_BREATHING TIME._
When our youthful hero, so suddenly rescued from a bloody death,
regained the full consciousness, of which the shock seemed to have
deprived him for a time, he felt like one in a dream, such a dream
as enables a prisoner to escape from the slime and darkness of a
subterranean dungeon, to the happiness and joy of the domestic hearth,
or of boundless liberty in verdant woods, breezy groves, or sun-lit
hill-tops.
Was he in Paradise? The words he had often sung in choir came into his
mind,--
“In loco pascuæ ibi me collocavit,
Et super aquam refectionis educavit me.”[46]
Had the gibbet and quartering block been endured and left behind, was
he in the spirit while the mutilated and desecrated members of his
mortal body rotted on the gates of Exeter?
But as he regained fuller consciousness, he became aware of
circumstances not resembling those which are commonly supposed to be
the portion of the Blessed in Paradise--such as a comfortable down bed,
richly embroidered curtains around him, Flemish tapestry on the walls
of his chamber, and a bright autumnal sun pouring in between the window
curtains.
He strove to rise, although he felt very weak; still curiosity overcame
weakness, and he staggered, like one giddy, to the casement, and
parting the curtains looked out.
It was early morn; a glorious bracing October morning,--such October
mornings as they have in Devon,--and a scene of wondrous beauty lay
before him, but all of this earth.
Immediately below lay a well-tended garden, with winding paths,
terraces, flowers of varied hue, shrubs, and ornamental trees cut in
strange fashions, and beyond lay a ruinous wall, through gaps in which
he could see a deep hollow, which once had been a dyke or moat, in days
when it was not safe to dwell beyond the shelter of such defences. But
with all the bloody tyranny of the latter time it must be said that the
strong hand of the government had given a sense of security, unknown
before, from all violence save legalized wrong,[47] and _that_ no
defence of moat or wall could avert.
Beyond the garden the ground sloped down to the valley of the Exe; far
away, on the left hand, lay the mighty ocean, in its deep repose, blue
as the azure vault above it, the whole coast from the mouth of the
Exe to Berry Head, beyond Torbay, was visible; with the line of ruddy
cliffs, stretching out into headlands, and receding into bays: while,
here and there, a rocky island remained, to show where a promontory had
once extended ere the waters broke the connection with the mainland.
But straight across the lovely valley, rich in its autumnal livery of
purple and gold, arose first the range of Halden, and glistening under
the glorious sun and in the clear blue of heaven beyond, looking almost
ethereal in the hues of distance, the rocks of Hey Tor and the cairn of
Rippon Tor surmounted the nearer heights.
Beneath those mountains lay the happy home of the last six years; Hey
Tor looked over Ashburton, and perhaps Isabel Grey was even now gazing
at those same rocks. Oh, how the freed spirit laughed at distance:
the sluggish body might be chained but the mind had flown across the
valley of the Exe, over the ridge of Halden, and was there in the old
familiar scenes hearing the sweet youthful voice, beholding the beloved
features, wandering with the loved one around the enchanted borders of
the moorland.
The reader who is versed in the topography of Devon will see that the
home in which Cuthbert has found refuge, is situated on that lovely
ridge of the heath, which rises about three miles from the eastern
bank of the estuary of the Exe, of which Woodbury Castle is the most
prominent point.
But he will wonder how he came there.
Listen! a step approaches, the door opens, and a familiar form enters
the room.
“What, Cuthbert at the window! God bless thee, my boy, thou art better
then--, this _is_ a sight for sore eyes.”
“Have I been ill, father?”
“Thy nurse has but now left the chamber to get her breakfast, and I
came in to take her place, in case thou shouldst awake with recovered
consciousness and wonder where thou art.”
“And where am I?”
“Not in Rougemont.”
“I see that, but where?”
“Amongst true friends; this is the mansion of Sir Robert Tremayne, an
old friend of our house, to whom we are much indebted.”
“But have I been dreaming? I thought we were led to the scaffold
together, that I heard the cathedral bell, the death bell toll for us,
and the litany for the dying yet sounds in my ears; then came a scene
of tumult and fury, cries of “rescue,” and we seemed to be passed from
hand to hand, until at last we passed through a gate or low door into
some house on the cathedral yard.”
“It was no dream, my son, our period was indeed near its
accomplishment, and, but for the efforts, heroic, but perhaps mistaken,
we had been two days (did they number there by days) in Paradise; but
it is plain God has work for thee to do on earth; for me I care not
how soon I awake to a fairer scene than this; I had hoped the martyr’s
death had been our purgatory, and that we had gained the shore.”
“But this scene is very fair,” said the youth, “bright sun, beautiful
vale, lovely sea, grand moorland hills; loth should I be to leave it
too soon, for this is God’s world too, is it not, father?”
“Thou art young, dear son.”
“Tell me all, have I been ill long?”
“This is the third day since the rescue.”
“How came it about?”
“Public opinion made it _possible_ for a few score of men to do the
work of hundreds; the mob alone, if hostile, might have hindered, nay
prevented our escape, but many who dared not assist actively, did so
passively, and closing together covered our retreat, until we found
temporary concealment in the house of a friend to the cause, who had a
passage leading from his shop in High Street into the cathedral yard.
But ere we had been there long, thou didst faint, and we had much ado
to restore thee to life.”
“How weak I must be!”
“Nay, my child, consider the torture chamber of which thy poor hands
bear sufficient evidence, and the terrible strain of the approaching
cruel death, of which we bore all the anticipation. Well, at midnight
we smuggled thee through the west gate, in a litter, by the connivance
of a sentinel, and so down stream to Topsham, dragging the boat with
difficulty over the Countess’s Weir; thereby we escaped the pursuers
on the road, and favoured by the night, reached this secluded hall
unobserved.”
“And when shall we go to Glastonbury and complete our task?”
“Not at present, for they will be looking out for us there, I doubt
not; we have a bitter enemy in Sir John Redfyrne; but when a month or
so has passed away, we may venture, well disguised.”
“And shall we never dare to return home again?”
“Nay, not while Henry reigns; it would not be worth the risk; there is
no sufficient object.”
“And our poor brethren there?”
“They will, I trust, be undisturbed; before our trial I made a gift of
the estate to Brother Cyril, late of Glastonbury, under his worldly
name: after conviction our property would have become that of the
state.”
“Then we are very poor, father?”
“Do’st thou love me less?”
“Nay, thou shalt see how true thine adopted son will be, God helping
him.”
“I know it, dear boy, but it is not so bad as it appears at first
sight, for foreseeing an evil day, I had forwarded considerable funds,
for thy use and mine, to my old friend the Baron de Courcy, to whose
care I purpose committing thee should we ever win our way to France, as
now I trust we shall.”
“And we shall be exiles?”
“‘Omne solum forti patria,’ said the heathen poet: how much more true
to the Christian! And now, my son, thou must yet repose a while, and
ere noon-tide I will bring our kind host and hostess to see thee; they
lost their son, an only child, in the Pilgrimage of Grace, where he
fought as a volunteer under Robert Aske. I knew the poor boy; they were
strangely moved when thou didst arrive; the mother cried, ‘He is so
like our Robin.’”
* * * * *
A few days of calm repose varied by walks, cautiously taken on the
breezy moor behind the hall, soon restored the hues of health to
Cuthbert’s cheeks, and renewed his earlier vigour. Oh, how sweet the
boundless freedom of that wilderness, how invigorating the scent of the
pine groves, how bright the glimpses of sea down the valleys. Not far
off, scarce two miles, was a large farm house on the road to Budleigh
Salterton, where a family of the name of Raleigh lived; but their
politics were hostile to those of Sir Robin Tremayne and Sir Walter
Trevannion; they, the Raleighs, were men who worshipped the rising sun,
and who a few years later were eager in the suppression of the Catholic
Rebellion in Devon and Cornwall. In that house which our Cuthbert often
saw from a distance, was born a bright star to adorn Elizabeth’s Court
but a few years later.[48]
So nearly a month passed away, an interlude between two periods of
excitement, and at length came All Hallows Eve, with its memory of the
past, and a bright All Saints’ Day, a day when the words of our sweet
modern singer might be realized:--
“Why blowest thou not thou wintry wind?
When every leaf is brown and sere,
And idly hangs, to thee resigned,
The fading foliage of the year.”
A chapel was attached to the hall wherein Father Ambrose, for so we
shall call him in this connection, celebrated the Holy Mysteries, and
they thought of Richard Whiting, as amongst the great multitude which
no man could number.
Their plans were now matured; they were to assume the disguise of a
farmer and his son, travelling on agricultural business, to stop,
one night only, at an inn on the borders of Somerset, and to reach
Glastonbury the second day, then to find shelter with old Hodge, and
rising at midnight to seek the ruins, and do their appointed work.
After this they planned to take horse for Lyme Regis, where they
doubted not Cuthbert’s reputed uncle, mentioned before in this story,
would get them off to sea; of their reception in France, they were well
assured.
A tried and trusted messenger was despatched to Glastonbury by Sir
Robin, who knew the people and the country well; he brought back word
that old Hodge and his wife were yet living and well, and that they
were more than willing to take their own share of the risk, for it was
death to shelter attainted men; and that, so far as he could learn, Sir
John Redfyrne was living in his own manor house--the reader knows how
he had made it “his own”--and was expected daily to return to court.
“Better wait till we are sure he has returned thither,” said Sir Robert.
“Nay, Redfyrne Hall is many miles from Glaston; there is little danger:
besides we shall be well disguised; and we must remember every week
makes the weather worse for crossing the Channel in an open boat.”
So the day came, a bright calm day within the octave of All Saints’,
very mild and balmy for the season, the day for departure from their
little Zoar, on their perilous errand.
They sat at breakfast for the last time. Do not let the word conjure up
tea and coffee before the mind of the reader, it was a most substantial
meal, composed of joints and pastry, washed down by ale and wine; but
they ate little.
It was over, there was not much talk, the hearts of all were too full,
and what there was ran in a subdued strain; the dear old lady was in
tears, for Cuthbert had become a second Robin, and it was like losing
her son again.
Before they parted, Sir Robert brought a sword from the armoury.
“It was my poor Robin’s; wear it, my son, for his sake, for thou art
worthy of it.”
Their disguises were at hand, and they assumed them and departed, after
a warm farewell and many deep expressions of gratitude.
Cuthbert felt a little sad at first, but the invigorating air, and the
restoration to life and action soon revived his spirits, and the love
of adventure, never wanting in the young, shed its glamour over him, as
they rode over Woodbury Common on their way to Glastonbury.
And thence from that breezy height, looking back, he caught his last
view of Dartmoor.
FOOTNOTES
[46] “He shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the
waters of comfort.”--_Psalm_ xxiii. 2.
[47] Witness, for instance, the case of Lord Dacre, of Hurstmonceux,
executed for an offence which, a few generations earlier, would hardly
have been considered an offence at all. Like Percy of Chevy Chase he
had gone hunting in his neighbour’s grounds; a fray took place and he
slew a gamekeeper. Henry would hear of no excuse, and the noble paid
for the peasant’s blood on the scaffold at Tyburn, June 29th, 1541.
[48] Sir Walter Raleigh, born six years later, in 1552.