|
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
CHAP. PAGE
I. The Situation 1
II. The Hall and the House 8
III. London Town 21
IV. Mary Corbet 37
V. A Rider From London 51
VI. Mr. Stewart 64
VII. The Door in the Garden Wall 79
VIII. The Taking of Mr. Stewart 90
IX. Village Justice 99
X. A Confessor 108
XI. Master Calvin 124
XII. A Winding Up 140
PART II
I. Anthony in London 152
II. Some New Lessons 168
III. Hubert's Return 183
IV. A Counter March 196
V. The Coming of the Jesuits 213
VI. Some Contrasts 235
VII. A Message From the City 252
VIII. The Massing-House 267
IX. From Fulham to Greenwich 279
X. The Appeal to Caesar 296
XI. A Station of the Cross 313
XII. A Strife of Tongues 334
XIII. The Spiritual Exercises 351
XIV. Easter Day 368
PART III
I. The Coming of Spain 384
II. Men of War and Peace 390
III. Home-Coming 404
IV. Stanfield Place 421
V. Joseph Lackington 429
VI. A Departure 439
VII. Northern Religion 453
VIII. In Stanstead Woods 468
IX. The Alarm 484
X. The Passage To the Garden-house 492
XI. The Garden-house 505
XII. The Night Ride 521
XIII. In Prison 526
XIV. An Open Door 541
XV. The Rolling of the Stone 552
BY WHAT AUTHORITY?
PART I
CHAPTER I
THE SITUATION
To the casual Londoner who lounged, intolerant and impatient, at the
blacksmith's door while a horse was shod, or a cracked spoke mended,
Great Keynes seemed but a poor backwater of a place, compared with the
rush of the Brighton road eight miles to the east from which he had
turned off, or the whirling cauldron of London City, twenty miles to the
north, towards which he was travelling.
The triangular green, with its stocks and horse-pond, overlooked by the
grey benignant church-tower, seemed a tame exchange for seething
Cheapside and the crowded ways about the Temple or Whitehall; and it was
strange to think that the solemn-faced rustics who stared respectfully at
the gorgeous stranger were of the same human race as the quick-eyed,
voluble townsmen who chattered and laughed and grimaced over the news
that came up daily from the Continent or the North, and was tossed to and
fro, embroidered and discredited alternately, all day long.
And yet the great waves and movements that, rising in the hearts of kings
and politicians, or in the sudden strokes of Divine Providence, swept
over Europe and England, eventually always rippled up into this placid
country village; and the lives of Master Musgrave, who had retired upon
his earnings, and of old Martin, who cobbled the ploughmen's shoes, were
definitely affected and changed by the plans of far-away Scottish
gentlemen, and the hopes and fears of the inhabitants 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 a responsive
mutter of storm sounded now and again from the north, where Mary Stuart
reigned over men's hearts, if not their homes; and lovers of secular
England shook their heads and were silent as they thought of their tiny
country, 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
ecclesiastical matters that none dared decide on the one question without
considering its relation to the other; and ecclesiastical affairs, too,
touched them more personally than any other, since every religious change
scored a record of itself presently within the church that was as
familiar to them as their own cottages.
On none had the religious changes fallen with more severity than on the
Maxwell family that lived in the Hall, at the upper and southern end of
the green. Old Sir Nicholas, though his convictions had survived the
tempest of unrest and trouble that had swept over England, and he had
remained a convinced and a stubborn 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 man could pass from the old to a new
faith, and he had been known to lay his whip across the back of a servant
who had professed a desire to try the new religion.
His wife, a stately lady, a few years younger than himself, did what she
could to keep her lord quiet, and to save him from incurring by his
indiscretion any further penalties beyond the enforced journeys before
the Commission, and the fines inflicted on all who refused to attend
their parish church. So the old man devoted himself to his estates and
the further improvement of the house and gardens, and to the inculcation
of sound religious principles into the minds of his two sons who were
living at home with their parents; and strove to hold his tongue, and his
hand, in public.
The elder of these two, Mr. James as he was commonly called, was rather a
mysterious personage to the village, and to such neighbours as they had.
He was often in town, and when at home, although extremely pleasant and
courteous, never talked about himself and seemed to be only very
moderately interested in the estate and the country-life generally. This,
coupled with the fact that he would presumably succeed his father, gave
rise to a good deal of gossip, and even some suspicion.
His younger brother Hubert was very different; passionately attached to
sport and to outdoor occupations, a fearless rider, and in every way a
kindly, frank lad of about eighteen years old. The fifth member of the
family, Lady Maxwell's sister, Mistress Margaret Torridon, was a
quiet-faced old lady, seldom seen abroad, and round whom, as round her
eldest nephew, hung a certain air of mystery.
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 horror of the Southern Empire that the sturdiest patriot might have
envied. And so with his attitude towards Mary Stuart and her French
background. While his whole soul rose in loathing against the crime of
Darnley's murder, to which many of her enemies proclaimed her accessory,
it was kindled at the thought that in her or her child lately crowned as
James VI. of Scotland, lay the hope of a future Catholic succession; and
this religious sympathy was impassioned by the memory of an interview a
few years ago, when he had kissed that gracious white hand, and looked
into those alluring eyes, and, kneeling, stammered out in broken French
his loyalty and his hopes. Whether it was by her devilish craft as her
enemies said, or her serene and limpid innocence as her friends said, or
by a maddening compound of the two, as later students have said--at least
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 a misery, 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 what was, 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 them all was gone, and the light was
gone out in the temple of the Lord. In the days of the previous Rector
matters were not so desperate; it had been their custom to receive from
his hands at the altar-rail of the Church hosts previously consecrated at
the Rectory; for the incumbent had been an old Marian priest who had 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
Communion table. But now all that was past, and the entire family was
compelled year by year 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 the Papists were more fortunate than perhaps, in their bitterness,
they recognised; for the minister was one of the rising Anglican school,
then strange and unfamiliar, but which has now established itself as the
main representative section of the Church of England. He welcomed the
effect but not the rise of the Reformation, and rejoiced that the
incrustations of error had been removed from the lantern of the faith.
But he no less sincerely deplored the fanaticism of the Puritan and
Genevan faction. He exulted to see England with a church truly her own at
last, adapted to her character, and freed from the avarice and tyranny of
a foreign despot who had assumed prerogatives to which he had no right.
But he reverenced the Episcopate, he wore the prescribed dress, he used
the thick singing-cakes for the Communion, and he longed for the time
when nation and Church should again be one; when the nation should
worship through a Church of her own shaping, and the Church share the
glory and influence of her lusty partner and patron.
But Mrs. Dent had little sympathy with her husband's views; she had
assimilated the fiery doctrines of the Genevan refugees, and to her mind
her husband was balancing himself to the loss of all dignity and
consistency in an untenable position between the Popish priesthood on the
one side and the Gospel ministry on the other. It was an unbearable
thought to her that through her husband's weak disposition and principles
his chief parishioners should continue to live within a stone's throw of
the Rectory in an assured position of honour, and in personal
friendliness to a minister whose ecclesiastical status and claims they
disregarded. The Rector's position then was difficult and trying, no less
in his own house than elsewhere.
The third main family in the village was that of the Norrises, who lived
in the Dower House, that stood in its own grounds and gardens a few
hundred yards to the north-west of the village green. The house had
originally been part of the Hall 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 and Anthony, and did his best to bring them
up in his own religious principles. He was a devout and cultivated
Puritan, who had been affected by the New Learning in his youth, and had
conformed joyfully to the religious changes that took place in Edward's
reign. He had suffered both anxiety and hardships in Mary's reign, when
he had travelled abroad in the Protestant countries, and made the
acquaintance of many of the foreign reformers--Beza, Calvin, and even the
great Melancthon himself. It was at this time, too, that he had lost his
wife. It had been a great joy to him to hear of the accession of
Elizabeth, and the re-establishment of a religion that was sincerely his
own; and he had returned immediately to England with his two little
children, and settled down once more at the Dower House. Here his whole
time that he could spare from his children was divided between prayer and
the writing of a book on the Eucharist; and as his children grew up he
more and more retired into himself and silence and communing with God,
and devoted himself to his book. It was beginning to be a great happiness
to him to find that his daughter Isabel, now about seventeen years old,
was growing up into active sympathy with his principles, and that the
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 unlike others of his school he was happy too to notice and encourage
friendly relations between Lady Maxwell and his daughter, since he
recognised the sincere and loving spirit of the old lady beneath her
superstitions, and knew very well that her friendship would do for the
girl what his own love could not.
The other passion of Isabel's life at present lay in her brother Anthony,
who was about three years younger than herself, and who was just now more
interested in his falcons and pony than in all the religious systems and
human relationships in the world, except perhaps in his friendship for
Hubert, who besides being three or four years older than himself, cared
for the same things.
And so relations between the Hall and the Dower House were all that they
should be, and the path that ran through the gardens of the one and the
yew hedge and orchard of the other was almost as well trodden as if all
still formed one estate.
As for the village itself, it was exceedingly difficult to gauge
accurately the theological atmosphere. The Rector despaired of doing so.
It was true that at Easter the entire population, except the Maxwells and
their dependents, received communion in the parish church, or at least
professed their willingness and intention to do so unless prevented by
some accident of the preceding week; but it was impossible to be blind to
the fact that many of the old beliefs lingered on, and that there was
little enthusiasm for the new system. Rumours broke out now and again
that the Catholics were rising in the north; that Elizabeth contemplated
a Spanish or French marriage with a return to the old religion; that Mary
Stuart would yet come to the throne; and with each such report there came
occasionally a burst of joy in unsuspected quarters. Old Martin, for
example, had been overheard, so a zealous neighbour reported, blessing
Our Lady aloud for her mercies when a passing traveller had insisted that
a religious league was in progress of formation between France and Spain,
and that it was only a question of months as to when mass should be said
again in every village church; but then on the following Sunday the
cobbler's voice had been louder than all in the metrical psalm, and on
the Monday he had paid a morning visit to the Rectory to satisfy himself
on the doctrine 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,
there had been a solemn burning on the village-green of all such
muniments of superstition as had not been previously hidden by the priest
and Sir Nicholas; and in the rejoicings that accompanied this return to
pure religion practically the whole agricultural population had joined.
Some Justices had ridden over from East Grinsted to direct this rustic
reformation, and had reported favourably to the new Rector on his arrival
of the zeal of his flock. The great Rood, they told him, with SS. Mary
and John, four great massy angels, the statue of St. Christopher, the
Vernacle, a brocade set of mass vestments and a purple cope, had perished
in the flames, and there had been no lack of hands to carry faggots; and
now the Rector found it difficult to reconcile the zeal of his
parishioners (which indeed he privately regretted) with the sudden and
unexpected lapses into superstition, such as was Mr. Martin's gratitude
to Our Lady, and others of which he had had experience.
As regards the secular politics of the outside world, Great Keynes took
but little interest. It was far more a matter of concern whether mass or
morning prayer was performed on Sunday, than whether a German bridegroom
could be found for Elizabeth, or whether she would marry the Duke of
Anjou; and more important than either were the infinitesimal details of
domestic life. Whether Mary was guilty or not, whether her supporters
were rising, whether the shadow of Spain chilled the hearts of men in
London whose affair it was to look after such things; yet the cows must
be milked, and the children washed, and the falcons fed; and it was these
things that formed the foreground of life, whether the sky were stormy or
sunlit.
And so, as the autumn of '69 crept over the woods in flame and russet,
and the sound of the sickle was in folks' ears, the life at Great Keynes
was far more tranquil than we should fancy who look back on those
stirring days. The village, lying as it did out of the direct route
between any larger towns, was not so much affected by the gallop of the
couriers, or the slow creeping rumours from the Continent, as villages
that lay on lines of frequent communication. So the simple life went on,
and Isabel went about her business in Mrs. Carroll's still-room, and
Anthony rode out with the harriers, and Sir Nicholas told his beads in
his room--all with nearly as much serenity as if Scotland were fairyland
and Spain a dream.
CHAPTER II
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 he left, and received from him much sound religious advice and
exhortation; and in the morning, after an almost broken-hearted good-bye
from Isabel, he rode out with his servant following on another horse and
leading a packhorse on the saddle of which the falcons swayed and
staggered, and up the curving drive that led round into the village
green. He was a good-hearted and wholesome-minded boy, and left a real
ache behind him in the Dower House.
Isabel indeed ran up to his room, after she had seen his feathered cap
disappear at a trot through the gate, leaving her father in the hall; and
after shutting and latching the door, threw herself on his bed, and
sobbed her heart out. They had never been long separated before. For the
last three years he had gone over to the Rectory morning by morning to be
instructed by Mr. Dent; but now, although he would never make a great
scholar, his father thought it well to send him up to Cambridge for two
or three years, that he might learn to find his own level in the world.
Anthony himself was eager to go. If the truth must be told, he fretted a
little against the restraints of even such a moderate Puritan household
as that of his father's. It was a considerable weariness to Anthony to
kneel in the hall on a fresh morning while his father read, even though
with fervour and sincerity, long extracts from "Christian Prayers and
Holy Meditations," collected by the Reverend Henry Bull, when the real
world, as Anthony knew it, laughed and rippled 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, and the heavy
trout to suck down his supper in the glooming pool in the meadow below
the house.
His very sports, too, which his father definitely encouraged, were
obviously displeasing to the grave divines who haunted the house so often
from Saturday to Monday, and spoke of high doctrinal matters at
meal-times, when, so Anthony thought, lighter subjects should prevail.
They were not interested in his horse, and Anthony never felt quite the
same again towards one good minister who in a moment of severity called
Eliza, the glorious peregrine that sat on the boy's wrist and shook her
bells, a "vanity." And so Anthony trotted off happy 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 as well 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 his
mother who had died in giving him life, she, on the other hand, was quiet
and deep like her father. She was growing up, if not into actual beauty,
at least into grace and dignity: but there were some who thought her
beautiful. She was pale with dark hair, and the great grey eyes of her
father; and she loved and lived in Anthony from the very difference
between them. She frankly could not understand 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 nose better than to ride him.
But, after all, Anthony liked to watch the towering bird, and to hear and
indeed increase the thunder of the hoofs across the meadows behind the
stomping hawk; and so she did her best to like them too; and she 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 shadow
following, and her desire, on the other hand, that Anthony should not be
disappointed.
But in the deeper things of the spirit, too, there was a wide difference
between them. As Anthony fidgeted and sighed through his chair-back
morning and evening, 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 the most intimate terms with the spiritual world. And
though, of course, by training she was Puritan, by character she was
Puritan too. As a girl of fourteen 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 the sight of that noisy crowd in the
quiet house of prayer; but she had felt no disapproval at that fierce
vindication of truth. Her father had taught her of course that the purest
worship was that which was only spiritual; and while since childhood she
had seen Sunday by Sunday the Great Rood overhead, she had never 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 children watched,
a tie had given, and the great cross with its pathetic wide-armed figure
had toppled forward towards the nave, and then crashed down on the
pavement. 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 yet Isabel, with all her tenderness, felt nothing more than a
vague regret that a piece of carving so ancient and so delicate should be
broken.
But when the work was over, and the crowd and Anthony with them had
stamped out, directed by the justices, dragging the figures and the old
vestments with them 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 had been done in the chancel; and as she went she
heard a sobbing from the corner near the priest's door; and there,
crouched forward on his face, crying and moaning quietly, was the old
priest who had been rector of the church for nearly twenty years. He had
somehow held on in Edward's time in spite of difficulties; had thanked
God and the Court of Heaven with a full heart for the accession of Mary;
had prayed and deprecated the divine wrath at the return of the
Protestant religion with Elizabeth; but yet had somehow managed to keep
the old faith alight for eight years more, sometimes evading, sometimes
resisting, and sometimes conforming to the march of events, in hopes of
better days. But now the blow had fallen, and the old man, too
ill-instructed to hear the accents of new truth in the shouting of that
noisy crowd and the crash of his images, was on his knees before the
altar where he had daily offered the holy sacrifice through all those
troublous years, faithful to what he believed to be God's truth, now
bewailing and moaning the horrors of that day, and, it is to be feared,
unchristianly calling down the vengeance of God upon his faithless flock.
This shocked and touched Isabel far more than the destruction of the
images; and she went forward timidly and said something; but the old man
turned on her a face of such misery and anger that she had run straight
out of the church, and joined Anthony as he danced on the green.
On the following Sunday the old priest was not there, and a fervent young
minister from London had taken his place, and preached a stirring sermon
on the life and times of Josiah; and Isabel had thanked God on her knees
after the sermon for that He had once more vindicated His awful Name and
cleansed His House for a pure worship.
But the very centre of Isabel's religion was the love of the Saviour. The
Puritans of those early days were very far from holding a negative or
colourless faith. Not only was their belief delicately dogmatic to
excess; but it all centred round the Person of the Lord Jesus Christ. And
Isabel had drunk in this faith from her father's lips, and from
devotional books which he gave her, as far back as she could remember
anything. Her love for the Saviour was even romantic and passionate. It
seemed to her that He was as much a part of her life, and of her actual
experience, as Anthony or her father. Certain places in the lanes about,
and certain spots in the garden, were sacred and fragrant to her because
her Lord had met her there. It was indeed a trouble to her sometimes that
she loved Anthony so much; and to her mind it was a less worthy kind of
love altogether; it was kindled and quickened by such little external
details, by the sight of his boyish hand brown with the sun, and scarred
by small sporting accidents, such as the stroke of his bird's beak or
talons, or by the very outline of the pillow where his curly head had
rested only an hour or two ago. Whereas her love for Christ was a deep
and solemn passion that seemed to well not out of His comeliness or even
His marred Face or pierced Hands, but out of His wide encompassing love
that sustained and clasped her at every moment of her conscious attention
to Him, and that woke her soul to ecstasy at moments of high communion.
These two loves, then, one so earthly, one so heavenly, but both so
sweet, every now and then seemed to her to be in slight conflict in her
heart. And lately a third seemed to be rising up out of the plane of
sober and quiet affections such as she felt for her father, and still
further complicating the apparently encountering claims of love to God
and man.
Isabel grew quieter in a few minutes and lay still, following Anthony
with her imagination along the lane that led to the London road, and then
presently she heard 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 her own 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 led into the garden; and he came forward nervously as she entered.
"I came back last night, Mistress Isabel," he said, "and heard that
Anthony was 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 we missed one another."
Isabel asked a word or two about his visit to the North, and they talked
for a few 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. At last he said he must be going, and then suddenly
remembered a message from his mother.
"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
do not 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 an expensive matter to refuse to attend church, and Sir Nicholas
probably paid not less than L200 or L300 a year for the privilege of
worshipping as his conscience bade.
In the evening Isabel asked her father's leave to be absent after supper,
and then drawing on her hood, walked across in the dusk to the Hall.
Hubert was waiting for her at the boundary door between the two
properties.
"Father has come back," he said, "but my mother wants you still." They
went on together, passed round the cloister wing to the south of the
house: the bell turret over the inner hall and the crowded roofs stood up
against the stars, as they came up the curving flight of shallow steps
from the garden to the tall doorway that led into the hall.
It was a pleasant, wide, high room, panelled with fresh oak, and hung
with a little old tapestry here and there, and a few portraits. A
staircase rose out of it to the upper story. It had a fret-ceiling, with
flower-de-luce and rose pendants, and on the walls between the tapestries
hung a few antlers and pieces of armour, morions and breast-plates, with
a pair of pikes or halberds here and there. 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 out resentment and
fury to his wife, who sat in a tall chair at her embroidery. She turned
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 to notice their entrance, beyond glancing up for a moment under
his fierce white eyebrows; but went on growling out his wrath. He was a
fine rosy man, with grey moustache and pointed beard, and a thick head of
hair, and he held in his hand his flat riding cap, and his whip with
which from time to time he cut at his boot.
"It was monstrous, I told the fellow, that a man should be haled from his
home like this to pay a price for his conscience. The religion of my
father and his father and all our fathers was good enough for me; and why
in God's name should the Catholic have to pay who had never changed his
faith, while every heretic went free? And then to that some stripling of
a clerk told me that a religion that was good enough for the Queen's
Grace should be good enough for her loyal subjects 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 a child; 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 I
had 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
I was: for as we came out, Sir Arthur and I together, what should we see
but another party coming in, pursuivant and all; and in the mid of them
that priest who was with us last July.--Well, well, we'll leave his name
alone--him that said he 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 before them 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
priest will have suffered for it afterwards."
"Well, well," grumbled Sir Nicholas, "a man cannot always think, but we
showed them that Catholics were not ashamed of their religion--yes, and
we got the blessing too."
"Well, but here is supper waiting," said my lady, "and Isabel, too, whom
you have not spoken to yet."
Sir Nicholas paid no attention.
"Ah! but that was not all," he went on, savagely striking his boot again,
"at the end of all who should I see but that--that--damned rogue--whom
God reward!"--and he turned and spat into the fire--"Topcliffe. There he
was, bowing to my Lord and the Commissioners. When I think of that man,"
he said, "when I think of that man--" and Sir Nicholas' kindly old
passionate face grew pale and lowering with fury, and his eyebrows bent
themselves forward, and his lower lip pushed 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
have supper, and leave that man to God."
Sir Nicholas grew quiet again; and after a saying a word or two of
apology to Isabel, 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
be spoken."
Presently Sir Nicholas returned, and sat down to supper. Gradually his
good nature returned, and he told them what he had seen in Chichester,
and the talk he had heard. How it was reported to his lordship the Bishop
that the old religion was still the religion of the people's hearts--how,
for example, at Lindfield 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 cups according 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 remain there. 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 was carried
away in his talk, his wife would always check him gently; and he would
always respond and apologise to Isabel if he had transgressed good
manners. In fact, he was just a fiery old man who could not change his
religion even at the bidding of his monarch, and could not understand how
what was right twenty years ago was wrong now.
Isabel herself listened with patience and tenderness, and awe too;
because she loved and honoured this old man in spite of the darkness in
which he still walked. He also told them in lower tones of a rumour that
was persistent at Chichester 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, in Mr. 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 cause in England; but Sir Nicholas
was of a sanguine mind, and pooh-poohed the whole affair even while he
related it.
And so the evening passed in talk. When Sir Nicholas had finished supper,
they all went upstairs to my lady's withdrawing-room on the first floor.
This was always a strange and beautiful room to Isabel. It was panelled
like the room below, but was more delicately furnished, and a tall harp
stood near the window to which my lady sang sometimes in a sweet
tremulous old voice, while Sir Nicholas nodded at the fire. Isabel, too,
had had some lessons here from the old lady; but even this mild vanity
troubled her puritan conscience a little sometimes. Then the room, too,
had curious and attractive things in it. A high niche in the oak over the
fireplace held a slender image of Mary and her Holy Child, and from the
Child's fingers hung a pair of beads. Isabel had a strange sense
sometimes as if this holy couple had taken refuge in that niche when they
were driven from the church; but it seemed to her in her steadier moods
that this 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 in the wide window seat and looked out over the dark lawn, where the
white dial glimmered like a phantom, and thought of Anthony again. Sir
Nicholas went and stretched himself before the fire, and closed his eyes,
for he was old, and tired with his long ride; and Hubert sat down in a
dark corner near him whence he could watch Isabel. After a few rippling
chords my lady began to sing a song by Sir Thomas Wyatt, whom she and Sir
Nicholas had known in their youth; and which she had caused to be set to
music by some foreign chapel master. It was a sorrowful little song, with
the title, "He seeketh comfort in patience," and possibly 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
lacked patience in spite of his singing, and lost his head for it; her
voice shook once or twice: and old Sir Nicholas shook his drowsy head
when she had finished, 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
of Alderman Marrett, and his house off Cheapside, where Anthony would lie
that night; 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 went downstairs with Hubert, and out into the garden
again.
"I am sorry that Sir Nicholas has been so troubled," she said to Hubert,
as they turned the corner of the house together. "Why cannot we leave one
another alone, 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.
"But then, Mistress Isabel," he went on, "I am glad that you feel that
religion should 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 let him come further with her and bade him good-night. But Hubert
still stood, with his hand on the door, and watched the white figure fade
into the dusk, and listened to the faint rustle of her skirt over the dry
leaves; and then, when he heard at last the door of the Dower House open
and close, he sighed to himself and went home.
Isabel heard her father call from his room as she passed through the
hall; and went in to him as he sat at his table in his furred gown, with
his books about him, to bid him good-night and receive his blessing. He
lifted his hand for a moment to finish the sentence he was writing, and
she stood watching the quill move and pause and move again over the
paper, in the candlelight, until he laid the pen down, and rose and stood
with his back to the fire, smiling down at her. He was a tall, slender
man, surprisingly upright for his age, with a delicate, bearded,
scholar's face; the little plain ruff round his neck helped to emphasise
the fine sensitiveness of his features; and the hands which he stretched
out to his daughter were thin and veined.
"Well, my daughter," he said, looking down at her with his kindly grey
eyes so like 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 his recusancy; 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
a moment, 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,
dropped her 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
looked up, as the Puritan manner was.
"May the God of grace bless you, my daughter; and make you faithful to
the end." And then he looked into her eyes again, smiled and nodded; and
she went out, leaving him standing there.
Mr. Norris had begun to fear that the boy loved Isabel, but as yet he did
not know whether Isabel understood it or even was aware of it. The
marriage difficulties of Catholics and Protestants were scarcely yet
existing; and certainly there was no formulated rule of dealing with
them. Changes of religion were so frequent in those days that
difficulties, when they did arise, easily adjusted themselves. It was
considered, for example, by politicians quite possible at one time that
the Duke of Anjou should conform to the Church of England for the sake of
marrying the Queen: or that he should attend public services with her,
and at the same time have mass and the sacraments in his own private
chapel. Or again, it was open to question whether England as a whole
would not return to the old religion, and Catholicism be the only
tolerated faith.
But to really religious minds such solutions would not do. It would have
been an intolerable thought to this sincere Puritan, with all his
tolerance, that his daughter should marry a Catholic; such an arrangement
would mean either that she was indifferent to vital religion, or that she
was married to a man whose creed she was bound to abhor and anathematise:
and however willing Mr. Norris might be to meet Papists on terms of
social friendliness, and however much he might respect their personal
characters, yet the thought that the life of any one dear to him should
be irretrievably bound up with all that the Catholic creed involved, was
simply an impossible one.
Besides all this he had no great opinion of Hubert. He thought he
detected in him a carelessness and want of principle that would make him
hesitate to trust his daughter to him, even if the insuperable barrier of
religion were surmounted. 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 him lamentably lacking in Hubert.
More than once he had heard the boy speak of his father with an air of
easy indulgence, that his own opinion interpreted as contempt.
"I believe my father thinks," he had once said, "that every penny he pays
in fines goes to swell the accidental glory of God."
And Hubert had been considerably startled and distressed when the elder
man had told him to hold his tongue unless he could speak respectfully of
one to whom he owed nothing but love and honour. This had happened,
however, more than a year 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
her mind. She certainly did not know herself much more than that she
liked the boy to be near her; to hear his footsteps coming along the path
from the Hall. This morning when her father had called up to her that
Hubert was come, it was not so hard to dry her tears for Anthony's
departure. The clouds had parted a little 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 was far from unconscious
that Hubert's face was looking at her from the dark corner. And as they
walked back together her simplicity was not quite so transparent as the
boy himself thought.
Again when her father had begun to speak of him just now, although she
was able to meet his eyes steadily and smilingly, yet it was just an
effort. She had not mentioned Hubert herself, until her father had named
him; and in fact it is probably safe to say that during Hubert's visit to
the north, which had lasted three or four months, he had made greater
progress towards his goal, and had begun to loom larger than ever in the
heart of this serene grey-eyed girl, whom he longed for so irresistibly.
And now, as Isabel sat on her bed before kneeling to say her prayers.
Hubert was in her mind even more than Anthony. She tried to wonder what
her father meant, and yet only too well she knew that she knew. She had
forgotten to look into Anthony's room where she had cried so bitterly
this morning, and now she sat wide-eyed, and self-questioning as to
whether her heavenly love were as lucid and single as it had been; and
when at last she went down on her knees she entreated the King of Love to
bless not only her father, and her brother Anthony who lay under the
Alderman's roof in far-away London; but Sir Nicholas and Lady Maxwell,
and Mistress Margaret Hallam, and--and--Hubert--and James Maxwell, his
brother; and to bring them out of the darkness of Papistry into the
glorious liberty of the children of the Gospel.
CHAPTER III
LONDON TOWN
Isabel's visit to London, which had been arranged to take place the
Christmas after Anthony's departure to Cambridge, was full of bewildering
experiences to her. Mr. Norris from time to time had references to look
up in London, and divines to consult as to difficult points in his book
on the Eucharist; and this 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 the City one day early in December
to the house of Alderman Marrett, the wool merchant, and a friend of Mr.
Norris' father; and for several days both before and after Anthony's
arrival from Cambridge went every afternoon to see the sights. The maze
of narrow streets of high black and white houses with their iron-work
signs, leaning forward as if to whisper to one another, leaving strips of
sky overhead; the strange play of lights and shades after nightfall; the
fantastic groups; the incessant roar and rumble of the crowded
alleys--all the commonplace life of London was like an enchanted picture
to her, opening a glimpse into an existence of which she had known
nothing.
To live, too, in the whirl of news that poured in day after day borne by
splashed riders and panting horses;--this was very different to the slow
round of country life, with rumours and tales floating in, mellowed by
doubt and lapse of time, like pensive echoes from another world. For
example, morning by morning, as she came downstairs to dinner, there was
the ruddy-faced Alderman with his fresh budget of news of the
north;--Lords Northumberland and Westmoreland with a Catholic force of
several thousands, among which were two cousins of Mrs. Marrett
herself--and the old lady nodded her head dolorously in
corroboration--had marched southwards under the Banner of the Five
Wounds, and tramped through Durham City welcomed by hundreds of the
citizens; the Cathedral had been entered, old Richard Norton with the
banner leading; the new Communion table had been cast out of doors, the
English Bible and Prayer-book torn to shreds, the old altar reverently
carried in from the rubbish heap, the tapers rekindled, and amid
hysterical enthusiasm Mass had been said once more in the old sanctuary.
Then they had moved south; Lord Sussex was powerless in York; the Queen,
terrified and irresolute, alternately storming and crying; Spain was
about to send ships to Hartlepool to help the rebels; Mary Stuart would
certainly be rescued from her prison at Tutbury. Then Mary had been moved
to Coventry; then came 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,
he said. The revolt had crumbled away; my Lord Sussex was impregnably
fortified in York with guns from Hull; Lord Pembroke was gathering forces
at Windsor; Lords Clinton, Hereford and Warwick were converging towards
York to relieve the siege. And as if to show Isabel it was not a mere
romance, she could see the actual train-bands go by up Cheapside with the
gleam of steel caps and pike-heads, and the mighty tramp of disciplined
feet, and the welcoming roar of the 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 green of the windy northern villages was made hideous by the
hanging bodies of the natives, and children hid their faces and ran by
lest they should see what her Grace had done to their father.
In spite of the Holy Sacrifice, and the piteous banner, and the call to
fight for the faith, the Catholics had hung back and hesitated, and the
catastrophe was complete.
The religion of London, too, was a revelation to this country girl. She
went one Sunday to St. Paul's Cathedral, pausing with her father before
they went in to see the new restorations and the truncated steeple struck
by lightning eight years before, which in spite of the Queen's angry
urging the citizens had never been able to replace.
There was a good congregation at the early morning prayer; and the organs
and the singing were to Isabel as the harps and choirs of heaven. The
canticles were sung to Shephard's setting by the men and children of St.
Paul's all in surplices: and the dignitaries wore besides their grey fur
almuces, which had not yet been abolished. The grace and dignity of the
whole service, though to older people who remembered the unreformed
worship a bare and miserable affair, and to Mr. Norris, with his sincere
simplicity and spirituality, a somewhat elaborate and sensuous mode of
honouring God, yet to Isabel was a first glimpse of what the mystery of
worship meant. The dim towering arches, through which the dusty
richly-stained sunbeams poured, the far-away murmurous melodies that
floated down from the glimmering choir, the high thin pealing organ, all
combined to give her a sense of the unfathomable depths of the Divine
Majesty--an element that was lacking in the clear-cut personal Puritan
creed, in spite of the tender associations that made it fragrant for her,
and the love of the Saviour that enlightened and warmed it. The sight of
the crowds outside, too, in the frosty sunlight, gathered round the grey
stone pulpit on the north-east of the Cathedral, and streaming down every
alley and lane, the packed galleries, the gesticulating black figure of
the preacher--this impressed on her an idea of the power of corporate
religion, that hours at her own prayer-desk, or solitary twilight walks
under the Hall pines, or the uneventful divisions of the Rector's village
sermons, had failed to give.
It was this Sunday in London that awakened her quiet soul from the lonely
companionship of God, to the knowledge of that vast spiritual world of
men of which she was but one tiny cell. Her father observed her quietly
and interestedly as they went home together, but said nothing beyond an
indifferent word or two. He was beginning to realise the serious reality
of her spiritual life, and to dread anything that would even approximate
to coming between her soul and her Saviour. The father and daughter
understood one another, and were content to be silent together.
Her talks with Mrs. Marrett, too, left their traces on her mind. The
Alderman's wife, for the first time in her life, found her views and
reminiscences listened to as if they were oracles, and she needed little
encouragement to pour them out in profusion. She was especially generous
with her tales of portents and warnings; and the girl was more than once
considerably alarmed by what she heard while the ladies were alone in the
dim firelit parlour on the winter afternoons before the candles were
brought in.
"When you were a little child, my dear," began the old lady one day,
"there was a great burning made everywhere of all the popish images and
vestments; all but the copes and the altar-cloths that they made into
dresses for the ministers' new wives, and bed-quilts to cover them; and
there were books and banners and sepulchres and even relics. I went out
to see the burning at Paul's, and though I knew it was proper that the
old papistry should go, yet I was uneasy at the way it was done.
"Well," went on the old lady, glancing about her, "I was sitting in this
very room only a few days after, and the air began to grow dark and
heavy, and all became still. There had been two or three cocks crowing
and answering one another down by the river, and others at a distance;
and they all ceased: and there had been birds chirping in the roof, and
they ceased. And it grew so dark that I laid down my needle and went to
the window, and there at the end of the street 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 like a 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 like that curtain
there; and there was no wind to stir it, for the windows had ceased
rattling, and the dust was quiet in the streets; and still it came on
quickly, growing as it came; and then there came a far-away sound, like a
heavy waggon, or, some said, like a deep voice complaining. And I turned
away from the window afraid; and there was the cat, that had been on a
chair, down in the corner, with her back up, staring at the cloud: and
then she began to run round the room like a mad thing, and presently
whisked out of the door when I opened it. And I went to find Mr. Marrett,
and he had not come in, and all the yard was quiet. I could only hear a
horse stamp once or twice in the stable. And then as I saw calling out
for some one to come, the storm broke, and the sky was all one dark cloud
from side to side. For three hours it went on, rolling and clapping, and
the lightning came in through the window that I had darkened and through
the clothes over my head; for I had gone to my bed and rolled myself
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 me safe. And then at the end came a clap of thunder and a
flash of lightning more fearful than all that had gone before; and at
that very moment, so Mr. Marrett told me when he came in, two of the
doors in St. Denys' Church in Fanshawe Street were broken in pieces by
something that crushed them in, and the stone steeple of Allhallow Church
in Bread Street was broken off short, and a part of it killed a dog that
was beneath, and overthrew a man that played with the dog."
Isabel could hardly restrain a shiver and a glance round the dark old
room, so awful were Mrs. Marrett's face and gestures and loud whispering
tone, as she told 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 the monasteries. All the money that he left for masses for his
soul was carried off with the rest at the change of religion; and that
was bad enough, but this is worse. 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 was threatened by a friar, I think of
Greenwich, that if he laid hands on the monasteries he should be as Ahab
whose blood was licked by dogs in the very place which he took from a
man. Well, the friar was hanged for his pains, and the King lived. And
then at last he died, and was put in a great coffin, and carried 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
the great coffin--(for his Grace was a great stout man, my dear)--on
trestles in the moonlight, and beneath it a great black dog that lapped
something: and the dog turned as the man came, and some say, but not my
father, that the dog's eyes were red as coals, and that his mouth and
nostrils smoked, and that he cast no shadow; but (however that may be)
the dog turned and looked and then ran; and the 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 burst open, 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
something pleasant to make her forget these horrors; and so she told her
old tales of her youth, and the sights of the city, and the great doings
in Mary's reign; and so the time passed pleasantly till the gentlemen
came home.
At other times she told her of Elizabeth and the great nobles, and
Isabel's heart beat high at it, and at the promise that before she left
she herself should 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
for all her majesty. And she likes the show and the music too, like us
all. I declare when I see them all a-going down the water to Greenwich,
or to the Tower for a bear-baiting, with the horns blowing and the guns
firing and the banners and the barges and the music, I declare sometimes
I think that heaven itself can be no better, God forgive me! Ah! but I
wish her Grace 'd take a husband; 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 her own. There's Duke Charles whose
picture hangs in her bedroom, they say; and Lord Robert Dudley--there's a
handsome spark, my dear, in his gay coat and his feathers and his ruff,
and his hand on his hip, and his horse and all. I wish she'd take him and
have done with it. And then we'd hear no more of the nasty Spaniards.
There's Don de Silva, for all the world like a monkey with his brown face
and mincing ways and his grand clothes. I declare when Captain Hawkins
came home, just four years ago last Michaelmas, and came up to London
with his men, all laughing and rolling along with the people cheering
them, I could have kissed the man--to think how he had made the brown men
dance and curse and show their white teeth! and to think that the Don had
to ask him to dinner, and grin and chatter as if nought had happened."
And Mrs. Marrett's good-humoured face broke into mirth at the thought of
the Ambassador's impotence and duplicity.
Anthony's arrival in London a few days before Christmas removed the one
obstacle 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 he was 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
they had been visiting with a special order, a slight reddish-haired man,
who came suddenly out of a doorway of the White Tower, stopped a moment
irresolutely, and then came towards them, bare-headed and bowing. He had
sloping shoulders and a serious-looking mouth, with a reddish beard and
moustache, and had an air of 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 it
not?"
The man bowed again.
"I left about eight years ago, sir; and by the blessing of God, have
gained a little post under the Government. But I wished to tell you, sir,
that I have been 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
few steps? 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 went
Lackington asked most eagerly after the household at the Hall, and
especially after 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
heard it too, sir; but did not know whether to believe it."
Lackington also gave many messages of affection to others of the
household, to Piers the bailiff, and a couple of the foresters: and
finished by entreating Mr. Norris to use him as he would, telling him how
anxious he was to be of service to his friends, and asking to be
entrusted with any little errands or commissions in London that the
country gentleman might wish performed.
"I shall count it, sir, a privilege," said the servant, "and you shall
find me prompt and discreet."
One curious incident took place just as Lackington was taking his leave
at the turning down into Wharf Street; a man hurrying eastwards almost
ran against them, 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 come
indoors.
"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 was
fascinating to Isabel, if not to their father, too. It concerned of
course himself and his immediate friends, and dealt with such subjects as
cock-fighting a good deal; but he spoke also of the public disputations
and the theological champions who crowed and pecked, not unlike cocks
themselves, while the theatre rang with applause and hooting. The sport
was one of the most popular at the universities at this time. But above
all his tales of the Queen's visit a few years before attracted the girl,
for was she not to see the Queen with her own eyes?
"Oh! father," said the lad, "I would I had been there five years ago
when she came. 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 forget what; and he told me how she laughed and clapped. And
then there was a great disputation 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 the best of it; and the Queen
spoke, too, in Latin, though she did not wish to, but my lord of Ely
persuaded her to it; so you see she could not have learned it by heart,
as some said. And she said she would give some great gift to the
University; but Master Taylor says they are still waiting for it; but it
must come soon, you see, because it is the Queen's Grace who has
promised it; but Master Taylor says he hopes she has forgotten it, but
he laughs when I ask him what 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 the
Provost too. The Provost is half a Papist, they say: he is very old now,
and he has buried all the vessels and the vestments of the Chapel, they
say, somewhere where no one knows; and he hopes the old religion will
come back again some day; and then he will dig them up. But that is
Papistry, and no one wants that at Cambridge. And others say that he is
a Papist altogether, and has a priest in his house sometimes. But I do
not think he can be a Papist, because he was there when the Queen was
there, bowing and smiling, says Master Taylor; and looking 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 chapel for
the _Te Deum_. But they wished they had kept some of the things, like
the Provost, says Master Taylor, because they were much put to it when
her Grace came down for stuffs to cover the communion-tables and for
surplices, for Cecil 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, and has a crucifix and tapers on the table in her
chapel?"
"Ah! my son," said Mr. Norris, smiling, "you must ask one who knows. And
what else 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
sent for one of the boys, they say, and--and kissed him, they say; but I
think that cannot 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, and a 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 would rather not act in that one; but he had
the story from one who acted, but no one knew, he said, who wrote the
play. Well, when the Queen's Grace was seated, the actors came on,
dressed, father, dressed"--and Anthony's eyes began to shine with
amusement--"as the Catholic Bishops in the Tower. There was Bonner in his
popish vestments--some they had from St. Benet's--with a staff and his
tall mitre, and a lamb in his arms; and he stared at it and gnashed his
teeth at it as he tramped in; and then came the others, all like bishops,
all in mass-vestments or cloth cut to look like them; and then at the end
came a dog that 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 the Queen would laugh as she was a Protestant,
but no one laughed; some one said something in the room, and a lady cried
out; and then the Queen stood up and scolded the actors, and trounced
them well with her tongue, she did, and said she was displeased; and then
out she went with all her ladies and gentlemen after her, except one or
two servants who put out the lights at once without waiting, 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 so they 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
her Grace, too."
"Yes," said the Alderman, "but the Queen thought it enough, I dare say,
to put the Bishops in prison, without allowing boys to make a mock of
them and their faith 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
was to come up from Nonsuch the next day, and to pass down Cheapside on
her way to Greenwich, the excitement of Isabel and Anthony was
indescribable.
Cheapside was joyous to see, as the two, with their father behind them
talking to a minister whose acquaintance he had made, sat at a
first-floor window soon after mid-day, waiting to see the Queen go by.
Many of the people had hung carpets or tapestries, some of taffetas and
cloth-of-gold, out of their balconies and windows, and the very signs
themselves,--fantastic ironwork, with here and there a grotesque beast
rampant, or a bright painting, or an escutcheon;--with the gay,
good-tempered crowds beneath and the strip of frosty blue sky, crossed
by streamers from side to side, shining above the towering eaves and
gables of the houses, all combined to make a scene so astonishing that
it seemed scarcely real to these country children.
It was yet some time before she was expected; but there came a sudden
stir from the upper end of Cheapside, and then a burst of cheering and
laughter and hoots. Anthony leaned out to see what was coming, but could
make out nothing beyond 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 louder as the crowds swayed this way and that to
make room. Presently it was seen that behind the cart a little space was
kept, and Anthony made out the grey head of a 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 to the waist, his
hands tied before him to the cart, his back one red wound; while a
hangman walked behind whirling his thonged whip about his head and
bringing it down now and again on the old man's back. At each lash the
prisoner shrank away, and turned his piteous face, drawn with pain, from
side to side, while the 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
the idea instantly: a few men walking with the cart formed lines like
gentlemen ushers, uncovering their heads and all crying out the same
words; and one eager player tried to walk backwards until he was tripped
up. And so the dismal pageant of this red-robed king of anguish went by;
and the hoots and shouts of his 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 a
blasphemer."
"I know, I know," said Isabel.
Then suddenly, far away, came the sound of trumpets, and gusts of distant
cheering, like the sound of the wind in thick foliage. Anthony leaned out
again, and an excited murmur broke out once more, as all faces turned
westwards. A moment more, and Anthony caught a flash of colour from the
corner near St. Paul's Churchyard; then the shrill trumpets sounded
nearer, and the cheering 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 high chimney pots were swaying figures.
Masses of colour now began to emerge, with the glitter of steel, round
the bend of the street, where the winter sunshine fell; and the crowds
began to surge back, and against the houses. At first Anthony could make
out little but two moving rippling lines of light, coming parallel,
pressing the people back; and it was not until they had come opposite the
window that he could make out the steel caps and pikeheads of men in
half-armour, who, marching two and two with a space between them, led the
procession and kept the crowds back. There they went, with immovable
disciplined faces, grounding their pike-butts sharply now and again,
caring nothing for the yelp of pain that sometimes followed. Immediately
behind them came the aldermen in scarlet, on black horses that tossed
their jingling heads as they walked. Anthony watched the solemn faces of
the 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 the management of his horse to notice the two children who
cried out to him and waved. The serjeants-of-arms followed, and then two
lines again of gentlemen-pensioners walking, bare-headed, carrying wands,
in short cloaks and elaborate ruffs. But the lad saw little of them, for
the splendour of the lords and knights that followed eclipsed them
altogether. The knights came first, in steel armour with raised vizors,
the horses too in armour, moving sedately with a 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 and jewels as the great
lords in their cloaks and feathered caps, metal-clasped and gemmed, 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 talking
to his fellow as if unconscious of the tumult and even of the presence of
these shouting 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 looked a moment, fascinated by the lions and lilies, and the
brightness of the eloquent horns, before he turned his head to see the
Lord Mayor himself, mounted on a great stately white horse, that needed
no management, while his rider bore on a cushion the sceptre. Ah! she was
coming near now. The two saw nothing of the next rider who carried aloft
the glittering Sword of State, for their eyes were fixed on the six
plumed heads of the horses, with grooms and footmen in cassock-coats and
venetian hose, and the great gilt open carriage behind that swayed and
jolted over the cobbles. She was here; she was here; and the loyal crowds
yelled and surged to and fro, and cloths and handkerchiefs flapped and
waved, and caps tossed up and down, as at last the great creaking
carriage 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 skirts spread 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 and the blaze of jewels on the stomacher, was a
purple velvet mantle lined with ermine, with pearls sewn into it here and
there. Set far back on her head, over a pile of reddish-yellow hair drawn
tightly back from the forehead, was a hat with curled brims, elaborately
embroidered, with the jewelled outline of a little crown in front, and a
high feather topping all.
And her face--a long oval, pale and transparent in complexion, with a
sharp chin, and a high forehead; high arched eyebrows, auburn, but a
little darker than her hair; her mouth was small, rising at the corners,
with thin curved lips tightly shut; and her eyes, which were clear in
colour, looked incessantly about her with great liveliness and
good-humour.
There was something overpowering to these two children who looked, too
awed to cheer, in this formidable figure in the barbaric dress, the
gorgeous climax of a gorgeous pageant. Apart from the physical splendour,
this solitary glittering creature represented so much--it was the
incarnate genius of the laughing, brutal, wanton English nation, that sat
here in the gilded carriage and smiled and 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 above the heads of the
maddened crowds, on to some mysterious destiny. A sovereign, however
personally inglorious, has such a dignity in some measure; and Elizabeth
added to this an exceptional majesty of her own. Henry would not have
been ashamed for this daughter of his. What wonder then that these crowds
were delirious with love and loyalty and an exultant fear, as this
overwhelming personality went by:--this pale-faced tranquil virgin Queen,
passionate, wanton, outspoken and absolutely fearless; with a sufficient
reserve of will to be fickle without weakness; and sufficient grasp of
her aims to be indifferent to her policy; untouched by vital religion;
financially shrewd; inordinately vain. And when this strange dominant
creature, royal by character as by birth, as strong as her father and as
wanton as her mother, sat in ermine and velvet and pearls in a royal
carriage, with shrewd-faced wits, and bright-eyed lovers, and solemn
statesmen, and great nobles, vacuous and gallant, glittering and jingling
before her; and troops of tall ladies in ruff and crimson mantle riding
on white horses behind; and when the fanfares went shattering down the
street, vibrating through the continuous roar of the crowd and the shrill
cries of children and the mellow thunder of church-bells rocking
overhead, and the endless tramp of a thousand feet below; and when the
whole was framed in this fantastic twisted street, blazing with
tapestries and arched with gables and banners, all bathed in glory by the
clear frosty sunshine--it is little wonder that for a few minutes at
least this country boy felt that here at last was the incarnation of his
dreams; and that his heart should exult, with an enthusiasm he could not
interpret, for the cause of a people who could produce such a queen, and
of a queen who could rule such a people; and that his imagination should
be fired with a sudden sense that these were causes for which the
sacrifice 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 from the depth of a soul, the image sprang into his mind, and poised
itself there for an instant, of the grey-haired man who had passed half
an hour ago, sobbing and shrinking at the cart's tail.
CHAPTER IV
MARY CORBET
The spring that followed the visit to London passed uneventfully at Great
Keynes to all outward appearances; and yet for Isabel they were
significant months. In spite of herself and of the word of warning from
her father, her relations with Hubert continued to draw closer. For one
thing, he had been the first to awaken in her the consciousness that she
was lovable in herself, and the mirror that first tells that to a soul
always has something of the glow of the discovery resting upon it.
Then again his deference and his chivalrous air had a strange charm. When
Isabel rode out alone with Anthony, she often had to catch the swinging
gate as he rode through after opening it, and do such little things for
herself; but when Hubert was with them there was nothing of that kind.
And, once more, he appealed to her pity; and this was the most subtle
element of all. There was no doubt that Hubert's relations with his fiery
old father became strained sometimes, and it was extraordinarily sweet to
Isabel to be made a confidant. And yet Hubert never went beyond a certain
point; his wooing was very skilful: and he seemed to be conscious of her
uneasiness almost before she was conscious of it herself, and to relapse
in a moment into frank and brotherly relations again.
He came in one night after supper, flushed and bright-eyed, and found her
alone in the hall: and broke out immediately, striding up and down as she
sat and watched him.
"I cannot bear it; there is Mr. Bailey who has been with us all Lent; he
is always interfering in my affairs. And he has no charity. I know I am a
Catholic and that; but when he and my father talk against the
Protestants, Mistress Isabel, I cannot bear it. They were abusing the
Queen to-night--at least," he added, for he had no intention to
exaggerate, "they were saying she was a true daughter of her father; and
sneers of that kind. And I am an Englishman, and her subject; and I said
so; and Mr. Bailey snapped out, 'And you are also a Catholic, my son,'
and then--and then I lost my temper, and said that the Catholic 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 of course
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
speak against 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 mother looked 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 came straight here."
And he flung down astride of a chair with his arms on the back, and
dropped his head on to them.
It would have been difficult for Hubert, even if he had been very clever
indeed, 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 her sake; and there was the open defence of her father,
and defiance of the priests whom she feared and distrusted; there was a
warm generosity and frankness running through it all; and lastly, there
was the sweet flattering implication that 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 had
succeeded in showing a poorly disguised sympathy instead, he had flung
away again, saying that she had brought him to his senses as usual, and
that he would ask the priest's pardon for his insolence at once; and
Isabel was left standing and looking at the fire, fearing that she was
being wooed, and yet not certain, though she loved it. And then, too,
there was the secret hope that it might be through her that he might
escape from his superstitions, and--and then--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 his
father, of which she was the occasion. Lady Maxwell had gone to her
husband after a good deal of thought and anxiety, and told him what she
feared; asking him to say a word to Hubert. Sir Nicholas had been
startled and furious. It was all the lad's conceit, he said; he had no
real heart at all; he only flattered his vanity in making love; he had no
love for his parents or his faith, and so on. 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 to
Overfield? 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 him to me. Oh! I will be easy with him."
But the interview was not as simple as he hoped; for Hubert was irritable
and shamefaced; and spoke lightly of the Religion again.
"After all," he burst out, "there are plenty of good men who have left
the faith. It brings nothing but misery."
Sir Nicholas' hands began to shake, and his fingers to clench themselves;
but he 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
that the Catholic religion is a religion of misery and death everywhere.
Look at the Low Countries, sir."
"I cannot speak of that," said his father; and his son sneered visibly;
"you and I are but laymen; but this I know, and have a right to say, that
to threaten 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 I promised your mother," and again he broke off, "and we
cannot go on with this now. Come again this evening."
Hubert stood turned away, with his head against the high oak mantelpiece;
and there 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
mouth twitching, 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 will go 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 spent most of the day. Here she would cause chairs to be
brought out for Mistress Margaret and herself, and a small selection of
devotional books, an orange leather volume powdered all over with
pierced hearts, filled with extracts in a clear brown ink, another book
called _Le Chappellet de Jesus_, while from her girdle beside her
pocket-mirror there always hung an olive-coloured "Hours of the Blessed
Virgin," fastened by a long strip of leather prolonged from the binding.
Here the two old sisters would sit, in the shadow of the yew hedge,
taking it by turns to read and embroider, or talking a little now and
then in quiet voices, with long silences broken only by the hum of
insects in the 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
talked and watched the wrinkled tranquil faces of the two old ladies, and
envied their peace. Hubert had gone, as he had promised his father, on a
long visit, and was not expected home until at least the autumn.
"James will be here to-morrow," said Lady Maxwell, suddenly, one hot
afternoon. 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
the day 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 for
years."
"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 the garden. Mr. James, who rose as she came through the yew
archway, and stood waiting to greet her, was a tall, pleasant,
brown-faced man. Isabel noticed as she came up his strong friendly face,
that had something of Hubert's look in it, and felt an immediate sense of
relief from her timidity at meeting this man, whose name, it was said,
was beginning to be known among the poets, and about whom the still more
formidable fact was being repeated, that he was a rising man at Court and
had attracted the Queen's favour.
As they sat down again together, she noticed, too, his strong delicate
hand in its snowy ruff, for he was always perfectly dressed, as it lay on
his knee; and again thought of Hubert's browner and squarer hand.
"We were talking, Mistress Isabel, about the play, and the new theatres.
I was at 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
could never 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.
It would 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
of the Chapel Royal were acting; she clapped and called out with delight.
But Mistress Corbet can tell you more than I can--Ah! here she is."
Isabel looked up, and saw a wonderful figure coming briskly along the
terrace and down the steps that led from the house. Miss Corbet was
dressed with what she herself would have said was a milkmaid's plainness;
but Isabel looked in astonishment at the elaborate ruff and wings of
muslin and lace, the shining peacock gown, the high-piled coils of black
hair, and the twinkling buckled feet. She had a lively bright face, a
little pale, with a high forehead, and black arched brows and dancing
eyes, and a little scarlet mouth that twitched humorously now and then
after speaking. She rustled up, flicking her handkerchief, and exclaiming
against the heat. Isabel was presented to her; she sat down on a settle
Mr. James drew forward for her, with the handkerchief still whisking at
the flies.
"I am ashamed to come out like this," she began. "Mistress Plesse would
break her heart at my lace. You country ladies have far more sense. I am
the slave of my 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 off the 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
more and to occupy the centre of the stage, too. And the throne too, if
there be one," she added.
Miss Corbet talked always at her audience; she hardly ever looked
directly at any one, but up or down, or even shut her eyes and tilted her
face forward while she talked; and all the while she kept an incessant
movement of her lips or handkerchief, or tapped her foot, or shifted her
position a little. Isabel thought she had never seen any one so restless.
Then she went on to tell them of the Queen. She was so startlingly frank
that Lady Maxwell again and again looked up as if to interrupt; but she
always came off the thin ice in time. It was abominable gossip; but she
talked with such a genial air of loyal good humour, that it was very
difficult to find fault. Miss Corbet was plainly accustomed to act as
Court Circular, or even as lecturer and show-woman on the most popular
subject in England.
"But her Grace surpassed herself in acting the tyrant last January; you
would have sworn her really angry. This was how it fell out. I was in the
anteroom one day, waiting for her Grace, when I thought I heard her call.
So I tapped; I got no clear answer, but I heard her voice within, so I
entered. And there was her Majesty, sitting a little apart in a chair by
herself, with the Secretary--poor rat--white-faced at the table, writing
what she bade him, and looking at her, quick and side-ways, like a child
at a lifted rod; and there was her Grace: she had kicked her stool over,
and one shoe had fallen; and she was striking the arm of her chair as she
spoke, and her rings rapped as loud as a drunken watchman. And her face
was all white, and her eyes glaring"--and Mary began 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 called my Lord
Sussex, but few would have recognised him from what she said)--'tell him
that I will have my will done. These--' (and she called the rebels a name
I dare not tell you)--'these men have risen against me these two months;
and yet they are not hanged. Hang them in their own villages, that their
children may see what treason brings.' All this while I was standing at
the open door, thinking she had called me; but she was as if she saw
nought but the gallows and hell-fire beyond; and I spoke softly to her,
asking what she wished; and she sprang up and ran at me, and struck
me--yes; again and again across the face with her open hand, rings and
all--and I ran out in tears. Yes," went on Miss Corbet 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 her movements
and so loud her voice."
Mr. James' face wrinkled up silently in amusement; and Lady Maxwell
seemed on the point of speaking; but Miss Corbet began again:
"And to see her Grace act the lover. It was a miracle. You would have
said that our Artemis repented of her coldness; if you had not known it
was but play-acting; or let us say perhaps a rehearsal--if you had seen
what I once saw at 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 to come, but we thought had not arrived.
Then I had occasion to go to my room to get a little book I had promised
to show to Caroline; and, thinking no harm, I ran through into the court,
and there stood a horse, his legs apart, all steaming and blowing. Some
courier, said I to myself, and never thought to look at the trappings;
and so I ran upstairs to go to the gallery, across which lay my chamber;
and I came up, and just began to push open the door, when I heard her
Grace's voice beyond, and, by the mercy of God, I stopped; and dared not
close the door again nor go downstairs for fear I should be heard. And
there were two walking within the gallery, her Grace and my lord, and my
lord was all disordered with hard riding, and nearly as spent as his poor
beast below. And her Grace had her arm round his neck, for I saw them
through the chink; and she fondled and pinched his ear, and said over and
over again, 'Robin, my sweet Robin,' and then crooned and moaned at him;
and he, whenever he could fetch a breath--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 she was not: but 'twas all in
the play. Well, again by the favour of God, they did not see how the door
was open and I couched behind it, for the sun was shining level through
the west window in their eyes; but why they did not hear me as I ran
upstairs and opened the door, He only knows--unless my lord was too
sorely out of breath and her Grace too intent upon her play-acting. Well,
I promise you, the acting was so good--he so spent and she so
tender--that I nearly cried out Brava as I saw them; but that I
remembered in time 'twas meant to be a private rehearsal. But I have seen
her Grace act near as passionate a part before the whole company
sometimes."
The two old ladies seemed not greatly pleased with all this talk; and as
for Isabel she sat silent and overwhelmed. Mary Corbet glanced quickly at
their faces when she had done, and turned a little in her seat.
"Ah! look at that peacock," she cried out, as a stately bird stepped
delicately out of the shrubbery on to the low wall a little way off, and
stood balancing 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
Miss Corbet's glowing dress, "and to learn of the London fashions."
Mary got up and curtseyed to the astonished bird, who looked at her with
his head lowered, as he took a high step or two, and then paused again,
with his burnished 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
wits loved 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 the rhythm and the flash and the graceful turns are of more
importance than the actual thrusts received. The two old ladies
embroidered on in silence, but their eyes twinkled, and little wrinkles
flickered about the corners of their lips. But poor Isabel sat
bewildered. It was so elaborate, so empty; she had almost said, so wicked
to take the solemn gift of speech and make it dance this wild fandango;
and as absurdity climbed and capered in a shower of sparks and gleams on
the shoulders of absurdity, and was itself surmounted; and the names of
heathen gods and nymphs and demi-gods and loose-living classical women
whisked across the stage, and were tossed higher and higher, until the
whole mad erection blazed up and went out in a shower of stars and gems
of allusions and phrases, like a flight of rockets, bright and
bewildering at the moment, but leaving a barren darkness and dazzled eyes
behind--the poor little Puritan country child almost cried with
perplexity and annoyance. If the two talkers had looked at one another
and burst into laughter at the end, she would have understood it to be a
joke, though, to her mind, but a poor one. But when they had ended, and
Mary Corbet had risen and then swept down to the ground in a great silent
curtsey, and Mr. James, the grave, sensible gentleman, had solemnly bowed
with his hand on his heart, and his heels together like a Monsieur, and
then she had rustled off in her peacock dress to the house, with her
muslin wings bulging behind her; and no one had laughed or reproved or
explained; it was almost too much, and she looked across to Lady Maxwell
with an 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
kindly way. "It is all part of the game."
"The game?" she said piteously.
"Yes," said Mistress Margaret, intent on her embroidery, "the game of
playing at 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 in his eyes went out.
"No, no, no," she cried, distressed. "I did not mean that. Only I did not
understand."
"I know, I know; and please God you never will." And he looked at her
with such a tender gravity that her eyes fell.
"Isabel is right," went on Mistress Margaret, in her singularly sweet old
voice; "and you know it, my nephew. It is very well as a pastime, but
some folks make it their business; and that is nothing less than fooling
with the gifts 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 an almost imperceptible movement with his head, Mistress Margaret
looked across at him with her tender eyes beaming love and sorrow; and
there fell a little eloquent silence; while Isabel glanced shyly from one
to the other, and wondered what it was all about.
Miss Mary Corbet stayed a few weeks, as the custom was when travelling
meant so much; but Isabel was scarcely nearer understanding her. She
accepted her, as simple clean souls so often have to accept riddles in
this world, as a mystery that no doubt had a significance, though she
could not recognise it. So she did not exactly dislike or distrust her,
but regarded her silently out of her own candid soul, as one would say a
small fearless bird in a nest must regard the man who thrusts his strange
hot face into her green pleasant world, and tries to make endearing
sounds. For Isabel was very fascinating to Mary Corbet. She had scarcely
ever before been thrown so close to any one so serenely pure. She would
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 upstairs
parlour, 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 then suddenly laugh and kiss her--Isabel's transparency was almost as
great a riddle to her as her own obscurity to Isabel. And sometimes she
would throw herself on Isabel's bed, and lie there with her arms behind
her head, to the deplorable ruin of her ruff; with her buckled feet
twitching and tapping; and go on and on talking like a running stream in
the sun that runs for the sheer glitter and tinkle of it, and
accomplishes nothing. But she was more respectful to Isabel's simplicity
than at first, and avoided dangerous edges and treacherous ground in a
manner that surprised herself, telling her of the pageants at Court and
fair exterior of it all, and little about the poisonous conversations and
jests and the 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.
It is not like the Protestant religion at Court at all. All that the
Protestants do 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 at sunset. And these Protestants that I know are
more like a paved court at noon--all hot and hard and glaring. They give
me the headache. Tell me all about it."
Of course Isabel could not, though she tried again and again. Her
definitions were 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. But your soul is sweet, my dear, and the wilderness blossoms
where you set your feet. 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
being dragged 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
the Religion was. But your father, good man, has never understood it
himself; and so you don't know it either. What you think about us, my
dear, is as much like the truth as--as--I am like a saint, or you like a
sinner. I'll be bound now that you 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
the Hall 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. But if they are wolves, my dear, you must confess that they have
the decency to wear sheep's clothing, and that the disguise is
excellent."
And so it gradually came about that Isabel began to learn an immense deal
about what the Catholics really believed--far more than she had ever
learnt in all her life before from the ladies at the Hall, who were
unwilling to teach her, and her father, who was unable.
About half-way through Miss Corbet's visit, Anthony came home. At first
he pronounced against her inexorably, dismissing her as nonsense, and as
a fine lady--terms to him interchangeable. Then his condemnation began to
falter, then ceased; then acquittal, and at last commendation succeeded.
For Miss Corbet asked his advice about the dogs, and how to get that
wonderful gloss on their coats that his had; and she asked his help, too,
once or twice and praised his skill, and once asked to feel his muscle.
And then she was so gallant in ways that appealed to him. She was not in
the least afraid of Eliza. She kissed that ferocious head in spite of the
glare of that steady yellow eye; and yet all with an air of trusting to
Anthony's protection. She tore her silk stocking across the instep in a
bramble and scratched her foot, without even drawing attention to it, as
she followed him along one of his short cuts through the copse; and it
was only by chance that he saw it. And then this gallant girl, so simple
and ignorant as she seemed out of doors, was like a splendid queen
indoors, and was able to hold her own, or rather to soar above all these
elders who were so apt to look over Anthony's head 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 hardly realise it was
the same girl, till she laughed up at him, and nodded, and said how much
she had enjoyed the afternoon's stroll, and how much she would have to
tell when she got back to Court. In short, so incessant were her poses
and so skilful her manner and tone, and so foolish this poor boy, that in
a very few days, after he had pronounced her to be nonsense, Anthony was
at her feet, hopelessly fascinated by the combination of the glitter and
friendliness of this fine Court lady. To do her justice, she would have
behaved exactly the same to a statue, or even to nothing at all, as a
peacock dances and postures and vibrates his plumes to a kitten; and had
no more deliberate intention of giving 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
had detected in him a nobility that others overlooked, and so Anthony
began a gorgeous course of day-dreaming, in which he moved as a kind of
king, worshipped and reverenced by this splendid creature, who after a
disillusionment 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. These dreams, 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
spare time 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. Anthony walked with something of an air in front of the two
ladies. Isabel told her as they went about the Rector and his views. Mary
nodded and smiled and seemed to understand.
"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; when
Anthony, 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
sitting in his chair opposite, a small dark, clean-shaven man, but his
face was set with a look of distressed determination, and his lower lip
was sucked in; his eyes were fixed firmly on a tall, slender woman whose
back was turned to the window and who seemed to be declaiming, with
outstretched hand. The Rector suddenly saw the faces at the window.
"We seem to be interrupting," said Mary coolly, as she turned away.
CHAPTER V
A RIDER FROM LONDON
"We will walk on, Master Anthony," said Mistress Corbet. "Will you bring
the keys 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 face was set in a kind of fury, and she went forward with
her chin thrust disdainfully out, biting her lip. Isabel said nothing.
As they reached the gate they heard steps behind them; and turning saw
the minister and Anthony hastening together. Mr. Dent was in his cassock
and gown and square cap, and carried the keys. His little scholarly face,
with a sharp curved nose like a beak, and dark eyes set rather too close
together, was not unlike a bird's; and a way he had of sudden sharp
movements of his head increased the likeness. Mary looked at him with
scarcely veiled contempt. He glanced 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 we are 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 her face; but Isabel, who glanced at her now and again as they
went round to the porch at the west-end, still felt uneasy.
As the Rector was unlocking the porch door, Mary surveyed him with a
pleased smile.
"Why, you look quite like a priest," she said. "Do your bishops, or
whatever you 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
her face, explained elaborately in the porch that he was a Catholic
priest, practically; though the word minister was more commonly used; and
that it was the old Church still, only cleansed from superstitions. Mary
shook her head at him cheerfully, smiling like a happy, puzzled child.
"It is all too difficult for me," she said. "It cannot be the same
Church, or why should we poor Catholics be so much abused and persecuted?
Besides, what of the 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
pieces somewhere on a dunghill. Surely, father--I beg your pardon, Mr.
Dent--it cannot be the same religion if you have knocked Our Lady to
pieces. But then I suppose you would say that she was a superstition,
too. And where is the old altar? Is that broken, too? And is that a
superstition, too? What a number there must have been! And the holy
water, too, I see. But that looks a very nice table up there you have
instead. Ah! And I see you read the new prayers from a new desk outside
the screen, and not from the priest's stall. Was that a superstition too?
And the mass vestments? Has your wife had any of them made up to be
useful? The stoles are no good, I fear; but you could make charming
stomachers out of the chasubles."
They were walking slowly up the centre aisle now. Mr. Dent had to explain
that the vestments had been burnt on the green.
"Ah! yes; I see," she said, "and do you wear a surplice, or do you not
like them? I see the chancel roof is all broken--were there angels there
once? I suppose 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, perplexed eyes 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 the
altar-stone." And she went down on her knees at the chancel entrance,
bending down, it seemed, in an agony of devout sorrow and shame; and
kissed with a gentle, lingering reverence the great slab with its five
crosses, set in the ground at the destruction of the altar to show there
was no sanctity attached to it.
She knelt there a moment or two, her lips moving, and her black eyes cast
up at the great east window, cracked and flawed with stones and poles.
The Puritan boy and girl looked at her with astonishment; they had not
seen this side of her before.
When she rose from her knees, her eyes seemed bright with tears, and her
voice was tender.
"Forgive me, Mr. Dent," she said, with a kind of pathetic dignity,
putting out a slender be-ringed hand to him, "but--but you know--for I
think perhaps you have some 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
said nothing. They came out again presently, and turned through the old
iron gates into what had been the Maxwell chapel. The centre was occupied
by an altar-tomb with Sir Nicholas' parents lying in black stone upon it.
Old Sir James held his right gauntlet in his left hand, and with his
right hand held the right hand of his wife, which was crossed over to
meet it; and the two steady faces gazed upon the disfigured roof. The
altar, where a weekly requiem had been said for them, 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,
"I suppose the money is not a superstition."
When they reached the west entrance again she turned and looked up the
aisle again.
"And the Rood!" she said. "Even Christ crucified is gone. Then, in God's
name what 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,
startled and ashamed. But Mary had recovered herself as she came on to
the head of the stone stairs, beside which the stump of the churchyard
cross stood; standing there was the same tall, slender woman whose back
they had seen through the window, and who now stood eyeing Mary with
half-dropped lids. Her face was very white, 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, followed by Isabel and Anthony, as
the Rector came out, locking the church door again behind him.
As they went up the green, a shrill thin voice began to scold from over
the churchyard wall, and they heard the lower, determined voice of the
minister answering.
"They are at it again," said Anthony, once more.
"And what do you mean by that, Master Anthony?" said Mistress Corbet, who
seemed 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 notice
nothing.
"She is always making mischief," he went on eagerly. "The Rector would be
well enough 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 then she broke off again, and was silent.
The brother and sister presently turned back to the Dower House; and Mary
went on, and through the Hall straight into the Italian garden where
Mistress Margaret was sitting alone at her embroidery.
"My sister has been called away by the housekeeper," she explained, "but
she will be back presently."
Mary sat down and took up the little tawny book that lay by Lady
Maxwell's chair, and began to turn it over idly while she talked. The old
lady by her seemed to invite confidences.
"I have been to see the church," said Mary. "The Rector showed it to me.
What a beautiful place it must have been."
"Ah!" said Mistress Margaret "I only came to live here a few years ago;
so I have never known or loved it like my sister or her husband. They can
hardly bear to enter it now. You know that Sir Nicholas' father and
grandfather are buried in the Maxwell chapel; and it was his father who
gave the furniture of the sanctuary, and the images of Our Lady and Saint
Christopher that they burned on the green."
"It is terrible," said Mary, a little absently, as she turned the pages
of the book.
Mistress Margaret looked up.
"Ah! you have one of my books there," she said. "It is a little
collection I made."
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 other
nunneries; and some went to France; but, at last, under circumstances
that I need not trouble you with, I came here under spiritual direction,
and have observed 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 of course because you are one of us, and because you have a faithful
heart." Mistress Margaret lifted her great eyes and looked at Mary
tenderly and penetratingly.
"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
here is 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
religion in 1534; so you see the handwriting changes a little," and she
smiled to herself.
"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 Mistress
Margaret.
"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
Richard Rolle, the hermit."
"Tell me a little," said Mary Corbet, suddenly laying down the book,
"about the 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 in Paradise. Sometimes in the Greater Silence, when we had
spoken no word nor heard one except in God's praise, it used to seem that
if we could but be silent a little longer, and a little more deeply, in
our hearts as well, we should hear them talking in heaven, and the harps;
and the Saviour's soft footsteps. 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 allow such trouble and darkness and noise to be in our hearts
sometimes--at least in mine. But then of course I was always very wicked.
But sitting in the nymph-hay sometimes on a day like this, as we were
allowed to do; with just tall thin trees like poplars and cypresses round
us: and the stream running through the long grass; and the birds, and the
soft sky and the little breeze; and then peace in our hearts; and the
love of the Saviour round us--it seemed, it seemed as if God had nothing
more to give; or, I should say, as if our hearts had no more space."
Mary was strangely subdued and quiet. Her little restless movements were
still for 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
little about God and His poor children who were not so happy as we were;
so then the troubles 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. I will tell you his story another time. He took
away our great crucifix and our jewelled cope that old Mr. Wickham used
to wear on the Great Festivals; and left us. He turned me out, too; and
another who asked to go, but I went back for a while. And then, my dear,
although we offered everything; our cows and our orchard and our hens,
and all we had, you know how it ended; and one morning in May old Mr.
Wickham said mass for us quite early, before the sun was risen, for the
last time; and,--and he cried, my dear, at the elevation; and--and we
were all crying too I think, and we all received communion together for
the last time--and,--and, then we all went away, leaving just old Dame
Agnes to keep the house until the Commissioner came. And oh, my dear, I
don't think the house ever looked so dear as it did that morning, just as
the sun rose over the roofs, and we were passing out through the meadow
door where we had sat so often, 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 put out her white slender hand, which Mistress Torridon took and
stroked for a moment.
"Well," she said, "I haven't talked like this for a long while; but I
knew you would understand. My dear, I have watched you while you have
been here this time."
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
drawing very near."
A slight discomfort made itself felt in Mary's heart. This nun then was
like all the rest, always trying to turn the whole world into monks and
nuns by hints and pretended intuitions into the unseen.
"And you think I should be a nun too?" she asked, with just a shade of
coolness in her tone.
"I should suppose not," said Mistress Margaret, tranquilly. "You do not
seem to have a vocation for that, but I should think that our Lord means
you to serve 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 had expected. She did not know what to say; and took up the leather
book again and began to turn over the pages. Mistress Margaret went on
serenely with her embroidery, which she had neglected during the last
sentence or two; and there was 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 a
childhood. 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 I learnt this," and she held out her work to Mary for a moment.
It was an exquisite piece of needlework, representing a stag running
open-mouthed through thickets of green twining branches that wrapped
themselves about his horns and feet. 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 brayeth
after the waterbrooks,"--and she took the embroidery and began to go on
with it.--"It is the soul, you see, desiring and fleeing to God, while
the things of the world hold her back. Well, you see, it is difficult to
talk about it; for it is the inner life that is the real history of a
convent; the outer things are 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.
"I dream 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 was a spring morning, with the dawn beginning to show the
painted windows, and that all the tapers were burning; and that mass was
beginning. Not one stall was empty; 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 crucifix back in its place again; and told
us that we were all good children, and that Our Lord had only sent us
away to see if we would be patient; and that He was now pleased with us,
and had let us come home again; and that we should never have to go away
again; not even when we died; and then I understood that we were in
heaven, and that it was all over; and I burst out into tears in my stall
for happiness; and then I awoke and found myself in bed; but my cheeks
were really wet.--Well, well, perhaps, by the mercy of God it may all
come true some day."
She spoke so simply that Mary Corbet was amazed; she had always fancied
that the Religious Life was a bitter struggle, worth, indeed, living for
those who could bear it, for the sake of the eternal reward; but it had
scarcely even occurred to her that it was so full of joy in itself; and
she looked up under her 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
last few weeks; and had determined to speak to her plainly. Her instinct
had told her that beneath this flippancy and glitter there was something
that would respond; and she was anxious to leave nothing undone by which
Mary might be awakened 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, but she judged that Mary could only be
reached on her human side, and that there were not many of her friends
whose human sympathy would draw her in the right direction. It is
strange, sometimes, to find that some silent old lady has a power for
sounding human character, which far shrewder persons lack; and this quiet
old nun, so ignorant, one would have said, of the world and of the
motives from which ordinary people act, had managed somehow to touch
springs in this girl's heart that had never been reached before.
And now as Miss Corbet and Lady Maxwell talked, and Anthony lolled
embarrassed beside them, attempting now and then to join in the
conversation, Mistress Margaret, as she sat a little apart and worked
away at the panting stag dreamed away, smiling quietly to herself, of all
the old scenes that her own conversation had called up into clearer
consciousness; of the pleasant little meadow of the Sussex priory, with
the old apple-trees and the straight box-lined path called the nun's walk
from time immemorial; all lighted with the pleasant afternoon glow, as it
streamed from the west, throwing the slender poplar shadows across the
grass; and of the quiet chatter of the brook as it over-flowed from the
fish ponds at the end of the field and ran through the meadows beyond the
hedge. The cooing of the pigeons as they sunned themselves round the dial
in the centre of this Italian garden and on the roof of the hall helped
on her reminiscences, for there had been a dovecote at the priory. Where
were all her sisters now, those who had sat with her in the same sombre
habits in the garth, with the same sunshine in their hearts? Some she
knew, and thanked God for it, were safe in glory; others were old like
her, but still safe in Holy Religion in France where as yet there was
peace and sanctuary for the servants of the Most High; one or two--and
for these she lifted up her heart in petition as she sat--one or two had
gone back to the world, relinquished everything, 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 the others one
by one--that white-faced, large-eyed sister who had shown such passionate
devotion at first that they all thought that God was going to raise up 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, down into the muddy torrent of the world that went roaring
down to the abyss--and who was responsible? There was Dame Avice, the
Sacristan, with her businesslike movements going about the garden,
gathering flowers for the altar, with her queer pursed lips as she
arranged them in her hands with her head a little on one side; how
annoying she used to be sometimes; but how good and tender at heart--God
rest her soul! And there was Mr. Wickham, the old priest who had been
their 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
the horses ready when the nuns had to go at last on that far-off May
morning, and had stood there, holding the bridles and trying to hide his
wet face behind the horses; where was Tom now? And Mr. Wickham too--he
had gone to France with some of the nuns; but he had never settled down
there--he couldn't bear the French ways--and besides he had left his
heart behind him buried in the little Sussex priory among the meadows.
And so the old lady sat, musing; while the light and shadow of
reminiscence moved across her face; and her lips quivered or her eyes
wrinkled up with humour, at the thought of all those old folks with their
faces and their movements and their ways of doing and speaking. Ah! well,
please God, some day her dream would really come true; and they shall all
be gathered again from France 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 Tom Downe too shall be there to minister
to him--all in one of the many mansions of which the Saviour spoke.
And so she heard nothing of the talk of the others; though her sister
looked at her tenderly once or twice; and Mary Corbet chattered and
twitched her buckles in the sun, and Anthony sat embarrassed in the midst
of Paradise; and she knew nothing of where she was nor of what was
happening round her, until Mary Corbet said that it was time for the
horses to be round, and that she must go and get ready and not keep Mr.
James and Mr. Anthony waiting. Then, as she and Anthony went towards the
house, the old lady looked up from the braying stag and found herself
alone with her sister.
Mistress Margaret waited until the other two disappeared up the steps,
and then spoke.
"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
find some work for her to do at Court."
There was silence again; broken by the gentle little sound of the silk
being drawn 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
old Sir Nicholas appeared on the top of the steps, hatless and plainly in
a state of great agitation; beside him stood a courier, covered with the
dust of the white roads, and his face crimson with hard riding. Sir
Nicholas stood there as if dazed, and Lady Maxwell sprang up quickly to
go to him. But a moment after there appeared behind him a little group,
his son James, Miss Corbet and a servant or two; while Anthony hung back;
and Mr. James came up quickly, and took his father by the arm; and
together the little company came down the steps into 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
the Holy 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.
CHAPTER VI
MR. STEWART
Sir Nicholas' exclamatory sentence was no exaggeration. That terrible
choice of which he spoke, with his old eyes shining with the desire to
make it, did not indeed come so immediately as he anticipated; but it
came none the less. From every point of view the Bull was unfortunate,
though it may have been a necessity; for it marked the declaration of war
between England and the Catholic Church. A gentle appeal had been tried
before; Elizabeth, who, it must be remembered had been crowned during
mass with Catholic ceremonial, and had received the Blessed Sacrament,
had been entreated by the Pope as his "dear daughter in Christ" to return
to the Fold; and now there seemed to him no possibility left but this
ultimatum.
It is indeed difficult to see what else, from his point of view, he could
have done. To continue to pretend that Elizabeth was his "dear daughter"
would have discredited his fatherly authority in the eyes of the whole
Christian world. He had patiently made an advance towards his wayward
child; and she had repudiated and scorned him. Nothing was left but to
recognise and treat her as an enemy of the Faith, an usurper of spiritual
prerogatives, and an apostate spoiler of churches; to do this might
certainly bring trouble upon others of his less distinguished but more
obedient children, who were in her power; but to pretend that the
suffering thus brought down upon Catholics was unnecessary, and that the
Pope alone was responsible for their persecution, is to be blind to the
fact that Elizabeth had already openly defied and repudiated his
authority, and had begun to do her utmost to coax and compel his children
to be disobedient to their father.
The shock of the Bull to Elizabeth was considerable; she had not expected
this extreme measure; and it was commonly reported too that France and
Spain were likely now to unite on a religious basis against England; and
that at least one of these Powers had sanctioned the issue of the Bull.
This of course helped greatly to complicate further the already
complicated political position. Steps were taken immediately to
strengthen England's position against Scotland with whom it was now, more
than ever, to be feared that France would co-operate; and the Channel
Fleet was reinforced under Lord Clinton, and placed with respect to
France in what was almost a state of war, while it was already in an
informal state of war with Spain. There was fierce confusion in the Privy
Council. Elizabeth, who at once began to vacillate under the combined
threats of La Mothe, the French ambassador, and the arguments of the
friend of Catholics, Lord Arundel, was counter-threatened with ruin by
Lord Keeper Bacon unless she would throw in her lot finally with the
Protestants and continue her hostility and resistance to the Catholic
Scotch party. But in spite of Bacon Elizabeth's heart failed her, and if
it had not been for the rashness of Mary Stuart's friends, Lord
Southampton and the Bishop of Ross, the Queen might have been induced to
substitute conciliation for severity towards Mary and the Catholic party
generally. Southampton was arrested, and again there followed the further
encouragement of the Protestant camp by the rising fortunes of the
Huguenots and the temporary reverses to French Catholicism; so the
pendulum swung this way and that. Elizabeth's policy changed almost from
day to day. She was tormented with temporal fears of a continental
crusade against her, and by the spiritual terrors of the Pope's Bull; and
her unfathomable fickleness was the despair of her servants.
Meanwhile in the religious world a furious paper war broke out; and
volleys from both sides followed the solemn roar and crash of _Regnans
in Excelsis_.
But while the war of words went on, and the theological assaults and
charges were given and received, repulsed or avoided, something practical
must, it was felt, be done immediately; and search was made high and low
for other copies of the Bull. The lawyers in the previous year had fallen
under suspicion of religious unsoundness; judges could not be trusted to
convict Catholics accused of their religion; and counsel was unwilling to
prosecute them; therefore the first inquisition was made in the Inns of
Court; and almost immediately a copy of the Bull was found in the room of
a student in Lincoln's Inn, who upon the rack in the Tower confessed that
he had received it from one John Felton, a Catholic gentleman who lived
upon his property in Southwark. Upon Felton's arrest (for he had not
attempted to escape) he confessed immediately, without pressure, that he
had affixed the Bull to the Bishop of London's gate; but although he was
racked repeatedly he would not incriminate a single person besides
himself; but at his trial would only assert with a joyous confidence that
he was not alone; and that twenty-five peers, six hundred gentlemen, and
thirty thousand commoners were ready to die in the Holy Father's quarrel.
He behaved with astonishing gallantry throughout, and after his
condemnation had been pronounced upon the fourth of August at the
Guildhall, on the charge of high-treason, he sent a diamond ring from his
own finger, of the value of L400, to the Queen to show that he bore her
no personal ill-will. He had been always a steadfast Catholic; his wife
had been maid of honour to Mary and a friend of Elizabeth's. On August
the eighth he suffered the abominable punishment prescribed; he was drawn
on a hurdle to the gate of the Bishop's palace in S. Paul's Churchyard,
where he had affixed the Bull, hanged upon a new 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 See in whose quarrel
he so cheerfully laid down his life.
News of these and such events continued of course to be eagerly sought
after by the Papists all over the kingdom; and the Maxwells down at Great
Keynes kept in as close touch with the heart of affairs as almost any
private persons in the kingdom out of town. Sir Nicholas was one of those
fiery natures to whom opposition or pressure is as oil to flame. He began
at once to organise his forces and prepare for the struggle that was
bound to come. He established first a kind of private post to London and
to other Catholic houses round; for purposes however of defence rather
than offence, so that if any steps were threatened, he and his friends
might be aware of the danger in time. There was great sorrow at the news
of John Felton's death; and mass was said for his soul almost immediately
in the little oratory at Maxwell Court by one of the concealed priests
who went chiefly between Hampshire and Sussex ministering to the
Catholics of those districts. Mistress Margaret spent longer than ever at
her prayers; Lady Maxwell had all she could do to keep her husband from
some furious act of fanatical retaliation for John Felton's death--some
useless provocation of the authorities; the children at the Dower House
began to come to the Hall less often, not because they were less
welcomed, but because there was a constraint in the air. All seemed
preoccupied; conversations ceased abruptly on their entrance, and fits of
abstraction would fall from time to time upon their kindly hosts. In the
meanwhile, too, the preparations for James Maxwell's departure, which had
already begun to show themselves, were now pushed forward rapidly; and
one morning in the late summer, when Isabel came up to the Hall, she
found that Lady Maxwell was confined to her room and could not be seen
that day; she caught a glimpse of Sir Nicholas' face as he quickly
crossed the entrance hall, that made her draw back from daring to intrude
on such 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 his destination.
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 came across from the Continent. It was sufficiently near
London, yet not so near to the highroad or to London itself as to make
disturbance probable; and its very quietness under the spiritual care of
a moderate minister like Mr. Dent, and its serenity, owing to the secret
sympathy of many of the villagers and neighbours, as well as from the
personal friendship between Sir Nicholas and the master of the Dower
House--an undoubted Protestant--all these circumstances combined to make
Maxwell Hall a favourite halting-place for priests and agents from the
Continent. Strangers on horseback or in carriages, and sometimes even on
foot, would arrive there after nightfall, and leave in a day or two for
London. Its nearness to London enabled them to enter the city at any hour
they thought best after ten or eleven in the forenoon. They came on very
various businesses; some priests even stayed there and made the Hall a
centre for their spiritual ministrations for miles round; others came
with despatches from abroad, some of which were even addressed to great
personages at Court and at the Embassies where much was being done by the
Ambassadors at this time to aid their comrades in the Faith, and to other
leading Catholics; and others again came with pamphlets printed abroad
for distribution in England, some of them indeed seditious, but many of
them purely controversial and hortatory, and with other devotional
articles and books such as it was difficult to obtain in England, and
might not be exposed for public sale in booksellers' shops: Agnus Deis,
beads, hallowed incense and crosses were being sent in large numbers from
abroad, and were eagerly sought after by the Papists in all directions.
It was remarkable that while threatening clouds appeared to be gathering
on all sides over the Catholic cause, yet the deepening peril was
accompanied by a great outburst of religious zeal. It was reported to the
Archbishop that "massing" was greatly on the increase in Kent; and was
attributed, singularly enough, to the Northern Rebellion, which had ended
in disaster for the Papists; but the very fact that such a movement could
take place at all probably heartened many secret sympathisers, who had
hitherto considered themselves almost alone in a heretic population.
Sir Nicholas came in one day to dinner in a state of great fury. One of
his couriers had just arrived with news from London; and the old man came
in fuming and resentful.
"What hypocrisy!" he cried out to Lady Maxwell and Mistress Margaret, who
were seated at table. "Not content with persecuting Catholics, they will
not even allow us to say we are persecuted for the faith. Here is the
Lord Keeper declaring in the Star Chamber that no man is to be persecuted
for his private faith, but only for his public acts, and that the Queen's
Grace desires nothing so little as to meddle with any man's conscience.
Then I suppose they would say that hearing mass was a public act and
therefore unlawful; but then how if a man's private faith bids him to
hear mass? Is not that meddling with his private conscience to forbid him
to go to mass? What folly is this? And yet my Lord 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
the room; and it was terribly rash to speak like that before them; but he
would not be still nor sit down, but raged up and down before the hearth,
growling and breaking out now and again. What especially he could not get
off his mind was that this was the Old Religion that was prescribed. That
England for generations had held the Faith, and that then the Faith and
all that it involved had been declared unlawful, was to him iniquity
unfathomable. He could well understand some new upstart sect being
persecuted, but not the old Religion. He kept on returning to this.
"Have they so far forgotten the Old Faith as to think it can be held in a
man's private conscience without appearing in his life, like their
miserable damnable new fangled Justification by faith without works? Or
that a man can believe in the blessed sacrament of the altar and yet not
desire to receive it; or in penance and yet not be absolved; or in Peter
and yet not say so, nor be reconciled. You may believe, say they, of
their clemency, what you like; be justified by that; that is enough!
Bah!"
However mere declaiming against the Government was barren work, and Sir
Nicholas soon saw that; and instead, threw himself with more vigour than
ever into entertaining and forwarding the foreign emissaries.
Mary Corbet had returned to London by the middle of July; and Hubert was
not yet 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 the training for the _role_ of a conspirator, even of the
mildest description. He was so exceedingly impulsive, unsuspicious and
passionate that it 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 water needed stationary agents so grievously; and Sir
Nicholas' name commanded such respect, and his house such conveniences,
that they overlooked the risk involved in making him their confidant,
again and again; besides it need not be said that his honour and fidelity
was beyond reproach; and those qualities after all balance favourably
against a good deal of shrewdness and discretion. He, of course, was
serenely unable to distinguish between sedition and religion; and
entertained political meddlers and ordinary priests with an equal
enthusiasm. It was pathetic to Lady Maxwell to see her simple old husband
shuffling away his papers, and puzzling over cyphers and perpetually
leaving the key of them lying about, and betraying again and again when
he least intended 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 had allowed her; but he had an idea that the
capacities of ladies in general went no further than their harps, their
embroidery and their devotions; and besides, he was chivalrously
unwilling that his wife should be in any way privy to business that
involved such risks as this.
One sunny morning in August he came into her room early just as she was
finishing her prayers, and announced the arrival of an emissary from
abroad.
"Sweetheart," he said, "will you prepare the east chamber for a young man
whom we will call Mr. Stewart, if you please, who will arrive to-night.
He hopes to be with us until after dusk to-morrow when he will leave; and
I shall be obliged 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 be taken at once to Cuckfield, accompanied by a groom on another
horse. These were to 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 on to Maxwell Hall, and Sir Nicholas
further ordered the same two horses and the same groom to be ready the
following evening at about nine o'clock, and to be at "Mr. Stewart's"
orders again as before.
This behaviour of Sir Nicholas' was of course most culpably indiscreet. A
child could not but have suspected something, and the grooms, who were of
course Catholics, winked merrily at one another when the conspirator's
back was turned, and he had hastened in a transport of zeal and
preoccupation back again to the house to interrupt his wife in her
preparations for the guest.
That evening "Mr. Stewart" arrived according to arrangements. He was a
slim red-haired man, not above thirty years of age, the kind of man his
enemies would call foxy, with a very courteous and deliberate manner, and
he spoke with a slight Scotch accent. He had the air of doing everything
on purpose. He let his riding-whip fall as he greeted Lady Maxwell in the
entrance hall; but picked it up with such a dignified grace that you
would have sworn he had let it fall for some wise reason of his own. He
had a couple of saddle-bags with him, which he did not let out of his
sight for a moment; even keeping his eye upon them as he met the ladies
and saluted them. They were carried up to the east chamber directly,
their owner following; where supper had been prepared. There was no real
reason, since he arrived with such publicity, why he should not have
supped downstairs, but Sir Nicholas had been peremptory. It was by his
directions also that the arrival had been accomplished in the manner it
had.
After he had supped, Sir Nicholas receiving the dishes from the servants'
hands at the door of the room with the same air of secrecy and despatch,
his host suggested that he should come to Lady Maxwell's drawing-room, as
the ladies were anxious to see him. Mr. Stewart asked leave to bring a
little valise with him that had travelled in one of the bags, and then
followed his host who preceded him with a shaded light along the gallery.
When he entered he bowed again profoundly, with a slightly French air, to
the ladies and to the image over the fire; and then seated himself, and
asked leave to open his valise. He did so with their permission, and
displayed to them the numerous devotional articles and books that it
contained. The ladies and Sir Nicholas were delighted, and set aside at
once some new books of devotion, and then they fell to talk. The
Netherlands, from which Mr. Stewart had arrived two days 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 them even from
Elizabeth's accession, and Sir Nicholas and his ladies had many inquiries
to make about their acquaintances, many of which Mr. Stewart was able to
satisfy, for, from his conversation he was plainly one in the confidence
of Catholics both at home and abroad. And so the evening passed away
quietly. It was thought better by Sir Nicholas that Mr. Stewart should
not be present at the evening devotions that he always conducted for the
household in the dining-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 Sir Nicholas promised at his request to look in on
him again after prayers. When prayers were over, Sir Nicholas went up to
his guest's room, and found him awaiting him in a state of evident
excitement, very unlike the quiet vivacity and good humour he had shown
when with the ladies.
"Sir Nicholas," he said, standing up, as his host came in, "I have not
told you all my news." And when they were both seated he proceeded:
"You spoke a few minutes ago, Sir Nicholas, of Dr. Storey; he has been
caught."
The old man exclaimed with dismay. Mr. Stewart went on:
"When I left Antwerp, Sir Nicholas, Dr. Storey was in the town. I saw him
myself in the street by the Cathedral only a few hours before I embarked.
He is very old, you know, and lame, worn out with good works, and he was
hobbling down the street on the arm of a young man. When I arrived at
Yarmouth I went out into the streets about a little business I had with a
bookseller, before taking horse. I heard a great commotion down near the
docks, at the entrance of Bridge Street; and hastened down there; and
there I saw pursuivants and seamen and officers all gathered about a
carriage, and keeping back the crowd that was pressing and crying out to
know who the man was; and presently the carriage drove by me, scattering
the crowd, and I could see within; and there sat old Dr. Storey, very
white and ill-looking, but steady and cheerful, whom I had seen 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 must
move now. They cannot leave him in Cecil's hands; and then, Sir Nicholas,
we must all be ready, for who knows what may happen."
Sir Nicholas was greatly moved. There was one of the perplexities which
so much harassed all the Papists at this time. It seemed certain that Mr.
Stewart's prediction must be fulfilled. Dr. Storey was a naturalised
subject of King Philip and in the employment of Alva, and he had been
carried off forcibly by the English Government. It afterwards came out
how it had been done. He had been 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 of finding heretical books there
arriving from England; and as soon as he had set foot on deck he was
hurried below and carried straight off to Yarmouth. Here then was Sir
Nicholas' perplexity. To welcome Spain when she intervened and to work
actively for her, was treason against his country; to act against Spain
was to delay the re-establishment of the Religion--something that
appeared to him very like treason against his faith. Was the dreadful
choice between his sovereign 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 of these Catholics and of others in England when they heard the
tale began to fail them. Had the Government then so long an arm and so
keen an eye? And if it was able to hale a man from the shadow of the
Cathedral at Antwerp and the protection of the Duke of Alva into the
hands of pursuivants at Yarmouth within the space of a few hours, who
then was safe?
And so the two sat late that night in the East Chamber; and laid schemes
and discussed movements and probabilities and the like, until the dawn
began to glimmer 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 on the one side he had not others dearer to
him than his own life involved in these complex issues: and partly
because he at any rate has not the weight of suspense and indecision that
so drew his host two ways at once, for Mr. Stewart was whole-heartedly
committed already, and knew well how he would act should the choice
present itself between Elizabeth and Philip.
The following morning Sir Nicholas still would not allow his guest to
come downstairs, and insisted that all his meals should be served in the
East Chamber, while he himself, as before, received the food at the door
and set it before Mr. Stewart. Mr. Stewart was greatly impressed and
touched by the kindness of the old man, although not by his capacity for
conspiracy. He had intended indeed to tell his host far more than he had
done of the movements of political and religious events, for he could not
but believe, before his arrival, that a Catholic so prominent and
influential as Sir Nicholas was becoming by reputation among the refugees
abroad, was a proper person to be entrusted even with the highest
secrets; but after a very little conversation with him the night before,
he had seen how ingenuous the old man was, with his laughable attempts at
secrecy and his lamentable lack of discretion; and so he had contented
himself with general information and gossip, and had really told Sir
Nicholas very little indeed of any importance.
After dinner Sir Nicholas again conducted his guest to the drawing-room,
where the ladies were ready to receive him. He had obtained Mr. Stewart's
permission the 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 Lord Sussex's punitive raid into Scotland in the preceding
April. They had heard of course the main outline of the story with the
kind of embroideries attached that were usual in those days of inaccurate
reporting; but their guest was a Scotchman himself and had had the
stories first-hand in some cases from those rendered homeless by the
raid, who had fled to the Netherlands where he had met them. Briefly the
raid was undertaken on the pretended plea of an invitation from the
"King's men" or adherents of the infant James; but in reality to chastise
Scotland and reduce it to servility. Sussex and Lord Hunsdon in the east,
Lord Scrope on the west, had harried, burnt, and destroyed in the whole
countryside about the Borders. Especially had Tiviotdale suffered.
Altogether it was calculated that Sussex had burned three hundred
villages and blown up fifty castles, and forty more "strong houses," some
of these latter, however, being little more than border peels. Mr.
Stewart's accounts were the more moving in that he spoke in a quiet
delicate tone, and used little picturesque phrases in his speech.
"Twelve years ago," said Mr. Stewart, "I was at Branxholme myself. It was
a pleasant house, well furnished and appointed; fortified, too, as all
need to be in that country, with sheaves of pikes in all the lower rooms,
and Sir Walter Scott 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 of yours, Lady Maxwell. And it seemed to me a
home where a man might be content to spend all his days. Well, my Lord
Sussex has been a visitor there now; and what he has left of the house
would not shelter a cow, nor what is left of the pleasant gardens sustain
her. At least, so one of the Scots told me whom I met in the Netherlands
in June."
He talked, too, of the extraordinary scenes of romance and chivalry in
which Mary Queen of Scots moved during her captivity under Lord Scrope's
care at Bolton Castle in the previous year. He had met in his travels in
France one of her undistinguished adherents who had managed to get a
position in the castle during her detention there.
"The country was alive with her worshippers," said Mr. Stewart. "They
swarmed like bees round a hive. In the night voices would be heard crying
out to her Grace out of the darkness round the castle; and when the
guards rode out they would find no man but maybe hear just a laugh or
two. Her men would lie out at night and watch her window (for she would
never go to rest till late), and pray towards it as if it were a light
before the blessed sacrament. When she rode out a-hunting, with her
guards of course about her, and my Lord Scrope or Sir Francis Knollys
never far away, a beggar maybe would be sitting out on the road and ask
an alms; and cry out 'God save your Grace'; but he would be a beggar who
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 for a blow or a curse from some foul English trooper for his meat, if
only he might have a look from the Queen's eyes for his grace before
meat. Oh! they would plot too, and scheme and lie awake half the night
spinning their webs, not to catch her Grace indeed, but to get her away
from that old Spider Scrope; and many's the word and the scrap of paper
that would go in to her Grace, right under the very noses of my Lord
Scrope and Sir Francis themselves, as they sat at their chess in the
Queen's chamber. It's a long game of chess that the two Queens are
playing; but thank our Lady and the Saints it's not mate yet--not mate
yet; and the White Queen will win, please God, before the board's
over-turned."
And he told them, too, of the failure of the Northern Rebellion, and the
wretchedness of the fugitives.
"They rode over the moors to Liddisdale," he said, "ladies and all, in
bitter weather, wind and snow, day after day, with stories of Clinton's
troopers all about them, and scarcely time for bite or sup or sleep. My
lady Northumberland was so overcome with weariness and sickness that she
could ride no more at last, and had to be left at John-of-the-Side's
house, where she had a little chamber where the snow came in at one
corner, and the rats ran over my lady's face 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 out in the
braes and woods about Harlaw, and no clothes but the foul rags that some
beggar had thrown away, and no food but a bird or a rabbit that they
could pick up here and there, or what their friends could get to them now
and again privately. And then my Lord Northumberland's little daughters
whom he was forced to leave behind at Topcliff--a sweet Christmas they
had! Their money and food was soon spent; they could have scarcely a fire
in that bitter hard season; and God who feeds the ravens alone knows how
they were sustained; and for entertainment to make the time pass merrily,
all they had was to see the hanging of their own servants in scores about
the house, who had served them and their father well; and all their music
at night was the howling of the wind in those heavily laden
Christmas-trees, and the noise of the chains in which the 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 north before; and although the Northern Rebellion had ended so
disastrously, yet it was encouraging, although heartbreaking too, to hear
that delicate women and children were ready gladly to suffer such
miseries if the religious cause that was 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 in defence of religious
liberties. His whole English nature revolted against it, and yet so many
spiritual persons seemed to favour it. His simple conscience was
perplexed. But none the less he could listen with the most intense
interest and sympathy to these tales of these co-religionists of his own,
who were so clearly convinced of their right to rebel in defence of their
faith.
And so with such stories the August afternoon passed away. It was a
thundery day, which it would have been pleasanter to spend in the garden,
but that, Sir Nicholas said, under the circumstances was not to be
thought of; so they threw the windows wide to catch the least breath of
air; and the smell of the flower-garden came sweetly up and flooded the
low cool room; and so they sat engrossed until the evening.
Supper was ordered for Mr. Stewart at half-past seven o'clock; and this
meal Sir Nicholas had consented should be laid downstairs in his own
private room opening out of the hall, and that he and his ladies should
sit down to table at the 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 he was conducted downstairs by Sir
Nicholas who insisted on carrying the saddle-bags with his own hands, and
they found the two ladies waiting for them in the panelled study that had
one window giving upon the terrace that ran along the south of the house
above the garden. When supper had been brought in by Sir Nicholas' own
body-servant, Mr. Boyd, they sat down to supper after a grace from Sir
Nicholas. The horses were ordered for nine o'clock.
CHAPTER VII
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; the
wounds had healed but had not ceased to smart. How blind these Papists
were, he thought! how prejudiced for the old trifling details of worship!
how ignorant of the vital principles still retained! The old realities of
God and the faith and the Church were with them still, in this village,
he reminded himself; it was only the incrustations of error that had been
removed. Of course the transition was difficult and hearts were sore; but
the Eternal God can be patient. But then, if the discontent of the
Papists smouldered on one side, the fanatical and irresponsible zeal of
the Puritans flared on the other. How difficult, he thought, to steer the
safe middle course! How much cool faith and clearsightedness it needed!
He reminded himself of Archbishop Parker who now held the rudder, and
comforted himself with the thought of his wise moderation in dealing with
excesses, his patient pertinacity among the whirling gusts of passion,
that enabled him to wait upon events to push his schemes, and his tender
knowledge of human nature.
But in spite of these reassuring facts Mr. Dent was anxious. What could
even the Archbishop do when his suffragans were such poor creatures; and
when Leicester, the strongest man at Court, was a violent Puritan
partisan? The Rector would have been content to bear the troubles of his
own flock and household if he had been confident of the larger cause; but
the vagaries of the Puritans threatened all with ruin. That morning only
he had received a long account from a Fellow of his own college of Corpus
Christi, Cambridge, and a man of the same views as himself, of the
violent controversy raging there at that time.
"The Professor," wrote his friend, referring to Thomas Cartwright, "is
plastering us all with his Genevan ways. We are all Papists, it seems!
He would have neither bishop nor priest nor archbishop nor dean nor
archdeacon, nor dignitaries at all, but just the plain Godly Minister, as
he names it. Or if he has the bishop and the deacon they are to be the
_Episcopos_ and the _Diaconos_ of the Scripture, and not the Papish
counterfeits! Then it seems that the minister is to be made not by God
but by man--that the people are to make him, not the bishop (as if the
sheep should make the shepherd). Then it appears 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 or vacate them; and all that
do not so, it appears, are no better than thieves or robbers.
"And so he rages on, breathing out this smoky stuff, and all the young
men do run 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 Petty Cury 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; and the young sparks straight dress like
ministers, and the ministers like young sparks. On another he likes not
Saint Peter his day, and none will go to church. He would have us all to
be little Master Calvins, if he could have his way with us. But the
Master of Trinity has sent a complaint to the Council with charges
against him, and has preached against him too. But no word hath yet come
from the Council; and we fear nought will be done; to the sore injury of
Christ His holy Church and the Protestant Religion; and the triumphing of
their pestilent heresies."
So the caustic divine wrote, and the Rector of Great Keynes was
heavy-hearted as he walked up and down and read. Everywhere it was the
same story; the extreme 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 too in meats and days as Judaic
remnants; denounced all forms of worship except those directly sanctioned
by Scripture; in short, they remained in the Church of England and drew
her pay while they scouted her orders and derided her claims. Further,
they cried out as persecuted martyrs whenever it was proposed to insist
that they should observe their obligations. But worse than all, for such
conscientious clergymen as Mr. Dent, was the fact that bishops preferred
such men to livings, and at the same time were energetic against the
Papist party. It was not that there was not an abundance of disciplinary
machinery ready at the bishop's disposal or that the Queen was opposed to
coercion--rather she was always urging them to insist upon conformity;
but it seemed rather to such sober men as the Rector that the principle
of authority had been lost with the rejection of the Papacy, and that
anarchy rather than liberty had prevailed in the National Church. In
darker moments it seemed to him and his friends as if any wild fancy was
tolerated, so long as it did not approximate too closely to the Old
Religion; and they grew sick at heart.
It was all the more difficult for the Rector, as he had so little
sympathy in the place; his wife did all she could to destroy friendly
relations between the Hall and the Rectory, and openly derided her
husband's prelatical leanings; the Maxwells themselves disregarded his
priestly claims, and the villagers thought of him as an official paid to
promulgate the new State religion. The only house where he found sympathy
and help was the Dower House; and as he paced up and down his garden now,
his little perplexed determined face grew brighter as he made up his mind
to see Mr. Norris again in the afternoon.
During his meditations he heard, and saw indistinctly, through the
shrubbery that 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 called into the house, but after a minute or two he heard
the man ride off again down the drive into the village. At dinner he
mentioned it to his wife, who answered rather shortly that it was a
message for her; and he let the matter drop for fear of giving offence;
he was terrified at the thought of provoking more quarrels than were
absolutely necessary.
Soon after dinner he put on his cap and gown, and to his wife's inquiries
told her where he was going, and that after he had seen Mr. Norris he
would step on down to Comber's, where was a sick body or two, and that
she might expect him back not earlier than five o'clock. She nodded
without speaking, and he went out. She watched him down the drive from
the dining-room window and then went back to her business with an odd
expression.
Mr. Norris, whom he found already seated at his books again after dinner,
took him out when he had heard his errand, and the two began to walk up
and down together on the raised walk that ran along under a line of pines
a little way from the house.
The Rector had seldom found his friend more sympathetic and tender; he
knew very well that their intellectual and doctrinal standpoints were
different, but he had not come for anything less than spiritual help, and
that he found. He told him all his heart, and then waited, while the
other, with his thin hands clasped behind his back, and his great grey
eyes cast up at the heavy pines and the tender sky beyond, began to
comfort the minister.
"You are troubled, my friend," he said, "and I do not wonder at it, by
the turbulence of these times. On all sides are fightings and fears. Of
course I cannot, 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 see them; but I take it, if I understand you rightly,
that it is the confusion and lack of any authority or respect for
antiquity that is troubling you more. You feel 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 the stress must be;
but, if I may say so to a minister, it is just what you regard as your
shame that I regard as your glory. It is the mark of the cross that is on
your life. When our Saviour went to his passion, he went in the same
plight as that in which you go; both Jew and Gentile were against him on
this side and that; his claims were disallowed, his royalty denied; he
was despised and rejected of men. He did not go to his passion as to a
splendid triumph, bearing his pain like some solemn and mysterious
dignity at which the world wondered and was silent; but he went battered
and spat upon, with the sweat and the blood 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 it was that that made his
passion so bitter. To go to death, however painful, with honour and
applause, or at least with the silence of respect, were easy; it is not
hard to die upon a throne; but to live on a dunghill with Job, that is
bitterness. Now again I must protest that I have no right to speak like
this to a minister, but since you have come to me I must needs say what I
think; and it is 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 the philosopher, how much more true is it of the
Christian minister whose profession 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 the
minister's wounds, and braced his will. The Rector could not help half
envying his friend, living, as it seemed, in this still retreat, apart
from wrangles and controversy, with the peaceful music and sweet
fragrance of the pines, and the Love of God about him.
When he had finished he asked the Rector to step indoors with him; and
there in his own room took down and read to him a few extracts from the
German mystics that he thought bore upon his case. Finally, to put him at
his ease again, for it seemed an odd reversal that he should be coming
for comfort to his parishioners, Mr. Norris told him about his two
children, and in his turn asked his advice.
"About Anthony," he said, "I am not at all anxious. I know that the boy
fancies himself in love; and goes sighing about when he is at home; but
he sleeps and eats heartily, for I have observed him; and I think
Mistress Corbet has a good heart and means no harm to him. But about my
daughter I am less satisfied, 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 not bleeding within? She has been taught to hold
herself in, and not to show her feelings; and that, I think, is as much a
drawback sometimes as wearing the heart upon the sleeve."
Mr. Dent suggested sending her away for a visit for a month or two. His
host mused a moment and then said that he himself had thought of that;
and now that his minister said so too, probably, under God, that was what
was needed. The fact that Hubert was expected home soon was an additional
reason; and he had friends in Northampton, he said, to whom he could send
her. "They hold strongly by the Genevan theology there," he said smiling,
"but I think that will do her no 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 and as 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 had brought them nearer together spiritually than ever
before. The minister was taken aback, and repeated a collect or two from
the Prayer-book; then they said the Lord's Prayer together, and then Mr.
Norris without any affectation engaged in a short extempore prayer,
asking for light in these dark times and peace in the storm; and begging
the blessing of God upon the village and "upon their shepherd to whom
Thou hast given to drink of the Cup of thy Passion," and upon his own
children, and lastly upon himself, "the chief of sinners and the least of
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
incident when his host said simply, remaining on his knees, with eyes
closed and his clear cut tranquil face upturned:
"I ask your blessing, sir."
The Rector's voice trembled a little as he gave it. And then with real
gratitude and a good deal of sincere emotion he shook his friend's hand,
and rustled out from the cool house into the sunlit garden, greeting
Isabel who was walking up and down outside a little pensively, and took
the field-path that led towards the hamlet where his sick folk were
expecting him.
As he walked back about five o'clock towards the village he noticed there
was thunder in the air, and was aware of a physical oppression, but in
his heart it was morning and the birds singing. The talk earlier in the
afternoon had shown him how, in the midst of the bitterness of the Cup,
to find the fragrance where the Saviour's lips had rested and that was
joy to him. And again, his true pastor's heart had been gladdened by the
way his ministrations had been received that afternoon. A sour old man
who had always scowled at him for an upstart, in his foolish old desire
to be loyal to the priest who had held the benefice before him, had
melted at last and asked his pardon and God's for having treated him so
ill; and he had prepared the old man for death with great contentment to
them both, and had left him at peace with God and man. On looking back on
it all afterwards he was convinced that God had thus strengthened 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 at him apprehensively.
"George," she said, rather sharply and nervously, "you must not be vexed
with me, but----"
"Well?" he said heavily, and the warmth died out of his heart. He knew
something terrible impended.
"I have done it for the best," she said, and obstinacy and a kind of
impatient tenderness strove in her eyes as she looked at him. "You must
show yourself a man; 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.
But you are a Gospel-minister, and must be faithful. The Justice is here.
I sent for him."
"The Justice?" he said blankly; but his heart was beating heavily in his
throat.
"Mr. Frankland from East Grinsted, with a couple of pursuivants and a
company of servants. There is a popish agent at the Hall, and they are
come to take him."
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 side door."
"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, and Sir Nicholas had not withdrawn it from the Protestant Rector.
"There is no choice," she said. "Oh! George, be a man!" Then she turned
and slipped out.
He stood perfectly still for a moment; his pulses were racing; he could
not think. He sat down and buried his face in his hands; and gradually
his brain cleared and quieted. Then he realised what it meant, and his
soul rose in blind furious resentment. This was the last straw; it was
the woman's devilish jealousy. But what could he do? The Justice was
here. Could he warn his friends? He clenched his fingers into his hair as
the situation came out clear and hard before his brain. Dear God, what
could he do?
There were footsteps in the flagged hall, and he raised his head as the
door opened 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 to his wife again and again as she took a chair in the
shadow and sat down. But the magistrate noticed nothing.
"Aha!" he said, beaming, "You have a wife, sir, that is a jewel. Solomon
never spoke a truer word; an ornament to her husband, he said, I think;
but you as a minister should know better than I, a mere layman"; and his
face creased with mirth.
What did the red-faced fool mean? thought the Rector. If only he would
not talk so loud! He must think, he must think. What could he do?
"She was very brisk, sir," the magistrate went on, sitting down, and the
Rector followed his example, sitting too with his back to the window and
his hand to his head.
Then Mr. Frankland went on with his talk; and the man sat there, still
glancing from time to time mechanically towards his wife, who was there
in the shadow with steady white face and hands in her lap, watching the
two men. The magistrate's voice seemed to the bewildered man to roll on
like a wheel over stones; interminable, grinding, stupefying. What was he
saying? What was that about his wife? She had sent to him the day before,
had she, and told him of the popish agent's coming?--Ah! A dangerous man
was he, a spreader of seditious pamphlets? At least they supposed he was
the man.--Yes, yes, he understood; these fly-by-nights were threateners
of the whole commonwealth; they must be hunted out like vermin--just so;
and he as a minister of the Gospel should be the first to assist.--Just
so, he agreed with all his heart, as a minister of the Gospel. (Yes, but,
dear Lord, what was he to do? This fat man with the face of 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
the bridle path.--Every door? Did he understand that every door of the
Hall was watched? Ah! that was prudent; there was no chance then of any
one sending a warning in? Oh, no, no, he did not dream for a moment that
there was any concealed Catholic who would be likely to do such a thing.
But he only wondered.--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 good landlord, and very popular in the village.--Ah! just
so; it had better be done quietly, 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 was his 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 the magistrate say? At
half-past eight; yes, that would be best as Mr. Frankland said, because
Sir Nicholas had ordered the horses for nine o'clock; so they would come
upon them just at the right time.--How many men, did Mr. Frankland say?
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 the hall; then if they bolted--they? Surely he had understood the
magistrate to say there 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 would have thought himself that Sir Nicholas
might have been left--ah! Well, he would say no more. He quite saw the
magistrate's point now.--No, no, he was no favourer; God forbid! his wife
would speak for him as to that; Marion would bear witness.--Well, well,
he thanked the magistrate for his compliments, and would he proceed with
the plan? By the south door, he was saying, yes, into the hall.--Yes, the
East room was Sir Nicholas' study; or of course they might be supping
upstairs. But it made no difference; no, the magistrate was right about
that. So long as they held the main staircase, and had all the other
doors watched, they were safe to have him.--No, no, the cloister wing
would not be used; they might leave that out of their calculations.
Besides, did not the magistrate 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; the church bell, was it to be? But what for?
Why did they need a signal? Ah! he understood, for the advance at
half-past eight.--Just so, he would send Thomas up to ring it. Would
Marion kindly see to that?--Yes, indeed, his wife was a woman to be proud
of; such a faithful Protestant; no patience with these seditious rogues
at all. Well, was that all? Was there anything else?--Yes, how dark it
was getting; it must be close on eight o'clock. Thomas had gone, had he?
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 no lights; because there was no need to rouse suspicion.--Oh! very
well; perhaps it would be better for Mr. Frankland to go and sit with the
men and keep them quiet. And his wife would go, too, just to make sure
they had all they wanted.--Very well, yes; he would wait here in the dark
until he was called. Not more than a quarter of an hour? Thank you,
yes.--
Then the door had closed; and the man, left alone, flung himself down in
his chair, and buried his face again in his arms.
Ah! what was to be done? Nothing, nothing, nothing. And there they were
at the Hall, his neighbours and friends. The kind old Catholic and his
ladies! How would 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. His friend 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. And Isabel; at her needlework before the fire.--How
peaceful and harmless and sweet it all is! And down there, not fifty
yards away, is the village; every light out by now; and the children and
parents, too, asleep.--Ah! what will the news be when they wake
to-morrow?--And that strange talk this afternoon, of the Saviour 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 of
Life--but not with Judas on the Tree of Death!
And the minister dropped his face lower, over the edge of his desk; and
the hot tears of misery and self-reproach and impotence began to run.
There was no help, no help anywhere. All were against him--even his wife
herself; and his Lord.
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 I love Thee."
There came a tapping on the door; and the door opened an inch.
"It is time," whispered his wife's voice.
CHAPTER VIII
THE TAKING OF MR. STEWART
They were still sitting over the supper-table at the Hall. The sun had
set about the time they had begun, and the twilight had deepened into
dark; but they had not cared to close the shutters as they were to move
so soon. The four candles shone out through the windows, and there still
hung a pale glimmer outside 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 darkness where the yew hedge stood; over that
was the starless sky. Sir Nicholas' study was bright with candlelight,
and the lace and jewels of Lady Maxwell (for her sister 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 to himself as
he looked out over this shining supper-table past the genial smiling face
of Sir Nicholas to the dark outside; and thought how in less than an hour
he would have left the comfort of this house for the grey road and its
hardships again. It was extraordinarily sweet to him (for he was a man of
taste and a natural inclination to luxury) to stay a day or two now and
again at a house like this and mix again with his own equals, instead of
with the rough company of the village inn, or the curious foreign
conspirators with their absence of educated perception and their doubtful
cleanliness. He was a man of domestic instincts and good birth and
breeding, and would have been perfectly at his ease as the master of some
household such as this; with a chapel and a library and a pleasant garden
and estate; spending his days in great leisure and good deeds. And
instead of all this, scarcely by his own choice but by what he would have
called his vocation, he was partly an exile living from hand to mouth in
lodgings and inns, and when he was in his own fatherland, a hunted
fugitive lurking about in unattractive disguises. He sighed again once or
twice. 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, and caught her sister's eyes glancing at her. There was a shade of
uneasiness in them.
"It is thundery to-night," said Sir Nicholas. Mr. Stewart did not speak.
Lady Maxwell looked up quickly at him as he sat on her right facing the
window; and saw an expression of slight disturbance cross his face. He
was staring out on to the quickly darkening terrace, past Sir Nicholas,
who with pursed lips and a little frown was stripping off his grapes from
the stalk. The look of uneasiness deepened, and the young man half rose
from his chair, and sat down again.
"What is it, Mr. Stewart?" said Lady Maxwell, and her voice had a ring of
terror 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 the
window."
There was a rush of footsteps and a jangle of voices outside in the hall;
and as the four rose up from table, looking at one another, there was a
rattle at the handle outside, the door flew open, and a ruddy
strongly-built man stood there, with a slightly apprehensive air, and
holding a loaded cane a little ostentatiously 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 he stared almost unintelligently at the magistrate. Mr. Stewart's
hand closed on the handle of a knife that lay beside his plate.
"In the Queen's name," said Mr. Frankland, and looked from the knife to
the young man's white determined face, and down again. A little sobbing
broke from Lady Maxwell.
"It is useless, sir," said the magistrate; "Sir Nicholas, persuade your
guest not to make a useless resistance; we are ten to one; the house has
been watched for hours."
Sir Nicholas took a step forward, his mouth closed and opened again. Lady
Maxwell took a swift rustling step from behind the table, and threw her
arm round the old man's neck. Still none of them spoke.
"Come in," said the magistrate, turning a little. The men outside filed
in, to the number of half a dozen, and two or three more were left in the
hall. All were 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 no
choice." He turned to the young man, who, on seeing the officers had laid
the knife down again, and now stood, with one hand on the table, rather
pale, but apparently completely self-controlled, looking a little
disdainfully at the magistrate.
Then Sir Nicholas made a great effort; but his face twitched as he spoke,
and the hand that he lifted to his wife's arm shook with nervousness, and
his voice was 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't you sit down, Mr. Frankland and take a glass of
wine. Let me make Mr. Stewart known 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
known to some of us already.--No, no, sir," he cried sharply, "the window
is guarded."
Mr. Stewart, who had looked swiftly and sideways across at the window,
faced the magistrate again.
"I do not know what you mean, sir," he said. "It was a lad who passed the
window."
There was a movement outside in the hall; and the magistrate stepped to
the door.
"Who is there?" he cried out sharply.
There was a scuffle, and a cry of a boy's voice; and a man appeared,
holding Anthony by the arm.
Mistress Margaret turned round in her seat; and said in a perfectly
natural voice, "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 affair
first," and he made a motion to hold Anthony for a moment.--"Now then, do
any of you men know this gentleman?"
A pursuivant stepped out.
"Mr. Frankland, sir; I know him under two names--Mr. Chapman and Mr.
Wode. He is a popish agent. I saw him in the company of Dr. Storey in
Antwerp, four months ago."
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
April I was in France. Kindly remember this man's words, Mr. Frankland;
they will tell 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
he turned to Sir Nicholas and Lady Maxwell, who had been watching in a
bewildered silence.
"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
guilt everywhere. I do not know yet what my crime is. But that can wait.
Sir Nicholas, we should have parted anyhow in half an hour. We shall only
say good-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. I fear, 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 to her, 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
he spoke.
"Mr. Stewart," he said, "I am sorry that any guest of mine should be
subject to these insults. However, I am glad that I shall have the
pleasure of your company after all. I suppose we ride to East Grinsted,"
he added harshly to the magistrate, who bowed to him.--"Then may I have
my servant, sir?"
"Presently," said Mr. Frankland, and then turned to Anthony, who had been
staring 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.
Norris at the Dower House."
"Ah!" said the magistrate again, judicially. "And what might you be
wanting here, Master Anthony Norris?"
Anthony explained that he often came up in the evening, and that he
wanted nothing. 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 we start," he added to the man who guarded him.
"Come this way, sir," said the officer; and Anthony presently found
himself sitting on the long oak bench that ran across the western end of
the hall, at the foot of the stairs, and just opposite the door of Sir
Nicholas' room where he had just witnessed that curious startling scene.
The man who had charge of him stood a little distance off, and did not
trouble him further, and Anthony watched in silence.
The hall was still dark, except for one candle that had been lighted by
the magistrate's party, and it looked sombre and suggestive of tragedy.
Floor walls and ceiling were all dark oak, and the corners were full of
shadows. A streak of 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 out without disturbance.
Anthony had a very fair idea of what was going forward; he knew of course
that the Catholics were always under suspicion, and now understood
plainly enough from the conversation he had heard that the reddish-haired
young man, standing so 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 into this affair; and now he sat
and wondered resentfully, with his eyes and ears wide open.
There were men at all the inner doors now; they had slipped in from the
outer entrances as soon as word had reached them that the prisoners were
secured, and only a couple were left outside to prevent the alarm being
raised in the village. These inner sentinels stood motionless at the foot
of the stairs that rose up into the unlighted lobby overhead, at the door
that led to the inner hall and the servants' quarters, and at those that
led to the cloister wing and the garden respectively.
The murmur of voices went on in the room opposite; and presently a man
slipped out and passed through the sentinels to the door leading to the
kitchens and pantry; he carried a pike in his hand, and was armed with a
steel cap and breast-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 inner hall was full of moving figures and rustlings
and whisperings, as the alarmed servants poured up from downstairs.
Then the study door opened again, and Anthony caught a glimpse of the
lighted room; 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 another behind Lady Maxwell's; then the door closed again as
Mr. Boyd with the magistrate and a constable carrying a candle came out.
"This way, sir," said the servant; and the three crossed the hall, and
passing close 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 and shutting, and footsteps passing overhead; from the
inner hall the sound of low talking, and a few sobs now and again from a
frightened maid; from Sir Nicholas' room all was quiet except once when
Mr. Stewart's laugh, high and natural, rang out. Anthony thought of that
strong brisk face he had seen in the candlelight; and wondered how he
could laugh, with death so imminent--and worse than 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's voice called out sharply and impatiently:
"Come along, come along"; and the three, all carrying bags and valises
came downstairs 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 the four still seated round the table; but Sir Nicholas' head
was bowed upon his hands.
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; the magistrate stood close beside him; then a couple of men
stepped up to the young man's side as he turned away, and the three came
out into the hall and stood waiting by the little heap of luggage. Mr.
Frankland came next, with the man-servant close beside him, and the rest
of the men behind; and the last closed the door and stood by it. There
was a dead silence; Anthony sprang to his feet in uncontrollable
excitement. What was happening? Again the door opened, 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,
towards Anthony, who was standing forward.
"Why, Master Anthony," she said, "dear lad; I did not know they had kept
you," 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 own
heart, and the breathing of Mistress Margaret; but the hall was perfectly
quiet, where the magistrate with the prisoner and his men stood in an
irregular dark 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; then the door opened wide, a flood of light poured out and Sir
Nicholas tottered into 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
lady dropped Anthony's hand and moved swiftly and unfalteringly across,
and once more the door closed behind her.
There was a sharp word of command from the magistrate, and the sentries
from every door left their posts, and joined the group which, with Sir
Nicholas and his 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
we are 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
of voices and the hall was filled with the watching servants.
As the chorus of exclamations and inquiries broke out, Anthony ran
straight through the crowd to the garden door, and on to the terrace.
They had gone to the left, he supposed, but he hesitated a moment to
listen; then he heard the stamp of horses' feet and the jingle of
saddlery, and saw the glare of torches through the yew hedge; and he
turned quickly and ran along the terrace, past the flood of light that
poured out from the supper room, and down the path that led to the
side-door opposite the Rectory. It was very dark, and he stumbled once or
twice; then he came to the two or three stairs that led down to the door
in the wall, and turned off among the bushes, creeping on hands and feet
till he reached the wall, low on this side, but deep on the other; and
looked over.
The pursuivants with their men had formed a circle round the two
prisoners, who were already mounted and who sat looking about them as the
luggage was being strapped to their saddles before and behind; the
bridles were lifted forward over the horses' heads, and a couple of the
guard held each rein. The groom who had brought round the two horses for
Mr. Stewart and himself stood white-faced and staring, with his back to
the Rectory wall. The magistrate was just mounting 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 were burning by now, and
every detail was distinct to Anthony, as he crouched among the 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 his
breast, and he did not stir or lift it as his horse stamped at the
strapping on of the valise Mr. Boyd had packed for him. Mr. Stewart sat
erect and motionless, and his face as Anthony saw it was confident and
fearless.
Then suddenly the door in the Rectory wall opposite was flung open, and a
figure in flying black skirts, but hatless, rushed out and through the
guard straight up to the old man's knee. There was a shout from the men
and a movement to pull him off, but the magistrate who was on his horse
and just outside the circle spoke sharply, and the men fell back.
"Oh, Sir Nicholas, Sir Nicholas," sobbed the minister, his face half
buried in the saddle. Anthony saw his shoulders shaking, and his hands
clutching at the old man's knee. "Forgive me, forgive me."
There was no answer from Sir Nicholas; he still sat unmoved, his chin on
his breast, 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
crying out to Sir Nicholas, outside the group; and he stood there dazed
and groping with his hands. There was a word of command; and the guard
moved off at a sharp walk, with the horses in the centre, and as they
turned, the lad saw in the torchlight the old man's face drawn and
wrinkled with sorrow, and great tears running down it.
The Rector leaned against his own wall, with his hands over his face; and
Anthony looked at him with growing suspicion and terror as the flare of
the torches on the trees faded, and the noise of the troop died away
round the corner.
CHAPTER IX
VILLAGE JUSTICE
The village had never known such an awakening as on the morning that
followed Sir Nicholas' arrest. Before seven o'clock every house knew it,
and children ran half-dressed to the outlying hamlets to tell the story.
Very little work was done that day, for the estate was disorganised; and
the men had little heart for work; and there were groups all day on the
green, which formed and re-formed and drifted here and there and
discussed and sifted the evidence. It was soon known that the Rectory
household had had a foremost hand in the affair. The groom, who had been
present at the actual departure of the prisoners had told the story of
the black figure that ran out of the door, and of what was cried at the
old man's knee; and how he had not moved nor spoken in answer; and
Thomas, the Rectory boy, was stopped as he went across the green in the
evening and threatened and encouraged until he told of the stroke on the
church-bell, and the Rectory key, and the little company that had sat all
the afternoon in the kitchen over their ale. He told too how a couple of
hours ago he had been sent across with a note to Lady Maxwell, and that
it had been returned immediately unopened.
So as night fell, indignation had begun to smoulder fiercely against the
minister, 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 two from 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 visitor
admitted. All day long the gate-house was kept closed, and the same
message was given to the few horsemen and carriages that came to inquire
after the truth of the report from the Catholic houses round, to the
effect that it was true that Sir Nicholas and a friend had been taken off
to London by the Justice from East Grinsted; and that Lady Maxwell begged
the prayers of her friends for her husband's safe return.
Anthony had ridden off early with a servant, at his father's wish, to
follow Sir Nicholas and learn any news of him that was possible, to do
him any service he 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 Nicholas was at the Marshalsea, that he was well and
happy, that he sent his wife his dear love, and that she should have a
letter from him before nightfall. He rode straight to the Hall with the
news, full of chastened delight at his official importance, just pausing
to tell a group that was gathered on the green that all was well so far,
and was shown up to Lady Maxwell's own parlour, where he found her, very
quiet and self-controlled, and extremely grateful for his kindness in
riding up to London and back on her account. Anthony explained too that
he had been able to get Sir Nicholas one or two comforts that the prison
did not provide, a pillow and an extra coverlet and some fruit; and he
left her full of gratitude.
His father had been up to see the ladies two or three times, and in spite
of the difference in religion had prayed with them, and talked a little;
and Lady Maxwell 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
anger against 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 who sent for the magistrate and gave him the key and arranged
it all; he was only brought 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 at least he consented to help them against his friend." And her old
eyes filled with tears.
"I fear that is so," said the other sadly.
"But speak to the people," she said, "I think they love my husband, and
would do nothing to grieve us; tell them that nothing would pain either
of us more than that any should suffer for this. Tell them they must do
nothing, but be patient and pray."
There was a group still on the green near the pond as Isabel came up to
supper that evening about six o'clock. Her father, who had given Lady
Maxwell's message to the people an hour or two before, had asked her to
go that way and send down a message to him immediately if there seemed to
be any disturbance or threatening of it; but the men were very quiet. Mr.
Musgrave was there, she saw, 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 her respectfully as usual; and she saw
no signs of any dangerous element. There were one or two older women with
the men, and others were standing at their open doors on all sides as she
went up. The Rectory gate was locked, and no one was to be seen within.
Supper was laid in Sir Nicholas' room, as it generally was, and as it had
been two nights ago; and it was very strange to Isabel to know that it
was here that the arrest had taken place; the floor, too, she noticed as
she came in, all about the threshold was scratched and dented by rough
boots.
Lady Maxwell was very silent and distracted during supper; she made
efforts to talk again and again, and her sister did her best to interest
her and keep her talking; but she always relapsed after a minute or two
into silence again, with long glances round the room, at the Vernacle
over the fireplace, the prie-dieu with the shield of the Five Wounds
above it, and all the things that spoke so keenly of her husband.
What a strange room it was, too, thought Isabel, with its odd mingling of
the two worlds, with the tapestry of the hawking scene and the stiff
herons and ladies on horseback on one side, and the little shelf of
devotional books on the other; and yet how characteristic of its owner
who fingered his cross-bow or the reins of his horse all day, and his
beads in the evening; and how strange that an old man like Sir Nicholas,
who knew the world, and had as much sense apparently as any one else,
should be willing to sacrifice home and property and even life itself,
for these so plainly empty superstitious things that could not please a
God that was Spirit and Truth! So Isabel thought to herself, with no
bitterness or contempt, but just a simple wonder and amazement, as she
looked at the painted tokens and trinkets.
It was still daylight when they went upstairs to Lady Maxwell's room
about seven, but the clear southern sky over the yew hedges and the tall
elms where the 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 out on to the garden with its tiled paths and its
cool green squares of lawn, and the 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 she knew, and parlours and
cloisters below; the pleasant tinkle of the fountain in the court came
faintly to her ears across the caw of the rooks about the elms and the
low sounds from the stables and the kitchen behind the house. Otherwise
the 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, and Mistress 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
musings of the old monk John Audeley in his sickness, and as the tender
lines stepped on, 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 and sorrowful souls," and a meditation of his on the Passion, and
the tranquil thoughts and tender fragrant sorrows soothed the torn
throbbing soul; and Isabel saw the old wrinkled hand rise to her
forehead, and the embroidery, with the needle still in it slipped to the
ground; as the holy Name "like ointment poured forth" gradually brought
its endless miracle and made all sweet and healthful again.
Outside the daylight was fading; the luminous vault overhead was
deepening to a glowing blue as the sunset contracted on the western
horizon to a few vivid streaks of glory; the room was growing darker
every moment; and Mistress Margaret's voice began to stumble over words.
The great gilt harp in the corner only gleamed here and there now in
single lines of clear gold where the dying daylight fell on the strings.
The room was full of shadows and the image of the Holy Mother and Child
had darkened into obscurity in their niche. The world was silent now too;
the rooks were gone home and the stir of the household below had ceased;
and in a moment more Mistress Margaret's voice had ceased too, as she
laid the book down.
Then, as if the world outside had waited for silence before speaking,
there came 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 her father had feared? Had she been remiss? Lady Maxwell too
sprang up and faced the window with wide large eyes.
"The letter!" she said; and took a quick step towards the door; but
Mistress Margaret was with her instantly, with her arm about her.
"Sit down, Mary," she said, "they will bring it at once"; and her sister
obeyed; and she sat waiting and looking towards the door, clasping and
unclasping her hands as they lay on her lap; and Mistress Margaret stood
by her, waiting and watching too. Isabel still stood by the window
listening. Had she been mistaken then? The roar had sunk into silence for
a moment; and there came back the quick beat of a horse's hoofs outside
on the short drive between the 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 and half rose in her seat at the sound of
that shod messenger that bore them, again the roar swelled up louder than
ever; and Isabel sprang down from the low step of 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 with a letter.
"My lady," he said panting, and giving it to her, "they are attacking the
Rectory."
Lady Maxwell, who was half-way to the window now, for light to read her
husband's letter, paused at that.
"The Rectory?" she said. "Why--Margaret----" then she stopped, and Isabel
close beside her, saw her turn resolutely from the great sealed letter in
her hand to the door, and back again.
"Jervis told us, my lady; none saw him as he rode through--they were
breaking down the gate."
Then Lady Maxwell, with a quick movement, lifted the letter to her lips
and kissed 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 the green. There was laughter and hooting mixed with that growl
of anger; but even the laughter was fierce. The gatehouse stood up black
against the glare of torches, and the towers threw great swinging shadows
on the ground and the steps of the Hall.
Isabel followed the two grey glimmering figures, and was astonished at
the speed with which she had to go. The hoofs of the courier's horse rang
on the cobbles of the stable-yard as they came down towards the
gatehouse, and the two wings of the door were wide-open through which he
had passed just now; but the porter was gone.
Ah! there was the crowd; but not at the Rectory. On the right the Rectory
gate lay wide open, and a flood of light poured out from the house-door
at the end of the drive. Before them lay the dark turf, swarming with
black figures towards the lower end; and a ceaseless roar came from them.
There were half a dozen torches down there, tossing to and fro; Isabel
saw that the crowd was still moving down towards the stocks and the pond.
Now the two ladies in front of her were just coming up with the skirts of
the crowd; and there was an exclamation or two of astonishment as the
women and children saw who it was that was coming. Then there came the
furious scream of a man, and the crowd parted, as three men came reeling
out together, two of them trying with all their power to restrain a
fighting, kicking, plunging man in long black skirts, who tore and beat
with his hands. The three ladies stopped for a moment, close together;
and simultaneously the struggling man broke 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 honor that sent her crouching and clinging
close to Mistress Margaret, that it was the Rector. But the two men were
after him and caught him by the shoulders as he disappeared; and as they
turned they faced Lady Maxwell.
"My lady, my lady," stammered one, "we mean him no harm. We----" But his
voice stopped, as there came a sudden silence, rent by a high terrible
shriek and a splash; followed in a moment by a yell of laughter and
shouting; and Lady Maxwell threw herself into the crowd in front.
There were a few moments of jostling in the dark, with the reek and press
of the 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's feet. There was silence enough now, and the ring of
faces opposite stared astonished and open-mouthed at the tall old lady
with her grey veiled head upraised, as she stood there in the torchlight
and rated them in her fearless indignant voice.
"I am ashamed, ashamed!" cried Lady Maxwell. "I thought you were men. I
thought you loved my husband; and--and me." Her voice broke, and then
once more she cried again. "I am ashamed, ashamed of my village."
And then she stooped to that heaving figure that had crawled up, and laid
hold tenderly 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
broken into groups, and the people were awed and silent as they watched
the four women go 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; and a couple of the torchbearers escorted them. In
front went the three, on one side Lady Maxwell, her lace and silk
splashed and spattered with mud, and her white hands black with it, and
on the other the old nun, each with an arm thrown round the woman in the
centre who staggered and sobbed and leaned against them as she went, with
her long hair and her draggled clothes streaming with liquid mud every
step she took. Once they stopped, at a group of three men. The Rector was
sitting up, in his torn dusty cassock, and Isabel saw that one of his
buckled shoes was gone, as he sat on the grass with his feet before him,
but quiet now, with his hands before him, and a dazed stupid look in his
little black eves that blinked at the light of the torch that was held
over him; he said nothing as he looked at his wife between the two
ladies, but his lips moved, and his eyes wandered for a moment to Lady
Maxwell's face, and then back to his wife.
"Take him home presently," she said to the men who were with him--and
then passed on again.
As they got through the gatehouse, Isabel stepped forward to Mistress
Margaret's side.
"Shall I come?" she whispered; and the nun shook her head; so she with
her father and brother stood there to watch, with the crowd silent and
ashamed behind. The two torchbearers went on and stood by the steps as
the three ladies ascended, leaving black footmarks as they went. The door
was open and faces of servants peeped out, and hands were thrust out to
take the burden from their mistress, but she shook her head, and the
three came in together, and the door closed.
As the Norrises went back silently, the Rector passed them, with a little
group accompanying him too; he, too, could hardly walk alone, so
exhausted was he with his furious struggles to rescue his wife.
"Take your sister home," said Mr. Norris to Anthony; and they saw him
slip off and pass his arm through the Rector's, and bend down his
handsome kindly face to 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
and Isabel 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."
CHAPTER X
A CONFESSOR
Sir Nicholas and the party were lodged at East Grinsted the night of
their arrest, 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 was allowed no conversation with Mr. Stewart or his own
servant except in the presence of the magistrate or one of the
pursuivants; and Mr. Stewart, since he was personally unknown to the
magistrate, and since the charge against him was graver, was not on any
account allowed to be alone for a moment, even in the room in which he
slept. The following day they all rode on to London, and the two
prisoners were lodged in the Marshalsea. This had been for a long while
the place where Bishop Bonner was confined; and where Catholic prisoners
were often sent immediately after their arrest; and Sir Nicholas at any
rate found to his joy that he had several old friends among the
prisoners. He was confined in a separate room; but by the kindness of his
gaoler whom he bribed profusely as the custom was, through his servant,
he had many opportunities of meeting the others; 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
the next day which was Saturday, and it was taken down immediately by the
courier who had heard the news and had called at the prison. In fact, he
was allowed a good 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 called himself, was in a much harder case.
The saddle-bags had been opened on his arrival, and incriminating
documents found. Besides the "popish trinkets" they were found to contain
a number of "seditious pamphlets," printed abroad for distribution in
England; for at this time the College at Douai, under its founder Dr.
William Allen, late Principal of St. Mary's Hall, Oxford, was active in
the production of literature; these were chiefly commentaries on the
Bull; as well as exhortations to the Catholics to stand firm and to
persevere in recusancy, and to the schismatic Catholics, as they were
called, to give over attending the services in the parish churches. There
were letters also from Dr. Storey himself, whom the authorities already
had in person under lock and 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
was something of a labour to him; it was exceedingly doubtful to his mind
whether his letters were not opened and read before being handed to the
courier, and as his seal was taken from him his wife could not tell
either. However they seemed to arrive regularly; plainly therefore the
authorities were either satisfied with their contents or else did not
think them worth opening or suppressing. He was quite peremptory that his
wife should not come up to London; it would only increase 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, of
course, that she ought to be there for the entertaining and helping of
other agents or priests who might be in need of shelter.
The old man got into good spirits again very soon. It pleased him to
think that God had honoured him by imprisonment; and he said as much once
or twice in his letters to his wife. He was also pleased with a sense of
the part he was playing in the _role_ of a conspirator; and he underlined
and put signs and exclamation marks all over his letters of which he
thought his wife would understand the significance, but no one else;
whereas in reality the old lady was sorely puzzled by them, and the
authorities who opened the letters generally read them of course like a
printed book.
One morning about ten days after his arrival the Governor of the prison
looked in with the gaoler, and announced to Sir Nicholas, after greeting
him, that he was to appear before the Council that very day. This, of
course, was what Sir Nicholas 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 there than we have been able to make you."
The knight thanked the Governor again, and said good-day to him with
great warmth; for they had been on the best of terms with one another
during his short detention at the Marshalsea.
The following day Sir Nicholas wrote a long letter to his wife describing
his examination.
"We are in _royal lodgings_ here at last, sweetheart; Mr. Boyd brought my
luggage over yesterday; and I am settled _for the present_ in a room of
my own in the White Tower; with a prospect over the Court. I was had
before my 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 from me. There was my namesake, Sir Nicholas Bacon, my
lords Leicester and Pembroke, and Mr. Secretary Cecil; Sir James Crofts,
the Controller of the Household, and one or two more; but these were the
principal. I was set before the table on a chair 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 at such grave
times. They questioned me much as to my religion. Was I a papist? If they
meant by that a _Catholic_, that I was, and thanked God for it every
day--(those nicknames like me not). Was I then a recusant? If by that
they meant, Did I go to their Genevan Hotch-Potch? That I did not nor
never would. I thought to have said a word here about St. Cyprian his
work _De Unitate Ecclesiae_, as F----r X. told me, but they would not let
me speak. Did I know Mr. Chapman? If by that they meant Mr. Stewart, that
I did, and for a courteous God-fearing gentleman too. Was he a Papist, or
a Catholic if I would have it so? That I would not tell them; let them
find that out with their pursuivants and 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 all laughed at once--I
know not why. Then they grew grave; and Mr. Secretary began to ask me
questions, sharp and hard; but I would not be put upon, and answered him
again as he asked. Did I know ought of Dr. Storey? Nothing, said I, save
that he is a good Catholic, and that they had taken him. _He is a
seditious rogue_, said my Lord Pembroke. _That he is not_, said I. Then
they asked me what I thought of the Pope and his Bull, and whether he can
depose princes. I said I thought him to be the Vicar of Christ; and as to
his power to depose princes, that I supposed he could do, if he said so.
Then two or three cried out on me that I had not answered honestly; and
at that I got wrath; and then 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 armament against Elizabeth to depose her, I
would fight for him or her grace. For neither, said I: I am too old. _For
which then would you pray?_ said they. _For the Queen's Grace_, said I,
_for that she was my sovereign_. This seemed to content them; and they
talked a little among themselves. 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. Did I 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 his pamphlets, said I, I know nothing; I saw
nothing in his bags save beads and a few holy books and such things. (You
see, sweetheart, I did him no injury by saying so, because I knew that
they had his bags themselves.) And I said I had received him because he
was recommended to me by some good friends of mine abroad, 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
I was sent out to the antechamber to refresh myself; and Mr. Secretary
sent a man with me to see that I had all I needed; and we talked together
a little, and he said the Council were in good humour at the taking of
Dr. Storey; and he had never 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 already to bring my things. And so after that I
went by water to the Tower, and here I am, sweetheart, well and cheerful,
praise God....
"My dearest, I send you my heart's best love. God have you in his holy
keeping."
The Council treated the old knight very tenderly. They were shrewd enough
to see his character very plainly; and that he was a simple man who knew
nothing of sedition, but only had harboured agents thinking them to be as
guileless as himself. As a matter of fact, Mr. Stewart was an agent of
Dr. Storey's; and was therefore implicated in a number of very grave
charges. This of course was a very serious matter; but both in the
examination of the Council, and in papers in Mr. Stewart's bags, nothing
could be found to implicate Sir Nicholas in any political intrigue at
all. The authorities were unwilling too to put such a man to the torture.
There was always a possibility of public resentment against the torture
of a man for his religion alone; and they were desirous not to arouse
this, since they had many prisoners who would be more productive subjects
of the rack than a plainly simple and loyal old man whose only crime was
his religion. They determined, however, to make an attempt to get a
little more out of Sir Nicholas by a device which would excite no
resentment if it ever transpired, 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
awakened suddenly towards two o'clock in the morning by the door of my
room opening and a man coming in. It was somewhat dark, and I could not
see the man plainly, but I could see that he limped and walked with a
stick, and he breathed hard as he entered. I sat up and demanded of him
who he was and what he wanted; and telling 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 himself sat down beside me. He said
that by the _kindness_ of a gaoler he had been allowed to come; and that
he must not stay with me long; that he had heard of me from his good
friend Mr. Stewart. I asked him how he did, for I heard that he had been
racked; and he said yes, it was true; but that by the mercy of God and
the prayers of the saints he had held his peace and they knew nothing
from him. Then he asked me a great number of questions about the _men I
had entertained_, and where they were now; and he knew many of their
names. Some of them were friends of his own, he said; especially the
priests. We talked a good while, till the morning light began; and then
he said he must be gone or the head gaoler would know of his visit, and
so he went. I wish I could have seen his face, sweetheart, for I think
him a great servant of God; but it was still too dark when he went, and
we dared not have a light for fear it should be seen."
This was as a matter of fact a ruse of the authorities. It was not Dr.
Storey at all who was admitted to Sir Nicholas' prison, but Parker, who
had betrayed him at Antwerp. It was so successful, for Sir Nicholas told
him all that he knew (which was really nothing at all) that it was
repeated a few months later with richer results; when the conspirator
Baily, hysterical and almost beside himself with the pain of the rack,
under similar circumstances gave up a cypher which was necessary to the
Council in dealing with the correspondence of Mary Stuart. However, Sir
Nicholas never knew the deception, and to the end of his days was proud
that he had actually met the famous Dr. Storey, when they were both
imprisoned in the Tower together, and told his friends of it with
reverent pride when the doctor was hanged a year later.
Hubert, who had been sent for to take charge of the estate, had come to
London soon after his father's arrival at the Tower; and was allowed an
interview with him in the presence of the Lieutenant. Hubert was greatly
affected; though he could not look upon the imprisonment with the same
solemn exultation as that which his father had; but it made a real
impression upon him to find that he took so patiently this separation
from home and family for the sake of religion. Hubert received
instructions from Sir Nicholas as to the management of the estate, for it
was becoming plain that his father would have to remain in the Tower for
the present; not any longer on a really grave charge, but chiefly because
he was an obstinate recusant and would promise nothing. The law and its
administration at this time were very far apart; the authorities were not
very anxious to search out and punish those who were merely recusants or
refused to take the oath of supremacy; and so Hubert and Mr. Boyd and
other Catholics were able to come and go under the very nose of justice
without any real risk to themselves; but it was another matter to let a
sturdy recusant go from prison who stoutly refused to give any sort of
promise or understanding as to future behaviour.
Sir Nicholas was had down more than once to further examination before
the Lords Commissioners in the Lieutenant's house; but it was a very tame
and even an amusing affair for all save Sir Nicholas. It was so easy to
provoke him; he was so simple and passionate that they could get almost
anything they wanted out of him by a little adroit baiting; and more than
once his examination formed a welcome and humorous entr'acte between two
real tragedies. Sir Nicholas, of course, never suspected for a moment
that he was affording any amusement to any one. He thought their weary
laughter to be sardonic and ironical, and he looked upon himself as a
very desperate fellow indeed; and wrote glowing accounts of it all to his
wife, full of apostrophic praises to God and the saints, in a hand that
shook with excitement and awe at the thought of the important scenes in
which he played so prominent a part.
But there was no atmosphere of humour about Mr. Stewart. He had
disappeared from Sir Nicholas' sight on their arrival at the Marshalsea,
and they had not set eyes on one another since; nor could all the
knight's persuasion and offer of bribes make his gaoler consent to take
any message or scrap of paper between them. He would not even answer more
than the simplest inquiries about him,--that he was alive and in the
Tower, and so forth; and Sir Nicholas prayed often and earnestly for that
deliberate and vivacious young man who had so charmed and interested them
all down at Great Keynes, and who had been so mysteriously engulfed by
the sombre majesty of the law.
"I fear," he wrote to Lady Maxwell, "I fear that _our friend_ must be
sick or dying. But I can hear no news of him; when I am allowed sometimes
to walk 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.
My dearest, do not forget him in your prayers nor your old loving husband
either."
One evening late in October Mr. Jakes did not come as usual to bring Sir
Nicholas 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 food which she set down at the door while she turned the key
behind her. Sir Nicholas rallied her on having turned gaoler; but she
turned on him a face with red eyes and lined with weeping.
"O Sir Nicholas," she said, for these two were good friends, "what a
wicked place this is! God forgive me for saying so; but they've had that
young man down there since two o'clock; and Jakes is with them to help;
and he told me to come 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
went out forgetting to lock the door behind her in her grief. Sir
Nicholas sat still a moment, sick and shaken; he knew what it meant; but
it had never come so close to him before. He got up presently and went to
the door to listen for he knew not what. But there was no sound but the
moan of the wind up the draughty staircase, and the sound of a prisoner
singing somewhere above him a snatch of a song. He looked out presently,
but there was nothing but the dark well of the staircase disappearing
round to the left, and the glimmer of an oil lamp somewhere from the
depths below him, with wavering shadows as the light was blown about by
the gusts that came up from outside. There was nothing to be done of
course; he closed the door, went back and prayed with all his might for
the 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
said nothing of his dreadful employment or of Mr. Stewart; and Sir
Nicholas did not like to ask for fear of getting Mrs. Jakes into trouble.
The gaoler took away the supper things, wished him good-night, went out
and locked the door, apparently without noticing it had been left undone
before. Possibly his mind was too much occupied with what he had been
seeing and doing. And the faithful account 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
great affair both to the household and to the village. Sir Nicholas sent
his letter generally by the Saturday courier, and the other brought a
kind of bulletin from Mr. Boyd, with sometimes a message or two from his
master. These letters were taken by the ladies first to the study, as if
to an oratory, and Lady Maxwell would read them slowly over to her
sister. And in the evening, when Isabel generally came up for an hour or
two, the girl would be asked to read them slowly all over again to the
two ladies who sat over their embroidery on either side of her, and who
interrupted for the sheer joy of prolonging it. And they would discuss
together the exact significance of all his marks of emphasis and irony;
and the girl would have all she could do sometimes not to feel a disloyal
amusement at the transparency of the devices and the simplicity of the
loving hearts that marvelled at the writer's depth and ingenuity. But she
was none the less deeply impressed by his courageous cheerfulness, and by
the power of a religion that in spite of its obvious weaknesses and
improbabilities yet inspired an old man like Sir Nicholas with so much
fortitude.
At first, too, a kind of bulletin was always issued on the Sunday and
Thursday mornings, and nailed upon the outside of the gatehouse, so that
any who pleased could come there and get first-hand information; and an
interpreter stood there sometimes, one of the educated younger sons of
Mr. Piers, and read out to the groups 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
high complacent voice to the awed listeners, "and has been sent to the
Tower of London." This caused consternation in the village, as it was
supposed by the country-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
his own. Mr. Jakes, his gaoler, seems an honest fellow. Sir Nicholas hath
a little mattress from a friend that Mr. Boyd fetched for him. He has
dinner at eleven and 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
indignation in the village against the part that the Rectory had played
in the matter, made it impossible for the Dents to remain there. That the
minister's wife should have been publicly ducked, and that not by a few
blackguards but by the solid fathers and sons with the applause of the
wives and daughters, made her husband's position intolerable, and further
evidence was forthcoming in the behaviour of the people towards the
Rector himself; some boys had guffawed during his sermon on the following
Sunday, when he had ventured on a word or two of penitence as to his
share in the matter, and he was shouted after on his way home.
Mrs. Dent seemed strangely changed and broken during her stay at the
Hall. She had received a terrible shock, and it was not safe to move her
back to her own house. For the first two or three nights, she would start
from sleep again and again screaming for help and mercy and nothing would
quiet her till she was wide 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 in her hand. Isabel, who came up to see
her two or three times, was both startled and affected by the change in
her; and by the extraordinary mood of humility which seemed to have taken
possession of the hard self-righteous Puritan.
"I begged pardon," she whispered to the girl one evening, sitting up in
bed and 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? Do you think she can? It was I, you know, who wrought all the
mischief, as I have wrought all the mischief in the village all these
years. She said she did, and she kissed me, and said that our Saviour had
forgiven her much more. But--but do you think she has forgiven me?" And
then again, another night, a day or two before they left the place, she
spoke to Isabel again.
"Look after the poor bodies," she said, "teach them a little charity; I
have taught them nought but bitterness and malice, so they have but given
me my own back again. I have reaped what I have sown."
So the Dents slipped off early one morning before the folk were up; and
by the following Sunday, young Mr. Bodder, of whom the Bishop entertained
a high opinion, occupied the little desk outside the chancel arch; and
Great Keynes once more had to thank God and the diocesan that it
possessed a proper minister of its own, and not a mere unordained reader,
which was all that many parishes could obtain.
Towards the end of September further hints began to arrive, very much
underlined, 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 Isabel explained
their lord's artfulness.) "My dearest, I fear the worst for him. I do not
mean apostacy, thank God. But I fear that these _wolves_ have torn him
sadly, in their _dens_." Then followed the story of Mrs. Jakes, with all
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 in the parlour upstairs, and thought of the bright-eyed, red-haired
man with his steady 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 may
not _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
folks below my window to-day, in the Inner Ward, where the road runs up
below the Bloody Tower. It was about nine of the clock. And there was a
horse there whose head I could see; and presently from the Beauchamp
Tower came, as I thought, an old man between two warders; and then I
could not very well see; the men were in my way; but soon the horse went
off, and the men after him; and I could hear the 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 our friend--(think of
it, my dearest--him whom I thought an old man!)--that had been taken off
to Tyburn. And now I need say no more, but bid you pray for his soul."
Isabel could hardly finish reading it; for she heard a quick sobbing
breath behind her, and felt a wrinkled old hand caressing her hair and
cheek as her voice faltered.
Meanwhile Hubert was in town. Sir Nicholas had at first intended him to
go down at once and take charge of the estate; but Piers was very
competent, and so his father consented that he should remain in London
until the beginning of October; and this too better suited Mr. Norris'
plans who wished to send Isabel off about the same time to Northampton.
When Hubert at last did arrive, he soon showed himself extremely capable
and apt 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 but praise for his insight and industry.
There was in Hubert, too, as there so often is in country-boys who love
and understand the life of the woods and fields, a balancing quality of a
deep vein of sentiment; and this was now consecrated to Isabel Norris. He
had pleasant dreams as he rode home in the autumn evening, under the
sweet keen sky where the harvest moon rose large and yellow over the
hills to his left and shed a strange 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 dying leaves, with perhaps a touch
of frost in it, and the cottages one by one opened red glowing eyes in
the dusk, that the boy began to dream of a home of his own and 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 himself
little meetings and partings; look at the roofs of the Dower House
against the primrose sky as he rode up the fields homewards; identify her
window, dark now as she was away; and long for Christmas when she would
be back again. The only shadow 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 about James very often. When he came back
would he live at home? Would it all be James' at his father's death,
these woods and fields and farms and stately house? Would it ever come to
him? And, meanwhile where should he and Isabel live, when the religious
difficulty had been surmounted, as he had no doubt that it would be
sooner or later?
When he thought of his father now, it was with a continually increasing
respect. He had been inclined to despise him sometimes before, as one of
a simple and uneventful life; but now the red shadow of the Law conferred
dignity. To have been imprisoned in the Tower was a patent of nobility,
adding distinction and gravity to the commonplace. Something of the glory
even rested on Hubert himself as he rode and hawked with other Catholic
boys, whose fathers maybe were equally zealous for the Faith, but less
distinguished by suffering for it.
Before Anthony went back to Cambridge, he and Hubert went out nearly
every day together with or without their hawks. Anthony was about three
years the younger, and Hubert's additional responsibility for the estate
made the younger boy 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 indulging his taste for it. There was no heronry at
hand; besides, it was not the breeding time which is the proper season
for this particular sport; so they did not trouble to ride out to one;
but the partridges and hares and rabbits that abounded in the Maxwell
estate gave them plenty of quarreys. They preferred to go out generally
without the falconer, a Dutchman, who had been taken into the service of
Sir Nicholas thirty years before when things had been more prosperous; 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 the excitement
of the sport by making it a competition between their birds; and flying
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
more proud of her as he had "made" her himself, as an "eyess" or young
falcon captured as a nestling. But, on the other hand, Hubert's goshawk
Margaret, a fiery little creature, named inappropriately enough after his
tranquil aunt, as a 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 and
conversation; when he had done exceptionally well, when Eliza had
surpassed herself, and even Isabel had acquitted herself with credit. It
was one of those glorious days of wind and sun that occasionally fall in
early October, with a pale turquoise sky overhead, and air that seems to
sparkle and intoxicate like wine. They went out together after dinner
about noon; their ponies and spaniels danced with the joy of life; Lady
Maxwell cried to them from the north terrace to be careful, and pointed
out to Mr. Norris who had dined with them what a graceful seat Hubert
had; and then added politely, but as an obvious afterthought, that
Anthony seemed to manage his pony with great address. The boys turned off
through the village, and soon got on to high ground to the west of the
village and all among the stubble and mustard, with tracts of rich sunlit
country, of meadows and russet woodland below them on every side. Then
the sport began. It seemed as if Eliza could not make a mistake. There
rose a solitary partridge forty yards away with a whirl of wings; (the
coveys were being well broken up by now) Anthony unhooded his bird and
"cast off," with the falconer's cry "Hoo-ha, ha, ha, ha," and up soared
Eliza with the tinkle of bells, on great strokes of those mighty wings,
up, up, behind the partridge that fled low down the wind for his life.
The two ponies were put to the gallop as the peregrine began to "stoop";
and then down like a plummet she fell with closed wings, "raked" the
quarry with her talons as she passed; recovered herself, and as Anthony
came up holding out the _tabur-stycke_, returned to him and was hooded
and leashed again; and sat there on his gloved wrist with wet claws, just
shivering slightly from her nerves, like the aristocrat she was; 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
did not strike the quarry till the second attempt, thus scoring one to
Anthony's account. Then the peregrines were put back on the cadge as the
boys got near to a wide meadow in a hollow where the rabbits used to
feed; and the goshawks Margaret and Isabel were taken, each in turn
sitting unhooded on her master's wrist, while they all watched the long
thin grass for the quick movement that marked the passage of a
rabbit;--and then in a moment the bird was cast off. The goshawk would
rise just high enough to see the quarry in the grass, then fly straight
with arched wings and pounces stretched out as she came over the quarry;
then striking him between the shoulders would close with him; and her
master 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,
whooping the death of the quarry, watching with all the sportsman's
keenness the soaring and stooping of the peregrines, the raking off of
the goshawks; listening to the thrilling tinkle of the bells, and taking
back their birds to sit triumphant and complacent on their master's
wrists, when the quarry had been fairly struck, and furious and sullen
when it had eluded them two or three times till their breath left them in
the dizzy rushes, and they "canceliered" or even returned disheartened
and would fly no more till they had forgotten--till at last the shadows
grew long, and the game more wary, and the hawks and ponies tired; and
the boys put up the birds on the cadge, and leashed them to it securely;
and jogged slowly homewards together up the valley road that led to the
village, talking in technical terms of how the merlin's feather must be
"imped" to-morrow; and of the relative merits of the "varvels" or little
silver rings at the end of the jesses through which the leash ran, and
the Dutch swivel that Squire Blackett always used.
As they got nearer home and the red roofs of the Dower House began to
glow in the ruddy sunlight above the meadows, Hubert began to shift the
conversation round to Isabel, and inquire when she was coming home.
Anthony was rather bored at this turn of the talk; but thought she would
be back by Christmas at the latest; and said that she was at
Northampton--and had Hubert ever seen such courage as Eliza's? But Hubert
would not be put off; but led the talk back again to the girl; and at
last told Anthony under promise of secrecy that he was fond of Isabel,
and wished to make her his wife;--and oh! did Anthony think she cared
really for him. Anthony stared and wondered and had no opinion at all on
the subject; but presently fell in love with the idea that Hubert should
be his brother-in-law and go hawking with him every day; and he added a
private romance 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, Sir Nicholas, Mr. James, Lady Maxwell, and Mistress Torridon
had all taken up submissive and complacent attitudes in the middle
distance.
He was so pensive that evening that his father asked him at supper
whether he had not had a good day; which diverted his thoughts from
Mistress Corbet, and led him away from sentiment on a stream of his own
talk with long backwaters of description of this and that stoop, and of
exactly the points in which he thought 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 him to read, with messages to himself in it about the estate, which
brought him down again from the treading of rosy cloud-castles with a
phantom Isabel whither his hawks and the shouting wind and the happy day
had wafted him, down to questions of barns and farm-servants and the
sober realities of harvest.
CHAPTER XI
MASTER CALVIN
Isabel reached Northampton a day or two before Hubert came back to Great
Keynes. She travelled down with two combined parties going to Leicester
and Nottingham, sleeping at Leighton Buzzard on the way; and on the
evening of the second day reached the house of her father's friend Dr.
Carrington, that stood in the Market Square.
Her father's intention in sending her to this particular town and
household was to show her how Puritanism, when carried to its extreme,
was as orderly and disciplined a system, and was able to control the
lives of its adherents, as well as the Catholicism whose influence on her
character he found himself beginning to fear. But he wished also that she
should be repelled to some extent by the merciless rigidity she would
find at Northampton, and thus, after an oscillation or two come to rest
in the quiet eclecticism of that middle position which he occupied
himself.
The town indeed was at this time a miniature Geneva. There was something
in the temper of its inhabitants that made it especially susceptible to
the wave of Puritanism that was sweeping over England. Lollardy had
flourished among them so far back as the reign of Richard II; when the
mayor, as folks told one another with pride, had plucked a mass-priest by
the vestment on the way to the altar in All Saints' Church, and had made
him give over his mummery till the preacher had finished his sermon.
Dr. Carrington, too, a clean-shaven, blue-eyed, grey-haired man,
churchwarden of Saint Sepulchre's, was a representative of the straitest
views, and desperately in earnest. For him the world ranged itself into
the redeemed and the damned; these two companies were the pivots of life
for him; and every subject of mind or desire was significant only so far
as it bore relations to be immutable decrees of God. But his fierce and
merciless theological insistence was disguised by a real human tenderness
and a marked courtesy of manner; and Isabel found him a kindly and
thoughtful host.
Yet the mechanical strictness of the household, and the overpowering
sense of the weightiness of life that it conveyed, was a revelation to
Isabel. Dr. Carrington at family prayers was a tremendous figure, as he
kneeled upright at the head of the table in the sombre dining-room; and
it seemed to Isabel in her place that the pitiless all-seeing Presence
that kept such terrifying silence as the Doctor cried on Jehovah, was
almost a different God to that whom she knew in the morning parlour at
home, to whom her father prayed with more familiarity but no less
romance, and who answered in the sunshine that lay on the carpet, and the
shadows of boughs that moved across it, and the chirp of the birds under
the eaves. And all day long she thought she noticed the same difference;
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
Hall ladies; 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 any detail apart from the consciousness of that
encompassing Presence had the nature of sin.
On the Saturday after her arrival, as she was walking by the Nen with
Kate Carrington, one of the two girls, she asked her about the crowd of
ministers she had seen in the streets that morning.
"They have been to the Prophesyings," said Kate. "My father says that
there is no exercise that sanctifies a godly young minister so quickly."
Kate went on to describe them further. The ministers assembled each
Saturday at nine 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 instructed would ask questions, the more experienced
would answer, and debate would run high. Such a method Kate explained,
who herself was a zealous and well instructed Calvinist, was the surest
and swiftest road to truth, for every one held the open Scriptures in his
hand, and interpreted and checked the speakers by the aid of that
infallible guide.
"But if a man's judgment lead him wrong?" asked Isabel, who professedly
admitted authority to have some place in matters of faith.
"All must hold the Apostles' Creed first of all," said Kate, "and must
set his name to a paper declaring the Pope to be antichrist, with other
truths upon it."
Isabel was puzzled; for it seemed now as if Private Judgment were not
supreme among its professors; but she did not care to question further.
It began to dawn upon her presently, however, why the Queen was so fierce
against Prophesyings; for she saw that they exercised that spirit of
exclusiveness, the property of Papist and Puritan alike; which, since it
was the antithesis of the tolerant comprehensiveness of the Church of
England, was also the enemy of the theological peace that Elizabeth was
seeking to impose upon the country; and that it was for that reason that
Papist and Puritan, sundered so far in theology, were united in suffering
for conscience' sake.
On the Sunday morning Isabel went with Mrs. Carrington and the two girls
to the round Templars' Church of Saint Sepulchre, for the Morning Prayer
at eight o'clock, and then on to St. Peter's for the sermon. It was the
latter function that was important in Puritan eyes; for the word preached
was considered to have an almost sacramental force in the application of
truth and grace to the soul; and crowds of people, with downcast eyes and
in sombre dress, were pouring down the narrow streets from all the
churches round, while the great bell beat out its summons from the Norman
tower. The church was filled from end to end as they came in, meeting Dr.
Carrington at the door, and they all passed up 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
begun to notice even at Great Keynes, that the religion preached there
did not fit the church in which it was set forth; and that, though great
efforts had been made to conform the building to the worship. There had
been no half measures at Northampton, for the Puritans had a loathing of
what they called a "mingle-mangle." Altars, footpaces, and piscinae had
been swept away and all marks of them removed, as well as the rood-loft
and every image in the building; the stained windows had been replaced by
plain glass painted white; the walls had been whitewashed from roof to
floor, and every suspicion of colour erased except where texts of
Scripture ran rigidly across the open wall spaces: "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 lines and eyes converged,
was occupied no longer by the Table but by the tribunal of the Lord. Yet
underneath the disguise the old religion triumphed still. Beneath the
great plain orderly scheme, without depth of shadows, dominated by the
towering place of Proclamation where the crimson-faced herald waited to
begin, the round arches and the elaborate mouldings, and the cool depths
beyond the pillars, all declared that in the God for whom that temple was
built, there was mystery as well as revelation, Love as well as Justice,
condescension as well as Majesty, beauty as well as awfulness,
invitations as well as eternal decrees.
Isabel looked up presently, as the people still streamed in, and watched
the minister in his rustling Genevan gown, leaning with his elbows on the
Bible that rested open on the great tasselled velvet cushion before him.
Everything about him was on the grand scale; his great hands were clasped
and protruded over the edge of the Book; and his heavy dark face looked
menacingly round on the crowded church; he had the air of a melancholy
giant about to engage in some tragic pleasure. But Isabel's instinctive
dislike began to pass into positive terror so soon as he began to preach.
When the last comers had found a place, and the talking had stopped, he
presently gave out his text, in a slow thunderous voice, that silenced
the last whispers:
"What shall we then say to these things? If God be on our side, who can
be against us?"
There were a few slow sentences, in a deep resonant voice, uttering each
syllable deliberately like the explosion of a far-off gun, and in a
minute or two he was in the thick of Calvin's smoky gospel. Doctrine,
voice, and man were alike terrible and overpowering.
There lay the great scheme in a few minutes, seen by Isabel as though
through the door of hell, illumined by the glare of the eternal embers.
The huge merciless Will of God stood there before her, disclosed in all
its awfulness, armed with thunders, moving on mighty wheels. The
foreknowledge of God closed the question henceforth, and, if proof were
needed, made predestination plain. There was man's destiny, irrevocably
fixed, iron-bound, changeless and immovable as the laws of God's own
being. Yet over the rigid and awful Face of God, flickered a faint light,
named mercy; and this mercy vindicated its existence by demanding that
some souls should escape the final and endless doom that was the due
reward of every soul conceived and born in enmity against God and under
the frown of His Justice.
Then, heralded too by wrath, the figure of Jesus began to glimmer through
the thunderclouds; and Isabel lifted her eyes, to look in hope. But He
was not as she had known him in His graciousness, and as He had revealed
Himself to her in tender 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 lightning in His eyes, and the grim and crimson
Cross behind him; and as powerless as His own Father Himself to save one
poor timid despairing hoping soul against whom the Eternal Decree had
gone forth. Jesus was stern and forbidding here, with the red glare of
wrath on His Face too, instead of the rosy crown of Love upon His
forehead; His mouth was closed with compressed lips which surely would
only open to condemn; not that mouth, quivering and human, that had
smiled and trembled 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 so long in the shadow of His healing, to be torn
out of her retreat and set thus under the consuming noonday of the
Justice of this Sun of white-hot Righteousness.
For, as she listened, it was all so miserably convincing; her own little
essays of intellect and flights of hopeful imagination were caught up and
whirled away in the strong rush of this man's argument; her timid
expectancy that God was really Love, as she understood the word in the
vision of her Saviour's Person,--this was dashed aside as a childish
fancy; the vision of the Father of the Everlasting Arms receded into the
realm of dreams; and instead there lowered overhead in this furious
tempest of wrath a monstrous God with a stony Face 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 as this, the one
would be no less agony than the other. Was this man bearing false
witness, 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 a great man's intellect and made white hot with another
great man's burning eloquence. But it seemed to Isabel now and again as
if a thunder-voiced virile devil were proclaiming the Gospel of
Everlasting shame. There he bent over the pulpit with flaming face and
great compelling gestures that swayed the congregation, eliciting the
emotions he desired, as the conductor's baton draws out the music (for
the man was a great orator), and he stormed and roared and seemed to
marshal the very powers of the world to come, compelling them by his nod,
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
and resenting it and struggling to detach herself and disbelieve every
word he spoke.
As the last sands were running out in his hour-glass, he came to harbour
from this raging sea; and in a few deep resonant sentences, like those
with which he began, he pictured the peace of the ransomed soul, that
knows itself safe in the arms of God; that rejoices, even in this world,
in the Light of His Face and the ecstasy of His embrace; that dwells by
waters of comfort and lies down in the green pastures of the Heavenly
Love; while, round this little island of salvation in an ocean of terror,
the thunders of wrath sound only as the noise of surge on a far-off reef.
The effect on Isabel was very great. It was far more startling than her
visit to London; there her quiet religion had received high sanction in
the mystery of S. Paul's. But here it was the plainest Calvinism preached
with immense power. The preacher's last words of peace were no peace to
her. If it was necessary 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; her life had been spent in a fool's paradise,
where the light and warmth and flowers were but artificial after all; and
she knew that she had not the heart to set out again. Though she
recognised dimly the compelling power of this religion, and that it was
one which, if sincerely embraced, would make the smallest details of life
momentous with eternal weight, yet she knew that her soul could never
respond to it, and whether saved or damned that it could only cower 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
of church. Was this then really the Revelation of the Love of God in the
Person of Jesus Christ? Had all that she knew as the Gospel melted down
into this fiery lump?
The rest of the day did not alter the impression made on her mind. There
was little talk, or evidence of any human fellowship, in the Carrington
household on the Lord's Day; there was a word or two of grave
commendation on the sermon during dinner; and in the afternoon there was
the Evening Prayer to be attended in St. Sepulchre's followed by an
exposition, and a public catechising on Calvin's questions and answers.
Here the same awful doctrines reappeared, condensed with an icy reality,
even more paralysing than the burning presentation 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 and women
who looked as soft-hearted as herself, utter definitions of the method of
salvation and the being and character of God that compelled the assent of
her intellect, while they jarred with her spiritual experience as
fiercely as brazen trumpets out of tune.
In the evening there followed further religious exercises in the dark
dining-room, at the close of which Dr. Carrington read one of Mr.
Calvin's Genevan discourses, from his tall chair at the head of the
table. She looked at him at first, and wondered in her heart whether that
man, with his clear gentle voice, and his pleasant old face crowned with
iron-grey hair seen in the mellow candlelight, really believed in the
terrible gospel of the morning; for she heard nothing of the academic
discourse that he was reading now, and presently her eyes wandered away
out of the windows to the pale night sky. There still glimmered a faint
streak of light in the west across the Market Square; it seemed to her as
a kind of mirror of her soul at this moment; the tender daylight had
faded, though she could still discern the token of its presence far away,
and as from behind the bars of a cage; but the night of God's wrath was
fast blotting out the last touch of radiance from her despairing soul.
Dr. Carrington looked at her with courteous anxiety, but with approval
too, as he held her hand for a moment as she said good-night to him.
There were shadows of weariness and depression under her eyes, and the
corners of her mouth drooped a little; and the doctor's heart stirred
with hope that the Word of God had reached at last this lamb of His who
had been fed too long on milk, and sheltered from the sun; but who was
now coming out, driven it might be, and unhappy, but still on its way to
the plain and wholesome pastures of the Word that lay in the glow of the
unveiled glory of God.
Isabel in her dark room upstairs was miserable; she stood long at her
window her face pressed against the glass, and looked at the sky, from
which the last streak of light had now died, and longed with all her
might for her own oak room at home, with her prie-dieu and the familiar
things about her; and the pines rustling outside in the sweet night-wind.
It seemed to her as if an irresistible hand had plucked her out from
those loved things and places, and that a penetrating eye were examining
every corner of her soul. In one sense she believed herself nearer to God
than ever before, but it was heartbreaking to find Him like this. She
went to sleep with the same sense of a burdening Presence resting on her
spirit.
The next morning Dr. Carrington saw her privately and explained to her a
notice that she had not understood when it had been given out in church
the day before. It was to the effect that the quarterly communion would
be administered on the following Sunday, having been transferred that
year from the Sunday after Michaelmas Day, and that she must hold herself
in readiness on the Wednesday afternoon to undergo the examination that
was enforced in every household 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,
and my father will vouch for you. He will ask you of irresistible grace,
and of the Sacrament." And she gave her a couple of books from which she
might summarise the answers; especially directing her attention to
Calvin's Catechism, telling her that that was the book with which all the
servants and apprentices were obliged to be familiar.
When Wednesday afternoon came, one by one the members of the household
went before the inquisition that held its court in the dining-room; and
last of all Isabel's turn came. The three gentlemen who sat in the middle
of the long side of the table, with their backs to the light, half rose
and bowed to her as she entered; and requested her to sit opposite to
them. To her relief it was the Minister of St. Sepulchre's who was to
examine her--he who had read the service and discoursed on the Catechism,
not the morning preacher. He was a man who seemed a little ill at ease
himself; he had none of the superb confidence of the preacher; but
appeared to be one to whose natural character this stern _role_ was not
altogether congenial. He asked a few very simple questions; as to when
she had last taken the Sacrament; how she would interpret the words,
"This is my Body"; and looked almost grateful when she answered quietly
and without heat. He asked her too three or four of the simpler questions
which Kate had indicated to her; all of which she answered satisfactorily;
and then desired to know whether she was in charity with all men; and
whether she looked to Jesus Christ alone as her one Saviour. Finally he
turned to Dr. Carrington, and wished to know whether Mistress Norris
would come to the sacrament at five or nine o'clock, and Dr. Carrington
answered that she would no doubt wish to come with his own wife and
daughters at nine o'clock; which was the hour for the folks who were
better to do. And so the inquisition ended much to Isabel's relief.
But this was a very extraordinary experience to her; it gave her a first
glimpse into the rigid discipline that the extreme Puritans wished to see
enforced everywhere; and with it a sense of corporate responsibility that
she had not appreciated before; the congregation meant something to her
now; she was no longer alone with her Lord individually, but understood
that she was part of a body with various functions, and that the care of
her soul was not merely a personal matter for herself, but involved her
minister and the officers of the Church as well. It astonished her to
think that this process was carried out on every individual who lived in
the town in preparation for the sacrament on the following Sunday.
Isabel, and indeed the whole household, spent the Friday and Saturday in
rigid and severe preparation. No flesh food was eaten on either of the
days; and all the members of the family were supposed to spend several
hours in their own rooms in prayer and meditation. She did not find this
difficult, as she was well practised in solitude and prayer, and she
scarcely left her room all Saturday except for meals.
"O Lord," Isabel repeated each morning and evening at her bedside during
this week, "the blind dulness of our corrupt nature will not suffer us
sufficiently to weigh these thy most ample benefits, yet, nevertheless,
at the commandment of Jesus Christ our Lord, we present ourselves to this
His table, which He hath left to be used in remembrance of His death
until His coming again, to declare and witness before the world, that by
Him alone we have received liberty and life; 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 Him alone 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 bodies shall
be raised up again from the dust, and shall be placed with Him in that
endless 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
land where all was strange and unfamiliar about her: yet He was hourly
drawing nearer, and she cried to Him day by day in these words so
redolent to her with associations 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 a wilderness.
On the Saturday night she ceremoniously washed her feet as her father had
taught her; and lay down happier than she had been for days past, for
to-morrow would bring the Lover of her soul.
On the Sunday all the household was astir early at their prayers, and
about half-past eight o'clock all, including the servants who had just
returned from the five o'clock service, assembled in the dining-room; the
noise of the feet of those returning from church had ceased on the
pavement of the square outside, 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's ordinance on that day. And Isabel once
more felt her heart yearn to a God who seemed Love after all.
St. Sepulchre's was nearly full when they arrived. The mahogany table had
been brought down from the eastern wall to beneath the cupola, and stood
there with a large white cloth, descending almost to the ground on every
side; and a row of silver vessels, flat plates and tall new Communion
cups and flagons, shone upon it. Isabel buried her face in her hands, and
tried to withdraw into the solitude of her own soul; but the noise of the
feet coming and going, and the talking on all sides of her, were terribly
distracting. Presently four ministers entered and Isabel was startled to
see, as she raised her face at the sudden silence, that none of them wore
the prescribed surplice; for she had not been accustomed to the views of
the extreme Puritans to whom this was a remnant of Popery; an indifferent
thing indeed in itself, as they so often maintained; but far from
indifferent when it was imposed by authority. One entered the pulpit; the
other three took their places at the Holy Table; and after a metrical
Psalm sung in the Genevan fashion, the service began. At the proper place
the minister in the pulpit delivered an hour's sermon of the type to
which Isabel was being now introduced for the first time; but bearing
again and again on the point that the sacrament was a confession to the
world of faith in Christ; it was in no sense a sacrificial act towards
God, "as the Papists vainly 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; and the end of the sermon consisted of a
searching exhortation to those who contemplated sin, who bore malice, who
were in any way holding aloof from God, "to cast themselves mightily upon
the love of the Redeemer, bewailing their sinful lives, and purposing to
amend them." This act, wrought out in the silence 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." Then he turned to those
who came prepared and repentant, hungering and thirsting after the Bread
of Life and the Wine that the Lord had mingled; and congratulated them on
their possession of grace, and on the rich access of sanctification that
would be theirs by a faithful reception of this comfortable sacrament;
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
He alone, our dear Redeemer, who openeth the Kingdom of Heaven, to which
may He vouchsafe to bring us for His Name's sake."
Isabel was astonished to see that the preacher did not descend from the
pulpit after the sermon, but that as soon as he had announced that the
mayor would sit at the Town Hall with the ministers and churchwardens on
the following Thursday to inquire into the cases of all who had not
presented themselves for Communion, he turned and began to busy himself
with the great Bible that lay on the cushion. The service went on, and
the conducting of it was shared among the three ministers standing, one
at the centre of the table which was placed endways, and the others at
the two ends. As the Prayer of Consecration was begun, Isabel hid her
face as she was accustomed to do, for she believed it to be the principal
part of the service, and waited for the silence that in her experience
generally followed the Amen. But a voice immediately began from the
pulpit, and she looked up, startled and distracted.
"Then Jesus said unto them," pealed out the preacher's voice, "All ye
shall be offended by me this night, for it is written, I will smite the
shepherd and the sheep shall be scattered. But after I am risen, I will
go into Galilee before you."
Ah! why would not the man stop? Isabel did not want the past Saviour but
the present now; not a dead record but a living experience; above all,
not the minister but the great High Priest Himself.
"He began to be troubled and in great heaviness, and said unto them, My
soul is very heavy, even unto the death; tarry here and watch."
The three ministers had communicated by now; and there was a rustle and
clatter of feet as the empty seats in front, hung with houselling cloths,
began to be filled. The murmur of the three voices below as the ministers
passed along with the 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 into
temptation. The spirit indeed is ready, but the flesh is weak."
It was coming near to Isabel's turn; the Carringtons already were
beginning to move; and in a moment or two she rose and followed them out.
The people were pressing up the aisles; and as she stood waiting her turn
to pass into the white-hung seat, she could not help noticing the
disorder that prevailed; some knelt devoutly, some stood, some sat to
receive the sacred elements; and all the while louder and louder, above
the rustling and the loud whispering of the ministers and the shuffling
of feet, the tale rose and fell on the cadences of the preacher's voice.
Now it was her turn; she was kneeling with palms outstretched and closed
eyes. Ah! would he not be silent for one moment? Could not the reality
speak for itself, and its interpreter be still? Surely the King of Love
needed no herald when Himself was here.
"And anon in the dawning, the high Priests held a Council with Elders and
the Scribes 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,
distracted and miserable; trying to pray, forcing herself to attend now
to the reader, now to her Saviour with whom she believed herself in
intimate union, and finding nothing but dryness and distraction
everywhere. How interminable it was! She opened 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 at a public
entertainment; one man especially overwhelmed her imagination; with a
great red face and neck like a butcher, animal and brutal, with a heavy
hanging jowl and little narrow lack-lustre eyes--how bored and depressed
he was by this long obligatory ceremony! Then once more she closed her
eyes in self-reproach at 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, the dripping 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 a brighter day.
"And they said one to another, Who shall roll us away the stone from the
door of 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 and catechising finished, in a kind of despair she slipped
away alone, and walked a little by herself in the deepening twilight
beside the river; and again she made effort after effort to catch some
consciousness of grace from this Sacrament Sunday, so rare and so
precious; but an oppression seemed to dwell in the very air. The low
rain-clouds hung over the city, leaden and chill, the path where she
walked was rank with the smell of dead leaves, and the trees and grass
dripped with lifeless moisture. As she goaded and allured alternately her
own fainting soul, it writhed and struggled but could not rise; there was
no pungency of bitterness in her self-reproach, no thrill of joy in her
aspiration; for the hand of Calvin's God lay heavy on the delicate
languid thing.
She walked back at last in despair over the wet cobblestones of the empty
market square; but as she came near the house, she saw that the square
was not quite 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 and down the street. Isabel's heart began to beat, and
she walked quicker. In a moment Kate saw her, and began to beckon and
call; and the maid ran to meet her.
"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
and full 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
and splashed 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
her eyes.
"It is news of your father," he said, "from Lady Maxwell."
He paused, and the steady gleam of his eyes strengthened and quieted her,
then he 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 staring
white-faced with parted lips into those strong blue eyes of his: and he
finished:
"Blessed be the name of the Lord."
CHAPTER XII
A WINDING-UP
The curtained windows on the ground-floor of the Dower House shone red
from within as Isabel and Dr. Carrington, with three or four servants
behind, rode round the curving drive in front late on the Monday evening.
A face peeped from Mrs. Carroll's window as the horse's hoofs sounded on
the gravel, and by the time that Isabel, pale, wet, and worn-out with her
seventy miles' ride, was dismounted, Mistress Margaret herself was at the
door, with Anthony's face at her shoulder, and Mrs. Carroll looking over
the banisters.
Isabel was not allowed to see her father's body that night, but after she
was in bed, Lady Maxwell herself, who had been sent for when he lay
dying, came down from the Hall, and told her what there was to tell;
while Mistress Margaret and Anthony entertained Dr. Carrington below.
"Dear child," said the old lady, leaning with her elbow on the bed, and
holding the girl's hand tenderly as she talked, "it was all over in an
hour or two. It was the heart, you know. Mrs. Carroll sent for me
suddenly, on Saturday morning; and by the time I reached him he could not
speak. They had carried him upstairs from his study, where they had found
him; and laid him down on his bed, and--yes, yes--he was in pain, but he
was conscious, and he was praying I think; his lips moved. And I knelt
down by the bed and prayed aloud; he only spoke twice; and, my dear, it
was your name the first time, and the name of His Saviour the second
time. He looked at me, and I could see he was trying to speak; and then
on a sudden he spoke 'Isabel.' And I think he was asking me to take care
of you. And I nodded and said that I would do what I could, and he seemed
satisfied and shut his eyes again. And then presently Mr. Bodder began a
prayer--he had come in a moment before; they could not find him at
first--and then, and then your dear father moved a little and raised his
hand, and the minister stayed; and he was looking up as if he saw
something; and then he said once, '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
was always with them during these days, went into the darkened oak room
on the first floor, where he had died and now rested. The red curtains
made a pleasant rosy light, and it seemed to the children impossible to
believe that that serene face, scarcely more serene than in life, with
its wide closed lids under the delicate eyebrows, and contented clean-cut
mouth, and the scholarly hands closed on the breast, all in a wealth of
autumn flowers and dark copper-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
the curtains 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 table itself the books she knew so well.
In the centre of the table stood his inlaid desk, with the papers lying
upon it, and his quill beside them, as if just laid down; even the
ink-pot was uncovered just as he had left it, as the agony began to lay
its hand upon his heart. She stooped and read the last sentence.
"This is the great fruit, that unspeakable benefit that they do eat and
drink of that labour and are burden, and come--" and there it stopped;
and the blinding tears rushed into the girl's eyes, as she stooped to
kiss the curved knob 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,
while the housekeeper was left in charge of the Dower House. Lady Maxwell
and Mistress Margaret had been present at the parish church on the
occasion of the funeral, for the first time ever since the old Marian
priest had left; and had assisted too at the opening of the will, which
was found, tied up and docketed in one of the inner drawers of the inlaid
desk; and before its instructions were complied with, Lady Maxwell wished
to have a word or two with Isabel and Anthony.
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, and Hubert 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 the window-seat. "What do you think your cousin will direct to be
done? He will scarcely wish you to leave home altogether, to stay with
him. And yet, you understand, 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
other went 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
needle carefully through, "it was what I thought myself; but I did not
know if you would 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 live
permanently at the Hall, although of course Isabel must do so until an
arrangement had been made; because their father would scarcely have
wished them to be actually inmates of a Catholic house; but that he
plainly had encouraged close relations between the two houses, and
indeed, Lady Maxwell interpreted his mention of his daughter's name, and
his look as he said it, in the sense that he wished those relations to
continue. She thought therefore that there was no reason why their new
guardian's consent should not be asked to Mistress Margaret's coming over
to the Dower House to take charge of Isabel, if the girl wished it. He
had no particular interest in them; he lived a couple of hundred miles
away, and the arrangement would probably save him a great deal of trouble
and inconvenience.
"But you, Lady Maxwell," Isabel burst out, her face kindled with hope,
for she had dreaded the removal terribly, "you will be lonely here."
"Dear child," said the old lady, laying down her embroidery, "God has
been gracious to me; and my husband is coming back to me; you need not
fear for me." And she told them, with her old eyes full of happy tears,
how she had had a 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 it himself yet, and that he would be at
home again for Advent. The prison fever was beginning to cause alarm, and
it seemed that a good fine would meet the old knight's case better than
any other execution of justice.
So then, it was decided; and as Isabel walked out to the gatehouse after
dinner beside Anthony, with her hand on his horse's neck, and as she
watched him at last ride down the village green and disappear round
behind the church, half her sorrow at losing him was swallowed up in the
practical certainty that they would meet again before Christmas in their
old home, and not in a stranger's house in the bleak North country.
On the following Thursday, Sir Nicholas' weekly letter showed evidence
that the good news of his release had begun to penetrate to him; his wife
longed to tell him all she had heard, but so many jealous eyes were on
the watch for favouritism 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 than
prison. I do not mean _heaven_," he hastened to add, for fear of alarming
his wife. "Good Mr. Jakes tells me that Sir John is ill to-day, and that
he fears the gaol-fever; and if it is the gaol-fever, sweetheart, which
pray God it may not be _for Sir John's sake_, it will be the fourteenth
case in the Tower; and folks say that we shall all be let home again; but
with another good fine, they say, to keep us poor and humble, and mindful
of the Queen's Majesty her laws. However, dearest, I would gladly pay a
thousand pounds, if I had them, to be home again."
But there was news at the end of the letter that caused consternation in
one or two hearts, and sent Hubert across, storming and almost crying, to
Isabel, who was 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
was very conscious of it. Since her sudden return ten days before from
the visit which had been meant to separate them, he had not spoken a word
to her privately, except a shy sentence or two of condolence, stammered
out with downcast eyes, but which from the simplicity and shortness of
the words had brought up a sob from her heart. She guessed that he knew
why she had been sent to Northampton, and had determined not to take
advantage in any way of her sorrow. Every morning he had disappeared
before she came down, and did not come back till supper, where he sat
silent and apart, and yet, when an occasion offered itself, behaved with
a quick attentive deference that showed her where his thoughts had been.
Now she stood, wondering and timid, at that hurried insistent step on the
other side of the hedge. As she hesitated, he came quickly through the
doorway and stopped short.
"Mistress Isabel," he said, with all his reserve gone, and looking at her
imploringly, but with the old familiar air that she loved, "have you
heard? I am 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
heart leapt up once and then seemed to cease beating.
"Go?" she said; and even as she spoke knew from her own dismay how dear
that quiet chivalrous presence was to her.
"Yes," he went on in the same voice. "Oh! I know I should not speak;
and--and especially now at all times; but I could not bear it; nor that
you should think it 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
promised my 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.
My father will not want me here when he comes back, and, and it is to be
soon. He has 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
chimneys were before them, dark against the luminous sky.
"No, no," said Hubert, laying his hand on her arm; and at the touch she
thrilled so much that she knew she must not stay, and went forward
resolutely up 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 Sir
Nicholas' study; while Hubert's steps dashed up the stairs to his
mother's room. Isabel went in and stood on the hearth in the firelight
that glowed and wavered round the room on the tapestry and the prie-dieu
and the table where Hubert had been sitting and the tall shuttered
windows, leaning her head against the mantelpiece, doubtful and
miserable.
"Listen," said Hubert, bursting into the room a moment later with the
sheet open in his hand.
"'Tell Hubert that Lord Arncliffe needs a gentleman to take charge of his
estates; he is too old now himself, and has none to help him. I have had
the offer 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 must not read that," he said.
Isabel still stood, stretching her hands out to the fire, turned a little
away from him.
"But what can I say?" went on the lad passionately, "I must go; and--and
God knows for how long, five or six years maybe; and I shall come back
and find you--and find you----" and a sob rose up and silenced him.
"Hubert," she said, turning and looking with a kind of wavering
steadiness into his shadowed eyes, and even then noticing the clean-cut
features and the smooth 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 perhaps you 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
Protestant Religion was nearly the same, or as true at least--or--or--so
much might happen.--Can you not tell me anything before I go?"
A keen ray of hope had pierced her heart as he spoke; and she scarcely
knew what 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 it again; 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
own strong 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 as free as ever to do what you will with me. But,"--and he lifted her
hands once more 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 by storm; she had not guessed how desperately weak she was towards
him, until he had come to her like this in a whirlwind of passion and
stood trembling and almost crying, with the ruddy firelight on his face,
and his eyes burning out of shadow. She felt fascinated still by that
mingling of a boy's weakness and sentiment and of a man's fire and
purpose; and she sank down on her knees before the hearth and looked
wonderingly at her hands which he had kissed so ardently, now transparent
and flaming against the light as if with love. Then as she looked at the
red heart of the fire the sudden leaping of her heart quieted, and there
crept on her a glow of steady desire to lean on the power of this tall
young lover of hers; she was so utterly alone without him it seemed as if
there were no choice left; he had come and claimed her in virtue of the
master-law, and she--how much had she yielded? She had not promised; but
she had shown evidently her real heart in those half dozen words; and he
had interpreted them for her; and she dared not in honesty repudiate his
interpretation. And so she knelt there, clasping and unclasping her
hands, in a whirl of delight and trembling; all the bounds of that sober
inner life seemed for the moment swept away; she almost began to despise
its old coldnesses and limitations. How shadowy after all was the love of
God, compared with this burning tide that was bearing her along on its
bosom!...
She sank lower and lower into herself among the black draperies, clasping
those slender hands tightly across her breast.
Suddenly a great log fell with a crash, the red glow turned into leaping
flames; the whole dark room seemed alive with shadows that fled to and
fro, and she knelt upright quickly and looked round her, terrified and
ashamed.--What was she doing here? Was it so soon then that she was
setting aside the will of her father, who trusted and loved her so well,
and who lay out there in the chancel vault? Ah! she had no right here in
this room--Hubert's room now, with his cap and whip lying across the
papers and the estate-book, and his knife and the broken jesses on the
seat of the chair beside her. There was his step overhead again. She must
be gone before he came back.
There was high excitement on the estate and in the village a week or two
later when the rumour of Sir Nicholas' return was established, and the
paper had been pinned up to the gatehouse stating, in Lady Maxwell's own
handwriting, that he would be back sometime in the week before Advent
Sunday. Reminiscences were exchanged of the glorious day when the old
knight came of age, over forty years ago; 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 high mass 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 that materials for the
bonfire were in process of collection in the woodyard of the home farm.
Sir Nicholas' letters became more and more emphatically underlined and
incoherent as the days went on, and Lady Maxwell less and less willing
for Isabel to read them; but the girl often found the old lady hastily
putting away the thin sheets which she had just taken out to read to
herself once again, on which her dear lord had scrawled down his very
heart itself, as if his courting of her were all to do again.
It was not until the Saturday morning that the courier rode in through
the gatehouse with the news that Sir Nicholas was to be released that
day, and would be down if possible before nightfall. All the men on the
estate were immediately called in and sent home to dress themselves; and
an escort of a dozen grooms and servants led by Hubert and Piers rode out
at once on the north road, 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
Isabel slipped out and went down to the gatehouse to look out for herself
if there were any signs of the approach of the party. She went up to one
of the little octagonal towers, and looked out towards the green.
It was a clear starlight night, but towards the village all was bathed in
the dancing ruddy light of the bonfire. It was burning on a little mound
at the upper end of the green, just below where Isabel stood, and a heavy
curtain of smoke drifted westwards. As she looked down on it she saw
against it the tall black 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 on this side, luminous on that. She
could even make out the cassock and square cap of 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 the green, 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 large star
itself, burned the torch of the watcher who was looking out towards the
north road. There was a ceaseless hum of noise from the green, pierced by
the shrill cries of the children round the glowing mass of the bonfire,
but there was no disorder, as the barrels that had been rolled out of the
Hall cellars that afternoon still stood untouched beneath the Rectory
garden-wall. Isabel contrasted in her mind this pleasant human tumult
with the angry roaring she had heard from these same country-folk a few
months before, when she had followed Lady Maxwell out to the rescue of
the woman who had injured her; and she wondered at these strange souls,
who attended a Protestant service, but were 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 of the bells broke out. There was a sudden stir in the figures
on the green, and a burst of cheering rose. Isabel strained her eyes
northwards, but the road took a turn beyond the church and she could see
nothing but darkness and low-hung stars and one glimmering window. She
turned instinctively to the house behind her, and there was the door
flung wide, and she could make out the figures of the two ladies against
the brightly lit hall beyond, wrapped like herself, in cloak and hood,
for the night was frosty and cold.
As she turned once more she heard the clear rattle of trotting hoofs on
the hard 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 melodious discord, as in the angle of the road a group of
tossing torches appeared. Then she could make out the horsemen; three
riding together, and the others as escort 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 which closed after them as they
went. Now she could make out the white hair of Sir Nicholas, 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 the bonfire
now, and were coming up the avenue, the crowds still streaming after
them, and the church tower bellowing rough music overhead. Isabel leaned
out over the battlements, and saw beneath her the two old ladies waiting
just outside the gate by the horse-block; and then she drew back, her
eyes full of tears, 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 ceased
shouting, and when Isabel leaned over again Sir Nicholas was on the
horse-block, the two ladies immediately behind him, and the people
pressing forward to hear his voice. It was a very short speech; and
Isabel overhead could not catch more than detached phrases of it, "for
the faith"--"my wife and you all"--"home again"--"my son Hubert
here"--"you and your families"--"the Catholic religion"--"the Queen's
grace"--"God save her Majesty."
Then again the cheering broke out; and Isabel crossed over to see them
pass up to the house and to the bright door set wide for them, and even
as she watched them go up the steps, and Hubert's figure close behind,
she suddenly dropped her forehead on to the cold battlement, and drew a
sharp breath or two, for she remembered again what it all meant to him
and to herself.
PART II
CHAPTER I
ANTHONY IN LONDON
The development of a nation is strangely paralleled by the development of
an individual. There comes in both a period of adolescence, of the
stirring of new powers, of an increase of strength, of the dawn of new
ideals, of the awaking of self-consciousness; contours become defined and
abrupt, awkward and hasty movements succeed to the grace of childhood;
and there is a curious mingling of refinement and brutality, stupidity
and tenderness; the will is subject to whims; it is easily roused and not
so easily quieted. Yet in spite of the attendant 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 world that it was so, and that when England stretched herself
catastrophe abroad must follow. She loved finery and feathers and velvet,
and to see herself on the dramatic stage and to sing her love-songs
there, as a growing maid dresses up and leans on her hand and looks into
her own eyes in the mirror--and Marlowe and Greene and Shakespeare are
witnesses to it. Yet she loved to hang over the arena too and watch the
bear-baiting and see the blood and foam and listen to the 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-considered and
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 of the reign, while the balance of parties and powers remained
much the same, principles and tendencies began to assert themselves more
definitely, just as muscles and sinews begin to appear through the round
contour of the limbs of a growing child.
Thus, from 1571 to 1577, while there was no startling reversal of
elements in the affairs of England, the entire situation became more
defined. The various parties, though they scarcely changed in their
mutual relations, yet continued to develop swiftly along their respective
lines, growing more pronounced and less inclined to compromise; foreign
enmities and expectations became more acute; plots against the Queen's
life more frequent and serious, and the countermining of them under
Walsingham more patient and skilful; competition and 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
were inextricably mingled. The Puritans daily became more clamorous and
intolerant; their "Exercises" more turbulent, and their demands more
unreasonable and one-sided. The Papists became at once more numerous and
more strict; and the Government measures more stern in consequence. The
act of '71 made it no less a crime than High Treason to reconcile or be
reconciled to the Church of Rome, to give effect to a Papal Bull, to be
in possession of any muniments of superstition, or to declare the Queen a
heretic or schismatic. The Church of England, too, under the wise
guidance of Parker, had begun to shape her course more and more
resolutely along the lines of inclusiveness and moderation; to realise
herself as representing the religious voice of a nation that was widely
divided on matters of faith; and to attempt to include within her fold
every individual 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; the last 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 the world, as a dominant and
imperious power.
Anthony Norris had been arrested, like so many others, by the vision of
this young country of his, his mother and mistress, who stood there,
waiting to be served. He had left Cambridge in '73, and for three years
had led a somewhat aimless life; for his guardian allowed him a generous
income out of his father's fortune. He had stayed with Hubert in the
north, had yawned and stretched 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 of advisers, that he was wasting his time.
He had begun then to look round him for some occupation, and in the final
choice of it his early religious training had formed a large element. It
had kept alive in him a certain sense of the supernatural, that his
exuberance of physical life might otherwise have crushed; and now as he
looked about to see how he could serve his country, he became aware that
her ecclesiastical character had a certain attraction for him; he had had
indeed an idea of taking Orders; but he had relinquished this by now,
though he still desired if he might to serve the National Church in some
other capacity. There was much in the Church of England to appeal to her
sons; if there was a lack of unity in her faith and policy, yet that was
largely out of sight, and her bearing was gallant and impressive. She had
great wealth, great power and great dignity. The ancient buildings and
revenues were hers; the civil power was at her disposal, and the Queen
was eager to further her influence, and to protect her bishops from the
encroaching power of Parliament, claiming only for the crown the right to
be the point of union for both the secular and ecclesiastical sections of
the nation, and to stamp by her royal approval or annul by her veto the
acts of Parliament and Convocation alike. It seemed then to Anthony's
eyes that the Church of England had a tremendous destiny before her, as
the religious voice of the nation that was beginning to make itself so
dominant in the council of the world, and that there was no limit to the
influence she might exercise by disciplining the exuberant strength of
England, and counteracting by her soberness and self-restraint the
passionate fanaticism of the Latin nations. So little by little in place
of the shadowy individualism that was all that he knew of religion, there
rose before him the vision of a living church, who came forth terrible as
an army with banners, surrounded by all the loyalty that nationalism
could give her, with the Queen herself as her guardian, and great princes
and prelates as her supporters, while at the wheels of her splendid car
walked her hot-blooded chivalrous sons, who served her and spread her
glories by land and sea, not perhaps chiefly for the sake of her
spiritual claims, but because she was bone of their bone; and was no less
zealous than themselves for the name and character of England.
When, therefore, towards the end of '76, Anthony received the offer of a
position in the household of the Archbishop of Canterbury, through the
recommendation of the father of one of his Cambridge friends, he accepted
it with real gratitude and enthusiasm.
The post to which he was appointed was that of Gentleman of the Horse.
His actual duties were not very arduous owing to the special
circumstances of Archbishop Grindal; and he had a good deal of time to
himself. Briefly, they were as follows--He had to superintend the Yeoman
of the Horse, and see that he kept full accounts of all the horses in
stable or at pasture, and of all the carriages and harness and the like.
Every morning he had to present himself to the Archbishop and receive
stable-orders for the day, and to receive from the yeoman accounts of the
stables. Every month he examined the books of the yeoman before passing
them on to the steward. His permission too was necessary before any
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; to engage them, watch their morals and even the performance of
their religious duties, and if necessary report them for dismissal to the
steward of the household. In Archbishop Parker's time this had been a
busy post, as the state observed at Lambeth and Croydon was very
considerable; but Grindal was of a more retiring nature, disliking as was
said, "lordliness"; and although still the household was an immense
affair, in its elaborateness and splendour beyond almost any but royal
households of the present day, still Anthony's duties were far from
heavy. The Archbishop indeed at first dispensed with this office
altogether, and concentrated all the supervision of the stable on the
yeoman, and Anthony was the first and only Gentleman of the Horse that
Archbishop Grindal employed. The disgrace and punishment under which the
Archbishop fell so early in his archiepiscopate made this particular post
easier than it would even otherwise have been; as fewer equipages were
required when the Archbishop was confined to his house, and the
establishment was yet further reduced.
Ordinarily then his duties were over by eleven o'clock, except when
special arrangements were to be made. He rose early, waited upon the
Archbishop by eight o'clock, and received his orders for the day; then
interviewed the yeoman; sometimes visited the stables to receive
complaints, and was ready by half-past ten to go to the chapel for the
morning prayers with the rest of the household. At eleven he dined at the
Steward's table in the great hall, with the other principal officers of
the household, the chaplain, the secretaries, and the gentlemen ushers,
with guests of lesser degree. This great hall with its two entrances at
the lower end near the gateway, its magnificent hammer-beam roof, its
dais, its stained glass, was a worthy place of entertainment, and had
been the scene of many great feasts and royal visits in the times of
previous archbishops in favour with the sovereign, and of a splendid
banquet at the beginning of Grindal's occupancy of the see. Now, however,
things were changed. There were seldom many distinguished persons to dine
with the disgraced prelate; and he himself preferred too to entertain
those who could not repay him again, after the precept of the gospel; and
besides the provision for the numerous less important guests who dined
daily at Lambeth, a great tub was set at the lower end of the hall as it
had been in Parker's time, and every day after dinner under the steward's
direction was filled with food from the tables, which was afterwards
distributed at the gate to poor people of the neighbourhood.
After dinner Anthony's time was often his own, until the evening prayers
at six, followed by supper again spread in the hall. It was necessary for
him always to sleep in the house, unless leave was obtained from the
steward. This gentleman, Mr. John Scot, an Esquire, took a fancy to
Anthony, and was indulgent to him in many ways; and Anthony had, as a
matter of fact, little difficulty in coming and going as he pleased so
soon as his morning duties were done.
Lambeth House had been lately restored by Parker, and was now a very
beautiful and well-kept place. Among other repairs and buildings he had
re-roofed the great hall that stood just within Morton's gateway; he had
built a long pier into the Thames where the barge could be entered easily
even at low tide; he had rebuilt the famous summerhouse of Cranmer's in
the garden, besides doing many sanitary alterations and repairs; and the
house was well kept up in Grindal's time.
Anthony soon added a great affection and tenderness to the awe that he
felt for the Archbishop, who was almost from the first a pathetic and
touching figure. When Anthony first entered on his duties in November
'76, he found the Archbishop in his last days of freedom and good favour
with the Queen. Elizabeth, he soon learnt from the gossip of the
household, was as determined to put down the Puritan "prophesyings" as
the popish services; for both alike tended to injure the peace she was
resolved to maintain. Rumours were flying to and fro; the Archbishop was
continually going across the water to confer with his 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 said that
his Grace had sent a letter to her Majesty bidding her not to meddle with
what did not concern her, telling her that she, too, would one day have
to render account before Christ's tribunal, and warning her of God's
anger if she persisted.
Her Majesty had sworn like a trooper, a royal page said one day as he
lounged over the fire in the guard-room, and had declared that if she was
like Ozeas and Ahab and the rest, as Grindal had said she was, she would
take care that he, at least, should be like Micaiah the son of Imlah,
before she had done with him. Then it began to leak out that Elizabeth
was sending her commands to the bishops 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 the long tables in hall
were more and more deserted; even the Archbishop himself seemed silent
and cast down. Anthony used to watch him from his window going up and
down the little walled garden that looked upon the river, with his hands
clasped behind him and his black habit gathered up in them, and his chin
on his breast. 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 in and 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 gates were shut by the porter, having ridden up early with a
couple of grooms. There seemed to him to be an air of constraint abroad
as the guests and members of the household gathered for dinner. There
were no guests of high dignity that day, and the Archbishop sat at his
own table silent and apart. Anthony, from his place at the steward's
table, noticed that he ate very sparingly, and that he appeared even more
preoccupied and distressed than usual. His short-sighted eyes, kind and
brown, surrounded by wrinkles from his habit of peering closely at
everything, seemed full of sadness and perplexity, and his hand fumbled
with his 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; and the moment dinner was over, and grace had been said
and the Archbishop retired with his little procession preceded by a white
wand, an usher came running back to tell Master Norris that his Grace
desired to see him at once in the inner cloister.
Anthony hastened round through the court between the hall and the river,
and found the Archbishop walking up and down in his black habit with the
round flapped cap, that, as a Puritan, he preferred to the square
head-dress of the more ecclesiastically-minded clergy, still looking
troubled and cast down, continually stroking his dark forked beard, and
talking to one of his secretaries. Anthony stood at a little distance at
the open side of the court near the river, cap in hand, waiting till the
Archbishop should beckon him. The two 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's famous visit to his predecessor;
when she had sat in a gallery over the cloister and heard the chaplain's
sermon. On the north rose up the roof of the chapel. The cloisters
themselves were poor buildings--little more than passages with a
continuous row of square windows running along them the height of a man's
head.
After a few minutes the secretary left the Archbishop with an obeisance,
and hastened into the house through the cloister, and presently the
Archbishop, after a turn or two more with the same grave air, peered
towards Anthony and then called him.
Anthony immediately came towards him and received orders that half a
dozen horses with grooms should be ready as soon as possible, who were to
receive orders from Mr. Richard Frampton, the secretary; and that three
or four horses more were to be kept saddled till seven o'clock that
evening in case further messages were wanted.
"And I desire you, Mr. Norris," said the Archbishop, "to let the men
under your charge know that their master is in trouble with the Queen's
Grace; and that they can serve him best by being prompt and obedient."
Anthony bowed to the Archbishop, and was going to withdraw, but the
Archbishop went on:
"I will tell you," he said, "for your private ear only at present, that I
have received an order this day from my Lords of the Council, bidding me
to keep to my house for six months; and telling me that I am sequestered
by the Queen's desire. I know not how this will end, but the cause is
that I will not do her Grace's will in the matter of the Exercises, as I
wrote to tell her so; and I am determined, by God's grace, not to yield
in this thing; but to govern the charge 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
at last on the master; he was "loving and grateful to servants"; and was
free and liberal 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 of Catholics this year; the Archbishop of York had reported that
"a more stiff-necked, wilful, or obstinate people did he never hear of";
and from Hereford had come a lament that conformity itself was a mockery,
as even the Papists that attended church were a distraction when they got
there, and John Hareley was instanced as "reading so loud upon his Latin
popish primer (that he understands not) that he troubles both minister
and people." In November matters were so serious that the Archbishop felt
himself obliged to take steps to chastise the recusants; and in December
came the news of the execution of Cuthbert Maine at Launceston in
Cornwall.
How much the Catholics resented this against the Archbishop was brought
to Anthony's notice a day or two later. He was riding back for morning
prayer after an errand in Battersea, one frosty day, and had just come in
sight of Morton's Gateway, when he observed a man standing by it, who
turned and ran, on hearing the horse's footsteps, past Lambeth Church and
disappeared in the direction 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 man had left pinned to the door. He rode up and
detached it, and found it was a violent and scurrilous attack upon the
Archbishop for his supposed share in the death 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 and profane persons that he
named the Church of England," for that God would avenge the blood of his
saints speedily upon their murderers.
Anthony carried it into the hall, and after showing it to Mr. Scot, put
it indignantly 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
my lord."
"I am not sure," said the other, "if you desire to injure the Papists.
Such foul nonsense is their best condemnation. It is best to keep
evidence against a traitor, not destroy it. Besides, we might have caught
the knave, and now we cannot," 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 for
morning prayer. As Anthony followed him along the gallery, he thought
half guiltily of Sir Nicholas and his lady, and wondered whether that was
true of them. But he had no doubt that it was true of Catholics as a
class; they had ceased 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 and loyalty 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 it to Mary Corbet whom he had only seen momentarily in public once
or twice, and never to speak to since her visit to Great Keynes over six
years ago. He had blushed privately and bitten his lip a good many times
in the interval, when he thought of his astonishing infatuation, and yet
the glamour had never wholly faded; 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 he could, to Whitehall Palace, where
Mistress Corbet would be delighted to see him and 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 beyond seemed all a haze of golden light and dust. He heard an
exclamation, as he paused, dazzled, and the servant closed the door
behind him; and there came forward to him in the flood of glory, the same
resplendent figure, all muslin and jewels, that he remembered so well,
with the radiant face, looking scarcely older, with the same dancing eyes
and scarlet lips. All the old charm seemed to envelop him in a moment as
he saluted her with all the courtesy of which he was capable.
"Ah!" she cried, "how happy I am to see you again--those dear days at
Great Keynes!" And she took both his hands with such ardour that poor
Anthony was almost 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 the lad 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 long pole was struggling violently on the back of a horse, jerking the
reins and cursing audibly.
"Look at that fool," said Mary, "he thinks his horse as great a dolt as
himself. Chris, Chris," she screamed through her hands--"you sodden ass;
be quieter with the poor beast--soothe him, soothe him. He doesn't know
what you want of him with your foul temper and your pole going like a
windmill about his ears."
The cursing and jerking ceased, and a red furious face with thick black
beard and 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
the quintain was missed and swung round with a hard buffet on the man's
back as he tore 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
storm of contumely from the window, disappeared towards the stable.
"Why that's Chris Hatton--whom the Queen calls her sheep, and he's as
silly as one, too, with his fool's face and his bleat and his great eyes.
He trots about after her Grace, too, like a pet lamb. Bah! I'm sick of
him. That's enough of the ass; tell me about Isabel."
Then they fell to talking about Isabel; and Mary eyed him as he answered
her questions.
"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 was away 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.
Hubert has 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
that Hubert had once been fond of Isabel, but that was years ago, when
they had been all children together. Why, he reflected, he too had been
foolish once--and he blushed a little.
Then they went on to talk of Great Keynes, Sir Nicholas, and Mr.
Stewart's arrest and death; and Mary asked Anthony to excuse her interest
in such matters, but Papistry had always been her religion, and what
could a poor girl do but believe what she was taught? Then they went on
to speak of more recent affairs, and Mary made him describe to her his
life at Lambeth, and everything he did from the moment he got up to the
moment he went to bed again; and whether 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 more animated and confidential--she
was so friendly and interested and pretty, as she leaned towards him and
questioned and listened, and the faint scent of violet from her dress
awakened his old memories of her.
And then at last she approached the subject on which she had chiefly
wished to see him--which was that he should speak to the steward at
Lambeth on behalf of a young 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. It was a small matter; and Anthony readily
promised to do his best, and, if necessary, to approach the Archbishop
himself: and Mistress Corbet was profusely grateful.
They had hardly done talking of the matter, when a trumpet blew suddenly
somewhere away behind the building they were in. Mary held up a white
finger and 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 through
interminable corridors and ante-chambers, and up and down the stairs of
this enormous palace; and Anthony grew bewildered and astonished as he
went at the doors on all sides, and the roofs that ranged themselves
every way as he looked out. And at last Mary stopped at a window, and
pointed out.
The courtyard beneath was alive with colour and movement. In front of the
entrance opposite waited the great gilded state carriage, and another was
just driving away. On one side a dozen ladies on grey horses were drawn
up, to follow behind the Queen when she should come out; and a double row
of liveried servants were standing bare-headed round the empty carriage.
The rest of the court was filled with Spanish and English nobles,
mounted, with their servants on foot; all alike in splendid costumes--the
Spaniards with rich chains about their necks, and tall broad-brimmed hats
decked with stones and pearls, and the Englishmen in feathered buckled
caps and short cloaks thrown back. Two or three trumpeters stood on the
steps of the porch. Anthony did not see much state at Lambeth, and the
splendour and gaiety of this seething courtyard exhilarated him, and he
stared down at it all, fascinated, while Mary Corbet poured out a caustic
commentary:
"There is the fat fool Chris again, all red with his tilting. I would
like to baa at him again, but I dare not with all these foreign folk.
There is Leicester, 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. He is the enemy of your prelate, Master Anthony, you
know.... That is Oxford, just behind him on the chestnut. Yes, look well
at him. He is the prince of the tilt-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. These sweet-washed gloves"--and she flapped
an embroidered pair before Anthony--"these he brought to England. God
bless and reward him for it!" she added fervently.... "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 kneel before her Grace. You
know, she allows him to sit when he confers with her. But then, she is
ever prone to show mercy to bearded persons.... Ah! there is dear Sidney;
that is a sweet soul. But what does he do here among the stones and
mortar when he has the beeches of Penshurst to walk beneath. He is not so
wise as I thought him.... But I must say I grow weary of his nymphs and
his airs of Olympus. And for myself, I do not see that Flora and
Phoebus and Maia and the rest are a great gain, instead of Our Lady and
Saint Christopher and the court of heaven. But then I am a Papist and not
a heathen, and therefore blind and superstitious. Is that not so, Master
Anthony?... And there is Maitland beside him, with the black velvet cap
and the white feather, and his cross eyes and mouth. 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 on the water,
too, I see. Now what brings him here? I should have thought his affairs
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 French
marriage, you know. So you may figure to yourself Mendoza's love for him!
They will be like two cats together on the barge; spitting and snarling
softly at one another. Her Grace loves to balance folk like that; first
one stretches his claws, and then the other; then one arches his back and
snarls, and the other scratches his face for him; and then when all is
flying fur and blasphemy, off slips her Grace and does what she will."
It was an astonishing experience for Anthony. He had stepped out from his
workaday life among the grooms and officers and occasional glimpses of
his lonely old master, into an enchanted region, where great personages
whose very names were luminous with fame, now lived and breathed and
looked cheerful or sullen before his very eyes; and one who knew them in
their daily life stood by him and commented and interpreted them for him.
He listened and stared, dazed with the strangeness of it all.
Mistress Corbet was proceeding to express her views upon the foreign
element that formed half the pageant, when the shrill music broke out
again in the palace, and the trumpeters on the steps took it up; and a
stir and bustle began. Then out of the porch began to stream a
procession, like a river of colour and jewels, pouring from the foot of
the carved and windowed wall, and eddying in a tumbled pool about the
great gilt carriage;--ushers and footmen and nobles and ladies and pages
in bewildering succession. Anthony pressed his forehead to the glass as
he watched, with little exclamations, and Mary watched him, amused and
interested by his enthusiasm.
And last moved the great canopy bending and swaying under the doorway,
and beneath it, like two gorgeous butterflies, at the sight of whom all
the standing 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 the five plumes atop and the caparisoned horses that
stamped and tossed their jingling heads. The yard was already emptying
fast, _en route_ for Chelsea Stairs; and as soon as the two were seated,
the shrill trumpets blew again, and the halberdiers moved off with the
carriage in the midst, the great nobles going before, and the ladies
behind. The later comers mounted as quickly as possible, as their horses
were brought in from the stable entrance, and clattered away, and in five
minutes the yard was empty, except for a few sentries at their posts, and
a servant or two lounging at the doorway; and as Anthony still stared at
the empty pavement and the carpeted steps, far away from the direction of
the Abbey came the clear call of the horns to tell the loyal folk that
the Queen was coming.
It was a great inspiration for Anthony. He had seen world-powers
incarnate below him in the glittering rustling figure of the Queen, and
the dark-eyed courtly Ambassador in his orders and jewels at her side.
There they had sat together in one carriage; the huge fiery realm of the
south, whose very name was redolent with passion and adventure and
boundless wealth; and the little self-contained northern kingdom, now
beginning to stretch its hands, and quiver all along its tingling sinews
and veins with fresh adolescent life. And Anthony knew that he was one of
the cells of this young organism; and that in him as well as in Elizabeth
and this sparkling creature at his side ran the fresh red blood of
England. They were all one in the possession of a common life; and his
heart burned as he thought of it.
After he had parted from Mary he rode back to Westminster, and crossed
the river by the horse-ferry that plied there. And even as he landed and
got his beast, with a deal of stamping and blowing, off the echoing
boards on to the clean gravel again, there came down the reaches of the
river the mellow sound of music across a mile of water, mingled with the
deep rattle of oars, and sparkles of steel and colour glittered from the
far-away royal barges in the autumn sunshine; and the lad thought with
wonder how the two great powers so savagely at war upon the salt sea,
were at peace here, sitting side by side on silken cushions and listening
to the same trumpets of peace upon the flowing river.
CHAPTER II
SOME NEW LESSONS
The six years that followed Sir Nicholas' return and Hubert's departure
for the North had passed uneventfully at Great Keynes. The old knight had
been profoundly shocked that any Catholic, especially an agent so
valuable as Mr. Stewart, should have found his house a death-trap; and
although he continued receiving his friends and succouring them, he did
so with more real caution and less ostentation of it. His religious zeal
and discretion were further increased by the secret return to the "Old
Religion" of several of his villagers during the period; and a very fair
congregation attended Mass so often as it was said in the cloister wing
of the Hall. The new rector, like his predecessor, was content to let the
squire alone; and unlike him had no wife to make trouble.
Then, suddenly, in the summer of '77, catastrophes began, headed by the
unexpected return of Hubert, impatient of waiting, and with new plans in
his mind.
Isabel had been out with Mistress Margaret walking in the dusk one August
evening after supper, on the raised terrace beneath the yews. They had
been listening to the loud snoring of the young owls in the ivy on the
chimney-stack opposite, and had watched the fierce bird slide silently
out of the gloom, white against the blackness, and disappear down among
the meadows. Once Isabel had seen him pause, too, on one of his return
journeys, suspicious of the dim figures beneath, silhouetted on a branch
against the luminous green western sky, with the outline of a mouse with
its hanging tail plain in his crooked claws, before he glided to his nest
again. As Isabel waited she heard the bang of the garden-door, but gave
it no thought, and a moment after Mistress Margaret asked her to fetch a
couple of wraps from the house for them both, as the air had a touch of
chill in it. She came down the lichened steps, crossed the lawn, and
passed into the unlighted hall. As she entered, the door opposite opened,
and for a moment she saw the silhouette of a man's figure against the
bright 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 the
first time in her life. She struggled and panted a moment as she felt his
breath on her face; and he released her. She recoiled to the door, and
stood there 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 the western glimmer.
"I cannot wait," he said, "I have been nearly beside myself. I have left
the north--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 my
aunt?"
Isabel heard a step on the gravel outside.
"She is coming," she said sharply. Hubert melted into the dark, and she
saw the opposite door open and let him out.
The next day Hubert announced his plans to Sir Nicholas, and a conflict
followed.
"I cannot go on, sir," he said, "I cannot wait for ever. I am treated
like a servant, too; and you know how miserably I am paid, I have obeyed
you for six years, sir; and now I have thrown up the post and told my
lord to his face that I can bear with him no longer."
Sir Nicholas' face, as he sat in his upright chair opposite the boy, grew
flushed 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
sail with Mr. Drake."
Sir Nicholas' face grew terrific. He rose, and struck the table twice
with his clenched 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, to approach him before.
"Sweetheart," she said tranquilly, as he sat and glowered at his plate
when supper was over and the men had left the room, "sweetheart, we must
have Hubert down 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
has given up the post that I asked for him; and he comes striding and
ruffling home with 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 him like 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,
and carry on the old name."
"He has disgraced it," burst out the angry old man, "and he is going now
with that damned Protestant to harry Catholics. By the grace of God I
love my country, and would serve her Grace with my heart's blood--but
that my boy should go with Drake----!" and again his voice failed.
It was a couple of days before she could obtain her husband's leave to
write a conciliatory letter, giving leave to Hubert to go with Drake, if
he had made any positive engagement (because, as she represented to Sir
Nicholas, there was nothing actually wrong or disloyal to the Faith in
it)--but entreating him with much 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, in whose 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 too hardly of your father's words to you; he is quick
and hot, as you are, too--but indeed we love you dearly. Your room here
is ready for you; and Piers wants a firm hand now over him, as your
father is so old. So come back, my darling, and make our old hearts glad
again."
But the weeks passed by, and no answer came, and the old people's hearts
grew sick with suspense; and then, at last, in September the courier
brought a letter, written from Plymouth, which told the mother that it
was too late; that he had in fact engaged himself to Mr. Drake in August
before he had come to Great Keynes at all; and that in honour he must
keep his engagement. He asked pardon of his father for his hastiness; but
it seemed a cold and half-hearted sorrow; and the letter ended by
announcing that the little fleet would sail in November; and that at
present they were busy fitting the ships and engaging the men; and that
there would be no opportunity for him to return to wish them good-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
Maxwell sent for Isabel, and they had a long interview. The old lady was
astonished at the girl's quietness and resignation.
Yes, she said, she loved Hubert with all her heart. She had loved him for
a long while. No, she was not angry, only startled. What would she do
about the difference in religion? Could she marry him while one was a
Catholic and the other a Protestant? No, they would never be happy like
that; and she did not know what she would do. She supposed she would wait
and see. Yes, she would wait and see; that was all that could be
done.--And then had come a silent burst of tears, and the girl had sunk
down on her knees and hidden her face in the old lady's lap, and the
wrinkled jewelled old hand passed quietly over the girl's black hair; but
no more had been said, and Isabel presently got up and went home to the
Dower House.
The autumn went by, and November came, and there was no further word from
Hubert. Then towards the end of November a report reached them from
Anthony at Lambeth that the fleet had sailed; but had put back into
Falmouth after a terrible storm in the Channel. And hope just raised its
head.
Then one evening after supper Sir Nicholas complained of fever and
restlessness, and went early to bed. In the night he was delirious.
Mistress Margaret hastened up at midnight from the Dower House, and a
groom galloped off to Lindfield before morning to fetch the doctor, and
another to fetch Mr. Barnes, the priest, from Cuckfield. Sir Nicholas was
bled to reduce the fever of the pneumonia that had attacked him. All day
long he was sinking. About eleven o'clock that night he fell asleep,
apparently, and Lady Maxwell, who had watched incessantly, was persuaded
to lie down; but at three o'clock in the morning, on the first of
December, Mistress Margaret awakened her, and together they knelt by the
bedside of the old man. The priest, who had anointed him on the previous
evening, knelt behind, repeating the prayers for the dying.
Sir Nicholas lay on his back, supported by pillows, under the gloom of
the black old four-posted bed. A wood-fire glowed on the hearth, and the
air was fragrant with the scent of the burning cedar-logs. A crucifix was
in the old man's hands; but his eyes were bright with fever, and his
fingers every now and then relaxed, and then tightened their hold again
on the cool silver of the figure of the crucified Saviour. His lips were
moving tremulously, and his ruddy 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; in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, Who suffered
for thee; in the name of the Holy Ghost, who was shed forth upon thee; In
the name of Angels and Archangels; in the name of Thrones and Dominions;
in the name of Principalities and 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 his wife, 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
was constantly 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; strangers came 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. The following day the air of mystery
deepened; and young Mrs. Melton whispered to Isabel, with many glances
and becks, that she and her man had seen lights through the chapel
windows at three o'clock that morning. Isabel went into the chapel
presently to visit the grave, and there was a new smear of black on the
east wall as if a taper had been set too near.
The courier who had been despatched to announce to Hubert that his father
had died 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 again on the thirteenth, and that Hubert was gone with it; so
Lady Maxwell, now more silent 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,
great movements had been taking place in her soul, and if Hubert had only
known the state 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 its
almost inevitable work; and the girl had been learning that behind the
brilliant and even crude surface of the Catholic practice, there lay
still and beautiful depths of devotion which she had scarcely dreamed of.
The old nun's life was a revelation to Isabel; she heard from her bed in
the black winter mornings her footsteps in the next room, and soon learnt
that Mistress Margaret spent at least two hours in prayer before she
appeared at all. Two or three times in the day she knew that she retired
again for the same purpose, and again an hour after she was in bed, there
were the same gentle movements next door. She began to discover, too,
that for the Catholic, as well as for the Puritan, the Person of the
Saviour was the very heart of religion; that her own devotion to Christ
was a very languid flame by the side of the ardent inarticulate passion
of this soul who believed herself His wedded spouse; and that the worship
of the saints and the Blessed Mother instead of distracting the love of
the Christian soul rather seemed to augment it. The King of Love stood,
as she fancied sometimes, to Catholic eyes, in a glow of ineffable
splendour; and the faces of His adoring Court reflected the ruddy glory
on all sides; thus refracting the light of their central Sun, instead of,
as she had thought, obscuring it.
Other difficulties, too, began to seem oddly unreal and intangible, when
she had looked at them in the light of Mistress Margaret's clear old eyes
and candid face. It was a real event in her inner life when she first
began to understand what the rosary meant to Catholics. Mistress Corbet
had told her what was the actual use of the beads; and how the mysteries
of Christ's life and death were to be pondered over as the various
prayers were said; but it had hitherto seemed to Isabel as if this method
were an elaborate and superstitious substitute for reading the inspired
record of the New Testament.
She had been sitting out in the little walled garden in front of the
Dower House one morning on an early summer day after her father's death,
and Mistress Margaret had come out in her black dress and stood for a
moment looking at her irresolutely, framed in the dark doorway. Then she
had come slowly across the grass, and Isabel had seen for the first time
in her fingers a string of ivory beads. Mistress Margaret sat down on a
garden chair a little way from her, and let 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 eyes were half-closed,
and her lips just moving; and the beads passing slowly through her
fingers. She looked almost like a child dreaming, in spite of her
wrinkles 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
always associated with the idea of beads. So the minutes passed away;
every time that Isabel looked up there was the little white face with the
long lashes lying on the cheek, and the crown of snowy hair and lace, and
the luminous look of a soul in conscious communion with the unseen.
When the old lady had finished, she twisted the beads about her fingers
and opened 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
her lap. 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--"you see, my Isabel, we are nothing more than children with God
and His Blessed Mother. To say 'Hail Mary, Hail Mary,' is the best way of
telling her how much we love her. And then this string of beads is like
Our Lady's girdle, and her children love to finger it, and whisper to
her. And then we say our paternosters, too; and all the while we are
talking she is shewing us pictures of her dear Child, and we look at all
the great things He did for us, one by one; and then we turn the page and
begin again."
"I see," said Isabel; and after a moment or two's silence Mistress
Margaret got up and went into the house.
The girl sat still with her hands clasped round her knee. How strange and
different this religion was to the fiery gospel she had heard last year
at Northampton from the harsh stern preacher, at whose voice a veil
seemed to rend and show a red-hot heaven behind! How tender and simple
this was--like a blue summer's sky with drifting clouds! If only it was
true! If only there were a great Mother whose girdle was of beads strung
together, which dangled into every Christian's hands; whose face bent
down over every Christian's bed; and whose mighty and tender arms that
had held her Son and God were still stretched out 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 and
man--the man, Christ Jesus."
And so the time went by, like an outgoing tide, silent and steady. The
old nun did not talk much to the girl about dogmatic religion, for she
was in a difficult 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 she had gone too far, sometimes not far
enough; but on the whole her practice was never to suggest questions, but
only to answer them when Isabel asked; and to occupy herself with
affirmative rather than with destructive criticism. More than this she
hesitated to do out of honour for the dead; less than this she dared not
do out of love for God and Isabel. But there were three or four
conversations that she felt were worth waiting for; and the look on
Isabel's face afterwards, and the sudden questions she would ask
sometimes after a fit of silence, made her friend's heart quicken towards
her, and her prayers more fervent.
The two were sitting together one December day in Isabel's upstairs room
and the girl, who had just come in from a solitary walk, was half
kneeling on the window-seat and drumming her fingers softly on the panes
as she looked out at the red western sky.
"I used to think," she said, "that Catholics had no spiritual life; but
now it seems to me that in comparison we Puritans have none. You know so
much about the soul, as to what is from God and what from the Evil One;
and we have to grope for ourselves. And yet our Saviour said that His
sheep should know His voice. I do not understand it." And she turned
towards Mistress Margaret who had laid down her work and was listening.
"Dear child," she said, "if you mean our priests and spiritual writers,
it is because they study it. We believe in the science of the soul; and
we consult our spiritual guides for our soul's health, as the leech for
our body's health."
"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 his business. He need not be any better or cleverer in other respects.
The baker may 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
little slow 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
that asks 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
millions of souls who form Holy Church are right, when they all agree
together?" Isabel moved a little impatiently.
"You see," went on Mistress Margaret, "that is what we Catholics believe
our Saviour meant when He said that the gates of hell should not prevail
against His 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
puzzled eyes.
"Well, my child," she said, "do they seem sufficient, when you look at
Christendom 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 Church of England, all saying they hold to the
Scriptures alone. Nay, nay; the Scriptures 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 that tradition. But where there
is no dame to teach, the children soon fall a-fighting about the book and
the meaning of it."
Isabel looked at Mistress Margaret a moment, and then turned back again
to the window 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,
"Christ is 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 that openeth and none shutteth said to him, 'I will give
thee the keys, and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in
heaven.' That is why we call 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 is the plain meaning of the words. We Catholics are a simple folk.
We hold that what our Saviour said simply He meant simply: as we do in
the sacred mystery of His Body and Blood. To us, you know," she went on,
smiling, with a hand on the girl's arm, "it seems as if you Protestants
twisted the Word of God against all justice."
Isabel smiled back at her; but she was puzzled. The point of view was new
to her. And yet again in the garden, a few months later, as they sat out
together on the lawn, the girl opened the same subject.
"Mistress Margaret," she said, "I have been thinking a great deal; and it
seems very plain when you talk. But you know our great divines could
answer you, though I cannot. My father was no Papist; and Dr. Grindal and
the Bishops are 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
that the babes and sucklings are as likely to be right in such matters as
the wise and prudent--even more likely, if our Saviour's words are to be
believed. Dear child, do you not see that our Lord came to save all men,
and call all men into His Church; and that therefore He must have marked
His Church in such a manner that the most ignorant may perceive it as
easily as the most learned? Learning is very well, and it is the gift of
God; but salvation and grace cannot depend upon it. It needs an architect
to understand why Paul's Church is strong and beautiful, and what makes
it so; but any child or foolish fellow can see that it 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 can explain about it and understand it, but you and I are as fit
to see it and walk into 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
whom He will. But learning, at least, has nought to do with it."
Conversations of this kind that took place now and then between the two
were sufficient to show Mistress Margaret, like tiny bubbles on the
surface of a clear 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 dear associations, 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 of England, of her gallant protest
against the corruptions of the West, and of her future unique position in
Christendom as the National Church of the most progressive country--all
this caused her to shrink back terrified from the bourne to which she was
drifting, and from the breach that must follow with her brother. But
above all else that caused her pain was the shocking suspicion that her
love for Hubert perhaps was influencing her, and that she was living in
gross self-deception as to the sincerity of her motives.
This culminated at last in a scene that seriously startled the old nun;
it took place 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 finished her night-office and was thinking of preparing herself
to bed, when there was a hurried tap at the door, and Isabel came quickly
in, her face pale and miserable, her great grey eyes full of trouble and
distraction, and her hair on her 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 went on, as the other came towards her, frightened, "let me
tell you. I must speak."
"Yes, my child, you shall; but come and sit down first," and she drew her
to a chair and set her in it, and threw a wrap over her knees and feet;
and sat down beside 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 same
tremulous voice, with her eyes fixed on the nun's face, "and to-night in
bed I could not bear it any longer. You see, I love Hubert, and I used to
think I loved our Saviour too; but now I do not know. It seems as if He
was leading me to the Catholic Church; all is so much more plain and easy
there--it seems--it seems--to make sense in the Catholic Church; and all
the rest of us are wandering in the dark. But if I become a Catholic, you
see, I can marry Hubert then; and I cannot help thinking of that; and
wanting to marry him. But then perhaps that is the reason that I think I
see it all so plainly; just because I want to see it plainly. And what am
I to do? Why will not our Lord shew me my own 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
simple and quiet. Whenever your soul begins to be disturbed and anxious,
put yourself in 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
speaking and warning me?"
"In the Catholic Church," said Mistress Margaret, "we know well about all
those 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 and desires to serve God, then whenever our Lord speaks it is to
bring sweetness with Him; and when it is the evil one, he brings
disturbance. And that is why I am sure that these questionings are not
from God. You feel stifled, is it not so, when you try to pray? and all
seems empty of God; the waves and storms are going over you. But lie
still and be content; and refuse to be disturbed; and you will soon be at
peace again and see the light clearly."
Mistress Margaret found herself speaking simply in short words and
sentences as to a child. She had seen that for a long while past the
clouds had been gathering over Isabel, and that her soul was at present
completely overcast and unable to perceive or decide anything clearly;
and so she gave her this simple advice, and did her utmost to soothe her,
knowing that such a clean soul would not be kept long in the dark.
She knelt down with Isabel presently and prayed aloud with her, in a
quiet even voice; a patch of moonlight lay on the floor, and something of
its white serenity seemed to be in the old nun's tones as she entreated
the merciful Lord to bid peace again to this anxious soul, and let her
see light again through the dark.
And when she had taken Isabel back again to her own room at last, and had
seen her safely into bed, and kissed her good-night, already the girl's
face was quieter as it lay on the pillow, and the lines were smoothed out
of her forehead.
"God bless you!" said Mistress Margaret.
CHAPTER III
HUBERT'S RETURN
After the sailing of Mr. Drake's expedition, the friends of the adventurers
had to wait in patience for several months before news arrived. Then the
_Elizabeth_, under the command of Mr. Winter, which had been separated
from Mr. Drake's _Pelican_ in a gale off the south-west coast of America,
returned to England, bringing the news of Mr. Doughty's execution for
desertion; but of the _Pelican_ herself there was no further news until
complaints arrived from the Viceroy of New Spain of Mr. Drake's ravages
up the west coast. Then silence again fell for eighteen months.
Anthony had followed the fortunes of the _Pelican_, in which Hubert had
sailed, with a great deal of interest: and it was with real relief that
after the burst of joy in London at the news of her safe return to
Plymouth with an incalculable amount of plunder, he had word from Lady
Maxwell that she hoped he would come down at once to Great Keynes, and
help to welcome Hubert home. He was not able to go at once, for his
duties detained him; but a couple of days after the Hall had welcomed its
new master, Anthony was at the Dower House again with Isabel. He found
her extraordinarily bright and vivacious, and was delighted at the
change, for he had been troubled the last time he had seen her a few
months before, at her silence and listlessness; but her face was radiant
now, as she threw herself into his arms at the door, and told him that
they were all to go to supper that night at the Hall; and that Hubert had
been keeping his best stories on purpose for his return. She showed him,
when they got up to his room at last, little things Hubert had given
her--carved nuts, a Spanish 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 of
half-suppressed happiness that shone out now and again suddenly. There he
sat, for hours after supper that night, broader and more sunburnt than
ever, with his brilliant eyes glancing round as he talked, and his sinewy
man's hand, in the delicate creamy ruff, making little explanatory
movements, and drawing a map once or twice in spilled wine on the
polished oak; the three ladies sat forward and watched him breathlessly,
or leaned back and sighed as each tale ended, and Anthony found himself,
too, carried away with enthusiasm again and again, as he looked at this
gallant sea-dog in his gold chain and satin and jewels, 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 we rose. Mr. Fletcher had prepared a table in the poop-cabin, with a
white cloth and bread and wine; and at nine of the clock we were all
assembled where we might 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 lines down the deck to where the block
stood by the main-mast; and the two came down together; 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 he and Mr. Drake
put off their doublets, and Mr. Doughty knelt at the block, and said
another prayer or two, and then laid his head down, and he was shivering
a little with cold, and then, when he gave the sign, Mr. Drake----" and
Hubert brought the edge of his hand down sharply, and the glasses rang,
and the ladies drew quick hissing breaths; and Lady Maxwell put her hand
on her son's arm, as he looked round on all their faces.
Then he told them of the expedition up the west coast, and of the towns
they sacked; and the opulent names rolled oddly off his tongue, and
seemed to bring a 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 emeralds of the size of pigeon's eggs, and the
chests of pearls, and the twenty-six tons of silver, and the wedges of
pure gold from the Peruvian galleon, and of the golden falcon from the
Chinese trader that they captured south of Guatulco. And he described the
search up the coast for the passage eastwards that never existed; and of
Drake's superb resolve to return westwards instead, by the Moluccas; and
how they stayed at Ternate, south of Celebes, and coasted along Java
seeking a passage, and found it in the Sunda straits, and broke out from
the treacherous islands into the open sea; crossed to Africa, rounded the
Cape of Good Hope; came up the west coast, touching at Sierra Leone, and
so home again along the Spanish and French coasts, to Plymouth Sound and
the pealing of Plymouth 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
his obstinate eyes. I have seen him stand on the poop, when the arrows
were like hail on the deck, with one finger in the ring round his
neck,--so": and Hubert thrust a tanned finger into a link of his chain,
and lifted his chin, "just making little signs to the steersman, with his
hand behind his back, to bring the ship nearer to the Spaniard; as cool,
I tell you, as cool as if he were playing merelles. Oh! and then when we
boarded, out came his finger from his ring; and there was none that
struck so true and fierce; and all in silence too, without an oath or a
cry or a word; except maybe to give an order. But he was very sharp with
all that angered him. When we sighted the _Madre di Dios_, I ran into
his cabin to tell him of it, without saluting, so full was my head of
the chase. And he looked at me like ice; and then roared at me to know
where my manners were, and bade me go out and enter again properly,
before he would hear my news; and then I heard him rating the man that
stood at his door for letting me pass in that state. At his dinner, too,
which he took alone, there were always trumpets to blow, as when her
Grace dines. When he laughed it seemed as if he did it with a grave face.
There was a piece of grand fooling when we got out from among those weary
Indian islands; where the great crabs be, and flies that burn in the
dark, as I told you. Mr. Fletcher, the minister, played the coward one
night when we ran aground; and bade us think of our sins and our immortal
souls, instead of urging us to be smart about the ship; and he did it,
too, not as Mr. Drake might do, but in such a melancholy voice 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
man durst laugh, with a pair of pantoufles in his hand; and Mr. Fletcher
was brought before him, trying to smile as if 'twas a jest for him too,
between two guards; and there he was arraigned; and the witnesses were
called; and Tom Moore said how he was tapped on the shoulder by Mr.
Fletcher as he was getting a pick from the hold; and how he was as white
as a ghost and bade him think on Mr. Doughty, how there was no mercy for
him when he needed it, and so there would be none for us--and then other
witnesses came, and then Mr. Fletcher tried to make his defence, saying
how it was the part of a minister to bid men think on their souls; but
'twas no good. Mr. Drake declared him guilty; and sentenced him to be
kept in irons till he repented of that his cowardice; and then, which was
the cream of the joke, since the prisoner was a minister, Mr. Drake
declared him excommunicate, and cut off from the Church of God, and given
over to the devil. And he was put in irons, too, for a while; so 'twas
not all a joke."
"And what is Mr. Drake doing now?" asked Lady Maxwell.
"Oh! Drake is in London," said Hubert. "Ah! yes, and you must all come to
Deptford 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 her brother, 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
the treasure 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 my
father's place here. He will understand"; and he gave one swift glance at
Isabel, and her eyes fell.
Anthony was obliged to return to Lambeth after a day or two, and he
carried with him a heart full of admiration and enthusiasm for his
friend. He had wondered once or twice, too, as his eyes fell on Isabel,
whether there was anything in what Mistress Corbet had said; but he dared
not speak to her, and still less to Hubert, unless his confidence was
first sought.
The visit to Deptford, which took place a week or two later, gave an
additional spurt to Anthony's nationalism. London was all on fire at the
return of the buccaneers, and as Anthony rode down the south bank of the
river from Lambeth to join the others at the inn, the three miles of
river beyond London Bridge were an inspiriting sight in the bright winter
sunshine, crowded with craft of all kinds, bright with bunting, that were
making their way down to the naval triumph. The road, too, was thick with
vehicles and pedestrians.
It was still early when he met his party at the inn, and Hubert took them
immediately to see the _Pelican_ that was drawn up in a little creek on
the south bank. Mistress Margaret had not come, so the four went together
all over the ship that had been for these years the perilous home of this
sunburnt lad 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 been celebrated; and where Drake himself had eaten in royal
fashion to the sound of trumpets and slept with all-night sentries at his
door. He showed them too his own cabin, where he had lived with three
more officers, and the upper poop-deck where Drake would sit hour after
hour with his spy-glass, ranging the horizons for treasure-ships. And he
showed them, too, the high forecastle, and the men's quarters; and Isabel
fingered delicately the touch-holes of the very guns that had roared and
snapped so fiercely at the Dons; and they peered down into the dark empty
hold where the treasure-chests had lain, and up at the three masts and
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
run up a flag to show them how it was done; and they smelled the strange
tarry briny smell of a sea-going ship.
"You are not tired?" Anthony said to his sister, as they walked back to
the inn from which they were to see the spectacle. She shook her head
happily; and Anthony, looking at her, once more questioned himself
whether Mistress Corbet were right or not.
When they had settled down at last to their window, the crowds were
gathering thicker every moment about the entrance to the ship, which lay
in the creek perhaps a hundred yards from the inn, and on the road along
which the Queen was to come from Greenwich. Anthony felt his whole heart
go out in sympathy to these joyous shouting folk beneath, who were here
to celebrate the gallant pluck of a little bearded man and his followers,
who for the moment stood for England, and in whose presence just now the
Queen herself must take second place. Even the quacks and salesmen who
were busy in their booths all round used patriotism to push their
bargains.
"Spanish ointment, Spanish ointment!" bellowed a red-faced herbalist in a
doctor's gown, just below the window. "The Dons know what's best for
wounds and knocks after Frankie Drake's visit"; and the crowd laughed and
bought up his boxes. And another drove a roaring business in green glass
beads, reported to be the exact size of the emeralds taken from the
_Cacafuego_; and others sold little models of the _Pelican_, warranted to
frighten away Dons and all other kinds of devils from the house that
possessed one. Isabel laughed with pleasure, and sent Anthony down to buy
one for her.
But perhaps more than all else the sight of the seamen themselves stirred
his heart. Most of them, officers as well as men, were dressed with
absurd extravagance, for the prize-money, even after the deduction of the
Queen's lion-share, had been immense, but beneath their plumed and
jewel-buckled caps, brown faces looked out, alert and capable, with tight
lips and bright, puckered eyes, with something of the terrier in their
expression. There they swaggered along with a slight roll in their walk,
by ones or twos, through the crowd that formed lanes to let them pass,
and surged along in their wake, shouting after them and clapping them on
the back. Anthony watched them eagerly as they made their way from all
directions to where the _Pelican_ lay; for it was close on noon. Then
from far away came the boom of the Tower guns, and then the nearer crash
of those that guarded the dockyard; and last the deafening roar of the
_Pelican_ broadside; and then the smoke rose and drifted in a heavy veil
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
high braying of the trumpets pierced the roaring welcome of the people.
But the watchers at the windows could see no more over the heads of the
crowd than the plumes of the royal carriage, as the Queen dismounted, and
a momentary glimpse of 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 church bells pealed a welcome.
Lady Maxwell insisted that Isabel should now dine, as there would be no
more to be 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 that the banquet was over was the sight of the scarlet-clad
yeomen emerging one by one up the little hatchway that led below. The
halberdiers lined the decks already, with their weapons flashing in long
curved lines; and by the time that the 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 foot of the poop-stairs by
which she would ascend. Then at last the two figures appeared, 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 adventurer knelt
before the Queen, and Anthony held his breath with excitement as he
caught the flash of the slender sword that an officer had put into the
Queen's hand; 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 peals overhead, answered by the roll of drums from the deck
and the blare of trumpets; and then the whole din sank into nothingness
for a moment under the heart-shaking crash of the ship's broadside,
echoed instantly by the deeper roar of the dockyard guns, and answered
after a moment or two from far away by the dull boom from the Tower. And
Anthony leaned yet further from the window and added his voice to the
tumult.
As he rode back alone to Lambeth, after parting with the others at London
Bridge, for they intended to go down home again that night, he was
glowing with national zeal. He had seen not only royalty and magnificence
but an apotheosis of character that day. There in the little trim figure
with the curly hair kneeling before the Queen was England at its
best--England that sent two ships against an empire; and it was the
Church that claimed Sir Francis Drake as a son, and indeed a devoted one,
in a sense, that Anthony himself was serving here 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's handwriting, 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. He is a Catholic, named Mr. Henry Buxton, who showed me
great love during the sorrow 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 whether Lambeth Prison is easy or hard; but I
hope perhaps that since my Lord Archbishop is a prisoner himself he has
pity on such as are so too; and so my pains be in vain. However, if you
will see Mr. Buxton at least, and have some talk with him, and show him
this letter, it will cheer him perhaps to see a friend's face."
Anthony of course made inquiries at once, and found that Mr. Buxton was
to arrive on the following afternoon. It was the custom to send prisoners
occasionally to Lambeth, more particularly those more distinguished, or
who, it was hoped, could be persuaded to friendly conference. Mr. Buxton,
however, was thought to be incorrigible, and was only sent there because
there was some delay in the preparations for his reception at Wisbeach,
which since the previous year had been used as an overflow prison for
Papists.
On the evening of the next day, which was Friday, Anthony went straight
out from the Hall after supper to the gateway prison, and found Mr.
Buxton at a fish supper in the little prison in the outer part of the
eastern tower. He introduced himself, but found it necessary to show Lady
Maxwell's letter before the prisoner was satisfied as to his identity.
"You must pardon me, Mr. Norris," he said, when he had read the letter
and asked a question or two, "but we poor Papists are bound to be shy.
Why, in this very room," he went on, pointing to the inner corner away
from the door, and smiling, "for aught I know a man sits now to hear us."
Anthony was considerably astonished to see this stranger point so
confidently to the hiding-hole, where indeed the warder used to sit
sometimes behind a brick partition, to listen to the talk of the
prisoners; and showed his surprise.
"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
come again, but Mr. Buxton begged him not to leave, as he had nearly
finished. So Anthony sat down, and observed the prison and the prisoner.
It was fairly well provided with necessaries: a good straw bed lay in one
corner on trestles; and washing utensils stood at the further wall; and
there was an oil lamp that hung high up from an iron pin. The prisoner's
luggage lay still half unpacked on the floor, and a row of pegs held a
hat and a cloak. Mr. Buxton himself was a dark-haired man with a short
beard and merry bright eyes; and was dressed soberly as a gentleman; and
behaved himself with courtesy and assurance. But it was a queer place
with this flickering lamp, thought Anthony, for a gentleman to be eating
his supper in. When Mr. Buxton had finished his dish of roach and a
tankard of ale, he looked up at Anthony, smiling.
"My lord knows the ways of Catholics, then," he said, pointing to the
bones on his plate.
Anthony explained that the Protestants observed the Friday abstinence,
too.
"Ah yes," said the other, "I was forgetting the Queen's late injunctions.
Let us see; how did it run? 'The same is not required for any liking of
Papish Superstitions or Ceremonies (is it?) hitherto used, which utterly
are to be detested of all Christian folk'; (no, the last word or two is a
gloss), 'but only to maintain the mariners in this land, and to set men
a-fishing.' That is the 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 is a reasonable and Protestant thing to
do."
Anthony might have taken this assault a little amiss, if he had not seen
a laughing light in his companion's eyes; and remembered, too, that
imprisonment is apt to breed a little bitterness. So be smiled back at
him. Then soon they fell 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 is one of those whose life continually gave the lie to men who say
that a Catholic can 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 in
difficulties sometimes as to the proper authority to be obeyed--the Pope
or the Prince.
"It is true," said the other, "or it might be. Yet the principle is
clear, _Date Caesari quae sunt Caesaris_. The difficulty lies but in the
application of the maxim."
"But with us," said Anthony--"Church of England folk,--there hardly can
be ever any such difficulty; for the Prince of the State is the Governor
of the Church as well."
"I take your point," said Mr. Buxton. "You mean that a National Church is
better, for that spiritual and temporal authorities are then at one."
"Just so," said Anthony, beginning to warm to his favourite theme. "The
Church is the nation regarded as religious. When England wars on land it
is through her army, which is herself under arms; when on sea she embarks
in the navy; and in the warfare with spiritual powers, it is through her
Church. And surely in this way the Church must always be the Church of
the people. The Englishman and the Spaniard are like cat and dog; they
like not the same food nor the same kind 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 prayers and their religion? I
quarrel with no foreigner's faith; it is God who made us so."
Anthony stopped, breathless with his unusual eloquence; but it was the
subject that lay nearest to his heart at present, and he found no lack of
words. The prisoner had watched him with twinkling eyes, nodding his head
as if in agreement; and when he had finished his little speech, nodded
again in meditative 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 is what England holds. But, my dear sir, Christ our Lord
refused such a kingdom as that. My kingdom, He said, is not of this
world--is not, that is, ruled by the world's divisions and systems. You
have described Babel,--every nation with its own language. But it was to
undo Babel and to build one spiritual city that our Saviour came down,
and sent the Holy Ghost to make the Church at Pentecost out of Arabians
and Medes and Elamites--to break down the partition-walls, as the apostle
tells us,--that there be neither Jew nor Greek, barbarian nor
Scythian--and to establish one vast kingdom (which for that very reason
we name Catholic), to destroy differences between nation and nation, by
lifting each to be of the People of God--to pull down Babel, the City of
Confusion, and build Jerusalem the City of Peace. Dear God!" cried Mr.
Buxton, rising in his excitement, and standing over Anthony, who looked
at him astonished and bewildered. "You and your England would parcel out
the Kingdom of heaven into national Churches, as you name them--among all
the kingdoms of the world; and yet you call yourselves the servants of
Him who came to do just the opposite--yes, and who will do it, in spite
of you, and make the kingdoms of this world, instead, the Kingdom of our
Lord and of His Christ. Why, if each nation is to have her Church, why
not each county and each town--yes, and each separate soul, too; for all
are different! Nay, nay, Master Norris, you are blinded by the Prince of
this world. He is shewing you even now from an high mountain the kingdoms
of this world and the glory of them: lift your eyes, dear lad, to the
hills from whence cometh your help; those hills higher than the mountain
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 lips once or twice.
"Well, sir; of course I hold with what you say, in one sense; but it is
not come 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 Holy
Catholic 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 have a little estate in France, Master Norris, where I go
sometimes; and there are folk in their wooden shoes, talking a different
human tongue to me, but, thank God! the same divine one--of contrition
and adoration and prayer. There we have the same mass, the same
priesthood, the same blessed sacrament and the same Faith, 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 City of 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
divine tongue, 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, and the varied temperaments that you told me God had made?"
Anthony bit his lip; he had overshot his mark. But the other swept on;
and as he 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 the
little divided companies they name National Churches--all confusion and
denial--to that glorious kingdom that Christ bought with his own dear
blood, and has built upon Peter, against which the gates of hell shall
not prevail. Yes, I know it is a flattering and a pleasant thought that
this little nation should have her own Church; and it is humbling and
bitter that England should be called to submit to a foreign potentate in
the affairs of faith--Nay, cry they like the Jews of old, not Christ but
Barabbas--we will not have this Man to reign 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 shall not have that
National Church that you desire: as you have dealt, so will it be dealt
to you: as you have rejected, so will you be rejected. England herself
will 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 shall forsake you. Behold your house is left
unto you desolate."
"Forgive me, Mr. Norris," he added after a pause, "if I have been
discourteous, and have forgotten my manners; but--but I would, as the
apostle said, that you were altogether as I am, except these bonds."
CHAPTER IV
A COUNTER-MARCH
Isabel was sitting out alone in the Italian garden at the Hall, one
afternoon in the summer following the visit to Deptford. Hubert was down
at Plymouth, assisting in the preparations for the expedition that Drake
hoped to conduct against Spain. The two countries were technically at
peace, but the object with which he was going out, with the moral and
financial support of the Queen, was a corporate demonstration against
Spain, of French, Portuguese, and English ships under the main command of
Don Antonio, the Portuguese pretender; it was proposed to occupy Terceira
in the Azores; and Drake and Hawkins entertained the highest hopes of
laying their hands on further plunder.
She was leaning back in her seat, with her hands behind her head,
thinking over her relations with Hubert. When he had been at home at the
end of the previous year, he had apparently taken it for granted that the
marriage would be celebrated; 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 understood that he was to come for his final answer
as soon as his work at Plymouth was over. But not a word of explanation
had passed between them on the religious difficulty. He had silenced her
emphatically and kindly once when she had approached it; and she gathered
from his manner that he suspected the direction in which her mind was
turning and was generously unwilling for her to commit herself an inch
further than she saw. Else whence came his assurance? And, for herself,
things were indeed becoming plain: she wondered why she had hesitated so
long, why she was still hesitating; the cup was brimming above the edge;
it needed but a faint touch of stimulus to precipitate all.
And so Isabel lay back and pondered, with a touch of happy impatience at
the workings of her own soul; for she dared not act without the final
touch of conviction. Mistress Margaret had taught her that the swiftest
flight of the soul was when there was least movement, when the soul knew
how to throw itself with that supreme effort of cessation into the Hands
of God, that He might bear it along: when, after informing the intellect
and seeking by prayer for God's bounty, the humble client of Heaven
waited with uplifted eyes and ready heart until 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 least might act without
restraint; so she sent it out, like a bird from the Ark, to bring her the
earnest of peace. There, in the cloister-wing, somewhere, lay the chapel,
where she and Hubert would kneel together;--somewhere beneath that grey
roof. That was the terrace where she would walk one day as one who has a
right there. Which of these windows would be hers? Not Lady Maxwell's, of
course; she must keep that.... Ah! how good God was!
The tall door on to the terrace opened, and Mistress Margaret peered out
with a letter in her hand. Isabel called to her; and the old nun came
down the steps into the garden. Why did she walk so falteringly, the girl
wondered, as if she could 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 the girl saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. She put the
letter into her hand.
Isabel lifted it in an agony of suspense; and saw her name, in Hubert's
handwriting.
"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
face was all twitching with the effort to keep back her tears. The girl
had never seen her like that before, even at Sir Nicholas' death. Was
there anything, she wondered as she looked, worse than death? But she was
too dazed by the sight to speak, 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
left London 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
turned Protestant_; and there is no reason why we should not be married
as soon as I return. I know this will make you happy to think that our
religions are no longer different. I have thought of this so long; but
would not tell you before for fear of disappointing you. Sir Francis
Drake's religion seems to me the best; it is the religion of all the
'sea-dogs' as they name us; and of the Queen's Grace, and it will be soon
of all England; and more than all it is the religion of my dearest
mistress and love. I do not, of course, know very much of it as yet; but
good Mr. Collins here has shown me the superstitions of Popery; and I
hope now to be justified by faith without works as the gospel teaches. I
fear that my mother and aunt will be much distressed by this news; I have
written, too, to tell them of it. You must comfort them, dear love; and
perhaps 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 with eyes that saw nothing. There was the grey old house before her,
and the terrace, 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 insects that danced in the trembling air; and it all meant
nothing to her; like a picture when the page is turned over it. Five
minutes ago she was regarding her life and seeing how the Grace of God
was slowly sorting out its elements from chaos to order--the road was
unwinding itself before her eyes as she trod on it day by day--now a hand
had swept all back into disorder, and the path was hidden by the ruins.
Then gradually one thought detached itself, and burned before her, vivid
and startling; and in all its terrible reality slipped between her and
the visible world on which she was staring. It was this: to embrace the
Catholic Faith meant the renouncing of Hubert. As a Protestant she might
conceivably have married a Catholic; as a Catholic it was inconceivable
that she should marry an apostate.
Then she read the letter through again carefully and slowly; and was
astonished at the unreality of Hubert's words about Romish superstition
and gospel simplicity. She tried hard to silence her thoughts; but two
reasons for Hubert's change of religion rose up and insisted on making
themselves felt; it was 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 went indoors 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
recurring gusts of heart-broken sorrow and of agonies of prayer for her
apostate son. Mistress Margaret was at the Hall all day, soothing,
encouraging, even distracting her sister by all the means in her power.
The mother wrote one passionate 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 which he had died; but a short answer only
returned, saying it was impossible to make his defence in a letter, and
expressing pious hopes that she, too, one day would be as he was; the
same courier brought a letter to Isabel, in which he expressed 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
helped her under these circumstances; her father was dead--she thanked
God for that now--and Mistress Margaret seemed absorbed in her sister's
grief. And so the girl fought with devils alone. The arguments for
Catholicism burned pitilessly clear now; every line and feature in them
stood out distinct and hard. Catholicism, it appeared to her, alone had
the marks of the Bride, visible unity, visible Catholicity, visible
Apostolicity, visible Sanctity;--there they were, the seals of the most
High God. She flung herself back furiously into the Protestantism from
which she had been emerging; there burned in the dark before her the
marks of the Beast, visible disunion, visible nationalism, visible
Erastianism, visible gulfs where holiness should be: that system in which
now she could never find rest again glared at her in all its unconvincing
incoherence, its lack of spirituality, its adulterous union with the
civil power instead of the pure wedlock of the Spouse of Christ. She
wondered once more how she dared to have hesitated so long; or dared to
hesitate still.
On the theological side intellectual arguments of this kind started out,
strong and irrefutable; her emotional drawings towards Catholicism for
the present retired. Feelings might have been disregarded or discredited
by a strong effort of the will; these apparently cold phenomena that
presented themselves to her intellect, could not be thus dealt with. Yet,
strangely enough, even now she would not throw herself resolutely into
Catholicism: the fierce stimulus instead of precipitating the crisis,
petrified it. More than once she started up from her knees in her own
dark room, resolved to awaken the nun and tell her she would wait no
longer, but would turn Catholic at once and have finished with the misery
of suspense: and even as she moved to the door her will found itself
against an impenetrable wall.
And then on the other side all her human nature cried out for
Hubert--Hubert--Hubert. There he stood by her in fancy, day and night,
that chivalrous, courteous lad, who had been loyal to her so long; had
waited so patiently; had run to her with such dear impatience; who was so
wholesome, so strong, so humble to her; so quick to understand her wants,
so eager to fulfil them; so bound to her by associations; so fit a mate
for the very differences between them. And now these two claims were no
longer compatible; in his very love for her he had ended that
possibility. All those old dreams; the little scenes 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 were to draw the
old ladies at the Hall and herself so close together--all this was
changed; some of those dreams were now for ever impossible, others only
possible on terms that she trembled even to think of. Perhaps it was
worst of all to reflect that she was in some measure responsible for his
change of religion; she fancied that it was through her slowness to
respond to light, her delaying to confide in him, that he had been driven
through impatience to take this 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 to know how far her religion was changing. She had kept up the same
reserve towards them lately as towards Hubert, chiefly because she feared
to disappoint them; and so after an attempt to tell each other a little
of their mutual sympathy, the three women were silent on the subject of
the lad who was so much to them all.
She began to show her state a little in her movements and appearance. She
was languid, soon tired and dispirited; she would go for short, lonely
walks, and fall asleep in her chair worn out when she came in. Her grey
eyes looked longer and 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
reddening woods. They had never, since the first awakening of the
consciousness of beauty in her, meant so little to her as now. It
appeared as if that keen unity of a life common to her and all living
things had been broken or obscured; and that she walked in an isolation
all the more terrible in that she was surrounded by the dumb presence of
what she loved. Last year the quick chattering cry of the blackbird, the
evening mists over the meadows, the stir of the fading life of the woods,
the rustling scamper of the rabbit over the dead leaves, the solemn call
of the homing rooks--all this, only last year, went to make up the sweet
natural atmosphere in which her spirit moved and breathed at ease. Now
she was excommunicate from that pleasant friendship, banned by nature and
forgotten by the 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 of life had centred, from whom they
radiated, and to whom she referred them all--these relations had begun to
be obscured by her love for Hubert, and now had vanished altogether. She
had regarded her earthly and her heavenly lover as two persons, each of
whom had certain claims upon her heart, and each of whom she had hoped to
satisfy in different ways; instead of identifying the two, and serving
each not apart from, but in the other. And it now seemed to her that she
was making experience of a Divine jealousy that would suffer her to be
satisfied neither with God nor man. Her soul was exhausted by internal
conflict, by the swift alternations of attraction and repulsion between
the poles of her supernatural and natural life; so that when it turned
wearily from self to what lay outside, it was not even capable, as
before, of making that supreme effort of cessation of effort which was
necessary to its peace. It seemed to her that she was self-poised in
emptiness, and could neither touch heaven or earth--crucified so high
that she could not rest on earth, so low that she could not reach to
heaven.
She came in weary and dispirited as the candles were being lighted in her
sitting-room upstairs; but she saw the gleam of them from the garden with
no sense of a welcoming brightness. She passed from the garden into the
door of the hall which was still dark, as the fire had nearly burned
itself out. As she entered the door opposite opened, and once more she
saw the silhouette of a man's figure against the lighted passage beyond;
and again she stopped frightened, and whispered "Anthony."
There was a momentary pause as the door closed and all was dark again;
and then she heard Hubert's voice say her name; and felt herself wrapped
once more in his arms. For a moment she clung to him with furious
longing. Ah! this is a tangible thing, she felt, this clasp; the faint
cleanly smell of his rough frieze dress refreshed her like wine, and she
kissed his sleeve passionately. And the wide gulf between them yawned
again; and her spirit sickened at the sight of it.
"Oh! Hubert, Hubert!" she said.
She felt herself half carried to a high chair beside the fire-place and
set down there; then he re-arranged the logs on the hearth, so that the
flames began to leap again, showing his strong hands and keen clear-cut
face; then he turned on his knees, seized her two hands in his own, and
lifted them to his lips; then laid them down again on her knee, still
holding them; and so remained.
"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's Grace 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 she was hesitating between this warm human reality and the chilly
possibilities of an invisible truth. Her hands tightened instinctively
within his, and then relaxed.
"I have been so wretched," she said piteously.
"Ah! my dear," and he threw an arm round her neck and drew her face down
to his, "but that is over now." She sat back again; and then an access of
purpose poured into her and braced her will to an effort.
"No, no," she began, "I must tell you. I was afraid to write. Hubert, I
must wait 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 you have 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
Catholic Church is not right after all."
Hubert loosed her hands and stood up. She crouched into the shadow of the
interior of the high chair, and looked up at him, terrified. His cheek
twitched a little.
"Isabel, this is foolishness. I know what the Catholic faith is. It is
not true; I have been through it all."
He was speaking nervously and abruptly. She said nothing. Then he
suddenly dropped on his knees himself.
"My dearest, I understand. You were doing this for me. I quite
understand. It is what I too----" and then he stopped.
"I know, I know," she cried piteously. "It is just what I have feared so
terribly--that--that our love has been blinding us both. And yet, what
are we to do, what are we to do? Oh! God--Hubert, help me."
Then he began to speak in a low emphatic voice, holding her hands,
delicately stroking one of them now and again, and playing with her
fingers. She watched his curly head in the firelight as he talked, and
his keen face as he looked up.
"It is all plain to me," he said, caressingly. "You have been living here
with my aunt, a dear old saint; and she has been talking and telling you
all about the Catholic religion, and making it seem all true and good.
And you, my dear child, have been thinking of me sometimes, and loving me
a little, is it not so? and longing that religion should not separate us;
and so you began to wish it was true; and then to hope it was; and at
last you have begun to think it is. But it is not your true sweet self
that believes it. Ah! you know in your heart of hearts, as I have known
so long, that it is not true; that it is made up by priests and nuns; and
it is very beautiful, I know, my dearest, but it is only a lovely tale;
and you must not spoil all for the sake of a tale. And I have been
gradually led to the light; it was your--" and his voice faltered--"your
prayers that helped me to it. I have longed to understand what it was
that made you so sweet and so happy; and now I know; it is your own
simple pure religion; and--and--it is so much more sensible, so much more
likely to be true than the Catholic religion. It is all in the Bible you
see; so plain, as Mr. Collins has showed me. And so, my dear love, I have
come to believe it too; and you must put all these fancies out of your
head, these dreams; though I love you, I love you," and he kissed her
hand again, "for wishing to believe them for my sake--and--and we will be
married before Christmas; 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 she was sacrificing a dream to reality had become incarnate in her
lover and was speaking through his lips. And yet in its very incarnation,
it seemed to reveal its weakness rather than its strength. As a dark
suggestion the thought was mighty; embodied in actual language it seemed
to shrink a little. But then, on the 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
the raging 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 too sudden, your returning like this. You must give me time. I do not
know what I believe. Oh, dear God, help me."
"Isabel, promise! promise! Before Christmas! I thought it was all to be
so happy, when I came in through the garden just now. My mother will
hardly speak to me; and I came to you, Isabel, as I always did; I felt so
sure you would be good to me; and tell me that you would always love me,
now that I had given up my 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, and caught at her hands again as he knelt.
"Isabel, promise, promise."
Then there came that gust of purpose into her heart again; she made a
determined 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. I cannot 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
not tell what he was thinking. He was standing perfectly still.
"Then that is all the answer you will give me?" he said, in a perfectly
even voice.
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
after him 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 head against the curved mantelshelf and stared into
the logs that his hands had piled together.
This, then, she thought, was the work of religion; the end of all her
aspirations and efforts, that God should mock them by bringing love into
their life, and then when they caught at it and thanked him for it, it
was whisked away again, and left their hands empty. Was this the Father
of Love in whom she had been taught to believe, who treated His children
like this? And so the bitter 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. A great Force had laid hold of her, it
might be benevolent or not--at this moment she 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. He came 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 do not ask for your promise. I leave it all in your hands. Do with me
what you will. But--but, if you could tell me how long you think it will
be before you know----"
He had touched the right note. Isabel's heart gave a leap of sorrow and
sympathy. "Oh, Hubert," she said brokenly, "I am so sorry; but I promise
I will tell you--by Easter?" and her tone was interrogative.
"Yes, yes," said Hubert. He looked at her in silence, and she saw strange
lines quivering at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes large and
brilliant in the firelight. Then the two drew together, and he took her
in his arms strongly and passionately.
* * * *
There was a scene that night between the mother and son. Mistress
Margaret had gone back to the Dower House for supper; and Lady Maxwell
and Hubert were supping in Sir Nicholas' old study that would soon be
arranged for Hubert now that he had returned for good. They had been very
silent during the meal, while the servants were in the room, talking only
of little village affairs and of the estate, and of the cancelling of the
proposed expedition. Hubert had explained to his mother that it was
generally believed that Elizabeth had never seriously intended the
English ships to sail, but that she only wished to draw Spain's attention
off herself by setting up complications between that country and France;
and when she had succeeded in this by managing to get the French squadron
safe at Terceira, she then withdrew her permission to Drake and Hawkins,
and thus escaped from the quarrel altogether. But it was a poor makeshift
for conversation.
When the servants had withdrawn, a silence fell. Presently Hubert looked
across the table between the silver branched candlesticks.
"Mother," he said, "of course I know what you are thinking. But I cannot
consent to go through all the arguments; I am weary of them. Neither will
I see Mr. 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
that priest's name; or indeed any."
"Well," said Hubert, impatiently, "at any rate I will not see him. But I
wish to say a few words about this house. We must have our positions
clear. My father left to your use, did he not, the whole of the
cloister-wing? I am delighted, dear mother, that he did so. You will be
happy there I know; and of course 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 grateful if you will superintend it all,
as before--at least, until a new mistress comes."
"Thank you, my son."
"I will speak of that in a moment," he went on, looking steadily at the
table-cloth; "but there was a word I wished to say first. I am now a
loyal subject of her Grace in all things; in religion as in all else.
And--and I fear I cannot continue to entertain seminary priests as my
father used to do. My--my conscience will not allow that. But of course,
mother, I need not say that you are at perfect liberty to do what you
will in the cloister-wing; I shall ask no questions; and I shall set no
traps or spies. But I must ask that the priests do not come into this
part of the house, nor walk in the garden. Fortunately you have a lawn in
the cloister; so that they need not lack fresh air or exercise."
"You need not fear, Hubert," said his mother, "I will not embarrass you.
You shall be in no danger."
"I think you need not have said that, mother; I am not usually thought a
coward."
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,
you see, is in that wing; and you have that lawn; and--and I do not think
I am treating 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
say it, I think he had better not come to my part of the house--at least
not when I am here; I must know nothing of it. You must do what you think
well when I am away, about him and others too. It is very difficult for
me, mother; please do not add to the difficulty."
"You need not fear," said Lady Maxwell steadily; "you shall not be
troubled with any Catholics besides ourselves."
"Then that is arranged," said the lad. "And now there is a word more.
What have you been doing to Isabel?" And he looked sharply across the
table. His mother'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 the
rest."
"Hubert," said Lady Maxwell, "I do not think you mean to insult me in
this house; but either that is an insult, or else I misunderstood you
wholly, and must ask your pardon for it."
"Well," he said, in a harsh voice, "I will make myself plain. I believe
that it is through the influence of you and Aunt Margaret that this has
been brought about."
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 old hand tenderly on his black satin sleeve as he sat and wrenched at
a nut between his 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. You saw her this evening, dear lad?"
"Yes," said Hubert, heavily, looking down at the table and taking up
another nut, "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
to ask 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
back here 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, if it 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 I am 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
have had nothing to do, so far as I know, with her conversion,
which"--and she raised her voice bravely--"I pray God to accomplish. She
has, of course, asked me questions now and then; and I have answered
them--that is all."
"And I," said Mistress Margaret, "plead guilty to the same charge, and to
no other. You are not yourself, dear boy, at present; and indeed I do not
wonder at it; and I pray God to help you; but you are not yourself, or
you would not speak like this to your mother."
Hubert rose to his feet; his face was white under the tan, and the ruffle
round his 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
with Protestants so long that I have forgotten Catholic ways; but----"
"Stay, Hubert," said his mother, "do not finish that. You will be sorry
for it presently, if you do. Come, Margaret." And she moved towards the
door; her son went 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
passed out, 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 with
emotion, "you cannot turn me like that. Oh, what have you done with my
Isabel?" He put out his hand and seized her arm. "Give her back to me,
Aunt Margaret; give her back to me."
He dropped into his seat and hid his face on his arm; and there was a sob
or two.
"Sit up and be a man, Hubert," broke in Mistress Margaret's voice, clear
and cool.
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
foolish child."
"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
happy again, and marry Isabel, and save your own soul."
"Aunt Margaret," he cried, "it is impossible. I have truly lost my faith
in the 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
stretched a tremulous hand.
"Yes, Aunt Margaret, it is so. For years and years I have been doubting;
but I kept on just because it seemed to me the best religion; and--and I
would not be driven out of it by her Grace's laws against my will, like a
dog stoned from his 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
priest would tell me. Besides, Aunt Margaret, I could not be such a--a
cur--as to come back 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
be here now for a while?"
"Not while Isabel is like this," he said. "I could not. I must go away
for a while, 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
us both."
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."
CHAPTER V
THE COMING OF THE JESUITS
The effect on Anthony of Mr. Buxton's conversation was very considerable.
He had managed to keep his temper very well during the actual interview;
but he broke out alone afterwards, at first with an angry contempt. The
absurd arrogance of the man made him furious--the arrogance that had
puffed away England and its ambitions and its vigour--palpable evidences
of life and reality, and further of God's blessing--in favour of a
miserable Latin nation which had the presumption to claim the possession
of Peter's Chair and of the person of the Vicar of Christ! Test it, said
the young man to himself, by the ancient Fathers and Councils that Dr.
Jewel quoted so learnedly, and the preposterous claim crumbled to dust.
Test it, yet again, by the finger of Providence; and God Himself
proclaimed that the pretensions of the spiritual kingdom, of which the
prisoner in the cell had bragged, are but a blasphemous fable. 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
the old Religion. Dr. William Allen, the founder of Douai College, had
already for the last seven or eight years been pouring seminary priests
into England, and over a hundred and twenty were at work among their
countrymen, preparing the grand attack. This was made in three quarters
at once.
In Scotland it was chiefly political, and Anthony thought, with a bitter
contempt, of the Count d'Aubigny, Esme Stuart, who was supposed to be an
emissary of the Jesuits; how he had plotted with ecclesiastics and
nobles, and professed Protestantism to further his ends; and of all the
stories of his duplicity and evil-living, told round the guard-room fire.
In Ireland the attempt was little else than ludicrous. Anthony laughed
fiercely to himself as he pictured the landing of the treacherous fools
at Dingle, of Sir James FitzMaurice and his lady, very wretched and giddy
after their voyage, and the barefooted friars, and Dr. Sanders, and the
banner so solemnly consecrated; and of the sands of Smerwick, when all
was over a year later, and the six hundred bodies, men and women who had
preferred Mr. Buxton's spiritual kingdom to Elizabeth's kindly rule,
stripped and laid out in rows, like dead game, for Lord Grey de Wilton to
reckon them by.
But his heart sank a little as he remembered the third method of attack,
and of the 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 of the April earthquake that had tolled the great Westminster
bell, and thrown down 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 been heard there, in full cry after a ghostly
quarry. Phantom ships had been seen from Bodmin attacking a phantom
castle that rode over the waves off the Cornish coast. An old woman of
Blasedon had given birth to a huge-headed monster with the mouth of a
mouse, eight legs, and a tail; and, worse than all, it was whispered in
the Somersetshire inns that three companies of black-robed men, sixty in
number, had been seen, coming and going overhead in the gloom. These two
strange emissaries, Fathers Persons and Campion--how they appealed to the
imagination, lurking under a hundred disguises, now of servants, now of
gentlemen 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 the people, their enemies said who were searching for them.
Anthony had seen with his own eyes some of the papers connected with
their presence--that containing a statement of their objects in coming,
namely, that they were spiritual not political agents, seeking recruits
for Christ and for none else; Campion's "Challenge and Brag," offering to
meet any English Divine on equal terms in a public disputation; besides
one or two of the controversial pamphlets, purporting to be printed at
Douai, but really emanating from a private printing-press in England, as
the Government experts had discovered from an examination of the
water-marks of the paper employed.
Yet as the weeks went by, and his first resentment cooled, Mr. Buxton's
arguments more and more sank home, for they had touched the very point
where Anthony had reckoned that his own strength lay. He had never before
heard Nationalism and Catholicism placed in such flat antithesis. In
fact, he had never before really heard the statement of the Catholic
position; and his fierce contempt gradually melted into respect. Both
theories had a concrete air of reality about them; his own imaged itself
under the symbols of England's power; the National Church appealed to him
so far as it represented the spiritual side of the English people; and
Mr. Buxton's conception appealed to him from its very audacity. This
great spiritual kingdom, striding on its way, trampling down the barriers
of temperament and nationality, disregarding all earthly limitations and
artificial restraints, imperiously dominating the world in spite of the
world's struggles and resentment--this, after all, as he thought over 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,
of exceptional ability--for Campion had been a famous Oxford orator, and
Persons a Fellow 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 which burdened the imagination with horror; hunted like
vermin, sleeping and faring hard, their very names detested by the
majority of their countrymen, with the shadow of the gallows moving with
them, and the reek of the hangman's cauldron continually 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 sank deeper,
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 Father
Campion's challenge, and the defence that the Government was preparing
against the spiritual weapons of the Jesuits? New prisons at Framingham
and Battersea; new penalties enacted by Parliament; and, above all, the
unanswerable argument of the rack, and the gallows finally to close the
discussion. And what of the army that was being set in array against the
priests, and that was even now beginning to scour the country round
Berkshire, Oxfordshire, and London? Anthony had to confess to himself
that they were queer allies for the servants of Christ; for traitors,
liars, and informers were among the most trusted Government agents.
In short, as the spring drew on, Anthony was not wholly happy. Again and
again in 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 friend had given him; and as he read its exultant
rhetoric, he wondered whether the writer was indeed as insincere and
treacherous as Mr. Scot declared. There seemed in the paper a reckless
outspokenness, calculated rather to irritate than deceive.
"I turn to the Sacraments," he read, "none, none, not two, not one, O
holy Christ, have they left. Their very bread is poison. Their baptism,
though it be true, yet in their judgment is nothing. It is not the saving
water! It is not the channel of Grace! It brings not Christ's merits to
us! It is but a sign of salvation!" And again the writer cried to
Elizabeth to return to the ancient Religion, 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 thy
nursing mothers.' Listen, Elizabeth, most Mighty Queen! To thee the great
Prophet 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 have loved thee the better, the Society of Jesus or Luther'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
the Government: it was true that half a dozen priests had been captured
and examined by torture, and that Sir George Peckham himself, who was
known to have harboured Campion, had been committed to the Marshalsea;
but yet the Jesuits' influence was steadily on the increase. More and
more severe penalties had been lately enacted; it was now declared to be
high treason to reconcile or be reconciled to the Church of Rome;
overwhelming losses in fortune as well as liberty were threatened against
all who said or heard Mass or refused to attend the services of the
Establishment; but, as was discovered from papers that fell from time to
time into the hands of the Government agents, the only answer of the
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 an appearance under any circumstances, except those
of actual physical compulsion, at the worship in the parish churches.
Worse than all, too, was the fact that this severe gospel began to
prevail; recusancy was reported to be on the increase in all parts of the
country; and many of the old aristocracy began to return to the faith of
their fathers: Lords Arundel, Oxford, Vaux, Henry Howard, and Sir Francis
Southwell were all beginning to fall under the suspicion of th |
