The sun was just setting when Catharine's maid came into her room and
told her Father Francis was below. She sent down to say she counted on
his sleeping at Peyton Hall, and she would come down to him in half an
hour. She then ordered a refection to be prepared for him in her
boudoir; and made her toilet with all reasonable speed, not to keep him
waiting. Her face beamed with quiet complacency now, for the holy man's
very presence in the house was a comfort to her.
Father Francis was a very stout, muscular man, with a ruddy countenance;
he never wore gloves, and you saw at once he was not a gentleman by
birth. He had a fine voice: it was deep, mellow, and, when he chose,
sonorous. This, and his person, ample, but not obese, gave him great
weight, especially with his female pupils. If he was not quite so much
reverenced by the men, yet he was both respected and liked; in fact, he
had qualities that make men welcome in every situation,--good humor,
good sense, and tact. A good son of his Church, and early trained to let
no occasion slip of advancing her interests.
I wish my readers could have seen the meeting between Catharine Peyton
and this burly ecclesiastic. She came into the drawing-room with that
imperious air and carriage which had made her so unpopular with her own
sex; and at the bare sight of Father Francis, drooped and bent in a
moment as she walked; and her whole body indicated a submissiveness,
graceful, but rather abject: it was as if a young poplar should turn to
a weeping willow in half a moment. Thus metamorphosed, the Beauty of
Cumberland glided up to Francis, and sank slowly on her knees before
him, crossed her hands on her bosom, lowered her lovely head, and
awaited his benediction.
The father laid two big, coarse hands, with enormous fingers, on that
thorough-bred head and golden hair, and blessed her business-like.
"The hand of less employment hath the daintier sense."--_Shakspeare_.
Father Francis blessed so many of these pretty creatures every week,
that he had long outgrown your fine, romantic way of blessing a body.
(We manage these things better in the theatre.) Then he lent her his
hand to rise, and asked her in what she required his direction at
present.
"In that which shall decide my whole life," said she.
Francis responded by a look of paternal interest.
"But first," murmured she, "let me confess to you, and obtain
absolution, if I may. Ah, Father, my sins have been many since last
confession!"
"Be it so," said Father Francis, resignedly. "Confession is the best
preface to Direction." And he seated himself with a certain change of
manner, an easy assumption of authority.
"Nay, Father," suggested the lady, "we shall be more private in my
room."
"As you will, Mistress Catharine Peyton," said the priest, returning to
his usual manner.
So then the fair penitent led her spiritual judge captive up another
flight of stairs, and into her little boudoir. A cheerful wood fire
crackled and flamed up the chimney, and a cloth had been laid on a side
table: cold turkey and chine graced the board, and a huge glass magnum
of purple Burgundy glowed and shone in the rays of the cheery fire.
Father Francis felt cozy at the sight; and at once accepted Kate's
invitation to take some nourishment before entering on the labor of
listening to the catalogue of her crimes. "I fasted yesterday," he
muttered; and the zeal with which he attacked the viands rendered the
statement highly credible.
He invited Kate to join him, but she declined.
He returned more than once to the succulent meats, and washed all down
with a pint of the fine old Burgundy, perfumed and purple. Meantime she
of the laïty sat looking into the fire with heavenly-minded eyes.
At last, with a gentle sigh of content, the ghostly father installed
himself in an arm-chair by the fire, and invited his penitent to begin.
She took a footstool and brought it to his side, so that, in confessing
her blacker vices, she might be able to whisper them in his very ear.
She kneeled on her little footstool, put her hands across her breast,
and in this lowly attitude murmured softly after this fashion, with a
contrite voice:--
"I have to accuse myself of many vices. Alas! in one short fortnight I
have accumulated the wickedness of a life. I have committed the seven
deadly sins. I have been guilty of Pride, Wrath, Envy, Disobedience,
Immodesty, Vanity, Concupiscence, Fibs,"----
"Gently, daughter," said the priest, quietly; "these terms are too
general: give me instances. Let us begin with Wrath: ah! we are all
prone to that."
The fair penitent sighed, and said,--
"Especially me. Example: I was angry beyond reason with my maid, Ruth.
(She does comb my hair so uncouthly!) So, then, the other night, when I
was in trouble, and most needed soothing by being combed womanly, she
gets thinking of Harry, that helps in the stable, and she tears away at
my hair. I started up and screamed out, 'Oh, you clumsy thing! go
curry-comb my horse, and send that oaf your head is running on to handle
my hair.' And I told her my grandam would have whipped her well for it,
but nowadays mistresses were the only sufferers: we had lost the use of
our hands, we are grown so squeamish. And I stamped like a fury, and
said, 'Get you gone out of the room!' and 'I hated the sight of her!'
And the poor girl went from me, crying, without a word, being a better
Christian than her mistress. _Mea culpa! mea culpa!_"
"Did you slap her?"
"Nay, Father, not so bad as that."
"Are you quite sure you did not slap her?" asked Francis, quietly.
"Nay. But I had a mind to. My heart slapped her, if my hand forbore.
Alas!"
"Had she hurt you?"
"That she did,--but only my head. I hurt her heart: for the poor wench
loves me dear,--the Lord knows for what."
"Humph!--proceed to Pride."
"Yes, Father. I do confess that I was greatly puffed up with the praises
of men. I was proud of the sorriest things: of jumping a brook, when't
was my horse jumped it, and had jumped it better with a fly on his back
than the poor worm Me; of my good looks, forgetting that God gave them
me; and besides, I am no beauty, when all is done; it is all their
flattery. And at my Lady Munster's dinner I pridefully walked out before
Mistress Davies, the rich cheesemonger's wife, that is as proud of her
money as I of my old blood, (God forgive two fools!) which I had no
right to do,--a maid to walk before a wife; and oh, Father, I whispered
the gentleman who led me out,--it was Mr. Neville"----
Here the penitent put one hand before her face, and hesitated.
"Well, daughter, half-confession is no confession. You said to Mr.
Neville?"----
"I said, 'Nothing comes after cheese.'"
This revelation was made most dolefully.
"It was pert and unbecoming," said Father Francis, gravely, though a
twinkle in his eye showed that he was not so profoundly shocked as his
penitent appeared to be. "But go to graver matters. Immodesty, said you?
I shall be very sorry, if this is so. You did not use to be immodest."
"Well, Father, I hope I have not altogether laid aside modesty;
otherwise it would be time for me to die, let alone to confess; but sure
it cannot be modest of me to ride after a gentleman and take him a
letter. And then that was not enough: I heard of a duel,--and what did I
do but ride to Scutchemsee Nob, and interfere? What gentlewoman ever was
so bold? I was not their wife, you know,--neither of them's."
"Humph!" said the priest, "I have already heard a whisper of this,--but
told to your credit. _Beati pacifici_: Blessed are the peacemakers. You
had better lay that matter before me by-and-by, as your director. As
your confessor, tell me why you accuse yourself of concupiscence."
"Alas!" said the young lady, "scarce a day passes that I do not offend
in _that_ respect. Example: last Friday, dining abroad, the cooks sent
up a dish of collops. Oh, Father, they smelt so nice! and I had been
a-hunting. First I smelt them, and that I couldn't help. But then I
forgot _custodia oculorum_, and I eyed them. And the next thing was,
presently--somehow--two of 'em were on my plate."
"Very wrong," said Francis; "but that is a harsher term than I should
have applied to this longing of a hungry woman for collops o' Friday.
Pray, what do you understand by that big word?"
"Why, you explained it yourself, in your last sermon. It means 'unruly
and inordinate desires.' Example: Edith Hammersley told me I was mad to
ride in scarlet, and me so fair and my hair so light. 'Green or purple
is your color,' says she; and soon after this didn't I see in Stanhope
town the loveliest piece of purple broadcloth? Oh, Father, it had a
gloss like velvet, and the sun did so shine on it as it lay in the
shop-window; it was fit for a king or a bishop; and I stood and gloated
on it, and pined for it, and died for it, and down went the Tenth
Commandment."
"Ah," said Francis, "the hearts of women are set on vanity! But tell
me,--these unruly affections of yours, are they ever fixed on persons of
the other sex?"
The fair sinner reflected.
"On gentlemen?" said she. "Why, they come pestering one of their own
accord. No, no,--I could do without _them_ very well. What I sinfully
pine for is meat on a Friday as sure as ever the day comes round, and
high-couraged horses to ride, and fine clothes to wear every day in the
week. _Mea culpa! mea culpa!_"
Such being the dismal state of things, Francis slyly requested her to
leave the seven deadly sins in peace, and go to her small offences: for
he argued, shrewdly enough, that, since her sins were peccadilloes,
perhaps some of her peccadilloes might turn out to be sins.
"Small!" cried the culprit, turning red,--"they are none of them small."
I really think she was jealous of her reputation as a sinner of high
degree.
However, she complied, and, putting up her mouth, murmured a
miscellaneous confession without end. The accents were soft and musical,
like a babbling brook; and the sins, such as they were, poor things,
rippled on in endless rotation.
Now nothing tends more to repose than a purling brook; and ere long
something sonorous let the fair culprit know she had lulled her
confessor asleep.
She stopped, indignant. But at that he instantly awoke, (_sublatâ causâ,
tollitur effectus_,) and addressed her thus, with sudden dignity,--
"My daughter, you will fast on Monday next, and say two Aves and a
Credo. _Absolvo te._"
"And now," said he, "as I am a practical man, let us get back from the
imaginary world into the real. Speak to me at present as your director;
and mind, you must be serious now, and call things by their right
names."
Upon this Kate took a seat, and told her story, and showed him the
difficulty she was in.
She then reminded him, that, notwithstanding her unfortunate itch for
the seven deadly sins, she was a good Catholic, a zealous daughter of
the Church; and she let him know her desire to retire from both lovers
into a convent, and so, freed from the world and its temptations, yield
up her soul entire to celestial peace and divine contemplation.
"Not so fast," said the priest. "Even zeal is nought without obedience.
If you could serve the Church better than by going into a convent, would
you be wilful?"
"Oh, no, Father! But how can I serve the Church better than by
renouncing the world?"
"Perhaps by remaining in the world, as she herself does,--and by making
converts to the faith. You could hardly serve her worse than by going
into a convent: for our convents are poor, and you have no means; you
would be a charge. No, daughter, we want no poor nuns; we have enough of
them. If you are, as I think, a true and zealous daughter of the Church,
you must marry, and instil the true faith, with all a mother's art, a
mother's tenderness, into your children. Then the heir to your husband's
estates will be a Catholic, and so the true faith get rooted in the
soil."
"Alas!" said Catharine, "are we to look but to the worldly interests of
the Church?"
"They are inseparable from her spiritual interests here on earth: our
souls are not more bound to our bodies."
Catharine was deeply mortified.
"So the Church rejects me because I am poor," said she, with a sigh.
"The Church rejects you not, but only the Convent. No place is less fit
for you. You have a high spirit, and high religious sentiments: both
would be mortified and shocked in a nunnery. Think you that
convent-walls can shut out temptation? I know them better than you: they
are strongholds of vanity, folly, tittle-tattle, and all the meanest
vices of your sex. Nay, I forbid you to think of it: show me now your
faith by your obedience."
"You are harsh to me, Father," said Catharine, piteously.
"I am firm. You are one that needs a tight hand, Mistress. Come, now,
humility and obedience, these are the Christian graces that best become
your youth. Say, can the Church, through me, its minister, count on
these from you? or" (suddenly letting loose his diapason) "did you send
for me to ask advice, and yet go your own way, hiding a high stomach and
a wilful heart under a show of humility?"
Catharine looked at Father Francis with dismay. This was the first time
that easy-going priest had shown her how impressive he could be. She was
downright frightened, and said she hoped she knew better than to defy
her director; she laid her will at his feet, and would obey him like a
child, as was her duty.
"Now I know my daughter again," said he, and gave her his horrible paw,
the which she kissed very humbly, and that matter was settled to her
entire dissatisfaction.
Soon after that, they were both summoned to supper; but as they went
down, Kate's maid drew her aside and told her a young man wanted to
speak to her.
"A young man?" screamed Kate. "Hang young men! They have got me a fine
scolding just now! Which is it, pray?"
"He is a stranger to me."
"Perhaps he comes with a message from some fool. You may bring him to
me in the hall, and stay with us: it may be a thief, for aught I know."
The maid soon reappeared, followed by Mr. Thomas Leicester.
That young worthy had lingered on Scutchemsee Nob, to extract the last
drop of enjoyment from the situation, by setting up his hat at ten
paces, and firing the gentlemen's pistols at it. I despair of conveying
to any rational reader the satisfaction, keen, though brief, this
afforded him; it was a new sensation: gentlemen's guns he had fired
many; but duelling-pistols, not one, till that bright hour.
He was now come to remind Catharine of his pecuniary claims. Luckily for
him, she was one who did not need to be reminded of her promises.
"Oh, it is you, child!" said she. "Well, I'll be as good as my word."
She then dismissed her maid, and went up stairs, and soon returned with
two guineas, a crown piece, and three shillings in her hand.
"There," said she, smiling, "I am sorry for you, but that is all the
money I have in the world."
The boy's eyes glittered at sight of the coin: he rammed the silver into
his pocket with hungry rapidity; but he shook his head about the gold.
"I'm afeard o' these," said he, and eyed them mistrustfully in his palm.
"These be the friends that get you your throat cut o' dark nights.
Mistress, please you keep 'em for me, and let me have a shilling now and
then when I'm dry."
"Nay," said Kate, "but are you not afraid I shall spend your money, now
I have none left of my own?"
Tom seemed quite struck with the reasonableness of this observation, and
hesitated. However, he concluded to risk it.
"You don't look one of the sort to wrong a poor fellow," said he; "and
besides, you'll have brass to spare of your own before long, I know."
Kate opened her eyes.
"Oh, indeed!" said she; "and pray, how do you know that?"
Mr. Leicester favored her with a knowing wink. He gave her a moment to
digest this, and then said, almost in a whisper,--
"Hearkened the gentlefolks on Scutchemsee Nob, after you was gone home,
Mistress."
Kate was annoyed.
"What! they must be prating as soon as one's back is turned! Talk of
women's tongues! Now what did they say, I should like to know?"
"It was about the bet, ye know."
"A bet? Oh, that is no affair of mine."
"Ay, but it is. Why, 'twas you they were betting on. Seems that old
soger and Squire Hammersley had laid three guineas to one that you
should let out which was your fancy of them two."
Kate's cheeks were red as fire now; but her delicacy overpowered her
curiosity, and she would not put any more questions. To be sure, young
Hopeful needed none; he was naturally a chatterbox, and he proceeded to
tell her, that, as soon as ever she was gone, Squire Hammersley took a
guinea and offered it to the old soldier, and told him he had won, and
the old soldier pocketed it. But after that, somehow, Squire Hammersley
let drop that Mr. Neville was the favorite.
"Then," continued Mr. Leicester, "what does the old soger do, but pull
out guinea again, and says he,--
"'You must have this back; bet is not won: for you do think 'tis
Neville; now I do think 'tis Gaunt.'
"So then they fell to argufying and talking a lot o' stuff."
"No doubt, the insolent meddlers! Can you remember any of their
nonsense?--not that it is worth remembering, I'll be bound."
"Let me see. Well, Squire Hammersley, he said you owned to dreaming of
Squire Neville,--and that was a sign of love, said he; and, besides, you
sided with him against t'other. But the old soger, he said you called
Squire Gaunt 'Griffith'; and he built on that. Oh, and a said you
changed the horses back to please our Squire. Says he,--
"'You must look to what the lady did; never heed what she said. Why,
their sweet lips was only made to kiss us, and deceive us,' says that
there old soger."
"I'll--I'll----And what did you say, Sir?--for I suppose your tongue
was not idle."
"Oh, me? I never let 'em know I was hearkening, or they'd have 'greed in
a moment for to give me a hiding. Besides, I had no need to cudgel my
brains; I'd only to ask you plump. You'll tell _me_, I know. Which is
it, Mistress? I'm for Gaunt, you know, in course. Alack, Mistress,"
gabbled this voluble youth, "sure you won't be so hard as sack my
Squire, and him got a bullet in his carcass, for love of you, this day."
Kate started, and looked at him in surprise.
"Oh," said she, "a bullet! Did they fight again the moment they saw my
back was turned? The cowards!"
And she began to tremble.
"No, no," said Tom; "that was done before ever you came up. Don't ye
remember that single shot while we were climbing the Nob? Well, 't was
Squire Gaunt got it in the arm that time."
"Oh!"
"But I say, wasn't our man game? Never let out he was hit while you was
there; but as soon as ever you was gone, they cut the bullet out of him,
and I seen it."
"Ah!--ah!"
"Doctor takes out his knife,--precious sharp and shiny 't was!--cuts
into his arm with no more ado than if he was carving a pullet,--out
squirts the blood, a good un."
"Oh, no more! no more! You cruel boy! how could you bear to look?"
And Kate hid her own face with both hands.
"Why, 't wasn't _my_ skin as was cut into Squire Gaunt, he never
hollered; a winced, though, and ground his teeth; but 't was over in a
minute, and the bullet in his hand.
"'That is for my wife,' says he, 'if ever I have one,'--and puts it in
his pocket.
"Why, Mistress, you be as white as your smock!"
"No, no! Did he faint, poor soul?"
"Not he! What was there to faint about?"
"Then why do I feel so sick, even to hear of it?"
"Because you ha'n't got no stomach," said the boy, contemptuously. "Your
courage is skin-deep, I'm thinking. However, I'm glad you feel for our
Squire, about the bullet; so now I hope you will wed with _him_, and
sack Squire Neville. Then you and I shall be kind o' kin: Squire Gaunt's
feyther was my feyther. That makes you stare, Mistress. Why, all the
folk do know it. Look at this here little mole on my forehead. Squire
Gaunt have got the fellow to that."
At this crisis of his argument he suddenly caught a glimpse of his
personal interest; instantly he ceased his advocacy of Squire Gaunt, and
became ludicrously impartial.
"Well, Mistress; wed whichever you like," said he, with sublime
indifference; "only whichever you _do_ wed, prithee speak a word to the
gentleman, and get me to be his gamekeeper. I'd liever be your goodman's
gamekeeper than king of England."
He was proceeding with vast volubility to enumerate his qualifications
for that confidential post, when the lady cut him short, and told him to
go and get his supper in the kitchen, for she was wanted elsewhere. He
made a scrape, and clattered away with his hobnailed shoes.
Kate went to the hall window and opened it, and let the cold air blow
over her face.
Her heart was touched, and her bosom filled with pity for her old
sweetheart.
How hard she had been. She had sided with Neville against the wounded
man. And she thought how sadly and patiently he had submitted to her
decision,--and a bullet in his poor arm all the time.
The gentle bosom heaved, and heaved, and the tears began to run.
* * * * *
She entered the dining-room timidly, expecting some comment on her
discourteous absence. Instead of that, both her father and her director
rose respectfully, and received her with kind and affectionate looks.
They then pressed her to eat this and that, and were remarkably
attentive and kind. She could see that she was deep in their good books.
This pleased her; but she watched quietly, after the manner of her sex,
to learn what it was all about. Nor was she left long in the dark.
Remarks were made that hit her, though they were none of them addressed
to her.
Father Francis delivered quite a little homily on Obedience, and said
how happy a thing it was, when zeal, a virtue none too common in these
degenerate days, was found tempered by humility, and subservient to
ghostly counsel and authority.
Mr. Peyton dealt in no general topics of that kind; his discourse was
secular: it ran upon Neville's Cross, Neville's Court, and the
Baronetcy; and he showed Francis how and why this title must sooner or
later come to George Neville and the heirs of his body.
Francis joined in this topic for a while, but speedily diverged into
what might be called a collateral theme. He described to Kate a
delightful spot on the Neville estate, where a nunnery might be built
and endowed by any good Catholic lady having zeal, and influence with
the owner of the estate, and with the lord-lieutenant of the county.
"It is three parts an island, (for the river Wey curls round it
lovingly,) but backed by wooded slopes that keep off the north and east
winds: a hidden and balmy place, such as the forefathers of the Church
did use to choose for their rustic abbeys, whose ruins still survive to
remind us of the pious and glorious days gone by. Trout and salmon come
swimming to the door; hawthorn and woodbine are as rife there as weeds
be in some parts; two broad oaks stand on turf like velvet, and ring
with songbirds. A spot by nature sweet, calm, and holy,--good for pious
exercises and heavenly contemplation: there, methinks, if it be God's
will I should see old age, I would love to end my own days, at peace
with Heaven and with all mankind."
Kate was much moved by this picture, and her clasped hands and
glistening eyes showed the glory and delight it would be to her to build
a convent on so lovely a spot. But her words were vague. "How sweet! how
sweet!" was all she committed herself to. For, after what Tom Leicester
had just told her, she hardly knew what to say or what to think or what
to do; she felt she had become a mere puppet, first drawn one way, then
another.
One thing appeared pretty clear to her now: Father Francis did not mean
her to choose between her two lovers; he was good enough to relieve her
of that difficulty by choosing for her. She was to marry Neville.
She retired to rest directly after supper; for she was thoroughly worn
out. And the moment she rose to go, her father bounced up, and lighted
the bed-candle for her with novel fervor, and kissed her on the cheek,
and said in her ear,--
"Good night, my Lady Neville!"