Then methought was witnessed (I speak of the time when Sir Hammond
l'Estrange made the savage speech which caused his lady and me to
exchange affrighted looks) a rare instance of the true womanly courage
which doth sometimes lie at the core of a timid heart. The meek wife,
which dared not so much as to lift up her eyes to her lord if he did
only frown, or to oppose his will in any trifling matter; whose color
I had seen fly from her cheek if he raised his voice, albeit not in
anger against herself, now in the presence of those at table, with a
face as pale as ashes, but a steady voice, and eyes fixed on him, thus
addressed her husband:
"Sir, since we married I have never opposed your will, or in anything
I wot of offended you, or ever would if I could help it. Do not,
therefore, displeasure me so much, I beseech you, in this grave
instance, as to make me an instrument in the capture. And God knoweth
what should follow of one which came to me for help, and to whom the
service I rendered him would prove the means of his ruin if you
persist therein."
"Go to, madam, go to," cries Sir Hammond; "your business doth lie with
poor people, mine with criminals. Go your way, and intrude not
yourself in weightier matters than belong to your sex."
"Sir," she answers, braving his frowning looks, albeit her limbs began
to tremble, "I humbly crave your patience; but I will not leave you,
neither desist from my suit, except thereunto compelled by force. I
would to God my tongue had been plucked out rather than that it should
utter words which should betray to prison, yea, perhaps to death, the
poor man whose wounds I tended."
The cloud on Sir Hammond's brow waxed darker as she spoke. He glanced
at me, and methinks perceived my countenance to be as much disturbed
as his lady's. A sudden thought, I ween, then passed through his mind;
and with a terrible oath he swore that he misliked this strenuous
urging in favor of a vile popish priest, and yet more the manner of
this intercession.
"Heaven shield, madam," he cried, "you have not companied with
recusants so as to become infected with a lack of zeal for the
Protestant religion!"
The color returned for a moment to Lady l'Estrange's cheeks as she
answered:
"Sir, I have never, from the time my mother did teach me my prayers,
been of any other way of thinking than that wherein she then
instructed me, or so much as allowed myself one thought contrary to
true Protestant religion; or ever lent an ear, and with God's help
never will, to what papists do advance; but nevertheless, if this
priest do fall into any grievous trouble through my speeches, I shall
be a most unhappy woman all my life."
And then the poor soul, rising from her seat, went round to her
husband's side, and, kneeling, sought to take his hands, beseeching
him in such moving and piteous terms to change his purpose as I could
see did visibly affect some present. But I also noticed in Sir
Hammond's face so resolved an intent as if nothing in earth or heaven
should alter it. A drowning wretch {161} would as soon have moved a
rock to advance toward him as she succeeded in swerving his will by
her entreaties.
A sudden thought inspired me to approach her where she had sunk down
on her knees at her husband's feet, he seeking angrily to push her
away. I took her by the hand and said:
"I pray you, dear lady, come with me. These be indeed matters wherein,
as Sir Hammond saith, women's words do not avail."
Both looked at me surprised; and she, loosing her hold of him,
suffered me to lead her away. We went into the parlor, Mrs. l'Estrange
following us. But as I did try to whisper in her ear that I desired to
speak with her alone, the bell in the dining-room began to ring
violently; upon which she shuddered and cried out:
"Let me go back to him, Mistress Sherwood. I'll warrant you he is
about to send for the constables; but beshrew me if I die not first at
his feet; for if this man should be hung, peace will be a stranger to
me all my life."
Mistress l'Estrange essayed to comfort her; but failing therein, said
she was very foolish to be so discomposed at what was no fault of
hers, and she should think no more thereon, for in her condition to
fret should be dangerous; and if people would be priests and papists
none could help if they should suffer for it. And then she left the
parlor somewhat ruffled, like good people sometimes feel when they
perceive their words to have no effect. When we were alone, "Lady
l'Estrange," I said, "where is Master Rugeley's house?"
"One mile, or thereabouts, across the heath," she answered.
"And the way to it direct?" I asked.
"Yea, by the footpath," she replied; "but much longer by the high
road."
I went to the window and opened the shutter and the lattice also. The
moon was shining very brightly.
"Is it that cottage near to the wood?" I inquired, pointing to a
thatched roof nigh unto the darksome line of trees against the sky.
"Yea," she answered, "how near it doth seem seen in this light!
Constance, what think you to do?" she exclaimed, when I went to her
cupboard and took out the keys she had showed me that morning opened
the doors of the kitchen garden and the orchard.
"Did you not say," I answered, "that the gentleman now in so great
peril did lodge with Master Rugeley?"
"Would you go there?" she said, looking aghast. "Not alone; you durst
not do it!"
"Twenty times over," I answered, "for to save a man's life, and he--he
a--" But there I stopped; for it was her fellow-creature she desired
to save. Her heart bled not like mine for the flock which should be
left without a shepherd; and albeit our fears were the same, we felt
not alike. I went into the hall, and she pursued me--one-half striving
to stay me from my purpose, one-half urging me to fulfil it; yet
retracting her words as soon as uttered.
"When I issue from the door of the orchard unto the heath," I said,
the while wrapping round me a cloak with a hood to it, "and pursue the
path in front, by what token may I find Master Rugeley's house if the
moon should be obscured?"
"Where two roads do meet," she said, "at the edge of the heath, a tall
oak doth stand near to a gate; a few steps to the right should then
lead to it. But verily, Mistress Constance, I be frightened to let you
go; and oh, I do fear my husbands's anger."
"Would you, then, have a man die by your means?" I asked, thinking for
to cure one terror by another, as indeed it did; for she cried,
"Nay, I will speed you on your way, good Constance; and show so brave
a face during your absence as God shall help me to do; yea, and open
the door for you myself, if my husband should kill me for it!"
{162}
Then she took the keys in her hand, and glided like unto a pale ghost
before me through the passage into the hall, so noiselessly that I
should have doubted if aught of flesh and blood could have moved so
lightly, and undid the bars of the back door without so much as a
sound. Then she would fetch some thick shoes for me to wear, which I
did entreat her not to stay me for; but nothing else would content the
poor soul, and, as she had the keys in her hand, I was forced to wait
her return with so much impatience as may be guessed. I heard the
voices of the gentlemen still carousing after supper; and then a
servant's below in the hall, who said the constables had been sent
for, and a warrant issued for the apprehension of a black papist at
Master Rugeley's. Then Milicent returned, and whilst I put on the
shoes she had brought, and she was tying with trembling fingers the
hood of my cloak, the rustling of Mrs. l'Estrange's silk gown was
heard on the stair above our heads, from whence we were like to be
seen; and, fear awakening contrivance, I said aloud,
"Oh, what a rare pastime it should be to dress as a ghost, and
frighten the good lady your sister-in-law! I pray you get me some
white powder to pale my face. Methinks we need some kind of sport to
drive away too much thinking on that dismal business in hand."
The steps over our head sounded more hurried, and we heard the door of
the parlor close with a bang, and the lattice also violently shut.
"Now," I whispered, "give me the keys, good Lady l'Estrange, and go to
your sister yourself. Say I was ashamed to have been overheard to plan
so rank a piece of folly (and verily you will be speaking no other
than the truth), and that you expect I shall not so much as show my
face in the parlor this evening; and lock also my chamber-door, that
none may for a surety know me for to be absent."
"Yea," answered the poor lady, with so deep a sigh as seemed to rend
her heart; "but, God forgive me, I never did think to hide anything
from my husband! And who shall tell me if I be doing right or wrong?"
I could not stay, though I grieved for her; and the sound of her voice
haunted me as I went through the garden, and then the orchard, unto
the common, locking the doors behind me. When this was done, I did
breathe somewhat more freely, and began to run along the straight path
amidst the heath. I wot not if my speed was great--the time seemed
long; yet methinks I did not slacken my pace once, but rather
increased it, till, perceiving the oak, and near it the gate Lady
l'Estrange had mentioned, I stopped to consider where to turn; and
after I had walked a little to the right I saw a cottage and a light
gleaming inside. Then my heart beat very fast; and when I knocked at
the door I felt scarce able to stand. I did so three times, and no
answer came. Then I cried as loudly as I could, "Master Rugeley, I
beseech you open the door." I heard some one stirring within, but no
one came. Then I again cried out, "Oh, for our Blessed Lady's sake,
some one come." At last the lattice opened, and a man's head appeared.
"Who are you?" he said, in a low voice.
"A friend," I answered, in a whisper; "a Catholic. Are yon Master
Rugeley?"
"Yea," he answered.
"Oh, then, if Mr. Tunstall is here, hide him quickly, or send him
away. I am a friend of Lady l'Estrange's and staying in her house. Sir
Hammond hath received tidings that a priest is in this neighborhood,
and a warrant is issued for to apprehend him. His lady unwittingly,
and sorely troubled she is thereat, showed by her speeches touching
your guest, that he is like to be Mr. Tunstall; and the constables
will soon be here."
"Thank you," he replied whom I was addressing; "but Mr. Tunstall is
not the name of my friend."
Then I feared he did take me for a spy, and I cried out, greatly
moved, "As I do hope to go to heaven one {163} day, and not to hell,
Master Rugeley, I speak the truth, and my warning is an urgent one."
Then I heard some one within the house, who said, "Open the door,
Master Rugeley. I should know that voice. Let the speaker in."
Methought I, too, knew the voice of the person who thus spoke. The
door was opened, and I entered a room dimly lighted by one candle.
"Oh, for God's sake," I cried, "if a priest is here, hide him
forthwith."
"Are you a Catholic, my child?"
I looked up to the person who put this question to me, and gave a
sudden cry, I know not whether of terror or joy; for great as was the
change which the lapse of years, and great inward and outward changes,
had wrought in his aspect, I saw it was my father.
"I am Constance," I cried; "Constance Sherwood! Oh, my dear father!"
and then fell at his feet weeping.
After an instant's, astonishment and fixed gazing on my face, he
recognized me, who was, I doubt not, more changed than himself, and
received me with a great paternal kindness and the tenderest greeting
imaginable, yet tempered with reserve and so much of restraint as
should befit one who, for Christ's sake, had dissevered himself from
the joys, albeit not from the affections, of the natural heart.
"Oh, my good child, my own dear Constance," he said; "hath God in his
bounty given thy poor father a miraculous sight of thee before his
death, or art thou come verily in flesh and blood to warn him of his
danger?"
"My dear and honored father," I replied, "time presses; peril is
indeed at hand, if you and Mr. Tunstall are the same person."
"The wounds in my hands," he answered, "must prove me such, albeit now
healed by the care of that good Samaritan, Lady l'Estrange. But
prithee, my good child, whence comest thou?"
"Alas!" I said; "and yet not alas, if God should be so good to me as
by my means to save you, I am Sir Hammond's guest, being a friend of
his lady's. I came there yesterday."
"Oh, my good child, I thought not to have seen thee in these thy
grown-up years. Master Rugeley," he added, turning to his host, "this
is the little girl I forsook four years ago, for to obtain the
hundredfold our Lord doth promise."
"My very dear father," I said, "joy is swallowed up in fear. God help
me, I came to warn a stranger (if so be any priest in these times
should be a stranger to a Catholic), and I find you."
"Oh, but I am mightfully pleased," quoth he, "to see thee, my child,
even in this wise, and to hear thee speak like a true daughter of Holy
Church. And Lady l'Estrange is then thy friend?"
"Yea, my dear father; but for God and our lady's sake hide yourself. I
warrant yon the constables may soon be here. Master Rugeley, where can
he be concealed, or whither fly, and I with him?"
"Nay, prithee not so fast," quoth he. "Flight would be useless; and in
the matter of hiding, one should be more easily concealed than two;
beside that, the hollow of a tree, which Master Rugeley will, I ween,
appoint me for a bed-chamber to-night, should hardly lodge us both
with comfort."
"Oh, sir," said Rugeley, "do not tarry."
"For thy sake, no; not for more than one minute, Thomas; but ere I
part from this wench, two questions I must needs ask her."
Then he drew me aside and inquired what facilities I continued to have
in London for the exercise of Catholic religion, and if I was punctual
in the discharge of my spiritual duties. When I had satisfied him
thereon, he asked if the report was true which he heard from a
prisoner for recusancy in Wisbeach Castle, concerning my troth-plight
with Mr. Rookwood.
"Yea," I said, "it is true, if so be you now do add your consent to
it."
{164}
He answered he should do so with all his heart, for he knew him to be
a good Catholic and a virtuous gentleman; and as we might lack the
opportunity to receive his blessing later, he should now give it unto
me for both his most dear children. Which he did, laying his hand on
my head with many fervent benisons, couched in such words as these,
that he prayed for us to be stayed up with the shore of God's grace in
this world; and after this transitory life should end, to ascend to
him, and appear pure and unspotted before his glorious seat. Then he
asked me if it was Lady l'Estrange who had detected him; whereupon I
briefly related to him what had occurred, and how sore her grief was
therein.
"God bless her," he answered; "and tell her I do thank her and pray
for her with all mime heart."
And more he would have added, but Master Rugeley opened the door
impatiently. So, after kissing once more my father's hand, I went
away, compelled thereunto by fears for his safety, if he should not at
once conceal himself.
Looking back, I saw him and his guide disappear in the thicket, and
then, as I walked on toward Lynn Court, it did almost seem to me as if
the whole of that brief but pregnant interview should have been a
dream; nor could I verily persuade myself that it was not a half
habitant of another world I had seen and spoken with rather than mine
own father; and in first thinking on it I scarcely did fully apprehend
the danger he was in, so as to feel as much pain as I did later, when
the joy and astonishment of that unexpected meeting had given way to
terrifying thoughts. Ever and anon I turned round to gaze on the dark
wood wherein his hopes of safety did lie, and once I knelt down on the
roadside to pray that the night should be also dark and shield his
escape. But still the sense of fear was dulled, and woke not until the
sound of horses' feet on the road struck on my ear, and I saw a party
of men riding across the common. The light in the cottage was
extinguished, but the cruel moon shone out then more brightly than
heretofore. Now I felt so sick and faint that I feared to sink down on
the path, and hurried through the orchard-door and the garden to the
house. When I had unlocked the back door and stood in the hall where a
lately kindled fire made a ruddy light to glow, I tried again to think
I had been dreaming, like one in a nightmare strives to shake off an
oppressive fancy. I could not remain alone, and composed my
countenance for to enter the parlor, when the door thereof opened and
Mrs. l'Estrange came out, who, when she perceived me standing before
her, gave a start, but recovering herself, said, good-naturedly:
"Marry, if this be not the ghost we have been looking for; now
ashamed, I ween, to show itself. I hope, Mistress Sherwood, you do not
haunt quiet folks in their beds at night; for I do, I warn you,
mislike living ghosts, and should be disposed to throw a jug of water
at the head of such a one." And laughing, she took my hand in a kind
manner, which when she did, almost a cry broke from her: "How now,
Milicent! she is as cold as a stone figure. Where has she been
chilling herself?"
Milicent pressed forward and led me to my chamber, wherein a fire had
been lighted, and would make me drink a hot posset. But when I thought
of the cold hollow of a tree wherein my father was enclosed, if it
pleased God no worse mishap had befallen him, little of it could I
force myself to swallow, for now tears had come to my relief, and
concealing my face in the pillow of the bed whereon for weariness I
had stretched myself, I wept very bitterly.
"Is that poor man gone from Rugeley's house?" Milicent whispered.
Alas! she knew not who that poor man was to me, nor with what anguish
I answered: "He is not in the {165} cottage, I hope; but God only
knoweth if his pursuers shall not discover him." The thought of what
would then follow overcame me, and I hid my face with mine hands.
"Oh, Constance," she exclaimed, "was this poor man known to thee, that
thy grief is so great, whose conscience doth not reproach thee as mine
doeth?"
I held out my hand to her without unshading my face with the other,
and said: "Dear Milicent! thou shouldst not sorrow so mach for thine
own part in this sore trial. It was not thy fault. He said so. He
blest thee, and prays for thee."
Uncomforted by my words, she cried again, what she had so often
exclaimed that night, "If this man should die, my happiness is over."
Then once more she asked me if I know this priest, and I was froward
with her (God forgive me, for the suspense and fear overthrew better
feelings for a moment), and I cried, angrily, "Who saith he is a
priest? Who can prove it?"
"Think you so?" she said joyfully; "then all should be right."
And once more, with some misdoubting, I ween, that I concealed
somewhat from her, she inquired touching my knowledge of this
stranger. Then I spoke harshly, and bade her leave me, for I had
sorrow enough without her intermeddling with it; but then grieving for
her, and also afraid to be left alone, I denied my words, and prayed
her to stay, which she did, but did not speak much again. The silence
of the night seemed so deep as if the rustling of a leaf could be
noticed; only now and then the voices of the gentlemen below, and some
loud talking and laughter from some of them was discernible through
the closed doors. Once Lady l'Estrange said: "They be sitting up very
late; I suppose till the constables return. Oh, when will that be?"
The great clock in the hall then struck twelve; and soon after,
starting up, I cried, "What should be that noise?"
"I do hear nothing," she answered, trembling as a leaf.
"Hush," I replied, and going to the window, opened the lattice. The
sound in the road on the other side of the house was now plain. On
that we looked on naught was to be seen save trees and grass, with the
ghastly moonlight shining on them. A loud opening and shutting of
doors and much stir now took place within the house, and, moved by the
same impulse, we both went out into the passage and half way down the
stairs. Milicent was first. Suddenly she turned round, and falling
down on her knees, with a stifled exclamation, she hid her face
against me, whisperings "He is taken!"
We seemed both turned to stone. O ye which have gone through a like
trial, judge ye; and you who have never been in such straits, imagine
what a daughter should feel who, after long years' absence, beholdeth
a beloved father for one instant, and in the next, under the same roof
where she is a guest, sees him brought in a prisoner and in jeopardy
of his life. Every word which was uttered we could hear where we sat
crouching, fearful to advance--she not daring to look on the man she
had ruined, and I on the countenance of a dear parent, lest the sight
of me should distract him from his defence, if that could be called
such which he was called on to make. They asked him touching his name,
if it was Tunstall. He answered he was known by that name. Then
followed the murtherous question, if he was a Romish priest? To which
he at once assented. Then said Sir Hammond:
"How did you presume, sir, to return into England contrary to the
laws?"
"Sir," he answered, "as I was lawfully ordained a priest by a Catholic
bishop, by authority derived from the see of Rome" (one person here
exclaimed, "Oh, audacious papist! his {166} tongue should be cat out;"
but Sir Hammond imposed silence), "so likewise," he continued, "am I
lawfully sent to preach the word of God, and to administer the
sacraments to my Catholic countrymen. As the mission of priests
lawfully ordained is from Christ, who did send his apostles even as
his Father sent him, I do humbly conceive no human laws can justly
hinder my return to England, or make it criminal; for this should be
to prefer the ordinances of man to the commands of the supreme
legislator, which is Christ himself."
Loud murmurs were here raised by some present, which Sir Hammond again
silencing, he then inquired if he would take the oath of allegiance to
the queen? He answered (my straining ears taking note of every word he
uttered) that he would gladly pay most willing obedience to her
majesty in all civil matters; but the oath of allegiance, as it was
worded, he could not take, or hold her majesty to possess any
supremacy in spiritual matters. He was beginning to state the reasons
thereof, but was not suffered to proceed, for Sir Hammond,
interrupting him, said he was an escaped prisoner, and by his own
confession condemned, so he should straightway commit him to the gaol
in Norwich. Then I lost my senses almost, and seizing Lady
l'Estrange's arm, I cried, "Save him! he is mine own father, Mr.
Sherwood!" She uttered a sort of cry, and said, "Oh, I have feared
this, since I saw his face!" and running forward, I following her,
affrighted at what should happen, she called out, "It shall not be! He
shall not do it!" and with a face as white as any smock, runs to her
husband, and perceiving the constables to be putting chains on my
father's hands and feet, which I likewise beheld with what feelings
you who read this may think, she falls on her knees and gasps out
these words in such a mournful tone, that I shuddered to hear her,
"Oh, sir! if this man leaves this house a chained prisoner, I shall
never be the like of my-self again. There shall be no more joy for me
in life." And then faints right away, and Sir Hammond carries her in
his arms out of the hall. Mine eyes the while met my father's; who
smiled on me with kind cheer, but signed for me to keep away. I
stretched my arms toward him, and with his chained hand he contrived
yet once more for to bless me; then was hurried out of my sight. Far
more time than I ever did perceive or could remember the length of I
remained in that now deserted hall, motionless, alone, near to the
dying embers, the darkness still increasing, too much confused to
recall at once the comforts which sacred thoughts do yield in such
mishaps, only able to clasp my hand and utter broken sentences of
prayer, such as "God, ha' mercy on us," and the like; till about the
middle of the night, Sir Hammond comes down the stairs, with a lamp in
his hand, and a strange look in his face.
"Mistress Sherwood," he says, "come to my lady. She is very ill, and
hath been in labor for some time. She doth nothing but call for you,
and rave about that accursed priest she will have it she hath
murthered. Come and feign to her he hath escaped."
"O God!" I cried, "my words may fall on her ear, Sir Hammond, but my
face cannot deceive her."
He looked at me amazed and angry. "What meaneth this passion of grief?
What is this old man to you, that his misfortune should thus disorder
you?" And as I could not stay my weeping, he asked in a scornful
manner, "Do papists so dote on their priests as to die of sorrow when
they get their deserts?" This insulting speech did so goad me, that,
unable to restrain myself, I exclaimed, "Sir Hammond, he whom you have
sent to a dungeon, and perhaps to death also (God pardon you for it!),
is my true father!--the best parent and the noblest gentleman that
ever breathed, which for many years I had not seen; and here under
your roof, myself your guest, I {167} have beheld him loaded with
chains, and dared not to speak for fear to injure him yet further,
which I pray God I have not now done, moved thereunto by your cruel
scoffs."
"Your father!" he said amazed; "Mr. Sherwood! These cursed feignings
do work strange mishaps. But he did own himself a priest."
Before I had time to answer, a serving woman ran into the hall, crying
out, "Oh, sir, I pray you come to my lady. She is much worse; and the
nurse says, if her mind is not eased she is like to die before the
child is born."
"Oh, Milicent! sweet Milicent!" I cried, wringing my hands; and when I
looked at that unhappy husband's face, anger vanished and pity took
its place. He turned to me with an imploring countenance as if he
should wish to say, "None but you can save her." I prayed to Our Lady,
who stood and fainted not beneath the Rood, to get me strength for to
do my part in that sick chamber whither I signed to him to lead the
way. "God will help me," I whispered in his ear, "to comfort her."
"God bless you!" he answered in a hoarse voice, and opened the door of
the room in which his sweet lady was sitting in her bed, with a wild
look in her pale blue eyes, which seemed to start out of her head.
"Sir," I heard her say, as he approached, "what hath befallen the poor
man you would not dismiss?"
I took a light in my hand, so that she should see my face, and smiled
on her with such good cheer, as God in his mercy gave me strength to
do even amidst the two-fold anguish of that moment. Then she threw her
arms convulsively round my neck, and her pale lips gasped the same
question as before. I bent over her, and said, "Trouble yourself no
longer, dear lady, touching this prisoner. He is safe (in God's
keeping, I added, internally). He is where he is carefully tended (by
God's angels, I mentally subjoined); he hath no occasion to be afraid
(for God is his strength), and I warrant you is as peaceful as his
nearest friends should wish him to be."
"Is this the truth?" she murmured in my ear.
"Yea," I said, "the truth, the very truth," and kissed her flushed
cheek. Then feeing like to faint, I went away, Sir Hammond leading me
to my chamber, for I could scarce stand.
"God bless you!" he again said, when he left me, and I think he was
weeping.
I fell into a heavy, albeit troubled, sleep, and when I awoke it was
broad daylight. When the waiting-maid came in, she told me Lady
l'Estrange had been delivered of a dead child and Sir Hammond was
almost beside himself with grief. My lady's mind had wandered ever
since; but she was more tranquil than in the night. Soon after he sent
to ask if he could see me, and I went down to him into the parlor. A
more changed man, in a few hours, I ween, could not be seen, than this
poor gentleman. He spoke not of his lady; but briefly told me he had
sent in the night a messenger on horseback to Norwich, with a letter
to the governor of the gaol, praying him to show as much
consideration, and allow so much liberty as should consist with
prudence, to the prisoner in his custody, sent by him a few hours
before, for that he had discovered him not to be one of the common
sort, nor a lewd person, albeit by his own confession amenable to the
laws, and escaped from another prison. Then he added, that if I wished
to go to Norwich, and visit this prisoner, he would give me a letter
to the governor, and one to a lady, who would conveniently harbor me
for a while in that city, and his coach should take me there, or he
would lend me a horse and a servant to attend me. I answered, I should
be glad to go, and then said somewhat of his lady, hoping she should
now do well. He made no reply for a moment, and then only said,
"God knoweth! she is not like herself at the present."
The words she had so mournfully {168} spoken the day before came into
my mind, "I shall never be like myself again, and there shall be no
more joy in this house." And, methinks, they did haunt him also.
I sat for some time by her bedside that day. She seemed not ill at
ease, but there was something changed in her aspect, and her words
when she spoke had no sense or connection. And here I will set down,
before I relate the events which followed my brief sojourn under their
roof, what I have heard touching the sequel of Sir Hammond and his
wife's lives.
In that perilous and sorely troubled childbirth understanding was
alienated, and the art of the best physicians in England could never
restore it. She was not frantic; but had such a pretty deliration,
that in her ravings there was oftentimes more attractiveness than in
many sane persons' conversation. They mostly ran on pious themes, and
she was wont to sing psalms, and talk of heaven, and that she hoped to
see God there; and in many things she showed her old ability, such as
fine embroidery and the making of preserves. One day her waiting-woman
asked her to dress a person's wounds, which did greatly need it, and
she set herself to do it in her accustomed manner; but at the sight of
the wounds, she was seized with convulsions, and became violently
delirious, so that Sir Hammond sharply reprehended the imprudent
attendant, and forbade the like to be ever proposed to her again. He
gave himself up to live retired with her, and ceased to be a
magistrate, nor ever, that I could hear of, took any part again in the
persecution of Catholics. The distemper which had estranged her mind
in all things else, had left her love and obedience entire to her
husband; and he entertained a more visible fondness, and evinced a
greater respect for her after she was distempered than he had ever
done in the early days of their marriage. Methinks, the gentleness of
her heart, and delicacy of her conscience, which till that misfortune
had never, I ween, been burdened by any, even the least,
self-reproach, and the lack of strength in her mind to endure an
unusual stress, made the stroke of that accidental harm done to
another through her means too heavy for her sufferance, and, as the
poet saith, unsettled reason on her throne. For mine own part, but let
others consider of it as they list, I think that had she been a
Catholic by early training and distinct belief, as verily I hope she
was in rightful intention, albeit unconsciously to herself (as I make
no doubt many are in these days, wherein persons are growing up with
no knowledge of religion except what Protestant parents do instill
into them), that she would have had a greater courage for to bear this
singular trial; which to a feeling natural heart did prove unbearable,
but which to one accustomed to look on suffering as not the greatest
of evils, and to hold such as are borne for conscience sake as great
and glorious, would not have been so overwhelming. But herein I write,
methinks, mine own condemnation, for that in the anguish of filial
grief I failed to point out to her during those cruel moments of
suspense that which in retrospection I do so clearly see. And so, may
God accept the blighting of her young life, and the many sufferings of
mine which I have still to record, as pawns of his intended mercies to
both her and to me in his everlasting kingdom!
When I was about to set out for Norwich, late in the afternoon of that
same day, Sir Hammond's messenger returned from thence with a letter
from the governor of the gaol; wherein he wrote that the prisoner he
had sent the night before was to proceed to London in a few hours with
some other priests and recusants which the government had ordered to
be conveyed thither and committed to divers prisons. He added, that he
had complied with Sir Hammond's request, and shown so much favor to
Mr. Tunstall as to transfer him, as soon as he {169} received his
letter, from the common dungeon to a private cell, and to allow him to
speak with another Catholic prisoner who had desired to see him. Upon
this I prayed Sir Hammond to forward me on my journey to London, as
now I desired nothing so much as to go there forthwith; which he did
with no small alacrity and good disposition. Then, with so much speed
as was possible, and so much suffering from the lapse of each hour
that it seemed to me the journey should never end, I proceeded to what
was now the object of my most impatient pinings--the place where I
should bear tidings of my father, and, if it should be possible,
minister assistance to him in his great straits. At last I reached
Holborn; and, to the no small amazement of my uncle, Mrs. Ward, and
Muriel, revealed to them who Mr. Tunstall was, whose arrival at the
prison of Bridewell Mrs. Ward had had notice of that morning, when she
had been to visit Mr. Watson, which she had contrived to do for some
time past in the manner I will soon relate.