sarguments more and more sank home, for they had touched the very point whereAnthony had reckoned that his own strength lay. He had never before heardNationalism and Catholicism placed in such flat antithesis. In fact, he hadnever before really heard the statement of the Catholic position; and hisfierce contempt gradually melted into respect. Both theories had a concrete airof reality about them; his own imaged itself under the symbols of England’spower; the National Church appealed to him so far as it represented thespiritual side of the English people; and Mr. Buxton’s conception appealed tohim from its very audacity. This great spiritual kingdom, striding on its way,trampling down the barriers of temperament and nationality, disregarding allearthly limitations and artificial restraints, imperiously dominating the worldin spite of the world’s struggles and resentment—this, after all, as he thoughtover it, was—well—was a new aspect of affairs. The coming of the Jesuits, too,emphasised the appeal: here were two men, as the world itself confessed, ofexceptional ability—for Campion had been a famous Oxford orator, and Persons aFellow of Balliol—choosing, under a free-will obedience, first a life of exile,and then one of daily peril and apprehension, the very thought of whichburdened the imagination with horror; hunted like vermin, sleeping and faringhard, their very names detested by the majority of their countrymen, with theshadow of the gallows moving with them, and the reek of the hangman’s cauldroncontinually in their nostrils—and for what? For Mr. Buxton’s spiritual kingdom!Well, Anthony thought to himself as the weeks went by and his new thoughts sankdeeper, if it is all a superstitious dream, at least it is a noble one!
What, too, was the answer, he asked himself, that England gave to FatherCampion’s challenge, and the defence that the Government was preparing againstthe spiritual weapons of the Jesuits? New prisons at Framingham and Battersea;new penalties enacted by Parliament; and, above all, the unanswerable argumentof the rack, and the gallows finally to close the discussion. And what of thearmy that was being set in array against the priests, and that was even nowbeginning to scour the country round Berkshire, Oxfordshire, and London?Anthony had to confess to himself that they were queer allies for the servantsof Christ; for traitors, liars, and informers were among the most trustedGovernment agents.
In short, as the spring drew on, Anthony was not wholly happy. Again and againin his own room he studied a little manuscript translation of Father Campion’s“Ten Reasons,” that had been taken from a popish prisoner, and that a friendhad given him; and as he read its exultant rhetoric, he wondered whether thewriter was indeed as insincere and treacherous as Mr. Scot declared. Thereseemed in the paper a reckless outspokenness, calculated rather to irritatethan deceive.
“I turn to the Sacraments,” he read, “none, none, not two, not one, O holyChrist, have they left. Their very bread is poison. Their baptism, though it betrue, yet in their judgment is nothing. It is not the saving water! It is notthe channel of Grace! It brings not Christ’s merits to us! It is but a sign ofsalvation!” And again the writer cried to Elizabeth to return to the ancientReligion, and to be in truth what she was in name, the Defender of the Faith.
“‘Kings shall be thy nursing fathers,’ thus Isaiah sang, ‘and Queens thynursing mothers.’ Listen, Elizabeth, most Mighty Queen! To thee the greatProphet sings! He teaches thee thy part. Join then thyself to these princes!...O Elizabeth, a day, a day shall come that shall show thee clearly which haveloved thee the better, the Society of Jesus orLuther’s brood!”
What arrogance, thought Anthony to himself, and what assurance too!
Meanwhile in the outer world things were not reassuring to the friends of theGovernment: it was true that half a dozen priests had been captured andexamined by torture, and that Sir George Peckham himself, who was known to haveharboured Campion, had been committed to the Marshalsea; but yet the Jesuits’influence was steadily on the increase. More and more severe penalties had beenlately enacted; it was now declared to be high treason to reconcile or bereconciled to the Church of Rome; overwhelming losses in fortune as well asliberty were threatened against all who said or heard Mass or refused to attendthe services of the Establishment; but, as was discovered from papers that fellfrom time to time into the hands of the Government agents, the only answer ofthe priests was to inveigh more strenuously against even occasional conformity,declaring it to be the mortal sin of schism, if not of apostasy, to put in anappearance under any circumstances, except those of actual physical compulsion,at the worship in the parish churches. Worse than all, too, was the fact thatthis severe gospel began to prevail; recusancy was reported to be on theincrease in all parts of the country; and many of the old aristocracy began toreturn to the faith of their fathers: Lords Arundel, Oxford, Vaux, HenryHoward, and Sir Francis Southwell were all beginning to fall under thesuspicion of the shrewdest Government spies.
The excitement at Lambeth ran higher day by day as the summer drew on; the netwas being gradually contracted in the home counties; spies were reported to beeverywhere, in inns, in the servants’ quarters of gentlemen’s houses, loungingat cross roads and on village greens. Campion’s name was in every mouth. Nowthey were on his footsteps, it was said; now he was taken; now he was gone backto France; now he was in London; now in Lancashire; and each rumour in turncorrected its predecessor.
Anthony shared to the full in the excitement; the figure of the quarry, afterwhich so many hawks were abroad, appealed to his imagination. He dreamed of himat night, once as a crafty-looking man with narrow eyes and stooping shoulders,that skulked and ran from shadow to shadow across a moonlit country; once as aruddy-faced middle-aged gentleman riding down a crowded street; and severaltimes as a kind of double of Mr. Stewart, whom he had never forgotten, since hehad watched him in the little room of Maxwell Hall, gallant and alert among hisenemies.
At last one day in July, as it drew on towards evening, and as Anthony waslooking over the stable-accounts in his little office beyond the PresenceChamber, a buzz of talk and footsteps broke out in the court below; and amoment later the Archbishop’s body-servant ran in to say that his Grace wishedto see Mr. Norris at once in the gallery that opened out of the guard-room.
“And I think it is about the Jesuits, sir,” added the man, evidently excited.
Anthony ran down at once and found his master pacing up and down, with acourier waiting near the steps at the lower end that led to Chichele’s tower.The Archbishop stopped by a window, emblazoned with Cardinal Pole’s emblem, andbeckoned to him.
“See here, Master Norris,” he said, “I have received news that Campion is atlast taken: it may well be false, as so often before; but take horse, if youplease, and ride into the city and find the truth for me. I will not send agroom; they believe the maddest tales. You are at liberty?” he addedcourteously.
“Yes, your Grace, I will ride immediately.”
As he rode down the river-bank towards London Bridge ten minutes later, hecould not help feeling some dismay as well as excitement at the news he was toverify. And yet what other end was possible? But what a doom for the brilliantOxford orator, even though he had counted the cost!
Streams of excited people were pouring across the bridge into the city;Campion’s name was on every tongue; and Anthony, as he passed under the highgate, noticed a man point up at the grim spiked heads above it, and laugh tohis companion. There seemed little doubt, from the unanimity of those whom hequestioned, that the rumour was true; and some even said that the Jesuit wasactually passing down Cheapside on his way to the Tower. When at last Anthonycame to the thoroughfare the crowd was as dense as for a royal progress. Hechecked his horse at the door of an inn-yard, and asked an ostler that stoodthere what it was all about.
“It is Campion, the Jesuit, sir,” said the man. “He has been taken at Lyford,and is passing here presently.”
The man had hardly finished speaking when a yell came from the end of thestreet, and groans and hoots ran down the crowd. Anthony turned in his saddle,and saw a great stir and movement, and then horses’ and men’s heads movingslowly down over the seething surface of the crowd, as if swimming in a roughsea. He could make little out, as the company came towards him, but the facesof the officers and pursuivants who rode in the front rank, four or fiveabreast; then followed the faces of three or four others, also riding betweenguards, and Anthony looked eagerly at them; but they were simple faces enough,a little pale and quiet; one was like a farmer’s, ruddy and bearded;—surelyCampion could not be among those! Then more and more, riding two and two, witha couple of armed guards with each pair; some looked like country-men orservants, some like gentlemen, and one or two might be priests; but the crowdseemed to pay them no attention beyond a glance or two. Ah! what was thiscoming behind?
There was a space behind the last row of guards, and then came a separate troopriding all together, of half a dozen men at least, and one in the centre, withsomething white in his hat. The ferment round this group was tremendous; menwere leaping up and yelling, like hounds round a carted stag; clubs shot upmenacingly, and a storm of ceaseless execration raged outside the compactsquare of guards who sat alert and ready to beat off an attack. Once a horsekicked fiercely as a man sprang to his hind-quarters, and there was a scream ofpain and a burst of laughing.
Anthony sat trembling with excitement as the first group had passed, and thissecond began to come opposite the entrance where he sat. This then was the man!
The rider in the centre sat his horse somewhat stiffly, and Anthony saw thathis elbows were bound behind his back, and his hands in front; the reins weredrawn over his horse’s head and a pursuivant held them on either side. The manwas dressed as a layman, in a plumed hat and a buff jerkin, such as soldiers orplain country-gentlemen might use; and in the hat was a great paper with aninscription. Anthony spelt it out.
“Campion, the Seditious Jesuit.”
Then he looked at the man’s face.
It was a comely refined face, a little pale but perfectly serene: his pointeddark brown beard and moustache were carefully trimmed; and his large passionateeyes looked cheerfully about him. Anthony stared at him, wholly fascinated; forabove the romance that hung about the hunted priest and the glamour of thedreaded Society which he represented, there was a chivalrous fearless look inhis face that drew the heart of the young man almost irresistibly. At least hedid not look like the skulking knave at whom all the world was sneering, and ofwhom Anthony had dreamt so vividly a few nights before.
The storm of execration from the faces below, and the faces crowding at thewindows, seemed to affect him not at all; and he looked from side to side as ifthey were cheering him rather than crying against him. Once his eyes metAnthony’s and rested on them for a moment; and a strange thrill ran through himand he shivered sharply.
And yet he felt, too, a distinct and irresistible movement of attractiontowards this felon who was riding towards his agony and passion; and he wasconscious at the same time of that curious touch of wonder that he had feltyears before towards the man whipped at the cart’s tail, as to whether thesolitary criminal were not in the right, and the clamorous accusers in thewrong. Campion in a moment had passed on and turned his head.
In that moment, too, Anthony caught a sudden clear instantaneous impression ofa group of faces in the window opposite. There were a couple of men in front,stout city personages no doubt, with crimson faces and open mouths cursing thetraitorous Papist and the crafty vagrant fox trapped at last; but between them,looking over their shoulders, was a woman’s face in which Anthony saw the mostintense struggle of emotions. The face was quite white, the lips parted, theeyes straining, and sorrow and compassion were in every line, as she watchedthe cheerful priest among his warders; and yet there rested on it, too, astrange light as of triumph. It was the face of one who sees victory even atthe hour of supremest failure. In an instant more the face had withdrawn itselfinto the darkness of the room.
When the crowds had surged down the street in the direction of the Tower,yelling in derision as Campion saluted the lately defaced Cheapside Cross,Anthony guided his horse out through the dispersing groups, realising as he didso, with a touch of astonishment at the coincidence, that he had been standingalmost immediately under the window whence he and Isabel had leaned out so manyyears before.
The sun was going down behind the Abbey as he rode up towards Lambeth, and thesky above and the river beneath were as molten gold. The Abbey itself, withWestminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament below, stood up like mysticalpalaces against the sunset; and it seemed to Anthony as he rode, as if GodHimself were illustrating in glorious illumination the closing pages of thathuman life of which a glimpse had opened to him in Cheapside. It did not appearto him as it had done in the days of his boyish love as if heaven and earthwere a stage for himself to walk and pose upon; but he felt intensely now thedominating power of the personality of the priest; and that he himself was nomore than a spectator of this act of a tragedy of which the priest was bothhero and victim, and for which this evening glory formed so radiant a scene.The old intellectual arguments against the cause that the priest representedfor the moment were drowned in this flood of splendour. When he arrived atLambeth and had reached the Archbishop’s presence, he told him the newsbriefly, and went to his room full of thought and perplexity.
In a few days the story of Campion’s arrest was known far and wide. It had beenmade possible by the folly of one Catholic and the treachery of another; andwhen Anthony heard it, he was stirred still more by the contrast between theJesuit and his pursuers. The priest had returned to the moated grange atLyford, after having already paid as long a visit there as was prudent, owingto the solicitations of a number of gentlemen who had ridden after him and hiscompanion, and who wished to hear his eloquence. He had returned there again,said mass on the Sunday morning, and preached afterwards, from a chair setbefore the altar, a sermon on the tears of the Saviour over apostate Jerusalem.But a false disciple had been present who had come in search of one Payne; andthis man, known afterwards by the Catholics as Judas Eliot or Eliot Iscariot,had gathered a number of constables and placed them about the manor-house; andbefore the sermon was over he went out quickly from the table of the Lord, thehouse was immediately surrounded, and the alarm was raised by a watcher placedin one of the turrets after Eliot’s suspicious departure. The three priestspresent, Campion and two others, were hurried into a hiding-hole over thestairs. The officers entered, searched, and found nothing; and were actuallyretiring, when Eliot succeeded in persuading them to try again; they searchedagain till dark, and still found nothing. Mrs. Yate encouraged them to stay thenight in the house, and entertained them with ale; and then when all was quiet,insisted on hearing some parting words from her eloquent guest. He came outinto the room where she had chosen to spend the night until the officers weregone; and the rest of the Catholics, some Brigittine nuns and others, met therethrough private passages and listened to him for the last time. As the companywas dispersing one of the priests stumbled and fell, making a noise that rousedthe sentry outside. Again the house was searched, and again with no success. Indespair they were leaving it, when Jenkins, Eliot’s companion, who was comingdownstairs with a servant of the house, beat with his stick on the wall, sayingthat they had not searched there. It was noticed that the servant showed signsof agitation; and men were fetched to the spot; the wall was beaten in and thethree priests were found together, having mutually shriven one another, andmade themselves ready for death.
Campion was taken out and sent first to the Sheriff of Berkshire, and then ontowards London on the following day.
The summer days went by, and every day brought its fresh rumour about Campion.Sir Owen Hopton, Governor of the Tower, who at first had committed his prisonerto Little-Ease, now began to treat him with more honour; he talked, too,mysteriously, of secret interviews and promises and understandings; andgradually it began to get about that Campion was yielding to kindness; that hehad seen the Queen; that he was to recant at Paul’s Cross; and even that he wasto have the See of Canterbury. This last rumour caused great indignation atLambeth, and Anthony was more pressed than ever to get what authentic news hecould of the Jesuit. Then at the beginning of August came a burst of new tales;he had been racked, it was said, and had given up a number of names; and as themonth went by more and more details, authentic and otherwise, were published.Those favourably inclined to the Catholics were divided in opinion; some fearedthat he had indeed yielded to an excess of agony; others, and these proved tobe in the right when the truth came out, that he had only given up names whichwere already known to the authorities; though even for this he asked publicpardon on the scaffold.
Towards the end of August the Archbishop again sent expressly for Anthony andbade him accompany his chaplain on the following day to the Tower, to bepresent at the public disputation that was to take place between Englishdivines and the Jesuit.
“Now he will have the chance he craved for,” said Grindal. “He hath braggedthat he would meet any and all in dispute, and now the Queen’s clemency hathgranted it him.”
On the following day in the early morning sunshine the minister and Anthonyrode down together to the Tower, where they arrived a few minutes before eighto’clock, and were passed through up the stairs into St. John’s chapel to theseats reserved for them.
It was indeed true that the authorities had determined to give Campion hischance, but they had also determined to make it as small as possible. He wasnot even told that the discussion was to take place until the morning of itsoccasion, and he was allowed no opportunity for developing his own theologicalposition; the entire conduct of the debate was in the hands of his adversaries;he might only parry, seldom riposte, and never attack.
When Anthony found himself in his seat he looked round the chapel. Almostimmediately opposite him, on a raised platform against a pillar, stood two highseats occupied by Deans Nowell and Day, who were to conduct the disputation,and who were now talking with their heads together while a secretary wasarranging a great heap of books on the table before them. On either side, eastand west, stretched chairs for the divines that were to support them in debate,should they need it; and the platform on which Anthony himself had a chair wasfilled with a crowd of clergy and courtiers laughing and chatting together. Alittle table, also heaped with books, with seats for the notaries, stood in thecentre of the nave, and not far from it were a number of little wooden stoolswhich the prisoners were to occupy. Plainly they were to be allowed no advisersand no books; even the physical support of table and chairs was denied to themin spite of their weary racked bodies. The chapel, bright with the morningsunlight that streamed in through the east windows of the bare Normansanctuary, hummed with the talk and laughter of those who had come to see thepriest-baiting and the vindication of the Protestant Religion; though, asAnthony looked round, he saw here and there an anxious or a downcast face ofsome unknown friend of the Papists.
He himself was far from easy in his mind. He had been studying Campion’s “TenReasons” more earnestly than ever, and was amazed to find that the veryauthorities to which Dr. Jewel deferred, namely, the Scriptures interpreted byFathers and Councils and illustrated by History, were exactly Campion’sauthorities, too; and that the Jesuit’s appeal to them was no less confidentthan the Protestant’s. That fact had, of course, suggested the thought that ifthere were no further living authority in existence to decide between these twoscholars, Christendom was in a poor position. When doctors differed, where wasthe layman to turn? To his own private judgment, said the Protestant. But thenCampion’s private judgment led him to submit to the Catholic claim! This thenat present weighed heavily on Anthony’s mind. Was there or was there not anauthority on earth capable of declaring to him the Revelation of God? For thefirst time he was beginning to feel a logical and spiritual necessity for aninfallible external Judge in matters of faith; and that the Catholic Church wasthe only system that professed to supply it. The question of the existence ofsuch an authority was, with the doctrine of justification, one of thosesubjects continually in men’s minds and conversations, and to Anthony, unlikeothers, it appeared more fundamental even than its companion. All else seemedsecondary. Indulgences, the Mass, Absolution, the Worship of Mary and theSaints—all these must stand or fall on God’s authority made known to man. Theone question for him was, Where was that authority to be certainly found?
There came the ringing tramp of footsteps; the buzz of talk ceased and thenbroke out again, as the prisoners, with all eyes bent upon them, surrounded bya strong guard of pikemen, were seen advancing up the chapel from thenorth-west door towards the stools set ready for them. Anthony had no eyes butfor Campion who limped in front, supported on either side by a warder. He couldscarcely believe at first that this was the same priest who had ridden sobravely down Cheapside. Now he was bent, and walked like an old broken man; hisface was deathly pale, with shadows and lines about his eyes, and his headtrembled a little. There were one or two exclamations of pity, for all knewwhat had caused the change; and Anthony heard an undertone moan of sorrow andanger from some one in a seat behind him.
The prisoners sat down; and the guards went to their places. Campion took hisseat in front, and turned immediately from side to side, running his dark eyesalong the faces to see where were his adversaries; and once more Anthony methis eyes, and thrilled at it. Through the pallor and pain of his face, the samechivalrous spirit looked out and called for homage and love, that years ago atOxford had made young men, mockingly nicknamed after their leader, to desirehis praise more passionately than anything on earth, and even to imitate hismanners and dress and gait, for very loyalty and devotion. Anthony could nottake his eyes off him; he watched the clear-cut profile of his face thrownfearlessly forward, waited in tense expectation to hear him speak, and paid noattention to the whisperings of the chaplain beside him.
Presently the debate began. It was opened by Dean Nowell from his high seat,who assured Father Campion of the disinterested motives of himself and hisreverend friends in holding this disputation. It was, after all, only what thepriest had demanded; and they trusted by God’s grace that they would do himgood and help him to see the truth. There was no unfairness, said the Dean, whoseemed to think that some apology was needed, in taking him thus unprepared,since the subject of debate would be none other than Campion’s own book. TheJesuit looked up, nodded his head, and smiled.
“I thank you, Mr. Dean,” he said, in his deep resonant voice, and there fell adead hush as he spoke. “I thank you for desiring to do me good, and to take upmy challenge; but I must say that I would I had understood of your coming, thatI might have made myself ready.”
Campion’s voice thrilled strangely through Anthony, as the glance from his eyeshad done. It was so assured, so strong and delicate an instrument, and sosupremely at its owner’s command, that it was hardly less persuasive than hispersonality and his learning that made themselves apparent during the day. AndAnthony was not alone in his impressions of the Jesuit. Lord Arundel afterwardsattributed his conversion to Campion’s share in the discussions. Again andagain during the day a murmur of applause followed some of the priest’sclean-cut speeches and arguments, and a murmur of disapproval the fiercethrusts and taunts of his opponents; and by the end of the day’s debate, somarked was the change of attitude of the crowd that had come to triumph overthe Papist, and so manifest their sympathy with the prisoners, that it wasthought advisable to exclude the public from the subsequent discussions.
On this first day, all manner of subjects were touched upon, such as thecomparative leniency of Catholic and Protestant governments, the position ofLuther with regard to the Epistle of St. James, and other matters comparativelyunimportant, in the discussion of which a great deal of time was wasted.Campion entreated his opponents to leave such minor questions alone, and tocome to doctrinal matters; but they preferred to keep to details rather than toprinciples, and the priest had scarcely any opportunity to state his positiveposition at all. The only doctrinal matter seriously touched upon was that ofJustification by Faith; and texts were flung to and fro without any greatresult. “We are justified by faith,” cried one side. “Though I have all faithand have not charity, I am nothing,” cried the other. The effect on Anthony ofthis day’s debate arose rather from the victorious personality of the priestthan from his arguments. His gaiety, too, was in strange contrast to the solemnPuritanism of his enemies. For instance, he was on the point that Councilsmight err in matters of fact, but that the Scriptures could not.
“As for example,” he said, his eyes twinkling out of his drawn face, “I ambound under pain of damnation to believe that Toby’s dog had a tail, because itis written, he wagged it.”
The Deans looked sternly at him, as the audience laughed.
“Now, now,” said one of them, “it becomes not to deal so triflingly withmatters of weight.”
Campion dropped his eyes, demurely, as if reproved.
“Why, then,” he said, “if this example like you not, take another. I mustbelieve that Saint Paul had a cloak, because he willeth Timothy to bring itwith him.”
Again the crowd laughed; and Anthony laughed, too, with a strange sob in histhroat at the gallant foolery, which, after all, was as much to the point as adeal that the Deans were saying.
But the second day’s debate, held in Hopton’s Hall, was on more vital matters;and Anthony again and again found himself leaning forward breathlessly, as Drs.Goode and Fulke on the one side, and Campion on the other, respectivelyattacked and defended the Doctrine of the Visible Church; for this, forAnthony, was one of the crucial points of the dispute between Catholicism andProtestantism. Anthony believed already that the Church was one; and if it wasvisible, surely, he thought to himself, it must be visibly one; and in thatcase, it is evident where that Church is to be found. But if it is invisible,it may be invisibly one, and then as far as that matter is concerned, he mayrest in the Church of England. If not—and then he recoiled from the gulf thatopened.
“It must be an essential mark of the Church,” said Campion, “and such aquality as is inseparable. It must be visible, as fire is hot, and watermoist.”
Goode answered that when Christ was taken and the Apostles fled, then at leastthe Church was invisible; and if then, why not always?
“It was a Church inchoate,” answered the priest, “beginning, not perfect.”
But Goode continued to insist that the true Church is known only to God, andtherefore invisible.
“There are many wolves within,” he said, “and many sheep without.”
“I know not who is elect,” retorted Campion, “but I know who is a Catholic.”
“Only the elect are of the Church,” said Goode.
“I say that both good and evil are of the visible Church,” answered the other.
“To be elect or true members of Christ is one thing,” went on Goode, “and tobe in the visible Church is another.”
As the talk went on, Anthony began to see where the confusion lay. TheProtestants were anxious to prove that membership in a visible body did notensure salvation but then the Catholics never claimed that it did; the questionwas: Did or did not Christ intend there to be a visible Church, membership inwhich should be the normal though not the infallible means of salvation?
They presently got on to the a priori point as to whether a visibleChurch would seem to be a necessity.
“There is a perpetual commandment,” said the priest, “in Mattheweighteen—‘Tell the Church’; but that cannot be unless the Church is visible; ergo, the visibility of the Church is continual.”
“When there is an established Church,” said Goode, “this remedy is to besought for. But this cannot be always had.”
“The disease is continual,” answered Campion; “ergo the remedy must becontinual.” Then he left the a priori ground and entered theirs. “Towhom should I have gone,” he cried, “before Luther’s time? What prelatesshould I have made my complaint unto in those days? Where was your Church ninehundred years ago? Whose were John Huss, Jerome of Prague, the Waldenses? Werethey yours?” Then he turned scornfully to Fulke, “Help him, Master Doctor.”
And Fulke repeated Goode’s assertion, that valuable as the remedy is, it cannotalways be had.
Anthony sat back, puzzled. Both sides seemed right. Persecution must oftenhinder the full privileges of Church membership and the exercise of discipline.Yet the question was, What was Christ’s intention? Was it that the Churchshould be visible? It seemed that even the ministers allowed that, now. And ifso, why then the Catholic’s claim that Christ’s intention had never been whollyfrustrated, but that a visible unity was to be found amongst themselves—surelythis was easier to believe than the Protestant theory that the Church which hadbeen visible for fifteen centuries was not really the Church at all; but thatthe true Church had been invisible—in spite of Christ’s intention—during allthat period, and was now to be found only in small separated bodies scatteredhere and there. How of the prevailing of the gates of hell, if that wereallowed to be true?
At two o’clock they reassembled for the afternoon conference; and now they goteven closer to the heart of the matter, for the subject was to be, whether theChurch could err?
Fulke asserted that it could, and did; and made a syllogism:
“Whatsoever error is incident to every member, is incident to the whole. But itis incident to every member to err; ergo, to the whole.”
“I deny both major and minor,” said Campion quietly. “Everyman may err, but not the whole gathered together; for the whole hath a promise,but so hath not every particular man.”
Fulke denied this stoutly, and beat on the table.
“Every member hath the spirit of Christ,” he said, “which is the spirit oftruth; and therefore hath the same promise that the whole hath.”
“Why, then,” said Campion, smiling, “there should be no heretics.”
“Yes,” answered Fulke, “heretics may be within the Church, but not of theChurch.”
And so they found themselves back again where they started from.
Anthony sat back on the oak bench and sighed, and glanced round at theinterested faces of the theologians and the yawns of the amateurs, as thedebate rolled on over the old ground, and touched on free will, and grace, andinfant baptism; until the Lieutenant interposed:
“Master Doctors,” he said, with a judicial air, “the question that wasappointed before dinner was, whether the visible Church may err”—to which Gooderetorted that the digressions were all Campion’s fault.
Then the debate took the form of contradictions.
“Whatsoever congregation doth err in matters of faith,” said Goode, “is notthe true Church; but the Church of Rome erreth in matters of faith; ergo, it is not the true Church.”
“I deny your minor,” said Campion, “the Church of Rome hath noterred.” Then the same process was repeated over the Council of Trent; and thedebate whirled off once more into details and irrelevancies about imputedrighteousness, and the denial of the Cup to the laity.
Again the audience grew restless. They had not come there, most of them, tolisten to theological minutiæ, but to see sport; and this interminable choppingof words that resulted in nothing bored them profoundly. A murmur ofconversation began to buzz on all sides.
Campion was in despair.
“Thus shall we run into all questions,” he cried hopelessly, “and then weshall have done this time twelve months.”
But Fulke would not let him be; but pressed on a question about the Council ofNice.
“Now we shall have the matter of images,” sighed Campion.
“You are nimis acutus,” retorted Fulke, “you will leap over the stileor ever you come to it. I mean not to speak of images.”
And so with a few more irrelevancies the debate ended.
The third debate in September (on the twenty-third), at which Anthony was againpresent, was on the subject of the Real Presence in the Blessed Sacrament.
Fulke was in an evil temper, since it was common talk that Campion had had thebest of the argument on the eighteenth.
“The other day,” he said, “when we had some hope of your conversion, weforbare you much, and suffered you to discourse; but now that we see you are anobstinate heretic, and seek to cover the light of the truth with multitude ofwords, we mean not to allow you such large discourses as we did.”
“You are very imperious to-day,” answered Campion serenely, “whatsoever thematter is. I am the Queen’s prisoner, and none of yours.”
“Not a whit imperious,” said Fulke angrily,—“though I will exact of you tokeep the right order of disputation.”
Then the argument began. It soon became plain to Anthony that it was possibleto take the Scripture in two senses, literally and metaphorically. Thesacrament either was literally Christ’s body, or it was not. Who then was todecide? Father Campion said it meant the one; Dr. Fulke the other. Could it bepossible that Christ should leave His people in doubt as to such a thing?Surely not, thought Anthony. Well, then, where is the arbiter? Father Campionsays, The Church; Dr. Fulke says, The Scripture. But that is a circularargument, for the question to be decided is: What does the Scripture mean? forit may mean at least two things, at least so it would seem. Here then he foundhimself face to face with the claims of the Church of Rome to be that arbiter;and his heart began to grow sick with apprehension as he saw how that Churchsupplied exactly what was demanded by the circumstances of the case—that is, aninfallible living guide as to the meaning of God’s Revelation. The simplicityof her claim appalled him.
He did not follow the argument closely, since it seemed to him but a secondaryquestion now; though he heard one or two sentences. At one point Campion wasexplaining what the Church meant by substance. It was that which transcendedthe senses.
“Are you not Dr. Fulke?” he said. “And yet I see nothing but your colour andexterior form. The substance of Dr. Fulke cannot be seen.”
“I will not vouchsafe to reply upon this answer,” snarled Fulke, whose temperhad not been improved by the debate—“too childish for a sophister!”
Then followed interminable syllogisms, of which Campion would not accept thepremises; and no real progress was made. The Jesuit tried to explain thedoctrine that the wicked may be said not to eat the Body in the Sacrament,because they receive not the virtue of It, though they receive the Thing; butFulke would not hear him. The distinction was new to Anthony, with his puritantraining, and he sat pondering it while the debate passed on.
The afternoon discussion, too, was to little purpose. More and more Anthony,and others with him, began to see that the heart of the matter was theauthority of the Church; and that unless that was settled, all other debate wasbeside the point; and the importance of this was brought out for him moreclearly than ever on the 27th of the month, when the fourth and last debatetook place, and on the subject of the sufficiency of the Scriptures untosalvation.
Mr. Charke, who had now succeeded as disputant, began with extempore prayer, inwhich as usual the priest refused to join, praying and crossing himself apart.
Mr. Walker then opened the disputation with a pompous and insolent speech about“one Campion,” an “unnatural man to his country, degenerated from anEnglishman, an apostate in religion, a fugitive from this realm, unloyal to hisprince.” Campion sat with his eyes cast down, until the minister had done.
Then the discussion began. The priest pointed out that Protestants were noteven decided as to what were Scriptures and what were not, since Lutherrejected three epistles in the New Testament; therefore, he argued, the Churchis necessary as a guide, first of all, to tell men what is Scripture. Walkerevaded by saying he was not a Lutheran but a Christian; and then the talkturned on to apocryphal books. But it was not possible to evade long, and theJesuit soon touched his opponent.
“To leave a door to traditions,” he said, “which the Holy Ghost may deliver tothe true Church, is both manifest and seen: as in the Baptism of infants, theHoly Ghost proceeding from Father to Son, and such other things mentioned,which are delivered by tradition. Prove these directly by the Scripture if youcan!”
Charke answered by the analogy of circumcision which infants received, and byquoting Christ’s words as to “sending” of the Comforter; and they were soondeep in detailed argument; but once more Anthony saw that it was all a questionof the interpretation of Scripture; and, therefore, that it would seem that anauthoritative interpreter was necessary—and where could such be found save inan infallible living Voice? And once more a question of Campion’s drove thepoint home.
“Was all Scripture written when the Apostles first taught?” And Charke darednot answer yes.
The afternoon’s debate concerned justification by faith, and this, more thanever, seemed to Anthony a secondary matter, now that he was realising what theclaim of a living authority meant; and he sat back, only interested in watchingthe priest’s face, so controlled yet so transparent in its simplicity andsteadfastness, as he listened to the ministers’ brutal taunts and insolence,and dealt his quiet skilful parries and ripostes to their incessant assaults.At last the Lieutenant struck the table with his hand, and intimated that thetime was past, and after a long prayer by Mr. Walker, the prisoners were ledback to their cells.
As Anthony rode back alone in the evening sunlight, he was as one who wasseeing a vision. There was indeed a vision before him, that had been takingshape gradually, detail by detail, during these last months, and ousting theold one; and which now, terribly emphasised by Campion’s arguments andilluminated by the fire of his personality, towered up imperious, consistent,dominating—and across her brow her title, The Catholic Church. Far above allthe melting cloudland of theory she moved, a stupendous fact; living, incontrast with the dead past to which her enemies cried in vain; eloquent whenother systems were dumb; authoritative when they hesitated; steady when theyreeled and fell. About her throne dwelt her children, from every race and age,secure in her protection, and wise with her knowledge, when other men falteredand questioned and doubted: and as Anthony looked up and saw her for the firsttime, he recognised her as the Mistress and Mother of his soul; and althoughthe blinding clouds of argument and theory and self-distrust rushed down on himagain and filled his eyes with dust, yet he knew he had seen her face in verytruth, and that the memory of that vision could never again wholly leave him.
SOME CONTRASTS
In the Lambeth household the autumn passed by uneventfully. The rigour of theArchbishop’s confinement had been mitigated, and he had been allowed now andagain to visit his palace at Croydon; but his inactivity still continued as thesequestration was not removed; Elizabeth had refused to listen to the petitionof Convocation in ’80 for his reinstatement. Anthony went down to the oldpalace once or twice with him; and was brought closer to him in many ways; andhis affection and tenderness towards his master continually increased. Grindalwas a pathetic figure at this time, with few friends, in poor health, out offavour with the Queen, who had disregarded his existence; and now hisafflictions were rendered more heavy than ever by the blindness that wascreeping over him. The Archbishop, too, in his loneliness and sorrow, was drawncloser to his young officer than ever before; and gradually got to rely uponhim in many little ways. He would often walk with Anthony in the gardens atLambeth, leaning upon his arm, talking to him of his beloved flowers and herbswhich he was now almost too blind to see; telling him queer facts about theproperties of plants; and even attempting to teach him a little irrelevantbotany now and then.
They were walking up and down together, soon after Campion’s arrest, one Augustmorning before prayers in a little walled garden on the river that Grindal hadlaid out with great care in earlier years.
“Ah,” said the old man, “I am too blind to see my flowers now, Mr. Norris; butI love them none the less; and I know their places. Now there,” he went on,pointing with his stick, “there I think grows my mastick or marum; perhaps Ismell it, however. What is that flower like, Mr. Norris?”
Anthony looked at it, and described its little white flower and its leaves.
“That is it,” said the Archbishop, “I thought my memory served me. It is akind of marjoram, and it has many virtues, against cramps, convulsions andvenomous bites—so Galen tells us.” Then he went on to talk of the simple oldplants that he loved best; of the two kinds of basil that he always had in hisgarden; and how good it was mixed in sack against the headache; and the malepenny-royal, and how well it had served him once when he had great internaltrouble.
“Mr. Gerrard was here a week or two ago, Mr. Norris, when you were down atCroydon for me. He is my Lord Burghley’s man; he oversees his gardens atWimbledon House, and in the country. He was telling me of a rascal he had seenat a fair, who burned henbane and made folks with the toothache breathe in thefumes; and then feigned to draw a worm forth from the aching tooth; but it wasno worm at all, but a lute string that he held ready in his hand. There are sadrascals abroad, Mr. Norris.”
The old man waxed eloquent when they came to the iris bed.
“Ah! Mr. Norris, the flowers-de-luce are over by now, I fear; but whatwonderful creatures of God they are, with their great handsome heads and theircool flags. I love to hear a bed of them rustle all together and shake theirspears and nod their banners like an army in array. And then they are not onlyfor show. Apuleius says that they are good against the gout. I asked Mr.Gerrard whether my lord had tried them; but he said no, he would not.”
At the violet bed he was yet more emphatic.
“I think, Mr. Norris, I love these the best of all. They are lowly creatures;but how sweet! and like other lowly creatures exalted by their Maker to dogreat things as his handmaidens. The leaves are good against inflammations, andthe flowers against ague and hoarseness as well. And then there isoil-of-violets, as you know; and violet-syrup and sugar-violet; then they aregood for blisters; garlands of them were an ancient cure for the headache, as Ithink Dioscorides tells us. And they are the best of all cures for somechildren’s ailments.”
And so they walked up and down together; the Archbishop talking quietly on andon; and helping quite unknown to himself by his tender irrelevant old man’stalk to soothe the fever of unrest and anxiety that was beginning to tormentAnthony so much now. His conversation, like the very flowers he loved to speakof, was “good against inflammations.”
Anthony came to him one morning, thinking to please him, and brought him a rootthat he had bought from a travelling pedlar just outside the gateway.
“This is a mandrake root, your Grace; I heard you speak of it the other day.”
The Archbishop took it, smiling, felt it carefully, peered at it a minute ortwo. “No, my son,” he said, “I fear you have met a knave. This is briony-rootcarved like a mandrake into the shape of a man’s legs. It is worthless, I fear;but I thank you for the kind thought, Mr. Norris,” and he gave the root backto him. “And the stories we hear of the mandrake, I fear, are fables, too. Somesay that they only grow beneath gallows from that which falls there; that themale grows from the corruption of a man’s body; and the female from that of awoman’s; but that is surely a lie, and a foul one, too. And then folks say thatto draw it up means death; and that the mandrake screams terribly as it comesup; and so they bid us tie a dog to it, and then drive the dog from it so as todraw it up so. I asked Mr. Baker, the chirurgeon in the household of my LordOxford, the other day, about that; and he said that such tales be but doltishdreams and old wives’ fables. But the true mandrake is a clean and wholesomeplant. The true ointment Populeon should have the juice of the leaves in it;and the root boiled and strained causes drowsiness. It hath a predominate coldfaculty, Galen saith; but its true home is not in England at all. It comes fromMount Garganus in Apulia.”
It was pathetic, Anthony thought sometimes, that this old prelate should beliving so far from the movements of the time, owing to no fault of his own.During these months the great tragedy of Campion’s passion was proceeding acouple of miles away; but the Archbishop thought less of it than of the deathof an old tree. The only thing from the outside world that seemed to ruffle himwas the behaviour of the Puritans. Anthony was passing through “le velvet-room”one afternoon when he heard voices in the Presence Chamber beyond; and almostimmediately heard the Archbishop, who had recognised his step, call his name.He went in and found him with a stranger in a dark sober dress.
“Take this gentleman to Mr. Scot,” he said, “and ask him to give him somerefreshment; for that he must be gone directly.”
When Anthony had taken the gentleman to the steward, he returned to theArchbishop for any further instructions about him.
“No, Mr. Norris, my business is done with him. He comes from my lord ofNorwich, and must be returning this evening. If you are not occupied, Mr.Norris, will you give me your arm into the garden?”
They went out by the vestry-door into the little cloisters, and skirting theend of the creek that ran up by Chichele’s water-tower began to pace up anddown the part of the garden that looked over the river.
“My lord has sent to know if I know aught of one Robert Browne, with whom he ishaving trouble. This Mr. Browne has lately come from Cambridge, and so my lordthought I might know something of him; but I do not. This gentleman has beensaying some wild and foolish things, I fear; and desires that every churchshould be free of all others; and should appoint its own minister, and rule itsown affairs without interference, and that prophesyings should be withoutrestraint. Now, you know, Mr. Norris, I have always tried to serve that party,and support them in their gospel religion; but this goes too far. Where wereany governance at all, if all this were to come about? where were the Rule ofFaith? the power of discipline? Nay, where were the unity for which our Saviourprayed? It liketh me not. Good Dr. Freake, as his messenger tells me, feels asI do about this; and desires to restrain Mr. Browne, but he is so hot he willnot be restrained; and besides, he is some kin to my Lord Burghley, so I fearhis mouth will be hard to stop.”
Anthony could not help thinking of Mr. Buxton’s prediction that the Church ofEngland had so repudiated authority, that in turn her own would one day berepudiated.
“A Papist prisoner, your Grace,” he said, “said to me the other day that thiswould be sure to come: that the whole principle of Church authority had beendestroyed in England; and that the Church of England would more and more bedeserted by her children; for that there was no necessary centre of unity left,now that Peter was denied.”
“It is what a Papist is bound to say,” replied the Archbishop; “but it is easyto prophesy, when fulfilment may be far away. Indeed, I think we shall havetrouble with some of these zealous men; and the Queen’s Grace was surely rightin desiring some restraint to be put upon the Exercises. But it is mere angryraving to say that the Church of England will lose the allegiance of herchildren.”
Anthony could not feel convinced that events bore out the Archbishop’sassertion. Everywhere the Puritans were becoming more outrageously disloyal.There were everywhere signs of disaffection and revolt against the authoritiesof the Establishment, even on the part of the most sincere and earnest men,many of whom were looking forward to the day when the last rags of poperyshould be cast away, and formal Presbyterianism inaugurated in the Church ofEngland. Episcopal Ordination was more and more being regarded as a merelycivil requirement, but conveying no ministerial commission; recognition by thecongregation with the laying on of the hands of the presbyterate was the onlyordination they allowed as apostolic.
Anthony said a word to the Archbishop about this.
“You must not be too strict,” said the old man. “Both views can be supportedby the Scriptures; and although the Church of England at present recognisesonly Episcopal Ordination within her own borders, she does not dare to deny, asthe Papists fondly do, that other rites may not be as efficacious as her own.That, surely, Master Norris, is in accordance with the mind of Christ that haththe spirit of liberty.”
Much as Anthony loved the old man and his gentle charity, this doctrinalposition as stated by the chief pastor of the Church of England scarcely servedto establish his troubled allegiance.
During these autumn months, too, both between and after the disputations in theTower, the image of Campion had been much in his thoughts. Everywhere, exceptamong the irreconcilables, the Jesuit was being well spoken of: his eloquence,his humour, and his apparent sincerity were being greatly commented on inLondon and elsewhere. Anthony, as has been seen, was being deeply affected onboth sides of his nature; the shrewd wit of the other was in conflict with hisown intellectual convictions, and this magnetic personality was laying siege tohis heart. And now the last scene of the tragedy, more affecting than all, wasclose at hand.
Anthony was present first at the trial in Westminster Hall, which took placeduring November, and was more than ever moved by what he saw and heard there.The priest, as even his opponents confessed, had by now “won a marvellouslygood report, to be such a man as his like was not to be found, either for life,learning, or any other quality which might beautify a man.” And now here hestood at the bar, paler than ever, so numbed with racking that he could notlift his hand to plead—that supple musician’s hand of his, once so skilful onthe lute—so that Mr. Sherwin had to lift it for him out of the furred cuff inwhich he had wrapped it, kissing it tenderly as he did so, in reverence for itssufferings; and he saw, too, the sleek face of Eliot, in his red yeoman’s coat,as he stood chatting at the back, like another Barabbas whom the peoplepreferred to the servant of the Crucified. And, above all, he heard Campion’sstirring defence, spoken in that same resonant sweet voice, though it broke nowand then through weakness, in spite of the unconquerable purpose andcheerfulness that showed in his great brown eyes, and round his delicatehumorous mouth. It was indeed an astonishing combination of sincerity andeloquence, and even humour, that was brought to bear on the jury, and all invain, during those days.
“If you want to dispute as though you were in the schools,” cried one of thecourt, when he found himself out of his depth, “you are only proving yourself afool.”
“I pray God,” said Campion, while his eyes twinkled, “I pray God make us bothsages.” And, in spite of the tragedy of the day, a little hum of laughter ranround the audience.
“If a sheep were stolen,” he argued again, in answer to the presuppositionthat since some Catholics were traitors, therefore these were—“and a wholefamily called in question for the same, were it good manner of proceeding forthe accusers to say ‘Your great grandfathers and fathers and sisters andkinsfolk all loved mutton; ergo, you have stolen the sheep’?”
Again, in answer to the charge that he and his companions had conspired abroad,he said,
“As for the accusation that we plotted treason at Rheims, reflect, my lords,how just this charge is! For see! First we never met there at all; then, manyof us have never been at Rheims at all; finally, we were never in our lives alltogether, except at this hour and in prison.”
Anthony heard, too, Campion expose the attempt that was made to shift thecharge from religion to treason.
“There was offer made to us,” he cried indignantly, “that if we would come tothe church to hear sermons and the word preached, we should be set at large andat liberty; so Pascall and Nicholls”—(two apostates) “otherwise as culpable inall offences as we, upon coming to church were received to grace and had theirpardon granted; whereas, if they had been so happy as to have persevered to theend, they had been partakers of our calamities. So that our religion was causeof our imprisonment, and ex consequenti, of our condemnation.”
The Queen’s Counsel tried to make out that certain secrets that Campion, in anintercepted letter, had sworn not to reveal, must be treasonable or he wouldnot so greatly fear their publication. To this the priest made a statelydefence of his office, and declaration of his staunchness. He showed how by hiscalling as a priest he was bound to secrecy in matters heard in confession, andthat these secret matters were of this nature.
“These were the hidden matters,” he said, “these were the secrets, to therevealing whereof I cannot nor will not be brought, come rack, come rope!”
And again, when Sergeant Anderson interpreted a phrase of Campion’s referringto the great day to which he looked forward, as meaning the day of a foreignpapal invasion, the prisoner cried in a loud voice:
“O Judas, Judas! No other day was in my mind, I protest, than that wherein itshould please God to make a restitution of faith and religion. Whereupon, as inevery pulpit every Protestant doth, I pronounced a great day, not wherein anytemporal potentate should minister, but wherein the terrible Judge shouldreveal all men’s consciences, and try every man of each kind of religion. Thisis the day of change, this is the great day which I threatened; comfortable tothe well-behaving, and terrible to all heretics. Any other day but this, Godknows I meant not.”
Then, after the other prisoners had pleaded, Campion delivered a final defenceto the jury, with a solemnity that seemed to belong to a judge rather than acriminal. The babble of tongues that had continued most of the day was hushedto a profound silence in court as he stood and spoke, for the sincerity andsimplicity of the priest were evident to all, and combined with his eloquenceand his strange attractive personality, dominated all but those whose mindswere already made up before entering the court.
“What charge this day you sustain,” began the priest, in a steady low voice,with his searching eyes bent on the faces before him, “and what account you areto render at the dreadful Day of Judgment, whereof I could wish this also werea mirror, I trust there is not one of you but knoweth. I doubt not but in likemanner you forecast how dear the innocent is to God, and at what price Heholdeth man’s blood. Here we are accused and impleaded to the death,”—he beganto raise his voice a little—“here you do receive our lives into your custody;here must be your device, either to restore them or condemn them. We have nowhither to appeal but to your consciences; we have no friends to make there butyour heeds and discretions.” Then he touched briefly on the evidence, showinghow faulty and circumstantial it was, and urged them to remember that a man’slife by the very constitution of the realm must not be sacrificed to mereprobabilities or presumptions; then he showed the untrustworthiness of hisaccusers, how one had confessed himself a murderer, and how another was anatheist. Then he ended with a word or two of appeal.
“God give you grace,” he cried, “to weigh our causes aright, and have respectto your own consciences; and so I will keep the jury no longer. I commit therest to God, and our convictions to your good discretions.”
When the jury had retired, and all the judges but one had left the bench untilthe jury should return, Anthony sat back in his place, his heart beating andhis eyes looking restlessly now on the prisoners, now on the door where thejury had gone out, and now on Judge Ayloff, whom he knew a little, and who satonly a few feet away from him on one side. He could hear the lawyers sittingbelow the judge talking among themselves; and presently one of them leaned overto him.
“Good-day, Mr. Norris,” he said, “you have come to see an acquittal, I doubtnot. No man can be in two minds after what we have heard; at least concerningMr. Campion. We all think so, here, at any rate.”
The lawyer was going on to say a word or two more as to the priest’s eloquence,when there was a sharp exclamation from the judge. Anthony looked up and sawJudge Ayloff staring at his hand, turning it over while he held his glove inthe other; and Anthony saw to his surprise that the fingers were allblood-stained. One or two gentlemen near him turned and looked, too, as thejudge, still staring and growing a little pale, wiped the blood quickly awaywith the glove; but the fingers grew crimson again immediately.
“’S’Body!” said Ayloff, half to himself; “’tis strange, there is no wound.” Amoment later, looking up, he saw many of his neighbours glancing curiously athis hand and his pale face, and hastily thrust on his glove again; andimmediately after the jury returned, and the judges filed in to take theirplaces. Anthony’s attention was drawn off again, and the buzz of talk in thecourt was followed again by a deep silence.
The verdict of Guilty was uttered, as had been pre-arranged, and theQueen’s Counsel demanded sentence.
“Campion and the rest,” said Chief Justice Wray, “What can you say why youshould not die?”
Then Campion, still steady and resolute, made his last useless appeal.
“It was not our death that ever we feared. But we knew that we were not lordsof our own lives, and therefore for want of answer would not be guilty of ourown deaths. The only thing that we have now to say is, that if our religion domake us traitors, we are worthy to be condemned; but otherwise are and havebeen true subjects as ever the Queen had. In condemning us, you condemn allyour own ancestors,” and as he said this, his voice began to rise, and heglanced steadily and mournfully round at the staring faces about him, “all theancient priests, bishops, and kings—all that was once the glory of England, theisland of saints, and the most devoted child of the See of Peter.” Then, as hewent on, he flung out his wrenched hands, and his voice rang with indignantdefiance. “For what have we taught,” he cried, “however you may qualify itwith the odious name of treason, that they did not uniformly teach? To becondemned with these old lights—not of England only, but of the world—by theirdegenerate descendants, is both gladness and glory to us.” Then, with a superbgesture, he sent his voice pealing through the hall: “God lives, posterity willlive; their judgment is not so liable to corruption as that of those who arenow about to sentence us to death.”
There was a burst of murmurous applause as he ended, which stilled immediately,as the Chief Justice began to deliver sentence. But when the horrible detailsof his execution had been enumerated, and the formula had ended, it was theprisoner’s turn to applaud:—
“Te Deum laudamus!” cried Campion; “Te Dominum confitemur.”
“Haec est dies,” shouted Sherwin, “quam fecit Dominus; exultemus etlaetemur in illâ”: and so with the thanksgiving and joy of the condemnedcriminals, the mock-trial ended.
When Anthony rode down silently and alone in the rain that December morning afew days later, to see the end, he found a vast silent crowd assembled on TowerHill and round the gateway, where the four horses were waiting, each pairharnessed to a hurdle laid flat on the ground. He would not go in, for he couldscarcely trust himself to speak, so great was his horror of the crime that wasto be committed; so he backed his horse against the wall, and waited over anhour in silence, scarcely hearing the murmurs of impatience that rolled roundthe great crowd from time to time, absorbed in his own thoughts. Here was theclimax of these days of misery and self-questioning that had passed since thetrial in Westminster Hall. It was no use, he argued to himself, to pretendotherwise. These three men of God were to die for their religion—and a religiontoo which was gradually detaching itself to his view from the mists and cloudsthat hid it, as the one great reality and truth of God’s Revelation to man. Hehad come, he knew, to see not an execution but a martyrdom.
There was a trampling from within, the bolts creaked, and the gate rolled back;a company of halberdiers emerged, and in their midst the three priests inlaymen’s dress; behind followed a few men on horseback, with a little companyof ministers, bible in hand; and then a rabble of officers and pursuivants.Anthony edged his horse in among the others, as the crowd fell back, and tookup his place in the second rank of riders between a gentleman of hisacquaintance who made room for him on the one side, and Sir Francis Knowles onthe other, and behind the Tower officials.
Then, once more he heard that ringing bass voice whose first sound silenced themurmurs of the surging excited crowd.
“God save you all, gentlemen! God bless you and make you all good Catholics.”
Then, as the priest turned to kneel towards the east, he saw his face palerthan ever now, after his long fast in preparation for death. The rain was stillfalling as Campion in his frieze gown knelt in the mud. There was silence as heprayed, and as he ended aloud by commending his soul to God.
“In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum.”
The three were secured to the hurdles, Briant and Sherwin on the one, Campionon the other, all lying on their backs, with their feet towards the horse’sheels. The word to start was given by Sir Owen Hopton who rode with Charke, thepreacher of Gray’s Inn, in the front rank; the lashed horses plunged forward,with the jolting hurdles spattering mud behind them; and the dismal pageantbegan to move forward through the crowd on that way of sorrows. There was aceaseless roar and babble of voices as they went. Charke, in his minister’sdress, able now to declaim without fear of reply, was hardly silent for amoment from mocking and rebuking the prisoners, and making pompous speeches tothe people.
“See here,” he cried, “these rogueing popish priests, laid by the heels—aye,by the heels—at last; in spite of their tricks and turns. See this fellow inhis frieze gown, dead to the world as he brags; and know how he skulked and hidin his disguises till her Majesty’s servants plucked him forth! We willdisguise him, we will disguise him, ere we have done with him, that his ownmother should not know him. Ha, now! Campion, do you hear me?”
And so the harsh voice rang out over the crowd that tramped alongside, and upto the faces that filled every window; while the ministers below kept up aceaseless murmur of adjuration and entreaty and threatening, with a turning ofleaves of their bibles, and bursts of prayer, over the three heads that joltedand rocked at their feet over the cobblestones and through the mud. The friendsof the prisoners walked as near to them as they dared, and their lips movedcontinually in prayer.
Every now and then as Anthony craned his head, he could see Campion’s face,with closed eyes and moving lips that smiled again and again, all spattered anddripping with filth; and once he saw a gentleman walking beside him fearlesslystoop down and wipe the priest’s face with a handkerchief. Presently they hadpassed up Cheapside and reached Newgate; in a niche in the archway itself stooda figure of the Mother of God looking compassionately down; and as Campion’shurdle passed beneath it, her servant wrenched himself a few inches up in hisbonds and bowed to his glorious Queen; and then laid himself down quietlyagain, as a chorus of lament rose from the ministers over his superstition andobstinate idolatry that seemed as if it would last even to death; and Charketoo, who had become somewhat more silent, broke out again into revilings.
The crowd at Tyburn was vast beyond all reckoning. Outside the gate itstretched on every side, under the elms, a few were even in the branches, alongthe sides of the stream; everywhere was a sea of heads, out of which, on alittle eminence like another Calvary, rose up the tall posts of thethree-cornered gallows, on which the martyrs were to suffer. As the hurdlescame slowly under the gate, the sun broke out for the first time; and as thehorses that drew the hurdles came round towards the carts that stood near thegallows and the platform on which the quartering block stood, a murmur beganthat ran through the crowd from those nearest the martyrs.—“But they arelaughing, they are laughing!”
The crowd gave a surge to and fro as the horses drew up, and Anthony reined hisown beast back among the people, so that he was just opposite the beam on whichthe three new ropes were already hanging, and beneath which was standing a cartwith the back taken out. In the cart waited a dreadful figure in atight-fitting dress, sinewy arms bare to the shoulder, and a butcher’s knife athis leather girdle. A little distance away stood the hateful cauldron, bubblingfiercely, with black smoke pouring from under it: the platform with the blockand quartering-axe stood beneath the gallows; and round this now stood theofficers, with Norton the rack-master, and Sir Owen Hopton and the rest, andthe three priests, with the soldiers forming a circle to keep the crowd back.
The hangman stooped as Anthony looked, and a moment later Campion stood besidehim on the cart, pale, mud-splashed, but with the same serene smile; his greatbrown eyes shone as they looked out over the wide heaving sea of heads, fromwhich a deep heart-shaking murmur rose as the famous priest appeared. Anthonycould see every detail of what went on; the hangman took the noose that hungfrom above, and slipped it over the prisoner’s head, and drew it close roundhis neck; and then himself slipped down from the cart, and stood with theothers, still well above the heads of the crowd, but leaving the prieststanding higher yet on the cart, silhouetted, rope and all, framed in the postsand cross-beam, from which two more ropes hung dangling against the drivingclouds and blue sky over London city.
Campion waited perfectly motionless for the murmur of innumerable voices to diedown; and Anthony, fascinated and afraid beneath that overpowering serenity,watched him turn his head slowly from side to side with a “majesticalcountenance,” as his enemies confessed, as if he were on the point ofspeaking. Silence seemed to radiate out from him, spreading like a ripple,outwards, until the furthest outskirts of that huge crowd was motionless andquiet; and then without apparent effort, his voice began to peal out.
“‘Spectaculum facti sumus Deo, angelis et hominibus.’ These are thewords of Saint Paul, Englished thus, ‘We are made a spectacle or sight untoGod, unto His angels, and unto men’;—verified this day in me, who am here aspectacle unto my Lord God, a spectacle unto His angels, and unto you men,satisfying myself to die as becometh a true Christian and Catholic man.”
He was interrupted by cries from the gentlemen beneath, and turned a little,looking down to see what they wished.
“You are not here to preach to the people,” said Sir Francis Knowles, angrily,“but to confess yourself a traitor.”
Campion smiled and shook his head.
“No, no,” he said: and then looking up and raising his voice,—“as to thetreasons which have been laid to my charge, and for which I am come here tosuffer, I desire you all to bear witness with me, that I am thereof altogetherinnocent.”
There was a chorus of anger from the gentlemen, and one of them called upsomething that Anthony could not hear. Campion raised his eyebrows.
“Well, my lord,” he cried aloud, and his voice instantly silenced again thenoisy buzz of talk, “I am a Catholic man and a priest: in that faith have Ilived, and in that faith do I intend to die. If you esteem my religion treason,then am I guilty; as for other treason, I never committed any, God is my judge.But you have now what you desire. I beseech you to have patience, and suffer meto speak a word or two for discharge of my conscience.”
There was a furious burst of refusals from the officers.
“Well,” said Campion, at last, looking straight out over the crowd, “it seemsI may not speak; but this only will I say; that I am wholly innocent of alltreason and conspiracy, as God is my judge; and I beseech you to credit me, forit is my last answer upon my death and soul. As for the jury I do not blamethem, for they were ignorant men and easily deceived. I forgive all who havecompassed my death or wronged me in any whit, as I hope to be forgiven; and Iask the forgiveness of all those whose names I spoke upon the rack.”
Then he said a word or two more of explanation, such as he had said during histrial, for the sake of those Catholics whom this a concession of his hadscandalised, telling them that he had had the promise of the Council that noharm should come to those whose names he revealed; and then was silent again,closing his eyes; and Anthony, as he watched him, saw his lips moving once morein prayer.
Then a harsh loud voice from behind the cart began to proclaim that the Queenpunished no man for religion but only for treason. A fierce murmur ofdisagreement and protest began to rise from the crowd; and Anthony turning sawthe faces of many near him frowning and pursing their lips, and there was ashout or two of denial here and there. The harsh voice ceased, and anotherbegan:
“Now, Mr. Campion,” it cried, “tell us, What of the Pope? Do you renouncehim?”
Campion opened his eyes and looked round.
“I am a Catholic,” he said simply; and closed his eyes again for prayer, asthe voice cried brutally:
“In your Catholicism all treason is contained.”
Again a murmur from the crowd.
Then a new voice from the black group of ministers called out:
“Mr. Campion, Mr. Campion, leave that popish stuff, and say, ‘Christ have mercyon me.’”
Again the priest opened his eyes.
“You and I are not one in religion, sir, wherefore I pray you content yourself.I bar none of prayer, but I only desire them of the household of faith to praywith me; and in mine agony to say one creed.”
Again he closed his eyes.
“Pater noster qui es in cælis.”...
“Pray in English, pray in English!” shouted a voice from the minister’s group.
Once more the priest opened his eyes; and, in spite of the badgering, his eyesshone with humour and his mouth broke into smiles, so that a great sob of pityand love broke from Anthony.
“I will pray to God in a language that both He and I well understand.”
“Ask her Grace’s forgiveness, Mr. Campion, and pray for her, if you be her truesubject.”
“Wherein have I offended her? In this I am innocent. This is my last speech; inthis give me credit—I have and do pray for her.”
“Aha! but which queen?—for Elizabeth?”
“Ay, for Elizabeth, your queen and my queen, unto whom I wish a long quietreign with all prosperity.”
There was the crack of a whip, the scuffle of a horse’s feet, a ripplingmovement over the crowd, and a great murmured roar, like the roar of the waveson a pebbly beach, as the horse’s head began to move forward; and the priest’sfigure to sway and stagger on the jolting cart. Anthony shut his eyes, and themurmur and cries of the crowd grew louder and louder. Once more the deep sweetvoice rang out, loud and penetrating:
“I die a true Catholic....”
Anthony kept his eyes closed, and his head bent, as great sobs began to breakup out of his heart....
Ah! he was in his agony now! that sudden cry and silence from the crowd showedit. What was it he had asked? one creed?—
“I believe in God the Father Almighty.” ...
The soft heavy murmur of the crowd rose and fell. Catholics were praying allround him, reckless with love and pity:
“Jesu, Jesu, save him! Be to him a Jesus!”...
“Mary pray! Mary pray!”...
“Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem.”...
“Passus sub Pontio Pilato.”...
“Crucified dead and buried.”...
“The forgiveness of sins.”...
“And the Life Everlasting.”...
Anthony dropped his face forward on to his horse’s mane.
A MESSAGE FROM THE CITY
Sir Francis Walsingham sat in his private room a month after Father Campion’sdeath.
He had settled down again now to his work which had been so grievouslyinterrupted by his mission to France in connection with a new treaty betweenthat country and England in the previous year. The secret detective servicethat he had inaugurated in England chiefly for the protection of the Queen’sperson was a vast and complicated business, and the superintendence of this, inaddition to the other affairs of his office, made him an exceedingly busy man.England was honeycombed with mines and countermines both in the political andthe religious world, and it needed all this man’s brilliant and trainedfaculties to keep abreast with them. His spies and agents were everywhere; andnot only in England: they circled round Mary of Scotland like flies round awounded creature, seeking to settle and penetrate wherever an opening showeditself. These Scottish troubles would have been enough for any ordinary man;but Walsingham was indefatigable, and his agents were in every prison, lurkinground corridors in private houses, found alike in thieves’ kitchens and atgentlemen’s tables.
Just at present Walsingham was anxious to give all the attention he could toScottish affairs; and on this wet dreary Thursday morning in January as he satbefore his bureau, he was meditating how to deal with an affair that had cometo him from the heart of London, and how if possible to shift the conduct of iton to other shoulders.
He sat and drummed his fingers on the desk, and stared meditatively at thepigeon-holes before him. His was an interesting face, with large, melancholy,and almost fanatical eyes, and a poet’s mouth and forehead; but it was probablyexactly his imaginative faculties that enabled him to picture public affairsfrom the points of view of the very various persons concerned in them; andthereby to cope with the complications arising out of these conflictinginterests.
He stroked his pointed beard once or twice, and then struck a hand-bell at hisside; and a servant entered.
“If Mr. Lackington is below,” he said, “show him here immediately,” and theservant went out.
Lackington, sometime servant to Sir Nicholas Maxwell, had entered Sir Francis’service instead, at the same time that he had exchanged the Catholic for theProtestant religion; and he was now one of his most trusted agents. But he hadbeen in so many matters connected with recusancy, that a large number of thepapists in London were beginning to know him by sight; and the affairs werebecoming more and more scarce in which he could be employed among Catholicswith any hope of success. It was his custom to call morning by morning at SirFrancis’ office and receive his instructions; and just now he had returned frombusiness in the country. Presently he entered, closing the door behind him, andbowed profoundly to his master.
“I have a matter on hand, Lackington,” said Sir Francis, without looking athim, and without any salutation beyond a glance and a nod as he entered,—“amatter which I have not leisure to look into, as it is not, I think, anythingmore than mere religion; but which might, I think, repay you for your trouble,if you can manage it in any way. But it is a troublesome business. These arethe facts.
“No. 3 Newman’s Court, in the City, has been a suspected house for some while.I have had it watched, and there is no doubt that the papists use it. I thoughtat first that the Scots were mixed up with it; but that is not so. Yesterday, aboy of twelve years old, left the house in the afternoon, and was followed to anumber of houses, of which I will give you the list presently; and was finallyarrested in Paul’s Churchyard and brought here. I frightened him with talk ofthe rack; and I think I have the truth out of him now; I have tested him in theusual ways—and all that I can find is that the house is used for mass now andthen; and that he was going to the papists’ houses yesterday to bid them comefor next Sunday morning. But he was stopped too soon: he had not yet told thepriest to come. Now unless the priest is told to-night by one whom he trusts,there will be no mass on Sunday, and the nest of papists will escape us. It isof no use to send the boy; as he will betray all by his behaviour, even if wefrighten him into saying what we wish to the priest. I suppose it is of no useyour going to the priest and feigning to be a Catholic messenger; and I cannotat this moment see what is to be done. If there were anything beyond merereligion in this, I would spare no pains to hunt them out; but it is not worthmy while. Yet there is the reward; and if you think that you can do anything,you can have it for your pains. I can spare you till Monday, and of course youshall have what men you will to surround the house and take them at mass, ifyou can but get the priest there.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lackington deferentially. “Have I your honour’s leaveto see the boy in your presence?”
Walsingham struck the bell again.
“Bring the lad that is locked in the steward’s parlour,” he said, when theservant appeared.—“Sit down, Lackington, and examine him when he comes.”
And Sir Francis took down some papers from a pigeon-hole, sorted out one ortwo, and saying, “Here are his statements,” handed them to the agent; whobegan to glance through them at once. Walsingham then turned to his table againand began to go on with his letters.
In a moment or two the door opened, and a little lad of twelve years old, camein, followed by the servant.
“That will do,” said Walsingham, without looking up; “You can leave himhere,” and the servant went out. The boy stood back against the wall by thedoor, his face was white and his eyes full of horror, and he looked in a dazedway at the two men.
“What is your name, boy?” began Lackington in a sharp, judicial tone.
“John Belton,” said the lad in a tremulous voice.
“And you are a little papist?” asked the agent.
“No sir; a Protestant.”
“Then how is it that you go on errands for papists?”
“I am a servant, sir,” said the boy imploringly.
Lackington turned the papers over for a moment or two.
“Now you know,” he began again in a threatening voice, “that this gentlemanhas power to put you on the rack; you know what that is?”
The boy nodded in mute white-faced terror.
“Well, now, he will hear all you say; and will know whether you say the truthor not. Now tell me if you still hold to what you said yesterday.”
And then Lackington with the aid of the papers ran quickly over the story thatSir Francis had related. “Now do you mean to tell me, John Belton,” he added,“that you, a Protestant, and a lad of twelve, are employed on this work bypapists, to gather them for mass?”
The boy looked at him with the same earnest horror.
“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” he said, and there was a piteous sob in his voice.“Indeed it is all true: but I do not often go on these messages for my master.Mr. Roger generally goes: but he is sick.”
“Oho!” said Lackington, “you did not say that yesterday.”
The boy was terrified.
“No, sir,” he cried out miserably, “the gentleman did not ask me.”
“Well, who is Mr. Roger? What is he like?”
“He is my master’s servant, sir; and he wears a patch over his eye; andstutters a little in his speech.”
These kinds of details were plainly beyond a frightened lad’s power ofinvention, and Lackington was more satisfied.
“And what was the message that you were to give to the folk and the priest?”
“Please, sir, ‘Come, for all things are now ready.’”
This was such a queer answer that Lackington gave an incredulous exclamation.
“It is probably true,” said Sir Francis, without looking up from his letters;“I have come across the same kind of cypher, at least once before.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the agent. “And now, my boy, tell me this. How did youknow what it meant?”
“Please, sir,” said the lad, a little encouraged by the kinder tone, “I havenoticed that twice before when Mr. Roger could not go, and I was sent with thesame message, all the folks and the priest came on the next Sunday; and I thinkthat it means that all is safe, and that they can come.”
“You are a sharp lad,” said the spy approvingly. “I am satisfied with you.”
“Then, sir, may I go home?” asked the boy with hopeful entreaty in his voice.
“Nay, nay,” said the other, “I have not done with you yet. Answer me some morequestions. Why did you not go to the priest first?”
“Because I was bidden to go to him last,” said the boy. “If I had been to allthe other houses by five o’clock last night, then I was to meet the priest atPapists’ Corner in Paul’s Church. But if I had not done them—as I had not,—thenI was to see the priest to-night at the same place.”
Lackington mused a moment.
“What is the priest’s name?” he asked.
“Please, sir, Mr. Arthur Oldham.”
The agent gave a sudden start and a keen glance at the boy, and then smiled tohimself; then he meditated, and bit his nails once or twice.
“And when was Mr. Roger taken ill?”
“He slipped down at the door of his lodging and hurt his foot, at dinner-timeyesterday; and he could not walk.”
“His lodging? Then he does not sleep in the house?”
“No sir; he sleeps in Stafford Alley, round the corner.”
“And where do you live?”
“Please, sir, I go home to my mother nearly every night; but not always.”
“And where does your mother live?”
“Please, sir, at 4 Bell’s Lane.”
Lackington remained deep in thought, and looked at the boy steadily for aminute or two.
“Now, sir; may I go?” he asked eagerly.
Lackington paid no attention, and he repeated his question. The agent still didnot seem to hear him, but turned to Sir Francis, who was still at his letters.
“That is all, sir, for the present,” he said. “May the boy be kept here tillMonday?”
The lad broke out into wailing; but Lackington turned on him a face so savagethat his whimpers died away into horror-stricken silence.
“As you will,” said Sir Francis, pausing for a moment in his writing, andstriking the bell again; and, on the servant’s appearance, gave orders thatJohn Belton should be taken again to the steward’s parlour until furtherdirections were received. The boy went sobbing out and down the passage againunder the servant’s charge, and the door closed.
“And the mother?” asked Walsingham abruptly, pausing with pen upraised.
“With your permission, sir, I will tell her that her boy is in trouble, andthat if his master sends to inquire for him, she is to say he is sickupstairs.”
“And you will report to me on Monday?”
“Yes, sir; by then I shall hope to have taken the crew.”
Sir Francis nodded his head sharply, and the pen began to fly over the paperagain; as Lackington slipped out.
Anthony Norris was passing through the court of Lambeth House in the afternoonof the same day, when the porter came to him and said there was a child waitingin the Lodge with a note for him; and would Master Norris kindly come to seeher. He found a little girl on the bench by the gate, who stood up andcurtseyed as the grand gentleman came striding in; and handed him a note whichhe opened at once and read.
“For the love of God,” the note ran, “come and aid one who can be of serviceto a friend: follow the little maid Master Norris, and she will bring you tome. If you have any friends at Great Keynes, for the love you bear tothem, come quickly.”
Anthony turned the note over; it was unsigned, and undated. On his inquiryfurther from the little girl, she said she knew nothing about the writer; butthat a gentleman had given her the note and told her to bring it to MasterAnthony Norris at Lambeth House; and that she was to take him to a house thatshe knew in the city; she did not know the name of the house, she said.
It was all very strange, thought Anthony, but evidently here was some one whoknew about him; the reference to Great Keynes made him think uneasily of Isabeland wonder whether any harm had happened to her, or whether any dangerthreatened. He stood musing with the note between his fingers, and then toldthe child to go straight down to Paul’s Cross and await him there, and he wouldfollow immediately. The child ran off, and Anthony went round to the stables toget his horse. He rode straight down to the city and put up his horse in theBishop’s stables, and then went round with his riding-whip in his hand toPaul’s Cross.
It was a dull miserable afternoon, beginning to close in with a fine rainfalling, and very few people were about; and he found the child crouched upagainst the pulpit in an attempt to keep dry.
“Come,” he said kindly, “I am ready; show me the way.”
The child led him along by the Cathedral through the churchyard, and then bywinding passages, where Anthony kept a good look-out at the corners; for a stabin the back was no uncommon thing for a well-dressed gentleman off his guard.The houses overhead leaned so nearly together that the darkening skydisappeared altogether now and then; at one spot Anthony caught a glimpse highup of Bow Church spire; and after a corner or two the child stopped before adoorway in a little flagged court.
“It is here,” she said; and before Anthony could stop her she had slipped awayand disappeared through a passage. He looked at the house. It was a tumble-downplace; the door was heavily studded with nails, and gave a most respectable airto the house: the leaded windows were just over his head, and tightly closed.There was an air of mute discretion and silence about the place that roused avague discomfort in Anthony’s mind; he slipped his right hand into his belt andsatisfied himself that the hilt of his knife was within reach. Overhead thehanging windows and eaves bulged out on all sides; but there was no one to beseen; it seemed a place that had slipped into a backwater of the humming streamof the city. The fine rain still falling added to the dismal aspect of thelittle court. He looked round once more; and then rapped sharply at the door towhich the child had pointed.
There was silence for at least a minute; then as he was about to knock againthere was a faint sound overhead, and he looked up in time to see a faceswiftly withdrawn from one of the windows. Evidently an occupant of the househad been examining the visitor. Then shuffling footsteps came along a passagewithin, and a light shone under the door. There was a noise of bolts beingwithdrawn, and the rattle of a chain; and then the handle turned and the dooropened slowly inwards, and an old woman stood there holding an oil lamp overher head. This was not very formidable at any rate.
“I have been bidden to come here,” he said, “by a letter delivered to me anhour ago.”
“Ah,” said the old woman, and looked at him peeringly, “then you are for Mr.Roger?”
“I daresay,” said Anthony, a little sharply. He was not accustomed to betreated like this. The old woman still looked at him suspiciously; and then, asAnthony made a movement of impatience, she stepped back.
“Come in, sir,” she said.
He stepped in, and she closed and fastened the door again behind him; and then,holding the oil-lamp high over her head, she advanced in her slippers towardsthe staircase, and Anthony followed. On the stairs she turned once to see if hewas coming, and beckoned him on with a movement of her head. Anthony lookedabout him as he went up: there was nothing remarkable or suspicious about thehouse in any way. It was cleaner than he had been led to expect by its outsideaspect; wainscoted to the ceiling with oak; and the stairs were strong and wellmade. It was plainly a very tolerably respectable place; and Anthony began tothink from its appearance that he had been admitted at the back door of somewell-to-do house off Cheapside. The banisters were carved with somedistinction; and there were the rudimentary elements of linen-pattern design onthe panels that lined the opposite walls up to the height of the banisters. Thewoman went up and up, slowly, panting a little; at each landing she turned andglanced back to see that her companion was following: all the doors that theypassed were discreetly shut; and the house was perfectly dark except for theflickering light of the woman’s lamp, and silent except for the noise of thefootsteps and the rush of a mouse now and then behind the woodwork.
At the third landing she stopped, and came close up to Anthony.
“That is the door,” she whispered hoarsely; and pointed with her thumb towardsa doorway that was opposite the staircase. “Ask for Master Roger.”
And then without saying any more, she set the lamp down on the flat head of thetop banister and herself began to shuffle downstairs again into the dark house.
Anthony stood still a moment, his heart beating a little. What was this strangeerrand? and Isabel! what had she to do with this house buried away in thecourts of the great city? As he waited he heard a door close somewhere behindhim, and the shuffling footsteps had ceased. He touched the hilt of his knifeonce again to give himself courage; and then walked slowly across and rapped onthe door. Instantly a voice full of trembling expectancy, cried to him to comein; he turned the handle and stepped into the fire-lit room.
It was extremely poorly furnished; a rickety table stood in the centre with abook or two and a basin with a plate, a saucepan hissed and bubbled on thefire; in the corner near the window stood a poor bed; and to this Anthony’sattention was immediately directed by a voice that called out hoarsely:
“Thank God, sir, thank God, sir, you have come! I feared you would not.”
Anthony stepped towards it wondering and expectant, but reassured. Lying in thebed, with clothes drawn up to the chin was the figure of a man. There was nolight in the room, save that given by the leaping flames on the hearth; andAnthony could only make out the face of a man with a patch over one eye; theman stretched a hand over the bed clothes as he came near, and Anthony took it,a little astonished, and received a strong trembling grip of apparentexcitement and relief: “Thank God, sir!” the man said again, “but there is nottoo much time.”
“How can I serve you?” said Anthony, sitting on a chair near the bedside.“Your letter spoke of friends at Great Keynes. What did you mean by that?”
“Is the d-door closed, sir?” asked the man anxiously; stuttering a little ashe spoke.
Anthony stepped up and closed it firmly; and then came back and sat down again.
“Well then, sir; I believe you are a friend of the priest Mr. M-Maxwell’s.”
Anthony shook his head.
“There is no priest of that name that I know.”
“Ah,” cried the man, and his voice shook, “have I said too much? You are Mr.Anthony Norris of the Dower House, and of the Archbishop’s household?”...
“I am,” said Anthony, “but yet——”
“Well, well,” said the man, “I must go forward now. He whom you know as Mr.James Maxwell is a Catholic p-priest, known to many under the name of Mr.Arthur Oldham. He is in sore d-danger.”
Anthony was silent through sheer astonishment. This then was the secret of themystery that had hung round Mr. James so long. The few times he had met him intown since his return, it had been on the tip of his tongue to ask what he didthere, and why Hubert was to be master of the Hall; but there was something inMr. James’ manner that made the asking of such a question appear an impossibleliberty; and it had remained unasked.
“Well,” said the man in bed, in anxious terror, “there is no mistake, isthere?”
“I said nothing,” said Anthony, “for astonishment; I had no idea that he was apriest. And how can I serve him?”
“He is in sore danger,” said the man, and again and again there came thestutter. “Now I am a Catholic: you see how much I t-trust you sir. I am theonly one in this house. I was entrusted with a m-message to Mr. Maxwell to puthim on his guard against a danger that threatens him. I was to meet him thisvery evening at five of the clock; and this afternoon as I left my room, Islipped and so hurt my foot that I cannot put it to the ground. I dared notsend a l-letter to Mr. Maxwell, for fear the child should be followed; I darednot send to another Catholic; nor indeed did I know where to find one whom Mr.M-Maxwell would know and trust, as he is new to us here; but I had heard himspeak of his friend Mr. Anthony Norris, who was at Lambeth House; and Idetermined, sir, to send the child to you; and ask you to do this service foryour friend; for an officer of the Archbishop’s household is beyond suspicion.N-now, sir, will you do this service? If you do it not, I know not where toturn for help.”
Anthony was silent. He felt a little uneasy. Supposing that there was seditionmixed up in this! How could he trust the man’s story? How could he be certainin fact that he was a Catholic at all? He looked at him keenly in thefire-light. The man’s one eye shone in deep anxiety, and his forehead waswrinkled; and he passed his hand nervously over his mouth again and again.
“How can I tell,” said Anthony, “that all this is true?”
The man with an impatient movement unfastened his shirt at the neck and drew upon a string that was round his neck a little leather case.
“Th-there, sir,” he stammered, drawing the string over his head. “T-take thatto the fire and see what it is.”
Anthony took it curiously, and holding it close to the fire drew off the littlecase; there was the wax medal stamped with the lamb, called Agnus Dei.
“Th-there,” cried the man from the bed, “now I have p-put myself in yourhands—and if more is w-wanted——” and as Anthony came back holding the medal,the man fumbled beneath the pillow and drew out a rosary.
“N-now, sir, do you believe me?”
It was felony to possess these things and Anthony had no more doubts.
“Yes,” he said, “and I ask your pardon.” And he gave back the AgnusDei. “But there is no sedition in this?”
“N-none, sir, I give you my word,” said the man, apparently greatly relieved,and sinking back on his pillow. “I will tell you all, and you can judge foryourself; but you will promise to be secret.” And when Anthony had given hisword, he went on.
“M-Mass was to have been said in Newman’s Court on Sunday, at number 3, butthat c-cursed spy Walsingham, hath had wind of it. His men have been lurkinground there; and it is not safe. However, there is no need to say that to Mr.Maxwell; he will understand enough if you will give him a message of half adozen words from me,—Mr. Roger. You can tell him that you saw me, if you wishto. But ah! sir, you give me your word to say no more to any one, not even toMr. Maxwell himself, for it is in a public place. And then I will tell you thep-place and the m-message; but we must be swift, because the time is near; itis at five of the clock that he will look for a messenger.”
“I give you my word,” said Anthony.
“Well, sir, the place is Papists’ Corner in the Cathedral, and the words arethese, ‘Come, for all things are now ready.’ You know sir, that we Catholics goin fear of our lives, and like the poor hares have to double and turn if wewould escape. If any overhears that message, he will never know it to be awarning. And it was for that that I asked your word to say no more than yourmessage, with just the word that you had seen me yourself. You may tell him, ofcourse sir, that Mr. Roger had a patch over his eye and st-stuttered a littlein his speech; and he will know it is from me then. Now, sir, will you tell mewhat the message is, and the place, to be sure that you know them; and then,sir, it will be time to go; and God bless you, sir. God bless you for yourkindness to us poor papists!”
The man seized Anthony’s gloved hand and kissed it fervently once or twice.
Anthony repeated his instructions carefully. He was more touched than he caredto show by the evident gratitude and relief of this poor terrified Catholic.
“Th-that is right, sir; that is right; and now, sir, if you please, be gone atonce; or the Father will have left the Cathedral. The child will be in thecourt below to show you the way out to the churchyard. God bless you, sir; andreward you for your kindness!”
And as Anthony went out of the room he heard benedictions mingled with sobsfollowing him. The woman was nowhere to be seen; so he took the oil-lamp fromthe landing, and found his way downstairs again, unfastened the front door, andwent out, leaving the lamp on the floor. The child was leaning against the wallopposite; he could just see the glimmer of her face in the heavy dusk.
“Come, my child,” he said, “show me the way to the churchyard.”
She came forward, and he began to follow her out of the little flagged court.He turned round as he left the court and saw high up against the blacknessoverhead a square of window lighted with a glow from within; and simultaneouslythere came the sound of bolts being shut in the door that he had just left.Evidently the old woman had been on the watch, and was now barring the doorbehind him.
It wanted courage to do as Anthony was doing, but he was not lacking in that;it was not a small matter to go to Papists’ Corner and give a warning to aCatholic priest: but firstly, James Maxwell was his friend, and in danger:secondly, Anthony had no sympathy with religious persecution; and thirdly, ashas been seen, the last year had made a really deep impression upon him: he wasmore favourably inclined to the Catholic cause than he had ever imagined to bepossible.
As he followed the child through the labyrinth of passages, passing every nowand then the lighted front of a house, or a little group of idlers (for therain had now ceased) who stared to see this gentleman in such company, his headwas whirling with questions and conjectures. Was it not after all adishonourable act to the Archbishop in whose service he was, thus to take theside of the Papists? But that it was too late to consider now.—How strange thatJames Maxwell was a priest! That of course accounted at once for his longabsence, no doubt in the seminary abroad, and his ultimate return, and forHubert’s inheriting the estates. And then he passed on to reflect as he haddone a hundred times before on this wonderful Religion that allured men fromhome and wealth and friends, and sent them rejoicing to penury, suspicion,hatred, peril, and death itself, for the kingdom of heaven’s sake.
Suddenly he found himself in the open space opposite the Cathedral—the childhad again disappeared.
It was less dark here; the leaden sky overhead still glimmered with a palesunset light; and many house-windows shone out from within. He passed round thesouth side of the Cathedral, and entered the western door. The building wasfull of deep gloom only pricked here and there by an oil-lamp or two that wouldpresently be extinguished when the Cathedral was closed. The air was full of afaint sound, made up from echoes of the outside world and the footsteps of afew people who still lingered in groups here and there in the aisles, andtalked among themselves. The columns rose up in slender bundles and faded intothe pale gloom overhead; as he crossed the nave on the way to Papists’ Cornerfar away to the east rose the dark carving of the stalls against the glimmeringstone beyond. It was like some vast hall of the dead; the noise of thefootsteps seemed like an insolent intrusion on this temple of silence; and thereligious stillness had an active and sombre character of its own more eloquentand impressive than all the tumult that man could make.
As Anthony came to Papists’ Corner he saw a very tall solitary figure passingslowly from east to west; it was too dark to distinguish faces; so he wenttowards it, so that at the next turn they would meet face to face. When he waswithin two or three steps the man before him turned abruptly; and Anthonyimmediately put out his hand smiling.
“Mr. Arthur Oldham,” he said.
The man started and peered curiously through the gloom at him.
“Why Anthony!” he exclaimed, and took his hand, “what is your business here?”And they began slowly to walk westwards together.
“I am come to meet Mr. Oldham,” he said, “and to give him a message; and thisis it, ‘Come, for all things are now ready!’”
“My dear boy,” said James, stopping short, “you must forgive me; but what inthe world do you mean by that?”
“I come from Mr. Roger,” said Anthony, “you need not be afraid. He has had anaccident and sent for me.”
“Mr. Roger?” said James interrogatively.
“Yes,” said Anthony, “he hath a patch over one eye; and stutters somewhat.”
James gave a sigh of relief.
“My dear boy,” he said, “I cannot thank you enough. You know what it meansthen?”
“Why, yes,” said Anthony.
“And you a Protestant, and in the Archbishop’s household?”
“Why, yes,” said Anthony, “and a Christian and your friend.”
“God bless you, Anthony,” said the priest; and took his hand and pressed it.
They were passing out now under the west door, and stood together for a momentlooking at the lights down Ludgate Hill. The houses about Amen Court stood upagainst the sky to their right.
“I must not stay,” said Anthony, “I must fetch my horse and be back at Lambethfor evening prayers at six. He is stabled at the Palace here.”
“Well, well,” said the priest, “I thank God that there are true hearts likeyours. God bless you again my dear boy—and—and make you one of us some day!”
Anthony smiled at him a little tremulously, for the gratitude and the blessingof this man was dear to him; and after another hand grasp, he turned away tothe right, leaving the priest still half under the shadow of the door lookingafter him.
He had done his errand promptly and discreetly.
THE MASSING-HOUSE
Newman’s Court lay dark and silent under the stars on Sunday morning a littleafter four o’clock. The gloomy weather of the last three or four days hadpassed off in heavy battalions of sullen sunset clouds on the precedingevening, and the air was full of frost. By midnight thin ice was lyingeverywhere; pendants of it were beginning to form on the overhanging eaves; andstreaks of it between the cobble-stones that paved the court. The great citylay in a frosty stillness as of death.
The patrol passed along Cheapside forty yards away from the entrance of thecourt, a little after three o’clock; and a watchman had cried out half an hourlater, that it was a clear night; and then he too had gone his way. The courtitself was a little rectangular enclosure with two entrances, one to the northbeneath the arch of a stable that gave on to Newman’s Passage, which in itsturn opened on to St. Giles’ Lane that led to Cheapside; the other, at thefurther end of the long right-hand side, led by a labyrinth of passages down inthe direction of the wharfs to the west of London Bridge. There were threehouses to the left of the entrance from Newman’s Passage; the back of aware-house faced them on the other long side with the door beyond; and theother two sides were respectively formed by the archway of the stable with aloft over it, and a blank high wall at the opposite end.
A few minutes after four o’clock the figure of a woman suddenly appearedsoundlessly in the arch under the stables; and after standing there a momentadvanced along the front of the houses till she reached the third door. Shestood here a moment in silence, listening and looking towards the doorwayopposite, and then rapped gently with her finger-nail eleven or twelve times.Almost immediately the door opened, showing only darkness within; she steppedin, and it closed silently behind her. Then the minutes slipped away again inundisturbed silence. At about twenty minutes to five the figure of a very tallman dressed as a layman slipped in through the door that led towards the river,and advanced to the door where he tapped in the same manner as the woman beforehim, and was admitted at once. After that people began to come more frequently,some hesitating and looking about them as they entered the court, some slippingstraight through without a pause, and going to the door, which opened and shutnoiselessly as each tapped and was admitted. Sometimes two or three would cometogether, sometimes singly; but by five o’clock about twenty or thirty personshad come and been engulfed by the blackness that showed each time the dooropened; while no glimmer of light from any of the windows betrayed the presenceof any living soul within. At five o’clock the stream stopped. The little courtlay as silent under the stars again as an hour before. It was a night ofbreathless stillness; there was no dripping from the eaves; no sound of wheelsor hoofs from the city; only once or twice came the long howl of a dog acrossthe roofs.
Ten minutes passed away.
Then without a sound a face appeared like a pale floating patch in the darkdoor that opened on to the court. It remained hung like a mask in the darknessfor at least a minute; and then a man stepped through on to the cobblestones.Something on his head glimmered sharply in the starlight; and there was thesame sparkle at the end of a pole that he carried in his hand; he turned andnodded; and three or four men appeared behind him.
Then out of the darkness of the archway at the other end of the court appeareda similar group. Once a man slipped on the frozen stones and cursed under hisbreath, and the leader turned on him with a fierce indrawing of his breath; butno word was spoken.
Then through both entrances streamed dark figures, each with a steely glitteron head and breast, and with something that shone in their hands; till thelittle court seemed half full of armed men; but the silence was stillformidable in its depth.
The two leaders came together to the door of the third house, and their headswere together; and a few sibilant consonants escaped them. The breath of themen that stood out under the starlight went up like smoke in the air. It wasnow a quarter-past five.
Three notes of a hand-bell sounded behind the house; and then, without anyfurther attempt at silence, the man who had entered the court first advanced tothe door and struck three or four thundering blows on it with a mace, andshouted in a resonant voice:
“Open in the Queen’s Name.”
The men relaxed their cautious attitudes, and some grounded their weapons;others began to talk in low voices; a small party advanced nearer their leaderswith weapons, axes and halberds, uplifted.
By now the blows were thundering on the door; and the same shattering voicecried again and again:
“Open in the Queen’s name; open in the Queen’s name!”
The middle house of the three was unoccupied; but the windows of the house nextthe stable, and the windows in the loft over the archway, where the stable-boysslept, suddenly were illuminated; latches were lifted, the windows thrust openand heads out of them.
Then one or two more pursuivants came up the dark passage bearing flamingtorches with them. A figure appeared on the top of the blank wall at the end,and pointed and shouted. The stable-boys in a moment more appeared in theirarchway, and one or two persons came out of the house next the stable, queerlyhabited in cloaks and hats over their night-attire.
The din was now tremendous; the questions and answers shouted to and fro werescarcely audible under the thunder that pealed from the battered door; a partyhad advanced to it and were raining blows upon the lock and hinges. The courtwas full of a ruddy glare that blazed on the half-armour and pikes of the men,and the bellowing and the crashes and the smoke together went up into the nightair as from the infernal pit. It was a hellish transformation from the deathlystillness of a few minutes—a massacre of the sweet night silence. And yet thehouse where the little silent stream of dark figures had been swallowed up roseup high above the smoky cauldron, black, dark, and irresponsive.
There rose a shrill howling from behind the house, and the figure on the top ofthe wall capered and gesticulated again. Then footsteps came running up thepassage, and a pursuivant thrust his way through to the leaders; and, in amoment or two, above the din a sharp word was given, and three or four menhurried out through the doorway by which the man had come. Almost at the samemoment the hinges of the door gave way, the whole crashed inwards, and theattacking party poured into the dark entrance hall beyond. By this time thenoise had wakened many in the houses round, and lights were beginning to shinefrom the high windows invisible before, and a concourse of people to press infrom all sides. The approaches had all been guarded, but at the crash of thedoor some of the sentries round the nearer corners hurried into the court, andthe crowd poured after them; and by the time that the officers and men haddisappeared into the house, their places had been filled by the spectators, andthe little court was again full of a swaying, seething, shouting mass of men,with a few women with hoods and cloaks among them—inquiries and informationwere yelled to and fro.
“It was a nest of papists—a wasp’s nest was being smoked out—what harm had theydone?—It was a murder; two women had had their throats cut.—No, no; it was apapists’ den—a massing-house.—Well, God save her Grace and rid her of herenemies. With these damned Spaniards everywhere, England was going toruin.—They had escaped at the back. No; they tried that way, but it wasguarded.—There were over fifty papists, some said, in that house.—It was aplot. Mary was mixed up in it. The Queen was to be blown up with powder, likepoor Darnley. The barrels were all stored there.—No, no, no! it was nothing buta massing-house.—Who was the priest?—Well, they would see him at Tyburn on ahurdle; and serve him right with his treasonable mummery.—No, no! they had hadenough of blood.—Campion had died like a man; and an Englishman too—praying forhis Queen.”—The incessant battle and roar went up.
Meanwhile lights were beginning to shine everywhere in the dark house. A manwith a torch was standing in a smoky glare half way up the stairs seen throughthe door, and the interior of the plain hall was illuminated. Then the leadedpanes overhead were beginning to shine out. Steel caps moved to and fro;gigantic shadows wavered; the shadow of a halberd head went across a curtain atone of the lower windows.
A crimson-faced man threw open a window and shouted instructions to the sentryleft at the door, who in answer shook his head and pointed to the bellowingcrowd; the man at the window made a furious gesture and disappeared. Theillumination began to climb higher and higher as the searchers mounted fromfloor to floor; thin smoke began to go up from one or two of the chimneys inthe frosty air;—they were lighting straw to bring down any fugitives concealedin the chimneys. Then the sound of heavy blows began to ring out; they weretesting the walls everywhere for hiding-holes; there was a sound of rendingwood as the flooring was torn up. Then over the parapet against the stairslooked a steel-crowned face of a pursuivant. The crowd below yelled and pointedat first, thinking he was a fugitive; but he grinned down at them anddisappeared.
Then at last came an exultant shout; then a breathless silence; then the crowdbegan to question and answer again.
“They had caught the priest!—No, the priest had escaped,—damn him!—It was halfa dozen women. No, no! they had had the women ten minutes ago in a room at theback.—What fools these pursuivants were!—They had found the chapel and thealtar.—What a show it would all make at the trial!—Ah! ah! it was the priestafter all.”
Those nearest the door saw the man with the torch on the stairs stand back alittle; and then a dismal little procession began to appear round the turn.
First came a couple of armed men, looking behind them every now and then; thena group of half a dozen women, whom they had found almost immediately, but hadbeen keeping for the last few minutes in a room upstairs; then a couple moremen. Then there was a little space; and then more constables and moreprisoners. Each male prisoner was guarded by two men; the women were in groups.All these came out to the court. The crowd began to sway back against thewalls, pointing and crying out; and a lane with living walls was formed towardsthe archway that opened into Newman’s Passage.
When the last pursuivants who brought up the rear had reached the door, anofficer, who had been leaning from a first-floor window with the pale face ofLackington peering over his shoulder, gave a sharp order; and the processionhalted. The women, numbering fourteen or fifteen, were placed in a group withsome eight men in hollow square round them; then came a dozen men, each with apursuivant on either side. But plainly they were not all come; they were stillwaiting for something; the officer and Lackington disappeared from the window;and for a moment too, the crowd was quiet.
A murmur of excitement began to rise again, as another group was seendescending the stairs within. The officer came first, looking back and talkingas he came; then followed two pursuivants with halberds, and immediately behindthem, followed by yet two men, walked James Maxwell in crimson vestments alldisordered, with his hands behind him, and his comely head towering above theheads of the guard. The crowd surged forward, yelling; and the men at the doorgrounded their halberds sharply on the feet of the front row of spectators. Asthe priest reached the door, a shrill cry either from a boy or a woman piercedthe roaring of the mob. “God bless you, father,” and as he heard it he turnedand smiled serenely. His face was white, and there was a little trickle ofblood run down across it from some wound in his head. The rest of the prisonersturned towards him as he came out; and again he smiled and nodded at them. Andso the Catholics with their priest stood a moment in that deafening tumult ofrevilings, before the officer gave the word to advance.
Then the procession set forward through the archway; the crowd pressing backbefore them, like the recoil of a wave, and surging after them again in thewake. High over the heads of all moved the steel halberds, shining like grimemblems of power; the torches tossed up and down and threw monstrous stalkingshadows on the walls as they passed; the steel caps edged the procession likean impenetrable hedge; and last moved the crimson-clad priest, as if in somechurch function, but with a bristling barrier about him; then came the mob,pouring along the narrow passages, jostling, cursing, reviling, swelled everymoment by new arrivals dashing down the alleys and courts that gave on thethoroughfare; and so with tramp and ring of steel the pageant went forward onits way of sorrows.
Before six o’clock Newman’s Court was empty again, except for one armed figurethat stood before the shattered door of No. 3 to guard it. Inside the house wasdark again except in one room high up where the altar had stood. Here the thickcurtains against the glass had been torn down, and the window was illuminated;every now and again the shadows on the ceiling stirred a little as if thecandle was being moved; and once the window opened and a pale smooth facelooked out for a moment, and then withdrew again. Then the light disappearedaltogether; and presently shone out in another room on the same floor; thenagain after an half an hour or so it was darkened; and again reappeared on thefloor below. And so it went on from room to room; until the noises of thewaking city began, and the stars paled and expired. Over the smokeless town thesky began to glow clear and brilliant. The crowing of cocks awoke here andthere; a church bell or two began to sound far away over the roofs. The paleblue overhead grew more and more luminous; the candle went out on the firstfloor; the steel-clad man stretched himself and looked at the growing dawn.
A step was heard on the stairs, and Lackington came down, carrying a smallvalise apparently full to bursting. He looked paler than usual; and a littlehollow-eyed for want of sleep. He came out and stood by the soldier, and lookedabout him. Everywhere the court showed signs of the night’s tumult. Crumbledice from broken icicles and trampled frozen pools lay powdered on the stones.Here and there on the walls were great smears of black from the torches, andeven one or two torn bits of stuff and a crushed hat marked where the pressurehad been fiercest. Most eloquent of all was the splintered door behind him,still held fast by one stout bolt, but leaning crookedly against the dintedwall of the interior.
“A good night’s work, friend,” said Lackington to the man. “Another hivetaken, and here”—and he tapped his valise—“here I bear the best of the honey.”
The soldier looked heavily at the bag. He was tired too; and he did not carefor this kind of work.
“Well,” said Lackington again, “I must be getting home safe. Keep the door;you shall be relieved in one hour.”
The soldier nodded at him; but still said nothing; and Lackington lifted thevalise and went off too under the archway.
That same morning Lady Maxwell in her room in the Hall at Great Keynes awokeearly before dawn with a start. She had had a dream but could not remember whatit was, except that her son James was in it, and seemed to be in trouble. Hewas calling on her to save him, she thought, and awoke at the sound of hisvoice. She often dreamt of him at this time; for the life of a seminary priestwas laid with snares and dangers. But this dream seemed worse than all.
She struck a light, and looked timidly round the room; it seemed still ringingwith his voice. A great tapestry in a frame hung over the mantelpiece, Actæonfollowed by his hounds; the hunter panted as he ran, and was looking back overhis shoulder; and the long-jawed dogs streamed behind him down a little hill.
So strong was the dream upon the old lady that she felt restless, and presentlygot up and went to the window and opened a shutter to look out. A white statueor two beyond the terrace glimmered in the dusk, and the stars were bright inthe clear frosty night overhead. She closed the shutter and went back again tobed; but could not sleep. Again and again as she was dozing off, somethingwould startle her wide awake again: sometimes it was a glimpse of James’ face;sometimes he seemed to be hurrying away from her down an endless passage withclosed doors; he was dressed in something crimson. She tried to cry out, hervoice would not rise above a whisper. Sometimes it was the dream of his voice;and once she started up crying out, “I am coming, my son.” Then at last sheawoke again at the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor outside; andstared fearfully at the door to see what would enter. But it was only the maidcome to call her mistress. Lady Maxwell watched her as she opened the shuttersthat now glimmered through their cracks, and let a great flood of light intothe room from the clear shining morning outside.
“It is a frosty morning, my lady,” said the maid.
“Send one of the men down to Mistress Torridon,” said Lady Maxwell, “and askher to come here as soon as it is convenient. Say I am well; but would like tosee her when she can come.”
There was no priest in the house that Sunday, so there could be no mass; and onthese occasions Mistress Margaret usually stayed at the Dower House until afterdinner; but this morning she came up within half an hour of receiving themessage.
She did not pretend to despise her sister’s terror, or call it superstitious.
“Mary,” she said, taking her sister’s jewelled old fingers into her own twohands, “we must leave all this to the good God. It may mean much, or little, ornothing. He only knows; but at least we may pray. Let me tell Isabel; a child’sprayers are mighty with Him; and she has the soul of a little child still.”
So Isabel was told; and after church she came up to dine at the Hall and spendthe day there; for Lady Maxwell was thoroughly nervous and upset: she trembledat the sound of footsteps, and cried out when one of the men came into the roomsuddenly.
Isabel went again to evening prayer at three o’clock; but could not keep herthoughts off the strange nervous horror at the Hall, though it seemed to reston no better foundation than the waking dreams of an old lady—and her mindstrayed away continually from the darkening chapel in which she sat, so nearwhere Sir Nicholas himself lay, to the upstairs parlour where the widow satshaken and trembling at her own curious fancies about her dear son.
Mr. Bodder’s sermon came to an end at last; and Isabel was able to get away,and hurry back to the Hall. She found the old ladies as she had left them inthe little drawing-room, Lady Maxwell sitting on the window-seat near the harp,preoccupied and apparently listening for something she knew not what. MistressMargaret was sitting in a tall padded porter’s chair reading aloud from an oldEnglish mystic, but her sister was paying no attention, and looked strangely atthe girl as she came in. Isabel sat down near the fire and listened; and as shelistened the memory of that other day, years ago, came to her when she sat oncebefore with these two ladies in the same room, and Mistress Margaret read tothem, and the letter came from Sir Nicholas; and then the sudden clamour fromthe village. So now she sat with terror darkening over her, glancing now andagain at that white expectant face, and herself listening for the firstfar-away rumour of the dreadful interruption that she now knew must come.
“The Goodness of God,” read the old nun, “is the highest prayer, and it comethdown to the lowest part of our need. It quickeneth our soul and bringeth it onlife, and maketh it for to waxen in grace and virtue. It is nearest in nature;and readiest in grace: for it is the same grace that the soul seeketh, and evershall seek till we know verily that He hath us all in Himself enclosed. For hehath no despite of that He hath made, nor hath He any disdain to serve us atthe simplest office that to our body belongeth in nature, for love of the soulthat He hath made to His own likeness. For as the body is clad in the clothes,and the flesh in the skin, and the bones in the flesh, and the heart in thewhole, so are we, soul and body, clad in the Goodness of God, and enclosed.Yea, and more homely; for all these may waste and wear away, but the Goodnessof God is ever whole; and more near to us without any likeness; for truly ourLover desireth that our soul cleave to Him with all its might, and that we beevermore cleaving to His goodness. For of all things that heart may think, thismost pleaseth God, and soonest speedeth us. For our soul is so specially lovedof Him that is highest, that it overpasseth the knowing of all creatures——”
“Hush,” said Lady Maxwell suddenly, on her feet, with a lifted hand.
There was a breathless silence in the room; Isabel’s heart beat thick and heavyand her eyes grew large with expectancy; it was a windless frosty night again,and the ivy outside on the wall, and the laurels in the garden seemed to besilently listening too.
“Mary, Mary,” began her sister, “you——;” but the old lady lifted her hand alittle higher; and silence fell again.
Then far away in the direction of the London road came the clear beat of thehoofs of a galloping horse.
Lady Maxwell bowed her head, and her hand slowly sank to her side. The othertwo stood up and remained still while the beat of the hoofs grew and grew inintensity on the frozen road.
“The front door,” said Lady Maxwell.
Mistress Margaret slipped from the room and went downstairs; Isabel took a stepor two forward, but was checked by the old lady’s uplifted hand again. Andagain there was a breathless silence, save for the beat of the hoofs now closeand imminent.
A moment later the front door was opened, and a great flood of cold air sweptup the passages; the portrait of Sir Nicholas in the hall downstairs, liftedand rattled against the wall. Then came the clatter on the paved court; and thesound of a horse suddenly checked with the slipping up of hoofs and the jingleand rattle of chains and stirrups. There were voices in the hall below, and aman’s deep tones; then came steps ascending.
Lady Maxwell still stood perfectly rigid by the window, waiting, and Isabelstared with white face and great open eyes at the door; outside, the flame of alamp on the wall was blowing about furiously in the draught.
Then a stranger stepped into the room; evidently a gentleman; he bowed to thetwo ladies, and stood, with the rime on his boots and a whip in his hand, alittle exhausted and disordered by hard riding.
“Lady Maxwell?” he said.
Lady Maxwell bowed a little.
“I come with news of your son, madam, the priest; he is alive and well; but heis in trouble. He was taken this morning in his mass-vestments; and is in theMarshalsea.”
Lady Maxwell’s lips moved a little; but no sound came.
“He was betrayed, madam, by a friend. He and thirty other Catholics were takenall together at mass.”
Then Lady Maxwell spoke; and her voice was dead and hard.
“The friend, sir! What was his name?”
“The traitor’s name, madam, is Anthony Norris.”
The room turned suddenly dark to Isabel’s eyes; and she put up her hand andtore at the collar round her throat.
“Oh no, no, no, no!” she cried, and tottered a step or two forward and stoodswaying.
Lady Maxwell looked from one to another with eyes that seemed to see nothing;and her lips stirred again.
Mistress Margaret who had followed the stranger up, and who stood now behindhim at the door, came forward to Isabel with a little cry, with her handstrembling before her. But before she could reach her, Lady Maxwell herself cameswiftly forward, her head thrown back, and her arms stretched out towards thegirl, who still stood dazed and swaying more and more.
“My poor, poor child!” said Lady Maxwell; and caught her as she fell.
FROM FULHAM TO GREENWICH
Anthony in London, strangely enough, heard nothing of the arrest on the Sunday,except a rumour at supper that some Papists had been taken. It had sufficienteffect on his mind to make him congratulate himself that he had been able towarn his friend last week.
At dinner on Monday there were a few guests; and among them, one Sir RichardBarkley, afterwards Lieutenant of the Tower. He sat at the Archbishop’s table,but Anthony’s place, on the steward’s left hand, brought him very close to theend of the first table where Sir Richard sat. Dinner was half way through, whenMr. Scot who was talking to Anthony, was suddenly silent and lifted his hand asif to check the conversation a moment.
“I saw them myself,” said Sir Richard’s voice just behind.
“What is it?” whispered Anthony.
“The Catholics,” answered the steward.
“They were taken in Newman’s Court, off Cheapside,” went on the voice, “nearlythirty, with one of their priests, at mass, in his trinkets too—Oldham his nameis.”
There was a sudden crash of a chair fallen backwards, and Anthony was standingby the officer.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Richard Barkley,” he said;—and a dead silence fell inthe hall.—“But is that the name of the priest that was taken yesterday?”
Sir Richard looked astonished at the apparent insolence of this young official.
“Yes, sir,” he said shortly.
“Then, then,——” began Anthony; but stopped; bowed low to the Archbishop andwent straight out of the hall.
Mr. Scot was waiting for him in the hall when he returned late that night.Anthony’s face was white and distracted; he came in and stood by the fire, andstared at him with a dazed air.
“You are to come to his Grace,” said the steward, looking at him in silence.
Anthony nodded without speaking, and turned away.
“Then you cannot tell me anything?” said Mr. Scot. The other shook his headimpatiently, and walked towards the inner door.
The Archbishop was sincerely shocked at the sight of his young officer, as hecame in and stood before the table, staring with bewildered eyes, with hisdress splashed and disordered, and his hands still holding the whip and gloves.He made him sit down at once, and after Anthony had drunk a glass of wine, hemade him tell his story and what he had done that day.
He had been to the Marshalsea; it was true Mr. Oldham was there, and had beenexamined. Mr. Young had conducted it.—The house at Newman’s Court was guarded:the house behind Bow Church was barred and shut up, and the people seemed goneaway.—He could not get a word through to Mr. Oldham, though he had tried heavybribery.—And that was all.
Anthony spoke with the same dazed air, in short broken sentences; but becamemore himself as the wine and the fire warmed him; and by the time he hadfinished he had recovered himself enough to entreat the Archbishop to help him.
“It is useless,” said the old man. “What can I do? I have no power. And—and heis a popish priest! How can I interfere?”
“My lord,” cried Anthony desperately, flushed and entreating, “all has beendone through treachery. Do you not see it? I have been a brainless fool. Thatman behind Bow Church was a spy. For Christ’s sake help us, my lord!”
Grindal looked into the lad’s great bright eyes; sighed; and threw out hishands despairingly.
“It is useless; indeed it is useless, Mr. Norris. But I will tell you all thatI can do. I will give you to-morrow a letter to Sir Francis Walsingham. I waswith him abroad as you know, in the popish times of Mary: and he is still insome sort a friend of mine—but you must remember that he is a strongProtestant; and I do not suppose that he will help you. Now go to bed, dearlad; you are worn out.”
Anthony knelt for the old man’s blessing, and left the room.
The interview next day was more formidable than he had expected. He was at theSecretary’s house by ten o’clock, and waited below while the Archbishop’sletter was taken up. The servant came back in a few minutes, and asked him tofollow; and in an agony of anxiety, but with a clear head again this morning,and every faculty tense, he went upstairs after him, and was ushered into theroom where Walsingham sat at a table.
There was silence as the two bowed, but Sir Francis did not offer to rise, butsat with the Archbishop’s letter in his hand, glancing through it again, as theother stood and waited.
“I understand,” said the Secretary at last, and his voice was dry andunsympathetic,—“I understand, from his Grace’s letter, that you desire to aid apopish priest called Oldham or Maxwell, arrested at mass on Sunday morning inNewman’s Court. If you will be so good as to tell me in what way you desire toaid him, I can be more plain in my answer. You do not desire, I hope, Mr.Norris, anything but justice and a fair trial for your friend?”
Anthony cleared his throat before answering.
“I—he is my friend, as you say, Sir Francis; and—and he hath been caught byfoul means. I myself was used, as I have little doubt, in his capture. Surelythere is no justice, sir, in betraying a man by means of his friend.” AndAnthony described the ruse that had brought it all about.
Sir Francis listened to him coldly; but there came the faintest spark ofamusement into his large sad eyes.
“Surely, Mr. Norris,” he said, “it was somewhat simple; and I have no doubt atall that it all is as you say; and that the poor stuttering cripple with apatch was as sound and had as good sight and power of speech as you and I; butthe plan was, it seems, if you will forgive me, not so simple as yourself. Itwould be passing strange, surely that the man, if a friend of the priest’s,could find no Catholic to take his message; but not at all strange if he werehis enemy. I do not think sincerely, sir, that it would have deceived me. Butthat is not now the point. He is taken now, fairly or foully, and—what was ityou wished me to do?”
“I hoped,” said Anthony, in rising indignation at this insolence, “that youwould help me in some way to undo this foul unjustice. Surely, sir, it cannotbe right to take advantage of such knavish tricks.”
“Good Mr. Norris,” said the Secretary, “we are not playing a game, with rulesthat must not be broken, but we are trying to serve justice”—his voice rose alittle in sincere enthusiasm—“and to put down all false practices, whether inreligion or state, against God or the prince. Surely the point for you and meis not, ought this gentleman to have been taken in the manner he was; but beingtaken, is he innocent or guilty?”
“Then you will not help me?”
“I will certainly not help you to defeat justice,” said the other. “Mr.Norris, you are a young man; and while your friendship does your heart credit,your manner of forwarding its claims does not equally commend your head. Icounsel you to be wary in your speech and actions; or they may bring you intotrouble some day yourself. After all, as no doubt your friends have told you,you played what, as a minister of the Crown, I must call a knave’s part inattempting to save this popish traitor, although by God’s Providence, you werefrustrated. But it is indeed going too far to beg me to assist you. I havenever heard of such audacity!”
Anthony left the house in a fury. It was true, as the Archbishop had said, thatSir Francis Walsingham was a convinced Protestant; but he had expected to findin him some indignation at the methods by which the priest had been captured;and some desire to make compensation for it.
He went again to the Marshalsea; and now heard that James had been removed tothe Tower, with one or two of the Catholics who had been in trouble before.This was serious news; for to be transferred to the Tower was often but theprelude to torture or death. He went on there, however, and tried again to gainadmittance, but it was refused, and the doorkeeper would not even consent totake a message in. Mr. Oldham, he said, was being straitly kept, and it wouldbe as much as his place was worth to admit any communication to him without anorder from the Council.
When Anthony got back to Lambeth after this fruitless day, he found animploring note from Isabel awaiting him; and one of the grooms from the Hall totake his answer back.
“Write back at once, dear Anthony,” she wrote, “and explain this terriblething, for I know well that you could not do what has been told us of you. Buttell us what has happened, that we may know what to think. Poor Lady Maxwell isin the distress you may imagine; not knowing what will come to Mr. James. Shewill come to London, I think, this week. Write at once now, my Anthony, andtell us all.”
Anthony scribbled a few lines, saying how he had been deceived; and asking herto explain the circumstances to Lady Maxwell, who no doubt would communicatethem to her son as soon as was possible; he added that he had so far failed toget a message through the gaoler. He gave the note himself to the groom;telling him to deliver it straight into Isabel’s hands, and then went to bed.
In the morning he reported to the Archbishop what had taken place.
“I feared it would be so,” Grindal said. “There is nothing to be done but tocommit your friend into God’s hands, and leave him there.”
“My Lord,” said Anthony, “I cannot leave it like that. I will go and see mylord bishop to-day; and then, if he can do nothing to help, I will even see theQueen’s Grace herself.”
Grindal threw up his hands with a gesture of dismay.
“That will ruin all,” he said. “An officer of mine could do nothing but angerher Grace.”
“I must do my best,” said Anthony; “it was through my folly he is in prison,and I could never rest if I left one single thing undone.”
Just as Anthony was leaving the house, a servant in the royal livery dashed upto the gate; and the porter ran out after Anthony to call him back. The mandelivered to him a letter which he opened then and there. It was from MistressCorbet.
“What can be done,” the letter ran, “for poor Mr. James? I have heard a taleof you from a Catholic, which I know is a black lie. I am sure that even nowyou will be doing all you can to save your friend. I told the man that told me,that he lied and that I knew you for an honest gentleman. But come, dear Mr.Anthony; and we will do what we can between us. Her Grace noticed this morningthat I had been weeping; I put her off with excuses that she knows to beexcuses; and she is so curious that she will not rest till she knows the cause.Come after dinner to-day; we are at Greenwich now; and we will see what may bedone. It may even be needful for you to see her Grace yourself, and tell herthe story. Your loving friend, Mary Corbet.”
Anthony gave a message to the royal groom, to tell Mistress Corbet that hewould do as she said, and then rode off immediately to the city. There wasanother disappointing delay as the Bishop was at Fulham; and thither he rodedirectly through the frosty streets under the keen morning sunshine, frettingat the further delay.
He had often had occasion to see the Bishop before, and Aylmer had takensomething of a liking to this staunch young churchman; and now as the young mancame hurrying across the grass under the elms, the Bishop, who was walking inhis garden in his furs and flapped cap, noticed his anxious eyes and troubledface, and smiled at him kindly, wondering what he had come about. The two beganto walk up and down together. The sunshine was beginning to melt the surface ofthe ground, and the birds were busy with breakfast-hunting.
“Look at that little fellow!” cried the Bishop, pointing to a thrush on thelawn, “he knows his craft.”
The thrush had just rapped several times with his beak at a worm’s earth, andwas waiting with his head sideways watching.
“Aha!” cried the Bishop again, “he has him.” The thrush had seized the wormwho had come up to investigate the noise, and was now staggering backwards,bracing himself, and tugging at the poor worm, who, in a moment more wasdragged out and swallowed.
“My lord,” said Anthony, “I came to ask your pity for one who was betrayed bylike treachery.”
The Bishop looked astonished, and asked for the story; but when he heard who itwas that had been taken, and under what circumstances, the kindliness died outof his eyes. He shook his head severely when Anthony had done.
“It is useless coming to me, sir,” he said. “You know what I think. To beordained beyond the seas and to exercise priestly functions in England is now acrime. It is useless to pretend anything else. It is revolt against the Queen’sGrace and the peace of the realm. And I must confess I am astonished at you,Mr. Norris, thinking that anything ought to be done to shield a criminal, andstill more astonished that you should think I would aid you in that. I tell youplainly that I am glad that the fellow is caught, for that I think there willbe presently one less fire-brand in England. I know it is easy to cry outagainst persecution and injustice; that is ever the shallow cry of the mob; butthis is not a religious persecution, as you yourself very well know. It isbecause the Roman Church interferes with the peace of the realm and the Queen’sauthority that its ordinances are forbidden; we do not seek to touch a man’sprivate opinions. However, you know all that as well as I.”
Anthony was raging now with anger.
“I am not so sure, my lord, as I was,” he said. “I had hoped from yourlordship at any rate to find sympathy for the base trick whereby my friend wassnared; and I find it now hard to trust the judgment of any who do not feel asI do about it.”
“That is insolence, Mr. Norris,” said Aylmer, stopping in his walk and turningupon him his cold half-shut eyes, “and I will not suffer it.”
“Then, my lord, I had better begone to her Grace at once.”
“To her Grace!” exclaimed the Bishop.
“Appello Cæsarem,” said Anthony, and was gone again.
As Anthony came into the courtyard of Greenwich Palace an hour or two later hefound it humming with movement and noise. Cooks were going to and fro withdishes, as dinner was only just ending; servants in the royal livery weredashing across with messages; a few great hounds for the afternoon’s baitingwere in a group near one of the gateways, snuffing the smell of cookery, andhowling hungrily now and again.
Anthony stopped one of the men, and sent him with a message to Mistress Corbet;and the servant presently returned, saying that the Court was just rising fromdinner, and Mistress Corbet would see him in a parlour directly, if thegentleman would kindly follow him. A groom took his horse off to the stable,and Anthony himself followed the servant to a little oak-parlour looking on toa lawn with a yew hedge and a dial. He felt as one moving in a dream,bewildered by the rush of interviews, and oppressed by the awful burden that hebore at his heart. Nothing any longer seemed strange; and he scarcely gave athought to what it meant when he heard the sound of trumpets in the court, asthe Queen left the Hall. In five minutes more Mistress Corbet burst into theroom; and her anxious look broke into tenderness at the sight of the misery inthe lad’s face.
“Oh, Master Anthony,” she cried, seizing his hand, “thank God you are here.And now what is to be done for him?”
They sat down together in the window-seat. Mary was dressed in an elaboraterose-coloured costume; but her pretty lips were pale, and her eyes lookeddistressed and heavy.
“I have hardly slept,” she said, “since Saturday night. Tell me all that youknow.”
Anthony told her the whole story, mechanically and miserably.
“Ah,” she said, “that was how it was. I understand it now. And what can we do?You know, of course, that he has been questioned in the Tower.”
Anthony turned suddenly white and sick.
“Not the—not the——” he began, falteringly.
She nodded at him mutely with large eyes and compressed lips.
“Oh, my God,” said Anthony; and then again, “O God.”
She took up one of his brown young hands and pressed it gently between herwhite slender ones.
“I know,” she said, “I know; he is a gallant gentleman.”
Anthony stood up shaking; and sat down again. The horror had goaded him intoclearer consciousness.
“Ah! what can we do?” he said brokenly. “Let me see the Queen. She will bemerciful.”
“You must trust to me in this,” said Mary, “I know her; and I know that to goto her now would be madness. She is in a fury with Pinart to-day at somethingthat has passed about the Duke. You know Monsieur is here; she kissed him theother day, and the Lord only knows whether she will marry him or not. You mustwait a day or two; and be ready when I tell you.”
“But,” stammered Anthony, “every hour we wait, he suffers.”
“Oh, you cannot tell that,” said Mary, “they give them a long rest sometimes;and it was only yesterday that he was questioned.”
Anthony sat silently staring out on the fresh lawn; there was still a patch offrost under the shadow of the hedge he noticed.
“Wait here a moment,” said Mary, looking at him; and she got up and went out.
Anthony still sat staring and thinking of the horror. Presently Mary was at hisside again with a tall venetian wine-glass brimming with white wine.
“Here,” she said, “drink this,”—and then—“have you dined to-day?”
“There was not time,” said Anthony.
She frowned at him almost fiercely.
“And you come here fasting,” she said, “to face the Queen! You foolish boy;you know nothing. Wait here,” she added imperiously, and again she left theroom.
Anthony still stared out of doors, twisting the empty glass in his hand; untilagain came her step and the rustle of her dress. She took the glass from himand put it down. A servant had followed her back into the room in a minute ortwo with a dish of meat and some bread; he set it on the table, and went out.
“Now,” said Mary, “sit down and eat before you speak another word.” AndAnthony obeyed. The servant presently returned with some fruit, and again leftthem. All the while Anthony was eating, Mary sat by him and told him how shehad heard the whole story from another Catholic at court; and how the Queen hadquestioned her closely the night before, as to what the marks of tears meant onher cheeks.
“It was when I heard of the racking,” explained Mary, “I could not help it. Iwent up to my room and cried and cried. But I would not tell her Grace that: itwould have been of no use; so I said I had a headache; but I said it in such away as to prepare her for more. She has not questioned me again to-day; she istoo full of anger and of the bear-baiting; but she will—she will. She neverforgets; and then Mr. Anthony, it must be you to tell her. You are apleasant-faced young man, sir, and she likes such as that. And you must be bothforward and modest with her. She loves boldness, but hates rudeness. That iswhy Chris is so beloved by her. He is a fool, but he is a handsome fool, and aforward fool, and withal a tender fool; and sighs and cries, and calls her hisGoddess; and says how he takes to his bed when she is not there, which ofcourse is true. The other day he came to her, white-faced, sobbing like afrightened child, about the ring she had given Monsieur le petitgrenouille. And oh, she was so tender with him. And so, Mr. Anthony, youmust not be just forward with her, and frown at her and call her Jezebel andtyrant, as you would like to do; but you must call her Cleopatra, and Diana aswell. Forward and backward all in one; that is the way she loves to be wooed.She is a woman, remember that.”
“I must just let my heart speak,” said Anthony, “I cannot twist and turn.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mary, “that is what I mean; but mind that it is your heart.”
They went on talking a little longer; when suddenly the trumpets pealed outagain. Mary rose with a look of consternation.
“I must fly,” she said, “her Grace will be starting for the pit directly; andI must be there. Do you follow, Mr. Anthony; I will speak to a servant in thecourt about you.” And in a moment she was gone.
When Anthony had finished the fruit and wine, he felt considerably refreshed;and after waiting a few minutes, went out into the court again, which he foundalmost deserted, except for a servant or two. One of these came up to him, andsaid respectfully that Mistress Corbet had left instructions that Mr. Norriswas to be taken to the bear-pit; so Anthony followed him through the palace tothe back.
It was a startlingly beautiful sight that his eyes fell upon when he came upthe wooden stairs on to the stage that ran round the arena where the sport wasjust beginning. It was an amphitheatre, perhaps forty yards across; and theseats round it were filled with the most brilliant costumes, many of whichblazed with jewels. Hanging over the top of the palisade were rich stuffs andtapestries. The Queen herself no doubt with Alençon was seated somewhereto the right, as Anthony could see by the canopy, with the arms of England andFrance embroidered upon its front; but he was too near to her to be able tocatch even a glimpse of her face or figure. The awning overhead was furled, asthe day was so fine, and the winter sunshine poured down on the dresses andjewels. All the Court was there; and Anthony recognised many great nobles hereand there in the specially reserved seats. A ceaseless clangour of trumpets andcymbals filled the air, and drowned not only the conversation but the terrificnoise from the arena where half a dozen great dogs, furious with hunger andexcited as much by the crowds and the brazen music overhead as by the presenceof their fierce adversary, were baiting a huge bear chained to a ring in thecentre of the sand.
Anthony’s heart sank a little as he noticed the ladies of the Court applaudingand laughing at the abominable scene below, no doubt in imitation of theirmistress who loved this fierce sport; and as he thought of the kind of heart towhich he would have to appeal presently.
So through the winter afternoon the bouts went on; the band answered with harshchords the death of the dogs one by one, and welcomed the collapse of the bearwith a strident bellowing passage on the great horns and drums; and by the timeit was over and the spectators rose to their feet, Anthony’s hopes were lowerthan ever. Can there be any compassion left, he wondered, in a woman to whomsuch an afternoon was nothing more than a charming entertainment?
By the time he was able to get out of his seat and return to the courtyard, theprocession had again disappeared, but he was escorted by the same servant tothe parlour again, where Mistress Corbet presently rustled in.
“You must stay to-night,” she said, “as late as possible. I wish you couldsleep here; but we are so crowded with these Frenchmen and Hollanders thatthere is not a bed empty. The Queen is in better humour, and if the play goeswell, it may be that a word said even to-night might reach her heart. I willtell you when it is over. You must be present. I will send you supper heredirectly.”
Anthony inquired as to his dress.
“Nay, nay,” said Mistress Corbet, “that will do very well; it is sober andquiet, and a little splashed: it will appear that you came in such haste thatyou could not change it. Her Grace likes to see a man hot and in a hurrysometimes; and not always like a peacock in the shade.—And, Master Anthony, itsuits you very well.”
He asked what time the play would be over, and that his horse might be saddledready for him when he should want it; and Mary promised to see to it.
He felt much more himself as he supped alone in the parlour. The bewildermenthad passed; the courage and spirit of Mary had infected his own, and thestirring strange life of the palace had distracted him from that dreadfulbrooding into which he had at first sunk.
When he had finished supper he sat in the window seat, pondering and prayingtoo that the fierce heart of the Queen might be melted, and that God would givehim words to say.
There was much else too that he thought over, as he sat and watched theilluminated windows round the little lawn on which his own looked, and heardthe distant clash of music from the Hall where the Queen was supping in state.He thought of Mary and of her gay and tender nature; and of his own boyish lovefor her. That indeed had gone, or rather had been transfigured into a brotherlyhonour and respect. Both she and he, he was beginning to feel, had a moremajestic task before them than marrying and giving in marriage. The religionwhich made this woman what she was, pure and upright in a luxurious andtreacherous Court, tender among hard hearts, sympathetic in the midst ofselfish lives—this Religion was beginning to draw this young man with almostirresistible power. Mary herself was doing her part bravely, witnessing in aProtestant Court to the power of the Catholic Faith in her own life; and he,what was he doing? These last three days were working miracles in him. The wayhe had been received by Walsingham and Aylmer, their apparent inability to seehis point of view on this foul bit of treachery, the whole method of theGovernment of the day;—and above all the picture that was floating now beforehis eyes over the dark lawn, of the little cell in the Tower and the silentwrenched figure lying upon the straw—the “gallant gentleman” as Mary had calledhim, who had reckoned all this price up before he embarked on the life of apriest, and was even now paying it gladly and thankfully, no doubt—all thisdeepened the previous impressions that Anthony’s mind had received; and as hesat here amid the stir of the royal palace, again and again a vision movedbefore him, of himself as a Catholic, and perhaps—— But Isabel! What of Isabel?And at the thought of her he rose and walked to and fro.
Presently the servant came again to take Anthony to the Presence Chamber, wherethe play was to take place.
“I understand, sir, from Mistress Corbet,” said the man, closing the door ofthe parlour a moment, “that you are come about Mr. Maxwell. I am a Catholic,too, sir, and may I say, sir, God bless and prosper you in this.—I—I beg yourpardon, sir, will you follow me?”
The room was full at the lower end where Anthony had to stand, as he was not inCourt dress; and he could see really nothing of the play, and hear very littleeither. The children of Paul’s were acting some classical play which he did notknow: all he could do was to catch a glimpse now and again of the protrudingstage, with the curtains at the back, and the glitter of the armour that theboys wore; and hear the songs that were accompanied by a little string band,and the clash of the brass at the more martial moments. The Queen and the Duke,he could see, sat together immediately opposite the stage, on raised seatsunder a canopy; a group of halberdiers guarded them, and another small companyof them was ranged at the sides of the stage. Anthony could see little morethan this, and could hear only isolated sentences here and there, so broken wasthe piece by the talking and laughing around him. But he did not like to moveas Mistress Corbet had told him to be present, so he stood there listening tothe undertone talk about him, and watching the faces. What he did see of theplay did not rouse him to any great enthusiasm. His heart was too heavy withhis errand, and it seemed to him that the occasional glimpses he caught of thestage showed him a very tiresome hero, dressed in velvet doublet and hose andsteel cap, strangely unconvincing, who spoke his lines pompously, and was asunsatisfactory as the slender shrill-voiced boy who, representing a woman ofmarvellous beauty and allurement, was supposed to fire the conqueror’s bloodwith passion.
At last it ended; and an “orator” in apparel of cloth of gold, spoke a kind ofspecial epilogue in rhyming metre in praise of the Virgin Queen, and thenretired bowing.
Immediately there was a general movement; the brass instruments began to blareout, and an usher at the door desired those who were blocking the way to stepaside to make way for the Queen’s procession, which would shortly pass out.Anthony himself went outside with one or two more, and then stood asidewaiting.
There was a pause and then a hush; and the sound of a high rating woman’svoice, followed by a murmur of laughter.
In a moment more the door was flung open again, and to Anthony’s surpriseMistress Corbet came rustling out, as the people stepped back to make room. Hereyes fell on Anthony near the door, and she beckoned him to follow, and he wentdown the corridor after her, followed her silently along a passage or two,wondering why she did not speak, and then came after her into the same littleoak parlour where he had supped. A servant followed them immediately withlighted candles which he set down and retired.
Anthony looked at Mistress Corbet, and saw all across her pale cheek the fierymark of the five fingers of a hand, and saw too that her eyes were full oftears, and that her breath came unevenly.
“It is no use to-night,” she said, with a sob in her voice; “her Grace isangry with me.”
“And, and——” began Anthony in amazement.
“And she struck me,” said Mary, struggling bravely to smile. “It was all myfault,”—and a bright tear or two ran down on to her delicate lace. “I wassitting near her Grace, and I could not keep my mind off poor James Maxwell;and I suppose I looked grave, because when the play was over, she beckoned meup, and—and asked how I liked it, and why I looked so solemn—for she wouldknow—was it for Scipio Africanus, or some other man? And—and I wassilent; and Alençon, that little frog-man burst out laughing and said toher Grace something—something shameful—in French—but I understood, and gave hima look; and her Grace saw it, and, and struck me here, before all the Court,and bade me begone.”
“Oh! it is shameful,” said Anthony, furiously, his own eyes bright too, at thesight of this gallant girl and her humiliation.
“You cannot stay here, Mistress Corbet. This is the second time at least, is itnot?”
“Ah! but I must stay,” she said, “or who will speak for the Catholics? But nowit is useless to think of seeing her Grace to-night. Yet to-morrow, maybe, shewill be sorry,—she often is—and will want to make amends; and then will be ourtime, so you must be here to-morrow by dinner-time at least.”
“Oh, Mistress Corbet,” said the boy, “I wish I could do something.”
“You dear lad!” said Mary, and then indeed the tears ran down.
Anthony rode back to Lambeth under the stars, anxious and dispirited, and allnight long dreamed of pageants and progresses that blocked the street downwhich he must ride to rescue James. The brazen trumpets rang out whenever hecalled for help or tried to explain his errand; and Elizabeth rode by, bowingand smiling to all save him.
The next day he was at Greenwich again by dinner-time, and again dined byhimself in the oak parlour, waited upon by the Catholic servant. He was justfinishing his meal when in sailed Mary, beaming.
“I told you so,” she said delightedly, “the Queen is sorry. She pinched my earjust now, and smiled at me, and bade me come to her in her private parlour inhalf an hour; and I shall put my petition then; so be ready, Master Anthony, beready and of a good courage; for, please God, we shall save him yet.”
Anthony looked at her, white and scared.
“What shall I say?” he said.
“Speak from your heart, sir, as you did to me yesterday. Be bold, yet notoverbold. Tell her plainly that he is your friend; and that it was through youraction he was betrayed. Say that you love the man. She likes loyalty.—Say he isa fine upstanding fellow, over six feet in height, with a good leg. She likes agood leg.—Say that he has not a wife, and will never have one. Wives andhusbands like her not—in spite of le petit grenouille.—And lookstraight in her face, Master Anthony, as you looked in mine yesterday when Iwas a cry-baby. She likes men to do that.—And then look away as if dazzled byher radiancy. She likes that even more.”
Anthony looked so bewildered by these instructions that Mary laughed in hisface.
“Here then, poor lad,” she said, “I will tell you in a word. Tell the truthand be a man;—a man! She likes that best of all; though she likes sheep too,such as Chris Hatton, and frogs like the Duke, and apes like the littleSpaniard, and chattering dancing monkeys like the Frenchman—and—and devils,like Walshingham. But do you be a man and risk it. I know you can managethat.” And Mary smiled at him so cheerfully, that Anthony felt heartened.
“There,” she said, “now you look like one. But you must have some more winefirst, I will send it in as I go. And now I must go. Wait here for themessage.” She gave him her hand, and he kissed it, and she went out, noddingand smiling over her shoulder.
Anthony sat miserably on the window-seat.
Ah! so much depended on him now. The Queen was in a good humour, and such achance might never occur again;—and meantime James Maxwell waited in the Tower.
The minutes passed; steps came and went in the passage outside; and Anthony’sheart leaped into his mouth at each sound. Once the door opened, and Anthonysprang to his feet trembling. But it was only the servant with the wine.Anthony took it—a fiery Italian wine, and drew a long draught that sent hisblood coursing through his veins, and set his heart a-beating strongly again.And even as he set the cup down, the door was open again, and a bowing page wasthere.
“May it please you, sir, the Queen’s Grace has sent me for you.”
Anthony got up, swallowed in his throat once or twice, and motioned to go; theboy went out and Anthony followed.
They went down a corridor or two, passing a sentry who let the well-known pageand the gentleman pass without challenging; ascended a twisted oak staircase,went along a gallery, with stained glass of heraldic emblems in the windows,and paused before a door. The page, before knocking, turned and lookedmeaningly at Anthony, who stood with every pulse in his body racing; then theboy knocked, opened the door; Anthony entered, and the door closed behind him.
THE APPEAL TO CÆSAR
The room was full of sunshine that poured in through two tall windows opposite,upon a motionless figure that sat in a high carved chair by the table, andwatched the door. This figure dominated the whole room: the lad as he droppedon his knees, was conscious of eyes watching him from behind the chair, oftapestried walls, and a lute that lay on the table, but all those things werebut trifling accessories to that scarlet central figure with a burnished haloof auburn hair round a shadowed face.
There was complete silence for a moment or two; a hound bayed in the courtoutside, and there came a far-away bang of a door somewhere in the palace.There was a rustle of silk that set every nerve of his body thrilling, and thena clear hard penetrating voice spoke two words.
“Well, sir?”
Anthony drew a breath, and swallowed in his throat.
“Your Grace,” he said, and lifted his eyes for a moment, and dropped themagain. But in the glimpse every detail stamped itself clear on his imagination.There she sat in vivid scarlet and cloth of gold, radiating light; with highpuffed sleeves; an immense ruff fringed with lace. The narrow eyes were fixedon him, and as he now waited again, he knew that they were running up and downhis figure, his dark splashed hose and his tumbled doublet and ruff.
“You come strangely dressed.”
Anthony drew a quick breath again.
“My heart is sick,” he said.
There was another slight movement.
“Well, sir,” the voice said again, “you have not told us why you are here.”
“For justice from my queen,” he said, and stopped. “And for mercy from awoman,” he added, scarcely knowing what he said.
Again Elizabeth stirred in her chair.
“You taught him that, you wicked girl,” she said.
“No, madam,” came Mary’s voice from behind, subdued and entreating, “it is hisheart that speaks.”
“Enough, sir,” said Elizabeth; “now tell us plainly what you want of us.”
Then Anthony thought it time to be bold. He made a great effort, and the senseof constraint relaxed a little.
“I have been, your Grace, to Sir Francis Walsingham, and my lord Bishop ofLondon, and I can get neither justice nor mercy from either; and so I come toyour Grace, who are their mistress, to teach them manners.”
“Stay,” said Elizabeth, “that is insolence to my ministers.”
“So my lord said,” answered Anthony frankly, looking into that hard clear facethat was beginning to be lined with age. And he saw that Elizabeth smiled, andthat the face behind the chair nodded at him encouragingly.
“Well, insolence, go on.”
“It is on behalf of one who has been pronounced a felon and a traitor by yourGrace’s laws, that I am pleading; but one who is a very gallant Christiangentleman as well.”
“Your friend lacks not courage,” interrupted Elizabeth to Mary.
“No, your Grace,” said the other, “that has never been considered hisfailing.”
Anthony waited, and then the voice spoke again harshly.
“Go on with the tale, sir. I cannot be here all day.”
“He is a popish priest, your Majesty; and he was taken at mass in hisvestments, and is now in the Tower; and he hath been questioned on the rack.And, madam, it is piteous to think of it. He is but a young man still, butpassing strong and tall.”
“What has this to do with me, sir?” interrupted the Queen harshly. “I cannotpardon every proper young priest in the kingdom. What else is there to be saidfor him?”
“He was taken through the foul treachery of a spy, who imposed upon me, hisfriend, and caused me all unknowing to say the very words that brought him intothe net.”
And then, more and more, Anthony began to lose his self-consciousness, andpoured out the story from the beginning; telling how he had been brought up inthe same village with James Maxwell; and what a loyal gentleman he was; andthen the story of the trick by which he had been deceived. As he spoke hiswhole appearance seemed to change; instead of the shy and rather clumsy mannerwith which he had begun, he was now natural and free; he moved his hands inslight gestures; his blue eyes looked the Queen fairly in the face; he moved alittle forward on his knees as he pleaded, and he spoke with a passion thatastonished both Mary and himself afterwards when he thought of it, in spite ofhis short and broken sentences. He was conscious all the while of an intenseexternal strain and pressure, as if he were pleading for his life, and the timewas short. Elizabeth relaxed her rigid attitude, and leaned her chin on herhand and her elbow on the table and watched him, her thin lips parted, thepearl rope and crown on her head, and the pearl pendants in her ears movingslightly as she nodded at points in his story.
“Ah! your Grace,” he cried, lifting his open hands towards her a little, “youhave a woman’s heart; all your people say so. You cannot allow this man to beso trapped to his death! Treachery never helped a cause yet. If your men cannotcatch these priests fairly, then a-God’s name, let them not catch them at all!But to use a friend, and make a Judas of him; to make the very lips that havespoken friendly, speak traitorously; to bait the trap like that—it is devilish.Let him go, let him go, madam! One priest more or less cannot overthrow therealm; but one more foul crime done in the name of justice can bring God’swrath down on the nation. I hold that a trick like that is far worse than allthe disobedience in the world; nay—how can we cry out against the Jesuits andthe plotters, if we do worse ourselves? Madam, madam, let him go! Oh! I know Icannot speak as well in this good cause, as some can in a bad cause, but letthe cause speak for itself. I cannot speak, I know.”
“Nay, nay,” said Elizabeth softly, “you wrong yourself. You have an honestface, sir; and that is the best recommendation to me.
“And so, Minnie,” she went on, turning to Mary, “this was your petition, wasit; and this your advocate? Well, you have not chosen badly. Now, you speakyourself.”
Mary stood a moment silent, and then with a swift movement came round the armof the Queen’s chair, and threw herself on her knees, with her hands upon theQueen’s left hand as it lay upon the carved boss, and her voice was as Anthonyhad never yet heard it, vibrant and full of tears.
“Oh! madam, madam; this poor lad cannot speak, as he says; and yet his sadhonest face, as your Grace said, is more eloquent than all words. And think ofthe silence of the little cell upstairs in the Tower; where a gallant gentlemanlies, all rent and torn with the rack; and,—and how he listens for thefootsteps outside of the tormentors who come to drag him down again, all achingand heavy with pain, down to that fierce engine in the dark. And think of hisgallant heart, your Grace, how brave it is; and how he will not yield nor letone name escape him. Ah! not because he loves not your Grace nor desires toserve you; but because he serves your Grace best by serving and loving his Godfirst of all.—And think how he cannot help a sob now and again; and whispersthe name of his Saviour, as the pulleys begin to wrench and twist.—And,—and,—donot forget his mother, your Grace, down in the country; how she sits andlistens and prays for her dear son; and cannot sleep, and dreams of him when atlast she sleeps, and wakes screaming and crying at the thought of the boy shebore and nursed in the hands of those harsh devils. And—and, you can stop itall, your Grace, with one little word; and make that mother’s heart bless yourname and pray for you night and morning till she dies;—and let that gallant songo free, and save his racked body before it be torn asunder;—and you can makethis honest lad’s heart happy again with the thought that he has saved hisfriend instead of slaying him. Look you, madam, he has come confessing hisfault; saying bravely to your Grace that he did try to do his friend a servicein spite of the laws, for that he held love to be the highest law. Ah! how manyhappy souls you can make with a word; because you are a Queen.—What is it to bea Queen!—to be able to do all that!—Oh! madam, be pitiful then, and show mercyas one day you hope to find it.”
Mary spoke with an intense feeling; her voice was one long straining sob ofappeal; and as she ended her tears were beginning to rain down on the hand sheheld between her own; she lifted it to her streaming face and kissed it againand again; and then dropped her forehead upon it, and so rested in deadsilence.
Elizabeth swallowed in her throat once or twice; and then spoke, and her voicewas a little choked.
“Well, well, you silly girl.—You plead too well.”
Anthony irresistibly threw his hands out as he knelt.
“Oh! God bless your Grace!” he said; and then gave a sob or two himself.
“There, there, you are a pair of children,” she said; for Mary was kissing herhand again and again. “And you are a pretty pair, too,” she added. “Now, now,that is enough, stand up.”
Anthony rose to his feet again and stood there; and Mary went round againbehind the chair.
“Now, now, you have put me in a sore strait,” said Elizabeth; “between you Iscarcely know how to keep my word. They call me fickle enough already. ButFrank Walsingham shall do it for me. He is certainly at the back of it all, andhe shall manage it. It shall be done at once. Call a page, Minnie.”
Mary Corbet went to the back of the room into the shadow, opened a door thatAnthony had not noticed, and beckoned sharply; in a moment or two a page wasbowing before Elizabeth.
“Is Sir Francis Walsingham in the palace?” she asked,—“then bring him here,”she ended, as the boy bowed again.
“And you too,” she went on, “shall hear that I keep my word,”—she pointedtowards the door whence the page had come.—“Stand there,” she said, “and leavethe door ajar.”
Mary gave Anthony her hand and a radiant smile as they went together.
“Aha!” said Elizabeth, “not in my presence.”
Anthony flushed with fury in spite of his joy.
They went in through the door, and found themselves in a tiny panelled roomwith a little slit of a window; it was used to place a sentry or a page withinit. There were a couple of chairs, and the two sat down to wait.
“Oh, thank God!” whispered Anthony.
Again the harsh voice rang out from the open door.
“Now, now, no love-making within there!”
Mary smiled and laid her finger on her lips. Then there came the ripple of alute from the outer room, played not unskilfully. Mary smiled again and noddedat Anthony. Then, a metallic voice, but clear enough and tuneful, began to singa verse of the little love-song of Harrington’s, Whence comes my love?
It suddenly ceased in the middle of the line, and the voice cried to some oneto come in.
Anthony could hear the door open and close again, and a movement or two, whichdoubtless represented Walsingham’s obeisance. Then the Queen’s voice beganagain, low, thin, and distinct. The two in the inner room listenedbreathlessly.
“I wish a prisoner in the Tower to be released, Sir Francis; without any talkor to-do. And I desire you to do it for me.”
There was silence, and then Walsingham’s deep tones.
“Your Grace has but to command.”
“His name is James Maxwell, and he is a popish priest.”
A longer silence followed.
“I do not know if your Grace knows all the circumstances.”
“I do, sir, or I should not interfere.”
“The feeling of the people was very strong.”
“Well, and what of that?”
“It will be a risk of your Grace’s favour with them.”
“Have I not said that my name was not to appear in the matter? And do you thinkI fear my people’s wrath?”
There was silence again.
“Well, Sir Francis, why do you not speak?”
“I have nothing to say, your Grace.”
“Then it will be done?”
“I do not see at present how it can be done, but doubtless there is a way.”
“Then you will find it, sir, immediately,” rang out the Queen’s metallictones.
(Mary turned and nodded solemnly at Anthony, with pursed lips.)
“He was questioned on the rack two days ago, your Grace.”
“Have I not said I know all the circumstances? Do you wish me to say itagain?”
The Queen was plainly getting angry.
“I ask your pardon, madam; but I only meant that he could not travel probably,yet awhile. He was on the rack for four hours, I understand.”
(Anthony felt that strange sickness rise again; but Mary laid her cool hand onhis and smiled at him.)
“Well, well,” rasped out Elizabeth, “I do not ask impossibilities.”
“They would cease to be so, madam, if you did.”
(Mary within the little room put her lips to Anthony’s ear:
“Butter!” she whispered.)
“Well, sir,” went on the Queen, “you shall see that he has a physician, andleave to travel as soon as he will.”
“It shall be done, your Grace.”
“Very well, see to it.”
“I beg your Grace’s pardon; but what——”
“Well, what is it now?”
“I would wish to know your Grace’s pleasure as to the future for Mr. Maxwell.Is no pledge of good behaviour to be exacted from him?”
“Of course he says mass again at his peril. Either he must take the oath atonce, or he shall be allowed forty-eight hours’ safe-conduct with his papersfor the Continent.”
“Your Grace, indeed I must remonstrate——”
Then the Queen’s wrath burst out; they heard a swift movement, and the rap ofher high heels as she sprang to her feet.
“By God’s Son,” she screamed, “am I Queen or not? I have had enough of yourcounsel. You presume, sir—” her ringed hand came heavily down on the table andthey heard the lute leap and fall again.—“You presume on your position, sir. Imade you, and I can unmake you, and by God I will, if I have another word ofyour counselling. Be gone, and see that it be done; I will not bid twice.”
There was silence again; and they heard the outer door open and close.
Anthony’s heart was beating wildly. He had sprung to his feet in a tremblingexcitement as the Queen had sprung to hers. The mere ring of that furious royalvoice, even without the sight of her pale wrathful face and blazing eyes thatWalsingham looked upon as he backed out from the presence, was enough to makethis lad’s whole frame shiver. Mary apparently was accustomed to this; for shelooked up at Anthony, laughing silently, and shrugged her shoulders.
Then they heard the Queen’s silk draperies rustle and her pearls chink togetheras she sank down again and took up her lute and struck the strings. Then themetallic voice began again, with a little tremor in it, like the ground-swellafter a storm; and she sang the verse through in which she had beeninterrupted:
“Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak
Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek—
Yet not a heart to save my pain;
O Venus, take thy gifts again!
Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that’s like your own.”
The lute rippled away into silence.
Mary rose quietly to her feet and nodded to Anthony.
“Come back, you two!” cried the Queen.
Mary stepped straight through, the lad behind her.
“Well,” said the Queen, turning to them and showing her black teeth in asmile. “Have I kept my word?”
“Ah! your Grace,” said Mary, curtseying to the ground, “you have made somesimple loving hearts very happy to-day—I do not mean Sir Francis’.”
The Queen laughed.
“Come here, child,” she said, holding out her glittering hand, “down here,”and Mary sank down on the Queen’s footstool, and leaned against her knee like achild, smiling up into her face; while Elizabeth put her hand under her chinand kissed her twice on the forehead.
“There, there,” she said caressingly, “have I made amends? Am I a hardmistress?”
And she threw her left hand round the girl’s neck and began to play with thediamond pendant in her ear, and to stroke the smooth curve of her cheek withher flashing fingers.
Anthony, a little on one side, stood watching and wondering at this silkytigress who raged so fiercely just now.
Elizabeth looked up in a moment and saw him.
“Why, here is the tall lad here still,” she said, “eyeing us as if we weremonsters. Have you never yet seen two maidens loving one another, that youstare so with your great eyes? Aha! Minnie; he would like to be sitting where Iam—is it not so, sir?”
“I would sooner stand where I am, madam,” said Anthony, by a suddeninspiration, “and look upon your Grace.”
“Why, he is a courtier already,” said the Queen. “You have been giving himlessons, Minnie, you sly girl.”
“A loyal heart makes the best courtier, madam,” said Mary, taking the Queen’shand delicately in her own.
“And next to looking upon my Grace, Mr. Norris,” said Elizabeth, “what do youbest love?”
“Listening to your Grace,” said Anthony, promptly.
Mary turned and flashed all her teeth upon him in a smile, and her eyes dancedin her head.
Elizabeth laughed outright.
“He is an apt pupil,” she said to Mary.
“—You mean the lute, sir?” she added.
“I mean your Grace’s voice, madam. I had forgotten the lute.”
“Ah, a little clumsy!” said the Queen; “not so true a thrust as the others.”
“It was not for lack of good-will,” said poor Anthony blushing a little. Hefelt in a kind of dream, fencing in language with this strange mighty creaturein scarlet and pearls, who sat up in her chair and darted remarks at him, aswith a rapier.
“Aha!” said the Queen, “he is blushing! Look, Minnie!” Mary looked at himdeliberately. Anthony became scarlet at once; and tried a desperate escape.
“It is your livery, madam,” he said.
Mary clapped her hands, and glanced at the Queen.
“Yes, Minnie; he does his mistress credit.”
“Yes, your Grace; but he can do other things besides talk,” explained Mary.
Anthony felt like a horse being shown off by a skilful dealer, but he was moreat his ease too after his blush.
“Extend your mercy, madam,” he said, “and bid Mistress Corbet hold her tongueand spare my shame.”
“Silence, sir!” said the Queen. “Go on, Minnie; what else can he do?”
“Ah! your Grace, he can hawk. Oh! you should see his peregrine;—named afteryour Majesty. That shows his loyal heart.”
“I am not sure of the compliment,” said the Queen; “hawks are fiercecreatures.”
“It was not for her fierceness,” put in Anthony, “that I named her after yourGrace.”
“Why, then, Mr. Norris?”
“For that she soars so high above all other creatures,” said the lad, “and—andthat she never stoops but to conquer.”
Mary gave a sudden triumphant laugh, and glanced up, and Elizabeth tapped heron the cheek sharply.
“Be still, bad girl,” she said. “You must not prompt during the lesson.”
And so the talk went on. Anthony really acquitted himself with great credit,considering the extreme strangeness of his position; but such an intense weighthad been lifted off his mind by the Queen’s pardon of James Maxwell, that hisnature was alight with a kind of intoxication.
All his sharpness, such as it was, rose to the surface; and Mary too was amazedat some of his replies. Elizabeth took it as a matter of course; she wasaccustomed to this kind of word-fencing; she did not do it very well herself:her royalty gave her many advantages which she often availed herself of; andher address was not to be compared for a moment with that of some of hercourtiers and ladies. But still she was amused by this slender honest lad whostood there before her in his graceful splashed dress, and blushed and laughedand parried, and delivered his point with force, even if not with anyextraordinary skill.
But at last she began to show signs of weariness; and Mary managed to convey toAnthony that it was time to be off. So he began to make his adieux.
“Well,” said Elizabeth, “let us see you at supper to-night; and in theparlours afterwards.—Ah!” she cried, suddenly, “neither of you must say a wordas to how your friend was released. It must remain the act of the Council. Myname must not appear; Walsingham will see to that, and you must see to ittoo.”
They both promised sincerely.
“Well, then, lad,” said Elizabeth, and stretched out her hand; and Mary roseand stood by her. Anthony came up and knelt on the cushion and received theslender scented ringed hand on his own, and kissed it ardently in hisgratitude. As he released it, it cuffed him gently on the cheek.
“There, there!” said Elizabeth, “Minnie has taught you too much, it seems.”
Anthony backed out of the presence, smiling; and his last glimpse was once moreof the great scarlet-clad figure with the slender waist, and the pricelesspearls, and the haze of muslin behind that crowned auburn head, and the paleoval face smiling at him with narrow eyes—and all in a glory of sunshine.
He did not see Mary Corbet again until evening as she was with the Queen allthe afternoon. Anthony would have wished to return to Lambeth; but it wasimpossible, after the command to remain to supper; so he wandered down alongthe river bank, rejoicing in the success of his petition; and wondering whetherJames had heard of his release yet.
Of course it was just a fly in the ointment that his own agency in the mattercould never be known. It would have been at least some sort of compensation forhis innocent share in the whole matter of the arrest. However, he was too happyto feel the sting of it. He felt, of course, greatly drawn to the Queen for herready clemency; and yet there was something repellent about her too in spite ofit. He felt in his heart that it was just a caprice, like her blows andcaresses; and then the assumption of youth sat very ill upon this leanmiddle-aged woman. He would have preferred less lute-playing and sprightlyinnuendo, and more tenderness and gravity.
Mary had arranged that a proper Court-suit should be at his disposal forsupper, and a room to himself; so after he had returned at sunset, he changedhis clothes. The white silk suit with the high hosen, the embroidered doubletwith great puffed and slashed sleeves, the short green-lined cloak, the whitecap and feather, and the slender sword with the jewelled hilt, all became himvery well; and he found too that Mary had provided him with two great emeraldbrooches of her own, that he pinned on, one at the fastening of the crisp ruffand the other on his cap.
He went to the private chapel for the evening prayer at half-past six; whichwas read by one of the chaplains; but there were very few persons present, andnone of any distinction. Religion, except as a department of politics, was nointegral part of Court life. The Queen only occasionally attendedevening-prayer on week days; and just now she was too busy with the affair ofthe Duke of Alençon to spend unnecessary time in that manner.
When the evening prayer was over he followed the little company into the longgallery that led towards the hall, through which the Queen’s procession wouldpass to supper; and there he attached himself to a group of gentlemen, some ofwhom he had met at Lambeth. While they were talking, the clang of trumpetssuddenly broke out from the direction of the Queen’s apartments; and all threwthemselves on their knees and remained there. The doors were flung open byservants stationed behind them; and the wands advanced leading the procession;then came the trumpeters blowing mightily, with a drum or two beating the step;and then in endless profusion, servants and guards; gentlemen pensionersmagnificently habited, for they were continually about the Queen’s person; andat last, after an official or two bearing swords, came the Queen andAlençon together; she in a superb purple toilet with brocaded underskirtand high-heeled twinkling shoes, and breathing out essences as she swept bysmiling; and he, a pathetic little brown man, pockmarked, with an ill-shapennose and a head too large for his undersized body, in a rich velvet suitsparkling all over with diamonds.
As they passed Anthony he heard the Duke making some French compliment in hiscroaking harsh voice. Behind came the crowd of ladies, nodding, chattering,rustling; and Anthony had a swift glance of pleasure from Mistress Corbet asshe went by, talking at the top of her voice.
The company followed on to the hall, behind the distant trumpets, and Anthonyfound himself still with his friends somewhere at the lower end—away from theQueen’s table, who sat with Alençon at her side on a daïs, with thegreat folks about her. All through supper the most astonishing noise went on.Everyone was talking loudly; the servants ran to and fro over the paved floor;there was the loud clatter over the plates of four hundred persons; and, tocrown all, a band in the musicians’ gallery overhead made brazen music allsupper-time. Anthony had enough entertainment himself in looking about thegreat banqueting-hall, so magnificently adorned with tapestries and armour andantlers from the park; and above all by the blaze of gold and silver plate bothon the tables and on the sideboards; and by watching the army of liveriedservants running to and fro incessantly; and the glowing colours of the dressesof the guests.
Supper was over at last; and a Latin grace was exquisitely sung in four partsby boys and men stationed in the musicians’ gallery; and then the Queen’sprocession went out with the same ceremony as that with which it had entered.Anthony followed behind, as he had been bidden by the Queen to the privateparlours afterwards; but he presently found his way barred by a page at thefoot of the stairs leading to the Queen’s apartments.
It was in vain that he pleaded his invitation; it was useless, as the younggentleman had not been informed of it. Anthony asked if he might see MistressCorbet. No, that too was impossible; she was gone upstairs with the Queen’sGrace and might not be disturbed. Anthony, in despair, not however unmixed withrelief at escaping a further ordeal, was about to turn away, leaving theofficious young gentleman swaggering on the stairs like a peacock, when downcame Mistress Corbet herself, sailing down in her splendour, to see what wasbecome of the gentleman of the Archbishop’s house.
“Why, here you are!” she cried from the landing as she came down, “and whyhave you not obeyed the Queen’s command?”
“This young gentleman,” said Anthony, indicating the astonished page, “wouldnot let me proceed.”
“It is unusual, Mistress Corbet,” said the boy, “for her Grace’s guests tocome without my having received instructions, unless they are great folk.”
Mistress Corbet came down the last six steps like a stooping hawk, her wingsbulged behind her; and she caught the boy one clean light cuff on the side ofthe head.
“You imp!” she said, “daring to doubt the word of this gentleman. And theQueen’s Grace’s own special guest!”
The boy tried still to stand on his dignity and bar the way, but it wasdifficult to be dignified with a ringing head and a scarlet ear.
“Stand aside,” said Mary, stamping her little buckled foot, “this instant;unless you would be dragged by your red ear before the Queen’s Grace. Come,Master Anthony.”
So the two went upstairs together, and the lad called up after them bitterly:
“I beg your pardon, Mistress; I did not recognise he was your gallant.”
“You shall pay for that,” hissed Mary over the banisters.
They went along a passage or two, and the sound of a voice singing to avirginal began to ring nearer as they went, followed by a burst of applause.
“Lady Leicester,” whispered Mary; and then she opened the door and they wentin.
There were three rooms opening on one another with wide entrances, so thatreally one long room was the result. They were all three fairly full; that intowhich they entered, the first in the row, was occupied by somegentlemen-pensioners and ladies talking and laughing; some playing shove-groat,and some of them still applauding the song that had just ended. The middle roomwas much the same; and the third, which was a step higher than the others, wasthat in which was the Queen, with Lady Leicester and a few more. Lady Leicesterhad just finished a song, and was laying her virginal down. There was a greatfire burning in the middle room, with seats about it, and here Mary Corbetbrought Anthony. Those near him eyed him a little; but his companion wassufficient warrant of his respectability; and they soon got into talk, whichwas suddenly interrupted by the Queen’s voice from the next room.
“Minnie, Minnie, if you can spare a moment from your lad, come and help us at adance.”
The Queen was plainly in high good-humour; and Mary got up and went into theQueen’s room. Those round the fire stood up and pushed the seats back, and thegames ceased in the third room; as her Grace needed spectators and applause.
Then there arose the rippling of lutes from the ladies in the next room, inslow swaying measure, with the gentle tap of a drum now and again; and the pavane began—a stately dignified dance; and among all the ladies moved thegreat Queen herself, swaying and bending with much grace and dignity. It wasthe strangest thing for Anthony to find himself here, a raven among all thesepeacocks, and birds of paradise; and he wondered at himself and at the strangehumour of Providence, as he watched the shimmer of the dresses and the sparkleof the shoes and jewels, and the soft clouds of muslin and lace that shiveredand rustled as the ladies stepped; the firelight shone through the wide doorwayon this glowing movement, and groups of candles in sconces within the roomincreased and steadied the soft intensity of the light. The soft tinglinginstruments, with the slow tap-tap marking the measure like a step, seemed atranslation into chord and melody of this stately tender exercise. And so thisglorious flower-bed, loaded too with a wealth of essences in the dresses andthe sweet-washed gloves, swayed under the wind of the music, bending and risingtogether in slow waves and ripples. Then it ceased; and the silence was brokenby a quick storm of applause; while the dancers waited for the lutes. Then allthe instruments broke out together in quick triple time; the stringedinstruments supplying a hasty throbbing accompaniment, while the shrill flutesbegan to whistle and the drums to gallop;—there was yet a pause in the dance,till the Queen made the first movement;—and then the whole whirled off on thewings of a coranto.
It was bewildering to Anthony, who had never even dreamed of such a dancebefore. He watched first the lower line of the shoes; and the whole floor, inreality above, and in the mirror of the polished boards below, seemedscintillating in lines of diamond light; the heavy underskirts of brocade,puffed satin, and cloth of gold, with glimpses of foamy lace beneath, whirledand tossed above these flashing vibrations. Then he looked at the higherstrata, and there was a tossing sea of faces and white throats, borne up as itseemed—now revealed, now hidden—on clouds of undulating muslin and lace, withsparkles of precious stones set in ruff and wings and on high piled hair.
He watched, fascinated, the faces as they appeared and vanished; there wasevery imaginable expression; the serious looks of one who took dancing as asolemn task, and marked her position and considered her steps; the wild gaietyof another, all white teeth and dimples and eyes, intoxicated by movement andmusic and colour, as men are by wine, and guided and sustained by the furiousgenius of the dance, rather than by intention of any kind. There was thecourtly self-restraint of one tall beauty, who danced as a pleasant duty andloved it, but never lost control of her own bending, slender grace; ah! andthere was the oval face crowned with auburn hair and pearls, the lower lipdrawn up under the black teeth with an effort, till it appeared to snarl, andthe ropes of pearls leaping wildly on her lean purple stomacher. And over allthe grave oak walls and the bright sconces and the taper flames blown about bythe eddying gusts from the whirlpool beneath.
As Anthony went down the square winding staircase, an hour later when theevening was over, and the keen winter air poured up to meet him, his brain wasthrobbing with the madness of dance and music and whirling colour. Here, itseemed to him, lay the secret of life. For a few minutes his old day-dreamscame back but in more intoxicating dress. The figure of Mary Corbet in herrose-coloured silk and her clouds of black hair, and her jewels and herlaughing eyes and scarlet mouth, and her violet fragrance and her fire—thisdominated the boy. As he walked towards the stables across the starlit court,she seemed to move before him, to hold out her hands to him, to call him herown dear lad; to invite him out of the drab-coloured life that lay on allsides, behind and before, up into a mystic region of jewelled romance, whereshe and he would live and be one in the endless music of rippling strings andshrill flutes and the maddening tap of a little hidden drum.
But the familiar touch of his own sober suit and the creaking saddle as he rodehome to Lambeth, and the icy wind that sang in the river sedges, and thewholesome smell of the horse and the touch of the coarse hair at the shoulder,talked and breathed the old Puritan common sense back to him again. Thatwarm-painted, melodious world he had left was gaudy nonsense; and dancing wasnot the same as living; and Mary Corbet was not just a rainbow on the foam thatwould die when the sun went in; but both she and he together were human souls,redeemed by the death of the Saviour, with His work to do and no time or energyfor folly; and James Maxwell in the Tower—(thank God, however, not forlong!)—James Maxwell with his wrenched joints and forehead and lips wet withagony, was in the right; and that lean bitter furious woman in the purple andpearls, who supped to the blare of trumpets, and danced to the ripple of lutes,wholly and utterly and eternally in the wrong.
A STATION OF THE CROSS
Philosophers tell us that the value of existence lies not in the objectsperceived, but in the powers of perception. The tragedy of a child over abroken doll is not less poignant than the anguish of a worshipper over a brokenidol, or of a king over a ruined realm. Thus the conflict of Isabel duringthose past autumn and winter months was no less august than the pain of thepriest on the rack, or the struggle of his innocent betrayer to rescue him, orthe misery of Lady Maxwell over the sorrows that came to her in such differentways through her two sons.
Isabel’s soul was tender above most souls; and the powers of feeling pain andof sustaining it were also respectively both acute and strong. The sense ofpressure, or rather of disruption, became intolerable. She was indeed a soul onthe rack; if she had been less conscientious she would have silenced the voiceof Divine Love that seemed to call to her from the Catholic Church; if she hadbeen less natural and feminine she would have trampled out of her soul theappeal of the human love of Hubert. As it was, she was wrenched both ways. Nowthe cords at one end or the other would relax a little, and the correspondingrelief was almost a shock; but when she tried to stir and taste the freedom ofdecision that now seemed in her reach, they would tighten again with a snap;and she would find herself back on the torture. To herself she seemedpowerless; it appeared to her, when she reflected on it consciously, that itwas merely a question as to which part of her soul would tear first, as towhich ultimately retained her. She began to be terrified at solitude; thethought of the coming night, with its long hours of questioning and tormentuntil the dawn, haunted her during the day. She would read in her room, orremain at her prayers, in the hopes of distracting herself from the struggle,until sleep seemed the supreme necessity: then, when she lay down, sleep wouldflap its wings in mockery and flit away, leaving her wide-awake staring at thedarkness of the room or of her own eyelids, until the windows began to glimmerand the cocks to crow from farm buildings.
In spite of her first resolve to fight the battle alone, she soon found herselfobliged to tell Mistress Margaret all that was possible; but she felt that toexpress her sheer need of Hubert, as she thought it, was beyond her altogether.How could a nun understand?
“My darling,” said the old lady, “it would not be Calvary without thedarkness; and you cannot have Christ without Calvary. Remember that the Lightof the World makes darkness His secret place; and so you see that if you wereable to feel that any human soul really understood, it would mean that thedarkness was over. I have suffered that Night twice myself; the third time Ithink, will be in the valley of death.”
Isabel only half understood her; but it was something to know that others hadtasted the cup too; and that what was so bitter was not necessarily poisonous.
At another time as the two were walking together under the pines one evening,and the girl had again tried to show to the nun the burning desolation of hersoul, Mistress Margaret had suddenly turned.
“Listen, dear child,” she said, “I will tell you a secret. Over there,” andshe pointed out to where the sunset glowed behind the tree trunks and the slopebeyond, “over there, in West Grinsted, rests our dear Lord in the blessedsacrament. His Body lies lonely, neglected and forgotten by all but half adozen souls; while twenty years ago all England reverenced It. Behold and seeif there be any sorrow—” and then the nun stopped, as she saw Isabel’s amazedeyes staring at her.
But it haunted the girl and comforted her now and then. Yet in the fiercenessof her pain she asked herself again and again, was it true—was it true? Was shesacrificing her life for a dream, a fairy-story? or was it true that there thebody, that had hung on the cross fifteen hundred years ago, now rested alone,hidden in a silver pyx, within locked doors for fear of the Jews.—Oh! dearLord, was it true?
Hubert had kept his word, and left the place almost immediately after his lastinterview; and was to return at Easter for his final answer. Christmas had comeand gone; and it seemed to her as if even the tenderest mysteries of theChristian Religion had no touch with her now. She walked once more in the realmof grace, as in the realm of nature, an exile from its spirit. All hersensitive powers seemed so absorbed in interior pain that there was nothing inher to respond to or appreciate the most keen external impressions. As sheawoke and looked up on Christmas morning early, and saw the frosted panes andthe snow lying like wool on the cross-bars, and heard the Christmas bells pealout in the listening air; as she came downstairs and the old pleasant acridsmell of the evergreens met her, and she saw the red berries over each picture,and the red heart of the wood-fire; nay, as she knelt at the chancel rails, andtried in her heart to adore the rosy Child in the manger, and received thesacred symbols of His Flesh and Blood, and entreated Him to remember Hisloving-kindness that brought Him down from heaven—yet the whole was far lessreal, less intimate to her, than the sound of Hubert’s voice as he had saidgood-bye two months ago; less real than one of those darting pangs of thoughtthat fell on her heart all day like a shower of arrows.
And then, when the sensitive strings of her soul were stretched to anguish, ahand dashed across them, striking a wailing discord, and they did not break.The news of Anthony’s treachery, and still more his silence, performed theincredible, and doubled her pain without breaking her heart.
On the Tuesday morning early Lady Maxwell had sent her note by a courier;bidding him return at once with the answer. The evening had come, and he hadnot appeared. The night passed and the morning came; and it was not till noonthat the man at last arrived, saying he had seen Mr. Norris on the previousevening, and that he had read the note through there and then, and had saidthere was no answer. Surely there could be but one explanation of that—that noanswer was possible.
It could not be said that Isabel actively considered the question and chose todoubt Anthony rather than to trust him. She was so nearly passive now, with thestruggle she had gone through, that this blow came on her with the overwhelmingeffect of an hypnotic suggestion. Her will did not really accept it, any morethan her intellect really weighed it; but she succumbed to it; and did not evenwrite again, nor question the man further. Had she done this she might perhapshave found out the truth, that the man, a stupid rustic with enough shrewdnessto lie, but not enough to lie cleverly, had had his foolish head turned by thebuzz of London town and the splendour of Lambeth stables and the friendlinessof the grooms there, and had got heavily drunk on leaving Anthony; that theanswer which he had put into his hat had very naturally fallen out and beenlost; and that when at last he returned to the country already eight hoursafter his time, and found the note was missing, he had stalwartly lied, hopingthat the note was unimportant and that things would adjust themselves or beforgotten before a day of reckoning should arrive.
And so Isabel’s power of resistance collapsed under this last blow; and hersoul lay still at last, almost too much tormented to feel. Her last hope wasgone; Anthony had betrayed his friend.
The week crept by, and Saturday came. She went out soon after dinner to see asick body or two in an outlying hamlet; for she had never forgotten Mrs. Dent’scharge, and, with the present minister’s approval, still visited the sick oneor two days a week at least. Then towards sunset she came homewards over somehigh ground on the outskirts of Ashdown Forest. The snow that had fallen beforeChristmas, had melted a week or two ago; and the frost had broken up; it was aheavy leaden evening, with an angry glow shining, as through chinks of a wall,from the west towards which she was going. The village lay before her in thegloom; and lights were beginning to glimmer here and there. She contrasted in alifeless way that pleasant group of warm houses with their suggestions of loveand homeliness with her own desolate self. She passed up through the villagetowards the Hall, whither she was going to report on the invalids to LadyMaxwell; and in the appearance of the houses on either side she thought therewas an unaccustomed air. Several doors stood wide open with the brightnessshining out into the twilight, as if the inhabitants had suddenly desertedtheir homes. Others were still dark and cold, although the evening was drawingon. There was not a moving creature to be seen. She passed up, wondering alittle, through the gatehouse, and turned into the gravel sweep; and therestopped short at the sight of a great crowd of men and women and children,assembled in dead silence. Some one was standing at the entrance-steps, withhis head bent as if he were talking to those nearest him in a low voice.
As she came up there ran a whisper of her name; the people drew back to let herthrough, and she passed, sick with suspense, to the man on the steps, whom shenow recognised as Mr. James’ body-servant. His face looked odd and drawn, shethought.
“What is it?” she asked in a sharp whisper.
“Mr. James is here, madam; he is with Lady Maxwell in the cloister-wing. Willyou please to go up?”
“Mr. James! It is no news about Mr. Anthony—or—or Mr. Hubert!”
“No, madam.” The man hesitated. “Mr. James has been racked, madam.”
The man’s voice broke in a great sob as he ended.
“Ah!”
She reeled against the post; a man behind caught her and steadied her; andthere was a quick breath of pity from the crowd.
“Ah, poor thing!” said a woman’s voice behind her.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” said the servant. “I should not have——”
“And—and he is upstairs?”
“He and my lady are together, madam.”
She looked at him a moment, dazed with the horror of it; and then going pasthim, pushed open the door and went through into the inner hall. Here again shestopped suddenly: it was half full of people, silent and expectant—the men, thegrooms, the maid-servants, and even two or three farm-men. She heard the rustleof her name from the white faces that looked at her from the gloom; but nonemoved; and she crossed the hall alone, and turned down the lower corridor thatled to the cloister-wing.
At the foot of the staircase she stopped again; her heart drummed in her ears,as she listened intently with parted lips. There was a profound silence; thelamp on the stairs had not been lighted, and the terrace window only let in apale glimmer.
It was horrible to her! this secret presence of incarnate pain that broodedsomewhere in the house, this silence of living anguish, worse than death athousand times!
Where was he? What would it look like? Even a scream somewhere would haverelieved her, and snapped the tension of the listening stillness that lay onher like a shocking nightmare. This lobby with its well-known doors—thebanister on which her fingers rested—the well of the staircase up which shestared with dilated eyes—all was familiar; and yet, somewhere in the shadowsoverhead lurked this formidable Presence of pain, mute, anguished,terrifying....
She longed to run back, to shriek for help; but she dared not: and stoodpanting. She went up a couple of steps—stopped, listened to the sick thumpingof her heart—took another step and stopped again; and so, listening, peering,hesitating, came to the head of the stairs.
Ah! there was the door, with a line of light beneath it. It was there that thehorror dwelt. She stared at the thin bright line; waited and listened again foreven a moan or a sigh from within, but none came.
Then with a great effort she stepped forward and tapped.
There was no answer; but as she listened she heard from within the gentletinkle of some liquid running into a bowl, rhythmically, and with pauses. Thenagain she tapped, nervously and rapidly, and there was a murmur from the room;she opened the door softly, pushed it, and took a step into the room, halfclosing it behind her.
There were two candles burning on a table in the middle of the room, and on thenear side of it was a group of three persons....
Isabel had seen in one of Mistress Margaret’s prayer-books an engraving of anold Flemish Pietà—a group of the Blessed Mother holding in her arms thebody of her Crucified Son, with the Magdalen on one side, supporting one of thedead Saviour’s hands. Isabel now caught her breath in a sudden gasp; for herewas the scene reproduced before her.
Lady Maxwell was on a low seat bending forwards; the white cap and ruff seemedlike a veil thrown all about her head and beneath her chin; she was holding inher arms the body of her son, who seemed to have fainted as he sat beside her;his head had fallen back against her breast, and his pointed beard and darkhair and her black dress beyond emphasised the deathly whiteness of his face onwhich the candlelight fell; his mouth was open, like a dead man’s. MistressMargaret was kneeling by his left hand, holding it over a basin and delicatelysponging it; and the whole air was fragrant and aromatic with some ointment inthe water; a long bandage or two lay on the ground beside the basin. Theevening light over the opposite roofs through the window beyond mingled withthe light of the tapers, throwing a strange radiance over the group. The tableon which the tapers stood looked to Isabel like a stripped altar.
She stood by the door, her lips parted, motionless; looking with great eyesfrom face to face. It was as if the door had given access to another worldwhere the passion of Christ was being re-enacted.
Then she sank on her knees, still watching. There was no sound but the faintripple of the water into the basin and the quiet breathing of the three. LadyMaxwell now and then lifted a handkerchief in silence and passed it across herson’s face. Isabel, still staring with great wide eyes, began to sigh gently toherself.
“Anthony, Anthony, Anthony!” she whispered.
“Oh, no, no, no!” she whispered again under her breath. “No, Anthony! youcould not, you could not!”
Then from the man there came one or two long sighs, ending in a moan thatquavered into silence; he stirred slightly in his mother’s arms; and then in apiteous high voice came the words “Jesu ... Jesu ... esto mihi ...Jesus.”
Consciousness was coming back. He fancied himself still on the rack.
Lady Maxwell said nothing, but gathered him a little closer, and bent her facelower over him.
Then again came a long sobbing indrawn breath; James struggled for a moment;then opened his eyes and saw his mother’s face.
Mistress Margaret had finished with the water; and was now swiftly manipulatinga long strip of white linen. Isabel still sunk on her knees watched the bandagewinding in and out round his wrist, and between his thumb and forefinger.
Then he turned his head sharply towards her with a gasp as if in pain; and hiseyes fell on Isabel.
“Mistress Isabel,” he said; and his voice was broken and untuneful.
Mistress Margaret turned; and smiled at her; and at the sight the intolerablecompression on the girl’s heart relaxed.
“Come, child,” she said, “come and help me with his hand. No, no, lie still,”she added; for James was making a movement as if to rise.
James smiled at her as she came forward; and she saw that his face had astrange look as if after a long illness.
“You see, Mistress Isabel,” he said, in the same cracked voice, and with aninfinitely pathetic courtesy, “I may not rise.”
Isabel’s eyes filled with sudden tears, his attempt at his old manner was moretouching than all else; and she came and knelt beside the old nun.
“Hold the fingers,” she said; and the familiar old voice brought the girl astage nearer her normal consciousness again.
Isabel took the priest’s fingers and saw that they were limp and swollen. Thesleeve fell back a little as Mistress Margaret manipulated the bandage; and thegirl saw that the forearm looked shapeless and discoloured.
She glanced up in swift terror at his face, but he was looking at his mother,whose eyes were bent on his; Isabel looked quickly down again.
“There,” said Mistress Margaret, tying the last knot, “it is done.”
Mr. James looked his thanks over his shoulder at her, as she nodded and smiledbefore turning to leave the room.
Isabel sat slowly down and watched them.
“This is but a flying visit, Mistress Isabel,” said James. “I must leaveto-morrow again.”
He had sat up now, and settled himself in his seat, though his mother’s arm wasstill round him. The voice and the pitiful attempt were terrible to Isabel.Slowly the consciousness was filtering into her mind of what all this implied;what it must have been that had turned this tall self-contained man into thisweak creature who lay in his mother’s arms, and fainted at a touch and sobbed.She could say nothing; but could only look, and breathe, and look.
Then it suddenly came to her mind that Lady Maxwell had not spoken a word. Shelooked at her; that old wrinkled face with its white crown of hair and lace hada new and tremendous dignity. There was no anxiety in it; scarcely even grief;but only a still and awful anguish, towering above ordinary griefs like amountain above the world; and there was the supreme peace too that can onlyaccompany a supreme emotion—she seemed conscious of nothing but her son.
Isabel could not answer James; and he seemed not to expect it; he had turnedback to his mother again, and they were looking at one another. Then in amoment Mistress Margaret came back with a glass that she put to James’ lips;and he drank it without a word. She stood looking at the group an instant ortwo, and then turned to Isabel.
“Come downstairs with me, my darling; there is nothing more that we can do.”
They went out of the room together; the mother and son had not stirred again;and Mistress Margaret slipped her arm quickly round the girl’s waist, as theywent downstairs.
In the cloister beneath was a pleasant little oak parlour looking out on to thegarden and the long south side of the house. Mistress Margaret took the littlehand-lamp that burned in the cloister itself as they passed along silentlytogether, and guided the girl through into the parlour on the left-hand side.There was a tall chair standing before the hearth, and as Mistress Margaret satdown, drawing the girl with her, Isabel sank down on the footstool at her feet,and hid her face on the old nun’s knees.
There was silence for a minute or two. Mistress Margaret set down the lamp onthe table beside her, and passed her hands caressingly over the girl’s handsand hair; but said nothing, until Isabel’s whole body heaved up convulsivelyonce or twice, before she burst into a torrent of weeping.
“My darling,” said the old lady in a quiet steady voice, “we should thank Godinstead of grieving. To think that this house should have given two confessorsto the Church, father and son! Yes, yes, dear child, I know what you arethinking of, the two dear lads we both love; well, well, we do not know, wemust trust them both to God. It may not be true of Anthony; and even if it betrue—well, he must have thought he was serving his Queen. And for Hubert——”
Isabel lifted her face and looked with a dreadful questioning stare.
“Dear child,” said the nun, “do not look like that. Nothing is so bad as nottrusting God.”
“Anthony, Anthony!”... whispered the girl.
“James told us the same story as the gentleman on Sunday,” went on the nun.“But he said no hard word, and he does not condemn. I know his heart. He doesnot know why he is released, nor by whose order: but an order came to let himgo, and his papers with it: and he must be out of England by Monday morning: sohe leaves here to-morrow in the litter in which he came. He is to say massto-morrow, if he is able.”
“Mass? Here?” said the girl, in the same sharp whisper; and her sobbing ceasedabruptly.
“Yes, dear; if he is able to stand and use his hands enough. They have settledit upstairs.”
Isabel continued to look up in her face wildly.
“Ah!” said the old nun again. “You must not look like that. Remember that hethinks those wounds the most precious things in the world—yes—and his mothertoo!”
“I must be at mass,” said Isabel; “God means it.”
“Now, now,” said Mistress Margaret soothingly, “you do not know what you aresaying.”
“I mean it,” said Isabel, with sharp emphasis; “God means it.”
Mistress Margaret took the girl’s face between her hands, and looked steadilydown into her wet eyes. Isabel returned the look as steadily.
“Yes, yes,” she said, “as God sees us.”
Then she broke into talk, at first broken and incoherent in language, butdefinite and orderly in ideas, and in her interpretations of these last months.
Kneeling beside her with her hands clasped on the nun’s knee, Isabel told herall her struggles; disentangling at last in a way that she had never been ableto do before, all the complicated strands of self-will and guidance andblindness that had so knotted and twisted themselves into her life. The nun wasamazed at the spiritual instinct of this Puritan child, who ranged her motivesso unerringly; dismissing this as of self, marking this as of God’sinspiration, accepting this and rejecting that element of the circumstances ofher life; steering confidently between the shoals of scrupulous judgment andconscience on the one side, and the hidden rocks of presumption and despair onthe other—these very dangers that had baffled and perplexed her so long—andtracing out through them all the clear deep safe channel of God’s intention,who had allowed her to emerge at last from the tortuous and bafflingintricacies of character and circumstance into the wide open sea of His ownsovereign Will.
It seemed to the nun, as Isabel talked, as if it needed just a final touch ofsupreme tragedy to loosen and resolve all the complications; and that this hadbeen supplied by the vision upstairs. There she had seen a triumphant trophy ofanother’s sorrow and conquest. There was hardly an element in her own troublesthat was not present in that human Pietàupstairs—treachery—loneliness—sympathy—bereavement—and above all the supremesacrificial act of human love subordinated to divine—human love, purified andtransfigured and rendered invincible and immortal by the very immolation of itat the feet of God—all this that the son and mother in their welcome of painhad accomplished in the crucifixion of one and the heart-piercing of theother—this was light opened to the perplexed, tormented soul of the girl—aradiance poured out of the darkness of their sorrow and made her way plainbefore her face.
“My Isabel,” said the old nun, when the girl had finished and was hiding herface again, “this is of God. Glory to His Name! I must ask James’ leave; andthen you must sleep here to-night, for the mass to-morrow.”
The chapel at Maxwell Hall was in the cloister wing; but a stranger visitingthe house would never have suspected it. Opening out of Lady Maxwell’s newsitting-room was a little lobby or landing, about four yards square, lightedfrom above; at the further end of it was the door into her bedroom. This lobbywas scarcely more than a broad passage; and would attract no attention from anypassing through it. The only piece of furniture in it was a great tall oldchest as high as a table, that stood against the inner wall beyond which wasthe long gallery that looked down upon the cloister garden. The lobby appearedto be practically as broad as the two rooms on either side of it; but this waseffected by the outer wall being made to bulge a little; and the inner wallbeing thinner than inside the two living-rooms. The deception was furtherincreased by the two living-rooms being first wainscoted and then hung withthick tapestry; while the lobby was bare. A curious person who should look inthe chest would find there only an old dress and a few pieces of stuff. Thislobby, however, was the chapel; and through the chest was the entrance to oneof the priest’s hiding holes, where also the altar-stone and the ornaments andthe vestments were kept. The bottom of the chest was in reality hinged in sucha way that it would fall, on the proper pressure being applied in two places atonce, sufficiently to allow the side of the chest against the wall to be pushedaside, which in turn gave entrance to a little space some two yards long by ayard wide; and here were kept all the necessaries for divine worship; with roombesides for a couple of men at least to be hidden away. There was also a wayfrom this hole on to the roof, but it was a difficult and dangerous way; andwas only to be used in case of extreme necessity.
It was in this lobby that Isabel found herself the next morning kneeling andwaiting for mass. She had been awakened by Mistress Margaret shortly beforefour o’clock and told in a whisper to dress herself in the dark; for it wasimpossible under the circumstances to tell whether the house was not watched;and a light seen from outside might conceivably cause trouble and disturbance.So she had dressed herself and come down from her room along the passages, sofamiliar during the day, so sombre and suggestive now in the black morning withbut one shaded light placed at the angles. Other figures were stealing alongtoo; but she could not tell who they were in the gloom. Then she had comethrough the little sitting-room where the scene of last night had taken placeand into the lobby beyond.
But the whole place was transformed.
Over the old chest now hung a picture, that usually was in Lady Maxwell’s room,of the Blessed Mother and her holy Child, in a great carved frame of some blackwood. The chest had become an altar: Isabel could see the slight elevation inthe middle of the long white linen cloth where the altar-stone lay, and uponthat again, at the left corner, a pile of linen and silk. Upon the altar at theback stood two slender silver candlesticks with burning tapers in them; and asilver crucifix between them. The carved wooden panels, representing thesacrifice of Isaac on the one half and the offering of Melchisedech on theother, served instead of an embroidered altar-frontal. Against the side wallstood a little white-covered folding table with the cruets and othernecessaries upon it.
There were two or three benches across the rest of the lobby; and at these werekneeling a dozen or more persons, motionless, their faces downcast. There was alittle wind such as blows before the dawn moaning gently outside; and withinwas a slight draught that made the taper flames lean over now and then.
Isabel took her place beside Mistress Margaret at the front bench; and as sheknelt forward she noticed a space left beyond her for Lady Maxwell. A momentlater there came slow and painful steps through the sitting-room, and LadyMaxwell came in very slowly with her son leaning on her arm and on a stick.There was a silence so profound that it seemed to Isabel as if all had stoppedbreathing. She could only hear the slow plunging pulse of her own heart.
James took his mother across the altar to her place, and left her there, bowingto her; and then went up to the altar to vest. As he reached it and paused, aservant slipped out and received the stick from him. The priest made the signof the cross, and took up the amice from the vestments that lay folded on thealtar. He was already in his cassock.
Isabel watched each movement with a deep agonising interest; he was so frailand broken, so bent in his figure, so slow and feeble in his movements. He madean attempt to raise the amice but could not, and turned slightly; and the manfrom behind stepped up again and lifted it for him. Then he helped him witheach of the vestments, lifted the alb over his head and tenderly drew thebandaged hands through the sleeves; knit the girdle round him; gave him thestole to kiss and then placed it over his neck and crossed the ends beneath thegirdle and adjusted the amice; then he placed the maniple on his left arm, butso tenderly! and lastly, lifted the great red chasuble and dropped it over hishead and straightened it—and there stood the priest as he had stood lastSunday, in crimson vestments again; but bowed and thin-faced now.
Then he began the preparation with the servant who knelt beside him in hisordinary livery, as server; and Isabel heard the murmur of the Latin words forthe first time. Then he stepped up to the altar, bent slowly and kissed it andthe mass began.
Isabel had a missal, lent to her by Mistress Margaret; but she hardly looked atit; so intent was she on that crimson figure and his strange movements and hislow broken voice. It was unlike anything that she had ever imagined worship tobe. Public worship to her had meant hitherto one of two things—either sittingunder a minister and having the word applied to her soul in the sacrament ofthe pulpit; or else the saying of prayers by the minister aloud and distinctlyand with expression, so that the intellect could follow the words, and assentwith a hearty Amen. The minister was a minister to man of the Word of God, aninterpreter of His gospel to man.
But here was a worship unlike all this in almost every detail. The priest wasaddressing God, not man; therefore he did so in a low voice, and in a tongue asCampion had said on the scaffold “that they both understood.” It wascomparatively unimportant whether man followed it word for word, for (and herethe second radical difference lay) the point of the worship for the people lay,not in an intellectual apprehension of the words, but in a voluntary assent toand participation in the supreme act to which the words were indeed necessarybut subordinate. It was the thing that was done; not the words that were said,that was mighty with God. Here, as these Catholics round Isabel at any rateunderstood it, and as she too began to perceive it too, though dimly andobscurely, was the sublime mystery of the Cross presented to God. As He lookeddown well pleased into the silence and darkness of Calvary, and saw there theact accomplished by which the world was redeemed, so here (this handful ofdisciples believed), He looked down into the silence and twilight of thislittle lobby, and saw that same mystery accomplished at the hands of one who invirtue of his participation in the priesthood of the Son of God was empoweredto pronounce these heart-shaking words by which the Body that hung on Calvary,and the Blood that dripped from it there, were again spread before His eyes,under the forms of bread and wine.
Much of this faith of course was still dark to Isabel; but yet she understoodenough; and when the murmur of the priest died to a throbbing silence, and theworshippers sank in yet more profound adoration, and then with terrible effortand a quick gasp or two of pain, those wrenched bandaged hands rose tremblingin the air with Something that glimmered white between them; the Puritan girltoo drooped her head, and lifted up her heart, and entreated the Most High andmost Merciful to look down on the Mystery of Redemption accomplished on earth;and for the sake of the Well-Beloved to send down His Grace on the CatholicChurch; to strengthen and save the living; to give rest and peace to the dead;and especially to remember her dear brother Anthony, and Hubert whom she loved;and Mistress Margaret and Lady Maxwell, and this faithful household: and thepoor battered man before her, who, not only as a priest was made like to theEternal Priest, but as a victim too had hung upon a prostrate cross, fastenedby hands and feet; thus bearing on his body for all to see the marks of theLord Jesus.
Lady Maxwell and Mistress Margaret both rose and stepped forward after thePriest’s Communion, and received from those wounded hands the Broken Body ofthe Lord.
And then the mass was presently over; and the server stepped forward again toassist the priest to unvest, himself lifting each vestment off, for FatherMaxwell was terribly exhausted by now, and laying it on the altar. Then hehelped him to a little footstool in front of him, for him to kneel and make histhanksgiving. Isabel looked with an odd wonder at the server; he was the manthat she knew so well, who opened the door for her, and waited at table; butnow a strange dignity rested on him as he moved confidently and reverentlyabout the awful altar, and touched the vestments that even to her Puritan eyesshone with new sanctity. It startled her to think of the hidden Catholic lifeof this house—of these servants who loved and were familiar with mysteries thatshe had been taught to dread and distrust, but before which she too now was tobow her being in faith and adoration.
After a minute or two, Mistress Margaret touched Isabel on the arm and beckonedto her to come up to the altar, which she began immediately to strip of itsornaments and cloth, having first lit another candle on one of the benches.Isabel helped her in this with a trembling dread, as all the others except LadyMaxwell and her son were now gone out silently; and presently the picture wasdown, and leaning against the wall; the ornaments and sacred vessels packedaway in their box, with the vestments and linen in another. Then together theylifted off the heavy altar stone. Mistress Margaret next laid back the lid ofthe chest; and put her hands within, and presently Isabel saw the back of thechest fall back, apparently into the wall. Mistress Margaret then beckoned toIsabel to climb into the chest and go through; she did so without muchdifficulty, and found herself in the little room behind. There was a stool ortwo and some shelves against the wall, with a plate or two upon them and one ortwo tools. She received the boxes handed through, and followed MistressMargaret’s instructions as to where to place them; and when all was done, sheslipped back again through the chest into the lobby.
The priest and his mother were still in their places, motionless. MistressMargaret closed the chest inside and out, beckoned Isabel into the sitting-roomand closed the door behind them. Then she threw her arms round the girl andkissed her again and again.
“My own darling,” said the nun, with tears in her eyes. “God bless you—yourfirst mass. Oh! I have prayed for this. And you know all our secrets now. Nowgo to your room, and to bed again. It is only a little after five. You shallsee him—James—before he goes. God bless you, my dear!”
She watched Isabel down the passage; and then turned back again to where theother two were still kneeling, to make her own thanksgiving.
Isabel went to her room as one in a dream. She was soon in bed again, but couldnot sleep; the vision of that strange worship she had assisted at; thepictorial details of it, the glow of the two candles on the shoulders of thecrimson chasuble as the priest bent to kiss the altar or to adore; the bowedhead of the server at his side; the picture overhead with the Mother and herdowncast eyes, and the radiant Child stepping from her knees to bless theworld—all this burned on the darkness. With the least effort of imagination tooshe could recall the steady murmur of the unfamiliar words; hear the rustle ofthe silken vestment; the stirrings and breathings of the worshippers in thelittle room.
Then in endless course the intellectual side of it all began to present itself.She had assisted at what the Government called a crime; it was for that—thatcollection of strange but surely at least innocent things—actions, words,material objects—that men and women of the same flesh and blood as herself wereready to die; and for which others equally of one nature with herself wereready to put them to death. It was the mass—the mass—she had seen—she repeatedthe word to herself, so sinister, so suggestive, so mighty. Then she began tothink again—if indeed it is possible to say that she had ever ceased to thinkof him—of Anthony, who would be so much horrified if he knew; of Hubert, whohad renounced this wonderful worship, and all, she feared, for love of her—andabove all of her father, who had regarded it with such repugnance:—yes, thoughtIsabel, but he knows all now. Then she thought of Mistress Margaret again.After all, the nun had a spiritual life which in intensity and purity surpassedany she had ever experienced or even imagined; and yet the heart of it all wasthe mass. She thought of the old wrinkled quiet face when she came back tobreakfast at the Dower House: she had soon learnt to read from that facewhether mass had been said that morning or not at the Hall. And MistressMargaret was only one of thousands to whom this little set of actions half seenand words half heard, wrought and said by a man in a curious dress, were moreprecious than all meditation and prayer put together. Could the vastsuperstructure of prayer and effort and aspiration rest upon a piece of emptyfolly such as children or savages might invent?
Then very naturally, as she began now to get quieter and less excited, shepassed on to the spiritual side of it.
Had that indeed happened that Mistress Margaret believed—that the very Body andBlood of her own dear Saviour, Jesus Christ, had in virtue of His own clearpromise—His own clear promise!—become present there under the hands of Hispriest? Was it, indeed,—this half-hour action,—the most august mystery of time,the Lamb eternally slain, presenting Himself and His Death before the Throne ina tremendous and bloodless Sacrifice—so august that the very angels can onlyworship it afar off and cannot perform it; or was it all a merely childishpiece of blasphemous mummery, as she had been brought up to believe? And thenthis Puritan girl, who was beginning to taste the joys of release from hermisery now that she had taken this step, and united a whole-hearted offering ofherself to the perfect Offering of her Lord—now her soul made its firsttrembling movement towards a real external authority. “I believe,” sherehearsed to herself, “not because my spiritual experience tells me that theMass is true, for it does not; not because the Bible says so, because it ispossible to interpret that in more than one way; but because that Society whichI now propose to treat as Divine—the Representative of the Incarnate Word—nay,His very mystical Body—tells me so: and I rely upon that, and rest in her arms,which are the Arms of the Everlasting, and hang upon her lips, through whichthe Infallible Word speaks.”
And so Isabel, in a timid peace at last, from her first act of Catholic faith,fell asleep.
She awoke to find the winter sun streaming into her room, and Mistress Margaretby her bedside.
“Dear child,” said the old lady, “I would not wake you earlier; you have hadsuch a short night; but James leaves in an hour’s time; and it is just nineo’clock, and I know you wish to see him.”
When she came down half an hour later she found Mistress Margaret waiting forher outside Lady Maxwell’s room.
“He is in there,” she said. “I will tell Mary”; and she slipped in. Isabeloutside heard the murmur of voices, and in a moment more was beckoned in by thenun.
James Maxwell was sitting back in a great chair, looking exhausted and white.His mother, with something of the same look of supreme suffering and triumph,was standing behind his chair. She smiled gravely and sweetly at Isabel, as ifto encourage her; and went out at the further door, followed by her sister.
“Mistress Isabel,” said the priest, without any introductory words, in hisbroken voice, and motioning her to a seat, “I cannot tell you what joy it wasto see you at mass. Is it too much to hope that you will seek admissionpresently to the Catholic Church?”
Isabel sat with downcast eyes. His tone was a little startling to her. It wasas courteous as ever, but less courtly: there was just the faintest ring in it,in spite of its weakness, as of one who spoke with authority.
“I—I thank you, Mr. James,” she said. “I wish to hear more at any rate.”
“Yes, Mistress Isabel; and I thank God for it. Mr. Barnes will be the properperson. My mother will let him know; and I have no doubt that he will receiveyou by Easter, and that you can make your First Communion on that day.”
She bowed her head, wondering a little at his assurance.
“You will forgive me, I know, if I seem discourteous,” went on the priest,“but I trust you understand the terms on which you come. You come as a littlechild, to learn; is it not so? Simply that?”
She bowed her head again.
“Then I need not keep you. If you will kneel, I will give you my blessing.”
She knelt down at once before him, and he blessed her, lifting his wrenchedhand with difficulty and letting it sink quickly down again.
By an impulse she could not resist she leaned forward on her knees and took itgently into her two soft hands and kissed it.
“Oh! forgive him, Mr. Maxwell; I am sure he did not know.” And then her tearspoured down.
“My child,” said his voice tenderly, “in any case I not only forgive him, butI thank him. How could I not? He has brought me love-tokens from my Lord.”
She kissed his hand again, and stood up; her eyes were blinded with tears; butthey were not all for grief.
Then Mistress Margaret came in from the inner room, and led the girl out; andthe mother came in once more to her son for the ten minutes before he was toleave her.
A STRIFE OF TONGUES
Anthony now settled down rather drearily to the study of religious controversy.The continual contrasts that seemed forced upon him by the rival systems ofEngland and Rome (so far as England might be said to have a coherent system atthis time), all tended to show him that there were these two sharply-dividedschemes, each claiming to represent Christ’s Institution, and each exclusive ofthe other. Was it of Christ’s institution that His Church should be adepartment of the National Life; and that the civil prince should be its finalarbiter and ruler, however little he might interfere in its ordinaryadministration? This was Elizabeth’s idea. Or was the Church, as Mr. Buxton hadexplained it, a huge unnational Society, dependent, it must of course be, tosome extent on local circumstances, but essentially unrestricted by limit ofnationality or of racial tendencies? This was the claim of Rome. Of course animmense number of other arguments circled round this—in fact, most of thearguments that are familiar to controversialists at the present day; but thecentre of all, to Anthony’s mind, as indeed it was to the mind of the civil andreligious authorities of the time, was the question of supremacy—Elizabeth orGregory?
He read a certain number of books; and it will be remembered that he hadfollowed, with a good deal of intelligence, Campion’s arguments. Anthony was notheologian, and therefore missed perhaps the deep, subtle arguments; but he hada normal mind, and was able to appreciate and remember some salient points.
For example, he was impressed greatly by the negative character ofProtestantism in such books as Nicholl’s “Pilgrimage.” In this work a man washeld up as a type to be imitated whose whole religion to all appearancesconsisted of holding the Pope to be Antichrist, and his Church the synagogue ofSatan, of disliking the doctrines of merit and of justification by works, ofdenying the Real Presence, and of holding nothing but what could be proved tohis own satisfaction by the Scriptures.
Then he read as much as he could of the great Jewell controversy. This Bishopof Salisbury, who had, however, recanted his Protestant opinions under Mary,and resumed them under Elizabeth, had published in 1562 his “Apology of theChurch of England,” a work of vast research and learning. Mr. Harding, who hadalso had the advantage of having been on both sides, had answered it; and thenthe battle was arrayed. It was of course mostly above Anthony’s head; but hegained from what he was able to read of it a very fair estimate of theconflicting theses, though he probably could not have stated them intelligibly.He also made acquaintance with another writer against Jewell,—Rastall; and withone or two of Mr. Willet’s books, the author of “Synopsis Papismi” and“Tretrastylon Papisticum.”
Even more than by paper controversy, however, he was influenced by history thatwas so rapidly forming before his eyes. The fact and the significance of thesupremacy of the Queen in religion was impressed upon him more vividly by hersuspension of Grindal than by all the books he ever read: here was the firstecclesiastic of the realm, a devout, humble and earnest man, restrained fromexercising his great qualities as ruler and shepherd of his people, by a womanwhose religious character certainly commanded no one’s respect, even if hermoral life were free from scandal; and that, not because the Archbishop hadbeen guilty of any crime or heresy, or was obviously unfitted for his post, butbecause his conscientious judgment on a point of Church discipline and libertydiffered from hers; and this state of things was made possible not by anusurpation of power, but by the deliberately ordered system of the Church ofEngland. Anthony had at least sufficient penetration to see that this, as afundamental principle of religion, however obscured it might be by subsequentdevelopments, was yet fraught with dangers compared with which those of papalinterference were comparatively trifling—dangers that is, not so much toearthly peace and prosperity, as to the whole spiritual nature of the nation’sChristianity.
Yet another argument had begun to suggest itself, bearing upon the same point,of the relative advantages and dangers of Nationalism. When he had firstentered the Archbishop’s service he had been inspired by the thought that theChurch would share in the rising splendour of England; now he began to wonderwhether she could have strength to resist the rising worldliness that was boundto accompany it. It is scarcely likely that men on fire with success, whethermilitary or commercial, will be patient of the restraints of religion. If theChurch is independent of the nation, she can protest and denounce freely; ifshe is knit closely to the nation, such rebuke is almost impossible.
A conversation that Anthony had on this subject at the beginning of Februaryhelped somewhat to clear up this point.
He was astonished after dinner one day to hear that Mr. Henry Buxton was at theporter’s lodge desiring to see him, and on going out he found that it wasindeed his old acquaintance, the prisoner.
“Good-day, Master Norris,” said the gentleman, with his eyes twinkling; “yousee the mouse has escaped, and is come to call upon the cat.”
Anthony inquired further as to the details of his release.
“Well, you see,” said Mr. Buxton, “they grew a-weary of me. I talked so loudat them all for one thing; and then you see I was neither priest nor agent norconspirator, but only a plain country gentleman: so they took some hundred ortwo pounds off me, to make me still plainer; and let me go. Now, Mr. Norris,will you come and dine with me, and resume our conversation that was so rudelyinterrupted by my journey last time? But then you see her Majesty would take nodenial.”
“I have just dined,” said Anthony, “but——”
“Well, I will not ask you to see me dine again, as you did last time; but willyou then sup with me? I am at the ‘Running Horse,’ Fleet Street, untilto-morrow.”
Anthony accepted gladly; for he had been greatly taken with Mr. Buxton; and atsix o’clock that evening presented himself at the “Running Horse,” and wasshown up to a private parlour.
He found Mr. Buxton in the highest good-humour; he was even now on his way fromWisbeach, home again to Tonbridge, and was only staying in London to finish alittle business he had.
Before supper was over, Anthony had laid his difficulties before him.
“My dear friend,” said the other, and his manner became at once sober andtender, “I thank you deeply for your confidence. After being thought midwaybetween a knave and a fool for over a year, it is a comfort to be treated as anhonest gentleman again. I hold very strongly with what you say; it is that,under God, that has kept me steady. As I said to you last time, Christ’sKingdom is not of this world. Can you imagine, for example, Saint Peterpreaching religious obedience to Nero to be a Christian’s duty? I do not say(God forbid) that her Grace is a Nero, or even a Poppæa; but there is noparticular reason why some successor of hers should not be. However, Nero ornot, the principle is the same. I do not deny that a National Church may beimmensely powerful, may convert thousands, may number zealous and holy menamong her ministers and adherents—but yet her foundation is insecure. What whenthe tempest of God’s searching judgments begins to blow?
“Or, to put it plainer, in a parable, you have seen, I doubt not, a gallant andhis mistress together. So long as she is being wooed by him, she can command;he sighs and yearns and runs on errands—in short, she rules him. But when theyare wedded—ah me! It is she—if he turns out a brute, that is—she that standswhile my lord plucks off his boots—she who runs to fetch the tobacco-pipe andlights it and kneels by him. Now I hold that to wed the body spiritual to thebody civil, is to wed a delicate dame to a brute. He may dress her well, giveher jewels, clap her kindly on the head—but she is under him and no free woman.Ah!”—and then Mr. Buxton’s eyes began to shine as Anthony remembered they haddone before, and his voice to grow solemn,—“and when the spouse is the Bride ofChrist, purchased by His death, what then would be the sin to wed her to acarnal nation, who shall favour her, it may be, while she looks young and fair;but when his mood changes, or her appearance, then she is his slave and hisdrudge! His will and his whims are her laws; as he changes, so must she. Shehas to do his foul work; as she had to do for King Henry, as she is doing itnow for Queen Bess; and as she will always have to do, God help her, so long asshe is wedded to the nation, instead of being free as the handmaiden and spouseof Christ alone. My faith would be lost, Mr. Norris, and my heart broken quite,if I were forced to think the Church of England to be the Church of Christ.”
They talked late that evening in the private baize-curtained parlour on thethird floor. Anthony produced his difficulties one by one, and Mr. Buxton didhis best to deal with them. For example, Anthony remarked on the fact thatthere had been no breach of succession as to the edifices and endowments of theChurch; that the sees had been canonically filled, and even the benefices; andthat therefore, like it or not, the Church of England now was identical withthe Pre-Reformation Church.
“Distinguo,” said his friend. “Of course she is the successor in onesense: what you say is very true. It is impossible to put your finger all alongthe line of separation. It is a serrated line. The affairs of a Church and anation are so vast that that is sure to be so; although if you insist, I willpoint to the Supremacy Act of 1559 and the Uniformity Act of the same year asvery clear evidences of a breach with the ancient order; in the former thegovernance is shifted from its original owner, the Vicar of Christ, and placedon Elizabeth; it was that that the Carthusian Fathers and Sir Thomas More andmany others died sooner than allow: and the latter Act sweeps away all theancient forms of worship in favour of a modern one. But I am not careful toinsist upon those points; if you deny or disprove them,—though I do not envyany who attempts that—yet even then my principle remains, that all that towhich the Church of England has succeeded is the edifices and the endowments;but that her spirit is wholly new. If a highwayman knocks me down to-morrow,strips me, clothes himself with my clothes, and rides my horse, he is certainlymy successor in one sense; yet he will be rash if he presents himself to mywife and sons—though I have none, by the way—as the proper owner of my houseand name.”
“But there is no knocking down in the question,” said Anthony. “The bishopsand clergy, or the greater part of them, consented to the change.”
Mr. Buxton smiled.
“Very well,” he said; “yet the case is not greatly different if the gentlemanthreatens me with torture instead, if I do not voluntarily give him my clothesand my horse. If I were weak and yielded to him, yes, and made promises of allkinds in my cowardice—yet he would be no nearer being the true successor of myname and fortune. And if you read her Grace’s Acts, and King Henry’s too, youwill find that that was precisely what took place. My dear sir,” Mr. Buxtonwent on, “if you will pardon my saying it, I am astounded at the effrontery ofyour authorities who claim that there was no breach. Your Puritans are wiser;they at least frankly say that the old was Anti-Christian; that His Holiness(God forgive me for saying it!), was an usurper: and that the new Genevantheology is the old gospel brought to light again. That I can understand; andindeed most of your churchmen think so too; and that there was a new beginningmade with Protestantism. But when her Grace calls herself a Catholic, and tellsthe poor Frenchmen that it is the old religion here still: and your bishops, orone or two of them rather, like Cheyney, I suppose, say so too—then I amrendered dumb—(if that were possible). If it is the same, then why, a-God’sname, were the altars dragged down, and the screens burned, and the vestmentsand the images and the stoups and the pictures and the ornaments, all sweptout? Why, a-God’s name, was the old mass blotted out and this new mingle-manglebrought in, if it be all one? And for the last time, a-God’s name, why is itdeath to say mass now, if it be all one? Go, go: Such talk is foolishness, andworse.”
Mr. Buxton was silent for a moment as Anthony eyed him; and then burst outagain.
“Ah! but worse than all are the folks that stand with one leg on either stool.We are the old Church, say they;—standing with the Protestant leg in theair,—therefore let us have the money and the buildings: they are our right. Andthen when a poor Catholic says, Then let us have the old mass, and the oldpenance and the old images: Nay, nay, nay, they say, lifting up the Catholicleg and standing on the other, those are Popery; and we are Protestants; wehave made away with all such mummery and muniments of superstition. And so theygo see-sawing to and fro. When you run at one leg they rest them on the other,and you know not where to take them.”
And so the talk went on. When the evening was over, and Anthony was rising toreturn to Lambeth, Mr. Buxton put his hand on his arm.
“Good Mr. Norris,” he said, “you have been very patient with me. I haveclacked this night like an old wife, and you have borne with me: and now I askyour pardon again. But I do pray God that He may show you light and bring youto the true Church; for there is no rest elsewhere.”
Anthony thanked him for his good wishes.
“Indeed,” he said, too, “I am grateful for all that you have said. You haveshown me light, I think, on some things, and I ask your prayers.”
“I go to Stanfield to-morrow,” said Mr. Buxton; “it is a pleasant house,though its master says so, not far from Sir Philip Sidney’s: if you would butcome and see me there!”
“I am getting greatly perplexed,” said Anthony, “and I think that in goodfaith I cannot stay long with the Archbishop; and if I leave him how gladlywill I come to you for a few days; but it must not be till then.”
“Ah! if you would but make the Spiritual Exercises in my house; I will providea conductor; and there is nothing that would resolve your doubts so quickly.”
Anthony was interested in this; and asked further details as to what thesewere.
“It is too late,” said Mr. Buxton, “to tell you to-night. I will write fromStanfield.”
Mr. Buxton came downstairs with Anthony to see him on to his horse, and theyparted with much good-will; and Anthony rode home with a heavy and perplexedheart to Lambeth.
He spent a few days more pondering; and then determined to lay his difficultiesbefore the Archbishop; and resign his position if Grindal thought it well.
He asked for an interview, and the Archbishop appointed an hour in theafternoon at which he would see him in Cranmer’s parlour, the room above thevestry which formed part of the tower that Archbishop Cranmer had added toLambeth House.
Anthony, walking up and down in the little tiled cloisters by the creek, a fewminutes before the hour fixed, heard organ-music rolling out of the chapelwindows; and went in to see who was playing. He came in through the vestry, andlooking to the west end gallery saw there the back of old Dr. Tallis, seated atthe little positive organ that the late Archbishop had left in his chapel, andwhich the present Archbishop had gladly retained, for he was a great patron ofmusic, and befriended many musicians when they needed help—Dr. Tallis, as wellas Byrd, Morley and Tye. There were a few persons in the chapel listening, theReverend Mr. Wilson, one of the chaplains, being among them; and Anthonythought that he could not do better than sit here a little and quiet histhoughts, which were nervous and distracted at the prospect of his cominginterview. He heard voices from overhead, which showed that the Archbishop wasengaged; so he spoke to an usher stationed in the vestry, telling him that hewas ready as soon as the Archbishop could receive him, and that he would waitin the chapel; and then made his way down to one of the return stalls at thewest end, against the screen, and took his seat there.
This February afternoon was growing dark, and the only lights in the chapelwere those in the organ loft; but there was still enough daylight outside tomake the windows visible—those famous windows of Morton’s, which, like those inKing’s Chapel, Cambridge, combined and interpreted the Old and New Testamentsby an ingenious system of types and antitypes, in the manner of the “BibliaPauperum.” There was then only a single subject in each light; and Anthony lethis eyes wander musingly to and fro in the east window from the central figureof the Crucified to the types on either side, especially to a touching group ofthe unconscious Isaac carrying the wood for his own death, as Christ His Cross.Beneath, instead of the old stately altar glowing with stuffs and preciousmetals and jewels which had once been the heart of this beautiful shrine, therestood now a plain solid wooden table that the Archbishop used for theCommunion. Anthony looked at it, and sighed a little to himself. Did the altarand the table then mean the same thing?
Meanwhile the glorious music was rolling overhead in the high vaulted roof. Theold man was extemporising; but his manner was evident even in that; there was asimple solemn phrase that formed his theme, and round this adorning andenriching it moved the grave chords. On and on travelled the melody, like theflow of a broad river; now sliding steadily through a smiling land of simpleharmonies, where dwelt a people of plain tastes and solid virtues; now passingover shallows where the sun glanced and played in the brown water among thestones, as light arpeggio chords rippled up and vanished round about themelody; now entering a land of mighty stones and caverns where the echoes ranghollow and resonant, as the counterpoint began to rumble and trip like bouldersfar down out of sight, in subaqueous gloom; now rolling out again and widening,fuller and deeper as it went, moving in great masses towards the edge of thecataract that lies like a line across the landscape: it is inevitable now, thecrash must come;—a chord or two pausing,—pausing;—and then the crash,stupendous and sonorous.
Then on again through elaborate cities where the wits and courtiers dwell, andstately palaces slide past upon the banks, and barges move upon its breast, onto the sea—that final full close that embraces and engulfs all music, alleffort, all doubts and questionings, whether in art or theology, all life ofintellect, heart or will—that fathomless eternal deep from which all comes andto which all returns, that men call the Love of God.
Anthony stirred in his seat; he had been here ten minutes, proposing to takehis restless thoughts in hand and quiet them; and, lo! it had been done for himby the master who sat overhead. Here he, for the moment, remained, ready foranything—glad to take up the wood and bear it to the Mount of Sacrifice—contentto be carried on in that river of God’s Will to the repose of God’sHeart—content to dwell meantime in the echoing caverns of doubt—in the glancingshadows and lights of an active life—in his own simple sunlit life in thecountry—or even to plunge over the cataract down into the fierce tormentedpools in the dark—for after all the sea lay beyond; and he who commits himselfto the river is bound to reach it.
He heard a step, and the usher stood by him.
“His Grace is ready, Master Norris.”
Anthony rose and followed him.
The Archbishop received him with the greatest kindness. As Anthony came in hehalf rose, peering with his half-blind eyes, and smiling and holding out hishands.
“Come, Master Norris,” he said, “you are always welcome. Sit down;” and heplaced him in a chair at the table close by his own.
“Now, what is it?” he said kindly; for the old man’s heart was a littleanxious at this formal interview that had been requested by this favouriteyoung officer of his.
Then Anthony, without any reserve, told him all; tracing out the long tale ofdoubt by landmarks that he remembered; mentioning the effect produced on hismind by the Queen’s suspension of the Archbishop, especially dwelling on thearrest, the examination and the death of Campion, that had made such a profoundimpression upon him; upon his own reading and trains of thought, and theconversations with Mr. Buxton, though of course he did not mention his name; heended by saying that he had little doubt that sooner or later he would becompelled to leave the communion of the Church of England for that of Rome; andby placing his resignation in the Archbishop’s hands, with many expressions ofgratitude for the unceasing kindness and consideration that he had alwaysreceived at his hands.
There was silence when he had finished. A sliding panel in the wall near thechapel had been pushed back, and the mellow music of Dr. Tallis pealed softlyin, giving a sweet and melodious background, scarcely perceived consciously byeither of them, and yet probably mellowing and softening their modes ofexpression during the whole of the interview.
“Mr. Norris,” said the Archbishop at last, “I first thank you for the generousconfidence you have shown towards me: and I shall put myself under a furtherobligation to you by accepting your resignation: and this I do for both oursakes. For yours, because, as you confess, this action of the Queen’s—(Ineither condemn nor excuse it myself)—this action has influenced your thoughts:therefore you had best be removed from it to a place where you can judge morequietly. And I accept it for my own sake too; for several reasons that I neednot trouble you with. But in doing this, I desire you, Mr. Norris, to continueto draw your salary until Midsummer:—nay, nay, you must let me have my say. Youare at liberty to withdraw as soon as you have wound up your arrangements withMr. Somerdine; he will now, as Yeoman of the Horse, have your duties as well ashis own; for I do not intend to have another Gentleman of the Horse. As regardsan increase of salary for him, that can wait until I see him myself. In anycase, Mr. Norris, I think you had better withdraw before Mid-Lent Sunday.
“And now for your trouble. I know very well that I cannot be of much service toyou. I am no controversialist. But I must bear my witness. This Papist withwhom you have had talk seems a very plausible fellow. His arguments sound veryplain and good; and yet I think you could prove anything by them. They seem tome like that openwork embroidery such as you see on Communion linen sometimes,in which the pattern is formed by withdrawing certain threads. He has cleverlyomitted just those points that would ruin his argument; and he has made apretty design. But any skilful advocate could make any other design by the samemethods. He has not thought fit to deal with such words of our Saviour as whatHe says on Tradition; with what the Scriptures say against the worshipping ofangels; with what St. Paul says in his Epistle to the Colossians, in the secondchapter, concerning all those carnal ordinances which were done away by Christ,but which have been restored by the Pope in his despite; he does not deal withthose terrible words concerning the man of sin and the mystery of iniquity. Infact, he takes just one word that Christ let fall about His Kingdom, and buildsthis great edifice upon it. You might retort to him in a thousand ways such asthese. Bishop Jewell, in his book, as you know, deals with these questions andmany more; far more fully than it is possible for you and me even to dream ofdoing. Nay, Mr. Norris; the only argument I can lay before you is this. Thereare difficulties and troubles everywhere; that there are such in the Church ofEngland, who would care to deny? that there are equally such, aye, and farmore, in the Church of Rome, who would care to deny, either? Meanwhile, theProvidence of God has set you here and not there. Whatever your difficultiesare here, are not of your choosing; but if you fly there (and I pray God youwill not) there they will be. Be content, Master Norris; indeed you have agoodly heritage; be content with it; lest losing that you lose all.”
Anthony was greatly touched by this moderate and courteous line that theArchbishop was taking. He knew well in his heart that the Church of Rome was,in the eyes of this old man, a false and deceitful body, for whom there wasreally nothing to be said. Grindal, in his travels abroad during the Mariantroubles, had been deeply attracted by the Genevan theology, with whoseprofessors he had never wholly lost touch; and Anthony guessed what an effortit was costing him, and what a strain it was on his conscience, thus to combinecourtesy with faithfulness to what he believed to be true.
Grindal apparently feared he had sacrificed his convictions, for he presentlyadded: “You know, Mr. Norris, that I think very much worse of Papistry than Ihave expressed; but I have refrained because I think that would not help you;and I desire to do that more than to relieve myself.”
Anthony thanked him for his gentleness; saying that he quite understood hismotives in speaking as he had done, and was deeply obliged to him for it.
The Archbishop, however, as indeed were most of the English Divines of thetime, was far more deeply versed in destructive than constructive theology;and, to Anthony’s regret, was presently beginning in that direction.
“It is beyond my imagination, Mr. Norris,” he said, “that any who have knownthe simple Gospel should return to the darkness. See here,” he went on,rising, and fumbling among his books, “I have somewhere here what they call anIndulgence.”
He searched for a few minutes, and presently shook out of the leaves ofJewell’s book a paper which he peered at, and then pushed over to Anthony.
It was a little rectangular paper, some four or five inches long; bearing afigure of Christ, wounded, with His hands bound together before Him, and theCross with the superscription rising behind. In compartments on either sidewere instruments of the Passion, the spear, and the reed with the sponge, withother figures and emblems. Anthony spelt out the inscription.
“Read it aloud, Mr. Norris,” said the Archbishop.
“‘To them,’” read Anthony, “‘that before this image of pity devoutly say fivepaternosters, five aves and a credo, piteously beholding these arms of Christ’sPassion, are granted thirty-two thousand seven hundred and fifty-five years ofpardon.’”
“Now, Mr. Norris,” said the Archbishop, “have you considered that it is tothat kind of religion that you are attracted? I will not comment on it; thereis no need.”
“Your Grace,” said Anthony slowly, laying the paper down, “I need not say, Ithink, that this kind of thing is deeply distasteful to me too. Your Gracecannot dislike it more than I do. But then I do not understand it; I do notknow what indulgences mean; I only know that were they as mad and foolish as weProtestants think them, no truthful or good man could remain a Papist for aday; but then there are many thoughtful and good men Papists; and I concludefrom that that what we think the indulgences to be, cannot be what they reallyare. There must be some other explanation.
“And again, my lord, may I add this? If I were a Turk I should find many thingsin the Christian religion quite as repellent to me; for example, how can it bejust, I should ask, that the death of an innocent man, such as Christ was,should be my salvation? How, again, is it just that faith should save? Surelyone who has sinned greatly ought to do something towards his forgiveness, andnot merely trust to another. But you, my lord, would tell me that there areexplanations of these difficulties, and of many more too, of which I shouldgradually understand more and more after I was a Christian. Or again, itappears to me even now, Christian as I am, judging as a plain man, thatpredestination contradicts free-will; and no explanation can make them bothreasonable. Yet, by the grace of God, I believe all these doctrines and manymore, not because I understand them, for I do not; but because I believe thatthey are part of the Revelation of God. It is just so, too, with the RomanCatholic Church. I must not take this or that doctrine by itself; but I mustmake up my mind whether or no it is the one only Catholic Church, and then Ishall believe all that she teaches, because she teaches it, and not because Iunderstand it. You must forgive my dulness, my lord; but I am but a layman, andcan only say what I think in simple words.”
“But we must judge of a Christian body by what that body teaches,” said theArchbishop. “On what other grounds are you drawn to the Papists, except by whatthey teach?”
“Yes, your Grace,” said Anthony, “I do judge of the general body of doctrine,and of the effect upon the soul as a whole; but that is not the same as takingeach small part, and making all hang upon that.”
“Well, Mr. Norris,” said the Archbishop, “I do not think we can talk much morenow. It is new to me that these difficulties are upon you. But I entreat you totalk to me again as often as you will; and to others also—Dr. Redmayn, Mr.Chambers and others will be happy if they can be of any service to you in thesematters: for few things indeed would grieve me more than that you should turnPapist.”
Anthony thanked the Archbishop very cordially for his kindness, and, afterreceiving his blessing, left his presence. He had two or three more talks withhim before he left, but his difficulties were in no way resolved. TheArchbishop had an essentially Puritan mind, and could not enter into Anthony’spoint of view at all. It may be roughly said that from Grindal’s standpoint allturned on the position and responsibility of the individual towards the body towhich he belonged: and that Anthony rather looked at the corporate side firstand the individual second. Grindal considered, for example, the details of theCatholic religion in reference to the individual, asking whether he couldaccept this or that: Anthony’s tendency was rather to consider the generalquestion first, and to take the difficulties in his stride afterwards. Anthonyalso had interviews with the Archdeacon and chaplain whom Grindal hadrecommended; but these were of even less service to him, as Dr. Redmayn was sofrankly contemptuous, and Mr. Chambers so ignorant, of the Romish religion thatAnthony felt he could not trust their judgment at all.
In the meanwhile, during this last fortnight of Anthony’s Lambeth life, hereceived a letter from Mr. Buxton, explaining what were the Spiritual Exercisesto which he had referred, and entreating Anthony to come and stay with him atStanfield.
“Now come, dear Mr. Norris,” he wrote, “as soon as you leave the Archbishop’sservice; I will place three or four rooms at your disposal, if you wish forquiet; for I have more rooms than I know what to do with; and you shall makethe Exercises if you will with some good priest. They are a wonderful method ofmeditation and prayer, designed by Ignatius Loyola (one day doubtless to bedeclared saint), for the bringing about a resolution of all doubts andscruples, and so clearing the eye of the soul that she discerns God’s Will, andso strengthening her that she gladly embraces it. And that surely is what youneed just now in your perplexity.”
The letter went on to describe briefly the method followed, and ended byentreating him again to come and see him. Anthony answered this by telling himof his resignation of his post at Lambeth, and accepting his invitation; and hearranged to spend the last three weeks before Easter at Stanfield, and to godown there immediately upon leaving Lambeth. He determined not to go to GreatKeynes first, or to see Isabel, lest his resolution should be weakened.Already, he thought, his motives were sufficiently mixed and perverted withouthis further aggravating their earthly constituents.
He wrote to his sister, however, telling her of his decision to leave Lambeth;and adding that he was going to stay with a friend until Easter, when he hopedto return to the Dower House, and take up his abode there for the present. Hereceived what he thought a very strange letter in return, written apparentlyunder excitement strongly restrained. He read in it a very real affection forhimself, but a certain reserve in it too, and even something of compassion; andthere was a sentence in it that above all others astonished him.
“J. M. has been here, and is now gone to Douai. Oh! dear brother, some time nodoubt you will tell us all. I feel so certain that there is much to explain.”
Had she then guessed his part in the priest’s release? Anthony wondered; but atany rate he knew, after his promise to the Queen, that he must not give her anyclue. He was also surprised to hear that James had been to Great Keynes. He hadinquired for him at the Tower on the Monday after his visit to Greenwich, andhad heard that Mr. Maxwell was already gone out of England. He had not thentroubled to write again, as he had no doubt but that his message to LadyMaxwell, which he had sent in his note to Isabel, had reached her; and thatcertainly she, and probably James too, now knew that he had been an entirelyunconscious and innocent instrument in the priest’s arrest. But that note, ashas been seen, never reached its destination. Lady Maxwell did not care towrite to the betrayer of her son; and Isabel on the one hand hoped and believednow that there was some explanation, but on the other did not wish to ask forit again, since her first request had been met by silence.
As the last days of his life at Lambeth were coming to an end, Anthony began tosend off his belongings on pack-horses to Great Keynes; and by the time thatthe Saturday before Mid-Lent Sunday arrived, on which he was to leave, all hadgone except his own couple of horses and the bags containing his personalluggage.
His last interview with the Archbishop affected him very greatly.
He found the old man waiting for him, walking up and down Cranmer’s parlour inan empty part of the room, where there was no danger of his falling. He peeredanxiously at Anthony as he entered.
“Mr. Norris,” he said, “you are greatly on my mind. I fear I have not done myduty to you. My God has taken away the great charge he called me to years ago,to see if I were fit or not for the smaller charge of mine own household, andnot even that have I ruled well.”
Anthony was deeply moved.
“My lord,” he said, “if I may speak plainly to you, I would say that to mymind the strongest argument for the Church of England is that she brings forthpiety and goodness such as I have seen here. If it were not for that, I shouldno longer be perplexed.”
Grindal held up a deprecating hand.
“Do not speak so, Mr. Norris. That grieves me. However, I beseech you toforgive me for all my remissness towards you, and I wish to tell you that,whatever happens, you shall never cease to have an old man’s prayers. You havebeen a good and courteous servant to me always—more than that, you have been myloving friend—I might almost say my son: and that, in a world that has cast meoff and forgotten me, I shall not easily forget. God bless you, my dear son,and give you His light and grace.”
When Anthony rode out of the gateway half an hour later, with his servant andluggage behind him, it was only with the greatest difficulty that he could keepfrom tears as he thought of the blind old man, living in loneliness andundeserved disgrace, whom he was leaving behind him.
THE SPIRITUAL EXERCISES
Anthony found that Mr. Buxton had seriously underestimated himself indescribing his position as that of a plain country gentleman. Stanfield was oneof the most beautiful houses that he had ever seen. On the day after hisarrival, his host took him all over the house, at his earnest request, and toldhim its story; and as they passed from room to room, again and again Anthonyfound himself involuntarily exclaiming at the new and extraordinary beauties ofarchitecture and furniture that revealed themselves.
The house itself had been all built in the present reign, before its owner hadgot into trouble; and had been fitted throughout on the most lavish scale, withfurniture of German as well as of English manufacture. Mr. Buxton was acollector of pictures and other objects of art; and his house contained some ofthe very finest specimens of painting, bronzes, enamels, plate and woodworkprocurable from the Continent.
The house was divided into two sections; the chief living rooms were in a longsuite looking to the south on to the gardens, with a corridor on the north siderunning the whole length of the house on the ground-floor, from which astaircase rose to a similar corridor or gallery on the first floor. The secondsection of the house was a block of some half-dozen smallish rooms, with aprivate staircase of their own, and a private entrance and little walled gardenas well in front. The house was mostly panelled throughout, and here and therehung pieces of magnificent tapestry and cloth of arras. All was kept, too, witha care that was unusual in those days—the finest woodwork was brought to a highpolish, as well as all the brass utensils and steel fire-plates and dogs andsuch things. No two rooms were alike; each possessed some marked characteristicof its own—one bedroom, for example, was distinguished by its fourpost bed withits paintings on the canopy and head—another, by its little two-light highwindow with Adam and Eve in stained glass; another with a little square-windowcontaining a crucifix, which was generally concealed by a sliding panel;another by two secret cupboards over the fire-place, and its recess fitted asan oratory; another by a magnificent piece of tapestry representing Saint Claraand Saint Thomas of Aquin, each holding a monstrance, with a third greatmonstrance in the centre, supported by angels.
Downstairs the rooms were on the same scale of magnificence. The drawing-roomhad an exquisite wooden ceiling with great pendants elaborately carved; thedining-room was distinguished by its glass, containing a collection ofcoats-of-arms of many of Mr. Buxton’s friends who had paid him visits; the hallby its vast fire-place and the tapestries that hung round it.
The exterior premises were scarcely less remarkable; a fine row of stables, andkennels where greyhounds were kept, stood to the north and the east of thehouse; but the wonder of the country was the gardens to the south. Anthonyhardly knew what to say for admiration as he went slowly through these with hishost, on the bright spring morning, after visiting the house. These wereelaborately laid out, and under Mr. Buxton’s personal direction, for he was oneof the few people in England at this time who really understood or cared forthe art. His avenue of small clipped limes running down the main walk of thegarden, his yew-hedges fashioned with battlements and towers; his great gardenhouse with its vane; his fantastic dial in the fashion of a tall striped polesurmounted by a dragon;—these were the astonishment of visitors; and it wasfreely said that had not Mr. Buxton been exceedingly adroit he would have paidthe penalty of his magnificence and originality by being forced to receive aroyal visit—a favour that would have gone far to impoverish, if not to ruinhim. The chancel of the parish-church overlooked the west end of hislime-avenue, while the east end of the garden terminated in a great gateway, ofstone posts and wrought iron gates that looked out to the meadows and farmbuildings of the estate, and up to which some day no doubt a broad carriagedrive would be laid down. But at present the sweep of the meadows was unbroken.
It was to this beautiful place that Anthony found himself welcomed. His hosttook him at once on the evening of his arrival to the west block, and showedhim his bedroom—that with the little cupboards and the oratory recess; andthen, taking him downstairs again, showed him a charming little oak parlour,which he told him would be altogether at his private service.
“And you see,” added Mr. Buxton, “in this walled garden in front you can havecomplete privacy, and thus can take the air without ever coming to the rest ofthe house; to which there is this one entrance on the ground floor.” And thenhe showed him how the lower end of the long corridor communicated with theblock.
“The only partners of this west block,” he added, “will be the two priests—Mr.Blake, my chaplain, and Mr. Robert, who is staying with me a week or two; andwho, I hope, will conduct you through the Exercises, as he is very familiarwith them. You will meet them both at supper: of course they will be bothdressed as laymen. The Protestants blamed poor Campion for that, you know; buthad he not gone in disguise, they would only have hanged him all the sooner. Ilike not hypocrisy.”
Anthony was greatly impressed by Father Robert when he met him at supper. Hewas a tall and big man, who seemed about forty years of age, with a longsquare-jawed face, a pointed beard and moustache, and shrewd penetrating eyes.He seemed to be a man in advance of his time; he was full of reforms andschemes that seemed to Anthony remarkably to the point; and they were reformstoo quite apart from ecclesiasticism, but rather such as would be classed inour days under the title of Christian Socialism.
For example, he showed a great sympathy for the condition of the poor andoutcast and criminals; and had a number of very practical schemes for theirbenefit.
“Two things,” he said, in answer to a question of Anthony’s, “I would doto-morrow if I had the power. First I would allow of long leases for fifty anda hundred years. Everywhere the soil is becoming impoverished; each mansqueezes out of it as much as he can, and troubles not to feed the land or tocare for it beyond his time. Long leases, I hold, would remedy this. It wouldencourage the farmer to look before him and think of his sons and his sons’sons. And second, I would establish banks for poor men. There is many a man nowa-begging who would be living still in his own house, if there had been somehonest man whom he could have trusted to keep his money for him, and, maybe,give him something for the loan of it: for in these days, when there is so muchenterprise, money has become, as it were, a living thing that grows; or at theleast a tool that can be used; and therefore, when it is lent, it is right thatthe borrower should pay a little for it. This is not the same as the usury thatHoly Church so rightly condemns: at least, I hold not, though some, I know,differ from me.”
After supper the talk turned on education: here, too, the priest had his views.
“But you are weary of hearing me!” he said, in smiling apology. “You willthink me a schoolmaster.”
“And I pray you to consider me your pupil,” said Mr. Buxton. The priest made alittle deprecating gesture.
“First, then,” he said, “I would have a great increase of grammar schools. Itis grievous to think of England as she will be when this generation grows up:the schooling was not much before; but now she has lost first the schools thatwere kept by Religious, and now the teaching that the chantry-priests used togive. But this perhaps may turn to advantage; for when the Catholic Religion isre-established in these realms, she will find how sad her condition is; and, Ihope, will remedy it by a better state of things than before—first, by a greatnumber of grammar schools where the lads can be well taught for small fees, andwhere many scholarships will be endowed; and then, so great will be theincrease of learning, as I hope, that we shall need to have a third university,to which I should join a third Archbishoprick, for the greater dignity of both;and all this I should set in the north somewhere, Durham or Newcastle, maybe.”
He spoke, too, with a good deal of shrewdness of the increase of highwayrobbery, and the remedies for it; remarking that, although in other respectsthe laws were too severe, in this matter their administration was too lax;since robbers of gentle birth could generally rely on pardon. He spoke of theHoly Brotherhood in Spain (with which country he seemed familiar), and its goodresults in the putting down of violence.
Anthony grew more and more impressed by this man’s practical sense and ability;but less drawn to him in consequence as his spiritual guide. He fancied thattrue spirituality could scarcely exist in this intensely practical nature. Whensupper was over, and the priests had gone back to their rooms, and his host andhe were seated before a wide blazing hearth in Mr. Buxton’s own little roomdownstairs, he hinted something of the sort. Mr. Buxton laughed outright.
“My dear friend,” he said, “you do not know these Jesuits (for of course youhave guessed that he is one); their training and efficiency is beyond allimagining. In a week from now you will be considering how ever Father Robertcan have the heart to eat his dinner or say ‘good-day’ with such a spiritualvision and insight as he has. You need not fear. Like the angel in theRevelation, he will call you up to heaven, hale you to the abyss and show youthings to come. And, though you may not believe it, it is the man’s intense andsimple piety that makes him so clear-sighted and practical; he lives so closeto God that God’s works and methods, so perplexing to you and me, are plain tohim.”
They went on talking together for a while. Mr. Buxton said that Father Roberthad thought it best for Anthony not to enter Retreat until the Monday evening;by which time he could have sufficiently familiarised himself with his newsurroundings, so as not to find them a distraction during his spiritualtreatment. Anthony agreed to this. Then they talked of all kinds of things. Hishost told him of his neighbours; and explained how it was that he enjoyed suchliberty as he did.
“You noticed the church, Mr. Norris, did you not, at your arrival, overlookingthe garden? It is a great advantage to me to have it so close. I can sit in myown garden and hear the Genevan thunders from within. He preaches so loud thatI might, if I wished, hear sermons, and thus satisfy the law and his Reverence;and at the same time not go inside an heretical meeting-house, and thus satisfymy own conscience and His Holiness. But I fear that would not have saved me,had I not the ear of his Reverence. I will tell you how it was. When the lawsbegan to be enforced hereabouts, his Reverence came to see me; and sat in thatvery chair that you now occupy.
“‘I hear,’ said he, cocking his eye at me, ‘that her Grace is becoming strict,and more careful for the souls of her subjects.’
“I agreed with him, and said I had heard as much.
“‘The fine is twenty pounds a month,’ says he, ‘for recusancy,’ and then helooks at me again.”
“At first I did not catch his meaning; for, as you have noticed, Mr. Norris, Iam but a dull man in dealing with these sharp and subtle Protestants: and thenall at once it flashed across me.
“‘Yes, your Reverence,’ I said, ‘and it will be the end of poor gentlemen likeme, unless some kind friend has pity on them. How happy I am in having you!’ Isaid, ‘I have never yet shown my appreciation as I should: and I propose now togive you, to be applied to what purposes you will, whether the sustenance ofthe minister or anything else, the sum of ten pounds a month; so long as I amnot troubled by the Council. Of course, if I should be fined by the Council, Ishall have to drop my appreciation for six months or so.’
“Well, Mr. Norris, you will hardly believe it, but the old doctor opened hismouth and gulped and rolled his eyes, like a trout taking a fly; and I wasnever troubled until fifteen months ago, when they got at me in spite of him.But he has lost, you see, a matter of one hundred and fifty pounds while I havebeen at Wisbeach; and I shall not begin to appreciate him again for another sixmonths; so I do not think I shall be troubled again.”
Anthony was amazed, and said so.
“Well,” said the other, “I was astonished too; and should never have dreamt ofappreciating him in such a manner unless he had proposed it. I had a littledifficulty with Mr. Blake, who told me that it was a libellum, and thatI should be ashamed to pay hush money. But I told him that he might call itwhat he pleased, but that I would sooner pay ten pounds a month and be inpeace, than twenty pounds a month and be perpetually harassed: and FatherRobert agrees with me, and so the other is content now.”
The next day, which was Sunday, passed quietly. Mass was no doubt saidsomewhere in the house; though Anthony saw no signs of it. He himself attendedthe reverend doctor’s ministrations in the morning; and found him to be what hehad been led to expect.
In the afternoon he walked up and down the lime avenue with Father Robert,while the evening prayer and sermon rumbled forth through the broken chancelwindow; and they talked of the Retreat and the arrangements.
“You no doubt think, Mr. Norris,” said the priest, “that I shall preach at youin this Retreat, and endeavour to force you into the Catholic Church; but Ishall do nothing of the kind. The whole object of the Exercises is to clearaway the false motives that darken the soul; to place the Figure of ourRedeemer before the soul as her dear and adorable Lover and King; and then tokindle and inspire the soul to choose her course through the grace of God, forthe only true final motive of all perfect action,—that is, the pure Love ofGod. Of course I believe, with the consent of my whole being, that the CatholicChurch is in the right; but I shall not for a moment attempt to compel you toaccept her. The final choice, as indeed the Retreat too, must be your freeaction, not mine.”
They arranged too the details of the Retreat; and Anthony was shown the littleroom beyond Father Robert’s bedroom, where the Exercises would be given; andinformed that another gentleman who lived in the neighbourhood would come inevery day for them too, but that he would have his meals separately, and thatAnthony himself would have his own room and the room beneath entirely at hisprivate disposal, as well as the little walled garden to walk in.
The next day Mr. Buxton took Anthony a long ride, to invigorate him for theRetreat that would begin after supper. Anthony learned to his astonishment anddelight that Mary Corbet was a great friend of Mr. Buxton’s.
“Why, of course I know her,” he said. “I have known her since she was a tinygirl, and threw her mass-book at the minister’s face the first time he read themorning prayer. God only knows why she was so wroth with the man for differingfrom herself on a point that has perplexed the wisest heads: but at any rate,wroth she was, and bang went her book. I had to take her out, and she wasspitting like a kitten all down the aisle when the dog puts his head into thebasket.
“‘What’s that man doing here?’ she screamed out; ‘where’s the altar and thepriest?’ And then at the door, as luck would have had it, she saw that SaintChristopher was gone; and she began bewailing and bemoaning him until you’dhave thought he’d have been bound to come down from heaven, as he did onceacross the dark river, and see what in the world the crying child wanted withhim.”
They came about half-way in their ride through the village of Penshurst; and onreaching the Park turned off under the beeches towards the house.
“We have not time to go in,” said Mr. Buxton, “but I hope you will see thehouse sometime; it is a pattern of what a house should be; and has a patternmaster.”
As they came up to the Edwardine Gate-house, a pleasant-faced, quietly-dressedgentleman came riding out alone.
“Why, here he is!” said Mr. Buxton, and greeted him with great warmth, andmade Anthony known to him.
“I am delighted to know Mr. Norris,” said Sidney, with that keen friendly lookthat was so characteristic of him. “I have heard of him from many quarters.”
He entreated them to come in; but Mr. Buxton said they had not time; but wouldif they might just glance into the great court. So Sidney took them through thegate-house and pointed out one or two things of interest from the entrance, theroof of the Great Hall built by Sir John de Pulteney, the rare tracery in itswindows and the fine living-rooms at one side.
“I thank God for it every day,” said Sidney gravely. “I cannot imagine why Heshould have given it me. I hope I am not fool enough to disparage His gifts,and pretend they are nothing: indeed, I love it with all my heart. I would assoon think of calling my wife ugly or a shrew.”
“That is a good man and a gentleman,” said Mr. Buxton, as they rode away atlast in the direction of Leigh after leaving Sidney to branch off towardsCharket, “and I do not know why he is not a Catholic. And he is a critic and apoet, men say, too.”
“Have you read anything of his?” asked Anthony.
“Well,” said the other, “to tell the truth, I have tried to read some sheetsof his that he wrote for his sister, Lady Pembroke. He calls it ‘Arcadia’; I donot know whether it is finished or ever will be. But it seemed to me wondrousdull. It was full of shepherds and swains and nymphs, who are perpetuallyeating collations which Phœbus or sunburnt Autumn, and the like, provides ofhis bounty; or any one but God Almighty; or else they are bathing andsurprising one another all day long. It is all very sweet and exquisite, Iknow; and the Greece, where they all live and love one another, must be a verydelightful country, as unlike this world as it is possible to imagine; but itwearies me. I like plain England and plain folk and plain religion and plainfare; but then I am a plain man, as I tell you so often.”
As the afternoon sun drew near setting, they came through Tonbridge.
“Now, what can a man ask more,” said Mr. Buxton, as they rode through it,“than a good town like this? It is not a great place, I know, with solemnbuildings and wide streets; neither is it a glade or a dell; but it is a goodclean English town; and I would not exchange it for Arcadia or Athens either.”
Stanfield lay about two miles to the west; and on their way out, Mr. Buxtontalked on about the country and its joys and its usefulness.
“Over there,” he said, pointing towards Eridge, “was the first cannon made inEngland. I do not know if that is altogether to its credit, but it at leastshows that we are not quite idle and loutish in the country. Then all abouthere is the iron; the very stirrups you ride in, Mr. Norris, most likely camefrom the ground beneath your feet; but it is sad to see all the woods cut downfor the smelting of it. All these places for miles about here, and about GreatKeynes too, are all named after the things of forestry and hunting. Buckhurst,Hartfield, Sevenoaks, Forest Row, and the like, all tell of the country, andwill do so long after we are dead and gone.”
They reached Stanfield, rode past the green and the large piece of water there,and up the long village street, and turned into the iron gates beyond thechurch, just as the dusk fell.
That evening after supper the Retreat began. The conduct of the SpiritualExercises had not reached the elaboration to which they have been perfectedsince; nor, in Anthony’s case, a layman and a young man, did Father Robertthink fit to apply it even in all the details in which it would be used for apriest or for one far advanced in the spiritual life; but it was severe enough.
Every evening Father Robert indicated the subject of the following day’smeditation; and then after private prayer Anthony retired to his room. He roseabout seven o’clock in the morning, and took a little food at eight; thenshortly before nine the first meditation was given elaborately. The firstexamination of conscience was made at eleven; followed by dinner at half-past.From half-past twelve to half-past one Anthony rested in his room; then untilthree he was encouraged to walk in the garden; at three the meditation was tobe recalled point by point in the chapel, followed by spiritual reading; atfive o’clock supper was served; and at half-past six the meditation wasrepeated with tremendous emphasis and fervent acts of devotion; at half-pasteight a slight collation was laid in his room; and at half-past nine themeditation for the following day was given. Father Robert in his previous talkswith Anthony had given him instructions as to how to occupy his own time, tokeep his thoughts fixed and so forth. He had thought it wise too not to extendthe Retreat for longer than a fortnight; so that it was proposed to end it onPalm Sunday. Two or three times in the week Anthony rode out by himself; andFather Robert was always at his service, besides himself coming sometimes totalk to him when he thought the strain or the monotony was getting too heavy.
As for the Exercises themselves, the effect of them on Anthony was beyond alldescription. First the circumstances under which they were given were of thegreatest assistance to their effectiveness. There was every aid that romanceand mystery could give. Then it was in a strange and beautiful house whereeverything tended to caress the mind out of all self-consciousness. The littlepanelled room in which the exercises were given looked out over the quietgarden, and no sound penetrated there but the far-off muffled noises of thepeaceful village life, the rustle of the wind in the evergreens, and theoccasional coo or soft flapping flight of a pigeon from the cote in the garden.The room itself was furnished with two or three faldstools and upright woodenarm-chairs of tolerable comfort; a table was placed at the further end, onwhich stood a realistic Spanish crucifix with two tapers always burning beforeit; and a little jar of fragrant herbs. Then there was the continual sense ofslight personal danger that is such a spur to refined natures; here was aCatholic house, of which every member was strictly subject to penalties, andabove all one of that mysterious Society of Jesus, the very vanguard of theCatholic army, and of which every member was a picked and trained champion.Then there was the amazing enthusiasm, experience, and skill of Father Robert,as he called himself; who knew human nature as an anatomist knows the structureof the human body; to whom the bewildering tangle of motives, good, bad andindifferent, in the soul, was as plain as paths in a garden; who knew whathuman nature needed, what it could dispense with, what was its power ofresistance; and who had at his disposal for the storming of the soul an armouryof weapons and engines, every specimen of which he had tested and wielded overand over again. Little as Anthony knew it, Father Robert, during the first twodays after his arrival, had occupied himself with sounding and probing thelad’s soul, trying his intellect by questions that scarcely seemed to be so,taking the temperature of his emotional nature by tales and adroit remarks, andwatching the effect of them; in short, with studying the soul who had come forhis treatment as a careful doctor examines the health of a new patient beforehe issues his prescription. And then, lastly, there were the Exercisesthemselves, a mighty weapon in any hands; and all but irresistible whendirected by the skill, and inspired by the enthusiasm and sincere piety of sucha man as Father Robert.
The Exercises fell into three parts, each averaging in Anthony’s case aboutfive days. First came the Purgative Exercises: the object of these was tocleanse and search out the very recesses of the soul; as fire separates goldfrom alloy.
As Anthony knelt in the little room before the Crucifix day by day, it seemedto him as if the old conventional limitations and motives of action and controlwere rolling back, revealing the realities of the spiritual world. TheExercises began with an elaborate exposition of the End of man—which may beroughly defined as the Glory of God attained through the saving and sanctifyingof the individual. Every creature of God, then, that the soul encounters mustbe tested by this rule, How far does the use of it serve for the final end? Forit must be used so far, and no farther. Here then was a diagram of theExercises, given in miniature at the beginning.
Then the great facts that practically all men acknowledge, and upon which sofew act, were brought into play. Hell, Judgment and Death in turn began to workupon the lad’s soul—these monstrous elemental Truths that underlie all things.As Father Robert’s deep vibrating voice spoke, it appeared to Anthony as if theroom, the walls, the house, the world, all shrank to filmy nothingness beforethe appalling realities of these things. In that strange and profound “Exerciseof the senses” he heard the moaning and the blasphemies of the damned, of thoserebellious free wills that have enslaved themselves into eternal bondage by adeliberate rejection of God—he put out his finger and tasted the bitterness oftheir furious tears—the very reek of sin came to his nostrils, of thatcorruption that is in existence through sin; nay, he saw the very flaming hellsred with man’s wrath against his Maker.
Then he traced back, under the priest’s direction, the Judgment through whichevery soul must pass; he saw the dead, great and small, stand before God; thebooks, black with blotted shame, were borne forth by the recording angels andspread before the tribunal. His ears tingled with that condemning silence ofthe Judge beyond Whom there is no appeal, from whose sentence there is norespite, and from whose prison there is no discharge; and rang with thatpealing death-sentence at which the angels hide their faces, but to which theconscience of the criminal assents that it is just. His soul looked out atthose whirling hosts on either side, that black cloud going down to despair,that radiant company hastening to rise to the Uncreated Light in whom there isno darkness at all—and cried in piteous suspense to know on which side sheherself one day would be.
Then he came yet one step further back still, and told himself the story of hisdeath. He saw the little room where he would lie, his bed in one corner; he sawIsabel beside the bed; he saw himself, white, gasping, convulsed, upon it—theshadows of the doctor and the priest were upon the wall—he heard his own quicksobbing breath, he put out his finger and touched his own forehead wet with thedeath-dew—he tasted and smelt the faint sickly atmosphere that hangs about adeath chamber; and he watched the grey shadow of Azrael’s wing creep across hisface. Then he saw the sheet and the stiff form beneath it; and knew that theywere his features that were hidden; and that they were his feet that stood upstark below the covering. Then he visited his own grave, and saw the month-oldgrass blowing upon it, and the little cross at the head; then he dug downthrough the soil, swept away the earth from his coffin-plate; drew the screwsand lifted the lid....
Then he placed sin beneath the white light; dissected it, analysed it, weighedit and calculated its worth, watched its development in the congenialsurroundings of an innocent soul, that is rich in grace and leisure and gifts,and saw the astonishing reversal of God’s primal law illustrated in the processof corruption—the fair, sweet, fragrant creature passing into foulness. Helooked carefully at the stages and modes of sin—venial sins, those tiny ulcersthat weaken, poison and spoil the soul, even if they do not slayit—lukewarmness, that deathly slumber that engulfs the living thing intogradual death—and, finally, mortal sin, that one and only wholly hideous thing.He saw the indescribable sight of a naked soul in mortal sin; he saw how theearth shrank from it, how nature grew silent at it, how the sun darkened at it,how hell yelled at it, and the Love of God sickened at it.
And so, as the purgative days went by, these tempests poured over his soul,sifted through it, as the sea through a hanging weed, till all that was notorganically part of his life was swept away, and he was left a simple soulalone with God. Then the second process began.
To change the metaphor, the canvas was now prepared, scoured, bleached andstretched. What is the image to be painted upon it? It is the image of Christ.
Now Father Robert laid aside his knives and his hammer, and took up his softbrushes, and began stroke by stroke, with colours beyond imagining, to lay uponthe eager canvas the likeness of an adorable Lover and King. Anthony watchedthe portrait grow day by day with increasing wonder. Was this indeed the Jesusof Nazareth of whom he had read in the Gospels? he rubbed his eyes and looked;and yet there was no possibility of mistake,—line for line it was the same.
But this portrait grew and breathed and moved, and passed through all thestages of man’s life. First it was the Eternal Word in the bosom of the Father,the Beloved Son who looked in compassion upon the warring world beneath; andoffered Himself to the Father who gave Him through the Energy of the BlessedSpirit.
Then it was a silent Maid that he saw waiting upon God, offering herself withher lily beside her; and in answer on a sudden came the lightning of Gabriel’sappearing, and, lo! the Eternal Word stole upon her down a ray of glory. Andthen at last he saw the dear Child born; and as he looked he was invited toenter the stable; and again he put out his hand and touched the coarse strawthat lay in the manger, and fingered the rough brown cord that hung from Mary’swaist, and smelled the sweet breath of the cattle, and the burning oil ofJoseph’s lantern hung against the wall, and shivered as the night wind shrilledunder the ill-fitting door and awoke the tender Child.
Then he watched Him grow to boyhood, increasing in wisdom and stature, Him whowas uncreated Wisdom, and in whose Hands are the worlds—followed Him, lovingHim more at every step, to and from the well at Nazareth with the pitcher onHis head: saw Him with blistered hands and aching back in the carpenter’s shop;then at last went south with Him to Jordan; listened with Him, hungering, tothe jackals in the wilderness; rocked with Him on the high Temple spire; staredwith Him at the Empires of all time, and refused them as a gift. Then he wentwith Him from miracle to miracle, laughed with joy at the leper’s new skin;wept in sorrow and joy with the mother at Nain, and the two sisters at Bethany;knelt with Mary and kissed His feet; went home with Matthew and Zaccheus, andsat at meat with the merry sinners; and at last began to follow silent andamazed with face set towards Jerusalem, up the long lonely road from Jericho.
Then, with love that almost burned his heart, he crouched at the moonlit dooroutside and watched the Supper begin. Judas pushed by him, muttering, andvanished in the shadows of the street. He heard the hush fall as the Bread wasbroken and the Red Wine uplifted; and he hid his face, for he dared not yetlook with John upon a glory whose veils were so thin. Then he followed thesilent company through the overhung streets to the Temple Courts, and downacross the white bridge to the garden door. Then, bolder, he drew near, leftthe eight and the three and knelt close to the single Figure, who sobbed andtrembled and sweated blood. Then he heard the clash of weapons and saw theglare of the torches, and longed to warn Him but could not; saw the bittershame of the kiss and the arrest and the flight; and followed to Caiaphas’house; heard the stinging slap; ran to Pilate’s house; saw that polishedgentleman yawn and sneer; saw the clinging thongs and the splashed floor whenthe scourging was over; followed on to Calvary; saw the great Cross rise up atlast over the heads of the crowd, and heard the storm of hoots and laughter andthe dry sobs of the few women. Then over his head the sun grew dull, and theearth rocked and split, as the crosses reeled with their swinging burdens.Then, as the light came back, and the earth ended her long shudder, he saw inthe evening glow that his Lord was dead. Then he followed to the tomb; saw thestone set and sealed and the watch appointed; and went home with Mary and John,and waited.
Then on Easter morning, wherever his Lord was, he was there too; with Mary inthat unrecorded visit; with the women, with the Apostles; on the road toEmmaus; on the lake of Galilee; and his heart burned with Christ at his side,on lake and road and mountain.
Then at last he stood with the Twelve and saw that end that was so glorious abeginning; saw that tender sky overhead generate its strange cloud that was thedoor of heaven; heard far away the trumpets cry, and the harps begin to ripplefor the new song that the harpers had learned at last; and then followed withhis eyes the Lord whom he had now learned to know and love as never before, asHe passed smiling and blessing into the heaven from which one day He willreturn....
There, then, as Anthony looked on the canvas, was that living, moving face andfigure. What more could He have done that He did not do? What perfection couldbe dreamed of that was not already a thousand times His?
And when the likeness was finished, and Father Robert stepped aside from theportrait that he had painted with such tender skill and love, it is littlewonder that this lad threw himself down before that eloquent vision and criedwith Thomas, My Lord and my God!
Then, very gently, Father Robert led him through those last steps; up from theIlluminative to the Unitive; from the Incarnate Life with its warm humaninterests to that Ineffable Light that seems so chill and unreal to those whoonly see it through the clouds of earth, into that keen icy stillness, whereonly favoured and long-trained souls can breathe, up the piercing air of theslopes that lead to the Throne, and there in the listening silence of heaven,where the voice of adoration itself is silent through sheer intensity, whereall colours return to whiteness and all sounds to stillness, all forms toessence and all creation to the Creator, there he let him fall inself-forgetting love and wonder, breathe out his soul in one ardentall-containing act, and make his choice.
EASTER DAY
Holy Week passed for Anthony like one of those strange dreams in which thesleeper awakes to find tears on his face, and does not know whether they arefor joy or sorrow. At the end of the Retreat that closed on Palm Sundayevening, Anthony had made his choice, and told Father Robert.
It was not the Exercises themselves that were the direct agent, any more thanwere the books he had read: the books had cleared away intellectualdifficulties, and the Retreat moral obstacles, and left his soul desiring thehighest, keen to see it, and free to embrace it. The thought that he would haveto tell Isabel appeared to him of course painful and difficult; but it wasswallowed up in the joy of his conversion. He made an arrangement with FatherRobert to be received at Cuckfield on Easter Eve; so that he might have anopportunity of telling Isabel before he took the actual step. The priest toldhim he would give him a letter to Mr. Barnes, so that he might be receivedimmediately upon his arrival.
Holy Week, then, was occupied for Anthony in receiving instruction each morningin the little oak parlour from Father Robert; and in attending the devotions inthe evening with the rest of the household. He also heard mass each day.
It was impossible, of course, to carry out the special devotions of the seasonwith the splendour and elaboration that belonged to them; but Anthony wasgreatly impressed by what he saw. The tender reverence with which the Catholicsloved to linger over the details of the Passion, and to set them like preciousjewels in magnificent liturgical settings, and then to perform these statelyheart-broken approaches to God with all the dignity and solemnity possible,appealed to him in strong contrast to the cold and loveless services, as he nowthought them, of the Established Church that he had left.
On the Good Friday evening he was long in the parlour with Father Robert.
“I am deeply thankful, my son,” he said kindly, “that you have been able tocome to a decision. Of course I could have wished you to enter the Society; butGod has not given you a vocation to that apparently. However, you can do greatwork for Him as a seminary priest; and I am exceedingly glad that you will begoing to Douai so soon.”
“I must just put my affairs in order at home,” he said, “and see whatarrangements my sister will wish to make; and by Midsummer at the latest Ishall hope to be gone.”
“I must be off early to-morrow,” said the priest. “I have to be far from hereby to-morrow night, in a house where I shall hope to stay until I, too, goabroad again. Possibly we may meet at Douai in the autumn. Well, my son, prayfor me.”
Anthony knelt for his blessing, and the priest was gone.
Presently Mr. Buxton came in and sat down. He was full of delight at the resultof his scheme; and said so again and again.
“Who could have predicted it?” he cried. “To think that you were visiting mein prison fifteen months ago; and now this has come about in my house! Trulythe Gospel blessing on your action has not been long on the way! And that youwill be a priest, too! You must come and be my chaplain some day; if we areboth alive and escape the gallows so long. Old Mr. Blake is sore displeasedwith me. I am a trial to him, I know. He will hardly speak to me in my ownhouse; I declare I tremble when I meet him in the gallery; for fear he willrate me before my servants. I forget what his last grievance is; but I think itis something to do with a saint that he wishes me to be devout to; and I do notlike her. Of course I do not doubt her sanctity; but Mr. Blake always confusesveneration and liking. I yield to none in my veneration for SaintWhat’s-her-name; but I do not like her; and that is an end of the matter.”
After a little more talk, Mr. Buxton looked at Anthony curiously a moment ortwo; and then said:
“I wonder you have not guessed yet who Father Robert is; for I am sure you knowthat that cannot be his real name.”
Anthony looked at him wonderingly.
“Well, he is in bed now; and will be off early to-morrow; and I have his leaveto tell you. He is Father Persons, of whom you may have heard.”
Anthony stared.
“Yes,” said his host, “the companion of Campion. All the world supposes him tobe in Rome; and I think that not half-a-dozen persons besides ourselves knowwhere he is; but at this moment, I assure you, Father Robert Persons, of theSociety of Jesus, is asleep (or awake, as the case may be) in the littletapestry chamber overhead.”
“Now,” went on Mr. Buxton, “that you are one of us, I will tell you quiteplainly that Father Robert, as we will continue to call him, is in my opinionone of the most devout priests that ever said mass; and also one of the mostshrewd men that ever drew breath; but I cannot follow him everywhere. You willfind, Mr. Anthony, that the Catholics in England are of two kinds: those whoseem to have as their motto the text I quoted to you in Lambeth prison; and whocount their duty to Cæsar as scarcely less important than their direct duty toGod. I am one of these: I sincerely desire above all things to serve her Grace,and I would not, for all the world, join in any confederacy to dethrone her,for I hold she is my lawful and true Prince. Then there is another party whowould not hesitate for a moment to take part against their Prince, though I donot say to the slaying of her, if thereby the Catholic Religion could beestablished again in these realms. It is an exceedingly difficult point; and Iunderstand well how honest and good men can hold that view: for they say, andrightly, that the Kingdom of God is the first thing in the world, and whilethey may not commit sin of course to further it, yet in things indifferent theymust sacrifice all for it; and, they add, it is indifferent as to who sits onthe throne of England; therefore one Prince may be pushed off it, so long as nocrime is committed in the doing of it, and another seated there; if thereby theReligion may be so established again. You see the point, Mr. Anthony, no doubt;and how fine and delicate it is. Well, Father Robert is, I think, of thatparty; and so are many of the authorities abroad. Now I tell you all this, andon this sacred day too, because I may have no other opportunity; and I do notwish you to be startled or offended after you have become a Catholic. And Ientreat you to be warm and kindly to those who take other views than your own;for I fear that many troubles lie in front of us of our own causing: for thereare divisions amongst us already: although not at all of course (for which Ithank God) on any of the saving truths of the Faith.”
Anthony’s excitement on hearing Father Robert’s real name was very great. As helay in bed that night the thought of it all would hardly let him sleep. Heturned to and fro, trying to realise that there, within a dozen yards of him,lay the famous Jesuit for whose blood all Protestant England was clamouring.The name of Persons was still sinister and terrible even to this convert; andhe could scarcely associate in his thoughts all its suggestiveness with thatkindly fervent lover of Jesus Christ who had led him with such skill andtenderness along the way of the Gospel. Others in England were similarlyastonished in later years to learn that a famous Puritan book of devotions wasscarcely other than a reprint of Father Persons’ “Christian Directory.”
The following day about noon, after an affectionate good-bye to his host andMr. Blake, Anthony rode out of the iron-wrought gates and down the villagestreet in the direction of Great Keynes.
It was a perfect spring-day. Overhead there was a soft blue sky withtranslucent clouds floating in it; underfoot and on all sides the mystery oflife was beginning to stir and manifest itself. The last touch of bitternesshad passed from the breeze, and all living growth was making haste out into theair. The hedges were green with open buds, and bubbling with the laughter andecstasy of the birds; the high sloping overhung Sussex lanes were sweet withviolets and primroses; and here and there under the boughs Anthony saw the bluecarpet of bell-flowers spread. Rabbits whisked in and out of the roots,superintending and provisioning the crowded nurseries underground; and asAnthony came out, now and again on the higher and open spaces larks vanished uptheir airy spirals of song into the illimitable blue; or hung, visible musicalspecks against a fleecy cloud, pouring down their thin cataract of melody. Andas he rode, for every note of music and every glimpse of colour round him, hisown heart poured out pulse after pulse of that spiritual essence that liesbeneath all beauty, and from which all beauty is formed, to the Maker of allthis and the Saviour of himself. There were set wide before him now the gatesof a kingdom, compared to which this realm of material life round about was buta cramped and wintry prison after all.
How long he had lived in the cold and the dark! he thought; kept alive by therefracted light that stole down the steps to where he sat in the shadow ofdeath; saved from freezing by the warmth of grace that managed to survive thechill about him; and all the while the Catholic Church was glowing andpulsating with grace, close to him and yet unseen; that great realm full ofheavenly sunlight, that was the life of all its members—that sunlight that hadpoured down so steadily ever since the winter had rolled away on Calvary; andthat ever since then had been elaborating and developing into a thousandintricate forms all that was capable of absorbing it. One by one the great artshad been drawn into that Kingdom, transformed and immortalised by the vital andmiraculous sap of grace; philosophies, languages, sciences, all in turn weretaken up and sanctified; and now this Puritan soul, thirsty for knowledge andgrace, and so long starved and imprisoned, was entering at last into herheritage.
All this was of course but dimly felt in the direct perceptions of Anthony; butFather Robert had said enough to open something of the vision, and he himselfhad sufficient apprehension to make him feel that the old meagre life waspassing away, and a new life of unfathomed possibilities beginning. As he rodethe wilderness appeared to rejoice and blossom like the rose, as the spring ofnature and grace stirred about and within him; and only an hour or two’s rideaway lay the very hills and streams of the Promised Land.
About half-past three he crossed the London road, and before four o’clock herode round to the door of the Dower House, dismounted, telling the groom tokeep his horse saddled.
He went straight through the hall, calling Isabel as he went, and into thegarden, carrying his flat cap and whip and gloves: and as he came out beneaththe holly tree, there she stood before him on the top of the old stone gardensteps, that rose up between earthen flower-jars to the yew-walk on the north ofthe house. He went across the grass smiling, and as he came saw her face growwhiter and whiter. She was in a dark serge dress with a plain ruff, and a hoodbehind it, and her hair was coiled in great masses on her head. She stoodtrembling, and he came up and took her in his arms tenderly and kissed her, forhis news would be heavy presently.
“Why, Isabel,” he said, “you look astonished to see me. But I could not wellsend a man, as I had only Geoffrey with me.”
She tried to speak, but could not; and looked so overwhelmed and terrified thatAnthony grew frightened; he saw he must be very gentle.
“Sit down,” he said, drawing her to a seat beside the path at the head of thesteps: “and tell me the news.”
By a great effort she regained her self-control.
“I did not know when you were coming,” she said tremulously. “I wasstartled.”
He talked of his journey for a few minutes; and of the kindness of the friendwith whom he had been staying, and the beauty of the house and grounds, and soon; until she seemed herself again; and the piteous startled look had died outof her eyes: and then he forced himself to approach his point; for the horsewas waiting saddled; and he must get to Cuckfield and back by supper ifpossible.
He took her hand and played with it gently as he spoke, turning over her rings.
“Isabel,” he said, “I have news to tell you. It is not bad news—at least Ithink not—it is the best thing that has ever come to me yet, by the grace ofGod, and so you need not be anxious or frightened. But I am afraid you maythink it bad news. It—it is about religion, Isabel.”
He glanced at her, and saw that terrified look again in her face: she wasstaring at him, and her hand in his began to twitch and tremble.
“Nay, nay,” he said, “there is no need to look like that. I have not lost myfaith in God. Rather, I have gained it. Isabel, I am going to be a Catholic.”
A curious sound broke from her lips; and a look so strange came into her facethat he threw his arm round her, thinking she was going to faint: and he spokesharply.
“Isabel, Isabel, what is there to fear? Look at me!”
Then a cry broke from her white lips, and she struggled to stand up.
“No, no, no! you are mocking me. Oh! Anthony, what have I done, that you shouldtreat me like this?”
“Mocking!” he said, “before God I am not. My horse is waiting to take me tothe priest.”
“But—but—” she began again. “Oh! then what have you done to James Maxwell?”
“James Maxwell! Why? What do you mean? You got my note!”
“No—no. There was no answer, he said.”
Anthony stared.
“Why, I wrote—and then Lady Maxwell! Does she not know, and James himself?”
Isabel shook her head and looked at him wildly.
“Well, well, that must wait; one thing at a time,” he said. “I cannot wait now. I must go to Cuckfield. Ah! Isabel, say you understand.”
Once or twice she began to speak, but failed; and sat panting and staring athim.
“My darling,” he said, “do not look like that: we are both Christians still:we at least serve the same God. Surely you will not cast me off for this?”
“Cast you off?” she said; and she laughed piteously and sharply; and then wasgrave again. Then she suddenly cried,
“Oh, Anthony, swear to me you are not mocking me.”
“My darling,” he said, “why should I mock you? I have made the Exercises, andhave been instructed; and I have here a letter to Mr. Barnes from the priestwho has taught me; so that I may be received to-night, and make my Easterduties: and Geoffrey is still at the door holding Roland to take me toCuckfield to-night.”
“To Cuckfield!” she said. “You will not find Mr. Barnes there.”
“Not there! why not? Where shall I find him? How do you know?”
“Because he is here,” she went on in the same strange voice, “at the Hall.”
“Well,” said Anthony, “that saves me a journey. Why is he here?”
“He is here to say mass to-morrow.”
“Ah!”
“And—and——”
“What is it, Isabel?”
“And—to receive me into the Church to-night.”
The brother and sister walked up and down that soft spring evening aftersupper, on the yew-walk; with the whispers and caresses of the scented breezeabout them, the shy dewy eyes of the stars looking down at them between thetall spires of the evergreens overhead; and in their hearts the joy of loverson a wedding-night.
Anthony had soon told the tale of James Maxwell and Isabel had nearly knelt toask her brother’s pardon for having ever allowed even the shadow of a suspicionto darken her heart. Lady Maxwell, too, who had come down with her sister tosee Isabel about some small arrangement, was told; and she too had been nearlyoverwhelmed with the joy of knowing that the lad was innocent, and the grief ofhaving dreamed he could be otherwise, and at the wholly unexpected news of hisconversion; but she had gone at last back to the Hall to make all ready for thedouble ceremony of that night, and the Paschal Feast on the next day. MistressMargaret was in Isabel’s room, moving about with a candle, and every time thatthe two reached the turn at the top of the steps they saw her light glimmering.
Then Anthony, as they walked under the stars, told Isabel of his great hopethat he, too, one day would be a priest, and serve God and his countrymen thatway.
“Oh, Anthony,” she whispered, and clung to that dear arm that held her own;terrified for the moment at the memory of what had been the price of priesthoodto James Maxwell.
“And where shall you be trained for it?” she asked.
“At Douai: and—Isabel—I think I must go this summer.”
“This summer!” she said. “Why——” and she was silent.
“Anthony,” she went on, “I would like to tell you about Hubert.”
And then the story of the past months came out; she turned away her face as shetalked; and at last she told him how Hubert had come for his answer, a weekbefore his time.
“It was on Monday,” she said. “I heard him on the stairs, and stood up as hecame in; and he stopped at the door in silence, and I could not bear to look athim. I could hear him breathing quickly; and then I could not bear to—think ofit all; and I dropped down into my chair again, and hid my face in my arm andburst into crying. And still he said nothing, but I felt him come close up tome and kneel down by me; and he put his hand over mine, and held them tight;and then he whispered in a kind of quick way:
“‘I will be what you please; Catholic or Protestant, or what you will’; and Ilifted my head and looked at him, because it was dreadful to hearhim—Hubert—say that: and he was whiter than I had ever seen him; and then—thenhe began to wrinkle his mouth—you know the way he does when his horse ispulling or kicking: and then he began to say all kinds of things: and oh! I wasso sorry; because he had behaved so well till then.”
“What did he say?” asked Anthony quickly.
“Ah! I have tried to forget,” said Isabel. “I do not want to think of him ashe was when he was angry and disappointed. At last he flung out of the room anddown the stairs, and I have not seen him since. But Lady Maxwell sent for methe same evening an hour later; and told me that she could not live there anylonger. She said that Hubert had ridden off to London; and would not be downagain till Whitsuntide; but that she must be gone before then. So I am afraidthat he said things he ought not; but of course she did not tell me one word.And she asked me to go with her. And, and—Anthony, I did not know what to say;because I did not know what you would do when you heard that I was a Catholic;I was waiting to tell you when you came home—but now—but now——Oh, Anthony, mydarling!”
At last the two came indoors. Mistress Margaret met them in the hall. Shelooked for a moment at the two; at Anthony in his satin and lace and hissmiling face over his ruff and his steady brown eyes; and Isabel on his arm,with her clear pale face and bosom and black high-piled hair, and her velvetand lace, and a rope of pearls.
“Why,” said the old nun, smiling, “you look a pair of lovers.”
Then presently the three went together up to the Hall.
An hour or two passed away; the Paschal moon was rising high over the tall yewhedge behind the Italian garden; and the Hall lay beneath it with silver roofsand vane; and black shadows under the eaves and in the angles. The tall orielwindow of the Hall looking on to the terrace shone out with candlelight; andthe armorial coats of the Maxwells and the families they had married withglimmered in the upper panes. From the cloister wing there shone out above thecurtains lines of light in Lady Maxwell’s suite of rooms, and the little oakparlour beneath, as well as from one or two other rooms; but the rest of thehouse, with the exception of the great hall and the servants’ quarters, was alldark. It was as if the interior life had shifted westwards, leaving theremainder desolate. The gardens to the south were silent, for the night breezehad dropped; and the faint ripple of the fountain within the cloister-court wasthe only sound that broke the stillness. And once or twice the sleepy chirp ofa bird nestling by his mate in the deep shrubberies showed that the life of thespring was beating out of sight.
And then at last the door in the west angle of the terrace, between thecloister wing and the front of the house, opened, and a flood of mellow lightpoured out on to the flat pavement. A group stood within the little oakenred-tiled lobby; Lady Maxwell and her sister, slender and dignified in theirdark evening dresses and ruffs; Anthony holding his cap, and Isabel with a laceshawl over her head, and at the back the white hair and ruddy face of old Mr.Barnes in his cassock at the bottom of the stairs.
As Mistress Margaret opened the door and looked out, Lady Maxwell took Isabelin her arms and kissed her again and again. Then Anthony took the old lady’shand and kissed it, but she threw her other hand round him and kissed him tooon the forehead. Then without another word the brother and sister came out intothe moonlight, passed down the side of the cloister wing, and turning once tosalute the group who waited, framed and bathed in golden light, they turned thecorner to the Dower House. Then the door closed; the oriel window suddenlydarkened, and an hour after the lights in the wing went out, and Maxwell Halllay silver and grey again in the moonlight.
The night passed on. Once Isabel awoke, and saw her windows blue and mysticaland her room full of a dim radiance from the bright night outside. It wasirresistible, and she sprang out of bed and went to the window across the coolpolished oak floor, and leaned with her elbows on the sill, looking out at thesquare of lawn and the low ivied wall beneath, and the tall trees rising beyondashen-grey and olive-black in the brilliant glory that poured down from almostdirectly overhead, for the Paschal moon was at its height above the house.
And then suddenly the breathing silence was broken by a ripple of melody, andanother joined and another; and Isabel looked and wondered and listened, forshe had never heard before the music of the mysterious night-flight of thelarks all soaring and singing together when the rest of the world is asleep.And she listened and wondered as the stream of song poured down from thewonderful spaces of the sky, rising to far-off ecstasies as the wheeling worldsank yet further with its sleeping meadows and woods beneath the whirlingsingers; and then the earth for a moment turned in its sleep as Isabellistened, and the trees stirred as one deep breath came across the woods, and athrush murmured a note or two beside the drive, and a rabbit suddenly awoke inthe field and ran on to the lawn and sat up and looked at the white figure atthe window; and far away from the direction of Lindfield a stag brayed.
“So longeth my soul,” whispered Isabel to herself.
Then all grew still again; the trees hushed; the torrent of music, moretumultuous as it neared the earth, suddenly ceased; and Isabel at the windowleaned further out and held her hands in the bath of light; and spoke softlyinto the night:
“Oh, Lord Jesus, how kind Thou art to me!”
Then at last the morning came, and Christ was risen beyond a doubt.
Just before the sun came up, when all the sky was luminous to meet him, the twoagain passed up and round the corner, and into the little door in the angle.There was the same shaded candle or two, for the house was yet dark within; andthey passed up and on together through the sitting-room into the chapel whereeach had made a First Confession the night before, and had together beenreceived into the Catholic Church. Now it was all fragrant with flowers andherbs; a pair of tall lilies leaned their delicate heads towards the altar, asif to listen for the soundless Coming in the Name of the Lord; underfoot allabout the altar lay sprigs of sweet herbs, rosemary, thyme, lavender,bay-leaves; with white blossoms scattered over them—a soft carpet for thePierced Feet; not like those rustling palm-swords over which He rode to deathlast week. The black oak chest that supported the altar-stone was glorious inits vesture of cloth-of-gold; and against the white-hung wall at the back,behind the silver candlesticks, leaned the gold plate of the house, to dohonour to the King. And presently there stood there the radiant rustling figureof the Priest, his personality sheathed and obliterated beneath the splendidsymbolism of his vestments, stiff and chinking with jewels as he moved.
The glorious Mass of Easter Day began.
“Immolatus est Christus. Itaque epulemur,” Saint Paul cried from thesouth corner of the altar to the two converts. “Christ our Passover issacrificed for us; therefore let us keep the feast, but not with the oldleaven.”
“Quis revolvet nobis lapidem?” wailed the women. “Who shall roll us awaythe stone from the door of the sepulchre?”
“And when they looked,” cried the triumphant Evangelist, “they saw that thestone was rolled away; for it was very great”—“erat quippe magnusvalde.”
Here then they knelt at last, these two come home together, these who hadfollowed their several paths so resolutely in the dark, not knowing that theother was near, yet each seeking a hidden Lord, and finding both Him and oneanother now in the full and visible glory of His Face—orto jam sole—forthe Sun of Righteousness had dawned, and there was healing for all sorrows inHis Wings.
“Et credo in unam sanctam Catholicam et Apostolicam Ecclesiam”—theirhearts cried all together. “I believe at last in a Catholic Church; one, for itis built on one and its faith is one; holy, for it is the Daughter of God andthe Mother of Saints; Apostolic, for it is guided by the Prince of Apostles andvery Vicar of Christ.”
“Et exspecto vitam venturi saeculi.” “I look for the life of the worldto come; and I count all things but loss, houses and brethren and sisters andfather and mother and wife and children and lands, when I look to thateverlasting life, and Him Who is the Way to it. Amen.”
So from step to step the liturgy moved on with its sonorous and exultant tramp,and the crowding thoughts forgot themselves, and watched as the splendidheralds went by; the triumphant trumpets of Gloria in excelsis hadlong died away; the proclamation of the names and titles of the Prince had beenmade. Unum Dominum Jesum Christum; Filium Dei Unigenitum; Ex Patre natum ante omnia saecula; Deum de Deo; Lumen deLumine; Deum Verum de Deo Vero; Genitum non factum; Consubstantialem Patri.
Then His first achievement had been declared; “Per quem omnia factasunt.”
Then his great and later triumphs; how He had ridden out alone from the Palaceand come down the steep of heaven in quest of His Love; how He had disguisedHimself for her sake; and by the crowning miracle of love, the mightiest workthat Almighty God has ever wrought, He was made man; and the herald hushed hisvoice in awe as he declared it, and the people threw themselves prostrate inhonour of this high and lowly Prince; then was recounted the tale of thosevictories that looked so bitterly like failures, and the people held theirbreath and whispered it too; then in rising step after step His last conquestswere told; how the Black Knight was overthrown, his castle stormed and hisprison burst; and the story of the triumph of the return and of the Coronationand the Enthronement at the Father’s Right Hand on high.
The heralds passed on; and mysterious figures came next, bearing Melchisedech’sgifts; shadowing the tremendous event that follows on behind.
After a space or two came the first lines of the bodyguard, the heavenlycreatures dimly seen moving through clouds of glory, Angels, Dominations,Powers, Heavens, Virtues, and blessed Seraphim, all crying out together toheaven and earth to welcome Him Who comes after in the bright shadow of theName of the Lord; and the trumpets peal out for the last time, “Hosanna in thehighest.”
Then a hush fell, and presently in the stillness came riding the greatPersonages who stand in heaven about the Throne; first, the Queen Motherherself, glorious within and without, moving in clothing of wrought gold, highabove all others; then, the great Princes of the Blood Royal, who are admittedto drink of the King’s own Cup, and sit beside Him on their thrones, Peter andPaul and the rest, with rugged faces and scarred hands; and with them greatmitred figures, Linus, Cletus and Clement, with their companions.
And then another space and a tingling silence; the crowds bow down like cornbefore the wind, the far-off trumpets are silent; and He comes—He comes!
On He moves, treading under foot the laws He has made, yet borne up by them ason the Sea of Galilee; He Who inhabits eternity at an instant is made present;He Who transcends space is immanent in material kind; He Who never leaves theFather’s side rests on His white linen carpet, held yet unconfined; in themidst of the little gold things and embroidery and candle-flames and lilies,while the fragrance of the herbs rises about Him. There rests the graciousKing, before this bending group; the rest of the pageant dies into silence andnothingness outside the radiant circle of His Presence. There is His immediatepriest-herald, who has marked out this halting-place for the Prince, bowingbefore Him, striving by gestures to interpret and fulfil the silence that wordsmust always leave empty; here behind are the adoring human hearts, each lookingwith closed eyes into the Face of the Fairest of the children of men, eachcrying silently words of adoration, welcome and utter love.
The moments pass; the court ceremonies are performed. The Virgins that followthe Lamb, Felicitas, Perpetua, Agatha and the rest step forward smiling, andtake their part; the Eternal Father is invoked again in the Son’s own words;and at length the King, descending yet one further step of infinite humility,flings back the last vesture of His outward Royalty and casts Himself in apassion of haste and desire into the still and invisible depths of these twoquivering hearts, made in His own Image, that lift themselves in an agony oflove to meet Him....
Meanwhile the Easter morning is deepening outside; the sun is rising above theyew hedge, and the dew flashes drop by drop into a diamond and vanishes; thethrush that stirred and murmured last night is pouring out his song; and thelarks that rose into the moonlight are running to and fro in the long meadowgrass. The tall slender lilies that have not been chosen to grace thesacramental Presence-Chamber, are at least in the King’s own garden, where Hewalks morning and evening in the cool of the day; and waiting for those whowill have seen Him face to face....
And presently they come, the tall lad and his sister, silent and together, outinto the radiant sunlight; and the joy of the morning and the singing thrushand the jewels of dew and the sweet swaying lilies are shamed and put tosilence by the joy upon their faces and in their hearts.
PART III
THE COMING OF SPAIN
The conflict between the Old Faith and the lusty young Nation went steadilyforward after the Jesuit invasion; more and more priests poured into England;more and more were banished, imprisoned and put to death. The advent of FatherHolt, the Jesuit, to Scotland in 1583 was a signal for a new outburst ofCatholic feeling, which manifested itself not only in greater devotion toReligion, but, among the ill-instructed and impatient, in very questionableproceedings. In fact, from this time onward the Catholic cause suffered greatlyfrom the division of its supporters into two groups; the religious and thepolitical, as they may be named. The former entirely repudiated any desire orwillingness to meddle with civil matters; its members desired to be bothCatholics and Englishmen; serving the Pope in matters of Faith and Elizabeth inmatters of civil life; but they suffered greatly from the indiscretions andfanaticism of the political group. The members of that party frankly regardedthemselves as at war with an usurper and an heretic; and used warlike methodsto gain their ends; plots against the Queen’s life were set on foot; and theirpromoters were willing enough to die in defence of the cause. But the civilGovernment made the fatal mistake of not distinguishing between the two groups;again and again loyal Englishmen were tortured and hanged as traitors, becausethey shared their faith with conspirators.
There was one question, however, that was indeed on the borderline, exceedinglydifficult to answer in words, especially for scrupulous consciences; and thatwas whether they believed in the Pope’s deposing power; and this question wasadroitly and deliberately used by the Government in doubtful cases to ensure aconviction. But whether or not it was possible to frame a satisfactory answerin words, yet the accused were plain enough in their deeds; and when the Armadaat length was launched in ’88, there were no more loyal defenders of Englandthan the persecuted Catholics. Even before this, however, there had appearedsigns of reaction among the Protestants, especially against the torture anddeath of Campion and his fellows; and Lord Burghley in ’83 attempted to quietthe people’s resentment by his anonymous pamphlet, “Execution of Justice inEngland,” to which Cardinal Allen presently replied.
Ireland, which had been profoundly stirred by the military expedition from thecontinent in ’80, at length was beaten and slashed into submission again; andthe torture and execution of Hurley by martial law, which Elizabeth directed onaccount of his appointment to the See of Cashel, when the judges had pronouncedthere to be no case against him; and a massacre on the banks of the Moy in ’86of Scots who had come across as reinforcements to the Irish;—these wereincidents in the black list of barbarities by which at last a sort of temporaryquiet was brought to Ireland.
In Scottish affairs, the tangle, unravelled even still, of which Mary Stuartwas the centre, led at last to her death. Walsingham, with extraordinary skill,managed to tempt her into a dangerous correspondence, all of which he tapped onthe way: he supplied to her in fact the very instrument—an ingeniously madebeer-barrel—through which the correspondence was made possible, and, afterreading all the letters, forwarded them to their several destinations. When allwas ripe he brought his hand down on a group of zealots, to whose designs Marywas supposed to be privy; and after their execution, finally succeeded, in ’87,in obtaining Elizabeth’s signature to her cousin’s death-warrant. The stormalready raging against Elizabeth on the Continent, but fanned to fury by thisexecution, ultimately broke in the Spanish Armada in the following year.
Meanwhile, at home, the affairs of the Church of England were far fromprosperous. Puritanism was rampant; and a wail of dismay was evoked by the newdemands of a Commission under Whitgift’s guidance, in ’82, whereby the Puritandivines were now called upon to assent to the Queen’s Supremacy, theThirty-nine Articles and the Prayer Book. In spite of the opposition, however,of Burghley and the Commons, Whitgift, who had by this time succeeded toCanterbury upon Grindal’s death, remained firm; and a long and dreary disputebegan, embittered further by the execution of Mr. Copping and Mr. Thacker in’83 for issuing seditious books in the Puritan cause. A characteristic actionin this campaign was the issuing of a Puritan manifesto in ’84, consisting of abrief, well-written pamphlet of a hundred and fifty pages under the title “ALearned Discourse of Ecclesiastical Government,” making the inconsistent claimof desiring a return to the Primitive and Scriptural model, and at the sametime of advocating an original scheme, “one not yet handled.” It waspractically a demand for the Presbyterian system of pastorate and government.To this Dr. Bridges replies with a tremendous tome of over fourteen hundredpages, discharged after three years of laborious toil; and dealing, as thecustom then was, line by line, with the Puritan attack. To this in thefollowing year an anonymous Puritan, under the name of Martin Marprelate,retorts with a brilliant and sparkling riposte addressed to “The right puissantand terrible priests, my clergy-masters of the Convocation-house,” in which hemocks bitterly at the prelates, accusing them of Sabbath-breaking,time-serving, and popery,—calling one “dumb and duncetical,” another “theveriest coxcomb that ever wore velvet cap,” and summing them up generally as“wainscot-faced bishops,” “proud, popish, presumptuous, profane paltry,pestilent, and pernicious prelates.”
The Archbishop had indeed a difficult team to drive; especially as hiscoadjutors were not wholly proof against Martin’s jibes. In ’84 his brother ofYork had been mixed up in a shocking scandal; in ’85 the Bishop of Lichfieldwas accused of simony; Bishop Aylmer was continually under suspicion ofavarice, dishonesty, vanity and swearing; and the Bench as a whole wasuniversally reprobated as covetous, stingy and weak.
In civil matters, England’s relation with Spain was her most important concern.Bitter feeling had been growing steadily between the two countries ever sinceDrake’s piracies in the Spanish dominions in America; and a graduallyincreasing fleet at Cadiz was the outward sign of it. Now the bitterness wasdeepened by the arrest of English ships in the Spanish ports in the earlysummer of ’85, and the swift reprisals of Drake in the autumn; who intimidatedand robbed important towns on the coast, such as Vigo, where his men behavedwith revolting irreverence in the churches, and Santiago; and then proceeded tovisit and spoil S. Domingo and Carthagena in the Indies.
Again in ’87 Drake obtained the leave of the Queen to harass Spain once more,and after robbing and burning all the vessels in Cadiz harbour, he stormed theforts at Faro, destroyed Armada stores at Corunna, and captured the greattreasure-ship San Felipe.
Elizabeth was no doubt encouraged in her apparent recklessness by the beliefthat with the Netherlands, which she had been compelled at last to assist, in astate of revolt, Spain would have little energy for reprisals upon England; butshe grew more and more uneasy when news continued to arrive in England of thegrowing preparations for the Armada; France, too, was now so much involved withinternal struggles, as the Protestant Henry of Navarre was now the heir to herCatholic throne, that efficacious intervention could no longer be looked forfrom that quarter, and it seemed at last as if the gigantic Southern power wasabout to inflict punishment upon the little northern kingdom which had insultedher with impunity so long.
In the October of ’87 certain news arrived in England of the giganticpreparations being made in Spain and elsewhere: and hearts began to beat, andtongues to clack, and couriers to gallop. Then as the months went by, andtidings sifted in, there was something very like consternation in the country.Men told one another of the huge armament that was on its way, the vast shipsand guns—all bearing down on tiny England, like a bull on a terrier. They spokeof the religious fervour, like that of a crusade, that inspired the invasion,and was bringing the flower of the Spanish nobility against them: thesuperstitious contrasted their own Lion, Revenge, and Elizabeth Jonas with the Spanish San Felipe, San Matteo,and Our Lady of the Rosary: the more practical thought with even deepergloom of the dismal parsimony of the Queen, who dribbled out stores and powderso reluctantly, and dismissed her seamen at the least hint of delay.
Yet, little by little, as midsummer came and went, beacons were gathering onevery hill, ships were approaching efficiency, and troops assembling at Tilburyunder the supremely incompetent command of Lord Leicester.
Among the smaller seaports on the south coast, Rye was one of the most activeand enthusiastic; the broad shallow bay was alive with fishing-boats, and thesteep cobbled streets of the town were filled all day with a chatteringexultant crowd, cheering every group of seamen that passed, and that spent longhours at the quay watching the busy life of the ships, and predicting the greatthings that should fall when the Spaniards encountered the townsfolk, shouldthe Armada survive Drake’s onslaught further west.
About July the twentieth more definite news began to arrive. At least once aday a courier dashed in through the south-west gate, with news that all musthold themselves ready to meet the enemy by the end of the month; labour grewmore incessant and excitement more feverish.
About six o’clock on the evening of the twenty-ninth, as a long row of powderbarrels was in process of shipping down on the quay, the men who were rollingthem suddenly stopped and listened; the line of onlookers paused in theircomments, and turned round. From the town above came an outburst of cries,followed by the crash of the alarm from the church-tower. In two minutes thequay was empty. Out of every passage that gave on to the main street pouredexcited men and women, some hysterically laughing, some swearing, some silentand white as they ran. For across the bay westwards, on a point beyondWinchelsea, in the still evening air rose up a stream of smoke shaped like apine-tree, with a red smouldering root; and immediately afterwards in answerthe Ypres tower behind the town was pouring out a thick drifting cloud thattold to the watchers on Folkestone cliffs that the dreaded and longed-for foewas in sight of England.
Then the solemn hours of waiting began to pass. Every day and night there werewatchers, straining their eyes westwards in case the Armada should attempt tocoast along England to force a landing anywhere, and southwards in case theyshould pass nearer the French coast on their way to join the Prince of Parma;but there was little to be seen over that wide ring of blue sea except singlevessels, or now and again half-a-dozen in company, appearing and fading againon some unknown quest. The couriers that came in daily could not tell themmuch; only that there had been indecisive engagements; that the Spaniards hadnot yet attempted a landing anywhere; and that it was supposed that they wouldnot do so until a union with the force in Flanders had been effected.
And so four days of the following week passed; then on Thursday, August thefourth, within an hour or two after sunrise, the solemn booming of guns beganfar away to the south-west; but the hours passed; and before nightfall all wassilent again.
The suspense was terrible; all night long there were groups parading thestreets, anxiously conjecturing, now despondently, now cheerfully.
Then once again on the Friday morning a sudden clamour broke out in the town,and almost simultaneously a pinnace slipped out, spreading her wings and makingfor the open sea. A squadron of English ships had been sighted flyingeastwards; and the pinnace was gone to get news. The ships were watchedanxiously by thousands of eyes, and boats put out all along the coast toinquire; and within two or three hours the pinnace was back again in Ryeharbour, with news that set bells ringing and men shouting. On Wednesday, theskipper reported, there had been an indecisive engagement during the dead calmthat had prevailed in the Channel; a couple of Spanish store-vessels had beentaken on the following morning, and a general action had followed, which againhad been indecisive; but in which the English had hardly suffered at all, whileit was supposed that great havoc had been wrought upon the enemy.
But the best of the news was that the Rye contingent was to set sail at once,and unite with the English fleet westward of Calais by mid-day on Saturday. Thesquadron that had passed was under the command of the Admiral himself, who wasgoing to Dover for provisions and ammunition, and would return to his fleetbefore evening.
Before many hours were passed, Rye harbour was almost empty, and hundreds ofeyes were watching the ships that carried their husbands and sons and loversout into the pale summer haze that hung over the coast of France; while a fewsharp-eyed old mariners on points of vantage muttered to one another that inthe haze there was a patch of white specks to be seen which betokened thepresence of some vast fleet.
That night the sun set yellow and stormy, and by morning the cobble-stones ofRye were wet and dripping with storm-showers, and a swell was beginning to lapand sob against the harbour walls.
MEN OF WAR AND PEACE
The following days passed in terrible suspense for all left behind at Rye.Every morning all the points of vantage were crowded; the Ypres tower itselfwas never deserted day or night; and all the sharpest eyes in the town werebent continually out over that leaden rolling sea that faded into haze andstorm-cloud in the direction of the French coast. But there was nothing to beseen on that waste of waters but the single boats that flew up channel orlaboured down it against the squally west wind, far out at sea. Once or twicefishing-boats put in at Rye; but their reports were so contradictory anduncertain that they increased rather than allayed the suspense and misery. Nowit was a French boat that reported the destruction of the Triumph; nowan Englishman that swore to having seen Drake kill Medina-Sidonia with his ownhand on his poop; but whatever the news might be, the unrest and excitement ranhigher and higher. St. Clare’s chapel in the old parish church of St. Nicholaswas crowded every morning at five o’clock by an excited congregation of women,who came to beg God’s protection on their dear ones struggling out theresomewhere towards the dawn with those cruel Southern monsters. Especially greatwas the crowd on the Tuesday morning following the departure of the ships; forall day on Monday from time to time came a far-off rolling noise from thedirection of Calais; which many declared to be thunder, with an angry emphasisthat betrayed their real opinion.
When they came out of church that morning, and were streaming down to the quayas usual to see if any news had come in during the night, a seaman called tothem from a window that a French vessel was just entering the harbour.
When the women arrived at the water’s edge they found a good crowd alreadyassembled on the quay, watching the ship beat in against the north-west wind,which had now set in; but she aroused no particular comment as she was awell-known boat plying between Boulogne and Rye; and by seven o’clock she wasmade fast to the quay.
There were the usual formalities, stricter than usual during war, to be gonethrough before the few passengers were allowed to land: but all was in order;the officers left the boat, and the passengers came up the plank, the crowdpressing forward as they came, and questioning them eagerly. No, there was nocertain news, said an Englishman at last, who looked like a lawyer; it was saidat Boulogne the night before that there had been an engagement further upbeyond the Straits; they had all heard guns; and it was reported by the lastcruiser who came in before the boat left that a Spanish galleasse had runaground and had been claimed by M. Gourdain, the governor of Calais; butprobably, added the shrewd-eyed man, that was just a piece of their dirtyFrench pride. The crowd smiled ruefully; and a French officer of the boat whowas standing by the gangway scowled savagely, as the lawyer passed on with ademure face.
Then there was a pause in the little stream of passengers; and then, out of thetiny door that led below decks, walking swiftly, and carrying a long cloak overher arm, came Isabel Norris, in a grey travelling dress, followed by Anthonyand a couple of servants. The crowd fell back for the lady, who passed straightup through them; but one or two of the men called out for news to Anthony. Heshook his head cheerfully at them.
“I know no more than that gentleman,” he said, nodding towards the lawyer; andthen followed Isabel; and together they made their way up to the inn.
Anthony was a good deal changed in the last six years; his beard and moustachewere well grown; and he had a new look of gravity in his brown eyes; when hehad smiled and shaken his head at the eager crowd just now, showing his whiteregular teeth, he looked as young as ever; but the serious look fell on hisface again, as he followed Isabel up the steep little cobbled slope in his buffdress and plumed hat.
There was not so much apparent change in Isabel; she was a shade graver too,her walk a little slower and more dignified, and her lips, a little thinner,had a line of strength in them that was new; and even now as she was treadingEnglish ground again for the first time for six years, the look of slightabstraction in her eyes that is often the sign of a strong inner life, was justa touch deeper than it used to be.
They went up together with scarcely a word; and asked for a private room anddinner in two hours’ time; and a carriage and horses for the servants to beready at noon. The landlord, who had met them at the door, shook his head.
“The private room, sir, and the dinner—yes, sir—but the horses——” and he spreadhis hands out deprecatingly. “There is not one in the stall,” he added.
Anthony considered a moment.
“Well, what do you propose? We are willing to stay a day or two, if you thinkthat by then——”
“Ah,” said the landlord, “to-morrow is another matter. I expect two of mycarriages home to-night, sir, from London; but the horses will not be able totravel till noon to-morrow.”
“That will do,” said Anthony; and he followed Isabel upstairs.
It was very strange to them both to be back in England after so long. They hadsettled down at Douai with the Maxwells; but, almost immediately on theirarrival, Mistress Margaret was sent for by her Superior to the house of herOrder at Brussels; and Lady Maxwell was left alone with Isabel in a house inthe town; for Anthony was in the seminary.
Then, in ’86 Lady Maxwell had died, quite suddenly. Isabel herself had foundher at her prie-dieu in the morning, still in her evening dress; she wasleaning partly against the wall; her wrinkled old hands were clasped tightlytogether on a little ivory crucifix, on the top of the desk; and her snow-whitehead, with the lace drooping from it like a bridal veil, was bowed below them.Isabel, who had not dared to move her, had sent instantly for a little Frenchdoctor, who had thrown up his hands in a kind of devout ecstasy at thatwonderful old figure, rigid in an eternal prayer. The two tall tapers she hadlighted eight hours before were still just alight beside her, and lookedstrange in the morning sunshine.
“Pendant ses oraisons! pendant ses oraisons!” he murmured over and over again;and then had fallen on his knees and kissed the drooping lace of her sleeve.
“Priez pour moi, madame,” he whispered to the motionless figure.
And so the old Catholic who had suffered so much had gone to her rest. The factthat her son James had been living in the College during her four years’ stayat Douai had been perhaps the greatest possible consolation to her for beingobliged to be out of England; for she saw him almost daily; and it was he whosang her Requiem. Isabel had then gone to live with other friends in Douai,until Anthony had been ordained priest in the June of ’88, and was ready totake her to England; and now the two were bound for Stanfield, where Anthonywas to act as chaplain for the present, as Mr. Buxton had predicted so longbefore. Old Mr. Blake had died in the spring of the year, still disapproving ofhis patron’s liberal notions, and Mr. Buxton had immediately sent a specialmessenger all the way to Douai to secure Anthony’s services; and had insistedmoreover that Isabel should accompany her brother. They intended however tocall at the Dower House on the way, which had been left under the charge of oldMrs. Carroll; and renew the memories of their own dear home.
They talked little at dinner; and only of general matters, their journey, theArmada, their joy at getting home again; for they had been expressly warned bytheir friends abroad against any indiscreet talk even when they thoughtthemselves alone, and especially in the seaports, where so constant a watch waskept for seminary priests. The presence of Isabel, however, was the greatestprotection to Anthony; as it was almost unknown that a priest should travelwith any but male companions.
Then suddenly, as they were ending dinner, a great clamour broke out in thetown below them; a gun was fired somewhere; and footsteps began to rush alongthe narrow street outside. Anthony ran to the window and called to know whatwas the matter; but no one paid any attention to him; and he presently sat downagain in despair, and with one or two wistful looks.
“I will go immediately,” he said to Isabel, “and bring you word.”
A moment after a servant burst into the room.
“It is a Spanish ship, sir,” he said, “a prize—rounding Dungeness.”
In the afternoon, when the first fierce excitement was over, Anthony went downto the quay. He did not particularly wish to attract attention, and so he kepthimself in the background somewhat; but he had a good view of her as she laymoored just off the quay, especially when one of the town guard who had chargeof the ropes that kept the crowd back, seeing a gentleman in the crowd,beckoned him through.
“Your honour will wish to see the prize?” he said, in hopes of a trifle forhimself; “make way there for the gentleman.”
Anthony thought it better under these circumstances to accept the invitation,so he gave the man something, and slipped through. On the quay was a pile ofplunder from the ship: a dozen chests carved and steel-clamped stood together;half-a-dozen barrels of powder; the ship’s bell rested amid a heap of richclothes and hangings; a silver crucifix and a couple of lamps with their chainslay tumbled on one side; and a parson was examining a finely carved mahoganytable that stood near.
He looked up at Anthony.
“For the church, sir,” he said cheerfully. “I shall make application to herGrace.”
Anthony smiled at him.
“A holy revenge, sir,” he said.
The ship herself had once been a merchantman brig; so much Anthony could tell,though he knew little of seamanship; but she had been armed heavily with deepbulwarks of timber, pierced for a dozen guns on each broadside. Now, however,she was in a terrible condition. The solid bulwarks were rent and shattered, asindeed was her whole hull; near the waterline were nailed sheets of lead,plainly in order to keep the water from entering the shot-holes; she had onlyone mast; and that was splintered in more than one place; a spar had beenrigged up on to the stump of the bowsprit. The high poop such as distinguishedthe Spanish vessels was in the same deplorable condition; as well as thefigure-head, which represented a beardless man with a halo behind his head, andwhich bore the marks of fierce hacks as well as of shot.
Anthony read the name,—the San Juan da Cabellas.
From the high quay too he could see down on to the middle decks, and there wasthe most shocking sight of all, for the boards and the mast-stumps and thebulwarks and the ship’s furniture were all alike splashed with blood, some ofthe deeper pools not even yet dry. It was evident that the San Juan had not yielded easily.
Presently Anthony saw an officer approaching, and not wishing to be led intoconversation slipped away again through the crowd to take Isabel the news.
The two remained quietly upstairs the rest of the afternoon, listening to thesinging and the shouting in the streets, and watching from their window thegroups that swung and danced to and fro in joy at Rye’s contribution to thedefeat of the invaders. When the dusk fell the noise was louder than ever asthe men began to drink more deep, and torches were continually tossing up anddown the steep cobbled streets; the din reached its climax about half-pastnine, when the main body of the revellers passed up towards the inn, and, asAnthony saw from the window, finally entered through the archway below; andthen all grew tolerably quiet. Presently Isabel said that she would go to bed,but just before she left the room, the servant again came in.
“If you please, sir, Lieutenant Raxham, of the Seahorse, is telling thetale of the capture of the Spanish ship; and the landlord bid me come and tellyou.”
Anthony glanced at Isabel, who nodded at him.
“Yes; go,” she said, “and come up and tell me the news afterwards, if it isnot very late.”
When Anthony came downstairs he found to his annoyance that the place of honourhad been reserved for him in a tall chair next to the landlord’s at the head ofthe table. The landlord rose to meet his guest.
“Sit here, sir,” he said. “I am glad you have come. And now, Mr. Raxham——”
Anthony looked about him with some dismay at this extreme publicity. The roomwas full from end to end. They were chiefly soldiers who sat at thetable—heavy-looking rustics from Hawkhurst, Cranbrook and Appledore, inbrigantines and steel caps, who had been sent in by the magistrates to thenearest seaport to assist in the defence of the coast—a few of them worecorselets with almain rivets and carried swords, while the pike-heads of theothers rose up here and there above the crowd. The rest of the room was filledwith the townsmen of Rye—those who had been retained for the defence of thecoast, as well as others who for any physical reason could not serve by sea orland. There was an air of extraordinary excitement in the room. The faces ofthe most stolid were transfigured, for they were gathered to hear of thestruggle their own dear England was making; the sickening pause of those monthsof waiting had ended at last; the huge southern monster had risen up over theedge of the sea, and the panting little country had flown at his throat andgrappled him; and now they were hearing the tale of how deep her fangs hadsunk.
The crowd laughed and applauded and drew its breath sharply, as one man; andthe silence now and then was startling as the young officer told his story;although he had few gifts of rhetoric, except a certain vivid vocabulary. Hehimself was a lad of eighteen or so, with a pleasant reckless face, now flushedwith drink and excitement, and sparkling eyes; he was seated in a chair uponthe further end of the table, so that all could hear his story; and he had acup of huff-cup in his left hand as he talked, leaving his right hand free toemphasise his points and slap his leg in a clumsy sort of oratory. His tale wasfull of little similes, at which his audience nodded their heads now and then,approvingly. He had apparently already begun his story, for when Anthony hadtaken his seat and silence had been obtained, he went straight on without anyfurther introduction.
The landlord leaned over to Anthony. “The San Juan,” he whisperedbehind his hot hairy hand, and nodded at him with meaning eyes.
“And every time they fired over us,” went on the lieutenant, “and we firedinto them; and the only damage they did us was their muskets in the tops. Theykilled Tom Dane like that”—there was a swift hiss of breath from the room; butthe officer went straight on—“shot him through the back as he bent over hisgun; and wounded old Harry and a score more; but all the while, lads, we werea-pounding at them with the broadsides as we came round, and raking them withthe demi-cannon in the poop, until—well; go you and see the craft as she liesat the quay if you would know what we did. I tell you, as we came at her oncetowards the end, I saw that she was bleeding through her scuppers like a pig,from the middle deck. They were all packed up there together—sailors andsoldiers and a priest or two; and scarce a ball could pass between the poop andthe forecastle without touching flesh.”
The lad stopped a moment and took a pull at his cup, and a murmur of talk brokeout in the room. Anthony was surprised at his accent and manner of speaking,and heard afterwards that he was the son of the parson at one of the inlandvillages, and had had an education. In a moment he went on.
“Well—it would be about noon, just before the Admiral came up from Calais, thatthe old Seahorse was lost. We came at the dons again as we had donebefore, only closer than ever; and just as the captain gave the word to put herabout, a ball from one of their guns which they had trained down on us, cut oldDick Kemp in half at the helm, and broke the tiller to splinters.”
“Old Dick?” said a man’s voice out of the reeking crowd, “Old Dick?”
There was a murmur round him, bidding him hold his tongue; and the lad went on.
“Well, we drifted nearer and nearer. There was nought to do but to bang atthem; and that we did, by God—and to board her if we touched. Well, I worked mysaker, and saw little else—for the smoke was like a black sea-fog; and thenoise fit to crack your ears. Mine sing yet with it; the captain was bawlingfrom the poop, and there were a dozen pikemen ready below; and then on a suddencame the crash; and I looked up and there was the Spaniards’ decks above us,and the poop like a tower, with a grinning don or two looking down; and therewas I looking up the muzzle of a culverin. I skipped towards the poop, shoutingto the men; and the dons fired their broadside as I went.—God save us from thatdin! But I knew the old Seahorse was done this time—the old shiplurched and shook as the balls tore through her and broke her back; and therewas such a yell as you’ll never hear this side of hell. Well—I was on the poopby now, and the men after me; for you see the poop of the Seahorse wasas high as the middle deck of the Spaniard, and we must board from there or notat all. Well, lads, there was the captain before me. He had fought cool tillthen, as cool as a parson among his roses, with never an oath from hismouth—but now he was as scarlet as a poppy, and his eyes were like blue fire,and his mouth jabbered and foamed; he was so hot, you see, at the loss of hisship. He was dancing to and fro waiting while the poop swung round on the tide;and the old craft plunged deeper in every wave that lifted her, but he cared nomore for that nor for the musket-balls from the tops, nor for the browngrinning devils who shook their pikes at him from the decks, than—than a maddog cares for a shower of leaves; but he stamped there and cursed them anddamned them as they laughed at him; and then in a moment the poop touched.
“Well, lads—” and the lieutenant set his cup down on the table, clapped hishands on his knees, laughed shortly and nervously once or twice, and lookedround. “Well, lads, I have never seen the like. The captain went for them likea wild cat; one step on the rail and the next among them; and was gone like astone into water”—and the lad clapped his hand on his thigh. “I saw one faceslit up from chin to eye; and another split across like an apple; and then wewere after him. The men were mad, too—what was left of us; and we poured up onto the decks and left the old Seahorse to die. Well, we had our workbefore us—but it was no good. The dons could do nothing; I was after thecaptain as he went through the pack and came out just behind him; there werehalf a dozen of them down now; and the noise and the foreign oaths went up likesmoke; and the captain himself was bleeding down one side of his face andgrunting as he cut and stabbed; and I had had a knife through the arm; but hewent up on to the poop; and as I followed, the Spaniards broke and threw downtheir arms—they saw ’twas no use, you see. When we reached the poop-stairs anofficer in a blue coat came forward jabbering some jargon; but the captainwould have no parley with him, but flung his dag clean into the man’s face, andover he went backwards—with his damned high heels in the air.”
There was a sudden murmur of laughter from the room; Anthony glanced off thelieutenant’s grinning ruddy face for a moment, and saw the rows of listeningfaces all wrinkled with mirth.
“Well,” went on the lad, “up went the captain, and I after him. Then therecame across the deck, very slow and stately, the Spanish captain himself, in afine laced coat and a plumed hat, and he was holding out his sword by the bladeand bowed as we ran towards him, and began some damned foreign nonsense, withhis Señor—but the captain would have none o’ that, I tell you hewas like Tom o’ Bedlam now—so as the Señor grinned at him with his monkeyface and bowed and wagged, the captain fetched him a slash across the cheekwith his sword that cut up into his head; and that don went spinning across thepoop like a morris-man and brought up against the rail, and then down hecame,” and the lad dashed his hand on his thigh again—“as dead as mutton.”
Again came a louder gust of laughter from the room. Anthony half rose in hischair, and then sat down again.
“Well,” said the lad, “and that was not all. Down he raged again to the decksand I behind him—I tell you, it was like a butcher’s shop—but it was quieternow—the fighting was over—and the Spaniards were all run below, excepthalf-a-dozen in the tops; looking down like young rooks at an archer. There hadbeen a popish priest too with his crucifix in one hand and his god-almighty inthe other, over a dying man as we came up; but as we came down there he lay inhis black gown with a hole through his heart and his crucifix gone. One of thelads had got it no doubt. Well, the captain brought up at the main mast. ‘God’sblood,’ he bawled, ‘where are the brown devils got to?’ Some one told him, andpointed down the hatch. Well, then I turned sick with my wound and the smell ofthe place and all; and I knew nothing more till I found myself sitting on adead don, with the captain holding me up and pouring a cordial down mythroat.”
Then talk and laughter broke out in the audience; but the landlord held up hishand for silence.
“And what of the others?” he shouted.
“Dead meat too,” said the lad—“the captain went down with a dozen or more andhunted them out and finished them. There was one, Dick told me afterwards,”and the lieutenant gave a cackle of mirth, “that they hunted twice round theship before he jumped over yelling to some popish saint to help him; but itseems he was deaf, like the old Baal that parson tells of o’ Sundays. The dirtyswine to run like that! Well, he’s got his bellyful now of the salt water thathe came so far to see. And then the captain with his own hands trained arobinet that was on the poop on to the tops; and down the birds came, one byone; for their powder up there was all shot off.”
“And the Seahorse?” said the landlord again.
There fell a dead silence: all in the room knew that the ship was lost, but itwas terrible to hear it again. The lad’s face broke into lines of grief, and hespoke huskily.
“Gone down with the dead and wounded; and the rest of the fleet a mile away.”
Then the lieutenant went on to describe how he himself had been deputed tobring the San Juan into port with the wounded on board, while thecaptain and the rest of the crew by Drake’s orders attached themselves tovarious vessels that were short-handed, and how the English fleet had followedwhat was left of the Spaniards when the fight ended at sunset, up towards theNorth Sea.
When he finished his story there was a tremendous outburst of cheering andhammering upon the table, and the feet and the pike-butts thundered on thefloor, and a name was cried again and again as the cups were emptied.
“God save her Grace and old England!” yelled a slim smooth-faced archer fromAppledore.
“God send the dons and all her foes to hell!” roared a burly pikeman with hiscup in the air. Then the room shook again as the toasts were drunk withapplauding feet and hands.
Anthony turned to the landlord, who had just ceased thumping with his great redfists on the table.
“What was the captain’s name?” he asked, when a slight lull came.
“Maxwell,” said the crimson-faced man. “Hubert Maxwell—one of Drake’s ownmen.”
When Anthony came upstairs he heard his name called through the door, and wentin to Isabel’s room to find her sitting up in bed in the gloom of the summernight; the party below had broken up, and all was quiet except for the far-offshouts and hoots of cheerful laughter from the dispersing groups down among thenarrow streets.
“Well?” she said, as he came in and stood in the doorway.
“It is just the story of the prize,” he said, “and it seems that Hubert hadthe taking of it.”
There was silence a moment. Anthony could see her face, a motionless paleoutline, and her arms clasped round her knees as she sat up in bed.
“Hubert?” she asked in an even voice.
“Yes, Hubert.”
There was silence a moment.
“Well?” she said again.
“He is safe,” said Anthony, “and fought gallantly. I will tell you moreto-morrow.”
“Ah!” said Isabel softly; and then lay down again.
“Good-night, Anthony.”
“Good-night.”
But Anthony dared not tell her the details next day, after all.
There was still a difficulty about the horses; they had not arrived until theWednesday morning, and were greatly exhausted by a long and troublesomejourney; so the travellers consented to postpone their journey for yet one moreday. The weather, which had been thickening, grew heavier still in theafternoon, and great banks of clouds were rising out of the west. Anthonystarted out about four o’clock for a walk along the coast; and, making a longround in the direction of Lydd, did not finally return until about seven. As hecame in at the north-east of the town he noticed how empty the streets were,and passed on down in the direction of the quay. As he turned down the steepstreet into the harbour groups began to pour up past him, laughing andexclaiming; and in a moment more came Isabel walking alone. He looked at heranxiously, for he saw something had happened. Her quiet face was lit up withsome interior emotion, and her mouth was trembling.
“The Armada is routed,” she said; “and I have seen Hubert.”
The two turned back together and walked silently up to the inn. There she toldhim the story. She had been told that Captain Maxwell was come in the Elizabeth, for provisions for Lord Howard Seymour’s squadron, to which hisnew command was attached; and that he was even now in harbour. At that she hadgone straight down alone.
“Oh, Anthony!” she cried, “you know how it is with me. I could not help it. Iam not ashamed of it. God Almighty knows all, and is not wrath with me. So Iwent down and was in the crowd as he came down again with the mayor, Mr. Hamon;we all made way for them, and the men cheered themselves scarlet; but he camedown cool and quiet; you know his way—with his eyes half shut; and—and—he wasso brown; and he looks sad—and he had a great plaister on the left temple. Andthen he saw me.”
Isabel sprang up, and came up to Anthony and took his hands. “Oh! Anthony; Iwas very happy then; because he took off his cap and bowed; and his face wasall lighted; and he took my hand and kissed it—and then made Mr. Hamon known tome. The crowd laughed and said things—but I did not care; and he soon silencedthem, he looked round so fiercely; and then I went on board with him—he wouldhave it so—and he showed us everything—and we sat a little in the cabin; and hetold me of his wife and child. She is the daughter of a Plymouth minister; heknew her when he was with Drake; and he told me all about her, so you see——”Isabel broke off; and sat down in the high window seat. “And then he asked meabout you; and I said you were here; and that we were going to stay a littlewhile with Mr. Buxton of Stanfield—you see I knew we could trust him; and Mr.Hamon was in the passage just then looking at the guns; and then a sailor camein to say that all was ready; and so we came away. But it was so good to seehim again; and to know that he was so happy.”
Anthony looked at his sister in astonishment; her quiet manner was gone, andshe was talking again almost like an excited child; and so happily. It was verystrange, he thought. He sat down beside her.
“Oh, Anthony!” she said, “do you understand? I love him dearly still; and hiswife and child too. God bless them all and keep them!”
The mystery was still deep to him; and he feared to say what he should not; sohe kissed Isabel silently; and the two sat there together and looked out overthe crowding red roofs to the glowing western sky across the bay below them.
HOME-COMING
It was a stormy summer evening as the brother and sister rode up between thelast long hills that led to Great Keynes. A south-west wind had been rising allday, that same wind that was now driving the ruined Armada up into the fierceNorth Sea, with the fiercer men behind to bar the return. But here, twentymiles inland, with the high south-downs to break the gale, the riders were incomparative quiet, though the great trees overhead tossed their heavy rustlingheads as the gusts struck them now and again.
The party had turned off, as the dusk was falling, from the main-road intobridle-paths that they knew well, and were now approaching the village throughthe water meadows on the south-east side along a ride that would bring them,round the village, direct to the Dower House. In the gloom Anthony could makeout the tall reeds, and the loosestrife and willowherb against them, thatmarked the course of the stream where he had caught trout, as a boy; andagainst the western sky, as he turned in his saddle, rose up the high windyhills where he had hawked with Hubert so many years before. It was a strangethought to him as he rode along that his very presence here in his own countrywas an act of high treason by the law lately passed, and that every day helived here must be a day of danger.
For Isabel, too, it was strange to be riding up again towards the battlefieldof her desires—that battlefield where she had lived for years in such childishfaith and peace without a suspicion of the forces that were lurking beneath herown quiet nature. But to both of them the sense of home-coming was strongerthan all else—that strange passion for a particular set of inanimate things—or,at the most, for an association of ideas—that has no parallel in humanemotions; and as they rode up the darkening valley and the lights of the highwindows of the Hall began to show over the trees on their right, Anthony forgothis treason and Isabel her conflicts, and both felt a lump rise in the throat,and their hearts begin to beat quicker with a strange pleasurable pulse, and toIsabel’s eyes at least there rose up great tears of happiness and content;neither dared speak, but both looked eagerly about at the pool where theMayflies used to dance, at the knoll where the pigeons nested, at the littlelow bridge beneath which their inch-long boats used to slide sideways intodarkness, and the broad marshy flats where the gorgeous irises grew.
“How the trees have grown!” said Anthony at last, with an effort; “I cannotsee the lights from the house.”
“Mrs. Carroll will have made ready the first-floor rooms then, on the south.”
“I am sorry they are not our own,” said Anthony.
“Ah, look! there is the dovecote,” cried Isabel.
They were passing up now behind the farm buildings; and directly afterwardscame round in front of the little walled garden to the west of the house.
There was a sudden exclamation from Anthony; and Isabel stared in silentdismay. The old house rose up before them with its rows of square windowsagainst the night sky, dark. There was not a glimmer anywhere; even Mrs.Carroll’s own room on the south was dark. They reined their horses in and stooda moment.
“Oh, Anthony, Anthony!” cried Isabel suddenly, “what is it? Is there no onethere?”
Anthony shook his head; and then put his tired beast to a shambling trot withIsabel silent again with weariness and disappointment behind him. They passedalong outside the low wall, turned the corner of the house and drew up at theodd little doorway in the angle at the back of the house. The servants haddrawn up behind them, and now pressed up to hold their horses; and the brotherand sister slipped off and went towards the door. Anthony passed under thelittle open porch and put his hand out to the door; it was quite darkunderneath the porch, and he felt further and further, and yet there was nodoor; his foot struck the step. He felt his way to the doorposts and groped forthe door; but still there was none; he could feel the panelling of the lobbyinside the doorway, and that was all. He drew back, as one would draw back froma dead face on which one had laid a hand in the dark.
“Oh, Anthony!” said Isabel again, “what is it?” She was still outside.
“Have you a light?” said Anthony hoarsely to the servants.
The man nearest him bent and fumbled in the saddle-bags, and after what seemedan interminable while kindled a little bent taper and handed it to him. As hewent towards the porch shading it with his hand, Isabel sprang past him andwent before; and then, as the light fell through the doorway, stopped in deadand bewildered silence.
The door was lying on the floor within, shattered and splintered.
Anthony stepped beside her, and she turned and clung to his arm, and a sob ortwo made itself heard. Then they looked about them. The banisters above themwere smashed, and like a cataract, down the stairs lay a confused heap ofcrockery, torn embroidery and clothes, books, and broken furniture.
Anthony’s hand shook so much that the shadows of the broken banisters waved onthe wall above like thin exulting dancers.
Suddenly Anthony started.
“Mrs. Carroll,” he exclaimed, and he darted upstairs past the ruins into hertwo rooms halfway up the flight; and in a minute or two was back with Isabel.
“She has escaped,” he said in a low voice; and then the two stood lookingabout them silently again. The door leading to the cellars on the left wasbroken too; and fragments of casks and bottles lay about the steps; the whitewall was splashed with drink, and there was a smell of spirits in the air.Evidently the stormers had thought themselves worthy of their hire.
“Come,” he said again; and leaving the entrance lobby, the two passed to thehall-door and pushed that open and looked. There was the same furious confusionthere; the tapestry was lying tumbled and rent on the floor—the high oakmantelpiece was shattered, and doleful cracks and splinters in the panellingall round showed how mad the attack had been; one of the pillars of the furtherarchway was broken clean off, and the brickwork showed behind; the pictures hadbeen smashed and added to the heap of wrecked furniture and broken glass in themiddle.
“Come,” he said once more; and the two passed silently through the brokenarchway, and going up the other flight of stairs, gradually made the round ofthe house. Everywhere it was the same, except in the servants’ attics, where,apparently, the mob had not thought it worth while to go.
Isabel’s own room was the most pitiable of all; the windows had only the leadenframes left, and those bent and battered; the delicate panelling was scarredand split by the shower of stones that had poured in through the window andthat now lay in all parts of the room. A painting of her mother that had hungover her bed was now lying face downwards on the floor. Isabel turned it oversilently; a stone had gone through the face; and it had been apparently slittoo by some sharp instrument. Even the slender oak bed was smashed in thecentre, as if half a dozen men had jumped upon it at once; and the littleprie-dieu near the window had been deliberately hacked in half. Isabel lookedat it all with wide startled eyes and parted lips; and then suddenly sank downon the wrecked bed where she had hoped to sleep that night, and began to soblike a child.
“Ah! I did think—I did think——” she began.
Anthony stooped and tried to lift her.
“Come, my darling,” he said, “is not this a high honour? Qui relinquitdomos!”
“Oh! why have they done it?” sobbed Isabel. “What harm have we done them?”and she began to wail. She was thoroughly over-tired and over-wrought; andAnthony could not find it in his heart to blame her; but he spoke againbravely.
“We are Catholics,” he said; “that is why they have done it. Do not throw awaythis grace that our Lord has given us; embrace it and make it yours.”
It was the priest that was speaking now; and Isabel turned her face and lookedat him; and then got up and hid her face on his shoulder.
“Oh, Anthony, help me!” she said; and so stood there, quiet.
He came down presently to the servants, while Isabel went upstairs to preparethe rooms in the attics; for it was impossible for them to ride further thatnight; so they settled to sleep there, and stable the horses; and to ride onearly the next day, and be out of the village before the folks were about.Anthony gave directions to the servants, who were Catholics too, and explainedin a word or two what had happened; and bade them come up to the house as soonas they had fed and watered the beasts; meanwhile he took the saddle-bagsindoors and spread out their remaining provisions in one of the downstairsrooms; and soon Isabel joined him.
“I have made up five beds,” she said, and her voice and lips were steady, andher eyes grave and serene again.
The five supped together in the wrecked kitchen, a fine room on the east of thehouse, supported by a great oak pillar to which the horses of guests weresometimes attached when the stable was full.
Isabel managed to make a fire and to boil some soup; but they hung thickcurtains across the shattered windows, and quenched the fire as soon as thesoup was made, for fear that either the light or the smoke from the chimneyshould arouse attention.
When supper was over, and the two men-servants and Isabel’s French maid werewashing up in the scullery, Isabel suddenly turned to Anthony as they sattogether near the fireplace.
“I had forgotten,” she said, “what we arranged as we rode up. I must go andtell her still.”
Anthony looked at her steadily a moment.
“God keep you,” he said.
She kissed him and took her riding-cloak, drew the hood over her head, and wentout into the dark.
It was with the keenest relief that, half an hour later, Anthony heard herfootstep again in the red-tiled hall outside. The servants were gone upstairsby now, and the house was quiet. She came in, and sat by him again and took hishand.
“Thank God I went,” she said. “I have left her so happy.”
“Tell me all,” said Anthony.
“I went through the garden,” said Isabel, “but came round to the front of thehouse so that they might not think I came from here. When the servant came tothe door—he was a stranger, and a Protestant no doubt—I said at once that Ibrought news of Mr. Maxwell from Rye; and he took me straight in and asked meto come in while he fetched her woman. Then her woman came out and took meupstairs, up into Lady Maxwell’s old room; and there she was lying in bed underthe great canopy. Oh, Anthony, she is so pretty! her golden hair was lying outall over the pillow, and her face is so sweet. She cried out when I came in,and lifted herself on her elbow; so I just said at once, ‘He is safe and well’;and then she went off into sobs and laughter; so that I had to go and sootheher—her woman was so foolish and helpless; and very soon she was quiet: andthen she called me her darling, and she kissed me again and again; and told thewoman to go and leave us together; and then she lifted the sheet; and showed methe face of a little child. Oh Anthony; Hubert’s child and hers, the second,born on Tuesday—only think of that. ‘Mercy, I was going to call her,’ she said,‘if I had not heard by to-morrow, but now I shall call her Victory.’”
Anthony looked quickly at his sister, with a faint smile in his eyes.
“And what did you say?” he asked.
Isabel smiled outright; but her eyes were bright with tears too.
“‘You have guessed,’ she said. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘call her Mercy all the same,’and she kissed me again, and cried, and said that she would. And then I toldher all about Hubert; and about his little wound; and how well he looked; andhow all the fighting was most likely over; and what his cabin looked like. Andthen she suddenly guessed who I was, and asked me; and I could not deny it, youknow; but she promised not to tell. Then she told me all about the house here;and how she was afraid Hubert had said something impatient about people who goto foreign parts and leave their country to be attacked, ‘But you know he didnot really mean it,’ she said; and of course he did not. Well, the people hadremembered that, and it spread and spread; and when the news of the Armada camelast week, a mob came over from East Grinsted, and they sat drinking anddrinking in the village; and of course Grace could not go out to them; and allthe old people are gone, and the Catholics on the estate—and so at last theyall came out roaring and shouting down the drive, and Mrs. Carroll was warnedand slipped out to the Hall; and she is now gone to Stanfield to wait forus—and then the crowd broke into the house—but, oh Anthony, Grace was so sorry,and cried sore to think of us here; and asked us to come and stay there; but ofcourse I told her we could not: and then I said a prayer for her; and we kissedone another again; and then I came away.”
Anthony looked at his sister, and there was honour and pride of her in hiseyes.
The ride to Stanfield next day was a long affair, at a foot’s-pace all the way:the horses were thoroughly tired with their journey, and they were obliged tostart soon after three o’clock in the morning after a very insufficient rest;they did not reach Groombridge till nearly ten o’clock, when they dined, andthen rode on towards Tonbridge about noon. There were heavy hearts to becarried as well. The attempt to welcome the misery of their home-coming was abitter effort; all the more bitter for that it was an entirely unexpected callupon them. During those six years abroad probably not a day had passed withoutvisions of Great Keynes, and the pleasant and familiar rooms and garden oftheir own house, and mental rehearsals of their return. The shock of the nightbefore too had been emphasised by the horror of the cold morning light creepingthrough the empty windows on to the cruel heaps within. The garden too, seen inthe dim morning, with its trampled lawns and wrecked flower-beds heaped withwithered sunflowers, bell-blossoms and all the rich August growth, with theearthen flower-bowls smashed, the stone balls on the gate overturned, and thelaurels at the corner uprooted—all this was a horrible pain to Isabel, to whomthe garden was very near as dear and familiar as her own room. So it was asilent and sorrowful ride; and Anthony’s heart rose in relief as at last up thegrey village-street he saw the crowded roofs of Stanfield Place rise over thechurchyard wall.
Their welcome from Mr. Buxton went far to compensate for all.
“My dear boy,” he said, “or, my dear father, as I should call you in private,you do not know what happiness is mine to-day. It is a great thing to have apriest again; but, if you will allow me to say so, it is a greater to have myfriend—and what a sister you have upstairs!”
They were in Mr. Buxton’s own little room on the ground-floor, and Isabel hadgone to rest until supper.
Anthony told him of the grim surprise that had awaited them at Great Keynes.“So you must forgive my sister if she is a little sad.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Buxton, “I had heard from Mrs. Carroll last night whenshe arrived here. But there was no time to warn you. I had expected you to-day,though Mrs. Carroll did not.”
(Anthony had sent a man straight from Rye to Stanfield.)
“But Mistress Isabel, as I shall venture to call her, must do what she can withthis house and garden. I need not say how wholly it is hers. And I shall callyou Anthony,” he added—“in public, at least. And, for strangers, you are justhere as my guest; and you shall be called Capell—a sound name; and you shall beCatholics too; though you are no priest, of course, in public—and you havereturned from the Continent. I hold it is no use to lie when you can be foundout. I do not know what your conscience is, Father Anthony; but, for myself, Icount us Catholics to be in statu belli now; and therefore I shall liefrankly and fully when there is need; and you may do as you please. Old Mr.Blake used to bid me prevaricate instead; but that always seemed to me two liesinstead of one—one to the questioning party and the other to myself; and so Ialways said to him, but he would not have it so. I wondered he did not tell methat two negatives made an affirmative; but he was not clever enough, the goodfather. So my own custom is to tell one plain lie when needed, and shame thedevil.”
It was pleasant to Anthony to hear his friend talk again, and he said so. Hishost’s face softened into a great tenderness.
“Dear lad, I know what you mean. Please God you may find this a happy home.”
A couple of hours later, when Anthony and Isabel came down together from theirrooms in the old wing, they found Mr. Buxton in his black satin and lace in thebeautiful withdrawing-room on the ground-floor. It was already past thesupper-hour, but their host showed no signs of going into the hall. At last heapologised.
“I ask your pardon, Mistress Isabel; but I have a guest come to stay with me,who only arrived an hour ago; and she is a great lady and must have her time.Ah! here she is.”
The door was flung open and a radiant vision appeared. The door was a littleway off, and there were no candles near it; but there swelled and rustled intothe room a figure all in blue and gold, with a white delicate ruff; and diamondbuckles shone beneath the rich brocaded petticoat. Above rose a white bosom andthroat scintillating with diamonds, and a flushed face with scarlet lips, allcrowned by piles of black hair, with black dancing eyes beneath. Still a littlein the shadow this splendid figure swept down with a great curtsey, whichIsabel met by another, while the two gentlemen bowed low; and then, as thestranger swayed up again into the full light of the sconces, Anthony recognisedMary Corbet.
He stood irresolute with happy hesitation; and she came up smiling brilliantly;and before he could stay her dropped down on one knee and took his hand andkissed it; just as the man left the room.
“God bless you, Father Anthony!” she said; and as he looked at her, as sheglanced up, he could not tell whether her eyes shone with tears or laughter.
“This is very charming and proper, Mistress Corbet, and like a true daughter ofthe Church,” put in Mr. Buxton, “but I shall be obliged to you if you will notin future kiss priests’ hands nor call them Father in the presence of theservants—at least not in my house.”
“Ah!” she said, “you were always prudent. Have you seen his secret doors?”she went on to Anthony. “The entire Catholic Church might play hare and houndswith the Holy Father as huntsman and the Cardinals as the whips, through Mr.Buxton’s secret labyrinths.”
“Wait until you are hare, and it is other than Holy Church that is a-hunting,”said Mr. Buxton, “and you will thank God for my labyrinths, as you call them.”
Then she greeted Isabel with great warmth.
“Why, my dear,” she said, “you are not the little Puritan maiden any longer.We must have a long talk to-night; and you shall tell me everything.”
“Mistress Mary is not so greatly changed,” said Isabel, smiling. “She alwayswould be told everything.”
It was strange to Anthony to meet Mary again after so long, and to find her solittle changed, as Isabel had said truly. He himself had passed through so muchsince they had last met at Greenwich over six years ago—his conversion, hisforeign sojourn, and, above all, the bewildering and intoxicating sweetness ofhis ordination and priestly life. And yet he felt as close to Mary as ever,knit in a bond of wonderful good fellowship and brotherhood such as he hadnever felt to any other in just that kind and degree. He watched her, warm andcontent, as she talked across the polished oak and beneath the gleam of thecandles; and listened, charmed by her air and her talk.
“There is not so much news of her Grace,” she said, “save that she is turningsoldier in her old age. She rode out to Tilbury, you know, the other day, insteel cuirass and scarlet; out to see her dear Robin and the army; and herroyal face was all smiles and becks, and lord! how the soldiers cheered! But ifyou had seen her as I did, in her room when she first buckled on her armour,and the joints did not fit—yes, and heard her! there were no smiles to sparethen. She lodged at Mr. Rich’s, you know, two nights; but he would be Mr. Poor,I should suppose, by the time her Grace left him; for he will not see the worthof a shoelace again of all that he expended on her.”
“You see,” remarked Mr. Buxton to Isabel, “how fortunate we are in having sucha friend of her Grace’s with us. We hear all the cream of the news, even thoughit be a trifle sour sometimes.”
“A lover of her Grace,” said Mary, “loves the truth about her, however bitter.But then I have no secret passages where I may hide from my sovereign!”
“The cream can scarce be but sour,” said Anthony, “near her Grace: there is somuch thunder in the air.”
“Yes, but the sun came out when you were there, Anthony,” put in Isabel,smiling.
“But even the light of her glorious countenance is trying,” said Mary. “She isoverpowering in thunder and sunshine alike.”
“We have had enough of that metaphor,” observed Mr. Buxton.
Then Anthony had to talk, and tell all the foreign news of Douai and Rome andCardinal Allen; and of Father Persons’ scheme for a college at Valladolid.
“Father Robert is a superb beggar—as he is superb in all things,” said Mr.Buxton. “I dare not think how much he got from me for his college; and then Ido not even approve of his college. His principles are too logical for me. Ihave ever had a weakness for the non sequitur.”
This led on to the Armada; Anthony told his experience of it; how he had seenat least the sails of Lord Howard’s squadron far away against the dawn; andthis led on again to a sharp discussion when the servants had left the room.
“I do not know,” said Mary at last; “it is difficult—is not the choice betweenGod and Elizabeth? If I were a man, why should I not take up arms to defend myreligion? Since I am a woman, why should I not pray for Philip’s success? It isa bitter hard choice, I know; but why need I prefer my country to my faith?Tell me that, Father Anthony.”
“I can only tell you my private opinion,” said Anthony, “and that is, thatboth duties may be done. As Mr. Buxton here used to tell me, the duty to Cæsaris as real as the duty to God. A man is bound to both; for each has its properbounds. When either oversteps them it must be resisted. When Elizabeth bids medeny my faith, I tell her I would sooner die. When a priest bids me deny mycountry, I tell him I would sooner be damned.”
Mary clapped her hands.
“I like to hear a man talk like that,” she cried. “But what of the Holy Fatherand his excommunication of her Grace?”
Anthony looked up at her sharply, and then smiled; Isabel watched him with atroubled face.
“Aquinas holds,” he said, “that an excommunication of sovereign and people ina lump is invalid. And until the Holy Father tells me himself that Aquinas iswrong, I shall continue to think he is right.”
“God-a-mercy!” burst in Mr. Buxton, “what a to-do! Leave it alone until thechoice must be made; and meanwhile say your prayers for Pope and Queen too, andhear mass and tell your beads and hold your tongue: that is what I say tomyself. Mistress Mary, I will not have my chaplain heckled; here is his ladysister all a-tremble between heresy and treason.”
They sat long over the supper-table, talking over the last six years and thetimes generally. More than once Mary showed a strange bitterness against theQueen. At last Mr. Buxton showed his astonishment plainly.
“I do not understand you,” he said. “I know that at heart you are loyal; andyet one might say you meditated her murder.”
Mary’s face grew white with passion and her eyes blazed.
“Ah!” she hissed, “you do not understand, you say? Then where is your heart?But then you did not see Mary Stuart die.”
Anthony looked at her, amazed.
“And you did, Mistress Mary?” he asked.
Mary bowed, with her lips set tight to check their trembling.
“I will tell you,” she said, “if our host permits”; and she glanced at him.
“Then come this way,” he said, and they rose from table.
They went back again to the withdrawing-room; a little cedar-fire had beenkindled under the wide chimney; and the room was full of dancing shadows. Thegreat plaster-pendants, the roses, the crowns, and the portcullises on theceiling seemed to waver in the firelight, for Mr. Buxton at a sign from Maryblew out the four tapers that were burning in the sconces. They all sat down inthe chairs that were set round the fire, Mary in a tall porter’s chair withflaps that threw a shadow on her face when she leaned back; and she took a fanin her hand to keep the fire, or her friends’ eyes, from her face should sheneed it.
She first told them very briefly of the last months of Mary’s life, of the webthat was spun round her by Walsingham’s tactics, and her own friends’ efforts,until it was difficult for her to stir hand or foot without treason, real orpretended, being set in motion somewhere. Then she described how at Christmas’86 Elizabeth had sent her—Mary Corbet—as a Catholic, up to the Queen of theScots at Fotheringay, on a private mission to attempt to win the prisoner’sconfidence, and to persuade her to confess to having been privy to Babington’sconspiracy; and how the Scottish Queen had utterly denied it, even in the mostintimate conversations. Sentence had been already passed, but the warrant hadnot been signed; and it never would have been signed, said Mistress Corbet, ifMary had owned to the crime of which she was accused.
“Ah! how they insulted her!” cried Mary Corbet indignantly. “She showed me oneday the room where her throne had stood. Now the cloth of state had been torndown by Sir Amyas Paulet’s men, and he himself dared to sit with his hat on hishead in the sovereign’s presence! The insolence of the hound! But the Queenshowed me how she had hung a crucifix where her royal arms used to hang.‘J’appelle,’ she said to me, ‘de la reine au roi des rois.’”
Mistress Corbet went on to tell of the arrival of Walsingham’s brother-in-law,Mr. Beale, with the death-warrant on that February Sunday evening.
“I saw his foxy face look sideways up at the windows as he got off his horse inthe courtyard; and I knew that our foes had triumphed. Then the otherbloodhounds began to arrive; my lord of Kent on the Monday and Shrewsbury onthe Tuesday. Then they came in to us after dinner; and they told her Grace itwas to be for next day. I was behind her chair and saw her hand on the boss ofthe arm, and it did not stir nor clench; she said it could not be. She couldnot believe it of Elizabeth.
“When she did at last believe it, there was no wild weeping or crying formercy; but she set her affairs in order, queenly, and yet sedately too. Shefirst thought of her soul, and desired that M. de Preau might come to her andhear her confession; but they would not permit it. They offered her Dr.Fletcher instead, ‘a godly man,’ as my lord of Kent called him. ‘Je ne m’endoute pas,’ she said, smiling. But it was hard not to have a priest.
“Then she set her earthly affairs in order when she had examined her soul andmade confession to God without the Dean’s assistance. We all supped togetherwhen it was growing late; and I thought, Father Anthony—indeed I did—of anotherSupper long ago. Then M. Gorion was sent for to arrange some messages andgifts; and until two of the clock in the morning we watched with her or servedher as she wrote and gave orders. The court outside was full of comings andgoings. As I passed down the passage I saw the torches of the visitors thatwere come to see the end; and once I heard a hammering from the great hall.Then she went to her bed; and I think few lay as quiet as she in the castlethat night. I was with her ladies when they waked her before dawn; and it washard to see that sweet face on the pillow open its eyes again to what wasbefore her.
“Then when she was dressed I went in again, and we all went to the oratory,where she received our Saviour from the golden pyx which the Holy Father hadsent her; for, you see, they would allow no priest to come near her....
“Presently the gentlemen knocked. When we tried to follow we were prevented;they wished her to die alone among her enemies; but at last two of the ladieswere allowed to go with her.
“I ran out another way, and sent a message to my Lord Shrewsbury, who knew meat court. As I waited in the courtyard, the musicians there were playing ‘TheWitches’ Dirge,’ as is done at the burnings—and all to mock at my queen! Atlast a halberdier was sent to bring me in.”
Mary Corbet was silent a moment or two and leaned back in her chair; and theothers dared not speak. The strange emotion of her voice and the stillness ofthat sparkling figure in the porter’s chair affected them profoundly. Her facewas now completely shaded by a fan.
“It was in the hall, where a great fire was burning on the hearth. The stagestood at the upper end; all was black. The crowd of gentlemen filled the halland all were still and reverent except—except a devil who laughed as my queencame in, all in black. She was smiling and brave, and went up the steps and saton her black throne and looked about her. The—the things were just infront of her.
“Then the warrant was read by Beale, and I saw the lords glance at her as itended; but there was nought but joyous hope in her face. She looked now andagain gently on the ivory crucifix in her hand, as she listened; and her lipsmoved to—to—Him who was delivered to death for her.”
Mary Corbet gave one quick sob, and was silent again for an instant. Then shewent on in a yet lower voice.
“Dr. Fletcher tried to address her, but he stammered and paused three or fourtimes; and the queen smiled on him and bade him not trouble himself, for thatshe lived and died a Catholic. But they would not let her be; so she looked onher crucifix and was silent; and even then my lord of Kent badgered her andtold her Christ crucified in her hand would not save her, except He wasengraved on her heart.
“Then she knelt at her chair and tried to pray softly to herself; but Fletcherwould not have that, and prayed himself, aloud, and all the gentlemen in thehall began to pray aloud with him. But Mary prayed on in Latin and Englishaloud, and prevailed, for all were silent at the end but she.
“And at last she kissed the crucifix and cried in a sweet piercing voice, ‘Asthine arms, O Jesus, were spread upon the Cross, so receive me into Thy mercyand forgive me my sins!’”
Again Mistress Corbet was silent; and Anthony drew a long sobbing breath ofpure pity, and Isabel was crying quietly to herself.
“When the headsmen offered to assist her,” went on the low voice, “the queensmiled at the gentlemen and said that she had never had such grooms before; andthen they let the ladies come up. When they began to help her with her dress Icovered my face—I could not help it. There was such a stillness now that Icould hear her beads chink at her girdle. When I looked again, she was ready,with her sweet neck uncovered: all round her was black but the headsman, whowore a white apron over his velvet, and she, in her beauty, and oh! her facewas so fair and delicate and her eyes so tender and joyous. And as her ladieslooked at her, they sobbed piteously. ‘Ne criez vous,’ said she.
“Then she knelt down, and Mistress Mowbray bound her eyes. She smiled againunder the handkerchief. ‘Adieu,’ she said, and then, ‘Au revoir.’
“Then she said once more a Latin psalm, and then laid her head down, as on apillow.
“‘In manus tuas, Domine,’ she said.”
Mary Corbet stopped, and leaned forward a little, putting her hand into herbosom; Anthony looked at her as she drew up a thin silk cord with a ruby ringattached to it.
“This was hers,” she said simply, and held it out. Each of the Catholics tookit and kissed it reverently, and Mary replaced it.
“When they lifted her,” she added, “a little dog sprang out from her clothesand yelped. And at that the man near me, who had laughed as she came in,wept.”
Then the four sat silent in the firelight.
STANFIELD PLACE
Life at Stanfield Place was wonderfully sweet to Anthony and Isabel after theirexile abroad, for both of them had an intense love of England and of Englishways. The very sight of fair-faced children, and the noise of their shrillfamiliar voices from the village street, the depths of the August woods roundthem, the English manners of living—all this was alive with a full deliberatejoy to these two. Besides, there was the unfailing tenderness and gaiety of Mr.Buxton; and at first there was the pleasant company of Mary Corbet as well.
There was little or no anxiety resting on any of them. “God was served,” asthe celebration of mass was called, each morning in the little room whereAnthony had made the exercises, and the three others were always present. Itwas seldom that the room was not filled to over-flowing on Sundays andholy-days with the household and the neighbouring Catholics.
Everything was, of course, perfection in the little chapel when it wasfurnished; as was all that Mr. Buxton possessed. There was a wonderful goldencrucifix by an unknown artist, that he had picked up in his travels, that stoodupon the altar, with the bird-types of the Saviour at each of the four ends; apelican at the top, an eagle on the right supporting its young which wereraising their wings for a flight, on the left a phœnix amid flames, and at thefoot a hen gathering her chickens under her wings—all the birds had tinyemerald eyes; the figure on the cross was beautifully wrought, and had rubiesin hands and feet and side. There were also two silver altar-candlesticksdesigned by Marrina for the Piccolomini chapel in the church of St. Francis inSiena; and two more, plainer, for the Elevation. The vestments were exquisite;those for high festivals were cloth of gold; and the other white ones werebeautifully worked with seed pearls, and jewelled crosses on the stole andmaniple. The other colours, too, were well represented, and were the work of afamous convent in the south of France. All the other articles, too, were ofsilver: the lavabo basin, the bell, the thurible, the boat and spoon, and thecruets. It was a joy to all the Catholics who came to see the worship of Godcarried on with such splendour, when in so many places even necessaries werescarcely forthcoming.
There was a little hiding-hole between the chapel and the priest’s room, justof a size to hold the altar furniture and the priests in case of a suddenalarm; and there were several others in the house too, which Mr. Buxton hadshowed to Anthony with a good deal of satisfaction, on the morning after hisarrival.
“I dared not show them to you the last time you were here,” he said, “andthere was no need; but now there must be no delay. I have lately made somemore, too. Now here is one,” he said, stopping before the great carvedmantelpiece in the hall.
He looked round to see that no servant was in the room, and then, standing on asettee before the fire, touched something above, and a circular hole largeenough for a man to clamber through appeared in the midst of the tracery.
“There,” he said, “and you will find some cured ham and a candle, with a fewdates within, should you ever have need to step up there—which, pray God, youmay not.”
“What is the secret?” asked Anthony, as the tracery swung back into place, andhis host stepped down.
“Pull the third roebuck’s ears in the coat of arms, or rather push them. Itcloses with a spring, and is provided with a bolt. But I do not recommend thatrefuge unless it is necessary. In winter it is too hot, for the chimney passesbehind it; and in summer it is too oppressive, for there is not too much air.”
At the end of the corridor that led in the direction of the little old roomswhere Anthony had slept in his visit, Mr. Buxton stopped before the portrait ofa kindly-looking old gentleman that hung on the wall.
“Now there is an upright old man you would say; and indeed he was, for he wasmy own uncle, and made a godly end of it last year. But now see what a liar Ihave made of him!”
Mr. Buxton put his hand behind the frame, and the whole picture opened like adoor showing a space within where three or four could stand. Anthony steppedinside and his friend followed him, and after showing him some clothes hangingagainst the wall closed the picture after them, leaving them in the dark.
“Now see what a sharp-eyed old fellow he is too,” whispered his host. Anthonylooked where he was guided, and perceived two pinholes through which he couldsee the whole length of the corridor.
“Through the centre of each eye,” whispered his friend. “Is he not shrewd andsecret? And now turn this way.”
Anthony turned round and saw the opposite wall slowly opening; and in a momentmore he stepped out and found himself in the lobby outside the little roomwhere he had made the exercises six years ago. He heard a door close softly ashe looked about him in astonishment, and on turning round saw only aninnocent-looking set of shelves with a couple of books and a little pile ofpaper and packet of quills upon them.
“There,” said Mr. Buxton, “who would suspect Tacitus his history and Juvenalhis satires of guarding the passage of a Christian ecclesiastic fleeing for hislife?”
Then he showed him the secret, how one shelf had to be drawn out steadily, andthe nail in another pressed simultaneously, and how then the entire set ofshelves swung open.
Then they went back and he showed him the spring behind the frame of thepicture.
“You see the advantage of this,” he went on: “on the one side you may fleeupstairs, a treasonable skulking cassocked jack-priest with the lords and thecommons and the Queen’s Majesty barking at your heels; and on the other sideyou may saunter down the gallery without your beard and in a murrey doublet, afriend of Mr. Buxton’s, taking the air and wondering what the devil all theclamouring be about.”
Then he took him downstairs again and showed him finally the escape of which hewas most proud—the entrance, designed in the cellar-staircase, to anunderground passage from the cellars, which led, he told him, across to thegarden-house beyond the lime-avenue.
“That is the pride of my heart,” he said, “and maybe will be useful some day;though I pray not. Ah! her Grace and her honest Council are right. We Papistsare a crafty and deceitful folk, Father Anthony.”
The four grew very intimate during those few weeks; they had many memories andassociations in common on which to build up friendship, and the aid of a commonfaith and a common peril with which to cement it. The gracious beauty of thehouse and the life at Stanfield, too, gilded it all with a very charmingromance. They were all astonished at the easy intimacy with which they behaved,one to another.
Mary Corbet was obliged to return to her duties at Court at the beginning ofSeptember; and she had something of an ache at her heart as the time drew on;for she had fallen once more seriously in love with Isabel. She said a word ofit to Mr. Buxton. They were walking in the lime-avenue together after dinner onthe last day of Mary’s visit.
“You have a good chaplain,” she said; “what an honest lad he is! and howserious and recollected! Please God he at least may escape their claws!”
“It is often so,” said Mr. Buxton, “with those wholesome out-of-door boys;they grow up into such simple men of God.”
“And Isabel!” said Mary, rustling round upon him as she walked. “What a greatdame she is become! I used to lie on her bed and kick my heels and laugh ather; but now I would like to say my prayers to her. She is somewhat like ourLady herself, so grave and serious, and yet so warm and tender.”
Mr. Buxton nodded sharply.
“I felt sure you would feel it,” he said.
“Ah! but I knew her when she was just a child; so simple that I loved tostartle her. But now—but now—those two ladies have done wonders with her. Shehas all the splendour of Mary Maxwell, and all the softness of Margaret.”
“Yes,” said the other meditatively; “the two ladies have done it—or, the graceof God.”
Mary looked at him sideways and her lips twitched a little.
“Yes—or the grace of God, as you say.”
The two laughed into each other’s eyes, for they understood one another well.Presently Mary went on:
“When you and I fence together at table, she does not turn frigid like so manyholy folk—or peevish and bewildered like stupid folk—but she just looks at us,and laughs far down in those deep grey eyes of hers. Oh! I love her!” endedMary.
They walked in silence a minute or two.
“And I think I do,” said Mr. Buxton softly.
“Eh?” exclaimed Mary, “you do what?” She had quite forgotten her lastsentence.
“It is no matter,” he said yet more softly; and would say no more.
Presently the talk fell on the Maxwells; and came round to Hubert.
“They say he would be a favourite at Court,” said Mary, “had he not a wife.But her Grace likes not married men. She looked kindly upon him at Deptford, Iknow; and I have seen him at Greenwich. You know, of course, about Isabel?”
Mr. Buxton shook his head.
“Why, it was common talk that they would have been man and wife years ago, hadnot the fool apostatised.”
Her companion questioned her further, and soon had the whole story out of her.“But I am thankful,” ended Mary, “that it has so ended.”
The next day she went back to Court; and it was with real grief that the threewatched her wonderful plumed riding-hat trot along behind the top of thechurchyard wall, with her woman beside her, and her little liveried troop ofmen following at a distance.
The days passed by, bringing strange tidings to Stanfield. News continued toreach the Catholics of the good confessions witnessed here and there in Englandby priests and laity. At the end of July, three priests, Garlick, Ludlam andSympson, had been executed at Derby, and at the end of August the defeat of theArmada seemed to encourage Elizabeth yet further, and Mr. Leigh, a priest, withfour laymen and Mistress Margaret Ward, died for their religion at Tyburn.
By the end of September the news of the hopeless defeat and disappearance ofthe Armada had by now been certified over and over again. Terrible stories hadcome in during August of that northward flight of all that was left of thefleet over the plunging North Sea up into the stormy coast of Scotland; thenrumours began of the miseries that were falling on the Spaniards offIreland—Catholic Ireland from which they had hoped so much. There was scarcelya bay or a cape along the west coast where some ship had not put in, withpiteous entreaties for water and aid—and scarcely a bay or a cape that was notblood-guilty. Along the straight coast from Sligo Bay westwards, down the westcoast, Clew Bay, Connemara, and haunted Dingle itself, where the Catholicreligion under arms had been so grievously chastened eight years ago—everywherehalf-drowned or half-starved Spaniards, piteously entreating, were stripped andput to the sword either by the Irish savages or the English gentlemen. Thechurch-bells were rung in Stanfield and in every English village, and the flameof national pride and loyalty burned fiercer and higher than ever.
On the last day of September Isabel, just before dinner in her room, heard thetrot of a couple of horses coming up the short drive, and on going downstairsalmost ran against Hubert as he came from the corridor into the hall, as theservant ushered him in.
The two stopped and looked at one another in silence.
Hubert was flushed with hard riding and looked excited; Isabel’s face showednothing but pleasure and surprise. The servant too stopped, hesitating.
Then Isabel put out her hand, smiling; and her voice was natural andcontrolled.
“Why, Mr. Hubert,” she said, “it is you! Come through this way”; and shenodded to the servant, who went forward and opened the door of the littleparlour and stood back, as Isabel swept by him.
When the door was closed, and the servant’s footsteps had died away, Hubert, ashe stood facing Isabel, spoke at last.
“Mistress Isabel,” he said almost imploringly, “what can I say to you? Yourhome has been wrecked; and partly through those wild and foolish words of mine;and you repay it by that act of kindness to my wife! I am come to ask yourpardon, and to thank you. I only reached home last night.”
“Ah! that was nothing,” said Isabel gently; “and as for the house——”
“As for the house,” he said, “I was not master of myself when I said thosewords that Grace told you of; and I entreat you to let me repair the damage.”
“No, no,” she said, “Anthony has given orders; that will all be done.”
“But what can I do then?” he cried passionately; “if you but knew mysorrow—and—and—more than that, my——”
Isabel had raised her grave eyes and was looking him full in the face now; andhe stopped abashed.
“How is Grace, and Mercy?” she asked in perfectly even tones.
“Oh! Isabel——” he began; and again she looked at him, and then went to thedoor.
“I hear Mr. Buxton,” she said; and steps came along through the hall; sheopened the door as he came up. Mr. Buxton stopped abruptly, and the two mendrew themselves up and seemed to stiffen, ever so slightly. A shade ofaggressive contempt came on Hubert’s keen brown face that towered up so nearthe low oak ceiling; while Mr. Buxton’s eyelids just drooped, and his featuresseemed to sharpen. There was an unpleasant silence: Isabel broke it.
“You remember Master Hubert Maxwell?” she said almost entreatingly. He smiledkindly at her, but his face hardened again as he turned once more to Hubert.
“I remember the gentleman perfectly,” he said, “and he no doubt knows me, andwhy I cannot ask him to remain and dine with us.”
Hubert smiled brutally.
“It is the old story of course, the Faith! I must ask your pardon, sir, forintruding. The difficulty never came into my mind. The truth is that I havelived so long now among Protestants that I had quite forgotten what Catholiccharity is like!”
He said this with such extreme bitterness and fury that Isabel put out her handinstinctively to Mr. Buxton, who smiled at her once more, and pressed it in hisown. Hubert laughed again sharply; his face grew white under the tan, and hislips wrinkled back once or twice.
“So, if you can spare me room to pass,” he went on in the same tone, “I willbegone to the inn.”
Mr. Buxton stepped aside from the door, and Hubert bowed to Isabel so low thatit was almost an insult in itself, and strode out, his spurs ringing on the oakboards.
When he half turned outside the front door to beckon to his groom to bring upthe horses, he became aware that Isabel was beside him.
“Hubert,” she said, “Hubert, I cannot bear this.”
There were tears in her voice, and he could not help turning and looking ather. Her face, more grave and transparent than ever, was raised to his; her reddown-turned lips were trembling, and her eyes were full of a great emotion. Heturned away again sharply.
“Hubert,” she said again, “I was not born a Catholic, and I do not feel likeMr. Buxton. And—and I do thank you for coming; and for your desire to repairthe house; and—and will you give my love to Grace?”
Then he suddenly turned to her with such passion in his eyes that she shrankback. At the same moment the groom brought up the horses; he turned and mountedwithout a word, but his eyes were dim with love and anger and jealousy. Then hedrove his spurs into his great grey mare, and Isabel watched him dash betweenthe iron gates, with his groom only half mounted holding back his own plunginghorse. Then she went within doors again.
JOSEPH LACKINGTON
It was a bitter ride back to Great Keynes for Hubert. He had just returned fromwatching the fifty vessels, which were all that were left of the Great Armada,pass the Blaskets, still under the nominal command of Medina Sidonia, on theirmiserable return to Spain; and he had come back as fast as sails could carryhim, round the stormy Land’s-End up along the south coast to Rye, where on hisarrival he had been almost worshipped by the rejoicing townsfolk. Yet allthrough his voyage and adventures, at any rate since his interview with her atRye, it had been the face of Isabel there, and not of Grace, that had glimmeredto him in the dark, and led him from peril to peril. Then, at last, on hisarrival at home, he had heard of the disaster to the Dower House, and his ownunintended share in it; and of Isabel’s generous visit to his wife; and at thathe had ordered his horse abruptly over-night and ridden off without a word ofexplanation to Grace on the following morning. And he had been met by asneering man who would not sit at table with him, and who was the protector andfriend of Isabel.
He rode up through the village just after dark and in through the gatehouse upto the steps. A man ran to open the door, and as Hubert came through told himthat a stranger had ridden down from London and had arrived at mid-day, andthat he had been waiting ever since.
“I gave the gentleman dinner in the cloister parlour, sir; and he is at suppernow,” added the man.
Hubert nodded and pushed through the hall. He heard his name called timidlyfrom upstairs, and looking up saw his wife’s golden head over the banisters.
“Well!” he said.
“Ah, it is you. I am so glad.”
“Who else should it be?” said Hubert, and passed through towards the cloisterwing, and opened the door of the little parlour where Isabel and MistressMargaret had sat together years before, the night of Mr. James’ return, and ofthe girl’s decision.
A stranger rose up hastily as he came in, and bowed with great deference.Hubert knew his face, but could not remember his name.
“I ask your pardon, Mr. Maxwell; but your man would take no denial,” and heindicated the supper-table with a steaming dish and a glass jug of wine ruddyin the candlelight. Hubert looked at him curiously.
“I know you, sir,” he said, “but I cannot put a name to your face.”
“Lackington,” said the man with a half smile; “Joseph Lackington.”
Hubert still stared; and then suddenly burst into a short laugh.
“Why, yes,” he said; “I know now. My father’s servant.”
The man bowed.
“Formerly, sir; and now agent to Sir Francis Walsingham,” he said, withsomething of dignity in his manner.
Hubert saw the hint, but could not resist a small sneer.
“Why, I am pleased to see you,” he said. “You have come to see yourold—home?” and he threw himself into a chair and stretched his legs to theblaze, for he was stiff with riding. Lackington instantly sat down too, for hispride was touched.
“It was not for that, Mr. Maxwell,” he said almost in the tone of an equal,“but on a mission for Sir Francis.”
Hubert looked at him a moment as he sat there in the candlelight, with his armresting easily on the table. He was plainly prosperous, and was even dressedwith some distinction; his reddish beard was trimmed to a point; his highforehead was respectably white and bald; and his seals hung from his beltbeside his dagger with an air of ease and solidity. Perhaps he was of someimportance; at any rate, Sir Francis Walsingham was. Hubert sat up a little.
“A mission to me?” he said.
Lackington nodded.
“A few questions on a matter of state.”
He drew from his pouch a paper signed by Sir Francis authorising him as anagent, for one month, and dated three days back; and handed it to Hubert.
“I obtained that from Sir Francis on Monday, as you will see. You can trust meimplicitly.”
“Will the business take long?” asked Hubert, handing the paper back.
“No, Mr. Maxwell; and I must be gone in an hour in any case. I have to be atRye at noon to-morrow; and I must sleep at Mayfield to-night.”
“At Rye,” said Hubert, “why I came from there yesterday.”
Lackington bowed again, as if he were quite aware of this; but said nothing.
“Then I will sup here,” went on Hubert, “and we will talk meantime.”
When a place had been laid for him, he drew his chair round to the table andbegan to eat.
“May I begin at once?” asked Lackington, who had finished.
Hubert nodded.
“Then first I believe it to be a fact that you spoke with Mistress IsabelNorris on board the Elizabeth at Rye on the tenth of August last.”
Hubert had started violently at her name; but did his utmost to gain outwardcommand of himself again immediately.
“Well?” he said.
—“And with Master Anthony Norris, lately made a priest beyond the seas.”
“That is a lie,” said Hubert.
Lackington politely lifted his eyebrows.
“Indeed?” he said. “That he was made a priest, or that you spoke with him?”
“That I know aught of him,” said Hubert. His heart was beating furiously.
Lackington made a note rather ostentatiously; he could see that Hubert wasfrightened, and thought that it was because of a possible accusation of havingdealings with a traitor.
“And as regards Mistress Norris,” he said judicially, with his pencil raised,“you deny having spoken with her?”
Hubert was thinking furiously. Then he saw that Lackington knew too much forits being worth his own while to deny it.
“No, I never denied that,” he said, lifting his fork to his mouth; and he wenton eating with a deliberate ease as Lackington again made a note.
The next question was a home-thrust.
“Where are they both now?” asked Lackington, looking at him. Hubert’s mindlaboured like a mill.
“I do not know,” he said.
“You swear it?”
“I swear it.”
“Then Mistress Norris has changed her plans?” said Lackington swiftly.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Why she told you where they were going when you met?” said the other in aremonstrating tone.
Hubert suddenly saw the game. If the authorities really knew that, it wouldhave been a useless question. He stared at Lackington with an admirablevacancy.
“Indeed she did not,” he said. “For aught I know, they—she is in Franceagain.”
“They?” said Lackington shrewdly. “Then you do know somewhat of the priest?”
But Hubert was again too sharp.
“Only what you told me just now, when you said he was at Rye. I supposed youwere telling the truth.”
Lackington passed his hand smoothly over his mouth and beard, and smiled.Either Hubert was very sharp or else he had told everything; and he did notbelieve him sharp.
“Thank you, Mr. Maxwell,” he said, with a complete dropping of his judicialmanner. “I will not pretend not to be disappointed; but I believe what you sayabout France is true; and that it is no use looking for him further.”
Hubert experienced an extraordinary relief. He had saved Isabel. He drank off aglass of claret. “Tell me everything,” he said.
“Well,” said Lackington, “Mr. Thomas Hamon is my informant. He sent up to SirFrancis the message that a lady of the name of Norris had been introduced tohim at Rye; because he thought he remembered some stir in the county severalyears ago about some reconciliations to Rome connected with that name. Ofcourse we knew everything about that: and we have our agents at the seminariestoo; so we concluded that she was one of our birds; the rest, of course, wasguesswork. Mr. Norris has certainly left Douai for England; and he may possiblyeven now be in England; but from your information and others’, I now believethat Mistress Isabel came across first, and that she found the country too hot,what with the Spaniards and all; and that she returned to France at once. Ofcourse during that dreadful week, Mr. Maxwell, we could not be certain of allvessels that came and went; so I think she just slipped across again; and thatthey are both waiting in France. We shall keep good watch now at the ports, Ican promise you.”
Hubert’s emotions were varied during this speech. First shame at havingentirely forgotten the mayor of Rye and his own introduction of Isabel to him;then astonishment at the methods of Walsingham’s agents; and lastly intensetriumph and relief at having put them off Isabel’s track. For Anthony, too, hehad nothing but kindly feelings; so, on the whole, he thought he had done wellfor his friends.
The two talked a little longer; Lackington was a stimulating companion fromboth his personality and his position; and Hubert found himself almost sorrywhen his companion said he must be riding on to Mayfield. As he walked out withhim to the front door, he suddenly thought of Mr. Buxton again and hisreception in the afternoon. They had wandered in their conversation so far fromthe Norrises by now that he felt sure he could speak of him without doing themany harm. So, as they stood on the steps together, waiting for Lackington’shorse to come round, he suddenly said:
“Do you know aught of one Buxton, who lives somewhere near Tonbridge, Ithink?”
“Buxton, Buxton?” said the other.
“I met him in town once,” went on Hubert smoothly; “a little man, dark, withlarge eyes, and looks somewhat like a Frenchman.”
“Buxton, Buxton?” said the other again. “A Papist, is he not?”
“Yes,” said Hubert, hoping to get some information against him.
“A friend?” asked Lackington.
“No,” said Hubert with such vehemence that Lackington looked at him.
“I remember him,” he said in a moment; “he was imprisoned at Wisbeach six orseven years ago. But I do not think he has been in trouble since. You wish, youwish——?” he went on interrogatively.
“Nothing,” said Hubert; but Lackington saw the hatred in his eyes.
The horses came round at this moment; and Lackington said good-bye to Hubertwith a touch of the old deference again, and mounted. Hubert watched him outunder the gatehouse-lamp into the night beyond, and then he went in again,pondering.
His wife was waiting for him in the hall now—a delicate golden-haired figure,with pathetic blue eyes turned up to him. She ran to him and took his armtimidly in her two hands.
“Oh! I am glad that man has gone, Hubert.”
He looked down at her almost contemptuously.
“Why, you know nothing of him!” he said.
“Not much,” she said, “but he asked me so many questions.”
Hubert started and looked suddenly at her, in terror.
“Oh, Hubert!” she said, shrinking back frightened.
“Questions!” he said, seizing her hands. “Questions of whom?”
“Of—of—Mistress Isabel Norris,” she said, almost crying.
“And—and—what did you say? Did you tell him?”
“Oh, Hubert!—I am so sorry—ah! do not look like that.”
“What did you say? What did you say?” he said between his teeth.
“I—I—told a lie, Hubert; I said I had never seen her.”
Hubert took his wife suddenly in his two arms and kissed her three or fourtimes.
“You darling, you darling!” he said; and then stooped and picked her up, andcarried her upstairs, with her head against his cheek, and her tears runningdown because he was pleased with her, instead of angry.
They went upstairs and he set her down softly outside the nursery door.
“Hush,” she said, smiling up at him; and then softly opened the door andlistened, her finger on her lip; there was no sound from within; then shepushed the door open gently, and the wife and husband went in.
There was a shaded taper still burning in a high bracket where an image of theMother of God had stood in the Catholic days of the house. Hubert glanced up atit and remembered it, with just a touch at his heart. Beneath it was a littleoak cot, where his four-year-old boy lay sleeping; the mother went across andbent over it, and Hubert leaned his brown sinewy hands on the end of the cotand watched him. There his son lay, with tangled curls on the pillow; hisfinger was on his lips as if he bade silence even to thought. Hubert looked up,and just above the bed, where the crucifix used to hang when he himself hadslept in this nursery, probably on the very same nail, he thought to himself,was a rusty Spanish spur that he himself had found in a sea-chest of the San Juan. The boy had hung up with a tarry bit of string this emblem of hisfather’s victory, as a protection while he slept.
The child stirred in his sleep and murmured as the two watched him.
“Father’s home again,” whispered the mother. “It is all well. Go to sleepagain.”
When she looked up again to her husband, he was gone.
It was not often that Hubert had regrets for the Faith he had lost; butto-night things had conspired to prick him. There was his rebuff from Mr.Buxton; there was the sight of Isabel in the dignified grace that he hadnoticed so plainly before; there had been the interview with the ex-Catholicservant, now a spy of the Government, and a remorseless enemy of all Catholics;and lastly there were the two little external reminders of the niche and thenail over his son’s bed.
He sat long before the fire in Sir Nicholas’ old room, now his own study. As helay back and looked about him, how different this all was, too! The mantelpiecewas almost unaltered; the Maxwell devices, two-headed eagles, hurcheons andsaltires, on crowded shields, interlaced with the motto Reviresco, allnewly gilded since his own accession to the estate, rose up in deep shadow andrelief; but over it, instead of the little old picture of the Vernacle that heremembered as a child, hung his own sword. Was that a sign of progress? hewondered. The tapestry on the east wall was the same, a hawking scene withherons and ladies in immense headdresses that he had marvelled at as a boy. Butthen the books on the shelves to the right of the door, they were different;there had been old devotional books in his father’s time, mingled strangelywith small works on country life and sports; now the latter only remained, andthe nearest to a devotional book was a volume of a mystical herbalist whoidentified plants with virtues, strangely and ingeniously. Then the prie-dieu,where the beads had hung and the little wooden shield with the Five Woundspainted upon it—that was gone; and in its place hung a cupboard where he kept acrossbow and a few tools for it; and old hawk-lures and jesses and the like.
Then he lay back again, and thought.
Had he then behaved unworthily? This old Faith that had been handed down fromfather and son for generations; that had been handed to him too as the mostprecious heirloom of all—for which his father had so gladly suffered fines andimprisonment, and risked death—he had thrown it over, and for what? For Isabel,he confessed to himself; and then the—the Power that stands behind the visiblehad cheated him and withdrawn that for which he had paid over that great price.Was that a reckless and brutal bargain on his side—to throw over this strangedelicate thing called the Faith for which so many millions had lived and died,all for a woman’s love? A curious kind of family pride in the Faith began toprick him. After all, was not honour in a manner bound up with it too; and mostof all when such heavy penalties attached themselves to the profession of it?Was that the moment when he should be the first of his line to abandon it?
Reviresco—“I renew my springtide.” But was not this a strangegrafting—a spur for a crucifix, a crossbow for a place of prayer? Reviresco—There was sap indeed in the old tree; but from what soil did itdraw its strength?
His heart began to burn with something like shame, as it had burned now andagain at intervals during these past years. Here he lay back in his father’schair, in his father’s room, the first Protestant of the Maxwells. Then hepassed on to a memory.
As he closed his eyes, he could see even now the chapel upstairs, with thetapers alight and the stiff figure of the priest in the midst of the glow; hecould smell the flowers on the altar, the June roses strewn on the floor in theold manner, and their fresh dewy scent mingled with the fragrance of the richincense in an intoxicating chord; he could hear the rustle that emphasised thesilence, as his mother rose from his side and went up for communion, and thebreathing of the servants behind him.
Then for contrast he remembered the whitewashed church where he attended nowwith his wife, Sunday by Sunday, the pulpit occupied by the black figure of thevirtuous Mr. Bodder pronouncing his discourse, the great texts that stood outin their new paint from the walls, the table that stood out unashamed andsideways in the midst of the chancel. And which of the two worships was mostlike God?...
Then he compared the worshippers in either mode. Well, Drake, his hero, was aconvinced Protestant; the bravest man he had ever met or dreamed of—fiery,pertinacious, gloriously insolent. He thought of his sailors, on whom a portionof Drake’s spirit fell, their gallantry, their fearlessness of death and of allthat comes after; of Mr. Bodder, who was now growing middle-aged in theVicarage—yes, indeed, they were all admirable in various ways, but were theylike Christ?
On the other hand, his father, in spite of his quick temper, his mother,brother, aunt, the priests who came and went by night, Isabel—and at that hestopped: and like a deep voice in his ear rose up the last tremendous question,What if the Catholic Religion be true after all? And at that the supernaturalbegan to assert itself. It seemed as if the empty air were full of thisquestion, rising in intensity and emphasis. What if it is true? What if it istrue? What if it is true?
He sat bolt upright and looked sharply round the room; the candles burnedsteadily in the sconce near the door. The tapestry lifted and droppednoiselessly in the draught; the dark corners beyond the press and in the windowrecesses suggested presences that waited; the wide chimney sighed suddenlyonce.
Was that a voice in his ear just now, or only in his heart? But in eithercase——
He made an effort to command himself, and looked again steadily round the room;but there seemed no one there. But what if the old tale be true? In that casehe is not alone in this little oak room, for there is no such thing asloneliness. In that case he is sitting in full sight of Almighty God, whom hehas insulted; and of the saints whose power he has repudiated; and of theangels good and bad who have—— Ah! what was that? There had seemed to come along sigh somewhere behind him; on his left surely.—What was it? Some wanderingsoul? Was it, could it be the soul of one who had loved him and desired to warnhim before it was too late? Could it have been——and then it came again; and thehair prickled on his head.
How deathly still it is, and how cold! Ah! was that a rustle outside; a tap?...In God’s name, who can that be?...
And then Hubert licked his dry lips and brought them together and smiled atGrace, who had come down, opening the doors as she came, to see why he had notcome to bed.
Bah! what a superstitious fool he was, after all!
A DEPARTURE
The months went by happily at Stanfield; and, however ill went the fortunes ofthe Church elsewhere, here at least were peace and prosperity. Mostdiscouraging news indeed did reach them from time to time. The severe penaltiesnow enacted against the practice of the Catholic Religion were being enforcedwith great vigour, and the weak members of the body began to fail. Two priestshad apostatised at Chichester earlier in the year, one of them actually at thescaffold on Broyle Heath; and then in December there were two more recantationsat Paul’s Cross. Those Catholics too who threw up the Faith generally becamethe most aggressive among the persecutors, to testify to their own consciences,as well to the Protestants, of the sincerity of their conversion.
But in Stanfield the Church flourished, and Anthony had the great happiness ofreceiving his first convert in the person of Mr. Rowe, the young owner of ahouse called East Maskells, separated from Stanfield Place by a field-path ofunder a mile in length, though the road round was over two; and the comings andgoings were frequent now between the two houses. Mr. Rowe was at presentunmarried, and had his aunt to keep house for him, a tolerant old maiden ladywho had conformed placidly to the Reformed Religion thirty years before, andwas now grown content with it. Several “schismatics” too—as those Catholicswere called who attended their parish church—had waxed bolder, and given uptheir conformity to the Establishment; so it was a happy and courageous flockthat gathered Sunday by Sunday at Stanfield Place.
Just before Christmas, Anthony received a long and affectionate letter fromJames Maxwell, who was still at Douai.
“The Rector will still have me here,” he wrote, “and shows me to the young menas if I were a kind of warrior; which is bad for pride; but then he humbles meagain by telling me I am of more use here as an example, than I should be inEngland; and that humbles me again. So I am content to stay. It is a humblingthing, too, to find young men who can tell me the history of my arms and legsbetter than I know it myself. But the truth is, I can never walk well again—yet laudetur Jesus Christus.”
Then James Maxwell wrote a little about his grief for Hubert; gave a littlenews of foreign movements among the Catholics; and finally ended as follows:
“At last I understand who your friend was behind Bow Church, who stuttered andplayed the Catholic so well. It was our old servant Lackington; who turnedProtestant and entered Walsingham’s service. I hear all this from one P. latelyin the same affairs, but now turned to Christ his service instead; and who hasentered here as a student. So beware of him; he has a pointed beard now, and abald forehead. I hear, too, from the same source that he was on your track whenyou landed, but now thinks you to be in France. However, he knows of you; so Icounsel you not to abide over long in one place. Perhaps you may go toLancashire; that is like heaven itself for Catholics. Their zeal and pietythere are beyond praise; but I hear they somewhat lack priests. God keep youalways, my dear Brother; and may the Queen of Heaven intercede for you. Prayfor me.”
Soon after the New Year, Mary Corbet was able to get away from Court and comedown again to her friends for a month or two at Stanfield.
During her stay they all had an adventure together at East Maskells. They hadbeen out a long expedition into the woods one clear frosty day and rode in justat sunset for an early supper with Mr. Rowe and his aunt.
They had left their horses at the stable and come in round the back of thehouse; so that they missed the servant Miss Rowe had placed at the front doorto warn them, and came straight into the winter-parlour, where they found MissRowe in conversation with an ecclesiastic. There was no time to retreat; andAnthony in a moment more found himself being introduced to a minister he hadmet at Lambeth more than once—the Reverend Robert Carr, who had held the oddtitle of “Archbishop’s Curate” and the position of minister in charge of theonce collegiate church of All Saints’, Maidstone, ever since the year ’59. Hehad ridden up from Maidstone for supper and lodging, and was on his way totown.
Anthony managed to interrupt Miss Rowe before she came to his assumed nameCapell, and remarked rather loudly that he had met Mr. Carr before; whorecognised him too, and greeted him by his real name.
It was an uncomfortable situation, as Mr. Carr was quite unaware of thereligion of five out of six of those present, and very soon began to give voiceto his views on Papistry. He was an oldish man by now, and of some importancein Maidstone, where he had been appointed Jurat by the Corporation, and was avery popular and influential man.
“The voice of the people,” he said in the midst of a conversation on thenational feeling towards Spain, “that is what we must hearken to. Evensovereigns themselves must come to that some day. They must rule by obeying; asman does with God’s laws in nature.”
“Would you say that, sir, of her Grace?” asked Mary Corbet meekly.
“I should, madam; though I fear she has injured her power by her behaviour thisyear. It was her people who saved her.—Hawkins, who is now ruined as he says;my lord Howard, who has paid from his own purse for the meat and drink of herGrace’s soldiers, and those who fought with them; and not her Grace, who savedthem; or Leicester, now gone to his account, who sat at Tilbury and did thebowing and the prancing and the talking while Hawkins and the rest did thefighting. No, madam, it is the voice of the people to which we must hearken.”
This was rather confused and dangerous talking too; but here was plainly a manto be humoured; he looked round him with a suffused face and the eye of a cock,and a little white plume on his forehead increased his appearance of pugnacity.
“It is the same in religion,” he said, when all preserved a deferentialsilence; “it is that that lies at the root of papist errors. As you know verywell,” he went on, turning suddenly on Anthony, “our bishops do nothing toguide men’s minds; they only seem to: they ride atop like the figure on acock-horse, but it is the legs beneath that do the work and the guiding too:now that is right and good; and the Church of England will prosper so long asshe goes like that. But if the bishops try to rule they will find theirmistake. Now the Popish Church is not like that; she holds that power comesfrom above, that the Pope guides the bishops, the bishops the priests, and thepriests the people.”
“And the Holy Ghost the Pope; is it not so, sir?” asked Mr. Buxton.
Mr. Carr turned an eye on him.
“So they hold, sir,” he said after a pause.
“They think then, sir, that the shepherds guide the sheep?” asked Anthonyhumbly.
Mary Corbet gave a yelp of laughter; but when Mr. Carr looked at her she wasgrave and deferential again. Miss Rowe looked entreatingly from face to face.The minister did not notice Anthony’s remark; but swept on again on what wasplainly his favourite theme,—the infallibility of the people. It was a doctrinethat was hardly held yet by any; but the next century was to see its gradualrise until it reached its climax in the Puritanism of the Stuart times. It wastrue, as Mr. Carr said, that Elizabeth had ruled by obeying; and that thepeople of England, encouraged by success in resisting foreign domination, wereabout to pass on to the second position of resisting any domination at all.
Presently he pulled out of his pocket a small printed sheet, and was soondeclaiming from it. It was not very much to the point, except as illustratingthe national spirit which he believed so divine. It was a ballad describing thetortures which the Spaniards had intended to inflict upon the heretic English,and began:
“All you that list to look and see
What profit comes from Spain,
And what the Pope and Spaniards both
Prepared for our gain.
Then turn your eyes and lend your ears
And you shall hear and see
What courteous minds, what gentle hearts,
They bear to thee and me!
And it ended in the same spirit:
“Be these the men that are so mild
Whom some so holy call!
The Lord defend our noble Queen
And country from them all!”
“There!” the minister cried when he had done, “that is what the Papists arelike! Trust me; I know them. I should know one in a moment if he ventured intothis room, by his crafty face. But the Lord will defend His own Englishmen;nay! He has done so. ‘God blew and they were scattered,’” he ended, quotingfrom the Armada medal.
As the four rode home by pairs across the field-path in the frosty moonlightMr. Buxton lamented to Anthony the effect of the Armada.
“The national spirit is higher than ever,” he said, “and it will be the deathof Catholicism here for the present. Our country squires, I fear, faithfulCatholics to this time, are beginning to wonder and question. When will ourCatholic kings learn that Christ His Kingdom is not of this world? Philip hassmitten the Faith in England with the weapon which he drew in its defence, ashe thought.”
“I was once of that national spirit myself,” said Anthony.
“I remember you were,” said Mr. Buxton, smiling; “and what grace has done toyou it may do to others.”
The spring went by, and in the week after Easter, James’ news about Lancashirewas verified by a letter from a friend of Mr. Buxton’s, a Mr. Norreys, theowner of one of the staunch Catholic houses, Speke Hall, on the bank of theMersey.
“Here,” he wrote, “by the mercy of God there is no lack of priests, thoughthere be none to spare; my own chaplain says mass by dispensation thrice onSunday; but on the moors the sheep look up and are not fed; and such patientsheep! I heard but last week of a church where the folk resort, priest or no,each Sunday to the number of two hundred, and are led by a lector in devotion,ending with an act of spiritual communion made all together. These damnableheresies of which the apostle wrote have not poisoned the springs of sounddoctrine; some of us here know naught yet of Elizabeth and her supremacy, oreven of seven-wived Harry his reformation. Send us then, dear friend, a priest,or at least the promise of one; lest we perish quite.”
Mr. Buxton had a sore struggle with himself over this letter; but at last hecarried it to Anthony.
“Read that,” he said; and stood waiting.
Anthony looked up when he had done.
“I am your chaplain,” he said, “but I am God’s priest first.”
“Yes, dear lad,” said his friend, “I feared you would say so; and I will sayso to Norreys”; and he left the room at once.
And so at last it came to be arranged that Anthony should leave for Lancashireat the end of July; and that after his departure Stanfield should be servedoccasionally by the priest who lived on the outskirts of Tonbridge; but thedaily mass would have to cease, and that was a sore trouble to Mr. Buxton. Nodefinite decision could be made as to when Anthony could return; that must waituntil he saw the needs of Lancashire; but he hoped to be able at least to pay avisit to Stanfield again in the spring of the following year.
It was arranged also, of course, that Isabel should accompany her brother. Theywere both of large independent means, and could travel in some dignity; and herpresence would be under these circumstances a protection as well as a comfortto Anthony. It would need very great sharpness to detect the seminary priestunder Anthony’s disguise, and amid the surroundings of his cavalcade of four orfive armed servants, a French maid, and a distinguished-looking lady.
Yet, in spite of this, Mr. Buxton resolved to do his utmost to prevent Isabelfrom going to Lancashire; partly, of course, he disliked the thought of thedangers and hardships that she was certain to encounter; but the real motivewas that he had fallen very deeply in love with her. It was her exceptionalserenity that seemed to him her greatest charm; her movements, her face, hergrey eyes, the very folds of her dress seemed to breathe with it; and to one ofMr. Buxton’s temperament such a presence was cool and sweet and strangelyfascinating.
It was now April, and he resolved to devote the next month or two to preparingher for his proposal; and he wrote frankly to Mary Corbet telling her howmatters stood, entreating her to come down for July and counsel him. Mary wroteback at once, rather briefly, promising to come; but not encouraging himgreatly.
“I would I could cheer you more,” she wrote; “of course I have not seen Isabelsince January; but, unless she has changed, I do not think she will marry you.I am writing plainly you see, as you ask in your letter. But I can still say,God prosper you.”
As the spring went by and the summer came on, Isabel grew yet more silent. Asthe evenings began to lengthen out she used to spend much time before and aftersupper in walking up and down the clipped lime avenue between the east end ofthe church and the great gates that looked over the meadows across which thestream and the field-path ran towards East Maskells. Mr. Buxton would watch hersometimes from an upstairs window, himself unseen, and occasionally would goout and talk with her; but he found it harder than he used to get on tointimate relations; and he began to suspect that he had displeased her in someway, and that Mary Corbet was right. In the afternoon she and Anthony wouldgenerally ride out together, once or twice going round by Penshurst, and theirhost would torture himself by his own indecision as regards accompanying them;sometimes doing so, sometimes refraining, and regretting whichever he did. Moreand more he began to look forward to Mary’s coming and the benefit of heradvice; and at last, at the end of June, she came.
Their first evening together was delightful for them all. She was happy at herescape from Court; her host was happy at the prospect of her counsel; and allfour were happy at being together again.
They did not meet till supper, and even that was put off an hour, because Maryhad not come, and when she did arrive she was full of excitement.
“I will tell you all at supper,” she said to her host, whom she met in thehall. “Oh! how late I am!” and she whirled past him and upstairs withoutanother word.
“I will first give you the news in brief,” she said, when Anthony had saidgrace and they were seated, all four of them as before; and thetrumpet-flourish was silent that had announced the approach of the venison.
“Mutton’s new chaplain, Dr. Bancroft, will be in trouble soon; he hath beensaying favourable things for some of us poor papists, and hath rated thePrecisians soundly. Sir Francis Knollys is wroth with him; but that is nomatter.—Her Grace played at cards till two of the clock this morning, and thatis why I am so desperate sleepy to-night, for I had to sit up too; and that isa great matter.—Drake and Norris, ’tis said, have whipped the dons again atCorunna; and the Queen has sworn to pull my lord Essex his ears for going withthem and adventuring his precious self; and that is no matter at all, but willdo him good.—George Luttrell hath put up a coat of arms in his hall at Dunster,which is a great matter to him, but to none else;—and I have robbed ahighwayman this day in the beech woods this side of Groombridge.”
“Dear lady,” said Mr. Buxton resignedly, as the others looked up startled,“you are too swift for our dull rustic ears; we will begin at the end, if youplease. Is it true you have robbed an highwayman?”
“It is perfectly true,” she said, and unlatched a ruby brooch, madeheart-shape, from her dress. “There is the plunder,” and she held it out forinspection.
“Then tell us the tale,” said Anthony.
“It would be five of the clock,” said Mary, “as we came through Groombridge,and then into the woods beyond. I had bidden my knaves ride on before with mywoman; I came down into a dingle where there was a stream; and, to tell thetruth, I had my head down and was a-nodding, when my horse stopped; and Ilooked up of a sudden and there was a man on a bay mare, with a mask to hismouth, a gay green suit, a brown beard turning grey, and this ruby brooch athis throat; and he had caught my bridle. I saw him start when I lifted my head,as if he were taken aback. I said nothing, but he led my horse off the roaddown among the trees with a deep little thicket where none could see us. As wewent I was thinking like a windmill; for I knew I had seen the little redbrooch before.
“When we reached the little open space, I asked him what he wished with me.
“‘Your purse, madam,’ said he.
“‘My woman hath it,’ said I.
“‘Your jewels then, madam,’ said he.
“‘My woman hath them,’ said I, ‘save this paste buckle in my hat, to which youare welcome.’ It was diamonds, you know; but I knew he would not know that.
“‘What a mistake,’ I said, ‘to stop the mistress and let the maid go free!’
“‘Nay,’ he said, ‘I am glad of it; for at least I will have a dance with themistress; and I could not with the maid.’
“‘You are welcome to that,’ I said, and I slipped off my horse, to humour him,and even as I slipped off I knew who he was, for although many have redbrooches, and many brown beards turning grey, few have both together; but Isaid nothing. And there—will you believe it?—we danced under the beech-treeslike Phyllis and Corydon, or whoever they are that Sidney is always prating of;or like two fools, I would sooner say. Then when we had done, I made him acurtsey.
“‘Now you must help me up,’ said I, and he mounted me without a word, for hewas a stoutish gallant and somewhat out of breath. And then what did the fooldo but try to kiss me, and as he lifted his arm I snatched the brooch and putspur to my horse, and as we went up the bank I screamed at him, ‘Claude, youfool, go home to your wife and take shame to yourself.’ And when I was near theroad I looked back, and he still stood there all agape.”
“And what was his name?” asked Anthony.
“Nay, nay, I have mocked him enough. And I know four Claudes, so you need nottry to guess.”
When supper was over, Mr. Buxton and Mary walked up and down the south path ofthe garden between the yews, while the other two sat just outside the hallwindow on a seat placed on the tiled terrace that ran round the house.
“How I have longed for you to come, Mistress Mary,” he said, “and counsel meof the matter we wrote about. Tell me what to do.”
Mary looked meditatively out to the strip of moon that was rising out to theeast in the June sky. Then she looked tenderly at her friend.
“I hate to pain you,” she said, “but cannot you see that it is impossible? Imay be wrong; but I think her heart is so given to our Saviour that there is nolove of that sort left.”
“Ah, how can you say that?” he cried; “the love of the Saviour does not hinderearthly love; it purifies and transfigures it.”
“Yes,” said Mary gravely, “it is often so—but the love of the true spouse ofChrist is different. That leaves no room for an earthly bridegroom.”
Mr. Buxton was silent a moment or two.
“You mean it is the love of the consecrated soul?”
Mary bowed her head. “But I cannot be sure,” she added.
“Then what shall I do?” he said again, almost piteously; and Mary could seeeven in the faint moonlight that his pleasant face was all broken up andquivering. She laid her hand gently on his arm, and her rings flashed.
“You must be very patient,” she said, “very full of deference—and grave. Youmust not be ardent nor impetuous, but speak slowly and reverently to her, butat no great length; be plain with her; do not look in her face, and do not showanxiety or despair or hope. You need not fear that your love will not be plainto her. Indeed, I think she knows it already.”
“Why, I have not——” he began.
“I know you have not spoken to her; but I saw that she only looked at you onceduring supper, and that was when your face was turned from her; she does notwish to look you in the eyes.”
“Ah, she hates me,” he sighed.
“Do not be foolish,” said Mary, “she honours you, and loves you, and isgrieved for your grief; but I do not think she will marry you.”
“And when shall I speak?” he asked.
“You must wait; God will make the opportunity—in any case. You must not attemptto make it. That would terrify her.”
“And you will speak for me.”
Mary smiled at him.
“Dear friend,” she said, “sometimes I think you do not know us at all. Do younot see that Isabel is greater than all that? What she knows, she knows. Icould tell her nothing.”
The days passed on; the days of the last month of the Norrises’ stay atStanfield. Half-way through the month came the news of the Oxford executions.
“Ah! listen to this,” cried Mr. Buxton, coming out to them one evening in thegarden with a letter in his hand. “‘Humphrey Prichard,’” he read, “‘made a goodend. He protested he was condemned for the Catholic Faith; that he willinglydied for it; that he was a Catholic. One of their ministers laughed at him,saying he was a poor ignorant fellow who knew not what it was to be a Catholic.‘I know very well;’ said Humphrey, ‘though I cannot say it in proper divinitylanguage.’ There is the Religion for you!” went on Mr. Buxton; “all meetthere, wise and simple alike. There is no difference; no scholarship is neededfor faith. ‘I know what it is,’ cried Humphrey, ‘though I cannot explain it!’”
The news came to Anthony just when he needed it; he felt he had done so littleto teach his flock now he was to leave them; but if he had only done somethingto keep alive the fire of faith, he had not lost his time; and so he went abouthis spiritual affairs with new heart, encouraging the wavering, whom he was toleave, warning the over-confident, urging the hesitating, and saying good-byeto them all. Isabel went with him sometimes; or sometimes walked or rode withMary, and was silent for the most part in public. The master of the househimself did his affairs, and carried a heavier heart each day. And at last theopportunity came which Mary had predicted.
He had come in one evening after a hot ride alone over to Tonbridge on somebusiness with the priest there; and had dressed for supper immediately oncoming in.
As there was still nearly an hour before supper, he went out to walk up anddown the same yew-alley near the garden-house where he had walked with Mary.Anthony and Isabel had returned a little later from East Maskells, and they toohad dressed early. Isabel threw a lace shawl over her head, and betook herselftoo to the alley; and there she turned a corner and almost ran into her host.
It was, as Mary had said, a God-made opportunity. Neither time nor place couldhave been improved. If externals were of any value to this courtship, all thatcould have helped was there. The setting of the picture was perfect; a tallyew-hedge ran down the northern side of the walk, cut, as Bacon recommended,not fantastically but “with some pretty pyramids”; a strip of turf separated itfrom the walk, giving a sense both of privacy and space; on the south side ranflower-beds in the turf, with yews and cypresses planted here and there, and anoak paling beyond; to the east lay the “fair mount,” again recommended by thesame authority, but not so high, and with but one ascent; to the west the pathdarkened under trees, and over all rose up against the sunset sky the tallgrotesque towers and vanes of the garden-house. The flowers burned with thatember-like glow which may be seen on summer evenings, and poured out theirscent; the air was sweet and cool, and white moths were beginning to poise andstir among the blossoms. The two actors on this scene too were not unworthy ofit; his dark velvet and lace with the glimmer of diamonds here and there, andhis delicate bearded clean-cut face, a little tanned, thrown into relief by thespotless crisp ruff beneath, and above all his air of strength and refinementand self-possession—all combined to make him a formidable stormer of a girl’sheart. And as he looked on her—on her clear almost luminous face and greateyes, shrined in the drooping lace shawl, through which a jewel or two in herblack hair glimmered, her upright slender figure in its dark sheath, and thehand, white and cool, that held her shawl together over her breast—he had apang of hope and despair at once, at the sudden sense of need of this splendidcreature of God to be one with him, and reign with him over these fairpossessions; and of hopelessness at the thought that anything so perfect couldbe accomplished in this imperfect world.
He turned immediately and walked beside her, and they both knew, in the silencethat followed, that the crisis had come.
“Mistress Isabel,” he said, still looking down as he spoke, and his voicesounded odd to her ears, “I wonder if you know what I would say to you.”
There came no sound from her, but the rustle of her dress.
“But I must say it,” he went on, “follow what may. It is this. I love youdearly.”
Her walk faltered beside him, and it seemed as if she would stand still.
“A moment,” he said, and he lifted his white restrained face. “I ask you to bepatient with me. Perhaps I need not say that I have never said this to anywoman before; but more, I have never even thought it. I do not know how tospeak, nor what I should say; beyond this, that since I first met you at thedoor across there, a year ago, you have taught me ever since what love means;and now I am come to you, as to my dear mistress, with my lesson learnt.”
They were standing together now; he was still turned a little away from her,and dared not lift his eyes to her face again. Then of a sudden he felt herhand on his arm for a moment, and he looked up, and saw her eyes all swimmingwith sorrow.
“Dear friend,” she said quite simply, “it is impossible—Ah! what can I say?”
“Give me a moment more,” he said; and they walked on slowly. “I know whatpresumption this is; but I will not spin phrases about that. Nor do I ask whatis impossible; but I will only ask leave to teach you in my turn what lovemeans.”
“Oh! that is the hardest of all to say,” she said, “but I know already.”
He did not quite understand, and glanced at her a moment.
“I once loved too,” she whispered. He drew a sharp breath.
“Forgive me,” he said, “I forced that from you.”
“You are never anything but courteous and kind,” she said, “and that makesthis harder than all.”
They walked in silence half a dozen steps.
“Have I distressed you?” he asked, glancing at her again.
Then she looked full in his face, and her eyes were overflowing.
“I am grieved for your sorrow,” she said, “and at my own unworthiness, youknow that?”
“I know that you are now and always will be my dear mistress and queen.”
His voice broke altogether as he ended, and he bent and took her handdelicately in his own, as if it were royal, and kissed it. Then she gave agreat sob and slipped away through the opening in the clipped hedge; and he wasleft alone with the dusk and his sorrow.
A week later Anthony and Isabel were saying good-bye to him in the early summermorning: the pack-horses had started on before, and there were just the twosaddle-horses at the low oak door, with the servants’ behind. When Mr. Buxtonhad put Isabel into the saddle, he held her hand for a moment; Anthony wasmounting behind.
“Mistress Isabel,” he whispered; “forgive me; but I find I cannot take youranswer; you will remember that.”
She shook her head without speaking, but dared not even look into his eyes;though she turned her head as she rode out of the gates for a last look at thepeaked gables and low windows of the house where she had been so happy. Therewas still the dark figure motionless against the pale oak door.
“Oh, Anthony!” she whispered brokenly, “our Lord asks very much.”
NORTHERN RELIGION
The Northern counties were distinguished among all in England for their loyaltyto the old Faith; and this was owing, no doubt, to the characters of both thecountry and the inhabitants;—it was difficult for the officers of justice topenetrate to the high moorland and deep ravines, and yet more difficult toprevail with the persons who lived there. Twenty-two years before the famousLancashire League had been formed, under the encouragement of Dr. Allen,afterwards the Cardinal, whose members pledged themselves to determinedrecusancy; with the result that here and there church-doors were closed, andthe Book of Common Prayer utterly refused. Owing partly to Bishop Downman’slaxity towards the recusants, the principles of the League had retained theirhold throughout the county, ever since ’68, when ten obstinate Lancastrians hadbeen haled before the Council, of whom one, the famous Sir John Southworthhimself, suffered imprisonment more than once.
Anthony and Isabel then found their life in the North very different to thatwhich they had been living at Stanfield. Near the towns, of course, precautionwas as necessary as anywhere else in England, but once they had passed up on tothe higher moorlands they were able to throw off all anxiety, as much as if thepenal laws of England were not in force there.
It was pleasant, too, to go, as they did, from great house to great house, andfind the old pre-Reformation life of England in full vigour; the whole familypresent at mass so often as it was said, desirous of the sacraments, andthankful for the opportunities of grace that the arrival of the priestafforded. Isabel would often stay at such houses a week or two together, whileAnthony made rounds into the valleys and to the moorland villages round-about;and then the two would travel on together with their servants to the nextvillage. Anthony’s ecclesiastical outfit was very simple. Among Isabel’sdresses lay a brocade vestment that might easily pass notice if the luggage wassearched; and Anthony carried in his own luggage a little altar-stone, a casewith the holy oils, a tiny chalice and paten, singing-cakes, and a thinvellum-bound Missal and Ritual in one volume, containing the order of mass, afew votive masses, and the usual benedictions for holy-water, rue and the like,and the occasional offices.
In this manner they first visited many of the famous old Lancashire houses,some of which still stand, Borwick Hall, Hall-i’-the-Wood, Lydiate Hall,Thurnham, Blainscow, where Campion had once been so nearly taken, and others,all of which were provided with secret hiding-places for the escape of thepriest, should a sudden alarm be raised. In none of them, however, did he findthe same elaboration of device as at Stanfield Place.
First, however, they went to Speke Hall, the home of Mr. Norreys, on the banksof the Mersey, a beautiful house of magpie architecture, and furnished with aremarkable underground passage to the shore of the Mersey, the scene of RichardBrittain’s escape.
Here they received a very warm welcome.
“It is as I wrote to Mr. Buxton,” said his host on the evening of theirarrival, “in many places in this country any religion other than the Catholicis unknown. The belief of the Protestant is as strange as that of the Turk,both utterly detested. I was in Cumberland a few months back; there in morethan one village the old worship goes on as it has done since Christianityfirst came to this island. But I hope you will go up there, now that you havecome so far. You would do a great work for Christ his Church.”
He told him, too, a number of stories of the zeal and constancy shown on behalfof the Religion; of small squires who were completely ruined by the fines laidupon them; of old halls that were falling to pieces through the ruin broughtupon their staunch owners; and above all of the priests that Lancashire hadadded to the roll of the martyrs—Anderton, Marsden, and Thompson amongothers—and of the joy shown when the glorious news of their victory over deathreached the place where they had been born or where they had ministered.
“At Preston,” he said, “when the news of Mr. Greenaway’s death reached them,they tolled the bells for sorrow. But his old mother ran from her house to thestreet when they had broken the news to her: ‘Peal them, peal them!’ she cried,‘for I have borne a martyr to God.’”
He talked, too, of Campion, of his sermons on “The King who went a journey,”and the “Hail, Mary”; and told him of the escape at Blainscow Hall, where theservant-girl, seeing the pursuivants at hand, pushed the Jesuit, with quick witand courage, into the duck-pond, so that he came out disguised indeed—in greenmud—and was mocked at by the very officers as a clumsy suitor of maidens.
Anthony’s heart warmed within him as he sat and listened to these tales ofpatience and gallantry.
“I would lay down my life to serve such folk,” he said; and Isabel looked withdeep-kindled eyes from the one to the other.
They did not stay more than a day or two at Speke Hall, for, as Mr. Norreyssaid, the necessaries of salvation were to be had there already; but they movedon almost at once northwards, always arriving at some central point forSaturdays and Sundays, so that the Catholics round could come in for shrift andhousel. In this manner they passed up through Lancashire, and pushed stillnorthwards, hearing that a priest was sorely needed, through the corner ofWestmoreland, up the Lake country, through into Cumberland itself. At Kendal,where they stayed two nights, Anthony received a message that determined him,after consultation with Isabel, to push on as far as Skiddaw, and to make thatthe extreme limit of his journey. He sent the messenger, a wild-lookingNorth-countryman, back with a verbal answer to that effect, and named a datewhen they would arrive.
It was already dark, two weeks later, when they arrived at the point where theguide was to meet them, as they had lost their way more than once already. Herewere a couple of men with torches, waiting for them behind a rock, who had comedown from the village, a mile farther on, to bring them up the difficult stonypath that was the only means of access to it. The track went up a ravine, witha rock-wall rising on their left, on which the light of the torches shone, andtumbled ground, covered with heather, falling rapidly away on their right downto a gulf of darkness whence they could hear the sound of the torrent farbelow; the path was uneven, with great stones here and there, and sharp cornersin it, and as they went it was all they could do to keep their tired horsesfrom stumbling, for a slip would have been dangerous under the circumstances.The men who led them said little, as it was impossible for a horse and a man towalk abreast, but Anthony was astonished to see again and again, as they turneda corner, another man with a torch and some weapon, a pike, or a sword, startup and salute him, or sometimes a group, with barefooted boys, and then attachthemselves to the procession either before or behind; until in a short whilethere was an escort of some thirty or forty accompanying the cavalcade. Atlast, as they turned a corner, the lighted windows of a belfry showed againstthe dark moor beyond, and in a moment more, as if there were a watcher setthere to look out for the torches, a peal of five bells clashed out from thetower; then, as they rose yet higher, the path took a sudden turn and a dipbetween two towering rocks, and the whole village lay beneath them, with lightsin every window to welcome the priest, the first that they had seen for eightmonths, when the old Marian rector, the elder brother of the squire, had died.
It was now late, so Anthony and Isabel were conducted immediately to the Hall,an old house immediately adjoining the churchyard; and here, too, the windowswere blazing with welcome, and the tall squire, Mr. Brian, with his wife andchildren behind, was standing before the bright hall-door at the top of thesteps. The men and boys that had brought them so far, and were standing in thelittle court with their torches uplifted, now threw themselves on their kneesto receive the priest’s blessing, before they went home; and Anthony blessedthem and thanked them, and went indoors with his sister, strangely moved anduplifted.
The two following days were full of hard work and delight for Anthony. He wasto say mass at half-past six next morning, and came out of the house a littleafter six o’clock; the sun was just rising to his right over a shoulder ofSkiddaw, which dominated the eastern horizon; and all round him, stretchedagainst the sky in all directions, were the high purple moors in the strangedawn-light. Immediately in front of him, not thirty yards away, stood thechurch, with its tower, two aisles, and a chapel on a little promontory of rockwhich jutted out over the bed of the torrent along which he had climbed thenight before; and to his left lay the straggling street of the village. All wasperfectly still except for the dash of the stream over the rocks; but from oneor two houses a thin skein of smoke was rising straight into the air. Anthonystood rapt in delight, and drew long breaths of the cool morning air, ladenwith freshness and fragrant with the mellow scent of the heather and theautumnal smells.
He was completely taken by surprise when he entered the church, for, for thefirst time since he could remember, he saw an English church in its true glory.It had been built for a priory-church of Holm-Cultram, but for some reason hadnever been used as that, and had become simply the parish church of thevillage. Across the centre and the northern aisle ran an elaborate screen,painted in rich colours, and the southern chapel, which ran eastwards of theporch, was separated in a similar way from the rest of the church. Over thecentral screen was the great rood, with its attendant figures, exquisitelycarved and painted; in every direction, as Anthony looked beyond the screens,gleamed rich windows, with figures and armorial bearings; here and theretattered banners hung on the walls; St. Christopher stood on the north wallopposite the door, to guard from violence all who looked upon him day by day; alittle painting of the Baptist hung on a pillar over against the font, and aVernacle by the pulpit; and all round the walls hung little pictures, that thepoor and unlearned might read the story of redemption there. But the chiefglory of all was the solemn high altar, with its riddells surmounted bytaper-bearing gilded angels, with its brocade cloth, and its painted halpasbehind; and above it, before the rich window which smouldered against the dawn,hung the awful pyx, covered by the white silk cloth, but empty; waiting for thepriest to come and bid the Shechinah of the Lord to brood there again over thisgorgeous throne beneath, against the brilliant halo of the painted glassbehind.
Anthony knelt a moment and thanked God for bringing him here, and then passedup into the north aisle, where the image of the Mother of God presided, as shehad done for three hundred years, over her little altar against the wall.Anthony said his preparation and vested at the altar; and was astonished tofind at least thirty people to hear mass: none, of course, made theircommunion, but Anthony, when he had ended, placed the Body of the Lord oncemore in the hanging pyx and lit the lamp before it.
Then all day he sat in the north chapel, with the dash and loud thunder of themountain stream entering through the opened panes of the east window, and thestained sunlight, in gorgeous colours, creeping across the red tiles at hisfeet, glowing and fading as the clouds moved over the sun, while the peoplecame and were shriven; with the exception of an hour in the middle of the dayand half an hour for supper in the evening, he was incessantly occupied untilnine o’clock at night. From the upland dales all round they streamed in, atnews of the priest, and those who had come from far and were fasting hecommunicated at once from the Reserved Sacrament. At last, tired out, butintensely happy, he went back to the Hall.
But the next morning was yet more startling. Mass was at eight o’clock, and bythe time Anthony entered the church he found a congregation of nearly twohundred souls; the village itself did not number above seventy, but many camein from the country round, and some had stayed all night in the church-porch.Then, too, he heard the North-country singing in the old way; all the massmusic was sung in three parts, except the unchanging melody of the creed,which, like the tremendous and unchanging words themselves, at one time hadunited the whole of England; but what stirred Anthony more than all were theancient hymns sung here and there during the service, some in Latin, which afew picked voices rendered, and some in English, to the old lilting tunes whichwere as much the growth of the north-country as the heather itself. The “AveVerum Corpus” was sung after the Elevation, and Anthony felt that his heartwould break for very joy; as he bent before the Body of his Lord, and thevoices behind him rose and exulted up the aisles, the women’s and children’svoices soaring passionately up in the melody, the mellow men’s voicesestablishing, as it seemed, these ecstatic pinnacles of song on mighty andimmovable foundations.
Vespers were said at three o’clock, after baptisms and more confessions; andAnthony was astonished at the number of folk who could answer the priest. Aftervespers he made a short sermon, and told the people something of what he hadseen in the South, of the martyrdoms at Tyburn, and of the constancy of theconfessors.
“‘Be thou faithful unto death,’” he said. “So our Saviour bids us, and He givesus a promise too: ‘I will give thee a crown of life.’ Beloved, some day thetide of heresy will creep up these valleys too; and it will bear many thingswith it, the scaffold and the gallows and the knife maybe. And then our Lordwill see which are His; then will be the time that grace will triumph—thatthose who have used the sacraments with devotion; that have been careful andpenitent with their sins, that have hungered for the Bread of Life—the Lordshall stand by them and save them, as He stood by Mr. Sherwin on the rack, andFather Campion on the scaffold, and Mistress Ward and many more, of whom I havenot had time to tell you. He who bids us be faithful, Himself will be faithful;and He who wore the crown of thorns will bestow upon us the crown of life.”
Then they sang a hymn to our Lady:
“Hail be thou, Mary, the mother of Christ,”
and the old swaying tune rocked like a cradle, and the people looked up towardstheir Mother’s altar as they sang—their Mother who had ruled them so sweetlyand so long—and entreated her in their hearts, who stood by her Son’s Cross, tostand by theirs too should God ever call them to die upon one.
The next day Mr. Brian took Anthony a long walk as soon as dinner was over,across the moors towards the north side of Skiddaw. Anthony found the old man adelightful and garrulous companion, full of tales of the countryside,historical, religious, naturalistic, and supernatural. As they stood on alittle eminence and looked back to where the church-tower pricked out of thedeep crack in the moors where it stood, he told him the tale of the coming ofthe pursuivants.
“They first troubled us in ’72,” he said; “they had not thought it worth whilebefore to disturb themselves for one old man like my brother, who was like todie soon; but in April of that year they first sent up their men. But it wasonly a pair of pursuivants, for they knew nothing of the people; they came up,the poor men, to take my brother down to Cockermouth to answer on his religionto some bench of ministers that sat there. Well, they met him, in his cassockand square cap, coming out of the church, where he had just replaced the MostHoly Sacrament after giving communion to a dying body. ‘Heh! are you theminister?’ say they.
“‘Heh! I am the priest, if that is what you mean,’ he answers back. (He was alarge man, like myself, was my brother.)
“‘Well, come, old man,’ say they, ‘we must help you down to Cockermouth.’
“Well, a few words passed; and the end was that he called out to Tim, who livedjust against the church; and told them what was forward.
“Well, the pursuivants got back to Cockermouth with their lives, but not muchelse; and reported to the magistrates that the wild Irish themselves werelittle piminy maids compared to the folk they had visited that day.
“So there was a great to-do, and a deal of talk; and in the next month theysent up thirty pikemen with an officer and a dozen pursuivants, and all to takeone old priest and his brother. I had been in Kendal in April when they firstcame—but they put it all down to me.
“Well, we were ready for them this time; the bells had been ringing to call inthe folk since six of the clock in the morning; and by dinner-time, when thesoldiers were expected, there was a matter of two hundred men, I should say,some with scythes and sickles, and some with staves or shepherds’ crooks; thechildren had been sent down sooner to stone the men all the way up the path;and by the time that they had reached the churchyard gate there was not a manof them but had a cut or a bruise upon him. Then, when they turned the corner,black with wrath, there were the lads gathered about the church-porch each withhis weapon, and each white and silent, waiting for what should fall.
“Now you wonder where we were. We were in the church, my brother and I; for ourpeople had put us there against our will, to keep us safe, they said. Eh! but Iwas wroth when Olroyd and the rest pushed me through the door. However, therewe were, locked in; I was up in one window, and my brother was in the belfry asI thought, each trying to see what was forward. I saw the two crowds of them,silent and wrathful, with not twenty yards between them, and a few stones stillsailing among the soldiers now and again; the pikes were being set in array,and our lads were opening out to let the scythes have free play, when on asudden I heard the tinkle of a bell round the outside of the tower, and Iclimbed down from my place, and up again to one of the west windows; there wasa fearsome hush outside now, and I could see some of the soldiers in front wereuneasy; they had their eyes off the lads and round the side of the tower. Andthen I saw little Dickie Olroyd in his surplice ringing a bell and bearing acandle, and behind him came my brother, in a purple cope I had never set eyeson before, with his square cap and a great book, and his eyes shining out ofhis head, and his lips opening and mouthing out Latin; and then he stopped,laid the book reverently on a tombstone, lifted both hands, and brought themdown with the fingers out, and his eyes larger than ever. I could see thesoldiers were ready to break and scatter, for some were Catholics no doubt, andmany more feared the priest; and then on a sudden my brother caught the candleout of Dickie’s hand, blew it out with a great puff, while Dickie rattled uponthe bell, and then he dashed the smoking candle among the soldiers. Thesoldiers broke and fled like hares, out of the churchyard, down the street anddown the path to Cockermouth; the officer tried to stay them, but ’twas no use;the fear of the Church was upon them, and her Grace herself could not haveprevailed with them. Well, when they let us out, the lads were all a-tremblingtoo; for my brother’s face, they said, was like the destroying angel; and I wassomewhat queer myself, and I was astonished too; for he was kind-hearted, wasmy brother, and would not hurt a fly’s body; much less damn his soul; and,after all, the poor soldiers were not to blame; and ’twas a queer cursing, Ithought too, to be done like that; but maybe ’twas a new papal method. I wentround to the north chapel, and there he was taking off his cope.
“‘Well,’ he said to me, ‘how did I do it?’
“‘Do it?’ I said; ‘do it? Why, you’ve damned those poor lads’ souls eternally.The hand of the Lord was with you,’ I said.
“‘Damned them?’ said he; ‘nonsense! ’Twas only your old herbal that I read atthem; and the cope too, ’twas inside out.’”
Then the old man told Anthony other stories of his earlier life, how he hadbeen educated at the university and been at Court in King Henry’s reign andQueen Mary’s, but that he had lost heart at Elizabeth’s accession, and retiredto his hills, where he could serve God according to his conscience, and studyGod’s works too, for he was a keen naturalist. He told Anthony many storiesabout the deer, and the herds of wild white hornless cattle that were nowpractically extinct on the hills, and of a curious breed of four-horned sheep,skulls of all of which species hung in his hall, and of the odd drinking-hornsthat Anthony had admired the day before. There was one especially that hetalked much of, a buffalo horn on three silver feet fashioned like the legs ofan armed man; round the centre was a filleting inscribed, “Qui pugnat contratres perdet duos,” and there was a cross patée on the horn, and twoother inscriptions, “Nolite extollere cornu in altu’” and “Qui bibatme adhuc siti’.” Mr. Brian told him it had been brought from Italy by hisgrandfather.
They put up a quantity of grouse and several hares as they walked across themoor; one of the hares, which had a curious patch of white between his earslike a little night-cap, startled Mr. Brian so much that he exclaimed aloud,crossed himself, and stood, a little pale, watching the hare’s head as itbobbed and swerved among the heather.
“I like it not,” he said to Anthony, who inquired what was the matter. “Satanhath appeared under some such form to many in history. Joachimus Camerarius,who wrote de natura dæmonum, tells, I think, a story of a hare followedby a fox that ran across the path of a young man who was riding on a horse, andwho started in pursuit. Up and down hills and dales they went, and soon the foxwas no longer there, and the hare grew larger and blacker as it went; and theyoung man presently saw that he was in a country that he knew not; it was allbarren and desolate round him, and the sky grew dark. Then he spurred his horsemore furiously, and he drew nearer and nearer to the great hare that nowskipped along like a stag before him; and then, as he put out his hand to cutthe hare down, the creature sprang into the air and vanished, and the horsefell dead; and the man was found in his own meadow by his friends, in a swound,with his horse dead beside him, and trampled marks round and round the field,and the pug-marks of what seemed like a great tiger beside him, where the beasthad sprung into the air.”
When Mr. Brian found that Anthony was interested in such stories, he told himplenty of them; especially tales that seemed to join in a strange unity oflife, demons, beasts and men. It was partly, no doubt, his studies as anaturalist that led him to insist upon points that united rather than dividedthe orders of creation; and he told him stories first from such writers asMichael Verdunus and Petrus Burgottus, who relate among other marvels how thereare ointments by the use of which shepherds have been known to changethemselves into wolves and tear the sheep that they should have protected; andhe quoted to him St. Augustine’s own testimony, to the belief that in Italycertain women were able to change themselves into heifers through the power ofwitchcraft. Finally, he told him one or two tales of his own experience.
“In the year ’63,” he said, “before my marriage, I was living alone in theHall; I was a young man, and did my best to fear nought but deadly sin. I wascoming back late from Threlkeld, round the south of Skiddaw that you see overthere; and was going with a lantern, for it would be ten o’clock at night, andthe time of year was autumn. I was still a mile or two from the house, and wassaying my beads as I came, for I hold that is a great protection; when I hearda strange whistling noise, with a murmur in it, high up overhead in the night.‘It is the birds going south,’ I said to myself, for you know that great flocksfly by night when the cold begins to set in; but the sound grew louder and moredistinct, and at last I could hear the sound as of words gabbled in a foreigntongue; and I knew they were no birds, though maybe they had wings like them.But I knew that a Christened soul in grace has nought to fear from hell; so Icrossed myself and said my beads, and kept my eyes on the ground, and presentlyI saw my lights burning in the house, and heard the roar of the stream, and thegabbling above me ceased, as the sound of the running water began. But thatnight I awoke again and again; and the night seemed hot and close each time, asif a storm was near, but there was no thunder. Each time I heard the roar ofthe stream below the house, and no more. At last, towards the morning, I set mywindow wide that looks towards the stream, and leaned out; and there beneathme, crowded against the wall of the house, as I could see in the growing light,was a great flock of sheep, with all their heads together towards the house, asclose as a score of dogs could pack them, and they were all still as death, andtheir backs were dripping wet; for they had come down the hills and swum thestream, in order to be near a Christened man and away from what was abroad thatnight.
“My shepherds told me the same that day, that everywhere the sheep had comedown to the houses, as if terrified near to death; and at Keswick, whither Iwent the next market-day, they told me the same tale, and that two men had eachfound a sheep that could not travel; one had a broken leg, and the other hadbeen cast; but neither had another mark or wound or any disease upon him, butthat both were lying dead upon Skiddaw; and the look in the dead eyes, theysaid, was fit to make a man forget his manhood.”
Anthony found the old man the most interesting companion possible, and hepersuaded him to accompany him on several of the expeditions that he had tomake to the hamlets and outlying cottages round, in his spiritualministrations; and both he and Isabel were sincerely sorry when two Sundays hadpassed away, and they had to begin to move south again in their journeyings.
And so the autumn passed and winter began, and Anthony was slowly moving downagain, supplying the place of priests who had fallen sick or had died, visitingmany almost inaccessible hamlets, and everywhere encouraging the waverers andseeking the wanderers, and rejoicing over the courageous, and bringingopportunities of grace to many who longed for them. He met many otherwell-known priests from time to time, and took counsel with them, but did nothave time to become very intimate with any of them, so great were the demandsupon his services. In this manner he met John Colleton, the canonist, who hadreturned from his banishment in ’87, but found him a little dull andmelancholy, though his devotion was beyond praise. He met, too, the JesuitFathers Edward Oldcorne and Richard Holtby, the former of whom had lately comefrom Hindlip.
He spent Christmas near Cartmel-in-Furness, and after the new year had opened,crossed the Ken once more near Beetham, and began to return slowly down thecoast. Everywhere he was deeply touched by the devotion of the people, who, inspite of long months without a priest, had yet clung to the observance of theirreligion so far as was possible, and now welcomed him like an angel of God; andhe had the great happiness too of reconciling some who, yielding to lonelinessand pressure, had conformed to the Establishment. In these latter cases he wasalmost startled by the depth of Catholic convictions that had survived.
“I never believed it, father,” said a young squire to him, near Garstang. “Iknew that it was but a human invention, and not the Gospel that my fathersheld, and that Christ our Saviour brought on earth; but I lost heart, for thatno priest came near us, and I had not had the sacraments for nearly two years;and I thought that it were better to have some religion than none at all, so atlast I went to church. But there is no need to talk to me, father, now I havemade my confession, for I know with my whole soul that the Catholic Religion isthe true one—and I have known it all the while, and I thank God and His BlessedMother, and you, father, too, for helping me to say so again, and to come backto grace.”
At last, at the beginning of March, Anthony and Isabel found themselves backagain at Speke Hall, warmly welcomed by Mr. Norreys.
“You have done a good work for the Church, Mr. Capell,” said his host, “andGod will reward you and thank you for it Himself, for we cannot.”
“And I thank God,” said Anthony, “for the encouragement to faith that thesight of the faithful North has given to me; and pray Him that I may carrysomething of her spirit back with me to the south.”
There were letters waiting for him at Speke Hall, one from Mr. Buxton, urgingthem to come back, at least for the present, to Stanfield Place, so soon as thewinter work in the north was over; and another from the Rector of the Collegeat Douai to the same effect. There was also one more, written from a littleparish in Kent, from a Catholic lady who was altogether a stranger to him, butwho plainly knew all about him, entreating him to call at her house when he wasin the south again; her husband, she said, had met him once at Stanfield andhad been strongly attracted by him to the Catholic Church, and she believedthat if Anthony would but pay them a visit her husband’s conversion would bebrought about. Anthony could not remember the man’s name, but Isabel thoughtthat she did remember some such person at a small private conference thatAnthony had given in Mr. Buxton’s house, for the benefit of Catholics and thosewho were being drawn towards the Religion.
The lady, too, gave him instructions as to how he should come from London toher house, recommending him to cross the Thames at a certain spot that shedescribed near Greenhithe, and to come on southwards along a route that shemarked for him, to the parish of Stanstead, where she lived. This, then, wassoon arranged, and after letters had been sent off announcing Anthony’smovements, he left Speke Hall with Isabel, about a fortnight later.
IN STANSTEAD WOODS
On the first day of June, Anthony and Isabel, with their three armed servantsand the French maid behind them, were riding down through Thurrock to the northbank of the Thames opposite Greenhithe. As they went Anthony pulled out andstudied the letter and the little map that Mrs. Kirke had sent to guide them.
“On the right-hand side,” she wrote, “when you come to the ferry, stands alittle inn, the ‘Sloop,’ among trees, with a yard behind it. Mr. Bender, thehost, is one of us; and he will get your horses on board, and do all things toforward you without attracting attention. Give him some sign that he may knowyou for a Catholic, and when you are alone with him tell him where you arebound.”
There were one or two houses standing near the bank, as they rode down the lanethat led to the river, but they had little difficulty in identifying the“Sloop,” and presently they rode into the yard, and, leaving their horses withthe servants, stepped round into the little smoky front room of the inn.
A man, dressed somewhat like a sailor, was sitting behind a table, who lookedup with a dull kind of expectancy and whom Anthony took as the host; and, inorder to identify him and show who he himself was, he took up a little cake ofbread that was lying on a platter on the table, and broke it as if he wouldeat. This was one of Father Persons’ devices, and was used among Catholics tosignify their religion when they were with strangers, since it was an actionthat could rouse no suspicion among others. The man looked in an unintelligentway at Anthony, who turned away and rapped upon the door, and as a largeheavily-built man came out, broke it again, and put a piece into his mouth. Theman lifted his eyebrows slightly, and just smiled, and Anthony knew he hadfound his friend.
“Come this way, sir,” he said, “and your good lady, too.”
They followed him into the inner room of the house, a kind of little kitchen,with a fire burning and a pot over it, and one or two barrels of drink againstthe wall. A woman was stirring the pot, for it was near dinner-time, and turnedround as the strangers came in. It was plainly an inn that was of the poorestkind, and that was used almost entirely by watermen or by travellers who wereon their way to cross the ferry.
“The less said the better,” said the man, when he had shut the door. “How canI serve you, sir?”
“We wish to take our horses and ourselves across to Greenhithe,” said Anthony,“and Mrs. Kirke, to whom we are going, bade us make ourselves known to you.”
The man nodded and smiled.
“Yes, sir, that can be managed directly. The ferry is at the other bank now,sir; and I will call it across. Shall we say in half an hour, sir; and,meanwhile, will you and your lady take something?”
Anthony accepted gladly, as the time was getting on, and ordered dinner for theservants too, in the outer room. As the landlord was going to the door, hestopped him.
“Who is that man in the other room?” he asked.
The landlord gave a glance at the door, and came back towards Anthony.
“To tell the truth, sir, I do not know. He is a sailor by appearance, and heknows the talk; but none of the watermen know him; and he seems to do nothing.However, sir, there’s no harm in him that I can see.”
Anthony told him that he had broken the bread before him, thinking he was thelandlord. The real landlord smiled broadly.
“Thank God, I am somewhat more of a man than that,” for the sailor was leanand sun-dried. Then once more Mr. Bender went to the door to call the servantsin.
“Why, the man’s gone,” he said, and disappeared. Then they heard his voiceagain. “But he’s left his groat behind him for his drink, so all’s well”; andpresently his voice was heard singing as he got the table ready for theservants.
In a little more than half an hour the party and the horses were safely on thebroad bargelike ferry, and Mr. Bender was bowing on the bank and wishing them aprosperous journey, as they began to move out on to the wide river towards thechalk cliffs and red roofs of Greenhithe that nestled among the mass of treeson the opposite bank. In less than ten minutes they were at the pier, and aftera little struggle to get the horses to land, they were mounted and riding upthe straight little street that led up to the higher ground. Just before theyturned the corner they heard far away across the river the horn blown to summonthe ferry-boat once more.
There were two routes from Greenhithe to Stanstead, the one to the rightthrough Longfield and Ash, the other to the left through Southfleet andNursted. There was very little to choose between them as regards distance, andMrs. Kirke had drawn a careful sketch-map with a few notes as to thecharacteristics of each route. There were besides, particularly through thethick woods about Stanstead itself, innumerable cross-paths intersecting oneanother in all directions. The travellers had decided at the inn to take theroad through Longfield; since, in spite of other disadvantages, it was the lessfrequented of the two, and they were anxious above all things to avoidattention. Their horses were tired; and as they had plenty of time before themthey proposed to go at a foot’s-pace all the way, and to take between two andthree hours to cover the nine or ten miles between Greenhithe and Stanstead.
It was a hot afternoon as they passed through Fawkham, and it was delightful topass from the white road in under the thick arching trees just beyond thevillage. There everything was cool shadow, the insects sang in the air aboutthem, an early rabbit or two cantered across the road and disappeared into thethick undergrowth; once the song of the birds about them suddenly ceased, andthrough an opening in the green rustling vault overhead they saw a cruel shapewith motionless wings glide steadily across.
They did not talk much, but let the reins lie loose; and enjoyed the coolshadow and the green lights and the fragrant mellow scents of the woods aboutthem; while their horses slouched along on the turf, switching their tails andeven stopping sometimes for a second in a kind of desperate greediness tosnatch a green juicy mouthful at the side.
Isabel was thinking of Stanfield, and wondering how the situation would adjustitself; Mary Corbet would be there, she knew, to meet them; and it was acomfort to think she could consult her; but what, she asked herself, would beher relations with the master of the house?
Suddenly Anthony’s horse stepped off the turf on the opposite side of the roadand began to come towards her, and she moved her beast a little to let him comeon the turf beside her.
“Isabel,” said Anthony, “tell me if you hear anything.”
She looked at him, suddenly startled.
“No, no,” he said, “there is nothing to fear; it is probably my fancy; butlisten and tell me.”
She listened intently. There was the creaking of her own saddle, the softfootfalls of the horses, the hum of the summer woods, and the sound of theservants’ horses behind.
“No,” she said, “there is nothing beyond——”
“There!” he said suddenly; “now do you hear it?”
Then she heard plainly the sound either of a man running, or of a horsewalking, somewhere behind them.
“Yes,” she said, “I hear something; but what of it?”
“It is the third time I have heard it,” he said: “once in the woods behindLongfield, and once just before the little village with the steepled church.”
The sound had ceased again.
“It is some one who has come nearly all the way from Greenhithe behind us.Perhaps they are not following—but again——”
“They?” she said; “there is only one.”
“There are three,” he answered; “at least; the other two are on the turf atthe side—but just before the village I heard all three of them—or rathercertainly more than two—when they were between those two walls where there wasno turf.”
Isabel was staring at him with great frightened eyes. He smiled back at hertranquilly.
“Ah, Isabel!” he said, “there is nothing really to fear, in any case.”
“What shall you do?” she asked, making a great effort to control herself.
“I think we must find out first of all whether they are after us. We mustcertainly not ride straight to the Manor Lodge if it is so.”
Then he explained his plan.
“See here,” he said, holding the map before her as he rode, “we shall come toFawkham Green in five minutes. Then our proper road leads straight on to Ash,but we will take the right instead, towards Eynsford. Meanwhile, I will leaveRobert here, hidden by the side of the road, to see who these men are, and whatthey look like; and we will ride on slowly. When they have passed, he will comeout and take the road we should have taken, and he then will turn off to theright too before he reaches Ash; and by trotting he will easily come up with usat this corner,” and he pointed to it on the map—“and so he will tell us whatkind of men they are; and they will never know that they have been spied upon;for, by this plan, he will not have to pass them. Is that a good plot?” and hesmiled at her.
Isabel assented, feeling dazed and overwhelmed. She could hardly bring herthoughts to a focus, for the fears that had hovered about her ever since theyhad left Lancashire and come down to the treacherous south, had now darted uponher, tearing her heart with terror and blinding her eyes, and bewildering herwith the beating of their wings.
Anthony quietly called up Robert, and explained the plan. He was a lad of aCatholic family at Great Keynes, perfectly fearless and perfectly devoted tothe Church and to the priest he served. He nodded his head briskly withapproval as the plan was explained.
“Of course it may all be nothing,” ended Anthony, “and then you will think mea poor fool?”
The lad grinned cheerfully.
“No, sir,” he said.
All this while they had been riding slowly on together, and now the wood showedsigns of coming to an end; so Anthony told the groom to ride fifty yards intothe undergrowth at once, to bandage his horse’s eyes, and to tie him to a tree;and then to creep back himself near the road, so as to see without being seen.The men who seemed to be following were at least half a mile behind, so hewould have plenty of time.
Then they all rode on together again, leaving Robert to find his way into thewood. As they went, Isabel began to question her brother, and Anthony gave herhis views.
“They have not come up with us, because they know we are four men to three—if,as I think, they are not more than three—that is one reason; and another isthat they love to track us home before they take us; and thus take our hoststoo as priests’ harbourers. Now plainly these men do not know where we arebound, or they would not follow us so closely. Best of all, too, they love tocatch us at mass for then they have no trouble in proving their case. I thinkthen that they will not try to take us till we reach the Manor Lodge; and wemust do our best to shake them off before that. Now the plot I have thought ofis this, that—should it prove as I think it will—we should ride slower thanever, as if our horses were weary, down the road along which Robert will havecome after he has joined us, and turn down as if to go to Kingsdown, and whenwe have gone half a mile, and are well round that sharp corner, double back toit, and hide all in the wood at the side. They will follow our tracks, andthere are no houses at which they can ask, and there seem no travellers eitheron these by-roads, and when they have passed us we double back at the gallop,and down the next turning, which will bring us in a couple of miles toStanstead. There is a maze of roads thereabouts, and it will be hard if we donot shake them off; for there is not a house, marked upon the map, at whichthey can ask after us.”
Isabel did her utmost to understand, but the horror of the pursuit hadoverwhelmed her. The quiet woods into which they had passed again after leavingFawkham Green now seemed full of menace; the rough road, with the deep powderyruts and the grass and fir-needles at the side, no longer seemed a pleasantpath leading home, but a treacherous device to lead them deeper into danger.The creatures round them, the rabbits, the pigeons that flapped suddenly out ofall the tall trees, the tits that fluttered on and chirped and fluttered again,all seemed united against Anthony in some dreadful league. Anthony himself feltall his powers of observation and device quickened and established. He hadlived so long in the expectation of a time like this, and had rehearsed andmastered the emotions of terror and suspense so often, that he was ready tomeet them; and gradually his entire self-control and the unmoved tones of hisvoice and his serene alert face prevailed upon Isabel; and by the time thatthey slowly turned the last curve and saw Robert on his black horse waiting forthem at the corner, her sense of terror and bewilderment had passed, her hearthad ceased that sick thumping, and she, too, was tranquil and capable.
Robert wheeled his horse and rode beside Anthony round the sharp corner to theleft up the road along which he had trotted just now.
“There are three of them, sir,” he said in an even, businesslike voice; “oneof them, sir, on a brown mare, but I couldn’t see aught of him, sir; he was onthe far side of the track; the second is like a groom on a grey horse, and thethird is dressed like a sailor, sir, on a brown horse.”
“A sailor?” said Anthony; “a lean man, and sunburnt, with a whistle?”
“I did not see the whistle, sir; but he is as you say.”
This made it certain that it was the man they had seen in the inn oppositeGreenhithe; and also practically certain that he was a spy; for nothing thatAnthony had done could have roused his suspicions except the breaking of thebread; and that would only be known to one who was deep in the counsels of theCatholics. All this made the pursuit the more formidable.
So Anthony meditated; and presently, calling up the servants behind, explainedthe situation and his plan. The French maid showed signs of hysteria and Isabelhad to take her aside and quiet her, while the men consulted. Then it wasarranged, and the servants presently dropped behind again a few yards, thoughthe maid still rode with Isabel. Then they came to the road on the right thatwould have led them to Kingsdown, and down this they turned. As they went,Anthony kept a good look-out for a place to turn aside; and a hundred yardsfrom the turning saw what he wanted. On the left-hand side a little path ledinto the wood; it was overgrown with brambles, and looked as if it were nowdisused. Anthony gave the word and turned his horse down the entrance, and wasfollowed in single file by the others. There were thick trees about them onevery side, and, what was far more important, the road they had left at thispoint ran higher than usual, and was hard and dry; so the horses’ hoofs as theyturned off left no mark that would be noticed.
After riding thirty or forty yards, Anthony stopped, turned his horse again,and forced him through the hazels with some difficulty, and the others againfollowed in silence through the passage he had made. Presently Anthony stopped;the branches that had swished their faces as they rode through now seemed alittle higher; and it was possible to sit here on horseback without any greatdiscomfort.
“I must see them myself,” he whispered to Isabel; and slipped off his horse,giving the bridle to Robert.
“Oh! mon Dieu!” moaned the maid; “mon Dieu! Ne partez pas!”
Anthony looked at her severely.
“You must be quiet and brave,” he said sternly. “You are a Catholic too; pray,instead of crying.”
Then Isabel saw him slip noiselessly towards the road, which was some fiftyyards away, through the thick growth.
It was now a breathless afternoon. High overhead the sun blazed in a cloudlesssky, but down here all was cool, green shadow. There was not a sound to beheard from the woods, beyond the mellow hum of the flies; Anthony’s faintrustlings had ceased; now and then a saddle creaked, or a horse blew out hisnostrils or tossed his head. One of the men wound his handkerchief silentlyround a piece of his horse’s head-harness that jingled a little. The maid drewa soft sobbing breath now and then, but she dared not speak after the priest’srebuke.
Then suddenly there came another sound to Isabel’s ears; she could notdistinguish at first what it was, but it grew nearer, and presently resolveditself into the fumbling noise of several horses’ feet walking together, twiceor three times a stirrup chinked, once she heard a muffled cough; but no wordwas spoken. Nearer and nearer it came, until she could not believe that it wasnot within five yards of her. Her heart began again that sick thumping; a flythat she had brushed away again and again now crawled unheeded over her face,and even on her white parted lips; but a sob of fear from the maid recalledher, and she turned a sharp look of warning on her. Then the fumbling noisebegan to die away: the men were passing. There was something in their silencethat was more terrible than all else; it reminded her of hounds running on ahot scent.
Then at last there was silence; then gentle rustlings again over last year’sleaves; and Anthony came back through the hazels. He nodded at her sharply.
“Now, quickly,” he said, and took his horse by the bridle and began to leadhim out again the way they had come. At the entrance he looked out first; theroad was empty and silent. Then he led his horse clear, and mounted as theothers came out one by one in single file.
“Now follow close; and watch my hand,” he said; and he put his horse to aquick walk on the soft wayside turf. As the distance widened between them andthe men who were now riding away from them, the walk became a trot, and thenquickly a canter, as the danger of the sound being carried to their pursuersdecreased.
It seemed to Isabel like some breathless dream as she followed Anthony’s back,watching the motions of his hand as he signed in which direction he was goingto turn next. What was happening, she half wondered to herself, that she shouldbe riding like this on a spent horse, as if in some dreadful game, turningabruptly down lanes and rides, out across the high road, and down again anotherturn, with the breathing and creaking and jingling of others behind her? Yearsago the two had played Follow-my-leader on horseback in the woods above GreatKeynes. She remembered this now; and a flood of memories poured across her mindand diluted the bitterness of this shocking reality. Dear God, what a game!
Anthony steered with skill and decision. He had been studying the map withgreat attention, and even now carried it loose in his hand and glanced at itfrom time to time. Above all else he wished to avoid passing a house, for fearthat the searchers might afterwards inquire at it; and he succeeded perfectlyin this, though once or twice he was obliged to retrace his steps. There waslittle danger, he knew now, of the noise of the horses’ feet being any guide tothose who were searching, for the high table-land on which they rode was alabyrinth of lanes and rides, and the trees too served to echo and confuse thenoise they could not altogether avoid making. Twice they passed travellers, onea farmer on an old grey horse, who stared at this strange hurrying party; andonce a pedlar, laden with his pack, who trudged past, head down.
Isabel’s horse was beginning to strain and pant, and she herself to grow giddywith heat and weariness, when she saw through the trees an old farmhouse withlatticed windows and a great external chimney, standing in a square ofcultivated ground; and in a moment more the path they were following turned acorner, and the party drew up at the back of the house.
At the noise of the horses’ footsteps a door at the back had opened, and awoman’s face looked out and drew back again; and presently from the front Mrs.Kirke came quickly round. She was tall and slender and middle-aged, with asomewhat anxious face; but a look of great relief came over it as she sawAnthony.
“Thank God you are come,” she said; “I feared something had happened.”
Anthony explained the circumstances in a few words.
“I will ride on gladly, madam, if you think right; but I will ask you in anycase to take my sister in.”
“Why, how can you say that?” she said; “I am a Catholic. Come in, father. ButI fear there is but poor accommodation for the servants.”
“And the horses?” asked Anthony.
“The barn at the back is got ready for them,” she said; “perhaps it would bewell to take them there at once.” She called a woman, and sent her to show themen where to stable the horses, while Anthony and Isabel and the maiddismounted and came in with her to the house.
There, they talked over the situation and what was best to be done. Her husbandhad ridden over to Wrotham, and she expected him back for supper; nothing thencould be finally settled till he came. In the meantime the Manor Lodge wasprobably the safest place in all the woods, Mrs. Kirke declared; the nearesthouse was half a mile away, and that was the Rectory; and the Rector himselfwas a personal friend and favourable to Catholics. The Manor Lodge, too, stoodwell off the road to Wrotham, and not five strangers appeared there in theyear. Fifty men might hunt the woods for a month and not find it; in fact, Mr.Kirke had taken the house on account of its privacy, for he was weary, his wifesaid, of paying her fines for recusancy; and still more unwilling to pay hisown, when that happy necessity should arrive; for he had now practically madeup his mind to be a Catholic, and only needed a little instruction before beingreceived.
“He is a good man, father,” she said to Anthony, “and will make a goodCatholic.”
Then she explained about the accommodation. Isabel and the maid would have tosleep together in the spare room, and Anthony would have the littledressing-room opening out of it; and the men, she feared, would have to shakedown as well as they could in the loft over the stable in the barn.
At seven o’clock Mr. Kirke arrived; and when the situation had been explainedto him, he acquiesced in the plan. He seemed confident that there was butlittle danger; and he and Anthony were soon deep in theological talk.
Anthony found him excellently instructed already; he had, in fact, evenprepared for his confession; his wife had taught him well; and it was theprospect of this one good opportunity of being reconciled to the Church thathad precipitated matters and decided him to take the step. He was a delightfulcompanion, too, intelligent, courageous, humorous and modest, and Anthonythought his own labour and danger well repaid when, a little after midnight, heheard his confession and received him into the Church. It was impossible forMr. Kirke to receive communion, as he had wished, for there were wanting someof the necessaries for saying mass; so he promised to ride across to Stanfieldin a week or so, stay the night and communicate in the morning.
Then early the next morning a council was held as to the best way for the partyto leave for Stanfield. The men were called up, and their opinions asked; andgradually step by step a plan was evolved.
The first requirement was that, if possible, the party should not berecognisable; the second that they should keep together for mutual protection;for to separate would very possibly mean the apprehension of some one of them;the third was that they should avoid so far as was possible villages and housesand frequented roads.
Then the first practical suggestion was made by Isabel that the maid should beleft behind, and that Mr. Kirke should bring her on with him to Stanfield whenhe came a week later. This he eagerly accepted, and further offered to keep allthe luggage they could spare, take charge of the men’s liveries, and lend themold garments and hats of his own—to one a cloak, and to another a doublet. Inthis way, he said, it would appear to be a pleasure party rather than one oftravellers, and, should they be followed, this would serve to cover theirtraces. The travelling by unfrequented roads was more difficult; for that initself might attract attention should they actually meet any one.
Anthony, who had been thinking in silence a moment or two, now broke in.
“Have you any hawks, Mr. Kirke?” he asked.
“Only one old peregrine,” he said, “past sport.”
“She will do,” said Anthony; “and can you borrow another?”
“There is a merlin at the Rectory,” said Mr. Kirke.
Then Anthony explained his plan, that they should pose as a hawking-party.Isabel and Robert should each carry a hawk, while he himself would carry on hiswrist an empty leash and hood as if a hawk had escaped; that they should thenall ride together over the open country, avoiding every road, and that, if theyshould see any one on the way, they should inquire whether he had seen anescaped falcon or heard the tinkle of the bells; and this would enable them toask the way, should it be necessary, without arousing suspicion.
This plan was accepted, and the maid was informed to her great relief that shemight remain behind for a week or so, and then return with Mr. Kirke after thesearchers had left the woods.
It was a twenty-mile ride to Stanfield; and it was thought safer on the wholenot to remain any longer where they were, as it was impossible to know whethera shrewd man might not, with the help of a little luck, stumble upon the house;so, when dinner was over, and the servants had changed into Mr. Kirke’s oldsuits, and the merlin had been borrowed from the Rectory for a week’s hawking,the horses were brought round and the party mounted.
Mr. Kirke and Anthony had spent a long morning together discussing the route,and it had been decided that it would be best to keep along the high ridge duewest until they were a little beyond Kemsing, which they would be able to seebelow them in the valley; and then to strike across between that village andOtford, and keeping almost due south ride up through Knole Park; then straightdown on the other side into the Weald, and so past Tonbridge home.
Mr. Kirke himself insisted on accompanying them on his cob until he had seenthem clear of the woods on the high ground. Both he and his wife were full ofgratitude to Anthony for the risk and trouble he had undergone, and did theirutmost to provide them with all that was necessary for their disguise. At last,about two o’clock, the five men and Isabel rode out of the little yard at theback of the Manor Lodge and plunged into the woods again.
The afternoon hush rested on the country as they followed Mr. Kirke along anarrow seldom-used path that led almost straight to the point where it wasdecided that they should strike south. In half a dozen places it cut acrosslanes, and once across the great high road from Farningham to Wrotham. As theydrew near this, Mr. Kirke, who was riding in front, checked them.
“I will go first,” he said, “and see if there is danger.”
In a minute he returned.
“There is a man about a hundred yards up the road asleep on a bank; and thereis a cart coming up from Wrotham: that is all I can see. Perhaps we had betterwait till the cart is gone.”
“And what is the man like?” asked Anthony.
“He is a beggar, I should say; but has his hat over his eyes.”
They waited till the cart had passed. Anthony dismounted and went to theentrance of the path and peered out at the man; he was lying, as Mr. Kirke hadsaid, with his hat over his eyes, perfectly still. Anthony examined him aminute or two; he was in tattered clothes, and a great stick and a bundle laybeside him.
“It is a vagabond,” he said, “we can go on.”
The whole party crossed the road, pushing on towards the edge of the high downsover Kemsing; and presently came to the Ightam road where it began to runsteeply down hill; here, too, Mr. Kirke looked this way and that, but no onewas in sight, and then the whole party crossed; they kept inside the edge ofthe wood all the way along the downs for another mile or so, with the richsunlit valley seen in glimpses through the trees here and there, and thePilgrim’s Way lying like a white ribbon a couple of hundred feet below them,until at last Kemsing Church, with St. Edith’s Chantry at the side, lay belowand behind them, and they came out on to the edge of a great scoop in the hill,like a theatre, and the blue woods and hills of Surrey showed opposite beyondOtford and Brasted.
Here they stopped, a little back from the edge, and Mr. Kirke gave them theirlast instructions, pointing out Seal across the valley, which they must leaveon their left, skirting the meadows to the west of the church, and passing uptowards Knole beyond.
“Let the sun be a little on your right,” he said, “all the way; and you willstrike the country above Tonbridge.”
Then they said good-bye to one another; Mr. Kirke kissed the priest’s hand ingratitude for what he had done for him, and then turned back along the edge ofthe downs, riding this time outside the woods, while the party led their horsescarefully down the steep slope, across the Pilgrim’s Way, and then struckstraight out over the meadows to Seal.
Their plan seemed supremely successful; they met a few countrymen and lads attheir work, who looked a little astonished at first at this great party ridingacross country, but more satisfied when Anthony had inquired of them whetherthey had seen a falcon or heard his bells. No, they had not, they said; andwent on with their curiosity satisfied. Once, as they were passing down througha wood on to the Weald, Isabel, who had turned in her saddle, and was lookingback, gave a low cry of alarm.
“Ah! the man, the man!” she said.
The others turned quickly, but there was nothing to be seen but the longstraight ride stretching up to against the sky-line three or four hundred yardsbehind them. Isabel said she thought she saw a rider pass across this littleopening at the end, framed in leaves; but there were stags everywhere in thewoods here, and it would have been easy to mistake one for the other at thatdistance, and with such a momentary glance.
Once again, nearer Tonbridge, they had a fright. They had followed up a grassride into a copse, thinking it would bring them out somewhere, but it led onlyto the brink of a deep little stream, where the plank bridge had been removed,so they were obliged to retrace their steps. As they re-emerged into the fieldfrom the copse, a large heavily-built man on a brown mare almost rode intothem. He was out of breath, and his horse seemed distressed. Anthony, as usual,immediately asked if he had seen or heard anything of a falcon.
“No, indeed, gentlemen,” he said, “and have you seen aught of a bitch whobolted after a hare some half mile back. A greyhound I should be loath tolose.”
They had not, and said so; and the man, still panting and mopping his head,thanked them, and asked whether he could be of any service in directing them,if they were strange to the country; but they thought it better not to give himany hint of where they were going, so he rode off presently up the slope acrosstheir route and disappeared, whistling for his dog.
And so at last, about four o’clock in the afternoon, they saw the church spireof Stanfield above them on the hill, and knew that they were near the end oftheir troubles. Another hundred yards, and there were the roofs of the oldhouse, and the great iron gates, and the vanes of the garden-house seen overthe clipped limes; and then Mary Corbet and Mr. Buxton hurrying in from thegarden, as they came through the low oak door, into the dear tapestried hall.
THE ALARM
A very happy party sat down to supper that evening in Stanfield Place.
Anthony had taken Mr. Buxton aside privately when the first greetings wereover, and told him all that happened: the alarm at Stanstead; his device, andthe entire peace they had enjoyed ever since.
“Isabel,” he ended, “certainly thought she saw a man behind us once; but wewere among the deer, and it was dusky in the woods; and, for myself, I think itwas but a stag. But, if you think there is danger anywhere, I will gladly rideon.”
Mr. Buxton clapped him on the shoulder.
“My dear friend,” he said, “take care you do not offend me. I am a slowfellow, as you know; but even my coarse hide is pricked sometimes. Do notsuggest again that I could permit any priest—and much less my own dearfriend—to leave me when there was danger. But there is none in this case—youhave shaken the rogues off, I make no doubt; and you will just stay here forthe rest of the summer at the very least.”
Anthony said that he agreed with him as to the complete baffling of thepursuers, but added that Isabel was still a little shaken, and would Mr. Buxtonsay a word to her.
“Why, I will take her round the hiding-holes myself after supper, and show herhow strong and safe we are. We will all go round.”
In the withdrawing-room he said a word or two of reassurance to her before theothers were down.
“Anthony has told me everything, Mistress Isabel; and I warrant that the knavesare cursing their stars still on Stanstead hills, twenty miles from here. Youare as safe here as in Greenwich palace. But after supper, to satisfy you, wewill look to our defences. But, believe me, there is nothing to fear.”
He spoke with such confidence and cheerfulness that Isabel felt her fearsmelting, and before supper was over she was ashamed of them, and said so.
“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Buxton, “you shall not escape. You shall see every one ofthem for yourself. Mistress Corbet, do you not think that just?”
“You need a little more honest worldliness, Isabel,” said Mary. “I do nothesitate to say that I believe God saves the priests that have the besthiding-holes. Now that is not profane, so do not look at me like that.”
“It is the plainest sense,” said Anthony, smiling at them both.
They went the round of them all with candles, and Anthony refreshed his memory;they visited the little one in the chapel first, then the cupboard andportrait-door at the top of the corridor, the chamber over the fireplace in thehall, and lastly, in the wooden cellar-steps they lifted the edge of the fifthstair from the bottom, so that its front and the top of the stair below itturned on a hinge and dropped open, leaving a black space behind: this was theentrance to the passage that led beneath the garden to the garden-house on thefar side of the avenue.
Mistress Corbet wrinkled her nose at the damp earthy smell that breathed out ofthe dark.
“I am glad I am not a priest,” she said. “And I would sooner be buried deadthan alive. And there is a rat there that sorely needs burying.”
“My dear lady!” cried the contriver of the passage indignantly, “her Gracemight sleep there herself and take no harm. There is not even the whisker of arat.”
“It is not the whisker that I mind,” said Mary, “it is the rest of him.”
Mr. Buxton immediately set his taper down and climbed in.
“You shall see,” he said, “and I in my best satin too!”
He was inside the stairs now and lying on his back on the smooth board thatbacked them. He sidled himself slowly along towards the wall.
“Press the fourth brick of the fourth row,” he said.
“You remember, Father Anthony?”
He had reached now what seemed to be the brick wall against which the ends ofthe stairs rested; and that closed that end of the cellars altogether. Anthonyleaned in with a candle, and saw how that part of the wall against his friend’sright side slowly turned into the dark as the fourth brick was pressed, and alittle brick-lined passage appeared beyond. Mr. Buxton edged himself sidewaysinto the passage, and then stood nearly upright. It was an excellentcontrivance. Even if the searchers should find the chamber beneath the stairs,which was unlikely, they would never suspect that it was only a blind to apassage beyond. The door into the passage consisted of a strong oaken doordisguised on the outside by a facing of brick-slabs; all the hinges werewithin.
“As sweet as a flower,” said the architect, looking about him. His voice rangmuffled and hollow.
“Then the friends have removed the corpse,” said Mary, putting her head in,“while you were opening the door. There! come out; you will take cold. Ibelieve you.”
“Are you satisfied?” said Mr. Buxton to Isabel, as they went upstairs again.
“What are your outer defences?” asked Mary, before Isabel could answer.
“You shall see the plan in the hall,” said Mr. Buxton.
He took down the frame that held the plan of the house, and showed them theouter doors. There was first the low oak front door on the north, opening on tothe little court; this was immensely strong and would stand battering. Then onthe same side farther east, within the stable-court, there was the servants’door, protected by chains, and an oak bolt that ran across. On the extreme eastend of the house there was a door opening into the garden from thewithdrawing-room, the least strong of all; there was another on the south side,opposite the front door—that gave on to the garden; and lastly there was anentrance into the priests’ end of the house, at the extreme west, from thelittle walled garden where Anthony had meditated years ago. This walled gardenhad a very strong door of its own opening on to the lane between the church andthe house.
“But there are only three ways out, really,” said Mr. Buxton, “for the gardenwalls are high and strong. There is the way of the walled garden; theiron-gates across the drive; and through the stable-yard on to the field-pathto East Maskells. All the other gates are kept barred; and indeed I scarcelyknow where the keys are.”
“I am bewildered,” said Mary.
“Shall we go round?” he asked.
“To-morrow,” said Mary; “I am tired to-night, and so is this poor child. Come,we will go to bed.”
Anthony soon went too. Both he and Isabel were tired with the journey and thestrain of anxiety, and it was a keen joy to him to be back again in his owndear room, with the tapestry of St. Thomas of Aquin and St. Clare opposite thebed, and the wide curtained bow-window which looked out on the little walledgarden.
Mr. Buxton was left alone in the great hall below with the two tapers burning,and the starlight with all the suffused glow of a summer night making the armsglimmer in the tall windows that looked south. Lower, the windows were open,and the mellow scents of the June roses, and of the sweet-satyrian and lavenderpoured in; the night was very still, but the faintest breath came from time totime across the meadows and rustled in the stiff leaves with the noise of astealthy movement.
“I will look round,” said Mr. Buxton to himself.
He stepped out immediately into the garden by the hall door, and turned to theeast, passing along the lighted windows. His step sounded on the tiles, and aface looked out swiftly from Isabel’s room overhead; but his figure was plainin the light from the windows as he came out round the corner; and the facedrew back. He crossed the east end of the house, and went through a little doorinto the stable-yard, locking it after him. In the kennels in the corner came amovement, and a Danish hound came out silently into the cage before her house,and stood up, like a slender grey ghost, paws high up in the bars, andwhimpered softly to her lord. He quieted her, and went to the door in the yardthat opened on to the field-path to East Maskells, unbarred it and steppedthrough. There was a dry ditch on his left, where nettles quivered in thestirring air; and a heavy clump of bushes rose beyond, dark and impenetrable.Mr. Buxton stared straight at these a moment or two, and then out towards EastMaskells. There lay his own meadows, and the cattle and horses secure andsleeping. Then he stepped back again; barred the door and walked up through thestable-yard into the front court. There the great iron gates rose before him,diaphanous-looking and flimsy in the starlight. He went up to them and shookthem; and a loose shield jangled fiercely overhead. Then he peered through,holding the bars, and saw the familiar patch of grass beyond the gravel sweep,and the dark cottages over the way. Then he made his way back to the frontdoor, unlocked it with his private key, passed through the hall, through aparlour or two into the lower floor of the priests’ quarters; unlocked softlythe little door into the walled garden, and went out on tip-toe once more. Evenas he went, Anthony’s light overhead went out. Mr. Buxton went to the gardendoor, unfastened it, and stepped out into the road. Above him on his left roseup the chancel of the parish church, the roofs crowded behind; and immediatelyin front was the high-raised churchyard, with the tall irregular wall and thetrees above all, blotting out the stars.
Then he came back the same way, fastening the doors as he passed, and reachedthe hall, where the tapers still burned. He blew out one and took the other.
“I suppose I am a fool,” he said; “the lad is as safe as in his mother’sarms.” And he went upstairs to bed.
Mary Corbet rose late next morning, and when she came down at last found theothers in the garden. She joined them as they walked in the little avenue.
“Have not the priest-hunters arrived?” she asked. “What are they about? Andyou, dear Isabel, how did you sleep?”
Isabel looked a little heavy-eyed. “I did not sleep well,” she said.
“I fear I disturbed her,” said Mr. Buxton. “She heard me as I went round thehouse.”
“Why did you go round the house?” asked Anthony.
“I often do,” he said shortly.
“And there was no one?” asked Mary.
“There was no one.”
“And what would you have done if there had been?”
“Yes,” said Anthony, “what would you have done to warn us all?”
Mr. Buxton considered.
“I should have rung the alarm, I think,” he said.
“But I did not know you had one,” said Mary.
Mr. Buxton pointed to a turret peeping between two high gables, above his ownroom.
“And what does it sound like?”
“It is deep, and has a dash of sourness or shrillness in it. I cannot describeit. Above all, it is marvellous loud.”
“Then, if we hear it, we shall know the priest-hunters are on us?” asked Mary.Mr. Buxton bowed.
“Or that the house is afire,” he said, “or that the French or Spanish arelanded.”
To tell the truth, he was just slightly uneasy. Isabel had been far more silentthan he had ever known her, and her nerves were plainly at an acute tension;she started violently even now, when a servant came out between two yew-hedgesto call Mr. Buxton in. Her alarm had affected him, and besides, he knewsomething of the extraordinary skill and patience of Walsingham’s agents, andeven the story of the ferry had startled him. Could it really be, he hadwondered as he tossed to and fro in the hot night, that this innocent priesthad thrown off his pursuers so completely as had appeared? In the morning hehad sent down a servant to the inn to inquire whether anything had been seen orheard of a disquieting nature; now the servant had come to tell him, as he hadordered, privately. He went with the man in through the hall-door, leaving theothers to walk in the avenue, and then faced him.
“Well?” he said sharply.
“No, sir, there is nothing. There is a party there travelling on toBrighthelmstone this afternoon, and four drovers who came in last night, sir;and two gentlemen travelling across country; but they left early thismorning.”
“They left, you say?”
“They left at eight o’clock, sir.”
Mr. Buxton’s attention was attracted to these two gentlemen.
“Go and find out where they came from,” he said, “and let me know afterdinner.”
The man bowed and left the room, and almost immediately the dinner-bell rang.
Mary was frankly happy; she loved to be down here in this superb weather withher friends; she enjoyed this beautiful house with its furniture and pictures,and even took a certain pleasure in the hiding-holes themselves; although inthis case she was satisfied they would not be needed. She had heard the tale ofthe Stanstead woods, and had no shadow of doubt but that the searchers, if,indeed, they were searchers at all, were baffled. So at dinner she talkedexactly as usual; and the cloud of slight discomfort that still hung overIsabel grew lighter and lighter as she listened. The windows of the hall wereflung wide, and the warm summer air poured from the garden into the cool roomwith its polished floor, and table decked with roses in silver bowls, with itsgrave tapestries stirring on the walls behind the grim visors and pikes thathung against them.
The talk turned on music.
“Ah! I would I had my lute,” sighed Mary, “but my woman forgot to bring it.What a garden to sing in, in the shade of the yews, with the garden-housebehind to make the voice sound better than it is!”
Mr. Buxton made a complimentary murmur.
“Thank you,” she said, “Master Anthony, you are wool-gathering.”
“Indeed not,” he said, “but I was thinking where I had seen a lute. Ah! it isin the little west parlour.”
“A lute!” cried Mary. “Ah! but I have no music; and I have not the courage tosing the only song I know, over and over again.”
“But there is music too,” said Anthony.
Mary clapped her hands.
“When dinner is over,” she said, “you and I will go to find it.”
Dinner was over at last, and the four rose.
“Come,” said Mary; while Isabel turned into the garden and Mr. Buxton went tohis room. “We will be with you presently,” she cried after Isabel.
Then the two went together to the little west parlour, oak-panelled, with awide fireplace with the logs in their places, and the latticed windows withtheir bottle-end glass, looking upon the walled garden. Anthony stood on achair and opened the top window, letting a flood of summer noises into theroom.
They found the lute music, written over its six lines with the queer F’s anddouble F’s and numerals—all Hebrew to Anthony, but bursting and blossoming withdelicate melodies to Mary’s eyes. Then she took up the lute, and tuned it onher knee, still sitting in a deep lounging-chair, with her buckled feet beforeher; while Anthony sat opposite and watched her supple flashing fingers busyamong the strings, and her grave abstracted look as she listened critically.Then she sounded the strings in little rippling chords.
“Ah! it is a sweet old lute,” she said. “Put the music before me.”
Anthony propped it on a chair.
“Is that the right side up?” he asked.
Mary smiled and nodded, still looking at the music.
“Now then,” she said, and began the prelude.
Anthony threw himself back in his chair as the delicate tinkling began to pourout and overscore the soft cooing of a pigeon on the roofs somewhere and themurmur of bees through the open window. It was an old precise little love-songfrom Italy, with a long prelude, suggesting by its tender minor chords true andrestrained love, not passionate but tender, not despairing but melancholy; itwas a love that had for its symbols not the rose and the lily, but the lavenderand thyme—acrid in its sweetness. The prelude had climbed up by melodious stepsto the keynote, and was now rippling down again after its aspirations.
Mary stirred herself.
Ah! now the voice would come in the last chord——when all the music was firstdrowned and then ceased, as with crash after crash a great bell, sonorous andpiercing, began to sound from overhead.
THE PASSAGE TO THE GARDEN-HOUSE
The two looked at one another with parted lips, but without a word. Then bothrose simultaneously. Then the bell jangled and ceased; and a crowd of othernoises began; there were shouts, tramplings of hoofs in the court; shrillvoices came over the wall; then a scream or two. Mary sprang to the door andopened it, and stood there listening.
Then from the interior of the house came an indescribable din, tramplings offeet and shouts of anger; then violent blows on woodwork. It came nearer in amoment of time, as a tide comes in over flat sands, remorselessly swift. ThenMary with one movement was inside again, and had locked the door and drawn thebolt.
“Up there,” she said, “it is the only way—they are outside,” and she pointedto the chimney.
Anthony began to remonstrate. It was intolerable, he felt, to climb up thechimney like a hunted cat, and he began a word or two. But Mary seized his arm.
“You must not be caught,” she said, “there are others”; and there came aconfused battering and trampling outside. She pushed him towards the chimney.Then decision came to him, and he bent his head and stepped upon the logs laidupon the ashes, crushing them down.
“Ah! go,” said Mary’s voice behind him, as the door began to bulge and creak.There was plainly a tremendous struggle in the little passage outside.
Anthony threw his hands up and felt a high ledge in the darkness, gripped itwith his hands and made a huge effort combined of a tug and a spring; his feetrapped sharply for a moment or two on the iron fire-plate; and then his kneereached the ledge and he was up. He straightened himself on the ledge, stoodupright and looked down; two white hands with rings on them were lifting thelogs and drawing them out from the ashes, shaking them and replacing them byothers from the wood-basket; and all deliberately, as if laying a fire. Thenher voice came up to him, hushed but distinct.
“Go up quickly. I will feign to be burning papers; there will be smoke, but nosparks. It is green wood.”
Anthony again felt above him, and found two iron half-rings in the chimney, oneabove the other; he was in semi-darkness here, but far above there was a patchof pale smoky light; and all the chimney seemed full of a murmurous sound. Hetugged at the rings and found them secure, and drew himself up steadily by thehigher one, until his knee struck the lower; then with a great effort he gothis knee upon it, then his left foot, and again straightened himself. Then, ashe felt in the darkness once more, he found a system of rings, one above theother, up the side of the chimney, by which it was not hard to climb. As hewent up he began to perceive a sharp acrid smell, his eyes smarted and heclosed them, but his throat burned; he climbed fiercely; and then suddenly sawimmediately below him another hearth; he was looking over the fireplate of someother room. In a moment more he thrust his head over, and drew a long breath ofclear air; then he listened intently. From below still came a murmur ofconfusion; but in this room all was quiet. He began to think frantically. Hecould not remain in the chimney, it was hopeless; they would soon light fires,he knew, in all the chimneys, and bring him down. What room was this? He wasbewildered and could not remember. But at least he would climb into it and tryto escape. In a moment more he had lifted himself over the fireplate anddropped safely on to the hearth of his own bedroom.
The fresh air and the familiarity of the room, as he looked round, swept theconfusion out of his brain like a breeze. The thundering and shouting continuedbelow. Then he went on tip-toe to the door and opened it. Round to the rightwas the head of the stairs which led straight into the little passage where thestruggle was going on. He could hear Robert’s voice in the din; plainly therewas no way down the stairs. To the left was the passage that ended in a window,with the chapel door at the left and the false shelves on the right. Hehesitated a moment between the two hiding-places, and then decided for thecupboard; there was a clean doublet there; his own was one black smear of soot,and as he thought of it, he drew off his sooty shoes. His hose were fortunatelydark. He stepped straight out of the door, leaving it just ajar. Even as heleft it there was a thunder of footsteps on the stairs, a