"Magda, I want my reward."
She raised her eyes to his face, a deep flush suffused her cheek,
and then faded, leaving her somewhat paler than before.
"Thy reward, Arthur? And what is that?"
"Nothing less than thyself, my beloved," he answered, with a
passionate tenderness. "I have thy heart, thy love; these have been
enough this long while. Now I want thee, thine own self. Why should
we wait longer? Art thou not ready to give thyself to me--now?"
She let her lover draw her close to his side. She looked up at him,
and saw that his face was grave and pale. This gravity had grown
upon him of late, and she saw that lines of anxiety had begun to
appear on his brow, which had not been there six months ago. Her
woman's instinct of seeking to comfort and support came instantly
to her help.
"I will do all that thou dost wish of me, Arthur. If thou hast some
trouble, let me share it. A wife should be the helpmeet of her
husband in all things. If I am soon to be that, let me begin mine
office now."
He bent his head and kissed her, and drawing her hand through his
arm, began pacing to and fro in the budding nut walk, where the
tender flickering green of early springtide was shimmering in the
golden sunlight.
"My Magda, I have been thinking much of late. I have many plans,
and some of them must needs be carried out in all haste. But ere I
can fulfil them as I would, I must needs have my wife at my side to
help and support me. There will be woman's work as well as man's,
and such work as thou dost love."
"Tell me," she said, lifting her eyes to his face.
"Magda, thou dost know that tomorrow there will be a form of trial,
and Anthony Dalaber and others will make submission, be condemned
to do penance, and in a few days will fulfil that penance, and then
be restored to communion with the church, and to liberty and life?"
"Yes, I know," answered Magdalen gravely.
"And when this has been done, and they are free, it will be better,
far better, that they should quit Oxford for a while, and remain in
some seclusion, away from prying eyes and from the suspicion which
must attach to all those upon whom the taint of heresy has once
fallen. Oxford will be no place for them for a while."
"I can believe that they would be happier elsewhere," she answered.
"But I sometimes fear for Anthony. He will suffer from agonies of
shame and remorse; I know he will. Thou dost think him right to
make submission, but he will feel that in so doing he has denied
his faith and his Lord. I fear for him, and so does Freda. She is
very unhappy."
"I know it," answered Arthur quickly; "I can see both sides of this
most difficult question of conscience. But I may not be the one to
blame Anthony, for I have greatly persuaded him to this act of
submission, and I would that, if blame attach to any in Freda's
mind, she should throw that blame on me. I will speak with her
later anent the matter.
"But, Magda, this is the plan I am revolving in my mind. I would
provide for Anthony and for others a place of rest and peace and
refreshment, where they can regain health of body and serenity of
spirit. And where better than at the old manor near to Poghley,
where we have spent so many happy days of yore? But I would have my
wife with me there--not as guest, but as mistress of the house. And
Freda would have a home with us, and thy father likewise, when he
desired it. But thou dost know how that he greatly desires to visit
Italy; and wert thou my wife, and Freda beneath our care, then he
could start with a free heart upon his journey. And we would take
up our abode together at Poghley, and live such a life as I have
sometimes dreamed of, but which has ever seemed too fair and
peaceful for attainment in this world of strife."
Magdalen's eyes grew bright and big with the rush of thoughts that
came over her.
"And thou wouldst have Anthony and his friends, and would seek for
them there health, both of body and of spirit? Oh, that would be a
sweet and commendable work, Arthur. I would that I might share it
with thee."
"And so thou shalt, my beloved, for alone I should be sorely let
and hindered. Anthony shall be our guest and kinsman--soon to be
our brother; for he is without home, and his brother in Dorset is a
man of fierce temper, and has sent him a violently accusing letter
on hearing what has happened in Oxford, which has cut him to the
quick. He will be in sore need of comfort and repose; and if there
be others in like case with him, whose friends will only persecute
and revile them, then let them come to us also. Ours shall be a
house of refuge for the distressed and oppressed.
"Thou wilt not refuse to aid me in that task, Magda? I know that
thy heart yearns always over all who suffer from sorrow and pain,
even though they may in some sort have brought this upon
themselves."
"I should love such a task," answered the girl earnestly; "I would
ask nothing better myself than to tend and comfort those who have
suffered in such a cause. But thou, Arthur--how hast thou come to
think of such a thing? Thou hast never been one of the brethren;
thou hast never been touched by heresy; thou hast ever deplored the
rashness of those who have committed themselves to such courses;
and yet thou art showing thyself now the friend of all."
He looked straight before him with a thoughtful smile.
"These men will be 'purged from heresy,' as it is called, ere I
offer them the shelter of my house," he answered. "I am risking
nothing by so doing. And in truth, sweetheart, if there were
somewhat to risk, methinks I would be willing to do the same, if
thou didst not shrink from the task. Whether we study the
Scriptures for ourselves, or whether we let the church expound
them, one lesson we always learn if we listen and read aright, and
that is the lesson of charity. We are brethren in Christ, if we are
bound by no closer tie--no tie of our own making. Christ was ever
merciful to the sick, the afflicted, the erring, the desolate, and
we are bidden to follow in His steps. He did not shut Himself up
behind walls to live the life of meditation; He walked amongst men,
and bid men come to Him. In lesser measure we may surely do the
same; and this is what I would fain attempt in these days of
trouble for so many--bind up the broken heart, give medicine to the
sick, rest to the weary, cheering and comfort to those who are cast
down in spirit. It may be little we can accomplish, but let us do
that little with all our might. I trust and hope that God will give
us His blessing, and grant us power to be a blessing to others."
Dr. Langton heard Arthur's proposal with great satisfaction. He had
grown somewhat weary of his life in Oxford, and was desirous of
taking a long journey into foreign countries, to pursue there some
studies which would require the assistance of foreign libraries.
Moreover, the frequent outbreaks of sickness now sweeping over
Oxford, and especially during the summer months, had aroused his
concern, and made him anxious to remove his daughters into some
more healthy place. Latterly this matter had appeared likely to
arrange itself, with the betrothal of the girls respectively to
Anthony Dalaber and Arthur Cole. Still there might be a lapse of
several years between betrothal and marriage, and he was seriously
meditating the best course to pursue, when Arthur's proposition
came as a solution of the problem.
Marriages were very quickly and easily performed in those days.
They could be consummated at the briefest notice. And Magdalen,
having given her promise, was ready to give her hand at any time
that Arthur should desire, and depart with him at once for the new
home, whither Freda and their father would quickly follow them, and
any amongst their suffering friends who, on release, desired that
haven of peace and rest.
The trial of the tainted students was over. It was Arthur who
brought word to the Bridge House as to what had been the result.
All day Freda had moved to and fro with restless steps and burning
eyes. Her whole being seemed rent asunder by the depth of her
emotion. What would Anthony say and do? How would he comport
himself? Would he yield and sign the recantation, and join in the
act of humiliation and penance, or would he at the last stand firm
and refuse compliance? Which choice did she wish him to make? Could
she bear to see him treated as an outcast and heretic--he, her
faithful, devoted Anthony? But would he ever be quite the same in
her eyes, if he, to save himself from the pains and penalties which
beset him, drew back and denied those things which he believed?
She knew not what to think, what to wish. She paced the house and
garden with restless steps, and when Arthur came at last, her
agitation was so great that she could not speak a word.
But her face was eloquent of her emotion, and he kept her not a
moment in suspense.
"All has gone well," he answered, "with Anthony as with the rest.
They were gently handled and fairly spoken. The confession of faith
demanded of them was such as no Christian man could hesitate to
make. They were admonished for disobedience, but the errors with
which they were charged were not sternly pressed home. They were
asked if they desired to be reconciled and restored to communion;
and on affirming that they did, they were only bidden to take part
in the public act of penance of which they had already heard. All
consented to do this, and were then removed to their several
prisons; and four days hence will this act of penance be performed,
after which our friends will be restored to us and to the church
once more."
"And Anthony consented with the rest?" asked Freda, with pale lips
and wistful eyes.
"He did."
Arthur looked her full in the face as he spoke.
"Anthony might perchance have refused compliance, had it not been
for me, Freda. If thou hast any blame for him in this matter, let
it rest upon my head, not upon his."
"Thou didst persuade him?"
"I did. I would do so again. Anthony is young, hot headed,
impulsive, rash. Whatever he may grow to in the future, whatever
convictions he may then hold, he is not fit yet to be a leader of
men, to take up an attitude of defiance to the laws and statutes of
the university--leaving the church out of the question--to ruin his
career in an impulse which may not be a lasting one. Let him and
others have patience. Those things which they ask they may likely
obtain without such fierce struggle and such peril. Let men bear
the yoke in their youth; it does them no hurt. To be cast forth
from the communion of the church would be a greater hurt to
Anthony, body and soul, than to do a penance which may do violence
to some of his cherished convictions. In this world we ofttimes
have to choose, not between absolute right and wrong, but between
two courses, neither of which is perfect; and then we are forced to
consider which is the less imperfect of the two. I trow that
Anthony has made a wise choice; but if to you it seems not so, I
pray you blame me rather than him, for I did plead with him more
than once, and right earnestly, to take this way. I did use your
name also, and begged of him to live for your sake; and methinks
that argument did more prevail with him than any other I could have
urged."
Freda drew her breath rather hard, but the expression of her face
softened.
"You did bid him do it for my sake? Did he think that I would have
thus bidden him act?"
"I know not that, but it is like. Remember, sweet Freda, how that,
when thou didst see him in his prison, thou didst rain kisses and
tears upon his face, and bid him live for thee. How could I not
remind him of that? And wouldst thou not rather that he should live
than die?"
"Oh yes, oh yes! I cannot bear to think of that other terrible
peril. I am torn in twain by grief and perplexity. Why do they make
it so hard for men to take the perfect way? He would be faithful
unto death--I know he would--if he could but see his course clear.
But as it is, who can tell what is the best and most right way? To
be cut off from the Church of Christ--it is so terrible! Yet to
tamper with conscience--is not that terrible too?"
"They made it as easy for them as was possible," answered Arthur
gently; "let not us make it hard afterwards. Anthony would
suffer--it is his nature--whatever course he took. To be
excommunicate is keen pain to one of his devout nature; to do
penance for what he holds to be no act of sin or heresy will pain
him, likewise--not the humiliation of the pageant alone, but the
fear lest he has taken a false step and denied his Lord. It is for
us, his friends, to receive him joyfully, and restore him to peace
and comfort. Be sure that Christ would pardon him, even though he
may find it hard to pardon himself."
Freda sighed, but her face softened. Magdalen asked a whispered
question.
"And Master Clarke--did he submit?"
"He was not called," answered Arthur gravely; "some say he is too
sick to appear, others that he has recanted, but has been spared
joining in the procession because that he and two more are not able
to walk. Others, again, say that he will not abjure the errors with
which he is charged, nor take part in the prescribed penance. I
have not been suffered to see him. I know not how it may be. But in
sooth, if he be sick as they say, it were time they let him forth
from his prison. It is not right nor justice that men should be
done to death in noisome dungeons when no crime has been proven
against them."
The girls' faces were pale with horror and pity.
"Canst thou do nothing, Arthur?" pleaded Magdalen. "Thou art rich,
and powerful, and well known to so many. Canst thou do nothing to
aid them?"
"I will do what I can, once the act of penance be over," he
answered. "Till then it is useless to stir, for they will seek to
work upon them to the very last moment by threats, or by argument,
or by entreaty. Should they prove obstinate to the last, I know not
what will befall. But if they are like to perish in the prison, it
may be that the dean's word will prevail for their release. He is
grieved that one so godly in his life and conversation should
suffer so cruelly. When this act has been accomplished, belike they
may listen to the words of his friends, unless the cruel will of
the bishop prevail, and he is sent to a fiery death."
It was a very quiet wedding on the morrow that united Magdalen
Langton and Arthur Cole as man and wife. They were married at an
early hour in St. Mary's Church, and set off that same day for the
old manor house, which was to be their future home. Freda could
not, however, be persuaded to accompany them on that day.
"I must see the fire at Carfax," she said; "I would see it with
mine own eyes. Afterwards I will come to you, and will bring
Anthony with me; but not till I have seen this thing for myself. I
cannot help it. I must be there."
Magdalen entreated awhile, but Freda stood firm.
"I must see the fire at Carfax," she answered; and at last they
forbore to press her, knowing her mind was made up.
It wanted but a few days to Easter when the day came for which
Freda had waited with feverish, sleepless eyes. The sun rose clear
and bright birds carolled in the gladness of their hearts; all
nature was filled with the joy of happy springtide; but there was a
heavy cloud resting upon Freda's spirits.
"I will not blame him; I will speak no word of reproach. In this
hard strait should I have been more brave? It may be he is doing
what he believes most right. I will not believe him unfaithful to
his truer self. Who can judge, save God alone, of what is the most
right thing to do in these dark and troublous days?"
She rose and donned a black gown, and shrouded herself in a long
cloak, the hood of which concealed her face. She was very pale, and
there were rings around her eyes that told of weeping and of vigil.
Oh, how she had prayed for Anthony, that he might be pardoned
wherein he might sin, strengthened wherein he was weak, purified
and enlightened in the inner man, and taught by the Holy Spirit of
God!
As she walked through the streets by her father's side, and marked
the gathering crowd thronging towards Carfax and the route to be
taken by the procession, she seemed to hear the words beaten out by
the tread of hurrying feet: "Faithful unto death--faithful unto
death--unto death!" till she could have cried aloud in the strange
turmoil of her spirit, "Faithful unto death--unto death!"
There was a convenient window in the house of a kindly citizen,
which had been put at her father's disposal. When they took their
places at it they saw the men already at work over the bonfire in
the centre of the cross roads. All the windows and the streets were
thronged with curious spectators, and almost at once the tolling of
the bells of various churches announced that the ceremony was about
to begin.
The procession, it was whispered about, was to start from St.
Mary's Church, to march to Carfax, where certain ceremonies were to
be performed, and then to proceed to St. Frideswyde, where a solemn
Mass would be performed, to which the penitents would be admitted.
Then, with a solemn benediction, they would be dismissed to their
own homes, and admitted to communion upon Easter Day.
Freda sat very still at the window, hearing little beside the heavy
beating of her own heart and the monotonous tolling of the bells.
The crowd was silent, too, and almost all the people were habited
in black, partly out of respect to the season of the Lord's
passion, partly because this ceremony took the nature of a solemn
humiliation.
Perhaps there were many standing in that close-packed crowd who
knew themselves to have been as "guilty"--if guilt there were--as
those who were compelled to do penance that day. There was evident
sympathy on many faces, and the girl, looking down from above,
noted how many groups there were talking earnestly and quietly
together, and how they threw quick glances over their shoulders, as
though half afraid lest what they were saying might be overheard.
"I trow there are many here who have dared to read the Word of God
and discuss it freely together, and compare the church as it now is
with the church, the Bride of the Lamb. I wonder if they would have
all submitted, had it been their lot to stand before those judges
and hear the sentence pronounced."
A thrill seemed suddenly to pass through the crowd; the people
pressed forward and then surged back.
"They are coming! they are coming!" the whisper went round, and
Freda felt the blood ebbing away from her cheeks, and for a moment
her eyes were too dim to see.
The solemn procession of heads and masters, clerks and beadles,
seemed to swim before her in a quivering haze. Her strained eyes
were fixed upon those other figures bringing up the rear--those men
in the garb of the penitent, each bearing a fagot on his shoulder,
and carrying a lighted taper in his hand.
Was Anthony among them? She held her breath in a sickening
suspense, scarce knowing whether or not she longed to see him. She
knew almost each face as it loomed up into view: there was young
Fitzjames, their kinsman, looking shame-faced but submissive; there
were Udel and Diet, Bayley, Cox, and others whom she had never
suspected of having been concerned in the movement; and there,
almost at the rear of the long procession, walked Anthony Dalaber,
his dark, thin face looking worn and haggard, his hair tumbled and
unkempt, his dark eyes bent upon the ground, his feet slow and
lagging, but whether from weakness or unwillingness she was not
able to say. She held her breath to watch him as he appeared. She
saw the heavy frown upon his brow; she marked the change which had
come over him--the cloud which seemed to envelop him. She knew that
he was bowed to the ground with shame and humiliation, and with
that sort of fierce despair of which she had seen glimpses in his
nature before now.
Suddenly all the old tenderness rushed over her as in a flood. She
forgot her sense of disappointment in his lack of firmness; she
forgot how he had boasted of his courage and devotion, and how, in
the time of temptation and trial, he had let himself be persuaded
to take the easier path; she forgot all save that he had loved her,
and that she had loved him, and that love can surmount all things,
because its essence is divine. If he had fallen, he had suffered
keenly. Suffering was stamped upon every line of his face.
Was not God's love for sinners so great that before the world
repented of its wickedness He gave His Son to die for an atonement
and expiation? Must we then not love those who err, and who repent
of their weakness? Nay, are we not all sinners, all weak, all frail
and feeble beings in weak mortal bodies? Shall we judge and condemn
one another? Shall we not rather seek to strengthen one another by
love and tenderness, and so lead one another onward in the way
which leads to life everlasting?
These thoughts rushed like a flood through Freda's mind as she
watched through a mist of tears the throwing of the fagots and the
books upon the fire at Carfax. Three times did the penitents walk
round the fire, the bells tolling, and the crowd observing an
intense silence, as the servants handed to the young men books from
the baskets to fling upon the fire.
Only one was given to Anthony, and he gave one quick glance before
he threw it into the heart of the blaze. Arthur Cole had been as
good as his word. It was no portion of God's Word that he was
condemned to burn, but a pamphlet of peculiar bitterness by one of
the foreign reformers.
Then the procession formed up again, and started for its final
goal; and Freda, rising, laid her hand upon her father's arm and
said:
"Take me home, I prithee, sweet father--take me home first. I have
seen enough. I would now go home. And then, when all is over, go
thou to St. Frideswyde and bring Anthony to me."