It was an inexpressibly painful task, he said, that he had before him;

the monks were not to think that he gloried in it, or loved to find

fault and impose punishments; and, in fact, nothing but the knowledge

that he was there as the representative of the supreme authority in

Church and State could have supplied to him the fortitude necessary for

the performance of so sad a task.

Ralph marvelled at him as he listened. There was a solemn sound in the

man’s face and voice, and dignity in his few and impressive gestures. It

could hardly be believed that he was not in earnest; and yet Ralph

remembered too the relish with which the man had dispersed his foul

tales the evening before, and the cackling laughter with which their

recital was accompanied. But it was all very wholesome for Chris, he

thought.

“And now,” said Dr. Layton, “I must lay before you this grievous matter.

It is one of whose end I dare not think, if it should come before the

King’s Grace; and yet so it must come. It is no less a matter than

treason.”

His voice rang out with a melancholy triumph, and Ralph, looking at the

two monks who stood in the centre of the room, saw that they were both

as white as paper. The lips of the Prior were moving in a kind of

agonised entreaty, and his eyes rolled round.

“You, sir,” cried the doctor, glaring at the Sub-Prior, who dropped his

beseeching eyes at the fierce look, “you, sir, have committed the

crime--in ignorance, you tell me--but at least the crime of preaching in

this priory-church in the presence of his Grace’s faithful subjects a

sermon attacking the King’s most certain prerogatives. I can make

perhaps allowances for this--though I do not know whether his Grace will

do so--but I can make allowances for one so foolish as yourself carried

away by the drunkenness of words; but I can make none--none--” he

shouted, crashing his hand upon the table, “none for your superior who

stands beside you, and who forebore either to protest at the treason at

the time or to rebuke it afterwards.”

The Prior’s hands rose and clasped themselves convulsively, but he made

no answer.

Dr. Layton proceeded to read out the confession that he had wrung from

the monk the night before, down to the signature; then he called upon

him to come up.

“Is this your name, sir?” he asked slowly.

The Sub-Prior took the paper in his trembling hands.

“It is sir,” he said.

“You hear it,” cried the doctor, staring fiercely round the faces, “he

tells you he has subscribed it himself. Go back to your place, reverend

father, and thank our Lord that you had courage to do so.

“And now, you, sir, Master Prior, what have you to say?”

Dr. Layton dropped his voice as he spoke, and laid his fat hands

together on the table. The Prior looked up with the same dreadful

entreaty as before; his lips moved, but no sound came from them. The

monks round were deadly still; Ralph saw a swift glance or two exchanged

beneath the shrouding hoods, but no one moved.

“I am waiting, my Lord Prior,” cried Layton in a loud terrible voice.

Again the Prior writhed his lips to speak.

Dr. Layton rose abruptly and made a violent gesture.

“Down on your knees, Master Prior, if you need mercy.”

There was a quick murmur and ripple along the two lines as the Prior

dropped suddenly on to his knees and covered his face with his hands.

Dr. Layton threw out his hand with a passionate gesture and began to

speak--.

“There, reverend fathers and brethren,” he cried, “you see how low sin

brings a man. This fellow who calls himself prior was bold enough, I

daresay, in the church when treason was preached; and, I doubt not, has

been bold enough in private too when he thought none heard him but his

friends. But you see how treachery,--heinous treachery,--plucks the

spirit from him, and how lowly he carries himself when he knows that

true men are sitting in judgment over him. Take example from that, you

who have served him in the past; you need never fear him more now.”

Dr. Layton dropped his hand and sat down. For one moment Ralph saw the

kneeling man lift that white face again, but the doctor was at him

instantly.

“Do not dare to rise, sir, till I give you leave,” he roared. “You had

best be a penitent. Now tell me, sir, what you have to say. It shall not

be said that we condemned a man unheard. Eh! Mr. Torridon?”

Ralph nodded sharply, and glanced at Chris; but his brother was staring

at the Prior.

“Now then, sir,” cried the doctor again.

“I entreat you, Master Layton--”

The Prior’s voice was convulsed with terror as he cried this with

outstretched hands.

“Yes, sir, I will hear you.”

“I entreat you, sir, not to tell his Grace. Indeed I am innocent,”--his

voice rose thin and high in his panic--“indeed, I did not know it was

treason that was preached.”

“Did not know?” sneered the doctor, leaning forward over the table.

“Why, you know your Faith, man--”

“Master Layton, Master Layton; there be so many changes in these days--”

“Changes!” shouted the priest; “there be no changes, except of such

knaves as you, Master-Prior; it is the old Faith now as ever. Do you

dare to call his Grace a heretic? Must that too go down in the charges?”

“No, no, Master Layton,” screamed the Prior, with his hands strained

forward and twitching fingers. “I did not mean that--Christ is my

witness!”

“Is it not the same Faith, sir?”

“Yes, Master Layton--yes--indeed, it is. But I did not know--how could I

know?”

“Then why are you Prior,” cried the doctor with a dramatic gesture, “if

it is not to keep your subjects true and obedient? Do you mean to tell

me--?”

“I entreat you, sir, for the love of Mary, not to tell his Grace--”

“Bah!” shouted Dr. Layton, “you may keep your breath till you tell his

Grace that himself. There is enough of this.” Again he rose, and swept

his eyes round the white-faced monks. “I am weary of this work. The

fellow has not a word to say--”

“Master Layton, Master Layton,” cried the kneeling man once more,

lifting his hands on one of which gleamed the prelatical ring.

“Silence, sir,” roared the doctor. “It is I who am speaking now. We have

had enough of this work. It seems that there be no true men left, except

in the world; these houses are rotten with crime. Is it not so, Master

Torridon?--rotten with crime! But of all the knaves that I did ever

meet, and they are many and strong ones, I do believe Master Prior, that

you are the worst. Here is my sentence, and see that it be carried out.

You, Master Prior, and you Master Sub-Prior, are to appear before Master

Cromwell in his court on All-Hallows’ Eve, and tell your tales to him.

You shall see if he be so soft as I; it may be that he will send you

before the King’s Grace--that I know not--but at least he will know how

to get the truth out of you, if I cannot--”

Once more the Prior broke in, in an agony of terror; but the doctor

silenced him in a moment.

“Have I not given my sentence, sir? How dare you speak?”

A murmur again ran round the room, and he lifted his hand furiously.

“Silence,” he shouted, “not one word from a mother’s son of you. I have

had enough of sedition already. Clear the room, officer, and let not one

shaveling monk put his nose within again, until I send for him. I am

weary of them all--weary and broken-hearted.”

The doctor dropped back into his seat, with a face of profound disgust,

and passed his hand over his forehead.

The monks turned at the signal from the door, and Ralph watched the

black lines once more file out.

“There, Mr. Torridon,” whispered the doctor behind his hand. “Did I not

tell you so? Master Cromwell will be able to do what he will with him.”

CHAPTER VIII

RALPH’S RETURN

The Visitation of Lewes Priory occupied a couple of days, as the estates

were so vast, and the account-books so numerous.

In the afternoon following the scene in the chapter-house, Dr. Layton

and Ralph rode out to inspect some of the farms that were at hand,

leaving orders that the stock was to be driven up into the court the

next day, and did not return till dusk. The excitement in the town was

tremendous as they rode back through the ill-lighted streets, and as the

rumour ran along who the great gentlemen were that went along so gaily

with their servants behind them; and by the time that they reached the

priory-gate there was a considerable mob following in their train,

singing and shouting, in the highest spirits at the thought of the

plunder that would probably fall into their hands.

Layton turned in his saddle at the door, and made them a little speech,

telling them how he was there with the authority of the King’s Grace,

and would soon make a sweep of the place.

“And there will be pickings,” he cried, “pickings for us all! The widow

and the orphan have been robbed long enough; it is time to spoil the

fathers.”

There was a roar of amusement from the mob; and a shout or two was

raised for the King’s Grace.

“You must be patient,” cried Dr. Layton, “and then no more taxes. You

can trust us, gentlemen, to do the King’s work as it should be done.”

As he passed in through the lamp-lit entrance he turned to Ralph again.

“You see, Mr. Torridon, we have the country behind us.”

* * * * *

It was that evening that Ralph for the first time since the quarrel met

his brother face to face.

He was passing through the cloister on his way to Dr. Layton’s room, and

came past the refectory door just as the monks were gathering for

supper. He glanced in as he went, and had a glimpse of the clean solemn

hall, lighted with candles along the panelling, the long bare tables

laid ready, the Prior’s chair and table at the further end and the great

fresco over it. A lay brother or two in aprons were going about their

business silently, and three or four black figures, who had already

entered, stood motionless along the raised dais on which the tables

stood.

The monks had all stopped instantly as Ralph came among them, and had

lowered their hoods with their accustomed courtly deference to a guest;

and as he turned from his momentary pause at the refectory door in the

full blaze of light that shone from it, he met Chris face to face.

The young monk had come up that instant, not noticing who was there, and

his hood was still over his head. There was a second’s pause, and then

he lifted his hand and threw the hood back in salutation; and as Ralph

bowed and passed on he had a moment’s sight of that thin face and the

large grey eyes in which there was not the faintest sign of recognition.

Ralph’s heart was hot with mingled emotion as he went up the cloister.

He was more disturbed by the sudden meeting, the act of courtesy, and

the cold steady eyes of this young fool of a brother than he cared to

recognise.

He saw no more of him, except in the distance among his fellows; and he

left the house the next day when the business was done.

* * * * *

Matters in the rest of England were going forward with the same

promptitude as in Sussex. Dr. Layton himself had visited the West

earlier in the autumn, and the other Visitors were busy in other parts

of the country. The report was current now that the resources of all the

Religious Houses were to be certainly confiscated, and that those of the

inmates who still persisted in their vocation would have to do so under

the most rigorous conditions imaginable. The results were to be seen in

the enormous increase of beggars, deprived now of the hospitality they

were accustomed to receive; and the roads everywhere were thronged with

those who had been holders of corrodies, or daily sustenance in the

houses; as well as with the evicted Religious, some of whom, dismissed

against their will, were on their way to the universities, where, in

spite of the Visitation, it was thought that support was still to be

had; and others, less reputable, who preferred freedom to monastic

discipline. Yet others were to be met with, though not many in number,

who were on their way to London to lay complaints of various kinds

against their superiors.

From these and like events the whole country was astir. Men gathered in

groups outside the village inns and discussed the situation, and feeling

ran high on the movements of the day. What chiefly encouraged the

malcontents was the fact that the benefits to be gained by the

dissolution of the monasteries were evident and present, while the

ill-results lay in the future. The great Religious Houses, their farms

and stock, the jewels of the treasury, were visible objects; men

actually laid eyes on them as they went to and from their work or knelt

at mass on Sundays; it was all so much wealth that did not belong to

them, and that might do so, while the corrodies, the daily hospitality,

the employment of labour, and such things, lay either out of sight, or

affected only certain individuals. Characters too that were chiefly

stirred by such arguments, were those of the noisy and self-assertive

faction; while those who saw a little deeper into things, and understood

the enormous charities of the Religious Houses and the manner in which

extreme poverty was kept in check by them,--even more, those who valued

the spiritual benefits that flowed from the fact of their existence, and

saw how life was kindled and inspired by these vast homes of

prayer--such, then as always, were those who would not voluntarily put

themselves forward in debate, or be able, when they did so, to use

arguments that would appeal to the village gatherings. Their natural

leaders too, the country clergy, who alone might have pointed out

effectively the considerations that lay beneath the surface had been

skilfully and peremptorily silenced by the episcopal withdrawing of all

preaching licenses.

* * * * *

In the course of Ralph’s travels he came across, more than once, a hot

scene in the village inn, and was able to use his own personality and

prestige as a King’s Visitor in the direction that he wished.

He came for example one Saturday night to the little village of

Maresfield, near Fletching, and after seeing his horses and servants

bestowed, came into the parlour, where the magnates were assembled.

There were half a dozen there, sitting round the fire, who rose

respectfully as the great gentleman strode in, and eyed him with a

sudden awe as they realised from the landlord’s winks and whispers that

he was of a very considerable importance.

From the nature of his training Ralph had learnt how to deal with all

conditions of men; and by the time that he had finished supper, and

drawn his chair to the fire, they were talking freely again, as indeed

he had encouraged them to do, for they did not of course, any more than

the landlord, guess at his identity or his business there.

Ralph soon brought the talk round again to the old subject, and asked

the opinions of the company as to the King’s policy in the visitation of

the Religious Houses There was a general silence when he first opened

the debate, for they were dangerous times; but the gentleman’s own

imperturbable air, his evident importance, and his friendliness,

conspired with the strong beer to open their mouths, and in five minutes

they were at it.

One, a little old man in the corner who sat with crossed legs, nursing

his mug, declared that to his mind the whole thing was sacrilege; the

houses, he said, had been endowed to God’s glory and service, and that

to turn them to other uses must bring a curse on the country. He went on

to remark--for Ralph deftly silenced the chorus of protest--that his own

people had been buried in the church of the Dominican friars at Arundel

for three generations, and that he was sorry for the man who laid hands

on the tomb of his grandfather--known as Uncle John--for the old man had

been a desperate churchman in his day, and would undoubtedly revenge

himself for any indignity offered to his bones.

Ralph pointed out, with a considerate self-repression, that the

illustration was scarcely to the point, for the King’s Grace had no

intention, he believed, of disturbing any one’s bones; the question at

issue rather regarded flesh and blood. Then a chorus broke out, and the

hunt was up.

One, the butcher, with many blessings invoked on King Harry’s head,

declared that the country was being sucked dry by these rapacious

ecclesiastics; that the monks encroached every year on the common land,

absorbed the little farms, paid inadequate wages, and--which appeared

his principal grievance--killed their own meat.

Ralph, with praiseworthy tolerance, pushed this last argument aside, but

appeared to reflect on the others as if they were new to him, though he

had heard them a hundred times, and used them fifty; and while he

weighed them, another took up the tale; told a scandalous story or two,

and asked how men who lived such lives as these which he related, could

be examples of chastity.

Once more the little old man burst into the fray, and waving his pot in

an access of religious enthusiasm, rebuked the last speaker for his

readiness to pick up dirt, and himself instanced five or six Religious

known to him, whose lives were no less spotless than his own.

Again Ralph interposed in his slow voice, and told them that that too

was not the point at issue. The question was not as to whether here and

there monks lived good lives or bad, for no one was compelled to imitate

either, but as to whether on the whole the existence of the Religious

Houses was profitable in such practical matters as agriculture, trade,

and the relief of the destitute.

And so it went on, and Ralph began to grow weary of the inconsequence of

the debaters, and their entire inability to hold to the salient points;

but he still kept his hand on the rudder of the discussion, avoided the

fogs of the supernatural and religious on the one side towards which the

little old man persisted in pushing, and, on the other, the blunt views

of the butcher and the man who had told the foul stories; and contented

himself with watching and learning the opinion of the company rather

than contributing his own.

Towards the end of the evening he observed two of his men, who had

slipped in and were sitting at the back of the little stifling room,

hugely enjoying the irony of the situation, and determined on ending the

discussion with an announcement of his own identity.

Presently an opportunity occurred. The little old man had shown a

dangerous tendency to discourse on the suffering souls in purgatory, and

on the miseries inflicted on them by the cessation of masses and

suffrages for their welfare; and an uncomfortable awe-stricken silence

had fallen on the others.

Ralph stood up abruptly, and began to speak, his bright tired eyes

shining down on the solemn faces, and his mouth set and precise.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “your talk has pleased me very much. I have

learned a great deal, and I hope shall profit by it. Some of you have

talked a quantity of nonsense; and you, Mr. Miggers, have talked the

most, about your uncle John’s soul and bones.”

A deadly silence fell as these startling words were pronounced; for his

manner up to now had been conciliatory and almost apologetic. But he

went on imperturbably.

“I am quite sure that Almighty God knows His business better than you or

I, Mr. Miggers; and if He cannot take care of Uncle John without the aid

of masses or dirges sung by fat-bellied monks--”

He stopped abruptly, and a squirt of laughter burst from the butcher.

“Well, this is my opinion,” went on Ralph, “if you wish to know it. I

do not think, or suspect, as some of you do--but I _know_--as you will

allow presently that I do, when I tell you who I am--I _know_ that these

houses of which we have been speaking, are nothing better than

wasps’-nests. The fellows look holy enough in their liveries, they make

a deal of buzz, they go to and fro as if on business; but they make no

honey that is worth your while or mine to take. There is but one thing

that they have in their holes that is worth anything: and that is their

jewels and their gold, and the lead on their churches and the bells in

their towers. And all that, by the Grace of God we will soon have out of

them.”

There was a faint murmur of mingled applause and dissent. Mr. Miggers

stared vacant-faced at this preposterous stranger, and set his mug

resolutely down as a preparation for addressing him, but he had no

opportunity. Ralph was warmed now by his own eloquence, and swept on.

“You think I do not know of what I am speaking? Well, I have a brother a

monk at Lewes, and a sister a nun at Rusper; and I have been brought up

in this religion until I am weary of it. My sister--well, she is like

other maidens of her kind--not a word to speak of any matter but our

Lady and the Saints and how many candles Saint Christopher likes. And my

brother!--Well, we can leave that.

“I know these houses as none of you know them; I know how much wine they

drink, how much they charge for their masses, how much treasonable

chatter they carry on in private--I know their lives as I know my own;

and I know that they are rotten and useless altogether. They may give a

plateful or two in charity and a mug of beer; they gorge ten dishes

themselves, and swill a hogshead. They give a penny to the poor man, and

keep twenty nobles for themselves. They take field after field, house

after house; turn the farmer into the beggar, and the beggar into their

bedesman. And, by God! I say that the sooner King Henry gets rid of the

crew, the better for you and me!”

Ralph snapped out the last words, and stared insolently down on the

gaping faces. Then he finished, standing by the door as he did so, with

his hand on the latch.

“If you would know how I know all this, I will tell you. My name is

Torridon, of Overfield; and I am one of the King’s Visitors. Good-night,

gentlemen.”

There was the silence of the grave within, as Ralph went upstairs

smiling to himself.

* * * * *

Ralph had intended returning home a week or two after the Lewes

visitation, but there was a good deal to be done, and Layton had pointed

out to him that even if some houses were visited twice over it would do

no harm to the rich monks to pay double fees; so it was not till

Christmas was a week away that he rode at last up to his house-door at

Westminster.

His train had swelled to near a dozen men and horses by now, for he had

accumulated a good deal of treasure beside that which he had left in

Layton’s hands, and it would not have been safe to travel with a smaller

escort; so it was a gay and imposing cavalcade that clattered through

the narrow streets. Ralph himself rode in front, in solitary dignity,

his weapon jingling at his stirrup, his feather spruce and bright above

his spare keen face; a couple of servants rode behind, fully armed and

formidable looking, and then the train came behind--beasts piled with

bundles that rustled and clinked suggestively, and the men who guarded

them gay with scraps of embroidery and a cheap jewel or two here and

there in their dress.

But Ralph did not feel so gallant as he looked. During these long

country rides he had had too much time to think, and the thought of

Beatrice and of what she would say seldom left him. The very harshness

of his experiences, the rough faces round him, the dialect of the stable

and the inn, the coarse conversation--all served to make her image the

more gracious and alluring. It was a kind of worship, shot with passion,

that he felt for her. Her grave silences coincided with his own, her

tenderness yielded deliciously to his strength.

As he sat over his fire with his men whispering behind him, planning as

they thought new assaults on the rich nests that they all hated and

coveted together, again and again it was Beatrice’s face, and not that

of a shrewd or anxious monk, that burned in the red heart of the hearth.

He had seen it with downcast eyes, with the long lashes lying on the

cheek, and the curved red lips discreetly shut beneath; the masses of

black hair shadowed the forehead and darkened the secret that he wished

to read. Or he had watched her, like a jewel in a pig-sty, looking

across the foul-littered farm where he had had to sleep more than once

with his men about him; her black eyes looking into his own with tender

gravity, and her mouth trembling with speech. Or best of all, as he rode

along the bitter cold lanes at the fall of the day, the crowding yews

above him had parted and let her stand there, with her long skirts

rustling in the dry leaves, her slender figure blending with the

darkness, and her sweet face trusting and loving him out of the gloom.

And then again, like the prick of a wound, the question had touched him,

how would she receive him when he came back with the monastic spoils on

his beasts’ shoulders, and the wail of the nuns shrilling like the wind

behind?

But by the time that he came back to London he had thought out his

method of meeting her. Probably she had had news of the doings of the

Visitors, perhaps of his own in particular; it was hardly possible that

his father had not written; she would ask for an explanation, and she

should have instead an appeal to her confidence. He would tell her that

sad things had indeed happened, that he had been forced to be present at

and even to carry out incidents which he deplored; but that he had done

his utmost to be merciful. It was rough work, he would say; but it was

work that had to be done; and since that was so--and this was Cromwell’s

teaching--it was better that honourable gentlemen should do it. He had

not been able always to restrain the violence of his men--and for that

he needed forgiveness from her dear lips; and it would be easy enough to

tell stories against him that it would be hard to disprove; but if she

loved and trusted him, and he knew that she did, let her take his word

for it that no injustice had been deliberately done, that on the other

hand he had been the means under God of restraining many such acts, and

that his conscience was clear.

It was a moving appeal, Ralph thought, and it almost convinced himself.

He was not conscious of any gross insincerity in the defence; of course

it was shaded artistically, and the more brutal details kept out of

sight, but in the main it was surely true. And, as he rehearsed its

points to himself once more in the streets of Westminster, he felt that

though there might be a painful moment or two, yet it would do his work.

* * * * *

He had sent a message home that he was coming, and the door of his home

was wide as he dismounted, and the pleasant light of candles shone out,

for the evening was smouldering to dark in the west.

A crowd had collected as he went along; from every window faces were

leaning; and as he stood on the steps directing the removal of the

treasure into the house, he saw that the mob filled the tiny street, and

the cobbled space, from side to side. They were chiefly of the idling

class, folks who had little to do but to follow up excitements and

shout; and there were a good many cries raised for the King’s Grace and

his Visitors, for such people as these were greedy for any movement that

might bring them gain, and the Religious Houses were beginning to be

more unpopular in town than ever.

One of the bundles slipped as it was shifted, the cord came off, and in

a moment the little space beyond the mule before the door was covered

with gleaming stuff and jewels.

There was a fierce scuffle and a cry, and Ralph was in a moment beyond

the mule with his sword out. He said nothing but stood there fierce and

alert as the crowd sucked back, and the servant gathered up the things.

There was no more trouble, for it had only been a spasmodic snatch at

the wealth, and a cheer or two was raised again among the grimy faces

that stared at the fine gentleman and the shining treasure.

Ralph thought it better, however, to say a conciliatory word when the

things had been bestowed in the house, and the mules led away; and he

stood on the steps a moment alone before entering himself.

The crowd listened complacently enough to the statements which they had

begun to believe from the fact of the incessant dinning of them into

their ears by the selected preachers at Paul’s Cross and elsewhere; and

there was loud groan at the Pope’s name.

Ralph was ending with an incise peroration that he had delivered more

than once before.

“You know all this, good people; and you shall know it better when the

work is done. Instead of the rich friars and monks we will have godly

citizens, each with his house and land. The King’s Grace has promised

it, and you know that he keeps his word. We have had enough of the

jackdaws and their stolen goods; we will have honest birds instead. Only

be patient a little longer--”

The listening silence was broken by a loud cry--

“You damned plundering hound--”

A stone suddenly out of the gloom whizzed past Ralph and crashed through

the window behind. A great roaring rose in a moment, and the crowd

swayed and turned.

Ralph felt his heart suddenly quicken, and his hand flew to his hilt

again, but there was no need for him to act. There were terrible screams

already rising from the seething twilight in front, as the stone-thrower

was seized and trampled. He stayed a moment longer, dropped his hilt and

went into the house.

CHAPTER IX

RALPH’S WELCOME

“You will show Mistress Atherton into the room below,” said Ralph to his

man, “as soon as she comes.”

He was sitting on the morning following his arrival in his own chamber

upstairs. His table was a mass of papers, account-books, reckonings,

reports bearing on his Visitation journey, and he had been working at

them ever since he was dressed; for he had to present himself before

Cromwell in the course of a day or two, and the labour would be

enormous.

The room below, opposite that in which he intended to see Beatrice and

where she had waited herself a few months before while he talked with

Cromwell and the Archbishop, was now occupied by his collection of plate

and vestments, and the key was in his own pocket.

He had heard from his housekeeper on the previous evening that Beatrice

had called at the house during the afternoon, and had seemed surprised

to hear that he was to return that night; but she had said very little,

it appeared, and had only begged the woman to inform her master that she

would present herself at his house the next morning.

And now Ralph was waiting for her.

He was more ill-at-ease than he had expected to be. The events of the

evening before had given him a curious shock; and he cursed the whole

business--the snapping of the cord round the bundle, his own action and

words, the outrage that followed, and the death of the fellow that had

thrown the stone--for the body had been rescued by the watch a few

minutes later, a tattered crushed thing, beaten out of all likeness to a

man. One of the watch had stepped in to see Ralph as he sat at supper,

and had gone again saying the dog deserved it for daring to lift his

voice against the King and his will.

But above all Ralph repented of his own words. There was no harm in

saying such things in the country; but it was foolish and rash to do so

in town. Cromwell’s men should be silent and discreet, he knew, not

street-orators; and if he had had time to think he would not have

spoken. However the crowd was with him; there was plainly no one of any

importance there; it was unlikely that Cromwell himself would hear of

the incident; and perhaps after all no harm was done.

Meanwhile there was Beatrice to reckon with, and Ralph laid down his pen

a dozen times that morning and rehearsed once more what he would have to

say to her.

He was shrewd enough to know that it was his personality and not his

virtues or his views that had laid hold of this girl’s soul. As it was

with him, so it was with her; each was far enough apart from the other

in all external matters; such things had been left behind a year ago; it

was not an affair of consonant tastes, but of passion. From each there

had looked deep inner eyes; there had been on either side a steady and

fearless scrutiny, and then the two souls had leapt together in a bright

flame of desire, knowing that each was made for the other. There had

been so little love-making, so few speeches after the first meeting or

two, so few letters exchanged, and fewer embraces. The last veils had

fallen at the fury of Chris’s intervention, and they had known then what

had been inevitable all along.

Ralph smiled to himself as he remembered how little he had said or she

had answered; there had been no need to say anything. And then his eyes

grew wide and passionate, and his hands gripped one another fiercely, as

the memory died, and the burning flame of desire flared within him again

from the deep well he bore in his heart. The world of affairs and

explanations and evasions faded into twilight, and there was but one

thing left, his love and hers. It was to that that he would appeal.

He sat so a moment longer, and then took up his pen again, though it

shook in his hand, and went on with his reckonings.

* * * * *

He was perfectly composed half an hour later as he went downstairs to

meet her. He had finished his line of figures sedately when the man

looked in to say that she was below; and had sat yet a moment longer,

trying to remember mechanically what it was he had determined to tell

her. Bah! it was trifling and unimportant; words did not affect the

question; all the wrecked convents in the world could not touch the one

fact that lay in fire at his heart. He would say nothing; she would

understand.

In the tiny entrance hall there was a whiff of fragrance where she had

passed through; and his heart stirred in answer. Then he opened the

door, stepped through and closed it behind him.

She was standing upright by the hearth, and faced him as he entered. He

was aware of her blue mantle, her white, jewelled head-dress, one hand

gripping the mantel-shelf, her pale steady face and bright eyes. Behind

there was the warm rich panelling, and the leaping glow of the wood

fire.

She made no movement.

Outside the lane was filled with street noises, the cries of children,

the voices of men who went by talking, the rumble of a waggon coming

with the crack of whips and jingle of bells from the river. The wheels

came up and went past into silence again before either spoke or moved.

Then Ralph lifted his hands a little and let them drop, as he stared at

her face. From her eyes looked out her will, tense as steel; and his own

shook to meet it.

“Well?” she said at last; and her voice was perfectly steady.

“Beatrice,” cried Ralph; and the agony of it tore his heart.

She dropped her hand to her side and still looked at him without

flinching.

“Beatrice,” cried Ralph once more.

“Then you have no more to say--after last night?”

A torrent of thoughts broke loose in his brain, and he tried to snatch

one as they fled past--to say one word. His excuses went by him like

phantoms; they bewildered and dazed him. Why, there were a thousand

things to say, and each was convincing if he could but say it. The cloud

passed and there were her eyes watching him still.

“Then that is all?” she said.

Again the cloud fell on him; little scenes piteously clear rose before

him, of the road by Rusper convent, Layton’s leering face, a stripped

altar; and for each there was a tale if he could but tell it. And still

the bright eyes never flinched.

It seemed to him as if she was watching him curiously; her lips were

parted, and her head was a little on one side; her face interested and

impersonal.

“Why, Beatrice--” he cried again.

Then her love shook her like a storm; he had never dreamed she could

look like that; her mouth shook; he could see her white teeth clenched;

and a shiver went over her. He took one step forward, but stopped again,

for the black eyes shone through the passion that swayed her, as keen

and remorseless as ever.

He dropped on to his knees at the table and buried his face in his

hands. He knew nothing now but that he had lost her.

That was her voice speaking now, as steady as her eyes; but he did not

hear a word she said. Words were nothing; they were not so much as those

cries from the street, that shrill boy’s voice over the way; not so much

as the sighing crackle from the hearth where he had caused a fire to be

lighted lest she should feel cold.

She was still speaking, but her voice had moved; she was no longer by

the fire. He could feel the warmth of the fire now on his hands. But he

dared not move nor look up; there was but one thing left for him--that

he had lost her!

That was her hand on the latch; a breath of cold air stirred his hair;

and still she was speaking. He understood a little more now; she knew it

all--his doings--what he had said last night--and there was not one word

to say in answer. Her short lashing sentences fell on his defenceless

soul, but all sense was dead, and he watched with a dazed impersonalness

how each stroke went home, and yet he felt no pain or shame.

She was going now; a picture stirred on the wall by the fire as the wind

rushed in through the open street door.

* * * * *

Then the door closed.

PART II

THE FALL OF LEWES

CHAPTER I

INTERNAL DISSENSION

The peace was gone from Lewes Priory. A wave had broken in through the

high wall from the world outside with the coming of the Visitors, and

had left wreckage behind, and swept out security as it went. The monks

knew now that their old privileges were gone with the treasures that

Layton had taken with him, and that although the wave had recoiled, it

would return again and sweep them all away.

Upon none of them had the blow fallen more fiercely than on Chris; he

had tried to find peace, and instead was in the midst of storm. The high

barriers had gone, and with them the security of his own soul, and the

world that he thought he had left was grinning at the breach.

It was piteous to him to see the Prior--that delicate, quiet prelate who

had held himself aloof in his dignities--now humbled by the shame of his

exposure in the chapter-house. The courage that Bishop Fisher had

restored to him in some measure was gone again; and it was miserable to

look at that white downcast face in the church and refectory, and to

recognise that all self-respect was gone. After his return from his

appearance before Cromwell he was more wretched than ever; it was known

that he had been sent back in contemptuous disgrace; but it was not

known how much he had promised in his terror for life.

The house had lost too some half-dozen of its inmates. Two had

petitioned for release; three professed monks had been dismissed, and a

recent novice had been sent back to his home. Their places in the

stately choir were empty, and eloquent with warning; and in their stead

was a fantastic secular priest, appointed by the Visitors’ authority,

who seldom said mass, and never attended choir; but was regular in the

refectory, and the chapter-house where he thundered St. Paul’s epistles

at the monks, and commentaries of his own, in the hopes of turning them

from papistry to a purer faith.

The news from outside echoed their own misery. Week after week the tales

poured in, of young and old dismissed back to the world whose ways they

had forgotten, of the rape of treasures priceless not only for their

intrinsic worth but for the love that had given and consecrated them

through years of devout service. There was not a house that had not lost

something; the King himself had sanctioned the work by taking precious

horns and a jewelled cross from Winchester. And worse than all that had

gone was the terror of what was yet to come. The world, which had been

creeping nearer, pausing and creeping on again, had at last passed the

boundaries and leapt to sacrilege.

It was this terror that poisoned life. The sacristan who polished the

jewels that were left, handled them doubtfully now; the monk who

superintended the farm sickened as he made his plans for another year;

the scribe who sat in the carrel lost enthusiasm for his work; for the

jewels in a few months might be on royal fingers, the beasts in

strangers’ sheds, and the illuminated leaves blowing over the cobbled

court, or wrapped round grocers’ stores.

Dom Anthony preached a sermon on patience one day in Christmastide,

telling his fellows that a man’s life, and still less a monk’s,

consisted not in the abundance of things that he possessed; and that

corporate, as well as individual, poverty, had been the ideal of the

monastic houses in earlier days. He was no great preacher, but the

people loved to hear his homely remarks, and there was a murmur of

sympathy as he pointed with a clumsy gesture to the lighted Crib that

had been erected at the foot of one of the great pillars in the nave.

“Our Lady wore no cloth of gold,” he said, “nor Saint Joseph a precious

mitre; and the blessed Redeemer Himself who made all things had but

straw to His bed. And if our new cope is gone, we can make our

processions in the old one, and please God no less. Nay, we may please

Him more perhaps, for He knows that it is by no will of ours that we do

so.”

But there had been a dismal scene at the chapter next morning. The Prior

had made them a speech, with a passionate white face and hands that

shook, and declared that the sermon would be their ruin yet if the

King’s Grace heard of it.

“There was a fellow that went out half-way through,” he cried in panic,

“how do we know whether he is not talking with his Grace even now? I

will not have such sermons; and you shall be my witnesses that I said

so.”

The monks eyed one another miserably. How could they prosper under such

a prior as this?

But worse was to follow, though it did not directly affect this house.

The bill, so long threatened, dissolving the smaller houses, was passed

in February by a Parliament carefully packed to carry out the King’s

wishes, and from which the spiritual peers were excluded by his

“permission to them to absent themselves.” Lewes Priory, of course,

exceeded the limit of revenue under which other houses were suppressed,

and even received one monk who had obtained permission to go there when

his community fell; but in spite of the apparent encouragement from the

preamble of the bill which stated that “in the great solemn monasteries

... religion was right well kept,” it was felt that this act was but the

herald of another which should make an end of Religious Houses

altogether.

But there was a breath of better news later on, when tidings came in the

early summer that Anne was in disgrace. It was well known that it was

her influence that egged the King on, and that there was none so fierce

against the old ways. Was it not possible that Henry might even yet

repent himself, if she were out of the way?

Then the tidings were confirmed, and for a while there was hope.

* * * * *

Sir Nicholas Maxwell rode over to see Chris, and was admitted into one

of the parlours to talk with him.

He seemed furiously excited, and hardly saluted his brother-in-law.

“Chris,” he said, “I have come straight from London with great news. The

King’s harlot is fallen.”

Chris stared.

“Dead?” he said.

“Dead in a day or two, thank God!”

He spat furiously.

“God strike her!” he cried. “She has wrought all the mischief, I

believe. They told me so a year back, but I did not believe it.”

“And where is she?”

Then Nicholas told his story, his ruddy comely face bright with

exultation, for he had no room for pity left. The rumours that had come

to Lewes were true. Anne had been arrested suddenly at Greenwich during

the sports, and had been sent straight to the Tower. The King was weary

of her, though she had borne him a child; and did not scruple to bring

the most odious charges against her. She had denied, and denied; but it

was useless. She had wept and laughed in prison, and called on God to

vindicate her; but the process went on none the less. The marriage had

been declared null and void by Dr. Cranmer who had blessed it; and now

she was condemned for sinning against it.

“But she is either his wife,” said Chris amazed, “or else she is not

guilty of adultery.”

Nicholas chuckled.

“God save us, Chris; do you think Henry can’t manage it?”

Then he grew white with passion, and beat the table and damned the King

and Anne and Cranmer to hell together.

Chris glanced up, drumming his fingers softly on the table.

“Nick,” he said, “there is no use in that. When is she to die?”

The knight’s face flushed again with pleasure, and he showed his teeth

set together.

“Two days,” he said, “please God, or three at the most. And she will not

meet those she has sent before her, or John Fisher whose head she had

brought to her--the bloody Herodias!”

“Pray God that she will!” said Chris softly. “They will pray for her at

least.”

“Pah!” shouted Nicholas, “an eye for an eye for me!”

Chris said nothing. He was thinking of all that this might mean. Who

could know what might not happen? Nicholas broke in again presently.

“I heard a fine tale,” he said, “do you know that the woman is in the

very room where she slept the night before the crowning? Last time it

was for the crown to be put on; now it is for the head to be taken off.

And it is true that she weeps and laughs. They can hear her laugh two

storeys away, I hear.”

“Nick,” said Chris suddenly, “I am weary of that. Let her alone. Pray

God she may turn!”

Nicholas stared astonished, and a little awed too. Chris used not to be

like this; he seemed quieter and stronger; he had never dared to speak

so before.

“Yes; I am weary of this,” said Chris again. “I stormed once at Ralph,

and gained nothing. We do not win by those weapons. Where is Ralph?”

Nicholas knit his lips to keep in the fury that urged him.

“He is with Cromwell still,” he said venomously, “and very busy, I hear.

They will be making him a lord soon--but there will be no lady.”

Chris had heard of Beatrice’s rejection of Ralph.

“He is still busy?”

“Why, yes; he worked long at this bill, I hear.”

Chris asked a few more questions, and learned that Ralph seemed fiercer

than ever since the Visitation. He was well-known at Court; had been

seen riding with the King; and it was supposed that he was rising

rapidly in favour every day.

“God help him!” sighed Chris.

The change that had come over Chris was very much marked. Neither a life

in the world would have done it, nor one in the peace of the cloister;

but an alternation of the two. He had been melted by the fire of the

inner life, and braced by the external bitterness of adversity. Ralph’s

visit to the priory, culminating in the passionless salutation of him in

the cloister as being a guest and therefore a representative of Christ,

had ended that stage in the development of the monk’s character. Chris

was disappointed in his brother, fearful for him and stern in his

attitude towards him; but he was not resentful. He was sincere when he

prayed God to help him.

When Nicholas had eaten and gone, carrying messages to Mary, Chris told

the others, and there was a revival of hope in the house.

Then a few days later came the news of Anne’s death and of the marriage

of the King with Jane Seymour on the following day. At least Jane was a

lawful wife and queen in the Catholics’ eyes, for Katharine too was

dead.

* * * * *

Chris had now passed through the minor orders, the sub-diaconate and the

diaconate, and was looking forward to priesthood. It had been thought

advisable by his superiors, in view of the troubled state of the times,

to apply for the necessary dispensations, and they had been granted

without difficulty. So many monks who were not priests had been turned

into the world resourceless, since they could not be appointed to

benefices, that it was thought only fair to one who was already bound by

vows of religion and sacred orders not to hold him back from an

opportunity to make his living, should affairs be pushed further in the

direction of dissolution.

He was looking forward with an extraordinary zeal to the crown of

priesthood. It seemed to him a possession that would compensate for all

other losses. If he could but make the Body of the Lord, lift It before

the Throne, and hold It in his hands, all else was trifling.

There were waves of ecstatic peace again breaking over his soul as he

thought of it; as he moved behind the celebrant at high mass, lifted the

pall of the chalice, and sang the exultant _Ite missa est_ when all was

done. What a power would be his on that day! He would have his finger

then on the huge engine of grace, and could turn it whither he would,

spraying infinite force on this and that soul, on Ralph stubbornly

fighting against God in London, on his mother silent and bitter at home,

on his father anxious and courageous, waiting for disaster, on Margaret

trembling in Rusper nunnery as she contemplated the defiance she had

flung in the King’s face.

The Prior had given him but little encouragement; he had sent for him

one day, and told him that he might prepare himself for priesthood by

Michaelmas, for a foreign bishop was coming to them, and leave would be

obtained for him to administer the rite. But he had not said a word of

counsel or congratulation; but had nodded to the young monk, and turned

his sickly face to the papers again on his table.

Dom Anthony, the pleasant stout guest-master, who had preached the

sermon in Christmastide, said a word of comfort, as they walked in the

cloister together.

“You must not take it amiss, brother,” he said, “my Lord Prior is beside

himself with terror. He does not know how to act.”

Chris asked whether there were any new reason for alarm.

“Oh, no!” said the monk, “but the people are getting cold towards us

here. You have seen how few come to mass here now, or to confession.

They are going to the secular priests instead.”

Chris remembered one or two other instances of this growing coldness.

The poor folks who came for food complained of its quality two or three

times; and one fellow, an old pensioner of the house, who had lost a

leg, threw his portion down on the doorstep.

“I will have better than that some day,” he had said, as he limped off.

Chris had gathered up the cold lentils patiently and carried them back

to the kitchen.

On another day a farmer had flatly refused a favour to the monk who

superintended the priory-farm.

“I will not have your beasts in my orchard,” he had said roughly. “You

are not my masters.”

The congregations too were visibly declining, as the guest-master had

said. The great nave beyond the screen looked desolate in the

summer-mornings, as the sunlight lay in coloured patches on the wide

empty pavement between the few faithful gathered in front, and the half

dozen loungers who leaned in the shadow of the west wall--men who

fulfilled their obligation of hearing mass, with a determination to do

so with the least inconvenience to themselves, and who scuffled out

before the blessing.

It was evident that the tide of faith and reverence was beginning to ebb

even in the quiet country towns.

As the summer drew on the wider world too had its storms. A fierce

sermon was preached at the opening of Convocation, by Dr. Latimer, now

Bishop of Worcester, at the express desire of the Archbishop, that

scourged not only the regular but the secular clergy as well. The sermon

too was more furiously Protestant than any previously preached on such

an occasion; pilgrimages, the stipends for masses, image-worship, and

the use of an unknown tongue in divine service, were alike denounced as

contrary to the “pure gospel.” The phrases of Luther were abundantly

used in the discourse; and it was evident, from the fact that no public

censure fell upon the preacher, that Henry’s own religious views had

developed since the day that he had published his attack on the foreign

reformers.

The proceedings of Convocation confirmed the suspicion that the sermon

aroused. With an astonishing compliance the clergy first ratified the

decree of nullity in the matter of Anne’s marriage with the King,

disclaimed obedience to Rome, and presented a list of matters for which

they requested reform. In answer to this last point the King, assisted

by a couple of bishops, sent down to the houses, a month later, a paper

of articles to which the clergy instantly agreed. These articles

proceeded in the direction of Protestantism through omission rather than

affirmation. Baptism, Penance and the Sacrament of the Altar were spoken

of in Catholic terms; the other four sacraments were omitted altogether;

on the other hand, again, devotion to saints, image-worship, and prayers

for the departed were enjoined with important qualifications.

Finally it was agreed to support the King in his refusal to be

represented at the proposed General Council at Mantua.

* * * * *

The tidings of all this, filtering in to the house at Lewes by priests

and Religious who stayed there from time to time, did not tend to

reassure those who looked for peace. The assault was not going to stop

at matters of discipline; it was dogma that was aimed at, and, worse

even than that, the foundation on which dogma rested. It was not an

affair of Religious Houses, or even of morality; there was concerned the

very Rock itself on which Christendom based all faith and morals. If it

was once admitted that a National Church, apart from the See of Rome,

could in the smallest degree adjudicate on a point of doctrine, the

unity of the Catholic Church as understood by every monk in the house,

was immediately ruptured.

Again and again in chapter there were terrible scenes. The Prior raved

weakly, crying that it was not the part of a good Catholic to resist his

prince, that the Apostle himself enjoined obedience to those in

authority; that the new light of learning had illuminated perplexing

problems; and that in the uncertainty it was safer to follow the certain

duty of civil obedience. Dom Anthony answered that a greater than St.

Paul had bidden His followers to render to God the things that were

God’s; that St. Peter was crucified sooner than obey Nero--and the Prior

cried out for silence; and that he could not hear his Christian King

likened to the heathen emperor. Monk after monk would rise; one

following his Prior, and disclaiming personal learning and

responsibility; another with ironic deference saying that a man’s soul

was his own, and that not even a Religious Superior could release from

the biddings of conscience; another would balance himself between the

parties, declaring that the distinction of duties was insoluble; that in

such a case as this it was impossible to know what was due to God and

what to man. Yet another voice would rise from time to time declaring

that the tales that they heard were incredible; that it was impossible

that the King should intend such evil against the Church; he still heard

his three masses a day as he had always done; there was no more ardent

defender of the Sacrament of the Altar.

Chris used to steady himself in this storm of words as well as he could,

by reflecting that he probably would not have to make a decision, for it

would be done for him, at least as regarded his life in the convent or

out, by his superiors. Or again he would fix his mind resolutely on his

approaching priesthood; while the Prior sat gnawing his lips, playing

with his cross and rapping his foot, before bursting out again and

bidding them all be silent, for they knew not what they were meddling

with.

The misery rose to its climax when the Injunctions arrived; and the

chapter sat far into the morning, meeting again after dinner to consider

them.

These were directions, issued to the clergy throughout the country, by

the authority of the King alone; and this very fact was significant of

what the Royal Supremacy meant. Some of them did not touch the

Religious, and were intended only for parish-priests; but others were

bitterly hard to receive.

The community was informed that in future, once in every quarter, a

sermon was to be preached against the Bishop of Rome’s usurped power;

the Ten Articles, previously issued, were to be brought before the

notice of the congregation; and careful instructions were to be given as

regards superstition in the matter of praying to the saints. It was the

first of these that caused the most strife.

Dom Anthony, who was becoming more and more the leader of the

conservative party, pointed out that the See of Peter was to every

Catholic the root of authority and unity, and that Christianity itself

was imperilled if this rock were touched.

The Prior angrily retorted that it was not the Holy See that was to be

assaulted, but the erection falsely raised upon it; it was the abuse of

power, not the use of it that had to be denounced.

Dom Anthony requested the Prior to inform him where the line of

distinction lay; and the Prior in answer burst into angry explanations,

instancing the pecuniary demands of the Pope, the appointment of

foreigners to English benefices, and all the rest of the accusations

that were playing such a part now in the religious controversy of the

country.

Dom Anthony replied that those were not the matters principally aimed at

by the Injunction; it concerned rather the whole constitution of

Christ’s Church, and was a question of the Pope’s or the King’s

supremacy over that part of it that lay in England.

Finally the debate was ended by the Prior’s declaration that he could

trust no one to preach the enjoined sermon but himself, and that he

would see to it on his own responsibility.

It was scarcely an inspiring atmosphere for one who was preparing to

take on him the burden of priesthood in the Catholic Church.

CHAPTER II

SACERDOS IN AETERNUM

It was a day of wonderful autumn peace when Chris first sang mass in the

presence of the Community.

The previous day he had received priesthood from the hands of the little

old French bishop in the priory church; one by one strange mystical

ceremonies had been performed; the stole had been shifted and crossed on

the breast, the token of Christ’s yoke; the chasuble had been placed

over his head, looped behind; then the rolling cry to the Spirit of God

who alone seals to salvation and office had pealed round the high roof

and down the long nave that stretched away westwards in sunlit gloom;

while across the outstretched hands of the monk had been streaked the

sacred oil, giving him the power to bless the things of God. The hands

were bound up, as if to heal the indelible wound of love that had been

inflicted on them; and, before they were unbound, into the hampered

fingers were slid the sacred vessels of the altar, occupied now by the

elements of bread and wine; while the awful power to offer sacrifice for

the quick and the dead was committed to him in one tremendous phrase.

Then the mass went on; and the new priest, kneeling with Dom Anthony at

a little bench set at the foot of the altar steps, repeated aloud with

the bishop the words of the liturgy from the great painted missal lying

before him.

How strange it had been too when all was over! He stood by a pillar in

the nave, beneath St. Pancras’s image, while all came to receive his

blessing. First, the Prior, pale and sullen, as always now; then the

Community, some smiling and looking into his eyes before they knelt,

some perfunctory, some solemn and sedate with downcast faces; each

kissed the fragrant hands, and stood aside, while the laity came up; and

first among them his father and Mary.

His place too in the refectory had a flower or two laid beside it; and

the day had gone by in a bewildering dream. He had walked with his

father and sister a little, and had found himself smiling and silent in

their company.

In the evening he had once more gone through the ceremonies of mass, Dom

Anthony stood by, and watched and reminded and criticised. And now the

morning was come, and he stood at the altar.

* * * * *

The little wind had dropped last night, and the hills round Lewes stood

in mellow sunlight; the atmosphere was full of light and warmth, that

tender glow that falls on autumn days; the trees in the court outside

stood, poised on the brink of sleep, with a yellow pallor tinging their

leaves; the thousand pigeons exulted and wheeled in the intoxicating

air.

The shadowy church was alight with sunshine that streamed through the

clerestory windows on to the heavy pillars, the unevenly paved floor,

and crept down the recumbent figures of noble and bishop from head to

foot. There were a few people present beyond the screen, Sir James and

his daughter in front, watching with a tender reverence the harvesting

of the new priest, as he prepared to gather under his hands the mystical

wheat and grapes of God.

Chris was perfectly practised in his ceremonies; and there was no

anxiety to dissipate the overpowering awe that lay on his soul. He felt

at once natural and unreal; it was supremely natural that he should be

here; he could not conceive being other than a priest; there was in him

a sense of a relaxed rather than an intensified strain; and yet the

whole matter was strange and intangible, as he felt the supernatural

forces gathering round, and surging through his soul.

He was aware of a dusky sunlit space about him, of the glimmer of the

high candles; and nearer of the white cloth, the shining vessels, the

gorgeous missal, and the rustle of the ministers’ vestments. But the

whole was shot with an inner life, each detail was significant and

sacramental; and he wondered sometimes at the inaudible vibration that

stirred the silent air round him, as he spoke the familiar words to

which he had listened so often.

He kept his eyes resolutely down as he turned from time to time,

spreading his hands to the people, and was only partly conscious of the

faces watching him from the dark stalls in front and the sunlit nave

beyond. Even the sacred ministers, Dom Anthony and another, seemed to be

little more than crimson impersonal figures that moved and went about

their stately business with deft and gracious hands.

As he began to penetrate more nearly to the heart of the mystery, and

the angels’ song before the throne rolled up from the choir, there was

an experience of a yet further retirement from the things of sense. Even

the glittering halpas, and the gleams of light above it where the five

chapels branched behind--even these things became shrouded; there was

just a sheet of white beneath him, the glow of a chalice, and the pale

disc of the sacrificial bread.

Then, as he paused, with hands together--“_famulorum famularumque

tuarum_”--there opened out the world where his spirit was bending its

intention. Figure after figure came up and passed before his closed

eyes, and on each he turned the beam of God’s grace. First Ralph,

sneering and aloof in his rich dress, intent on some Satanic

business;--Chris seized as it were the power of God, and enveloped and

penetrated him with it. Then Margaret, waiting terrified on the divine

will; his mother in her complacent bitterness; Mary; his father--and as

he thought of him it seemed as if all God’s blessings were not too

great; Nicholas; his own brethren in religion, his Prior, contracted and

paralysed with terror; Dom Anthony, with his pathetic geniality....

Ah! how short was the time; and yet so long that the Prior looked up

sharply, and the deacon shifted in his rustling silk.

Then again the hands opened, and the stately flood of petition poured

on, as through open gates to the boundless sea that awaited it, where

the very heart of God was to absorb it into Itself.

The great names began to flit past, like palaces on a river-brink, their

bases washed by the pouring liturgy--Peter and Paul, Simon and Thaddeus,

Cosmas and Damian--vast pleasure houses alight with God, while near at

hand now gleamed the line of the infinite ocean.

The hands came together, arched in blessing; and it marked the first

sting of the healing water, as the Divine Essence pushed forward to meet

man’s need.

“_Hanc igitur oblationem ..._”

Then followed the swift silent signs, as if the pilot were ordering

sails out to meet the breeze.

The muttering voice sank to a deliberate whisper, the ripples ceased to

leap as the river widened, and Chris was delicately fingering the white

linen before taking the Host into his hands.

There was a swift glance up, as to the great Sun that burned overhead,

one more noiseless sign, and he sank forward in unutterable awe, with

his arms on the altar, and the white disc, hovering on the brink of

non-existence, beneath his eyes.

* * * * *

The faintest whisper rose from behind as the people shifted their

constrained attitudes. Sir James glanced up, his eyes full of tears, at

the distant crimson figure beneath the steady row of lights, motionless

with outspread hands, poised over the bosom of God’s Love.

The first murmured words broke the silence; as if next to the Infinite

Pity rose up the infinite need of man--_Nobis quoque peccatoribus_--and

sank to silence again.

Then loud and clear rang out _Per omnia saecula saeculorum;_ and the

choir of monks sang _Amen_.

So the great mystery moved on, but upborne now by the very Presence

itself that sustained all things. From the limitless sea of mercy, the

children cried through the priest’s lips to their Father who was in

heaven, and entreated the Lamb of God who takes away sin to have mercy

on them and give them peace.

Then from far beyond the screen Mary could see how the priest leaning a

little forward towards That which he bore in his hands, looked on what

he bore in them; and she whispered softly with him the words that he was

speaking. _Ave in aeternum sanctissima caro Christi_ ...

Again she hid her face; and when she raised it once, all was over, and

the Lord had entered and sanctified the body and soul of the man at

whose words He had entered the creature of bread.

The father and daughter stood together silently in the sunshine outside

the west end of the church, waiting for Chris. He had promised to come

to them there for a moment when his thanksgiving was done.

Beyond the wall, and the guest-house where the Visitors had lived those

two disastrous days, rose up the far sunlit downs, shadowed here and

there with cup-like hollows, standing like the walls about Jerusalem.

As they turned, on the right above the red roofs of the town, rose the

downs again, vast slopes and shoulders, over which Chris had ridden so

short a while ago bearded and brown with hunting. It was over there that

Ralph had come, through that dip, which seemed against the skyline a

breach in a high wall.

Ah! surely God would spare this place; so stately and quiet, so

graciously sheltered by the defences that He Himself had raised! If all

England tottered and fell, this at least might stand, this vast home of

prayer that stirred day and night with the praises of the Eternal and

the petitions of the mortal--this glorious house where a priest so dear

to them had brought forth from his mystical paternity the very Son of

God!

The door opened behind them, and Chris came out pale and smiling with a

little anxious-eyed monk beside him. His eyes lightened as he saw them

standing there; but he turned again for a moment.

“Yes--father,” he said. “What was it?”

“You stayed too long,” said the other, “at the _famularumque tuarum_;

the rubric says _nullus nimis immoretur_, you know;--_nimis immoretur_.”

“Yes,” said Chris.

CHAPTER III

THE NORTHERN RISING

A few of the smaller Religious houses had surrendered themselves to the

King before the passing of the bill in the early spring; and the rest of

them were gradually yielded up after its enactment during the summer of

the same year; and among them was Rusper. Chris heard that his sister

Margaret had returned to Overfield, and would stay there for the

present.

Throughout the whole of England there were the same scenes to be

witnessed. A troop of men, headed by a Commissioner, would ride up one

evening to some village where a little convent stood, demand entrance at

the gate, pass through, and disappear from the eyes of the watching

crowd. Then the next day the work would begin; the lead would be

stripped from the church and buildings; the treasures corded in bundles;

the woodwork of the interior put up to auction on the village green; and

a few days later the troop would disappear again, heavily laden, leaving

behind roofless walls, and bewildered Religious in their new secular

dress with a few shillings in their pockets, staring after the rich

cavalcade and wondering what was best to do.

It had been hoped that the King would stay his hand at the death of

Anne, and even yet return to the obedience of the Holy See. The Pope was

encouraged to think so by the authorities on the continent, and in

England itself there prevailed even confidence that a return to the old

ways would be effected. But Henry had gone too far; he had drunk too

deeply of the wealth that lay waiting for him in the treasuries of the

Religious houses, and after a pause of expectation he set his hand to

the cup again. It was but natural too, and for more noble motives, to

such a character as his. As he had aimed in his youth at nothing less

than supremacy in tennis, hunting and tourney, and later in

architecture, music and theological reputation; as, for the same reason

Wolsey had fallen, when the King looked away from girls and sports to

the fiercer game of politics; so now it was intolerable to Henry that

there should be even the shadow of a spiritual independence within his

domain.

A glow of resentful disappointment swept through the North of England at

the news. It burst out into flame in Lincolnshire, and was not finally

quenched until the early summer of the following year.

* * * * *

The news that reached Lewes from time to time during the winter and

spring sent the hearts of all that heard it through the whole gamut of

emotions. At one time fierce hope, then despair, then rising confidence,

then again blank hopelessness--each in turn tore the souls of the monks;

and misery reached its climax in the summer at the news of the execution

at Tyburn of the Abbots of Jervaulx and Fountains, with other monks and

gentlemen.

The final recital of the whole tragedy was delivered to them at the

mouth of a Religious from the Benedictine cell at Middlesborough who had

been released by the Visitors at his own request, but who had afterwards

repented and joined the rising soon after the outset; he had been

through most of the incidents, and then when failure was assured had

fled south in terror for his life, and was now on his way to the

Continent to take up his monastic vocation once more.

The Prior was away on one of the journeys that he so frequently

undertook at this time, no man knew whither, or the ex-monk and rebel

would have been refused admittance; but the sub-Prior was persuaded to

take him in for a night, and he sat long in one of the parlours that

evening telling his story.

Chris leaned against the wall and watched him as he talked with the

candle-light on his face. He was a stout middle-aged man in layman’s

dress, for he was not yet out of peril; he sat forward in his chair,

making preacher’s gestures as he spoke, and using well-chosen vivid

words.

“They were gathered already when I joined them on their way to York;

there were nearly ten thousand of them on the road, with Aske at their

head. I have never set eyes on such a company! There was a troop of

gentlemen and their sons riding with Aske in front, all in armour; and

then the rabble behind with gentlemen again to their officers. The

common folk had pikes and hooks only; and some were in leather harness,

and some without; but they marched well and kept good order. They were

of all sorts: hairy men and boys; and miners from the North. There were

monks, too, and friars, I know not how many, that went with the army to

encourage them; and everywhere we went the women ran out of their homes

with food and drink, and prayed God to bless us; and the bells were rung

in the village churches. We slept as we could, some in houses, some in

churchyards and by the wayside, and as many of us as could get into the

churches heard mass each day. As many too as could make them, wore the

Five Wounds on a piece of stuff sewn on the arm. You would have said

that none could stand against us, so eager we were and full of faith.”

“There was a song, was there not?” began one of the monks.

“Yes, father. We sang it as we went.

“Christ crucified!

For thy wounds wide

Us commons guide

Which pilgrims be!

Through God his grace

For to purchase

Old wealth and peace

Of the spiritualty!

“You could hear it up and down the lines, sung with weeping and

shouting.”

He described how they came to York, and how the Mayor was forced to

admit them. They stayed there a couple of days; and Aske published his

directions for all the ejected Religious to return to their houses.

“I went to a little cell near by--I forget its name--to help some canons

to settle in again, whose friendship I had made. I had told them then

that my mind was to enter Religion once more, and they took me very

willingly. We got there at night. The roof was gone from the dormitory,

but we slept there for all that--such of us as could sleep--for I heard

one of them sobbing for joy as he lay there in his old corner under the

stars; and we sang mass in the morning, as well as we could. The priest

had an old tattered vestment that hardly hung on his shoulders; and

there was no cross but one that came from a pair of beads, and that we

hung over the altar. When I left them again, they were at their office

as before, and busy roofing the house with old timbers; for my lord

Cromwell had all the lead. And all their garden was trampled; but they

said they would do very well. The village-folk were their good friends,

and would bring them what they needed.”

He described his journey to Doncaster; the furious excitement of the

villages he passed through, and the news that reached him hour after

hour as to the growing vastness of Aske’s forces.

“There were thirty thousand, I heard, on the banks of the Don on one

side; for my lords Nevill and Lumley and others had ridden in with St.

Cuthbert his banner and arms, and five thousand men, besides those that

came in from all the country. And on the further side was my Lord

Shrewsbury for the King, with the Duke and his men. Master Aske had all

he could do to keep his men back from being at them. Some of the young

sparks were as terriers at a rat-hole. There was a parley held on the

bridge, for Norfolk knew well that he must gain time; and Aske sent his

demands to his Grace, and that was the mistake--”

The man beat one hand into the other and looked round with a kindling

force--

“That was the mistake! He was too loyal for such work, and did not guess

at their craft. Well, while we waited there, our men began to make off;

their farms were wanting them, and their wives and the rest, and we

melted. Master Aske had to be everywhere at once, it was no fault of

his. My Lord Derby was marching up upon the houses again, and seeking to

drive the monks out once more. But there was not an act of violence done

by our men; not a penny-piece taken or a house burned. They were

peaceable folk, and asked no more than that their old religion should be

given back to them, and that they might worship God as they had always

done.”

He went on to explain how the time had been wasted in those fruitless

negotiations, and how the force dwindled day by day. Various answers

were attempted by the King, containing both threats and promises, and in

these, as in all else the hand of Cromwell was evident. Finally, towards

the end of November, the insurgents gathered again for another meeting

with the King’s representatives at Doncaster, summoned by beacons on the

top of the high Yorkshire moors, and by the reversed pealing of the

church bells.

“We had a parley among ourselves at Pomfret first, and had a great

to-do, though I saw little of it; and drew up our demands; and then set

out for Doncaster again. The duke was there, with the King’s pardon in

his hand, in the Whitefriars; and a promise that all should be as we

asked. So we went back to Pomfret, well-pleased, and the next day on St.

Thomas’ hill the herald read the pardon to us all; and we, poor fools,

thought that his Grace meant to keep his word--”

The monk looked bitterly round, sneering with his white strong teeth set

together like a savage dog’s; and there was silence for a moment. The

Sub-Prior looked nervously round the faces of his subjects, for this was

treasonable talk to hear.

Then the man went on. He himself it seemed had retired again to the

little cell where he had seen the canons settled in a few weeks

previously; and heard nothing of what was going forward; except that the

heralds were going about the country, publishing the King’s pardon to

all who had taken part in the Rebellion, and affixing it to the

market-cross in each town and village, with touching messages from the

King relating to the grief which he had felt on hearing that his dear

children believed such tales about him.

Little by little, however, the discontent began to smoulder once more,

for the King’s pledges of restoration were not fulfilled; and Cromwell,

who was now recognised to be the inspirer of all the evil done against

Religion, remained as high as ever in the royal favour. Aske, who had

been to the King in person, and given him an account of all that had

taken place, now wrote to him that there was a danger of a further

rising if the delay continued, for there were no signs yet of the

promised free parliament being called at York.

Then again disturbances had broken out.

“I was at Hull,” said the monk, “with Sir Francis Bygod in January; but

we did nothing, and only lost our leader, and all the while Norfolk was

creeping up with his army. It was piteous to think what might not have

been done if we had not trusted his Grace; but ’twas no good, and I was

back again in the dales here and there, hiding for my life by April.

Everywhere ’twas the same; the monks were haled out again from their

houses, and men were hanged by the score. I cut down four myself near

Meux, and gave them Christian burial at night. One was a monk, and

hanged in his habit. But the worst of all was at York.”

The man’s face twitched with emotion, and he passed his hand over his

mouth once or twice before continuing.

“I did not dare to go into the court for fear I should be known; but I

stood outside in the crowd and watched them go in. There was a fellow

riding with Norfolk--a false knave of a man whom we had all learnt to

hate at Doncaster--for he was always jeering at us secretly and making

mischief when he could. I saw him with the duke before, when we went

into the Whitefriars for the pardon; and he stood there behind with the

look of a devil on his face; and now here he was again--”

“His name, sir?” put in Dom Adrian.

“Torridon, father, Torridon! He was a--”

There was a sharp movement in the room, so that the monk stopped and

looked round him amazed. Chris felt the blood ebb from his heart and din

in his ears, and he swayed a little as he leaned against the wall. He

saw Dom Anthony lean forward and whisper to the stranger; and through

the haze that was before his eyes saw the other look at him sharply,

with a fallen jaw.

Then the monk rose and made a little stiff inclination to Chris,

deferential and courteous, but with a kind of determined dignity in it

too.

When Chris had recovered himself, the monk was deep in his story, but

Ralph had fallen out of it.

“You would not believe it,” he was saying, “but on the very jury that

was to try Master Aske and Constable, there were empanelled their own

blood-relations; and that by the express intention of Norfolk. John Aske

was one of them, and some others who had to wives the sons of my Lord

Darcy and Sir Robert Constable. You see how it would be. If the

prisoners were found guilty, men would say that it must be so, for that

their own kin had condemned them; and if they were to be acquitted, then

these men themselves would be cast.”

There again broke out a murmur from the listening faces, as the man

paused.

“Well, they were cast, as you know, for not taking the King to be the

supreme head of the Church, and for endeavouring to force the King to

hold a parliament that he willed not. And I was at York again when

Master Aske was brought back from London to be hanged, and I saw it!”

Again an uncontrollable emotion shook him; and he propped his face on

his hand as he ended his tale.

“There were many of his friends there in the crowd, and scarcely one

dared to cry out, God save you, sir.... I dared not....”

He gave one rending sob, and Chris felt his eyes prick with tears at the

sight of so much sorrow. It was piteous to see a brave man thinking

himself a coward.

Dom Anthony leaned forward.

“Thank you, father,” he said, though his voice was a little husky, “and

thank God that he died well. You have touched all our hearts.”

“I was a hound,” sobbed the man, “a hound, that I did not cry out to him

and tell him that I loved him.”

“No, no, father,” said the other tenderly, “you must not think so. You

must serve God well now, and pray for his soul.”

The bell sounded out for Compline as he spoke, and the monks rose.

“You will come into choir, father,” said the Sub-Prior.

The man nodded, stood up, and followed him out.

Chris was in a strange ferment as he stood in his stall that night. It

had been sad enough to hear of that gallant attempt to win back the old

liberties and the old Faith--that attempt that had been a success except

for the insurgents’ trust in their King--and of the death of the

leaders.

But across the misery had pierced a more poignant grief, as he had

learnt how Ralph’s hand was in this too and had taken once more the

wrong side in God’s quarrel. But still he had no resentment; the

conflict had passed out of the personal plane into an higher, and he

thought of his brother as God’s enemy rather than his own. Would his

prayers then never prevail--the prayers that he speeded up in the smoke

of the great Sacrifice morning by morning for that zealous mistaken

soul? Or was it perhaps that that brother of his must go deeper yet,

before coming out to knowledge and pardon?

CHAPTER IV

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE SEAL

The autumn drew in swiftly. The wet south-west wind blew over the downs

that lay between Lewes and the sea, and beat down the loose browning

leaves of the trees about the Priory. The grass in the cloister-garth

grew rank and dark with the constant rain that drove and dropped over

the high roofs.

And meanwhile the tidings grew heavier still.

After Michaelmas the King set to work in earnest. He had been checked by

the northern risings, and still paused to see whether the embers had

been wholly quenched; and then when it was evident that the North was as

submissive as the South, began again his business of gathering in the

wealth that was waiting.

He started first in the North, under show of inflicting punishment for

the encouragement that the Religious had given to the late rebellions;

and one by one the great abbeys were tottering. Furness and Sawley had

already fallen, with Jervaulx and the other houses, and Holme Cultram

was placed under the care of a superior who could be trusted to hand

over his charge when called upon.

But up to the present not many great houses had actually fallen, except

those which were supposed to have taken a share in the revolt; and owing

to the pains taken by the Visitors to contradict the report that the

King intended to lay his hands on the whole monastic property of

England, it was even hoped by a few sanguine souls that the large

houses might yet survive.

There were hot discussions in the chapter at Lewes from time to time

during the year. The “Bishops’ Book,” issued by a committee of divines

and approved by the King, and containing a digest of the new Faith that

was being promulgated, arrived during the summer and was fiercely

debated; but so high ran the feeling that the Prior dropped the matter,

and the book was put away with other papers of the kind on an honourable

but little-used shelf.

The acrimony in domestic affairs began to reach its climax in October,

when the prospects of the Priory’s own policy came up for discussion.

Some maintained that they were safe, and that quietness and confidence

were their best security, and these had the support of the Prior; others

declared that the best hope lay in selling the possessions of the house

at a low price to some trustworthy man who would undertake to sell them

back again at only a small profit to himself when the storm was passed.

The Prior rose in wrath when this suggestion was made.

“Would you have me betray my King?” he cried. “I tell you I will have

none of it. It is not worthy of a monk to have such thoughts.”

And he sat down and would hear no more, nor speak.

There were whispered conferences after that among the others, as to what

his words meant. Surely there was nothing dishonourable in the device;

they only sought to save what was their own! And how would the King be

“betrayed” by such an action?

They had an answer a fortnight later; and it took them wholly by

surprise.

During the second week in November the Prior had held himself more

aloof than ever; only three or four of the monks, with the Sub-Prior

among them, were admitted to his cell, and they were there at all hours.

Two or three strangers too arrived on horseback, and were entertained by

the Prior in a private parlour. And then on the morning of the

fourteenth the explanation came.

When the usual business of the chapter was done, the faults confessed

and penances given, and one or two small matters settled, the Prior,

instead of rising to give the signal to go, remained in his chair, his

head bent on to his hand.

It was a dark morning, heavy and lowering; and from where Chris sat at

the lower end of the great chamber he could scarcely make out the

features of those who sat under the high window at the east; but as soon

as the Prior lifted his face and spoke, he knew by that tense strain of

the voice that something impended.

“There is another matter,” said the Prior; and paused again.

For a moment there was complete silence. The Sub-Prior leant a little

forward and was on the point of speaking, when his superior lifted his

head again and straightened himself in his chair.

“It is this,” he said, and his voice rang hard and defiant, “it is this.

It is useless to think we can save ourselves. We are under suspicion,

and worse than suspicion. I have hoped, and prayed, and striven to know

God’s will; and I have talked with my Lord Cromwell not once or twice,

but often. And it is useless to resist any further.”

His voice cracked with misery; but Chris saw him grip the bosses of his

chair-arms in an effort for self-control. His own heart began to sicken;

this was not frightened raving such as he had listened to before; it was

the speech of one who had been driven into decision, as a rat into a

corner.

“I have talked with the Sub-Prior, and others; and they think with me in

this. I have kept it back from the rest, that they might serve God in

peace so long as was possible. But now I must tell you all, my sons,

that we must leave this place.”

There was a hush of terrible tension. The monks had known that they were

threatened; they could not think otherwise with the news that came from

all parts, but they had not known that catastrophe was so imminent. An

old monk opposite Chris began to moan and mutter; but the Prior went on

immediately.

“At least I think that we must leave. It may be otherwise, if God has

pity on us; I do not know; but we must be ready to leave, if it be His

will, and,--and to say so.”

He was speaking in abrupt sentences, with pauses between, in which he

appeared to summon his resolution to speak again, and force out his

tale. There was plainly more behind too; and his ill-ease seemed to

deepen on him.

“I wish no one to speak now,” he said. “Instead of the Lady-mass

to-morrow we shall sing mass of the Holy Ghost, and afterwards I shall

have more to say to you again. I do not desire any to hold speech with

any other, but to look into their own hearts and seek counsel of God

there.”

He still sat a moment silent, then rose and gave the signal.

* * * * *

It was a strange day for Chris. He did not know what to think, but he

was certain that they had not yet been told all. The Prior’s silences

had been as pregnant as his words. There was something very close now

that would be revealed immediately, and meanwhile he must think out how

to meet it.

The atmosphere seemed charged all day; the very buildings wore a strange

air, unfamiliar and menacing. The intimate bond between his soul and

them, knit by associations of prayer and effort, appeared unreal and

flimsy. He was tormented by doubtfulness; he could not understand on the

one side how it was possible to yield to the King, on the other how it

was possible to resist. No final decision could be made by him until he

had heard the minds of his fellows; and fortunately they would all speak

before him. He busied himself then with disentangling the strands of

motive, desire, fear and hope, and waited for the shaking loose of the

knot until he knew more.

Mass of the Holy Ghost was sung next morning by the Prior himself in red

vestments; and Chris waited with expectant awe, remembering how the

Carthusians under like circumstances had been visited by God; but the

Host was uplifted and the bell rang; and there was nothing but the

candle-lit gloom of the choir about the altar, and the sigh of the wind

in the chapels behind.

Then in the chapter-meeting the Prior told them all.

* * * * *

He reminded them how they had prayed that morning for guidance, and that

they must be fearless now in following it out. It was easy to be

reckless and call it faith, but prudence and reasonable common-sense

were attributes of the Christian no less than trust in God. They had not

to consider now what they would wish for themselves, but what God

intended for them so far as they could read it in the signs of the

times.

“For myself,” he cried,--and Chris almost thought him sincere as he

spoke, so kindled was his face--“for myself I should ask no more than

to live and die in this place, as I had hoped. Every stone here is as

dear to me as to you, and I think more dear, for I have been in a

special sense the lord of it all; but I dare not think of that. We must

be ready to leave all willingly if God wills. We thought that we had

yielded all to follow Christ when we first set our necks here under His

sweet yoke; but I think He asks of us even more now; and that we should

go out from here even as we went out from our homes ten or twenty years

ago. We shall be no further from our God outside this place; and we may

be even nearer if we go out according to His will.”

He seemed on fire with zeal and truth. His timid peevish air was gone,

and his delicate scholarly face was flushed as he spoke. Chris was

astonished, and more perplexed than ever. Was it then possible that

God’s will might lie in the direction he feared?

“Now this is the matter which we have to consider,” went on the Prior

more quietly. “His Grace has sent to ask, through a private messenger

from my Lord Cromwell, whether we will yield up the priory. There is no

compulsion in the matter--” he paused significantly--“and his Grace

desires each to act according to his judgment and conscience, of--of his

own free will.”

There was a dead silence.

The news was almost expected by now. Through the months of anxiety each

monk had faced the probability of such tidings coming to him sooner or

later; and the last few days had brought expectation to its climax. Yet

it was hard to see the enemy face to face, and to know that there was no

possibility of resisting him finally.

The Sub-Prior rose to his feet and began to speak, glancing as if for

corroboration to his superior from time to time. His mouth worked a

little at the close of each sentence.

“My Lord Prior has shown us his own mind, and I am with him in the

matter. His Grace treats us like his own children; he wishes us to be

loving and obedient. But, as a father too, he has authority behind to

compel us to his will if we will not submit. And, as my Lord Prior said

yesterday, we do not know whether or no his Grace will not permit us to

remain here after all, if we are docile; or perhaps refound the priory

out of his own bounty. There is talk of the Chertsey monks going to the

London Charterhouse from Bisham where the King set them last year. But

we may be sure he will not do so with us if we resist his will now. I on

my part then am in favour of yielding up the house willingly, and

trusting ourselves to his Grace’s clemency.”

There was again silence as he sat down; and a pause of a minute or two

before Dom Anthony rose. His ruddy face was troubled and perplexed; but

he spoke resolutely enough.

He said that he could not understand why the matter had not been laid

before them earlier, that they might have had time to consider it. The

question was an extremely difficult one to the consciences of some of

them. On the one hand there was the peril of acquiescing in

sacrilege--the Prior twisted in his seat as he heard this--and on the

other of wilfully and petulantly throwing away their only opportunity of

saving their priory. He asked for time.

Several more made speeches, some in favour of the proposal, and some

asking, as Dom Anthony had done, for further time for consideration.

They had no precedents, they said, on which to decide such a question,

for they understood that it was not on account of treason that they

were required to surrender the house and property.

The Prior rose with a white face.

“No, no,” he cried. “God forbid! That is over and done with. I--we have

made our peace with my Lord Cromwell in that affair.”

“Then why,” asked Dom Anthony, “are we required to yield it?”

The Prior glanced helplessly at him.

“I--it is as a sign that the King is temporal lord of the land.”

“We do not deny that,” said the other.

“Some do,” said the Prior feebly.

There was a little more discussion. Dom Anthony remarked that it was not

a matter of temporal but spiritual headship that was in question. To

meddle with the Religious Orders was to meddle with the Vicar of Christ

under whose special protection they were; and it seemed to him at least

a probable opinion, so far as he had had time to consider it, that to

yield, even in the hopes of saving their property ultimately, was to

acquiesce in the repudiation of the authority of Rome.

And so it went on for an hour; and then as it grew late, the Prior rose

once more, and asked if any one had a word to say who had not yet

spoken.

Chris had intended to speak, but all that he wished to ask had already

been stated by others; and he sat now silent, staring up at the Prior,

and down at the smooth boarded floor at his feet. He had not an idea

what to do. He was no theologian.

Then the Prior unmasked his last gun.

“As regards the matter of time for consideration, that is now passed. In

spite of what some have said we have had sufficient warning. All here

must have known that the choice would be laid before them, for months

past; it is now an answer that is required of us.”

He paused a moment longer. His lips began to tremble, but he made a

strong effort and finished.

“Master Petre will be here to-night, as my lord Cromwell’s

representative, and will sit in the chapter-house to-morrow to receive

the surrender.”

Dom Anthony started to his feet. The Prior made a violent gesture for

silence, and then gave the signal to break up.

* * * * *

Again the bewildering day went past. The very discipline of the house

was a weakness in the defence of the surprised party. It was impossible

for them to meet and discuss the situation as they wished; and even the

small times of leisure seemed unusually occupied. Dom Anthony was busy

at the guest-house; one of the others who had spoken against the

proposal was sent off on a message by the Prior, and another was ordered

to assist the sacristan to clean the treasures in view of the Visitor’s

coming.

Chris was not able to ask a word of advice from any of those whom he

thought to be in sympathy with him.

He sat all day over his antiphonary, in the little carrel off the

cloister, and as he worked his mind toiled like a mill.

He had progressed a long way with the work now, and was engaged on the

pages that contained the antiphons for Lent. The design was soberer

here; the angels that had rested among the green branches and early

roses of Septuagesima, thrusting here a trumpet and there a harp among

the leaves, had taken flight, and grave menacing creatures were in their

place. A jackal looked from behind the leafless trunk, a lion lifted

his toothed mouth to roar from a thicket of thorns, as they had lurked

and bellowed in the bleak wilderness above the Jordan fifteen hundred

years ago. They were gravely significant now, he thought; and scarcely

knowing what he did he set narrow human eyes in the lion’s face (for he

knew no better) and broadened the hanging jaws with a delicate line or

two.

Then with a fierce impulse he crowned him, and surmounted the crown with

a cross.

And all the while his mind toiled at the problem. There were three

things open to him on the morrow. Either he might refuse to sign the

surrender, and take whatever consequences might follow; or he might sign

it; and there were two processes of thought by which he might take that

action. By the first he would simply make an act of faith in his

superiors, and do what they did because they did it; by the second he

would sign it of his own responsibility because he decided to think that

by doing so he would be taking the best action for securing his own

monastic life.

He considered these three. To refuse to sign almost inevitably involved

his ruin, and that not only, and not necessarily, in the worldly

sense; about that he sincerely believed he did not care; but it would

mean his exclusion from any concession that the King might afterwards

make. He certainly would not be allowed, under any circumstances,

to remain in the home of his profession; and if the community was

shifted he would not be allowed to go with them. As regards the second

alternative he wondered whether it was possible to shift responsibility

in that manner; as regards the third, he knew that he had very little

capability in any case of foreseeing the course that events would take.

Then he turned it all over again, and considered the arguments for

each course. His superiors were set over him by God; it was rash to

set himself against them except in matters of the plainest conscience.

Again it was cowardly to shelter himself behind this plea and so avoid

responsibility. Lastly, he was bound to judge for himself.

The arguments twisted and turned as bewilderingly as the twining

branches of his design; and behind each by which he might climb to

decision lurked a beast. He felt helpless and dazed by the storm of

conflicting motives.

As he bent over his work he prayed for light, but the question seemed

more tangled than before; the hours were creeping in; by to-morrow he

must decide.

Then the memory of the Prior’s advice to him once before came back to

his mind; this was the kind of thing, he told himself, that he must

leave to God, his own judgment was too coarse an instrument; he must

wait for a clear supernatural impulse; and as he thought of it he laid

his pencil down, dropped on to his knees, and commended it all to God,

to the Mother of God, St. Pancras, St. Peter and St. Paul. Even as he

did it, the burden lifted and he knew that he would know, when the time

came.

* * * * *

Dr. Petre came that night, but Chris saw no more of him than his back as

he went up the cloister with Dom Anthony to the Prior’s chamber. The

Prior was not at supper, and his seat was empty in the dim refectory.

Neither was he at Compline; and it was with the knowledge that

Cromwell’s man and their own Superior were together in conference, that

the monks went up the dormitory stairs that night.

But he was in his place at the chapter-mass next morning, though he

spoke to no one, and disappeared immediately afterwards.

Then at the appointed time the monks assembled in the chapter-house.

* * * * *

As Chris came in he lifted his eyes, and saw that the room was arrayed

much as it had been at the visit of Dr. Layton and Ralph. A great table,

heaped with books and papers, stood at the upper end immediately below

the dais, and a couple of secretaries were there, sharp-looking men,

seated at either end and busy with documents.

The Prior was in his place in the shadow and was leaning over and

talking to a man who sat beside him. Chris could make out little of the

latter except that he seemed to be a sort of lawyer or clerk, and was

dressed in a dark gown and cap. He was turning over the leaves of a book

as the Prior talked, and nodded his head assentingly from time to time.

When all the monks were seated, there was still a pause. It was

strangely unlike the scene of a tragedy, there in that dark grave room

with the quiet faces downcast round the walls, and the hands hidden in

the cowl-sleeves. And even on the deeper plane it all seemed very

correct and legal. There was the representative of the King, a capable

learned man, with all the indications of law and order round him, and

his two secretaries to endorse or check his actions. There too was the

Community, gathered to do business in the manner prescribed by the Rule,

with the deeds of foundation before their eyes, and the great brass

convent seal on the table. There was not a hint of bullying or

compulsion; these monks were asked merely to sign a paper if they so

desired it. Each was to act for himself; there was to be no over-riding

of individual privileges, or signing away another’s conscience.

Nothing could have been arranged more peaceably.

And yet to every man’s mind that was present the sedate room was black

with horror. The majesty and terror of the King’s will brooded in the

air; nameless dangers looked in at the high windows and into every man’s

face; the quiet lawyer-like men were ministers of fearful vengeance; the

very pens, ink and paper that lay there so innocently were sacraments of

death or life.

The Prior ceased his whispering presently, glanced round to see if all

were in their places, and then stood up.

His voice was perfectly natural as he told them that this was Dr. Petre,

come down from Lord Cromwell to offer them an opportunity of showing

their trust and love towards their King by surrendering to his

discretion the buildings and property that they held. No man was to be

compelled to sign; it must be perfectly voluntary on their part; his

Grace wished to force no conscience to do that which it repudiated. For

his own part, he said, he was going to sign with a glad heart. The King

had shown his clemency in a hundred ways, and to that clemency he

trusted.

Then he sat down; and Chris marvelled at his self-control.

Dr. Petre stood up, and looked round for a moment before opening his

mouth; then he put his two hands on the table before him, dropped his

eyes and began his speech.

He endorsed first what the Prior had said, and congratulated all there

on possessing such a superior. It was a great happiness, he said, to

deal with men who showed themselves so reasonable and so loyal. Some he

had had to do with had not been so--and--and of course their

stubbornness had brought its own penalty. But of that he did not wish

to speak. On the other hand those who had shown themselves true

subjects of his Grace had already found their reward. He had great

pleasure in announcing to them that what the Prior had said to them a

day or two before was true; and that their brethren in religion of

Chertsey Abbey, who had been moved to Bisham last year, were to go to

the London Charterhouse in less than a month. The papers were made out;

he had assisted in their drawing up.

He spoke in a quiet restrained voice, and with an appearance of great

deference; there was not the shadow of a bluster even when he referred

to the penalties of stubbornness; it was very unlike the hot bullying

arrogance of Dr. Layton. Then he ended--

“And so, reverend fathers, the choice is in your hands. His Grace will

use no compulsion. You will hear presently that the terms of surrender

are explicit in that point. He will not force one man to sign who is not

convinced that he can best serve his King and himself by doing so. It

would go sorely against his heart if he thought that he had been the

means of making the lowest of his subjects to act contrary to the

conscience that God has given him. My Lord Prior, I will beg of you to

read the terms of surrender.”

The paper was read, and it was as it had been described. Again and again

it was repeated in various phrases that the property was yielded of

free-will. It was impossible to find in it even the hint of a threat.

The properties in question were enumerated in the minutest manner, and

the list included all the rights of the priory over the Cluniac cell of

Castleacre.

The Prior laid the paper down, and looked at Dr. Petre.

The Commissioner rose from his seat, taking the paper as he did so, and

so stood a moment.

“You see, reverend fathers, that it is as I told you. I understand that

you have already considered the matter, so that there is no more to be

said.”

He stepped down from the dais and passed round to the further side of

the table. One of the secretaries pushed an ink-horn and a couple of

quills across to him.

“My Lord Prior,” said Dr. Petre, with a slight bow. “If you are willing

to sign this, I will beg of you to do so; and after that to call up your

subjects.”

He laid the paper down. The Prior stepped briskly out of his seat, and

passed round the table.

Chris watched his back, the thin lawyer beside him indicating the place

for the name; and listened as in a dream to the scratching of the pen.

He himself still did not know what he would do. If all signed--?

The Prior stepped back, and Chris caught a glimpse of a white face that

smiled terribly.

The Sub-Prior stepped down at a sign from his Superior; and then one by

one the monks came out.

Chris’s heart sickened as he watched; and then stood still on a sudden

in desperate hope, for opposite to him Dom Anthony sat steady, his head

on his hand, and made no movement when it was his turn to come out.

Chris saw the Prior look at the monk, and a spasm of emotion went over

his face.

“Dom Anthony,” he said.

The monk lifted his face, and it was smiling too.

“I cannot sign, My Lord Prior.”

Then the veils fell, and decision flashed on Chris’ soul.

He heard the pulse drumming in his ears, and his wet hands slipped one

in the other as he gripped them together, but he made no sign till all

the others had gone up. Then he looked up at the Prior.

It seemed an eternity before the Prior looked at him and nodded; and he

could make no answering sign.

Then he heard his name called, and with a great effort he answered; his

voice seemed not his own in his ears. He repeated Dom Anthony’s words.

“I cannot sign, My Lord Prior.”

Then he sat back with closed eyes and waited.

He heard movements about him, steps, the crackle of parchment, and at

last Dr. Petre’s voice; but he scarcely understood what was said. There

was but one thought dinning in his brain, and that was that he had

refused, and thrown his defiance down before the King--that terrible man

whom he had seen in his barge on the river, with the narrow eyes, the

pursed mouth and the great jowl, as he sat by the woman he called his

wife--that woman who now--

Chris shivered, opened his eyes, and sense came back.

Dr. Petre was just ending his speech. He was congratulating the

Community on their reasonableness and loyalty. By an overwhelming

majority they had decided to trust the King, and they would not find his

grace unmindful of that. As for those who had not signed he could say

nothing but that they had used the liberty that his Grace had given

them. Whether they had used it rightly was no business of his.

Then he turned to the Prior.

“The seal then, My Lord Prior. I think that is the next matter.”

The Prior rose and lifted it from the table. Chris caught the gleam of

the brass and silver of the ponderous precious thing in his hand--the

symbol of their corporate existence--engraved, as he knew, with the four

patrons of the house, the cliff, the running water of the Ouse, and the

rhyming prayer to St. Pancras.

The Prior handed it to the Commissioner, who took it, and stood there a

moment weighing it in his hand.

“A hammer,” he said.

One of the secretaries rose, and drew from beneath the table a sheet of

metal and a sharp hammer; he handed both to Dr. Petre.

Chris watched, fascinated with something very like terror, his throat

contracted in a sudden spasm, as he saw the Commissioner place the metal

in the solid table before him, and then, holding the seal sideways, lift

the hammer in his right hand.

Then blow after blow began to echo in the rafters overhead.

CHAPTER V

THE SINKING SHIP

Dr. Petre had come and gone, and to all appearance the priory was as

before. He had not taken a jewel or a fragment of stuff; he had

congratulated the sacristan on the beauty and order of his treasures,

and had bidden him guard them carefully, for that there were knaves

abroad who professed themselves as authorised by the King to seize

monastic possessions, which they sold for their own profit. The offices

continued to be sung day and night, and the masses every morning; and

the poor were fed regularly at the gate.

But across the corporate life had passed a subtle change, analogous to

that which comes to the body of a man. Legal death had taken place

already; the unity of life and consciousness existed no more; the seal

was defaced; they could no longer sign a document except as individuals.

Now the _rigor mortis_ would set in little by little until somatic death

too had been consummated, and the units which had made up the organism

had ceased to bear any relation one to the other.

But until after Christmas there was no further development; and the

Feast was observed as usual, and with the full complement of monks. At

the midnight mass there was a larger congregation than for many months,

and the confessions and communions also slightly increased. It was a

symptom, as Chris very plainly perceived, of the manner in which the

shadow of the King reached even to the remotest details of the life of

the country. The priory was now, as it were, enveloped in the royal

protection, and the people responded accordingly.

There had come no hint from headquarters as to the ultimate fate of the

house; and some even began to hope that the half-promise of a

re-foundation would be fulfilled. Neither had any mark of disapproval

arrived as to the refusal to sign on the part of the two monks; but

although nothing further was said in conversation or at chapter, there

was a consciousness in the minds of both Dom Anthony and Chris that a

wall had arisen between them and the rest. Talk in the cloister was apt

to flag when either approached; and the Prior never spoke a word to them

beyond what was absolutely necessary.

Then, about the middle of January the last process began to be enacted.

* * * * *

One morning the Prior’s place in church was empty.

He was accustomed to disappear silently, and no astonishment was caused

on this occasion; but at Compline the same night the Sub-Prior too was

gone.

This was an unheard-of state of things, but all except the guest-master

and Chris seemed to take it as a matter of course; and no word was

spoken.

After the chapter on the next morning Dom Anthony made a sign to Chris

as he passed him in the cloister, and the two went out together into the

clear morning-sunshine of the outer court.

Dom Anthony glanced behind him to see that no one was following, and

then turned to the other.

“They are both gone,” he said, “and others are going. Dom Bernard is

getting his things together. I saw them under his bed last night.”

Chris stared at him, mute and terrified.

“What are we to do, Dom Anthony?”

“We can do nothing. We must stay. Remember that we are the only two who

have any rights here now, before God.”

There was silence a moment. Chris glanced at the other, and was

reassured by the steady look on his ruddy face.

“I will stay, Dom Anthony,” he said softly.

The other looked at him tenderly.

“God bless you, brother!” he said.

That night Dom Bernard and another were gone. And still the others made

no sign or comment; and it was not until yet another pair had gone that

Dom Anthony spoke plainly.

He was now the senior monk in the house; and it was his place to direct

the business of the chapter. When the formal proceedings were over he

stood up fearlessly.

“You cannot hide it longer,” he said. “I have known for some while what

was impending.” He glanced round at the empty stalls, and his face

flushed with sudden anger: “For God’s sake, get you gone, you who mean

to go; and let us who are steadfast serve our Lord in peace.”

Chris looked along the few faces that were left; but they were downcast

and sedate, and showed no sign of emotion.

Dom Anthony waited a moment longer, and then gave the signal to depart.

By a week later the two were left alone.

* * * * *

It was very strange to be there, in the vast house and church, and to

live the old life now stripped of three-fourths of its meaning; but they

did not allow one detail to suffer that it was possible to preserve. The

_opus Dei_ was punctually done, and God was served in psalmody. At the

proper hours the two priests met in the cloister, cowled and in their

choir-shoes, and walked through to the empty stalls; and there, one on

either side, each answered the other, bowed together at the _Gloria_,

confessed and absolved alternately. Two masses were said each day in the

huge lonely church, one at the high altar and the other at our Lady’s,

and each monk served the other. In the refectory one read from the

pulpit as the other sat at the table; and the usual forms were observed

with the minutest care. In the chapter each morning they met for mutual

confession and accusation; and in the times between the exercises and

meals each worked feverishly at the details that alone made the life

possible.

They were assisted in this by two paid servants, who were sent to them

by Chris’s father, for both the lay-brothers and the servants had gone

with the rest; and the treasurer had disappeared with the money.

Chris had written to Sir James the day that the last monk had gone,

telling him the state of affairs, and how the larder was almost empty;

and by the next evening the servants had arrived with money and

provisions; and a letter from Sir James written from a sick-bed, saying

that he was unable to come for the present, for he had taken the fever,

and that Morris would not leave him, but expressing a hope that he would

come soon in person, and that Morris should be sent in a few days. The

latter ended with passionate approval of his son’s action.

“God bless and reward you, dear lad!” he had written. “I cannot tell you

the joy that it is to my heart to know that you are faithful. It cannot

be for long; but whether it is for long and short, you shall have my

prayers and blessings; and please God, my poor presence too after a few

days. May our Lady and your holy patron intercede for you both who are

so worthy of their protection!”

* * * * *

At the end of the second week in March Mr. Morris arrived.

Chris was taking the air in the court shortly before sunset, after a

hard day’s work in church. The land was beginning to stir with the

resurrection-life of spring; and the hills set round the town had that

faint flush of indescribable colour that tinges slopes of grass as the

sleeping sap begins to stir. The elm-trees in the court were hazy with

growth as the buds fattened at the end of every twig, and a group of

daffodils here and there were beginning to burst their sheaths of gold.

There on the little lawn before the guest-house were half a dozen white

and lavender patches of colour that showed where the crocuses would star

the grass presently; and from the high west front of the immense church,

and from beneath the eaves of the offices to the right the birds were

practising the snatches of song that would break out with full melody a

month or two later.

In spite of all that threatened, Chris was in an ecstasy of happiness.

It rushed down on him, overwhelmed and enveloped him; for he knew now

that he had been faithful. The flood of praise in the church had

dwindled to a thread; but it was still the _opus Dei_, though it flowed

but from two hearts; and the pulse of the heavenly sacrifice still

throbbed morning by morning, and the Divine Presence still burned as

unceasingly as the lamp that beaconed it, in the church that was now all

but empty of its ministers. There were times when the joy that was in

his heart trembled into tears, as when last night he and his friend had

sung the song to Mary; and the contrast between the two poor voices,

and the roar of petition that had filled the great vaulting a year

before, had suddenly torn his heart in two.

But now the poignant sorrow had gone again; and as he walked here alone

on this March evening, with the steady hills about him and the flushing

sky overhead, and the sweet life quickening in the grass at his feet, an

extraordinary peace flooded his soul.

There came a knocking at the gate, and the jangle of a bell; and he went

across quickly and unbarred the door.

Mr. Morris was there on horseback, a couple of saddlebags strapped to

his beast; and a little group of loungers stood behind.

Chris smiled with delight, and threw the door wide.

The servant saluted him and then turned to the group behind.

“You have no authority,” he said, “as to my going in.”

Then he rode through; and Chris barred the gate behind him, glancing as

he did so at the curious faces that stared silently.

Mr. Morris said nothing till he had led his horse into the stable. Then

he explained.

“One of the fellows told me, sir, that this was the King’s house now;

and that I had no business here.”

Chris smiled again.

“I know we are watched,” he said, “the servants are questioned each time

they set foot outside.”

Mr. Morris pursed his lips.

“How long shall you be here, sir?” he asked.

“Until we are turned out,” said Chris.

* * * * *

It was true, as he had said, that the house was watched. Ever since the

last monk had left there had been a man or two at the gate, another

outside the church-door that opened towards the town; and another yet

again beyond the stream to the south of the priory-buildings. Dom

Anthony had told him what it meant. It was that the authorities had no

objection to the two monks keeping the place until it could be dealt

with, but were determined that nothing should pass out. It had not been

worthwhile to send in a caretaker, for all the valuables had been

removed either by the Visitors or by the Prior when he went at night.

There were only two sets of second-best altar vessels left, and a few

other comparatively worthless utensils for the use of the church and

kitchen. The great relics and the jewelled treasures had gone long

before. Chris had wondered a little at the house being disregarded for

so long; but the other monk had reminded him that such things as lead

and brass and bells were beyond the power of two men to move, and could

keep very well until other more pressing business had been despatched

elsewhere.

Mr. Morris gave him news of his father. It had not been the true fever

after all, and he would soon be here; in at any rate a week or two. As

regarded other news, there was no tidings of Mr. Ralph except that he

was very busy. Mistress Margaret was at home; no notice seemed to have

been taken of her when she had been turned out with the rest at the

dissolution of her convent.

It was very pleasant to see that familiar face about the cloister and

refectory; or now and again, when work was done, looking up from beyond

the screen as the monks came in by the sacristy door. Once or twice on

dark evenings when terror began to push through the rampart of the will

that Chris had raised up, it was reassuring too to know that Morris was

there, for he bore with him, as old servants do, an atmosphere of home

and security, and he carried himself as well with a wonderful

naturalness, as if the relief of beleaguered monks were as ordinary a

duty as the cleaning of plate.

March was half over now; and still no sign had come from the world

outside. There were no guests either to bring tidings, for the priory

was a marked place and it was well not to show or receive kindliness in

its regard.

Within, the tension of nerves grew acute. Chris was conscious of a

deepening exaltation, but it was backed by horror. He found himself now

smiling with an irrepressible internal joy, now twitching with

apprehension, starting at sudden noises, and terrified at loneliness.

Dom Anthony too grew graver still; and would take his arm sometimes and

walk with him, and tell him tales, and watch him with tender eyes. But

in him, as in the younger monk, the strain tightened every day.

* * * * *

They were singing Compline together one evening with tired, overstrained

voices, for they had determined not to relax any of the chant until it

was necessary. Mr. Morris was behind them at a chair set beyond the

screen; and there were no others present in church.

The choir was perfectly dark (for they knew the office by heart) except

for a glimmer from the sacristy door where a lamp burned within to light

them to bed. Chris’s thoughts had fled back to that summer evening long

ago when he had knelt far down in the nave and watched the serried line

of the black-hooded soldiers of God, and listened to the tramp of the

psalmody, and longed to be of their company. Now the gallant regiment

had dwindled to two, of which he was one, and the guest-master that had

received him and encouraged him, the other.

Dom Anthony was the officiant this evening, and had just sung lustily

out in the dark that God was about them with His shield, that they need

fear no nightly terror.

The movement flagged for a moment, for Chris was not attending; Mr.

Morris’s voice began alone, _A sagitta volante_--and then stopped

abruptly as he realised that he was singing by himself; and

simultaneously came a sharp little crash from the dark altar that rose

up in the gloom in front.

A sort of sobbing breath broke from Chris at the sudden noise, and he

gripped his hands together.

In a moment Dom Anthony had taken up the verse.

_A sagitta volante_--“From the arrow that flieth by day, from the thing

that walketh in darkness--” Chris recovered himself; and the office

passed on.

As the two passed out together towards the door, Dom Anthony went

forward up the steps; and Chris waited, and watched him stoop and pass

his hands over the floor. Then he straightened himself, came down the

steps and went before Chris into the sacristy.

Under the lamp he stopped, and lifted what he carried to the light. It

was the little ivory crucifix that he had hung there a few weeks ago

when the last cross of precious metal had disappeared with the

Sub-Prior. It was cracked across the body of the figure now, and one of

the arms was detached at the shoulder and swung free on the nail through

the hand.

Dom Anthony looked at it, turned and looked at Chris; and without a word

the two passed out into the cloister and turned up the dormitory stairs.

To both of them it was a sign that the end was at hand.

* * * * *

On the following afternoon Mr. Morris ran in to Chris’s carrel, and

found him putting the antiphonary and his implements up into a parcel.

“Master Christopher,” he said, “Sir James and Sir Nicholas are come.”

As he hurried out of the cloister he saw the horses standing there,

spent with fast travelling, and the two riders at their heads, with the

dust on their boots, and their clothes disordered. They remained

motionless as the monk came towards them; but he saw that his father’s

face was working and that his eyes were wide and anxious.

“Thank God,” said the old man softly. “I am in time. They are coming

to-night, Chris.” But there was a questioning look on his face.

Chris looked at him.

“Will you take the horses?” said his father again. “Nick and I are

safe.”

Chris still stared bewildered. Then he understood; and with

understanding came decision.

“No, father,” he said.

The old man’s face broke up into lines of emotion.

“Are you sure, my son?”

Chris nodded steadily.

“Then we will all be together,” said Sir James; and he turned to lead

his horse to the stable.

* * * * *

There was a little council held in the guest-house a few minutes later.

Dom Anthony hurried to it, his habit splashed with whitewash, for he had

been cleaning the dormitory, and the four sat down together.

It seemed that Nicholas had ridden over from Great Keynes to Overfield

earlier in the afternoon, and had brought the news that a company of men

had passed through the village an hour before, and that one of them had

asked which turn to take to Lewes. Sir Nicholas had ridden after them

and enquired their business, and had gathered that they were bound for

the priory, and he then turned his horse and made off to Overfield. His

horse was spent when he arrived there; but he had changed horses and

came on immediately with Sir James, to warn the monks of the approach of

the men, and to give them an opportunity of making their escape if they

thought it necessary.

“Who were the leaders?” asked the elder monk.

Nicholas shook his head.

“They were in front; I dared not ride up.”

But his sturdy face looked troubled as he answered, and Chris saw his

father’s lips tighten. Dom Anthony drummed softly on the table.

“There is nothing to be done,” he said. “We wait till we are cast out.”

“You cannot refuse admittance?” questioned Sir James.

“But we shall do so,” said the other tranquilly; “at least we shall not

open.”

“But they will batter the door down.”

“Certainly,” said the monk.

“And then?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I suppose they will put us out.”

There was absolutely nothing to be done. It was absurd to dream of more

than formal resistance. Up in the North in more than one abbey the

inmates had armed themselves, and faced the spoilers grimly on the

village green; but that was where the whole country side was with them,

and here it was otherwise.

They talked a few minutes longer, and decided that they would neither

open nor resist. The two monks were determined to remain there until

they were actually cast out; and then the responsibility would rest on

other shoulders than theirs.

It was certain of course that by this time to-morrow at the latest they

would have been expelled; and it was arranged that the two monks should

ride back to Overfield, if they were personally unmolested, and remain

there until further plans were decided upon.

The four knew of course that there was a grave risk in provoking the

authorities any further, but it was a risk that the two Religious were

determined to run.

They broke up presently; Mr. Morris came upstairs to tell them that food

was ready in one of the parlours off the cloister; and the two laymen

went off with him, while the monks went to sing vespers for the last

time.

* * * * *

An hour or two later the two were in the refectory at supper. The

evening was drawing in, and the light in the tall windows was fading.

Opposite where Chris sat (for Dom Anthony was reading aloud from the

pulpit), a row of coats burned in the glass, and he ran his eyes over

them. They had been set there, he remembered, soon after his own coming

to the place; the records had been searched, and the arms of every prior

copied and emblazoned in the panes. There they all were; from Lanzo of

five centuries ago, whose arms were conjectural, down to Robert Crowham,

who had forsaken his trust; telling the long tale of prelates and

monastic life, from the beginning to the close. He looked round beyond

the circle of light cast by his own candle, and the place seemed full of

ghosts and presences to his fancy. The pale oak panelling glimmered

along the walls above the empty seats, from the Prior’s to the left,

over which the dusky fresco of the Majesty of Christ grew darker still

as the light faded, down to the pulpit opposite where Dom Anthony’s

grave ruddy face with downcast eyes stood out vivid in the candlelight.

Ah! surely there was a cloud of witnesses now, a host of faces looking

down from the black rafters overhead, and through the glimmering

panes,--the faces of those who had eaten here with the same sacramental

dignity and graciousness that these two survivors used. It was

impossible to feel lonely in this stately house, saturated with holy

life; and with a thrill at his heart he remembered how Dom Anthony had

once whispered to him at the beginning of the troubles, that if others

held their peace the very stones should cry out; and that God was able

of those stones to raise up children to His praise....

There was a sound of brisk, hurrying footsteps in the cloister outside,

Dom Anthony ceased his reading with his finger on the place, and the

eyes of the two monks met.

The door was opened abruptly, and Morris stood there.

“My master has sent me, sir,” he said. “They are coming.”

CHAPTER VI

THE LAST STAND

The court outside had deepened into shadows as they came out; but

overhead the sky still glowed faintly luminous in a tender translucent

green. The evening star shone out clear and tranquil opposite them in

the west.

There were three figures standing at the foot of the steps that led down

from the cloister; one of the servants with the two gentlemen; and as

Chris pushed forward quickly his father turned and lifted his finger for

silence.

The town lay away to the right; and over the wall that joined the west

end of the church to the gatehouse, there were a few lights

visible--windows here and there just illuminated.

For the first moment Chris thought there had been a mistake; he had

expected a clamour at the gate, a jangling of the bell. Then as he

listened he knew that it was no false alarm.

Across the wall, from the direction of the hills that showed dimly

against the evening sky, there came a murmur, growing as he listened.

The roads were hard from lack of rain, and he could distinguish the

sound of horses, a great company; but rising above this was a dull roar

of voices. Every moment it waxed, died once or twice, then sounded out

nearer and louder. There was a barking of dogs, the cries of children,

and now and again the snatch of a song or a shouted word or two.

Of the group on the steps within not one stirred, except when Sir James

slowly lowered his upraised hand; and so they waited.

The company was drawing nearer now; and Chris calculated that they must

be coming down the steep road that led from the town; and even as he

thought it he heard the sound of hoofs on the bridge that crossed the

Winterbourne.