CHAPTER I

BY

WHAT AUTHORITY?

By

Robert Hugh Benson

_Author of_

"The Light Invisible," "The King's Achievement,"

"A Book of the Love of Jesus," etc.

BENIZIGER BROS.

PRINTERS TO THE HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE,

NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO.

_I wish to acknowledge a great debt of

gratitude to the Reverend Dom Bede

Camm., O.S.B., who kindly read this book

in proof, and made many valuable corrections

and suggestions._

ROBERT HUGH BENSON

_Tremans

Horsted Keynes

October 27, 1904_

PENATIBVS · FOCISQVE · CARIS

NECNON · TRIBVS · CARIORIBVS

APVD · QVAS · SCRIPSI

IN · QVARVM · AVRES · LEGI

A · QVIBVS · ADMONITVS · EMENDAVI

HVNC · LIBRVM

D.

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAP.

I. The Situation

II. The Hall and the House

III. London Town

IV. Mary Corbet

V. A Rider From London

VI. Mr. Stewart

VII. The Door in the Garden Wall

VIII. The Taking of Mr. Stewart

IX. Village Justice

X. A Confessor

XI. Master Calvin

XII. A Winding Up

PART II

I. Anthony in London

II. Some New Lessons

III. Hubert's Return

IV. A Counter March

V. The Coming of the Jesuits

VI. Some Contrasts

VII. A Message From the City

VIII. The Massing-House

IX. From Fulham to Greenwich

X. The Appeal to Cæsar

XI. A Station of the Cross

XII. A Strife of Tongues

XIII. The Spiritual Exercises

XIV. Easter Day

PART III

I. The Coming of Spain

II. Men of War and Peace

III. Home-Coming

IV. Stanfield Place

V. Joseph Lackington

VI. A Departure

VII. Northern Religion

VIII. In Stanstead Woods

IX. The Alarm

X. The Passage To the Garden-house

XI. The Garden-house

XII. The Night Ride

XIII. In Prison

XIV. An Open Door

XV. The Rolling of the Stone

BY WHAT AUTHORITY?

PART I

CHAPTER I

THE SITUATION

To the casual Londoner who lounged, intolerant and impatient, at the

blacksmith's door while a horse was shod, or a cracked spoke mended,

Great Keynes seemed but a poor backwater of a place, compared with the

rush of the Brighton road eight miles to the east from which he had

turned off, or the whirling cauldron of London City, twenty miles to the

north, towards which he was travelling.

The triangular green, with its stocks and horse-pond, overlooked by the

grey benignant church-tower, seemed a tame exchange for seething

Cheapside and the crowded ways about the Temple or Whitehall; and it was

strange to think that the solemn-faced rustics who stared respectfully at

the gorgeous stranger were of the same human race as the quick-eyed,

voluble townsmen who chattered and laughed and grimaced over the news

that came up daily from the Continent or the North, and was tossed to and

fro, embroidered and discredited alternately, all day long.

And yet the great waves and movements that, rising in the hearts of kings

and politicians, or in the sudden strokes of Divine Providence, swept

over Europe and England, eventually always rippled up into this placid

country village; and the lives of Master Musgrave, who had retired upon

his earnings, and of old Martin, who cobbled the ploughmen's shoes, were

definitely affected and changed by the plans of far-away Scottish

gentlemen, and the hopes and fears of the inhabitants of South Europe.

Through all the earlier part of Elizabeth's reign, the menace of the

Spanish Empire brooded low on the southern horizon, and a responsive

mutter of storm sounded now and again from the north, where Mary Stuart

reigned over men's hearts, if not their homes; and lovers of secular

England shook their heads and were silent as they thought of their tiny

country, so rent with internal strife, and ringed with danger.

For Great Keynes, however, as for most English villages and towns at this

time, secular affairs were so deeply and intricately interwoven with

ecclesiastical matters that none dared decide on the one question without

considering its relation to the other; and ecclesiastical affairs, too,

touched them more personally than any other, since every religious change

scored a record of itself presently within the church that was as

familiar to them as their own cottages.

On none had the religious changes fallen with more severity than on the

Maxwell family that lived in the Hall, at the upper and southern end of

the green. Old Sir Nicholas, though his convictions had survived the

tempest of unrest and trouble that had swept over England, and he had

remained a convinced and a stubborn Catholic, yet his spiritual system

was sore and inflamed within him. To his simple and obstinate soul it was

an irritating puzzle as to how any man could pass from the old to a new

faith, and he had been known to lay his whip across the back of a servant

who had professed a desire to try the new religion.

His wife, a stately lady, a few years younger than himself, did what she

could to keep her lord quiet, and to save him from incurring by his

indiscretion any further penalties beyond the enforced journeys before

the Commission, and the fines inflicted on all who refused to attend

their parish church. So the old man devoted himself to his estates and

the further improvement of the house and gardens, and to the inculcation

of sound religious principles into the minds of his two sons who were

living at home with their parents; and strove to hold his tongue, and his

hand, in public.

The elder of these two, Mr. James as he was commonly called, was rather a

mysterious personage to the village, and to such neighbours as they had.

He was often in town, and when at home, although extremely pleasant and

courteous, never talked about himself and seemed to be only very

moderately interested in the estate and the country-life generally. This,

coupled with the fact that he would presumably succeed his father, gave

rise to a good deal of gossip, and even some suspicion.

His younger brother Hubert was very different; passionately attached to

sport and to outdoor occupations, a fearless rider, and in every way a

kindly, frank lad of about eighteen years old. The fifth member of the

family, Lady Maxwell's sister, Mistress Margaret Torridon, was a

quiet-faced old lady, seldom seen abroad, and round whom, as round her

eldest nephew, hung a certain air of mystery.

The difficulties of this Catholic family were considerable. Sir Nicholas'

religious sympathies were, of course, wholly with the spiritual side of

Spain, and all that that involved, while his intense love of England gave

him a horror of the Southern Empire that the sturdiest patriot might have

envied. And so with his attitude towards Mary Stuart and her French

background. While his whole soul rose in loathing against the crime of

Darnley's murder, to which many of her enemies proclaimed her accessory,

it was kindled at the thought that in her or her child lately crowned as

James VI. of Scotland, lay the hope of a future Catholic succession; and

this religious sympathy was impassioned by the memory of an interview a

few years ago, when he had kissed that gracious white hand, and looked

into those alluring eyes, and, kneeling, stammered out in broken French

his loyalty and his hopes. Whether it was by her devilish craft as her

enemies said, or her serene and limpid innocence as her friends said, or

by a maddening compound of the two, as later students have said--at least

she had made the heart and confidence of old Sir Nicholas her own.

But there were troubles more practical than these mental struggles; it

was a misery, beyond describing, to this old man and his wife to see the

church, where once they had worshipped and received the sacraments, given

over to what was, in their opinion, a novel heresy, and the charge of a

schismatic minister. There, in the Maxwell chapel within, lay the bones

of their Catholic ancestors; and there they had knelt to adore and

receive their Saviour; and now for them all was gone, and the light was

gone out in the temple of the Lord. In the days of the previous Rector

matters were not so desperate; it had been their custom to receive from

his hands at the altar-rail of the Church hosts previously consecrated at

the Rectory; for the incumbent had been an old Marian priest who had not

scrupled so to relieve his Catholic sheep of the burden of recusancy,

while he fed his Protestant charges with bread and wine from the

Communion table. But now all that was past, and the entire family was

compelled year by year to slip off into Hampshire shortly before Easter

for their annual duties, and the parish church that their forefathers had

built, endowed and decorated, knew them no more.

But the present Rector, the Reverend George Dent, was far from a bigot;

and the Papists were more fortunate than perhaps, in their bitterness,

they recognised; for the minister was one of the rising Anglican school,

then strange and unfamiliar, but which has now established itself as the

main representative section of the Church of England. He welcomed the

effect but not the rise of the Reformation, and rejoiced that the

incrustations of error had been removed from the lantern of the faith.

But he no less sincerely deplored the fanaticism of the Puritan and

Genevan faction. He exulted to see England with a church truly her own at

last, adapted to her character, and freed from the avarice and tyranny of

a foreign despot who had assumed prerogatives to which he had no right.

But he reverenced the Episcopate, he wore the prescribed dress, he used

the thick singing-cakes for the Communion, and he longed for the time

when nation and Church should again be one; when the nation should

worship through a Church of her own shaping, and the Church share the

glory and influence of her lusty partner and patron.

But Mrs. Dent had little sympathy with her husband's views; she had

assimilated the fiery doctrines of the Genevan refugees, and to her mind

her husband was balancing himself to the loss of all dignity and

consistency in an untenable position between the Popish priesthood on the

one side and the Gospel ministry on the other. It was an unbearable

thought to her that through her husband's weak disposition and principles

his chief parishioners should continue to live within a stone's throw of

the Rectory in an assured position of honour, and in personal

friendliness to a minister whose ecclesiastical status and claims they

disregarded. The Rector's position then was difficult and trying, no less

in his own house than elsewhere.

The third main family in the village was that of the Norrises, who lived

in the Dower House, that stood in its own grounds and gardens a few

hundred yards to the north-west of the village green. The house had

originally been part of the Hall estate; but it had been sold some fifty

years before. The present owner, Mr. Henry Norris, a widower, lived there

with his two children, Isabel and Anthony, and did his best to bring them

up in his own religious principles. He was a devout and cultivated

Puritan, who had been affected by the New Learning in his youth, and had

conformed joyfully to the religious changes that took place in Edward's

reign. He had suffered both anxiety and hardships in Mary's reign, when

he had travelled abroad in the Protestant countries, and made the

acquaintance of many of the foreign reformers--Beza, Calvin, and even the

great Melancthon himself. It was at this time, too, that he had lost his

wife. It had been a great joy to him to hear of the accession of

Elizabeth, and the re-establishment of a religion that was sincerely his

own; and he had returned immediately to England with his two little

children, and settled down once more at the Dower House. Here his whole

time that he could spare from his children was divided between prayer and

the writing of a book on the Eucharist; and as his children grew up he

more and more retired into himself and silence and communing with God,

and devoted himself to his book. It was beginning to be a great happiness

to him to find that his daughter Isabel, now about seventeen years old,

was growing up into active sympathy with his principles, and that the

passion of her soul, as of his, was a tender deep-lying faith towards

God, which could exist independently of outward symbols and ceremonies.

But unlike others of his school he was happy too to notice and encourage

friendly relations between Lady Maxwell and his daughter, since he

recognised the sincere and loving spirit of the old lady beneath her

superstitions, and knew very well that her friendship would do for the

girl what his own love could not.

The other passion of Isabel's life at present lay in her brother Anthony,

who was about three years younger than herself, and who was just now more

interested in his falcons and pony than in all the religious systems and

human relationships in the world, except perhaps in his friendship for

Hubert, who besides being three or four years older than himself, cared

for the same things.

And so relations between the Hall and the Dower House were all that they

should be, and the path that ran through the gardens of the one and the

yew hedge and orchard of the other was almost as well trodden as if all

still formed one estate.

As for the village itself, it was exceedingly difficult to gauge

accurately the theological atmosphere. The Rector despaired of doing so.

It was true that at Easter the entire population, except the Maxwells and

their dependents, received communion in the parish church, or at least

professed their willingness and intention to do so unless prevented by

some accident of the preceding week; but it was impossible to be blind to

the fact that many of the old beliefs lingered on, and that there was

little enthusiasm for the new system. Rumours broke out now and again

that the Catholics were rising in the north; that Elizabeth contemplated

a Spanish or French marriage with a return to the old religion; that Mary

Stuart would yet come to the throne; and with each such report there came

occasionally a burst of joy in unsuspected quarters. Old Martin, for

example, had been overheard, so a zealous neighbour reported, blessing

Our Lady aloud for her mercies when a passing traveller had insisted that

a religious league was in progress of formation between France and Spain,

and that it was only a question of months as to when mass should be said

again in every village church; but then on the following Sunday the

cobbler's voice had been louder than all in the metrical psalm, and on

the Monday he had paid a morning visit to the Rectory to satisfy himself

on the doctrine of Justification, and had gone again, praising God and

not Our Lady, for the godly advice received.

But again, three years back, just before Mr. Dent had come to the place,

there had been a solemn burning on the village-green of all such

muniments of superstition as had not been previously hidden by the priest

and Sir Nicholas; and in the rejoicings that accompanied this return to

pure religion practically the whole agricultural population had joined.

Some Justices had ridden over from East Grinsted to direct this rustic

reformation, and had reported favourably to the new Rector on his arrival

of the zeal of his flock. The great Rood, they told him, with SS. Mary

and John, four great massy angels, the statue of St. Christopher, the

Vernacle, a brocade set of mass vestments and a purple cope, had perished

in the flames, and there had been no lack of hands to carry faggots; and

now the Rector found it difficult to reconcile the zeal of his

parishioners (which indeed he privately regretted) with the sudden and

unexpected lapses into superstition, such as was Mr. Martin's gratitude

to Our Lady, and others of which he had had experience.

As regards the secular politics of the outside world, Great Keynes took

but little interest. It was far more a matter of concern whether mass or

morning prayer was performed on Sunday, than whether a German bridegroom

could be found for Elizabeth, or whether she would marry the Duke of

Anjou; and more important than either were the infinitesimal details of

domestic life. Whether Mary was guilty or not, whether her supporters

were rising, whether the shadow of Spain chilled the hearts of men in

London whose affair it was to look after such things; yet the cows must

be milked, and the children washed, and the falcons fed; and it was these

things that formed the foreground of life, whether the sky were stormy or

sunlit.

And so, as the autumn of '69 crept over the woods in flame and russet,

and the sound of the sickle was in folks' ears, the life at Great Keynes

was far more tranquil than we should fancy who look back on those

stirring days. The village, lying as it did out of the direct route

between any larger towns, was not so much affected by the gallop of the

couriers, or the slow creeping rumours from the Continent, as villages

that lay on lines of frequent communication. So the simple life went on,

and Isabel went about her business in Mrs. Carroll's still-room, and

Anthony rode out with the harriers, and Sir Nicholas told his beads in

his room--all with nearly as much serenity as if Scotland were fairyland

and Spain a dream.

CHAPTER II

THE HALL AND THE HOUSE

Anthony Norris, who was now about fourteen, went up to King's College,

Cambridge, in October. He was closeted long with his father the night

before he left, and received from him much sound religious advice and

exhortation; and in the morning, after an almost broken-hearted good-bye

from Isabel, he rode out with his servant following on another horse and

leading a packhorse on the saddle of which the falcons swayed and

staggered, and up the curving drive that led round into the village

green. He was a good-hearted and wholesome-minded boy, and left a real

ache behind him in the Dower House.

Isabel indeed ran up to his room, after she had seen his feathered cap

disappear at a trot through the gate, leaving her father in the hall; and

after shutting and latching the door, threw herself on his bed, and

sobbed her heart out. They had never been long separated before. For the

last three years he had gone over to the Rectory morning by morning to be

instructed by Mr. Dent; but now, although he would never make a great

scholar, his father thought it well to send him up to Cambridge for two

or three years, that he might learn to find his own level in the world.

Anthony himself was eager to go. If the truth must be told, he fretted a

little against the restraints of even such a moderate Puritan household

as that of his father's. It was a considerable weariness to Anthony to

kneel in the hall on a fresh morning while his father read, even though

with fervour and sincerity, long extracts from "Christian Prayers and

Holy Meditations," collected by the Reverend Henry Bull, when the real

world, as Anthony knew it, laughed and rippled and twinkled outside in

the humming summer air of the lawn and orchard; or to have to listen to

godly discourses, however edifying to elder persons, just at the time

when the ghost-moth was beginning to glimmer in the dusk, and the heavy

trout to suck down his supper in the glooming pool in the meadow below

the house.

His very sports, too, which his father definitely encouraged, were

obviously displeasing to the grave divines who haunted the house so often

from Saturday to Monday, and spoke of high doctrinal matters at

meal-times, when, so Anthony thought, lighter subjects should prevail.

They were not interested in his horse, and Anthony never felt quite the

same again towards one good minister who in a moment of severity called

Eliza, the glorious peregrine that sat on the boy's wrist and shook her

bells, a "vanity." And so Anthony trotted off happy enough on his way to

Cambridge, of which he had heard much from Mr. Dent; and where, although

there too were divines and theology, there were boys as well who acted

plays, hunted with the hounds, and did not call high-bred hawks

"vanities."

Isabel was very different. While Anthony was cheerful and active like his

mother who had died in giving him life, she, on the other hand, was quiet

and deep like her father. She was growing up, if not into actual beauty,

at least into grace and dignity: but there were some who thought her

beautiful. She was pale with dark hair, and the great grey eyes of her

father; and she loved and lived in Anthony from the very difference

between them. She frankly could not understand the attraction of sport,

and the things that pleased her brother; she was afraid of the hawks, and

liked to stroke a horse and kiss his soft nose better than to ride him.

But, after all, Anthony liked to watch the towering bird, and to hear and

indeed increase the thunder of the hoofs across the meadows behind the

stomping hawk; and so she did her best to like them too; and she was

often torn two ways by her sympathy for the partridge on the one hand, as

it sped low and swift across the standing corn with that dread shadow

following, and her desire, on the other hand, that Anthony should not be

disappointed.

But in the deeper things of the spirit, too, there was a wide difference

between them. As Anthony fidgeted and sighed through his chair-back

morning and evening, Isabel's soul soared up to God on the wings of those

sounding phrases. She had inherited all her father's tender piety, and

lived, like him, on the most intimate terms with the spiritual world. And

though, of course, by training she was Puritan, by character she was

Puritan too. As a girl of fourteen she had gone with Anthony to see the

cleansing of the village temple. They had stood together at the west end

of the church a little timid at the sight of that noisy crowd in the

quiet house of prayer; but she had felt no disapproval at that fierce

vindication of truth. Her father had taught her of course that the purest

worship was that which was only spiritual; and while since childhood she

had seen Sunday by Sunday the Great Rood overhead, she had never paid it

any but artistic attention. The men had the ropes round it now, and it

was swaying violently to and fro; and then, even as the children watched,

a tie had given, and the great cross with its pathetic wide-armed figure

had toppled forward towards the nave, and then crashed down on the

pavement. A fanatic ran out and furiously kicked the thorn-crowned head

twice, splintering the hair and the features, and cried out on it as an

idol; and yet Isabel, with all her tenderness, felt nothing more than a

vague regret that a piece of carving so ancient and so delicate should be

broken.

But when the work was over, and the crowd and Anthony with them had

stamped out, directed by the justices, dragging the figures and the old

vestments with them to the green, she had seen something which touched

her heart much more. She passed up alone under the screen, which they had

spared, to see what had been done in the chancel; and as she went she

heard a sobbing from the corner near the priest's door; and there,

crouched forward on his face, crying and moaning quietly, was the old

priest who had been rector of the church for nearly twenty years. He had

somehow held on in Edward's time in spite of difficulties; had thanked

God and the Court of Heaven with a full heart for the accession of Mary;

had prayed and deprecated the divine wrath at the return of the

Protestant religion with Elizabeth; but yet had somehow managed to keep

the old faith alight for eight years more, sometimes evading, sometimes

resisting, and sometimes conforming to the march of events, in hopes of

better days. But now the blow had fallen, and the old man, too

ill-instructed to hear the accents of new truth in the shouting of that

noisy crowd and the crash of his images, was on his knees before the

altar where he had daily offered the holy sacrifice through all those

troublous years, faithful to what he believed to be God's truth, now

bewailing and moaning the horrors of that day, and, it is to be feared,

unchristianly calling down the vengeance of God upon his faithless flock.

This shocked and touched Isabel far more than the destruction of the

images; and she went forward timidly and said something; but the old man

turned on her a face of such misery and anger that she had run straight

out of the church, and joined Anthony as he danced on the green.

On the following Sunday the old priest was not there, and a fervent young

minister from London had taken his place, and preached a stirring sermon

on the life and times of Josiah; and Isabel had thanked God on her knees

after the sermon for that He had once more vindicated His awful Name and

cleansed His House for a pure worship.

But the very centre of Isabel's religion was the love of the Saviour. The

Puritans of those early days were very far from holding a negative or

colourless faith. Not only was their belief delicately dogmatic to

excess; but it all centred round the Person of the Lord Jesus Christ. And

Isabel had drunk in this faith from her father's lips, and from

devotional books which he gave her, as far back as she could remember

anything. Her love for the Saviour was even romantic and passionate. It

seemed to her that He was as much a part of her life, and of her actual

experience, as Anthony or her father. Certain places in the lanes about,

and certain spots in the garden, were sacred and fragrant to her because

her Lord had met her there. It was indeed a trouble to her sometimes that

she loved Anthony so much; and to her mind it was a less worthy kind of

love altogether; it was kindled and quickened by such little external

details, by the sight of his boyish hand brown with the sun, and scarred

by small sporting accidents, such as the stroke of his bird's beak or

talons, or by the very outline of the pillow where his curly head had

rested only an hour or two ago. Whereas her love for Christ was a deep

and solemn passion that seemed to well not out of His comeliness or even

His marred Face or pierced Hands, but out of His wide encompassing love

that sustained and clasped her at every moment of her conscious attention

to Him, and that woke her soul to ecstasy at moments of high communion.

These two loves, then, one so earthly, one so heavenly, but both so

sweet, every now and then seemed to her to be in slight conflict in her

heart. And lately a third seemed to be rising up out of the plane of

sober and quiet affections such as she felt for her father, and still

further complicating the apparently encountering claims of love to God

and man.

Isabel grew quieter in a few minutes and lay still, following Anthony

with her imagination along the lane that led to the London road, and then

presently she heard her father calling, and went to the door to listen.

"Isabel," he said, "come down. Hubert is in the hall."

She called out that she would be down in a moment; and then going across

to her own room she washed her face and came downstairs. There was a

tall, pleasant-faced lad of about her own age standing near the open door

that led into the garden; and he came forward nervously as she entered.

"I came back last night, Mistress Isabel," he said, "and heard that

Anthony was going this morning: but I am afraid I am too late."

She told him that Anthony had just gone.

"Yes," he said, "I came to say good-bye; but I came by the orchard, and

so we missed one another."

Isabel asked a word or two about his visit to the North, and they talked

for a few minutes about a rumour that Hubert had heard of a rising on

behalf of Mary: but Hubert was shy and constrained, and Isabel was still

a little tremulous. At last he said he must be going, and then suddenly

remembered a message from his mother.

"Ah!" he said, "I was forgetting. My mother wants you to come up this

evening, if you have time. Father is away, and my aunt is unwell and is

upstairs."

Isabel promised she would come.

"Father is at Chichester," went on Hubert, "before the Commission, but we

do not expect him back till to-morrow."

A shadow passed across Isabel's face. "I am sorry," she said.

The fact was that Sir Nicholas had again been summoned for recusancy. It

was an expensive matter to refuse to attend church, and Sir Nicholas

probably paid not less than £200 or £300 a year for the privilege of

worshipping as his conscience bade.

In the evening Isabel asked her father's leave to be absent after supper,

and then drawing on her hood, walked across in the dusk to the Hall.

Hubert was waiting for her at the boundary door between the two

properties.

"Father has come back," he said, "but my mother wants you still." They

went on together, passed round the cloister wing to the south of the

house: the bell turret over the inner hall and the crowded roofs stood up

against the stars, as they came up the curving flight of shallow steps

from the garden to the tall doorway that led into the hall.

It was a pleasant, wide, high room, panelled with fresh oak, and hung

with a little old tapestry here and there, and a few portraits. A

staircase rose out of it to the upper story. It had a fret-ceiling, with

flower-de-luce and rose pendants, and on the walls between the tapestries

hung a few antlers and pieces of armour, morions and breast-plates, with

a pair of pikes or halberds here and there. A fire had been lighted in

the great hearth as the evenings were chilly; and Sir Nicholas was

standing before it, still in his riding-dress, pouring out resentment and

fury to his wife, who sat in a tall chair at her embroidery. She turned

silently and held out a hand to Isabel, who came and stood beside her,

while Hubert went and sat down near his father. Sir Nicholas scarcely

seemed to notice their entrance, beyond glancing up for a moment under

his fierce white eyebrows; but went on growling out his wrath. He was a

fine rosy man, with grey moustache and pointed beard, and a thick head of

hair, and he held in his hand his flat riding cap, and his whip with

which from time to time he cut at his boot.

"It was monstrous, I told the fellow, that a man should be haled from his

home like this to pay a price for his conscience. The religion of my

father and his father and all our fathers was good enough for me; and why

in God's name should the Catholic have to pay who had never changed his

faith, while every heretic went free? And then to that some stripling of

a clerk told me that a religion that was good enough for the Queen's

Grace should be good enough for her loyal subjects too; but my Lord

silenced him quickly. And then I went at them again; and all my Lord

would do was to nod his head and smile at me as if I were a child; and

then he told me that it was a special Commission all for my sake, and Sir

Arthur's, who was there too, my dear.... Well, well, the end was that I

had to pay for their cursed religion."

"Sweetheart, sweetheart," said Lady Maxwell, glancing at Isabel.

"Well, I paid," went on Sir Nicholas, "but I showed them, thank God, what

I was: for as we came out, Sir Arthur and I together, what should we see

but another party coming in, pursuivant and all; and in the mid of them

that priest who was with us last July.--Well, well, we'll leave his name

alone--him that said he was a priest before them all in September; and I

went down on my knees, thank God, and Sir Arthur went down on his, and we

asked his blessing before them all, and he gave it us: and oh! my Lord

was red and white with passion."

"That was not wise, sweetheart," said Lady Maxwell tranquilly, "the

priest will have suffered for it afterwards."

"Well, well," grumbled Sir Nicholas, "a man cannot always think, but we

showed them that Catholics were not ashamed of their religion--yes, and

we got the blessing too."

"Well, but here is supper waiting," said my lady, "and Isabel, too, whom

you have not spoken to yet."

Sir Nicholas paid no attention.

"Ah! but that was not all," he went on, savagely striking his boot again,

"at the end of all who should I see but that--that--damned rogue--whom

God reward!"--and he turned and spat into the fire--"Topcliffe. There he

was, bowing to my Lord and the Commissioners. When I think of that man,"

he said, "when I think of that man--" and Sir Nicholas' kindly old

passionate face grew pale and lowering with fury, and his eyebrows bent

themselves forward, and his lower lip pushed itself out, and his hand

closed tremblingly on his whip.

His wife laid down her embroidery and came to him.

"There, sweetheart," she said, taking his cap and whip. "Now sit down and

have supper, and leave that man to God."

Sir Nicholas grew quiet again; and after a saying a word or two of

apology to Isabel, left the room to wash before he sat down to supper.

"Mistress Isabel does not know who Topcliffe is," said Hubert.

"Hush, my son," said his mother, "your father does not like his name to

be spoken."

Presently Sir Nicholas returned, and sat down to supper. Gradually his

good nature returned, and he told them what he had seen in Chichester,

and the talk he had heard. How it was reported to his lordship the Bishop

that the old religion was still the religion of the people's hearts--how,

for example, at Lindfield they had all the images and the altar furniture

hidden underground, and at Battle, too; and that the mass could be set up

again at a few hours' notice: and that the chalices had not been melted

down into communion cups according to the orders issued, and so on. And

that at West Grinsted, moreover, the Blessed Sacrament was there

still--praise God--yes, and was going to remain there. He spoke freely

before Isabel, and yet he remembered his courtesy too, and did not abuse

the new-fangled religion, as he thought it, in her presence; or seek in

any way to trouble her mind. If ever in an excess of anger he was carried

away in his talk, his wife would always check him gently; and he would

always respond and apologise to Isabel if he had transgressed good

manners. In fact, he was just a fiery old man who could not change his

religion even at the bidding of his monarch, and could not understand how

what was right twenty years ago was wrong now.

Isabel herself listened with patience and tenderness, and awe too;

because she loved and honoured this old man in spite of the darkness in

which he still walked. He also told them in lower tones of a rumour that

was persistent at Chichester that the Duke of Norfolk had been imprisoned

by the Queen's orders, and was to be charged with treason; and that he

was at present at Burnham, in Mr. Wentworth's house, under the guard of

Sir Henry Neville. If this was true, as indeed it turned out to be later,

it was another blow to the Catholic cause in England; but Sir Nicholas

was of a sanguine mind, and pooh-poohed the whole affair even while he

related it.

And so the evening passed in talk. When Sir Nicholas had finished supper,

they all went upstairs to my lady's withdrawing-room on the first floor.

This was always a strange and beautiful room to Isabel. It was panelled

like the room below, but was more delicately furnished, and a tall harp

stood near the window to which my lady sang sometimes in a sweet

tremulous old voice, while Sir Nicholas nodded at the fire. Isabel, too,

had had some lessons here from the old lady; but even this mild vanity

troubled her puritan conscience a little sometimes. Then the room, too,

had curious and attractive things in it. A high niche in the oak over the

fireplace held a slender image of Mary and her Holy Child, and from the

Child's fingers hung a pair of beads. Isabel had a strange sense

sometimes as if this holy couple had taken refuge in that niche when they

were driven from the church; but it seemed to her in her steadier moods

that this was a superstitious fancy, and had the nature of sin.

This evening the old lady went to her harp, while Isabel sat down near

her in the wide window seat and looked out over the dark lawn, where the

white dial glimmered like a phantom, and thought of Anthony again. Sir

Nicholas went and stretched himself before the fire, and closed his eyes,

for he was old, and tired with his long ride; and Hubert sat down in a

dark corner near him whence he could watch Isabel. After a few rippling

chords my lady began to sing a song by Sir Thomas Wyatt, whom she and Sir

Nicholas had known in their youth; and which she had caused to be set to

music by some foreign chapel master. It was a sorrowful little song, with

the title, "He seeketh comfort in patience," and possibly she chose it on

purpose for this evening.

"Patience! for I have wrong,

And dare not shew wherein;

Patience shall be my song;

Since truth can nothing win.

Patience then for this fit;

Hereafter comes not yet."

While she sang, she thought no doubt of the foolish brave courtier who

lacked patience in spite of his singing, and lost his head for it; her

voice shook once or twice: and old Sir Nicholas shook his drowsy head

when she had finished, and said "God rest him," and then fell fast

asleep.

Then he presently awoke as the others talked in whispers, and joined in

too: and they talked of Anthony, and what he would find at Cambridge; and

of Alderman Marrett, and his house off Cheapside, where Anthony would lie

that night; and of such small and tranquil topics, and left fiercer

questions alone. And so the evening came to an end; and Isabel said

good-night, and went downstairs with Hubert, and out into the garden

again.

"I am sorry that Sir Nicholas has been so troubled," she said to Hubert,

as they turned the corner of the house together. "Why cannot we leave one

another alone, and each worship God as we think fit?"

Hubert smiled in the darkness to himself.

"I am afraid Queen Mary did not think it could be done, either," he said.

"But then, Mistress Isabel," he went on, "I am glad that you feel that

religion should not divide people."

"Surely not," she said, "so long as they love God."

"Then you think--" began Hubert, and then stopped. Isabel turned to him.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Nothing," said Hubert.

They had reached the door in the boundary wall by now, and Isabel would

not let him come further with her and bade him good-night. But Hubert

still stood, with his hand on the door, and watched the white figure fade

into the dusk, and listened to the faint rustle of her skirt over the dry

leaves; and then, when he heard at last the door of the Dower House open

and close, he sighed to himself and went home.

Isabel heard her father call from his room as she passed through the

hall; and went in to him as he sat at his table in his furred gown, with

his books about him, to bid him good-night and receive his blessing. He

lifted his hand for a moment to finish the sentence he was writing, and

she stood watching the quill move and pause and move again over the

paper, in the candlelight, until he laid the pen down, and rose and stood

with his back to the fire, smiling down at her. He was a tall, slender

man, surprisingly upright for his age, with a delicate, bearded,

scholar's face; the little plain ruff round his neck helped to emphasise

the fine sensitiveness of his features; and the hands which he stretched

out to his daughter were thin and veined.

"Well, my daughter," he said, looking down at her with his kindly grey

eyes so like her own, and holding her hands.

"Have you had a good evening, sir?" she asked.

He nodded briskly.

"And you, child?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she said, smiling up at him.

"And was Sir Nicholas there?"

She told him what had passed, and how Sir Nicholas had been fined again

for his recusancy; and how Lady Maxwell had sung one of Sir Thomas

Wyatt's songs.

"And was no one else there?" he asked.

"Yes, father, Hubert."

"Ah! And did Hubert come home with you?"

"Only as far as the gate, father. I would not let him come further."

Her father said nothing, but still looked steadily down into her eyes for

a moment, and then turned and looked away from her into the fire.

"You must take care," he said gently. "Remember he is a Papist, born and

bred; and that he has a heart to be broken too."

She felt herself steadily flushing; and as he turned again towards her,

dropped her eyes.

"You will be prudent and tender, I know," he added. "I trust you wholly,

Isabel."

Then he kissed her on the forehead and laid his hand on her head, and

looked up, as the Puritan manner was.

"May the God of grace bless you, my daughter; and make you faithful to

the end." And then he looked into her eyes again, smiled and nodded; and

she went out, leaving him standing there.

Mr. Norris had begun to fear that the boy loved Isabel, but as yet he did

not know whether Isabel understood it or even was aware of it. The

marriage difficulties of Catholics and Protestants were scarcely yet

existing; and certainly there was no formulated rule of dealing with

them. Changes of religion were so frequent in those days that

difficulties, when they did arise, easily adjusted themselves. It was

considered, for example, by politicians quite possible at one time that

the Duke of Anjou should conform to the Church of England for the sake of

marrying the Queen: or that he should attend public services with her,

and at the same time have mass and the sacraments in his own private

chapel. Or again, it was open to question whether England as a whole

would not return to the old religion, and Catholicism be the only

tolerated faith.

But to really religious minds such solutions would not do. It would have

been an intolerable thought to this sincere Puritan, with all his

tolerance, that his daughter should marry a Catholic; such an arrangement

would mean either that she was indifferent to vital religion, or that she

was married to a man whose creed she was bound to abhor and anathematise:

and however willing Mr. Norris might be to meet Papists on terms of

social friendliness, and however much he might respect their personal

characters, yet the thought that the life of any one dear to him should

be irretrievably bound up with all that the Catholic creed involved, was

simply an impossible one.

Besides all this he had no great opinion of Hubert. He thought he

detected in him a carelessness and want of principle that would make him

hesitate to trust his daughter to him, even if the insuperable barrier of

religion were surmounted. Mr. Norris liked a man to be consistent and

zealous for his creed, even if that creed were dark and

superstitious--and this zeal seemed to him lamentably lacking in Hubert.

More than once he had heard the boy speak of his father with an air of

easy indulgence, that his own opinion interpreted as contempt.

"I believe my father thinks," he had once said, "that every penny he pays

in fines goes to swell the accidental glory of God."

And Hubert had been considerably startled and distressed when the elder

man had told him to hold his tongue unless he could speak respectfully of

one to whom he owed nothing but love and honour. This had happened,

however, more than a year ago; and Hubert had forgotten it, no doubt,

even if Mr. Norris had not.

And as for Isabel.

It is exceedingly difficult to say quite what place Hubert occupied in

her mind. She certainly did not know herself much more than that she

liked the boy to be near her; to hear his footsteps coming along the path

from the Hall. This morning when her father had called up to her that

Hubert was come, it was not so hard to dry her tears for Anthony's

departure. The clouds had parted a little when she came and found this

tall lad smiling shyly at her in the hall. As she had sat in the window

seat, too, during Lady Maxwell's singing, she was far from unconscious

that Hubert's face was looking at her from the dark corner. And as they

walked back together her simplicity was not quite so transparent as the

boy himself thought.

Again when her father had begun to speak of him just now, although she

was able to meet his eyes steadily and smilingly, yet it was just an

effort. She had not mentioned Hubert herself, until her father had named

him; and in fact it is probably safe to say that during Hubert's visit to

the north, which had lasted three or four months, he had made greater

progress towards his goal, and had begun to loom larger than ever in the

heart of this serene grey-eyed girl, whom he longed for so irresistibly.

And now, as Isabel sat on her bed before kneeling to say her prayers,

Hubert was in her mind even more than Anthony. She tried to wonder what

her father meant, and yet only too well she knew that she knew. She had

forgotten to look into Anthony's room where she had cried so bitterly

this morning, and now she sat wide-eyed, and self-questioning as to

whether her heavenly love were as lucid and single as it had been; and

when at last she went down on her knees she entreated the King of Love to

bless not only her father, and her brother Anthony who lay under the

Alderman's roof in far-away London; but Sir Nicholas and Lady Maxwell,

and Mistress Margaret Hallam, and--and--Hubert--and James Maxwell, his

brother; and to bring them out of the darkness of Papistry into the

glorious liberty of the children of the Gospel.

CHAPTER III

LONDON TOWN

Isabel's visit to London, which had been arranged to take place the

Christmas after Anthony's departure to Cambridge, was full of bewildering

experiences to her. Mr. Norris from time to time had references to look

up in London, and divines to consult as to difficult points in his book

on the Eucharist; and this was a favourable opportunity to see Mr.

Dering, the St. Paul's lecturer; so the two took the opportunity, and

with a couple of servants drove up to the City one day early in December

to the house of Alderman Marrett, the wool merchant, and a friend of Mr.

Norris' father; and for several days both before and after Anthony's

arrival from Cambridge went every afternoon to see the sights. The maze

of narrow streets of high black and white houses with their iron-work

signs, leaning forward as if to whisper to one another, leaving strips of

sky overhead; the strange play of lights and shades after nightfall; the

fantastic groups; the incessant roar and rumble of the crowded

alleys--all the commonplace life of London was like an enchanted picture

to her, opening a glimpse into an existence of which she had known

nothing.

To live, too, in the whirl of news that poured in day after day borne by

splashed riders and panting horses;--this was very different to the slow

round of country life, with rumours and tales floating in, mellowed by

doubt and lapse of time, like pensive echoes from another world. For

example, morning by morning, as she came downstairs to dinner, there was

the ruddy-faced Alderman with his fresh budget of news of the

north;--Lords Northumberland and Westmoreland with a Catholic force of

several thousands, among which were two cousins of Mrs. Marrett

herself--and the old lady nodded her head dolorously in

corroboration--had marched southwards under the Banner of the Five

Wounds, and tramped through Durham City welcomed by hundreds of the

citizens; the Cathedral had been entered, old Richard Norton with the

banner leading; the new Communion table had been cast out of doors, the

English Bible and Prayer-book torn to shreds, the old altar reverently

carried in from the rubbish heap, the tapers rekindled, and amid

hysterical enthusiasm Mass had been said once more in the old sanctuary.

Then they had moved south; Lord Sussex was powerless in York; the Queen,

terrified and irresolute, alternately storming and crying; Spain was

about to send ships to Hartlepool to help the rebels; Mary Stuart would

certainly be rescued from her prison at Tutbury. Then Mary had been moved

to Coventry; then came a last flare of frightening tales: York had

fallen; Mary had escaped; Elizabeth was preparing to flee.

And then one morning the Alderman's face was brighter: it was all a lie,

he said. The revolt had crumbled away; my Lord Sussex was impregnably

fortified in York with guns from Hull; Lord Pembroke was gathering forces

at Windsor; Lords Clinton, Hereford and Warwick were converging towards

York to relieve the siege. And as if to show Isabel it was not a mere

romance, she could see the actual train-bands go by up Cheapside with the

gleam of steel caps and pike-heads, and the mighty tramp of disciplined

feet, and the welcoming roar of the swarming crowds.

Then as men's hearts grew lighter the tale of chastisement began to be

told, and was not finished till long after Isabel was home again. Green

after green of the windy northern villages was made hideous by the

hanging bodies of the natives, and children hid their faces and ran by

lest they should see what her Grace had done to their father.

In spite of the Holy Sacrifice, and the piteous banner, and the call to

fight for the faith, the Catholics had hung back and hesitated, and the

catastrophe was complete.

The religion of London, too, was a revelation to this country girl. She

went one Sunday to St. Paul's Cathedral, pausing with her father before

they went in to see the new restorations and the truncated steeple struck

by lightning eight years before, which in spite of the Queen's angry

urging the citizens had never been able to replace.

There was a good congregation at the early morning prayer; and the organs

and the singing were to Isabel as the harps and choirs of heaven. The

canticles were sung to Shephard's setting by the men and children of St.

Paul's all in surplices: and the dignitaries wore besides their grey fur

almuces, which had not yet been abolished. The grace and dignity of the

whole service, though to older people who remembered the unreformed

worship a bare and miserable affair, and to Mr. Norris, with his sincere

simplicity and spirituality, a somewhat elaborate and sensuous mode of

honouring God, yet to Isabel was a first glimpse of what the mystery of

worship meant. The dim towering arches, through which the dusty

richly-stained sunbeams poured, the far-away murmurous melodies that

floated down from the glimmering choir, the high thin pealing organ, all

combined to give her a sense of the unfathomable depths of the Divine

Majesty--an element that was lacking in the clear-cut personal Puritan

creed, in spite of the tender associations that made it fragrant for her,

and the love of the Saviour that enlightened and warmed it. The sight of

the crowds outside, too, in the frosty sunlight, gathered round the grey

stone pulpit on the north-east of the Cathedral, and streaming down every

alley and lane, the packed galleries, the gesticulating black figure of

the preacher--this impressed on her an idea of the power of corporate

religion, that hours at her own prayer-desk, or solitary twilight walks

under the Hall pines, or the uneventful divisions of the Rector's village

sermons, had failed to give.

It was this Sunday in London that awakened her quiet soul from the lonely

companionship of God, to the knowledge of that vast spiritual world of

men of which she was but one tiny cell. Her father observed her quietly

and interestedly as they went home together, but said nothing beyond an

indifferent word or two. He was beginning to realise the serious reality

of her spiritual life, and to dread anything that would even approximate

to coming between her soul and her Saviour. The father and daughter

understood one another, and were content to be silent together.

Her talks with Mrs. Marrett, too, left their traces on her mind. The

Alderman's wife, for the first time in her life, found her views and

reminiscences listened to as if they were oracles, and she needed little

encouragement to pour them out in profusion. She was especially generous

with her tales of portents and warnings; and the girl was more than once

considerably alarmed by what she heard while the ladies were alone in the

dim firelit parlour on the winter afternoons before the candles were

brought in.

"When you were a little child, my dear," began the old lady one day,

"there was a great burning made everywhere of all the popish images and

vestments; all but the copes and the altar-cloths that they made into

dresses for the ministers' new wives, and bed-quilts to cover them; and

there were books and banners and sepulchres and even relics. I went out

to see the burning at Paul's, and though I knew it was proper that the

old papistry should go, yet I was uneasy at the way it was done.

"Well," went on the old lady, glancing about her, "I was sitting in this

very room only a few days after, and the air began to grow dark and

heavy, and all became still. There had been two or three cocks crowing

and answering one another down by the river, and others at a distance;

and they all ceased: and there had been birds chirping in the roof, and

they ceased. And it grew so dark that I laid down my needle and went to

the window, and there at the end of the street over the houses there was

coming a great cloud, with wings like a hawk, I thought; but some said

afterwards that, when they saw it, it had fingers like a man's hand, and

others said it was like a great tower, with battlements. However that may

be, it grew nearer and larger, and it was blue and dark like that curtain

there; and there was no wind to stir it, for the windows had ceased

rattling, and the dust was quiet in the streets; and still it came on

quickly, growing as it came; and then there came a far-away sound, like a

heavy waggon, or, some said, like a deep voice complaining. And I turned

away from the window afraid; and there was the cat, that had been on a

chair, down in the corner, with her back up, staring at the cloud: and

then she began to run round the room like a mad thing, and presently

whisked out of the door when I opened it. And I went to find Mr. Marrett,

and he had not come in, and all the yard was quiet. I could only hear a

horse stamp once or twice in the stable. And then as I saw calling out

for some one to come, the storm broke, and the sky was all one dark cloud

from side to side. For three hours it went on, rolling and clapping, and

the lightning came in through the window that I had darkened and through

the clothes over my head; for I had gone to my bed and rolled myself

round under the clothes. And so it went on--and, my dear--" and Mrs.

Marrett put her head close to Isabel's--"I prayed to our Lady and the

saints, which I had not done since I was married; and asked them to pray

God to keep me safe. And then at the end came a clap of thunder and a

flash of lightning more fearful than all that had gone before; and at

that very moment, so Mr. Marrett told me when he came in, two of the

doors in St. Denys' Church in Fanshawe Street were broken in pieces by

something that crushed them in, and the stone steeple of Allhallow Church

in Bread Street was broken off short, and a part of it killed a dog that

was beneath, and overthrew a man that played with the dog."

Isabel could hardly restrain a shiver and a glance round the dark old

room, so awful were Mrs. Marrett's face and gestures and loud whispering

tone, as she told this.

"Ah! but, my dear," she went on, "there was worse happened to poor King

Hal, God rest him--him who began to reform the Church, as they say, and

destroyed the monasteries. All the money that he left for masses for his

soul was carried off with the rest at the change of religion; and that

was bad enough, but this is worse. This is a tale, my dear, that I have

heard my father tell many a time; and I was a young woman myself when it

happened. The King's Grace was threatened by a friar, I think of

Greenwich, that if he laid hands on the monasteries he should be as Ahab

whose blood was licked by dogs in the very place which he took from a

man. Well, the friar was hanged for his pains, and the King lived. And

then at last he died, and was put in a great coffin, and carried through

London; and they put the coffin in an open space in Sion Abbey, which the

King had taken. And in the night there came one to view the coffin, and

to see that all was well. And he came round the corner, and there stood

the great coffin--(for his Grace was a great stout man, my dear)--on

trestles in the moonlight, and beneath it a great black dog that lapped

something: and the dog turned as the man came, and some say, but not my

father, that the dog's eyes were red as coals, and that his mouth and

nostrils smoked, and that he cast no shadow; but (however that may be)

the dog turned and looked and then ran; and the man followed him into a

yard, but when he reached there, there was no dog. And the man went back

to the coffin afraid; and he found the coffin was burst open, and--and--"

Mrs. Marrett stopped abruptly. Isabel was white and trembling.

"There, there, my dear. I am a foolish old woman; and I'll tell you no

more."

Isabel was really terrified, and entreated Mrs. Marrett to tell her

something pleasant to make her forget these horrors; and so she told her

old tales of her youth, and the sights of the city, and the great doings

in Mary's reign; and so the time passed pleasantly till the gentlemen

came home.

At other times she told her of Elizabeth and the great nobles, and

Isabel's heart beat high at it, and at the promise that before she left

she herself should see the Queen, even if she had to go to Greenwich or

Nonsuch for it.

"God bless her," said Mrs. Marrett loyally, "she's a woman like ourselves

for all her majesty. And she likes the show and the music too, like us

all. I declare when I see them all a-going down the water to Greenwich,

or to the Tower for a bear-baiting, with the horns blowing and the guns

firing and the banners and the barges and the music, I declare sometimes

I think that heaven itself can be no better, God forgive me! Ah! but I

wish her Grace 'd take a husband; there are many that want her; and then

we could laugh at them all. There's so many against her Grace now who'd

be for her if she had a son of her own. There's Duke Charles whose

picture hangs in her bedroom, they say; and Lord Robert Dudley--there's a

handsome spark, my dear, in his gay coat and his feathers and his ruff,

and his hand on his hip, and his horse and all. I wish she'd take him and

have done with it. And then we'd hear no more of the nasty Spaniards.

There's Don de Silva, for all the world like a monkey with his brown face

and mincing ways and his grand clothes. I declare when Captain Hawkins

came home, just four years ago last Michaelmas, and came up to London

with his men, all laughing and rolling along with the people cheering

them, I could have kissed the man--to think how he had made the brown men

dance and curse and show their white teeth! and to think that the Don had

to ask him to dinner, and grin and chatter as if nought had happened."

And Mrs. Marrett's good-humoured face broke into mirth at the thought of

the Ambassador's impotence and duplicity.

Anthony's arrival in London a few days before Christmas removed the one

obstacle to Isabel's satisfaction--that he was not there to share it with

her. The two went about together most of the day under their father's

care, when he was not busy at his book, and saw all that was to be seen.

One afternoon as they were just leaving the courtyard of the Tower, which

they had been visiting with a special order, a slight reddish-haired man,

who came suddenly out of a doorway of the White Tower, stopped a moment

irresolutely, and then came towards them, bare-headed and bowing. He had

sloping shoulders and a serious-looking mouth, with a reddish beard and

moustache, and had an air of strangely mingled submissiveness and

capability. His voice too, as he spoke, was at once deferential and

decided.

"I ask your pardon, Mr. Norris," he said. "Perhaps you do not remember

me."

"I have seen you before," said the other, puzzled for a moment.

"Yes, sir," said the man, "down at Great Keynes; I was in service at the

Hall, sir."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Norris, "I remember you perfectly. Lackington, is it

not?"

The man bowed again.

"I left about eight years ago, sir; and by the blessing of God, have

gained a little post under the Government. But I wished to tell you, sir,

that I have been happily led to change my religion. I was a Papist, sir,

you know."

Mr. Norris congratulated him.

"I thank you, sir," said Lackington.

The two children were looking at him; and he turned to them and bowed

again.

"Mistress Isabel and Master Anthony, sir, is it not?"

"I remember you," said Isabel a little shyly, "at least, I think so."

Lackington bowed again as if gratified; and turned to their father.

"If you are leaving, Mr. Norris, would you allow me to walk with you a

few steps? I have much I would like to ask you of my old master and

mistress."

The four passed out together; the two children in front; and as they went

Lackington asked most eagerly after the household at the Hall, and

especially after Mr. James, for whom he seemed to have a special

affection.

"It is rumoured," said Mr. Norris, "that he is going abroad."

"Indeed, sir," said the servant, with a look of great interest, "I had

heard it too, sir; but did not know whether to believe it."

Lackington also gave many messages of affection to others of the

household, to Piers the bailiff, and a couple of the foresters: and

finished by entreating Mr. Norris to use him as he would, telling him how

anxious he was to be of service to his friends, and asking to be

entrusted with any little errands or commissions in London that the

country gentleman might wish performed.

"I shall count it, sir, a privilege," said the servant, "and you shall

find me prompt and discreet."

One curious incident took place just as Lackington was taking his leave

at the turning down into Wharf Street; a man hurrying eastwards almost

ran against them, and seemed on the point of apologising, but his face

changed suddenly, and he spat furiously on the ground, mumbling

something, and hurried on. Lackington seemed to see nothing.

"Why did he do that?" interrupted Mr. Norris, astonished.

"I ask your pardon, sir?" said Lackington interrogatively.

"That fellow! did you not see him spit at me?"

"I did not observe it, sir," said the servant; and presently took his

leave.

"Why did that man spit at you, father?" asked Isabel, when they had come

indoors.

"I cannot think, my dear; I have never seen him in my life."

"I think Lackington knew," said Anthony, with a shrewd air.

"Lackington! Why, Lackington did not even see him."

"That was just it," said Anthony.

Anthony's talk about Cambridge during these first evenings in London was

fascinating to Isabel, if not to their father, too. It concerned of

course himself and his immediate friends, and dealt with such subjects as

cock-fighting a good deal; but he spoke also of the public disputations

and the theological champions who crowed and pecked, not unlike cocks

themselves, while the theatre rang with applause and hooting. The sport

was one of the most popular at the universities at this time. But above

all his tales of the Queen's visit a few years before attracted the girl,

for was she not to see the Queen with her own eyes?

"Oh! father," said the lad, "I would I had been there five years ago

when she came. Master Taylor told me of it. They acted the _Aulularia_,

you know, in King's Chapel on the Sunday evening. Master Taylor took a

part, I forget what; and he told me how she laughed and clapped. And

then there was a great disputation before her, one day, in St. Mary's

Church, and the doctors argued, I forget what about, but Master Taylor

says that of course the Genevans had the best of it; and the Queen

spoke, too, in Latin, though she did not wish to, but my lord of Ely

persuaded her to it; so you see she could not have learned it by heart,

as some said. And she said she would give some great gift to the

University; but Master Taylor says they are still waiting for it; but it

must come soon, you see, because it is the Queen's Grace who has

promised it; but Master Taylor says he hopes she has forgotten it, but

he laughs when I ask him what he means, and says it again."

"Who is this Master Taylor?" asked his father.

"Oh! he is a Fellow of King's," said Anthony, "and he told me about the

Provost too. The Provost is half a Papist, they say: he is very old now,

and he has buried all the vessels and the vestments of the Chapel, they

say, somewhere where no one knows; and he hopes the old religion will

come back again some day; and then he will dig them up. But that is

Papistry, and no one wants that at Cambridge. And others say that he is

a Papist altogether, and has a priest in his house sometimes. But I do

not think he can be a Papist, because he was there when the Queen was

there, bowing and smiling, says Master Taylor; and looking on the Queen

so earnestly, as if he worshipped her, says Master Taylor, all the time

the Chancellor was talking to her before they went into the chapel for

the _Te Deum_. But they wished they had kept some of the things, like

the Provost, says Master Taylor, because they were much put to it when

her Grace came down for stuffs to cover the communion-tables and for

surplices, for Cecil said she would be displeased if all was bare and

poor. Is it true, father," asked Anthony, breaking off, "that the Queen

likes popish things, and has a crucifix and tapers on the table in her

chapel?"

"Ah! my son," said Mr. Norris, smiling, "you must ask one who knows. And

what else happened?"

"Well," said Anthony, "the best is to come. They had plays, you know,

the _Dido_, and one called _Ezechias_, before the Queen. Oh! and she

sent for one of the boys, they say, and--and kissed him, they say; but I

think that cannot be true."

"Well, my son, go on!"

"Oh! and some of them thought they would have one more play before she

went; but she had to go a long journey and left Cambridge before they

could do it, and they went after her to--to Audley End, I think, where

she was to sleep, and a room was made ready, and when all was prepared,

though her Grace was tired, she came in to see the play. Master Taylor

was not there; he said he would rather not act in that one; but he had

the story from one who acted, but no one knew, he said, who wrote the

play. Well, when the Queen's Grace was seated, the actors came on,

dressed, father, dressed"--and Anthony's eyes began to shine with

amusement--"as the Catholic Bishops in the Tower. There was Bonner in his

popish vestments--some they had from St. Benet's--with a staff and his

tall mitre, and a lamb in his arms; and he stared at it and gnashed his

teeth at it as he tramped in; and then came the others, all like bishops,

all in mass-vestments or cloth cut to look like them; and then at the end

came a dog that belonged to one of them, well-trained, with the Popish

Host in his mouth, made large and white, so that all could see what it

was. Well, they thought the Queen would laugh as she was a Protestant,

but no one laughed; some one said something in the room, and a lady cried

out; and then the Queen stood up and scolded the actors, and trounced

them well with her tongue, she did, and said she was displeased; and then

out she went with all her ladies and gentlemen after her, except one or

two servants who put out the lights at once without waiting, and broke

Bonner's staff, and took away the Host, and kicked the dog, and told them

to be off, for the Queen's Grace was angered with them; and so they had

to get back to Cambridge in the dark as well as they might."

"Oh! the poor boys!" said Mrs. Marrett, "and they did it all to please

her Grace, too."

"Yes," said the Alderman, "but the Queen thought it enough, I dare say,

to put the Bishops in prison, without allowing boys to make a mock of

them and their faith before her."

"Yes," said Anthony, "I thought that was it."

When the Alderman came in a day or two later with the news that Elizabeth

was to come up from Nonsuch the next day, and to pass down Cheapside on

her way to Greenwich, the excitement of Isabel and Anthony was

indescribable.

Cheapside was joyous to see, as the two, with their father behind them

talking to a minister whose acquaintance he had made, sat at a

first-floor window soon after mid-day, waiting to see the Queen go by.

Many of the people had hung carpets or tapestries, some of taffetas and

cloth-of-gold, out of their balconies and windows, and the very signs

themselves,--fantastic ironwork, with here and there a grotesque beast

rampant, or a bright painting, or an escutcheon;--with the gay,

good-tempered crowds beneath and the strip of frosty blue sky, crossed

by streamers from side to side, shining above the towering eaves and

gables of the houses, all combined to make a scene so astonishing that

it seemed scarcely real to these country children.

It was yet some time before she was expected; but there came a sudden

stir from the upper end of Cheapside, and then a burst of cheering and

laughter and hoots. Anthony leaned out to see what was coming, but could

make out nothing beyond the head of a horse, and a man driving it from

the seat of a cart, coming slowly down the centre of the road. The

laughter and noise grew louder as the crowds swayed this way and that to

make room. Presently it was seen that behind the cart a little space was

kept, and Anthony made out the grey head of a man at the tail of the

cart, and the face of another a little way behind; then at last, as the

cart jolted past, the two children saw a man stripped to the waist, his

hands tied before him to the cart, his back one red wound; while a

hangman walked behind whirling his thonged whip about his head and

bringing it down now and again on the old man's back. At each lash the

prisoner shrank away, and turned his piteous face, drawn with pain, from

side to side, while the crowd yelled and laughed.

"What's it for, what's it for?" inquired Anthony, eager and interested.

A boy leaning from the next window answered him.

"He said Jesus Christ was not in heaven."

At that moment a humorist near the cart began to cry out:

"Way for the King's Grace! Way for the King's Grace!" and the crowd took

the idea instantly: a few men walking with the cart formed lines like

gentlemen ushers, uncovering their heads and all crying out the same

words; and one eager player tried to walk backwards until he was tripped

up. And so the dismal pageant of this red-robed king of anguish went by;

and the hoots and shouts of his heralds died away. Anthony turned to

Isabel, exultant and interested.

"Why, Isabel," he said, "you look all white. What is it? You know he's a

blasphemer."

"I know, I know," said Isabel.

Then suddenly, far away, came the sound of trumpets, and gusts of distant

cheering, like the sound of the wind in thick foliage. Anthony leaned out

again, and an excited murmur broke out once more, as all faces turned

westwards. A moment more, and Anthony caught a flash of colour from the

corner near St. Paul's Churchyard; then the shrill trumpets sounded

nearer, and the cheering broke out at the end, and ran down the street

like a wave of noise. From every window faces leaned out; even on the

roofs and between the high chimney pots were swaying figures.

Masses of colour now began to emerge, with the glitter of steel, round

the bend of the street, where the winter sunshine fell; and the crowds

began to surge back, and against the houses. At first Anthony could make

out little but two moving rippling lines of light, coming parallel,

pressing the people back; and it was not until they had come opposite the

window that he could make out the steel caps and pikeheads of men in

half-armour, who, marching two and two with a space between them, led the

procession and kept the crowds back. There they went, with immovable

disciplined faces, grounding their pike-butts sharply now and again,

caring nothing for the yelp of pain that sometimes followed. Immediately

behind them came the aldermen in scarlet, on black horses that tossed

their jingling heads as they walked. Anthony watched the solemn faces of

the old gentlemen with a good deal of awe, and presently made out his

friend, Mr. Marrett, who rode near the end, but who was too much

engrossed in the management of his horse to notice the two children who

cried out to him and waved. The serjeants-of-arms followed, and then two

lines again of gentlemen-pensioners walking, bare-headed, carrying wands,

in short cloaks and elaborate ruffs. But the lad saw little of them, for

the splendour of the lords and knights that followed eclipsed them

altogether. The knights came first, in steel armour with raised vizors,

the horses too in armour, moving sedately with a splendid clash of steel,

and twinkling fiercely in the sunshine; and then, after them (and Anthony

drew his breath swiftly) came a blaze of colour and jewels as the great

lords in their cloaks and feathered caps, metal-clasped and gemmed, came

on their splendid long-maned horses; the crowd yelled and cheered, and

great names were tossed to and fro, as the owners passed on, each talking

to his fellow as if unconscious of the tumult and even of the presence of

these shouting thousands. The cry of the trumpets rang out again high and

shattering, as the trumpeters and heralds in rich coat-armour came next;

and Anthony looked a moment, fascinated by the lions and lilies, and the

brightness of the eloquent horns, before he turned his head to see the

Lord Mayor himself, mounted on a great stately white horse, that needed

no management, while his rider bore on a cushion the sceptre. Ah! she was

coming near now. The two saw nothing of the next rider who carried aloft

the glittering Sword of State, for their eyes were fixed on the six

plumed heads of the horses, with grooms and footmen in cassock-coats and

venetian hose, and the great gilt open carriage behind that swayed and

jolted over the cobbles. She was here; she was here; and the loyal crowds

yelled and surged to and fro, and cloths and handkerchiefs flapped and

waved, and caps tossed up and down, as at last the great creaking

carriage came under the window.

This is what they saw in it.

A figure of extraordinary dignity, sitting upright and stiff like a pagan

idol, dressed in a magnificent and fantastic purple robe, with a great

double ruff, like a huge collar, behind her head; a long taper waist,

voluminous skirts spread all over the cushions, embroidered with curious

figures and creatures. Over her shoulders, but opened in front so as to

show the ropes of pearls and the blaze of jewels on the stomacher, was a

purple velvet mantle lined with ermine, with pearls sewn into it here and

there. Set far back on her head, over a pile of reddish-yellow hair drawn

tightly back from the forehead, was a hat with curled brims, elaborately

embroidered, with the jewelled outline of a little crown in front, and a

high feather topping all.

And her face--a long oval, pale and transparent in complexion, with a

sharp chin, and a high forehead; high arched eyebrows, auburn, but a

little darker than her hair; her mouth was small, rising at the corners,

with thin curved lips tightly shut; and her eyes, which were clear in

colour, looked incessantly about her with great liveliness and

good-humour.

There was something overpowering to these two children who looked, too

awed to cheer, in this formidable figure in the barbaric dress, the

gorgeous climax of a gorgeous pageant. Apart from the physical splendour,

this solitary glittering creature represented so much--it was the

incarnate genius of the laughing, brutal, wanton English nation, that sat

here in the gilded carriage and smiled and glanced with tight lips and

clear eyes. She was like some emblematic giant, moving in a processional

car, as fantastic as itself, dominant and serene above the heads of the

maddened crowds, on to some mysterious destiny. A sovereign, however

personally inglorious, has such a dignity in some measure; and Elizabeth

added to this an exceptional majesty of her own. Henry would not have

been ashamed for this daughter of his. What wonder then that these crowds

were delirious with love and loyalty and an exultant fear, as this

overwhelming personality went by:--this pale-faced tranquil virgin Queen,

passionate, wanton, outspoken and absolutely fearless; with a sufficient

reserve of will to be fickle without weakness; and sufficient grasp of

her aims to be indifferent to her policy; untouched by vital religion;

financially shrewd; inordinately vain. And when this strange dominant

creature, royal by character as by birth, as strong as her father and as

wanton as her mother, sat in ermine and velvet and pearls in a royal

carriage, with shrewd-faced wits, and bright-eyed lovers, and solemn

statesmen, and great nobles, vacuous and gallant, glittering and jingling

before her; and troops of tall ladies in ruff and crimson mantle riding

on white horses behind; and when the fanfares went shattering down the

street, vibrating through the continuous roar of the crowd and the shrill

cries of children and the mellow thunder of church-bells rocking

overhead, and the endless tramp of a thousand feet below; and when the

whole was framed in this fantastic twisted street, blazing with

tapestries and arched with gables and banners, all bathed in glory by the

clear frosty sunshine--it is little wonder that for a few minutes at

least this country boy felt that here at last was the incarnation of his

dreams; and that his heart should exult, with an enthusiasm he could not

interpret, for the cause of a people who could produce such a queen, and

of a queen who could rule such a people; and that his imagination should

be fired with a sudden sense that these were causes for which the

sacrifice of a life would be counted cheap, if they might thereby be

furthered.

Yet, in this very moment, by one of those mysterious suggestions that

rise from the depth of a soul, the image sprang into his mind, and poised

itself there for an instant, of the grey-haired man who had passed half

an hour ago, sobbing and shrinking at the cart's tail.

CHAPTER IV

MARY CORBET

The spring that followed the visit to London passed uneventfully at Great

Keynes to all outward appearances; and yet for Isabel they were

significant months. In spite of herself and of the word of warning from

her father, her relations with Hubert continued to draw closer. For one

thing, he had been the first to awaken in her the consciousness that she

was lovable in herself, and the mirror that first tells that to a soul

always has something of the glow of the discovery resting upon it.

Then again his deference and his chivalrous air had a strange charm. When

Isabel rode out alone with Anthony, she often had to catch the swinging

gate as he rode through after opening it, and do such little things for

herself; but when Hubert was with them there was nothing of that kind.

And, once more, he appealed to her pity; and this was the most subtle

element of all. There was no doubt that Hubert's relations with his fiery

old father became strained sometimes, and it was extraordinarily sweet to

Isabel to be made a confidant. And yet Hubert never went beyond a certain

point; his wooing was very skilful: and he seemed to be conscious of her

uneasiness almost before she was conscious of it herself, and to relapse

in a moment into frank and brotherly relations again.

He came in one night after supper, flushed and bright-eyed, and found her

alone in the hall: and broke out immediately, striding up and down as she

sat and watched him.

"I cannot bear it; there is Mr. Bailey who has been with us all Lent; he

is always interfering in my affairs. And he has no charity. I know I am a

Catholic and that; but when he and my father talk against the

Protestants, Mistress Isabel, I cannot bear it. They were abusing the

Queen to-night--at least," he added, for he had no intention to

exaggerate, "they were saying she was a true daughter of her father; and

sneers of that kind. And I am an Englishman, and her subject; and I said

so; and Mr. Bailey snapped out, 'And you are also a Catholic, my son,'

and then--and then I lost my temper, and said that the Catholic religion

seemed no better than any other for the good it did people; and that the

Rector and Mr. Norris seemed to me as good men as any one; and of course

I meant him and he knew it; and then he told me, before the servants,

that I was speaking against the faith; and then I said I would sooner

speak against the faith than against good Christians; and then he flamed

up scarlet, and I saw I had touched him; and then my father got scarlet

too, and my mother looked at me, and my father told me to leave the table

for an insolent puppy; and I knocked over my chair and stamped out--and

oh! Mistress Isabel, I came straight here."

And he flung down astride of a chair with his arms on the back, and

dropped his head on to them.

It would have been difficult for Hubert, even if he had been very clever

indeed, to have made any speech which would have touched Isabel more than

this. There was the subtle suggestion that he had defended the

Protestants for her sake; and there was the open defence of her father,

and defiance of the priests whom she feared and distrusted; there was a

warm generosity and frankness running through it all; and lastly, there

was the sweet flattering implication that he had come to her to be

understood and quieted and comforted.

Then, when she tried to show her disapproval of his quick temper, and had

succeeded in showing a poorly disguised sympathy instead, he had flung

away again, saying that she had brought him to his senses as usual, and

that he would ask the priest's pardon for his insolence at once; and

Isabel was left standing and looking at the fire, fearing that she was

being wooed, and yet not certain, though she loved it. And then, too,

there was the secret hope that it might be through her that he might

escape from his superstitions, and--and then--and she closed her eyes and

bit her lip for joy and terror.

She did not know that a few weeks later Hubert had an interview with his

father, of which she was the occasion. Lady Maxwell had gone to her

husband after a good deal of thought and anxiety, and told him what she

feared; asking him to say a word to Hubert. Sir Nicholas had been

startled and furious. It was all the lad's conceit, he said; he had no

real heart at all; he only flattered his vanity in making love; he had no

love for his parents or his faith, and so on. She took his old hand in

her own and held it while she spoke.

"Sweetheart," she said, "how old were you when you used to come riding to

Overfield? I forget." And there came peace into his angry, puzzled old

eyes, and a gleam of humour.

"Mistress," he said, "you have not forgotten." For he had been just

eighteen, too. And he took her face in his hands delicately, and kissed

her on the lips.

"Well, well," he said, "it is hard on the boy; but it must not go on.

Send him to me. Oh! I will be easy with him."

But the interview was not as simple as he hoped; for Hubert was irritable

and shamefaced; and spoke lightly of the Religion again.

"After all," he burst out, "there are plenty of good men who have left

the faith. It brings nothing but misery."

Sir Nicholas' hands began to shake, and his fingers to clench themselves;

but he remembered the lad was in love.

"My son," he said, "you do not know what you say."

"I know well enough," said Hubert, with his foot tapping sharply. "I say

that the Catholic religion is a religion of misery and death everywhere.

Look at the Low Countries, sir."

"I cannot speak of that," said his father; and his son sneered visibly;

"you and I are but laymen; but this I know, and have a right to say, that

to threaten me like that is the act of a--is not worthy of my son. My

dear boy," he said, coming nearer, "you are angry; and, God forgive me!

so am I; but I promised your mother," and again he broke off, "and we

cannot go on with this now. Come again this evening."

Hubert stood turned away, with his head against the high oak mantelpiece;

and there was silence.

"Father," he said at last, turning round, "I ask your pardon."

Sir Nicholas stepped nearer, his eyes suddenly bright with tears, and his

mouth twitching, and held out his hand, which Hubert took.

"And I was a coward to speak like that--but, but--I will try," went on

the boy. "And I promise to say nothing to her yet, at any rate. Will that

do? And I will go away for a while."

The father threw his arms round him.

As the summer drew on and began to fill the gardens and meadows with

wealth, the little Italian garden to the south-west of the Hall was

where my lady spent most of the day. Here she would cause chairs to be

brought out for Mistress Margaret and herself, and a small selection of

devotional books, an orange leather volume powdered all over with

pierced hearts, filled with extracts in a clear brown ink, another book

called _Le Chappellet de Jésus_, while from her girdle beside her

pocket-mirror there always hung an olive-coloured "Hours of the Blessed

Virgin," fastened by a long strip of leather prolonged from the binding.

Here the two old sisters would sit, in the shadow of the yew hedge,

taking it by turns to read and embroider, or talking a little now and

then in quiet voices, with long silences broken only by the hum of

insects in the hot air, or the quick flight of a bird in the tall trees

behind the hedge.

Here too Isabel often came, also bringing her embroidery; and sat and

talked and watched the wrinkled tranquil faces of the two old ladies, and

envied their peace. Hubert had gone, as he had promised his father, on a

long visit, and was not expected home until at least the autumn.

"James will be here to-morrow," said Lady Maxwell, suddenly, one hot

afternoon. Isabel looked up in surprise; he had not been at home for so

long; but the thought of his coming was very pleasant to her.

"And Mary Corbet, too," went on the old lady, "will be here to-morrow or

the day after."

Isabel asked who this was.

"She is one of the Queen's ladies, my dear; and a great talker."

"She is very amusing sometimes," said Mistress Margaret's clear little

voice.

"And Mr. James will be here to-morrow?" said Isabel.

"Yes, my child. They always suit one another; and we have known Mary for

years."

"And is Miss Corbet a Catholic?"

"Yes, my dear; her Grace seems to like them about her."

When Isabel went up again to the Hall in the evening, a couple of days

later, she found Mr. James sitting with his mother and aunt in the same

part of the garden. Mr. James, who rose as she came through the yew

archway, and stood waiting to greet her, was a tall, pleasant,

brown-faced man. Isabel noticed as she came up his strong friendly face,

that had something of Hubert's look in it, and felt an immediate sense of

relief from her timidity at meeting this man, whose name, it was said,

was beginning to be known among the poets, and about whom the still more

formidable fact was being repeated, that he was a rising man at Court and

had attracted the Queen's favour.

As they sat down again together, she noticed, too, his strong delicate

hand in its snowy ruff, for he was always perfectly dressed, as it lay on

his knee; and again thought of Hubert's browner and squarer hand.

"We were talking, Mistress Isabel, about the play, and the new theatres.

I was at the Blackfriars' only last week. Ah! and I met Buxton there," he

went on, turning to his mother.

"Dear Henry," said Lady Maxwell. "He told me when I last saw him that he

could never go to London again; his religion was too expensive, he said."

Mr. James' white teeth glimmered in a smile.

"He told me he was going to prison next time, instead of paying the fine.

It would be cheaper, he thought."

"I hear her Grace loves the play," said Mistress Margaret.

"Indeed she does. I saw her at Whitehall the other day, when the children

of the Chapel Royal were acting; she clapped and called out with delight.

But Mistress Corbet can tell you more than I can--Ah! here she is."

Isabel looked up, and saw a wonderful figure coming briskly along the

terrace and down the steps that led from the house. Miss Corbet was

dressed with what she herself would have said was a milkmaid's plainness;

but Isabel looked in astonishment at the elaborate ruff and wings of

muslin and lace, the shining peacock gown, the high-piled coils of black

hair, and the twinkling buckled feet. She had a lively bright face, a

little pale, with a high forehead, and black arched brows and dancing

eyes, and a little scarlet mouth that twitched humorously now and then

after speaking. She rustled up, flicking her handkerchief, and exclaiming

against the heat. Isabel was presented to her; she sat down on a settle

Mr. James drew forward for her, with the handkerchief still whisking at

the flies.

"I am ashamed to come out like this," she began. "Mistress Plesse would

break her heart at my lace. You country ladies have far more sense. I am

the slave of my habits. What were you talking of, that you look so

gravely at me?"

Mr. James told her.

"Oh, her Grace!" said Miss Corbet. "Indeed, I think sometimes she is

never off the stage herself. Ah! and what art and passion she shows too!"

"We are all loyal subjects here," said Mr. James; "tell us what you

mean."

"I mean what I say," she said. "Never was there one who loved play-acting

more and to occupy the centre of the stage, too. And the throne too, if

there be one," she added.

Miss Corbet talked always at her audience; she hardly ever looked

directly at any one, but up or down, or even shut her eyes and tilted her

face forward while she talked; and all the while she kept an incessant

movement of her lips or handkerchief, or tapped her foot, or shifted her

position a little. Isabel thought she had never seen any one so restless.

Then she went on to tell them of the Queen. She was so startlingly frank

that Lady Maxwell again and again looked up as if to interrupt; but she

always came off the thin ice in time. It was abominable gossip; but she

talked with such a genial air of loyal good humour, that it was very

difficult to find fault. Miss Corbet was plainly accustomed to act as

Court Circular, or even as lecturer and show-woman on the most popular

subject in England.

"But her Grace surpassed herself in acting the tyrant last January; you

would have sworn her really angry. This was how it fell out. I was in the

anteroom one day, waiting for her Grace, when I thought I heard her call.

So I tapped; I got no clear answer, but I heard her voice within, so I

entered. And there was her Majesty, sitting a little apart in a chair by

herself, with the Secretary--poor rat--white-faced at the table, writing

what she bade him, and looking at her, quick and side-ways, like a child

at a lifted rod; and there was her Grace: she had kicked her stool over,

and one shoe had fallen; and she was striking the arm of her chair as she

spoke, and her rings rapped as loud as a drunken watchman. And her face

was all white, and her eyes glaring"--and Mary began to glare and raise

her voice too--"and she was crying out, 'By God's Son, sir, I will have

them hanged. Tell the----' (but I dare not say what she called my Lord

Sussex, but few would have recognised him from what she said)--'tell him

that I will have my will done. These--' (and she called the rebels a name

I dare not tell you)--'these men have risen against me these two months;

and yet they are not hanged. Hang them in their own villages, that their

children may see what treason brings.' All this while I was standing at

the open door, thinking she had called me; but she was as if she saw

nought but the gallows and hell-fire beyond; and I spoke softly to her,

asking what she wished; and she sprang up and ran at me, and struck

me--yes; again and again across the face with her open hand, rings and

all--and I ran out in tears. Yes," went on Miss Corbet in a moment,

dropping her voice, and pensively looking up at nothing, "yes; you would

have said she was really angry, so quick and natural were her movements

and so loud her voice."

Mr. James' face wrinkled up silently in amusement; and Lady Maxwell

seemed on the point of speaking; but Miss Corbet began again:

"And to see her Grace act the lover. It was a miracle. You would have

said that our Artemis repented of her coldness; if you had not known it

was but play-acting; or let us say perhaps a rehearsal--if you had seen

what I once saw at Nonsuch. It was on a summer evening; and we were all

on the bowling green, and her Grace was within doors, not to be

disturbed. My Lord Leicester was to come, but we thought had not arrived.

Then I had occasion to go to my room to get a little book I had promised

to show to Caroline; and, thinking no harm, I ran through into the court,

and there stood a horse, his legs apart, all steaming and blowing. Some

courier, said I to myself, and never thought to look at the trappings;

and so I ran upstairs to go to the gallery, across which lay my chamber;

and I came up, and just began to push open the door, when I heard her

Grace's voice beyond, and, by the mercy of God, I stopped; and dared not

close the door again nor go downstairs for fear I should be heard. And

there were two walking within the gallery, her Grace and my lord, and my

lord was all disordered with hard riding, and nearly as spent as his poor

beast below. And her Grace had her arm round his neck, for I saw them

through the chink; and she fondled and pinched his ear, and said over and

over again, 'Robin, my sweet Robin,' and then crooned and moaned at him;

and he, whenever he could fetch a breath--and oh! I promise you he did

blow--murmured back, calling her his queen, which indeed she was, and his

sweetheart and his moon and his star--which she was not: but 'twas all in

the play. Well, again by the favour of God, they did not see how the door

was open and I couched behind it, for the sun was shining level through

the west window in their eyes; but why they did not hear me as I ran

upstairs and opened the door, He only knows--unless my lord was too

sorely out of breath and her Grace too intent upon her play-acting. Well,

I promise you, the acting was so good--he so spent and she so

tender--that I nearly cried out Brava as I saw them; but that I

remembered in time 'twas meant to be a private rehearsal. But I have seen

her Grace act near as passionate a part before the whole company

sometimes."

The two old ladies seemed not greatly pleased with all this talk; and as

for Isabel she sat silent and overwhelmed. Mary Corbet glanced quickly at

their faces when she had done, and turned a little in her seat.

"Ah! look at that peacock," she cried out, as a stately bird stepped

delicately out of the shrubbery on to the low wall a little way off, and

stood balancing himself. "He is loyal too, and has come to hear news of

his Queen."

"He has come to see his cousin from town," said Mr. James, looking at

Miss Corbet's glowing dress, "and to learn of the London fashions."

Mary got up and curtseyed to the astonished bird, who looked at her with

his head lowered, as he took a high step or two, and then paused again,

with his burnished breast swaying a little from side to side.

"He invites you to a dance," went on Mr. James gravely, "a pavane."

Miss Corbet sat down again.

"I dare not dance a pavane," she said, "with a real peacock."

"Surely," said Mr. James, with a courtier's air, "you are too pitiful for

him, and too pitiless for us."

"I dare not," she said again, "for he never ceases to practise."

"In hopes," said Mr. James, "that one day you will dance it with him."

And then the two went off into the splendid fantastic nonsense that the

wits loved to talk; that grotesque, exaggerated phrasing made fashionable

by Lyly. It was like a kind of impromptu sword-exercise in an assault of

arms, where the rhythm and the flash and the graceful turns are of more

importance than the actual thrusts received. The two old ladies

embroidered on in silence, but their eyes twinkled, and little wrinkles

flickered about the corners of their lips. But poor Isabel sat

bewildered. It was so elaborate, so empty; she had almost said, so wicked

to take the solemn gift of speech and make it dance this wild fandango;

and as absurdity climbed and capered in a shower of sparks and gleams on

the shoulders of absurdity, and was itself surmounted; and the names of

heathen gods and nymphs and demi-gods and loose-living classical women

whisked across the stage, and were tossed higher and higher, until the

whole mad erection blazed up and went out in a shower of stars and gems

of allusions and phrases, like a flight of rockets, bright and

bewildering at the moment, but leaving a barren darkness and dazzled eyes

behind--the poor little Puritan country child almost cried with

perplexity and annoyance. If the two talkers had looked at one another

and burst into laughter at the end, she would have understood it to be a

joke, though, to her mind, but a poor one. But when they had ended, and

Mary Corbet had risen and then swept down to the ground in a great silent

curtsey, and Mr. James, the grave, sensible gentleman, had solemnly bowed

with his hand on his heart, and his heels together like a Monsieur, and

then she had rustled off in her peacock dress to the house, with her

muslin wings bulging behind her; and no one had laughed or reproved or

explained; it was almost too much, and she looked across to Lady Maxwell

with an appeal in her eyes.

Mr. James saw it and his face relaxed.

"You must not take us too seriously, Mistress Isabel," he said in his

kindly way. "It is all part of the game."

"The game?" she said piteously.

"Yes," said Mistress Margaret, intent on her embroidery, "the game of

playing at kings and queens and courtiers and ruffs and high-stepping."

Mr. James' face again broke into his silent laugh.

"You are acid, dear aunt," he said.

"But----" began Isabel again.

"But it is wrong, you think," he interrupted, "to talk such nonsense.

Well, Mistress Isabel, I am not sure you are not right." And the dancing

light in his eyes went out.

"No, no, no," she cried, distressed. "I did not mean that. Only I did not

understand."

"I know, I know; and please God you never will." And he looked at her

with such a tender gravity that her eyes fell.

"Isabel is right," went on Mistress Margaret, in her singularly sweet old

voice; "and you know it, my nephew. It is very well as a pastime, but

some folks make it their business; and that is nothing less than fooling

with the gifts of the good God."

"Well, aunt Margaret," said James softly, "I shall not have much more of

it. You need not fear for me."

Lady Maxwell looked quickly at her son for a moment, and down again. He

made an almost imperceptible movement with his head, Mistress Margaret

looked across at him with her tender eyes beaming love and sorrow; and

there fell a little eloquent silence; while Isabel glanced shyly from one

to the other, and wondered what it was all about.

Miss Mary Corbet stayed a few weeks, as the custom was when travelling

meant so much; but Isabel was scarcely nearer understanding her. She

accepted her, as simple clean souls so often have to accept riddles in

this world, as a mystery that no doubt had a significance, though she

could not recognise it. So she did not exactly dislike or distrust her,

but regarded her silently out of her own candid soul, as one would say a

small fearless bird in a nest must regard the man who thrusts his strange

hot face into her green pleasant world, and tries to make endearing

sounds. For Isabel was very fascinating to Mary Corbet. She had scarcely

ever before been thrown so close to any one so serenely pure. She would

come down to the Dower House again and again at all hours of the day,

rustling along in her silk, and seize upon Isabel in the little upstairs

parlour, or her bedroom, and question her minutely about her ways and

ideas; and she would look at her silently for a minute or two together;

and then suddenly laugh and kiss her--Isabel's transparency was almost as

great a riddle to her as her own obscurity to Isabel. And sometimes she

would throw herself on Isabel's bed, and lie there with her arms behind

her head, to the deplorable ruin of her ruff; with her buckled feet

twitching and tapping; and go on and on talking like a running stream in

the sun that runs for the sheer glitter and tinkle of it, and

accomplishes nothing. But she was more respectful to Isabel's simplicity

than at first, and avoided dangerous edges and treacherous ground in a

manner that surprised herself, telling her of the pageants at Court and

fair exterior of it all, and little about the poisonous conversations and

jests and the corrupt souls that engaged in them.

She was immensely interested in Isabel's religion.

"Tell me, child," she said one day, "I cannot understand such a religion.

It is not like the Protestant religion at Court at all. All that the

Protestants do there is to hear sermons--it is all so dismal and noisy.

But here, with you, you have a proper soul. It seems to me that you are

like a little herb-garden, very prim and plain, but living and wholesome

and pleasant to walk in at sunset. And these Protestants that I know are

more like a paved court at noon--all hot and hard and glaring. They give

me the headache. Tell me all about it."

Of course Isabel could not, though she tried again and again. Her

definitions were as barren as any others.

"I see," said Mary Corbet one day, sitting up straight and looking at

Isabel. "It is not your religion but you; your religion is as dull as all

the rest. But your soul is sweet, my dear, and the wilderness blossoms

where you set your feet. There is nothing to blush about. It's no credit

to you, but to God."

Isabel hated this sort of thing. It seemed to her as if her soul was

being dragged out of a cool thicket from the green shadow and the

flowers, and set, stripped, in the high road.

Another time Miss Corbet spoke yet more plainly.

"You are a Catholic at heart, my dear; or you would be if you knew what

the Religion was. But your father, good man, has never understood it

himself; and so you don't know it either. What you think about us, my

dear, is as much like the truth as--as--I am like a saint, or you like a

sinner. I'll be bound now that you think us all idolaters!"

Isabel had to confess that she did think something of the sort.

"There, now, what did I say? Why haven't either of those two old nuns at

the Hall taught you any better?"

"They--they don't talk to me about religion."

"Ah! I see; or the Puritan father would withdraw his lamb from the

wolves. But if they are wolves, my dear, you must confess that they have

the decency to wear sheep's clothing, and that the disguise is

excellent."

And so it gradually came about that Isabel began to learn an immense deal

about what the Catholics really believed--far more than she had ever

learnt in all her life before from the ladies at the Hall, who were

unwilling to teach her, and her father, who was unable.

About half-way through Miss Corbet's visit, Anthony came home. At first

he pronounced against her inexorably, dismissing her as nonsense, and as

a fine lady--terms to him interchangeable. Then his condemnation began to

falter, then ceased; then acquittal, and at last commendation succeeded.

For Miss Corbet asked his advice about the dogs, and how to get that

wonderful gloss on their coats that his had; and she asked his help, too,

once or twice and praised his skill, and once asked to feel his muscle.

And then she was so gallant in ways that appealed to him. She was not in

the least afraid of Eliza. She kissed that ferocious head in spite of the

glare of that steady yellow eye; and yet all with an air of trusting to

Anthony's protection. She tore her silk stocking across the instep in a

bramble and scratched her foot, without even drawing attention to it, as

she followed him along one of his short cuts through the copse; and it

was only by chance that he saw it. And then this gallant girl, so simple

and ignorant as she seemed out of doors, was like a splendid queen

indoors, and was able to hold her own, or rather to soar above all these

elders who were so apt to look over Anthony's head on grave occasions;

and they all had to listen while she talked. In fact, the first time he

saw her at the Hall in all her splendour, he could hardly realise it was

the same girl, till she laughed up at him, and nodded, and said how much

she had enjoyed the afternoon's stroll, and how much she would have to

tell when she got back to Court. In short, so incessant were her poses

and so skilful her manner and tone, and so foolish this poor boy, that in

a very few days, after he had pronounced her to be nonsense, Anthony was

at her feet, hopelessly fascinated by the combination of the glitter and

friendliness of this fine Court lady. To do her justice, she would have

behaved exactly the same to a statue, or even to nothing at all, as a

peacock dances and postures and vibrates his plumes to a kitten; and had

no more deliberate intention of giving pain to anybody than a nightshade

has of poisoning a silly sheep.

The sublime conceit of a boy of fifteen made him of course think that she

had detected in him a nobility that others overlooked, and so Anthony

began a gorgeous course of day-dreaming, in which he moved as a kind of

king, worshipped and reverenced by this splendid creature, who after a

disillusionment from the empty vanities of a Court life and a Queen's

favour, found at last the lord of her heart in a simple manly young

countryman. These dreams, however, he had the grace and modesty to keep

wholly to himself.

Mary came down one day and found the two in the garden together.

"Come, my child," she said, "and you too, Master Anthony, if you can

spare time to escort us; and take me to the church. I want to see it."

"The church!" said Isabel, "that is locked: we must go to the Rectory."

"Locked!" exclaimed Mary, "and is that part of the blessed Reformation?

Well, come, at any rate."

They all went across to the village and down the green towards the

Rectory, whose garden adjoined the churchyard on the south side of the

church. Anthony walked with something of an air in front of the two

ladies. Isabel told her as they went about the Rector and his views. Mary

nodded and smiled and seemed to understand.

"We will tap at the window," said Anthony, "it is the quickest way."

They came up towards the study window that looked on to the drive; when

Anthony, who was in front, suddenly recoiled and then laughed.

"They are at it again," he said.

The next moment Mary was looking through the window too. The Rector was

sitting in his chair opposite, a small dark, clean-shaven man, but his

face was set with a look of distressed determination, and his lower lip

was sucked in; his eyes were fixed firmly on a tall, slender woman whose

back was turned to the window and who seemed to be declaiming, with

outstretched hand. The Rector suddenly saw the faces at the window.

"We seem to be interrupting," said Mary coolly, as she turned away.

CHAPTER V

A RIDER FROM LONDON

"We will walk on, Master Anthony," said Mistress Corbet. "Will you bring

the keys when the Rector and his lady have done?"

She spoke with a vehement bitterness that made Isabel look at her in

amazement, as the two walked on by the private path to the churchyard

gate. Mary's face was set in a kind of fury, and she went forward with

her chin thrust disdainfully out, biting her lip. Isabel said nothing.

As they reached the gate they heard steps behind them; and turning saw

the minister and Anthony hastening together. Mr. Dent was in his cassock

and gown and square cap, and carried the keys. His little scholarly face,

with a sharp curved nose like a beak, and dark eyes set rather too close

together, was not unlike a bird's; and a way he had of sudden sharp

movements of his head increased the likeness. Mary looked at him with

scarcely veiled contempt. He glanced at her sharply and uneasily.

"Mistress Mary Corbet?" he said, interrogatively.

Mary bowed to him.

"May we see the church, sir; your church, I should say perhaps; that is,

if we are not disturbing you."

Mr. Dent made a polite inclination, and opened the gate for them to go

through. Then Mary changed her tactics; and a genial, good-humoured look

came over her face; but Isabel, who glanced at her now and again as they

went round to the porch at the west-end, still felt uneasy.

As the Rector was unlocking the porch door, Mary surveyed him with a

pleased smile.

"Why, you look quite like a priest," she said. "Do your bishops, or

whatever you call them, allow that dress? I thought you had done away

with it all."

Mr. Dent looked at her, but seeing nothing but geniality and interest in

her face, explained elaborately in the porch that he was a Catholic

priest, practically; though the word minister was more commonly used; and

that it was the old Church still, only cleansed from superstitions. Mary

shook her head at him cheerfully, smiling like a happy, puzzled child.

"It is all too difficult for me," she said. "It cannot be the same

Church, or why should we poor Catholics be so much abused and persecuted?

Besides, what of the Pope?"

Mr. Dent explained that the Pope was one of the superstitions in

question.

"Ah! I see you are too sharp for me," said Mary, beaming at him.

Then they entered the church; and Mary began immediately on a running

comment.

"How sad that little niche looks," she said. "I suppose Our Lady is in

pieces somewhere on a dunghill. Surely, father--I beg your pardon, Mr.

Dent--it cannot be the same religion if you have knocked Our Lady to

pieces. But then I suppose you would say that she was a superstition,

too. And where is the old altar? Is that broken, too? And is that a

superstition, too? What a number there must have been! And the holy

water, too, I see. But that looks a very nice table up there you have

instead. Ah! And I see you read the new prayers from a new desk outside

the screen, and not from the priest's stall. Was that a superstition too?

And the mass vestments? Has your wife had any of them made up to be

useful? The stoles are no good, I fear; but you could make charming

stomachers out of the chasubles."

They were walking slowly up the centre aisle now. Mr. Dent had to explain

that the vestments had been burnt on the green.

"Ah! yes; I see," she said, "and do you wear a surplice, or do you not

like them? I see the chancel roof is all broken--were there angels there

once? I suppose so. But how strange to break them all! Unless they are

superstitions, too? I thought Protestants believed in them; but I see I

was wrong. What _do_ you believe in, Mr. Dent?" she asked, turning large,

bright, perplexed eyes upon him for a moment: but she gave him no time

to answer.

"Ah!" she cried suddenly, and her voice rang with pain, "there is the

altar-stone." And she went down on her knees at the chancel entrance,

bending down, it seemed, in an agony of devout sorrow and shame; and

kissed with a gentle, lingering reverence the great slab with its five

crosses, set in the ground at the destruction of the altar to show there

was no sanctity attached to it.

She knelt there a moment or two, her lips moving, and her black eyes cast

up at the great east window, cracked and flawed with stones and poles.

The Puritan boy and girl looked at her with astonishment; they had not

seen this side of her before.

When she rose from her knees, her eyes seemed bright with tears, and her

voice was tender.

"Forgive me, Mr. Dent," she said, with a kind of pathetic dignity,

putting out a slender be-ringed hand to him, "but--but you know--for I

think perhaps you have some sympathy for us poor Catholics--you know what

all this means to me."

She went up into the chancel and looked about her in silence.

"This was the piscina, Mistress Corbet," said the Rector.

She nodded her head regretfully, as at some relic of a dead friend; but

said nothing. They came out again presently, and turned through the old

iron gates into what had been the Maxwell chapel. The centre was occupied

by an altar-tomb with Sir Nicholas' parents lying in black stone upon it.

Old Sir James held his right gauntlet in his left hand, and with his

right hand held the right hand of his wife, which was crossed over to

meet it; and the two steady faces gazed upon the disfigured roof. The

altar, where a weekly requiem had been said for them, was gone, and the

footpace and piscina alone showed where it had stood.

"This was a chantry, of course?" said Mistress Corbet.

The Rector confessed that it had been so.

"Ah!" she said mournfully, "the altar is cast out and the priest gone;

but--but--forgive me, sir, the money is here still? But then," she added,

"I suppose the money is not a superstition."

When they reached the west entrance again she turned and looked up the

aisle again.

"And the Rood!" she said. "Even Christ crucified is gone. Then, in God's

name what is left?" And her eyes turned fiercely for a moment on the

Rector.

"At least courtesy and Christian kindness is left, madam," he said

sternly.

She dropped her eyes and went out; and Isabel and Anthony followed,

startled and ashamed. But Mary had recovered herself as she came on to

the head of the stone stairs, beside which the stump of the churchyard

cross stood; standing there was the same tall, slender woman whose back

they had seen through the window, and who now stood eyeing Mary with

half-dropped lids. Her face was very white, with hard lines from nose to

mouth, and thin, tightly compressed lips. Mary swept her with one look,

and then passed on and down the steps, followed by Isabel and Anthony, as

the Rector came out, locking the church door again behind him.

As they went up the green, a shrill thin voice began to scold from over

the churchyard wall, and they heard the lower, determined voice of the

minister answering.

"They are at it again," said Anthony, once more.

"And what do you mean by that, Master Anthony?" said Mistress Corbet, who

seemed herself again now.

"She is just a scold," said the lad, "the village-folk hate her."

"You seem not to love her," said Mary, smiling.

"Oh! Mistress Corbet, do you know what she said--" and then he broke off,

crimson-faced.

"She is no friend to Catholics, I suppose," said Mary, seeming to notice

nothing.

"She is always making mischief," he went on eagerly. "The Rector would be

well enough but for her. He is a good fellow, really."

"There, there," said Mary, "and you think me a scold, too, I daresay.

Well, you know I cannot bear to see these old churches--well, perhaps I

was--" and then she broke off again, and was silent.

The brother and sister presently turned back to the Dower House; and Mary

went on, and through the Hall straight into the Italian garden where

Mistress Margaret was sitting alone at her embroidery.

"My sister has been called away by the housekeeper," she explained, "but

she will be back presently."

Mary sat down and took up the little tawny book that lay by Lady

Maxwell's chair, and began to turn it over idly while she talked. The old

lady by her seemed to invite confidences.

"I have been to see the church," said Mary. "The Rector showed it to me.

What a beautiful place it must have been."

"Ah!" said Mistress Margaret "I only came to live here a few years ago;

so I have never known or loved it like my sister or her husband. They can

hardly bear to enter it now. You know that Sir Nicholas' father and

grandfather are buried in the Maxwell chapel; and it was his father who

gave the furniture of the sanctuary, and the images of Our Lady and Saint

Christopher that they burned on the green."

"It is terrible," said Mary, a little absently, as she turned the pages

of the book.

Mistress Margaret looked up.

"Ah! you have one of my books there," she said. "It is a little

collection I made."

Miss Corbet turned to the beginning, but only found a seal with an

inscription.

"But this belonged to a nunnery," she said.

"Yes," said Mistress Margaret, tranquilly, "and I am a nun."

Mary looked at her in astonishment.

"But, but," she began.

"Yes, Mistress Corbet; we were dispersed in '38; some entered the other

nunneries; and some went to France; but, at last, under circumstances

that I need not trouble you with, I came here under spiritual direction,

and have observed my obligations ever since."

"And have you always said your offices?" Mary asked astonished.

"Yes, my dear; by the mercy of God I have never failed yet. I tell you

this of course because you are one of us, and because you have a faithful

heart." Mistress Margaret lifted her great eyes and looked at Mary

tenderly and penetratingly.

"And this is one of your books?" she asked.

"Yes, my dear. I was allowed at least to take it away with me. My sister

here is very fond of it."

Mary opened it again, and began to turn the pages.

"Is it all in your handwriting, Mistress Torridon?"

"Yes, my child; I continued writing in it ever since I first entered

religion in 1534; so you see the handwriting changes a little," and she

smiled to herself.

"Oh, but this is charming," cried Mary, intent on the book.

"Read it, my dear, aloud."

Mary read:

"Let me not rest, O Lord, nor have quiet,

But fill my soul with spiritual travail,

To sing and say, O mercy, Jesu sweet;

Thou my protection art in the battail.

Set thou aside all other apparail;

Let me in thee feel all my affiance.

Treasure of treasures, thou dost most avail.

Grant ere I die shrift, pardon, repentance."

Her voice trembled a little and ceased.

"That is from some verses of Dan John Lydgate, I think," said Mistress

Margaret.

"Here is another," said Mary in a moment or two.

"Jesu, at thy will, I pray that I may be,

All my heart fulfil with perfect love to thee:

That I have done ill, Jesu forgive thou me:

And suffer me never to spill, Jesu for thy pity."

"The nuns of Hampole gave me that," said Mistress Margaret. "It is by

Richard Rolle, the hermit."

"Tell me a little," said Mary Corbet, suddenly laying down the book,

"about the nunnery."

"Oh, my dear, that is too much to ask; but how happy we were. All was so

still; it used to seem sometimes as if earth were just a dream; and that

we walked in Paradise. Sometimes in the Greater Silence, when we had

spoken no word nor heard one except in God's praise, it used to seem that

if we could but be silent a little longer, and a little more deeply, in

our hearts as well, we should hear them talking in heaven, and the harps;

and the Saviour's soft footsteps. But it was not always like that."

"You mean," said Mary softly, "that, that--" and she stopped.

"Oh, it was hard sometimes; but not often. God is so good. But He used

to allow such trouble and darkness and noise to be in our hearts

sometimes--at least in mine. But then of course I was always very wicked.

But sitting in the nymph-hay sometimes on a day like this, as we were

allowed to do; with just tall thin trees like poplars and cypresses round

us: and the stream running through the long grass; and the birds, and the

soft sky and the little breeze; and then peace in our hearts; and the

love of the Saviour round us--it seemed, it seemed as if God had nothing

more to give; or, I should say, as if our hearts had no more space."

Mary was strangely subdued and quiet. Her little restless movements were

still for once; and her quick, vivacious face was tranquil and a little

awed.

"Oh, Mistress Margaret, I love to hear you talk like that. Tell me more."

"Well, my dear, we thought too much about ourselves, I think; and too

little about God and His poor children who were not so happy as we were;

so then the troubles began; and they got nearer and nearer; and at last

the Visitor came. He--he was my brother, my dear, which made it harder;

but he made a good end. I will tell you his story another time. He took

away our great crucifix and our jewelled cope that old Mr. Wickham used

to wear on the Great Festivals; and left us. He turned me out, too; and

another who asked to go, but I went back for a while. And then, my dear,

although we offered everything; our cows and our orchard and our hens,

and all we had, you know how it ended; and one morning in May old Mr.

Wickham said mass for us quite early, before the sun was risen, for the

last time; and,--and he cried, my dear, at the elevation; and--and we

were all crying too I think, and we all received communion together for

the last time--and,--and, then we all went away, leaving just old Dame

Agnes to keep the house until the Commissioner came. And oh, my dear, I

don't think the house ever looked so dear as it did that morning, just as

the sun rose over the roofs, and we were passing out through the meadow

door where we had sat so often, to where the horses were waiting to take

us away."

Miss Corbet's own eyes were full of tears as the old lady finished: and

she put out her white slender hand, which Mistress Torridon took and

stroked for a moment.

"Well," she said, "I haven't talked like this for a long while; but I

knew you would understand. My dear, I have watched you while you have

been here this time."

Mary Corbet smiled a little uneasily.

"And you have found me out?" she answered smiling.

"No, no; but I think our Saviour has found you out--or at least He is

drawing very near."

A slight discomfort made itself felt in Mary's heart. This nun then was

like all the rest, always trying to turn the whole world into monks and

nuns by hints and pretended intuitions into the unseen.

"And you think I should be a nun too?" she asked, with just a shade of

coolness in her tone.

"I should suppose not," said Mistress Margaret, tranquilly. "You do not

seem to have a vocation for that, but I should think that our Lord means

you to serve Him where you are. Who knows what you may not accomplish?"

This was a little disconcerting to Mary Corbet; it was not at all what

she had expected. She did not know what to say; and took up the leather

book again and began to turn over the pages. Mistress Margaret went on

serenely with her embroidery, which she had neglected during the last

sentence or two; and there was silence.

"Tell me a little more about the nunnery," said Mary in a minute or two,

leaning back in her chair, with the book on her knees.

"Well, my dear, I scarcely know what to say. It is all far off now like a

childhood. We talked very little; not at all until recreation; except by

signs, and we used to spend a good deal of our time in embroidery. That

is where I learnt this," and she held out her work to Mary for a moment.

It was an exquisite piece of needlework, representing a stag running

open-mouthed through thickets of green twining branches that wrapped

themselves about his horns and feet. Mary had never seen anything quite

like it before.

"What does it mean?" she asked, looking at it curiously.

"_Quemadmodum cervus_,"--began Mistress Margaret; "as the hart brayeth

after the waterbrooks,"--and she took the embroidery and began to go on

with it.--"It is the soul, you see, desiring and fleeing to God, while

the things of the world hold her back. Well, you see, it is difficult to

talk about it; for it is the inner life that is the real history of a

convent; the outer things are all plain and simple like all else."

"Well," said Mary, "is it really true that you were happy?"

The old lady stopped working a moment and looked up at her.

"My dear, there is no happiness in the world like it," she said simply.

"I dream sometimes that we are all back there together, and I wake crying

for joy. The other night I dreamed that we were all in the chapel again,

and that it was a spring morning, with the dawn beginning to show the

painted windows, and that all the tapers were burning; and that mass was

beginning. Not one stall was empty; not even old Dame Gertrude, who died

when I was a novice, was lacking, and Mr. Wickham made us a sermon after

the creed, and showed us the crucifix back in its place again; and told

us that we were all good children, and that Our Lord had only sent us

away to see if we would be patient; and that He was now pleased with us,

and had let us come home again; and that we should never have to go away

again; not even when we died; and then I understood that we were in

heaven, and that it was all over; and I burst out into tears in my stall

for happiness; and then I awoke and found myself in bed; but my cheeks

were really wet.--Well, well, perhaps, by the mercy of God it may all

come true some day."

She spoke so simply that Mary Corbet was amazed; she had always fancied

that the Religious Life was a bitter struggle, worth, indeed, living for

those who could bear it, for the sake of the eternal reward; but it had

scarcely even occurred to her that it was so full of joy in itself; and

she looked up under her brows at the old lady, whose needle had stopped

for a moment.

A moment after and Lady Maxwell appeared coming down the steps into the

garden; and at her side Anthony, who was dressed ready for riding.

Old Mistress Margaret had, as she said, been watching Mary Corbet those

last few weeks; and had determined to speak to her plainly. Her instinct

had told her that beneath this flippancy and glitter there was something

that would respond; and she was anxious to leave nothing undone by which

Mary might be awakened to the inner world that was in such danger of

extinction in her soul. It cost the old lady a great effort to break

through her ordinary reserve, but she judged that Mary could only be

reached on her human side, and that there were not many of her friends

whose human sympathy would draw her in the right direction. It is

strange, sometimes, to find that some silent old lady has a power for

sounding human character, which far shrewder persons lack; and this quiet

old nun, so ignorant, one would have said, of the world and of the

motives from which ordinary people act, had managed somehow to touch

springs in this girl's heart that had never been reached before.

And now as Miss Corbet and Lady Maxwell talked, and Anthony lolled

embarrassed beside them, attempting now and then to join in the

conversation, Mistress Margaret, as she sat a little apart and worked

away at the panting stag dreamed away, smiling quietly to herself, of all

the old scenes that her own conversation had called up into clearer

consciousness; of the pleasant little meadow of the Sussex priory, with

the old apple-trees and the straight box-lined path called the nun's walk

from time immemorial; all lighted with the pleasant afternoon glow, as it

streamed from the west, throwing the slender poplar shadows across the

grass; and of the quiet chatter of the brook as it over-flowed from the

fish ponds at the end of the field and ran through the meadows beyond the

hedge. The cooing of the pigeons as they sunned themselves round the dial

in the centre of this Italian garden and on the roof of the hall helped

on her reminiscences, for there had been a dovecote at the priory. Where

were all her sisters now, those who had sat with her in the same sombre

habits in the garth, with the same sunshine in their hearts? Some she

knew, and thanked God for it, were safe in glory; others were old like

her, but still safe in Holy Religion in France where as yet there was

peace and sanctuary for the servants of the Most High; one or two--and

for these she lifted up her heart in petition as she sat--one or two had

gone back to the world, relinquished everything, and died to grace. Then

the old faces one by one passed before her; old Dame Agnes with her

mumbling lips and her rosy cheeks like wrinkled apples, looking so fresh

and wholesome in the white linen about her face; and then the others one

by one--that white-faced, large-eyed sister who had shown such passionate

devotion at first that they all thought that God was going to raise up a

saint amongst them--ah! God help her--she had sunk back at the

dissolution, from those heights of sanctity towards whose summits she had

set her face, down into the muddy torrent of the world that went roaring

down to the abyss--and who was responsible? There was Dame Avice, the

Sacristan, with her businesslike movements going about the garden,

gathering flowers for the altar, with her queer pursed lips as she

arranged them in her hands with her head a little on one side; how

annoying she used to be sometimes; but how good and tender at heart--God

rest her soul! And there was Mr. Wickham, the old priest who had been

their chaplain for so many years, and who lived in the village parsonage,

waited upon by Tom Downe, that served at the altar too--he who had got

the horses ready when the nuns had to go at last on that far-off May

morning, and had stood there, holding the bridles and trying to hide his

wet face behind the horses; where was Tom now? And Mr. Wickham too--he

had gone to France with some of the nuns; but he had never settled down

there--he couldn't bear the French ways--and besides he had left his

heart behind him buried in the little Sussex priory among the meadows.

And so the old lady sat, musing; while the light and shadow of

reminiscence moved across her face; and her lips quivered or her eyes

wrinkled up with humour, at the thought of all those old folks with their

faces and their movements and their ways of doing and speaking. Ah! well,

please God, some day her dream would really come true; and they shall all

be gathered again from France and England with their broken hearts mended

and their tears wiped away, and Mr. Wickham himself shall minister to

them and make them sermons, and Tom Downe too shall be there to minister

to him--all in one of the many mansions of which the Saviour spoke.

And so she heard nothing of the talk of the others; though her sister

looked at her tenderly once or twice; and Mary Corbet chattered and

twitched her buckles in the sun, and Anthony sat embarrassed in the midst

of Paradise; and she knew nothing of where she was nor of what was

happening round her, until Mary Corbet said that it was time for the

horses to be round, and that she must go and get ready and not keep Mr.

James and Mr. Anthony waiting. Then, as she and Anthony went towards the

house, the old lady looked up from the braying stag and found herself

alone with her sister.

Mistress Margaret waited until the other two disappeared up the steps,

and then spoke.

"I have told her all, sister," she said, "she can be trusted."

Lady Maxwell nodded gently.

"She has a good heart," went on the other, "and our Lord no doubt will

find some work for her to do at Court."

There was silence again; broken by the gentle little sound of the silk

being drawn through the stuff.

"You know best, Margaret," said Lady Maxwell.

Even as she spoke there was the sound of a door thrown violently open and

old Sir Nicholas appeared on the top of the steps, hatless and plainly in

a state of great agitation; beside him stood a courier, covered with the

dust of the white roads, and his face crimson with hard riding. Sir

Nicholas stood there as if dazed, and Lady Maxwell sprang up quickly to

go to him. But a moment after there appeared behind him a little group,

his son James, Miss Corbet and a servant or two; while Anthony hung back;

and Mr. James came up quickly, and took his father by the arm; and

together the little company came down the steps into the still and sunny

garden.

"What is it?" cried Lady Maxwell, trying to keep her voice under control;

while Mistress Margaret laid her work quietly down, and stood up too.

"Tell my lady," said Sir Nicholas to the courier, who stood a little

apart.

"If you please, my lady," he said, as if repeating a lesson, "a Bull of

the Holy Father has been found nailed to the door of the Bishop of

London's palace, deposing Elizabeth and releasing all her subjects from

their allegiance."

Lady Maxwell went to her husband and took him by the arm gently.

"What does it mean, sweetheart?" she asked.

"It means that Catholics must choose between their sovereign and their

God."

"God have mercy," said a servant behind.

CHAPTER VI

MR. STEWART

Sir Nicholas' exclamatory sentence was no exaggeration. That terrible

choice of which he spoke, with his old eyes shining with the desire to

make it, did not indeed come so immediately as he anticipated; but it

came none the less. From every point of view the Bull was unfortunate,

though it may have been a necessity; for it marked the declaration of war

between England and the Catholic Church. A gentle appeal had been tried

before; Elizabeth, who, it must be remembered had been crowned during

mass with Catholic ceremonial, and had received the Blessed Sacrament,

had been entreated by the Pope as his "dear daughter in Christ" to return

to the Fold; and now there seemed to him no possibility left but this

ultimatum.

It is indeed difficult to see what else, from his point of view, he could

have done. To continue to pretend that Elizabeth was his "dear daughter"

would have discredited his fatherly authority in the eyes of the whole

Christian world. He had patiently made an advance towards his wayward

child; and she had repudiated and scorned him. Nothing was left but to

recognise and treat her as an enemy of the Faith, an usurper of spiritual

prerogatives, and an apostate spoiler of churches; to do this might

certainly bring trouble upon others of his less distinguished but more

obedient children, who were in her power; but to pretend that the

suffering thus brought down upon Catholics was unnecessary, and that the

Pope alone was responsible for their persecution, is to be blind to the

fact that Elizabeth had already openly defied and repudiated his

authority, and had begun to do her utmost to coax and compel his children

to be disobedient to their father.

The shock of the Bull to Elizabeth was considerable; she had not expected

this extreme measure; and it was commonly reported too that France and

Spain were likely now to unite on a religious basis against England; and

that at least one of these Powers had sanctioned the issue of the Bull.

This of course helped greatly to complicate further the already

complicated political position. Steps were taken immediately to

strengthen England's position against Scotland with whom it was now, more

than ever, to be feared that France would co-operate; and the Channel

Fleet was reinforced under Lord Clinton, and placed with respect to

France in what was almost a state of war, while it was already in an

informal state of war with Spain. There was fierce confusion in the Privy

Council. Elizabeth, who at once began to vacillate under the combined

threats of La Mothe, the French ambassador, and the arguments of the

friend of Catholics, Lord Arundel, was counter-threatened with ruin by

Lord Keeper Bacon unless she would throw in her lot finally with the

Protestants and continue her hostility and resistance to the Catholic

Scotch party. But in spite of Bacon Elizabeth's heart failed her, and if

it had not been for the rashness of Mary Stuart's friends, Lord

Southampton and the Bishop of Ross, the Queen might have been induced to

substitute conciliation for severity towards Mary and the Catholic party

generally. Southampton was arrested, and again there followed the further

encouragement of the Protestant camp by the rising fortunes of the

Huguenots and the temporary reverses to French Catholicism; so the

pendulum swung this way and that. Elizabeth's policy changed almost from

day to day. She was tormented with temporal fears of a continental

crusade against her, and by the spiritual terrors of the Pope's Bull; and

her unfathomable fickleness was the despair of her servants.

Meanwhile in the religious world a furious paper war broke out; and

volleys from both sides followed the solemn roar and crash of _Regnans

in Excelsis_.

But while the war of words went on, and the theological assaults and

charges were given and received, repulsed or avoided, something practical

must, it was felt, be done immediately; and search was made high and low

for other copies of the Bull. The lawyers in the previous year had fallen

under suspicion of religious unsoundness; judges could not be trusted to

convict Catholics accused of their religion; and counsel was unwilling to

prosecute them; therefore the first inquisition was made in the Inns of

Court; and almost immediately a copy of the Bull was found in the room of

a student in Lincoln's Inn, who upon the rack in the Tower confessed that

he had received it from one John Felton, a Catholic gentleman who lived

upon his property in Southwark. Upon Felton's arrest (for he had not

attempted to escape) he confessed immediately, without pressure, that he

had affixed the Bull to the Bishop of London's gate; but although he was

racked repeatedly he would not incriminate a single person besides

himself; but at his trial would only assert with a joyous confidence that

he was not alone; and that twenty-five peers, six hundred gentlemen, and

thirty thousand commoners were ready to die in the Holy Father's quarrel.

He behaved with astonishing gallantry throughout, and after his

condemnation had been pronounced upon the fourth of August at the

Guildhall, on the charge of high-treason, he sent a diamond ring from his

own finger, of the value of £400, to the Queen to show that he bore her

no personal ill-will. He had been always a steadfast Catholic; his wife

had been maid of honour to Mary and a friend of Elizabeth's. On August

the eighth he suffered the abominable punishment prescribed; he was drawn

on a hurdle to the gate of the Bishop's palace in S. Paul's Churchyard,

where he had affixed the Bull, hanged upon a new gallows, cut down before

he was unconscious, disembowelled and quartered. His name has since been

placed on the roll of the Blessed by the Apostolic See in whose quarrel

he so cheerfully laid down his life.

News of these and such events continued of course to be eagerly sought

after by the Papists all over the kingdom; and the Maxwells down at Great

Keynes kept in as close touch with the heart of affairs as almost any

private persons in the kingdom out of town. Sir Nicholas was one of those

fiery natures to whom opposition or pressure is as oil to flame. He began

at once to organise his forces and prepare for the struggle that was

bound to come. He established first a kind of private post to London and

to other Catholic houses round; for purposes however of defence rather

than offence, so that if any steps were threatened, he and his friends

might be aware of the danger in time. There was great sorrow at the news

of John Felton's death; and mass was said for his soul almost immediately

in the little oratory at Maxwell Court by one of the concealed priests

who went chiefly between Hampshire and Sussex ministering to the

Catholics of those districts. Mistress Margaret spent longer than ever at

her prayers; Lady Maxwell had all she could do to keep her husband from

some furious act of fanatical retaliation for John Felton's death--some

useless provocation of the authorities; the children at the Dower House

began to come to the Hall less often, not because they were less

welcomed, but because there was a constraint in the air. All seemed

preoccupied; conversations ceased abruptly on their entrance, and fits of

abstraction would fall from time to time upon their kindly hosts. In the

meanwhile, too, the preparations for James Maxwell's departure, which had

already begun to show themselves, were now pushed forward rapidly; and

one morning in the late summer, when Isabel came up to the Hall, she

found that Lady Maxwell was confined to her room and could not be seen

that day; she caught a glimpse of Sir Nicholas' face as he quickly

crossed the entrance hall, that made her draw back from daring to intrude

on such grief; and on inquiry found that Mr. James had ridden away that

morning, and that the servants did not know when to expect him back, nor

what was his destination.

In other ways also at this time did Sir Nicholas actively help on his

party. Great Keynes was in a convenient position and circumstances for

agents who came across from the Continent. It was sufficiently near

London, yet not so near to the highroad or to London itself as to make

disturbance probable; and its very quietness under the spiritual care of

a moderate minister like Mr. Dent, and its serenity, owing to the secret

sympathy of many of the villagers and neighbours, as well as from the

personal friendship between Sir Nicholas and the master of the Dower

House--an undoubted Protestant--all these circumstances combined to make

Maxwell Hall a favourite halting-place for priests and agents from the

Continent. Strangers on horseback or in carriages, and sometimes even on

foot, would arrive there after nightfall, and leave in a day or two for

London. Its nearness to London enabled them to enter the city at any hour

they thought best after ten or eleven in the forenoon. They came on very

various businesses; some priests even stayed there and made the Hall a

centre for their spiritual ministrations for miles round; others came

with despatches from abroad, some of which were even addressed to great

personages at Court and at the Embassies where much was being done by the

Ambassadors at this time to aid their comrades in the Faith, and to other

leading Catholics; and others again came with pamphlets printed abroad

for distribution in England, some of them indeed seditious, but many of

them purely controversial and hortatory, and with other devotional

articles and books such as it was difficult to obtain in England, and

might not be exposed for public sale in booksellers' shops: Agnus Deis,

beads, hallowed incense and crosses were being sent in large numbers from

abroad, and were eagerly sought after by the Papists in all directions.

It was remarkable that while threatening clouds appeared to be gathering

on all sides over the Catholic cause, yet the deepening peril was

accompanied by a great outburst of religious zeal. It was reported to the

Archbishop that "massing" was greatly on the increase in Kent; and was

attributed, singularly enough, to the Northern Rebellion, which had ended

in disaster for the Papists; but the very fact that such a movement could

take place at all probably heartened many secret sympathisers, who had

hitherto considered themselves almost alone in a heretic population.

Sir Nicholas came in one day to dinner in a state of great fury. One of

his couriers had just arrived with news from London; and the old man came

in fuming and resentful.

"What hypocrisy!" he cried out to Lady Maxwell and Mistress Margaret, who

were seated at table. "Not content with persecuting Catholics, they will

not even allow us to say we are persecuted for the faith. Here is the

Lord Keeper declaring in the Star Chamber that no man is to be persecuted

for his private faith, but only for his public acts, and that the Queen's

Grace desires nothing so little as to meddle with any man's conscience.

Then I suppose they would say that hearing mass was a public act and

therefore unlawful; but then how if a man's private faith bids him to

hear mass? Is not that meddling with his private conscience to forbid him

to go to mass? What folly is this? And yet my Lord Keeper and her Grace

are no fools! Then are they worse than fools?"

Lady Maxwell tried to quiet the old man, for the servants were not out of

the room; and it was terribly rash to speak like that before them; but he

would not be still nor sit down, but raged up and down before the hearth,

growling and breaking out now and again. What especially he could not get

off his mind was that this was the Old Religion that was prescribed. That

England for generations had held the Faith, and that then the Faith and

all that it involved had been declared unlawful, was to him iniquity

unfathomable. He could well understand some new upstart sect being

persecuted, but not the old Religion. He kept on returning to this.

"Have they so far forgotten the Old Faith as to think it can be held in a

man's private conscience without appearing in his life, like their

miserable damnable new fangled Justification by faith without works? Or

that a man can believe in the blessed sacrament of the altar and yet not

desire to receive it; or in penance and yet not be absolved; or in Peter

and yet not say so, nor be reconciled. You may believe, say they, of

their clemency, what you like; be justified by that; that is enough!

Bah!"

However mere declaiming against the Government was barren work, and Sir

Nicholas soon saw that; and instead, threw himself with more vigour than

ever into entertaining and forwarding the foreign emissaries.

Mary Corbet had returned to London by the middle of July; and Hubert was

not yet returned; so Sir Nicholas and the two ladies had the Hall to

themselves. Now it must be confessed that the old man had neither the

nature nor the training for the _rôle_ of a conspirator, even of the

mildest description. He was so exceedingly impulsive, unsuspicious and

passionate that it would have been the height of folly to entrust him

with any weighty secret, if it was possible to dispense with him; but the

Catholics over the water needed stationary agents so grievously; and Sir

Nicholas' name commanded such respect, and his house such conveniences,

that they overlooked the risk involved in making him their confidant,

again and again; besides it need not be said that his honour and fidelity

was beyond reproach; and those qualities after all balance favourably

against a good deal of shrewdness and discretion. He, of course, was

serenely unable to distinguish between sedition and religion; and

entertained political meddlers and ordinary priests with an equal

enthusiasm. It was pathetic to Lady Maxwell to see her simple old husband

shuffling away his papers, and puzzling over cyphers and perpetually

leaving the key of them lying about, and betraying again and again when

he least intended it, by his mysterious becks and nods and glances and

oracular sayings, that some scheme was afoot. She could have helped him

considerably if he had allowed her; but he had an idea that the

capacities of ladies in general went no further than their harps, their

embroidery and their devotions; and besides, he was chivalrously

unwilling that his wife should be in any way privy to business that

involved such risks as this.

One sunny morning in August he came into her room early just as she was

finishing her prayers, and announced the arrival of an emissary from

abroad.

"Sweetheart," he said, "will you prepare the east chamber for a young man

whom we will call Mr. Stewart, if you please, who will arrive to-night.

He hopes to be with us until after dusk to-morrow when he will leave; and

I shall be obliged if you will---- No, no, my dear. I will order the

horses myself."

The old man then bustled off to the stableyard and ordered a saddle-horse

to be taken at once to Cuckfield, accompanied by a groom on another

horse. These were to arrive at the inn and await orders from a stranger

"whom you will call Mr. Stewart, if you please." Mr. Stewart was to

change horses there, and ride on to Maxwell Hall, and Sir Nicholas

further ordered the same two horses and the same groom to be ready the

following evening at about nine o'clock, and to be at "Mr. Stewart's"

orders again as before.

This behaviour of Sir Nicholas' was of course most culpably indiscreet. A

child could not but have suspected something, and the grooms, who were of

course Catholics, winked merrily at one another when the conspirator's

back was turned, and he had hastened in a transport of zeal and

preoccupation back again to the house to interrupt his wife in her

preparations for the guest.

That evening "Mr. Stewart" arrived according to arrangements. He was a

slim red-haired man, not above thirty years of age, the kind of man his

enemies would call foxy, with a very courteous and deliberate manner, and

he spoke with a slight Scotch accent. He had the air of doing everything

on purpose. He let his riding-whip fall as he greeted Lady Maxwell in the

entrance hall; but picked it up with such a dignified grace that you

would have sworn he had let it fall for some wise reason of his own. He

had a couple of saddle-bags with him, which he did not let out of his

sight for a moment; even keeping his eye upon them as he met the ladies

and saluted them. They were carried up to the east chamber directly,

their owner following; where supper had been prepared. There was no real

reason, since he arrived with such publicity, why he should not have

supped downstairs, but Sir Nicholas had been peremptory. It was by his

directions also that the arrival had been accomplished in the manner it

had.

After he had supped, Sir Nicholas receiving the dishes from the servants'

hands at the door of the room with the same air of secrecy and despatch,

his host suggested that he should come to Lady Maxwell's drawing-room, as

the ladies were anxious to see him. Mr. Stewart asked leave to bring a

little valise with him that had travelled in one of the bags, and then

followed his host who preceded him with a shaded light along the gallery.

When he entered he bowed again profoundly, with a slightly French air, to

the ladies and to the image over the fire; and then seated himself, and

asked leave to open his valise. He did so with their permission, and

displayed to them the numerous devotional articles and books that it

contained. The ladies and Sir Nicholas were delighted, and set aside at

once some new books of devotion, and then they fell to talk. The

Netherlands, from which Mr. Stewart had arrived two days before, on the

east coast, were full at this time of Catholic refugees, under the Duke

of Alva's protection. Here they had been living, some of them even from

Elizabeth's accession, and Sir Nicholas and his ladies had many inquiries

to make about their acquaintances, many of which Mr. Stewart was able to

satisfy, for, from his conversation he was plainly one in the confidence

of Catholics both at home and abroad. And so the evening passed away

quietly. It was thought better by Sir Nicholas that Mr. Stewart should

not be present at the evening devotions that he always conducted for the

household in the dining-hall, unless indeed a priest were present to take

his place; so Mr. Stewart was again conducted with the same secrecy to

the East Chamber; and Sir Nicholas promised at his request to look in on

him again after prayers. When prayers were over, Sir Nicholas went up to

his guest's room, and found him awaiting him in a state of evident

excitement, very unlike the quiet vivacity and good humour he had shown

when with the ladies.

"Sir Nicholas," he said, standing up, as his host came in, "I have not

told you all my news." And when they were both seated he proceeded:

"You spoke a few minutes ago, Sir Nicholas, of Dr. Storey; he has been

caught."

The old man exclaimed with dismay. Mr. Stewart went on:

"When I left Antwerp, Sir Nicholas, Dr. Storey was in the town. I saw him

myself in the street by the Cathedral only a few hours before I embarked.

He is very old, you know, and lame, worn out with good works, and he was

hobbling down the street on the arm of a young man. When I arrived at

Yarmouth I went out into the streets about a little business I had with a

bookseller, before taking horse. I heard a great commotion down near the

docks, at the entrance of Bridge Street; and hastened down there; and

there I saw pursuivants and seamen and officers all gathered about a

carriage, and keeping back the crowd that was pressing and crying out to

know who the man was; and presently the carriage drove by me, scattering

the crowd, and I could see within; and there sat old Dr. Storey, very

white and ill-looking, but steady and cheerful, whom I had seen the very

day before in Antwerp. Now this is very grievous for Dr. Storey; and I

pray God to deliver him; but surely the Duke and the King of Spain must

move now. They cannot leave him in Cecil's hands; and then, Sir Nicholas,

we must all be ready, for who knows what may happen."

Sir Nicholas was greatly moved. There was one of the perplexities which

so much harassed all the Papists at this time. It seemed certain that Mr.

Stewart's prediction must be fulfilled. Dr. Storey was a naturalised

subject of King Philip and in the employment of Alva, and he had been

carried off forcibly by the English Government. It afterwards came out

how it had been done. He had been lured away from Antwerp and enticed on

board a trader at Bergen-op-Zoom, by Cecil's agents with the help of a

traitor named Parker, on pretext of finding heretical books there

arriving from England; and as soon as he had set foot on deck he was

hurried below and carried straight off to Yarmouth. Here then was Sir

Nicholas' perplexity. To welcome Spain when she intervened and to work

actively for her, was treason against his country; to act against Spain

was to delay the re-establishment of the Religion--something that

appeared to him very like treason against his faith. Was the dreadful

choice between his sovereign and his God, he wondered as he paced up and

down and questioned Mr. Stewart, even now imminent?

The whole affair, too, was so formidable and so mysterious that the

hearts of these Catholics and of others in England when they heard the

tale began to fail them. Had the Government then so long an arm and so

keen an eye? And if it was able to hale a man from the shadow of the

Cathedral at Antwerp and the protection of the Duke of Alva into the

hands of pursuivants at Yarmouth within the space of a few hours, who

then was safe?

And so the two sat late that night in the East Chamber; and laid schemes

and discussed movements and probabilities and the like, until the dawn

began to glimmer through the cracks of the shutters and the birds to

chirp in the eaves; and Sir Nicholas at last carried to bed with him an

anxious and a heavy heart. Mr. Stewart, however, did not seem so greatly

disturbed; possibly because on the one side he had not others dearer to

him than his own life involved in these complex issues: and partly

because he at any rate has not the weight of suspense and indecision that

so drew his host two ways at once, for Mr. Stewart was whole-heartedly

committed already, and knew well how he would act should the choice

present itself between Elizabeth and Philip.

The following morning Sir Nicholas still would not allow his guest to

come downstairs, and insisted that all his meals should be served in the

East Chamber, while he himself, as before, received the food at the door

and set it before Mr. Stewart. Mr. Stewart was greatly impressed and

touched by the kindness of the old man, although not by his capacity for

conspiracy. He had intended indeed to tell his host far more than he had

done of the movements of political and religious events, for he could not

but believe, before his arrival, that a Catholic so prominent and

influential as Sir Nicholas was becoming by reputation among the refugees

abroad, was a proper person to be entrusted even with the highest

secrets; but after a very little conversation with him the night before,

he had seen how ingenuous the old man was, with his laughable attempts at

secrecy and his lamentable lack of discretion; and so he had contented

himself with general information and gossip, and had really told Sir

Nicholas very little indeed of any importance.

After dinner Sir Nicholas again conducted his guest to the drawing-room,

where the ladies were ready to receive him. He had obtained Mr. Stewart's

permission the night before to tell his wife and sister-in-law the news

about Dr. Storey; and the four sat for several hours together discussing

the situation. Mr. Stewart was able to tell them too, in greater detail,

the story of Lord Sussex's punitive raid into Scotland in the preceding

April. They had heard of course the main outline of the story with the

kind of embroideries attached that were usual in those days of inaccurate

reporting; but their guest was a Scotchman himself and had had the

stories first-hand in some cases from those rendered homeless by the

raid, who had fled to the Netherlands where he had met them. Briefly the

raid was undertaken on the pretended plea of an invitation from the

"King's men" or adherents of the infant James; but in reality to chastise

Scotland and reduce it to servility. Sussex and Lord Hunsdon in the east,

Lord Scrope on the west, had harried, burnt, and destroyed in the whole

countryside about the Borders. Especially had Tiviotdale suffered.

Altogether it was calculated that Sussex had burned three hundred

villages and blown up fifty castles, and forty more "strong houses," some

of these latter, however, being little more than border peels. Mr.

Stewart's accounts were the more moving in that he spoke in a quiet

delicate tone, and used little picturesque phrases in his speech.

"Twelve years ago," said Mr. Stewart, "I was at Branxholme myself. It was

a pleasant house, well furnished and appointed; fortified, too, as all

need to be in that country, with sheaves of pikes in all the lower rooms,

and Sir Walter Scott gave me a warm welcome, for I was there on a

business that pleased him. He showed me the gardens and orchards, all

green and sweet, like these of yours, Lady Maxwell. And it seemed to me a

home where a man might be content to spend all his days. Well, my Lord

Sussex has been a visitor there now; and what he has left of the house

would not shelter a cow, nor what is left of the pleasant gardens sustain

her. At least, so one of the Scots told me whom I met in the Netherlands

in June."

He talked, too, of the extraordinary scenes of romance and chivalry in

which Mary Queen of Scots moved during her captivity under Lord Scrope's

care at Bolton Castle in the previous year. He had met in his travels in

France one of her undistinguished adherents who had managed to get a

position in the castle during her detention there.

"The country was alive with her worshippers," said Mr. Stewart. "They

swarmed like bees round a hive. In the night voices would be heard crying

out to her Grace out of the darkness round the castle; and when the

guards rode out they would find no man but maybe hear just a laugh or

two. Her men would lie out at night and watch her window (for she would

never go to rest till late), and pray towards it as if it were a light

before the blessed sacrament. When she rode out a-hunting, with her

guards of course about her, and my Lord Scrope or Sir Francis Knollys

never far away, a beggar maybe would be sitting out on the road and ask

an alms; and cry out 'God save your Grace'; but he would be a beggar who

was accustomed to wear silk next his skin except when he went a-begging.

Many young gentlemen there were, yes and old ones too, who would thank

God for a blow or a curse from some foul English trooper for his meat, if

only he might have a look from the Queen's eyes for his grace before

meat. Oh! they would plot too, and scheme and lie awake half the night

spinning their webs, not to catch her Grace indeed, but to get her away

from that old Spider Scrope; and many's the word and the scrap of paper

that would go in to her Grace, right under the very noses of my Lord

Scrope and Sir Francis themselves, as they sat at their chess in the

Queen's chamber. It's a long game of chess that the two Queens are

playing; but thank our Lady and the Saints it's not mate yet--not mate

yet; and the White Queen will win, please God, before the board's

over-turned."

And he told them, too, of the failure of the Northern Rebellion, and the

wretchedness of the fugitives.

"They rode over the moors to Liddisdale," he said, "ladies and all, in

bitter weather, wind and snow, day after day, with stories of Clinton's

troopers all about them, and scarcely time for bite or sup or sleep. My

lady Northumberland was so overcome with weariness and sickness that she

could ride no more at last, and had to be left at John-of-the-Side's

house, where she had a little chamber where the snow came in at one

corner, and the rats ran over my lady's face as she lay. My Lords

Northumberland and Westmoreland were in worse case, and spent their

Christmas with no roof over them but what they could find out in the

braes and woods about Harlaw, and no clothes but the foul rags that some

beggar had thrown away, and no food but a bird or a rabbit that they

could pick up here and there, or what their friends could get to them now

and again privately. And then my Lord Northumberland's little daughters

whom he was forced to leave behind at Topcliff--a sweet Christmas they

had! Their money and food was soon spent; they could have scarcely a fire

in that bitter hard season; and God who feeds the ravens alone knows how

they were sustained; and for entertainment to make the time pass merrily,

all they had was to see the hanging of their own servants in scores about

the house, who had served them and their father well; and all their music

at night was the howling of the wind in those heavily laden

Christmas-trees, and the noise of the chains in which the men were

hanged."

Mr. Stewart's narratives were engrossing to the two ladies and Sir

Nicholas. They had never come so close to the struggles of the Catholics

in the north before; and although the Northern Rebellion had ended so

disastrously, yet it was encouraging, although heartbreaking too, to hear

that delicate women and children were ready gladly to suffer such

miseries if the religious cause that was so dear to them could be thereby

helped. Sir Nicholas, as has been said, was in two minds as to the

lawfulness of rising against a temporal sovereign in defence of religious

liberties. His whole English nature revolted against it, and yet so many

spiritual persons seemed to favour it. His simple conscience was

perplexed. But none the less he could listen with the most intense

interest and sympathy to these tales of these co-religionists of his own,

who were so clearly convinced of their right to rebel in defence of their

faith.

And so with such stories the August afternoon passed away. It was a

thundery day, which it would have been pleasanter to spend in the garden,

but that, Sir Nicholas said, under the circumstances was not to be

thought of; so they threw the windows wide to catch the least breath of

air; and the smell of the flower-garden came sweetly up and flooded the

low cool room; and so they sat engrossed until the evening.

Supper was ordered for Mr. Stewart at half-past seven o'clock; and this

meal Sir Nicholas had consented should be laid downstairs in his own

private room opening out of the hall, and that he and his ladies should

sit down to table at the same time. Mr. Stewart went to his room an hour

before to dress for riding, and to superintend the packing of his

saddle-bags; and at half-past seven he was conducted downstairs by Sir

Nicholas who insisted on carrying the saddle-bags with his own hands, and

they found the two ladies waiting for them in the panelled study that had

one window giving upon the terrace that ran along the south of the house

above the garden. When supper had been brought in by Sir Nicholas' own

body-servant, Mr. Boyd, they sat down to supper after a grace from Sir

Nicholas. The horses were ordered for nine o'clock.

CHAPTER VII

THE DOOR IN THE GARDEN-WALL

On the morning of the day after Mr. Stewart's secret arrival at Maxwell

Hall, the Rector was walking up and down the lawn that adjoined the

churchyard.

He had never yet wholly recovered from the sneers of Mistress Corbet; the

wounds had healed but had not ceased to smart. How blind these Papists

were, he thought! how prejudiced for the old trifling details of worship!

how ignorant of the vital principles still retained! The old realities of

God and the faith and the Church were with them still, in this village,

he reminded himself; it was only the incrustations of error that had been

removed. Of course the transition was difficult and hearts were sore; but

the Eternal God can be patient. But then, if the discontent of the

Papists smouldered on one side, the fanatical and irresponsible zeal of

the Puritans flared on the other. How difficult, he thought, to steer the

safe middle course! How much cool faith and clearsightedness it needed!

He reminded himself of Archbishop Parker who now held the rudder, and

comforted himself with the thought of his wise moderation in dealing with

excesses, his patient pertinacity among the whirling gusts of passion,

that enabled him to wait upon events to push his schemes, and his tender

knowledge of human nature.

But in spite of these reassuring facts Mr. Dent was anxious. What could

even the Archbishop do when his suffragans were such poor creatures; and

when Leicester, the strongest man at Court, was a violent Puritan

partisan? The Rector would have been content to bear the troubles of his

own flock and household if he had been confident of the larger cause; but

the vagaries of the Puritans threatened all with ruin. That morning only

he had received a long account from a Fellow of his own college of Corpus

Christi, Cambridge, and a man of the same views as himself, of the

violent controversy raging there at that time.

"The Professor," wrote his friend, referring to Thomas Cartwright, "is

plastering us all with his Genevan ways. We are all Papists, it seems!

He would have neither bishop nor priest nor archbishop nor dean nor

archdeacon, nor dignitaries at all, but just the plain Godly Minister, as

he names it. Or if he has the bishop and the deacon they are to be the

_Episcopos_ and the _Diaconos_ of the Scripture, and not the Papish

counterfeits! Then it seems that the minister is to be made not by God

but by man--that the people are to make him, not the bishop (as if the

sheep should make the shepherd). Then it appears we are Papists too for

kneeling at the Communion; this he names a 'feeble superstition.' Then he

would have all men reside in their benefices or vacate them; and all that

do not so, it appears, are no better than thieves or robbers.

"And so he rages on, breathing out this smoky stuff, and all the young

men do run after him, as if he were the very Pillar of Fire to lead them

to Canaan. One day he says there shall be no bishop--and my Lord of Ely

rides through Petty Cury with scarce a man found to doff cap and say 'my

lord' save foolish 'Papists' like myself! Another day he will have no

distinction of apparel; and the young sparks straight dress like

ministers, and the ministers like young sparks. On another he likes not

Saint Peter his day, and none will go to church. He would have us all to

be little Master Calvins, if he could have his way with us. But the

Master of Trinity has sent a complaint to the Council with charges

against him, and has preached against him too. But no word hath yet come

from the Council; and we fear nought will be done; to the sore injury of

Christ His holy Church and the Protestant Religion; and the triumphing of

their pestilent heresies."

So the caustic divine wrote, and the Rector of Great Keynes was

heavy-hearted as he walked up and down and read. Everywhere it was the

same story; the extreme precisians openly flouted the religion of the

Church of England; submitted to episcopal ordination as a legal necessity

and then mocked at it; refused to wear the prescribed dress, and

repudiated all other distinctions too in meats and days as Judaic

remnants; denounced all forms of worship except those directly sanctioned

by Scripture; in short, they remained in the Church of England and drew

her pay while they scouted her orders and derided her claims. Further,

they cried out as persecuted martyrs whenever it was proposed to insist

that they should observe their obligations. But worse than all, for such

conscientious clergymen as Mr. Dent, was the fact that bishops preferred

such men to livings, and at the same time were energetic against the

Papist party. It was not that there was not an abundance of disciplinary

machinery ready at the bishop's disposal or that the Queen was opposed to

coercion--rather she was always urging them to insist upon conformity;

but it seemed rather to such sober men as the Rector that the principle

of authority had been lost with the rejection of the Papacy, and that

anarchy rather than liberty had prevailed in the National Church. In

darker moments it seemed to him and his friends as if any wild fancy was

tolerated, so long as it did not approximate too closely to the Old

Religion; and they grew sick at heart.

It was all the more difficult for the Rector, as he had so little

sympathy in the place; his wife did all she could to destroy friendly

relations between the Hall and the Rectory, and openly derided her

husband's prelatical leanings; the Maxwells themselves disregarded his

priestly claims, and the villagers thought of him as an official paid to

promulgate the new State religion. The only house where he found sympathy

and help was the Dower House; and as he paced up and down his garden now,

his little perplexed determined face grew brighter as he made up his mind

to see Mr. Norris again in the afternoon.

During his meditations he heard, and saw indistinctly, through the

shrubbery that fenced the lawn from the drive, a mounted man ride up to

the Rectory door. He supposed it was some message, and held himself in

readiness to be called into the house, but after a minute or two he heard

the man ride off again down the drive into the village. At dinner he

mentioned it to his wife, who answered rather shortly that it was a

message for her; and he let the matter drop for fear of giving offence;

he was terrified at the thought of provoking more quarrels than were

absolutely necessary.

Soon after dinner he put on his cap and gown, and to his wife's inquiries

told her where he was going, and that after he had seen Mr. Norris he

would step on down to Comber's, where was a sick body or two, and that

she might expect him back not earlier than five o'clock. She nodded

without speaking, and he went out. She watched him down the drive from

the dining-room window and then went back to her business with an odd

expression.

Mr. Norris, whom he found already seated at his books again after dinner,

took him out when he had heard his errand, and the two began to walk up

and down together on the raised walk that ran along under a line of pines

a little way from the house.

The Rector had seldom found his friend more sympathetic and tender; he

knew very well that their intellectual and doctrinal standpoints were

different, but he had not come for anything less than spiritual help, and

that he found. He told him all his heart, and then waited, while the

other, with his thin hands clasped behind his back, and his great grey

eyes cast up at the heavy pines and the tender sky beyond, began to

comfort the minister.

"You are troubled, my friend," he said, "and I do not wonder at it, by

the turbulence of these times. On all sides are fightings and fears. Of

course I cannot, as you know, regard these matters you have spoken

of--episcopacy, ceremonies at the Communion and the like--in the grave

light in which you see them; but I take it, if I understand you rightly,

that it is the confusion and lack of any authority or respect for

antiquity that is troubling you more. You feel yourself in a sad plight

between these raging waves; tossed to and fro, battered upon by both

sides, forsaken and despised and disregarded. Now, indeed, although I do

not stand quite where you do, yet I see how great the stress must be;

but, if I may say so to a minister, it is just what you regard as your

shame that I regard as your glory. It is the mark of the cross that is on

your life. When our Saviour went to his passion, he went in the same

plight as that in which you go; both Jew and Gentile were against him on

this side and that; his claims were disallowed, his royalty denied; he

was despised and rejected of men. He did not go to his passion as to a

splendid triumph, bearing his pain like some solemn and mysterious

dignity at which the world wondered and was silent; but he went battered

and spat upon, with the sweat and the blood and the spittle running down

his face, contemned by the contemptible, hated by the hateful, rejected

by the outcast, barked upon by the curs; and it was that that made his

passion so bitter. To go to death, however painful, with honour and

applause, or at least with the silence of respect, were easy; it is not

hard to die upon a throne; but to live on a dunghill with Job, that is

bitterness. Now again I must protest that I have no right to speak like

this to a minister, but since you have come to me I must needs say what I

think; and it is this that some wise man once said, 'Fear honour, for

shame is not far off. Covet shame, for honour is surely to follow.' If

that be true of the philosopher, how much more true is it of the

Christian minister whose profession it is to follow the Saviour and to be

made like unto him."

He said much more of the same kind; and his soft balmy faith soothed the

minister's wounds, and braced his will. The Rector could not help half

envying his friend, living, as it seemed, in this still retreat, apart

from wrangles and controversy, with the peaceful music and sweet

fragrance of the pines, and the Love of God about him.

When he had finished he asked the Rector to step indoors with him; and

there in his own room took down and read to him a few extracts from the

German mystics that he thought bore upon his case. Finally, to put him at

his ease again, for it seemed an odd reversal that he should be coming

for comfort to his parishioners, Mr. Norris told him about his two

children, and in his turn asked his advice.

"About Anthony," he said, "I am not at all anxious. I know that the boy

fancies himself in love; and goes sighing about when he is at home; but

he sleeps and eats heartily, for I have observed him; and I think

Mistress Corbet has a good heart and means no harm to him. But about my

daughter I am less satisfied, for I have been watching her closely. She

is quiet and good, and, above all, she loves the Saviour; but how do I

know that her heart is not bleeding within? She has been taught to hold

herself in, and not to show her feelings; and that, I think, is as much a

drawback sometimes as wearing the heart upon the sleeve."

Mr. Dent suggested sending her away for a visit for a month or two. His

host mused a moment and then said that he himself had thought of that;

and now that his minister said so too, probably, under God, that was what

was needed. The fact that Hubert was expected home soon was an additional

reason; and he had friends in Northampton, he said, to whom he could send

her. "They hold strongly by the Genevan theology there," he said smiling,

"but I think that will do her no harm as a balance to the Popery at

Maxwell Hall."

They talked a few minutes more, and when the minister rose to take his

leave, Mr. Norris slipped down on his knees as if it was the natural

thing to do and as if the minister were expecting it; and asked his guest

to engage in prayer. It was the first time he had ever done so; probably

because this talk had brought them nearer together spiritually than ever

before. The minister was taken aback, and repeated a collect or two from

the Prayer-book; then they said the Lord's Prayer together, and then Mr.

Norris without any affectation engaged in a short extempore prayer,

asking for light in these dark times and peace in the storm; and begging

the blessing of God upon the village and "upon their shepherd to whom

Thou hast given to drink of the Cup of thy Passion," and upon his own

children, and lastly upon himself, "the chief of sinners and the least of

thy servants that is not worthy to be called thy friend." It touched Mr.

Dent exceedingly, and he was yet more touched and reconciled to the

incident when his host said simply, remaining on his knees, with eyes

closed and his clear cut tranquil face upturned:

"I ask your blessing, sir."

The Rector's voice trembled a little as he gave it. And then with real

gratitude and a good deal of sincere emotion he shook his friend's hand,

and rustled out from the cool house into the sunlit garden, greeting

Isabel who was walking up and down outside a little pensively, and took

the field-path that led towards the hamlet where his sick folk were

expecting him.

As he walked back about five o'clock towards the village he noticed there

was thunder in the air, and was aware of a physical oppression, but in

his heart it was morning and the birds singing. The talk earlier in the

afternoon had shown him how, in the midst of the bitterness of the Cup,

to find the fragrance where the Saviour's lips had rested and that was

joy to him. And again, his true pastor's heart had been gladdened by the

way his ministrations had been received that afternoon. A sour old man

who had always scowled at him for an upstart, in his foolish old desire

to be loyal to the priest who had held the benefice before him, had

melted at last and asked his pardon and God's for having treated him so

ill; and he had prepared the old man for death with great contentment to

them both, and had left him at peace with God and man. On looking back on

it all afterwards he was convinced that God had thus strengthened him for

the trouble that was awaiting him at home.

He had hardly come into his study when his wife entered with a strange

look, breathing quick and short; she closed the door, and stood near it,

looking at him apprehensively.

"George," she said, rather sharply and nervously, "you must not be vexed

with me, but----"

"Well?" he said heavily, and the warmth died out of his heart. He knew

something terrible impended.

"I have done it for the best," she said, and obstinacy and a kind of

impatient tenderness strove in her eyes as she looked at him. "You must

show yourself a man; it is not fitting that loose ladies of the Court

should mock--" He got up; and his eyes were determined too.

"Tell me what you have done, woman," he cried.

She put out her hand as if to hold him still, and her voice rang hard and

thin.

"I will say my say," she said. "It is not for that that I have done it.

But you are a Gospel-minister, and must be faithful. The Justice is here.

I sent for him."

"The Justice?" he said blankly; but his heart was beating heavily in his

throat.

"Mr. Frankland from East Grinsted, with a couple of pursuivants and a

company of servants. There is a popish agent at the Hall, and they are

come to take him."

The Rector swallowed with difficulty once or twice, and then tried to

speak, but she went on. "And I have promised that you shall take them in

by the side door."

"I will not!" he cried.

She held up her hand again for silence, and glanced round at the door.

"I have given him the key," she said.

This was the private key, possessed by the incumbent for generations

past, and Sir Nicholas had not withdrawn it from the Protestant Rector.

"There is no choice," she said. "Oh! George, be a man!" Then she turned

and slipped out.

He stood perfectly still for a moment; his pulses were racing; he could

not think. He sat down and buried his face in his hands; and gradually

his brain cleared and quieted. Then he realised what it meant, and his

soul rose in blind furious resentment. This was the last straw; it was

the woman's devilish jealousy. But what could he do? The Justice was

here. Could he warn his friends? He clenched his fingers into his hair as

the situation came out clear and hard before his brain. Dear God, what

could he do?

There were footsteps in the flagged hall, and he raised his head as the

door opened and a portly gentleman in riding-dress came in, followed by

Mrs. Dent. The Rector rose confusedly, but could not speak, and his eyes

wandered round to his wife again and again as she took a chair in the

shadow and sat down. But the magistrate noticed nothing.

"Aha!" he said, beaming, "You have a wife, sir, that is a jewel. Solomon

never spoke a truer word; an ornament to her husband, he said, I think;

but you as a minister should know better than I, a mere layman"; and his

face creased with mirth.

What did the red-faced fool mean? thought the Rector. If only he would

not talk so loud! He must think, he must think. What could he do?

"She was very brisk, sir," the magistrate went on, sitting down, and the

Rector followed his example, sitting too with his back to the window and

his hand to his head.

Then Mr. Frankland went on with his talk; and the man sat there, still

glancing from time to time mechanically towards his wife, who was there

in the shadow with steady white face and hands in her lap, watching the

two men. The magistrate's voice seemed to the bewildered man to roll on

like a wheel over stones; interminable, grinding, stupefying. What was he

saying? What was that about his wife? She had sent to him the day before,

had she, and told him of the popish agent's coming?--Ah! A dangerous man

was he, a spreader of seditious pamphlets? At least they supposed he was

the man.--Yes, yes, he understood; these fly-by-nights were threateners

of the whole commonwealth; they must be hunted out like vermin--just so;

and he as a minister of the Gospel should be the first to assist.--Just

so, he agreed with all his heart, as a minister of the Gospel. (Yes, but,

dear Lord, what was he to do? This fat man with the face of a butcher

must not be allowed to--) Ah! what was that? He had missed that. Would

Mr. Frankland be so good as to say it again? Yes, yes, he understood now;

the men were posted already. No one suspected anything; they had come by

the bridle path.--Every door? Did he understand that every door of the

Hall was watched? Ah! that was prudent; there was no chance then of any

one sending a warning in? Oh, no, no, he did not dream for a moment that

there was any concealed Catholic who would be likely to do such a thing.

But he only wondered.--Yes, yes, the magistrate was right; one could not

be too careful. Because--ah!--What was that about Sir Nicholas? Yes, yes,

indeed he was a good landlord, and very popular in the village.--Ah! just

so; it had better be done quietly, at the side door. Yes, that was the

one which the key fitted. But, but, he thought perhaps, he had better not

come in, because Sir Nicholas was his friend, and there was no use in

making bad blood.--Oh! not to the house; very well, then, he would come

as far as the yew hedge at--at what time did the magistrate say? At

half-past eight; yes, that would be best as Mr. Frankland said, because

Sir Nicholas had ordered the horses for nine o'clock; so they would come

upon them just at the right time.--How many men, did Mr. Frankland say?

Eight? Oh yes, eight and himself, and--he did not quite follow the plan.

Ah! through the yew hedge on to the terrace and through the south door

into the hall; then if they bolted--they? Surely he had understood the

magistrate to say there was only one? Oh! he had not understood that. Sir

Nicholas too? But why, why? Good God, as a harbourer of priests?--No, but

this fellow was an agent, surely. Well, if the magistrate said so, of

course he was right; but he would have thought himself that Sir Nicholas

might have been left--ah! Well, he would say no more. He quite saw the

magistrate's point now.--No, no, he was no favourer; God forbid! his wife

would speak for him as to that; Marion would bear witness.--Well, well,

he thanked the magistrate for his compliments, and would he proceed with

the plan? By the south door, he was saying, yes, into the hall.--Yes, the

East room was Sir Nicholas' study; or of course they might be supping

upstairs. But it made no difference; no, the magistrate was right about

that. So long as they held the main staircase, and had all the other

doors watched, they were safe to have him.--No, no, the cloister wing

would not be used; they might leave that out of their calculations.

Besides, did not the magistrate say that Marion had seen the lights in

the East wing last night? Yes, well, that settled it.--And the signal?

Oh, he had not caught that; the church bell, was it to be? But what for?

Why did they need a signal? Ah! he understood, for the advance at

half-past eight.--Just so, he would send Thomas up to ring it. Would

Marion kindly see to that?--Yes, indeed, his wife was a woman to be proud

of; such a faithful Protestant; no patience with these seditious rogues

at all. Well, was that all? Was there anything else?--Yes, how dark it

was getting; it must be close on eight o'clock. Thomas had gone, had he?

That was all right.--And had the men everything they wanted?--Well, yes;

although the village did go to bed early it would perhaps be better to

have no lights; because there was no need to rouse suspicion.--Oh! very

well; perhaps it would be better for Mr. Frankland to go and sit with the

men and keep them quiet. And his wife would go, too, just to make sure

they had all they wanted.--Very well, yes; he would wait here in the dark

until he was called. Not more than a quarter of an hour? Thank you,

yes.--

Then the door had closed; and the man, left alone, flung himself down in

his chair, and buried his face again in his arms.

Ah! what was to be done? Nothing, nothing, nothing. And there they were

at the Hall, his neighbours and friends. The kind old Catholic and his

ladies! How would he ever dare to meet their eyes again? But what could

be done? Nothing!

How far away the afternoon seems; that quiet sunny walk beneath the

pines. His friend is at his books, no doubt, with the silver candles, and

the open pages, and his own neat manuscript growing under his white

scholarly fingers. And Isabel; at her needlework before the fire.--How

peaceful and harmless and sweet it all is! And down there, not fifty

yards away, is the village; every light out by now; and the children and

parents, too, asleep.--Ah! what will the news be when they wake

to-morrow?--And that strange talk this afternoon, of the Saviour and His

Cup of pain, and the squalor and indignity of the Passion! Ah! yes, he

could suffer with Jesus on the Cross, so gladly, on that Tree of

Life--but not with Judas on the Tree of Death!

And the minister dropped his face lower, over the edge of his desk; and

the hot tears of misery and self-reproach and impotence began to run.

There was no help, no help anywhere. All were against him--even his wife

herself; and his Lord.

Then with a moan he lifted his hot face into the dusk.

"Jesus," he cried in his soul, "Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest

that I love Thee."

There came a tapping on the door; and the door opened an inch.

"It is time," whispered his wife's voice.

CHAPTER VIII

THE TAKING OF MR. STEWART

They were still sitting over the supper-table at the Hall. The sun had

set about the time they had begun, and the twilight had deepened into

dark; but they had not cared to close the shutters as they were to move

so soon. The four candles shone out through the windows, and there still

hung a pale glimmer outside owing to the refraction of light from the

white stones of the terrace. Beyond on the left there sloped away a high

black wall of impenetrable darkness where the yew hedge stood; over that

was the starless sky. Sir Nicholas' study was bright with candlelight,

and the lace and jewels of Lady Maxwell (for her sister wore none) added

a vague pleasant sense of beauty to Mr. Stewart's mind; for he was one

who often fared coarsely and slept hard. He sighed a little to himself as

he looked out over this shining supper-table past the genial smiling face

of Sir Nicholas to the dark outside; and thought how in less than an hour

he would have left the comfort of this house for the grey road and its

hardships again. It was extraordinarily sweet to him (for he was a man of

taste and a natural inclination to luxury) to stay a day or two now and

again at a house like this and mix again with his own equals, instead of

with the rough company of the village inn, or the curious foreign

conspirators with their absence of educated perception and their doubtful

cleanliness. He was a man of domestic instincts and good birth and

breeding, and would have been perfectly at his ease as the master of some

household such as this; with a chapel and a library and a pleasant garden

and estate; spending his days in great leisure and good deeds. And

instead of all this, scarcely by his own choice but by what he would have

called his vocation, he was partly an exile living from hand to mouth in

lodgings and inns, and when he was in his own fatherland, a hunted

fugitive lurking about in unattractive disguises. He sighed again once or

twice. There was silence a moment or two.

There sounded one note from the church tower a couple of hundred yards

away. Lady Maxwell heard it, and looked suddenly up; she scarcely knew

why, and caught her sister's eyes glancing at her. There was a shade of

uneasiness in them.

"It is thundery to-night," said Sir Nicholas. Mr. Stewart did not speak.

Lady Maxwell looked up quickly at him as he sat on her right facing the

window; and saw an expression of slight disturbance cross his face. He

was staring out on to the quickly darkening terrace, past Sir Nicholas,

who with pursed lips and a little frown was stripping off his grapes from

the stalk. The look of uneasiness deepened, and the young man half rose

from his chair, and sat down again.

"What is it, Mr. Stewart?" said Lady Maxwell, and her voice had a ring of

terror in it. Sir Nicholas looked up quickly.

"Eh, eh?"--he began.

The young man rose up and recoiled a step, still staring out.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "but I have just seen several men pass the

window."

There was a rush of footsteps and a jangle of voices outside in the hall;

and as the four rose up from table, looking at one another, there was a

rattle at the handle outside, the door flew open, and a ruddy

strongly-built man stood there, with a slightly apprehensive air, and

holding a loaded cane a little ostentatiously in his hand; the faces of

several men looked over his shoulder.

Sir Nicholas' ruddy face had paled, his mouth was half open with dismay,

and he stared almost unintelligently at the magistrate. Mr. Stewart's

hand closed on the handle of a knife that lay beside his plate.

"In the Queen's name," said Mr. Frankland, and looked from the knife to

the young man's white determined face, and down again. A little sobbing

broke from Lady Maxwell.

"It is useless, sir," said the magistrate; "Sir Nicholas, persuade your

guest not to make a useless resistance; we are ten to one; the house has

been watched for hours."

Sir Nicholas took a step forward, his mouth closed and opened again. Lady

Maxwell took a swift rustling step from behind the table, and threw her

arm round the old man's neck. Still none of them spoke.

"Come in," said the magistrate, turning a little. The men outside filed

in, to the number of half a dozen, and two or three more were left in the

hall. All were armed. Mistress Margaret who had stood up with the rest,

sat down again, and rested her head on her hand; apparently completely at

her ease.

"I must beg pardon, Lady Maxwell," he went on, "but my duty leaves me no

choice." He turned to the young man, who, on seeing the officers had laid

the knife down again, and now stood, with one hand on the table, rather

pale, but apparently completely self-controlled, looking a little

disdainfully at the magistrate.

Then Sir Nicholas made a great effort; but his face twitched as he spoke,

and the hand that he lifted to his wife's arm shook with nervousness, and

his voice was cracked and unnatural.

"Sit down, my dear, sit down.--What is all this?--I do not

understand.--Mr. Frankland, sir, what do you want of me?--And who are all

these gentlemen?--Won't you sit down, Mr. Frankland and take a glass of

wine. Let me make Mr. Stewart known to you." And he lifted a shaking hand

as if to introduce them.

The magistrate smiled a little on one side of his mouth.

"It is no use, Sir Nicholas," he said, "this gentleman, I fear, is well

known to some of us already.--No, no, sir," he cried sharply, "the window

is guarded."

Mr. Stewart, who had looked swiftly and sideways across at the window,

faced the magistrate again.

"I do not know what you mean, sir," he said. "It was a lad who passed the

window."

There was a movement outside in the hall; and the magistrate stepped to

the door.

"Who is there?" he cried out sharply.

There was a scuffle, and a cry of a boy's voice; and a man appeared,

holding Anthony by the arm.

Mistress Margaret turned round in her seat; and said in a perfectly

natural voice, "Why, Anthony, my lad!"

There was a murmur from one or two of the men.

"Silence," called out the magistrate. "We will finish the other affair

first," and he made a motion to hold Anthony for a moment.--"Now then, do

any of you men know this gentleman?"

A pursuivant stepped out.

"Mr. Frankland, sir; I know him under two names--Mr. Chapman and Mr.

Wode. He is a popish agent. I saw him in the company of Dr. Storey in

Antwerp, four months ago."

Mr. Stewart blew out his lips sharply and contemptuously.

"Pooh," he said; and then turned to the man and bowed ironically.

"I congratulate you, my man," he said, in a tone of bitter triumph. "In

April I was in France. Kindly remember this man's words, Mr. Frankland;

they will tell in my favour. For I presume you mean to take me."

"I will remember them," said the magistrate.

Mr. Stewart bowed to him; he had completely regained his composure. Then

he turned to Sir Nicholas and Lady Maxwell, who had been watching in a

bewildered silence.

"I am exceedingly sorry," he said, "for having brought this annoyance on

you, Lady Maxwell; but these men are so sharp that they see nothing but

guilt everywhere. I do not know yet what my crime is. But that can wait.

Sir Nicholas, we should have parted anyhow in half an hour. We shall only

say good-bye here, instead of at the door."

The magistrate smiled again as before; and half put up his hand to hide

it.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Chapman; but you need not part from Sir Nicholas

yet. I fear, Sir Nicholas, that I shall have to trouble you to come with

us."

Lady Maxwell drew a quick hissing breath; her sister got up swiftly and

went to her, as she sat down in Sir Nicholas' chair, still holding the

old man's hand.

Sir Nicholas turned to his guest; and his voice broke again and again as

he spoke.

"Mr. Stewart," he said, "I am sorry that any guest of mine should be

subject to these insults. However, I am glad that I shall have the

pleasure of your company after all. I suppose we ride to East Grinsted,"

he added harshly to the magistrate, who bowed to him.--"Then may I have

my servant, sir?"

"Presently," said Mr. Frankland, and then turned to Anthony, who had been

staring wild-eyed at the scene, "Now who is this?"

A man answered from the rank.

"That is Master Anthony Norris, sir."

"Ah! and who is Master Anthony Norris? A Papist, too?"

"No, sir," said the man again, "a good Protestant; and the son of Mr.

Norris at the Dower House."

"Ah!" said the magistrate again, judicially. "And what might you be

wanting here, Master Anthony Norris?"

Anthony explained that he often came up in the evening, and that he

wanted nothing. The magistrate eyed him a moment or two.

"Well, I have nothing against you, young gentleman. But I cannot let you

go, till I am safely set out. You might rouse the village. Take him out

till we start," he added to the man who guarded him.

"Come this way, sir," said the officer; and Anthony presently found

himself sitting on the long oak bench that ran across the western end of

the hall, at the foot of the stairs, and just opposite the door of Sir

Nicholas' room where he had just witnessed that curious startling scene.

The man who had charge of him stood a little distance off, and did not

trouble him further, and Anthony watched in silence.

The hall was still dark, except for one candle that had been lighted by

the magistrate's party, and it looked sombre and suggestive of tragedy.

Floor walls and ceiling were all dark oak, and the corners were full of

shadows. A streak of light came out of the slightly opened door opposite,

and a murmur of voices. The rest of the house was quiet; it had all been

arranged and carried out without disturbance.

Anthony had a very fair idea of what was going forward; he knew of course

that the Catholics were always under suspicion, and now understood

plainly enough from the conversation he had heard that the reddish-haired

young man, standing so alert and cheerful by the table in there, had

somehow precipitated matters. Anthony himself had come up on some

trifling errand, and had run straight into this affair; and now he sat

and wondered resentfully, with his eyes and ears wide open.

There were men at all the inner doors now; they had slipped in from the

outer entrances as soon as word had reached them that the prisoners were

secured, and only a couple were left outside to prevent the alarm being

raised in the village. These inner sentinels stood motionless at the foot

of the stairs that rose up into the unlighted lobby overhead, at the door

that led to the inner hall and the servants' quarters, and at those that

led to the cloister wing and the garden respectively.

The murmur of voices went on in the room opposite; and presently a man

slipped out and passed through the sentinels to the door leading to the

kitchens and pantry; he carried a pike in his hand, and was armed with a

steel cap and breast-piece. In a minute he had returned followed by Mr.

Boyd, Sir Nicholas' body-servant; the two passed into the study--and a

moment later the dark inner hall was full of moving figures and rustlings

and whisperings, as the alarmed servants poured up from downstairs.

Then the study door opened again, and Anthony caught a glimpse of the

lighted room; the two ladies with Sir Nicholas and his guest were seated

at table; there was the figure of an armed man behind Mr. Stewart's

chair, and another behind Lady Maxwell's; then the door closed again as

Mr. Boyd with the magistrate and a constable carrying a candle came out.

"This way, sir," said the servant; and the three crossed the hall, and

passing close by Anthony, went up the broad oak staircase that led to the

upper rooms. Then the minutes passed away; from upstairs came the noise

of doors opening and shutting, and footsteps passing overhead; from the

inner hall the sound of low talking, and a few sobs now and again from a

frightened maid; from Sir Nicholas' room all was quiet except once when

Mr. Stewart's laugh, high and natural, rang out. Anthony thought of that

strong brisk face he had seen in the candlelight; and wondered how he

could laugh, with death so imminent--and worse than death; and a warmth

of admiration and respect glowed at the lad's heart. The man by Anthony

sighed and shifted his feet.

"What is it for?" whispered the lad at last.

"I mustn't speak to you, sir," said the man.

At last the footsteps overhead came to the top of the stairs. The

magistrate's voice called out sharply and impatiently:

"Come along, come along"; and the three, all carrying bags and valises

came downstairs again and crossed the hall. Again the door opened as they

went in, leaving the luggage on the floor; and Anthony caught another

glimpse of the four still seated round the table; but Sir Nicholas' head

was bowed upon his hands.

Then again the door closed; and there was silence.

Once more it was flung open, and Anthony saw the interior of the room

plainly. The four were standing up, Mr. Stewart was bowing to Lady

Maxwell; the magistrate stood close beside him; then a couple of men

stepped up to the young man's side as he turned away, and the three came

out into the hall and stood waiting by the little heap of luggage. Mr.

Frankland came next, with the man-servant close beside him, and the rest

of the men behind; and the last closed the door and stood by it. There

was a dead silence; Anthony sprang to his feet in uncontrollable

excitement. What was happening? Again the door opened, and the men made

room as Mistress Margaret came out, and the door shut.

She came swiftly across, with her little air of dignity and confidence,

towards Anthony, who was standing forward.

"Why, Master Anthony," she said, "dear lad; I did not know they had kept

you," and she took his hand.

"What is it, what is it?" he whispered sharply.

"Hush," she said; and the two stood together in silence.

The moments passed; Anthony could hear the quick thumping beat of his own

heart, and the breathing of Mistress Margaret; but the hall was perfectly

quiet, where the magistrate with the prisoner and his men stood in an

irregular dark group with the candle behind them; and no sound came from

the room beyond.

Then the handle turned, and a crack of light showed; but no further

sound; then the door opened wide, a flood of light poured out and Sir

Nicholas tottered into the hall.

"Margaret, Margaret," he cried. "Where are you? Go to her."

There was a strange moaning sound from the brightly lighted room. The old

lady dropped Anthony's hand and moved swiftly and unfalteringly across,

and once more the door closed behind her.

There was a sharp word of command from the magistrate, and the sentries

from every door left their posts, and joined the group which, with Sir

Nicholas and his guest and Mr. Boyd in the centre, now passed out through

the garden door.

The magistrate paused as he saw Anthony standing there alone.

"I can trust you, young gentleman," he said, "not to give the alarm till

we are gone?"

Anthony nodded, and the magistrate passed briskly out on to the terrace,

shutting the door behind him; there was a rush of footsteps and a murmur

of voices and the hall was filled with the watching servants.

As the chorus of exclamations and inquiries broke out, Anthony ran

straight through the crowd to the garden door, and on to the terrace.

They had gone to the left, he supposed, but he hesitated a moment to

listen; then he heard the stamp of horses' feet and the jingle of

saddlery, and saw the glare of torches through the yew hedge; and he

turned quickly and ran along the terrace, past the flood of light that

poured out from the supper room, and down the path that led to the

side-door opposite the Rectory. It was very dark, and he stumbled once or

twice; then he came to the two or three stairs that led down to the door

in the wall, and turned off among the bushes, creeping on hands and feet

till he reached the wall, low on this side, but deep on the other; and

looked over.

The pursuivants with their men had formed a circle round the two

prisoners, who were already mounted and who sat looking about them as the

luggage was being strapped to their saddles before and behind; the

bridles were lifted forward over the horses' heads, and a couple of the

guard held each rein. The groom who had brought round the two horses for

Mr. Stewart and himself stood white-faced and staring, with his back to

the Rectory wall. The magistrate was just mounting at a little distance

his own horse, which was held by the Rectory boy. Mr. Boyd, it seemed,

was to walk with the men. Two or three torches were burning by now, and

every detail was distinct to Anthony, as he crouched among the dry leaves

and peered down on to the group just beneath.

Sir Nicholas' face was turned away from him; but his head was sunk on his

breast, and he did not stir or lift it as his horse stamped at the

strapping on of the valise Mr. Boyd had packed for him. Mr. Stewart sat

erect and motionless, and his face as Anthony saw it was confident and

fearless.

Then suddenly the door in the Rectory wall opposite was flung open, and a

figure in flying black skirts, but hatless, rushed out and through the

guard straight up to the old man's knee. There was a shout from the men

and a movement to pull him off, but the magistrate who was on his horse

and just outside the circle spoke sharply, and the men fell back.

"Oh, Sir Nicholas, Sir Nicholas," sobbed the minister, his face half

buried in the saddle. Anthony saw his shoulders shaking, and his hands

clutching at the old man's knee. "Forgive me, forgive me."

There was no answer from Sir Nicholas; he still sat unmoved, his chin on

his breast, as the Rector sobbed and moaned at his stirrup.

"There, there," said the magistrate decidedly, over the heads of the

guard, "that is enough, Mr. Dent"; and he made a motion with his hand.

A couple of men took the minister by the shoulders and drew him, still

crying out to Sir Nicholas, outside the group; and he stood there dazed

and groping with his hands. There was a word of command; and the guard

moved off at a sharp walk, with the horses in the centre, and as they

turned, the lad saw in the torchlight the old man's face drawn and

wrinkled with sorrow, and great tears running down it.

The Rector leaned against his own wall, with his hands over his face; and

Anthony looked at him with growing suspicion and terror as the flare of

the torches on the trees faded, and the noise of the troop died away

round the corner.

CHAPTER IX

VILLAGE JUSTICE

The village had never known such an awakening as on the morning that

followed Sir Nicholas' arrest. Before seven o'clock every house knew it,

and children ran half-dressed to the outlying hamlets to tell the story.

Very little work was done that day, for the estate was disorganised; and

the men had little heart for work; and there were groups all day on the

green, which formed and re-formed and drifted here and there and

discussed and sifted the evidence. It was soon known that the Rectory

household had had a foremost hand in the affair. The groom, who had been

present at the actual departure of the prisoners had told the story of

the black figure that ran out of the door, and of what was cried at the

old man's knee; and how he had not moved nor spoken in answer; and

Thomas, the Rectory boy, was stopped as he went across the green in the

evening and threatened and encouraged until he told of the stroke on the

church-bell, and the Rectory key, and the little company that had sat all

the afternoon in the kitchen over their ale. He told too how a couple of

hours ago he had been sent across with a note to Lady Maxwell, and that

it had been returned immediately unopened.

So as night fell, indignation had begun to smoulder fiercely against the

minister, who had not been seen all day; and after dark had fallen the

name "Judas" was cried in at the Rectory door half a dozen times, and a

stone or two from the direction of the churchyard had crashed on the

tiles of the house.

Mr. Norris had been up all day at the Hall, but he was the only visitor

admitted. All day long the gate-house was kept closed, and the same

message was given to the few horsemen and carriages that came to inquire

after the truth of the report from the Catholic houses round, to the

effect that it was true that Sir Nicholas and a friend had been taken off

to London by the Justice from East Grinsted; and that Lady Maxwell begged

the prayers of her friends for her husband's safe return.

Anthony had ridden off early with a servant, at his father's wish, to

follow Sir Nicholas and learn any news of him that was possible, to do

him any service he was able, and to return or send a message the next day

down to Great Keynes; and early in the afternoon he returned with the

information that Sir Nicholas was at the Marshalsea, that he was well and

happy, that he sent his wife his dear love, and that she should have a

letter from him before nightfall. He rode straight to the Hall with the

news, full of chastened delight at his official importance, just pausing

to tell a group that was gathered on the green that all was well so far,

and was shown up to Lady Maxwell's own parlour, where he found her, very

quiet and self-controlled, and extremely grateful for his kindness in

riding up to London and back on her account. Anthony explained too that

he had been able to get Sir Nicholas one or two comforts that the prison

did not provide, a pillow and an extra coverlet and some fruit; and he

left her full of gratitude.

His father had been up to see the ladies two or three times, and in spite

of the difference in religion had prayed with them, and talked a little;

and Lady Maxwell had asked that Isabel might come up to supper and spend

the evening. Mr. Norris promised to send her up, and then added:

"I am a little anxious, Lady Maxwell, lest the people may show their

anger against the Rector or his wife, about what has happened."

Lady Maxwell looked startled.

"They have been speaking of it all day long," he said, "they know

everything; and it seems the Rector is not so much to blame as his wife.

It was she who sent for the magistrate and gave him the key and arranged

it all; he was only brought into it too late to interfere or refuse."

"Have you seen him?" asked the old lady.

"I have been both days," he said, "but he will not see me; he is in his

study, locked in."

"I may have treated him hardly," she said, "I would not open his note;

but at least he consented to help them against his friend." And her old

eyes filled with tears.

"I fear that is so," said the other sadly.

"But speak to the people," she said, "I think they love my husband, and

would do nothing to grieve us; tell them that nothing would pain either

of us more than that any should suffer for this. Tell them they must do

nothing, but be patient and pray."

There was a group still on the green near the pond as Isabel came up to

supper that evening about six o'clock. Her father, who had given Lady

Maxwell's message to the people an hour or two before, had asked her to

go that way and send down a message to him immediately if there seemed to

be any disturbance or threatening of it; but the men were very quiet. Mr.

Musgrave was there, she saw, sitting with his pipe, on the stocks, and

Piers, the young Irish bailiff, was standing near; they all were silent

as the girl came up, and saluted her respectfully as usual; and she saw

no signs of any dangerous element. There were one or two older women with

the men, and others were standing at their open doors on all sides as she

went up. The Rectory gate was locked, and no one was to be seen within.

Supper was laid in Sir Nicholas' room, as it generally was, and as it had

been two nights ago; and it was very strange to Isabel to know that it

was here that the arrest had taken place; the floor, too, she noticed as

she came in, all about the threshold was scratched and dented by rough

boots.

Lady Maxwell was very silent and distracted during supper; she made

efforts to talk again and again, and her sister did her best to interest

her and keep her talking; but she always relapsed after a minute or two

into silence again, with long glances round the room, at the Vernacle

over the fireplace, the prie-dieu with the shield of the Five Wounds

above it, and all the things that spoke so keenly of her husband.

What a strange room it was, too, thought Isabel, with its odd mingling of

the two worlds, with the tapestry of the hawking scene and the stiff

herons and ladies on horseback on one side, and the little shelf of

devotional books on the other; and yet how characteristic of its owner

who fingered his cross-bow or the reins of his horse all day, and his

beads in the evening; and how strange that an old man like Sir Nicholas,

who knew the world, and had as much sense apparently as any one else,

should be willing to sacrifice home and property and even life itself,

for these so plainly empty superstitious things that could not please a

God that was Spirit and Truth! So Isabel thought to herself, with no

bitterness or contempt, but just a simple wonder and amazement, as she

looked at the painted tokens and trinkets.

It was still daylight when they went upstairs to Lady Maxwell's room

about seven, but the clear southern sky over the yew hedges and the tall

elms where the rooks were circling, was beginning to be flushed with deep

amber and rose. Isabel sat down in the window seat with the sweet air

pouring in and looked out on to the garden with its tiled paths and its

cool green squares of lawn, and the glowing beds at the sides. Over to

her right the cloister court ran out, with its two rows of windows,

bedrooms above with galleries beyond, as she knew, and parlours and

cloisters below; the pleasant tinkle of the fountain in the court came

faintly to her ears across the caw of the rooks about the elms and the

low sounds from the stables and the kitchen behind the house. Otherwise

the evening was very still; the two old ladies were sitting near the

fireplace; Lady Maxwell had taken up her embroidery, and was looking at

it listlessly, and Mistress Margaret had one of her devotional books and

was turning the pages, pausing here and there as she did so.

Presently she began to read, without a word of introduction, one of the

musings of the old monk John Audeley in his sickness, and as the tender

lines stepped on, that restless jewelled hand grew still.

"As I lay sick in my languor

In an abbey here by west;

This book I made with great dolour,

When I might not sleep nor rest.

Oft with my prayers my soul I blest,

And said aloud to Heaven's King,

'I know, O Lord, it is the best

Meekly to take thy visiting.

Else well I wot that I were lorn

(High above all lords be he blest!)

All that thou dost is for the best;

By fault of Thee was no man lost,

That is here of woman born.'"

And then she read some of Rolle's verses to Jesus, the "friend of all

sick and sorrowful souls," and a meditation of his on the Passion, and

the tranquil thoughts and tender fragrant sorrows soothed the torn

throbbing soul; and Isabel saw the old wrinkled hand rise to her

forehead, and the embroidery, with the needle still in it slipped to the

ground; as the holy Name "like ointment poured forth" gradually brought

its endless miracle and made all sweet and healthful again.

Outside the daylight was fading; the luminous vault overhead was

deepening to a glowing blue as the sunset contracted on the western

horizon to a few vivid streaks of glory; the room was growing darker

every moment; and Mistress Margaret's voice began to stumble over words.

The great gilt harp in the corner only gleamed here and there now in

single lines of clear gold where the dying daylight fell on the strings.

The room was full of shadows and the image of the Holy Mother and Child

had darkened into obscurity in their niche. The world was silent now too;

the rooks were gone home and the stir of the household below had ceased;

and in a moment more Mistress Margaret's voice had ceased too, as she

laid the book down.

Then, as if the world outside had waited for silence before speaking,

there came a murmur of sound from the further side of the house. Isabel

started up; surely there was anger in that low roar from the village; was

it this that her father had feared? Had she been remiss? Lady Maxwell too

sprang up and faced the window with wide large eyes.

"The letter!" she said; and took a quick step towards the door; but

Mistress Margaret was with her instantly, with her arm about her.

"Sit down, Mary," she said, "they will bring it at once"; and her sister

obeyed; and she sat waiting and looking towards the door, clasping and

unclasping her hands as they lay on her lap; and Mistress Margaret stood

by her, waiting and watching too. Isabel still stood by the window

listening. Had she been mistaken then? The roar had sunk into silence for

a moment; and there came back the quick beat of a horse's hoofs outside

on the short drive between the gatehouse and the Hall. They were right,

then; and even as she thought it, and as the wife that waited for news of

her husband drew a quick breath and half rose in her seat at the sound of

that shod messenger that bore them, again the roar swelled up louder than

ever; and Isabel sprang down from the low step of the window-seat into

the dusky room where the two sisters waited.

"What is that? What is that?" she whispered sharply.

There was a sound of opening doors, and of feet that ran in the house

below; and Lady Maxwell rose up and put out her hand, as a man-servant

dashed in with a letter.

"My lady," he said panting, and giving it to her, "they are attacking the

Rectory."

Lady Maxwell, who was half-way to the window now, for light to read her

husband's letter, paused at that.

"The Rectory?" she said. "Why--Margaret----" then she stopped, and Isabel

close beside her, saw her turn resolutely from the great sealed letter in

her hand to the door, and back again.

"Jervis told us, my lady; none saw him as he rode through--they were

breaking down the gate."

Then Lady Maxwell, with a quick movement, lifted the letter to her lips

and kissed it, and thrust it down somewhere out of sight in the folds of

her dress.

"Come, Margaret," she said.

Isabel followed them down the stairs and out through the hall-door; and

there, as they came out on to the steps that savage snarling roar swelled

up from the green. There was laughter and hooting mixed with that growl

of anger; but even the laughter was fierce. The gatehouse stood up black

against the glare of torches, and the towers threw great swinging shadows

on the ground and the steps of the Hall.

Isabel followed the two grey glimmering figures, and was astonished at

the speed with which she had to go. The hoofs of the courier's horse rang

on the cobbles of the stable-yard as they came down towards the

gatehouse, and the two wings of the door were wide-open through which he

had passed just now; but the porter was gone.

Ah! there was the crowd; but not at the Rectory. On the right the Rectory

gate lay wide open, and a flood of light poured out from the house-door

at the end of the drive. Before them lay the dark turf, swarming with

black figures towards the lower end; and a ceaseless roar came from them.

There were half a dozen torches down there, tossing to and fro; Isabel

saw that the crowd was still moving down towards the stocks and the pond.

Now the two ladies in front of her were just coming up with the skirts of

the crowd; and there was an exclamation or two of astonishment as the

women and children saw who it was that was coming. Then there came the

furious scream of a man, and the crowd parted, as three men came reeling

out together, two of them trying with all their power to restrain a

fighting, kicking, plunging man in long black skirts, who tore and beat

with his hands. The three ladies stopped for a moment, close together;

and simultaneously the struggling man broke free and dashed back into the

crowd, screaming with anger and misery.

"Marion, Marion--I am coming--O God!"

And Isabel saw with a shock of horror that sent her crouching and clinging

close to Mistress Margaret, that it was the Rector. But the two men were

after him and caught him by the shoulders as he disappeared; and as they

turned they faced Lady Maxwell.

"My lady, my lady," stammered one, "we mean him no harm. We----" But his

voice stopped, as there came a sudden silence, rent by a high terrible

shriek and a splash; followed in a moment by a yell of laughter and

shouting; and Lady Maxwell threw herself into the crowd in front.

There were a few moments of jostling in the dark, with the reek and press

of the crowd about her; and Isabel found herself on the brink of the

black pond, with Lady Maxwell on one side, and Piers on the other keeping

the crowd back, and a dripping figure moaning and sobbing in the trampled

mud at Lady Maxwell's feet. There was silence enough now, and the ring of

faces opposite stared astonished and open-mouthed at the tall old lady

with her grey veiled head upraised, as she stood there in the torchlight

and rated them in her fearless indignant voice.

"I am ashamed, ashamed!" cried Lady Maxwell. "I thought you were men. I

thought you loved my husband; and--and me." Her voice broke, and then

once more she cried again. "I am ashamed, ashamed of my village."

And then she stooped to that heaving figure that had crawled up, and laid

hold tenderly of the arms that were writhed about her feet.

"Come home, my dear," Isabel heard her whisper.

It was a strange procession homeward up the trampled turf. The crowd had

broken into groups, and the people were awed and silent as they watched

the four women go back together. Isabel walked a little behind with her

father and Anthony, who had at last been able to come forward through the

press and join them; and a couple of the torchbearers escorted them. In

front went the three, on one side Lady Maxwell, her lace and silk

splashed and spattered with mud, and her white hands black with it, and

on the other the old nun, each with an arm thrown round the woman in the

centre who staggered and sobbed and leaned against them as she went, with

her long hair and her draggled clothes streaming with liquid mud every

step she took. Once they stopped, at a group of three men. The Rector was

sitting up, in his torn dusty cassock, and Isabel saw that one of his

buckled shoes was gone, as he sat on the grass with his feet before him,

but quiet now, with his hands before him, and a dazed stupid look in his

little black eyes that blinked at the light of the torch that was held

over him; he said nothing as he looked at his wife between the two

ladies, but his lips moved, and his eyes wandered for a moment to Lady

Maxwell's face, and then back to his wife.

"Take him home presently," she said to the men who were with him--and

then passed on again.

As they got through the gatehouse, Isabel stepped forward to Mistress

Margaret's side.

"Shall I come?" she whispered; and the nun shook her head; so she with

her father and brother stood there to watch, with the crowd silent and

ashamed behind. The two torchbearers went on and stood by the steps as

the three ladies ascended, leaving black footmarks as they went. The door

was open and faces of servants peeped out, and hands were thrust out to

take the burden from their mistress, but she shook her head, and the

three came in together, and the door closed.

As the Norrises went back silently, the Rector passed them, with a little

group accompanying him too; he, too, could hardly walk alone, so

exhausted was he with his furious struggles to rescue his wife.

"Take your sister home," said Mr. Norris to Anthony; and they saw him

slip off and pass his arm through the Rector's, and bend down his

handsome kindly face to the minister's staring eyes and moving lips as he

too led him homewards.

Even Anthony was hushed and impressed, and hardly spoke a word until he

and Isabel turned off down the little dark lane to the Dower House.

"We could do nothing," he said, "father and I--until Lady Maxwell came."

"No," said Isabel softly, "she only could have done it."

CHAPTER X

A CONFESSOR

Sir Nicholas and the party were lodged at East Grinsted the night of

their arrest, in the magistrate's house. Although he was allowed privacy

in his room, after he had given his word of honour not to attempt an

escape, yet he was allowed no conversation with Mr. Stewart or his own

servant except in the presence of the magistrate or one of the

pursuivants; and Mr. Stewart, since he was personally unknown to the

magistrate, and since the charge against him was graver, was not on any

account allowed to be alone for a moment, even in the room in which he

slept. The following day they all rode on to London, and the two

prisoners were lodged in the Marshalsea. This had been for a long while

the place where Bishop Bonner was confined; and where Catholic prisoners

were often sent immediately after their arrest; and Sir Nicholas at any

rate found to his joy that he had several old friends among the

prisoners. He was confined in a separate room; but by the kindness of his

gaoler whom he bribed profusely as the custom was, through his servant,

he had many opportunities of meeting the others; and even of approaching

the sacraments and hearing mass now and then.

He began a letter to his wife on the day of his arrival and finished it

the next day which was Saturday, and it was taken down immediately by the

courier who had heard the news and had called at the prison. In fact, he

was allowed a good deal of liberty; although he was watched and his

conversation listened to, a good deal more than he was aware. Mr.

Stewart, however, as he still called himself, was in a much harder case.

The saddle-bags had been opened on his arrival, and incriminating

documents found. Besides the "popish trinkets" they were found to contain

a number of "seditious pamphlets," printed abroad for distribution in

England; for at this time the College at Douai, under its founder Dr.

William Allen, late Principal of St. Mary's Hall, Oxford, was active in

the production of literature; these were chiefly commentaries on the

Bull; as well as exhortations to the Catholics to stand firm and to

persevere in recusancy, and to the schismatic Catholics, as they were

called, to give over attending the services in the parish churches. There

were letters also from Dr. Storey himself, whom the authorities already

had in person under lock and key at the Tower. These were quite

sufficient to make Mr. Stewart a prize; and he also was very shortly

afterwards removed to the Tower.

Sir Nicholas wrote a letter at least once a week to his wife; but writing

was something of a labour to him; it was exceedingly doubtful to his mind

whether his letters were not opened and read before being handed to the

courier, and as his seal was taken from him his wife could not tell

either. However they seemed to arrive regularly; plainly therefore the

authorities were either satisfied with their contents or else did not

think them worth opening or suppressing. He was quite peremptory that his

wife should not come up to London; it would only increase his distress,

he said; and he liked to think of her at Maxwell Hall; there were other

reasons too that he was prudent enough not to commit to paper, and which

she was prudent enough to guess at, the principal of which was, of

course, that she ought to be there for the entertaining and helping of

other agents or priests who might be in need of shelter.

The old man got into good spirits again very soon. It pleased him to

think that God had honoured him by imprisonment; and he said as much once

or twice in his letters to his wife. He was also pleased with a sense of

the part he was playing in the _rôle_ of a conspirator; and he underlined

and put signs and exclamation marks all over his letters of which he

thought his wife would understand the significance, but no one else;

whereas in reality the old lady was sorely puzzled by them, and the

authorities who opened the letters generally read them of course like a

printed book.

One morning about ten days after his arrival the Governor of the prison

looked in with the gaoler, and announced to Sir Nicholas, after greeting

him, that he was to appear before the Council that very day. This, of

course, was what Sir Nicholas desired, and he thanked the Governor

cordially for his good news.

"They will probably keep you at the Tower, Sir Nicholas," said the

Governor, "and we shall lose you. However, sir, I hope you will be more

comfortable there than we have been able to make you."

The knight thanked the Governor again, and said good-day to him with

great warmth; for they had been on the best of terms with one another

during his short detention at the Marshalsea.

The following day Sir Nicholas wrote a long letter to his wife describing

his examination.

"We are in _royal lodgings_ here at last, sweetheart; Mr. Boyd brought my

luggage over yesterday; and I am settled _for the present_ in a room of

my own in the White Tower; with a prospect over the Court. I was had

before my lords yesterday in the Council-room; we drove hither from the

Marshalsea. There was a bay window in the room. I promise you they got

little enough from me. There was my namesake, Sir Nicholas Bacon, my

lords Leicester and Pembroke, and Mr. Secretary Cecil; Sir James Crofts,

the Controller of the Household, and one or two more; but these were the

principal. I was set before the table on a chair alone with none to guard

me; but with men at the doors I knew very well. My lords were very

courteous to me; though they laughed more than was seemly at such grave

times. They questioned me much as to my religion. Was I a papist? If they

meant by that a _Catholic_, that I was, and thanked God for it every

day--(those nicknames like me not). Was I then a recusant? If by that

they meant, Did I go to their Genevan Hotch-Potch? That I did not nor

never would. I thought to have said a word here about St. Cyprian his

work _De Unitate Ecclesiae_, as F----r X. told me, but they would not let

me speak. Did I know Mr. Chapman? If by that they meant Mr. Stewart, that

I did, and for a courteous God-fearing gentleman too. Was he a Papist, or

a Catholic if I would have it so? That I would not tell them; let them

find that out with their pursuivants and that crew. Did I think

Protestants to be fearers of God? That I did not; they feared nought but

the Queen's Majesty, so it seemed to me. Then they all laughed at once--I

know not why. Then they grew grave; and Mr. Secretary began to ask me

questions, sharp and hard; but I would not be put upon, and answered him

again as he asked. Did I know ought of Dr. Storey? Nothing, said I, save

that he is a good Catholic, and that they had taken him. _He is a

seditious rogue_, said my Lord Pembroke. _That he is not_, said I. Then

they asked me what I thought of the Pope and his Bull, and whether he can

depose princes. I said I thought him to be the Vicar of Christ; and as to

his power to depose princes, that I supposed he could do, if he said so.

Then two or three cried out on me that I had not answered honestly; and

at that I got wrath; and then they laughed again, at least I saw Sir

James Crofts at it. And Mr. Secretary, looking very hard at me asked

whether if Philip sent an armament against Elizabeth to depose her, I

would fight for him or her grace. For neither, said I: I am too old. _For

which then would you pray?_ said they. _For the Queen's Grace_, said I,

_for that she was my sovereign_. This seemed to content them; and they

talked a little among themselves. They had asked me other questions too

as to my way of living; whether I went to mass. They asked me too a

little more about Mr. Stewart. Did I know him to be a seditious rascal?

That I did not, said I. _Then how_, asked they, _did you come to receive

him and his pamphlets?_ Of his pamphlets, said I, I know nothing; I saw

nothing in his bags save beads and a few holy books and such things. (You

see, sweetheart, I did him no injury by saying so, because I knew that

they had his bags themselves.) And I said I had received him because he

was recommended to me by some good friends of mine abroad, and I told

them their names too; for they are safe in Flanders now.

"And when they had done their questions they talked again for a while; and

I was sent out to the antechamber to refresh myself; and Mr. Secretary

sent a man with me to see that I had all I needed; and we talked together

a little, and he said the Council were in good humour at the taking of

Dr. Storey; and he had never seen them so merry. Then I was had back

again presently; and Mr. Secretary said I was to stay in the Tower; and

that Mr. Boyd was gone already to bring my things. And so after that I

went by water to the Tower, and here I am, sweetheart, well and cheerful,

praise God....

"My dearest, I send you my heart's best love. God have you in his holy

keeping."

The Council treated the old knight very tenderly. They were shrewd enough

to see his character very plainly; and that he was a simple man who knew

nothing of sedition, but only had harboured agents thinking them to be as

guileless as himself. As a matter of fact, Mr. Stewart was an agent of

Dr. Storey's; and was therefore implicated in a number of very grave

charges. This of course was a very serious matter; but both in the

examination of the Council, and in papers in Mr. Stewart's bags, nothing

could be found to implicate Sir Nicholas in any political intrigue at

all. The authorities were unwilling too to put such a man to the torture.

There was always a possibility of public resentment against the torture

of a man for his religion alone; and they were desirous not to arouse

this, since they had many prisoners who would be more productive subjects

of the rack than a plainly simple and loyal old man whose only crime was

his religion. They determined, however, to make an attempt to get a

little more out of Sir Nicholas by a device which would excite no

resentment if it ever transpired, and one which was more suited to the

old man's nature and years.

Sir Nicholas thus described it to his wife.

"Last night, my dearest, I had a great honour and consolation. I was

awakened suddenly towards two o'clock in the morning by the door of my

room opening and a man coming in. It was somewhat dark, and I could not

see the man plainly, but I could see that he limped and walked with a

stick, and he breathed hard as he entered. I sat up and demanded of him

who he was and what he wanted; and telling me to be still, he said that

he was Dr. Storey. You may be sure, sweetheart, that I sprang up at that;

but he would not let me rise; and himself sat down beside me. He said

that by the _kindness_ of a gaoler he had been allowed to come; and that

he must not stay with me long; that he had heard of me from his good

friend Mr. Stewart. I asked him how he did, for I heard that he had been

racked; and he said yes, it was true; but that by the mercy of God and

the prayers of the saints he had held his peace and they knew nothing

from him. Then he asked me a great number of questions about the _men I

had entertained_, and where they were now; and he knew many of their

names. Some of them were friends of his own, he said; especially the

priests. We talked a good while, till the morning light began; and then

he said he must be gone or the head gaoler would know of his visit, and

so he went. I wish I could have seen his face, sweetheart, for I think

him a great servant of God; but it was still too dark when he went, and

we dared not have a light for fear it should be seen."

This was as a matter of fact a ruse of the authorities. It was not Dr.

Storey at all who was admitted to Sir Nicholas' prison, but Parker, who

had betrayed him at Antwerp. It was so successful, for Sir Nicholas told

him all that he knew (which was really nothing at all) that it was

repeated a few months later with richer results; when the conspirator

Baily, hysterical and almost beside himself with the pain of the rack,

under similar circumstances gave up a cypher which was necessary to the

Council in dealing with the correspondence of Mary Stuart. However, Sir

Nicholas never knew the deception, and to the end of his days was proud

that he had actually met the famous Dr. Storey, when they were both

imprisoned in the Tower together, and told his friends of it with

reverent pride when the doctor was hanged a year later.

Hubert, who had been sent for to take charge of the estate, had come to

London soon after his father's arrival at the Tower; and was allowed an

interview with him in the presence of the Lieutenant. Hubert was greatly

affected; though he could not look upon the imprisonment with the same

solemn exultation as that which his father had; but it made a real

impression upon him to find that he took so patiently this separation

from home and family for the sake of religion. Hubert received

instructions from Sir Nicholas as to the management of the estate, for it

was becoming plain that his father would have to remain in the Tower for

the present; not any longer on a really grave charge, but chiefly because

he was an obstinate recusant and would promise nothing. The law and its

administration at this time were very far apart; the authorities were not

very anxious to search out and punish those who were merely recusants or

refused to take the oath of supremacy; and so Hubert and Mr. Boyd and

other Catholics were able to come and go under the very nose of justice

without any real risk to themselves; but it was another matter to let a

sturdy recusant go from prison who stoutly refused to give any sort of

promise or understanding as to future behaviour.

Sir Nicholas was had down more than once to further examination before

the Lords Commissioners in the Lieutenant's house; but it was a very tame

and even an amusing affair for all save Sir Nicholas. It was so easy to

provoke him; he was so simple and passionate that they could get almost

anything they wanted out of him by a little adroit baiting; and more than

once his examination formed a welcome and humorous entr'acte between two

real tragedies. Sir Nicholas, of course, never suspected for a moment

that he was affording any amusement to any one. He thought their weary

laughter to be sardonic and ironical, and he looked upon himself as a

very desperate fellow indeed; and wrote glowing accounts of it all to his

wife, full of apostrophic praises to God and the saints, in a hand that

shook with excitement and awe at the thought of the important scenes in

which he played so prominent a part.

But there was no atmosphere of humour about Mr. Stewart. He had

disappeared from Sir Nicholas' sight on their arrival at the Marshalsea,

and they had not set eyes on one another since; nor could all the

knight's persuasion and offer of bribes make his gaoler consent to take

any message or scrap of paper between them. He would not even answer more

than the simplest inquiries about him,--that he was alive and in the

Tower, and so forth; and Sir Nicholas prayed often and earnestly for that

deliberate and vivacious young man who had so charmed and interested them

all down at Great Keynes, and who had been so mysteriously engulfed by

the sombre majesty of the law.

"I fear," he wrote to Lady Maxwell, "I fear that _our friend_ must be

sick or dying. But I can hear no news of him; when I am allowed sometimes

to walk in the court or on the leads he is never there. My _attendant_

Mr. Jakes looks glum and says nothing when I ask him how my friend does.

My dearest, do not forget him in your prayers nor your old loving husband

either."

One evening late in October Mr. Jakes did not come as usual to bring Sir

Nicholas his supper at five o'clock; the time passed and still he did not

come. This was very unusual. Presently Mrs. Jakes appeared instead,

carrying the food which she set down at the door while she turned the key

behind her. Sir Nicholas rallied her on having turned gaoler; but she

turned on him a face with red eyes and lined with weeping.

"O Sir Nicholas," she said, for these two were good friends, "what a

wicked place this is! God forgive me for saying so; but they've had that

young man down there since two o'clock; and Jakes is with them to help;

and he told me to come up to you, Sir Nicholas, with your supper, if they

weren't done by five; and if the young gentleman hadn't said what they

wanted."

Sir Nicholas felt sick.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Why, who but Mr. Stewart?" she said; and then fell weeping again, and

went out forgetting to lock the door behind her in her grief. Sir

Nicholas sat still a moment, sick and shaken; he knew what it meant; but

it had never come so close to him before. He got up presently and went to

the door to listen for he knew not what. But there was no sound but the

moan of the wind up the draughty staircase, and the sound of a prisoner

singing somewhere above him a snatch of a song. He looked out presently,

but there was nothing but the dark well of the staircase disappearing

round to the left, and the glimmer of an oil lamp somewhere from the

depths below him, with wavering shadows as the light was blown about by

the gusts that came up from outside. There was nothing to be done of

course; he closed the door, went back and prayed with all his might for

the young man who was somewhere in this huge building, in his agony.

Mr. Jakes came up himself within half an hour to see if all was well; but

said nothing of his dreadful employment or of Mr. Stewart; and Sir

Nicholas did not like to ask for fear of getting Mrs. Jakes into trouble.

The gaoler took away the supper things, wished him good-night, went out

and locked the door, apparently without noticing it had been left undone

before. Possibly his mind was too much occupied with what he had been

seeing and doing. And the faithful account of all this went down in due

time to Great Keynes.

The arrival of the courier at the Hall on Wednesday and Saturday was a

great affair both to the household and to the village. Sir Nicholas sent

his letter generally by the Saturday courier, and the other brought a

kind of bulletin from Mr. Boyd, with sometimes a message or two from his

master. These letters were taken by the ladies first to the study, as if

to an oratory, and Lady Maxwell would read them slowly over to her

sister. And in the evening, when Isabel generally came up for an hour or

two, the girl would be asked to read them slowly all over again to the

two ladies who sat over their embroidery on either side of her, and who

interrupted for the sheer joy of prolonging it. And they would discuss

together the exact significance of all his marks of emphasis and irony;

and the girl would have all she could do sometimes not to feel a disloyal

amusement at the transparency of the devices and the simplicity of the

loving hearts that marvelled at the writer's depth and ingenuity. But she

was none the less deeply impressed by his courageous cheerfulness, and by

the power of a religion that in spite of its obvious weaknesses and

improbabilities yet inspired an old man like Sir Nicholas with so much

fortitude.

At first, too, a kind of bulletin was always issued on the Sunday and

Thursday mornings, and nailed upon the outside of the gatehouse, so that

any who pleased could come there and get first-hand information; and an

interpreter stood there sometimes, one of the educated younger sons of

Mr. Piers, and read out to the groups from Lady Maxwell's sprawling old

handwriting, news of the master.

"Sir Nicholas has been had before the Council," he read out one day in a

high complacent voice to the awed listeners, "and has been sent to the

Tower of London." This caused consternation in the village, as it was

supposed by the country-folk, not without excuse, that the Tower was the

antechamber of death; but confidence was restored by the further

announcement a few lines down that "he was well and cheerful."

Great interest, too, was aroused by more domestic matters.

"Sir Nicholas," it was proclaimed, "is in a little separate chamber of

his own. Mr. Jakes, his gaoler, seems an honest fellow. Sir Nicholas hath

a little mattress from a friend that Mr. Boyd fetched for him. He has

dinner at eleven and supper at five. Sir Nicholas hopes that all are well

in the village."

But other changes had followed the old knight's arrest. The furious

indignation in the village against the part that the Rectory had played

in the matter, made it impossible for the Dents to remain there. That the

minister's wife should have been publicly ducked, and that not by a few

blackguards but by the solid fathers and sons with the applause of the

wives and daughters, made her husband's position intolerable, and further

evidence was forthcoming in the behaviour of the people towards the

Rector himself; some boys had guffawed during his sermon on the following

Sunday, when he had ventured on a word or two of penitence as to his

share in the matter, and he was shouted after on his way home.

Mrs. Dent seemed strangely changed and broken during her stay at the

Hall. She had received a terrible shock, and it was not safe to move her

back to her own house. For the first two or three nights, she would start

from sleep again and again screaming for help and mercy and nothing would

quiet her till she was wide awake and saw in the fire-light the curtained

windows and the bolted door, and the kindly face of an old servant or

Mistress Margaret with her beads in her hand. Isabel, who came up to see

her two or three times, was both startled and affected by the change in

her; and by the extraordinary mood of humility which seemed to have taken

possession of the hard self-righteous Puritan.

"I begged pardon," she whispered to the girl one evening, sitting up in

bed and staring at her with wide, hard eyes, "I begged pardon of Lady

Maxwell, though I am not fit to speak to her. Do you think she can ever

forgive me? Do you think she can? It was I, you know, who wrought all the

mischief, as I have wrought all the mischief in the village all these

years. She said she did, and she kissed me, and said that our Saviour had

forgiven her much more. But--but do you think she has forgiven me?" And

then again, another night, a day or two before they left the place, she

spoke to Isabel again.

"Look after the poor bodies," she said, "teach them a little charity; I

have taught them nought but bitterness and malice, so they have but given

me my own back again. I have reaped what I have sown."

So the Dents slipped off early one morning before the folk were up; and

by the following Sunday, young Mr. Bodder, of whom the Bishop entertained

a high opinion, occupied the little desk outside the chancel arch; and

Great Keynes once more had to thank God and the diocesan that it

possessed a proper minister of its own, and not a mere unordained reader,

which was all that many parishes could obtain.

Towards the end of September further hints began to arrive, very much

underlined, in the knight's letters, of Mr. Stewart and his sufferings.

"You remember _our friend_," Isabel read out one Saturday evening, "_not_

Mr. Stewart." (This puzzled the old ladies sorely till Isabel explained

their lord's artfulness.) "My dearest, I fear the worst for him. I do not

mean apostacy, thank God. But I fear that these _wolves_ have torn him

sadly, in their _dens_." Then followed the story of Mrs. Jakes, with all

its horror, all the greater from the obscurity of the details.

Isabel put the paper down trembling, as she sat on the rug before the

fire in the parlour upstairs, and thought of the bright-eyed, red-haired

man with his steady mouth and low laugh whom Anthony had described to

her.

Lady Maxwell posted upon the gatehouse:

"Sir Nicholas fears that a _friend_ is in sore trouble; he hopes he may

not _yield_."

Then, after a few days more, a brief notice with a black-line drawn round

it, that ran, in Mr. Bodder's despite:

"Our _friend_ has passed away. Pray for his soul."

Sir Nicholas had written in great agitation to this effect.

"My sweetheart, I have heavy news to-day. There was a great company of

folks below my window to-day, in the Inner Ward, where the road runs up

below the Bloody Tower. It was about nine of the clock. And there was a

horse there whose head I could see; and presently from the Beauchamp

Tower came, as I thought, an old man between two warders; and then I

could not very well see; the men were in my way; but soon the horse went

off, and the men after him; and I could hear the groaning of the crowd

that were waiting for them outside. And when Mr. Jakes brought me my

dinner at eleven of the clock, he told me it was our friend--(think of

it, my dearest--him whom I thought an old man!)--that had been taken off

to Tyburn. And now I need say no more, but bid you pray for his soul."

Isabel could hardly finish reading it; for she heard a quick sobbing

breath behind her, and felt a wrinkled old hand caressing her hair and

cheek as her voice faltered.

Meanwhile Hubert was in town. Sir Nicholas had at first intended him to

go down at once and take charge of the estate; but Piers was very

competent, and so his father consented that he should remain in London

until the beginning of October; and this too better suited Mr. Norris'

plans who wished to send Isabel off about the same time to Northampton.

When Hubert at last did arrive, he soon showed himself extremely capable

and apt for the work. He was out on the estate from morning till night on

his cob, and there was not a man under him from Piers downwards who had

anything but praise for his insight and industry.

There was in Hubert, too, as there so often is in country-boys who love

and understand the life of the woods and fields, a balancing quality of a

deep vein of sentiment; and this was now consecrated to Isabel Norris. He

had pleasant dreams as he rode home in the autumn evening, under the

sweet keen sky where the harvest moon rose large and yellow over the

hills to his left and shed a strange mystical light that blended in a

kind of chord with the dying daylight. It was at times like that, when

the air was fragrant with the scent of dying leaves, with perhaps a touch

of frost in it, and the cottages one by one opened red glowing eyes in

the dusk, that the boy began to dream of a home of his own and pleasant

domestic joys; of burning logs on the hearth and lighted candles, and a

dear slender figure moving about the room. He used to rehearse to himself

little meetings and partings; look at the roofs of the Dower House

against the primrose sky as he rode up the fields homewards; identify her

window, dark now as she was away; and long for Christmas when she would

be back again. The only shadow over these delightful pictures was the

uncertainty as to the future. Where after all would the home be? For he

was a younger son. He thought about James very often. When he came back

would he live at home? Would it all be James' at his father's death,

these woods and fields and farms and stately house? Would it ever come to

him? And, meanwhile where should he and Isabel live, when the religious

difficulty had been surmounted, as he had no doubt that it would be

sooner or later?

When he thought of his father now, it was with a continually increasing

respect. He had been inclined to despise him sometimes before, as one of

a simple and uneventful life; but now the red shadow of the Law conferred

dignity. To have been imprisoned in the Tower was a patent of nobility,

adding distinction and gravity to the commonplace. Something of the glory

even rested on Hubert himself as he rode and hawked with other Catholic

boys, whose fathers maybe were equally zealous for the Faith, but less

distinguished by suffering for it.

Before Anthony went back to Cambridge, he and Hubert went out nearly

every day together with or without their hawks. Anthony was about three

years the younger, and Hubert's additional responsibility for the estate

made the younger boy more in awe of him than the difference in their ages

warranted. Besides, Hubert knew quite as much about sport, and had more

opportunities for indulging his taste for it. There was no heronry at

hand; besides, it was not the breeding time which is the proper season

for this particular sport; so they did not trouble to ride out to one;

but the partridges and hares and rabbits that abounded in the Maxwell

estate gave them plenty of quarreys. They preferred to go out generally

without the falconer, a Dutchman, who had been taken into the service of

Sir Nicholas thirty years before when things had been more prosperous; it

was less embarrassing so; but they would have a lad to carry the "cadge,"

and a pony following them to carry the game. They added to the excitement

of the sport by making it a competition between their birds; and flying

them one after another, or sometimes at the same quarry, as in coursing;

but this often led to the birds' crabbing.

Anthony's peregrine Eliza was almost unapproachable; and the lad was the

more proud of her as he had "made" her himself, as an "eyess" or young

falcon captured as a nestling. But, on the other hand, Hubert's goshawk

Margaret, a fiery little creature, named inappropriately enough after his

tranquil aunt, as a rule did better than Anthony's Isabel, and brought

the scores level again.

There was one superb day that survived long in Anthony's memory and

conversation; when he had done exceptionally well, when Eliza had

surpassed herself, and even Isabel had acquitted herself with credit. It

was one of those glorious days of wind and sun that occasionally fall in

early October, with a pale turquoise sky overhead, and air that seems to

sparkle and intoxicate like wine. They went out together after dinner

about noon; their ponies and spaniels danced with the joy of life; Lady

Maxwell cried to them from the north terrace to be careful, and pointed

out to Mr. Norris who had dined with them what a graceful seat Hubert

had; and then added politely, but as an obvious afterthought, that

Anthony seemed to manage his pony with great address. The boys turned off

through the village, and soon got on to high ground to the west of the

village and all among the stubble and mustard, with tracts of rich sunlit

country, of meadows and russet woodland below them on every side. Then

the sport began. It seemed as if Eliza could not make a mistake. There

rose a solitary partridge forty yards away with a whirl of wings; (the

coveys were being well broken up by now) Anthony unhooded his bird and

"cast off," with the falconer's cry "Hoo-ha, ha, ha, ha," and up soared

Eliza with the tinkle of bells, on great strokes of those mighty wings,

up, up, behind the partridge that fled low down the wind for his life.

The two ponies were put to the gallop as the peregrine began to "stoop";

and then down like a plummet she fell with closed wings, "raked" the

quarry with her talons as she passed; recovered herself, and as Anthony

came up holding out the _tabur-stycke_, returned to him and was hooded

and leashed again; and sat there on his gloved wrist with wet claws, just

shivering slightly from her nerves, like the aristocrat she was; while

her master stroked her ashy back and the boy picked up the quarry,

admiring the deep rent before he threw it into the pannier.

Then Hubert had the next turn; but his falcon missed his first stoop, and

did not strike the quarry till the second attempt, thus scoring one to

Anthony's account. Then the peregrines were put back on the cadge as the

boys got near to a wide meadow in a hollow where the rabbits used to

feed; and the goshawks Margaret and Isabel were taken, each in turn

sitting unhooded on her master's wrist, while they all watched the long

thin grass for the quick movement that marked the passage of a

rabbit;--and then in a moment the bird was cast off. The goshawk would

rise just high enough to see the quarry in the grass, then fly straight

with arched wings and pounces stretched out as she came over the quarry;

then striking him between the shoulders would close with him; and her

master would come up and take her off, throw the rabbit to the

game-carrier; and the other would have the next attempt.

And so they went on for three or four hours, encouraging their birds,

whooping the death of the quarry, watching with all the sportsman's

keenness the soaring and stooping of the peregrines, the raking off of

the goshawks; listening to the thrilling tinkle of the bells, and taking

back their birds to sit triumphant and complacent on their master's

wrists, when the quarry had been fairly struck, and furious and sullen

when it had eluded them two or three times till their breath left them in

the dizzy rushes, and they "canceliered" or even returned disheartened

and would fly no more till they had forgotten--till at last the shadows

grew long, and the game more wary, and the hawks and ponies tired; and

the boys put up the birds on the cadge, and leashed them to it securely;

and jogged slowly homewards together up the valley road that led to the

village, talking in technical terms of how the merlin's feather must be

"imped" to-morrow; and of the relative merits of the "varvels" or little

silver rings at the end of the jesses through which the leash ran, and

the Dutch swivel that Squire Blackett always used.

As they got nearer home and the red roofs of the Dower House began to

glow in the ruddy sunlight above the meadows, Hubert began to shift the

conversation round to Isabel, and inquire when she was coming home.

Anthony was rather bored at this turn of the talk; but thought she would

be back by Christmas at the latest; and said that she was at

Northampton--and had Hubert ever seen such courage as Eliza's? But Hubert

would not be put off; but led the talk back again to the girl; and at

last told Anthony under promise of secrecy that he was fond of Isabel,

and wished to make her his wife;--and oh! did Anthony think she cared

really for him. Anthony stared and wondered and had no opinion at all on

the subject; but presently fell in love with the idea that Hubert should

be his brother-in-law and go hawking with him every day; and he added a

private romance of his own in which he and Mary Corbet should be at the

Dower House, with Hubert and Isabel at the Hall; while the elders, his

own father, Sir Nicholas, Mr. James, Lady Maxwell, and Mistress Torridon

had all taken up submissive and complacent attitudes in the middle

distance.

He was so pensive that evening that his father asked him at supper

whether he had not had a good day; which diverted his thoughts from

Mistress Corbet, and led him away from sentiment on a stream of his own

talk with long backwaters of description of this and that stoop, and of

exactly the points in which he thought the Maxwells' falconer had failed

in the training of Hubert's Jane.

Hubert found a long letter waiting from his father which Lady Maxwell

gave him to read, with messages to himself in it about the estate, which

brought him down again from the treading of rosy cloud-castles with a

phantom Isabel whither his hawks and the shouting wind and the happy day

had wafted him, down to questions of barns and farm-servants and the

sober realities of harvest.

CHAPTER XI

MASTER CALVIN

Isabel reached Northampton a day or two before Hubert came back to Great

Keynes. She travelled down with two combined parties going to Leicester

and Nottingham, sleeping at Leighton Buzzard on the way; and on the

evening of the second day reached the house of her father's friend Dr.

Carrington, that stood in the Market Square.

Her father's intention in sending her to this particular town and

household was to show her how Puritanism, when carried to its extreme,

was as orderly and disciplined a system, and was able to control the

lives of its adherents, as well as the Catholicism whose influence on her

character he found himself beginning to fear. But he wished also that she

should be repelled to some extent by the merciless rigidity she would

find at Northampton, and thus, after an oscillation or two come to rest

in the quiet eclecticism of that middle position which he occupied

himself.

The town indeed was at this time a miniature Geneva. There was something

in the temper of its inhabitants that made it especially susceptible to

the wave of Puritanism that was sweeping over England. Lollardy had

flourished among them so far back as the reign of Richard II; when the

mayor, as folks told one another with pride, had plucked a mass-priest by

the vestment on the way to the altar in All Saints' Church, and had made

him give over his mummery till the preacher had finished his sermon.

Dr. Carrington, too, a clean-shaven, blue-eyed, grey-haired man,

churchwarden of Saint Sepulchre's, was a representative of the straitest

views, and desperately in earnest. For him the world ranged itself into

the redeemed and the damned; these two companies were the pivots of life

for him; and every subject of mind or desire was significant only so far

as it bore relations to be immutable decrees of God. But his fierce and

merciless theological insistence was disguised by a real human tenderness

and a marked courtesy of manner; and Isabel found him a kindly and

thoughtful host.

Yet the mechanical strictness of the household, and the overpowering

sense of the weightiness of life that it conveyed, was a revelation to

Isabel. Dr. Carrington at family prayers was a tremendous figure, as he

kneeled upright at the head of the table in the sombre dining-room; and

it seemed to Isabel in her place that the pitiless all-seeing Presence

that kept such terrifying silence as the Doctor cried on Jehovah, was

almost a different God to that whom she knew in the morning parlour at

home, to whom her father prayed with more familiarity but no less

romance, and who answered in the sunshine that lay on the carpet, and the

shadows of boughs that moved across it, and the chirp of the birds under

the eaves. And all day long she thought she noticed the same difference;

at Great Keynes life was made up of many parts, the love of family, the

country doings, the worship of God, the garden, and the company of the

Hall ladies; and the Presence of God interpenetrated all like light or

fragrance; but here life was lived under the glare of His eye, and

absorption in any detail apart from the consciousness of that

encompassing Presence had the nature of sin.

On the Saturday after her arrival, as she was walking by the Nen with

Kate Carrington, one of the two girls, she asked her about the crowd of

ministers she had seen in the streets that morning.

"They have been to the Prophesyings," said Kate. "My father says that

there is no exercise that sanctifies a godly young minister so quickly."

Kate went on to describe them further. The ministers assembled each

Saturday at nine o'clock, and one of their number gave a short

Bible-reading or lecture. Then all present were invited to join in the

discussion; the less instructed would ask questions, the more experienced

would answer, and debate would run high. Such a method Kate explained,

who herself was a zealous and well instructed Calvinist, was the surest

and swiftest road to truth, for every one held the open Scriptures in his

hand, and interpreted and checked the speakers by the aid of that

infallible guide.

"But if a man's judgment lead him wrong?" asked Isabel, who professedly

admitted authority to have some place in matters of faith.

"All must hold the Apostles' Creed first of all," said Kate, "and must

set his name to a paper declaring the Pope to be antichrist, with other

truths upon it."

Isabel was puzzled; for it seemed now as if Private Judgment were not

supreme among its professors; but she did not care to question further.

It began to dawn upon her presently, however, why the Queen was so fierce

against Prophesyings; for she saw that they exercised that spirit of

exclusiveness, the property of Papist and Puritan alike; which, since it

was the antithesis of the tolerant comprehensiveness of the Church of

England, was also the enemy of the theological peace that Elizabeth was

seeking to impose upon the country; and that it was for that reason that

Papist and Puritan, sundered so far in theology, were united in suffering

for conscience' sake.

On the Sunday morning Isabel went with Mrs. Carrington and the two girls

to the round Templars' Church of Saint Sepulchre, for the Morning Prayer

at eight o'clock, and then on to St. Peter's for the sermon. It was the

latter function that was important in Puritan eyes; for the word preached

was considered to have an almost sacramental force in the application of

truth and grace to the soul; and crowds of people, with downcast eyes and

in sombre dress, were pouring down the narrow streets from all the

churches round, while the great bell beat out its summons from the Norman

tower. The church was filled from end to end as they came in, meeting Dr.

Carrington at the door, and they all passed up together to the pew

reserved for the churchwarden, close beneath the pulpit.

As Isabel looked round her, it came upon her very forcibly what she had

begun to notice even at Great Keynes, that the religion preached there

did not fit the church in which it was set forth; and that, though great

efforts had been made to conform the building to the worship. There had

been no half measures at Northampton, for the Puritans had a loathing of

what they called a "mingle-mangle." Altars, footpaces, and piscinæ had

been swept away and all marks of them removed, as well as the rood-loft

and every image in the building; the stained windows had been replaced by

plain glass painted white; the walls had been whitewashed from roof to

floor, and every suspicion of colour erased except where texts of

Scripture ran rigidly across the open wall spaces: "We are not under the

Law, but under Grace," Isabel read opposite her, beneath the clerestory

windows. And, above all, the point to which all lines and eyes converged,

was occupied no longer by the Table but by the tribunal of the Lord. Yet

underneath the disguise the old religion triumphed still. Beneath the

great plain orderly scheme, without depth of shadows, dominated by the

towering place of Proclamation where the crimson-faced herald waited to

begin, the round arches and the elaborate mouldings, and the cool depths

beyond the pillars, all declared that in the God for whom that temple was

built, there was mystery as well as revelation, Love as well as Justice,

condescension as well as Majesty, beauty as well as awfulness,

invitations as well as eternal decrees.

Isabel looked up presently, as the people still streamed in, and watched

the minister in his rustling Genevan gown, leaning with his elbows on the

Bible that rested open on the great tasselled velvet cushion before him.

Everything about him was on the grand scale; his great hands were clasped

and protruded over the edge of the Book; and his heavy dark face looked

menacingly round on the crowded church; he had the air of a melancholy

giant about to engage in some tragic pleasure. But Isabel's instinctive

dislike began to pass into positive terror so soon as he began to preach.

When the last comers had found a place, and the talking had stopped, he

presently gave out his text, in a slow thunderous voice, that silenced

the last whispers:

"What shall we then say to these things? If God be on our side, who can

be against us?"

There were a few slow sentences, in a deep resonant voice, uttering each

syllable deliberately like the explosion of a far-off gun, and in a

minute or two he was in the thick of Calvin's smoky gospel. Doctrine,

voice, and man were alike terrible and overpowering.

There lay the great scheme in a few minutes, seen by Isabel as though

through the door of hell, illumined by the glare of the eternal embers.

The huge merciless Will of God stood there before her, disclosed in all

its awfulness, armed with thunders, moving on mighty wheels. The

foreknowledge of God closed the question henceforth, and, if proof were

needed, made predestination plain. There was man's destiny, irrevocably

fixed, iron-bound, changeless and immovable as the laws of God's own

being. Yet over the rigid and awful Face of God, flickered a faint light,

named mercy; and this mercy vindicated its existence by demanding that

some souls should escape the final and endless doom that was the due

reward of every soul conceived and born in enmity against God and under

the frown of His Justice.

Then, heralded too by wrath, the figure of Jesus began to glimmer through

the thunderclouds; and Isabel lifted her eyes, to look in hope. But He

was not as she had known him in His graciousness, and as He had revealed

Himself to her in tender communion, and among the flowers and under the

clear skies of Sussex. Here, in this echoing world of wrath He stood,

pale and rigid, with lightning in His eyes, and the grim and crimson

Cross behind him; and as powerless as His own Father Himself to save one

poor timid despairing hoping soul against whom the Eternal Decree had

gone forth. Jesus was stern and forbidding here, with the red glare of

wrath on His Face too, instead of the rosy crown of Love upon His

forehead; His mouth was closed with compressed lips which surely would

only open to condemn; not that mouth, quivering and human, that had

smiled and trembled and bent down from the Cross to kiss poor souls that

could not hope, nor help themselves, that had smiled upon Isabel ever

since she had known Him. It was appalling to this gentle maiden soul that

had bloomed and rejoiced so long in the shadow of His healing, to be torn

out of her retreat and set thus under the consuming noonday of the

Justice of this Sun of white-hot Righteousness.

For, as she listened, it was all so miserably convincing; her own little

essays of intellect and flights of hopeful imagination were caught up and

whirled away in the strong rush of this man's argument; her timid

expectancy that God was really Love, as she understood the word in the

vision of her Saviour's Person,--this was dashed aside as a childish

fancy; the vision of the Father of the Everlasting Arms receded into the

realm of dreams; and instead there lowered overhead in this furious

tempest of wrath a monstrous God with a stony Face and a stonier Heart,

who was eternally either her torment or salvation; and Isabel thought,

and trembled at the blasphemy, that if God were such as this, the one

would be no less agony than the other. Was this man bearing false

witness, not only against his neighbour, but far more awfully, against

his God? But it was too convincing; it was built up on an iron hammered

framework of a great man's intellect and made white hot with another

great man's burning eloquence. But it seemed to Isabel now and again as

if a thunder-voiced virile devil were proclaiming the Gospel of

Everlasting shame. There he bent over the pulpit with flaming face and

great compelling gestures that swayed the congregation, eliciting the

emotions he desired, as the conductor's baton draws out the music (for

the man was a great orator), and he stormed and roared and seemed to

marshal the very powers of the world to come, compelling them by his nod,

and interpreting them by his voice; and below him sat this poor child,

tossed along on his eloquence, like a straw on a flood; and yet hating

and resenting it and struggling to detach herself and disbelieve every

word he spoke.

As the last sands were running out in his hour-glass, he came to harbour

from this raging sea; and in a few deep resonant sentences, like those

with which he began, he pictured the peace of the ransomed soul, that

knows itself safe in the arms of God; that rejoices, even in this world,

in the Light of His Face and the ecstasy of His embrace; that dwells by

waters of comfort and lies down in the green pastures of the Heavenly

Love; while, round this little island of salvation in an ocean of terror,

the thunders of wrath sound only as the noise of surge on a far-off reef.

The effect on Isabel was very great. It was far more startling than her

visit to London; there her quiet religion had received high sanction in

the mystery of S. Paul's. But here it was the plainest Calvinism preached

with immense power. The preacher's last words of peace were no peace to

her. If it was necessary to pass those bellowing breakers of wrath to

reach the Happy Country, then she had never reached it yet; she had lived

so far in an illusion; her life had been spent in a fool's paradise,

where the light and warmth and flowers were but artificial after all; and

she knew that she had not the heart to set out again. Though she

recognised dimly the compelling power of this religion, and that it was

one which, if sincerely embraced, would make the smallest details of life

momentous with eternal weight, yet she knew that her soul could never

respond to it, and whether saved or damned that it could only cower in

miserable despair under a Deity that was so sovereign as this.

So her heart was low and her eyes sad as she followed Mrs. Carrington out

of church. Was this then really the Revelation of the Love of God in the

Person of Jesus Christ? Had all that she knew as the Gospel melted down

into this fiery lump?

The rest of the day did not alter the impression made on her mind. There

was little talk, or evidence of any human fellowship, in the Carrington

household on the Lord's Day; there was a word or two of grave

commendation on the sermon during dinner; and in the afternoon there was

the Evening Prayer to be attended in St. Sepulchre's followed by an

exposition, and a public catechising on Calvin's questions and answers.

Here the same awful doctrines reappeared, condensed with an icy reality,

even more paralysing than the burning presentation of them in the

morning's sermon. She was spared questions herself, as she was a

stranger; and sat to hear girls of her own age and older men and women

who looked as soft-hearted as herself, utter definitions of the method of

salvation and the being and character of God that compelled the assent of

her intellect, while they jarred with her spiritual experience as

fiercely as brazen trumpets out of tune.

In the evening there followed further religious exercises in the dark

dining-room, at the close of which Dr. Carrington read one of Mr.

Calvin's Genevan discourses, from his tall chair at the head of the

table. She looked at him at first, and wondered in her heart whether that

man, with his clear gentle voice, and his pleasant old face crowned with

iron-grey hair seen in the mellow candlelight, really believed in the

terrible gospel of the morning; for she heard nothing of the academic

discourse that he was reading now, and presently her eyes wandered away

out of the windows to the pale night sky. There still glimmered a faint

streak of light in the west across the Market Square; it seemed to her as

a kind of mirror of her soul at this moment; the tender daylight had

faded, though she could still discern the token of its presence far away,

and as from behind the bars of a cage; but the night of God's wrath was

fast blotting out the last touch of radiance from her despairing soul.

Dr. Carrington looked at her with courteous anxiety, but with approval

too, as he held her hand for a moment as she said good-night to him.

There were shadows of weariness and depression under her eyes, and the

corners of her mouth drooped a little; and the doctor's heart stirred

with hope that the Word of God had reached at last this lamb of His who

had been fed too long on milk, and sheltered from the sun; but who was

now coming out, driven it might be, and unhappy, but still on its way to

the plain and wholesome pastures of the Word that lay in the glow of the

unveiled glory of God.

Isabel in her dark room upstairs was miserable; she stood long at her

window her face pressed against the glass, and looked at the sky, from

which the last streak of light had now died, and longed with all her

might for her own oak room at home, with her prie-dieu and the familiar

things about her; and the pines rustling outside in the sweet night-wind.

It seemed to her as if an irresistible hand had plucked her out from

those loved things and places, and that a penetrating eye were examining

every corner of her soul. In one sense she believed herself nearer to God

than ever before, but it was heartbreaking to find Him like this. She

went to sleep with the same sense of a burdening Presence resting on her

spirit.

The next morning Dr. Carrington saw her privately and explained to her a

notice that she had not understood when it had been given out in church

the day before. It was to the effect that the quarterly communion would

be administered on the following Sunday, having been transferred that

year from the Sunday after Michaelmas Day, and that she must hold herself

in readiness on the Wednesday afternoon to undergo the examination that

was enforced in every household in Northampton, at the hands of the

Minister and Churchwardens.

"But you need not fear it, Mistress Norris," he said kindly, seeing her

alarm. "My daughter Kate will tell you all that is needful."

Kate too told her it would be little more than formal in her case.

"The minister will not ask you much," she said, "for you are a stranger,

and my father will vouch for you. He will ask you of irresistible grace,

and of the Sacrament." And she gave her a couple of books from which she

might summarise the answers; especially directing her attention to

Calvin's Catechism, telling her that that was the book with which all the

servants and apprentices were obliged to be familiar.

When Wednesday afternoon came, one by one the members of the household

went before the inquisition that held its court in the dining-room; and

last of all Isabel's turn came. The three gentlemen who sat in the middle

of the long side of the table, with their backs to the light, half rose

and bowed to her as she entered; and requested her to sit opposite to

them. To her relief it was the Minister of St. Sepulchre's who was to

examine her--he who had read the service and discoursed on the Catechism,

not the morning preacher. He was a man who seemed a little ill at ease

himself; he had none of the superb confidence of the preacher; but

appeared to be one to whose natural character this stern _rôle_ was not

altogether congenial. He asked a few very simple questions; as to when

she had last taken the Sacrament; how she would interpret the words,

"This is my Body"; and looked almost grateful when she answered quietly

and without heat. He asked her too three or four of the simpler questions

which Kate had indicated to her; all of which she answered satisfactorily;

and then desired to know whether she was in charity with all men; and

whether she looked to Jesus Christ alone as her one Saviour. Finally he

turned to Dr. Carrington, and wished to know whether Mistress Norris

would come to the sacrament at five or nine o'clock, and Dr. Carrington

answered that she would no doubt wish to come with his own wife and

daughters at nine o'clock; which was the hour for the folks who were

better to do. And so the inquisition ended much to Isabel's relief.

But this was a very extraordinary experience to her; it gave her a first

glimpse into the rigid discipline that the extreme Puritans wished to see

enforced everywhere; and with it a sense of corporate responsibility that

she had not appreciated before; the congregation meant something to her

now; she was no longer alone with her Lord individually, but understood

that she was part of a body with various functions, and that the care of

her soul was not merely a personal matter for herself, but involved her

minister and the officers of the Church as well. It astonished her to

think that this process was carried out on every individual who lived in

the town in preparation for the sacrament on the following Sunday.

Isabel, and indeed the whole household, spent the Friday and Saturday in

rigid and severe preparation. No flesh food was eaten on either of the

days; and all the members of the family were supposed to spend several

hours in their own rooms in prayer and meditation. She did not find this

difficult, as she was well practised in solitude and prayer, and she

scarcely left her room all Saturday except for meals.

"O Lord," Isabel repeated each morning and evening at her bedside during

this week, "the blind dulness of our corrupt nature will not suffer us

sufficiently to weigh these thy most ample benefits, yet, nevertheless,

at the commandment of Jesus Christ our Lord, we present ourselves to this

His table, which He hath left to be used in remembrance of His death

until His coming again, to declare and witness before the world, that by

Him alone we have received liberty and life; that by Him alone dost thou

acknowledge us to be thy children and heirs; that by Him alone we have

entrance to the throne of thy grace; that by Him alone we are possessed

in our spiritual kingdom, to eat and drink at His table, with whom we

have our conversation presently in heaven, and by whom our bodies shall

be raised up again from the dust, and shall be placed with Him in that

endless joy, which Thou, O Father of mercy, hast prepared for thine

elect, before the foundation of the world was laid."

And so she prepared herself for that tryst with her Beloved in a foreign

land where all was strange and unfamiliar about her: yet He was hourly

drawing nearer, and she cried to Him day by day in these words so

redolent to her with associations of past communions, and of moments of

great spiritual elevation. The very use of the prayer this week was like

a breeze of flowers to one in a wilderness.

On the Saturday night she ceremoniously washed her feet as her father had

taught her; and lay down happier than she had been for days past, for

to-morrow would bring the Lover of her soul.

On the Sunday all the household was astir early at their prayers, and

about half-past eight o'clock all, including the servants who had just

returned from the five o'clock service, assembled in the dining-room; the

noise of the feet of those returning from church had ceased on the

pavement of the square outside, and all was quiet except for the solemn

sound of the bells, as Dr. Carrington offered extempore prayer for all

who were fulfilling the Lord's ordinance on that day. And Isabel once

more felt her heart yearn to a God who seemed Love after all.

St. Sepulchre's was nearly full when they arrived. The mahogany table had

been brought down from the eastern wall to beneath the cupola, and stood

there with a large white cloth, descending almost to the ground on every

side; and a row of silver vessels, flat plates and tall new Communion

cups and flagons, shone upon it. Isabel buried her face in her hands, and

tried to withdraw into the solitude of her own soul; but the noise of the

feet coming and going, and the talking on all sides of her, were terribly

distracting. Presently four ministers entered and Isabel was startled to

see, as she raised her face at the sudden silence, that none of them wore

the prescribed surplice; for she had not been accustomed to the views of

the extreme Puritans to whom this was a remnant of Popery; an indifferent

thing indeed in itself, as they so often maintained; but far from

indifferent when it was imposed by authority. One entered the pulpit; the

other three took their places at the Holy Table; and after a metrical

Psalm sung in the Genevan fashion, the service began. At the proper place

the minister in the pulpit delivered an hour's sermon of the type to

which Isabel was being now introduced for the first time; but bearing

again and again on the point that the sacrament was a confession to the

world of faith in Christ; it was in no sense a sacrificial act towards

God, "as the Papists vainly taught"; this part of the sermon was spoiled,

to Isabel's ears at least, by a flood of disagreeable words poured out

against the popish doctrine; and the end of the sermon consisted of a

searching exhortation to those who contemplated sin, who bore malice, who

were in any way holding aloof from God, "to cast themselves mightily upon

the love of the Redeemer, bewailing their sinful lives, and purposing to

amend them." This act, wrought out in the silence of the soul even now

would transfer the sinner from death unto life; and turn what threatened

to be poison into a "lively and healthful food." Then he turned to those

who came prepared and repentant, hungering and thirsting after the Bread

of Life and the Wine that the Lord had mingled; and congratulated them on

their possession of grace, and on the rich access of sanctification that

would be theirs by a faithful reception of this comfortable sacrament;

and then in half a dozen concluding sentences he preached Christ, as

"food to the hungry; a stream to the thirsty; a rest for the weary. It is

He alone, our dear Redeemer, who openeth the Kingdom of Heaven, to which

may He vouchsafe to bring us for His Name's sake."

Isabel was astonished to see that the preacher did not descend from the

pulpit after the sermon, but that as soon as he had announced that the

mayor would sit at the Town Hall with the ministers and churchwardens on

the following Thursday to inquire into the cases of all who had not

presented themselves for Communion, he turned and began to busy himself

with the great Bible that lay on the cushion. The service went on, and

the conducting of it was shared among the three ministers standing, one

at the centre of the table which was placed endways, and the others at

the two ends. As the Prayer of Consecration was begun, Isabel hid her

face as she was accustomed to do, for she believed it to be the principal

part of the service, and waited for the silence that in her experience

generally followed the Amen. But a voice immediately began from the

pulpit, and she looked up, startled and distracted.

"Then Jesus said unto them," pealed out the preacher's voice, "All ye

shall be offended by me this night, for it is written, I will smite the

shepherd and the sheep shall be scattered. But after I am risen, I will

go into Galilee before you."

Ah! why would not the man stop? Isabel did not want the past Saviour but

the present now; not a dead record but a living experience; above all,

not the minister but the great High Priest Himself.

"He began to be troubled and in great heaviness, and said unto them, My

soul is very heavy, even unto the death; tarry here and watch."

The three ministers had communicated by now; and there was a rustle and

clatter of feet as the empty seats in front, hung with houselling cloths,

began to be filled. The murmur of the three voices below as the ministers

passed along with the vessels were drowned by the tale of the Passion

that rang out overhead.

"Couldest thou not watch one hour? Watch and pray, that ye enter not into

temptation. The spirit indeed is ready, but the flesh is weak."

It was coming near to Isabel's turn; the Carringtons already were

beginning to move; and in a moment or two she rose and followed them out.

The people were pressing up the aisles; and as she stood waiting her turn

to pass into the white-hung seat, she could not help noticing the

disorder that prevailed; some knelt devoutly, some stood, some sat to

receive the sacred elements; and all the while louder and louder, above

the rustling and the loud whispering of the ministers and the shuffling

of feet, the tale rose and fell on the cadences of the preacher's voice.

Now it was her turn; she was kneeling with palms outstretched and closed

eyes. Ah! would he not be silent for one moment? Could not the reality

speak for itself, and its interpreter be still? Surely the King of Love

needed no herald when Himself was here.

"And anon in the dawning, the high Priests held a Council with Elders and

the Scribes and the whole Council, and bound Jesus and led Him away." ...

And so it was over presently, and she was back again in her seat,

distracted and miserable; trying to pray, forcing herself to attend now

to the reader, now to her Saviour with whom she believed herself in

intimate union, and finding nothing but dryness and distraction

everywhere. How interminable it was! She opened her eyes, and what she

saw amazed and absorbed her for a few moments; some were sitting back and

talking; some looking cheerfully about them as if at a public

entertainment; one man especially overwhelmed her imagination; with a

great red face and neck like a butcher, animal and brutal, with a heavy

hanging jowl and little narrow lack-lustre eyes--how bored and depressed

he was by this long obligatory ceremony! Then once more she closed her

eyes in self-reproach at her distractions; here were her lips still

fragrant with the Wine of God, the pressure of her Beloved's arm still

about her; and these were her thoughts, settling like flies, on

everything....

When she opened them again the last footsteps were passing down the

aisle, the dripping Cups were being replaced by the ministers, and

covered with napkins, and the tale of Easter was in telling from the

pulpit like the promise of a brighter day.

"And they said one to another, Who shall roll us away the stone from the

door of the sepulchre? And when they looked, they saw that the stone was

rolled away (for it was a very great one)."

So read the minister and closed the book; and _Our Father_ began.

In the evening, when all was over, and the prayers said and the

expounding and catechising finished, in a kind of despair she slipped

away alone, and walked a little by herself in the deepening twilight

beside the river; and again she made effort after effort to catch some

consciousness of grace from this Sacrament Sunday, so rare and so

precious; but an oppression seemed to dwell in the very air. The low

rain-clouds hung over the city, leaden and chill, the path where she

walked was rank with the smell of dead leaves, and the trees and grass

dripped with lifeless moisture. As she goaded and allured alternately her

own fainting soul, it writhed and struggled but could not rise; there was

no pungency of bitterness in her self-reproach, no thrill of joy in her

aspiration; for the hand of Calvin's God lay heavy on the delicate

languid thing.

She walked back at last in despair over the wet cobblestones of the empty

market square; but as she came near the house, she saw that the square

was not quite empty. A horse stood blowing and steaming before Dr.

Carrington's door, and her own maid and Kate were standing hatless in the

doorway looking up and down the street. Isabel's heart began to beat, and

she walked quicker. In a moment Kate saw her, and began to beckon and

call; and the maid ran to meet her.

"Mistress Isabel, Mistress Isabel," she cried, "make haste."

"What is it?" asked the girl, in sick foreboding.

"There is a man come from Great Keynes," began the maid, but Kate stopped

her.

"Come in, Mistress Isabel," she said, "my father is waiting for you."

Dr. Carrington met her at the dining-room door; and his face was tender

and full of emotion.

"What is it?" whispered the girl sharply. "Anthony?"

"Dear child," he said, "come in, and be brave."

There was a man standing in the room with cap and whip in hand, spurred

and splashed from head to foot; Isabel recognised one of the grooms from

the Hall.

"What is it?" she said again with a piteous sharpness.

Dr. Carrington laid his hands gently on her shoulders, and looked into

her eyes.

"It is news of your father," he said, "from Lady Maxwell."

He paused, and the steady gleam of his eyes strengthened and quieted her,

then he went on deliberately, "The Lord hath given and the Lord hath

taken it."

He paused as if for an answer, but no answer came; Isabel was staring

white-faced with parted lips into those strong blue eyes of his: and he

finished:

"Blessed be the name of the Lord."

CHAPTER XII

A WINDING-UP

The curtained windows on the ground-floor of the Dower House shone red

from within as Isabel and Dr. Carrington, with three or four servants

behind, rode round the curving drive in front late on the Monday evening.

A face peeped from Mrs. Carroll's window as the horse's hoofs sounded on

the gravel, and by the time that Isabel, pale, wet, and worn-out with her

seventy miles' ride, was dismounted, Mistress Margaret herself was at the

door, with Anthony's face at her shoulder, and Mrs. Carroll looking over

the banisters.

Isabel was not allowed to see her father's body that night, but after she

was in bed, Lady Maxwell herself, who had been sent for when he lay

dying, came down from the Hall, and told her what there was to tell;

while Mistress Margaret and Anthony entertained Dr. Carrington below.

"Dear child," said the old lady, leaning with her elbow on the bed, and

holding the girl's hand tenderly as she talked, "it was all over in an

hour or two. It was the heart, you know. Mrs. Carroll sent for me

suddenly, on Saturday morning; and by the time I reached him he could not

speak. They had carried him upstairs from his study, where they had found

him; and laid him down on his bed, and--yes, yes--he was in pain, but he

was conscious, and he was praying I think; his lips moved. And I knelt

down by the bed and prayed aloud; he only spoke twice; and, my dear, it

was your name the first time, and the name of His Saviour the second

time. He looked at me, and I could see he was trying to speak; and then

on a sudden he spoke 'Isabel.' And I think he was asking me to take care

of you. And I nodded and said that I would do what I could, and he seemed

satisfied and shut his eyes again. And then presently Mr. Bodder began a

prayer--he had come in a moment before; they could not find him at

first--and then, and then your dear father moved a little and raised his

hand, and the minister stayed; and he was looking up as if he saw

something; and then he said once, 'Jesus' clear and loud; and, and--that

was all, dear child."

The next morning she and Anthony, with the two old ladies, one of whom

was always with them during these days, went into the darkened oak room

on the first floor, where he had died and now rested. The red curtains

made a pleasant rosy light, and it seemed to the children impossible to

believe that that serene face, scarcely more serene than in life, with

its wide closed lids under the delicate eyebrows, and contented clean-cut

mouth, and the scholarly hands closed on the breast, all in a wealth of

autumn flowers and dark copper-coloured beech leaves, were not the face

and hands of a sleeping man.

But Isabel did not utterly break down till she saw his study. She drew

the curtains aside herself, and there stood his table; his chair was

beside it, pushed back and sideways as if he had that moment left it; and

on the table itself the books she knew so well.

In the centre of the table stood his inlaid desk, with the papers lying

upon it, and his quill beside them, as if just laid down; even the

ink-pot was uncovered just as he had left it, as the agony began to lay

its hand upon his heart. She stooped and read the last sentence.

"This is the great fruit, that unspeakable benefit that they do eat and

drink of that labour and are burden, and come--" and there it stopped;

and the blinding tears rushed into the girl's eyes, as she stooped to

kiss the curved knob of the chair-arm where his dear hand had last

rested.

When all was over a day or two later the two went up to stay at the Hall,

while the housekeeper was left in charge of the Dower House. Lady Maxwell

and Mistress Margaret had been present at the parish church on the

occasion of the funeral, for the first time ever since the old Marian

priest had left; and had assisted too at the opening of the will, which

was found, tied up and docketed in one of the inner drawers of the inlaid

desk; and before its instructions were complied with, Lady Maxwell wished

to have a word or two with Isabel and Anthony.

She made an opportunity on the morning of Anthony's departure for

Cambridge, two days after the funeral, when Mistress Margaret was out of

the room, and Hubert had ridden off as usual with Piers, on the affairs

of the estate.

"My child," said she to Isabel, who was lying back passive and listless

on the window-seat. "What do you think your cousin will direct to be

done? He will scarcely wish you to leave home altogether, to stay with

him. And yet, you understand, he is your guardian."

Isabel shook her head.

"We know nothing of him," she said, wearily, "he has never been here."

"If you have a suggestion to make to him you should decide at once," the

other went on, "the courier is to go on Monday, is he not, Anthony?"

The boy nodded.

"But will he not allow us," he said, "to stay at home as usual?

Surely----"

Lady Maxwell shook her head.

"And Isabel?" she asked, "who will look after her when you are away?"

"Mrs. Carroll?" he said interrogatively.

Again she shook her head.

"He would never consent," she said, "it would not be right."

Isabel looked up suddenly, and her eyes brightened a little.

"Lady Maxwell--" she began, and then stopped, embarrassed.

"Well, my dear?"

"What is it, Isabel?" asked Anthony.

"If it were possible--but, but I could not ask it."

"If you mean Margaret, my dear"; said the old lady serenely, drawing her

needle carefully through, "it was what I thought myself; but I did not

know if you would care for that. Is that what you meant?"

"Oh, Lady Maxwell," said the girl, her face lighting up.

Then the old lady explained that it was not possible to ask them to live

permanently at the Hall, although of course Isabel must do so until an

arrangement had been made; because their father would scarcely have

wished them to be actually inmates of a Catholic house; but that he

plainly had encouraged close relations between the two houses, and

indeed, Lady Maxwell interpreted his mention of his daughter's name, and

his look as he said it, in the sense that he wished those relations to

continue. She thought therefore that there was no reason why their new

guardian's consent should not be asked to Mistress Margaret's coming over

to the Dower House to take charge of Isabel, if the girl wished it. He

had no particular interest in them; he lived a couple of hundred miles

away, and the arrangement would probably save him a great deal of trouble

and inconvenience.

"But you, Lady Maxwell," Isabel burst out, her face kindled with hope,

for she had dreaded the removal terribly, "you will be lonely here."

"Dear child," said the old lady, laying down her embroidery, "God has

been gracious to me; and my husband is coming back to me; you need not

fear for me." And she told them, with her old eyes full of happy tears,

how she had had a private word, which they must not repeat, from a

Catholic friend at Court, that all had been decided for Sir Nicholas'

release, though he did not know it himself yet, and that he would be at

home again for Advent. The prison fever was beginning to cause alarm, and

it seemed that a good fine would meet the old knight's case better than

any other execution of justice.

So then, it was decided; and as Isabel walked out to the gatehouse after

dinner beside Anthony, with her hand on his horse's neck, and as she

watched him at last ride down the village green and disappear round

behind the church, half her sorrow at losing him was swallowed up in the

practical certainty that they would meet again before Christmas in their

old home, and not in a stranger's house in the bleak North country.

On the following Thursday, Sir Nicholas' weekly letter showed evidence

that the good news of his release had begun to penetrate to him; his wife

longed to tell him all she had heard, but so many jealous eyes were on

the watch for favouritism that she had been strictly forbidden to pass on

her information. However there was little need.

"I am in hopes," he wrote, "of keeping Christmas in a merrier place than

prison. I do not mean _heaven_," he hastened to add, for fear of alarming

his wife. "Good Mr. Jakes tells me that Sir John is ill to-day, and that

he fears the gaol-fever; and if it is the gaol-fever, sweetheart, which

pray God it may not be _for Sir John's sake_, it will be the fourteenth

case in the Tower; and folks say that we shall all be let home again; but

with another good fine, they say, to keep us poor and humble, and mindful

of the Queen's Majesty her laws. However, dearest, I would gladly pay a

thousand pounds, if I had them, to be home again."

But there was news at the end of the letter that caused consternation in

one or two hearts, and sent Hubert across, storming and almost crying, to

Isabel, who was taking a turn in the dusk at sunset. She heard his step

beyond the hedge, quick and impatient, and stopped short, hesitating and

wondering.

He had behaved to her with extraordinary tact and consideration, and she

was very conscious of it. Since her sudden return ten days before from

the visit which had been meant to separate them, he had not spoken a word

to her privately, except a shy sentence or two of condolence, stammered

out with downcast eyes, but which from the simplicity and shortness of

the words had brought up a sob from her heart. She guessed that he knew

why she had been sent to Northampton, and had determined not to take

advantage in any way of her sorrow. Every morning he had disappeared

before she came down, and did not come back till supper, where he sat

silent and apart, and yet, when an occasion offered itself, behaved with

a quick attentive deference that showed her where his thoughts had been.

Now she stood, wondering and timid, at that hurried insistent step on the

other side of the hedge. As she hesitated, he came quickly through the

doorway and stopped short.

"Mistress Isabel," he said, with all his reserve gone, and looking at her

imploringly, but with the old familiar air that she loved, "have you

heard? I am to go as soon as my father comes back. Oh! it is a shame!"

His voice was full of tears, and his eyes were bright and angry. Her

heart leapt up once and then seemed to cease beating.

"Go?" she said; and even as she spoke knew from her own dismay how dear

that quiet chivalrous presence was to her.

"Yes," he went on in the same voice. "Oh! I know I should not speak;

and--and especially now at all times; but I could not bear it; nor that

you should think it was my will to go."

She stood still looking at him.

"May I walk with you a little," he said, "but--I must not say much--I

promised my father."

And then as they walked he began to pour it out.

"It is some old man in Durham," he said, "and I am to see to his estates.

My father will not want me here when he comes back, and, and it is to be

soon. He has had the offer for me; and has written to tell me. There is

no choice."

She had turned instinctively towards the house, and the high roofs and

chimneys were before them, dark against the luminous sky.

"No, no," said Hubert, laying his hand on her arm; and at the touch she

thrilled so much that she knew she must not stay, and went forward

resolutely up the steps of the terrace.

"Ah! let me speak," he said; "I have not troubled you much, Mistress

Isabel."

She hesitated again a moment.

"In my father's room," he went on, "and I will bring the letter."

She nodded and passed into the hall without speaking, and turned to Sir

Nicholas' study; while Hubert's steps dashed up the stairs to his

mother's room. Isabel went in and stood on the hearth in the firelight

that glowed and wavered round the room on the tapestry and the prie-dieu

and the table where Hubert had been sitting and the tall shuttered

windows, leaning her head against the mantelpiece, doubtful and

miserable.

"Listen," said Hubert, bursting into the room a moment later with the

sheet open in his hand.

"'Tell Hubert that Lord Arncliffe needs a gentleman to take charge of his

estates; he is too old now himself, and has none to help him. I have had

the offer for Hubert, and have accepted it; he must go as soon as I have

returned. I am sorry to lose the lad, but since James----'" and Hubert

broke off. "I must not read that," he said.

Isabel still stood, stretching her hands out to the fire, turned a little

away from him.

"But what can I say?" went on the lad passionately, "I must go; and--and

God knows for how long, five or six years maybe; and I shall come back

and find you--and find you----" and a sob rose up and silenced him.

"Hubert," she said, turning and looking with a kind of wavering

steadiness into his shadowed eyes, and even then noticing the clean-cut

features and the smooth curve of his jaw with the firelight on it, "you

ought not----"

"I know, I know; I promised my father; but there are some things I cannot

bear. Of course I do not want you to promise anything; but I thought that

if perhaps you could tell me that you thought--that you thought there

would be no one else; and that when I came back----"

"Hubert," she said again, resolutely, "it is impossible: our

religions----"

"But I would do anything, I think. Besides, in five years so much may

happen. You might become a Catholic--or--or, I might come to see that the

Protestant Religion was nearly the same, or as true at least--or--or--so

much might happen.--Can you not tell me anything before I go?"

A keen ray of hope had pierced her heart as he spoke; and she scarcely

knew what she said.

"But, Hubert, even if I were to say----"

He seized her hands and kissed them again and again.

"Oh! God bless you, Isabel! Now I can go so happily. And I will not speak

of it again; you can trust me; it will not be hard for you."

She tried to draw her hands away, but he still held them tightly in his

own strong hands, and looked into her face. His eyes were shining.

"Yes, yes, I know you have promised nothing. I hold you to nothing. You

are as free as ever to do what you will with me. But,"--and he lifted her

hands once more and kissed them, and dropped them; seized his cap and was

gone.

Isabel was left alone in a tumult of thought and emotion. He had taken

her by storm; she had not guessed how desperately weak she was towards

him, until he had come to her like this in a whirlwind of passion and

stood trembling and almost crying, with the ruddy firelight on his face,

and his eyes burning out of shadow. She felt fascinated still by that

mingling of a boy's weakness and sentiment and of a man's fire and

purpose; and she sank down on her knees before the hearth and looked

wonderingly at her hands which he had kissed so ardently, now transparent

and flaming against the light as if with love. Then as she looked at the

red heart of the fire the sudden leaping of her heart quieted, and there

crept on her a glow of steady desire to lean on the power of this tall

young lover of hers; she was so utterly alone without him it seemed as if

there were no choice left; he had come and claimed her in virtue of the

master-law, and she--how much had she yielded? She had not promised; but

she had shown evidently her real heart in those half dozen words; and he

had interpreted them for her; and she dared not in honesty repudiate his

interpretation. And so she knelt there, clasping and unclasping her

hands, in a whirl of delight and trembling; all the bounds of that sober

inner life seemed for the moment swept away; she almost began to despise

its old coldnesses and limitations. How shadowy after all was the love of

God, compared with this burning tide that was bearing her along on its

bosom!...

She sank lower and lower into herself among the black draperies, clasping

those slender hands tightly across her breast.

Suddenly a great log fell with a crash, the red glow turned into leaping

flames; the whole dark room seemed alive with shadows that fled to and

fro, and she knelt upright quickly and looked round her, terrified and

ashamed.--What was she doing here? Was it so soon then that she was

setting aside the will of her father, who trusted and loved her so well,

and who lay out there in the chancel vault? Ah! she had no right here in

this room--Hubert's room now, with his cap and whip lying across the

papers and the estate-book, and his knife and the broken jesses on the

seat of the chair beside her. There was his step overhead again. She must

be gone before he came back.

There was high excitement on the estate and in the village a week or two

later when the rumour of Sir Nicholas' return was established, and the

paper had been pinned up to the gatehouse stating, in Lady Maxwell's own

handwriting, that he would be back sometime in the week before Advent

Sunday. Reminiscences were exchanged of the glorious day when the old

knight came of age, over forty years ago; of the sports on the green, of

the quintain-tilting for the gentlefolks, and the archery in the meadow

behind the church for the vulgar; of the high mass and the dinner that

followed it. It was rumoured that Mr. Hubert and Mr. Piers had already

selected the ox that was to be roasted whole, and that materials for the

bonfire were in process of collection in the woodyard of the home farm.

Sir Nicholas' letters became more and more emphatically underlined and

incoherent as the days went on, and Lady Maxwell less and less willing

for Isabel to read them; but the girl often found the old lady hastily

putting away the thin sheets which she had just taken out to read to

herself once again, on which her dear lord had scrawled down his very

heart itself, as if his courting of her were all to do again.

It was not until the Saturday morning that the courier rode in through

the gatehouse with the news that Sir Nicholas was to be released that

day, and would be down if possible before nightfall. All the men on the

estate were immediately called in and sent home to dress themselves; and

an escort of a dozen grooms and servants led by Hubert and Piers rode out

at once on the north road, with torches ready for kindling, to meet the

party and bring them home; and all other preparations were set forward at

once.

Towards eight o'clock Lady Maxwell was so anxious and restless that

Isabel slipped out and went down to the gatehouse to look out for herself

if there were any signs of the approach of the party. She went up to one

of the little octagonal towers, and looked out towards the green.

It was a clear starlight night, but towards the village all was bathed in

the dancing ruddy light of the bonfire. It was burning on a little mound

at the upper end of the green, just below where Isabel stood, and a heavy

curtain of smoke drifted westwards. As she looked down on it she saw

against it the tall black posts of the gigantic jack and the slowly

revolving carcass of the ox; and round about the stirring crowd of the

village folk, their figures black on this side, luminous on that. She

could even make out the cassock and square cap of Mr. Bodder as he moved

among his flock. The rows of houses on either side, bright and clear at

this end, melted away into darkness at the lower end of the green, where

on the right the church tower rose up, blotting out the stars, itself

just touched with ruddy light, and on the top of which, like a large star

itself, burned the torch of the watcher who was looking out towards the

north road. There was a ceaseless hum of noise from the green, pierced by

the shrill cries of the children round the glowing mass of the bonfire,

but there was no disorder, as the barrels that had been rolled out of the

Hall cellars that afternoon still stood untouched beneath the Rectory

garden-wall. Isabel contrasted in her mind this pleasant human tumult

with the angry roaring she had heard from these same country-folk a few

months before, when she had followed Lady Maxwell out to the rescue of

the woman who had injured her; and she wondered at these strange souls,

who attended a Protestant service, but were so fierce and so genial in

their defence and welcome of a Catholic squire.

As she thought, there was a sudden movement of the light on the church

tower; it tossed violently up and down, and a moment later the jubilant

clangour of the bells broke out. There was a sudden stir in the figures

on the green, and a burst of cheering rose. Isabel strained her eyes

northwards, but the road took a turn beyond the church and she could see

nothing but darkness and low-hung stars and one glimmering window. She

turned instinctively to the house behind her, and there was the door

flung wide, and she could make out the figures of the two ladies against

the brightly lit hall beyond, wrapped like herself, in cloak and hood,

for the night was frosty and cold.

As she turned once more she heard the clear rattle of trotting hoofs on

the hard road, and a glow began to be visible at the lower dark end of

the village. The cheering rose higher, and the bells were all clashing

together in melodious discord, as in the angle of the road a group of

tossing torches appeared. Then she could make out the horsemen; three

riding together, and the others as escort round them. The crowd had

poured off the grass on to the road by now, and the horses were coming up

between two shouting gesticulating lines which closed after them as they

went. Now she could make out the white hair of Sir Nicholas, as he bowed

bare-headed right and left; and Hubert's feathered cap, on one side of

him, and Mr. Boyd's black hat on the other. They had passed the bonfire

now, and were coming up the avenue, the crowds still streaming after

them, and the church tower bellowing rough music overhead. Isabel leaned

out over the battlements, and saw beneath her the two old ladies waiting

just outside the gate by the horse-block; and then she drew back, her

eyes full of tears, for she saw Sir Nicholas' face as he caught sight of

his wife.

There was a sudden silence as the horses drew up; and the crowds ceased

shouting, and when Isabel leaned over again Sir Nicholas was on the

horse-block, the two ladies immediately behind him, and the people

pressing forward to hear his voice. It was a very short speech; and

Isabel overhead could not catch more than detached phrases of it, "for

the faith"--"my wife and you all"--"home again"--"my son Hubert

here"--"you and your families"--"the Catholic religion"--"the Queen's

grace"--"God save her Majesty."

Then again the cheering broke out; and Isabel crossed over to see them

pass up to the house and to the bright door set wide for them, and even

as she watched them go up the steps, and Hubert's figure close behind,

she suddenly dropped her forehead on to the cold battlement, and drew a

sharp breath or two, for she remembered again what it all meant to him

and to herself.

PART II

CHAPTER I

ANTHONY IN LONDON

The development of a nation is strangely paralleled by the development of

an individual. There comes in both a period of adolescence, of the

stirring of new powers, of an increase of strength, of the dawn of new

ideals, of the awaking of self-consciousness; contours become defined and

abrupt, awkward and hasty movements succeed to the grace of childhood;

and there is a curious mingling of refinement and brutality, stupidity

and tenderness; the will is subject to whims; it is easily roused and not

so easily quieted. Yet in spite of the attendant discomforts the whole

period is undeniably one of growth.

The reign of Elizabeth coincided with this stage in the development of

England. The young vigour was beginning to stir--and Hawkins and Drake

taught the world that it was so, and that when England stretched herself

catastrophe abroad must follow. She loved finery and feathers and velvet,

and to see herself on the dramatic stage and to sing her love-songs

there, as a growing maid dresses up and leans on her hand and looks into

her own eyes in the mirror--and Marlowe and Greene and Shakespeare are

witnesses to it. Yet she loved to hang over the arena too and watch the

bear-baiting and see the blood and foam and listen to the snarl of the

hounds, as a lad loves sport and things that minister death. Her policy,

too, under Elizabeth as her genius, was awkward and ill-considered and

capricious, and yet strong and successful in the end, as a growing lad,

while he is clumsier, yet manages to leap higher than a year ago.

And once more, to carry the parallel still further, during the middle

period of the reign, while the balance of parties and powers remained

much the same, principles and tendencies began to assert themselves more

definitely, just as muscles and sinews begin to appear through the round

contour of the limbs of a growing child.

Thus, from 1571 to 1577, while there was no startling reversal of

elements in the affairs of England, the entire situation became more

defined. The various parties, though they scarcely changed in their

mutual relations, yet continued to develop swiftly along their respective

lines, growing more pronounced and less inclined to compromise; foreign

enmities and expectations became more acute; plots against the Queen's

life more frequent and serious, and the countermining of them under

Walsingham more patient and skilful; competition and enterprise in trade

more strenuous; Scottish affairs more complicated; movements of revolt

and repression in Ireland more violent.

What was true of politics was also true of religious matters, for the two

were inextricably mingled. The Puritans daily became more clamorous and

intolerant; their "Exercises" more turbulent, and their demands more

unreasonable and one-sided. The Papists became at once more numerous and

more strict; and the Government measures more stern in consequence. The

act of '71 made it no less a crime than High Treason to reconcile or be

reconciled to the Church of Rome, to give effect to a Papal Bull, to be

in possession of any muniments of superstition, or to declare the Queen a

heretic or schismatic. The Church of England, too, under the wise

guidance of Parker, had begun to shape her course more and more

resolutely along the lines of inclusiveness and moderation; to realise

herself as representing the religious voice of a nation that was widely

divided on matters of faith; and to attempt to include within her fold

every individual that was not an absolute fanatic in the Papist or

Puritan direction.

Thus, in every department, in home and foreign politics, in art and

literature, and in religious independence, England was rising and shaking

herself free; the last threads that bound her to the Continent were

snapped by the Reformation, and she was standing with her soul, as she

thought, awake and free at last, conscious of her beauty and her

strength, ready to step out at last before the world, as a dominant and

imperious power.

Anthony Norris had been arrested, like so many others, by the vision of

this young country of his, his mother and mistress, who stood there,

waiting to be served. He had left Cambridge in '73, and for three years

had led a somewhat aimless life; for his guardian allowed him a generous

income out of his father's fortune. He had stayed with Hubert in the

north, had yawned and stretched himself at Great Keynes, had gone to and

fro among friends' houses, and had at last come to the conclusion, to

which he was aided by a chorus of advisers, that he was wasting his time.

He had begun then to look round him for some occupation, and in the final

choice of it his early religious training had formed a large element. It

had kept alive in him a certain sense of the supernatural, that his

exuberance of physical life might otherwise have crushed; and now as he

looked about to see how he could serve his country, he became aware that

her ecclesiastical character had a certain attraction for him; he had had

indeed an idea of taking Orders; but he had relinquished this by now,

though he still desired if he might to serve the National Church in some

other capacity. There was much in the Church of England to appeal to her

sons; if there was a lack of unity in her faith and policy, yet that was

largely out of sight, and her bearing was gallant and impressive. She had

great wealth, great power and great dignity. The ancient buildings and

revenues were hers; the civil power was at her disposal, and the Queen

was eager to further her influence, and to protect her bishops from the

encroaching power of Parliament, claiming only for the crown the right to

be the point of union for both the secular and ecclesiastical sections of

the nation, and to stamp by her royal approval or annul by her veto the

acts of Parliament and Convocation alike. It seemed then to Anthony's

eyes that the Church of England had a tremendous destiny before her, as

the religious voice of the nation that was beginning to make itself so

dominant in the council of the world, and that there was no limit to the

influence she might exercise by disciplining the exuberant strength of

England, and counteracting by her soberness and self-restraint the

passionate fanaticism of the Latin nations. So little by little in place

of the shadowy individualism that was all that he knew of religion, there

rose before him the vision of a living church, who came forth terrible as

an army with banners, surrounded by all the loyalty that nationalism

could give her, with the Queen herself as her guardian, and great princes

and prelates as her supporters, while at the wheels of her splendid car

walked her hot-blooded chivalrous sons, who served her and spread her

glories by land and sea, not perhaps chiefly for the sake of her

spiritual claims, but because she was bone of their bone; and was no less

zealous than themselves for the name and character of England.

When, therefore, towards the end of '76, Anthony received the offer of a

position in the household of the Archbishop of Canterbury, through the

recommendation of the father of one of his Cambridge friends, he accepted

it with real gratitude and enthusiasm.

The post to which he was appointed was that of Gentleman of the Horse.

His actual duties were not very arduous owing to the special

circumstances of Archbishop Grindal; and he had a good deal of time to

himself. Briefly, they were as follows--He had to superintend the Yeoman

of the Horse, and see that he kept full accounts of all the horses in

stable or at pasture, and of all the carriages and harness and the like.

Every morning he had to present himself to the Archbishop and receive

stable-orders for the day, and to receive from the yeoman accounts of the

stables. Every month he examined the books of the yeoman before passing

them on to the steward. His permission too was necessary before any

guest's or stranger's horse might be cared for in the Lambeth stables.

He was responsible also for all the men and boys connected with the

stable; to engage them, watch their morals and even the performance of

their religious duties, and if necessary report them for dismissal to the

steward of the household. In Archbishop Parker's time this had been a

busy post, as the state observed at Lambeth and Croydon was very

considerable; but Grindal was of a more retiring nature, disliking as was

said, "lordliness"; and although still the household was an immense

affair, in its elaborateness and splendour beyond almost any but royal

households of the present day, still Anthony's duties were far from

heavy. The Archbishop indeed at first dispensed with this office

altogether, and concentrated all the supervision of the stable on the

yeoman, and Anthony was the first and only Gentleman of the Horse that

Archbishop Grindal employed. The disgrace and punishment under which the

Archbishop fell so early in his archiepiscopate made this particular post

easier than it would even otherwise have been; as fewer equipages were

required when the Archbishop was confined to his house, and the

establishment was yet further reduced.

Ordinarily then his duties were over by eleven o'clock, except when

special arrangements were to be made. He rose early, waited upon the

Archbishop by eight o'clock, and received his orders for the day; then

interviewed the yeoman; sometimes visited the stables to receive

complaints, and was ready by half-past ten to go to the chapel for the

morning prayers with the rest of the household. At eleven he dined at the

Steward's table in the great hall, with the other principal officers of

the household, the chaplain, the secretaries, and the gentlemen ushers,

with guests of lesser degree. This great hall with its two entrances at

the lower end near the gateway, its magnificent hammer-beam roof, its

daïs, its stained glass, was a worthy place of entertainment, and had

been the scene of many great feasts and royal visits in the times of

previous archbishops in favour with the sovereign, and of a splendid

banquet at the beginning of Grindal's occupancy of the see. Now, however,

things were changed. There were seldom many distinguished persons to dine

with the disgraced prelate; and he himself preferred too to entertain

those who could not repay him again, after the precept of the gospel; and

besides the provision for the numerous less important guests who dined

daily at Lambeth, a great tub was set at the lower end of the hall as it

had been in Parker's time, and every day after dinner under the steward's

direction was filled with food from the tables, which was afterwards

distributed at the gate to poor people of the neighbourhood.

After dinner Anthony's time was often his own, until the evening prayers

at six, followed by supper again spread in the hall. It was necessary for

him always to sleep in the house, unless leave was obtained from the

steward. This gentleman, Mr. John Scot, an Esquire, took a fancy to

Anthony, and was indulgent to him in many ways; and Anthony had, as a

matter of fact, little difficulty in coming and going as he pleased so

soon as his morning duties were done.

Lambeth House had been lately restored by Parker, and was now a very

beautiful and well-kept place. Among other repairs and buildings he had

re-roofed the great hall that stood just within Morton's gateway; he had

built a long pier into the Thames where the barge could be entered easily

even at low tide; he had rebuilt the famous summerhouse of Cranmer's in

the garden, besides doing many sanitary alterations and repairs; and the

house was well kept up in Grindal's time.

Anthony soon added a great affection and tenderness to the awe that he

felt for the Archbishop, who was almost from the first a pathetic and

touching figure. When Anthony first entered on his duties in November

'76, he found the Archbishop in his last days of freedom and good favour

with the Queen. Elizabeth, he soon learnt from the gossip of the

household, was as determined to put down the Puritan "prophesyings" as

the popish services; for both alike tended to injure the peace she was

resolved to maintain. Rumours were flying to and fro; the Archbishop was

continually going across the water to confer with his friends and the

Lords of the Council, and messengers came and went all day; and it was

soon evident that the Archbishop did not mean to yield. It was said that

his Grace had sent a letter to her Majesty bidding her not to meddle with

what did not concern her, telling her that she, too, would one day have

to render account before Christ's tribunal, and warning her of God's

anger if she persisted.

Her Majesty had sworn like a trooper, a royal page said one day as he

lounged over the fire in the guard-room, and had declared that if she was

like Ozeas and Ahab and the rest, as Grindal had said she was, she would

take care that he, at least, should be like Micaiah the son of Imlah,

before she had done with him. Then it began to leak out that Elizabeth

was sending her commands to the bishops direct instead of through their

Metropolitan; and, as the days went by, it became more and more evident

that disgrace was beginning to shadow Lambeth. The barges that drew up at

the watergate were fewer as summer went on, and the long tables in hall

were more and more deserted; even the Archbishop himself seemed silent

and cast down. Anthony used to watch him from his window going up and

down the little walled garden that looked upon the river, with his hands

clasped behind him and his black habit gathered up in them, and his chin

on his breast. He would be longer than ever too in chapel after the

morning prayer, and the company would wait and wonder in the anteroom

till his Grace came in and gave the signal for dinner. And at last the

blow fell.

On one day in June, Anthony, who had been on a visit to Isabel at Great

Keynes, returned to Lambeth in time for morning prayer and dinner just

before the gates were shut by the porter, having ridden up early with a

couple of grooms. There seemed to him to be an air of constraint abroad

as the guests and members of the household gathered for dinner. There

were no guests of high dignity that day, and the Archbishop sat at his

own table silent and apart. Anthony, from his place at the steward's

table, noticed that he ate very sparingly, and that he appeared even more

preoccupied and distressed than usual. His short-sighted eyes, kind and

brown, surrounded by wrinkles from his habit of peering closely at

everything, seemed full of sadness and perplexity, and his hand fumbled

with his bread continually. Anthony did not like to ask anything of his

neighbours, as there were one or two strangers dining at the steward's

table that day; and the moment dinner was over, and grace had been said

and the Archbishop retired with his little procession preceded by a white

wand, an usher came running back to tell Master Norris that his Grace

desired to see him at once in the inner cloister.

Anthony hastened round through the court between the hall and the river,

and found the Archbishop walking up and down in his black habit with the

round flapped cap, that, as a Puritan, he preferred to the square

head-dress of the more ecclesiastically-minded clergy, still looking

troubled and cast down, continually stroking his dark forked beard, and

talking to one of his secretaries. Anthony stood at a little distance at

the open side of the court near the river, cap in hand, waiting till the

Archbishop should beckon him. The two went up and down in the shade in

the open court outside the cloisters, where the pump stood, and where the

pulpit had been erected for the Queen's famous visit to his predecessor;

when she had sat in a gallery over the cloister and heard the chaplain's

sermon. On the north rose up the roof of the chapel. The cloisters

themselves were poor buildings--little more than passages with a

continuous row of square windows running along them the height of a man's

head.

After a few minutes the secretary left the Archbishop with an obeisance,

and hastened into the house through the cloister, and presently the

Archbishop, after a turn or two more with the same grave air, peered

towards Anthony and then called him.

Anthony immediately came towards him and received orders that half a

dozen horses with grooms should be ready as soon as possible, who were to

receive orders from Mr. Richard Frampton, the secretary; and that three

or four horses more were to be kept saddled till seven o'clock that

evening in case further messages were wanted.

"And I desire you, Mr. Norris," said the Archbishop, "to let the men

under your charge know that their master is in trouble with the Queen's

Grace; and that they can serve him best by being prompt and obedient."

Anthony bowed to the Archbishop, and was going to withdraw, but the

Archbishop went on:

"I will tell you," he said, "for your private ear only at present, that I

have received an order this day from my Lords of the Council, bidding me

to keep to my house for six months; and telling me that I am sequestered

by the Queen's desire. I know not how this will end, but the cause is

that I will not do her Grace's will in the matter of the Exercises, as I

wrote to tell her so; and I am determined, by God's grace, not to yield

in this thing; but to govern the charge committed to me as He gives me

light. That is all, Mr. Norris."

The whole household was cast into real sorrow by the blow that had fallen

at last on the master; he was "loving and grateful to servants"; and was

free and liberal in domestic matters, and it needed only a hint that he

was in trouble, for his officers and servants to do their utmost for him.

Anthony's sympathy was further aroused by the knowledge that the Papists,

too, hated the old man, and longed to injure him. There had been a great

increase of Catholics this year; the Archbishop of York had reported that

"a more stiff-necked, wilful, or obstinate people did he never hear of";

and from Hereford had come a lament that conformity itself was a mockery,

as even the Papists that attended church were a distraction when they got

there, and John Hareley was instanced as "reading so loud upon his Latin

popish primer (that he understands not) that he troubles both minister

and people." In November matters were so serious that the Archbishop felt

himself obliged to take steps to chastise the recusants; and in December

came the news of the execution of Cuthbert Maine at Launceston in

Cornwall.

How much the Catholics resented this against the Archbishop was brought

to Anthony's notice a day or two later. He was riding back for morning

prayer after an errand in Battersea, one frosty day, and had just come in

sight of Morton's Gateway, when he observed a man standing by it, who

turned and ran, on hearing the horse's footsteps, past Lambeth Church and

disappeared in the direction of the meadows behind Essex House. Anthony

checked his horse, doubtful whether to follow or not, but decided to see

what it was that the man had left pinned to the door. He rode up and

detached it, and found it was a violent and scurrilous attack upon the

Archbishop for his supposed share in the death of the two Papists. It

denounced him as a "bloody pseudo-minister," compared him to Pilate, and

bade him "look to his congregation of lewd and profane persons that he

named the Church of England," for that God would avenge the blood of his

saints speedily upon their murderers.

Anthony carried it into the hall, and after showing it to Mr. Scot, put

it indignantly into the fire. The steward raised his eyebrows.

"Why so, Master Norris?" he asked.

"Why," said Anthony sharply, "you would not have me frame it, and show to

my lord."

"I am not sure," said the other, "if you desire to injure the Papists.

Such foul nonsense is their best condemnation. It is best to keep

evidence against a traitor, not destroy it. Besides, we might have caught

the knave, and now we cannot," he added, looking at the black shrivelling

sheet half regretfully.

"It is a mystery to me," said Anthony, "how there can be Papists."

"Why, they hate England," said the steward, briefly, as the bell rang for

morning prayer. As Anthony followed him along the gallery, he thought

half guiltily of Sir Nicholas and his lady, and wondered whether that was

true of them. But he had no doubt that it was true of Catholics as a

class; they had ceased to be English; the cause of the Pope and the Queen

were irreconcilable; and so the whole incident added more fuel to the hot

flame of patriotism and loyalty that burnt so bright in the lad's soul.

But it was fanned yet higher by a glimpse he had of Court-life; and he

owed it to Mary Corbet whom he had only seen momentarily in public once

or twice, and never to speak to since her visit to Great Keynes over six

years ago. He had blushed privately and bitten his lip a good many times

in the interval, when he thought of his astonishing infatuation, and yet

the glamour had never wholly faded; and his heart quickened perceptibly

when he opened a note one day, brought by a royal groom, that asked him

to come that very afternoon if he could, to Whitehall Palace, where

Mistress Corbet would be delighted to see him and renew their

acquaintance.

As he came, punctual to the moment, into the gallery overlooking the

tilt-yard, the afternoon sun was pouring in through the oriel window, and

the yard beyond seemed all a haze of golden light and dust. He heard an

exclamation, as he paused, dazzled, and the servant closed the door

behind him; and there came forward to him in the flood of glory, the same

resplendent figure, all muslin and jewels, that he remembered so well,

with the radiant face, looking scarcely older, with the same dancing eyes

and scarlet lips. All the old charm seemed to envelop him in a moment as

he saluted her with all the courtesy of which he was capable.

"Ah!" she cried, "how happy I am to see you again--those dear days at

Great Keynes!" And she took both his hands with such ardour that poor

Anthony was almost forced to think that he had never been out of her

thoughts since.

"How can I serve you, Mistress Corbet?" he asked.

"Serve me? Why, by talking to me, and telling me of the country. What

does the lad mean? Come and sit here," she said, and she drew him to the

window seat.

Anthony looked out into the shining haze of the tilt-yard. Some one with

a long pole was struggling violently on the back of a horse, jerking the

reins and cursing audibly.

"Look at that fool," said Mary, "he thinks his horse as great a dolt as

himself. Chris, Chris," she screamed through her hands--"you sodden ass;

be quieter with the poor beast--soothe him, soothe him. He doesn't know

what you want of him with your foul temper and your pole going like a

windmill about his ears."

The cursing and jerking ceased, and a red furious face with thick black

beard and hair looked up. But before the rider could speak, Mary went on

again:

"There now, Chris, he is as quiet as a sheep again. Now take him at it."

"What does he want?" asked Anthony. "I can scarcely see for the dust."

"Why, he's practising at the quintain;--ah! ah!" she cried out again, as

the quintain was missed and swung round with a hard buffet on the man's

back as he tore past. "Going to market, Chris? You've got a sturdy

shepherd behind you. Baa, baa, black sheep."

"Who's that?" asked Anthony, as the tall horseman, as if driven by the

storm of contumely from the window, disappeared towards the stable.

"Why that's Chris Hatton--whom the Queen calls her sheep, and he's as

silly as one, too, with his fool's face and his bleat and his great eyes.

He trots about after her Grace, too, like a pet lamb. Bah! I'm sick of

him. That's enough of the ass; tell me about Isabel."

Then they fell to talking about Isabel; and Mary eyed him as he answered

her questions.

"Then she isn't a Papist, yet?" she asked.

Anthony's face showed such consternation that she burst out laughing.

"There, there, there!" she cried. "No harm's done. Then that tall lad,

who was away last time I was there--well, I suppose he's not turned

Protestant?"

Anthony's face was still more bewildered.

"Why, my dear lad," she said, "where are your eyes?"

"Mistress Corbet," he burst out at last, "I do not know what you mean.

Hubert has been in Durham for years. There is no talk----" and he

stopped.

Mary's face became sedate again.

"Well, well," she said, "I always was a tattler. It seems I am wrong

again. Forgive me, Master Anthony."

Anthony was indeed astonished at her fantastic idea. Of course he knew

that Hubert had once been fond of Isabel, but that was years ago, when

they had been all children together. Why, he reflected, he too had been

foolish once--and he blushed a little.

Then they went on to talk of Great Keynes, Sir Nicholas, and Mr.

Stewart's arrest and death; and Mary asked Anthony to excuse her interest

in such matters, but Papistry had always been her religion, and what

could a poor girl do but believe what she was taught? Then they went on

to speak of more recent affairs, and Mary made him describe to her his

life at Lambeth, and everything he did from the moment he got up to the

moment he went to bed again; and whether the Archbishop was a kind

master, and how long they spent at prayers, and how many courses they had

at dinner; and Anthony grew more and more animated and confidential--she

was so friendly and interested and pretty, as she leaned towards him and

questioned and listened, and the faint scent of violet from her dress

awakened his old memories of her.

And then at last she approached the subject on which she had chiefly

wished to see him--which was that he should speak to the steward at

Lambeth on behalf of a young man who was to be dismissed, it seemed, from

the Archbishop's service, because his sister had lately turned Papist and

fled to a convent abroad. It was a small matter; and Anthony readily

promised to do his best, and, if necessary, to approach the Archbishop

himself: and Mistress Corbet was profusely grateful.

They had hardly done talking of the matter, when a trumpet blew suddenly

somewhere away behind the building they were in. Mary held up a white

finger and put her head on one side.

"That will be the Ambassador," she said.

Anthony looked at her interrogatively.

"Why, you country lad!" she said, "come and see."

She jumped up, and he followed her down the gallery, and along through

interminable corridors and ante-chambers, and up and down the stairs of

this enormous palace; and Anthony grew bewildered and astonished as he

went at the doors on all sides, and the roofs that ranged themselves

every way as he looked out. And at last Mary stopped at a window, and

pointed out.

The courtyard beneath was alive with colour and movement. In front of the

entrance opposite waited the great gilded state carriage, and another was

just driving away. On one side a dozen ladies on grey horses were drawn

up, to follow behind the Queen when she should come out; and a double row

of liveried servants were standing bare-headed round the empty carriage.

The rest of the court was filled with Spanish and English nobles,

mounted, with their servants on foot; all alike in splendid costumes--the

Spaniards with rich chains about their necks, and tall broad-brimmed hats

decked with stones and pearls, and the Englishmen in feathered buckled

caps and short cloaks thrown back. Two or three trumpeters stood on the

steps of the porch. Anthony did not see much state at Lambeth, and the

splendour and gaiety of this seething courtyard exhilarated him, and he

stared down at it all, fascinated, while Mary Corbet poured out a caustic

commentary:

"There is the fat fool Chris again, all red with his tilting. I would

like to baa at him again, but I dare not with all these foreign folk.

There is Leicester, that tall man with a bald forehead in the cap with

the red feather, on the white horse behind the carriage--he always keeps

close to the Queen. He is the enemy of your prelate, Master Anthony, you

know.... That is Oxford, just behind him on the chestnut. Yes, look well

at him. He is the prince of the tilt-yard; none can stand against him.

You would say he was at his nine-pins, when he rides against them all....

And he can do more than tilt. These sweet-washed gloves"--and she flapped

an embroidered pair before Anthony--"these he brought to England. God

bless and reward him for it!" she added fervently.... "I do not see

Burghley. Eh! but he is old and gouty these days; and loves a cushion and

a chair and a bit of flannel better than to kneel before her Grace. You

know, she allows him to sit when he confers with her. But then, she is

ever prone to show mercy to bearded persons.... Ah! there is dear Sidney;

that is a sweet soul. But what does he do here among the stones and

mortar when he has the beeches of Penshurst to walk beneath. He is not so

wise as I thought him.... But I must say I grow weary of his nymphs and

his airs of Olympus. And for myself, I do not see that Flora and

Phoebus and Maia and the rest are a great gain, instead of Our Lady and

Saint Christopher and the court of heaven. But then I am a Papist and not

a heathen, and therefore blind and superstitious. Is that not so, Master

Anthony?... And there is Maitland beside him, with the black velvet cap

and the white feather, and his cross eyes and mouth. Now I wish he were

at Penshurst, or Bath--or better still, at Jericho, for it is further

off. I cannot bear that fellow.... Why, Sussex is going on the water,

too, I see. Now what brings him here? I should have thought his affairs

gave him enough to think of.... There he is, with his groom behind him,

on the other chestnut. I am astonished at him. He is all for this French

marriage, you know. So you may figure to yourself Mendoza's love for him!

They will be like two cats together on the barge; spitting and snarling

softly at one another. Her Grace loves to balance folk like that; first

one stretches his claws, and then the other; then one arches his back and

snarls, and the other scratches his face for him; and then when all is

flying fur and blasphemy, off slips her Grace and does what she will."

It was an astonishing experience for Anthony. He had stepped out from his

workaday life among the grooms and officers and occasional glimpses of

his lonely old master, into an enchanted region, where great personages

whose very names were luminous with fame, now lived and breathed and

looked cheerful or sullen before his very eyes; and one who knew them in

their daily life stood by him and commented and interpreted them for him.

He listened and stared, dazed with the strangeness of it all.

Mistress Corbet was proceeding to express her views upon the foreign

element that formed half the pageant, when the shrill music broke out

again in the palace, and the trumpeters on the steps took it up; and a

stir and bustle began. Then out of the porch began to stream a

procession, like a river of colour and jewels, pouring from the foot of

the carved and windowed wall, and eddying in a tumbled pool about the

great gilt carriage;--ushers and footmen and nobles and ladies and pages

in bewildering succession. Anthony pressed his forehead to the glass as

he watched, with little exclamations, and Mary watched him, amused and

interested by his enthusiasm.

And last moved the great canopy bending and swaying under the doorway,

and beneath it, like two gorgeous butterflies, at the sight of whom all

the standing world fell on its knees, came the pale Elizabeth with her

auburn hair, and the brown-faced Mendoza, side by side; and entered the

carriage with the five plumes atop and the caparisoned horses that

stamped and tossed their jingling heads. The yard was already emptying

fast, _en route_ for Chelsea Stairs; and as soon as the two were seated,

the shrill trumpets blew again, and the halberdiers moved off with the

carriage in the midst, the great nobles going before, and the ladies

behind. The later comers mounted as quickly as possible, as their horses

were brought in from the stable entrance, and clattered away, and in five

minutes the yard was empty, except for a few sentries at their posts, and

a servant or two lounging at the doorway; and as Anthony still stared at

the empty pavement and the carpeted steps, far away from the direction of

the Abbey came the clear call of the horns to tell the loyal folk that

the Queen was coming.

It was a great inspiration for Anthony. He had seen world-powers

incarnate below him in the glittering rustling figure of the Queen, and

the dark-eyed courtly Ambassador in his orders and jewels at her side.

There they had sat together in one carriage; the huge fiery realm of the

south, whose very name was redolent with passion and adventure and

boundless wealth; and the little self-contained northern kingdom, now

beginning to stretch its hands, and quiver all along its tingling sinews

and veins with fresh adolescent life. And Anthony knew that he was one of

the cells of this young organism; and that in him as well as in Elizabeth

and this sparkling creature at his side ran the fresh red blood of

England. They were all one in the possession of a common life; and his

heart burned as he thought of it.

After he had parted from Mary he rode back to Westminster, and crossed

the river by the horse-ferry that plied there. And even as he landed and

got his beast, with a deal of stamping and blowing, off the echoing

boards on to the clean gravel again, there came down the reaches of the

river the mellow sound of music across a mile of water, mingled with the

deep rattle of oars, and sparkles of steel and colour glittered from the

far-away royal barges in the autumn sunshine; and the lad thought with

wonder how the two great powers so savagely at war upon the salt sea,

were at peace here, sitting side by side on silken cushions and listening

to the same trumpets of peace upon the flowing river.

CHAPTER II

SOME NEW LESSONS

The six years that followed Sir Nicholas' return and Hubert's departure

for the North had passed uneventfully at Great Keynes. The old knight had

been profoundly shocked that any Catholic, especially an agent so

valuable as Mr. Stewart, should have found his house a death-trap; and

although he continued receiving his friends and succouring them, he did

so with more real caution and less ostentation of it. His religious zeal

and discretion were further increased by the secret return to the "Old

Religion" of several of his villagers during the period; and a very fair

congregation attended Mass so often as it was said in the cloister wing

of the Hall. The new rector, like his predecessor, was content to let the

squire alone; and unlike him had no wife to make trouble.

Then, suddenly, in the summer of '77, catastrophes began, headed by the

unexpected return of Hubert, impatient of waiting, and with new plans in

his mind.

Isabel had been out with Mistress Margaret walking in the dusk one August

evening after supper, on the raised terrace beneath the yews. They had

been listening to the loud snoring of the young owls in the ivy on the

chimney-stack opposite, and had watched the fierce bird slide silently

out of the gloom, white against the blackness, and disappear down among

the meadows. Once Isabel had seen him pause, too, on one of his return

journeys, suspicious of the dim figures beneath, silhouetted on a branch

against the luminous green western sky, with the outline of a mouse with

its hanging tail plain in his crooked claws, before he glided to his nest

again. As Isabel waited she heard the bang of the garden-door, but gave

it no thought, and a moment after Mistress Margaret asked her to fetch a

couple of wraps from the house for them both, as the air had a touch of

chill in it. She came down the lichened steps, crossed the lawn, and

passed into the unlighted hall. As she entered, the door opposite opened,

and for a moment she saw the silhouette of a man's figure against the

bright passage beyond. Her heart suddenly leapt, and stood still.

"Anthony!" she whispered, in a hush of suspense.

There was a vibration and a step beside her.

"Isabel!" said Hubert's voice. And then his arms closed round her for the

first time in her life. She struggled and panted a moment as she felt his

breath on her face; and he released her. She recoiled to the door, and

stood there silent and panting.

"Oh! Isabel!" he whispered; and again, "Isabel!"

She put out her hand and grasped the door-post behind her.

"Oh! Hubert! Why have you come?"

He came a step nearer and she could see the faint whiteness of his face

in the western glimmer.

"I cannot wait," he said, "I have been nearly beside myself. I have left

the north--and I cannot wait so long."

"Well?" she said; and he heard the note of entreaty and anxiety in her

voice.

"I have my plans," he answered; "I will tell you to-morrow. Where is my

aunt?"

Isabel heard a step on the gravel outside.

"She is coming," she said sharply. Hubert melted into the dark, and she

saw the opposite door open and let him out.

The next day Hubert announced his plans to Sir Nicholas, and a conflict

followed.

"I cannot go on, sir," he said, "I cannot wait for ever. I am treated

like a servant, too; and you know how miserably I am paid, I have obeyed

you for six years, sir; and now I have thrown up the post and told my

lord to his face that I can bear with him no longer."

Sir Nicholas' face, as he sat in his upright chair opposite the boy, grew

flushed with passion.

"It is your accursed temper, sir," he said violently. "I know you of old.

Wait? For what? For the Protestant girl? I told you to put that from your

mind, sir."

Hubert did not propose as yet to let his father into all his plans.

"I have not spoken her name, sir, I think. I say I cannot wait for my

fortune; I may be impatient, sir--I do not deny it."

"Then how do you propose to better it?" sneered his father.

"In November," said Hubert steadily, looking his father in the eyes, "I

sail with Mr. Drake."

Sir Nicholas' face grew terrific. He rose, and struck the table twice

with his clenched fist.

"Then, by God, sir, Mr. Drake may have you now."

Hubert's face grew white with anger; but he had his temper under control.

"Then I wish you good-day, sir," and he left the room.

When the boy had left the house again for London, as he did the same

afternoon, Lady Maxwell tried to soothe the old man. It was impossible,

even for her, to approach him before.

"Sweetheart," she said tranquilly, as he sat and glowered at his plate

when supper was over and the men had left the room, "sweetheart, we must

have Hubert down here again. He must not sail with Mr. Drake."

The old man's face flared up again in anger.

"He may follow his own devices," he cried. "I care not what he does. He

has given up the post that I asked for him; and he comes striding and

ruffling home with his hat cocked and--and----"; his voice became

inarticulate.

"He is only a boy, sweetheart; with a boy's hot blood--you would sooner

have him like that than a milk-sop. Besides--he is our boy."

The old man growled. His wife went on:

"And now that James cannot have the estate, he must have it, as you know,

and carry on the old name."

"He has disgraced it," burst out the angry old man, "and he is going now

with that damned Protestant to harry Catholics. By the grace of God I

love my country, and would serve her Grace with my heart's blood--but

that my boy should go with Drake----!" and again his voice failed.

It was a couple of days before she could obtain her husband's leave to

write a conciliatory letter, giving leave to Hubert to go with Drake, if

he had made any positive engagement (because, as she represented to Sir

Nicholas, there was nothing actually wrong or disloyal to the Faith in

it)--but entreating him with much pathos not to leave his old parents so

bitterly.

* * * *

"Oh, my dear son," the end of the letter ran, "your father is old; and

God, in whose hand are our days, alone knows how long he will live; and

I, too, my son, am old. So come back to us and be our dear child again.

You must not think too hardly of your father's words to you; he is quick

and hot, as you are, too--but indeed we love you dearly. Your room here

is ready for you; and Piers wants a firm hand now over him, as your

father is so old. So come back, my darling, and make our old hearts glad

again."

But the weeks passed by, and no answer came, and the old people's hearts

grew sick with suspense; and then, at last, in September the courier

brought a letter, written from Plymouth, which told the mother that it

was too late; that he had in fact engaged himself to Mr. Drake in August

before he had come to Great Keynes at all; and that in honour he must

keep his engagement. He asked pardon of his father for his hastiness; but

it seemed a cold and half-hearted sorrow; and the letter ended by

announcing that the little fleet would sail in November; and that at

present they were busy fitting the ships and engaging the men; and that

there would be no opportunity for him to return to wish them good-bye

before he sailed. It was plain that the lad was angry still.

Sir Nicholas did not say much; but a silence fell on the house. Lady

Maxwell sent for Isabel, and they had a long interview. The old lady was

astonished at the girl's quietness and resignation.

Yes, she said, she loved Hubert with all her heart. She had loved him for

a long while. No, she was not angry, only startled. What would she do

about the difference in religion? Could she marry him while one was a

Catholic and the other a Protestant? No, they would never be happy like

that; and she did not know what she would do. She supposed she would wait

and see. Yes, she would wait and see; that was all that could be

done.--And then had come a silent burst of tears, and the girl had sunk

down on her knees and hidden her face in the old lady's lap, and the

wrinkled jewelled old hand passed quietly over the girl's black hair; but

no more had been said, and Isabel presently got up and went home to the

Dower House.

The autumn went by, and November came, and there was no further word from

Hubert. Then towards the end of November a report reached them from

Anthony at Lambeth that the fleet had sailed; but had put back into

Falmouth after a terrible storm in the Channel. And hope just raised its

head.

Then one evening after supper Sir Nicholas complained of fever and

restlessness, and went early to bed. In the night he was delirious.

Mistress Margaret hastened up at midnight from the Dower House, and a

groom galloped off to Lindfield before morning to fetch the doctor, and

another to fetch Mr. Barnes, the priest, from Cuckfield. Sir Nicholas was

bled to reduce the fever of the pneumonia that had attacked him. All day

long he was sinking. About eleven o'clock that night he fell asleep,

apparently, and Lady Maxwell, who had watched incessantly, was persuaded

to lie down; but at three o'clock in the morning, on the first of

December, Mistress Margaret awakened her, and together they knelt by the

bedside of the old man. The priest, who had anointed him on the previous

evening, knelt behind, repeating the prayers for the dying.

Sir Nicholas lay on his back, supported by pillows, under the gloom of

the black old four-posted bed. A wood-fire glowed on the hearth, and the

air was fragrant with the scent of the burning cedar-logs. A crucifix was

in the old man's hands; but his eyes were bright with fever, and his

fingers every now and then relaxed, and then tightened their hold again

on the cool silver of the figure of the crucified Saviour. His lips were

moving tremulously, and his ruddy old face was pale now.

The priest's voice went on steadily; the struggle was beginning.

"_Proficiscere, anima christiana, de hoc mundo_.--Go forth, Christian

soul, from this world in the name of God the Father Almighty, who created

thee; in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, Who suffered

for thee; in the name of the Holy Ghost, who was shed forth upon thee; In

the name of Angels and Archangels; in the name of Thrones and Dominions;

in the name of Principalities and Powers----"

Suddenly the old man, whose head had been slowly turning from side to

side, ceased his movement, and his open mouth closed; he was looking

steadily at his wife, and a look of recognition came back to his eyes.

"Sweetheart," he said; and smiled, and died.

* * * *

Isabel did not see much of Mistress Margaret for the next few days; she

was constantly with her sister, and when she came to the Dower House now

and then, said little to the girl. There were curious rumours in the

village; strangers came and went continually, and there was a vast

congregation at the funeral, when the body of the old knight was laid to

rest in the Maxwell chapel. The following day the air of mystery

deepened; and young Mrs. Melton whispered to Isabel, with many glances

and becks, that she and her man had seen lights through the chapel

windows at three o'clock that morning. Isabel went into the chapel

presently to visit the grave, and there was a new smear of black on the

east wall as if a taper had been set too near.

The courier who had been despatched to announce to Hubert that his father

had died and left him master of the Hall and estate, with certain

conditions, returned at the end of the month with the news that the fleet

had sailed again on the thirteenth, and that Hubert was gone with it; so

Lady Maxwell, now more silent and retired than ever, for the present

retained her old position and Mr. Piers took charge of the estate.

Although Isabel outwardly was very little changed in the last six years,

great movements had been taking place in her soul, and if Hubert had only

known the state of the case, possibly he would not have gone so hastily

with Mr. Drake.

The close companionship of such an one as Mistress Margaret was doing its

almost inevitable work; and the girl had been learning that behind the

brilliant and even crude surface of the Catholic practice, there lay

still and beautiful depths of devotion which she had scarcely dreamed of.

The old nun's life was a revelation to Isabel; she heard from her bed in

the black winter mornings her footsteps in the next room, and soon learnt

that Mistress Margaret spent at least two hours in prayer before she

appeared at all. Two or three times in the day she knew that she retired

again for the same purpose, and again an hour after she was in bed, there

were the same gentle movements next door. She began to discover, too,

that for the Catholic, as well as for the Puritan, the Person of the

Saviour was the very heart of religion; that her own devotion to Christ

was a very languid flame by the side of the ardent inarticulate passion

of this soul who believed herself His wedded spouse; and that the worship

of the saints and the Blessed Mother instead of distracting the love of

the Christian soul rather seemed to augment it. The King of Love stood,

as she fancied sometimes, to Catholic eyes, in a glow of ineffable

splendour; and the faces of His adoring Court reflected the ruddy glory

on all sides; thus refracting the light of their central Sun, instead of,

as she had thought, obscuring it.

Other difficulties, too, began to seem oddly unreal and intangible, when

she had looked at them in the light of Mistress Margaret's clear old eyes

and candid face. It was a real event in her inner life when she first

began to understand what the rosary meant to Catholics. Mistress Corbet

had told her what was the actual use of the beads; and how the mysteries

of Christ's life and death were to be pondered over as the various

prayers were said; but it had hitherto seemed to Isabel as if this method

were an elaborate and superstitious substitute for reading the inspired

record of the New Testament.

She had been sitting out in the little walled garden in front of the

Dower House one morning on an early summer day after her father's death,

and Mistress Margaret had come out in her black dress and stood for a

moment looking at her irresolutely, framed in the dark doorway. Then she

had come slowly across the grass, and Isabel had seen for the first time

in her fingers a string of ivory beads. Mistress Margaret sat down on a

garden chair a little way from her, and let her hands sink into her lap,

still holding the beads. Isabel said nothing, but went on reading.

Presently she looked up again, and the old lady's eyes were half-closed,

and her lips just moving; and the beads passing slowly through her

fingers. She looked almost like a child dreaming, in spite of her

wrinkles and her snowy hair; the pale light of a serene soul lay on her

face. This did not look like the mechanical performance that Isabel had

always associated with the idea of beads. So the minutes passed away;

every time that Isabel looked up there was the little white face with the

long lashes lying on the cheek, and the crown of snowy hair and lace, and

the luminous look of a soul in conscious communion with the unseen.

When the old lady had finished, she twisted the beads about her fingers

and opened her eyes. Isabel had an impulse to speak.

"Mistress Margaret," she said, "may I ask you something?"

"Of course, my darling," the old lady said.

"I have never seen you use those before--I cannot understand them."

"What is it," asked the old lady, "that you don't understand?"

"How can prayers said over and over again like that be any good?"

Mistress Margaret was silent for a moment.

"I saw young Mrs. Martin last week," she said, "with her little girl in

her lap. Amy had her arms round her mother's neck, and was being rocked

to and fro; and every time she rocked she said 'Oh, mother.'"

"But then," said Isabel, after a moment's silence, "she was only a

child."

"'Except ye become like little children--'" quoted Mistress Margaret

softly--"you see, my Isabel, we are nothing more than children with God

and His Blessed Mother. To say 'Hail Mary, Hail Mary,' is the best way of

telling her how much we love her. And then this string of beads is like

Our Lady's girdle, and her children love to finger it, and whisper to

her. And then we say our paternosters, too; and all the while we are

talking she is shewing us pictures of her dear Child, and we look at all

the great things He did for us, one by one; and then we turn the page and

begin again."

"I see," said Isabel; and after a moment or two's silence Mistress

Margaret got up and went into the house.

The girl sat still with her hands clasped round her knee. How strange and

different this religion was to the fiery gospel she had heard last year

at Northampton from the harsh stern preacher, at whose voice a veil

seemed to rend and show a red-hot heaven behind! How tender and simple

this was--like a blue summer's sky with drifting clouds! If only it was

true! If only there were a great Mother whose girdle was of beads strung

together, which dangled into every Christian's hands; whose face bent

down over every Christian's bed; and whose mighty and tender arms that

had held her Son and God were still stretched out beneath her other

children. And Isabel, whose soul yearned for a mother, sighed as she

reminded herself that there was but "one Mediator between God and

man--the man, Christ Jesus."

And so the time went by, like an outgoing tide, silent and steady. The

old nun did not talk much to the girl about dogmatic religion, for she

was in a difficult position. She was timid certainly of betraying her

faith by silence, but she was also timid of betraying her trust by

speech. Sometimes she felt she had gone too far, sometimes not far

enough; but on the whole her practice was never to suggest questions, but

only to answer them when Isabel asked; and to occupy herself with

affirmative rather than with destructive criticism. More than this she

hesitated to do out of honour for the dead; less than this she dared not

do out of love for God and Isabel. But there were three or four

conversations that she felt were worth waiting for; and the look on

Isabel's face afterwards, and the sudden questions she would ask

sometimes after a fit of silence, made her friend's heart quicken towards

her, and her prayers more fervent.

The two were sitting together one December day in Isabel's upstairs room

and the girl, who had just come in from a solitary walk, was half

kneeling on the window-seat and drumming her fingers softly on the panes

as she looked out at the red western sky.

"I used to think," she said, "that Catholics had no spiritual life; but

now it seems to me that in comparison we Puritans have none. You know so

much about the soul, as to what is from God and what from the Evil One;

and we have to grope for ourselves. And yet our Saviour said that His

sheep should know His voice. I do not understand it." And she turned

towards Mistress Margaret who had laid down her work and was listening.

"Dear child," she said, "if you mean our priests and spiritual writers,

it is because they study it. We believe in the science of the soul; and

we consult our spiritual guides for our soul's health, as the leech for

our body's health."

"But why must you ask the priest, if the Lord speaks to all alike?"

"He speaks through the priest, my dear, as He does through the

physician."

"But why should the priest know better than the people?" pursued Isabel,

intent on her point.

"Because he tells us what the Church says," said the other smiling, "it

is his business. He need not be any better or cleverer in other respects.

The baker may be a thief or a foolish fellow; but his bread is good."

"But how do you know," went on Isabel, who thought Mistress Margaret a

little slow to see her point--"how do you know that the Church is right?"

The old nun considered a moment, and then lifted her embroidery again.

"Why do you think," she asked, beginning to sew, "that each single soul

that asks God's guidance is right?"

"Because the Holy Ghost is promised to such," said Isabel wondering.

"Then is it not likely," went on the other still stitching, "that the

millions of souls who form Holy Church are right, when they all agree

together?" Isabel moved a little impatiently.

"You see," went on Mistress Margaret, "that is what we Catholics believe

our Saviour meant when He said that the gates of hell should not prevail

against His Church."

But Isabel was not content. She broke in:

"But why are not the Scriptures sufficient? They are God's Word."

The other put down her embroidery again, and smiled up into the girl's

puzzled eyes.

"Well, my child," she said, "do they seem sufficient, when you look at

Christendom now? If they are so clear, how is it that you have the

Lutherans, and the Anabaptists, and the Family of Love, and the

Calvinists, and the Church of England, all saying they hold to the

Scriptures alone. Nay, nay; the Scriptures are the grammar, and the

Church is the dame that teaches out of it, and she knows so well much

that is not in the grammar, and we name that tradition. But where there

is no dame to teach, the children soon fall a-fighting about the book and

the meaning of it."

Isabel looked at Mistress Margaret a moment, and then turned back again

to the window in silence.

At another time they had a word or two about Peter's prerogatives.

"Surely," said Isabel suddenly, as they walked together in the garden,

"Christ is the one Foundation of the Church, St. Paul tells us so

expressly."

"Yes, my dear," said the nun, "but then Christ our Lord said: 'Thou art

Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church.' So he who is the only

Good Shepherd, said to Peter, 'Feed My sheep'; and He that is _Clavis

David_ and that openeth and none shutteth said to him, 'I will give

thee the keys, and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in

heaven.' That is why we call Peter the Vicar of Christ."

Isabel raised her eyebrows.

"Surely, surely----" she began.

"Yes, my child," said Mistress Margaret, "I know it is new and strange to

you; but it was not to your grandfather or his forbears: to them, as to

me, it is the plain meaning of the words. We Catholics are a simple folk.

We hold that what our Saviour said simply He meant simply: as we do in

the sacred mystery of His Body and Blood. To us, you know," she went on,

smiling, with a hand on the girl's arm, "it seems as if you Protestants

twisted the Word of God against all justice."

Isabel smiled back at her; but she was puzzled. The point of view was new

to her. And yet again in the garden, a few months later, as they sat out

together on the lawn, the girl opened the same subject.

"Mistress Margaret," she said, "I have been thinking a great deal; and it

seems very plain when you talk. But you know our great divines could

answer you, though I cannot. My father was no Papist; and Dr. Grindal and

the Bishops are all wise men. How do you answer that?"

The nun looked silently down at the grass a moment or two.

"It is the old tale," she said at last, looking up; "we cannot believe

that the babes and sucklings are as likely to be right in such matters as

the wise and prudent--even more likely, if our Saviour's words are to be

believed. Dear child, do you not see that our Lord came to save all men,

and call all men into His Church; and that therefore He must have marked

His Church in such a manner that the most ignorant may perceive it as

easily as the most learned? Learning is very well, and it is the gift of

God; but salvation and grace cannot depend upon it. It needs an architect

to understand why Paul's Church is strong and beautiful, and what makes

it so; but any child or foolish fellow can see that it is so."

"I do not understand," said Isabel, wrinkling her forehead.

"Why this--that you are as likely to know the Catholic Church when you

see it, as Dr. Grindal or Dr. Freake, or your dear father himself. Only a

divine can explain about it and understand it, but you and I are as fit

to see it and walk into it, as any of them."

"But then why are they not all Catholics?" asked Isabel, still

bewildered.

"Ah!" said the nun, softly, "God alone knows, who reads hearts and calls

whom He will. But learning, at least, has nought to do with it."

Conversations of this kind that took place now and then between the two

were sufficient to show Mistress Margaret, like tiny bubbles on the

surface of a clear stream, the swift movement of this limpid soul that

she loved so well. But on the other hand, all the girl's past life, and

most sacred and dear associations, were in conflict with this movement;

the memory of her quiet, wise father rose and reproached her sometimes;

Anthony's enthusiastic talk, when he came down from Lambeth, on the

glorious destinies of the Church of England, of her gallant protest

against the corruptions of the West, and of her future unique position in

Christendom as the National Church of the most progressive country--all

this caused her to shrink back terrified from the bourne to which she was

drifting, and from the breach that must follow with her brother. But

above all else that caused her pain was the shocking suspicion that her

love for Hubert perhaps was influencing her, and that she was living in

gross self-deception as to the sincerity of her motives.

This culminated at last in a scene that seriously startled the old nun;

it took place one summer night after Hubert's departure in Mr. Drake's

expedition. Mistress Margaret had seen Isabel to her room, and an hour

later had finished her night-office and was thinking of preparing herself

to bed, when there was a hurried tap at the door, and Isabel came quickly

in, her face pale and miserable, her great grey eyes full of trouble and

distraction, and her hair on her shoulders.

"My dear child," said the nun, "what is it?"

Isabel closed the door and stood looking at her, with her lips parted.

"How can I know, Mistress Margaret," she said, in the voice of a

sleep-walker, "whether this is the voice of God or of my own wicked self?

No, no," she went on, as the other came towards her, frightened, "let me

tell you. I must speak."

"Yes, my child, you shall; but come and sit down first," and she drew her

to a chair and set her in it, and threw a wrap over her knees and feet;

and sat down beside her, and took one of her hands, and held it between

her own.

"Now then, Isabel, what is it?"

"I have been thinking over it all so long," began the girl, in the same

tremulous voice, with her eyes fixed on the nun's face, "and to-night in

bed I could not bear it any longer. You see, I love Hubert, and I used to

think I loved our Saviour too; but now I do not know. It seems as if He

was leading me to the Catholic Church; all is so much more plain and easy

there--it seems--it seems--to make sense in the Catholic Church; and all

the rest of us are wandering in the dark. But if I become a Catholic, you

see, I can marry Hubert then; and I cannot help thinking of that; and

wanting to marry him. But then perhaps that is the reason that I think I

see it all so plainly; just because I want to see it plainly. And what am

I to do? Why will not our Lord shew me my own heart and what is His

Will?"

Mistress Margaret shook her head gently.

"Dear child," she said, "our Saviour loves you and wishes to make you

happy. Do you not think that perhaps He is helping you and making it easy

in this way, by drawing you to His Church through Hubert. Why should not

both be His Will? that you should become a Catholic and marry Hubert as

well?"

"Yes," said Isabel, "but how can I tell?"

"There is only one thing to be done," went on the old lady, "be quite

simple and quiet. Whenever your soul begins to be disturbed and anxious,

put yourself in His Hands, and refuse to decide for yourself. It is so

easy, so easy."

"But why should I be so anxious and disturbed, if it were not our Lord

speaking and warning me?"

"In the Catholic Church," said Mistress Margaret, "we know well about all

those movements of the soul; and we call them scruples. You must resist

them, dear child, like temptations. We are told that if a soul is in

grace and desires to serve God, then whenever our Lord speaks it is to

bring sweetness with Him; and when it is the evil one, he brings

disturbance. And that is why I am sure that these questionings are not

from God. You feel stifled, is it not so, when you try to pray? and all

seems empty of God; the waves and storms are going over you. But lie

still and be content; and refuse to be disturbed; and you will soon be at

peace again and see the light clearly."

Mistress Margaret found herself speaking simply in short words and

sentences as to a child. She had seen that for a long while past the

clouds had been gathering over Isabel, and that her soul was at present

completely overcast and unable to perceive or decide anything clearly;

and so she gave her this simple advice, and did her utmost to soothe her,

knowing that such a clean soul would not be kept long in the dark.

She knelt down with Isabel presently and prayed aloud with her, in a

quiet even voice; a patch of moonlight lay on the floor, and something of

its white serenity seemed to be in the old nun's tones as she entreated

the merciful Lord to bid peace again to this anxious soul, and let her

see light again through the dark.

And when she had taken Isabel back again to her own room at last, and had

seen her safely into bed, and kissed her good-night, already the girl's

face was quieter as it lay on the pillow, and the lines were smoothed out

of her forehead.

"God bless you!" said Mistress Margaret.

CHAPTER III

HUBERT'S RETURN

After the sailing of Mr. Drake's expedition, the friends of the adventurers

had to wait in patience for several months before news arrived. Then the

_Elizabeth_, under the command of Mr. Winter, which had been separated

from Mr. Drake's _Pelican_ in a gale off the south-west coast of America,

returned to England, bringing the news of Mr. Doughty's execution for

desertion; but of the _Pelican_ herself there was no further news until

complaints arrived from the Viceroy of New Spain of Mr. Drake's ravages

up the west coast. Then silence again fell for eighteen months.

Anthony had followed the fortunes of the _Pelican_, in which Hubert had

sailed, with a great deal of interest: and it was with real relief that

after the burst of joy in London at the news of her safe return to

Plymouth with an incalculable amount of plunder, he had word from Lady

Maxwell that she hoped he would come down at once to Great Keynes, and

help to welcome Hubert home. He was not able to go at once, for his

duties detained him; but a couple of days after the Hall had welcomed its

new master, Anthony was at the Dower House again with Isabel. He found

her extraordinarily bright and vivacious, and was delighted at the

change, for he had been troubled the last time he had seen her a few

months before, at her silence and listlessness; but her face was radiant

now, as she threw herself into his arms at the door, and told him that

they were all to go to supper that night at the Hall; and that Hubert had

been keeping his best stories on purpose for his return. She showed him,

when they got up to his room at last, little things Hubert had given

her--carved nuts, a Spanish coin or two, and an ingot of gold--but of

which she would say nothing, but only laugh and nod her head.

Hubert, too, when he saw him that evening seemed full of the same sort of

half-suppressed happiness that shone out now and again suddenly. There he

sat, for hours after supper that night, broader and more sunburnt than

ever, with his brilliant eyes glancing round as he talked, and his sinewy

man's hand, in the delicate creamy ruff, making little explanatory

movements, and drawing a map once or twice in spilled wine on the

polished oak; the three ladies sat forward and watched him breathlessly,

or leaned back and sighed as each tale ended, and Anthony found himself,

too, carried away with enthusiasm again and again, as he looked at this

gallant sea-dog in his gold chain and satin and jewels, and listened to

his stories.

"It was bitter cold," said Hubert in his strong voice, telling them of

Mr. Doughty's death, "on the morning itself: and snow lay on the decks

when we rose. Mr. Fletcher had prepared a table in the poop-cabin, with a

white cloth and bread and wine; and at nine of the clock we were all

assembled where we might see into the cabin: and Mr. Fletcher said the

Communion service, and Mr. Drake and Mr. Doughty received the sacrament

there at his hands. Some of Mr. Doughty's men had all they could do to

keep back their tears; for you know, mother, they were good friends. And

then when it was done, we made two lines down the deck to where the block

stood by the main-mast; and the two came down together; and they kissed

one another there. And Mr. Doughty spoke to the men, and bade them pray

for the Queen's Grace with him; and they did. And then he and Mr. Drake

put off their doublets, and Mr. Doughty knelt at the block, and said

another prayer or two, and then laid his head down, and he was shivering

a little with cold, and then, when he gave the sign, Mr. Drake----" and

Hubert brought the edge of his hand down sharply, and the glasses rang,

and the ladies drew quick hissing breaths; and Lady Maxwell put her hand

on her son's arm, as he looked round on all their faces.

Then he told them of the expedition up the west coast, and of the towns

they sacked; and the opulent names rolled oddly off his tongue, and

seemed to bring a whiff of southern scent into this panelled English

room,--Valparaiso, Tarapaca, and Arica--; and of the capture of the

_Cacafuego_ off Quibdo; and of the enormous treasure they took, the

great golden crucifix with emeralds of the size of pigeon's eggs, and the

chests of pearls, and the twenty-six tons of silver, and the wedges of

pure gold from the Peruvian galleon, and of the golden falcon from the

Chinese trader that they captured south of Guatulco. And he described the

search up the coast for the passage eastwards that never existed; and of

Drake's superb resolve to return westwards instead, by the Moluccas; and

how they stayed at Ternate, south of Celebes, and coasted along Java

seeking a passage, and found it in the Sunda straits, and broke out from

the treacherous islands into the open sea; crossed to Africa, rounded the

Cape of Good Hope; came up the west coast, touching at Sierra Leone, and

so home again along the Spanish and French coasts, to Plymouth Sound and

the pealing of Plymouth bells.

And he broke out into something very like eloquence when he spoke of

Drake.

"Never was such a captain," he cried, "with his little stiff beard and

his obstinate eyes. I have seen him stand on the poop, when the arrows

were like hail on the deck, with one finger in the ring round his

neck,--so": and Hubert thrust a tanned finger into a link of his chain,

and lifted his chin, "just making little signs to the steersman, with his

hand behind his back, to bring the ship nearer to the Spaniard; as cool,

I tell you, as cool as if he were playing merelles. Oh! and then when we

boarded, out came his finger from his ring; and there was none that

struck so true and fierce; and all in silence too, without an oath or a

cry or a word; except maybe to give an order. But he was very sharp with

all that angered him. When we sighted the _Madre di Dios_, I ran into

his cabin to tell him of it, without saluting, so full was my head of

the chase. And he looked at me like ice; and then roared at me to know

where my manners were, and bade me go out and enter again properly,

before he would hear my news; and then I heard him rating the man that

stood at his door for letting me pass in that state. At his dinner, too,

which he took alone, there were always trumpets to blow, as when her

Grace dines. When he laughed it seemed as if he did it with a grave face.

There was a piece of grand fooling when we got out from among those weary

Indian islands; where the great crabs be, and flies that burn in the

dark, as I told you. Mr. Fletcher, the minister, played the coward one

night when we ran aground; and bade us think of our sins and our immortal

souls, instead of urging us to be smart about the ship; and he did it,

too, not as Mr. Drake might do, but in such a melancholy voice as if we

were all at our last hour; so when we were free of our trouble, and out

on the main again, we were all called by the drum to the forecastle, and

there Mr. Drake sat on a sea-chest as solemn as a judge, so that not a

man durst laugh, with a pair of pantoufles in his hand; and Mr. Fletcher

was brought before him, trying to smile as if 'twas a jest for him too,

between two guards; and there he was arraigned; and the witnesses were

called; and Tom Moore said how he was tapped on the shoulder by Mr.

Fletcher as he was getting a pick from the hold; and how he was as white

as a ghost and bade him think on Mr. Doughty, how there was no mercy for

him when he needed it, and so there would be none for us--and then other

witnesses came, and then Mr. Fletcher tried to make his defence, saying

how it was the part of a minister to bid men think on their souls; but

'twas no good. Mr. Drake declared him guilty; and sentenced him to be

kept in irons till he repented of that his cowardice; and then, which was

the cream of the joke, since the prisoner was a minister, Mr. Drake

declared him excommunicate, and cut off from the Church of God, and given

over to the devil. And he was put in irons, too, for a while; so 'twas

not all a joke."

"And what is Mr. Drake doing now?" asked Lady Maxwell.

"Oh! Drake is in London," said Hubert. "Ah! yes, and you must all come to

Deptford when her Grace is going to be there. Anthony, lad, you'll come?"

Anthony said he would certainly do his best; and Isabel put out her hand

to her brother, and beamed at him; and then turned to look at Hubert

again.

"And what are you to do next?" asked Mistress Margaret.

"Well," he said, "I am to go to Plymouth again presently, to help to get

the treasure out of the ships; and I must be there, too, for the spring

and summer, for Drake wants me to help him with his new expedition."

"But you are not going with him again, my son?" said his mother quickly.

Hubert put out his hand to her.

"No, no," he said, "I have written to tell him I cannot. I must take my

father's place here. He will understand"; and he gave one swift glance at

Isabel, and her eyes fell.

Anthony was obliged to return to Lambeth after a day or two, and he

carried with him a heart full of admiration and enthusiasm for his

friend. He had wondered once or twice, too, as his eyes fell on Isabel,

whether there was anything in what Mistress Corbet had said; but he dared

not speak to her, and still less to Hubert, unless his confidence was

first sought.

The visit to Deptford, which took place a week or two later, gave an

additional spurt to Anthony's nationalism. London was all on fire at the

return of the buccaneers, and as Anthony rode down the south bank of the

river from Lambeth to join the others at the inn, the three miles of

river beyond London Bridge were an inspiriting sight in the bright winter

sunshine, crowded with craft of all kinds, bright with bunting, that were

making their way down to the naval triumph. The road, too, was thick with

vehicles and pedestrians.

It was still early when he met his party at the inn, and Hubert took them

immediately to see the _Pelican_ that was drawn up in a little creek on

the south bank. Mistress Margaret had not come, so the four went together

all over the ship that had been for these years the perilous home of this

sunburnt lad they all loved so well. Hubert pointed out Drake's own cabin

at the poop, with its stern-windows, where the last sacrament of the two

friends had been celebrated; and where Drake himself had eaten in royal

fashion to the sound of trumpets and slept with all-night sentries at his

door. He showed them too his own cabin, where he had lived with three

more officers, and the upper poop-deck where Drake would sit hour after

hour with his spy-glass, ranging the horizons for treasure-ships. And he

showed them, too, the high forecastle, and the men's quarters; and Isabel

fingered delicately the touch-holes of the very guns that had roared and

snapped so fiercely at the Dons; and they peered down into the dark empty

hold where the treasure-chests had lain, and up at the three masts and

the rigging that had borne so long the swift wings of the _Pelican_. And

they heard the hiss and rattle of the ropes as Hubert ordered a man to

run up a flag to show them how it was done; and they smelled the strange

tarry briny smell of a sea-going ship.

"You are not tired?" Anthony said to his sister, as they walked back to

the inn from which they were to see the spectacle. She shook her head

happily; and Anthony, looking at her, once more questioned himself

whether Mistress Corbet were right or not.

When they had settled down at last to their window, the crowds were

gathering thicker every moment about the entrance to the ship, which lay

in the creek perhaps a hundred yards from the inn, and on the road along

which the Queen was to come from Greenwich. Anthony felt his whole heart

go out in sympathy to these joyous shouting folk beneath, who were here

to celebrate the gallant pluck of a little bearded man and his followers,

who for the moment stood for England, and in whose presence just now the

Queen herself must take second place. Even the quacks and salesmen who

were busy in their booths all round used patriotism to push their

bargains.

"Spanish ointment, Spanish ointment!" bellowed a red-faced herbalist in a

doctor's gown, just below the window. "The Dons know what's best for

wounds and knocks after Frankie Drake's visit"; and the crowd laughed and

bought up his boxes. And another drove a roaring business in green glass

beads, reported to be the exact size of the emeralds taken from the

_Cacafuego_; and others sold little models of the _Pelican_, warranted to

frighten away Dons and all other kinds of devils from the house that

possessed one. Isabel laughed with pleasure, and sent Anthony down to buy

one for her.

But perhaps more than all else the sight of the seamen themselves stirred

his heart. Most of them, officers as well as men, were dressed with

absurd extravagance, for the prize-money, even after the deduction of the

Queen's lion-share, had been immense, but beneath their plumed and

jewel-buckled caps, brown faces looked out, alert and capable, with tight

lips and bright, puckered eyes, with something of the terrier in their

expression. There they swaggered along with a slight roll in their walk,

by ones or twos, through the crowd that formed lanes to let them pass,

and surged along in their wake, shouting after them and clapping them on

the back. Anthony watched them eagerly as they made their way from all

directions to where the _Pelican_ lay; for it was close on noon. Then

from far away came the boom of the Tower guns, and then the nearer crash

of those that guarded the dockyard; and last the deafening roar of the

_Pelican_ broadside; and then the smoke rose and drifted in a heavy veil

in the keen frosty air over the cheering crowds. When it lifted again,

there was the flash of gold and colour from the Greenwich road, and the

high braying of the trumpets pierced the roaring welcome of the people.

But the watchers at the windows could see no more over the heads of the

crowd than the plumes of the royal carriage, as the Queen dismounted, and

a momentary glimpse of her figure and the group round her as she passed

on to the deck of the _Pelican_ and went immediately below to the

banquet, while the parish church bells pealed a welcome.

Lady Maxwell insisted that Isabel should now dine, as there would be no

more to be seen till the Queen should come up on deck again.

Of the actual ceremony of the knighting of Mr. Drake they had a very fair

view, though the figures were little and far away. The first intimation

they had that the banquet was over was the sight of the scarlet-clad

yeomen emerging one by one up the little hatchway that led below. The

halberdiers lined the decks already, with their weapons flashing in long

curved lines; and by the time that the trumpets began to sound to show

that the Queen was on her way from below, the decks were one dense mass

of colour and steel, with a lane left to the foot of the poop-stairs by

which she would ascend. Then at last the two figures appeared, the Queen

radiant in cloth of gold, and Mr. Drake, alert and brisk, in his Court

suit and sword. There was silence from the crowd as the adventurer knelt

before the Queen, and Anthony held his breath with excitement as he

caught the flash of the slender sword that an officer had put into the

Queen's hand; and then an inconceivable noise broke out as Sir Francis

Drake stood up. The crowd was one open mouth, shouting, the church bells

burst into peals overhead, answered by the roll of drums from the deck

and the blare of trumpets; and then the whole din sank into nothingness

for a moment under the heart-shaking crash of the ship's broadside,

echoed instantly by the deeper roar of the dockyard guns, and answered

after a moment or two from far away by the dull boom from the Tower. And

Anthony leaned yet further from the window and added his voice to the

tumult.

As he rode back alone to Lambeth, after parting with the others at London

Bridge, for they intended to go down home again that night, he was

glowing with national zeal. He had seen not only royalty and magnificence

but an apotheosis of character that day. There in the little trim figure

with the curly hair kneeling before the Queen was England at its

best--England that sent two ships against an empire; and it was the

Church that claimed Sir Francis Drake as a son, and indeed a devoted one,

in a sense, that Anthony himself was serving here at Lambeth, and for

which he felt a real and fervent enthusiasm.

He was surprised a couple of days later to receive a note in Lady

Maxwell's handwriting, brought up by a special messenger from the Hall.

"There is a friend of mine," she wrote, "to come to Lambeth House

presently, he tells me, to be kept a day or two in ward before he is sent

to Wisbeach. He is a Catholic, named Mr. Henry Buxton, who showed me

great love during the sorrow of my dear husband's death; and I write to

you to show kindness to him, and to get him a good bed, and all that may

comfort him: for I know not whether Lambeth Prison is easy or hard; but I

hope perhaps that since my Lord Archbishop is a prisoner himself he has

pity on such as are so too; and so my pains be in vain. However, if you

will see Mr. Buxton at least, and have some talk with him, and show him

this letter, it will cheer him perhaps to see a friend's face."

Anthony of course made inquiries at once, and found that Mr. Buxton was

to arrive on the following afternoon. It was the custom to send prisoners

occasionally to Lambeth, more particularly those more distinguished, or

who, it was hoped, could be persuaded to friendly conference. Mr. Buxton,

however, was thought to be incorrigible, and was only sent there because

there was some delay in the preparations for his reception at Wisbeach,

which since the previous year had been used as an overflow prison for

Papists.

On the evening of the next day, which was Friday, Anthony went straight

out from the Hall after supper to the gateway prison, and found Mr.

Buxton at a fish supper in the little prison in the outer part of the

eastern tower. He introduced himself, but found it necessary to show Lady

Maxwell's letter before the prisoner was satisfied as to his identity.

"You must pardon me, Mr. Norris," he said, when he had read the letter

and asked a question or two, "but we poor Papists are bound to be shy.

Why, in this very room," he went on, pointing to the inner corner away

from the door, and smiling, "for aught I know a man sits now to hear us."

Anthony was considerably astonished to see this stranger point so

confidently to the hiding-hole, where indeed the warder used to sit

sometimes behind a brick partition, to listen to the talk of the

prisoners; and showed his surprise.

"Ah, Mr. Norris," the other said, "we Papists are bound to be well

informed; or else where were our lives? But come, sir, let us sit down."

Anthony apologised for interrupting him at his supper, and offered to

come again, but Mr. Buxton begged him not to leave, as he had nearly

finished. So Anthony sat down, and observed the prison and the prisoner.

It was fairly well provided with necessaries: a good straw bed lay in one

corner on trestles; and washing utensils stood at the further wall; and

there was an oil lamp that hung high up from an iron pin. The prisoner's

luggage lay still half unpacked on the floor, and a row of pegs held a

hat and a cloak. Mr. Buxton himself was a dark-haired man with a short

beard and merry bright eyes; and was dressed soberly as a gentleman; and

behaved himself with courtesy and assurance. But it was a queer place

with this flickering lamp, thought Anthony, for a gentleman to be eating

his supper in. When Mr. Buxton had finished his dish of roach and a

tankard of ale, he looked up at Anthony, smiling.

"My lord knows the ways of Catholics, then," he said, pointing to the

bones on his plate.

Anthony explained that the Protestants observed the Friday abstinence,

too.

"Ah yes," said the other, "I was forgetting the Queen's late injunctions.

Let us see; how did it run? 'The same is not required for any liking of

Papish Superstitions or Ceremonies (is it?) hitherto used, which utterly

are to be detested of all Christian folk'; (no, the last word or two is a

gloss), 'but only to maintain the mariners in this land, and to set men

a-fishing.' That is the sense of it, is it not, sir? You fast, that is,

not for heavenly reasons, which were a foolish and Papish thing to do;

but for earthly reasons, which is a reasonable and Protestant thing to

do."

Anthony might have taken this assault a little amiss, if he had not seen

a laughing light in his companion's eyes; and remembered, too, that

imprisonment is apt to breed a little bitterness. So he smiled back at

him. Then soon they fell to talking of Lady Maxwell and Great Keynes,

where it seemed that Mr. Buxton had stayed more than once.

"I knew Sir Nicholas well," he said, "God rest his soul. It seems to me

he is one of those whose life continually gave the lie to men who say

that a Catholic can be no true Englishman. There never beat a more loyal

heart than his."

Anthony agreed; but asked if it were not true that Catholics were in

difficulties sometimes as to the proper authority to be obeyed--the Pope

or the Prince.

"It is true," said the other, "or it might be. Yet the principle is

clear, _Date Cæsari quae sunt Cæsaris_. The difficulty lies but in the

application of the maxim."

"But with us," said Anthony--"Church of England folk,--there hardly can

be ever any such difficulty; for the Prince of the State is the Governor

of the Church as well."

"I take your point," said Mr. Buxton. "You mean that a National Church is

better, for that spiritual and temporal authorities are then at one."

"Just so," said Anthony, beginning to warm to his favourite theme. "The

Church is the nation regarded as religious. When England wars on land it

is through her army, which is herself under arms; when on sea she embarks

in the navy; and in the warfare with spiritual powers, it is through her

Church. And surely in this way the Church must always be the Church of

the people. The Englishman and the Spaniard are like cat and dog; they

like not the same food nor the same kind of coat; I hear that their

buildings are not like ours; their language, nay, their faces and minds,

are not like ours. Then why should be their prayers and their religion? I

quarrel with no foreigner's faith; it is God who made us so."

Anthony stopped, breathless with his unusual eloquence; but it was the

subject that lay nearest to his heart at present, and he found no lack of

words. The prisoner had watched him with twinkling eyes, nodding his head

as if in agreement; and when he had finished his little speech, nodded

again in meditative silence.

"It is complete," he answered, "complete. And as a theory would be

convincing; and I envy you, Master Norris, for you stand on the top of

the wave. That is what England holds. But, my dear sir, Christ our Lord

refused such a kingdom as that. My kingdom, He said, is not of this

world--is not, that is, ruled by the world's divisions and systems. You

have described Babel,--every nation with its own language. But it was to

undo Babel and to build one spiritual city that our Saviour came down,

and sent the Holy Ghost to make the Church at Pentecost out of Arabians

and Medes and Elamites--to break down the partition-walls, as the apostle

tells us,--that there be neither Jew nor Greek, barbarian nor

Scythian--and to establish one vast kingdom (which for that very reason

we name Catholic), to destroy differences between nation and nation, by

lifting each to be of the People of God--to pull down Babel, the City of

Confusion, and build Jerusalem the City of Peace. Dear God!" cried Mr.

Buxton, rising in his excitement, and standing over Anthony, who looked

at him astonished and bewildered. "You and your England would parcel out

the Kingdom of heaven into national Churches, as you name them--among all

the kingdoms of the world; and yet you call yourselves the servants of

Him who came to do just the opposite--yes, and who will do it, in spite

of you, and make the kingdoms of this world, instead, the Kingdom of our

Lord and of His Christ. Why, if each nation is to have her Church, why

not each county and each town--yes, and each separate soul, too; for all

are different! Nay, nay, Master Norris, you are blinded by the Prince of

this world. He is shewing you even now from an high mountain the kingdoms

of this world and the glory of them: lift your eyes, dear lad, to the

hills from whence cometh your help; those hills higher than the mountain

where you stand; and see the new Jerusalem, and the glory of her, coming

down from God to dwell with men."

Mr. Buxton stood, his eyes blazing, plainly carried away wholly by

enthusiasm; and Anthony, in spite of himself, could not be angry. He

moistened his lips once or twice.

"Well, sir; of course I hold with what you say, in one sense; but it is

not come yet; and never will, till our Lord comes back to make all

plain."

"Not come yet?" cried the other, "Not come yet! Why, what is the one Holy

Catholic and Apostolic Church but that? There you have one visible

kingdom, gathered out of every nation and tongue and people, as the

apostle said. I have a little estate in France, Master Norris, where I go

sometimes; and there are folk in their wooden shoes, talking a different

human tongue to me, but, thank God! the same divine one--of contrition

and adoration and prayer. There we have the same mass, the same

priesthood, the same blessed sacrament and the same Faith, as in my own

little oratory at Stanfield. Go to Spain, Africa, Rome, India; wherever

Christ is preached; there is the Church as it is here--the City of Peace.

And as for you and your Church! with whom do you hold communion?"

This stung Anthony, and he answered impulsively.

"In Geneva and Frankfort, at least, there are folk who speak the same

divine tongue, as you call it, as we do; they and we are agreed in

matters of faith."

"Indeed," said Mr. Burton sharply, "then what becomes of your

Nationalism, and the varied temperaments that you told me God had made?"

Anthony bit his lip; he had overshot his mark. But the other swept on;

and as he talked began to step up and down the little room, in a kind of

rhapsody.

"Is it possible?" he cried, "that men should be so blind as to prefer the

little divided companies they name National Churches--all confusion and

denial--to that glorious kingdom that Christ bought with his own dear

blood, and has built upon Peter, against which the gates of hell shall

not prevail. Yes, I know it is a flattering and a pleasant thought that

this little nation should have her own Church; and it is humbling and

bitter that England should be called to submit to a foreign potentate in

the affairs of faith--Nay, cry they like the Jews of old, not Christ but

Barabbas--we will not have this Man to reign over us. And yet this is

God's will and not that. Mark me, Mr. Norris, what you hope will never

come to be--the Liar will not keep his word--you shall not have that

National Church that you desire: as you have dealt, so will it be dealt

to you: as you have rejected, so will you be rejected. England herself

will cast you off: your religious folk will break into a hundred

divisions. Even now your Puritans mock at your prelates--so soon! And if

they do thus now, what will they do hereafter? You have cast away

Authority, and authority shall forsake you. Behold your house is left

unto you desolate."

"Forgive me, Mr. Norris," he added after a pause, "if I have been

discourteous, and have forgotten my manners; but--but I would, as the

apostle said, that you were altogether as I am, except these bonds."

CHAPTER IV

A COUNTER-MARCH

Isabel was sitting out alone in the Italian garden at the Hall, one

afternoon in the summer following the visit to Deptford. Hubert was down

at Plymouth, assisting in the preparations for the expedition that Drake

hoped to conduct against Spain. The two countries were technically at

peace, but the object with which he was going out, with the moral and

financial support of the Queen, was a corporate demonstration against

Spain, of French, Portuguese, and English ships under the main command of

Don Antonio, the Portuguese pretender; it was proposed to occupy Terceira

in the Azores; and Drake and Hawkins entertained the highest hopes of

laying their hands on further plunder.

She was leaning back in her seat, with her hands behind her head,

thinking over her relations with Hubert. When he had been at home at the

end of the previous year, he had apparently taken it for granted that the

marriage would be celebrated; he had given her the gold nugget, that she

had showed Anthony, telling her he had brought it home for the

wedding-ring; and she understood that he was to come for his final answer

as soon as his work at Plymouth was over. But not a word of explanation

had passed between them on the religious difficulty. He had silenced her

emphatically and kindly once when she had approached it; and she gathered

from his manner that he suspected the direction in which her mind was

turning and was generously unwilling for her to commit herself an inch

further than she saw. Else whence came his assurance? And, for herself,

things were indeed becoming plain: she wondered why she had hesitated so

long, why she was still hesitating; the cup was brimming above the edge;

it needed but a faint touch of stimulus to precipitate all.

And so Isabel lay back and pondered, with a touch of happy impatience at

the workings of her own soul; for she dared not act without the final

touch of conviction. Mistress Margaret had taught her that the swiftest

flight of the soul was when there was least movement, when the soul knew

how to throw itself with that supreme effort of cessation into the Hands

of God, that He might bear it along: when, after informing the intellect

and seeking by prayer for God's bounty, the humble client of Heaven

waited with uplifted eyes and ready heart until God should answer. And so

she waited, knowing that the gift was at hand, yet not daring to snatch

it. But, in the meanwhile, her imagination at least might act without

restraint; so she sent it out, like a bird from the Ark, to bring her the

earnest of peace. There, in the cloister-wing, somewhere, lay the chapel,

where she and Hubert would kneel together;--somewhere beneath that grey

roof. That was the terrace where she would walk one day as one who has a

right there. Which of these windows would be hers? Not Lady Maxwell's, of

course; she must keep that.... Ah! how good God was!

The tall door on to the terrace opened, and Mistress Margaret peered out

with a letter in her hand. Isabel called to her; and the old nun came

down the steps into the garden. Why did she walk so falteringly, the girl

wondered, as if she could not see? What was it? What was it?

Isabel rose to her feet, startled, as the nun with bent head came up the

path. "What is it, Mistress Margaret?"

The other tried to smile at her, but her lips were trembling too much;

and the girl saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. She put the

letter into her hand.

Isabel lifted it in an agony of suspense; and saw her name, in Hubert's

handwriting.

"What is it?" she said again, white to the lips.

The old lady as she turned away glanced at her; and Isabel saw that her

face was all twitching with the effort to keep back her tears. The girl

had never seen her like that before, even at Sir Nicholas' death. Was

there anything, she wondered as she looked, worse than death? But she was

too dazed by the sight to speak, and Mistress Margaret went slowly back

to the house unquestioned.

Isabel turned the letter over once or twice; and then sat down and opened

it. It was all in Hubert's sprawling handwriting, and was dated from

Plymouth.

It gave her news first about the squadron; saying how Don Antonio had

left London for Plymouth, and was expected daily; and then followed this

paragraph:

"And now, dearest Isabel, I have such good news to give you. _I have

turned Protestant_; and there is no reason why we should not be married

as soon as I return. I know this will make you happy to think that our

religions are no longer different. I have thought of this so long; but

would not tell you before for fear of disappointing you. Sir Francis

Drake's religion seems to me the best; it is the religion of all the

'sea-dogs' as they name us; and of the Queen's Grace, and it will be soon

of all England; and more than all it is the religion of my dearest

mistress and love. I do not, of course, know very much of it as yet; but

good Mr. Collins here has shown me the superstitions of Popery; and I

hope now to be justified by faith without works as the gospel teaches. I

fear that my mother and aunt will be much distressed by this news; I have

written, too, to tell them of it. You must comfort them, dear love; and

perhaps some day they, too, will see as we do." Then followed a few

messages, and loving phrases, and the letter ended.

Isabel laid it down beside her on the low stone wall; and looked round

her with eyes that saw nothing. There was the grey old house before her,

and the terrace, and the cloister-wing to the left, and the hot sunshine

lay on it all, and drew out scents and colours from the flower-beds, and

joy from the insects that danced in the trembling air; and it all meant

nothing to her; like a picture when the page is turned over it. Five

minutes ago she was regarding her life and seeing how the Grace of God

was slowly sorting out its elements from chaos to order--the road was

unwinding itself before her eyes as she trod on it day by day--now a hand

had swept all back into disorder, and the path was hidden by the ruins.

Then gradually one thought detached itself, and burned before her, vivid

and startling; and in all its terrible reality slipped between her and

the visible world on which she was staring. It was this: to embrace the

Catholic Faith meant the renouncing of Hubert. As a Protestant she might

conceivably have married a Catholic; as a Catholic it was inconceivable

that she should marry an apostate.

Then she read the letter through again carefully and slowly; and was

astonished at the unreality of Hubert's words about Romish superstition

and gospel simplicity. She tried hard to silence her thoughts; but two

reasons for Hubert's change of religion rose up and insisted on making

themselves felt; it was that he might be more in unity with the

buccaneers whom he admired; second, that there might be no obstacle to

their marriage. And what then, she asked, was the quality of the heart he

had given her?

Then, in a flash of intuition, she perceived that a struggle lay before

her, compared with which all her previous spiritual conflicts were as

child's play; and that there was no avoiding it. The vision passed, and

she rose and went indoors to find the desolate mother whose boy had lost

the Faith.

A month or two of misery went by. For Lady Maxwell they passed with

recurring gusts of heart-broken sorrow and of agonies of prayer for her

apostate son. Mistress Margaret was at the Hall all day, soothing,

encouraging, even distracting her sister by all the means in her power.

The mother wrote one passionate wail to her son, appealing to all that

she thought he held dear, even yet to return to the Faith for which his

father had suffered and in which he had died; but a short answer only

returned, saying it was impossible to make his defence in a letter, and

expressing pious hopes that she, too, one day would be as he was; the

same courier brought a letter to Isabel, in which he expressed his wonder

that she had not answered his former one.

And as for Isabel, she had to pass through this valley of darkness alone.

Anthony was in London; and even if he had been with her could not have

helped her under these circumstances; her father was dead--she thanked

God for that now--and Mistress Margaret seemed absorbed in her sister's

grief. And so the girl fought with devils alone. The arguments for

Catholicism burned pitilessly clear now; every line and feature in them

stood out distinct and hard. Catholicism, it appeared to her, alone had

the marks of the Bride, visible unity, visible Catholicity, visible

Apostolicity, visible Sanctity;--there they were, the seals of the most

High God. She flung herself back furiously into the Protestantism from

which she had been emerging; there burned in the dark before her the

marks of the Beast, visible disunion, visible nationalism, visible

Erastianism, visible gulfs where holiness should be: that system in which

now she could never find rest again glared at her in all its unconvincing

incoherence, its lack of spirituality, its adulterous union with the

civil power instead of the pure wedlock of the Spouse of Christ. She

wondered once more how she dared to have hesitated so long; or dared to

hesitate still.

On the theological side intellectual arguments of this kind started out,

strong and irrefutable; her emotional drawings towards Catholicism for

the present retired. Feelings might have been disregarded or discredited

by a strong effort of the will; these apparently cold phenomena that

presented themselves to her intellect, could not be thus dealt with. Yet,

strangely enough, even now she would not throw herself resolutely into

Catholicism: the fierce stimulus instead of precipitating the crisis,

petrified it. More than once she started up from her knees in her own

dark room, resolved to awaken the nun and tell her she would wait no

longer, but would turn Catholic at once and have finished with the misery

of suspense: and even as she moved to the door her will found itself

against an impenetrable wall.

And then on the other side all her human nature cried out for

Hubert--Hubert--Hubert. There he stood by her in fancy, day and night,

that chivalrous, courteous lad, who had been loyal to her so long; had

waited so patiently; had run to her with such dear impatience; who was so

wholesome, so strong, so humble to her; so quick to understand her wants,

so eager to fulfil them; so bound to her by associations; so fit a mate

for the very differences between them. And now these two claims were no

longer compatible; in his very love for her he had ended that

possibility. All those old dreams; the little scenes she had rehearsed,

of their first mass, their first communion together; their walks in the

twilight; their rides over the hills; the new ties that were to draw the

old ladies at the Hall and herself so close together--all this was

changed; some of those dreams were now for ever impossible, others only

possible on terms that she trembled even to think of. Perhaps it was

worst of all to reflect that she was in some measure responsible for his

change of religion; she fancied that it was through her slowness to

respond to light, her delaying to confide in him, that he had been driven

through impatience to take this step. And so week after week went by and

she dared not answer his letter.

The old ladies, too, were sorely puzzled at her. It was impossible for

them to know how far her religion was changing. She had kept up the same

reserve towards them lately as towards Hubert, chiefly because she feared

to disappoint them; and so after an attempt to tell each other a little

of their mutual sympathy, the three women were silent on the subject of

the lad who was so much to them all.

She began to show her state a little in her movements and appearance. She

was languid, soon tired and dispirited; she would go for short, lonely

walks, and fall asleep in her chair worn out when she came in. Her grey

eyes looked longer and darker; her eyelids and the corners of her mouth

began to droop a little.

Then in October he came home.

Isabel had been out a long afternoon walk by herself through the

reddening woods. They had never, since the first awakening of the

consciousness of beauty in her, meant so little to her as now. It

appeared as if that keen unity of a life common to her and all living

things had been broken or obscured; and that she walked in an isolation

all the more terrible in that she was surrounded by the dumb presence of

what she loved. Last year the quick chattering cry of the blackbird, the

evening mists over the meadows, the stir of the fading life of the woods,

the rustling scamper of the rabbit over the dead leaves, the solemn call

of the homing rooks--all this, only last year, went to make up the sweet

natural atmosphere in which her spirit moved and breathed at ease. Now

she was excommunicate from that pleasant friendship, banned by nature and

forgotten by the God who made it and was immanent within it. Her

relations to the Saviour, who only such a short time ago had been the

Person round whom all the joys of life had centred, from whom they

radiated, and to whom she referred them all--these relations had begun to

be obscured by her love for Hubert, and now had vanished altogether. She

had regarded her earthly and her heavenly lover as two persons, each of

whom had certain claims upon her heart, and each of whom she had hoped to

satisfy in different ways; instead of identifying the two, and serving

each not apart from, but in the other. And it now seemed to her that she

was making experience of a Divine jealousy that would suffer her to be

satisfied neither with God nor man. Her soul was exhausted by internal

conflict, by the swift alternations of attraction and repulsion between

the poles of her supernatural and natural life; so that when it turned

wearily from self to what lay outside, it was not even capable, as

before, of making that supreme effort of cessation of effort which was

necessary to its peace. It seemed to her that she was self-poised in

emptiness, and could neither touch heaven or earth--crucified so high

that she could not rest on earth, so low that she could not reach to

heaven.

She came in weary and dispirited as the candles were being lighted in her

sitting-room upstairs; but she saw the gleam of them from the garden with

no sense of a welcoming brightness. She passed from the garden into the

door of the hall which was still dark, as the fire had nearly burned

itself out. As she entered the door opposite opened, and once more she

saw the silhouette of a man's figure against the lighted passage beyond;

and again she stopped frightened, and whispered "Anthony."

There was a momentary pause as the door closed and all was dark again;

and then she heard Hubert's voice say her name; and felt herself wrapped

once more in his arms. For a moment she clung to him with furious

longing. Ah! this is a tangible thing, she felt, this clasp; the faint

cleanly smell of his rough frieze dress refreshed her like wine, and she

kissed his sleeve passionately. And the wide gulf between them yawned

again; and her spirit sickened at the sight of it.

"Oh! Hubert, Hubert!" she said.

She felt herself half carried to a high chair beside the fire-place and

set down there; then he re-arranged the logs on the hearth, so that the

flames began to leap again, showing his strong hands and keen clear-cut

face; then he turned on his knees, seized her two hands in his own, and

lifted them to his lips; then laid them down again on her knee, still

holding them; and so remained.

"Oh! Isabel," he said, "why did you not write?"

She was silent as one who stares fascinated down a precipice.

"It is all over," he went on in a moment, "with the expedition. The

Queen's Grace has finally refused us leave to go--and I have come back to

you, Isabel."

How strong and pleasant he looked in this leaping fire-light! how real!

and she was hesitating between this warm human reality and the chilly

possibilities of an invisible truth. Her hands tightened instinctively

within his, and then relaxed.

"I have been so wretched," she said piteously.

"Ah! my dear," and he threw an arm round her neck and drew her face down

to his, "but that is over now." She sat back again; and then an access of

purpose poured into her and braced her will to an effort.

"No, no," she began, "I must tell you. I was afraid to write. Hubert, I

must wait a little longer. I--I do not know what I believe."

He looked at her, puzzled.

"What do you mean, dearest?"

"I have been so much puzzled lately--thinking so much--and--and--I am

sorry you have become a Protestant. It makes all so hard."

"My dear, this is--I do not understand."

"I have been thinking," went on Isabel bravely, "whether perhaps the

Catholic Church is not right after all."

Hubert loosed her hands and stood up. She crouched into the shadow of the

interior of the high chair, and looked up at him, terrified. His cheek

twitched a little.

"Isabel, this is foolishness. I know what the Catholic faith is. It is

not true; I have been through it all."

He was speaking nervously and abruptly. She said nothing. Then he

suddenly dropped on his knees himself.

"My dearest, I understand. You were doing this for me. I quite

understand. It is what I too----" and then he stopped.

"I know, I know," she cried piteously. "It is just what I have feared so

terribly--that--that our love has been blinding us both. And yet, what

are we to do, what are we to do? Oh! God--Hubert, help me."

Then he began to speak in a low emphatic voice, holding her hands,

delicately stroking one of them now and again, and playing with her

fingers. She watched his curly head in the firelight as he talked, and

his keen face as he looked up.

"It is all plain to me," he said, caressingly. "You have been living here

with my aunt, a dear old saint; and she has been talking and telling you

all about the Catholic religion, and making it seem all true and good.

And you, my dear child, have been thinking of me sometimes, and loving me

a little, is it not so? and longing that religion should not separate us;

and so you began to wish it was true; and then to hope it was; and at

last you have begun to think it is. But it is not your true sweet self

that believes it. Ah! you know in your heart of hearts, as I have known

so long, that it is not true; that it is made up by priests and nuns; and

it is very beautiful, I know, my dearest, but it is only a lovely tale;

and you must not spoil all for the sake of a tale. And I have been

gradually led to the light; it was your--" and his voice faltered--"your

prayers that helped me to it. I have longed to understand what it was

that made you so sweet and so happy; and now I know; it is your own

simple pure religion; and--and--it is so much more sensible, so much more

likely to be true than the Catholic religion. It is all in the Bible you

see; so plain, as Mr. Collins has showed me. And so, my dear love, I have

come to believe it too; and you must put all these fancies out of your

head, these dreams; though I love you, I love you," and he kissed her

hand again, "for wishing to believe them for my sake--and--and we will be

married before Christmas; and we will have our own fairy-tale, but it

shall be a true one."

This was terrible to Isabel. It seemed as if her own haunting thought

that she was sacrificing a dream to reality had become incarnate in her

lover and was speaking through his lips. And yet in its very incarnation,

it seemed to reveal its weakness rather than its strength. As a dark

suggestion the thought was mighty; embodied in actual language it seemed

to shrink a little. But then, on the other hand--and so the interior

conflict began to rage again.

She made a movement as if to stand up; but he pressed her back into the

chair.

"No, my dearest, you shall be a prisoner until you give your parole."

Twice Isabel made an effort to speak; but no sound came. It seemed as if

the raging strife of thoughts deafened and paralysed her.

"Now, Isabel," said Hubert.

"I cannot, I cannot," she cried desperately, "you must give me time. It

is too sudden, your returning like this. You must give me time. I do not

know what I believe. Oh, dear God, help me."

"Isabel, promise! promise! Before Christmas! I thought it was all to be

so happy, when I came in through the garden just now. My mother will

hardly speak to me; and I came to you, Isabel, as I always did; I felt so

sure you would be good to me; and tell me that you would always love me,

now that I had given up my religion for love of you. And now----" and

Hubert's voice ended in a sob.

Her heart seemed rent across, and she drew a sobbing sigh. Hubert heard

it, and caught at her hands again as he knelt.

"Isabel, promise, promise."

Then there came that gust of purpose into her heart again; she made a

determined effort and stood up; and Hubert rose and stood opposite her.

"You must not ask me," she said, bravely. "It would be wicked to decide

yet. I cannot see anything clearly. I do not know what I believe, nor

where I stand. You must give me time."

There was a dead silence. His face was so much in shadow that she could

not tell what he was thinking. He was standing perfectly still.

"Then that is all the answer you will give me?" he said, in a perfectly

even voice.

Isabel bowed her head.

"Then--then I wish you good-night, Mistress Norris," and he bowed to her,

caught up his cap and went out.

She could not believe it for a moment, and caught her breath to cry out

after him as the door closed; but she heard his step on the stone

pavement outside, the crunch of the gravel, and he was gone. Then she

went and leaned her head against the curved mantelshelf and stared into

the logs that his hands had piled together.

This, then, she thought, was the work of religion; the end of all her

aspirations and efforts, that God should mock them by bringing love into

their life, and then when they caught at it and thanked him for it, it

was whisked away again, and left their hands empty. Was this the Father

of Love in whom she had been taught to believe, who treated His children

like this? And so the bitter thoughts went on; and yet she knew in her

heart that she was powerless; that she could not go to the door and call

Hubert and promise what he asked. A great Force had laid hold of her, it

might be benevolent or not--at this moment she thought not--but it was

irresistible; and she must bow her head and obey.

And even as she thought that, the door opened again, and there was

Hubert. He came in two quick steps across the room to her, and then

stopped suddenly.

"Mistress Isabel," he asked, "can you forgive me? I was a brute just now.

I do not ask for your promise. I leave it all in your hands. Do with me

what you will. But--but, if you could tell me how long you think it will

be before you know----"

He had touched the right note. Isabel's heart gave a leap of sorrow and

sympathy. "Oh, Hubert," she said brokenly, "I am so sorry; but I promise

I will tell you--by Easter?" and her tone was interrogative.

"Yes, yes," said Hubert. He looked at her in silence, and she saw strange

lines quivering at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes large and

brilliant in the firelight. Then the two drew together, and he took her

in his arms strongly and passionately.

* * * *

There was a scene that night between the mother and son. Mistress

Margaret had gone back to the Dower House for supper; and Lady Maxwell

and Hubert were supping in Sir Nicholas' old study that would soon be

arranged for Hubert now that he had returned for good. They had been very

silent during the meal, while the servants were in the room, talking only

of little village affairs and of the estate, and of the cancelling of the

proposed expedition. Hubert had explained to his mother that it was

generally believed that Elizabeth had never seriously intended the

English ships to sail, but that she only wished to draw Spain's attention

off herself by setting up complications between that country and France;

and when she had succeeded in this by managing to get the French squadron

safe at Terceira, she then withdrew her permission to Drake and Hawkins,

and thus escaped from the quarrel altogether. But it was a poor makeshift

for conversation.

When the servants had withdrawn, a silence fell. Presently Hubert looked

across the table between the silver branched candlesticks.

"Mother," he said, "of course I know what you are thinking. But I cannot

consent to go through all the arguments; I am weary of them. Neither will

I see Mr. Barnes to-morrow at Cuckfield or here. I am satisfied with my

position."

"My son," said Lady Maxwell with dignity, "I do not think I have spoken

that priest's name; or indeed any."

"Well," said Hubert, impatiently, "at any rate I will not see him. But I

wish to say a few words about this house. We must have our positions

clear. My father left to your use, did he not, the whole of the

cloister-wing? I am delighted, dear mother, that he did so. You will be

happy there I know; and of course I need not say that I hope you will

keep your old room overhead as well; and, indeed, use the whole house as

you have always done. I shall be grateful if you will superintend it all,

as before--at least, until a new mistress comes."

"Thank you, my son."

"I will speak of that in a moment," he went on, looking steadily at the

table-cloth; "but there was a word I wished to say first. I am now a

loyal subject of her Grace in all things; in religion as in all else.

And--and I fear I cannot continue to entertain seminary priests as my

father used to do. My--my conscience will not allow that. But of course,

mother, I need not say that you are at perfect liberty to do what you

will in the cloister-wing; I shall ask no questions; and I shall set no

traps or spies. But I must ask that the priests do not come into this

part of the house, nor walk in the garden. Fortunately you have a lawn in

the cloister; so that they need not lack fresh air or exercise."

"You need not fear, Hubert," said his mother, "I will not embarrass you.

You shall be in no danger."

"I think you need not have said that, mother; I am not usually thought a

coward."

Lady Maxwell flushed a little, and began to finger her silver knife.

"However," Hubert went on, "I thought it best to say that. The chapel,

you see, is in that wing; and you have that lawn; and--and I do not think

I am treating you hardly."

"And is your brother James not to come?" asked his mother.

"I have thought much over that," said Hubert; "and although it is hard to

say it, I think he had better not come to my part of the house--at least

not when I am here; I must know nothing of it. You must do what you think

well when I am away, about him and others too. It is very difficult for

me, mother; please do not add to the difficulty."

"You need not fear," said Lady Maxwell steadily; "you shall not be

troubled with any Catholics besides ourselves."

"Then that is arranged," said the lad. "And now there is a word more.

What have you been doing to Isabel?" And he looked sharply across the

table. His mother's eyes met his fearlessly.

"I do not understand you," she said.

"Mother, you must know what I mean. You have seen her continually."

"I have told you, my son, that I do not know."

"Why," burst out Hubert, "she is half a Catholic."

"Thank God," said his mother.

"Ah! yes; you thank God, I know; but whom am I to thank for it?"

"I would that you could thank Him too."

Hubert made a sharp sound of disgust.

"Ah! yes," he said scornfully, "I knew it; _Non nobis Domine_, and the

rest."

"Hubert," said Lady Maxwell, "I do not think you mean to insult me in

this house; but either that is an insult, or else I misunderstood you

wholly, and must ask your pardon for it."

"Well," he said, in a harsh voice, "I will make myself plain. I believe

that it is through the influence of you and Aunt Margaret that this has

been brought about."

At the moment he spoke the door opened.

"Come in, Margaret," said her sister, "this concerns you."

The old nun came across to Hubert with her anxious sweet face; and put

her old hand tenderly on his black satin sleeve as he sat and wrenched at

a nut between his fingers.

"Hubert, dear boy," she said, "what is all this? Will you tell me?"

Hubert rose, a little ashamed of himself, and went to the door and closed

it; and then drew out a chair for his aunt, and put a wine-glass for her.

"Sit down, aunt," he said, and pushed the decanter towards her.

"I have just left Isabel," she said, "she is very unhappy about

something. You saw her this evening, dear lad?"

"Yes," said Hubert, heavily, looking down at the table and taking up

another nut, "and it is of that that I have been speaking. Who has made

her unhappy?"

"I had hoped you would tell us that," said Mistress Margaret; "I came up

to ask you."

"My son has done us--me--the honour----" began Lady Maxwell; but Hubert

broke in:

"I left Isabel here last Christmas happy and a Protestant. I have come

back here now to find her unhappy and half a Catholic, if not

more--and----"

"Oh! are you sure?" asked Mistress Margaret, her eyes shining. "Thank

God, if it be so!"

"Sure?" said Hubert, "why she will not marry me; at least not yet."

"Oh, poor lad," she said tenderly, "to have lost both God and Isabel."

Hubert turned on her savagely. But the old nun's eyes were steady and

serene.

"Poor lad!" she said again.

Hubert looked down again; his lip wrinkled up in a little sneer.

"As far as I am concerned," he said, "I can understand your not caring,

but I am astonished at this response of yours to her father's

confidence!"

Lady Maxwell grew white to the lips.

"I have told you," she began--"but you do not seem to believe it--that I

have had nothing to do, so far as I know, with her conversion,

which"--and she raised her voice bravely--"I pray God to accomplish. She

has, of course, asked me questions now and then; and I have answered

them--that is all."

"And I," said Mistress Margaret, "plead guilty to the same charge, and to

no other. You are not yourself, dear boy, at present; and indeed I do not

wonder at it; and I pray God to help you; but you are not yourself, or

you would not speak like this to your mother."

Hubert rose to his feet; his face was white under the tan, and the ruffle

round his wrist trembled as he leaned heavily with his fingers on the

table.

"I am only a plain Protestant now," he said bitterly, "and I have been

with Protestants so long that I have forgotten Catholic ways; but----"

"Stay, Hubert," said his mother, "do not finish that. You will be sorry

for it presently, if you do. Come, Margaret." And she moved towards the

door; her son went quickly past and opened it.

"Nay, nay," said the nun. "Do you be going, Mary. Let me stay with the

lad, and we will come to you presently." Lady Maxwell bowed her head and

passed out, and Hubert closed the door.

Mistress Margaret looked down on the table.

"You have given me a glass, dear boy; but no wine in it."

Hubert took a couple of quick steps back, and faced her.

"It is no use, it is no use," he burst out, and his voice was broken with

emotion, "you cannot turn me like that. Oh, what have you done with my

Isabel?" He put out his hand and seized her arm. "Give her back to me,

Aunt Margaret; give her back to me."

He dropped into his seat and hid his face on his arm; and there was a sob

or two.

"Sit up and be a man, Hubert," broke in Mistress Margaret's voice, clear

and cool.

He looked up in amazement with wet indignant eyes. She was looking at

him, smiling tenderly.

"And now, for the second time, give me half a glass of wine, dear boy."

He poured it out, bewildered at her self-control.

"For a man that has been round the world," she said, "you are but a

foolish child."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you never thought of a way of yet winning Isabel," she asked.

"What do you mean?" he repeated.

"Why, come back to the Church, dear lad; and make your mother and me

happy again, and marry Isabel, and save your own soul."

"Aunt Margaret," he cried, "it is impossible. I have truly lost my faith

in the Catholic religion; and--and--you would not have me a hypocrite."

"Ah! ah!" said the nun, "you cannot tell yet. Please God it may come

back. Oh! dear boy, in your heart you know it is true."

"Before God, in my heart I know that it is not true."

"No, no, no," she said; but the light died out of her eyes, and she

stretched a tremulous hand.

"Yes, Aunt Margaret, it is so. For years and years I have been doubting;

but I kept on just because it seemed to me the best religion; and--and I

would not be driven out of it by her Grace's laws against my will, like a

dog stoned from his kennel."

"But you are only a lad still," she said piteously. He laughed a little.

"But I have had the gift of reason and discretion nearly twenty years, a

priest would tell me. Besides, Aunt Margaret, I could not be such a--a

cur--as to come back without believing. I could never look Isabel in the

eyes again."

"Well, well," said the old lady, "let us wait and see. Do you intend to

be here now for a while?"

"Not while Isabel is like this," he said. "I could not. I must go away

for a while, and then come back and ask her again."

"When will she decide?"

"She told me by next Easter," said Hubert. "Oh, Aunt Margaret, pray for

us both."

The light began to glimmer again in her eyes.

"There, dear boy," she said, "you see you believe in prayer still."

"But, aunt," said Hubert, "why should I not? Protestants pray."

"Well, well," said the old nun again. "Now you must come to your mother;

and--and be good to her."

CHAPTER V

THE COMING OF THE JESUITS

The effect on Anthony of Mr. Buxton's conversation was very considerable.

He had managed to keep his temper very well during the actual interview;

but he broke out alone afterwards, at first with an angry contempt. The

absurd arrogance of the man made him furious--the arrogance that had

puffed away England and its ambitions and its vigour--palpable evidences

of life and reality, and further of God's blessing--in favour of a

miserable Latin nation which had the presumption to claim the possession

of Peter's Chair and of the person of the Vicar of Christ! Test it, said

the young man to himself, by the ancient Fathers and Councils that Dr.

Jewel quoted so learnedly, and the preposterous claim crumbled to dust.

Test it, yet again, by the finger of Providence; and God Himself

proclaimed that the pretensions of the spiritual kingdom, of which the

prisoner in the cell had bragged, are but a blasphemous fable. And

Anthony reminded himself of the events of the previous year.

Three great assaults had been made by the Papists to win back England to

the old Religion. Dr. William Allen, the founder of Douai College, had

already for the last seven or eight years been pouring seminary priests

into England, and over a hundred and twenty were at work among their

countrymen, preparing the grand attack. This was made in three quarters

at once.

In Scotland it was chiefly political, and Anthony thought, with a bitter

contempt, of the Count d'Aubigny, Esmé Stuart, who was supposed to be an

emissary of the Jesuits; how he had plotted with ecclesiastics and

nobles, and professed Protestantism to further his ends; and of all the

stories of his duplicity and evil-living, told round the guard-room fire.

In Ireland the attempt was little else than ludicrous. Anthony laughed

fiercely to himself as he pictured the landing of the treacherous fools

at Dingle, of Sir James FitzMaurice and his lady, very wretched and giddy

after their voyage, and the barefooted friars, and Dr. Sanders, and the

banner so solemnly consecrated; and of the sands of Smerwick, when all

was over a year later, and the six hundred bodies, men and women who had

preferred Mr. Buxton's spiritual kingdom to Elizabeth's kindly rule,

stripped and laid out in rows, like dead game, for Lord Grey de Wilton to

reckon them by.

But his heart sank a little as he remembered the third method of attack,

and of the coming of the Jesuits. By last July all London knew that they

were here, and men's hearts were shaken with apprehension. They reminded

one another of the April earthquake that had tolled the great Westminster

bell, and thrown down stones from the churches. One of the Lambeth

guards, a native of Blunsdon, in Wiltshire, had told Anthony himself that

a pack of hell-hounds had been heard there, in full cry after a ghostly

quarry. Phantom ships had been seen from Bodmin attacking a phantom

castle that rode over the waves off the Cornish coast. An old woman of

Blasedon had given birth to a huge-headed monster with the mouth of a

mouse, eight legs, and a tail; and, worse than all, it was whispered in

the Somersetshire inns that three companies of black-robed men, sixty in

number, had been seen, coming and going overhead in the gloom. These two

strange emissaries, Fathers Persons and Campion--how they appealed to the

imagination, lurking under a hundred disguises, now of servants, now of

gentlemen of means and position! It was known that they were still in

England, going about doing good, their friends said who knew them;

stirring up the people, their enemies said who were searching for them.

Anthony had seen with his own eyes some of the papers connected with

their presence--that containing a statement of their objects in coming,

namely, that they were spiritual not political agents, seeking recruits

for Christ and for none else; Campion's "Challenge and Brag," offering to

meet any English Divine on equal terms in a public disputation; besides

one or two of the controversial pamphlets, purporting to be printed at

Douai, but really emanating from a private printing-press in England, as

the Government experts had discovered from an examination of the

water-marks of the paper employed.

Yet as the weeks went by, and his first resentment cooled, Mr. Buxton's

arguments more and more sank home, for they had touched the very point

where Anthony had reckoned that his own strength lay. He had never before

heard Nationalism and Catholicism placed in such flat antithesis. In

fact, he had never before really heard the statement of the Catholic

position; and his fierce contempt gradually melted into respect. Both

theories had a concrete air of reality about them; his own imaged itself

under the symbols of England's power; the National Church appealed to him

so far as it represented the spiritual side of the English people; and

Mr. Buxton's conception appealed to him from its very audacity. This

great spiritual kingdom, striding on its way, trampling down the barriers

of temperament and nationality, disregarding all earthly limitations and

artificial restraints, imperiously dominating the world in spite of the

world's struggles and resentment--this, after all, as he thought over it,

was--well--was a new aspect of affairs. The coming of the Jesuits, too,

emphasised the appeal: here were two men, as the world itself confessed,

of exceptional ability--for Campion had been a famous Oxford orator, and

Persons a Fellow of Balliol--choosing, under a free-will obedience, first

a life of exile, and then one of daily peril and apprehension, the very

thought of which burdened the imagination with horror; hunted like

vermin, sleeping and faring hard, their very names detested by the

majority of their countrymen, with the shadow of the gallows moving with

them, and the reek of the hangman's cauldron continually in their

nostrils--and for what? For Mr. Buxton's spiritual kingdom! Well, Anthony

thought to himself as the weeks went by and his new thoughts sank deeper,

if it is all a superstitious dream, at least it is a noble one!

What, too, was the answer, he asked himself, that England gave to Father

Campion's challenge, and the defence that the Government was preparing

against the spiritual weapons of the Jesuits? New prisons at Framingham

and Battersea; new penalties enacted by Parliament; and, above all, the

unanswerable argument of the rack, and the gallows finally to close the

discussion. And what of the army that was being set in array against the

priests, and that was even now beginning to scour the country round

Berkshire, Oxfordshire, and London? Anthony had to confess to himself

that they were queer allies for the servants of Christ; for traitors,

liars, and informers were among the most trusted Government agents.

In short, as the spring drew on, Anthony was not wholly happy. Again and

again in his own room he studied a little manuscript translation of

Father Campion's "Ten Reasons," that had been taken from a popish

prisoner, and that a friend had given him; and as he read its exultant

rhetoric, he wondered whether the writer was indeed as insincere and

treacherous as Mr. Scot declared. There seemed in the paper a reckless

outspokenness, calculated rather to irritate than deceive.

"I turn to the Sacraments," he read, "none, none, not two, not one, O

holy Christ, have they left. Their very bread is poison. Their baptism,

though it be true, yet in their judgment is nothing. It is not the saving

water! It is not the channel of Grace! It brings not Christ's merits to

us! It is but a sign of salvation!" And again the writer cried to

Elizabeth to return to the ancient Religion, and to be in truth what she

was in name, the Defender of the Faith.

"'Kings shall be thy nursing fathers,' thus Isaiah sang, 'and Queens thy

nursing mothers.' Listen, Elizabeth, most Mighty Queen! To thee the great

Prophet sings! He teaches thee thy part. Join then thyself to these

princes!... O Elizabeth, a day, a day shall come that shall show thee

clearly which have loved thee the better, the Society of Jesus or Luther's

brood!"

What arrogance, thought Anthony to himself, and what assurance too!

Meanwhile in the outer world things were not reassuring to the friends of

the Government: it was true that half a dozen priests had been captured

and examined by torture, and that Sir George Peckham himself, who was

known to have harboured Campion, had been committed to the Marshalsea;

but yet the Jesuits' influence was steadily on the increase. More and

more severe penalties had been lately enacted; it was now declared to be

high treason to reconcile or be reconciled to the Church of Rome;

overwhelming losses in fortune as well as liberty were threatened against

all who said or heard Mass or refused to attend the services of the

Establishment; but, as was discovered from papers that fell from time to

time into the hands of the Government agents, the only answer of the

priests was to inveigh more strenuously against even occasional

conformity, declaring it to be the mortal sin of schism, if not of

apostasy, to put in an appearance under any circumstances, except those

of actual physical compulsion, at the worship in the parish churches.

Worse than all, too, was the fact that this severe gospel began to

prevail; recusancy was reported to be on the increase in all parts of the

country; and many of the old aristocracy began to return to the faith of

their fathers: Lords Arundel, Oxford, Vaux, Henry Howard, and Sir Francis

Southwell were all beginning to fall under the suspicion of the shrewdest

Government spies.

The excitement at Lambeth ran higher day by day as the summer drew on;

the net was being gradually contracted in the home counties; spies were

reported to be everywhere, in inns, in the servants' quarters of

gentlemen's houses, lounging at cross roads and on village greens.

Campion's name was in every mouth. Now they were on his footsteps, it was

said; now he was taken; now he was gone back to France; now he was in

London; now in Lancashire; and each rumour in turn corrected its

predecessor.

Anthony shared to the full in the excitement; the figure of the quarry,

after which so many hawks were abroad, appealed to his imagination. He

dreamed of him at night, once as a crafty-looking man with narrow eyes

and stooping shoulders, that skulked and ran from shadow to shadow across

a moonlit country; once as a ruddy-faced middle-aged gentleman riding

down a crowded street; and several times as a kind of double of Mr.

Stewart, whom he had never forgotten, since he had watched him in the

little room of Maxwell Hall, gallant and alert among his enemies.

At last one day in July, as it drew on towards evening, and as Anthony

was looking over the stable-accounts in his little office beyond the

Presence Chamber, a buzz of talk and footsteps broke out in the court

below; and a moment later the Archbishop's body-servant ran in to say

that his Grace wished to see Mr. Norris at once in the gallery that

opened out of the guard-room.

"And I think it is about the Jesuits, sir," added the man, evidently

excited.

Anthony ran down at once and found his master pacing up and down, with a

courier waiting near the steps at the lower end that led to Chichele's

tower. The Archbishop stopped by a window, emblazoned with Cardinal

Pole's emblem, and beckoned to him.

"See here, Master Norris," he said, "I have received news that Campion is

at last taken: it may well be false, as so often before; but take horse,

if you please, and ride into the city and find the truth for me. I will

not send a groom; they believe the maddest tales. You are at liberty?" he

added courteously.

"Yes, your Grace, I will ride immediately."

As he rode down the river-bank towards London Bridge ten minutes later,

he could not help feeling some dismay as well as excitement at the news

he was to verify. And yet what other end was possible? But what a doom

for the brilliant Oxford orator, even though he had counted the cost!

Streams of excited people were pouring across the bridge into the city;

Campion's name was on every tongue; and Anthony, as he passed under the

high gate, noticed a man point up at the grim spiked heads above it, and

laugh to his companion. There seemed little doubt, from the unanimity of

those whom he questioned, that the rumour was true; and some even said

that the Jesuit was actually passing down Cheapside on his way to the

Tower. When at last Anthony came to the thoroughfare the crowd was as

dense as for a royal progress. He checked his horse at the door of an

inn-yard, and asked an ostler that stood there what it was all about.

"It is Campion, the Jesuit, sir," said the man. "He has been taken at

Lyford, and is passing here presently."

The man had hardly finished speaking when a yell came from the end of the

street, and groans and hoots ran down the crowd. Anthony turned in his

saddle, and saw a great stir and movement, and then horses' and men's

heads moving slowly down over the seething surface of the crowd, as if

swimming in a rough sea. He could make little out, as the company came

towards him, but the faces of the officers and pursuivants who rode in

the front rank, four or five abreast; then followed the faces of three or

four others, also riding between guards, and Anthony looked eagerly at

them; but they were simple faces enough, a little pale and quiet; one was

like a farmer's, ruddy and bearded;--surely Campion could not be among

those! Then more and more, riding two and two, with a couple of armed

guards with each pair; some looked like country-men or servants, some

like gentlemen, and one or two might be priests; but the crowd seemed to

pay them no attention beyond a glance or two. Ah! what was this coming

behind?

There was a space behind the last row of guards, and then came a separate

troop riding all together, of half a dozen men at least, and one in the

centre, with something white in his hat. The ferment round this group was

tremendous; men were leaping up and yelling, like hounds round a carted

stag; clubs shot up menacingly, and a storm of ceaseless execration raged

outside the compact square of guards who sat alert and ready to beat off

an attack. Once a horse kicked fiercely as a man sprang to his

hind-quarters, and there was a scream of pain and a burst of laughing.

Anthony sat trembling with excitement as the first group had passed, and

this second began to come opposite the entrance where he sat. This then

was the man!

The rider in the centre sat his horse somewhat stiffly, and Anthony saw

that his elbows were bound behind his back, and his hands in front; the

reins were drawn over his horse's head and a pursuivant held them on

either side. The man was dressed as a layman, in a plumed hat and a buff

jerkin, such as soldiers or plain country-gentlemen might use; and in the

hat was a great paper with an inscription. Anthony spelt it out.

"Campion, the Seditious Jesuit."

Then he looked at the man's face.

It was a comely refined face, a little pale but perfectly serene: his

pointed dark brown beard and moustache were carefully trimmed; and his

large passionate eyes looked cheerfully about him. Anthony stared at him,

wholly fascinated; for above the romance that hung about the hunted

priest and the glamour of the dreaded Society which he represented, there

was a chivalrous fearless look in his face that drew the heart of the

young man almost irresistibly. At least he did not look like the skulking

knave at whom all the world was sneering, and of whom Anthony had dreamt

so vividly a few nights before.

The storm of execration from the faces below, and the faces crowding at

the windows, seemed to affect him not at all; and he looked from side to

side as if they were cheering him rather than crying against him. Once

his eyes met Anthony's and rested on them for a moment; and a strange

thrill ran through him and he shivered sharply.

* * * *

And yet he felt, too, a distinct and irresistible movement of attraction

towards this felon who was riding towards his agony and passion; and he

was conscious at the same time of that curious touch of wonder that he

had felt years before towards the man whipped at the cart's tail, as to

whether the solitary criminal were not in the right, and the clamorous

accusers in the wrong. Campion in a moment had passed on and turned his

head.

In that moment, too, Anthony caught a sudden clear instantaneous

impression of a group of faces in the window opposite. There were a

couple of men in front, stout city personages no doubt, with crimson

faces and open mouths cursing the traitorous Papist and the crafty

vagrant fox trapped at last; but between them, looking over their

shoulders, was a woman's face in which Anthony saw the most intense

struggle of emotions. The face was quite white, the lips parted, the eyes

straining, and sorrow and compassion were in every line, as she watched

the cheerful priest among his warders; and yet there rested on it, too, a

strange light as of triumph. It was the face of one who sees victory even

at the hour of supremest failure. In an instant more the face had

withdrawn itself into the darkness of the room.

When the crowds had surged down the street in the direction of the Tower,

yelling in derision as Campion saluted the lately defaced Cheapside

Cross, Anthony guided his horse out through the dispersing groups,

realising as he did so, with a touch of astonishment at the coincidence,

that he had been standing almost immediately under the window whence he

and Isabel had leaned out so many years before.

* * * *

The sun was going down behind the Abbey as he rode up towards Lambeth,

and the sky above and the river beneath were as molten gold. The Abbey

itself, with Westminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament below, stood

up like mystical palaces against the sunset; and it seemed to Anthony as

he rode, as if God Himself were illustrating in glorious illumination the

closing pages of that human life of which a glimpse had opened to him in

Cheapside. It did not appear to him as it had done in the days of his

boyish love as if heaven and earth were a stage for himself to walk and

pose upon; but he felt intensely now the dominating power of the

personality of the priest; and that he himself was no more than a

spectator of this act of a tragedy of which the priest was both hero and

victim, and for which this evening glory formed so radiant a scene. The

old intellectual arguments against the cause that the priest represented

for the moment were drowned in this flood of splendour. When he arrived

at Lambeth and had reached the Archbishop's presence, he told him the

news briefly, and went to his room full of thought and perplexity.

In a few days the story of Campion's arrest was known far and wide. It

had been made possible by the folly of one Catholic and the treachery of

another; and when Anthony heard it, he was stirred still more by the

contrast between the Jesuit and his pursuers. The priest had returned to

the moated grange at Lyford, after having already paid as long a visit

there as was prudent, owing to the solicitations of a number of gentlemen

who had ridden after him and his companion, and who wished to hear his

eloquence. He had returned there again, said mass on the Sunday morning,

and preached afterwards, from a chair set before the altar, a sermon on

the tears of the Saviour over apostate Jerusalem. But a false disciple

had been present who had come in search of one Payne; and this man, known

afterwards by the Catholics as Judas Eliot or Eliot Iscariot, had

gathered a number of constables and placed them about the manor-house;

and before the sermon was over he went out quickly from the table of the

Lord, the house was immediately surrounded, and the alarm was raised by a

watcher placed in one of the turrets after Eliot's suspicious departure.

The three priests present, Campion and two others, were hurried into a

hiding-hole over the stairs. The officers entered, searched, and found

nothing; and were actually retiring, when Eliot succeeded in persuading

them to try again; they searched again till dark, and still found

nothing. Mrs. Yate encouraged them to stay the night in the house, and

entertained them with ale; and then when all was quiet, insisted on

hearing some parting words from her eloquent guest. He came out into the

room where she had chosen to spend the night until the officers were

gone; and the rest of the Catholics, some Brigittine nuns and others, met

there through private passages and listened to him for the last time. As

the company was dispersing one of the priests stumbled and fell, making a

noise that roused the sentry outside. Again the house was searched, and

again with no success. In despair they were leaving it, when Jenkins,

Eliot's companion, who was coming downstairs with a servant of the house,

beat with his stick on the wall, saying that they had not searched there.

It was noticed that the servant showed signs of agitation; and men were

fetched to the spot; the wall was beaten in and the three priests were

found together, having mutually shriven one another, and made themselves

ready for death.

Campion was taken out and sent first to the Sheriff of Berkshire, and

then on towards London on the following day.

* * * *

The summer days went by, and every day brought its fresh rumour about

Campion. Sir Owen Hopton, Governor of the Tower, who at first had

committed his prisoner to Little-Ease, now began to treat him with more

honour; he talked, too, mysteriously, of secret interviews and promises

and understandings; and gradually it began to get about that Campion was

yielding to kindness; that he had seen the Queen; that he was to recant

at Paul's Cross; and even that he was to have the See of Canterbury. This

last rumour caused great indignation at Lambeth, and Anthony was more

pressed than ever to get what authentic news he could of the Jesuit. Then

at the beginning of August came a burst of new tales; he had been racked,

it was said, and had given up a number of names; and as the month went by

more and more details, authentic and otherwise, were published. Those

favourably inclined to the Catholics were divided in opinion; some feared

that he had indeed yielded to an excess of agony; others, and these

proved to be in the right when the truth came out, that he had only given

up names which were already known to the authorities; though even for

this he asked public pardon on the scaffold.

Towards the end of August the Archbishop again sent expressly for Anthony

and bade him accompany his chaplain on the following day to the Tower, to

be present at the public disputation that was to take place between

English divines and the Jesuit.

"Now he will have the chance he craved for," said Grindal. "He hath

bragged that he would meet any and all in dispute, and now the Queen's

clemency hath granted it him."

On the following day in the early morning sunshine the minister and

Anthony rode down together to the Tower, where they arrived a few minutes

before eight o'clock, and were passed through up the stairs into St.

John's chapel to the seats reserved for them.

It was indeed true that the authorities had determined to give Campion

his chance, but they had also determined to make it as small as possible.

He was not even told that the discussion was to take place until the

morning of its occasion, and he was allowed no opportunity for developing

his own theological position; the entire conduct of the debate was in the

hands of his adversaries; he might only parry, seldom riposte, and never

attack.

When Anthony found himself in his seat he looked round the chapel. Almost

immediately opposite him, on a raised platform against a pillar, stood

two high seats occupied by Deans Nowell and Day, who were to conduct the

disputation, and who were now talking with their heads together while a

secretary was arranging a great heap of books on the table before them.

On either side, east and west, stretched chairs for the divines that were

to support them in debate, should they need it; and the platform on which

Anthony himself had a chair was filled with a crowd of clergy and

courtiers laughing and chatting together. A little table, also heaped

with books, with seats for the notaries, stood in the centre of the nave,

and not far from it were a number of little wooden stools which the

prisoners were to occupy. Plainly they were to be allowed no advisers and

no books; even the physical support of table and chairs was denied to

them in spite of their weary racked bodies. The chapel, bright with the

morning sunlight that streamed in through the east windows of the bare

Norman sanctuary, hummed with the talk and laughter of those who had come

to see the priest-baiting and the vindication of the Protestant Religion;

though, as Anthony looked round, he saw here and there an anxious or a

downcast face of some unknown friend of the Papists.

He himself was far from easy in his mind. He had been studying Campion's

"Ten Reasons" more earnestly than ever, and was amazed to find that the

very authorities to which Dr. Jewel deferred, namely, the Scriptures

interpreted by Fathers and Councils and illustrated by History, were

exactly Campion's authorities, too; and that the Jesuit's appeal to them

was no less confident than the Protestant's. That fact had, of course,

suggested the thought that if there were no further living authority in

existence to decide between these two scholars, Christendom was in a poor

position. When doctors differed, where was the layman to turn? To his own

private judgment, said the Protestant. But then Campion's private

judgment led him to submit to the Catholic claim! This then at present

weighed heavily on Anthony's mind. Was there or was there not an

authority on earth capable of declaring to him the Revelation of God? For

the first time he was beginning to feel a logical and spiritual necessity

for an infallible external Judge in matters of faith; and that the

Catholic Church was the only system that professed to supply it. The

question of the existence of such an authority was, with the doctrine of

justification, one of those subjects continually in men's minds and

conversations, and to Anthony, unlike others, it appeared more

fundamental even than its companion. All else seemed secondary.

Indulgences, the Mass, Absolution, the Worship of Mary and the

Saints--all these must stand or fall on God's authority made known to

man. The one question for him was, Where was that authority to be

certainly found?

There came the ringing tramp of footsteps; the buzz of talk ceased and

then broke out again, as the prisoners, with all eyes bent upon them,

surrounded by a strong guard of pikemen, were seen advancing up the

chapel from the north-west door towards the stools set ready for them.

Anthony had no eyes but for Campion who limped in front, supported on

either side by a warder. He could scarcely believe at first that this was

the same priest who had ridden so bravely down Cheapside. Now he was

bent, and walked like an old broken man; his face was deathly pale, with

shadows and lines about his eyes, and his head trembled a little. There

were one or two exclamations of pity, for all knew what had caused the

change; and Anthony heard an undertone moan of sorrow and anger from some

one in a seat behind him.

The prisoners sat down; and the guards went to their places. Campion took

his seat in front, and turned immediately from side to side, running his

dark eyes along the faces to see where were his adversaries; and once

more Anthony met his eyes, and thrilled at it. Through the pallor and

pain of his face, the same chivalrous spirit looked out and called for

homage and love, that years ago at Oxford had made young men, mockingly

nicknamed after their leader, to desire his praise more passionately than

anything on earth, and even to imitate his manners and dress and gait,

for very loyalty and devotion. Anthony could not take his eyes off him;

he watched the clear-cut profile of his face thrown fearlessly forward,

waited in tense expectation to hear him speak, and paid no attention to

the whisperings of the chaplain beside him.

* * * *

Presently the debate began. It was opened by Dean Nowell from his high

seat, who assured Father Campion of the disinterested motives of himself

and his reverend friends in holding this disputation. It was, after all,

only what the priest had demanded; and they trusted by God's grace that

they would do him good and help him to see the truth. There was no

unfairness, said the Dean, who seemed to think that some apology was

needed, in taking him thus unprepared, since the subject of debate would

be none other than Campion's own book. The Jesuit looked up, nodded his

head, and smiled.

"I thank you, Mr. Dean," he said, in his deep resonant voice, and there

fell a dead hush as he spoke. "I thank you for desiring to do me good,

and to take up my challenge; but I must say that I would I had understood

of your coming, that I might have made myself ready."

Campion's voice thrilled strangely through Anthony, as the glance from

his eyes had done. It was so assured, so strong and delicate an

instrument, and so supremely at its owner's command, that it was hardly

less persuasive than his personality and his learning that made

themselves apparent during the day. And Anthony was not alone in his

impressions of the Jesuit. Lord Arundel afterwards attributed his

conversion to Campion's share in the discussions. Again and again during

the day a murmur of applause followed some of the priest's clean-cut

speeches and arguments, and a murmur of disapproval the fierce thrusts

and taunts of his opponents; and by the end of the day's debate, so

marked was the change of attitude of the crowd that had come to triumph

over the Papist, and so manifest their sympathy with the prisoners, that

it was thought advisable to exclude the public from the subsequent

discussions.

On this first day, all manner of subjects were touched upon, such as the

comparative leniency of Catholic and Protestant governments, the position

of Luther with regard to the Epistle of St. James, and other matters

comparatively unimportant, in the discussion of which a great deal of

time was wasted. Campion entreated his opponents to leave such minor

questions alone, and to come to doctrinal matters; but they preferred to

keep to details rather than to principles, and the priest had scarcely

any opportunity to state his positive position at all. The only doctrinal

matter seriously touched upon was that of Justification by Faith; and

texts were flung to and fro without any great result. "We are justified

by faith," cried one side. "Though I have all faith and have not charity,

I am nothing," cried the other. The effect on Anthony of this day's

debate arose rather from the victorious personality of the priest than

from his arguments. His gaiety, too, was in strange contrast to the

solemn Puritanism of his enemies. For instance, he was on the point that

Councils might err in matters of fact, but that the Scriptures could not.

"As for example," he said, his eyes twinkling out of his drawn face, "I

am bound under pain of damnation to believe that Toby's dog had a tail,

because it is written, he wagged it."

The Deans looked sternly at him, as the audience laughed.

"Now, now," said one of them, "it becomes not to deal so triflingly with

matters of weight."

Campion dropped his eyes, demurely, as if reproved.

"Why, then," he said, "if this example like you not, take another. I must

believe that Saint Paul had a cloak, because he willeth Timothy to bring

it with him."

Again the crowd laughed; and Anthony laughed, too, with a strange sob in

his throat at the gallant foolery, which, after all, was as much to the

point as a deal that the Deans were saying.

But the second day's debate, held in Hopton's Hall, was on more vital

matters; and Anthony again and again found himself leaning forward

breathlessly, as Drs. Goode and Fulke on the one side, and Campion on the

other, respectively attacked and defended the Doctrine of the Visible

Church; for this, for Anthony, was one of the crucial points of the

dispute between Catholicism and Protestantism. Anthony believed already

that the Church was one; and if it was visible, surely, he thought to

himself, it must be visibly one; and in that case, it is evident where

that Church is to be found. But if it is invisible, it may be invisibly

one, and then as far as that matter is concerned, he may rest in the

Church of England. If not--and then he recoiled from the gulf that

opened.

"It must be an essential mark of the Church," said Campion, "and such a

quality as is inseparable. It must be visible, as fire is hot, and water

moist."

Goode answered that when Christ was taken and the Apostles fled, then at

least the Church was invisible; and if then, why not always?

"It was a Church inchoate," answered the priest, "beginning, not

perfect."

But Goode continued to insist that the true Church is known only to God,

and therefore invisible.

"There are many wolves within," he said, "and many sheep without."

"I know not who is elect," retorted Campion, "but I know who is a

Catholic."

"Only the elect are of the Church," said Goode.

"I say that both good and evil are of the visible Church," answered the

other.

"To be elect or true members of Christ is one thing," went on Goode, "and

to be in the visible Church is another."

* * * *

As the talk went on, Anthony began to see where the confusion lay. The

Protestants were anxious to prove that membership in a visible body did

not ensure salvation but then the Catholics never claimed that it did;

the question was: Did or did not Christ intend there to be a visible

Church, membership in which should be the normal though not the

infallible means of salvation?

They presently got on to the _a priori_ point as to whether a visible

Church would seem to be a necessity.

"There is a perpetual commandment," said the priest, "in Matthew

eighteen--'Tell the Church'; but that cannot be unless the Church is

visible; _ergo_, the visibility of the Church is continual."

"When there is an established Church," said Goode, "this remedy is to be

sought for. But this cannot be always had."

"The disease is continual," answered Campion; "_ergo_ the remedy must be

continual." Then he left the _a priori_ ground and entered theirs. "To

whom should I have gone," he cried, "before Luther's time? What prelates

should I have made my complaint unto in those days? Where was your Church

nine hundred years ago? Whose were John Huss, Jerome of Prague, the

Waldenses? Were they yours?" Then he turned scornfully to Fulke, "Help

him, Master Doctor."

And Fulke repeated Goode's assertion, that valuable as the remedy is, it

cannot always be had.

Anthony sat back, puzzled. Both sides seemed right. Persecution must

often hinder the full privileges of Church membership and the exercise of

discipline. Yet the question was, What was Christ's intention? Was it

that the Church should be visible? It seemed that even the ministers

allowed that, now. And if so, why then the Catholic's claim that Christ's

intention had never been wholly frustrated, but that a visible unity was

to be found amongst themselves--surely this was easier to believe than

the Protestant theory that the Church which had been visible for fifteen

centuries was not really the Church at all; but that the true Church had

been invisible--in spite of Christ's intention--during all that period,

and was now to be found only in small separated bodies scattered here and

there. How of the prevailing of the gates of hell, if that were allowed

to be true?

* * * *

At two o'clock they reassembled for the afternoon conference; and now

they got even closer to the heart of the matter, for the subject was to

be, whether the Church could err?

Fulke asserted that it could, and did; and made a syllogism:

"Whatsoever error is incident to every member, is incident to the whole.

But it is incident to every member to err; _ergo_, to the whole."

"I deny both _major_ and _minor_," said Campion quietly. "Every man may

err, but not the whole gathered together; for the whole hath a promise,

but so hath not every particular man."

Fulke denied this stoutly, and beat on the table.

"Every member hath the spirit of Christ," he said, "which is the spirit

of truth; and therefore hath the same promise that the whole hath."

"Why, then," said Campion, smiling, "there should be no heretics."

"Yes," answered Fulke, "heretics may be within the Church, but not of the

Church."

And so they found themselves back again where they started from.

Anthony sat back on the oak bench and sighed, and glanced round at the

interested faces of the theologians and the yawns of the amateurs, as the

debate rolled on over the old ground, and touched on free will, and

grace, and infant baptism; until the Lieutenant interposed:

"Master Doctors," he said, with a judicial air, "the question that was

appointed before dinner was, whether the visible Church may err"--to

which Goode retorted that the digressions were all Campion's fault.

Then the debate took the form of contradictions.

"Whatsoever congregation doth err in matters of faith," said Goode, "is

not the true Church; but the Church of Rome erreth in matters of faith;

_ergo_, it is not the true Church."

"I deny your _minor_," said Campion, "the Church of Rome hath not erred."

Then the same process was repeated over the Council of Trent; and the

debate whirled off once more into details and irrelevancies about imputed

righteousness, and the denial of the Cup to the laity.

Again the audience grew restless. They had not come there, most of them,

to listen to theological minutiæ, but to see sport; and this interminable

chopping of words that resulted in nothing bored them profoundly. A

murmur of conversation began to buzz on all sides.

Campion was in despair.

"Thus shall we run into all questions," he cried hopelessly, "and then we

shall have done this time twelve months."

But Fulke would not let him be; but pressed on a question about the

Council of Nice.

"Now we shall have the matter of images," sighed Campion.

"You are _nimis acutus_," retorted Fulke, "you will leap over the stile

or ever you come to it. I mean not to speak of images."

And so with a few more irrelevancies the debate ended.

The third debate in September (on the twenty-third), at which Anthony was

again present, was on the subject of the Real Presence in the Blessed

Sacrament.

Fulke was in an evil temper, since it was common talk that Campion had

had the best of the argument on the eighteenth.

"The other day," he said, "when we had some hope of your conversion, we

forbare you much, and suffered you to discourse; but now that we see you

are an obstinate heretic, and seek to cover the light of the truth with

multitude of words, we mean not to allow you such large discourses as we

did."

"You are very imperious to-day," answered Campion serenely, "whatsoever

the matter is. I am the Queen's prisoner, and none of yours."

"Not a whit imperious," said Fulke angrily,--"though I will exact of you

to keep the right order of disputation."

Then the argument began. It soon became plain to Anthony that it was

possible to take the Scripture in two senses, literally and

metaphorically. The sacrament either was literally Christ's body, or it

was not. Who then was to decide? Father Campion said it meant the one;

Dr. Fulke the other. Could it be possible that Christ should leave His

people in doubt as to such a thing? Surely not, thought Anthony. Well,

then, where is the arbiter? Father Campion says, The Church; Dr. Fulke

says, The Scripture. But that is a circular argument, for the question to

be decided is: What does the Scripture mean? for it may mean at least two

things, at least so it would seem. Here then he found himself face to

face with the claims of the Church of Rome to be that arbiter; and his

heart began to grow sick with apprehension as he saw how that Church

supplied exactly what was demanded by the circumstances of the case--that

is, an infallible living guide as to the meaning of God's Revelation. The

simplicity of her claim appalled him.

He did not follow the argument closely, since it seemed to him but a

secondary question now; though he heard one or two sentences. At one

point Campion was explaining what the Church meant by substance. It was

that which transcended the senses.

"Are you not Dr. Fulke?" he said. "And yet I see nothing but your colour

and exterior form. The substance of Dr. Fulke cannot be seen."

"I will not vouchsafe to reply upon this answer," snarled Fulke, whose

temper had not been improved by the debate--"too childish for a

sophister!"

Then followed interminable syllogisms, of which Campion would not accept

the premises; and no real progress was made. The Jesuit tried to explain

the doctrine that the wicked may be said not to eat the Body in the

Sacrament, because they receive not the virtue of It, though they receive

the Thing; but Fulke would not hear him. The distinction was new to

Anthony, with his puritan training, and he sat pondering it while the

debate passed on.

The afternoon discussion, too, was to little purpose. More and more

Anthony, and others with him, began to see that the heart of the matter

was the authority of the Church; and that unless that was settled, all

other debate was beside the point; and the importance of this was brought

out for him more clearly than ever on the 27th of the month, when the

fourth and last debate took place, and on the subject of the sufficiency

of the Scriptures unto salvation.

Mr. Charke, who had now succeeded as disputant, began with extempore

prayer, in which as usual the priest refused to join, praying and

crossing himself apart.

Mr. Walker then opened the disputation with a pompous and insolent speech

about "one Campion," an "unnatural man to his country, degenerated from

an Englishman, an apostate in religion, a fugitive from this realm,

unloyal to his prince." Campion sat with his eyes cast down, until the

minister had done.

Then the discussion began. The priest pointed out that Protestants were

not even decided as to what were Scriptures and what were not, since

Luther rejected three epistles in the New Testament; therefore, he

argued, the Church is necessary as a guide, first of all, to tell men

what is Scripture. Walker evaded by saying he was not a Lutheran but a

Christian; and then the talk turned on to apocryphal books. But it was

not possible to evade long, and the Jesuit soon touched his opponent.

"To leave a door to traditions," he said, "which the Holy Ghost may

deliver to the true Church, is both manifest and seen: as in the Baptism

of infants, the Holy Ghost proceeding from Father to Son, and such other

things mentioned, which are delivered by tradition. Prove these directly

by the Scripture if you can!"

Charke answered by the analogy of circumcision which infants received,

and by quoting Christ's words as to "sending" of the Comforter; and they

were soon deep in detailed argument; but once more Anthony saw that it

was all a question of the interpretation of Scripture; and, therefore,

that it would seem that an authoritative interpreter was necessary--and

where could such be found save in an infallible living Voice? And once

more a question of Campion's drove the point home.

"Was all Scripture written when the Apostles first taught?" And Charke

dared not answer yes.

The afternoon's debate concerned justification by faith, and this, more

than ever, seemed to Anthony a secondary matter, now that he was

realising what the claim of a living authority meant; and he sat back,

only interested in watching the priest's face, so controlled yet so

transparent in its simplicity and steadfastness, as he listened to the

ministers' brutal taunts and insolence, and dealt his quiet skilful

parries and ripostes to their incessant assaults. At last the Lieutenant

struck the table with his hand, and intimated that the time was past, and

after a long prayer by Mr. Walker, the prisoners were led back to their

cells.

As Anthony rode back alone in the evening sunlight, he was as one who

was seeing a vision. There was indeed a vision before him, that had

been taking shape gradually, detail by detail, during these last months,

and ousting the old one; and which now, terribly emphasised by Campion's

arguments and illuminated by the fire of his personality, towered up

imperious, consistent, dominating--and across her brow her title, The

Catholic Church. Far above all the melting cloudland of theory she

moved, a stupendous fact; living, in contrast with the dead past to

which her enemies cried in vain; eloquent when other systems were dumb;

authoritative when they hesitated; steady when they reeled and fell.

About her throne dwelt her children, from every race and age, secure in

her protection, and wise with her knowledge, when other men faltered and

questioned and doubted: and as Anthony looked up and saw her for the

first time, he recognised her as the Mistress and Mother of his soul; and

although the blinding clouds of argument and theory and self-distrust

rushed down on him again and filled his eyes with dust, yet he knew he

had seen her face in very truth, and that the memory of that vision could

never again wholly leave him.

CHAPTER VI

SOME CONTRASTS

In the Lambeth household the autumn passed by uneventfully. The rigour of

the Archbishop's confinement had been mitigated, and he had been allowed

now and again to visit his palace at Croydon; but his inactivity still

continued as the sequestration was not removed; Elizabeth had refused to

listen to the petition of Convocation in '80 for his reinstatement.

Anthony went down to the old palace once or twice with him; and was

brought closer to him in many ways; and his affection and tenderness

towards his master continually increased. Grindal was a pathetic figure

at this time, with few friends, in poor health, out of favour with the

Queen, who had disregarded his existence; and now his afflictions were

rendered more heavy than ever by the blindness that was creeping over

him. The Archbishop, too, in his loneliness and sorrow, was drawn closer

to his young officer than ever before; and gradually got to rely upon him

in many little ways. He would often walk with Anthony in the gardens at

Lambeth, leaning upon his arm, talking to him of his beloved flowers and

herbs which he was now almost too blind to see; telling him queer facts

about the properties of plants; and even attempting to teach him a little

irrelevant botany now and then.

They were walking up and down together, soon after Campion's arrest, one

August morning before prayers in a little walled garden on the river that

Grindal had laid out with great care in earlier years.

"Ah," said the old man, "I am too blind to see my flowers now, Mr.

Norris; but I love them none the less; and I know their places. Now

there," he went on, pointing with his stick, "there I think grows my

mastick or marum; perhaps I smell it, however. What is that flower like,

Mr. Norris?"

Anthony looked at it, and described its little white flower and its

leaves.

"That is it," said the Archbishop, "I thought my memory served me. It is

a kind of marjoram, and it has many virtues, against cramps, convulsions

and venomous bites--so Galen tells us." Then he went on to talk of the

simple old plants that he loved best; of the two kinds of basil that he

always had in his garden; and how good it was mixed in sack against the

headache; and the male penny-royal, and how well it had served him once

when he had great internal trouble.

"Mr. Gerrard was here a week or two ago, Mr. Norris, when you were down

at Croydon for me. He is my Lord Burghley's man; he oversees his gardens

at Wimbledon House, and in the country. He was telling me of a rascal he

had seen at a fair, who burned henbane and made folks with the toothache

breathe in the fumes; and then feigned to draw a worm forth from the

aching tooth; but it was no worm at all, but a lute string that he held

ready in his hand. There are sad rascals abroad, Mr. Norris."

The old man waxed eloquent when they came to the iris bed.

"Ah! Mr. Norris, the flowers-de-luce are over by now, I fear; but what

wonderful creatures of God they are, with their great handsome heads and

their cool flags. I love to hear a bed of them rustle all together and

shake their spears and nod their banners like an army in array. And then

they are not only for show. Apuleius says that they are good against the

gout. I asked Mr. Gerrard whether my lord had tried them; but he said no,

he would not."

At the violet bed he was yet more emphatic.

"I think, Mr. Norris, I love these the best of all. They are lowly

creatures; but how sweet! and like other lowly creatures exalted by their

Maker to do great things as his handmaidens. The leaves are good against

inflammations, and the flowers against ague and hoarseness as well. And

then there is oil-of-violets, as you know; and violet-syrup and

sugar-violet; then they are good for blisters; garlands of them were an

ancient cure for the headache, as I think Dioscorides tells us. And they

are the best of all cures for some children's ailments."

And so they walked up and down together; the Archbishop talking quietly

on and on; and helping quite unknown to himself by his tender irrelevant

old man's talk to soothe the fever of unrest and anxiety that was

beginning to torment Anthony so much now. His conversation, like the very

flowers he loved to speak of, was "good against inflammations."

Anthony came to him one morning, thinking to please him, and brought him

a root that he had bought from a travelling pedlar just outside the

gateway.

"This is a mandrake root, your Grace; I heard you speak of it the other

day."

The Archbishop took it, smiling, felt it carefully, peered at it a minute

or two. "No, my son," he said, "I fear you have met a knave. This is

briony-root carved like a mandrake into the shape of a man's legs. It is

worthless, I fear; but I thank you for the kind thought, Mr. Norris," and

he gave the root back to him. "And the stories we hear of the mandrake, I

fear, are fables, too. Some say that they only grow beneath gallows from

that which falls there; that the male grows from the corruption of a

man's body; and the female from that of a woman's; but that is surely a

lie, and a foul one, too. And then folks say that to draw it up means

death; and that the mandrake screams terribly as it comes up; and so they

bid us tie a dog to it, and then drive the dog from it so as to draw it

up so. I asked Mr. Baker, the chirurgeon in the household of my Lord

Oxford, the other day, about that; and he said that such tales be but

doltish dreams and old wives' fables. But the true mandrake is a clean

and wholesome plant. The true ointment Populeon should have the juice of

the leaves in it; and the root boiled and strained causes drowsiness. It

hath a predominate cold faculty, Galen saith; but its true home is not in

England at all. It comes from Mount Garganus in Apulia."

It was pathetic, Anthony thought sometimes, that this old prelate should

be living so far from the movements of the time, owing to no fault of his

own. During these months the great tragedy of Campion's passion was

proceeding a couple of miles away; but the Archbishop thought less of it

than of the death of an old tree. The only thing from the outside world

that seemed to ruffle him was the behaviour of the Puritans. Anthony was

passing through "le velvet-room" one afternoon when he heard voices in

the Presence Chamber beyond; and almost immediately heard the Archbishop,

who had recognised his step, call his name. He went in and found him with

a stranger in a dark sober dress.

"Take this gentleman to Mr. Scot," he said, "and ask him to give him some

refreshment; for that he must be gone directly."

When Anthony had taken the gentleman to the steward, he returned to the

Archbishop for any further instructions about him.

"No, Mr. Norris, my business is done with him. He comes from my lord of

Norwich, and must be returning this evening. If you are not occupied, Mr.

Norris, will you give me your arm into the garden?"

They went out by the vestry-door into the little cloisters, and skirting

the end of the creek that ran up by Chichele's water-tower began to pace

up and down the part of the garden that looked over the river.

"My lord has sent to know if I know aught of one Robert Browne, with whom

he is having trouble. This Mr. Browne has lately come from Cambridge, and

so my lord thought I might know something of him; but I do not. This

gentleman has been saying some wild and foolish things, I fear; and

desires that every church should be free of all others; and should

appoint its own minister, and rule its own affairs without interference,

and that prophesyings should be without restraint. Now, you know, Mr.

Norris, I have always tried to serve that party, and support them in

their gospel religion; but this goes too far. Where were any governance

at all, if all this were to come about? where were the Rule of Faith? the

power of discipline? Nay, where were the unity for which our Saviour

prayed? It liketh me not. Good Dr. Freake, as his messenger tells me,

feels as I do about this; and desires to restrain Mr. Browne, but he is

so hot he will not be restrained; and besides, he is some kin to my Lord

Burghley, so I fear his mouth will be hard to stop."

Anthony could not help thinking of Mr. Buxton's prediction that the

Church of England had so repudiated authority, that in turn her own would

one day be repudiated.

"A Papist prisoner, your Grace," he said, "said to me the other day that

this would be sure to come: that the whole principle of Church authority

had been destroyed in England; and that the Church of England would more

and more be deserted by her children; for that there was no necessary

centre of unity left, now that Peter was denied."

"It is what a Papist is bound to say," replied the Archbishop; "but it is

easy to prophesy, when fulfilment may be far away. Indeed, I think we

shall have trouble with some of these zealous men; and the Queen's Grace

was surely right in desiring some restraint to be put upon the Exercises.

But it is mere angry raving to say that the Church of England will lose

the allegiance of her children."

Anthony could not feel convinced that events bore out the Archbishop's

assertion. Everywhere the Puritans were becoming more outrageously

disloyal. There were everywhere signs of disaffection and revolt against

the authorities of the Establishment, even on the part of the most

sincere and earnest men, many of whom were looking forward to the day

when the last rags of popery should be cast away, and formal

Presbyterianism inaugurated in the Church of England. Episcopal

Ordination was more and more being regarded as a merely civil

requirement, but conveying no ministerial commission; recognition by the

congregation with the laying on of the hands of the presbyterate was the

only ordination they allowed as apostolic.

Anthony said a word to the Archbishop about this.

"You must not be too strict," said the old man. "Both views can be

supported by the Scriptures; and although the Church of England at

present recognises only Episcopal Ordination within her own borders, she

does not dare to deny, as the Papists fondly do, that other rites may not

be as efficacious as her own. That, surely, Master Norris, is in

accordance with the mind of Christ that hath the spirit of liberty."

Much as Anthony loved the old man and his gentle charity, this doctrinal

position as stated by the chief pastor of the Church of England scarcely

served to establish his troubled allegiance.

During these autumn months, too, both between and after the disputations

in the Tower, the image of Campion had been much in his thoughts.

Everywhere, except among the irreconcilables, the Jesuit was being well

spoken of: his eloquence, his humour, and his apparent sincerity were

being greatly commented on in London and elsewhere. Anthony, as has been

seen, was being deeply affected on both sides of his nature; the shrewd

wit of the other was in conflict with his own intellectual convictions,

and this magnetic personality was laying siege to his heart. And now the

last scene of the tragedy, more affecting than all, was close at hand.

Anthony was present first at the trial in Westminster Hall, which took

place during November, and was more than ever moved by what he saw and

heard there. The priest, as even his opponents confessed, had by now "won

a marvellously good report, to be such a man as his like was not to be

found, either for life, learning, or any other quality which might

beautify a man." And now here he stood at the bar, paler than ever, so

numbed with racking that he could not lift his hand to plead--that supple

musician's hand of his, once so skilful on the lute--so that Mr. Sherwin

had to lift it for him out of the furred cuff in which he had wrapped it,

kissing it tenderly as he did so, in reverence for its sufferings; and he

saw, too, the sleek face of Eliot, in his red yeoman's coat, as he stood

chatting at the back, like another Barabbas whom the people preferred to

the servant of the Crucified. And, above all, he heard Campion's stirring

defence, spoken in that same resonant sweet voice, though it broke now

and then through weakness, in spite of the unconquerable purpose and

cheerfulness that showed in his great brown eyes, and round his delicate

humorous mouth. It was indeed an astonishing combination of sincerity and

eloquence, and even humour, that was brought to bear on the jury, and all

in vain, during those days.

"If you want to dispute as though you were in the schools," cried one of

the court, when he found himself out of his depth, "you are only proving

yourself a fool."

"I pray God," said Campion, while his eyes twinkled, "I pray God make us

both sages." And, in spite of the tragedy of the day, a little hum of

laughter ran round the audience.

"If a sheep were stolen," he argued again, in answer to the presupposition

that since some Catholics were traitors, therefore these were--"and a

whole family called in question for the same, were it good manner of

proceeding for the accusers to say 'Your great grandfathers and fathers

and sisters and kinsfolk all loved mutton; _ergo_, you have stolen the

sheep'?"

Again, in answer to the charge that he and his companions had conspired

abroad, he said,

"As for the accusation that we plotted treason at Rheims, reflect, my

lords, how just this charge is! For see! First we never met there at all;

then, many of us have never been at Rheims at all; finally, we were never

in our lives all together, except at this hour and in prison."

Anthony heard, too, Campion expose the attempt that was made to shift the

charge from religion to treason.

"There was offer made to us," he cried indignantly, "that if we would

come to the church to hear sermons and the word preached, we should be

set at large and at liberty; so Pascall and Nicholls"--(two apostates)

"otherwise as culpable in all offences as we, upon coming to church were

received to grace and had their pardon granted; whereas, if they had been

so happy as to have persevered to the end, they had been partakers of our

calamities. So that our religion was cause of our imprisonment, and _ex

consequenti_, of our condemnation."

The Queen's Counsel tried to make out that certain secrets that Campion,

in an intercepted letter, had sworn not to reveal, must be treasonable or

he would not so greatly fear their publication. To this the priest made a

stately defence of his office, and declaration of his staunchness. He

showed how by his calling as a priest he was bound to secrecy in matters

heard in confession, and that these secret matters were of this nature.

"These were the hidden matters," he said, "these were the secrets, to the

revealing whereof I cannot nor will not be brought, come rack, come

rope!"

And again, when Sergeant Anderson interpreted a phrase of Campion's

referring to the great day to which he looked forward, as meaning the day

of a foreign papal invasion, the prisoner cried in a loud voice:

"O Judas, Judas! No other day was in my mind, I protest, than that

wherein it should please God to make a restitution of faith and religion.

Whereupon, as in every pulpit every Protestant doth, I pronounced a great

day, not wherein any temporal potentate should minister, but wherein the

terrible Judge should reveal all men's consciences, and try every man of

each kind of religion. This is the day of change, this is the great day

which I threatened; comfortable to the well-behaving, and terrible to all

heretics. Any other day but this, God knows I meant not."

Then, after the other prisoners had pleaded, Campion delivered a final

defence to the jury, with a solemnity that seemed to belong to a judge

rather than a criminal. The babble of tongues that had continued most of

the day was hushed to a profound silence in court as he stood and spoke,

for the sincerity and simplicity of the priest were evident to all, and

combined with his eloquence and his strange attractive personality,

dominated all but those whose minds were already made up before entering

the court.

"What charge this day you sustain," began the priest, in a steady low

voice, with his searching eyes bent on the faces before him, "and what

account you are to render at the dreadful Day of Judgment, whereof I

could wish this also were a mirror, I trust there is not one of you but

knoweth. I doubt not but in like manner you forecast how dear the

innocent is to God, and at what price He holdeth man's blood. Here we are

accused and impleaded to the death,"--he began to raise his voice a

little--"here you do receive our lives into your custody; here must be

your device, either to restore them or condemn them. We have no whither

to appeal but to your consciences; we have no friends to make there but

your heeds and discretions." Then he touched briefly on the evidence,

showing how faulty and circumstantial it was, and urged them to remember

that a man's life by the very constitution of the realm must not be

sacrificed to mere probabilities or presumptions; then he showed the

untrustworthiness of his accusers, how one had confessed himself a

murderer, and how another was an atheist. Then he ended with a word or

two of appeal.

"God give you grace," he cried, "to weigh our causes aright, and have

respect to your own consciences; and so I will keep the jury no longer. I

commit the rest to God, and our convictions to your good discretions."

When the jury had retired, and all the judges but one had left the bench

until the jury should return, Anthony sat back in his place, his heart

beating and his eyes looking restlessly now on the prisoners, now on the

door where the jury had gone out, and now on Judge Ayloff, whom he knew a

little, and who sat only a few feet away from him on one side. He could

hear the lawyers sitting below the judge talking among themselves; and

presently one of them leaned over to him.

"Good-day, Mr. Norris," he said, "you have come to see an acquittal, I

doubt not. No man can be in two minds after what we have heard; at least

concerning Mr. Campion. We all think so, here, at any rate."

The lawyer was going on to say a word or two more as to the priest's

eloquence, when there was a sharp exclamation from the judge. Anthony

looked up and saw Judge Ayloff staring at his hand, turning it over while

he held his glove in the other; and Anthony saw to his surprise that the

fingers were all blood-stained. One or two gentlemen near him turned and

looked, too, as the judge, still staring and growing a little pale, wiped

the blood quickly away with the glove; but the fingers grew crimson again

immediately.

"'S'Body!" said Ayloff, half to himself; "'tis strange, there is no

wound." A moment later, looking up, he saw many of his neighbours

glancing curiously at his hand and his pale face, and hastily thrust on

his glove again; and immediately after the jury returned, and the judges

filed in to take their places. Anthony's attention was drawn off again,

and the buzz of talk in the court was followed again by a deep silence.

The verdict of _Guilty_ was uttered, as had been pre-arranged, and the

Queen's Counsel demanded sentence.

"Campion and the rest," said Chief Justice Wray, "What can you say why

you should not die?"

Then Campion, still steady and resolute, made his last useless appeal.

"It was not our death that ever we feared. But we knew that we were not

lords of our own lives, and therefore for want of answer would not be

guilty of our own deaths. The only thing that we have now to say is, that

if our religion do make us traitors, we are worthy to be condemned; but

otherwise are and have been true subjects as ever the Queen had. In

condemning us, you condemn all your own ancestors," and as he said this,

his voice began to rise, and he glanced steadily and mournfully round at

the staring faces about him, "all the ancient priests, bishops, and

kings--all that was once the glory of England, the island of saints, and

the most devoted child of the See of Peter." Then, as he went on, he

flung out his wrenched hands, and his voice rang with indignant defiance.

"For what have we taught," he cried, "however you may qualify it with the

odious name of treason, that they did not uniformly teach? To be

condemned with these old lights--not of England only, but of the

world--by their degenerate descendants, is both gladness and glory to

us." Then, with a superb gesture, he sent his voice pealing through the

hall: "God lives, posterity will live; their judgment is not so liable to

corruption as that of those who are now about to sentence us to death."

There was a burst of murmurous applause as he ended, which stilled

immediately, as the Chief Justice began to deliver sentence. But when the

horrible details of his execution had been enumerated, and the formula

had ended, it was the prisoner's turn to applaud:--

"_Te Deum laudamus!_" cried Campion; "_Te Dominum confitemur._"

"_Haec est dies_," shouted Sherwin, "_quam fecit Dominus; exultemus et

laetemur in illâ_": and so with the thanksgiving and joy of the condemned

criminals, the mock-trial ended.

When Anthony rode down silently and alone in the rain that December

morning a few days later, to see the end, he found a vast silent crowd

assembled on Tower Hill and round the gateway, where the four horses were

waiting, each pair harnessed to a hurdle laid flat on the ground. He

would not go in, for he could scarcely trust himself to speak, so great

was his horror of the crime that was to be committed; so he backed his

horse against the wall, and waited over an hour in silence, scarcely

hearing the murmurs of impatience that rolled round the great crowd from

time to time, absorbed in his own thoughts. Here was the climax of these

days of misery and self-questioning that had passed since the trial in

Westminster Hall. It was no use, he argued to himself, to pretend

otherwise. These three men of God were to die for their religion--and a

religion too which was gradually detaching itself to his view from the

mists and clouds that hid it, as the one great reality and truth of God's

Revelation to man. He had come, he knew, to see not an execution but a

martyrdom.

There was a trampling from within, the bolts creaked, and the gate rolled

back; a company of halberdiers emerged, and in their midst the three

priests in laymen's dress; behind followed a few men on horseback, with a

little company of ministers, bible in hand; and then a rabble of officers

and pursuivants. Anthony edged his horse in among the others, as the

crowd fell back, and took up his place in the second rank of riders

between a gentleman of his acquaintance who made room for him on the one

side, and Sir Francis Knowles on the other, and behind the Tower

officials.

Then, once more he heard that ringing bass voice whose first sound

silenced the murmurs of the surging excited crowd.

"God save you all, gentlemen! God bless you and make you all good

Catholics."

Then, as the priest turned to kneel towards the east, he saw his face

paler than ever now, after his long fast in preparation for death. The

rain was still falling as Campion in his frieze gown knelt in the mud.

There was silence as he prayed, and as he ended aloud by commending his

soul to God.

"_In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum._"

* * * *

The three were secured to the hurdles, Briant and Sherwin on the one,

Campion on the other, all lying on their backs, with their feet towards

the horse's heels. The word to start was given by Sir Owen Hopton who

rode with Charke, the preacher of Gray's Inn, in the front rank; the

lashed horses plunged forward, with the jolting hurdles spattering mud

behind them; and the dismal pageant began to move forward through the

crowd on that way of sorrows. There was a ceaseless roar and babble of

voices as they went. Charke, in his minister's dress, able now to declaim

without fear of reply, was hardly silent for a moment from mocking and

rebuking the prisoners, and making pompous speeches to the people.

"See here," he cried, "these rogueing popish priests, laid by the

heels--aye, by the heels--at last; in spite of their tricks and turns.

See this fellow in his frieze gown, dead to the world as he brags; and

know how he skulked and hid in his disguises till her Majesty's servants

plucked him forth! We will disguise him, we will disguise him, ere we

have done with him, that his own mother should not know him. Ha, now!

Campion, do you hear me?"

And so the harsh voice rang out over the crowd that tramped alongside,

and up to the faces that filled every window; while the ministers below

kept up a ceaseless murmur of adjuration and entreaty and threatening,

with a turning of leaves of their bibles, and bursts of prayer, over the

three heads that jolted and rocked at their feet over the cobblestones

and through the mud. The friends of the prisoners walked as near to them

as they dared, and their lips moved continually in prayer.

Every now and then as Anthony craned his head, he could see Campion's

face, with closed eyes and moving lips that smiled again and again, all

spattered and dripping with filth; and once he saw a gentleman walking

beside him fearlessly stoop down and wipe the priest's face with a

handkerchief. Presently they had passed up Cheapside and reached Newgate;

in a niche in the archway itself stood a figure of the Mother of God

looking compassionately down; and as Campion's hurdle passed beneath it,

her servant wrenched himself a few inches up in his bonds and bowed to

his glorious Queen; and then laid himself down quietly again, as a chorus

of lament rose from the ministers over his superstition and obstinate

idolatry that seemed as if it would last even to death; and Charke too,

who had become somewhat more silent, broke out again into revilings.

* * * *

The crowd at Tyburn was vast beyond all reckoning. Outside the gate it

stretched on every side, under the elms, a few were even in the branches,

along the sides of the stream; everywhere was a sea of heads, out of

which, on a little eminence like another Calvary, rose up the tall posts

of the three-cornered gallows, on which the martyrs were to suffer. As

the hurdles came slowly under the gate, the sun broke out for the first

time; and as the horses that drew the hurdles came round towards the

carts that stood near the gallows and the platform on which the

quartering block stood, a murmur began that ran through the crowd from

those nearest the martyrs.--"But they are laughing, they are laughing!"

The crowd gave a surge to and fro as the horses drew up, and Anthony

reined his own beast back among the people, so that he was just opposite

the beam on which the three new ropes were already hanging, and beneath

which was standing a cart with the back taken out. In the cart waited a

dreadful figure in a tight-fitting dress, sinewy arms bare to the

shoulder, and a butcher's knife at his leather girdle. A little distance

away stood the hateful cauldron, bubbling fiercely, with black smoke

pouring from under it: the platform with the block and quartering-axe

stood beneath the gallows; and round this now stood the officers, with

Norton the rack-master, and Sir Owen Hopton and the rest, and the three

priests, with the soldiers forming a circle to keep the crowd back.

The hangman stooped as Anthony looked, and a moment later Campion stood

beside him on the cart, pale, mud-splashed, but with the same serene

smile; his great brown eyes shone as they looked out over the wide

heaving sea of heads, from which a deep heart-shaking murmur rose as the

famous priest appeared. Anthony could see every detail of what went on;

the hangman took the noose that hung from above, and slipped it over the

prisoner's head, and drew it close round his neck; and then himself

slipped down from the cart, and stood with the others, still well above

the heads of the crowd, but leaving the priest standing higher yet on the

cart, silhouetted, rope and all, framed in the posts and cross-beam, from

which two more ropes hung dangling against the driving clouds and blue

sky over London city.

* * * *

Campion waited perfectly motionless for the murmur of innumerable voices

to die down; and Anthony, fascinated and afraid beneath that overpowering

serenity, watched him turn his head slowly from side to side with a

"majestical countenance," as his enemies confessed, as if he were on the

point of speaking. Silence seemed to radiate out from him, spreading like

a ripple, outwards, until the furthest outskirts of that huge crowd was

motionless and quiet; and then without apparent effort, his voice began

to peal out.

* * * *

"'_Spectaculum facti sumus Deo, angelis et hominibus._' These are the

words of Saint Paul, Englished thus, 'We are made a spectacle or sight

unto God, unto His angels, and unto men';--verified this day in me, who

am here a spectacle unto my Lord God, a spectacle unto His angels, and

unto you men, satisfying myself to die as becometh a true Christian and

Catholic man."

He was interrupted by cries from the gentlemen beneath, and turned a

little, looking down to see what they wished.

"You are not here to preach to the people," said Sir Francis Knowles,

angrily, "but to confess yourself a traitor."

Campion smiled and shook his head.

"No, no," he said: and then looking up and raising his voice,--"as to the

treasons which have been laid to my charge, and for which I am come here

to suffer, I desire you all to bear witness with me, that I am thereof

altogether innocent."

There was a chorus of anger from the gentlemen, and one of them called up

something that Anthony could not hear. Campion raised his eyebrows.

"Well, my lord," he cried aloud, and his voice instantly silenced again

the noisy buzz of talk, "I am a Catholic man and a priest: in that faith

have I lived, and in that faith do I intend to die. If you esteem my

religion treason, then am I guilty; as for other treason, I never

committed any, God is my judge. But you have now what you desire. I

beseech you to have patience, and suffer me to speak a word or two for

discharge of my conscience."

There was a furious burst of refusals from the officers.

"Well," said Campion, at last, looking straight out over the crowd, "it

seems I may not speak; but this only will I say; that I am wholly

innocent of all treason and conspiracy, as God is my judge; and I beseech

you to credit me, for it is my last answer upon my death and soul. As for

the jury I do not blame them, for they were ignorant men and easily

deceived. I forgive all who have compassed my death or wronged me in any

whit, as I hope to be forgiven; and I ask the forgiveness of all those

whose names I spoke upon the rack."

Then he said a word or two more of explanation, such as he had said

during his trial, for the sake of those Catholics whom this a concession

of his had scandalised, telling them that he had had the promise of the

Council that no harm should come to those whose names he revealed; and

then was silent again, closing his eyes; and Anthony, as he watched him,

saw his lips moving once more in prayer.

Then a harsh loud voice from behind the cart began to proclaim that the

Queen punished no man for religion but only for treason. A fierce murmur

of disagreement and protest began to rise from the crowd; and Anthony

turning saw the faces of many near him frowning and pursing their lips,

and there was a shout or two of denial here and there. The harsh voice

ceased, and another began:

"Now, Mr. Campion," it cried, "tell us, What of the Pope? Do you renounce

him?"

Campion opened his eyes and looked round.

"I am a Catholic," he said simply; and closed his eyes again for prayer,

as the voice cried brutally:

"In your Catholicism all treason is contained."

Again a murmur from the crowd.

Then a new voice from the black group of ministers called out:

"Mr. Campion, Mr. Campion, leave that popish stuff, and say, 'Christ have

mercy on me.'"

Again the priest opened his eyes.

"You and I are not one in religion, sir, wherefore I pray you content

yourself. I bar none of prayer, but I only desire them of the household

of faith to pray with me; and in mine agony to say one creed."

Again he closed his eyes.

"_Pater noster qui es in cælis._"...

"Pray in English, pray in English!" shouted a voice from the minister's

group.

Once more the priest opened his eyes; and, in spite of the badgering, his

eyes shone with humour and his mouth broke into smiles, so that a great

sob of pity and love broke from Anthony.

"I will pray to God in a language that both He and I well understand."

"Ask her Grace's forgiveness, Mr. Campion, and pray for her, if you be

her true subject."

"Wherein have I offended her? In this I am innocent. This is my last

speech; in this give me credit--I have and do pray for her."

"Aha! but which queen?--for Elizabeth?"

"Ay, for Elizabeth, your queen and my queen, unto whom I wish a long

quiet reign with all prosperity."

* * * *

There was the crack of a whip, the scuffle of a horse's feet, a rippling

movement over the crowd, and a great murmured roar, like the roar of the

waves on a pebbly beach, as the horse's head began to move forward; and

the priest's figure to sway and stagger on the jolting cart. Anthony shut

his eyes, and the murmur and cries of the crowd grew louder and louder.

Once more the deep sweet voice rang out, loud and penetrating:

"I die a true Catholic...."

Anthony kept his eyes closed, and his head bent, as great sobs began to

break up out of his heart....

Ah! he was in his agony now! that sudden cry and silence from the crowd

showed it. What was it he had asked? one creed?--

"I believe in God the Father Almighty." ...

The soft heavy murmur of the crowd rose and fell. Catholics were praying

all round him, reckless with love and pity:

"Jesu, Jesu, save him! Be to him a Jesus!"...

"Mary pray! Mary pray!"...

"_Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem._"...

"_Passus sub Pontio Pilato._"...

"Crucified dead and buried."...

"The forgiveness of sins."...

"And the Life Everlasting."...

* * * *

Anthony dropped his face forward on to his horse's mane.

CHAPTER VII

A MESSAGE FROM THE CITY

Sir Francis Walsingham sat in his private room a month after Father

Campion's death.

He had settled down again now to his work which had been so grievously