THE INNOCENT BLOOD.
THE next day was Sunday, a day which usually hung rather heavily on our
hands.
There was a Roman Catholic Chapel in Newcastle, but it had been closed
ever since our arrival, and the priest had left town. The rumors of a
second attempt of the Chevalier de St. George, or the Pretender, (that
unlucky gentleman being one or the other, according as the speaker were
Whig or Jacobite,) though as it turned out totally unfounded at that
time, had made it expedient for such of the Catholic clergy as knew the
value of peace, to keep out of sight. But these rumors had now begun to
die away.
It was reported that King Louis had forbidden the chevalier to fight
with his army in Flanders, or even to visit it; that his highness was
living quietly in the neighborhood of Paris, amusing himself with
shooting and playing, and other more questionable diversions, and that
there was not the least likelihood of his getting together another
fleet at present to re-place that which had been scattered by the
storms of the preceding winter.
The Jacobites still held up their heads, and used their passwords, and
wore their white ribbons. But I could not but observe that a large
number of the fine bonnets which sailed into the side entrance of St.
Anne's were trimmed with red plumes and flowers.
Amabel had one of her rare headaches that day. She got up, but was
obliged to go to bed again. I applied the usual remedies, and she by
and by began to amend, and at last fell into the deep sleep which
usually ended these attacks.
As I knew that she was not likely to wake for some hours I ventured
to leave her, and, taking my book of "Hours," I stole down into the
garden, and seated myself in a shady corner, a favorite place of mine,
where one of the buttresses of the old gray stone church projected into
our garden. There was a window directly over my head, out of which
several lights were broken, and as I sat, I could hear the voice of
Mr. Cheriton reading the service, and the droning responses of the old
clerk.
Mr. Cheriton had a good voice and read remarkably well. He had too much
taste to mumble the service, as many clergymen do, or to repeat it like
a child going through the pence table. Not that I should have seen any
thing wrong in it if he had, for I was used to say my own rosary much
in the same way. Mr. Cheriton had also a musical ear, and his efforts,
joined to those of Mr. Lilburne, the organist, had made the singing the
best in town, so that many fine people came purposely to hear it. These
people were sometimes to be seen coming away before the sermon, which I
should think could hardly have been very pleasing to Mr. Cheriton.
I had not said to myself that my object in seeking the corner under
the church wall was to hear the service, and yet such was really my
purpose. I had begun to be very curious about the ways and worship
of Protestants, and would have liked very well to go to church with
Mrs. Thorpe for once, but I had not yet ventured to propose such a
thing to Amabel. However, I said to myself that there could be no harm
in listening, so long as I did not join in the heretical worship.
So I did listen with all my ears, and made the discovery that the
service—prayers, hymns, and all—was in English, so that I understood
every word.
"How strange that they should have the Church prayers in the common
vulgar language that they use every day," said I to myself. And then
the thought occurred to me, that as most of the worshippers were common
vulgar people, perhaps it was as well that the prayers should be in a
language which they understood.
Presently I made another discovery, which was, that the priest did not
have all the service between himself and the choir, but that the people
actually joined in it. Any one who looks into the matter will see
that in the Romish Church there is no such thing as common prayer as
we understand it. The priest and his assistants perform the mass, and
the choir sings the responses, while the books of those who are able
to read contain various devotions, such as are considered appropriate
to different portions of the service. There may be as many different
prayer-books as there are worshippers.
But here I heard the voices of all the school children, and many of
the congregation beside, join in the "Good Lord deliver us," and other
responses of the litany. I had now given up all pretence of reading and
listened with all my ears. I found myself strangely affected by these
English prayers. The short petitions seemed calculated to meet almost
every case of need or sorrow common to man. I felt the tears very near
my eyes, and when the choir sung the twenty-third psalm—
"The Lord is only my support,
And He that doth me feed,
How can I then lack anything
Whereof I stand in need.
"In pastures green He feedeth me
Where I do safely lie,
And after leads me to the streams
Which run most pleasantly—"
The drops ran over. I believe this was the first time I had ever
thought of God, Himself, as my Father, or as a possible friend. The
Father was to me up to that time, as an awful stern power far away in
the heavens, yet watching all I did with a jealous eye; from whose
wrathful justice I was to be saved, if at all, by the intercession of
Mary, and by her commands laid upon her Divine Son, in my favor.
I listened eagerly for the sermon, but it disappointed me; I could
hardly tell why. It was well written and faultlessly delivered, no
doubt, but I must confess, the whole might have been summed up, as
Jenny Trevathy summed up one of poor old Doctor Brown's one day last
summer—
"It is nice to be good, and naughty to be wicked, and if you are good,
you will have a nice time, and if you are not, you won't."
But of how to be good—how to get rid of that traitor within, which was
always corresponding with the tempter without, and opening the doors to
him—of that I heard nothing.
"To resolve was everything," Mr. Cheriton said. But I had not yet found
to resolve was anything.
I got up as the congregation began to disperse, and went into the
house. I found Amabel up, and bathing her face with cold water.
"How is your headache?" I asked.
"Quite gone," she answered. "Have you been sitting here all the
morning?"
"No! I have been in the garden, listening to the music in the church.
Do you know, Amabel, they have all their service—prayers and chants and
all—in plain English, and the people join in them?"
"Yes, I knew as much as that!" answered Amabel. "But I am not sure it
was right to listen to them."
"There was no harm in them, that I could see," I answered. "They seemed
to me very good prayers."
"They are heretical, and so they cannot be good," answered Amabel,
in her mildly positive way. "They have no mass at all, and even what
they call the communion, only once in a month, and you know Lucy, the
perpetual adoration of the Blessed Sacrament was instituted partly to
atone for the affronts offered to it, by Protestants."
"How far away all that seems!" said I. "Does it to you?"
"Almost always. It is Sister Lazarus' turn at the post now!" said
Amabel, with a far off dreamy look in her eyes. "It always came at this
time on Sunday. I heard her tell Mother Prudentia once, that Satan
always assaulted her at that time, by making her wonder whether or not
Sister Anne was scorching the fowls, and letting the soup boil over."
"The dear mothers and sisters—how often I have wished I could send them
some of the nice things we are always having to eat," said I.
"Sister Lazarus is a much better cook than Betsy," returned Amabel,
jealous for the honor of her old friend. "Mrs. Thorpe herself said she
never saw such cooking."
"Yes, but think how little she has to do with. I wish our own dinner
was ready, but I think Mrs. Thorpe is later than common."
"There she comes now. Please fasten my kerchief behind, Lucy!"
"Well, my dears, did you think I was never coming?" said Mrs. Thorpe.
"It is a Sacrament Sunday, and there was such a number of communicants
as I never saw before. Almost all poor-looking people, too. The free
seats were quite filled, and some of the men were rough-looking fellows
enough. However, they all behaved wonderful well—a deal better than
some of their betters, I must say. I don't want to set up to judge the
quality, but I don't like to see all this curtsying, and bowing, and
passing of snuff-boxes, and sugar plums. That sort of thing may do well
enough at the theatre, but to my mind, 'tis very unsuitable to the
church of God."
"We don't have such things in our churches!" I said, rather boastfully.
Mrs. Thorpe gave an odd little smile. She had been many times in Paris,
and the low countries; and Protestant as she was, she had seen a deal
more of Romish churches than we had.
"So much the better, my dear!" said she. "As I said, church is no place
for them. I saw my Lady Throckmorton make up a face of disgust at Mr.
Cheriton himself, as some poor women came in, and sat down in the free
seats near her."
"What did Mr. Cheriton do?" asked Amabel.
"I could not see that he gave her so much as a glance," said Mrs.
Thorpe. "Folks say—some of the straiter-laced kind at least—that Mr.
Cheriton is too fond of the theatre and card table for a clergyman. But
at least, he knows what belongs to good behavior in church, and he gave
the sacrament to the poor women with as much care and gravity as he
would have done to a princess."
"I heard say, that the Methodists were coming to town, and were to have
preaching this morning, at five o'clock at the Sandgate," observed Mary
Lee modestly. "Perhaps that was what sent so many to the communion."
"The Methodists would be more likely to keep them away, from what I
hear!" replied Mrs. Thorpe. "It is said, they teach that there is no
use at all in ordinances, and they set up the commonest sort of people
to preach, and to administer the sacraments."
"I do not think that is quite true, mistress!" said Mary, who very
seldom ventured to speak a word. "My Aunt Kesiah, who is with us now,
used to hear Mr. Wesley preach in Bristol, and thereabouts, when she
lived in those parts last year; and she said great complaint was made
by some of the clergy, that Mr. Wesley and his brother sent so many to
the sacrament. * The sexton at Kingswood, where all the colliers live,
was downright vexed about it, aunt said. They do have preachers of the
common people I believe, but they are only preachers."
* See Charles Wesley's "Memoirs," concerning the colliers
of Kingswood.
"They are all Papists, and in league with the Pretender. My father says
so," said Betty Humble.
"Anyhow, they preach to the poor colliers and miners, that nobody had
thought of before, any more than if they were brutes," said Mary, with
spirit. "My aunt says, that there at Kingswood, where all sorts of
wickedness, drinking, swearing, fighting, and what not used to go on,
you hardly hear a bad word, or see a drunken person nowadays. The very
women mend their own and their children's clothes, and strive to keep
their houses neat, and the men sing psalms, and hymns, when they go to
and from their work, instead of wicked vile songs, as they used to."
"The Methodists bewitch them," said Martha. "There was John Bristate's
wife—she used to be the greatest scold in the Sandgate—and made naught
of heaving the cat at John's head, and now she is like a lamb. John
says it makes him just feared at times when he comes in late, to find
his supper waiting by the fire, and to see Sally knitting, and the poor
beast of a cat that used to dread her very step sitting in her lap or
on her gown."
"If he would rather have a cat thrown at his head than to see it
sitting on his wife's gown, he is not of my mind," said Mrs. Thorpe
dryly. "I like a cat well enough, but not in that way, and I should say
it would be altogether more healthful to the cat."
"I heard a gentleman—it was Lord Bulmer—say that some preacher declared
that he knew his sins were forgiven," said I. "And Mrs. Bunnell had
some talk with Mr. Cheriton about the matter, and she said it was in
the prayer-book."
"I don't think that can be, and it does seem great presumption in a
common man to pretend to know that his sins are forgiven," observed
Mrs. Thorpe. "I have no spite against the Methodists, but the good old
Church of England is good enough for me, as it was for my father before
me, and so it ought to be for you, Mary Lee. Don't you be led away by
any new-fangled notions, but do your duty toward God and your neighbor
according to the catechism and you will be all right, never fear."
Mary's pale cheek flushed, and she looked as if she would like to say
more, but as we all rose from the table at that moment to return thanks
she had no opportunity. My own curiosity was greatly roused by what I
had heard of these strange people, and I made up my mind that I would
question Mary, and find out more of what her aunt had told her.
We always went out for a walk on Sunday afternoon, and not uncommonly a
friend or two of Mrs. Thorpe's would drop in for a cup of tea, a chat,
and a game or two at cards or backgammon, followed by a little supper.
Mrs. Thorpe, I am sure, saw no harm in these things, or she would never
have done them, for she was not one to go against her conscience in
anything.
At the same time, she was greatly shocked and distressed at finding
Amabel and me working at our embroidery frames one Sunday afternoon.
She exacted from us a promise that we would never do so again, and told
us a tragical tale, of a maid of honor of Queen Elizabeth's who had
died from pricking her finger with a needle while sewing on Sunday,
adding that she knew the story was true, for she had seen a wax-work
image of this wicked young lady when she was in London, with the blood
running down her finger as natural as life.
I don't think we were as much impressed with this tale as Mrs. Thorpe
intended. Being a maid of honor to Queen Elizabeth, we thought the
judgment might have come upon her for that reason, and not because she
sewed on Sunday, for we had been taught to regard good Queen Bess as
the personation of all that was evil in women.
But I am getting a long way from that memorable Sunday.
We had been out for a walk, as I have said. St. Anne's Church stood on
the corner of the street down which we returned, and we had just drawn
near to it when we heard the noise of many hoarse voices, which at once
reminded me of the noises which had so terrified me in Toulon, and of
the voices of the robbers as we heard them while concealed in the great
cavern at St. Jean.
"What can that be?" exclaimed Mrs. Thorpe. "Let us hurry home, young
ladies."
At that moment, Mr. Cheriton came out of his house and joined us,
saying that he would see us to the door, as there seemed some
disturbance in the street. We turned round the corner of the church and
at once found ourselves face to face with the danger.
A riotous mob of persons—wharfmen, soldiers, and women of the lowest
sort—were pouring up the street in which we lived. Just before them two
men—one a plain man in decent black, the other apparently an officer
of some sort—were supporting between them the form of a fainting
woman, and trying to shield her from the blows that were aimed and the
missiles that were thrown by the rioters.
Three or four gentlemen on horseback mingled with the crowd, and were
evidently setting them on. In one of them, I recognized Lord Bulmer,
whom I had seen at Lady Throckmorton's.
At the moment we reached our own door, a better aimed missile than
the others struck the man in black on the head and knocked him down.
It seemed as if the whole group would be trampled into dust by the
multitude that came pouring on like a drove of wild cattle; but help
was at hand. Mr. Cheriton sprang forward and, placing himself between
the woman and the mob, with one flourish of his big stick, as it
seemed, he laid low two of his opponents, and cleared a ring round him.
At the same moment, a mutual recognition took place between Mrs. Thorpe
and the young officer.
"Dick Thorpe, is this you?"
"Aunt Thorpe, for Heaven's sake, open the door and take this poor
distressed woman into your house. These beggarly long-shore cowards
have all but killed her." And he added a string of hard words which I
will not set down here.
Swearing, which is now going out of fashion among gentlefolks, was as
common as breathing at that time. Mrs. Thorpe was not the woman to
disregard such an appeal. She flung open the private door of the shop.
The poor man had picked himself up by this time, and, with the help of
young Mr. Thorpe, carried the woman into Mrs. Thorpe's private parlor.
Meantime, Mr. Cheriton was addressing the mob. He Informed them in
energetic language, level to the lowest understanding among them,
that they were a set of cowards and sneaks, unworthy of the name of
Englishmen; that they deserved kicking—not to say hanging—and it was
a wonder if they did not get their deserts. He would like to see the
first man who would dare attack the house whose mistress had taken in
the poor creature. As he spoke, he twirled his stick, and looked round
him as though he would enjoy breaking two or three more heads.
The viler part of the mob began to slink away by that time, and the
better sort to look rather shamefaced.
"But these be the Methodees, parson," one ventured to say.
"They be in league with the Papists and the Pretender," said another.
"Rubbish!" returned the rector. "They are harmless people. Who has been
telling you such a pack of lies?"
"His lordship says so," returned the first speaker, looking at Lord
Bulmer, who kept his ground, though the other gentleman had drawn off.
"Then his lordship might be in better business," retorted Mr. Cheriton.
"You are well set to work, my lord, hounding on these men to such a
villainous, cowardly persecution of a few harmless enthusiasts."
"Mr. Cheriton, your cloth protects you," said Lord Bulmer, turning very
red. "If it did not—"
"If it did not, I should be safe enough, I dare say," returned Mr.
Cheriton, in a tone of the most stinging contempt. "The valor which
exerts itself against poor Methodist preachers and helpless women is
not likely to be very dangerous to any thing of its own size. Go home,
my men, go home, and thank Heaven that you have been saved from the
doing of a horrible cowardly crime."
The crowd had much thinned by this time, and the few men who remained
looked sheepish enough.
"Then you don't think they be Papistees?" one man ventured to say.
"No, I don't, and if they were it would be no way to convert them.
Pray, how did this disgraceful row begin?"
"'Twas the gentry as put us up to it," the man begun, but I heard no
more.
Amabel and I had been peeping through the blinds of the room over the
shop, when Mrs. Thorpe, who had sent us away from her room down stairs,
came and called us.
"The poor woman has come to herself, but she must be got to bed without
delay, and all the girls are out save Betty Humble, who has hid in the
coal-hole and won't come out. My dear young ladies, will you do this
distressed creature a good turn by getting a bed ready for her?"
"Yes, indeed," answered Amabel and I both together.
"Then just make up the bed in the front bedroom as quickly as you can.
The blankets are all there, and you will find linen on the second shelf
of the press in my room. There is the key. I will come up and do the
rest."
We set to work with all zeal, admiring the thick softness of the
feather beds and the beautiful smoothly-laundered linen. We ran hither
and thither, bringing what was wanted, and making ourselves useful in
all sorts of ways.
"See what it is to have the use of one's hands," said Mrs. Thorpe, as
she came down stairs and found the table set and every thing ready for
supper. "My dears, I never thought of your doing so much. Betty Humble,
if you do not stop that noise this instant, I will empty this bucket of
water over you."
This to Betty, who, having come out of her coaly refuge, was trying to
attract a little interest to herself by going into hysterics in the
corner.
"Don't let me hear another sound from you, if you want any supper
to-night. Come, young ladies. Kesiah Lee is sitting with the poor woman
above."
Mary ran and fetched her the moment she came home, like a good brave
girl as she is, instead of bawling and screeching in the coal-house.
"Well, I can't help myself," began Betsy. "I always did have nerves
when any thing was the matter."
"Then let me hear thee say nerves again and thow'lt get thy ears
cuffed," returned Mrs. Thorpe. "Nerves, indeed! A pretty thing for
every 'prentice lass to be setting up with nerves like a fine lady.
Nerves are for the quality, not for those who have their living to
earn."
"How is the poor woman?" I asked, when we had taken our seats at the
table.
"Very bad!" answered Mrs. Thorpe, shaking her head. "I doubt she will
hardly get through it. My nephew has gone for the doctor, and Kesiah
Lee, who knows all about such matters, has promised to stay all night.
We will do our best for the poor thing."
"And her husband?" asked Amabel.
"Like one distracted poor man at first, but he is quite calm now,
though one may see by his face how much it costs him. 'Tis enough to
wring one's heart to see him smile and speak cheerfully to his poor
wife, and then turn to the window and stifle his grief. What could
ever have possessed him to bring a woman in her condition into a crowd
passes my guessing. If the poor thing dies, some folks will have murder
on their souls."
Mrs. Crump and Betsy had come home by that time, so there was no more
need for our services. And Mrs. Thorpe sent us to our own room with the
recommendation that we should go to bed early, as we had had such a
fatiguing day.
"You need have no fear!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "My nephew will stay in
the house all night, and he has brought with him two or three sturdy
sailors from his own ship, to garrison the fort, as he says."
This news produced a wonderfully reviving effect on Betsy's sinking
spirits. She at once made known her willingness to sit up too, that she
might be on hand if help were wanted.
"Yes, I dare say!" returned Mrs. Thorpe. "You go to bed, and don't
let me hear your voice again this night. Do you go to bed too, my dear
young ladies, and don't forget the poor woman in your prayers, for she
needs them, if ever distressed creature did."
"Let us say the Litany of the Holy Virgin for her!" said I, when we
were alone together.
Amabel was not quite sure, whether or no it would be right to do so
for a heretic; but at last she agreed, and we went through it devoutly
enough, addressing the Lord's mother in a way that seems to me now to
be sheer idolatry.
I was a long time falling asleep, for when the necessity for action was
over, I found out for the first time that I had been scared; and though
I did not have a fit of the nerves like Betty, I started at every
sound, and strained my ears to hear every movement in the other part of
the house. It was not till cock-crowing that I fairly fell asleep.
Nevertheless, I waked rather early. The house was very still, and a
late robin was singing sweetly in the garden. I could hear some one
stepping about softly now and then, but that was all.
I dressed and opened our parlor door. That of the room opposite was
open, as was also the window, which I rather wondered to see. The room
way very neat, and Mrs. Thorpe worn from her vigil, and with traces of
tears on her bright face, was just drawing the snowy curtains together.
As she caught my eye, she beckoned me, and as I came to her side, she
softly parted them again, and turned down a fine white sheet which
covered the bed. There lay the poor woman; her marble face beautiful
with the peacefully joyful smile of death, and oh me—on her arm lay
like a little waxen image—a dead baby.
"Is it not a pitiful sight?" said the good woman. "The babe was born
about daybreak, and for a little, we hoped it might live, but it just
breathed long enough to be christened, poor little dear, and its last
sigh passed away with its mother's. She had her senses to the last, and
I warrant you, it was a pitiful thing to hear how she strove to comfort
her husband, and prayed for those who had brought her to this pass. I
will never say a word about the Methodists again."
I have seen many a sorrowful sight in my day, but never I think one
which touched me like that.
As I thought of Lord Bulmer with his languid fine gentleman airs,
and remembered how he had set on the mob to murder these innocent
creatures, my heart was like to burst with grief and indignation. I was
to hate him worse before I had done with him.
"There, don't make yourself ill with crying, that's a dear!" said
Mrs. Thorpe. "The poor thing's troubles are over, and she will never
suffer again; and as to the dear baby, we know the Lord took such in
his arms and blessed them, even when the disciples would have hindered
him. Go down into the garden if you will, and gather some rosemary and
lavender, to strew over the winding-sheet, and a white rose or two, to
lay in the babe's bosom. We must make things look as pretty as we can."
I observed already, how neatly the bodies were dressed, and disposed.
As Mrs. Thorpe had suggested, I hurried down to the garden and gathered
my hands full of sweet herbs, with which the place abounded. I was
busily searching for some of the late violets which bloomed in a sunny
border, when I was accosted by young Mr. Thorpe.
"The poor woman above is dead, I hear!" said he, after a morning
salutation. "And her babe also. 'Tis a cowardly murder, if ever there
was one."
"You did your best to save them!" I said.
"Yes! And should have succeeded, for the mob were inclined to hear the
preacher at first when he turned to speak with them. But that cowardly
fellow—Lord Bulmer as they call him, and one or two more of his sort,
set them on, crying out that he was a spy for the Pretender. A spy
indeed! We know who would have favored him, if he had been. But I shall
mayhap meet this fine Lordling again, and we shall see whether he wears
the white feather, as well as the white cockade. I crave your pardon,
madam, I should not use such language before you: but I am a plain
sailor, and not much used to ladies' society. Can I give you any help?"
"I would like a cluster of those white rose-buds!" said I, looking up
to where a beautiful Noisette rose was trained against the wall. "But I
fear they are out of reach."
"Not a bit of it!" was the answer.
Mr. Thorpe clambered up the rough wall at the peril of his neck, as it
seemed to me. But before I had time to be scared, he was on the ground
again, and put the roses into my hand.
"Thank you. They are beautiful," said I. "But you should not have run
such a risk for them."
"Oh, it was no risk for a sailor!" he answered carelessly. "One does
harder things than that every day on shipboard."
I began to be a little shy, so I thanked him again, and returned to the
chamber of death. The poor husband was there, sitting by his dead wife
and child, his face bowed in his hands; not weeping, but as it were
crushed with the great weight of his grief. He did not raise his head
as I came in; we arranged the flowers and herbs I had brought, and then
Mrs. Thorpe paused, as if uncertain what to do next. At that moment,
Mr. Cheriton entered the room.
"How is he?" he asked in a whisper.
"Just the same!" answered Mrs. Thorpe in the same tone. "He will
neither eat nor speak. If he could weep, it would be something; I fear
for his reason."
Mr. Cheriton stood for a moment, as if hesitating what to do. He has
since said, that he never in all life longed so much to comfort any
one, but he did not know what to say.
At last he drew a Prayer-book from his pocket, and saying in his deep
voice, "Let us pray!" He kneeled down and began the last collects in
the burial service. Amabel who had now risen, knelt beside me. We heard
some one come in softly, and take his place with the rest.
When we arose, we saw that it was a strange clergyman—a neat little man
in very precise black, with a face full of power and benignity. He went
straight up to the preacher, laid his hand on his head, and said in
that voice whose melody once heard, was never forgotten—
"My poor brother, may the God of all comfort, sustain thee."
John Edwards looked up at the words, and burst into a passion of tears
and sobs.
"It was our first child!" said he brokenly. "Our very first; and we had
lived together so lovingly for fourteen years."
Mrs. Thorpe beckoned us all out of the room, and left the friends
together. Kesiah Lee was standing on the landing-place.
"He will comfort him if any one can," she whispered. "It is Mr. Wesley,
himself."
[Illustration]