SIR ANTHONY'S PURPOSE.
Late, as I have heard, on the afternoon of November 20, 1558, a man
riding between Oxford and Worcester, with the news of the queen's
death, caught sight of the gateway tower at Coton End, which is
plainly visible from the road. Though he had already drunk that day as
much ale as would have sufficed him for a week when the queen was
well, yet much wants more. He calculated he had time to stop and taste
the Squire's brewing, which he judged, from the look of the tower,
might be worth his news; and he rode through the gate and railed at
his nag for stumbling.
Half way across the Chase he met Sir Anthony. The old gentleman was
walking out, with his staff in his hand and his dogs behind him, to
take the air before supper. The man, while he was still a hundred
paces off, began to wave his hat and shout something, which ale and
excitement rendered unintelligible.
"What is the matter?" said Sir Anthony to himself. And he stood still.
"The queen is dead!" shouted the messenger, swaying in his saddle.
The knight stared.
"Ay, sure!" he ejaculated after a while. And he took off his hat. "Is
it true, man?"
"As true as that I left London yesterday afternoon and have never
drawn rein since!" swore the knave, who had been three days on the
road, and had drunk at every hostel and at half the manor-houses
between London and Oxford.
"God rest her soul!" said Sir Anthony piously, still in somewhat of a
maze. "And do you come in! Come in, man, and take something."
But the messenger had got his formula by heart, and was not to be
defrauded of any part of it.
"God save the queen!" he shouted. And out of respect for the knight,
he slipped from his saddle and promptly fell on his back in the road.
"Ay, to be sure, God save the queen!" echoed Sir Anthony, taking off
his hat again. "You are right, man!" Then he hurried on, not noticing
the messenger's mishap. The tidings he had heard seemed of such
importance, and he was so anxious to tell them to his household--for
the greatest men have weaknesses, and news such as this comes seldom
in a lifetime--that he strode on to the house, and over the drawbridge
into the courtyard, without once looking behind him.
He loved order and decent observance. But there are times when a cat,
to get to the cream-pan, will wet its feet. He stood now in the middle
of the courtyard, and raising his voice, shouted for his daughter.
"Ho, Petronilla! do you hear, girl! Father! Father Carey! Martin
Luther! Baldwin!" and so on, until half the household were collected.
"Do you hear, all of you? The queen is dead! God rest her soul!"
"Amen!" said Father Carey, as became him, putting in his word amid the
wondering silence which followed; while Martin Luther and Baldwin, who
were washing themselves at the pump, stood with their heads dripping
and their mouths agape.
"Amen!" echoed the knight. "And long live the queen! Long live Queen
Elizabeth!" he continued, having now got his formula by heart. And he
swung his hat.
There was a cheer, a fairly loud cheer. But there was one who did not
join in it, and that was Petronilla. She, listening at her lattice
upstairs, began at once to think, as was her habit when any matter
great or small fell out, whether this would affect the fortunes of a
certain person far away. It might, it might not; she did not know. But
the doubt so far entertained her that she came down to supper with a
heightened color, not thinking in the least, poor girl, that the event
might have dire consequences for others almost as dear to her, and
nearer home.
Every year since his sudden departure a letter from Francis Cludde had
come to Coton; a meager letter, which had passed through many hands,
and reached Sir Anthony now through one channel, now through another.
The knight grumbled and swore over these letters, which never
contained an address to which an answer could be forwarded, nor said
much, save that the writer was well and sent his love and duty, and
looked to return, all being well. But, meager as they were, and loud
as he swore over them, he put them religiously away in an oak-chest in
his parlor; and another always put away for her share something else,
which was invariably inclosed--a tiny swallow's feather. The knight
never said anything about the feather; neither asked the meaning of
its presence, nor commented upon its absence when Petronilla gave him
back the letter. But for days after each of these arrivals he would
look much at his daughter, would follow her about with his eyes, be
more regular in bidding her attend him in his walk, and more
particular in seeing that she had the tidbits of the joint.
For Petronilla, it cannot be said, though I think in after times she
would have liked to make some one believe it, that she wasted away.
But she did take a more serious and thoughtful air in these days,
which she never, God bless her, lost afterward. There came from
Wootton Wawen and from Henley in Arden and from Cookhill gentlemen of
excellent estate, to woo her. But they all went away disconsolate
after drinking very deeply of Sir Anthony's ale and strong waters. And
some wondered that the good knight did not roundly take the jade to
task and see her settled.
But he did not; so possibly even in these days he had other views. I
have been told that, going up once to her little chamber to seek her,
he found a very singular ornament suspended inside her lattice. It was
no other than a common clay house-martin's nest. But it was so deftly
hung in a netted bag, and so daintily swathed in moss always green,
and the Christmas roses and snowdrops and violets and daffodils which
decked it in turn were always so pure and fresh and bright--as the
knight learned by more than one stealthy visit afterward--that, coming
down the steep steps, he could not see clearly, and stumbled against a
cook-boy, and beat him soundly for getting in his way.
To return, however. The news of the queen's death had scarcely been
well digested at Coton, nor the mass for her soul, which Father Carey
celebrated with much devotion, been properly criticised, before
another surprise fell upon the household. Two strangers arrived,
riding late one evening, and rang the great bell while all were at
supper. Baldwin and the porter went to see what it was, and brought
back a message which drew the knight from his chair, as a terrier
draws a rat.
"You are drunk!" he shouted, purple in the face, and fumbling for the
stick which usually leaned against his seat ready for emergencies.
"How dare you bring cock-and-bull stories to me?"
"It is true enough!" muttered Baldwin sullenly: a stout, dour man, not
much afraid of his master, but loving him exceedingly. "I knew him
again myself."
Sir Anthony strode firmly out of the room, and in the courtyard near
the great gate found a man and a woman standing in the dusk. He walked
up to the former and looked him in the face. "What do you here?" he
said, in a strange, hard voice.
"I want shelter for a night for myself and my wife; a meal and some
words with you--no more," was the answer. "Give me this," the stranger
continued, "which every idle passer-by may claim at Coton End, and you
shall see no more of me, Anthony."
For a moment the knight seemed to hesitate. Then he answered, pointing
sternly with his hand, "There is the hall and supper. Go and eat and
drink. Or, stay!" he resumed. And he turned and gave some orders to
Baldwin, who went swiftly to the hall, and in a moment came again.
"Now go! What you want the servants will prepare for you."
"I want speech of you," said the newcomer.
Sir Anthony seemed about to refuse, but thought better of it. "You can
come to my room when you have supped," he said, in the same ungracious
tone, speaking with his eyes averted.
"And you--do you not take supper?"
"I have finished," said the knight, albeit he had eaten little. And he
turned on his heel.
Very few of those who sat round the table and watched with
astonishment the tall stranger's entrance knew him again. It was
thirteen years since Ferdinand Cludde had last sat there; sitting
there of right. And the thirteen years had worked much change in him.
When he found that Petronilla, obeying her father's message, had
disappeared, he said haughtily that his wife would sup in her own
room; and with a flashing eye and curling lip, bade Baldwin see to it.
Then, seating himself in a place next Sir Anthony's, he looked down
the board at which all sat silent. His sarcastic eye, his high
bearing, his manner--the manner of one who had gone long with his life
in his hand--awed these simple folk. Then, too, he was a Cludde.
Father Carey was absent that evening. Martin Luther had one of those
turns, half-sick, half-sullen, which alternated with his moods of
merriment; and kept his straw pallet in some corner or other. There
was no one to come between the servants and this dark-visaged
stranger, who was yet no stranger.
He had his way and his talk with Sir Anthony; the latter lasting far
into the night and producing odd results. In the first place, the
unbidden guest and his wife stayed on over next day, and over many
days to come, and seemed gradually to grow more and more at home. The
knight began to take long walks and rides with his brother, and from
each walk and ride came back with a more gloomy face and a curter
manner. Petronilla, his companion of old, found herself set aside for
her uncle, and cast, for society, on Ferdinand's wife, the strange
young woman with the brilliant eyes, whose odd changes from grave to
gay rivaled Martin Luther's; and who now scared the girl by wild
laughter and wilder gibes, and now moved her to pity by fits of
weeping or dark moods of gloom. That Uncle Ferdinand's wife stood in
dread of her husband, Petronilla soon learned, and even began to share
this dread, to shrink from his presence, and to shut herself up more
and more closely in her own chamber.
There was another, too, who grew to be troubled about this time, and
that was Father Carey. The good-natured, easy priest received with joy
and thankfulness the news that Ferdinand Cludde had seen his errors
and re-entered the fold. But when he had had two or three interviews
with the convert, his brow, too, grew clouded, and his mind troubled.
He learned to see that the accession of the young Protestant queen
must bear fruit for which he had a poor appetite. He began to spend
many hours in the church--the church which he had known all his
life--and wrestled much with himself--if his face were any index to
his soul. Good, kindly man, he was not of the stuff of which martyrs
are made; and to be forced, pushed on, and goaded into becoming a
martyr against one's will--well, the Father's position was a hard one.
As was that in those days of many a good and learned clergyman bred in
one church, and bidden suddenly, on pain of losing his livelihood, if
not his life, to migrate to another.
The visitors had been in the house a month--and in that month an
observant eye might have noted much change, though all things in
seeming went on as before--when the queen's orders enjoining all
priests to read the service, or a great part of it, in English, came
down, being forwarded by the sheriff to Father Carey. The missive
arrived on a Friday, and had been indeed long expected.
"What shall you do?" Ferdinand asked Sir Anthony.
"As before!" the tall old man replied, gripping his staff more firmly.
It was no new subject between them. A hundred times they had discussed
it already, even as they were now discussing it on the terrace by the
fish-pool, with the church which adjoins the house full in view across
the garden. "I will have no mushroom faith at Coton End," the knight
continued warmly. "It sprang up under King Henry, and how long did it
last? A year or two. It came in again under King Edward, and how long
did it last? A year or two. So it will be again. It will not last,
Ferdinand."
"I am of that mind," the younger man answered, nodding his head
gravely.
"Of course you are!" Sir Anthony rejoined, as he rested one hand on
the sundial. "For ten generations our forefathers have worshiped in
that church after the old fashion--and shall it be changed in my day?
Heaven forbid! The old fashion did for my fathers; it shall do for me.
Why, I would as soon expect that the river yonder should flow backward
as that the church which has stood for centuries, and more years to
the back of them than I can count, should be swept away by these Hot
Gospelers! I will have none of them! I will have no new-fangled ways
at Coton End!"
"Well, I think you are right!" the younger brother said. By what means
he had brought the knight to this mind without committing himself more
fully, I cannot tell. Yet so it was. Ferdinand showed himself always
the cautious doubter. Father Carey even must have done him that
justice. But--and this was strange--the more doubtful he showed
himself, the more stubborn grew his brother. There are men so shrewd
as to pass off stones for bread; and men so simple-minded as to take
something less than the word for the deed.
"Why should it come in our time?" cried Sir Anthony fractiously.
"Why indeed?" quoth the subtle one.
"I say, why should it come now? I have heard and read of the sect
called Lollards who gave trouble a while ago. But they passed, and the
church stood. So will these Gospelers pass, and the church will
stand."
"That is our experience certainly," said Ferdinand.
"I hate change!" the old man continued, his eyes on the old church,
the old timbered house--for only the gateway tower at Coton is of
stone--the old yew trees in the churchyard. "I do not believe in it,
and, what is more, I will not have it. As my fathers have worshiped,
so will I, though it cost me every rood of land! A fig for the Order
in Council!"
"If you really will not change with the younger generations----"
"I will not!" replied the old knight sharply. "There is an end of it!"
To-day the Reformed Church in England has seen many an anniversary,
and grown stronger with each year; and we can afford to laugh at Sir
Anthony's arguments. We know better than he did, for the proof of the
pudding is in the eating. But in him and his fellows, who had only the
knowledge of their own day, such arguments were natural enough. All
time, all experience, all history and custom and habit, as known to
them, were on their side. Only it was once again to be the battle of
David and the Giant of Gath.
Sir Anthony had said, "There is an end of it!" But his companion, as
he presently strolled up to the house with a smile on his saturnine
face, well knew that this was only the beginning of it. This was
Friday.
On the Sunday, a rumor of the order having gone abroad, a larger
congregation than usual streamed across the Chase to church, prepared
to hear some new thing. They were disappointed. Sir Anthony stalked in
as of old, through the double ranks of people waiting at the door to
receive him; and after him Ferdinand and his wife, and Petronilla and
Baldwin, and every servant from the house save a cook or two and the
porter. The church was full. Seldom had such a congregation been seen
in it. But all passed as of old. Father Carey's hand shook, indeed,
and his voice quavered; but he went through the ceremony of the mass,
and all was done in Latin. A little change would have been pleasant,
some thought. But no one in this country place on the borders of the
forest held very strong views. No bishop had come heretic-hunting to
Coton End. No abbey existed to excite dislike by its extravagance or
by its license or by the swarm of ragged idlers it supported. Father
Carey was the most harmless and kindest of men. The villagers did not
care one way or the other. To them Sir Anthony was king. And if any
one felt tempted to interfere, the old knight's face, as he gazed
steadfastly at the brass effigy of a Cludde, who had fallen in Spain
fighting against the Moors, warned the meddler to be silent.
And so on that Sunday all went well. But some one must have told
tales, for early in the week there came a strong letter of
remonstrance from the sheriff, who was an old friend of Sir Anthony,
and of his own free will, I fancy, would have winked. But he was
committed to the Protestants, and bound to stand or fall with them.
The choleric knight sent back an answer by the same messenger. The
sheriff replied, the knight rejoined--having his brother always at his
elbow. The upshot of the correspondence was an announcement on the
part of the sheriff that he should send his officers to the next
service, to see that the queen's order was obeyed; and a reply on the
part of Sir Anthony that he should as certainly put the men in the
duck-pond. Some inkling of this state of things got abroad, and spread
as a September fire flies through a wood; so that there was like to be
such a congregation at the next service to witness the trial of
strength, as would throw the last Sunday's gathering altogether into
the shade.
It was clear at last that Sir Anthony himself did not think that here
was the end of it. For on that Saturday afternoon he took a remarkable
walk. He called Petronilla after dinner, and bade her get her hood
and come with him. And the girl, who had seen so little of her father
in the last month, and who, what with rumors and fears and surmises,
was eating her heart out, obeyed him with joy. It was a fine frosty
day near the close of December. Sir Anthony led the way over the
plank-bridge which crossed the moat in the rear of the house, and
tramped steadily through the home farm toward a hill called the
Woodman's View, which marked the border of the forest. He did not
talk, but neither was he sunk in reverie. As he entered each field he
stood and scanned it, at times merely nodding, at times smiling, or
again muttering a few words such as, "The three-acre piece! My father
inclosed it!" or, "That is where Ferdinand killed the old mare!" or,
"The best land for wheat on this side of the house!" The hill climbed,
he stood a long time gazing over the landscape, eying first the fields
and meadows which stretched away from his feet toward the house; the
latter, as seen from this point, losing all its stateliness in the
mass of stacks and ricks and barns and granaries which surrounded it.
Then his eyes traveled farther in the same line to the broad expanse
of woodland--Coton Chase--through which the road passed along a ridge
as straight as an arrow. To the right were more fields, and here and
there amid them a homestead with its smaller ring of stacks and barns.
When he turned to the left, his eyes, passing over the shoulders of
Barnt Hill and Mill Head Copse and Beacon Hill, all bulwarks of the
forest, followed the streak of river as it wound away toward Stratford
through luscious flood meadows, here growing wide, and there narrow,
as the woodland advanced or retreated.
"It is all mine," he said, as much to himself as to the girl. "It is
all Cludde land as far as you can see."
There were tears in her eyes, and she had to turn away to conceal
them. Why, she hardly knew. For he said nothing more, and he walked
down the hill dry-eyed. But all the way home he still looked sharply
about, noting this or that, as if he were bidding farewell to the old
familiar objects, the spinneys and copses--ay, and the very gates and
gaps and the hollow trees where the owls built. It was the saddest and
most pathetic walk the girl had ever taken. Yet there was nothing
said.