THE MARTYRED MONK
THE Manor House had been the home of the Gidley family for several
hundreds of years. It was situated in a sheltered coombe about
half a mile from Holton village, and was surrounded by gardens,
beyond which were extensive grounds, once part of an extensive
deer park. Nowadays no graceful, soft-eyed deer were to be seen
beneath the fine beeches and ancient oaks; but the place was simply
infested with rabbits—they ate up everything, and even came into
the gardens and destroyed the crops there.
The house itself was a grey Elizabethan mansion, and had been built
in the shape of the letter E in honour of the great Tudor queen.
It stood on the site of an older building, which had been a religious
house before Henry the Eighth had laid it in ruins, when he had
presented the property to one of his favourite courtiers, Sir Richard
Gidley. It was that Sir Richard who, in his old age, had built the
present house. His likeness was to be seen in the picture-gallery
which Dr. Warren had mentioned, represented in court dress, puffed,
and padded, and bejewelled.
Little Dick thought the Manor House a very grand place indeed, as he
stepped from his grandfather's carriage on the day following his
first meeting with Sir Richard, and stood looking up at the old grey
building. The great oaken door was opened by an elderly woman in a
plain black gown, who had evidently been on the look-out for his
arrival; for she flung her arms around him, and kissed him ere she
led him into the house. He was naturally surprised at the warmth of
her greeting, and, glancing wonderingly up into her face, saw that
her eyes were smiling through a mist of tears.
"You don't know me," she said, in answer to his inquiring look, "but
I couldn't help kissing you for your father's sake. I was his nurse
when he was a little lad, and now I'm the housekeeper. Did you never
hear of Susan Morecombe?"
"Are you Susan Morecombe?" he asked.
He did not like to say he had never heard of her before, for she
evidently thought he knew all about her. He wondered afresh why he
had not been told anything about his father's home. Of course his
father had lived in this grand house once, although he could hardly
realise the fact.
"Yes; I'm Susan Morecombe," she replied. "But come; Sir Richard
expects you, and he must not be kept waiting!" and she led the way
to the dining-room, where she left Dick with his grandfather.
If the old man was glad to see his grandson he did not say so. He was
seated in a high-backed armchair near the open window, with the daily
newspaper in his hand.
"Well, Dick," he said, as the little boy came to his side; "so they
let you come!"
"They?" Dick repeated interrogatively, as he shook hands with his
grandfather.
"Dr. and Miss Warren, I mean."
"Oh, yes! They promised I should come. Uncle Theophilus said he
thought father would wish it."
"Then you had no desire to come yourself?"
"I—I—well, no!" Dick acknowledged with some embarrassment.
"I hope it is not rude to say that! I wish you had not asked me."
"You are quite right to speak out. I hate a liar; and one who
equivocates is a liar as much as one who tells a deliberate
falsehood. If you speak the truth we shall get on."
"I always speak the truth," Dick said, growing red, for his
grandfather was regarding him with great severity. "I am glad now
I did come," he continued; "I had no idea you lived in such a fine
house, grandfather! What a large room this is—quite the biggest
I was ever in! It's rather too big for one person, isn't it?"
"Would you like to go all over the house?" Sir Richard asked,
ignoring the other's question. "If so, you shall, later on. Sit down,
now; I want to talk to you."
[Illustration: "Well, Dick," he said, "so they let you come!"]
Dick obeyed, and patiently answered all the questions his grandfather
put to him—mostly about his father, and his life in India.
"And so there is a chance of the regiment being ordered home next
year, if all's well," Sir Richard remarked presently. "It's about
time, I should say. How was it your mother did not bring you home?"
he asked abruptly.
"She could not leave father," Dick explained; "and besides, it costs
a lot of money to travel from India to England, and father hasn't
much money, you know!"
"Has he not?"
"I should have thought you would have known that!" Dick exclaimed,
regarding his grandfather with evident surprise.
"I have not known much about my son of late years," the old man said
bitterly; "he offended me, and I have never forgiven him!"
"I don't believe father did anything wrong!" Dick declared, looking
greatly distressed, for he thought whatever his father did must be
right.
"You were not asked your opinion, young gentleman!" Sir Richard told
him sarcastically.
Dick felt hurt and snubbed. Indignant tears rose to his eyes, and his
lips quivered, but he did not cry. Sir Richard watched the boy
in silence, secretly admiring his self-command; presently he noticed
that Dick, in his turn, was watching him.
"What are you thinking of?" he asked, struck by the thoughtful look
which had crept into his grandson's eyes.
"I-I would rather not say!" was the evasive reply.
"Why not?" the old man demanded.
"If I told you, you might not like it. You might be offended. You are
so—so touchy!"
Sir Richard laughed, not unkindly. The boy's frankness was not
unpleasing to him.
"Come, speak out," he said imperatively, "tell me what weighty
thought was making you look so serious."
"I was wondering," said Dick with exceeding gravity, "if you ever say
'Our Father'!"
"Do you mean the Lord's prayer? Certainly, every day of my life.
Why?"
"You said just now that you had never forgiven father—for
something. Mother says if we don't forgive we can't hope God will
forgive us, and it's a mockery to say 'Our Father.' That's what
I meant!"
Sir Richard grew purple. He was about to burst into a storm of
passion, when he remembered that he had forced the child to speak his
thoughts, and has anger suddenly cooled.
"Instead of educating you for a soldier, your parents should bring
you to a preacher," he sneered. "There was a Gidley once who was a
preacher, and because he could not mind his own business he was burnt
at the stake!"
"Oh, do please tell me about him!" Dick cried eagerly. "I should so
much like to hear how it happened!"
Sir Richard was fond of talking of his own family, so it pleased him
to tell the tale. He accordingly commenced:—
"In the reign of Queen Mary—Bloody Mary as the history-books call
her—there was a certain Paul Gidley, a monk, a younger son of the
Sir Richard Gidley who built this house. He went abroad to Holland,
and there he fell in with some monks like himself, who had come to
the conclusion that God meant the Bible for every one to read—not
only for priests and people of education. When this Paul Gidley
returned to England, he went about preaching, and saying that the
Church of Rome was full of faults, and that Jesus Christ was the only
one to look to for salvation."
"He was quite right, wasn't he?" Dick said earnestly. "I've heard
about men like him before—mother told me about them. Some of them
were martyrs," he concluded, a look of awe crossing his face.
"Paul Gidley was one," Sir Richard proceeded; "he offended the heads
of the Roman Catholic Church in England, and he was thrown into
prison so that he should have time to consider the advisability
of denying the Protestant faith. The queen was reluctant to sign his
death-warrant, for the Gidleys had ever been faithful and loyal
subjects; but, as Paul Gidley declined to change his views, she was
obliged to consent to his death; and so he perished at the
stake—was burnt to death after nearly an hour's agony borne with
great fortitude. The Gidleys were never cowards!" Sir Richard's eyes
glowed with a bright light as he spoke, whilst little Dick laid
a hand on his knee, and looked up at him solemnly.
"That was before this house was built," the old man continued. "The
Gidleys lived then about a mile from here. After the death of young
Paul Gidley, Sir Richard absented himself from court, and lived in
retirement till Queen Mary died. Then, when Elizabeth came to the
crown, he commenced to build this house on the site of the old
monastery; but before it was completed, he died. The son finished
the work the father had commenced, and, with his family and personal
belongings, which included some handsome plate, and the paintings
of his parents and martyred brother, came here to live. The old home
of the Gidleys is now a farm-house; I daresay you will see it some
day. I will show you the picture-gallery by-and by; but now it is my
lunch-time. Are you hungry?"
"I think I am," the little boy admitted, glancing at the table, which
was laid for two. Sir Richard told him to ring the bell, and a trim
parlour-maid appeared in answer to its summons to wait upon them.
Sir Richard took his seat at the top of the table with his grandson
at his right hand. During the meal he watched the boy furtively, and
was pleased with his behaviour. Dick's manners were easy and refined;
and although he had plenty to say, and asked dozens of questions,
he was not too self-confident.
"He has been carefully brought up," the old man said to himself; "his
father's doing, I suppose." Aloud he said, "I suppose your father had
you with him a good deal in India, eh?"
"Oh, no," Dick answered promptly; "father was always so busy!
Sometimes mother and I were alone together all day! That's why I miss
mother more than father, though I love them both alike! And I can't
help thinking if I feel so dreadfully bad about it, that she must be
feeling the same!"
Sir Richard grunted, but he made no reply.
"I'm expecting a letter from mother," Dick went on, a happy,
expectant smile brightening his pale face. "She said I should hear
from her very soon; and when I write to her I shall have such lots
of things to tell her! Oh, dear; I wish I could write better!
You can't think how badly I write!"
"Ah!" the old man exclaimed, smiling indulgently. "The Gidleys have
been oftener soldiers than scholars! Your father could never bear
letter-writing."
"Mother generally writes his letters, except his duty letters,
you know."
After luncheon Dick reminded his grandfather of his promise to show
him the picture-gallery.
Accordingly, Sir Richard slowly led the way up the broad oaken
staircase, whilst Dick followed. Down a dark corridor they went till
they reached a heavy door—like a church door, the little boy
thought. Sir Richard lifted the ponderous latch, and Dick followed
him into a large long room, with windows of painted glass through
which the summer sun shone in mellow tones. A feeling of awe crept
over Dick as he glanced at the walls panelled in oak and beautifully
carved, against which, in heavy frames, hung the likenesses of his
ancestors.
His attention was first called to Sir Richard Gidley, bluff
King Hal's favourite, a fine-looking gentleman, brown-eyed,
brown-haired, with a merry smile on his lips.
"That likeness was painted before his son was murdered," Sir Richard
said, "when he was young and gay. See, Dick, there is he who
entertained King Charles the First—that handsome man with the
love-locks; and there is Dame Margery, his wife—a lady-in-waiting
she was, before she married, to Queen Henrietta Maria. And there
is Sir Thomas Gidley, whom William, Prince of Orange, disliked and
mistrusted."
"How was that?" Dick asked.
"Because the Gidleys always stood by the Stuarts," Sir Richard
answered.
"Oh, I know all about the Stuarts!" Dick cried; "but I never knew
my ancestors had anything to do with them! How strange it seems!"
"You should be proud of your ancestors," the old man said, delighted
with the keen interest the boy was evincing in the information he was
giving him.
"Were they very good people?" Dick inquired.
"Not all; but some of them were. They were all brave, though; many of
them were soldiers like your father."
"I have not seen the likeness of the martyr, grandfather!"
"No." Sir Richard drew aside a curtain which hung in front of a large
picture. "This is Paul Gidley, the martyr," he said gravely.
Dick looked, and saw an almost life-size representation of a monk.
The slight form was attired in the conventional monastic garb of the
period; but it was the face of the martyr which fascinated
Dick—a young face with dark-brown eyes, and lips firm but tender,
a broad brow, and clipped, dark hair.
"You see he wore a tonsure," Sir Richard said; "I mean that round,
bare patch on his head which shows he was dedicated to the Roman
Catholic ministry. He was a monk, and he lost his life because
he saw the errors of his church, and preached against them."
"I think he looks good," Dick said gravely; "and I am sure he was
brave! What are those figures at the bottom of the picture,
grandfather?"
"Can you not make them out?"
"Yes— 1 5 5 5."
"That is the date of the year during which Paul Gidley suffered
martyrdom."
Sir Richard glanced from the pictured face of the young monk to the
earnest countenance of the child, and was it only his fancy, or did
he really see a likeness between them? Both had the same brown eyes,
both the same broad, serious brow; and the old man wondered if his
grandson possessed the brave spirit of Paul Gidley too.
"I am sure he was good," Dick said, with conviction in his tones;
"I like his picture better than any!"
"What, better than that gay cavalier!" cried Sir Richard, laughing.
"You don't mean to tell me you prefer Paul Gidley, the martyr, to his
fine relations!"
"Yes; I do. And I think mother would like him best. Was she ever
here?" he asked suddenly.
"Never!"
Sir Richard let the curtain fall before the picture; and presently
they went downstairs again, where Dick was handed over to Susan
Morecombe to be shown over the house. The little boy saw many things
to interest him that day; but foremost in his mind was the story of
the martyred monk, whose face was firmly impressed in his mind's eye.