One day that Mrs. Wells was somewhat disordered, and keeping her room,
and I was sitting with her, her husband came to fetch me into the
parlor to an old acquaintance, he said, who was very desirous for to
see me. "Who is it?" I asked; but he would not tell me, only smiled;
my foolish thinking supposed for one instant that it might be Basil he
spoke of, but the first glance showed me a slight figure and pale
countenance, very different to his whom my witless hopes had expected
for to see, albeit without the least shadow of reason. I stood looking
at this stranger in a hesitating manner, who perceiving I did not know
him, held out his hand, and said,
"Has Mistress Constance forgotten her old playfellow?"
"Edmund Genings!" I exclaimed, suddenly guessing it to be him.
"Yea," he said, "your old friend Edmund."
"Mr. Ironmonger is this reverend gentleman's name now-a-days," Mr.
Wells said; and then we all three sat down, and by degrees in Edmund's
present face I discerned the one I remembered in former years. The
same kind and reflective aspect, the pallid hue, the upward-raised
eye, now with less of searching in its gaze, but more, I ween, of
yearning for an unearthly home.
"O dear and reverend sir," I said, "strange it doth seem indeed thus
to address you, but God knoweth I thank him for the honor he hath done
my old playmate in the calling of him unto his service in these
perilous times."
"Yea," he answered, with emotion, "I do owe him much, which life
itself should not be sufficient to repay."
"My good father," I said, "some time before his death gave me a token
in a letter that you were in England. Where have you been all this
time?"
"Tell us the manner of your landing," quoth Mr. Wells; "for this is
the great ordeal which, once overpassed, lets you into the vineyard,
for to work for one hour only sometimes, or else to bear many years
the noontide heat and nipping frosts which laborers like unto yourself
have to endure."
"Well," said Edmund, "ten months ago we took shipping at Honfleur,
and, wind and weather being propitious, sailed along the coast of
England, meaning to have landed in Essex; but for our sakes the master
of the bark lingered, when we came in sight of land, until two hours
within night, and being come near unto Scarborough, what should happen
but that a boat with pirates or rovers in it comes out to surprise us,
and shoots at us divers times with muskets! But we came by no harm;
for the wind being then contrary, the master turned his ship and
sailed back into the main sea, where in very foul weather we remained
three days, and verily I thought to have then died of sea-sickness;
which ailment should teach a man humility, if anything in this world
can do it, stripping him as it does of all boastfulness of his own
courage and strength, so that he would cry mercy if any should offer
only to move him."
"Ah!" cried Mr. Wells, laughing, "Topcliffe should bethink himself of
this new torment for papists, for to leave a man in this plight until
he acknowledged the queen's supremacy should be an artful device of
the devil."
"At last," quoth Mr. Genings, "we landed, with great peril to our
lives, on the side of a high cliff near Whitby, in Yorkshire, and
reached that town in the evening. Going into an inn to refresh
ourselves, which I promise you we sorely needed, who should we meet
with there but one Radcliff?"
"Ah! a noted pursuivant," cried Mr. Wells, "albeit not so topping a
one as his chief."
"Ah!" I cried, "good Mr. Wells, that is but a poor pun, I promise you.
A better one you must frame before night, or you will lose your
reputation. The queen's last effort hath more merit in it than yours,
who, when she was angry with her envoy to Spain, said, 'If her royal
brother had sent her a goose-man, [Footnote 4] she had sent him in
return a man-goose.'"
[Footnote 4: Guzman.]
Mr. Genings smiled, and said:
"Well, this same Radcliff took an exact survey of us all, questioned
us about our arrival in that place, whence we came, and whither we
were going. We told him we were driven thither by the tempest, and at
last, by evasive answers, satisfied him. Then we all went to the house
of a Catholic gentleman in the neighborhood, which was within two or
three miles of Whitby, and by him were directed some to one place,
some to another, according to our own desires. Mr. Plasden and I kept
together; but, for fear of suspicion, we determined at last to
separate also, and singly to commit ourselves to the protection of God
and his good angels. Soon after we had thus resolved, we came to
two fair beaten was, the one leading north-east, the other south-east,
and even then and there, it being in the night, we stopped and both
fell down on our knees and made a short prayer together that God of
his infinite mercy would vouchsafe to direct us, and send us both a
peaceable passage into the thickest of his vineyard."
Here Mr. Genings paused, a little moved by the remembrance of that
parting, but in a few minutes exclaimed:
"I have not seen that dear friend since, rising from our knees, we
embraced each other with tears trickling down our cheeks; but the
words he said to me then I shall never, methinks, forget. 'Seeing,'
quoth, he, 'we must now part through fear of our enemies, and for
greater security, farewell, sweet brother in Christ and most loving
companion. God grant that, as we have been friends in one college and
companions in one wearisome and dangerous journey, so we may have one
merry meeting once again in this world, to our great comfort, if it
shall please him, even amongst our greatest adversaries; and that as
we undertake, for his love and holy name's sake, this course of life
together, so he will of his infinite goodness and clemency make us
partakers of one hope, one sentence, one death, and one reward. And
also as we began, so may we end together in Christ Jesus.' So he; and
then not being able to speak one word more for grief and tears, we
departed in mutual silence; he directing his journey to London, where
he was born, and I northward."
"Then you have not been into Staffordshire?" I said.
"Yea," he answered, "later I went to Lichfield, in order to try if I
should peradventure find there any of mine old friends and kinsfolks."
"And did you succeed therein?" I inquired.
"The only friends I found," he answered, with a melancholy smile,
"were the gray cloisters, the old cathedral walls, the trees of the
close; the only familiar voices which did greet me were the chimes of
the tower, the cawing of the rooks over mine head as I sat in the
shade of the tall elms near unto the wall where our garden once
stood."
"Oh, doth that house and that garden no more exist?" I cried.
"No, it hath been pulled down, and the lawn thereof thrown into the
close."
"Then," I said, "the poor bees and butterflies must needs fare badly.
The bold rooks, I ween, are too exalted to suffer from these changes.
Of Sherwood Hall did you hear aught, Mr. Genings?"
"Mr. Ironmonger," Mr. Wells said, correcting me.
"Alas!" Edmund replied, "I dared not so much as to approach unto it,
albeit I passed along the high road not very far from the gate
thereof. But the present inhabitants are famed for their hatred unto
recusants, and like to deal rigorously with any which should come in
their way."
I sighed, and then asked him how long he had been in London.
"About one month," he replied. "As I have told you. Mistress
Constance, all my kinsfolk that I wot of are now dead, except my young
brother John, whom I doubt not you yet do bear in mind--that fair,
winsome, mischievous urchin, who was carried to La Rochelle about one
year before your sweet mother died."
"Yea," I said, "I can see him yet gallopping on a stick round the
parlor at Lichfield."
"'Tis to look for him," Edmund said, "I am come to London. Albeit I
fear much inquiry on my part touching this youth should breed
suspicion, I cannot refrain, brotherly love soliciting me thereunto,
from seeking him whom report saith careth but little for his soul, and
who hath no other relative in the world than myself. I have warrant
for to suppose he should be in London; but these four weeks,
with useless diligence, I have made search for him, leaving no place
unsought where I could suspect him to abide; and as I see no hopes of
success, I am resolved to leave the city for a season."
Then Mr. Wells proposed to carry Edmund to Kate's house, where some
friends were awaiting him; and for some days I saw him not again. But
on the next Sunday evening he came to our house, and I noticed a
paleness in him I had not before perceived. I asked him if anything
had disordered him.
"Nothing," he answered; "only methinks my old shaking malady doth
again threaten me; for this morning, walking forth of mine inn to
visit a friend on the other side of the city, and passing by St.
Paul's church, when I was on the east side thereof, I felt suddenly a
strange sensation in my body, so much that my face glowed, and it
seemed to me as if mine hair stood on end; all my joints trembled, and
my whole body was bathed in a cold sweat. I feared some evil was
threatening me, or danger of being taken up, and I looked back to see
if I could perceive any one to be pursuing me; but I saw nobody near,
only a youth in a brown-colored cloak; and so, concluding that some
affection of my head or liver had seized me, I thought no more on it,
but went forward to my intended place to say mass."
A strange thinking came into mine head at that moment, and I doubted
if I should impart to him my sudden fancy.
"Mr. Edmund," I said, unable to refrain myself, "suppose that youth in
the brown cloak should have been your brother!"
He started, but shaking of his head said:
"Nay, nay, why should it have been him rather than a thousand others I
do see every day?"
"Might not that strange effect in yourself betoken the presence of a
kinsman?"
"Tut, tut, Mistress Constance," he cried, half kindly, half
reprovingly; "this should be a wild fancy lacking ground in reason."
Thus checked, I held my peace, but could not wholly discard this
thought. Not long after--on the very morning before Mr. Genings
proposed to depart out of town--I chanced to be walking homeward with
him and some others from a house whither we had gone to hear his mass.
As we were returning along Ludgate Hill, what should he feel but the
same sensations he had done before, and which were indeed visible in
him, for his limbs trembled and his face turned as white as ashes!
"You are sick," I said, for I was walking alongside of him.
"Only affected as that other day," he answered, leaning against a post
for to recover himself.
I had hastily looked back, and, lo and behold I a youth in a brown
cloak was walking some paces behind us. I whispered in Mr. Genings's
ear:
"Look, Edmund; is this the youth you saw before?"
"O my good Lord!" he cried, turning yet more pale, "this is strange
indeed! After all, it may be my brother. Go on," he said quickly; "I
must get speech with him alone to discover if it should be so."
We all walked on, and he tarried behind. Looking back, I saw him
accost the stranger in the brown cloak. And in the afternoon he came
to tell us that this was verily John Genings, as I had with so little
show of reason guessed.
"What passed between you?" I asked.
He said:
"I courteously saluted the young man, and inquired what countryman he
was; and hearing that he was a Staffordshireman, I began to conceive
hopes it should be my brother; so I civilly demanded his name.
Methought I should have betrayed myself at once when he answered
Genings; but as quietly as I could, I told him I was his
kinsman, and was called Ironmonger, and asked him what had become of
his brother Edmund. He then, not suspecting aught, told me he had
heard that he was gone to Rome to the Pope, and was become a notable
papist and a traitor both to God and his country, and that if he did
return he should infallibly be hanged. I smiled, and told him I knew
his brother, and that he was an honest man, and loved both the queen
and his country, and God above all. 'But tell me,' I added, 'good
cousin John, should you not know him if you saw him?' He then looked
hard at me, and led the way into a tavern not far off, and when we
were seated at a table, with no one nigh enough to overhear us, he
said: 'I greatly fear I have a brother that is a priest, and that you
are the man,' and then began to swear that if it was so, I should
discredit myself and all my friends, and protested that in this he
would never follow me; albeit in other matters he might respect me. I
promise you that whilst these harsh words passed his lips I longed to
throw my arms round his neck. I saw my mother's face in his, and his
once childish loveliness only changed into manly beauty. His young
years and mine rose before me, and I could have wept over this
new-found brother as Joseph over his dear Benjamin. I could no longer
conceal myself, but told him truly I was his brother indeed, and for
his love had taken great pains to seek him, and begged of him to keep
secret the knowledge of my arrival; to which he answered: 'He would
not for the world disclose my return, but that he desired me to come
no more unto him, for that he feared greatly the danger of the law,
and to incur the penalty of the statute for concealing of it.' I saw
this was no place or time convenient to talk of religion; but we had
much conversation about divers things, by which I perceived him to be
far from any good affection toward Catholic religion, and persistent
in Protestantism, without any hope of a present recovery. Therefore I
declared unto him my intended departure out of town, and took my
leave, assuring him that within a month or little more I should return
and see him again, and confer with him more at large touching some
necessary affairs which concerned him very much. I inquired of him
where a letter should find him. He showed some reluctance for to give
me any address, but at last said if one was left for him at Lady
Ingoldsby's, in Queen street, Holborn, he should be like to get it."
After Mr. Genings had left, I considered of this direction his brother
had given him, which showed him to be acquainted with Polly's
mother-in-law, and then remembering the young gentleman I had met at
her house, I suspected him to be no other than John Genings. And
called back to mind all his speeches for to compare them with this
suspicion, wherein they did all tally; and some days afterward, when I
was walking on the Mall with Sir Ralph and Polly, who should accost
them but this youth, which they presently introduced to me, and Polly
added, she believed we had played at hide-and-seek together when we
were young. He looked somewhat surprised, and as if casting about for
to call to mind old recollections; then spoke of our meeting at Lady
Ingoldsby's; and she cried out,
"Oh, then, you do know one another?"
"By sight," I said, "not by name."
Some other company joining us, he came alongside of me, and began for
to pay me compliments in the French manner.
"Mr. John Genings," I said, "do you remember Lichfield and the close,
and a little; girl, Constance Sherwood, who used to play with you,
before you went to La Rochelle?"
"Like in a dream," he answered, his comely face lighting up with a
smile.
"But your brother," I said, "was my chiefest companion then; for at
that age we do always aspire to the notice of such as be older than
condescend to such as be younger than ourselves."
When I named his brother a cloud darkened his face, and he abruptly
turned away. He talked to Polly and some other ladies in a gay,
jesting manner, but I could see that ever and anon he glanced toward
me, as if to scan my features, and, I ween, compare them with what
memory depicted; but he kept aloof from me, as if fearing I should
speak again of one he would fain forget.
On the 7th of November, Edmund returned to London, and came in the
evening to Kate's house. He had been laboring in the country,
exhorting, instructing, and exercising his priestly functions amongst
Catholics with all diligence. It so happened that his friend, Mr.
Plasden, a very virtuous priest, which had landed with him at Whitby,
and parted with him soon afterward, was there also; and several other
persons likewise which did usually meet at Mr. Wells's house; but,
owing to that gentleman's absence, who had gone into the country for
some business, and his wife's indisposition, had agreed for to spend
the evening at Mr. Lacy's. Before the company there assembled parted,
the two priests treated with him where they should say mass the
following day, which was the Octave of All Saints. They agreed to say
their matins together, and, by Bryan's advice, to celebrate it at the
house of Mr. Wells, notwithstanding his absence; for that Mistress
Wells, who could not conveniently go abroad, would be exceeding glad
for to hear mass in her own lodging. I told Edmund of my meeting with
his brother on the Mall, and the long talk ministered between us some
weeks ago, when neither did know the other's name. Methought in his
countenance and conversation that night there appeared an unwonted
consolation, a sober joy, which filled me almost with awe. When he
wished me good-night, he added, "I pray you, my dear child, to lift
up your soul to heaven ere yon sleep and when you wake, and recommend
to heaven our good purpose, and then come and attend at the holy
sacrifice with the crowd of angels and saints which do always assist
thereat." When the light faintly dawned in the dull sky, Muriel and I
stole from our beds, quietly dressed ourselves, and slipping out
unseen, repaired as fast as we could, for the ground was wet and
slippery, to Mr. Wells's house. We found assembled in one room Mr.
Genings, Mr. Plasden, another priest, Mr. White, Mr. Lacy, Mistress
Wells, Sydney Hodgson, Mr. Mason, and many others. Edmund Genings
proceeded to say mass. There was so great a stillness in the room a
pin should have been heard to drop. Albeit he said the prayers in a
very low voice, each word was audible. Mine ears, which are very quick
were stretched to the utmost. Each sound in the street caused me an
inward flutter. Methought, when he was reading the gospel I discerned
a sound as of the hall-door opening, and of steps. Then nothing more
for a little while; but just at the moment of the consecration there
was a loud rush up the stairs, and the door of the chamber burst open.
The gentlemen present rose from their knees. Mistress Wells and I
contrariwise sunk on the ground. I dared not for to look, or move, or
breathe, but kept inwardly calling on God, then present, for to save
us. I heard the words behind me: "Topcliffe! keep him back!" "Hurl him
down the stairs!" and then a sound of scuffling, falling, and rolling,
followed by a moment's silence.
The while the mass went forward, ever and anon noises rose without;
but the gentlemen held the door shut by main force all the time. They
kept the foe at bay, these brave men, each word uttered at the altar
resounding, I ween, in their breasts. O my God, what a store of
suffering was heaped into a brief space of time! What a viaticum was
that communion then received by thy doomed priest! "_Domine, non
sum dignus_," he thrice said, and then his Lord rested in his soul.
"_Deo gratias_" None could now profane the sacred mysteries; none
could snatch his Lord from him. "_Ite missa est_." The mass was said,
the hour come, death at hand. All resistance then ceased. I saw
Topcliffe hastening in with a broken head, and threatening to raise
the whole street. Mr. Plasden told him that, now the mass was ended,
we would all yield ourselves prisoners, which we did; upon which he
took Mr. Genings as he was, in his vestments, and all of us, men and
women, in coaches he called for, to Newgate. Muriel and I kept close
together, and, with Mistress Wells, were thrust into one cell.
Methinks we should all have borne with courage this misfortune but for
the thinking of those without--Muriel of her aged and infirm father;
Mistress Wells of her husband's return that day to his sacked house,
robbed of all its church furniture, books, and her the partner of his
whole life. And I thought of Basil, and what he should feel if he knew
of me in this fearful Newgate, near to so many thieves and wicked
persons; and a trembling came over me lest I should be parted from my
companions. I had much to do to recall the courageous spirit I had
heretofore nurtured in foreseeing such a hap as this. If I had had to
die at once, I think I should have been more brave; but terrible
forebodings of examinations--perchance tortures, long solitary hours
in a loathsome place--caused me inward shudderings; and albeit I said
with my lips over and over again, "Thy will be done, my God," I
passionately prayed this chalice might pass from me which often before
in my presumption--I cry mercy for it--I had almost desired to drink.
Oh, often have I thought since of what is said in David's Psalms, "It
is good for me that thou hast humbled me." From my young years a hot
glowing feeling had inflamed my breast at the mention of suffering for
conscience sake, and the words "to die" had been very familiar ones
to my lips; "rather to die," "gladly to die," "proudly to die;" alas,
how often had I uttered them! O my God, when the foul smells, the
faint light of that dreadful place, struck on my senses, I waxed very
weak. The coarse looks of the jailers, the disgusting food set before
us, the filthy pallets, awoke in me a loathing I could not repress.
And then a fear also, which the sense of my former presumption did
awaken. "Let he that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall,"
kept running in mine head. I had said, like St. Peter, that I was
ready for to go to prison and to death; and now, peradventure, I
should betray my Lord if too great pain overtook me. Muriel saw me
wringing mine hands; and, sitting down by my side on the rude
mattress, she tried for to comfort me. Then, in that hour of bitter
anguish, I learnt that creature's full worth. Who should have thought,
who did not then hear her, what stores of superhuman strength, of
heavenly knowledge, of divine comfort, should have flowed from her
lips? Then I perceived the value of a wholly detached heart,
surrendered to God alone. Young as she was, her soul was as calm in
this trial as that of the aged resigned woman which shared it with us.
Mine was tempest-tossed for a while. I could but lie mine head on
Muriel's knee and murmur, "Basil, O Basil!" or else, "If, after all, I
should prove an apostate, which hath so despised others for it!"
"'Tis good to fear," she whispered, "but withal to trust. Is it not
written, mine own Constance, 'My strength is sufficient for thee?' and
who saith this but the Author of all strength--he on whom the whole
world doth rest? He permitteth this fear in thee for humility's sake,
which lesson thou hast need to learn. When that of courage is needed,
be not affrighted; he will give it thee. He bestoweth not graces
before they be needed."
Then she minded me of little St. Agnes, and related passages of her
life; but mostly spoke of the cross and the passion of Christ, in such
piercing and moving tones, as if visibly beholding the scene on
Calvary, that the storm seemed to subside in my breast as she went on.
"Pray," she gently said, "that, if it be God's will, the extremity of
human suffering should fall on thee, so that thy love for him should
increase. Pray that no human joy may visit thee again, so that heaven
may open its gates to thee and thy loved ones. Pray for Hubert, for
the queen, for Topcliffe, for every human soul which thou hast ever
been tempted to hate; and I promise thee that a great peace shall
steal over thy soul, and a great strength shall lift thee up."
I did what she desired, and her words were prophetic. Peace came
before long, and joy too, of a strange unearthly sort. A brief
foretaste of heaven was showed forth in the consolations then poured
into mine heart. When since I have desired for to rekindle fervor and
awaken devotion, I recall the hours which followed that great anguish
in the cell at Newgate.
Late in the evening an order came for to release Muriel and me, but
not Mrs. Wells. When this dear friend understood what had occurred,
she raised her hands in fervent gratitude to God, and dismissed us
with many blessings.
The events which, followed I will briefly relate. When we reached home
Mr. Congleton was very sick; and then began the illness which ended
his life. Kate was almost wild with grief at her husband's danger, and
we fetched her and her children to her father's house for to watch
over them. On the next day all the prisoners which had been taken at
Mr. Wells's house (we only having been released by the dealings of
friends with the chief secretary) were examined by Justice Young, and
returned to prison to take their trials the next session. Mr. Wells,
at his return finding his house ransacked and his wife carried away to
prison, had been forthwith to Mr. Justice Young for to expostulate
with him, and to demand his wife and the key of his lodgings; but the
justice sent him to bear the rest company, with a pair of iron bolts
on his legs. The next day he examined him in Newgate; and upon Mr.
Wells saying he was not privy to the mass being said that day in his
house, but wished he had been present, thinking his name highly
honored by having so divine a sacrifice offered in it, the justice
told him "that though he was not at the feast, he should taste of the
same."
The evening I returned home from the prison a great lassitude overcame
me, and for a few days increased so much, joined with pains in the
head and in the limbs, that I could scarcely think, or so much as
stand. At last it was discerned that I was sickening with the
small-pox, caught, methinks, in the prison; and this was no small
increase to Muriel's trouble, who had to go to and fro from my chamber
to her father's, and was forced to send Kate and her children to the
country to Sir Ralph Ingoldsby's house; but methinks in the end this
proved for the best, for when Mr. Lacy was, with the other prisoners,
found guilty, and condemned to death on the 4th of December, some for
having said, and the others for having heard, mass at Mr. Wells's
house, Kate came to London but for a few hours, to take leave of him,
and Polly's care of her afterward cheered the one sister in her great
but not very lasting affliction, and sobered the other's spirits in a
beneficial manner, for since she hath been a stayer at home, and very
careful of her children and Kate's also, and, albeit very secretly,
doth I hear practise her religion. Mr. Congleton never heard of his
son-in-law and his friend Mr. Wells's danger, the palsy which affected
him having numbed his senses so that he slowly sunk in his grave
without suffering of body or mind. From Muriel I heard the course of
the trial. How many bitter words and scoffs were used by the
judges and others upon the bench, particularly to Edmund Genings,
because of his youth, and that he angered them with his arguments! The
more to make him a scoff to the people, they vested him in a
ridiculous fool's coat which they had found in Mr. Wells's house, and
would have it to be a vestment. It was appointed they should all die
at Tyburn, except Mr. Genings and Mr. Wells, who were to be executed
before Mr. Wells's own door in Gray's Inn Fields, within three doors
of our own lodging. The judges, we were told, after pronouncing
sentence, began to persuade them to conform to the Protestant
religion, assuring them that by so doing they should obtain mercy, but
otherwise they must certainly expect to die. But they all answered
"that they would live and die in the true Roman and Catholic faith,
which they and all antiquity had ever professed, and that they would
by no means go to the Protestant churches, or for one moment think
that the queen could be head of the Church in spirituals." They dealt
most urgently with Edmund Genings in this matter of conformity, giving
him hopes not only of his life, but also of a good living, it he would
renounce his faith; but he remained, God be praised, constant and
resolute; upon which he was thrust into a dark hole within the prison,
where he remained in prayer, without food or sustenance, till the hour
of his death. Some letters we received from him and Mr. Wells, which
have become revered treasures and almost relics in our eyes. One did
write (this was Edmund): "The comforts which captivity bringeth are so
manifold that I have rather cause to thank God highly for his fatherly
dealings with me than to complain of any worldly misery whatsoever.
Custom hath caused that it is no grief to me to be debarred from
company, desiring nothing more than solitude. When I pray, I talk with
God--when I read, he talketh with me; so that I am never alone." And
much more in that strain. Mr. Wells ended his letter thus: "I am bound
with gyves, yet I am unbound toward God, and far better I account it
to have the body bound than the soul to be in bondage. I am threatened
hard with danger of death; but if it be no worse, I will not wish it
to be better. God send me his grace, and then I weigh not what flesh
and blood can do unto me. I have answered to many curious and
dangerous questions, but I trust with good advisements, not offending
my conscience. What will come of it God only knoweth. Through prison
and chains to glory. Thine till death." This letter was addressed to
Basil, with a desire expressed we should read it before it was sent to
him.
On the day before the one of the execution, Kate came to take leave of
her husband. She could not speak for her tears; but he, with his usual
composure, bade her be of good comfort, and that death was no more to
him than to drink off the caudle which stood there ready on his table.
And methinks this indifferency was a joint effect of nature and of
grace, for none had ever seen him hurried or agitated in his life with
any matter whatsoever. And when he rolled Topcliffe down the stairs
and fell with him--for it was he which did this desperate action--his
face was as composed when he rose up again, one of the servants who
had seen the scuffle said, as if he had never so much as stirred from
his study; and in his last speeches before his death it was noticed
that his utterance was as slow and deliberate, and his words as
carefully picked, as at any other time of his life. Ah me! what days
were those when, hardly recovered from my sickness, only enough for to
sit up in an armed-chair and be carried from one chamber to another,
all the talk ministered about me was of the danger and coming death of
these dear friends. I had a trouble of mine own, which I be truly
ashamed to speak of; but in this narrative I have resolved above all
things to be truthful; and if I have ever had occasion, on the
one hand, to relate what should seem to be to mine own credit, on the
other also I desire to acknowledge my weaknesses and imperfections, of
which what I am about to relate is a notable instance. The small-pox
made me at that time the most deformed person that could be seen, even
after I was recovered; and the first time I beheld my face in a glass,
the horror which it gave me was so great that I resolved Basil should
never be the husband of one whom every person which saw her must needs
be affrighted to look on; but, forecasting he would never give me up
for this reason, howsoever his inclination should rebel against the
kindness of his heart and his true affection for me, I hastily sent
him a letter, in which I said I could give him no cause for the change
which had happened in me, but that I was resolved not to marry him,
acting in my old hasty manner, without thought or prudence. No sooner
had I done so than I grew very uneasy thereat, too late reflecting on
what his suspicions should be of my inconstancy, and what should to
him appear faithless breach of promise.
It grieved me, in the midst of such grave events and noble sufferings,
to be so concerned for mine own trouble; and on the day before the
execution I was sitting musing painfully on the tragedy which was to
be enacted at our own doors as it were, weeping for the dear friends
which were to suffer, and ever and anon chewing the cud of my wilful
undoing of mine own, and it might prove of Basil's, future peace by my
rash letter to him, and yet more rash concealment of my motives.
Whilst I was thus plunged in grief and uneasiness, the door of my
chamber of a sudden opened, and the servant announced Mr. Hubert
Rookwood. I hid my face hastily with a veil, which I now did generally
use, except when alone with Muriel. He came in, and methought a change
had happened in his appearance. He looked somewhat wild and
disordered, and his face flushed as one used to drinking.
"Constance," he said abruptly, "tidings have reached me which would
not suffer me to put off this visit. A man coming from France hath
brought me a letter from Basil, and one directed to you, which he
charged me to deliver into your hands. If it tallies with that which
he doth write to me--and I doubt not it must be so, for his dealings
are always open and honorable, albeit often rash--I must needs hope
for so much happiness from it as I can scarce credit to be possible
after so much suffering."
I stretched out mine hand for Basil's letter. Oh, how the tears gushed
from mine eyes on the reading of it! He had received mine, and having
heard some time before from a friend he did not name of his brother's
passion for me, he never misdoubted but that I had at last yielded to
his solicitations, and given him the love which I withdrew from him.
Never was the nobleness of his nature more evinced than in this
letter; never grief more heartfelt, combined with a more patient
endurance of the overthrow of his sole earthly happiness; never a
greater or more forgiving kindness toward a faithless creature, as he
deemed her, with a lingering care for her weal, whom he must needs
have thought so ill deserving of his love. So much sorrow without
repining, such strict charges not to marry Hubert if he was not a good
Catholic and truly reconciled to the Church. But if he was indeed
changed in this respect, an assent given to this marriage which had
cost him, he said, many tears and many prayers for to write, more than
if with his own heart's blood he had traced the words; but which,
nevertheless, he freely gave, and prayed God to bless us both, if with
a good conscience we could be wedded; and God forbid he should hinder
it, if I had ceased for to love him, and had given to Hubert--who had
already got his birthright--also a more precious treasure, the heart
once his own.
"What doth your brother write to you?" I coldly said; and then Hubert
gave me his letter to read.
Methinks he imagined I concealed my face from some sort of shame; and
God knoweth, had I acted the part he supposed, I might well have
blushed deeper than can be thought of.
This letter was like unto the other--the most touching proof of love
a man could give for a woman. Forgetting himself, my dearest Basil's
only care was my happiness; and firm remonstrances were blended with
touching injunctions to his brother to treasure every hair of the head
of one who was dearer to him than all the world beside, and to do his
duty to God and to her, which if he observed, he should, mindless of
all else, for ever bless him.
When I returned the missive to him, Hubert said, in a faltering voice,
"Now you are free--free to be mine--free before God and man."
"Yea," I answered; "free as the dead, for I am henceforward dead to
all earthly things."
"What!" he cried, startled; "your thinking is not, God shield it, to
be a nun abroad?"
"Nay," I answered; and then, laying my hand on Basil's letter, I said,
"If I had thought to marry you, Hubert; if at this hour I should say I
could love you, I ween you would leave the house affrighted, and never
return to it again."
"Is your brain turned?" he impatiently cried.
"No," I answered quietly, lifting my veil, "my face only is changed."
I had a sort of bitter pleasure in the sight of his surprise. He
turned as pale as any smock.
"Oh, fear not," I said; "my heart hath not changed with my face. I am
not in so merry a mood, God knoweth, as to torment you with any such
apprehensions. My love for Basil is the same; yea, rather at this
hour, after these noble proofs of his love, more great than ever. Now
you can discern why I should write to him I would never marry him."
Hiding his face in his hands, Hubert said, "Would I had not come here
to embitter your pain?"
"You have not added to my sorrow," I answered; "the chalice is indeed
full, but these letters have rather lightened than increased my
sufferings."
Then concealing again my face, I went on, "O Hubert, will you come
here to-morrow morning? Know you the sight which from that window
shall be seen? Hark to that noise! Look out, I pray you, and tell me
what it is."
He did as I bade him, and I marked the shudder he gave. His face, pale
before, had now turned of an ashy hue.
"Is it possible?" he said; "a scaffold in front of that house where we
were wont to meet those old friends! O Constance, are they there to
die?--that brave joyous old man, that kind pious soul his wife?"
"Yea," I answered; "and likewise the friend of my young years, good
holy Edmund Genings, who never did hurt a fly, much less a human
creature. And at Tyburn, Bryan Lacy, my cousin, once your friend, and
Sydney Hodgson, and good Mr. Mason, are to suffer."
Hubert clenched his hands, ground his teeth, and a terrible look shot
through his eyes. I felt affrighted at the passion my words had
awakened.
"Cursed," he cried, in a hoarse voice,--"cursed be the bloody queen
which reigneth in this land! Thrice accursed be the tyrants which hunt
us to death! Tenfold accursed such as lure us to damnation by the foul
baits they do offer to tempt a man to lie to God and to others, to
ruin those he loves, to become loathsome to himself by his mean
crimes! But if one hath been cheated of his soul, robbed of the hope
of heaven, debarred from his religion, thrust into the company of
devils, let them fear him, yea, let them fear him, I say. Revenge is
not impossible. What shall stay the hand of such a man? What
shall guard those impious tempters if many such should one day league
for to sweep them from earth's face? If one be desperate of this
world's life, he becomes terrible. How should he be to be dreaded who
doth despair of heaven!"
With these wild words, he left me. He was gone ere I could speak.