The place was the garden of Willowmere. The time was the middle of
August, when trees and fields and bracken were faltering into that full
ripeness which bodes decay. At that period, note the gradation of hues
in the forest land—from deep watery green to pale, sensitive yellow,
every leaf trembling in the sunlight with ever-changing shades. In the
garden the forward apples were showing ruddy cheeks, and the late pear
presented a sullen gray green.
The persons were Madge Heathcote, niece of Richard Crawshay, the sturdy
yeoman farmer of Willowmere, and Philip Hadleigh, son of the master of
Ringsford Manor.
She was somewhat pale and anxious: he was inclined to hustle her
anxiety aside with the blissful hopefulness of youth and indifference
to consequences.
‘I am going to give you very bad advice, Madge; will you listen to it?’
‘Is it very bad?’ she asked, lifting her eyes, in which there was an
expression curiously compounded of pathos and coquetry.
‘Very bad indeed,’ he responded cheerfully, ‘for I am going to tell you
that you are not to mind your uncle at all, but be guided by me now, as
you will be, I hope, at no very distant date.’
‘But you know he always liked you, Philip, and you must have done
something—something awfully bad to have made him turn so suddenly
against you.’
But although she tried to make him believe that she was quite sure he
had done something very wicked, she somehow failed to impress the youth
with any deep sense of her indignation.
‘I cannot measure the degree of my iniquity until you give me some hint
as to what it is.’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘On my honour I do not. My conscience is as clear of it as your own.
Now speak—tell me my crime.’
‘If you don’t know what it is,’ she said slowly, whilst she studied
intently a weed that had grown in the path and which now sprouted at
her restless foot. ‘If you really don’t know what it is—I think we had
better say nothing about it.’
‘Very well and with all my heart. Still I can’t help thinking that your
uncle might have come to me, or allowed me to go to him, before he made
up his mind that we should never pull together.’
‘He did not say that exactly’——
‘Would you have believed him if he had?’ he interrupted, with an
under-current of laughter in his voice and yet with a shade of
curiosity in his expression.
She looked at him. That was enough. The pale blue eyes, which seemed
in extreme lights quite gray, had that wistful, trustful expression
of a dog when being chidden by a loved master for some offence of
which it is innocent. But presently the expression changed to one of
thoughtfulness, the flush faded from her cheek, and she again sought
inspiration from the weed at her foot.
‘How can I tell you what I might believe about the future? All that I
know is—I trust you, and am content’——
‘That’s my Madge,’ he said in a low glad tone, as he clasped her hand.
‘At the same time,’ she went on gravely, ‘you must remember that Uncle
Dick has not only been good and kind to me; but he has, besides, shown
himself wise in the advice he has given to others, and it would be very
wrong of me not to think seriously over anything he may counsel about
my future.’
‘Now you are playing Miss Prim, and I don’t admire you in that
character. I like your uncle and respect his judgment—except of course
in the present instance’—— Then, suddenly checking himself: ‘But what
_did_ he say?’
‘Not very much, but he was in earnest. He told me that if I cared for
myself or cared for him, I was to have nothing more to do with any of
the Ringsford Manor people.’
‘That was when he came home from the market yesterday?’
‘Yes—but you must not think’——
‘No, no—I was not suspecting him of having stayed too long at the
_King’s Head_, although I daresay he might not be so cool as when he
started in the morning. I know that he would be out of humour with our
people, for he had some dispute with my father, old Cone tells me.
Whether it was about the price of corn, or a pig, or the points of a
horse, is known only to themselves, but they parted in a bad temper.
You will see that your uncle will not bear me malice on that account.
Did he say anything else?’
‘Yes.’ Her lips trembled a little and she did not seem disposed to
continue.
‘Well, out with it,’ he exclaimed cheerfully.
‘He said—that—he wished he saw you fairly off on your wildgoose chase.’
Philip understood now why the lips had trembled and why the words came
from her lips with so much effort.
‘Poor Madge,’ he said gently as he drew her arm under his own and
patted the hand which rested on his wrist.
Then they walked together in silence.
He was a broad-shouldered, stalwart fellow, with short, curly, brown
hair, a moustache of darker hue; chin and cheeks bare. His was a frank,
sanguine face—Hope flashing from the clear eyes and brightening all
the features. The square brow, the well-defined lines of nose and
jaws, were suggestive of firmness; the soft curves of mouth and chin
dispelled all hints of hardness in the character. A resolute but not an
obdurate man, one might say.
She was tall and graceful, age between twenty-three and twenty-five,
but in certain moods she appeared to be much older; and in others
no one would have thought that she was quite out of her teens. Long
regular features; silken hair that had once been very fair but had
darkened as she grew in years; a quiet, self-possessed manner which
made all comers easy in her presence, instantly inspiring confidence
and respect. Some people said she had more influence over the labourers
in the parish than the parson himself. The parson’s wife—although a
kindly woman in her way—never had anything like the success of ‘Missie’
Heathcote, as she was affectionately called by the working-folk, in
persuading Hodge to give up his extra pot of a Saturday and inducing
Hodge’s ‘old woman’ to keep her cottage and her children neat.
To Philip Hadleigh in his calmest ravings about her she was the most
beautiful creature in all woman-nature. He had learned Wordsworth’s
lines about the ‘noble woman nobly planned’ who was yet ‘not too bright
or good for human nature’s daily food,’ and he was never tired of
repeating them to himself. They presented a perfect portrait of Madge.
She, too, was beautiful in mind and body—true, earnest, devoted. She
would die for the man she loved; she could never be false to him. And
he had won that love! He did not know how, or why or when. He was dazed
by his great fortune. He could not realise it; so he shut his eyes and
was happy.
But ‘Missie’ Heathcote herself knew that she was capable of saying and
doing very foolish things. She feared that she was capable of Hate as
passionate and fierce as her Love.
So far all had gone smoothly with them. True, their engagement was
between themselves; there had been no formal asking of the sanction
of her uncle and guardian’s leave, or of his father’s approval. But
everybody knew what had been going on and no objection had been raised.
In his easy way Philip took for granted that those who had any right
to their confidence understood everything and did not require him
to go through the conventional explanations. She had not considered
explanations necessary until they should come to the arrangements for
the wedding-day.
Their elders did understand: Mr Hadleigh of Ringsford was indifferent
or too proud to proffer even to his son advice which was not asked:
Crawshay of Willowmere was content to let Madge please herself. He
thought her choice a good one, for he liked Philip and believed in
him. Of course in the way of money and position she might have done
better. (Was there ever a parent or guardian of a girl who did not
think that ‘she might have done better?’) Hadleigh was a wealthy man,
but his ownership of Ringsford was of recent date, and although he
was doing everything in his power to secure recognition as one of the
county families, all his riches could not place him on a level with
Dick Crawshay, whose ancestors had been masters of Willowmere from a
period before the arrival of the Conqueror—going back to the time of
the Romans, as was sometimes asserted.
Crawshay was not a man of prejudice when he considered things calmly.
So, in this matter of his niece’s choice of a partner, he was content
since she was satisfied.
In this way it happened that the heads of the houses had given no
formal consent to the proposed marriage; and now that a quarrel had
arisen, each felt free to approve or disapprove of it in accordance
with his own humour.
Madge regarded the quarrel—as she was inclined to regard most
matters—with serious eyes. Philip was convinced that it was nothing
more than a petty squabble—a few angry words spoken in a moment of
temper, which both men were no doubt ashamed of and would be glad to
have forgotten. He was not disturbed about that unpleasant little event.
What elicited that sympathetic whisper ‘Poor Madge’—and what had kept
them silent so long as they passed down by the dense old hawthorn
hedge to the orchard, was a matter of much more importance than the
falling-out of their elders. At length, he continued:
‘Would you like me to give up this business of mine altogether?... We
can do without it.’
‘No; I should not like that at all,’ she answered with prompt decision.
‘You believe the result will be of great advantage to your father’s
firm and to yourself; the experience will certainly be valuable to you;
and when you come home again!’——
‘Ah, when I come home again—that will be a glad day,’ he said with
subdued enthusiasm. ‘Let me take up the picture where you laid down the
brush.... When I come home again there will be a little conversation
with the vicar. Then two young people—just like you and me, Madge—will
march into the church on a week-day. The parson will be there and a few
friends will be there, and we shall all be very merry. Next will come a
sweet month when these selfish young people will hide themselves away
from all the world in some out-of-the-way nook, where they will make a
joyful world of their own in being together, knowing that only death is
to part them now. Won’t that be good fun? Do you think you will like
it?’
‘I think so,’ she answered, smiling at his fancy and blushing a little
at the happy prospect.
‘Next they return to their cottage by the wood; and the lady is busy
with her housekeeping, and the man is busy admiring her more and more
every day, finding new beauty in her face, new love in her heart as the
years go on. They will not be always alone, perhaps; and when they are
old she will be a sweet-faced dame with beautiful white hair, and there
will be strong young arms for her to lean upon as she goes to church on
Sunday. The old man will totter by her side, resting on his staff, and
still her lover—her lover till death do them part.... What do you say
to that fine forecast?’
‘Ay—if it might be, Philip,’ she said with a bright smile—a hint of
tears in its brightness, for she had followed his vision of the future
with tender sympathy throughout.
‘Will you try to make it what I have so often dreamed it may be, should
be—must be?’
‘I will try.’
His arm was round her waist: they were sheltered by the apple-trees and
the great hedge: he kissed her.
‘Then that’s all right,’ was his glad comment; ‘and now I am going
to hunt for Uncle Dick, and have it out with him for playing such a
wicked joke upon us. I won’t say good-bye, for I shall be coming back
with him. I don’t think I shall say good-bye until—— Why are you so
troubled about this trip, Madge? It is really nothing more than a trip,
and there is still time enough to give it up altogether.’
‘You are not to speak of that again,’ she replied with playful
reproach. ‘It was your mother’s wish.’
‘So be it. But here is a new idea!’
‘Are you sure it is new?’
‘Quite. Suppose we pay that visit to the church before I start, and
then we could travel together? That would be capital.’
She shook her head.
‘You know it would never do. You would either neglect the purpose of
your journey, or neglect _me_—and that would be a terrible crime!’
‘I am not likely to commit it, and if I did you would forgive me.’
They had reached the stile at the end of the orchard, and he vaulted
over it. His foot slipped as he descended, but he saved himself from
falling by clutching the top bar of the stile.
‘That is not a good omen,’ said Madge, laughing gently; ‘you ought to
have been content to clamber over like other people.’
MONASTIC ENGLAND.
A traveller, visiting any of the monastic ruins which adorn the
loveliest of our valleys, cannot but be impressed by the changes
time works on institutions and systems. These piles, stately in
their desolation, remain as landmarks of a system, which, after
holding sway for centuries, was suddenly swept away. Like all social
institutions, the monastic orders supplied a public want, and when
it was no longer needed, the system disappeared. Many institutions,
after having fulfilled their purpose, develop into abuses, and so to
some extent counteract the good effect they had formerly produced,
and this doubtless applies to the case of the monasteries. The noble
architecture and great extent of these ruins show us the skill and
enthusiasm displayed by the early workers of these orders; their utter
ruin, while it has made the whole appear more picturesque, shows the
inevitable end of institutions which outlive their usefulness.
As long ago as the fifth century, it was the custom for devout men to
form themselves into societies, apart from the world, that their lives
might be untainted by its evil influences. The leader in this movement
was St Benedict, an Italian monk, whose followers, naming themselves
after him, gave to their order the name of Benedictines. These men,
spreading themselves over France and England, were the pioneers of the
later monastic orders. They lived in the most extreme poverty, choosing
the most forsaken and barren regions for their homes. Thus, we find
them in the days of the Saxon, founding in a marsh beside the Thames
the abbey of Westminster; in the district of the Fens the abbey of
Crowland; in the swamps of the west the abbey of Glastonbury; whilst
farther north, on wild headlands overlooking the North Sea, rose the
abbeys of Whitby and Lindisfarne. But our knowledge of the life passed
by the inmates of these sanctuaries is extremely scanty. The times were
too turbulent to allow the monks much time for study, and although
Cædmon and Bede have left glimpses of this age in which they lived,
their scanty records are only as flashes in the darkness. The Danes
harassed the land incessantly; and the monasteries, as representing
a religion they hated, were with them especial objects of attack.
Crowland Abbey was given to the flames, and the abbeys of Whitby,
Lindisfarne, and Tynemouth were sacked and destroyed.
After the Conquest, the Norman abbots gave a new energy to a system
which was becoming somewhat stagnant, and by the twelfth century,
this new impetus had reached its climax. Then rose the monasteries
whose ruins make Yorkshire scenery doubly attractive. The abbeys of
Fountains, Bolton, Rievaux, and Kirkstall, were all commenced in this
period, amid surroundings far different from those which make these
districts so attractive to the modern traveller. One consideration in
choosing the site of the abbey is worth notice. It was always near to
a running stream, from which the brethren might obtain their supplies
of fish. Thus, we never think of Bolton Abbey without the Wharfe, or of
Melrose without the Tweed.
In every monastic establishment, the principal feature was the abbey,
or chapel, consisting of nave, chancel, and transepts, built on the
plan of a cross. Here, the monks assembled for prayers, which seem to
have been of such wearisome length that artificial means were invented
to counteract their soporific effect. In the chancel of Westminster
Abbey may be seen the seats ingeniously contrived to throw on to the
floor any monk who allowed himself to be overcome by the monotonous
routine of prayers. Adjoining the abbey was the chapter-house, where
the abbots from the neighbouring monasteries formed a chapter to
discuss matters of church interest, and to sit in judgment on those of
their brethren who had transgressed. And although it is well known that
the origin of the dispute between Becket and the king was the leniency
shown by these chapters to their own priesthood, when the plaintiff was
a layman, yet in cases where the interests of the church were at stake,
these priestly judges did not hesitate to inflict even death itself on
the delinquent. Readers of _Marmion_ will be reminded of the fate of
Constance; and the discovery within recent times of a skeleton immured
in a vault of Coldingham Abbey in Berwickshire, may perhaps serve to
suggest that this was not an uncommon method of inflicting death.
The refectory, which in many ruins shows least signs of decay,
corresponded to the modern dining-hall, and was often a noble and
spacious apartment. But the most important of the abbey buildings, in
our eyes, was the Scriptorium—the abbey library and study. Here were
preserved and copied the writings of the times, and the greater part of
our history, prior to the sixteenth century, is owing to the work of
these priestly scribes.
The monks formed independent colonies, asking, and indeed needing,
no help from the world around them. At first, their lands in many
instances were small in extent, and their poverty was amply sufficient
to deter any but devout men from casting in his lot with them.
Poverty and work they considered the two great antidotes against sin.
Even in those early times, they were fully acquainted with the adage
which connects mischief with idle hands. Their employments were as
various as their tastes. The building of the abbey must have furnished
employment for several generations of monks. The stained-glass windows
and the bells of their churches were their own handiwork. Visitors
to the Patent Museum at South Kensington are attracted by the loud
ticking of a clock, still said to be a capital timekeeper, although the
three centuries of its infancy were passed in measuring time for its
makers, the monks of Glastonbury. As further instances of the versatile
occupations of the monks, it will be remembered that Roger Bacon, the
inventor of the common lens, was a Franciscan. Gardening, too, occupied
much of their time, and we even read of Becket and his monks tossing
hay in the harvest-field.
But as time went on, the abbey lands became extensive, by the grants of
men who thought to compensate for their misdeeds by becoming liberal
in their dying hours to mother-church. In the course of time, the
abbots had become in reality great landowners, and monks only in name.
From a glimpse left us of the state of affairs round the abbey of St
Edmonsbury, it is plain that the abbot was held more in awe by the
surrounding tenantry than the king himself. The abbot of Furness was
virtual lord over the country north of Morecambe Bay from the Duddon to
Windermere; and the estate of the abbey of Fountains stretched to the
foot of Penygant, a distance of thirty miles.
As numerous instances have shown, wealth is a power, which, if not
wisely used, may not only demoralise individuals, but communities and
nations. The abbeys, whose walls had been raised to encircle piety and
poverty, became in time the abodes of indolence and luxury. Indeed,
it is probable that the scanty knowledge we possess of our country’s
history during the two centuries prior to the destruction of the
monasteries, is owing to the fact that the monks, who had formerly been
our chief historians, had thrown aside a task which few others were
then competent to take up. The new learning, which carried knowledge
outside the monasteries, had not yet sprung into being, and the only
learned sect in the land had become idle.
The monastic system, had it been allowed to live on, would certainly
have met with a severe check, if not destruction, in the religious
reforms which took place in the reigns of Edward VI. and Elizabeth.
As it was, the end came before its time, and like all premature
reforms, the dissolution clashed with the spirit of the age, and was
regarded by the common people as an injustice. The monks had never
driven hard bargains with their tenants, and their popularity as
landlords was great. Even when their dissolution was discussed in
parliament, the members showed themselves averse to extreme measures,
and compromised the matter by striking at the smaller monasteries only.
But the insurrection known as the Pilgrimage of Grace soon gave Henry
VIII. a pretext for their total suppression, and in 1539, the work
of dissolution was finished in a most ruthless manner. The abbots of
Fountains and Jorvaulx were hanged together at Tyburn, and the abbot
of Glastonbury shared the same fate. The abbot of Furness, to escape
death, was compelled to sign a deed conveying his whole estate to the
king.
The abbeys were for the most part despoiled by the people of the
district. A stained-glass window of Furness Abbey was carried off to
adorn Bowness Church, on the banks of Windermere. An oriel window from
Glastonbury Abbey was used in the building of a neighbouring inn;
whilst the houses of the village owed great part of their building
materials to the destruction of this noble church. In the case of
Crowland, the abbey seems to have suffered little until the time of
the Civil War, when a band of the Parliament army destroyed it, after
using it as a shelter. In those instances where man has not wreaked his
vengeance, time and the elements have effected a slow but sure ruin.
Such was the sudden collapse of these powerful and at one time useful
institutions. Whatever may have been the faults and drawbacks of their
later existence, they were in earlier periods of immense service to the
country, as they conserved within them all that was best and highest
in literature, arts, and civilisation. They kept the lamp of knowledge
burning throughout the dark ages, ready for a time when its light could
be more generally diffused among the nations. And one thing they did
which ought to be held in grateful remembrance: they were the chief
promoters of the abolition of serfdom, and the manumission of the
slaves, both in England and Scotland. When giving the rites of the
church to the dying landowner, the monks, although anxious for their
own share of his property, never forgot to plead for the slaves. And
so it came about that, by the close of the fifteenth century, slavery
was virtually abolished, not by Act of Parliament, but by the monastic
Orders.
TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.
A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.
BY T. W. SPEIGHT.