THE FINDING OF ELIZABETH
At a little before nine in the late twilight, Commendone left the Tower.
He was attended by John Hull, whom he had armed with the short
cutlass-shaped sword which serving-men were allowed to wear.
He might be late, and the City was no very safe place in those days for
people returning home through the dark. Johnnie knew, moreover, that he
would be carrying a considerable sum in gold with him, and it was as
well to have an attendant.
They walked towards Chepe, Johnnie in front, his man a yard or so
behind. It was summer-time, but even in summer London went to bed early,
and the prentices were returning home from their cudgel-play and
shooting at the butts in Finsbury fields.
The sky was a faint primrose above the spires of the town. The sun, that
tempest of fire, had sunk, but still left long lines in the sky, lines
which looked as if they had been drawn by a vermilion pencil; while,
here and there, were locks, friths, and islands of gold and purple
floating in the sky, billowed and upheaved into an infinity of distant
glory.
They went through the narrow streets beneath the hundreds of coloured
signs which hung from shop and warehouse.
At a time when the ordinary porter, prentice, and messenger could hardly
read, each place of business must signify and locate itself by a sign. A
merchant of those days did not send a letter by hand to a business
house, naming it to the messenger. He told the man to go to the sign of
the Three Cranes, the Gold Pig on a black ground, the Tower and Dragon
in such and such a street.
London was not lit on a summer night at this hour. In the winter, up to
half-past eight or so the costers' barrows with their torches provided
the only illumination. After that all was dark, and in summer there was
no artificial light at all when the day had gone.
They came up to the cross standing to the east of Wood Street, which was
silhouetted against the last gleams of day in the sky. Its hexagonal
form of three sculptured tiers, which rose from one another like the
divisions of a telescope, cut out a black pattern against the coloured
background. The niches with their statues, representing many of the
Sovereigns of England, were all in grey shadow, but the large gilt cross
which surmounted it still caught something of the evening fires.
To the east there was the smaller tower of octagonal form, which was the
Conduit, and here also the top was bathed in light--a figure standing
upon a gilded cone and blowing a horn.
The gutters in the streets were dry now, for the rain storm of two days
ago had not lasted long, and they were sticky and odorous with vegetable
and animal filth.
The two men walked in the centre of the street, as was wiser in those
days, for--as still happens in the narrow quarters of old French towns
to-day--garret windows were open, and pails were emptied with but little
regard for those who were passing by.
When they came into Chepe itself, things were a little less congested,
for great houses were built there, and Johnnie walked more quickly. Many
of the houses of the merchant princes were but little if at all inferior
to the mansions of the nobility at that time. They stood often enough in
gloomy and unfrequented courts, and were accessible only by inconvenient
passages, but once arrived at, their interiors were of extraordinary
comfort and magnificence.
Johnnie knew that Mr. Cressemer's house was hereabouts, but was not
certain of the precise location. He looked up through the endless
succession of Saracens' heads, Tudor roses, blue bears, and golden
lambs, but could see nothing in the growing dark. He turned round and
beckoned to John Hull.
"You know the City?" he said.
"Very well, master," the man answered, looking at him, so Johnnie
thought, with a very strange expression.
"Then, certes, you can tell me the house of Master Robert Cressemer, the
Alderman," said Johnnie.
Hull gave a sudden, violent start. His eyes, always keen and alert, now
grew wide.
"Sir," he said, "I know that house very well, but what do you there?"
Johnnie stared at him in amazement for a moment. Then the blood mantled
in his cheeks.
"Sirrah," he said, "what mean you by this? What is it to you where I go
or what I do?"
There was nobody in their immediate vicinity at the moment, and the
thick-set serving-man, by a quick movement, placed himself in front of
his master, his right hand upon the newly-provided sword, his left
playing with the hilt of the long knife which had served him so well at
Chelmsford.
"I said I would be loyal to ye, master," the fellow growled, "but I see
now that it cannot be. I will be no servant of those who do burn and
slay innocent folk, and shalt not to the Alderman's if thou goest with
evil intent."
An enormous surprise almost robbed the young man of his anger.
Was this man, this "faithfullest servant," some brigand or robber, or
assassin, in disguise? What could it mean? His hand was upon his sword
in a moment, it was ready to flash out, and the accomplished fencer who
had been trained in every art and trick of sword-play, knew well that
the strength of the thick-set man before him would avail nothing. But
he waited a moment, really more interested and surprised than angered or
alarmed.
"I don't want to kill you, my good man," he said, "and so I will give
you leave to speak. But by the Mass! this is too much; an you don't
explain yourself, in the kennel and carrion you lie."
"I beg your pardon, sir," Hull answered, his face taking into it a note
of apology, "but you come from the Court; you rode with those bloody
villains that did take my dear master that was to his death. Are you not
now going with a like intent to the house of Mr. Cressemer?"
"I don't know," Johnnie answered, "why I should explain to you the
reason for my visit to His Worship, but despite this gross impudence, I
will give you a chance, for I have learnt to know that there is often an
explanation behind what seemeth most foul. The Alderman is one of the
oldest and best friends my father, the Knight of Kent, hath ever had.
The letter thou gavest me two hours agone was from His Worship bidding
me to supper. And now, John Hull, what hast to say before I slit you?"
For answer, John Hull suddenly fell upon his knees, and held out his
hands in supplication.
"Sir," he said, in a humble voice, "I crave that of your mercy and
gentleness you will forgive me, and let this pass. Sure, I knew you for
a gallant gentleman, and no enemy to my people when first I saw you. I
marked you outside St. Botolph's Church, and knew you again at
Chelmsford. But I thought you meant harm...."
His voice died away in an inarticulate mumble. He seemed enormously
sincere and penitent, and dreadfully embarrassed also by some knowledge
or thought at the back of his mind, something which he feared, or was
unable to disclose.
Johnnie's heart was beating strangely, though he did not know why. He
seemed to tread into something strange and unexpected. Life was full of
surprises now.
All he said was: "Make a fool of thyself no longer, John Hull; get up
and lead me to His Worship's. I forgive thee. But mark you, I shall
require the truth from you anon."
The man scrambled up, made a clumsy bow, and hurried on for a few yards,
until a narrow opening between two great stacks of houses disclosed
itself. He walked down it, his shoes echoing upon a pavement stone.
Johnnie followed him, and they came out into a dark courtyard in which a
single lantern of glass and iron hung over a massive door studded with
nails.
"This is His Worship's house," said John Hull.
Johnnie went up to the door and beat upon it with the handle of his
dagger, standing on the single step before it. In less than half a
minute, the door was opened and a serving-man in livery of yellow stood
before him.
"Mr. John Commendone," Johnnie said, "to see His Worship the Alderman
upon an invitation."
The man bowed, opened the door still wider, and invited Johnnie into a
large flagged hall, lit by three silver lamps.
"Worshipful sir," he said, "my master told me that perchance you would
be a-coming this night, and he awaits you in the parlour."
"This is my servant," Johnnie said to the man, and even as he did so, he
saw a look of immense surprise, mingled with welcome, upon the fellow's
face.
"I will take him to the kitchen, Your Worship," the man said, and as he
spoke, a footman came out of a door on the opposite side of the hall,
bowed low to Johnnie, and led him up a broad flight of stairs.
Commendone shrugged his shoulders. There were mysteries here, it seemed,
but so far they were none of his, and at any rate he was within the
house of a friend.
At first there was no evidence of any particular luxury, and Johnnie was
surprised. Though he had little idea how wealthy his own father had
become, the great house of Commendone was a very stately, well-found
place. He knew, moreover, that Mr. Robert Cressemer was one of the
richest citizens of London, and he had heard his friends talking at
Court of the state and splendour of some of those hidden mansions which
clustered in the environs of Chepeside, Wood Street, and Basinghall
Street.
He had not gone much farther in his progress when he knew. He passed
through a pair of folding doors, inlaid with rare woods--a novelty to
him at that time, for he had never travelled in Italy or France. He
walked down a broad corridor, the walls hung with pictures and the floor
tesselated with wood, and was shown by another footman who was standing
at a door at the end of the corridor into a superb room, wainscoted with
cedar up to half of its height, and above it adorned with battles of
gods and giants in fresco. The room was brilliantly lit by candles, at
frequent intervals all round the panelled walls, and close to the gilded
beading which divided them from the frescoes above, were arms of some
black wood or stone, which they were he could not have said, stretched
out, and holding silver sconces in which the candles were set.
It was as though gigantic Moors or Nubians had thrown their arms through
the wall to hold up the light which illuminated this large and splendid
place. At one end of the room was a high carved fire-place, and though
it was summer, some logs of green elm smouldered and crackled upon the
hearth, though the place was cool enough.
Seated by the fireside was a stout, short, elderly man, with a pointed
grey beard, and heavy black eyebrows from beneath which large, slightly
prominent, and very alert eyes looked out. His hair was white, and
apparently he was bald, because a skull cap of black velvet covered his
head. He wore a ruff and a long surtout of wool dyed crimson, and
pointed here and there with braid of dark green and thin lace of gold. A
belt of white leather was round his middle, and from it hung a
chatelaine of silver by his right side, from which depended a pen case
and some ivory tablets. On his left side, Johnnie noticed that a short
serviceable dagger was worn. His trunk hose were of black, his shoes
easy ones of Spanish leather with crimson rosettes upon the instep.
"Mr. John Commendone," said the footman.
Mr. Cressemer rose from his seat, his shrewd, capable face lighting up
with welcome.
"Ah," he said, "so thou hast come to see me, Mr. Commendone. 'Tis very
good of thee, and a welcome sight to eyes which have looked upon your
father so often."
He went up to the slim young man as the footman closed the door, and
shook him warmly by the hand, looking him in the face meanwhile with a
keen wise scrutiny, which made Johnnie feel young, inexperienced, a
little embarrassed.
He felt he was being summed up, judged and weighed, appraised in the
most kindly fashion, but by one who did not easily make a mistake in his
estimate of men.
At Court, King Philip had regarded him with cold interest, the Queen
herself with piercing and more lively regard. Since his arrival in
London, Johnnie had been used to scrutinies. But this was different from
any other he had known. It was eminently human and kindly first of all,
but in the second place it was more searching, more real, than any
other he had hitherto undergone. In short, a king or queen looked at a
courtier from a certain point of view. Would he serve their ends? Was he
the right man in the right place? Had they chosen well?
There was nothing of this now. It was all kindliness mingled with a
grave curiosity, almost with hope.
Johnnie, who was much taller than Mr. Cressemer, could not help smiling
a little, as the bearded man looked at him so earnestly, and it was his
smile that broke the silence, and made them friends from that very
moment.
The Alderman put his left hand upon Johnnie's shoulder.
"Lad," he said, and his voice was the voice of a leader of men, "lad, I
am right glad to see thee in my poor house. Art thy father's son, and
that is enough for me. Come, sit you down t'other side of the fire.
Come, come."
With kindly geniality the merchant bustled his guest to a chair opposite
his own, and made him sit. Then he stood upon a big hearthrug of
bear-skin, rubbed his hands, and chuckled.
"When I heard ye announced," he said, "I thought to myself, 'Here's
another young gallant of the Court keen on his money; he hath lost no
time in calling for it.' But now I see thee, and know thee for what thou
art--for it is my boast, and a true one, that I was never deceived in
man yet--I see my apprehensions were quite unfounded."
Johnnie bowed. For a moment or two he could hardly speak. There was
something so homelike, so truly kind, in this welcome that his nerves,
terribly unstrung by all he had gone through of late, were almost upon
the point of breakdown.
This was like home. This was the real thing. This was not the Court--and
here before him he knew very well was a man not only good and kindly,
but resolute and great.
"Now, I'll tell thee what we'll do, Master Johnnie, sith thou hast come
to me so kindly. We will sip a little water of Holland--I'll wager
you've tasted nothing like it, for it cometh straight from the English
Exchange house at Antwerp--and then we will to supper, where you will
meet my dear sister, Mistress Catherine Cressemer, who hath been the
long companion of my widowerhood, and ordereth this my house for me."
He turned to where a square sheet of copper hung from a peg upon a cord
of twisted purple silk. Taking up the massive silver pen case at the end
of his chatelaine, he beat upon the gong, and the copper thunder echoed
through the big room.
A man entered immediately, to whom Mr. Cressemer gave orders, and then
sat himself down upon the other side of the fire.
"Your father," he said confidentially, "came to me after he left you in
the Tower the morning before this. He was very pleased with what he saw
of you, Master Johnnie, and what he heard of you also. Art going to be a
big man in affairs without doubt. I wish I had met ye before. I have
been twice to Commendone Park. Once when thou wert a little rosy thing
of two year old or less, and the Senora--Holy Mary give her grace!--had
thee upon her knee. I was staying with the Knight. And then again when
Father Chilches was thy tutor, and thou must have been fourteen year or
more. I was at the Park for three days. But thou wert away with thy
aunt, Miss Commendone, of Wanstone Court, and I saw nothing of thee."
"So you knew my mother," Johnnie said eagerly.
"Aye, that I did, and a very gracious lady she was, Master Commendone. I
will tell thee of her, and thy house in those days, at supper. My sister
will be well pleased to hear it also. Meanwhile"--he sipped at the white
liqueur which the servant had brought, and motioned Johnnie towards his
own thin green glass with little golden spirals running through
it--"meanwhile, tell me how like you the Court life?"
Johnnie started. They were the exact words of his father. "I am getting
on very well," he said in reply.
"So I hear, and am well pleased," the Alderman answered. "You have
everything in your favour--a knowledge of Spanish, a pleasant presence,
and trained to the usage of good society. But, though you may not think
it, I have influence, even at Court, though it is in no ways apparent.
Tell me something of your aims, and your views, and I shall doubtless be
able to help your advancement. There are ticklish times coming, be
certain of that, and my experience may be of great service to you. Her
Grace, God bless her! is, I fear--I speak to you as man to man, Mr.
Commendone--too keen set and determined upon the Papal Supremacy for the
true welfare of this realm. I am Catholic. I have always been Catholic.
But doctrine, and a purely political dominion from Rome, aye, or from
Spain either, is not what we of the City, and who control the finances
of the kingdom much more than less, desire or wish to see. After all,
Mr. Commendone, I trust I make myself clearly understood to you, and
that you are of the same temper and mind as your father and myself;
after all is loudly set and perchance badly done, we have to look to the
upholding of the realm, inside and out, rather than to be fine upon
points of doctrine."
He leant forward in his seat with great earnestness, clasped his right
hand, upon the little finger of which was a great ring, with a cut seal
of emerald, and brought it down heavily upon the table by his side.
"I believe," he said, "in the Mass, and if I were asked to die for my
belief, that would I do. I would do it very reluctantly, Master John. I
would evade the necessity for doing it in every way I knew. But if I
were set down in front of judges or eke inquisitors, and asked to say
that when the priest hath said the words of consecration, the elements
are not the very true body of Our Lord Jesus, then I would die for that
belief. And of the Invocation of Saints, and of the greatest saint of
all--Our Lady--I see no harm in it, but a very right and pleasant
practice. For, look you, if these are indeed, as we believe and know
clustering around the throne of God, which is the Holy Trinity, then
indeed they must hear our prayers, if we believe truly in the Communion
of Saints; and hearing them, being in high favour in heaven, their
troubles past and they glorified, certes, we down here may well think
their voices will be heard around the Throne. That is true Catholic
doctrine as I see it. But of the power of the Bishop of Rome to direct
and interfere in the honest internal affairs of a country--well, I snap
my fingers at it. And of the power of the priesthood, which is but part
of the machinery by which His Holiness endeavoureth to accrue to himself
all earthly power, at that also I spit. From my standpoint, a priest is
an ordained man of God; his function is to say Mass, to consecrate the
elements, and so to bring God near to us upon the altar. But of your
confessions, your pryings into family life, your temporal dominion, I
have the deepest mistrust. And also, I think, that the cause of Holy
Church would be much better served if its priests were allowed--for
such of them as wished it--to be married men. A man is a man, and God
hath given him his natural attributes. I am not really learned, nor am I
well read in the history of the world, but I have looked into it enough,
Master Commendone, to know that God hath ordained that men should take
women in marriage and rear up children for the glory of the Lord and the
welfare of the State. Mark you"--his face became striated with lines of
contempt and dislike--"mark you, this celibacy is to be the thing which
will destroy the power of the sacrificing priest in the eyes of all
before many hundred years have passed. I shall not see it, thou wilt not
see it. We are good Church of England men now, but what I say will come
to pass, and then God himself only knoweth what anarchs and deniers,
what blasphemers and runagates will hold the world.
"Her Grace," he went on, "believeth that as Moses ordered blasphemers to
be put to death, so she thinketh it the duty of a Christian prince to
eradicate the cockle from the fold of God's Church, to cut out the
gangrene that it may not spread to the sounder parts. But Her Grace is a
woman that hath been much sequestered all her life till now. She cometh
to the throne, and is but--I trust I speak no treason, Mr. Commendone--a
tool and instrument of the priests from Spain, and the man from Spain
also who is her lord. Why! if only the Church in this realm could go on
as King Henry started it--not a new Church, mind you, but a Church which
hath thrown off an unnecessary dominion from Italy--if it could go on as
under the reign of the little King Edward was set out and promised very
well, 'twould be truly Catholic still, and the priests of the Church
would be all married men and citizens within the State, with a stake in
civil affairs, and so by reason of their spiritual power and civil
obligations, the very bulwark of society."
Johnnie listened intently, nodding now and then as the Alderman made a
point, and as he himself realised the value of it.
"Look you, Master Commendone," His Worship continued, "look you, only
yesterday a worthy clergyman, whom I knew and loved, a man of his
inches, a shrewd and clever gentleman of good birth, was haled from the
City down to his own parish and burnt as a heretic. Heretic doubtless
the good man was. He would be living now if he had not denied the
blessed and comforting truth of Transubstantiation before that
blood-stained wolf, the Bishop of London. The man I speak of was a good
man, and though he was mistaken on that issue, he would, under kindlier
auspices, doubtless have returned to the central truth of our religion.
He was married, and had lived in honourable wedlock with his wife for
many years. She was a lady from Wales, and a sweet woman. But it was his
marriage as much as any other thing about him that brought him to his
death."
The Alderman's voice sank into something very like a whisper. "One of my
men," he said, "was riding down with the Sheriff of London to Hadley,
where Dr. Taylor, he of whom I speak, suffered this very morning. At
five this afternoon my man was back, and told me how the good doctor
died. He died with great constancy, very much, Mr. Commendone, as one of
the old saints that the Romans did use so cruelly in the early years of
Our Lord's Church. Yet, as something of a student of affairs--and Dr.
Taylor is not the first good heretic who hath died rather than recant--I
see that the married clergy suffer with the most alacrity. And why?
Because, as I see it, they are bearing testimony to the validity and
sanctity of their marriage. The honour of their wives and children is at
stake; the desire of leaving them an unsullied name and a virtuous
example, combined with a sense of religious duty. And thus the heart
derives strength from the very ties which in other circumstances might
well tend to weaken it.
"I am in mourning to-night, mourning in my heart, Mr. Commendone, for a
good, mistaken friend who hath suffered death."
As his voice fell, the Alderman was looking sadly into the red embers of
the fire with the music of a deep sadness and regret in his voice. He
wasn't an emotional man at all--by nature that is--Johnnie saw it at
once. But he saw also that his host was very deeply moved. Johnnie rose
from his chair.
"You are telling me no news at all, Mr. Alderman," he said. "I had
orders, and I was one of those who rode with Sir John Shelton and the
Sheriff to take Dr. Taylor to the stake at Aldham Common."
Mr. Cressemer started violently.
"Mother of God!" he said, "did you see that done?"
Johnnie nodded. He could not trust himself to speak.
The Alderman's cry of horror brought home to him almost for the first
time not the terror of what he had seen--that he had realised long
ago--but a sense of personal guilt, a disgust with himself that he
should have been a participator in such a deed, a spectator, however
pitying.
He felt unclean.
Then he said in a low voice: "What I tell you, Mr. Cressemer, will, I
know, remain as a secret between us. I feel I am not betraying any trust
in telling _you_. I am, as you know, attached to the person of His
Majesty, and I have been admitted into great confidence both by him and
Her Grace the Queen. The King rode to Hadley disguised as a simple
cavalier, and I was with him as his attendant."
He stopped short, feeling that the explanation was bald and unsufficing.
The Alderman stepped up to Johnnie and put his hand upon his arm. "Poor
lad, poor lad," he said in tones of deepest pity. "I grieve in that
thou hadst to witness such a thing in the following of thy duty."
"I had thought," the young man faltered, his assurance deserting him for
a moment at the words of this reverend and broad-souled man, "I thought
you would think me stained in some wise, Mr. Cressemer. I...."
"Whist!" the elder man answered impatiently. "Have no such foolish
thoughts. Am I not a man of affairs? Do I not know what discipline
means? But this gives me great cause for thought. You have confided in
me, Mr. Commendone, and so likewise will I in you. This morning the
Doctor's wife, his little son, and little daughter Mary, set off for the
Marches of Wales with a party of my men and their baggage. Mistress
Taylor was born a Rhyader, of a good family in Conway town. Her brother
liveth there, and all her friends are of Wales. It was as well that the
dame should leave the City at once, for none knoweth what will be done
to the relations of heretics at this time----Why, man! Thou art white as
linen, thy hand shakes. What meaneth it?"
Johnnie, in truth, was a strange sight as he stood in front of his host.
All his composure was gone. His eyes burnt in a white face, his lips
were dry and parted, there was an almost terrible inquiry in his whole
aspect and manner.
"'Tis nothing," he managed to say in a hoarse voice, which he hardly
knew for his own. "Pr'ythee continue, sir."
Mr. Cressemer gave the young man a keen, questioning glance before he
went on speaking. Then he said:
"As I tell you, these members of the good Doctor's family are now safely
on their way, and God grant them rest and peace in their new life. They
will want for nothing. But the Doctor's other daughter, Mistress
Elizabeth, was not his own daughter, but was adopted by him when she was
but a little child. The girl is a very sweet and good girl, and my
sister, Mistress Catherine, has long loved her. And as this is a
childless house, alas! the maid hath come to live with us and she will
be as my own daughter, if God wills it."
"She is well?" Johnnie asked, in a hoarse whisper.
The Alderman shook his head sadly. "She is the bravest maiden I have
ever met," he said. "She hath stuff in her which recalls the ladies of
old Rome, so calm and steadfast is she. There is in her at this time
some divine illumination, Mr. Commendone, that keepeth her strong and
unafraid. Ah, but she is sore stricken! She knew some hours agone of the
doings at Hadley, for as I told you, one of my men brought the news. She
hath been in prayer a long time, poor lamb, and now my sister is with
her to hearten her and give her such comfort as may be. God's ways are
very strange, Mr. John. Who would have thought now that you should come
to this house to-night from that butchery?" He sighed deeply.
Johnnie made the sign of the cross. "God moveth in a mysterious way," he
said, "to perform His wonders. He rides upon the tempest, and eke
directs the storm, and leadeth pigmy men and women with a sure hand and
a certain purpose."
"Say not 'pigmy,' Mr. John," the Alderman answered, "we are not small in
His eyes, though it is well that we should be in our own. But you speak
with a certain meaning. You grew pale just now. I think you may justly
confide in me. I am of thy father's age, and a friend of thy father's.
What is it, lad?"
Speaking with great difficulty, looking downwards at the floor, Johnnie
told him. He told him how he had met John Hull and taken him into his
service, how that even now the man was in the kitchen among the servants
of the Alderman. He told of the fellow's menace in Chepe, and how
inexplicable it had seemed to him. Then he hesitated, and his voice sunk
into silence.
"Ye saw the poor lamb?" Mr. Cressemer said in a low voice, which
nevertheless trembled with excitement. "Ye saw her weeping as good Dr.
Taylor was borne away? Ye took this good varlet Hull into thy service?
And now thou art in my house. It seemeth indeed that God's finger is
writing in the book of thy life; but I must hear more from thee, Mr.
Commendone. Tell me, if thou wilt, what it may mean."
Johnnie straightened himself. He put his hand upon the pummel of his
sword. He looked his host full in the eyes.
"It means this, sir," he said, in a quiet and resolute voice. "All my
life I have kept myself from those pleasures and peccadilloes that young
gentlemen of my station are wont to use. I have never looked upon a
maiden with eyes of love--or worse. Before God His Throne, Our Lady the
Blessed Virgin, and all the crowned saints I say it. But yester morn,
when I saw her weeping in the grey, my heart went out from me, and is no
more mine. I vowed then that by God's grace I would be her knight and
lover for ever and a day. My employment hath not to-day given me the
opportunity to go to Mass, but I have promised myself to-morrow morn
that in the chapel of St. John I will vow myself to her with all fealty,
and indeed nor man, nor power, nor obstacle of any sort shall keep me
from her, if God allows. Wife she shall be to me, and so I can make her
love me. All this I swear to you, by my honour"--here he pulled his
sword from the scabbard and reverently kissed the hilt--"and to the
Blessed Trinity." And now he pulled his crucifix from his doublet, and
kissed it.
Then he turned away from the Alderman, took a few steps to the
fire-place, and leant against the carving, his head bowed upon his arms.
There was a dead silence in the big room. Tears were gathering in the
eyes of the grave elderly man, while his mind worked furiously. He saw
in all this the direct hand of Providence working towards a definite and
certain end.
He had loved the slim and gracious lad directly he saw him. His heart
had gone out to one so gallant and one so debonair, the son of his old
and trusted friend. He had long loved the Rector of Hadley's sweet
daughter, who was so idolised also by Mistress Catherine Cressemer, his
sister. During the reign of Edward VI the girl had often come up to
London to spend some months with her wealthy and influential friends.
She had a great part in the heart of the childless widower.
Now this strange and wonderful thing had happened.
These thoughts passed through the old man's mind in a few seconds, while
the silence was not broken. Then, as he was about to turn and speak to
Johnnie, the door of the room opened quickly, and a short, elderly woman
hurried in.
She was very simply dressed in grey woollen stuff, though the bodice and
skirt were edged with costly fur. The white lace of Bruges upon her head
framed a face of great sweetness, and now it was alive with excitement.
She was a little woman, fifty years of age, with a flat wrinkled face;
but her eyes were full of kindness, and, indeed, so was her whole face,
although her lips were drawn in by the loss of her front teeth, and this
gave her a rather witch-like mouth.
"Robert! Robert!" she said in a high, excited voice. "John Hull, that
was servant to our dear Doctor, is in this house. The men have him in
the kitchen--word has just been sent up to me. What shall we do? Dear
Lizzie--she is more tranquil now, and bearing her cross very
bravely--dear Lizzie had thought not to see him again. Will it be well
that we should have him up? Think you the child can bear seeing him?"
The lady had piped this out in a rush of excited words. Then suddenly
she saw Johnnie, who had turned round and stood by the fire, bowing. His
face was drawn and white, and he was trembling.
"Catherine," Mr. Cressemer said, "strange things are happening to-night,
of which I must speak with you anon. But this is Mr. John Commendone,
son of our dear Knight of Kent, who hath come to see me, and who haply
or by design of God was forced to witness the death of Dr. Rowland this
morning."
Johnnie made a low bow, the little lady a lower curtsey.
Then, heedless of all etiquette, with the tears streaming down her
cheeks, she trotted up to the young man and caught hold of both his
hands, looking up at him with the saddest, kindest face he had ever
seen.
"Oh, boy, boy," she said, "thou hast come at the right time. We know
with what constancy the Doctor died, but our lamb will be well content
to hear of it from kindly lips, for she is very strong and stedfast, the
pretty dear! And thou hast a good face, and surely art a true son of thy
father, Sir Henry of Commendone."