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diff --git a/19697-h/19697-h.htm b/19697-h/19697-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..931a01d --- /dev/null +++ b/19697-h/19697-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,28949 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of By What Authority?, by Robert Hugh Benson</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + + body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + + p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + + .chapter {text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 5em; + margin-bottom: .5em; + text-align: center; + font-size: 125%; + font-weight: bold;} + + .firstchapter {text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: .5em; + text-align: center; + font-size: 125%; + font-weight: bold;} + + .head {text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + text-align: center; + font-size: 105%; + font-weight: bold;} + + .bigindent {margin-left: 22%; + margin-right: 25%; + text-indent: 0%;} + + .ctr {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em;} + + .sc {font-variant: small-caps; + font-size: 100%;} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center; + margin-top: .5em; + margin-bottom: .5em;} + + .author {text-indent: 55%;} + + hr.short {text-align: center; + width: 25%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + text-indent: 0em;} + + .poem {margin-left:15%; margin-right:5%; + margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem p.i2 {margin-left: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of By What Authority?, by Robert Hugh Benson</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: By What Authority?</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Robert Hugh Benson</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November 2, 2006 [eBook #19697]<br /> +[Most recently updated: May 1, 2023]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Geoff Horton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BY WHAT AUTHORITY? ***</div> + +<h1>BY WHAT AUTHORITY?</h1> + +<h3>By</h3> + +<h2>Robert Hugh Benson</h2> + +<h4><i>Author of</i></h4> + +<h4>“The Light Invisible,” “The King’s Achievement,”<br/> +“A Book of the Love of Jesus,” etc.</h4> + +<p class="ctr"> +BENIZIGER BROS.<br/> +PRINTERS TO THE HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE,<br/> +NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="ctr"> +<i>I wish to acknowledge a great debt of<br/> +gratitude to the Reverend Dom Bede<br/> +Camm., O.S.B., who kindly read this book<br/> +in proof, and made many valuable corrections<br/> +and suggestions.</i> +</p> + +<p class="author"> +ROBERT HUGH BENSON +</p> + +<p class="bigindent"> +<i>Tremans<br/> + Horsted Keynes<br/> + October 27, 1904</i> +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="ctr"> +PENATIBVS · FOCISQVE · CARIS<br/> +NECNON · TRIBVS · CARIORIBVS<br/> +APVD · QVAS · SCRIPSI<br/> +IN · QVARVM · AVRES · LEGI<br/> +A · QVIBVS · ADMONITVS · EMENDAVI<br/> +HVNC · LIBRVM<br/> +D. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> PART I</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#I_I">I. The Situation</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#I_II">II. The Hall and the House</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#I_III">III. London Town</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#I_IV">IV. Mary Corbet</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#I_V">V. A Rider From London</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#I_VI">VI. Mr. Stewart</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#I_VII">VII. The Door in the Garden Wall</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#I_VIII">VIII. The Taking of Mr. Stewart</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#I_IX">IX. Village Justice</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#I_X">X. A Confessor</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#I_XI">XI. Master Calvin</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#I_XII">XII. A Winding Up</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> PART II</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_I">I. Anthony in London</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_II">II. Some New Lessons</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_III">III. Hubert’s Return</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_IV">IV. A Counter March</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_V">V. The Coming of the Jesuits</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_VI">VI. Some Contrasts</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_VII">VII. A Message From the City</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_VIII">VIII. The Massing-House</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_IX">IX. From Fulham to Greenwich</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_X">X. The Appeal to Cæsar</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_XI">XI. A Station of the Cross</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_XII">XII. A Strife of Tongues</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_XIII">XIII. The Spiritual Exercises</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#II_XIV">XIV. Easter Day</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> PART III</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_I">I. The Coming of Spain</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_II">II. Men of War and Peace</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_III">III. Home-Coming</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_IV">IV. Stanfield Place</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_V">V. Joseph Lackington</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_VI">VI. A Departure</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_VII">VII. Northern Religion</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_VIII">VIII. In Stanstead Woods</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_IX">IX. The Alarm</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_X">X. The Passage To the Garden-house</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_XI">XI. The Garden-house</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_XII">XII. The Night Ride</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_XIII">XIII. In Prison</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_XIV">XIV. An Open Door</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#III_XV">XV. The Rolling of the Stone</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<h3>BY WHAT AUTHORITY?</h3> + +<p class="ctr"> +<b><big>PART I</big></b> +</p> + +<p class="firstchapter"> +<a name="I_I">CHAPTER I</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE SITUATION +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="I_II">CHAPTER II</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE HALL AND THE HOUSE +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Isabel,” he said, “come down. Hubert is in the hall.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She told him that Anthony had just gone. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “I came to say good-bye; but I came by the orchard, and so we +missed one another.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel promised she would come. +</p> + +<p> +“Father is at Chichester,” went on Hubert, “before the Commission, but we do +not expect him back till to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +A shadow passed across Isabel’s face. “I am sorry,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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 £200 or £300 a year for the privilege of worshipping as his +conscience bade. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” said Lady Maxwell, glancing at Isabel. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was not wise, sweetheart,” said Lady Maxwell tranquilly, “the priest +will have suffered for it afterwards.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but here is supper waiting,” said my lady, “and Isabel, too, whom you +have not spoken to yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Nicholas paid no attention. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +His wife laid down her embroidery and came to him. +</p> + +<p> +“There, sweetheart,” she said, taking his cap and whip. “Now sit down and have +supper, and leave that man to God.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Isabel does not know who Topcliffe is,” said Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, my son,” said his mother, “your father does not like his name to be +spoken.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p> +“Patience! for I have wrong, +</p> + +<p> +And dare not shew wherein; +</p> + +<p> +Patience shall be my song; +</p> + +<p> +Since truth can nothing win. +</p> + +<p> +Patience then for this fit; +</p> + +<p> +Hereafter comes not yet.” +</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert smiled in the darkness to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely not,” she said, “so long as they love God.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you think—” began Hubert, and then stopped. Isabel turned to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” said Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my daughter,” he said, looking down at her with his kindly grey eyes so +like her own, and holding her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you had a good evening, sir?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +He nodded briskly. +</p> + +<p> +“And you, child?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling up at him. +</p> + +<p> +“And was Sir Nicholas there?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And was no one else there?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father, Hubert.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! And did Hubert come home with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only as far as the gate, father. I would not let him come further.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She felt herself steadily flushing; and as he turned again towards her, dropped +her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“You will be prudent and tender, I know,” he added. “I trust you wholly, +Isabel.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he kissed her on the forehead and laid his hand on her head, and looked +up, as the Puritan manner was. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe my father thinks,” he had once said, “that every penny he pays in +fines goes to swell the accidental glory of God.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And as for Isabel. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="I_III">CHAPTER III</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +LONDON TOWN +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Marrett stopped abruptly. Isabel was white and trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“There, there, my dear. I am a foolish old woman; and I’ll tell you no more.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And Mrs. Marrett’s good-humoured face broke into mirth at the thought of the +Ambassador’s impotence and duplicity. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I ask your pardon, Mr. Norris,” he said. “Perhaps you do not remember me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen you before,” said the other, puzzled for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said the man, “down at Great Keynes; I was in service at the Hall, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Norris, “I remember you perfectly. Lackington, is it +not?” +</p> + +<p> +The man bowed again. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Norris congratulated him. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you, sir,” said Lackington. +</p> + +<p> +The two children were looking at him; and he turned to them and bowed again. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Isabel and Master Anthony, sir, is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember you,” said Isabel a little shyly, “at least, I think so.” +</p> + +<p> +Lackington bowed again as if gratified; and turned to their father. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is rumoured,” said Mr. Norris, “that he is going abroad.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall count it, sir, a privilege,” said the servant, “and you shall find me +prompt and discreet.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did he do that?” interrupted Mr. Norris, astonished. +</p> + +<p> +“I ask your pardon, sir?” said Lackington interrogatively. +</p> + +<p> +“That fellow! did you not see him spit at me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not observe it, sir,” said the servant; and presently took his leave. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did that man spit at you, father?” asked Isabel, when they had come +indoors. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot think, my dear; I have never seen him in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think Lackington knew,” said Anthony, with a shrewd air. +</p> + +<p> +“Lackington! Why, Lackington did not even see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was just it,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i> Aulularia</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is this Master Taylor?” asked his father. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i> Te Deum</i>. 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! my son,” said Mr. Norris, smiling, “you must ask one who knows. And what +else happened?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Anthony, “the best is to come. They had plays, you know, the <i> +Dido</i>, and one called <i> Ezechias</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my son, go on!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! the poor boys!” said Mrs. Marrett, “and they did it all to please her +Grace, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Anthony, “I thought that was it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s it for, what’s it for?” inquired Anthony, eager and interested. +</p> + +<p> +A boy leaning from the next window answered him. +</p> + +<p> +“He said Jesus Christ was not in heaven.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment a humorist near the cart began to cry out: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Isabel,” he said, “you look all white. What is it? You know he’s a +blasphemer.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, I know,” said Isabel. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This is what they saw in it. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="I_IV">CHAPTER IV</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +MARY CORBET +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And he flung down astride of a chair with his arms on the back, and dropped his +head on to them. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But the interview was not as simple as he hoped; for Hubert was irritable and +shamefaced; and spoke lightly of the Religion again. +</p> + +<p> +“After all,” he burst out, “there are plenty of good men who have left the +faith. It brings nothing but misery.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Nicholas’ hands began to shake, and his fingers to clench themselves; but +he remembered the lad was in love. +</p> + +<p> +“My son,” he said, “you do not know what you say.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert stood turned away, with his head against the high oak mantelpiece; and +there was silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” he said at last, turning round, “I ask your pardon.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Nicholas stepped nearer, his eyes suddenly bright with tears, and his mouth +twitching, and held out his hand, which Hubert took. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The father threw his arms round him. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i> Le Chappellet de Jésus</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And Mary Corbet, too,” went on the old lady, “will be here to-morrow or the +day after.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel asked who this was. +</p> + +<p> +“She is one of the Queen’s ladies, my dear; and a great talker.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is very amusing sometimes,” said Mistress Margaret’s clear little voice. +</p> + +<p> +“And Mr. James will be here to-morrow?” said Isabel. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my child. They always suit one another; and we have known Mary for +years.” +</p> + +<p> +“And is Miss Corbet a Catholic?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear; her Grace seems to like them about her.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. James’ white teeth glimmered in a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“He told me he was going to prison next time, instead of paying the fine. It +would be cheaper, he thought.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hear her Grace loves the play,” said Mistress Margaret. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. James told her. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“We are all loyal subjects here,” said Mr. James; “tell us what you mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. James’ face wrinkled up silently in amusement; and Lady Maxwell seemed on +the point of speaking; but Miss Corbet began again: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He invites you to a dance,” went on Mr. James gravely, “a pavane.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Corbet sat down again. +</p> + +<p> +“I dare not dance a pavane,” she said, “with a real peacock.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely,” said Mr. James, with a courtier’s air, “you are too pitiful for him, +and too pitiless for us.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare not,” she said again, “for he never ceases to practise.” +</p> + +<p> +“In hopes,” said Mr. James, “that one day you will dance it with him.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. James saw it and his face relaxed. +</p> + +<p> +“You must not take us too seriously, Mistress Isabel,” he said in his kindly +way. “It is all part of the game.” +</p> + +<p> +“The game?” she said piteously. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mistress Margaret, intent on her embroidery, “the game of playing +at kings and queens and courtiers and ruffs and high-stepping.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. James’ face again broke into his silent laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“You are acid, dear aunt,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“But——” began Isabel again. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, no,” she cried, distressed. “I did not mean that. Only I did not +understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, I know; and please God you never will.” And he looked at her with +such a tender gravity that her eyes fell. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, aunt Margaret,” said James softly, “I shall not have much more of it. +You need not fear for me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She was immensely interested in Isabel’s religion. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Of course Isabel could not, though she tried again and again. Her definitions +were as barren as any others. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Another time Miss Corbet spoke yet more plainly. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel had to confess that she did think something of the sort. +</p> + +<p> +“There, now, what did I say? Why haven’t either of those two old nuns at the +Hall taught you any better?” +</p> + +<p> +“They—they don’t talk to me about religion.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mary came down one day and found the two in the garden together. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The church!” said Isabel, “that is locked: we must go to the Rectory.” +</p> + +<p> +“Locked!” exclaimed Mary, “and is that part of the blessed Reformation? Well, +come, at any rate.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We will tap at the window,” said Anthony, “it is the quickest way.” +</p> + +<p> +They came up towards the study window that looked on to the drive; when +Anthony, who was in front, suddenly recoiled and then laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“They are at it again,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We seem to be interrupting,” said Mary coolly, as she turned away. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="I_V">CHAPTER V</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +A RIDER FROM LONDON +</p> + +<p> +“We will walk on, Master Anthony,” said Mistress Corbet. “Will you bring the +keys when the Rector and his lady have done?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Mary Corbet?” he said, interrogatively. +</p> + +<p> +Mary bowed to him. +</p> + +<p> +“May we see the church, sir; your church, I should say perhaps; that is, if we +are not disturbing you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +As the Rector was unlocking the porch door, Mary surveyed him with a pleased +smile. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Dent explained that the Pope was one of the superstitions in question. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I see you are too sharp for me,” said Mary, beaming at him. +</p> + +<p> +Then they entered the church; and Mary began immediately on a running comment. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +They were walking slowly up the centre aisle now. Mr. Dent had to explain that +the vestments had been burnt on the green. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i> do +</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When she rose from her knees, her eyes seemed bright with tears, and her voice +was tender. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She went up into the chancel and looked about her in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“This was the piscina, Mistress Corbet,” said the Rector. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“This was a chantry, of course?” said Mistress Corbet. +</p> + +<p> +The Rector confessed that it had been so. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +When they reached the west entrance again she turned and looked up the aisle +again. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“At least courtesy and Christian kindness is left, madam,” he said sternly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“They are at it again,” said Anthony, once more. +</p> + +<p> +“And what do you mean by that, Master Anthony?” said Mistress Corbet, who +seemed herself again now. +</p> + +<p> +“She is just a scold,” said the lad, “the village-folk hate her.” +</p> + +<p> +“You seem not to love her,” said Mary, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Mistress Corbet, do you know what she said—” and then he broke off, +crimson-faced. +</p> + +<p> +“She is no friend to Catholics, I suppose,” said Mary, seeming to notice +nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“She is always making mischief,” he went on eagerly. “The Rector would be well +enough but for her. He is a good fellow, really.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My sister has been called away by the housekeeper,” she explained, “but she +will be back presently.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been to see the church,” said Mary. “The Rector showed it to me. What +a beautiful place it must have been.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is terrible,” said Mary, a little absently, as she turned the pages of the +book. +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Margaret looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! you have one of my books there,” she said. “It is a little collection I +made.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Corbet turned to the beginning, but only found a seal with an inscription. +</p> + +<p> +“But this belonged to a nunnery,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mistress Margaret, tranquilly, “and I am a nun.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary looked at her in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“But, but,” she began. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And have you always said your offices?” Mary asked astonished. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And this is one of your books?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear. I was allowed at least to take it away with me. My sister here +is very fond of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary opened it again, and began to turn the pages. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it all in your handwriting, Mistress Torridon?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but this is charming,” cried Mary, intent on the book. +</p> + +<p> +“Read it, my dear, aloud.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary read: +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p> +“Let me not rest, O Lord, nor have quiet, +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +But fill my soul with spiritual travail, +</p> + +<p> +To sing and say, O mercy, Jesu sweet; +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +Thou my protection art in the battail. +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +Set thou aside all other apparail; +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +Let me in thee feel all my affiance. +</p> + +<p> +Treasure of treasures, thou dost most avail. +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +Grant ere I die shrift, pardon, repentance.” +</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +Her voice trembled a little and ceased. +</p> + +<p> +“That is from some verses of Dan John Lydgate, I think,” said Mistress +Margaret. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is another,” said Mary in a moment or two. +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p> +“Jesu, at thy will, I pray that I may be, +</p> + +<p> +All my heart fulfil with perfect love to thee: +</p> + +<p> +That I have done ill, Jesu forgive thou me: +</p> + +<p> +And suffer me never to spill, Jesu for thy pity.” +</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +“The nuns of Hampole gave me that,” said Mistress Margaret. “It is by Richard +Rolle, the hermit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me a little,” said Mary Corbet, suddenly laying down the book, “about +the nunnery.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean,” said Mary softly, “that, that—” and she stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mistress Margaret, I love to hear you talk like that. Tell me more.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary Corbet smiled a little uneasily. +</p> + +<p> +“And you have found me out?” she answered smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; but I think our Saviour has found you out—or at least He is drawing +very near.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And you think I should be a nun too?” she asked, with just a shade of +coolness in her tone. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What does it mean?” she asked, looking at it curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Quemadmodum cervus</i>,”—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mary, “is it really true that you were happy?” +</p> + +<p> +The old lady stopped working a moment and looked up at her. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Margaret waited until the other two disappeared up the steps, and then +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“I have told her all, sister,” she said, “she can be trusted.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell nodded gently. +</p> + +<p> +“She has a good heart,” went on the other, “and our Lord no doubt will find +some work for her to do at Court.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence again; broken by the gentle little sound of the silk being +drawn through the stuff. +</p> + +<p> +“You know best, Margaret,” said Lady Maxwell. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell my lady,” said Sir Nicholas to the courier, who stood a little apart. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell went to her husband and took him by the arm gently. +</p> + +<p> +“What does it mean, sweetheart?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It means that Catholics must choose between their sovereign and their God.” +</p> + +<p> +“God have mercy,” said a servant behind. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="I_VI">CHAPTER VI</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +MR. STEWART +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile in the religious world a furious paper war broke out; and volleys +from both sides followed the solemn roar and crash of <i> Regnans in +Excelsis</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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 +£400, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i> rôle </i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“You spoke a few minutes ago, Sir Nicholas, of Dr. Storey; he has been +caught.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man exclaimed with dismay. Mr. Stewart went on: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And he told them, too, of the failure of the Northern Rebellion, and the +wretchedness of the fugitives. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="I_VII">CHAPTER VII</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE DOOR IN THE GARDEN-WALL +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i> Episcopos </i> and the <i> +Diaconos </i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I ask your blessing, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“George,” she said, rather sharply and nervously, “you must not be vexed with +me, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” he said heavily, and the warmth died out of his heart. He knew +something terrible impended. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me what you have done, woman,” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +She put out her hand as if to hold him still, and her voice rang hard and thin. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Justice?” he said blankly; but his heart was beating heavily in his +throat. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +She held up her hand again for silence, and glanced round at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I have given him the key,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +This was the private key, possessed by the incumbent for generations past, and +Sir Nicholas had not withdrawn it from the Protestant Rector. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no choice,” she said. “Oh! George, be a man!” Then she turned and +slipped out. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.— +</p> + +<p> +Then the door had closed; and the man, left alone, flung himself down in his +chair, and buried his face again in his arms. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then with a moan he lifted his hot face into the dusk. +</p> + +<p> +“Jesus,” he cried in his soul, “Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest that I +love Thee.” +</p> + +<p> +There came a tapping on the door; and the door opened an inch. +</p> + +<p> +“It is time,” whispered his wife’s voice. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="I_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE TAKING OF MR. STEWART +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Mr. Stewart?” said Lady Maxwell, and her voice had a ring of +terror in it. Sir Nicholas looked up quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, eh?”—he began. +</p> + +<p> +The young man rose up and recoiled a step, still staring out. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I have just seen several men pass the +window.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate smiled a little on one side of his mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stewart, who had looked swiftly and sideways across at the window, faced +the magistrate again. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know what you mean, sir,” he said. “It was a lad who passed the +window.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a movement outside in the hall; and the magistrate stepped to the +door. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is there?” he cried out sharply. +</p> + +<p> +There was a scuffle, and a cry of a boy’s voice; and a man appeared, holding +Anthony by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Margaret turned round in her seat; and said in a perfectly natural +voice, “Why, Anthony, my lad!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a murmur from one or two of the men. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +A pursuivant stepped out. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stewart blew out his lips sharply and contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh,” he said; and then turned to the man and bowed ironically. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will remember them,” said the magistrate. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate smiled again as before; and half put up his hand to hide it. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Nicholas turned to his guest; and his voice broke again and again as he +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Presently,” said Mr. Frankland, and then turned to Anthony, who had been +staring wild-eyed at the scene, “Now who is this?” +</p> + +<p> +A man answered from the rank. +</p> + +<p> +“That is Master Anthony Norris, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! and who is Master Anthony Norris? A Papist, too?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” said the man again, “a good Protestant; and the son of Mr. Norris +at the Dower House.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said the magistrate again, judicially. “And what might you be wanting +here, Master Anthony Norris?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony explained that he often came up in the evening, and that he wanted +nothing. The magistrate eyed him a moment or two. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +The man who had charge of him stood a little distance off, and did not trouble +him further, and Anthony watched in silence. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it for?” whispered the lad at last. +</p> + +<p> +“I mustn’t speak to you, sir,” said the man. +</p> + +<p> +At last the footsteps overhead came to the top of the stairs. The magistrate’s +voice called out sharply and impatiently: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Then again the door closed; and there was silence. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She came swiftly across, with her little air of dignity and confidence, towards +Anthony, who was standing forward. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Master Anthony,” she said, “dear lad; I did not know they had kept +you,” and she took his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, what is it?” he whispered sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” she said; and the two stood together in silence. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Margaret, Margaret,” he cried. “Where are you? Go to her.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate paused as he saw Anthony standing there alone. +</p> + +<p> +“I can trust you, young gentleman,” he said, “not to give the alarm till we +are gone?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="I_IX">CHAPTER IX</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +VILLAGE JUSTICE +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I am a little anxious, Lady Maxwell, lest the people may show their anger +against the Rector or his wife, about what has happened.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell looked startled. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen him?” asked the old lady. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been both days,” he said, “but he will not see me; he is in his study, +locked in.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I fear that is so,” said the other sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p> +“As I lay sick in my languor +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +In an abbey here by west; +</p> + +<p> +This book I made with great dolour, +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +When I might not sleep nor rest. +</p> + +<p> +Oft with my prayers my soul I blest, +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +And said aloud to Heaven’s King, +</p> + +<p> +‘I know, O Lord, it is the best +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +Meekly to take thy visiting. +</p> + +<p> +Else well I wot that I were lorn +</p> + +<p> +(High above all lords be he blest!) +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +All that thou dost is for the best; +</p> + +<p> +By fault of Thee was no man lost, +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +That is here of woman born.’” +</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The letter!” she said; and took a quick step towards the door; but Mistress +Margaret was with her instantly, with her arm about her. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that? What is that?” she whispered sharply. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My lady,” he said panting, and giving it to her, “they are attacking the +Rectory.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell, who was half-way to the window now, for light to read her +husband’s letter, paused at that. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Jervis told us, my lady; none saw him as he rode through—they were breaking +down the gate.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Margaret,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Marion, Marion—I am coming—O God!” +</p> + +<p> +And Isabel saw with a shock of horror 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come home, my dear,” Isabel heard her whisper. +</p> + +<p> +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 eyes 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Take him home presently,” she said to the men who were with him—and then +passed on again. +</p> + +<p> +As they got through the gatehouse, Isabel stepped forward to Mistress +Margaret’s side. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We could do nothing,” he said, “father and I—until Lady Maxwell came.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Isabel softly, “she only could have done it.” +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="I_X">CHAPTER X</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +A CONFESSOR +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i> rôle </i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The following day Sir Nicholas wrote a long letter to his wife describing his +examination. +</p> + +<p> +“We are in <i> royal lodgings </i> here at last, sweetheart; Mr. Boyd brought +my luggage over yesterday; and I am settled <i> for the present </i> 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 <i> Catholic</i>, 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 <i> De Unitate +Ecclesiae</i>, 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. <i> He is a seditious +rogue</i>, said my Lord Pembroke. <i> That he is not</i>, 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. <i> For which then would you pray? </i> said +they. <i> For the Queen’s Grace</i>, said I, <i> for that she was my +sovereign</i>. 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. <i> Then how</i>, +asked they, <i> did you come to receive him and his pamphlets? </i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest, I send you my heart’s best love. God have you in his holy +keeping.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Nicholas thus described it to his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i> kindness </i> 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 <i> men I had +entertained</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I fear,” he wrote to Lady Maxwell, “I fear that <i> our friend </i> 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 <i> attendant </i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Nicholas felt sick. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Great interest, too, was aroused by more domestic matters. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Towards the end of September further hints began to arrive, very much +underlined, in the knight’s letters, of Mr. Stewart and his sufferings. +</p> + +<p> +“You remember <i> our friend</i>,” Isabel read out one Saturday evening, +“<i>not </i> 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 <i> wolves </i> have torn +him sadly, in their <i> dens</i>.” Then followed the story of Mrs. Jakes, with +all its horror, all the greater from the obscurity of the details. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell posted upon the gatehouse: +</p> + +<p> +“Sir Nicholas fears that a <i> friend </i> is in sore trouble; he hopes he may +not <i> yield</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, after a few days more, a brief notice with a black-line drawn round it, +that ran, in Mr. Bodder’s despite: +</p> + +<p> +“Our <i> friend </i> has passed away. Pray for his soul.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Nicholas had written in great agitation to this effect. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i> tabur-stycke</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="I_XI">CHAPTER XI</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +MASTER CALVIN +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“They have been to the Prophesyings,” said Kate. “My father says that there is +no exercise that sanctifies a godly young minister so quickly.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But if a man’s judgment lead him wrong?” asked Isabel, who professedly +admitted authority to have some place in matters of faith. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 piscinæ 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“What shall we then say to these things? If God be on our side, who can be +against us?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But you need not fear it, Mistress Norris,” he said kindly, seeing her alarm. +“My daughter Kate will tell you all that is needful.” +</p> + +<p> +Kate too told her it would be little more than formal in her case. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i> +rôle </i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” ... +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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).” +</p> + +<p> +So read the minister and closed the book; and <i> Our Father </i> began. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Isabel, Mistress Isabel,” she cried, “make haste.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” asked the girl, in sick foreboding. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a man come from Great Keynes,” began the maid, but Kate stopped her. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, Mistress Isabel,” she said, “my father is waiting for you.” +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Carrington met her at the dining-room door; and his face was tender and +full of emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” whispered the girl sharply. “Anthony?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear child,” he said, “come in, and be brave.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” she said again with a piteous sharpness. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Carrington laid his hands gently on her shoulders, and looked into her +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“It is news of your father,” he said, “from Lady Maxwell.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Blessed be the name of the Lord.” +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="I_XII">CHAPTER XII</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +A WINDING-UP +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“We know nothing of him,” she said, wearily, “he has never been here.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +The boy nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“But will he not allow us,” he said, “to stay at home as usual? Surely——” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“And Isabel?” she asked, “who will look after her when you are away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Carroll?” he said interrogatively. +</p> + +<p> +Again she shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“He would never consent,” she said, “it would not be right.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel looked up suddenly, and her eyes brightened a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Maxwell—” she began, and then stopped, embarrassed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Isabel?” asked Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“If it were possible—but, but I could not ask it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Lady Maxwell,” said the girl, her face lighting up. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But you, Lady Maxwell,” Isabel burst out, her face kindled with hope, for she +had dreaded the removal terribly, “you will be lonely here.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am in hopes,” he wrote, “of keeping Christmas in a merrier place than +prison. I do not mean <i> heaven</i>,” 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 <i> for Sir John’s sake</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +His voice was full of tears, and his eyes were bright and angry. Her heart +leapt up once and then seemed to cease beating. +</p> + +<p> +“Go?” she said; and even as she spoke knew from her own dismay how dear that +quiet chivalrous presence was to her. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She stood still looking at him. +</p> + +<p> +“May I walk with you a little,” he said, “but—I must not say much—I promised +my father.” +</p> + +<p> +And then as they walked he began to pour it out. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She had turned instinctively towards the house, and the high roofs and chimneys +were before them, dark against the luminous sky. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! let me speak,” he said; “I have not troubled you much, Mistress Isabel.” +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated again a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“In my father’s room,” he went on, “and I will bring the letter.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” said Hubert, bursting into the room a moment later with the sheet +open in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel still stood, stretching her hands out to the fire, turned a little away +from him. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Hubert,” she said again, resolutely, “it is impossible: our religions——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +A keen ray of hope had pierced her heart as he spoke; and she scarcely knew +what she said. +</p> + +<p> +“But, Hubert, even if I were to say——” +</p> + +<p> +He seized her hands and kissed them again and again. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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!... +</p> + +<p> +She sank lower and lower into herself among the black draperies, clasping those +slender hands tightly across her breast. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="ctr"> +<b><big> PART II</big></b> +</p> + +<p class="firstchapter"> +<a name="II_I">CHAPTER I</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +ANTHONY IN LONDON +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 daïs, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony bowed to the Archbishop, and was going to withdraw, but the Archbishop +went on: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony carried it into the hall, and after showing it to Mr. Scot, put it +indignantly into the fire. The steward raised his eyebrows. +</p> + +<p> +“Why so, Master Norris?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” said Anthony sharply, “you would not have me frame it, and show to my +lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a mystery to me,” said Anthony, “how there can be Papists.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“How can I serve you, Mistress Corbet?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“There now, Chris, he is as quiet as a sheep again. Now take him at it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does he want?” asked Anthony. “I can scarcely see for the dust.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s that?” asked Anthony, as the tall horseman, as if driven by the storm +of contumely from the window, disappeared towards the stable. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Then they fell to talking about Isabel; and Mary eyed him as he answered her +questions. +</p> + +<p> +“Then she isn’t a Papist, yet?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony’s face showed such consternation that she burst out laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony’s face was still more bewildered. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my dear lad,” she said, “where are your eyes?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Mary’s face became sedate again. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” she said, “I always was a tattler. It seems I am wrong again. +Forgive me, Master Anthony.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That will be the Ambassador,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked at her interrogatively. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you country lad!” she said, “come and see.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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 Phœbus 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i> en route </i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="II_II">CHAPTER II</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +SOME NEW LESSONS +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Anthony!” she whispered, in a hush of suspense. +</p> + +<p> +There was a vibration and a step beside her. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Isabel!” he whispered; and again, “Isabel!” +</p> + +<p> +She put out her hand and grasped the door-post behind her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Hubert! Why have you come?” +</p> + +<p> +He came a step nearer and she could see the faint whiteness of his face in the +western glimmer. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot wait,” he said, “I have been nearly beside myself. I have left the +north—and I cannot wait so long.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” she said; and he heard the note of entreaty and anxiety in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I have my plans,” he answered; “I will tell you to-morrow. Where is my +aunt?” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel heard a step on the gravel outside. +</p> + +<p> +“She is coming,” she said sharply. Hubert melted into the dark, and she saw +the opposite door open and let him out. +</p> + +<p> +The next day Hubert announced his plans to Sir Nicholas, and a conflict +followed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Nicholas’ face, as he sat in his upright chair opposite the boy, grew +flushed with passion. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert did not propose as yet to let his father into all his plans. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then how do you propose to better it?” sneered his father. +</p> + +<p> +“In November,” said Hubert steadily, looking his father in the eyes, “I sail +with Mr. Drake.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Nicholas’ face grew terrific. He rose, and struck the table twice with his +clenched fist. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, by God, sir, Mr. Drake may have you now.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert’s face grew white with anger; but he had his temper under control. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I wish you good-day, sir,” and he left the room. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man’s face flared up again in anger. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man growled. His wife went on: +</p> + +<p> +“And now that James cannot have the estate, he must have it, as you know, and +carry on the old name.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The priest’s voice went on steadily; the struggle was beginning. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Proficiscere, anima christiana, de hoc mundo</i>.—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——” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sweetheart,” he said; and smiled, and died. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When the old lady had finished, she twisted the beads about her fingers and +opened her eyes. Isabel had an impulse to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Margaret,” she said, “may I ask you something?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, my darling,” the old lady said. +</p> + +<p> +“I have never seen you use those before—I cannot understand them.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it,” asked the old lady, “that you don’t understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“How can prayers said over and over again like that be any good?” +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Margaret was silent for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“But then,” said Isabel, after a moment’s silence, “she was only a child.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” said Isabel; and after a moment or two’s silence Mistress Margaret +got up and went into the house. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why must you ask the priest, if the Lord speaks to all alike?” +</p> + +<p> +“He speaks through the priest, my dear, as He does through the physician.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why should the priest know better than the people?” pursued Isabel, +intent on her point. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +The old nun considered a moment, and then lifted her embroidery again. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you think,” she asked, beginning to sew, “that each single soul that +asks God’s guidance is right?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because the Holy Ghost is promised to such,” said Isabel wondering. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But Isabel was not content. She broke in: +</p> + +<p> +“But why are not the Scriptures sufficient? They are God’s Word.” +</p> + +<p> +The other put down her embroidery again, and smiled up into the girl’s puzzled +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel looked at Mistress Margaret a moment, and then turned back again to the +window in silence. +</p> + +<p> +At another time they had a word or two about Peter’s prerogatives. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i> Clavis David </i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel raised her eyebrows. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely, surely——” she began. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +The nun looked silently down at the grass a moment or two. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand,” said Isabel, wrinkling her forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But then why are they not all Catholics?” asked Isabel, still bewildered. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear child,” said the nun, “what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel closed the door and stood looking at her, with her lips parted. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now then, Isabel, what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Margaret shook her head gently. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Isabel, “but how can I tell?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why should I be so anxious and disturbed, if it were not our Lord speaking +and warning me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you!” said Mistress Margaret. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="II_III">CHAPTER III</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +HUBERT’S RETURN +</p> + +<p> +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 <i> +Elizabeth</i>, under the command of Mr. Winter, which had been separated from +Mr. Drake’s <i> Pelican </i> 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 <i> Pelican </i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony had followed the fortunes of the <i> Pelican</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i> Cacafuego </i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +And he broke out into something very like eloquence when he spoke of Drake. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i> Madre di +Dios</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is Mr. Drake doing now?” asked Lady Maxwell. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And what are you to do next?” asked Mistress Margaret. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are not going with him again, my son?” said his mother quickly. +</p> + +<p> +Hubert put out his hand to her. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was still early when he met his party at the inn, and Hubert took them +immediately to see the <i> Pelican </i> 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 <i> Pelican</i>. +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i> Cacafuego</i>; and others +sold little models of the <i> Pelican</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i> Pelican </i> 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 <i> Pelican </i> 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 <i> +Pelican </i> and went immediately below to the banquet, while the parish church +bells pealed a welcome. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord knows the ways of Catholics, then,” he said, pointing to the bones on +his plate. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony explained that the Protestants observed the Friday abstinence, too. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 he 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is true,” said the other, “or it might be. Yet the principle is clear, <i> +Date Cæsari quae sunt Cæsaris</i>. The difficulty lies but in the application +of the maxim.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +This stung Anthony, and he answered impulsively. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said Mr. Burton sharply, “then what becomes of your Nationalism, and +the varied temperaments that you told me God had made?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="II_IV">CHAPTER IV</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +A COUNTER-MARCH +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +Isabel rose to her feet, startled, as the nun with bent head came up the path. +“What is it, Mistress Margaret?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel lifted it in an agony of suspense; and saw her name, in Hubert’s +handwriting. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” she said again, white to the lips. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“And now, dearest Isabel, I have such good news to give you. <i> I have turned +Protestant</i>; 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then in October he came home. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Hubert, Hubert!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Isabel,” he said, “why did you not write?” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent as one who stares fascinated down a precipice. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been so wretched,” she said piteously. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her, puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, dearest?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, this is—I do not understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been thinking,” went on Isabel bravely, “whether perhaps the Catholic +Church is not right after all.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Isabel, this is foolishness. I know what the Catholic faith is. It is not +true; I have been through it all.” +</p> + +<p> +He was speaking nervously and abruptly. She said nothing. Then he suddenly +dropped on his knees himself. +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest, I understand. You were doing this for me. I quite understand. It +is what I too——” and then he stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She made a movement as if to stand up; but he pressed her back into the chair. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my dearest, you shall be a prisoner until you give your parole.” +</p> + +<p> +Twice Isabel made an effort to speak; but no sound came. It seemed as if the +raging strife of thoughts deafened and paralysed her. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Isabel,” said Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Her heart seemed rent across, and she drew a sobbing sigh. Hubert heard it, and +caught at her hands again as he knelt. +</p> + +<p> +“Isabel, promise, promise.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Then that is all the answer you will give me?” he said, in a perfectly even +voice. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel bowed her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Then—then I wish you good-night, Mistress Norris,” and he bowed to her, +caught up his cap and went out. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When the servants had withdrawn, a silence fell. Presently Hubert looked across +the table between the silver branched candlesticks. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My son,” said Lady Maxwell with dignity, “I do not think I have spoken that +priest’s name; or indeed any.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, my son.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need not fear, Hubert,” said his mother, “I will not embarrass you. You +shall be in no danger.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you need not have said that, mother; I am not usually thought a +coward.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell flushed a little, and began to finger her silver knife. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And is your brother James not to come?” asked his mother. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need not fear,” said Lady Maxwell steadily; “you shall not be troubled +with any Catholics besides ourselves.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand you,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, you must know what I mean. You have seen her continually.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have told you, my son, that I do not know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” burst out Hubert, “she is half a Catholic.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God,” said his mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! yes; you thank God, I know; but whom am I to thank for it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would that you could thank Him too.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert made a sharp sound of disgust. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! yes,” he said scornfully, “I knew it; <i> Non nobis Domine</i>, and the +rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +At the moment he spoke the door opened. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, Margaret,” said her sister, “this concerns you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hubert, dear boy,” she said, “what is all this? Will you tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down, aunt,” he said, and pushed the decanter towards her. +</p> + +<p> +“I have just left Isabel,” she said, “she is very unhappy about something. You +saw her this evening, dear lad?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I had hoped you would tell us that,” said Mistress Margaret; “I came up to +ask you.” +</p> + +<p> +“My son has done us—me—the honour——” began Lady Maxwell; but Hubert broke in: +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! are you sure?” asked Mistress Margaret, her eyes shining. “Thank God, if +it be so!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sure?” said Hubert, “why she will not marry me; at least not yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, poor lad,” she said tenderly, “to have lost both God and Isabel.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert turned on her savagely. But the old nun’s eyes were steady and serene. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor lad!” she said again. +</p> + +<p> +Hubert looked down again; his lip wrinkled up in a little sneer. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell grew white to the lips. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Margaret looked down on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“You have given me a glass, dear boy; but no wine in it.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert took a couple of quick steps back, and faced her. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He dropped into his seat and hid his face on his arm; and there was a sob or +two. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit up and be a man, Hubert,” broke in Mistress Margaret’s voice, clear and +cool. +</p> + +<p> +He looked up in amazement with wet indignant eyes. She was looking at him, +smiling tenderly. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, for the second time, give me half a glass of wine, dear boy.” +</p> + +<p> +He poured it out, bewildered at her self-control. +</p> + +<p> +“For a man that has been round the world,” she said, “you are but a foolish +child.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you never thought of a way of yet winning Isabel,” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, come back to the Church, dear lad; and make your mother and me happy +again, and marry Isabel, and save your own soul.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before God, in my heart I know that it is not true.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, no,” she said; but the light died out of her eyes, and she stretched +a tremulous hand. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are only a lad still,” she said piteously. He laughed a little. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said the old lady, “let us wait and see. Do you intend to be +here now for a while?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“When will she decide?” +</p> + +<p> +“She told me by next Easter,” said Hubert. “Oh, Aunt Margaret, pray for us +both.” +</p> + +<p> +The light began to glimmer again in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“There, dear boy,” she said, “you see you believe in prayer still.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, aunt,” said Hubert, “why should I not? Protestants pray.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said the old nun again. “Now you must come to your mother; +and—and be good to her.” +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="II_V">CHAPTER V</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE COMING OF THE JESUITS +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In Scotland it was chiefly political, and Anthony thought, with a bitter +contempt, of the Count d’Aubigny, Esmé 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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 <span class="sc"> Jesus </span> or +Luther’s brood!” +</p> + +<p> +What arrogance, thought Anthony to himself, and what assurance too! +</p> + +<p> +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 the shrewdest Government spies. +</p> + +<p> +The excitement at Lambeth ran higher day by day as the summer drew on; the net +was being gradually contracted in the home counties; spies were reported to be +everywhere, in inns, in the servants’ quarters of gentlemen’s houses, lounging +at cross roads and on village greens. Campion’s name was in every mouth. Now +they were on his footsteps, it was said; now he was taken; now he was gone back +to France; now he was in London; now in Lancashire; and each rumour in turn +corrected its predecessor. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony shared to the full in the excitement; the figure of the quarry, after +which so many hawks were abroad, appealed to his imagination. He dreamed of him +at night, once as a crafty-looking man with narrow eyes and stooping shoulders, +that skulked and ran from shadow to shadow across a moonlit country; once as a +ruddy-faced middle-aged gentleman riding down a crowded street; and several +times as a kind of double of Mr. Stewart, whom he had never forgotten, since he +had watched him in the little room of Maxwell Hall, gallant and alert among his +enemies. +</p> + +<p> +At last one day in July, as it drew on towards evening, and as Anthony was +looking over the stable-accounts in his little office beyond the Presence +Chamber, a buzz of talk and footsteps broke out in the court below; and a +moment later the Archbishop’s body-servant ran in to say that his Grace wished +to see Mr. Norris at once in the gallery that opened out of the guard-room. +</p> + +<p> +“And I think it is about the Jesuits, sir,” added the man, evidently excited. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony ran down at once and found his master pacing up and down, with a +courier waiting near the steps at the lower end that led to Chichele’s tower. +The Archbishop stopped by a window, emblazoned with Cardinal Pole’s emblem, and +beckoned to him. +</p> + +<p> +“See here, Master Norris,” he said, “I have received news that Campion is at +last taken: it may well be false, as so often before; but take horse, if you +please, and ride into the city and find the truth for me. I will not send a +groom; they believe the maddest tales. You are at liberty?” he added +courteously. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, your Grace, I will ride immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +As he rode down the river-bank towards London Bridge ten minutes later, he +could not help feeling some dismay as well as excitement at the news he was to +verify. And yet what other end was possible? But what a doom for the brilliant +Oxford orator, even though he had counted the cost! +</p> + +<p> +Streams of excited people were pouring across the bridge into the city; +Campion’s name was on every tongue; and Anthony, as he passed under the high +gate, noticed a man point up at the grim spiked heads above it, and laugh to +his companion. There seemed little doubt, from the unanimity of those whom he +questioned, that the rumour was true; and some even said that the Jesuit was +actually passing down Cheapside on his way to the Tower. When at last Anthony +came to the thoroughfare the crowd was as dense as for a royal progress. He +checked his horse at the door of an inn-yard, and asked an ostler that stood +there what it was all about. +</p> + +<p> +“It is Campion, the Jesuit, sir,” said the man. “He has been taken at Lyford, +and is passing here presently.” +</p> + +<p> +The man had hardly finished speaking when a yell came from the end of the +street, and groans and hoots ran down the crowd. Anthony turned in his saddle, +and saw a great stir and movement, and then horses’ and men’s heads moving +slowly down over the seething surface of the crowd, as if swimming in a rough +sea. He could make little out, as the company came towards him, but the faces +of the officers and pursuivants who rode in the front rank, four or five +abreast; then followed the faces of three or four others, also riding between +guards, and Anthony looked eagerly at them; but they were simple faces enough, +a little pale and quiet; one was like a farmer’s, ruddy and bearded;—surely +Campion could not be among those! Then more and more, riding two and two, with +a couple of armed guards with each pair; some looked like country-men or +servants, some like gentlemen, and one or two might be priests; but the crowd +seemed to pay them no attention beyond a glance or two. Ah! what was this +coming behind? +</p> + +<p> +There was a space behind the last row of guards, and then came a separate troop +riding all together, of half a dozen men at least, and one in the centre, with +something white in his hat. The ferment round this group was tremendous; men +were leaping up and yelling, like hounds round a carted stag; clubs shot up +menacingly, and a storm of ceaseless execration raged outside the compact +square of guards who sat alert and ready to beat off an attack. Once a horse +kicked fiercely as a man sprang to his hind-quarters, and there was a scream of +pain and a burst of laughing. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony sat trembling with excitement as the first group had passed, and this +second began to come opposite the entrance where he sat. This then was the man! +</p> + +<p> +The rider in the centre sat his horse somewhat stiffly, and Anthony saw that +his elbows were bound behind his back, and his hands in front; the reins were +drawn over his horse’s head and a pursuivant held them on either side. The man +was dressed as a layman, in a plumed hat and a buff jerkin, such as soldiers or +plain country-gentlemen might use; and in the hat was a great paper with an +inscription. Anthony spelt it out. +</p> + +<p> +“Campion, the Seditious Jesuit.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he looked at the man’s face. +</p> + +<p> +It was a comely refined face, a little pale but perfectly serene: his pointed +dark brown beard and moustache were carefully trimmed; and his large passionate +eyes looked cheerfully about him. Anthony stared at him, wholly fascinated; for +above the romance that hung about the hunted priest and the glamour of the +dreaded Society which he represented, there was a chivalrous fearless look in +his face that drew the heart of the young man almost irresistibly. At least he +did not look like the skulking knave at whom all the world was sneering, and of +whom Anthony had dreamt so vividly a few nights before. +</p> + +<p> +The storm of execration from the faces below, and the faces crowding at the +windows, seemed to affect him not at all; and he looked from side to side as if +they were cheering him rather than crying against him. Once his eyes met +Anthony’s and rested on them for a moment; and a strange thrill ran through him +and he shivered sharply. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +And yet he felt, too, a distinct and irresistible movement of attraction +towards this felon who was riding towards his agony and passion; and he was +conscious at the same time of that curious touch of wonder that he had felt +years before towards the man whipped at the cart’s tail, as to whether the +solitary criminal were not in the right, and the clamorous accusers in the +wrong. Campion in a moment had passed on and turned his head. +</p> + +<p> +In that moment, too, Anthony caught a sudden clear instantaneous impression of +a group of faces in the window opposite. There were a couple of men in front, +stout city personages no doubt, with crimson faces and open mouths cursing the +traitorous Papist and the crafty vagrant fox trapped at last; but between them, +looking over their shoulders, was a woman’s face in which Anthony saw the most +intense struggle of emotions. The face was quite white, the lips parted, the +eyes straining, and sorrow and compassion were in every line, as she watched +the cheerful priest among his warders; and yet there rested on it, too, a +strange light as of triumph. It was the face of one who sees victory even at +the hour of supremest failure. In an instant more the face had withdrawn itself +into the darkness of the room. +</p> + +<p> +When the crowds had surged down the street in the direction of the Tower, +yelling in derision as Campion saluted the lately defaced Cheapside Cross, +Anthony guided his horse out through the dispersing groups, realising as he did +so, with a touch of astonishment at the coincidence, that he had been standing +almost immediately under the window whence he and Isabel had leaned out so many +years before. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The sun was going down behind the Abbey as he rode up towards Lambeth, and the +sky above and the river beneath were as molten gold. The Abbey itself, with +Westminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament below, stood up like mystical +palaces against the sunset; and it seemed to Anthony as he rode, as if God +Himself were illustrating in glorious illumination the closing pages of that +human life of which a glimpse had opened to him in Cheapside. It did not appear +to him as it had done in the days of his boyish love as if heaven and earth +were a stage for himself to walk and pose upon; but he felt intensely now the +dominating power of the personality of the priest; and that he himself was no +more than a spectator of this act of a tragedy of which the priest was both +hero and victim, and for which this evening glory formed so radiant a scene. +The old intellectual arguments against the cause that the priest represented +for the moment were drowned in this flood of splendour. When he arrived at +Lambeth and had reached the Archbishop’s presence, he told him the news +briefly, and went to his room full of thought and perplexity. +</p> + +<p> +In a few days the story of Campion’s arrest was known far and wide. It had been +made possible by the folly of one Catholic and the treachery of another; and +when Anthony heard it, he was stirred still more by the contrast between the +Jesuit and his pursuers. The priest had returned to the moated grange at +Lyford, after having already paid as long a visit there as was prudent, owing +to the solicitations of a number of gentlemen who had ridden after him and his +companion, and who wished to hear his eloquence. He had returned there again, +said mass on the Sunday morning, and preached afterwards, from a chair set +before the altar, a sermon on the tears of the Saviour over apostate Jerusalem. +But a false disciple had been present who had come in search of one Payne; and +this man, known afterwards by the Catholics as Judas Eliot or Eliot Iscariot, +had gathered a number of constables and placed them about the manor-house; and +before the sermon was over he went out quickly from the table of the Lord, the +house was immediately surrounded, and the alarm was raised by a watcher placed +in one of the turrets after Eliot’s suspicious departure. The three priests +present, Campion and two others, were hurried into a hiding-hole over the +stairs. The officers entered, searched, and found nothing; and were actually +retiring, when Eliot succeeded in persuading them to try again; they searched +again till dark, and still found nothing. Mrs. Yate encouraged them to stay the +night in the house, and entertained them with ale; and then when all was quiet, +insisted on hearing some parting words from her eloquent guest. He came out +into the room where she had chosen to spend the night until the officers were +gone; and the rest of the Catholics, some Brigittine nuns and others, met there +through private passages and listened to him for the last time. As the company +was dispersing one of the priests stumbled and fell, making a noise that roused +the sentry outside. Again the house was searched, and again with no success. In +despair they were leaving it, when Jenkins, Eliot’s companion, who was coming +downstairs with a servant of the house, beat with his stick on the wall, saying +that they had not searched there. It was noticed that the servant showed signs +of agitation; and men were fetched to the spot; the wall was beaten in and the +three priests were found together, having mutually shriven one another, and +made themselves ready for death. +</p> + +<p> +Campion was taken out and sent first to the Sheriff of Berkshire, and then on +towards London on the following day. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The summer days went by, and every day brought its fresh rumour about Campion. +Sir Owen Hopton, Governor of the Tower, who at first had committed his prisoner +to Little-Ease, now began to treat him with more honour; he talked, too, +mysteriously, of secret interviews and promises and understandings; and +gradually it began to get about that Campion was yielding to kindness; that he +had seen the Queen; that he was to recant at Paul’s Cross; and even that he was +to have the See of Canterbury. This last rumour caused great indignation at +Lambeth, and Anthony was more pressed than ever to get what authentic news he +could of the Jesuit. Then at the beginning of August came a burst of new tales; +he had been racked, it was said, and had given up a number of names; and as the +month went by more and more details, authentic and otherwise, were published. +Those favourably inclined to the Catholics were divided in opinion; some feared +that he had indeed yielded to an excess of agony; others, and these proved to +be in the right when the truth came out, that he had only given up names which +were already known to the authorities; though even for this he asked public +pardon on the scaffold. +</p> + +<p> +Towards the end of August the Archbishop again sent expressly for Anthony and +bade him accompany his chaplain on the following day to the Tower, to be +present at the public disputation that was to take place between English +divines and the Jesuit. +</p> + +<p> +“Now he will have the chance he craved for,” said Grindal. “He hath bragged +that he would meet any and all in dispute, and now the Queen’s clemency hath +granted it him.” +</p> + +<p> +On the following day in the early morning sunshine the minister and Anthony +rode down together to the Tower, where they arrived a few minutes before eight +o’clock, and were passed through up the stairs into St. John’s chapel to the +seats reserved for them. +</p> + +<p> +It was indeed true that the authorities had determined to give Campion his +chance, but they had also determined to make it as small as possible. He was +not even told that the discussion was to take place until the morning of its +occasion, and he was allowed no opportunity for developing his own theological +position; the entire conduct of the debate was in the hands of his adversaries; +he might only parry, seldom riposte, and never attack. +</p> + +<p> +When Anthony found himself in his seat he looked round the chapel. Almost +immediately opposite him, on a raised platform against a pillar, stood two high +seats occupied by Deans Nowell and Day, who were to conduct the disputation, +and who were now talking with their heads together while a secretary was +arranging a great heap of books on the table before them. On either side, east +and west, stretched chairs for the divines that were to support them in debate, +should they need it; and the platform on which Anthony himself had a chair was +filled with a crowd of clergy and courtiers laughing and chatting together. A +little table, also heaped with books, with seats for the notaries, stood in the +centre of the nave, and not far from it were a number of little wooden stools +which the prisoners were to occupy. Plainly they were to be allowed no advisers +and no books; even the physical support of table and chairs was denied to them +in spite of their weary racked bodies. The chapel, bright with the morning +sunlight that streamed in through the east windows of the bare Norman +sanctuary, hummed with the talk and laughter of those who had come to see the +priest-baiting and the vindication of the Protestant Religion; though, as +Anthony looked round, he saw here and there an anxious or a downcast face of +some unknown friend of the Papists. +</p> + +<p> +He himself was far from easy in his mind. He had been studying Campion’s “Ten +Reasons” more earnestly than ever, and was amazed to find that the very +authorities to which Dr. Jewel deferred, namely, the Scriptures interpreted by +Fathers and Councils and illustrated by History, were exactly Campion’s +authorities, too; and that the Jesuit’s appeal to them was no less confident +than the Protestant’s. That fact had, of course, suggested the thought that if +there were no further living authority in existence to decide between these two +scholars, Christendom was in a poor position. When doctors differed, where was +the layman to turn? To his own private judgment, said the Protestant. But then +Campion’s private judgment led him to submit to the Catholic claim! This then +at present weighed heavily on Anthony’s mind. Was there or was there not an +authority on earth capable of declaring to him the Revelation of God? For the +first time he was beginning to feel a logical and spiritual necessity for an +infallible external Judge in matters of faith; and that the Catholic Church was +the only system that professed to supply it. The question of the existence of +such an authority was, with the doctrine of justification, one of those +subjects continually in men’s minds and conversations, and to Anthony, unlike +others, it appeared more fundamental even than its companion. All else seemed +secondary. Indulgences, the Mass, Absolution, the Worship of Mary and the +Saints—all these must stand or fall on God’s authority made known to man. The +one question for him was, Where was that authority to be certainly found? +</p> + +<p> +There came the ringing tramp of footsteps; the buzz of talk ceased and then +broke out again, as the prisoners, with all eyes bent upon them, surrounded by +a strong guard of pikemen, were seen advancing up the chapel from the +north-west door towards the stools set ready for them. Anthony had no eyes but +for Campion who limped in front, supported on either side by a warder. He could +scarcely believe at first that this was the same priest who had ridden so +bravely down Cheapside. Now he was bent, and walked like an old broken man; his +face was deathly pale, with shadows and lines about his eyes, and his head +trembled a little. There were one or two exclamations of pity, for all knew +what had caused the change; and Anthony heard an undertone moan of sorrow and +anger from some one in a seat behind him. +</p> + +<p> +The prisoners sat down; and the guards went to their places. Campion took his +seat in front, and turned immediately from side to side, running his dark eyes +along the faces to see where were his adversaries; and once more Anthony met +his eyes, and thrilled at it. Through the pallor and pain of his face, the same +chivalrous spirit looked out and called for homage and love, that years ago at +Oxford had made young men, mockingly nicknamed after their leader, to desire +his praise more passionately than anything on earth, and even to imitate his +manners and dress and gait, for very loyalty and devotion. Anthony could not +take his eyes off him; he watched the clear-cut profile of his face thrown +fearlessly forward, waited in tense expectation to hear him speak, and paid no +attention to the whisperings of the chaplain beside him. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Presently the debate began. It was opened by Dean Nowell from his high seat, +who assured Father Campion of the disinterested motives of himself and his +reverend friends in holding this disputation. It was, after all, only what the +priest had demanded; and they trusted by God’s grace that they would do him +good and help him to see the truth. There was no unfairness, said the Dean, who +seemed to think that some apology was needed, in taking him thus unprepared, +since the subject of debate would be none other than Campion’s own book. The +Jesuit looked up, nodded his head, and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you, Mr. Dean,” he said, in his deep resonant voice, and there fell a +dead hush as he spoke. “I thank you for desiring to do me good, and to take up +my challenge; but I must say that I would I had understood of your coming, that +I might have made myself ready.” +</p> + +<p> +Campion’s voice thrilled strangely through Anthony, as the glance from his eyes +had done. It was so assured, so strong and delicate an instrument, and so +supremely at its owner’s command, that it was hardly less persuasive than his +personality and his learning that made themselves apparent during the day. And +Anthony was not alone in his impressions of the Jesuit. Lord Arundel afterwards +attributed his conversion to Campion’s share in the discussions. Again and +again during the day a murmur of applause followed some of the priest’s +clean-cut speeches and arguments, and a murmur of disapproval the fierce +thrusts and taunts of his opponents; and by the end of the day’s debate, so +marked was the change of attitude of the crowd that had come to triumph over +the Papist, and so manifest their sympathy with the prisoners, that it was +thought advisable to exclude the public from the subsequent discussions. +</p> + +<p> +On this first day, all manner of subjects were touched upon, such as the +comparative leniency of Catholic and Protestant governments, the position of +Luther with regard to the Epistle of St. James, and other matters comparatively +unimportant, in the discussion of which a great deal of time was wasted. +Campion entreated his opponents to leave such minor questions alone, and to +come to doctrinal matters; but they preferred to keep to details rather than to +principles, and the priest had scarcely any opportunity to state his positive +position at all. The only doctrinal matter seriously touched upon was that of +Justification by Faith; and texts were flung to and fro without any great +result. “We are justified by faith,” cried one side. “Though I have all faith +and have not charity, I am nothing,” cried the other. The effect on Anthony of +this day’s debate arose rather from the victorious personality of the priest +than from his arguments. His gaiety, too, was in strange contrast to the solemn +Puritanism of his enemies. For instance, he was on the point that Councils +might err in matters of fact, but that the Scriptures could not. +</p> + +<p> +“As for example,” he said, his eyes twinkling out of his drawn face, “I am +bound under pain of damnation to believe that Toby’s dog had a tail, because it +is written, he wagged it.” +</p> + +<p> +The Deans looked sternly at him, as the audience laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, now,” said one of them, “it becomes not to deal so triflingly with +matters of weight.” +</p> + +<p> +Campion dropped his eyes, demurely, as if reproved. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, then,” he said, “if this example like you not, take another. I must +believe that Saint Paul had a cloak, because he willeth Timothy to bring it +with him.” +</p> + +<p> +Again the crowd laughed; and Anthony laughed, too, with a strange sob in his +throat at the gallant foolery, which, after all, was as much to the point as a +deal that the Deans were saying. +</p> + +<p> +But the second day’s debate, held in Hopton’s Hall, was on more vital matters; +and Anthony again and again found himself leaning forward breathlessly, as Drs. +Goode and Fulke on the one side, and Campion on the other, respectively +attacked and defended the Doctrine of the Visible Church; for this, for +Anthony, was one of the crucial points of the dispute between Catholicism and +Protestantism. Anthony believed already that the Church was one; and if it was +visible, surely, he thought to himself, it must be visibly one; and in that +case, it is evident where that Church is to be found. But if it is invisible, +it may be invisibly one, and then as far as that matter is concerned, he may +rest in the Church of England. If not—and then he recoiled from the gulf that +opened. +</p> + +<p> +“It must be an essential mark of the Church,” said Campion, “and such a +quality as is inseparable. It must be visible, as fire is hot, and water +moist.” +</p> + +<p> +Goode answered that when Christ was taken and the Apostles fled, then at least +the Church was invisible; and if then, why not always? +</p> + +<p> +“It was a Church inchoate,” answered the priest, “beginning, not perfect.” +</p> + +<p> +But Goode continued to insist that the true Church is known only to God, and +therefore invisible. +</p> + +<p> +“There are many wolves within,” he said, “and many sheep without.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know not who is elect,” retorted Campion, “but I know who is a Catholic.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only the elect are of the Church,” said Goode. +</p> + +<p> +“I say that both good and evil are of the visible Church,” answered the other. +</p> + +<p> +“To be elect or true members of Christ is one thing,” went on Goode, “and to +be in the visible Church is another.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +As the talk went on, Anthony began to see where the confusion lay. The +Protestants were anxious to prove that membership in a visible body did not +ensure salvation but then the Catholics never claimed that it did; the question +was: Did or did not Christ intend there to be a visible Church, membership in +which should be the normal though not the infallible means of salvation? +</p> + +<p> +They presently got on to the <i> a priori </i> point as to whether a visible +Church would seem to be a necessity. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a perpetual commandment,” said the priest, “in Matthew +eighteen—‘Tell the Church’; but that cannot be unless the Church is visible; +<i> ergo</i>, the visibility of the Church is continual.” +</p> + +<p> +“When there is an established Church,” said Goode, “this remedy is to be +sought for. But this cannot be always had.” +</p> + +<p> +“The disease is continual,” answered Campion; “<i>ergo </i> the remedy must be +continual.” Then he left the <i> a priori </i> ground and entered theirs. “To +whom should I have gone,” he cried, “before Luther’s time? What prelates +should I have made my complaint unto in those days? Where was your Church nine +hundred years ago? Whose were John Huss, Jerome of Prague, the Waldenses? Were +they yours?” Then he turned scornfully to Fulke, “Help him, Master Doctor.” +</p> + +<p> +And Fulke repeated Goode’s assertion, that valuable as the remedy is, it cannot +always be had. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony sat back, puzzled. Both sides seemed right. Persecution must often +hinder the full privileges of Church membership and the exercise of discipline. +Yet the question was, What was Christ’s intention? Was it that the Church +should be visible? It seemed that even the ministers allowed that, now. And if +so, why then the Catholic’s claim that Christ’s intention had never been wholly +frustrated, but that a visible unity was to be found amongst themselves—surely +this was easier to believe than the Protestant theory that the Church which had +been visible for fifteen centuries was not really the Church at all; but that +the true Church had been invisible—in spite of Christ’s intention—during all +that period, and was now to be found only in small separated bodies scattered +here and there. How of the prevailing of the gates of hell, if that were +allowed to be true? +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +At two o’clock they reassembled for the afternoon conference; and now they got +even closer to the heart of the matter, for the subject was to be, whether the +Church could err? +</p> + +<p> +Fulke asserted that it could, and did; and made a syllogism: +</p> + +<p> +“Whatsoever error is incident to every member, is incident to the whole. But it +is incident to every member to err; <i> ergo</i>, to the whole.” +</p> + +<p> +“I deny both <i> major </i> and <i> minor</i>,” said Campion quietly. “Every +man may err, but not the whole gathered together; for the whole hath a promise, +but so hath not every particular man.” +</p> + +<p> +Fulke denied this stoutly, and beat on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Every member hath the spirit of Christ,” he said, “which is the spirit of +truth; and therefore hath the same promise that the whole hath.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, then,” said Campion, smiling, “there should be no heretics.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Fulke, “heretics may be within the Church, but not of the +Church.” +</p> + +<p> +And so they found themselves back again where they started from. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony sat back on the oak bench and sighed, and glanced round at the +interested faces of the theologians and the yawns of the amateurs, as the +debate rolled on over the old ground, and touched on free will, and grace, and +infant baptism; until the Lieutenant interposed: +</p> + +<p> +“Master Doctors,” he said, with a judicial air, “the question that was +appointed before dinner was, whether the visible Church may err”—to which Goode +retorted that the digressions were all Campion’s fault. +</p> + +<p> +Then the debate took the form of contradictions. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatsoever congregation doth err in matters of faith,” said Goode, “is not +the true Church; but the Church of Rome erreth in matters of faith; <i> +ergo</i>, it is not the true Church.” +</p> + +<p> +“I deny your <i> minor</i>,” said Campion, “the Church of Rome hath not +erred.” Then the same process was repeated over the Council of Trent; and the +debate whirled off once more into details and irrelevancies about imputed +righteousness, and the denial of the Cup to the laity. +</p> + +<p> +Again the audience grew restless. They had not come there, most of them, to +listen to theological minutiæ, but to see sport; and this interminable chopping +of words that resulted in nothing bored them profoundly. A murmur of +conversation began to buzz on all sides. +</p> + +<p> +Campion was in despair. +</p> + +<p> +“Thus shall we run into all questions,” he cried hopelessly, “and then we +shall have done this time twelve months.” +</p> + +<p> +But Fulke would not let him be; but pressed on a question about the Council of +Nice. +</p> + +<p> +“Now we shall have the matter of images,” sighed Campion. +</p> + +<p> +“You are <i> nimis acutus</i>,” retorted Fulke, “you will leap over the stile +or ever you come to it. I mean not to speak of images.” +</p> + +<p> +And so with a few more irrelevancies the debate ended. +</p> + +<p> +The third debate in September (on the twenty-third), at which Anthony was again +present, was on the subject of the Real Presence in the Blessed Sacrament. +</p> + +<p> +Fulke was in an evil temper, since it was common talk that Campion had had the +best of the argument on the eighteenth. +</p> + +<p> +“The other day,” he said, “when we had some hope of your conversion, we +forbare you much, and suffered you to discourse; but now that we see you are an +obstinate heretic, and seek to cover the light of the truth with multitude of +words, we mean not to allow you such large discourses as we did.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very imperious to-day,” answered Campion serenely, “whatsoever the +matter is. I am the Queen’s prisoner, and none of yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a whit imperious,” said Fulke angrily,—“though I will exact of you to +keep the right order of disputation.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the argument began. It soon became plain to Anthony that it was possible +to take the Scripture in two senses, literally and metaphorically. The +sacrament either was literally Christ’s body, or it was not. Who then was to +decide? Father Campion said it meant the one; Dr. Fulke the other. Could it be +possible that Christ should leave His people in doubt as to such a thing? +Surely not, thought Anthony. Well, then, where is the arbiter? Father Campion +says, The Church; Dr. Fulke says, The Scripture. But that is a circular +argument, for the question to be decided is: What does the Scripture mean? for +it may mean at least two things, at least so it would seem. Here then he found +himself face to face with the claims of the Church of Rome to be that arbiter; +and his heart began to grow sick with apprehension as he saw how that Church +supplied exactly what was demanded by the circumstances of the case—that is, an +infallible living guide as to the meaning of God’s Revelation. The simplicity +of her claim appalled him. +</p> + +<p> +He did not follow the argument closely, since it seemed to him but a secondary +question now; though he heard one or two sentences. At one point Campion was +explaining what the Church meant by substance. It was that which transcended +the senses. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you not Dr. Fulke?” he said. “And yet I see nothing but your colour and +exterior form. The substance of Dr. Fulke cannot be seen.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not vouchsafe to reply upon this answer,” snarled Fulke, whose temper +had not been improved by the debate—“too childish for a sophister!” +</p> + +<p> +Then followed interminable syllogisms, of which Campion would not accept the +premises; and no real progress was made. The Jesuit tried to explain the +doctrine that the wicked may be said not to eat the Body in the Sacrament, +because they receive not the virtue of It, though they receive the Thing; but +Fulke would not hear him. The distinction was new to Anthony, with his puritan +training, and he sat pondering it while the debate passed on. +</p> + +<p> +The afternoon discussion, too, was to little purpose. More and more Anthony, +and others with him, began to see that the heart of the matter was the +authority of the Church; and that unless that was settled, all other debate was +beside the point; and the importance of this was brought out for him more +clearly than ever on the 27th of the month, when the fourth and last debate +took place, and on the subject of the sufficiency of the Scriptures unto +salvation. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Charke, who had now succeeded as disputant, began with extempore prayer, in +which as usual the priest refused to join, praying and crossing himself apart. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Walker then opened the disputation with a pompous and insolent speech about +“one Campion,” an “unnatural man to his country, degenerated from an +Englishman, an apostate in religion, a fugitive from this realm, unloyal to his +prince.” Campion sat with his eyes cast down, until the minister had done. +</p> + +<p> +Then the discussion began. The priest pointed out that Protestants were not +even decided as to what were Scriptures and what were not, since Luther +rejected three epistles in the New Testament; therefore, he argued, the Church +is necessary as a guide, first of all, to tell men what is Scripture. Walker +evaded by saying he was not a Lutheran but a Christian; and then the talk +turned on to apocryphal books. But it was not possible to evade long, and the +Jesuit soon touched his opponent. +</p> + +<p> +“To leave a door to traditions,” he said, “which the Holy Ghost may deliver to +the true Church, is both manifest and seen: as in the Baptism of infants, the +Holy Ghost proceeding from Father to Son, and such other things mentioned, +which are delivered by tradition. Prove these directly by the Scripture if you +can!” +</p> + +<p> +Charke answered by the analogy of circumcision which infants received, and by +quoting Christ’s words as to “sending” of the Comforter; and they were soon +deep in detailed argument; but once more Anthony saw that it was all a question +of the interpretation of Scripture; and, therefore, that it would seem that an +authoritative interpreter was necessary—and where could such be found save in +an infallible living Voice? And once more a question of Campion’s drove the +point home. +</p> + +<p> +“Was all Scripture written when the Apostles first taught?” And Charke dared +not answer yes. +</p> + +<p> +The afternoon’s debate concerned justification by faith, and this, more than +ever, seemed to Anthony a secondary matter, now that he was realising what the +claim of a living authority meant; and he sat back, only interested in watching +the priest’s face, so controlled yet so transparent in its simplicity and +steadfastness, as he listened to the ministers’ brutal taunts and insolence, +and dealt his quiet skilful parries and ripostes to their incessant assaults. +At last the Lieutenant struck the table with his hand, and intimated that the +time was past, and after a long prayer by Mr. Walker, the prisoners were led +back to their cells. +</p> + +<p> +As Anthony rode back alone in the evening sunlight, he was as one who was +seeing a vision. There was indeed a vision before him, that had been taking +shape gradually, detail by detail, during these last months, and ousting the +old one; and which now, terribly emphasised by Campion’s arguments and +illuminated by the fire of his personality, towered up imperious, consistent, +dominating—and across her brow her title, The Catholic Church. Far above all +the melting cloudland of theory she moved, a stupendous fact; living, in +contrast with the dead past to which her enemies cried in vain; eloquent when +other systems were dumb; authoritative when they hesitated; steady when they +reeled and fell. About her throne dwelt her children, from every race and age, +secure in her protection, and wise with her knowledge, when other men faltered +and questioned and doubted: and as Anthony looked up and saw her for the first +time, he recognised her as the Mistress and Mother of his soul; and although +the blinding clouds of argument and theory and self-distrust rushed down on him +again and filled his eyes with dust, yet he knew he had seen her face in very +truth, and that the memory of that vision could never again wholly leave him. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="II_VI">CHAPTER VI</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +SOME CONTRASTS +</p> + +<p> +In the Lambeth household the autumn passed by uneventfully. The rigour of the +Archbishop’s confinement had been mitigated, and he had been allowed now and +again to visit his palace at Croydon; but his inactivity still continued as the +sequestration was not removed; Elizabeth had refused to listen to the petition +of Convocation in ’80 for his reinstatement. Anthony went down to the old +palace once or twice with him; and was brought closer to him in many ways; and +his affection and tenderness towards his master continually increased. Grindal +was a pathetic figure at this time, with few friends, in poor health, out of +favour with the Queen, who had disregarded his existence; and now his +afflictions were rendered more heavy than ever by the blindness that was +creeping over him. The Archbishop, too, in his loneliness and sorrow, was drawn +closer to his young officer than ever before; and gradually got to rely upon +him in many little ways. He would often walk with Anthony in the gardens at +Lambeth, leaning upon his arm, talking to him of his beloved flowers and herbs +which he was now almost too blind to see; telling him queer facts about the +properties of plants; and even attempting to teach him a little irrelevant +botany now and then. +</p> + +<p> +They were walking up and down together, soon after Campion’s arrest, one August +morning before prayers in a little walled garden on the river that Grindal had +laid out with great care in earlier years. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said the old man, “I am too blind to see my flowers now, Mr. Norris; but +I love them none the less; and I know their places. Now there,” he went on, +pointing with his stick, “there I think grows my mastick or marum; perhaps I +smell it, however. What is that flower like, Mr. Norris?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked at it, and described its little white flower and its leaves. +</p> + +<p> +“That is it,” said the Archbishop, “I thought my memory served me. It is a +kind of marjoram, and it has many virtues, against cramps, convulsions and +venomous bites—so Galen tells us.” Then he went on to talk of the simple old +plants that he loved best; of the two kinds of basil that he always had in his +garden; and how good it was mixed in sack against the headache; and the male +penny-royal, and how well it had served him once when he had great internal +trouble. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gerrard was here a week or two ago, Mr. Norris, when you were down at +Croydon for me. He is my Lord Burghley’s man; he oversees his gardens at +Wimbledon House, and in the country. He was telling me of a rascal he had seen +at a fair, who burned henbane and made folks with the toothache breathe in the +fumes; and then feigned to draw a worm forth from the aching tooth; but it was +no worm at all, but a lute string that he held ready in his hand. There are sad +rascals abroad, Mr. Norris.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man waxed eloquent when they came to the iris bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Mr. Norris, the flowers-de-luce are over by now, I fear; but what +wonderful creatures of God they are, with their great handsome heads and their +cool flags. I love to hear a bed of them rustle all together and shake their +spears and nod their banners like an army in array. And then they are not only +for show. Apuleius says that they are good against the gout. I asked Mr. +Gerrard whether my lord had tried them; but he said no, he would not.” +</p> + +<p> +At the violet bed he was yet more emphatic. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, Mr. Norris, I love these the best of all. They are lowly creatures; +but how sweet! and like other lowly creatures exalted by their Maker to do +great things as his handmaidens. The leaves are good against inflammations, and +the flowers against ague and hoarseness as well. And then there is +oil-of-violets, as you know; and violet-syrup and sugar-violet; then they are +good for blisters; garlands of them were an ancient cure for the headache, as I +think Dioscorides tells us. And they are the best of all cures for some +children’s ailments.” +</p> + +<p> +And so they walked up and down together; the Archbishop talking quietly on and +on; and helping quite unknown to himself by his tender irrelevant old man’s +talk to soothe the fever of unrest and anxiety that was beginning to torment +Anthony so much now. His conversation, like the very flowers he loved to speak +of, was “good against inflammations.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony came to him one morning, thinking to please him, and brought him a root +that he had bought from a travelling pedlar just outside the gateway. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a mandrake root, your Grace; I heard you speak of it the other day.” +</p> + +<p> +The Archbishop took it, smiling, felt it carefully, peered at it a minute or +two. “No, my son,” he said, “I fear you have met a knave. This is briony-root +carved like a mandrake into the shape of a man’s legs. It is worthless, I fear; +but I thank you for the kind thought, Mr. Norris,” and he gave the root back +to him. “And the stories we hear of the mandrake, I fear, are fables, too. Some +say that they only grow beneath gallows from that which falls there; that the +male grows from the corruption of a man’s body; and the female from that of a +woman’s; but that is surely a lie, and a foul one, too. And then folks say that +to draw it up means death; and that the mandrake screams terribly as it comes +up; and so they bid us tie a dog to it, and then drive the dog from it so as to +draw it up so. I asked Mr. Baker, the chirurgeon in the household of my Lord +Oxford, the other day, about that; and he said that such tales be but doltish +dreams and old wives’ fables. But the true mandrake is a clean and wholesome +plant. The true ointment Populeon should have the juice of the leaves in it; +and the root boiled and strained causes drowsiness. It hath a predominate cold +faculty, Galen saith; but its true home is not in England at all. It comes from +Mount Garganus in Apulia.” +</p> + +<p> +It was pathetic, Anthony thought sometimes, that this old prelate should be +living so far from the movements of the time, owing to no fault of his own. +During these months the great tragedy of Campion’s passion was proceeding a +couple of miles away; but the Archbishop thought less of it than of the death +of an old tree. The only thing from the outside world that seemed to ruffle him +was the behaviour of the Puritans. Anthony was passing through “le velvet-room” +one afternoon when he heard voices in the Presence Chamber beyond; and almost +immediately heard the Archbishop, who had recognised his step, call his name. +He went in and found him with a stranger in a dark sober dress. +</p> + +<p> +“Take this gentleman to Mr. Scot,” he said, “and ask him to give him some +refreshment; for that he must be gone directly.” +</p> + +<p> +When Anthony had taken the gentleman to the steward, he returned to the +Archbishop for any further instructions about him. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mr. Norris, my business is done with him. He comes from my lord of +Norwich, and must be returning this evening. If you are not occupied, Mr. +Norris, will you give me your arm into the garden?” +</p> + +<p> +They went out by the vestry-door into the little cloisters, and skirting the +end of the creek that ran up by Chichele’s water-tower began to pace up and +down the part of the garden that looked over the river. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord has sent to know if I know aught of one Robert Browne, with whom he is +having trouble. This Mr. Browne has lately come from Cambridge, and so my lord +thought I might know something of him; but I do not. This gentleman has been +saying some wild and foolish things, I fear; and desires that every church +should be free of all others; and should appoint its own minister, and rule its +own affairs without interference, and that prophesyings should be without +restraint. Now, you know, Mr. Norris, I have always tried to serve that party, +and support them in their gospel religion; but this goes too far. Where were +any governance at all, if all this were to come about? where were the Rule of +Faith? the power of discipline? Nay, where were the unity for which our Saviour +prayed? It liketh me not. Good Dr. Freake, as his messenger tells me, feels as +I do about this; and desires to restrain Mr. Browne, but he is so hot he will +not be restrained; and besides, he is some kin to my Lord Burghley, so I fear +his mouth will be hard to stop.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony could not help thinking of Mr. Buxton’s prediction that the Church of +England had so repudiated authority, that in turn her own would one day be +repudiated. +</p> + +<p> +“A Papist prisoner, your Grace,” he said, “said to me the other day that this +would be sure to come: that the whole principle of Church authority had been +destroyed in England; and that the Church of England would more and more be +deserted by her children; for that there was no necessary centre of unity left, +now that Peter was denied.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is what a Papist is bound to say,” replied the Archbishop; “but it is easy +to prophesy, when fulfilment may be far away. Indeed, I think we shall have +trouble with some of these zealous men; and the Queen’s Grace was surely right +in desiring some restraint to be put upon the Exercises. But it is mere angry +raving to say that the Church of England will lose the allegiance of her +children.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony could not feel convinced that events bore out the Archbishop’s +assertion. Everywhere the Puritans were becoming more outrageously disloyal. +There were everywhere signs of disaffection and revolt against the authorities +of the Establishment, even on the part of the most sincere and earnest men, +many of whom were looking forward to the day when the last rags of popery +should be cast away, and formal Presbyterianism inaugurated in the Church of +England. Episcopal Ordination was more and more being regarded as a merely +civil requirement, but conveying no ministerial commission; recognition by the +congregation with the laying on of the hands of the presbyterate was the only +ordination they allowed as apostolic. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony said a word to the Archbishop about this. +</p> + +<p> +“You must not be too strict,” said the old man. “Both views can be supported +by the Scriptures; and although the Church of England at present recognises +only Episcopal Ordination within her own borders, she does not dare to deny, as +the Papists fondly do, that other rites may not be as efficacious as her own. +That, surely, Master Norris, is in accordance with the mind of Christ that hath +the spirit of liberty.” +</p> + +<p> +Much as Anthony loved the old man and his gentle charity, this doctrinal +position as stated by the chief pastor of the Church of England scarcely served +to establish his troubled allegiance. +</p> + +<p> +During these autumn months, too, both between and after the disputations in the +Tower, the image of Campion had been much in his thoughts. Everywhere, except +among the irreconcilables, the Jesuit was being well spoken of: his eloquence, +his humour, and his apparent sincerity were being greatly commented on in +London and elsewhere. Anthony, as has been seen, was being deeply affected on +both sides of his nature; the shrewd wit of the other was in conflict with his +own intellectual convictions, and this magnetic personality was laying siege to +his heart. And now the last scene of the tragedy, more affecting than all, was +close at hand. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony was present first at the trial in Westminster Hall, which took place +during November, and was more than ever moved by what he saw and heard there. +The priest, as even his opponents confessed, had by now “won a marvellously +good report, to be such a man as his like was not to be found, either for life, +learning, or any other quality which might beautify a man.” And now here he +stood at the bar, paler than ever, so numbed with racking that he could not +lift his hand to plead—that supple musician’s hand of his, once so skilful on +the lute—so that Mr. Sherwin had to lift it for him out of the furred cuff in +which he had wrapped it, kissing it tenderly as he did so, in reverence for its +sufferings; and he saw, too, the sleek face of Eliot, in his red yeoman’s coat, +as he stood chatting at the back, like another Barabbas whom the people +preferred to the servant of the Crucified. And, above all, he heard Campion’s +stirring defence, spoken in that same resonant sweet voice, though it broke now +and then through weakness, in spite of the unconquerable purpose and +cheerfulness that showed in his great brown eyes, and round his delicate +humorous mouth. It was indeed an astonishing combination of sincerity and +eloquence, and even humour, that was brought to bear on the jury, and all in +vain, during those days. +</p> + +<p> +“If you want to dispute as though you were in the schools,” cried one of the +court, when he found himself out of his depth, “you are only proving yourself a +fool.” +</p> + +<p> +“I pray God,” said Campion, while his eyes twinkled, “I pray God make us both +sages.” And, in spite of the tragedy of the day, a little hum of laughter ran +round the audience. +</p> + +<p> +“If a sheep were stolen,” he argued again, in answer to the presupposition +that since some Catholics were traitors, therefore these were—“and a whole +family called in question for the same, were it good manner of proceeding for +the accusers to say ‘Your great grandfathers and fathers and sisters and +kinsfolk all loved mutton; <i> ergo</i>, you have stolen the sheep’?” +</p> + +<p> +Again, in answer to the charge that he and his companions had conspired abroad, +he said, +</p> + +<p> +“As for the accusation that we plotted treason at Rheims, reflect, my lords, +how just this charge is! For see! First we never met there at all; then, many +of us have never been at Rheims at all; finally, we were never in our lives all +together, except at this hour and in prison.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony heard, too, Campion expose the attempt that was made to shift the +charge from religion to treason. +</p> + +<p> +“There was offer made to us,” he cried indignantly, “that if we would come to +the church to hear sermons and the word preached, we should be set at large and +at liberty; so Pascall and Nicholls”—(two apostates) “otherwise as culpable in +all offences as we, upon coming to church were received to grace and had their +pardon granted; whereas, if they had been so happy as to have persevered to the +end, they had been partakers of our calamities. So that our religion was cause +of our imprisonment, and <i> ex consequenti</i>, of our condemnation.” +</p> + +<p> +The Queen’s Counsel tried to make out that certain secrets that Campion, in an +intercepted letter, had sworn not to reveal, must be treasonable or he would +not so greatly fear their publication. To this the priest made a stately +defence of his office, and declaration of his staunchness. He showed how by his +calling as a priest he was bound to secrecy in matters heard in confession, and +that these secret matters were of this nature. +</p> + +<p> +“These were the hidden matters,” he said, “these were the secrets, to the +revealing whereof I cannot nor will not be brought, come rack, come rope!” +</p> + +<p> +And again, when Sergeant Anderson interpreted a phrase of Campion’s referring +to the great day to which he looked forward, as meaning the day of a foreign +papal invasion, the prisoner cried in a loud voice: +</p> + +<p> +“O Judas, Judas! No other day was in my mind, I protest, than that wherein it +should please God to make a restitution of faith and religion. Whereupon, as in +every pulpit every Protestant doth, I pronounced a great day, not wherein any +temporal potentate should minister, but wherein the terrible Judge should +reveal all men’s consciences, and try every man of each kind of religion. This +is the day of change, this is the great day which I threatened; comfortable to +the well-behaving, and terrible to all heretics. Any other day but this, God +knows I meant not.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, after the other prisoners had pleaded, Campion delivered a final defence +to the jury, with a solemnity that seemed to belong to a judge rather than a +criminal. The babble of tongues that had continued most of the day was hushed +to a profound silence in court as he stood and spoke, for the sincerity and +simplicity of the priest were evident to all, and combined with his eloquence +and his strange attractive personality, dominated all but those whose minds +were already made up before entering the court. +</p> + +<p> +“What charge this day you sustain,” began the priest, in a steady low voice, +with his searching eyes bent on the faces before him, “and what account you are +to render at the dreadful Day of Judgment, whereof I could wish this also were +a mirror, I trust there is not one of you but knoweth. I doubt not but in like +manner you forecast how dear the innocent is to God, and at what price He +holdeth man’s blood. Here we are accused and impleaded to the death,”—he began +to raise his voice a little—“here you do receive our lives into your custody; +here must be your device, either to restore them or condemn them. We have no +whither to appeal but to your consciences; we have no friends to make there but +your heeds and discretions.” Then he touched briefly on the evidence, showing +how faulty and circumstantial it was, and urged them to remember that a man’s +life by the very constitution of the realm must not be sacrificed to mere +probabilities or presumptions; then he showed the untrustworthiness of his +accusers, how one had confessed himself a murderer, and how another was an +atheist. Then he ended with a word or two of appeal. +</p> + +<p> +“God give you grace,” he cried, “to weigh our causes aright, and have respect +to your own consciences; and so I will keep the jury no longer. I commit the +rest to God, and our convictions to your good discretions.” +</p> + +<p> +When the jury had retired, and all the judges but one had left the bench until +the jury should return, Anthony sat back in his place, his heart beating and +his eyes looking restlessly now on the prisoners, now on the door where the +jury had gone out, and now on Judge Ayloff, whom he knew a little, and who sat +only a few feet away from him on one side. He could hear the lawyers sitting +below the judge talking among themselves; and presently one of them leaned over +to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-day, Mr. Norris,” he said, “you have come to see an acquittal, I doubt +not. No man can be in two minds after what we have heard; at least concerning +Mr. Campion. We all think so, here, at any rate.” +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer was going on to say a word or two more as to the priest’s eloquence, +when there was a sharp exclamation from the judge. Anthony looked up and saw +Judge Ayloff staring at his hand, turning it over while he held his glove in +the other; and Anthony saw to his surprise that the fingers were all +blood-stained. One or two gentlemen near him turned and looked, too, as the +judge, still staring and growing a little pale, wiped the blood quickly away +with the glove; but the fingers grew crimson again immediately. +</p> + +<p> +“’S’Body!” said Ayloff, half to himself; “’tis strange, there is no wound.” A +moment later, looking up, he saw many of his neighbours glancing curiously at +his hand and his pale face, and hastily thrust on his glove again; and +immediately after the jury returned, and the judges filed in to take their +places. Anthony’s attention was drawn off again, and the buzz of talk in the +court was followed again by a deep silence. +</p> + +<p> +The verdict of <i> Guilty </i> was uttered, as had been pre-arranged, and the +Queen’s Counsel demanded sentence. +</p> + +<p> +“Campion and the rest,” said Chief Justice Wray, “What can you say why you +should not die?” +</p> + +<p> +Then Campion, still steady and resolute, made his last useless appeal. +</p> + +<p> +“It was not our death that ever we feared. But we knew that we were not lords +of our own lives, and therefore for want of answer would not be guilty of our +own deaths. The only thing that we have now to say is, that if our religion do +make us traitors, we are worthy to be condemned; but otherwise are and have +been true subjects as ever the Queen had. In condemning us, you condemn all +your own ancestors,” and as he said this, his voice began to rise, and he +glanced steadily and mournfully round at the staring faces about him, “all the +ancient priests, bishops, and kings—all that was once the glory of England, the +island of saints, and the most devoted child of the See of Peter.” Then, as he +went on, he flung out his wrenched hands, and his voice rang with indignant +defiance. “For what have we taught,” he cried, “however you may qualify it +with the odious name of treason, that they did not uniformly teach? To be +condemned with these old lights—not of England only, but of the world—by their +degenerate descendants, is both gladness and glory to us.” Then, with a superb +gesture, he sent his voice pealing through the hall: “God lives, posterity will +live; their judgment is not so liable to corruption as that of those who are +now about to sentence us to death.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a burst of murmurous applause as he ended, which stilled immediately, +as the Chief Justice began to deliver sentence. But when the horrible details +of his execution had been enumerated, and the formula had ended, it was the +prisoner’s turn to applaud:— +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Te Deum laudamus!</i>” cried Campion; “<i>Te Dominum confitemur.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Haec est dies</i>,” shouted Sherwin, “<i>quam fecit Dominus; exultemus et +laetemur in illâ</i>”: and so with the thanksgiving and joy of the condemned +criminals, the mock-trial ended. +</p> + +<p> +When Anthony rode down silently and alone in the rain that December morning a +few days later, to see the end, he found a vast silent crowd assembled on Tower +Hill and round the gateway, where the four horses were waiting, each pair +harnessed to a hurdle laid flat on the ground. He would not go in, for he could +scarcely trust himself to speak, so great was his horror of the crime that was +to be committed; so he backed his horse against the wall, and waited over an +hour in silence, scarcely hearing the murmurs of impatience that rolled round +the great crowd from time to time, absorbed in his own thoughts. Here was the +climax of these days of misery and self-questioning that had passed since the +trial in Westminster Hall. It was no use, he argued to himself, to pretend +otherwise. These three men of God were to die for their religion—and a religion +too which was gradually detaching itself to his view from the mists and clouds +that hid it, as the one great reality and truth of God’s Revelation to man. He +had come, he knew, to see not an execution but a martyrdom. +</p> + +<p> +There was a trampling from within, the bolts creaked, and the gate rolled back; +a company of halberdiers emerged, and in their midst the three priests in +laymen’s dress; behind followed a few men on horseback, with a little company +of ministers, bible in hand; and then a rabble of officers and pursuivants. +Anthony edged his horse in among the others, as the crowd fell back, and took +up his place in the second rank of riders between a gentleman of his +acquaintance who made room for him on the one side, and Sir Francis Knowles on +the other, and behind the Tower officials. +</p> + +<p> +Then, once more he heard that ringing bass voice whose first sound silenced the +murmurs of the surging excited crowd. +</p> + +<p> +“God save you all, gentlemen! God bless you and make you all good Catholics.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, as the priest turned to kneel towards the east, he saw his face paler +than ever now, after his long fast in preparation for death. The rain was still +falling as Campion in his frieze gown knelt in the mud. There was silence as he +prayed, and as he ended aloud by commending his soul to God. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum.</i>” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The three were secured to the hurdles, Briant and Sherwin on the one, Campion +on the other, all lying on their backs, with their feet towards the horse’s +heels. The word to start was given by Sir Owen Hopton who rode with Charke, the +preacher of Gray’s Inn, in the front rank; the lashed horses plunged forward, +with the jolting hurdles spattering mud behind them; and the dismal pageant +began to move forward through the crowd on that way of sorrows. There was a +ceaseless roar and babble of voices as they went. Charke, in his minister’s +dress, able now to declaim without fear of reply, was hardly silent for a +moment from mocking and rebuking the prisoners, and making pompous speeches to +the people. +</p> + +<p> +“See here,” he cried, “these rogueing popish priests, laid by the heels—aye, +by the heels—at last; in spite of their tricks and turns. See this fellow in +his frieze gown, dead to the world as he brags; and know how he skulked and hid +in his disguises till her Majesty’s servants plucked him forth! We will +disguise him, we will disguise him, ere we have done with him, that his own +mother should not know him. Ha, now! Campion, do you hear me?” +</p> + +<p> +And so the harsh voice rang out over the crowd that tramped alongside, and up +to the faces that filled every window; while the ministers below kept up a +ceaseless murmur of adjuration and entreaty and threatening, with a turning of +leaves of their bibles, and bursts of prayer, over the three heads that jolted +and rocked at their feet over the cobblestones and through the mud. The friends +of the prisoners walked as near to them as they dared, and their lips moved +continually in prayer. +</p> + +<p> +Every now and then as Anthony craned his head, he could see Campion’s face, +with closed eyes and moving lips that smiled again and again, all spattered and +dripping with filth; and once he saw a gentleman walking beside him fearlessly +stoop down and wipe the priest’s face with a handkerchief. Presently they had +passed up Cheapside and reached Newgate; in a niche in the archway itself stood +a figure of the Mother of God looking compassionately down; and as Campion’s +hurdle passed beneath it, her servant wrenched himself a few inches up in his +bonds and bowed to his glorious Queen; and then laid himself down quietly +again, as a chorus of lament rose from the ministers over his superstition and +obstinate idolatry that seemed as if it would last even to death; and Charke +too, who had become somewhat more silent, broke out again into revilings. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The crowd at Tyburn was vast beyond all reckoning. Outside the gate it +stretched on every side, under the elms, a few were even in the branches, along +the sides of the stream; everywhere was a sea of heads, out of which, on a +little eminence like another Calvary, rose up the tall posts of the +three-cornered gallows, on which the martyrs were to suffer. As the hurdles +came slowly under the gate, the sun broke out for the first time; and as the +horses that drew the hurdles came round towards the carts that stood near the +gallows and the platform on which the quartering block stood, a murmur began +that ran through the crowd from those nearest the martyrs.—“But they are +laughing, they are laughing!” +</p> + +<p> +The crowd gave a surge to and fro as the horses drew up, and Anthony reined his +own beast back among the people, so that he was just opposite the beam on which +the three new ropes were already hanging, and beneath which was standing a cart +with the back taken out. In the cart waited a dreadful figure in a +tight-fitting dress, sinewy arms bare to the shoulder, and a butcher’s knife at +his leather girdle. A little distance away stood the hateful cauldron, bubbling +fiercely, with black smoke pouring from under it: the platform with the block +and quartering-axe stood beneath the gallows; and round this now stood the +officers, with Norton the rack-master, and Sir Owen Hopton and the rest, and +the three priests, with the soldiers forming a circle to keep the crowd back. +</p> + +<p> +The hangman stooped as Anthony looked, and a moment later Campion stood beside +him on the cart, pale, mud-splashed, but with the same serene smile; his great +brown eyes shone as they looked out over the wide heaving sea of heads, from +which a deep heart-shaking murmur rose as the famous priest appeared. Anthony +could see every detail of what went on; the hangman took the noose that hung +from above, and slipped it over the prisoner’s head, and drew it close round +his neck; and then himself slipped down from the cart, and stood with the +others, still well above the heads of the crowd, but leaving the priest +standing higher yet on the cart, silhouetted, rope and all, framed in the posts +and cross-beam, from which two more ropes hung dangling against the driving +clouds and blue sky over London city. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Campion waited perfectly motionless for the murmur of innumerable voices to die +down; and Anthony, fascinated and afraid beneath that overpowering serenity, +watched him turn his head slowly from side to side with a “majestical +countenance,” as his enemies confessed, as if he were on the point of +speaking. Silence seemed to radiate out from him, spreading like a ripple, +outwards, until the furthest outskirts of that huge crowd was motionless and +quiet; and then without apparent effort, his voice began to peal out. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +“‘<i>Spectaculum facti sumus Deo, angelis et hominibus.</i>’ These are the +words of Saint Paul, Englished thus, ‘We are made a spectacle or sight unto +God, unto His angels, and unto men’;—verified this day in me, who am here a +spectacle unto my Lord God, a spectacle unto His angels, and unto you men, +satisfying myself to die as becometh a true Christian and Catholic man.” +</p> + +<p> +He was interrupted by cries from the gentlemen beneath, and turned a little, +looking down to see what they wished. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not here to preach to the people,” said Sir Francis Knowles, angrily, +“but to confess yourself a traitor.” +</p> + +<p> +Campion smiled and shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” he said: and then looking up and raising his voice,—“as to the +treasons which have been laid to my charge, and for which I am come here to +suffer, I desire you all to bear witness with me, that I am thereof altogether +innocent.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a chorus of anger from the gentlemen, and one of them called up +something that Anthony could not hear. Campion raised his eyebrows. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my lord,” he cried aloud, and his voice instantly silenced again the +noisy buzz of talk, “I am a Catholic man and a priest: in that faith have I +lived, and in that faith do I intend to die. If you esteem my religion treason, +then am I guilty; as for other treason, I never committed any, God is my judge. +But you have now what you desire. I beseech you to have patience, and suffer me +to speak a word or two for discharge of my conscience.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a furious burst of refusals from the officers. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Campion, at last, looking straight out over the crowd, “it seems +I may not speak; but this only will I say; that I am wholly innocent of all +treason and conspiracy, as God is my judge; and I beseech you to credit me, for +it is my last answer upon my death and soul. As for the jury I do not blame +them, for they were ignorant men and easily deceived. I forgive all who have +compassed my death or wronged me in any whit, as I hope to be forgiven; and I +ask the forgiveness of all those whose names I spoke upon the rack.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he said a word or two more of explanation, such as he had said during his +trial, for the sake of those Catholics whom this a concession of his had +scandalised, telling them that he had had the promise of the Council that no +harm should come to those whose names he revealed; and then was silent again, +closing his eyes; and Anthony, as he watched him, saw his lips moving once more +in prayer. +</p> + +<p> +Then a harsh loud voice from behind the cart began to proclaim that the Queen +punished no man for religion but only for treason. A fierce murmur of +disagreement and protest began to rise from the crowd; and Anthony turning saw +the faces of many near him frowning and pursing their lips, and there was a +shout or two of denial here and there. The harsh voice ceased, and another +began: +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mr. Campion,” it cried, “tell us, What of the Pope? Do you renounce +him?” +</p> + +<p> +Campion opened his eyes and looked round. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a Catholic,” he said simply; and closed his eyes again for prayer, as +the voice cried brutally: +</p> + +<p> +“In your Catholicism all treason is contained.” +</p> + +<p> +Again a murmur from the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +Then a new voice from the black group of ministers called out: +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Campion, Mr. Campion, leave that popish stuff, and say, ‘Christ have mercy +on me.’” +</p> + +<p> +Again the priest opened his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“You and I are not one in religion, sir, wherefore I pray you content yourself. +I bar none of prayer, but I only desire them of the household of faith to pray +with me; and in mine agony to say one creed.” +</p> + +<p> +Again he closed his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Pater noster qui es in cælis.</i>”... +</p> + +<p> +“Pray in English, pray in English!” shouted a voice from the minister’s group. +</p> + +<p> +Once more the priest opened his eyes; and, in spite of the badgering, his eyes +shone with humour and his mouth broke into smiles, so that a great sob of pity +and love broke from Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“I will pray to God in a language that both He and I well understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ask her Grace’s forgiveness, Mr. Campion, and pray for her, if you be her true +subject.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wherein have I offended her? In this I am innocent. This is my last speech; in +this give me credit—I have and do pray for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aha! but which queen?—for Elizabeth?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, for Elizabeth, your queen and my queen, unto whom I wish a long quiet +reign with all prosperity.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +There was the crack of a whip, the scuffle of a horse’s feet, a rippling +movement over the crowd, and a great murmured roar, like the roar of the waves +on a pebbly beach, as the horse’s head began to move forward; and the priest’s +figure to sway and stagger on the jolting cart. Anthony shut his eyes, and the +murmur and cries of the crowd grew louder and louder. Once more the deep sweet +voice rang out, loud and penetrating: +</p> + +<p> +“I die a true Catholic....” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony kept his eyes closed, and his head bent, as great sobs began to break +up out of his heart.... +</p> + +<p> +Ah! he was in his agony now! that sudden cry and silence from the crowd showed +it. What was it he had asked? one creed?— +</p> + +<p> +“I believe in God the Father Almighty.” ... +</p> + +<p> +The soft heavy murmur of the crowd rose and fell. Catholics were praying all +round him, reckless with love and pity: +</p> + +<p> +“Jesu, Jesu, save him! Be to him a Jesus!”... +</p> + +<p> +“Mary pray! Mary pray!”... +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem.</i>”... +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Passus sub Pontio Pilato.</i>”... +</p> + +<p> +“Crucified dead and buried.”... +</p> + +<p> +“The forgiveness of sins.”... +</p> + +<p> +“And the Life Everlasting.”... +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Anthony dropped his face forward on to his horse’s mane. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="II_VII">CHAPTER VII</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +A MESSAGE FROM THE CITY +</p> + +<p> +Sir Francis Walsingham sat in his private room a month after Father Campion’s +death. +</p> + +<p> +He had settled down again now to his work which had been so grievously +interrupted by his mission to France in connection with a new treaty between +that country and England in the previous year. The secret detective service +that he had inaugurated in England chiefly for the protection of the Queen’s +person was a vast and complicated business, and the superintendence of this, in +addition to the other affairs of his office, made him an exceedingly busy man. +England was honeycombed with mines and countermines both in the political and +the religious world, and it needed all this man’s brilliant and trained +faculties to keep abreast with them. His spies and agents were everywhere; and +not only in England: they circled round Mary of Scotland like flies round a +wounded creature, seeking to settle and penetrate wherever an opening showed +itself. These Scottish troubles would have been enough for any ordinary man; +but Walsingham was indefatigable, and his agents were in every prison, lurking +round corridors in private houses, found alike in thieves’ kitchens and at +gentlemen’s tables. +</p> + +<p> +Just at present Walsingham was anxious to give all the attention he could to +Scottish affairs; and on this wet dreary Thursday morning in January as he sat +before his bureau, he was meditating how to deal with an affair that had come +to him from the heart of London, and how if possible to shift the conduct of it +on to other shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +He sat and drummed his fingers on the desk, and stared meditatively at the +pigeon-holes before him. His was an interesting face, with large, melancholy, +and almost fanatical eyes, and a poet’s mouth and forehead; but it was probably +exactly his imaginative faculties that enabled him to picture public affairs +from the points of view of the very various persons concerned in them; and +thereby to cope with the complications arising out of these conflicting +interests. +</p> + +<p> +He stroked his pointed beard once or twice, and then struck a hand-bell at his +side; and a servant entered. +</p> + +<p> +“If Mr. Lackington is below,” he said, “show him here immediately,” and the +servant went out. +</p> + +<p> +Lackington, sometime servant to Sir Nicholas Maxwell, had entered Sir Francis’ +service instead, at the same time that he had exchanged the Catholic for the +Protestant religion; and he was now one of his most trusted agents. But he had +been in so many matters connected with recusancy, that a large number of the +papists in London were beginning to know him by sight; and the affairs were +becoming more and more scarce in which he could be employed among Catholics +with any hope of success. It was his custom to call morning by morning at Sir +Francis’ office and receive his instructions; and just now he had returned from +business in the country. Presently he entered, closing the door behind him, and +bowed profoundly to his master. +</p> + +<p> +“I have a matter on hand, Lackington,” said Sir Francis, without looking at +him, and without any salutation beyond a glance and a nod as he entered,—“a +matter which I have not leisure to look into, as it is not, I think, anything +more than mere religion; but which might, I think, repay you for your trouble, +if you can manage it in any way. But it is a troublesome business. These are +the facts. +</p> + +<p> +“No. 3 Newman’s Court, in the City, has been a suspected house for some while. +I have had it watched, and there is no doubt that the papists use it. I thought +at first that the Scots were mixed up with it; but that is not so. Yesterday, a +boy of twelve years old, left the house in the afternoon, and was followed to a +number of houses, of which I will give you the list presently; and was finally +arrested in Paul’s Churchyard and brought here. I frightened him with talk of +the rack; and I think I have the truth out of him now; I have tested him in the +usual ways—and all that I can find is that the house is used for mass now and +then; and that he was going to the papists’ houses yesterday to bid them come +for next Sunday morning. But he was stopped too soon: he had not yet told the +priest to come. Now unless the priest is told to-night by one whom he trusts, +there will be no mass on Sunday, and the nest of papists will escape us. It is +of no use to send the boy; as he will betray all by his behaviour, even if we +frighten him into saying what we wish to the priest. I suppose it is of no use +your going to the priest and feigning to be a Catholic messenger; and I cannot +at this moment see what is to be done. If there were anything beyond mere +religion in this, I would spare no pains to hunt them out; but it is not worth +my while. Yet there is the reward; and if you think that you can do anything, +you can have it for your pains. I can spare you till Monday, and of course you +shall have what men you will to surround the house and take them at mass, if +you can but get the priest there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, sir,” said Lackington deferentially. “Have I your honour’s leave +to see the boy in your presence?” +</p> + +<p> +Walsingham struck the bell again. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring the lad that is locked in the steward’s parlour,” he said, when the +servant appeared.—“Sit down, Lackington, and examine him when he comes.” +</p> + +<p> +And Sir Francis took down some papers from a pigeon-hole, sorted out one or +two, and saying, “Here are his statements,” handed them to the agent; who +began to glance through them at once. Walsingham then turned to his table again +and began to go on with his letters. +</p> + +<p> +In a moment or two the door opened, and a little lad of twelve years old, came +in, followed by the servant. +</p> + +<p> +“That will do,” said Walsingham, without looking up; “You can leave him +here,” and the servant went out. The boy stood back against the wall by the +door, his face was white and his eyes full of horror, and he looked in a dazed +way at the two men. +</p> + +<p> +“What is your name, boy?” began Lackington in a sharp, judicial tone. +</p> + +<p> +“John Belton,” said the lad in a tremulous voice. +</p> + +<p> +“And you are a little papist?” asked the agent. +</p> + +<p> +“No sir; a Protestant.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then how is it that you go on errands for papists?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am a servant, sir,” said the boy imploringly. +</p> + +<p> +Lackington turned the papers over for a moment or two. +</p> + +<p> +“Now you know,” he began again in a threatening voice, “that this gentleman +has power to put you on the rack; you know what that is?” +</p> + +<p> +The boy nodded in mute white-faced terror. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now, he will hear all you say; and will know whether you say the truth +or not. Now tell me if you still hold to what you said yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +And then Lackington with the aid of the papers ran quickly over the story that +Sir Francis had related. “Now do you mean to tell me, John Belton,” he added, +“that you, a Protestant, and a lad of twelve, are employed on this work by +papists, to gather them for mass?” +</p> + +<p> +The boy looked at him with the same earnest horror. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” he said, and there was a piteous sob in his voice. +“Indeed it is all true: but I do not often go on these messages for my master. +Mr. Roger generally goes: but he is sick.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oho!” said Lackington, “you did not say that yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy was terrified. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” he cried out miserably, “the gentleman did not ask me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, who is Mr. Roger? What is he like?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is my master’s servant, sir; and he wears a patch over his eye; and +stutters a little in his speech.” +</p> + +<p> +These kinds of details were plainly beyond a frightened lad’s power of +invention, and Lackington was more satisfied. +</p> + +<p> +“And what was the message that you were to give to the folk and the priest?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, sir, ‘Come, for all things are now ready.’” +</p> + +<p> +This was such a queer answer that Lackington gave an incredulous exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“It is probably true,” said Sir Francis, without looking up from his letters; +“I have come across the same kind of cypher, at least once before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, sir,” said the agent. “And now, my boy, tell me this. How did you +know what it meant?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, sir,” said the lad, a little encouraged by the kinder tone, “I have +noticed that twice before when Mr. Roger could not go, and I was sent with the +same message, all the folks and the priest came on the next Sunday; and I think +that it means that all is safe, and that they can come.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a sharp lad,” said the spy approvingly. “I am satisfied with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, sir, may I go home?” asked the boy with hopeful entreaty in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said the other, “I have not done with you yet. Answer me some more +questions. Why did you not go to the priest first?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I was bidden to go to him last,” said the boy. “If I had been to all +the other houses by five o’clock last night, then I was to meet the priest at +Papists’ Corner in Paul’s Church. But if I had not done them—as I had not,—then +I was to see the priest to-night at the same place.” +</p> + +<p> +Lackington mused a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the priest’s name?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, sir, Mr. Arthur Oldham.” +</p> + +<p> +The agent gave a sudden start and a keen glance at the boy, and then smiled to +himself; then he meditated, and bit his nails once or twice. +</p> + +<p> +“And when was Mr. Roger taken ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“He slipped down at the door of his lodging and hurt his foot, at dinner-time +yesterday; and he could not walk.” +</p> + +<p> +“His lodging? Then he does not sleep in the house?” +</p> + +<p> +“No sir; he sleeps in Stafford Alley, round the corner.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where do you live?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, sir, I go home to my mother nearly every night; but not always.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where does your mother live?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, sir, at 4 Bell’s Lane.” +</p> + +<p> +Lackington remained deep in thought, and looked at the boy steadily for a +minute or two. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, sir; may I go?” he asked eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +Lackington paid no attention, and he repeated his question. The agent still did +not seem to hear him, but turned to Sir Francis, who was still at his letters. +</p> + +<p> +“That is all, sir, for the present,” he said. “May the boy be kept here till +Monday?” +</p> + +<p> +The lad broke out into wailing; but Lackington turned on him a face so savage +that his whimpers died away into horror-stricken silence. +</p> + +<p> +“As you will,” said Sir Francis, pausing for a moment in his writing, and +striking the bell again; and, on the servant’s appearance, gave orders that +John Belton should be taken again to the steward’s parlour until further +directions were received. The boy went sobbing out and down the passage again +under the servant’s charge, and the door closed. +</p> + +<p> +“And the mother?” asked Walsingham abruptly, pausing with pen upraised. +</p> + +<p> +“With your permission, sir, I will tell her that her boy is in trouble, and +that if his master sends to inquire for him, she is to say he is sick +upstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you will report to me on Monday?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir; by then I shall hope to have taken the crew.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Francis nodded his head sharply, and the pen began to fly over the paper +again; as Lackington slipped out. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Anthony Norris was passing through the court of Lambeth House in the afternoon +of the same day, when the porter came to him and said there was a child waiting +in the Lodge with a note for him; and would Master Norris kindly come to see +her. He found a little girl on the bench by the gate, who stood up and +curtseyed as the grand gentleman came striding in; and handed him a note which +he opened at once and read. +</p> + +<p> +“For the love of God,” the note ran, “come and aid one who can be of service +to a friend: follow the little maid Master Norris, and she will bring you to +me. If you have any friends at <i> Great Keynes</i>, for the love you bear to +them, come quickly.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony turned the note over; it was unsigned, and undated. On his inquiry +further from the little girl, she said she knew nothing about the writer; but +that a gentleman had given her the note and told her to bring it to Master +Anthony Norris at Lambeth House; and that she was to take him to a house that +she knew in the city; she did not know the name of the house, she said. +</p> + +<p> +It was all very strange, thought Anthony, but evidently here was some one who +knew about him; the reference to Great Keynes made him think uneasily of Isabel +and wonder whether any harm had happened to her, or whether any danger +threatened. He stood musing with the note between his fingers, and then told +the child to go straight down to Paul’s Cross and await him there, and he would +follow immediately. The child ran off, and Anthony went round to the stables to +get his horse. He rode straight down to the city and put up his horse in the +Bishop’s stables, and then went round with his riding-whip in his hand to +Paul’s Cross. +</p> + +<p> +It was a dull miserable afternoon, beginning to close in with a fine rain +falling, and very few people were about; and he found the child crouched up +against the pulpit in an attempt to keep dry. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he said kindly, “I am ready; show me the way.” +</p> + +<p> +The child led him along by the Cathedral through the churchyard, and then by +winding passages, where Anthony kept a good look-out at the corners; for a stab +in the back was no uncommon thing for a well-dressed gentleman off his guard. +The houses overhead leaned so nearly together that the darkening sky +disappeared altogether now and then; at one spot Anthony caught a glimpse high +up of Bow Church spire; and after a corner or two the child stopped before a +doorway in a little flagged court. +</p> + +<p> +“It is here,” she said; and before Anthony could stop her she had slipped away +and disappeared through a passage. He looked at the house. It was a tumble-down +place; the door was heavily studded with nails, and gave a most respectable air +to the house: the leaded windows were just over his head, and tightly closed. +There was an air of mute discretion and silence about the place that roused a +vague discomfort in Anthony’s mind; he slipped his right hand into his belt and +satisfied himself that the hilt of his knife was within reach. Overhead the +hanging windows and eaves bulged out on all sides; but there was no one to be +seen; it seemed a place that had slipped into a backwater of the humming stream +of the city. The fine rain still falling added to the dismal aspect of the +little court. He looked round once more; and then rapped sharply at the door to +which the child had pointed. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for at least a minute; then as he was about to knock again +there was a faint sound overhead, and he looked up in time to see a face +swiftly withdrawn from one of the windows. Evidently an occupant of the house +had been examining the visitor. Then shuffling footsteps came along a passage +within, and a light shone under the door. There was a noise of bolts being +withdrawn, and the rattle of a chain; and then the handle turned and the door +opened slowly inwards, and an old woman stood there holding an oil lamp over +her head. This was not very formidable at any rate. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been bidden to come here,” he said, “by a letter delivered to me an +hour ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said the old woman, and looked at him peeringly, “then you are for Mr. +Roger?” +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay,” said Anthony, a little sharply. He was not accustomed to be +treated like this. The old woman still looked at him suspiciously; and then, as +Anthony made a movement of impatience, she stepped back. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, sir,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He stepped in, and she closed and fastened the door again behind him; and then, +holding the oil-lamp high over her head, she advanced in her slippers towards +the staircase, and Anthony followed. On the stairs she turned once to see if he +was coming, and beckoned him on with a movement of her head. Anthony looked +about him as he went up: there was nothing remarkable or suspicious about the +house in any way. It was cleaner than he had been led to expect by its outside +aspect; wainscoted to the ceiling with oak; and the stairs were strong and well +made. It was plainly a very tolerably respectable place; and Anthony began to +think from its appearance that he had been admitted at the back door of some +well-to-do house off Cheapside. The banisters were carved with some +distinction; and there were the rudimentary elements of linen-pattern design on +the panels that lined the opposite walls up to the height of the banisters. The +woman went up and up, slowly, panting a little; at each landing she turned and +glanced back to see that her companion was following: all the doors that they +passed were discreetly shut; and the house was perfectly dark except for the +flickering light of the woman’s lamp, and silent except for the noise of the +footsteps and the rush of a mouse now and then behind the woodwork. +</p> + +<p> +At the third landing she stopped, and came close up to Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“That is the door,” she whispered hoarsely; and pointed with her thumb towards +a doorway that was opposite the staircase. “Ask for Master Roger.” +</p> + +<p> +And then without saying any more, she set the lamp down on the flat head of the +top banister and herself began to shuffle downstairs again into the dark house. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony stood still a moment, his heart beating a little. What was this strange +errand? and Isabel! what had she to do with this house buried away in the +courts of the great city? As he waited he heard a door close somewhere behind +him, and the shuffling footsteps had ceased. He touched the hilt of his knife +once again to give himself courage; and then walked slowly across and rapped on +the door. Instantly a voice full of trembling expectancy, cried to him to come +in; he turned the handle and stepped into the fire-lit room. +</p> + +<p> +It was extremely poorly furnished; a rickety table stood in the centre with a +book or two and a basin with a plate, a saucepan hissed and bubbled on the +fire; in the corner near the window stood a poor bed; and to this Anthony’s +attention was immediately directed by a voice that called out hoarsely: +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God, sir, thank God, sir, you have come! I feared you would not.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony stepped towards it wondering and expectant, but reassured. Lying in the +bed, with clothes drawn up to the chin was the figure of a man. There was no +light in the room, save that given by the leaping flames on the hearth; and +Anthony could only make out the face of a man with a patch over one eye; the +man stretched a hand over the bed clothes as he came near, and Anthony took it, +a little astonished, and received a strong trembling grip of apparent +excitement and relief: “Thank God, sir!” the man said again, “but there is not +too much time.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I serve you?” said Anthony, sitting on a chair near the bedside. +“Your letter spoke of friends at Great Keynes. What did you mean by that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is the d-door closed, sir?” asked the man anxiously; stuttering a little as +he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony stepped up and closed it firmly; and then came back and sat down again. +</p> + +<p> +“Well then, sir; I believe you are a friend of the priest Mr. M-Maxwell’s.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no priest of that name that I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” cried the man, and his voice shook, “have I said too much? You are Mr. +Anthony Norris of the Dower House, and of the Archbishop’s household?”... +</p> + +<p> +“I am,” said Anthony, “but yet——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said the man, “I must go forward now. He whom you know as Mr. +James Maxwell is a Catholic p-priest, known to many under the name of Mr. +Arthur Oldham. He is in sore d-danger.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony was silent through sheer astonishment. This then was the secret of the +mystery that had hung round Mr. James so long. The few times he had met him in +town since his return, it had been on the tip of his tongue to ask what he did +there, and why Hubert was to be master of the Hall; but there was something in +Mr. James’ manner that made the asking of such a question appear an impossible +liberty; and it had remained unasked. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the man in bed, in anxious terror, “there is no mistake, is +there?” +</p> + +<p> +“I said nothing,” said Anthony, “for astonishment; I had no idea that he was a +priest. And how can I serve him?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is in sore danger,” said the man, and again and again there came the +stutter. “Now I am a Catholic: you see how much I t-trust you sir. I am the +only one in this house. I was entrusted with a m-message to Mr. Maxwell to put +him on his guard against a danger that threatens him. I was to meet him this +very evening at five of the clock; and this afternoon as I left my room, I +slipped and so hurt my foot that I cannot put it to the ground. I dared not +send a l-letter to Mr. Maxwell, for fear the child should be followed; I dared +not send to another Catholic; nor indeed did I know where to find one whom Mr. +M-Maxwell would know and trust, as he is new to us here; but I had heard him +speak of his friend Mr. Anthony Norris, who was at Lambeth House; and I +determined, sir, to send the child to you; and ask you to do this service for +your friend; for an officer of the Archbishop’s household is beyond suspicion. +N-now, sir, will you do this service? If you do it not, I know not where to +turn for help.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony was silent. He felt a little uneasy. Supposing that there was sedition +mixed up in this! How could he trust the man’s story? How could he be certain +in fact that he was a Catholic at all? He looked at him keenly in the +fire-light. The man’s one eye shone in deep anxiety, and his forehead was +wrinkled; and he passed his hand nervously over his mouth again and again. +</p> + +<p> +“How can I tell,” said Anthony, “that all this is true?” +</p> + +<p> +The man with an impatient movement unfastened his shirt at the neck and drew up +on a string that was round his neck a little leather case. +</p> + +<p> +“Th-there, sir,” he stammered, drawing the string over his head. “T-take that +to the fire and see what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony took it curiously, and holding it close to the fire drew off the little +case; there was the wax medal stamped with the lamb, called <i> Agnus Dei</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Th-there,” cried the man from the bed, “now I have p-put myself in your +hands—and if more is w-wanted——” and as Anthony came back holding the medal, +the man fumbled beneath the pillow and drew out a rosary. +</p> + +<p> +“N-now, sir, do you believe me?” +</p> + +<p> +It was felony to possess these things and Anthony had no more doubts. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “and I ask your pardon.” And he gave back the <i> Agnus +Dei</i>. “But there is no sedition in this?” +</p> + +<p> +“N-none, sir, I give you my word,” said the man, apparently greatly relieved, +and sinking back on his pillow. “I will tell you all, and you can judge for +yourself; but you will promise to be secret.” And when Anthony had given his +word, he went on. +</p> + +<p> +“M-Mass was to have been said in Newman’s Court on Sunday, at number 3, but +that c-cursed spy Walsingham, hath had wind of it. His men have been lurking +round there; and it is not safe. However, there is no need to say that to Mr. +Maxwell; he will understand enough if you will give him a message of half a +dozen words from me,—Mr. Roger. You can tell him that you saw me, if you wish +to. But ah! sir, you give me your word to say no more to any one, not even to +Mr. Maxwell himself, for it is in a public place. And then I will tell you the +p-place and the m-message; but we must be swift, because the time is near; it +is at five of the clock that he will look for a messenger.” +</p> + +<p> +“I give you my word,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, the place is Papists’ Corner in the Cathedral, and the words are +these, ‘Come, for all things are now ready.’ You know sir, that we Catholics go +in fear of our lives, and like the poor hares have to double and turn if we +would escape. If any overhears that message, he will never know it to be a +warning. And it was for that that I asked your word to say no more than your +message, with just the word that you had seen me yourself. You may tell him, of +course sir, that Mr. Roger had a patch over his eye and st-stuttered a little +in his speech; and he will know it is from me then. Now, sir, will you tell me +what the message is, and the place, to be sure that you know them; and then, +sir, it will be time to go; and God bless you, sir. God bless you for your +kindness to us poor papists!” +</p> + +<p> +The man seized Anthony’s gloved hand and kissed it fervently once or twice. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony repeated his instructions carefully. He was more touched than he cared +to show by the evident gratitude and relief of this poor terrified Catholic. +</p> + +<p> +“Th-that is right, sir; that is right; and now, sir, if you please, be gone at +once; or the Father will have left the Cathedral. The child will be in the +court below to show you the way out to the churchyard. God bless you, sir; and +reward you for your kindness!” +</p> + +<p> +And as Anthony went out of the room he heard benedictions mingled with sobs +following him. The woman was nowhere to be seen; so he took the oil-lamp from +the landing, and found his way downstairs again, unfastened the front door, and +went out, leaving the lamp on the floor. The child was leaning against the wall +opposite; he could just see the glimmer of her face in the heavy dusk. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, my child,” he said, “show me the way to the churchyard.” +</p> + +<p> +She came forward, and he began to follow her out of the little flagged court. +He turned round as he left the court and saw high up against the blackness +overhead a square of window lighted with a glow from within; and simultaneously +there came the sound of bolts being shut in the door that he had just left. +Evidently the old woman had been on the watch, and was now barring the door +behind him. +</p> + +<p> +It wanted courage to do as Anthony was doing, but he was not lacking in that; +it was not a small matter to go to Papists’ Corner and give a warning to a +Catholic priest: but firstly, James Maxwell was his friend, and in danger: +secondly, Anthony had no sympathy with religious persecution; and thirdly, as +has been seen, the last year had made a really deep impression upon him: he was +more favourably inclined to the Catholic cause than he had ever imagined to be +possible. +</p> + +<p> +As he followed the child through the labyrinth of passages, passing every now +and then the lighted front of a house, or a little group of idlers (for the +rain had now ceased) who stared to see this gentleman in such company, his head +was whirling with questions and conjectures. Was it not after all a +dishonourable act to the Archbishop in whose service he was, thus to take the +side of the Papists? But that it was too late to consider now.—How strange that +James Maxwell was a priest! That of course accounted at once for his long +absence, no doubt in the seminary abroad, and his ultimate return, and for +Hubert’s inheriting the estates. And then he passed on to reflect as he had +done a hundred times before on this wonderful Religion that allured men from +home and wealth and friends, and sent them rejoicing to penury, suspicion, +hatred, peril, and death itself, for the kingdom of heaven’s sake. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he found himself in the open space opposite the Cathedral—the child +had again disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +It was less dark here; the leaden sky overhead still glimmered with a pale +sunset light; and many house-windows shone out from within. He passed round the +south side of the Cathedral, and entered the western door. The building was +full of deep gloom only pricked here and there by an oil-lamp or two that would +presently be extinguished when the Cathedral was closed. The air was full of a +faint sound, made up from echoes of the outside world and the footsteps of a +few people who still lingered in groups here and there in the aisles, and +talked among themselves. The columns rose up in slender bundles and faded into +the pale gloom overhead; as he crossed the nave on the way to Papists’ Corner +far away to the east rose the dark carving of the stalls against the glimmering +stone beyond. It was like some vast hall of the dead; the noise of the +footsteps seemed like an insolent intrusion on this temple of silence; and the +religious stillness had an active and sombre character of its own more eloquent +and impressive than all the tumult that man could make. +</p> + +<p> +As Anthony came to Papists’ Corner he saw a very tall solitary figure passing +slowly from east to west; it was too dark to distinguish faces; so he went +towards it, so that at the next turn they would meet face to face. When he was +within two or three steps the man before him turned abruptly; and Anthony +immediately put out his hand smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Arthur Oldham,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The man started and peered curiously through the gloom at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Why Anthony!” he exclaimed, and took his hand, “what is your business here?” +And they began slowly to walk westwards together. +</p> + +<p> +“I am come to meet Mr. Oldham,” he said, “and to give him a message; and this +is it, ‘Come, for all things are now ready!’” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear boy,” said James, stopping short, “you must forgive me; but what in +the world do you mean by that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I come from Mr. Roger,” said Anthony, “you need not be afraid. He has had an +accident and sent for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Roger?” said James interrogatively. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Anthony, “he hath a patch over one eye; and stutters somewhat.” +</p> + +<p> +James gave a sigh of relief. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear boy,” he said, “I cannot thank you enough. You know what it means +then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“And you a Protestant, and in the Archbishop’s household?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes,” said Anthony, “and a Christian and your friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you, Anthony,” said the priest; and took his hand and pressed it. +</p> + +<p> +They were passing out now under the west door, and stood together for a moment +looking at the lights down Ludgate Hill. The houses about Amen Court stood up +against the sky to their right. +</p> + +<p> +“I must not stay,” said Anthony, “I must fetch my horse and be back at Lambeth +for evening prayers at six. He is stabled at the Palace here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said the priest, “I thank God that there are true hearts like +yours. God bless you again my dear boy—and—and make you one of us some day!” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony smiled at him a little tremulously, for the gratitude and the blessing +of this man was dear to him; and after another hand grasp, he turned away to +the right, leaving the priest still half under the shadow of the door looking +after him. +</p> + +<p> +He had done his errand promptly and discreetly. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="II_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE MASSING-HOUSE +</p> + +<p> +Newman’s Court lay dark and silent under the stars on Sunday morning a little +after four o’clock. The gloomy weather of the last three or four days had +passed off in heavy battalions of sullen sunset clouds on the preceding +evening, and the air was full of frost. By midnight thin ice was lying +everywhere; pendants of it were beginning to form on the overhanging eaves; and +streaks of it between the cobble-stones that paved the court. The great city +lay in a frosty stillness as of death. +</p> + +<p> +The patrol passed along Cheapside forty yards away from the entrance of the +court, a little after three o’clock; and a watchman had cried out half an hour +later, that it was a clear night; and then he too had gone his way. The court +itself was a little rectangular enclosure with two entrances, one to the north +beneath the arch of a stable that gave on to Newman’s Passage, which in its +turn opened on to St. Giles’ Lane that led to Cheapside; the other, at the +further end of the long right-hand side, led by a labyrinth of passages down in +the direction of the wharfs to the west of London Bridge. There were three +houses to the left of the entrance from Newman’s Passage; the back of a +ware-house faced them on the other long side with the door beyond; and the +other two sides were respectively formed by the archway of the stable with a +loft over it, and a blank high wall at the opposite end. +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes after four o’clock the figure of a woman suddenly appeared +soundlessly in the arch under the stables; and after standing there a moment +advanced along the front of the houses till she reached the third door. She +stood here a moment in silence, listening and looking towards the doorway +opposite, and then rapped gently with her finger-nail eleven or twelve times. +Almost immediately the door opened, showing only darkness within; she stepped +in, and it closed silently behind her. Then the minutes slipped away again in +undisturbed silence. At about twenty minutes to five the figure of a very tall +man dressed as a layman slipped in through the door that led towards the river, +and advanced to the door where he tapped in the same manner as the woman before +him, and was admitted at once. After that people began to come more frequently, +some hesitating and looking about them as they entered the court, some slipping +straight through without a pause, and going to the door, which opened and shut +noiselessly as each tapped and was admitted. Sometimes two or three would come +together, sometimes singly; but by five o’clock about twenty or thirty persons +had come and been engulfed by the blackness that showed each time the door +opened; while no glimmer of light from any of the windows betrayed the presence +of any living soul within. At five o’clock the stream stopped. The little court +lay as silent under the stars again as an hour before. It was a night of +breathless stillness; there was no dripping from the eaves; no sound of wheels +or hoofs from the city; only once or twice came the long howl of a dog across +the roofs. +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes passed away. +</p> + +<p> +Then without a sound a face appeared like a pale floating patch in the dark +door that opened on to the court. It remained hung like a mask in the darkness +for at least a minute; and then a man stepped through on to the cobblestones. +Something on his head glimmered sharply in the starlight; and there was the +same sparkle at the end of a pole that he carried in his hand; he turned and +nodded; and three or four men appeared behind him. +</p> + +<p> +Then out of the darkness of the archway at the other end of the court appeared +a similar group. Once a man slipped on the frozen stones and cursed under his +breath, and the leader turned on him with a fierce indrawing of his breath; but +no word was spoken. +</p> + +<p> +Then through both entrances streamed dark figures, each with a steely glitter +on head and breast, and with something that shone in their hands; till the +little court seemed half full of armed men; but the silence was still +formidable in its depth. +</p> + +<p> +The two leaders came together to the door of the third house, and their heads +were together; and a few sibilant consonants escaped them. The breath of the +men that stood out under the starlight went up like smoke in the air. It was +now a quarter-past five. +</p> + +<p> +Three notes of a hand-bell sounded behind the house; and then, without any +further attempt at silence, the man who had entered the court first advanced to +the door and struck three or four thundering blows on it with a mace, and +shouted in a resonant voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Open in the Queen’s Name.” +</p> + +<p> +The men relaxed their cautious attitudes, and some grounded their weapons; +others began to talk in low voices; a small party advanced nearer their leaders +with weapons, axes and halberds, uplifted. +</p> + +<p> +By now the blows were thundering on the door; and the same shattering voice +cried again and again: +</p> + +<p> +“Open in the Queen’s name; open in the Queen’s name!” +</p> + +<p> +The middle house of the three was unoccupied; but the windows of the house next +the stable, and the windows in the loft over the archway, where the stable-boys +slept, suddenly were illuminated; latches were lifted, the windows thrust open +and heads out of them. +</p> + +<p> +Then one or two more pursuivants came up the dark passage bearing flaming +torches with them. A figure appeared on the top of the blank wall at the end, +and pointed and shouted. The stable-boys in a moment more appeared in their +archway, and one or two persons came out of the house next the stable, queerly +habited in cloaks and hats over their night-attire. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The din was now tremendous; the questions and answers shouted to and fro were +scarcely audible under the thunder that pealed from the battered door; a party +had advanced to it and were raining blows upon the lock and hinges. The court +was full of a ruddy glare that blazed on the half-armour and pikes of the men, +and the bellowing and the crashes and the smoke together went up into the night +air as from the infernal pit. It was a hellish transformation from the deathly +stillness of a few minutes—a massacre of the sweet night silence. And yet the +house where the little silent stream of dark figures had been swallowed up rose +up high above the smoky cauldron, black, dark, and irresponsive. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +There rose a shrill howling from behind the house, and the figure on the top of +the wall capered and gesticulated again. Then footsteps came running up the +passage, and a pursuivant thrust his way through to the leaders; and, in a +moment or two, above the din a sharp word was given, and three or four men +hurried out through the doorway by which the man had come. Almost at the same +moment the hinges of the door gave way, the whole crashed inwards, and the +attacking party poured into the dark entrance hall beyond. By this time the +noise had wakened many in the houses round, and lights were beginning to shine +from the high windows invisible before, and a concourse of people to press in +from all sides. The approaches had all been guarded, but at the crash of the +door some of the sentries round the nearer corners hurried into the court, and +the crowd poured after them; and by the time that the officers and men had +disappeared into the house, their places had been filled by the spectators, and +the little court was again full of a swaying, seething, shouting mass of men, +with a few women with hoods and cloaks among them—inquiries and information +were yelled to and fro. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a nest of papists—a wasp’s nest was being smoked out—what harm had they +done?—It was a murder; two women had had their throats cut.—No, no; it was a +papists’ den—a massing-house.—Well, God save her Grace and rid her of her +enemies. With these damned Spaniards everywhere, England was going to +ruin.—They had escaped at the back. No; they tried that way, but it was +guarded.—There were over fifty papists, some said, in that house.—It was a +plot. Mary was mixed up in it. The Queen was to be blown up with powder, like +poor Darnley. The barrels were all stored there.—No, no, no! it was nothing but +a massing-house.—Who was the priest?—Well, they would see him at Tyburn on a +hurdle; and serve him right with his treasonable mummery.—No, no! they had had +enough of blood.—Campion had died like a man; and an Englishman too—praying for +his Queen.”—The incessant battle and roar went up. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Meanwhile lights were beginning to shine everywhere in the dark house. A man +with a torch was standing in a smoky glare half way up the stairs seen through +the door, and the interior of the plain hall was illuminated. Then the leaded +panes overhead were beginning to shine out. Steel caps moved to and fro; +gigantic shadows wavered; the shadow of a halberd head went across a curtain at +one of the lower windows. +</p> + +<p> +A crimson-faced man threw open a window and shouted instructions to the sentry +left at the door, who in answer shook his head and pointed to the bellowing +crowd; the man at the window made a furious gesture and disappeared. The +illumination began to climb higher and higher as the searchers mounted from +floor to floor; thin smoke began to go up from one or two of the chimneys in +the frosty air;—they were lighting straw to bring down any fugitives concealed +in the chimneys. Then the sound of heavy blows began to ring out; they were +testing the walls everywhere for hiding-holes; there was a sound of rending +wood as the flooring was torn up. Then over the parapet against the stairs +looked a steel-crowned face of a pursuivant. The crowd below yelled and pointed +at first, thinking he was a fugitive; but he grinned down at them and +disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +Then at last came an exultant shout; then a breathless silence; then the crowd +began to question and answer again. +</p> + +<p> +“They had caught the priest!—No, the priest had escaped,—damn him!—It was half +a dozen women. No, no! they had had the women ten minutes ago in a room at the +back.—What fools these pursuivants were!—They had found the chapel and the +altar.—What a show it would all make at the trial!—Ah! ah! it was the priest +after all.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Those nearest the door saw the man with the torch on the stairs stand back a +little; and then a dismal little procession began to appear round the turn. +</p> + +<p> +First came a couple of armed men, looking behind them every now and then; then +a group of half a dozen women, whom they had found almost immediately, but had +been keeping for the last few minutes in a room upstairs; then a couple more +men. Then there was a little space; and then more constables and more +prisoners. Each male prisoner was guarded by two men; the women were in groups. +All these came out to the court. The crowd began to sway back against the +walls, pointing and crying out; and a lane with living walls was formed towards +the archway that opened into Newman’s Passage. +</p> + +<p> +When the last pursuivants who brought up the rear had reached the door, an +officer, who had been leaning from a first-floor window with the pale face of +Lackington peering over his shoulder, gave a sharp order; and the procession +halted. The women, numbering fourteen or fifteen, were placed in a group with +some eight men in hollow square round them; then came a dozen men, each with a +pursuivant on either side. But plainly they were not all come; they were still +waiting for something; the officer and Lackington disappeared from the window; +and for a moment too, the crowd was quiet. +</p> + +<p> +A murmur of excitement began to rise again, as another group was seen +descending the stairs within. The officer came first, looking back and talking +as he came; then followed two pursuivants with halberds, and immediately behind +them, followed by yet two men, walked James Maxwell in crimson vestments all +disordered, with his hands behind him, and his comely head towering above the +heads of the guard. The crowd surged forward, yelling; and the men at the door +grounded their halberds sharply on the feet of the front row of spectators. As +the priest reached the door, a shrill cry either from a boy or a woman pierced +the roaring of the mob. “God bless you, father,” and as he heard it he turned +and smiled serenely. His face was white, and there was a little trickle of +blood run down across it from some wound in his head. The rest of the prisoners +turned towards him as he came out; and again he smiled and nodded at them. And +so the Catholics with their priest stood a moment in that deafening tumult of +revilings, before the officer gave the word to advance. +</p> + +<p> +Then the procession set forward through the archway; the crowd pressing back +before them, like the recoil of a wave, and surging after them again in the +wake. High over the heads of all moved the steel halberds, shining like grim +emblems of power; the torches tossed up and down and threw monstrous stalking +shadows on the walls as they passed; the steel caps edged the procession like +an impenetrable hedge; and last moved the crimson-clad priest, as if in some +church function, but with a bristling barrier about him; then came the mob, +pouring along the narrow passages, jostling, cursing, reviling, swelled every +moment by new arrivals dashing down the alleys and courts that gave on the +thoroughfare; and so with tramp and ring of steel the pageant went forward on +its way of sorrows. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Before six o’clock Newman’s Court was empty again, except for one armed figure +that stood before the shattered door of No. 3 to guard it. Inside the house was +dark again except in one room high up where the altar had stood. Here the thick +curtains against the glass had been torn down, and the window was illuminated; +every now and again the shadows on the ceiling stirred a little as if the +candle was being moved; and once the window opened and a pale smooth face +looked out for a moment, and then withdrew again. Then the light disappeared +altogether; and presently shone out in another room on the same floor; then +again after an half an hour or so it was darkened; and again reappeared on the +floor below. And so it went on from room to room; until the noises of the +waking city began, and the stars paled and expired. Over the smokeless town the +sky began to glow clear and brilliant. The crowing of cocks awoke here and +there; a church bell or two began to sound far away over the roofs. The pale +blue overhead grew more and more luminous; the candle went out on the first +floor; the steel-clad man stretched himself and looked at the growing dawn. +</p> + +<p> +A step was heard on the stairs, and Lackington came down, carrying a small +valise apparently full to bursting. He looked paler than usual; and a little +hollow-eyed for want of sleep. He came out and stood by the soldier, and looked +about him. Everywhere the court showed signs of the night’s tumult. Crumbled +ice from broken icicles and trampled frozen pools lay powdered on the stones. +Here and there on the walls were great smears of black from the torches, and +even one or two torn bits of stuff and a crushed hat marked where the pressure +had been fiercest. Most eloquent of all was the splintered door behind him, +still held fast by one stout bolt, but leaning crookedly against the dinted +wall of the interior. +</p> + +<p> +“A good night’s work, friend,” said Lackington to the man. “Another hive +taken, and here”—and he tapped his valise—“here I bear the best of the honey.” +</p> + +<p> +The soldier looked heavily at the bag. He was tired too; and he did not care +for this kind of work. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Lackington again, “I must be getting home safe. Keep the door; +you shall be relieved in one hour.” +</p> + +<p> +The soldier nodded at him; but still said nothing; and Lackington lifted the +valise and went off too under the archway. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +That same morning Lady Maxwell in her room in the Hall at Great Keynes awoke +early before dawn with a start. She had had a dream but could not remember what +it was, except that her son James was in it, and seemed to be in trouble. He +was calling on her to save him, she thought, and awoke at the sound of his +voice. She often dreamt of him at this time; for the life of a seminary priest +was laid with snares and dangers. But this dream seemed worse than all. +</p> + +<p> +She struck a light, and looked timidly round the room; it seemed still ringing +with his voice. A great tapestry in a frame hung over the mantelpiece, Actæon +followed by his hounds; the hunter panted as he ran, and was looking back over +his shoulder; and the long-jawed dogs streamed behind him down a little hill. +</p> + +<p> +So strong was the dream upon the old lady that she felt restless, and presently +got up and went to the window and opened a shutter to look out. A white statue +or two beyond the terrace glimmered in the dusk, and the stars were bright in +the clear frosty night overhead. She closed the shutter and went back again to +bed; but could not sleep. Again and again as she was dozing off, something +would startle her wide awake again: sometimes it was a glimpse of James’ face; +sometimes he seemed to be hurrying away from her down an endless passage with +closed doors; he was dressed in something crimson. She tried to cry out, her +voice would not rise above a whisper. Sometimes it was the dream of his voice; +and once she started up crying out, “I am coming, my son.” Then at last she +awoke again at the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor outside; and +stared fearfully at the door to see what would enter. But it was only the maid +come to call her mistress. Lady Maxwell watched her as she opened the shutters +that now glimmered through their cracks, and let a great flood of light into +the room from the clear shining morning outside. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a frosty morning, my lady,” said the maid. +</p> + +<p> +“Send one of the men down to Mistress Torridon,” said Lady Maxwell, “and ask +her to come here as soon as it is convenient. Say I am well; but would like to +see her when she can come.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no priest in the house that Sunday, so there could be no mass; and on +these occasions Mistress Margaret usually stayed at the Dower House until after +dinner; but this morning she came up within half an hour of receiving the +message. +</p> + +<p> +She did not pretend to despise her sister’s terror, or call it superstitious. +</p> + +<p> +“Mary,” she said, taking her sister’s jewelled old fingers into her own two +hands, “we must leave all this to the good God. It may mean much, or little, or +nothing. He only knows; but at least we may pray. Let me tell Isabel; a child’s +prayers are mighty with Him; and she has the soul of a little child still.” +</p> + +<p> +So Isabel was told; and after church she came up to dine at the Hall and spend +the day there; for Lady Maxwell was thoroughly nervous and upset: she trembled +at the sound of footsteps, and cried out when one of the men came into the room +suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel went again to evening prayer at three o’clock; but could not keep her +thoughts off the strange nervous horror at the Hall, though it seemed to rest +on no better foundation than the waking dreams of an old lady—and her mind +strayed away continually from the darkening chapel in which she sat, so near +where Sir Nicholas himself lay, to the upstairs parlour where the widow sat +shaken and trembling at her own curious fancies about her dear son. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bodder’s sermon came to an end at last; and Isabel was able to get away, +and hurry back to the Hall. She found the old ladies as she had left them in +the little drawing-room, Lady Maxwell sitting on the window-seat near the harp, +preoccupied and apparently listening for something she knew not what. Mistress +Margaret was sitting in a tall padded porter’s chair reading aloud from an old +English mystic, but her sister was paying no attention, and looked strangely at +the girl as she came in. Isabel sat down near the fire and listened; and as she +listened the memory of that other day, years ago, came to her when she sat once +before with these two ladies in the same room, and Mistress Margaret read to +them, and the letter came from Sir Nicholas; and then the sudden clamour from +the village. So now she sat with terror darkening over her, glancing now and +again at that white expectant face, and herself listening for the first +far-away rumour of the dreadful interruption that she now knew must come. +</p> + +<p> +“The Goodness of God,” read the old nun, “is the highest prayer, and it cometh +down to the lowest part of our need. It quickeneth our soul and bringeth it on +life, and maketh it for to waxen in grace and virtue. It is nearest in nature; +and readiest in grace: for it is the same grace that the soul seeketh, and ever +shall seek till we know verily that He hath us all in Himself enclosed. For he +hath no despite of that He hath made, nor hath He any disdain to serve us at +the simplest office that to our body belongeth in nature, for love of the soul +that He hath made to His own likeness. For as the body is clad in the clothes, +and the flesh in the skin, and the bones in the flesh, and the heart in the +whole, so are we, soul and body, clad in the Goodness of God, and enclosed. +Yea, and more homely; for all these may waste and wear away, but the Goodness +of God is ever whole; and more near to us without any likeness; for truly our +Lover desireth that our soul cleave to Him with all its might, and that we be +evermore cleaving to His goodness. For of all things that heart may think, this +most pleaseth God, and soonest speedeth us. For our soul is so specially loved +of Him that is highest, that it overpasseth the knowing of all creatures——” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” said Lady Maxwell suddenly, on her feet, with a lifted hand. +</p> + +<p> +There was a breathless silence in the room; Isabel’s heart beat thick and heavy +and her eyes grew large with expectancy; it was a windless frosty night again, +and the ivy outside on the wall, and the laurels in the garden seemed to be +silently listening too. +</p> + +<p> +“Mary, Mary,” began her sister, “you——;” but the old lady lifted her hand a +little higher; and silence fell again. +</p> + +<p> +Then far away in the direction of the London road came the clear beat of the +hoofs of a galloping horse. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell bowed her head, and her hand slowly sank to her side. The other +two stood up and remained still while the beat of the hoofs grew and grew in +intensity on the frozen road. +</p> + +<p> +“The front door,” said Lady Maxwell. +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Margaret slipped from the room and went downstairs; Isabel took a step +or two forward, but was checked by the old lady’s uplifted hand again. And +again there was a breathless silence, save for the beat of the hoofs now close +and imminent. +</p> + +<p> +A moment later the front door was opened, and a great flood of cold air swept +up the passages; the portrait of Sir Nicholas in the hall downstairs, lifted +and rattled against the wall. Then came the clatter on the paved court; and the +sound of a horse suddenly checked with the slipping up of hoofs and the jingle +and rattle of chains and stirrups. There were voices in the hall below, and a +man’s deep tones; then came steps ascending. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell still stood perfectly rigid by the window, waiting, and Isabel +stared with white face and great open eyes at the door; outside, the flame of a +lamp on the wall was blowing about furiously in the draught. +</p> + +<p> +Then a stranger stepped into the room; evidently a gentleman; he bowed to the +two ladies, and stood, with the rime on his boots and a whip in his hand, a +little exhausted and disordered by hard riding. +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Maxwell?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell bowed a little. +</p> + +<p> +“I come with news of your son, madam, the priest; he is alive and well; but he +is in trouble. He was taken this morning in his mass-vestments; and is in the +Marshalsea.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell’s lips moved a little; but no sound came. +</p> + +<p> +“He was betrayed, madam, by a friend. He and thirty other Catholics were taken +all together at mass.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Lady Maxwell spoke; and her voice was dead and hard. +</p> + +<p> +“The friend, sir! What was his name?” +</p> + +<p> +“The traitor’s name, madam, is Anthony Norris.” +</p> + +<p> +The room turned suddenly dark to Isabel’s eyes; and she put up her hand and +tore at the collar round her throat. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, no, no, no!” she cried, and tottered a step or two forward and stood +swaying. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell looked from one to another with eyes that seemed to see nothing; +and her lips stirred again. +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Margaret who had followed the stranger up, and who stood now behind +him at the door, came forward to Isabel with a little cry, with her hands +trembling before her. But before she could reach her, Lady Maxwell herself came +swiftly forward, her head thrown back, and her arms stretched out towards the +girl, who still stood dazed and swaying more and more. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor, poor child!” said Lady Maxwell; and caught her as she fell. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="II_IX">CHAPTER IX</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +FROM FULHAM TO GREENWICH +</p> + +<p> +Anthony in London, strangely enough, heard nothing of the arrest on the Sunday, +except a rumour at supper that some Papists had been taken. It had sufficient +effect on his mind to make him congratulate himself that he had been able to +warn his friend last week. +</p> + +<p> +At dinner on Monday there were a few guests; and among them, one Sir Richard +Barkley, afterwards Lieutenant of the Tower. He sat at the Archbishop’s table, +but Anthony’s place, on the steward’s left hand, brought him very close to the +end of the first table where Sir Richard sat. Dinner was half way through, when +Mr. Scot who was talking to Anthony, was suddenly silent and lifted his hand as +if to check the conversation a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw them myself,” said Sir Richard’s voice just behind. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” whispered Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“The Catholics,” answered the steward. +</p> + +<p> +“They were taken in Newman’s Court, off Cheapside,” went on the voice, “nearly +thirty, with one of their priests, at mass, in his trinkets too—Oldham his name +is.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a sudden crash of a chair fallen backwards, and Anthony was standing +by the officer. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, Sir Richard Barkley,” he said;—and a dead silence fell in +the hall.—“But is that the name of the priest that was taken yesterday?” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Richard looked astonished at the apparent insolence of this young official. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” he said shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, then,——” began Anthony; but stopped; bowed low to the Archbishop and +went straight out of the hall. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Mr. Scot was waiting for him in the hall when he returned late that night. +Anthony’s face was white and distracted; he came in and stood by the fire, and +stared at him with a dazed air. +</p> + +<p> +“You are to come to his Grace,” said the steward, looking at him in silence. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony nodded without speaking, and turned away. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you cannot tell me anything?” said Mr. Scot. The other shook his head +impatiently, and walked towards the inner door. +</p> + +<p> +The Archbishop was sincerely shocked at the sight of his young officer, as he +came in and stood before the table, staring with bewildered eyes, with his +dress splashed and disordered, and his hands still holding the whip and gloves. +He made him sit down at once, and after Anthony had drunk a glass of wine, he +made him tell his story and what he had done that day. +</p> + +<p> +He had been to the Marshalsea; it was true Mr. Oldham was there, and had been +examined. Mr. Young had conducted it.—The house at Newman’s Court was guarded: +the house behind Bow Church was barred and shut up, and the people seemed gone +away.—He could not get a word through to Mr. Oldham, though he had tried heavy +bribery.—And that was all. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony spoke with the same dazed air, in short broken sentences; but became +more himself as the wine and the fire warmed him; and by the time he had +finished he had recovered himself enough to entreat the Archbishop to help him. +</p> + +<p> +“It is useless,” said the old man. “What can I do? I have no power. And—and he +is a popish priest! How can I interfere?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” cried Anthony desperately, flushed and entreating, “all has been +done through treachery. Do you not see it? I have been a brainless fool. That +man behind Bow Church was a spy. For Christ’s sake help us, my lord!” +</p> + +<p> +Grindal looked into the lad’s great bright eyes; sighed; and threw out his +hands despairingly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is useless; indeed it is useless, Mr. Norris. But I will tell you all that +I can do. I will give you to-morrow a letter to Sir Francis Walsingham. I was +with him abroad as you know, in the popish times of Mary: and he is still in +some sort a friend of mine—but you must remember that he is a strong +Protestant; and I do not suppose that he will help you. Now go to bed, dear +lad; you are worn out.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony knelt for the old man’s blessing, and left the room. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The interview next day was more formidable than he had expected. He was at the +Secretary’s house by ten o’clock, and waited below while the Archbishop’s +letter was taken up. The servant came back in a few minutes, and asked him to +follow; and in an agony of anxiety, but with a clear head again this morning, +and every faculty tense, he went upstairs after him, and was ushered into the +room where Walsingham sat at a table. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence as the two bowed, but Sir Francis did not offer to rise, but +sat with the Archbishop’s letter in his hand, glancing through it again, as the +other stood and waited. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand,” said the Secretary at last, and his voice was dry and +unsympathetic,—“I understand, from his Grace’s letter, that you desire to aid a +popish priest called Oldham or Maxwell, arrested at mass on Sunday morning in +Newman’s Court. If you will be so good as to tell me in what way you desire to +aid him, I can be more plain in my answer. You do not desire, I hope, Mr. +Norris, anything but justice and a fair trial for your friend?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony cleared his throat before answering. +</p> + +<p> +“I—he is my friend, as you say, Sir Francis; and—and he hath been caught by +foul means. I myself was used, as I have little doubt, in his capture. Surely +there is no justice, sir, in betraying a man by means of his friend.” And +Anthony described the ruse that had brought it all about. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Francis listened to him coldly; but there came the faintest spark of +amusement into his large sad eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely, Mr. Norris,” he said, “it was somewhat simple; and I have no doubt at +all that it all is as you say; and that the poor stuttering cripple with a +patch was as sound and had as good sight and power of speech as you and I; but +the plan was, it seems, if you will forgive me, not so simple as yourself. It +would be passing strange, surely that the man, if a friend of the priest’s, +could find no Catholic to take his message; but not at all strange if he were +his enemy. I do not think sincerely, sir, that it would have deceived me. But +that is not now the point. He is taken now, fairly or foully, and—what was it +you wished me to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hoped,” said Anthony, in rising indignation at this insolence, “that you +would help me in some way to undo this foul unjustice. Surely, sir, it cannot +be right to take advantage of such knavish tricks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good Mr. Norris,” said the Secretary, “we are not playing a game, with rules +that must not be broken, but we are trying to serve justice”—his voice rose a +little in sincere enthusiasm—“and to put down all false practices, whether in +religion or state, against God or the prince. Surely the point for you and me +is not, ought this gentleman to have been taken in the manner he was; but being +taken, is he innocent or guilty?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you will not help me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will certainly not help you to defeat justice,” said the other. “Mr. +Norris, you are a young man; and while your friendship does your heart credit, +your manner of forwarding its claims does not equally commend your head. I +counsel you to be wary in your speech and actions; or they may bring you into +trouble some day yourself. After all, as no doubt your friends have told you, +you played what, as a minister of the Crown, I must call a knave’s part in +attempting to save this popish traitor, although by God’s Providence, you were +frustrated. But it is indeed going too far to beg me to assist you. I have +never heard of such audacity!” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony left the house in a fury. It was true, as the Archbishop had said, that +Sir Francis Walsingham was a convinced Protestant; but he had expected to find +in him some indignation at the methods by which the priest had been captured; +and some desire to make compensation for it. +</p> + +<p> +He went again to the Marshalsea; and now heard that James had been removed to +the Tower, with one or two of the Catholics who had been in trouble before. +This was serious news; for to be transferred to the Tower was often but the +prelude to torture or death. He went on there, however, and tried again to gain +admittance, but it was refused, and the doorkeeper would not even consent to +take a message in. Mr. Oldham, he said, was being straitly kept, and it would +be as much as his place was worth to admit any communication to him without an +order from the Council. +</p> + +<p> +When Anthony got back to Lambeth after this fruitless day, he found an +imploring note from Isabel awaiting him; and one of the grooms from the Hall to +take his answer back. +</p> + +<p> +“Write back at once, dear Anthony,” she wrote, “and explain this terrible +thing, for I know well that you could not do what has been told us of you. But +tell us what has happened, that we may know what to think. Poor Lady Maxwell is +in the distress you may imagine; not knowing what will come to Mr. James. She +will come to London, I think, this week. Write at once now, my Anthony, and +tell us all.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony scribbled a few lines, saying how he had been deceived; and asking her +to explain the circumstances to Lady Maxwell, who no doubt would communicate +them to her son as soon as was possible; he added that he had so far failed to +get a message through the gaoler. He gave the note himself to the groom; +telling him to deliver it straight into Isabel’s hands, and then went to bed. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning he reported to the Archbishop what had taken place. +</p> + +<p> +“I feared it would be so,” Grindal said. “There is nothing to be done but to +commit your friend into God’s hands, and leave him there.” +</p> + +<p> +“My Lord,” said Anthony, “I cannot leave it like that. I will go and see my +lord bishop to-day; and then, if he can do nothing to help, I will even see the +Queen’s Grace herself.” +</p> + +<p> +Grindal threw up his hands with a gesture of dismay. +</p> + +<p> +“That will ruin all,” he said. “An officer of mine could do nothing but anger +her Grace.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must do my best,” said Anthony; “it was through my folly he is in prison, +and I could never rest if I left one single thing undone.” +</p> + +<p> +Just as Anthony was leaving the house, a servant in the royal livery dashed up +to the gate; and the porter ran out after Anthony to call him back. The man +delivered to him a letter which he opened then and there. It was from Mistress +Corbet. +</p> + +<p> +“What can be done,” the letter ran, “for poor Mr. James? I have heard a tale +of you from a Catholic, which I know is a black lie. I am sure that even now +you will be doing all you can to save your friend. I told the man that told me, +that he lied and that I knew you for an honest gentleman. But come, dear Mr. +Anthony; and we will do what we can between us. Her Grace noticed this morning +that I had been weeping; I put her off with excuses that she knows to be +excuses; and she is so curious that she will not rest till she knows the cause. +Come after dinner to-day; we are at Greenwich now; and we will see what may be +done. It may even be needful for you to see her Grace yourself, and tell her +the story. Your loving friend, Mary Corbet.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony gave a message to the royal groom, to tell Mistress Corbet that he +would do as she said, and then rode off immediately to the city. There was +another disappointing delay as the Bishop was at Fulham; and thither he rode +directly through the frosty streets under the keen morning sunshine, fretting +at the further delay. +</p> + +<p> +He had often had occasion to see the Bishop before, and Aylmer had taken +something of a liking to this staunch young churchman; and now as the young man +came hurrying across the grass under the elms, the Bishop, who was walking in +his garden in his furs and flapped cap, noticed his anxious eyes and troubled +face, and smiled at him kindly, wondering what he had come about. The two began +to walk up and down together. The sunshine was beginning to melt the surface of +the ground, and the birds were busy with breakfast-hunting. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at that little fellow!” cried the Bishop, pointing to a thrush on the +lawn, “he knows his craft.” +</p> + +<p> +The thrush had just rapped several times with his beak at a worm’s earth, and +was waiting with his head sideways watching. +</p> + +<p> +“Aha!” cried the Bishop again, “he has him.” The thrush had seized the worm +who had come up to investigate the noise, and was now staggering backwards, +bracing himself, and tugging at the poor worm, who, in a moment more was +dragged out and swallowed. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” said Anthony, “I came to ask your pity for one who was betrayed by +like treachery.” +</p> + +<p> +The Bishop looked astonished, and asked for the story; but when he heard who it +was that had been taken, and under what circumstances, the kindliness died out +of his eyes. He shook his head severely when Anthony had done. +</p> + +<p> +“It is useless coming to me, sir,” he said. “You know what I think. To be +ordained beyond the seas and to exercise priestly functions in England is now a +crime. It is useless to pretend anything else. It is revolt against the Queen’s +Grace and the peace of the realm. And I must confess I am astonished at you, +Mr. Norris, thinking that anything ought to be done to shield a criminal, and +still more astonished that you should think I would aid you in that. I tell you +plainly that I am glad that the fellow is caught, for that I think there will +be presently one less fire-brand in England. I know it is easy to cry out +against persecution and injustice; that is ever the shallow cry of the mob; but +this is not a religious persecution, as you yourself very well know. It is +because the Roman Church interferes with the peace of the realm and the Queen’s +authority that its ordinances are forbidden; we do not seek to touch a man’s +private opinions. However, you know all that as well as I.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony was raging now with anger. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not so sure, my lord, as I was,” he said. “I had hoped from your +lordship at any rate to find sympathy for the base trick whereby my friend was +snared; and I find it now hard to trust the judgment of any who do not feel as +I do about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is insolence, Mr. Norris,” said Aylmer, stopping in his walk and turning +upon him his cold half-shut eyes, “and I will not suffer it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, my lord, I had better begone to her Grace at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“To her Grace!” exclaimed the Bishop. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Appello Cæsarem</i>,” said Anthony, and was gone again. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +As Anthony came into the courtyard of Greenwich Palace an hour or two later he +found it humming with movement and noise. Cooks were going to and fro with +dishes, as dinner was only just ending; servants in the royal livery were +dashing across with messages; a few great hounds for the afternoon’s baiting +were in a group near one of the gateways, snuffing the smell of cookery, and +howling hungrily now and again. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony stopped one of the men, and sent him with a message to Mistress Corbet; +and the servant presently returned, saying that the Court was just rising from +dinner, and Mistress Corbet would see him in a parlour directly, if the +gentleman would kindly follow him. A groom took his horse off to the stable, +and Anthony himself followed the servant to a little oak-parlour looking on to +a lawn with a yew hedge and a dial. He felt as one moving in a dream, +bewildered by the rush of interviews, and oppressed by the awful burden that he +bore at his heart. Nothing any longer seemed strange; and he scarcely gave a +thought to what it meant when he heard the sound of trumpets in the court, as +the Queen left the Hall. In five minutes more Mistress Corbet burst into the +room; and her anxious look broke into tenderness at the sight of the misery in +the lad’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Master Anthony,” she cried, seizing his hand, “thank God you are here. +And now what is to be done for him?” +</p> + +<p> +They sat down together in the window-seat. Mary was dressed in an elaborate +rose-coloured costume; but her pretty lips were pale, and her eyes looked +distressed and heavy. +</p> + +<p> +“I have hardly slept,” she said, “since Saturday night. Tell me all that you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony told her the whole story, mechanically and miserably. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” she said, “that was how it was. I understand it now. And what can we do? +You know, of course, that he has been questioned in the Tower.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony turned suddenly white and sick. +</p> + +<p> +“Not the—not the——” he began, falteringly. +</p> + +<p> +She nodded at him mutely with large eyes and compressed lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my God,” said Anthony; and then again, “O God.” +</p> + +<p> +She took up one of his brown young hands and pressed it gently between her +white slender ones. +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” she said, “I know; he is a gallant gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony stood up shaking; and sat down again. The horror had goaded him into +clearer consciousness. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! what can we do?” he said brokenly. “Let me see the Queen. She will be +merciful.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must trust to me in this,” said Mary, “I know her; and I know that to go +to her now would be madness. She is in a fury with Pinart to-day at something +that has passed about the Duke. You know Monsieur is here; she kissed him the +other day, and the Lord only knows whether she will marry him or not. You must +wait a day or two; and be ready when I tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” stammered Anthony, “every hour we wait, he suffers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you cannot tell that,” said Mary, “they give them a long rest sometimes; +and it was only yesterday that he was questioned.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony sat silently staring out on the fresh lawn; there was still a patch of +frost under the shadow of the hedge he noticed. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait here a moment,” said Mary, looking at him; and she got up and went out. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony still sat staring and thinking of the horror. Presently Mary was at his +side again with a tall venetian wine-glass brimming with white wine. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” she said, “drink this,”—and then—“have you dined to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“There was not time,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +She frowned at him almost fiercely. +</p> + +<p> +“And you come here fasting,” she said, “to face the Queen! You foolish boy; +you know nothing. Wait here,” she added imperiously, and again she left the +room. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony still stared out of doors, twisting the empty glass in his hand; until +again came her step and the rustle of her dress. She took the glass from him +and put it down. A servant had followed her back into the room in a minute or +two with a dish of meat and some bread; he set it on the table, and went out. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said Mary, “sit down and eat before you speak another word.” And +Anthony obeyed. The servant presently returned with some fruit, and again left +them. All the while Anthony was eating, Mary sat by him and told him how she +had heard the whole story from another Catholic at court; and how the Queen had +questioned her closely the night before, as to what the marks of tears meant on +her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“It was when I heard of the racking,” explained Mary, “I could not help it. I +went up to my room and cried and cried. But I would not tell her Grace that: it +would have been of no use; so I said I had a headache; but I said it in such a +way as to prepare her for more. She has not questioned me again to-day; she is +too full of anger and of the bear-baiting; but she will—she will. She never +forgets; and then Mr. Anthony, it must be you to tell her. You are a +pleasant-faced young man, sir, and she likes such as that. And you must be both +forward and modest with her. She loves boldness, but hates rudeness. That is +why Chris is so beloved by her. He is a fool, but he is a handsome fool, and a +forward fool, and withal a tender fool; and sighs and cries, and calls her his +Goddess; and says how he takes to his bed when she is not there, which of +course is true. The other day he came to her, white-faced, sobbing like a +frightened child, about the ring she had given Monsieur <i> le petit +grenouille</i>. And oh, she was so tender with him. And so, Mr. Anthony, you +must not be just forward with her, and frown at her and call her Jezebel and +tyrant, as you would like to do; but you must call her Cleopatra, and Diana as +well. Forward and backward all in one; that is the way she loves to be wooed. +She is a woman, remember that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must just let my heart speak,” said Anthony, “I cannot twist and turn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” said Mary, “that is what I mean; but mind that it is your heart.” +</p> + +<p> +They went on talking a little longer; when suddenly the trumpets pealed out +again. Mary rose with a look of consternation. +</p> + +<p> +“I must fly,” she said, “her Grace will be starting for the pit directly; and +I must be there. Do you follow, Mr. Anthony; I will speak to a servant in the +court about you.” And in a moment she was gone. +</p> + +<p> +When Anthony had finished the fruit and wine, he felt considerably refreshed; +and after waiting a few minutes, went out into the court again, which he found +almost deserted, except for a servant or two. One of these came up to him, and +said respectfully that Mistress Corbet had left instructions that Mr. Norris +was to be taken to the bear-pit; so Anthony followed him through the palace to +the back. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +It was a startlingly beautiful sight that his eyes fell upon when he came up +the wooden stairs on to the stage that ran round the arena where the sport was +just beginning. It was an amphitheatre, perhaps forty yards across; and the +seats round it were filled with the most brilliant costumes, many of which +blazed with jewels. Hanging over the top of the palisade were rich stuffs and +tapestries. The Queen herself no doubt with Alençon was seated somewhere +to the right, as Anthony could see by the canopy, with the arms of England and +France embroidered upon its front; but he was too near to her to be able to +catch even a glimpse of her face or figure. The awning overhead was furled, as +the day was so fine, and the winter sunshine poured down on the dresses and +jewels. All the Court was there; and Anthony recognised many great nobles here +and there in the specially reserved seats. A ceaseless clangour of trumpets and +cymbals filled the air, and drowned not only the conversation but the terrific +noise from the arena where half a dozen great dogs, furious with hunger and +excited as much by the crowds and the brazen music overhead as by the presence +of their fierce adversary, were baiting a huge bear chained to a ring in the +centre of the sand. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony’s heart sank a little as he noticed the ladies of the Court applauding +and laughing at the abominable scene below, no doubt in imitation of their +mistress who loved this fierce sport; and as he thought of the kind of heart to +which he would have to appeal presently. +</p> + +<p> +So through the winter afternoon the bouts went on; the band answered with harsh +chords the death of the dogs one by one, and welcomed the collapse of the bear +with a strident bellowing passage on the great horns and drums; and by the time +it was over and the spectators rose to their feet, Anthony’s hopes were lower +than ever. Can there be any compassion left, he wondered, in a woman to whom +such an afternoon was nothing more than a charming entertainment? +</p> + +<p> +By the time he was able to get out of his seat and return to the courtyard, the +procession had again disappeared, but he was escorted by the same servant to +the parlour again, where Mistress Corbet presently rustled in. +</p> + +<p> +“You must stay to-night,” she said, “as late as possible. I wish you could +sleep here; but we are so crowded with these Frenchmen and Hollanders that +there is not a bed empty. The Queen is in better humour, and if the play goes +well, it may be that a word said even to-night might reach her heart. I will +tell you when it is over. You must be present. I will send you supper here +directly.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony inquired as to his dress. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said Mistress Corbet, “that will do very well; it is sober and +quiet, and a little splashed: it will appear that you came in such haste that +you could not change it. Her Grace likes to see a man hot and in a hurry +sometimes; and not always like a peacock in the shade.—And, Master Anthony, it +suits you very well.” +</p> + +<p> +He asked what time the play would be over, and that his horse might be saddled +ready for him when he should want it; and Mary promised to see to it. +</p> + +<p> +He felt much more himself as he supped alone in the parlour. The bewilderment +had passed; the courage and spirit of Mary had infected his own, and the +stirring strange life of the palace had distracted him from that dreadful +brooding into which he had at first sunk. +</p> + +<p> +When he had finished supper he sat in the window seat, pondering and praying +too that the fierce heart of the Queen might be melted, and that God would give +him words to say. +</p> + +<p> +There was much else too that he thought over, as he sat and watched the +illuminated windows round the little lawn on which his own looked, and heard +the distant clash of music from the Hall where the Queen was supping in state. +He thought of Mary and of her gay and tender nature; and of his own boyish love +for her. That indeed had gone, or rather had been transfigured into a brotherly +honour and respect. Both she and he, he was beginning to feel, had a more +majestic task before them than marrying and giving in marriage. The religion +which made this woman what she was, pure and upright in a luxurious and +treacherous Court, tender among hard hearts, sympathetic in the midst of +selfish lives—this Religion was beginning to draw this young man with almost +irresistible power. Mary herself was doing her part bravely, witnessing in a +Protestant Court to the power of the Catholic Faith in her own life; and he, +what was he doing? These last three days were working miracles in him. The way +he had been received by Walsingham and Aylmer, their apparent inability to see +his point of view on this foul bit of treachery, the whole method of the +Government of the day;—and above all the picture that was floating now before +his eyes over the dark lawn, of the little cell in the Tower and the silent +wrenched figure lying upon the straw—the “gallant gentleman” as Mary had called +him, who had reckoned all this price up before he embarked on the life of a +priest, and was even now paying it gladly and thankfully, no doubt—all this +deepened the previous impressions that Anthony’s mind had received; and as he +sat here amid the stir of the royal palace, again and again a vision moved +before him, of himself as a Catholic, and perhaps—— But Isabel! What of Isabel? +And at the thought of her he rose and walked to and fro. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Presently the servant came again to take Anthony to the Presence Chamber, where +the play was to take place. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand, sir, from Mistress Corbet,” said the man, closing the door of +the parlour a moment, “that you are come about Mr. Maxwell. I am a Catholic, +too, sir, and may I say, sir, God bless and prosper you in this.—I—I beg your +pardon, sir, will you follow me?” +</p> + +<p> +The room was full at the lower end where Anthony had to stand, as he was not in +Court dress; and he could see really nothing of the play, and hear very little +either. The children of Paul’s were acting some classical play which he did not +know: all he could do was to catch a glimpse now and again of the protruding +stage, with the curtains at the back, and the glitter of the armour that the +boys wore; and hear the songs that were accompanied by a little string band, +and the clash of the brass at the more martial moments. The Queen and the Duke, +he could see, sat together immediately opposite the stage, on raised seats +under a canopy; a group of halberdiers guarded them, and another small company +of them was ranged at the sides of the stage. Anthony could see little more +than this, and could hear only isolated sentences here and there, so broken was +the piece by the talking and laughing around him. But he did not like to move +as Mistress Corbet had told him to be present, so he stood there listening to +the undertone talk about him, and watching the faces. What he did see of the +play did not rouse him to any great enthusiasm. His heart was too heavy with +his errand, and it seemed to him that the occasional glimpses he caught of the +stage showed him a very tiresome hero, dressed in velvet doublet and hose and +steel cap, strangely unconvincing, who spoke his lines pompously, and was as +unsatisfactory as the slender shrill-voiced boy who, representing a woman of +marvellous beauty and allurement, was supposed to fire the conqueror’s blood +with passion. +</p> + +<p> +At last it ended; and an “orator” in apparel of cloth of gold, spoke a kind of +special epilogue in rhyming metre in praise of the Virgin Queen, and then +retired bowing. +</p> + +<p> +Immediately there was a general movement; the brass instruments began to blare +out, and an usher at the door desired those who were blocking the way to step +aside to make way for the Queen’s procession, which would shortly pass out. +Anthony himself went outside with one or two more, and then stood aside +waiting. +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause and then a hush; and the sound of a high rating woman’s +voice, followed by a murmur of laughter. +</p> + +<p> +In a moment more the door was flung open again, and to Anthony’s surprise +Mistress Corbet came rustling out, as the people stepped back to make room. Her +eyes fell on Anthony near the door, and she beckoned him to follow, and he went +down the corridor after her, followed her silently along a passage or two, +wondering why she did not speak, and then came after her into the same little +oak parlour where he had supped. A servant followed them immediately with +lighted candles which he set down and retired. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked at Mistress Corbet, and saw all across her pale cheek the fiery +mark of the five fingers of a hand, and saw too that her eyes were full of +tears, and that her breath came unevenly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is no use to-night,” she said, with a sob in her voice; “her Grace is +angry with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And, and——” began Anthony in amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“And she struck me,” said Mary, struggling bravely to smile. “It was all my +fault,”—and a bright tear or two ran down on to her delicate lace. “I was +sitting near her Grace, and I could not keep my mind off poor James Maxwell; +and I suppose I looked grave, because when the play was over, she beckoned me +up, and—and asked how I liked it, and why I looked so solemn—for she would +know—was it for <i> Scipio Africanus</i>, or some other man? And—and I was +silent; and Alençon, that little frog-man burst out laughing and said to +her Grace something—something shameful—in French—but I understood, and gave him +a look; and her Grace saw it, and, and struck me here, before all the Court, +and bade me begone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! it is shameful,” said Anthony, furiously, his own eyes bright too, at the +sight of this gallant girl and her humiliation. +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot stay here, Mistress Corbet. This is the second time at least, is it +not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! but I must stay,” she said, “or who will speak for the Catholics? But now +it is useless to think of seeing her Grace to-night. Yet to-morrow, maybe, she +will be sorry,—she often is—and will want to make amends; and then will be our +time, so you must be here to-morrow by dinner-time at least.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mistress Corbet,” said the boy, “I wish I could do something.” +</p> + +<p> +“You dear lad!” said Mary, and then indeed the tears ran down. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Anthony rode back to Lambeth under the stars, anxious and dispirited, and all +night long dreamed of pageants and progresses that blocked the street down +which he must ride to rescue James. The brazen trumpets rang out whenever he +called for help or tried to explain his errand; and Elizabeth rode by, bowing +and smiling to all save him. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The next day he was at Greenwich again by dinner-time, and again dined by +himself in the oak parlour, waited upon by the Catholic servant. He was just +finishing his meal when in sailed Mary, beaming. +</p> + +<p> +“I told you so,” she said delightedly, “the Queen is sorry. She pinched my ear +just now, and smiled at me, and bade me come to her in her private parlour in +half an hour; and I shall put my petition then; so be ready, Master Anthony, be +ready and of a good courage; for, please God, we shall save him yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked at her, white and scared. +</p> + +<p> +“What shall I say?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak from your heart, sir, as you did to me yesterday. Be bold, yet not +overbold. Tell her plainly that he is your friend; and that it was through your +action he was betrayed. Say that you love the man. She likes loyalty.—Say he is +a fine upstanding fellow, over six feet in height, with a good leg. She likes a +good leg.—Say that he has not a wife, and will never have one. Wives and +husbands like her not—in spite of <i> le petit grenouille</i>.—And look +straight in her face, Master Anthony, as you looked in mine yesterday when I +was a cry-baby. She likes men to do that.—And then look away as if dazzled by +her radiancy. She likes that even more.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked so bewildered by these instructions that Mary laughed in his +face. +</p> + +<p> +“Here then, poor lad,” she said, “I will tell you in a word. Tell the truth +and be a man;—a man! She likes that best of all; though she likes sheep too, +such as Chris Hatton, and frogs like the Duke, and apes like the little +Spaniard, and chattering dancing monkeys like the Frenchman—and—and devils, +like Walshingham. But do you be a man and risk it. I know you can manage +that.” And Mary smiled at him so cheerfully, that Anthony felt heartened. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” she said, “now you look like one. But you must have some more wine +first, I will send it in as I go. And now I must go. Wait here for the +message.” She gave him her hand, and he kissed it, and she went out, nodding +and smiling over her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony sat miserably on the window-seat. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! so much depended on him now. The Queen was in a good humour, and such a +chance might never occur again;—and meantime James Maxwell waited in the Tower. +</p> + +<p> +The minutes passed; steps came and went in the passage outside; and Anthony’s +heart leaped into his mouth at each sound. Once the door opened, and Anthony +sprang to his feet trembling. But it was only the servant with the wine. +Anthony took it—a fiery Italian wine, and drew a long draught that sent his +blood coursing through his veins, and set his heart a-beating strongly again. +And even as he set the cup down, the door was open again, and a bowing page was +there. +</p> + +<p> +“May it please you, sir, the Queen’s Grace has sent me for you.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony got up, swallowed in his throat once or twice, and motioned to go; the +boy went out and Anthony followed. +</p> + +<p> +They went down a corridor or two, passing a sentry who let the well-known page +and the gentleman pass without challenging; ascended a twisted oak staircase, +went along a gallery, with stained glass of heraldic emblems in the windows, +and paused before a door. The page, before knocking, turned and looked +meaningly at Anthony, who stood with every pulse in his body racing; then the +boy knocked, opened the door; Anthony entered, and the door closed behind him. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="II_X">CHAPTER X</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE APPEAL TO CÆSAR +</p> + +<p> +The room was full of sunshine that poured in through two tall windows opposite, +upon a motionless figure that sat in a high carved chair by the table, and +watched the door. This figure dominated the whole room: the lad as he dropped +on his knees, was conscious of eyes watching him from behind the chair, of +tapestried walls, and a lute that lay on the table, but all those things were +but trifling accessories to that scarlet central figure with a burnished halo +of auburn hair round a shadowed face. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +There was complete silence for a moment or two; a hound bayed in the court +outside, and there came a far-away bang of a door somewhere in the palace. +There was a rustle of silk that set every nerve of his body thrilling, and then +a clear hard penetrating voice spoke two words. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony drew a breath, and swallowed in his throat. +</p> + +<p> +“Your Grace,” he said, and lifted his eyes for a moment, and dropped them +again. But in the glimpse every detail stamped itself clear on his imagination. +There she sat in vivid scarlet and cloth of gold, radiating light; with high +puffed sleeves; an immense ruff fringed with lace. The narrow eyes were fixed +on him, and as he now waited again, he knew that they were running up and down +his figure, his dark splashed hose and his tumbled doublet and ruff. +</p> + +<p> +“You come strangely dressed.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony drew a quick breath again. +</p> + +<p> +“My heart is sick,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +There was another slight movement. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” the voice said again, “you have not told us why you are here.” +</p> + +<p> +“For justice from my queen,” he said, and stopped. “And for mercy from a +woman,” he added, scarcely knowing what he said. +</p> + +<p> +Again Elizabeth stirred in her chair. +</p> + +<p> +“You taught him that, you wicked girl,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, madam,” came Mary’s voice from behind, subdued and entreating, “it is his +heart that speaks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Enough, sir,” said Elizabeth; “now tell us plainly what you want of us.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Anthony thought it time to be bold. He made a great effort, and the sense +of constraint relaxed a little. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been, your Grace, to Sir Francis Walsingham, and my lord Bishop of +London, and I can get neither justice nor mercy from either; and so I come to +your Grace, who are their mistress, to teach them manners.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stay,” said Elizabeth, “that is insolence to my ministers.” +</p> + +<p> +“So my lord said,” answered Anthony frankly, looking into that hard clear face +that was beginning to be lined with age. And he saw that Elizabeth smiled, and +that the face behind the chair nodded at him encouragingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, insolence, go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is on behalf of one who has been pronounced a felon and a traitor by your +Grace’s laws, that I am pleading; but one who is a very gallant Christian +gentleman as well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your friend lacks not courage,” interrupted Elizabeth to Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“No, your Grace,” said the other, “that has never been considered his +failing.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony waited, and then the voice spoke again harshly. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on with the tale, sir. I cannot be here all day.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is a popish priest, your Majesty; and he was taken at mass in his +vestments, and is now in the Tower; and he hath been questioned on the rack. +And, madam, it is piteous to think of it. He is but a young man still, but +passing strong and tall.” +</p> + +<p> +“What has this to do with me, sir?” interrupted the Queen harshly. “I cannot +pardon every proper young priest in the kingdom. What else is there to be said +for him?” +</p> + +<p> +“He was taken through the foul treachery of a spy, who imposed upon me, his +friend, and caused me all unknowing to say the very words that brought him into +the net.” +</p> + +<p> +And then, more and more, Anthony began to lose his self-consciousness, and +poured out the story from the beginning; telling how he had been brought up in +the same village with James Maxwell; and what a loyal gentleman he was; and +then the story of the trick by which he had been deceived. As he spoke his +whole appearance seemed to change; instead of the shy and rather clumsy manner +with which he had begun, he was now natural and free; he moved his hands in +slight gestures; his blue eyes looked the Queen fairly in the face; he moved a +little forward on his knees as he pleaded, and he spoke with a passion that +astonished both Mary and himself afterwards when he thought of it, in spite of +his short and broken sentences. He was conscious all the while of an intense +external strain and pressure, as if he were pleading for his life, and the time +was short. Elizabeth relaxed her rigid attitude, and leaned her chin on her +hand and her elbow on the table and watched him, her thin lips parted, the +pearl rope and crown on her head, and the pearl pendants in her ears moving +slightly as she nodded at points in his story. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! your Grace,” he cried, lifting his open hands towards her a little, “you +have a woman’s heart; all your people say so. You cannot allow this man to be +so trapped to his death! Treachery never helped a cause yet. If your men cannot +catch these priests fairly, then a-God’s name, let them not catch them at all! +But to use a friend, and make a Judas of him; to make the very lips that have +spoken friendly, speak traitorously; to bait the trap like that—it is devilish. +Let him go, let him go, madam! One priest more or less cannot overthrow the +realm; but one more foul crime done in the name of justice can bring God’s +wrath down on the nation. I hold that a trick like that is far worse than all +the disobedience in the world; nay—how can we cry out against the Jesuits and +the plotters, if we do worse ourselves? Madam, madam, let him go! Oh! I know I +cannot speak as well in this good cause, as some can in a bad cause, but let +the cause speak for itself. I cannot speak, I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said Elizabeth softly, “you wrong yourself. You have an honest +face, sir; and that is the best recommendation to me. +</p> + +<p> +“And so, Minnie,” she went on, turning to Mary, “this was your petition, was +it; and this your advocate? Well, you have not chosen badly. Now, you speak +yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary stood a moment silent, and then with a swift movement came round the arm +of the Queen’s chair, and threw herself on her knees, with her hands upon the +Queen’s left hand as it lay upon the carved boss, and her voice was as Anthony +had never yet heard it, vibrant and full of tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! madam, madam; this poor lad cannot speak, as he says; and yet his sad +honest face, as your Grace said, is more eloquent than all words. And think of +the silence of the little cell upstairs in the Tower; where a gallant gentleman +lies, all rent and torn with the rack; and,—and how he listens for the +footsteps outside of the tormentors who come to drag him down again, all aching +and heavy with pain, down to that fierce engine in the dark. And think of his +gallant heart, your Grace, how brave it is; and how he will not yield nor let +one name escape him. Ah! not because he loves not your Grace nor desires to +serve you; but because he serves your Grace best by serving and loving his God +first of all.—And think how he cannot help a sob now and again; and whispers +the name of his Saviour, as the pulleys begin to wrench and twist.—And,—and,—do +not forget his mother, your Grace, down in the country; how she sits and +listens and prays for her dear son; and cannot sleep, and dreams of him when at +last she sleeps, and wakes screaming and crying at the thought of the boy she +bore and nursed in the hands of those harsh devils. And—and, you can stop it +all, your Grace, with one little word; and make that mother’s heart bless your +name and pray for you night and morning till she dies;—and let that gallant son +go free, and save his racked body before it be torn asunder;—and you can make +this honest lad’s heart happy again with the thought that he has saved his +friend instead of slaying him. Look you, madam, he has come confessing his +fault; saying bravely to your Grace that he did try to do his friend a service +in spite of the laws, for that he held love to be the highest law. Ah! how many +happy souls you can make with a word; because you are a Queen.—What is it to be +a Queen!—to be able to do all that!—Oh! madam, be pitiful then, and show mercy +as one day you hope to find it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary spoke with an intense feeling; her voice was one long straining sob of +appeal; and as she ended her tears were beginning to rain down on the hand she +held between her own; she lifted it to her streaming face and kissed it again +and again; and then dropped her forehead upon it, and so rested in dead +silence. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth swallowed in her throat once or twice; and then spoke, and her voice +was a little choked. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, you silly girl.—You plead too well.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony irresistibly threw his hands out as he knelt. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! God bless your Grace!” he said; and then gave a sob or two himself. +</p> + +<p> +“There, there, you are a pair of children,” she said; for Mary was kissing her +hand again and again. “And you are a pretty pair, too,” she added. “Now, now, +that is enough, stand up.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony rose to his feet again and stood there; and Mary went round again +behind the chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, now, you have put me in a sore strait,” said Elizabeth; “between you I +scarcely know how to keep my word. They call me fickle enough already. But +Frank Walsingham shall do it for me. He is certainly at the back of it all, and +he shall manage it. It shall be done at once. Call a page, Minnie.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary Corbet went to the back of the room into the shadow, opened a door that +Anthony had not noticed, and beckoned sharply; in a moment or two a page was +bowing before Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Sir Francis Walsingham in the palace?” she asked,—“then bring him here,” +she ended, as the boy bowed again. +</p> + +<p> +“And you too,” she went on, “shall hear that I keep my word,”—she pointed +towards the door whence the page had come.—“Stand there,” she said, “and leave +the door ajar.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary gave Anthony her hand and a radiant smile as they went together. +</p> + +<p> +“Aha!” said Elizabeth, “not in my presence.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony flushed with fury in spite of his joy. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +They went in through the door, and found themselves in a tiny panelled room +with a little slit of a window; it was used to place a sentry or a page within +it. There were a couple of chairs, and the two sat down to wait. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thank God!” whispered Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +Again the harsh voice rang out from the open door. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, now, no love-making within there!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary smiled and laid her finger on her lips. Then there came the ripple of a +lute from the outer room, played not unskilfully. Mary smiled again and nodded +at Anthony. Then, a metallic voice, but clear enough and tuneful, began to sing +a verse of the little love-song of Harrington’s, <i> Whence comes my love? </i> +</p> + +<p> +It suddenly ceased in the middle of the line, and the voice cried to some one +to come in. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony could hear the door open and close again, and a movement or two, which +doubtless represented Walsingham’s obeisance. Then the Queen’s voice began +again, low, thin, and distinct. The two in the inner room listened +breathlessly. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish a prisoner in the Tower to be released, Sir Francis; without any talk +or to-do. And I desire you to do it for me.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence, and then Walsingham’s deep tones. +</p> + +<p> +“Your Grace has but to command.” +</p> + +<p> +“His name is James Maxwell, and he is a popish priest.” +</p> + +<p> +A longer silence followed. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know if your Grace knows all the circumstances.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do, sir, or I should not interfere.” +</p> + +<p> +“The feeling of the people was very strong.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and what of that?” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be a risk of your Grace’s favour with them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have I not said that my name was not to appear in the matter? And do you think +I fear my people’s wrath?” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence again. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Sir Francis, why do you not speak?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have nothing to say, your Grace.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it will be done?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not see at present how it can be done, but doubtless there is a way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you will find it, sir, immediately,” rang out the Queen’s metallic +tones. +</p> + +<p> +(Mary turned and nodded solemnly at Anthony, with pursed lips.) +</p> + +<p> +“He was questioned on the rack two days ago, your Grace.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have I not said I know all the circumstances? Do you wish me to say it +again?” +</p> + +<p> +The Queen was plainly getting angry. +</p> + +<p> +“I ask your pardon, madam; but I only meant that he could not travel probably, +yet awhile. He was on the rack for four hours, I understand.” +</p> + +<p> +(Anthony felt that strange sickness rise again; but Mary laid her cool hand on +his and smiled at him.) +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” rasped out Elizabeth, “I do not ask impossibilities.” +</p> + +<p> +“They would cease to be so, madam, if you did.” +</p> + +<p> +(Mary within the little room put her lips to Anthony’s ear: +</p> + +<p> +“Butter!” she whispered.) +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” went on the Queen, “you shall see that he has a physician, and +leave to travel as soon as he will.” +</p> + +<p> +“It shall be done, your Grace.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, see to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your Grace’s pardon; but what——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what is it now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would wish to know your Grace’s pleasure as to the future for Mr. Maxwell. +Is no pledge of good behaviour to be exacted from him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course he says mass again at his peril. Either he must take the oath at +once, or he shall be allowed forty-eight hours’ safe-conduct with his papers +for the Continent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your Grace, indeed I must remonstrate——” +</p> + +<p> +Then the Queen’s wrath burst out; they heard a swift movement, and the rap of +her high heels as she sprang to her feet. +</p> + +<p> +“By God’s Son,” she screamed, “am I Queen or not? I have had enough of your +counsel. You presume, sir—” her ringed hand came heavily down on the table and +they heard the lute leap and fall again.—“You presume on your position, sir. I +made you, and I can unmake you, and by God I will, if I have another word of +your counselling. Be gone, and see that it be done; I will not bid twice.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence again; and they heard the outer door open and close. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony’s heart was beating wildly. He had sprung to his feet in a trembling +excitement as the Queen had sprung to hers. The mere ring of that furious royal +voice, even without the sight of her pale wrathful face and blazing eyes that +Walsingham looked upon as he backed out from the presence, was enough to make +this lad’s whole frame shiver. Mary apparently was accustomed to this; for she +looked up at Anthony, laughing silently, and shrugged her shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +Then they heard the Queen’s silk draperies rustle and her pearls chink together +as she sank down again and took up her lute and struck the strings. Then the +metallic voice began again, with a little tremor in it, like the ground-swell +after a storm; and she sang the verse through in which she had been +interrupted: +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p> +“Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak +</p> + +<p> +Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek— +</p> + +<p> +Yet not a heart to save my pain; +</p> + +<p> +O Venus, take thy gifts again! +</p> + +<p> +Make not so fair to cause our moan, +</p> + +<p> +Or make a heart that’s like your own.” +</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +The lute rippled away into silence. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Mary rose quietly to her feet and nodded to Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“Come back, you two!” cried the Queen. +</p> + +<p> +Mary stepped straight through, the lad behind her. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the Queen, turning to them and showing her black teeth in a +smile. “Have I kept my word?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! your Grace,” said Mary, curtseying to the ground, “you have made some +simple loving hearts very happy to-day—I do not mean Sir Francis’.” +</p> + +<p> +The Queen laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Come here, child,” she said, holding out her glittering hand, “down here,” +and Mary sank down on the Queen’s footstool, and leaned against her knee like a +child, smiling up into her face; while Elizabeth put her hand under her chin +and kissed her twice on the forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“There, there,” she said caressingly, “have I made amends? Am I a hard +mistress?” +</p> + +<p> +And she threw her left hand round the girl’s neck and began to play with the +diamond pendant in her ear, and to stroke the smooth curve of her cheek with +her flashing fingers. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony, a little on one side, stood watching and wondering at this silky +tigress who raged so fiercely just now. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth looked up in a moment and saw him. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, here is the tall lad here still,” she said, “eyeing us as if we were +monsters. Have you never yet seen two maidens loving one another, that you +stare so with your great eyes? Aha! Minnie; he would like to be sitting where I +am—is it not so, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would sooner stand where I am, madam,” said Anthony, by a sudden +inspiration, “and look upon your Grace.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, he is a courtier already,” said the Queen. “You have been giving him +lessons, Minnie, you sly girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“A loyal heart makes the best courtier, madam,” said Mary, taking the Queen’s +hand delicately in her own. +</p> + +<p> +“And next to looking upon my Grace, Mr. Norris,” said Elizabeth, “what do you +best love?” +</p> + +<p> +“Listening to your Grace,” said Anthony, promptly. +</p> + +<p> +Mary turned and flashed all her teeth upon him in a smile, and her eyes danced +in her head. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth laughed outright. +</p> + +<p> +“He is an apt pupil,” she said to Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“—You mean the lute, sir?” she added. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean your Grace’s voice, madam. I had forgotten the lute.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, a little clumsy!” said the Queen; “not so true a thrust as the others.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was not for lack of good-will,” said poor Anthony blushing a little. He +felt in a kind of dream, fencing in language with this strange mighty creature +in scarlet and pearls, who sat up in her chair and darted remarks at him, as +with a rapier. +</p> + +<p> +“Aha!” said the Queen, “he is blushing! Look, Minnie!” Mary looked at him +deliberately. Anthony became scarlet at once; and tried a desperate escape. +</p> + +<p> +“It is your livery, madam,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Mary clapped her hands, and glanced at the Queen. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Minnie; he does his mistress credit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, your Grace; but he can do other things besides talk,” explained Mary. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony felt like a horse being shown off by a skilful dealer, but he was more +at his ease too after his blush. +</p> + +<p> +“Extend your mercy, madam,” he said, “and bid Mistress Corbet hold her tongue +and spare my shame.” +</p> + +<p> +“Silence, sir!” said the Queen. “Go on, Minnie; what else can he do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! your Grace, he can hawk. Oh! you should see his peregrine;—named after +your Majesty. That shows his loyal heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not sure of the compliment,” said the Queen; “hawks are fierce +creatures.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was not for her fierceness,” put in Anthony, “that I named her after your +Grace.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, then, Mr. Norris?” +</p> + +<p> +“For that she soars so high above all other creatures,” said the lad, “and—and +that she never stoops but to conquer.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary gave a sudden triumphant laugh, and glanced up, and Elizabeth tapped her +on the cheek sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Be still, bad girl,” she said. “You must not prompt during the lesson.” +</p> + +<p> +And so the talk went on. Anthony really acquitted himself with great credit, +considering the extreme strangeness of his position; but such an intense weight +had been lifted off his mind by the Queen’s pardon of James Maxwell, that his +nature was alight with a kind of intoxication. +</p> + +<p> +All his sharpness, such as it was, rose to the surface; and Mary too was amazed +at some of his replies. Elizabeth took it as a matter of course; she was +accustomed to this kind of word-fencing; she did not do it very well herself: +her royalty gave her many advantages which she often availed herself of; and +her address was not to be compared for a moment with that of some of her +courtiers and ladies. But still she was amused by this slender honest lad who +stood there before her in his graceful splashed dress, and blushed and laughed +and parried, and delivered his point with force, even if not with any +extraordinary skill. +</p> + +<p> +But at last she began to show signs of weariness; and Mary managed to convey to +Anthony that it was time to be off. So he began to make his adieux. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Elizabeth, “let us see you at supper to-night; and in the +parlours afterwards.—Ah!” she cried, suddenly, “neither of you must say a word +as to how your friend was released. It must remain the act of the Council. My +name must not appear; Walsingham will see to that, and you must see to it +too.” +</p> + +<p> +They both promised sincerely. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, lad,” said Elizabeth, and stretched out her hand; and Mary rose +and stood by her. Anthony came up and knelt on the cushion and received the +slender scented ringed hand on his own, and kissed it ardently in his +gratitude. As he released it, it cuffed him gently on the cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“There, there!” said Elizabeth, “Minnie has taught you too much, it seems.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony backed out of the presence, smiling; and his last glimpse was once more +of the great scarlet-clad figure with the slender waist, and the priceless +pearls, and the haze of muslin behind that crowned auburn head, and the pale +oval face smiling at him with narrow eyes—and all in a glory of sunshine. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +He did not see Mary Corbet again until evening as she was with the Queen all +the afternoon. Anthony would have wished to return to Lambeth; but it was +impossible, after the command to remain to supper; so he wandered down along +the river bank, rejoicing in the success of his petition; and wondering whether +James had heard of his release yet. +</p> + +<p> +Of course it was just a fly in the ointment that his own agency in the matter +could never be known. It would have been at least some sort of compensation for +his innocent share in the whole matter of the arrest. However, he was too happy +to feel the sting of it. He felt, of course, greatly drawn to the Queen for her +ready clemency; and yet there was something repellent about her too in spite of +it. He felt in his heart that it was just a caprice, like her blows and +caresses; and then the assumption of youth sat very ill upon this lean +middle-aged woman. He would have preferred less lute-playing and sprightly +innuendo, and more tenderness and gravity. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Mary had arranged that a proper Court-suit should be at his disposal for +supper, and a room to himself; so after he had returned at sunset, he changed +his clothes. The white silk suit with the high hosen, the embroidered doublet +with great puffed and slashed sleeves, the short green-lined cloak, the white +cap and feather, and the slender sword with the jewelled hilt, all became him +very well; and he found too that Mary had provided him with two great emerald +brooches of her own, that he pinned on, one at the fastening of the crisp ruff +and the other on his cap. +</p> + +<p> +He went to the private chapel for the evening prayer at half-past six; which +was read by one of the chaplains; but there were very few persons present, and +none of any distinction. Religion, except as a department of politics, was no +integral part of Court life. The Queen only occasionally attended +evening-prayer on week days; and just now she was too busy with the affair of +the Duke of Alençon to spend unnecessary time in that manner. +</p> + +<p> +When the evening prayer was over he followed the little company into the long +gallery that led towards the hall, through which the Queen’s procession would +pass to supper; and there he attached himself to a group of gentlemen, some of +whom he had met at Lambeth. While they were talking, the clang of trumpets +suddenly broke out from the direction of the Queen’s apartments; and all threw +themselves on their knees and remained there. The doors were flung open by +servants stationed behind them; and the wands advanced leading the procession; +then came the trumpeters blowing mightily, with a drum or two beating the step; +and then in endless profusion, servants and guards; gentlemen pensioners +magnificently habited, for they were continually about the Queen’s person; and +at last, after an official or two bearing swords, came the Queen and +Alençon together; she in a superb purple toilet with brocaded underskirt +and high-heeled twinkling shoes, and breathing out essences as she swept by +smiling; and he, a pathetic little brown man, pockmarked, with an ill-shapen +nose and a head too large for his undersized body, in a rich velvet suit +sparkling all over with diamonds. +</p> + +<p> +As they passed Anthony he heard the Duke making some French compliment in his +croaking harsh voice. Behind came the crowd of ladies, nodding, chattering, +rustling; and Anthony had a swift glance of pleasure from Mistress Corbet as +she went by, talking at the top of her voice. +</p> + +<p> +The company followed on to the hall, behind the distant trumpets, and Anthony +found himself still with his friends somewhere at the lower end—away from the +Queen’s table, who sat with Alençon at her side on a daïs, with the +great folks about her. All through supper the most astonishing noise went on. +Everyone was talking loudly; the servants ran to and fro over the paved floor; +there was the loud clatter over the plates of four hundred persons; and, to +crown all, a band in the musicians’ gallery overhead made brazen music all +supper-time. Anthony had enough entertainment himself in looking about the +great banqueting-hall, so magnificently adorned with tapestries and armour and +antlers from the park; and above all by the blaze of gold and silver plate both +on the tables and on the sideboards; and by watching the army of liveried +servants running to and fro incessantly; and the glowing colours of the dresses +of the guests. +</p> + +<p> +Supper was over at last; and a Latin grace was exquisitely sung in four parts +by boys and men stationed in the musicians’ gallery; and then the Queen’s +procession went out with the same ceremony as that with which it had entered. +Anthony followed behind, as he had been bidden by the Queen to the private +parlours afterwards; but he presently found his way barred by a page at the +foot of the stairs leading to the Queen’s apartments. +</p> + +<p> +It was in vain that he pleaded his invitation; it was useless, as the young +gentleman had not been informed of it. Anthony asked if he might see Mistress +Corbet. No, that too was impossible; she was gone upstairs with the Queen’s +Grace and might not be disturbed. Anthony, in despair, not however unmixed with +relief at escaping a further ordeal, was about to turn away, leaving the +officious young gentleman swaggering on the stairs like a peacock, when down +came Mistress Corbet herself, sailing down in her splendour, to see what was +become of the gentleman of the Archbishop’s house. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, here you are!” she cried from the landing as she came down, “and why +have you not obeyed the Queen’s command?” +</p> + +<p> +“This young gentleman,” said Anthony, indicating the astonished page, “would +not let me proceed.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is unusual, Mistress Corbet,” said the boy, “for her Grace’s guests to +come without my having received instructions, unless they are great folk.” +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Corbet came down the last six steps like a stooping hawk, her wings +bulged behind her; and she caught the boy one clean light cuff on the side of +the head. +</p> + +<p> +“You imp!” she said, “daring to doubt the word of this gentleman. And the +Queen’s Grace’s own special guest!” +</p> + +<p> +The boy tried still to stand on his dignity and bar the way, but it was +difficult to be dignified with a ringing head and a scarlet ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand aside,” said Mary, stamping her little buckled foot, “this instant; +unless you would be dragged by your red ear before the Queen’s Grace. Come, +Master Anthony.” +</p> + +<p> +So the two went upstairs together, and the lad called up after them bitterly: +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, Mistress; I did not recognise he was your gallant.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall pay for that,” hissed Mary over the banisters. +</p> + +<p> +They went along a passage or two, and the sound of a voice singing to a +virginal began to ring nearer as they went, followed by a burst of applause. +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Leicester,” whispered Mary; and then she opened the door and they went +in. +</p> + +<p> +There were three rooms opening on one another with wide entrances, so that +really one long room was the result. They were all three fairly full; that into +which they entered, the first in the row, was occupied by some +gentlemen-pensioners and ladies talking and laughing; some playing shove-groat, +and some of them still applauding the song that had just ended. The middle room +was much the same; and the third, which was a step higher than the others, was +that in which was the Queen, with Lady Leicester and a few more. Lady Leicester +had just finished a song, and was laying her virginal down. There was a great +fire burning in the middle room, with seats about it, and here Mary Corbet +brought Anthony. Those near him eyed him a little; but his companion was +sufficient warrant of his respectability; and they soon got into talk, which +was suddenly interrupted by the Queen’s voice from the next room. +</p> + +<p> +“Minnie, Minnie, if you can spare a moment from your lad, come and help us at a +dance.” +</p> + +<p> +The Queen was plainly in high good-humour; and Mary got up and went into the +Queen’s room. Those round the fire stood up and pushed the seats back, and the +games ceased in the third room; as her Grace needed spectators and applause. +</p> + +<p> +Then there arose the rippling of lutes from the ladies in the next room, in +slow swaying measure, with the gentle tap of a drum now and again; and the <i> +pavane </i> began—a stately dignified dance; and among all the ladies moved the +great Queen herself, swaying and bending with much grace and dignity. It was +the strangest thing for Anthony to find himself here, a raven among all these +peacocks, and birds of paradise; and he wondered at himself and at the strange +humour of Providence, as he watched the shimmer of the dresses and the sparkle +of the shoes and jewels, and the soft clouds of muslin and lace that shivered +and rustled as the ladies stepped; the firelight shone through the wide doorway +on this glowing movement, and groups of candles in sconces within the room +increased and steadied the soft intensity of the light. The soft tingling +instruments, with the slow tap-tap marking the measure like a step, seemed a +translation into chord and melody of this stately tender exercise. And so this +glorious flower-bed, loaded too with a wealth of essences in the dresses and +the sweet-washed gloves, swayed under the wind of the music, bending and rising +together in slow waves and ripples. Then it ceased; and the silence was broken +by a quick storm of applause; while the dancers waited for the lutes. Then all +the instruments broke out together in quick triple time; the stringed +instruments supplying a hasty throbbing accompaniment, while the shrill flutes +began to whistle and the drums to gallop;—there was yet a pause in the dance, +till the Queen made the first movement;—and then the whole whirled off on the +wings of a <i> coranto</i>. +</p> + +<p> +It was bewildering to Anthony, who had never even dreamed of such a dance +before. He watched first the lower line of the shoes; and the whole floor, in +reality above, and in the mirror of the polished boards below, seemed +scintillating in lines of diamond light; the heavy underskirts of brocade, +puffed satin, and cloth of gold, with glimpses of foamy lace beneath, whirled +and tossed above these flashing vibrations. Then he looked at the higher +strata, and there was a tossing sea of faces and white throats, borne up as it +seemed—now revealed, now hidden—on clouds of undulating muslin and lace, with +sparkles of precious stones set in ruff and wings and on high piled hair. +</p> + +<p> +He watched, fascinated, the faces as they appeared and vanished; there was +every imaginable expression; the serious looks of one who took dancing as a +solemn task, and marked her position and considered her steps; the wild gaiety +of another, all white teeth and dimples and eyes, intoxicated by movement and +music and colour, as men are by wine, and guided and sustained by the furious +genius of the dance, rather than by intention of any kind. There was the +courtly self-restraint of one tall beauty, who danced as a pleasant duty and +loved it, but never lost control of her own bending, slender grace; ah! and +there was the oval face crowned with auburn hair and pearls, the lower lip +drawn up under the black teeth with an effort, till it appeared to snarl, and +the ropes of pearls leaping wildly on her lean purple stomacher. And over all +the grave oak walls and the bright sconces and the taper flames blown about by +the eddying gusts from the whirlpool beneath. +</p> + +<p> +As Anthony went down the square winding staircase, an hour later when the +evening was over, and the keen winter air poured up to meet him, his brain was +throbbing with the madness of dance and music and whirling colour. Here, it +seemed to him, lay the secret of life. For a few minutes his old day-dreams +came back but in more intoxicating dress. The figure of Mary Corbet in her +rose-coloured silk and her clouds of black hair, and her jewels and her +laughing eyes and scarlet mouth, and her violet fragrance and her fire—this +dominated the boy. As he walked towards the stables across the starlit court, +she seemed to move before him, to hold out her hands to him, to call him her +own dear lad; to invite him out of the drab-coloured life that lay on all +sides, behind and before, up into a mystic region of jewelled romance, where +she and he would live and be one in the endless music of rippling strings and +shrill flutes and the maddening tap of a little hidden drum. +</p> + +<p> +But the familiar touch of his own sober suit and the creaking saddle as he rode +home to Lambeth, and the icy wind that sang in the river sedges, and the +wholesome smell of the horse and the touch of the coarse hair at the shoulder, +talked and breathed the old Puritan common sense back to him again. That +warm-painted, melodious world he had left was gaudy nonsense; and dancing was +not the same as living; and Mary Corbet was not just a rainbow on the foam that +would die when the sun went in; but both she and he together were human souls, +redeemed by the death of the Saviour, with His work to do and no time or energy +for folly; and James Maxwell in the Tower—(thank God, however, not for +long!)—James Maxwell with his wrenched joints and forehead and lips wet with +agony, was in the right; and that lean bitter furious woman in the purple and +pearls, who supped to the blare of trumpets, and danced to the ripple of lutes, +wholly and utterly and eternally in the wrong. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="II_XI">CHAPTER XI</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +A STATION OF THE CROSS +</p> + +<p> +Philosophers tell us that the value of existence lies not in the objects +perceived, but in the powers of perception. The tragedy of a child over a +broken doll is not less poignant than the anguish of a worshipper over a broken +idol, or of a king over a ruined realm. Thus the conflict of Isabel during +those past autumn and winter months was no less august than the pain of the +priest on the rack, or the struggle of his innocent betrayer to rescue him, or +the misery of Lady Maxwell over the sorrows that came to her in such different +ways through her two sons. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel’s soul was tender above most souls; and the powers of feeling pain and +of sustaining it were also respectively both acute and strong. The sense of +pressure, or rather of disruption, became intolerable. She was indeed a soul on +the rack; if she had been less conscientious she would have silenced the voice +of Divine Love that seemed to call to her from the Catholic Church; if she had +been less natural and feminine she would have trampled out of her soul the +appeal of the human love of Hubert. As it was, she was wrenched both ways. Now +the cords at one end or the other would relax a little, and the corresponding +relief was almost a shock; but when she tried to stir and taste the freedom of +decision that now seemed in her reach, they would tighten again with a snap; +and she would find herself back on the torture. To herself she seemed +powerless; it appeared to her, when she reflected on it consciously, that it +was merely a question as to which part of her soul would tear first, as to +which ultimately retained her. She began to be terrified at solitude; the +thought of the coming night, with its long hours of questioning and torment +until the dawn, haunted her during the day. She would read in her room, or +remain at her prayers, in the hopes of distracting herself from the struggle, +until sleep seemed the supreme necessity: then, when she lay down, sleep would +flap its wings in mockery and flit away, leaving her wide-awake staring at the +darkness of the room or of her own eyelids, until the windows began to glimmer +and the cocks to crow from farm buildings. +</p> + +<p> +In spite of her first resolve to fight the battle alone, she soon found herself +obliged to tell Mistress Margaret all that was possible; but she felt that to +express her sheer need of Hubert, as she thought it, was beyond her altogether. +How could a nun understand? +</p> + +<p> +“My darling,” said the old lady, “it would not be Calvary without the +darkness; and you cannot have Christ without Calvary. Remember that the Light +of the World makes darkness His secret place; and so you see that if you were +able to feel that any human soul really understood, it would mean that the +darkness was over. I have suffered that Night twice myself; the third time I +think, will be in the valley of death.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel only half understood her; but it was something to know that others had +tasted the cup too; and that what was so bitter was not necessarily poisonous. +</p> + +<p> +At another time as the two were walking together under the pines one evening, +and the girl had again tried to show to the nun the burning desolation of her +soul, Mistress Margaret had suddenly turned. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, dear child,” she said, “I will tell you a secret. Over there,” and +she pointed out to where the sunset glowed behind the tree trunks and the slope +beyond, “over there, in West Grinsted, rests our dear Lord in the blessed +sacrament. His Body lies lonely, neglected and forgotten by all but half a +dozen souls; while twenty years ago all England reverenced It. Behold and see +if there be any sorrow—” and then the nun stopped, as she saw Isabel’s amazed +eyes staring at her. +</p> + +<p> +But it haunted the girl and comforted her now and then. Yet in the fierceness +of her pain she asked herself again and again, was it true—was it true? Was she +sacrificing her life for a dream, a fairy-story? or was it true that there the +body, that had hung on the cross fifteen hundred years ago, now rested alone, +hidden in a silver pyx, within locked doors for fear of the Jews.—Oh! dear +Lord, was it true? +</p> + +<p> +Hubert had kept his word, and left the place almost immediately after his last +interview; and was to return at Easter for his final answer. Christmas had come +and gone; and it seemed to her as if even the tenderest mysteries of the +Christian Religion had no touch with her now. She walked once more in the realm +of grace, as in the realm of nature, an exile from its spirit. All her +sensitive powers seemed so absorbed in interior pain that there was nothing in +her to respond to or appreciate the most keen external impressions. As she +awoke and looked up on Christmas morning early, and saw the frosted panes and +the snow lying like wool on the cross-bars, and heard the Christmas bells peal +out in the listening air; as she came downstairs and the old pleasant acrid +smell of the evergreens met her, and she saw the red berries over each picture, +and the red heart of the wood-fire; nay, as she knelt at the chancel rails, and +tried in her heart to adore the rosy Child in the manger, and received the +sacred symbols of His Flesh and Blood, and entreated Him to remember His +loving-kindness that brought Him down from heaven—yet the whole was far less +real, less intimate to her, than the sound of Hubert’s voice as he had said +good-bye two months ago; less real than one of those darting pangs of thought +that fell on her heart all day like a shower of arrows. +</p> + +<p> +And then, when the sensitive strings of her soul were stretched to anguish, a +hand dashed across them, striking a wailing discord, and they did not break. +The news of Anthony’s treachery, and still more his silence, performed the +incredible, and doubled her pain without breaking her heart. +</p> + +<p> +On the Tuesday morning early Lady Maxwell had sent her note by a courier; +bidding him return at once with the answer. The evening had come, and he had +not appeared. The night passed and the morning came; and it was not till noon +that the man at last arrived, saying he had seen Mr. Norris on the previous +evening, and that he had read the note through there and then, and had said +there was no answer. Surely there could be but one explanation of that—that no +answer was possible. +</p> + +<p> +It could not be said that Isabel actively considered the question and chose to +doubt Anthony rather than to trust him. She was so nearly passive now, with the +struggle she had gone through, that this blow came on her with the overwhelming +effect of an hypnotic suggestion. Her will did not really accept it, any more +than her intellect really weighed it; but she succumbed to it; and did not even +write again, nor question the man further. Had she done this she might perhaps +have found out the truth, that the man, a stupid rustic with enough shrewdness +to lie, but not enough to lie cleverly, had had his foolish head turned by the +buzz of London town and the splendour of Lambeth stables and the friendliness +of the grooms there, and had got heavily drunk on leaving Anthony; that the +answer which he had put into his hat had very naturally fallen out and been +lost; and that when at last he returned to the country already eight hours +after his time, and found the note was missing, he had stalwartly lied, hoping +that the note was unimportant and that things would adjust themselves or be +forgotten before a day of reckoning should arrive. +</p> + +<p> +And so Isabel’s power of resistance collapsed under this last blow; and her +soul lay still at last, almost too much tormented to feel. Her last hope was +gone; Anthony had betrayed his friend. +</p> + +<p> +The week crept by, and Saturday came. She went out soon after dinner to see a +sick body or two in an outlying hamlet; for she had never forgotten Mrs. Dent’s +charge, and, with the present minister’s approval, still visited the sick one +or two days a week at least. Then towards sunset she came homewards over some +high ground on the outskirts of Ashdown Forest. The snow that had fallen before +Christmas, had melted a week or two ago; and the frost had broken up; it was a +heavy leaden evening, with an angry glow shining, as through chinks of a wall, +from the west towards which she was going. The village lay before her in the +gloom; and lights were beginning to glimmer here and there. She contrasted in a +lifeless way that pleasant group of warm houses with their suggestions of love +and homeliness with her own desolate self. She passed up through the village +towards the Hall, whither she was going to report on the invalids to Lady +Maxwell; and in the appearance of the houses on either side she thought there +was an unaccustomed air. Several doors stood wide open with the brightness +shining out into the twilight, as if the inhabitants had suddenly deserted +their homes. Others were still dark and cold, although the evening was drawing +on. There was not a moving creature to be seen. She passed up, wondering a +little, through the gatehouse, and turned into the gravel sweep; and there +stopped short at the sight of a great crowd of men and women and children, +assembled in dead silence. Some one was standing at the entrance-steps, with +his head bent as if he were talking to those nearest him in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +As she came up there ran a whisper of her name; the people drew back to let her +through, and she passed, sick with suspense, to the man on the steps, whom she +now recognised as Mr. James’ body-servant. His face looked odd and drawn, she +thought. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” she asked in a sharp whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. James is here, madam; he is with Lady Maxwell in the cloister-wing. Will +you please to go up?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. James! It is no news about Mr. Anthony—or—or Mr. Hubert!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, madam.” The man hesitated. “Mr. James has been racked, madam.” +</p> + +<p> +The man’s voice broke in a great sob as he ended. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” +</p> + +<p> +She reeled against the post; a man behind caught her and steadied her; and +there was a quick breath of pity from the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, poor thing!” said a woman’s voice behind her. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, madam,” said the servant. “I should not have——” +</p> + +<p> +“And—and he is upstairs?” +</p> + +<p> +“He and my lady are together, madam.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him a moment, dazed with the horror of it; and then going past +him, pushed open the door and went through into the inner hall. Here again she +stopped suddenly: it was half full of people, silent and expectant—the men, the +grooms, the maid-servants, and even two or three farm-men. She heard the rustle +of her name from the white faces that looked at her from the gloom; but none +moved; and she crossed the hall alone, and turned down the lower corridor that +led to the cloister-wing. +</p> + +<p> +At the foot of the staircase she stopped again; her heart drummed in her ears, +as she listened intently with parted lips. There was a profound silence; the +lamp on the stairs had not been lighted, and the terrace window only let in a +pale glimmer. +</p> + +<p> +It was horrible to her! this secret presence of incarnate pain that brooded +somewhere in the house, this silence of living anguish, worse than death a +thousand times! +</p> + +<p> +Where was he? What would it look like? Even a scream somewhere would have +relieved her, and snapped the tension of the listening stillness that lay on +her like a shocking nightmare. This lobby with its well-known doors—the +banister on which her fingers rested—the well of the staircase up which she +stared with dilated eyes—all was familiar; and yet, somewhere in the shadows +overhead lurked this formidable Presence of pain, mute, anguished, +terrifying.... +</p> + +<p> +She longed to run back, to shriek for help; but she dared not: and stood +panting. She went up a couple of steps—stopped, listened to the sick thumping +of her heart—took another step and stopped again; and so, listening, peering, +hesitating, came to the head of the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! there was the door, with a line of light beneath it. It was there that the +horror dwelt. She stared at the thin bright line; waited and listened again for +even a moan or a sigh from within, but none came. +</p> + +<p> +Then with a great effort she stepped forward and tapped. +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer; but as she listened she heard from within the gentle +tinkle of some liquid running into a bowl, rhythmically, and with pauses. Then +again she tapped, nervously and rapidly, and there was a murmur from the room; +she opened the door softly, pushed it, and took a step into the room, half +closing it behind her. +</p> + +<p> +There were two candles burning on a table in the middle of the room, and on the +near side of it was a group of three persons.... +</p> + +<p> +Isabel had seen in one of Mistress Margaret’s prayer-books an engraving of an +old Flemish Pietà—a group of the Blessed Mother holding in her arms the +body of her Crucified Son, with the Magdalen on one side, supporting one of the +dead Saviour’s hands. Isabel now caught her breath in a sudden gasp; for here +was the scene reproduced before her. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell was on a low seat bending forwards; the white cap and ruff seemed +like a veil thrown all about her head and beneath her chin; she was holding in +her arms the body of her son, who seemed to have fainted as he sat beside her; +his head had fallen back against her breast, and his pointed beard and dark +hair and her black dress beyond emphasised the deathly whiteness of his face on +which the candlelight fell; his mouth was open, like a dead man’s. Mistress +Margaret was kneeling by his left hand, holding it over a basin and delicately +sponging it; and the whole air was fragrant and aromatic with some ointment in +the water; a long bandage or two lay on the ground beside the basin. The +evening light over the opposite roofs through the window beyond mingled with +the light of the tapers, throwing a strange radiance over the group. The table +on which the tapers stood looked to Isabel like a stripped altar. +</p> + +<p> +She stood by the door, her lips parted, motionless; looking with great eyes +from face to face. It was as if the door had given access to another world +where the passion of Christ was being re-enacted. +</p> + +<p> +Then she sank on her knees, still watching. There was no sound but the faint +ripple of the water into the basin and the quiet breathing of the three. Lady +Maxwell now and then lifted a handkerchief in silence and passed it across her +son’s face. Isabel, still staring with great wide eyes, began to sigh gently to +herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Anthony, Anthony, Anthony!” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, no, no!” she whispered again under her breath. “No, Anthony! you +could not, you could not!” +</p> + +<p> +Then from the man there came one or two long sighs, ending in a moan that +quavered into silence; he stirred slightly in his mother’s arms; and then in a +piteous high voice came the words “<i>Jesu ... Jesu ... esto mihi ... +Jesus</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Consciousness was coming back. He fancied himself still on the rack. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell said nothing, but gathered him a little closer, and bent her face +lower over him. +</p> + +<p> +Then again came a long sobbing indrawn breath; James struggled for a moment; +then opened his eyes and saw his mother’s face. +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Margaret had finished with the water; and was now swiftly manipulating +a long strip of white linen. Isabel still sunk on her knees watched the bandage +winding in and out round his wrist, and between his thumb and forefinger. +</p> + +<p> +Then he turned his head sharply towards her with a gasp as if in pain; and his +eyes fell on Isabel. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Isabel,” he said; and his voice was broken and untuneful. +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Margaret turned; and smiled at her; and at the sight the intolerable +compression on the girl’s heart relaxed. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, child,” she said, “come and help me with his hand. No, no, lie still,” +she added; for James was making a movement as if to rise. +</p> + +<p> +James smiled at her as she came forward; and she saw that his face had a +strange look as if after a long illness. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Mistress Isabel,” he said, in the same cracked voice, and with an +infinitely pathetic courtesy, “I may not rise.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel’s eyes filled with sudden tears, his attempt at his old manner was more +touching than all else; and she came and knelt beside the old nun. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold the fingers,” she said; and the familiar old voice brought the girl a +stage nearer her normal consciousness again. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel took the priest’s fingers and saw that they were limp and swollen. The +sleeve fell back a little as Mistress Margaret manipulated the bandage; and the +girl saw that the forearm looked shapeless and discoloured. +</p> + +<p> +She glanced up in swift terror at his face, but he was looking at his mother, +whose eyes were bent on his; Isabel looked quickly down again. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” said Mistress Margaret, tying the last knot, “it is done.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. James looked his thanks over his shoulder at her, as she nodded and smiled +before turning to leave the room. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel sat slowly down and watched them. +</p> + +<p> +“This is but a flying visit, Mistress Isabel,” said James. “I must leave +to-morrow again.” +</p> + +<p> +He had sat up now, and settled himself in his seat, though his mother’s arm was +still round him. The voice and the pitiful attempt were terrible to Isabel. +Slowly the consciousness was filtering into her mind of what all this implied; +what it must have been that had turned this tall self-contained man into this +weak creature who lay in his mother’s arms, and fainted at a touch and sobbed. +She could say nothing; but could only look, and breathe, and look. +</p> + +<p> +Then it suddenly came to her mind that Lady Maxwell had not spoken a word. She +looked at her; that old wrinkled face with its white crown of hair and lace had +a new and tremendous dignity. There was no anxiety in it; scarcely even grief; +but only a still and awful anguish, towering above ordinary griefs like a +mountain above the world; and there was the supreme peace too that can only +accompany a supreme emotion—she seemed conscious of nothing but her son. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel could not answer James; and he seemed not to expect it; he had turned +back to his mother again, and they were looking at one another. Then in a +moment Mistress Margaret came back with a glass that she put to James’ lips; +and he drank it without a word. She stood looking at the group an instant or +two, and then turned to Isabel. +</p> + +<p> +“Come downstairs with me, my darling; there is nothing more that we can do.” +</p> + +<p> +They went out of the room together; the mother and son had not stirred again; +and Mistress Margaret slipped her arm quickly round the girl’s waist, as they +went downstairs. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +In the cloister beneath was a pleasant little oak parlour looking out on to the +garden and the long south side of the house. Mistress Margaret took the little +hand-lamp that burned in the cloister itself as they passed along silently +together, and guided the girl through into the parlour on the left-hand side. +There was a tall chair standing before the hearth, and as Mistress Margaret sat +down, drawing the girl with her, Isabel sank down on the footstool at her feet, +and hid her face on the old nun’s knees. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a minute or two. Mistress Margaret set down the lamp on +the table beside her, and passed her hands caressingly over the girl’s hands +and hair; but said nothing, until Isabel’s whole body heaved up convulsively +once or twice, before she burst into a torrent of weeping. +</p> + +<p> +“My darling,” said the old lady in a quiet steady voice, “we should thank God +instead of grieving. To think that this house should have given two confessors +to the Church, father and son! Yes, yes, dear child, I know what you are +thinking of, the two dear lads we both love; well, well, we do not know, we +must trust them both to God. It may not be true of Anthony; and even if it be +true—well, he must have thought he was serving his Queen. And for Hubert——” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel lifted her face and looked with a dreadful questioning stare. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear child,” said the nun, “do not look like that. Nothing is so bad as not +trusting God.” +</p> + +<p> +“Anthony, Anthony!”... whispered the girl. +</p> + +<p> +“James told us the same story as the gentleman on Sunday,” went on the nun. +“But he said no hard word, and he does not condemn. I know his heart. He does +not know why he is released, nor by whose order: but an order came to let him +go, and his papers with it: and he must be out of England by Monday morning: so +he leaves here to-morrow in the litter in which he came. He is to say mass +to-morrow, if he is able.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mass? Here?” said the girl, in the same sharp whisper; and her sobbing ceased +abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear; if he is able to stand and use his hands enough. They have settled +it upstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel continued to look up in her face wildly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said the old nun again. “You must not look like that. Remember that he +thinks those wounds the most precious things in the world—yes—and his mother +too!” +</p> + +<p> +“I must be at mass,” said Isabel; “God means it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, now,” said Mistress Margaret soothingly, “you do not know what you are +saying.” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean it,” said Isabel, with sharp emphasis; “God means it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Margaret took the girl’s face between her hands, and looked steadily +down into her wet eyes. Isabel returned the look as steadily. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” she said, “as God sees us.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she broke into talk, at first broken and incoherent in language, but +definite and orderly in ideas, and in her interpretations of these last months. +</p> + +<p> +Kneeling beside her with her hands clasped on the nun’s knee, Isabel told her +all her struggles; disentangling at last in a way that she had never been able +to do before, all the complicated strands of self-will and guidance and +blindness that had so knotted and twisted themselves into her life. The nun was +amazed at the spiritual instinct of this Puritan child, who ranged her motives +so unerringly; dismissing this as of self, marking this as of God’s +inspiration, accepting this and rejecting that element of the circumstances of +her life; steering confidently between the shoals of scrupulous judgment and +conscience on the one side, and the hidden rocks of presumption and despair on +the other—these very dangers that had baffled and perplexed her so long—and +tracing out through them all the clear deep safe channel of God’s intention, +who had allowed her to emerge at last from the tortuous and baffling +intricacies of character and circumstance into the wide open sea of His own +sovereign Will. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to the nun, as Isabel talked, as if it needed just a final touch of +supreme tragedy to loosen and resolve all the complications; and that this had +been supplied by the vision upstairs. There she had seen a triumphant trophy of +another’s sorrow and conquest. There was hardly an element in her own troubles +that was not present in that human Pietà +upstairs—treachery—loneliness—sympathy—bereavement—and above all the supreme +sacrificial act of human love subordinated to divine—human love, purified and +transfigured and rendered invincible and immortal by the very immolation of it +at the feet of God—all this that the son and mother in their welcome of pain +had accomplished in the crucifixion of one and the heart-piercing of the +other—this was light opened to the perplexed, tormented soul of the girl—a +radiance poured out of the darkness of their sorrow and made her way plain +before her face. +</p> + +<p> +“My Isabel,” said the old nun, when the girl had finished and was hiding her +face again, “this is of God. Glory to His Name! I must ask James’ leave; and +then you must sleep here to-night, for the mass to-morrow.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The chapel at Maxwell Hall was in the cloister wing; but a stranger visiting +the house would never have suspected it. Opening out of Lady Maxwell’s new +sitting-room was a little lobby or landing, about four yards square, lighted +from above; at the further end of it was the door into her bedroom. This lobby +was scarcely more than a broad passage; and would attract no attention from any +passing through it. The only piece of furniture in it was a great tall old +chest as high as a table, that stood against the inner wall beyond which was +the long gallery that looked down upon the cloister garden. The lobby appeared +to be practically as broad as the two rooms on either side of it; but this was +effected by the outer wall being made to bulge a little; and the inner wall +being thinner than inside the two living-rooms. The deception was further +increased by the two living-rooms being first wainscoted and then hung with +thick tapestry; while the lobby was bare. A curious person who should look in +the chest would find there only an old dress and a few pieces of stuff. This +lobby, however, was the chapel; and through the chest was the entrance to one +of the priest’s hiding holes, where also the altar-stone and the ornaments and +the vestments were kept. The bottom of the chest was in reality hinged in such +a way that it would fall, on the proper pressure being applied in two places at +once, sufficiently to allow the side of the chest against the wall to be pushed +aside, which in turn gave entrance to a little space some two yards long by a +yard wide; and here were kept all the necessaries for divine worship; with room +besides for a couple of men at least to be hidden away. There was also a way +from this hole on to the roof, but it was a difficult and dangerous way; and +was only to be used in case of extreme necessity. +</p> + +<p> +It was in this lobby that Isabel found herself the next morning kneeling and +waiting for mass. She had been awakened by Mistress Margaret shortly before +four o’clock and told in a whisper to dress herself in the dark; for it was +impossible under the circumstances to tell whether the house was not watched; +and a light seen from outside might conceivably cause trouble and disturbance. +So she had dressed herself and come down from her room along the passages, so +familiar during the day, so sombre and suggestive now in the black morning with +but one shaded light placed at the angles. Other figures were stealing along +too; but she could not tell who they were in the gloom. Then she had come +through the little sitting-room where the scene of last night had taken place +and into the lobby beyond. +</p> + +<p> +But the whole place was transformed. +</p> + +<p> +Over the old chest now hung a picture, that usually was in Lady Maxwell’s room, +of the Blessed Mother and her holy Child, in a great carved frame of some black +wood. The chest had become an altar: Isabel could see the slight elevation in +the middle of the long white linen cloth where the altar-stone lay, and upon +that again, at the left corner, a pile of linen and silk. Upon the altar at the +back stood two slender silver candlesticks with burning tapers in them; and a +silver crucifix between them. The carved wooden panels, representing the +sacrifice of Isaac on the one half and the offering of Melchisedech on the +other, served instead of an embroidered altar-frontal. Against the side wall +stood a little white-covered folding table with the cruets and other +necessaries upon it. +</p> + +<p> +There were two or three benches across the rest of the lobby; and at these were +kneeling a dozen or more persons, motionless, their faces downcast. There was a +little wind such as blows before the dawn moaning gently outside; and within +was a slight draught that made the taper flames lean over now and then. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel took her place beside Mistress Margaret at the front bench; and as she +knelt forward she noticed a space left beyond her for Lady Maxwell. A moment +later there came slow and painful steps through the sitting-room, and Lady +Maxwell came in very slowly with her son leaning on her arm and on a stick. +There was a silence so profound that it seemed to Isabel as if all had stopped +breathing. She could only hear the slow plunging pulse of her own heart. +</p> + +<p> +James took his mother across the altar to her place, and left her there, bowing +to her; and then went up to the altar to vest. As he reached it and paused, a +servant slipped out and received the stick from him. The priest made the sign +of the cross, and took up the amice from the vestments that lay folded on the +altar. He was already in his cassock. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel watched each movement with a deep agonising interest; he was so frail +and broken, so bent in his figure, so slow and feeble in his movements. He made +an attempt to raise the amice but could not, and turned slightly; and the man +from behind stepped up again and lifted it for him. Then he helped him with +each of the vestments, lifted the alb over his head and tenderly drew the +bandaged hands through the sleeves; knit the girdle round him; gave him the +stole to kiss and then placed it over his neck and crossed the ends beneath the +girdle and adjusted the amice; then he placed the maniple on his left arm, but +so tenderly! and lastly, lifted the great red chasuble and dropped it over his +head and straightened it—and there stood the priest as he had stood last +Sunday, in crimson vestments again; but bowed and thin-faced now. +</p> + +<p> +Then he began the preparation with the servant who knelt beside him in his +ordinary livery, as server; and Isabel heard the murmur of the Latin words for +the first time. Then he stepped up to the altar, bent slowly and kissed it and +the mass began. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel had a missal, lent to her by Mistress Margaret; but she hardly looked at +it; so intent was she on that crimson figure and his strange movements and his +low broken voice. It was unlike anything that she had ever imagined worship to +be. Public worship to her had meant hitherto one of two things—either sitting +under a minister and having the word applied to her soul in the sacrament of +the pulpit; or else the saying of prayers by the minister aloud and distinctly +and with expression, so that the intellect could follow the words, and assent +with a hearty Amen. The minister was a minister to man of the Word of God, an +interpreter of His gospel to man. +</p> + +<p> +But here was a worship unlike all this in almost every detail. The priest was +addressing God, not man; therefore he did so in a low voice, and in a tongue as +Campion had said on the scaffold “that they both understood.” It was +comparatively unimportant whether man followed it word for word, for (and here +the second radical difference lay) the point of the worship for the people lay, +not in an intellectual apprehension of the words, but in a voluntary assent to +and participation in the supreme act to which the words were indeed necessary +but subordinate. It was the thing that was done; not the words that were said, +that was mighty with God. Here, as these Catholics round Isabel at any rate +understood it, and as she too began to perceive it too, though dimly and +obscurely, was the sublime mystery of the Cross presented to God. As He looked +down well pleased into the silence and darkness of Calvary, and saw there the +act accomplished by which the world was redeemed, so here (this handful of +disciples believed), He looked down into the silence and twilight of this +little lobby, and saw that same mystery accomplished at the hands of one who in +virtue of his participation in the priesthood of the Son of God was empowered +to pronounce these heart-shaking words by which the Body that hung on Calvary, +and the Blood that dripped from it there, were again spread before His eyes, +under the forms of bread and wine. +</p> + +<p> +Much of this faith of course was still dark to Isabel; but yet she understood +enough; and when the murmur of the priest died to a throbbing silence, and the +worshippers sank in yet more profound adoration, and then with terrible effort +and a quick gasp or two of pain, those wrenched bandaged hands rose trembling +in the air with Something that glimmered white between them; the Puritan girl +too drooped her head, and lifted up her heart, and entreated the Most High and +most Merciful to look down on the Mystery of Redemption accomplished on earth; +and for the sake of the Well-Beloved to send down His Grace on the Catholic +Church; to strengthen and save the living; to give rest and peace to the dead; +and especially to remember her dear brother Anthony, and Hubert whom she loved; +and Mistress Margaret and Lady Maxwell, and this faithful household: and the +poor battered man before her, who, not only as a priest was made like to the +Eternal Priest, but as a victim too had hung upon a prostrate cross, fastened +by hands and feet; thus bearing on his body for all to see the marks of the +Lord Jesus. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Lady Maxwell and Mistress Margaret both rose and stepped forward after the +Priest’s Communion, and received from those wounded hands the Broken Body of +the Lord. +</p> + +<p> +And then the mass was presently over; and the server stepped forward again to +assist the priest to unvest, himself lifting each vestment off, for Father +Maxwell was terribly exhausted by now, and laying it on the altar. Then he +helped him to a little footstool in front of him, for him to kneel and make his +thanksgiving. Isabel looked with an odd wonder at the server; he was the man +that she knew so well, who opened the door for her, and waited at table; but +now a strange dignity rested on him as he moved confidently and reverently +about the awful altar, and touched the vestments that even to her Puritan eyes +shone with new sanctity. It startled her to think of the hidden Catholic life +of this house—of these servants who loved and were familiar with mysteries that +she had been taught to dread and distrust, but before which she too now was to +bow her being in faith and adoration. +</p> + +<p> +After a minute or two, Mistress Margaret touched Isabel on the arm and beckoned +to her to come up to the altar, which she began immediately to strip of its +ornaments and cloth, having first lit another candle on one of the benches. +Isabel helped her in this with a trembling dread, as all the others except Lady +Maxwell and her son were now gone out silently; and presently the picture was +down, and leaning against the wall; the ornaments and sacred vessels packed +away in their box, with the vestments and linen in another. Then together they +lifted off the heavy altar stone. Mistress Margaret next laid back the lid of +the chest; and put her hands within, and presently Isabel saw the back of the +chest fall back, apparently into the wall. Mistress Margaret then beckoned to +Isabel to climb into the chest and go through; she did so without much +difficulty, and found herself in the little room behind. There was a stool or +two and some shelves against the wall, with a plate or two upon them and one or +two tools. She received the boxes handed through, and followed Mistress +Margaret’s instructions as to where to place them; and when all was done, she +slipped back again through the chest into the lobby. +</p> + +<p> +The priest and his mother were still in their places, motionless. Mistress +Margaret closed the chest inside and out, beckoned Isabel into the sitting-room +and closed the door behind them. Then she threw her arms round the girl and +kissed her again and again. +</p> + +<p> +“My own darling,” said the nun, with tears in her eyes. “God bless you—your +first mass. Oh! I have prayed for this. And you know all our secrets now. Now +go to your room, and to bed again. It is only a little after five. You shall +see him—James—before he goes. God bless you, my dear!” +</p> + +<p> +She watched Isabel down the passage; and then turned back again to where the +other two were still kneeling, to make her own thanksgiving. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel went to her room as one in a dream. She was soon in bed again, but could +not sleep; the vision of that strange worship she had assisted at; the +pictorial details of it, the glow of the two candles on the shoulders of the +crimson chasuble as the priest bent to kiss the altar or to adore; the bowed +head of the server at his side; the picture overhead with the Mother and her +downcast eyes, and the radiant Child stepping from her knees to bless the +world—all this burned on the darkness. With the least effort of imagination too +she could recall the steady murmur of the unfamiliar words; hear the rustle of +the silken vestment; the stirrings and breathings of the worshippers in the +little room. +</p> + +<p> +Then in endless course the intellectual side of it all began to present itself. +She had assisted at what the Government called a crime; it was for that—that +collection of strange but surely at least innocent things—actions, words, +material objects—that men and women of the same flesh and blood as herself were +ready to die; and for which others equally of one nature with herself were +ready to put them to death. It was the mass—the mass—she had seen—she repeated +the word to herself, so sinister, so suggestive, so mighty. Then she began to +think again—if indeed it is possible to say that she had ever ceased to think +of him—of Anthony, who would be so much horrified if he knew; of Hubert, who +had renounced this wonderful worship, and all, she feared, for love of her—and +above all of her father, who had regarded it with such repugnance:—yes, thought +Isabel, but he knows all now. Then she thought of Mistress Margaret again. +After all, the nun had a spiritual life which in intensity and purity surpassed +any she had ever experienced or even imagined; and yet the heart of it all was +the mass. She thought of the old wrinkled quiet face when she came back to +breakfast at the Dower House: she had soon learnt to read from that face +whether mass had been said that morning or not at the Hall. And Mistress +Margaret was only one of thousands to whom this little set of actions half seen +and words half heard, wrought and said by a man in a curious dress, were more +precious than all meditation and prayer put together. Could the vast +superstructure of prayer and effort and aspiration rest upon a piece of empty +folly such as children or savages might invent? +</p> + +<p> +Then very naturally, as she began now to get quieter and less excited, she +passed on to the spiritual side of it. +</p> + +<p> +Had that indeed happened that Mistress Margaret believed—that the very Body and +Blood of her own dear Saviour, Jesus Christ, had in virtue of His own clear +promise—His own clear promise!—become present there under the hands of His +priest? Was it, indeed,—this half-hour action,—the most august mystery of time, +the Lamb eternally slain, presenting Himself and His Death before the Throne in +a tremendous and bloodless Sacrifice—so august that the very angels can only +worship it afar off and cannot perform it; or was it all a merely childish +piece of blasphemous mummery, as she had been brought up to believe? And then +this Puritan girl, who was beginning to taste the joys of release from her +misery now that she had taken this step, and united a whole-hearted offering of +herself to the perfect Offering of her Lord—now her soul made its first +trembling movement towards a real external authority. “I believe,” she +rehearsed to herself, “not because my spiritual experience tells me that the +Mass is true, for it does not; not because the Bible says so, because it is +possible to interpret that in more than one way; but because that Society which +I now propose to treat as Divine—the Representative of the Incarnate Word—nay, +His very mystical Body—tells me so: and I rely upon that, and rest in her arms, +which are the Arms of the Everlasting, and hang upon her lips, through which +the Infallible Word speaks.” +</p> + +<p> +And so Isabel, in a timid peace at last, from her first act of Catholic faith, +fell asleep. +</p> + +<p> +She awoke to find the winter sun streaming into her room, and Mistress Margaret +by her bedside. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear child,” said the old lady, “I would not wake you earlier; you have had +such a short night; but James leaves in an hour’s time; and it is just nine +o’clock, and I know you wish to see him.” +</p> + +<p> +When she came down half an hour later she found Mistress Margaret waiting for +her outside Lady Maxwell’s room. +</p> + +<p> +“He is in there,” she said. “I will tell Mary”; and she slipped in. Isabel +outside heard the murmur of voices, and in a moment more was beckoned in by the +nun. +</p> + +<p> +James Maxwell was sitting back in a great chair, looking exhausted and white. +His mother, with something of the same look of supreme suffering and triumph, +was standing behind his chair. She smiled gravely and sweetly at Isabel, as if +to encourage her; and went out at the further door, followed by her sister. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Isabel,” said the priest, without any introductory words, in his +broken voice, and motioning her to a seat, “I cannot tell you what joy it was +to see you at mass. Is it too much to hope that you will seek admission +presently to the Catholic Church?” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel sat with downcast eyes. His tone was a little startling to her. It was +as courteous as ever, but less courtly: there was just the faintest ring in it, +in spite of its weakness, as of one who spoke with authority. +</p> + +<p> +“I—I thank you, Mr. James,” she said. “I wish to hear more at any rate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mistress Isabel; and I thank God for it. Mr. Barnes will be the proper +person. My mother will let him know; and I have no doubt that he will receive +you by Easter, and that you can make your First Communion on that day.” +</p> + +<p> +She bowed her head, wondering a little at his assurance. +</p> + +<p> +“You will forgive me, I know, if I seem discourteous,” went on the priest, +“but I trust you understand the terms on which you come. You come as a little +child, to learn; is it not so? Simply that?” +</p> + +<p> +She bowed her head again. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I need not keep you. If you will kneel, I will give you my blessing.” +</p> + +<p> +She knelt down at once before him, and he blessed her, lifting his wrenched +hand with difficulty and letting it sink quickly down again. +</p> + +<p> +By an impulse she could not resist she leaned forward on her knees and took it +gently into her two soft hands and kissed it. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! forgive him, Mr. Maxwell; I am sure he did not know.” And then her tears +poured down. +</p> + +<p> +“My child,” said his voice tenderly, “in any case I not only forgive him, but +I thank him. How could I not? He has brought me love-tokens from my Lord.” +</p> + +<p> +She kissed his hand again, and stood up; her eyes were blinded with tears; but +they were not all for grief. +</p> + +<p> +Then Mistress Margaret came in from the inner room, and led the girl out; and +the mother came in once more to her son for the ten minutes before he was to +leave her. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="II_XII">CHAPTER XII</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +A STRIFE OF TONGUES +</p> + +<p> +Anthony now settled down rather drearily to the study of religious controversy. +The continual contrasts that seemed forced upon him by the rival systems of +England and Rome (so far as England might be said to have a coherent system at +this time), all tended to show him that there were these two sharply-divided +schemes, each claiming to represent Christ’s Institution, and each exclusive of +the other. Was it of Christ’s institution that His Church should be a +department of the National Life; and that the civil prince should be its final +arbiter and ruler, however little he might interfere in its ordinary +administration? This was Elizabeth’s idea. Or was the Church, as Mr. Buxton had +explained it, a huge unnational Society, dependent, it must of course be, to +some extent on local circumstances, but essentially unrestricted by limit of +nationality or of racial tendencies? This was the claim of Rome. Of course an +immense number of other arguments circled round this—in fact, most of the +arguments that are familiar to controversialists at the present day; but the +centre of all, to Anthony’s mind, as indeed it was to the mind of the civil and +religious authorities of the time, was the question of supremacy—Elizabeth or +Gregory? +</p> + +<p> +He read a certain number of books; and it will be remembered that he had +followed, with a good deal of intelligence, Campion’s arguments. Anthony was no +theologian, and therefore missed perhaps the deep, subtle arguments; but he had +a normal mind, and was able to appreciate and remember some salient points. +</p> + +<p> +For example, he was impressed greatly by the negative character of +Protestantism in such books as Nicholl’s “Pilgrimage.” In this work a man was +held up as a type to be imitated whose whole religion to all appearances +consisted of holding the Pope to be Antichrist, and his Church the synagogue of +Satan, of disliking the doctrines of merit and of justification by works, of +denying the Real Presence, and of holding nothing but what could be proved to +his own satisfaction by the Scriptures. +</p> + +<p> +Then he read as much as he could of the great Jewell controversy. This Bishop +of Salisbury, who had, however, recanted his Protestant opinions under Mary, +and resumed them under Elizabeth, had published in 1562 his “Apology of the +Church of England,” a work of vast research and learning. Mr. Harding, who had +also had the advantage of having been on both sides, had answered it; and then +the battle was arrayed. It was of course mostly above Anthony’s head; but he +gained from what he was able to read of it a very fair estimate of the +conflicting theses, though he probably could not have stated them intelligibly. +He also made acquaintance with another writer against Jewell,—Rastall; and with +one or two of Mr. Willet’s books, the author of “Synopsis Papismi” and +“Tretrastylon Papisticum.” +</p> + +<p> +Even more than by paper controversy, however, he was influenced by history that +was so rapidly forming before his eyes. The fact and the significance of the +supremacy of the Queen in religion was impressed upon him more vividly by her +suspension of Grindal than by all the books he ever read: here was the first +ecclesiastic of the realm, a devout, humble and earnest man, restrained from +exercising his great qualities as ruler and shepherd of his people, by a woman +whose religious character certainly commanded no one’s respect, even if her +moral life were free from scandal; and that, not because the Archbishop had +been guilty of any crime or heresy, or was obviously unfitted for his post, but +because his conscientious judgment on a point of Church discipline and liberty +differed from hers; and this state of things was made possible not by an +usurpation of power, but by the deliberately ordered system of the Church of +England. Anthony had at least sufficient penetration to see that this, as a +fundamental principle of religion, however obscured it might be by subsequent +developments, was yet fraught with dangers compared with which those of papal +interference were comparatively trifling—dangers that is, not so much to +earthly peace and prosperity, as to the whole spiritual nature of the nation’s +Christianity. +</p> + +<p> +Yet another argument had begun to suggest itself, bearing upon the same point, +of the relative advantages and dangers of Nationalism. When he had first +entered the Archbishop’s service he had been inspired by the thought that the +Church would share in the rising splendour of England; now he began to wonder +whether she could have strength to resist the rising worldliness that was bound +to accompany it. It is scarcely likely that men on fire with success, whether +military or commercial, will be patient of the restraints of religion. If the +Church is independent of the nation, she can protest and denounce freely; if +she is knit closely to the nation, such rebuke is almost impossible. +</p> + +<p> +A conversation that Anthony had on this subject at the beginning of February +helped somewhat to clear up this point. +</p> + +<p> +He was astonished after dinner one day to hear that Mr. Henry Buxton was at the +porter’s lodge desiring to see him, and on going out he found that it was +indeed his old acquaintance, the prisoner. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-day, Master Norris,” said the gentleman, with his eyes twinkling; “you +see the mouse has escaped, and is come to call upon the cat.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony inquired further as to the details of his release. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you see,” said Mr. Buxton, “they grew a-weary of me. I talked so loud +at them all for one thing; and then you see I was neither priest nor agent nor +conspirator, but only a plain country gentleman: so they took some hundred or +two pounds off me, to make me still plainer; and let me go. Now, Mr. Norris, +will you come and dine with me, and resume our conversation that was so rudely +interrupted by my journey last time? But then you see her Majesty would take no +denial.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have just dined,” said Anthony, “but——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I will not ask you to see me dine again, as you did last time; but will +you then sup with me? I am at the ‘Running Horse,’ Fleet Street, until +to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony accepted gladly; for he had been greatly taken with Mr. Buxton; and at +six o’clock that evening presented himself at the “Running Horse,” and was +shown up to a private parlour. +</p> + +<p> +He found Mr. Buxton in the highest good-humour; he was even now on his way from +Wisbeach, home again to Tonbridge, and was only staying in London to finish a +little business he had. +</p> + +<p> +Before supper was over, Anthony had laid his difficulties before him. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear friend,” said the other, and his manner became at once sober and +tender, “I thank you deeply for your confidence. After being thought midway +between a knave and a fool for over a year, it is a comfort to be treated as an +honest gentleman again. I hold very strongly with what you say; it is that, +under God, that has kept me steady. As I said to you last time, Christ’s +Kingdom is not of this world. Can you imagine, for example, Saint Peter +preaching religious obedience to Nero to be a Christian’s duty? I do not say +(God forbid) that her Grace is a Nero, or even a Poppæa; but there is no +particular reason why some successor of hers should not be. However, Nero or +not, the principle is the same. I do not deny that a National Church may be +immensely powerful, may convert thousands, may number zealous and holy men +among her ministers and adherents—but yet her foundation is insecure. What when +the tempest of God’s searching judgments begins to blow? +</p> + +<p> +“Or, to put it plainer, in a parable, you have seen, I doubt not, a gallant and +his mistress together. So long as she is being wooed by him, she can command; +he sighs and yearns and runs on errands—in short, she rules him. But when they +are wedded—ah me! It is she—if he turns out a brute, that is—she that stands +while my lord plucks off his boots—she who runs to fetch the tobacco-pipe and +lights it and kneels by him. Now I hold that to wed the body spiritual to the +body civil, is to wed a delicate dame to a brute. He may dress her well, give +her jewels, clap her kindly on the head—but she is under him and no free woman. +Ah!”—and then Mr. Buxton’s eyes began to shine as Anthony remembered they had +done before, and his voice to grow solemn,—“and when the spouse is the Bride of +Christ, purchased by His death, what then would be the sin to wed her to a +carnal nation, who shall favour her, it may be, while she looks young and fair; +but when his mood changes, or her appearance, then she is his slave and his +drudge! His will and his whims are her laws; as he changes, so must she. She +has to do his foul work; as she had to do for King Henry, as she is doing it +now for Queen Bess; and as she will always have to do, God help her, so long as +she is wedded to the nation, instead of being free as the handmaiden and spouse +of Christ alone. My faith would be lost, Mr. Norris, and my heart broken quite, +if I were forced to think the Church of England to be the Church of Christ.” +</p> + +<p> +They talked late that evening in the private baize-curtained parlour on the +third floor. Anthony produced his difficulties one by one, and Mr. Buxton did +his best to deal with them. For example, Anthony remarked on the fact that +there had been no breach of succession as to the edifices and endowments of the +Church; that the sees had been canonically filled, and even the benefices; and +that therefore, like it or not, the Church of England now was identical with +the Pre-Reformation Church. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Distinguo</i>,” said his friend. “Of course she is the successor in one +sense: what you say is very true. It is impossible to put your finger all along +the line of separation. It is a serrated line. The affairs of a Church and a +nation are so vast that that is sure to be so; although if you insist, I will +point to the Supremacy Act of 1559 and the Uniformity Act of the same year as +very clear evidences of a breach with the ancient order; in the former the +governance is shifted from its original owner, the Vicar of Christ, and placed +on Elizabeth; it was that that the Carthusian Fathers and Sir Thomas More and +many others died sooner than allow: and the latter Act sweeps away all the +ancient forms of worship in favour of a modern one. But I am not careful to +insist upon those points; if you deny or disprove them,—though I do not envy +any who attempts that—yet even then my principle remains, that all that to +which the Church of England has succeeded is the edifices and the endowments; +but that her spirit is wholly new. If a highwayman knocks me down to-morrow, +strips me, clothes himself with my clothes, and rides my horse, he is certainly +my successor in one sense; yet he will be rash if he presents himself to my +wife and sons—though I have none, by the way—as the proper owner of my house +and name.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there is no knocking down in the question,” said Anthony. “The bishops +and clergy, or the greater part of them, consented to the change.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” he said; “yet the case is not greatly different if the gentleman +threatens me with torture instead, if I do not voluntarily give him my clothes +and my horse. If I were weak and yielded to him, yes, and made promises of all +kinds in my cowardice—yet he would be no nearer being the true successor of my +name and fortune. And if you read her Grace’s Acts, and King Henry’s too, you +will find that that was precisely what took place. My dear sir,” Mr. Buxton +went on, “if you will pardon my saying it, I am astounded at the effrontery of +your authorities who claim that there was no breach. Your Puritans are wiser; +they at least frankly say that the old was Anti-Christian; that His Holiness +(God forgive me for saying it!), was an usurper: and that the new Genevan +theology is the old gospel brought to light again. That I can understand; and +indeed most of your churchmen think so too; and that there was a new beginning +made with Protestantism. But when her Grace calls herself a Catholic, and tells +the poor Frenchmen that it is the old religion here still: and your bishops, or +one or two of them rather, like Cheyney, I suppose, say so too—then I am +rendered dumb—(if that were possible). If it is the same, then why, a-God’s +name, were the altars dragged down, and the screens burned, and the vestments +and the images and the stoups and the pictures and the ornaments, all swept +out? Why, a-God’s name, was the old mass blotted out and this new mingle-mangle +brought in, if it be all one? And for the last time, a-God’s name, why is it +death to say mass now, if it be all one? Go, go: Such talk is foolishness, and +worse.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton was silent for a moment as Anthony eyed him; and then burst out +again. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! but worse than all are the folks that stand with one leg on either stool. +We are the old Church, say they;—standing with the Protestant leg in the +air,—therefore let us have the money and the buildings: they are our right. And +then when a poor Catholic says, Then let us have the old mass, and the old +penance and the old images: Nay, nay, nay, they say, lifting up the Catholic +leg and standing on the other, those are Popery; and we are Protestants; we +have made away with all such mummery and muniments of superstition. And so they +go see-sawing to and fro. When you run at one leg they rest them on the other, +and you know not where to take them.” +</p> + +<p> +And so the talk went on. When the evening was over, and Anthony was rising to +return to Lambeth, Mr. Buxton put his hand on his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Good Mr. Norris,” he said, “you have been very patient with me. I have +clacked this night like an old wife, and you have borne with me: and now I ask +your pardon again. But I do pray God that He may show you light and bring you +to the true Church; for there is no rest elsewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony thanked him for his good wishes. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” he said, too, “I am grateful for all that you have said. You have +shown me light, I think, on some things, and I ask your prayers.” +</p> + +<p> +“I go to Stanfield to-morrow,” said Mr. Buxton; “it is a pleasant house, +though its master says so, not far from Sir Philip Sidney’s: if you would but +come and see me there!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am getting greatly perplexed,” said Anthony, “and I think that in good +faith I cannot stay long with the Archbishop; and if I leave him how gladly +will I come to you for a few days; but it must not be till then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! if you would but make the Spiritual Exercises in my house; I will provide +a conductor; and there is nothing that would resolve your doubts so quickly.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony was interested in this; and asked further details as to what these +were. +</p> + +<p> +“It is too late,” said Mr. Buxton, “to tell you to-night. I will write from +Stanfield.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton came downstairs with Anthony to see him on to his horse, and they +parted with much good-will; and Anthony rode home with a heavy and perplexed +heart to Lambeth. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +He spent a few days more pondering; and then determined to lay his difficulties +before the Archbishop; and resign his position if Grindal thought it well. +</p> + +<p> +He asked for an interview, and the Archbishop appointed an hour in the +afternoon at which he would see him in Cranmer’s parlour, the room above the +vestry which formed part of the tower that Archbishop Cranmer had added to +Lambeth House. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony, walking up and down in the little tiled cloisters by the creek, a few +minutes before the hour fixed, heard organ-music rolling out of the chapel +windows; and went in to see who was playing. He came in through the vestry, and +looking to the west end gallery saw there the back of old Dr. Tallis, seated at +the little positive organ that the late Archbishop had left in his chapel, and +which the present Archbishop had gladly retained, for he was a great patron of +music, and befriended many musicians when they needed help—Dr. Tallis, as well +as Byrd, Morley and Tye. There were a few persons in the chapel listening, the +Reverend Mr. Wilson, one of the chaplains, being among them; and Anthony +thought that he could not do better than sit here a little and quiet his +thoughts, which were nervous and distracted at the prospect of his coming +interview. He heard voices from overhead, which showed that the Archbishop was +engaged; so he spoke to an usher stationed in the vestry, telling him that he +was ready as soon as the Archbishop could receive him, and that he would wait +in the chapel; and then made his way down to one of the return stalls at the +west end, against the screen, and took his seat there. +</p> + +<p> +This February afternoon was growing dark, and the only lights in the chapel +were those in the organ loft; but there was still enough daylight outside to +make the windows visible—those famous windows of Morton’s, which, like those in +King’s Chapel, Cambridge, combined and interpreted the Old and New Testaments +by an ingenious system of types and antitypes, in the manner of the “Biblia +Pauperum.” There was then only a single subject in each light; and Anthony let +his eyes wander musingly to and fro in the east window from the central figure +of the Crucified to the types on either side, especially to a touching group of +the unconscious Isaac carrying the wood for his own death, as Christ His Cross. +Beneath, instead of the old stately altar glowing with stuffs and precious +metals and jewels which had once been the heart of this beautiful shrine, there +stood now a plain solid wooden table that the Archbishop used for the +Communion. Anthony looked at it, and sighed a little to himself. Did the altar +and the table then mean the same thing? +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the glorious music was rolling overhead in the high vaulted roof. The +old man was extemporising; but his manner was evident even in that; there was a +simple solemn phrase that formed his theme, and round this adorning and +enriching it moved the grave chords. On and on travelled the melody, like the +flow of a broad river; now sliding steadily through a smiling land of simple +harmonies, where dwelt a people of plain tastes and solid virtues; now passing +over shallows where the sun glanced and played in the brown water among the +stones, as light arpeggio chords rippled up and vanished round about the +melody; now entering a land of mighty stones and caverns where the echoes rang +hollow and resonant, as the counterpoint began to rumble and trip like boulders +far down out of sight, in subaqueous gloom; now rolling out again and widening, +fuller and deeper as it went, moving in great masses towards the edge of the +cataract that lies like a line across the landscape: it is inevitable now, the +crash must come;—a chord or two pausing,—pausing;—and then the crash, +stupendous and sonorous. +</p> + +<p> +Then on again through elaborate cities where the wits and courtiers dwell, and +stately palaces slide past upon the banks, and barges move upon its breast, on +to the sea—that final full close that embraces and engulfs all music, all +effort, all doubts and questionings, whether in art or theology, all life of +intellect, heart or will—that fathomless eternal deep from which all comes and +to which all returns, that men call the Love of God. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Anthony stirred in his seat; he had been here ten minutes, proposing to take +his restless thoughts in hand and quiet them; and, lo! it had been done for him +by the master who sat overhead. Here he, for the moment, remained, ready for +anything—glad to take up the wood and bear it to the Mount of Sacrifice—content +to be carried on in that river of God’s Will to the repose of God’s +Heart—content to dwell meantime in the echoing caverns of doubt—in the glancing +shadows and lights of an active life—in his own simple sunlit life in the +country—or even to plunge over the cataract down into the fierce tormented +pools in the dark—for after all the sea lay beyond; and he who commits himself +to the river is bound to reach it. +</p> + +<p> +He heard a step, and the usher stood by him. +</p> + +<p> +“His Grace is ready, Master Norris.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony rose and followed him. +</p> + +<p> +The Archbishop received him with the greatest kindness. As Anthony came in he +half rose, peering with his half-blind eyes, and smiling and holding out his +hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Master Norris,” he said, “you are always welcome. Sit down;” and he +placed him in a chair at the table close by his own. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, what is it?” he said kindly; for the old man’s heart was a little +anxious at this formal interview that had been requested by this favourite +young officer of his. +</p> + +<p> +Then Anthony, without any reserve, told him all; tracing out the long tale of +doubt by landmarks that he remembered; mentioning the effect produced on his +mind by the Queen’s suspension of the Archbishop, especially dwelling on the +arrest, the examination and the death of Campion, that had made such a profound +impression upon him; upon his own reading and trains of thought, and the +conversations with Mr. Buxton, though of course he did not mention his name; he +ended by saying that he had little doubt that sooner or later he would be +compelled to leave the communion of the Church of England for that of Rome; and +by placing his resignation in the Archbishop’s hands, with many expressions of +gratitude for the unceasing kindness and consideration that he had always +received at his hands. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence when he had finished. A sliding panel in the wall near the +chapel had been pushed back, and the mellow music of Dr. Tallis pealed softly +in, giving a sweet and melodious background, scarcely perceived consciously by +either of them, and yet probably mellowing and softening their modes of +expression during the whole of the interview. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Norris,” said the Archbishop at last, “I first thank you for the generous +confidence you have shown towards me: and I shall put myself under a further +obligation to you by accepting your resignation: and this I do for both our +sakes. For yours, because, as you confess, this action of the Queen’s—(I +neither condemn nor excuse it myself)—this action has influenced your thoughts: +therefore you had best be removed from it to a place where you can judge more +quietly. And I accept it for my own sake too; for several reasons that I need +not trouble you with. But in doing this, I desire you, Mr. Norris, to continue +to draw your salary until Midsummer:—nay, nay, you must let me have my say. You +are at liberty to withdraw as soon as you have wound up your arrangements with +Mr. Somerdine; he will now, as Yeoman of the Horse, have your duties as well as +his own; for I do not intend to have another Gentleman of the Horse. As regards +an increase of salary for him, that can wait until I see him myself. In any +case, Mr. Norris, I think you had better withdraw before Mid-Lent Sunday. +</p> + +<p> +“And now for your trouble. I know very well that I cannot be of much service to +you. I am no controversialist. But I must bear my witness. This Papist with +whom you have had talk seems a very plausible fellow. His arguments sound very +plain and good; and yet I think you could prove anything by them. They seem to +me like that openwork embroidery such as you see on Communion linen sometimes, +in which the pattern is formed by withdrawing certain threads. He has cleverly +omitted just those points that would ruin his argument; and he has made a +pretty design. But any skilful advocate could make any other design by the same +methods. He has not thought fit to deal with such words of our Saviour as what +He says on Tradition; with what the Scriptures say against the worshipping of +angels; with what St. Paul says in his Epistle to the Colossians, in the second +chapter, concerning all those carnal ordinances which were done away by Christ, +but which have been restored by the Pope in his despite; he does not deal with +those terrible words concerning the man of sin and the mystery of iniquity. In +fact, he takes just one word that Christ let fall about His Kingdom, and builds +this great edifice upon it. You might retort to him in a thousand ways such as +these. Bishop Jewell, in his book, as you know, deals with these questions and +many more; far more fully than it is possible for you and me even to dream of +doing. Nay, Mr. Norris; the only argument I can lay before you is this. There +are difficulties and troubles everywhere; that there are such in the Church of +England, who would care to deny? that there are equally such, aye, and far +more, in the Church of Rome, who would care to deny, either? Meanwhile, the +Providence of God has set you here and not there. Whatever your difficulties +are here, are not of your choosing; but if you fly there (and I pray God you +will not) there they will be. Be content, Master Norris; indeed you have a +goodly heritage; be content with it; lest losing that you lose all.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony was greatly touched by this moderate and courteous line that the +Archbishop was taking. He knew well in his heart that the Church of Rome was, +in the eyes of this old man, a false and deceitful body, for whom there was +really nothing to be said. Grindal, in his travels abroad during the Marian +troubles, had been deeply attracted by the Genevan theology, with whose +professors he had never wholly lost touch; and Anthony guessed what an effort +it was costing him, and what a strain it was on his conscience, thus to combine +courtesy with faithfulness to what he believed to be true. +</p> + +<p> +Grindal apparently feared he had sacrificed his convictions, for he presently +added: “You know, Mr. Norris, that I think very much worse of Papistry than I +have expressed; but I have refrained because I think that would not help you; +and I desire to do that more than to relieve myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony thanked him for his gentleness; saying that he quite understood his +motives in speaking as he had done, and was deeply obliged to him for it. +</p> + +<p> +The Archbishop, however, as indeed were most of the English Divines of the +time, was far more deeply versed in destructive than constructive theology; +and, to Anthony’s regret, was presently beginning in that direction. +</p> + +<p> +“It is beyond my imagination, Mr. Norris,” he said, “that any who have known +the simple Gospel should return to the darkness. See here,” he went on, +rising, and fumbling among his books, “I have somewhere here what they call an +Indulgence.” +</p> + +<p> +He searched for a few minutes, and presently shook out of the leaves of +Jewell’s book a paper which he peered at, and then pushed over to Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +It was a little rectangular paper, some four or five inches long; bearing a +figure of Christ, wounded, with His hands bound together before Him, and the +Cross with the superscription rising behind. In compartments on either side +were instruments of the Passion, the spear, and the reed with the sponge, with +other figures and emblems. Anthony spelt out the inscription. +</p> + +<p> +“Read it aloud, Mr. Norris,” said the Archbishop. +</p> + +<p> +“‘To them,’” read Anthony, “‘that before this image of pity devoutly say five +paternosters, five aves and a credo, piteously beholding these arms of Christ’s +Passion, are granted thirty-two thousand seven hundred and fifty-five years of +pardon.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mr. Norris,” said the Archbishop, “have you considered that it is to +that kind of religion that you are attracted? I will not comment on it; there +is no need.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your Grace,” said Anthony slowly, laying the paper down, “I need not say, I +think, that this kind of thing is deeply distasteful to me too. Your Grace +cannot dislike it more than I do. But then I do not understand it; I do not +know what indulgences mean; I only know that were they as mad and foolish as we +Protestants think them, no truthful or good man could remain a Papist for a +day; but then there are many thoughtful and good men Papists; and I conclude +from that that what we think the indulgences to be, cannot be what they really +are. There must be some other explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“And again, my lord, may I add this? If I were a Turk I should find many things +in the Christian religion quite as repellent to me; for example, how can it be +just, I should ask, that the death of an innocent man, such as Christ was, +should be my salvation? How, again, is it just that faith should save? Surely +one who has sinned greatly ought to do something towards his forgiveness, and +not merely trust to another. But you, my lord, would tell me that there are +explanations of these difficulties, and of many more too, of which I should +gradually understand more and more after I was a Christian. Or again, it +appears to me even now, Christian as I am, judging as a plain man, that +predestination contradicts free-will; and no explanation can make them both +reasonable. Yet, by the grace of God, I believe all these doctrines and many +more, not because I understand them, for I do not; but because I believe that +they are part of the Revelation of God. It is just so, too, with the Roman +Catholic Church. I must not take this or that doctrine by itself; but I must +make up my mind whether or no it is the one only Catholic Church, and then I +shall believe all that she teaches, because she teaches it, and not because I +understand it. You must forgive my dulness, my lord; but I am but a layman, and +can only say what I think in simple words.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we must judge of a Christian body by what that body teaches,” said the +Archbishop. “On what other grounds are you drawn to the Papists, except by what +they teach?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, your Grace,” said Anthony, “I do judge of the general body of doctrine, +and of the effect upon the soul as a whole; but that is not the same as taking +each small part, and making all hang upon that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Norris,” said the Archbishop, “I do not think we can talk much more +now. It is new to me that these difficulties are upon you. But I entreat you to +talk to me again as often as you will; and to others also—Dr. Redmayn, Mr. +Chambers and others will be happy if they can be of any service to you in these +matters: for few things indeed would grieve me more than that you should turn +Papist.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony thanked the Archbishop very cordially for his kindness, and, after +receiving his blessing, left his presence. He had two or three more talks with +him before he left, but his difficulties were in no way resolved. The +Archbishop had an essentially Puritan mind, and could not enter into Anthony’s +point of view at all. It may be roughly said that from Grindal’s standpoint all +turned on the position and responsibility of the individual towards the body to +which he belonged: and that Anthony rather looked at the corporate side first +and the individual second. Grindal considered, for example, the details of the +Catholic religion in reference to the individual, asking whether he could +accept this or that: Anthony’s tendency was rather to consider the general +question first, and to take the difficulties in his stride afterwards. Anthony +also had interviews with the Archdeacon and chaplain whom Grindal had +recommended; but these were of even less service to him, as Dr. Redmayn was so +frankly contemptuous, and Mr. Chambers so ignorant, of the Romish religion that +Anthony felt he could not trust their judgment at all. +</p> + +<p> +In the meanwhile, during this last fortnight of Anthony’s Lambeth life, he +received a letter from Mr. Buxton, explaining what were the Spiritual Exercises +to which he had referred, and entreating Anthony to come and stay with him at +Stanfield. +</p> + +<p> +“Now come, dear Mr. Norris,” he wrote, “as soon as you leave the Archbishop’s +service; I will place three or four rooms at your disposal, if you wish for +quiet; for I have more rooms than I know what to do with; and you shall make +the Exercises if you will with some good priest. They are a wonderful method of +meditation and prayer, designed by Ignatius Loyola (one day doubtless to be +declared saint), for the bringing about a resolution of all doubts and +scruples, and so clearing the eye of the soul that she discerns God’s Will, and +so strengthening her that she gladly embraces it. And that surely is what you +need just now in your perplexity.” +</p> + +<p> +The letter went on to describe briefly the method followed, and ended by +entreating him again to come and see him. Anthony answered this by telling him +of his resignation of his post at Lambeth, and accepting his invitation; and he +arranged to spend the last three weeks before Easter at Stanfield, and to go +down there immediately upon leaving Lambeth. He determined not to go to Great +Keynes first, or to see Isabel, lest his resolution should be weakened. +Already, he thought, his motives were sufficiently mixed and perverted without +his further aggravating their earthly constituents. +</p> + +<p> +He wrote to his sister, however, telling her of his decision to leave Lambeth; +and adding that he was going to stay with a friend until Easter, when he hoped +to return to the Dower House, and take up his abode there for the present. He +received what he thought a very strange letter in return, written apparently +under excitement strongly restrained. He read in it a very real affection for +himself, but a certain reserve in it too, and even something of compassion; and +there was a sentence in it that above all others astonished him. +</p> + +<p> +“J. M. has been here, and is now gone to Douai. Oh! dear brother, some time no +doubt you will tell us all. I feel so certain that there is much to explain.” +</p> + +<p> +Had she then guessed his part in the priest’s release? Anthony wondered; but at +any rate he knew, after his promise to the Queen, that he must not give her any +clue. He was also surprised to hear that James had been to Great Keynes. He had +inquired for him at the Tower on the Monday after his visit to Greenwich, and +had heard that Mr. Maxwell was already gone out of England. He had not then +troubled to write again, as he had no doubt but that his message to Lady +Maxwell, which he had sent in his note to Isabel, had reached her; and that +certainly she, and probably James too, now knew that he had been an entirely +unconscious and innocent instrument in the priest’s arrest. But that note, as +has been seen, never reached its destination. Lady Maxwell did not care to +write to the betrayer of her son; and Isabel on the one hand hoped and believed +now that there was some explanation, but on the other did not wish to ask for +it again, since her first request had been met by silence. +</p> + +<p> +As the last days of his life at Lambeth were coming to an end, Anthony began to +send off his belongings on pack-horses to Great Keynes; and by the time that +the Saturday before Mid-Lent Sunday arrived, on which he was to leave, all had +gone except his own couple of horses and the bags containing his personal +luggage. +</p> + +<p> +His last interview with the Archbishop affected him very greatly. +</p> + +<p> +He found the old man waiting for him, walking up and down Cranmer’s parlour in +an empty part of the room, where there was no danger of his falling. He peered +anxiously at Anthony as he entered. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Norris,” he said, “you are greatly on my mind. I fear I have not done my +duty to you. My God has taken away the great charge he called me to years ago, +to see if I were fit or not for the smaller charge of mine own household, and +not even that have I ruled well.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony was deeply moved. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” he said, “if I may speak plainly to you, I would say that to my +mind the strongest argument for the Church of England is that she brings forth +piety and goodness such as I have seen here. If it were not for that, I should +no longer be perplexed.” +</p> + +<p> +Grindal held up a deprecating hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not speak so, Mr. Norris. That grieves me. However, I beseech you to +forgive me for all my remissness towards you, and I wish to tell you that, +whatever happens, you shall never cease to have an old man’s prayers. You have +been a good and courteous servant to me always—more than that, you have been my +loving friend—I might almost say my son: and that, in a world that has cast me +off and forgotten me, I shall not easily forget. God bless you, my dear son, +and give you His light and grace.” +</p> + +<p> +When Anthony rode out of the gateway half an hour later, with his servant and +luggage behind him, it was only with the greatest difficulty that he could keep +from tears as he thought of the blind old man, living in loneliness and +undeserved disgrace, whom he was leaving behind him. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="II_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE SPIRITUAL EXERCISES +</p> + +<p> +Anthony found that Mr. Buxton had seriously underestimated himself in +describing his position as that of a plain country gentleman. Stanfield was one +of the most beautiful houses that he had ever seen. On the day after his +arrival, his host took him all over the house, at his earnest request, and told +him its story; and as they passed from room to room, again and again Anthony +found himself involuntarily exclaiming at the new and extraordinary beauties of +architecture and furniture that revealed themselves. +</p> + +<p> +The house itself had been all built in the present reign, before its owner had +got into trouble; and had been fitted throughout on the most lavish scale, with +furniture of German as well as of English manufacture. Mr. Buxton was a +collector of pictures and other objects of art; and his house contained some of +the very finest specimens of painting, bronzes, enamels, plate and woodwork +procurable from the Continent. +</p> + +<p> +The house was divided into two sections; the chief living rooms were in a long +suite looking to the south on to the gardens, with a corridor on the north side +running the whole length of the house on the ground-floor, from which a +staircase rose to a similar corridor or gallery on the first floor. The second +section of the house was a block of some half-dozen smallish rooms, with a +private staircase of their own, and a private entrance and little walled garden +as well in front. The house was mostly panelled throughout, and here and there +hung pieces of magnificent tapestry and cloth of arras. All was kept, too, with +a care that was unusual in those days—the finest woodwork was brought to a high +polish, as well as all the brass utensils and steel fire-plates and dogs and +such things. No two rooms were alike; each possessed some marked characteristic +of its own—one bedroom, for example, was distinguished by its fourpost bed with +its paintings on the canopy and head—another, by its little two-light high +window with Adam and Eve in stained glass; another with a little square-window +containing a crucifix, which was generally concealed by a sliding panel; +another by two secret cupboards over the fire-place, and its recess fitted as +an oratory; another by a magnificent piece of tapestry representing Saint Clara +and Saint Thomas of Aquin, each holding a monstrance, with a third great +monstrance in the centre, supported by angels. +</p> + +<p> +Downstairs the rooms were on the same scale of magnificence. The drawing-room +had an exquisite wooden ceiling with great pendants elaborately carved; the +dining-room was distinguished by its glass, containing a collection of +coats-of-arms of many of Mr. Buxton’s friends who had paid him visits; the hall +by its vast fire-place and the tapestries that hung round it. +</p> + +<p> +The exterior premises were scarcely less remarkable; a fine row of stables, and +kennels where greyhounds were kept, stood to the north and the east of the +house; but the wonder of the country was the gardens to the south. Anthony +hardly knew what to say for admiration as he went slowly through these with his +host, on the bright spring morning, after visiting the house. These were +elaborately laid out, and under Mr. Buxton’s personal direction, for he was one +of the few people in England at this time who really understood or cared for +the art. His avenue of small clipped limes running down the main walk of the +garden, his yew-hedges fashioned with battlements and towers; his great garden +house with its vane; his fantastic dial in the fashion of a tall striped pole +surmounted by a dragon;—these were the astonishment of visitors; and it was +freely said that had not Mr. Buxton been exceedingly adroit he would have paid +the penalty of his magnificence and originality by being forced to receive a +royal visit—a favour that would have gone far to impoverish, if not to ruin +him. The chancel of the parish-church overlooked the west end of his +lime-avenue, while the east end of the garden terminated in a great gateway, of +stone posts and wrought iron gates that looked out to the meadows and farm +buildings of the estate, and up to which some day no doubt a broad carriage +drive would be laid down. But at present the sweep of the meadows was unbroken. +</p> + +<p> +It was to this beautiful place that Anthony found himself welcomed. His host +took him at once on the evening of his arrival to the west block, and showed +him his bedroom—that with the little cupboards and the oratory recess; and +then, taking him downstairs again, showed him a charming little oak parlour, +which he told him would be altogether at his private service. +</p> + +<p> +“And you see,” added Mr. Buxton, “in this walled garden in front you can have +complete privacy, and thus can take the air without ever coming to the rest of +the house; to which there is this one entrance on the ground floor.” And then +he showed him how the lower end of the long corridor communicated with the +block. +</p> + +<p> +“The only partners of this west block,” he added, “will be the two priests—Mr. +Blake, my chaplain, and Mr. Robert, who is staying with me a week or two; and +who, I hope, will conduct you through the Exercises, as he is very familiar +with them. You will meet them both at supper: of course they will be both +dressed as laymen. The Protestants blamed poor Campion for that, you know; but +had he not gone in disguise, they would only have hanged him all the sooner. I +like not hypocrisy.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony was greatly impressed by Father Robert when he met him at supper. He +was a tall and big man, who seemed about forty years of age, with a long +square-jawed face, a pointed beard and moustache, and shrewd penetrating eyes. +He seemed to be a man in advance of his time; he was full of reforms and +schemes that seemed to Anthony remarkably to the point; and they were reforms +too quite apart from ecclesiasticism, but rather such as would be classed in +our days under the title of Christian Socialism. +</p> + +<p> +For example, he showed a great sympathy for the condition of the poor and +outcast and criminals; and had a number of very practical schemes for their +benefit. +</p> + +<p> +“Two things,” he said, in answer to a question of Anthony’s, “I would do +to-morrow if I had the power. First I would allow of long leases for fifty and +a hundred years. Everywhere the soil is becoming impoverished; each man +squeezes out of it as much as he can, and troubles not to feed the land or to +care for it beyond his time. Long leases, I hold, would remedy this. It would +encourage the farmer to look before him and think of his sons and his sons’ +sons. And second, I would establish banks for poor men. There is many a man now +a-begging who would be living still in his own house, if there had been some +honest man whom he could have trusted to keep his money for him, and, maybe, +give him something for the loan of it: for in these days, when there is so much +enterprise, money has become, as it were, a living thing that grows; or at the +least a tool that can be used; and therefore, when it is lent, it is right that +the borrower should pay a little for it. This is not the same as the usury that +Holy Church so rightly condemns: at least, I hold not, though some, I know, +differ from me.” +</p> + +<p> +After supper the talk turned on education: here, too, the priest had his views. +</p> + +<p> +“But you are weary of hearing me!” he said, in smiling apology. “You will +think me a schoolmaster.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I pray you to consider me your pupil,” said Mr. Buxton. The priest made a +little deprecating gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“First, then,” he said, “I would have a great increase of grammar schools. It +is grievous to think of England as she will be when this generation grows up: +the schooling was not much before; but now she has lost first the schools that +were kept by Religious, and now the teaching that the chantry-priests used to +give. But this perhaps may turn to advantage; for when the Catholic Religion is +re-established in these realms, she will find how sad her condition is; and, I +hope, will remedy it by a better state of things than before—first, by a great +number of grammar schools where the lads can be well taught for small fees, and +where many scholarships will be endowed; and then, so great will be the +increase of learning, as I hope, that we shall need to have a third university, +to which I should join a third Archbishoprick, for the greater dignity of both; +and all this I should set in the north somewhere, Durham or Newcastle, maybe.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke, too, with a good deal of shrewdness of the increase of highway +robbery, and the remedies for it; remarking that, although in other respects +the laws were too severe, in this matter their administration was too lax; +since robbers of gentle birth could generally rely on pardon. He spoke of the +Holy Brotherhood in Spain (with which country he seemed familiar), and its good +results in the putting down of violence. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony grew more and more impressed by this man’s practical sense and ability; +but less drawn to him in consequence as his spiritual guide. He fancied that +true spirituality could scarcely exist in this intensely practical nature. When +supper was over, and the priests had gone back to their rooms, and his host and +he were seated before a wide blazing hearth in Mr. Buxton’s own little room +downstairs, he hinted something of the sort. Mr. Buxton laughed outright. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear friend,” he said, “you do not know these Jesuits (for of course you +have guessed that he is one); their training and efficiency is beyond all +imagining. In a week from now you will be considering how ever Father Robert +can have the heart to eat his dinner or say ‘good-day’ with such a spiritual +vision and insight as he has. You need not fear. Like the angel in the +Revelation, he will call you up to heaven, hale you to the abyss and show you +things to come. And, though you may not believe it, it is the man’s intense and +simple piety that makes him so clear-sighted and practical; he lives so close +to God that God’s works and methods, so perplexing to you and me, are plain to +him.” +</p> + +<p> +They went on talking together for a while. Mr. Buxton said that Father Robert +had thought it best for Anthony not to enter Retreat until the Monday evening; +by which time he could have sufficiently familiarised himself with his new +surroundings, so as not to find them a distraction during his spiritual +treatment. Anthony agreed to this. Then they talked of all kinds of things. His +host told him of his neighbours; and explained how it was that he enjoyed such +liberty as he did. +</p> + +<p> +“You noticed the church, Mr. Norris, did you not, at your arrival, overlooking +the garden? It is a great advantage to me to have it so close. I can sit in my +own garden and hear the Genevan thunders from within. He preaches so loud that +I might, if I wished, hear sermons, and thus satisfy the law and his Reverence; +and at the same time not go inside an heretical meeting-house, and thus satisfy +my own conscience and His Holiness. But I fear that would not have saved me, +had I not the ear of his Reverence. I will tell you how it was. When the laws +began to be enforced hereabouts, his Reverence came to see me; and sat in that +very chair that you now occupy. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I hear,’ said he, cocking his eye at me, ‘that her Grace is becoming strict, +and more careful for the souls of her subjects.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I agreed with him, and said I had heard as much. +</p> + +<p> +“‘The fine is twenty pounds a month,’ says he, ‘for recusancy,’ and then he +looks at me again.” +</p> + +<p> +“At first I did not catch his meaning; for, as you have noticed, Mr. Norris, I +am but a dull man in dealing with these sharp and subtle Protestants: and then +all at once it flashed across me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes, your Reverence,’ I said, ‘and it will be the end of poor gentlemen like +me, unless some kind friend has pity on them. How happy I am in having you!’ I +said, ‘I have never yet shown my appreciation as I should: and I propose now to +give you, to be applied to what purposes you will, whether the sustenance of +the minister or anything else, the sum of ten pounds a month; so long as I am +not troubled by the Council. Of course, if I should be fined by the Council, I +shall have to drop my appreciation for six months or so.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Norris, you will hardly believe it, but the old doctor opened his +mouth and gulped and rolled his eyes, like a trout taking a fly; and I was +never troubled until fifteen months ago, when they got at me in spite of him. +But he has lost, you see, a matter of one hundred and fifty pounds while I have +been at Wisbeach; and I shall not begin to appreciate him again for another six +months; so I do not think I shall be troubled again.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony was amazed, and said so. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the other, “I was astonished too; and should never have dreamt of +appreciating him in such a manner unless he had proposed it. I had a little +difficulty with Mr. Blake, who told me that it was a <i> libellum</i>, and that +I should be ashamed to pay hush money. But I told him that he might call it +what he pleased, but that I would sooner pay ten pounds a month and be in +peace, than twenty pounds a month and be perpetually harassed: and Father +Robert agrees with me, and so the other is content now.” +</p> + +<p> +The next day, which was Sunday, passed quietly. Mass was no doubt said +somewhere in the house; though Anthony saw no signs of it. He himself attended +the reverend doctor’s ministrations in the morning; and found him to be what he +had been led to expect. +</p> + +<p> +In the afternoon he walked up and down the lime avenue with Father Robert, +while the evening prayer and sermon rumbled forth through the broken chancel +window; and they talked of the Retreat and the arrangements. +</p> + +<p> +“You no doubt think, Mr. Norris,” said the priest, “that I shall preach at you +in this Retreat, and endeavour to force you into the Catholic Church; but I +shall do nothing of the kind. The whole object of the Exercises is to clear +away the false motives that darken the soul; to place the Figure of our +Redeemer before the soul as her dear and adorable Lover and King; and then to +kindle and inspire the soul to choose her course through the grace of God, for +the only true final motive of all perfect action,—that is, the pure Love of +God. Of course I believe, with the consent of my whole being, that the Catholic +Church is in the right; but I shall not for a moment attempt to compel you to +accept her. The final choice, as indeed the Retreat too, must be your free +action, not mine.” +</p> + +<p> +They arranged too the details of the Retreat; and Anthony was shown the little +room beyond Father Robert’s bedroom, where the Exercises would be given; and +informed that another gentleman who lived in the neighbourhood would come in +every day for them too, but that he would have his meals separately, and that +Anthony himself would have his own room and the room beneath entirely at his +private disposal, as well as the little walled garden to walk in. +</p> + +<p> +The next day Mr. Buxton took Anthony a long ride, to invigorate him for the +Retreat that would begin after supper. Anthony learned to his astonishment and +delight that Mary Corbet was a great friend of Mr. Buxton’s. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, of course I know her,” he said. “I have known her since she was a tiny +girl, and threw her mass-book at the minister’s face the first time he read the +morning prayer. God only knows why she was so wroth with the man for differing +from herself on a point that has perplexed the wisest heads: but at any rate, +wroth she was, and bang went her book. I had to take her out, and she was +spitting like a kitten all down the aisle when the dog puts his head into the +basket. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What’s that man doing here?’ she screamed out; ‘where’s the altar and the +priest?’ And then at the door, as luck would have had it, she saw that Saint +Christopher was gone; and she began bewailing and bemoaning him until you’d +have thought he’d have been bound to come down from heaven, as he did once +across the dark river, and see what in the world the crying child wanted with +him.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +They came about half-way in their ride through the village of Penshurst; and on +reaching the Park turned off under the beeches towards the house. +</p> + +<p> +“We have not time to go in,” said Mr. Buxton, “but I hope you will see the +house sometime; it is a pattern of what a house should be; and has a pattern +master.” +</p> + +<p> +As they came up to the Edwardine Gate-house, a pleasant-faced, quietly-dressed +gentleman came riding out alone. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, here he is!” said Mr. Buxton, and greeted him with great warmth, and +made Anthony known to him. +</p> + +<p> +“I am delighted to know Mr. Norris,” said Sidney, with that keen friendly look +that was so characteristic of him. “I have heard of him from many quarters.” +</p> + +<p> +He entreated them to come in; but Mr. Buxton said they had not time; but would +if they might just glance into the great court. So Sidney took them through the +gate-house and pointed out one or two things of interest from the entrance, the +roof of the Great Hall built by Sir John de Pulteney, the rare tracery in its +windows and the fine living-rooms at one side. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank God for it every day,” said Sidney gravely. “I cannot imagine why He +should have given it me. I hope I am not fool enough to disparage His gifts, +and pretend they are nothing: indeed, I love it with all my heart. I would as +soon think of calling my wife ugly or a shrew.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is a good man and a gentleman,” said Mr. Buxton, as they rode away at +last in the direction of Leigh after leaving Sidney to branch off towards +Charket, “and I do not know why he is not a Catholic. And he is a critic and a +poet, men say, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you read anything of his?” asked Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the other, “to tell the truth, I have tried to read some sheets +of his that he wrote for his sister, Lady Pembroke. He calls it ‘Arcadia’; I do +not know whether it is finished or ever will be. But it seemed to me wondrous +dull. It was full of shepherds and swains and nymphs, who are perpetually +eating collations which Phœbus or sunburnt Autumn, and the like, provides of +his bounty; or any one but God Almighty; or else they are bathing and +surprising one another all day long. It is all very sweet and exquisite, I +know; and the Greece, where they all live and love one another, must be a very +delightful country, as unlike this world as it is possible to imagine; but it +wearies me. I like plain England and plain folk and plain religion and plain +fare; but then I am a plain man, as I tell you so often.” +</p> + +<p> +As the afternoon sun drew near setting, they came through Tonbridge. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, what can a man ask more,” said Mr. Buxton, as they rode through it, +“than a good town like this? It is not a great place, I know, with solemn +buildings and wide streets; neither is it a glade or a dell; but it is a good +clean English town; and I would not exchange it for Arcadia or Athens either.” +</p> + +<p> +Stanfield lay about two miles to the west; and on their way out, Mr. Buxton +talked on about the country and its joys and its usefulness. +</p> + +<p> +“Over there,” he said, pointing towards Eridge, “was the first cannon made in +England. I do not know if that is altogether to its credit, but it at least +shows that we are not quite idle and loutish in the country. Then all about +here is the iron; the very stirrups you ride in, Mr. Norris, most likely came +from the ground beneath your feet; but it is sad to see all the woods cut down +for the smelting of it. All these places for miles about here, and about Great +Keynes too, are all named after the things of forestry and hunting. Buckhurst, +Hartfield, Sevenoaks, Forest Row, and the like, all tell of the country, and +will do so long after we are dead and gone.” +</p> + +<p> +They reached Stanfield, rode past the green and the large piece of water there, +and up the long village street, and turned into the iron gates beyond the +church, just as the dusk fell. +</p> + +<p> +That evening after supper the Retreat began. The conduct of the Spiritual +Exercises had not reached the elaboration to which they have been perfected +since; nor, in Anthony’s case, a layman and a young man, did Father Robert +think fit to apply it even in all the details in which it would be used for a +priest or for one far advanced in the spiritual life; but it was severe enough. +</p> + +<p> +Every evening Father Robert indicated the subject of the following day’s +meditation; and then after private prayer Anthony retired to his room. He rose +about seven o’clock in the morning, and took a little food at eight; then +shortly before nine the first meditation was given elaborately. The first +examination of conscience was made at eleven; followed by dinner at half-past. +From half-past twelve to half-past one Anthony rested in his room; then until +three he was encouraged to walk in the garden; at three the meditation was to +be recalled point by point in the chapel, followed by spiritual reading; at +five o’clock supper was served; and at half-past six the meditation was +repeated with tremendous emphasis and fervent acts of devotion; at half-past +eight a slight collation was laid in his room; and at half-past nine the +meditation for the following day was given. Father Robert in his previous talks +with Anthony had given him instructions as to how to occupy his own time, to +keep his thoughts fixed and so forth. He had thought it wise too not to extend +the Retreat for longer than a fortnight; so that it was proposed to end it on +Palm Sunday. Two or three times in the week Anthony rode out by himself; and +Father Robert was always at his service, besides himself coming sometimes to +talk to him when he thought the strain or the monotony was getting too heavy. +</p> + +<p> +As for the Exercises themselves, the effect of them on Anthony was beyond all +description. First the circumstances under which they were given were of the +greatest assistance to their effectiveness. There was every aid that romance +and mystery could give. Then it was in a strange and beautiful house where +everything tended to caress the mind out of all self-consciousness. The little +panelled room in which the exercises were given looked out over the quiet +garden, and no sound penetrated there but the far-off muffled noises of the +peaceful village life, the rustle of the wind in the evergreens, and the +occasional coo or soft flapping flight of a pigeon from the cote in the garden. +The room itself was furnished with two or three faldstools and upright wooden +arm-chairs of tolerable comfort; a table was placed at the further end, on +which stood a realistic Spanish crucifix with two tapers always burning before +it; and a little jar of fragrant herbs. Then there was the continual sense of +slight personal danger that is such a spur to refined natures; here was a +Catholic house, of which every member was strictly subject to penalties, and +above all one of that mysterious Society of Jesus, the very vanguard of the +Catholic army, and of which every member was a picked and trained champion. +Then there was the amazing enthusiasm, experience, and skill of Father Robert, +as he called himself; who knew human nature as an anatomist knows the structure +of the human body; to whom the bewildering tangle of motives, good, bad and +indifferent, in the soul, was as plain as paths in a garden; who knew what +human nature needed, what it could dispense with, what was its power of +resistance; and who had at his disposal for the storming of the soul an armoury +of weapons and engines, every specimen of which he had tested and wielded over +and over again. Little as Anthony knew it, Father Robert, during the first two +days after his arrival, had occupied himself with sounding and probing the +lad’s soul, trying his intellect by questions that scarcely seemed to be so, +taking the temperature of his emotional nature by tales and adroit remarks, and +watching the effect of them; in short, with studying the soul who had come for +his treatment as a careful doctor examines the health of a new patient before +he issues his prescription. And then, lastly, there were the Exercises +themselves, a mighty weapon in any hands; and all but irresistible when +directed by the skill, and inspired by the enthusiasm and sincere piety of such +a man as Father Robert. +</p> + +<p> +The Exercises fell into three parts, each averaging in Anthony’s case about +five days. First came the Purgative Exercises: the object of these was to +cleanse and search out the very recesses of the soul; as fire separates gold +from alloy. +</p> + +<p> +As Anthony knelt in the little room before the Crucifix day by day, it seemed +to him as if the old conventional limitations and motives of action and control +were rolling back, revealing the realities of the spiritual world. The +Exercises began with an elaborate exposition of the End of man—which may be +roughly defined as the Glory of God attained through the saving and sanctifying +of the individual. Every creature of God, then, that the soul encounters must +be tested by this rule, How far does the use of it serve for the final end? For +it must be used so far, and no farther. Here then was a diagram of the +Exercises, given in miniature at the beginning. +</p> + +<p> +Then the great facts that practically all men acknowledge, and upon which so +few act, were brought into play. Hell, Judgment and Death in turn began to work +upon the lad’s soul—these monstrous elemental Truths that underlie all things. +As Father Robert’s deep vibrating voice spoke, it appeared to Anthony as if the +room, the walls, the house, the world, all shrank to filmy nothingness before +the appalling realities of these things. In that strange and profound “Exercise +of the senses” he heard the moaning and the blasphemies of the damned, of those +rebellious free wills that have enslaved themselves into eternal bondage by a +deliberate rejection of God—he put out his finger and tasted the bitterness of +their furious tears—the very reek of sin came to his nostrils, of that +corruption that is in existence through sin; nay, he saw the very flaming hells +red with man’s wrath against his Maker. +</p> + +<p> +Then he traced back, under the priest’s direction, the Judgment through which +every soul must pass; he saw the dead, great and small, stand before God; the +books, black with blotted shame, were borne forth by the recording angels and +spread before the tribunal. His ears tingled with that condemning silence of +the Judge beyond Whom there is no appeal, from whose sentence there is no +respite, and from whose prison there is no discharge; and rang with that +pealing death-sentence at which the angels hide their faces, but to which the +conscience of the criminal assents that it is just. His soul looked out at +those whirling hosts on either side, that black cloud going down to despair, +that radiant company hastening to rise to the Uncreated Light in whom there is +no darkness at all—and cried in piteous suspense to know on which side she +herself one day would be. +</p> + +<p> +Then he came yet one step further back still, and told himself the story of his +death. He saw the little room where he would lie, his bed in one corner; he saw +Isabel beside the bed; he saw himself, white, gasping, convulsed, upon it—the +shadows of the doctor and the priest were upon the wall—he heard his own quick +sobbing breath, he put out his finger and touched his own forehead wet with the +death-dew—he tasted and smelt the faint sickly atmosphere that hangs about a +death chamber; and he watched the grey shadow of Azrael’s wing creep across his +face. Then he saw the sheet and the stiff form beneath it; and knew that they +were his features that were hidden; and that they were his feet that stood up +stark below the covering. Then he visited his own grave, and saw the month-old +grass blowing upon it, and the little cross at the head; then he dug down +through the soil, swept away the earth from his coffin-plate; drew the screws +and lifted the lid.... +</p> + +<p> +Then he placed sin beneath the white light; dissected it, analysed it, weighed +it and calculated its worth, watched its development in the congenial +surroundings of an innocent soul, that is rich in grace and leisure and gifts, +and saw the astonishing reversal of God’s primal law illustrated in the process +of corruption—the fair, sweet, fragrant creature passing into foulness. He +looked carefully at the stages and modes of sin—venial sins, those tiny ulcers +that weaken, poison and spoil the soul, even if they do not slay +it—lukewarmness, that deathly slumber that engulfs the living thing into +gradual death—and, finally, mortal sin, that one and only wholly hideous thing. +He saw the indescribable sight of a naked soul in mortal sin; he saw how the +earth shrank from it, how nature grew silent at it, how the sun darkened at it, +how hell yelled at it, and the Love of God sickened at it. +</p> + +<p> +And so, as the purgative days went by, these tempests poured over his soul, +sifted through it, as the sea through a hanging weed, till all that was not +organically part of his life was swept away, and he was left a simple soul +alone with God. Then the second process began. +</p> + +<p> +To change the metaphor, the canvas was now prepared, scoured, bleached and +stretched. What is the image to be painted upon it? It is the image of Christ. +</p> + +<p> +Now Father Robert laid aside his knives and his hammer, and took up his soft +brushes, and began stroke by stroke, with colours beyond imagining, to lay upon +the eager canvas the likeness of an adorable Lover and King. Anthony watched +the portrait grow day by day with increasing wonder. Was this indeed the Jesus +of Nazareth of whom he had read in the Gospels? he rubbed his eyes and looked; +and yet there was no possibility of mistake,—line for line it was the same. +</p> + +<p> +But this portrait grew and breathed and moved, and passed through all the +stages of man’s life. First it was the Eternal Word in the bosom of the Father, +the Beloved Son who looked in compassion upon the warring world beneath; and +offered Himself to the Father who gave Him through the Energy of the Blessed +Spirit. +</p> + +<p> +Then it was a silent Maid that he saw waiting upon God, offering herself with +her lily beside her; and in answer on a sudden came the lightning of Gabriel’s +appearing, and, lo! the Eternal Word stole upon her down a ray of glory. And +then at last he saw the dear Child born; and as he looked he was invited to +enter the stable; and again he put out his hand and touched the coarse straw +that lay in the manger, and fingered the rough brown cord that hung from Mary’s +waist, and smelled the sweet breath of the cattle, and the burning oil of +Joseph’s lantern hung against the wall, and shivered as the night wind shrilled +under the ill-fitting door and awoke the tender Child. +</p> + +<p> +Then he watched Him grow to boyhood, increasing in wisdom and stature, Him who +was uncreated Wisdom, and in whose Hands are the worlds—followed Him, loving +Him more at every step, to and from the well at Nazareth with the pitcher on +His head: saw Him with blistered hands and aching back in the carpenter’s shop; +then at last went south with Him to Jordan; listened with Him, hungering, to +the jackals in the wilderness; rocked with Him on the high Temple spire; stared +with Him at the Empires of all time, and refused them as a gift. Then he went +with Him from miracle to miracle, laughed with joy at the leper’s new skin; +wept in sorrow and joy with the mother at Nain, and the two sisters at Bethany; +knelt with Mary and kissed His feet; went home with Matthew and Zaccheus, and +sat at meat with the merry sinners; and at last began to follow silent and +amazed with face set towards Jerusalem, up the long lonely road from Jericho. +</p> + +<p> +Then, with love that almost burned his heart, he crouched at the moonlit door +outside and watched the Supper begin. Judas pushed by him, muttering, and +vanished in the shadows of the street. He heard the hush fall as the Bread was +broken and the Red Wine uplifted; and he hid his face, for he dared not yet +look with John upon a glory whose veils were so thin. Then he followed the +silent company through the overhung streets to the Temple Courts, and down +across the white bridge to the garden door. Then, bolder, he drew near, left +the eight and the three and knelt close to the single Figure, who sobbed and +trembled and sweated blood. Then he heard the clash of weapons and saw the +glare of the torches, and longed to warn Him but could not; saw the bitter +shame of the kiss and the arrest and the flight; and followed to Caiaphas’ +house; heard the stinging slap; ran to Pilate’s house; saw that polished +gentleman yawn and sneer; saw the clinging thongs and the splashed floor when +the scourging was over; followed on to Calvary; saw the great Cross rise up at +last over the heads of the crowd, and heard the storm of hoots and laughter and +the dry sobs of the few women. Then over his head the sun grew dull, and the +earth rocked and split, as the crosses reeled with their swinging burdens. +Then, as the light came back, and the earth ended her long shudder, he saw in +the evening glow that his Lord was dead. Then he followed to the tomb; saw the +stone set and sealed and the watch appointed; and went home with Mary and John, +and waited. +</p> + +<p> +Then on Easter morning, wherever his Lord was, he was there too; with Mary in +that unrecorded visit; with the women, with the Apostles; on the road to +Emmaus; on the lake of Galilee; and his heart burned with Christ at his side, +on lake and road and mountain. +</p> + +<p> +Then at last he stood with the Twelve and saw that end that was so glorious a +beginning; saw that tender sky overhead generate its strange cloud that was the +door of heaven; heard far away the trumpets cry, and the harps begin to ripple +for the new song that the harpers had learned at last; and then followed with +his eyes the Lord whom he had now learned to know and love as never before, as +He passed smiling and blessing into the heaven from which one day He will +return.... +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +There, then, as Anthony looked on the canvas, was that living, moving face and +figure. What more could He have done that He did not do? What perfection could +be dreamed of that was not already a thousand times His? +</p> + +<p> +And when the likeness was finished, and Father Robert stepped aside from the +portrait that he had painted with such tender skill and love, it is little +wonder that this lad threw himself down before that eloquent vision and cried +with Thomas, My Lord and my God! +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Then, very gently, Father Robert led him through those last steps; up from the +Illuminative to the Unitive; from the Incarnate Life with its warm human +interests to that Ineffable Light that seems so chill and unreal to those who +only see it through the clouds of earth, into that keen icy stillness, where +only favoured and long-trained souls can breathe, up the piercing air of the +slopes that lead to the Throne, and there in the listening silence of heaven, +where the voice of adoration itself is silent through sheer intensity, where +all colours return to whiteness and all sounds to stillness, all forms to +essence and all creation to the Creator, there he let him fall in +self-forgetting love and wonder, breathe out his soul in one ardent +all-containing act, and make his choice. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="II_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +EASTER DAY +</p> + +<p> +Holy Week passed for Anthony like one of those strange dreams in which the +sleeper awakes to find tears on his face, and does not know whether they are +for joy or sorrow. At the end of the Retreat that closed on Palm Sunday +evening, Anthony had made his choice, and told Father Robert. +</p> + +<p> +It was not the Exercises themselves that were the direct agent, any more than +were the books he had read: the books had cleared away intellectual +difficulties, and the Retreat moral obstacles, and left his soul desiring the +highest, keen to see it, and free to embrace it. The thought that he would have +to tell Isabel appeared to him of course painful and difficult; but it was +swallowed up in the joy of his conversion. He made an arrangement with Father +Robert to be received at Cuckfield on Easter Eve; so that he might have an +opportunity of telling Isabel before he took the actual step. The priest told +him he would give him a letter to Mr. Barnes, so that he might be received +immediately upon his arrival. +</p> + +<p> +Holy Week, then, was occupied for Anthony in receiving instruction each morning +in the little oak parlour from Father Robert; and in attending the devotions in +the evening with the rest of the household. He also heard mass each day. +</p> + +<p> +It was impossible, of course, to carry out the special devotions of the season +with the splendour and elaboration that belonged to them; but Anthony was +greatly impressed by what he saw. The tender reverence with which the Catholics +loved to linger over the details of the Passion, and to set them like precious +jewels in magnificent liturgical settings, and then to perform these stately +heart-broken approaches to God with all the dignity and solemnity possible, +appealed to him in strong contrast to the cold and loveless services, as he now +thought them, of the Established Church that he had left. +</p> + +<p> +On the Good Friday evening he was long in the parlour with Father Robert. +</p> + +<p> +“I am deeply thankful, my son,” he said kindly, “that you have been able to +come to a decision. Of course I could have wished you to enter the Society; but +God has not given you a vocation to that apparently. However, you can do great +work for Him as a seminary priest; and I am exceedingly glad that you will be +going to Douai so soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must just put my affairs in order at home,” he said, “and see what +arrangements my sister will wish to make; and by Midsummer at the latest I +shall hope to be gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must be off early to-morrow,” said the priest. “I have to be far from here +by to-morrow night, in a house where I shall hope to stay until I, too, go +abroad again. Possibly we may meet at Douai in the autumn. Well, my son, pray +for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony knelt for his blessing, and the priest was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Mr. Buxton came in and sat down. He was full of delight at the result +of his scheme; and said so again and again. +</p> + +<p> +“Who could have predicted it?” he cried. “To think that you were visiting me +in prison fifteen months ago; and now this has come about in my house! Truly +the Gospel blessing on your action has not been long on the way! And that you +will be a priest, too! You must come and be my chaplain some day; if we are +both alive and escape the gallows so long. Old Mr. Blake is sore displeased +with me. I am a trial to him, I know. He will hardly speak to me in my own +house; I declare I tremble when I meet him in the gallery; for fear he will +rate me before my servants. I forget what his last grievance is; but I think it +is something to do with a saint that he wishes me to be devout to; and I do not +like her. Of course I do not doubt her sanctity; but Mr. Blake always confuses +veneration and liking. I yield to none in my veneration for Saint +What’s-her-name; but I do not like her; and that is an end of the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +After a little more talk, Mr. Buxton looked at Anthony curiously a moment or +two; and then said: +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder you have not guessed yet who Father Robert is; for I am sure you know +that that cannot be his real name.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked at him wonderingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he is in bed now; and will be off early to-morrow; and I have his leave +to tell you. He is Father Persons, of whom you may have heard.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony stared. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said his host, “the companion of Campion. All the world supposes him to +be in Rome; and I think that not half-a-dozen persons besides ourselves know +where he is; but at this moment, I assure you, Father Robert Persons, of the +Society of Jesus, is asleep (or awake, as the case may be) in the little +tapestry chamber overhead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” went on Mr. Buxton, “that you are one of us, I will tell you quite +plainly that Father Robert, as we will continue to call him, is in my opinion +one of the most devout priests that ever said mass; and also one of the most +shrewd men that ever drew breath; but I cannot follow him everywhere. You will +find, Mr. Anthony, that the Catholics in England are of two kinds: those who +seem to have as their motto the text I quoted to you in Lambeth prison; and who +count their duty to Cæsar as scarcely less important than their direct duty to +God. I am one of these: I sincerely desire above all things to serve her Grace, +and I would not, for all the world, join in any confederacy to dethrone her, +for I hold she is my lawful and true Prince. Then there is another party who +would not hesitate for a moment to take part against their Prince, though I do +not say to the slaying of her, if thereby the Catholic Religion could be +established again in these realms. It is an exceedingly difficult point; and I +understand well how honest and good men can hold that view: for they say, and +rightly, that the Kingdom of God is the first thing in the world, and while +they may not commit sin of course to further it, yet in things indifferent they +must sacrifice all for it; and, they add, it is indifferent as to who sits on +the throne of England; therefore one Prince may be pushed off it, so long as no +crime is committed in the doing of it, and another seated there; if thereby the +Religion may be so established again. You see the point, Mr. Anthony, no doubt; +and how fine and delicate it is. Well, Father Robert is, I think, of that +party; and so are many of the authorities abroad. Now I tell you all this, and +on this sacred day too, because I may have no other opportunity; and I do not +wish you to be startled or offended after you have become a Catholic. And I +entreat you to be warm and kindly to those who take other views than your own; +for I fear that many troubles lie in front of us of our own causing: for there +are divisions amongst us already: although not at all of course (for which I +thank God) on any of the saving truths of the Faith.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony’s excitement on hearing Father Robert’s real name was very great. As he +lay in bed that night the thought of it all would hardly let him sleep. He +turned to and fro, trying to realise that there, within a dozen yards of him, +lay the famous Jesuit for whose blood all Protestant England was clamouring. +The name of Persons was still sinister and terrible even to this convert; and +he could scarcely associate in his thoughts all its suggestiveness with that +kindly fervent lover of Jesus Christ who had led him with such skill and +tenderness along the way of the Gospel. Others in England were similarly +astonished in later years to learn that a famous Puritan book of devotions was +scarcely other than a reprint of Father Persons’ “Christian Directory.” +</p> + +<p> +The following day about noon, after an affectionate good-bye to his host and +Mr. Blake, Anthony rode out of the iron-wrought gates and down the village +street in the direction of Great Keynes. +</p> + +<p> +It was a perfect spring-day. Overhead there was a soft blue sky with +translucent clouds floating in it; underfoot and on all sides the mystery of +life was beginning to stir and manifest itself. The last touch of bitterness +had passed from the breeze, and all living growth was making haste out into the +air. The hedges were green with open buds, and bubbling with the laughter and +ecstasy of the birds; the high sloping overhung Sussex lanes were sweet with +violets and primroses; and here and there under the boughs Anthony saw the blue +carpet of bell-flowers spread. Rabbits whisked in and out of the roots, +superintending and provisioning the crowded nurseries underground; and as +Anthony came out, now and again on the higher and open spaces larks vanished up +their airy spirals of song into the illimitable blue; or hung, visible musical +specks against a fleecy cloud, pouring down their thin cataract of melody. And +as he rode, for every note of music and every glimpse of colour round him, his +own heart poured out pulse after pulse of that spiritual essence that lies +beneath all beauty, and from which all beauty is formed, to the Maker of all +this and the Saviour of himself. There were set wide before him now the gates +of a kingdom, compared to which this realm of material life round about was but +a cramped and wintry prison after all. +</p> + +<p> +How long he had lived in the cold and the dark! he thought; kept alive by the +refracted light that stole down the steps to where he sat in the shadow of +death; saved from freezing by the warmth of grace that managed to survive the +chill about him; and all the while the Catholic Church was glowing and +pulsating with grace, close to him and yet unseen; that great realm full of +heavenly sunlight, that was the life of all its members—that sunlight that had +poured down so steadily ever since the winter had rolled away on Calvary; and +that ever since then had been elaborating and developing into a thousand +intricate forms all that was capable of absorbing it. One by one the great arts +had been drawn into that Kingdom, transformed and immortalised by the vital and +miraculous sap of grace; philosophies, languages, sciences, all in turn were +taken up and sanctified; and now this Puritan soul, thirsty for knowledge and +grace, and so long starved and imprisoned, was entering at last into her +heritage. +</p> + +<p> +All this was of course but dimly felt in the direct perceptions of Anthony; but +Father Robert had said enough to open something of the vision, and he himself +had sufficient apprehension to make him feel that the old meagre life was +passing away, and a new life of unfathomed possibilities beginning. As he rode +the wilderness appeared to rejoice and blossom like the rose, as the spring of +nature and grace stirred about and within him; and only an hour or two’s ride +away lay the very hills and streams of the Promised Land. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +About half-past three he crossed the London road, and before four o’clock he +rode round to the door of the Dower House, dismounted, telling the groom to +keep his horse saddled. +</p> + +<p> +He went straight through the hall, calling Isabel as he went, and into the +garden, carrying his flat cap and whip and gloves: and as he came out beneath +the holly tree, there she stood before him on the top of the old stone garden +steps, that rose up between earthen flower-jars to the yew-walk on the north of +the house. He went across the grass smiling, and as he came saw her face grow +whiter and whiter. She was in a dark serge dress with a plain ruff, and a hood +behind it, and her hair was coiled in great masses on her head. She stood +trembling, and he came up and took her in his arms tenderly and kissed her, for +his news would be heavy presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Isabel,” he said, “you look astonished to see me. But I could not well +send a man, as I had only Geoffrey with me.” +</p> + +<p> +She tried to speak, but could not; and looked so overwhelmed and terrified that +Anthony grew frightened; he saw he must be very gentle. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down,” he said, drawing her to a seat beside the path at the head of the +steps: “and tell me the news.” +</p> + +<p> +By a great effort she regained her self-control. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know when you were coming,” she said tremulously. “I was +startled.” +</p> + +<p> +He talked of his journey for a few minutes; and of the kindness of the friend +with whom he had been staying, and the beauty of the house and grounds, and so +on; until she seemed herself again; and the piteous startled look had died out +of her eyes: and then he forced himself to approach his point; for the horse +was waiting saddled; and he must get to Cuckfield and back by supper if +possible. +</p> + +<p> +He took her hand and played with it gently as he spoke, turning over her rings. +</p> + +<p> +“Isabel,” he said, “I have news to tell you. It is not bad news—at least I +think not—it is the best thing that has ever come to me yet, by the grace of +God, and so you need not be anxious or frightened. But I am afraid you may +think it bad news. It—it is about religion, Isabel.” +</p> + +<p> +He glanced at her, and saw that terrified look again in her face: she was +staring at him, and her hand in his began to twitch and tremble. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” he said, “there is no need to look like that. I have not lost my +faith in God. Rather, I have gained it. Isabel, I am going to be a Catholic.” +</p> + +<p> +A curious sound broke from her lips; and a look so strange came into her face +that he threw his arm round her, thinking she was going to faint: and he spoke +sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Isabel, Isabel, what is there to fear? Look at me!” +</p> + +<p> +Then a cry broke from her white lips, and she struggled to stand up. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, no! you are mocking me. Oh! Anthony, what have I done, that you should +treat me like this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mocking!” he said, “before God I am not. My horse is waiting to take me to +the priest.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but—” she began again. “Oh! then what have you done to James Maxwell?” +</p> + +<p> +“James Maxwell! Why? What do you mean? You got my note!” +</p> + +<p> +“No—no. There was no answer, he said.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony stared. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I wrote—and then Lady Maxwell! Does she not know, and James himself?” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel shook her head and looked at him wildly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, that must wait; one thing at a time,” he said. “I <i> cannot </i> +wait now. I must go to Cuckfield. Ah! Isabel, say you understand.” +</p> + +<p> +Once or twice she began to speak, but failed; and sat panting and staring at +him. +</p> + +<p> +“My darling,” he said, “do not look like that: we are both Christians still: +we at least serve the same God. Surely you will not cast me off for this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Cast you off?” she said; and she laughed piteously and sharply; and then was +grave again. Then she suddenly cried, +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Anthony, swear to me you are not mocking me.” +</p> + +<p> +“My darling,” he said, “why should I mock you? I have made the Exercises, and +have been instructed; and I have here a letter to Mr. Barnes from the priest +who has taught me; so that I may be received to-night, and make my Easter +duties: and Geoffrey is still at the door holding Roland to take me to +Cuckfield to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“To Cuckfield!” she said. “You will not find Mr. Barnes there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not there! why not? Where shall I find him? How do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because he is here,” she went on in the same strange voice, “at the Hall.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Anthony, “that saves me a journey. Why is he here?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is here to say mass to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” +</p> + +<p> +“And—and——” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Isabel?” +</p> + +<p> +“And—to receive me into the Church to-night.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The brother and sister walked up and down that soft spring evening after +supper, on the yew-walk; with the whispers and caresses of the scented breeze +about them, the shy dewy eyes of the stars looking down at them between the +tall spires of the evergreens overhead; and in their hearts the joy of lovers +on a wedding-night. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony had soon told the tale of James Maxwell and Isabel had nearly knelt to +ask her brother’s pardon for having ever allowed even the shadow of a suspicion +to darken her heart. Lady Maxwell, too, who had come down with her sister to +see Isabel about some small arrangement, was told; and she too had been nearly +overwhelmed with the joy of knowing that the lad was innocent, and the grief of +having dreamed he could be otherwise, and at the wholly unexpected news of his +conversion; but she had gone at last back to the Hall to make all ready for the +double ceremony of that night, and the Paschal Feast on the next day. Mistress +Margaret was in Isabel’s room, moving about with a candle, and every time that +the two reached the turn at the top of the steps they saw her light glimmering. +</p> + +<p> +Then Anthony, as they walked under the stars, told Isabel of his great hope +that he, too, one day would be a priest, and serve God and his countrymen that +way. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Anthony,” she whispered, and clung to that dear arm that held her own; +terrified for the moment at the memory of what had been the price of priesthood +to James Maxwell. +</p> + +<p> +“And where shall you be trained for it?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“At Douai: and—Isabel—I think I must go this summer.” +</p> + +<p> +“This summer!” she said. “Why——” and she was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Anthony,” she went on, “I would like to tell you about Hubert.” +</p> + +<p> +And then the story of the past months came out; she turned away her face as she +talked; and at last she told him how Hubert had come for his answer, a week +before his time. +</p> + +<p> +“It was on Monday,” she said. “I heard him on the stairs, and stood up as he +came in; and he stopped at the door in silence, and I could not bear to look at +him. I could hear him breathing quickly; and then I could not bear to—think of +it all; and I dropped down into my chair again, and hid my face in my arm and +burst into crying. And still he said nothing, but I felt him come close up to +me and kneel down by me; and he put his hand over mine, and held them tight; +and then he whispered in a kind of quick way: +</p> + +<p> +“‘I will be what you please; Catholic or Protestant, or what you will’; and I +lifted my head and looked at him, because it was dreadful to hear +him—Hubert—say that: and he was whiter than I had ever seen him; and then—then +he began to wrinkle his mouth—you know the way he does when his horse is +pulling or kicking: and then he began to say all kinds of things: and oh! I was +so sorry; because he had behaved so well till then.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did he say?” asked Anthony quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I have tried to forget,” said Isabel. “I do not want to think of him as +he was when he was angry and disappointed. At last he flung out of the room and +down the stairs, and I have not seen him since. But Lady Maxwell sent for me +the same evening an hour later; and told me that she could not live there any +longer. She said that Hubert had ridden off to London; and would not be down +again till Whitsuntide; but that she must be gone before then. So I am afraid +that he said things he ought not; but of course she did not tell me one word. +And she asked me to go with her. And, and—Anthony, I did not know what to say; +because I did not know what you would do when you heard that I was a Catholic; +I was waiting to tell you when you came home—but now—but now——Oh, Anthony, my +darling!” +</p> + +<p> +At last the two came indoors. Mistress Margaret met them in the hall. She +looked for a moment at the two; at Anthony in his satin and lace and his +smiling face over his ruff and his steady brown eyes; and Isabel on his arm, +with her clear pale face and bosom and black high-piled hair, and her velvet +and lace, and a rope of pearls. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” said the old nun, smiling, “you look a pair of lovers.” +</p> + +<p> +Then presently the three went together up to the Hall. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +An hour or two passed away; the Paschal moon was rising high over the tall yew +hedge behind the Italian garden; and the Hall lay beneath it with silver roofs +and vane; and black shadows under the eaves and in the angles. The tall oriel +window of the Hall looking on to the terrace shone out with candlelight; and +the armorial coats of the Maxwells and the families they had married with +glimmered in the upper panes. From the cloister wing there shone out above the +curtains lines of light in Lady Maxwell’s suite of rooms, and the little oak +parlour beneath, as well as from one or two other rooms; but the rest of the +house, with the exception of the great hall and the servants’ quarters, was all +dark. It was as if the interior life had shifted westwards, leaving the +remainder desolate. The gardens to the south were silent, for the night breeze +had dropped; and the faint ripple of the fountain within the cloister-court was +the only sound that broke the stillness. And once or twice the sleepy chirp of +a bird nestling by his mate in the deep shrubberies showed that the life of the +spring was beating out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +And then at last the door in the west angle of the terrace, between the +cloister wing and the front of the house, opened, and a flood of mellow light +poured out on to the flat pavement. A group stood within the little oaken +red-tiled lobby; Lady Maxwell and her sister, slender and dignified in their +dark evening dresses and ruffs; Anthony holding his cap, and Isabel with a lace +shawl over her head, and at the back the white hair and ruddy face of old Mr. +Barnes in his cassock at the bottom of the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +As Mistress Margaret opened the door and looked out, Lady Maxwell took Isabel +in her arms and kissed her again and again. Then Anthony took the old lady’s +hand and kissed it, but she threw her other hand round him and kissed him too +on the forehead. Then without another word the brother and sister came out into +the moonlight, passed down the side of the cloister wing, and turning once to +salute the group who waited, framed and bathed in golden light, they turned the +corner to the Dower House. Then the door closed; the oriel window suddenly +darkened, and an hour after the lights in the wing went out, and Maxwell Hall +lay silver and grey again in the moonlight. +</p> + +<p> +The night passed on. Once Isabel awoke, and saw her windows blue and mystical +and her room full of a dim radiance from the bright night outside. It was +irresistible, and she sprang out of bed and went to the window across the cool +polished oak floor, and leaned with her elbows on the sill, looking out at the +square of lawn and the low ivied wall beneath, and the tall trees rising beyond +ashen-grey and olive-black in the brilliant glory that poured down from almost +directly overhead, for the Paschal moon was at its height above the house. +</p> + +<p> +And then suddenly the breathing silence was broken by a ripple of melody, and +another joined and another; and Isabel looked and wondered and listened, for +she had never heard before the music of the mysterious night-flight of the +larks all soaring and singing together when the rest of the world is asleep. +And she listened and wondered as the stream of song poured down from the +wonderful spaces of the sky, rising to far-off ecstasies as the wheeling world +sank yet further with its sleeping meadows and woods beneath the whirling +singers; and then the earth for a moment turned in its sleep as Isabel +listened, and the trees stirred as one deep breath came across the woods, and a +thrush murmured a note or two beside the drive, and a rabbit suddenly awoke in +the field and ran on to the lawn and sat up and looked at the white figure at +the window; and far away from the direction of Lindfield a stag brayed. +</p> + +<p> +“So longeth my soul,” whispered Isabel to herself. +</p> + +<p> +Then all grew still again; the trees hushed; the torrent of music, more +tumultuous as it neared the earth, suddenly ceased; and Isabel at the window +leaned further out and held her hands in the bath of light; and spoke softly +into the night: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Lord Jesus, how kind Thou art to me!” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Then at last the morning came, and Christ was risen beyond a doubt. +</p> + +<p> +Just before the sun came up, when all the sky was luminous to meet him, the two +again passed up and round the corner, and into the little door in the angle. +There was the same shaded candle or two, for the house was yet dark within; and +they passed up and on together through the sitting-room into the chapel where +each had made a First Confession the night before, and had together been +received into the Catholic Church. Now it was all fragrant with flowers and +herbs; a pair of tall lilies leaned their delicate heads towards the altar, as +if to listen for the soundless Coming in the Name of the Lord; underfoot all +about the altar lay sprigs of sweet herbs, rosemary, thyme, lavender, +bay-leaves; with white blossoms scattered over them—a soft carpet for the +Pierced Feet; not like those rustling palm-swords over which He rode to death +last week. The black oak chest that supported the altar-stone was glorious in +its vesture of cloth-of-gold; and against the white-hung wall at the back, +behind the silver candlesticks, leaned the gold plate of the house, to do +honour to the King. And presently there stood there the radiant rustling figure +of the Priest, his personality sheathed and obliterated beneath the splendid +symbolism of his vestments, stiff and chinking with jewels as he moved. +</p> + +<p> +The glorious Mass of Easter Day began. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Immolatus est Christus. Itaque epulemur</i>,” Saint Paul cried from the +south corner of the altar to the two converts. “Christ our Passover is +sacrificed for us; therefore let us keep the feast, but not with the old +leaven.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Quis revolvet nobis lapidem?</i>” wailed the women. “Who shall roll us away +the stone from the door of the sepulchre?” +</p> + +<p> +“And when they looked,” cried the triumphant Evangelist, “they saw that the +stone was rolled away; for it was very great”—“<i>erat quippe magnus +valde</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Here then they knelt at last, these two come home together, these who had +followed their several paths so resolutely in the dark, not knowing that the +other was near, yet each seeking a hidden Lord, and finding both Him and one +another now in the full and visible glory of His Face—<i>orto jam sole</i>—for +the Sun of Righteousness had dawned, and there was healing for all sorrows in +His Wings. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Et credo in unam sanctam Catholicam et Apostolicam Ecclesiam</i>”—their +hearts cried all together. “I believe at last in a Catholic Church; one, for it +is built on one and its faith is one; holy, for it is the Daughter of God and +the Mother of Saints; Apostolic, for it is guided by the Prince of Apostles and +very Vicar of Christ.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Et exspecto vitam venturi saeculi.</i>” “I look for the life of the world +to come; and I count all things but loss, houses and brethren and sisters and +father and mother and wife and children and lands, when I look to that +everlasting life, and Him Who is the Way to it. <i> Amen.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +So from step to step the liturgy moved on with its sonorous and exultant tramp, +and the crowding thoughts forgot themselves, and watched as the splendid +heralds went by; the triumphant trumpets of <i> Gloria in excelsis </i> had +long died away; the proclamation of the names and titles of the Prince had been +made. <i> Unum Dominum Jesum Christum</i>; <i> Filium Dei Unigenitum</i>; <i> +Ex Patre natum ante omnia saecula</i>; <i> Deum de Deo</i>; <i> Lumen de +Lumine</i>; <i> Deum Verum de Deo Vero</i>; <i> Genitum non factum</i>; <i> +Consubstantialem Patri. </i> +</p> + +<p> +Then His first achievement had been declared; “<i>Per quem omnia facta +sunt.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +Then his great and later triumphs; how He had ridden out alone from the Palace +and come down the steep of heaven in quest of His Love; how He had disguised +Himself for her sake; and by the crowning miracle of love, the mightiest work +that Almighty God has ever wrought, He was made man; and the herald hushed his +voice in awe as he declared it, and the people threw themselves prostrate in +honour of this high and lowly Prince; then was recounted the tale of those +victories that looked so bitterly like failures, and the people held their +breath and whispered it too; then in rising step after step His last conquests +were told; how the Black Knight was overthrown, his castle stormed and his +prison burst; and the story of the triumph of the return and of the Coronation +and the Enthronement at the Father’s Right Hand on high. +</p> + +<p> +The heralds passed on; and mysterious figures came next, bearing Melchisedech’s +gifts; shadowing the tremendous event that follows on behind. +</p> + +<p> +After a space or two came the first lines of the bodyguard, the heavenly +creatures dimly seen moving through clouds of glory, Angels, Dominations, +Powers, Heavens, Virtues, and blessed Seraphim, all crying out together to +heaven and earth to welcome Him Who comes after in the bright shadow of the +Name of the Lord; and the trumpets peal out for the last time, “Hosanna in the +highest.” +</p> + +<p> +Then a hush fell, and presently in the stillness came riding the great +Personages who stand in heaven about the Throne; first, the Queen Mother +herself, glorious within and without, moving in clothing of wrought gold, high +above all others; then, the great Princes of the Blood Royal, who are admitted +to drink of the King’s own Cup, and sit beside Him on their thrones, Peter and +Paul and the rest, with rugged faces and scarred hands; and with them great +mitred figures, Linus, Cletus and Clement, with their companions. +</p> + +<p> +And then another space and a tingling silence; the crowds bow down like corn +before the wind, the far-off trumpets are silent; and He comes—He comes! +</p> + +<p> +On He moves, treading under foot the laws He has made, yet borne up by them as +on the Sea of Galilee; He Who inhabits eternity at an instant is made present; +He Who transcends space is immanent in material kind; He Who never leaves the +Father’s side rests on His white linen carpet, held yet unconfined; in the +midst of the little gold things and embroidery and candle-flames and lilies, +while the fragrance of the herbs rises about Him. There rests the gracious +King, before this bending group; the rest of the pageant dies into silence and +nothingness outside the radiant circle of His Presence. There is His immediate +priest-herald, who has marked out this halting-place for the Prince, bowing +before Him, striving by gestures to interpret and fulfil the silence that words +must always leave empty; here behind are the adoring human hearts, each looking +with closed eyes into the Face of the Fairest of the children of men, each +crying silently words of adoration, welcome and utter love. +</p> + +<p> +The moments pass; the court ceremonies are performed. The Virgins that follow +the Lamb, Felicitas, Perpetua, Agatha and the rest step forward smiling, and +take their part; the Eternal Father is invoked again in the Son’s own words; +and at length the King, descending yet one further step of infinite humility, +flings back the last vesture of His outward Royalty and casts Himself in a +passion of haste and desire into the still and invisible depths of these two +quivering hearts, made in His own Image, that lift themselves in an agony of +love to meet Him.... +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Meanwhile the Easter morning is deepening outside; the sun is rising above the +yew hedge, and the dew flashes drop by drop into a diamond and vanishes; the +thrush that stirred and murmured last night is pouring out his song; and the +larks that rose into the moonlight are running to and fro in the long meadow +grass. The tall slender lilies that have not been chosen to grace the +sacramental Presence-Chamber, are at least in the King’s own garden, where He +walks morning and evening in the cool of the day; and waiting for those who +will have seen Him face to face.... +</p> + +<p> +And presently they come, the tall lad and his sister, silent and together, out +into the radiant sunlight; and the joy of the morning and the singing thrush +and the jewels of dew and the sweet swaying lilies are shamed and put to +silence by the joy upon their faces and in their hearts. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="ctr"> +<b><big> PART III</big></b> +</p> + +<p class="firstchapter"> +<a name="III_I">CHAPTER I</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE COMING OF SPAIN +</p> + +<p> +The conflict between the Old Faith and the lusty young Nation went steadily +forward after the Jesuit invasion; more and more priests poured into England; +more and more were banished, imprisoned and put to death. The advent of Father +Holt, the Jesuit, to Scotland in 1583 was a signal for a new outburst of +Catholic feeling, which manifested itself not only in greater devotion to +Religion, but, among the ill-instructed and impatient, in very questionable +proceedings. In fact, from this time onward the Catholic cause suffered greatly +from the division of its supporters into two groups; the religious and the +political, as they may be named. The former entirely repudiated any desire or +willingness to meddle with civil matters; its members desired to be both +Catholics and Englishmen; serving the Pope in matters of Faith and Elizabeth in +matters of civil life; but they suffered greatly from the indiscretions and +fanaticism of the political group. The members of that party frankly regarded +themselves as at war with an usurper and an heretic; and used warlike methods +to gain their ends; plots against the Queen’s life were set on foot; and their +promoters were willing enough to die in defence of the cause. But the civil +Government made the fatal mistake of not distinguishing between the two groups; +again and again loyal Englishmen were tortured and hanged as traitors, because +they shared their faith with conspirators. +</p> + +<p> +There was one question, however, that was indeed on the borderline, exceedingly +difficult to answer in words, especially for scrupulous consciences; and that +was whether they believed in the Pope’s deposing power; and this question was +adroitly and deliberately used by the Government in doubtful cases to ensure a +conviction. But whether or not it was possible to frame a satisfactory answer +in words, yet the accused were plain enough in their deeds; and when the Armada +at length was launched in ’88, there were no more loyal defenders of England +than the persecuted Catholics. Even before this, however, there had appeared +signs of reaction among the Protestants, especially against the torture and +death of Campion and his fellows; and Lord Burghley in ’83 attempted to quiet +the people’s resentment by his anonymous pamphlet, “Execution of Justice in +England,” to which Cardinal Allen presently replied. +</p> + +<p> +Ireland, which had been profoundly stirred by the military expedition from the +continent in ’80, at length was beaten and slashed into submission again; and +the torture and execution of Hurley by martial law, which Elizabeth directed on +account of his appointment to the See of Cashel, when the judges had pronounced +there to be no case against him; and a massacre on the banks of the Moy in ’86 +of Scots who had come across as reinforcements to the Irish;—these were +incidents in the black list of barbarities by which at last a sort of temporary +quiet was brought to Ireland. +</p> + +<p> +In Scottish affairs, the tangle, unravelled even still, of which Mary Stuart +was the centre, led at last to her death. Walsingham, with extraordinary skill, +managed to tempt her into a dangerous correspondence, all of which he tapped on +the way: he supplied to her in fact the very instrument—an ingeniously made +beer-barrel—through which the correspondence was made possible, and, after +reading all the letters, forwarded them to their several destinations. When all +was ripe he brought his hand down on a group of zealots, to whose designs Mary +was supposed to be privy; and after their execution, finally succeeded, in ’87, +in obtaining Elizabeth’s signature to her cousin’s death-warrant. The storm +already raging against Elizabeth on the Continent, but fanned to fury by this +execution, ultimately broke in the Spanish Armada in the following year. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, at home, the affairs of the Church of England were far from +prosperous. Puritanism was rampant; and a wail of dismay was evoked by the new +demands of a Commission under Whitgift’s guidance, in ’82, whereby the Puritan +divines were now called upon to assent to the Queen’s Supremacy, the +Thirty-nine Articles and the Prayer Book. In spite of the opposition, however, +of Burghley and the Commons, Whitgift, who had by this time succeeded to +Canterbury upon Grindal’s death, remained firm; and a long and dreary dispute +began, embittered further by the execution of Mr. Copping and Mr. Thacker in +’83 for issuing seditious books in the Puritan cause. A characteristic action +in this campaign was the issuing of a Puritan manifesto in ’84, consisting of a +brief, well-written pamphlet of a hundred and fifty pages under the title “A +Learned Discourse of Ecclesiastical Government,” making the inconsistent claim +of desiring a return to the Primitive and Scriptural model, and at the same +time of advocating an original scheme, “one not yet handled.” It was +practically a demand for the Presbyterian system of pastorate and government. +To this Dr. Bridges replies with a tremendous tome of over fourteen hundred +pages, discharged after three years of laborious toil; and dealing, as the +custom then was, line by line, with the Puritan attack. To this in the +following year an anonymous Puritan, under the name of Martin Marprelate, +retorts with a brilliant and sparkling riposte addressed to “The right puissant +and terrible priests, my clergy-masters of the Convocation-house,” in which he +mocks bitterly at the prelates, accusing them of Sabbath-breaking, +time-serving, and popery,—calling one “dumb and duncetical,” another “the +veriest coxcomb that ever wore velvet cap,” and summing them up generally as +“wainscot-faced bishops,” “proud, popish, presumptuous, profane paltry, +pestilent, and pernicious prelates.” +</p> + +<p> +The Archbishop had indeed a difficult team to drive; especially as his +coadjutors were not wholly proof against Martin’s jibes. In ’84 his brother of +York had been mixed up in a shocking scandal; in ’85 the Bishop of Lichfield +was accused of simony; Bishop Aylmer was continually under suspicion of +avarice, dishonesty, vanity and swearing; and the Bench as a whole was +universally reprobated as covetous, stingy and weak. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +In civil matters, England’s relation with Spain was her most important concern. +Bitter feeling had been growing steadily between the two countries ever since +Drake’s piracies in the Spanish dominions in America; and a gradually +increasing fleet at Cadiz was the outward sign of it. Now the bitterness was +deepened by the arrest of English ships in the Spanish ports in the early +summer of ’85, and the swift reprisals of Drake in the autumn; who intimidated +and robbed important towns on the coast, such as Vigo, where his men behaved +with revolting irreverence in the churches, and Santiago; and then proceeded to +visit and spoil S. Domingo and Carthagena in the Indies. +</p> + +<p> +Again in ’87 Drake obtained the leave of the Queen to harass Spain once more, +and after robbing and burning all the vessels in Cadiz harbour, he stormed the +forts at Faro, destroyed Armada stores at Corunna, and captured the great +treasure-ship <i> San Felipe</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth was no doubt encouraged in her apparent recklessness by the belief +that with the Netherlands, which she had been compelled at last to assist, in a +state of revolt, Spain would have little energy for reprisals upon England; but +she grew more and more uneasy when news continued to arrive in England of the +growing preparations for the Armada; France, too, was now so much involved with +internal struggles, as the Protestant Henry of Navarre was now the heir to her +Catholic throne, that efficacious intervention could no longer be looked for +from that quarter, and it seemed at last as if the gigantic Southern power was +about to inflict punishment upon the little northern kingdom which had insulted +her with impunity so long. +</p> + +<p> +In the October of ’87 certain news arrived in England of the gigantic +preparations being made in Spain and elsewhere: and hearts began to beat, and +tongues to clack, and couriers to gallop. Then as the months went by, and +tidings sifted in, there was something very like consternation in the country. +Men told one another of the huge armament that was on its way, the vast ships +and guns—all bearing down on tiny England, like a bull on a terrier. They spoke +of the religious fervour, like that of a crusade, that inspired the invasion, +and was bringing the flower of the Spanish nobility against them: the +superstitious contrasted their own <i> Lion</i>, <i> Revenge</i>, and <i> +Elizabeth Jonas </i> with the Spanish <i> San Felipe</i>, <i> San Matteo</i>, +and <i> Our Lady of the Rosary</i>: the more practical thought with even deeper +gloom of the dismal parsimony of the Queen, who dribbled out stores and powder +so reluctantly, and dismissed her seamen at the least hint of delay. +</p> + +<p> +Yet, little by little, as midsummer came and went, beacons were gathering on +every hill, ships were approaching efficiency, and troops assembling at Tilbury +under the supremely incompetent command of Lord Leicester. +</p> + +<p> +Among the smaller seaports on the south coast, Rye was one of the most active +and enthusiastic; the broad shallow bay was alive with fishing-boats, and the +steep cobbled streets of the town were filled all day with a chattering +exultant crowd, cheering every group of seamen that passed, and that spent long +hours at the quay watching the busy life of the ships, and predicting the great +things that should fall when the Spaniards encountered the townsfolk, should +the Armada survive Drake’s onslaught further west. +</p> + +<p> +About July the twentieth more definite news began to arrive. At least once a +day a courier dashed in through the south-west gate, with news that all must +hold themselves ready to meet the enemy by the end of the month; labour grew +more incessant and excitement more feverish. +</p> + +<p> +About six o’clock on the evening of the twenty-ninth, as a long row of powder +barrels was in process of shipping down on the quay, the men who were rolling +them suddenly stopped and listened; the line of onlookers paused in their +comments, and turned round. From the town above came an outburst of cries, +followed by the crash of the alarm from the church-tower. In two minutes the +quay was empty. Out of every passage that gave on to the main street poured +excited men and women, some hysterically laughing, some swearing, some silent +and white as they ran. For across the bay westwards, on a point beyond +Winchelsea, in the still evening air rose up a stream of smoke shaped like a +pine-tree, with a red smouldering root; and immediately afterwards in answer +the Ypres tower behind the town was pouring out a thick drifting cloud that +told to the watchers on Folkestone cliffs that the dreaded and longed-for foe +was in sight of England. +</p> + +<p> +Then the solemn hours of waiting began to pass. Every day and night there were +watchers, straining their eyes westwards in case the Armada should attempt to +coast along England to force a landing anywhere, and southwards in case they +should pass nearer the French coast on their way to join the Prince of Parma; +but there was little to be seen over that wide ring of blue sea except single +vessels, or now and again half-a-dozen in company, appearing and fading again +on some unknown quest. The couriers that came in daily could not tell them +much; only that there had been indecisive engagements; that the Spaniards had +not yet attempted a landing anywhere; and that it was supposed that they would +not do so until a union with the force in Flanders had been effected. +</p> + +<p> +And so four days of the following week passed; then on Thursday, August the +fourth, within an hour or two after sunrise, the solemn booming of guns began +far away to the south-west; but the hours passed; and before nightfall all was +silent again. +</p> + +<p> +The suspense was terrible; all night long there were groups parading the +streets, anxiously conjecturing, now despondently, now cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +Then once again on the Friday morning a sudden clamour broke out in the town, +and almost simultaneously a pinnace slipped out, spreading her wings and making +for the open sea. A squadron of English ships had been sighted flying +eastwards; and the pinnace was gone to get news. The ships were watched +anxiously by thousands of eyes, and boats put out all along the coast to +inquire; and within two or three hours the pinnace was back again in Rye +harbour, with news that set bells ringing and men shouting. On Wednesday, the +skipper reported, there had been an indecisive engagement during the dead calm +that had prevailed in the Channel; a couple of Spanish store-vessels had been +taken on the following morning, and a general action had followed, which again +had been indecisive; but in which the English had hardly suffered at all, while +it was supposed that great havoc had been wrought upon the enemy. +</p> + +<p> +But the best of the news was that the Rye contingent was to set sail at once, +and unite with the English fleet westward of Calais by mid-day on Saturday. The +squadron that had passed was under the command of the Admiral himself, who was +going to Dover for provisions and ammunition, and would return to his fleet +before evening. +</p> + +<p> +Before many hours were passed, Rye harbour was almost empty, and hundreds of +eyes were watching the ships that carried their husbands and sons and lovers +out into the pale summer haze that hung over the coast of France; while a few +sharp-eyed old mariners on points of vantage muttered to one another that in +the haze there was a patch of white specks to be seen which betokened the +presence of some vast fleet. +</p> + +<p> +That night the sun set yellow and stormy, and by morning the cobble-stones of +Rye were wet and dripping with storm-showers, and a swell was beginning to lap +and sob against the harbour walls. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_II">CHAPTER II</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +MEN OF WAR AND PEACE +</p> + +<p> +The following days passed in terrible suspense for all left behind at Rye. +Every morning all the points of vantage were crowded; the Ypres tower itself +was never deserted day or night; and all the sharpest eyes in the town were +bent continually out over that leaden rolling sea that faded into haze and +storm-cloud in the direction of the French coast. But there was nothing to be +seen on that waste of waters but the single boats that flew up channel or +laboured down it against the squally west wind, far out at sea. Once or twice +fishing-boats put in at Rye; but their reports were so contradictory and +uncertain that they increased rather than allayed the suspense and misery. Now +it was a French boat that reported the destruction of the <i> Triumph</i>; now +an Englishman that swore to having seen Drake kill Medina-Sidonia with his own +hand on his poop; but whatever the news might be, the unrest and excitement ran +higher and higher. St. Clare’s chapel in the old parish church of St. Nicholas +was crowded every morning at five o’clock by an excited congregation of women, +who came to beg God’s protection on their dear ones struggling out there +somewhere towards the dawn with those cruel Southern monsters. Especially great +was the crowd on the Tuesday morning following the departure of the ships; for +all day on Monday from time to time came a far-off rolling noise from the +direction of Calais; which many declared to be thunder, with an angry emphasis +that betrayed their real opinion. +</p> + +<p> +When they came out of church that morning, and were streaming down to the quay +as usual to see if any news had come in during the night, a seaman called to +them from a window that a French vessel was just entering the harbour. +</p> + +<p> +When the women arrived at the water’s edge they found a good crowd already +assembled on the quay, watching the ship beat in against the north-west wind, +which had now set in; but she aroused no particular comment as she was a +well-known boat plying between Boulogne and Rye; and by seven o’clock she was +made fast to the quay. +</p> + +<p> +There were the usual formalities, stricter than usual during war, to be gone +through before the few passengers were allowed to land: but all was in order; +the officers left the boat, and the passengers came up the plank, the crowd +pressing forward as they came, and questioning them eagerly. No, there was no +certain news, said an Englishman at last, who looked like a lawyer; it was said +at Boulogne the night before that there had been an engagement further up +beyond the Straits; they had all heard guns; and it was reported by the last +cruiser who came in before the boat left that a Spanish galleasse had run +aground and had been claimed by M. Gourdain, the governor of Calais; but +probably, added the shrewd-eyed man, that was just a piece of their dirty +French pride. The crowd smiled ruefully; and a French officer of the boat who +was standing by the gangway scowled savagely, as the lawyer passed on with a +demure face. +</p> + +<p> +Then there was a pause in the little stream of passengers; and then, out of the +tiny door that led below decks, walking swiftly, and carrying a long cloak over +her arm, came Isabel Norris, in a grey travelling dress, followed by Anthony +and a couple of servants. The crowd fell back for the lady, who passed straight +up through them; but one or two of the men called out for news to Anthony. He +shook his head cheerfully at them. +</p> + +<p> +“I know no more than that gentleman,” he said, nodding towards the lawyer; and +then followed Isabel; and together they made their way up to the inn. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Anthony was a good deal changed in the last six years; his beard and moustache +were well grown; and he had a new look of gravity in his brown eyes; when he +had smiled and shaken his head at the eager crowd just now, showing his white +regular teeth, he looked as young as ever; but the serious look fell on his +face again, as he followed Isabel up the steep little cobbled slope in his buff +dress and plumed hat. +</p> + +<p> +There was not so much apparent change in Isabel; she was a shade graver too, +her walk a little slower and more dignified, and her lips, a little thinner, +had a line of strength in them that was new; and even now as she was treading +English ground again for the first time for six years, the look of slight +abstraction in her eyes that is often the sign of a strong inner life, was just +a touch deeper than it used to be. +</p> + +<p> +They went up together with scarcely a word; and asked for a private room and +dinner in two hours’ time; and a carriage and horses for the servants to be +ready at noon. The landlord, who had met them at the door, shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“The private room, sir, and the dinner—yes, sir—but the horses——” and he spread +his hands out deprecatingly. “There is not one in the stall,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony considered a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what do you propose? We are willing to stay a day or two, if you think +that by then——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said the landlord, “to-morrow is another matter. I expect two of my +carriages home to-night, sir, from London; but the horses will not be able to +travel till noon to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“That will do,” said Anthony; and he followed Isabel upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +It was very strange to them both to be back in England after so long. They had +settled down at Douai with the Maxwells; but, almost immediately on their +arrival, Mistress Margaret was sent for by her Superior to the house of her +Order at Brussels; and Lady Maxwell was left alone with Isabel in a house in +the town; for Anthony was in the seminary. +</p> + +<p> +Then, in ’86 Lady Maxwell had died, quite suddenly. Isabel herself had found +her at her prie-dieu in the morning, still in her evening dress; she was +leaning partly against the wall; her wrinkled old hands were clasped tightly +together on a little ivory crucifix, on the top of the desk; and her snow-white +head, with the lace drooping from it like a bridal veil, was bowed below them. +Isabel, who had not dared to move her, had sent instantly for a little French +doctor, who had thrown up his hands in a kind of devout ecstasy at that +wonderful old figure, rigid in an eternal prayer. The two tall tapers she had +lighted eight hours before were still just alight beside her, and looked +strange in the morning sunshine. +</p> + +<p> +“Pendant ses oraisons! pendant ses oraisons!” he murmured over and over again; +and then had fallen on his knees and kissed the drooping lace of her sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +“Priez pour moi, madame,” he whispered to the motionless figure. +</p> + +<p> +And so the old Catholic who had suffered so much had gone to her rest. The fact +that her son James had been living in the College during her four years’ stay +at Douai had been perhaps the greatest possible consolation to her for being +obliged to be out of England; for she saw him almost daily; and it was he who +sang her Requiem. Isabel had then gone to live with other friends in Douai, +until Anthony had been ordained priest in the June of ’88, and was ready to +take her to England; and now the two were bound for Stanfield, where Anthony +was to act as chaplain for the present, as Mr. Buxton had predicted so long +before. Old Mr. Blake had died in the spring of the year, still disapproving of +his patron’s liberal notions, and Mr. Buxton had immediately sent a special +messenger all the way to Douai to secure Anthony’s services; and had insisted +moreover that Isabel should accompany her brother. They intended however to +call at the Dower House on the way, which had been left under the charge of old +Mrs. Carroll; and renew the memories of their own dear home. +</p> + +<p> +They talked little at dinner; and only of general matters, their journey, the +Armada, their joy at getting home again; for they had been expressly warned by +their friends abroad against any indiscreet talk even when they thought +themselves alone, and especially in the seaports, where so constant a watch was +kept for seminary priests. The presence of Isabel, however, was the greatest +protection to Anthony; as it was almost unknown that a priest should travel +with any but male companions. +</p> + +<p> +Then suddenly, as they were ending dinner, a great clamour broke out in the +town below them; a gun was fired somewhere; and footsteps began to rush along +the narrow street outside. Anthony ran to the window and called to know what +was the matter; but no one paid any attention to him; and he presently sat down +again in despair, and with one or two wistful looks. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go immediately,” he said to Isabel, “and bring you word.” +</p> + +<p> +A moment after a servant burst into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a Spanish ship, sir,” he said, “a prize—rounding Dungeness.” +</p> + +<p> +In the afternoon, when the first fierce excitement was over, Anthony went down +to the quay. He did not particularly wish to attract attention, and so he kept +himself in the background somewhat; but he had a good view of her as she lay +moored just off the quay, especially when one of the town guard who had charge +of the ropes that kept the crowd back, seeing a gentleman in the crowd, +beckoned him through. +</p> + +<p> +“Your honour will wish to see the prize?” he said, in hopes of a trifle for +himself; “make way there for the gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony thought it better under these circumstances to accept the invitation, +so he gave the man something, and slipped through. On the quay was a pile of +plunder from the ship: a dozen chests carved and steel-clamped stood together; +half-a-dozen barrels of powder; the ship’s bell rested amid a heap of rich +clothes and hangings; a silver crucifix and a couple of lamps with their chains +lay tumbled on one side; and a parson was examining a finely carved mahogany +table that stood near. +</p> + +<p> +He looked up at Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“For the church, sir,” he said cheerfully. “I shall make application to her +Grace.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony smiled at him. +</p> + +<p> +“A holy revenge, sir,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The ship herself had once been a merchantman brig; so much Anthony could tell, +though he knew little of seamanship; but she had been armed heavily with deep +bulwarks of timber, pierced for a dozen guns on each broadside. Now, however, +she was in a terrible condition. The solid bulwarks were rent and shattered, as +indeed was her whole hull; near the waterline were nailed sheets of lead, +plainly in order to keep the water from entering the shot-holes; she had only +one mast; and that was splintered in more than one place; a spar had been +rigged up on to the stump of the bowsprit. The high poop such as distinguished +the Spanish vessels was in the same deplorable condition; as well as the +figure-head, which represented a beardless man with a halo behind his head, and +which bore the marks of fierce hacks as well as of shot. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony read the name,—the <i> San Juan da Cabellas</i>. +</p> + +<p> +From the high quay too he could see down on to the middle decks, and there was +the most shocking sight of all, for the boards and the mast-stumps and the +bulwarks and the ship’s furniture were all alike splashed with blood, some of +the deeper pools not even yet dry. It was evident that the <i> San Juan </i> +had not yielded easily. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Anthony saw an officer approaching, and not wishing to be led into +conversation slipped away again through the crowd to take Isabel the news. +</p> + +<p> +The two remained quietly upstairs the rest of the afternoon, listening to the +singing and the shouting in the streets, and watching from their window the +groups that swung and danced to and fro in joy at Rye’s contribution to the +defeat of the invaders. When the dusk fell the noise was louder than ever as +the men began to drink more deep, and torches were continually tossing up and +down the steep cobbled streets; the din reached its climax about half-past +nine, when the main body of the revellers passed up towards the inn, and, as +Anthony saw from the window, finally entered through the archway below; and +then all grew tolerably quiet. Presently Isabel said that she would go to bed, +but just before she left the room, the servant again came in. +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, sir, Lieutenant Raxham, of the <i> Seahorse</i>, is telling the +tale of the capture of the Spanish ship; and the landlord bid me come and tell +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony glanced at Isabel, who nodded at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; go,” she said, “and come up and tell me the news afterwards, if it is +not very late.” +</p> + +<p> +When Anthony came downstairs he found to his annoyance that the place of honour +had been reserved for him in a tall chair next to the landlord’s at the head of +the table. The landlord rose to meet his guest. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit here, sir,” he said. “I am glad you have come. And now, Mr. Raxham——” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked about him with some dismay at this extreme publicity. The room +was full from end to end. They were chiefly soldiers who sat at the +table—heavy-looking rustics from Hawkhurst, Cranbrook and Appledore, in +brigantines and steel caps, who had been sent in by the magistrates to the +nearest seaport to assist in the defence of the coast—a few of them wore +corselets with almain rivets and carried swords, while the pike-heads of the +others rose up here and there above the crowd. The rest of the room was filled +with the townsmen of Rye—those who had been retained for the defence of the +coast, as well as others who for any physical reason could not serve by sea or +land. There was an air of extraordinary excitement in the room. The faces of +the most stolid were transfigured, for they were gathered to hear of the +struggle their own dear England was making; the sickening pause of those months +of waiting had ended at last; the huge southern monster had risen up over the +edge of the sea, and the panting little country had flown at his throat and +grappled him; and now they were hearing the tale of how deep her fangs had +sunk. +</p> + +<p> +The crowd laughed and applauded and drew its breath sharply, as one man; and +the silence now and then was startling as the young officer told his story; +although he had few gifts of rhetoric, except a certain vivid vocabulary. He +himself was a lad of eighteen or so, with a pleasant reckless face, now flushed +with drink and excitement, and sparkling eyes; he was seated in a chair upon +the further end of the table, so that all could hear his story; and he had a +cup of huff-cup in his left hand as he talked, leaving his right hand free to +emphasise his points and slap his leg in a clumsy sort of oratory. His tale was +full of little similes, at which his audience nodded their heads now and then, +approvingly. He had apparently already begun his story, for when Anthony had +taken his seat and silence had been obtained, he went straight on without any +further introduction. +</p> + +<p> +The landlord leaned over to Anthony. “The <i> San Juan</i>,” he whispered +behind his hot hairy hand, and nodded at him with meaning eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“And every time they fired over us,” went on the lieutenant, “and we fired +into them; and the only damage they did us was their muskets in the tops. They +killed Tom Dane like that”—there was a swift hiss of breath from the room; but +the officer went straight on—“shot him through the back as he bent over his +gun; and wounded old Harry and a score more; but all the while, lads, we were +a-pounding at them with the broadsides as we came round, and raking them with +the demi-cannon in the poop, until—well; go you and see the craft as she lies +at the quay if you would know what we did. I tell you, as we came at her once +towards the end, I saw that she was bleeding through her scuppers like a pig, +from the middle deck. They were all packed up there together—sailors and +soldiers and a priest or two; and scarce a ball could pass between the poop and +the forecastle without touching flesh.” +</p> + +<p> +The lad stopped a moment and took a pull at his cup, and a murmur of talk broke +out in the room. Anthony was surprised at his accent and manner of speaking, +and heard afterwards that he was the son of the parson at one of the inland +villages, and had had an education. In a moment he went on. +</p> + +<p> +“Well—it would be about noon, just before the Admiral came up from Calais, that +the old <i> Seahorse </i> was lost. We came at the dons again as we had done +before, only closer than ever; and just as the captain gave the word to put her +about, a ball from one of their guns which they had trained down on us, cut old +Dick Kemp in half at the helm, and broke the tiller to splinters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Old Dick?” said a man’s voice out of the reeking crowd, “Old Dick?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a murmur round him, bidding him hold his tongue; and the lad went on. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we drifted nearer and nearer. There was nought to do but to bang at +them; and that we did, by God—and to board her if we touched. Well, I worked my +saker, and saw little else—for the smoke was like a black sea-fog; and the +noise fit to crack your ears. Mine sing yet with it; the captain was bawling +from the poop, and there were a dozen pikemen ready below; and then on a sudden +came the crash; and I looked up and there was the Spaniards’ decks above us, +and the poop like a tower, with a grinning don or two looking down; and there +was I looking up the muzzle of a culverin. I skipped towards the poop, shouting +to the men; and the dons fired their broadside as I went.—God save us from that +din! But I knew the old <i> Seahorse </i> was done this time—the old ship +lurched and shook as the balls tore through her and broke her back; and there +was such a yell as you’ll never hear this side of hell. Well—I was on the poop +by now, and the men after me; for you see the poop of the <i> Seahorse </i> was +as high as the middle deck of the Spaniard, and we must board from there or not +at all. Well, lads, there was the captain before me. He had fought cool till +then, as cool as a parson among his roses, with never an oath from his +mouth—but now he was as scarlet as a poppy, and his eyes were like blue fire, +and his mouth jabbered and foamed; he was so hot, you see, at the loss of his +ship. He was dancing to and fro waiting while the poop swung round on the tide; +and the old craft plunged deeper in every wave that lifted her, but he cared no +more for that nor for the musket-balls from the tops, nor for the brown +grinning devils who shook their pikes at him from the decks, than—than a mad +dog cares for a shower of leaves; but he stamped there and cursed them and +damned them as they laughed at him; and then in a moment the poop touched. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, lads—” and the lieutenant set his cup down on the table, clapped his +hands on his knees, laughed shortly and nervously once or twice, and looked +round. “Well, lads, I have never seen the like. The captain went for them like +a wild cat; one step on the rail and the next among them; and was gone like a +stone into water”—and the lad clapped his hand on his thigh. “I saw one face +slit up from chin to eye; and another split across like an apple; and then we +were after him. The men were mad, too—what was left of us; and we poured up on +to the decks and left the old <i> Seahorse </i> to die. Well, we had our work +before us—but it was no good. The dons could do nothing; I was after the +captain as he went through the pack and came out just behind him; there were +half a dozen of them down now; and the noise and the foreign oaths went up like +smoke; and the captain himself was bleeding down one side of his face and +grunting as he cut and stabbed; and I had had a knife through the arm; but he +went up on to the poop; and as I followed, the Spaniards broke and threw down +their arms—they saw ’twas no use, you see. When we reached the poop-stairs an +officer in a blue coat came forward jabbering some jargon; but the captain +would have no parley with him, but flung his dag clean into the man’s face, and +over he went backwards—with his damned high heels in the air.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a sudden murmur of laughter from the room; Anthony glanced off the +lieutenant’s grinning ruddy face for a moment, and saw the rows of listening +faces all wrinkled with mirth. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” went on the lad, “up went the captain, and I after him. Then there +came across the deck, very slow and stately, the Spanish captain himself, in a +fine laced coat and a plumed hat, and he was holding out his sword by the blade +and bowed as we ran towards him, and began some damned foreign nonsense, with +his <i> Señor</i>—but the captain would have none o’ that, I tell you he +was like Tom o’ Bedlam now—so as the Señor grinned at him with his monkey +face and bowed and wagged, the captain fetched him a slash across the cheek +with his sword that cut up into his head; and that don went spinning across the +poop like a morris-man and brought up against the rail, and then down he +came,” and the lad dashed his hand on his thigh again—“as dead as mutton.” +</p> + +<p> +Again came a louder gust of laughter from the room. Anthony half rose in his +chair, and then sat down again. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the lad, “and that was not all. Down he raged again to the decks +and I behind him—I tell you, it was like a butcher’s shop—but it was quieter +now—the fighting was over—and the Spaniards were all run below, except +half-a-dozen in the tops; looking down like young rooks at an archer. There had +been a popish priest too with his crucifix in one hand and his god-almighty in +the other, over a dying man as we came up; but as we came down there he lay in +his black gown with a hole through his heart and his crucifix gone. One of the +lads had got it no doubt. Well, the captain brought up at the main mast. ‘God’s +blood,’ he bawled, ‘where are the brown devils got to?’ Some one told him, and +pointed down the hatch. Well, then I turned sick with my wound and the smell of +the place and all; and I knew nothing more till I found myself sitting on a +dead don, with the captain holding me up and pouring a cordial down my +throat.” +</p> + +<p> +Then talk and laughter broke out in the audience; but the landlord held up his +hand for silence. +</p> + +<p> +“And what of the others?” he shouted. +</p> + +<p> +“Dead meat too,” said the lad—“the captain went down with a dozen or more and +hunted them out and finished them. There was one, Dick told me afterwards,” +and the lieutenant gave a cackle of mirth, “that they hunted twice round the +ship before he jumped over yelling to some popish saint to help him; but it +seems he was deaf, like the old Baal that parson tells of o’ Sundays. The dirty +swine to run like that! Well, he’s got his bellyful now of the salt water that +he came so far to see. And then the captain with his own hands trained a +robinet that was on the poop on to the tops; and down the birds came, one by +one; for their powder up there was all shot off.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the <i> Seahorse</i>?” said the landlord again. +</p> + +<p> +There fell a dead silence: all in the room knew that the ship was lost, but it +was terrible to hear it again. The lad’s face broke into lines of grief, and he +spoke huskily. +</p> + +<p> +“Gone down with the dead and wounded; and the rest of the fleet a mile away.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the lieutenant went on to describe how he himself had been deputed to +bring the <i> San Juan </i> into port with the wounded on board, while the +captain and the rest of the crew by Drake’s orders attached themselves to +various vessels that were short-handed, and how the English fleet had followed +what was left of the Spaniards when the fight ended at sunset, up towards the +North Sea. +</p> + +<p> +When he finished his story there was a tremendous outburst of cheering and +hammering upon the table, and the feet and the pike-butts thundered on the +floor, and a name was cried again and again as the cups were emptied. +</p> + +<p> +“God save her Grace and old England!” yelled a slim smooth-faced archer from +Appledore. +</p> + +<p> +“God send the dons and all her foes to hell!” roared a burly pikeman with his +cup in the air. Then the room shook again as the toasts were drunk with +applauding feet and hands. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony turned to the landlord, who had just ceased thumping with his great red +fists on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“What was the captain’s name?” he asked, when a slight lull came. +</p> + +<p> +“Maxwell,” said the crimson-faced man. “Hubert Maxwell—one of Drake’s own +men.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +When Anthony came upstairs he heard his name called through the door, and went +in to Isabel’s room to find her sitting up in bed in the gloom of the summer +night; the party below had broken up, and all was quiet except for the far-off +shouts and hoots of cheerful laughter from the dispersing groups down among the +narrow streets. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” she said, as he came in and stood in the doorway. +</p> + +<p> +“It is just the story of the prize,” he said, “and it seems that Hubert had +the taking of it.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence a moment. Anthony could see her face, a motionless pale +outline, and her arms clasped round her knees as she sat up in bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Hubert?” she asked in an even voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Hubert.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” she said again. +</p> + +<p> +“He is safe,” said Anthony, “and fought gallantly. I will tell you more +to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Isabel softly; and then lay down again. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Anthony.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +But Anthony dared not tell her the details next day, after all. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +There was still a difficulty about the horses; they had not arrived until the +Wednesday morning, and were greatly exhausted by a long and troublesome +journey; so the travellers consented to postpone their journey for yet one more +day. The weather, which had been thickening, grew heavier still in the +afternoon, and great banks of clouds were rising out of the west. Anthony +started out about four o’clock for a walk along the coast; and, making a long +round in the direction of Lydd, did not finally return until about seven. As he +came in at the north-east of the town he noticed how empty the streets were, +and passed on down in the direction of the quay. As he turned down the steep +street into the harbour groups began to pour up past him, laughing and +exclaiming; and in a moment more came Isabel walking alone. He looked at her +anxiously, for he saw something had happened. Her quiet face was lit up with +some interior emotion, and her mouth was trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“The Armada is routed,” she said; “and I have seen Hubert.” +</p> + +<p> +The two turned back together and walked silently up to the inn. There she told +him the story. She had been told that Captain Maxwell was come in the <i> +Elizabeth</i>, for provisions for Lord Howard Seymour’s squadron, to which his +new command was attached; and that he was even now in harbour. At that she had +gone straight down alone. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Anthony!” she cried, “you know how it is with me. I could not help it. I +am not ashamed of it. God Almighty knows all, and is not wrath with me. So I +went down and was in the crowd as he came down again with the mayor, Mr. Hamon; +we all made way for them, and the men cheered themselves scarlet; but he came +down cool and quiet; you know his way—with his eyes half shut; and—and—he was +so brown; and he looks sad—and he had a great plaister on the left temple. And +then he saw me.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel sprang up, and came up to Anthony and took his hands. “Oh! Anthony; I +was very happy then; because he took off his cap and bowed; and his face was +all lighted; and he took my hand and kissed it—and then made Mr. Hamon known to +me. The crowd laughed and said things—but I did not care; and he soon silenced +them, he looked round so fiercely; and then I went on board with him—he would +have it so—and he showed us everything—and we sat a little in the cabin; and he +told me of his wife and child. She is the daughter of a Plymouth minister; he +knew her when he was with Drake; and he told me all about her, so you see——” +Isabel broke off; and sat down in the high window seat. “And then he asked me +about you; and I said you were here; and that we were going to stay a little +while with Mr. Buxton of Stanfield—you see I knew we could trust him; and Mr. +Hamon was in the passage just then looking at the guns; and then a sailor came +in to say that all was ready; and so we came away. But it was so good to see +him again; and to know that he was so happy.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked at his sister in astonishment; her quiet manner was gone, and +she was talking again almost like an excited child; and so happily. It was very +strange, he thought. He sat down beside her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Anthony!” she said, “do you understand? I love him dearly still; and his +wife and child too. God bless them all and keep them!” +</p> + +<p> +The mystery was still deep to him; and he feared to say what he should not; so +he kissed Isabel silently; and the two sat there together and looked out over +the crowding red roofs to the glowing western sky across the bay below them. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_III">CHAPTER III</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +HOME-COMING +</p> + +<p> +It was a stormy summer evening as the brother and sister rode up between the +last long hills that led to Great Keynes. A south-west wind had been rising all +day, that same wind that was now driving the ruined Armada up into the fierce +North Sea, with the fiercer men behind to bar the return. But here, twenty +miles inland, with the high south-downs to break the gale, the riders were in +comparative quiet, though the great trees overhead tossed their heavy rustling +heads as the gusts struck them now and again. +</p> + +<p> +The party had turned off, as the dusk was falling, from the main-road into +bridle-paths that they knew well, and were now approaching the village through +the water meadows on the south-east side along a ride that would bring them, +round the village, direct to the Dower House. In the gloom Anthony could make +out the tall reeds, and the loosestrife and willowherb against them, that +marked the course of the stream where he had caught trout, as a boy; and +against the western sky, as he turned in his saddle, rose up the high windy +hills where he had hawked with Hubert so many years before. It was a strange +thought to him as he rode along that his very presence here in his own country +was an act of high treason by the law lately passed, and that every day he +lived here must be a day of danger. +</p> + +<p> +For Isabel, too, it was strange to be riding up again towards the battlefield +of her desires—that battlefield where she had lived for years in such childish +faith and peace without a suspicion of the forces that were lurking beneath her +own quiet nature. But to both of them the sense of home-coming was stronger +than all else—that strange passion for a particular set of inanimate things—or, +at the most, for an association of ideas—that has no parallel in human +emotions; and as they rode up the darkening valley and the lights of the high +windows of the Hall began to show over the trees on their right, Anthony forgot +his treason and Isabel her conflicts, and both felt a lump rise in the throat, +and their hearts begin to beat quicker with a strange pleasurable pulse, and to +Isabel’s eyes at least there rose up great tears of happiness and content; +neither dared speak, but both looked eagerly about at the pool where the +Mayflies used to dance, at the knoll where the pigeons nested, at the little +low bridge beneath which their inch-long boats used to slide sideways into +darkness, and the broad marshy flats where the gorgeous irises grew. +</p> + +<p> +“How the trees have grown!” said Anthony at last, with an effort; “I cannot +see the lights from the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Carroll will have made ready the first-floor rooms then, on the south.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry they are not our own,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, look! there is the dovecote,” cried Isabel. +</p> + +<p> +They were passing up now behind the farm buildings; and directly afterwards +came round in front of the little walled garden to the west of the house. +</p> + +<p> +There was a sudden exclamation from Anthony; and Isabel stared in silent +dismay. The old house rose up before them with its rows of square windows +against the night sky, dark. There was not a glimmer anywhere; even Mrs. +Carroll’s own room on the south was dark. They reined their horses in and stood +a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Anthony, Anthony!” cried Isabel suddenly, “what is it? Is there no one +there?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony shook his head; and then put his tired beast to a shambling trot with +Isabel silent again with weariness and disappointment behind him. They passed +along outside the low wall, turned the corner of the house and drew up at the +odd little doorway in the angle at the back of the house. The servants had +drawn up behind them, and now pressed up to hold their horses; and the brother +and sister slipped off and went towards the door. Anthony passed under the +little open porch and put his hand out to the door; it was quite dark +underneath the porch, and he felt further and further, and yet there was no +door; his foot struck the step. He felt his way to the doorposts and groped for +the door; but still there was none; he could feel the panelling of the lobby +inside the doorway, and that was all. He drew back, as one would draw back from +a dead face on which one had laid a hand in the dark. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Anthony!” said Isabel again, “what is it?” She was still outside. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you a light?” said Anthony hoarsely to the servants. +</p> + +<p> +The man nearest him bent and fumbled in the saddle-bags, and after what seemed +an interminable while kindled a little bent taper and handed it to him. As he +went towards the porch shading it with his hand, Isabel sprang past him and +went before; and then, as the light fell through the doorway, stopped in dead +and bewildered silence. +</p> + +<p> +The door was lying on the floor within, shattered and splintered. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony stepped beside her, and she turned and clung to his arm, and a sob or +two made itself heard. Then they looked about them. The banisters above them +were smashed, and like a cataract, down the stairs lay a confused heap of +crockery, torn embroidery and clothes, books, and broken furniture. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony’s hand shook so much that the shadows of the broken banisters waved on +the wall above like thin exulting dancers. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Anthony started. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Carroll,” he exclaimed, and he darted upstairs past the ruins into her +two rooms halfway up the flight; and in a minute or two was back with Isabel. +</p> + +<p> +“She has escaped,” he said in a low voice; and then the two stood looking +about them silently again. The door leading to the cellars on the left was +broken too; and fragments of casks and bottles lay about the steps; the white +wall was splashed with drink, and there was a smell of spirits in the air. +Evidently the stormers had thought themselves worthy of their hire. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he said again; and leaving the entrance lobby, the two passed to the +hall-door and pushed that open and looked. There was the same furious confusion +there; the tapestry was lying tumbled and rent on the floor—the high oak +mantelpiece was shattered, and doleful cracks and splinters in the panelling +all round showed how mad the attack had been; one of the pillars of the further +archway was broken clean off, and the brickwork showed behind; the pictures had +been smashed and added to the heap of wrecked furniture and broken glass in the +middle. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he said once more; and the two passed silently through the broken +archway, and going up the other flight of stairs, gradually made the round of +the house. Everywhere it was the same, except in the servants’ attics, where, +apparently, the mob had not thought it worth while to go. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel’s own room was the most pitiable of all; the windows had only the leaden +frames left, and those bent and battered; the delicate panelling was scarred +and split by the shower of stones that had poured in through the window and +that now lay in all parts of the room. A painting of her mother that had hung +over her bed was now lying face downwards on the floor. Isabel turned it over +silently; a stone had gone through the face; and it had been apparently slit +too by some sharp instrument. Even the slender oak bed was smashed in the +centre, as if half a dozen men had jumped upon it at once; and the little +prie-dieu near the window had been deliberately hacked in half. Isabel looked +at it all with wide startled eyes and parted lips; and then suddenly sank down +on the wrecked bed where she had hoped to sleep that night, and began to sob +like a child. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I did think—I did think——” she began. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony stooped and tried to lift her. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, my darling,” he said, “is not this a high honour? <i> Qui relinquit +domos!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! why have they done it?” sobbed Isabel. “What harm have we done them?” +and she began to wail. She was thoroughly over-tired and over-wrought; and +Anthony could not find it in his heart to blame her; but he spoke again +bravely. +</p> + +<p> +“We are Catholics,” he said; “that is why they have done it. Do not throw away +this grace that our Lord has given us; embrace it and make it yours.” +</p> + +<p> +It was the priest that was speaking now; and Isabel turned her face and looked +at him; and then got up and hid her face on his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Anthony, help me!” she said; and so stood there, quiet. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +He came down presently to the servants, while Isabel went upstairs to prepare +the rooms in the attics; for it was impossible for them to ride further that +night; so they settled to sleep there, and stable the horses; and to ride on +early the next day, and be out of the village before the folks were about. +Anthony gave directions to the servants, who were Catholics too, and explained +in a word or two what had happened; and bade them come up to the house as soon +as they had fed and watered the beasts; meanwhile he took the saddle-bags +indoors and spread out their remaining provisions in one of the downstairs +rooms; and soon Isabel joined him. +</p> + +<p> +“I have made up five beds,” she said, and her voice and lips were steady, and +her eyes grave and serene again. +</p> + +<p> +The five supped together in the wrecked kitchen, a fine room on the east of the +house, supported by a great oak pillar to which the horses of guests were +sometimes attached when the stable was full. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel managed to make a fire and to boil some soup; but they hung thick +curtains across the shattered windows, and quenched the fire as soon as the +soup was made, for fear that either the light or the smoke from the chimney +should arouse attention. +</p> + +<p> +When supper was over, and the two men-servants and Isabel’s French maid were +washing up in the scullery, Isabel suddenly turned to Anthony as they sat +together near the fireplace. +</p> + +<p> +“I had forgotten,” she said, “what we arranged as we rode up. I must go and +tell her still.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked at her steadily a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“God keep you,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She kissed him and took her riding-cloak, drew the hood over her head, and went +out into the dark. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +It was with the keenest relief that, half an hour later, Anthony heard her +footstep again in the red-tiled hall outside. The servants were gone upstairs +by now, and the house was quiet. She came in, and sat by him again and took his +hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God I went,” she said. “I have left her so happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me all,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“I went through the garden,” said Isabel, “but came round to the front of the +house so that they might not think I came from here. When the servant came to +the door—he was a stranger, and a Protestant no doubt—I said at once that I +brought news of Mr. Maxwell from Rye; and he took me straight in and asked me +to come in while he fetched her woman. Then her woman came out and took me +upstairs, up into Lady Maxwell’s old room; and there she was lying in bed under +the great canopy. Oh, Anthony, she is so pretty! her golden hair was lying out +all over the pillow, and her face is so sweet. She cried out when I came in, +and lifted herself on her elbow; so I just said at once, ‘He is safe and well’; +and then she went off into sobs and laughter; so that I had to go and soothe +her—her woman was so foolish and helpless; and very soon she was quiet: and +then she called me her darling, and she kissed me again and again; and told the +woman to go and leave us together; and then she lifted the sheet; and showed me +the face of a little child. Oh Anthony; Hubert’s child and hers, the second, +born on Tuesday—only think of that. ‘Mercy, I was going to call her,’ she said, +‘if I had not heard by to-morrow, but now I shall call her Victory.’” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked quickly at his sister, with a faint smile in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“And what did you say?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel smiled outright; but her eyes were bright with tears too. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You have guessed,’ she said. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘call her Mercy all the same,’ +and she kissed me again, and cried, and said that she would. And then I told +her all about Hubert; and about his little wound; and how well he looked; and +how all the fighting was most likely over; and what his cabin looked like. And +then she suddenly guessed who I was, and asked me; and I could not deny it, you +know; but she promised not to tell. Then she told me all about the house here; +and how she was afraid Hubert had said something impatient about people who go +to foreign parts and leave their country to be attacked, ‘But you know he did +not really mean it,’ she said; and of course he did not. Well, the people had +remembered that, and it spread and spread; and when the news of the Armada came +last week, a mob came over from East Grinsted, and they sat drinking and +drinking in the village; and of course Grace could not go out to them; and all +the old people are gone, and the Catholics on the estate—and so at last they +all came out roaring and shouting down the drive, and Mrs. Carroll was warned +and slipped out to the Hall; and she is now gone to Stanfield to wait for +us—and then the crowd broke into the house—but, oh Anthony, Grace was so sorry, +and cried sore to think of us here; and asked us to come and stay there; but of +course I told her we could not: and then I said a prayer for her; and we kissed +one another again; and then I came away.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked at his sister, and there was honour and pride of her in his +eyes. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The ride to Stanfield next day was a long affair, at a foot’s-pace all the way: +the horses were thoroughly tired with their journey, and they were obliged to +start soon after three o’clock in the morning after a very insufficient rest; +they did not reach Groombridge till nearly ten o’clock, when they dined, and +then rode on towards Tonbridge about noon. There were heavy hearts to be +carried as well. The attempt to welcome the misery of their home-coming was a +bitter effort; all the more bitter for that it was an entirely unexpected call +upon them. During those six years abroad probably not a day had passed without +visions of Great Keynes, and the pleasant and familiar rooms and garden of +their own house, and mental rehearsals of their return. The shock of the night +before too had been emphasised by the horror of the cold morning light creeping +through the empty windows on to the cruel heaps within. The garden too, seen in +the dim morning, with its trampled lawns and wrecked flower-beds heaped with +withered sunflowers, bell-blossoms and all the rich August growth, with the +earthen flower-bowls smashed, the stone balls on the gate overturned, and the +laurels at the corner uprooted—all this was a horrible pain to Isabel, to whom +the garden was very near as dear and familiar as her own room. So it was a +silent and sorrowful ride; and Anthony’s heart rose in relief as at last up the +grey village-street he saw the crowded roofs of Stanfield Place rise over the +churchyard wall. +</p> + +<p> +Their welcome from Mr. Buxton went far to compensate for all. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear boy,” he said, “or, my dear father, as I should call you in private, +you do not know what happiness is mine to-day. It is a great thing to have a +priest again; but, if you will allow me to say so, it is a greater to have my +friend—and what a sister you have upstairs!” +</p> + +<p> +They were in Mr. Buxton’s own little room on the ground-floor, and Isabel had +gone to rest until supper. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony told him of the grim surprise that had awaited them at Great Keynes. +“So you must forgive my sister if she is a little sad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Buxton, “I had heard from Mrs. Carroll last night when +she arrived here. But there was no time to warn you. I had expected you to-day, +though Mrs. Carroll did not.” +</p> + +<p> +(Anthony had sent a man straight from Rye to Stanfield.) +</p> + +<p> +“But Mistress Isabel, as I shall venture to call her, must do what she can with +this house and garden. I need not say how wholly it is hers. And I shall call +you Anthony,” he added—“in public, at least. And, for strangers, you are just +here as my guest; and you shall be called Capell—a sound name; and you shall be +Catholics too; though you are no priest, of course, in public—and you have +returned from the Continent. I hold it is no use to lie when you can be found +out. I do not know what your conscience is, Father Anthony; but, for myself, I +count us Catholics to be <i> in statu belli </i> now; and therefore I shall lie +frankly and fully when there is need; and you may do as you please. Old Mr. +Blake used to bid me prevaricate instead; but that always seemed to me two lies +instead of one—one to the questioning party and the other to myself; and so I +always said to him, but he would not have it so. I wondered he did not tell me +that two negatives made an affirmative; but he was not clever enough, the good +father. So my own custom is to tell one plain lie when needed, and shame the +devil.” +</p> + +<p> +It was pleasant to Anthony to hear his friend talk again, and he said so. His +host’s face softened into a great tenderness. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear lad, I know what you mean. Please God you may find this a happy home.” +</p> + +<p> +A couple of hours later, when Anthony and Isabel came down together from their +rooms in the old wing, they found Mr. Buxton in his black satin and lace in the +beautiful withdrawing-room on the ground-floor. It was already past the +supper-hour, but their host showed no signs of going into the hall. At last he +apologised. +</p> + +<p> +“I ask your pardon, Mistress Isabel; but I have a guest come to stay with me, +who only arrived an hour ago; and she is a great lady and must have her time. +Ah! here she is.” +</p> + +<p> +The door was flung open and a radiant vision appeared. The door was a little +way off, and there were no candles near it; but there swelled and rustled into +the room a figure all in blue and gold, with a white delicate ruff; and diamond +buckles shone beneath the rich brocaded petticoat. Above rose a white bosom and +throat scintillating with diamonds, and a flushed face with scarlet lips, all +crowned by piles of black hair, with black dancing eyes beneath. Still a little +in the shadow this splendid figure swept down with a great curtsey, which +Isabel met by another, while the two gentlemen bowed low; and then, as the +stranger swayed up again into the full light of the sconces, Anthony recognised +Mary Corbet. +</p> + +<p> +He stood irresolute with happy hesitation; and she came up smiling brilliantly; +and before he could stay her dropped down on one knee and took his hand and +kissed it; just as the man left the room. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you, Father Anthony!” she said; and as he looked at her, as she +glanced up, he could not tell whether her eyes shone with tears or laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“This is very charming and proper, Mistress Corbet, and like a true daughter of +the Church,” put in Mr. Buxton, “but I shall be obliged to you if you will not +in future kiss priests’ hands nor call them Father in the presence of the +servants—at least not in my house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she said, “you were always prudent. Have you seen his secret doors?” +she went on to Anthony. “The entire Catholic Church might play hare and hounds +with the Holy Father as huntsman and the Cardinals as the whips, through Mr. +Buxton’s secret labyrinths.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait until you are hare, and it is other than Holy Church that is a-hunting,” +said Mr. Buxton, “and you will thank God for my labyrinths, as you call them.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she greeted Isabel with great warmth. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my dear,” she said, “you are not the little Puritan maiden any longer. +We must have a long talk to-night; and you shall tell me everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Mary is not so greatly changed,” said Isabel, smiling. “She always +would be told everything.” +</p> + +<p> +It was strange to Anthony to meet Mary again after so long, and to find her so +little changed, as Isabel had said truly. He himself had passed through so much +since they had last met at Greenwich over six years ago—his conversion, his +foreign sojourn, and, above all, the bewildering and intoxicating sweetness of +his ordination and priestly life. And yet he felt as close to Mary as ever, +knit in a bond of wonderful good fellowship and brotherhood such as he had +never felt to any other in just that kind and degree. He watched her, warm and +content, as she talked across the polished oak and beneath the gleam of the +candles; and listened, charmed by her air and her talk. +</p> + +<p> +“There is not so much news of her Grace,” she said, “save that she is turning +soldier in her old age. She rode out to Tilbury, you know, the other day, in +steel cuirass and scarlet; out to see her dear Robin and the army; and her +royal face was all smiles and becks, and lord! how the soldiers cheered! But if +you had seen her as I did, in her room when she first buckled on her armour, +and the joints did not fit—yes, and heard her! there were no smiles to spare +then. She lodged at Mr. Rich’s, you know, two nights; but he would be Mr. Poor, +I should suppose, by the time her Grace left him; for he will not see the worth +of a shoelace again of all that he expended on her.” +</p> + +<p> +“You see,” remarked Mr. Buxton to Isabel, “how fortunate we are in having such +a friend of her Grace’s with us. We hear all the cream of the news, even though +it be a trifle sour sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“A lover of her Grace,” said Mary, “loves the truth about her, however bitter. +But then I have no secret passages where I may hide from my sovereign!” +</p> + +<p> +“The cream can scarce be but sour,” said Anthony, “near her Grace: there is so +much thunder in the air.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but the sun came out when you were there, Anthony,” put in Isabel, +smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“But even the light of her glorious countenance is trying,” said Mary. “She is +overpowering in thunder and sunshine alike.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have had enough of that metaphor,” observed Mr. Buxton. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Then Anthony had to talk, and tell all the foreign news of Douai and Rome and +Cardinal Allen; and of Father Persons’ scheme for a college at Valladolid. +</p> + +<p> +“Father Robert is a superb beggar—as he is superb in all things,” said Mr. +Buxton. “I dare not think how much he got from me for his college; and then I +do not even approve of his college. His principles are too logical for me. I +have ever had a weakness for the <i> non sequitur</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +This led on to the Armada; Anthony told his experience of it; how he had seen +at least the sails of Lord Howard’s squadron far away against the dawn; and +this led on again to a sharp discussion when the servants had left the room. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know,” said Mary at last; “it is difficult—is not the choice between +God and Elizabeth? If I were a man, why should I not take up arms to defend my +religion? Since I am a woman, why should I not pray for Philip’s success? It is +a bitter hard choice, I know; but why need I prefer my country to my faith? +Tell me that, Father Anthony.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can only tell you my private opinion,” said Anthony, “and that is, that +both duties may be done. As Mr. Buxton here used to tell me, the duty to Cæsar +is as real as the duty to God. A man is bound to both; for each has its proper +bounds. When either oversteps them it must be resisted. When Elizabeth bids me +deny my faith, I tell her I would sooner die. When a priest bids me deny my +country, I tell him I would sooner be damned.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary clapped her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I like to hear a man talk like that,” she cried. “But what of the Holy Father +and his excommunication of her Grace?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked up at her sharply, and then smiled; Isabel watched him with a +troubled face. +</p> + +<p> +“Aquinas holds,” he said, “that an excommunication of sovereign and people in +a lump is invalid. And until the Holy Father tells me himself that Aquinas is +wrong, I shall continue to think he is right.” +</p> + +<p> +“God-a-mercy!” burst in Mr. Buxton, “what a to-do! Leave it alone until the +choice must be made; and meanwhile say your prayers for Pope and Queen too, and +hear mass and tell your beads and hold your tongue: that is what I say to +myself. Mistress Mary, I will not have my chaplain heckled; here is his lady +sister all a-tremble between heresy and treason.” +</p> + +<p> +They sat long over the supper-table, talking over the last six years and the +times generally. More than once Mary showed a strange bitterness against the +Queen. At last Mr. Buxton showed his astonishment plainly. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand you,” he said. “I know that at heart you are loyal; and +yet one might say you meditated her murder.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary’s face grew white with passion and her eyes blazed. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she hissed, “you do not understand, you say? Then where is your heart? +But then you did not see Mary Stuart die.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked at her, amazed. +</p> + +<p> +“And you did, Mistress Mary?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Mary bowed, with her lips set tight to check their trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you,” she said, “if our host permits”; and she glanced at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Then come this way,” he said, and they rose from table. +</p> + +<p> +They went back again to the withdrawing-room; a little cedar-fire had been +kindled under the wide chimney; and the room was full of dancing shadows. The +great plaster-pendants, the roses, the crowns, and the portcullises on the +ceiling seemed to waver in the firelight, for Mr. Buxton at a sign from Mary +blew out the four tapers that were burning in the sconces. They all sat down in +the chairs that were set round the fire, Mary in a tall porter’s chair with +flaps that threw a shadow on her face when she leaned back; and she took a fan +in her hand to keep the fire, or her friends’ eyes, from her face should she +need it. +</p> + +<p> +She first told them very briefly of the last months of Mary’s life, of the web +that was spun round her by Walsingham’s tactics, and her own friends’ efforts, +until it was difficult for her to stir hand or foot without treason, real or +pretended, being set in motion somewhere. Then she described how at Christmas +’86 Elizabeth had sent her—Mary Corbet—as a Catholic, up to the Queen of the +Scots at Fotheringay, on a private mission to attempt to win the prisoner’s +confidence, and to persuade her to confess to having been privy to Babington’s +conspiracy; and how the Scottish Queen had utterly denied it, even in the most +intimate conversations. Sentence had been already passed, but the warrant had +not been signed; and it never would have been signed, said Mistress Corbet, if +Mary had owned to the crime of which she was accused. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! how they insulted her!” cried Mary Corbet indignantly. “She showed me one +day the room where her throne had stood. Now the cloth of state had been torn +down by Sir Amyas Paulet’s men, and he himself dared to sit with his hat on his +head in the sovereign’s presence! The insolence of the hound! But the Queen +showed me how she had hung a crucifix where her royal arms used to hang. +‘J’appelle,’ she said to me, ‘de la reine au roi des rois.’” +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Corbet went on to tell of the arrival of Walsingham’s brother-in-law, +Mr. Beale, with the death-warrant on that February Sunday evening. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw his foxy face look sideways up at the windows as he got off his horse in +the courtyard; and I knew that our foes had triumphed. Then the other +bloodhounds began to arrive; my lord of Kent on the Monday and Shrewsbury on +the Tuesday. Then they came in to us after dinner; and they told her Grace it +was to be for next day. I was behind her chair and saw her hand on the boss of +the arm, and it did not stir nor clench; she said it could not be. She could +not believe it of Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +“When she did at last believe it, there was no wild weeping or crying for +mercy; but she set her affairs in order, queenly, and yet sedately too. She +first thought of her soul, and desired that M. de Preau might come to her and +hear her confession; but they would not permit it. They offered her Dr. +Fletcher instead, ‘a godly man,’ as my lord of Kent called him. ‘Je ne m’en +doute pas,’ she said, smiling. But it was hard not to have a priest. +</p> + +<p> +“Then she set her earthly affairs in order when she had examined her soul and +made confession to God without the Dean’s assistance. We all supped together +when it was growing late; and I thought, Father Anthony—indeed I did—of another +Supper long ago. Then M. Gorion was sent for to arrange some messages and +gifts; and until two of the clock in the morning we watched with her or served +her as she wrote and gave orders. The court outside was full of comings and +goings. As I passed down the passage I saw the torches of the visitors that +were come to see the end; and once I heard a hammering from the great hall. +Then she went to her bed; and I think few lay as quiet as she in the castle +that night. I was with her ladies when they waked her before dawn; and it was +hard to see that sweet face on the pillow open its eyes again to what was +before her. +</p> + +<p> +“Then when she was dressed I went in again, and we all went to the oratory, +where she received our Saviour from the golden pyx which the Holy Father had +sent her; for, you see, they would allow no priest to come near her.... +</p> + +<p> +“Presently the gentlemen knocked. When we tried to follow we were prevented; +they wished her to die alone among her enemies; but at last two of the ladies +were allowed to go with her. +</p> + +<p> +“I ran out another way, and sent a message to my Lord Shrewsbury, who knew me +at court. As I waited in the courtyard, the musicians there were playing ‘The +Witches’ Dirge,’ as is done at the burnings—and all to mock at my queen! At +last a halberdier was sent to bring me in.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary Corbet was silent a moment or two and leaned back in her chair; and the +others dared not speak. The strange emotion of her voice and the stillness of +that sparkling figure in the porter’s chair affected them profoundly. Her face +was now completely shaded by a fan. +</p> + +<p> +“It was in the hall, where a great fire was burning on the hearth. The stage +stood at the upper end; all was black. The crowd of gentlemen filled the hall +and all were still and reverent except—except a devil who laughed as my queen +came in, all in black. She was smiling and brave, and went up the steps and sat +on her black throne and looked about her. The—the <i> things </i> were just in +front of her. +</p> + +<p> +“Then the warrant was read by Beale, and I saw the lords glance at her as it +ended; but there was nought but joyous hope in her face. She looked now and +again gently on the ivory crucifix in her hand, as she listened; and her lips +moved to—to—Him who was delivered to death for her.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary Corbet gave one quick sob, and was silent again for an instant. Then she +went on in a yet lower voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Dr. Fletcher tried to address her, but he stammered and paused three or four +times; and the queen smiled on him and bade him not trouble himself, for that +she lived and died a Catholic. But they would not let her be; so she looked on +her crucifix and was silent; and even then my lord of Kent badgered her and +told her Christ crucified in her hand would not save her, except He was +engraved on her heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Then she knelt at her chair and tried to pray softly to herself; but Fletcher +would not have that, and prayed himself, aloud, and all the gentlemen in the +hall began to pray aloud with him. But Mary prayed on in Latin and English +aloud, and prevailed, for all were silent at the end but she. +</p> + +<p> +“And at last she kissed the crucifix and cried in a sweet piercing voice, ‘As +thine arms, O Jesus, were spread upon the Cross, so receive me into Thy mercy +and forgive me my sins!’” +</p> + +<p> +Again Mistress Corbet was silent; and Anthony drew a long sobbing breath of +pure pity, and Isabel was crying quietly to herself. +</p> + +<p> +“When the headsmen offered to assist her,” went on the low voice, “the queen +smiled at the gentlemen and said that she had never had such grooms before; and +then they let the ladies come up. When they began to help her with her dress I +covered my face—I could not help it. There was such a stillness now that I +could hear her beads chink at her girdle. When I looked again, she was ready, +with her sweet neck uncovered: all round her was black but the headsman, who +wore a white apron over his velvet, and she, in her beauty, and oh! her face +was so fair and delicate and her eyes so tender and joyous. And as her ladies +looked at her, they sobbed piteously. ‘Ne criez vous,’ said she. +</p> + +<p> +“Then she knelt down, and Mistress Mowbray bound her eyes. She smiled again +under the handkerchief. ‘Adieu,’ she said, and then, ‘Au revoir.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Then she said once more a Latin psalm, and then laid her head down, as on a +pillow. +</p> + +<p> +“‘In manus tuas, Domine,’ she said.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Mary Corbet stopped, and leaned forward a little, putting her hand into her +bosom; Anthony looked at her as she drew up a thin silk cord with a ruby ring +attached to it. +</p> + +<p> +“This was hers,” she said simply, and held it out. Each of the Catholics took +it and kissed it reverently, and Mary replaced it. +</p> + +<p> +“When they lifted her,” she added, “a little dog sprang out from her clothes +and yelped. And at that the man near me, who had laughed as she came in, +wept.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Then the four sat silent in the firelight. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_IV">CHAPTER IV</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +STANFIELD PLACE +</p> + +<p> +Life at Stanfield Place was wonderfully sweet to Anthony and Isabel after their +exile abroad, for both of them had an intense love of England and of English +ways. The very sight of fair-faced children, and the noise of their shrill +familiar voices from the village street, the depths of the August woods round +them, the English manners of living—all this was alive with a full deliberate +joy to these two. Besides, there was the unfailing tenderness and gaiety of Mr. +Buxton; and at first there was the pleasant company of Mary Corbet as well. +</p> + +<p> +There was little or no anxiety resting on any of them. “God was served,” as +the celebration of mass was called, each morning in the little room where +Anthony had made the exercises, and the three others were always present. It +was seldom that the room was not filled to over-flowing on Sundays and +holy-days with the household and the neighbouring Catholics. +</p> + +<p> +Everything was, of course, perfection in the little chapel when it was +furnished; as was all that Mr. Buxton possessed. There was a wonderful golden +crucifix by an unknown artist, that he had picked up in his travels, that stood +upon the altar, with the bird-types of the Saviour at each of the four ends; a +pelican at the top, an eagle on the right supporting its young which were +raising their wings for a flight, on the left a phœnix amid flames, and at the +foot a hen gathering her chickens under her wings—all the birds had tiny +emerald eyes; the figure on the cross was beautifully wrought, and had rubies +in hands and feet and side. There were also two silver altar-candlesticks +designed by Marrina for the Piccolomini chapel in the church of St. Francis in +Siena; and two more, plainer, for the Elevation. The vestments were exquisite; +those for high festivals were cloth of gold; and the other white ones were +beautifully worked with seed pearls, and jewelled crosses on the stole and +maniple. The other colours, too, were well represented, and were the work of a +famous convent in the south of France. All the other articles, too, were of +silver: the lavabo basin, the bell, the thurible, the boat and spoon, and the +cruets. It was a joy to all the Catholics who came to see the worship of God +carried on with such splendour, when in so many places even necessaries were +scarcely forthcoming. +</p> + +<p> +There was a little hiding-hole between the chapel and the priest’s room, just +of a size to hold the altar furniture and the priests in case of a sudden +alarm; and there were several others in the house too, which Mr. Buxton had +showed to Anthony with a good deal of satisfaction, on the morning after his +arrival. +</p> + +<p> +“I dared not show them to you the last time you were here,” he said, “and +there was no need; but now there must be no delay. I have lately made some +more, too. Now here is one,” he said, stopping before the great carved +mantelpiece in the hall. +</p> + +<p> +He looked round to see that no servant was in the room, and then, standing on a +settee before the fire, touched something above, and a circular hole large +enough for a man to clamber through appeared in the midst of the tracery. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” he said, “and you will find some cured ham and a candle, with a few +dates within, should you ever have need to step up there—which, pray God, you +may not.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the secret?” asked Anthony, as the tracery swung back into place, and +his host stepped down. +</p> + +<p> +“Pull the third roebuck’s ears in the coat of arms, or rather push them. It +closes with a spring, and is provided with a bolt. But I do not recommend that +refuge unless it is necessary. In winter it is too hot, for the chimney passes +behind it; and in summer it is too oppressive, for there is not too much air.” +</p> + +<p> +At the end of the corridor that led in the direction of the little old rooms +where Anthony had slept in his visit, Mr. Buxton stopped before the portrait of +a kindly-looking old gentleman that hung on the wall. +</p> + +<p> +“Now there is an upright old man you would say; and indeed he was, for he was +my own uncle, and made a godly end of it last year. But now see what a liar I +have made of him!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton put his hand behind the frame, and the whole picture opened like a +door showing a space within where three or four could stand. Anthony stepped +inside and his friend followed him, and after showing him some clothes hanging +against the wall closed the picture after them, leaving them in the dark. +</p> + +<p> +“Now see what a sharp-eyed old fellow he is too,” whispered his host. Anthony +looked where he was guided, and perceived two pinholes through which he could +see the whole length of the corridor. +</p> + +<p> +“Through the centre of each eye,” whispered his friend. “Is he not shrewd and +secret? And now turn this way.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony turned round and saw the opposite wall slowly opening; and in a moment +more he stepped out and found himself in the lobby outside the little room +where he had made the exercises six years ago. He heard a door close softly as +he looked about him in astonishment, and on turning round saw only an +innocent-looking set of shelves with a couple of books and a little pile of +paper and packet of quills upon them. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” said Mr. Buxton, “who would suspect Tacitus his history and Juvenal +his satires of guarding the passage of a Christian ecclesiastic fleeing for his +life?” +</p> + +<p> +Then he showed him the secret, how one shelf had to be drawn out steadily, and +the nail in another pressed simultaneously, and how then the entire set of +shelves swung open. +</p> + +<p> +Then they went back and he showed him the spring behind the frame of the +picture. +</p> + +<p> +“You see the advantage of this,” he went on: “on the one side you may flee +upstairs, a treasonable skulking cassocked jack-priest with the lords and the +commons and the Queen’s Majesty barking at your heels; and on the other side +you may saunter down the gallery without your beard and in a murrey doublet, a +friend of Mr. Buxton’s, taking the air and wondering what the devil all the +clamouring be about.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he took him downstairs again and showed him finally the escape of which he +was most proud—the entrance, designed in the cellar-staircase, to an +underground passage from the cellars, which led, he told him, across to the +garden-house beyond the lime-avenue. +</p> + +<p> +“That is the pride of my heart,” he said, “and maybe will be useful some day; +though I pray not. Ah! her Grace and her honest Council are right. We Papists +are a crafty and deceitful folk, Father Anthony.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The four grew very intimate during those few weeks; they had many memories and +associations in common on which to build up friendship, and the aid of a common +faith and a common peril with which to cement it. The gracious beauty of the +house and the life at Stanfield, too, gilded it all with a very charming +romance. They were all astonished at the easy intimacy with which they behaved, +one to another. +</p> + +<p> +Mary Corbet was obliged to return to her duties at Court at the beginning of +September; and she had something of an ache at her heart as the time drew on; +for she had fallen once more seriously in love with Isabel. She said a word of +it to Mr. Buxton. They were walking in the lime-avenue together after dinner on +the last day of Mary’s visit. +</p> + +<p> +“You have a good chaplain,” she said; “what an honest lad he is! and how +serious and recollected! Please God he at least may escape their claws!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is often so,” said Mr. Buxton, “with those wholesome out-of-door boys; +they grow up into such simple men of God.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Isabel!” said Mary, rustling round upon him as she walked. “What a great +dame she is become! I used to lie on her bed and kick my heels and laugh at +her; but now I would like to say my prayers to her. She is somewhat like our +Lady herself, so grave and serious, and yet so warm and tender.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton nodded sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“I felt sure you would feel it,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! but I knew her when she was just a child; so simple that I loved to +startle her. But now—but now—those two ladies have done wonders with her. She +has all the splendour of Mary Maxwell, and all the softness of Margaret.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the other meditatively; “the two ladies have done it—or, the grace +of God.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary looked at him sideways and her lips twitched a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—or the grace of God, as you say.” +</p> + +<p> +The two laughed into each other’s eyes, for they understood one another well. +Presently Mary went on: +</p> + +<p> +“When you and I fence together at table, she does not turn frigid like so many +holy folk—or peevish and bewildered like stupid folk—but she just looks at us, +and laughs far down in those deep grey eyes of hers. Oh! I love her!” ended +Mary. +</p> + +<p> +They walked in silence a minute or two. +</p> + +<p> +“And I think I do,” said Mr. Buxton softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” exclaimed Mary, “you do what?” She had quite forgotten her last +sentence. +</p> + +<p> +“It is no matter,” he said yet more softly; and would say no more. +</p> + +<p> +Presently the talk fell on the Maxwells; and came round to Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“They say he would be a favourite at Court,” said Mary, “had he not a wife. +But her Grace likes not married men. She looked kindly upon him at Deptford, I +know; and I have seen him at Greenwich. You know, of course, about Isabel?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, it was common talk that they would have been man and wife years ago, had +not the fool apostatised.” +</p> + +<p> +Her companion questioned her further, and soon had the whole story out of her. +“But I am thankful,” ended Mary, “that it has so ended.” +</p> + +<p> +The next day she went back to Court; and it was with real grief that the three +watched her wonderful plumed riding-hat trot along behind the top of the +churchyard wall, with her woman beside her, and her little liveried troop of +men following at a distance. +</p> + +<p> +The days passed by, bringing strange tidings to Stanfield. News continued to +reach the Catholics of the good confessions witnessed here and there in England +by priests and laity. At the end of July, three priests, Garlick, Ludlam and +Sympson, had been executed at Derby, and at the end of August the defeat of the +Armada seemed to encourage Elizabeth yet further, and Mr. Leigh, a priest, with +four laymen and Mistress Margaret Ward, died for their religion at Tyburn. +</p> + +<p> +By the end of September the news of the hopeless defeat and disappearance of +the Armada had by now been certified over and over again. Terrible stories had +come in during August of that northward flight of all that was left of the +fleet over the plunging North Sea up into the stormy coast of Scotland; then +rumours began of the miseries that were falling on the Spaniards off +Ireland—Catholic Ireland from which they had hoped so much. There was scarcely +a bay or a cape along the west coast where some ship had not put in, with +piteous entreaties for water and aid—and scarcely a bay or a cape that was not +blood-guilty. Along the straight coast from Sligo Bay westwards, down the west +coast, Clew Bay, Connemara, and haunted Dingle itself, where the Catholic +religion under arms had been so grievously chastened eight years ago—everywhere +half-drowned or half-starved Spaniards, piteously entreating, were stripped and +put to the sword either by the Irish savages or the English gentlemen. The +church-bells were rung in Stanfield and in every English village, and the flame +of national pride and loyalty burned fiercer and higher than ever. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +On the last day of September Isabel, just before dinner in her room, heard the +trot of a couple of horses coming up the short drive, and on going downstairs +almost ran against Hubert as he came from the corridor into the hall, as the +servant ushered him in. +</p> + +<p> +The two stopped and looked at one another in silence. +</p> + +<p> +Hubert was flushed with hard riding and looked excited; Isabel’s face showed +nothing but pleasure and surprise. The servant too stopped, hesitating. +</p> + +<p> +Then Isabel put out her hand, smiling; and her voice was natural and +controlled. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mr. Hubert,” she said, “it is you! Come through this way”; and she +nodded to the servant, who went forward and opened the door of the little +parlour and stood back, as Isabel swept by him. +</p> + +<p> +When the door was closed, and the servant’s footsteps had died away, Hubert, as +he stood facing Isabel, spoke at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Isabel,” he said almost imploringly, “what can I say to you? Your +home has been wrecked; and partly through those wild and foolish words of mine; +and you repay it by that act of kindness to my wife! I am come to ask your +pardon, and to thank you. I only reached home last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that was nothing,” said Isabel gently; “and as for the house——” +</p> + +<p> +“As for the house,” he said, “I was not master of myself when I said those +words that Grace told you of; and I entreat you to let me repair the damage.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she said, “Anthony has given orders; that will all be done.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what can I do then?” he cried passionately; “if you but knew my +sorrow—and—and—more than that, my——” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel had raised her grave eyes and was looking him full in the face now; and +he stopped abashed. +</p> + +<p> +“How is Grace, and Mercy?” she asked in perfectly even tones. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Isabel——” he began; and again she looked at him, and then went to the +door. +</p> + +<p> +“I hear Mr. Buxton,” she said; and steps came along through the hall; she +opened the door as he came up. Mr. Buxton stopped abruptly, and the two men +drew themselves up and seemed to stiffen, ever so slightly. A shade of +aggressive contempt came on Hubert’s keen brown face that towered up so near +the low oak ceiling; while Mr. Buxton’s eyelids just drooped, and his features +seemed to sharpen. There was an unpleasant silence: Isabel broke it. +</p> + +<p> +“You remember Master Hubert Maxwell?” she said almost entreatingly. He smiled +kindly at her, but his face hardened again as he turned once more to Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember the gentleman perfectly,” he said, “and he no doubt knows me, and +why I cannot ask him to remain and dine with us.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert smiled brutally. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the old story of course, the Faith! I must ask your pardon, sir, for +intruding. The difficulty never came into my mind. The truth is that I have +lived so long now among Protestants that I had quite forgotten what Catholic +charity is like!” +</p> + +<p> +He said this with such extreme bitterness and fury that Isabel put out her hand +instinctively to Mr. Buxton, who smiled at her once more, and pressed it in his +own. Hubert laughed again sharply; his face grew white under the tan, and his +lips wrinkled back once or twice. +</p> + +<p> +“So, if you can spare me room to pass,” he went on in the same tone, “I will +begone to the inn.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton stepped aside from the door, and Hubert bowed to Isabel so low that +it was almost an insult in itself, and strode out, his spurs ringing on the oak +boards. +</p> + +<p> +When he half turned outside the front door to beckon to his groom to bring up +the horses, he became aware that Isabel was beside him. +</p> + +<p> +“Hubert,” she said, “Hubert, I cannot bear this.” +</p> + +<p> +There were tears in her voice, and he could not help turning and looking at +her. Her face, more grave and transparent than ever, was raised to his; her red +down-turned lips were trembling, and her eyes were full of a great emotion. He +turned away again sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Hubert,” she said again, “I was not born a Catholic, and I do not feel like +Mr. Buxton. And—and I do thank you for coming; and for your desire to repair +the house; and—and will you give my love to Grace?” +</p> + +<p> +Then he suddenly turned to her with such passion in his eyes that she shrank +back. At the same moment the groom brought up the horses; he turned and mounted +without a word, but his eyes were dim with love and anger and jealousy. Then he +drove his spurs into his great grey mare, and Isabel watched him dash between +the iron gates, with his groom only half mounted holding back his own plunging +horse. Then she went within doors again. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_V">CHAPTER V</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +JOSEPH LACKINGTON +</p> + +<p> +It was a bitter ride back to Great Keynes for Hubert. He had just returned from +watching the fifty vessels, which were all that were left of the Great Armada, +pass the Blaskets, still under the nominal command of Medina Sidonia, on their +miserable return to Spain; and he had come back as fast as sails could carry +him, round the stormy Land’s-End up along the south coast to Rye, where on his +arrival he had been almost worshipped by the rejoicing townsfolk. Yet all +through his voyage and adventures, at any rate since his interview with her at +Rye, it had been the face of Isabel there, and not of Grace, that had glimmered +to him in the dark, and led him from peril to peril. Then, at last, on his +arrival at home, he had heard of the disaster to the Dower House, and his own +unintended share in it; and of Isabel’s generous visit to his wife; and at that +he had ordered his horse abruptly over-night and ridden off without a word of +explanation to Grace on the following morning. And he had been met by a +sneering man who would not sit at table with him, and who was the protector and +friend of Isabel. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +He rode up through the village just after dark and in through the gatehouse up +to the steps. A man ran to open the door, and as Hubert came through told him +that a stranger had ridden down from London and had arrived at mid-day, and +that he had been waiting ever since. +</p> + +<p> +“I gave the gentleman dinner in the cloister parlour, sir; and he is at supper +now,” added the man. +</p> + +<p> +Hubert nodded and pushed through the hall. He heard his name called timidly +from upstairs, and looking up saw his wife’s golden head over the banisters. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, it is you. I am so glad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who else should it be?” said Hubert, and passed through towards the cloister +wing, and opened the door of the little parlour where Isabel and Mistress +Margaret had sat together years before, the night of Mr. James’ return, and of +the girl’s decision. +</p> + +<p> +A stranger rose up hastily as he came in, and bowed with great deference. +Hubert knew his face, but could not remember his name. +</p> + +<p> +“I ask your pardon, Mr. Maxwell; but your man would take no denial,” and he +indicated the supper-table with a steaming dish and a glass jug of wine ruddy +in the candlelight. Hubert looked at him curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“I know you, sir,” he said, “but I cannot put a name to your face.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lackington,” said the man with a half smile; “Joseph Lackington.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert still stared; and then suddenly burst into a short laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes,” he said; “I know now. My father’s servant.” +</p> + +<p> +The man bowed. +</p> + +<p> +“Formerly, sir; and now agent to Sir Francis Walsingham,” he said, with +something of dignity in his manner. +</p> + +<p> +Hubert saw the hint, but could not resist a small sneer. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I am pleased to see you,” he said. “You have come to see your +old—home?” and he threw himself into a chair and stretched his legs to the +blaze, for he was stiff with riding. Lackington instantly sat down too, for his +pride was touched. +</p> + +<p> +“It was not for that, Mr. Maxwell,” he said almost in the tone of an equal, +“but on a mission for Sir Francis.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert looked at him a moment as he sat there in the candlelight, with his arm +resting easily on the table. He was plainly prosperous, and was even dressed +with some distinction; his reddish beard was trimmed to a point; his high +forehead was respectably white and bald; and his seals hung from his belt +beside his dagger with an air of ease and solidity. Perhaps he was of some +importance; at any rate, Sir Francis Walsingham was. Hubert sat up a little. +</p> + +<p> +“A mission to me?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Lackington nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“A few questions on a matter of state.” +</p> + +<p> +He drew from his pouch a paper signed by Sir Francis authorising him as an +agent, for one month, and dated three days back; and handed it to Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“I obtained that from Sir Francis on Monday, as you will see. You can trust me +implicitly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will the business take long?” asked Hubert, handing the paper back. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mr. Maxwell; and I must be gone in an hour in any case. I have to be at +Rye at noon to-morrow; and I must sleep at Mayfield to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“At Rye,” said Hubert, “why I came from there yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +Lackington bowed again, as if he were quite aware of this; but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will sup here,” went on Hubert, “and we will talk meantime.” +</p> + +<p> +When a place had been laid for him, he drew his chair round to the table and +began to eat. +</p> + +<p> +“May I begin at once?” asked Lackington, who had finished. +</p> + +<p> +Hubert nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Then first I believe it to be a fact that you spoke with Mistress Isabel +Norris on board the <i> Elizabeth </i> at Rye on the tenth of August last.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert had started violently at her name; but did his utmost to gain outward +command of himself again immediately. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +—“And with Master Anthony Norris, lately made a priest beyond the seas.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is a lie,” said Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +Lackington politely lifted his eyebrows. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed?” he said. “That he was made a priest, or that you spoke with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I know aught of him,” said Hubert. His heart was beating furiously. +</p> + +<p> +Lackington made a note rather ostentatiously; he could see that Hubert was +frightened, and thought that it was because of a possible accusation of having +dealings with a traitor. +</p> + +<p> +“And as regards Mistress Norris,” he said judicially, with his pencil raised, +“you deny having spoken with her?” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert was thinking furiously. Then he saw that Lackington knew too much for +its being worth his own while to deny it. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I never denied that,” he said, lifting his fork to his mouth; and he went +on eating with a deliberate ease as Lackington again made a note. +</p> + +<p> +The next question was a home-thrust. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are they both now?” asked Lackington, looking at him. Hubert’s mind +laboured like a mill. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“You swear it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I swear it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then Mistress Norris has changed her plans?” said Lackington swiftly. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why she told you where they were going when you met?” said the other in a +remonstrating tone. +</p> + +<p> +Hubert suddenly saw the game. If the authorities really knew that, it would +have been a useless question. He stared at Lackington with an admirable +vacancy. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed she did not,” he said. “For aught I know, they—she is in France +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“They?” said Lackington shrewdly. “Then you do know somewhat of the priest?” +</p> + +<p> +But Hubert was again too sharp. +</p> + +<p> +“Only what you told me just now, when you said he was at Rye. I supposed you +were telling the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +Lackington passed his hand smoothly over his mouth and beard, and smiled. +Either Hubert was very sharp or else he had told everything; and he did not +believe him sharp. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Mr. Maxwell,” he said, with a complete dropping of his judicial +manner. “I will not pretend not to be disappointed; but I believe what you say +about France is true; and that it is no use looking for him further.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert experienced an extraordinary relief. He had saved Isabel. He drank off a +glass of claret. “Tell me everything,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Lackington, “Mr. Thomas Hamon is my informant. He sent up to Sir +Francis the message that a lady of the name of Norris had been introduced to +him at Rye; because he thought he remembered some stir in the county several +years ago about some reconciliations to Rome connected with that name. Of +course we knew everything about that: and we have our agents at the seminaries +too; so we concluded that she was one of our birds; the rest, of course, was +guesswork. Mr. Norris has certainly left Douai for England; and he may possibly +even now be in England; but from your information and others’, I now believe +that Mistress Isabel came across first, and that she found the country too hot, +what with the Spaniards and all; and that she returned to France at once. Of +course during that dreadful week, Mr. Maxwell, we could not be certain of all +vessels that came and went; so I think she just slipped across again; and that +they are both waiting in France. We shall keep good watch now at the ports, I +can promise you.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert’s emotions were varied during this speech. First shame at having +entirely forgotten the mayor of Rye and his own introduction of Isabel to him; +then astonishment at the methods of Walsingham’s agents; and lastly intense +triumph and relief at having put them off Isabel’s track. For Anthony, too, he +had nothing but kindly feelings; so, on the whole, he thought he had done well +for his friends. +</p> + +<p> +The two talked a little longer; Lackington was a stimulating companion from +both his personality and his position; and Hubert found himself almost sorry +when his companion said he must be riding on to Mayfield. As he walked out with +him to the front door, he suddenly thought of Mr. Buxton again and his +reception in the afternoon. They had wandered in their conversation so far from +the Norrises by now that he felt sure he could speak of him without doing them +any harm. So, as they stood on the steps together, waiting for Lackington’s +horse to come round, he suddenly said: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know aught of one Buxton, who lives somewhere near Tonbridge, I +think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Buxton, Buxton?” said the other. +</p> + +<p> +“I met him in town once,” went on Hubert smoothly; “a little man, dark, with +large eyes, and looks somewhat like a Frenchman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Buxton, Buxton?” said the other again. “A Papist, is he not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Hubert, hoping to get some information against him. +</p> + +<p> +“A friend?” asked Lackington. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Hubert with such vehemence that Lackington looked at him. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember him,” he said in a moment; “he was imprisoned at Wisbeach six or +seven years ago. But I do not think he has been in trouble since. You wish, you +wish——?” he went on interrogatively. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” said Hubert; but Lackington saw the hatred in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +The horses came round at this moment; and Lackington said good-bye to Hubert +with a touch of the old deference again, and mounted. Hubert watched him out +under the gatehouse-lamp into the night beyond, and then he went in again, +pondering. +</p> + +<p> +His wife was waiting for him in the hall now—a delicate golden-haired figure, +with pathetic blue eyes turned up to him. She ran to him and took his arm +timidly in her two hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I am glad that man has gone, Hubert.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked down at her almost contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you know nothing of him!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Not much,” she said, “but he asked me so many questions.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert started and looked suddenly at her, in terror. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Hubert!” she said, shrinking back frightened. +</p> + +<p> +“Questions!” he said, seizing her hands. “Questions of whom?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of—of—Mistress Isabel Norris,” she said, almost crying. +</p> + +<p> +“And—and—what did you say? Did you tell him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Hubert!—I am so sorry—ah! do not look like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did you say? What did you say?” he said between his teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“I—I—told a lie, Hubert; I said I had never seen her.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert took his wife suddenly in his two arms and kissed her three or four +times. +</p> + +<p> +“You darling, you darling!” he said; and then stooped and picked her up, and +carried her upstairs, with her head against his cheek, and her tears running +down because he was pleased with her, instead of angry. +</p> + +<p> +They went upstairs and he set her down softly outside the nursery door. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” she said, smiling up at him; and then softly opened the door and +listened, her finger on her lip; there was no sound from within; then she +pushed the door open gently, and the wife and husband went in. +</p> + +<p> +There was a shaded taper still burning in a high bracket where an image of the +Mother of God had stood in the Catholic days of the house. Hubert glanced up at +it and remembered it, with just a touch at his heart. Beneath it was a little +oak cot, where his four-year-old boy lay sleeping; the mother went across and +bent over it, and Hubert leaned his brown sinewy hands on the end of the cot +and watched him. There his son lay, with tangled curls on the pillow; his +finger was on his lips as if he bade silence even to thought. Hubert looked up, +and just above the bed, where the crucifix used to hang when he himself had +slept in this nursery, probably on the very same nail, he thought to himself, +was a rusty Spanish spur that he himself had found in a sea-chest of the <i> +San Juan</i>. The boy had hung up with a tarry bit of string this emblem of his +father’s victory, as a protection while he slept. +</p> + +<p> +The child stirred in his sleep and murmured as the two watched him. +</p> + +<p> +“Father’s home again,” whispered the mother. “It is all well. Go to sleep +again.” +</p> + +<p> +When she looked up again to her husband, he was gone. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +It was not often that Hubert had regrets for the Faith he had lost; but +to-night things had conspired to prick him. There was his rebuff from Mr. +Buxton; there was the sight of Isabel in the dignified grace that he had +noticed so plainly before; there had been the interview with the ex-Catholic +servant, now a spy of the Government, and a remorseless enemy of all Catholics; +and lastly there were the two little external reminders of the niche and the +nail over his son’s bed. +</p> + +<p> +He sat long before the fire in Sir Nicholas’ old room, now his own study. As he +lay back and looked about him, how different this all was, too! The mantelpiece +was almost unaltered; the Maxwell devices, two-headed eagles, hurcheons and +saltires, on crowded shields, interlaced with the motto <i> Reviresco</i>, all +newly gilded since his own accession to the estate, rose up in deep shadow and +relief; but over it, instead of the little old picture of the Vernacle that he +remembered as a child, hung his own sword. Was that a sign of progress? he +wondered. The tapestry on the east wall was the same, a hawking scene with +herons and ladies in immense headdresses that he had marvelled at as a boy. But +then the books on the shelves to the right of the door, they were different; +there had been old devotional books in his father’s time, mingled strangely +with small works on country life and sports; now the latter only remained, and +the nearest to a devotional book was a volume of a mystical herbalist who +identified plants with virtues, strangely and ingeniously. Then the prie-dieu, +where the beads had hung and the little wooden shield with the Five Wounds +painted upon it—that was gone; and in its place hung a cupboard where he kept a +crossbow and a few tools for it; and old hawk-lures and jesses and the like. +</p> + +<p> +Then he lay back again, and thought. +</p> + +<p> +Had he then behaved unworthily? This old Faith that had been handed down from +father and son for generations; that had been handed to him too as the most +precious heirloom of all—for which his father had so gladly suffered fines and +imprisonment, and risked death—he had thrown it over, and for what? For Isabel, +he confessed to himself; and then the—the Power that stands behind the visible +had cheated him and withdrawn that for which he had paid over that great price. +Was that a reckless and brutal bargain on his side—to throw over this strange +delicate thing called the Faith for which so many millions had lived and died, +all for a woman’s love? A curious kind of family pride in the Faith began to +prick him. After all, was not honour in a manner bound up with it too; and most +of all when such heavy penalties attached themselves to the profession of it? +Was that the moment when he should be the first of his line to abandon it? +</p> + +<p> +<i> Reviresco</i>—“I renew my springtide.” But was not this a strange +grafting—a spur for a crucifix, a crossbow for a place of prayer? <i> +Reviresco</i>—There was sap indeed in the old tree; but from what soil did it +draw its strength? +</p> + +<p> +His heart began to burn with something like shame, as it had burned now and +again at intervals during these past years. Here he lay back in his father’s +chair, in his father’s room, the first Protestant of the Maxwells. Then he +passed on to a memory. +</p> + +<p> +As he closed his eyes, he could see even now the chapel upstairs, with the +tapers alight and the stiff figure of the priest in the midst of the glow; he +could smell the flowers on the altar, the June roses strewn on the floor in the +old manner, and their fresh dewy scent mingled with the fragrance of the rich +incense in an intoxicating chord; he could hear the rustle that emphasised the +silence, as his mother rose from his side and went up for communion, and the +breathing of the servants behind him. +</p> + +<p> +Then for contrast he remembered the whitewashed church where he attended now +with his wife, Sunday by Sunday, the pulpit occupied by the black figure of the +virtuous Mr. Bodder pronouncing his discourse, the great texts that stood out +in their new paint from the walls, the table that stood out unashamed and +sideways in the midst of the chancel. And which of the two worships was most +like God?... +</p> + +<p> +Then he compared the worshippers in either mode. Well, Drake, his hero, was a +convinced Protestant; the bravest man he had ever met or dreamed of—fiery, +pertinacious, gloriously insolent. He thought of his sailors, on whom a portion +of Drake’s spirit fell, their gallantry, their fearlessness of death and of all +that comes after; of Mr. Bodder, who was now growing middle-aged in the +Vicarage—yes, indeed, they were all admirable in various ways, but were they +like Christ? +</p> + +<p> +On the other hand, his father, in spite of his quick temper, his mother, +brother, aunt, the priests who came and went by night, Isabel—and at that he +stopped: and like a deep voice in his ear rose up the last tremendous question, +What if the Catholic Religion be true after all? And at that the supernatural +began to assert itself. It seemed as if the empty air were full of this +question, rising in intensity and emphasis. What if it is true? What if it is +true? <i> What if it is true? </i> +</p> + +<p> +He sat bolt upright and looked sharply round the room; the candles burned +steadily in the sconce near the door. The tapestry lifted and dropped +noiselessly in the draught; the dark corners beyond the press and in the window +recesses suggested presences that waited; the wide chimney sighed suddenly +once. +</p> + +<p> +Was that a voice in his ear just now, or only in his heart? But in either +case—— +</p> + +<p> +He made an effort to command himself, and looked again steadily round the room; +but there seemed no one there. But what if the old tale be true? In that case +he is not alone in this little oak room, for there is no such thing as +loneliness. In that case he is sitting in full sight of Almighty God, whom he +has insulted; and of the saints whose power he has repudiated; and of the +angels good and bad who have—— Ah! what was that? There had seemed to come a +long sigh somewhere behind him; on his left surely.—What was it? Some wandering +soul? Was it, could it be the soul of one who had loved him and desired to warn +him before it was too late? Could it have been——and then it came again; and the +hair prickled on his head. +</p> + +<p> +How deathly still it is, and how cold! Ah! was that a rustle outside; a tap?... +In God’s name, who can that be?... +</p> + +<p> +And then Hubert licked his dry lips and brought them together and smiled at +Grace, who had come down, opening the doors as she came, to see why he had not +come to bed. +</p> + +<p> +Bah! what a superstitious fool he was, after all! +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_VI">CHAPTER VI</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +A DEPARTURE +</p> + +<p> +The months went by happily at Stanfield; and, however ill went the fortunes of +the Church elsewhere, here at least were peace and prosperity. Most +discouraging news indeed did reach them from time to time. The severe penalties +now enacted against the practice of the Catholic Religion were being enforced +with great vigour, and the weak members of the body began to fail. Two priests +had apostatised at Chichester earlier in the year, one of them actually at the +scaffold on Broyle Heath; and then in December there were two more recantations +at Paul’s Cross. Those Catholics too who threw up the Faith generally became +the most aggressive among the persecutors, to testify to their own consciences, +as well to the Protestants, of the sincerity of their conversion. +</p> + +<p> +But in Stanfield the Church flourished, and Anthony had the great happiness of +receiving his first convert in the person of Mr. Rowe, the young owner of a +house called East Maskells, separated from Stanfield Place by a field-path of +under a mile in length, though the road round was over two; and the comings and +goings were frequent now between the two houses. Mr. Rowe was at present +unmarried, and had his aunt to keep house for him, a tolerant old maiden lady +who had conformed placidly to the Reformed Religion thirty years before, and +was now grown content with it. Several “schismatics” too—as those Catholics +were called who attended their parish church—had waxed bolder, and given up +their conformity to the Establishment; so it was a happy and courageous flock +that gathered Sunday by Sunday at Stanfield Place. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Just before Christmas, Anthony received a long and affectionate letter from +James Maxwell, who was still at Douai. +</p> + +<p> +“The Rector will still have me here,” he wrote, “and shows me to the young men +as if I were a kind of warrior; which is bad for pride; but then he humbles me +again by telling me I am of more use here as an example, than I should be in +England; and that humbles me again. So I am content to stay. It is a humbling +thing, too, to find young men who can tell me the history of my arms and legs +better than I know it myself. But the truth is, I can never walk well again—yet +<i> laudetur Jesus Christus</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Then James Maxwell wrote a little about his grief for Hubert; gave a little +news of foreign movements among the Catholics; and finally ended as follows: +</p> + +<p> +“At last I understand who your friend was behind Bow Church, who stuttered and +played the Catholic so well. It was our old servant Lackington; who turned +Protestant and entered Walsingham’s service. I hear all this from one P. lately +in the same affairs, but now turned to Christ his service instead; and who has +entered here as a student. So beware of him; he has a pointed beard now, and a +bald forehead. I hear, too, from the same source that he was on your track when +you landed, but now thinks you to be in France. However, he knows of you; so I +counsel you not to abide over long in one place. Perhaps you may go to +Lancashire; that is like heaven itself for Catholics. Their zeal and piety +there are beyond praise; but I hear they somewhat lack priests. God keep you +always, my dear Brother; and may the Queen of Heaven intercede for you. Pray +for me.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Soon after the New Year, Mary Corbet was able to get away from Court and come +down again to her friends for a month or two at Stanfield. +</p> + +<p> +During her stay they all had an adventure together at East Maskells. They had +been out a long expedition into the woods one clear frosty day and rode in just +at sunset for an early supper with Mr. Rowe and his aunt. +</p> + +<p> +They had left their horses at the stable and come in round the back of the +house; so that they missed the servant Miss Rowe had placed at the front door +to warn them, and came straight into the winter-parlour, where they found Miss +Rowe in conversation with an ecclesiastic. There was no time to retreat; and +Anthony in a moment more found himself being introduced to a minister he had +met at Lambeth more than once—the Reverend Robert Carr, who had held the odd +title of “Archbishop’s Curate” and the position of minister in charge of the +once collegiate church of All Saints’, Maidstone, ever since the year ’59. He +had ridden up from Maidstone for supper and lodging, and was on his way to +town. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony managed to interrupt Miss Rowe before she came to his assumed name +Capell, and remarked rather loudly that he had met Mr. Carr before; who +recognised him too, and greeted him by his real name. +</p> + +<p> +It was an uncomfortable situation, as Mr. Carr was quite unaware of the +religion of five out of six of those present, and very soon began to give voice +to his views on Papistry. He was an oldish man by now, and of some importance +in Maidstone, where he had been appointed Jurat by the Corporation, and was a +very popular and influential man. +</p> + +<p> +“The voice of the people,” he said in the midst of a conversation on the +national feeling towards Spain, “that is what we must hearken to. Even +sovereigns themselves must come to that some day. They must rule by obeying; as +man does with God’s laws in nature.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you say that, sir, of her Grace?” asked Mary Corbet meekly. +</p> + +<p> +“I should, madam; though I fear she has injured her power by her behaviour this +year. It was her people who saved her.—Hawkins, who is now ruined as he says; +my lord Howard, who has paid from his own purse for the meat and drink of her +Grace’s soldiers, and those who fought with them; and not her Grace, who saved +them; or Leicester, now gone to his account, who sat at Tilbury and did the +bowing and the prancing and the talking while Hawkins and the rest did the +fighting. No, madam, it is the voice of the people to which we must hearken.” +</p> + +<p> +This was rather confused and dangerous talking too; but here was plainly a man +to be humoured; he looked round him with a suffused face and the eye of a cock, +and a little white plume on his forehead increased his appearance of pugnacity. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the same in religion,” he said, when all preserved a deferential +silence; “it is that that lies at the root of papist errors. As you know very +well,” he went on, turning suddenly on Anthony, “our bishops do nothing to +guide men’s minds; they only seem to: they ride atop like the figure on a +cock-horse, but it is the legs beneath that do the work and the guiding too: +now that is right and good; and the Church of England will prosper so long as +she goes like that. But if the bishops try to rule they will find their +mistake. Now the Popish Church is not like that; she holds that power comes +from above, that the Pope guides the bishops, the bishops the priests, and the +priests the people.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the Holy Ghost the Pope; is it not so, sir?” asked Mr. Buxton. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Carr turned an eye on him. +</p> + +<p> +“So they hold, sir,” he said after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“They think then, sir, that the shepherds guide the sheep?” asked Anthony +humbly. +</p> + +<p> +Mary Corbet gave a yelp of laughter; but when Mr. Carr looked at her she was +grave and deferential again. Miss Rowe looked entreatingly from face to face. +The minister did not notice Anthony’s remark; but swept on again on what was +plainly his favourite theme,—the infallibility of the people. It was a doctrine +that was hardly held yet by any; but the next century was to see its gradual +rise until it reached its climax in the Puritanism of the Stuart times. It was +true, as Mr. Carr said, that Elizabeth had ruled by obeying; and that the +people of England, encouraged by success in resisting foreign domination, were +about to pass on to the second position of resisting any domination at all. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he pulled out of his pocket a small printed sheet, and was soon +declaiming from it. It was not very much to the point, except as illustrating +the national spirit which he believed so divine. It was a ballad describing the +tortures which the Spaniards had intended to inflict upon the heretic English, +and began: +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p> +“All you that list to look and see +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +What profit comes from Spain, +</p> + +<p> +And what the Pope and Spaniards both +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +Prepared for our gain. +</p> + +<p> +Then turn your eyes and lend your ears +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +And you shall hear and see +</p> + +<p> +What courteous minds, what gentle hearts, +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +They bear to thee and me! +</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +And it ended in the same spirit: +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p> +“Be these the men that are so mild +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +Whom some so holy call! +</p> + +<p> +The <span class="sc"> Lord </span> defend our noble Queen +</p> + +<p class="i2"> +And country from them all!” +</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +“There!” the minister cried when he had done, “that is what the Papists are +like! Trust me; I know them. I should know one in a moment if he ventured into +this room, by his crafty face. But the Lord will defend His own Englishmen; +nay! He has done so. ‘God blew and they were scattered,’” he ended, quoting +from the Armada medal. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +As the four rode home by pairs across the field-path in the frosty moonlight +Mr. Buxton lamented to Anthony the effect of the Armada. +</p> + +<p> +“The national spirit is higher than ever,” he said, “and it will be the death +of Catholicism here for the present. Our country squires, I fear, faithful +Catholics to this time, are beginning to wonder and question. When will our +Catholic kings learn that Christ His Kingdom is not of this world? Philip has +smitten the Faith in England with the weapon which he drew in its defence, as +he thought.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was once of that national spirit myself,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember you were,” said Mr. Buxton, smiling; “and what grace has done to +you it may do to others.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The spring went by, and in the week after Easter, James’ news about Lancashire +was verified by a letter from a friend of Mr. Buxton’s, a Mr. Norreys, the +owner of one of the staunch Catholic houses, Speke Hall, on the bank of the +Mersey. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” he wrote, “by the mercy of God there is no lack of priests, though +there be none to spare; my own chaplain says mass by dispensation thrice on +Sunday; but on the moors the sheep look up and are not fed; and such patient +sheep! I heard but last week of a church where the folk resort, priest or no, +each Sunday to the number of two hundred, and are led by a lector in devotion, +ending with an act of spiritual communion made all together. These damnable +heresies of which the apostle wrote have not poisoned the springs of sound +doctrine; some of us here know naught yet of Elizabeth and her supremacy, or +even of seven-wived Harry his reformation. Send us then, dear friend, a priest, +or at least the promise of one; lest we perish quite.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton had a sore struggle with himself over this letter; but at last he +carried it to Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“Read that,” he said; and stood waiting. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked up when he had done. +</p> + +<p> +“I am your chaplain,” he said, “but I am God’s priest first.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear lad,” said his friend, “I feared you would say so; and I will say +so to Norreys”; and he left the room at once. +</p> + +<p> +And so at last it came to be arranged that Anthony should leave for Lancashire +at the end of July; and that after his departure Stanfield should be served +occasionally by the priest who lived on the outskirts of Tonbridge; but the +daily mass would have to cease, and that was a sore trouble to Mr. Buxton. No +definite decision could be made as to when Anthony could return; that must wait +until he saw the needs of Lancashire; but he hoped to be able at least to pay a +visit to Stanfield again in the spring of the following year. +</p> + +<p> +It was arranged also, of course, that Isabel should accompany her brother. They +were both of large independent means, and could travel in some dignity; and her +presence would be under these circumstances a protection as well as a comfort +to Anthony. It would need very great sharpness to detect the seminary priest +under Anthony’s disguise, and amid the surroundings of his cavalcade of four or +five armed servants, a French maid, and a distinguished-looking lady. +</p> + +<p> +Yet, in spite of this, Mr. Buxton resolved to do his utmost to prevent Isabel +from going to Lancashire; partly, of course, he disliked the thought of the +dangers and hardships that she was certain to encounter; but the real motive +was that he had fallen very deeply in love with her. It was her exceptional +serenity that seemed to him her greatest charm; her movements, her face, her +grey eyes, the very folds of her dress seemed to breathe with it; and to one of +Mr. Buxton’s temperament such a presence was cool and sweet and strangely +fascinating. +</p> + +<p> +It was now April, and he resolved to devote the next month or two to preparing +her for his proposal; and he wrote frankly to Mary Corbet telling her how +matters stood, entreating her to come down for July and counsel him. Mary wrote +back at once, rather briefly, promising to come; but not encouraging him +greatly. +</p> + +<p> +“I would I could cheer you more,” she wrote; “of course I have not seen Isabel +since January; but, unless she has changed, I do not think she will marry you. +I am writing plainly you see, as you ask in your letter. But I can still say, +God prosper you.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +As the spring went by and the summer came on, Isabel grew yet more silent. As +the evenings began to lengthen out she used to spend much time before and after +supper in walking up and down the clipped lime avenue between the east end of +the church and the great gates that looked over the meadows across which the +stream and the field-path ran towards East Maskells. Mr. Buxton would watch her +sometimes from an upstairs window, himself unseen, and occasionally would go +out and talk with her; but he found it harder than he used to get on to +intimate relations; and he began to suspect that he had displeased her in some +way, and that Mary Corbet was right. In the afternoon she and Anthony would +generally ride out together, once or twice going round by Penshurst, and their +host would torture himself by his own indecision as regards accompanying them; +sometimes doing so, sometimes refraining, and regretting whichever he did. More +and more he began to look forward to Mary’s coming and the benefit of her +advice; and at last, at the end of June, she came. +</p> + +<p> +Their first evening together was delightful for them all. She was happy at her +escape from Court; her host was happy at the prospect of her counsel; and all +four were happy at being together again. +</p> + +<p> +They did not meet till supper, and even that was put off an hour, because Mary +had not come, and when she did arrive she was full of excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you all at supper,” she said to her host, whom she met in the +hall. “Oh! how late I am!” and she whirled past him and upstairs without +another word. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +“I will first give you the news in brief,” she said, when Anthony had said +grace and they were seated, all four of them as before; and the +trumpet-flourish was silent that had announced the approach of the venison. +</p> + +<p> +“Mutton’s new chaplain, Dr. Bancroft, will be in trouble soon; he hath been +saying favourable things for some of us poor papists, and hath rated the +Precisians soundly. Sir Francis Knollys is wroth with him; but that is no +matter.—Her Grace played at cards till two of the clock this morning, and that +is why I am so desperate sleepy to-night, for I had to sit up too; and that is +a great matter.—Drake and Norris, ’tis said, have whipped the dons again at +Corunna; and the Queen has sworn to pull my lord Essex his ears for going with +them and adventuring his precious self; and that is no matter at all, but will +do him good.—George Luttrell hath put up a coat of arms in his hall at Dunster, +which is a great matter to him, but to none else;—and I have robbed a +highwayman this day in the beech woods this side of Groombridge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear lady,” said Mr. Buxton resignedly, as the others looked up startled, +“you are too swift for our dull rustic ears; we will begin at the end, if you +please. Is it true you have robbed an highwayman?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is perfectly true,” she said, and unlatched a ruby brooch, made +heart-shape, from her dress. “There is the plunder,” and she held it out for +inspection. +</p> + +<p> +“Then tell us the tale,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“It would be five of the clock,” said Mary, “as we came through Groombridge, +and then into the woods beyond. I had bidden my knaves ride on before with my +woman; I came down into a dingle where there was a stream; and, to tell the +truth, I had my head down and was a-nodding, when my horse stopped; and I +looked up of a sudden and there was a man on a bay mare, with a mask to his +mouth, a gay green suit, a brown beard turning grey, and this ruby brooch at +his throat; and he had caught my bridle. I saw him start when I lifted my head, +as if he were taken aback. I said nothing, but he led my horse off the road +down among the trees with a deep little thicket where none could see us. As we +went I was thinking like a windmill; for I knew I had seen the little red +brooch before. +</p> + +<p> +“When we reached the little open space, I asked him what he wished with me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Your purse, madam,’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +“‘My woman hath it,’ said I. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Your jewels then, madam,’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +“‘My woman hath them,’ said I, ‘save this paste buckle in my hat, to which you +are welcome.’ It was diamonds, you know; but I knew he would not know that. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What a mistake,’ I said, ‘to stop the mistress and let the maid go free!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Nay,’ he said, ‘I am glad of it; for at least I will have a dance with the +mistress; and I could not with the maid.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘You are welcome to that,’ I said, and I slipped off my horse, to humour him, +and even as I slipped off I knew who he was, for although many have red +brooches, and many brown beards turning grey, few have both together; but I +said nothing. And there—will you believe it?—we danced under the beech-trees +like Phyllis and Corydon, or whoever they are that Sidney is always prating of; +or like two fools, I would sooner say. Then when we had done, I made him a +curtsey. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Now you must help me up,’ said I, and he mounted me without a word, for he +was a stoutish gallant and somewhat out of breath. And then what did the fool +do but try to kiss me, and as he lifted his arm I snatched the brooch and put +spur to my horse, and as we went up the bank I screamed at him, ‘Claude, you +fool, go home to your wife and take shame to yourself.’ And when I was near the +road I looked back, and he still stood there all agape.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what was his name?” asked Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay, I have mocked him enough. And I know four Claudes, so you need not +try to guess.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +When supper was over, Mr. Buxton and Mary walked up and down the south path of +the garden between the yews, while the other two sat just outside the hall +window on a seat placed on the tiled terrace that ran round the house. +</p> + +<p> +“How I have longed for you to come, Mistress Mary,” he said, “and counsel me +of the matter we wrote about. Tell me what to do.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary looked meditatively out to the strip of moon that was rising out to the +east in the June sky. Then she looked tenderly at her friend. +</p> + +<p> +“I hate to pain you,” she said, “but cannot you see that it is impossible? I +may be wrong; but I think her heart is so given to our Saviour that there is no +love of that sort left.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, how can you say that?” he cried; “the love of the Saviour does not hinder +earthly love; it purifies and transfigures it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mary gravely, “it is often so—but the love of the true spouse of +Christ is different. That leaves no room for an earthly bridegroom.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton was silent a moment or two. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean it is the love of the consecrated soul?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary bowed her head. “But I cannot be sure,” she added. +</p> + +<p> +“Then what shall I do?” he said again, almost piteously; and Mary could see +even in the faint moonlight that his pleasant face was all broken up and +quivering. She laid her hand gently on his arm, and her rings flashed. +</p> + +<p> +“You must be very patient,” she said, “very full of deference—and grave. You +must not be ardent nor impetuous, but speak slowly and reverently to her, but +at no great length; be plain with her; do not look in her face, and do not show +anxiety or despair or hope. You need not fear that your love will not be plain +to her. Indeed, I think she knows it already.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I have not——” he began. +</p> + +<p> +“I know you have not spoken to her; but I saw that she only looked at you once +during supper, and that was when your face was turned from her; she does not +wish to look you in the eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, she hates me,” he sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not be foolish,” said Mary, “she honours you, and loves you, and is +grieved for your grief; but I do not think she will marry you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when shall I speak?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“You must wait; God will make the opportunity—in any case. You must not attempt +to make it. That would terrify her.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you will speak for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary smiled at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear friend,” she said, “sometimes I think you do not know us at all. Do you +not see that Isabel is greater than all that? What she knows, she knows. I +could tell her nothing.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The days passed on; the days of the last month of the Norrises’ stay at +Stanfield. Half-way through the month came the news of the Oxford executions. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! listen to this,” cried Mr. Buxton, coming out to them one evening in the +garden with a letter in his hand. “‘Humphrey Prichard,’” he read, “‘made a good +end. He protested he was condemned for the Catholic Faith; that he willingly +died for it; that he was a Catholic. One of their ministers laughed at him, +saying he was a poor ignorant fellow who knew not what it was to be a Catholic. +‘I know very well;’ said Humphrey, ‘though I cannot say it in proper divinity +language.’ There is the Religion for you!” went on Mr. Buxton; “all meet +there, wise and simple alike. There is no difference; no scholarship is needed +for faith. ‘I know what it is,’ cried Humphrey, ‘though I cannot explain it!’” +</p> + +<p> +The news came to Anthony just when he needed it; he felt he had done so little +to teach his flock now he was to leave them; but if he had only done something +to keep alive the fire of faith, he had not lost his time; and so he went about +his spiritual affairs with new heart, encouraging the wavering, whom he was to +leave, warning the over-confident, urging the hesitating, and saying good-bye +to them all. Isabel went with him sometimes; or sometimes walked or rode with +Mary, and was silent for the most part in public. The master of the house +himself did his affairs, and carried a heavier heart each day. And at last the +opportunity came which Mary had predicted. +</p> + +<p> +He had come in one evening after a hot ride alone over to Tonbridge on some +business with the priest there; and had dressed for supper immediately on +coming in. +</p> + +<p> +As there was still nearly an hour before supper, he went out to walk up and +down the same yew-alley near the garden-house where he had walked with Mary. +Anthony and Isabel had returned a little later from East Maskells, and they too +had dressed early. Isabel threw a lace shawl over her head, and betook herself +too to the alley; and there she turned a corner and almost ran into her host. +</p> + +<p> +It was, as Mary had said, a God-made opportunity. Neither time nor place could +have been improved. If externals were of any value to this courtship, all that +could have helped was there. The setting of the picture was perfect; a tall +yew-hedge ran down the northern side of the walk, cut, as Bacon recommended, +not fantastically but “with some pretty pyramids”; a strip of turf separated it +from the walk, giving a sense both of privacy and space; on the south side ran +flower-beds in the turf, with yews and cypresses planted here and there, and an +oak paling beyond; to the east lay the “fair mount,” again recommended by the +same authority, but not so high, and with but one ascent; to the west the path +darkened under trees, and over all rose up against the sunset sky the tall +grotesque towers and vanes of the garden-house. The flowers burned with that +ember-like glow which may be seen on summer evenings, and poured out their +scent; the air was sweet and cool, and white moths were beginning to poise and +stir among the blossoms. The two actors on this scene too were not unworthy of +it; his dark velvet and lace with the glimmer of diamonds here and there, and +his delicate bearded clean-cut face, a little tanned, thrown into relief by the +spotless crisp ruff beneath, and above all his air of strength and refinement +and self-possession—all combined to make him a formidable stormer of a girl’s +heart. And as he looked on her—on her clear almost luminous face and great +eyes, shrined in the drooping lace shawl, through which a jewel or two in her +black hair glimmered, her upright slender figure in its dark sheath, and the +hand, white and cool, that held her shawl together over her breast—he had a +pang of hope and despair at once, at the sudden sense of need of this splendid +creature of God to be one with him, and reign with him over these fair +possessions; and of hopelessness at the thought that anything so perfect could +be accomplished in this imperfect world. +</p> + +<p> +He turned immediately and walked beside her, and they both knew, in the silence +that followed, that the crisis had come. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Isabel,” he said, still looking down as he spoke, and his voice +sounded odd to her ears, “I wonder if you know what I would say to you.” +</p> + +<p> +There came no sound from her, but the rustle of her dress. +</p> + +<p> +“But I must say it,” he went on, “follow what may. It is this. I love you +dearly.” +</p> + +<p> +Her walk faltered beside him, and it seemed as if she would stand still. +</p> + +<p> +“A moment,” he said, and he lifted his white restrained face. “I ask you to be +patient with me. Perhaps I need not say that I have never said this to any +woman before; but more, I have never even thought it. I do not know how to +speak, nor what I should say; beyond this, that since I first met you at the +door across there, a year ago, you have taught me ever since what love means; +and now I am come to you, as to my dear mistress, with my lesson learnt.” +</p> + +<p> +They were standing together now; he was still turned a little away from her, +and dared not lift his eyes to her face again. Then of a sudden he felt her +hand on his arm for a moment, and he looked up, and saw her eyes all swimming +with sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear friend,” she said quite simply, “it is impossible—Ah! what can I say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Give me a moment more,” he said; and they walked on slowly. “I know what +presumption this is; but I will not spin phrases about that. Nor do I ask what +is impossible; but I will only ask leave to teach you in my turn what love +means.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! that is the hardest of all to say,” she said, “but I know already.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not quite understand, and glanced at her a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“I once loved too,” she whispered. He drew a sharp breath. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me,” he said, “I forced that from you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are never anything but courteous and kind,” she said, “and that makes +this harder than all.” +</p> + +<p> +They walked in silence half a dozen steps. +</p> + +<p> +“Have I distressed you?” he asked, glancing at her again. +</p> + +<p> +Then she looked full in his face, and her eyes were overflowing. +</p> + +<p> +“I am grieved for your sorrow,” she said, “and at my own unworthiness, you +know that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that you are now and always will be my dear mistress and queen.” +</p> + +<p> +His voice broke altogether as he ended, and he bent and took her hand +delicately in his own, as if it were royal, and kissed it. Then she gave a +great sob and slipped away through the opening in the clipped hedge; and he was +left alone with the dusk and his sorrow. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +A week later Anthony and Isabel were saying good-bye to him in the early summer +morning: the pack-horses had started on before, and there were just the two +saddle-horses at the low oak door, with the servants’ behind. When Mr. Buxton +had put Isabel into the saddle, he held her hand for a moment; Anthony was +mounting behind. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Isabel,” he whispered; “forgive me; but I find I cannot take your +answer; you will remember that.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head without speaking, but dared not even look into his eyes; +though she turned her head as she rode out of the gates for a last look at the +peaked gables and low windows of the house where she had been so happy. There +was still the dark figure motionless against the pale oak door. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Anthony!” she whispered brokenly, “our Lord asks very much.” +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_VII">CHAPTER VII</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +NORTHERN RELIGION +</p> + +<p> +The Northern counties were distinguished among all in England for their loyalty +to the old Faith; and this was owing, no doubt, to the characters of both the +country and the inhabitants;—it was difficult for the officers of justice to +penetrate to the high moorland and deep ravines, and yet more difficult to +prevail with the persons who lived there. Twenty-two years before the famous +Lancashire League had been formed, under the encouragement of Dr. Allen, +afterwards the Cardinal, whose members pledged themselves to determined +recusancy; with the result that here and there church-doors were closed, and +the Book of Common Prayer utterly refused. Owing partly to Bishop Downman’s +laxity towards the recusants, the principles of the League had retained their +hold throughout the county, ever since ’68, when ten obstinate Lancastrians had +been haled before the Council, of whom one, the famous Sir John Southworth +himself, suffered imprisonment more than once. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony and Isabel then found their life in the North very different to that +which they had been living at Stanfield. Near the towns, of course, precaution +was as necessary as anywhere else in England, but once they had passed up on to +the higher moorlands they were able to throw off all anxiety, as much as if the +penal laws of England were not in force there. +</p> + +<p> +It was pleasant, too, to go, as they did, from great house to great house, and +find the old pre-Reformation life of England in full vigour; the whole family +present at mass so often as it was said, desirous of the sacraments, and +thankful for the opportunities of grace that the arrival of the priest +afforded. Isabel would often stay at such houses a week or two together, while +Anthony made rounds into the valleys and to the moorland villages round-about; +and then the two would travel on together with their servants to the next +village. Anthony’s ecclesiastical outfit was very simple. Among Isabel’s +dresses lay a brocade vestment that might easily pass notice if the luggage was +searched; and Anthony carried in his own luggage a little altar-stone, a case +with the holy oils, a tiny chalice and paten, singing-cakes, and a thin +vellum-bound Missal and Ritual in one volume, containing the order of mass, a +few votive masses, and the usual benedictions for holy-water, rue and the like, +and the occasional offices. +</p> + +<p> +In this manner they first visited many of the famous old Lancashire houses, +some of which still stand, Borwick Hall, Hall-i’-the-Wood, Lydiate Hall, +Thurnham, Blainscow, where Campion had once been so nearly taken, and others, +all of which were provided with secret hiding-places for the escape of the +priest, should a sudden alarm be raised. In none of them, however, did he find +the same elaboration of device as at Stanfield Place. +</p> + +<p> +First, however, they went to Speke Hall, the home of Mr. Norreys, on the banks +of the Mersey, a beautiful house of magpie architecture, and furnished with a +remarkable underground passage to the shore of the Mersey, the scene of Richard +Brittain’s escape. +</p> + +<p> +Here they received a very warm welcome. +</p> + +<p> +“It is as I wrote to Mr. Buxton,” said his host on the evening of their +arrival, “in many places in this country any religion other than the Catholic +is unknown. The belief of the Protestant is as strange as that of the Turk, +both utterly detested. I was in Cumberland a few months back; there in more +than one village the old worship goes on as it has done since Christianity +first came to this island. But I hope you will go up there, now that you have +come so far. You would do a great work for Christ his Church.” +</p> + +<p> +He told him, too, a number of stories of the zeal and constancy shown on behalf +of the Religion; of small squires who were completely ruined by the fines laid +upon them; of old halls that were falling to pieces through the ruin brought +upon their staunch owners; and above all of the priests that Lancashire had +added to the roll of the martyrs—Anderton, Marsden, and Thompson among +others—and of the joy shown when the glorious news of their victory over death +reached the place where they had been born or where they had ministered. +</p> + +<p> +“At Preston,” he said, “when the news of Mr. Greenaway’s death reached them, +they tolled the bells for sorrow. But his old mother ran from her house to the +street when they had broken the news to her: ‘Peal them, peal them!’ she cried, +‘for I have borne a martyr to God.’” +</p> + +<p> +He talked, too, of Campion, of his sermons on “The King who went a journey,” +and the “Hail, Mary”; and told him of the escape at Blainscow Hall, where the +servant-girl, seeing the pursuivants at hand, pushed the Jesuit, with quick wit +and courage, into the duck-pond, so that he came out disguised indeed—in green +mud—and was mocked at by the very officers as a clumsy suitor of maidens. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony’s heart warmed within him as he sat and listened to these tales of +patience and gallantry. +</p> + +<p> +“I would lay down my life to serve such folk,” he said; and Isabel looked with +deep-kindled eyes from the one to the other. +</p> + +<p> +They did not stay more than a day or two at Speke Hall, for, as Mr. Norreys +said, the necessaries of salvation were to be had there already; but they moved +on almost at once northwards, always arriving at some central point for +Saturdays and Sundays, so that the Catholics round could come in for shrift and +housel. In this manner they passed up through Lancashire, and pushed still +northwards, hearing that a priest was sorely needed, through the corner of +Westmoreland, up the Lake country, through into Cumberland itself. At Kendal, +where they stayed two nights, Anthony received a message that determined him, +after consultation with Isabel, to push on as far as Skiddaw, and to make that +the extreme limit of his journey. He sent the messenger, a wild-looking +North-countryman, back with a verbal answer to that effect, and named a date +when they would arrive. +</p> + +<p> +It was already dark, two weeks later, when they arrived at the point where the +guide was to meet them, as they had lost their way more than once already. Here +were a couple of men with torches, waiting for them behind a rock, who had come +down from the village, a mile farther on, to bring them up the difficult stony +path that was the only means of access to it. The track went up a ravine, with +a rock-wall rising on their left, on which the light of the torches shone, and +tumbled ground, covered with heather, falling rapidly away on their right down +to a gulf of darkness whence they could hear the sound of the torrent far +below; the path was uneven, with great stones here and there, and sharp corners +in it, and as they went it was all they could do to keep their tired horses +from stumbling, for a slip would have been dangerous under the circumstances. +The men who led them said little, as it was impossible for a horse and a man to +walk abreast, but Anthony was astonished to see again and again, as they turned +a corner, another man with a torch and some weapon, a pike, or a sword, start +up and salute him, or sometimes a group, with barefooted boys, and then attach +themselves to the procession either before or behind; until in a short while +there was an escort of some thirty or forty accompanying the cavalcade. At +last, as they turned a corner, the lighted windows of a belfry showed against +the dark moor beyond, and in a moment more, as if there were a watcher set +there to look out for the torches, a peal of five bells clashed out from the +tower; then, as they rose yet higher, the path took a sudden turn and a dip +between two towering rocks, and the whole village lay beneath them, with lights +in every window to welcome the priest, the first that they had seen for eight +months, when the old Marian rector, the elder brother of the squire, had died. +</p> + +<p> +It was now late, so Anthony and Isabel were conducted immediately to the Hall, +an old house immediately adjoining the churchyard; and here, too, the windows +were blazing with welcome, and the tall squire, Mr. Brian, with his wife and +children behind, was standing before the bright hall-door at the top of the +steps. The men and boys that had brought them so far, and were standing in the +little court with their torches uplifted, now threw themselves on their knees +to receive the priest’s blessing, before they went home; and Anthony blessed +them and thanked them, and went indoors with his sister, strangely moved and +uplifted. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The two following days were full of hard work and delight for Anthony. He was +to say mass at half-past six next morning, and came out of the house a little +after six o’clock; the sun was just rising to his right over a shoulder of +Skiddaw, which dominated the eastern horizon; and all round him, stretched +against the sky in all directions, were the high purple moors in the strange +dawn-light. Immediately in front of him, not thirty yards away, stood the +church, with its tower, two aisles, and a chapel on a little promontory of rock +which jutted out over the bed of the torrent along which he had climbed the +night before; and to his left lay the straggling street of the village. All was +perfectly still except for the dash of the stream over the rocks; but from one +or two houses a thin skein of smoke was rising straight into the air. Anthony +stood rapt in delight, and drew long breaths of the cool morning air, laden +with freshness and fragrant with the mellow scent of the heather and the +autumnal smells. +</p> + +<p> +He was completely taken by surprise when he entered the church, for, for the +first time since he could remember, he saw an English church in its true glory. +It had been built for a priory-church of Holm-Cultram, but for some reason had +never been used as that, and had become simply the parish church of the +village. Across the centre and the northern aisle ran an elaborate screen, +painted in rich colours, and the southern chapel, which ran eastwards of the +porch, was separated in a similar way from the rest of the church. Over the +central screen was the great rood, with its attendant figures, exquisitely +carved and painted; in every direction, as Anthony looked beyond the screens, +gleamed rich windows, with figures and armorial bearings; here and there +tattered banners hung on the walls; St. Christopher stood on the north wall +opposite the door, to guard from violence all who looked upon him day by day; a +little painting of the Baptist hung on a pillar over against the font, and a +Vernacle by the pulpit; and all round the walls hung little pictures, that the +poor and unlearned might read the story of redemption there. But the chief +glory of all was the solemn high altar, with its riddells surmounted by +taper-bearing gilded angels, with its brocade cloth, and its painted halpas +behind; and above it, before the rich window which smouldered against the dawn, +hung the awful pyx, covered by the white silk cloth, but empty; waiting for the +priest to come and bid the Shechinah of the Lord to brood there again over this +gorgeous throne beneath, against the brilliant halo of the painted glass +behind. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony knelt a moment and thanked God for bringing him here, and then passed +up into the north aisle, where the image of the Mother of God presided, as she +had done for three hundred years, over her little altar against the wall. +Anthony said his preparation and vested at the altar; and was astonished to +find at least thirty people to hear mass: none, of course, made their +communion, but Anthony, when he had ended, placed the Body of the Lord once +more in the hanging pyx and lit the lamp before it. +</p> + +<p> +Then all day he sat in the north chapel, with the dash and loud thunder of the +mountain stream entering through the opened panes of the east window, and the +stained sunlight, in gorgeous colours, creeping across the red tiles at his +feet, glowing and fading as the clouds moved over the sun, while the people +came and were shriven; with the exception of an hour in the middle of the day +and half an hour for supper in the evening, he was incessantly occupied until +nine o’clock at night. From the upland dales all round they streamed in, at +news of the priest, and those who had come from far and were fasting he +communicated at once from the Reserved Sacrament. At last, tired out, but +intensely happy, he went back to the Hall. +</p> + +<p> +But the next morning was yet more startling. Mass was at eight o’clock, and by +the time Anthony entered the church he found a congregation of nearly two +hundred souls; the village itself did not number above seventy, but many came +in from the country round, and some had stayed all night in the church-porch. +Then, too, he heard the North-country singing in the old way; all the mass +music was sung in three parts, except the unchanging melody of the creed, +which, like the tremendous and unchanging words themselves, at one time had +united the whole of England; but what stirred Anthony more than all were the +ancient hymns sung here and there during the service, some in Latin, which a +few picked voices rendered, and some in English, to the old lilting tunes which +were as much the growth of the north-country as the heather itself. The “Ave +Verum Corpus” was sung after the Elevation, and Anthony felt that his heart +would break for very joy; as he bent before the Body of his Lord, and the +voices behind him rose and exulted up the aisles, the women’s and children’s +voices soaring passionately up in the melody, the mellow men’s voices +establishing, as it seemed, these ecstatic pinnacles of song on mighty and +immovable foundations. +</p> + +<p> +Vespers were said at three o’clock, after baptisms and more confessions; and +Anthony was astonished at the number of folk who could answer the priest. After +vespers he made a short sermon, and told the people something of what he had +seen in the South, of the martyrdoms at Tyburn, and of the constancy of the +confessors. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Be thou faithful unto death,’” he said. “So our Saviour bids us, and He gives +us a promise too: ‘I will give thee a crown of life.’ Beloved, some day the +tide of heresy will creep up these valleys too; and it will bear many things +with it, the scaffold and the gallows and the knife maybe. And then our Lord +will see which are His; then will be the time that grace will triumph—that +those who have used the sacraments with devotion; that have been careful and +penitent with their sins, that have hungered for the Bread of Life—the Lord +shall stand by them and save them, as He stood by Mr. Sherwin on the rack, and +Father Campion on the scaffold, and Mistress Ward and many more, of whom I have +not had time to tell you. He who bids us be faithful, Himself will be faithful; +and He who wore the crown of thorns will bestow upon us the crown of life.” +</p> + +<p> +Then they sang a hymn to our Lady: +</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p> +“Hail be thou, Mary, the mother of Christ,” +</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p> +and the old swaying tune rocked like a cradle, and the people looked up towards +their Mother’s altar as they sang—their Mother who had ruled them so sweetly +and so long—and entreated her in their hearts, who stood by her Son’s Cross, to +stand by theirs too should God ever call them to die upon one. +</p> + +<p> +The next day Mr. Brian took Anthony a long walk as soon as dinner was over, +across the moors towards the north side of Skiddaw. Anthony found the old man a +delightful and garrulous companion, full of tales of the countryside, +historical, religious, naturalistic, and supernatural. As they stood on a +little eminence and looked back to where the church-tower pricked out of the +deep crack in the moors where it stood, he told him the tale of the coming of +the pursuivants. +</p> + +<p> +“They first troubled us in ’72,” he said; “they had not thought it worth while +before to disturb themselves for one old man like my brother, who was like to +die soon; but in April of that year they first sent up their men. But it was +only a pair of pursuivants, for they knew nothing of the people; they came up, +the poor men, to take my brother down to Cockermouth to answer on his religion +to some bench of ministers that sat there. Well, they met him, in his cassock +and square cap, coming out of the church, where he had just replaced the Most +Holy Sacrament after giving communion to a dying body. ‘Heh! are you the +minister?’ say they. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Heh! I am the priest, if that is what you mean,’ he answers back. (He was a +large man, like myself, was my brother.) +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well, come, old man,’ say they, ‘we must help you down to Cockermouth.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Well, a few words passed; and the end was that he called out to Tim, who lived +just against the church; and told them what was forward. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the pursuivants got back to Cockermouth with their lives, but not much +else; and reported to the magistrates that the wild Irish themselves were +little piminy maids compared to the folk they had visited that day. +</p> + +<p> +“So there was a great to-do, and a deal of talk; and in the next month they +sent up thirty pikemen with an officer and a dozen pursuivants, and all to take +one old priest and his brother. I had been in Kendal in April when they first +came—but they put it all down to me. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we were ready for them this time; the bells had been ringing to call in +the folk since six of the clock in the morning; and by dinner-time, when the +soldiers were expected, there was a matter of two hundred men, I should say, +some with scythes and sickles, and some with staves or shepherds’ crooks; the +children had been sent down sooner to stone the men all the way up the path; +and by the time that they had reached the churchyard gate there was not a man +of them but had a cut or a bruise upon him. Then, when they turned the corner, +black with wrath, there were the lads gathered about the church-porch each with +his weapon, and each white and silent, waiting for what should fall. +</p> + +<p> +“Now you wonder where we were. We were in the church, my brother and I; for our +people had put us there against our will, to keep us safe, they said. Eh! but I +was wroth when Olroyd and the rest pushed me through the door. However, there +we were, locked in; I was up in one window, and my brother was in the belfry as +I thought, each trying to see what was forward. I saw the two crowds of them, +silent and wrathful, with not twenty yards between them, and a few stones still +sailing among the soldiers now and again; the pikes were being set in array, +and our lads were opening out to let the scythes have free play, when on a +sudden I heard the tinkle of a bell round the outside of the tower, and I +climbed down from my place, and up again to one of the west windows; there was +a fearsome hush outside now, and I could see some of the soldiers in front were +uneasy; they had their eyes off the lads and round the side of the tower. And +then I saw little Dickie Olroyd in his surplice ringing a bell and bearing a +candle, and behind him came my brother, in a purple cope I had never set eyes +on before, with his square cap and a great book, and his eyes shining out of +his head, and his lips opening and mouthing out Latin; and then he stopped, +laid the book reverently on a tombstone, lifted both hands, and brought them +down with the fingers out, and his eyes larger than ever. I could see the +soldiers were ready to break and scatter, for some were Catholics no doubt, and +many more feared the priest; and then on a sudden my brother caught the candle +out of Dickie’s hand, blew it out with a great puff, while Dickie rattled upon +the bell, and then he dashed the smoking candle among the soldiers. The +soldiers broke and fled like hares, out of the churchyard, down the street and +down the path to Cockermouth; the officer tried to stay them, but ’twas no use; +the fear of the Church was upon them, and her Grace herself could not have +prevailed with them. Well, when they let us out, the lads were all a-trembling +too; for my brother’s face, they said, was like the destroying angel; and I was +somewhat queer myself, and I was astonished too; for he was kind-hearted, was +my brother, and would not hurt a fly’s body; much less damn his soul; and, +after all, the poor soldiers were not to blame; and ’twas a queer cursing, I +thought too, to be done like that; but maybe ’twas a new papal method. I went +round to the north chapel, and there he was taking off his cope. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well,’ he said to me, ‘how did I do it?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Do it?’ I said; ‘do it? Why, you’ve damned those poor lads’ souls eternally. +The hand of the Lord was with you,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Damned them?’ said he; ‘nonsense! ’Twas only your old herbal that I read at +them; and the cope too, ’twas inside out.’” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Then the old man told Anthony other stories of his earlier life, how he had +been educated at the university and been at Court in King Henry’s reign and +Queen Mary’s, but that he had lost heart at Elizabeth’s accession, and retired +to his hills, where he could serve God according to his conscience, and study +God’s works too, for he was a keen naturalist. He told Anthony many stories +about the deer, and the herds of wild white hornless cattle that were now +practically extinct on the hills, and of a curious breed of four-horned sheep, +skulls of all of which species hung in his hall, and of the odd drinking-horns +that Anthony had admired the day before. There was one especially that he +talked much of, a buffalo horn on three silver feet fashioned like the legs of +an armed man; round the centre was a filleting inscribed, “<i>Qui pugnat contra +tres perdet duos</i>,” and there was a cross patée on the horn, and two +other inscriptions, “<i>Nolite extollere cornu in altu’</i>” and “<i>Qui bibat +me adhuc siti’</i>.” Mr. Brian told him it had been brought from Italy by his +grandfather. +</p> + +<p> +They put up a quantity of grouse and several hares as they walked across the +moor; one of the hares, which had a curious patch of white between his ears +like a little night-cap, startled Mr. Brian so much that he exclaimed aloud, +crossed himself, and stood, a little pale, watching the hare’s head as it +bobbed and swerved among the heather. +</p> + +<p> +“I like it not,” he said to Anthony, who inquired what was the matter. “Satan +hath appeared under some such form to many in history. Joachimus Camerarius, +who wrote <i> de natura dæmonum</i>, tells, I think, a story of a hare followed +by a fox that ran across the path of a young man who was riding on a horse, and +who started in pursuit. Up and down hills and dales they went, and soon the fox +was no longer there, and the hare grew larger and blacker as it went; and the +young man presently saw that he was in a country that he knew not; it was all +barren and desolate round him, and the sky grew dark. Then he spurred his horse +more furiously, and he drew nearer and nearer to the great hare that now +skipped along like a stag before him; and then, as he put out his hand to cut +the hare down, the creature sprang into the air and vanished, and the horse +fell dead; and the man was found in his own meadow by his friends, in a swound, +with his horse dead beside him, and trampled marks round and round the field, +and the pug-marks of what seemed like a great tiger beside him, where the beast +had sprung into the air.” +</p> + +<p> +When Mr. Brian found that Anthony was interested in such stories, he told him +plenty of them; especially tales that seemed to join in a strange unity of +life, demons, beasts and men. It was partly, no doubt, his studies as a +naturalist that led him to insist upon points that united rather than divided +the orders of creation; and he told him stories first from such writers as +Michael Verdunus and Petrus Burgottus, who relate among other marvels how there +are ointments by the use of which shepherds have been known to change +themselves into wolves and tear the sheep that they should have protected; and +he quoted to him St. Augustine’s own testimony, to the belief that in Italy +certain women were able to change themselves into heifers through the power of +witchcraft. Finally, he told him one or two tales of his own experience. +</p> + +<p> +“In the year ’63,” he said, “before my marriage, I was living alone in the +Hall; I was a young man, and did my best to fear nought but deadly sin. I was +coming back late from Threlkeld, round the south of Skiddaw that you see over +there; and was going with a lantern, for it would be ten o’clock at night, and +the time of year was autumn. I was still a mile or two from the house, and was +saying my beads as I came, for I hold that is a great protection; when I heard +a strange whistling noise, with a murmur in it, high up overhead in the night. +‘It is the birds going south,’ I said to myself, for you know that great flocks +fly by night when the cold begins to set in; but the sound grew louder and more +distinct, and at last I could hear the sound as of words gabbled in a foreign +tongue; and I knew they were no birds, though maybe they had wings like them. +But I knew that a Christened soul in grace has nought to fear from hell; so I +crossed myself and said my beads, and kept my eyes on the ground, and presently +I saw my lights burning in the house, and heard the roar of the stream, and the +gabbling above me ceased, as the sound of the running water began. But that +night I awoke again and again; and the night seemed hot and close each time, as +if a storm was near, but there was no thunder. Each time I heard the roar of +the stream below the house, and no more. At last, towards the morning, I set my +window wide that looks towards the stream, and leaned out; and there beneath +me, crowded against the wall of the house, as I could see in the growing light, +was a great flock of sheep, with all their heads together towards the house, as +close as a score of dogs could pack them, and they were all still as death, and +their backs were dripping wet; for they had come down the hills and swum the +stream, in order to be near a Christened man and away from what was abroad that +night. +</p> + +<p> +“My shepherds told me the same that day, that everywhere the sheep had come +down to the houses, as if terrified near to death; and at Keswick, whither I +went the next market-day, they told me the same tale, and that two men had each +found a sheep that could not travel; one had a broken leg, and the other had +been cast; but neither had another mark or wound or any disease upon him, but +that both were lying dead upon Skiddaw; and the look in the dead eyes, they +said, was fit to make a man forget his manhood.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony found the old man the most interesting companion possible, and he +persuaded him to accompany him on several of the expeditions that he had to +make to the hamlets and outlying cottages round, in his spiritual +ministrations; and both he and Isabel were sincerely sorry when two Sundays had +passed away, and they had to begin to move south again in their journeyings. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +And so the autumn passed and winter began, and Anthony was slowly moving down +again, supplying the place of priests who had fallen sick or had died, visiting +many almost inaccessible hamlets, and everywhere encouraging the waverers and +seeking the wanderers, and rejoicing over the courageous, and bringing +opportunities of grace to many who longed for them. He met many other +well-known priests from time to time, and took counsel with them, but did not +have time to become very intimate with any of them, so great were the demands +upon his services. In this manner he met John Colleton, the canonist, who had +returned from his banishment in ’87, but found him a little dull and +melancholy, though his devotion was beyond praise. He met, too, the Jesuit +Fathers Edward Oldcorne and Richard Holtby, the former of whom had lately come +from Hindlip. +</p> + +<p> +He spent Christmas near Cartmel-in-Furness, and after the new year had opened, +crossed the Ken once more near Beetham, and began to return slowly down the +coast. Everywhere he was deeply touched by the devotion of the people, who, in +spite of long months without a priest, had yet clung to the observance of their +religion so far as was possible, and now welcomed him like an angel of God; and +he had the great happiness too of reconciling some who, yielding to loneliness +and pressure, had conformed to the Establishment. In these latter cases he was +almost startled by the depth of Catholic convictions that had survived. +</p> + +<p> +“I never believed it, father,” said a young squire to him, near Garstang. “I +knew that it was but a human invention, and not the Gospel that my fathers +held, and that Christ our Saviour brought on earth; but I lost heart, for that +no priest came near us, and I had not had the sacraments for nearly two years; +and I thought that it were better to have some religion than none at all, so at +last I went to church. But there is no need to talk to me, father, now I have +made my confession, for I know with my whole soul that the Catholic Religion is +the true one—and I have known it all the while, and I thank God and His Blessed +Mother, and you, father, too, for helping me to say so again, and to come back +to grace.” +</p> + +<p> +At last, at the beginning of March, Anthony and Isabel found themselves back +again at Speke Hall, warmly welcomed by Mr. Norreys. +</p> + +<p> +“You have done a good work for the Church, Mr. Capell,” said his host, “and +God will reward you and thank you for it Himself, for we cannot.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I thank God,” said Anthony, “for the encouragement to faith that the +sight of the faithful North has given to me; and pray Him that I may carry +something of her spirit back with me to the south.” +</p> + +<p> +There were letters waiting for him at Speke Hall, one from Mr. Buxton, urging +them to come back, at least for the present, to Stanfield Place, so soon as the +winter work in the north was over; and another from the Rector of the College +at Douai to the same effect. There was also one more, written from a little +parish in Kent, from a Catholic lady who was altogether a stranger to him, but +who plainly knew all about him, entreating him to call at her house when he was +in the south again; her husband, she said, had met him once at Stanfield and +had been strongly attracted by him to the Catholic Church, and she believed +that if Anthony would but pay them a visit her husband’s conversion would be +brought about. Anthony could not remember the man’s name, but Isabel thought +that she did remember some such person at a small private conference that +Anthony had given in Mr. Buxton’s house, for the benefit of Catholics and those +who were being drawn towards the Religion. +</p> + +<p> +The lady, too, gave him instructions as to how he should come from London to +her house, recommending him to cross the Thames at a certain spot that she +described near Greenhithe, and to come on southwards along a route that she +marked for him, to the parish of Stanstead, where she lived. This, then, was +soon arranged, and after letters had been sent off announcing Anthony’s +movements, he left Speke Hall with Isabel, about a fortnight later. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +IN STANSTEAD WOODS +</p> + +<p> +On the first day of June, Anthony and Isabel, with their three armed servants +and the French maid behind them, were riding down through Thurrock to the north +bank of the Thames opposite Greenhithe. As they went Anthony pulled out and +studied the letter and the little map that Mrs. Kirke had sent to guide them. +</p> + +<p> +“On the right-hand side,” she wrote, “when you come to the ferry, stands a +little inn, the ‘Sloop,’ among trees, with a yard behind it. Mr. Bender, the +host, is one of us; and he will get your horses on board, and do all things to +forward you without attracting attention. Give him some sign that he may know +you for a Catholic, and when you are alone with him tell him where you are +bound.” +</p> + +<p> +There were one or two houses standing near the bank, as they rode down the lane +that led to the river, but they had little difficulty in identifying the +“Sloop,” and presently they rode into the yard, and, leaving their horses with +the servants, stepped round into the little smoky front room of the inn. +</p> + +<p> +A man, dressed somewhat like a sailor, was sitting behind a table, who looked +up with a dull kind of expectancy and whom Anthony took as the host; and, in +order to identify him and show who he himself was, he took up a little cake of +bread that was lying on a platter on the table, and broke it as if he would +eat. This was one of Father Persons’ devices, and was used among Catholics to +signify their religion when they were with strangers, since it was an action +that could rouse no suspicion among others. The man looked in an unintelligent +way at Anthony, who turned away and rapped upon the door, and as a large +heavily-built man came out, broke it again, and put a piece into his mouth. The +man lifted his eyebrows slightly, and just smiled, and Anthony knew he had +found his friend. +</p> + +<p> +“Come this way, sir,” he said, “and your good lady, too.” +</p> + +<p> +They followed him into the inner room of the house, a kind of little kitchen, +with a fire burning and a pot over it, and one or two barrels of drink against +the wall. A woman was stirring the pot, for it was near dinner-time, and turned +round as the strangers came in. It was plainly an inn that was of the poorest +kind, and that was used almost entirely by watermen or by travellers who were +on their way to cross the ferry. +</p> + +<p> +“The less said the better,” said the man, when he had shut the door. “How can +I serve you, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“We wish to take our horses and ourselves across to Greenhithe,” said Anthony, +“and Mrs. Kirke, to whom we are going, bade us make ourselves known to you.” +</p> + +<p> +The man nodded and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, that can be managed directly. The ferry is at the other bank now, +sir; and I will call it across. Shall we say in half an hour, sir; and, +meanwhile, will you and your lady take something?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony accepted gladly, as the time was getting on, and ordered dinner for the +servants too, in the outer room. As the landlord was going to the door, he +stopped him. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is that man in the other room?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +The landlord gave a glance at the door, and came back towards Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“To tell the truth, sir, I do not know. He is a sailor by appearance, and he +knows the talk; but none of the watermen know him; and he seems to do nothing. +However, sir, there’s no harm in him that I can see.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony told him that he had broken the bread before him, thinking he was the +landlord. The real landlord smiled broadly. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God, I am somewhat more of a man than that,” for the sailor was lean +and sun-dried. Then once more Mr. Bender went to the door to call the servants +in. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the man’s gone,” he said, and disappeared. Then they heard his voice +again. “But he’s left his groat behind him for his drink, so all’s well”; and +presently his voice was heard singing as he got the table ready for the +servants. +</p> + +<p> +In a little more than half an hour the party and the horses were safely on the +broad bargelike ferry, and Mr. Bender was bowing on the bank and wishing them a +prosperous journey, as they began to move out on to the wide river towards the +chalk cliffs and red roofs of Greenhithe that nestled among the mass of trees +on the opposite bank. In less than ten minutes they were at the pier, and after +a little struggle to get the horses to land, they were mounted and riding up +the straight little street that led up to the higher ground. Just before they +turned the corner they heard far away across the river the horn blown to summon +the ferry-boat once more. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +There were two routes from Greenhithe to Stanstead, the one to the right +through Longfield and Ash, the other to the left through Southfleet and +Nursted. There was very little to choose between them as regards distance, and +Mrs. Kirke had drawn a careful sketch-map with a few notes as to the +characteristics of each route. There were besides, particularly through the +thick woods about Stanstead itself, innumerable cross-paths intersecting one +another in all directions. The travellers had decided at the inn to take the +road through Longfield; since, in spite of other disadvantages, it was the less +frequented of the two, and they were anxious above all things to avoid +attention. Their horses were tired; and as they had plenty of time before them +they proposed to go at a foot’s-pace all the way, and to take between two and +three hours to cover the nine or ten miles between Greenhithe and Stanstead. +</p> + +<p> +It was a hot afternoon as they passed through Fawkham, and it was delightful to +pass from the white road in under the thick arching trees just beyond the +village. There everything was cool shadow, the insects sang in the air about +them, an early rabbit or two cantered across the road and disappeared into the +thick undergrowth; once the song of the birds about them suddenly ceased, and +through an opening in the green rustling vault overhead they saw a cruel shape +with motionless wings glide steadily across. +</p> + +<p> +They did not talk much, but let the reins lie loose; and enjoyed the cool +shadow and the green lights and the fragrant mellow scents of the woods about +them; while their horses slouched along on the turf, switching their tails and +even stopping sometimes for a second in a kind of desperate greediness to +snatch a green juicy mouthful at the side. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel was thinking of Stanfield, and wondering how the situation would adjust +itself; Mary Corbet would be there, she knew, to meet them; and it was a +comfort to think she could consult her; but what, she asked herself, would be +her relations with the master of the house? +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Anthony’s horse stepped off the turf on the opposite side of the road +and began to come towards her, and she moved her beast a little to let him come +on the turf beside her. +</p> + +<p> +“Isabel,” said Anthony, “tell me if you hear anything.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him, suddenly startled. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” he said, “there is nothing to fear; it is probably my fancy; but +listen and tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +She listened intently. There was the creaking of her own saddle, the soft +footfalls of the horses, the hum of the summer woods, and the sound of the +servants’ horses behind. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said, “there is nothing beyond——” +</p> + +<p> +“There!” he said suddenly; “now do you hear it?” +</p> + +<p> +Then she heard plainly the sound either of a man running, or of a horse +walking, somewhere behind them. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, “I hear something; but what of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the third time I have heard it,” he said: “once in the woods behind +Longfield, and once just before the little village with the steepled church.” +</p> + +<p> +The sound had ceased again. +</p> + +<p> +“It is some one who has come nearly all the way from Greenhithe behind us. +Perhaps they are not following—but again——” +</p> + +<p> +“They?” she said; “there is only one.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are three,” he answered; “at least; the other two are on the turf at +the side—but just before the village I heard all three of them—or rather +certainly more than two—when they were between those two walls where there was +no turf.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel was staring at him with great frightened eyes. He smiled back at her +tranquilly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Isabel!” he said, “there is nothing really to fear, in any case.” +</p> + +<p> +“What shall you do?” she asked, making a great effort to control herself. +</p> + +<p> +“I think we must find out first of all whether they are after us. We must +certainly not ride straight to the Manor Lodge if it is so.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he explained his plan. +</p> + +<p> +“See here,” he said, holding the map before her as he rode, “we shall come to +Fawkham Green in five minutes. Then our proper road leads straight on to Ash, +but we will take the right instead, towards Eynsford. Meanwhile, I will leave +Robert here, hidden by the side of the road, to see who these men are, and what +they look like; and we will ride on slowly. When they have passed, he will come +out and take the road we should have taken, and he then will turn off to the +right too before he reaches Ash; and by trotting he will easily come up with us +at this corner,” and he pointed to it on the map—“and so he will tell us what +kind of men they are; and they will never know that they have been spied upon; +for, by this plan, he will not have to pass them. Is that a good plot?” and he +smiled at her. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel assented, feeling dazed and overwhelmed. She could hardly bring her +thoughts to a focus, for the fears that had hovered about her ever since they +had left Lancashire and come down to the treacherous south, had now darted upon +her, tearing her heart with terror and blinding her eyes, and bewildering her +with the beating of their wings. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony quietly called up Robert, and explained the plan. He was a lad of a +Catholic family at Great Keynes, perfectly fearless and perfectly devoted to +the Church and to the priest he served. He nodded his head briskly with +approval as the plan was explained. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course it may all be nothing,” ended Anthony, “and then you will think me +a poor fool?” +</p> + +<p> +The lad grinned cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +All this while they had been riding slowly on together, and now the wood showed +signs of coming to an end; so Anthony told the groom to ride fifty yards into +the undergrowth at once, to bandage his horse’s eyes, and to tie him to a tree; +and then to creep back himself near the road, so as to see without being seen. +The men who seemed to be following were at least half a mile behind, so he +would have plenty of time. +</p> + +<p> +Then they all rode on together again, leaving Robert to find his way into the +wood. As they went, Isabel began to question her brother, and Anthony gave her +his views. +</p> + +<p> +“They have not come up with us, because they know we are four men to three—if, +as I think, they are not more than three—that is one reason; and another is +that they love to track us home before they take us; and thus take our hosts +too as priests’ harbourers. Now plainly these men do not know where we are +bound, or they would not follow us so closely. Best of all, too, they love to +catch us at mass for then they have no trouble in proving their case. I think +then that they will not try to take us till we reach the Manor Lodge; and we +must do our best to shake them off before that. Now the plot I have thought of +is this, that—should it prove as I think it will—we should ride slower than +ever, as if our horses were weary, down the road along which Robert will have +come after he has joined us, and turn down as if to go to Kingsdown, and when +we have gone half a mile, and are well round that sharp corner, double back to +it, and hide all in the wood at the side. They will follow our tracks, and +there are no houses at which they can ask, and there seem no travellers either +on these by-roads, and when they have passed us we double back at the gallop, +and down the next turning, which will bring us in a couple of miles to +Stanstead. There is a maze of roads thereabouts, and it will be hard if we do +not shake them off; for there is not a house, marked upon the map, at which +they can ask after us.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel did her utmost to understand, but the horror of the pursuit had +overwhelmed her. The quiet woods into which they had passed again after leaving +Fawkham Green now seemed full of menace; the rough road, with the deep powdery +ruts and the grass and fir-needles at the side, no longer seemed a pleasant +path leading home, but a treacherous device to lead them deeper into danger. +The creatures round them, the rabbits, the pigeons that flapped suddenly out of +all the tall trees, the tits that fluttered on and chirped and fluttered again, +all seemed united against Anthony in some dreadful league. Anthony himself felt +all his powers of observation and device quickened and established. He had +lived so long in the expectation of a time like this, and had rehearsed and +mastered the emotions of terror and suspense so often, that he was ready to +meet them; and gradually his entire self-control and the unmoved tones of his +voice and his serene alert face prevailed upon Isabel; and by the time that +they slowly turned the last curve and saw Robert on his black horse waiting for +them at the corner, her sense of terror and bewilderment had passed, her heart +had ceased that sick thumping, and she, too, was tranquil and capable. +</p> + +<p> +Robert wheeled his horse and rode beside Anthony round the sharp corner to the +left up the road along which he had trotted just now. +</p> + +<p> +“There are three of them, sir,” he said in an even, businesslike voice; “one +of them, sir, on a brown mare, but I couldn’t see aught of him, sir; he was on +the far side of the track; the second is like a groom on a grey horse, and the +third is dressed like a sailor, sir, on a brown horse.” +</p> + +<p> +“A sailor?” said Anthony; “a lean man, and sunburnt, with a whistle?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not see the whistle, sir; but he is as you say.” +</p> + +<p> +This made it certain that it was the man they had seen in the inn opposite +Greenhithe; and also practically certain that he was a spy; for nothing that +Anthony had done could have roused his suspicions except the breaking of the +bread; and that would only be known to one who was deep in the counsels of the +Catholics. All this made the pursuit the more formidable. +</p> + +<p> +So Anthony meditated; and presently, calling up the servants behind, explained +the situation and his plan. The French maid showed signs of hysteria and Isabel +had to take her aside and quiet her, while the men consulted. Then it was +arranged, and the servants presently dropped behind again a few yards, though +the maid still rode with Isabel. Then they came to the road on the right that +would have led them to Kingsdown, and down this they turned. As they went, +Anthony kept a good look-out for a place to turn aside; and a hundred yards +from the turning saw what he wanted. On the left-hand side a little path led +into the wood; it was overgrown with brambles, and looked as if it were now +disused. Anthony gave the word and turned his horse down the entrance, and was +followed in single file by the others. There were thick trees about them on +every side, and, what was far more important, the road they had left at this +point ran higher than usual, and was hard and dry; so the horses’ hoofs as they +turned off left no mark that would be noticed. +</p> + +<p> +After riding thirty or forty yards, Anthony stopped, turned his horse again, +and forced him through the hazels with some difficulty, and the others again +followed in silence through the passage he had made. Presently Anthony stopped; +the branches that had swished their faces as they rode through now seemed a +little higher; and it was possible to sit here on horseback without any great +discomfort. +</p> + +<p> +“I must see them myself,” he whispered to Isabel; and slipped off his horse, +giving the bridle to Robert. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! mon Dieu!” moaned the maid; “mon Dieu! Ne partez pas!” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked at her severely. +</p> + +<p> +“You must be quiet and brave,” he said sternly. “You are a Catholic too; pray, +instead of crying.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Isabel saw him slip noiselessly towards the road, which was some fifty +yards away, through the thick growth. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +It was now a breathless afternoon. High overhead the sun blazed in a cloudless +sky, but down here all was cool, green shadow. There was not a sound to be +heard from the woods, beyond the mellow hum of the flies; Anthony’s faint +rustlings had ceased; now and then a saddle creaked, or a horse blew out his +nostrils or tossed his head. One of the men wound his handkerchief silently +round a piece of his horse’s head-harness that jingled a little. The maid drew +a soft sobbing breath now and then, but she dared not speak after the priest’s +rebuke. +</p> + +<p> +Then suddenly there came another sound to Isabel’s ears; she could not +distinguish at first what it was, but it grew nearer, and presently resolved +itself into the fumbling noise of several horses’ feet walking together, twice +or three times a stirrup chinked, once she heard a muffled cough; but no word +was spoken. Nearer and nearer it came, until she could not believe that it was +not within five yards of her. Her heart began again that sick thumping; a fly +that she had brushed away again and again now crawled unheeded over her face, +and even on her white parted lips; but a sob of fear from the maid recalled +her, and she turned a sharp look of warning on her. Then the fumbling noise +began to die away: the men were passing. There was something in their silence +that was more terrible than all else; it reminded her of hounds running on a +hot scent. +</p> + +<p> +Then at last there was silence; then gentle rustlings again over last year’s +leaves; and Anthony came back through the hazels. He nodded at her sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, quickly,” he said, and took his horse by the bridle and began to lead +him out again the way they had come. At the entrance he looked out first; the +road was empty and silent. Then he led his horse clear, and mounted as the +others came out one by one in single file. +</p> + +<p> +“Now follow close; and watch my hand,” he said; and he put his horse to a +quick walk on the soft wayside turf. As the distance widened between them and +the men who were now riding away from them, the walk became a trot, and then +quickly a canter, as the danger of the sound being carried to their pursuers +decreased. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to Isabel like some breathless dream as she followed Anthony’s back, +watching the motions of his hand as he signed in which direction he was going +to turn next. What was happening, she half wondered to herself, that she should +be riding like this on a spent horse, as if in some dreadful game, turning +abruptly down lanes and rides, out across the high road, and down again another +turn, with the breathing and creaking and jingling of others behind her? Years +ago the two had played Follow-my-leader on horseback in the woods above Great +Keynes. She remembered this now; and a flood of memories poured across her mind +and diluted the bitterness of this shocking reality. Dear God, what a game! +</p> + +<p> +Anthony steered with skill and decision. He had been studying the map with +great attention, and even now carried it loose in his hand and glanced at it +from time to time. Above all else he wished to avoid passing a house, for fear +that the searchers might afterwards inquire at it; and he succeeded perfectly +in this, though once or twice he was obliged to retrace his steps. There was +little danger, he knew now, of the noise of the horses’ feet being any guide to +those who were searching, for the high table-land on which they rode was a +labyrinth of lanes and rides, and the trees too served to echo and confuse the +noise they could not altogether avoid making. Twice they passed travellers, one +a farmer on an old grey horse, who stared at this strange hurrying party; and +once a pedlar, laden with his pack, who trudged past, head down. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel’s horse was beginning to strain and pant, and she herself to grow giddy +with heat and weariness, when she saw through the trees an old farmhouse with +latticed windows and a great external chimney, standing in a square of +cultivated ground; and in a moment more the path they were following turned a +corner, and the party drew up at the back of the house. +</p> + +<p> +At the noise of the horses’ footsteps a door at the back had opened, and a +woman’s face looked out and drew back again; and presently from the front Mrs. +Kirke came quickly round. She was tall and slender and middle-aged, with a +somewhat anxious face; but a look of great relief came over it as she saw +Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God you are come,” she said; “I feared something had happened.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony explained the circumstances in a few words. +</p> + +<p> +“I will ride on gladly, madam, if you think right; but I will ask you in any +case to take my sister in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, how can you say that?” she said; “I am a Catholic. Come in, father. But +I fear there is but poor accommodation for the servants.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the horses?” asked Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“The barn at the back is got ready for them,” she said; “perhaps it would be +well to take them there at once.” She called a woman, and sent her to show the +men where to stable the horses, while Anthony and Isabel and the maid +dismounted and came in with her to the house. +</p> + +<p> +There, they talked over the situation and what was best to be done. Her husband +had ridden over to Wrotham, and she expected him back for supper; nothing then +could be finally settled till he came. In the meantime the Manor Lodge was +probably the safest place in all the woods, Mrs. Kirke declared; the nearest +house was half a mile away, and that was the Rectory; and the Rector himself +was a personal friend and favourable to Catholics. The Manor Lodge, too, stood +well off the road to Wrotham, and not five strangers appeared there in the +year. Fifty men might hunt the woods for a month and not find it; in fact, Mr. +Kirke had taken the house on account of its privacy, for he was weary, his wife +said, of paying her fines for recusancy; and still more unwilling to pay his +own, when that happy necessity should arrive; for he had now practically made +up his mind to be a Catholic, and only needed a little instruction before being +received. +</p> + +<p> +“He is a good man, father,” she said to Anthony, “and will make a good +Catholic.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she explained about the accommodation. Isabel and the maid would have to +sleep together in the spare room, and Anthony would have the little +dressing-room opening out of it; and the men, she feared, would have to shake +down as well as they could in the loft over the stable in the barn. +</p> + +<p> +At seven o’clock Mr. Kirke arrived; and when the situation had been explained +to him, he acquiesced in the plan. He seemed confident that there was but +little danger; and he and Anthony were soon deep in theological talk. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony found him excellently instructed already; he had, in fact, even +prepared for his confession; his wife had taught him well; and it was the +prospect of this one good opportunity of being reconciled to the Church that +had precipitated matters and decided him to take the step. He was a delightful +companion, too, intelligent, courageous, humorous and modest, and Anthony +thought his own labour and danger well repaid when, a little after midnight, he +heard his confession and received him into the Church. It was impossible for +Mr. Kirke to receive communion, as he had wished, for there were wanting some +of the necessaries for saying mass; so he promised to ride across to Stanfield +in a week or so, stay the night and communicate in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +Then early the next morning a council was held as to the best way for the party +to leave for Stanfield. The men were called up, and their opinions asked; and +gradually step by step a plan was evolved. +</p> + +<p> +The first requirement was that, if possible, the party should not be +recognisable; the second that they should keep together for mutual protection; +for to separate would very possibly mean the apprehension of some one of them; +the third was that they should avoid so far as was possible villages and houses +and frequented roads. +</p> + +<p> +Then the first practical suggestion was made by Isabel that the maid should be +left behind, and that Mr. Kirke should bring her on with him to Stanfield when +he came a week later. This he eagerly accepted, and further offered to keep all +the luggage they could spare, take charge of the men’s liveries, and lend them +old garments and hats of his own—to one a cloak, and to another a doublet. In +this way, he said, it would appear to be a pleasure party rather than one of +travellers, and, should they be followed, this would serve to cover their +traces. The travelling by unfrequented roads was more difficult; for that in +itself might attract attention should they actually meet any one. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony, who had been thinking in silence a moment or two, now broke in. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you any hawks, Mr. Kirke?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Only one old peregrine,” he said, “past sport.” +</p> + +<p> +“She will do,” said Anthony; “and can you borrow another?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is a merlin at the Rectory,” said Mr. Kirke. +</p> + +<p> +Then Anthony explained his plan, that they should pose as a hawking-party. +Isabel and Robert should each carry a hawk, while he himself would carry on his +wrist an empty leash and hood as if a hawk had escaped; that they should then +all ride together over the open country, avoiding every road, and that, if they +should see any one on the way, they should inquire whether he had seen an +escaped falcon or heard the tinkle of the bells; and this would enable them to +ask the way, should it be necessary, without arousing suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +This plan was accepted, and the maid was informed to her great relief that she +might remain behind for a week or so, and then return with Mr. Kirke after the +searchers had left the woods. +</p> + +<p> +It was a twenty-mile ride to Stanfield; and it was thought safer on the whole +not to remain any longer where they were, as it was impossible to know whether +a shrewd man might not, with the help of a little luck, stumble upon the house; +so, when dinner was over, and the servants had changed into Mr. Kirke’s old +suits, and the merlin had been borrowed from the Rectory for a week’s hawking, +the horses were brought round and the party mounted. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Kirke and Anthony had spent a long morning together discussing the route, +and it had been decided that it would be best to keep along the high ridge due +west until they were a little beyond Kemsing, which they would be able to see +below them in the valley; and then to strike across between that village and +Otford, and keeping almost due south ride up through Knole Park; then straight +down on the other side into the Weald, and so past Tonbridge home. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Kirke himself insisted on accompanying them on his cob until he had seen +them clear of the woods on the high ground. Both he and his wife were full of +gratitude to Anthony for the risk and trouble he had undergone, and did their +utmost to provide them with all that was necessary for their disguise. At last, +about two o’clock, the five men and Isabel rode out of the little yard at the +back of the Manor Lodge and plunged into the woods again. +</p> + +<p> +The afternoon hush rested on the country as they followed Mr. Kirke along a +narrow seldom-used path that led almost straight to the point where it was +decided that they should strike south. In half a dozen places it cut across +lanes, and once across the great high road from Farningham to Wrotham. As they +drew near this, Mr. Kirke, who was riding in front, checked them. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go first,” he said, “and see if there is danger.” +</p> + +<p> +In a minute he returned. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a man about a hundred yards up the road asleep on a bank; and there +is a cart coming up from Wrotham: that is all I can see. Perhaps we had better +wait till the cart is gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is the man like?” asked Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“He is a beggar, I should say; but has his hat over his eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +They waited till the cart had passed. Anthony dismounted and went to the +entrance of the path and peered out at the man; he was lying, as Mr. Kirke had +said, with his hat over his eyes, perfectly still. Anthony examined him a +minute or two; he was in tattered clothes, and a great stick and a bundle lay +beside him. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a vagabond,” he said, “we can go on.” +</p> + +<p> +The whole party crossed the road, pushing on towards the edge of the high downs +over Kemsing; and presently came to the Ightam road where it began to run +steeply down hill; here, too, Mr. Kirke looked this way and that, but no one +was in sight, and then the whole party crossed; they kept inside the edge of +the wood all the way along the downs for another mile or so, with the rich +sunlit valley seen in glimpses through the trees here and there, and the +Pilgrim’s Way lying like a white ribbon a couple of hundred feet below them, +until at last Kemsing Church, with St. Edith’s Chantry at the side, lay below +and behind them, and they came out on to the edge of a great scoop in the hill, +like a theatre, and the blue woods and hills of Surrey showed opposite beyond +Otford and Brasted. +</p> + +<p> +Here they stopped, a little back from the edge, and Mr. Kirke gave them their +last instructions, pointing out Seal across the valley, which they must leave +on their left, skirting the meadows to the west of the church, and passing up +towards Knole beyond. +</p> + +<p> +“Let the sun be a little on your right,” he said, “all the way; and you will +strike the country above Tonbridge.” +</p> + +<p> +Then they said good-bye to one another; Mr. Kirke kissed the priest’s hand in +gratitude for what he had done for him, and then turned back along the edge of +the downs, riding this time outside the woods, while the party led their horses +carefully down the steep slope, across the Pilgrim’s Way, and then struck +straight out over the meadows to Seal. +</p> + +<p> +Their plan seemed supremely successful; they met a few countrymen and lads at +their work, who looked a little astonished at first at this great party riding +across country, but more satisfied when Anthony had inquired of them whether +they had seen a falcon or heard his bells. No, they had not, they said; and +went on with their curiosity satisfied. Once, as they were passing down through +a wood on to the Weald, Isabel, who had turned in her saddle, and was looking +back, gave a low cry of alarm. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! the man, the man!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The others turned quickly, but there was nothing to be seen but the long +straight ride stretching up to against the sky-line three or four hundred yards +behind them. Isabel said she thought she saw a rider pass across this little +opening at the end, framed in leaves; but there were stags everywhere in the +woods here, and it would have been easy to mistake one for the other at that +distance, and with such a momentary glance. +</p> + +<p> +Once again, nearer Tonbridge, they had a fright. They had followed up a grass +ride into a copse, thinking it would bring them out somewhere, but it led only +to the brink of a deep little stream, where the plank bridge had been removed, +so they were obliged to retrace their steps. As they re-emerged into the field +from the copse, a large heavily-built man on a brown mare almost rode into +them. He was out of breath, and his horse seemed distressed. Anthony, as usual, +immediately asked if he had seen or heard anything of a falcon. +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed, gentlemen,” he said, “and have you seen aught of a bitch who +bolted after a hare some half mile back. A greyhound I should be loath to +lose.” +</p> + +<p> +They had not, and said so; and the man, still panting and mopping his head, +thanked them, and asked whether he could be of any service in directing them, +if they were strange to the country; but they thought it better not to give him +any hint of where they were going, so he rode off presently up the slope across +their route and disappeared, whistling for his dog. +</p> + +<p> +And so at last, about four o’clock in the afternoon, they saw the church spire +of Stanfield above them on the hill, and knew that they were near the end of +their troubles. Another hundred yards, and there were the roofs of the old +house, and the great iron gates, and the vanes of the garden-house seen over +the clipped limes; and then Mary Corbet and Mr. Buxton hurrying in from the +garden, as they came through the low oak door, into the dear tapestried hall. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_IX">CHAPTER IX</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE ALARM +</p> + +<p> +A very happy party sat down to supper that evening in Stanfield Place. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony had taken Mr. Buxton aside privately when the first greetings were +over, and told him all that happened: the alarm at Stanstead; his device, and +the entire peace they had enjoyed ever since. +</p> + +<p> +“Isabel,” he ended, “certainly thought she saw a man behind us once; but we +were among the deer, and it was dusky in the woods; and, for myself, I think it +was but a stag. But, if you think there is danger anywhere, I will gladly ride +on.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton clapped him on the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear friend,” he said, “take care you do not offend me. I am a slow +fellow, as you know; but even my coarse hide is pricked sometimes. Do not +suggest again that I could permit any priest—and much less my own dear +friend—to leave me when there was danger. But there is none in this case—you +have shaken the rogues off, I make no doubt; and you will just stay here for +the rest of the summer at the very least.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony said that he agreed with him as to the complete baffling of the +pursuers, but added that Isabel was still a little shaken, and would Mr. Buxton +say a word to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I will take her round the hiding-holes myself after supper, and show her +how strong and safe we are. We will all go round.” +</p> + +<p> +In the withdrawing-room he said a word or two of reassurance to her before the +others were down. +</p> + +<p> +“Anthony has told me everything, Mistress Isabel; and I warrant that the knaves +are cursing their stars still on Stanstead hills, twenty miles from here. You +are as safe here as in Greenwich palace. But after supper, to satisfy you, we +will look to our defences. But, believe me, there is nothing to fear.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke with such confidence and cheerfulness that Isabel felt her fears +melting, and before supper was over she was ashamed of them, and said so. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Buxton, “you shall not escape. You shall see every one of +them for yourself. Mistress Corbet, do you not think that just?” +</p> + +<p> +“You need a little more honest worldliness, Isabel,” said Mary. “I do not +hesitate to say that I believe God saves the priests that have the best +hiding-holes. Now that is not profane, so do not look at me like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the plainest sense,” said Anthony, smiling at them both. +</p> + +<p> +They went the round of them all with candles, and Anthony refreshed his memory; +they visited the little one in the chapel first, then the cupboard and +portrait-door at the top of the corridor, the chamber over the fireplace in the +hall, and lastly, in the wooden cellar-steps they lifted the edge of the fifth +stair from the bottom, so that its front and the top of the stair below it +turned on a hinge and dropped open, leaving a black space behind: this was the +entrance to the passage that led beneath the garden to the garden-house on the +far side of the avenue. +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Corbet wrinkled her nose at the damp earthy smell that breathed out of +the dark. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad I am not a priest,” she said. “And I would sooner be buried dead +than alive. And there is a rat there that sorely needs burying.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear lady!” cried the contriver of the passage indignantly, “her Grace +might sleep there herself and take no harm. There is not even the whisker of a +rat.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not the whisker that I mind,” said Mary, “it is the rest of him.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton immediately set his taper down and climbed in. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall see,” he said, “and I in my best satin too!” +</p> + +<p> +He was inside the stairs now and lying on his back on the smooth board that +backed them. He sidled himself slowly along towards the wall. +</p> + +<p> +“Press the fourth brick of the fourth row,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“You remember, Father Anthony?” +</p> + +<p> +He had reached now what seemed to be the brick wall against which the ends of +the stairs rested; and that closed that end of the cellars altogether. Anthony +leaned in with a candle, and saw how that part of the wall against his friend’s +right side slowly turned into the dark as the fourth brick was pressed, and a +little brick-lined passage appeared beyond. Mr. Buxton edged himself sideways +into the passage, and then stood nearly upright. It was an excellent +contrivance. Even if the searchers should find the chamber beneath the stairs, +which was unlikely, they would never suspect that it was only a blind to a +passage beyond. The door into the passage consisted of a strong oaken door +disguised on the outside by a facing of brick-slabs; all the hinges were +within. +</p> + +<p> +“As sweet as a flower,” said the architect, looking about him. His voice rang +muffled and hollow. +</p> + +<p> +“Then the friends have removed the corpse,” said Mary, putting her head in, +“while you were opening the door. There! come out; you will take cold. I +believe you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you satisfied?” said Mr. Buxton to Isabel, as they went upstairs again. +</p> + +<p> +“What are your outer defences?” asked Mary, before Isabel could answer. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall see the plan in the hall,” said Mr. Buxton. +</p> + +<p> +He took down the frame that held the plan of the house, and showed them the +outer doors. There was first the low oak front door on the north, opening on to +the little court; this was immensely strong and would stand battering. Then on +the same side farther east, within the stable-court, there was the servants’ +door, protected by chains, and an oak bolt that ran across. On the extreme east +end of the house there was a door opening into the garden from the +withdrawing-room, the least strong of all; there was another on the south side, +opposite the front door—that gave on to the garden; and lastly there was an +entrance into the priests’ end of the house, at the extreme west, from the +little walled garden where Anthony had meditated years ago. This walled garden +had a very strong door of its own opening on to the lane between the church and +the house. +</p> + +<p> +“But there are only three ways out, really,” said Mr. Buxton, “for the garden +walls are high and strong. There is the way of the walled garden; the +iron-gates across the drive; and through the stable-yard on to the field-path +to East Maskells. All the other gates are kept barred; and indeed I scarcely +know where the keys are.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am bewildered,” said Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we go round?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow,” said Mary; “I am tired to-night, and so is this poor child. Come, +we will go to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony soon went too. Both he and Isabel were tired with the journey and the +strain of anxiety, and it was a keen joy to him to be back again in his own +dear room, with the tapestry of St. Thomas of Aquin and St. Clare opposite the +bed, and the wide curtained bow-window which looked out on the little walled +garden. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton was left alone in the great hall below with the two tapers burning, +and the starlight with all the suffused glow of a summer night making the arms +glimmer in the tall windows that looked south. Lower, the windows were open, +and the mellow scents of the June roses, and of the sweet-satyrian and lavender +poured in; the night was very still, but the faintest breath came from time to +time across the meadows and rustled in the stiff leaves with the noise of a +stealthy movement. +</p> + +<p> +“I will look round,” said Mr. Buxton to himself. +</p> + +<p> +He stepped out immediately into the garden by the hall door, and turned to the +east, passing along the lighted windows. His step sounded on the tiles, and a +face looked out swiftly from Isabel’s room overhead; but his figure was plain +in the light from the windows as he came out round the corner; and the face +drew back. He crossed the east end of the house, and went through a little door +into the stable-yard, locking it after him. In the kennels in the corner came a +movement, and a Danish hound came out silently into the cage before her house, +and stood up, like a slender grey ghost, paws high up in the bars, and +whimpered softly to her lord. He quieted her, and went to the door in the yard +that opened on to the field-path to East Maskells, unbarred it and stepped +through. There was a dry ditch on his left, where nettles quivered in the +stirring air; and a heavy clump of bushes rose beyond, dark and impenetrable. +Mr. Buxton stared straight at these a moment or two, and then out towards East +Maskells. There lay his own meadows, and the cattle and horses secure and +sleeping. Then he stepped back again; barred the door and walked up through the +stable-yard into the front court. There the great iron gates rose before him, +diaphanous-looking and flimsy in the starlight. He went up to them and shook +them; and a loose shield jangled fiercely overhead. Then he peered through, +holding the bars, and saw the familiar patch of grass beyond the gravel sweep, +and the dark cottages over the way. Then he made his way back to the front +door, unlocked it with his private key, passed through the hall, through a +parlour or two into the lower floor of the priests’ quarters; unlocked softly +the little door into the walled garden, and went out on tip-toe once more. Even +as he went, Anthony’s light overhead went out. Mr. Buxton went to the garden +door, unfastened it, and stepped out into the road. Above him on his left rose +up the chancel of the parish church, the roofs crowded behind; and immediately +in front was the high-raised churchyard, with the tall irregular wall and the +trees above all, blotting out the stars. +</p> + +<p> +Then he came back the same way, fastening the doors as he passed, and reached +the hall, where the tapers still burned. He blew out one and took the other. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose I am a fool,” he said; “the lad is as safe as in his mother’s +arms.” And he went upstairs to bed. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Mary Corbet rose late next morning, and when she came down at last found the +others in the garden. She joined them as they walked in the little avenue. +</p> + +<p> +“Have not the priest-hunters arrived?” she asked. “What are they about? And +you, dear Isabel, how did you sleep?” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel looked a little heavy-eyed. “I did not sleep well,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I fear I disturbed her,” said Mr. Buxton. “She heard me as I went round the +house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you go round the house?” asked Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“I often do,” he said shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“And there was no one?” asked Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“There was no one.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what would you have done if there had been?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Anthony, “what would you have done to warn us all?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton considered. +</p> + +<p> +“I should have rung the alarm, I think,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“But I did not know you had one,” said Mary. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton pointed to a turret peeping between two high gables, above his own +room. +</p> + +<p> +“And what does it sound like?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is deep, and has a dash of sourness or shrillness in it. I cannot describe +it. Above all, it is marvellous loud.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, if we hear it, we shall know the priest-hunters are on us?” asked Mary. +Mr. Buxton bowed. +</p> + +<p> +“Or that the house is afire,” he said, “or that the French or Spanish are +landed.” +</p> + +<p> +To tell the truth, he was just slightly uneasy. Isabel had been far more silent +than he had ever known her, and her nerves were plainly at an acute tension; +she started violently even now, when a servant came out between two yew-hedges +to call Mr. Buxton in. Her alarm had affected him, and besides, he knew +something of the extraordinary skill and patience of Walsingham’s agents, and +even the story of the ferry had startled him. Could it really be, he had +wondered as he tossed to and fro in the hot night, that this innocent priest +had thrown off his pursuers so completely as had appeared? In the morning he +had sent down a servant to the inn to inquire whether anything had been seen or +heard of a disquieting nature; now the servant had come to tell him, as he had +ordered, privately. He went with the man in through the hall-door, leaving the +others to walk in the avenue, and then faced him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” he said sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, there is nothing. There is a party there travelling on to +Brighthelmstone this afternoon, and four drovers who came in last night, sir; +and two gentlemen travelling across country; but they left early this +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“They left, you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“They left at eight o’clock, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton’s attention was attracted to these two gentlemen. +</p> + +<p> +“Go and find out where they came from,” he said, “and let me know after +dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +The man bowed and left the room, and almost immediately the dinner-bell rang. +</p> + +<p> +Mary was frankly happy; she loved to be down here in this superb weather with +her friends; she enjoyed this beautiful house with its furniture and pictures, +and even took a certain pleasure in the hiding-holes themselves; although in +this case she was satisfied they would not be needed. She had heard the tale of +the Stanstead woods, and had no shadow of doubt but that the searchers, if, +indeed, they were searchers at all, were baffled. So at dinner she talked +exactly as usual; and the cloud of slight discomfort that still hung over +Isabel grew lighter and lighter as she listened. The windows of the hall were +flung wide, and the warm summer air poured from the garden into the cool room +with its polished floor, and table decked with roses in silver bowls, with its +grave tapestries stirring on the walls behind the grim visors and pikes that +hung against them. +</p> + +<p> +The talk turned on music. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I would I had my lute,” sighed Mary, “but my woman forgot to bring it. +What a garden to sing in, in the shade of the yews, with the garden-house +behind to make the voice sound better than it is!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton made a complimentary murmur. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” she said, “Master Anthony, you are wool-gathering.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed not,” he said, “but I was thinking where I had seen a lute. Ah! it is +in the little west parlour.” +</p> + +<p> +“A lute!” cried Mary. “Ah! but I have no music; and I have not the courage to +sing the only song I know, over and over again.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there is music too,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +Mary clapped her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“When dinner is over,” she said, “you and I will go to find it.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinner was over at last, and the four rose. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said Mary; while Isabel turned into the garden and Mr. Buxton went to +his room. “We will be with you presently,” she cried after Isabel. +</p> + +<p> +Then the two went together to the little west parlour, oak-panelled, with a +wide fireplace with the logs in their places, and the latticed windows with +their bottle-end glass, looking upon the walled garden. Anthony stood on a +chair and opened the top window, letting a flood of summer noises into the +room. +</p> + +<p> +They found the lute music, written over its six lines with the queer F’s and +double F’s and numerals—all Hebrew to Anthony, but bursting and blossoming with +delicate melodies to Mary’s eyes. Then she took up the lute, and tuned it on +her knee, still sitting in a deep lounging-chair, with her buckled feet before +her; while Anthony sat opposite and watched her supple flashing fingers busy +among the strings, and her grave abstracted look as she listened critically. +Then she sounded the strings in little rippling chords. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! it is a sweet old lute,” she said. “Put the music before me.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony propped it on a chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that the right side up?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Mary smiled and nodded, still looking at the music. +</p> + +<p> +“Now then,” she said, and began the prelude. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Anthony threw himself back in his chair as the delicate tinkling began to pour +out and overscore the soft cooing of a pigeon on the roofs somewhere and the +murmur of bees through the open window. It was an old precise little love-song +from Italy, with a long prelude, suggesting by its tender minor chords true and +restrained love, not passionate but tender, not despairing but melancholy; it +was a love that had for its symbols not the rose and the lily, but the lavender +and thyme—acrid in its sweetness. The prelude had climbed up by melodious steps +to the keynote, and was now rippling down again after its aspirations. +</p> + +<p> +Mary stirred herself. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! now the voice would come in the last chord——when all the music was first +drowned and then ceased, as with crash after crash a great bell, sonorous and +piercing, began to sound from overhead. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_X">CHAPTER X</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE PASSAGE TO THE GARDEN-HOUSE +</p> + +<p> +The two looked at one another with parted lips, but without a word. Then both +rose simultaneously. Then the bell jangled and ceased; and a crowd of other +noises began; there were shouts, tramplings of hoofs in the court; shrill +voices came over the wall; then a scream or two. Mary sprang to the door and +opened it, and stood there listening. +</p> + +<p> +Then from the interior of the house came an indescribable din, tramplings of +feet and shouts of anger; then violent blows on woodwork. It came nearer in a +moment of time, as a tide comes in over flat sands, remorselessly swift. Then +Mary with one movement was inside again, and had locked the door and drawn the +bolt. +</p> + +<p> +“Up there,” she said, “it is the only way—they are outside,” and she pointed +to the chimney. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony began to remonstrate. It was intolerable, he felt, to climb up the +chimney like a hunted cat, and he began a word or two. But Mary seized his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“You must not be caught,” she said, “there are others”; and there came a +confused battering and trampling outside. She pushed him towards the chimney. +Then decision came to him, and he bent his head and stepped upon the logs laid +upon the ashes, crushing them down. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! go,” said Mary’s voice behind him, as the door began to bulge and creak. +There was plainly a tremendous struggle in the little passage outside. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony threw his hands up and felt a high ledge in the darkness, gripped it +with his hands and made a huge effort combined of a tug and a spring; his feet +rapped sharply for a moment or two on the iron fire-plate; and then his knee +reached the ledge and he was up. He straightened himself on the ledge, stood +upright and looked down; two white hands with rings on them were lifting the +logs and drawing them out from the ashes, shaking them and replacing them by +others from the wood-basket; and all deliberately, as if laying a fire. Then +her voice came up to him, hushed but distinct. +</p> + +<p> +“Go up quickly. I will feign to be burning papers; there will be smoke, but no +sparks. It is green wood.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony again felt above him, and found two iron half-rings in the chimney, one +above the other; he was in semi-darkness here, but far above there was a patch +of pale smoky light; and all the chimney seemed full of a murmurous sound. He +tugged at the rings and found them secure, and drew himself up steadily by the +higher one, until his knee struck the lower; then with a great effort he got +his knee upon it, then his left foot, and again straightened himself. Then, as +he felt in the darkness once more, he found a system of rings, one above the +other, up the side of the chimney, by which it was not hard to climb. As he +went up he began to perceive a sharp acrid smell, his eyes smarted and he +closed them, but his throat burned; he climbed fiercely; and then suddenly saw +immediately below him another hearth; he was looking over the fireplate of some +other room. In a moment more he thrust his head over, and drew a long breath of +clear air; then he listened intently. From below still came a murmur of +confusion; but in this room all was quiet. He began to think frantically. He +could not remain in the chimney, it was hopeless; they would soon light fires, +he knew, in all the chimneys, and bring him down. What room was this? He was +bewildered and could not remember. But at least he would climb into it and try +to escape. In a moment more he had lifted himself over the fireplate and +dropped safely on to the hearth of his own bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +The fresh air and the familiarity of the room, as he looked round, swept the +confusion out of his brain like a breeze. The thundering and shouting continued +below. Then he went on tip-toe to the door and opened it. Round to the right +was the head of the stairs which led straight into the little passage where the +struggle was going on. He could hear Robert’s voice in the din; plainly there +was no way down the stairs. To the left was the passage that ended in a window, +with the chapel door at the left and the false shelves on the right. He +hesitated a moment between the two hiding-places, and then decided for the +cupboard; there was a clean doublet there; his own was one black smear of soot, +and as he thought of it, he drew off his sooty shoes. His hose were fortunately +dark. He stepped straight out of the door, leaving it just ajar. Even as he +left it there was a thunder of footsteps on the stairs, and he was at the +shelves in a moment, catching a glimpse through the window on his left of the +front court crowded with men and horses. He had opened and shut the secret door +three or four times the evening before, and his hands closed almost +instinctively on the two springs that must be worked simultaneously. He made +the necessary movement, and the shelves with the wall behind it softly slid +open and he sprang in. But as he closed it he heard one of the two books drop, +and an exclamation from the passage he had just left; then quick steps from the +head of the stairs; the steps clattered past the door and into the chapel +opposite and stopped. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony felt about him in the darkness, found the doublet and lifted it off the +nail; slipped off his own, tearing his ruff as he did so; and then quickly put +on the other. He had no shoes; but that would not be so noticeable. He had not +seriously thought of the possibility of escaping through the portrait-door, as +he felt sure the house would be overrun by now; but he put his eyes to the +pinholes and looked out; and to his astonishment saw that the gallery was +empty. There it lay, with its Flemish furniture on the right and its row of +windows on the left, and all as tranquil as if there were no fierce tragedy of +terror and wrath raging below. Again decision came to him; by a process of +thought so swift that it was an intuition, he remembered that the fall of the +book outside would concentrate attention on that corner; it could not be long +before the shelves were broken in, and if he did not escape now there would be +no possibility later. Then he unslid the inside bolt, and the portrait swung +open; he closed it behind, and sped on silent shoeless feet down the polished +floor of the gallery. +</p> + +<p> +Of course the great staircase was hopeless. The hall would be seething with +men. But there was just a chance through the servants’ quarters. He dashed past +the head of the stairs, catching a glimpse of heads and sparkles of steel over +the banisters, and through the half-opened door at the end, finding himself in +the men’s corridor that was a continuation of the gallery he had left. On his +left rose the head of the back-stairs, that led first with a double flight to +the offices, the pantry, the buttery and the kitchen, and than, lower still, a +single third flight down to the cellar. +</p> + +<p> +He looked down the stairs; at the bottom of the first double flight were a +couple of maids, screaming and white-faced, leaning and pressing against the +door, immediately below the one he had just come through himself. The door was +plainly barred as well, for it was now thudding and cracking with blows that +were being showered upon it from the other side. The maids, it seemed to him, +in a panic had locked the door; but that panic might be his salvation. He +dashed down the stairs; the maids screamed louder than ever when they saw this +man, whom they did not recognise, with blackened face and hands come in +noiseless leaps down towards them; but Anthony put his finger on his lips as he +flew past them; then he dashed open the little door that shut off the +cellar-flight, closed it behind him, and was immediately in the dark. +</p> + +<p> +Then he groped his way down, feeling the rough brick wall as he went, till he +reached the floor of the cellar. The air was cool and damp here, and it +refreshed him, for he was pouring with sweat. The noise, too, and confusion +which, during his flight, had been reverberating through the house with a +formidable din, now only reached him as a far-away murmur. +</p> + +<p> +As he counted the four steps up, and then lifted the overhanging edge, there +came upon him irresistibly the contrast between the serene party here last +night, with their tapers and their delicate dresses and Mary’s cool +clear-clipped voice—and his own soot-stained person, his desperate energy and +his quick panting and heart-beating. Then the steps dropped and he slid in; +lifted them again as he lay on his back, and heard the spring catch as they +closed. Then he was in silence, too, and comparative safety. But he dared not +rest yet, and edged himself along as he had seen Mr. Buxton do last night. +Which brick was it? “The fourth of the fourth,” he murmured, and counted, and +pressed it. Again the door pushed back, and with a little struggle he was first +on his knees, and then on his feet. Then he swung the door to again behind him. +</p> + +<p> +Then for the first time he rested; he leaned against the brick-lined side of +the tunnel and passed his blackened hands over his face. Five minutes +ago—yes—certainly not five minutes ago he was lounging in the west parlour, at +the other end of the house, while Mary played the prelude to an Italian +love-song.—What was she doing now? God bless her for her quick courage!—And +Isabel and Buxton—where were they all? How deadly sick and tired he felt!—Again +he passed his hands over his face in the pitch darkness.—Well, he must push on. +</p> + +<p> +He turned and began to grope patiently through the blackness—step by +step—feeling the roughness of the bricks beneath with his shoeless feet before +he set them down; once or twice he stepped into a little icy pool, which had +collected through some crack in the vaulting overhead; once, too, he slipped on +a lump of something wet and shapeless; and thought even then of Mary’s +suspicions the night before. He pushed on, shivering now with cold and +excitement, through what seemed the interminable tunnel, until at last his +outstretched hands touched wood before him. He had not seen this end of the +passage for nearly two years, and he wondered if he could remember the method +of opening, and gave a gulp of horror at the thought that he might not. But +there had been no reason to make a secret of the inside of the door, and he +presently found a button and drew it; it creaked rustily, but gave, and the +door with another pull opened inwards, and there was a faint glimmer of light. +Then he remembered that the entrances to the tunnel at either end were exactly +on the same system; and putting out his hands felt the slope of the underside +of the staircase, cutting diagonally across the opening of the passage. He slid +himself on to the boarding sideways, and drew the brickwork towards him till +the spring snapped, and lay there to consider before he went farther. +</p> + +<p> +First he ran over in his mind the construction of the garden-house. +</p> + +<p> +The basement in which he was lying corresponded to the cellar under the house +from which he had come, and ran the whole length of the building, about forty +feet by twenty. It was a large empty chamber, where nothing of any value was +kept. He remembered last time he was here seeing a heap of tiles in one corner, +with a pile of disused poles; pieces of rope, and old iron in another. The +stairs led up through an ordinary trap-door into what was the ground-floor of +the house. This, too, was one immense room, with four latticed windows looking +on to the garden, and one with opaque glass on to the lane at the back; and a +great door, generally kept locked, for rather more valuable things were kept +here, such as the garden-roller, flower-pots, and the targets for archery. Then +a light staircase led straight up from this room to the next floor, which was +divided into two, both of which, so far as Anthony remembered, were empty. Mr. +Buxton had thought of letting his gardeners sleep there when he had at first +built this immense useless summer-house; but he had ultimately built a little +gardener’s cottage adjoining it. The two fantastic towers that flanked the +building held nothing but staircases, which could be entered by either of the +two floors, and which ascended to tiny rooms with windows on all four sides. +</p> + +<p> +When Anthony had run over these details as he lay on his back, he pushed up the +stair over his face and let the front of it with the step of the next swing +inwards; the light was stronger now, and poured in, though still dim, through +three half-moon windows, glazed and wired, that just rose above the level of +the ground outside. Then he extricated himself, closed the steps behind him, +and went up the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +The trap-door at the top was a little stiff, but he soon raised it, and in a +moment more was standing in the ground-floor room of the garden-house. All +round him was much as he remembered it; he first went to the door and found it +securely fastened, as it often was for days together; he glanced at the windows +to assure himself that they were bottle-glass too, and then went to them to +look out. He was fortunate enough to find the corner of one pane broken away; +he put his eye to this, and there lay a little lawn, with a yew-hedge beyond +blotting out all of the great house opposite except the chimneys,—the house +which even across the whole space of garden hummed like a hive. On the lawn was +a chair, and an orange-bound book lay face down on the grass beside it. Anthony +stared at it; it was the book that he had seen in Isabel’s hand not half an +hour ago, as she had gone out into the garden from the hall to wait until he +and Mary joined her with the lute. +</p> + +<p> +And at that the priest knelt down before the window, covered his face with his +hands, and began to stammer and cry to God: “O God! God! God!” he said. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +When Mary Corbet had seen Anthony’s feet disappear, she already had the outline +of a plan in her mind. To light a fire and pretend to be burning important +papers would serve as an excuse for keeping the door fast; it would also +suggest at least that no one was in the chimney. The ordinary wood, however, +sent up sparks; but she had noticed before a little green wood in the basket, +and knew that this did not do so to the same extent; so she pulled out the dry +wood that Anthony had trodden into the ashes and substituted the other. Then +she had looked round for paper;—the lute music, that was all. Meantime the door +was giving; the noise outside was terrible; and it was evident that one or two +of the servants were obstructing the passage of the pursuivants. +</p> + +<p> +When at last the door flew in, there was a fire cracking furiously on the +hearth, and a magnificently dressed lady kneeling before it, crushing paper +into the flames. Half a dozen men now streamed in and more began to follow, and +stood irresolute for a moment, staring at her. From the resistance they had met +with they had been certain that the priest was here, and this sight perplexed +them. A big ruddy man, however, who led them, sprang across the room, seized +Mary Corbet by the shoulders and whisked her away against the wall, and then +dashed the half-burnt paper out of the grate and began to beat out the flames. +</p> + +<p> +Mary struggled violently for a moment; but the others were upon her and held +her, and she presently stood quiet. Then she began upon them. +</p> + +<p> +“You insolent hounds!” she cried, “do you know who I am?” Her cheeks were +scarlet and her eyes blazing; she seemed in a superb fury. +</p> + +<p> +“Burning treasonable papers,” growled the big man from his knees on the +hearth, “that is enough for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you, sir, that dare to speak to me like that?” +</p> + +<p> +The man got up; the flames were out now, and he slipped the papers into a +pocket. Mary went on immediately. +</p> + +<p> +“If I may not burn my own lute music, or keep my door locked, without a riotous +mob of knaves breaking upon me—— Ah! how dare you?” and she stamped furiously. +</p> + +<p> +The pursuivant came up close to her, insolently. +</p> + +<p> +“See here, my lady——” he began. +</p> + +<p> +The men had fallen back from her a little now that the papers were safe, and +she lifted her ringed hand and struck his ruddy face with all her might. There +was a moment of confusion and laughter as he recoiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Now will you remember that her Grace’s ladies are not to be trifled with?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a murmur from the crowded room, and a voice near the door cried: +</p> + +<p> +“She says truth, Mr. Nichol. It is Mistress Corbet.” +</p> + +<p> +Nichol had recovered himself, but was furiously angry. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, madam, but I have these papers now,” he said, “they can still be +read.” +</p> + +<p> +“You blind idiot,” hissed Mary, “do you not know lute music when you see it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that ladies do not burn lute music with locked doors,” observed Nichol +bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“The more fool you!” screamed Mary, “when you have caught one at it.” +</p> + +<p> +“That will be seen,” sneered Mr. Nichol. +</p> + +<p> +“Not by a damned blind scarlet-faced porpoise!” screamed Mary, apparently more +in a passion than ever, and a burst of laughter came from the men. +</p> + +<p> +This was too much for Mr. Nichol. This coarse abuse stung him cruelly. +</p> + +<p> +“God’s blood,” he bellowed at the room; “take this vixen out and search the +place.” And a torrent of oaths drove the crowd about the door out into the +passage again. +</p> + +<p> +A couple of men took Mary by the fierce ringed hands of hers that still +twitched and clenched, and led her out; she spat insults over her shoulders as +she went. But she had held him in talk as she intended. +</p> + +<p> +“Now then,” roared Nichol again, “search, you dogs!” +</p> + +<p> +He himself went outside too, and seeing the stairs stamped up them. He was just +in time to see the Tacitus settle down with crumpled pages; stopped for a +moment, bewildered, for it lay in the middle of the passage; and then rushed at +the open door on the left, dashed it open, and found a little empty room, with +a chair or two, and a table—but no sign of the priest. It was like magic. +</p> + +<p> +Then out he came once more, and went into Anthony’s own room. The great bed was +on his right, the window opposite, the fireplace to the left, and in the middle +lay two sooty shoes. Instinctively he bent and touched them, and found them +warm; then he sprang to the door, still keeping his face to the room, and +shouted for help. +</p> + +<p> +“He is here, he is here!” he cried. And a thunder of footsteps on the stairs +answered him. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Meanwhile the men that held Mary followed the others along the passage, but +while the leaders went on and round into the lower corridor, the two +men-at-arms with their prisoner turned aside into the parlour that served as an +ante-chamber to the hall beyond, where they released her. Here, though it was +empty of people, all was in confusion; the table had been overturned in the +struggle that had raged along here between Lackington’s men, who had entered +from the front door, and the servants of the house, who had rushed in from +their quarters at the first alarm and intercepted them. One chair lay on its +side, with its splintered carved arm beside it. As Mary stood a moment looking +about her, the door from the hall that had been closed, again opened, and +Isabel came through; and a man’s voice said: +</p> + +<p> +“You must wait here, madam”; then the door closed behind her. +</p> + +<p> +“Isabel,” said Mary. +</p> + +<p> +The two looked at one another a moment, but before either spoke again the door +again half-opened, and a voice began to speak, as if its owner still held the +handle. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Lackington, keep him in his room. I will go through here to +Nichol.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel had drawn a sharp breath as the voice began, and as the door opened +wider she turned and faced it. Then Hubert came in, and recoiled on the +threshold. There fell a complete silence in the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Hubert,” said Isabel after a moment, “what are you doing here?” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert shut the door abruptly and leaned against it, staring at her; his face +had gone white under the tan. Isabel still looked at him steadily, and her eyes +were eloquent. Then she spoke again, and something in her voice quickened the +beating of Mary’s heart as she listened. +</p> + +<p> +“Hubert, have you forgotten us?” +</p> + +<p> +Still Hubert stared; then he stood upright. The two men-at-arms were watching +in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“I will see to the ladies,” he said abruptly, and waved his hand. They still +hesitated a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Go,” he said again sharply, and pointed to the door. He was a magistrate, and +responsible; and they turned and went. +</p> + +<p> +Then Hubert looked at Isabel again. +</p> + +<p> +“Isabel,” he said, “if I had known——” +</p> + +<p> +“Stay,” she interrupted, “there is no time for explanations except mine. +Anthony is in the house; I do not know where. You must save him.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no entreaty or anxiety in her voice; nothing but a supreme dignity +and an assurance that she would be obeyed. +</p> + +<p> +“But——” he began. The door was opened from the hall, and a little party of +searchers appeared, but halted when the magistrate turned round. +</p> + +<p> +“Come with me,” he said to the two women, “you must have a room kept for you +upstairs,” and he held back the door for them to pass. +</p> + +<p> +Isabel put out her hand to Mary, and the two went out together into the hall +past the men, who stood back to let them through, and Hubert followed. They +turned to the left to the stairs, looking as they went upon the wild confusion. +Above them rose the carved ceiling, and in the centre of the floor, untouched, +by a strange chance, stood the dinner-table, still laid with silver and fruit +and flowers. But all else was in disarray. The leather screen that had stood by +the door into the entrance hall had been overthrown, and had carried with it a +tall flowering plant that now lay trampled and broken before the hearth. A +couple of chairs lay on their backs between the windows; the rug under the +window was huddled in a heap, and all over the polished boards were scratches +and dents; a broken sword-hilt lay on the floor with a feathered cap beside it. +There were half a dozen men guarding the four doors; but the rest were gone; +and from overhead came tramplings and shouts as the hunt swept to and fro in +the upper floors. +</p> + +<p> +At the top of the stairs was Mary’s room; the two ladies, who had gone silently +upstairs with Hubert behind them, stopped at the door of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, if you please,” said Mary. +</p> + +<p> +Before Hubert could answer, Lackington came down the passage, hurrying with a +drawn sword, and his hat on his head. Isabel did not recognise him as he +stopped and tapped Hubert on the arm familiarly. +</p> + +<p> +“The prisoners must not be together,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Hubert drew back his arm and looked the man in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“They are not prisoners; and they shall be together. Take off your hat, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, as Lackington drew back astonished, he opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall not be disturbed here,” he said, and the two went in, and the door +closed behind them. There was a murmur of voices outside the door, and they +heard a name called once or twice, and the sound of footsteps. Then came a tap, +and Hubert stepped in quietly and closed the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I have placed my own man outside,” he said, “and none shall trouble +you—and—Mistress Isabel—I will do my best.” Then he bowed and went out. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The long miserable afternoon began. They watched through the windows the +sentries going up and down the broad paths between the glowing flower-beds; and +out, over the high iron fence that separated the garden from the meadows, the +crowd of villagers and children watching. +</p> + +<p> +But the real terror for them both lay in the sounds that came from the interior +of the house. There was a continual tramp of the sentries placed in every +corridor and lobby, and of the messengers that went to and fro. Then from room +after room came the sounds of blows, the rending of woodwork, and once or twice +the crash of glass, as the searchers went about their work; and at every shout +the women shuddered or drew their breath sharply, for any one of the noises +might be the sign of Anthony’s arrest. +</p> + +<p> +The two had soon talked out every theory in low voices, but they both agreed +that he was still in the house somewhere, and on the upper floor. It was +impossible, they thought, for him to have made his way down. There were four +possibilities, therefore: either he might still be in the chimney—in that case +it was no use hoping; or he was in the chapel-hole; or in that behind the +portrait; or in one last one, in the room next to their own. The searchers had +been there early in the afternoon, but perhaps had not found it; its entrance +was behind the window shutter, and was contrived in the thickness of the wall. +So they talked, these two, and conjectured and prayed, as the evening drew on; +and the sun began to sink behind the church, and the garden to lie in cool +shadow. +</p> + +<p> +About eight there was a tap at the door, and Hubert came in with a tray of food +in his hands, which he set down. +</p> + +<p> +“All is in confusion,” he said, “but this is the best I can do.”—He broke +off. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Isabel,” he said, coming nearer to the two as they sat together in +the window-seat, “I can do little; they have found three hiding-holes; but so +far he has escaped. I do what I can to draw them off, but they are too clever +and zealous. If you can tell me more, perhaps I can do more.” +</p> + +<p> +The two were looking at him with startled eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Three?” Mary said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, three—and indeed——” He stopped as Isabel got up and came towards him. +</p> + +<p> +“Hubert,” she said resolutely, “I must tell you. He must be still in the +chimney of the little west parlour. Do what you can.” +</p> + +<p> +“The west parlour!” he said. “That was where Mistress Corbet was burning the +papers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“He is not there,” said Hubert; “we have sent a boy up and down it already.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! dear God!” said Mary from the window-seat, “then he has escaped.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel looked from one to the other and shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“It cannot be,” she said. “The guards were all round the house before the +alarm rang.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert nodded, and Mary’s face fell. +</p> + +<p> +“Then is there no way out?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Mary sprang up with shining eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“He has done it,” she said, and threw her arms round Isabel and kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Hubert, “what can I do?” +</p> + +<p> +“You must leave us,” said Isabel; “come back later.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then when we have searched the garden-house—why, what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +A look of such anguish had come into their faces that he stopped amazed. +</p> + +<p> +“The garden-house!” cried Mary; “no, no, no!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Hubert, Hubert!” cried Isabel, “you must not go there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” he said, “it was I that proposed it; to draw them from the house.” +</p> + +<p> +There came from beneath the windows a sudden tramp of footsteps, and then +Nichol’s voice, distinctly heard through the open panes. +</p> + +<p> +“We cannot wait for him. Come, men.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are going without me,” said Hubert; and turned and ran through the door. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_XI">CHAPTER XI</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE GARDEN-HOUSE +</p> + +<p> +During that long afternoon the master of the house had sat in his own room, +before his table, hearing the ceaseless footsteps and the voices overhead, and +the ring of feet on the tiles outside his window, knowing that his friend and +priest was somewhere in the house, crouching in some dark little space, +listening to the same footsteps and voices as they came and went by his +hiding-place, and that he himself was absolutely powerless to help. +</p> + +<p> +He had been overpowered in the first rush as he pealed on the alarm-bell, to +which he had rushed when the groom burst in from the stable-yard crying that +the outer court was full of men. Lackington had then sent him under guard to +his own room, where he had been locked in with an armed constable to prevent +any possibility of escape. In the struggle he had received a blow on the head +which had completely dazed him; all his resource left him; and he had no desire +even to move from his chair. +</p> + +<p> +Now he sat, with his head on his breast, and his mind going the ceaseless round +of all the possible places where Anthony might be. Little scenes, too, of +startling vividness moved before him, as he sat there with half-closed +eyes—scenes of the imagined arrest—the scuffle as the portrait was torn away +and Anthony burst out in one last desperate attempt to escape. He saw him under +every kind of circumstance—dashing up stairs and being met at the top by a man +with a pike—running and crouching through the withdrawing-room itself next +door—gliding with burning eyes past the yew-hedges in a rush for the iron +gates, only to find them barred—on horseback with his hands bound and a +despairing uplifted face with pike-heads about him.—So his friend dreamed +miserably on, open-eyed, but between waking and the sleep of exhaustion, until +the crowning vision flashed momentarily before his eyes of the scaffold and the +cauldron with the fire burning and the low gallows over the heads of the crowd, +and the butcher’s block and knife; and then he moaned and sat up and stared +about him, and the young pursuivant looked at him half-apprehensively. +</p> + +<p> +Towards evening the house grew quieter; once, about six o’clock, there were +voices outside, the door from the hall was unlocked, and a heavily-built, ruddy +man came in with two pikemen, locking the door behind him. They paid no +attention to the prisoner, and he watched them mechanically as they went round +the room, running their eyes up and down the panelling, and tapping here and +there. +</p> + +<p> +“The room has been searched, sir, already,” said the young constable to the +ruddy-faced man, who glanced at him and nodded, and then continued the +scrutiny. They reached the fireplace and the officer reached up and tapped the +wood over the mantelpiece half-a-dozen times. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” he called, pointing to a spot. +</p> + +<p> +A pikeman came up, placed the end of his pike into the oak, and leaned suddenly +and heavily upon it: the steel crashed in an inch, and stopped as it met the +stonework behind. The officer made a motion, the pike was withdrawn, and he +stood on tip-toe and put his finger into the splintered panel. Then he was +satisfied and they passed on, still tapping the walls, and went out of the +other door, locking it again behind them. +</p> + +<p> +An hour later there were voices and steps again, and a door was unlocked and +opened, and Mr. Graves, the Tonbridge magistrate stepped in alone. He was a +pale scholarly-looking man with large eyes, and a weak mouth only partly +covered by his beard. +</p> + +<p> +“You can go,” he said nervously to the constable, “but remain outside.” The +young man saluted him and passed out. +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate looked quickly and sideways at Mr. Buxton as he sat and looked +at him. +</p> + +<p> +“I am come to tell you,” he said, “that we cannot find the priest.” He +hesitated and stopped. “We have found several hiding-holes,” he went on, “and +they are all empty. I—I hope there is no mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +A little thrill ran through the man who sat in the chair; the lethargy began to +clear from his brain, like a morning mist when a breeze rises; he sat a little +more upright and gripped the arms of his chair; he said nothing yet, but he +felt power and resource flowing back to his brain, and the pulse in his temples +quieted. Why, if the lad had not been taken yet, he must surely be out of the +house. +</p> + +<p> +“I trust there is no mistake,” said the magistrate again nervously. +</p> + +<p> +“You may well trust so,” said the other; “it will be a grievous thing for you, +sir, otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, Mr. Buxton, I think you know I am no bigot. I was sent for by Mr. +Lackington last night. I could not refuse. It was not my wish——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet you have issued your warrant, and are here in person to execute it. May I +inquire how many of my cupboards you have broken into? And I hope your men are +satisfied with my plate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, sir,” said the magistrate, “there has been nothing of that kind. And +as for the cupboards, there were but three——” +</p> + +<p> +Three!—then the lad is out of the house, thought the other. But where? +</p> + +<p> +“And I trust you have not spared to break down my servants’ rooms, and the +stables as well as pierce all my panelling.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was no need to search the stables, Mr. Buxton; our men were round the +house before we entered. They have been watching the entrances since eight +o’clock last night.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton felt bewildered. His instinct had been right, then, the night +before. +</p> + +<p> +“The party was followed from near Wrotham,” went on the magistrate. “The +priest was with them then; and, we suppose, entered the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“You suppose!” snapped the other. “What the devil do you mean by supposing? +You have looked everywhere and cannot find him?” +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly, as he stood and stared at +the angry man. +</p> + +<p> +“And the roofs?” added Mr. Buxton sneeringly. +</p> + +<p> +“They have been thoroughly searched.” +</p> + +<p> +Then there is but one possible theory, he reflected. The lad is in the +garden-house. And what if they search that? +</p> + +<p> +“Then may I ask what you propose to destroy next, Mr. Graves?” +</p> + +<p> +He saw that this tone was having its effect on the magistrate, who was but a +half-hearted persecutor, with but feeble convictions and will, as he knew of +old. +</p> + +<p> +“I—I entreat you not to speak to me like that, sir,” he said. “I have but done +my duty.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the other rose from his chair, and his eyes were stern and bright again +and his lips tight. +</p> + +<p> +“Your duty, sir, seems a strange matter, when it leads you to break into a +friend’s house, assault him and his servants and his guests, and destroy his +furniture, in search of a supposed priest whom you have never even seen. Now, +sir, if this matter comes to her Grace’s ears, I will not answer for the +consequences; for you know Mistress Corbet, her lady-in-waiting, is one of my +guests.—And, speaking of that, where are my guests?” +</p> + +<p> +“The two ladies, Mr. Buxton, are safe and sound upstairs, I assure you.” +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate’s voice was trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, I have one condition to offer you. Either you and your men withdraw +within half an hour from my house and grounds, and leave me and my two guests +to ourselves, or else I lay the whole matter, through Mistress Corbet, before +her Grace.” Mr. Buxton beat his hand once on the table as he ended, and looked +with a contemptuous inquiry at the magistrate. +</p> + +<p> +But the worm writhed up at the heel. +</p> + +<p> +“How can you talk like this, sir,” he burst out, “as if you had but two +guests?” +</p> + +<p> +“Two guests? I do not understand you. How should there be more?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then for whom are the four places laid at table?” he answered indignantly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton felt a sudden desperate sinking, and he could not answer for a +moment. The magistrate passed his shaking hand over his mouth and beard once or +twice; but the thrust had gone home, and there was no parry or riposte. He +followed it up. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, sir, be reasonable. I came in here to make terms. We <i> know </i> the +priest has been here. It is certain beyond all question. All that is uncertain +is whether he is here now or escaped. We have searched thoroughly; we must +search again to-morrow; but in the meanwhile, while you yourself must be under +restraint, your guests shall have what liberty they wish; and you yourself +shall have all reasonable comfort and ease. So—so, if we do not find the +priest, I trust that you and—and—Mistress Corbet will agree to overlook any +rashness on my part—and—and let her Grace remain in ignorance.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton had been thinking furiously during this little speech. He saw the +mistake he had made in taking the high line, and his wretched forgetfulness of +the fourth place at table. He must make terms, though it tasted bitter. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Graves,” he said, “I have no wish to be hard upon you. All I ask is +to be out of the house when the search is made, and that the ladies shall come +and go as they please.” +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate leapt at the lure like a trout. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, Mr. Buxton, it shall be as you say. And to what house will you +retire?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton appeared to reflect; he tapped on the table with a meditative finger +and looked at the ceiling. +</p> + +<p> +“It must not be too far away,” he said slowly, “and—and the Rector would +scarce like to receive me. Perhaps in—or——Why not my summer-house?” he added +suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Graves’ face was irradiated with smiles. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Mr. Buxton, certainly, it shall be as you say. And where is the +summer-house?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is across the garden,” said the other carelessly. “I wonder you have not +searched it in your zeal.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I send a man to prepare it?” asked the magistrate eagerly. “Will you go +there to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, shall we go across there together now? I give you my parole,” he added, +smiling, and standing up. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,—as you wish. I cannot tell you, sir, how grateful I am. You have made +my duty almost a pleasure, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +They went out together into the hall, Mr. Buxton carrying the key of the +garden-house that he had taken from the drawer of his table; he glanced +ruefully at the wrecked furniture and floor, and his eyes twinkled for a moment +as they rested on the four places at table still undisturbed, and then met the +magistrate’s sidelong look. The men were still at the doors, resting now on +chairs or leaning against the wall, with their weapons beside them; it was +weary work this mounting sentry and losing the hunt, and their faces showed it. +The two passed out together into the garden, and began to walk up the path that +led straight across the avenue to where the high vanes of the garden-house +stood up grotesque and towering against the evening sky, above the black +yew-hedges. +</p> + +<p> +All the while they went Mr. Buxton was thinking out his plan. It was still +incoherent; but, at any rate, it was a step gained to be able to communicate +with Anthony again; and at least the poor lad should have some supper. And then +he smiled to himself with relief as he saw what an improvement there had been +in the situation as it had appeared to him an hour ago. Why, they would search +the house again next day; find no one, and retire apologising. His occupancy of +the garden-house with the magistrate’s full consent would surely secure it from +search; and he was not so well satisfied with the disguised entrance to the +passage at this end as with that in the cellar. +</p> + +<p> +They reached the door at last. There were three steps going up to it, and Mr. +Buxton went up them, making a good deal of noise as he did so, to ensure +Anthony’s hearing him should he be above ground. Then, as if with great +difficulty, he unlocked the door, rattling it, and clicking sharply with his +tongue at its stiffness. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Mr. Graves,” he said, rather loud, as he opened the door a little, +“my prison will not be a narrow one.” He threw the door open, gave a glance +round, and was satisfied. The targets leaned against one wall, and two rows of +flower-pots stood in the corner near where the window opened into the lane, but +there was no sign of occupation. Mr. Buxton went across, threw the window open +and looked out. There was a steel cap three or four feet below, and a +pike-head; and at the sound of the latch a bearded face looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“I see you have a sentry there,” said Mr. Buxton carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that is one of Mr. Maxwell’s men.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Maxwell’s!” said the other, startled. “Is he in this affair too?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; have you not heard? He came from Great Keynes this morning. Mr. +Lackington sent for him.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton’s face grew dark. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah yes, I see—a pretty revenge.” +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate was on the point of asking an explanation, for he felt on the +best of terms again now with his prisoner, when there were footsteps outside +and voices; and there stood four constables, with Nichol, Hubert Maxwell and +Lackington in furious debate coming up the path behind. +</p> + +<p> +They looked up suddenly, and saw the door open and the magistrate and his +prisoner standing in the opening. The four constables stood waiting for further +orders while their three chiefs came up. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, now, now!” said Mr. Graves peevishly, “what is all this?” +</p> + +<p> +“We have come to search this house, sir,” said Nichol cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +“See here, sir,” said Hubert, “have you given orders for this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Enough, enough,” said Lackington coolly. “Search, men.” +</p> + +<p> +The pursuivants advanced to the steps. Then Mr. Buxton turned fiercely on them +all. +</p> + +<p> +“See here!” he cried, and his voice rang out across the garden. “You bring me +here, Mr. Graves, promising me a little peace and quietness, after your violent +and unwarranted attack upon my house to-day. I have been patient and submissive +to all suggestions; I leave my entire house at your disposal; I promise to lay +no complaints before her Grace, so long as you will let me retire here till it +is over—and now your men persecute me even here. Have you no mind of your own, +sir?” he shouted. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, sir——” began Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“And as for you, Mr. Maxwell,” went on the other fiercely, “are you not +content with your triumph so far? Cannot you leave me one corner to myself, or +would your revenge be not full enough for you, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“You mistake me, sir,” said Hubert, making a violent effort to control +himself; “I am on your side in this matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is what I am beginning to think,” said Lackington insolently. +</p> + +<p> +“You think!” roared Mr. Buxton; “and who the devil are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“See here, gentlemen,” said Mr. Nichol, “what is the dispute? Here is an empty +house, Mr. Buxton tells us; and Mr. Maxwell tells us the same. Well, then, let +these honest fellows run through the empty house; it will not take ten minutes, +and Mr. Buxton and his friend can take the air meanwhile. A-God’s name, let us +not dispute over a trifle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, a-God’s name, let me go to my own house,” bellowed Mr. Buxton, “and +these gentlemen can have the empty house to disport themselves in till +doomsday—or till her Grace looks into the matter”; and he made a motion to run +down the steps, but his heart sank. Mr. Graves put out a deprecating hand and +touched his arm; and Mr. Buxton very readily turned at once with a choleric +face! +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, no!” cried the magistrate. “These gentlemen are here on my warrant, +and they shall not search the place. Mr. Buxton, I entreat you not to be hasty. +Come back, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton briskly reascended. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, Mr. Graves, I entreat you to give your orders, and let your will +be known. I am getting hungry for my supper, too, sir. It is already an hour +past my time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sup in the house, sir,” said Mr. Nichol smoothly, “and we shall have done by +then.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Hubert blazed up; he took a step forward. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, you fellow,” he said to Nichol, “hold your damned tongue. Mr. Graves and +I are the magistrates here, and we say that this gentleman shall sup and sleep +here in peace, so you may take your pursuivants elsewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +Lackington looked up with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mr. Maxwell, I cannot do that. These men are under my orders, and I shall +leave two of them here and send another to keep your fellow company at the +back. We will not disturb Mr. Buxton further to-night; but to-morrow we shall +see.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton paid no sort of further attention to him, but turned to the +magistrates. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, gentlemen, what is your decision?” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall sleep here in peace, sir,” said Mr. Graves resolutely. “I can +promise nothing for to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then will you kindly allow one of my men to bring me supper and a couch of +some kind, and I shall be obliged if the ladies may sup with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That they shall,” assented Mr. Graves. “Mr. Maxwell, will you escort them +here?” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert, who was turning away, nodded and disappeared round the yew-hedge. +Lackington, who had been talking in an undertone to the pursuivants, now went +up another alley with one of them and Mr. Nichol, and disappeared too in the +gathering gloom of the garden. The other two pursuivants separated and each +moved a few steps off and remained just out of sight. Plainly they were to +remain on guard. Mr. Buxton and the magistrate sat down on a couple of +garden-chairs. +</p> + +<p> +“That is an obstinate fellow, sir,” said Mr. Graves. +</p> + +<p> +“They are certainly both of them very offensive fellows, sir. I was astonished +at your indulgence towards them.” +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate was charmed by this view of the case, and remained talking with +Mr. Buxton until footsteps again were heard, and the two ladies appeared, with +Hubert with them, and a couple of men carrying each a tray and the other +necessaries he had asked for. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton and the magistrate rose to meet the ladies and bowed. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell you,” began their host elaborately, “what distress all this +affair has given me. I trust you will forgive any inconvenience you may have +suffered.” +</p> + +<p> +Both Isabel and Mary looked white and strained, but they responded gallantly; +and as the table was being prepared the four talked almost as if there were no +bitter suspense at three of their hearts at least. Mr. Graves was nervous and +uneasy, but did his utmost to propitiate Mary. At last he was on the point of +withdrawing, when Mr. Buxton entreated him to sup with them. +</p> + +<p> +“I must not,” he said; “I am responsible for your property, Mr. Buxton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I understand that these ladies may come and go as they please?” he asked +carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then may I ask too the favour that you will place one of your own men at the +door who can conduct them to the house when they wish to go, and who can remain +and protect me too from any disturbance from either of the two officious +persons who were here just now?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Graves, delighted at this restored confidence, promised to do so, and took +an elaborate leave; and the three sat down to supper; the door was left open, +and they could see through it the garden, over which veil after veil of +darkness was beginning to fall. The servants had lighted two tapers, and the +inside of the great room with its queer furniture of targets and flower-pots +was plainly visible to any walking outside. Once or twice the figure of a man +crossed the strip of light that lay across the gravel. +</p> + +<p> +It was a strange supper. They said innocent things to one another in a tone +loud enough for any to hear who cared to be listening, about the annoyance of +it all, the useless damage that had been done, the warmth of the summer night, +and the like, and spoke in low soundless sentences of what was in all their +hearts. +</p> + +<p> +“That red-faced fellow,” said Mary, “would be the better of some manners. (He +is in the passage below, I suppose.)” +</p> + +<p> +“It is scarce an ennobling life—that of a manhunter,” said Mr. Buxton. (“Yes. +I am sure of it.”) +</p> + +<p> +“They have broken your little cupboard, I fear,” said Mary again. (“Tell me +your plan, if you have one.”) +</p> + +<p> +And so step by step a plan was built up. It had been maturing in Mr. Buxton’s +mind gradually after he had learnt the ladies might sup with him; and little by +little he conveyed it to them. He managed to write down the outline of it as he +sat at table, and then passed it to each to read, and commented on it and +answered their questions about it, all in the same noiseless undertone, with +his lips indeed scarcely moving. There were many additions and alterations made +in it as the two ladies worked upon it too, but by the time supper was over it +was tolerably complete. It seemed, indeed, almost desperate, but the case was +desperate. It was certain that the garden-house would be searched next day; +Lackington’s suspicions were plainly roused, and it was too much to hope that +searchers who had found three hiding-places in one afternoon would fail to find +a fourth. It appeared then that it was this plan or none. +</p> + +<p> +They supped slowly, in order to give time to think out and work out the scheme, +and to foresee any difficulties beyond those they had already counted on; and +it was fully half-past nine before the two ladies rose. Their host went with +them to the door, called up Mr. Graves’ man, and watched them pass down the +path out of sight. He stood a minute or two longer looking across towards the +house at the dusky shapes in the garden and the strip of gravel, grass, and yew +that was illuminated from his open door. Then he spoke to the men that he knew +were just out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to bed presently. Kindly do not disturb me.” There was no answer; +and he closed the two high doors and bolted them securely. +</p> + +<p> +He dared not yet do what he wished, for fear of arousing suspicion, so he went +to the other window and looked out into the lane. He could just make out the +glimmer of steel on the opposite bank. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, my man,” he called out cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +Again there was no answer. There was something sinister in these watching +presences that would not speak, and his heart sank a little as he put-to the +window without closing it. He went next to the pile of rugs and pillows that +his men had brought across, and arranged them in the corner, just clear of the +trap-door. Then he knelt and said his evening prayers, and here at least was no +acting. Then he rose again and took off his doublet and ruff and shoes so that +he was dressed only in a shirt, trunks and hose. Then he went across to the +supper-table, where the tapers still burned, and blew them out, leaving the +room in complete darkness. Then he went back to his bed, and sat and listened. +</p> + +<p> +Up to this point he had been aware that probably at least one pair of eyes had +been watching him; for, although the windows were of bottle-end glass, yet it +was exceedingly likely that there would be some clear glass in them; and, with +the tapers burning inside, his movements would all have been visible to either +of Lackington’s men who cared to put his eye to the window. But now he was +invisible. Yet, as he thought of it, he slipped on his doublet again to hide +the possible glimmer of his white shirt. There was the silence of the summer +night about him—the silence only emphasised by its faint sounds. The house was +quiet across the garden, though once or twice he thought he heard a horse +stamp. Once there came a little stifled cough from outside his window; there +was the silky rustle of the faint breeze in the trees outside; and now and +again came the snoring of a young owl in the ivy somewhere overhead. +</p> + +<p> +He counted five hundred deliberately, to compel himself to wait; and meanwhile +his sub-conscious self laboured at the scheme. Then he glanced this way and +that with wide eyes; his ears sang with intentness of listening. Then, very +softly he shifted his position, and found with his fingers the ring that lifted +the trap-door above the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +There was no concealment about this, and without any difficulty he lifted the +door with his right hand and leaned it against the wall; then he looked round +again and listened. From below came up the damp earthy breath of the basement, +and he heard a rat scamper suddenly to shelter. Then he lifted his feet from +the rugs and dropped them noiselessly on the stairs, and supporting himself by +his hands on the floor went down a step or two. Then a stair creaked under his +weight; and he stopped in an agony, hearing only the mad throbbing in his own +ears. But all was silent outside. And so step by step he descended into the +cool darkness. He hesitated as to whether he should close the trap-door or not, +there was a risk either way; but he decided to do so, as he would be obliged to +make some noise in opening the secret doors and communicating with Anthony. At +last his feet touched the earth floor, and he turned as he sat and counted the +steps—the fourth, the fifth, and tapped upon it. There was no answer; he put +his lips to it and whispered sharply: +</p> + +<p> +“Anthony, Anthony, dear lad.” +</p> + +<p> +Still there was no answer. Then he lifted the lid, and managed to hold the +woodwork below, as he knelt on the third step, so that it descended +noiselessly. He put out his other hand and felt the boards. Anthony had retired +into the passage then, he told himself, as he found the space empty. He climbed +into the hole, pushed himself along and counted the bricks—the fourth of the +fourth—pressed it, and pushed at the door; and it was fast. +</p> + +<p> +For the first time a horrible spasm of terror seized him. Had he forgotten? or +was it all a mistake, and Anthony not there? He turned in his place, put his +shoulders against the door and his feet against the woodwork of the stairs, and +pushed steadily; there were one or two loud creaks, and the door began to +yield. Then he knew Anthony was there; a rush of relief came into his heart—and +he turned and whispered again. +</p> + +<p> +“Anthony, dear lad, Anthony, open quickly; it is I.” +</p> + +<p> +The brickwork slid back and a hand touched his face out of the pitch darkness +of the tunnel. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it? Is it you?” came a whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“It is I, yes. Thank God you are here. I feared——” +</p> + +<p> +“How could I tell?” came the whisper again. “But what is the news? Are you +escaped?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am a prisoner, and on parole. But there is no time for that. You must +escape—we have a plan—but there is not much time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I not remain here?” +</p> + +<p> +“They will search to-morrow—and—and this end of the tunnel is not so well +concealed as the other. They would find you. They suspect you are here, and +there are guards round this place.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a movement in the dark. +</p> + +<p> +“Then why think——” began the whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, we have a plan. Mary and Isabel approve. Listen carefully. There is +but one guard at the back here, in the lane. Mary has leave to come and go now +as she pleases—they are afraid of her; she will leave the house in a few +minutes now to ride to East Maskells, with two grooms and a maid behind one of +them. She will ride her own horse. When she has passed the inn she will bid the +groom who has the maid to wait for her, while she rides down the lane with the +other, Robert, to speak to me through the window. The pursuivant, we suppose, +will not forbid that, as he knows they have supped with me just now. As we +talk, Robert will watch his chance and spring on the pursuivant. As soon as the +struggle begins you will drop from the window; it is but eight feet; and help +him to secure the man and gag him. However much din they make the others cannot +reach the man in time to help, for they will have to come round from the house, +and you will have mounted Robert’s horse; and you and Mary together will gallop +down the lane into the road, and then where you will. We advise East Maskells. +I do not suppose there will be any pursuit. They will have no horses ready. Do +you understand it?” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence a moment; Mr. Buxton could hear Anthony breathing in the +darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not like it,” came the whisper at last; “it seems desperate. A hundred +things may happen. And what of Isabel and you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear friend; I know it is desperate, but not so desperate as your remaining +here would be for us all.” +</p> + +<p> +Again there was silence. +</p> + +<p> +“What of Robert? How will he escape?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you escape they will have nothing against Robert; for they can prove +nothing as to your priesthood. But if they catch you here—and they certainly +will, if you remain here—they will probably hang him, for he fought for you +gallantly in the house. And he too will have time to run. He can run through +the door into the meadows. But they will not care for him if they know you are +off.” +</p> + +<p> +Again silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” whispered Mr. Buxton. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you wish it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it is the only hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God! And now you must come up with me. Put off your shoes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have none.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then follow, and do not make a sound.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Very cautiously Mr. Buxton extricated himself; for he had been lying on his +side while he whispered to Anthony; and presently was crouched on the stairs +above, as he heard the stirrings of his friend in the dark below him. There +came the click of the brickwork door; then slow shufflings; once a thump on the +hollow boards that made his heart leap; then after what seemed an interminable +while, came the sound of latching the fifth stair into its place; and he felt +his foot grasped. Then he turned and ascended slowly on hands and knees, +feeling now and again for the trap-door over him—touched it—raised it, and +crawled out on to the rugs. The room seemed to him comparatively light after +the heavy darkness of the basement, and passage below, and he could make out +the supper-table and the outline of the targets on the opposite wall. Then he +saw a head follow him; then shoulders and body; and Anthony crept out and sat +on the rugs beside him. Their hands met in a trembling grip. +</p> + +<p> +“Supper, dear lad?” whispered Mr. Buxton, with his mouth to the other’s ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am hungry,” came the faintest whisper back. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Buxton rose and went on tip-toe to the table, took off some food and a +glass of wine that he had left purposely filled and came back with them. +</p> + +<p> +There the two friends sat; Mr. Buxton could just hear the movement of Anthony’s +mouth as he ate. The four windows glimmered palely before them, and once or +twice the tall doors rattled faintly as the breeze stirred them. +</p> + +<p> +Then suddenly came a sound that made Anthony’s hand pause on the way to his +mouth; Mr. Buxton drew a sharp breath; it was the noise of three or four horses +on the road beyond the church. Then they both stood up without a word, and Mr. +Buxton went noiselessly across to the window that looked on to the lane and +remained there, listening. The horses were now passing down the street, and the +noise of their hoofs grew fainter behind the houses. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony saw his friend in the twilight beckon, and he went across and stood by +him. Suddenly the hoofs sounded loud and near; and they heard the pursuivant +below stand up from the bank opposite. Then Mary’s voice came distinct and +cheerful. +</p> + +<p> +“How dark it is!” +</p> + +<p> +The horses were coming down the lane. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_XII">CHAPTER XII</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE NIGHT-RIDE +</p> + +<p> +The sound of hoofs came nearer; Anthony’s heart, as he crouched below the +window, ready to spring up and over when the signal was given, beat in sick +thumpings at the base of his throat, but with a fierce excitement and no fear. +His hands clenched and unclenched. Mr. Buxton stood back a little, waiting; he +must feign to be asleep at first. +</p> + +<p> +Then came suddenly a sharp challenge from the sentry. +</p> + +<p> +“It is Mistress Corbet,” came Mary’s cool high tones, “and I desire to speak +with Mr. Buxton.” +</p> + +<p> +The man hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Cannot!” she cried; “why, fellow, do you know who I am? And I have just +supped with him.” +</p> + +<p> +There came a sudden sound from the other side of the summer-house, and both men +in the room knew that the guards in the garden were listening. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry, madam, but I have no orders.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then do not presume, you hound,” came Mary’s voice again, with a ring of +anger. “Ho, there, Mr. Buxton, come to the window.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be ready,” he whispered to Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand back, madam,” said the pursuivant, “or I shall call for help.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Mr. Buxton threw back the window. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is there?” he asked coolly. (“Stand up Anthony.”) +</p> + +<p> +“It is I, Mr. Buxton, but this insolent dog——” +</p> + +<p> +“Stand <i> back</i>, madam, I say,” cried the voice of the guard. Then from +the garden behind came running footsteps and voices; and a red light shone +through the windows behind. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” whispered the voice over Anthony’s head sharply. +</p> + +<p> +There came a loud shout from the guard, “Help there, help!” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony put his hands on to the sill and lifted himself easily. The groom had +slipped from his horse while Mary held the bridle, and was advancing at the +guard, and there was something in his hand. The sentry, who was standing +immediately under the window, now dropped his pike point forward; and as a +furious rattling began at the doors on the garden side, Anthony dropped, and +came down astride of the man’s neck, who crashed to the ground. Then the groom +was on him too. +</p> + +<p> +“Leave him to me, sir. Mount.” +</p> + +<p> +The groom’s hands were busy with something about the struggling man’s neck: the +shouts choked and ceased. +</p> + +<p> +“You will strangle the man,” said Anthony sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense,” said Mary; “mount, mount. They are coming.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony ran to the horse, that was beginning to scurry and plunge; threw +himself across the saddle and caught the reins. +</p> + +<p> +“Up?” said Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“Up”; and he slung his right leg over the flank and sat up, as Mary released +the bridle, and dashed off, scattering gravel. +</p> + +<p> +From the direction of the church came cries and the quick rattle of a galloping +horse. Anthony dashed his shoeless heels into the horse’s sides and leaned +forward, and in a moment more was flying down the lane after Mary. From in +front came a shout of warning, with one or two screams, and then Anthony turned +the corner, checking his horse slightly at the angle, saw a torch somewhere to +his right, a group of scared faces, a groom and woman clinging to him on a +plunging horse, and the white road; and then found himself with loose reins, +and flying stirrups, thundering down the village street, with Mary on her horse +not two lengths in front. The roar of the hoofs behind, and of the little +shouting crowd, with the screaming woman on the horse, died behind him as the +wind began to boom in his ears. Mary was looking round now, and slightly +checking her horse as they neared the bottom of the long village street. In +half a dozen strides Anthony came up on her right. Then the pool gleamed before +them just beyond the fork of the road. +</p> + +<p> +“Left!” screamed Mary through the roar of the racing air, and turned her horse +off up the road that led round in a wide sweep of two miles to East Maskells +and the woods beyond, and Anthony followed. He had settled down in the saddle +now, and had brought his maddened horse under control; his feet were in the +stirrups, but there was no lessening of the speed. They had left the last house +now, and on either side the black bushes and heatherland streamed past, with +the sudden gleam of water here and there under the starlight that showed the +ditches and holes with which the ground on either side of the road was +honeycombed. +</p> + +<p> +Then Mary turned her head again, and the words came detached and sharp. +</p> + +<p> +“They are after us—could not help—horses saddled.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony turned his head to release one ear from the roar of the air, and heard +the thundering rattle of hoofs in the distance, but even as he listened it grew +fainter. +</p> + +<p> +“We are gaining!” he shouted. +</p> + +<p> +Mary nodded, and her teeth gleamed white in a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Ours are fresh,” she screamed. +</p> + +<p> +Then there was silence between them again; they had reached a little hill and +eased their horses up it; a heavy fringe of trees crowned it on their right, +black against the stars, and a gleam of light showed the presence of a house +among them. Farther and farther behind them sounded the hoofs; then they were +swaying and rocking again down the slope that led to the long flat piece of +road that ended in the slope up to East Maskells. It was softer going now and +darker too, as there were trees overhead; pollared willows streamed past them +as they went; and twice there was a snort and a hollow thunder of hoofs as a +young sleeping horse awoke and raced them a few yards in the meadows at the +side. Once Anthony’s horse shied at a white post, and drew in front a yard or +two; and he heard for a moment under the rattle the cool gush of the stream +that flowed beneath the road and the scream of a water-fowl as she burst from +the reeds. +</p> + +<p> +A great exultation began to fill Anthony’s heart. What a ride this was, in the +glorious summer night—reckless and intoxicating! What a contrast, this sweet +night air streaming past him, this dear world of living things, his throbbing +horse beneath him, the birds and beasts round him, and this gallant girl +swaying and rejoicing too beside him! What a contrast was all this to that +terrible afternoon, only a few hours away—of suspense and skulking like a rat +in a sewer; in a dark, close passage underground breathing death and silence +round him! An escape with the fresh air in the face and the glorious galloping +music of hoofs is another matter to an escape contrived by holding the breath +and fearing to move in a mean hiding-hole. And as all this flooded in upon him, +incoherently but overpoweringly, he turned and laughed loud with joy. +</p> + +<p> +They had nearly come to an end of the flat by now. In front of them rose the +high black mass of trees where safety lay; somewhere to the right, not a +quarter of a mile in front, just off the road, lay East Maskells. They would +draw rein, he reflected, when they reached the outer gates, and listen; and if +all was quiet behind them, Mary at least should ask for shelter. For himself, +perhaps it would be safer to ride on into the woods for the present. He began +to move his head as he rode to see if there were any light in the house before +him; it seemed dark; but perhaps he could not see the house from here. +Gradually his horse slackened a little, as the rise in the ground began, and he +tossed the reins once or twice. +</p> + +<p> +Then there was a sharp hiss and blow behind him; his horse snorted and leapt +forward, almost unseating him, and then, still snorting with head raised and +jerking, dashed at the slope. There was a cry and a loud report; he tugged at +the reins, but the horse was beside himself, and he rode fifty yards before he +could stop him. Even as he wrenched him into submission another horse with head +up and flying stirrup and reins thundered past him and disappeared into the +woods beyond the house. +</p> + +<p> +Then, trembling so that he could hardly hold the reins, he urged his horse back +again at a stumbling trot towards what he knew lay at the foot of the slope, +and to meet the tumult that grew in nearness and intensity up the road along +which he had just galloped. +</p> + +<p> +There was a dark group on the pale road in front of him, twenty yards this side +of the field-path that led from Stanfield Place; he took his feet from the +stirrups as he got near, and in a moment more threw his right leg forward over +the saddle and slipped to the ground. +</p> + +<p> +He said no word but pushed away the two men, and knelt by Mary, taking her head +on his knee. The men rose and stood looking down at them. +</p> + +<p> +“Mary,” he said, “can you hear me?” +</p> + +<p> +He bent close over the white face; her hand rose to her breast, and came away +dark. She was shot through the body. Then she pushed him sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Go,” she whispered, “go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mary,” he said again, “make your confession—quickly. Stand back, you men.” +</p> + +<p> +They obeyed him; and he bent his ear towards the mouth he could so dimly see. +There was a sob or two—a long moaning breath—and then the murmur of words, very +faint and broken by gulps for breath. He noticed nothing of the hoofs that +dashed up the road and stopped abruptly, and of the murmur of voices that grew +round him; he only heard the gasping whisper, the words that rose one by one, +with pauses and sighs, into his ear.... +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all?” he said, and a silence fell on all who stood round, now a +complete circle about the priest and the penitent. The pale face moved slightly +in assent; he could see the lips were open, and the breath was coming short and +agonised. +</p> + +<p> +“... <i> In nomine Patris</i>—his hand rose above her and moved cross-ways in +the air—<i>et Filii et Spiritus Sancti</i>. <i> Amen.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +Then he bent low again and looked; the bosom was still rising and falling, the +shut eyes lifted once and looked at him. Then the lids fell again. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris et Filii et Spiritus sancti, descendat +super te et maneat semper. Amen.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +Then there fell a silence. A horse blew out its nostrils somewhere behind and +stamped; then a man’s voice cried brutally: +</p> + +<p> +“Now then, is that popish mummery done yet?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a murmur and stir in the group. But Anthony had risen. +</p> + +<p> +“That is all,” he said. +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +IN PRISON +</p> + +<p> +Anthony found several friends in the Clink prison in Southwark, whither he was +brought up from Stanfield Place after his arrest. +</p> + +<p> +Life there was very strange, a combination of suffering and extraordinary +relaxation. He had a tiny cell, nine feet by five, with one little window high +up, and for the first month of his imprisonment wore irons; at the same time +his gaoler was so much open to bribery that he always found his door open on +Sunday morning, and was able to shuffle upstairs and say mass in the cell of +Ralph Emerson, once the companion of Campion, and a lay-brother of the Society +of Jesus. There he met a large number of Catholics—some of whom he had come +across in his travels—and he even ministered the sacraments to others who +managed to come in from the outside. His chief sorrow was that his friend and +host had been taken to the Counter in Wood Street. +</p> + +<p> +It was a month before he heard all that had happened on the night of his +arrest, and on the previous days: he had been separated at once from his +friends; and although he had heard his guards talking both in the hall where he +had been kept the rest of the night, and during the long hot ride to London the +next day, yet at first he was so bewildered by Mary’s death that what they said +made little impression on him. But after he had been examined both by +magistrates and the Commissioners, and very little evidence was forthcoming, +his irons were struck off and he was allowed much more liberty than before; and +at last, to his great joy, Isabel was admitted to see him. She herself had come +straight up to the Marretts’ house, both of whom still lived on in Wharf +Street, though old and infirm; and day by day she attempted to get access to +her brother; until at last, by dint of bribery, she was successful. +</p> + +<p> +Then she told him the whole story. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +“When we left the garden-house,” she said, “we went straight back, and Mary +found Mr. Graves in the parlour off the hall. Oh, Anthony, how she ordered him +about! And how frightened he was of her! The end was that he sent a message to +the stables for her horses to be got ready, as she said. I went up with her to +help her to make ready, and we kissed one another up there, for, you know, we +dared not make as if we said good-bye downstairs. Then we came down for her to +mount; and then we saw what we had not known before, that all the stable-yard +was filled with the men’s horses saddled and bridled. However, we said nothing, +except that Mary asked a man what—what the devil he was looking at, when he +stared up at her as she stood on the block drawing on her gloves before she +mounted. There were one or two torches burning in cressets, and I saw her so +plainly turn the corner down towards the church. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I went upstairs again, but I could not go to my room, but stood at the +gallery window outside looking down at the court, for I knew that if there was +any danger it would come from there. +</p> + +<p> +“Then presently I heard a noise, and a shouting, and a man ran in through the +gates to the stable-yard; and, almost directly it seemed, three or four rode +out, at full gallop across the court and down by the church. The window was +open and I could hear the noise down towards the village. Then more and more +came pouring out, and all turned the corner and galloped; all but one, whose +horse slipped and came down with a crash. Oh, Anthony! how I prayed! +</p> + +<p> +“Then I saw Mr. Lackington”—Isabel stopped a moment at the name, and then went +on again—“and he was on horseback too in the court; but he was shouting to two +or three more who were just mounting. ‘Across the field—across the field—cut +them off!’ I could hear it so plainly; and I saw the stable-gate was open, and +they went through, and I could hear them galloping on the grass. And then I +knew what was happening; and I went back to my room and shut the door.” +</p> + +<p> +Isabel stopped again; and Anthony took her hand softly in his own and stroked +it. Then she went on. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I saw them bring you back, from the gallery window—and ran to the top of +the stairs and saw you go through into the hall where the magistrates were +waiting, and the door was shut; and then I went back to my place at the +window—and then presently they brought in Mary. I reached the bottom of the +stairs just as they set her down. And I told them to bring her upstairs; and +they did, and laid her on the bed where we had sat together all the +afternoon.... And I would let no one in: I did it all myself; and then I set +the tapers round her, and put the crucifix that was round my neck into her +fingers, which I had laid on her breast ... and there she lay on the great bed +... and her face was like a child’s, fast asleep—smiling: and then I kissed her +again, and whispered, ‘Thank you, Mary’; for, though I did not know all, I knew +enough, and that it was for you.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony had thrown his arms on the table and his face was buried in them. +Isabel put out her hand and stroked his curly head gently as she went on, and +told him in the same quiet voice of how Mary had tried to save him by lashing +his horse, as she caught sight of the man waiting at the entrance of the +field-path, and riding in between him and Anthony. The man had declared in his +panic of fear before the magistrates that he had never dreamt of doing Mistress +Corbet an injury, but that she had ridden across just as he drew the trigger to +shoot the priest’s horse and stop him that way. +</p> + +<p> +When Isabel had finished Anthony still lay with his head on his arms. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Anthony, my darling,” she said, “what could be more perfect? How proud I +am of you both!” +</p> + +<p> +She told him, too, how they had been tracked to Stanfield—Lackington had let it +out in his exultation. +</p> + +<p> +The sailor at Greenhithe was one of his agents—an apostate, like his master. He +had recognised that the party consisted of Catholics by Anthony’s breaking of +the bread. He had been placed there to watch the ferry; and had sent messages +at once to Nichol and Lackington. Then the party had been followed, but had +been lost sight of, thanks to Anthony’s ruse. Nichol had then flung out a +cordon along the principal roads that bounded Stanstead Woods on the south; and +Lackington, when he arrived a few hours later, had kept them there all night. +The cordon consisted of idlers and children picked up at Wrotham; and the tramp +who feigned to be asleep had been one of them. When they had passed, he had +given the signal to his nearest neighbour, and had followed them up. Nichol was +soon at the place, and after them; and had followed to Stanfield with +Lackington behind. Then watchers had been set round the house; the magistrates +communicated with; and as soon as Hubert and Mr. Graves had arrived the assault +had been made. Hubert had not been told who the priest was; but he had leapt at +an opportunity to harass Mr. Buxton: he had been given to understand that +Anthony and Isabel were still in the north. +</p> + +<p> +“He did not know; indeed he did not,” cried Isabel piteously. +</p> + +<p> +At another time, when she had gained admittance to him, she gave him messages +from the Marretts, who had kept a great affection for the lad, who had told +them tales of College that Christmas time; and she told him too of the coming +of an old friend to see her there. +</p> + +<p> +“It was poor Mr. Dent,” she said; “he looks so old now. His wife died three +years ago; you know he has a city-living and does chaplain’s work at the Tower +sometimes; and he is coming to see you, Anthony, and talk to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Three or four days later he came. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony was greatly touched at his kindness in coming. He looked considerably +older than his age; his hair had grown thin and grey about his temples, and the +sharp birdlike outline of his face and features seemed blurred and +indeterminate. His creed too, and his whole manner of looking at things of +faith, seemed to have undergone a similar process. The two had a long talk. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not going to argue with you, Mr. Norris,” he said, “though I still think +your religion wrong. But I have learnt this at least, that the greatest of all +is charity, and if we love the same God, and His Blessed Son, and one another, +I think that is best of all. I have learnt that from my wife—my dear wife,” he +added softly. “I used to hold much with doctrine at one time, and loved to chop +arguments; but our Saviour did not, and so I will not.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony was delighted that he took this line, for he knew there are some minds +that apparently cannot be loyal to both charity and truth at the same time, and +Mr. Dent’s seemed to be one of them; so the two talked of old times at Great +Keynes, and of the folks there, and at last of Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw him in the City last week,” said Mr. Dent, “and he is a changed man. He +looks ten years older than this time last year; I scarcely know what has come +to him. I know he has thrown up his magistracy, and the Lindfield parson tells +me that the talk is that Mr. Maxwell is going on another voyage, and leaving +his wife and children behind him again.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony told him gently of Hubert’s share in the events at Stanfield, adding +what real and earnest attempts he had made to repair the injury he had done as +soon as he had learnt that it was his friend that was in hiding. +</p> + +<p> +“There was no treachery against me, Mr. Dent, you see,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Dent pecked a little in the air with pursed lips and eyes fixed on the +ground; and a vision of the pulpit at Great Keynes moved before Anthony’s eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, yes,” he said; “I understand—I quite understand.” +</p> + +<p> +Before Mr. Dent took his leave he unburdened himself of what he had really come +to say. +</p> + +<p> +“Master Anthony,” he said, standing up and fingering his hat round and round, +“I said I talked no doctrine now; but I must unsay that; and—you will not think +me impertinent if I ask you something?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mr. Dent——” began the other, standing and smiling too. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, thank you—I felt sure—then it is this: I do not know much about the +Popish religion, though I used to once, and I may be very mistaken; but I would +like you to satisfy me before I go on one point”; and he fixed his anxious +peering eyes on Anthony’s face. “Can you say, Master Anthony, from a full +heart, that you fix all your hope and confidence for salvation in Christ’s +merits alone?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony smiled frankly in his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, in none other,” he said, “and from a full heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah well,” and the birdlike face began to beam and twitch, “and—and there is +nothing of confidence in yourself and your works—and—and there is no talk of +Holy Mary in the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony smiled again. He wished to avoid useless controversy. +</p> + +<p> +“Briefly,” he said, “my belief is that I am a very great sinner, that I +deserve eternal hell; but I humbly place all my trust in the Precious Blood of +my Saviour, and in that alone. Does that satisfy you?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Dent’s face was breaking into smiles, and at the end he took the priest’s +face in his hands and kissed him gently twice on the cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, my dear boy, I fear nothing for you. May that salvation you hope for be +yours.” And then without a word he was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony’s conscience reproached him a little that he had said nothing of the +Church to the minister; but Mr. Dent had been so peremptory about doctrine that +it was hard for the younger man to say what he would have wished. He told him, +however, plainly on his next visit that he held whole-heartedly too that the +Catholic Church was the treasury of Grace that Christ had instituted, and added +a little speech about his longing to see his old friend a Catholic too; but Mr. +Dent shook his head. The corners of his eyes wrinkled a little, and a shade of +his old fretfulness passed over his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, if you talk like that,” he said, “I must be gone. I am no theologian. +You must let me alone.” +</p> + +<p> +He gave him news this time of Mr. Buxton. +</p> + +<p> +“He is in the Counter, as you know,” he said, “and is a very bright and +cheerful person, it seems to me. Mistress Isabel asked me to see him and give +her news of him, for she cannot get admittance. He is in a cell, little and +nasty; but he said to me that a Protestant prison was a Papist’s pleasaunce—in +fact he said it twice. And he asked very eagerly after you and Mistress Isabel. +He tried, too, to inveigle me into talk of Peter his prerogative, but I would +not have it. It was Lammas Day when I saw him, and he spoke much of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony asked whether there was anything said of what punishment Mr. Buxton +would suffer. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr. Dent, “the Lieutenant of the Tower told me that her Grace was +so sad at the death of Mistress Corbet that she was determined that no more +blood should be shed than was obliged over this matter; and that Mr. Buxton, he +thought, would be but deprived of his estates and banished; but I know not how +that may be. But we shall soon know.” +</p> + +<p> +These weeks of waiting were full of consolation and refreshment to Anthony: the +nervous stress of the life of the seminary priest in England, full of +apprehension and suspense, crowned, as it had been in his case, by the fierce +excitement of the last days of his liberty—all this had strained and distracted +his soul, and the peace of the prison life, with the certainty that no efforts +of his own could help him now, quieted and strengthened him for the ordeal he +foresaw. At this time, too, he used to spend two or three hours a day in +meditation, and found the greatest benefit in following the tranquil method of +prayer prescribed by Louis de Blois, with whose writings he had made +acquaintance at Douai. Each morning, too, he said a “dry mass,” and during the +whole of his imprisonment at the Clink managed to make his confession at least +once a week, and besides his communion at mass on Sundays, communicated +occasionally from the Reserved Sacrament, which he was able to keep in a +neighbouring cell, unknown to his gaoler. +</p> + +<p> +And so the days went by, as orderly as in a Religious House; he rose at a fixed +hour, observed the greatest exactness in his devotions, and did his utmost to +prevent any visitors being admitted to see him, or any from another cell coming +into his own, until he had finished his first meditation and said his office. +And there began to fall upon him a kind of mellow peace that rose at times of +communion and prayer to a point so ravishing, that he began to understand that +it would not be a light cross for which such preparatory graces were necessary. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +Towards the middle of September he received intelligence that evidence had been +gathering against him, and that one or two were come from Lancashire under +guard; and that he would be brought before the Commissioners again immediately. +</p> + +<p> +Within two days this came about. He was sent for across the water to the Tower, +and after waiting an hour or two with his gaoler downstairs in the basement of +the White Tower, was taken up into the great Hall where the Council sat. There +was a table at the farther end where they were sitting, and as Anthony looked +round he saw through openings all round in the inner wall the little passage +where the sentries walked, and heard their footfalls. +</p> + +<p> +The preliminaries of identification and the like had been disposed of at +previous examinations before Mr. Young—a name full of sinister suggestiveness +to the Catholics; and so, after he had been given a seat at a little distance +from the table behind which the Commissioners sat, he was questioned minutely +as to his journey in the North of England. +</p> + +<p> +“What were you there for, Mr. Norris?” inquired the Secretary of the Council. +</p> + +<p> +“I went to see friends, and to do my business.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then that resolves itself into two heads: One, Who are your friends. Two, What +was your business?” +</p> + +<p> +Now it had been established beyond a doubt at previous examinations that he was +a priest; a student of Douai who had apostatised had positively identified him; +so Anthony answered boldly: +</p> + +<p> +“My friends were Catholics; and my business was the reconciling of souls to +their Creator.” +</p> + +<p> +“And to the Pope of Rome,” put in Wade. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is Christ’s Vicar,” continued Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“And a pestilent knave,” concluded a fiery-faced man whom Anthony did not +know. +</p> + +<p> +But the Commissioners wanted more than that; it was true that Anthony was +already convicted of high treason in having been ordained beyond the seas and +in exercising his priestly functions in England; but the exacting of the +penalty for religion alone was apt to raise popular resentment; and it was far +preferable in the eyes of the authorities to entangle a priest in the political +net before killing him. So they passed over for the present his priestly +functions and first demanded a list of all the places where he had stayed in +the north. +</p> + +<p> +“You ask what is impossible,” said Anthony, with his eyes on the ground and +his heart beating sharply, for he knew that now peril was near. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Wade, “let us put it another way. We know that you were at Speke +Hall, Blainscow, and other places. I have a list here,” and he tapped the +table, “but we want your name to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see the paper,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay, tell us first.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot sign the paper except I see it,” said Anthony, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Give it him,” said a voice from the end of the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Here then,” said Wade unwillingly. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony got up and took the paper from him, and saw one or two places named +where he had not been, and saw that it had been drawn up at any rate partly on +guesswork. +</p> + +<p> +He put the paper down and went back to his chair and sat down. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not true,” he said, looking steadily at the Secretary; “I cannot sign +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you deny that you have been to any of these places?” inquired Wade +indignantly. +</p> + +<p> +“The paper is not true,” said Anthony again. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, show us what is not true upon it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot.” +</p> + +<p> +“We will find means to persuade you,” said the Secretary. +</p> + +<p> +“If God permits,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +Wade glanced round inquiringly and shrugged his shoulders; one or two shook +their heads. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, we will turn to another point. There are known to have been +certain Jesuit priests in Lancashire in November of last year—do you deny that, +sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“You ask too much,” said Anthony, smiling again; “they may have been there for +aught I know, for I certainly did not see them elsewhere at the time you +mention.” +</p> + +<p> +Wade frowned, but the one at the end laughed loud. +</p> + +<p> +“He has you there, Wade,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“This is foolery,” said the Secretary. “Well, these two, Father Edward +Oldcorne and Father Holtby were in Lancashire in November; and you, Mr. Norris, +spoke with them then. We wish to know where they are now, and you must tell +us.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have yet to prove that I spoke with them,” said Anthony, for the trap was +too transparent. +</p> + +<p> +“But we know that.” +</p> + +<p> +“That may or may not be; but it is for you to prove it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, for you to tell us.” +</p> + +<p> +“For you to prove it.” +</p> + +<p> +Wade lost his temper. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then,” he cried, “take this paper and see which of us is in the +right.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony rose again, wondering what the paper could be, and came towards the +table. He saw it bore a name at the end, and as he advanced saw that it had an +official appearance. Wade still held it; but Anthony took it in his hand too to +steady it, and began to read; but as he read a mist rose before his eyes, and +the paper shook violently. It was a warrant to put him to the torture. +</p> + +<p> +Wade laughed a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, see, Mr. Norris, how you tremble at the warrant; what will it be when +you——” +</p> + +<p> +But a voice murmured “Shame!” and he stopped and stared. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony passed his hand over his eyes and went back to his chair and sat down; +he saw his knees trembling as he sat, and hated himself for it; but he cried +bravely: +</p> + +<p> +“The flesh is weak, but, please God, the spirit is willing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then,” said Wade again, “must we execute this warrant, or will you tell +us what we would know?” +</p> + +<p> +“You must do what God permits,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +Wade sat down, throwing the warrant on the table, and began to talk in a low +voice to those who sat next him. Anthony fixed his eyes on the ground, and did +his utmost to keep his thoughts steady. +</p> + +<p> +Now he realised where he was, and what it all meant. The little door to the +left, behind him, that he had noticed as he came in, was the door of which he +had heard other Catholics speak, that led down to the great crypt, where so +many before him had screamed and fainted and called on God, from the rack that +stood at the foot of the stairs, or from the pillar with the fixed ring at its +summit. +</p> + +<p> +He had faced all this in his mind again and again, but it was a different thing +to have the horror within arm’s length; old phrases he had heard of the torture +rang in his mind—a boast of Norton’s, the rackmaster, who had racked Brian, and +which had been repeated from mouth to mouth—that he had “made Brian a foot +longer than God made him”; words of James Maxwell’s that he had let drop at +Douai; the remembrance of his limp; and of Campion’s powerlessness to raise his +hand when called upon to swear—all these things crowded on him now; and there +seemed to rest on him a crushing swarm of fearful images and words. He made a +great effort, and closed his eyes, and repeated the holy name of Jesus over and +over again; but the struggle was still fierce when Wade’s voice, harsh and dry, +broke in and scattered the confusion of mind that bewildered him. +</p> + +<p> +“Take the prisoner to a cell; he is not to go back to the Clink.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony felt a hand on his arm, and the gaoler was looking at him with +compassion. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, sir,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony rose feeling heavy and exhausted; but remembered to bow to the +Commissioners, one or two of whom returned it. Then he followed the gaoler out +into the ante-room, who handed him over to one of the Tower officials. +</p> + +<p> +“I must leave you here, sir,” he said; “but keep a good heart; it will not be +for to-day.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +When Anthony got to his new cell, which was in the Salt Tower, he was bitterly +angry and disappointed with himself. Why, he had turned white and sick like a +child, not at the pain of the rack, not even at the sight of it, but at the +mere warrant! He threw himself on his knees, and bowed down till his head beat +against the boards. +</p> + +<p> +“O Lord Jesus,” he prayed, “give me of Thy Manhood.” +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +He found that this prison was more rigorous than the Clink; no liberty to leave +the cell could possibly be obtained, and no furniture was provided. The gaoler, +when he had brought up his dinner, asked whether he could send any message for +him for a bed. Anthony gave Isabel’s address, knowing that the authorities were +already aware that she was a Catholic, and indeed she had given bail to come up +for trial if called upon, and that his information could injure neither her nor +the Marretts, who were sound Church of England people; and in the afternoon a +mattress and some clothes arrived for him. +</p> + +<p> +Anthony noticed at dinner that the knife provided was of a very inconvenient +shape, having a round blunt point, and being sharp only at a lower part of the +blade; and when the keeper came up with his supper he asked him to bring him +another kind. The man looked at him with a queer expression. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” asked Anthony; “cannot you oblige me?” +</p> + +<p> +The man shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“They are the knives that are always given to prisoners under warrant for +torture.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony did not understand him, and looked at him, puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +“For fear they should do themselves an injury,” added the gaoler. +</p> + +<p> +Then the same shudder ran over his body again. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean—you mean....” he began. The gaoler nodded, still looking at him +oddly, and went out; and Anthony sat, with his supper untasted, staring before +him. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +By a kind of violent reaction he had a long happy dream that night. The fierce +emotions of that day had swept over his imagination and scoured it as with +fire, and now the underlying peace rose up and flooded it with sweetness. +</p> + +<p> +He thought he was in the north again, high up on a moor, walking with one who +was quite familiar to him, but whose person he could not remember when he woke; +he did not even know whether it was man or woman. It was a perfect autumn day, +he thought, like one of those he had spent there last year; the heather and the +gorse were in flower, and the air was redolent from their blossoms; he +commented on this to the person at his side, who told him it was always so +there. Mile after mile the moor rose and dipped, and, although Skiddaw was on +his right, purple and grey, yet to his left there was a long curved horizon of +sparkling blue sea. It was a cloudless day overhead, and the air seemed +kindling and fresh round him as it blew across the stretches of heather from +the western sea. He himself felt full of an extraordinary vitality, and the +mere movement of his limbs gave him joy as he went swiftly and easily forward +over the heather. There was the sound of the wind in his ears, and again and +again there came the gush of water from somewhere out of sight—as he had heard +it in the church by Skiddaw. There was no house or building of any kind within +sight, and he felt a great relief in these miles of heath and the sense of +holiday that they gave him. But all the joy round him and in his heart found +their point for him in the person that went with him; this presence was their +centre, as a diamond in a gold ring, or as a throned figure in a Court circle. +All else existed for the sake of this person;—the heather blossomed and the +gorse incensed the air, and the sea sparkled, and the sky was blue, and the air +kindled, and his own heart warmed and throbbed, for that only. When he tried to +see who it was, there was nothing to see; the presence existed there as a +centre in a sphere, immeasurable and indiscernible; sometimes he thought it was +Mary, sometimes he thought it Henry Buxton, sometimes Isabel—once even he +assured himself it was Mistress Margaret, and once James Maxwell—and with the +very act of identification came indecision again. This uncertainty waxed into a +torment, and yet a sweet torment, as of a lover who watches his mistress’ +shuttered house; and this torment swelled yet higher and deeper until it was so +great that it had absorbed the whole radiant fragrant circle of the hills where +he walked; and then came the blinding knowledge that the Presence was all these +persons so dear to him, and far more; that every tenderness and grace that he +had loved in them—Mary’s gallantry and Isabel’s serene silence and his friend’s +fellowship, and the rest—floated in the translucent depths of it, stained and +irradiated by it, as motes in a sunbeam. +</p> + +<p> +And then he woke, and it was through tears of pure joy that he saw the rafters +overhead, and the great barred door, and the discoloured wall above his bed. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +When his gaoler brought him dinner that day it was half an hour earlier than +usual; and when Anthony asked him the reason he said that he did not know, but +that the orders had run so; but that Mr. Norris might take heart; it was not +for the torture, for Mr. Topcliffe, who superintended it, had told the keeper +of the rack-house that nothing would be wanted that day. +</p> + +<p> +He had hardly finished dinner when the gaoler came up again and said that the +Lieutenant was waiting for him below, and that he must bring his hat and cloak. +</p> + +<p> +Since his arrest he had worn his priest’s habit every day, so he now threw the +cloak over his arm and took his hat, and followed the gaoler down. +</p> + +<p> +In passing through the court he went by a group of men that were talking +together, and he noticed very especially a tall old man with a grey head, in a +Court suit with a sword, and very lean about the throat, who looked at him hard +as he passed. As he reached the archway where the Lieutenant was waiting, he +turned again and saw the sunken eyes of the old man still looking after him; +when he turned to the gaoler he saw the same odd look in his face that he had +noticed before. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you look like that?” he asked. “Who is that old man?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is Mr. Topcliffe,” said the keeper. +</p> + +<p> +The Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Richard Barkley, saluted him kindly at the +gate, and begged him to follow him; the keeper still came after and another +stepped out and joined them, and the group of four together passed out through +the Lion’s Tower and across the moat to a little doorway where a closed +carriage was waiting. The Lieutenant and Anthony stepped inside; the two +keepers mounted outside; and the carriage set off. +</p> + +<p> +Then the Lieutenant turned to the priest. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know where you are going, Mr. Norris?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are going to Whitehall to see the Queen’s Grace.” +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +AN OPEN DOOR +</p> + +<p> +When the carriage reached the palace they were told that the Queen was not yet +come from Greenwich; and they were shown into a little ante-room next the +gallery where the interview was to take place. The Queen, the Lieutenant told +Anthony, was to come up that afternoon passing through London, and that she had +desired to see him on her way through to Nonsuch; he could not tell him why he +was sent for, though he conjectured it was because of Mistress Corbet’s death, +and that her Grace wished to know the details. +</p> + +<p> +“However,” said the Lieutenant, “you now have your opportunity to speak for +yourself, and I think you a very fortunate man, Mr. Norris. Few have had such a +privilege, though I remember that Mr. Campion had it too, though he made poor +use of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony said nothing. His mind was throbbing with memories and associations. +The air of state and luxury in the corridors through which he had just come, +the discreet guarded doors, the servants in the royal liveries standing here +and there, the sense of expectancy that mingled with the solemn hush of the +palace—all served to bring up the figure of Mary Corbet, whom he had seen so +often in these circumstances; and the thought of her made the peril in which he +stood and the hope of escape from it seem very secondary matters. He walked to +the window presently and looked out upon the little court below, one of the +innumerable yards of that vast palace, and stood staring down on the hound that +was chained there near one of the entrances, and that yawned and blinked in the +autumn sunshine. +</p> + +<p> +Even as he looked the dog paused in the middle of his stretch and stood +expectant with his ears cocked, a servant dashed bareheaded down a couple of +steps and out through the low archway; and simultaneously Anthony heard once +more the sweet shrill trumpets that told of the Queen’s approach; then there +came the roll of drums and the thunder of horses’ feet and the noise of wheels; +the trumpets sang out again nearer, and the rumbling waxed louder as the +Queen’s cavalcade, out of sight, passed the entrance of the archway down upon +which Anthony looked; and then stilled, and the palace itself began to hum and +stir; a door or two banged in the distance, feet ran past the door of the +ante-room, and the strain of the trumpets sounded once in the house itself. +Then all grew quiet once more, and Anthony turned from the window and sat down +again by the Lieutenant. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a few minutes. The Lieutenant stroked his beard gently +and said a word or two under his breath now and again to Anthony; once or twice +there came the swift rustle of a dress outside as a lady hurried past; then the +sound of a door opening and shutting; then more silence; then the sound of low +talking, and at last the sound of footsteps going slowly up and down the +gallery which adjoined the ante-room. +</p> + +<p> +Still the minutes passed, but no summons came. Anthony rose and went to the +window again, for, in spite of himself, this waiting told upon him. The dog had +gone back to his kennel and was lying with his nose just outside the opening. +Anthony wondered vacantly to himself what door it was that he was guarding, and +who lived in the rooms that looked out beside it. Then suddenly the door from +the gallery opened and a page appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“The Queen’s Grace will see Mr. Norris alone.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony went towards him, and the page opened the door wide for him to go +through, and then closed it noiselessly behind him, and Anthony was in the +presence. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +It was with a sudden bewilderment that he recognised he was in the same gallery +as that in which he had talked and sat with Mary Corbet. There were the long +tapestries hanging opposite him, with the tall three windows dividing them, and +the suits of steel armour that he remembered. He even recalled the pattern of +the carpet across which Mary Corbet had come forward to meet him, and that +still lay before the tall window at the end that looked on to the Tilt-yard. +The sun was passing round to the west now, and shone again across the golden +haze of the yard through this great window, with the fragments of stained glass +at the top. The memory leapt into life even as he stepped out and stood for a +moment, dazed in the sunshine, at the door that opened from the ante-room. +</p> + +<p> +But the figure that turned from the window and faced him was not like Mary’s. +It was the figure of an old woman, who looked tall with her towering head-dress +and nodding plume; she was dressed in a great dark red mantle thrown back on +her shoulders, and beneath it was a pale yellow dress sown all over with queer +devices; on the puffed sleeve of the arm that held the stick was embroidered a +great curling snake that shone with gold thread and jewels in the sunlight, and +powdered over the skirt were representations of human eyes and other devices, +embroidered with dark thread that showed up plainly on the pale ground. So much +he saw down one side of the figure on which the light shone; the rest was to +his dazzled eyes in dark shadow. He went down on his knees at once before this +tremendous figure, seeing the buckled feet that twinkled below the skirt cut +short in front, and remained there. +</p> + +<p> +There was complete silence for a moment, while he felt the Queen looking at +him, and then the voice he remembered, only older and harsher, now said: +</p> + +<p> +“What is all this, Mr. Norris?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony looked for a moment and saw the Queen’s eyes fixed on him; but he said +nothing, and looked down again. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand up,” said the Queen, not unkindly, “and walk with me.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony stood up at once, and heard the stiff rustle of her dress and the tap +of her heels and stick on the polished boards as she came towards him. Then he +turned with her down the long gallery. +</p> + +<p> +Until this moment, ever since he had heard that he was to see the Queen, he had +felt nervous and miserable; but now this had left him, and he felt at his ease. +To be received in this way, in privacy, and to accompany her up and down the +gallery as she took her afternoon exercise was less embarrassing than the +formal interview he had expected. The two walked the whole length of the +gallery without a word, and it was not until they turned and faced the end that +looked on to the Tilt-yard that the Queen spoke; and her voice was almost +tender. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand that you were with Minnie Corbet when she died,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“She died for me, your Grace,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +The Queen looked at him sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me the tale,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +And Anthony told her the whole story of the escape and the ride; speaking too +for his friend, Mr. Buxton, and of Mary’s affection for him. +</p> + +<p> +“Your Grace,” he ended, “it sounds a poor tale of a man that a woman should +die for him so; but I can say with truth that with God’s grace I would have +died a hundred deaths to save her.” +</p> + +<p> +The Queen was silent for a good while when the story was over, and Anthony +thought that perhaps she could not speak; but he dared not look at her. +</p> + +<p> +Then she spoke very harshly: +</p> + +<p> +“And you, Mr. Norris, why did you not escape?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your Grace would not have done so.” +</p> + +<p> +“When I saw that she was dying, I would.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not if you had been a priest, your Grace.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” asked the Queen, suddenly facing him. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a priest, madam, and she was a Catholic, and my duty was beside her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shrived her, your Grace, before she died.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why! they did not tell me that.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony was silent. +</p> + +<p> +They walked on a few steps, and the Queen stood silent too, looking down upon +the Tilt-yard. Then she turned abruptly, and Anthony turned with her, and they +began to go up and down again. +</p> + +<p> +“It was gallant of you both,” she said shortly. “I love that my people should +be of that sort.” Then she paused. “Tell me,” she went on, “did Mary love +me?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony was silent for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“The truth, Mr. Norris,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Corbet was loyalty itself,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay, nay, not loyalty but love I asked you of. How did she speak of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, your Grace, Mistress Corbet had a shrewd wit, and she used it freely on +friend and foe, but her very sharpness on your Grace, sometimes, showed her +love; for she hated to think you otherwise than what she deemed the best.” +</p> + +<p> +The Queen stopped full in her walk. +</p> + +<p> +“That is very pleasantly put,” she said; “I told Minnie you were a courtier.” +</p> + +<p> +Again the two walked on. +</p> + +<p> +“Then she used her tongue on me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your Grace, I have never met one on whom she did not: but her heart was +true.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that, I know that, Mr. Norris. Tell me something she said.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony racked his brains for something not too severe. +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Corbet once said that the Queen’s most disobedient subject was +herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” said Elizabeth, stopping in her walk. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Because,’ said Mistress Corbet, ‘she can never command herself,’” finished +Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +The Queen looked at Anthony, puzzled a moment; and then chuckled loudly in her +throat. +</p> + +<p> +“The impertinent minx!” she said, “that was when I had clouted her, no +doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +Again they walked up and down in silence a little while. Anthony began to +wonder whether this was all for which the Queen had sent for him. He was +astonished at his own self-possession; all the trembling awe with which he had +faced the Queen at Greenwich was gone; he had forgotten for the moment even his +own peril; and he felt instead even something of pity for this passionate old +woman, who had aged so quickly, whose favourites one by one were dropping off, +or at the best giving her only an exaggerated and ridiculous devotion, at the +absurdity of which all the world laughed. Here was this old creature at his +side, surrounded by flatterers and adventurers, advancing through the world in +splendid and jewelled raiment, with trumpets blowing before her, and poets +singing her praises, and crowds applauding in the streets, and sneering in +their own houses at the withered old virgin-Queen who still thought herself a +Diana—and all the while this triumphal progress was at the expense of God’s +Church, her car rolled over the bodies of His servants, and her shrunken, +gemmed fingers were red in their blood;—so she advanced, thought Anthony, day +by day towards the black truth and the eternal loneliness of the darkness that +lies outside the realm where Christ only is King. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth broke in suddenly on his thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” she said, “and what of you, Mr. Norris?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am your Grace’s servant,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not so sure of that,” said Elizabeth. “If you are my servant, why are +you a priest, contrary to my laws?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I am Christ’s servant too, your Grace.” +</p> + +<p> +“But Christ’s apostle said, ‘Obey them that have the rule over you.’” +</p> + +<p> +“In indifferent matters, madam.” +</p> + +<p> +The Queen frowned and made a little angry sound. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot understand you Papists,” said the Queen. “What a-God’s name do you +want? You have liberty of thought and faith; I desire to inquire into no man’s +private opinions. You may worship Ashtaroth if it please you, in your own +hearts; and God looks to the heart, and not to the outer man. There is a Church +with bishops like your own, and ministers; there are the old churches to +worship in—nay, you may find the old ornaments still in use. We have sacraments +as you have; you may seek shrift if you will; nay, in some manner we have the +mass—though we do not call it so—but we follow Christ’s ordinance in the +matter, and you can do no more. We have the Word of God as you have, and we use +the same creeds. What more can the rankest Papist ask? Tell me that, Mr. +Norris; for I am a-weary of your folk.” +</p> + +<p> +The Queen turned and faced him again a moment, and her eyes were peevish and +resentful. +</p> + +<p> +Presently she went on again. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Campion told me it was the oath that troubled him. He could not take it, +he said. I told the fool that I was not Head of the Church as Christ was, but +only the supreme governor, as the Act declares, in all spiritual and +ecclesiastical things:—I forget how it runs,—but I showed it him, and asked him +whether it were not true; and I asked him too how it was that Margaret Roper +could take the oath, and so many thousands of persons as full Christian as +himself—and he could not answer me.” +</p> + +<p> +The Queen was silent again. Then once more she went on indignantly: +</p> + +<p> +“It is yourselves that have brought all this trouble on your heads. See what +the Papists have done against me; they have excommunicated me, deposed +me—though in spite of it I still sit on the throne; they have sent an Armada +against me; they have plotted against me, I know not how many times; and then, +when I defend myself and hang a few of the wolves, lo! they are Christ’s flock +at once for whom he shed His precious blood, and His persecuted lambs, and I am +Jezebel straightway and Athaliah and Beelzebub’s wife—and I know not what.” +</p> + +<p> +The Queen stopped, out of breath, and looked fiercely at Anthony, who said +nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me how you answer that, Mr. Norris?” said the Queen. +</p> + +<p> +“I dare not deal with such great matters,” said Anthony, “for your Grace knows +well that I am but a poor priest that knows nought of state-craft; but I would +like to ask your Highness two questions only. The first is: whether your Grace +had aught to complain of in the conduct of your Catholic subjects when the +Armada was here; and the second, whether there hath been one actual attempt +upon your Grace’s life by private persons?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is not to the purpose,” said the Queen peevishly. +</p> + +<p> +“It was Catholics who fought against me in the Armada, and it was Catholics who +plotted against me at Court.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then there is a difference in Catholics, your Grace,” said Anthony. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I see what you would be at.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, your Highness; I would rather say, Although they be Catholics they do +these things.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence again, which Anthony did not dare to break; and the two +walked up the whole length of the gallery without speaking. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said Elizabeth at last, “but this was not why I sent for you. We +will speak of yourself now, Mr. Norris. I hope you are not an obstinate fellow. +Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony said nothing, and the Queen went on. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, as I have told you, I judge no man’s private opinions. You may believe +what you will. Remember that. You may believe what you will; nay, you may +practise your religion so long as it is private and unknown to me.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony began to wonder what was coming; but he still said nothing as the Queen +paused. She stood a moment looking down into the empty Tilt-yard again, and +then turned and sat suddenly in a chair that stood beside the window, and put +up a jewelled hand to shield her face, with her elbow on the arm, while Anthony +stood before her. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember you, Mr. Norris, very well at Greenwich; you spoke up sharply +enough, and you looked me in the eyes now and then as I like a man to do; and +then Minnie loved you, too. I wish to show you kindness for her sake.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony’s heart began to fail him, for he guessed now what was coming and the +bitter struggle that lay before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, I know well that the Commissioners have had you before them; they are +tiresome busybodies. Walsingham started all that and set them a-spying and +a-defending of my person and the rest of it; but they are loyal folk, and I +suppose they asked you where you had been and with whom you had stayed, and so +on?” +</p> + +<p> +“They did, your Grace.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you would not tell them, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“I could not, madam; it would have been against justice and charity to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, there is no need now, for I mean to take you out of their hands.” +</p> + +<p> +A great leap of hope made itself felt in Anthony’s heart; he did not know how +heavy the apprehension lay on him till this light shone through. +</p> + +<p> +“They will be wrath with me, I know, and will tell me that they cannot defend +me if I will not help them; but, when all is said, I am Queen. Now I do not ask +you to be a minister of my Church, for that, I think, you would never be; but I +think you would like to be near me—is it not so? And I wish you to have some +post about the Court; I must see what it is to be.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony’s heart began to sink again as he watched the Queen’s face as she sat +tapping a foot softly and looking on the floor as she talked. Those lines of +self-will about the eyes and mouth surely meant something. +</p> + +<p> +Then she looked up, still with her cheek on her right hand. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not thank me, Mr. Norris.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony made a great effort; but he heard his own voice quiver a little. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank your Grace for your kindly intentions toward me, with all my heart.” +</p> + +<p> +The Queen seemed satisfied, and looked down again. +</p> + +<p> +“As to the oath, I will not ask you to take it formally, if you will give me an +assurance of your loyalty.” +</p> + +<p> +“That, your Grace, I give most gladly.” +</p> + +<p> +His heart was beating again in great irregular thumps in his throat; he had the +sensation of swaying to and fro on the edge of a precipice, now towards safety +and now towards death; it was the cruellest pain he had suffered yet. But how +was it possible to have some post at Court without relinquishing the exercise +of his priesthood? He must think it out; what did the Queen mean? +</p> + +<p> +“And, of course, you will not be able to say mass again; but I shall not hinder +your hearing it at the Ambassador’s whenever you please.” +</p> + +<p> +Ah! it had come; his heart gave a leap and seemed to cease. +</p> + +<p> +“Your Grace must forgive me, but I cannot consent.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a dead silence; when Anthony looked up, she was staring at him with +the frankest astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you think, Mr. Norris, you could be at Court and say mass too whenever you +wished?” Her voice rang harsh and shrill; her anger was rising. +</p> + +<p> +“I was not sure what your Grace intended for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“The fellow is mad,” she said, still staring at him. “Oh! take care, take +care!” +</p> + +<p> +“Your Grace knows I intend no insolence.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean to say, Mr. Norris, that you will not take a pardon and a post at +Court on those terms?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony bowed; he could not trust himself to speak, so bitter was the reaction. +</p> + +<p> +“But, see man, you fool; if you die as a traitor you will never say mass again +either.” +</p> + +<p> +“But that will not be with my consent, your Grace.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you refuse the pardon?” +</p> + +<p> +“On those terms, your Grace, I must.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well——” and she was silent a moment, “you are a fool, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony bowed again. +</p> + +<p> +“But I like courage.—Well, then, you will not be my servant?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have ever been that, your Grace; and ever will be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,—but not at Court?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! your Grace knows I cannot,” cried Anthony, and his voice rang +sorrowfully. +</p> + +<p> +Again there was silence. +</p> + +<p> +“You must have your way, sir, for poor Minnie’s sake; but it passes my +understanding what you mean by it. And let me tell you that not many have their +way with me, rather than mine.” +</p> + +<p> +Again hope leapt up in his heart. The Queen then was not so ungracious. +</p> + +<p> +He looked up and smiled—and down again. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the man’s lips are all a-quiver. What ails him?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is your Grace’s kindness.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must say I marvel at it myself,” observed Elizabeth. “You near angered me +just now; take care you do not so quite.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would not willingly, as your Grace knows.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then we will end this matter. You give me your assurance of loyalty to my +person.” +</p> + +<p> +“With all my heart, madam,” said Anthony eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you must get to France within the week. The other too—Buxton—he loses his +estate, but has his life. I am doing much for Minnie’s sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I thank your Grace?” +</p> + +<p> +“And I will cause Sir Richard to give it out that you have taken the oath. Call +him in.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a quick gasp from the priest; and then he cried with agony in his +voice: +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot, your Grace, I cannot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cannot call Sir Richard! Why, you are mad, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“Cannot consent; I have taken no oath.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know you have not. I do not ask it.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth’s voice came short and harsh; her patience was vanishing, and Anthony +knew it and looked at her. She had dropped her hand, and it was clenching and +unclenching on her knee. Her stick slipped on the polished boards and fell; but +she paid it no attention. She was looking straight at the priest; her high +eyebrows were coming down; her mouth was beginning to mumble a little; he could +see in the clear sunlight that fell on her sideways through the tall window a +thousand little wrinkles, and all seemed alive; the lines at the corners of her +eyes and mouth deepened as he watched. +</p> + +<p> +“What a-Christ’s name do you want, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +It was like the first mutter of a storm on the horizon; but Anthony knew it +must break. He did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, sir; what is it now?” +</p> + +<p> +Anthony drew a long breath and braced his will, but even as he spoke he knew he +was pronouncing his own sentence. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot consent to leave the country and let it be given out that I had taken +the oath, your Grace. It would be an apostasy from my faith.” +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth sprang to her feet without her stick, took one step forward, and gave +Anthony a fierce blow on the cheek with her ringed hand. He recoiled a step at +the shock of it, and stood waiting with his eyes on the ground. Then the +Queen’s anger poured out in words. Her eyes burned with passion out of an +ivory-coloured face, and her voice rang high and harsh, and her hands +continually clenched and unclenched as she screamed at him. +</p> + +<p> +“God’s Body! you are the ungratefullest hound that ever drew breath. I send for +you to my presence, and talk and walk with you like a friend. I offer you a +pardon and you fling it in my face. I offer you a post at Court and you mock +it; you flaunt you in your treasonable livery in my very face, and laugh at my +clemency. You think I am no Queen, but a weak woman whom you can turn and rule +at your will. God’s Son! I will show you which is sovereign. Call Sir Richard +in, sir; I will have him in this instant. Sir Richard, Sir Richard!” she +screamed, stamping with fury. +</p> + +<p> +The door into the ante-room behind opened, and Sir Richard Barkley appeared, +with a face full of apprehension. He knelt at once. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand up, Sir Richard,” she cried, “and look at this man. You know him, do +you not? and I know him now, the insolent dog! But his own mother shall not in +a week. Look at him shaking there, the knave; he will shake more before I have +done with him. Take him back with you, Sir Richard, and let them have their +will of him. His damned pride and insolence shall be broken. S’ Body, I have +never been so treated! Take him out, Sir Richard, take him out, I tell you!” +</p> + +<p class="chapter"> +<a name="III_XV">CHAPTER XV</a> +</p> + +<p class="head"> +THE ROLLING OF THE STONE +</p> + +<p> +It was a week later, and a little before dawn, that Isabel was kneeling by +Anthony’s bed in his room in the Tower. The Lieutenant had sent for her to his +lodging the evening before, and she had spent the whole night with her brother. +He had been racked four times in one week, and was dying. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +The city and the prison were very quiet now; the carts had not yet begun to +roll over the cobble-stones and the last night-wanderers had gone home. He lay, +on the mattress that she had sent in to him, in the corner of his cell under +the window, on his back and very still, covered from chin to feet with her own +fur-lined cloak that she had thrown over him; his head was on a low pillow, for +he could not bear to lie high; his feet made a little mound under the coverlet, +and his arms lay straight at his side; but all that could be seen of him was +his face, pinched and white now with hollows in his cheeks and dark patches and +lines beneath his closed eyes, and his soft pointed brown beard that just +rested on the fur edging of Isabel’s cloak; his lips were drawn tight, but +slightly parted, showing the rim of his white teeth, as if he snarled with +pain. +</p> + +<p> +The only furniture in the room was a single table and chair; the table was +drawn up not far from the bed, and a book or two, with a flask of cordial and +some fragments of food on a plate lay upon it; his cloak and doublet and ruff +lay across the chair and his shoes below it, and a little linen lay in a pile +in another corner; but the clothes in which he had been tortured the evening +before, his shirt and hose, could not be taken off him and he lay in them +still. They had been so soaked with sweat, that Isabel had found him shivering, +and laid her cloak over him, and now he lay quiet and warm. +</p> + +<p> +Earlier in the night she had been reading to him, and a taper still burned in a +candlestick on the table; but for the last two hours he had lain either in a +sleep or a swoon, and she had laid the book down and was watching him. +</p> + +<p> +He was so motionless that he would have seemed dead except for the steady rise +and fall of a fold in the mantle, and for a sudden muscular twitch every few +minutes. Isabel herself was scarcely less motionless; her face was clear and +pale as it always was, but perfectly serene, and even her lips did not quiver. +She was kneeling and leaning back now, and her hands were clasped in her lap. +There was a proud content in her face; her dear brother had not uttered one +name on the rack except those of the Saviour and of the Blessed Mother. So the +Lieutenant had told her. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly his eyes opened and there was nothing but peace in them; and his lips +moved. Isabel leaned forward on her hands and bent her ear to his mouth till +his breath was warm on it, and she could hear the whisper.... +</p> + +<p> +Then she opened the book that lay face down on the table and began to read on, +from the point at which she had laid it down two hours before. +</p> + +<p> +“‘<i>Erat autem hora tertia: et crucifixerunt eum. </i> And it was the third +hour and they crucified him ... And with him they crucify two thieves, the one +on his right hand, and the other on his left. And the scripture was fulfilled +which saith, And he was numbered with the transgressors.’” +</p> + +<p> +Her voice was slow and steady as she read the unfamiliar Latin, still kneeling, +with the book a little raised to catch the candlelight, and her grave tranquil +eyes bent upon it. Only once did her voice falter, and then she commanded it +again immediately; and that, as she read “<i>Erant autem et mulieres de longe +aspicientes</i>.” “There were also women looking on afar off.” +</p> + +<p> +And so the tale crept on, minute by minute, and the priest lay with closed eyes +to hear it; until the mocking was complete, and the darkness of the sixth hour +had come and gone, and the Saviour had cried aloud on His Father, and given up +the ghost; and the centurion that stood by had borne witness. And the great +Criminal slept in the garden, in the sepulchre “wherein was never man yet +laid.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a listening silence as the voice ceased without another falter. +Isabel laid the book down and looked at him again; and his eyes opened +languidly. +</p> + +<p> +He had not yet said more than single words, and even now his voice was so faint +that she had to put her ear close to his mouth. It seemed to her that his soul +had gone into some inner secret chamber of profound peace, so deep that it was +a long and difficult task to send a thought to the surface through his lips. +</p> + +<p> +She could just hear him, and she answered clearly and slowly as to a dazed +child, pausing between every word. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot get a priest; it is not allowed.” +</p> + +<p> +Still his eyes bent on her; what was it he said? what was it?... +</p> + +<p> +Then she heard, and began to repeat short acts of contrition clearly and +distinctly, pausing between the phrases, in English, and his eyes closed as she +began: +</p> + +<p> +“O my Jesus—I am heartily sorry—that I have—crucified thee—by my sins—Wash my +soul—in Thy Precious Blood. O my God—I am sorry—that I have—displeased +Thee—because thou art All-good. I hate all the sins—that I have done—against +Thy Divine Majesty.” +</p> + +<p> +And so phrase after phrase she went on, giving him time to hear and to make an +inner assent of the will; and repeating also other short vocal prayers that she +knew by heart. And so the delicate skein of prayer rose from the altar where +this morning sacrifice lay before God, waiting the consummation of His +acceptance. +</p> + +<p> +Presently she ended, and he lay again with closed eyes and mute face. Then +again they opened, and she bent down to listen.... +</p> + +<p> +“It will all be well with me,” she answered, raising her head again. “Mistress +Margaret has written from Brussels. I shall go there for a while.... Yes, Mr. +Buxton will take me; next week: he goes to Normandy, to his estate.” +</p> + +<p> +Again his lips moved and she listened.... +</p> + +<p> +A faint flush came over her face. She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know; I think not. I hope to enter Religion.... No, I have not yet +determined.... The Dower House?... Yes, I will sell it.... Yes, to Hubert, if +he wishes it.” +</p> + +<p> +Every word he whispered was such an effort that she had to pause again and +again before he could make her understand; and often she judged more by the +movement of his lips than by any sound that came from him. Now and then too she +lifted her handkerchief, soaked in a strong violet scent, and passed it over +his forehead and lips. She motioned with the flask of cordial once or twice, +but his eyes closed for a negative. +</p> + +<p> +As she knelt and watched him, her thoughts circled continually in little +flights; to the walled garden of the Dower House in sunshine, and Anthony +running across it in his brown suit, with the wallflowers behind him against +the old red bricks and ivy, and the tall chestnut rising behind; to the +wind-swept hills, with the thistles and the golden-rod, and the hazel thickets, +and Anthony on his pony, sunburnt and voluble, hawk on wrist, with a light in +his eyes; to the warm panelled hall in winter, with the tapers on the round +table, and Anthony flat on his face, with his feet in the air before the +hearth, that glowed and roared up the wide chimney behind, and his chin on his +hands, and a book open before him; or, farther back even still, to Anthony’s +little room at the top of the house, his clothes on a chair, and the boy +himself sitting up in bed with his arms round his knees as she came in to wish +him good-night and talk to him a minute or two. And every time the circling +thought came home and settled again on the sight of that still straight figure +lying on the mattress, against the discoloured bricks, with the light of the +taper glimmering on his thin face and brown hair and beard; and every time her +heart consented that this was the best of all. +</p> + +<p> +A bird chirped suddenly from some hole in the Tower, once, and then three or +four times; she glanced up at the window and the light of dawn was beginning. +Then, as the minutes went by, the city began to stir itself from sleep. There +came a hollow whine from the Lion-gate fifty yards away; up from the river came +the shout of a waterman; two or three times a late cock crew; and still the +light crept on and broadened. But Anthony still lay with his eyes closed. +</p> + +<p> +At last over the cobbles outside a cart rattled, turned a corner and was +silent. Anthony had opened his eyes now and was looking at her again; and again +she bent down to listen; ... and then opened and read again. +</p> + +<p> +“‘<i>Et cum transisset sabbatum Maria Magdalene et Maria Jacobi et Salome +emerunt aromata, ut venientes ungerent Jesum.</i>’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘And when the Sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of James +and Salome, had bought sweet spices that they might come and anoint him.’” +</p> + +<p> +A slight sound made her look up. Anthony’s eyes were kindling and his lips +moved; she bent again and listened.... What was it he said?... +</p> + +<p> +Yes, it was so, and she smiled and nodded at him: she was reading the Gospel +for Easter Day, the Gospel of the first mass that they had heard together on +that spring morning at Great Keynes, when their Lord had led them so far round +by separate paths to meet one another at His altar. And now they were met again +here. She read on: +</p> + +<p> +“‘<i>Et valde mane una sabbatorum, veniunt ad monumentum, orto jam sole.</i>’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Very early they came unto the sepulchre at the rising of the sun; and they +said among themselves, 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 very great.’... +</p> + +<p> +“‘... <i> magnus valde</i>,’” read Isabel; and looked up again;—and then closed +the book. There was no need to read more. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p> +She walked across the court half an hour later, just as the sun came up; and +passed out through the Lieutenant’s lodging, and out by the narrow bridge on to +the Tower wharf. +</p> + +<p> +To the left and behind her, as she looked eastwards down the river, lay the +heavy masses of the prison she had left, and the high walls and turrets were +gilded with glory. The broad river itself was one rolling glory too; the tide +was coming in swift and strong and a barge or two moved upwards, only half seen +in the bewildering path of the sun. The air was cool and keen, and a breeze +from the water stirred Isabel’s hair as she stood looking, with the light on +her face. It was a cloudless October morning overhead. Even as she stood a +flock of pigeons streamed across from the south side, swift-flying and bathed +in light; and her eyes followed them a moment or two. +</p> + +<p> +As she stood there silent, a step came up the wharf from the direction of St. +Katharine’s street, and a man came walking quickly towards her. He did not see +who she was until he was close, and then he started and took off his hat; it +was Lackington on his way to some business at the Tower; but she did not seem +to see him. She turned almost immediately and began to walk westwards, and the +glory in her eyes was supreme. 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