Dom Anthony pushed by him.

“To the gate,” he said, and went down the step and across the court

followed by the others. As they went the clamour grew loud and near in

the road outside; and a ruddy light shone on the projecting turret of

the gateway.

Chris was conscious of extraordinary coolness now that the peril was on

him; and he stared up at the studded oak doors, at the wicket cut in one

of the leaves, and the sliding panel that covered the grill, with little

thought but that of conjecture as to how long the destruction of the

gate would take. The others, too, though he was scarcely aware of their

presence, were silent and rigid at his side, as Dom Anthony stepped up

to the closed grill and waited there for the summons.

It came almost immediately.

There was a great crescendo of sound as the party turned the corner, and

a flare of light shone under the gate; then the sound of loud talking, a

silence of the hoofs; and a sudden jangle on the bell overhead.

The monk turned from the grill and lifted his hand.

Then again the talking grew loud, as the mob swept round the corner

after the horses.

Still all was silent within. Chris felt his father’s hand seek his own a

moment, and grip it; and then above the gabbling clamour a voice spoke

distinctly outside.

“Have the rats run, then?”

The bell danced again over their heads; and there was a clatter of raps

on the huge door.

Dom Anthony slid back the shutter.

* * * * *

For a moment it was not noticed outside, for the entry was dark. Chris

could catch a glimpse on either side of the monk’s head of a flare of

light, but no more.

Then the same voice spoke again, and with something of a foreign accent.

“You are there, then; make haste and open.”

Another voice shouted authoritatively for silence; and the clamour of

tongues died.

Dom Anthony waited until all was quiet, and then answered steadily.

“Who are you?”

There was an oath; the tumult began again, but hushed immediately, as

the same voice that had called for admittance shouted aloud--

“Open, I tell you, you bloody monk! We come from the King.”

“Why do you come?”

A gabble of fierce tongues broke out; Chris pressed up to Dom Anthony’s

back, and looked out. The space was very narrow, and he could not see

much more than a man’s leg across a saddle, the brown shoulder of a

horse in front, and a smoky haze beyond and over the horse’s back. The

leg shifted a little as he watched, as if the rider turned; and then

again the voice pealed out above the tumult.

“Will you open, sir, for the last time?”

“I will not,” shouted the monk through the grill. “You are nothing

but--” then he dashed the shutter into its place as a stick struck

fiercely at the bars.

“Back to the cloister,” he said.

The roar outside was tremendous as the six went back across the empty

court; but it fell to a sinister silence as an order or two was shouted

outside; and then again swelled with an excited note in it, as the first

crash sounded on the panels.

Chris looked at his father as they stood again on the steps fifty yards

away. The old man was standing rigid, his hands at his sides, staring

out towards the arch of the gateway that now thundered like a drum; and

his lips were moving. Once he caught his breath as a voice shouted above

the din outside, and half turned to his son, his hand uplifted as if for

silence. Then again the voice pealed, and Sir James faced round and

stared into Chris’s eyes. But neither spoke a word.

Dom Anthony, who was standing a yard or two in front, turned presently

as the sound of splintering began to be mingled with the reverberations,

and came towards them. His square, full face was steady and alert, and

he spoke with a sharp decision.

“You and Sir Nicholas, sir, had best be within. My place will be here;

they will be in immediately.”

His words were perfectly distinct here in the open air in spite of the

uproar from the gate.

There was an indignant burst from the young squire.

“No, no, father; I shall not stir from here.”

The monk looked at him; but said no more and turned round.

A sedate voice spoke from the dark doorway behind.

“John and I have fetched out a table or two, father; we can brace this

door--”

Dom Anthony turned again.

“We shall not resist further,” he said.

Then they were silent, for they were helpless. There was nothing to be

done but to stand there and listen to the din, to the crash that

splintered more every moment in the cracked woodwork, and to watch the

high wall and turret solemn and strong against the stars, and bright

here and there at the edges with the light from the torches beneath. The

guest-house opposite them was dark, except for one window in the upper

floor that glowed and faded with the light of the fire that had been

kindled within an hour or two before.

Sir James took his son suddenly by the arm.

“And you, Chris--” he said.

“I shall stay here, father.”

There was a rending thunder from the gate; the wicket reeled in and

fell, and in a moment through the flimsy opening had sprung the figure

of a man. They could see him plainly as he stood there in the light of

the torches, a tall upright figure, a feathered hat on his head, and a

riding cane in his hand.

The noise was indescribable outside as men fought to get through; there

was one scream of pain, the plunging of a horse, and then a loud steady

roar drowning all else.

The oblong patch of light was darkened immediately, as another man

sprang through, and then another and another; then a pause--then the

bright flare of a torch shone in the opening; and a moment later a

fellow carrying a flambeau had made his way through.

The whole space under the arch was now illuminated. Overhead the plain

mouldings shone out and faded as the torch swayed; every brick of the

walls was visible, and the studs and bars of the huge doors.

Chris had sprung forward by an uncontrollable impulse as the wicket fell

in; and the two monks were now standing motionless on the floor of the

court, side by side, in their black habits and scapulars, hooded and

girded, with the two gentlemen and the servants on the steps behind.

Chris saw the leaders come together under the arch, as the whole gate

began to groan and bulge under the pressure of the crowd; and a moment

later he caught the flash of steel as the long rapiers whisked out.

Then above the baying he heard a fierce authoritative voice scream out

an order, and saw that one of the gentlemen in front was at the door,

his rapier protruded before him; and understood the manœuvre. It was

necessary that the mad crowd should be kept back.

The tumult died and became a murmur; and then one by one a file of

figures came through. In the hand of each was an instrument of some

kind, a pick or a bludgeon; and it was evident that it was these who had

broken in the gate.

Chris counted them mechanically as they streamed through. There seemed

to be a dozen or so.

Then again the man who had guarded the door as they came through slipped

back through the opening; and they heard his voice beginning to harangue

the mob.

But a moment later they had ceased to regard him; for from the archway,

with the torch-bearer beside him, advanced the tall man with the

riding-cane who had been the first to enter; and as he emerged into the

court Chris recognised his brother.

* * * * *

He was in a plain rich riding-suit with great boots and plumed hat. He

walked with an easy air as if certain of himself, and neither quickened

nor decreased his pace as he saw the monks and the gentlemen standing

there.

He halted a couple of yards from them, and Chris saw that his face was

as assured as his gait. His thin lips were tight and firm, and his eyes

with a kind of insolent irony looked up and down the figures of the

monks. There was not the faintest sign of recognition in them.

“You have given us a great deal of labour,” he said, “and to no purpose.

We shall have to report it all to my Lord Cromwell. I understand that

you were the two who refused to sign the surrender. It was the act of

fools, like this last. I have no authority to take you, so you had best

be gone.”

Dom Anthony answered him in an equally steady voice.

“We are ready to go now,” he said. “You understand we have yielded to

nothing but force.”

Ralph’s lips writhed in a smile.

“Oh! if that pleases you,” he said. “Well, then--”

He took a little step aside, and made a movement towards the gate where

there sounded out still an angry hum beneath the shouting voice that was

addressing them.

Chris turned to his father behind, and the voice died in his throat, so

dreadful was that face that was looking at Ralph. He was standing as

before, rigid it seemed with grief or anger; and his grey eyes were

bright with a tense emotion; his lips too were as firm as his son’s. But

he spoke no word. Sir Nicholas was at his side, with one foot advanced,

and in attitude as if to spring; and Morris’s face looked like a mask

over his shoulder.

“Well, then--” said Ralph once more.

“Ah! you damned hound!” roared the young squire’s voice; and his hand

went up with the whip in it.

Ralph did not move a muscle. He seemed cut in steel.

“Let us go,” said Dom Anthony again, to Chris, almost tenderly; “it is

enough that we are turned out by force.”

“You can go by the church, if you will,” said Ralph composedly. “In

fact--” He stopped as the murmur howled up again from the gate--“In

fact you had better go that way. They do not seem to be your friends out

there.”

“We will go whichever way you wish,” remarked the elder monk.

“Then the church,” said Ralph, “or some other private door. I suppose

you have one. Most of your houses have one, I believe.”

The sneer snapped the tension.

Dom Anthony turned his back on him instantly.

“Come, brother,” he said.

Chris took his father by the arm as he went up the steps.

“Come, sir,” he said, “we are to go this way.”

There was a moment’s pause. The old man still stared down at his elder

son, who was standing below in the same position. Chris heard a deep

breath, and thought he was on the point of speaking; but there was

silence. Then the two turned and followed the others into the cloister.

CHAPTER VII

AXES AND HAMMERS

Chris sat next morning at a high window of a house near Saint Michael’s

looking down towards the south of the town.

They had escaped without difficulty the night before through the

church-entrance, with a man whom Ralph sent after them to see that they

carried nothing away, leaving the crowd roaring round the corner of the

gate, and though people looked curiously at the monks, the five laymen

with them protected them from assault. Mr. Morris had found a lodging a

couple of days before, unknown to Chris, in the house of a woman who was

favourable to the Religious, and had guided the party straight there on

the previous evening.

The two monks had said mass in Saint Michael’s that morning before the

town was awake; and were now keeping within doors at Sir James’s earnest

request, while the two gentlemen with one of the servants had gone to

see what was being done at the priory.

* * * * *

From where Chris sat in his black habit at the leaded window he could

see straight down the opening of the steep street, across the lower

roofs below, to where the great pile of the Priory church less than

half-a-mile away soared up in the sunlight against the water-meadows

where the Ouse ran to the south of the town.

The street was very empty below him, for every human being that could

do so had gone down to the sacking of the priory. There might be

pickings, scraps gathered from the hoards that the monks were supposed

to have gathered; there would probably be an auction; and there would

certainly be plenty of excitement and pleasure.

Chris was himself almost numb to sensation. The coolness that had

condensed round his soul last night had hardened into ice; he scarcely

realised what was going on, or how great was the catastrophe into which

his life was plunged. There lay the roofs before him--he ran his eye

from the west tower past the high lantern to the delicate tracery of the

eastern apse and chapels--in the hands of the spoilers; and here he sat

dry-eyed and steady-mouthed looking down on it, as a man looks at a

wound not yet begun to smart.

It was piteously clear and still. Smoke was rising from a fire somewhere

behind the church, a noise as of metal on stone chinked steadily, and

the voices of men calling one to another sounded continually from the

enclosure. Now and again the tiny figure of a workman showed clear on

the roof, pick in hand; or leaning to call directions down to his

fellows beneath.

Dom Anthony looked in presently, breviary in hand, and knelt by Chris on

the window-step, watching too; but he spoke no word, glanced at the

white face and sunken eyes of the other, sighed once or twice, and went

out again.

The morning passed on and still Chris watched. By eleven o’clock the men

were gone from the roof; half an hour had passed, and no further figure

had appeared.

There were footsteps on the stairs; and Sir James came in.

He came straight across to his son and sat down by him. Chris looked at

him. The old man nodded.

“Yes, my son,” he said, “they are at it. Nothing is to be left, but the

cloister and guest-house. The church is to be down in a week they say.”

Chris looked at him dully.

“All?” he said.

“All the church, my son.”

Sir James gave an account of what he had seen. He had made his way in

with Nicholas and a few other persons, into the court; but had not been

allowed to enter the cloister. There was a furnace being made ready in

the calefactorium for the melting of the lead, he had been told by one

of the men; and the church, as he had seen for himself, was full of

workmen.

“And the Blessed Sacrament?” asked Chris.

“A priest was sent for this morning to carry It away to a church; I know

not which.”

Sir James described the method of destruction.

They were beginning with the apse and the chapels behind the high altar.

The ornaments had been removed, the images piled in a great heap in the

outer court, and the brasses had been torn up. There were half a dozen

masons busy at undercutting the pillars and walls; and as they excavated

the carpenters made wooden insertions to prop up the weight. The men had

been brought down from London, as the commissioners were not certain of

the temper of the Lewes people. Two of the four great pillars behind the

high altar were already cut half through.

“And Ralph?”

The old man’s face grew tense and bitter.

“I saw him in the roof,” he said; “he made as if he did not see me.”

They were half-through dinner before Nicholas joined them. He was

flushed and dusty and furious.

“Ah! the hounds!” he said, as he stood at the door, trembling. “They

say they will have the chapels down before night. They have stripped the

lead.”

Sir James looked up and motioned him to sit down.

“We will go down again presently,” he said.

“But we have saved our luggage,” went on Nicholas, taking his seat; “and

there was a parcel of yours, Chris, that I put with it. It is all to be

sent up with the horses to-night.”

“Did you speak with Mr. Ralph?” asked Dom Anthony.

“Ah! I did; the dog! and I told him what I thought. But he dared not

refuse me the luggage. John is to go for it all to-night.”

He told them during dinner another fact that he had learned.

“You know who is to have it all?” he said fiercely, his fingers

twitching with emotion.

“It is Master Gregory Cromwell, and his wife, and his baby. A fine

nursery!”

* * * * *

As the evening drew on, Chris was again at the window alone. He had said

his office earlier in the afternoon, and sat here again now, with his

hands before him, staring down at the church.

One of the servants had come up with a message from Sir James an hour

before telling him not to expect them before dusk; and that they would

send up news of any further developments. The whole town was there, said

the man: it had been found impossible to keep them out. Dom Anthony

presently came again and sat with Chris; and Mr. Morris, who had been

left as a safeguard to the monks, slipped in soon after and stood behind

the two; and so the three waited.

The sky was beginning to glow again as it had done last night with the

clear radiance of a cloudless sunset; and the tall west tower stood up

bright in the glory. How infinitely far away last night seemed now,

little and yet distinct as a landscape seen through a reversed

telescope! How far away that silent waiting at the cloister door, the

clamour at the gate, the forced entrance, the slipping away through the

church!

The smoke was rising faster than ever now from the great chimney, and

hung in a cloud above the buildings. Perhaps even now the lead was being

cast.

There was a clatter at the corner of the cobbled street below, and Dom

Anthony leaned from the window. He drew back.

“It is the horses,” he said.

The servant presently came up to announce that the two gentlemen were

following immediately, and that he had had orders to procure horses and

saddle them at once. He had understood Sir James to say that they must

leave that night.

Mr. Morris hurried out to see to the packing.

In five minutes the gentlemen themselves appeared.

Sir James came quickly across to the two monks.

“We must go to-night, Chris,” he said. “We had words with Portinari. You

must not remain longer in the town.”

Chris looked at him.

“Yes?” he said.

“And the chapels will be down immediately. Oh! dear God!”

Dom Anthony made room for the old man to sit down in the window-seat;

and himself stood behind the two with Nicholas; and so again they

watched.

The light was fading fast now, and in the windows below lights were

beginning to shine. The square western tower that dominated the whole

priory had lost its splendour, and stood up strong and pale against the

meadows. There was a red flare of light somewhere over the wall of the

court, and the inner side of the gate-turret was illuminated by it.

A tense excitement lay on the watchers; and no sound came from them but

that of quick breathing as they waited for what they knew was imminent.

Outside the evening was wonderfully still; they could hear two men

talking somewhere in the street below; but from the priory came no

sound. The chink of the picks was still, and the cries of the workmen.

Far away beyond the castle on their left came an insistent barking of a

dog; and once, when a horseman rode by below Chris bit his lip with

vexation, for it seemed to him like the disturbing of a death bed. A

star or two looked out, vanished, and peeped again from the luminous

sky, to the south, and the downs beneath were grey and hazy.

All the watchers now had their eyes on the eastern end of the church

that lay in dim shadow; they could see the roof of the vault behind

where the high altar lay beneath; the flying buttress of a chapel below;

and, nearer, the low roof of the Lady-chapel.

Chris kept his eyes strained on the upper vault, for there, he knew the

first movement would show itself.

The time seemed interminable. He moistened his dry lips from time to

time, shifted his position a little, and moved his elbow from the sharp

moulding of the window-frame.

Then he caught his breath.

From where he sat, in the direct line of his eyes, the top of a patch of

evergreen copse was visible just beyond the roof of the vault; and as

he looked he saw that a patch of paler green had appeared below it. All

in a moment he saw too the flying buttress crook itself like an elbow

and disappear. Then the vault was gone and the roof beyond; the walls

sank with incredible slowness and vanished.

A cloud of white dust puffed up like smoke.

Then through the open window came the roar of the tumbling masonry; and

shrill above it the clamour of a great crowd.

BOOK III

THE KING’S GRATITUDE

CHAPTER I

A SCHEME

The period that followed the destruction of Lewes Priory held very

strange months for Chris. He had slipped out of the stream into a

back-water, from which he could watch the swift movements of the time,

while himself undisturbed by them; for no further notice was taken of

his refusal to sign the surrender or of his resistance to the

Commissioners. The hands of the authorities were so full of business

that apparently it was not worth their while to trouble about an

inoffensive monk of no particular notoriety, who after all had done

little except in a negative way, and who appeared now to acquiesce in

silence and seclusion.

The household at Overfield was of a very mixed nature. Dom Anthony after

a month or two had left for the Continent to take up his vocation in a

Benedictine house; and Sir James and his wife, Chris, Margaret, and Mr.

Carleton remained together. For the present Chris and Margaret were

determined to wait, for a hundred things might intervene--Henry’s death,

a changing of his mind, a foreign invasion on the part of the Catholic

powers, an internal revolt in England, and such things--and set the

clock back again, and, unlike Dom Anthony, they had a home where they

could follow their Rules in tolerable comfort.

The country was indeed very deeply stirred by the events that were

taking place; but for the present, partly from terror and partly from

the great forces that were brought to bear upon English convictions, it

gave no expression to its emotion. The methods that Cromwell had

employed with such skill in the past were still active. On the worldly

side there was held out to the people the hope of relieved taxation, of

the distribution of monastic wealth and lands; on the spiritual side the

bishops under Cranmer were zealous in controverting the old principles

and throwing doubt upon the authority of the Pope. It was impossible for

the unlearned to know what to believe; new manifestoes were issued

continually by the King and clergy, full of learned arguments and

persuasive appeals; and the professors of the old religion were

continually discredited by accusations of fraud, avarice, immorality,

hypocrisy and the like. They were silenced, too; while active and

eloquent preachers like Latimer raged from pulpit to pulpit, denouncing,

expounding, convincing.

Meanwhile the work went on rapidly. The summer and autumn of ’38 saw

again destruction after destruction of Religious Houses and objects of

veneration; and the intimidation of the most influential personages on

the Catholic side.

In February, for example, the rood of Boxley was brought up to London

with every indignity, and after being exhibited with shouts of laughter

at Whitehall, and preached against at Paul’s Cross, it was tossed down

among the zealous citizens and smashed to pieces. In the summer, among

others, the shrine of St. Swithun at Winchester was defaced and robbed;

and in the autumn that followed the friaries which had stood out so long

began to fall right and left. In October the Holy Blood of Hayles, a

relic brought from the East in the thirteenth century and preserved

with great love and honour ever since, was taken from its resting place

and exposed to ridicule in London. Finally in the same month, after St.

Thomas of Canterbury had been solemnly declared a traitor to his prince,

his name, images and pictures ordered to be erased and destroyed out of

every book, window and wall, and he himself summoned with grotesque

solemnity to answer the charges brought against him, his relics were

seized and burned, and--which was more to the point in the King’s view,

his shrine was stripped of its gold and jewels and vestments, which were

conveyed in a string of twenty-six carts to the King’s treasury. The

following year events were yet more terrible. The few great houses that

survived were one by one brought within reach of the King’s hand; and

those that did not voluntarily surrender fell under the heavier

penalties of attainder. Abbot Whiting of Glastonbury was sent up to

London in September, and two months later suffered on Tor hill within

sight of the monastery he had ruled so long and so justly; and on the

same day the Abbot of Reading suffered too outside his own gateway. Six

weeks afterwards Abbot Marshall, of Colchester, was also put to death.

* * * * *

It was a piteous life that devout persons led at this time; and few were

more unhappy than the household at Overfield. It was the more miserable

because Lady Torridon herself was so entirely out of sympathy with the

others. While she was not often the actual bearer of ill news--for she

had neither sufficient strenuousness nor opportunity for it--it was

impossible to doubt that she enjoyed its arrival.

They were all together at supper one warm summer evening when a servant

came in to announce that a monk of St. Swithun’s was asking hospitality.

Sir James glanced at his wife who sat with passive downcast face; and

then ordered the priest to be brought in.

He was a timid, tactless man who failed to grasp the situation, and when

the wine and food had warmed his heart he began to talk a great deal too

freely, taking it for granted that all there were in sympathy with him.

He addressed himself chiefly to Chris, who answered courteously; and

described the sacking of the shrine at some length.

“He had already set aside our cross called Hierusalem,” cried the monk,

his weak face looking infinitely pathetic with its mingled sorrow and

anger, “and two of our gold chalices, to take them with him when he

went; and then with his knives and hammers, as the psalmist tells us, he

hacked off the silver plates from the shrine. There was a fellow I knew

very well--he had been to me to confession two days before--who held a

candle and laughed. And then when all was done; and that was not till

three o’clock in the morning, one of the smiths tested the metal and

cried out that there was not one piece of true gold in it all. And Mr.

Pollard raged at us for it, and told us that our gold was as counterfeit

as the rotten bones that we worshipped. But indeed there was plenty of

gold; and the man lied; for it was a very rich shrine. God’s vengeance

will fall on them for their lies and their robbery. Is it not so,

mistress?”

Lady Torridon lifted her eyes and looked at him. Her husband hastened to

interpose.

“Have you finished your wine, father?”

The monk seemed not to hear him; and his talk flowed on about the

destruction of the high altar and the spoiling of the reredos, which had

taken place on the following days; and as he talked he filled his

Venetian glass more than once and drank it off; and his lantern face

grew flushed and his eyes animated. Chris saw that his mother was

watching the monk shrewdly and narrowly, and feared what might come. But

it was unavoidable.

“We poor monks,” the priest cried presently, “shall soon be cast out to

beg our bread. The King’s Grace--”

“Is not poverty one of the monastic vows?” put in Lady Torridon

suddenly, still looking steadily at his half-drunk glass.

“Why, yes, mistress; and the King’s Grace is determined to make us keep

it, it seems.”

He lifted his glass and finished it; and put out his hand again to the

bottle.

“But that is a good work, surely,” smiled the other. “It will be surely

a safeguard against surfeiting and drunkenness.”

Sir James rose instantly.

“Come, father,” he said to the staring monk, “you will be tired out, and

will want your bed.”

A slow smile shone and faded on his wife’s face as she rose and rustled

down the long hall.

* * * * *

Such incidents as this made life at Overfield very difficult for them

all; it was hard for these sore hearts to be continually on the watch

for dangerous subjects, and only to be able to comfort one another when

the mistress of the house was absent; but above all it was difficult for

Margaret. She was nearly as silent as her mother, but infinitely more

tender; and since the two were naturally together for the most part,

except when the nun was at her long prayers, there were often very

difficult and painful incidents.

For the first eighteen months after her return her mother let her

alone; but as time went on and the girl’s resolution persevered, she

began to be subjected to a distressing form of slight persecution.

For example: Chris and his father came in one day in the autumn from a

walk through the priory garden that lay beyond the western moat. As they

passed in the level sunshine along the prim box-lined paths, and had

reached the centre where the dial stood, they heard voices in the

summer-house that stood on the right behind a yew hedge.

Sir James hesitated a moment; and as he waited heard Margaret’s voice

with a thrill of passion in it.

“I cannot listen to that, mother. It is wicked to say such things.”

The two turned instantly, passed along the path and came round the

corner.

Margaret was standing with one hand on the little table, half-turned to

go. Her eyes were alight with indignation, and her lips trembled. Her

mother sat on the other side, her silver-handled stick beside her, and

her hands folded serenely together.

Sir James looked from one to the other; and there fell a silence.

“Are you coming with us, Margaret?” he said.

The girl still hesitated a moment, glancing at her mother, and then

stepped out of the summer-house. Chris saw that bitter smile writhe and

die on the elder woman’s face, but she said nothing.

Margaret burst out presently when they had crossed the moat and were

coming up to the long grey-towered house.

“I cannot bear such talk, father,” she said, with her eyes bright with

angry tears, “she was saying such things about Rusper, and how idle we

all were there, and how foolish.”

“You must not mind it, my darling. Your mother does not--does not

understand.”

“There was never any one like Mother Abbess,” went on the girl. “I never

saw her idle or out of humour; and--and we were all so busy and happy.”

Her eyes overflowed a moment; her father put his arm tenderly round her

shoulders, and they went in together.

It was a terrible thing for Margaret to be thrown like this out of the

one life that was a reality to her. As she looked back now it seemed as

if the convent shone glorified and beautiful in a haze of grace. The

discipline of the house had ordered and inspired the associations on

which memories afterwards depend, and had excluded the discordant notes

that spoil the harmonies of secular life. The chapel, with its delicate

windows, its oak rails, its scent of flowers and incense, its tiled

floor, its single row of carved woodwork and the crosier by the Abbess’s

seat, was a place of silence instinct with a Divine Presence that

radiated from the hanging pyx; it was these particular things, and not

others like them, that had been the scene of her romance with God, her

aspirations, tendernesses, tears and joys. She had walked in the tiny

cloister with her Lover in her heart, and the glazed laurel-leaves that

rattled in the garth had been musical with His voice; it was in her

little white cell that she had learned to sleep in His arms and to wake

to the brightness of His Face. And now all this was dissipated. There

were other associations with her home, of childish sorrows and passions

before she had known God, of hunting-parties and genial ruddy men who

smelt of fur and blood, of her mother’s chilly steady presence--

associations that jarred with the inner life; whereas in the convent

there had been nothing that was not redolent with efforts and rewards of

the soul. Even without her mother life would have been hard enough now

at Overfield; with her it was nearly intolerable.

Chris, however, was able to do a good deal for the girl; for he had

suffered in the same way; and had the advantage of a man’s strength. She

could talk to him as to no one else of the knowledge of the interior

vocation in both of them that persevered in spite of their ejection from

the cloister; and he was able to remind her that the essence of the

enclosure, under these circumstances, lay in the spirit and not in

material stones.

It was an advantage for Chris too to have her under his protection. The

fact that he had to teach her and remind her of facts that they both

knew, made them more real to himself; and to him as to her there came

gradually a kind of sorrow-shot contentment that deepened month by month

in spite of their strange and distracting surroundings.

But he was not wholly happy about her; she was silent and lonely

sometimes; he began to see what an immense advantage it would be to her

in the peculiarly difficult circumstances of the time, to have some one

of her own sex and sympathies at hand. But he did not see how it could

be arranged. For the present it was impossible for her to enter the

Religious Life, except by going abroad; and so long as there was the

faintest hope of the convents being restored in England, both she and

her father and brother shrank from the step. And the hope was increased

by the issue of the Six Articles in the following May, by which

Transubstantiation was declared to be a revealed dogma, to be held on

penalty of death by burning; and communion in one kind, the celibacy of

the clergy, the perpetuity of the vow of chastity, private masses, and

auricular confession were alike ratified as parts of the Faith held by

the Church of which Henry had made himself head.

Yet as time went on, and there were no signs of the restoration of the

Religious Houses, Chris began to wonder again as to what was best for

Margaret. Perhaps until matters developed it would be well for her to

have some friend in whom she could confide, even if only to relax the

strain for a few weeks. He went to his father one day in the autumn and

laid his views before him.

Sir James nodded and seemed to understand.

“Do you think Mary would be of any service?”

Chris hesitated.

“Yes, sir, I think so--but--”

His father looked at him.

“It is a stranger I think that would help her more. Perhaps another

nun--?”

“My dear lad, I dare not ask another nun. Your mother--”

“I know,” said Chris.

“Well, I will think of it,” said the other.

A couple of days later Sir James took him aside after supper into his

own private room.

“Chris,” he said, “I have been thinking of what you said. And Mary shall

certainly come here for Christmas, with Nick; but--but there is someone

else too I would like to ask.”

He looked at his son with an odd expression.

Chris could not imagine what this meant.

“It is Mistress Atherton,” went on the other. “You see you know her a

little--at least you have seen her; and there is Ralph. And from all

that I have heard of her--her friendship with Master More and the rest,

I think she might be the very friend for poor Meg. Do you think she

would come, Chris?”

Chris was silent. He could not yet fully dissociate the thought of

Beatrice from the memory of the time when she had taken Ralph’s part.

Besides, was it possible to ask her under the circumstances?

“Then there was one more thing that I never told you;” went on his

father, “there was no use in it. But I went to see Mistress Atherton

when she was betrothed to Ralph. I saw her in London; and I think I may

say we made friends. And she has very few now; she keeps herself aloof.

Folks are afraid of her too. I think it would be a kindness to her. I

could not understand how she could marry Ralph; and now that is

explained.”

Chris was startled by this news. His father had not breathed a word of

it before.

“She made me promise,” went on Sir James, “to tell her if Ralph did

anything unworthy. It was after the first news had reached her of what

the Visitors were doing. And I told her, of course, about Rusper. I

think we owe her something. And I think too from what I saw of her that

she might make her way with your mother.”

“It might succeed,” said Chris doubtfully, “but it is surely difficult

for her to come--”

“I know--yes--with Ralph and her betrothal. But if we can ask her,

surely she can come. I can tell her how much we need her. I would send

Meg to Great Keynes, if I dared, but I dare not. It is not so safe there

as here; she had best keep quiet.”

They talked about it a few minutes more, and Chris became more inclined

to it. From what he remembered of Beatrice and the impression that she

had made on him in those few fierce minutes in Ralph’s house he began to

see that she would probably be able to hold her own; and if only

Margaret would take to her, the elder girl might be of great service in

establishing the younger. It was an odd and rather piquant idea, and

gradually took hold of his imagination. It was a very extreme step to

take, considering that she had broken off her betrothal to the eldest

son of the house; but against that was set the fact that she would not

meet him there; and that her presence would be really valued by at least

four-fifths of the household.

It was decided that Lady Torridon should be told immediately; and a day

or two later Sir James came to Chris in the garden to tell him that she

had consented.

“I do not understand it at all,” said the old man, “but your mother

seemed very willing. I wonder--”

And then he stopped abruptly.

The letter was sent. Chris saw it and the strong appeal it contained

that Beatrice should come to the aid of a nun who was pining for want of

companionship. A day or two later brought down the answer that Mistress

Atherton would have great pleasure in coming a week before Christmas.

* * * * *

Margaret had a fit of shyness when the day came for her arrival. It was

a clear frosty afternoon, with a keen turquoise sky overhead, and she

wandered out in her habit down the slope to the moat, crossed the

bridge, glancing at the thin ice and the sedge that pierced it, and came

up into the private garden. She knew she could hear the sounds of wheels

from there, and had an instinctive shrinking from being at the house

when the stranger arrived.

The grass walks were crisp to the foot; the plants in the deep beds

rested in a rigid stillness with a black blossom or two drooping here

and there; and the hollies beyond the yew hedge lifted masses of green

lit by scarlet against the pale sky. Her breath went up like smoke as

she walked softly up and down.

There was no sound to disturb her. Once she heard the clink of the

blacksmith’s forge half a mile away in the village; once a blackbird

dashed chattering from a hedge, scudded in a long dip, and rose again

over it; a robin followed her in brisk hops, with a kind of pathetic

impertinence in his round eye, as he wondered whether this human

creature’s footsteps would not break the iron armour of the ground and

give him a chance to live.

She wondered a thousand things as she went; what kind of a woman this

was that was coming, how she would look, why she had not married Ralph,

and above all, whether she understood--whether she understood!

A kind of frost had fallen on her own soul; she could find no sustenance

there; it was all there, she knew, all the mysterious life that had

rioted within her like spring, in the convent, breathing its fragrances,

bewildering in its wealth of shape and colour. But an icy breath had

petrified it all; it had sunk down out of sight; it needed a soul like

her own, feminine and sympathetic, a soul that had experienced the same

things as her own, that knew the tenderness and love of the Saviour, to

melt that frigid covering and draw out the essences and sweetness again,

that lay there paralysed by this icy environment....

There were wheels at last.

She gathered up her black skirt, and ran to the edge of the low yews

that bounded the garden on the north; and as she caught a glimpse of the

nodding heads of the postilions, the plumes of their mounts, and the

great carriage-roof swaying in the iron ruts, she shrank back again, in

an agony of shyness, terrified of being seen.

The sky had deepened to flaming orange in the west, barred by the tall

pines, before she unlatched the garden-gate to go back to the house.

The windows shone out bright and inviting from the parlour on the

ground-floor and from beneath the high gable of the hall as she came up

the slope. Mistress Atherton, she knew, would be in one of these rooms

if she had not already gone up stairs; and with an instinct of shyness

still strong within her the girl slipped round to the back, and passed

in through the chapel.

The court was lighted by a link that flared beside one of the doorways

on the left, and a couple of great trunks lay below it. A servant came

out as she stood there hesitating, and she called to him softly to know

where was Mistress Atherton.

“She is in the parlour, Mistress Margaret,” said the man.

The girl went slowly across to the corner doorway, glancing at the

parlour windows as she passed; but the curtains were drawn on this side,

and she could catch no glimpse of the party within.

The little entrance passage was dark; but she could hear a murmur of

voices as she stood there, still hesitating. Then she opened the door

suddenly, and went into the room.

Her mother was speaking; and the girl heard those icy detached tones as

she looked round the group.

“It must be very difficult for you, Mistress Atherton, in these days.”

Margaret saw her father standing at the window-seat, and Chris beside

him; and in a moment saw that the faces of both were troubled and

uneasy.

A tall girl was in the chair opposite, her hands lying easily on the

arms and her head thrown back almost negligently. She was well dressed,

with furs about her throat; her buckled feet were crossed before the

blaze, and her fingers shone with jewels. Her face was pale; her

scarlet lips were smiling, and there was a certain keen and genial

amusement in her black eyes.

She looked magnificent, thought Margaret, still standing with her hand

on the door--too magnificent.

Her father made a movement, it seemed of relief, as his daughter came

in; but Lady Torridon, very upright in her chair on this side, went on

immediately.

--“With your opinions, Mistress Atherton, I mean. I suppose all that you

consider sacred is being insulted, in your eyes.”

The tall girl glanced at Margaret with the amusement still in her face,

and then answered with a deliberate incisiveness that equalled Lady

Torridon’s own.

“Not so difficult,” she said, “as for those who have no opinions.”

There was a momentary pause; and then she added, as she stood up and Sir

James came forward.

“I am very sorry for them, Mistress Torridon.”

Before Lady Torridon could answer, Sir James had broken in.

“This is my daughter Margaret, Mistress Atherton.”

The two ladies saluted one another.

CHAPTER II

A DUEL

Margaret watched Beatrice with growing excitement that evening, in which

was mingled something of awe and something of attraction. She had never

seen anyone so serenely self-possessed.

It became evident during supper, beyond the possibility of mistake, that

Lady Torridon had planned war against the guest, who was a

representative in her eyes of all that was narrow-minded and

contemptible. Here was a girl, she seemed to tell herself, who had had

every opportunity of emancipation, who had been singularly favoured in

being noticed by Ralph, and who had audaciously thrown him over for the

sake of some ridiculous scruples worthy only of idiots and nuns. Indeed

to Chris it was fairly plain that his mother had consented so willingly

to Beatrice’s visit with the express purpose of punishing her.

But Beatrice held her own triumphantly.

* * * * *

They had not sat down three minutes before Lady Torridon opened the

assault, with grave downcast face and in her silkiest manner. She went

abruptly back to the point where the conversation had been interrupted

in the parlour by Margaret’s entrance.

“Mistress Atherton,” she observed, playing delicately with her spoon, “I

think you said that to your mind the times were difficult for those who

had no opinions.”

Beatrice looked at her pleasantly.

“Yes, Mistress Torridon; at least more difficult for those, than for the

others who know their own mind.”

The other waited a moment, expecting the girl to justify herself, but

she was forced to go on.

“Abbot Marshall knew his mind, but it was not easy for him.”

(The news had just arrived of the Abbot’s execution).

“Do you think not, mistress? I fear I still hold my opinion.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“I mean that unless we have something to hold to, in these troublesome

times, we shall drift. That is all.”

“Ah! and drift whither?”

Beatrice smiled so genially as she answered, that the other had no

excuse for taking offence.

“Well, it might be better not to answer that.”

Lady Torridon looked at her with an impassive face.

“To hell, then?” she said.

“Well, yes: to hell,” said Beatrice.

There was a profound silence; broken by the stifled merriment of a

servant behind the chairs, who transformed it hastily into a cough. Sir

James glanced across in great distress at his son; but Chris’ eyes

twinkled at him.

Lady Torridon was silent a moment, completely taken aback by the

suddenness with which the battle had broken, and amazed by the girl’s

audacity. She herself was accustomed to use brutality, but not to meet

it. She laid her spoon carefully down.

“Ah!” she said, “and you believe that? And for those who hold wrong

opinions, I suppose you would believe the same?”

“If they were wrong enough,” said Beatrice, “and through their fault.

Surely we are taught to believe that, Mistress Torridon?”

The elder woman said nothing at all, and went on with her soup. Her

silence was almost more formidable than her speech, and she knew that,

and contrived to make it offensive. Beatrice paid no sort of attention

to it, however; and without looking at her again began to talk

cheerfully to Sir James about her journey from town. Margaret watched

her, fascinated; her sedate beautiful face, her lace and jewels, her

white fingers, long and straight, that seemed to endorse the impression

of strength that her carriage and manner of speaking suggested; as one

might watch a swordsman between the rounds of a duel and calculate his

chances. She knew very well that her mother would not take her first

repulse easily; and waited in anxiety for the next clash of swords.

Beatrice seemed perfectly fearless, and was talking about the King with

complete freedom, and yet with a certain discretion too.

“He will have his way,” she said. “Who can doubt that?”

Lady Torridon saw an opening for a wound, and leapt at it.

“As he had with Master More,” she put in.

Beatrice turned her head a little, but made no answer; and there was not

the shadow of wincing on her steady face.

“As he had with Master More,” said Lady Torridon a little louder.

“We must remember that he has my Lord Cromwell to help him,” observed

Beatrice tranquilly.

Lady Torridon looked at her again. Even now she could scarcely believe

that this stranger could treat her with such a supreme indifference. And

there was a further sting, too, in the girl’s answer, for all there

understood the reference to Ralph; and yet again it was impossible to

take offence.

Margaret looked at her father, half-frightened, and saw again a look of

anxiety in his eyes; he was crumbling his bread nervously as he answered

Beatrice.

“My Lord Cromwell--” he began.

“My Lord Cromwell has my son Ralph under him,” interrupted his wife.

“Perhaps you did not know that, Mistress Atherton.”

Margaret again looked quickly up; but there was still no sign of wincing

on those scarlet lips, or beneath the black eyebrows.

“Why, of course, I knew it,” said Beatrice, looking straight at her with

large, innocent eyes, “that was why--”

She stopped; and Lady Torridon really roused now, made a false step.

“Yes?” she said. “You did not end your sentence?”

Beatrice cast an ironically despairing look behind her at the servants.

“Well,” she said, “if you will have it: that was why I would not marry

him. Did you not know that, Mistress?”

It was so daring that Margaret caught her breath suddenly; and looked

hopelessly round. Her father and brother had their eyes steadily bent on

the table; and the priest was looking oddly at the quiet angry woman

opposite him.

Then Sir James slid deftly in, after a sufficient pause to let the

lesson sink home; and began to talk of indifferent things; and Beatrice

answered him with the same ease.

Lady Torridon made one more attempt just before the end of supper, when

the servants had left the room.

“You are living on--” she corrected herself ostentatiously--“you are

living with any other family now, Mistress Atherton? I remember my son

Ralph telling me you were almost one of Master More’s household.”

Beatrice met her eyes with a delightful smile.

“I am living on--with your family at this time, Mistress Torridon.”

There was no more to be said just then. The girl had not only turned her

hostess’ point, but had pricked her shrewdly in riposte, three times;

and the last was the sharpest of all.

Lady Torridon led the way to the oak parlour in silence.

* * * * *

She made no more assaults that night; but sat in dignified aloofness,

her hands on her lap, with an air of being unconscious of the presence

of the others. Beatrice sat with Margaret on the long oak settle; and

talked genially to the company at large.

When compline had been said, Sir James drew Chris aside into the

star-lit court as the others went on in front.

“Dear lad,” he said, “what are we to do? This cannot go on. Your

mother--”

Chris smiled at him, and took his arm a moment.

“Why, father,” he said, “what more do we want? Mistress Atherton can

hold her own.”

“But your mother will insult her.”

“She will not be able,” said Chris. “Mistress Atherton will not have it.

Did you not see how she enjoyed it?”

“Enjoyed it?”

“Why, yes; her eyes shone.”

“Well, I must speak to her,” said Sir James, still perplexed. “Come with

me, Chris.”

Mr. Carleton was just leaving the parlour as they came up to its

outside door. Sir James drew him into the yard. There were no secrets

between these two.

“Father,” he said, “did you notice? Do you think Mistress Atherton will

be able to stay here?”

He saw to his astonishment that the priest’s melancholy face, as the

starlight fell on it, was smiling.

“Why, yes, Sir James. She is happy enough.”

“But my wife--”

“Sir James, I think Mistress Atherton may do her good. She--” he

hesitated.

“Well?” said the old man.

“She--Lady Torridon has met her match,” said the chaplain, still

smiling.

Sir James made a little gesture of bewilderment.

“Well, come in, Chris. I do not understand; but if you both think so--”

He broke off and opened the door.

Lady Torridon was gone to her room; and the two girls were alone.

Beatrice was standing before the hearth with her hands behind her

back--a gallant upright figure; as they came in, she turned a cheerful

face to them.

“Your daughter has been apologising, Sir James,” she said; and there was

a ripple of amusement in her voice. “She thinks I have been hardly

treated.”

She glanced at the bewildered Margaret, who was staring at her under her

delicate eyebrows with wide eyes of amazement and admiration.

Sir James looked confused.

“The truth is, Mistress Atherton, that I too--and my son--”

“Well, not your son,” said Chris smiling.

“You too!” cried Beatrice. “And how have I been hardly treated?”

“Well, I thought perhaps, that what was said at supper--” began the old

man, beginning to smile too.

“Lady Torridon, and every one, has been all that is hospitable,” said

Beatrice. “It is like old days at Chelsea. I love word-fencing; and

there are so few who practise it.”

Sir James was still a little perplexed.

“You assure me, Mistress, that you are not distressed by--by anything

that has passed?”

“Distressed!” she cried. “Why, it is a real happiness!”

But he was not yet satisfied.

“You will engage to tell me then, if you think you are improperly

treated by--by anyone--?”

“Why, yes,” said the girl, smiling into his eyes. “But there is no need

to promise that. I am really happy; and I am sure your daughter and I

will be good friends.”

She turned a little towards Margaret; and Chris saw a curious emotion of

awe and astonishment and affection in his sister’s eyes.

“Come, my dear,” said Beatrice. “You said you would take me to my room.”

Sir James hastened to push open the further door that led to the stairs;

and the two girls passed out together.

Then he shut the door, and turned to his son. Chris had begun to laugh.

CHAPTER III

A PEACE-MAKER

It was a very strange household that Christmas at Overfield. Mary and

her husband came over with their child, and the entire party, with the

exception of the duellists themselves, settled down to watch the

conflict between Lady Torridon and Beatrice Atherton. Its prolongation

was possible because for days together the hostess retired into a

fortress of silence, whence she looked out cynically, shrugged her

shoulders, smiled almost imperceptibly, and only sallied when she found

she could not provoke an attack. Beatrice never made an assault; was

always ready for the least hint of peace; but guarded deftly and struck

hard when she was directly threatened. Neither would she ever take an

insult; the bitterest dart fell innocuous on her bright shield before

she struck back smiling; but there were some sharp moments of anxiety

now and again as she hesitated how to guard.

A silence would fall suddenly in the midst of the talk and clatter at

table; there would be a momentary kindling of glances, as from the tall

chair opposite the chaplain a psychological atmosphere of peril made

itself felt; then the blow would be delivered; the weapons clashed; and

once more the talk rose high and genial over the battlefield.

* * * * *

The moment when Beatrice’s position in the house came nearest to being

untenable, was one morning in January, when the whole party were

assembled on the steps to see the sportsmen off for the day.

Sir James was down with the foresters and hounds at the further end of

the terrace, arranging the details of the day; Margaret had not yet come

out of chapel, and Lady Torridon, who had had a long fit of silence, was

standing with Mary and Nicholas at the head of the central stairs that

led down from the terrace to the gravel.

Christopher and Beatrice came out of the house behind, talking

cheerfully; for the two had become great friends since they had learnt

to understand one another, and Beatrice had confessed to him frankly

that she had been wrong and he right in the matter of Ralph. She had

told him this a couple of days after her arrival; but there had been a

certain constraint in her manner that forbade his saying much in answer.

Here they came then, now, in the frosty sunshine; he in his habit and

she in her morning house-dress of silk and lace, talking briskly.

“I was sure you would understand, father,” she said, as they came up

behind the group.

Then Lady Torridon turned and delivered her point, suddenly and

brutally.

“Of course he will,” she said. “I suppose then you are not going out,

Mistress Atherton.” And she glanced with an offensive contempt at the

girl and the monk. Beatrice’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and

opened again.

“Why, no, Lady Torridon.”

“I thought not,” said the other; and again she glanced at the two--“for

I see the priest is not.”

There was a moment’s silence. Nick was looking at his wife with a face

of dismay. Then Beatrice answered smiling.

“Neither are you, dear Lady Torridon. Is not that enough to keep me?”

A short yelp of laughter broke from Nicholas; and he stooped to examine

his boot.

Lady Torridon opened her lips, closed them again, and turned her back on

the girl.

“But you are cruel,” said Beatrice’s voice from behind, “and--”

The woman turned once more venomously.

“You do not want me,” she said. “You have taken one son of mine, and now

you would take the other. Is not my daughter enough?”

Beatrice instantly stepped up, and put her hand on the other’s arm.

“Dear Mistress,” she said; and her voice broke into tenderness; “she is

not enough--”

Lady Torridon jerked her arm away.

“Come, Mary,” she said.

* * * * *

Matters were a little better after that. Sir James was not told of the

incident; because his son knew very well that he would not allow

Beatrice to stay another day after the insult; but Chris felt himself

bound to consult those who had heard what had passed as to whether

indeed it was possible for her to remain. Nicholas grew crimson with

indignation and vowed it was impossible. Mary hesitated; and Chris

himself was doubtful. He went at last to Beatrice that same evening; and

found her alone in the oak parlour, before supper. The sportsmen had not

yet come back; and the other ladies were upstairs.

Beatrice affected to treat it as nothing; and it was not till Chris

threatened to tell his father, that she told him all she thought.

“I must seem a vain fool to say so;” she said, leaning back in her

chair, and looking up at him, “and perhaps insolent too; yet I must say

it. It is this: I believe that Lady Torridon--Ah! how can I say it?”

“Tell me,” said Chris steadily, looking away from her.

Beatrice shifted a little in her seat; and then stood up.

“Well, it is this. I do not believe your mother is so--so--is what she

sometimes seems. I think she is very sore and angry; there are a hundred

reasons. I think no one has--has faced her before. She has been obeyed

too much. And--and I think that if I stay I may be able--I may be some

good,” she ended lamely.

Chris nodded.

“I understand,” he said softly.

“Give me another week or two,” said Beatrice, “I will do my best.”

“You have worked a miracle with Meg,” said Chris. “I believe you can

work another. I will not tell my father; and the others shall not

either.”

* * * * *

A wonderful change had indeed come to Margaret during the last month.

Her whole soul, so cramped now by circumstances, had gone out in

adoration towards this stranger. Chris found it almost piteous to watch

her--her shy looks, the shiver that went over her, when the brilliant

figure rustled into the room, or the brisk sentences were delivered from

those smiling lips. He would see too how their hands met as they sat

together; how Margaret would sit distracted and hungering for attention,

eyeing the ceiling, the carpet, her embroidery; and how her eyes would

leap to meet a glance, and her face flush up, as Beatrice throw her a

soft word or look.

And it was the right love, too, to the monk’s eyes; not a rival flame,

but fuel for divine ardour. Margaret spent longer, not shorter, time at

her prayers; was more, not less, devout at mass and communion; and her

whole sore soul became sensitive and alive again. The winter had passed

for her; the time of the singing-birds was come.

* * * * *

She was fascinated by the other’s gallant brilliance. Religion for the

nun had up to the present appeared a delicate thing that grew in the

shadow or in the warm shelter of the cloister; now it blossomed out in

Beatrice as a hardy bright plant that tossed its leaves in the wind and

exulted in sun and cold. Yet it had its evening tendernesses too, its

subtle fragrance when the breeze fell, its sweet colours and

outlines--Beatrice too could pray; and Margaret’s spiritual instinct, as

she knelt by her at the altar-rail or glanced at the other’s face as she

came down fresh with absolution from the chair in the sanctuary where

the chaplain sat, detected a glow of faith at least as warm as her own.

She was astonished too at her friend’s gaiety; for she had expected, so

far as her knowledge of human souls led to expect anything, a quiet

convalescent spirit, recovering but slowly from the tragedy through

which Margaret knew she had passed. It seemed to her at first as if

Beatrice must be almost heartless, so little did she flinch when Lady

Torridon darted Ralph’s name at her, or Master More’s, or flicked her

suddenly where the wound ought to be; and it was not until the guest had

been a month in the house that the nun understood.

They were together one evening in Margaret’s own white little room above

the oak parlour. Beatrice was sitting before the fire with her arms

clasped behind her head, waiting till the other had finished her office,

and looking round pleased in her heart, at the walls that told their

tale so plainly. It was almost exactly like a cell. A low oak bed,

red-blanketted, stood under the sloping roof, a prie-dieu beside it, and

a cheap little French image of St. Scholastica over it. There was a

table, with a sheet of white paper, a little ink-horn and two quills

primly side by side upon it; and at the back stood a couple of small

bound volumes in which the nun was accumulating little by little private

devotions that appealed to her. A pair of beads hung on a nail by the

window over which was drawn an old red curtain; two brass candlesticks

with a cross between them stood over the hearth, giving it a faint

resemblance to an altar. The boards were bare except for a strip of

matting by the bed; and the whole room, walls, floor, ceiling and

furniture were speckless and precise.

Margaret made the sign of the cross, closed her book, and smiled at

Beatrice.

“You dear child!” she answered.

Margaret’s face shone with pleasure; and she put out her hand softly to

the other’s knee, and laid it there.

“Talk to me,” said the nun.

“Well?” said Beatrice.

“Tell me about your life in London. You never have yet, you know.”

An odd look passed over the other’s face, and she dropped her eyes and

laid her hands together in her lap.

“Oh, Meg,” she said, “I should love to tell you if I could. What would

you like to hear?”

The nun looked at her wondering.

“Why--everything,” she said.

“Shall I tell you of Chelsea and Master More?”

Margaret nodded, still looking at her; and Beatrice began.

It was an extraordinary experience for the nun to sit there and hear

that wonderful tale poured out. Beatrice for the first time threw open

her defences--those protections of the sensitive inner life that she had

raised by sheer will--and showed her heart. She told her first of her

life in the country before she had known anything of the world; of her

father’s friendship with More when she was still a child, and of his

death when she was about sixteen. She had had money of her own, and had

come up to live with Mrs. More’s sisters; and so had gradually slipped

into intimacy at Chelsea. Then she described the life there--the ordered

beauty of it all--and the marvellous soul that was its centre and sun.

She told her of More’s humour, his unfailing gaiety, his sweet cynicism

that shot through his talk, his tender affections, and above all--for

she knew this would most interest the nun--his deep and resolute

devotion to God. She described how he had at one time lived at the

Charterhouse, and had seemed to regret, before the end of his life, that

he had not become a Carthusian; she told her of the precious parcel that

had been sent from the Tower to Chelsea the day before his death, and

how she had helped Margaret Roper to unfasten it and disclose the

hair-shirt that he had worn secretly for years, and which now he had

sent back for fear that it should be seen by unfriendly eyes or praised

by flattering tongues.

Her face grew inexpressibly soft and loving as she talked; more than

once her black eyes filled with tears, and her voice faltered; and the

nun sat almost terrified at the emotion she had called up. It was hardly

possible that this tender feminine creature who talked so softly of

divine and human things and of the strange ardent lawyer in whom both

were so manifest, could be the same stately lady of downstairs who

fenced so gallantly, who never winced at a wound and trod so bravely

over sharp perilous ground.

“They killed him,” said Beatrice. “King Henry killed him; for that he

could not bear an honest, kindly, holy soul so near his own. And we are

left to weep for him, of whom--of whom the world was not worthy.”

Margaret felt her hand caught and caressed; and the two sat in silence a

moment.

“But--but--” began the nun softly, bewildered by this revelation.

“Yes, my dear; you did not know--how should you?--what a wound I carry

here--what a wound we all carry who knew him.”

Again there was a short silence. Margaret was searching for some word of

comfort.

“But you did what you could for him, did you not? And--and even Ralph, I

think I heard--”

Beatrice turned and looked at her steadily. Margaret read in her face

something she could not understand.

“Yes--Ralph?” said Beatrice questioningly.

“You told father so, did you not? He did what he could for Master More?”

Beatrice laid her other hand too over Margaret’s.

“My dear; I do not know. I cannot speak of that.”

“But you said--”

“Margaret, my pet; you would not hurt me, would you? I do not think I

can bear to speak of that.”

The nun gripped the other’s two hands passionately, and laid her cheek

against them.

“Beatrice, I did not know--I forgot.”

Beatrice stooped and kissed her gently.

* * * * *

The nun loved her tenfold more after that. It had been before a kind of

passionate admiration, such as a subject might feel for a splendid

queen; but the queen had taken this timid soul in through the

palace-gates now, into a little inner chamber intimate and apart, and

had sat with her there and shown her everything, her broken toys, her

failures; and more than all her own broken heart. And as, after that

evening, Margaret watched Beatrice again in public, heard her retorts

and marked her bearing, she knew that she knew something that the others

did not; she had the joy of sharing a secret of pain. But there was one

wound that Beatrice did not show her; that secret was reserved for one

who had more claim to it, and could understand. The nun could not have

interpreted it rightly.

* * * * *

Mary and Nicholas went back to Great Keynes at the end of January; and

Beatrice was out on the terrace with the others to see them go. Jim, the

little seven-year-old boy, had fallen in love with her, ever since he

had found that she treated him like a man, with deference and courtesy,

and did not talk about him in his presence and over his head. He was

walking with her now, a little apart, as the horses came round, and

explaining to her how it was that he only rode a pony at present, and

not a horse.

“My legs would not reach, Mistress Atherton,” he said, protruding a

small leather boot. “It is not because I am afraid, or father either. I

rode Jess, the other day, but not astride.”

“I quite understand,” said Beatrice respectfully, without the shadow of

laughter in her face.

“You see--” began the boy.

Then his mother came up.

“Run, Jim, and hold my horse. Mistress Beatrice, may I have a word with

you?”

The two turned and walked down to the end of the terrace again.

“It is this,” said Mary, looking at the other from under her plumed hat,

with her skirt gathered up with her whip in her gloved hand. “I wished

to tell you about my mother. I have not dared till now. I have never

seen her so stirred in my life, as she is now. I--I think she will do

anything you wish in time. It is useless to feign that we do not

understand one another--anything you wish--come back to her Faith

perhaps; treat my father better. She--she loves you, I think; and yet

dare not--”

“On Ralph’s account,” put in Beatrice serenely.

“Yes; how did you know? It is on Ralph’s account. She cannot forgive

that. Can you say anything to her, do you think? Anything to explain?

You understand--”

“I understand.”

“I do not know how I dare say all this,” went on Mary blushing

furiously, “but I must thank you too for what you have done for my

sister. It is wonderful. I could have done nothing.”

“My dear,” said Beatrice. “I love your sister. There is no need for

thanks.”

A loud voice hailed them.

“Sweetheart,” shouted Sir Nicholas, standing with his legs apart at the

mounting steps. “The horses are fretted to death.”

“You will remember,” said Mary hurriedly, as they turned. “And--God

bless you, Beatrice!”

Lady Torridon was indeed very quiet now. It was strange for the others

to see the difference. It seemed as if she had been conquered by the one

weapon that she could wield, which was brutality. As Mr. Carleton had

said, she had never been faced before; she had been accustomed to regard

devoutness as incompatible with strong character; she had never been

resisted. Both her husband and children had thought to conquer by

yielding; it was easier to do so, and appeared more Christian; and she

herself, like Ralph, was only provoked further by passivity. And now she

had met one of the old school, who was as ready in the use of worldly

weapons as herself; she had been ignored and pricked alternately, and

with astonishing grace too, by one who was certainly of that tone of

mind that she had gradually learnt to despise and hate.

Chris saw this before his father; but he saw too that the conquest was

not yet complete. His mother had been cowed with respect, as a dog that

is broken in; she had not yet been melted with love. He had spoken to

Mary the day before the Maxwells’ departure, and tried to put this into

words; and Mary had seen where the opening for love lay, through which

the work could be done; and the result had been the interview with

Beatrice, and the mention of Ralph’s name. But Mary had not a notion how

Beatrice could act; she only saw that Ralph was the one chink in her

mother’s armour, and she left it to this girl who had been so adroit up

to the present, to find how to pierce it.

Sir James had given up trying to understand the situation. He had for so

long regarded his wife as an irreconcilable that he hoped for nothing

better than to be able to keep her pacified; anything in the nature of a

conversion seemed an idle dream. But he had noticed the change in her

manner, and wondered what it meant; he hoped that the pendulum had not

swung too far, and that it was not she who was being bullied now by

this imperious girl from town.

He said a word to Mr. Carleton one day about it, as they walked in the

garden.

“Father,” he said, “I am puzzled. What has come to my wife? Have you not

noticed how she has not spoken for three days. Do you think she dislikes

Mistress Atherton. If I thought that--”

“No, sir,” said the priest. “I do not think it is that. I think it is

the other way about. She did dislike her--but not now.”

“You do not think, Mistress Atherton is--is a little--discourteous and

sharp sometimes. I have wondered whether that was so. Chris thinks not,

however.”

“Neither do I, sir. I think--I think it is all very well as it is. I

hope Mistress Atherton is to stay yet a while.”

“She speaks of going in a week or two,” said the old man. “She has been

here six weeks now.”

“I hope not,” said the priest, “since you have asked my opinion, sir.”

Sir James sighed, looked at the other, and then left him, to search for

his wife and see if she wanted him. He was feeling a little sorry for

her.

* * * * *

A week later the truth began to come out, and Beatrice had the

opportunity for which she was waiting.

They were all gathered before the hall-fire expecting supper; the

painted windows had died with the daylight, and the deep tones of the

woodwork in gallery and floor and walls had crept out from the gloom

into the dancing flare of the fire and the steady glow of the sconces.

The weather had broken a day or two before; all the afternoon sheets of

rain had swept across the fields and gardens, and heavy cheerless

clouds marched over the sky. The wind was shrilling now against the

north side of the hall, and one window dripped a little inside on to the

matting below it. The supper-table shone with silver and crockery, and

the napkins by each place; and the door from the kitchen was set wide

for the passage of the servants, one of whom waited discreetly in the

opening for the coming of the lady of the house. They were all there but

she; and the minutes went by and she did not come.

Sir James turned enquiringly as the door from the court opened, but it

was only a wet shivering dog who had nosed it open, and now crept

deprecatingly towards the blaze.

“You poor beast,” said Beatrice, drawing her skirts aside. “Take my

place,” and she stepped away to allow him to come. He looked gratefully

up, wagged his rat-tail, and lay down comfortably at the edge of the

tiles.

“My wife is very late,” said Sir James. “Chris--”

He stopped as footsteps sounded in the flagged passage leading from the

living rooms; and the next moment the door was flung open, and a woman

ran forward with outstretched hands.

“O! mon Dieu, mon Dieu!” she cried. “My lady is ill. Come, sir, come!”

CHAPTER IV

THE ELDER SON

Ralph had prospered exceedingly since his return from the Sussex

Visitation. He had been sent on mission after mission by Cromwell, who

had learnt at last how wholly he could be trusted; and with each success

his reputation increased. It seemed to Cromwell that his man was more

whole-hearted than he had been at first; and when he was told abruptly

by Ralph that his relations with Mistress Atherton had come to an end,

the politician was not slow to connect cause and effect. He had always

regretted the friendship; it seemed to him that his servant’s character

was sure to be weakened by his alliance with a friend of Master More;

and though he had said nothing--for Ralph’s manner did not encourage

questions--he had secretly congratulated both himself and his agent for

so happy a termination to an unfortunate incident.

For the meantime Ralph’s fortunes rose with his master’s; Lord Cromwell

now reigned in England next after the King in both Church and State. He

held a number of offices, each of which would have been sufficient for

an ordinary man, but all of which did not overtax his amazing energy. He

stood absolutely alone, with all the power in his hands; President of

the Star Chamber, Foreign Minister, Home-Minister, and the Vicar-General

of the Church; feared by Churchmen, distrusted by statesmen and nobles;

and hated by all except his own few personal friends--an unique figure

that had grown to gigantic stature through sheer effort and adroitness.

And beneath his formidable shadow Ralph was waxing great. He had failed

to get Lewes for himself, for Cromwell designed it for Gregory his son;

but he was offered his choice among several other great houses. For the

present he hesitated to choose; uncertain of his future. If his father

died there would be Overfield waiting for him, so he did not wish to tie

himself to one of the far-away Yorkshire houses; if his father lived, he

did not wish to be too near him. There was no hurry, said Cromwell;

there would be houses and to spare for the King’s faithful servants; and

meantime it would be better for Mr. Torridon to remain in Westminster,

and lay his foundations of prosperity deeper and wider yet before

building. The title too that Cromwell dangled before him sometimes--that

too could wait until he had chosen his place of abode.

Ralph felt that he was being magnificently treated by his master; and

his gratitude and admiration grew side by side with his rising fortune.

There was no niggardliness, now that Cromwell had learnt to trust in

him; he could draw as much money as he wished for the payment of his

under-agents, or for any other purpose; and no questions were asked.

The little house at Westminster grew rich in treasures; his bed-coverlet

was the very cope he had taken from Rusper; his table was heavy with

chalices beaten into secular shape; his fire-screen was a Spanish

chasuble taken in the North. His servants were no longer three or four

sleeping in the house; there was a brigade of them, some that attended

for orders morning by morning, some that skirmished for him in the

country and returned rich in documents and hearsay; and a dozen waited

on his personal wants.

He dealt too with great folks. Half a dozen abbots had been to see him

in the last year or two, stately prelates that treated him as an equal

and pleaded for his intercession; the great nobles, enemies of his

master and himself, eyed him with respectful suspicion as he walked with

Cromwell in Westminster Hall. The King had pulled his ears and praised

him; Ralph had stayed at Greenwich a week at a time when the execution

of the Benedictine abbots was under discussion; he had ridden down

Cheapside with Henry on his right and Cromwell beyond, between the

shouting crowds and beneath the wild tossing of gold-cloth and tapestry

and the windy pealing of a hundred brazen bells. He had gone up with

Norfolk to Doncaster, a mouth through which the King might promise and

threaten, and had strode up the steps beside the Duke to make an end of

the insurgent-leaders of the northern rebellion.

He did not lack a goad, beside that of his own ambition, to drive him

through this desperate stir; he found a sufficient one in his memory. He

did not think much of his own family, except with sharp contempt. He did

not even trouble to make any special report about Chris or Margaret; but

it was impossible to remember Beatrice with contempt. When she had left

him kneeling at his table, she had left something besides--the sting of

her words, and the bitter coldness of her eyes.

As he looked back he did not know whether he loathed her or loved her;

he only knew that she affected him profoundly. Again and again as he

dealt brutally with some timid culprit, or stood with his hand on his

hip to direct the destruction of a shrine, the memory whipped him on his

raw soul. He would show her whether he were a man or no; whether he

depended on her or no; whether her woman’s tongue could turn him or no.

* * * * *

He was exercised now with very different matters. Religious affairs for

the present had fallen into a secondary place, and home and foreign

politics absorbed most of Cromwell’s energies and time. Forces were

gathering once more against England, and the Catholic powers were coming

to an understanding with one another against the country that had thrown

off allegiance to the Pope and the Empire. There was an opportunity,

however, for Henry’s propensity to marriage once more to play a part in

politics; he had been three years without a wife; and Cromwell had

hastened for the third time to avail himself of the King’s passions as

an instrument in politics. He had understood that a union between

England and the Lutheran princes would cause a formidable obstacle to

Catholic machinations; and with this in view had excited Henry by a

description and a picture of the Lady Anne, daughter of the Duke of

Cleves and sister-in-law of the Elector of Saxony. He had been perfectly

successful in the first stages; the stout duchess had landed at Deal at

the end of December; and the marriage had been solemnised a few days

later. But unpleasant rumour had been busy ever since; it was whispered

far and wide that the King loathed his wife, and complained that he had

been deceived as to her charms; and Ralph, who was more behind the

scenes than most men, knew that the rumour was only too true. He had

been present at an abominable incident the day after the marriage had

taken place, when the King had stormed and raved about the council-room,

crying out that he had been deceived, and adding many gross details for

the benefit of his friends.

Cromwell had been strangely moody ever since. Ralph had watched his

heavy face day after day staring vacantly across the room, and his hand

that held the pen dig and prick at the paper beneath it.

Even that was not all. The Anglo-German alliance had provoked opposition

on the continent instead of quelling it; and Ralph saw more than one

threatening piece of news from abroad that hinted at a probable invasion

of England should Cromwell’s schemes take effect. These too, however,

had proved deceptive, and the Lutheran princes whom he had desired to

conciliate were even already beginning to draw back from the

consequences of their action.

Ralph was in Cromwell’s room one day towards the end of January, when a

courier arrived with despatches from an agent who had been following the

Spanish Emperor’s pacific progress through France, undertaken as a kind

of demonstration against England.

Cromwell tore open the papers, and glanced at them, running his quick

attentive eye over this page and that; and Ralph saw his face grow stern

and white. He tossed the papers on to the table, and nodded to the

courier to leave the room.

Then he took up a pen, examined it; dashed it point down against the

table; gnawed his nails a moment, and then caught Ralph’s eye.

“We are failing,” he said abruptly. “Mr. Torridon, if you are a rat you

had better run.”

“I shall not run, sir,” said Ralph.

“God’s Body!” said his master, “we shall all run together, I think;--but

not yet.”

Then he took up the papers again, and began to read.

It was a few days later that Ralph received the news of his mother’s

illness.

She had written to him occasionally, telling him of his father’s

tiresome ways, his brother’s arrogance, his sister’s feeble piety, and

finally she had told him of Beatrice’s arrival.

“I consented very gladly,” she had written, “for I thought to teach my

lady a lesson or two; but I find her very pert and obstinate. I do not

understand, my dear son, how you could have wished to make her your

wife; and yet I will grant that she has a taking way with her; she seems

to fear nothing but her own superstitions and folly, but I am very happy

to think that all is over between you. She never loved you, my Ralph;

for she cares nothing when I speak your name, as I have done two or

three times; nor yet Master More either. I think she has no heart.”

Ralph had wondered a little as he read this, at his mother’s curious

interest in the girl; and he wondered too at the report of Beatrice’s

callousness. It was her damned pride, he assured himself.

Then, one evening as he arrived home from Hackney where he had slept the

previous night, he found a messenger waiting for him. The letter had not

been sent on to him, as he had not left word where he was going.

It contained a single line from his father.

“Your mother is ill. Come at once. She wishes for you.”

* * * * *

It was in the stormy blackness of a February midnight that he rode up

through the lighted gatehouse to his home. Above the terrace as he came

up the road the tall hall-window glimmered faintly like a gigantic

luminous door hung in space; and the lower window of his father’s room

shone and faded as the fire leapt within.

A figure rose up suddenly from before the hall-fire as he came in,

bringing with him a fierce gust of wet wind through the opened door; and

when he had slipped off his dripping cloak into his servant’s hands, he

saw that his father was there two yards away, very stern and white, with

outstretched hands.

“My son,” said the old man, “you are too late. She died two hours ago.”

It was a fierce shock, and for a moment he stood dazed, blinking at the

light, holding his father’s warm slender hands in his own, and trying to

assimilate the news. He had been driven inwards, and his obstinacy

weakened, during that long ride from town through the stormy sunset into

the black, howling night; memories had reasserted themselves on the

strength of his anxiety; and the past year or two slipped from him, and

left him again the eldest son of the house and of his two parents.

Then as he looked into the pale bearded face before him, and the eyes

which had looked into his own a few months ago with such passionate

anger, he remembered all that was between them, dropped the hands and

went forward to the fire.

His father followed him and stood by him there as he spread his fingers

to the blaze, and told him the details, in short detached sentences.

She had been seized with pain and vomiting on the previous night at

supper time; the doctor had been sent for, and had declared the illness

to be an internal inflammation. She had grown steadily worse on the

following day, with periods of unconsciousness; she had asked for Ralph

an hour after she had been taken ill; the pain had seemed to become

fiercer as the hours went on; she had died at ten o’clock that night.

Ralph stood there and listened, his head pressed against the high

mantelpiece, and his fingers stretching and closing mechanically to

supple the stiffened joints.

“Mistress Atherton was with her all the while,” said his father; “she

asked for her.”

Ralph shot a glance sideways, and down again.

“And--” he began.

“Yes; she was shriven and anointed, thank God; she could not receive

Viaticum.”

Ralph did not know whether he was glad or sorry at that news. It was a

proper proceeding at any rate; as proper as the candles and the shroud

and the funeral rites. As regards grief, he did not feel it yet; but he

was aware of a profound sensation in his soul, as of a bruise.

There was silence for a moment or two; then the wind bellowed suddenly

in the chimney, the tall window gave a crack of sound, and the smoke

eddied out into the room. Ralph turned round.

“They are with her still,” said Sir James; “we can go up presently.”

The other shook his head abruptly.

“No,” he said, “I will wait until to-morrow. Which is my room?”

“Your old room,” said his father. “I have had a truckle-bed set there

for your man. Will you find your way? I must stay here for Mistress

Atherton.”

Ralph nodded sharply, and went out, down the hill.

* * * * *

It was half an hour more before Beatrice appeared; and then Sir James

looked up from his chair at the sound of a footstep and saw her coming

up the matted floor. Her face was steady and resolute, but there were

dark patches under her eyes, for she had not slept for two nights.

Sir James stood up, and held out his hands.

“Ralph has come,” he said. “He is gone to his room. Where are the

others?”

“The priests are at prayers and Meg too,” she said. “It is all ready,

sir. You may go up when you please.”

“I must say a word first,” said Sir James. “Sit down, Mistress

Atherton.”

He drew forward his chair for her; and himself stood up on the hearth,

leaning his head on his hand and looking down into the fire.

“It is this,” he said: “May our Lord reward you for what you have done

for us.”

Beatrice was silent.

“You know she asked my pardon,” he said, “when we were left alone

together. You do not know what that means. And she gave me her

forgiveness for all my folly--”

Beatrice drew a sharp breath in spite of herself.

“We have both sinned,” he went on; “we did not understand one another;

and I feared we should part so. That we have not, we have to thank

you--”

His old voice broke suddenly; and Beatrice heard him draw a long sobbing

breath. She knew she ought to speak, but her brain was bewildered with

the want of sleep and the long struggle; she could not think of a word

to say; she felt herself on the verge of hysteria.

“You have done it all,” he said again presently. “She took all that Mr.

Carleton said patiently enough, he told me. It is all your work.

Mistress Atherton--”

She looked up questioningly with her bright tired eyes.

“Mistress Atherton; may I know what you said to her?”

Beatrice made a great effort and recovered her self-control.

“I answered her questions,” she said.

“Questions? Did she ask you of the Faith? Did she speak of me? Am I

asking too much?”

Beatrice shook her head. For a moment again she could not speak.

“I am asking what I should not,” said the old man.

“No, no,” cried the girl, “you have a right to know. Wait, I will tell

you--”

Again she broke off, and felt her own breath begin to sob in her throat.

She buried her face in her hands a moment.

“God forgive me,” said the other. “I--”

“It was about your son Ralph,” said Beatrice bravely, though her lips

shook.

“She--she asked whether I had ever loved him at all--and--”

“Mistress Beatrice, Mistress Beatrice, I entreat you not to say more.”

“And I told her--yes; and, yes--still.”

CHAPTER V

THE MUMMERS

It was a strange meeting for Beatrice and Ralph the next morning. She

saw him first from the gallery in chapel at mass, kneeling by his

father, motionless and upright, and watched him go down the aisle when

it was over. She waited a few minutes longer, quieting herself,

marshalling her forces, running her attention over each movement or word

that might prove unruly in his presence; and then she got up from her

knees and went down.

It had been an intolerable pain to tell the dying woman that she loved

her son; it tore open the wound again, for she had never yet spoken that

secret aloud to any living soul, not even to her own. When the question

came, as she knew it would, she had not hesitated an instant as to the

answer, and yet the answer had materialised what had been impalpable

before.

As she had looked down from the gallery this morning she knew that she

hated, in theory, every detail of his outlook on life; he was brutal,

insincere; he had lied to her; he was living on the fruits of sacrilege;

he had outraged every human tie he possessed; and yet she loved every

hair of his dark head, every movement of his strong hands. It was that

that had broken down the mother’s reserve; she had been beaten by the

girl’s insolence, as a dog is beaten into respect; she had only one

thing that she had not been able to forgive, and that was that this

girl had tossed aside her son’s love; then the question had been asked

and answered; and the work had been done. The dying woman had

surrendered wholly to the superior personality; and had obeyed like a

child.

* * * * *

She had a sense of terrible guilt as she went downstairs into the

passage that opened on the court; the fact that she had put into words

what had lain in her heart, made her fancy that the secret was written

on her face. Then again she drove the imagination down by sheer will;

she knew that she had won back her self-control, and could trust her own

discretion.

Their greeting was that of two acquaintances. There was not the tremor

of an eyelid of either, or a note in either voice, that betrayed that

their relations had once been different. Ralph thanked her courteously

for her attention to his mother; and she made a proper reply. Then they

all sat down to breakfast.

Then Margaret had to be attended to, for she was half-wild with remorse;

she declared to Beatrice when they went upstairs together that she had

been a wicked daughter, that she had resented her mother’s words again

and again, had behaved insolently, and so forth. Beatrice took her in

her arms.

“My dear,” she said, “indeed you must leave all that now. Come and see

her; she is at peace, and you must be.”

The bedroom where Lady Torridon had died was arranged as a _chapelle

ardente;_ the great bed had been moved out into the centre of the room.

Six tall candlesticks with escutcheons and yellow tapers formed a

slender mystical wall of fire and light about it; the windows were

draped; a couple of kneeling desks were set at the foot of the bed.

Chris was kneeling at one beside his father as they went in, and Mary

Maxwell, who had arrived a few hours before death had taken place, was

by herself in a corner.

Beatrice drew Margaret to the second desk, pushed the book to her, and

knelt by her. There lay the body of the strange, fierce, lonely woman,

with her beautiful hands crossed, pale as wax, with a crucifix between

them; and those great black eyebrows beyond, below which lay the double

reverse curve of the lashes. It seemed as if she was watching them both,

as her manner had been in life, with a tranquil cynicism.

And was she at peace, thought Beatrice, as she had told her daughter

just now? Was it possible to believe that that stormy, vicious spirit

had been quieted so suddenly? And yet that would be no greater miracle

than that which death had wrought to the body. If the one was so still,

why not the other? At least she had asked pardon of her husband for

those years of alienation; she had demanded the sacraments of the

Church!

Beatrice bowed her head, and prayed for the departed soul.

* * * * *

She was disturbed by the soft opening of a door, and lifted her eyes to

see Ralph stand a moment by the head of the bed, before he sank on his

knees. She could watch every detail of his face in the candlelight; his

thin tight lips, his heavy eyebrows so like his mother’s, his curved

nostrils, the clean sharp line of his jaw.

She found herself analysing his processes of thought. His mother had

been the one member of his family with whom he had had sympathy; they

understood one another, these two bitter souls, as no one else did,

except perhaps Beatrice herself. How aloof they had stood from all

ordinary affections; how keen must have been their dual loneliness! And

what did this snapped thread mean to him now? To what, in his opinion,

did the broken end lead that had passed out from the visible world to

the invisible? Did he think that all was over, and that the one soul

that had understood his own had passed like a candle flame into the

dark? And she too--was she crying for her son, a thin soundless sobbing

in the world beyond sight? Above all, did he understand how alone he was

now--how utterly, eternally alone, unless he turned his course?

A great well of pity broke up and surged in her heart, flooding her eyes

with tears, as she looked at the living son and the dead mother; and she

dropped her head on her hands again, and prayed for his soul as well as

for hers.

* * * * *

It was a very strange atmosphere in the house during the day or two that

passed before the funeral. The household met at meals and in the parlour

and chapel, but seldom at other times. Ralph was almost invisible; and

silent when he appeared. There were no explanations on either side; he

behaved with a kind of distant courtesy to the others, answered their

questions, volunteered a word or two sometimes; made himself useful in

small ways as regarded giving orders to the servants, inspecting the

funeral standard and scutcheons, and making one or two arrangements

which fell to him naturally; and went out by himself on horseback or on

foot during the afternoon. His contempt seemed to have fallen from him;

he was as courteous to Chris as to the others; but no word was spoken on

either side as regarded either the past and the great gulf that

separated him from the others, or the future relations between him and

his home.

The funeral took place three days after death, on the Saturday morning;

a requiem was sung in the presence of the body in the parish church; and

Beatrice sat with the mourners in the Torridon chapel behind the black

hearse set with lights, before the open vault in the centre of the

pavement. Ralph sat two places beyond her, with Sir James between; and

she was again vividly conscious of his presence, of his movements as he

knelt and sat; and again she wondered what all the solemn ceremonies

meant to him, the yellow candles, the black vestments, the mysterious

hallowing of the body with incense and water--counteracting, as it were,

with fragrance and brightness, the corruption and darkness of the grave.

She walked back with Margaret, who clung to her now, almost desperately,

finding in her sane serenity an antidote to her own remorse; and as she

walked through the garden and across the moat, with Nicholas and Mary

coming behind, she watched the three men going in front, Sir James in

the middle, the monk on his left, and the slow-stepping Ralph on his

right, and marvelled at the grim acting.

There they went, the father and his two sons, side by side in courteous

silence--she noticed Ralph step forward to lift the latch of the

garden-gate for the others to pass through--and between them lay an

impassable gulf; she found herself wondering whether the other gulf that

they had looked into half an hour before were so deep or wide.

She was out again with Sir James alone in the evening before supper, and

learnt from him then that Ralph was to stay till Monday.

“He has not spoken to me of returning again,” said the old man. “Of

course it is impossible. Do you not think so, Mistress Atherton.”

“It is impossible,” she said. “What good would be served?”

“What good?” repeated the other.

The evening was falling swiftly, layer on layer of twilight, as they

turned to come back to the house. The steeple of the church rose up on

their left, slender and ghostly against the yellow sky, out of the black

yews and cypresses that lay banked below it. They stopped and looked at

it a moment, as it aspired to heaven from the bones that lay about its

base, like an eternal resurrection wrought in stone. There all about it

were the mortal and the dead; the stones and iron slabs leaned, as they

knew, in hundreds about the grass; and round them again stood the roofs,

beginning now to kindle under the eaves, where the living slept and ate.

There was a rumbling of heavy carts somewhere beyond the village, a

crack or two of a whip, the barking of a dog.

Then they turned again and went up to the house.

* * * * *

It was the chaplain who was late this evening for supper. The others

waited a few minutes by the fire, but there was no sign of him. A

servant was sent up to his room and came back to report that he had

changed his cassock and gone out; a boy had come from the parish-priest,

said the man, ten minutes before, and Mr. Carleton had probably been

sent for.

They waited yet five minutes, but the priest did not appear, and they

sat down. Supper was nearly over before he came. He came in by the

side-door from the court, splashed with mud, and looking pale and

concerned. He went straight up to Sir James.

“May I speak with you, sir?” he said.

The old man got up at once, and went down the hall with him.

The rest waited, expecting them to return, but there was no sign of

them; and Ralph at last rose and led the way to the oak-parlour. As they

passed the door of Sir James’s room they heard the sound of voices

within.

Conversation was a very difficult matter that evening. Ralph had behaved

with considerable grace and tact, but Nicholas had not responded. Ever

since his arrival on the day before the funeral he had eyed Ralph like a

strange dog intruded into a house; Mary had hovered round her husband,

watchful and anxious, stepping hastily into gaps in the conversation,

sliding in a sentence or two as Nicholas licked his lips in preparation

for a snarl; once even putting her hand swiftly on his and drowning a

growl with a word of her own. Ralph had been wonderfully

self-controlled; only once had Beatrice seen him show his teeth for a

moment as his brother-in-law had scowled more plainly than usual.

The atmosphere was charged to-night, now that the master of the house

was away; and as Ralph took his seat in his father’s chair, Beatrice had

caught her breath for a moment as she saw the look on Nicholas’s face.

It seemed as if the funeral had lifted a stone that had hitherto held

the two angry spirits down; Nicholas, after all, was but a son-in-law,

and Ralph, to his view at least, a bad son. She feared that both might

think that a quarrel did not outrage decency; but she feared for

Nicholas more than for Ralph.

Ralph appeared not to notice the other’s scowl, and leaned easily back,

his head against the carved heraldry, and rapped his fingers softly and

rhythmically on the bosses of the arms.

Then she heard Nicholas draw a slow venomous breath; and the talk died

on Mary’s lips. Beatrice stood up abruptly, in desperation; she did not

know what to say; but the movement checked Nicholas, and he glanced at

her a moment. Then Mary recovered herself, put her hand sharply on her

husband’s, and slid out an indifferent sentence. Beatrice saw Ralph’s

eyes move swiftly and sideways and down again, and a tiny wrinkle of a

smile show itself at the corners of his mouth. But that danger was

passed; and a minute later they heard the door of Sir James’s room

opposite open, and the footsteps of the two men come out.

Ralph stood up at once as his father came in, followed by the priest,

and stepped back to the window-seat; there was the faintest hint in the

slight motion of his hands to the effect that he had held his post as

the eldest son until the rightful owner came. But the consciousness of

it in Beatrice’s mind was swept away as she looked at the old man,

standing with a white stern face and his hands clenched at his sides.

She could see that something impended, and stood up quickly.

“Mr. Carleton has brought shocking news,” he said abruptly; and his eyes

wandered to his eldest son standing in the shadow of the curtain. “A

company of mummers has arrived in the village--they--they are to give

their piece to-morrow.”

There was a dead silence for a moment, for all knew what this meant.

Nicholas sprang to his feet.

“By God, they shall not!” he said.

Sir James lifted his hand sharply.

“We cannot hinder it,” he said. “The priests have done what they can.

The fellow tells them--” he paused, and again his eyes wandered to

Ralph--“the fellow tells them he is under the protection of my Lord

Cromwell.”

There was a swift rustle in the room. Nicholas faced sharply round to

the window-seat, his hands clenched and his face quivering. Ralph did

not move.

“Tell them, father,” said Sir James.

The chaplain gave his account. He had been sent for by the parish priest

just before supper, and had gone with him to the barn that had been

hired for the performance. The carts had arrived that evening from

Maidstone; and were being unpacked. He had seen the properties; they

were of the usual kind--all the paraphernalia for the parody of the Mass

that was usually given by such actors. He had seen the vestments, the

friar’s habit, the red-nosed mask, the woman’s costume and wig--all the

regular articles. The manager had tried to protest against the priests’

entrance; had denied at first that any insult was intended to the

Catholic Religion; and had finally taken refuge in defiance; he had

flung out the properties before their eyes; had declared that no one

could hinder him from doing as he pleased, since the Archbishop had not

protested; and Lord Cromwell had given him his express sanction.

“We did all we were able,” said the priest. “Master Rector said he would

put all the parishioners who came, under the ban of the Church; the

fellow snapped his fingers in his face. I told them of Sir James’s

wishes; the death of my Lady--it was of no avail. We can do nothing.”

The priest’s sallow face was flushed with fury as he spoke; and his lips

trembled piteously with horror and pain. It was the first time that the

mummers had been near Overfield; they had heard tales of them from other

parts of the country, but had hoped that their own village would escape

the corruption. And now it had come.

He stood shaking, as he ended his account.

“Mr. Carleton says it would be of no avail for me to go down myself. I

wished to. We can do nothing.”

Again he glanced at Ralph, who had sat down silently in the shadow while

the priest talked.

Nicholas could be restrained no longer. He shook off his wife’s hand and

took a step across the room.

“And you--you sit there, you devil!” he shouted.

Sir James was with him in a moment, so swiftly that Beatrice did not see

him move. Margaret was clinging to her now, whispering and sobbing.

“Nick,” snapped out the old man, “hold your tongue, sir. Sit down.”

“God’s Blood!” bellowed the squire. “You bid me sit down.”

Sir James gripped him so fiercely that he stepped back.

“I bid you sit down,” he said. “Ralph, will you help us?”

Ralph stood up instantly. He had not stirred a muscle as Nick shouted at

him.

“I waited for that, sir,” he said. “What is it you would have me do?”

Beatrice saw that his face was quite quiet as he spoke; his eyelids

drooped a little; and his mouth was tight and firm. He seemed not to be

aware of Nicholas’s presence.

“To hinder the play-acting,” said his father.

There fell a dead silence again.

“I will do it, sir,” said his son. “It--it is but decent.”

And in the moment of profound astonishment that fell, he came straight

across the room, passed by them all without turning his head, and went

out.

Beatrice felt a fierce emotion grip her throat as she looked after him,

and saw the door close. Then Margaret seized her again, and she turned

to quiet her.

She was aware that Sir James had gone out after his son, after a moment

of silence, and she heard his footsteps pass along the flags outside.

“Oh! God bless him!” sobbed Margaret.

Sir James came back immediately, shook his head, went across the room,

and sat down in the seat that Ralph had left. A dreadful stillness fell.

Margaret was quiet now. Mary was sitting with her husband on the other

side of the hearth. Chris rose presently and sat down by his father, but

no one spoke a word.

Then Nicholas got up uneasily, came across the room, and stood with his

back to the hearth warming himself. Beatrice saw him glance now and

again to the shadowed window-seat where the two men sat; he hummed a

note or two to himself softly; then turned round and stared at the fire

with outstretched hands.

The bell rang for prayers, and still without a word being spoken they

all got up and went out.

In the same silence they came back. Ralph’s servant was standing by the

door as they entered.

“If you please, sir, Mr. Ralph is come in. He bade me tell you that all

is arranged.”

The old man looked at him, swallowed once in his throat; and at last

spoke.

“It is arranged, you say? It will not take place?”

“It will not take place, sir.”

“Where is Mr. Ralph?”

“He is gone to his room, sir. He bade me tell you he would be leaving

early for London.”

CHAPTER VI

A CATASTROPHE

Ralph rode away early next morning, yet not so early as to escape an

interview with his father. They met in the hall, Sir James in his loose

morning gown and Ralph booted and spurred with his short cloak and tight

cap. The old man took him by the sleeve, drawing him to the fire that

burned day and night in winter.

“Ralph--Ralph, my son,” he said, “I must thank you for last night.”

“You have to thank yourself only, sir, and my mother. I could do no

otherwise.”

“It is you--” began his father.

“It is certainly not Nick, sir. The hot fool nearly provoked me.”

“But you hate such mummery yourself, my son?”

Ralph hesitated.

“It is not seemly--” began his father again.

“It is certainly not seemly; but neither are the common folk seemly.”

“Did you have much business with them, my son?” Ralph smiled in the

firelight.

“Why, no, sir. I told them who I was. I charged myself with the burden.”

“And you will not be in trouble with my Lord?”

“My Lord has other matters to think of than a parcel of mummers.”

Then they separated; and Ralph rode down the drive with his servants

behind him. Neither father nor son had said a word of any return.

Neither had Ralph had one private word with Beatrice during his three

days’ stay. Once he had come into the parlour to find her going out at

the other door; and he had wondered whether she had heard his step and

gone out on purpose. But he knew very well that under the superficial

courtesy between him and her there lay something deeper--some passionate

emotion vibrated like a beam between them; but he did not know, even on

his side and still less on hers, whether that emotion were one of love

or loathing. It was partly from the discomfort of the charged

atmosphere, partly from a shrinking from thanks and explanations that he

had determined to go up to London a day earlier than he had intended; he

had a hatred of personal elaborateness.

* * * * *

He found Cromwell, on his arrival in London, a little less moody than he

had been in the previous week; for he was busy with preparations for the

Parliament that was to meet in April; and to the occupation that this

gave him there was added a good deal of business connected with Henry’s

negotiations with the Emperor. The dispute, that at present centred

round the treatment of Englishmen in Spain, and other similar matters,

in reality ran its roots far deeper; and there were a hundred details

which occupied the minister. But there was still a hint of storm in the

air; Cromwell spoke brusquely once or twice without cause, and Ralph

refrained from saying anything about the affair at Overfield, but took

up his own work again quietly.

A fortnight later, however, he heard of it once more.

He was sitting at a second table in Cromwell’s own room in the Rolls

House, when one of the secretaries came up with a bundle of reports, and

laid them as usual before Ralph.

Ralph finished the letter he was engaged on--one to Dr. Barnes who had

preached a Protestant sermon at Paul’s Cross, and who now challenged

Bishop Gardiner to a public disputation. Ralph was telling him to keep

his pugnacity to himself; and when he had done took up the reports and

ran his eyes over them.

They were of the usual nature--complaints, informations, protests,

appeals from men of every rank of life; agents, farm-labourers, priests,

ex-Religious, fanatics--and he read them quickly through, docketing

their contents at the head of each that his master might be saved

trouble.

At one, however, he stopped, glanced momentarily at Cromwell, and then

read on.

It was an illiterate letter, ill-spelt and smudged, and consisted of a

complaint from a man who signed himself Robert Benham, against “Mr.

Ralph Torridon, as he named himself,” for hindering the performance of a

piece entitled “The Jolly Friar” in the parish of Overfield, on Sunday,

February the first. Mr. Torridon, the writer stated, had used my Lord

Cromwell’s name and authority in stopping the play; expenses had been

incurred in connection with it, for a barn had been hired, and the

transport of the properties had cost money; and Mr. Benham desired to

know whether these expenses would be made good to him, and if Mr.

Torridon had acted in accordance with my Lord’s wishes.

Ralph bit his pen in some perplexity, when he had finished making out

the document. He wondered whether he had better show it to Cromwell; it

might irritate him or not, according to his mood. If it was destroyed

surely no harm would be done; and yet Ralph had a disinclination to

destroy it. He sat a moment or two longer considering; once he took the

paper by the corners to tear it; then laid it down again; glanced once

more at the heavy intent face a couple of yards away, and then by a

sudden impulse took up his pen and wrote a line on the corner explaining

the purport of the paper, initialled it, and laid it with the rest.

Cromwell was so busy during the rest of the day that there was no

opportunity to explain the circumstances to him; indeed he was hardly in

the room again, so great was the crowd that waited on him continually

for interviews, and Ralph went away, leaving the reports for his chief

to examine at his leisure.

* * * * *

The next morning there was a storm.

Cromwell burst out on him as soon as he came in.

“Shut the door, Mr. Torridon,” he snapped. “I must have a word with

you.”

Ralph closed the door and came across to Cromwell’s table and stood

there, apparently imperturbable, but with a certain quickening of his

pulse.

“What is this, sir?” snarled the other, taking up the letter that was

laid at his hand. “Is it true?”

Ralph looked at him coolly.

“What is it, my Lord? Mr. Robert Benham?”

“Yes, Mr. Robert Benham. Is it true? I wish an answer.”

“Certainly, my Lord. It is true.”

“You hindered this piece being played? And you used my name?”

“I told them who I was--yes.”

Cromwell slapped the paper down.

“Well, that is to use my name, is it not, Mr. Torridon?”

“I suppose it is.”

“You suppose it is! And tell me, if you please, why you hindered it.”

“I hindered it because it was not decent. My mother had been buried

that day. My father asked me to do so.”

“Not decent! When the mummers have my authority!

“If your Lordship does not understand the indecency, I cannot explain

it.”

Ralph was growing angry now. It was not often that Cromwell treated him

like a naughty boy; and he was beginning to resent it.

The other stared at him under black brows.

“You are insolent, sir.”

Ralph bowed.

“See here,” said Cromwell, “my men must have no master but me. They must

leave houses and brethren and sisters for my sake. You should understand

that by now; and that I repay them a hundredfold. You have been long

enough in my service to know it. I have said enough. You can sit down,

Mr. Torridon.”

Ralph went to his seat in a storm of fury. He felt he was supremely in

the right--in the right in stopping the play, and still more so for not

destroying the complaint when it was in his hands. He had been scolded

like a school-child, insulted and shouted down. His hand shook as he

took up his pen, and he kept his back resolutely turned to his master.

Once he was obliged to ask him a question, and he did so with an icy

aloofness. Cromwell answered him curtly, but not unkindly, and he went

to his seat again still angry.

When dinner-time came near, he rose, bowed slightly to Cromwell and went

towards the door. As his fingers touched the handle he heard his name

called; and turned round to see the other looking at him oddly.

“Mr. Torridon--you will dine with me?”

“I regret I cannot, my Lord,” said Ralph; and went out of the room.

* * * * *

There were no explanations or apologies on either side when they met

again; but in a few days their behaviour to one another was as usual.

Yet underneath the smooth surface Ralph’s heart rankled and pricked with

resentment.

* * * * *

At the meeting of Parliament in April, the business in Cromwell’s hands

grew more and more heavy and distracting.

Ralph went with him to Westminster, and heard him deliver his eloquent

little speech on the discord that prevailed in England, and the King’s

determination to restore peace and concord.

“On the Word of God,” cried the statesman, speaking with extraordinary

fervour, his eyes kindling as he looked round the silent crowded

benches, and his left hand playing with his chain. “On the Word of God

His Highness’ princely mind is fixed; on this Word he depends for his

sole support; and with all his might his Majesty will labour that error

shall be taken away, and true doctrines be taught to his people,

modelled by the rule of the Gospel.”

Three days later when Ralph came into his master’s room, Cromwell looked

up at him with a strange animation in his dark eyes.

“Good-day, sir,” he said; “I have news that I hope will please you. His

Grace intends to confer on me one more mark of his favour. I am to be

Earl of Essex.”

It was startling news. Ralph had supposed that the minister was not

standing so high with the King as formerly, since the unfortunate

incident of the Cleves marriage. He congratulated him warmly.

“It is a happy omen,” said the other. “Let us pray that it be a

constellation and not a single star. There are others of my friends, Mr.

Torridon, who have claim to His Highness’ gratitude.”

He looked at him smiling; and Ralph felt his heart quicken once more, as

it always did, at the hint of an honour for himself.

The business of Parliament went on; and several important bills became

law. A land-act was followed by one that withdrew from most of the towns

of England the protection of a sanctuary in the case of certain

specified crimes; the navy was dealt with; and then in spite of the

promises of the previous years a heavy money-bill was passed. Finally

five more Catholics, four priests and a woman, were attainted for high

treason on various charges.

* * * * *

Ralph was not altogether happy as May drew on. There began to be signs

that his master’s policy with regard to the Cleves alliance was losing

ground in the councils of the State; but Cromwell himself seemed to

acquiesce, so it appeared as if his own mind was beginning to change.

There was a letter to Pate, the ambassador to the Emperor, that Ralph

had to copy one day, and he gathered from it that conciliation was to be

used towards Charles in place of the old defiance.

But he did not see much of Parliament affairs this month.

Cromwell had told him to sort a large quantity of private papers that

had gradually accumulated in Ralph’s own house at Westminster; for that

he desired the removal of most of them to his own keeping.

They were an enormous mass of documents, dealing with every sort and

kind of the huge affairs that had passed through Cromwell’s hands for

the last five years. They concerned hundreds of persons, living and

dead--statesmen, nobles, the foreign Courts, priests, Religious,

farmers, tradesmen--there was scarcely a class that was not represented

there.

Ralph sat hour after hour in his chair with locked doors, sorting,

docketting, and destroying; and amazed by this startling object-lesson

of the vast work in which he had had a hand. There were secrets there

that would burst like a bomb if they were made public--intrigues,

bribes, threats, revelations; and little by little a bundle of the most

important documents accumulated on the table before him. The rest lay in

heaps on the floor.

Those that he had set aside beneath his own eye were a miscellaneous set

as regarded their contents; the only unity between them lay in the fact

that they were especially perilous to Cromwell. Ralph felt as if he were

handling gunpowder as he took them up one by one or added to the heap.

The new coronet that my Lord of Essex had lately put upon his head would

not be there another day, if these were made public. There would not be

left even a head to put it upon. Ralph knew that a great minister like

his master was bound to have a finger in very curious affairs; but he

had not recognised how exceptional these were, nor how many, until he

had the bundle of papers before him. There were cases in which persons

accused and even convicted of high treason had been set at liberty on

Cromwell’s sole authority without reference to the King; there were

commissions issued in his name under similar conditions; there were

papers containing drafts, in Cromwell’s own hand of statements of

doctrine declared heretical by the Six Articles, and of which copies had

been distributed through the country at his express order; there were

copies of letters to country-sheriffs ordering the release of convicted

heretics and the imprisonment of their accusers; there were evidences of

enormous bribes received by him for the perversion of justice.

Ralph finished his task one June evening, and sat dazed with work and

excitement, his fingers soiled with ink, his tired eyes staring at the

neat bundle before him.

The Privy Council, he knew, was sitting that afternoon. Even at this

moment, probably, my Lord of Essex was laying down the law, speaking in

the King’s name, silencing his opponents by sheer force of will, but

with the Royal power behind him. And here lay the papers.

He imagined to himself with a fanciful recklessness what would happen if

he made his way into the Council-room, and laid them on the table. It

would be just the end of all things for his master. There would be no

more bullying and denouncing then on that side; it would be a matter of

a fight for life.

The memory of his own grudge, only five months old, rose before his

mind; and his tired brain grew hot and cloudy with resentment. He took

up the bundle in his hand and wielded it a moment, as a man might test a

sword. Here was a headsman’s axe, ground and sharp.

Then he was ashamed; set the bundle down again, leaned back in his chair

and stretched his arms, yawning.

What a glorious evening it was! He must go out and take the air for a

little by the river; he would walk down towards Chelsea.

He rose up from his chair and went to the window, threw it open and

leaned out. His house stood back a little from the street; and there was

a space of cobbled ground between his front-door and the uneven stones

of the thoroughfare. Opposite rose up one of the tall Westminster

houses, pushing forward in its upper stories, with a hundred diamond

panes bright in the slanting sunshine that poured down the street from

the west. Overhead rose up the fantastic stately chimneys, against the

brilliant evening sky, and to right and left the street passed out of

sight in a haze of sunlight.