{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_19697/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_19697","id":"gutenberg_19697","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19697","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Great Britain -- History -- Elizabeth, 1558-1603 -- Fiction"],"text":"BY\n\n                           WHAT AUTHORITY?\n\n\n\n\n                                  By\n\n                          Robert Hugh Benson\n\n                             _Author of_\n\n           \"The Light Invisible,\" \"The King's Achievement,\"\n                 \"A Book of the Love of Jesus,\" etc.\n\n\n                           BENIZIGER BROS.\n                 PRINTERS TO THE HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE,\n                    NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO.\n\n\n\n\n               _I wish to acknowledge a great debt of\n                 gratitude to the Reverend Dom Bede\n              Camm., O.S.B., who kindly read this book\n            in proof, and made many valuable corrections\n                          and suggestions._\n\n                                   ROBERT HUGH BENSON\n\n_Tremans\n  Horsted Keynes\n    October 27, 1904_\n\n\n\n\n                    PENATIBVS \u00b7 FOCISQVE \u00b7 CARIS\n\n                    NECNON \u00b7 TRIBVS \u00b7 CARIORIBVS\n\n                        APVD \u00b7 QVAS \u00b7 SCRIPSI\n\n                     IN \u00b7 QVARVM \u00b7 AVRES \u00b7 LEGI\n\n                  A \u00b7 QVIBVS \u00b7 ADMONITVS \u00b7 EMENDAVI\n\n                            HVNC \u00b7 LIBRVM\n\n                                  D.\n\n\n\n\n                              CONTENTS\n\n\n                               PART I\n\n\nCHAP.\n\n   I. The Situation\n\n  II. The Hall and the House\n\n III. London Town\n\n  IV. Mary Corbet\n\n   V. A Rider From London\n\n  VI. Mr. Stewart\n\n VII. The Door in the Garden Wall\n\nVIII. The Taking of Mr. Stewart\n\n  IX. Village Justice\n\n   X. A Confessor\n\n  XI. Master Calvin\n\n XII. A Winding Up\n\n\n                               PART II\n\n   I. Anthony in London\n\n  II. Some New Lessons\n\n III. Hubert's Return\n\n  IV. A Counter March\n\n   V. The Coming of the Jesuits\n\n  VI. Some Contrasts\n\n VII. A Message From the City\n\nVIII. The Massing-House\n\n  IX. From Fulham to Greenwich\n\n   X. The Appeal to C\u00e6sar\n\n  XI. A Station of the Cross\n\n XII. A Strife of Tongues\n\nXIII. The Spiritual Exercises\n\n XIV. Easter Day\n\n\n                               PART III\n\n   I. The Coming of Spain\n\n  II. Men of War and Peace\n\n III. Home-Coming\n\n  IV. Stanfield Place\n\n   V. Joseph Lackington\n\n  VI. A Departure\n\n VII. Northern Religion\n\nVIII. In Stanstead Woods\n\n  IX. The Alarm\n\n   X. The Passage To the Garden-house\n\n  XI. The Garden-house\n\n XII. The Night Ride\n\nXIII. In Prison\n\n XIV. An Open Door\n\n  XV. The Rolling of the Stone\n\n\n\n\n                         BY WHAT AUTHORITY?\n\n\n\n\n                               PART I\n\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER I\n\n                            THE SITUATION\n\n\nTo the casual Londoner who lounged, intolerant and impatient, at the\nblacksmith's door while a horse was shod, or a cracked spoke mended,\nGreat Keynes seemed but a poor backwater of a place, compared with the\nrush of the Brighton road eight miles to the east from which he had\nturned off, or the whirling cauldron of London City, twenty miles to the\nnorth, towards which he was travelling.\n\nThe triangular green, with its stocks and horse-pond, overlooked by the\ngrey benignant church-tower, seemed a tame exchange for seething\nCheapside and the crowded ways about the Temple or Whitehall; and it was\nstrange to think that the solemn-faced rustics who stared respectfully at\nthe gorgeous stranger were of the same human race as the quick-eyed,\nvoluble townsmen who chattered and laughed and grimaced over the news\nthat came up daily from the Continent or the North, and was tossed to and\nfro, embroidered and discredited alternately, all day long.\n\nAnd yet the great waves and movements that, rising in the hearts of kings\nand politicians, or in the sudden strokes of Divine Providence, swept\nover Europe and England, eventually always rippled up into this placid\ncountry village; and the lives of Master Musgrave, who had retired upon\nhis earnings, and of old Martin, who cobbled the ploughmen's shoes, were\ndefinitely affected and changed by the plans of far-away Scottish\ngentlemen, and the hopes and fears of the inhabitants of South Europe.\nThrough all the earlier part of Elizabeth's reign, the menace of the\nSpanish Empire brooded low on the southern horizon, and a responsive\nmutter of storm sounded now and again from the north, where Mary Stuart\nreigned over men's hearts, if not their homes; and lovers of secular\nEngland shook their heads and were silent as they thought of their tiny\ncountry, so rent with internal strife, and ringed with danger.\n\nFor Great Keynes, however, as for most English villages and towns at this\ntime, secular affairs were so deeply and intricately interwoven with\necclesiastical matters that none dared decide on the one question without\nconsidering its relation to the other; and ecclesiastical affairs, too,\ntouched them more personally than any other, since every religious change\nscored a record of itself presently within the church that was as\nfamiliar to them as their own cottages.\n\nOn none had the religious changes fallen with more severity than on the\nMaxwell family that lived in the Hall, at the upper and southern end of\nthe green. Old Sir Nicholas, though his convictions had survived the\ntempest of unrest and trouble that had swept over England, and he had\nremained a convinced and a stubborn Catholic, yet his spiritual system\nwas sore and inflamed within him. To his simple and obstinate soul it was\nan irritating puzzle as to how any man could pass from the old to a new\nfaith, and he had been known to lay his whip across the back of a servant\nwho had professed a desire to try the new religion.\n\nHis wife, a stately lady, a few years younger than himself, did what she\ncould to keep her lord quiet, and to save him from incurring by his\nindiscretion any further penalties beyond the enforced journeys before\nthe Commission, and the fines inflicted on all who refused to attend\ntheir parish church. So the old man devoted himself to his estates and\nthe further improvement of the house and gardens, and to the inculcation\nof sound religious principles into the minds of his two sons who were\nliving at home with their parents; and strove to hold his tongue, and his\nhand, in public.\n\nThe elder of these two, Mr. James as he was commonly called, was rather a\nmysterious personage to the village, and to such neighbours as they had.\nHe was often in town, and when at home, although extremely pleasant and\ncourteous, never talked about himself and seemed to be only very\nmoderately interested in the estate and the country-life generally. This,\ncoupled with the fact that he would presumably succeed his father, gave\nrise to a good deal of gossip, and even some suspicion.\n\nHis younger brother Hubert was very different; passionately attached to\nsport and to outdoor occupations, a fearless rider, and in every way a\nkindly, frank lad of about eighteen years old. The fifth member of the\nfamily, Lady Maxwell's sister, Mistress Margaret Torridon, was a\nquiet-faced old lady, seldom seen abroad, and round whom, as round her\neldest nephew, hung a certain air of mystery.\n\nThe difficulties of this Catholic family were considerable. Sir Nicholas'\nreligious sympathies were, of course, wholly with the spiritual side of\nSpain, and all that that involved, while his intense love of England gave\nhim a horror of the Southern Empire that the sturdiest patriot might have\nenvied. And so with his attitude towards Mary Stuart and her French\nbackground. While his whole soul rose in loathing against the crime of\nDarnley's murder, to which many of her enemies proclaimed her accessory,\nit was kindled at the thought that in her or her child lately crowned as\nJames VI. of Scotland, lay the hope of a future Catholic succession; and\nthis religious sympathy was impassioned by the memory of an interview a\nfew years ago, when he had kissed that gracious white hand, and looked\ninto those alluring eyes, and, kneeling, stammered out in broken French\nhis loyalty and his hopes. Whether it was by her devilish craft as her\nenemies said, or her serene and limpid innocence as her friends said, or\nby a maddening compound of the two, as later students have said--at least\nshe had made the heart and confidence of old Sir Nicholas her own.\n\nBut there were troubles more practical than these mental struggles; it\nwas a misery, beyond describing, to this old man and his wife to see the\nchurch, where once they had worshipped and received the sacraments, given\nover to what was, in their opinion, a novel heresy, and the charge of a\nschismatic minister. There, in the Maxwell chapel within, lay the bones\nof their Catholic ancestors; and there they had knelt to adore and\nreceive their Saviour; and now for them all was gone, and the light was\ngone out in the temple of the Lord. In the days of the previous Rector\nmatters were not so desperate; it had been their custom to receive from\nhis hands at the altar-rail of the Church hosts previously consecrated at\nthe Rectory; for the incumbent had been an old Marian priest who had not\nscrupled so to relieve his Catholic sheep of the burden of recusancy,\nwhile he fed his Protestant charges with bread and wine from the\nCommunion table. But now all that was past, and the entire family was\ncompelled year by year to slip off into Hampshire shortly before Easter\nfor their annual duties, and the parish church that their forefathers had\nbuilt, endowed and decorated, knew them no more.\n\nBut the present Rector, the Reverend George Dent, was far from a bigot;\nand the Papists were more fortunate than perhaps, in their bitterness,\nthey recognised; for the minister was one of the rising Anglican school,\nthen strange and unfamiliar, but which has now established itself as the\nmain representative section of the Church of England. He welcomed the\neffect but not the rise of the Reformation, and rejoiced that the\nincrustations of error had been removed from the lantern of the faith.\nBut he no less sincerely deplored the fanaticism of the Puritan and\nGenevan faction. He exulted to see England with a church truly her own at\nlast, adapted to her character, and freed from the avarice and tyranny of\na foreign despot who had assumed prerogatives to which he had no right.\nBut he reverenced the Episcopate, he wore the prescribed dress, he used\nthe thick singing-cakes for the Communion, and he longed for the time\nwhen nation and Church should again be one; when the nation should\nworship through a Church of her own shaping, and the Church share the\nglory and influence of her lusty partner and patron.\n\nBut Mrs. Dent had little sympathy with her husband's views; she had\nassimilated the fiery doctrines of the Genevan refugees, and to her mind\nher husband was balancing himself to the loss of all dignity and\nconsistency in an untenable position between the Popish priesthood on the\none side and the Gospel ministry on the other. It was an unbearable\nthought to her that through her husband's weak disposition and principles\nhis chief parishioners should continue to live within a stone's throw of\nthe Rectory in an assured position of honour, and in personal\nfriendliness to a minister whose ecclesiastical status and claims they\ndisregarded. The Rector's position then was difficult and trying, no less\nin his own house than elsewhere.\n\nThe third main family in the village was that of the Norrises, who lived\nin the Dower House, that stood in its own grounds and gardens a few\nhundred yards to the north-west of the village green. The house had\noriginally been part of the Hall estate; but it had been sold some fifty\nyears before. The present owner, Mr. Henry Norris, a widower, lived there\nwith his two children, Isabel and Anthony, and did his best to bring them\nup in his own religious principles. He was a devout and cultivated\nPuritan, who had been affected by the New Learning in his youth, and had\nconformed joyfully to the religious changes that took place in Edward's\nreign. He had suffered both anxiety and hardships in Mary's reign, when\nhe had travelled abroad in the Protestant countries, and made the\nacquaintance of many of the foreign reformers--Beza, Calvin, and even the\ngreat Melancthon himself. It was at this time, too, that he had lost his\nwife. It had been a great joy to him to hear of the accession of\nElizabeth, and the re-establishment of a religion that was sincerely his\nown; and he had returned immediately to England with his two little\nchildren, and settled down once more at the Dower House. Here his whole\ntime that he could spare from his children was divided between prayer and\nthe writing of a book on the Eucharist; and as his children grew up he\nmore and more retired into himself and silence and communing with God,\nand devoted himself to his book. It was beginning to be a great happiness\nto him to find that his daughter Isabel, now about seventeen years old,\nwas growing up into active sympathy with his principles, and that the\npassion of her soul, as of his, was a tender deep-lying faith towards\nGod, which could exist independently of outward symbols and ceremonies.\nBut unlike others of his school he was happy too to notice and encourage\nfriendly relations between Lady Maxwell and his daughter, since he\nrecognised the sincere and loving spirit of the old lady beneath her\nsuperstitions, and knew very well that her friendship would do for the\ngirl what his own love could not.\n\nThe other passion of Isabel's life at present lay in her brother Anthony,\nwho was about three years younger than herself, and who was just now more\ninterested in his falcons and pony than in all the religious systems and\nhuman relationships in the world, except perhaps in his friendship for\nHubert, who besides being three or four years older than himself, cared\nfor the same things.\n\nAnd so relations between the Hall and the Dower House were all that they\nshould be, and the path that ran through the gardens of the one and the\nyew hedge and orchard of the other was almost as well trodden as if all\nstill formed one estate.\n\nAs for the village itself, it was exceedingly difficult to gauge\naccurately the theological atmosphere. The Rector despaired of doing so.\nIt was true that at Easter the entire population, except the Maxwells and\ntheir dependents, received communion in the parish church, or at least\nprofessed their willingness and intention to do so unless prevented by\nsome accident of the preceding week; but it was impossible to be blind to\nthe fact that many of the old beliefs lingered on, and that there was\nlittle enthusiasm for the new system. Rumours broke out now and again\nthat the Catholics were rising in the north; that Elizabeth contemplated\na Spanish or French marriage with a return to the old religion; that Mary\nStuart would yet come to the throne; and with each such report there came\noccasionally a burst of joy in unsuspected quarters. Old Martin, for\nexample, had been overheard, so a zealous neighbour reported, blessing\nOur Lady aloud for her mercies when a passing traveller had insisted that\na religious league was in progress of formation between France and Spain,\nand that it was only a question of months as to when mass should be said\nagain in every village church; but then on the following Sunday the\ncobbler's voice had been louder than all in the metrical psalm, and on\nthe Monday he had paid a morning visit to the Rectory to satisfy himself\non the doctrine of Justification, and had gone again, praising God and\nnot Our Lady, for the godly advice received.\n\nBut again, three years back, just before Mr. Dent had come to the place,\nthere had been a solemn burning on the village-green of all such\nmuniments of superstition as had not been previously hidden by the priest\nand Sir Nicholas; and in the rejoicings that accompanied this return to\npure religion practically the whole agricultural population had joined.\nSome Justices had ridden over from East Grinsted to direct this rustic\nreformation, and had reported favourably to the new Rector on his arrival\nof the zeal of his flock. The great Rood, they told him, with SS. Mary\nand John, four great massy angels, the statue of St. Christopher, the\nVernacle, a brocade set of mass vestments and a purple cope, had perished\nin the flames, and there had been no lack of hands to carry faggots; and\nnow the Rector found it difficult to reconcile the zeal of his\nparishioners (which indeed he privately regretted) with the sudden and\nunexpected lapses into superstition, such as was Mr. Martin's gratitude\nto Our Lady, and others of which he had had experience.\n\nAs regards the secular politics of the outside world, Great Keynes took\nbut little interest. It was far more a matter of concern whether mass or\nmorning prayer was performed on Sunday, than whether a German bridegroom\ncould be found for Elizabeth, or whether she would marry the Duke of\nAnjou; and more important than either were the infinitesimal details of\ndomestic life. Whether Mary was guilty or not, whether her supporters\nwere rising, whether the shadow of Spain chilled the hearts of men in\nLondon whose affair it was to look after such things; yet the cows must\nbe milked, and the children washed, and the falcons fed; and it was these\nthings that formed the foreground of life, whether the sky were stormy or\nsunlit.\n\nAnd so, as the autumn of '69 crept over the woods in flame and russet,\nand the sound of the sickle was in folks' ears, the life at Great Keynes\nwas far more tranquil than we should fancy who look back on those\nstirring days. The village, lying as it did out of the direct route\nbetween any larger towns, was not so much affected by the gallop of the\ncouriers, or the slow creeping rumours from the Continent, as villages\nthat lay on lines of frequent communication. So the simple life went on,\nand Isabel went about her business in Mrs. Carroll's still-room, and\nAnthony rode out with the harriers, and Sir Nicholas told his beads in\nhis room--all with nearly as much serenity as if Scotland were fairyland\nand Spain a dream.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER II\n\n                        THE HALL AND THE HOUSE\n\n\nAnthony Norris, who was now about fourteen, went up to King's College,\nCambridge, in October. He was closeted long with his father the night\nbefore he left, and received from him much sound religious advice and\nexhortation; and in the morning, after an almost broken-hearted good-bye\nfrom Isabel, he rode out with his servant following on another horse and\nleading a packhorse on the saddle of which the falcons swayed and\nstaggered, and up the curving drive that led round into the village\ngreen. He was a good-hearted and wholesome-minded boy, and left a real\nache behind him in the Dower House.\n\nIsabel indeed ran up to his room, after she had seen his feathered cap\ndisappear at a trot through the gate, leaving her father in the hall; and\nafter shutting and latching the door, threw herself on his bed, and\nsobbed her heart out. They had never been long separated before. For the\nlast three years he had gone over to the Rectory morning by morning to be\ninstructed by Mr. Dent; but now, although he would never make a great\nscholar, his father thought it well to send him up to Cambridge for two\nor three years, that he might learn to find his own level in the world.\n\nAnthony himself was eager to go. If the truth must be told, he fretted a\nlittle against the restraints of even such a moderate Puritan household\nas that of his father's. It was a considerable weariness to Anthony to\nkneel in the hall on a fresh morning while his father read, even though\nwith fervour and sincerity, long extracts from \"Christian Prayers and\nHoly Meditations,\" collected by the Reverend Henry Bull, when the real\nworld, as Anthony knew it, laughed and rippled and twinkled outside in\nthe humming summer air of the lawn and orchard; or to have to listen to\ngodly discourses, however edifying to elder persons, just at the time\nwhen the ghost-moth was beginning to glimmer in the dusk, and the heavy\ntrout to suck down his supper in the glooming pool in the meadow below\nthe house.\n\nHis very sports, too, which his father definitely encouraged, were\nobviously displeasing to the grave divines who haunted the house so often\nfrom Saturday to Monday, and spoke of high doctrinal matters at\nmeal-times, when, so Anthony thought, lighter subjects should prevail.\nThey were not interested in his horse, and Anthony never felt quite the\nsame again towards one good minister who in a moment of severity called\nEliza, the glorious peregrine that sat on the boy's wrist and shook her\nbells, a \"vanity.\" And so Anthony trotted off happy enough on his way to\nCambridge, of which he had heard much from Mr. Dent; and where, although\nthere too were divines and theology, there were boys as well who acted\nplays, hunted with the hounds, and did not call high-bred hawks\n\"vanities.\"\n\nIsabel was very different. While Anthony was cheerful and active like his\nmother who had died in giving him life, she, on the other hand, was quiet\nand deep like her father. She was growing up, if not into actual beauty,\nat least into grace and dignity: but there were some who thought her\nbeautiful. She was pale with dark hair, and the great grey eyes of her\nfather; and she loved and lived in Anthony from the very difference\nbetween them. She frankly could not understand the attraction of sport,\nand the things that pleased her brother; she was afraid of the hawks, and\nliked to stroke a horse and kiss his soft nose better than to ride him.\nBut, after all, Anthony liked to watch the towering bird, and to hear and\nindeed increase the thunder of the hoofs across the meadows behind the\nstomping hawk; and so she did her best to like them too; and she was\noften torn two ways by her sympathy for the partridge on the one hand, as\nit sped low and swift across the standing corn with that dread shadow\nfollowing, and her desire, on the other hand, that Anthony should not be\ndisappointed.\n\nBut in the deeper things of the spirit, too, there was a wide difference\nbetween them. As Anthony fidgeted and sighed through his chair-back\nmorning and evening, Isabel's soul soared up to God on the wings of those\nsounding phrases. She had inherited all her father's tender piety, and\nlived, like him, on the most intimate terms with the spiritual world. And\nthough, of course, by training she was Puritan, by character she was\nPuritan too. As a girl of fourteen she had gone with Anthony to see the\ncleansing of the village temple. They had stood together at the west end\nof the church a little timid at the sight of that noisy crowd in the\nquiet house of prayer; but she had felt no disapproval at that fierce\nvindication of truth. Her father had taught her of course that the purest\nworship was that which was only spiritual; and while since childhood she\nhad seen Sunday by Sunday the Great Rood overhead, she had never paid it\nany but artistic attention. The men had the ropes round it now, and it\nwas swaying violently to and fro; and then, even as the children watched,\na tie had given, and the great cross with its pathetic wide-armed figure\nhad toppled forward towards the nave, and then crashed down on the\npavement. A fanatic ran out and furiously kicked the thorn-crowned head\ntwice, splintering the hair and the features, and cried out on it as an\nidol; and yet Isabel, with all her tenderness, felt nothing more than a\nvague regret that a piece of carving so ancient and so delicate should be\nbroken.\n\nBut when the work was over, and the crowd and Anthony with them had\nstamped out, directed by the justices, dragging the figures and the old\nvestments with them to the green, she had seen something which touched\nher heart much more. She passed up alone under the screen, which they had\nspared, to see what had been done in the chancel; and as she went she\nheard a sobbing from the corner near the priest's door; and there,\ncrouched forward on his face, crying and moaning quietly, was the old\npriest who had been rector of the church for nearly twenty years. He had\nsomehow held on in Edward's time in spite of difficulties; had thanked\nGod and the Court of Heaven with a full heart for the accession of Mary;\nhad prayed and deprecated the divine wrath at the return of the\nProtestant religion with Elizabeth; but yet had somehow managed to keep\nthe old faith alight for eight years more, sometimes evading, sometimes\nresisting, and sometimes conforming to the march of events, in hopes of\nbetter days. But now the blow had fallen, and the old man, too\nill-instructed to hear the accents of new truth in the shouting of that\nnoisy crowd and the crash of his images, was on his knees before the\naltar where he had daily offered the holy sacrifice through all those\ntroublous years, faithful to what he believed to be God's truth, now\nbewailing and moaning the horrors of that day, and, it is to be feared,\nunchristianly calling down the vengeance of God upon his faithless flock.\nThis shocked and touched Isabel far more than the destruction of the\nimages; and she went forward timidly and said something; but the old man\nturned on her a face of such misery and anger that she had run straight\nout of the church, and joined Anthony as he danced on the green.\n\nOn the following Sunday the old priest was not there, and a fervent young\nminister from London had taken his place, and preached a stirring sermon\non the life and times of Josiah; and Isabel had thanked God on her knees\nafter the sermon for that He had once more vindicated His awful Name and\ncleansed His House for a pure worship.\n\nBut the very centre of Isabel's religion was the love of the Saviour. The\nPuritans of those early days were very far from holding a negative or\ncolourless faith. Not only was their belief delicately dogmatic to\nexcess; but it all centred round the Person of the Lord Jesus Christ. And\nIsabel had drunk in this faith from her father's lips, and from\ndevotional books which he gave her, as far back as she could remember\nanything. Her love for the Saviour was even romantic and passionate. It\nseemed to her that He was as much a part of her life, and of her actual\nexperience, as Anthony or her father. Certain places in the lanes about,\nand certain spots in the garden, were sacred and fragrant to her because\nher Lord had met her there. It was indeed a trouble to her sometimes that\nshe loved Anthony so much; and to her mind it was a less worthy kind of\nlove altogether; it was kindled and quickened by such little external\ndetails, by the sight of his boyish hand brown with the sun, and scarred\nby small sporting accidents, such as the stroke of his bird's beak or\ntalons, or by the very outline of the pillow where his curly head had\nrested only an hour or two ago. Whereas her love for Christ was a deep\nand solemn passion that seemed to well not out of His comeliness or even\nHis marred Face or pierced Hands, but out of His wide encompassing love\nthat sustained and clasped her at every moment of her conscious attention\nto Him, and that woke her soul to ecstasy at moments of high communion.\nThese two loves, then, one so earthly, one so heavenly, but both so\nsweet, every now and then seemed to her to be in slight conflict in her\nheart. And lately a third seemed to be rising up out of the plane of\nsober and quiet affections such as she felt for her father, and still\nfurther complicating the apparently encountering claims of love to God\nand man.\n\nIsabel grew quieter in a few minutes and lay still, following Anthony\nwith her imagination along the lane that led to the London road, and then\npresently she heard her father calling, and went to the door to listen.\n\n\"Isabel,\" he said, \"come down. Hubert is in the hall.\"\n\nShe called out that she would be down in a moment; and then going across\nto her own room she washed her face and came downstairs. There was a\ntall, pleasant-faced lad of about her own age standing near the open door\nthat led into the garden; and he came forward nervously as she entered.\n\n\"I came back last night, Mistress Isabel,\" he said, \"and heard that\nAnthony was going this morning: but I am afraid I am too late.\"\n\nShe told him that Anthony had just gone.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"I came to say good-bye; but I came by the orchard, and\nso we missed one another.\"\n\nIsabel asked a word or two about his visit to the North, and they talked\nfor a few minutes about a rumour that Hubert had heard of a rising on\nbehalf of Mary: but Hubert was shy and constrained, and Isabel was still\na little tremulous. At last he said he must be going, and then suddenly\nremembered a message from his mother.\n\n\"Ah!\" he said, \"I was forgetting. My mother wants you to come up this\nevening, if you have time. Father is away, and my aunt is unwell and is\nupstairs.\"\n\nIsabel promised she would come.\n\n\"Father is at Chichester,\" went on Hubert, \"before the Commission, but we\ndo not expect him back till to-morrow.\"\n\nA shadow passed across Isabel's face. \"I am sorry,\" she said.\n\nThe fact was that Sir Nicholas had again been summoned for recusancy. It\nwas an expensive matter to refuse to attend church, and Sir Nicholas\nprobably paid not less than \u00a3200 or \u00a3300 a year for the privilege of\nworshipping as his conscience bade.\n\nIn the evening Isabel asked her father's leave to be absent after supper,\nand then drawing on her hood, walked across in the dusk to the Hall.\nHubert was waiting for her at the boundary door between the two\nproperties.\n\n\"Father has come back,\" he said, \"but my mother wants you still.\" They\nwent on together, passed round the cloister wing to the south of the\nhouse: the bell turret over the inner hall and the crowded roofs stood up\nagainst the stars, as they came up the curving flight of shallow steps\nfrom the garden to the tall doorway that led into the hall.\n\nIt was a pleasant, wide, high room, panelled with fresh oak, and hung\nwith a little old tapestry here and there, and a few portraits. A\nstaircase rose out of it to the upper story. It had a fret-ceiling, with\nflower-de-luce and rose pendants, and on the walls between the tapestries\nhung a few antlers and pieces of armour, morions and breast-plates, with\na pair of pikes or halberds here and there. A fire had been lighted in\nthe great hearth as the evenings were chilly; and Sir Nicholas was\nstanding before it, still in his riding-dress, pouring out resentment and\nfury to his wife, who sat in a tall chair at her embroidery. She turned\nsilently and held out a hand to Isabel, who came and stood beside her,\nwhile Hubert went and sat down near his father. Sir Nicholas scarcely\nseemed to notice their entrance, beyond glancing up for a moment under\nhis fierce white eyebrows; but went on growling out his wrath. He was a\nfine rosy man, with grey moustache and pointed beard, and a thick head of\nhair, and he held in his hand his flat riding cap, and his whip with\nwhich from time to time he cut at his boot.\n\n\"It was monstrous, I told the fellow, that a man should be haled from his\nhome like this to pay a price for his conscience. The religion of my\nfather and his father and all our fathers was good enough for me; and why\nin God's name should the Catholic have to pay who had never changed his\nfaith, while every heretic went free? And then to that some stripling of\na clerk told me that a religion that was good enough for the Queen's\nGrace should be good enough for her loyal subjects too; but my Lord\nsilenced him quickly. And then I went at them again; and all my Lord\nwould do was to nod his head and smile at me as if I were a child; and\nthen he told me that it was a special Commission all for my sake, and Sir\nArthur's, who was there too, my dear.... Well, well, the end was that I\nhad to pay for their cursed religion.\"\n\n\"Sweetheart, sweetheart,\" said Lady Maxwell, glancing at Isabel.\n\n\"Well, I paid,\" went on Sir Nicholas, \"but I showed them, thank God, what\nI was: for as we came out, Sir Arthur and I together, what should we see\nbut another party coming in, pursuivant and all; and in the mid of them\nthat priest who was with us last July.--Well, well, we'll leave his name\nalone--him that said he was a priest before them all in September; and I\nwent down on my knees, thank God, and Sir Arthur went down on his, and we\nasked his blessing before them all, and he gave it us: and oh! my Lord\nwas red and white with passion.\"\n\n\"That was not wise, sweetheart,\" said Lady Maxwell tranquilly, \"the\npriest will have suffered for it afterwards.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" grumbled Sir Nicholas, \"a man cannot always think, but we\nshowed them that Catholics were not ashamed of their religion--yes, and\nwe got the blessing too.\"\n\n\"Well, but here is supper waiting,\" said my lady, \"and Isabel, too, whom\nyou have not spoken to yet.\"\n\nSir Nicholas paid no attention.\n\n\"Ah! but that was not all,\" he went on, savagely striking his boot again,\n\"at the end of all who should I see but that--that--damned rogue--whom\nGod reward!\"--and he turned and spat into the fire--\"Topcliffe. There he\nwas, bowing to my Lord and the Commissioners. When I think of that man,\"\nhe said, \"when I think of that man--\" and Sir Nicholas' kindly old\npassionate face grew pale and lowering with fury, and his eyebrows bent\nthemselves forward, and his lower lip pushed itself out, and his hand\nclosed tremblingly on his whip.\n\nHis wife laid down her embroidery and came to him.\n\n\"There, sweetheart,\" she said, taking his cap and whip. \"Now sit down and\nhave supper, and leave that man to God.\"\n\nSir Nicholas grew quiet again; and after a saying a word or two of\napology to Isabel, left the room to wash before he sat down to supper.\n\n\"Mistress Isabel does not know who Topcliffe is,\" said Hubert.\n\n\"Hush, my son,\" said his mother, \"your father does not like his name to\nbe spoken.\"\n\nPresently Sir Nicholas returned, and sat down to supper. Gradually his\ngood nature returned, and he told them what he had seen in Chichester,\nand the talk he had heard. How it was reported to his lordship the Bishop\nthat the old religion was still the religion of the people's hearts--how,\nfor example, at Lindfield they had all the images and the altar furniture\nhidden underground, and at Battle, too; and that the mass could be set up\nagain at a few hours' notice: and that the chalices had not been melted\ndown into communion cups according to the orders issued, and so on. And\nthat at West Grinsted, moreover, the Blessed Sacrament was there\nstill--praise God--yes, and was going to remain there. He spoke freely\nbefore Isabel, and yet he remembered his courtesy too, and did not abuse\nthe new-fangled religion, as he thought it, in her presence; or seek in\nany way to trouble her mind. If ever in an excess of anger he was carried\naway in his talk, his wife would always check him gently; and he would\nalways respond and apologise to Isabel if he had transgressed good\nmanners. In fact, he was just a fiery old man who could not change his\nreligion even at the bidding of his monarch, and could not understand how\nwhat was right twenty years ago was wrong now.\n\nIsabel herself listened with patience and tenderness, and awe too;\nbecause she loved and honoured this old man in spite of the darkness in\nwhich he still walked. He also told them in lower tones of a rumour that\nwas persistent at Chichester that the Duke of Norfolk had been imprisoned\nby the Queen's orders, and was to be charged with treason; and that he\nwas at present at Burnham, in Mr. Wentworth's house, under the guard of\nSir Henry Neville. If this was true, as indeed it turned out to be later,\nit was another blow to the Catholic cause in England; but Sir Nicholas\nwas of a sanguine mind, and pooh-poohed the whole affair even while he\nrelated it.\n\nAnd so the evening passed in talk. When Sir Nicholas had finished supper,\nthey all went upstairs to my lady's withdrawing-room on the first floor.\nThis was always a strange and beautiful room to Isabel. It was panelled\nlike the room below, but was more delicately furnished, and a tall harp\nstood near the window to which my lady sang sometimes in a sweet\ntremulous old voice, while Sir Nicholas nodded at the fire. Isabel, too,\nhad had some lessons here from the old lady; but even this mild vanity\ntroubled her puritan conscience a little sometimes. Then the room, too,\nhad curious and attractive things in it. A high niche in the oak over the\nfireplace held a slender image of Mary and her Holy Child, and from the\nChild's fingers hung a pair of beads. Isabel had a strange sense\nsometimes as if this holy couple had taken refuge in that niche when they\nwere driven from the church; but it seemed to her in her steadier moods\nthat this was a superstitious fancy, and had the nature of sin.\n\nThis evening the old lady went to her harp, while Isabel sat down near\nher in the wide window seat and looked out over the dark lawn, where the\nwhite dial glimmered like a phantom, and thought of Anthony again. Sir\nNicholas went and stretched himself before the fire, and closed his eyes,\nfor he was old, and tired with his long ride; and Hubert sat down in a\ndark corner near him whence he could watch Isabel. After a few rippling\nchords my lady began to sing a song by Sir Thomas Wyatt, whom she and Sir\nNicholas had known in their youth; and which she had caused to be set to\nmusic by some foreign chapel master. It was a sorrowful little song, with\nthe title, \"He seeketh comfort in patience,\" and possibly she chose it on\npurpose for this evening.\n\n    \"Patience! for I have wrong,\n    And dare not shew wherein;\n    Patience shall be my song;\n    Since truth can nothing win.\n    Patience then for this fit;\n    Hereafter comes not yet.\"\n\nWhile she sang, she thought no doubt of the foolish brave courtier who\nlacked patience in spite of his singing, and lost his head for it; her\nvoice shook once or twice: and old Sir Nicholas shook his drowsy head\nwhen she had finished, and said \"God rest him,\" and then fell fast\nasleep.\n\nThen he presently awoke as the others talked in whispers, and joined in\ntoo: and they talked of Anthony, and what he would find at Cambridge; and\nof Alderman Marrett, and his house off Cheapside, where Anthony would lie\nthat night; and of such small and tranquil topics, and left fiercer\nquestions alone. And so the evening came to an end; and Isabel said\ngood-night, and went downstairs with Hubert, and out into the garden\nagain.\n\n\"I am sorry that Sir Nicholas has been so troubled,\" she said to Hubert,\nas they turned the corner of the house together. \"Why cannot we leave one\nanother alone, and each worship God as we think fit?\"\n\nHubert smiled in the darkness to himself.\n\n\"I am afraid Queen Mary did not think it could be done, either,\" he said.\n\"But then, Mistress Isabel,\" he went on, \"I am glad that you feel that\nreligion should not divide people.\"\n\n\"Surely not,\" she said, \"so long as they love God.\"\n\n\"Then you think--\" began Hubert, and then stopped. Isabel turned to him.\n\n\"Yes?\" she asked.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Hubert.\n\nThey had reached the door in the boundary wall by now, and Isabel would\nnot let him come further with her and bade him good-night. But Hubert\nstill stood, with his hand on the door, and watched the white figure fade\ninto the dusk, and listened to the faint rustle of her skirt over the dry\nleaves; and then, when he heard at last the door of the Dower House open\nand close, he sighed to himself and went home.\n\nIsabel heard her father call from his room as she passed through the\nhall; and went in to him as he sat at his table in his furred gown, with\nhis books about him, to bid him good-night and receive his blessing. He\nlifted his hand for a moment to finish the sentence he was writing, and\nshe stood watching the quill move and pause and move again over the\npaper, in the candlelight, until he laid the pen down, and rose and stood\nwith his back to the fire, smiling down at her. He was a tall, slender\nman, surprisingly upright for his age, with a delicate, bearded,\nscholar's face; the little plain ruff round his neck helped to emphasise\nthe fine sensitiveness of his features; and the hands which he stretched\nout to his daughter were thin and veined.\n\n\"Well, my daughter,\" he said, looking down at her with his kindly grey\neyes so like her own, and holding her hands.\n\n\"Have you had a good evening, sir?\" she asked.\n\nHe nodded briskly.\n\n\"And you, child?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" she said, smiling up at him.\n\n\"And was Sir Nicholas there?\"\n\nShe told him what had passed, and how Sir Nicholas had been fined again\nfor his recusancy; and how Lady Maxwell had sung one of Sir Thomas\nWyatt's songs.\n\n\"And was no one else there?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, father, Hubert.\"\n\n\"Ah! And did Hubert come home with you?\"\n\n\"Only as far as the gate, father. I would not let him come further.\"\n\nHer father said nothing, but still looked steadily down into her eyes for\na moment, and then turned and looked away from her into the fire.\n\n\"You must take care,\" he said gently. \"Remember he is a Papist, born and\nbred; and that he has a heart to be broken too.\"\n\nShe felt herself steadily flushing; and as he turned again towards her,\ndropped her eyes.\n\n\"You will be prudent and tender, I know,\" he added. \"I trust you wholly,\nIsabel.\"\n\nThen he kissed her on the forehead and laid his hand on her head, and\nlooked up, as the Puritan manner was.\n\n\"May the God of grace bless you, my daughter; and make you faithful to\nthe end.\" And then he looked into her eyes again, smiled and nodded; and\nshe went out, leaving him standing there.\n\nMr. Norris had begun to fear that the boy loved Isabel, but as yet he did\nnot know whether Isabel understood it or even was aware of it. The\nmarriage difficulties of Catholics and Protestants were scarcely yet\nexisting; and certainly there was no formulated rule of dealing with\nthem. Changes of religion were so frequent in those days that\ndifficulties, when they did arise, easily adjusted themselves. It was\nconsidered, for example, by politicians quite possible at one time that\nthe Duke of Anjou should conform to the Church of England for the sake of\nmarrying the Queen: or that he should attend public services with her,\nand at the same time have mass and the sacraments in his own private\nchapel. Or again, it was open to question whether England as a whole\nwould not return to the old religion, and Catholicism be the only\ntolerated faith.\n\nBut to really religious minds such solutions would not do. It would have\nbeen an intolerable thought to this sincere Puritan, with all his\ntolerance, that his daughter should marry a Catholic; such an arrangement\nwould mean either that she was indifferent to vital religion, or that she\nwas married to a man whose creed she was bound to abhor and anathematise:\nand however willing Mr. Norris might be to meet Papists on terms of\nsocial friendliness, and however much he might respect their personal\ncharacters, yet the thought that the life of any one dear to him should\nbe irretrievably bound up with all that the Catholic creed involved, was\nsimply an impossible one.\n\nBesides all this he had no great opinion of Hubert. He thought he\ndetected in him a carelessness and want of principle that would make him\nhesitate to trust his daughter to him, even if the insuperable barrier of\nreligion were surmounted. Mr. Norris liked a man to be consistent and\nzealous for his creed, even if that creed were dark and\nsuperstitious--and this zeal seemed to him lamentably lacking in Hubert.\nMore than once he had heard the boy speak of his father with an air of\neasy indulgence, that his own opinion interpreted as contempt.\n\n\"I believe my father thinks,\" he had once said, \"that every penny he pays\nin fines goes to swell the accidental glory of God.\"\n\nAnd Hubert had been considerably startled and distressed when the elder\nman had told him to hold his tongue unless he could speak respectfully of\none to whom he owed nothing but love and honour. This had happened,\nhowever, more than a year ago; and Hubert had forgotten it, no doubt,\neven if Mr. Norris had not.\n\nAnd as for Isabel.\n\nIt is exceedingly difficult to say quite what place Hubert occupied in\nher mind. She certainly did not know herself much more than that she\nliked the boy to be near her; to hear his footsteps coming along the path\nfrom the Hall. This morning when her father had called up to her that\nHubert was come, it was not so hard to dry her tears for Anthony's\ndeparture. The clouds had parted a little when she came and found this\ntall lad smiling shyly at her in the hall. As she had sat in the window\nseat, too, during Lady Maxwell's singing, she was far from unconscious\nthat Hubert's face was looking at her from the dark corner. And as they\nwalked back together her simplicity was not quite so transparent as the\nboy himself thought.\n\nAgain when her father had begun to speak of him just now, although she\nwas able to meet his eyes steadily and smilingly, yet it was just an\neffort. She had not mentioned Hubert herself, until her father had named\nhim; and in fact it is probably safe to say that during Hubert's visit to\nthe north, which had lasted three or four months, he had made greater\nprogress towards his goal, and had begun to loom larger than ever in the\nheart of this serene grey-eyed girl, whom he longed for so irresistibly.\n\nAnd now, as Isabel sat on her bed before kneeling to say her prayers,\nHubert was in her mind even more than Anthony. She tried to wonder what\nher father meant, and yet only too well she knew that she knew. She had\nforgotten to look into Anthony's room where she had cried so bitterly\nthis morning, and now she sat wide-eyed, and self-questioning as to\nwhether her heavenly love were as lucid and single as it had been; and\nwhen at last she went down on her knees she entreated the King of Love to\nbless not only her father, and her brother Anthony who lay under the\nAlderman's roof in far-away London; but Sir Nicholas and Lady Maxwell,\nand Mistress Margaret Hallam, and--and--Hubert--and James Maxwell, his\nbrother; and to bring them out of the darkness of Papistry into the\nglorious liberty of the children of the Gospel.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER III\n\n                             LONDON TOWN\n\n\nIsabel's visit to London, which had been arranged to take place the\nChristmas after Anthony's departure to Cambridge, was full of bewildering\nexperiences to her. Mr. Norris from time to time had references to look\nup in London, and divines to consult as to difficult points in his book\non the Eucharist; and this was a favourable opportunity to see Mr.\nDering, the St. Paul's lecturer; so the two took the opportunity, and\nwith a couple of servants drove up to the City one day early in December\nto the house of Alderman Marrett, the wool merchant, and a friend of Mr.\nNorris' father; and for several days both before and after Anthony's\narrival from Cambridge went every afternoon to see the sights. The maze\nof narrow streets of high black and white houses with their iron-work\nsigns, leaning forward as if to whisper to one another, leaving strips of\nsky overhead; the strange play of lights and shades after nightfall; the\nfantastic groups; the incessant roar and rumble of the crowded\nalleys--all the commonplace life of London was like an enchanted picture\nto her, opening a glimpse into an existence of which she had known\nnothing.\n\nTo live, too, in the whirl of news that poured in day after day borne by\nsplashed riders and panting horses;--this was very different to the slow\nround of country life, with rumours and tales floating in, mellowed by\ndoubt and lapse of time, like pensive echoes from another world. For\nexample, morning by morning, as she came downstairs to dinner, there was\nthe ruddy-faced Alderman with his fresh budget of news of the\nnorth;--Lords Northumberland and Westmoreland with a Catholic force of\nseveral thousands, among which were two cousins of Mrs. Marrett\nherself--and the old lady nodded her head dolorously in\ncorroboration--had marched southwards under the Banner of the Five\nWounds, and tramped through Durham City welcomed by hundreds of the\ncitizens; the Cathedral had been entered, old Richard Norton with the\nbanner leading; the new Communion table had been cast out of doors, the\nEnglish Bible and Prayer-book torn to shreds, the old altar reverently\ncarried in from the rubbish heap, the tapers rekindled, and amid\nhysterical enthusiasm Mass had been said once more in the old sanctuary.\n\nThen they had moved south; Lord Sussex was powerless in York; the Queen,\nterrified and irresolute, alternately storming and crying; Spain was\nabout to send ships to Hartlepool to help the rebels; Mary Stuart would\ncertainly be rescued from her prison at Tutbury. Then Mary had been moved\nto Coventry; then came a last flare of frightening tales: York had\nfallen; Mary had escaped; Elizabeth was preparing to flee.\n\nAnd then one morning the Alderman's face was brighter: it was all a lie,\nhe said. The revolt had crumbled away; my Lord Sussex was impregnably\nfortified in York with guns from Hull; Lord Pembroke was gathering forces\nat Windsor; Lords Clinton, Hereford and Warwick were converging towards\nYork to relieve the siege. And as if to show Isabel it was not a mere\nromance, she could see the actual train-bands go by up Cheapside with the\ngleam of steel caps and pike-heads, and the mighty tramp of disciplined\nfeet, and the welcoming roar of the swarming crowds.\n\nThen as men's hearts grew lighter the tale of chastisement began to be\ntold, and was not finished till long after Isabel was home again. Green\nafter green of the windy northern villages was made hideous by the\nhanging bodies of the natives, and children hid their faces and ran by\nlest they should see what her Grace had done to their father.\n\nIn spite of the Holy Sacrifice, and the piteous banner, and the call to\nfight for the faith, the Catholics had hung back and hesitated, and the\ncatastrophe was complete.\n\nThe religion of London, too, was a revelation to this country girl. She\nwent one Sunday to St. Paul's Cathedral, pausing with her father before\nthey went in to see the new restorations and the truncated steeple struck\nby lightning eight years before, which in spite of the Queen's angry\nurging the citizens had never been able to replace.\n\nThere was a good congregation at the early morning prayer; and the organs\nand the singing were to Isabel as the harps and choirs of heaven. The\ncanticles were sung to Shephard's setting by the men and children of St.\nPaul's all in surplices: and the dignitaries wore besides their grey fur\nalmuces, which had not yet been abolished. The grace and dignity of the\nwhole service, though to older people who remembered the unreformed\nworship a bare and miserable affair, and to Mr. Norris, with his sincere\nsimplicity and spirituality, a somewhat elaborate and sensuous mode of\nhonouring God, yet to Isabel was a first glimpse of what the mystery of\nworship meant. The dim towering arches, through which the dusty\nrichly-stained sunbeams poured, the far-away murmurous melodies that\nfloated down from the glimmering choir, the high thin pealing organ, all\ncombined to give her a sense of the unfathomable depths of the Divine\nMajesty--an element that was lacking in the clear-cut personal Puritan\ncreed, in spite of the tender associations that made it fragrant for her,\nand the love of the Saviour that enlightened and warmed it. The sight of\nthe crowds outside, too, in the frosty sunlight, gathered round the grey\nstone pulpit on the north-east of the Cathedral, and streaming down every\nalley and lane, the packed galleries, the gesticulating black figure of\nthe preacher--this impressed on her an idea of the power of corporate\nreligion, that hours at her own prayer-desk, or solitary twilight walks\nunder the Hall pines, or the uneventful divisions of the Rector's village\nsermons, had failed to give.\n\nIt was this Sunday in London that awakened her quiet soul from the lonely\ncompanionship of God, to the knowledge of that vast spiritual world of\nmen of which she was but one tiny cell. Her father observed her quietly\nand interestedly as they went home together, but said nothing beyond an\nindifferent word or two. He was beginning to realise the serious reality\nof her spiritual life, and to dread anything that would even approximate\nto coming between her soul and her Saviour. The father and daughter\nunderstood one another, and were content to be silent together.\n\nHer talks with Mrs. Marrett, too, left their traces on her mind. The\nAlderman's wife, for the first time in her life, found her views and\nreminiscences listened to as if they were oracles, and she needed little\nencouragement to pour them out in profusion. She was especially generous\nwith her tales of portents and warnings; and the girl was more than once\nconsiderably alarmed by what she heard while the ladies were alone in the\ndim firelit parlour on the winter afternoons before the candles were\nbrought in.\n\n\"When you were a little child, my dear,\" began the old lady one day,\n\"there was a great burning made everywhere of all the popish images and\nvestments; all but the copes and the altar-cloths that they made into\ndresses for the ministers' new wives, and bed-quilts to cover them; and\nthere were books and banners and sepulchres and even relics. I went out\nto see the burning at Paul's, and though I knew it was proper that the\nold papistry should go, yet I was uneasy at the way it was done.\n\n\"Well,\" went on the old lady, glancing about her, \"I was sitting in this\nvery room only a few days after, and the air began to grow dark and\nheavy, and all became still. There had been two or three cocks crowing\nand answering one another down by the river, and others at a distance;\nand they all ceased: and there had been birds chirping in the roof, and\nthey ceased. And it grew so dark that I laid down my needle and went to\nthe window, and there at the end of the street over the houses there was\ncoming a great cloud, with wings like a hawk, I thought; but some said\nafterwards that, when they saw it, it had fingers like a man's hand, and\nothers said it was like a great tower, with battlements. However that may\nbe, it grew nearer and larger, and it was blue and dark like that curtain\nthere; and there was no wind to stir it, for the windows had ceased\nrattling, and the dust was quiet in the streets; and still it came on\nquickly, growing as it came; and then there came a far-away sound, like a\nheavy waggon, or, some said, like a deep voice complaining. And I turned\naway from the window afraid; and there was the cat, that had been on a\nchair, down in the corner, with her back up, staring at the cloud: and\nthen she began to run round the room like a mad thing, and presently\nwhisked out of the door when I opened it. And I went to find Mr. Marrett,\nand he had not come in, and all the yard was quiet. I could only hear a\nhorse stamp once or twice in the stable. And then as I saw calling out\nfor some one to come, the storm broke, and the sky was all one dark cloud\nfrom side to side. For three hours it went on, rolling and clapping, and\nthe lightning came in through the window that I had darkened and through\nthe clothes over my head; for I had gone to my bed and rolled myself\nround under the clothes. And so it went on--and, my dear--\" and Mrs.\nMarrett put her head close to Isabel's--\"I prayed to our Lady and the\nsaints, which I had not done since I was married; and asked them to pray\nGod to keep me safe. And then at the end came a clap of thunder and a\nflash of lightning more fearful than all that had gone before; and at\nthat very moment, so Mr. Marrett told me when he came in, two of the\ndoors in St. Denys' Church in Fanshawe Street were broken in pieces by\nsomething that crushed them in, and the stone steeple of Allhallow Church\nin Bread Street was broken off short, and a part of it killed a dog that\nwas beneath, and overthrew a man that played with the dog.\"\n\nIsabel could hardly restrain a shiver and a glance round the dark old\nroom, so awful were Mrs. Marrett's face and gestures and loud whispering\ntone, as she told this.\n\n\"Ah! but, my dear,\" she went on, \"there was worse happened to poor King\nHal, God rest him--him who began to reform the Church, as they say, and\ndestroyed the monasteries. All the money that he left for masses for his\nsoul was carried off with the rest at the change of religion; and that\nwas bad enough, but this is worse. This is a tale, my dear, that I have\nheard my father tell many a time; and I was a young woman myself when it\nhappened. The King's Grace was threatened by a friar, I think of\nGreenwich, that if he laid hands on the monasteries he should be as Ahab\nwhose blood was licked by dogs in the very place which he took from a\nman. Well, the friar was hanged for his pains, and the King lived. And\nthen at last he died, and was put in a great coffin, and carried through\nLondon; and they put the coffin in an open space in Sion Abbey, which the\nKing had taken. And in the night there came one to view the coffin, and\nto see that all was well. And he came round the corner, and there stood\nthe great coffin--(for his Grace was a great stout man, my dear)--on\ntrestles in the moonlight, and beneath it a great black dog that lapped\nsomething: and the dog turned as the man came, and some say, but not my\nfather, that the dog's eyes were red as coals, and that his mouth and\nnostrils smoked, and that he cast no shadow; but (however that may be)\nthe dog turned and looked and then ran; and the man followed him into a\nyard, but when he reached there, there was no dog. And the man went back\nto the coffin afraid; and he found the coffin was burst open, and--and--\"\n\nMrs. Marrett stopped abruptly. Isabel was white and trembling.\n\n\"There, there, my dear. I am a foolish old woman; and I'll tell you no\nmore.\"\n\nIsabel was really terrified, and entreated Mrs. Marrett to tell her\nsomething pleasant to make her forget these horrors; and so she told her\nold tales of her youth, and the sights of the city, and the great doings\nin Mary's reign; and so the time passed pleasantly till the gentlemen\ncame home.\n\nAt other times she told her of Elizabeth and the great nobles, and\nIsabel's heart beat high at it, and at the promise that before she left\nshe herself should see the Queen, even if she had to go to Greenwich or\nNonsuch for it.\n\n\"God bless her,\" said Mrs. Marrett loyally, \"she's a woman like ourselves\nfor all her majesty. And she likes the show and the music too, like us\nall. I declare when I see them all a-going down the water to Greenwich,\nor to the Tower for a bear-baiting, with the horns blowing and the guns\nfiring and the banners and the barges and the music, I declare sometimes\nI think that heaven itself can be no better, God forgive me! Ah! but I\nwish her Grace 'd take a husband; there are many that want her; and then\nwe could laugh at them all. There's so many against her Grace now who'd\nbe for her if she had a son of her own. There's Duke Charles whose\npicture hangs in her bedroom, they say; and Lord Robert Dudley--there's a\nhandsome spark, my dear, in his gay coat and his feathers and his ruff,\nand his hand on his hip, and his horse and all. I wish she'd take him and\nhave done with it. And then we'd hear no more of the nasty Spaniards.\nThere's Don de Silva, for all the world like a monkey with his brown face\nand mincing ways and his grand clothes. I declare when Captain Hawkins\ncame home, just four years ago last Michaelmas, and came up to London\nwith his men, all laughing and rolling along with the people cheering\nthem, I could have kissed the man--to think how he had made the brown men\ndance and curse and show their white teeth! and to think that the Don had\nto ask him to dinner, and grin and chatter as if nought had happened.\"\n\nAnd Mrs. Marrett's good-humoured face broke into mirth at the thought of\nthe Ambassador's impotence and duplicity.\n\nAnthony's arrival in London a few days before Christmas removed the one\nobstacle to Isabel's satisfaction--that he was not there to share it with\nher. The two went about together most of the day under their father's\ncare, when he was not busy at his book, and saw all that was to be seen.\n\nOne afternoon as they were just leaving the courtyard of the Tower, which\nthey had been visiting with a special order, a slight reddish-haired man,\nwho came suddenly out of a doorway of the White Tower, stopped a moment\nirresolutely, and then came towards them, bare-headed and bowing. He had\nsloping shoulders and a serious-looking mouth, with a reddish beard and\nmoustache, and had an air of strangely mingled submissiveness and\ncapability. His voice too, as he spoke, was at once deferential and\ndecided.\n\n\"I ask your pardon, Mr. Norris,\" he said. \"Perhaps you do not remember\nme.\"\n\n\"I have seen you before,\" said the other, puzzled for a moment.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said the man, \"down at Great Keynes; I was in service at the\nHall, sir.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Mr. Norris, \"I remember you perfectly. Lackington, is it\nnot?\"\n\nThe man bowed again.\n\n\"I left about eight years ago, sir; and by the blessing of God, have\ngained a little post under the Government. But I wished to tell you, sir,\nthat I have been happily led to change my religion. I was a Papist, sir,\nyou know.\"\n\nMr. Norris congratulated him.\n\n\"I thank you, sir,\" said Lackington.\n\nThe two children were looking at him; and he turned to them and bowed\nagain.\n\n\"Mistress Isabel and Master Anthony, sir, is it not?\"\n\n\"I remember you,\" said Isabel a little shyly, \"at least, I think so.\"\n\nLackington bowed again as if gratified; and turned to their father.\n\n\"If you are leaving, Mr. Norris, would you allow me to walk with you a\nfew steps? I have much I would like to ask you of my old master and\nmistress.\"\n\nThe four passed out together; the two children in front; and as they went\nLackington asked most eagerly after the household at the Hall, and\nespecially after Mr. James, for whom he seemed to have a special\naffection.\n\n\"It is rumoured,\" said Mr. Norris, \"that he is going abroad.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir,\" said the servant, with a look of great interest, \"I had\nheard it too, sir; but did not know whether to believe it.\"\n\nLackington also gave many messages of affection to others of the\nhousehold, to Piers the bailiff, and a couple of the foresters: and\nfinished by entreating Mr. Norris to use him as he would, telling him how\nanxious he was to be of service to his friends, and asking to be\nentrusted with any little errands or commissions in London that the\ncountry gentleman might wish performed.\n\n\"I shall count it, sir, a privilege,\" said the servant, \"and you shall\nfind me prompt and discreet.\"\n\nOne curious incident took place just as Lackington was taking his leave\nat the turning down into Wharf Street; a man hurrying eastwards almost\nran against them, and seemed on the point of apologising, but his face\nchanged suddenly, and he spat furiously on the ground, mumbling\nsomething, and hurried on. Lackington seemed to see nothing.\n\n\"Why did he do that?\" interrupted Mr. Norris, astonished.\n\n\"I ask your pardon, sir?\" said Lackington interrogatively.\n\n\"That fellow! did you not see him spit at me?\"\n\n\"I did not observe it, sir,\" said the servant; and presently took his\nleave.\n\n\"Why did that man spit at you, father?\" asked Isabel, when they had come\nindoors.\n\n\"I cannot think, my dear; I have never seen him in my life.\"\n\n\"I think Lackington knew,\" said Anthony, with a shrewd air.\n\n\"Lackington! Why, Lackington did not even see him.\"\n\n\"That was just it,\" said Anthony.\n\nAnthony's talk about Cambridge during these first evenings in London was\nfascinating to Isabel, if not to their father, too. It concerned of\ncourse himself and his immediate friends, and dealt with such subjects as\ncock-fighting a good deal; but he spoke also of the public disputations\nand the theological champions who crowed and pecked, not unlike cocks\nthemselves, while the theatre rang with applause and hooting. The sport\nwas one of the most popular at the universities at this time. But above\nall his tales of the Queen's visit a few years before attracted the girl,\nfor was she not to see the Queen with her own eyes?\n\n\"Oh! father,\" said the lad, \"I would I had been there five years ago\nwhen she came. Master Taylor told me of it. They acted the _Aulularia_,\nyou know, in King's Chapel on the Sunday evening. Master Taylor took a\npart, I forget what; and he told me how she laughed and clapped. And\nthen there was a great disputation before her, one day, in St. Mary's\nChurch, and the doctors argued, I forget what about, but Master Taylor\nsays that of course the Genevans had the best of it; and the Queen\nspoke, too, in Latin, though she did not wish to, but my lord of Ely\npersuaded her to it; so you see she could not have learned it by heart,\nas some said. And she said she would give some great gift to the\nUniversity; but Master Taylor says they are still waiting for it; but it\nmust come soon, you see, because it is the Queen's Grace who has\npromised it; but Master Taylor says he hopes she has forgotten it, but\nhe laughs when I ask him what he means, and says it again.\"\n\n\"Who is this Master Taylor?\" asked his father.\n\n\"Oh! he is a Fellow of King's,\" said Anthony, \"and he told me about the\nProvost too. The Provost is half a Papist, they say: he is very old now,\nand he has buried all the vessels and the vestments of the Chapel, they\nsay, somewhere where no one knows; and he hopes the old religion will\ncome back again some day; and then he will dig them up. But that is\nPapistry, and no one wants that at Cambridge. And others say that he is\na Papist altogether, and has a priest in his house sometimes. But I do\nnot think he can be a Papist, because he was there when the Queen was\nthere, bowing and smiling, says Master Taylor; and looking on the Queen\nso earnestly, as if he worshipped her, says Master Taylor, all the time\nthe Chancellor was talking to her before they went into the chapel for\nthe _Te Deum_. But they wished they had kept some of the things, like\nthe Provost, says Master Taylor, because they were much put to it when\nher Grace came down for stuffs to cover the communion-tables and for\nsurplices, for Cecil said she would be displeased if all was bare and\npoor. Is it true, father,\" asked Anthony, breaking off, \"that the Queen\nlikes popish things, and has a crucifix and tapers on the table in her\nchapel?\"\n\n\"Ah! my son,\" said Mr. Norris, smiling, \"you must ask one who knows. And\nwhat else happened?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Anthony, \"the best is to come. They had plays, you know,\nthe _Dido_, and one called _Ezechias_, before the Queen. Oh! and she\nsent for one of the boys, they say, and--and kissed him, they say; but I\nthink that cannot be true.\"\n\n\"Well, my son, go on!\"\n\n\"Oh! and some of them thought they would have one more play before she\nwent; but she had to go a long journey and left Cambridge before they\ncould do it, and they went after her to--to Audley End, I think, where\nshe was to sleep, and a room was made ready, and when all was prepared,\nthough her Grace was tired, she came in to see the play. Master Taylor\nwas not there; he said he would rather not act in that one; but he had\nthe story from one who acted, but no one knew, he said, who wrote the\nplay. Well, when the Queen's Grace was seated, the actors came on,\ndressed, father, dressed\"--and Anthony's eyes began to shine with\namusement--\"as the Catholic Bishops in the Tower. There was Bonner in his\npopish vestments--some they had from St. Benet's--with a staff and his\ntall mitre, and a lamb in his arms; and he stared at it and gnashed his\nteeth at it as he tramped in; and then came the others, all like bishops,\nall in mass-vestments or cloth cut to look like them; and then at the end\ncame a dog that belonged to one of them, well-trained, with the Popish\nHost in his mouth, made large and white, so that all could see what it\nwas. Well, they thought the Queen would laugh as she was a Protestant,\nbut no one laughed; some one said something in the room, and a lady cried\nout; and then the Queen stood up and scolded the actors, and trounced\nthem well with her tongue, she did, and said she was displeased; and then\nout she went with all her ladies and gentlemen after her, except one or\ntwo servants who put out the lights at once without waiting, and broke\nBonner's staff, and took away the Host, and kicked the dog, and told them\nto be off, for the Queen's Grace was angered with them; and so they had\nto get back to Cambridge in the dark as well as they might.\"\n\n\"Oh! the poor boys!\" said Mrs. Marrett, \"and they did it all to please\nher Grace, too.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the Alderman, \"but the Queen thought it enough, I dare say,\nto put the Bishops in prison, without allowing boys to make a mock of\nthem and their faith before her.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Anthony, \"I thought that was it.\"\n\nWhen the Alderman came in a day or two later with the news that Elizabeth\nwas to come up from Nonsuch the next day, and to pass down Cheapside on\nher way to Greenwich, the excitement of Isabel and Anthony was\nindescribable.\n\nCheapside was joyous to see, as the two, with their father behind them\ntalking to a minister whose acquaintance he had made, sat at a\nfirst-floor window soon after mid-day, waiting to see the Queen go by.\nMany of the people had hung carpets or tapestries, some of taffetas and\ncloth-of-gold, out of their balconies and windows, and the very signs\nthemselves,--fantastic ironwork, with here and there a grotesque beast\nrampant, or a bright painting, or an escutcheon;--with the gay,\ngood-tempered crowds beneath and the strip of frosty blue sky, crossed\nby streamers from side to side, shining above the towering eaves and\ngables of the houses, all combined to make a scene so astonishing that\nit seemed scarcely real to these country children.\n\nIt was yet some time before she was expected; but there came a sudden\nstir from the upper end of Cheapside, and then a burst of cheering and\nlaughter and hoots. Anthony leaned out to see what was coming, but could\nmake out nothing beyond the head of a horse, and a man driving it from\nthe seat of a cart, coming slowly down the centre of the road. The\nlaughter and noise grew louder as the crowds swayed this way and that to\nmake room. Presently it was seen that behind the cart a little space was\nkept, and Anthony made out the grey head of a man at the tail of the\ncart, and the face of another a little way behind; then at last, as the\ncart jolted past, the two children saw a man stripped to the waist, his\nhands tied before him to the cart, his back one red wound; while a\nhangman walked behind whirling his thonged whip about his head and\nbringing it down now and again on the old man's back. At each lash the\nprisoner shrank away, and turned his piteous face, drawn with pain, from\nside to side, while the crowd yelled and laughed.\n\n\"What's it for, what's it for?\" inquired Anthony, eager and interested.\n\nA boy leaning from the next window answered him.\n\n\"He said Jesus Christ was not in heaven.\"\n\nAt that moment a humorist near the cart began to cry out:\n\n\"Way for the King's Grace! Way for the King's Grace!\" and the crowd took\nthe idea instantly: a few men walking with the cart formed lines like\ngentlemen ushers, uncovering their heads and all crying out the same\nwords; and one eager player tried to walk backwards until he was tripped\nup. And so the dismal pageant of this red-robed king of anguish went by;\nand the hoots and shouts of his heralds died away. Anthony turned to\nIsabel, exultant and interested.\n\n\"Why, Isabel,\" he said, \"you look all white. What is it? You know he's a\nblasphemer.\"\n\n\"I know, I know,\" said Isabel.\n\nThen suddenly, far away, came the sound of trumpets, and gusts of distant\ncheering, like the sound of the wind in thick foliage. Anthony leaned out\nagain, and an excited murmur broke out once more, as all faces turned\nwestwards. A moment more, and Anthony caught a flash of colour from the\ncorner near St. Paul's Churchyard; then the shrill trumpets sounded\nnearer, and the cheering broke out at the end, and ran down the street\nlike a wave of noise. From every window faces leaned out; even on the\nroofs and between the high chimney pots were swaying figures.\n\nMasses of colour now began to emerge, with the glitter of steel, round\nthe bend of the street, where the winter sunshine fell; and the crowds\nbegan to surge back, and against the houses. At first Anthony could make\nout little but two moving rippling lines of light, coming parallel,\npressing the people back; and it was not until they had come opposite the\nwindow that he could make out the steel caps and pikeheads of men in\nhalf-armour, who, marching two and two with a space between them, led the\nprocession and kept the crowds back. There they went, with immovable\ndisciplined faces, grounding their pike-butts sharply now and again,\ncaring nothing for the yelp of pain that sometimes followed. Immediately\nbehind them came the aldermen in scarlet, on black horses that tossed\ntheir jingling heads as they walked. Anthony watched the solemn faces of\nthe old gentlemen with a good deal of awe, and presently made out his\nfriend, Mr. Marrett, who rode near the end, but who was too much\nengrossed in the management of his horse to notice the two children who\ncried out to him and waved. The serjeants-of-arms followed, and then two\nlines again of gentlemen-pensioners walking, bare-headed, carrying wands,\nin short cloaks and elaborate ruffs. But the lad saw little of them, for\nthe splendour of the lords and knights that followed eclipsed them\naltogether. The knights came first, in steel armour with raised vizors,\nthe horses too in armour, moving sedately with a splendid clash of steel,\nand twinkling fiercely in the sunshine; and then, after them (and Anthony\ndrew his breath swiftly) came a blaze of colour and jewels as the great\nlords in their cloaks and feathered caps, metal-clasped and gemmed, came\non their splendid long-maned horses; the crowd yelled and cheered, and\ngreat names were tossed to and fro, as the owners passed on, each talking\nto his fellow as if unconscious of the tumult and even of the presence of\nthese shouting thousands. The cry of the trumpets rang out again high and\nshattering, as the trumpeters and heralds in rich coat-armour came next;\nand Anthony looked a moment, fascinated by the lions and lilies, and the\nbrightness of the eloquent horns, before he turned his head to see the\nLord Mayor himself, mounted on a great stately white horse, that needed\nno management, while his rider bore on a cushion the sceptre. Ah! she was\ncoming near now. The two saw nothing of the next rider who carried aloft\nthe glittering Sword of State, for their eyes were fixed on the six\nplumed heads of the horses, with grooms and footmen in cassock-coats and\nvenetian hose, and the great gilt open carriage behind that swayed and\njolted over the cobbles. She was here; she was here; and the loyal crowds\nyelled and surged to and fro, and cloths and handkerchiefs flapped and\nwaved, and caps tossed up and down, as at last the great creaking\ncarriage came under the window.\n\nThis is what they saw in it.\n\nA figure of extraordinary dignity, sitting upright and stiff like a pagan\nidol, dressed in a magnificent and fantastic purple robe, with a great\ndouble ruff, like a huge collar, behind her head; a long taper waist,\nvoluminous skirts spread all over the cushions, embroidered with curious\nfigures and creatures. Over her shoulders, but opened in front so as to\nshow the ropes of pearls and the blaze of jewels on the stomacher, was a\npurple velvet mantle lined with ermine, with pearls sewn into it here and\nthere. Set far back on her head, over a pile of reddish-yellow hair drawn\ntightly back from the forehead, was a hat with curled brims, elaborately\nembroidered, with the jewelled outline of a little crown in front, and a\nhigh feather topping all.\n\nAnd her face--a long oval, pale and transparent in complexion, with a\nsharp chin, and a high forehead; high arched eyebrows, auburn, but a\nlittle darker than her hair; her mouth was small, rising at the corners,\nwith thin curved lips tightly shut; and her eyes, which were clear in\ncolour, looked incessantly about her with great liveliness and\ngood-humour.\n\nThere was something overpowering to these two children who looked, too\nawed to cheer, in this formidable figure in the barbaric dress, the\ngorgeous climax of a gorgeous pageant. Apart from the physical splendour,\nthis solitary glittering creature represented so much--it was the\nincarnate genius of the laughing, brutal, wanton English nation, that sat\nhere in the gilded carriage and smiled and glanced with tight lips and\nclear eyes. She was like some emblematic giant, moving in a processional\ncar, as fantastic as itself, dominant and serene above the heads of the\nmaddened crowds, on to some mysterious destiny. A sovereign, however\npersonally inglorious, has such a dignity in some measure; and Elizabeth\nadded to this an exceptional majesty of her own. Henry would not have\nbeen ashamed for this daughter of his. What wonder then that these crowds\nwere delirious with love and loyalty and an exultant fear, as this\noverwhelming personality went by:--this pale-faced tranquil virgin Queen,\npassionate, wanton, outspoken and absolutely fearless; with a sufficient\nreserve of will to be fickle without weakness; and sufficient grasp of\nher aims to be indifferent to her policy; untouched by vital religion;\nfinancially shrewd; inordinately vain. And when this strange dominant\ncreature, royal by character as by birth, as strong as her father and as\nwanton as her mother, sat in ermine and velvet and pearls in a royal\ncarriage, with shrewd-faced wits, and bright-eyed lovers, and solemn\nstatesmen, and great nobles, vacuous and gallant, glittering and jingling\nbefore her; and troops of tall ladies in ruff and crimson mantle riding\non white horses behind; and when the fanfares went shattering down the\nstreet, vibrating through the continuous roar of the crowd and the shrill\ncries of children and the mellow thunder of church-bells rocking\noverhead, and the endless tramp of a thousand feet below; and when the\nwhole was framed in this fantastic twisted street, blazing with\ntapestries and arched with gables and banners, all bathed in glory by the\nclear frosty sunshine--it is little wonder that for a few minutes at\nleast this country boy felt that here at last was the incarnation of his\ndreams; and that his heart should exult, with an enthusiasm he could not\ninterpret, for the cause of a people who could produce such a queen, and\nof a queen who could rule such a people; and that his imagination should\nbe fired with a sudden sense that these were causes for which the\nsacrifice of a life would be counted cheap, if they might thereby be\nfurthered.\n\nYet, in this very moment, by one of those mysterious suggestions that\nrise from the depth of a soul, the image sprang into his mind, and poised\nitself there for an instant, of the grey-haired man who had passed half\nan hour ago, sobbing and shrinking at the cart's tail.\n\n\n\n\n                            CHAPTER IV\n\n                            MARY CORBET\n\n\nThe spring that followed the visit to London passed uneventfully at Great\nKeynes to all outward appearances; and yet for Isabel they were\nsignificant months. In spite of herself and of the word of warning from\nher father, her relations with Hubert continued to draw closer. For one\nthing, he had been the first to awaken in her the consciousness that she\nwas lovable in herself, and the mirror that first tells that to a soul\nalways has something of the glow of the discovery resting upon it.\n\nThen again his deference and his chivalrous air had a strange charm. When\nIsabel rode out alone with Anthony, she often had to catch the swinging\ngate as he rode through after opening it, and do such little things for\nherself; but when Hubert was with them there was nothing of that kind.\n\nAnd, once more, he appealed to her pity; and this was the most subtle\nelement of all. There was no doubt that Hubert's relations with his fiery\nold father became strained sometimes, and it was extraordinarily sweet to\nIsabel to be made a confidant. And yet Hubert never went beyond a certain\npoint; his wooing was very skilful: and he seemed to be conscious of her\nuneasiness almost before she was conscious of it herself, and to relapse\nin a moment into frank and brotherly relations again.\n\nHe came in one night after supper, flushed and bright-eyed, and found her\nalone in the hall: and broke out immediately, striding up and down as she\nsat and watched him.\n\n\"I cannot bear it; there is Mr. Bailey who has been with us all Lent; he\nis always interfering in my affairs. And he has no charity. I know I am a\nCatholic and that; but when he and my father talk against the\nProtestants, Mistress Isabel, I cannot bear it. They were abusing the\nQueen to-night--at least,\" he added, for he had no intention to\nexaggerate, \"they were saying she was a true daughter of her father; and\nsneers of that kind. And I am an Englishman, and her subject; and I said\nso; and Mr. Bailey snapped out, 'And you are also a Catholic, my son,'\nand then--and then I lost my temper, and said that the Catholic religion\nseemed no better than any other for the good it did people; and that the\nRector and Mr. Norris seemed to me as good men as any one; and of course\nI meant him and he knew it; and then he told me, before the servants,\nthat I was speaking against the faith; and then I said I would sooner\nspeak against the faith than against good Christians; and then he flamed\nup scarlet, and I saw I had touched him; and then my father got scarlet\ntoo, and my mother looked at me, and my father told me to leave the table\nfor an insolent puppy; and I knocked over my chair and stamped out--and\noh! Mistress Isabel, I came straight here.\"\n\nAnd he flung down astride of a chair with his arms on the back, and\ndropped his head on to them.\n\nIt would have been difficult for Hubert, even if he had been very clever\nindeed, to have made any speech which would have touched Isabel more than\nthis. There was the subtle suggestion that he had defended the\nProtestants for her sake; and there was the open defence of her father,\nand defiance of the priests whom she feared and distrusted; there was a\nwarm generosity and frankness running through it all; and lastly, there\nwas the sweet flattering implication that he had come to her to be\nunderstood and quieted and comforted.\n\nThen, when she tried to show her disapproval of his quick temper, and had\nsucceeded in showing a poorly disguised sympathy instead, he had flung\naway again, saying that she had brought him to his senses as usual, and\nthat he would ask the priest's pardon for his insolence at once; and\nIsabel was left standing and looking at the fire, fearing that she was\nbeing wooed, and yet not certain, though she loved it. And then, too,\nthere was the secret hope that it might be through her that he might\nescape from his superstitions, and--and then--and she closed her eyes and\nbit her lip for joy and terror.\n\nShe did not know that a few weeks later Hubert had an interview with his\nfather, of which she was the occasion. Lady Maxwell had gone to her\nhusband after a good deal of thought and anxiety, and told him what she\nfeared; asking him to say a word to Hubert. Sir Nicholas had been\nstartled and furious. It was all the lad's conceit, he said; he had no\nreal heart at all; he only flattered his vanity in making love; he had no\nlove for his parents or his faith, and so on. She took his old hand in\nher own and held it while she spoke.\n\n\"Sweetheart,\" she said, \"how old were you when you used to come riding to\nOverfield? I forget.\" And there came peace into his angry, puzzled old\neyes, and a gleam of humour.\n\n\"Mistress,\" he said, \"you have not forgotten.\" For he had been just\neighteen, too. And he took her face in his hands delicately, and kissed\nher on the lips.\n\n\"Well, well,\" he said, \"it is hard on the boy; but it must not go on.\nSend him to me. Oh! I will be easy with him.\"\n\nBut the interview was not as simple as he hoped; for Hubert was irritable\nand shamefaced; and spoke lightly of the Religion again.\n\n\"After all,\" he burst out, \"there are plenty of good men who have left\nthe faith. It brings nothing but misery.\"\n\nSir Nicholas' hands began to shake, and his fingers to clench themselves;\nbut he remembered the lad was in love.\n\n\"My son,\" he said, \"you do not know what you say.\"\n\n\"I know well enough,\" said Hubert, with his foot tapping sharply. \"I say\nthat the Catholic religion is a religion of misery and death everywhere.\nLook at the Low Countries, sir.\"\n\n\"I cannot speak of that,\" said his father; and his son sneered visibly;\n\"you and I are but laymen; but this I know, and have a right to say, that\nto threaten me like that is the act of a--is not worthy of my son. My\ndear boy,\" he said, coming nearer, \"you are angry; and, God forgive me!\nso am I; but I promised your mother,\" and again he broke off, \"and we\ncannot go on with this now. Come again this evening.\"\n\nHubert stood turned away, with his head against the high oak mantelpiece;\nand there was silence.\n\n\"Father,\" he said at last, turning round, \"I ask your pardon.\"\n\nSir Nicholas stepped nearer, his eyes suddenly bright with tears, and his\nmouth twitching, and held out his hand, which Hubert took.\n\n\"And I was a coward to speak like that--but, but--I will try,\" went on\nthe boy. \"And I promise to say nothing to her yet, at any rate. Will that\ndo? And I will go away for a while.\"\n\nThe father threw his arms round him.\n\nAs the summer drew on and began to fill the gardens and meadows with\nwealth, the little Italian garden to the south-west of the Hall was\nwhere my lady spent most of the day. Here she would cause chairs to be\nbrought out for Mistress Margaret and herself, and a small selection of\ndevotional books, an orange leather volume powdered all over with\npierced hearts, filled with extracts in a clear brown ink, another book\ncalled _Le Chappellet de J\u00e9sus_, while from her girdle beside her\npocket-mirror there always hung an olive-coloured \"Hours of the Blessed\nVirgin,\" fastened by a long strip of leather prolonged from the binding.\nHere the two old sisters would sit, in the shadow of the yew hedge,\ntaking it by turns to read and embroider, or talking a little now and\nthen in quiet voices, with long silences broken only by the hum of\ninsects in the hot air, or the quick flight of a bird in the tall trees\nbehind the hedge.\n\nHere too Isabel often came, also bringing her embroidery; and sat and\ntalked and watched the wrinkled tranquil faces of the two old ladies, and\nenvied their peace. Hubert had gone, as he had promised his father, on a\nlong visit, and was not expected home until at least the autumn.\n\n\"James will be here to-morrow,\" said Lady Maxwell, suddenly, one hot\nafternoon. Isabel looked up in surprise; he had not been at home for so\nlong; but the thought of his coming was very pleasant to her.\n\n\"And Mary Corbet, too,\" went on the old lady, \"will be here to-morrow or\nthe day after.\"\n\nIsabel asked who this was.\n\n\"She is one of the Queen's ladies, my dear; and a great talker.\"\n\n\"She is very amusing sometimes,\" said Mistress Margaret's clear little\nvoice.\n\n\"And Mr. James will be here to-morrow?\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Yes, my child. They always suit one another; and we have known Mary for\nyears.\"\n\n\"And is Miss Corbet a Catholic?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear; her Grace seems to like them about her.\"\n\nWhen Isabel went up again to the Hall in the evening, a couple of days\nlater, she found Mr. James sitting with his mother and aunt in the same\npart of the garden. Mr. James, who rose as she came through the yew\narchway, and stood waiting to greet her, was a tall, pleasant,\nbrown-faced man. Isabel noticed as she came up his strong friendly face,\nthat had something of Hubert's look in it, and felt an immediate sense of\nrelief from her timidity at meeting this man, whose name, it was said,\nwas beginning to be known among the poets, and about whom the still more\nformidable fact was being repeated, that he was a rising man at Court and\nhad attracted the Queen's favour.\n\nAs they sat down again together, she noticed, too, his strong delicate\nhand in its snowy ruff, for he was always perfectly dressed, as it lay on\nhis knee; and again thought of Hubert's browner and squarer hand.\n\n\"We were talking, Mistress Isabel, about the play, and the new theatres.\nI was at the Blackfriars' only last week. Ah! and I met Buxton there,\" he\nwent on, turning to his mother.\n\n\"Dear Henry,\" said Lady Maxwell. \"He told me when I last saw him that he\ncould never go to London again; his religion was too expensive, he said.\"\n\nMr. James' white teeth glimmered in a smile.\n\n\"He told me he was going to prison next time, instead of paying the fine.\nIt would be cheaper, he thought.\"\n\n\"I hear her Grace loves the play,\" said Mistress Margaret.\n\n\"Indeed she does. I saw her at Whitehall the other day, when the children\nof the Chapel Royal were acting; she clapped and called out with delight.\nBut Mistress Corbet can tell you more than I can--Ah! here she is.\"\n\nIsabel looked up, and saw a wonderful figure coming briskly along the\nterrace and down the steps that led from the house. Miss Corbet was\ndressed with what she herself would have said was a milkmaid's plainness;\nbut Isabel looked in astonishment at the elaborate ruff and wings of\nmuslin and lace, the shining peacock gown, the high-piled coils of black\nhair, and the twinkling buckled feet. She had a lively bright face, a\nlittle pale, with a high forehead, and black arched brows and dancing\neyes, and a little scarlet mouth that twitched humorously now and then\nafter speaking. She rustled up, flicking her handkerchief, and exclaiming\nagainst the heat. Isabel was presented to her; she sat down on a settle\nMr. James drew forward for her, with the handkerchief still whisking at\nthe flies.\n\n\"I am ashamed to come out like this,\" she began. \"Mistress Plesse would\nbreak her heart at my lace. You country ladies have far more sense. I am\nthe slave of my habits. What were you talking of, that you look so\ngravely at me?\"\n\nMr. James told her.\n\n\"Oh, her Grace!\" said Miss Corbet. \"Indeed, I think sometimes she is\nnever off the stage herself. Ah! and what art and passion she shows too!\"\n\n\"We are all loyal subjects here,\" said Mr. James; \"tell us what you\nmean.\"\n\n\"I mean what I say,\" she said. \"Never was there one who loved play-acting\nmore and to occupy the centre of the stage, too. And the throne too, if\nthere be one,\" she added.\n\nMiss Corbet talked always at her audience; she hardly ever looked\ndirectly at any one, but up or down, or even shut her eyes and tilted her\nface forward while she talked; and all the while she kept an incessant\nmovement of her lips or handkerchief, or tapped her foot, or shifted her\nposition a little. Isabel thought she had never seen any one so restless.\n\nThen she went on to tell them of the Queen. She was so startlingly frank\nthat Lady Maxwell again and again looked up as if to interrupt; but she\nalways came off the thin ice in time. It was abominable gossip; but she\ntalked with such a genial air of loyal good humour, that it was very\ndifficult to find fault. Miss Corbet was plainly accustomed to act as\nCourt Circular, or even as lecturer and show-woman on the most popular\nsubject in England.\n\n\"But her Grace surpassed herself in acting the tyrant last January; you\nwould have sworn her really angry. This was how it fell out. I was in the\nanteroom one day, waiting for her Grace, when I thought I heard her call.\nSo I tapped; I got no clear answer, but I heard her voice within, so I\nentered. And there was her Majesty, sitting a little apart in a chair by\nherself, with the Secretary--poor rat--white-faced at the table, writing\nwhat she bade him, and looking at her, quick and side-ways, like a child\nat a lifted rod; and there was her Grace: she had kicked her stool over,\nand one shoe had fallen; and she was striking the arm of her chair as she\nspoke, and her rings rapped as loud as a drunken watchman. And her face\nwas all white, and her eyes glaring\"--and Mary began to glare and raise\nher voice too--\"and she was crying out, 'By God's Son, sir, I will have\nthem hanged. Tell the----' (but I dare not say what she called my Lord\nSussex, but few would have recognised him from what she said)--'tell him\nthat I will have my will done. These--' (and she called the rebels a name\nI dare not tell you)--'these men have risen against me these two months;\nand yet they are not hanged. Hang them in their own villages, that their\nchildren may see what treason brings.' All this while I was standing at\nthe open door, thinking she had called me; but she was as if she saw\nnought but the gallows and hell-fire beyond; and I spoke softly to her,\nasking what she wished; and she sprang up and ran at me, and struck\nme--yes; again and again across the face with her open hand, rings and\nall--and I ran out in tears. Yes,\" went on Miss Corbet in a moment,\ndropping her voice, and pensively looking up at nothing, \"yes; you would\nhave said she was really angry, so quick and natural were her movements\nand so loud her voice.\"\n\nMr. James' face wrinkled up silently in amusement; and Lady Maxwell\nseemed on the point of speaking; but Miss Corbet began again:\n\n\"And to see her Grace act the lover. It was a miracle. You would have\nsaid that our Artemis repented of her coldness; if you had not known it\nwas but play-acting; or let us say perhaps a rehearsal--if you had seen\nwhat I once saw at Nonsuch. It was on a summer evening; and we were all\non the bowling green, and her Grace was within doors, not to be\ndisturbed. My Lord Leicester was to come, but we thought had not arrived.\nThen I had occasion to go to my room to get a little book I had promised\nto show to Caroline; and, thinking no harm, I ran through into the court,\nand there stood a horse, his legs apart, all steaming and blowing. Some\ncourier, said I to myself, and never thought to look at the trappings;\nand so I ran upstairs to go to the gallery, across which lay my chamber;\nand I came up, and just began to push open the door, when I heard her\nGrace's voice beyond, and, by the mercy of God, I stopped; and dared not\nclose the door again nor go downstairs for fear I should be heard. And\nthere were two walking within the gallery, her Grace and my lord, and my\nlord was all disordered with hard riding, and nearly as spent as his poor\nbeast below. And her Grace had her arm round his neck, for I saw them\nthrough the chink; and she fondled and pinched his ear, and said over and\nover again, 'Robin, my sweet Robin,' and then crooned and moaned at him;\nand he, whenever he could fetch a breath--and oh! I promise you he did\nblow--murmured back, calling her his queen, which indeed she was, and his\nsweetheart and his moon and his star--which she was not: but 'twas all in\nthe play. Well, again by the favour of God, they did not see how the door\nwas open and I couched behind it, for the sun was shining level through\nthe west window in their eyes; but why they did not hear me as I ran\nupstairs and opened the door, He only knows--unless my lord was too\nsorely out of breath and her Grace too intent upon her play-acting. Well,\nI promise you, the acting was so good--he so spent and she so\ntender--that I nearly cried out Brava as I saw them; but that I\nremembered in time 'twas meant to be a private rehearsal. But I have seen\nher Grace act near as passionate a part before the whole company\nsometimes.\"\n\nThe two old ladies seemed not greatly pleased with all this talk; and as\nfor Isabel she sat silent and overwhelmed. Mary Corbet glanced quickly at\ntheir faces when she had done, and turned a little in her seat.\n\n\"Ah! look at that peacock,\" she cried out, as a stately bird stepped\ndelicately out of the shrubbery on to the low wall a little way off, and\nstood balancing himself. \"He is loyal too, and has come to hear news of\nhis Queen.\"\n\n\"He has come to see his cousin from town,\" said Mr. James, looking at\nMiss Corbet's glowing dress, \"and to learn of the London fashions.\"\n\nMary got up and curtseyed to the astonished bird, who looked at her with\nhis head lowered, as he took a high step or two, and then paused again,\nwith his burnished breast swaying a little from side to side.\n\n\"He invites you to a dance,\" went on Mr. James gravely, \"a pavane.\"\n\nMiss Corbet sat down again.\n\n\"I dare not dance a pavane,\" she said, \"with a real peacock.\"\n\n\"Surely,\" said Mr. James, with a courtier's air, \"you are too pitiful for\nhim, and too pitiless for us.\"\n\n\"I dare not,\" she said again, \"for he never ceases to practise.\"\n\n\"In hopes,\" said Mr. James, \"that one day you will dance it with him.\"\n\nAnd then the two went off into the splendid fantastic nonsense that the\nwits loved to talk; that grotesque, exaggerated phrasing made fashionable\nby Lyly. It was like a kind of impromptu sword-exercise in an assault of\narms, where the rhythm and the flash and the graceful turns are of more\nimportance than the actual thrusts received. The two old ladies\nembroidered on in silence, but their eyes twinkled, and little wrinkles\nflickered about the corners of their lips. But poor Isabel sat\nbewildered. It was so elaborate, so empty; she had almost said, so wicked\nto take the solemn gift of speech and make it dance this wild fandango;\nand as absurdity climbed and capered in a shower of sparks and gleams on\nthe shoulders of absurdity, and was itself surmounted; and the names of\nheathen gods and nymphs and demi-gods and loose-living classical women\nwhisked across the stage, and were tossed higher and higher, until the\nwhole mad erection blazed up and went out in a shower of stars and gems\nof allusions and phrases, like a flight of rockets, bright and\nbewildering at the moment, but leaving a barren darkness and dazzled eyes\nbehind--the poor little Puritan country child almost cried with\nperplexity and annoyance. If the two talkers had looked at one another\nand burst into laughter at the end, she would have understood it to be a\njoke, though, to her mind, but a poor one. But when they had ended, and\nMary Corbet had risen and then swept down to the ground in a great silent\ncurtsey, and Mr. James, the grave, sensible gentleman, had solemnly bowed\nwith his hand on his heart, and his heels together like a Monsieur, and\nthen she had rustled off in her peacock dress to the house, with her\nmuslin wings bulging behind her; and no one had laughed or reproved or\nexplained; it was almost too much, and she looked across to Lady Maxwell\nwith an appeal in her eyes.\n\nMr. James saw it and his face relaxed.\n\n\"You must not take us too seriously, Mistress Isabel,\" he said in his\nkindly way. \"It is all part of the game.\"\n\n\"The game?\" she said piteously.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mistress Margaret, intent on her embroidery, \"the game of\nplaying at kings and queens and courtiers and ruffs and high-stepping.\"\n\nMr. James' face again broke into his silent laugh.\n\n\"You are acid, dear aunt,\" he said.\n\n\"But----\" began Isabel again.\n\n\"But it is wrong, you think,\" he interrupted, \"to talk such nonsense.\nWell, Mistress Isabel, I am not sure you are not right.\" And the dancing\nlight in his eyes went out.\n\n\"No, no, no,\" she cried, distressed. \"I did not mean that. Only I did not\nunderstand.\"\n\n\"I know, I know; and please God you never will.\" And he looked at her\nwith such a tender gravity that her eyes fell.\n\n\"Isabel is right,\" went on Mistress Margaret, in her singularly sweet old\nvoice; \"and you know it, my nephew. It is very well as a pastime, but\nsome folks make it their business; and that is nothing less than fooling\nwith the gifts of the good God.\"\n\n\"Well, aunt Margaret,\" said James softly, \"I shall not have much more of\nit. You need not fear for me.\"\n\nLady Maxwell looked quickly at her son for a moment, and down again. He\nmade an almost imperceptible movement with his head, Mistress Margaret\nlooked across at him with her tender eyes beaming love and sorrow; and\nthere fell a little eloquent silence; while Isabel glanced shyly from one\nto the other, and wondered what it was all about.\n\nMiss Mary Corbet stayed a few weeks, as the custom was when travelling\nmeant so much; but Isabel was scarcely nearer understanding her. She\naccepted her, as simple clean souls so often have to accept riddles in\nthis world, as a mystery that no doubt had a significance, though she\ncould not recognise it. So she did not exactly dislike or distrust her,\nbut regarded her silently out of her own candid soul, as one would say a\nsmall fearless bird in a nest must regard the man who thrusts his strange\nhot face into her green pleasant world, and tries to make endearing\nsounds. For Isabel was very fascinating to Mary Corbet. She had scarcely\never before been thrown so close to any one so serenely pure. She would\ncome down to the Dower House again and again at all hours of the day,\nrustling along in her silk, and seize upon Isabel in the little upstairs\nparlour, or her bedroom, and question her minutely about her ways and\nideas; and she would look at her silently for a minute or two together;\nand then suddenly laugh and kiss her--Isabel's transparency was almost as\ngreat a riddle to her as her own obscurity to Isabel. And sometimes she\nwould throw herself on Isabel's bed, and lie there with her arms behind\nher head, to the deplorable ruin of her ruff; with her buckled feet\ntwitching and tapping; and go on and on talking like a running stream in\nthe sun that runs for the sheer glitter and tinkle of it, and\naccomplishes nothing. But she was more respectful to Isabel's simplicity\nthan at first, and avoided dangerous edges and treacherous ground in a\nmanner that surprised herself, telling her of the pageants at Court and\nfair exterior of it all, and little about the poisonous conversations and\njests and the corrupt souls that engaged in them.\n\nShe was immensely interested in Isabel's religion.\n\n\"Tell me, child,\" she said one day, \"I cannot understand such a religion.\nIt is not like the Protestant religion at Court at all. All that the\nProtestants do there is to hear sermons--it is all so dismal and noisy.\nBut here, with you, you have a proper soul. It seems to me that you are\nlike a little herb-garden, very prim and plain, but living and wholesome\nand pleasant to walk in at sunset. And these Protestants that I know are\nmore like a paved court at noon--all hot and hard and glaring. They give\nme the headache. Tell me all about it.\"\n\nOf course Isabel could not, though she tried again and again. Her\ndefinitions were as barren as any others.\n\n\"I see,\" said Mary Corbet one day, sitting up straight and looking at\nIsabel. \"It is not your religion but you; your religion is as dull as all\nthe rest. But your soul is sweet, my dear, and the wilderness blossoms\nwhere you set your feet. There is nothing to blush about. It's no credit\nto you, but to God.\"\n\nIsabel hated this sort of thing. It seemed to her as if her soul was\nbeing dragged out of a cool thicket from the green shadow and the\nflowers, and set, stripped, in the high road.\n\nAnother time Miss Corbet spoke yet more plainly.\n\n\"You are a Catholic at heart, my dear; or you would be if you knew what\nthe Religion was. But your father, good man, has never understood it\nhimself; and so you don't know it either. What you think about us, my\ndear, is as much like the truth as--as--I am like a saint, or you like a\nsinner. I'll be bound now that you think us all idolaters!\"\n\nIsabel had to confess that she did think something of the sort.\n\n\"There, now, what did I say? Why haven't either of those two old nuns at\nthe Hall taught you any better?\"\n\n\"They--they don't talk to me about religion.\"\n\n\"Ah! I see; or the Puritan father would withdraw his lamb from the\nwolves. But if they are wolves, my dear, you must confess that they have\nthe decency to wear sheep's clothing, and that the disguise is\nexcellent.\"\n\nAnd so it gradually came about that Isabel began to learn an immense deal\nabout what the Catholics really believed--far more than she had ever\nlearnt in all her life before from the ladies at the Hall, who were\nunwilling to teach her, and her father, who was unable.\n\nAbout half-way through Miss Corbet's visit, Anthony came home. At first\nhe pronounced against her inexorably, dismissing her as nonsense, and as\na fine lady--terms to him interchangeable. Then his condemnation began to\nfalter, then ceased; then acquittal, and at last commendation succeeded.\nFor Miss Corbet asked his advice about the dogs, and how to get that\nwonderful gloss on their coats that his had; and she asked his help, too,\nonce or twice and praised his skill, and once asked to feel his muscle.\n\nAnd then she was so gallant in ways that appealed to him. She was not in\nthe least afraid of Eliza. She kissed that ferocious head in spite of the\nglare of that steady yellow eye; and yet all with an air of trusting to\nAnthony's protection. She tore her silk stocking across the instep in a\nbramble and scratched her foot, without even drawing attention to it, as\nshe followed him along one of his short cuts through the copse; and it\nwas only by chance that he saw it. And then this gallant girl, so simple\nand ignorant as she seemed out of doors, was like a splendid queen\nindoors, and was able to hold her own, or rather to soar above all these\nelders who were so apt to look over Anthony's head on grave occasions;\nand they all had to listen while she talked. In fact, the first time he\nsaw her at the Hall in all her splendour, he could hardly realise it was\nthe same girl, till she laughed up at him, and nodded, and said how much\nshe had enjoyed the afternoon's stroll, and how much she would have to\ntell when she got back to Court. In short, so incessant were her poses\nand so skilful her manner and tone, and so foolish this poor boy, that in\na very few days, after he had pronounced her to be nonsense, Anthony was\nat her feet, hopelessly fascinated by the combination of the glitter and\nfriendliness of this fine Court lady. To do her justice, she would have\nbehaved exactly the same to a statue, or even to nothing at all, as a\npeacock dances and postures and vibrates his plumes to a kitten; and had\nno more deliberate intention of giving pain to anybody than a nightshade\nhas of poisoning a silly sheep.\n\nThe sublime conceit of a boy of fifteen made him of course think that she\nhad detected in him a nobility that others overlooked, and so Anthony\nbegan a gorgeous course of day-dreaming, in which he moved as a kind of\nking, worshipped and reverenced by this splendid creature, who after a\ndisillusionment from the empty vanities of a Court life and a Queen's\nfavour, found at last the lord of her heart in a simple manly young\ncountryman. These dreams, however, he had the grace and modesty to keep\nwholly to himself.\n\nMary came down one day and found the two in the garden together.\n\n\"Come, my child,\" she said, \"and you too, Master Anthony, if you can\nspare time to escort us; and take me to the church. I want to see it.\"\n\n\"The church!\" said Isabel, \"that is locked: we must go to the Rectory.\"\n\n\"Locked!\" exclaimed Mary, \"and is that part of the blessed Reformation?\nWell, come, at any rate.\"\n\nThey all went across to the village and down the green towards the\nRectory, whose garden adjoined the churchyard on the south side of the\nchurch. Anthony walked with something of an air in front of the two\nladies. Isabel told her as they went about the Rector and his views. Mary\nnodded and smiled and seemed to understand.\n\n\"We will tap at the window,\" said Anthony, \"it is the quickest way.\"\n\nThey came up towards the study window that looked on to the drive; when\nAnthony, who was in front, suddenly recoiled and then laughed.\n\n\"They are at it again,\" he said.\n\nThe next moment Mary was looking through the window too. The Rector was\nsitting in his chair opposite, a small dark, clean-shaven man, but his\nface was set with a look of distressed determination, and his lower lip\nwas sucked in; his eyes were fixed firmly on a tall, slender woman whose\nback was turned to the window and who seemed to be declaiming, with\noutstretched hand. The Rector suddenly saw the faces at the window.\n\n\"We seem to be interrupting,\" said Mary coolly, as she turned away.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER V\n\n                         A RIDER FROM LONDON\n\n\n\"We will walk on, Master Anthony,\" said Mistress Corbet. \"Will you bring\nthe keys when the Rector and his lady have done?\"\n\nShe spoke with a vehement bitterness that made Isabel look at her in\namazement, as the two walked on by the private path to the churchyard\ngate. Mary's face was set in a kind of fury, and she went forward with\nher chin thrust disdainfully out, biting her lip. Isabel said nothing.\n\nAs they reached the gate they heard steps behind them; and turning saw\nthe minister and Anthony hastening together. Mr. Dent was in his cassock\nand gown and square cap, and carried the keys. His little scholarly face,\nwith a sharp curved nose like a beak, and dark eyes set rather too close\ntogether, was not unlike a bird's; and a way he had of sudden sharp\nmovements of his head increased the likeness. Mary looked at him with\nscarcely veiled contempt. He glanced at her sharply and uneasily.\n\n\"Mistress Mary Corbet?\" he said, interrogatively.\n\nMary bowed to him.\n\n\"May we see the church, sir; your church, I should say perhaps; that is,\nif we are not disturbing you.\"\n\nMr. Dent made a polite inclination, and opened the gate for them to go\nthrough. Then Mary changed her tactics; and a genial, good-humoured look\ncame over her face; but Isabel, who glanced at her now and again as they\nwent round to the porch at the west-end, still felt uneasy.\n\nAs the Rector was unlocking the porch door, Mary surveyed him with a\npleased smile.\n\n\"Why, you look quite like a priest,\" she said. \"Do your bishops, or\nwhatever you call them, allow that dress? I thought you had done away\nwith it all.\"\n\nMr. Dent looked at her, but seeing nothing but geniality and interest in\nher face, explained elaborately in the porch that he was a Catholic\npriest, practically; though the word minister was more commonly used; and\nthat it was the old Church still, only cleansed from superstitions. Mary\nshook her head at him cheerfully, smiling like a happy, puzzled child.\n\n\"It is all too difficult for me,\" she said. \"It cannot be the same\nChurch, or why should we poor Catholics be so much abused and persecuted?\nBesides, what of the Pope?\"\n\nMr. Dent explained that the Pope was one of the superstitions in\nquestion.\n\n\"Ah! I see you are too sharp for me,\" said Mary, beaming at him.\n\nThen they entered the church; and Mary began immediately on a running\ncomment.\n\n\"How sad that little niche looks,\" she said. \"I suppose Our Lady is in\npieces somewhere on a dunghill. Surely, father--I beg your pardon, Mr.\nDent--it cannot be the same religion if you have knocked Our Lady to\npieces. But then I suppose you would say that she was a superstition,\ntoo. And where is the old altar? Is that broken, too? And is that a\nsuperstition, too? What a number there must have been! And the holy\nwater, too, I see. But that looks a very nice table up there you have\ninstead. Ah! And I see you read the new prayers from a new desk outside\nthe screen, and not from the priest's stall. Was that a superstition too?\nAnd the mass vestments? Has your wife had any of them made up to be\nuseful? The stoles are no good, I fear; but you could make charming\nstomachers out of the chasubles.\"\n\nThey were walking slowly up the centre aisle now. Mr. Dent had to explain\nthat the vestments had been burnt on the green.\n\n\"Ah! yes; I see,\" she said, \"and do you wear a surplice, or do you not\nlike them? I see the chancel roof is all broken--were there angels there\nonce? I suppose so. But how strange to break them all! Unless they are\nsuperstitions, too? I thought Protestants believed in them; but I see I\nwas wrong. What _do_ you believe in, Mr. Dent?\" she asked, turning large,\nbright, perplexed eyes upon him for a moment: but she gave him no time\nto answer.\n\n\"Ah!\" she cried suddenly, and her voice rang with pain, \"there is the\naltar-stone.\" And she went down on her knees at the chancel entrance,\nbending down, it seemed, in an agony of devout sorrow and shame; and\nkissed with a gentle, lingering reverence the great slab with its five\ncrosses, set in the ground at the destruction of the altar to show there\nwas no sanctity attached to it.\n\nShe knelt there a moment or two, her lips moving, and her black eyes cast\nup at the great east window, cracked and flawed with stones and poles.\nThe Puritan boy and girl looked at her with astonishment; they had not\nseen this side of her before.\n\nWhen she rose from her knees, her eyes seemed bright with tears, and her\nvoice was tender.\n\n\"Forgive me, Mr. Dent,\" she said, with a kind of pathetic dignity,\nputting out a slender be-ringed hand to him, \"but--but you know--for I\nthink perhaps you have some sympathy for us poor Catholics--you know what\nall this means to me.\"\n\nShe went up into the chancel and looked about her in silence.\n\n\"This was the piscina, Mistress Corbet,\" said the Rector.\n\nShe nodded her head regretfully, as at some relic of a dead friend; but\nsaid nothing. They came out again presently, and turned through the old\niron gates into what had been the Maxwell chapel. The centre was occupied\nby an altar-tomb with Sir Nicholas' parents lying in black stone upon it.\nOld Sir James held his right gauntlet in his left hand, and with his\nright hand held the right hand of his wife, which was crossed over to\nmeet it; and the two steady faces gazed upon the disfigured roof. The\naltar, where a weekly requiem had been said for them, was gone, and the\nfootpace and piscina alone showed where it had stood.\n\n\"This was a chantry, of course?\" said Mistress Corbet.\n\nThe Rector confessed that it had been so.\n\n\"Ah!\" she said mournfully, \"the altar is cast out and the priest gone;\nbut--but--forgive me, sir, the money is here still? But then,\" she added,\n\"I suppose the money is not a superstition.\"\n\nWhen they reached the west entrance again she turned and looked up the\naisle again.\n\n\"And the Rood!\" she said. \"Even Christ crucified is gone. Then, in God's\nname what is left?\" And her eyes turned fiercely for a moment on the\nRector.\n\n\"At least courtesy and Christian kindness is left, madam,\" he said\nsternly.\n\nShe dropped her eyes and went out; and Isabel and Anthony followed,\nstartled and ashamed. But Mary had recovered herself as she came on to\nthe head of the stone stairs, beside which the stump of the churchyard\ncross stood; standing there was the same tall, slender woman whose back\nthey had seen through the window, and who now stood eyeing Mary with\nhalf-dropped lids. Her face was very white, with hard lines from nose to\nmouth, and thin, tightly compressed lips. Mary swept her with one look,\nand then passed on and down the steps, followed by Isabel and Anthony, as\nthe Rector came out, locking the church door again behind him.\n\nAs they went up the green, a shrill thin voice began to scold from over\nthe churchyard wall, and they heard the lower, determined voice of the\nminister answering.\n\n\"They are at it again,\" said Anthony, once more.\n\n\"And what do you mean by that, Master Anthony?\" said Mistress Corbet, who\nseemed herself again now.\n\n\"She is just a scold,\" said the lad, \"the village-folk hate her.\"\n\n\"You seem not to love her,\" said Mary, smiling.\n\n\"Oh! Mistress Corbet, do you know what she said--\" and then he broke off,\ncrimson-faced.\n\n\"She is no friend to Catholics, I suppose,\" said Mary, seeming to notice\nnothing.\n\n\"She is always making mischief,\" he went on eagerly. \"The Rector would be\nwell enough but for her. He is a good fellow, really.\"\n\n\"There, there,\" said Mary, \"and you think me a scold, too, I daresay.\nWell, you know I cannot bear to see these old churches--well, perhaps I\nwas--\" and then she broke off again, and was silent.\n\nThe brother and sister presently turned back to the Dower House; and Mary\nwent on, and through the Hall straight into the Italian garden where\nMistress Margaret was sitting alone at her embroidery.\n\n\"My sister has been called away by the housekeeper,\" she explained, \"but\nshe will be back presently.\"\n\nMary sat down and took up the little tawny book that lay by Lady\nMaxwell's chair, and began to turn it over idly while she talked. The old\nlady by her seemed to invite confidences.\n\n\"I have been to see the church,\" said Mary. \"The Rector showed it to me.\nWhat a beautiful place it must have been.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Mistress Margaret \"I only came to live here a few years ago;\nso I have never known or loved it like my sister or her husband. They can\nhardly bear to enter it now. You know that Sir Nicholas' father and\ngrandfather are buried in the Maxwell chapel; and it was his father who\ngave the furniture of the sanctuary, and the images of Our Lady and Saint\nChristopher that they burned on the green.\"\n\n\"It is terrible,\" said Mary, a little absently, as she turned the pages\nof the book.\n\nMistress Margaret looked up.\n\n\"Ah! you have one of my books there,\" she said. \"It is a little\ncollection I made.\"\n\nMiss Corbet turned to the beginning, but only found a seal with an\ninscription.\n\n\"But this belonged to a nunnery,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mistress Margaret, tranquilly, \"and I am a nun.\"\n\nMary looked at her in astonishment.\n\n\"But, but,\" she began.\n\n\"Yes, Mistress Corbet; we were dispersed in '38; some entered the other\nnunneries; and some went to France; but, at last, under circumstances\nthat I need not trouble you with, I came here under spiritual direction,\nand have observed my obligations ever since.\"\n\n\"And have you always said your offices?\" Mary asked astonished.\n\n\"Yes, my dear; by the mercy of God I have never failed yet. I tell you\nthis of course because you are one of us, and because you have a faithful\nheart.\" Mistress Margaret lifted her great eyes and looked at Mary\ntenderly and penetratingly.\n\n\"And this is one of your books?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, my dear. I was allowed at least to take it away with me. My sister\nhere is very fond of it.\"\n\nMary opened it again, and began to turn the pages.\n\n\"Is it all in your handwriting, Mistress Torridon?\"\n\n\"Yes, my child; I continued writing in it ever since I first entered\nreligion in 1534; so you see the handwriting changes a little,\" and she\nsmiled to herself.\n\n\"Oh, but this is charming,\" cried Mary, intent on the book.\n\n\"Read it, my dear, aloud.\"\n\nMary read:\n\n    \"Let me not rest, O Lord, nor have quiet,\n      But fill my soul with spiritual travail,\n    To sing and say, O mercy, Jesu sweet;\n      Thou my protection art in the battail.\n      Set thou aside all other apparail;\n        Let me in thee feel all my affiance.\n    Treasure of treasures, thou dost most avail.\n        Grant ere I die shrift, pardon, repentance.\"\n\nHer voice trembled a little and ceased.\n\n\"That is from some verses of Dan John Lydgate, I think,\" said Mistress\nMargaret.\n\n\"Here is another,\" said Mary in a moment or two.\n\n    \"Jesu, at thy will, I pray that I may be,\n    All my heart fulfil with perfect love to thee:\n    That I have done ill, Jesu forgive thou me:\n    And suffer me never to spill, Jesu for thy pity.\"\n\n\"The nuns of Hampole gave me that,\" said Mistress Margaret. \"It is by\nRichard Rolle, the hermit.\"\n\n\"Tell me a little,\" said Mary Corbet, suddenly laying down the book,\n\"about the nunnery.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear, that is too much to ask; but how happy we were. All was so\nstill; it used to seem sometimes as if earth were just a dream; and that\nwe walked in Paradise. Sometimes in the Greater Silence, when we had\nspoken no word nor heard one except in God's praise, it used to seem that\nif we could but be silent a little longer, and a little more deeply, in\nour hearts as well, we should hear them talking in heaven, and the harps;\nand the Saviour's soft footsteps. But it was not always like that.\"\n\n\"You mean,\" said Mary softly, \"that, that--\" and she stopped.\n\n\"Oh, it was hard sometimes; but not often. God is so good. But He used\nto allow such trouble and darkness and noise to be in our hearts\nsometimes--at least in mine. But then of course I was always very wicked.\nBut sitting in the nymph-hay sometimes on a day like this, as we were\nallowed to do; with just tall thin trees like poplars and cypresses round\nus: and the stream running through the long grass; and the birds, and the\nsoft sky and the little breeze; and then peace in our hearts; and the\nlove of the Saviour round us--it seemed, it seemed as if God had nothing\nmore to give; or, I should say, as if our hearts had no more space.\"\n\nMary was strangely subdued and quiet. Her little restless movements were\nstill for once; and her quick, vivacious face was tranquil and a little\nawed.\n\n\"Oh, Mistress Margaret, I love to hear you talk like that. Tell me more.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear, we thought too much about ourselves, I think; and too\nlittle about God and His poor children who were not so happy as we were;\nso then the troubles began; and they got nearer and nearer; and at last\nthe Visitor came. He--he was my brother, my dear, which made it harder;\nbut he made a good end. I will tell you his story another time. He took\naway our great crucifix and our jewelled cope that old Mr. Wickham used\nto wear on the Great Festivals; and left us. He turned me out, too; and\nanother who asked to go, but I went back for a while. And then, my dear,\nalthough we offered everything; our cows and our orchard and our hens,\nand all we had, you know how it ended; and one morning in May old Mr.\nWickham said mass for us quite early, before the sun was risen, for the\nlast time; and,--and he cried, my dear, at the elevation; and--and we\nwere all crying too I think, and we all received communion together for\nthe last time--and,--and, then we all went away, leaving just old Dame\nAgnes to keep the house until the Commissioner came. And oh, my dear, I\ndon't think the house ever looked so dear as it did that morning, just as\nthe sun rose over the roofs, and we were passing out through the meadow\ndoor where we had sat so often, to where the horses were waiting to take\nus away.\"\n\nMiss Corbet's own eyes were full of tears as the old lady finished: and\nshe put out her white slender hand, which Mistress Torridon took and\nstroked for a moment.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"I haven't talked like this for a long while; but I\nknew you would understand. My dear, I have watched you while you have\nbeen here this time.\"\n\nMary Corbet smiled a little uneasily.\n\n\"And you have found me out?\" she answered smiling.\n\n\"No, no; but I think our Saviour has found you out--or at least He is\ndrawing very near.\"\n\nA slight discomfort made itself felt in Mary's heart. This nun then was\nlike all the rest, always trying to turn the whole world into monks and\nnuns by hints and pretended intuitions into the unseen.\n\n\"And you think I should be a nun too?\" she asked, with just a shade of\ncoolness in her tone.\n\n\"I should suppose not,\" said Mistress Margaret, tranquilly. \"You do not\nseem to have a vocation for that, but I should think that our Lord means\nyou to serve Him where you are. Who knows what you may not accomplish?\"\n\nThis was a little disconcerting to Mary Corbet; it was not at all what\nshe had expected. She did not know what to say; and took up the leather\nbook again and began to turn over the pages. Mistress Margaret went on\nserenely with her embroidery, which she had neglected during the last\nsentence or two; and there was silence.\n\n\"Tell me a little more about the nunnery,\" said Mary in a minute or two,\nleaning back in her chair, with the book on her knees.\n\n\"Well, my dear, I scarcely know what to say. It is all far off now like a\nchildhood. We talked very little; not at all until recreation; except by\nsigns, and we used to spend a good deal of our time in embroidery. That\nis where I learnt this,\" and she held out her work to Mary for a moment.\nIt was an exquisite piece of needlework, representing a stag running\nopen-mouthed through thickets of green twining branches that wrapped\nthemselves about his horns and feet. Mary had never seen anything quite\nlike it before.\n\n\"What does it mean?\" she asked, looking at it curiously.\n\n\"_Quemadmodum cervus_,\"--began Mistress Margaret; \"as the hart brayeth\nafter the waterbrooks,\"--and she took the embroidery and began to go on\nwith it.--\"It is the soul, you see, desiring and fleeing to God, while\nthe things of the world hold her back. Well, you see, it is difficult to\ntalk about it; for it is the inner life that is the real history of a\nconvent; the outer things are all plain and simple like all else.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mary, \"is it really true that you were happy?\"\n\nThe old lady stopped working a moment and looked up at her.\n\n\"My dear, there is no happiness in the world like it,\" she said simply.\n\"I dream sometimes that we are all back there together, and I wake crying\nfor joy. The other night I dreamed that we were all in the chapel again,\nand that it was a spring morning, with the dawn beginning to show the\npainted windows, and that all the tapers were burning; and that mass was\nbeginning. Not one stall was empty; not even old Dame Gertrude, who died\nwhen I was a novice, was lacking, and Mr. Wickham made us a sermon after\nthe creed, and showed us the crucifix back in its place again; and told\nus that we were all good children, and that Our Lord had only sent us\naway to see if we would be patient; and that He was now pleased with us,\nand had let us come home again; and that we should never have to go away\nagain; not even when we died; and then I understood that we were in\nheaven, and that it was all over; and I burst out into tears in my stall\nfor happiness; and then I awoke and found myself in bed; but my cheeks\nwere really wet.--Well, well, perhaps, by the mercy of God it may all\ncome true some day.\"\n\nShe spoke so simply that Mary Corbet was amazed; she had always fancied\nthat the Religious Life was a bitter struggle, worth, indeed, living for\nthose who could bear it, for the sake of the eternal reward; but it had\nscarcely even occurred to her that it was so full of joy in itself; and\nshe looked up under her brows at the old lady, whose needle had stopped\nfor a moment.\n\nA moment after and Lady Maxwell appeared coming down the steps into the\ngarden; and at her side Anthony, who was dressed ready for riding.\n\nOld Mistress Margaret had, as she said, been watching Mary Corbet those\nlast few weeks; and had determined to speak to her plainly. Her instinct\nhad told her that beneath this flippancy and glitter there was something\nthat would respond; and she was anxious to leave nothing undone by which\nMary might be awakened to the inner world that was in such danger of\nextinction in her soul. It cost the old lady a great effort to break\nthrough her ordinary reserve, but she judged that Mary could only be\nreached on her human side, and that there were not many of her friends\nwhose human sympathy would draw her in the right direction. It is\nstrange, sometimes, to find that some silent old lady has a power for\nsounding human character, which far shrewder persons lack; and this quiet\nold nun, so ignorant, one would have said, of the world and of the\nmotives from which ordinary people act, had managed somehow to touch\nsprings in this girl's heart that had never been reached before.\n\nAnd now as Miss Corbet and Lady Maxwell talked, and Anthony lolled\nembarrassed beside them, attempting now and then to join in the\nconversation, Mistress Margaret, as she sat a little apart and worked\naway at the panting stag dreamed away, smiling quietly to herself, of all\nthe old scenes that her own conversation had called up into clearer\nconsciousness; of the pleasant little meadow of the Sussex priory, with\nthe old apple-trees and the straight box-lined path called the nun's walk\nfrom time immemorial; all lighted with the pleasant afternoon glow, as it\nstreamed from the west, throwing the slender poplar shadows across the\ngrass; and of the quiet chatter of the brook as it over-flowed from the\nfish ponds at the end of the field and ran through the meadows beyond the\nhedge. The cooing of the pigeons as they sunned themselves round the dial\nin the centre of this Italian garden and on the roof of the hall helped\non her reminiscences, for there had been a dovecote at the priory. Where\nwere all her sisters now, those who had sat with her in the same sombre\nhabits in the garth, with the same sunshine in their hearts? Some she\nknew, and thanked God for it, were safe in glory; others were old like\nher, but still safe in Holy Religion in France where as yet there was\npeace and sanctuary for the servants of the Most High; one or two--and\nfor these she lifted up her heart in petition as she sat--one or two had\ngone back to the world, relinquished everything, and died to grace. Then\nthe old faces one by one passed before her; old Dame Agnes with her\nmumbling lips and her rosy cheeks like wrinkled apples, looking so fresh\nand wholesome in the white linen about her face; and then the others one\nby one--that white-faced, large-eyed sister who had shown such passionate\ndevotion at first that they all thought that God was going to raise up a\nsaint amongst them--ah! God help her--she had sunk back at the\ndissolution, from those heights of sanctity towards whose summits she had\nset her face, down into the muddy torrent of the world that went roaring\ndown to the abyss--and who was responsible? There was Dame Avice, the\nSacristan, with her businesslike movements going about the garden,\ngathering flowers for the altar, with her queer pursed lips as she\narranged them in her hands with her head a little on one side; how\nannoying she used to be sometimes; but how good and tender at heart--God\nrest her soul! And there was Mr. Wickham, the old priest who had been\ntheir chaplain for so many years, and who lived in the village parsonage,\nwaited upon by Tom Downe, that served at the altar too--he who had got\nthe horses ready when the nuns had to go at last on that far-off May\nmorning, and had stood there, holding the bridles and trying to hide his\nwet face behind the horses; where was Tom now? And Mr. Wickham too--he\nhad gone to France with some of the nuns; but he had never settled down\nthere--he couldn't bear the French ways--and besides he had left his\nheart behind him buried in the little Sussex priory among the meadows.\n\nAnd so the old lady sat, musing; while the light and shadow of\nreminiscence moved across her face; and her lips quivered or her eyes\nwrinkled up with humour, at the thought of all those old folks with their\nfaces and their movements and their ways of doing and speaking. Ah! well,\nplease God, some day her dream would really come true; and they shall all\nbe gathered again from France and England with their broken hearts mended\nand their tears wiped away, and Mr. Wickham himself shall minister to\nthem and make them sermons, and Tom Downe too shall be there to minister\nto him--all in one of the many mansions of which the Saviour spoke.\n\nAnd so she heard nothing of the talk of the others; though her sister\nlooked at her tenderly once or twice; and Mary Corbet chattered and\ntwitched her buckles in the sun, and Anthony sat embarrassed in the midst\nof Paradise; and she knew nothing of where she was nor of what was\nhappening round her, until Mary Corbet said that it was time for the\nhorses to be round, and that she must go and get ready and not keep Mr.\nJames and Mr. Anthony waiting. Then, as she and Anthony went towards the\nhouse, the old lady looked up from the braying stag and found herself\nalone with her sister.\n\nMistress Margaret waited until the other two disappeared up the steps,\nand then spoke.\n\n\"I have told her all, sister,\" she said, \"she can be trusted.\"\n\nLady Maxwell nodded gently.\n\n\"She has a good heart,\" went on the other, \"and our Lord no doubt will\nfind some work for her to do at Court.\"\n\nThere was silence again; broken by the gentle little sound of the silk\nbeing drawn through the stuff.\n\n\"You know best, Margaret,\" said Lady Maxwell.\n\nEven as she spoke there was the sound of a door thrown violently open and\nold Sir Nicholas appeared on the top of the steps, hatless and plainly in\na state of great agitation; beside him stood a courier, covered with the\ndust of the white roads, and his face crimson with hard riding. Sir\nNicholas stood there as if dazed, and Lady Maxwell sprang up quickly to\ngo to him. But a moment after there appeared behind him a little group,\nhis son James, Miss Corbet and a servant or two; while Anthony hung back;\nand Mr. James came up quickly, and took his father by the arm; and\ntogether the little company came down the steps into the still and sunny\ngarden.\n\n\"What is it?\" cried Lady Maxwell, trying to keep her voice under control;\nwhile Mistress Margaret laid her work quietly down, and stood up too.\n\n\"Tell my lady,\" said Sir Nicholas to the courier, who stood a little\napart.\n\n\"If you please, my lady,\" he said, as if repeating a lesson, \"a Bull of\nthe Holy Father has been found nailed to the door of the Bishop of\nLondon's palace, deposing Elizabeth and releasing all her subjects from\ntheir allegiance.\"\n\nLady Maxwell went to her husband and took him by the arm gently.\n\n\"What does it mean, sweetheart?\" she asked.\n\n\"It means that Catholics must choose between their sovereign and their\nGod.\"\n\n\"God have mercy,\" said a servant behind.\n\n\n\n\n                            CHAPTER VI\n\n                            MR. STEWART\n\n\nSir Nicholas' exclamatory sentence was no exaggeration. That terrible\nchoice of which he spoke, with his old eyes shining with the desire to\nmake it, did not indeed come so immediately as he anticipated; but it\ncame none the less. From every point of view the Bull was unfortunate,\nthough it may have been a necessity; for it marked the declaration of war\nbetween England and the Catholic Church. A gentle appeal had been tried\nbefore; Elizabeth, who, it must be remembered had been crowned during\nmass with Catholic ceremonial, and had received the Blessed Sacrament,\nhad been entreated by the Pope as his \"dear daughter in Christ\" to return\nto the Fold; and now there seemed to him no possibility left but this\nultimatum.\n\nIt is indeed difficult to see what else, from his point of view, he could\nhave done. To continue to pretend that Elizabeth was his \"dear daughter\"\nwould have discredited his fatherly authority in the eyes of the whole\nChristian world. He had patiently made an advance towards his wayward\nchild; and she had repudiated and scorned him. Nothing was left but to\nrecognise and treat her as an enemy of the Faith, an usurper of spiritual\nprerogatives, and an apostate spoiler of churches; to do this might\ncertainly bring trouble upon others of his less distinguished but more\nobedient children, who were in her power; but to pretend that the\nsuffering thus brought down upon Catholics was unnecessary, and that the\nPope alone was responsible for their persecution, is to be blind to the\nfact that Elizabeth had already openly defied and repudiated his\nauthority, and had begun to do her utmost to coax and compel his children\nto be disobedient to their father.\n\nThe shock of the Bull to Elizabeth was considerable; she had not expected\nthis extreme measure; and it was commonly reported too that France and\nSpain were likely now to unite on a religious basis against England; and\nthat at least one of these Powers had sanctioned the issue of the Bull.\nThis of course helped greatly to complicate further the already\ncomplicated political position. Steps were taken immediately to\nstrengthen England's position against Scotland with whom it was now, more\nthan ever, to be feared that France would co-operate; and the Channel\nFleet was reinforced under Lord Clinton, and placed with respect to\nFrance in what was almost a state of war, while it was already in an\ninformal state of war with Spain. There was fierce confusion in the Privy\nCouncil. Elizabeth, who at once began to vacillate under the combined\nthreats of La Mothe, the French ambassador, and the arguments of the\nfriend of Catholics, Lord Arundel, was counter-threatened with ruin by\nLord Keeper Bacon unless she would throw in her lot finally with the\nProtestants and continue her hostility and resistance to the Catholic\nScotch party. But in spite of Bacon Elizabeth's heart failed her, and if\nit had not been for the rashness of Mary Stuart's friends, Lord\nSouthampton and the Bishop of Ross, the Queen might have been induced to\nsubstitute conciliation for severity towards Mary and the Catholic party\ngenerally. Southampton was arrested, and again there followed the further\nencouragement of the Protestant camp by the rising fortunes of the\nHuguenots and the temporary reverses to French Catholicism; so the\npendulum swung this way and that. Elizabeth's policy changed almost from\nday to day. She was tormented with temporal fears of a continental\ncrusade against her, and by the spiritual terrors of the Pope's Bull; and\nher unfathomable fickleness was the despair of her servants.\n\nMeanwhile in the religious world a furious paper war broke out; and\nvolleys from both sides followed the solemn roar and crash of _Regnans\nin Excelsis_.\n\nBut while the war of words went on, and the theological assaults and\ncharges were given and received, repulsed or avoided, something practical\nmust, it was felt, be done immediately; and search was made high and low\nfor other copies of the Bull. The lawyers in the previous year had fallen\nunder suspicion of religious unsoundness; judges could not be trusted to\nconvict Catholics accused of their religion; and counsel was unwilling to\nprosecute them; therefore the first inquisition was made in the Inns of\nCourt; and almost immediately a copy of the Bull was found in the room of\na student in Lincoln's Inn, who upon the rack in the Tower confessed that\nhe had received it from one John Felton, a Catholic gentleman who lived\nupon his property in Southwark. Upon Felton's arrest (for he had not\nattempted to escape) he confessed immediately, without pressure, that he\nhad affixed the Bull to the Bishop of London's gate; but although he was\nracked repeatedly he would not incriminate a single person besides\nhimself; but at his trial would only assert with a joyous confidence that\nhe was not alone; and that twenty-five peers, six hundred gentlemen, and\nthirty thousand commoners were ready to die in the Holy Father's quarrel.\nHe behaved with astonishing gallantry throughout, and after his\ncondemnation had been pronounced upon the fourth of August at the\nGuildhall, on the charge of high-treason, he sent a diamond ring from his\nown finger, of the value of \u00a3400, to the Queen to show that he bore her\nno personal ill-will. He had been always a steadfast Catholic; his wife\nhad been maid of honour to Mary and a friend of Elizabeth's. On August\nthe eighth he suffered the abominable punishment prescribed; he was drawn\non a hurdle to the gate of the Bishop's palace in S. Paul's Churchyard,\nwhere he had affixed the Bull, hanged upon a new gallows, cut down before\nhe was unconscious, disembowelled and quartered. His name has since been\nplaced on the roll of the Blessed by the Apostolic See in whose quarrel\nhe so cheerfully laid down his life.\n\nNews of these and such events continued of course to be eagerly sought\nafter by the Papists all over the kingdom; and the Maxwells down at Great\nKeynes kept in as close touch with the heart of affairs as almost any\nprivate persons in the kingdom out of town. Sir Nicholas was one of those\nfiery natures to whom opposition or pressure is as oil to flame. He began\nat once to organise his forces and prepare for the struggle that was\nbound to come. He established first a kind of private post to London and\nto other Catholic houses round; for purposes however of defence rather\nthan offence, so that if any steps were threatened, he and his friends\nmight be aware of the danger in time. There was great sorrow at the news\nof John Felton's death; and mass was said for his soul almost immediately\nin the little oratory at Maxwell Court by one of the concealed priests\nwho went chiefly between Hampshire and Sussex ministering to the\nCatholics of those districts. Mistress Margaret spent longer than ever at\nher prayers; Lady Maxwell had all she could do to keep her husband from\nsome furious act of fanatical retaliation for John Felton's death--some\nuseless provocation of the authorities; the children at the Dower House\nbegan to come to the Hall less often, not because they were less\nwelcomed, but because there was a constraint in the air. All seemed\npreoccupied; conversations ceased abruptly on their entrance, and fits of\nabstraction would fall from time to time upon their kindly hosts. In the\nmeanwhile, too, the preparations for James Maxwell's departure, which had\nalready begun to show themselves, were now pushed forward rapidly; and\none morning in the late summer, when Isabel came up to the Hall, she\nfound that Lady Maxwell was confined to her room and could not be seen\nthat day; she caught a glimpse of Sir Nicholas' face as he quickly\ncrossed the entrance hall, that made her draw back from daring to intrude\non such grief; and on inquiry found that Mr. James had ridden away that\nmorning, and that the servants did not know when to expect him back, nor\nwhat was his destination.\n\nIn other ways also at this time did Sir Nicholas actively help on his\nparty. Great Keynes was in a convenient position and circumstances for\nagents who came across from the Continent. It was sufficiently near\nLondon, yet not so near to the highroad or to London itself as to make\ndisturbance probable; and its very quietness under the spiritual care of\na moderate minister like Mr. Dent, and its serenity, owing to the secret\nsympathy of many of the villagers and neighbours, as well as from the\npersonal friendship between Sir Nicholas and the master of the Dower\nHouse--an undoubted Protestant--all these circumstances combined to make\nMaxwell Hall a favourite halting-place for priests and agents from the\nContinent. Strangers on horseback or in carriages, and sometimes even on\nfoot, would arrive there after nightfall, and leave in a day or two for\nLondon. Its nearness to London enabled them to enter the city at any hour\nthey thought best after ten or eleven in the forenoon. They came on very\nvarious businesses; some priests even stayed there and made the Hall a\ncentre for their spiritual ministrations for miles round; others came\nwith despatches from abroad, some of which were even addressed to great\npersonages at Court and at the Embassies where much was being done by the\nAmbassadors at this time to aid their comrades in the Faith, and to other\nleading Catholics; and others again came with pamphlets printed abroad\nfor distribution in England, some of them indeed seditious, but many of\nthem purely controversial and hortatory, and with other devotional\narticles and books such as it was difficult to obtain in England, and\nmight not be exposed for public sale in booksellers' shops: Agnus Deis,\nbeads, hallowed incense and crosses were being sent in large numbers from\nabroad, and were eagerly sought after by the Papists in all directions.\nIt was remarkable that while threatening clouds appeared to be gathering\non all sides over the Catholic cause, yet the deepening peril was\naccompanied by a great outburst of religious zeal. It was reported to the\nArchbishop that \"massing\" was greatly on the increase in Kent; and was\nattributed, singularly enough, to the Northern Rebellion, which had ended\nin disaster for the Papists; but the very fact that such a movement could\ntake place at all probably heartened many secret sympathisers, who had\nhitherto considered themselves almost alone in a heretic population.\n\nSir Nicholas came in one day to dinner in a state of great fury. One of\nhis couriers had just arrived with news from London; and the old man came\nin fuming and resentful.\n\n\"What hypocrisy!\" he cried out to Lady Maxwell and Mistress Margaret, who\nwere seated at table. \"Not content with persecuting Catholics, they will\nnot even allow us to say we are persecuted for the faith. Here is the\nLord Keeper declaring in the Star Chamber that no man is to be persecuted\nfor his private faith, but only for his public acts, and that the Queen's\nGrace desires nothing so little as to meddle with any man's conscience.\nThen I suppose they would say that hearing mass was a public act and\ntherefore unlawful; but then how if a man's private faith bids him to\nhear mass? Is not that meddling with his private conscience to forbid him\nto go to mass? What folly is this? And yet my Lord Keeper and her Grace\nare no fools! Then are they worse than fools?\"\n\nLady Maxwell tried to quiet the old man, for the servants were not out of\nthe room; and it was terribly rash to speak like that before them; but he\nwould not be still nor sit down, but raged up and down before the hearth,\ngrowling and breaking out now and again. What especially he could not get\noff his mind was that this was the Old Religion that was prescribed. That\nEngland for generations had held the Faith, and that then the Faith and\nall that it involved had been declared unlawful, was to him iniquity\nunfathomable. He could well understand some new upstart sect being\npersecuted, but not the old Religion. He kept on returning to this.\n\n\"Have they so far forgotten the Old Faith as to think it can be held in a\nman's private conscience without appearing in his life, like their\nmiserable damnable new fangled Justification by faith without works? Or\nthat a man can believe in the blessed sacrament of the altar and yet not\ndesire to receive it; or in penance and yet not be absolved; or in Peter\nand yet not say so, nor be reconciled. You may believe, say they, of\ntheir clemency, what you like; be justified by that; that is enough!\nBah!\"\n\nHowever mere declaiming against the Government was barren work, and Sir\nNicholas soon saw that; and instead, threw himself with more vigour than\never into entertaining and forwarding the foreign emissaries.\n\nMary Corbet had returned to London by the middle of July; and Hubert was\nnot yet returned; so Sir Nicholas and the two ladies had the Hall to\nthemselves. Now it must be confessed that the old man had neither the\nnature nor the training for the _r\u00f4le_ of a conspirator, even of the\nmildest description. He was so exceedingly impulsive, unsuspicious and\npassionate that it would have been the height of folly to entrust him\nwith any weighty secret, if it was possible to dispense with him; but the\nCatholics over the water needed stationary agents so grievously; and Sir\nNicholas' name commanded such respect, and his house such conveniences,\nthat they overlooked the risk involved in making him their confidant,\nagain and again; besides it need not be said that his honour and fidelity\nwas beyond reproach; and those qualities after all balance favourably\nagainst a good deal of shrewdness and discretion. He, of course, was\nserenely unable to distinguish between sedition and religion; and\nentertained political meddlers and ordinary priests with an equal\nenthusiasm. It was pathetic to Lady Maxwell to see her simple old husband\nshuffling away his papers, and puzzling over cyphers and perpetually\nleaving the key of them lying about, and betraying again and again when\nhe least intended it, by his mysterious becks and nods and glances and\noracular sayings, that some scheme was afoot. She could have helped him\nconsiderably if he had allowed her; but he had an idea that the\ncapacities of ladies in general went no further than their harps, their\nembroidery and their devotions; and besides, he was chivalrously\nunwilling that his wife should be in any way privy to business that\ninvolved such risks as this.\n\nOne sunny morning in August he came into her room early just as she was\nfinishing her prayers, and announced the arrival of an emissary from\nabroad.\n\n\"Sweetheart,\" he said, \"will you prepare the east chamber for a young man\nwhom we will call Mr. Stewart, if you please, who will arrive to-night.\nHe hopes to be with us until after dusk to-morrow when he will leave; and\nI shall be obliged if you will---- No, no, my dear. I will order the\nhorses myself.\"\n\nThe old man then bustled off to the stableyard and ordered a saddle-horse\nto be taken at once to Cuckfield, accompanied by a groom on another\nhorse. These were to arrive at the inn and await orders from a stranger\n\"whom you will call Mr. Stewart, if you please.\" Mr. Stewart was to\nchange horses there, and ride on to Maxwell Hall, and Sir Nicholas\nfurther ordered the same two horses and the same groom to be ready the\nfollowing evening at about nine o'clock, and to be at \"Mr. Stewart's\"\norders again as before.\n\nThis behaviour of Sir Nicholas' was of course most culpably indiscreet. A\nchild could not but have suspected something, and the grooms, who were of\ncourse Catholics, winked merrily at one another when the conspirator's\nback was turned, and he had hastened in a transport of zeal and\npreoccupation back again to the house to interrupt his wife in her\npreparations for the guest.\n\nThat evening \"Mr. Stewart\" arrived according to arrangements. He was a\nslim red-haired man, not above thirty years of age, the kind of man his\nenemies would call foxy, with a very courteous and deliberate manner, and\nhe spoke with a slight Scotch accent. He had the air of doing everything\non purpose. He let his riding-whip fall as he greeted Lady Maxwell in the\nentrance hall; but picked it up with such a dignified grace that you\nwould have sworn he had let it fall for some wise reason of his own. He\nhad a couple of saddle-bags with him, which he did not let out of his\nsight for a moment; even keeping his eye upon them as he met the ladies\nand saluted them. They were carried up to the east chamber directly,\ntheir owner following; where supper had been prepared. There was no real\nreason, since he arrived with such publicity, why he should not have\nsupped downstairs, but Sir Nicholas had been peremptory. It was by his\ndirections also that the arrival had been accomplished in the manner it\nhad.\n\nAfter he had supped, Sir Nicholas receiving the dishes from the servants'\nhands at the door of the room with the same air of secrecy and despatch,\nhis host suggested that he should come to Lady Maxwell's drawing-room, as\nthe ladies were anxious to see him. Mr. Stewart asked leave to bring a\nlittle valise with him that had travelled in one of the bags, and then\nfollowed his host who preceded him with a shaded light along the gallery.\n\nWhen he entered he bowed again profoundly, with a slightly French air, to\nthe ladies and to the image over the fire; and then seated himself, and\nasked leave to open his valise. He did so with their permission, and\ndisplayed to them the numerous devotional articles and books that it\ncontained. The ladies and Sir Nicholas were delighted, and set aside at\nonce some new books of devotion, and then they fell to talk. The\nNetherlands, from which Mr. Stewart had arrived two days before, on the\neast coast, were full at this time of Catholic refugees, under the Duke\nof Alva's protection. Here they had been living, some of them even from\nElizabeth's accession, and Sir Nicholas and his ladies had many inquiries\nto make about their acquaintances, many of which Mr. Stewart was able to\nsatisfy, for, from his conversation he was plainly one in the confidence\nof Catholics both at home and abroad. And so the evening passed away\nquietly. It was thought better by Sir Nicholas that Mr. Stewart should\nnot be present at the evening devotions that he always conducted for the\nhousehold in the dining-hall, unless indeed a priest were present to take\nhis place; so Mr. Stewart was again conducted with the same secrecy to\nthe East Chamber; and Sir Nicholas promised at his request to look in on\nhim again after prayers. When prayers were over, Sir Nicholas went up to\nhis guest's room, and found him awaiting him in a state of evident\nexcitement, very unlike the quiet vivacity and good humour he had shown\nwhen with the ladies.\n\n\"Sir Nicholas,\" he said, standing up, as his host came in, \"I have not\ntold you all my news.\" And when they were both seated he proceeded:\n\n\"You spoke a few minutes ago, Sir Nicholas, of Dr. Storey; he has been\ncaught.\"\n\nThe old man exclaimed with dismay. Mr. Stewart went on:\n\n\"When I left Antwerp, Sir Nicholas, Dr. Storey was in the town. I saw him\nmyself in the street by the Cathedral only a few hours before I embarked.\nHe is very old, you know, and lame, worn out with good works, and he was\nhobbling down the street on the arm of a young man. When I arrived at\nYarmouth I went out into the streets about a little business I had with a\nbookseller, before taking horse. I heard a great commotion down near the\ndocks, at the entrance of Bridge Street; and hastened down there; and\nthere I saw pursuivants and seamen and officers all gathered about a\ncarriage, and keeping back the crowd that was pressing and crying out to\nknow who the man was; and presently the carriage drove by me, scattering\nthe crowd, and I could see within; and there sat old Dr. Storey, very\nwhite and ill-looking, but steady and cheerful, whom I had seen the very\nday before in Antwerp. Now this is very grievous for Dr. Storey; and I\npray God to deliver him; but surely the Duke and the King of Spain must\nmove now. They cannot leave him in Cecil's hands; and then, Sir Nicholas,\nwe must all be ready, for who knows what may happen.\"\n\nSir Nicholas was greatly moved. There was one of the perplexities which\nso much harassed all the Papists at this time. It seemed certain that Mr.\nStewart's prediction must be fulfilled. Dr. Storey was a naturalised\nsubject of King Philip and in the employment of Alva, and he had been\ncarried off forcibly by the English Government. It afterwards came out\nhow it had been done. He had been lured away from Antwerp and enticed on\nboard a trader at Bergen-op-Zoom, by Cecil's agents with the help of a\ntraitor named Parker, on pretext of finding heretical books there\narriving from England; and as soon as he had set foot on deck he was\nhurried below and carried straight off to Yarmouth. Here then was Sir\nNicholas' perplexity. To welcome Spain when she intervened and to work\nactively for her, was treason against his country; to act against Spain\nwas to delay the re-establishment of the Religion--something that\nappeared to him very like treason against his faith. Was the dreadful\nchoice between his sovereign and his God, he wondered as he paced up and\ndown and questioned Mr. Stewart, even now imminent?\n\nThe whole affair, too, was so formidable and so mysterious that the\nhearts of these Catholics and of others in England when they heard the\ntale began to fail them. Had the Government then so long an arm and so\nkeen an eye? And if it was able to hale a man from the shadow of the\nCathedral at Antwerp and the protection of the Duke of Alva into the\nhands of pursuivants at Yarmouth within the space of a few hours, who\nthen was safe?\n\nAnd so the two sat late that night in the East Chamber; and laid schemes\nand discussed movements and probabilities and the like, until the dawn\nbegan to glimmer through the cracks of the shutters and the birds to\nchirp in the eaves; and Sir Nicholas at last carried to bed with him an\nanxious and a heavy heart. Mr. Stewart, however, did not seem so greatly\ndisturbed; possibly because on the one side he had not others dearer to\nhim than his own life involved in these complex issues: and partly\nbecause he at any rate has not the weight of suspense and indecision that\nso drew his host two ways at once, for Mr. Stewart was whole-heartedly\ncommitted already, and knew well how he would act should the choice\npresent itself between Elizabeth and Philip.\n\nThe following morning Sir Nicholas still would not allow his guest to\ncome downstairs, and insisted that all his meals should be served in the\nEast Chamber, while he himself, as before, received the food at the door\nand set it before Mr. Stewart. Mr. Stewart was greatly impressed and\ntouched by the kindness of the old man, although not by his capacity for\nconspiracy. He had intended indeed to tell his host far more than he had\ndone of the movements of political and religious events, for he could not\nbut believe, before his arrival, that a Catholic so prominent and\ninfluential as Sir Nicholas was becoming by reputation among the refugees\nabroad, was a proper person to be entrusted even with the highest\nsecrets; but after a very little conversation with him the night before,\nhe had seen how ingenuous the old man was, with his laughable attempts at\nsecrecy and his lamentable lack of discretion; and so he had contented\nhimself with general information and gossip, and had really told Sir\nNicholas very little indeed of any importance.\n\nAfter dinner Sir Nicholas again conducted his guest to the drawing-room,\nwhere the ladies were ready to receive him. He had obtained Mr. Stewart's\npermission the night before to tell his wife and sister-in-law the news\nabout Dr. Storey; and the four sat for several hours together discussing\nthe situation. Mr. Stewart was able to tell them too, in greater detail,\nthe story of Lord Sussex's punitive raid into Scotland in the preceding\nApril. They had heard of course the main outline of the story with the\nkind of embroideries attached that were usual in those days of inaccurate\nreporting; but their guest was a Scotchman himself and had had the\nstories first-hand in some cases from those rendered homeless by the\nraid, who had fled to the Netherlands where he had met them. Briefly the\nraid was undertaken on the pretended plea of an invitation from the\n\"King's men\" or adherents of the infant James; but in reality to chastise\nScotland and reduce it to servility. Sussex and Lord Hunsdon in the east,\nLord Scrope on the west, had harried, burnt, and destroyed in the whole\ncountryside about the Borders. Especially had Tiviotdale suffered.\nAltogether it was calculated that Sussex had burned three hundred\nvillages and blown up fifty castles, and forty more \"strong houses,\" some\nof these latter, however, being little more than border peels. Mr.\nStewart's accounts were the more moving in that he spoke in a quiet\ndelicate tone, and used little picturesque phrases in his speech.\n\n\"Twelve years ago,\" said Mr. Stewart, \"I was at Branxholme myself. It was\na pleasant house, well furnished and appointed; fortified, too, as all\nneed to be in that country, with sheaves of pikes in all the lower rooms,\nand Sir Walter Scott gave me a warm welcome, for I was there on a\nbusiness that pleased him. He showed me the gardens and orchards, all\ngreen and sweet, like these of yours, Lady Maxwell. And it seemed to me a\nhome where a man might be content to spend all his days. Well, my Lord\nSussex has been a visitor there now; and what he has left of the house\nwould not shelter a cow, nor what is left of the pleasant gardens sustain\nher. At least, so one of the Scots told me whom I met in the Netherlands\nin June.\"\n\nHe talked, too, of the extraordinary scenes of romance and chivalry in\nwhich Mary Queen of Scots moved during her captivity under Lord Scrope's\ncare at Bolton Castle in the previous year. He had met in his travels in\nFrance one of her undistinguished adherents who had managed to get a\nposition in the castle during her detention there.\n\n\"The country was alive with her worshippers,\" said Mr. Stewart. \"They\nswarmed like bees round a hive. In the night voices would be heard crying\nout to her Grace out of the darkness round the castle; and when the\nguards rode out they would find no man but maybe hear just a laugh or\ntwo. Her men would lie out at night and watch her window (for she would\nnever go to rest till late), and pray towards it as if it were a light\nbefore the blessed sacrament. When she rode out a-hunting, with her\nguards of course about her, and my Lord Scrope or Sir Francis Knollys\nnever far away, a beggar maybe would be sitting out on the road and ask\nan alms; and cry out 'God save your Grace'; but he would be a beggar who\nwas accustomed to wear silk next his skin except when he went a-begging.\nMany young gentlemen there were, yes and old ones too, who would thank\nGod for a blow or a curse from some foul English trooper for his meat, if\nonly he might have a look from the Queen's eyes for his grace before\nmeat. Oh! they would plot too, and scheme and lie awake half the night\nspinning their webs, not to catch her Grace indeed, but to get her away\nfrom that old Spider Scrope; and many's the word and the scrap of paper\nthat would go in to her Grace, right under the very noses of my Lord\nScrope and Sir Francis themselves, as they sat at their chess in the\nQueen's chamber. It's a long game of chess that the two Queens are\nplaying; but thank our Lady and the Saints it's not mate yet--not mate\nyet; and the White Queen will win, please God, before the board's\nover-turned.\"\n\nAnd he told them, too, of the failure of the Northern Rebellion, and the\nwretchedness of the fugitives.\n\n\"They rode over the moors to Liddisdale,\" he said, \"ladies and all, in\nbitter weather, wind and snow, day after day, with stories of Clinton's\ntroopers all about them, and scarcely time for bite or sup or sleep. My\nlady Northumberland was so overcome with weariness and sickness that she\ncould ride no more at last, and had to be left at John-of-the-Side's\nhouse, where she had a little chamber where the snow came in at one\ncorner, and the rats ran over my lady's face as she lay. My Lords\nNorthumberland and Westmoreland were in worse case, and spent their\nChristmas with no roof over them but what they could find out in the\nbraes and woods about Harlaw, and no clothes but the foul rags that some\nbeggar had thrown away, and no food but a bird or a rabbit that they\ncould pick up here and there, or what their friends could get to them now\nand again privately. And then my Lord Northumberland's little daughters\nwhom he was forced to leave behind at Topcliff--a sweet Christmas they\nhad! Their money and food was soon spent; they could have scarcely a fire\nin that bitter hard season; and God who feeds the ravens alone knows how\nthey were sustained; and for entertainment to make the time pass merrily,\nall they had was to see the hanging of their own servants in scores about\nthe house, who had served them and their father well; and all their music\nat night was the howling of the wind in those heavily laden\nChristmas-trees, and the noise of the chains in which the men were\nhanged.\"\n\nMr. Stewart's narratives were engrossing to the two ladies and Sir\nNicholas. They had never come so close to the struggles of the Catholics\nin the north before; and although the Northern Rebellion had ended so\ndisastrously, yet it was encouraging, although heartbreaking too, to hear\nthat delicate women and children were ready gladly to suffer such\nmiseries if the religious cause that was so dear to them could be thereby\nhelped. Sir Nicholas, as has been said, was in two minds as to the\nlawfulness of rising against a temporal sovereign in defence of religious\nliberties. His whole English nature revolted against it, and yet so many\nspiritual persons seemed to favour it. His simple conscience was\nperplexed. But none the less he could listen with the most intense\ninterest and sympathy to these tales of these co-religionists of his own,\nwho were so clearly convinced of their right to rebel in defence of their\nfaith.\n\nAnd so with such stories the August afternoon passed away. It was a\nthundery day, which it would have been pleasanter to spend in the garden,\nbut that, Sir Nicholas said, under the circumstances was not to be\nthought of; so they threw the windows wide to catch the least breath of\nair; and the smell of the flower-garden came sweetly up and flooded the\nlow cool room; and so they sat engrossed until the evening.\n\nSupper was ordered for Mr. Stewart at half-past seven o'clock; and this\nmeal Sir Nicholas had consented should be laid downstairs in his own\nprivate room opening out of the hall, and that he and his ladies should\nsit down to table at the same time. Mr. Stewart went to his room an hour\nbefore to dress for riding, and to superintend the packing of his\nsaddle-bags; and at half-past seven he was conducted downstairs by Sir\nNicholas who insisted on carrying the saddle-bags with his own hands, and\nthey found the two ladies waiting for them in the panelled study that had\none window giving upon the terrace that ran along the south of the house\nabove the garden. When supper had been brought in by Sir Nicholas' own\nbody-servant, Mr. Boyd, they sat down to supper after a grace from Sir\nNicholas. The horses were ordered for nine o'clock.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER VII\n\n                     THE DOOR IN THE GARDEN-WALL\n\n\nOn the morning of the day after Mr. Stewart's secret arrival at Maxwell\nHall, the Rector was walking up and down the lawn that adjoined the\nchurchyard.\n\nHe had never yet wholly recovered from the sneers of Mistress Corbet; the\nwounds had healed but had not ceased to smart. How blind these Papists\nwere, he thought! how prejudiced for the old trifling details of worship!\nhow ignorant of the vital principles still retained! The old realities of\nGod and the faith and the Church were with them still, in this village,\nhe reminded himself; it was only the incrustations of error that had been\nremoved. Of course the transition was difficult and hearts were sore; but\nthe Eternal God can be patient. But then, if the discontent of the\nPapists smouldered on one side, the fanatical and irresponsible zeal of\nthe Puritans flared on the other. How difficult, he thought, to steer the\nsafe middle course! How much cool faith and clearsightedness it needed!\nHe reminded himself of Archbishop Parker who now held the rudder, and\ncomforted himself with the thought of his wise moderation in dealing with\nexcesses, his patient pertinacity among the whirling gusts of passion,\nthat enabled him to wait upon events to push his schemes, and his tender\nknowledge of human nature.\n\nBut in spite of these reassuring facts Mr. Dent was anxious. What could\neven the Archbishop do when his suffragans were such poor creatures; and\nwhen Leicester, the strongest man at Court, was a violent Puritan\npartisan? The Rector would have been content to bear the troubles of his\nown flock and household if he had been confident of the larger cause; but\nthe vagaries of the Puritans threatened all with ruin. That morning only\nhe had received a long account from a Fellow of his own college of Corpus\nChristi, Cambridge, and a man of the same views as himself, of the\nviolent controversy raging there at that time.\n\n\"The Professor,\" wrote his friend, referring to Thomas Cartwright, \"is\nplastering us all with his Genevan ways. We are all Papists, it seems!\nHe would have neither bishop nor priest nor archbishop nor dean nor\narchdeacon, nor dignitaries at all, but just the plain Godly Minister, as\nhe names it. Or if he has the bishop and the deacon they are to be the\n_Episcopos_ and the _Diaconos_ of the Scripture, and not the Papish\ncounterfeits! Then it seems that the minister is to be made not by God\nbut by man--that the people are to make him, not the bishop (as if the\nsheep should make the shepherd). Then it appears we are Papists too for\nkneeling at the Communion; this he names a 'feeble superstition.' Then he\nwould have all men reside in their benefices or vacate them; and all that\ndo not so, it appears, are no better than thieves or robbers.\n\n\"And so he rages on, breathing out this smoky stuff, and all the young\nmen do run after him, as if he were the very Pillar of Fire to lead them\nto Canaan. One day he says there shall be no bishop--and my Lord of Ely\nrides through Petty Cury with scarce a man found to doff cap and say 'my\nlord' save foolish 'Papists' like myself! Another day he will have no\ndistinction of apparel; and the young sparks straight dress like\nministers, and the ministers like young sparks. On another he likes not\nSaint Peter his day, and none will go to church. He would have us all to\nbe little Master Calvins, if he could have his way with us. But the\nMaster of Trinity has sent a complaint to the Council with charges\nagainst him, and has preached against him too. But no word hath yet come\nfrom the Council; and we fear nought will be done; to the sore injury of\nChrist His holy Church and the Protestant Religion; and the triumphing of\ntheir pestilent heresies.\"\n\nSo the caustic divine wrote, and the Rector of Great Keynes was\nheavy-hearted as he walked up and down and read. Everywhere it was the\nsame story; the extreme precisians openly flouted the religion of the\nChurch of England; submitted to episcopal ordination as a legal necessity\nand then mocked at it; refused to wear the prescribed dress, and\nrepudiated all other distinctions too in meats and days as Judaic\nremnants; denounced all forms of worship except those directly sanctioned\nby Scripture; in short, they remained in the Church of England and drew\nher pay while they scouted her orders and derided her claims. Further,\nthey cried out as persecuted martyrs whenever it was proposed to insist\nthat they should observe their obligations. But worse than all, for such\nconscientious clergymen as Mr. Dent, was the fact that bishops preferred\nsuch men to livings, and at the same time were energetic against the\nPapist party. It was not that there was not an abundance of disciplinary\nmachinery ready at the bishop's disposal or that the Queen was opposed to\ncoercion--rather she was always urging them to insist upon conformity;\nbut it seemed rather to such sober men as the Rector that the principle\nof authority had been lost with the rejection of the Papacy, and that\nanarchy rather than liberty had prevailed in the National Church. In\ndarker moments it seemed to him and his friends as if any wild fancy was\ntolerated, so long as it did not approximate too closely to the Old\nReligion; and they grew sick at heart.\n\nIt was all the more difficult for the Rector, as he had so little\nsympathy in the place; his wife did all she could to destroy friendly\nrelations between the Hall and the Rectory, and openly derided her\nhusband's prelatical leanings; the Maxwells themselves disregarded his\npriestly claims, and the villagers thought of him as an official paid to\npromulgate the new State religion. The only house where he found sympathy\nand help was the Dower House; and as he paced up and down his garden now,\nhis little perplexed determined face grew brighter as he made up his mind\nto see Mr. Norris again in the afternoon.\n\nDuring his meditations he heard, and saw indistinctly, through the\nshrubbery that fenced the lawn from the drive, a mounted man ride up to\nthe Rectory door. He supposed it was some message, and held himself in\nreadiness to be called into the house, but after a minute or two he heard\nthe man ride off again down the drive into the village. At dinner he\nmentioned it to his wife, who answered rather shortly that it was a\nmessage for her; and he let the matter drop for fear of giving offence;\nhe was terrified at the thought of provoking more quarrels than were\nabsolutely necessary.\n\nSoon after dinner he put on his cap and gown, and to his wife's inquiries\ntold her where he was going, and that after he had seen Mr. Norris he\nwould step on down to Comber's, where was a sick body or two, and that\nshe might expect him back not earlier than five o'clock. She nodded\nwithout speaking, and he went out. She watched him down the drive from\nthe dining-room window and then went back to her business with an odd\nexpression.\n\nMr. Norris, whom he found already seated at his books again after dinner,\ntook him out when he had heard his errand, and the two began to walk up\nand down together on the raised walk that ran along under a line of pines\na little way from the house.\n\nThe Rector had seldom found his friend more sympathetic and tender; he\nknew very well that their intellectual and doctrinal standpoints were\ndifferent, but he had not come for anything less than spiritual help, and\nthat he found. He told him all his heart, and then waited, while the\nother, with his thin hands clasped behind his back, and his great grey\neyes cast up at the heavy pines and the tender sky beyond, began to\ncomfort the minister.\n\n\"You are troubled, my friend,\" he said, \"and I do not wonder at it, by\nthe turbulence of these times. On all sides are fightings and fears. Of\ncourse I cannot, as you know, regard these matters you have spoken\nof--episcopacy, ceremonies at the Communion and the like--in the grave\nlight in which you see them; but I take it, if I understand you rightly,\nthat it is the confusion and lack of any authority or respect for\nantiquity that is troubling you more. You feel yourself in a sad plight\nbetween these raging waves; tossed to and fro, battered upon by both\nsides, forsaken and despised and disregarded. Now, indeed, although I do\nnot stand quite where you do, yet I see how great the stress must be;\nbut, if I may say so to a minister, it is just what you regard as your\nshame that I regard as your glory. It is the mark of the cross that is on\nyour life. When our Saviour went to his passion, he went in the same\nplight as that in which you go; both Jew and Gentile were against him on\nthis side and that; his claims were disallowed, his royalty denied; he\nwas despised and rejected of men. He did not go to his passion as to a\nsplendid triumph, bearing his pain like some solemn and mysterious\ndignity at which the world wondered and was silent; but he went battered\nand spat upon, with the sweat and the blood and the spittle running down\nhis face, contemned by the contemptible, hated by the hateful, rejected\nby the outcast, barked upon by the curs; and it was that that made his\npassion so bitter. To go to death, however painful, with honour and\napplause, or at least with the silence of respect, were easy; it is not\nhard to die upon a throne; but to live on a dunghill with Job, that is\nbitterness. Now again I must protest that I have no right to speak like\nthis to a minister, but since you have come to me I must needs say what I\nthink; and it is this that some wise man once said, 'Fear honour, for\nshame is not far off. Covet shame, for honour is surely to follow.' If\nthat be true of the philosopher, how much more true is it of the\nChristian minister whose profession it is to follow the Saviour and to be\nmade like unto him.\"\n\nHe said much more of the same kind; and his soft balmy faith soothed the\nminister's wounds, and braced his will. The Rector could not help half\nenvying his friend, living, as it seemed, in this still retreat, apart\nfrom wrangles and controversy, with the peaceful music and sweet\nfragrance of the pines, and the Love of God about him.\n\nWhen he had finished he asked the Rector to step indoors with him; and\nthere in his own room took down and read to him a few extracts from the\nGerman mystics that he thought bore upon his case. Finally, to put him at\nhis ease again, for it seemed an odd reversal that he should be coming\nfor comfort to his parishioners, Mr. Norris told him about his two\nchildren, and in his turn asked his advice.\n\n\"About Anthony,\" he said, \"I am not at all anxious. I know that the boy\nfancies himself in love; and goes sighing about when he is at home; but\nhe sleeps and eats heartily, for I have observed him; and I think\nMistress Corbet has a good heart and means no harm to him. But about my\ndaughter I am less satisfied, for I have been watching her closely. She\nis quiet and good, and, above all, she loves the Saviour; but how do I\nknow that her heart is not bleeding within? She has been taught to hold\nherself in, and not to show her feelings; and that, I think, is as much a\ndrawback sometimes as wearing the heart upon the sleeve.\"\n\nMr. Dent suggested sending her away for a visit for a month or two. His\nhost mused a moment and then said that he himself had thought of that;\nand now that his minister said so too, probably, under God, that was what\nwas needed. The fact that Hubert was expected home soon was an additional\nreason; and he had friends in Northampton, he said, to whom he could send\nher. \"They hold strongly by the Genevan theology there,\" he said smiling,\n\"but I think that will do her no harm as a balance to the Popery at\nMaxwell Hall.\"\n\nThey talked a few minutes more, and when the minister rose to take his\nleave, Mr. Norris slipped down on his knees as if it was the natural\nthing to do and as if the minister were expecting it; and asked his guest\nto engage in prayer. It was the first time he had ever done so; probably\nbecause this talk had brought them nearer together spiritually than ever\nbefore. The minister was taken aback, and repeated a collect or two from\nthe Prayer-book; then they said the Lord's Prayer together, and then Mr.\nNorris without any affectation engaged in a short extempore prayer,\nasking for light in these dark times and peace in the storm; and begging\nthe blessing of God upon the village and \"upon their shepherd to whom\nThou hast given to drink of the Cup of thy Passion,\" and upon his own\nchildren, and lastly upon himself, \"the chief of sinners and the least of\nthy servants that is not worthy to be called thy friend.\" It touched Mr.\nDent exceedingly, and he was yet more touched and reconciled to the\nincident when his host said simply, remaining on his knees, with eyes\nclosed and his clear cut tranquil face upturned:\n\n\"I ask your blessing, sir.\"\n\nThe Rector's voice trembled a little as he gave it. And then with real\ngratitude and a good deal of sincere emotion he shook his friend's hand,\nand rustled out from the cool house into the sunlit garden, greeting\nIsabel who was walking up and down outside a little pensively, and took\nthe field-path that led towards the hamlet where his sick folk were\nexpecting him.\n\nAs he walked back about five o'clock towards the village he noticed there\nwas thunder in the air, and was aware of a physical oppression, but in\nhis heart it was morning and the birds singing. The talk earlier in the\nafternoon had shown him how, in the midst of the bitterness of the Cup,\nto find the fragrance where the Saviour's lips had rested and that was\njoy to him. And again, his true pastor's heart had been gladdened by the\nway his ministrations had been received that afternoon. A sour old man\nwho had always scowled at him for an upstart, in his foolish old desire\nto be loyal to the priest who had held the benefice before him, had\nmelted at last and asked his pardon and God's for having treated him so\nill; and he had prepared the old man for death with great contentment to\nthem both, and had left him at peace with God and man. On looking back on\nit all afterwards he was convinced that God had thus strengthened him for\nthe trouble that was awaiting him at home.\n\nHe had hardly come into his study when his wife entered with a strange\nlook, breathing quick and short; she closed the door, and stood near it,\nlooking at him apprehensively.\n\n\"George,\" she said, rather sharply and nervously, \"you must not be vexed\nwith me, but----\"\n\n\"Well?\" he said heavily, and the warmth died out of his heart. He knew\nsomething terrible impended.\n\n\"I have done it for the best,\" she said, and obstinacy and a kind of\nimpatient tenderness strove in her eyes as she looked at him. \"You must\nshow yourself a man; it is not fitting that loose ladies of the Court\nshould mock--\" He got up; and his eyes were determined too.\n\n\"Tell me what you have done, woman,\" he cried.\n\nShe put out her hand as if to hold him still, and her voice rang hard and\nthin.\n\n\"I will say my say,\" she said. \"It is not for that that I have done it.\nBut you are a Gospel-minister, and must be faithful. The Justice is here.\nI sent for him.\"\n\n\"The Justice?\" he said blankly; but his heart was beating heavily in his\nthroat.\n\n\"Mr. Frankland from East Grinsted, with a couple of pursuivants and a\ncompany of servants. There is a popish agent at the Hall, and they are\ncome to take him.\"\n\nThe Rector swallowed with difficulty once or twice, and then tried to\nspeak, but she went on. \"And I have promised that you shall take them in\nby the side door.\"\n\n\"I will not!\" he cried.\n\nShe held up her hand again for silence, and glanced round at the door.\n\n\"I have given him the key,\" she said.\n\nThis was the private key, possessed by the incumbent for generations\npast, and Sir Nicholas had not withdrawn it from the Protestant Rector.\n\n\"There is no choice,\" she said. \"Oh! George, be a man!\" Then she turned\nand slipped out.\n\nHe stood perfectly still for a moment; his pulses were racing; he could\nnot think. He sat down and buried his face in his hands; and gradually\nhis brain cleared and quieted. Then he realised what it meant, and his\nsoul rose in blind furious resentment. This was the last straw; it was\nthe woman's devilish jealousy. But what could he do? The Justice was\nhere. Could he warn his friends? He clenched his fingers into his hair as\nthe situation came out clear and hard before his brain. Dear God, what\ncould he do?\n\nThere were footsteps in the flagged hall, and he raised his head as the\ndoor opened and a portly gentleman in riding-dress came in, followed by\nMrs. Dent. The Rector rose confusedly, but could not speak, and his eyes\nwandered round to his wife again and again as she took a chair in the\nshadow and sat down. But the magistrate noticed nothing.\n\n\"Aha!\" he said, beaming, \"You have a wife, sir, that is a jewel. Solomon\nnever spoke a truer word; an ornament to her husband, he said, I think;\nbut you as a minister should know better than I, a mere layman\"; and his\nface creased with mirth.\n\nWhat did the red-faced fool mean? thought the Rector. If only he would\nnot talk so loud! He must think, he must think. What could he do?\n\n\"She was very brisk, sir,\" the magistrate went on, sitting down, and the\nRector followed his example, sitting too with his back to the window and\nhis hand to his head.\n\nThen Mr. Frankland went on with his talk; and the man sat there, still\nglancing from time to time mechanically towards his wife, who was there\nin the shadow with steady white face and hands in her lap, watching the\ntwo men. The magistrate's voice seemed to the bewildered man to roll on\nlike a wheel over stones; interminable, grinding, stupefying. What was he\nsaying? What was that about his wife? She had sent to him the day before,\nhad she, and told him of the popish agent's coming?--Ah! A dangerous man\nwas he, a spreader of seditious pamphlets? At least they supposed he was\nthe man.--Yes, yes, he understood; these fly-by-nights were threateners\nof the whole commonwealth; they must be hunted out like vermin--just so;\nand he as a minister of the Gospel should be the first to assist.--Just\nso, he agreed with all his heart, as a minister of the Gospel. (Yes, but,\ndear Lord, what was he to do? This fat man with the face of a butcher\nmust not be allowed to--) Ah! what was that? He had missed that. Would\nMr. Frankland be so good as to say it again? Yes, yes, he understood now;\nthe men were posted already. No one suspected anything; they had come by\nthe bridle path.--Every door? Did he understand that every door of the\nHall was watched? Ah! that was prudent; there was no chance then of any\none sending a warning in? Oh, no, no, he did not dream for a moment that\nthere was any concealed Catholic who would be likely to do such a thing.\nBut he only wondered.--Yes, yes, the magistrate was right; one could not\nbe too careful. Because--ah!--What was that about Sir Nicholas? Yes, yes,\nindeed he was a good landlord, and very popular in the village.--Ah! just\nso; it had better be done quietly, at the side door. Yes, that was the\none which the key fitted. But, but, he thought perhaps, he had better not\ncome in, because Sir Nicholas was his friend, and there was no use in\nmaking bad blood.--Oh! not to the house; very well, then, he would come\nas far as the yew hedge at--at what time did the magistrate say? At\nhalf-past eight; yes, that would be best as Mr. Frankland said, because\nSir Nicholas had ordered the horses for nine o'clock; so they would come\nupon them just at the right time.--How many men, did Mr. Frankland say?\nEight? Oh yes, eight and himself, and--he did not quite follow the plan.\nAh! through the yew hedge on to the terrace and through the south door\ninto the hall; then if they bolted--they? Surely he had understood the\nmagistrate to say there was only one? Oh! he had not understood that. Sir\nNicholas too? But why, why? Good God, as a harbourer of priests?--No, but\nthis fellow was an agent, surely. Well, if the magistrate said so, of\ncourse he was right; but he would have thought himself that Sir Nicholas\nmight have been left--ah! Well, he would say no more. He quite saw the\nmagistrate's point now.--No, no, he was no favourer; God forbid! his wife\nwould speak for him as to that; Marion would bear witness.--Well, well,\nhe thanked the magistrate for his compliments, and would he proceed with\nthe plan? By the south door, he was saying, yes, into the hall.--Yes, the\nEast room was Sir Nicholas' study; or of course they might be supping\nupstairs. But it made no difference; no, the magistrate was right about\nthat. So long as they held the main staircase, and had all the other\ndoors watched, they were safe to have him.--No, no, the cloister wing\nwould not be used; they might leave that out of their calculations.\nBesides, did not the magistrate say that Marion had seen the lights in\nthe East wing last night? Yes, well, that settled it.--And the signal?\nOh, he had not caught that; the church bell, was it to be? But what for?\nWhy did they need a signal? Ah! he understood, for the advance at\nhalf-past eight.--Just so, he would send Thomas up to ring it. Would\nMarion kindly see to that?--Yes, indeed, his wife was a woman to be proud\nof; such a faithful Protestant; no patience with these seditious rogues\nat all. Well, was that all? Was there anything else?--Yes, how dark it\nwas getting; it must be close on eight o'clock. Thomas had gone, had he?\nThat was all right.--And had the men everything they wanted?--Well, yes;\nalthough the village did go to bed early it would perhaps be better to\nhave no lights; because there was no need to rouse suspicion.--Oh! very\nwell; perhaps it would be better for Mr. Frankland to go and sit with the\nmen and keep them quiet. And his wife would go, too, just to make sure\nthey had all they wanted.--Very well, yes; he would wait here in the dark\nuntil he was called. Not more than a quarter of an hour? Thank you,\nyes.--\n\nThen the door had closed; and the man, left alone, flung himself down in\nhis chair, and buried his face again in his arms.\n\nAh! what was to be done? Nothing, nothing, nothing. And there they were\nat the Hall, his neighbours and friends. The kind old Catholic and his\nladies! How would he ever dare to meet their eyes again? But what could\nbe done? Nothing!\n\nHow far away the afternoon seems; that quiet sunny walk beneath the\npines. His friend is at his books, no doubt, with the silver candles, and\nthe open pages, and his own neat manuscript growing under his white\nscholarly fingers. And Isabel; at her needlework before the fire.--How\npeaceful and harmless and sweet it all is! And down there, not fifty\nyards away, is the village; every light out by now; and the children and\nparents, too, asleep.--Ah! what will the news be when they wake\nto-morrow?--And that strange talk this afternoon, of the Saviour and His\nCup of pain, and the squalor and indignity of the Passion! Ah! yes, he\ncould suffer with Jesus on the Cross, so gladly, on that Tree of\nLife--but not with Judas on the Tree of Death!\n\nAnd the minister dropped his face lower, over the edge of his desk; and\nthe hot tears of misery and self-reproach and impotence began to run.\nThere was no help, no help anywhere. All were against him--even his wife\nherself; and his Lord.\n\nThen with a moan he lifted his hot face into the dusk.\n\n\"Jesus,\" he cried in his soul, \"Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest\nthat I love Thee.\"\n\nThere came a tapping on the door; and the door opened an inch.\n\n\"It is time,\" whispered his wife's voice.\n\n\n\n\n                            CHAPTER VIII\n\n                      THE TAKING OF MR. STEWART\n\n\nThey were still sitting over the supper-table at the Hall. The sun had\nset about the time they had begun, and the twilight had deepened into\ndark; but they had not cared to close the shutters as they were to move\nso soon. The four candles shone out through the windows, and there still\nhung a pale glimmer outside owing to the refraction of light from the\nwhite stones of the terrace. Beyond on the left there sloped away a high\nblack wall of impenetrable darkness where the yew hedge stood; over that\nwas the starless sky. Sir Nicholas' study was bright with candlelight,\nand the lace and jewels of Lady Maxwell (for her sister wore none) added\na vague pleasant sense of beauty to Mr. Stewart's mind; for he was one\nwho often fared coarsely and slept hard. He sighed a little to himself as\nhe looked out over this shining supper-table past the genial smiling face\nof Sir Nicholas to the dark outside; and thought how in less than an hour\nhe would have left the comfort of this house for the grey road and its\nhardships again. It was extraordinarily sweet to him (for he was a man of\ntaste and a natural inclination to luxury) to stay a day or two now and\nagain at a house like this and mix again with his own equals, instead of\nwith the rough company of the village inn, or the curious foreign\nconspirators with their absence of educated perception and their doubtful\ncleanliness. He was a man of domestic instincts and good birth and\nbreeding, and would have been perfectly at his ease as the master of some\nhousehold such as this; with a chapel and a library and a pleasant garden\nand estate; spending his days in great leisure and good deeds. And\ninstead of all this, scarcely by his own choice but by what he would have\ncalled his vocation, he was partly an exile living from hand to mouth in\nlodgings and inns, and when he was in his own fatherland, a hunted\nfugitive lurking about in unattractive disguises. He sighed again once or\ntwice. There was silence a moment or two.\n\nThere sounded one note from the church tower a couple of hundred yards\naway. Lady Maxwell heard it, and looked suddenly up; she scarcely knew\nwhy, and caught her sister's eyes glancing at her. There was a shade of\nuneasiness in them.\n\n\"It is thundery to-night,\" said Sir Nicholas. Mr. Stewart did not speak.\nLady Maxwell looked up quickly at him as he sat on her right facing the\nwindow; and saw an expression of slight disturbance cross his face. He\nwas staring out on to the quickly darkening terrace, past Sir Nicholas,\nwho with pursed lips and a little frown was stripping off his grapes from\nthe stalk. The look of uneasiness deepened, and the young man half rose\nfrom his chair, and sat down again.\n\n\"What is it, Mr. Stewart?\" said Lady Maxwell, and her voice had a ring of\nterror in it. Sir Nicholas looked up quickly.\n\n\"Eh, eh?\"--he began.\n\nThe young man rose up and recoiled a step, still staring out.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" he said, \"but I have just seen several men pass the\nwindow.\"\n\nThere was a rush of footsteps and a jangle of voices outside in the hall;\nand as the four rose up from table, looking at one another, there was a\nrattle at the handle outside, the door flew open, and a ruddy\nstrongly-built man stood there, with a slightly apprehensive air, and\nholding a loaded cane a little ostentatiously in his hand; the faces of\nseveral men looked over his shoulder.\n\nSir Nicholas' ruddy face had paled, his mouth was half open with dismay,\nand he stared almost unintelligently at the magistrate. Mr. Stewart's\nhand closed on the handle of a knife that lay beside his plate.\n\n\"In the Queen's name,\" said Mr. Frankland, and looked from the knife to\nthe young man's white determined face, and down again. A little sobbing\nbroke from Lady Maxwell.\n\n\"It is useless, sir,\" said the magistrate; \"Sir Nicholas, persuade your\nguest not to make a useless resistance; we are ten to one; the house has\nbeen watched for hours.\"\n\nSir Nicholas took a step forward, his mouth closed and opened again. Lady\nMaxwell took a swift rustling step from behind the table, and threw her\narm round the old man's neck. Still none of them spoke.\n\n\"Come in,\" said the magistrate, turning a little. The men outside filed\nin, to the number of half a dozen, and two or three more were left in the\nhall. All were armed. Mistress Margaret who had stood up with the rest,\nsat down again, and rested her head on her hand; apparently completely at\nher ease.\n\n\"I must beg pardon, Lady Maxwell,\" he went on, \"but my duty leaves me no\nchoice.\" He turned to the young man, who, on seeing the officers had laid\nthe knife down again, and now stood, with one hand on the table, rather\npale, but apparently completely self-controlled, looking a little\ndisdainfully at the magistrate.\n\nThen Sir Nicholas made a great effort; but his face twitched as he spoke,\nand the hand that he lifted to his wife's arm shook with nervousness, and\nhis voice was cracked and unnatural.\n\n\"Sit down, my dear, sit down.--What is all this?--I do not\nunderstand.--Mr. Frankland, sir, what do you want of me?--And who are all\nthese gentlemen?--Won't you sit down, Mr. Frankland and take a glass of\nwine. Let me make Mr. Stewart known to you.\" And he lifted a shaking hand\nas if to introduce them.\n\nThe magistrate smiled a little on one side of his mouth.\n\n\"It is no use, Sir Nicholas,\" he said, \"this gentleman, I fear, is well\nknown to some of us already.--No, no, sir,\" he cried sharply, \"the window\nis guarded.\"\n\nMr. Stewart, who had looked swiftly and sideways across at the window,\nfaced the magistrate again.\n\n\"I do not know what you mean, sir,\" he said. \"It was a lad who passed the\nwindow.\"\n\nThere was a movement outside in the hall; and the magistrate stepped to\nthe door.\n\n\"Who is there?\" he cried out sharply.\n\nThere was a scuffle, and a cry of a boy's voice; and a man appeared,\nholding Anthony by the arm.\n\nMistress Margaret turned round in her seat; and said in a perfectly\nnatural voice, \"Why, Anthony, my lad!\"\n\nThere was a murmur from one or two of the men.\n\n\"Silence,\" called out the magistrate. \"We will finish the other affair\nfirst,\" and he made a motion to hold Anthony for a moment.--\"Now then, do\nany of you men know this gentleman?\"\n\nA pursuivant stepped out.\n\n\"Mr. Frankland, sir; I know him under two names--Mr. Chapman and Mr.\nWode. He is a popish agent. I saw him in the company of Dr. Storey in\nAntwerp, four months ago.\"\n\nMr. Stewart blew out his lips sharply and contemptuously.\n\n\"Pooh,\" he said; and then turned to the man and bowed ironically.\n\n\"I congratulate you, my man,\" he said, in a tone of bitter triumph. \"In\nApril I was in France. Kindly remember this man's words, Mr. Frankland;\nthey will tell in my favour. For I presume you mean to take me.\"\n\n\"I will remember them,\" said the magistrate.\n\nMr. Stewart bowed to him; he had completely regained his composure. Then\nhe turned to Sir Nicholas and Lady Maxwell, who had been watching in a\nbewildered silence.\n\n\"I am exceedingly sorry,\" he said, \"for having brought this annoyance on\nyou, Lady Maxwell; but these men are so sharp that they see nothing but\nguilt everywhere. I do not know yet what my crime is. But that can wait.\nSir Nicholas, we should have parted anyhow in half an hour. We shall only\nsay good-bye here, instead of at the door.\"\n\nThe magistrate smiled again as before; and half put up his hand to hide\nit.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, Mr. Chapman; but you need not part from Sir Nicholas\nyet. I fear, Sir Nicholas, that I shall have to trouble you to come with\nus.\"\n\nLady Maxwell drew a quick hissing breath; her sister got up swiftly and\nwent to her, as she sat down in Sir Nicholas' chair, still holding the\nold man's hand.\n\nSir Nicholas turned to his guest; and his voice broke again and again as\nhe spoke.\n\n\"Mr. Stewart,\" he said, \"I am sorry that any guest of mine should be\nsubject to these insults. However, I am glad that I shall have the\npleasure of your company after all. I suppose we ride to East Grinsted,\"\nhe added harshly to the magistrate, who bowed to him.--\"Then may I have\nmy servant, sir?\"\n\n\"Presently,\" said Mr. Frankland, and then turned to Anthony, who had been\nstaring wild-eyed at the scene, \"Now who is this?\"\n\nA man answered from the rank.\n\n\"That is Master Anthony Norris, sir.\"\n\n\"Ah! and who is Master Anthony Norris? A Papist, too?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said the man again, \"a good Protestant; and the son of Mr.\nNorris at the Dower House.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the magistrate again, judicially. \"And what might you be\nwanting here, Master Anthony Norris?\"\n\nAnthony explained that he often came up in the evening, and that he\nwanted nothing. The magistrate eyed him a moment or two.\n\n\"Well, I have nothing against you, young gentleman. But I cannot let you\ngo, till I am safely set out. You might rouse the village. Take him out\ntill we start,\" he added to the man who guarded him.\n\n\"Come this way, sir,\" said the officer; and Anthony presently found\nhimself sitting on the long oak bench that ran across the western end of\nthe hall, at the foot of the stairs, and just opposite the door of Sir\nNicholas' room where he had just witnessed that curious startling scene.\n\nThe man who had charge of him stood a little distance off, and did not\ntrouble him further, and Anthony watched in silence.\n\nThe hall was still dark, except for one candle that had been lighted by\nthe magistrate's party, and it looked sombre and suggestive of tragedy.\nFloor walls and ceiling were all dark oak, and the corners were full of\nshadows. A streak of light came out of the slightly opened door opposite,\nand a murmur of voices. The rest of the house was quiet; it had all been\narranged and carried out without disturbance.\n\nAnthony had a very fair idea of what was going forward; he knew of course\nthat the Catholics were always under suspicion, and now understood\nplainly enough from the conversation he had heard that the reddish-haired\nyoung man, standing so alert and cheerful by the table in there, had\nsomehow precipitated matters. Anthony himself had come up on some\ntrifling errand, and had run straight into this affair; and now he sat\nand wondered resentfully, with his eyes and ears wide open.\n\nThere were men at all the inner doors now; they had slipped in from the\nouter entrances as soon as word had reached them that the prisoners were\nsecured, and only a couple were left outside to prevent the alarm being\nraised in the village. These inner sentinels stood motionless at the foot\nof the stairs that rose up into the unlighted lobby overhead, at the door\nthat led to the inner hall and the servants' quarters, and at those that\nled to the cloister wing and the garden respectively.\n\nThe murmur of voices went on in the room opposite; and presently a man\nslipped out and passed through the sentinels to the door leading to the\nkitchens and pantry; he carried a pike in his hand, and was armed with a\nsteel cap and breast-piece. In a minute he had returned followed by Mr.\nBoyd, Sir Nicholas' body-servant; the two passed into the study--and a\nmoment later the dark inner hall was full of moving figures and rustlings\nand whisperings, as the alarmed servants poured up from downstairs.\n\nThen the study door opened again, and Anthony caught a glimpse of the\nlighted room; the two ladies with Sir Nicholas and his guest were seated\nat table; there was the figure of an armed man behind Mr. Stewart's\nchair, and another behind Lady Maxwell's; then the door closed again as\nMr. Boyd with the magistrate and a constable carrying a candle came out.\n\n\"This way, sir,\" said the servant; and the three crossed the hall, and\npassing close by Anthony, went up the broad oak staircase that led to the\nupper rooms. Then the minutes passed away; from upstairs came the noise\nof doors opening and shutting, and footsteps passing overhead; from the\ninner hall the sound of low talking, and a few sobs now and again from a\nfrightened maid; from Sir Nicholas' room all was quiet except once when\nMr. Stewart's laugh, high and natural, rang out. Anthony thought of that\nstrong brisk face he had seen in the candlelight; and wondered how he\ncould laugh, with death so imminent--and worse than death; and a warmth\nof admiration and respect glowed at the lad's heart. The man by Anthony\nsighed and shifted his feet.\n\n\"What is it for?\" whispered the lad at last.\n\n\"I mustn't speak to you, sir,\" said the man.\n\nAt last the footsteps overhead came to the top of the stairs. The\nmagistrate's voice called out sharply and impatiently:\n\n\"Come along, come along\"; and the three, all carrying bags and valises\ncame downstairs again and crossed the hall. Again the door opened as they\nwent in, leaving the luggage on the floor; and Anthony caught another\nglimpse of the four still seated round the table; but Sir Nicholas' head\nwas bowed upon his hands.\n\nThen again the door closed; and there was silence.\n\nOnce more it was flung open, and Anthony saw the interior of the room\nplainly. The four were standing up, Mr. Stewart was bowing to Lady\nMaxwell; the magistrate stood close beside him; then a couple of men\nstepped up to the young man's side as he turned away, and the three came\nout into the hall and stood waiting by the little heap of luggage. Mr.\nFrankland came next, with the man-servant close beside him, and the rest\nof the men behind; and the last closed the door and stood by it. There\nwas a dead silence; Anthony sprang to his feet in uncontrollable\nexcitement. What was happening? Again the door opened, and the men made\nroom as Mistress Margaret came out, and the door shut.\n\nShe came swiftly across, with her little air of dignity and confidence,\ntowards Anthony, who was standing forward.\n\n\"Why, Master Anthony,\" she said, \"dear lad; I did not know they had kept\nyou,\" and she took his hand.\n\n\"What is it, what is it?\" he whispered sharply.\n\n\"Hush,\" she said; and the two stood together in silence.\n\nThe moments passed; Anthony could hear the quick thumping beat of his own\nheart, and the breathing of Mistress Margaret; but the hall was perfectly\nquiet, where the magistrate with the prisoner and his men stood in an\nirregular dark group with the candle behind them; and no sound came from\nthe room beyond.\n\nThen the handle turned, and a crack of light showed; but no further\nsound; then the door opened wide, a flood of light poured out and Sir\nNicholas tottered into the hall.\n\n\"Margaret, Margaret,\" he cried. \"Where are you? Go to her.\"\n\nThere was a strange moaning sound from the brightly lighted room. The old\nlady dropped Anthony's hand and moved swiftly and unfalteringly across,\nand once more the door closed behind her.\n\nThere was a sharp word of command from the magistrate, and the sentries\nfrom every door left their posts, and joined the group which, with Sir\nNicholas and his guest and Mr. Boyd in the centre, now passed out through\nthe garden door.\n\nThe magistrate paused as he saw Anthony standing there alone.\n\n\"I can trust you, young gentleman,\" he said, \"not to give the alarm till\nwe are gone?\"\n\nAnthony nodded, and the magistrate passed briskly out on to the terrace,\nshutting the door behind him; there was a rush of footsteps and a murmur\nof voices and the hall was filled with the watching servants.\n\nAs the chorus of exclamations and inquiries broke out, Anthony ran\nstraight through the crowd to the garden door, and on to the terrace.\nThey had gone to the left, he supposed, but he hesitated a moment to\nlisten; then he heard the stamp of horses' feet and the jingle of\nsaddlery, and saw the glare of torches through the yew hedge; and he\nturned quickly and ran along the terrace, past the flood of light that\npoured out from the supper room, and down the path that led to the\nside-door opposite the Rectory. It was very dark, and he stumbled once or\ntwice; then he came to the two or three stairs that led down to the door\nin the wall, and turned off among the bushes, creeping on hands and feet\ntill he reached the wall, low on this side, but deep on the other; and\nlooked over.\n\nThe pursuivants with their men had formed a circle round the two\nprisoners, who were already mounted and who sat looking about them as the\nluggage was being strapped to their saddles before and behind; the\nbridles were lifted forward over the horses' heads, and a couple of the\nguard held each rein. The groom who had brought round the two horses for\nMr. Stewart and himself stood white-faced and staring, with his back to\nthe Rectory wall. The magistrate was just mounting at a little distance\nhis own horse, which was held by the Rectory boy. Mr. Boyd, it seemed,\nwas to walk with the men. Two or three torches were burning by now, and\nevery detail was distinct to Anthony, as he crouched among the dry leaves\nand peered down on to the group just beneath.\n\nSir Nicholas' face was turned away from him; but his head was sunk on his\nbreast, and he did not stir or lift it as his horse stamped at the\nstrapping on of the valise Mr. Boyd had packed for him. Mr. Stewart sat\nerect and motionless, and his face as Anthony saw it was confident and\nfearless.\n\nThen suddenly the door in the Rectory wall opposite was flung open, and a\nfigure in flying black skirts, but hatless, rushed out and through the\nguard straight up to the old man's knee. There was a shout from the men\nand a movement to pull him off, but the magistrate who was on his horse\nand just outside the circle spoke sharply, and the men fell back.\n\n\"Oh, Sir Nicholas, Sir Nicholas,\" sobbed the minister, his face half\nburied in the saddle. Anthony saw his shoulders shaking, and his hands\nclutching at the old man's knee. \"Forgive me, forgive me.\"\n\nThere was no answer from Sir Nicholas; he still sat unmoved, his chin on\nhis breast, as the Rector sobbed and moaned at his stirrup.\n\n\"There, there,\" said the magistrate decidedly, over the heads of the\nguard, \"that is enough, Mr. Dent\"; and he made a motion with his hand.\n\nA couple of men took the minister by the shoulders and drew him, still\ncrying out to Sir Nicholas, outside the group; and he stood there dazed\nand groping with his hands. There was a word of command; and the guard\nmoved off at a sharp walk, with the horses in the centre, and as they\nturned, the lad saw in the torchlight the old man's face drawn and\nwrinkled with sorrow, and great tears running down it.\n\nThe Rector leaned against his own wall, with his hands over his face; and\nAnthony looked at him with growing suspicion and terror as the flare of\nthe torches on the trees faded, and the noise of the troop died away\nround the corner.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER IX\n\n                           VILLAGE JUSTICE\n\n\nThe village had never known such an awakening as on the morning that\nfollowed Sir Nicholas' arrest. Before seven o'clock every house knew it,\nand children ran half-dressed to the outlying hamlets to tell the story.\nVery little work was done that day, for the estate was disorganised; and\nthe men had little heart for work; and there were groups all day on the\ngreen, which formed and re-formed and drifted here and there and\ndiscussed and sifted the evidence. It was soon known that the Rectory\nhousehold had had a foremost hand in the affair. The groom, who had been\npresent at the actual departure of the prisoners had told the story of\nthe black figure that ran out of the door, and of what was cried at the\nold man's knee; and how he had not moved nor spoken in answer; and\nThomas, the Rectory boy, was stopped as he went across the green in the\nevening and threatened and encouraged until he told of the stroke on the\nchurch-bell, and the Rectory key, and the little company that had sat all\nthe afternoon in the kitchen over their ale. He told too how a couple of\nhours ago he had been sent across with a note to Lady Maxwell, and that\nit had been returned immediately unopened.\n\nSo as night fell, indignation had begun to smoulder fiercely against the\nminister, who had not been seen all day; and after dark had fallen the\nname \"Judas\" was cried in at the Rectory door half a dozen times, and a\nstone or two from the direction of the churchyard had crashed on the\ntiles of the house.\n\nMr. Norris had been up all day at the Hall, but he was the only visitor\nadmitted. All day long the gate-house was kept closed, and the same\nmessage was given to the few horsemen and carriages that came to inquire\nafter the truth of the report from the Catholic houses round, to the\neffect that it was true that Sir Nicholas and a friend had been taken off\nto London by the Justice from East Grinsted; and that Lady Maxwell begged\nthe prayers of her friends for her husband's safe return.\n\nAnthony had ridden off early with a servant, at his father's wish, to\nfollow Sir Nicholas and learn any news of him that was possible, to do\nhim any service he was able, and to return or send a message the next day\ndown to Great Keynes; and early in the afternoon he returned with the\ninformation that Sir Nicholas was at the Marshalsea, that he was well and\nhappy, that he sent his wife his dear love, and that she should have a\nletter from him before nightfall. He rode straight to the Hall with the\nnews, full of chastened delight at his official importance, just pausing\nto tell a group that was gathered on the green that all was well so far,\nand was shown up to Lady Maxwell's own parlour, where he found her, very\nquiet and self-controlled, and extremely grateful for his kindness in\nriding up to London and back on her account. Anthony explained too that\nhe had been able to get Sir Nicholas one or two comforts that the prison\ndid not provide, a pillow and an extra coverlet and some fruit; and he\nleft her full of gratitude.\n\nHis father had been up to see the ladies two or three times, and in spite\nof the difference in religion had prayed with them, and talked a little;\nand Lady Maxwell had asked that Isabel might come up to supper and spend\nthe evening. Mr. Norris promised to send her up, and then added:\n\n\"I am a little anxious, Lady Maxwell, lest the people may show their\nanger against the Rector or his wife, about what has happened.\"\n\nLady Maxwell looked startled.\n\n\"They have been speaking of it all day long,\" he said, \"they know\neverything; and it seems the Rector is not so much to blame as his wife.\nIt was she who sent for the magistrate and gave him the key and arranged\nit all; he was only brought into it too late to interfere or refuse.\"\n\n\"Have you seen him?\" asked the old lady.\n\n\"I have been both days,\" he said, \"but he will not see me; he is in his\nstudy, locked in.\"\n\n\"I may have treated him hardly,\" she said, \"I would not open his note;\nbut at least he consented to help them against his friend.\" And her old\neyes filled with tears.\n\n\"I fear that is so,\" said the other sadly.\n\n\"But speak to the people,\" she said, \"I think they love my husband, and\nwould do nothing to grieve us; tell them that nothing would pain either\nof us more than that any should suffer for this. Tell them they must do\nnothing, but be patient and pray.\"\n\nThere was a group still on the green near the pond as Isabel came up to\nsupper that evening about six o'clock. Her father, who had given Lady\nMaxwell's message to the people an hour or two before, had asked her to\ngo that way and send down a message to him immediately if there seemed to\nbe any disturbance or threatening of it; but the men were very quiet. Mr.\nMusgrave was there, she saw, sitting with his pipe, on the stocks, and\nPiers, the young Irish bailiff, was standing near; they all were silent\nas the girl came up, and saluted her respectfully as usual; and she saw\nno signs of any dangerous element. There were one or two older women with\nthe men, and others were standing at their open doors on all sides as she\nwent up. The Rectory gate was locked, and no one was to be seen within.\n\nSupper was laid in Sir Nicholas' room, as it generally was, and as it had\nbeen two nights ago; and it was very strange to Isabel to know that it\nwas here that the arrest had taken place; the floor, too, she noticed as\nshe came in, all about the threshold was scratched and dented by rough\nboots.\n\nLady Maxwell was very silent and distracted during supper; she made\nefforts to talk again and again, and her sister did her best to interest\nher and keep her talking; but she always relapsed after a minute or two\ninto silence again, with long glances round the room, at the Vernacle\nover the fireplace, the prie-dieu with the shield of the Five Wounds\nabove it, and all the things that spoke so keenly of her husband.\n\nWhat a strange room it was, too, thought Isabel, with its odd mingling of\nthe two worlds, with the tapestry of the hawking scene and the stiff\nherons and ladies on horseback on one side, and the little shelf of\ndevotional books on the other; and yet how characteristic of its owner\nwho fingered his cross-bow or the reins of his horse all day, and his\nbeads in the evening; and how strange that an old man like Sir Nicholas,\nwho knew the world, and had as much sense apparently as any one else,\nshould be willing to sacrifice home and property and even life itself,\nfor these so plainly empty superstitious things that could not please a\nGod that was Spirit and Truth! So Isabel thought to herself, with no\nbitterness or contempt, but just a simple wonder and amazement, as she\nlooked at the painted tokens and trinkets.\n\nIt was still daylight when they went upstairs to Lady Maxwell's room\nabout seven, but the clear southern sky over the yew hedges and the tall\nelms where the rooks were circling, was beginning to be flushed with deep\namber and rose. Isabel sat down in the window seat with the sweet air\npouring in and looked out on to the garden with its tiled paths and its\ncool green squares of lawn, and the glowing beds at the sides. Over to\nher right the cloister court ran out, with its two rows of windows,\nbedrooms above with galleries beyond, as she knew, and parlours and\ncloisters below; the pleasant tinkle of the fountain in the court came\nfaintly to her ears across the caw of the rooks about the elms and the\nlow sounds from the stables and the kitchen behind the house. Otherwise\nthe evening was very still; the two old ladies were sitting near the\nfireplace; Lady Maxwell had taken up her embroidery, and was looking at\nit listlessly, and Mistress Margaret had one of her devotional books and\nwas turning the pages, pausing here and there as she did so.\n\nPresently she began to read, without a word of introduction, one of the\nmusings of the old monk John Audeley in his sickness, and as the tender\nlines stepped on, that restless jewelled hand grew still.\n\n    \"As I lay sick in my languor\n      In an abbey here by west;\n    This book I made with great dolour,\n      When I might not sleep nor rest.\n    Oft with my prayers my soul I blest,\n      And said aloud to Heaven's King,\n    'I know, O Lord, it is the best\n      Meekly to take thy visiting.\n    Else well I wot that I were lorn\n    (High above all lords be he blest!)\n      All that thou dost is for the best;\n    By fault of Thee was no man lost,\n      That is here of woman born.'\"\n\nAnd then she read some of Rolle's verses to Jesus, the \"friend of all\nsick and sorrowful souls,\" and a meditation of his on the Passion, and\nthe tranquil thoughts and tender fragrant sorrows soothed the torn\nthrobbing soul; and Isabel saw the old wrinkled hand rise to her\nforehead, and the embroidery, with the needle still in it slipped to the\nground; as the holy Name \"like ointment poured forth\" gradually brought\nits endless miracle and made all sweet and healthful again.\n\nOutside the daylight was fading; the luminous vault overhead was\ndeepening to a glowing blue as the sunset contracted on the western\nhorizon to a few vivid streaks of glory; the room was growing darker\nevery moment; and Mistress Margaret's voice began to stumble over words.\n\nThe great gilt harp in the corner only gleamed here and there now in\nsingle lines of clear gold where the dying daylight fell on the strings.\nThe room was full of shadows and the image of the Holy Mother and Child\nhad darkened into obscurity in their niche. The world was silent now too;\nthe rooks were gone home and the stir of the household below had ceased;\nand in a moment more Mistress Margaret's voice had ceased too, as she\nlaid the book down.\n\nThen, as if the world outside had waited for silence before speaking,\nthere came a murmur of sound from the further side of the house. Isabel\nstarted up; surely there was anger in that low roar from the village; was\nit this that her father had feared? Had she been remiss? Lady Maxwell too\nsprang up and faced the window with wide large eyes.\n\n\"The letter!\" she said; and took a quick step towards the door; but\nMistress Margaret was with her instantly, with her arm about her.\n\n\"Sit down, Mary,\" she said, \"they will bring it at once\"; and her sister\nobeyed; and she sat waiting and looking towards the door, clasping and\nunclasping her hands as they lay on her lap; and Mistress Margaret stood\nby her, waiting and watching too. Isabel still stood by the window\nlistening. Had she been mistaken then? The roar had sunk into silence for\na moment; and there came back the quick beat of a horse's hoofs outside\non the short drive between the gatehouse and the Hall. They were right,\nthen; and even as she thought it, and as the wife that waited for news of\nher husband drew a quick breath and half rose in her seat at the sound of\nthat shod messenger that bore them, again the roar swelled up louder than\never; and Isabel sprang down from the low step of the window-seat into\nthe dusky room where the two sisters waited.\n\n\"What is that? What is that?\" she whispered sharply.\n\nThere was a sound of opening doors, and of feet that ran in the house\nbelow; and Lady Maxwell rose up and put out her hand, as a man-servant\ndashed in with a letter.\n\n\"My lady,\" he said panting, and giving it to her, \"they are attacking the\nRectory.\"\n\nLady Maxwell, who was half-way to the window now, for light to read her\nhusband's letter, paused at that.\n\n\"The Rectory?\" she said. \"Why--Margaret----\" then she stopped, and Isabel\nclose beside her, saw her turn resolutely from the great sealed letter in\nher hand to the door, and back again.\n\n\"Jervis told us, my lady; none saw him as he rode through--they were\nbreaking down the gate.\"\n\nThen Lady Maxwell, with a quick movement, lifted the letter to her lips\nand kissed it, and thrust it down somewhere out of sight in the folds of\nher dress.\n\n\"Come, Margaret,\" she said.\n\nIsabel followed them down the stairs and out through the hall-door; and\nthere, as they came out on to the steps that savage snarling roar swelled\nup from the green. There was laughter and hooting mixed with that growl\nof anger; but even the laughter was fierce. The gatehouse stood up black\nagainst the glare of torches, and the towers threw great swinging shadows\non the ground and the steps of the Hall.\n\nIsabel followed the two grey glimmering figures, and was astonished at\nthe speed with which she had to go. The hoofs of the courier's horse rang\non the cobbles of the stable-yard as they came down towards the\ngatehouse, and the two wings of the door were wide-open through which he\nhad passed just now; but the porter was gone.\n\nAh! there was the crowd; but not at the Rectory. On the right the Rectory\ngate lay wide open, and a flood of light poured out from the house-door\nat the end of the drive. Before them lay the dark turf, swarming with\nblack figures towards the lower end; and a ceaseless roar came from them.\nThere were half a dozen torches down there, tossing to and fro; Isabel\nsaw that the crowd was still moving down towards the stocks and the pond.\n\nNow the two ladies in front of her were just coming up with the skirts of\nthe crowd; and there was an exclamation or two of astonishment as the\nwomen and children saw who it was that was coming. Then there came the\nfurious scream of a man, and the crowd parted, as three men came reeling\nout together, two of them trying with all their power to restrain a\nfighting, kicking, plunging man in long black skirts, who tore and beat\nwith his hands. The three ladies stopped for a moment, close together;\nand simultaneously the struggling man broke free and dashed back into the\ncrowd, screaming with anger and misery.\n\n\"Marion, Marion--I am coming--O God!\"\n\nAnd Isabel saw with a shock of horror that sent her crouching and clinging\nclose to Mistress Margaret, that it was the Rector. But the two men were\nafter him and caught him by the shoulders as he disappeared; and as they\nturned they faced Lady Maxwell.\n\n\"My lady, my lady,\" stammered one, \"we mean him no harm. We----\" But his\nvoice stopped, as there came a sudden silence, rent by a high terrible\nshriek and a splash; followed in a moment by a yell of laughter and\nshouting; and Lady Maxwell threw herself into the crowd in front.\n\nThere were a few moments of jostling in the dark, with the reek and press\nof the crowd about her; and Isabel found herself on the brink of the\nblack pond, with Lady Maxwell on one side, and Piers on the other keeping\nthe crowd back, and a dripping figure moaning and sobbing in the trampled\nmud at Lady Maxwell's feet. There was silence enough now, and the ring of\nfaces opposite stared astonished and open-mouthed at the tall old lady\nwith her grey veiled head upraised, as she stood there in the torchlight\nand rated them in her fearless indignant voice.\n\n\"I am ashamed, ashamed!\" cried Lady Maxwell. \"I thought you were men. I\nthought you loved my husband; and--and me.\" Her voice broke, and then\nonce more she cried again. \"I am ashamed, ashamed of my village.\"\n\nAnd then she stooped to that heaving figure that had crawled up, and laid\nhold tenderly of the arms that were writhed about her feet.\n\n\"Come home, my dear,\" Isabel heard her whisper.\n\nIt was a strange procession homeward up the trampled turf. The crowd had\nbroken into groups, and the people were awed and silent as they watched\nthe four women go back together. Isabel walked a little behind with her\nfather and Anthony, who had at last been able to come forward through the\npress and join them; and a couple of the torchbearers escorted them. In\nfront went the three, on one side Lady Maxwell, her lace and silk\nsplashed and spattered with mud, and her white hands black with it, and\non the other the old nun, each with an arm thrown round the woman in the\ncentre who staggered and sobbed and leaned against them as she went, with\nher long hair and her draggled clothes streaming with liquid mud every\nstep she took. Once they stopped, at a group of three men. The Rector was\nsitting up, in his torn dusty cassock, and Isabel saw that one of his\nbuckled shoes was gone, as he sat on the grass with his feet before him,\nbut quiet now, with his hands before him, and a dazed stupid look in his\nlittle black eyes that blinked at the light of the torch that was held\nover him; he said nothing as he looked at his wife between the two\nladies, but his lips moved, and his eyes wandered for a moment to Lady\nMaxwell's face, and then back to his wife.\n\n\"Take him home presently,\" she said to the men who were with him--and\nthen passed on again.\n\nAs they got through the gatehouse, Isabel stepped forward to Mistress\nMargaret's side.\n\n\"Shall I come?\" she whispered; and the nun shook her head; so she with\nher father and brother stood there to watch, with the crowd silent and\nashamed behind. The two torchbearers went on and stood by the steps as\nthe three ladies ascended, leaving black footmarks as they went. The door\nwas open and faces of servants peeped out, and hands were thrust out to\ntake the burden from their mistress, but she shook her head, and the\nthree came in together, and the door closed.\n\nAs the Norrises went back silently, the Rector passed them, with a little\ngroup accompanying him too; he, too, could hardly walk alone, so\nexhausted was he with his furious struggles to rescue his wife.\n\n\"Take your sister home,\" said Mr. Norris to Anthony; and they saw him\nslip off and pass his arm through the Rector's, and bend down his\nhandsome kindly face to the minister's staring eyes and moving lips as he\ntoo led him homewards.\n\nEven Anthony was hushed and impressed, and hardly spoke a word until he\nand Isabel turned off down the little dark lane to the Dower House.\n\n\"We could do nothing,\" he said, \"father and I--until Lady Maxwell came.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Isabel softly, \"she only could have done it.\"\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER X\n\n                             A CONFESSOR\n\n\nSir Nicholas and the party were lodged at East Grinsted the night of\ntheir arrest, in the magistrate's house. Although he was allowed privacy\nin his room, after he had given his word of honour not to attempt an\nescape, yet he was allowed no conversation with Mr. Stewart or his own\nservant except in the presence of the magistrate or one of the\npursuivants; and Mr. Stewart, since he was personally unknown to the\nmagistrate, and since the charge against him was graver, was not on any\naccount allowed to be alone for a moment, even in the room in which he\nslept. The following day they all rode on to London, and the two\nprisoners were lodged in the Marshalsea. This had been for a long while\nthe place where Bishop Bonner was confined; and where Catholic prisoners\nwere often sent immediately after their arrest; and Sir Nicholas at any\nrate found to his joy that he had several old friends among the\nprisoners. He was confined in a separate room; but by the kindness of his\ngaoler whom he bribed profusely as the custom was, through his servant,\nhe had many opportunities of meeting the others; and even of approaching\nthe sacraments and hearing mass now and then.\n\nHe began a letter to his wife on the day of his arrival and finished it\nthe next day which was Saturday, and it was taken down immediately by the\ncourier who had heard the news and had called at the prison. In fact, he\nwas allowed a good deal of liberty; although he was watched and his\nconversation listened to, a good deal more than he was aware. Mr.\nStewart, however, as he still called himself, was in a much harder case.\nThe saddle-bags had been opened on his arrival, and incriminating\ndocuments found. Besides the \"popish trinkets\" they were found to contain\na number of \"seditious pamphlets,\" printed abroad for distribution in\nEngland; for at this time the College at Douai, under its founder Dr.\nWilliam Allen, late Principal of St. Mary's Hall, Oxford, was active in\nthe production of literature; these were chiefly commentaries on the\nBull; as well as exhortations to the Catholics to stand firm and to\npersevere in recusancy, and to the schismatic Catholics, as they were\ncalled, to give over attending the services in the parish churches. There\nwere letters also from Dr. Storey himself, whom the authorities already\nhad in person under lock and key at the Tower. These were quite\nsufficient to make Mr. Stewart a prize; and he also was very shortly\nafterwards removed to the Tower.\n\nSir Nicholas wrote a letter at least once a week to his wife; but writing\nwas something of a labour to him; it was exceedingly doubtful to his mind\nwhether his letters were not opened and read before being handed to the\ncourier, and as his seal was taken from him his wife could not tell\neither. However they seemed to arrive regularly; plainly therefore the\nauthorities were either satisfied with their contents or else did not\nthink them worth opening or suppressing. He was quite peremptory that his\nwife should not come up to London; it would only increase his distress,\nhe said; and he liked to think of her at Maxwell Hall; there were other\nreasons too that he was prudent enough not to commit to paper, and which\nshe was prudent enough to guess at, the principal of which was, of\ncourse, that she ought to be there for the entertaining and helping of\nother agents or priests who might be in need of shelter.\n\nThe old man got into good spirits again very soon. It pleased him to\nthink that God had honoured him by imprisonment; and he said as much once\nor twice in his letters to his wife. He was also pleased with a sense of\nthe part he was playing in the _r\u00f4le_ of a conspirator; and he underlined\nand put signs and exclamation marks all over his letters of which he\nthought his wife would understand the significance, but no one else;\nwhereas in reality the old lady was sorely puzzled by them, and the\nauthorities who opened the letters generally read them of course like a\nprinted book.\n\nOne morning about ten days after his arrival the Governor of the prison\nlooked in with the gaoler, and announced to Sir Nicholas, after greeting\nhim, that he was to appear before the Council that very day. This, of\ncourse, was what Sir Nicholas desired, and he thanked the Governor\ncordially for his good news.\n\n\"They will probably keep you at the Tower, Sir Nicholas,\" said the\nGovernor, \"and we shall lose you. However, sir, I hope you will be more\ncomfortable there than we have been able to make you.\"\n\nThe knight thanked the Governor again, and said good-day to him with\ngreat warmth; for they had been on the best of terms with one another\nduring his short detention at the Marshalsea.\n\nThe following day Sir Nicholas wrote a long letter to his wife describing\nhis examination.\n\n\"We are in _royal lodgings_ here at last, sweetheart; Mr. Boyd brought my\nluggage over yesterday; and I am settled _for the present_ in a room of\nmy own in the White Tower; with a prospect over the Court. I was had\nbefore my lords yesterday in the Council-room; we drove hither from the\nMarshalsea. There was a bay window in the room. I promise you they got\nlittle enough from me. There was my namesake, Sir Nicholas Bacon, my\nlords Leicester and Pembroke, and Mr. Secretary Cecil; Sir James Crofts,\nthe Controller of the Household, and one or two more; but these were the\nprincipal. I was set before the table on a chair alone with none to guard\nme; but with men at the doors I knew very well. My lords were very\ncourteous to me; though they laughed more than was seemly at such grave\ntimes. They questioned me much as to my religion. Was I a papist? If they\nmeant by that a _Catholic_, that I was, and thanked God for it every\nday--(those nicknames like me not). Was I then a recusant? If by that\nthey meant, Did I go to their Genevan Hotch-Potch? That I did not nor\nnever would. I thought to have said a word here about St. Cyprian his\nwork _De Unitate Ecclesiae_, as F----r X. told me, but they would not let\nme speak. Did I know Mr. Chapman? If by that they meant Mr. Stewart, that\nI did, and for a courteous God-fearing gentleman too. Was he a Papist, or\na Catholic if I would have it so? That I would not tell them; let them\nfind that out with their pursuivants and that crew. Did I think\nProtestants to be fearers of God? That I did not; they feared nought but\nthe Queen's Majesty, so it seemed to me. Then they all laughed at once--I\nknow not why. Then they grew grave; and Mr. Secretary began to ask me\nquestions, sharp and hard; but I would not be put upon, and answered him\nagain as he asked. Did I know ought of Dr. Storey? Nothing, said I, save\nthat he is a good Catholic, and that they had taken him. _He is a\nseditious rogue_, said my Lord Pembroke. _That he is not_, said I. Then\nthey asked me what I thought of the Pope and his Bull, and whether he can\ndepose princes. I said I thought him to be the Vicar of Christ; and as to\nhis power to depose princes, that I supposed he could do, if he said so.\nThen two or three cried out on me that I had not answered honestly; and\nat that I got wrath; and then they laughed again, at least I saw Sir\nJames Crofts at it. And Mr. Secretary, looking very hard at me asked\nwhether if Philip sent an armament against Elizabeth to depose her, I\nwould fight for him or her grace. For neither, said I: I am too old. _For\nwhich then would you pray?_ said they. _For the Queen's Grace_, said I,\n_for that she was my sovereign_. This seemed to content them; and they\ntalked a little among themselves. They had asked me other questions too\nas to my way of living; whether I went to mass. They asked me too a\nlittle more about Mr. Stewart. Did I know him to be a seditious rascal?\nThat I did not, said I. _Then how_, asked they, _did you come to receive\nhim and his pamphlets?_ Of his pamphlets, said I, I know nothing; I saw\nnothing in his bags save beads and a few holy books and such things. (You\nsee, sweetheart, I did him no injury by saying so, because I knew that\nthey had his bags themselves.) And I said I had received him because he\nwas recommended to me by some good friends of mine abroad, and I told\nthem their names too; for they are safe in Flanders now.\n\n\"And when they had done their questions they talked again for a while; and\nI was sent out to the antechamber to refresh myself; and Mr. Secretary\nsent a man with me to see that I had all I needed; and we talked together\na little, and he said the Council were in good humour at the taking of\nDr. Storey; and he had never seen them so merry. Then I was had back\nagain presently; and Mr. Secretary said I was to stay in the Tower; and\nthat Mr. Boyd was gone already to bring my things. And so after that I\nwent by water to the Tower, and here I am, sweetheart, well and cheerful,\npraise God....\n\n\"My dearest, I send you my heart's best love. God have you in his holy\nkeeping.\"\n\nThe Council treated the old knight very tenderly. They were shrewd enough\nto see his character very plainly; and that he was a simple man who knew\nnothing of sedition, but only had harboured agents thinking them to be as\nguileless as himself. As a matter of fact, Mr. Stewart was an agent of\nDr. Storey's; and was therefore implicated in a number of very grave\ncharges. This of course was a very serious matter; but both in the\nexamination of the Council, and in papers in Mr. Stewart's bags, nothing\ncould be found to implicate Sir Nicholas in any political intrigue at\nall. The authorities were unwilling too to put such a man to the torture.\nThere was always a possibility of public resentment against the torture\nof a man for his religion alone; and they were desirous not to arouse\nthis, since they had many prisoners who would be more productive subjects\nof the rack than a plainly simple and loyal old man whose only crime was\nhis religion. They determined, however, to make an attempt to get a\nlittle more out of Sir Nicholas by a device which would excite no\nresentment if it ever transpired, and one which was more suited to the\nold man's nature and years.\n\nSir Nicholas thus described it to his wife.\n\n\"Last night, my dearest, I had a great honour and consolation. I was\nawakened suddenly towards two o'clock in the morning by the door of my\nroom opening and a man coming in. It was somewhat dark, and I could not\nsee the man plainly, but I could see that he limped and walked with a\nstick, and he breathed hard as he entered. I sat up and demanded of him\nwho he was and what he wanted; and telling me to be still, he said that\nhe was Dr. Storey. You may be sure, sweetheart, that I sprang up at that;\nbut he would not let me rise; and himself sat down beside me. He said\nthat by the _kindness_ of a gaoler he had been allowed to come; and that\nhe must not stay with me long; that he had heard of me from his good\nfriend Mr. Stewart. I asked him how he did, for I heard that he had been\nracked; and he said yes, it was true; but that by the mercy of God and\nthe prayers of the saints he had held his peace and they knew nothing\nfrom him. Then he asked me a great number of questions about the _men I\nhad entertained_, and where they were now; and he knew many of their\nnames. Some of them were friends of his own, he said; especially the\npriests. We talked a good while, till the morning light began; and then\nhe said he must be gone or the head gaoler would know of his visit, and\nso he went. I wish I could have seen his face, sweetheart, for I think\nhim a great servant of God; but it was still too dark when he went, and\nwe dared not have a light for fear it should be seen.\"\n\nThis was as a matter of fact a ruse of the authorities. It was not Dr.\nStorey at all who was admitted to Sir Nicholas' prison, but Parker, who\nhad betrayed him at Antwerp. It was so successful, for Sir Nicholas told\nhim all that he knew (which was really nothing at all) that it was\nrepeated a few months later with richer results; when the conspirator\nBaily, hysterical and almost beside himself with the pain of the rack,\nunder similar circumstances gave up a cypher which was necessary to the\nCouncil in dealing with the correspondence of Mary Stuart. However, Sir\nNicholas never knew the deception, and to the end of his days was proud\nthat he had actually met the famous Dr. Storey, when they were both\nimprisoned in the Tower together, and told his friends of it with\nreverent pride when the doctor was hanged a year later.\n\nHubert, who had been sent for to take charge of the estate, had come to\nLondon soon after his father's arrival at the Tower; and was allowed an\ninterview with him in the presence of the Lieutenant. Hubert was greatly\naffected; though he could not look upon the imprisonment with the same\nsolemn exultation as that which his father had; but it made a real\nimpression upon him to find that he took so patiently this separation\nfrom home and family for the sake of religion. Hubert received\ninstructions from Sir Nicholas as to the management of the estate, for it\nwas becoming plain that his father would have to remain in the Tower for\nthe present; not any longer on a really grave charge, but chiefly because\nhe was an obstinate recusant and would promise nothing. The law and its\nadministration at this time were very far apart; the authorities were not\nvery anxious to search out and punish those who were merely recusants or\nrefused to take the oath of supremacy; and so Hubert and Mr. Boyd and\nother Catholics were able to come and go under the very nose of justice\nwithout any real risk to themselves; but it was another matter to let a\nsturdy recusant go from prison who stoutly refused to give any sort of\npromise or understanding as to future behaviour.\n\nSir Nicholas was had down more than once to further examination before\nthe Lords Commissioners in the Lieutenant's house; but it was a very tame\nand even an amusing affair for all save Sir Nicholas. It was so easy to\nprovoke him; he was so simple and passionate that they could get almost\nanything they wanted out of him by a little adroit baiting; and more than\nonce his examination formed a welcome and humorous entr'acte between two\nreal tragedies. Sir Nicholas, of course, never suspected for a moment\nthat he was affording any amusement to any one. He thought their weary\nlaughter to be sardonic and ironical, and he looked upon himself as a\nvery desperate fellow indeed; and wrote glowing accounts of it all to his\nwife, full of apostrophic praises to God and the saints, in a hand that\nshook with excitement and awe at the thought of the important scenes in\nwhich he played so prominent a part.\n\nBut there was no atmosphere of humour about Mr. Stewart. He had\ndisappeared from Sir Nicholas' sight on their arrival at the Marshalsea,\nand they had not set eyes on one another since; nor could all the\nknight's persuasion and offer of bribes make his gaoler consent to take\nany message or scrap of paper between them. He would not even answer more\nthan the simplest inquiries about him,--that he was alive and in the\nTower, and so forth; and Sir Nicholas prayed often and earnestly for that\ndeliberate and vivacious young man who had so charmed and interested them\nall down at Great Keynes, and who had been so mysteriously engulfed by\nthe sombre majesty of the law.\n\n\"I fear,\" he wrote to Lady Maxwell, \"I fear that _our friend_ must be\nsick or dying. But I can hear no news of him; when I am allowed sometimes\nto walk in the court or on the leads he is never there. My _attendant_\nMr. Jakes looks glum and says nothing when I ask him how my friend does.\nMy dearest, do not forget him in your prayers nor your old loving husband\neither.\"\n\nOne evening late in October Mr. Jakes did not come as usual to bring Sir\nNicholas his supper at five o'clock; the time passed and still he did not\ncome. This was very unusual. Presently Mrs. Jakes appeared instead,\ncarrying the food which she set down at the door while she turned the key\nbehind her. Sir Nicholas rallied her on having turned gaoler; but she\nturned on him a face with red eyes and lined with weeping.\n\n\"O Sir Nicholas,\" she said, for these two were good friends, \"what a\nwicked place this is! God forgive me for saying so; but they've had that\nyoung man down there since two o'clock; and Jakes is with them to help;\nand he told me to come up to you, Sir Nicholas, with your supper, if they\nweren't done by five; and if the young gentleman hadn't said what they\nwanted.\"\n\nSir Nicholas felt sick.\n\n\"Who is it?\" he asked.\n\n\"Why, who but Mr. Stewart?\" she said; and then fell weeping again, and\nwent out forgetting to lock the door behind her in her grief. Sir\nNicholas sat still a moment, sick and shaken; he knew what it meant; but\nit had never come so close to him before. He got up presently and went to\nthe door to listen for he knew not what. But there was no sound but the\nmoan of the wind up the draughty staircase, and the sound of a prisoner\nsinging somewhere above him a snatch of a song. He looked out presently,\nbut there was nothing but the dark well of the staircase disappearing\nround to the left, and the glimmer of an oil lamp somewhere from the\ndepths below him, with wavering shadows as the light was blown about by\nthe gusts that came up from outside. There was nothing to be done of\ncourse; he closed the door, went back and prayed with all his might for\nthe young man who was somewhere in this huge building, in his agony.\n\nMr. Jakes came up himself within half an hour to see if all was well; but\nsaid nothing of his dreadful employment or of Mr. Stewart; and Sir\nNicholas did not like to ask for fear of getting Mrs. Jakes into trouble.\nThe gaoler took away the supper things, wished him good-night, went out\nand locked the door, apparently without noticing it had been left undone\nbefore. Possibly his mind was too much occupied with what he had been\nseeing and doing. And the faithful account of all this went down in due\ntime to Great Keynes.\n\nThe arrival of the courier at the Hall on Wednesday and Saturday was a\ngreat affair both to the household and to the village. Sir Nicholas sent\nhis letter generally by the Saturday courier, and the other brought a\nkind of bulletin from Mr. Boyd, with sometimes a message or two from his\nmaster. These letters were taken by the ladies first to the study, as if\nto an oratory, and Lady Maxwell would read them slowly over to her\nsister. And in the evening, when Isabel generally came up for an hour or\ntwo, the girl would be asked to read them slowly all over again to the\ntwo ladies who sat over their embroidery on either side of her, and who\ninterrupted for the sheer joy of prolonging it. And they would discuss\ntogether the exact significance of all his marks of emphasis and irony;\nand the girl would have all she could do sometimes not to feel a disloyal\namusement at the transparency of the devices and the simplicity of the\nloving hearts that marvelled at the writer's depth and ingenuity. But she\nwas none the less deeply impressed by his courageous cheerfulness, and by\nthe power of a religion that in spite of its obvious weaknesses and\nimprobabilities yet inspired an old man like Sir Nicholas with so much\nfortitude.\n\nAt first, too, a kind of bulletin was always issued on the Sunday and\nThursday mornings, and nailed upon the outside of the gatehouse, so that\nany who pleased could come there and get first-hand information; and an\ninterpreter stood there sometimes, one of the educated younger sons of\nMr. Piers, and read out to the groups from Lady Maxwell's sprawling old\nhandwriting, news of the master.\n\n\"Sir Nicholas has been had before the Council,\" he read out one day in a\nhigh complacent voice to the awed listeners, \"and has been sent to the\nTower of London.\" This caused consternation in the village, as it was\nsupposed by the country-folk, not without excuse, that the Tower was the\nantechamber of death; but confidence was restored by the further\nannouncement a few lines down that \"he was well and cheerful.\"\n\nGreat interest, too, was aroused by more domestic matters.\n\n\"Sir Nicholas,\" it was proclaimed, \"is in a little separate chamber of\nhis own. Mr. Jakes, his gaoler, seems an honest fellow. Sir Nicholas hath\na little mattress from a friend that Mr. Boyd fetched for him. He has\ndinner at eleven and supper at five. Sir Nicholas hopes that all are well\nin the village.\"\n\nBut other changes had followed the old knight's arrest. The furious\nindignation in the village against the part that the Rectory had played\nin the matter, made it impossible for the Dents to remain there. That the\nminister's wife should have been publicly ducked, and that not by a few\nblackguards but by the solid fathers and sons with the applause of the\nwives and daughters, made her husband's position intolerable, and further\nevidence was forthcoming in the behaviour of the people towards the\nRector himself; some boys had guffawed during his sermon on the following\nSunday, when he had ventured on a word or two of penitence as to his\nshare in the matter, and he was shouted after on his way home.\n\nMrs. Dent seemed strangely changed and broken during her stay at the\nHall. She had received a terrible shock, and it was not safe to move her\nback to her own house. For the first two or three nights, she would start\nfrom sleep again and again screaming for help and mercy and nothing would\nquiet her till she was wide awake and saw in the fire-light the curtained\nwindows and the bolted door, and the kindly face of an old servant or\nMistress Margaret with her beads in her hand. Isabel, who came up to see\nher two or three times, was both startled and affected by the change in\nher; and by the extraordinary mood of humility which seemed to have taken\npossession of the hard self-righteous Puritan.\n\n\"I begged pardon,\" she whispered to the girl one evening, sitting up in\nbed and staring at her with wide, hard eyes, \"I begged pardon of Lady\nMaxwell, though I am not fit to speak to her. Do you think she can ever\nforgive me? Do you think she can? It was I, you know, who wrought all the\nmischief, as I have wrought all the mischief in the village all these\nyears. She said she did, and she kissed me, and said that our Saviour had\nforgiven her much more. But--but do you think she has forgiven me?\" And\nthen again, another night, a day or two before they left the place, she\nspoke to Isabel again.\n\n\"Look after the poor bodies,\" she said, \"teach them a little charity; I\nhave taught them nought but bitterness and malice, so they have but given\nme my own back again. I have reaped what I have sown.\"\n\nSo the Dents slipped off early one morning before the folk were up; and\nby the following Sunday, young Mr. Bodder, of whom the Bishop entertained\na high opinion, occupied the little desk outside the chancel arch; and\nGreat Keynes once more had to thank God and the diocesan that it\npossessed a proper minister of its own, and not a mere unordained reader,\nwhich was all that many parishes could obtain.\n\nTowards the end of September further hints began to arrive, very much\nunderlined, in the knight's letters, of Mr. Stewart and his sufferings.\n\n\"You remember _our friend_,\" Isabel read out one Saturday evening, \"_not_\nMr. Stewart.\" (This puzzled the old ladies sorely till Isabel explained\ntheir lord's artfulness.) \"My dearest, I fear the worst for him. I do not\nmean apostacy, thank God. But I fear that these _wolves_ have torn him\nsadly, in their _dens_.\" Then followed the story of Mrs. Jakes, with all\nits horror, all the greater from the obscurity of the details.\n\nIsabel put the paper down trembling, as she sat on the rug before the\nfire in the parlour upstairs, and thought of the bright-eyed, red-haired\nman with his steady mouth and low laugh whom Anthony had described to\nher.\n\nLady Maxwell posted upon the gatehouse:\n\n\"Sir Nicholas fears that a _friend_ is in sore trouble; he hopes he may\nnot _yield_.\"\n\nThen, after a few days more, a brief notice with a black-line drawn round\nit, that ran, in Mr. Bodder's despite:\n\n\"Our _friend_ has passed away. Pray for his soul.\"\n\nSir Nicholas had written in great agitation to this effect.\n\n\"My sweetheart, I have heavy news to-day. There was a great company of\nfolks below my window to-day, in the Inner Ward, where the road runs up\nbelow the Bloody Tower. It was about nine of the clock. And there was a\nhorse there whose head I could see; and presently from the Beauchamp\nTower came, as I thought, an old man between two warders; and then I\ncould not very well see; the men were in my way; but soon the horse went\noff, and the men after him; and I could hear the groaning of the crowd\nthat were waiting for them outside. And when Mr. Jakes brought me my\ndinner at eleven of the clock, he told me it was our friend--(think of\nit, my dearest--him whom I thought an old man!)--that had been taken off\nto Tyburn. And now I need say no more, but bid you pray for his soul.\"\n\nIsabel could hardly finish reading it; for she heard a quick sobbing\nbreath behind her, and felt a wrinkled old hand caressing her hair and\ncheek as her voice faltered.\n\nMeanwhile Hubert was in town. Sir Nicholas had at first intended him to\ngo down at once and take charge of the estate; but Piers was very\ncompetent, and so his father consented that he should remain in London\nuntil the beginning of October; and this too better suited Mr. Norris'\nplans who wished to send Isabel off about the same time to Northampton.\n\nWhen Hubert at last did arrive, he soon showed himself extremely capable\nand apt for the work. He was out on the estate from morning till night on\nhis cob, and there was not a man under him from Piers downwards who had\nanything but praise for his insight and industry.\n\nThere was in Hubert, too, as there so often is in country-boys who love\nand understand the life of the woods and fields, a balancing quality of a\ndeep vein of sentiment; and this was now consecrated to Isabel Norris. He\nhad pleasant dreams as he rode home in the autumn evening, under the\nsweet keen sky where the harvest moon rose large and yellow over the\nhills to his left and shed a strange mystical light that blended in a\nkind of chord with the dying daylight. It was at times like that, when\nthe air was fragrant with the scent of dying leaves, with perhaps a touch\nof frost in it, and the cottages one by one opened red glowing eyes in\nthe dusk, that the boy began to dream of a home of his own and pleasant\ndomestic joys; of burning logs on the hearth and lighted candles, and a\ndear slender figure moving about the room. He used to rehearse to himself\nlittle meetings and partings; look at the roofs of the Dower House\nagainst the primrose sky as he rode up the fields homewards; identify her\nwindow, dark now as she was away; and long for Christmas when she would\nbe back again. The only shadow over these delightful pictures was the\nuncertainty as to the future. Where after all would the home be? For he\nwas a younger son. He thought about James very often. When he came back\nwould he live at home? Would it all be James' at his father's death,\nthese woods and fields and farms and stately house? Would it ever come to\nhim? And, meanwhile where should he and Isabel live, when the religious\ndifficulty had been surmounted, as he had no doubt that it would be\nsooner or later?\n\nWhen he thought of his father now, it was with a continually increasing\nrespect. He had been inclined to despise him sometimes before, as one of\na simple and uneventful life; but now the red shadow of the Law conferred\ndignity. To have been imprisoned in the Tower was a patent of nobility,\nadding distinction and gravity to the commonplace. Something of the glory\neven rested on Hubert himself as he rode and hawked with other Catholic\nboys, whose fathers maybe were equally zealous for the Faith, but less\ndistinguished by suffering for it.\n\nBefore Anthony went back to Cambridge, he and Hubert went out nearly\nevery day together with or without their hawks. Anthony was about three\nyears the younger, and Hubert's additional responsibility for the estate\nmade the younger boy more in awe of him than the difference in their ages\nwarranted. Besides, Hubert knew quite as much about sport, and had more\nopportunities for indulging his taste for it. There was no heronry at\nhand; besides, it was not the breeding time which is the proper season\nfor this particular sport; so they did not trouble to ride out to one;\nbut the partridges and hares and rabbits that abounded in the Maxwell\nestate gave them plenty of quarreys. They preferred to go out generally\nwithout the falconer, a Dutchman, who had been taken into the service of\nSir Nicholas thirty years before when things had been more prosperous; it\nwas less embarrassing so; but they would have a lad to carry the \"cadge,\"\nand a pony following them to carry the game. They added to the excitement\nof the sport by making it a competition between their birds; and flying\nthem one after another, or sometimes at the same quarry, as in coursing;\nbut this often led to the birds' crabbing.\n\nAnthony's peregrine Eliza was almost unapproachable; and the lad was the\nmore proud of her as he had \"made\" her himself, as an \"eyess\" or young\nfalcon captured as a nestling. But, on the other hand, Hubert's goshawk\nMargaret, a fiery little creature, named inappropriately enough after his\ntranquil aunt, as a rule did better than Anthony's Isabel, and brought\nthe scores level again.\n\nThere was one superb day that survived long in Anthony's memory and\nconversation; when he had done exceptionally well, when Eliza had\nsurpassed herself, and even Isabel had acquitted herself with credit. It\nwas one of those glorious days of wind and sun that occasionally fall in\nearly October, with a pale turquoise sky overhead, and air that seems to\nsparkle and intoxicate like wine. They went out together after dinner\nabout noon; their ponies and spaniels danced with the joy of life; Lady\nMaxwell cried to them from the north terrace to be careful, and pointed\nout to Mr. Norris who had dined with them what a graceful seat Hubert\nhad; and then added politely, but as an obvious afterthought, that\nAnthony seemed to manage his pony with great address. The boys turned off\nthrough the village, and soon got on to high ground to the west of the\nvillage and all among the stubble and mustard, with tracts of rich sunlit\ncountry, of meadows and russet woodland below them on every side. Then\nthe sport began. It seemed as if Eliza could not make a mistake. There\nrose a solitary partridge forty yards away with a whirl of wings; (the\ncoveys were being well broken up by now) Anthony unhooded his bird and\n\"cast off,\" with the falconer's cry \"Hoo-ha, ha, ha, ha,\" and up soared\nEliza with the tinkle of bells, on great strokes of those mighty wings,\nup, up, behind the partridge that fled low down the wind for his life.\nThe two ponies were put to the gallop as the peregrine began to \"stoop\";\nand then down like a plummet she fell with closed wings, \"raked\" the\nquarry with her talons as she passed; recovered herself, and as Anthony\ncame up holding out the _tabur-stycke_, returned to him and was hooded\nand leashed again; and sat there on his gloved wrist with wet claws, just\nshivering slightly from her nerves, like the aristocrat she was; while\nher master stroked her ashy back and the boy picked up the quarry,\nadmiring the deep rent before he threw it into the pannier.\n\nThen Hubert had the next turn; but his falcon missed his first stoop, and\ndid not strike the quarry till the second attempt, thus scoring one to\nAnthony's account. Then the peregrines were put back on the cadge as the\nboys got near to a wide meadow in a hollow where the rabbits used to\nfeed; and the goshawks Margaret and Isabel were taken, each in turn\nsitting unhooded on her master's wrist, while they all watched the long\nthin grass for the quick movement that marked the passage of a\nrabbit;--and then in a moment the bird was cast off. The goshawk would\nrise just high enough to see the quarry in the grass, then fly straight\nwith arched wings and pounces stretched out as she came over the quarry;\nthen striking him between the shoulders would close with him; and her\nmaster would come up and take her off, throw the rabbit to the\ngame-carrier; and the other would have the next attempt.\n\nAnd so they went on for three or four hours, encouraging their birds,\nwhooping the death of the quarry, watching with all the sportsman's\nkeenness the soaring and stooping of the peregrines, the raking off of\nthe goshawks; listening to the thrilling tinkle of the bells, and taking\nback their birds to sit triumphant and complacent on their master's\nwrists, when the quarry had been fairly struck, and furious and sullen\nwhen it had eluded them two or three times till their breath left them in\nthe dizzy rushes, and they \"canceliered\" or even returned disheartened\nand would fly no more till they had forgotten--till at last the shadows\ngrew long, and the game more wary, and the hawks and ponies tired; and\nthe boys put up the birds on the cadge, and leashed them to it securely;\nand jogged slowly homewards together up the valley road that led to the\nvillage, talking in technical terms of how the merlin's feather must be\n\"imped\" to-morrow; and of the relative merits of the \"varvels\" or little\nsilver rings at the end of the jesses through which the leash ran, and\nthe Dutch swivel that Squire Blackett always used.\n\nAs they got nearer home and the red roofs of the Dower House began to\nglow in the ruddy sunlight above the meadows, Hubert began to shift the\nconversation round to Isabel, and inquire when she was coming home.\nAnthony was rather bored at this turn of the talk; but thought she would\nbe back by Christmas at the latest; and said that she was at\nNorthampton--and had Hubert ever seen such courage as Eliza's? But Hubert\nwould not be put off; but led the talk back again to the girl; and at\nlast told Anthony under promise of secrecy that he was fond of Isabel,\nand wished to make her his wife;--and oh! did Anthony think she cared\nreally for him. Anthony stared and wondered and had no opinion at all on\nthe subject; but presently fell in love with the idea that Hubert should\nbe his brother-in-law and go hawking with him every day; and he added a\nprivate romance of his own in which he and Mary Corbet should be at the\nDower House, with Hubert and Isabel at the Hall; while the elders, his\nown father, Sir Nicholas, Mr. James, Lady Maxwell, and Mistress Torridon\nhad all taken up submissive and complacent attitudes in the middle\ndistance.\n\nHe was so pensive that evening that his father asked him at supper\nwhether he had not had a good day; which diverted his thoughts from\nMistress Corbet, and led him away from sentiment on a stream of his own\ntalk with long backwaters of description of this and that stoop, and of\nexactly the points in which he thought the Maxwells' falconer had failed\nin the training of Hubert's Jane.\n\nHubert found a long letter waiting from his father which Lady Maxwell\ngave him to read, with messages to himself in it about the estate, which\nbrought him down again from the treading of rosy cloud-castles with a\nphantom Isabel whither his hawks and the shouting wind and the happy day\nhad wafted him, down to questions of barns and farm-servants and the\nsober realities of harvest.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XI\n\n                            MASTER CALVIN\n\n\nIsabel reached Northampton a day or two before Hubert came back to Great\nKeynes. She travelled down with two combined parties going to Leicester\nand Nottingham, sleeping at Leighton Buzzard on the way; and on the\nevening of the second day reached the house of her father's friend Dr.\nCarrington, that stood in the Market Square.\n\nHer father's intention in sending her to this particular town and\nhousehold was to show her how Puritanism, when carried to its extreme,\nwas as orderly and disciplined a system, and was able to control the\nlives of its adherents, as well as the Catholicism whose influence on her\ncharacter he found himself beginning to fear. But he wished also that she\nshould be repelled to some extent by the merciless rigidity she would\nfind at Northampton, and thus, after an oscillation or two come to rest\nin the quiet eclecticism of that middle position which he occupied\nhimself.\n\nThe town indeed was at this time a miniature Geneva. There was something\nin the temper of its inhabitants that made it especially susceptible to\nthe wave of Puritanism that was sweeping over England. Lollardy had\nflourished among them so far back as the reign of Richard II; when the\nmayor, as folks told one another with pride, had plucked a mass-priest by\nthe vestment on the way to the altar in All Saints' Church, and had made\nhim give over his mummery till the preacher had finished his sermon.\n\nDr. Carrington, too, a clean-shaven, blue-eyed, grey-haired man,\nchurchwarden of Saint Sepulchre's, was a representative of the straitest\nviews, and desperately in earnest. For him the world ranged itself into\nthe redeemed and the damned; these two companies were the pivots of life\nfor him; and every subject of mind or desire was significant only so far\nas it bore relations to be immutable decrees of God. But his fierce and\nmerciless theological insistence was disguised by a real human tenderness\nand a marked courtesy of manner; and Isabel found him a kindly and\nthoughtful host.\n\nYet the mechanical strictness of the household, and the overpowering\nsense of the weightiness of life that it conveyed, was a revelation to\nIsabel. Dr. Carrington at family prayers was a tremendous figure, as he\nkneeled upright at the head of the table in the sombre dining-room; and\nit seemed to Isabel in her place that the pitiless all-seeing Presence\nthat kept such terrifying silence as the Doctor cried on Jehovah, was\nalmost a different God to that whom she knew in the morning parlour at\nhome, to whom her father prayed with more familiarity but no less\nromance, and who answered in the sunshine that lay on the carpet, and the\nshadows of boughs that moved across it, and the chirp of the birds under\nthe eaves. And all day long she thought she noticed the same difference;\nat Great Keynes life was made up of many parts, the love of family, the\ncountry doings, the worship of God, the garden, and the company of the\nHall ladies; and the Presence of God interpenetrated all like light or\nfragrance; but here life was lived under the glare of His eye, and\nabsorption in any detail apart from the consciousness of that\nencompassing Presence had the nature of sin.\n\nOn the Saturday after her arrival, as she was walking by the Nen with\nKate Carrington, one of the two girls, she asked her about the crowd of\nministers she had seen in the streets that morning.\n\n\"They have been to the Prophesyings,\" said Kate. \"My father says that\nthere is no exercise that sanctifies a godly young minister so quickly.\"\n\nKate went on to describe them further. The ministers assembled each\nSaturday at nine o'clock, and one of their number gave a short\nBible-reading or lecture. Then all present were invited to join in the\ndiscussion; the less instructed would ask questions, the more experienced\nwould answer, and debate would run high. Such a method Kate explained,\nwho herself was a zealous and well instructed Calvinist, was the surest\nand swiftest road to truth, for every one held the open Scriptures in his\nhand, and interpreted and checked the speakers by the aid of that\ninfallible guide.\n\n\"But if a man's judgment lead him wrong?\" asked Isabel, who professedly\nadmitted authority to have some place in matters of faith.\n\n\"All must hold the Apostles' Creed first of all,\" said Kate, \"and must\nset his name to a paper declaring the Pope to be antichrist, with other\ntruths upon it.\"\n\nIsabel was puzzled; for it seemed now as if Private Judgment were not\nsupreme among its professors; but she did not care to question further.\nIt began to dawn upon her presently, however, why the Queen was so fierce\nagainst Prophesyings; for she saw that they exercised that spirit of\nexclusiveness, the property of Papist and Puritan alike; which, since it\nwas the antithesis of the tolerant comprehensiveness of the Church of\nEngland, was also the enemy of the theological peace that Elizabeth was\nseeking to impose upon the country; and that it was for that reason that\nPapist and Puritan, sundered so far in theology, were united in suffering\nfor conscience' sake.\n\nOn the Sunday morning Isabel went with Mrs. Carrington and the two girls\nto the round Templars' Church of Saint Sepulchre, for the Morning Prayer\nat eight o'clock, and then on to St. Peter's for the sermon. It was the\nlatter function that was important in Puritan eyes; for the word preached\nwas considered to have an almost sacramental force in the application of\ntruth and grace to the soul; and crowds of people, with downcast eyes and\nin sombre dress, were pouring down the narrow streets from all the\nchurches round, while the great bell beat out its summons from the Norman\ntower. The church was filled from end to end as they came in, meeting Dr.\nCarrington at the door, and they all passed up together to the pew\nreserved for the churchwarden, close beneath the pulpit.\n\nAs Isabel looked round her, it came upon her very forcibly what she had\nbegun to notice even at Great Keynes, that the religion preached there\ndid not fit the church in which it was set forth; and that, though great\nefforts had been made to conform the building to the worship. There had\nbeen no half measures at Northampton, for the Puritans had a loathing of\nwhat they called a \"mingle-mangle.\" Altars, footpaces, and piscin\u00e6 had\nbeen swept away and all marks of them removed, as well as the rood-loft\nand every image in the building; the stained windows had been replaced by\nplain glass painted white; the walls had been whitewashed from roof to\nfloor, and every suspicion of colour erased except where texts of\nScripture ran rigidly across the open wall spaces: \"We are not under the\nLaw, but under Grace,\" Isabel read opposite her, beneath the clerestory\nwindows. And, above all, the point to which all lines and eyes converged,\nwas occupied no longer by the Table but by the tribunal of the Lord. Yet\nunderneath the disguise the old religion triumphed still. Beneath the\ngreat plain orderly scheme, without depth of shadows, dominated by the\ntowering place of Proclamation where the crimson-faced herald waited to\nbegin, the round arches and the elaborate mouldings, and the cool depths\nbeyond the pillars, all declared that in the God for whom that temple was\nbuilt, there was mystery as well as revelation, Love as well as Justice,\ncondescension as well as Majesty, beauty as well as awfulness,\ninvitations as well as eternal decrees.\n\nIsabel looked up presently, as the people still streamed in, and watched\nthe minister in his rustling Genevan gown, leaning with his elbows on the\nBible that rested open on the great tasselled velvet cushion before him.\nEverything about him was on the grand scale; his great hands were clasped\nand protruded over the edge of the Book; and his heavy dark face looked\nmenacingly round on the crowded church; he had the air of a melancholy\ngiant about to engage in some tragic pleasure. But Isabel's instinctive\ndislike began to pass into positive terror so soon as he began to preach.\n\nWhen the last comers had found a place, and the talking had stopped, he\npresently gave out his text, in a slow thunderous voice, that silenced\nthe last whispers:\n\n\"What shall we then say to these things? If God be on our side, who can\nbe against us?\"\n\nThere were a few slow sentences, in a deep resonant voice, uttering each\nsyllable deliberately like the explosion of a far-off gun, and in a\nminute or two he was in the thick of Calvin's smoky gospel. Doctrine,\nvoice, and man were alike terrible and overpowering.\n\nThere lay the great scheme in a few minutes, seen by Isabel as though\nthrough the door of hell, illumined by the glare of the eternal embers.\nThe huge merciless Will of God stood there before her, disclosed in all\nits awfulness, armed with thunders, moving on mighty wheels. The\nforeknowledge of God closed the question henceforth, and, if proof were\nneeded, made predestination plain. There was man's destiny, irrevocably\nfixed, iron-bound, changeless and immovable as the laws of God's own\nbeing. Yet over the rigid and awful Face of God, flickered a faint light,\nnamed mercy; and this mercy vindicated its existence by demanding that\nsome souls should escape the final and endless doom that was the due\nreward of every soul conceived and born in enmity against God and under\nthe frown of His Justice.\n\nThen, heralded too by wrath, the figure of Jesus began to glimmer through\nthe thunderclouds; and Isabel lifted her eyes, to look in hope. But He\nwas not as she had known him in His graciousness, and as He had revealed\nHimself to her in tender communion, and among the flowers and under the\nclear skies of Sussex. Here, in this echoing world of wrath He stood,\npale and rigid, with lightning in His eyes, and the grim and crimson\nCross behind him; and as powerless as His own Father Himself to save one\npoor timid despairing hoping soul against whom the Eternal Decree had\ngone forth. Jesus was stern and forbidding here, with the red glare of\nwrath on His Face too, instead of the rosy crown of Love upon His\nforehead; His mouth was closed with compressed lips which surely would\nonly open to condemn; not that mouth, quivering and human, that had\nsmiled and trembled and bent down from the Cross to kiss poor souls that\ncould not hope, nor help themselves, that had smiled upon Isabel ever\nsince she had known Him. It was appalling to this gentle maiden soul that\nhad bloomed and rejoiced so long in the shadow of His healing, to be torn\nout of her retreat and set thus under the consuming noonday of the\nJustice of this Sun of white-hot Righteousness.\n\nFor, as she listened, it was all so miserably convincing; her own little\nessays of intellect and flights of hopeful imagination were caught up and\nwhirled away in the strong rush of this man's argument; her timid\nexpectancy that God was really Love, as she understood the word in the\nvision of her Saviour's Person,--this was dashed aside as a childish\nfancy; the vision of the Father of the Everlasting Arms receded into the\nrealm of dreams; and instead there lowered overhead in this furious\ntempest of wrath a monstrous God with a stony Face and a stonier Heart,\nwho was eternally either her torment or salvation; and Isabel thought,\nand trembled at the blasphemy, that if God were such as this, the one\nwould be no less agony than the other. Was this man bearing false\nwitness, not only against his neighbour, but far more awfully, against\nhis God? But it was too convincing; it was built up on an iron hammered\nframework of a great man's intellect and made white hot with another\ngreat man's burning eloquence. But it seemed to Isabel now and again as\nif a thunder-voiced virile devil were proclaiming the Gospel of\nEverlasting shame. There he bent over the pulpit with flaming face and\ngreat compelling gestures that swayed the congregation, eliciting the\nemotions he desired, as the conductor's baton draws out the music (for\nthe man was a great orator), and he stormed and roared and seemed to\nmarshal the very powers of the world to come, compelling them by his nod,\nand interpreting them by his voice; and below him sat this poor child,\ntossed along on his eloquence, like a straw on a flood; and yet hating\nand resenting it and struggling to detach herself and disbelieve every\nword he spoke.\n\nAs the last sands were running out in his hour-glass, he came to harbour\nfrom this raging sea; and in a few deep resonant sentences, like those\nwith which he began, he pictured the peace of the ransomed soul, that\nknows itself safe in the arms of God; that rejoices, even in this world,\nin the Light of His Face and the ecstasy of His embrace; that dwells by\nwaters of comfort and lies down in the green pastures of the Heavenly\nLove; while, round this little island of salvation in an ocean of terror,\nthe thunders of wrath sound only as the noise of surge on a far-off reef.\n\nThe effect on Isabel was very great. It was far more startling than her\nvisit to London; there her quiet religion had received high sanction in\nthe mystery of S. Paul's. But here it was the plainest Calvinism preached\nwith immense power. The preacher's last words of peace were no peace to\nher. If it was necessary to pass those bellowing breakers of wrath to\nreach the Happy Country, then she had never reached it yet; she had lived\nso far in an illusion; her life had been spent in a fool's paradise,\nwhere the light and warmth and flowers were but artificial after all; and\nshe knew that she had not the heart to set out again. Though she\nrecognised dimly the compelling power of this religion, and that it was\none which, if sincerely embraced, would make the smallest details of life\nmomentous with eternal weight, yet she knew that her soul could never\nrespond to it, and whether saved or damned that it could only cower in\nmiserable despair under a Deity that was so sovereign as this.\n\nSo her heart was low and her eyes sad as she followed Mrs. Carrington out\nof church. Was this then really the Revelation of the Love of God in the\nPerson of Jesus Christ? Had all that she knew as the Gospel melted down\ninto this fiery lump?\n\nThe rest of the day did not alter the impression made on her mind. There\nwas little talk, or evidence of any human fellowship, in the Carrington\nhousehold on the Lord's Day; there was a word or two of grave\ncommendation on the sermon during dinner; and in the afternoon there was\nthe Evening Prayer to be attended in St. Sepulchre's followed by an\nexposition, and a public catechising on Calvin's questions and answers.\nHere the same awful doctrines reappeared, condensed with an icy reality,\neven more paralysing than the burning presentation of them in the\nmorning's sermon. She was spared questions herself, as she was a\nstranger; and sat to hear girls of her own age and older men and women\nwho looked as soft-hearted as herself, utter definitions of the method of\nsalvation and the being and character of God that compelled the assent of\nher intellect, while they jarred with her spiritual experience as\nfiercely as brazen trumpets out of tune.\n\nIn the evening there followed further religious exercises in the dark\ndining-room, at the close of which Dr. Carrington read one of Mr.\nCalvin's Genevan discourses, from his tall chair at the head of the\ntable. She looked at him at first, and wondered in her heart whether that\nman, with his clear gentle voice, and his pleasant old face crowned with\niron-grey hair seen in the mellow candlelight, really believed in the\nterrible gospel of the morning; for she heard nothing of the academic\ndiscourse that he was reading now, and presently her eyes wandered away\nout of the windows to the pale night sky. There still glimmered a faint\nstreak of light in the west across the Market Square; it seemed to her as\na kind of mirror of her soul at this moment; the tender daylight had\nfaded, though she could still discern the token of its presence far away,\nand as from behind the bars of a cage; but the night of God's wrath was\nfast blotting out the last touch of radiance from her despairing soul.\n\nDr. Carrington looked at her with courteous anxiety, but with approval\ntoo, as he held her hand for a moment as she said good-night to him.\nThere were shadows of weariness and depression under her eyes, and the\ncorners of her mouth drooped a little; and the doctor's heart stirred\nwith hope that the Word of God had reached at last this lamb of His who\nhad been fed too long on milk, and sheltered from the sun; but who was\nnow coming out, driven it might be, and unhappy, but still on its way to\nthe plain and wholesome pastures of the Word that lay in the glow of the\nunveiled glory of God.\n\nIsabel in her dark room upstairs was miserable; she stood long at her\nwindow her face pressed against the glass, and looked at the sky, from\nwhich the last streak of light had now died, and longed with all her\nmight for her own oak room at home, with her prie-dieu and the familiar\nthings about her; and the pines rustling outside in the sweet night-wind.\nIt seemed to her as if an irresistible hand had plucked her out from\nthose loved things and places, and that a penetrating eye were examining\nevery corner of her soul. In one sense she believed herself nearer to God\nthan ever before, but it was heartbreaking to find Him like this. She\nwent to sleep with the same sense of a burdening Presence resting on her\nspirit.\n\nThe next morning Dr. Carrington saw her privately and explained to her a\nnotice that she had not understood when it had been given out in church\nthe day before. It was to the effect that the quarterly communion would\nbe administered on the following Sunday, having been transferred that\nyear from the Sunday after Michaelmas Day, and that she must hold herself\nin readiness on the Wednesday afternoon to undergo the examination that\nwas enforced in every household in Northampton, at the hands of the\nMinister and Churchwardens.\n\n\"But you need not fear it, Mistress Norris,\" he said kindly, seeing her\nalarm. \"My daughter Kate will tell you all that is needful.\"\n\nKate too told her it would be little more than formal in her case.\n\n\"The minister will not ask you much,\" she said, \"for you are a stranger,\nand my father will vouch for you. He will ask you of irresistible grace,\nand of the Sacrament.\" And she gave her a couple of books from which she\nmight summarise the answers; especially directing her attention to\nCalvin's Catechism, telling her that that was the book with which all the\nservants and apprentices were obliged to be familiar.\n\nWhen Wednesday afternoon came, one by one the members of the household\nwent before the inquisition that held its court in the dining-room; and\nlast of all Isabel's turn came. The three gentlemen who sat in the middle\nof the long side of the table, with their backs to the light, half rose\nand bowed to her as she entered; and requested her to sit opposite to\nthem. To her relief it was the Minister of St. Sepulchre's who was to\nexamine her--he who had read the service and discoursed on the Catechism,\nnot the morning preacher. He was a man who seemed a little ill at ease\nhimself; he had none of the superb confidence of the preacher; but\nappeared to be one to whose natural character this stern _r\u00f4le_ was not\naltogether congenial. He asked a few very simple questions; as to when\nshe had last taken the Sacrament; how she would interpret the words,\n\"This is my Body\"; and looked almost grateful when she answered quietly\nand without heat. He asked her too three or four of the simpler questions\nwhich Kate had indicated to her; all of which she answered satisfactorily;\nand then desired to know whether she was in charity with all men; and\nwhether she looked to Jesus Christ alone as her one Saviour. Finally he\nturned to Dr. Carrington, and wished to know whether Mistress Norris\nwould come to the sacrament at five or nine o'clock, and Dr. Carrington\nanswered that she would no doubt wish to come with his own wife and\ndaughters at nine o'clock; which was the hour for the folks who were\nbetter to do. And so the inquisition ended much to Isabel's relief.\n\nBut this was a very extraordinary experience to her; it gave her a first\nglimpse into the rigid discipline that the extreme Puritans wished to see\nenforced everywhere; and with it a sense of corporate responsibility that\nshe had not appreciated before; the congregation meant something to her\nnow; she was no longer alone with her Lord individually, but understood\nthat she was part of a body with various functions, and that the care of\nher soul was not merely a personal matter for herself, but involved her\nminister and the officers of the Church as well. It astonished her to\nthink that this process was carried out on every individual who lived in\nthe town in preparation for the sacrament on the following Sunday.\n\nIsabel, and indeed the whole household, spent the Friday and Saturday in\nrigid and severe preparation. No flesh food was eaten on either of the\ndays; and all the members of the family were supposed to spend several\nhours in their own rooms in prayer and meditation. She did not find this\ndifficult, as she was well practised in solitude and prayer, and she\nscarcely left her room all Saturday except for meals.\n\n\"O Lord,\" Isabel repeated each morning and evening at her bedside during\nthis week, \"the blind dulness of our corrupt nature will not suffer us\nsufficiently to weigh these thy most ample benefits, yet, nevertheless,\nat the commandment of Jesus Christ our Lord, we present ourselves to this\nHis table, which He hath left to be used in remembrance of His death\nuntil His coming again, to declare and witness before the world, that by\nHim alone we have received liberty and life; that by Him alone dost thou\nacknowledge us to be thy children and heirs; that by Him alone we have\nentrance to the throne of thy grace; that by Him alone we are possessed\nin our spiritual kingdom, to eat and drink at His table, with whom we\nhave our conversation presently in heaven, and by whom our bodies shall\nbe raised up again from the dust, and shall be placed with Him in that\nendless joy, which Thou, O Father of mercy, hast prepared for thine\nelect, before the foundation of the world was laid.\"\n\nAnd so she prepared herself for that tryst with her Beloved in a foreign\nland where all was strange and unfamiliar about her: yet He was hourly\ndrawing nearer, and she cried to Him day by day in these words so\nredolent to her with associations of past communions, and of moments of\ngreat spiritual elevation. The very use of the prayer this week was like\na breeze of flowers to one in a wilderness.\n\nOn the Saturday night she ceremoniously washed her feet as her father had\ntaught her; and lay down happier than she had been for days past, for\nto-morrow would bring the Lover of her soul.\n\nOn the Sunday all the household was astir early at their prayers, and\nabout half-past eight o'clock all, including the servants who had just\nreturned from the five o'clock service, assembled in the dining-room; the\nnoise of the feet of those returning from church had ceased on the\npavement of the square outside, and all was quiet except for the solemn\nsound of the bells, as Dr. Carrington offered extempore prayer for all\nwho were fulfilling the Lord's ordinance on that day. And Isabel once\nmore felt her heart yearn to a God who seemed Love after all.\n\nSt. Sepulchre's was nearly full when they arrived. The mahogany table had\nbeen brought down from the eastern wall to beneath the cupola, and stood\nthere with a large white cloth, descending almost to the ground on every\nside; and a row of silver vessels, flat plates and tall new Communion\ncups and flagons, shone upon it. Isabel buried her face in her hands, and\ntried to withdraw into the solitude of her own soul; but the noise of the\nfeet coming and going, and the talking on all sides of her, were terribly\ndistracting. Presently four ministers entered and Isabel was startled to\nsee, as she raised her face at the sudden silence, that none of them wore\nthe prescribed surplice; for she had not been accustomed to the views of\nthe extreme Puritans to whom this was a remnant of Popery; an indifferent\nthing indeed in itself, as they so often maintained; but far from\nindifferent when it was imposed by authority. One entered the pulpit; the\nother three took their places at the Holy Table; and after a metrical\nPsalm sung in the Genevan fashion, the service began. At the proper place\nthe minister in the pulpit delivered an hour's sermon of the type to\nwhich Isabel was being now introduced for the first time; but bearing\nagain and again on the point that the sacrament was a confession to the\nworld of faith in Christ; it was in no sense a sacrificial act towards\nGod, \"as the Papists vainly taught\"; this part of the sermon was spoiled,\nto Isabel's ears at least, by a flood of disagreeable words poured out\nagainst the popish doctrine; and the end of the sermon consisted of a\nsearching exhortation to those who contemplated sin, who bore malice, who\nwere in any way holding aloof from God, \"to cast themselves mightily upon\nthe love of the Redeemer, bewailing their sinful lives, and purposing to\namend them.\" This act, wrought out in the silence of the soul even now\nwould transfer the sinner from death unto life; and turn what threatened\nto be poison into a \"lively and healthful food.\" Then he turned to those\nwho came prepared and repentant, hungering and thirsting after the Bread\nof Life and the Wine that the Lord had mingled; and congratulated them on\ntheir possession of grace, and on the rich access of sanctification that\nwould be theirs by a faithful reception of this comfortable sacrament;\nand then in half a dozen concluding sentences he preached Christ, as\n\"food to the hungry; a stream to the thirsty; a rest for the weary. It is\nHe alone, our dear Redeemer, who openeth the Kingdom of Heaven, to which\nmay He vouchsafe to bring us for His Name's sake.\"\n\nIsabel was astonished to see that the preacher did not descend from the\npulpit after the sermon, but that as soon as he had announced that the\nmayor would sit at the Town Hall with the ministers and churchwardens on\nthe following Thursday to inquire into the cases of all who had not\npresented themselves for Communion, he turned and began to busy himself\nwith the great Bible that lay on the cushion. The service went on, and\nthe conducting of it was shared among the three ministers standing, one\nat the centre of the table which was placed endways, and the others at\nthe two ends. As the Prayer of Consecration was begun, Isabel hid her\nface as she was accustomed to do, for she believed it to be the principal\npart of the service, and waited for the silence that in her experience\ngenerally followed the Amen. But a voice immediately began from the\npulpit, and she looked up, startled and distracted.\n\n\"Then Jesus said unto them,\" pealed out the preacher's voice, \"All ye\nshall be offended by me this night, for it is written, I will smite the\nshepherd and the sheep shall be scattered. But after I am risen, I will\ngo into Galilee before you.\"\n\nAh! why would not the man stop? Isabel did not want the past Saviour but\nthe present now; not a dead record but a living experience; above all,\nnot the minister but the great High Priest Himself.\n\n\"He began to be troubled and in great heaviness, and said unto them, My\nsoul is very heavy, even unto the death; tarry here and watch.\"\n\nThe three ministers had communicated by now; and there was a rustle and\nclatter of feet as the empty seats in front, hung with houselling cloths,\nbegan to be filled. The murmur of the three voices below as the ministers\npassed along with the vessels were drowned by the tale of the Passion\nthat rang out overhead.\n\n\"Couldest thou not watch one hour? Watch and pray, that ye enter not into\ntemptation. The spirit indeed is ready, but the flesh is weak.\"\n\nIt was coming near to Isabel's turn; the Carringtons already were\nbeginning to move; and in a moment or two she rose and followed them out.\nThe people were pressing up the aisles; and as she stood waiting her turn\nto pass into the white-hung seat, she could not help noticing the\ndisorder that prevailed; some knelt devoutly, some stood, some sat to\nreceive the sacred elements; and all the while louder and louder, above\nthe rustling and the loud whispering of the ministers and the shuffling\nof feet, the tale rose and fell on the cadences of the preacher's voice.\nNow it was her turn; she was kneeling with palms outstretched and closed\neyes. Ah! would he not be silent for one moment? Could not the reality\nspeak for itself, and its interpreter be still? Surely the King of Love\nneeded no herald when Himself was here.\n\n\"And anon in the dawning, the high Priests held a Council with Elders and\nthe Scribes and the whole Council, and bound Jesus and led Him away.\" ...\n\nAnd so it was over presently, and she was back again in her seat,\ndistracted and miserable; trying to pray, forcing herself to attend now\nto the reader, now to her Saviour with whom she believed herself in\nintimate union, and finding nothing but dryness and distraction\neverywhere. How interminable it was! She opened her eyes, and what she\nsaw amazed and absorbed her for a few moments; some were sitting back and\ntalking; some looking cheerfully about them as if at a public\nentertainment; one man especially overwhelmed her imagination; with a\ngreat red face and neck like a butcher, animal and brutal, with a heavy\nhanging jowl and little narrow lack-lustre eyes--how bored and depressed\nhe was by this long obligatory ceremony! Then once more she closed her\neyes in self-reproach at her distractions; here were her lips still\nfragrant with the Wine of God, the pressure of her Beloved's arm still\nabout her; and these were her thoughts, settling like flies, on\neverything....\n\nWhen she opened them again the last footsteps were passing down the\naisle, the dripping Cups were being replaced by the ministers, and\ncovered with napkins, and the tale of Easter was in telling from the\npulpit like the promise of a brighter day.\n\n\"And they said one to another, Who shall roll us away the stone from the\ndoor of the sepulchre? And when they looked, they saw that the stone was\nrolled away (for it was a very great one).\"\n\nSo read the minister and closed the book; and _Our Father_ began.\n\nIn the evening, when all was over, and the prayers said and the\nexpounding and catechising finished, in a kind of despair she slipped\naway alone, and walked a little by herself in the deepening twilight\nbeside the river; and again she made effort after effort to catch some\nconsciousness of grace from this Sacrament Sunday, so rare and so\nprecious; but an oppression seemed to dwell in the very air. The low\nrain-clouds hung over the city, leaden and chill, the path where she\nwalked was rank with the smell of dead leaves, and the trees and grass\ndripped with lifeless moisture. As she goaded and allured alternately her\nown fainting soul, it writhed and struggled but could not rise; there was\nno pungency of bitterness in her self-reproach, no thrill of joy in her\naspiration; for the hand of Calvin's God lay heavy on the delicate\nlanguid thing.\n\nShe walked back at last in despair over the wet cobblestones of the empty\nmarket square; but as she came near the house, she saw that the square\nwas not quite empty. A horse stood blowing and steaming before Dr.\nCarrington's door, and her own maid and Kate were standing hatless in the\ndoorway looking up and down the street. Isabel's heart began to beat, and\nshe walked quicker. In a moment Kate saw her, and began to beckon and\ncall; and the maid ran to meet her.\n\n\"Mistress Isabel, Mistress Isabel,\" she cried, \"make haste.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" asked the girl, in sick foreboding.\n\n\"There is a man come from Great Keynes,\" began the maid, but Kate stopped\nher.\n\n\"Come in, Mistress Isabel,\" she said, \"my father is waiting for you.\"\n\nDr. Carrington met her at the dining-room door; and his face was tender\nand full of emotion.\n\n\"What is it?\" whispered the girl sharply. \"Anthony?\"\n\n\"Dear child,\" he said, \"come in, and be brave.\"\n\nThere was a man standing in the room with cap and whip in hand, spurred\nand splashed from head to foot; Isabel recognised one of the grooms from\nthe Hall.\n\n\"What is it?\" she said again with a piteous sharpness.\n\nDr. Carrington laid his hands gently on her shoulders, and looked into\nher eyes.\n\n\"It is news of your father,\" he said, \"from Lady Maxwell.\"\n\nHe paused, and the steady gleam of his eyes strengthened and quieted her,\nthen he went on deliberately, \"The Lord hath given and the Lord hath\ntaken it.\"\n\nHe paused as if for an answer, but no answer came; Isabel was staring\nwhite-faced with parted lips into those strong blue eyes of his: and he\nfinished:\n\n\"Blessed be the name of the Lord.\"\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XII\n\n                             A WINDING-UP\n\n\nThe curtained windows on the ground-floor of the Dower House shone red\nfrom within as Isabel and Dr. Carrington, with three or four servants\nbehind, rode round the curving drive in front late on the Monday evening.\nA face peeped from Mrs. Carroll's window as the horse's hoofs sounded on\nthe gravel, and by the time that Isabel, pale, wet, and worn-out with her\nseventy miles' ride, was dismounted, Mistress Margaret herself was at the\ndoor, with Anthony's face at her shoulder, and Mrs. Carroll looking over\nthe banisters.\n\nIsabel was not allowed to see her father's body that night, but after she\nwas in bed, Lady Maxwell herself, who had been sent for when he lay\ndying, came down from the Hall, and told her what there was to tell;\nwhile Mistress Margaret and Anthony entertained Dr. Carrington below.\n\n\"Dear child,\" said the old lady, leaning with her elbow on the bed, and\nholding the girl's hand tenderly as she talked, \"it was all over in an\nhour or two. It was the heart, you know. Mrs. Carroll sent for me\nsuddenly, on Saturday morning; and by the time I reached him he could not\nspeak. They had carried him upstairs from his study, where they had found\nhim; and laid him down on his bed, and--yes, yes--he was in pain, but he\nwas conscious, and he was praying I think; his lips moved. And I knelt\ndown by the bed and prayed aloud; he only spoke twice; and, my dear, it\nwas your name the first time, and the name of His Saviour the second\ntime. He looked at me, and I could see he was trying to speak; and then\non a sudden he spoke 'Isabel.' And I think he was asking me to take care\nof you. And I nodded and said that I would do what I could, and he seemed\nsatisfied and shut his eyes again. And then presently Mr. Bodder began a\nprayer--he had come in a moment before; they could not find him at\nfirst--and then, and then your dear father moved a little and raised his\nhand, and the minister stayed; and he was looking up as if he saw\nsomething; and then he said once, 'Jesus' clear and loud; and, and--that\nwas all, dear child.\"\n\nThe next morning she and Anthony, with the two old ladies, one of whom\nwas always with them during these days, went into the darkened oak room\non the first floor, where he had died and now rested. The red curtains\nmade a pleasant rosy light, and it seemed to the children impossible to\nbelieve that that serene face, scarcely more serene than in life, with\nits wide closed lids under the delicate eyebrows, and contented clean-cut\nmouth, and the scholarly hands closed on the breast, all in a wealth of\nautumn flowers and dark copper-coloured beech leaves, were not the face\nand hands of a sleeping man.\n\nBut Isabel did not utterly break down till she saw his study. She drew\nthe curtains aside herself, and there stood his table; his chair was\nbeside it, pushed back and sideways as if he had that moment left it; and\non the table itself the books she knew so well.\n\nIn the centre of the table stood his inlaid desk, with the papers lying\nupon it, and his quill beside them, as if just laid down; even the\nink-pot was uncovered just as he had left it, as the agony began to lay\nits hand upon his heart. She stooped and read the last sentence.\n\n\"This is the great fruit, that unspeakable benefit that they do eat and\ndrink of that labour and are burden, and come--\" and there it stopped;\nand the blinding tears rushed into the girl's eyes, as she stooped to\nkiss the curved knob of the chair-arm where his dear hand had last\nrested.\n\nWhen all was over a day or two later the two went up to stay at the Hall,\nwhile the housekeeper was left in charge of the Dower House. Lady Maxwell\nand Mistress Margaret had been present at the parish church on the\noccasion of the funeral, for the first time ever since the old Marian\npriest had left; and had assisted too at the opening of the will, which\nwas found, tied up and docketed in one of the inner drawers of the inlaid\ndesk; and before its instructions were complied with, Lady Maxwell wished\nto have a word or two with Isabel and Anthony.\n\nShe made an opportunity on the morning of Anthony's departure for\nCambridge, two days after the funeral, when Mistress Margaret was out of\nthe room, and Hubert had ridden off as usual with Piers, on the affairs\nof the estate.\n\n\"My child,\" said she to Isabel, who was lying back passive and listless\non the window-seat. \"What do you think your cousin will direct to be\ndone? He will scarcely wish you to leave home altogether, to stay with\nhim. And yet, you understand, he is your guardian.\"\n\nIsabel shook her head.\n\n\"We know nothing of him,\" she said, wearily, \"he has never been here.\"\n\n\"If you have a suggestion to make to him you should decide at once,\" the\nother went on, \"the courier is to go on Monday, is he not, Anthony?\"\n\nThe boy nodded.\n\n\"But will he not allow us,\" he said, \"to stay at home as usual?\nSurely----\"\n\nLady Maxwell shook her head.\n\n\"And Isabel?\" she asked, \"who will look after her when you are away?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Carroll?\" he said interrogatively.\n\nAgain she shook her head.\n\n\"He would never consent,\" she said, \"it would not be right.\"\n\nIsabel looked up suddenly, and her eyes brightened a little.\n\n\"Lady Maxwell--\" she began, and then stopped, embarrassed.\n\n\"Well, my dear?\"\n\n\"What is it, Isabel?\" asked Anthony.\n\n\"If it were possible--but, but I could not ask it.\"\n\n\"If you mean Margaret, my dear\"; said the old lady serenely, drawing her\nneedle carefully through, \"it was what I thought myself; but I did not\nknow if you would care for that. Is that what you meant?\"\n\n\"Oh, Lady Maxwell,\" said the girl, her face lighting up.\n\nThen the old lady explained that it was not possible to ask them to live\npermanently at the Hall, although of course Isabel must do so until an\narrangement had been made; because their father would scarcely have\nwished them to be actually inmates of a Catholic house; but that he\nplainly had encouraged close relations between the two houses, and\nindeed, Lady Maxwell interpreted his mention of his daughter's name, and\nhis look as he said it, in the sense that he wished those relations to\ncontinue. She thought therefore that there was no reason why their new\nguardian's consent should not be asked to Mistress Margaret's coming over\nto the Dower House to take charge of Isabel, if the girl wished it. He\nhad no particular interest in them; he lived a couple of hundred miles\naway, and the arrangement would probably save him a great deal of trouble\nand inconvenience.\n\n\"But you, Lady Maxwell,\" Isabel burst out, her face kindled with hope,\nfor she had dreaded the removal terribly, \"you will be lonely here.\"\n\n\"Dear child,\" said the old lady, laying down her embroidery, \"God has\nbeen gracious to me; and my husband is coming back to me; you need not\nfear for me.\" And she told them, with her old eyes full of happy tears,\nhow she had had a private word, which they must not repeat, from a\nCatholic friend at Court, that all had been decided for Sir Nicholas'\nrelease, though he did not know it himself yet, and that he would be at\nhome again for Advent. The prison fever was beginning to cause alarm, and\nit seemed that a good fine would meet the old knight's case better than\nany other execution of justice.\n\nSo then, it was decided; and as Isabel walked out to the gatehouse after\ndinner beside Anthony, with her hand on his horse's neck, and as she\nwatched him at last ride down the village green and disappear round\nbehind the church, half her sorrow at losing him was swallowed up in the\npractical certainty that they would meet again before Christmas in their\nold home, and not in a stranger's house in the bleak North country.\n\nOn the following Thursday, Sir Nicholas' weekly letter showed evidence\nthat the good news of his release had begun to penetrate to him; his wife\nlonged to tell him all she had heard, but so many jealous eyes were on\nthe watch for favouritism that she had been strictly forbidden to pass on\nher information. However there was little need.\n\n\"I am in hopes,\" he wrote, \"of keeping Christmas in a merrier place than\nprison. I do not mean _heaven_,\" he hastened to add, for fear of alarming\nhis wife. \"Good Mr. Jakes tells me that Sir John is ill to-day, and that\nhe fears the gaol-fever; and if it is the gaol-fever, sweetheart, which\npray God it may not be _for Sir John's sake_, it will be the fourteenth\ncase in the Tower; and folks say that we shall all be let home again; but\nwith another good fine, they say, to keep us poor and humble, and mindful\nof the Queen's Majesty her laws. However, dearest, I would gladly pay a\nthousand pounds, if I had them, to be home again.\"\n\nBut there was news at the end of the letter that caused consternation in\none or two hearts, and sent Hubert across, storming and almost crying, to\nIsabel, who was taking a turn in the dusk at sunset. She heard his step\nbeyond the hedge, quick and impatient, and stopped short, hesitating and\nwondering.\n\nHe had behaved to her with extraordinary tact and consideration, and she\nwas very conscious of it. Since her sudden return ten days before from\nthe visit which had been meant to separate them, he had not spoken a word\nto her privately, except a shy sentence or two of condolence, stammered\nout with downcast eyes, but which from the simplicity and shortness of\nthe words had brought up a sob from her heart. She guessed that he knew\nwhy she had been sent to Northampton, and had determined not to take\nadvantage in any way of her sorrow. Every morning he had disappeared\nbefore she came down, and did not come back till supper, where he sat\nsilent and apart, and yet, when an occasion offered itself, behaved with\na quick attentive deference that showed her where his thoughts had been.\n\nNow she stood, wondering and timid, at that hurried insistent step on the\nother side of the hedge. As she hesitated, he came quickly through the\ndoorway and stopped short.\n\n\"Mistress Isabel,\" he said, with all his reserve gone, and looking at her\nimploringly, but with the old familiar air that she loved, \"have you\nheard? I am to go as soon as my father comes back. Oh! it is a shame!\"\n\nHis voice was full of tears, and his eyes were bright and angry. Her\nheart leapt up once and then seemed to cease beating.\n\n\"Go?\" she said; and even as she spoke knew from her own dismay how dear\nthat quiet chivalrous presence was to her.\n\n\"Yes,\" he went on in the same voice. \"Oh! I know I should not speak;\nand--and especially now at all times; but I could not bear it; nor that\nyou should think it was my will to go.\"\n\nShe stood still looking at him.\n\n\"May I walk with you a little,\" he said, \"but--I must not say much--I\npromised my father.\"\n\nAnd then as they walked he began to pour it out.\n\n\"It is some old man in Durham,\" he said, \"and I am to see to his estates.\nMy father will not want me here when he comes back, and, and it is to be\nsoon. He has had the offer for me; and has written to tell me. There is\nno choice.\"\n\nShe had turned instinctively towards the house, and the high roofs and\nchimneys were before them, dark against the luminous sky.\n\n\"No, no,\" said Hubert, laying his hand on her arm; and at the touch she\nthrilled so much that she knew she must not stay, and went forward\nresolutely up the steps of the terrace.\n\n\"Ah! let me speak,\" he said; \"I have not troubled you much, Mistress\nIsabel.\"\n\nShe hesitated again a moment.\n\n\"In my father's room,\" he went on, \"and I will bring the letter.\"\n\nShe nodded and passed into the hall without speaking, and turned to Sir\nNicholas' study; while Hubert's steps dashed up the stairs to his\nmother's room. Isabel went in and stood on the hearth in the firelight\nthat glowed and wavered round the room on the tapestry and the prie-dieu\nand the table where Hubert had been sitting and the tall shuttered\nwindows, leaning her head against the mantelpiece, doubtful and\nmiserable.\n\n\"Listen,\" said Hubert, bursting into the room a moment later with the\nsheet open in his hand.\n\n\"'Tell Hubert that Lord Arncliffe needs a gentleman to take charge of his\nestates; he is too old now himself, and has none to help him. I have had\nthe offer for Hubert, and have accepted it; he must go as soon as I have\nreturned. I am sorry to lose the lad, but since James----'\" and Hubert\nbroke off. \"I must not read that,\" he said.\n\nIsabel still stood, stretching her hands out to the fire, turned a little\naway from him.\n\n\"But what can I say?\" went on the lad passionately, \"I must go; and--and\nGod knows for how long, five or six years maybe; and I shall come back\nand find you--and find you----\" and a sob rose up and silenced him.\n\n\"Hubert,\" she said, turning and looking with a kind of wavering\nsteadiness into his shadowed eyes, and even then noticing the clean-cut\nfeatures and the smooth curve of his jaw with the firelight on it, \"you\nought not----\"\n\n\"I know, I know; I promised my father; but there are some things I cannot\nbear. Of course I do not want you to promise anything; but I thought that\nif perhaps you could tell me that you thought--that you thought there\nwould be no one else; and that when I came back----\"\n\n\"Hubert,\" she said again, resolutely, \"it is impossible: our\nreligions----\"\n\n\"But I would do anything, I think. Besides, in five years so much may\nhappen. You might become a Catholic--or--or, I might come to see that the\nProtestant Religion was nearly the same, or as true at least--or--or--so\nmuch might happen.--Can you not tell me anything before I go?\"\n\nA keen ray of hope had pierced her heart as he spoke; and she scarcely\nknew what she said.\n\n\"But, Hubert, even if I were to say----\"\n\nHe seized her hands and kissed them again and again.\n\n\"Oh! God bless you, Isabel! Now I can go so happily. And I will not speak\nof it again; you can trust me; it will not be hard for you.\"\n\nShe tried to draw her hands away, but he still held them tightly in his\nown strong hands, and looked into her face. His eyes were shining.\n\n\"Yes, yes, I know you have promised nothing. I hold you to nothing. You\nare as free as ever to do what you will with me. But,\"--and he lifted her\nhands once more and kissed them, and dropped them; seized his cap and was\ngone.\n\nIsabel was left alone in a tumult of thought and emotion. He had taken\nher by storm; she had not guessed how desperately weak she was towards\nhim, until he had come to her like this in a whirlwind of passion and\nstood trembling and almost crying, with the ruddy firelight on his face,\nand his eyes burning out of shadow. She felt fascinated still by that\nmingling of a boy's weakness and sentiment and of a man's fire and\npurpose; and she sank down on her knees before the hearth and looked\nwonderingly at her hands which he had kissed so ardently, now transparent\nand flaming against the light as if with love. Then as she looked at the\nred heart of the fire the sudden leaping of her heart quieted, and there\ncrept on her a glow of steady desire to lean on the power of this tall\nyoung lover of hers; she was so utterly alone without him it seemed as if\nthere were no choice left; he had come and claimed her in virtue of the\nmaster-law, and she--how much had she yielded? She had not promised; but\nshe had shown evidently her real heart in those half dozen words; and he\nhad interpreted them for her; and she dared not in honesty repudiate his\ninterpretation. And so she knelt there, clasping and unclasping her\nhands, in a whirl of delight and trembling; all the bounds of that sober\ninner life seemed for the moment swept away; she almost began to despise\nits old coldnesses and limitations. How shadowy after all was the love of\nGod, compared with this burning tide that was bearing her along on its\nbosom!...\n\nShe sank lower and lower into herself among the black draperies, clasping\nthose slender hands tightly across her breast.\n\nSuddenly a great log fell with a crash, the red glow turned into leaping\nflames; the whole dark room seemed alive with shadows that fled to and\nfro, and she knelt upright quickly and looked round her, terrified and\nashamed.--What was she doing here? Was it so soon then that she was\nsetting aside the will of her father, who trusted and loved her so well,\nand who lay out there in the chancel vault? Ah! she had no right here in\nthis room--Hubert's room now, with his cap and whip lying across the\npapers and the estate-book, and his knife and the broken jesses on the\nseat of the chair beside her. There was his step overhead again. She must\nbe gone before he came back.\n\nThere was high excitement on the estate and in the village a week or two\nlater when the rumour of Sir Nicholas' return was established, and the\npaper had been pinned up to the gatehouse stating, in Lady Maxwell's own\nhandwriting, that he would be back sometime in the week before Advent\nSunday. Reminiscences were exchanged of the glorious day when the old\nknight came of age, over forty years ago; of the sports on the green, of\nthe quintain-tilting for the gentlefolks, and the archery in the meadow\nbehind the church for the vulgar; of the high mass and the dinner that\nfollowed it. It was rumoured that Mr. Hubert and Mr. Piers had already\nselected the ox that was to be roasted whole, and that materials for the\nbonfire were in process of collection in the woodyard of the home farm.\n\nSir Nicholas' letters became more and more emphatically underlined and\nincoherent as the days went on, and Lady Maxwell less and less willing\nfor Isabel to read them; but the girl often found the old lady hastily\nputting away the thin sheets which she had just taken out to read to\nherself once again, on which her dear lord had scrawled down his very\nheart itself, as if his courting of her were all to do again.\n\nIt was not until the Saturday morning that the courier rode in through\nthe gatehouse with the news that Sir Nicholas was to be released that\nday, and would be down if possible before nightfall. All the men on the\nestate were immediately called in and sent home to dress themselves; and\nan escort of a dozen grooms and servants led by Hubert and Piers rode out\nat once on the north road, with torches ready for kindling, to meet the\nparty and bring them home; and all other preparations were set forward at\nonce.\n\nTowards eight o'clock Lady Maxwell was so anxious and restless that\nIsabel slipped out and went down to the gatehouse to look out for herself\nif there were any signs of the approach of the party. She went up to one\nof the little octagonal towers, and looked out towards the green.\n\nIt was a clear starlight night, but towards the village all was bathed in\nthe dancing ruddy light of the bonfire. It was burning on a little mound\nat the upper end of the green, just below where Isabel stood, and a heavy\ncurtain of smoke drifted westwards. As she looked down on it she saw\nagainst it the tall black posts of the gigantic jack and the slowly\nrevolving carcass of the ox; and round about the stirring crowd of the\nvillage folk, their figures black on this side, luminous on that. She\ncould even make out the cassock and square cap of Mr. Bodder as he moved\namong his flock. The rows of houses on either side, bright and clear at\nthis end, melted away into darkness at the lower end of the green, where\non the right the church tower rose up, blotting out the stars, itself\njust touched with ruddy light, and on the top of which, like a large star\nitself, burned the torch of the watcher who was looking out towards the\nnorth road. There was a ceaseless hum of noise from the green, pierced by\nthe shrill cries of the children round the glowing mass of the bonfire,\nbut there was no disorder, as the barrels that had been rolled out of the\nHall cellars that afternoon still stood untouched beneath the Rectory\ngarden-wall. Isabel contrasted in her mind this pleasant human tumult\nwith the angry roaring she had heard from these same country-folk a few\nmonths before, when she had followed Lady Maxwell out to the rescue of\nthe woman who had injured her; and she wondered at these strange souls,\nwho attended a Protestant service, but were so fierce and so genial in\ntheir defence and welcome of a Catholic squire.\n\nAs she thought, there was a sudden movement of the light on the church\ntower; it tossed violently up and down, and a moment later the jubilant\nclangour of the bells broke out. There was a sudden stir in the figures\non the green, and a burst of cheering rose. Isabel strained her eyes\nnorthwards, but the road took a turn beyond the church and she could see\nnothing but darkness and low-hung stars and one glimmering window. She\nturned instinctively to the house behind her, and there was the door\nflung wide, and she could make out the figures of the two ladies against\nthe brightly lit hall beyond, wrapped like herself, in cloak and hood,\nfor the night was frosty and cold.\n\nAs she turned once more she heard the clear rattle of trotting hoofs on\nthe hard road, and a glow began to be visible at the lower dark end of\nthe village. The cheering rose higher, and the bells were all clashing\ntogether in melodious discord, as in the angle of the road a group of\ntossing torches appeared. Then she could make out the horsemen; three\nriding together, and the others as escort round them. The crowd had\npoured off the grass on to the road by now, and the horses were coming up\nbetween two shouting gesticulating lines which closed after them as they\nwent. Now she could make out the white hair of Sir Nicholas, as he bowed\nbare-headed right and left; and Hubert's feathered cap, on one side of\nhim, and Mr. Boyd's black hat on the other. They had passed the bonfire\nnow, and were coming up the avenue, the crowds still streaming after\nthem, and the church tower bellowing rough music overhead. Isabel leaned\nout over the battlements, and saw beneath her the two old ladies waiting\njust outside the gate by the horse-block; and then she drew back, her\neyes full of tears, for she saw Sir Nicholas' face as he caught sight of\nhis wife.\n\nThere was a sudden silence as the horses drew up; and the crowds ceased\nshouting, and when Isabel leaned over again Sir Nicholas was on the\nhorse-block, the two ladies immediately behind him, and the people\npressing forward to hear his voice. It was a very short speech; and\nIsabel overhead could not catch more than detached phrases of it, \"for\nthe faith\"--\"my wife and you all\"--\"home again\"--\"my son Hubert\nhere\"--\"you and your families\"--\"the Catholic religion\"--\"the Queen's\ngrace\"--\"God save her Majesty.\"\n\nThen again the cheering broke out; and Isabel crossed over to see them\npass up to the house and to the bright door set wide for them, and even\nas she watched them go up the steps, and Hubert's figure close behind,\nshe suddenly dropped her forehead on to the cold battlement, and drew a\nsharp breath or two, for she remembered again what it all meant to him\nand to herself.\n\n\n\n\n                               PART II\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER I\n\n                          ANTHONY IN LONDON\n\n\nThe development of a nation is strangely paralleled by the development of\nan individual. There comes in both a period of adolescence, of the\nstirring of new powers, of an increase of strength, of the dawn of new\nideals, of the awaking of self-consciousness; contours become defined and\nabrupt, awkward and hasty movements succeed to the grace of childhood;\nand there is a curious mingling of refinement and brutality, stupidity\nand tenderness; the will is subject to whims; it is easily roused and not\nso easily quieted. Yet in spite of the attendant discomforts the whole\nperiod is undeniably one of growth.\n\nThe reign of Elizabeth coincided with this stage in the development of\nEngland. The young vigour was beginning to stir--and Hawkins and Drake\ntaught the world that it was so, and that when England stretched herself\ncatastrophe abroad must follow. She loved finery and feathers and velvet,\nand to see herself on the dramatic stage and to sing her love-songs\nthere, as a growing maid dresses up and leans on her hand and looks into\nher own eyes in the mirror--and Marlowe and Greene and Shakespeare are\nwitnesses to it. Yet she loved to hang over the arena too and watch the\nbear-baiting and see the blood and foam and listen to the snarl of the\nhounds, as a lad loves sport and things that minister death. Her policy,\ntoo, under Elizabeth as her genius, was awkward and ill-considered and\ncapricious, and yet strong and successful in the end, as a growing lad,\nwhile he is clumsier, yet manages to leap higher than a year ago.\n\nAnd once more, to carry the parallel still further, during the middle\nperiod of the reign, while the balance of parties and powers remained\nmuch the same, principles and tendencies began to assert themselves more\ndefinitely, just as muscles and sinews begin to appear through the round\ncontour of the limbs of a growing child.\n\nThus, from 1571 to 1577, while there was no startling reversal of\nelements in the affairs of England, the entire situation became more\ndefined. The various parties, though they scarcely changed in their\nmutual relations, yet continued to develop swiftly along their respective\nlines, growing more pronounced and less inclined to compromise; foreign\nenmities and expectations became more acute; plots against the Queen's\nlife more frequent and serious, and the countermining of them under\nWalsingham more patient and skilful; competition and enterprise in trade\nmore strenuous; Scottish affairs more complicated; movements of revolt\nand repression in Ireland more violent.\n\nWhat was true of politics was also true of religious matters, for the two\nwere inextricably mingled. The Puritans daily became more clamorous and\nintolerant; their \"Exercises\" more turbulent, and their demands more\nunreasonable and one-sided. The Papists became at once more numerous and\nmore strict; and the Government measures more stern in consequence. The\nact of '71 made it no less a crime than High Treason to reconcile or be\nreconciled to the Church of Rome, to give effect to a Papal Bull, to be\nin possession of any muniments of superstition, or to declare the Queen a\nheretic or schismatic. The Church of England, too, under the wise\nguidance of Parker, had begun to shape her course more and more\nresolutely along the lines of inclusiveness and moderation; to realise\nherself as representing the religious voice of a nation that was widely\ndivided on matters of faith; and to attempt to include within her fold\nevery individual that was not an absolute fanatic in the Papist or\nPuritan direction.\n\nThus, in every department, in home and foreign politics, in art and\nliterature, and in religious independence, England was rising and shaking\nherself free; the last threads that bound her to the Continent were\nsnapped by the Reformation, and she was standing with her soul, as she\nthought, awake and free at last, conscious of her beauty and her\nstrength, ready to step out at last before the world, as a dominant and\nimperious power.\n\nAnthony Norris had been arrested, like so many others, by the vision of\nthis young country of his, his mother and mistress, who stood there,\nwaiting to be served. He had left Cambridge in '73, and for three years\nhad led a somewhat aimless life; for his guardian allowed him a generous\nincome out of his father's fortune. He had stayed with Hubert in the\nnorth, had yawned and stretched himself at Great Keynes, had gone to and\nfro among friends' houses, and had at last come to the conclusion, to\nwhich he was aided by a chorus of advisers, that he was wasting his time.\n\nHe had begun then to look round him for some occupation, and in the final\nchoice of it his early religious training had formed a large element. It\nhad kept alive in him a certain sense of the supernatural, that his\nexuberance of physical life might otherwise have crushed; and now as he\nlooked about to see how he could serve his country, he became aware that\nher ecclesiastical character had a certain attraction for him; he had had\nindeed an idea of taking Orders; but he had relinquished this by now,\nthough he still desired if he might to serve the National Church in some\nother capacity. There was much in the Church of England to appeal to her\nsons; if there was a lack of unity in her faith and policy, yet that was\nlargely out of sight, and her bearing was gallant and impressive. She had\ngreat wealth, great power and great dignity. The ancient buildings and\nrevenues were hers; the civil power was at her disposal, and the Queen\nwas eager to further her influence, and to protect her bishops from the\nencroaching power of Parliament, claiming only for the crown the right to\nbe the point of union for both the secular and ecclesiastical sections of\nthe nation, and to stamp by her royal approval or annul by her veto the\nacts of Parliament and Convocation alike. It seemed then to Anthony's\neyes that the Church of England had a tremendous destiny before her, as\nthe religious voice of the nation that was beginning to make itself so\ndominant in the council of the world, and that there was no limit to the\ninfluence she might exercise by disciplining the exuberant strength of\nEngland, and counteracting by her soberness and self-restraint the\npassionate fanaticism of the Latin nations. So little by little in place\nof the shadowy individualism that was all that he knew of religion, there\nrose before him the vision of a living church, who came forth terrible as\nan army with banners, surrounded by all the loyalty that nationalism\ncould give her, with the Queen herself as her guardian, and great princes\nand prelates as her supporters, while at the wheels of her splendid car\nwalked her hot-blooded chivalrous sons, who served her and spread her\nglories by land and sea, not perhaps chiefly for the sake of her\nspiritual claims, but because she was bone of their bone; and was no less\nzealous than themselves for the name and character of England.\n\nWhen, therefore, towards the end of '76, Anthony received the offer of a\nposition in the household of the Archbishop of Canterbury, through the\nrecommendation of the father of one of his Cambridge friends, he accepted\nit with real gratitude and enthusiasm.\n\nThe post to which he was appointed was that of Gentleman of the Horse.\nHis actual duties were not very arduous owing to the special\ncircumstances of Archbishop Grindal; and he had a good deal of time to\nhimself. Briefly, they were as follows--He had to superintend the Yeoman\nof the Horse, and see that he kept full accounts of all the horses in\nstable or at pasture, and of all the carriages and harness and the like.\nEvery morning he had to present himself to the Archbishop and receive\nstable-orders for the day, and to receive from the yeoman accounts of the\nstables. Every month he examined the books of the yeoman before passing\nthem on to the steward. His permission too was necessary before any\nguest's or stranger's horse might be cared for in the Lambeth stables.\n\nHe was responsible also for all the men and boys connected with the\nstable; to engage them, watch their morals and even the performance of\ntheir religious duties, and if necessary report them for dismissal to the\nsteward of the household. In Archbishop Parker's time this had been a\nbusy post, as the state observed at Lambeth and Croydon was very\nconsiderable; but Grindal was of a more retiring nature, disliking as was\nsaid, \"lordliness\"; and although still the household was an immense\naffair, in its elaborateness and splendour beyond almost any but royal\nhouseholds of the present day, still Anthony's duties were far from\nheavy. The Archbishop indeed at first dispensed with this office\naltogether, and concentrated all the supervision of the stable on the\nyeoman, and Anthony was the first and only Gentleman of the Horse that\nArchbishop Grindal employed. The disgrace and punishment under which the\nArchbishop fell so early in his archiepiscopate made this particular post\neasier than it would even otherwise have been; as fewer equipages were\nrequired when the Archbishop was confined to his house, and the\nestablishment was yet further reduced.\n\nOrdinarily then his duties were over by eleven o'clock, except when\nspecial arrangements were to be made. He rose early, waited upon the\nArchbishop by eight o'clock, and received his orders for the day; then\ninterviewed the yeoman; sometimes visited the stables to receive\ncomplaints, and was ready by half-past ten to go to the chapel for the\nmorning prayers with the rest of the household. At eleven he dined at the\nSteward's table in the great hall, with the other principal officers of\nthe household, the chaplain, the secretaries, and the gentlemen ushers,\nwith guests of lesser degree. This great hall with its two entrances at\nthe lower end near the gateway, its magnificent hammer-beam roof, its\nda\u00efs, its stained glass, was a worthy place of entertainment, and had\nbeen the scene of many great feasts and royal visits in the times of\nprevious archbishops in favour with the sovereign, and of a splendid\nbanquet at the beginning of Grindal's occupancy of the see. Now, however,\nthings were changed. There were seldom many distinguished persons to dine\nwith the disgraced prelate; and he himself preferred too to entertain\nthose who could not repay him again, after the precept of the gospel; and\nbesides the provision for the numerous less important guests who dined\ndaily at Lambeth, a great tub was set at the lower end of the hall as it\nhad been in Parker's time, and every day after dinner under the steward's\ndirection was filled with food from the tables, which was afterwards\ndistributed at the gate to poor people of the neighbourhood.\n\nAfter dinner Anthony's time was often his own, until the evening prayers\nat six, followed by supper again spread in the hall. It was necessary for\nhim always to sleep in the house, unless leave was obtained from the\nsteward. This gentleman, Mr. John Scot, an Esquire, took a fancy to\nAnthony, and was indulgent to him in many ways; and Anthony had, as a\nmatter of fact, little difficulty in coming and going as he pleased so\nsoon as his morning duties were done.\n\nLambeth House had been lately restored by Parker, and was now a very\nbeautiful and well-kept place. Among other repairs and buildings he had\nre-roofed the great hall that stood just within Morton's gateway; he had\nbuilt a long pier into the Thames where the barge could be entered easily\neven at low tide; he had rebuilt the famous summerhouse of Cranmer's in\nthe garden, besides doing many sanitary alterations and repairs; and the\nhouse was well kept up in Grindal's time.\n\nAnthony soon added a great affection and tenderness to the awe that he\nfelt for the Archbishop, who was almost from the first a pathetic and\ntouching figure. When Anthony first entered on his duties in November\n'76, he found the Archbishop in his last days of freedom and good favour\nwith the Queen. Elizabeth, he soon learnt from the gossip of the\nhousehold, was as determined to put down the Puritan \"prophesyings\" as\nthe popish services; for both alike tended to injure the peace she was\nresolved to maintain. Rumours were flying to and fro; the Archbishop was\ncontinually going across the water to confer with his friends and the\nLords of the Council, and messengers came and went all day; and it was\nsoon evident that the Archbishop did not mean to yield. It was said that\nhis Grace had sent a letter to her Majesty bidding her not to meddle with\nwhat did not concern her, telling her that she, too, would one day have\nto render account before Christ's tribunal, and warning her of God's\nanger if she persisted.\n\nHer Majesty had sworn like a trooper, a royal page said one day as he\nlounged over the fire in the guard-room, and had declared that if she was\nlike Ozeas and Ahab and the rest, as Grindal had said she was, she would\ntake care that he, at least, should be like Micaiah the son of Imlah,\nbefore she had done with him. Then it began to leak out that Elizabeth\nwas sending her commands to the bishops direct instead of through their\nMetropolitan; and, as the days went by, it became more and more evident\nthat disgrace was beginning to shadow Lambeth. The barges that drew up at\nthe watergate were fewer as summer went on, and the long tables in hall\nwere more and more deserted; even the Archbishop himself seemed silent\nand cast down. Anthony used to watch him from his window going up and\ndown the little walled garden that looked upon the river, with his hands\nclasped behind him and his black habit gathered up in them, and his chin\non his breast. He would be longer than ever too in chapel after the\nmorning prayer, and the company would wait and wonder in the anteroom\ntill his Grace came in and gave the signal for dinner. And at last the\nblow fell.\n\nOn one day in June, Anthony, who had been on a visit to Isabel at Great\nKeynes, returned to Lambeth in time for morning prayer and dinner just\nbefore the gates were shut by the porter, having ridden up early with a\ncouple of grooms. There seemed to him to be an air of constraint abroad\nas the guests and members of the household gathered for dinner. There\nwere no guests of high dignity that day, and the Archbishop sat at his\nown table silent and apart. Anthony, from his place at the steward's\ntable, noticed that he ate very sparingly, and that he appeared even more\npreoccupied and distressed than usual. His short-sighted eyes, kind and\nbrown, surrounded by wrinkles from his habit of peering closely at\neverything, seemed full of sadness and perplexity, and his hand fumbled\nwith his bread continually. Anthony did not like to ask anything of his\nneighbours, as there were one or two strangers dining at the steward's\ntable that day; and the moment dinner was over, and grace had been said\nand the Archbishop retired with his little procession preceded by a white\nwand, an usher came running back to tell Master Norris that his Grace\ndesired to see him at once in the inner cloister.\n\nAnthony hastened round through the court between the hall and the river,\nand found the Archbishop walking up and down in his black habit with the\nround flapped cap, that, as a Puritan, he preferred to the square\nhead-dress of the more ecclesiastically-minded clergy, still looking\ntroubled and cast down, continually stroking his dark forked beard, and\ntalking to one of his secretaries. Anthony stood at a little distance at\nthe open side of the court near the river, cap in hand, waiting till the\nArchbishop should beckon him. The two went up and down in the shade in\nthe open court outside the cloisters, where the pump stood, and where the\npulpit had been erected for the Queen's famous visit to his predecessor;\nwhen she had sat in a gallery over the cloister and heard the chaplain's\nsermon. On the north rose up the roof of the chapel. The cloisters\nthemselves were poor buildings--little more than passages with a\ncontinuous row of square windows running along them the height of a man's\nhead.\n\nAfter a few minutes the secretary left the Archbishop with an obeisance,\nand hastened into the house through the cloister, and presently the\nArchbishop, after a turn or two more with the same grave air, peered\ntowards Anthony and then called him.\n\nAnthony immediately came towards him and received orders that half a\ndozen horses with grooms should be ready as soon as possible, who were to\nreceive orders from Mr. Richard Frampton, the secretary; and that three\nor four horses more were to be kept saddled till seven o'clock that\nevening in case further messages were wanted.\n\n\"And I desire you, Mr. Norris,\" said the Archbishop, \"to let the men\nunder your charge know that their master is in trouble with the Queen's\nGrace; and that they can serve him best by being prompt and obedient.\"\n\nAnthony bowed to the Archbishop, and was going to withdraw, but the\nArchbishop went on:\n\n\"I will tell you,\" he said, \"for your private ear only at present, that I\nhave received an order this day from my Lords of the Council, bidding me\nto keep to my house for six months; and telling me that I am sequestered\nby the Queen's desire. I know not how this will end, but the cause is\nthat I will not do her Grace's will in the matter of the Exercises, as I\nwrote to tell her so; and I am determined, by God's grace, not to yield\nin this thing; but to govern the charge committed to me as He gives me\nlight. That is all, Mr. Norris.\"\n\nThe whole household was cast into real sorrow by the blow that had fallen\nat last on the master; he was \"loving and grateful to servants\"; and was\nfree and liberal in domestic matters, and it needed only a hint that he\nwas in trouble, for his officers and servants to do their utmost for him.\n\nAnthony's sympathy was further aroused by the knowledge that the Papists,\ntoo, hated the old man, and longed to injure him. There had been a great\nincrease of Catholics this year; the Archbishop of York had reported that\n\"a more stiff-necked, wilful, or obstinate people did he never hear of\";\nand from Hereford had come a lament that conformity itself was a mockery,\nas even the Papists that attended church were a distraction when they got\nthere, and John Hareley was instanced as \"reading so loud upon his Latin\npopish primer (that he understands not) that he troubles both minister\nand people.\" In November matters were so serious that the Archbishop felt\nhimself obliged to take steps to chastise the recusants; and in December\ncame the news of the execution of Cuthbert Maine at Launceston in\nCornwall.\n\nHow much the Catholics resented this against the Archbishop was brought\nto Anthony's notice a day or two later. He was riding back for morning\nprayer after an errand in Battersea, one frosty day, and had just come in\nsight of Morton's Gateway, when he observed a man standing by it, who\nturned and ran, on hearing the horse's footsteps, past Lambeth Church and\ndisappeared in the direction of the meadows behind Essex House. Anthony\nchecked his horse, doubtful whether to follow or not, but decided to see\nwhat it was that the man had left pinned to the door. He rode up and\ndetached it, and found it was a violent and scurrilous attack upon the\nArchbishop for his supposed share in the death of the two Papists. It\ndenounced him as a \"bloody pseudo-minister,\" compared him to Pilate, and\nbade him \"look to his congregation of lewd and profane persons that he\nnamed the Church of England,\" for that God would avenge the blood of his\nsaints speedily upon their murderers.\n\nAnthony carried it into the hall, and after showing it to Mr. Scot, put\nit indignantly into the fire. The steward raised his eyebrows.\n\n\"Why so, Master Norris?\" he asked.\n\n\"Why,\" said Anthony sharply, \"you would not have me frame it, and show to\nmy lord.\"\n\n\"I am not sure,\" said the other, \"if you desire to injure the Papists.\nSuch foul nonsense is their best condemnation. It is best to keep\nevidence against a traitor, not destroy it. Besides, we might have caught\nthe knave, and now we cannot,\" he added, looking at the black shrivelling\nsheet half regretfully.\n\n\"It is a mystery to me,\" said Anthony, \"how there can be Papists.\"\n\n\"Why, they hate England,\" said the steward, briefly, as the bell rang for\nmorning prayer. As Anthony followed him along the gallery, he thought\nhalf guiltily of Sir Nicholas and his lady, and wondered whether that was\ntrue of them. But he had no doubt that it was true of Catholics as a\nclass; they had ceased to be English; the cause of the Pope and the Queen\nwere irreconcilable; and so the whole incident added more fuel to the hot\nflame of patriotism and loyalty that burnt so bright in the lad's soul.\n\nBut it was fanned yet higher by a glimpse he had of Court-life; and he\nowed it to Mary Corbet whom he had only seen momentarily in public once\nor twice, and never to speak to since her visit to Great Keynes over six\nyears ago. He had blushed privately and bitten his lip a good many times\nin the interval, when he thought of his astonishing infatuation, and yet\nthe glamour had never wholly faded; and his heart quickened perceptibly\nwhen he opened a note one day, brought by a royal groom, that asked him\nto come that very afternoon if he could, to Whitehall Palace, where\nMistress Corbet would be delighted to see him and renew their\nacquaintance.\n\nAs he came, punctual to the moment, into the gallery overlooking the\ntilt-yard, the afternoon sun was pouring in through the oriel window, and\nthe yard beyond seemed all a haze of golden light and dust. He heard an\nexclamation, as he paused, dazzled, and the servant closed the door\nbehind him; and there came forward to him in the flood of glory, the same\nresplendent figure, all muslin and jewels, that he remembered so well,\nwith the radiant face, looking scarcely older, with the same dancing eyes\nand scarlet lips. All the old charm seemed to envelop him in a moment as\nhe saluted her with all the courtesy of which he was capable.\n\n\"Ah!\" she cried, \"how happy I am to see you again--those dear days at\nGreat Keynes!\" And she took both his hands with such ardour that poor\nAnthony was almost forced to think that he had never been out of her\nthoughts since.\n\n\"How can I serve you, Mistress Corbet?\" he asked.\n\n\"Serve me? Why, by talking to me, and telling me of the country. What\ndoes the lad mean? Come and sit here,\" she said, and she drew him to the\nwindow seat.\n\nAnthony looked out into the shining haze of the tilt-yard. Some one with\na long pole was struggling violently on the back of a horse, jerking the\nreins and cursing audibly.\n\n\"Look at that fool,\" said Mary, \"he thinks his horse as great a dolt as\nhimself. Chris, Chris,\" she screamed through her hands--\"you sodden ass;\nbe quieter with the poor beast--soothe him, soothe him. He doesn't know\nwhat you want of him with your foul temper and your pole going like a\nwindmill about his ears.\"\n\nThe cursing and jerking ceased, and a red furious face with thick black\nbeard and hair looked up. But before the rider could speak, Mary went on\nagain:\n\n\"There now, Chris, he is as quiet as a sheep again. Now take him at it.\"\n\n\"What does he want?\" asked Anthony. \"I can scarcely see for the dust.\"\n\n\"Why, he's practising at the quintain;--ah! ah!\" she cried out again, as\nthe quintain was missed and swung round with a hard buffet on the man's\nback as he tore past. \"Going to market, Chris? You've got a sturdy\nshepherd behind you. Baa, baa, black sheep.\"\n\n\"Who's that?\" asked Anthony, as the tall horseman, as if driven by the\nstorm of contumely from the window, disappeared towards the stable.\n\n\"Why that's Chris Hatton--whom the Queen calls her sheep, and he's as\nsilly as one, too, with his fool's face and his bleat and his great eyes.\nHe trots about after her Grace, too, like a pet lamb. Bah! I'm sick of\nhim. That's enough of the ass; tell me about Isabel.\"\n\nThen they fell to talking about Isabel; and Mary eyed him as he answered\nher questions.\n\n\"Then she isn't a Papist, yet?\" she asked.\n\nAnthony's face showed such consternation that she burst out laughing.\n\n\"There, there, there!\" she cried. \"No harm's done. Then that tall lad,\nwho was away last time I was there--well, I suppose he's not turned\nProtestant?\"\n\nAnthony's face was still more bewildered.\n\n\"Why, my dear lad,\" she said, \"where are your eyes?\"\n\n\"Mistress Corbet,\" he burst out at last, \"I do not know what you mean.\nHubert has been in Durham for years. There is no talk----\" and he\nstopped.\n\nMary's face became sedate again.\n\n\"Well, well,\" she said, \"I always was a tattler. It seems I am wrong\nagain. Forgive me, Master Anthony.\"\n\nAnthony was indeed astonished at her fantastic idea. Of course he knew\nthat Hubert had once been fond of Isabel, but that was years ago, when\nthey had been all children together. Why, he reflected, he too had been\nfoolish once--and he blushed a little.\n\nThen they went on to talk of Great Keynes, Sir Nicholas, and Mr.\nStewart's arrest and death; and Mary asked Anthony to excuse her interest\nin such matters, but Papistry had always been her religion, and what\ncould a poor girl do but believe what she was taught? Then they went on\nto speak of more recent affairs, and Mary made him describe to her his\nlife at Lambeth, and everything he did from the moment he got up to the\nmoment he went to bed again; and whether the Archbishop was a kind\nmaster, and how long they spent at prayers, and how many courses they had\nat dinner; and Anthony grew more and more animated and confidential--she\nwas so friendly and interested and pretty, as she leaned towards him and\nquestioned and listened, and the faint scent of violet from her dress\nawakened his old memories of her.\n\nAnd then at last she approached the subject on which she had chiefly\nwished to see him--which was that he should speak to the steward at\nLambeth on behalf of a young man who was to be dismissed, it seemed, from\nthe Archbishop's service, because his sister had lately turned Papist and\nfled to a convent abroad. It was a small matter; and Anthony readily\npromised to do his best, and, if necessary, to approach the Archbishop\nhimself: and Mistress Corbet was profusely grateful.\n\nThey had hardly done talking of the matter, when a trumpet blew suddenly\nsomewhere away behind the building they were in. Mary held up a white\nfinger and put her head on one side.\n\n\"That will be the Ambassador,\" she said.\n\nAnthony looked at her interrogatively.\n\n\"Why, you country lad!\" she said, \"come and see.\"\n\nShe jumped up, and he followed her down the gallery, and along through\ninterminable corridors and ante-chambers, and up and down the stairs of\nthis enormous palace; and Anthony grew bewildered and astonished as he\nwent at the doors on all sides, and the roofs that ranged themselves\nevery way as he looked out. And at last Mary stopped at a window, and\npointed out.\n\nThe courtyard beneath was alive with colour and movement. In front of the\nentrance opposite waited the great gilded state carriage, and another was\njust driving away. On one side a dozen ladies on grey horses were drawn\nup, to follow behind the Queen when she should come out; and a double row\nof liveried servants were standing bare-headed round the empty carriage.\nThe rest of the court was filled with Spanish and English nobles,\nmounted, with their servants on foot; all alike in splendid costumes--the\nSpaniards with rich chains about their necks, and tall broad-brimmed hats\ndecked with stones and pearls, and the Englishmen in feathered buckled\ncaps and short cloaks thrown back. Two or three trumpeters stood on the\nsteps of the porch. Anthony did not see much state at Lambeth, and the\nsplendour and gaiety of this seething courtyard exhilarated him, and he\nstared down at it all, fascinated, while Mary Corbet poured out a caustic\ncommentary:\n\n\"There is the fat fool Chris again, all red with his tilting. I would\nlike to baa at him again, but I dare not with all these foreign folk.\nThere is Leicester, that tall man with a bald forehead in the cap with\nthe red feather, on the white horse behind the carriage--he always keeps\nclose to the Queen. He is the enemy of your prelate, Master Anthony, you\nknow.... That is Oxford, just behind him on the chestnut. Yes, look well\nat him. He is the prince of the tilt-yard; none can stand against him.\nYou would say he was at his nine-pins, when he rides against them all....\nAnd he can do more than tilt. These sweet-washed gloves\"--and she flapped\nan embroidered pair before Anthony--\"these he brought to England. God\nbless and reward him for it!\" she added fervently.... \"I do not see\nBurghley. Eh! but he is old and gouty these days; and loves a cushion and\na chair and a bit of flannel better than to kneel before her Grace. You\nknow, she allows him to sit when he confers with her. But then, she is\never prone to show mercy to bearded persons.... Ah! there is dear Sidney;\nthat is a sweet soul. But what does he do here among the stones and\nmortar when he has the beeches of Penshurst to walk beneath. He is not so\nwise as I thought him.... But I must say I grow weary of his nymphs and\nhis airs of Olympus. And for myself, I do not see that Flora and\nPhoebus and Maia and the rest are a great gain, instead of Our Lady and\nSaint Christopher and the court of heaven. But then I am a Papist and not\na heathen, and therefore blind and superstitious. Is that not so, Master\nAnthony?... And there is Maitland beside him, with the black velvet cap\nand the white feather, and his cross eyes and mouth. Now I wish he were\nat Penshurst, or Bath--or better still, at Jericho, for it is further\noff. I cannot bear that fellow.... Why, Sussex is going on the water,\ntoo, I see. Now what brings him here? I should have thought his affairs\ngave him enough to think of.... There he is, with his groom behind him,\non the other chestnut. I am astonished at him. He is all for this French\nmarriage, you know. So you may figure to yourself Mendoza's love for him!\nThey will be like two cats together on the barge; spitting and snarling\nsoftly at one another. Her Grace loves to balance folk like that; first\none stretches his claws, and then the other; then one arches his back and\nsnarls, and the other scratches his face for him; and then when all is\nflying fur and blasphemy, off slips her Grace and does what she will.\"\n\nIt was an astonishing experience for Anthony. He had stepped out from his\nworkaday life among the grooms and officers and occasional glimpses of\nhis lonely old master, into an enchanted region, where great personages\nwhose very names were luminous with fame, now lived and breathed and\nlooked cheerful or sullen before his very eyes; and one who knew them in\ntheir daily life stood by him and commented and interpreted them for him.\nHe listened and stared, dazed with the strangeness of it all.\n\nMistress Corbet was proceeding to express her views upon the foreign\nelement that formed half the pageant, when the shrill music broke out\nagain in the palace, and the trumpeters on the steps took it up; and a\nstir and bustle began. Then out of the porch began to stream a\nprocession, like a river of colour and jewels, pouring from the foot of\nthe carved and windowed wall, and eddying in a tumbled pool about the\ngreat gilt carriage;--ushers and footmen and nobles and ladies and pages\nin bewildering succession. Anthony pressed his forehead to the glass as\nhe watched, with little exclamations, and Mary watched him, amused and\ninterested by his enthusiasm.\n\nAnd last moved the great canopy bending and swaying under the doorway,\nand beneath it, like two gorgeous butterflies, at the sight of whom all\nthe standing world fell on its knees, came the pale Elizabeth with her\nauburn hair, and the brown-faced Mendoza, side by side; and entered the\ncarriage with the five plumes atop and the caparisoned horses that\nstamped and tossed their jingling heads. The yard was already emptying\nfast, _en route_ for Chelsea Stairs; and as soon as the two were seated,\nthe shrill trumpets blew again, and the halberdiers moved off with the\ncarriage in the midst, the great nobles going before, and the ladies\nbehind. The later comers mounted as quickly as possible, as their horses\nwere brought in from the stable entrance, and clattered away, and in five\nminutes the yard was empty, except for a few sentries at their posts, and\na servant or two lounging at the doorway; and as Anthony still stared at\nthe empty pavement and the carpeted steps, far away from the direction of\nthe Abbey came the clear call of the horns to tell the loyal folk that\nthe Queen was coming.\n\nIt was a great inspiration for Anthony. He had seen world-powers\nincarnate below him in the glittering rustling figure of the Queen, and\nthe dark-eyed courtly Ambassador in his orders and jewels at her side.\nThere they had sat together in one carriage; the huge fiery realm of the\nsouth, whose very name was redolent with passion and adventure and\nboundless wealth; and the little self-contained northern kingdom, now\nbeginning to stretch its hands, and quiver all along its tingling sinews\nand veins with fresh adolescent life. And Anthony knew that he was one of\nthe cells of this young organism; and that in him as well as in Elizabeth\nand this sparkling creature at his side ran the fresh red blood of\nEngland. They were all one in the possession of a common life; and his\nheart burned as he thought of it.\n\nAfter he had parted from Mary he rode back to Westminster, and crossed\nthe river by the horse-ferry that plied there. And even as he landed and\ngot his beast, with a deal of stamping and blowing, off the echoing\nboards on to the clean gravel again, there came down the reaches of the\nriver the mellow sound of music across a mile of water, mingled with the\ndeep rattle of oars, and sparkles of steel and colour glittered from the\nfar-away royal barges in the autumn sunshine; and the lad thought with\nwonder how the two great powers so savagely at war upon the salt sea,\nwere at peace here, sitting side by side on silken cushions and listening\nto the same trumpets of peace upon the flowing river.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER II\n\n                          SOME NEW LESSONS\n\n\nThe six years that followed Sir Nicholas' return and Hubert's departure\nfor the North had passed uneventfully at Great Keynes. The old knight had\nbeen profoundly shocked that any Catholic, especially an agent so\nvaluable as Mr. Stewart, should have found his house a death-trap; and\nalthough he continued receiving his friends and succouring them, he did\nso with more real caution and less ostentation of it. His religious zeal\nand discretion were further increased by the secret return to the \"Old\nReligion\" of several of his villagers during the period; and a very fair\ncongregation attended Mass so often as it was said in the cloister wing\nof the Hall. The new rector, like his predecessor, was content to let the\nsquire alone; and unlike him had no wife to make trouble.\n\nThen, suddenly, in the summer of '77, catastrophes began, headed by the\nunexpected return of Hubert, impatient of waiting, and with new plans in\nhis mind.\n\nIsabel had been out with Mistress Margaret walking in the dusk one August\nevening after supper, on the raised terrace beneath the yews. They had\nbeen listening to the loud snoring of the young owls in the ivy on the\nchimney-stack opposite, and had watched the fierce bird slide silently\nout of the gloom, white against the blackness, and disappear down among\nthe meadows. Once Isabel had seen him pause, too, on one of his return\njourneys, suspicious of the dim figures beneath, silhouetted on a branch\nagainst the luminous green western sky, with the outline of a mouse with\nits hanging tail plain in his crooked claws, before he glided to his nest\nagain. As Isabel waited she heard the bang of the garden-door, but gave\nit no thought, and a moment after Mistress Margaret asked her to fetch a\ncouple of wraps from the house for them both, as the air had a touch of\nchill in it. She came down the lichened steps, crossed the lawn, and\npassed into the unlighted hall. As she entered, the door opposite opened,\nand for a moment she saw the silhouette of a man's figure against the\nbright passage beyond. Her heart suddenly leapt, and stood still.\n\n\"Anthony!\" she whispered, in a hush of suspense.\n\nThere was a vibration and a step beside her.\n\n\"Isabel!\" said Hubert's voice. And then his arms closed round her for the\nfirst time in her life. She struggled and panted a moment as she felt his\nbreath on her face; and he released her. She recoiled to the door, and\nstood there silent and panting.\n\n\"Oh! Isabel!\" he whispered; and again, \"Isabel!\"\n\nShe put out her hand and grasped the door-post behind her.\n\n\"Oh! Hubert! Why have you come?\"\n\nHe came a step nearer and she could see the faint whiteness of his face\nin the western glimmer.\n\n\"I cannot wait,\" he said, \"I have been nearly beside myself. I have left\nthe north--and I cannot wait so long.\"\n\n\"Well?\" she said; and he heard the note of entreaty and anxiety in her\nvoice.\n\n\"I have my plans,\" he answered; \"I will tell you to-morrow. Where is my\naunt?\"\n\nIsabel heard a step on the gravel outside.\n\n\"She is coming,\" she said sharply. Hubert melted into the dark, and she\nsaw the opposite door open and let him out.\n\nThe next day Hubert announced his plans to Sir Nicholas, and a conflict\nfollowed.\n\n\"I cannot go on, sir,\" he said, \"I cannot wait for ever. I am treated\nlike a servant, too; and you know how miserably I am paid, I have obeyed\nyou for six years, sir; and now I have thrown up the post and told my\nlord to his face that I can bear with him no longer.\"\n\nSir Nicholas' face, as he sat in his upright chair opposite the boy, grew\nflushed with passion.\n\n\"It is your accursed temper, sir,\" he said violently. \"I know you of old.\nWait? For what? For the Protestant girl? I told you to put that from your\nmind, sir.\"\n\nHubert did not propose as yet to let his father into all his plans.\n\n\"I have not spoken her name, sir, I think. I say I cannot wait for my\nfortune; I may be impatient, sir--I do not deny it.\"\n\n\"Then how do you propose to better it?\" sneered his father.\n\n\"In November,\" said Hubert steadily, looking his father in the eyes, \"I\nsail with Mr. Drake.\"\n\nSir Nicholas' face grew terrific. He rose, and struck the table twice\nwith his clenched fist.\n\n\"Then, by God, sir, Mr. Drake may have you now.\"\n\nHubert's face grew white with anger; but he had his temper under control.\n\n\"Then I wish you good-day, sir,\" and he left the room.\n\nWhen the boy had left the house again for London, as he did the same\nafternoon, Lady Maxwell tried to soothe the old man. It was impossible,\neven for her, to approach him before.\n\n\"Sweetheart,\" she said tranquilly, as he sat and glowered at his plate\nwhen supper was over and the men had left the room, \"sweetheart, we must\nhave Hubert down here again. He must not sail with Mr. Drake.\"\n\nThe old man's face flared up again in anger.\n\n\"He may follow his own devices,\" he cried. \"I care not what he does. He\nhas given up the post that I asked for him; and he comes striding and\nruffling home with his hat cocked and--and----\"; his voice became\ninarticulate.\n\n\"He is only a boy, sweetheart; with a boy's hot blood--you would sooner\nhave him like that than a milk-sop. Besides--he is our boy.\"\n\nThe old man growled. His wife went on:\n\n\"And now that James cannot have the estate, he must have it, as you know,\nand carry on the old name.\"\n\n\"He has disgraced it,\" burst out the angry old man, \"and he is going now\nwith that damned Protestant to harry Catholics. By the grace of God I\nlove my country, and would serve her Grace with my heart's blood--but\nthat my boy should go with Drake----!\" and again his voice failed.\n\nIt was a couple of days before she could obtain her husband's leave to\nwrite a conciliatory letter, giving leave to Hubert to go with Drake, if\nhe had made any positive engagement (because, as she represented to Sir\nNicholas, there was nothing actually wrong or disloyal to the Faith in\nit)--but entreating him with much pathos not to leave his old parents so\nbitterly.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\n\"Oh, my dear son,\" the end of the letter ran, \"your father is old; and\nGod, in whose hand are our days, alone knows how long he will live; and\nI, too, my son, am old. So come back to us and be our dear child again.\nYou must not think too hardly of your father's words to you; he is quick\nand hot, as you are, too--but indeed we love you dearly. Your room here\nis ready for you; and Piers wants a firm hand now over him, as your\nfather is so old. So come back, my darling, and make our old hearts glad\nagain.\"\n\nBut the weeks passed by, and no answer came, and the old people's hearts\ngrew sick with suspense; and then, at last, in September the courier\nbrought a letter, written from Plymouth, which told the mother that it\nwas too late; that he had in fact engaged himself to Mr. Drake in August\nbefore he had come to Great Keynes at all; and that in honour he must\nkeep his engagement. He asked pardon of his father for his hastiness; but\nit seemed a cold and half-hearted sorrow; and the letter ended by\nannouncing that the little fleet would sail in November; and that at\npresent they were busy fitting the ships and engaging the men; and that\nthere would be no opportunity for him to return to wish them good-bye\nbefore he sailed. It was plain that the lad was angry still.\n\nSir Nicholas did not say much; but a silence fell on the house. Lady\nMaxwell sent for Isabel, and they had a long interview. The old lady was\nastonished at the girl's quietness and resignation.\n\nYes, she said, she loved Hubert with all her heart. She had loved him for\na long while. No, she was not angry, only startled. What would she do\nabout the difference in religion? Could she marry him while one was a\nCatholic and the other a Protestant? No, they would never be happy like\nthat; and she did not know what she would do. She supposed she would wait\nand see. Yes, she would wait and see; that was all that could be\ndone.--And then had come a silent burst of tears, and the girl had sunk\ndown on her knees and hidden her face in the old lady's lap, and the\nwrinkled jewelled old hand passed quietly over the girl's black hair; but\nno more had been said, and Isabel presently got up and went home to the\nDower House.\n\nThe autumn went by, and November came, and there was no further word from\nHubert. Then towards the end of November a report reached them from\nAnthony at Lambeth that the fleet had sailed; but had put back into\nFalmouth after a terrible storm in the Channel. And hope just raised its\nhead.\n\nThen one evening after supper Sir Nicholas complained of fever and\nrestlessness, and went early to bed. In the night he was delirious.\nMistress Margaret hastened up at midnight from the Dower House, and a\ngroom galloped off to Lindfield before morning to fetch the doctor, and\nanother to fetch Mr. Barnes, the priest, from Cuckfield. Sir Nicholas was\nbled to reduce the fever of the pneumonia that had attacked him. All day\nlong he was sinking. About eleven o'clock that night he fell asleep,\napparently, and Lady Maxwell, who had watched incessantly, was persuaded\nto lie down; but at three o'clock in the morning, on the first of\nDecember, Mistress Margaret awakened her, and together they knelt by the\nbedside of the old man. The priest, who had anointed him on the previous\nevening, knelt behind, repeating the prayers for the dying.\n\nSir Nicholas lay on his back, supported by pillows, under the gloom of\nthe black old four-posted bed. A wood-fire glowed on the hearth, and the\nair was fragrant with the scent of the burning cedar-logs. A crucifix was\nin the old man's hands; but his eyes were bright with fever, and his\nfingers every now and then relaxed, and then tightened their hold again\non the cool silver of the figure of the crucified Saviour. His lips were\nmoving tremulously, and his ruddy old face was pale now.\n\nThe priest's voice went on steadily; the struggle was beginning.\n\n\"_Proficiscere, anima christiana, de hoc mundo_.--Go forth, Christian\nsoul, from this world in the name of God the Father Almighty, who created\nthee; in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, Who suffered\nfor thee; in the name of the Holy Ghost, who was shed forth upon thee; In\nthe name of Angels and Archangels; in the name of Thrones and Dominions;\nin the name of Principalities and Powers----\"\n\nSuddenly the old man, whose head had been slowly turning from side to\nside, ceased his movement, and his open mouth closed; he was looking\nsteadily at his wife, and a look of recognition came back to his eyes.\n\n\"Sweetheart,\" he said; and smiled, and died.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nIsabel did not see much of Mistress Margaret for the next few days; she\nwas constantly with her sister, and when she came to the Dower House now\nand then, said little to the girl. There were curious rumours in the\nvillage; strangers came and went continually, and there was a vast\ncongregation at the funeral, when the body of the old knight was laid to\nrest in the Maxwell chapel. The following day the air of mystery\ndeepened; and young Mrs. Melton whispered to Isabel, with many glances\nand becks, that she and her man had seen lights through the chapel\nwindows at three o'clock that morning. Isabel went into the chapel\npresently to visit the grave, and there was a new smear of black on the\neast wall as if a taper had been set too near.\n\nThe courier who had been despatched to announce to Hubert that his father\nhad died and left him master of the Hall and estate, with certain\nconditions, returned at the end of the month with the news that the fleet\nhad sailed again on the thirteenth, and that Hubert was gone with it; so\nLady Maxwell, now more silent and retired than ever, for the present\nretained her old position and Mr. Piers took charge of the estate.\n\nAlthough Isabel outwardly was very little changed in the last six years,\ngreat movements had been taking place in her soul, and if Hubert had only\nknown the state of the case, possibly he would not have gone so hastily\nwith Mr. Drake.\n\nThe close companionship of such an one as Mistress Margaret was doing its\nalmost inevitable work; and the girl had been learning that behind the\nbrilliant and even crude surface of the Catholic practice, there lay\nstill and beautiful depths of devotion which she had scarcely dreamed of.\nThe old nun's life was a revelation to Isabel; she heard from her bed in\nthe black winter mornings her footsteps in the next room, and soon learnt\nthat Mistress Margaret spent at least two hours in prayer before she\nappeared at all. Two or three times in the day she knew that she retired\nagain for the same purpose, and again an hour after she was in bed, there\nwere the same gentle movements next door. She began to discover, too,\nthat for the Catholic, as well as for the Puritan, the Person of the\nSaviour was the very heart of religion; that her own devotion to Christ\nwas a very languid flame by the side of the ardent inarticulate passion\nof this soul who believed herself His wedded spouse; and that the worship\nof the saints and the Blessed Mother instead of distracting the love of\nthe Christian soul rather seemed to augment it. The King of Love stood,\nas she fancied sometimes, to Catholic eyes, in a glow of ineffable\nsplendour; and the faces of His adoring Court reflected the ruddy glory\non all sides; thus refracting the light of their central Sun, instead of,\nas she had thought, obscuring it.\n\nOther difficulties, too, began to seem oddly unreal and intangible, when\nshe had looked at them in the light of Mistress Margaret's clear old eyes\nand candid face. It was a real event in her inner life when she first\nbegan to understand what the rosary meant to Catholics. Mistress Corbet\nhad told her what was the actual use of the beads; and how the mysteries\nof Christ's life and death were to be pondered over as the various\nprayers were said; but it had hitherto seemed to Isabel as if this method\nwere an elaborate and superstitious substitute for reading the inspired\nrecord of the New Testament.\n\nShe had been sitting out in the little walled garden in front of the\nDower House one morning on an early summer day after her father's death,\nand Mistress Margaret had come out in her black dress and stood for a\nmoment looking at her irresolutely, framed in the dark doorway. Then she\nhad come slowly across the grass, and Isabel had seen for the first time\nin her fingers a string of ivory beads. Mistress Margaret sat down on a\ngarden chair a little way from her, and let her hands sink into her lap,\nstill holding the beads. Isabel said nothing, but went on reading.\nPresently she looked up again, and the old lady's eyes were half-closed,\nand her lips just moving; and the beads passing slowly through her\nfingers. She looked almost like a child dreaming, in spite of her\nwrinkles and her snowy hair; the pale light of a serene soul lay on her\nface. This did not look like the mechanical performance that Isabel had\nalways associated with the idea of beads. So the minutes passed away;\nevery time that Isabel looked up there was the little white face with the\nlong lashes lying on the cheek, and the crown of snowy hair and lace, and\nthe luminous look of a soul in conscious communion with the unseen.\n\nWhen the old lady had finished, she twisted the beads about her fingers\nand opened her eyes. Isabel had an impulse to speak.\n\n\"Mistress Margaret,\" she said, \"may I ask you something?\"\n\n\"Of course, my darling,\" the old lady said.\n\n\"I have never seen you use those before--I cannot understand them.\"\n\n\"What is it,\" asked the old lady, \"that you don't understand?\"\n\n\"How can prayers said over and over again like that be any good?\"\n\nMistress Margaret was silent for a moment.\n\n\"I saw young Mrs. Martin last week,\" she said, \"with her little girl in\nher lap. Amy had her arms round her mother's neck, and was being rocked\nto and fro; and every time she rocked she said 'Oh, mother.'\"\n\n\"But then,\" said Isabel, after a moment's silence, \"she was only a\nchild.\"\n\n\"'Except ye become like little children--'\" quoted Mistress Margaret\nsoftly--\"you see, my Isabel, we are nothing more than children with God\nand His Blessed Mother. To say 'Hail Mary, Hail Mary,' is the best way of\ntelling her how much we love her. And then this string of beads is like\nOur Lady's girdle, and her children love to finger it, and whisper to\nher. And then we say our paternosters, too; and all the while we are\ntalking she is shewing us pictures of her dear Child, and we look at all\nthe great things He did for us, one by one; and then we turn the page and\nbegin again.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said Isabel; and after a moment or two's silence Mistress\nMargaret got up and went into the house.\n\nThe girl sat still with her hands clasped round her knee. How strange and\ndifferent this religion was to the fiery gospel she had heard last year\nat Northampton from the harsh stern preacher, at whose voice a veil\nseemed to rend and show a red-hot heaven behind! How tender and simple\nthis was--like a blue summer's sky with drifting clouds! If only it was\ntrue! If only there were a great Mother whose girdle was of beads strung\ntogether, which dangled into every Christian's hands; whose face bent\ndown over every Christian's bed; and whose mighty and tender arms that\nhad held her Son and God were still stretched out beneath her other\nchildren. And Isabel, whose soul yearned for a mother, sighed as she\nreminded herself that there was but \"one Mediator between God and\nman--the man, Christ Jesus.\"\n\nAnd so the time went by, like an outgoing tide, silent and steady. The\nold nun did not talk much to the girl about dogmatic religion, for she\nwas in a difficult position. She was timid certainly of betraying her\nfaith by silence, but she was also timid of betraying her trust by\nspeech. Sometimes she felt she had gone too far, sometimes not far\nenough; but on the whole her practice was never to suggest questions, but\nonly to answer them when Isabel asked; and to occupy herself with\naffirmative rather than with destructive criticism. More than this she\nhesitated to do out of honour for the dead; less than this she dared not\ndo out of love for God and Isabel. But there were three or four\nconversations that she felt were worth waiting for; and the look on\nIsabel's face afterwards, and the sudden questions she would ask\nsometimes after a fit of silence, made her friend's heart quicken towards\nher, and her prayers more fervent.\n\nThe two were sitting together one December day in Isabel's upstairs room\nand the girl, who had just come in from a solitary walk, was half\nkneeling on the window-seat and drumming her fingers softly on the panes\nas she looked out at the red western sky.\n\n\"I used to think,\" she said, \"that Catholics had no spiritual life; but\nnow it seems to me that in comparison we Puritans have none. You know so\nmuch about the soul, as to what is from God and what from the Evil One;\nand we have to grope for ourselves. And yet our Saviour said that His\nsheep should know His voice. I do not understand it.\" And she turned\ntowards Mistress Margaret who had laid down her work and was listening.\n\n\"Dear child,\" she said, \"if you mean our priests and spiritual writers,\nit is because they study it. We believe in the science of the soul; and\nwe consult our spiritual guides for our soul's health, as the leech for\nour body's health.\"\n\n\"But why must you ask the priest, if the Lord speaks to all alike?\"\n\n\"He speaks through the priest, my dear, as He does through the\nphysician.\"\n\n\"But why should the priest know better than the people?\" pursued Isabel,\nintent on her point.\n\n\"Because he tells us what the Church says,\" said the other smiling, \"it\nis his business. He need not be any better or cleverer in other respects.\nThe baker may be a thief or a foolish fellow; but his bread is good.\"\n\n\"But how do you know,\" went on Isabel, who thought Mistress Margaret a\nlittle slow to see her point--\"how do you know that the Church is right?\"\n\nThe old nun considered a moment, and then lifted her embroidery again.\n\n\"Why do you think,\" she asked, beginning to sew, \"that each single soul\nthat asks God's guidance is right?\"\n\n\"Because the Holy Ghost is promised to such,\" said Isabel wondering.\n\n\"Then is it not likely,\" went on the other still stitching, \"that the\nmillions of souls who form Holy Church are right, when they all agree\ntogether?\" Isabel moved a little impatiently.\n\n\"You see,\" went on Mistress Margaret, \"that is what we Catholics believe\nour Saviour meant when He said that the gates of hell should not prevail\nagainst His Church.\"\n\nBut Isabel was not content. She broke in:\n\n\"But why are not the Scriptures sufficient? They are God's Word.\"\n\nThe other put down her embroidery again, and smiled up into the girl's\npuzzled eyes.\n\n\"Well, my child,\" she said, \"do they seem sufficient, when you look at\nChristendom now? If they are so clear, how is it that you have the\nLutherans, and the Anabaptists, and the Family of Love, and the\nCalvinists, and the Church of England, all saying they hold to the\nScriptures alone. Nay, nay; the Scriptures are the grammar, and the\nChurch is the dame that teaches out of it, and she knows so well much\nthat is not in the grammar, and we name that tradition. But where there\nis no dame to teach, the children soon fall a-fighting about the book and\nthe meaning of it.\"\n\nIsabel looked at Mistress Margaret a moment, and then turned back again\nto the window in silence.\n\nAt another time they had a word or two about Peter's prerogatives.\n\n\"Surely,\" said Isabel suddenly, as they walked together in the garden,\n\"Christ is the one Foundation of the Church, St. Paul tells us so\nexpressly.\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear,\" said the nun, \"but then Christ our Lord said: 'Thou art\nPeter, and on this rock I will build my Church.' So he who is the only\nGood Shepherd, said to Peter, 'Feed My sheep'; and He that is _Clavis\nDavid_ and that openeth and none shutteth said to him, 'I will give\nthee the keys, and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in\nheaven.' That is why we call Peter the Vicar of Christ.\"\n\nIsabel raised her eyebrows.\n\n\"Surely, surely----\" she began.\n\n\"Yes, my child,\" said Mistress Margaret, \"I know it is new and strange to\nyou; but it was not to your grandfather or his forbears: to them, as to\nme, it is the plain meaning of the words. We Catholics are a simple folk.\nWe hold that what our Saviour said simply He meant simply: as we do in\nthe sacred mystery of His Body and Blood. To us, you know,\" she went on,\nsmiling, with a hand on the girl's arm, \"it seems as if you Protestants\ntwisted the Word of God against all justice.\"\n\nIsabel smiled back at her; but she was puzzled. The point of view was new\nto her. And yet again in the garden, a few months later, as they sat out\ntogether on the lawn, the girl opened the same subject.\n\n\"Mistress Margaret,\" she said, \"I have been thinking a great deal; and it\nseems very plain when you talk. But you know our great divines could\nanswer you, though I cannot. My father was no Papist; and Dr. Grindal and\nthe Bishops are all wise men. How do you answer that?\"\n\nThe nun looked silently down at the grass a moment or two.\n\n\"It is the old tale,\" she said at last, looking up; \"we cannot believe\nthat the babes and sucklings are as likely to be right in such matters as\nthe wise and prudent--even more likely, if our Saviour's words are to be\nbelieved. Dear child, do you not see that our Lord came to save all men,\nand call all men into His Church; and that therefore He must have marked\nHis Church in such a manner that the most ignorant may perceive it as\neasily as the most learned? Learning is very well, and it is the gift of\nGod; but salvation and grace cannot depend upon it. It needs an architect\nto understand why Paul's Church is strong and beautiful, and what makes\nit so; but any child or foolish fellow can see that it is so.\"\n\n\"I do not understand,\" said Isabel, wrinkling her forehead.\n\n\"Why this--that you are as likely to know the Catholic Church when you\nsee it, as Dr. Grindal or Dr. Freake, or your dear father himself. Only a\ndivine can explain about it and understand it, but you and I are as fit\nto see it and walk into it, as any of them.\"\n\n\"But then why are they not all Catholics?\" asked Isabel, still\nbewildered.\n\n\"Ah!\" said the nun, softly, \"God alone knows, who reads hearts and calls\nwhom He will. But learning, at least, has nought to do with it.\"\n\nConversations of this kind that took place now and then between the two\nwere sufficient to show Mistress Margaret, like tiny bubbles on the\nsurface of a clear stream, the swift movement of this limpid soul that\nshe loved so well. But on the other hand, all the girl's past life, and\nmost sacred and dear associations, were in conflict with this movement;\nthe memory of her quiet, wise father rose and reproached her sometimes;\nAnthony's enthusiastic talk, when he came down from Lambeth, on the\nglorious destinies of the Church of England, of her gallant protest\nagainst the corruptions of the West, and of her future unique position in\nChristendom as the National Church of the most progressive country--all\nthis caused her to shrink back terrified from the bourne to which she was\ndrifting, and from the breach that must follow with her brother. But\nabove all else that caused her pain was the shocking suspicion that her\nlove for Hubert perhaps was influencing her, and that she was living in\ngross self-deception as to the sincerity of her motives.\n\nThis culminated at last in a scene that seriously startled the old nun;\nit took place one summer night after Hubert's departure in Mr. Drake's\nexpedition. Mistress Margaret had seen Isabel to her room, and an hour\nlater had finished her night-office and was thinking of preparing herself\nto bed, when there was a hurried tap at the door, and Isabel came quickly\nin, her face pale and miserable, her great grey eyes full of trouble and\ndistraction, and her hair on her shoulders.\n\n\"My dear child,\" said the nun, \"what is it?\"\n\nIsabel closed the door and stood looking at her, with her lips parted.\n\n\"How can I know, Mistress Margaret,\" she said, in the voice of a\nsleep-walker, \"whether this is the voice of God or of my own wicked self?\nNo, no,\" she went on, as the other came towards her, frightened, \"let me\ntell you. I must speak.\"\n\n\"Yes, my child, you shall; but come and sit down first,\" and she drew her\nto a chair and set her in it, and threw a wrap over her knees and feet;\nand sat down beside her, and took one of her hands, and held it between\nher own.\n\n\"Now then, Isabel, what is it?\"\n\n\"I have been thinking over it all so long,\" began the girl, in the same\ntremulous voice, with her eyes fixed on the nun's face, \"and to-night in\nbed I could not bear it any longer. You see, I love Hubert, and I used to\nthink I loved our Saviour too; but now I do not know. It seems as if He\nwas leading me to the Catholic Church; all is so much more plain and easy\nthere--it seems--it seems--to make sense in the Catholic Church; and all\nthe rest of us are wandering in the dark. But if I become a Catholic, you\nsee, I can marry Hubert then; and I cannot help thinking of that; and\nwanting to marry him. But then perhaps that is the reason that I think I\nsee it all so plainly; just because I want to see it plainly. And what am\nI to do? Why will not our Lord shew me my own heart and what is His\nWill?\"\n\nMistress Margaret shook her head gently.\n\n\"Dear child,\" she said, \"our Saviour loves you and wishes to make you\nhappy. Do you not think that perhaps He is helping you and making it easy\nin this way, by drawing you to His Church through Hubert. Why should not\nboth be His Will? that you should become a Catholic and marry Hubert as\nwell?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Isabel, \"but how can I tell?\"\n\n\"There is only one thing to be done,\" went on the old lady, \"be quite\nsimple and quiet. Whenever your soul begins to be disturbed and anxious,\nput yourself in His Hands, and refuse to decide for yourself. It is so\neasy, so easy.\"\n\n\"But why should I be so anxious and disturbed, if it were not our Lord\nspeaking and warning me?\"\n\n\"In the Catholic Church,\" said Mistress Margaret, \"we know well about all\nthose movements of the soul; and we call them scruples. You must resist\nthem, dear child, like temptations. We are told that if a soul is in\ngrace and desires to serve God, then whenever our Lord speaks it is to\nbring sweetness with Him; and when it is the evil one, he brings\ndisturbance. And that is why I am sure that these questionings are not\nfrom God. You feel stifled, is it not so, when you try to pray? and all\nseems empty of God; the waves and storms are going over you. But lie\nstill and be content; and refuse to be disturbed; and you will soon be at\npeace again and see the light clearly.\"\n\nMistress Margaret found herself speaking simply in short words and\nsentences as to a child. She had seen that for a long while past the\nclouds had been gathering over Isabel, and that her soul was at present\ncompletely overcast and unable to perceive or decide anything clearly;\nand so she gave her this simple advice, and did her utmost to soothe her,\nknowing that such a clean soul would not be kept long in the dark.\n\nShe knelt down with Isabel presently and prayed aloud with her, in a\nquiet even voice; a patch of moonlight lay on the floor, and something of\nits white serenity seemed to be in the old nun's tones as she entreated\nthe merciful Lord to bid peace again to this anxious soul, and let her\nsee light again through the dark.\n\nAnd when she had taken Isabel back again to her own room at last, and had\nseen her safely into bed, and kissed her good-night, already the girl's\nface was quieter as it lay on the pillow, and the lines were smoothed out\nof her forehead.\n\n\"God bless you!\" said Mistress Margaret.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER III\n\n                           HUBERT'S RETURN\n\n\nAfter the sailing of Mr. Drake's expedition, the friends of the adventurers\nhad to wait in patience for several months before news arrived. Then the\n_Elizabeth_, under the command of Mr. Winter, which had been separated\nfrom Mr. Drake's _Pelican_ in a gale off the south-west coast of America,\nreturned to England, bringing the news of Mr. Doughty's execution for\ndesertion; but of the _Pelican_ herself there was no further news until\ncomplaints arrived from the Viceroy of New Spain of Mr. Drake's ravages\nup the west coast. Then silence again fell for eighteen months.\n\nAnthony had followed the fortunes of the _Pelican_, in which Hubert had\nsailed, with a great deal of interest: and it was with real relief that\nafter the burst of joy in London at the news of her safe return to\nPlymouth with an incalculable amount of plunder, he had word from Lady\nMaxwell that she hoped he would come down at once to Great Keynes, and\nhelp to welcome Hubert home. He was not able to go at once, for his\nduties detained him; but a couple of days after the Hall had welcomed its\nnew master, Anthony was at the Dower House again with Isabel. He found\nher extraordinarily bright and vivacious, and was delighted at the\nchange, for he had been troubled the last time he had seen her a few\nmonths before, at her silence and listlessness; but her face was radiant\nnow, as she threw herself into his arms at the door, and told him that\nthey were all to go to supper that night at the Hall; and that Hubert had\nbeen keeping his best stories on purpose for his return. She showed him,\nwhen they got up to his room at last, little things Hubert had given\nher--carved nuts, a Spanish coin or two, and an ingot of gold--but of\nwhich she would say nothing, but only laugh and nod her head.\n\nHubert, too, when he saw him that evening seemed full of the same sort of\nhalf-suppressed happiness that shone out now and again suddenly. There he\nsat, for hours after supper that night, broader and more sunburnt than\never, with his brilliant eyes glancing round as he talked, and his sinewy\nman's hand, in the delicate creamy ruff, making little explanatory\nmovements, and drawing a map once or twice in spilled wine on the\npolished oak; the three ladies sat forward and watched him breathlessly,\nor leaned back and sighed as each tale ended, and Anthony found himself,\ntoo, carried away with enthusiasm again and again, as he looked at this\ngallant sea-dog in his gold chain and satin and jewels, and listened to\nhis stories.\n\n\"It was bitter cold,\" said Hubert in his strong voice, telling them of\nMr. Doughty's death, \"on the morning itself: and snow lay on the decks\nwhen we rose. Mr. Fletcher had prepared a table in the poop-cabin, with a\nwhite cloth and bread and wine; and at nine of the clock we were all\nassembled where we might see into the cabin: and Mr. Fletcher said the\nCommunion service, and Mr. Drake and Mr. Doughty received the sacrament\nthere at his hands. Some of Mr. Doughty's men had all they could do to\nkeep back their tears; for you know, mother, they were good friends. And\nthen when it was done, we made two lines down the deck to where the block\nstood by the main-mast; and the two came down together; and they kissed\none another there. And Mr. Doughty spoke to the men, and bade them pray\nfor the Queen's Grace with him; and they did. And then he and Mr. Drake\nput off their doublets, and Mr. Doughty knelt at the block, and said\nanother prayer or two, and then laid his head down, and he was shivering\na little with cold, and then, when he gave the sign, Mr. Drake----\" and\nHubert brought the edge of his hand down sharply, and the glasses rang,\nand the ladies drew quick hissing breaths; and Lady Maxwell put her hand\non her son's arm, as he looked round on all their faces.\n\nThen he told them of the expedition up the west coast, and of the towns\nthey sacked; and the opulent names rolled oddly off his tongue, and\nseemed to bring a whiff of southern scent into this panelled English\nroom,--Valparaiso, Tarapaca, and Arica--; and of the capture of the\n_Cacafuego_ off Quibdo; and of the enormous treasure they took, the\ngreat golden crucifix with emeralds of the size of pigeon's eggs, and the\nchests of pearls, and the twenty-six tons of silver, and the wedges of\npure gold from the Peruvian galleon, and of the golden falcon from the\nChinese trader that they captured south of Guatulco. And he described the\nsearch up the coast for the passage eastwards that never existed; and of\nDrake's superb resolve to return westwards instead, by the Moluccas; and\nhow they stayed at Ternate, south of Celebes, and coasted along Java\nseeking a passage, and found it in the Sunda straits, and broke out from\nthe treacherous islands into the open sea; crossed to Africa, rounded the\nCape of Good Hope; came up the west coast, touching at Sierra Leone, and\nso home again along the Spanish and French coasts, to Plymouth Sound and\nthe pealing of Plymouth bells.\n\nAnd he broke out into something very like eloquence when he spoke of\nDrake.\n\n\"Never was such a captain,\" he cried, \"with his little stiff beard and\nhis obstinate eyes. I have seen him stand on the poop, when the arrows\nwere like hail on the deck, with one finger in the ring round his\nneck,--so\": and Hubert thrust a tanned finger into a link of his chain,\nand lifted his chin, \"just making little signs to the steersman, with his\nhand behind his back, to bring the ship nearer to the Spaniard; as cool,\nI tell you, as cool as if he were playing merelles. Oh! and then when we\nboarded, out came his finger from his ring; and there was none that\nstruck so true and fierce; and all in silence too, without an oath or a\ncry or a word; except maybe to give an order. But he was very sharp with\nall that angered him. When we sighted the _Madre di Dios_, I ran into\nhis cabin to tell him of it, without saluting, so full was my head of\nthe chase. And he looked at me like ice; and then roared at me to know\nwhere my manners were, and bade me go out and enter again properly,\nbefore he would hear my news; and then I heard him rating the man that\nstood at his door for letting me pass in that state. At his dinner, too,\nwhich he took alone, there were always trumpets to blow, as when her\nGrace dines. When he laughed it seemed as if he did it with a grave face.\nThere was a piece of grand fooling when we got out from among those weary\nIndian islands; where the great crabs be, and flies that burn in the\ndark, as I told you. Mr. Fletcher, the minister, played the coward one\nnight when we ran aground; and bade us think of our sins and our immortal\nsouls, instead of urging us to be smart about the ship; and he did it,\ntoo, not as Mr. Drake might do, but in such a melancholy voice as if we\nwere all at our last hour; so when we were free of our trouble, and out\non the main again, we were all called by the drum to the forecastle, and\nthere Mr. Drake sat on a sea-chest as solemn as a judge, so that not a\nman durst laugh, with a pair of pantoufles in his hand; and Mr. Fletcher\nwas brought before him, trying to smile as if 'twas a jest for him too,\nbetween two guards; and there he was arraigned; and the witnesses were\ncalled; and Tom Moore said how he was tapped on the shoulder by Mr.\nFletcher as he was getting a pick from the hold; and how he was as white\nas a ghost and bade him think on Mr. Doughty, how there was no mercy for\nhim when he needed it, and so there would be none for us--and then other\nwitnesses came, and then Mr. Fletcher tried to make his defence, saying\nhow it was the part of a minister to bid men think on their souls; but\n'twas no good. Mr. Drake declared him guilty; and sentenced him to be\nkept in irons till he repented of that his cowardice; and then, which was\nthe cream of the joke, since the prisoner was a minister, Mr. Drake\ndeclared him excommunicate, and cut off from the Church of God, and given\nover to the devil. And he was put in irons, too, for a while; so 'twas\nnot all a joke.\"\n\n\"And what is Mr. Drake doing now?\" asked Lady Maxwell.\n\n\"Oh! Drake is in London,\" said Hubert. \"Ah! yes, and you must all come to\nDeptford when her Grace is going to be there. Anthony, lad, you'll come?\"\n\nAnthony said he would certainly do his best; and Isabel put out her hand\nto her brother, and beamed at him; and then turned to look at Hubert\nagain.\n\n\"And what are you to do next?\" asked Mistress Margaret.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"I am to go to Plymouth again presently, to help to get\nthe treasure out of the ships; and I must be there, too, for the spring\nand summer, for Drake wants me to help him with his new expedition.\"\n\n\"But you are not going with him again, my son?\" said his mother quickly.\n\nHubert put out his hand to her.\n\n\"No, no,\" he said, \"I have written to tell him I cannot. I must take my\nfather's place here. He will understand\"; and he gave one swift glance at\nIsabel, and her eyes fell.\n\nAnthony was obliged to return to Lambeth after a day or two, and he\ncarried with him a heart full of admiration and enthusiasm for his\nfriend. He had wondered once or twice, too, as his eyes fell on Isabel,\nwhether there was anything in what Mistress Corbet had said; but he dared\nnot speak to her, and still less to Hubert, unless his confidence was\nfirst sought.\n\nThe visit to Deptford, which took place a week or two later, gave an\nadditional spurt to Anthony's nationalism. London was all on fire at the\nreturn of the buccaneers, and as Anthony rode down the south bank of the\nriver from Lambeth to join the others at the inn, the three miles of\nriver beyond London Bridge were an inspiriting sight in the bright winter\nsunshine, crowded with craft of all kinds, bright with bunting, that were\nmaking their way down to the naval triumph. The road, too, was thick with\nvehicles and pedestrians.\n\nIt was still early when he met his party at the inn, and Hubert took them\nimmediately to see the _Pelican_ that was drawn up in a little creek on\nthe south bank. Mistress Margaret had not come, so the four went together\nall over the ship that had been for these years the perilous home of this\nsunburnt lad they all loved so well. Hubert pointed out Drake's own cabin\nat the poop, with its stern-windows, where the last sacrament of the two\nfriends had been celebrated; and where Drake himself had eaten in royal\nfashion to the sound of trumpets and slept with all-night sentries at his\ndoor. He showed them too his own cabin, where he had lived with three\nmore officers, and the upper poop-deck where Drake would sit hour after\nhour with his spy-glass, ranging the horizons for treasure-ships. And he\nshowed them, too, the high forecastle, and the men's quarters; and Isabel\nfingered delicately the touch-holes of the very guns that had roared and\nsnapped so fiercely at the Dons; and they peered down into the dark empty\nhold where the treasure-chests had lain, and up at the three masts and\nthe rigging that had borne so long the swift wings of the _Pelican_. And\nthey heard the hiss and rattle of the ropes as Hubert ordered a man to\nrun up a flag to show them how it was done; and they smelled the strange\ntarry briny smell of a sea-going ship.\n\n\"You are not tired?\" Anthony said to his sister, as they walked back to\nthe inn from which they were to see the spectacle. She shook her head\nhappily; and Anthony, looking at her, once more questioned himself\nwhether Mistress Corbet were right or not.\n\nWhen they had settled down at last to their window, the crowds were\ngathering thicker every moment about the entrance to the ship, which lay\nin the creek perhaps a hundred yards from the inn, and on the road along\nwhich the Queen was to come from Greenwich. Anthony felt his whole heart\ngo out in sympathy to these joyous shouting folk beneath, who were here\nto celebrate the gallant pluck of a little bearded man and his followers,\nwho for the moment stood for England, and in whose presence just now the\nQueen herself must take second place. Even the quacks and salesmen who\nwere busy in their booths all round used patriotism to push their\nbargains.\n\n\"Spanish ointment, Spanish ointment!\" bellowed a red-faced herbalist in a\ndoctor's gown, just below the window. \"The Dons know what's best for\nwounds and knocks after Frankie Drake's visit\"; and the crowd laughed and\nbought up his boxes. And another drove a roaring business in green glass\nbeads, reported to be the exact size of the emeralds taken from the\n_Cacafuego_; and others sold little models of the _Pelican_, warranted to\nfrighten away Dons and all other kinds of devils from the house that\npossessed one. Isabel laughed with pleasure, and sent Anthony down to buy\none for her.\n\nBut perhaps more than all else the sight of the seamen themselves stirred\nhis heart. Most of them, officers as well as men, were dressed with\nabsurd extravagance, for the prize-money, even after the deduction of the\nQueen's lion-share, had been immense, but beneath their plumed and\njewel-buckled caps, brown faces looked out, alert and capable, with tight\nlips and bright, puckered eyes, with something of the terrier in their\nexpression. There they swaggered along with a slight roll in their walk,\nby ones or twos, through the crowd that formed lanes to let them pass,\nand surged along in their wake, shouting after them and clapping them on\nthe back. Anthony watched them eagerly as they made their way from all\ndirections to where the _Pelican_ lay; for it was close on noon. Then\nfrom far away came the boom of the Tower guns, and then the nearer crash\nof those that guarded the dockyard; and last the deafening roar of the\n_Pelican_ broadside; and then the smoke rose and drifted in a heavy veil\nin the keen frosty air over the cheering crowds. When it lifted again,\nthere was the flash of gold and colour from the Greenwich road, and the\nhigh braying of the trumpets pierced the roaring welcome of the people.\nBut the watchers at the windows could see no more over the heads of the\ncrowd than the plumes of the royal carriage, as the Queen dismounted, and\na momentary glimpse of her figure and the group round her as she passed\non to the deck of the _Pelican_ and went immediately below to the\nbanquet, while the parish church bells pealed a welcome.\n\nLady Maxwell insisted that Isabel should now dine, as there would be no\nmore to be seen till the Queen should come up on deck again.\n\nOf the actual ceremony of the knighting of Mr. Drake they had a very fair\nview, though the figures were little and far away. The first intimation\nthey had that the banquet was over was the sight of the scarlet-clad\nyeomen emerging one by one up the little hatchway that led below. The\nhalberdiers lined the decks already, with their weapons flashing in long\ncurved lines; and by the time that the trumpets began to sound to show\nthat the Queen was on her way from below, the decks were one dense mass\nof colour and steel, with a lane left to the foot of the poop-stairs by\nwhich she would ascend. Then at last the two figures appeared, the Queen\nradiant in cloth of gold, and Mr. Drake, alert and brisk, in his Court\nsuit and sword. There was silence from the crowd as the adventurer knelt\nbefore the Queen, and Anthony held his breath with excitement as he\ncaught the flash of the slender sword that an officer had put into the\nQueen's hand; and then an inconceivable noise broke out as Sir Francis\nDrake stood up. The crowd was one open mouth, shouting, the church bells\nburst into peals overhead, answered by the roll of drums from the deck\nand the blare of trumpets; and then the whole din sank into nothingness\nfor a moment under the heart-shaking crash of the ship's broadside,\nechoed instantly by the deeper roar of the dockyard guns, and answered\nafter a moment or two from far away by the dull boom from the Tower. And\nAnthony leaned yet further from the window and added his voice to the\ntumult.\n\nAs he rode back alone to Lambeth, after parting with the others at London\nBridge, for they intended to go down home again that night, he was\nglowing with national zeal. He had seen not only royalty and magnificence\nbut an apotheosis of character that day. There in the little trim figure\nwith the curly hair kneeling before the Queen was England at its\nbest--England that sent two ships against an empire; and it was the\nChurch that claimed Sir Francis Drake as a son, and indeed a devoted one,\nin a sense, that Anthony himself was serving here at Lambeth, and for\nwhich he felt a real and fervent enthusiasm.\n\nHe was surprised a couple of days later to receive a note in Lady\nMaxwell's handwriting, brought up by a special messenger from the Hall.\n\n\"There is a friend of mine,\" she wrote, \"to come to Lambeth House\npresently, he tells me, to be kept a day or two in ward before he is sent\nto Wisbeach. He is a Catholic, named Mr. Henry Buxton, who showed me\ngreat love during the sorrow of my dear husband's death; and I write to\nyou to show kindness to him, and to get him a good bed, and all that may\ncomfort him: for I know not whether Lambeth Prison is easy or hard; but I\nhope perhaps that since my Lord Archbishop is a prisoner himself he has\npity on such as are so too; and so my pains be in vain. However, if you\nwill see Mr. Buxton at least, and have some talk with him, and show him\nthis letter, it will cheer him perhaps to see a friend's face.\"\n\nAnthony of course made inquiries at once, and found that Mr. Buxton was\nto arrive on the following afternoon. It was the custom to send prisoners\noccasionally to Lambeth, more particularly those more distinguished, or\nwho, it was hoped, could be persuaded to friendly conference. Mr. Buxton,\nhowever, was thought to be incorrigible, and was only sent there because\nthere was some delay in the preparations for his reception at Wisbeach,\nwhich since the previous year had been used as an overflow prison for\nPapists.\n\nOn the evening of the next day, which was Friday, Anthony went straight\nout from the Hall after supper to the gateway prison, and found Mr.\nBuxton at a fish supper in the little prison in the outer part of the\neastern tower. He introduced himself, but found it necessary to show Lady\nMaxwell's letter before the prisoner was satisfied as to his identity.\n\n\"You must pardon me, Mr. Norris,\" he said, when he had read the letter\nand asked a question or two, \"but we poor Papists are bound to be shy.\nWhy, in this very room,\" he went on, pointing to the inner corner away\nfrom the door, and smiling, \"for aught I know a man sits now to hear us.\"\n\nAnthony was considerably astonished to see this stranger point so\nconfidently to the hiding-hole, where indeed the warder used to sit\nsometimes behind a brick partition, to listen to the talk of the\nprisoners; and showed his surprise.\n\n\"Ah, Mr. Norris,\" the other said, \"we Papists are bound to be well\ninformed; or else where were our lives? But come, sir, let us sit down.\"\n\nAnthony apologised for interrupting him at his supper, and offered to\ncome again, but Mr. Buxton begged him not to leave, as he had nearly\nfinished. So Anthony sat down, and observed the prison and the prisoner.\nIt was fairly well provided with necessaries: a good straw bed lay in one\ncorner on trestles; and washing utensils stood at the further wall; and\nthere was an oil lamp that hung high up from an iron pin. The prisoner's\nluggage lay still half unpacked on the floor, and a row of pegs held a\nhat and a cloak. Mr. Buxton himself was a dark-haired man with a short\nbeard and merry bright eyes; and was dressed soberly as a gentleman; and\nbehaved himself with courtesy and assurance. But it was a queer place\nwith this flickering lamp, thought Anthony, for a gentleman to be eating\nhis supper in. When Mr. Buxton had finished his dish of roach and a\ntankard of ale, he looked up at Anthony, smiling.\n\n\"My lord knows the ways of Catholics, then,\" he said, pointing to the\nbones on his plate.\n\nAnthony explained that the Protestants observed the Friday abstinence,\ntoo.\n\n\"Ah yes,\" said the other, \"I was forgetting the Queen's late injunctions.\nLet us see; how did it run? 'The same is not required for any liking of\nPapish Superstitions or Ceremonies (is it?) hitherto used, which utterly\nare to be detested of all Christian folk'; (no, the last word or two is a\ngloss), 'but only to maintain the mariners in this land, and to set men\na-fishing.' That is the sense of it, is it not, sir? You fast, that is,\nnot for heavenly reasons, which were a foolish and Papish thing to do;\nbut for earthly reasons, which is a reasonable and Protestant thing to\ndo.\"\n\nAnthony might have taken this assault a little amiss, if he had not seen\na laughing light in his companion's eyes; and remembered, too, that\nimprisonment is apt to breed a little bitterness. So he smiled back at\nhim. Then soon they fell to talking of Lady Maxwell and Great Keynes,\nwhere it seemed that Mr. Buxton had stayed more than once.\n\n\"I knew Sir Nicholas well,\" he said, \"God rest his soul. It seems to me\nhe is one of those whose life continually gave the lie to men who say\nthat a Catholic can be no true Englishman. There never beat a more loyal\nheart than his.\"\n\nAnthony agreed; but asked if it were not true that Catholics were in\ndifficulties sometimes as to the proper authority to be obeyed--the Pope\nor the Prince.\n\n\"It is true,\" said the other, \"or it might be. Yet the principle is\nclear, _Date C\u00e6sari quae sunt C\u00e6saris_. The difficulty lies but in the\napplication of the maxim.\"\n\n\"But with us,\" said Anthony--\"Church of England folk,--there hardly can\nbe ever any such difficulty; for the Prince of the State is the Governor\nof the Church as well.\"\n\n\"I take your point,\" said Mr. Buxton. \"You mean that a National Church is\nbetter, for that spiritual and temporal authorities are then at one.\"\n\n\"Just so,\" said Anthony, beginning to warm to his favourite theme. \"The\nChurch is the nation regarded as religious. When England wars on land it\nis through her army, which is herself under arms; when on sea she embarks\nin the navy; and in the warfare with spiritual powers, it is through her\nChurch. And surely in this way the Church must always be the Church of\nthe people. The Englishman and the Spaniard are like cat and dog; they\nlike not the same food nor the same kind of coat; I hear that their\nbuildings are not like ours; their language, nay, their faces and minds,\nare not like ours. Then why should be their prayers and their religion? I\nquarrel with no foreigner's faith; it is God who made us so.\"\n\nAnthony stopped, breathless with his unusual eloquence; but it was the\nsubject that lay nearest to his heart at present, and he found no lack of\nwords. The prisoner had watched him with twinkling eyes, nodding his head\nas if in agreement; and when he had finished his little speech, nodded\nagain in meditative silence.\n\n\"It is complete,\" he answered, \"complete. And as a theory would be\nconvincing; and I envy you, Master Norris, for you stand on the top of\nthe wave. That is what England holds. But, my dear sir, Christ our Lord\nrefused such a kingdom as that. My kingdom, He said, is not of this\nworld--is not, that is, ruled by the world's divisions and systems. You\nhave described Babel,--every nation with its own language. But it was to\nundo Babel and to build one spiritual city that our Saviour came down,\nand sent the Holy Ghost to make the Church at Pentecost out of Arabians\nand Medes and Elamites--to break down the partition-walls, as the apostle\ntells us,--that there be neither Jew nor Greek, barbarian nor\nScythian--and to establish one vast kingdom (which for that very reason\nwe name Catholic), to destroy differences between nation and nation, by\nlifting each to be of the People of God--to pull down Babel, the City of\nConfusion, and build Jerusalem the City of Peace. Dear God!\" cried Mr.\nBuxton, rising in his excitement, and standing over Anthony, who looked\nat him astonished and bewildered. \"You and your England would parcel out\nthe Kingdom of heaven into national Churches, as you name them--among all\nthe kingdoms of the world; and yet you call yourselves the servants of\nHim who came to do just the opposite--yes, and who will do it, in spite\nof you, and make the kingdoms of this world, instead, the Kingdom of our\nLord and of His Christ. Why, if each nation is to have her Church, why\nnot each county and each town--yes, and each separate soul, too; for all\nare different! Nay, nay, Master Norris, you are blinded by the Prince of\nthis world. He is shewing you even now from an high mountain the kingdoms\nof this world and the glory of them: lift your eyes, dear lad, to the\nhills from whence cometh your help; those hills higher than the mountain\nwhere you stand; and see the new Jerusalem, and the glory of her, coming\ndown from God to dwell with men.\"\n\nMr. Buxton stood, his eyes blazing, plainly carried away wholly by\nenthusiasm; and Anthony, in spite of himself, could not be angry. He\nmoistened his lips once or twice.\n\n\"Well, sir; of course I hold with what you say, in one sense; but it is\nnot come yet; and never will, till our Lord comes back to make all\nplain.\"\n\n\"Not come yet?\" cried the other, \"Not come yet! Why, what is the one Holy\nCatholic and Apostolic Church but that? There you have one visible\nkingdom, gathered out of every nation and tongue and people, as the\napostle said. I have a little estate in France, Master Norris, where I go\nsometimes; and there are folk in their wooden shoes, talking a different\nhuman tongue to me, but, thank God! the same divine one--of contrition\nand adoration and prayer. There we have the same mass, the same\npriesthood, the same blessed sacrament and the same Faith, as in my own\nlittle oratory at Stanfield. Go to Spain, Africa, Rome, India; wherever\nChrist is preached; there is the Church as it is here--the City of Peace.\nAnd as for you and your Church! with whom do you hold communion?\"\n\nThis stung Anthony, and he answered impulsively.\n\n\"In Geneva and Frankfort, at least, there are folk who speak the same\ndivine tongue, as you call it, as we do; they and we are agreed in\nmatters of faith.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" said Mr. Burton sharply, \"then what becomes of your\nNationalism, and the varied temperaments that you told me God had made?\"\n\nAnthony bit his lip; he had overshot his mark. But the other swept on;\nand as he talked began to step up and down the little room, in a kind of\nrhapsody.\n\n\"Is it possible?\" he cried, \"that men should be so blind as to prefer the\nlittle divided companies they name National Churches--all confusion and\ndenial--to that glorious kingdom that Christ bought with his own dear\nblood, and has built upon Peter, against which the gates of hell shall\nnot prevail. Yes, I know it is a flattering and a pleasant thought that\nthis little nation should have her own Church; and it is humbling and\nbitter that England should be called to submit to a foreign potentate in\nthe affairs of faith--Nay, cry they like the Jews of old, not Christ but\nBarabbas--we will not have this Man to reign over us. And yet this is\nGod's will and not that. Mark me, Mr. Norris, what you hope will never\ncome to be--the Liar will not keep his word--you shall not have that\nNational Church that you desire: as you have dealt, so will it be dealt\nto you: as you have rejected, so will you be rejected. England herself\nwill cast you off: your religious folk will break into a hundred\ndivisions. Even now your Puritans mock at your prelates--so soon! And if\nthey do thus now, what will they do hereafter? You have cast away\nAuthority, and authority shall forsake you. Behold your house is left\nunto you desolate.\"\n\n\"Forgive me, Mr. Norris,\" he added after a pause, \"if I have been\ndiscourteous, and have forgotten my manners; but--but I would, as the\napostle said, that you were altogether as I am, except these bonds.\"\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER IV\n\n                           A COUNTER-MARCH\n\n\nIsabel was sitting out alone in the Italian garden at the Hall, one\nafternoon in the summer following the visit to Deptford. Hubert was down\nat Plymouth, assisting in the preparations for the expedition that Drake\nhoped to conduct against Spain. The two countries were technically at\npeace, but the object with which he was going out, with the moral and\nfinancial support of the Queen, was a corporate demonstration against\nSpain, of French, Portuguese, and English ships under the main command of\nDon Antonio, the Portuguese pretender; it was proposed to occupy Terceira\nin the Azores; and Drake and Hawkins entertained the highest hopes of\nlaying their hands on further plunder.\n\nShe was leaning back in her seat, with her hands behind her head,\nthinking over her relations with Hubert. When he had been at home at the\nend of the previous year, he had apparently taken it for granted that the\nmarriage would be celebrated; he had given her the gold nugget, that she\nhad showed Anthony, telling her he had brought it home for the\nwedding-ring; and she understood that he was to come for his final answer\nas soon as his work at Plymouth was over. But not a word of explanation\nhad passed between them on the religious difficulty. He had silenced her\nemphatically and kindly once when she had approached it; and she gathered\nfrom his manner that he suspected the direction in which her mind was\nturning and was generously unwilling for her to commit herself an inch\nfurther than she saw. Else whence came his assurance? And, for herself,\nthings were indeed becoming plain: she wondered why she had hesitated so\nlong, why she was still hesitating; the cup was brimming above the edge;\nit needed but a faint touch of stimulus to precipitate all.\n\nAnd so Isabel lay back and pondered, with a touch of happy impatience at\nthe workings of her own soul; for she dared not act without the final\ntouch of conviction. Mistress Margaret had taught her that the swiftest\nflight of the soul was when there was least movement, when the soul knew\nhow to throw itself with that supreme effort of cessation into the Hands\nof God, that He might bear it along: when, after informing the intellect\nand seeking by prayer for God's bounty, the humble client of Heaven\nwaited with uplifted eyes and ready heart until God should answer. And so\nshe waited, knowing that the gift was at hand, yet not daring to snatch\nit. But, in the meanwhile, her imagination at least might act without\nrestraint; so she sent it out, like a bird from the Ark, to bring her the\nearnest of peace. There, in the cloister-wing, somewhere, lay the chapel,\nwhere she and Hubert would kneel together;--somewhere beneath that grey\nroof. That was the terrace where she would walk one day as one who has a\nright there. Which of these windows would be hers? Not Lady Maxwell's, of\ncourse; she must keep that.... Ah! how good God was!\n\nThe tall door on to the terrace opened, and Mistress Margaret peered out\nwith a letter in her hand. Isabel called to her; and the old nun came\ndown the steps into the garden. Why did she walk so falteringly, the girl\nwondered, as if she could not see? What was it? What was it?\n\nIsabel rose to her feet, startled, as the nun with bent head came up the\npath. \"What is it, Mistress Margaret?\"\n\nThe other tried to smile at her, but her lips were trembling too much;\nand the girl saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. She put the\nletter into her hand.\n\nIsabel lifted it in an agony of suspense; and saw her name, in Hubert's\nhandwriting.\n\n\"What is it?\" she said again, white to the lips.\n\nThe old lady as she turned away glanced at her; and Isabel saw that her\nface was all twitching with the effort to keep back her tears. The girl\nhad never seen her like that before, even at Sir Nicholas' death. Was\nthere anything, she wondered as she looked, worse than death? But she was\ntoo dazed by the sight to speak, and Mistress Margaret went slowly back\nto the house unquestioned.\n\nIsabel turned the letter over once or twice; and then sat down and opened\nit. It was all in Hubert's sprawling handwriting, and was dated from\nPlymouth.\n\nIt gave her news first about the squadron; saying how Don Antonio had\nleft London for Plymouth, and was expected daily; and then followed this\nparagraph:\n\n\"And now, dearest Isabel, I have such good news to give you. _I have\nturned Protestant_; and there is no reason why we should not be married\nas soon as I return. I know this will make you happy to think that our\nreligions are no longer different. I have thought of this so long; but\nwould not tell you before for fear of disappointing you. Sir Francis\nDrake's religion seems to me the best; it is the religion of all the\n'sea-dogs' as they name us; and of the Queen's Grace, and it will be soon\nof all England; and more than all it is the religion of my dearest\nmistress and love. I do not, of course, know very much of it as yet; but\ngood Mr. Collins here has shown me the superstitions of Popery; and I\nhope now to be justified by faith without works as the gospel teaches. I\nfear that my mother and aunt will be much distressed by this news; I have\nwritten, too, to tell them of it. You must comfort them, dear love; and\nperhaps some day they, too, will see as we do.\" Then followed a few\nmessages, and loving phrases, and the letter ended.\n\nIsabel laid it down beside her on the low stone wall; and looked round\nher with eyes that saw nothing. There was the grey old house before her,\nand the terrace, and the cloister-wing to the left, and the hot sunshine\nlay on it all, and drew out scents and colours from the flower-beds, and\njoy from the insects that danced in the trembling air; and it all meant\nnothing to her; like a picture when the page is turned over it. Five\nminutes ago she was regarding her life and seeing how the Grace of God\nwas slowly sorting out its elements from chaos to order--the road was\nunwinding itself before her eyes as she trod on it day by day--now a hand\nhad swept all back into disorder, and the path was hidden by the ruins.\n\nThen gradually one thought detached itself, and burned before her, vivid\nand startling; and in all its terrible reality slipped between her and\nthe visible world on which she was staring. It was this: to embrace the\nCatholic Faith meant the renouncing of Hubert. As a Protestant she might\nconceivably have married a Catholic; as a Catholic it was inconceivable\nthat she should marry an apostate.\n\nThen she read the letter through again carefully and slowly; and was\nastonished at the unreality of Hubert's words about Romish superstition\nand gospel simplicity. She tried hard to silence her thoughts; but two\nreasons for Hubert's change of religion rose up and insisted on making\nthemselves felt; it was that he might be more in unity with the\nbuccaneers whom he admired; second, that there might be no obstacle to\ntheir marriage. And what then, she asked, was the quality of the heart he\nhad given her?\n\nThen, in a flash of intuition, she perceived that a struggle lay before\nher, compared with which all her previous spiritual conflicts were as\nchild's play; and that there was no avoiding it. The vision passed, and\nshe rose and went indoors to find the desolate mother whose boy had lost\nthe Faith.\n\nA month or two of misery went by. For Lady Maxwell they passed with\nrecurring gusts of heart-broken sorrow and of agonies of prayer for her\napostate son. Mistress Margaret was at the Hall all day, soothing,\nencouraging, even distracting her sister by all the means in her power.\nThe mother wrote one passionate wail to her son, appealing to all that\nshe thought he held dear, even yet to return to the Faith for which his\nfather had suffered and in which he had died; but a short answer only\nreturned, saying it was impossible to make his defence in a letter, and\nexpressing pious hopes that she, too, one day would be as he was; the\nsame courier brought a letter to Isabel, in which he expressed his wonder\nthat she had not answered his former one.\n\nAnd as for Isabel, she had to pass through this valley of darkness alone.\nAnthony was in London; and even if he had been with her could not have\nhelped her under these circumstances; her father was dead--she thanked\nGod for that now--and Mistress Margaret seemed absorbed in her sister's\ngrief. And so the girl fought with devils alone. The arguments for\nCatholicism burned pitilessly clear now; every line and feature in them\nstood out distinct and hard. Catholicism, it appeared to her, alone had\nthe marks of the Bride, visible unity, visible Catholicity, visible\nApostolicity, visible Sanctity;--there they were, the seals of the most\nHigh God. She flung herself back furiously into the Protestantism from\nwhich she had been emerging; there burned in the dark before her the\nmarks of the Beast, visible disunion, visible nationalism, visible\nErastianism, visible gulfs where holiness should be: that system in which\nnow she could never find rest again glared at her in all its unconvincing\nincoherence, its lack of spirituality, its adulterous union with the\ncivil power instead of the pure wedlock of the Spouse of Christ. She\nwondered once more how she dared to have hesitated so long; or dared to\nhesitate still.\n\nOn the theological side intellectual arguments of this kind started out,\nstrong and irrefutable; her emotional drawings towards Catholicism for\nthe present retired. Feelings might have been disregarded or discredited\nby a strong effort of the will; these apparently cold phenomena that\npresented themselves to her intellect, could not be thus dealt with. Yet,\nstrangely enough, even now she would not throw herself resolutely into\nCatholicism: the fierce stimulus instead of precipitating the crisis,\npetrified it. More than once she started up from her knees in her own\ndark room, resolved to awaken the nun and tell her she would wait no\nlonger, but would turn Catholic at once and have finished with the misery\nof suspense: and even as she moved to the door her will found itself\nagainst an impenetrable wall.\n\nAnd then on the other side all her human nature cried out for\nHubert--Hubert--Hubert. There he stood by her in fancy, day and night,\nthat chivalrous, courteous lad, who had been loyal to her so long; had\nwaited so patiently; had run to her with such dear impatience; who was so\nwholesome, so strong, so humble to her; so quick to understand her wants,\nso eager to fulfil them; so bound to her by associations; so fit a mate\nfor the very differences between them. And now these two claims were no\nlonger compatible; in his very love for her he had ended that\npossibility. All those old dreams; the little scenes she had rehearsed,\nof their first mass, their first communion together; their walks in the\ntwilight; their rides over the hills; the new ties that were to draw the\nold ladies at the Hall and herself so close together--all this was\nchanged; some of those dreams were now for ever impossible, others only\npossible on terms that she trembled even to think of. Perhaps it was\nworst of all to reflect that she was in some measure responsible for his\nchange of religion; she fancied that it was through her slowness to\nrespond to light, her delaying to confide in him, that he had been driven\nthrough impatience to take this step. And so week after week went by and\nshe dared not answer his letter.\n\nThe old ladies, too, were sorely puzzled at her. It was impossible for\nthem to know how far her religion was changing. She had kept up the same\nreserve towards them lately as towards Hubert, chiefly because she feared\nto disappoint them; and so after an attempt to tell each other a little\nof their mutual sympathy, the three women were silent on the subject of\nthe lad who was so much to them all.\n\nShe began to show her state a little in her movements and appearance. She\nwas languid, soon tired and dispirited; she would go for short, lonely\nwalks, and fall asleep in her chair worn out when she came in. Her grey\neyes looked longer and darker; her eyelids and the corners of her mouth\nbegan to droop a little.\n\nThen in October he came home.\n\nIsabel had been out a long afternoon walk by herself through the\nreddening woods. They had never, since the first awakening of the\nconsciousness of beauty in her, meant so little to her as now. It\nappeared as if that keen unity of a life common to her and all living\nthings had been broken or obscured; and that she walked in an isolation\nall the more terrible in that she was surrounded by the dumb presence of\nwhat she loved. Last year the quick chattering cry of the blackbird, the\nevening mists over the meadows, the stir of the fading life of the woods,\nthe rustling scamper of the rabbit over the dead leaves, the solemn call\nof the homing rooks--all this, only last year, went to make up the sweet\nnatural atmosphere in which her spirit moved and breathed at ease. Now\nshe was excommunicate from that pleasant friendship, banned by nature and\nforgotten by the God who made it and was immanent within it. Her\nrelations to the Saviour, who only such a short time ago had been the\nPerson round whom all the joys of life had centred, from whom they\nradiated, and to whom she referred them all--these relations had begun to\nbe obscured by her love for Hubert, and now had vanished altogether. She\nhad regarded her earthly and her heavenly lover as two persons, each of\nwhom had certain claims upon her heart, and each of whom she had hoped to\nsatisfy in different ways; instead of identifying the two, and serving\neach not apart from, but in the other. And it now seemed to her that she\nwas making experience of a Divine jealousy that would suffer her to be\nsatisfied neither with God nor man. Her soul was exhausted by internal\nconflict, by the swift alternations of attraction and repulsion between\nthe poles of her supernatural and natural life; so that when it turned\nwearily from self to what lay outside, it was not even capable, as\nbefore, of making that supreme effort of cessation of effort which was\nnecessary to its peace. It seemed to her that she was self-poised in\nemptiness, and could neither touch heaven or earth--crucified so high\nthat she could not rest on earth, so low that she could not reach to\nheaven.\n\nShe came in weary and dispirited as the candles were being lighted in her\nsitting-room upstairs; but she saw the gleam of them from the garden with\nno sense of a welcoming brightness. She passed from the garden into the\ndoor of the hall which was still dark, as the fire had nearly burned\nitself out. As she entered the door opposite opened, and once more she\nsaw the silhouette of a man's figure against the lighted passage beyond;\nand again she stopped frightened, and whispered \"Anthony.\"\n\nThere was a momentary pause as the door closed and all was dark again;\nand then she heard Hubert's voice say her name; and felt herself wrapped\nonce more in his arms. For a moment she clung to him with furious\nlonging. Ah! this is a tangible thing, she felt, this clasp; the faint\ncleanly smell of his rough frieze dress refreshed her like wine, and she\nkissed his sleeve passionately. And the wide gulf between them yawned\nagain; and her spirit sickened at the sight of it.\n\n\"Oh! Hubert, Hubert!\" she said.\n\nShe felt herself half carried to a high chair beside the fire-place and\nset down there; then he re-arranged the logs on the hearth, so that the\nflames began to leap again, showing his strong hands and keen clear-cut\nface; then he turned on his knees, seized her two hands in his own, and\nlifted them to his lips; then laid them down again on her knee, still\nholding them; and so remained.\n\n\"Oh! Isabel,\" he said, \"why did you not write?\"\n\nShe was silent as one who stares fascinated down a precipice.\n\n\"It is all over,\" he went on in a moment, \"with the expedition. The\nQueen's Grace has finally refused us leave to go--and I have come back to\nyou, Isabel.\"\n\nHow strong and pleasant he looked in this leaping fire-light! how real!\nand she was hesitating between this warm human reality and the chilly\npossibilities of an invisible truth. Her hands tightened instinctively\nwithin his, and then relaxed.\n\n\"I have been so wretched,\" she said piteously.\n\n\"Ah! my dear,\" and he threw an arm round her neck and drew her face down\nto his, \"but that is over now.\" She sat back again; and then an access of\npurpose poured into her and braced her will to an effort.\n\n\"No, no,\" she began, \"I must tell you. I was afraid to write. Hubert, I\nmust wait a little longer. I--I do not know what I believe.\"\n\nHe looked at her, puzzled.\n\n\"What do you mean, dearest?\"\n\n\"I have been so much puzzled lately--thinking so much--and--and--I am\nsorry you have become a Protestant. It makes all so hard.\"\n\n\"My dear, this is--I do not understand.\"\n\n\"I have been thinking,\" went on Isabel bravely, \"whether perhaps the\nCatholic Church is not right after all.\"\n\nHubert loosed her hands and stood up. She crouched into the shadow of the\ninterior of the high chair, and looked up at him, terrified. His cheek\ntwitched a little.\n\n\"Isabel, this is foolishness. I know what the Catholic faith is. It is\nnot true; I have been through it all.\"\n\nHe was speaking nervously and abruptly. She said nothing. Then he\nsuddenly dropped on his knees himself.\n\n\"My dearest, I understand. You were doing this for me. I quite\nunderstand. It is what I too----\" and then he stopped.\n\n\"I know, I know,\" she cried piteously. \"It is just what I have feared so\nterribly--that--that our love has been blinding us both. And yet, what\nare we to do, what are we to do? Oh! God--Hubert, help me.\"\n\nThen he began to speak in a low emphatic voice, holding her hands,\ndelicately stroking one of them now and again, and playing with her\nfingers. She watched his curly head in the firelight as he talked, and\nhis keen face as he looked up.\n\n\"It is all plain to me,\" he said, caressingly. \"You have been living here\nwith my aunt, a dear old saint; and she has been talking and telling you\nall about the Catholic religion, and making it seem all true and good.\nAnd you, my dear child, have been thinking of me sometimes, and loving me\na little, is it not so? and longing that religion should not separate us;\nand so you began to wish it was true; and then to hope it was; and at\nlast you have begun to think it is. But it is not your true sweet self\nthat believes it. Ah! you know in your heart of hearts, as I have known\nso long, that it is not true; that it is made up by priests and nuns; and\nit is very beautiful, I know, my dearest, but it is only a lovely tale;\nand you must not spoil all for the sake of a tale. And I have been\ngradually led to the light; it was your--\" and his voice faltered--\"your\nprayers that helped me to it. I have longed to understand what it was\nthat made you so sweet and so happy; and now I know; it is your own\nsimple pure religion; and--and--it is so much more sensible, so much more\nlikely to be true than the Catholic religion. It is all in the Bible you\nsee; so plain, as Mr. Collins has showed me. And so, my dear love, I have\ncome to believe it too; and you must put all these fancies out of your\nhead, these dreams; though I love you, I love you,\" and he kissed her\nhand again, \"for wishing to believe them for my sake--and--and we will be\nmarried before Christmas; and we will have our own fairy-tale, but it\nshall be a true one.\"\n\nThis was terrible to Isabel. It seemed as if her own haunting thought\nthat she was sacrificing a dream to reality had become incarnate in her\nlover and was speaking through his lips. And yet in its very incarnation,\nit seemed to reveal its weakness rather than its strength. As a dark\nsuggestion the thought was mighty; embodied in actual language it seemed\nto shrink a little. But then, on the other hand--and so the interior\nconflict began to rage again.\n\nShe made a movement as if to stand up; but he pressed her back into the\nchair.\n\n\"No, my dearest, you shall be a prisoner until you give your parole.\"\n\nTwice Isabel made an effort to speak; but no sound came. It seemed as if\nthe raging strife of thoughts deafened and paralysed her.\n\n\"Now, Isabel,\" said Hubert.\n\n\"I cannot, I cannot,\" she cried desperately, \"you must give me time. It\nis too sudden, your returning like this. You must give me time. I do not\nknow what I believe. Oh, dear God, help me.\"\n\n\"Isabel, promise! promise! Before Christmas! I thought it was all to be\nso happy, when I came in through the garden just now. My mother will\nhardly speak to me; and I came to you, Isabel, as I always did; I felt so\nsure you would be good to me; and tell me that you would always love me,\nnow that I had given up my religion for love of you. And now----\" and\nHubert's voice ended in a sob.\n\nHer heart seemed rent across, and she drew a sobbing sigh. Hubert heard\nit, and caught at her hands again as he knelt.\n\n\"Isabel, promise, promise.\"\n\nThen there came that gust of purpose into her heart again; she made a\ndetermined effort and stood up; and Hubert rose and stood opposite her.\n\n\"You must not ask me,\" she said, bravely. \"It would be wicked to decide\nyet. I cannot see anything clearly. I do not know what I believe, nor\nwhere I stand. You must give me time.\"\n\nThere was a dead silence. His face was so much in shadow that she could\nnot tell what he was thinking. He was standing perfectly still.\n\n\"Then that is all the answer you will give me?\" he said, in a perfectly\neven voice.\n\nIsabel bowed her head.\n\n\"Then--then I wish you good-night, Mistress Norris,\" and he bowed to her,\ncaught up his cap and went out.\n\nShe could not believe it for a moment, and caught her breath to cry out\nafter him as the door closed; but she heard his step on the stone\npavement outside, the crunch of the gravel, and he was gone. Then she\nwent and leaned her head against the curved mantelshelf and stared into\nthe logs that his hands had piled together.\n\nThis, then, she thought, was the work of religion; the end of all her\naspirations and efforts, that God should mock them by bringing love into\ntheir life, and then when they caught at it and thanked him for it, it\nwas whisked away again, and left their hands empty. Was this the Father\nof Love in whom she had been taught to believe, who treated His children\nlike this? And so the bitter thoughts went on; and yet she knew in her\nheart that she was powerless; that she could not go to the door and call\nHubert and promise what he asked. A great Force had laid hold of her, it\nmight be benevolent or not--at this moment she thought not--but it was\nirresistible; and she must bow her head and obey.\n\nAnd even as she thought that, the door opened again, and there was\nHubert. He came in two quick steps across the room to her, and then\nstopped suddenly.\n\n\"Mistress Isabel,\" he asked, \"can you forgive me? I was a brute just now.\nI do not ask for your promise. I leave it all in your hands. Do with me\nwhat you will. But--but, if you could tell me how long you think it will\nbe before you know----\"\n\nHe had touched the right note. Isabel's heart gave a leap of sorrow and\nsympathy. \"Oh, Hubert,\" she said brokenly, \"I am so sorry; but I promise\nI will tell you--by Easter?\" and her tone was interrogative.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Hubert. He looked at her in silence, and she saw strange\nlines quivering at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes large and\nbrilliant in the firelight. Then the two drew together, and he took her\nin his arms strongly and passionately.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThere was a scene that night between the mother and son. Mistress\nMargaret had gone back to the Dower House for supper; and Lady Maxwell\nand Hubert were supping in Sir Nicholas' old study that would soon be\narranged for Hubert now that he had returned for good. They had been very\nsilent during the meal, while the servants were in the room, talking only\nof little village affairs and of the estate, and of the cancelling of the\nproposed expedition. Hubert had explained to his mother that it was\ngenerally believed that Elizabeth had never seriously intended the\nEnglish ships to sail, but that she only wished to draw Spain's attention\noff herself by setting up complications between that country and France;\nand when she had succeeded in this by managing to get the French squadron\nsafe at Terceira, she then withdrew her permission to Drake and Hawkins,\nand thus escaped from the quarrel altogether. But it was a poor makeshift\nfor conversation.\n\nWhen the servants had withdrawn, a silence fell. Presently Hubert looked\nacross the table between the silver branched candlesticks.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said, \"of course I know what you are thinking. But I cannot\nconsent to go through all the arguments; I am weary of them. Neither will\nI see Mr. Barnes to-morrow at Cuckfield or here. I am satisfied with my\nposition.\"\n\n\"My son,\" said Lady Maxwell with dignity, \"I do not think I have spoken\nthat priest's name; or indeed any.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Hubert, impatiently, \"at any rate I will not see him. But I\nwish to say a few words about this house. We must have our positions\nclear. My father left to your use, did he not, the whole of the\ncloister-wing? I am delighted, dear mother, that he did so. You will be\nhappy there I know; and of course I need not say that I hope you will\nkeep your old room overhead as well; and, indeed, use the whole house as\nyou have always done. I shall be grateful if you will superintend it all,\nas before--at least, until a new mistress comes.\"\n\n\"Thank you, my son.\"\n\n\"I will speak of that in a moment,\" he went on, looking steadily at the\ntable-cloth; \"but there was a word I wished to say first. I am now a\nloyal subject of her Grace in all things; in religion as in all else.\nAnd--and I fear I cannot continue to entertain seminary priests as my\nfather used to do. My--my conscience will not allow that. But of course,\nmother, I need not say that you are at perfect liberty to do what you\nwill in the cloister-wing; I shall ask no questions; and I shall set no\ntraps or spies. But I must ask that the priests do not come into this\npart of the house, nor walk in the garden. Fortunately you have a lawn in\nthe cloister; so that they need not lack fresh air or exercise.\"\n\n\"You need not fear, Hubert,\" said his mother, \"I will not embarrass you.\nYou shall be in no danger.\"\n\n\"I think you need not have said that, mother; I am not usually thought a\ncoward.\"\n\nLady Maxwell flushed a little, and began to finger her silver knife.\n\n\"However,\" Hubert went on, \"I thought it best to say that. The chapel,\nyou see, is in that wing; and you have that lawn; and--and I do not think\nI am treating you hardly.\"\n\n\"And is your brother James not to come?\" asked his mother.\n\n\"I have thought much over that,\" said Hubert; \"and although it is hard to\nsay it, I think he had better not come to my part of the house--at least\nnot when I am here; I must know nothing of it. You must do what you think\nwell when I am away, about him and others too. It is very difficult for\nme, mother; please do not add to the difficulty.\"\n\n\"You need not fear,\" said Lady Maxwell steadily; \"you shall not be\ntroubled with any Catholics besides ourselves.\"\n\n\"Then that is arranged,\" said the lad. \"And now there is a word more.\nWhat have you been doing to Isabel?\" And he looked sharply across the\ntable. His mother's eyes met his fearlessly.\n\n\"I do not understand you,\" she said.\n\n\"Mother, you must know what I mean. You have seen her continually.\"\n\n\"I have told you, my son, that I do not know.\"\n\n\"Why,\" burst out Hubert, \"she is half a Catholic.\"\n\n\"Thank God,\" said his mother.\n\n\"Ah! yes; you thank God, I know; but whom am I to thank for it?\"\n\n\"I would that you could thank Him too.\"\n\nHubert made a sharp sound of disgust.\n\n\"Ah! yes,\" he said scornfully, \"I knew it; _Non nobis Domine_, and the\nrest.\"\n\n\"Hubert,\" said Lady Maxwell, \"I do not think you mean to insult me in\nthis house; but either that is an insult, or else I misunderstood you\nwholly, and must ask your pardon for it.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he said, in a harsh voice, \"I will make myself plain. I believe\nthat it is through the influence of you and Aunt Margaret that this has\nbeen brought about.\"\n\nAt the moment he spoke the door opened.\n\n\"Come in, Margaret,\" said her sister, \"this concerns you.\"\n\nThe old nun came across to Hubert with her anxious sweet face; and put\nher old hand tenderly on his black satin sleeve as he sat and wrenched at\na nut between his fingers.\n\n\"Hubert, dear boy,\" she said, \"what is all this? Will you tell me?\"\n\nHubert rose, a little ashamed of himself, and went to the door and closed\nit; and then drew out a chair for his aunt, and put a wine-glass for her.\n\n\"Sit down, aunt,\" he said, and pushed the decanter towards her.\n\n\"I have just left Isabel,\" she said, \"she is very unhappy about\nsomething. You saw her this evening, dear lad?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hubert, heavily, looking down at the table and taking up\nanother nut, \"and it is of that that I have been speaking. Who has made\nher unhappy?\"\n\n\"I had hoped you would tell us that,\" said Mistress Margaret; \"I came up\nto ask you.\"\n\n\"My son has done us--me--the honour----\" began Lady Maxwell; but Hubert\nbroke in:\n\n\"I left Isabel here last Christmas happy and a Protestant. I have come\nback here now to find her unhappy and half a Catholic, if not\nmore--and----\"\n\n\"Oh! are you sure?\" asked Mistress Margaret, her eyes shining. \"Thank\nGod, if it be so!\"\n\n\"Sure?\" said Hubert, \"why she will not marry me; at least not yet.\"\n\n\"Oh, poor lad,\" she said tenderly, \"to have lost both God and Isabel.\"\n\nHubert turned on her savagely. But the old nun's eyes were steady and\nserene.\n\n\"Poor lad!\" she said again.\n\nHubert looked down again; his lip wrinkled up in a little sneer.\n\n\"As far as I am concerned,\" he said, \"I can understand your not caring,\nbut I am astonished at this response of yours to her father's\nconfidence!\"\n\nLady Maxwell grew white to the lips.\n\n\"I have told you,\" she began--\"but you do not seem to believe it--that I\nhave had nothing to do, so far as I know, with her conversion,\nwhich\"--and she raised her voice bravely--\"I pray God to accomplish. She\nhas, of course, asked me questions now and then; and I have answered\nthem--that is all.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said Mistress Margaret, \"plead guilty to the same charge, and to\nno other. You are not yourself, dear boy, at present; and indeed I do not\nwonder at it; and I pray God to help you; but you are not yourself, or\nyou would not speak like this to your mother.\"\n\nHubert rose to his feet; his face was white under the tan, and the ruffle\nround his wrist trembled as he leaned heavily with his fingers on the\ntable.\n\n\"I am only a plain Protestant now,\" he said bitterly, \"and I have been\nwith Protestants so long that I have forgotten Catholic ways; but----\"\n\n\"Stay, Hubert,\" said his mother, \"do not finish that. You will be sorry\nfor it presently, if you do. Come, Margaret.\" And she moved towards the\ndoor; her son went quickly past and opened it.\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said the nun. \"Do you be going, Mary. Let me stay with the\nlad, and we will come to you presently.\" Lady Maxwell bowed her head and\npassed out, and Hubert closed the door.\n\nMistress Margaret looked down on the table.\n\n\"You have given me a glass, dear boy; but no wine in it.\"\n\nHubert took a couple of quick steps back, and faced her.\n\n\"It is no use, it is no use,\" he burst out, and his voice was broken with\nemotion, \"you cannot turn me like that. Oh, what have you done with my\nIsabel?\" He put out his hand and seized her arm. \"Give her back to me,\nAunt Margaret; give her back to me.\"\n\nHe dropped into his seat and hid his face on his arm; and there was a sob\nor two.\n\n\"Sit up and be a man, Hubert,\" broke in Mistress Margaret's voice, clear\nand cool.\n\nHe looked up in amazement with wet indignant eyes. She was looking at\nhim, smiling tenderly.\n\n\"And now, for the second time, give me half a glass of wine, dear boy.\"\n\nHe poured it out, bewildered at her self-control.\n\n\"For a man that has been round the world,\" she said, \"you are but a\nfoolish child.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Have you never thought of a way of yet winning Isabel,\" she asked.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" he repeated.\n\n\"Why, come back to the Church, dear lad; and make your mother and me\nhappy again, and marry Isabel, and save your own soul.\"\n\n\"Aunt Margaret,\" he cried, \"it is impossible. I have truly lost my faith\nin the Catholic religion; and--and--you would not have me a hypocrite.\"\n\n\"Ah! ah!\" said the nun, \"you cannot tell yet. Please God it may come\nback. Oh! dear boy, in your heart you know it is true.\"\n\n\"Before God, in my heart I know that it is not true.\"\n\n\"No, no, no,\" she said; but the light died out of her eyes, and she\nstretched a tremulous hand.\n\n\"Yes, Aunt Margaret, it is so. For years and years I have been doubting;\nbut I kept on just because it seemed to me the best religion; and--and I\nwould not be driven out of it by her Grace's laws against my will, like a\ndog stoned from his kennel.\"\n\n\"But you are only a lad still,\" she said piteously. He laughed a little.\n\n\"But I have had the gift of reason and discretion nearly twenty years, a\npriest would tell me. Besides, Aunt Margaret, I could not be such a--a\ncur--as to come back without believing. I could never look Isabel in the\neyes again.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said the old lady, \"let us wait and see. Do you intend to\nbe here now for a while?\"\n\n\"Not while Isabel is like this,\" he said. \"I could not. I must go away\nfor a while, and then come back and ask her again.\"\n\n\"When will she decide?\"\n\n\"She told me by next Easter,\" said Hubert. \"Oh, Aunt Margaret, pray for\nus both.\"\n\nThe light began to glimmer again in her eyes.\n\n\"There, dear boy,\" she said, \"you see you believe in prayer still.\"\n\n\"But, aunt,\" said Hubert, \"why should I not? Protestants pray.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said the old nun again. \"Now you must come to your mother;\nand--and be good to her.\"\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER V\n\n                      THE COMING OF THE JESUITS\n\n\nThe effect on Anthony of Mr. Buxton's conversation was very considerable.\nHe had managed to keep his temper very well during the actual interview;\nbut he broke out alone afterwards, at first with an angry contempt. The\nabsurd arrogance of the man made him furious--the arrogance that had\npuffed away England and its ambitions and its vigour--palpable evidences\nof life and reality, and further of God's blessing--in favour of a\nmiserable Latin nation which had the presumption to claim the possession\nof Peter's Chair and of the person of the Vicar of Christ! Test it, said\nthe young man to himself, by the ancient Fathers and Councils that Dr.\nJewel quoted so learnedly, and the preposterous claim crumbled to dust.\nTest it, yet again, by the finger of Providence; and God Himself\nproclaimed that the pretensions of the spiritual kingdom, of which the\nprisoner in the cell had bragged, are but a blasphemous fable. And\nAnthony reminded himself of the events of the previous year.\n\nThree great assaults had been made by the Papists to win back England to\nthe old Religion. Dr. William Allen, the founder of Douai College, had\nalready for the last seven or eight years been pouring seminary priests\ninto England, and over a hundred and twenty were at work among their\ncountrymen, preparing the grand attack. This was made in three quarters\nat once.\n\nIn Scotland it was chiefly political, and Anthony thought, with a bitter\ncontempt, of the Count d'Aubigny, Esm\u00e9 Stuart, who was supposed to be an\nemissary of the Jesuits; how he had plotted with ecclesiastics and\nnobles, and professed Protestantism to further his ends; and of all the\nstories of his duplicity and evil-living, told round the guard-room fire.\n\nIn Ireland the attempt was little else than ludicrous. Anthony laughed\nfiercely to himself as he pictured the landing of the treacherous fools\nat Dingle, of Sir James FitzMaurice and his lady, very wretched and giddy\nafter their voyage, and the barefooted friars, and Dr. Sanders, and the\nbanner so solemnly consecrated; and of the sands of Smerwick, when all\nwas over a year later, and the six hundred bodies, men and women who had\npreferred Mr. Buxton's spiritual kingdom to Elizabeth's kindly rule,\nstripped and laid out in rows, like dead game, for Lord Grey de Wilton to\nreckon them by.\n\nBut his heart sank a little as he remembered the third method of attack,\nand of the coming of the Jesuits. By last July all London knew that they\nwere here, and men's hearts were shaken with apprehension. They reminded\none another of the April earthquake that had tolled the great Westminster\nbell, and thrown down stones from the churches. One of the Lambeth\nguards, a native of Blunsdon, in Wiltshire, had told Anthony himself that\na pack of hell-hounds had been heard there, in full cry after a ghostly\nquarry. Phantom ships had been seen from Bodmin attacking a phantom\ncastle that rode over the waves off the Cornish coast. An old woman of\nBlasedon had given birth to a huge-headed monster with the mouth of a\nmouse, eight legs, and a tail; and, worse than all, it was whispered in\nthe Somersetshire inns that three companies of black-robed men, sixty in\nnumber, had been seen, coming and going overhead in the gloom. These two\nstrange emissaries, Fathers Persons and Campion--how they appealed to the\nimagination, lurking under a hundred disguises, now of servants, now of\ngentlemen of means and position! It was known that they were still in\nEngland, going about doing good, their friends said who knew them;\nstirring up the people, their enemies said who were searching for them.\nAnthony had seen with his own eyes some of the papers connected with\ntheir presence--that containing a statement of their objects in coming,\nnamely, that they were spiritual not political agents, seeking recruits\nfor Christ and for none else; Campion's \"Challenge and Brag,\" offering to\nmeet any English Divine on equal terms in a public disputation; besides\none or two of the controversial pamphlets, purporting to be printed at\nDouai, but really emanating from a private printing-press in England, as\nthe Government experts had discovered from an examination of the\nwater-marks of the paper employed.\n\nYet as the weeks went by, and his first resentment cooled, Mr. Buxton's\narguments more and more sank home, for they had touched the very point\nwhere Anthony had reckoned that his own strength lay. He had never before\nheard Nationalism and Catholicism placed in such flat antithesis. In\nfact, he had never before really heard the statement of the Catholic\nposition; and his fierce contempt gradually melted into respect. Both\ntheories had a concrete air of reality about them; his own imaged itself\nunder the symbols of England's power; the National Church appealed to him\nso far as it represented the spiritual side of the English people; and\nMr. Buxton's conception appealed to him from its very audacity. This\ngreat spiritual kingdom, striding on its way, trampling down the barriers\nof temperament and nationality, disregarding all earthly limitations and\nartificial restraints, imperiously dominating the world in spite of the\nworld's struggles and resentment--this, after all, as he thought over it,\nwas--well--was a new aspect of affairs. The coming of the Jesuits, too,\nemphasised the appeal: here were two men, as the world itself confessed,\nof exceptional ability--for Campion had been a famous Oxford orator, and\nPersons a Fellow of Balliol--choosing, under a free-will obedience, first\na life of exile, and then one of daily peril and apprehension, the very\nthought of which burdened the imagination with horror; hunted like\nvermin, sleeping and faring hard, their very names detested by the\nmajority of their countrymen, with the shadow of the gallows moving with\nthem, and the reek of the hangman's cauldron continually in their\nnostrils--and for what? For Mr. Buxton's spiritual kingdom! Well, Anthony\nthought to himself as the weeks went by and his new thoughts sank deeper,\nif it is all a superstitious dream, at least it is a noble one!\n\nWhat, too, was the answer, he asked himself, that England gave to Father\nCampion's challenge, and the defence that the Government was preparing\nagainst the spiritual weapons of the Jesuits? New prisons at Framingham\nand Battersea; new penalties enacted by Parliament; and, above all, the\nunanswerable argument of the rack, and the gallows finally to close the\ndiscussion. And what of the army that was being set in array against the\npriests, and that was even now beginning to scour the country round\nBerkshire, Oxfordshire, and London? Anthony had to confess to himself\nthat they were queer allies for the servants of Christ; for traitors,\nliars, and informers were among the most trusted Government agents.\n\nIn short, as the spring drew on, Anthony was not wholly happy. Again and\nagain in his own room he studied a little manuscript translation of\nFather Campion's \"Ten Reasons,\" that had been taken from a popish\nprisoner, and that a friend had given him; and as he read its exultant\nrhetoric, he wondered whether the writer was indeed as insincere and\ntreacherous as Mr. Scot declared. There seemed in the paper a reckless\noutspokenness, calculated rather to irritate than deceive.\n\n\"I turn to the Sacraments,\" he read, \"none, none, not two, not one, O\nholy Christ, have they left. Their very bread is poison. Their baptism,\nthough it be true, yet in their judgment is nothing. It is not the saving\nwater! It is not the channel of Grace! It brings not Christ's merits to\nus! It is but a sign of salvation!\" And again the writer cried to\nElizabeth to return to the ancient Religion, and to be in truth what she\nwas in name, the Defender of the Faith.\n\n\"'Kings shall be thy nursing fathers,' thus Isaiah sang, 'and Queens thy\nnursing mothers.' Listen, Elizabeth, most Mighty Queen! To thee the great\nProphet sings! He teaches thee thy part. Join then thyself to these\nprinces!... O Elizabeth, a day, a day shall come that shall show thee\nclearly which have loved thee the better, the Society of Jesus or Luther's\nbrood!\"\n\nWhat arrogance, thought Anthony to himself, and what assurance too!\n\nMeanwhile in the outer world things were not reassuring to the friends of\nthe Government: it was true that half a dozen priests had been captured\nand examined by torture, and that Sir George Peckham himself, who was\nknown to have harboured Campion, had been committed to the Marshalsea;\nbut yet the Jesuits' influence was steadily on the increase. More and\nmore severe penalties had been lately enacted; it was now declared to be\nhigh treason to reconcile or be reconciled to the Church of Rome;\noverwhelming losses in fortune as well as liberty were threatened against\nall who said or heard Mass or refused to attend the services of the\nEstablishment; but, as was discovered from papers that fell from time to\ntime into the hands of the Government agents, the only answer of the\npriests was to inveigh more strenuously against even occasional\nconformity, declaring it to be the mortal sin of schism, if not of\napostasy, to put in an appearance under any circumstances, except those\nof actual physical compulsion, at the worship in the parish churches.\nWorse than all, too, was the fact that this severe gospel began to\nprevail; recusancy was reported to be on the increase in all parts of the\ncountry; and many of the old aristocracy began to return to the faith of\ntheir fathers: Lords Arundel, Oxford, Vaux, Henry Howard, and Sir Francis\nSouthwell were all beginning to fall under the suspicion of the shrewdest\nGovernment spies.\n\nThe excitement at Lambeth ran higher day by day as the summer drew on;\nthe net was being gradually contracted in the home counties; spies were\nreported to be everywhere, in inns, in the servants' quarters of\ngentlemen's houses, lounging at cross roads and on village greens.\nCampion's name was in every mouth. Now they were on his footsteps, it was\nsaid; now he was taken; now he was gone back to France; now he was in\nLondon; now in Lancashire; and each rumour in turn corrected its\npredecessor.\n\nAnthony shared to the full in the excitement; the figure of the quarry,\nafter which so many hawks were abroad, appealed to his imagination. He\ndreamed of him at night, once as a crafty-looking man with narrow eyes\nand stooping shoulders, that skulked and ran from shadow to shadow across\na moonlit country; once as a ruddy-faced middle-aged gentleman riding\ndown a crowded street; and several times as a kind of double of Mr.\nStewart, whom he had never forgotten, since he had watched him in the\nlittle room of Maxwell Hall, gallant and alert among his enemies.\n\nAt last one day in July, as it drew on towards evening, and as Anthony\nwas looking over the stable-accounts in his little office beyond the\nPresence Chamber, a buzz of talk and footsteps broke out in the court\nbelow; and a moment later the Archbishop's body-servant ran in to say\nthat his Grace wished to see Mr. Norris at once in the gallery that\nopened out of the guard-room.\n\n\"And I think it is about the Jesuits, sir,\" added the man, evidently\nexcited.\n\nAnthony ran down at once and found his master pacing up and down, with a\ncourier waiting near the steps at the lower end that led to Chichele's\ntower. The Archbishop stopped by a window, emblazoned with Cardinal\nPole's emblem, and beckoned to him.\n\n\"See here, Master Norris,\" he said, \"I have received news that Campion is\nat last taken: it may well be false, as so often before; but take horse,\nif you please, and ride into the city and find the truth for me. I will\nnot send a groom; they believe the maddest tales. You are at liberty?\" he\nadded courteously.\n\n\"Yes, your Grace, I will ride immediately.\"\n\nAs he rode down the river-bank towards London Bridge ten minutes later,\nhe could not help feeling some dismay as well as excitement at the news\nhe was to verify. And yet what other end was possible? But what a doom\nfor the brilliant Oxford orator, even though he had counted the cost!\n\nStreams of excited people were pouring across the bridge into the city;\nCampion's name was on every tongue; and Anthony, as he passed under the\nhigh gate, noticed a man point up at the grim spiked heads above it, and\nlaugh to his companion. There seemed little doubt, from the unanimity of\nthose whom he questioned, that the rumour was true; and some even said\nthat the Jesuit was actually passing down Cheapside on his way to the\nTower. When at last Anthony came to the thoroughfare the crowd was as\ndense as for a royal progress. He checked his horse at the door of an\ninn-yard, and asked an ostler that stood there what it was all about.\n\n\"It is Campion, the Jesuit, sir,\" said the man. \"He has been taken at\nLyford, and is passing here presently.\"\n\nThe man had hardly finished speaking when a yell came from the end of the\nstreet, and groans and hoots ran down the crowd. Anthony turned in his\nsaddle, and saw a great stir and movement, and then horses' and men's\nheads moving slowly down over the seething surface of the crowd, as if\nswimming in a rough sea. He could make little out, as the company came\ntowards him, but the faces of the officers and pursuivants who rode in\nthe front rank, four or five abreast; then followed the faces of three or\nfour others, also riding between guards, and Anthony looked eagerly at\nthem; but they were simple faces enough, a little pale and quiet; one was\nlike a farmer's, ruddy and bearded;--surely Campion could not be among\nthose! Then more and more, riding two and two, with a couple of armed\nguards with each pair; some looked like country-men or servants, some\nlike gentlemen, and one or two might be priests; but the crowd seemed to\npay them no attention beyond a glance or two. Ah! what was this coming\nbehind?\n\nThere was a space behind the last row of guards, and then came a separate\ntroop riding all together, of half a dozen men at least, and one in the\ncentre, with something white in his hat. The ferment round this group was\ntremendous; men were leaping up and yelling, like hounds round a carted\nstag; clubs shot up menacingly, and a storm of ceaseless execration raged\noutside the compact square of guards who sat alert and ready to beat off\nan attack. Once a horse kicked fiercely as a man sprang to his\nhind-quarters, and there was a scream of pain and a burst of laughing.\n\nAnthony sat trembling with excitement as the first group had passed, and\nthis second began to come opposite the entrance where he sat. This then\nwas the man!\n\nThe rider in the centre sat his horse somewhat stiffly, and Anthony saw\nthat his elbows were bound behind his back, and his hands in front; the\nreins were drawn over his horse's head and a pursuivant held them on\neither side. The man was dressed as a layman, in a plumed hat and a buff\njerkin, such as soldiers or plain country-gentlemen might use; and in the\nhat was a great paper with an inscription. Anthony spelt it out.\n\n\"Campion, the Seditious Jesuit.\"\n\nThen he looked at the man's face.\n\nIt was a comely refined face, a little pale but perfectly serene: his\npointed dark brown beard and moustache were carefully trimmed; and his\nlarge passionate eyes looked cheerfully about him. Anthony stared at him,\nwholly fascinated; for above the romance that hung about the hunted\npriest and the glamour of the dreaded Society which he represented, there\nwas a chivalrous fearless look in his face that drew the heart of the\nyoung man almost irresistibly. At least he did not look like the skulking\nknave at whom all the world was sneering, and of whom Anthony had dreamt\nso vividly a few nights before.\n\nThe storm of execration from the faces below, and the faces crowding at\nthe windows, seemed to affect him not at all; and he looked from side to\nside as if they were cheering him rather than crying against him. Once\nhis eyes met Anthony's and rested on them for a moment; and a strange\nthrill ran through him and he shivered sharply.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAnd yet he felt, too, a distinct and irresistible movement of attraction\ntowards this felon who was riding towards his agony and passion; and he\nwas conscious at the same time of that curious touch of wonder that he\nhad felt years before towards the man whipped at the cart's tail, as to\nwhether the solitary criminal were not in the right, and the clamorous\naccusers in the wrong. Campion in a moment had passed on and turned his\nhead.\n\nIn that moment, too, Anthony caught a sudden clear instantaneous\nimpression of a group of faces in the window opposite. There were a\ncouple of men in front, stout city personages no doubt, with crimson\nfaces and open mouths cursing the traitorous Papist and the crafty\nvagrant fox trapped at last; but between them, looking over their\nshoulders, was a woman's face in which Anthony saw the most intense\nstruggle of emotions. The face was quite white, the lips parted, the eyes\nstraining, and sorrow and compassion were in every line, as she watched\nthe cheerful priest among his warders; and yet there rested on it, too, a\nstrange light as of triumph. It was the face of one who sees victory even\nat the hour of supremest failure. In an instant more the face had\nwithdrawn itself into the darkness of the room.\n\nWhen the crowds had surged down the street in the direction of the Tower,\nyelling in derision as Campion saluted the lately defaced Cheapside\nCross, Anthony guided his horse out through the dispersing groups,\nrealising as he did so, with a touch of astonishment at the coincidence,\nthat he had been standing almost immediately under the window whence he\nand Isabel had leaned out so many years before.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe sun was going down behind the Abbey as he rode up towards Lambeth,\nand the sky above and the river beneath were as molten gold. The Abbey\nitself, with Westminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament below, stood\nup like mystical palaces against the sunset; and it seemed to Anthony as\nhe rode, as if God Himself were illustrating in glorious illumination the\nclosing pages of that human life of which a glimpse had opened to him in\nCheapside. It did not appear to him as it had done in the days of his\nboyish love as if heaven and earth were a stage for himself to walk and\npose upon; but he felt intensely now the dominating power of the\npersonality of the priest; and that he himself was no more than a\nspectator of this act of a tragedy of which the priest was both hero and\nvictim, and for which this evening glory formed so radiant a scene. The\nold intellectual arguments against the cause that the priest represented\nfor the moment were drowned in this flood of splendour. When he arrived\nat Lambeth and had reached the Archbishop's presence, he told him the\nnews briefly, and went to his room full of thought and perplexity.\n\nIn a few days the story of Campion's arrest was known far and wide. It\nhad been made possible by the folly of one Catholic and the treachery of\nanother; and when Anthony heard it, he was stirred still more by the\ncontrast between the Jesuit and his pursuers. The priest had returned to\nthe moated grange at Lyford, after having already paid as long a visit\nthere as was prudent, owing to the solicitations of a number of gentlemen\nwho had ridden after him and his companion, and who wished to hear his\neloquence. He had returned there again, said mass on the Sunday morning,\nand preached afterwards, from a chair set before the altar, a sermon on\nthe tears of the Saviour over apostate Jerusalem. But a false disciple\nhad been present who had come in search of one Payne; and this man, known\nafterwards by the Catholics as Judas Eliot or Eliot Iscariot, had\ngathered a number of constables and placed them about the manor-house;\nand before the sermon was over he went out quickly from the table of the\nLord, the house was immediately surrounded, and the alarm was raised by a\nwatcher placed in one of the turrets after Eliot's suspicious departure.\nThe three priests present, Campion and two others, were hurried into a\nhiding-hole over the stairs. The officers entered, searched, and found\nnothing; and were actually retiring, when Eliot succeeded in persuading\nthem to try again; they searched again till dark, and still found\nnothing. Mrs. Yate encouraged them to stay the night in the house, and\nentertained them with ale; and then when all was quiet, insisted on\nhearing some parting words from her eloquent guest. He came out into the\nroom where she had chosen to spend the night until the officers were\ngone; and the rest of the Catholics, some Brigittine nuns and others, met\nthere through private passages and listened to him for the last time. As\nthe company was dispersing one of the priests stumbled and fell, making a\nnoise that roused the sentry outside. Again the house was searched, and\nagain with no success. In despair they were leaving it, when Jenkins,\nEliot's companion, who was coming downstairs with a servant of the house,\nbeat with his stick on the wall, saying that they had not searched there.\nIt was noticed that the servant showed signs of agitation; and men were\nfetched to the spot; the wall was beaten in and the three priests were\nfound together, having mutually shriven one another, and made themselves\nready for death.\n\nCampion was taken out and sent first to the Sheriff of Berkshire, and\nthen on towards London on the following day.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe summer days went by, and every day brought its fresh rumour about\nCampion. Sir Owen Hopton, Governor of the Tower, who at first had\ncommitted his prisoner to Little-Ease, now began to treat him with more\nhonour; he talked, too, mysteriously, of secret interviews and promises\nand understandings; and gradually it began to get about that Campion was\nyielding to kindness; that he had seen the Queen; that he was to recant\nat Paul's Cross; and even that he was to have the See of Canterbury. This\nlast rumour caused great indignation at Lambeth, and Anthony was more\npressed than ever to get what authentic news he could of the Jesuit. Then\nat the beginning of August came a burst of new tales; he had been racked,\nit was said, and had given up a number of names; and as the month went by\nmore and more details, authentic and otherwise, were published. Those\nfavourably inclined to the Catholics were divided in opinion; some feared\nthat he had indeed yielded to an excess of agony; others, and these\nproved to be in the right when the truth came out, that he had only given\nup names which were already known to the authorities; though even for\nthis he asked public pardon on the scaffold.\n\nTowards the end of August the Archbishop again sent expressly for Anthony\nand bade him accompany his chaplain on the following day to the Tower, to\nbe present at the public disputation that was to take place between\nEnglish divines and the Jesuit.\n\n\"Now he will have the chance he craved for,\" said Grindal. \"He hath\nbragged that he would meet any and all in dispute, and now the Queen's\nclemency hath granted it him.\"\n\nOn the following day in the early morning sunshine the minister and\nAnthony rode down together to the Tower, where they arrived a few minutes\nbefore eight o'clock, and were passed through up the stairs into St.\nJohn's chapel to the seats reserved for them.\n\nIt was indeed true that the authorities had determined to give Campion\nhis chance, but they had also determined to make it as small as possible.\nHe was not even told that the discussion was to take place until the\nmorning of its occasion, and he was allowed no opportunity for developing\nhis own theological position; the entire conduct of the debate was in the\nhands of his adversaries; he might only parry, seldom riposte, and never\nattack.\n\nWhen Anthony found himself in his seat he looked round the chapel. Almost\nimmediately opposite him, on a raised platform against a pillar, stood\ntwo high seats occupied by Deans Nowell and Day, who were to conduct the\ndisputation, and who were now talking with their heads together while a\nsecretary was arranging a great heap of books on the table before them.\nOn either side, east and west, stretched chairs for the divines that were\nto support them in debate, should they need it; and the platform on which\nAnthony himself had a chair was filled with a crowd of clergy and\ncourtiers laughing and chatting together. A little table, also heaped\nwith books, with seats for the notaries, stood in the centre of the nave,\nand not far from it were a number of little wooden stools which the\nprisoners were to occupy. Plainly they were to be allowed no advisers and\nno books; even the physical support of table and chairs was denied to\nthem in spite of their weary racked bodies. The chapel, bright with the\nmorning sunlight that streamed in through the east windows of the bare\nNorman sanctuary, hummed with the talk and laughter of those who had come\nto see the priest-baiting and the vindication of the Protestant Religion;\nthough, as Anthony looked round, he saw here and there an anxious or a\ndowncast face of some unknown friend of the Papists.\n\nHe himself was far from easy in his mind. He had been studying Campion's\n\"Ten Reasons\" more earnestly than ever, and was amazed to find that the\nvery authorities to which Dr. Jewel deferred, namely, the Scriptures\ninterpreted by Fathers and Councils and illustrated by History, were\nexactly Campion's authorities, too; and that the Jesuit's appeal to them\nwas no less confident than the Protestant's. That fact had, of course,\nsuggested the thought that if there were no further living authority in\nexistence to decide between these two scholars, Christendom was in a poor\nposition. When doctors differed, where was the layman to turn? To his own\nprivate judgment, said the Protestant. But then Campion's private\njudgment led him to submit to the Catholic claim! This then at present\nweighed heavily on Anthony's mind. Was there or was there not an\nauthority on earth capable of declaring to him the Revelation of God? For\nthe first time he was beginning to feel a logical and spiritual necessity\nfor an infallible external Judge in matters of faith; and that the\nCatholic Church was the only system that professed to supply it. The\nquestion of the existence of such an authority was, with the doctrine of\njustification, one of those subjects continually in men's minds and\nconversations, and to Anthony, unlike others, it appeared more\nfundamental even than its companion. All else seemed secondary.\nIndulgences, the Mass, Absolution, the Worship of Mary and the\nSaints--all these must stand or fall on God's authority made known to\nman. The one question for him was, Where was that authority to be\ncertainly found?\n\nThere came the ringing tramp of footsteps; the buzz of talk ceased and\nthen broke out again, as the prisoners, with all eyes bent upon them,\nsurrounded by a strong guard of pikemen, were seen advancing up the\nchapel from the north-west door towards the stools set ready for them.\nAnthony had no eyes but for Campion who limped in front, supported on\neither side by a warder. He could scarcely believe at first that this was\nthe same priest who had ridden so bravely down Cheapside. Now he was\nbent, and walked like an old broken man; his face was deathly pale, with\nshadows and lines about his eyes, and his head trembled a little. There\nwere one or two exclamations of pity, for all knew what had caused the\nchange; and Anthony heard an undertone moan of sorrow and anger from some\none in a seat behind him.\n\nThe prisoners sat down; and the guards went to their places. Campion took\nhis seat in front, and turned immediately from side to side, running his\ndark eyes along the faces to see where were his adversaries; and once\nmore Anthony met his eyes, and thrilled at it. Through the pallor and\npain of his face, the same chivalrous spirit looked out and called for\nhomage and love, that years ago at Oxford had made young men, mockingly\nnicknamed after their leader, to desire his praise more passionately than\nanything on earth, and even to imitate his manners and dress and gait,\nfor very loyalty and devotion. Anthony could not take his eyes off him;\nhe watched the clear-cut profile of his face thrown fearlessly forward,\nwaited in tense expectation to hear him speak, and paid no attention to\nthe whisperings of the chaplain beside him.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nPresently the debate began. It was opened by Dean Nowell from his high\nseat, who assured Father Campion of the disinterested motives of himself\nand his reverend friends in holding this disputation. It was, after all,\nonly what the priest had demanded; and they trusted by God's grace that\nthey would do him good and help him to see the truth. There was no\nunfairness, said the Dean, who seemed to think that some apology was\nneeded, in taking him thus unprepared, since the subject of debate would\nbe none other than Campion's own book. The Jesuit looked up, nodded his\nhead, and smiled.\n\n\"I thank you, Mr. Dean,\" he said, in his deep resonant voice, and there\nfell a dead hush as he spoke. \"I thank you for desiring to do me good,\nand to take up my challenge; but I must say that I would I had understood\nof your coming, that I might have made myself ready.\"\n\nCampion's voice thrilled strangely through Anthony, as the glance from\nhis eyes had done. It was so assured, so strong and delicate an\ninstrument, and so supremely at its owner's command, that it was hardly\nless persuasive than his personality and his learning that made\nthemselves apparent during the day. And Anthony was not alone in his\nimpressions of the Jesuit. Lord Arundel afterwards attributed his\nconversion to Campion's share in the discussions. Again and again during\nthe day a murmur of applause followed some of the priest's clean-cut\nspeeches and arguments, and a murmur of disapproval the fierce thrusts\nand taunts of his opponents; and by the end of the day's debate, so\nmarked was the change of attitude of the crowd that had come to triumph\nover the Papist, and so manifest their sympathy with the prisoners, that\nit was thought advisable to exclude the public from the subsequent\ndiscussions.\n\nOn this first day, all manner of subjects were touched upon, such as the\ncomparative leniency of Catholic and Protestant governments, the position\nof Luther with regard to the Epistle of St. James, and other matters\ncomparatively unimportant, in the discussion of which a great deal of\ntime was wasted. Campion entreated his opponents to leave such minor\nquestions alone, and to come to doctrinal matters; but they preferred to\nkeep to details rather than to principles, and the priest had scarcely\nany opportunity to state his positive position at all. The only doctrinal\nmatter seriously touched upon was that of Justification by Faith; and\ntexts were flung to and fro without any great result. \"We are justified\nby faith,\" cried one side. \"Though I have all faith and have not charity,\nI am nothing,\" cried the other. The effect on Anthony of this day's\ndebate arose rather from the victorious personality of the priest than\nfrom his arguments. His gaiety, too, was in strange contrast to the\nsolemn Puritanism of his enemies. For instance, he was on the point that\nCouncils might err in matters of fact, but that the Scriptures could not.\n\n\"As for example,\" he said, his eyes twinkling out of his drawn face, \"I\nam bound under pain of damnation to believe that Toby's dog had a tail,\nbecause it is written, he wagged it.\"\n\nThe Deans looked sternly at him, as the audience laughed.\n\n\"Now, now,\" said one of them, \"it becomes not to deal so triflingly with\nmatters of weight.\"\n\nCampion dropped his eyes, demurely, as if reproved.\n\n\"Why, then,\" he said, \"if this example like you not, take another. I must\nbelieve that Saint Paul had a cloak, because he willeth Timothy to bring\nit with him.\"\n\nAgain the crowd laughed; and Anthony laughed, too, with a strange sob in\nhis throat at the gallant foolery, which, after all, was as much to the\npoint as a deal that the Deans were saying.\n\nBut the second day's debate, held in Hopton's Hall, was on more vital\nmatters; and Anthony again and again found himself leaning forward\nbreathlessly, as Drs. Goode and Fulke on the one side, and Campion on the\nother, respectively attacked and defended the Doctrine of the Visible\nChurch; for this, for Anthony, was one of the crucial points of the\ndispute between Catholicism and Protestantism. Anthony believed already\nthat the Church was one; and if it was visible, surely, he thought to\nhimself, it must be visibly one; and in that case, it is evident where\nthat Church is to be found. But if it is invisible, it may be invisibly\none, and then as far as that matter is concerned, he may rest in the\nChurch of England. If not--and then he recoiled from the gulf that\nopened.\n\n\"It must be an essential mark of the Church,\" said Campion, \"and such a\nquality as is inseparable. It must be visible, as fire is hot, and water\nmoist.\"\n\nGoode answered that when Christ was taken and the Apostles fled, then at\nleast the Church was invisible; and if then, why not always?\n\n\"It was a Church inchoate,\" answered the priest, \"beginning, not\nperfect.\"\n\nBut Goode continued to insist that the true Church is known only to God,\nand therefore invisible.\n\n\"There are many wolves within,\" he said, \"and many sheep without.\"\n\n\"I know not who is elect,\" retorted Campion, \"but I know who is a\nCatholic.\"\n\n\"Only the elect are of the Church,\" said Goode.\n\n\"I say that both good and evil are of the visible Church,\" answered the\nother.\n\n\"To be elect or true members of Christ is one thing,\" went on Goode, \"and\nto be in the visible Church is another.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAs the talk went on, Anthony began to see where the confusion lay. The\nProtestants were anxious to prove that membership in a visible body did\nnot ensure salvation but then the Catholics never claimed that it did;\nthe question was: Did or did not Christ intend there to be a visible\nChurch, membership in which should be the normal though not the\ninfallible means of salvation?\n\nThey presently got on to the _a priori_ point as to whether a visible\nChurch would seem to be a necessity.\n\n\"There is a perpetual commandment,\" said the priest, \"in Matthew\neighteen--'Tell the Church'; but that cannot be unless the Church is\nvisible; _ergo_, the visibility of the Church is continual.\"\n\n\"When there is an established Church,\" said Goode, \"this remedy is to be\nsought for. But this cannot be always had.\"\n\n\"The disease is continual,\" answered Campion; \"_ergo_ the remedy must be\ncontinual.\" Then he left the _a priori_ ground and entered theirs. \"To\nwhom should I have gone,\" he cried, \"before Luther's time? What prelates\nshould I have made my complaint unto in those days? Where was your Church\nnine hundred years ago? Whose were John Huss, Jerome of Prague, the\nWaldenses? Were they yours?\" Then he turned scornfully to Fulke, \"Help\nhim, Master Doctor.\"\n\nAnd Fulke repeated Goode's assertion, that valuable as the remedy is, it\ncannot always be had.\n\nAnthony sat back, puzzled. Both sides seemed right. Persecution must\noften hinder the full privileges of Church membership and the exercise of\ndiscipline. Yet the question was, What was Christ's intention? Was it\nthat the Church should be visible? It seemed that even the ministers\nallowed that, now. And if so, why then the Catholic's claim that Christ's\nintention had never been wholly frustrated, but that a visible unity was\nto be found amongst themselves--surely this was easier to believe than\nthe Protestant theory that the Church which had been visible for fifteen\ncenturies was not really the Church at all; but that the true Church had\nbeen invisible--in spite of Christ's intention--during all that period,\nand was now to be found only in small separated bodies scattered here and\nthere. How of the prevailing of the gates of hell, if that were allowed\nto be true?\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAt two o'clock they reassembled for the afternoon conference; and now\nthey got even closer to the heart of the matter, for the subject was to\nbe, whether the Church could err?\n\nFulke asserted that it could, and did; and made a syllogism:\n\n\"Whatsoever error is incident to every member, is incident to the whole.\nBut it is incident to every member to err; _ergo_, to the whole.\"\n\n\"I deny both _major_ and _minor_,\" said Campion quietly. \"Every man may\nerr, but not the whole gathered together; for the whole hath a promise,\nbut so hath not every particular man.\"\n\nFulke denied this stoutly, and beat on the table.\n\n\"Every member hath the spirit of Christ,\" he said, \"which is the spirit\nof truth; and therefore hath the same promise that the whole hath.\"\n\n\"Why, then,\" said Campion, smiling, \"there should be no heretics.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Fulke, \"heretics may be within the Church, but not of the\nChurch.\"\n\nAnd so they found themselves back again where they started from.\n\nAnthony sat back on the oak bench and sighed, and glanced round at the\ninterested faces of the theologians and the yawns of the amateurs, as the\ndebate rolled on over the old ground, and touched on free will, and\ngrace, and infant baptism; until the Lieutenant interposed:\n\n\"Master Doctors,\" he said, with a judicial air, \"the question that was\nappointed before dinner was, whether the visible Church may err\"--to\nwhich Goode retorted that the digressions were all Campion's fault.\n\nThen the debate took the form of contradictions.\n\n\"Whatsoever congregation doth err in matters of faith,\" said Goode, \"is\nnot the true Church; but the Church of Rome erreth in matters of faith;\n_ergo_, it is not the true Church.\"\n\n\"I deny your _minor_,\" said Campion, \"the Church of Rome hath not erred.\"\nThen the same process was repeated over the Council of Trent; and the\ndebate whirled off once more into details and irrelevancies about imputed\nrighteousness, and the denial of the Cup to the laity.\n\nAgain the audience grew restless. They had not come there, most of them,\nto listen to theological minuti\u00e6, but to see sport; and this interminable\nchopping of words that resulted in nothing bored them profoundly. A\nmurmur of conversation began to buzz on all sides.\n\nCampion was in despair.\n\n\"Thus shall we run into all questions,\" he cried hopelessly, \"and then we\nshall have done this time twelve months.\"\n\nBut Fulke would not let him be; but pressed on a question about the\nCouncil of Nice.\n\n\"Now we shall have the matter of images,\" sighed Campion.\n\n\"You are _nimis acutus_,\" retorted Fulke, \"you will leap over the stile\nor ever you come to it. I mean not to speak of images.\"\n\nAnd so with a few more irrelevancies the debate ended.\n\nThe third debate in September (on the twenty-third), at which Anthony was\nagain present, was on the subject of the Real Presence in the Blessed\nSacrament.\n\nFulke was in an evil temper, since it was common talk that Campion had\nhad the best of the argument on the eighteenth.\n\n\"The other day,\" he said, \"when we had some hope of your conversion, we\nforbare you much, and suffered you to discourse; but now that we see you\nare an obstinate heretic, and seek to cover the light of the truth with\nmultitude of words, we mean not to allow you such large discourses as we\ndid.\"\n\n\"You are very imperious to-day,\" answered Campion serenely, \"whatsoever\nthe matter is. I am the Queen's prisoner, and none of yours.\"\n\n\"Not a whit imperious,\" said Fulke angrily,--\"though I will exact of you\nto keep the right order of disputation.\"\n\nThen the argument began. It soon became plain to Anthony that it was\npossible to take the Scripture in two senses, literally and\nmetaphorically. The sacrament either was literally Christ's body, or it\nwas not. Who then was to decide? Father Campion said it meant the one;\nDr. Fulke the other. Could it be possible that Christ should leave His\npeople in doubt as to such a thing? Surely not, thought Anthony. Well,\nthen, where is the arbiter? Father Campion says, The Church; Dr. Fulke\nsays, The Scripture. But that is a circular argument, for the question to\nbe decided is: What does the Scripture mean? for it may mean at least two\nthings, at least so it would seem. Here then he found himself face to\nface with the claims of the Church of Rome to be that arbiter; and his\nheart began to grow sick with apprehension as he saw how that Church\nsupplied exactly what was demanded by the circumstances of the case--that\nis, an infallible living guide as to the meaning of God's Revelation. The\nsimplicity of her claim appalled him.\n\nHe did not follow the argument closely, since it seemed to him but a\nsecondary question now; though he heard one or two sentences. At one\npoint Campion was explaining what the Church meant by substance. It was\nthat which transcended the senses.\n\n\"Are you not Dr. Fulke?\" he said. \"And yet I see nothing but your colour\nand exterior form. The substance of Dr. Fulke cannot be seen.\"\n\n\"I will not vouchsafe to reply upon this answer,\" snarled Fulke, whose\ntemper had not been improved by the debate--\"too childish for a\nsophister!\"\n\nThen followed interminable syllogisms, of which Campion would not accept\nthe premises; and no real progress was made. The Jesuit tried to explain\nthe doctrine that the wicked may be said not to eat the Body in the\nSacrament, because they receive not the virtue of It, though they receive\nthe Thing; but Fulke would not hear him. The distinction was new to\nAnthony, with his puritan training, and he sat pondering it while the\ndebate passed on.\n\nThe afternoon discussion, too, was to little purpose. More and more\nAnthony, and others with him, began to see that the heart of the matter\nwas the authority of the Church; and that unless that was settled, all\nother debate was beside the point; and the importance of this was brought\nout for him more clearly than ever on the 27th of the month, when the\nfourth and last debate took place, and on the subject of the sufficiency\nof the Scriptures unto salvation.\n\nMr. Charke, who had now succeeded as disputant, began with extempore\nprayer, in which as usual the priest refused to join, praying and\ncrossing himself apart.\n\nMr. Walker then opened the disputation with a pompous and insolent speech\nabout \"one Campion,\" an \"unnatural man to his country, degenerated from\nan Englishman, an apostate in religion, a fugitive from this realm,\nunloyal to his prince.\" Campion sat with his eyes cast down, until the\nminister had done.\n\nThen the discussion began. The priest pointed out that Protestants were\nnot even decided as to what were Scriptures and what were not, since\nLuther rejected three epistles in the New Testament; therefore, he\nargued, the Church is necessary as a guide, first of all, to tell men\nwhat is Scripture. Walker evaded by saying he was not a Lutheran but a\nChristian; and then the talk turned on to apocryphal books. But it was\nnot possible to evade long, and the Jesuit soon touched his opponent.\n\n\"To leave a door to traditions,\" he said, \"which the Holy Ghost may\ndeliver to the true Church, is both manifest and seen: as in the Baptism\nof infants, the Holy Ghost proceeding from Father to Son, and such other\nthings mentioned, which are delivered by tradition. Prove these directly\nby the Scripture if you can!\"\n\nCharke answered by the analogy of circumcision which infants received,\nand by quoting Christ's words as to \"sending\" of the Comforter; and they\nwere soon deep in detailed argument; but once more Anthony saw that it\nwas all a question of the interpretation of Scripture; and, therefore,\nthat it would seem that an authoritative interpreter was necessary--and\nwhere could such be found save in an infallible living Voice? And once\nmore a question of Campion's drove the point home.\n\n\"Was all Scripture written when the Apostles first taught?\" And Charke\ndared not answer yes.\n\nThe afternoon's debate concerned justification by faith, and this, more\nthan ever, seemed to Anthony a secondary matter, now that he was\nrealising what the claim of a living authority meant; and he sat back,\nonly interested in watching the priest's face, so controlled yet so\ntransparent in its simplicity and steadfastness, as he listened to the\nministers' brutal taunts and insolence, and dealt his quiet skilful\nparries and ripostes to their incessant assaults. At last the Lieutenant\nstruck the table with his hand, and intimated that the time was past, and\nafter a long prayer by Mr. Walker, the prisoners were led back to their\ncells.\n\nAs Anthony rode back alone in the evening sunlight, he was as one who\nwas seeing a vision. There was indeed a vision before him, that had\nbeen taking shape gradually, detail by detail, during these last months,\nand ousting the old one; and which now, terribly emphasised by Campion's\narguments and illuminated by the fire of his personality, towered up\nimperious, consistent, dominating--and across her brow her title, The\nCatholic Church. Far above all the melting cloudland of theory she\nmoved, a stupendous fact; living, in contrast with the dead past to\nwhich her enemies cried in vain; eloquent when other systems were dumb;\nauthoritative when they hesitated; steady when they reeled and fell.\nAbout her throne dwelt her children, from every race and age, secure in\nher protection, and wise with her knowledge, when other men faltered and\nquestioned and doubted: and as Anthony looked up and saw her for the\nfirst time, he recognised her as the Mistress and Mother of his soul; and\nalthough the blinding clouds of argument and theory and self-distrust\nrushed down on him again and filled his eyes with dust, yet he knew he\nhad seen her face in very truth, and that the memory of that vision could\nnever again wholly leave him.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER VI\n\n                           SOME CONTRASTS\n\n\nIn the Lambeth household the autumn passed by uneventfully. The rigour of\nthe Archbishop's confinement had been mitigated, and he had been allowed\nnow and again to visit his palace at Croydon; but his inactivity still\ncontinued as the sequestration was not removed; Elizabeth had refused to\nlisten to the petition of Convocation in '80 for his reinstatement.\nAnthony went down to the old palace once or twice with him; and was\nbrought closer to him in many ways; and his affection and tenderness\ntowards his master continually increased. Grindal was a pathetic figure\nat this time, with few friends, in poor health, out of favour with the\nQueen, who had disregarded his existence; and now his afflictions were\nrendered more heavy than ever by the blindness that was creeping over\nhim. The Archbishop, too, in his loneliness and sorrow, was drawn closer\nto his young officer than ever before; and gradually got to rely upon him\nin many little ways. He would often walk with Anthony in the gardens at\nLambeth, leaning upon his arm, talking to him of his beloved flowers and\nherbs which he was now almost too blind to see; telling him queer facts\nabout the properties of plants; and even attempting to teach him a little\nirrelevant botany now and then.\n\nThey were walking up and down together, soon after Campion's arrest, one\nAugust morning before prayers in a little walled garden on the river that\nGrindal had laid out with great care in earlier years.\n\n\"Ah,\" said the old man, \"I am too blind to see my flowers now, Mr.\nNorris; but I love them none the less; and I know their places. Now\nthere,\" he went on, pointing with his stick, \"there I think grows my\nmastick or marum; perhaps I smell it, however. What is that flower like,\nMr. Norris?\"\n\nAnthony looked at it, and described its little white flower and its\nleaves.\n\n\"That is it,\" said the Archbishop, \"I thought my memory served me. It is\na kind of marjoram, and it has many virtues, against cramps, convulsions\nand venomous bites--so Galen tells us.\" Then he went on to talk of the\nsimple old plants that he loved best; of the two kinds of basil that he\nalways had in his garden; and how good it was mixed in sack against the\nheadache; and the male penny-royal, and how well it had served him once\nwhen he had great internal trouble.\n\n\"Mr. Gerrard was here a week or two ago, Mr. Norris, when you were down\nat Croydon for me. He is my Lord Burghley's man; he oversees his gardens\nat Wimbledon House, and in the country. He was telling me of a rascal he\nhad seen at a fair, who burned henbane and made folks with the toothache\nbreathe in the fumes; and then feigned to draw a worm forth from the\naching tooth; but it was no worm at all, but a lute string that he held\nready in his hand. There are sad rascals abroad, Mr. Norris.\"\n\nThe old man waxed eloquent when they came to the iris bed.\n\n\"Ah! Mr. Norris, the flowers-de-luce are over by now, I fear; but what\nwonderful creatures of God they are, with their great handsome heads and\ntheir cool flags. I love to hear a bed of them rustle all together and\nshake their spears and nod their banners like an army in array. And then\nthey are not only for show. Apuleius says that they are good against the\ngout. I asked Mr. Gerrard whether my lord had tried them; but he said no,\nhe would not.\"\n\nAt the violet bed he was yet more emphatic.\n\n\"I think, Mr. Norris, I love these the best of all. They are lowly\ncreatures; but how sweet! and like other lowly creatures exalted by their\nMaker to do great things as his handmaidens. The leaves are good against\ninflammations, and the flowers against ague and hoarseness as well. And\nthen there is oil-of-violets, as you know; and violet-syrup and\nsugar-violet; then they are good for blisters; garlands of them were an\nancient cure for the headache, as I think Dioscorides tells us. And they\nare the best of all cures for some children's ailments.\"\n\nAnd so they walked up and down together; the Archbishop talking quietly\non and on; and helping quite unknown to himself by his tender irrelevant\nold man's talk to soothe the fever of unrest and anxiety that was\nbeginning to torment Anthony so much now. His conversation, like the very\nflowers he loved to speak of, was \"good against inflammations.\"\n\nAnthony came to him one morning, thinking to please him, and brought him\na root that he had bought from a travelling pedlar just outside the\ngateway.\n\n\"This is a mandrake root, your Grace; I heard you speak of it the other\nday.\"\n\nThe Archbishop took it, smiling, felt it carefully, peered at it a minute\nor two. \"No, my son,\" he said, \"I fear you have met a knave. This is\nbriony-root carved like a mandrake into the shape of a man's legs. It is\nworthless, I fear; but I thank you for the kind thought, Mr. Norris,\" and\nhe gave the root back to him. \"And the stories we hear of the mandrake, I\nfear, are fables, too. Some say that they only grow beneath gallows from\nthat which falls there; that the male grows from the corruption of a\nman's body; and the female from that of a woman's; but that is surely a\nlie, and a foul one, too. And then folks say that to draw it up means\ndeath; and that the mandrake screams terribly as it comes up; and so they\nbid us tie a dog to it, and then drive the dog from it so as to draw it\nup so. I asked Mr. Baker, the chirurgeon in the household of my Lord\nOxford, the other day, about that; and he said that such tales be but\ndoltish dreams and old wives' fables. But the true mandrake is a clean\nand wholesome plant. The true ointment Populeon should have the juice of\nthe leaves in it; and the root boiled and strained causes drowsiness. It\nhath a predominate cold faculty, Galen saith; but its true home is not in\nEngland at all. It comes from Mount Garganus in Apulia.\"\n\nIt was pathetic, Anthony thought sometimes, that this old prelate should\nbe living so far from the movements of the time, owing to no fault of his\nown. During these months the great tragedy of Campion's passion was\nproceeding a couple of miles away; but the Archbishop thought less of it\nthan of the death of an old tree. The only thing from the outside world\nthat seemed to ruffle him was the behaviour of the Puritans. Anthony was\npassing through \"le velvet-room\" one afternoon when he heard voices in\nthe Presence Chamber beyond; and almost immediately heard the Archbishop,\nwho had recognised his step, call his name. He went in and found him with\na stranger in a dark sober dress.\n\n\"Take this gentleman to Mr. Scot,\" he said, \"and ask him to give him some\nrefreshment; for that he must be gone directly.\"\n\nWhen Anthony had taken the gentleman to the steward, he returned to the\nArchbishop for any further instructions about him.\n\n\"No, Mr. Norris, my business is done with him. He comes from my lord of\nNorwich, and must be returning this evening. If you are not occupied, Mr.\nNorris, will you give me your arm into the garden?\"\n\nThey went out by the vestry-door into the little cloisters, and skirting\nthe end of the creek that ran up by Chichele's water-tower began to pace\nup and down the part of the garden that looked over the river.\n\n\"My lord has sent to know if I know aught of one Robert Browne, with whom\nhe is having trouble. This Mr. Browne has lately come from Cambridge, and\nso my lord thought I might know something of him; but I do not. This\ngentleman has been saying some wild and foolish things, I fear; and\ndesires that every church should be free of all others; and should\nappoint its own minister, and rule its own affairs without interference,\nand that prophesyings should be without restraint. Now, you know, Mr.\nNorris, I have always tried to serve that party, and support them in\ntheir gospel religion; but this goes too far. Where were any governance\nat all, if all this were to come about? where were the Rule of Faith? the\npower of discipline? Nay, where were the unity for which our Saviour\nprayed? It liketh me not. Good Dr. Freake, as his messenger tells me,\nfeels as I do about this; and desires to restrain Mr. Browne, but he is\nso hot he will not be restrained; and besides, he is some kin to my Lord\nBurghley, so I fear his mouth will be hard to stop.\"\n\nAnthony could not help thinking of Mr. Buxton's prediction that the\nChurch of England had so repudiated authority, that in turn her own would\none day be repudiated.\n\n\"A Papist prisoner, your Grace,\" he said, \"said to me the other day that\nthis would be sure to come: that the whole principle of Church authority\nhad been destroyed in England; and that the Church of England would more\nand more be deserted by her children; for that there was no necessary\ncentre of unity left, now that Peter was denied.\"\n\n\"It is what a Papist is bound to say,\" replied the Archbishop; \"but it is\neasy to prophesy, when fulfilment may be far away. Indeed, I think we\nshall have trouble with some of these zealous men; and the Queen's Grace\nwas surely right in desiring some restraint to be put upon the Exercises.\nBut it is mere angry raving to say that the Church of England will lose\nthe allegiance of her children.\"\n\nAnthony could not feel convinced that events bore out the Archbishop's\nassertion. Everywhere the Puritans were becoming more outrageously\ndisloyal. There were everywhere signs of disaffection and revolt against\nthe authorities of the Establishment, even on the part of the most\nsincere and earnest men, many of whom were looking forward to the day\nwhen the last rags of popery should be cast away, and formal\nPresbyterianism inaugurated in the Church of England. Episcopal\nOrdination was more and more being regarded as a merely civil\nrequirement, but conveying no ministerial commission; recognition by the\ncongregation with the laying on of the hands of the presbyterate was the\nonly ordination they allowed as apostolic.\n\nAnthony said a word to the Archbishop about this.\n\n\"You must not be too strict,\" said the old man. \"Both views can be\nsupported by the Scriptures; and although the Church of England at\npresent recognises only Episcopal Ordination within her own borders, she\ndoes not dare to deny, as the Papists fondly do, that other rites may not\nbe as efficacious as her own. That, surely, Master Norris, is in\naccordance with the mind of Christ that hath the spirit of liberty.\"\n\nMuch as Anthony loved the old man and his gentle charity, this doctrinal\nposition as stated by the chief pastor of the Church of England scarcely\nserved to establish his troubled allegiance.\n\nDuring these autumn months, too, both between and after the disputations\nin the Tower, the image of Campion had been much in his thoughts.\nEverywhere, except among the irreconcilables, the Jesuit was being well\nspoken of: his eloquence, his humour, and his apparent sincerity were\nbeing greatly commented on in London and elsewhere. Anthony, as has been\nseen, was being deeply affected on both sides of his nature; the shrewd\nwit of the other was in conflict with his own intellectual convictions,\nand this magnetic personality was laying siege to his heart. And now the\nlast scene of the tragedy, more affecting than all, was close at hand.\n\nAnthony was present first at the trial in Westminster Hall, which took\nplace during November, and was more than ever moved by what he saw and\nheard there. The priest, as even his opponents confessed, had by now \"won\na marvellously good report, to be such a man as his like was not to be\nfound, either for life, learning, or any other quality which might\nbeautify a man.\" And now here he stood at the bar, paler than ever, so\nnumbed with racking that he could not lift his hand to plead--that supple\nmusician's hand of his, once so skilful on the lute--so that Mr. Sherwin\nhad to lift it for him out of the furred cuff in which he had wrapped it,\nkissing it tenderly as he did so, in reverence for its sufferings; and he\nsaw, too, the sleek face of Eliot, in his red yeoman's coat, as he stood\nchatting at the back, like another Barabbas whom the people preferred to\nthe servant of the Crucified. And, above all, he heard Campion's stirring\ndefence, spoken in that same resonant sweet voice, though it broke now\nand then through weakness, in spite of the unconquerable purpose and\ncheerfulness that showed in his great brown eyes, and round his delicate\nhumorous mouth. It was indeed an astonishing combination of sincerity and\neloquence, and even humour, that was brought to bear on the jury, and all\nin vain, during those days.\n\n\"If you want to dispute as though you were in the schools,\" cried one of\nthe court, when he found himself out of his depth, \"you are only proving\nyourself a fool.\"\n\n\"I pray God,\" said Campion, while his eyes twinkled, \"I pray God make us\nboth sages.\" And, in spite of the tragedy of the day, a little hum of\nlaughter ran round the audience.\n\n\"If a sheep were stolen,\" he argued again, in answer to the presupposition\nthat since some Catholics were traitors, therefore these were--\"and a\nwhole family called in question for the same, were it good manner of\nproceeding for the accusers to say 'Your great grandfathers and fathers\nand sisters and kinsfolk all loved mutton; _ergo_, you have stolen the\nsheep'?\"\n\nAgain, in answer to the charge that he and his companions had conspired\nabroad, he said,\n\n\"As for the accusation that we plotted treason at Rheims, reflect, my\nlords, how just this charge is! For see! First we never met there at all;\nthen, many of us have never been at Rheims at all; finally, we were never\nin our lives all together, except at this hour and in prison.\"\n\nAnthony heard, too, Campion expose the attempt that was made to shift the\ncharge from religion to treason.\n\n\"There was offer made to us,\" he cried indignantly, \"that if we would\ncome to the church to hear sermons and the word preached, we should be\nset at large and at liberty; so Pascall and Nicholls\"--(two apostates)\n\"otherwise as culpable in all offences as we, upon coming to church were\nreceived to grace and had their pardon granted; whereas, if they had been\nso happy as to have persevered to the end, they had been partakers of our\ncalamities. So that our religion was cause of our imprisonment, and _ex\nconsequenti_, of our condemnation.\"\n\nThe Queen's Counsel tried to make out that certain secrets that Campion,\nin an intercepted letter, had sworn not to reveal, must be treasonable or\nhe would not so greatly fear their publication. To this the priest made a\nstately defence of his office, and declaration of his staunchness. He\nshowed how by his calling as a priest he was bound to secrecy in matters\nheard in confession, and that these secret matters were of this nature.\n\n\"These were the hidden matters,\" he said, \"these were the secrets, to the\nrevealing whereof I cannot nor will not be brought, come rack, come\nrope!\"\n\nAnd again, when Sergeant Anderson interpreted a phrase of Campion's\nreferring to the great day to which he looked forward, as meaning the day\nof a foreign papal invasion, the prisoner cried in a loud voice:\n\n\"O Judas, Judas! No other day was in my mind, I protest, than that\nwherein it should please God to make a restitution of faith and religion.\nWhereupon, as in every pulpit every Protestant doth, I pronounced a great\nday, not wherein any temporal potentate should minister, but wherein the\nterrible Judge should reveal all men's consciences, and try every man of\neach kind of religion. This is the day of change, this is the great day\nwhich I threatened; comfortable to the well-behaving, and terrible to all\nheretics. Any other day but this, God knows I meant not.\"\n\nThen, after the other prisoners had pleaded, Campion delivered a final\ndefence to the jury, with a solemnity that seemed to belong to a judge\nrather than a criminal. The babble of tongues that had continued most of\nthe day was hushed to a profound silence in court as he stood and spoke,\nfor the sincerity and simplicity of the priest were evident to all, and\ncombined with his eloquence and his strange attractive personality,\ndominated all but those whose minds were already made up before entering\nthe court.\n\n\"What charge this day you sustain,\" began the priest, in a steady low\nvoice, with his searching eyes bent on the faces before him, \"and what\naccount you are to render at the dreadful Day of Judgment, whereof I\ncould wish this also were a mirror, I trust there is not one of you but\nknoweth. I doubt not but in like manner you forecast how dear the\ninnocent is to God, and at what price He holdeth man's blood. Here we are\naccused and impleaded to the death,\"--he began to raise his voice a\nlittle--\"here you do receive our lives into your custody; here must be\nyour device, either to restore them or condemn them. We have no whither\nto appeal but to your consciences; we have no friends to make there but\nyour heeds and discretions.\" Then he touched briefly on the evidence,\nshowing how faulty and circumstantial it was, and urged them to remember\nthat a man's life by the very constitution of the realm must not be\nsacrificed to mere probabilities or presumptions; then he showed the\nuntrustworthiness of his accusers, how one had confessed himself a\nmurderer, and how another was an atheist. Then he ended with a word or\ntwo of appeal.\n\n\"God give you grace,\" he cried, \"to weigh our causes aright, and have\nrespect to your own consciences; and so I will keep the jury no longer. I\ncommit the rest to God, and our convictions to your good discretions.\"\n\nWhen the jury had retired, and all the judges but one had left the bench\nuntil the jury should return, Anthony sat back in his place, his heart\nbeating and his eyes looking restlessly now on the prisoners, now on the\ndoor where the jury had gone out, and now on Judge Ayloff, whom he knew a\nlittle, and who sat only a few feet away from him on one side. He could\nhear the lawyers sitting below the judge talking among themselves; and\npresently one of them leaned over to him.\n\n\"Good-day, Mr. Norris,\" he said, \"you have come to see an acquittal, I\ndoubt not. No man can be in two minds after what we have heard; at least\nconcerning Mr. Campion. We all think so, here, at any rate.\"\n\nThe lawyer was going on to say a word or two more as to the priest's\neloquence, when there was a sharp exclamation from the judge. Anthony\nlooked up and saw Judge Ayloff staring at his hand, turning it over while\nhe held his glove in the other; and Anthony saw to his surprise that the\nfingers were all blood-stained. One or two gentlemen near him turned and\nlooked, too, as the judge, still staring and growing a little pale, wiped\nthe blood quickly away with the glove; but the fingers grew crimson again\nimmediately.\n\n\"'S'Body!\" said Ayloff, half to himself; \"'tis strange, there is no\nwound.\" A moment later, looking up, he saw many of his neighbours\nglancing curiously at his hand and his pale face, and hastily thrust on\nhis glove again; and immediately after the jury returned, and the judges\nfiled in to take their places. Anthony's attention was drawn off again,\nand the buzz of talk in the court was followed again by a deep silence.\n\nThe verdict of _Guilty_ was uttered, as had been pre-arranged, and the\nQueen's Counsel demanded sentence.\n\n\"Campion and the rest,\" said Chief Justice Wray, \"What can you say why\nyou should not die?\"\n\nThen Campion, still steady and resolute, made his last useless appeal.\n\n\"It was not our death that ever we feared. But we knew that we were not\nlords of our own lives, and therefore for want of answer would not be\nguilty of our own deaths. The only thing that we have now to say is, that\nif our religion do make us traitors, we are worthy to be condemned; but\notherwise are and have been true subjects as ever the Queen had. In\ncondemning us, you condemn all your own ancestors,\" and as he said this,\nhis voice began to rise, and he glanced steadily and mournfully round at\nthe staring faces about him, \"all the ancient priests, bishops, and\nkings--all that was once the glory of England, the island of saints, and\nthe most devoted child of the See of Peter.\" Then, as he went on, he\nflung out his wrenched hands, and his voice rang with indignant defiance.\n\"For what have we taught,\" he cried, \"however you may qualify it with the\nodious name of treason, that they did not uniformly teach? To be\ncondemned with these old lights--not of England only, but of the\nworld--by their degenerate descendants, is both gladness and glory to\nus.\" Then, with a superb gesture, he sent his voice pealing through the\nhall: \"God lives, posterity will live; their judgment is not so liable to\ncorruption as that of those who are now about to sentence us to death.\"\n\nThere was a burst of murmurous applause as he ended, which stilled\nimmediately, as the Chief Justice began to deliver sentence. But when the\nhorrible details of his execution had been enumerated, and the formula\nhad ended, it was the prisoner's turn to applaud:--\n\n\"_Te Deum laudamus!_\" cried Campion; \"_Te Dominum confitemur._\"\n\n\"_Haec est dies_,\" shouted Sherwin, \"_quam fecit Dominus; exultemus et\nlaetemur in ill\u00e2_\": and so with the thanksgiving and joy of the condemned\ncriminals, the mock-trial ended.\n\nWhen Anthony rode down silently and alone in the rain that December\nmorning a few days later, to see the end, he found a vast silent crowd\nassembled on Tower Hill and round the gateway, where the four horses were\nwaiting, each pair harnessed to a hurdle laid flat on the ground. He\nwould not go in, for he could scarcely trust himself to speak, so great\nwas his horror of the crime that was to be committed; so he backed his\nhorse against the wall, and waited over an hour in silence, scarcely\nhearing the murmurs of impatience that rolled round the great crowd from\ntime to time, absorbed in his own thoughts. Here was the climax of these\ndays of misery and self-questioning that had passed since the trial in\nWestminster Hall. It was no use, he argued to himself, to pretend\notherwise. These three men of God were to die for their religion--and a\nreligion too which was gradually detaching itself to his view from the\nmists and clouds that hid it, as the one great reality and truth of God's\nRevelation to man. He had come, he knew, to see not an execution but a\nmartyrdom.\n\nThere was a trampling from within, the bolts creaked, and the gate rolled\nback; a company of halberdiers emerged, and in their midst the three\npriests in laymen's dress; behind followed a few men on horseback, with a\nlittle company of ministers, bible in hand; and then a rabble of officers\nand pursuivants. Anthony edged his horse in among the others, as the\ncrowd fell back, and took up his place in the second rank of riders\nbetween a gentleman of his acquaintance who made room for him on the one\nside, and Sir Francis Knowles on the other, and behind the Tower\nofficials.\n\nThen, once more he heard that ringing bass voice whose first sound\nsilenced the murmurs of the surging excited crowd.\n\n\"God save you all, gentlemen! God bless you and make you all good\nCatholics.\"\n\nThen, as the priest turned to kneel towards the east, he saw his face\npaler than ever now, after his long fast in preparation for death. The\nrain was still falling as Campion in his frieze gown knelt in the mud.\nThere was silence as he prayed, and as he ended aloud by commending his\nsoul to God.\n\n\"_In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum._\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe three were secured to the hurdles, Briant and Sherwin on the one,\nCampion on the other, all lying on their backs, with their feet towards\nthe horse's heels. The word to start was given by Sir Owen Hopton who\nrode with Charke, the preacher of Gray's Inn, in the front rank; the\nlashed horses plunged forward, with the jolting hurdles spattering mud\nbehind them; and the dismal pageant began to move forward through the\ncrowd on that way of sorrows. There was a ceaseless roar and babble of\nvoices as they went. Charke, in his minister's dress, able now to declaim\nwithout fear of reply, was hardly silent for a moment from mocking and\nrebuking the prisoners, and making pompous speeches to the people.\n\n\"See here,\" he cried, \"these rogueing popish priests, laid by the\nheels--aye, by the heels--at last; in spite of their tricks and turns.\nSee this fellow in his frieze gown, dead to the world as he brags; and\nknow how he skulked and hid in his disguises till her Majesty's servants\nplucked him forth! We will disguise him, we will disguise him, ere we\nhave done with him, that his own mother should not know him. Ha, now!\nCampion, do you hear me?\"\n\nAnd so the harsh voice rang out over the crowd that tramped alongside,\nand up to the faces that filled every window; while the ministers below\nkept up a ceaseless murmur of adjuration and entreaty and threatening,\nwith a turning of leaves of their bibles, and bursts of prayer, over the\nthree heads that jolted and rocked at their feet over the cobblestones\nand through the mud. The friends of the prisoners walked as near to them\nas they dared, and their lips moved continually in prayer.\n\nEvery now and then as Anthony craned his head, he could see Campion's\nface, with closed eyes and moving lips that smiled again and again, all\nspattered and dripping with filth; and once he saw a gentleman walking\nbeside him fearlessly stoop down and wipe the priest's face with a\nhandkerchief. Presently they had passed up Cheapside and reached Newgate;\nin a niche in the archway itself stood a figure of the Mother of God\nlooking compassionately down; and as Campion's hurdle passed beneath it,\nher servant wrenched himself a few inches up in his bonds and bowed to\nhis glorious Queen; and then laid himself down quietly again, as a chorus\nof lament rose from the ministers over his superstition and obstinate\nidolatry that seemed as if it would last even to death; and Charke too,\nwho had become somewhat more silent, broke out again into revilings.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe crowd at Tyburn was vast beyond all reckoning. Outside the gate it\nstretched on every side, under the elms, a few were even in the branches,\nalong the sides of the stream; everywhere was a sea of heads, out of\nwhich, on a little eminence like another Calvary, rose up the tall posts\nof the three-cornered gallows, on which the martyrs were to suffer. As\nthe hurdles came slowly under the gate, the sun broke out for the first\ntime; and as the horses that drew the hurdles came round towards the\ncarts that stood near the gallows and the platform on which the\nquartering block stood, a murmur began that ran through the crowd from\nthose nearest the martyrs.--\"But they are laughing, they are laughing!\"\n\nThe crowd gave a surge to and fro as the horses drew up, and Anthony\nreined his own beast back among the people, so that he was just opposite\nthe beam on which the three new ropes were already hanging, and beneath\nwhich was standing a cart with the back taken out. In the cart waited a\ndreadful figure in a tight-fitting dress, sinewy arms bare to the\nshoulder, and a butcher's knife at his leather girdle. A little distance\naway stood the hateful cauldron, bubbling fiercely, with black smoke\npouring from under it: the platform with the block and quartering-axe\nstood beneath the gallows; and round this now stood the officers, with\nNorton the rack-master, and Sir Owen Hopton and the rest, and the three\npriests, with the soldiers forming a circle to keep the crowd back.\n\nThe hangman stooped as Anthony looked, and a moment later Campion stood\nbeside him on the cart, pale, mud-splashed, but with the same serene\nsmile; his great brown eyes shone as they looked out over the wide\nheaving sea of heads, from which a deep heart-shaking murmur rose as the\nfamous priest appeared. Anthony could see every detail of what went on;\nthe hangman took the noose that hung from above, and slipped it over the\nprisoner's head, and drew it close round his neck; and then himself\nslipped down from the cart, and stood with the others, still well above\nthe heads of the crowd, but leaving the priest standing higher yet on the\ncart, silhouetted, rope and all, framed in the posts and cross-beam, from\nwhich two more ropes hung dangling against the driving clouds and blue\nsky over London city.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nCampion waited perfectly motionless for the murmur of innumerable voices\nto die down; and Anthony, fascinated and afraid beneath that overpowering\nserenity, watched him turn his head slowly from side to side with a\n\"majestical countenance,\" as his enemies confessed, as if he were on the\npoint of speaking. Silence seemed to radiate out from him, spreading like\na ripple, outwards, until the furthest outskirts of that huge crowd was\nmotionless and quiet; and then without apparent effort, his voice began\nto peal out.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\n\"'_Spectaculum facti sumus Deo, angelis et hominibus._' These are the\nwords of Saint Paul, Englished thus, 'We are made a spectacle or sight\nunto God, unto His angels, and unto men';--verified this day in me, who\nam here a spectacle unto my Lord God, a spectacle unto His angels, and\nunto you men, satisfying myself to die as becometh a true Christian and\nCatholic man.\"\n\nHe was interrupted by cries from the gentlemen beneath, and turned a\nlittle, looking down to see what they wished.\n\n\"You are not here to preach to the people,\" said Sir Francis Knowles,\nangrily, \"but to confess yourself a traitor.\"\n\nCampion smiled and shook his head.\n\n\"No, no,\" he said: and then looking up and raising his voice,--\"as to the\ntreasons which have been laid to my charge, and for which I am come here\nto suffer, I desire you all to bear witness with me, that I am thereof\naltogether innocent.\"\n\nThere was a chorus of anger from the gentlemen, and one of them called up\nsomething that Anthony could not hear. Campion raised his eyebrows.\n\n\"Well, my lord,\" he cried aloud, and his voice instantly silenced again\nthe noisy buzz of talk, \"I am a Catholic man and a priest: in that faith\nhave I lived, and in that faith do I intend to die. If you esteem my\nreligion treason, then am I guilty; as for other treason, I never\ncommitted any, God is my judge. But you have now what you desire. I\nbeseech you to have patience, and suffer me to speak a word or two for\ndischarge of my conscience.\"\n\nThere was a furious burst of refusals from the officers.\n\n\"Well,\" said Campion, at last, looking straight out over the crowd, \"it\nseems I may not speak; but this only will I say; that I am wholly\ninnocent of all treason and conspiracy, as God is my judge; and I beseech\nyou to credit me, for it is my last answer upon my death and soul. As for\nthe jury I do not blame them, for they were ignorant men and easily\ndeceived. I forgive all who have compassed my death or wronged me in any\nwhit, as I hope to be forgiven; and I ask the forgiveness of all those\nwhose names I spoke upon the rack.\"\n\nThen he said a word or two more of explanation, such as he had said\nduring his trial, for the sake of those Catholics whom this a concession\nof his had scandalised, telling them that he had had the promise of the\nCouncil that no harm should come to those whose names he revealed; and\nthen was silent again, closing his eyes; and Anthony, as he watched him,\nsaw his lips moving once more in prayer.\n\nThen a harsh loud voice from behind the cart began to proclaim that the\nQueen punished no man for religion but only for treason. A fierce murmur\nof disagreement and protest began to rise from the crowd; and Anthony\nturning saw the faces of many near him frowning and pursing their lips,\nand there was a shout or two of denial here and there. The harsh voice\nceased, and another began:\n\n\"Now, Mr. Campion,\" it cried, \"tell us, What of the Pope? Do you renounce\nhim?\"\n\nCampion opened his eyes and looked round.\n\n\"I am a Catholic,\" he said simply; and closed his eyes again for prayer,\nas the voice cried brutally:\n\n\"In your Catholicism all treason is contained.\"\n\nAgain a murmur from the crowd.\n\nThen a new voice from the black group of ministers called out:\n\n\"Mr. Campion, Mr. Campion, leave that popish stuff, and say, 'Christ have\nmercy on me.'\"\n\nAgain the priest opened his eyes.\n\n\"You and I are not one in religion, sir, wherefore I pray you content\nyourself. I bar none of prayer, but I only desire them of the household\nof faith to pray with me; and in mine agony to say one creed.\"\n\nAgain he closed his eyes.\n\n\"_Pater noster qui es in c\u00e6lis._\"...\n\n\"Pray in English, pray in English!\" shouted a voice from the minister's\ngroup.\n\nOnce more the priest opened his eyes; and, in spite of the badgering, his\neyes shone with humour and his mouth broke into smiles, so that a great\nsob of pity and love broke from Anthony.\n\n\"I will pray to God in a language that both He and I well understand.\"\n\n\"Ask her Grace's forgiveness, Mr. Campion, and pray for her, if you be\nher true subject.\"\n\n\"Wherein have I offended her? In this I am innocent. This is my last\nspeech; in this give me credit--I have and do pray for her.\"\n\n\"Aha! but which queen?--for Elizabeth?\"\n\n\"Ay, for Elizabeth, your queen and my queen, unto whom I wish a long\nquiet reign with all prosperity.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThere was the crack of a whip, the scuffle of a horse's feet, a rippling\nmovement over the crowd, and a great murmured roar, like the roar of the\nwaves on a pebbly beach, as the horse's head began to move forward; and\nthe priest's figure to sway and stagger on the jolting cart. Anthony shut\nhis eyes, and the murmur and cries of the crowd grew louder and louder.\nOnce more the deep sweet voice rang out, loud and penetrating:\n\n\"I die a true Catholic....\"\n\nAnthony kept his eyes closed, and his head bent, as great sobs began to\nbreak up out of his heart....\n\nAh! he was in his agony now! that sudden cry and silence from the crowd\nshowed it. What was it he had asked? one creed?--\n\n\"I believe in God the Father Almighty.\" ...\n\nThe soft heavy murmur of the crowd rose and fell. Catholics were praying\nall round him, reckless with love and pity:\n\n\"Jesu, Jesu, save him! Be to him a Jesus!\"...\n\n\"Mary pray! Mary pray!\"...\n\n\"_Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem._\"...\n\n\"_Passus sub Pontio Pilato._\"...\n\n\"Crucified dead and buried.\"...\n\n\"The forgiveness of sins.\"...\n\n\"And the Life Everlasting.\"...\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAnthony dropped his face forward on to his horse's mane.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER VII\n\n                       A MESSAGE FROM THE CITY\n\n\nSir Francis Walsingham sat in his private room a month after Father\nCampion's death.\n\nHe had settled down again now to his work which had been so grievously\ninterrupted by his mission to France in connection with a new treaty\nbetween that country and England in the previous year. The secret\ndetective service that he had inaugurated in England chiefly for the\nprotection of the Queen's person was a vast and complicated business, and\nthe superintendence of this, in addition to the other affairs of his\noffice, made him an exceedingly busy man. England was honeycombed with\nmines and countermines both in the political and the religious world, and\nit needed all this man's brilliant and trained faculties to keep abreast\nwith them. His spies and agents were everywhere; and not only in England:\nthey circled round Mary of Scotland like flies round a wounded creature,\nseeking to settle and penetrate wherever an opening showed itself. These\nScottish troubles would have been enough for any ordinary man; but\nWalsingham was indefatigable, and his agents were in every prison,\nlurking round corridors in private houses, found alike in thieves'\nkitchens and at gentlemen's tables.\n\nJust at present Walsingham was anxious to give all the attention he could\nto Scottish affairs; and on this wet dreary Thursday morning in January\nas he sat before his bureau, he was meditating how to deal with an affair\nthat had come to him from the heart of London, and how if possible to\nshift the conduct of it on to other shoulders.\n\nHe sat and drummed his fingers on the desk, and stared meditatively at\nthe pigeon-holes before him. His was an interesting face, with large,\nmelancholy, and almost fanatical eyes, and a poet's mouth and forehead;\nbut it was probably exactly his imaginative faculties that enabled him to\npicture public affairs from the points of view of the very various\npersons concerned in them; and thereby to cope with the complications\narising out of these conflicting interests.\n\nHe stroked his pointed beard once or twice, and then struck a hand-bell\nat his side; and a servant entered.\n\n\"If Mr. Lackington is below,\" he said, \"show him here immediately,\" and\nthe servant went out.\n\nLackington, sometime servant to Sir Nicholas Maxwell, had entered Sir\nFrancis' service instead, at the same time that he had exchanged the\nCatholic for the Protestant religion; and he was now one of his most\ntrusted agents. But he had been in so many matters connected with\nrecusancy, that a large number of the papists in London were beginning to\nknow him by sight; and the affairs were becoming more and more scarce in\nwhich he could be employed among Catholics with any hope of success. It\nwas his custom to call morning by morning at Sir Francis' office and\nreceive his instructions; and just now he had returned from business in\nthe country. Presently he entered, closing the door behind him, and bowed\nprofoundly to his master.\n\n\"I have a matter on hand, Lackington,\" said Sir Francis, without looking\nat him, and without any salutation beyond a glance and a nod as he\nentered,--\"a matter which I have not leisure to look into, as it is not,\nI think, anything more than mere religion; but which might, I think,\nrepay you for your trouble, if you can manage it in any way. But it is a\ntroublesome business. These are the facts.\n\n\"No. 3 Newman's Court, in the City, has been a suspected house for some\nwhile. I have had it watched, and there is no doubt that the papists use\nit. I thought at first that the Scots were mixed up with it; but that is\nnot so. Yesterday, a boy of twelve years old, left the house in the\nafternoon, and was followed to a number of houses, of which I will give\nyou the list presently; and was finally arrested in Paul's Churchyard and\nbrought here. I frightened him with talk of the rack; and I think I have\nthe truth out of him now; I have tested him in the usual ways--and all\nthat I can find is that the house is used for mass now and then; and that\nhe was going to the papists' houses yesterday to bid them come for next\nSunday morning. But he was stopped too soon: he had not yet told the\npriest to come. Now unless the priest is told to-night by one whom he\ntrusts, there will be no mass on Sunday, and the nest of papists will\nescape us. It is of no use to send the boy; as he will betray all by his\nbehaviour, even if we frighten him into saying what we wish to the\npriest. I suppose it is of no use your going to the priest and feigning\nto be a Catholic messenger; and I cannot at this moment see what is to be\ndone. If there were anything beyond mere religion in this, I would spare\nno pains to hunt them out; but it is not worth my while. Yet there is the\nreward; and if you think that you can do anything, you can have it for\nyour pains. I can spare you till Monday, and of course you shall have\nwhat men you will to surround the house and take them at mass, if you can\nbut get the priest there.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir,\" said Lackington deferentially. \"Have I your honour's\nleave to see the boy in your presence?\"\n\nWalsingham struck the bell again.\n\n\"Bring the lad that is locked in the steward's parlour,\" he said, when\nthe servant appeared.--\"Sit down, Lackington, and examine him when he\ncomes.\"\n\nAnd Sir Francis took down some papers from a pigeon-hole, sorted out one\nor two, and saying, \"Here are his statements,\" handed them to the agent;\nwho began to glance through them at once. Walsingham then turned to his\ntable again and began to go on with his letters.\n\nIn a moment or two the door opened, and a little lad of twelve years old,\ncame in, followed by the servant.\n\n\"That will do,\" said Walsingham, without looking up; \"You can leave him\nhere,\" and the servant went out. The boy stood back against the wall by\nthe door, his face was white and his eyes full of horror, and he looked\nin a dazed way at the two men.\n\n\"What is your name, boy?\" began Lackington in a sharp, judicial tone.\n\n\"John Belton,\" said the lad in a tremulous voice.\n\n\"And you are a little papist?\" asked the agent.\n\n\"No sir; a Protestant.\"\n\n\"Then how is it that you go on errands for papists?\"\n\n\"I am a servant, sir,\" said the boy imploringly.\n\nLackington turned the papers over for a moment or two.\n\n\"Now you know,\" he began again in a threatening voice, \"that this\ngentleman has power to put you on the rack; you know what that is?\"\n\nThe boy nodded in mute white-faced terror.\n\n\"Well, now, he will hear all you say; and will know whether you say the\ntruth or not. Now tell me if you still hold to what you said yesterday.\"\n\nAnd then Lackington with the aid of the papers ran quickly over the story\nthat Sir Francis had related. \"Now do you mean to tell me, John Belton,\"\nhe added, \"that you, a Protestant, and a lad of twelve, are employed on\nthis work by papists, to gather them for mass?\"\n\nThe boy looked at him with the same earnest horror.\n\n\"Yes, sir, yes, sir,\" he said, and there was a piteous sob in his voice.\n\"Indeed it is all true: but I do not often go on these messages for my\nmaster. Mr. Roger generally goes: but he is sick.\"\n\n\"Oho!\" said Lackington, \"you did not say that yesterday.\"\n\nThe boy was terrified.\n\n\"No, sir,\" he cried out miserably, \"the gentleman did not ask me.\"\n\n\"Well, who is Mr. Roger? What is he like?\"\n\n\"He is my master's servant, sir; and he wears a patch over his eye; and\nstutters a little in his speech.\"\n\nThese kinds of details were plainly beyond a frightened lad's power of\ninvention, and Lackington was more satisfied.\n\n\"And what was the message that you were to give to the folk and the\npriest?\"\n\n\"Please, sir, 'Come, for all things are now ready.'\"\n\nThis was such a queer answer that Lackington gave an incredulous\nexclamation.\n\n\"It is probably true,\" said Sir Francis, without looking up from his\nletters; \"I have come across the same kind of cypher, at least once\nbefore.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir,\" said the agent. \"And now, my boy, tell me this. How did\nyou know what it meant?\"\n\n\"Please, sir,\" said the lad, a little encouraged by the kinder tone, \"I\nhave noticed that twice before when Mr. Roger could not go, and I was\nsent with the same message, all the folks and the priest came on the next\nSunday; and I think that it means that all is safe, and that they can\ncome.\"\n\n\"You are a sharp lad,\" said the spy approvingly. \"I am satisfied with\nyou.\"\n\n\"Then, sir, may I go home?\" asked the boy with hopeful entreaty in his\nvoice.\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said the other, \"I have not done with you yet. Answer me some\nmore questions. Why did you not go to the priest first?\"\n\n\"Because I was bidden to go to him last,\" said the boy. \"If I had been to\nall the other houses by five o'clock last night, then I was to meet the\npriest at Papists' Corner in Paul's Church. But if I had not done\nthem--as I had not,--then I was to see the priest to-night at the same\nplace.\"\n\nLackington mused a moment.\n\n\"What is the priest's name?\" he asked.\n\n\"Please, sir, Mr. Arthur Oldham.\"\n\nThe agent gave a sudden start and a keen glance at the boy, and then\nsmiled to himself; then he meditated, and bit his nails once or twice.\n\n\"And when was Mr. Roger taken ill?\"\n\n\"He slipped down at the door of his lodging and hurt his foot, at\ndinner-time yesterday; and he could not walk.\"\n\n\"His lodging? Then he does not sleep in the house?\"\n\n\"No sir; he sleeps in Stafford Alley, round the corner.\"\n\n\"And where do you live?\"\n\n\"Please, sir, I go home to my mother nearly every night; but not always.\"\n\n\"And where does your mother live?\"\n\n\"Please, sir, at 4 Bell's Lane.\"\n\nLackington remained deep in thought, and looked at the boy steadily for a\nminute or two.\n\n\"Now, sir; may I go?\" he asked eagerly.\n\nLackington paid no attention, and he repeated his question. The agent\nstill did not seem to hear him, but turned to Sir Francis, who was still\nat his letters.\n\n\"That is all, sir, for the present,\" he said. \"May the boy be kept here\ntill Monday?\"\n\nThe lad broke out into wailing; but Lackington turned on him a face so\nsavage that his whimpers died away into horror-stricken silence.\n\n\"As you will,\" said Sir Francis, pausing for a moment in his writing, and\nstriking the bell again; and, on the servant's appearance, gave orders\nthat John Belton should be taken again to the steward's parlour until\nfurther directions were received. The boy went sobbing out and down the\npassage again under the servant's charge, and the door closed.\n\n\"And the mother?\" asked Walsingham abruptly, pausing with pen upraised.\n\n\"With your permission, sir, I will tell her that her boy is in trouble,\nand that if his master sends to inquire for him, she is to say he is sick\nupstairs.\"\n\n\"And you will report to me on Monday?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir; by then I shall hope to have taken the crew.\"\n\nSir Francis nodded his head sharply, and the pen began to fly over the\npaper again; as Lackington slipped out.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAnthony Norris was passing through the court of Lambeth House in the\nafternoon of the same day, when the porter came to him and said there was\na child waiting in the Lodge with a note for him; and would Master Norris\nkindly come to see her. He found a little girl on the bench by the gate,\nwho stood up and curtseyed as the grand gentleman came striding in; and\nhanded him a note which he opened at once and read.\n\n\"For the love of God,\" the note ran, \"come and aid one who can be of\nservice to a friend: follow the little maid Master Norris, and she will\nbring you to me. If you have any friends at _Great Keynes_, for the love\nyou bear to them, come quickly.\"\n\nAnthony turned the note over; it was unsigned, and undated. On his\ninquiry further from the little girl, she said she knew nothing about the\nwriter; but that a gentleman had given her the note and told her to bring\nit to Master Anthony Norris at Lambeth House; and that she was to take\nhim to a house that she knew in the city; she did not know the name of\nthe house, she said.\n\nIt was all very strange, thought Anthony, but evidently here was some one\nwho knew about him; the reference to Great Keynes made him think uneasily\nof Isabel and wonder whether any harm had happened to her, or whether any\ndanger threatened. He stood musing with the note between his fingers, and\nthen told the child to go straight down to Paul's Cross and await him\nthere, and he would follow immediately. The child ran off, and Anthony\nwent round to the stables to get his horse. He rode straight down to the\ncity and put up his horse in the Bishop's stables, and then went round\nwith his riding-whip in his hand to Paul's Cross.\n\nIt was a dull miserable afternoon, beginning to close in with a fine rain\nfalling, and very few people were about; and he found the child crouched\nup against the pulpit in an attempt to keep dry.\n\n\"Come,\" he said kindly, \"I am ready; show me the way.\"\n\nThe child led him along by the Cathedral through the churchyard, and then\nby winding passages, where Anthony kept a good look-out at the corners;\nfor a stab in the back was no uncommon thing for a well-dressed gentleman\noff his guard. The houses overhead leaned so nearly together that the\ndarkening sky disappeared altogether now and then; at one spot Anthony\ncaught a glimpse high up of Bow Church spire; and after a corner or two\nthe child stopped before a doorway in a little flagged court.\n\n\"It is here,\" she said; and before Anthony could stop her she had slipped\naway and disappeared through a passage. He looked at the house. It was a\ntumble-down place; the door was heavily studded with nails, and gave a\nmost respectable air to the house: the leaded windows were just over his\nhead, and tightly closed. There was an air of mute discretion and silence\nabout the place that roused a vague discomfort in Anthony's mind; he\nslipped his right hand into his belt and satisfied himself that the hilt\nof his knife was within reach. Overhead the hanging windows and eaves\nbulged out on all sides; but there was no one to be seen; it seemed a\nplace that had slipped into a backwater of the humming stream of the\ncity. The fine rain still falling added to the dismal aspect of the\nlittle court. He looked round once more; and then rapped sharply at the\ndoor to which the child had pointed.\n\nThere was silence for at least a minute; then as he was about to knock\nagain there was a faint sound overhead, and he looked up in time to see a\nface swiftly withdrawn from one of the windows. Evidently an occupant of\nthe house had been examining the visitor. Then shuffling footsteps came\nalong a passage within, and a light shone under the door. There was a\nnoise of bolts being withdrawn, and the rattle of a chain; and then the\nhandle turned and the door opened slowly inwards, and an old woman stood\nthere holding an oil lamp over her head. This was not very formidable at\nany rate.\n\n\"I have been bidden to come here,\" he said, \"by a letter delivered to me\nan hour ago.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said the old woman, and looked at him peeringly, \"then you are for\nMr. Roger?\"\n\n\"I daresay,\" said Anthony, a little sharply. He was not accustomed to be\ntreated like this. The old woman still looked at him suspiciously; and\nthen, as Anthony made a movement of impatience, she stepped back.\n\n\"Come in, sir,\" she said.\n\nHe stepped in, and she closed and fastened the door again behind him; and\nthen, holding the oil-lamp high over her head, she advanced in her\nslippers towards the staircase, and Anthony followed. On the stairs she\nturned once to see if he was coming, and beckoned him on with a movement\nof her head. Anthony looked about him as he went up: there was nothing\nremarkable or suspicious about the house in any way. It was cleaner than\nhe had been led to expect by its outside aspect; wainscoted to the\nceiling with oak; and the stairs were strong and well made. It was\nplainly a very tolerably respectable place; and Anthony began to think\nfrom its appearance that he had been admitted at the back door of some\nwell-to-do house off Cheapside. The banisters were carved with some\ndistinction; and there were the rudimentary elements of linen-pattern\ndesign on the panels that lined the opposite walls up to the height of\nthe banisters. The woman went up and up, slowly, panting a little; at\neach landing she turned and glanced back to see that her companion was\nfollowing: all the doors that they passed were discreetly shut; and the\nhouse was perfectly dark except for the flickering light of the woman's\nlamp, and silent except for the noise of the footsteps and the rush of a\nmouse now and then behind the woodwork.\n\nAt the third landing she stopped, and came close up to Anthony.\n\n\"That is the door,\" she whispered hoarsely; and pointed with her thumb\ntowards a doorway that was opposite the staircase. \"Ask for Master\nRoger.\"\n\nAnd then without saying any more, she set the lamp down on the flat head\nof the top banister and herself began to shuffle downstairs again into\nthe dark house.\n\nAnthony stood still a moment, his heart beating a little. What was this\nstrange errand? and Isabel! what had she to do with this house buried\naway in the courts of the great city? As he waited he heard a door close\nsomewhere behind him, and the shuffling footsteps had ceased. He touched\nthe hilt of his knife once again to give himself courage; and then walked\nslowly across and rapped on the door. Instantly a voice full of trembling\nexpectancy, cried to him to come in; he turned the handle and stepped\ninto the fire-lit room.\n\nIt was extremely poorly furnished; a rickety table stood in the centre\nwith a book or two and a basin with a plate, a saucepan hissed and\nbubbled on the fire; in the corner near the window stood a poor bed; and\nto this Anthony's attention was immediately directed by a voice that\ncalled out hoarsely:\n\n\"Thank God, sir, thank God, sir, you have come! I feared you would not.\"\n\nAnthony stepped towards it wondering and expectant, but reassured. Lying\nin the bed, with clothes drawn up to the chin was the figure of a man.\nThere was no light in the room, save that given by the leaping flames on\nthe hearth; and Anthony could only make out the face of a man with a\npatch over one eye; the man stretched a hand over the bed clothes as he\ncame near, and Anthony took it, a little astonished, and received a\nstrong trembling grip of apparent excitement and relief: \"Thank God,\nsir!\" the man said again, \"but there is not too much time.\"\n\n\"How can I serve you?\" said Anthony, sitting on a chair near the bedside.\n\"Your letter spoke of friends at Great Keynes. What did you mean by\nthat?\"\n\n\"Is the d-door closed, sir?\" asked the man anxiously; stuttering a little\nas he spoke.\n\nAnthony stepped up and closed it firmly; and then came back and sat down\nagain.\n\n\"Well then, sir; I believe you are a friend of the priest Mr.\nM-Maxwell's.\"\n\nAnthony shook his head.\n\n\"There is no priest of that name that I know.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" cried the man, and his voice shook, \"have I said too much? You are\nMr. Anthony Norris of the Dower House, and of the Archbishop's\nhousehold?\"...\n\n\"I am,\" said Anthony, \"but yet----\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said the man, \"I must go forward now. He whom you know as\nMr. James Maxwell is a Catholic p-priest, known to many under the name of\nMr. Arthur Oldham. He is in sore d-danger.\"\n\nAnthony was silent through sheer astonishment. This then was the secret\nof the mystery that had hung round Mr. James so long. The few times he\nhad met him in town since his return, it had been on the tip of his\ntongue to ask what he did there, and why Hubert was to be master of the\nHall; but there was something in Mr. James' manner that made the asking\nof such a question appear an impossible liberty; and it had remained\nunasked.\n\n\"Well,\" said the man in bed, in anxious terror, \"there is no mistake, is\nthere?\"\n\n\"I said nothing,\" said Anthony, \"for astonishment; I had no idea that he\nwas a priest. And how can I serve him?\"\n\n\"He is in sore danger,\" said the man, and again and again there came the\nstutter. \"Now I am a Catholic: you see how much I t-trust you sir. I am\nthe only one in this house. I was entrusted with a m-message to Mr.\nMaxwell to put him on his guard against a danger that threatens him. I\nwas to meet him this very evening at five of the clock; and this\nafternoon as I left my room, I slipped and so hurt my foot that I cannot\nput it to the ground. I dared not send a l-letter to Mr. Maxwell, for\nfear the child should be followed; I dared not send to another Catholic;\nnor indeed did I know where to find one whom Mr. M-Maxwell would know and\ntrust, as he is new to us here; but I had heard him speak of his friend\nMr. Anthony Norris, who was at Lambeth House; and I determined, sir, to\nsend the child to you; and ask you to do this service for your friend;\nfor an officer of the Archbishop's household is beyond suspicion. N-now,\nsir, will you do this service? If you do it not, I know not where to turn\nfor help.\"\n\nAnthony was silent. He felt a little uneasy. Supposing that there was\nsedition mixed up in this! How could he trust the man's story? How could\nhe be certain in fact that he was a Catholic at all? He looked at him\nkeenly in the fire-light. The man's one eye shone in deep anxiety, and\nhis forehead was wrinkled; and he passed his hand nervously over his\nmouth again and again.\n\n\"How can I tell,\" said Anthony, \"that all this is true?\"\n\nThe man with an impatient movement unfastened his shirt at the neck and\ndrew up on a string that was round his neck a little leather case.\n\n\"Th-there, sir,\" he stammered, drawing the string over his head. \"T-take\nthat to the fire and see what it is.\"\n\nAnthony took it curiously, and holding it close to the fire drew off the\nlittle case; there was the wax medal stamped with the lamb, called\n_Agnus Dei_.\n\n\"Th-there,\" cried the man from the bed, \"now I have p-put myself in your\nhands--and if more is w-wanted----\" and as Anthony came back holding the\nmedal, the man fumbled beneath the pillow and drew out a rosary.\n\n\"N-now, sir, do you believe me?\"\n\nIt was felony to possess these things and Anthony had no more doubts.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"and I ask your pardon.\" And he gave back the _Agnus\nDei_. \"But there is no sedition in this?\"\n\n\"N-none, sir, I give you my word,\" said the man, apparently greatly\nrelieved, and sinking back on his pillow. \"I will tell you all, and you\ncan judge for yourself; but you will promise to be secret.\" And when\nAnthony had given his word, he went on.\n\n\"M-Mass was to have been said in Newman's Court on Sunday, at number 3,\nbut that c-cursed spy Walsingham, hath had wind of it. His men have been\nlurking round there; and it is not safe. However, there is no need to say\nthat to Mr. Maxwell; he will understand enough if you will give him a\nmessage of half a dozen words from me,--Mr. Roger. You can tell him that\nyou saw me, if you wish to. But ah! sir, you give me your word to say no\nmore to any one, not even to Mr. Maxwell himself, for it is in a public\nplace. And then I will tell you the p-place and the m-message; but we\nmust be swift, because the time is near; it is at five of the clock that\nhe will look for a messenger.\"\n\n\"I give you my word,\" said Anthony.\n\n\"Well, sir, the place is Papists' Corner in the Cathedral, and the words\nare these, 'Come, for all things are now ready.' You know sir, that we\nCatholics go in fear of our lives, and like the poor hares have to double\nand turn if we would escape. If any overhears that message, he will never\nknow it to be a warning. And it was for that that I asked your word to\nsay no more than your message, with just the word that you had seen me\nyourself. You may tell him, of course sir, that Mr. Roger had a patch\nover his eye and st-stuttered a little in his speech; and he will know it\nis from me then. Now, sir, will you tell me what the message is, and the\nplace, to be sure that you know them; and then, sir, it will be time to\ngo; and God bless you, sir. God bless you for your kindness to us poor\npapists!\"\n\nThe man seized Anthony's gloved hand and kissed it fervently once or\ntwice.\n\nAnthony repeated his instructions carefully. He was more touched than he\ncared to show by the evident gratitude and relief of this poor terrified\nCatholic.\n\n\"Th-that is right, sir; that is right; and now, sir, if you please, be\ngone at once; or the Father will have left the Cathedral. The child will\nbe in the court below to show you the way out to the churchyard. God\nbless you, sir; and reward you for your kindness!\"\n\nAnd as Anthony went out of the room he heard benedictions mingled with\nsobs following him. The woman was nowhere to be seen; so he took the\noil-lamp from the landing, and found his way downstairs again, unfastened\nthe front door, and went out, leaving the lamp on the floor. The child\nwas leaning against the wall opposite; he could just see the glimmer of\nher face in the heavy dusk.\n\n\"Come, my child,\" he said, \"show me the way to the churchyard.\"\n\nShe came forward, and he began to follow her out of the little flagged\ncourt. He turned round as he left the court and saw high up against the\nblackness overhead a square of window lighted with a glow from within;\nand simultaneously there came the sound of bolts being shut in the door\nthat he had just left. Evidently the old woman had been on the watch, and\nwas now barring the door behind him.\n\nIt wanted courage to do as Anthony was doing, but he was not lacking in\nthat; it was not a small matter to go to Papists' Corner and give a\nwarning to a Catholic priest: but firstly, James Maxwell was his friend,\nand in danger: secondly, Anthony had no sympathy with religious\npersecution; and thirdly, as has been seen, the last year had made a\nreally deep impression upon him: he was more favourably inclined to the\nCatholic cause than he had ever imagined to be possible.\n\nAs he followed the child through the labyrinth of passages, passing every\nnow and then the lighted front of a house, or a little group of idlers\n(for the rain had now ceased) who stared to see this gentleman in such\ncompany, his head was whirling with questions and conjectures. Was it not\nafter all a dishonourable act to the Archbishop in whose service he was,\nthus to take the side of the Papists? But that it was too late to\nconsider now.--How strange that James Maxwell was a priest! That of\ncourse accounted at once for his long absence, no doubt in the seminary\nabroad, and his ultimate return, and for Hubert's inheriting the estates.\nAnd then he passed on to reflect as he had done a hundred times before on\nthis wonderful Religion that allured men from home and wealth and\nfriends, and sent them rejoicing to penury, suspicion, hatred, peril, and\ndeath itself, for the kingdom of heaven's sake.\n\nSuddenly he found himself in the open space opposite the Cathedral--the\nchild had again disappeared.\n\nIt was less dark here; the leaden sky overhead still glimmered with a\npale sunset light; and many house-windows shone out from within. He\npassed round the south side of the Cathedral, and entered the western\ndoor. The building was full of deep gloom only pricked here and there by\nan oil-lamp or two that would presently be extinguished when the\nCathedral was closed. The air was full of a faint sound, made up from\nechoes of the outside world and the footsteps of a few people who still\nlingered in groups here and there in the aisles, and talked among\nthemselves. The columns rose up in slender bundles and faded into the\npale gloom overhead; as he crossed the nave on the way to Papists' Corner\nfar away to the east rose the dark carving of the stalls against the\nglimmering stone beyond. It was like some vast hall of the dead; the\nnoise of the footsteps seemed like an insolent intrusion on this temple\nof silence; and the religious stillness had an active and sombre\ncharacter of its own more eloquent and impressive than all the tumult\nthat man could make.\n\nAs Anthony came to Papists' Corner he saw a very tall solitary figure\npassing slowly from east to west; it was too dark to distinguish faces;\nso he went towards it, so that at the next turn they would meet face to\nface. When he was within two or three steps the man before him turned\nabruptly; and Anthony immediately put out his hand smiling.\n\n\"Mr. Arthur Oldham,\" he said.\n\nThe man started and peered curiously through the gloom at him.\n\n\"Why Anthony!\" he exclaimed, and took his hand, \"what is your business\nhere?\" And they began slowly to walk westwards together.\n\n\"I am come to meet Mr. Oldham,\" he said, \"and to give him a message; and\nthis is it, 'Come, for all things are now ready!'\"\n\n\"My dear boy,\" said James, stopping short, \"you must forgive me; but what\nin the world do you mean by that?\"\n\n\"I come from Mr. Roger,\" said Anthony, \"you need not be afraid. He has\nhad an accident and sent for me.\"\n\n\"Mr. Roger?\" said James interrogatively.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Anthony, \"he hath a patch over one eye; and stutters\nsomewhat.\"\n\nJames gave a sigh of relief.\n\n\"My dear boy,\" he said, \"I cannot thank you enough. You know what it\nmeans then?\"\n\n\"Why, yes,\" said Anthony.\n\n\"And you a Protestant, and in the Archbishop's household?\"\n\n\"Why, yes,\" said Anthony, \"and a Christian and your friend.\"\n\n\"God bless you, Anthony,\" said the priest; and took his hand and pressed\nit.\n\nThey were passing out now under the west door, and stood together for a\nmoment looking at the lights down Ludgate Hill. The houses about Amen\nCourt stood up against the sky to their right.\n\n\"I must not stay,\" said Anthony, \"I must fetch my horse and be back at\nLambeth for evening prayers at six. He is stabled at the Palace here.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said the priest, \"I thank God that there are true hearts\nlike yours. God bless you again my dear boy--and--and make you one of us\nsome day!\"\n\nAnthony smiled at him a little tremulously, for the gratitude and the\nblessing of this man was dear to him; and after another hand grasp, he\nturned away to the right, leaving the priest still half under the shadow\nof the door looking after him.\n\nHe had done his errand promptly and discreetly.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER VIII\n\n                          THE MASSING-HOUSE\n\n\nNewman's Court lay dark and silent under the stars on Sunday morning a\nlittle after four o'clock. The gloomy weather of the last three or four\ndays had passed off in heavy battalions of sullen sunset clouds on the\npreceding evening, and the air was full of frost. By midnight thin ice\nwas lying everywhere; pendants of it were beginning to form on the\noverhanging eaves; and streaks of it between the cobble-stones that paved\nthe court. The great city lay in a frosty stillness as of death.\n\nThe patrol passed along Cheapside forty yards away from the entrance of\nthe court, a little after three o'clock; and a watchman had cried out\nhalf an hour later, that it was a clear night; and then he too had gone\nhis way. The court itself was a little rectangular enclosure with two\nentrances, one to the north beneath the arch of a stable that gave on to\nNewman's Passage, which in its turn opened on to St. Giles' Lane that led\nto Cheapside; the other, at the further end of the long right-hand side,\nled by a labyrinth of passages down in the direction of the wharfs to the\nwest of London Bridge. There were three houses to the left of the\nentrance from Newman's Passage; the back of a ware-house faced them on\nthe other long side with the door beyond; and the other two sides were\nrespectively formed by the archway of the stable with a loft over it, and\na blank high wall at the opposite end.\n\nA few minutes after four o'clock the figure of a woman suddenly appeared\nsoundlessly in the arch under the stables; and after standing there a\nmoment advanced along the front of the houses till she reached the third\ndoor. She stood here a moment in silence, listening and looking towards\nthe doorway opposite, and then rapped gently with her finger-nail eleven\nor twelve times. Almost immediately the door opened, showing only\ndarkness within; she stepped in, and it closed silently behind her. Then\nthe minutes slipped away again in undisturbed silence. At about twenty\nminutes to five the figure of a very tall man dressed as a layman slipped\nin through the door that led towards the river, and advanced to the door\nwhere he tapped in the same manner as the woman before him, and was\nadmitted at once. After that people began to come more frequently, some\nhesitating and looking about them as they entered the court, some\nslipping straight through without a pause, and going to the door, which\nopened and shut noiselessly as each tapped and was admitted. Sometimes\ntwo or three would come together, sometimes singly; but by five o'clock\nabout twenty or thirty persons had come and been engulfed by the\nblackness that showed each time the door opened; while no glimmer of\nlight from any of the windows betrayed the presence of any living soul\nwithin. At five o'clock the stream stopped. The little court lay as\nsilent under the stars again as an hour before. It was a night of\nbreathless stillness; there was no dripping from the eaves; no sound of\nwheels or hoofs from the city; only once or twice came the long howl of a\ndog across the roofs.\n\nTen minutes passed away.\n\nThen without a sound a face appeared like a pale floating patch in the\ndark door that opened on to the court. It remained hung like a mask in\nthe darkness for at least a minute; and then a man stepped through on to\nthe cobblestones. Something on his head glimmered sharply in the\nstarlight; and there was the same sparkle at the end of a pole that he\ncarried in his hand; he turned and nodded; and three or four men appeared\nbehind him.\n\nThen out of the darkness of the archway at the other end of the court\nappeared a similar group. Once a man slipped on the frozen stones and\ncursed under his breath, and the leader turned on him with a fierce\nindrawing of his breath; but no word was spoken.\n\nThen through both entrances streamed dark figures, each with a steely\nglitter on head and breast, and with something that shone in their hands;\ntill the little court seemed half full of armed men; but the silence was\nstill formidable in its depth.\n\nThe two leaders came together to the door of the third house, and their\nheads were together; and a few sibilant consonants escaped them. The\nbreath of the men that stood out under the starlight went up like smoke\nin the air. It was now a quarter-past five.\n\nThree notes of a hand-bell sounded behind the house; and then, without\nany further attempt at silence, the man who had entered the court first\nadvanced to the door and struck three or four thundering blows on it with\na mace, and shouted in a resonant voice:\n\n\"Open in the Queen's Name.\"\n\nThe men relaxed their cautious attitudes, and some grounded their\nweapons; others began to talk in low voices; a small party advanced\nnearer their leaders with weapons, axes and halberds, uplifted.\n\nBy now the blows were thundering on the door; and the same shattering\nvoice cried again and again:\n\n\"Open in the Queen's name; open in the Queen's name!\"\n\nThe middle house of the three was unoccupied; but the windows of the\nhouse next the stable, and the windows in the loft over the archway,\nwhere the stable-boys slept, suddenly were illuminated; latches were\nlifted, the windows thrust open and heads out of them.\n\nThen one or two more pursuivants came up the dark passage bearing flaming\ntorches with them. A figure appeared on the top of the blank wall at the\nend, and pointed and shouted. The stable-boys in a moment more appeared\nin their archway, and one or two persons came out of the house next the\nstable, queerly habited in cloaks and hats over their night-attire.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe din was now tremendous; the questions and answers shouted to and fro\nwere scarcely audible under the thunder that pealed from the battered\ndoor; a party had advanced to it and were raining blows upon the lock and\nhinges. The court was full of a ruddy glare that blazed on the\nhalf-armour and pikes of the men, and the bellowing and the crashes and\nthe smoke together went up into the night air as from the infernal pit.\nIt was a hellish transformation from the deathly stillness of a few\nminutes--a massacre of the sweet night silence. And yet the house where\nthe little silent stream of dark figures had been swallowed up rose up\nhigh above the smoky cauldron, black, dark, and irresponsive.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThere rose a shrill howling from behind the house, and the figure on the\ntop of the wall capered and gesticulated again. Then footsteps came\nrunning up the passage, and a pursuivant thrust his way through to the\nleaders; and, in a moment or two, above the din a sharp word was given,\nand three or four men hurried out through the doorway by which the man\nhad come. Almost at the same moment the hinges of the door gave way, the\nwhole crashed inwards, and the attacking party poured into the dark\nentrance hall beyond. By this time the noise had wakened many in the\nhouses round, and lights were beginning to shine from the high windows\ninvisible before, and a concourse of people to press in from all sides.\nThe approaches had all been guarded, but at the crash of the door some of\nthe sentries round the nearer corners hurried into the court, and the\ncrowd poured after them; and by the time that the officers and men had\ndisappeared into the house, their places had been filled by the\nspectators, and the little court was again full of a swaying, seething,\nshouting mass of men, with a few women with hoods and cloaks among\nthem--inquiries and information were yelled to and fro.\n\n\"It was a nest of papists--a wasp's nest was being smoked out--what harm\nhad they done?--It was a murder; two women had had their throats\ncut.--No, no; it was a papists' den--a massing-house.--Well, God save her\nGrace and rid her of her enemies. With these damned Spaniards everywhere,\nEngland was going to ruin.--They had escaped at the back. No; they tried\nthat way, but it was guarded.--There were over fifty papists, some said,\nin that house.--It was a plot. Mary was mixed up in it. The Queen was to\nbe blown up with powder, like poor Darnley. The barrels were all stored\nthere.--No, no, no! it was nothing but a massing-house.--Who was the\npriest?--Well, they would see him at Tyburn on a hurdle; and serve him\nright with his treasonable mummery.--No, no! they had had enough of\nblood.--Campion had died like a man; and an Englishman too--praying for\nhis Queen.\"--The incessant battle and roar went up.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nMeanwhile lights were beginning to shine everywhere in the dark house. A\nman with a torch was standing in a smoky glare half way up the stairs\nseen through the door, and the interior of the plain hall was\nilluminated. Then the leaded panes overhead were beginning to shine out.\nSteel caps moved to and fro; gigantic shadows wavered; the shadow of a\nhalberd head went across a curtain at one of the lower windows.\n\nA crimson-faced man threw open a window and shouted instructions to the\nsentry left at the door, who in answer shook his head and pointed to the\nbellowing crowd; the man at the window made a furious gesture and\ndisappeared. The illumination began to climb higher and higher as the\nsearchers mounted from floor to floor; thin smoke began to go up from one\nor two of the chimneys in the frosty air;--they were lighting straw to\nbring down any fugitives concealed in the chimneys. Then the sound of\nheavy blows began to ring out; they were testing the walls everywhere for\nhiding-holes; there was a sound of rending wood as the flooring was torn\nup. Then over the parapet against the stairs looked a steel-crowned face\nof a pursuivant. The crowd below yelled and pointed at first, thinking he\nwas a fugitive; but he grinned down at them and disappeared.\n\nThen at last came an exultant shout; then a breathless silence; then the\ncrowd began to question and answer again.\n\n\"They had caught the priest!--No, the priest had escaped,--damn him!--It\nwas half a dozen women. No, no! they had had the women ten minutes ago in\na room at the back.--What fools these pursuivants were!--They had found\nthe chapel and the altar.--What a show it would all make at the\ntrial!--Ah! ah! it was the priest after all.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThose nearest the door saw the man with the torch on the stairs stand\nback a little; and then a dismal little procession began to appear round\nthe turn.\n\nFirst came a couple of armed men, looking behind them every now and then;\nthen a group of half a dozen women, whom they had found almost\nimmediately, but had been keeping for the last few minutes in a room\nupstairs; then a couple more men. Then there was a little space; and then\nmore constables and more prisoners. Each male prisoner was guarded by two\nmen; the women were in groups. All these came out to the court. The crowd\nbegan to sway back against the walls, pointing and crying out; and a lane\nwith living walls was formed towards the archway that opened into\nNewman's Passage.\n\nWhen the last pursuivants who brought up the rear had reached the door,\nan officer, who had been leaning from a first-floor window with the pale\nface of Lackington peering over his shoulder, gave a sharp order; and the\nprocession halted. The women, numbering fourteen or fifteen, were placed\nin a group with some eight men in hollow square round them; then came a\ndozen men, each with a pursuivant on either side. But plainly they were\nnot all come; they were still waiting for something; the officer and\nLackington disappeared from the window; and for a moment too, the crowd\nwas quiet.\n\nA murmur of excitement began to rise again, as another group was seen\ndescending the stairs within. The officer came first, looking back and\ntalking as he came; then followed two pursuivants with halberds, and\nimmediately behind them, followed by yet two men, walked James Maxwell in\ncrimson vestments all disordered, with his hands behind him, and his\ncomely head towering above the heads of the guard. The crowd surged\nforward, yelling; and the men at the door grounded their halberds sharply\non the feet of the front row of spectators. As the priest reached the\ndoor, a shrill cry either from a boy or a woman pierced the roaring of\nthe mob. \"God bless you, father,\" and as he heard it he turned and smiled\nserenely. His face was white, and there was a little trickle of blood run\ndown across it from some wound in his head. The rest of the prisoners\nturned towards him as he came out; and again he smiled and nodded at\nthem. And so the Catholics with their priest stood a moment in that\ndeafening tumult of revilings, before the officer gave the word to\nadvance.\n\nThen the procession set forward through the archway; the crowd pressing\nback before them, like the recoil of a wave, and surging after them again\nin the wake. High over the heads of all moved the steel halberds, shining\nlike grim emblems of power; the torches tossed up and down and threw\nmonstrous stalking shadows on the walls as they passed; the steel caps\nedged the procession like an impenetrable hedge; and last moved the\ncrimson-clad priest, as if in some church function, but with a bristling\nbarrier about him; then came the mob, pouring along the narrow passages,\njostling, cursing, reviling, swelled every moment by new arrivals dashing\ndown the alleys and courts that gave on the thoroughfare; and so with\ntramp and ring of steel the pageant went forward on its way of sorrows.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nBefore six o'clock Newman's Court was empty again, except for one armed\nfigure that stood before the shattered door of No. 3 to guard it. Inside\nthe house was dark again except in one room high up where the altar had\nstood. Here the thick curtains against the glass had been torn down, and\nthe window was illuminated; every now and again the shadows on the\nceiling stirred a little as if the candle was being moved; and once the\nwindow opened and a pale smooth face looked out for a moment, and then\nwithdrew again. Then the light disappeared altogether; and presently\nshone out in another room on the same floor; then again after an half an\nhour or so it was darkened; and again reappeared on the floor below. And\nso it went on from room to room; until the noises of the waking city\nbegan, and the stars paled and expired. Over the smokeless town the sky\nbegan to glow clear and brilliant. The crowing of cocks awoke here and\nthere; a church bell or two began to sound far away over the roofs. The\npale blue overhead grew more and more luminous; the candle went out on\nthe first floor; the steel-clad man stretched himself and looked at the\ngrowing dawn.\n\nA step was heard on the stairs, and Lackington came down, carrying a\nsmall valise apparently full to bursting. He looked paler than usual; and\na little hollow-eyed for want of sleep. He came out and stood by the\nsoldier, and looked about him. Everywhere the court showed signs of the\nnight's tumult. Crumbled ice from broken icicles and trampled frozen\npools lay powdered on the stones. Here and there on the walls were great\nsmears of black from the torches, and even one or two torn bits of stuff\nand a crushed hat marked where the pressure had been fiercest. Most\neloquent of all was the splintered door behind him, still held fast by\none stout bolt, but leaning crookedly against the dinted wall of the\ninterior.\n\n\"A good night's work, friend,\" said Lackington to the man. \"Another hive\ntaken, and here\"--and he tapped his valise--\"here I bear the best of the\nhoney.\"\n\nThe soldier looked heavily at the bag. He was tired too; and he did not\ncare for this kind of work.\n\n\"Well,\" said Lackington again, \"I must be getting home safe. Keep the\ndoor; you shall be relieved in one hour.\"\n\nThe soldier nodded at him; but still said nothing; and Lackington lifted\nthe valise and went off too under the archway.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThat same morning Lady Maxwell in her room in the Hall at Great Keynes\nawoke early before dawn with a start. She had had a dream but could not\nremember what it was, except that her son James was in it, and seemed to\nbe in trouble. He was calling on her to save him, she thought, and awoke\nat the sound of his voice. She often dreamt of him at this time; for the\nlife of a seminary priest was laid with snares and dangers. But this\ndream seemed worse than all.\n\nShe struck a light, and looked timidly round the room; it seemed still\nringing with his voice. A great tapestry in a frame hung over the\nmantelpiece, Act\u00e6on followed by his hounds; the hunter panted as he ran,\nand was looking back over his shoulder; and the long-jawed dogs streamed\nbehind him down a little hill.\n\nSo strong was the dream upon the old lady that she felt restless, and\npresently got up and went to the window and opened a shutter to look out.\nA white statue or two beyond the terrace glimmered in the dusk, and the\nstars were bright in the clear frosty night overhead. She closed the\nshutter and went back again to bed; but could not sleep. Again and again\nas she was dozing off, something would startle her wide awake again:\nsometimes it was a glimpse of James' face; sometimes he seemed to be\nhurrying away from her down an endless passage with closed doors; he was\ndressed in something crimson. She tried to cry out, her voice would not\nrise above a whisper. Sometimes it was the dream of his voice; and once\nshe started up crying out, \"I am coming, my son.\" Then at last she awoke\nagain at the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor outside; and\nstared fearfully at the door to see what would enter. But it was only the\nmaid come to call her mistress. Lady Maxwell watched her as she opened\nthe shutters that now glimmered through their cracks, and let a great\nflood of light into the room from the clear shining morning outside.\n\n\"It is a frosty morning, my lady,\" said the maid.\n\n\"Send one of the men down to Mistress Torridon,\" said Lady Maxwell, \"and\nask her to come here as soon as it is convenient. Say I am well; but\nwould like to see her when she can come.\"\n\nThere was no priest in the house that Sunday, so there could be no mass;\nand on these occasions Mistress Margaret usually stayed at the Dower\nHouse until after dinner; but this morning she came up within half an\nhour of receiving the message.\n\nShe did not pretend to despise her sister's terror, or call it\nsuperstitious.\n\n\"Mary,\" she said, taking her sister's jewelled old fingers into her own\ntwo hands, \"we must leave all this to the good God. It may mean much, or\nlittle, or nothing. He only knows; but at least we may pray. Let me tell\nIsabel; a child's prayers are mighty with Him; and she has the soul of a\nlittle child still.\"\n\nSo Isabel was told; and after church she came up to dine at the Hall and\nspend the day there; for Lady Maxwell was thoroughly nervous and upset:\nshe trembled at the sound of footsteps, and cried out when one of the men\ncame into the room suddenly.\n\nIsabel went again to evening prayer at three o'clock; but could not keep\nher thoughts off the strange nervous horror at the Hall, though it seemed\nto rest on no better foundation than the waking dreams of an old\nlady--and her mind strayed away continually from the darkening chapel in\nwhich she sat, so near where Sir Nicholas himself lay, to the upstairs\nparlour where the widow sat shaken and trembling at her own curious\nfancies about her dear son.\n\nMr. Bodder's sermon came to an end at last; and Isabel was able to get\naway, and hurry back to the Hall. She found the old ladies as she had\nleft them in the little drawing-room, Lady Maxwell sitting on the\nwindow-seat near the harp, preoccupied and apparently listening for\nsomething she knew not what. Mistress Margaret was sitting in a tall\npadded porter's chair reading aloud from an old English mystic, but her\nsister was paying no attention, and looked strangely at the girl as she\ncame in. Isabel sat down near the fire and listened; and as she listened\nthe memory of that other day, years ago, came to her when she sat once\nbefore with these two ladies in the same room, and Mistress Margaret read\nto them, and the letter came from Sir Nicholas; and then the sudden\nclamour from the village. So now she sat with terror darkening over her,\nglancing now and again at that white expectant face, and herself\nlistening for the first far-away rumour of the dreadful interruption that\nshe now knew must come.\n\n\"The Goodness of God,\" read the old nun, \"is the highest prayer, and it\ncometh down to the lowest part of our need. It quickeneth our soul and\nbringeth it on life, and maketh it for to waxen in grace and virtue. It\nis nearest in nature; and readiest in grace: for it is the same grace\nthat the soul seeketh, and ever shall seek till we know verily that He\nhath us all in Himself enclosed. For he hath no despite of that He hath\nmade, nor hath He any disdain to serve us at the simplest office that to\nour body belongeth in nature, for love of the soul that He hath made to\nHis own likeness. For as the body is clad in the clothes, and the flesh\nin the skin, and the bones in the flesh, and the heart in the whole, so\nare we, soul and body, clad in the Goodness of God, and enclosed. Yea,\nand more homely; for all these may waste and wear away, but the Goodness\nof God is ever whole; and more near to us without any likeness; for truly\nour Lover desireth that our soul cleave to Him with all its might, and\nthat we be evermore cleaving to His goodness. For of all things that\nheart may think, this most pleaseth God, and soonest speedeth us. For our\nsoul is so specially loved of Him that is highest, that it overpasseth\nthe knowing of all creatures----\"\n\n\"Hush,\" said Lady Maxwell suddenly, on her feet, with a lifted hand.\n\nThere was a breathless silence in the room; Isabel's heart beat thick and\nheavy and her eyes grew large with expectancy; it was a windless frosty\nnight again, and the ivy outside on the wall, and the laurels in the\ngarden seemed to be silently listening too.\n\n\"Mary, Mary,\" began her sister, \"you----;\" but the old lady lifted her\nhand a little higher; and silence fell again.\n\nThen far away in the direction of the London road came the clear beat of\nthe hoofs of a galloping horse.\n\nLady Maxwell bowed her head, and her hand slowly sank to her side. The\nother two stood up and remained still while the beat of the hoofs grew\nand grew in intensity on the frozen road.\n\n\"The front door,\" said Lady Maxwell.\n\nMistress Margaret slipped from the room and went downstairs; Isabel took\na step or two forward, but was checked by the old lady's uplifted hand\nagain. And again there was a breathless silence, save for the beat of the\nhoofs now close and imminent.\n\nA moment later the front door was opened, and a great flood of cold air\nswept up the passages; the portrait of Sir Nicholas in the hall\ndownstairs, lifted and rattled against the wall. Then came the clatter on\nthe paved court; and the sound of a horse suddenly checked with the\nslipping up of hoofs and the jingle and rattle of chains and stirrups.\nThere were voices in the hall below, and a man's deep tones; then came\nsteps ascending.\n\nLady Maxwell still stood perfectly rigid by the window, waiting, and\nIsabel stared with white face and great open eyes at the door; outside,\nthe flame of a lamp on the wall was blowing about furiously in the\ndraught.\n\nThen a stranger stepped into the room; evidently a gentleman; he bowed to\nthe two ladies, and stood, with the rime on his boots and a whip in his\nhand, a little exhausted and disordered by hard riding.\n\n\"Lady Maxwell?\" he said.\n\nLady Maxwell bowed a little.\n\n\"I come with news of your son, madam, the priest; he is alive and well;\nbut he is in trouble. He was taken this morning in his mass-vestments;\nand is in the Marshalsea.\"\n\nLady Maxwell's lips moved a little; but no sound came.\n\n\"He was betrayed, madam, by a friend. He and thirty other Catholics were\ntaken all together at mass.\"\n\nThen Lady Maxwell spoke; and her voice was dead and hard.\n\n\"The friend, sir! What was his name?\"\n\n\"The traitor's name, madam, is Anthony Norris.\"\n\nThe room turned suddenly dark to Isabel's eyes; and she put up her hand\nand tore at the collar round her throat.\n\n\"Oh no, no, no, no!\" she cried, and tottered a step or two forward and\nstood swaying.\n\nLady Maxwell looked from one to another with eyes that seemed to see\nnothing; and her lips stirred again.\n\nMistress Margaret who had followed the stranger up, and who stood now\nbehind him at the door, came forward to Isabel with a little cry, with\nher hands trembling before her. But before she could reach her, Lady\nMaxwell herself came swiftly forward, her head thrown back, and her arms\nstretched out towards the girl, who still stood dazed and swaying more\nand more.\n\n\"My poor, poor child!\" said Lady Maxwell; and caught her as she fell.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER IX\n\n                      FROM FULHAM TO GREENWICH\n\n\nAnthony in London, strangely enough, heard nothing of the arrest on the\nSunday, except a rumour at supper that some Papists had been taken. It\nhad sufficient effect on his mind to make him congratulate himself that\nhe had been able to warn his friend last week.\n\nAt dinner on Monday there were a few guests; and among them, one Sir\nRichard Barkley, afterwards Lieutenant of the Tower. He sat at the\nArchbishop's table, but Anthony's place, on the steward's left hand,\nbrought him very close to the end of the first table where Sir Richard\nsat. Dinner was half way through, when Mr. Scot who was talking to\nAnthony, was suddenly silent and lifted his hand as if to check the\nconversation a moment.\n\n\"I saw them myself,\" said Sir Richard's voice just behind.\n\n\"What is it?\" whispered Anthony.\n\n\"The Catholics,\" answered the steward.\n\n\"They were taken in Newman's Court, off Cheapside,\" went on the voice,\n\"nearly thirty, with one of their priests, at mass, in his trinkets\ntoo--Oldham his name is.\"\n\nThere was a sudden crash of a chair fallen backwards, and Anthony was\nstanding by the officer.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, Sir Richard Barkley,\" he said;--and a dead silence\nfell in the hall.--\"But is that the name of the priest that was taken\nyesterday?\"\n\nSir Richard looked astonished at the apparent insolence of this young\nofficial.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" he said shortly.\n\n\"Then, then,----\" began Anthony; but stopped; bowed low to the Archbishop\nand went straight out of the hall.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nMr. Scot was waiting for him in the hall when he returned late that\nnight. Anthony's face was white and distracted; he came in and stood by\nthe fire, and stared at him with a dazed air.\n\n\"You are to come to his Grace,\" said the steward, looking at him in\nsilence.\n\nAnthony nodded without speaking, and turned away.\n\n\"Then you cannot tell me anything?\" said Mr. Scot. The other shook his\nhead impatiently, and walked towards the inner door.\n\nThe Archbishop was sincerely shocked at the sight of his young officer,\nas he came in and stood before the table, staring with bewildered eyes,\nwith his dress splashed and disordered, and his hands still holding the\nwhip and gloves. He made him sit down at once, and after Anthony had\ndrunk a glass of wine, he made him tell his story and what he had done\nthat day.\n\nHe had been to the Marshalsea; it was true Mr. Oldham was there, and had\nbeen examined. Mr. Young had conducted it.--The house at Newman's Court\nwas guarded: the house behind Bow Church was barred and shut up, and the\npeople seemed gone away.--He could not get a word through to Mr. Oldham,\nthough he had tried heavy bribery.--And that was all.\n\nAnthony spoke with the same dazed air, in short broken sentences; but\nbecame more himself as the wine and the fire warmed him; and by the time\nhe had finished he had recovered himself enough to entreat the Archbishop\nto help him.\n\n\"It is useless,\" said the old man. \"What can I do? I have no power.\nAnd--and he is a popish priest! How can I interfere?\"\n\n\"My lord,\" cried Anthony desperately, flushed and entreating, \"all has\nbeen done through treachery. Do you not see it? I have been a brainless\nfool. That man behind Bow Church was a spy. For Christ's sake help us,\nmy lord!\"\n\nGrindal looked into the lad's great bright eyes; sighed; and threw out\nhis hands despairingly.\n\n\"It is useless; indeed it is useless, Mr. Norris. But I will tell you all\nthat I can do. I will give you to-morrow a letter to Sir Francis\nWalsingham. I was with him abroad as you know, in the popish times of\nMary: and he is still in some sort a friend of mine--but you must\nremember that he is a strong Protestant; and I do not suppose that he\nwill help you. Now go to bed, dear lad; you are worn out.\"\n\nAnthony knelt for the old man's blessing, and left the room.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe interview next day was more formidable than he had expected. He was\nat the Secretary's house by ten o'clock, and waited below while the\nArchbishop's letter was taken up. The servant came back in a few minutes,\nand asked him to follow; and in an agony of anxiety, but with a clear\nhead again this morning, and every faculty tense, he went upstairs after\nhim, and was ushered into the room where Walsingham sat at a table.\n\nThere was silence as the two bowed, but Sir Francis did not offer to\nrise, but sat with the Archbishop's letter in his hand, glancing through\nit again, as the other stood and waited.\n\n\"I understand,\" said the Secretary at last, and his voice was dry and\nunsympathetic,--\"I understand, from his Grace's letter, that you desire\nto aid a popish priest called Oldham or Maxwell, arrested at mass on\nSunday morning in Newman's Court. If you will be so good as to tell me in\nwhat way you desire to aid him, I can be more plain in my answer. You do\nnot desire, I hope, Mr. Norris, anything but justice and a fair trial for\nyour friend?\"\n\nAnthony cleared his throat before answering.\n\n\"I--he is my friend, as you say, Sir Francis; and--and he hath been\ncaught by foul means. I myself was used, as I have little doubt, in his\ncapture. Surely there is no justice, sir, in betraying a man by means of\nhis friend.\" And Anthony described the ruse that had brought it all\nabout.\n\nSir Francis listened to him coldly; but there came the faintest spark of\namusement into his large sad eyes.\n\n\"Surely, Mr. Norris,\" he said, \"it was somewhat simple; and I have no\ndoubt at all that it all is as you say; and that the poor stuttering\ncripple with a patch was as sound and had as good sight and power of\nspeech as you and I; but the plan was, it seems, if you will forgive me,\nnot so simple as yourself. It would be passing strange, surely that the\nman, if a friend of the priest's, could find no Catholic to take his\nmessage; but not at all strange if he were his enemy. I do not think\nsincerely, sir, that it would have deceived me. But that is not now the\npoint. He is taken now, fairly or foully, and--what was it you wished me\nto do?\"\n\n\"I hoped,\" said Anthony, in rising indignation at this insolence, \"that\nyou would help me in some way to undo this foul unjustice. Surely, sir,\nit cannot be right to take advantage of such knavish tricks.\"\n\n\"Good Mr. Norris,\" said the Secretary, \"we are not playing a game, with\nrules that must not be broken, but we are trying to serve justice\"--his\nvoice rose a little in sincere enthusiasm--\"and to put down all false\npractices, whether in religion or state, against God or the prince.\nSurely the point for you and me is not, ought this gentleman to have been\ntaken in the manner he was; but being taken, is he innocent or guilty?\"\n\n\"Then you will not help me?\"\n\n\"I will certainly not help you to defeat justice,\" said the other. \"Mr.\nNorris, you are a young man; and while your friendship does your heart\ncredit, your manner of forwarding its claims does not equally commend\nyour head. I counsel you to be wary in your speech and actions; or they\nmay bring you into trouble some day yourself. After all, as no doubt your\nfriends have told you, you played what, as a minister of the Crown, I\nmust call a knave's part in attempting to save this popish traitor,\nalthough by God's Providence, you were frustrated. But it is indeed going\ntoo far to beg me to assist you. I have never heard of such audacity!\"\n\nAnthony left the house in a fury. It was true, as the Archbishop had\nsaid, that Sir Francis Walsingham was a convinced Protestant; but he had\nexpected to find in him some indignation at the methods by which the\npriest had been captured; and some desire to make compensation for it.\n\nHe went again to the Marshalsea; and now heard that James had been\nremoved to the Tower, with one or two of the Catholics who had been in\ntrouble before. This was serious news; for to be transferred to the Tower\nwas often but the prelude to torture or death. He went on there, however,\nand tried again to gain admittance, but it was refused, and the\ndoorkeeper would not even consent to take a message in. Mr. Oldham, he\nsaid, was being straitly kept, and it would be as much as his place was\nworth to admit any communication to him without an order from the\nCouncil.\n\nWhen Anthony got back to Lambeth after this fruitless day, he found an\nimploring note from Isabel awaiting him; and one of the grooms from the\nHall to take his answer back.\n\n\"Write back at once, dear Anthony,\" she wrote, \"and explain this terrible\nthing, for I know well that you could not do what has been told us of\nyou. But tell us what has happened, that we may know what to think. Poor\nLady Maxwell is in the distress you may imagine; not knowing what will\ncome to Mr. James. She will come to London, I think, this week. Write at\nonce now, my Anthony, and tell us all.\"\n\nAnthony scribbled a few lines, saying how he had been deceived; and\nasking her to explain the circumstances to Lady Maxwell, who no doubt\nwould communicate them to her son as soon as was possible; he added that\nhe had so far failed to get a message through the gaoler. He gave the\nnote himself to the groom; telling him to deliver it straight into\nIsabel's hands, and then went to bed.\n\nIn the morning he reported to the Archbishop what had taken place.\n\n\"I feared it would be so,\" Grindal said. \"There is nothing to be done but\nto commit your friend into God's hands, and leave him there.\"\n\n\"My Lord,\" said Anthony, \"I cannot leave it like that. I will go and see\nmy lord bishop to-day; and then, if he can do nothing to help, I will\neven see the Queen's Grace herself.\"\n\nGrindal threw up his hands with a gesture of dismay.\n\n\"That will ruin all,\" he said. \"An officer of mine could do nothing but\nanger her Grace.\"\n\n\"I must do my best,\" said Anthony; \"it was through my folly he is in\nprison, and I could never rest if I left one single thing undone.\"\n\nJust as Anthony was leaving the house, a servant in the royal livery\ndashed up to the gate; and the porter ran out after Anthony to call him\nback. The man delivered to him a letter which he opened then and there.\nIt was from Mistress Corbet.\n\n\"What can be done,\" the letter ran, \"for poor Mr. James? I have heard a\ntale of you from a Catholic, which I know is a black lie. I am sure that\neven now you will be doing all you can to save your friend. I told the\nman that told me, that he lied and that I knew you for an honest\ngentleman. But come, dear Mr. Anthony; and we will do what we can between\nus. Her Grace noticed this morning that I had been weeping; I put her off\nwith excuses that she knows to be excuses; and she is so curious that she\nwill not rest till she knows the cause. Come after dinner to-day; we are\nat Greenwich now; and we will see what may be done. It may even be\nneedful for you to see her Grace yourself, and tell her the story. Your\nloving friend, Mary Corbet.\"\n\nAnthony gave a message to the royal groom, to tell Mistress Corbet that\nhe would do as she said, and then rode off immediately to the city. There\nwas another disappointing delay as the Bishop was at Fulham; and thither\nhe rode directly through the frosty streets under the keen morning\nsunshine, fretting at the further delay.\n\nHe had often had occasion to see the Bishop before, and Aylmer had taken\nsomething of a liking to this staunch young churchman; and now as the\nyoung man came hurrying across the grass under the elms, the Bishop, who\nwas walking in his garden in his furs and flapped cap, noticed his\nanxious eyes and troubled face, and smiled at him kindly, wondering what\nhe had come about. The two began to walk up and down together. The\nsunshine was beginning to melt the surface of the ground, and the birds\nwere busy with breakfast-hunting.\n\n\"Look at that little fellow!\" cried the Bishop, pointing to a thrush on\nthe lawn, \"he knows his craft.\"\n\nThe thrush had just rapped several times with his beak at a worm's earth,\nand was waiting with his head sideways watching.\n\n\"Aha!\" cried the Bishop again, \"he has him.\" The thrush had seized the\nworm who had come up to investigate the noise, and was now staggering\nbackwards, bracing himself, and tugging at the poor worm, who, in a\nmoment more was dragged out and swallowed.\n\n\"My lord,\" said Anthony, \"I came to ask your pity for one who was\nbetrayed by like treachery.\"\n\nThe Bishop looked astonished, and asked for the story; but when he heard\nwho it was that had been taken, and under what circumstances, the\nkindliness died out of his eyes. He shook his head severely when Anthony\nhad done.\n\n\"It is useless coming to me, sir,\" he said. \"You know what I think. To be\nordained beyond the seas and to exercise priestly functions in England is\nnow a crime. It is useless to pretend anything else. It is revolt against\nthe Queen's Grace and the peace of the realm. And I must confess I am\nastonished at you, Mr. Norris, thinking that anything ought to be done to\nshield a criminal, and still more astonished that you should think I\nwould aid you in that. I tell you plainly that I am glad that the fellow\nis caught, for that I think there will be presently one less fire-brand\nin England. I know it is easy to cry out against persecution and\ninjustice; that is ever the shallow cry of the mob; but this is not a\nreligious persecution, as you yourself very well know. It is because the\nRoman Church interferes with the peace of the realm and the Queen's\nauthority that its ordinances are forbidden; we do not seek to touch a\nman's private opinions. However, you know all that as well as I.\"\n\nAnthony was raging now with anger.\n\n\"I am not so sure, my lord, as I was,\" he said. \"I had hoped from your\nlordship at any rate to find sympathy for the base trick whereby my\nfriend was snared; and I find it now hard to trust the judgment of any\nwho do not feel as I do about it.\"\n\n\"That is insolence, Mr. Norris,\" said Aylmer, stopping in his walk and\nturning upon him his cold half-shut eyes, \"and I will not suffer it.\"\n\n\"Then, my lord, I had better begone to her Grace at once.\"\n\n\"To her Grace!\" exclaimed the Bishop.\n\n\"_Appello C\u00e6sarem_,\" said Anthony, and was gone again.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAs Anthony came into the courtyard of Greenwich Palace an hour or two\nlater he found it humming with movement and noise. Cooks were going to\nand fro with dishes, as dinner was only just ending; servants in the\nroyal livery were dashing across with messages; a few great hounds for\nthe afternoon's baiting were in a group near one of the gateways,\nsnuffing the smell of cookery, and howling hungrily now and again.\n\nAnthony stopped one of the men, and sent him with a message to Mistress\nCorbet; and the servant presently returned, saying that the Court was\njust rising from dinner, and Mistress Corbet would see him in a parlour\ndirectly, if the gentleman would kindly follow him. A groom took his\nhorse off to the stable, and Anthony himself followed the servant to a\nlittle oak-parlour looking on to a lawn with a yew hedge and a dial. He\nfelt as one moving in a dream, bewildered by the rush of interviews, and\noppressed by the awful burden that he bore at his heart. Nothing any\nlonger seemed strange; and he scarcely gave a thought to what it meant\nwhen he heard the sound of trumpets in the court, as the Queen left the\nHall. In five minutes more Mistress Corbet burst into the room; and her\nanxious look broke into tenderness at the sight of the misery in the\nlad's face.\n\n\"Oh, Master Anthony,\" she cried, seizing his hand, \"thank God you are\nhere. And now what is to be done for him?\"\n\nThey sat down together in the window-seat. Mary was dressed in an\nelaborate rose-coloured costume; but her pretty lips were pale, and her\neyes looked distressed and heavy.\n\n\"I have hardly slept,\" she said, \"since Saturday night. Tell me all that\nyou know.\"\n\nAnthony told her the whole story, mechanically and miserably.\n\n\"Ah,\" she said, \"that was how it was. I understand it now. And what can\nwe do? You know, of course, that he has been questioned in the Tower.\"\n\nAnthony turned suddenly white and sick.\n\n\"Not the--not the----\" he began, falteringly.\n\nShe nodded at him mutely with large eyes and compressed lips.\n\n\"Oh, my God,\" said Anthony; and then again, \"O God.\"\n\nShe took up one of his brown young hands and pressed it gently between\nher white slender ones.\n\n\"I know,\" she said, \"I know; he is a gallant gentleman.\"\n\nAnthony stood up shaking; and sat down again. The horror had goaded him\ninto clearer consciousness.\n\n\"Ah! what can we do?\" he said brokenly. \"Let me see the Queen. She will\nbe merciful.\"\n\n\"You must trust to me in this,\" said Mary, \"I know her; and I know that\nto go to her now would be madness. She is in a fury with Pinart to-day at\nsomething that has passed about the Duke. You know Monsieur is here; she\nkissed him the other day, and the Lord only knows whether she will marry\nhim or not. You must wait a day or two; and be ready when I tell you.\"\n\n\"But,\" stammered Anthony, \"every hour we wait, he suffers.\"\n\n\"Oh, you cannot tell that,\" said Mary, \"they give them a long rest\nsometimes; and it was only yesterday that he was questioned.\"\n\nAnthony sat silently staring out on the fresh lawn; there was still a\npatch of frost under the shadow of the hedge he noticed.\n\n\"Wait here a moment,\" said Mary, looking at him; and she got up and went\nout.\n\nAnthony still sat staring and thinking of the horror. Presently Mary was\nat his side again with a tall venetian wine-glass brimming with white\nwine.\n\n\"Here,\" she said, \"drink this,\"--and then--\"have you dined to-day?\"\n\n\"There was not time,\" said Anthony.\n\nShe frowned at him almost fiercely.\n\n\"And you come here fasting,\" she said, \"to face the Queen! You foolish\nboy; you know nothing. Wait here,\" she added imperiously, and again she\nleft the room.\n\nAnthony still stared out of doors, twisting the empty glass in his hand;\nuntil again came her step and the rustle of her dress. She took the glass\nfrom him and put it down. A servant had followed her back into the room\nin a minute or two with a dish of meat and some bread; he set it on the\ntable, and went out.\n\n\"Now,\" said Mary, \"sit down and eat before you speak another word.\" And\nAnthony obeyed. The servant presently returned with some fruit, and again\nleft them. All the while Anthony was eating, Mary sat by him and told him\nhow she had heard the whole story from another Catholic at court; and how\nthe Queen had questioned her closely the night before, as to what the\nmarks of tears meant on her cheeks.\n\n\"It was when I heard of the racking,\" explained Mary, \"I could not help\nit. I went up to my room and cried and cried. But I would not tell her\nGrace that: it would have been of no use; so I said I had a headache;\nbut I said it in such a way as to prepare her for more. She has not\nquestioned me again to-day; she is too full of anger and of the\nbear-baiting; but she will--she will. She never forgets; and then Mr.\nAnthony, it must be you to tell her. You are a pleasant-faced young man,\nsir, and she likes such as that. And you must be both forward and modest\nwith her. She loves boldness, but hates rudeness. That is why Chris is so\nbeloved by her. He is a fool, but he is a handsome fool, and a forward\nfool, and withal a tender fool; and sighs and cries, and calls her his\nGoddess; and says how he takes to his bed when she is not there, which of\ncourse is true. The other day he came to her, white-faced, sobbing like\na frightened child, about the ring she had given Monsieur _le petit\ngrenouille_. And oh, she was so tender with him. And so, Mr. Anthony, you\nmust not be just forward with her, and frown at her and call her Jezebel\nand tyrant, as you would like to do; but you must call her Cleopatra, and\nDiana as well. Forward and backward all in one; that is the way she loves\nto be wooed. She is a woman, remember that.\"\n\n\"I must just let my heart speak,\" said Anthony, \"I cannot twist and\nturn.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Mary, \"that is what I mean; but mind that it is your\nheart.\"\n\nThey went on talking a little longer; when suddenly the trumpets pealed\nout again. Mary rose with a look of consternation.\n\n\"I must fly,\" she said, \"her Grace will be starting for the pit directly;\nand I must be there. Do you follow, Mr. Anthony; I will speak to a\nservant in the court about you.\" And in a moment she was gone.\n\nWhen Anthony had finished the fruit and wine, he felt considerably\nrefreshed; and after waiting a few minutes, went out into the court\nagain, which he found almost deserted, except for a servant or two. One\nof these came up to him, and said respectfully that Mistress Corbet had\nleft instructions that Mr. Norris was to be taken to the bear-pit; so\nAnthony followed him through the palace to the back.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nIt was a startlingly beautiful sight that his eyes fell upon when he came\nup the wooden stairs on to the stage that ran round the arena where the\nsport was just beginning. It was an amphitheatre, perhaps forty yards\nacross; and the seats round it were filled with the most brilliant\ncostumes, many of which blazed with jewels. Hanging over the top of the\npalisade were rich stuffs and tapestries. The Queen herself no doubt with\nAlen\u00e7on was seated somewhere to the right, as Anthony could see by the\ncanopy, with the arms of England and France embroidered upon its front;\nbut he was too near to her to be able to catch even a glimpse of her face\nor figure. The awning overhead was furled, as the day was so fine, and\nthe winter sunshine poured down on the dresses and jewels. All the Court\nwas there; and Anthony recognised many great nobles here and there in the\nspecially reserved seats. A ceaseless clangour of trumpets and cymbals\nfilled the air, and drowned not only the conversation but the terrific\nnoise from the arena where half a dozen great dogs, furious with hunger\nand excited as much by the crowds and the brazen music overhead as by the\npresence of their fierce adversary, were baiting a huge bear chained to a\nring in the centre of the sand.\n\nAnthony's heart sank a little as he noticed the ladies of the Court\napplauding and laughing at the abominable scene below, no doubt in\nimitation of their mistress who loved this fierce sport; and as he\nthought of the kind of heart to which he would have to appeal presently.\n\nSo through the winter afternoon the bouts went on; the band answered with\nharsh chords the death of the dogs one by one, and welcomed the collapse\nof the bear with a strident bellowing passage on the great horns and\ndrums; and by the time it was over and the spectators rose to their feet,\nAnthony's hopes were lower than ever. Can there be any compassion left,\nhe wondered, in a woman to whom such an afternoon was nothing more than a\ncharming entertainment?\n\nBy the time he was able to get out of his seat and return to the\ncourtyard, the procession had again disappeared, but he was escorted by\nthe same servant to the parlour again, where Mistress Corbet presently\nrustled in.\n\n\"You must stay to-night,\" she said, \"as late as possible. I wish you\ncould sleep here; but we are so crowded with these Frenchmen and\nHollanders that there is not a bed empty. The Queen is in better humour,\nand if the play goes well, it may be that a word said even to-night might\nreach her heart. I will tell you when it is over. You must be present. I\nwill send you supper here directly.\"\n\nAnthony inquired as to his dress.\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Mistress Corbet, \"that will do very well; it is sober\nand quiet, and a little splashed: it will appear that you came in such\nhaste that you could not change it. Her Grace likes to see a man hot and\nin a hurry sometimes; and not always like a peacock in the shade.--And,\nMaster Anthony, it suits you very well.\"\n\nHe asked what time the play would be over, and that his horse might be\nsaddled ready for him when he should want it; and Mary promised to see to\nit.\n\nHe felt much more himself as he supped alone in the parlour. The\nbewilderment had passed; the courage and spirit of Mary had infected his\nown, and the stirring strange life of the palace had distracted him from\nthat dreadful brooding into which he had at first sunk.\n\nWhen he had finished supper he sat in the window seat, pondering and\npraying too that the fierce heart of the Queen might be melted, and that\nGod would give him words to say.\n\nThere was much else too that he thought over, as he sat and watched the\nilluminated windows round the little lawn on which his own looked, and\nheard the distant clash of music from the Hall where the Queen was\nsupping in state. He thought of Mary and of her gay and tender nature;\nand of his own boyish love for her. That indeed had gone, or rather had\nbeen transfigured into a brotherly honour and respect. Both she and he,\nhe was beginning to feel, had a more majestic task before them than\nmarrying and giving in marriage. The religion which made this woman what\nshe was, pure and upright in a luxurious and treacherous Court, tender\namong hard hearts, sympathetic in the midst of selfish lives--this\nReligion was beginning to draw this young man with almost irresistible\npower. Mary herself was doing her part bravely, witnessing in a\nProtestant Court to the power of the Catholic Faith in her own life; and\nhe, what was he doing? These last three days were working miracles in\nhim. The way he had been received by Walsingham and Aylmer, their\napparent inability to see his point of view on this foul bit of\ntreachery, the whole method of the Government of the day;--and above all\nthe picture that was floating now before his eyes over the dark lawn, of\nthe little cell in the Tower and the silent wrenched figure lying upon\nthe straw--the \"gallant gentleman\" as Mary had called him, who had\nreckoned all this price up before he embarked on the life of a priest,\nand was even now paying it gladly and thankfully, no doubt--all this\ndeepened the previous impressions that Anthony's mind had received; and\nas he sat here amid the stir of the royal palace, again and again a\nvision moved before him, of himself as a Catholic, and perhaps---- But\nIsabel! What of Isabel? And at the thought of her he rose and walked to\nand fro.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nPresently the servant came again to take Anthony to the Presence Chamber,\nwhere the play was to take place.\n\n\"I understand, sir, from Mistress Corbet,\" said the man, closing the door\nof the parlour a moment, \"that you are come about Mr. Maxwell. I am a\nCatholic, too, sir, and may I say, sir, God bless and prosper you in\nthis.--I--I beg your pardon, sir, will you follow me?\"\n\nThe room was full at the lower end where Anthony had to stand, as he was\nnot in Court dress; and he could see really nothing of the play, and hear\nvery little either. The children of Paul's were acting some classical\nplay which he did not know: all he could do was to catch a glimpse now\nand again of the protruding stage, with the curtains at the back, and the\nglitter of the armour that the boys wore; and hear the songs that were\naccompanied by a little string band, and the clash of the brass at the\nmore martial moments. The Queen and the Duke, he could see, sat together\nimmediately opposite the stage, on raised seats under a canopy; a group\nof halberdiers guarded them, and another small company of them was ranged\nat the sides of the stage. Anthony could see little more than this, and\ncould hear only isolated sentences here and there, so broken was the\npiece by the talking and laughing around him. But he did not like to move\nas Mistress Corbet had told him to be present, so he stood there\nlistening to the undertone talk about him, and watching the faces. What\nhe did see of the play did not rouse him to any great enthusiasm. His\nheart was too heavy with his errand, and it seemed to him that the\noccasional glimpses he caught of the stage showed him a very tiresome\nhero, dressed in velvet doublet and hose and steel cap, strangely\nunconvincing, who spoke his lines pompously, and was as unsatisfactory as\nthe slender shrill-voiced boy who, representing a woman of marvellous\nbeauty and allurement, was supposed to fire the conqueror's blood with\npassion.\n\nAt last it ended; and an \"orator\" in apparel of cloth of gold, spoke a\nkind of special epilogue in rhyming metre in praise of the Virgin Queen,\nand then retired bowing.\n\nImmediately there was a general movement; the brass instruments began to\nblare out, and an usher at the door desired those who were blocking the\nway to step aside to make way for the Queen's procession, which would\nshortly pass out. Anthony himself went outside with one or two more, and\nthen stood aside waiting.\n\nThere was a pause and then a hush; and the sound of a high rating woman's\nvoice, followed by a murmur of laughter.\n\nIn a moment more the door was flung open again, and to Anthony's surprise\nMistress Corbet came rustling out, as the people stepped back to make\nroom. Her eyes fell on Anthony near the door, and she beckoned him to\nfollow, and he went down the corridor after her, followed her silently\nalong a passage or two, wondering why she did not speak, and then came\nafter her into the same little oak parlour where he had supped. A servant\nfollowed them immediately with lighted candles which he set down and\nretired.\n\nAnthony looked at Mistress Corbet, and saw all across her pale cheek the\nfiery mark of the five fingers of a hand, and saw too that her eyes were\nfull of tears, and that her breath came unevenly.\n\n\"It is no use to-night,\" she said, with a sob in her voice; \"her Grace is\nangry with me.\"\n\n\"And, and----\" began Anthony in amazement.\n\n\"And she struck me,\" said Mary, struggling bravely to smile. \"It was all\nmy fault,\"--and a bright tear or two ran down on to her delicate lace. \"I\nwas sitting near her Grace, and I could not keep my mind off poor James\nMaxwell; and I suppose I looked grave, because when the play was over,\nshe beckoned me up, and--and asked how I liked it, and why I looked so\nsolemn--for she would know--was it for _Scipio Africanus_, or some other\nman? And--and I was silent; and Alen\u00e7on, that little frog-man burst out\nlaughing and said to her Grace something--something shameful--in\nFrench--but I understood, and gave him a look; and her Grace saw it, and,\nand struck me here, before all the Court, and bade me begone.\"\n\n\"Oh! it is shameful,\" said Anthony, furiously, his own eyes bright too,\nat the sight of this gallant girl and her humiliation.\n\n\"You cannot stay here, Mistress Corbet. This is the second time at least,\nis it not?\"\n\n\"Ah! but I must stay,\" she said, \"or who will speak for the Catholics?\nBut now it is useless to think of seeing her Grace to-night. Yet\nto-morrow, maybe, she will be sorry,--she often is--and will want to make\namends; and then will be our time, so you must be here to-morrow by\ndinner-time at least.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mistress Corbet,\" said the boy, \"I wish I could do something.\"\n\n\"You dear lad!\" said Mary, and then indeed the tears ran down.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAnthony rode back to Lambeth under the stars, anxious and dispirited, and\nall night long dreamed of pageants and progresses that blocked the street\ndown which he must ride to rescue James. The brazen trumpets rang out\nwhenever he called for help or tried to explain his errand; and Elizabeth\nrode by, bowing and smiling to all save him.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe next day he was at Greenwich again by dinner-time, and again dined by\nhimself in the oak parlour, waited upon by the Catholic servant. He was\njust finishing his meal when in sailed Mary, beaming.\n\n\"I told you so,\" she said delightedly, \"the Queen is sorry. She pinched\nmy ear just now, and smiled at me, and bade me come to her in her private\nparlour in half an hour; and I shall put my petition then; so be ready,\nMaster Anthony, be ready and of a good courage; for, please God, we shall\nsave him yet.\"\n\nAnthony looked at her, white and scared.\n\n\"What shall I say?\" he said.\n\n\"Speak from your heart, sir, as you did to me yesterday. Be bold, yet not\noverbold. Tell her plainly that he is your friend; and that it was\nthrough your action he was betrayed. Say that you love the man. She likes\nloyalty.--Say he is a fine upstanding fellow, over six feet in height,\nwith a good leg. She likes a good leg.--Say that he has not a wife, and\nwill never have one. Wives and husbands like her not--in spite of _le\npetit grenouille_.--And look straight in her face, Master Anthony, as you\nlooked in mine yesterday when I was a cry-baby. She likes men to do\nthat.--And then look away as if dazzled by her radiancy. She likes that\neven more.\"\n\nAnthony looked so bewildered by these instructions that Mary laughed in\nhis face.\n\n\"Here then, poor lad,\" she said, \"I will tell you in a word. Tell the\ntruth and be a man;--a man! She likes that best of all; though she likes\nsheep too, such as Chris Hatton, and frogs like the Duke, and apes like\nthe little Spaniard, and chattering dancing monkeys like the\nFrenchman--and--and devils, like Walshingham. But do you be a man and\nrisk it. I know you can manage that.\" And Mary smiled at him so\ncheerfully, that Anthony felt heartened.\n\n\"There,\" she said, \"now you look like one. But you must have some more\nwine first, I will send it in as I go. And now I must go. Wait here for\nthe message.\" She gave him her hand, and he kissed it, and she went out,\nnodding and smiling over her shoulder.\n\nAnthony sat miserably on the window-seat.\n\nAh! so much depended on him now. The Queen was in a good humour, and such\na chance might never occur again;--and meantime James Maxwell waited in\nthe Tower.\n\nThe minutes passed; steps came and went in the passage outside; and\nAnthony's heart leaped into his mouth at each sound. Once the door\nopened, and Anthony sprang to his feet trembling. But it was only the\nservant with the wine. Anthony took it--a fiery Italian wine, and drew a\nlong draught that sent his blood coursing through his veins, and set his\nheart a-beating strongly again. And even as he set the cup down, the door\nwas open again, and a bowing page was there.\n\n\"May it please you, sir, the Queen's Grace has sent me for you.\"\n\nAnthony got up, swallowed in his throat once or twice, and motioned to\ngo; the boy went out and Anthony followed.\n\nThey went down a corridor or two, passing a sentry who let the well-known\npage and the gentleman pass without challenging; ascended a twisted oak\nstaircase, went along a gallery, with stained glass of heraldic emblems\nin the windows, and paused before a door. The page, before knocking,\nturned and looked meaningly at Anthony, who stood with every pulse in his\nbody racing; then the boy knocked, opened the door; Anthony entered, and\nthe door closed behind him.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER X\n\n                         THE APPEAL TO C\u00c6SAR\n\n\nThe room was full of sunshine that poured in through two tall windows\nopposite, upon a motionless figure that sat in a high carved chair by the\ntable, and watched the door. This figure dominated the whole room: the\nlad as he dropped on his knees, was conscious of eyes watching him from\nbehind the chair, of tapestried walls, and a lute that lay on the table,\nbut all those things were but trifling accessories to that scarlet\ncentral figure with a burnished halo of auburn hair round a shadowed\nface.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThere was complete silence for a moment or two; a hound bayed in the\ncourt outside, and there came a far-away bang of a door somewhere in the\npalace. There was a rustle of silk that set every nerve of his body\nthrilling, and then a clear hard penetrating voice spoke two words.\n\n\"Well, sir?\"\n\nAnthony drew a breath, and swallowed in his throat.\n\n\"Your Grace,\" he said, and lifted his eyes for a moment, and dropped them\nagain. But in the glimpse every detail stamped itself clear on his\nimagination. There she sat in vivid scarlet and cloth of gold, radiating\nlight; with high puffed sleeves; an immense ruff fringed with lace. The\nnarrow eyes were fixed on him, and as he now waited again, he knew that\nthey were running up and down his figure, his dark splashed hose and his\ntumbled doublet and ruff.\n\n\"You come strangely dressed.\"\n\nAnthony drew a quick breath again.\n\n\"My heart is sick,\" he said.\n\nThere was another slight movement.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" the voice said again, \"you have not told us why you are\nhere.\"\n\n\"For justice from my queen,\" he said, and stopped. \"And for mercy from a\nwoman,\" he added, scarcely knowing what he said.\n\nAgain Elizabeth stirred in her chair.\n\n\"You taught him that, you wicked girl,\" she said.\n\n\"No, madam,\" came Mary's voice from behind, subdued and entreating, \"it\nis his heart that speaks.\"\n\n\"Enough, sir,\" said Elizabeth; \"now tell us plainly what you want of us.\"\n\nThen Anthony thought it time to be bold. He made a great effort, and the\nsense of constraint relaxed a little.\n\n\"I have been, your Grace, to Sir Francis Walsingham, and my lord Bishop\nof London, and I can get neither justice nor mercy from either; and so I\ncome to your Grace, who are their mistress, to teach them manners.\"\n\n\"Stay,\" said Elizabeth, \"that is insolence to my ministers.\"\n\n\"So my lord said,\" answered Anthony frankly, looking into that hard clear\nface that was beginning to be lined with age. And he saw that Elizabeth\nsmiled, and that the face behind the chair nodded at him encouragingly.\n\n\"Well, insolence, go on.\"\n\n\"It is on behalf of one who has been pronounced a felon and a traitor by\nyour Grace's laws, that I am pleading; but one who is a very gallant\nChristian gentleman as well.\"\n\n\"Your friend lacks not courage,\" interrupted Elizabeth to Mary.\n\n\"No, your Grace,\" said the other, \"that has never been considered his\nfailing.\"\n\nAnthony waited, and then the voice spoke again harshly.\n\n\"Go on with the tale, sir. I cannot be here all day.\"\n\n\"He is a popish priest, your Majesty; and he was taken at mass in his\nvestments, and is now in the Tower; and he hath been questioned on the\nrack. And, madam, it is piteous to think of it. He is but a young man\nstill, but passing strong and tall.\"\n\n\"What has this to do with me, sir?\" interrupted the Queen harshly. \"I\ncannot pardon every proper young priest in the kingdom. What else is\nthere to be said for him?\"\n\n\"He was taken through the foul treachery of a spy, who imposed upon me,\nhis friend, and caused me all unknowing to say the very words that\nbrought him into the net.\"\n\nAnd then, more and more, Anthony began to lose his self-consciousness,\nand poured out the story from the beginning; telling how he had been\nbrought up in the same village with James Maxwell; and what a loyal\ngentleman he was; and then the story of the trick by which he had been\ndeceived. As he spoke his whole appearance seemed to change; instead of\nthe shy and rather clumsy manner with which he had begun, he was now\nnatural and free; he moved his hands in slight gestures; his blue eyes\nlooked the Queen fairly in the face; he moved a little forward on his\nknees as he pleaded, and he spoke with a passion that astonished both\nMary and himself afterwards when he thought of it, in spite of his short\nand broken sentences. He was conscious all the while of an intense\nexternal strain and pressure, as if he were pleading for his life, and\nthe time was short. Elizabeth relaxed her rigid attitude, and leaned her\nchin on her hand and her elbow on the table and watched him, her thin\nlips parted, the pearl rope and crown on her head, and the pearl pendants\nin her ears moving slightly as she nodded at points in his story.\n\n\"Ah! your Grace,\" he cried, lifting his open hands towards her a little,\n\"you have a woman's heart; all your people say so. You cannot allow this\nman to be so trapped to his death! Treachery never helped a cause yet. If\nyour men cannot catch these priests fairly, then a-God's name, let them\nnot catch them at all! But to use a friend, and make a Judas of him; to\nmake the very lips that have spoken friendly, speak traitorously; to bait\nthe trap like that--it is devilish. Let him go, let him go, madam! One\npriest more or less cannot overthrow the realm; but one more foul crime\ndone in the name of justice can bring God's wrath down on the nation. I\nhold that a trick like that is far worse than all the disobedience in the\nworld; nay--how can we cry out against the Jesuits and the plotters, if\nwe do worse ourselves? Madam, madam, let him go! Oh! I know I cannot\nspeak as well in this good cause, as some can in a bad cause, but let the\ncause speak for itself. I cannot speak, I know.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Elizabeth softly, \"you wrong yourself. You have an\nhonest face, sir; and that is the best recommendation to me.\n\n\"And so, Minnie,\" she went on, turning to Mary, \"this was your petition,\nwas it; and this your advocate? Well, you have not chosen badly. Now, you\nspeak yourself.\"\n\nMary stood a moment silent, and then with a swift movement came round the\narm of the Queen's chair, and threw herself on her knees, with her hands\nupon the Queen's left hand as it lay upon the carved boss, and her voice\nwas as Anthony had never yet heard it, vibrant and full of tears.\n\n\"Oh! madam, madam; this poor lad cannot speak, as he says; and yet his\nsad honest face, as your Grace said, is more eloquent than all words. And\nthink of the silence of the little cell upstairs in the Tower; where a\ngallant gentleman lies, all rent and torn with the rack; and,--and how he\nlistens for the footsteps outside of the tormentors who come to drag him\ndown again, all aching and heavy with pain, down to that fierce engine in\nthe dark. And think of his gallant heart, your Grace, how brave it is;\nand how he will not yield nor let one name escape him. Ah! not because he\nloves not your Grace nor desires to serve you; but because he serves your\nGrace best by serving and loving his God first of all.--And think how he\ncannot help a sob now and again; and whispers the name of his Saviour, as\nthe pulleys begin to wrench and twist.--And,--and,--do not forget his\nmother, your Grace, down in the country; how she sits and listens and\nprays for her dear son; and cannot sleep, and dreams of him when at last\nshe sleeps, and wakes screaming and crying at the thought of the boy she\nbore and nursed in the hands of those harsh devils. And--and, you can\nstop it all, your Grace, with one little word; and make that mother's\nheart bless your name and pray for you night and morning till she\ndies;--and let that gallant son go free, and save his racked body before\nit be torn asunder;--and you can make this honest lad's heart happy again\nwith the thought that he has saved his friend instead of slaying him.\nLook you, madam, he has come confessing his fault; saying bravely to your\nGrace that he did try to do his friend a service in spite of the laws,\nfor that he held love to be the highest law. Ah! how many happy souls you\ncan make with a word; because you are a Queen.--What is it to be a\nQueen!--to be able to do all that!--Oh! madam, be pitiful then, and show\nmercy as one day you hope to find it.\"\n\nMary spoke with an intense feeling; her voice was one long straining sob\nof appeal; and as she ended her tears were beginning to rain down on the\nhand she held between her own; she lifted it to her streaming face and\nkissed it again and again; and then dropped her forehead upon it, and so\nrested in dead silence.\n\nElizabeth swallowed in her throat once or twice; and then spoke, and her\nvoice was a little choked.\n\n\"Well, well, you silly girl.--You plead too well.\"\n\nAnthony irresistibly threw his hands out as he knelt.\n\n\"Oh! God bless your Grace!\" he said; and then gave a sob or two himself.\n\n\"There, there, you are a pair of children,\" she said; for Mary was\nkissing her hand again and again. \"And you are a pretty pair, too,\" she\nadded. \"Now, now, that is enough, stand up.\"\n\nAnthony rose to his feet again and stood there; and Mary went round again\nbehind the chair.\n\n\"Now, now, you have put me in a sore strait,\" said Elizabeth; \"between\nyou I scarcely know how to keep my word. They call me fickle enough\nalready. But Frank Walsingham shall do it for me. He is certainly at the\nback of it all, and he shall manage it. It shall be done at once. Call a\npage, Minnie.\"\n\nMary Corbet went to the back of the room into the shadow, opened a door\nthat Anthony had not noticed, and beckoned sharply; in a moment or two a\npage was bowing before Elizabeth.\n\n\"Is Sir Francis Walsingham in the palace?\" she asked,--\"then bring him\nhere,\" she ended, as the boy bowed again.\n\n\"And you too,\" she went on, \"shall hear that I keep my word,\"--she\npointed towards the door whence the page had come.--\"Stand there,\" she\nsaid, \"and leave the door ajar.\"\n\nMary gave Anthony her hand and a radiant smile as they went together.\n\n\"Aha!\" said Elizabeth, \"not in my presence.\"\n\nAnthony flushed with fury in spite of his joy.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThey went in through the door, and found themselves in a tiny panelled\nroom with a little slit of a window; it was used to place a sentry or a\npage within it. There were a couple of chairs, and the two sat down to\nwait.\n\n\"Oh, thank God!\" whispered Anthony.\n\nAgain the harsh voice rang out from the open door.\n\n\"Now, now, no love-making within there!\"\n\nMary smiled and laid her finger on her lips. Then there came the ripple\nof a lute from the outer room, played not unskilfully. Mary smiled again\nand nodded at Anthony. Then, a metallic voice, but clear enough and\ntuneful, began to sing a verse of the little love-song of Harrington's,\n_Whence comes my love?_\n\nIt suddenly ceased in the middle of the line, and the voice cried to some\none to come in.\n\nAnthony could hear the door open and close again, and a movement or two,\nwhich doubtless represented Walsingham's obeisance. Then the Queen's\nvoice began again, low, thin, and distinct. The two in the inner room\nlistened breathlessly.\n\n\"I wish a prisoner in the Tower to be released, Sir Francis; without any\ntalk or to-do. And I desire you to do it for me.\"\n\nThere was silence, and then Walsingham's deep tones.\n\n\"Your Grace has but to command.\"\n\n\"His name is James Maxwell, and he is a popish priest.\"\n\nA longer silence followed.\n\n\"I do not know if your Grace knows all the circumstances.\"\n\n\"I do, sir, or I should not interfere.\"\n\n\"The feeling of the people was very strong.\"\n\n\"Well, and what of that?\"\n\n\"It will be a risk of your Grace's favour with them.\"\n\n\"Have I not said that my name was not to appear in the matter? And do you\nthink I fear my people's wrath?\"\n\nThere was silence again.\n\n\"Well, Sir Francis, why do you not speak?\"\n\n\"I have nothing to say, your Grace.\"\n\n\"Then it will be done?\"\n\n\"I do not see at present how it can be done, but doubtless there is a\nway.\"\n\n\"Then you will find it, sir, immediately,\" rang out the Queen's metallic\ntones.\n\n(Mary turned and nodded solemnly at Anthony, with pursed lips.)\n\n\"He was questioned on the rack two days ago, your Grace.\"\n\n\"Have I not said I know all the circumstances? Do you wish me to say it\nagain?\"\n\nThe Queen was plainly getting angry.\n\n\"I ask your pardon, madam; but I only meant that he could not travel\nprobably, yet awhile. He was on the rack for four hours, I understand.\"\n\n(Anthony felt that strange sickness rise again; but Mary laid her cool\nhand on his and smiled at him.)\n\n\"Well, well,\" rasped out Elizabeth, \"I do not ask impossibilities.\"\n\n\"They would cease to be so, madam, if you did.\"\n\n(Mary within the little room put her lips to Anthony's ear:\n\n\"Butter!\" she whispered.)\n\n\"Well, sir,\" went on the Queen, \"you shall see that he has a physician,\nand leave to travel as soon as he will.\"\n\n\"It shall be done, your Grace.\"\n\n\"Very well, see to it.\"\n\n\"I beg your Grace's pardon; but what----\"\n\n\"Well, what is it now?\"\n\n\"I would wish to know your Grace's pleasure as to the future for Mr.\nMaxwell. Is no pledge of good behaviour to be exacted from him?\"\n\n\"Of course he says mass again at his peril. Either he must take the oath\nat once, or he shall be allowed forty-eight hours' safe-conduct with his\npapers for the Continent.\"\n\n\"Your Grace, indeed I must remonstrate----\"\n\nThen the Queen's wrath burst out; they heard a swift movement, and the\nrap of her high heels as she sprang to her feet.\n\n\"By God's Son,\" she screamed, \"am I Queen or not? I have had enough of\nyour counsel. You presume, sir--\" her ringed hand came heavily down on\nthe table and they heard the lute leap and fall again.--\"You presume on\nyour position, sir. I made you, and I can unmake you, and by God I will,\nif I have another word of your counselling. Be gone, and see that it be\ndone; I will not bid twice.\"\n\nThere was silence again; and they heard the outer door open and close.\n\nAnthony's heart was beating wildly. He had sprung to his feet in a\ntrembling excitement as the Queen had sprung to hers. The mere ring of\nthat furious royal voice, even without the sight of her pale wrathful\nface and blazing eyes that Walsingham looked upon as he backed out from\nthe presence, was enough to make this lad's whole frame shiver. Mary\napparently was accustomed to this; for she looked up at Anthony, laughing\nsilently, and shrugged her shoulders.\n\nThen they heard the Queen's silk draperies rustle and her pearls chink\ntogether as she sank down again and took up her lute and struck the\nstrings. Then the metallic voice began again, with a little tremor in it,\nlike the ground-swell after a storm; and she sang the verse through in\nwhich she had been interrupted:\n\n    \"Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak\n    Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek--\n    Yet not a heart to save my pain;\n    O Venus, take thy gifts again!\n    Make not so fair to cause our moan,\n    Or make a heart that's like your own.\"\n\nThe lute rippled away into silence.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nMary rose quietly to her feet and nodded to Anthony.\n\n\"Come back, you two!\" cried the Queen.\n\nMary stepped straight through, the lad behind her.\n\n\"Well,\" said the Queen, turning to them and showing her black teeth in a\nsmile. \"Have I kept my word?\"\n\n\"Ah! your Grace,\" said Mary, curtseying to the ground, \"you have made\nsome simple loving hearts very happy to-day--I do not mean Sir Francis'.\"\n\nThe Queen laughed.\n\n\"Come here, child,\" she said, holding out her glittering hand, \"down\nhere,\" and Mary sank down on the Queen's footstool, and leaned against\nher knee like a child, smiling up into her face; while Elizabeth put her\nhand under her chin and kissed her twice on the forehead.\n\n\"There, there,\" she said caressingly, \"have I made amends? Am I a hard\nmistress?\"\n\nAnd she threw her left hand round the girl's neck and began to play with\nthe diamond pendant in her ear, and to stroke the smooth curve of her\ncheek with her flashing fingers.\n\nAnthony, a little on one side, stood watching and wondering at this silky\ntigress who raged so fiercely just now.\n\nElizabeth looked up in a moment and saw him.\n\n\"Why, here is the tall lad here still,\" she said, \"eyeing us as if we\nwere monsters. Have you never yet seen two maidens loving one another,\nthat you stare so with your great eyes? Aha! Minnie; he would like to be\nsitting where I am--is it not so, sir?\"\n\n\"I would sooner stand where I am, madam,\" said Anthony, by a sudden\ninspiration, \"and look upon your Grace.\"\n\n\"Why, he is a courtier already,\" said the Queen. \"You have been giving\nhim lessons, Minnie, you sly girl.\"\n\n\"A loyal heart makes the best courtier, madam,\" said Mary, taking the\nQueen's hand delicately in her own.\n\n\"And next to looking upon my Grace, Mr. Norris,\" said Elizabeth, \"what do\nyou best love?\"\n\n\"Listening to your Grace,\" said Anthony, promptly.\n\nMary turned and flashed all her teeth upon him in a smile, and her eyes\ndanced in her head.\n\nElizabeth laughed outright.\n\n\"He is an apt pupil,\" she said to Mary.\n\n\"--You mean the lute, sir?\" she added.\n\n\"I mean your Grace's voice, madam. I had forgotten the lute.\"\n\n\"Ah, a little clumsy!\" said the Queen; \"not so true a thrust as the\nothers.\"\n\n\"It was not for lack of good-will,\" said poor Anthony blushing a little.\nHe felt in a kind of dream, fencing in language with this strange mighty\ncreature in scarlet and pearls, who sat up in her chair and darted\nremarks at him, as with a rapier.\n\n\"Aha!\" said the Queen, \"he is blushing! Look, Minnie!\" Mary looked at him\ndeliberately. Anthony became scarlet at once; and tried a desperate\nescape.\n\n\"It is your livery, madam,\" he said.\n\nMary clapped her hands, and glanced at the Queen.\n\n\"Yes, Minnie; he does his mistress credit.\"\n\n\"Yes, your Grace; but he can do other things besides talk,\" explained\nMary.\n\nAnthony felt like a horse being shown off by a skilful dealer, but he was\nmore at his ease too after his blush.\n\n\"Extend your mercy, madam,\" he said, \"and bid Mistress Corbet hold her\ntongue and spare my shame.\"\n\n\"Silence, sir!\" said the Queen. \"Go on, Minnie; what else can he do?\"\n\n\"Ah! your Grace, he can hawk. Oh! you should see his peregrine;--named\nafter your Majesty. That shows his loyal heart.\"\n\n\"I am not sure of the compliment,\" said the Queen; \"hawks are fierce\ncreatures.\"\n\n\"It was not for her fierceness,\" put in Anthony, \"that I named her after\nyour Grace.\"\n\n\"Why, then, Mr. Norris?\"\n\n\"For that she soars so high above all other creatures,\" said the lad,\n\"and--and that she never stoops but to conquer.\"\n\nMary gave a sudden triumphant laugh, and glanced up, and Elizabeth tapped\nher on the cheek sharply.\n\n\"Be still, bad girl,\" she said. \"You must not prompt during the lesson.\"\n\nAnd so the talk went on. Anthony really acquitted himself with great\ncredit, considering the extreme strangeness of his position; but such an\nintense weight had been lifted off his mind by the Queen's pardon of\nJames Maxwell, that his nature was alight with a kind of intoxication.\n\nAll his sharpness, such as it was, rose to the surface; and Mary too was\namazed at some of his replies. Elizabeth took it as a matter of course;\nshe was accustomed to this kind of word-fencing; she did not do it very\nwell herself: her royalty gave her many advantages which she often\navailed herself of; and her address was not to be compared for a moment\nwith that of some of her courtiers and ladies. But still she was amused\nby this slender honest lad who stood there before her in his graceful\nsplashed dress, and blushed and laughed and parried, and delivered his\npoint with force, even if not with any extraordinary skill.\n\nBut at last she began to show signs of weariness; and Mary managed to\nconvey to Anthony that it was time to be off. So he began to make his\nadieux.\n\n\"Well,\" said Elizabeth, \"let us see you at supper to-night; and in the\nparlours afterwards.--Ah!\" she cried, suddenly, \"neither of you must say\na word as to how your friend was released. It must remain the act of the\nCouncil. My name must not appear; Walsingham will see to that, and you\nmust see to it too.\"\n\nThey both promised sincerely.\n\n\"Well, then, lad,\" said Elizabeth, and stretched out her hand; and Mary\nrose and stood by her. Anthony came up and knelt on the cushion and\nreceived the slender scented ringed hand on his own, and kissed it\nardently in his gratitude. As he released it, it cuffed him gently on the\ncheek.\n\n\"There, there!\" said Elizabeth, \"Minnie has taught you too much, it\nseems.\"\n\nAnthony backed out of the presence, smiling; and his last glimpse was\nonce more of the great scarlet-clad figure with the slender waist, and\nthe priceless pearls, and the haze of muslin behind that crowned auburn\nhead, and the pale oval face smiling at him with narrow eyes--and all in\na glory of sunshine.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nHe did not see Mary Corbet again until evening as she was with the Queen\nall the afternoon. Anthony would have wished to return to Lambeth; but it\nwas impossible, after the command to remain to supper; so he wandered\ndown along the river bank, rejoicing in the success of his petition; and\nwondering whether James had heard of his release yet.\n\nOf course it was just a fly in the ointment that his own agency in the\nmatter could never be known. It would have been at least some sort of\ncompensation for his innocent share in the whole matter of the arrest.\nHowever, he was too happy to feel the sting of it. He felt, of course,\ngreatly drawn to the Queen for her ready clemency; and yet there was\nsomething repellent about her too in spite of it. He felt in his heart\nthat it was just a caprice, like her blows and caresses; and then the\nassumption of youth sat very ill upon this lean middle-aged woman. He\nwould have preferred less lute-playing and sprightly innuendo, and more\ntenderness and gravity.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nMary had arranged that a proper Court-suit should be at his disposal for\nsupper, and a room to himself; so after he had returned at sunset, he\nchanged his clothes. The white silk suit with the high hosen, the\nembroidered doublet with great puffed and slashed sleeves, the short\ngreen-lined cloak, the white cap and feather, and the slender sword with\nthe jewelled hilt, all became him very well; and he found too that Mary\nhad provided him with two great emerald brooches of her own, that he\npinned on, one at the fastening of the crisp ruff and the other on his\ncap.\n\nHe went to the private chapel for the evening prayer at half-past six;\nwhich was read by one of the chaplains; but there were very few persons\npresent, and none of any distinction. Religion, except as a department of\npolitics, was no integral part of Court life. The Queen only occasionally\nattended evening-prayer on week days; and just now she was too busy with\nthe affair of the Duke of Alen\u00e7on to spend unnecessary time in that\nmanner.\n\nWhen the evening prayer was over he followed the little company into the\nlong gallery that led towards the hall, through which the Queen's\nprocession would pass to supper; and there he attached himself to a group\nof gentlemen, some of whom he had met at Lambeth. While they were\ntalking, the clang of trumpets suddenly broke out from the direction of\nthe Queen's apartments; and all threw themselves on their knees and\nremained there. The doors were flung open by servants stationed behind\nthem; and the wands advanced leading the procession; then came the\ntrumpeters blowing mightily, with a drum or two beating the step; and\nthen in endless profusion, servants and guards; gentlemen pensioners\nmagnificently habited, for they were continually about the Queen's\nperson; and at last, after an official or two bearing swords, came the\nQueen and Alen\u00e7on together; she in a superb purple toilet with brocaded\nunderskirt and high-heeled twinkling shoes, and breathing out essences as\nshe swept by smiling; and he, a pathetic little brown man, pockmarked,\nwith an ill-shapen nose and a head too large for his undersized body, in\na rich velvet suit sparkling all over with diamonds.\n\nAs they passed Anthony he heard the Duke making some French compliment in\nhis croaking harsh voice. Behind came the crowd of ladies, nodding,\nchattering, rustling; and Anthony had a swift glance of pleasure from\nMistress Corbet as she went by, talking at the top of her voice.\n\nThe company followed on to the hall, behind the distant trumpets, and\nAnthony found himself still with his friends somewhere at the lower\nend--away from the Queen's table, who sat with Alen\u00e7on at her side on a\nda\u00efs, with the great folks about her. All through supper the most\nastonishing noise went on. Everyone was talking loudly; the servants ran\nto and fro over the paved floor; there was the loud clatter over the\nplates of four hundred persons; and, to crown all, a band in the\nmusicians' gallery overhead made brazen music all supper-time. Anthony\nhad enough entertainment himself in looking about the great\nbanqueting-hall, so magnificently adorned with tapestries and armour and\nantlers from the park; and above all by the blaze of gold and silver\nplate both on the tables and on the sideboards; and by watching the army\nof liveried servants running to and fro incessantly; and the glowing\ncolours of the dresses of the guests.\n\nSupper was over at last; and a Latin grace was exquisitely sung in four\nparts by boys and men stationed in the musicians' gallery; and then the\nQueen's procession went out with the same ceremony as that with which it\nhad entered. Anthony followed behind, as he had been bidden by the Queen\nto the private parlours afterwards; but he presently found his way barred\nby a page at the foot of the stairs leading to the Queen's apartments.\n\nIt was in vain that he pleaded his invitation; it was useless, as the\nyoung gentleman had not been informed of it. Anthony asked if he might\nsee Mistress Corbet. No, that too was impossible; she was gone upstairs\nwith the Queen's Grace and might not be disturbed. Anthony, in despair,\nnot however unmixed with relief at escaping a further ordeal, was about\nto turn away, leaving the officious young gentleman swaggering on the\nstairs like a peacock, when down came Mistress Corbet herself, sailing\ndown in her splendour, to see what was become of the gentleman of the\nArchbishop's house.\n\n\"Why, here you are!\" she cried from the landing as she came down, \"and\nwhy have you not obeyed the Queen's command?\"\n\n\"This young gentleman,\" said Anthony, indicating the astonished page,\n\"would not let me proceed.\"\n\n\"It is unusual, Mistress Corbet,\" said the boy, \"for her Grace's guests\nto come without my having received instructions, unless they are great\nfolk.\"\n\nMistress Corbet came down the last six steps like a stooping hawk, her\nwings bulged behind her; and she caught the boy one clean light cuff on\nthe side of the head.\n\n\"You imp!\" she said, \"daring to doubt the word of this gentleman. And the\nQueen's Grace's own special guest!\"\n\nThe boy tried still to stand on his dignity and bar the way, but it was\ndifficult to be dignified with a ringing head and a scarlet ear.\n\n\"Stand aside,\" said Mary, stamping her little buckled foot, \"this\ninstant; unless you would be dragged by your red ear before the Queen's\nGrace. Come, Master Anthony.\"\n\nSo the two went upstairs together, and the lad called up after them\nbitterly:\n\n\"I beg your pardon, Mistress; I did not recognise he was your gallant.\"\n\n\"You shall pay for that,\" hissed Mary over the banisters.\n\nThey went along a passage or two, and the sound of a voice singing to a\nvirginal began to ring nearer as they went, followed by a burst of\napplause.\n\n\"Lady Leicester,\" whispered Mary; and then she opened the door and they\nwent in.\n\nThere were three rooms opening on one another with wide entrances, so\nthat really one long room was the result. They were all three fairly\nfull; that into which they entered, the first in the row, was occupied by\nsome gentlemen-pensioners and ladies talking and laughing; some playing\nshove-groat, and some of them still applauding the song that had just\nended. The middle room was much the same; and the third, which was a step\nhigher than the others, was that in which was the Queen, with Lady\nLeicester and a few more. Lady Leicester had just finished a song, and\nwas laying her virginal down. There was a great fire burning in the\nmiddle room, with seats about it, and here Mary Corbet brought Anthony.\nThose near him eyed him a little; but his companion was sufficient\nwarrant of his respectability; and they soon got into talk, which was\nsuddenly interrupted by the Queen's voice from the next room.\n\n\"Minnie, Minnie, if you can spare a moment from your lad, come and help\nus at a dance.\"\n\nThe Queen was plainly in high good-humour; and Mary got up and went into\nthe Queen's room. Those round the fire stood up and pushed the seats\nback, and the games ceased in the third room; as her Grace needed\nspectators and applause.\n\nThen there arose the rippling of lutes from the ladies in the next room,\nin slow swaying measure, with the gentle tap of a drum now and again; and\nthe _pavane_ began--a stately dignified dance; and among all the ladies\nmoved the great Queen herself, swaying and bending with much grace and\ndignity. It was the strangest thing for Anthony to find himself here, a\nraven among all these peacocks, and birds of paradise; and he wondered\nat himself and at the strange humour of Providence, as he watched the\nshimmer of the dresses and the sparkle of the shoes and jewels, and the\nsoft clouds of muslin and lace that shivered and rustled as the ladies\nstepped; the firelight shone through the wide doorway on this glowing\nmovement, and groups of candles in sconces within the room increased and\nsteadied the soft intensity of the light. The soft tingling instruments,\nwith the slow tap-tap marking the measure like a step, seemed a\ntranslation into chord and melody of this stately tender exercise. And so\nthis glorious flower-bed, loaded too with a wealth of essences in the\ndresses and the sweet-washed gloves, swayed under the wind of the music,\nbending and rising together in slow waves and ripples. Then it ceased;\nand the silence was broken by a quick storm of applause; while the\ndancers waited for the lutes. Then all the instruments broke out together\nin quick triple time; the stringed instruments supplying a hasty\nthrobbing accompaniment, while the shrill flutes began to whistle and the\ndrums to gallop;--there was yet a pause in the dance, till the Queen made\nthe first movement;--and then the whole whirled off on the wings of a\n_coranto_.\n\nIt was bewildering to Anthony, who had never even dreamed of such a dance\nbefore. He watched first the lower line of the shoes; and the whole\nfloor, in reality above, and in the mirror of the polished boards below,\nseemed scintillating in lines of diamond light; the heavy underskirts of\nbrocade, puffed satin, and cloth of gold, with glimpses of foamy lace\nbeneath, whirled and tossed above these flashing vibrations. Then he\nlooked at the higher strata, and there was a tossing sea of faces and\nwhite throats, borne up as it seemed--now revealed, now hidden--on clouds\nof undulating muslin and lace, with sparkles of precious stones set in\nruff and wings and on high piled hair.\n\nHe watched, fascinated, the faces as they appeared and vanished; there\nwas every imaginable expression; the serious looks of one who took\ndancing as a solemn task, and marked her position and considered her\nsteps; the wild gaiety of another, all white teeth and dimples and eyes,\nintoxicated by movement and music and colour, as men are by wine, and\nguided and sustained by the furious genius of the dance, rather than by\nintention of any kind. There was the courtly self-restraint of one tall\nbeauty, who danced as a pleasant duty and loved it, but never lost\ncontrol of her own bending, slender grace; ah! and there was the oval\nface crowned with auburn hair and pearls, the lower lip drawn up under\nthe black teeth with an effort, till it appeared to snarl, and the ropes\nof pearls leaping wildly on her lean purple stomacher. And over all the\ngrave oak walls and the bright sconces and the taper flames blown about\nby the eddying gusts from the whirlpool beneath.\n\nAs Anthony went down the square winding staircase, an hour later when the\nevening was over, and the keen winter air poured up to meet him, his\nbrain was throbbing with the madness of dance and music and whirling\ncolour. Here, it seemed to him, lay the secret of life. For a few minutes\nhis old day-dreams came back but in more intoxicating dress. The figure\nof Mary Corbet in her rose-coloured silk and her clouds of black hair,\nand her jewels and her laughing eyes and scarlet mouth, and her violet\nfragrance and her fire--this dominated the boy. As he walked towards the\nstables across the starlit court, she seemed to move before him, to hold\nout her hands to him, to call him her own dear lad; to invite him out of\nthe drab-coloured life that lay on all sides, behind and before, up into\na mystic region of jewelled romance, where she and he would live and be\none in the endless music of rippling strings and shrill flutes and the\nmaddening tap of a little hidden drum.\n\nBut the familiar touch of his own sober suit and the creaking saddle as\nhe rode home to Lambeth, and the icy wind that sang in the river sedges,\nand the wholesome smell of the horse and the touch of the coarse hair at\nthe shoulder, talked and breathed the old Puritan common sense back to\nhim again. That warm-painted, melodious world he had left was gaudy\nnonsense; and dancing was not the same as living; and Mary Corbet was not\njust a rainbow on the foam that would die when the sun went in; but both\nshe and he together were human souls, redeemed by the death of the\nSaviour, with His work to do and no time or energy for folly; and James\nMaxwell in the Tower--(thank God, however, not for long!)--James Maxwell\nwith his wrenched joints and forehead and lips wet with agony, was in the\nright; and that lean bitter furious woman in the purple and pearls, who\nsupped to the blare of trumpets, and danced to the ripple of lutes,\nwholly and utterly and eternally in the wrong.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER XI\n\n                        A STATION OF THE CROSS\n\n\nPhilosophers tell us that the value of existence lies not in the objects\nperceived, but in the powers of perception. The tragedy of a child over a\nbroken doll is not less poignant than the anguish of a worshipper over a\nbroken idol, or of a king over a ruined realm. Thus the conflict of\nIsabel during those past autumn and winter months was no less august than\nthe pain of the priest on the rack, or the struggle of his innocent\nbetrayer to rescue him, or the misery of Lady Maxwell over the sorrows\nthat came to her in such different ways through her two sons.\n\nIsabel's soul was tender above most souls; and the powers of feeling pain\nand of sustaining it were also respectively both acute and strong. The\nsense of pressure, or rather of disruption, became intolerable. She was\nindeed a soul on the rack; if she had been less conscientious she would\nhave silenced the voice of Divine Love that seemed to call to her from\nthe Catholic Church; if she had been less natural and feminine she would\nhave trampled out of her soul the appeal of the human love of Hubert. As\nit was, she was wrenched both ways. Now the cords at one end or the other\nwould relax a little, and the corresponding relief was almost a shock;\nbut when she tried to stir and taste the freedom of decision that now\nseemed in her reach, they would tighten again with a snap; and she would\nfind herself back on the torture. To herself she seemed powerless; it\nappeared to her, when she reflected on it consciously, that it was merely\na question as to which part of her soul would tear first, as to which\nultimately retained her. She began to be terrified at solitude; the\nthought of the coming night, with its long hours of questioning and\ntorment until the dawn, haunted her during the day. She would read in her\nroom, or remain at her prayers, in the hopes of distracting herself from\nthe struggle, until sleep seemed the supreme necessity: then, when she\nlay down, sleep would flap its wings in mockery and flit away, leaving\nher wide-awake staring at the darkness of the room or of her own eyelids,\nuntil the windows began to glimmer and the cocks to crow from farm\nbuildings.\n\nIn spite of her first resolve to fight the battle alone, she soon found\nherself obliged to tell Mistress Margaret all that was possible; but she\nfelt that to express her sheer need of Hubert, as she thought it, was\nbeyond her altogether. How could a nun understand?\n\n\"My darling,\" said the old lady, \"it would not be Calvary without the\ndarkness; and you cannot have Christ without Calvary. Remember that the\nLight of the World makes darkness His secret place; and so you see that\nif you were able to feel that any human soul really understood, it would\nmean that the darkness was over. I have suffered that Night twice myself;\nthe third time I think, will be in the valley of death.\"\n\nIsabel only half understood her; but it was something to know that others\nhad tasted the cup too; and that what was so bitter was not necessarily\npoisonous.\n\nAt another time as the two were walking together under the pines one\nevening, and the girl had again tried to show to the nun the burning\ndesolation of her soul, Mistress Margaret had suddenly turned.\n\n\"Listen, dear child,\" she said, \"I will tell you a secret. Over there,\"\nand she pointed out to where the sunset glowed behind the tree trunks and\nthe slope beyond, \"over there, in West Grinsted, rests our dear Lord in\nthe blessed sacrament. His Body lies lonely, neglected and forgotten by\nall but half a dozen souls; while twenty years ago all England reverenced\nIt. Behold and see if there be any sorrow--\" and then the nun stopped, as\nshe saw Isabel's amazed eyes staring at her.\n\nBut it haunted the girl and comforted her now and then. Yet in the\nfierceness of her pain she asked herself again and again, was it\ntrue--was it true? Was she sacrificing her life for a dream, a\nfairy-story? or was it true that there the body, that had hung on the\ncross fifteen hundred years ago, now rested alone, hidden in a silver\npyx, within locked doors for fear of the Jews.--Oh! dear Lord, was it\ntrue?\n\nHubert had kept his word, and left the place almost immediately after his\nlast interview; and was to return at Easter for his final answer.\nChristmas had come and gone; and it seemed to her as if even the\ntenderest mysteries of the Christian Religion had no touch with her now.\nShe walked once more in the realm of grace, as in the realm of nature, an\nexile from its spirit. All her sensitive powers seemed so absorbed in\ninterior pain that there was nothing in her to respond to or appreciate\nthe most keen external impressions. As she awoke and looked up on\nChristmas morning early, and saw the frosted panes and the snow lying\nlike wool on the cross-bars, and heard the Christmas bells peal out in\nthe listening air; as she came downstairs and the old pleasant acrid\nsmell of the evergreens met her, and she saw the red berries over each\npicture, and the red heart of the wood-fire; nay, as she knelt at the\nchancel rails, and tried in her heart to adore the rosy Child in the\nmanger, and received the sacred symbols of His Flesh and Blood, and\nentreated Him to remember His loving-kindness that brought Him down from\nheaven--yet the whole was far less real, less intimate to her, than the\nsound of Hubert's voice as he had said good-bye two months ago; less real\nthan one of those darting pangs of thought that fell on her heart all day\nlike a shower of arrows.\n\nAnd then, when the sensitive strings of her soul were stretched to\nanguish, a hand dashed across them, striking a wailing discord, and they\ndid not break. The news of Anthony's treachery, and still more his\nsilence, performed the incredible, and doubled her pain without breaking\nher heart.\n\nOn the Tuesday morning early Lady Maxwell had sent her note by a courier;\nbidding him return at once with the answer. The evening had come, and he\nhad not appeared. The night passed and the morning came; and it was not\ntill noon that the man at last arrived, saying he had seen Mr. Norris on\nthe previous evening, and that he had read the note through there and\nthen, and had said there was no answer. Surely there could be but one\nexplanation of that--that no answer was possible.\n\nIt could not be said that Isabel actively considered the question and\nchose to doubt Anthony rather than to trust him. She was so nearly\npassive now, with the struggle she had gone through, that this blow came\non her with the overwhelming effect of an hypnotic suggestion. Her will\ndid not really accept it, any more than her intellect really weighed it;\nbut she succumbed to it; and did not even write again, nor question the\nman further. Had she done this she might perhaps have found out the\ntruth, that the man, a stupid rustic with enough shrewdness to lie, but\nnot enough to lie cleverly, had had his foolish head turned by the buzz\nof London town and the splendour of Lambeth stables and the friendliness\nof the grooms there, and had got heavily drunk on leaving Anthony; that\nthe answer which he had put into his hat had very naturally fallen out\nand been lost; and that when at last he returned to the country already\neight hours after his time, and found the note was missing, he had\nstalwartly lied, hoping that the note was unimportant and that things\nwould adjust themselves or be forgotten before a day of reckoning should\narrive.\n\nAnd so Isabel's power of resistance collapsed under this last blow; and\nher soul lay still at last, almost too much tormented to feel. Her last\nhope was gone; Anthony had betrayed his friend.\n\nThe week crept by, and Saturday came. She went out soon after dinner to\nsee a sick body or two in an outlying hamlet; for she had never forgotten\nMrs. Dent's charge, and, with the present minister's approval, still\nvisited the sick one or two days a week at least. Then towards sunset she\ncame homewards over some high ground on the outskirts of Ashdown Forest.\nThe snow that had fallen before Christmas, had melted a week or two ago;\nand the frost had broken up; it was a heavy leaden evening, with an angry\nglow shining, as through chinks of a wall, from the west towards which\nshe was going. The village lay before her in the gloom; and lights were\nbeginning to glimmer here and there. She contrasted in a lifeless way\nthat pleasant group of warm houses with their suggestions of love and\nhomeliness with her own desolate self. She passed up through the village\ntowards the Hall, whither she was going to report on the invalids to Lady\nMaxwell; and in the appearance of the houses on either side she thought\nthere was an unaccustomed air. Several doors stood wide open with the\nbrightness shining out into the twilight, as if the inhabitants had\nsuddenly deserted their homes. Others were still dark and cold, although\nthe evening was drawing on. There was not a moving creature to be seen.\nShe passed up, wondering a little, through the gatehouse, and turned into\nthe gravel sweep; and there stopped short at the sight of a great crowd\nof men and women and children, assembled in dead silence. Some one was\nstanding at the entrance-steps, with his head bent as if he were talking\nto those nearest him in a low voice.\n\nAs she came up there ran a whisper of her name; the people drew back to\nlet her through, and she passed, sick with suspense, to the man on the\nsteps, whom she now recognised as Mr. James' body-servant. His face\nlooked odd and drawn, she thought.\n\n\"What is it?\" she asked in a sharp whisper.\n\n\"Mr. James is here, madam; he is with Lady Maxwell in the cloister-wing.\nWill you please to go up?\"\n\n\"Mr. James! It is no news about Mr. Anthony--or--or Mr. Hubert!\"\n\n\"No, madam.\" The man hesitated. \"Mr. James has been racked, madam.\"\n\nThe man's voice broke in a great sob as he ended.\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\nShe reeled against the post; a man behind caught her and steadied her;\nand there was a quick breath of pity from the crowd.\n\n\"Ah, poor thing!\" said a woman's voice behind her.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, madam,\" said the servant. \"I should not have----\"\n\n\"And--and he is upstairs?\"\n\n\"He and my lady are together, madam.\"\n\nShe looked at him a moment, dazed with the horror of it; and then going\npast him, pushed open the door and went through into the inner hall. Here\nagain she stopped suddenly: it was half full of people, silent and\nexpectant--the men, the grooms, the maid-servants, and even two or three\nfarm-men. She heard the rustle of her name from the white faces that\nlooked at her from the gloom; but none moved; and she crossed the hall\nalone, and turned down the lower corridor that led to the cloister-wing.\n\nAt the foot of the staircase she stopped again; her heart drummed in her\nears, as she listened intently with parted lips. There was a profound\nsilence; the lamp on the stairs had not been lighted, and the terrace\nwindow only let in a pale glimmer.\n\nIt was horrible to her! this secret presence of incarnate pain that\nbrooded somewhere in the house, this silence of living anguish, worse\nthan death a thousand times!\n\nWhere was he? What would it look like? Even a scream somewhere would have\nrelieved her, and snapped the tension of the listening stillness that lay\non her like a shocking nightmare. This lobby with its well-known\ndoors--the banister on which her fingers rested--the well of the\nstaircase up which she stared with dilated eyes--all was familiar; and\nyet, somewhere in the shadows overhead lurked this formidable Presence of\npain, mute, anguished, terrifying....\n\nShe longed to run back, to shriek for help; but she dared not: and stood\npanting. She went up a couple of steps--stopped, listened to the sick\nthumping of her heart--took another step and stopped again; and so,\nlistening, peering, hesitating, came to the head of the stairs.\n\nAh! there was the door, with a line of light beneath it. It was there\nthat the horror dwelt. She stared at the thin bright line; waited and\nlistened again for even a moan or a sigh from within, but none came.\n\nThen with a great effort she stepped forward and tapped.\n\nThere was no answer; but as she listened she heard from within the gentle\ntinkle of some liquid running into a bowl, rhythmically, and with pauses.\nThen again she tapped, nervously and rapidly, and there was a murmur from\nthe room; she opened the door softly, pushed it, and took a step into the\nroom, half closing it behind her.\n\nThere were two candles burning on a table in the middle of the room, and\non the near side of it was a group of three persons....\n\nIsabel had seen in one of Mistress Margaret's prayer-books an engraving\nof an old Flemish Piet\u00e0--a group of the Blessed Mother holding in her\narms the body of her Crucified Son, with the Magdalen on one side,\nsupporting one of the dead Saviour's hands. Isabel now caught her breath\nin a sudden gasp; for here was the scene reproduced before her.\n\nLady Maxwell was on a low seat bending forwards; the white cap and ruff\nseemed like a veil thrown all about her head and beneath her chin; she\nwas holding in her arms the body of her son, who seemed to have fainted\nas he sat beside her; his head had fallen back against her breast, and\nhis pointed beard and dark hair and her black dress beyond emphasised the\ndeathly whiteness of his face on which the candlelight fell; his mouth\nwas open, like a dead man's. Mistress Margaret was kneeling by his left\nhand, holding it over a basin and delicately sponging it; and the whole\nair was fragrant and aromatic with some ointment in the water; a long\nbandage or two lay on the ground beside the basin. The evening light over\nthe opposite roofs through the window beyond mingled with the light of\nthe tapers, throwing a strange radiance over the group. The table on\nwhich the tapers stood looked to Isabel like a stripped altar.\n\nShe stood by the door, her lips parted, motionless; looking with great\neyes from face to face. It was as if the door had given access to another\nworld where the passion of Christ was being re-enacted.\n\nThen she sank on her knees, still watching. There was no sound but the\nfaint ripple of the water into the basin and the quiet breathing of the\nthree. Lady Maxwell now and then lifted a handkerchief in silence and\npassed it across her son's face. Isabel, still staring with great wide\neyes, began to sigh gently to herself.\n\n\"Anthony, Anthony, Anthony!\" she whispered.\n\n\"Oh, no, no, no!\" she whispered again under her breath. \"No, Anthony! you\ncould not, you could not!\"\n\nThen from the man there came one or two long sighs, ending in a moan that\nquavered into silence; he stirred slightly in his mother's arms; and then\nin a piteous high voice came the words \"_Jesu ... Jesu ... esto mihi\n... Jesus_.\"\n\nConsciousness was coming back. He fancied himself still on the rack.\n\nLady Maxwell said nothing, but gathered him a little closer, and bent her\nface lower over him.\n\nThen again came a long sobbing indrawn breath; James struggled for a\nmoment; then opened his eyes and saw his mother's face.\n\nMistress Margaret had finished with the water; and was now swiftly\nmanipulating a long strip of white linen. Isabel still sunk on her knees\nwatched the bandage winding in and out round his wrist, and between his\nthumb and forefinger.\n\nThen he turned his head sharply towards her with a gasp as if in pain;\nand his eyes fell on Isabel.\n\n\"Mistress Isabel,\" he said; and his voice was broken and untuneful.\n\nMistress Margaret turned; and smiled at her; and at the sight the\nintolerable compression on the girl's heart relaxed.\n\n\"Come, child,\" she said, \"come and help me with his hand. No, no, lie\nstill,\" she added; for James was making a movement as if to rise.\n\nJames smiled at her as she came forward; and she saw that his face had a\nstrange look as if after a long illness.\n\n\"You see, Mistress Isabel,\" he said, in the same cracked voice, and with\nan infinitely pathetic courtesy, \"I may not rise.\"\n\nIsabel's eyes filled with sudden tears, his attempt at his old manner was\nmore touching than all else; and she came and knelt beside the old nun.\n\n\"Hold the fingers,\" she said; and the familiar old voice brought the girl\na stage nearer her normal consciousness again.\n\nIsabel took the priest's fingers and saw that they were limp and swollen.\nThe sleeve fell back a little as Mistress Margaret manipulated the\nbandage; and the girl saw that the forearm looked shapeless and\ndiscoloured.\n\nShe glanced up in swift terror at his face, but he was looking at his\nmother, whose eyes were bent on his; Isabel looked quickly down again.\n\n\"There,\" said Mistress Margaret, tying the last knot, \"it is done.\"\n\nMr. James looked his thanks over his shoulder at her, as she nodded and\nsmiled before turning to leave the room.\n\nIsabel sat slowly down and watched them.\n\n\"This is but a flying visit, Mistress Isabel,\" said James. \"I must leave\nto-morrow again.\"\n\nHe had sat up now, and settled himself in his seat, though his mother's\narm was still round him. The voice and the pitiful attempt were terrible\nto Isabel. Slowly the consciousness was filtering into her mind of what\nall this implied; what it must have been that had turned this tall\nself-contained man into this weak creature who lay in his mother's arms,\nand fainted at a touch and sobbed. She could say nothing; but could only\nlook, and breathe, and look.\n\nThen it suddenly came to her mind that Lady Maxwell had not spoken a\nword. She looked at her; that old wrinkled face with its white crown of\nhair and lace had a new and tremendous dignity. There was no anxiety in\nit; scarcely even grief; but only a still and awful anguish, towering\nabove ordinary griefs like a mountain above the world; and there was the\nsupreme peace too that can only accompany a supreme emotion--she seemed\nconscious of nothing but her son.\n\nIsabel could not answer James; and he seemed not to expect it; he had\nturned back to his mother again, and they were looking at one another.\nThen in a moment Mistress Margaret came back with a glass that she put to\nJames' lips; and he drank it without a word. She stood looking at the\ngroup an instant or two, and then turned to Isabel.\n\n\"Come downstairs with me, my darling; there is nothing more that we can\ndo.\"\n\nThey went out of the room together; the mother and son had not stirred\nagain; and Mistress Margaret slipped her arm quickly round the girl's\nwaist, as they went downstairs.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nIn the cloister beneath was a pleasant little oak parlour looking out on\nto the garden and the long south side of the house. Mistress Margaret\ntook the little hand-lamp that burned in the cloister itself as they\npassed along silently together, and guided the girl through into the\nparlour on the left-hand side. There was a tall chair standing before the\nhearth, and as Mistress Margaret sat down, drawing the girl with her,\nIsabel sank down on the footstool at her feet, and hid her face on the\nold nun's knees.\n\nThere was silence for a minute or two. Mistress Margaret set down the\nlamp on the table beside her, and passed her hands caressingly over the\ngirl's hands and hair; but said nothing, until Isabel's whole body heaved\nup convulsively once or twice, before she burst into a torrent of\nweeping.\n\n\"My darling,\" said the old lady in a quiet steady voice, \"we should thank\nGod instead of grieving. To think that this house should have given two\nconfessors to the Church, father and son! Yes, yes, dear child, I know\nwhat you are thinking of, the two dear lads we both love; well, well, we\ndo not know, we must trust them both to God. It may not be true of\nAnthony; and even if it be true--well, he must have thought he was\nserving his Queen. And for Hubert----\"\n\nIsabel lifted her face and looked with a dreadful questioning stare.\n\n\"Dear child,\" said the nun, \"do not look like that. Nothing is so bad as\nnot trusting God.\"\n\n\"Anthony, Anthony!\"... whispered the girl.\n\n\"James told us the same story as the gentleman on Sunday,\" went on the\nnun. \"But he said no hard word, and he does not condemn. I know his\nheart. He does not know why he is released, nor by whose order: but an\norder came to let him go, and his papers with it: and he must be out of\nEngland by Monday morning: so he leaves here to-morrow in the litter in\nwhich he came. He is to say mass to-morrow, if he is able.\"\n\n\"Mass? Here?\" said the girl, in the same sharp whisper; and her sobbing\nceased abruptly.\n\n\"Yes, dear; if he is able to stand and use his hands enough. They have\nsettled it upstairs.\"\n\nIsabel continued to look up in her face wildly.\n\n\"Ah!\" said the old nun again. \"You must not look like that. Remember that\nhe thinks those wounds the most precious things in the world--yes--and\nhis mother too!\"\n\n\"I must be at mass,\" said Isabel; \"God means it.\"\n\n\"Now, now,\" said Mistress Margaret soothingly, \"you do not know what you\nare saying.\"\n\n\"I mean it,\" said Isabel, with sharp emphasis; \"God means it.\"\n\nMistress Margaret took the girl's face between her hands, and looked\nsteadily down into her wet eyes. Isabel returned the look as steadily.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" she said, \"as God sees us.\"\n\nThen she broke into talk, at first broken and incoherent in language, but\ndefinite and orderly in ideas, and in her interpretations of these last\nmonths.\n\nKneeling beside her with her hands clasped on the nun's knee, Isabel told\nher all her struggles; disentangling at last in a way that she had never\nbeen able to do before, all the complicated strands of self-will and\nguidance and blindness that had so knotted and twisted themselves into\nher life. The nun was amazed at the spiritual instinct of this Puritan\nchild, who ranged her motives so unerringly; dismissing this as of self,\nmarking this as of God's inspiration, accepting this and rejecting that\nelement of the circumstances of her life; steering confidently between\nthe shoals of scrupulous judgment and conscience on the one side, and the\nhidden rocks of presumption and despair on the other--these very dangers\nthat had baffled and perplexed her so long--and tracing out through them\nall the clear deep safe channel of God's intention, who had allowed her\nto emerge at last from the tortuous and baffling intricacies of character\nand circumstance into the wide open sea of His own sovereign Will.\n\nIt seemed to the nun, as Isabel talked, as if it needed just a final\ntouch of supreme tragedy to loosen and resolve all the complications; and\nthat this had been supplied by the vision upstairs. There she had seen a\ntriumphant trophy of another's sorrow and conquest. There was hardly an\nelement in her own troubles that was not present in that human Piet\u00e0\nupstairs--treachery--loneliness--sympathy--bereavement--and above all the\nsupreme sacrificial act of human love subordinated to divine--human love,\npurified and transfigured and rendered invincible and immortal by the\nvery immolation of it at the feet of God--all this that the son and\nmother in their welcome of pain had accomplished in the crucifixion of\none and the heart-piercing of the other--this was light opened to the\nperplexed, tormented soul of the girl--a radiance poured out of the\ndarkness of their sorrow and made her way plain before her face.\n\n\"My Isabel,\" said the old nun, when the girl had finished and was hiding\nher face again, \"this is of God. Glory to His Name! I must ask James'\nleave; and then you must sleep here to-night, for the mass to-morrow.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe chapel at Maxwell Hall was in the cloister wing; but a stranger\nvisiting the house would never have suspected it. Opening out of Lady\nMaxwell's new sitting-room was a little lobby or landing, about four\nyards square, lighted from above; at the further end of it was the door\ninto her bedroom. This lobby was scarcely more than a broad passage; and\nwould attract no attention from any passing through it. The only piece of\nfurniture in it was a great tall old chest as high as a table, that stood\nagainst the inner wall beyond which was the long gallery that looked down\nupon the cloister garden. The lobby appeared to be practically as broad\nas the two rooms on either side of it; but this was effected by the outer\nwall being made to bulge a little; and the inner wall being thinner than\ninside the two living-rooms. The deception was further increased by the\ntwo living-rooms being first wainscoted and then hung with thick\ntapestry; while the lobby was bare. A curious person who should look in\nthe chest would find there only an old dress and a few pieces of stuff.\nThis lobby, however, was the chapel; and through the chest was the\nentrance to one of the priest's hiding holes, where also the altar-stone\nand the ornaments and the vestments were kept. The bottom of the chest\nwas in reality hinged in such a way that it would fall, on the proper\npressure being applied in two places at once, sufficiently to allow the\nside of the chest against the wall to be pushed aside, which in turn gave\nentrance to a little space some two yards long by a yard wide; and here\nwere kept all the necessaries for divine worship; with room besides for a\ncouple of men at least to be hidden away. There was also a way from this\nhole on to the roof, but it was a difficult and dangerous way; and was\nonly to be used in case of extreme necessity.\n\nIt was in this lobby that Isabel found herself the next morning kneeling\nand waiting for mass. She had been awakened by Mistress Margaret shortly\nbefore four o'clock and told in a whisper to dress herself in the dark;\nfor it was impossible under the circumstances to tell whether the house\nwas not watched; and a light seen from outside might conceivably cause\ntrouble and disturbance. So she had dressed herself and come down from\nher room along the passages, so familiar during the day, so sombre and\nsuggestive now in the black morning with but one shaded light placed at\nthe angles. Other figures were stealing along too; but she could not tell\nwho they were in the gloom. Then she had come through the little\nsitting-room where the scene of last night had taken place and into the\nlobby beyond.\n\nBut the whole place was transformed.\n\nOver the old chest now hung a picture, that usually was in Lady Maxwell's\nroom, of the Blessed Mother and her holy Child, in a great carved frame\nof some black wood. The chest had become an altar: Isabel could see the\nslight elevation in the middle of the long white linen cloth where the\naltar-stone lay, and upon that again, at the left corner, a pile of linen\nand silk. Upon the altar at the back stood two slender silver\ncandlesticks with burning tapers in them; and a silver crucifix between\nthem. The carved wooden panels, representing the sacrifice of Isaac on\nthe one half and the offering of Melchisedech on the other, served\ninstead of an embroidered altar-frontal. Against the side wall stood a\nlittle white-covered folding table with the cruets and other necessaries\nupon it.\n\nThere were two or three benches across the rest of the lobby; and at\nthese were kneeling a dozen or more persons, motionless, their faces\ndowncast. There was a little wind such as blows before the dawn moaning\ngently outside; and within was a slight draught that made the taper\nflames lean over now and then.\n\nIsabel took her place beside Mistress Margaret at the front bench; and as\nshe knelt forward she noticed a space left beyond her for Lady Maxwell. A\nmoment later there came slow and painful steps through the sitting-room,\nand Lady Maxwell came in very slowly with her son leaning on her arm and\non a stick. There was a silence so profound that it seemed to Isabel as\nif all had stopped breathing. She could only hear the slow plunging pulse\nof her own heart.\n\nJames took his mother across the altar to her place, and left her there,\nbowing to her; and then went up to the altar to vest. As he reached it\nand paused, a servant slipped out and received the stick from him. The\npriest made the sign of the cross, and took up the amice from the\nvestments that lay folded on the altar. He was already in his cassock.\n\nIsabel watched each movement with a deep agonising interest; he was so\nfrail and broken, so bent in his figure, so slow and feeble in his\nmovements. He made an attempt to raise the amice but could not, and\nturned slightly; and the man from behind stepped up again and lifted it\nfor him. Then he helped him with each of the vestments, lifted the alb\nover his head and tenderly drew the bandaged hands through the sleeves;\nknit the girdle round him; gave him the stole to kiss and then placed it\nover his neck and crossed the ends beneath the girdle and adjusted the\namice; then he placed the maniple on his left arm, but so tenderly! and\nlastly, lifted the great red chasuble and dropped it over his head and\nstraightened it--and there stood the priest as he had stood last Sunday,\nin crimson vestments again; but bowed and thin-faced now.\n\nThen he began the preparation with the servant who knelt beside him in\nhis ordinary livery, as server; and Isabel heard the murmur of the Latin\nwords for the first time. Then he stepped up to the altar, bent slowly\nand kissed it and the mass began.\n\nIsabel had a missal, lent to her by Mistress Margaret; but she hardly\nlooked at it; so intent was she on that crimson figure and his strange\nmovements and his low broken voice. It was unlike anything that she had\never imagined worship to be. Public worship to her had meant hitherto one\nof two things--either sitting under a minister and having the word\napplied to her soul in the sacrament of the pulpit; or else the saying of\nprayers by the minister aloud and distinctly and with expression, so that\nthe intellect could follow the words, and assent with a hearty Amen. The\nminister was a minister to man of the Word of God, an interpreter of His\ngospel to man.\n\nBut here was a worship unlike all this in almost every detail. The priest\nwas addressing God, not man; therefore he did so in a low voice, and in a\ntongue as Campion had said on the scaffold \"that they both understood.\"\nIt was comparatively unimportant whether man followed it word for word,\nfor (and here the second radical difference lay) the point of the worship\nfor the people lay, not in an intellectual apprehension of the words, but\nin a voluntary assent to and participation in the supreme act to which\nthe words were indeed necessary but subordinate. It was the thing that\nwas done; not the words that were said, that was mighty with God. Here,\nas these Catholics round Isabel at any rate understood it, and as she too\nbegan to perceive it too, though dimly and obscurely, was the sublime\nmystery of the Cross presented to God. As He looked down well pleased\ninto the silence and darkness of Calvary, and saw there the act\naccomplished by which the world was redeemed, so here (this handful of\ndisciples believed), He looked down into the silence and twilight of this\nlittle lobby, and saw that same mystery accomplished at the hands of one\nwho in virtue of his participation in the priesthood of the Son of God\nwas empowered to pronounce these heart-shaking words by which the Body\nthat hung on Calvary, and the Blood that dripped from it there, were\nagain spread before His eyes, under the forms of bread and wine.\n\nMuch of this faith of course was still dark to Isabel; but yet she\nunderstood enough; and when the murmur of the priest died to a throbbing\nsilence, and the worshippers sank in yet more profound adoration, and\nthen with terrible effort and a quick gasp or two of pain, those wrenched\nbandaged hands rose trembling in the air with Something that glimmered\nwhite between them; the Puritan girl too drooped her head, and lifted up\nher heart, and entreated the Most High and most Merciful to look down on\nthe Mystery of Redemption accomplished on earth; and for the sake of the\nWell-Beloved to send down His Grace on the Catholic Church; to strengthen\nand save the living; to give rest and peace to the dead; and especially\nto remember her dear brother Anthony, and Hubert whom she loved; and\nMistress Margaret and Lady Maxwell, and this faithful household: and the\npoor battered man before her, who, not only as a priest was made like to\nthe Eternal Priest, but as a victim too had hung upon a prostrate cross,\nfastened by hands and feet; thus bearing on his body for all to see the\nmarks of the Lord Jesus.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nLady Maxwell and Mistress Margaret both rose and stepped forward after\nthe Priest's Communion, and received from those wounded hands the Broken\nBody of the Lord.\n\nAnd then the mass was presently over; and the server stepped forward\nagain to assist the priest to unvest, himself lifting each vestment off,\nfor Father Maxwell was terribly exhausted by now, and laying it on the\naltar. Then he helped him to a little footstool in front of him, for him\nto kneel and make his thanksgiving. Isabel looked with an odd wonder at\nthe server; he was the man that she knew so well, who opened the door for\nher, and waited at table; but now a strange dignity rested on him as he\nmoved confidently and reverently about the awful altar, and touched the\nvestments that even to her Puritan eyes shone with new sanctity. It\nstartled her to think of the hidden Catholic life of this house--of these\nservants who loved and were familiar with mysteries that she had been\ntaught to dread and distrust, but before which she too now was to bow her\nbeing in faith and adoration.\n\nAfter a minute or two, Mistress Margaret touched Isabel on the arm and\nbeckoned to her to come up to the altar, which she began immediately to\nstrip of its ornaments and cloth, having first lit another candle on one\nof the benches. Isabel helped her in this with a trembling dread, as all\nthe others except Lady Maxwell and her son were now gone out silently;\nand presently the picture was down, and leaning against the wall; the\nornaments and sacred vessels packed away in their box, with the vestments\nand linen in another. Then together they lifted off the heavy altar\nstone. Mistress Margaret next laid back the lid of the chest; and put her\nhands within, and presently Isabel saw the back of the chest fall back,\napparently into the wall. Mistress Margaret then beckoned to Isabel to\nclimb into the chest and go through; she did so without much difficulty,\nand found herself in the little room behind. There was a stool or two and\nsome shelves against the wall, with a plate or two upon them and one or\ntwo tools. She received the boxes handed through, and followed Mistress\nMargaret's instructions as to where to place them; and when all was done,\nshe slipped back again through the chest into the lobby.\n\nThe priest and his mother were still in their places, motionless.\nMistress Margaret closed the chest inside and out, beckoned Isabel into\nthe sitting-room and closed the door behind them. Then she threw her arms\nround the girl and kissed her again and again.\n\n\"My own darling,\" said the nun, with tears in her eyes. \"God bless\nyou--your first mass. Oh! I have prayed for this. And you know all our\nsecrets now. Now go to your room, and to bed again. It is only a little\nafter five. You shall see him--James--before he goes. God bless you, my\ndear!\"\n\nShe watched Isabel down the passage; and then turned back again to where\nthe other two were still kneeling, to make her own thanksgiving.\n\nIsabel went to her room as one in a dream. She was soon in bed again, but\ncould not sleep; the vision of that strange worship she had assisted at;\nthe pictorial details of it, the glow of the two candles on the shoulders\nof the crimson chasuble as the priest bent to kiss the altar or to adore;\nthe bowed head of the server at his side; the picture overhead with the\nMother and her downcast eyes, and the radiant Child stepping from her\nknees to bless the world--all this burned on the darkness. With the least\neffort of imagination too she could recall the steady murmur of the\nunfamiliar words; hear the rustle of the silken vestment; the stirrings\nand breathings of the worshippers in the little room.\n\nThen in endless course the intellectual side of it all began to present\nitself. She had assisted at what the Government called a crime; it was\nfor that--that collection of strange but surely at least innocent\nthings--actions, words, material objects--that men and women of the same\nflesh and blood as herself were ready to die; and for which others\nequally of one nature with herself were ready to put them to death. It\nwas the mass--the mass--she had seen--she repeated the word to herself,\nso sinister, so suggestive, so mighty. Then she began to think again--if\nindeed it is possible to say that she had ever ceased to think of him--of\nAnthony, who would be so much horrified if he knew; of Hubert, who had\nrenounced this wonderful worship, and all, she feared, for love of\nher--and above all of her father, who had regarded it with such\nrepugnance:--yes, thought Isabel, but he knows all now. Then she thought\nof Mistress Margaret again. After all, the nun had a spiritual life which\nin intensity and purity surpassed any she had ever experienced or even\nimagined; and yet the heart of it all was the mass. She thought of the\nold wrinkled quiet face when she came back to breakfast at the Dower\nHouse: she had soon learnt to read from that face whether mass had been\nsaid that morning or not at the Hall. And Mistress Margaret was only one\nof thousands to whom this little set of actions half seen and words half\nheard, wrought and said by a man in a curious dress, were more precious\nthan all meditation and prayer put together. Could the vast\nsuperstructure of prayer and effort and aspiration rest upon a piece of\nempty folly such as children or savages might invent?\n\nThen very naturally, as she began now to get quieter and less excited,\nshe passed on to the spiritual side of it.\n\nHad that indeed happened that Mistress Margaret believed--that the very\nBody and Blood of her own dear Saviour, Jesus Christ, had in virtue of\nHis own clear promise--His own clear promise!--become present there under\nthe hands of His priest? Was it, indeed,--this half-hour action,--the\nmost august mystery of time, the Lamb eternally slain, presenting Himself\nand His Death before the Throne in a tremendous and bloodless\nSacrifice--so august that the very angels can only worship it afar off\nand cannot perform it; or was it all a merely childish piece of\nblasphemous mummery, as she had been brought up to believe? And then this\nPuritan girl, who was beginning to taste the joys of release from her\nmisery now that she had taken this step, and united a whole-hearted\noffering of herself to the perfect Offering of her Lord--now her soul\nmade its first trembling movement towards a real external authority. \"I\nbelieve,\" she rehearsed to herself, \"not because my spiritual experience\ntells me that the Mass is true, for it does not; not because the Bible\nsays so, because it is possible to interpret that in more than one way;\nbut because that Society which I now propose to treat as Divine--the\nRepresentative of the Incarnate Word--nay, His very mystical Body--tells\nme so: and I rely upon that, and rest in her arms, which are the Arms of\nthe Everlasting, and hang upon her lips, through which the Infallible\nWord speaks.\"\n\nAnd so Isabel, in a timid peace at last, from her first act of Catholic\nfaith, fell asleep.\n\nShe awoke to find the winter sun streaming into her room, and Mistress\nMargaret by her bedside.\n\n\"Dear child,\" said the old lady, \"I would not wake you earlier; you have\nhad such a short night; but James leaves in an hour's time; and it is\njust nine o'clock, and I know you wish to see him.\"\n\nWhen she came down half an hour later she found Mistress Margaret waiting\nfor her outside Lady Maxwell's room.\n\n\"He is in there,\" she said. \"I will tell Mary\"; and she slipped in.\nIsabel outside heard the murmur of voices, and in a moment more was\nbeckoned in by the nun.\n\nJames Maxwell was sitting back in a great chair, looking exhausted and\nwhite. His mother, with something of the same look of supreme suffering\nand triumph, was standing behind his chair. She smiled gravely and\nsweetly at Isabel, as if to encourage her; and went out at the further\ndoor, followed by her sister.\n\n\"Mistress Isabel,\" said the priest, without any introductory words, in\nhis broken voice, and motioning her to a seat, \"I cannot tell you what\njoy it was to see you at mass. Is it too much to hope that you will seek\nadmission presently to the Catholic Church?\"\n\nIsabel sat with downcast eyes. His tone was a little startling to her. It\nwas as courteous as ever, but less courtly: there was just the faintest\nring in it, in spite of its weakness, as of one who spoke with authority.\n\n\"I--I thank you, Mr. James,\" she said. \"I wish to hear more at any rate.\"\n\n\"Yes, Mistress Isabel; and I thank God for it. Mr. Barnes will be the\nproper person. My mother will let him know; and I have no doubt that he\nwill receive you by Easter, and that you can make your First Communion on\nthat day.\"\n\nShe bowed her head, wondering a little at his assurance.\n\n\"You will forgive me, I know, if I seem discourteous,\" went on the\npriest, \"but I trust you understand the terms on which you come. You come\nas a little child, to learn; is it not so? Simply that?\"\n\nShe bowed her head again.\n\n\"Then I need not keep you. If you will kneel, I will give you my\nblessing.\"\n\nShe knelt down at once before him, and he blessed her, lifting his\nwrenched hand with difficulty and letting it sink quickly down again.\n\nBy an impulse she could not resist she leaned forward on her knees and\ntook it gently into her two soft hands and kissed it.\n\n\"Oh! forgive him, Mr. Maxwell; I am sure he did not know.\" And then her\ntears poured down.\n\n\"My child,\" said his voice tenderly, \"in any case I not only forgive him,\nbut I thank him. How could I not? He has brought me love-tokens from my\nLord.\"\n\nShe kissed his hand again, and stood up; her eyes were blinded with\ntears; but they were not all for grief.\n\nThen Mistress Margaret came in from the inner room, and led the girl out;\nand the mother came in once more to her son for the ten minutes before he\nwas to leave her.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XII\n\n                         A STRIFE OF TONGUES\n\n\nAnthony now settled down rather drearily to the study of religious\ncontroversy. The continual contrasts that seemed forced upon him by the\nrival systems of England and Rome (so far as England might be said to\nhave a coherent system at this time), all tended to show him that there\nwere these two sharply-divided schemes, each claiming to represent\nChrist's Institution, and each exclusive of the other. Was it of Christ's\ninstitution that His Church should be a department of the National Life;\nand that the civil prince should be its final arbiter and ruler, however\nlittle he might interfere in its ordinary administration? This was\nElizabeth's idea. Or was the Church, as Mr. Buxton had explained it, a\nhuge unnational Society, dependent, it must of course be, to some extent\non local circumstances, but essentially unrestricted by limit of\nnationality or of racial tendencies? This was the claim of Rome. Of\ncourse an immense number of other arguments circled round this--in fact,\nmost of the arguments that are familiar to controversialists at the\npresent day; but the centre of all, to Anthony's mind, as indeed it was\nto the mind of the civil and religious authorities of the time, was the\nquestion of supremacy--Elizabeth or Gregory?\n\nHe read a certain number of books; and it will be remembered that he had\nfollowed, with a good deal of intelligence, Campion's arguments. Anthony\nwas no theologian, and therefore missed perhaps the deep, subtle\narguments; but he had a normal mind, and was able to appreciate and\nremember some salient points.\n\nFor example, he was impressed greatly by the negative character of\nProtestantism in such books as Nicholl's \"Pilgrimage.\" In this work a man\nwas held up as a type to be imitated whose whole religion to all\nappearances consisted of holding the Pope to be Antichrist, and his\nChurch the synagogue of Satan, of disliking the doctrines of merit and of\njustification by works, of denying the Real Presence, and of holding\nnothing but what could be proved to his own satisfaction by the\nScriptures.\n\nThen he read as much as he could of the great Jewell controversy. This\nBishop of Salisbury, who had, however, recanted his Protestant opinions\nunder Mary, and resumed them under Elizabeth, had published in 1562 his\n\"Apology of the Church of England,\" a work of vast research and learning.\nMr. Harding, who had also had the advantage of having been on both sides,\nhad answered it; and then the battle was arrayed. It was of course mostly\nabove Anthony's head; but he gained from what he was able to read of it a\nvery fair estimate of the conflicting theses, though he probably could\nnot have stated them intelligibly. He also made acquaintance with another\nwriter against Jewell,--Rastall; and with one or two of Mr. Willet's\nbooks, the author of \"Synopsis Papismi\" and \"Tretrastylon Papisticum.\"\n\nEven more than by paper controversy, however, he was influenced by\nhistory that was so rapidly forming before his eyes. The fact and the\nsignificance of the supremacy of the Queen in religion was impressed upon\nhim more vividly by her suspension of Grindal than by all the books he\never read: here was the first ecclesiastic of the realm, a devout, humble\nand earnest man, restrained from exercising his great qualities as ruler\nand shepherd of his people, by a woman whose religious character\ncertainly commanded no one's respect, even if her moral life were free\nfrom scandal; and that, not because the Archbishop had been guilty of any\ncrime or heresy, or was obviously unfitted for his post, but because his\nconscientious judgment on a point of Church discipline and liberty\ndiffered from hers; and this state of things was made possible not by an\nusurpation of power, but by the deliberately ordered system of the Church\nof England. Anthony had at least sufficient penetration to see that this,\nas a fundamental principle of religion, however obscured it might be by\nsubsequent developments, was yet fraught with dangers compared with which\nthose of papal interference were comparatively trifling--dangers that is,\nnot so much to earthly peace and prosperity, as to the whole spiritual\nnature of the nation's Christianity.\n\nYet another argument had begun to suggest itself, bearing upon the same\npoint, of the relative advantages and dangers of Nationalism. When he had\nfirst entered the Archbishop's service he had been inspired by the\nthought that the Church would share in the rising splendour of England;\nnow he began to wonder whether she could have strength to resist the\nrising worldliness that was bound to accompany it. It is scarcely likely\nthat men on fire with success, whether military or commercial, will be\npatient of the restraints of religion. If the Church is independent of\nthe nation, she can protest and denounce freely; if she is knit closely\nto the nation, such rebuke is almost impossible.\n\nA conversation that Anthony had on this subject at the beginning of\nFebruary helped somewhat to clear up this point.\n\nHe was astonished after dinner one day to hear that Mr. Henry Buxton was\nat the porter's lodge desiring to see him, and on going out he found that\nit was indeed his old acquaintance, the prisoner.\n\n\"Good-day, Master Norris,\" said the gentleman, with his eyes twinkling;\n\"you see the mouse has escaped, and is come to call upon the cat.\"\n\nAnthony inquired further as to the details of his release.\n\n\"Well, you see,\" said Mr. Buxton, \"they grew a-weary of me. I talked so\nloud at them all for one thing; and then you see I was neither priest nor\nagent nor conspirator, but only a plain country gentleman: so they took\nsome hundred or two pounds off me, to make me still plainer; and let me\ngo. Now, Mr. Norris, will you come and dine with me, and resume our\nconversation that was so rudely interrupted by my journey last time? But\nthen you see her Majesty would take no denial.\"\n\n\"I have just dined,\" said Anthony, \"but----\"\n\n\"Well, I will not ask you to see me dine again, as you did last time; but\nwill you then sup with me? I am at the 'Running Horse,' Fleet Street,\nuntil to-morrow.\"\n\nAnthony accepted gladly; for he had been greatly taken with Mr. Buxton;\nand at six o'clock that evening presented himself at the \"Running Horse,\"\nand was shown up to a private parlour.\n\nHe found Mr. Buxton in the highest good-humour; he was even now on his\nway from Wisbeach, home again to Tonbridge, and was only staying in\nLondon to finish a little business he had.\n\nBefore supper was over, Anthony had laid his difficulties before him.\n\n\"My dear friend,\" said the other, and his manner became at once sober and\ntender, \"I thank you deeply for your confidence. After being thought\nmidway between a knave and a fool for over a year, it is a comfort to be\ntreated as an honest gentleman again. I hold very strongly with what you\nsay; it is that, under God, that has kept me steady. As I said to you\nlast time, Christ's Kingdom is not of this world. Can you imagine, for\nexample, Saint Peter preaching religious obedience to Nero to be a\nChristian's duty? I do not say (God forbid) that her Grace is a Nero, or\neven a Popp\u00e6a; but there is no particular reason why some successor of\nhers should not be. However, Nero or not, the principle is the same. I do\nnot deny that a National Church may be immensely powerful, may convert\nthousands, may number zealous and holy men among her ministers and\nadherents--but yet her foundation is insecure. What when the tempest of\nGod's searching judgments begins to blow?\n\n\"Or, to put it plainer, in a parable, you have seen, I doubt not, a\ngallant and his mistress together. So long as she is being wooed by him,\nshe can command; he sighs and yearns and runs on errands--in short, she\nrules him. But when they are wedded--ah me! It is she--if he turns out a\nbrute, that is--she that stands while my lord plucks off his boots--she\nwho runs to fetch the tobacco-pipe and lights it and kneels by him. Now I\nhold that to wed the body spiritual to the body civil, is to wed a\ndelicate dame to a brute. He may dress her well, give her jewels, clap\nher kindly on the head--but she is under him and no free woman. Ah!\"--and\nthen Mr. Buxton's eyes began to shine as Anthony remembered they had done\nbefore, and his voice to grow solemn,--\"and when the spouse is the Bride\nof Christ, purchased by His death, what then would be the sin to wed her\nto a carnal nation, who shall favour her, it may be, while she looks\nyoung and fair; but when his mood changes, or her appearance, then she is\nhis slave and his drudge! His will and his whims are her laws; as he\nchanges, so must she. She has to do his foul work; as she had to do for\nKing Henry, as she is doing it now for Queen Bess; and as she will always\nhave to do, God help her, so long as she is wedded to the nation, instead\nof being free as the handmaiden and spouse of Christ alone. My faith\nwould be lost, Mr. Norris, and my heart broken quite, if I were forced to\nthink the Church of England to be the Church of Christ.\"\n\nThey talked late that evening in the private baize-curtained parlour on\nthe third floor. Anthony produced his difficulties one by one, and Mr.\nBuxton did his best to deal with them. For example, Anthony remarked on\nthe fact that there had been no breach of succession as to the edifices\nand endowments of the Church; that the sees had been canonically filled,\nand even the benefices; and that therefore, like it or not, the Church of\nEngland now was identical with the Pre-Reformation Church.\n\n\"_Distinguo_,\" said his friend. \"Of course she is the successor in one\nsense: what you say is very true. It is impossible to put your finger\nall along the line of separation. It is a serrated line. The affairs of a\nChurch and a nation are so vast that that is sure to be so; although if\nyou insist, I will point to the Supremacy Act of 1559 and the Uniformity\nAct of the same year as very clear evidences of a breach with the ancient\norder; in the former the governance is shifted from its original owner,\nthe Vicar of Christ, and placed on Elizabeth; it was that that the\nCarthusian Fathers and Sir Thomas More and many others died sooner than\nallow: and the latter Act sweeps away all the ancient forms of worship in\nfavour of a modern one. But I am not careful to insist upon those points;\nif you deny or disprove them,--though I do not envy any who attempts\nthat--yet even then my principle remains, that all that to which the\nChurch of England has succeeded is the edifices and the endowments; but\nthat her spirit is wholly new. If a highwayman knocks me down to-morrow,\nstrips me, clothes himself with my clothes, and rides my horse, he is\ncertainly my successor in one sense; yet he will be rash if he presents\nhimself to my wife and sons--though I have none, by the way--as the\nproper owner of my house and name.\"\n\n\"But there is no knocking down in the question,\" said Anthony. \"The\nbishops and clergy, or the greater part of them, consented to the\nchange.\"\n\nMr. Buxton smiled.\n\n\"Very well,\" he said; \"yet the case is not greatly different if the\ngentleman threatens me with torture instead, if I do not voluntarily give\nhim my clothes and my horse. If I were weak and yielded to him, yes, and\nmade promises of all kinds in my cowardice--yet he would be no nearer\nbeing the true successor of my name and fortune. And if you read her\nGrace's Acts, and King Henry's too, you will find that that was precisely\nwhat took place. My dear sir,\" Mr. Buxton went on, \"if you will pardon my\nsaying it, I am astounded at the effrontery of your authorities who claim\nthat there was no breach. Your Puritans are wiser; they at least frankly\nsay that the old was Anti-Christian; that His Holiness (God forgive me\nfor saying it!), was an usurper: and that the new Genevan theology is the\nold gospel brought to light again. That I can understand; and indeed most\nof your churchmen think so too; and that there was a new beginning made\nwith Protestantism. But when her Grace calls herself a Catholic, and\ntells the poor Frenchmen that it is the old religion here still: and your\nbishops, or one or two of them rather, like Cheyney, I suppose, say so\ntoo--then I am rendered dumb--(if that were possible). If it is the same,\nthen why, a-God's name, were the altars dragged down, and the screens\nburned, and the vestments and the images and the stoups and the pictures\nand the ornaments, all swept out? Why, a-God's name, was the old mass\nblotted out and this new mingle-mangle brought in, if it be all one? And\nfor the last time, a-God's name, why is it death to say mass now, if it\nbe all one? Go, go: Such talk is foolishness, and worse.\"\n\nMr. Buxton was silent for a moment as Anthony eyed him; and then burst\nout again.\n\n\"Ah! but worse than all are the folks that stand with one leg on either\nstool. We are the old Church, say they;--standing with the Protestant leg\nin the air,--therefore let us have the money and the buildings: they are\nour right. And then when a poor Catholic says, Then let us have the old\nmass, and the old penance and the old images: Nay, nay, nay, they say,\nlifting up the Catholic leg and standing on the other, those are Popery;\nand we are Protestants; we have made away with all such mummery and\nmuniments of superstition. And so they go see-sawing to and fro. When you\nrun at one leg they rest them on the other, and you know not where to\ntake them.\"\n\nAnd so the talk went on. When the evening was over, and Anthony was\nrising to return to Lambeth, Mr. Buxton put his hand on his arm.\n\n\"Good Mr. Norris,\" he said, \"you have been very patient with me. I have\nclacked this night like an old wife, and you have borne with me: and now\nI ask your pardon again. But I do pray God that He may show you light and\nbring you to the true Church; for there is no rest elsewhere.\"\n\nAnthony thanked him for his good wishes.\n\n\"Indeed,\" he said, too, \"I am grateful for all that you have said. You\nhave shown me light, I think, on some things, and I ask your prayers.\"\n\n\"I go to Stanfield to-morrow,\" said Mr. Buxton; \"it is a pleasant house,\nthough its master says so, not far from Sir Philip Sidney's: if you would\nbut come and see me there!\"\n\n\"I am getting greatly perplexed,\" said Anthony, \"and I think that in good\nfaith I cannot stay long with the Archbishop; and if I leave him how\ngladly will I come to you for a few days; but it must not be till then.\"\n\n\"Ah! if you would but make the Spiritual Exercises in my house; I will\nprovide a conductor; and there is nothing that would resolve your doubts\nso quickly.\"\n\nAnthony was interested in this; and asked further details as to what\nthese were.\n\n\"It is too late,\" said Mr. Buxton, \"to tell you to-night. I will write\nfrom Stanfield.\"\n\nMr. Buxton came downstairs with Anthony to see him on to his horse, and\nthey parted with much good-will; and Anthony rode home with a heavy and\nperplexed heart to Lambeth.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nHe spent a few days more pondering; and then determined to lay his\ndifficulties before the Archbishop; and resign his position if Grindal\nthought it well.\n\nHe asked for an interview, and the Archbishop appointed an hour in the\nafternoon at which he would see him in Cranmer's parlour, the room above\nthe vestry which formed part of the tower that Archbishop Cranmer had\nadded to Lambeth House.\n\nAnthony, walking up and down in the little tiled cloisters by the creek,\na few minutes before the hour fixed, heard organ-music rolling out of the\nchapel windows; and went in to see who was playing. He came in through\nthe vestry, and looking to the west end gallery saw there the back of old\nDr. Tallis, seated at the little positive organ that the late Archbishop\nhad left in his chapel, and which the present Archbishop had gladly\nretained, for he was a great patron of music, and befriended many\nmusicians when they needed help--Dr. Tallis, as well as Byrd, Morley and\nTye. There were a few persons in the chapel listening, the Reverend Mr.\nWilson, one of the chaplains, being among them; and Anthony thought that\nhe could not do better than sit here a little and quiet his thoughts,\nwhich were nervous and distracted at the prospect of his coming\ninterview. He heard voices from overhead, which showed that the\nArchbishop was engaged; so he spoke to an usher stationed in the vestry,\ntelling him that he was ready as soon as the Archbishop could receive\nhim, and that he would wait in the chapel; and then made his way down to\none of the return stalls at the west end, against the screen, and took\nhis seat there.\n\nThis February afternoon was growing dark, and the only lights in the\nchapel were those in the organ loft; but there was still enough daylight\noutside to make the windows visible--those famous windows of Morton's,\nwhich, like those in King's Chapel, Cambridge, combined and interpreted\nthe Old and New Testaments by an ingenious system of types and antitypes,\nin the manner of the \"Biblia Pauperum.\" There was then only a single\nsubject in each light; and Anthony let his eyes wander musingly to and\nfro in the east window from the central figure of the Crucified to the\ntypes on either side, especially to a touching group of the unconscious\nIsaac carrying the wood for his own death, as Christ His Cross. Beneath,\ninstead of the old stately altar glowing with stuffs and precious metals\nand jewels which had once been the heart of this beautiful shrine, there\nstood now a plain solid wooden table that the Archbishop used for the\nCommunion. Anthony looked at it, and sighed a little to himself. Did the\naltar and the table then mean the same thing?\n\nMeanwhile the glorious music was rolling overhead in the high vaulted\nroof. The old man was extemporising; but his manner was evident even in\nthat; there was a simple solemn phrase that formed his theme, and round\nthis adorning and enriching it moved the grave chords. On and on\ntravelled the melody, like the flow of a broad river; now sliding\nsteadily through a smiling land of simple harmonies, where dwelt a people\nof plain tastes and solid virtues; now passing over shallows where the\nsun glanced and played in the brown water among the stones, as light\narpeggio chords rippled up and vanished round about the melody; now\nentering a land of mighty stones and caverns where the echoes rang hollow\nand resonant, as the counterpoint began to rumble and trip like boulders\nfar down out of sight, in subaqueous gloom; now rolling out again and\nwidening, fuller and deeper as it went, moving in great masses towards\nthe edge of the cataract that lies like a line across the landscape: it\nis inevitable now, the crash must come;--a chord or two\npausing,--pausing;--and then the crash, stupendous and sonorous.\n\nThen on again through elaborate cities where the wits and courtiers\ndwell, and stately palaces slide past upon the banks, and barges move\nupon its breast, on to the sea--that final full close that embraces and\nengulfs all music, all effort, all doubts and questionings, whether in\nart or theology, all life of intellect, heart or will--that fathomless\neternal deep from which all comes and to which all returns, that men call\nthe Love of God.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAnthony stirred in his seat; he had been here ten minutes, proposing to\ntake his restless thoughts in hand and quiet them; and, lo! it had been\ndone for him by the master who sat overhead. Here he, for the moment,\nremained, ready for anything--glad to take up the wood and bear it to the\nMount of Sacrifice--content to be carried on in that river of God's Will\nto the repose of God's Heart--content to dwell meantime in the echoing\ncaverns of doubt--in the glancing shadows and lights of an active\nlife--in his own simple sunlit life in the country--or even to plunge\nover the cataract down into the fierce tormented pools in the dark--for\nafter all the sea lay beyond; and he who commits himself to the river is\nbound to reach it.\n\nHe heard a step, and the usher stood by him.\n\n\"His Grace is ready, Master Norris.\"\n\nAnthony rose and followed him.\n\nThe Archbishop received him with the greatest kindness. As Anthony came\nin he half rose, peering with his half-blind eyes, and smiling and\nholding out his hands.\n\n\"Come, Master Norris,\" he said, \"you are always welcome. Sit down;\" and\nhe placed him in a chair at the table close by his own.\n\n\"Now, what is it?\" he said kindly; for the old man's heart was a little\nanxious at this formal interview that had been requested by this\nfavourite young officer of his.\n\nThen Anthony, without any reserve, told him all; tracing out the long\ntale of doubt by landmarks that he remembered; mentioning the effect\nproduced on his mind by the Queen's suspension of the Archbishop,\nespecially dwelling on the arrest, the examination and the death of\nCampion, that had made such a profound impression upon him; upon his own\nreading and trains of thought, and the conversations with Mr. Buxton,\nthough of course he did not mention his name; he ended by saying that he\nhad little doubt that sooner or later he would be compelled to leave the\ncommunion of the Church of England for that of Rome; and by placing his\nresignation in the Archbishop's hands, with many expressions of gratitude\nfor the unceasing kindness and consideration that he had always received\nat his hands.\n\nThere was silence when he had finished. A sliding panel in the wall near\nthe chapel had been pushed back, and the mellow music of Dr. Tallis\npealed softly in, giving a sweet and melodious background, scarcely\nperceived consciously by either of them, and yet probably mellowing and\nsoftening their modes of expression during the whole of the interview.\n\n\"Mr. Norris,\" said the Archbishop at last, \"I first thank you for the\ngenerous confidence you have shown towards me: and I shall put myself\nunder a further obligation to you by accepting your resignation: and this\nI do for both our sakes. For yours, because, as you confess, this action\nof the Queen's--(I neither condemn nor excuse it myself)--this action has\ninfluenced your thoughts: therefore you had best be removed from it to a\nplace where you can judge more quietly. And I accept it for my own sake\ntoo; for several reasons that I need not trouble you with. But in doing\nthis, I desire you, Mr. Norris, to continue to draw your salary until\nMidsummer:--nay, nay, you must let me have my say. You are at liberty to\nwithdraw as soon as you have wound up your arrangements with Mr.\nSomerdine; he will now, as Yeoman of the Horse, have your duties as well\nas his own; for I do not intend to have another Gentleman of the Horse.\nAs regards an increase of salary for him, that can wait until I see him\nmyself. In any case, Mr. Norris, I think you had better withdraw before\nMid-Lent Sunday.\n\n\"And now for your trouble. I know very well that I cannot be of much\nservice to you. I am no controversialist. But I must bear my witness.\nThis Papist with whom you have had talk seems a very plausible fellow.\nHis arguments sound very plain and good; and yet I think you could prove\nanything by them. They seem to me like that openwork embroidery such as\nyou see on Communion linen sometimes, in which the pattern is formed by\nwithdrawing certain threads. He has cleverly omitted just those points\nthat would ruin his argument; and he has made a pretty design. But any\nskilful advocate could make any other design by the same methods. He has\nnot thought fit to deal with such words of our Saviour as what He says on\nTradition; with what the Scriptures say against the worshipping of\nangels; with what St. Paul says in his Epistle to the Colossians, in the\nsecond chapter, concerning all those carnal ordinances which were done\naway by Christ, but which have been restored by the Pope in his despite;\nhe does not deal with those terrible words concerning the man of sin and\nthe mystery of iniquity. In fact, he takes just one word that Christ let\nfall about His Kingdom, and builds this great edifice upon it. You might\nretort to him in a thousand ways such as these. Bishop Jewell, in his\nbook, as you know, deals with these questions and many more; far more\nfully than it is possible for you and me even to dream of doing. Nay, Mr.\nNorris; the only argument I can lay before you is this. There are\ndifficulties and troubles everywhere; that there are such in the Church\nof England, who would care to deny? that there are equally such, aye, and\nfar more, in the Church of Rome, who would care to deny, either?\nMeanwhile, the Providence of God has set you here and not there. Whatever\nyour difficulties are here, are not of your choosing; but if you fly\nthere (and I pray God you will not) there they will be. Be content,\nMaster Norris; indeed you have a goodly heritage; be content with it;\nlest losing that you lose all.\"\n\nAnthony was greatly touched by this moderate and courteous line that the\nArchbishop was taking. He knew well in his heart that the Church of Rome\nwas, in the eyes of this old man, a false and deceitful body, for whom\nthere was really nothing to be said. Grindal, in his travels abroad\nduring the Marian troubles, had been deeply attracted by the Genevan\ntheology, with whose professors he had never wholly lost touch; and\nAnthony guessed what an effort it was costing him, and what a strain it\nwas on his conscience, thus to combine courtesy with faithfulness to what\nhe believed to be true.\n\nGrindal apparently feared he had sacrificed his convictions, for he\npresently added: \"You know, Mr. Norris, that I think very much worse of\nPapistry than I have expressed; but I have refrained because I think that\nwould not help you; and I desire to do that more than to relieve myself.\"\n\nAnthony thanked him for his gentleness; saying that he quite understood\nhis motives in speaking as he had done, and was deeply obliged to him for\nit.\n\nThe Archbishop, however, as indeed were most of the English Divines of\nthe time, was far more deeply versed in destructive than constructive\ntheology; and, to Anthony's regret, was presently beginning in that\ndirection.\n\n\"It is beyond my imagination, Mr. Norris,\" he said, \"that any who have\nknown the simple Gospel should return to the darkness. See here,\" he went\non, rising, and fumbling among his books, \"I have somewhere here what\nthey call an Indulgence.\"\n\nHe searched for a few minutes, and presently shook out of the leaves of\nJewell's book a paper which he peered at, and then pushed over to\nAnthony.\n\nIt was a little rectangular paper, some four or five inches long; bearing\na figure of Christ, wounded, with His hands bound together before Him,\nand the Cross with the superscription rising behind. In compartments on\neither side were instruments of the Passion, the spear, and the reed with\nthe sponge, with other figures and emblems. Anthony spelt out the\ninscription.\n\n\"Read it aloud, Mr. Norris,\" said the Archbishop.\n\n\"'To them,'\" read Anthony, \"'that before this image of pity devoutly say\nfive paternosters, five aves and a credo, piteously beholding these arms\nof Christ's Passion, are granted thirty-two thousand seven hundred and\nfifty-five years of pardon.'\"\n\n\"Now, Mr. Norris,\" said the Archbishop, \"have you considered that it is\nto that kind of religion that you are attracted? I will not comment on\nit; there is no need.\"\n\n\"Your Grace,\" said Anthony slowly, laying the paper down, \"I need not\nsay, I think, that this kind of thing is deeply distasteful to me too.\nYour Grace cannot dislike it more than I do. But then I do not understand\nit; I do not know what indulgences mean; I only know that were they as\nmad and foolish as we Protestants think them, no truthful or good man\ncould remain a Papist for a day; but then there are many thoughtful and\ngood men Papists; and I conclude from that that what we think the\nindulgences to be, cannot be what they really are. There must be some\nother explanation.\n\n\"And again, my lord, may I add this? If I were a Turk I should find many\nthings in the Christian religion quite as repellent to me; for example,\nhow can it be just, I should ask, that the death of an innocent man, such\nas Christ was, should be my salvation? How, again, is it just that faith\nshould save? Surely one who has sinned greatly ought to do something\ntowards his forgiveness, and not merely trust to another. But you, my\nlord, would tell me that there are explanations of these difficulties,\nand of many more too, of which I should gradually understand more and\nmore after I was a Christian. Or again, it appears to me even now,\nChristian as I am, judging as a plain man, that predestination\ncontradicts free-will; and no explanation can make them both reasonable.\nYet, by the grace of God, I believe all these doctrines and many more,\nnot because I understand them, for I do not; but because I believe that\nthey are part of the Revelation of God. It is just so, too, with the\nRoman Catholic Church. I must not take this or that doctrine by itself;\nbut I must make up my mind whether or no it is the one only Catholic\nChurch, and then I shall believe all that she teaches, because she\nteaches it, and not because I understand it. You must forgive my dulness,\nmy lord; but I am but a layman, and can only say what I think in simple\nwords.\"\n\n\"But we must judge of a Christian body by what that body teaches,\" said\nthe Archbishop. \"On what other grounds are you drawn to the Papists,\nexcept by what they teach?\"\n\n\"Yes, your Grace,\" said Anthony, \"I do judge of the general body of\ndoctrine, and of the effect upon the soul as a whole; but that is not the\nsame as taking each small part, and making all hang upon that.\"\n\n\"Well, Mr. Norris,\" said the Archbishop, \"I do not think we can talk much\nmore now. It is new to me that these difficulties are upon you. But I\nentreat you to talk to me again as often as you will; and to others\nalso--Dr. Redmayn, Mr. Chambers and others will be happy if they can be\nof any service to you in these matters: for few things indeed would\ngrieve me more than that you should turn Papist.\"\n\nAnthony thanked the Archbishop very cordially for his kindness, and,\nafter receiving his blessing, left his presence. He had two or three more\ntalks with him before he left, but his difficulties were in no way\nresolved. The Archbishop had an essentially Puritan mind, and could not\nenter into Anthony's point of view at all. It may be roughly said that\nfrom Grindal's standpoint all turned on the position and responsibility\nof the individual towards the body to which he belonged: and that Anthony\nrather looked at the corporate side first and the individual second.\nGrindal considered, for example, the details of the Catholic religion in\nreference to the individual, asking whether he could accept this or that:\nAnthony's tendency was rather to consider the general question first, and\nto take the difficulties in his stride afterwards. Anthony also had\ninterviews with the Archdeacon and chaplain whom Grindal had recommended;\nbut these were of even less service to him, as Dr. Redmayn was so frankly\ncontemptuous, and Mr. Chambers so ignorant, of the Romish religion that\nAnthony felt he could not trust their judgment at all.\n\nIn the meanwhile, during this last fortnight of Anthony's Lambeth life,\nhe received a letter from Mr. Buxton, explaining what were the Spiritual\nExercises to which he had referred, and entreating Anthony to come and\nstay with him at Stanfield.\n\n\"Now come, dear Mr. Norris,\" he wrote, \"as soon as you leave the\nArchbishop's service; I will place three or four rooms at your disposal,\nif you wish for quiet; for I have more rooms than I know what to do with;\nand you shall make the Exercises if you will with some good priest. They\nare a wonderful method of meditation and prayer, designed by Ignatius\nLoyola (one day doubtless to be declared saint), for the bringing about a\nresolution of all doubts and scruples, and so clearing the eye of the\nsoul that she discerns God's Will, and so strengthening her that she\ngladly embraces it. And that surely is what you need just now in your\nperplexity.\"\n\nThe letter went on to describe briefly the method followed, and ended by\nentreating him again to come and see him. Anthony answered this by\ntelling him of his resignation of his post at Lambeth, and accepting his\ninvitation; and he arranged to spend the last three weeks before Easter\nat Stanfield, and to go down there immediately upon leaving Lambeth. He\ndetermined not to go to Great Keynes first, or to see Isabel, lest his\nresolution should be weakened. Already, he thought, his motives were\nsufficiently mixed and perverted without his further aggravating their\nearthly constituents.\n\nHe wrote to his sister, however, telling her of his decision to leave\nLambeth; and adding that he was going to stay with a friend until Easter,\nwhen he hoped to return to the Dower House, and take up his abode there\nfor the present. He received what he thought a very strange letter in\nreturn, written apparently under excitement strongly restrained. He read\nin it a very real affection for himself, but a certain reserve in it too,\nand even something of compassion; and there was a sentence in it that\nabove all others astonished him.\n\n\"J. M. has been here, and is now gone to Douai. Oh! dear brother, some\ntime no doubt you will tell us all. I feel so certain that there is much\nto explain.\"\n\nHad she then guessed his part in the priest's release? Anthony wondered;\nbut at any rate he knew, after his promise to the Queen, that he must not\ngive her any clue. He was also surprised to hear that James had been to\nGreat Keynes. He had inquired for him at the Tower on the Monday after\nhis visit to Greenwich, and had heard that Mr. Maxwell was already gone\nout of England. He had not then troubled to write again, as he had no\ndoubt but that his message to Lady Maxwell, which he had sent in his note\nto Isabel, had reached her; and that certainly she, and probably James\ntoo, now knew that he had been an entirely unconscious and innocent\ninstrument in the priest's arrest. But that note, as has been seen, never\nreached its destination. Lady Maxwell did not care to write to the\nbetrayer of her son; and Isabel on the one hand hoped and believed now\nthat there was some explanation, but on the other did not wish to ask for\nit again, since her first request had been met by silence.\n\nAs the last days of his life at Lambeth were coming to an end, Anthony\nbegan to send off his belongings on pack-horses to Great Keynes; and by\nthe time that the Saturday before Mid-Lent Sunday arrived, on which he\nwas to leave, all had gone except his own couple of horses and the bags\ncontaining his personal luggage.\n\nHis last interview with the Archbishop affected him very greatly.\n\nHe found the old man waiting for him, walking up and down Cranmer's\nparlour in an empty part of the room, where there was no danger of his\nfalling. He peered anxiously at Anthony as he entered.\n\n\"Mr. Norris,\" he said, \"you are greatly on my mind. I fear I have not\ndone my duty to you. My God has taken away the great charge he called me\nto years ago, to see if I were fit or not for the smaller charge of mine\nown household, and not even that have I ruled well.\"\n\nAnthony was deeply moved.\n\n\"My lord,\" he said, \"if I may speak plainly to you, I would say that to\nmy mind the strongest argument for the Church of England is that she\nbrings forth piety and goodness such as I have seen here. If it were not\nfor that, I should no longer be perplexed.\"\n\nGrindal held up a deprecating hand.\n\n\"Do not speak so, Mr. Norris. That grieves me. However, I beseech you to\nforgive me for all my remissness towards you, and I wish to tell you\nthat, whatever happens, you shall never cease to have an old man's\nprayers. You have been a good and courteous servant to me always--more\nthan that, you have been my loving friend--I might almost say my son: and\nthat, in a world that has cast me off and forgotten me, I shall not\neasily forget. God bless you, my dear son, and give you His light and\ngrace.\"\n\nWhen Anthony rode out of the gateway half an hour later, with his servant\nand luggage behind him, it was only with the greatest difficulty that he\ncould keep from tears as he thought of the blind old man, living in\nloneliness and undeserved disgrace, whom he was leaving behind him.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XIII\n\n                       THE SPIRITUAL EXERCISES\n\n\nAnthony found that Mr. Buxton had seriously underestimated himself in\ndescribing his position as that of a plain country gentleman. Stanfield\nwas one of the most beautiful houses that he had ever seen. On the day\nafter his arrival, his host took him all over the house, at his earnest\nrequest, and told him its story; and as they passed from room to room,\nagain and again Anthony found himself involuntarily exclaiming at the new\nand extraordinary beauties of architecture and furniture that revealed\nthemselves.\n\nThe house itself had been all built in the present reign, before its\nowner had got into trouble; and had been fitted throughout on the most\nlavish scale, with furniture of German as well as of English manufacture.\nMr. Buxton was a collector of pictures and other objects of art; and his\nhouse contained some of the very finest specimens of painting, bronzes,\nenamels, plate and woodwork procurable from the Continent.\n\nThe house was divided into two sections; the chief living rooms were in a\nlong suite looking to the south on to the gardens, with a corridor on the\nnorth side running the whole length of the house on the ground-floor,\nfrom which a staircase rose to a similar corridor or gallery on the first\nfloor. The second section of the house was a block of some half-dozen\nsmallish rooms, with a private staircase of their own, and a private\nentrance and little walled garden as well in front. The house was mostly\npanelled throughout, and here and there hung pieces of magnificent\ntapestry and cloth of arras. All was kept, too, with a care that was\nunusual in those days--the finest woodwork was brought to a high polish,\nas well as all the brass utensils and steel fire-plates and dogs and such\nthings. No two rooms were alike; each possessed some marked\ncharacteristic of its own--one bedroom, for example, was distinguished by\nits fourpost bed with its paintings on the canopy and head--another, by\nits little two-light high window with Adam and Eve in stained glass;\nanother with a little square-window containing a crucifix, which was\ngenerally concealed by a sliding panel; another by two secret cupboards\nover the fire-place, and its recess fitted as an oratory; another by a\nmagnificent piece of tapestry representing Saint Clara and Saint Thomas\nof Aquin, each holding a monstrance, with a third great monstrance in the\ncentre, supported by angels.\n\nDownstairs the rooms were on the same scale of magnificence. The\ndrawing-room had an exquisite wooden ceiling with great pendants\nelaborately carved; the dining-room was distinguished by its glass,\ncontaining a collection of coats-of-arms of many of Mr. Buxton's friends\nwho had paid him visits; the hall by its vast fire-place and the\ntapestries that hung round it.\n\nThe exterior premises were scarcely less remarkable; a fine row of\nstables, and kennels where greyhounds were kept, stood to the north and\nthe east of the house; but the wonder of the country was the gardens to\nthe south. Anthony hardly knew what to say for admiration as he went\nslowly through these with his host, on the bright spring morning, after\nvisiting the house. These were elaborately laid out, and under Mr.\nBuxton's personal direction, for he was one of the few people in England\nat this time who really understood or cared for the art. His avenue of\nsmall clipped limes running down the main walk of the garden, his\nyew-hedges fashioned with battlements and towers; his great garden house\nwith its vane; his fantastic dial in the fashion of a tall striped pole\nsurmounted by a dragon;--these were the astonishment of visitors; and it\nwas freely said that had not Mr. Buxton been exceedingly adroit he would\nhave paid the penalty of his magnificence and originality by being forced\nto receive a royal visit--a favour that would have gone far to\nimpoverish, if not to ruin him. The chancel of the parish-church\noverlooked the west end of his lime-avenue, while the east end of the\ngarden terminated in a great gateway, of stone posts and wrought iron\ngates that looked out to the meadows and farm buildings of the estate,\nand up to which some day no doubt a broad carriage drive would be laid\ndown. But at present the sweep of the meadows was unbroken.\n\nIt was to this beautiful place that Anthony found himself welcomed. His\nhost took him at once on the evening of his arrival to the west block,\nand showed him his bedroom--that with the little cupboards and the\noratory recess; and then, taking him downstairs again, showed him a\ncharming little oak parlour, which he told him would be altogether at his\nprivate service.\n\n\"And you see,\" added Mr. Buxton, \"in this walled garden in front you can\nhave complete privacy, and thus can take the air without ever coming to\nthe rest of the house; to which there is this one entrance on the ground\nfloor.\" And then he showed him how the lower end of the long corridor\ncommunicated with the block.\n\n\"The only partners of this west block,\" he added, \"will be the two\npriests--Mr. Blake, my chaplain, and Mr. Robert, who is staying with me a\nweek or two; and who, I hope, will conduct you through the Exercises, as\nhe is very familiar with them. You will meet them both at supper: of\ncourse they will be both dressed as laymen. The Protestants blamed poor\nCampion for that, you know; but had he not gone in disguise, they would\nonly have hanged him all the sooner. I like not hypocrisy.\"\n\nAnthony was greatly impressed by Father Robert when he met him at supper.\nHe was a tall and big man, who seemed about forty years of age, with a\nlong square-jawed face, a pointed beard and moustache, and shrewd\npenetrating eyes. He seemed to be a man in advance of his time; he was\nfull of reforms and schemes that seemed to Anthony remarkably to the\npoint; and they were reforms too quite apart from ecclesiasticism, but\nrather such as would be classed in our days under the title of Christian\nSocialism.\n\nFor example, he showed a great sympathy for the condition of the poor and\noutcast and criminals; and had a number of very practical schemes for\ntheir benefit.\n\n\"Two things,\" he said, in answer to a question of Anthony's, \"I would do\nto-morrow if I had the power. First I would allow of long leases for\nfifty and a hundred years. Everywhere the soil is becoming impoverished;\neach man squeezes out of it as much as he can, and troubles not to feed\nthe land or to care for it beyond his time. Long leases, I hold, would\nremedy this. It would encourage the farmer to look before him and think\nof his sons and his sons' sons. And second, I would establish banks for\npoor men. There is many a man now a-begging who would be living still in\nhis own house, if there had been some honest man whom he could have\ntrusted to keep his money for him, and, maybe, give him something for the\nloan of it: for in these days, when there is so much enterprise, money\nhas become, as it were, a living thing that grows; or at the least a tool\nthat can be used; and therefore, when it is lent, it is right that the\nborrower should pay a little for it. This is not the same as the usury\nthat Holy Church so rightly condemns: at least, I hold not, though some,\nI know, differ from me.\"\n\nAfter supper the talk turned on education: here, too, the priest had his\nviews.\n\n\"But you are weary of hearing me!\" he said, in smiling apology. \"You will\nthink me a schoolmaster.\"\n\n\"And I pray you to consider me your pupil,\" said Mr. Buxton. The priest\nmade a little deprecating gesture.\n\n\"First, then,\" he said, \"I would have a great increase of grammar\nschools. It is grievous to think of England as she will be when this\ngeneration grows up: the schooling was not much before; but now she has\nlost first the schools that were kept by Religious, and now the teaching\nthat the chantry-priests used to give. But this perhaps may turn to\nadvantage; for when the Catholic Religion is re-established in these\nrealms, she will find how sad her condition is; and, I hope, will remedy\nit by a better state of things than before--first, by a great number of\ngrammar schools where the lads can be well taught for small fees, and\nwhere many scholarships will be endowed; and then, so great will be the\nincrease of learning, as I hope, that we shall need to have a third\nuniversity, to which I should join a third Archbishoprick, for the\ngreater dignity of both; and all this I should set in the north\nsomewhere, Durham or Newcastle, maybe.\"\n\nHe spoke, too, with a good deal of shrewdness of the increase of highway\nrobbery, and the remedies for it; remarking that, although in other\nrespects the laws were too severe, in this matter their administration\nwas too lax; since robbers of gentle birth could generally rely on\npardon. He spoke of the Holy Brotherhood in Spain (with which country he\nseemed familiar), and its good results in the putting down of violence.\n\nAnthony grew more and more impressed by this man's practical sense and\nability; but less drawn to him in consequence as his spiritual guide. He\nfancied that true spirituality could scarcely exist in this intensely\npractical nature. When supper was over, and the priests had gone back to\ntheir rooms, and his host and he were seated before a wide blazing hearth\nin Mr. Buxton's own little room downstairs, he hinted something of the\nsort. Mr. Buxton laughed outright.\n\n\"My dear friend,\" he said, \"you do not know these Jesuits (for of course\nyou have guessed that he is one); their training and efficiency is beyond\nall imagining. In a week from now you will be considering how ever Father\nRobert can have the heart to eat his dinner or say 'good-day' with such a\nspiritual vision and insight as he has. You need not fear. Like the angel\nin the Revelation, he will call you up to heaven, hale you to the abyss\nand show you things to come. And, though you may not believe it, it is\nthe man's intense and simple piety that makes him so clear-sighted and\npractical; he lives so close to God that God's works and methods, so\nperplexing to you and me, are plain to him.\"\n\nThey went on talking together for a while. Mr. Buxton said that Father\nRobert had thought it best for Anthony not to enter Retreat until the\nMonday evening; by which time he could have sufficiently familiarised\nhimself with his new surroundings, so as not to find them a distraction\nduring his spiritual treatment. Anthony agreed to this. Then they talked\nof all kinds of things. His host told him of his neighbours; and\nexplained how it was that he enjoyed such liberty as he did.\n\n\"You noticed the church, Mr. Norris, did you not, at your arrival,\noverlooking the garden? It is a great advantage to me to have it so\nclose. I can sit in my own garden and hear the Genevan thunders from\nwithin. He preaches so loud that I might, if I wished, hear sermons, and\nthus satisfy the law and his Reverence; and at the same time not go\ninside an heretical meeting-house, and thus satisfy my own conscience and\nHis Holiness. But I fear that would not have saved me, had I not the ear\nof his Reverence. I will tell you how it was. When the laws began to be\nenforced hereabouts, his Reverence came to see me; and sat in that very\nchair that you now occupy.\n\n\"'I hear,' said he, cocking his eye at me, 'that her Grace is becoming\nstrict, and more careful for the souls of her subjects.'\n\n\"I agreed with him, and said I had heard as much.\n\n\"'The fine is twenty pounds a month,' says he, 'for recusancy,' and then\nhe looks at me again.\"\n\n\"At first I did not catch his meaning; for, as you have noticed, Mr.\nNorris, I am but a dull man in dealing with these sharp and subtle\nProtestants: and then all at once it flashed across me.\n\n\"'Yes, your Reverence,' I said, 'and it will be the end of poor gentlemen\nlike me, unless some kind friend has pity on them. How happy I am in\nhaving you!' I said, 'I have never yet shown my appreciation as I should:\nand I propose now to give you, to be applied to what purposes you will,\nwhether the sustenance of the minister or anything else, the sum of ten\npounds a month; so long as I am not troubled by the Council. Of course,\nif I should be fined by the Council, I shall have to drop my appreciation\nfor six months or so.'\n\n\"Well, Mr. Norris, you will hardly believe it, but the old doctor opened\nhis mouth and gulped and rolled his eyes, like a trout taking a fly; and\nI was never troubled until fifteen months ago, when they got at me in\nspite of him. But he has lost, you see, a matter of one hundred and fifty\npounds while I have been at Wisbeach; and I shall not begin to appreciate\nhim again for another six months; so I do not think I shall be troubled\nagain.\"\n\nAnthony was amazed, and said so.\n\n\"Well,\" said the other, \"I was astonished too; and should never have\ndreamt of appreciating him in such a manner unless he had proposed it. I\nhad a little difficulty with Mr. Blake, who told me that it was a\n_libellum_, and that I should be ashamed to pay hush money. But I told\nhim that he might call it what he pleased, but that I would sooner pay\nten pounds a month and be in peace, than twenty pounds a month and be\nperpetually harassed: and Father Robert agrees with me, and so the other\nis content now.\"\n\nThe next day, which was Sunday, passed quietly. Mass was no doubt said\nsomewhere in the house; though Anthony saw no signs of it. He himself\nattended the reverend doctor's ministrations in the morning; and found\nhim to be what he had been led to expect.\n\nIn the afternoon he walked up and down the lime avenue with Father\nRobert, while the evening prayer and sermon rumbled forth through the\nbroken chancel window; and they talked of the Retreat and the\narrangements.\n\n\"You no doubt think, Mr. Norris,\" said the priest, \"that I shall preach\nat you in this Retreat, and endeavour to force you into the Catholic\nChurch; but I shall do nothing of the kind. The whole object of the\nExercises is to clear away the false motives that darken the soul; to\nplace the Figure of our Redeemer before the soul as her dear and adorable\nLover and King; and then to kindle and inspire the soul to choose her\ncourse through the grace of God, for the only true final motive of all\nperfect action,--that is, the pure Love of God. Of course I believe, with\nthe consent of my whole being, that the Catholic Church is in the right;\nbut I shall not for a moment attempt to compel you to accept her. The\nfinal choice, as indeed the Retreat too, must be your free action, not\nmine.\"\n\nThey arranged too the details of the Retreat; and Anthony was shown the\nlittle room beyond Father Robert's bedroom, where the Exercises would be\ngiven; and informed that another gentleman who lived in the neighbourhood\nwould come in every day for them too, but that he would have his meals\nseparately, and that Anthony himself would have his own room and the room\nbeneath entirely at his private disposal, as well as the little walled\ngarden to walk in.\n\nThe next day Mr. Buxton took Anthony a long ride, to invigorate him for\nthe Retreat that would begin after supper. Anthony learned to his\nastonishment and delight that Mary Corbet was a great friend of Mr.\nBuxton's.\n\n\"Why, of course I know her,\" he said. \"I have known her since she was a\ntiny girl, and threw her mass-book at the minister's face the first time\nhe read the morning prayer. God only knows why she was so wroth with the\nman for differing from herself on a point that has perplexed the wisest\nheads: but at any rate, wroth she was, and bang went her book. I had to\ntake her out, and she was spitting like a kitten all down the aisle when\nthe dog puts his head into the basket.\n\n\"'What's that man doing here?' she screamed out; 'where's the altar and\nthe priest?' And then at the door, as luck would have had it, she saw\nthat Saint Christopher was gone; and she began bewailing and bemoaning\nhim until you'd have thought he'd have been bound to come down from\nheaven, as he did once across the dark river, and see what in the world\nthe crying child wanted with him.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThey came about half-way in their ride through the village of Penshurst;\nand on reaching the Park turned off under the beeches towards the house.\n\n\"We have not time to go in,\" said Mr. Buxton, \"but I hope you will see\nthe house sometime; it is a pattern of what a house should be; and has a\npattern master.\"\n\nAs they came up to the Edwardine Gate-house, a pleasant-faced,\nquietly-dressed gentleman came riding out alone.\n\n\"Why, here he is!\" said Mr. Buxton, and greeted him with great warmth,\nand made Anthony known to him.\n\n\"I am delighted to know Mr. Norris,\" said Sidney, with that keen friendly\nlook that was so characteristic of him. \"I have heard of him from many\nquarters.\"\n\nHe entreated them to come in; but Mr. Buxton said they had not time; but\nwould if they might just glance into the great court. So Sidney took them\nthrough the gate-house and pointed out one or two things of interest from\nthe entrance, the roof of the Great Hall built by Sir John de Pulteney,\nthe rare tracery in its windows and the fine living-rooms at one side.\n\n\"I thank God for it every day,\" said Sidney gravely. \"I cannot imagine\nwhy He should have given it me. I hope I am not fool enough to disparage\nHis gifts, and pretend they are nothing: indeed, I love it with all my\nheart. I would as soon think of calling my wife ugly or a shrew.\"\n\n\"That is a good man and a gentleman,\" said Mr. Buxton, as they rode away\nat last in the direction of Leigh after leaving Sidney to branch off\ntowards Charket, \"and I do not know why he is not a Catholic. And he is a\ncritic and a poet, men say, too.\"\n\n\"Have you read anything of his?\" asked Anthony.\n\n\"Well,\" said the other, \"to tell the truth, I have tried to read some\nsheets of his that he wrote for his sister, Lady Pembroke. He calls it\n'Arcadia'; I do not know whether it is finished or ever will be. But it\nseemed to me wondrous dull. It was full of shepherds and swains and\nnymphs, who are perpetually eating collations which Phoebus or sunburnt\nAutumn, and the like, provides of his bounty; or any one but God\nAlmighty; or else they are bathing and surprising one another all day\nlong. It is all very sweet and exquisite, I know; and the Greece, where\nthey all live and love one another, must be a very delightful country, as\nunlike this world as it is possible to imagine; but it wearies me. I like\nplain England and plain folk and plain religion and plain fare; but then\nI am a plain man, as I tell you so often.\"\n\nAs the afternoon sun drew near setting, they came through Tonbridge.\n\n\"Now, what can a man ask more,\" said Mr. Buxton, as they rode through it,\n\"than a good town like this? It is not a great place, I know, with solemn\nbuildings and wide streets; neither is it a glade or a dell; but it is a\ngood clean English town; and I would not exchange it for Arcadia or\nAthens either.\"\n\nStanfield lay about two miles to the west; and on their way out, Mr.\nBuxton talked on about the country and its joys and its usefulness.\n\n\"Over there,\" he said, pointing towards Eridge, \"was the first cannon\nmade in England. I do not know if that is altogether to its credit, but\nit at least shows that we are not quite idle and loutish in the country.\nThen all about here is the iron; the very stirrups you ride in, Mr.\nNorris, most likely came from the ground beneath your feet; but it is sad\nto see all the woods cut down for the smelting of it. All these places\nfor miles about here, and about Great Keynes too, are all named after the\nthings of forestry and hunting. Buckhurst, Hartfield, Sevenoaks, Forest\nRow, and the like, all tell of the country, and will do so long after we\nare dead and gone.\"\n\nThey reached Stanfield, rode past the green and the large piece of water\nthere, and up the long village street, and turned into the iron gates\nbeyond the church, just as the dusk fell.\n\nThat evening after supper the Retreat began. The conduct of the Spiritual\nExercises had not reached the elaboration to which they have been\nperfected since; nor, in Anthony's case, a layman and a young man, did\nFather Robert think fit to apply it even in all the details in which it\nwould be used for a priest or for one far advanced in the spiritual life;\nbut it was severe enough.\n\nEvery evening Father Robert indicated the subject of the following day's\nmeditation; and then after private prayer Anthony retired to his room. He\nrose about seven o'clock in the morning, and took a little food at eight;\nthen shortly before nine the first meditation was given elaborately. The\nfirst examination of conscience was made at eleven; followed by dinner at\nhalf-past. From half-past twelve to half-past one Anthony rested in his\nroom; then until three he was encouraged to walk in the garden; at three\nthe meditation was to be recalled point by point in the chapel, followed\nby spiritual reading; at five o'clock supper was served; and at half-past\nsix the meditation was repeated with tremendous emphasis and fervent acts\nof devotion; at half-past eight a slight collation was laid in his room;\nand at half-past nine the meditation for the following day was given.\nFather Robert in his previous talks with Anthony had given him\ninstructions as to how to occupy his own time, to keep his thoughts fixed\nand so forth. He had thought it wise too not to extend the Retreat for\nlonger than a fortnight; so that it was proposed to end it on Palm\nSunday. Two or three times in the week Anthony rode out by himself; and\nFather Robert was always at his service, besides himself coming sometimes\nto talk to him when he thought the strain or the monotony was getting too\nheavy.\n\nAs for the Exercises themselves, the effect of them on Anthony was beyond\nall description. First the circumstances under which they were given were\nof the greatest assistance to their effectiveness. There was every aid\nthat romance and mystery could give. Then it was in a strange and\nbeautiful house where everything tended to caress the mind out of all\nself-consciousness. The little panelled room in which the exercises were\ngiven looked out over the quiet garden, and no sound penetrated there but\nthe far-off muffled noises of the peaceful village life, the rustle of\nthe wind in the evergreens, and the occasional coo or soft flapping\nflight of a pigeon from the cote in the garden. The room itself was\nfurnished with two or three faldstools and upright wooden arm-chairs of\ntolerable comfort; a table was placed at the further end, on which stood\na realistic Spanish crucifix with two tapers always burning before it;\nand a little jar of fragrant herbs. Then there was the continual sense of\nslight personal danger that is such a spur to refined natures; here was a\nCatholic house, of which every member was strictly subject to penalties,\nand above all one of that mysterious Society of Jesus, the very vanguard\nof the Catholic army, and of which every member was a picked and trained\nchampion. Then there was the amazing enthusiasm, experience, and skill of\nFather Robert, as he called himself; who knew human nature as an\nanatomist knows the structure of the human body; to whom the bewildering\ntangle of motives, good, bad and indifferent, in the soul, was as plain\nas paths in a garden; who knew what human nature needed, what it could\ndispense with, what was its power of resistance; and who had at his\ndisposal for the storming of the soul an armoury of weapons and engines,\nevery specimen of which he had tested and wielded over and over again.\nLittle as Anthony knew it, Father Robert, during the first two days after\nhis arrival, had occupied himself with sounding and probing the lad's\nsoul, trying his intellect by questions that scarcely seemed to be so,\ntaking the temperature of his emotional nature by tales and adroit\nremarks, and watching the effect of them; in short, with studying the\nsoul who had come for his treatment as a careful doctor examines the\nhealth of a new patient before he issues his prescription. And then,\nlastly, there were the Exercises themselves, a mighty weapon in any\nhands; and all but irresistible when directed by the skill, and inspired\nby the enthusiasm and sincere piety of such a man as Father Robert.\n\nThe Exercises fell into three parts, each averaging in Anthony's case\nabout five days. First came the Purgative Exercises: the object of these\nwas to cleanse and search out the very recesses of the soul; as fire\nseparates gold from alloy.\n\nAs Anthony knelt in the little room before the Crucifix day by day, it\nseemed to him as if the old conventional limitations and motives of\naction and control were rolling back, revealing the realities of the\nspiritual world. The Exercises began with an elaborate exposition of the\nEnd of man--which may be roughly defined as the Glory of God attained\nthrough the saving and sanctifying of the individual. Every creature of\nGod, then, that the soul encounters must be tested by this rule, How far\ndoes the use of it serve for the final end? For it must be used so far,\nand no farther. Here then was a diagram of the Exercises, given in\nminiature at the beginning.\n\nThen the great facts that practically all men acknowledge, and upon which\nso few act, were brought into play. Hell, Judgment and Death in turn\nbegan to work upon the lad's soul--these monstrous elemental Truths that\nunderlie all things. As Father Robert's deep vibrating voice spoke, it\nappeared to Anthony as if the room, the walls, the house, the world, all\nshrank to filmy nothingness before the appalling realities of these\nthings. In that strange and profound \"Exercise of the senses\" he heard\nthe moaning and the blasphemies of the damned, of those rebellious free\nwills that have enslaved themselves into eternal bondage by a deliberate\nrejection of God--he put out his finger and tasted the bitterness of\ntheir furious tears--the very reek of sin came to his nostrils, of that\ncorruption that is in existence through sin; nay, he saw the very flaming\nhells red with man's wrath against his Maker.\n\nThen he traced back, under the priest's direction, the Judgment through\nwhich every soul must pass; he saw the dead, great and small, stand\nbefore God; the books, black with blotted shame, were borne forth by the\nrecording angels and spread before the tribunal. His ears tingled with\nthat condemning silence of the Judge beyond Whom there is no appeal, from\nwhose sentence there is no respite, and from whose prison there is no\ndischarge; and rang with that pealing death-sentence at which the angels\nhide their faces, but to which the conscience of the criminal assents\nthat it is just. His soul looked out at those whirling hosts on either\nside, that black cloud going down to despair, that radiant company\nhastening to rise to the Uncreated Light in whom there is no darkness at\nall--and cried in piteous suspense to know on which side she herself one\nday would be.\n\nThen he came yet one step further back still, and told himself the story\nof his death. He saw the little room where he would lie, his bed in one\ncorner; he saw Isabel beside the bed; he saw himself, white, gasping,\nconvulsed, upon it--the shadows of the doctor and the priest were upon\nthe wall--he heard his own quick sobbing breath, he put out his finger\nand touched his own forehead wet with the death-dew--he tasted and smelt\nthe faint sickly atmosphere that hangs about a death chamber; and he\nwatched the grey shadow of Azrael's wing creep across his face. Then he\nsaw the sheet and the stiff form beneath it; and knew that they were his\nfeatures that were hidden; and that they were his feet that stood up\nstark below the covering. Then he visited his own grave, and saw the\nmonth-old grass blowing upon it, and the little cross at the head; then\nhe dug down through the soil, swept away the earth from his coffin-plate;\ndrew the screws and lifted the lid....\n\nThen he placed sin beneath the white light; dissected it, analysed it,\nweighed it and calculated its worth, watched its development in the\ncongenial surroundings of an innocent soul, that is rich in grace and\nleisure and gifts, and saw the astonishing reversal of God's primal law\nillustrated in the process of corruption--the fair, sweet, fragrant\ncreature passing into foulness. He looked carefully at the stages and\nmodes of sin--venial sins, those tiny ulcers that weaken, poison and\nspoil the soul, even if they do not slay it--lukewarmness, that deathly\nslumber that engulfs the living thing into gradual death--and, finally,\nmortal sin, that one and only wholly hideous thing. He saw the\nindescribable sight of a naked soul in mortal sin; he saw how the earth\nshrank from it, how nature grew silent at it, how the sun darkened at it,\nhow hell yelled at it, and the Love of God sickened at it.\n\nAnd so, as the purgative days went by, these tempests poured over his\nsoul, sifted through it, as the sea through a hanging weed, till all that\nwas not organically part of his life was swept away, and he was left a\nsimple soul alone with God. Then the second process began.\n\nTo change the metaphor, the canvas was now prepared, scoured, bleached\nand stretched. What is the image to be painted upon it? It is the image\nof Christ.\n\nNow Father Robert laid aside his knives and his hammer, and took up his\nsoft brushes, and began stroke by stroke, with colours beyond imagining,\nto lay upon the eager canvas the likeness of an adorable Lover and King.\nAnthony watched the portrait grow day by day with increasing wonder. Was\nthis indeed the Jesus of Nazareth of whom he had read in the Gospels? he\nrubbed his eyes and looked; and yet there was no possibility of\nmistake,--line for line it was the same.\n\nBut this portrait grew and breathed and moved, and passed through all the\nstages of man's life. First it was the Eternal Word in the bosom of the\nFather, the Beloved Son who looked in compassion upon the warring world\nbeneath; and offered Himself to the Father who gave Him through the\nEnergy of the Blessed Spirit.\n\nThen it was a silent Maid that he saw waiting upon God, offering herself\nwith her lily beside her; and in answer on a sudden came the lightning of\nGabriel's appearing, and, lo! the Eternal Word stole upon her down a ray\nof glory. And then at last he saw the dear Child born; and as he looked\nhe was invited to enter the stable; and again he put out his hand and\ntouched the coarse straw that lay in the manger, and fingered the rough\nbrown cord that hung from Mary's waist, and smelled the sweet breath of\nthe cattle, and the burning oil of Joseph's lantern hung against the\nwall, and shivered as the night wind shrilled under the ill-fitting door\nand awoke the tender Child.\n\nThen he watched Him grow to boyhood, increasing in wisdom and stature,\nHim who was uncreated Wisdom, and in whose Hands are the worlds--followed\nHim, loving Him more at every step, to and from the well at Nazareth with\nthe pitcher on His head: saw Him with blistered hands and aching back in\nthe carpenter's shop; then at last went south with Him to Jordan;\nlistened with Him, hungering, to the jackals in the wilderness; rocked\nwith Him on the high Temple spire; stared with Him at the Empires of all\ntime, and refused them as a gift. Then he went with Him from miracle to\nmiracle, laughed with joy at the leper's new skin; wept in sorrow and joy\nwith the mother at Nain, and the two sisters at Bethany; knelt with Mary\nand kissed His feet; went home with Matthew and Zaccheus, and sat at meat\nwith the merry sinners; and at last began to follow silent and amazed\nwith face set towards Jerusalem, up the long lonely road from Jericho.\n\nThen, with love that almost burned his heart, he crouched at the moonlit\ndoor outside and watched the Supper begin. Judas pushed by him,\nmuttering, and vanished in the shadows of the street. He heard the hush\nfall as the Bread was broken and the Red Wine uplifted; and he hid his\nface, for he dared not yet look with John upon a glory whose veils were\nso thin. Then he followed the silent company through the overhung streets\nto the Temple Courts, and down across the white bridge to the garden\ndoor. Then, bolder, he drew near, left the eight and the three and knelt\nclose to the single Figure, who sobbed and trembled and sweated blood.\nThen he heard the clash of weapons and saw the glare of the torches, and\nlonged to warn Him but could not; saw the bitter shame of the kiss and\nthe arrest and the flight; and followed to Caiaphas' house; heard the\nstinging slap; ran to Pilate's house; saw that polished gentleman yawn\nand sneer; saw the clinging thongs and the splashed floor when the\nscourging was over; followed on to Calvary; saw the great Cross rise up\nat last over the heads of the crowd, and heard the storm of hoots and\nlaughter and the dry sobs of the few women. Then over his head the sun\ngrew dull, and the earth rocked and split, as the crosses reeled with\ntheir swinging burdens. Then, as the light came back, and the earth ended\nher long shudder, he saw in the evening glow that his Lord was dead. Then\nhe followed to the tomb; saw the stone set and sealed and the watch\nappointed; and went home with Mary and John, and waited.\n\nThen on Easter morning, wherever his Lord was, he was there too; with\nMary in that unrecorded visit; with the women, with the Apostles; on the\nroad to Emmaus; on the lake of Galilee; and his heart burned with Christ\nat his side, on lake and road and mountain.\n\nThen at last he stood with the Twelve and saw that end that was so\nglorious a beginning; saw that tender sky overhead generate its strange\ncloud that was the door of heaven; heard far away the trumpets cry, and\nthe harps begin to ripple for the new song that the harpers had learned\nat last; and then followed with his eyes the Lord whom he had now learned\nto know and love as never before, as He passed smiling and blessing into\nthe heaven from which one day He will return....\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThere, then, as Anthony looked on the canvas, was that living, moving\nface and figure. What more could He have done that He did not do? What\nperfection could be dreamed of that was not already a thousand times His?\n\nAnd when the likeness was finished, and Father Robert stepped aside from\nthe portrait that he had painted with such tender skill and love, it is\nlittle wonder that this lad threw himself down before that eloquent\nvision and cried with Thomas, My Lord and my God!\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThen, very gently, Father Robert led him through those last steps; up\nfrom the Illuminative to the Unitive; from the Incarnate Life with its\nwarm human interests to that Ineffable Light that seems so chill and\nunreal to those who only see it through the clouds of earth, into that\nkeen icy stillness, where only favoured and long-trained souls can\nbreathe, up the piercing air of the slopes that lead to the Throne, and\nthere in the listening silence of heaven, where the voice of adoration\nitself is silent through sheer intensity, where all colours return to\nwhiteness and all sounds to stillness, all forms to essence and all\ncreation to the Creator, there he let him fall in self-forgetting love\nand wonder, breathe out his soul in one ardent all-containing act, and\nmake his choice.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XIV\n\n                             EASTER DAY\n\n\nHoly Week passed for Anthony like one of those strange dreams in which\nthe sleeper awakes to find tears on his face, and does not know whether\nthey are for joy or sorrow. At the end of the Retreat that closed on Palm\nSunday evening, Anthony had made his choice, and told Father Robert.\n\nIt was not the Exercises themselves that were the direct agent, any more\nthan were the books he had read: the books had cleared away intellectual\ndifficulties, and the Retreat moral obstacles, and left his soul desiring\nthe highest, keen to see it, and free to embrace it. The thought that he\nwould have to tell Isabel appeared to him of course painful and\ndifficult; but it was swallowed up in the joy of his conversion. He made\nan arrangement with Father Robert to be received at Cuckfield on Easter\nEve; so that he might have an opportunity of telling Isabel before he\ntook the actual step. The priest told him he would give him a letter to\nMr. Barnes, so that he might be received immediately upon his arrival.\n\nHoly Week, then, was occupied for Anthony in receiving instruction each\nmorning in the little oak parlour from Father Robert; and in attending\nthe devotions in the evening with the rest of the household. He also\nheard mass each day.\n\nIt was impossible, of course, to carry out the special devotions of the\nseason with the splendour and elaboration that belonged to them; but\nAnthony was greatly impressed by what he saw. The tender reverence with\nwhich the Catholics loved to linger over the details of the Passion, and\nto set them like precious jewels in magnificent liturgical settings, and\nthen to perform these stately heart-broken approaches to God with all the\ndignity and solemnity possible, appealed to him in strong contrast to the\ncold and loveless services, as he now thought them, of the Established\nChurch that he had left.\n\nOn the Good Friday evening he was long in the parlour with Father Robert.\n\n\"I am deeply thankful, my son,\" he said kindly, \"that you have been able\nto come to a decision. Of course I could have wished you to enter the\nSociety; but God has not given you a vocation to that apparently.\nHowever, you can do great work for Him as a seminary priest; and I am\nexceedingly glad that you will be going to Douai so soon.\"\n\n\"I must just put my affairs in order at home,\" he said, \"and see what\narrangements my sister will wish to make; and by Midsummer at the latest\nI shall hope to be gone.\"\n\n\"I must be off early to-morrow,\" said the priest. \"I have to be far from\nhere by to-morrow night, in a house where I shall hope to stay until I,\ntoo, go abroad again. Possibly we may meet at Douai in the autumn. Well,\nmy son, pray for me.\"\n\nAnthony knelt for his blessing, and the priest was gone.\n\nPresently Mr. Buxton came in and sat down. He was full of delight at the\nresult of his scheme; and said so again and again.\n\n\"Who could have predicted it?\" he cried. \"To think that you were visiting\nme in prison fifteen months ago; and now this has come about in my house!\nTruly the Gospel blessing on your action has not been long on the way!\nAnd that you will be a priest, too! You must come and be my chaplain some\nday; if we are both alive and escape the gallows so long. Old Mr. Blake\nis sore displeased with me. I am a trial to him, I know. He will hardly\nspeak to me in my own house; I declare I tremble when I meet him in the\ngallery; for fear he will rate me before my servants. I forget what his\nlast grievance is; but I think it is something to do with a saint that he\nwishes me to be devout to; and I do not like her. Of course I do not\ndoubt her sanctity; but Mr. Blake always confuses veneration and liking.\nI yield to none in my veneration for Saint What's-her-name; but I do not\nlike her; and that is an end of the matter.\"\n\nAfter a little more talk, Mr. Buxton looked at Anthony curiously a moment\nor two; and then said:\n\n\"I wonder you have not guessed yet who Father Robert is; for I am sure\nyou know that that cannot be his real name.\"\n\nAnthony looked at him wonderingly.\n\n\"Well, he is in bed now; and will be off early to-morrow; and I have his\nleave to tell you. He is Father Persons, of whom you may have heard.\"\n\nAnthony stared.\n\n\"Yes,\" said his host, \"the companion of Campion. All the world supposes\nhim to be in Rome; and I think that not half-a-dozen persons besides\nourselves know where he is; but at this moment, I assure you, Father\nRobert Persons, of the Society of Jesus, is asleep (or awake, as the case\nmay be) in the little tapestry chamber overhead.\"\n\n\"Now,\" went on Mr. Buxton, \"that you are one of us, I will tell you quite\nplainly that Father Robert, as we will continue to call him, is in my\nopinion one of the most devout priests that ever said mass; and also one\nof the most shrewd men that ever drew breath; but I cannot follow him\neverywhere. You will find, Mr. Anthony, that the Catholics in England are\nof two kinds: those who seem to have as their motto the text I quoted to\nyou in Lambeth prison; and who count their duty to C\u00e6sar as scarcely less\nimportant than their direct duty to God. I am one of these: I sincerely\ndesire above all things to serve her Grace, and I would not, for all the\nworld, join in any confederacy to dethrone her, for I hold she is my\nlawful and true Prince. Then there is another party who would not\nhesitate for a moment to take part against their Prince, though I do not\nsay to the slaying of her, if thereby the Catholic Religion could be\nestablished again in these realms. It is an exceedingly difficult point;\nand I understand well how honest and good men can hold that view: for\nthey say, and rightly, that the Kingdom of God is the first thing in the\nworld, and while they may not commit sin of course to further it, yet in\nthings indifferent they must sacrifice all for it; and, they add, it is\nindifferent as to who sits on the throne of England; therefore one Prince\nmay be pushed off it, so long as no crime is committed in the doing of\nit, and another seated there; if thereby the Religion may be so\nestablished again. You see the point, Mr. Anthony, no doubt; and how fine\nand delicate it is. Well, Father Robert is, I think, of that party; and\nso are many of the authorities abroad. Now I tell you all this, and on\nthis sacred day too, because I may have no other opportunity; and I do\nnot wish you to be startled or offended after you have become a Catholic.\nAnd I entreat you to be warm and kindly to those who take other views\nthan your own; for I fear that many troubles lie in front of us of our\nown causing: for there are divisions amongst us already: although not at\nall of course (for which I thank God) on any of the saving truths of the\nFaith.\"\n\nAnthony's excitement on hearing Father Robert's real name was very great.\nAs he lay in bed that night the thought of it all would hardly let him\nsleep. He turned to and fro, trying to realise that there, within a dozen\nyards of him, lay the famous Jesuit for whose blood all Protestant\nEngland was clamouring. The name of Persons was still sinister and\nterrible even to this convert; and he could scarcely associate in his\nthoughts all its suggestiveness with that kindly fervent lover of Jesus\nChrist who had led him with such skill and tenderness along the way of\nthe Gospel. Others in England were similarly astonished in later years to\nlearn that a famous Puritan book of devotions was scarcely other than a\nreprint of Father Persons' \"Christian Directory.\"\n\nThe following day about noon, after an affectionate good-bye to his host\nand Mr. Blake, Anthony rode out of the iron-wrought gates and down the\nvillage street in the direction of Great Keynes.\n\nIt was a perfect spring-day. Overhead there was a soft blue sky with\ntranslucent clouds floating in it; underfoot and on all sides the mystery\nof life was beginning to stir and manifest itself. The last touch of\nbitterness had passed from the breeze, and all living growth was making\nhaste out into the air. The hedges were green with open buds, and\nbubbling with the laughter and ecstasy of the birds; the high sloping\noverhung Sussex lanes were sweet with violets and primroses; and here and\nthere under the boughs Anthony saw the blue carpet of bell-flowers\nspread. Rabbits whisked in and out of the roots, superintending and\nprovisioning the crowded nurseries underground; and as Anthony came out,\nnow and again on the higher and open spaces larks vanished up their airy\nspirals of song into the illimitable blue; or hung, visible musical\nspecks against a fleecy cloud, pouring down their thin cataract of\nmelody. And as he rode, for every note of music and every glimpse of\ncolour round him, his own heart poured out pulse after pulse of that\nspiritual essence that lies beneath all beauty, and from which all beauty\nis formed, to the Maker of all this and the Saviour of himself. There\nwere set wide before him now the gates of a kingdom, compared to which\nthis realm of material life round about was but a cramped and wintry\nprison after all.\n\nHow long he had lived in the cold and the dark! he thought; kept alive by\nthe refracted light that stole down the steps to where he sat in the\nshadow of death; saved from freezing by the warmth of grace that managed\nto survive the chill about him; and all the while the Catholic Church was\nglowing and pulsating with grace, close to him and yet unseen; that great\nrealm full of heavenly sunlight, that was the life of all its\nmembers--that sunlight that had poured down so steadily ever since the\nwinter had rolled away on Calvary; and that ever since then had been\nelaborating and developing into a thousand intricate forms all that was\ncapable of absorbing it. One by one the great arts had been drawn into\nthat Kingdom, transformed and immortalised by the vital and miraculous\nsap of grace; philosophies, languages, sciences, all in turn were taken\nup and sanctified; and now this Puritan soul, thirsty for knowledge and\ngrace, and so long starved and imprisoned, was entering at last into her\nheritage.\n\nAll this was of course but dimly felt in the direct perceptions of\nAnthony; but Father Robert had said enough to open something of the\nvision, and he himself had sufficient apprehension to make him feel that\nthe old meagre life was passing away, and a new life of unfathomed\npossibilities beginning. As he rode the wilderness appeared to rejoice\nand blossom like the rose, as the spring of nature and grace stirred\nabout and within him; and only an hour or two's ride away lay the very\nhills and streams of the Promised Land.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAbout half-past three he crossed the London road, and before four o'clock\nhe rode round to the door of the Dower House, dismounted, telling the\ngroom to keep his horse saddled.\n\nHe went straight through the hall, calling Isabel as he went, and into\nthe garden, carrying his flat cap and whip and gloves: and as he came out\nbeneath the holly tree, there she stood before him on the top of the old\nstone garden steps, that rose up between earthen flower-jars to the\nyew-walk on the north of the house. He went across the grass smiling, and\nas he came saw her face grow whiter and whiter. She was in a dark serge\ndress with a plain ruff, and a hood behind it, and her hair was coiled in\ngreat masses on her head. She stood trembling, and he came up and took\nher in his arms tenderly and kissed her, for his news would be heavy\npresently.\n\n\"Why, Isabel,\" he said, \"you look astonished to see me. But I could not\nwell send a man, as I had only Geoffrey with me.\"\n\nShe tried to speak, but could not; and looked so overwhelmed and\nterrified that Anthony grew frightened; he saw he must be very gentle.\n\n\"Sit down,\" he said, drawing her to a seat beside the path at the head of\nthe steps: \"and tell me the news.\"\n\nBy a great effort she regained her self-control.\n\n\"I did not know when you were coming,\" she said tremulously. \"I was\nstartled.\"\n\nHe talked of his journey for a few minutes; and of the kindness of the\nfriend with whom he had been staying, and the beauty of the house and\ngrounds, and so on; until she seemed herself again; and the piteous\nstartled look had died out of her eyes: and then he forced himself to\napproach his point; for the horse was waiting saddled; and he must get to\nCuckfield and back by supper if possible.\n\nHe took her hand and played with it gently as he spoke, turning over her\nrings.\n\n\"Isabel,\" he said, \"I have news to tell you. It is not bad news--at least\nI think not--it is the best thing that has ever come to me yet, by the\ngrace of God, and so you need not be anxious or frightened. But I am\nafraid you may think it bad news. It--it is about religion, Isabel.\"\n\nHe glanced at her, and saw that terrified look again in her face: she was\nstaring at him, and her hand in his began to twitch and tremble.\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" he said, \"there is no need to look like that. I have not lost\nmy faith in God. Rather, I have gained it. Isabel, I am going to be a\nCatholic.\"\n\nA curious sound broke from her lips; and a look so strange came into her\nface that he threw his arm round her, thinking she was going to faint:\nand he spoke sharply.\n\n\"Isabel, Isabel, what is there to fear? Look at me!\"\n\nThen a cry broke from her white lips, and she struggled to stand up.\n\n\"No, no, no! you are mocking me. Oh! Anthony, what have I done, that you\nshould treat me like this?\"\n\n\"Mocking!\" he said, \"before God I am not. My horse is waiting to take me\nto the priest.\"\n\n\"But--but--\" she began again. \"Oh! then what have you done to James\nMaxwell?\"\n\n\"James Maxwell! Why? What do you mean? You got my note!\"\n\n\"No--no. There was no answer, he said.\"\n\nAnthony stared.\n\n\"Why, I wrote--and then Lady Maxwell! Does she not know, and James\nhimself?\"\n\nIsabel shook her head and looked at him wildly.\n\n\"Well, well, that must wait; one thing at a time,\" he said. \"I _cannot_\nwait now. I must go to Cuckfield. Ah! Isabel, say you understand.\"\n\nOnce or twice she began to speak, but failed; and sat panting and staring\nat him.\n\n\"My darling,\" he said, \"do not look like that: we are both Christians\nstill: we at least serve the same God. Surely you will not cast me off\nfor this?\"\n\n\"Cast you off?\" she said; and she laughed piteously and sharply; and then\nwas grave again. Then she suddenly cried,\n\n\"Oh, Anthony, swear to me you are not mocking me.\"\n\n\"My darling,\" he said, \"why should I mock you? I have made the Exercises,\nand have been instructed; and I have here a letter to Mr. Barnes from the\npriest who has taught me; so that I may be received to-night, and make my\nEaster duties: and Geoffrey is still at the door holding Roland to take\nme to Cuckfield to-night.\"\n\n\"To Cuckfield!\" she said. \"You will not find Mr. Barnes there.\"\n\n\"Not there! why not? Where shall I find him? How do you know?\"\n\n\"Because he is here,\" she went on in the same strange voice, \"at the\nHall.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Anthony, \"that saves me a journey. Why is he here?\"\n\n\"He is here to say mass to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"And--and----\"\n\n\"What is it, Isabel?\"\n\n\"And--to receive me into the Church to-night.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe brother and sister walked up and down that soft spring evening after\nsupper, on the yew-walk; with the whispers and caresses of the scented\nbreeze about them, the shy dewy eyes of the stars looking down at them\nbetween the tall spires of the evergreens overhead; and in their hearts\nthe joy of lovers on a wedding-night.\n\nAnthony had soon told the tale of James Maxwell and Isabel had nearly\nknelt to ask her brother's pardon for having ever allowed even the shadow\nof a suspicion to darken her heart. Lady Maxwell, too, who had come down\nwith her sister to see Isabel about some small arrangement, was told; and\nshe too had been nearly overwhelmed with the joy of knowing that the lad\nwas innocent, and the grief of having dreamed he could be otherwise, and\nat the wholly unexpected news of his conversion; but she had gone at last\nback to the Hall to make all ready for the double ceremony of that night,\nand the Paschal Feast on the next day. Mistress Margaret was in Isabel's\nroom, moving about with a candle, and every time that the two reached the\nturn at the top of the steps they saw her light glimmering.\n\nThen Anthony, as they walked under the stars, told Isabel of his great\nhope that he, too, one day would be a priest, and serve God and his\ncountrymen that way.\n\n\"Oh, Anthony,\" she whispered, and clung to that dear arm that held her\nown; terrified for the moment at the memory of what had been the price of\npriesthood to James Maxwell.\n\n\"And where shall you be trained for it?\" she asked.\n\n\"At Douai: and--Isabel--I think I must go this summer.\"\n\n\"This summer!\" she said. \"Why----\" and she was silent.\n\n\"Anthony,\" she went on, \"I would like to tell you about Hubert.\"\n\nAnd then the story of the past months came out; she turned away her face\nas she talked; and at last she told him how Hubert had come for his\nanswer, a week before his time.\n\n\"It was on Monday,\" she said. \"I heard him on the stairs, and stood up as\nhe came in; and he stopped at the door in silence, and I could not bear\nto look at him. I could hear him breathing quickly; and then I could not\nbear to--think of it all; and I dropped down into my chair again, and hid\nmy face in my arm and burst into crying. And still he said nothing, but I\nfelt him come close up to me and kneel down by me; and he put his hand\nover mine, and held them tight; and then he whispered in a kind of quick\nway:\n\n\"'I will be what you please; Catholic or Protestant, or what you will';\nand I lifted my head and looked at him, because it was dreadful to hear\nhim--Hubert--say that: and he was whiter than I had ever seen him; and\nthen--then he began to wrinkle his mouth--you know the way he does when\nhis horse is pulling or kicking: and then he began to say all kinds of\nthings: and oh! I was so sorry; because he had behaved so well till\nthen.\"\n\n\"What did he say?\" asked Anthony quickly.\n\n\"Ah! I have tried to forget,\" said Isabel. \"I do not want to think of him\nas he was when he was angry and disappointed. At last he flung out of the\nroom and down the stairs, and I have not seen him since. But Lady Maxwell\nsent for me the same evening an hour later; and told me that she could\nnot live there any longer. She said that Hubert had ridden off to London;\nand would not be down again till Whitsuntide; but that she must be gone\nbefore then. So I am afraid that he said things he ought not; but of\ncourse she did not tell me one word. And she asked me to go with her.\nAnd, and--Anthony, I did not know what to say; because I did not know\nwhat you would do when you heard that I was a Catholic; I was waiting to\ntell you when you came home--but now--but now----Oh, Anthony, my\ndarling!\"\n\nAt last the two came indoors. Mistress Margaret met them in the hall. She\nlooked for a moment at the two; at Anthony in his satin and lace and his\nsmiling face over his ruff and his steady brown eyes; and Isabel on his\narm, with her clear pale face and bosom and black high-piled hair, and\nher velvet and lace, and a rope of pearls.\n\n\"Why,\" said the old nun, smiling, \"you look a pair of lovers.\"\n\nThen presently the three went together up to the Hall.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAn hour or two passed away; the Paschal moon was rising high over the\ntall yew hedge behind the Italian garden; and the Hall lay beneath it\nwith silver roofs and vane; and black shadows under the eaves and in the\nangles. The tall oriel window of the Hall looking on to the terrace shone\nout with candlelight; and the armorial coats of the Maxwells and the\nfamilies they had married with glimmered in the upper panes. From the\ncloister wing there shone out above the curtains lines of light in Lady\nMaxwell's suite of rooms, and the little oak parlour beneath, as well as\nfrom one or two other rooms; but the rest of the house, with the\nexception of the great hall and the servants' quarters, was all dark. It\nwas as if the interior life had shifted westwards, leaving the remainder\ndesolate. The gardens to the south were silent, for the night breeze had\ndropped; and the faint ripple of the fountain within the cloister-court\nwas the only sound that broke the stillness. And once or twice the sleepy\nchirp of a bird nestling by his mate in the deep shrubberies showed that\nthe life of the spring was beating out of sight.\n\nAnd then at last the door in the west angle of the terrace, between the\ncloister wing and the front of the house, opened, and a flood of mellow\nlight poured out on to the flat pavement. A group stood within the little\noaken red-tiled lobby; Lady Maxwell and her sister, slender and dignified\nin their dark evening dresses and ruffs; Anthony holding his cap, and\nIsabel with a lace shawl over her head, and at the back the white hair\nand ruddy face of old Mr. Barnes in his cassock at the bottom of the\nstairs.\n\nAs Mistress Margaret opened the door and looked out, Lady Maxwell took\nIsabel in her arms and kissed her again and again. Then Anthony took the\nold lady's hand and kissed it, but she threw her other hand round him and\nkissed him too on the forehead. Then without another word the brother and\nsister came out into the moonlight, passed down the side of the cloister\nwing, and turning once to salute the group who waited, framed and bathed\nin golden light, they turned the corner to the Dower House. Then the door\nclosed; the oriel window suddenly darkened, and an hour after the lights\nin the wing went out, and Maxwell Hall lay silver and grey again in the\nmoonlight.\n\nThe night passed on. Once Isabel awoke, and saw her windows blue and\nmystical and her room full of a dim radiance from the bright night\noutside. It was irresistible, and she sprang out of bed and went to the\nwindow across the cool polished oak floor, and leaned with her elbows on\nthe sill, looking out at the square of lawn and the low ivied wall\nbeneath, and the tall trees rising beyond ashen-grey and olive-black in\nthe brilliant glory that poured down from almost directly overhead, for\nthe Paschal moon was at its height above the house.\n\nAnd then suddenly the breathing silence was broken by a ripple of melody,\nand another joined and another; and Isabel looked and wondered and\nlistened, for she had never heard before the music of the mysterious\nnight-flight of the larks all soaring and singing together when the rest\nof the world is asleep. And she listened and wondered as the stream of\nsong poured down from the wonderful spaces of the sky, rising to far-off\necstasies as the wheeling world sank yet further with its sleeping\nmeadows and woods beneath the whirling singers; and then the earth for a\nmoment turned in its sleep as Isabel listened, and the trees stirred as\none deep breath came across the woods, and a thrush murmured a note or\ntwo beside the drive, and a rabbit suddenly awoke in the field and ran on\nto the lawn and sat up and looked at the white figure at the window; and\nfar away from the direction of Lindfield a stag brayed.\n\n\"So longeth my soul,\" whispered Isabel to herself.\n\nThen all grew still again; the trees hushed; the torrent of music, more\ntumultuous as it neared the earth, suddenly ceased; and Isabel at the\nwindow leaned further out and held her hands in the bath of light; and\nspoke softly into the night:\n\n\"Oh, Lord Jesus, how kind Thou art to me!\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThen at last the morning came, and Christ was risen beyond a doubt.\n\nJust before the sun came up, when all the sky was luminous to meet him,\nthe two again passed up and round the corner, and into the little door in\nthe angle. There was the same shaded candle or two, for the house was yet\ndark within; and they passed up and on together through the sitting-room\ninto the chapel where each had made a First Confession the night before,\nand had together been received into the Catholic Church. Now it was all\nfragrant with flowers and herbs; a pair of tall lilies leaned their\ndelicate heads towards the altar, as if to listen for the soundless\nComing in the Name of the Lord; underfoot all about the altar lay sprigs\nof sweet herbs, rosemary, thyme, lavender, bay-leaves; with white\nblossoms scattered over them--a soft carpet for the Pierced Feet; not\nlike those rustling palm-swords over which He rode to death last week.\nThe black oak chest that supported the altar-stone was glorious in its\nvesture of cloth-of-gold; and against the white-hung wall at the back,\nbehind the silver candlesticks, leaned the gold plate of the house, to do\nhonour to the King. And presently there stood there the radiant rustling\nfigure of the Priest, his personality sheathed and obliterated beneath\nthe splendid symbolism of his vestments, stiff and chinking with jewels\nas he moved.\n\nThe glorious Mass of Easter Day began.\n\n\"_Immolatus est Christus. Itaque epulemur_,\" Saint Paul cried from the\nsouth corner of the altar to the two converts. \"Christ our Passover is\nsacrificed for us; therefore let us keep the feast, but not with the old\nleaven.\"\n\n\"_Quis revolvet nobis lapidem?_\" wailed the women. \"Who shall roll us\naway the stone from the door of the sepulchre?\"\n\n\"And when they looked,\" cried the triumphant Evangelist, \"they saw that\nthe stone was rolled away; for it was very great\"--\"_erat quippe magnus\nvalde_.\"\n\nHere then they knelt at last, these two come home together, these who had\nfollowed their several paths so resolutely in the dark, not knowing that\nthe other was near, yet each seeking a hidden Lord, and finding both Him\nand one another now in the full and visible glory of His Face--_orto jam\nsole_--for the Sun of Righteousness had dawned, and there was healing for\nall sorrows in His Wings.\n\n\"_Et credo in unam sanctam Catholicam et Apostolicam Ecclesiam_\"--their\nhearts cried all together. \"I believe at last in a Catholic Church; one,\nfor it is built on one and its faith is one; holy, for it is the Daughter\nof God and the Mother of Saints; Apostolic, for it is guided by the\nPrince of Apostles and very Vicar of Christ.\"\n\n\"_Et exspecto vitam venturi saeculi._\" \"I look for the life of the world\nto come; and I count all things but loss, houses and brethren and sisters\nand father and mother and wife and children and lands, when I look to\nthat everlasting life, and Him Who is the Way to it. _Amen._\"\n\nSo from step to step the liturgy moved on with its sonorous and exultant\ntramp, and the crowding thoughts forgot themselves, and watched as the\nsplendid heralds went by; the triumphant trumpets of _Gloria in excelsis_\nhad long died away; the proclamation of the names and titles of the Prince\nhad been made. _Unum Dominum Jesum Christum_; _Filium Dei Unigenitum_;\n_Ex Patre natum ante omnia saecula_; _Deum de Deo_; _Lumen de Lumine_;\n_Deum Verum de Deo Vero_; _Genitum non factum_; _Consubstantialem Patri._\n\nThen His first achievement had been declared; \"_Per quem omnia facta\nsunt._\"\n\nThen his great and later triumphs; how He had ridden out alone from the\nPalace and come down the steep of heaven in quest of His Love; how He had\ndisguised Himself for her sake; and by the crowning miracle of love, the\nmightiest work that Almighty God has ever wrought, He was made man; and\nthe herald hushed his voice in awe as he declared it, and the people\nthrew themselves prostrate in honour of this high and lowly Prince; then\nwas recounted the tale of those victories that looked so bitterly like\nfailures, and the people held their breath and whispered it too; then in\nrising step after step His last conquests were told; how the Black Knight\nwas overthrown, his castle stormed and his prison burst; and the story of\nthe triumph of the return and of the Coronation and the Enthronement at\nthe Father's Right Hand on high.\n\nThe heralds passed on; and mysterious figures came next, bearing\nMelchisedech's gifts; shadowing the tremendous event that follows on\nbehind.\n\nAfter a space or two came the first lines of the bodyguard, the heavenly\ncreatures dimly seen moving through clouds of glory, Angels, Dominations,\nPowers, Heavens, Virtues, and blessed Seraphim, all crying out together\nto heaven and earth to welcome Him Who comes after in the bright shadow\nof the Name of the Lord; and the trumpets peal out for the last time,\n\"Hosanna in the highest.\"\n\nThen a hush fell, and presently in the stillness came riding the great\nPersonages who stand in heaven about the Throne; first, the Queen Mother\nherself, glorious within and without, moving in clothing of wrought gold,\nhigh above all others; then, the great Princes of the Blood Royal, who\nare admitted to drink of the King's own Cup, and sit beside Him on their\nthrones, Peter and Paul and the rest, with rugged faces and scarred\nhands; and with them great mitred figures, Linus, Cletus and Clement,\nwith their companions.\n\nAnd then another space and a tingling silence; the crowds bow down like\ncorn before the wind, the far-off trumpets are silent; and He comes--He\ncomes!\n\nOn He moves, treading under foot the laws He has made, yet borne up by\nthem as on the Sea of Galilee; He Who inhabits eternity at an instant is\nmade present; He Who transcends space is immanent in material kind; He\nWho never leaves the Father's side rests on His white linen carpet, held\nyet unconfined; in the midst of the little gold things and embroidery and\ncandle-flames and lilies, while the fragrance of the herbs rises about\nHim. There rests the gracious King, before this bending group; the rest\nof the pageant dies into silence and nothingness outside the radiant\ncircle of His Presence. There is His immediate priest-herald, who has\nmarked out this halting-place for the Prince, bowing before Him, striving\nby gestures to interpret and fulfil the silence that words must always\nleave empty; here behind are the adoring human hearts, each looking with\nclosed eyes into the Face of the Fairest of the children of men, each\ncrying silently words of adoration, welcome and utter love.\n\nThe moments pass; the court ceremonies are performed. The Virgins that\nfollow the Lamb, Felicitas, Perpetua, Agatha and the rest step forward\nsmiling, and take their part; the Eternal Father is invoked again in the\nSon's own words; and at length the King, descending yet one further step\nof infinite humility, flings back the last vesture of His outward Royalty\nand casts Himself in a passion of haste and desire into the still and\ninvisible depths of these two quivering hearts, made in His own Image,\nthat lift themselves in an agony of love to meet Him....\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nMeanwhile the Easter morning is deepening outside; the sun is rising\nabove the yew hedge, and the dew flashes drop by drop into a diamond and\nvanishes; the thrush that stirred and murmured last night is pouring out\nhis song; and the larks that rose into the moonlight are running to and\nfro in the long meadow grass. The tall slender lilies that have not been\nchosen to grace the sacramental Presence-Chamber, are at least in the\nKing's own garden, where He walks morning and evening in the cool of the\nday; and waiting for those who will have seen Him face to face....\n\nAnd presently they come, the tall lad and his sister, silent and\ntogether, out into the radiant sunlight; and the joy of the morning and\nthe singing thrush and the jewels of dew and the sweet swaying lilies are\nshamed and put to silence by the joy upon their faces and in their\nhearts.\n\n\n\n\n                               PART III\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER I\n\n                         THE COMING OF SPAIN\n\n\nThe conflict between the Old Faith and the lusty young Nation went\nsteadily forward after the Jesuit invasion; more and more priests poured\ninto England; more and more were banished, imprisoned and put to death.\nThe advent of Father Holt, the Jesuit, to Scotland in 1583 was a signal\nfor a new outburst of Catholic feeling, which manifested itself not only\nin greater devotion to Religion, but, among the ill-instructed and\nimpatient, in very questionable proceedings. In fact, from this time\nonward the Catholic cause suffered greatly from the division of its\nsupporters into two groups; the religious and the political, as they may\nbe named. The former entirely repudiated any desire or willingness to\nmeddle with civil matters; its members desired to be both Catholics and\nEnglishmen; serving the Pope in matters of Faith and Elizabeth in matters\nof civil life; but they suffered greatly from the indiscretions and\nfanaticism of the political group. The members of that party frankly\nregarded themselves as at war with an usurper and an heretic; and used\nwarlike methods to gain their ends; plots against the Queen's life were\nset on foot; and their promoters were willing enough to die in defence of\nthe cause. But the civil Government made the fatal mistake of not\ndistinguishing between the two groups; again and again loyal Englishmen\nwere tortured and hanged as traitors, because they shared their faith\nwith conspirators.\n\nThere was one question, however, that was indeed on the borderline,\nexceedingly difficult to answer in words, especially for scrupulous\nconsciences; and that was whether they believed in the Pope's deposing\npower; and this question was adroitly and deliberately used by the\nGovernment in doubtful cases to ensure a conviction. But whether or not\nit was possible to frame a satisfactory answer in words, yet the accused\nwere plain enough in their deeds; and when the Armada at length was\nlaunched in '88, there were no more loyal defenders of England than the\npersecuted Catholics. Even before this, however, there had appeared signs\nof reaction among the Protestants, especially against the torture and\ndeath of Campion and his fellows; and Lord Burghley in '83 attempted to\nquiet the people's resentment by his anonymous pamphlet, \"Execution of\nJustice in England,\" to which Cardinal Allen presently replied.\n\nIreland, which had been profoundly stirred by the military expedition\nfrom the continent in '80, at length was beaten and slashed into\nsubmission again; and the torture and execution of Hurley by martial law,\nwhich Elizabeth directed on account of his appointment to the See of\nCashel, when the judges had pronounced there to be no case against him;\nand a massacre on the banks of the Moy in '86 of Scots who had come\nacross as reinforcements to the Irish;--these were incidents in the black\nlist of barbarities by which at last a sort of temporary quiet was\nbrought to Ireland.\n\nIn Scottish affairs, the tangle, unravelled even still, of which Mary\nStuart was the centre, led at last to her death. Walsingham, with\nextraordinary skill, managed to tempt her into a dangerous\ncorrespondence, all of which he tapped on the way: he supplied to her in\nfact the very instrument--an ingeniously made beer-barrel--through which\nthe correspondence was made possible, and, after reading all the letters,\nforwarded them to their several destinations. When all was ripe he\nbrought his hand down on a group of zealots, to whose designs Mary was\nsupposed to be privy; and after their execution, finally succeeded, in\n'87, in obtaining Elizabeth's signature to her cousin's death-warrant.\nThe storm already raging against Elizabeth on the Continent, but fanned\nto fury by this execution, ultimately broke in the Spanish Armada in the\nfollowing year.\n\nMeanwhile, at home, the affairs of the Church of England were far from\nprosperous. Puritanism was rampant; and a wail of dismay was evoked by\nthe new demands of a Commission under Whitgift's guidance, in '82,\nwhereby the Puritan divines were now called upon to assent to the Queen's\nSupremacy, the Thirty-nine Articles and the Prayer Book. In spite of the\nopposition, however, of Burghley and the Commons, Whitgift, who had by\nthis time succeeded to Canterbury upon Grindal's death, remained firm;\nand a long and dreary dispute began, embittered further by the execution\nof Mr. Copping and Mr. Thacker in '83 for issuing seditious books in the\nPuritan cause. A characteristic action in this campaign was the issuing\nof a Puritan manifesto in '84, consisting of a brief, well-written\npamphlet of a hundred and fifty pages under the title \"A Learned\nDiscourse of Ecclesiastical Government,\" making the inconsistent claim of\ndesiring a return to the Primitive and Scriptural model, and at the same\ntime of advocating an original scheme, \"one not yet handled.\" It was\npractically a demand for the Presbyterian system of pastorate and\ngovernment. To this Dr. Bridges replies with a tremendous tome of over\nfourteen hundred pages, discharged after three years of laborious toil;\nand dealing, as the custom then was, line by line, with the Puritan\nattack. To this in the following year an anonymous Puritan, under the\nname of Martin Marprelate, retorts with a brilliant and sparkling riposte\naddressed to \"The right puissant and terrible priests, my clergy-masters\nof the Convocation-house,\" in which he mocks bitterly at the prelates,\naccusing them of Sabbath-breaking, time-serving, and popery,--calling one\n\"dumb and duncetical,\" another \"the veriest coxcomb that ever wore velvet\ncap,\" and summing them up generally as \"wainscot-faced bishops,\" \"proud,\npopish, presumptuous, profane paltry, pestilent, and pernicious\nprelates.\"\n\nThe Archbishop had indeed a difficult team to drive; especially as his\ncoadjutors were not wholly proof against Martin's jibes. In '84 his\nbrother of York had been mixed up in a shocking scandal; in '85 the\nBishop of Lichfield was accused of simony; Bishop Aylmer was continually\nunder suspicion of avarice, dishonesty, vanity and swearing; and the\nBench as a whole was universally reprobated as covetous, stingy and weak.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nIn civil matters, England's relation with Spain was her most important\nconcern. Bitter feeling had been growing steadily between the two\ncountries ever since Drake's piracies in the Spanish dominions in\nAmerica; and a gradually increasing fleet at Cadiz was the outward sign\nof it. Now the bitterness was deepened by the arrest of English ships in\nthe Spanish ports in the early summer of '85, and the swift reprisals of\nDrake in the autumn; who intimidated and robbed important towns on the\ncoast, such as Vigo, where his men behaved with revolting irreverence in\nthe churches, and Santiago; and then proceeded to visit and spoil S.\nDomingo and Carthagena in the Indies.\n\nAgain in '87 Drake obtained the leave of the Queen to harass Spain once\nmore, and after robbing and burning all the vessels in Cadiz harbour, he\nstormed the forts at Faro, destroyed Armada stores at Corunna, and\ncaptured the great treasure-ship _San Felipe_.\n\nElizabeth was no doubt encouraged in her apparent recklessness by the\nbelief that with the Netherlands, which she had been compelled at last to\nassist, in a state of revolt, Spain would have little energy for\nreprisals upon England; but she grew more and more uneasy when news\ncontinued to arrive in England of the growing preparations for the\nArmada; France, too, was now so much involved with internal struggles, as\nthe Protestant Henry of Navarre was now the heir to her Catholic throne,\nthat efficacious intervention could no longer be looked for from that\nquarter, and it seemed at last as if the gigantic Southern power was\nabout to inflict punishment upon the little northern kingdom which had\ninsulted her with impunity so long.\n\nIn the October of '87 certain news arrived in England of the gigantic\npreparations being made in Spain and elsewhere: and hearts began to beat,\nand tongues to clack, and couriers to gallop. Then as the months went by,\nand tidings sifted in, there was something very like consternation in the\ncountry. Men told one another of the huge armament that was on its way,\nthe vast ships and guns--all bearing down on tiny England, like a bull on\na terrier. They spoke of the religious fervour, like that of a crusade,\nthat inspired the invasion, and was bringing the flower of the Spanish\nnobility against them: the superstitious contrasted their own _Lion_,\n_Revenge_, and _Elizabeth Jonas_ with the Spanish _San Felipe_, _San\nMatteo_, and _Our Lady of the Rosary_: the more practical thought with\neven deeper gloom of the dismal parsimony of the Queen, who dribbled out\nstores and powder so reluctantly, and dismissed her seamen at the least\nhint of delay.\n\nYet, little by little, as midsummer came and went, beacons were gathering\non every hill, ships were approaching efficiency, and troops assembling\nat Tilbury under the supremely incompetent command of Lord Leicester.\n\nAmong the smaller seaports on the south coast, Rye was one of the most\nactive and enthusiastic; the broad shallow bay was alive with\nfishing-boats, and the steep cobbled streets of the town were filled all\nday with a chattering exultant crowd, cheering every group of seamen that\npassed, and that spent long hours at the quay watching the busy life of\nthe ships, and predicting the great things that should fall when the\nSpaniards encountered the townsfolk, should the Armada survive Drake's\nonslaught further west.\n\nAbout July the twentieth more definite news began to arrive. At least\nonce a day a courier dashed in through the south-west gate, with news\nthat all must hold themselves ready to meet the enemy by the end of the\nmonth; labour grew more incessant and excitement more feverish.\n\nAbout six o'clock on the evening of the twenty-ninth, as a long row of\npowder barrels was in process of shipping down on the quay, the men who\nwere rolling them suddenly stopped and listened; the line of onlookers\npaused in their comments, and turned round. From the town above came an\noutburst of cries, followed by the crash of the alarm from the\nchurch-tower. In two minutes the quay was empty. Out of every passage\nthat gave on to the main street poured excited men and women, some\nhysterically laughing, some swearing, some silent and white as they ran.\nFor across the bay westwards, on a point beyond Winchelsea, in the still\nevening air rose up a stream of smoke shaped like a pine-tree, with a red\nsmouldering root; and immediately afterwards in answer the Ypres tower\nbehind the town was pouring out a thick drifting cloud that told to the\nwatchers on Folkestone cliffs that the dreaded and longed-for foe was in\nsight of England.\n\nThen the solemn hours of waiting began to pass. Every day and night there\nwere watchers, straining their eyes westwards in case the Armada should\nattempt to coast along England to force a landing anywhere, and\nsouthwards in case they should pass nearer the French coast on their way\nto join the Prince of Parma; but there was little to be seen over that\nwide ring of blue sea except single vessels, or now and again\nhalf-a-dozen in company, appearing and fading again on some unknown\nquest. The couriers that came in daily could not tell them much; only\nthat there had been indecisive engagements; that the Spaniards had not\nyet attempted a landing anywhere; and that it was supposed that they\nwould not do so until a union with the force in Flanders had been\neffected.\n\nAnd so four days of the following week passed; then on Thursday, August\nthe fourth, within an hour or two after sunrise, the solemn booming of\nguns began far away to the south-west; but the hours passed; and before\nnightfall all was silent again.\n\nThe suspense was terrible; all night long there were groups parading the\nstreets, anxiously conjecturing, now despondently, now cheerfully.\n\nThen once again on the Friday morning a sudden clamour broke out in the\ntown, and almost simultaneously a pinnace slipped out, spreading her\nwings and making for the open sea. A squadron of English ships had been\nsighted flying eastwards; and the pinnace was gone to get news. The ships\nwere watched anxiously by thousands of eyes, and boats put out all along\nthe coast to inquire; and within two or three hours the pinnace was back\nagain in Rye harbour, with news that set bells ringing and men shouting.\nOn Wednesday, the skipper reported, there had been an indecisive\nengagement during the dead calm that had prevailed in the Channel; a\ncouple of Spanish store-vessels had been taken on the following morning,\nand a general action had followed, which again had been indecisive; but\nin which the English had hardly suffered at all, while it was supposed\nthat great havoc had been wrought upon the enemy.\n\nBut the best of the news was that the Rye contingent was to set sail at\nonce, and unite with the English fleet westward of Calais by mid-day on\nSaturday. The squadron that had passed was under the command of the\nAdmiral himself, who was going to Dover for provisions and ammunition,\nand would return to his fleet before evening.\n\nBefore many hours were passed, Rye harbour was almost empty, and hundreds\nof eyes were watching the ships that carried their husbands and sons and\nlovers out into the pale summer haze that hung over the coast of France;\nwhile a few sharp-eyed old mariners on points of vantage muttered to one\nanother that in the haze there was a patch of white specks to be seen\nwhich betokened the presence of some vast fleet.\n\nThat night the sun set yellow and stormy, and by morning the\ncobble-stones of Rye were wet and dripping with storm-showers, and a\nswell was beginning to lap and sob against the harbour walls.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER II\n\n                         MEN OF WAR AND PEACE\n\n\nThe following days passed in terrible suspense for all left behind at\nRye. Every morning all the points of vantage were crowded; the Ypres\ntower itself was never deserted day or night; and all the sharpest eyes\nin the town were bent continually out over that leaden rolling sea that\nfaded into haze and storm-cloud in the direction of the French coast. But\nthere was nothing to be seen on that waste of waters but the single boats\nthat flew up channel or laboured down it against the squally west wind,\nfar out at sea. Once or twice fishing-boats put in at Rye; but their\nreports were so contradictory and uncertain that they increased rather\nthan allayed the suspense and misery. Now it was a French boat that\nreported the destruction of the _Triumph_; now an Englishman that swore\nto having seen Drake kill Medina-Sidonia with his own hand on his poop;\nbut whatever the news might be, the unrest and excitement ran higher and\nhigher. St. Clare's chapel in the old parish church of St. Nicholas was\ncrowded every morning at five o'clock by an excited congregation of\nwomen, who came to beg God's protection on their dear ones struggling out\nthere somewhere towards the dawn with those cruel Southern monsters.\nEspecially great was the crowd on the Tuesday morning following the\ndeparture of the ships; for all day on Monday from time to time came a\nfar-off rolling noise from the direction of Calais; which many declared\nto be thunder, with an angry emphasis that betrayed their real opinion.\n\nWhen they came out of church that morning, and were streaming down to the\nquay as usual to see if any news had come in during the night, a seaman\ncalled to them from a window that a French vessel was just entering the\nharbour.\n\nWhen the women arrived at the water's edge they found a good crowd\nalready assembled on the quay, watching the ship beat in against the\nnorth-west wind, which had now set in; but she aroused no particular\ncomment as she was a well-known boat plying between Boulogne and Rye; and\nby seven o'clock she was made fast to the quay.\n\nThere were the usual formalities, stricter than usual during war, to be\ngone through before the few passengers were allowed to land: but all was\nin order; the officers left the boat, and the passengers came up the\nplank, the crowd pressing forward as they came, and questioning them\neagerly. No, there was no certain news, said an Englishman at last, who\nlooked like a lawyer; it was said at Boulogne the night before that there\nhad been an engagement further up beyond the Straits; they had all heard\nguns; and it was reported by the last cruiser who came in before the boat\nleft that a Spanish galleasse had run aground and had been claimed by M.\nGourdain, the governor of Calais; but probably, added the shrewd-eyed\nman, that was just a piece of their dirty French pride. The crowd smiled\nruefully; and a French officer of the boat who was standing by the\ngangway scowled savagely, as the lawyer passed on with a demure face.\n\nThen there was a pause in the little stream of passengers; and then, out\nof the tiny door that led below decks, walking swiftly, and carrying a\nlong cloak over her arm, came Isabel Norris, in a grey travelling dress,\nfollowed by Anthony and a couple of servants. The crowd fell back for the\nlady, who passed straight up through them; but one or two of the men\ncalled out for news to Anthony. He shook his head cheerfully at them.\n\n\"I know no more than that gentleman,\" he said, nodding towards the\nlawyer; and then followed Isabel; and together they made their way up to\nthe inn.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAnthony was a good deal changed in the last six years; his beard and\nmoustache were well grown; and he had a new look of gravity in his brown\neyes; when he had smiled and shaken his head at the eager crowd just now,\nshowing his white regular teeth, he looked as young as ever; but the\nserious look fell on his face again, as he followed Isabel up the steep\nlittle cobbled slope in his buff dress and plumed hat.\n\nThere was not so much apparent change in Isabel; she was a shade graver\ntoo, her walk a little slower and more dignified, and her lips, a little\nthinner, had a line of strength in them that was new; and even now as she\nwas treading English ground again for the first time for six years, the\nlook of slight abstraction in her eyes that is often the sign of a strong\ninner life, was just a touch deeper than it used to be.\n\nThey went up together with scarcely a word; and asked for a private room\nand dinner in two hours' time; and a carriage and horses for the servants\nto be ready at noon. The landlord, who had met them at the door, shook\nhis head.\n\n\"The private room, sir, and the dinner--yes, sir--but the horses----\" and\nhe spread his hands out deprecatingly. \"There is not one in the stall,\"\nhe added.\n\nAnthony considered a moment.\n\n\"Well, what do you propose? We are willing to stay a day or two, if you\nthink that by then----\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said the landlord, \"to-morrow is another matter. I expect two of my\ncarriages home to-night, sir, from London; but the horses will not be\nable to travel till noon to-morrow.\"\n\n\"That will do,\" said Anthony; and he followed Isabel upstairs.\n\nIt was very strange to them both to be back in England after so long.\nThey had settled down at Douai with the Maxwells; but, almost immediately\non their arrival, Mistress Margaret was sent for by her Superior to the\nhouse of her Order at Brussels; and Lady Maxwell was left alone with\nIsabel in a house in the town; for Anthony was in the seminary.\n\nThen, in '86 Lady Maxwell had died, quite suddenly. Isabel herself had\nfound her at her prie-dieu in the morning, still in her evening dress;\nshe was leaning partly against the wall; her wrinkled old hands were\nclasped tightly together on a little ivory crucifix, on the top of the\ndesk; and her snow-white head, with the lace drooping from it like a\nbridal veil, was bowed below them. Isabel, who had not dared to move her,\nhad sent instantly for a little French doctor, who had thrown up his\nhands in a kind of devout ecstasy at that wonderful old figure, rigid in\nan eternal prayer. The two tall tapers she had lighted eight hours before\nwere still just alight beside her, and looked strange in the morning\nsunshine.\n\n\"Pendant ses oraisons! pendant ses oraisons!\" he murmured over and over\nagain; and then had fallen on his knees and kissed the drooping lace of\nher sleeve.\n\n\"Priez pour moi, madame,\" he whispered to the motionless figure.\n\nAnd so the old Catholic who had suffered so much had gone to her rest.\nThe fact that her son James had been living in the College during her\nfour years' stay at Douai had been perhaps the greatest possible\nconsolation to her for being obliged to be out of England; for she saw\nhim almost daily; and it was he who sang her Requiem. Isabel had then\ngone to live with other friends in Douai, until Anthony had been ordained\npriest in the June of '88, and was ready to take her to England; and now\nthe two were bound for Stanfield, where Anthony was to act as chaplain\nfor the present, as Mr. Buxton had predicted so long before. Old Mr.\nBlake had died in the spring of the year, still disapproving of his\npatron's liberal notions, and Mr. Buxton had immediately sent a special\nmessenger all the way to Douai to secure Anthony's services; and had\ninsisted moreover that Isabel should accompany her brother. They intended\nhowever to call at the Dower House on the way, which had been left under\nthe charge of old Mrs. Carroll; and renew the memories of their own dear\nhome.\n\nThey talked little at dinner; and only of general matters, their journey,\nthe Armada, their joy at getting home again; for they had been expressly\nwarned by their friends abroad against any indiscreet talk even when they\nthought themselves alone, and especially in the seaports, where so\nconstant a watch was kept for seminary priests. The presence of Isabel,\nhowever, was the greatest protection to Anthony; as it was almost unknown\nthat a priest should travel with any but male companions.\n\nThen suddenly, as they were ending dinner, a great clamour broke out in\nthe town below them; a gun was fired somewhere; and footsteps began to\nrush along the narrow street outside. Anthony ran to the window and\ncalled to know what was the matter; but no one paid any attention to him;\nand he presently sat down again in despair, and with one or two wistful\nlooks.\n\n\"I will go immediately,\" he said to Isabel, \"and bring you word.\"\n\nA moment after a servant burst into the room.\n\n\"It is a Spanish ship, sir,\" he said, \"a prize--rounding Dungeness.\"\n\nIn the afternoon, when the first fierce excitement was over, Anthony went\ndown to the quay. He did not particularly wish to attract attention, and\nso he kept himself in the background somewhat; but he had a good view of\nher as she lay moored just off the quay, especially when one of the town\nguard who had charge of the ropes that kept the crowd back, seeing a\ngentleman in the crowd, beckoned him through.\n\n\"Your honour will wish to see the prize?\" he said, in hopes of a trifle\nfor himself; \"make way there for the gentleman.\"\n\nAnthony thought it better under these circumstances to accept the\ninvitation, so he gave the man something, and slipped through. On the\nquay was a pile of plunder from the ship: a dozen chests carved and\nsteel-clamped stood together; half-a-dozen barrels of powder; the ship's\nbell rested amid a heap of rich clothes and hangings; a silver crucifix\nand a couple of lamps with their chains lay tumbled on one side; and a\nparson was examining a finely carved mahogany table that stood near.\n\nHe looked up at Anthony.\n\n\"For the church, sir,\" he said cheerfully. \"I shall make application to\nher Grace.\"\n\nAnthony smiled at him.\n\n\"A holy revenge, sir,\" he said.\n\nThe ship herself had once been a merchantman brig; so much Anthony could\ntell, though he knew little of seamanship; but she had been armed heavily\nwith deep bulwarks of timber, pierced for a dozen guns on each broadside.\nNow, however, she was in a terrible condition. The solid bulwarks were\nrent and shattered, as indeed was her whole hull; near the waterline were\nnailed sheets of lead, plainly in order to keep the water from entering\nthe shot-holes; she had only one mast; and that was splintered in more\nthan one place; a spar had been rigged up on to the stump of the\nbowsprit. The high poop such as distinguished the Spanish vessels was in\nthe same deplorable condition; as well as the figure-head, which\nrepresented a beardless man with a halo behind his head, and which bore\nthe marks of fierce hacks as well as of shot.\n\nAnthony read the name,--the _San Juan da Cabellas_.\n\nFrom the high quay too he could see down on to the middle decks, and\nthere was the most shocking sight of all, for the boards and the\nmast-stumps and the bulwarks and the ship's furniture were all alike\nsplashed with blood, some of the deeper pools not even yet dry. It was\nevident that the _San Juan_ had not yielded easily.\n\nPresently Anthony saw an officer approaching, and not wishing to be led\ninto conversation slipped away again through the crowd to take Isabel the\nnews.\n\nThe two remained quietly upstairs the rest of the afternoon, listening to\nthe singing and the shouting in the streets, and watching from their\nwindow the groups that swung and danced to and fro in joy at Rye's\ncontribution to the defeat of the invaders. When the dusk fell the noise\nwas louder than ever as the men began to drink more deep, and torches\nwere continually tossing up and down the steep cobbled streets; the din\nreached its climax about half-past nine, when the main body of the\nrevellers passed up towards the inn, and, as Anthony saw from the window,\nfinally entered through the archway below; and then all grew tolerably\nquiet. Presently Isabel said that she would go to bed, but just before\nshe left the room, the servant again came in.\n\n\"If you please, sir, Lieutenant Raxham, of the _Seahorse_, is telling the\ntale of the capture of the Spanish ship; and the landlord bid me come and\ntell you.\"\n\nAnthony glanced at Isabel, who nodded at him.\n\n\"Yes; go,\" she said, \"and come up and tell me the news afterwards, if it\nis not very late.\"\n\nWhen Anthony came downstairs he found to his annoyance that the place of\nhonour had been reserved for him in a tall chair next to the landlord's\nat the head of the table. The landlord rose to meet his guest.\n\n\"Sit here, sir,\" he said. \"I am glad you have come. And now, Mr.\nRaxham----\"\n\nAnthony looked about him with some dismay at this extreme publicity. The\nroom was full from end to end. They were chiefly soldiers who sat at the\ntable--heavy-looking rustics from Hawkhurst, Cranbrook and Appledore, in\nbrigantines and steel caps, who had been sent in by the magistrates to\nthe nearest seaport to assist in the defence of the coast--a few of them\nwore corselets with almain rivets and carried swords, while the\npike-heads of the others rose up here and there above the crowd. The rest\nof the room was filled with the townsmen of Rye--those who had been\nretained for the defence of the coast, as well as others who for any\nphysical reason could not serve by sea or land. There was an air of\nextraordinary excitement in the room. The faces of the most stolid were\ntransfigured, for they were gathered to hear of the struggle their own\ndear England was making; the sickening pause of those months of waiting\nhad ended at last; the huge southern monster had risen up over the edge\nof the sea, and the panting little country had flown at his throat and\ngrappled him; and now they were hearing the tale of how deep her fangs\nhad sunk.\n\nThe crowd laughed and applauded and drew its breath sharply, as one man;\nand the silence now and then was startling as the young officer told his\nstory; although he had few gifts of rhetoric, except a certain vivid\nvocabulary. He himself was a lad of eighteen or so, with a pleasant\nreckless face, now flushed with drink and excitement, and sparkling eyes;\nhe was seated in a chair upon the further end of the table, so that all\ncould hear his story; and he had a cup of huff-cup in his left hand as he\ntalked, leaving his right hand free to emphasise his points and slap his\nleg in a clumsy sort of oratory. His tale was full of little similes, at\nwhich his audience nodded their heads now and then, approvingly. He had\napparently already begun his story, for when Anthony had taken his seat\nand silence had been obtained, he went straight on without any further\nintroduction.\n\nThe landlord leaned over to Anthony. \"The _San Juan_,\" he whispered\nbehind his hot hairy hand, and nodded at him with meaning eyes.\n\n\"And every time they fired over us,\" went on the lieutenant, \"and we\nfired into them; and the only damage they did us was their muskets in the\ntops. They killed Tom Dane like that\"--there was a swift hiss of breath\nfrom the room; but the officer went straight on--\"shot him through the\nback as he bent over his gun; and wounded old Harry and a score more; but\nall the while, lads, we were a-pounding at them with the broadsides as we\ncame round, and raking them with the demi-cannon in the poop,\nuntil--well; go you and see the craft as she lies at the quay if you\nwould know what we did. I tell you, as we came at her once towards the\nend, I saw that she was bleeding through her scuppers like a pig, from\nthe middle deck. They were all packed up there together--sailors and\nsoldiers and a priest or two; and scarce a ball could pass between the\npoop and the forecastle without touching flesh.\"\n\nThe lad stopped a moment and took a pull at his cup, and a murmur of talk\nbroke out in the room. Anthony was surprised at his accent and manner of\nspeaking, and heard afterwards that he was the son of the parson at one\nof the inland villages, and had had an education. In a moment he went on.\n\n\"Well--it would be about noon, just before the Admiral came up from\nCalais, that the old _Seahorse_ was lost. We came at the dons again as we\nhad done before, only closer than ever; and just as the captain gave the\nword to put her about, a ball from one of their guns which they had\ntrained down on us, cut old Dick Kemp in half at the helm, and broke the\ntiller to splinters.\"\n\n\"Old Dick?\" said a man's voice out of the reeking crowd, \"Old Dick?\"\n\nThere was a murmur round him, bidding him hold his tongue; and the lad\nwent on.\n\n\"Well, we drifted nearer and nearer. There was nought to do but to bang\nat them; and that we did, by God--and to board her if we touched. Well, I\nworked my saker, and saw little else--for the smoke was like a black\nsea-fog; and the noise fit to crack your ears. Mine sing yet with it; the\ncaptain was bawling from the poop, and there were a dozen pikemen ready\nbelow; and then on a sudden came the crash; and I looked up and there was\nthe Spaniards' decks above us, and the poop like a tower, with a grinning\ndon or two looking down; and there was I looking up the muzzle of a\nculverin. I skipped towards the poop, shouting to the men; and the dons\nfired their broadside as I went.--God save us from that din! But I knew\nthe old _Seahorse_ was done this time--the old ship lurched and shook as\nthe balls tore through her and broke her back; and there was such a yell\nas you'll never hear this side of hell. Well--I was on the poop by now,\nand the men after me; for you see the poop of the _Seahorse_ was as high\nas the middle deck of the Spaniard, and we must board from there or not\nat all. Well, lads, there was the captain before me. He had fought cool\ntill then, as cool as a parson among his roses, with never an oath from\nhis mouth--but now he was as scarlet as a poppy, and his eyes were like\nblue fire, and his mouth jabbered and foamed; he was so hot, you see, at\nthe loss of his ship. He was dancing to and fro waiting while the poop\nswung round on the tide; and the old craft plunged deeper in every wave\nthat lifted her, but he cared no more for that nor for the musket-balls\nfrom the tops, nor for the brown grinning devils who shook their pikes at\nhim from the decks, than--than a mad dog cares for a shower of leaves;\nbut he stamped there and cursed them and damned them as they laughed at\nhim; and then in a moment the poop touched.\n\n\"Well, lads--\" and the lieutenant set his cup down on the table, clapped\nhis hands on his knees, laughed shortly and nervously once or twice, and\nlooked round. \"Well, lads, I have never seen the like. The captain went\nfor them like a wild cat; one step on the rail and the next among them;\nand was gone like a stone into water\"--and the lad clapped his hand on\nhis thigh. \"I saw one face slit up from chin to eye; and another split\nacross like an apple; and then we were after him. The men were mad,\ntoo--what was left of us; and we poured up on to the decks and left the\nold _Seahorse_ to die. Well, we had our work before us--but it was no\ngood. The dons could do nothing; I was after the captain as he went\nthrough the pack and came out just behind him; there were half a dozen of\nthem down now; and the noise and the foreign oaths went up like smoke;\nand the captain himself was bleeding down one side of his face and\ngrunting as he cut and stabbed; and I had had a knife through the arm;\nbut he went up on to the poop; and as I followed, the Spaniards broke and\nthrew down their arms--they saw 'twas no use, you see. When we reached\nthe poop-stairs an officer in a blue coat came forward jabbering some\njargon; but the captain would have no parley with him, but flung his dag\nclean into the man's face, and over he went backwards--with his damned\nhigh heels in the air.\"\n\nThere was a sudden murmur of laughter from the room; Anthony glanced off\nthe lieutenant's grinning ruddy face for a moment, and saw the rows of\nlistening faces all wrinkled with mirth.\n\n\"Well,\" went on the lad, \"up went the captain, and I after him. Then\nthere came across the deck, very slow and stately, the Spanish captain\nhimself, in a fine laced coat and a plumed hat, and he was holding out\nhis sword by the blade and bowed as we ran towards him, and began some\ndamned foreign nonsense, with his _Se\u00f1or_--but the captain would have\nnone o' that, I tell you he was like Tom o' Bedlam now--so as the Se\u00f1or\ngrinned at him with his monkey face and bowed and wagged, the captain\nfetched him a slash across the cheek with his sword that cut up into his\nhead; and that don went spinning across the poop like a morris-man and\nbrought up against the rail, and then down he came,\" and the lad dashed\nhis hand on his thigh again--\"as dead as mutton.\"\n\nAgain came a louder gust of laughter from the room. Anthony half rose in\nhis chair, and then sat down again.\n\n\"Well,\" said the lad, \"and that was not all. Down he raged again to the\ndecks and I behind him--I tell you, it was like a butcher's shop--but it\nwas quieter now--the fighting was over--and the Spaniards were all run\nbelow, except half-a-dozen in the tops; looking down like young rooks at\nan archer. There had been a popish priest too with his crucifix in one\nhand and his god-almighty in the other, over a dying man as we came up;\nbut as we came down there he lay in his black gown with a hole through\nhis heart and his crucifix gone. One of the lads had got it no doubt.\nWell, the captain brought up at the main mast. 'God's blood,' he bawled,\n'where are the brown devils got to?' Some one told him, and pointed down\nthe hatch. Well, then I turned sick with my wound and the smell of the\nplace and all; and I knew nothing more till I found myself sitting on a\ndead don, with the captain holding me up and pouring a cordial down my\nthroat.\"\n\nThen talk and laughter broke out in the audience; but the landlord held\nup his hand for silence.\n\n\"And what of the others?\" he shouted.\n\n\"Dead meat too,\" said the lad--\"the captain went down with a dozen or\nmore and hunted them out and finished them. There was one, Dick told me\nafterwards,\" and the lieutenant gave a cackle of mirth, \"that they hunted\ntwice round the ship before he jumped over yelling to some popish saint\nto help him; but it seems he was deaf, like the old Baal that parson\ntells of o' Sundays. The dirty swine to run like that! Well, he's got his\nbellyful now of the salt water that he came so far to see. And then the\ncaptain with his own hands trained a robinet that was on the poop on to\nthe tops; and down the birds came, one by one; for their powder up there\nwas all shot off.\"\n\n\"And the _Seahorse_?\" said the landlord again.\n\nThere fell a dead silence: all in the room knew that the ship was lost,\nbut it was terrible to hear it again. The lad's face broke into lines of\ngrief, and he spoke huskily.\n\n\"Gone down with the dead and wounded; and the rest of the fleet a mile\naway.\"\n\nThen the lieutenant went on to describe how he himself had been deputed\nto bring the _San Juan_ into port with the wounded on board, while the\ncaptain and the rest of the crew by Drake's orders attached themselves to\nvarious vessels that were short-handed, and how the English fleet had\nfollowed what was left of the Spaniards when the fight ended at sunset,\nup towards the North Sea.\n\nWhen he finished his story there was a tremendous outburst of cheering\nand hammering upon the table, and the feet and the pike-butts thundered\non the floor, and a name was cried again and again as the cups were\nemptied.\n\n\"God save her Grace and old England!\" yelled a slim smooth-faced archer\nfrom Appledore.\n\n\"God send the dons and all her foes to hell!\" roared a burly pikeman with\nhis cup in the air. Then the room shook again as the toasts were drunk\nwith applauding feet and hands.\n\nAnthony turned to the landlord, who had just ceased thumping with his\ngreat red fists on the table.\n\n\"What was the captain's name?\" he asked, when a slight lull came.\n\n\"Maxwell,\" said the crimson-faced man. \"Hubert Maxwell--one of Drake's\nown men.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nWhen Anthony came upstairs he heard his name called through the door, and\nwent in to Isabel's room to find her sitting up in bed in the gloom of\nthe summer night; the party below had broken up, and all was quiet except\nfor the far-off shouts and hoots of cheerful laughter from the dispersing\ngroups down among the narrow streets.\n\n\"Well?\" she said, as he came in and stood in the doorway.\n\n\"It is just the story of the prize,\" he said, \"and it seems that Hubert\nhad the taking of it.\"\n\nThere was silence a moment. Anthony could see her face, a motionless pale\noutline, and her arms clasped round her knees as she sat up in bed.\n\n\"Hubert?\" she asked in an even voice.\n\n\"Yes, Hubert.\"\n\nThere was silence a moment.\n\n\"Well?\" she said again.\n\n\"He is safe,\" said Anthony, \"and fought gallantly. I will tell you more\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Isabel softly; and then lay down again.\n\n\"Good-night, Anthony.\"\n\n\"Good-night.\"\n\nBut Anthony dared not tell her the details next day, after all.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThere was still a difficulty about the horses; they had not arrived until\nthe Wednesday morning, and were greatly exhausted by a long and\ntroublesome journey; so the travellers consented to postpone their\njourney for yet one more day. The weather, which had been thickening,\ngrew heavier still in the afternoon, and great banks of clouds were\nrising out of the west. Anthony started out about four o'clock for a walk\nalong the coast; and, making a long round in the direction of Lydd, did\nnot finally return until about seven. As he came in at the north-east of\nthe town he noticed how empty the streets were, and passed on down in the\ndirection of the quay. As he turned down the steep street into the\nharbour groups began to pour up past him, laughing and exclaiming; and in\na moment more came Isabel walking alone. He looked at her anxiously, for\nhe saw something had happened. Her quiet face was lit up with some\ninterior emotion, and her mouth was trembling.\n\n\"The Armada is routed,\" she said; \"and I have seen Hubert.\"\n\nThe two turned back together and walked silently up to the inn. There she\ntold him the story. She had been told that Captain Maxwell was come in\nthe _Elizabeth_, for provisions for Lord Howard Seymour's squadron, to\nwhich his new command was attached; and that he was even now in harbour.\nAt that she had gone straight down alone.\n\n\"Oh, Anthony!\" she cried, \"you know how it is with me. I could not help\nit. I am not ashamed of it. God Almighty knows all, and is not wrath with\nme. So I went down and was in the crowd as he came down again with the\nmayor, Mr. Hamon; we all made way for them, and the men cheered\nthemselves scarlet; but he came down cool and quiet; you know his\nway--with his eyes half shut; and--and--he was so brown; and he looks\nsad--and he had a great plaister on the left temple. And then he saw me.\"\n\nIsabel sprang up, and came up to Anthony and took his hands. \"Oh!\nAnthony; I was very happy then; because he took off his cap and bowed;\nand his face was all lighted; and he took my hand and kissed it--and then\nmade Mr. Hamon known to me. The crowd laughed and said things--but I did\nnot care; and he soon silenced them, he looked round so fiercely; and\nthen I went on board with him--he would have it so--and he showed us\neverything--and we sat a little in the cabin; and he told me of his wife\nand child. She is the daughter of a Plymouth minister; he knew her when\nhe was with Drake; and he told me all about her, so you see----\" Isabel\nbroke off; and sat down in the high window seat. \"And then he asked me\nabout you; and I said you were here; and that we were going to stay a\nlittle while with Mr. Buxton of Stanfield--you see I knew we could trust\nhim; and Mr. Hamon was in the passage just then looking at the guns; and\nthen a sailor came in to say that all was ready; and so we came away. But\nit was so good to see him again; and to know that he was so happy.\"\n\nAnthony looked at his sister in astonishment; her quiet manner was gone,\nand she was talking again almost like an excited child; and so happily.\nIt was very strange, he thought. He sat down beside her.\n\n\"Oh, Anthony!\" she said, \"do you understand? I love him dearly still; and\nhis wife and child too. God bless them all and keep them!\"\n\nThe mystery was still deep to him; and he feared to say what he should\nnot; so he kissed Isabel silently; and the two sat there together and\nlooked out over the crowding red roofs to the glowing western sky across\nthe bay below them.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER III\n\n                             HOME-COMING\n\n\nIt was a stormy summer evening as the brother and sister rode up between\nthe last long hills that led to Great Keynes. A south-west wind had been\nrising all day, that same wind that was now driving the ruined Armada up\ninto the fierce North Sea, with the fiercer men behind to bar the return.\nBut here, twenty miles inland, with the high south-downs to break the\ngale, the riders were in comparative quiet, though the great trees\noverhead tossed their heavy rustling heads as the gusts struck them now\nand again.\n\nThe party had turned off, as the dusk was falling, from the main-road\ninto bridle-paths that they knew well, and were now approaching the\nvillage through the water meadows on the south-east side along a ride\nthat would bring them, round the village, direct to the Dower House. In\nthe gloom Anthony could make out the tall reeds, and the loosestrife and\nwillowherb against them, that marked the course of the stream where he\nhad caught trout, as a boy; and against the western sky, as he turned in\nhis saddle, rose up the high windy hills where he had hawked with Hubert\nso many years before. It was a strange thought to him as he rode along\nthat his very presence here in his own country was an act of high treason\nby the law lately passed, and that every day he lived here must be a day\nof danger.\n\nFor Isabel, too, it was strange to be riding up again towards the\nbattlefield of her desires--that battlefield where she had lived for\nyears in such childish faith and peace without a suspicion of the forces\nthat were lurking beneath her own quiet nature. But to both of them the\nsense of home-coming was stronger than all else--that strange passion for\na particular set of inanimate things--or, at the most, for an association\nof ideas--that has no parallel in human emotions; and as they rode up the\ndarkening valley and the lights of the high windows of the Hall began to\nshow over the trees on their right, Anthony forgot his treason and Isabel\nher conflicts, and both felt a lump rise in the throat, and their hearts\nbegin to beat quicker with a strange pleasurable pulse, and to Isabel's\neyes at least there rose up great tears of happiness and content; neither\ndared speak, but both looked eagerly about at the pool where the Mayflies\nused to dance, at the knoll where the pigeons nested, at the little low\nbridge beneath which their inch-long boats used to slide sideways into\ndarkness, and the broad marshy flats where the gorgeous irises grew.\n\n\"How the trees have grown!\" said Anthony at last, with an effort; \"I\ncannot see the lights from the house.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Carroll will have made ready the first-floor rooms then, on the\nsouth.\"\n\n\"I am sorry they are not our own,\" said Anthony.\n\n\"Ah, look! there is the dovecote,\" cried Isabel.\n\nThey were passing up now behind the farm buildings; and directly\nafterwards came round in front of the little walled garden to the west of\nthe house.\n\nThere was a sudden exclamation from Anthony; and Isabel stared in silent\ndismay. The old house rose up before them with its rows of square windows\nagainst the night sky, dark. There was not a glimmer anywhere; even Mrs.\nCarroll's own room on the south was dark. They reined their horses in and\nstood a moment.\n\n\"Oh, Anthony, Anthony!\" cried Isabel suddenly, \"what is it? Is there no\none there?\"\n\nAnthony shook his head; and then put his tired beast to a shambling trot\nwith Isabel silent again with weariness and disappointment behind him.\nThey passed along outside the low wall, turned the corner of the house\nand drew up at the odd little doorway in the angle at the back of the\nhouse. The servants had drawn up behind them, and now pressed up to hold\ntheir horses; and the brother and sister slipped off and went towards the\ndoor. Anthony passed under the little open porch and put his hand out to\nthe door; it was quite dark underneath the porch, and he felt further and\nfurther, and yet there was no door; his foot struck the step. He felt his\nway to the doorposts and groped for the door; but still there was none;\nhe could feel the panelling of the lobby inside the doorway, and that was\nall. He drew back, as one would draw back from a dead face on which one\nhad laid a hand in the dark.\n\n\"Oh, Anthony!\" said Isabel again, \"what is it?\" She was still outside.\n\n\"Have you a light?\" said Anthony hoarsely to the servants.\n\nThe man nearest him bent and fumbled in the saddle-bags, and after what\nseemed an interminable while kindled a little bent taper and handed it to\nhim. As he went towards the porch shading it with his hand, Isabel sprang\npast him and went before; and then, as the light fell through the\ndoorway, stopped in dead and bewildered silence.\n\nThe door was lying on the floor within, shattered and splintered.\n\nAnthony stepped beside her, and she turned and clung to his arm, and a\nsob or two made itself heard. Then they looked about them. The banisters\nabove them were smashed, and like a cataract, down the stairs lay a\nconfused heap of crockery, torn embroidery and clothes, books, and broken\nfurniture.\n\nAnthony's hand shook so much that the shadows of the broken banisters\nwaved on the wall above like thin exulting dancers.\n\nSuddenly Anthony started.\n\n\"Mrs. Carroll,\" he exclaimed, and he darted upstairs past the ruins into\nher two rooms halfway up the flight; and in a minute or two was back with\nIsabel.\n\n\"She has escaped,\" he said in a low voice; and then the two stood looking\nabout them silently again. The door leading to the cellars on the left\nwas broken too; and fragments of casks and bottles lay about the steps;\nthe white wall was splashed with drink, and there was a smell of spirits\nin the air. Evidently the stormers had thought themselves worthy of their\nhire.\n\n\"Come,\" he said again; and leaving the entrance lobby, the two passed to\nthe hall-door and pushed that open and looked. There was the same furious\nconfusion there; the tapestry was lying tumbled and rent on the\nfloor--the high oak mantelpiece was shattered, and doleful cracks and\nsplinters in the panelling all round showed how mad the attack had been;\none of the pillars of the further archway was broken clean off, and the\nbrickwork showed behind; the pictures had been smashed and added to the\nheap of wrecked furniture and broken glass in the middle.\n\n\"Come,\" he said once more; and the two passed silently through the broken\narchway, and going up the other flight of stairs, gradually made the\nround of the house. Everywhere it was the same, except in the servants'\nattics, where, apparently, the mob had not thought it worth while to go.\n\nIsabel's own room was the most pitiable of all; the windows had only the\nleaden frames left, and those bent and battered; the delicate panelling\nwas scarred and split by the shower of stones that had poured in through\nthe window and that now lay in all parts of the room. A painting of her\nmother that had hung over her bed was now lying face downwards on the\nfloor. Isabel turned it over silently; a stone had gone through the face;\nand it had been apparently slit too by some sharp instrument. Even the\nslender oak bed was smashed in the centre, as if half a dozen men had\njumped upon it at once; and the little prie-dieu near the window had been\ndeliberately hacked in half. Isabel looked at it all with wide startled\neyes and parted lips; and then suddenly sank down on the wrecked bed\nwhere she had hoped to sleep that night, and began to sob like a child.\n\n\"Ah! I did think--I did think----\" she began.\n\nAnthony stooped and tried to lift her.\n\n\"Come, my darling,\" he said, \"is not this a high honour? _Qui relinquit\ndomos!_\"\n\n\"Oh! why have they done it?\" sobbed Isabel. \"What harm have we done\nthem?\" and she began to wail. She was thoroughly over-tired and\nover-wrought; and Anthony could not find it in his heart to blame her;\nbut he spoke again bravely.\n\n\"We are Catholics,\" he said; \"that is why they have done it. Do not throw\naway this grace that our Lord has given us; embrace it and make it\nyours.\"\n\nIt was the priest that was speaking now; and Isabel turned her face and\nlooked at him; and then got up and hid her face on his shoulder.\n\n\"Oh, Anthony, help me!\" she said; and so stood there, quiet.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nHe came down presently to the servants, while Isabel went upstairs to\nprepare the rooms in the attics; for it was impossible for them to ride\nfurther that night; so they settled to sleep there, and stable the\nhorses; and to ride on early the next day, and be out of the village\nbefore the folks were about. Anthony gave directions to the servants, who\nwere Catholics too, and explained in a word or two what had happened; and\nbade them come up to the house as soon as they had fed and watered the\nbeasts; meanwhile he took the saddle-bags indoors and spread out their\nremaining provisions in one of the downstairs rooms; and soon Isabel\njoined him.\n\n\"I have made up five beds,\" she said, and her voice and lips were steady,\nand her eyes grave and serene again.\n\nThe five supped together in the wrecked kitchen, a fine room on the east\nof the house, supported by a great oak pillar to which the horses of\nguests were sometimes attached when the stable was full.\n\nIsabel managed to make a fire and to boil some soup; but they hung thick\ncurtains across the shattered windows, and quenched the fire as soon as\nthe soup was made, for fear that either the light or the smoke from the\nchimney should arouse attention.\n\nWhen supper was over, and the two men-servants and Isabel's French maid\nwere washing up in the scullery, Isabel suddenly turned to Anthony as\nthey sat together near the fireplace.\n\n\"I had forgotten,\" she said, \"what we arranged as we rode up. I must go\nand tell her still.\"\n\nAnthony looked at her steadily a moment.\n\n\"God keep you,\" he said.\n\nShe kissed him and took her riding-cloak, drew the hood over her head,\nand went out into the dark.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nIt was with the keenest relief that, half an hour later, Anthony heard\nher footstep again in the red-tiled hall outside. The servants were gone\nupstairs by now, and the house was quiet. She came in, and sat by him\nagain and took his hand.\n\n\"Thank God I went,\" she said. \"I have left her so happy.\"\n\n\"Tell me all,\" said Anthony.\n\n\"I went through the garden,\" said Isabel, \"but came round to the front of\nthe house so that they might not think I came from here. When the servant\ncame to the door--he was a stranger, and a Protestant no doubt--I said at\nonce that I brought news of Mr. Maxwell from Rye; and he took me straight\nin and asked me to come in while he fetched her woman. Then her woman\ncame out and took me upstairs, up into Lady Maxwell's old room; and there\nshe was lying in bed under the great canopy. Oh, Anthony, she is so\npretty! her golden hair was lying out all over the pillow, and her face\nis so sweet. She cried out when I came in, and lifted herself on her\nelbow; so I just said at once, 'He is safe and well'; and then she went\noff into sobs and laughter; so that I had to go and soothe her--her woman\nwas so foolish and helpless; and very soon she was quiet: and then she\ncalled me her darling, and she kissed me again and again; and told the\nwoman to go and leave us together; and then she lifted the sheet; and\nshowed me the face of a little child. Oh Anthony; Hubert's child and\nhers, the second, born on Tuesday--only think of that. 'Mercy, I was\ngoing to call her,' she said, 'if I had not heard by to-morrow, but now I\nshall call her Victory.'\"\n\nAnthony looked quickly at his sister, with a faint smile in his eyes.\n\n\"And what did you say?\" he asked.\n\nIsabel smiled outright; but her eyes were bright with tears too.\n\n\"'You have guessed,' she said. 'Yes,' I said, 'call her Mercy all the\nsame,' and she kissed me again, and cried, and said that she would. And\nthen I told her all about Hubert; and about his little wound; and how\nwell he looked; and how all the fighting was most likely over; and what\nhis cabin looked like. And then she suddenly guessed who I was, and asked\nme; and I could not deny it, you know; but she promised not to tell. Then\nshe told me all about the house here; and how she was afraid Hubert had\nsaid something impatient about people who go to foreign parts and leave\ntheir country to be attacked, 'But you know he did not really mean it,'\nshe said; and of course he did not. Well, the people had remembered that,\nand it spread and spread; and when the news of the Armada came last week,\na mob came over from East Grinsted, and they sat drinking and drinking in\nthe village; and of course Grace could not go out to them; and all the\nold people are gone, and the Catholics on the estate--and so at last they\nall came out roaring and shouting down the drive, and Mrs. Carroll was\nwarned and slipped out to the Hall; and she is now gone to Stanfield to\nwait for us--and then the crowd broke into the house--but, oh Anthony,\nGrace was so sorry, and cried sore to think of us here; and asked us to\ncome and stay there; but of course I told her we could not: and then I\nsaid a prayer for her; and we kissed one another again; and then I came\naway.\"\n\nAnthony looked at his sister, and there was honour and pride of her in\nhis eyes.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe ride to Stanfield next day was a long affair, at a foot's-pace all\nthe way: the horses were thoroughly tired with their journey, and they\nwere obliged to start soon after three o'clock in the morning after a\nvery insufficient rest; they did not reach Groombridge till nearly ten\no'clock, when they dined, and then rode on towards Tonbridge about noon.\nThere were heavy hearts to be carried as well. The attempt to welcome the\nmisery of their home-coming was a bitter effort; all the more bitter for\nthat it was an entirely unexpected call upon them. During those six years\nabroad probably not a day had passed without visions of Great Keynes, and\nthe pleasant and familiar rooms and garden of their own house, and mental\nrehearsals of their return. The shock of the night before too had been\nemphasised by the horror of the cold morning light creeping through the\nempty windows on to the cruel heaps within. The garden too, seen in the\ndim morning, with its trampled lawns and wrecked flower-beds heaped with\nwithered sunflowers, bell-blossoms and all the rich August growth, with\nthe earthen flower-bowls smashed, the stone balls on the gate overturned,\nand the laurels at the corner uprooted--all this was a horrible pain to\nIsabel, to whom the garden was very near as dear and familiar as her own\nroom. So it was a silent and sorrowful ride; and Anthony's heart rose in\nrelief as at last up the grey village-street he saw the crowded roofs of\nStanfield Place rise over the churchyard wall.\n\nTheir welcome from Mr. Buxton went far to compensate for all.\n\n\"My dear boy,\" he said, \"or, my dear father, as I should call you in\nprivate, you do not know what happiness is mine to-day. It is a great\nthing to have a priest again; but, if you will allow me to say so, it is\na greater to have my friend--and what a sister you have upstairs!\"\n\nThey were in Mr. Buxton's own little room on the ground-floor, and Isabel\nhad gone to rest until supper.\n\nAnthony told him of the grim surprise that had awaited them at Great\nKeynes. \"So you must forgive my sister if she is a little sad.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Mr. Buxton, \"I had heard from Mrs. Carroll last night\nwhen she arrived here. But there was no time to warn you. I had expected\nyou to-day, though Mrs. Carroll did not.\"\n\n(Anthony had sent a man straight from Rye to Stanfield.)\n\n\"But Mistress Isabel, as I shall venture to call her, must do what she\ncan with this house and garden. I need not say how wholly it is hers. And\nI shall call you Anthony,\" he added--\"in public, at least. And, for\nstrangers, you are just here as my guest; and you shall be called\nCapell--a sound name; and you shall be Catholics too; though you are no\npriest, of course, in public--and you have returned from the Continent. I\nhold it is no use to lie when you can be found out. I do not know what\nyour conscience is, Father Anthony; but, for myself, I count us Catholics\nto be _in statu belli_ now; and therefore I shall lie frankly and fully\nwhen there is need; and you may do as you please. Old Mr. Blake used to\nbid me prevaricate instead; but that always seemed to me two lies instead\nof one--one to the questioning party and the other to myself; and so I\nalways said to him, but he would not have it so. I wondered he did not\ntell me that two negatives made an affirmative; but he was not clever\nenough, the good father. So my own custom is to tell one plain lie when\nneeded, and shame the devil.\"\n\nIt was pleasant to Anthony to hear his friend talk again, and he said so.\nHis host's face softened into a great tenderness.\n\n\"Dear lad, I know what you mean. Please God you may find this a happy\nhome.\"\n\nA couple of hours later, when Anthony and Isabel came down together from\ntheir rooms in the old wing, they found Mr. Buxton in his black satin and\nlace in the beautiful withdrawing-room on the ground-floor. It was\nalready past the supper-hour, but their host showed no signs of going\ninto the hall. At last he apologised.\n\n\"I ask your pardon, Mistress Isabel; but I have a guest come to stay with\nme, who only arrived an hour ago; and she is a great lady and must have\nher time. Ah! here she is.\"\n\nThe door was flung open and a radiant vision appeared. The door was a\nlittle way off, and there were no candles near it; but there swelled and\nrustled into the room a figure all in blue and gold, with a white\ndelicate ruff; and diamond buckles shone beneath the rich brocaded\npetticoat. Above rose a white bosom and throat scintillating with\ndiamonds, and a flushed face with scarlet lips, all crowned by piles of\nblack hair, with black dancing eyes beneath. Still a little in the shadow\nthis splendid figure swept down with a great curtsey, which Isabel met by\nanother, while the two gentlemen bowed low; and then, as the stranger\nswayed up again into the full light of the sconces, Anthony recognised\nMary Corbet.\n\nHe stood irresolute with happy hesitation; and she came up smiling\nbrilliantly; and before he could stay her dropped down on one knee and\ntook his hand and kissed it; just as the man left the room.\n\n\"God bless you, Father Anthony!\" she said; and as he looked at her, as\nshe glanced up, he could not tell whether her eyes shone with tears or\nlaughter.\n\n\"This is very charming and proper, Mistress Corbet, and like a true\ndaughter of the Church,\" put in Mr. Buxton, \"but I shall be obliged to\nyou if you will not in future kiss priests' hands nor call them Father in\nthe presence of the servants--at least not in my house.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" she said, \"you were always prudent. Have you seen his secret\ndoors?\" she went on to Anthony. \"The entire Catholic Church might play\nhare and hounds with the Holy Father as huntsman and the Cardinals as the\nwhips, through Mr. Buxton's secret labyrinths.\"\n\n\"Wait until you are hare, and it is other than Holy Church that is\na-hunting,\" said Mr. Buxton, \"and you will thank God for my labyrinths,\nas you call them.\"\n\nThen she greeted Isabel with great warmth.\n\n\"Why, my dear,\" she said, \"you are not the little Puritan maiden any\nlonger. We must have a long talk to-night; and you shall tell me\neverything.\"\n\n\"Mistress Mary is not so greatly changed,\" said Isabel, smiling. \"She\nalways would be told everything.\"\n\nIt was strange to Anthony to meet Mary again after so long, and to find\nher so little changed, as Isabel had said truly. He himself had passed\nthrough so much since they had last met at Greenwich over six years\nago--his conversion, his foreign sojourn, and, above all, the bewildering\nand intoxicating sweetness of his ordination and priestly life. And yet\nhe felt as close to Mary as ever, knit in a bond of wonderful good\nfellowship and brotherhood such as he had never felt to any other in just\nthat kind and degree. He watched her, warm and content, as she talked\nacross the polished oak and beneath the gleam of the candles; and\nlistened, charmed by her air and her talk.\n\n\"There is not so much news of her Grace,\" she said, \"save that she is\nturning soldier in her old age. She rode out to Tilbury, you know, the\nother day, in steel cuirass and scarlet; out to see her dear Robin and\nthe army; and her royal face was all smiles and becks, and lord! how the\nsoldiers cheered! But if you had seen her as I did, in her room when she\nfirst buckled on her armour, and the joints did not fit--yes, and heard\nher! there were no smiles to spare then. She lodged at Mr. Rich's, you\nknow, two nights; but he would be Mr. Poor, I should suppose, by the time\nher Grace left him; for he will not see the worth of a shoelace again of\nall that he expended on her.\"\n\n\"You see,\" remarked Mr. Buxton to Isabel, \"how fortunate we are in having\nsuch a friend of her Grace's with us. We hear all the cream of the news,\neven though it be a trifle sour sometimes.\"\n\n\"A lover of her Grace,\" said Mary, \"loves the truth about her, however\nbitter. But then I have no secret passages where I may hide from my\nsovereign!\"\n\n\"The cream can scarce be but sour,\" said Anthony, \"near her Grace: there\nis so much thunder in the air.\"\n\n\"Yes, but the sun came out when you were there, Anthony,\" put in Isabel,\nsmiling.\n\n\"But even the light of her glorious countenance is trying,\" said Mary.\n\"She is overpowering in thunder and sunshine alike.\"\n\n\"We have had enough of that metaphor,\" observed Mr. Buxton.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThen Anthony had to talk, and tell all the foreign news of Douai and Rome\nand Cardinal Allen; and of Father Persons' scheme for a college at\nValladolid.\n\n\"Father Robert is a superb beggar--as he is superb in all things,\" said\nMr. Buxton. \"I dare not think how much he got from me for his college;\nand then I do not even approve of his college. His principles are too\nlogical for me. I have ever had a weakness for the _non sequitur_.\"\n\nThis led on to the Armada; Anthony told his experience of it; how he had\nseen at least the sails of Lord Howard's squadron far away against the\ndawn; and this led on again to a sharp discussion when the servants had\nleft the room.\n\n\"I do not know,\" said Mary at last; \"it is difficult--is not the choice\nbetween God and Elizabeth? If I were a man, why should I not take up arms\nto defend my religion? Since I am a woman, why should I not pray for\nPhilip's success? It is a bitter hard choice, I know; but why need I\nprefer my country to my faith? Tell me that, Father Anthony.\"\n\n\"I can only tell you my private opinion,\" said Anthony, \"and that is,\nthat both duties may be done. As Mr. Buxton here used to tell me, the\nduty to C\u00e6sar is as real as the duty to God. A man is bound to both; for\neach has its proper bounds. When either oversteps them it must be\nresisted. When Elizabeth bids me deny my faith, I tell her I would sooner\ndie. When a priest bids me deny my country, I tell him I would sooner be\ndamned.\"\n\nMary clapped her hands.\n\n\"I like to hear a man talk like that,\" she cried. \"But what of the Holy\nFather and his excommunication of her Grace?\"\n\nAnthony looked up at her sharply, and then smiled; Isabel watched him\nwith a troubled face.\n\n\"Aquinas holds,\" he said, \"that an excommunication of sovereign and\npeople in a lump is invalid. And until the Holy Father tells me himself\nthat Aquinas is wrong, I shall continue to think he is right.\"\n\n\"God-a-mercy!\" burst in Mr. Buxton, \"what a to-do! Leave it alone until\nthe choice must be made; and meanwhile say your prayers for Pope and\nQueen too, and hear mass and tell your beads and hold your tongue: that\nis what I say to myself. Mistress Mary, I will not have my chaplain\nheckled; here is his lady sister all a-tremble between heresy and\ntreason.\"\n\nThey sat long over the supper-table, talking over the last six years and\nthe times generally. More than once Mary showed a strange bitterness\nagainst the Queen. At last Mr. Buxton showed his astonishment plainly.\n\n\"I do not understand you,\" he said. \"I know that at heart you are loyal;\nand yet one might say you meditated her murder.\"\n\nMary's face grew white with passion and her eyes blazed.\n\n\"Ah!\" she hissed, \"you do not understand, you say? Then where is your\nheart? But then you did not see Mary Stuart die.\"\n\nAnthony looked at her, amazed.\n\n\"And you did, Mistress Mary?\" he asked.\n\nMary bowed, with her lips set tight to check their trembling.\n\n\"I will tell you,\" she said, \"if our host permits\"; and she glanced at\nhim.\n\n\"Then come this way,\" he said, and they rose from table.\n\nThey went back again to the withdrawing-room; a little cedar-fire had\nbeen kindled under the wide chimney; and the room was full of dancing\nshadows. The great plaster-pendants, the roses, the crowns, and the\nportcullises on the ceiling seemed to waver in the firelight, for Mr.\nBuxton at a sign from Mary blew out the four tapers that were burning in\nthe sconces. They all sat down in the chairs that were set round the\nfire, Mary in a tall porter's chair with flaps that threw a shadow on her\nface when she leaned back; and she took a fan in her hand to keep the\nfire, or her friends' eyes, from her face should she need it.\n\nShe first told them very briefly of the last months of Mary's life, of\nthe web that was spun round her by Walsingham's tactics, and her own\nfriends' efforts, until it was difficult for her to stir hand or foot\nwithout treason, real or pretended, being set in motion somewhere. Then\nshe described how at Christmas '86 Elizabeth had sent her--Mary\nCorbet--as a Catholic, up to the Queen of the Scots at Fotheringay, on a\nprivate mission to attempt to win the prisoner's confidence, and to\npersuade her to confess to having been privy to Babington's conspiracy;\nand how the Scottish Queen had utterly denied it, even in the most\nintimate conversations. Sentence had been already passed, but the warrant\nhad not been signed; and it never would have been signed, said Mistress\nCorbet, if Mary had owned to the crime of which she was accused.\n\n\"Ah! how they insulted her!\" cried Mary Corbet indignantly. \"She showed\nme one day the room where her throne had stood. Now the cloth of state\nhad been torn down by Sir Amyas Paulet's men, and he himself dared to sit\nwith his hat on his head in the sovereign's presence! The insolence of\nthe hound! But the Queen showed me how she had hung a crucifix where her\nroyal arms used to hang. 'J'appelle,' she said to me, 'de la reine au roi\ndes rois.'\"\n\nMistress Corbet went on to tell of the arrival of Walsingham's\nbrother-in-law, Mr. Beale, with the death-warrant on that February Sunday\nevening.\n\n\"I saw his foxy face look sideways up at the windows as he got off his\nhorse in the courtyard; and I knew that our foes had triumphed. Then the\nother bloodhounds began to arrive; my lord of Kent on the Monday and\nShrewsbury on the Tuesday. Then they came in to us after dinner; and they\ntold her Grace it was to be for next day. I was behind her chair and saw\nher hand on the boss of the arm, and it did not stir nor clench; she said\nit could not be. She could not believe it of Elizabeth.\n\n\"When she did at last believe it, there was no wild weeping or crying for\nmercy; but she set her affairs in order, queenly, and yet sedately too.\nShe first thought of her soul, and desired that M. de Preau might come to\nher and hear her confession; but they would not permit it. They offered\nher Dr. Fletcher instead, 'a godly man,' as my lord of Kent called him.\n'Je ne m'en doute pas,' she said, smiling. But it was hard not to have a\npriest.\n\n\"Then she set her earthly affairs in order when she had examined her soul\nand made confession to God without the Dean's assistance. We all supped\ntogether when it was growing late; and I thought, Father Anthony--indeed\nI did--of another Supper long ago. Then M. Gorion was sent for to arrange\nsome messages and gifts; and until two of the clock in the morning we\nwatched with her or served her as she wrote and gave orders. The court\noutside was full of comings and goings. As I passed down the passage I\nsaw the torches of the visitors that were come to see the end; and once I\nheard a hammering from the great hall. Then she went to her bed; and I\nthink few lay as quiet as she in the castle that night. I was with her\nladies when they waked her before dawn; and it was hard to see that sweet\nface on the pillow open its eyes again to what was before her.\n\n\"Then when she was dressed I went in again, and we all went to the\noratory, where she received our Saviour from the golden pyx which the\nHoly Father had sent her; for, you see, they would allow no priest to\ncome near her....\n\n\"Presently the gentlemen knocked. When we tried to follow we were\nprevented; they wished her to die alone among her enemies; but at last\ntwo of the ladies were allowed to go with her.\n\n\"I ran out another way, and sent a message to my Lord Shrewsbury, who\nknew me at court. As I waited in the courtyard, the musicians there were\nplaying 'The Witches' Dirge,' as is done at the burnings--and all to mock\nat my queen! At last a halberdier was sent to bring me in.\"\n\nMary Corbet was silent a moment or two and leaned back in her chair; and\nthe others dared not speak. The strange emotion of her voice and the\nstillness of that sparkling figure in the porter's chair affected them\nprofoundly. Her face was now completely shaded by a fan.\n\n\"It was in the hall, where a great fire was burning on the hearth. The\nstage stood at the upper end; all was black. The crowd of gentlemen\nfilled the hall and all were still and reverent except--except a devil\nwho laughed as my queen came in, all in black. She was smiling and brave,\nand went up the steps and sat on her black throne and looked about her.\nThe--the _things_ were just in front of her.\n\n\"Then the warrant was read by Beale, and I saw the lords glance at her as\nit ended; but there was nought but joyous hope in her face. She looked\nnow and again gently on the ivory crucifix in her hand, as she listened;\nand her lips moved to--to--Him who was delivered to death for her.\"\n\nMary Corbet gave one quick sob, and was silent again for an instant. Then\nshe went on in a yet lower voice.\n\n\"Dr. Fletcher tried to address her, but he stammered and paused three or\nfour times; and the queen smiled on him and bade him not trouble himself,\nfor that she lived and died a Catholic. But they would not let her be; so\nshe looked on her crucifix and was silent; and even then my lord of Kent\nbadgered her and told her Christ crucified in her hand would not save\nher, except He was engraved on her heart.\n\n\"Then she knelt at her chair and tried to pray softly to herself; but\nFletcher would not have that, and prayed himself, aloud, and all the\ngentlemen in the hall began to pray aloud with him. But Mary prayed on in\nLatin and English aloud, and prevailed, for all were silent at the end\nbut she.\n\n\"And at last she kissed the crucifix and cried in a sweet piercing voice,\n'As thine arms, O Jesus, were spread upon the Cross, so receive me into\nThy mercy and forgive me my sins!'\"\n\nAgain Mistress Corbet was silent; and Anthony drew a long sobbing breath\nof pure pity, and Isabel was crying quietly to herself.\n\n\"When the headsmen offered to assist her,\" went on the low voice, \"the\nqueen smiled at the gentlemen and said that she had never had such grooms\nbefore; and then they let the ladies come up. When they began to help her\nwith her dress I covered my face--I could not help it. There was such a\nstillness now that I could hear her beads chink at her girdle. When I\nlooked again, she was ready, with her sweet neck uncovered: all round her\nwas black but the headsman, who wore a white apron over his velvet, and\nshe, in her beauty, and oh! her face was so fair and delicate and her\neyes so tender and joyous. And as her ladies looked at her, they sobbed\npiteously. 'Ne criez vous,' said she.\n\n\"Then she knelt down, and Mistress Mowbray bound her eyes. She smiled\nagain under the handkerchief. 'Adieu,' she said, and then, 'Au revoir.'\n\n\"Then she said once more a Latin psalm, and then laid her head down, as\non a pillow.\n\n\"'In manus tuas, Domine,' she said.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nMary Corbet stopped, and leaned forward a little, putting her hand into\nher bosom; Anthony looked at her as she drew up a thin silk cord with a\nruby ring attached to it.\n\n\"This was hers,\" she said simply, and held it out. Each of the Catholics\ntook it and kissed it reverently, and Mary replaced it.\n\n\"When they lifted her,\" she added, \"a little dog sprang out from her\nclothes and yelped. And at that the man near me, who had laughed as she\ncame in, wept.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThen the four sat silent in the firelight.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER IV\n\n                           STANFIELD PLACE\n\n\nLife at Stanfield Place was wonderfully sweet to Anthony and Isabel after\ntheir exile abroad, for both of them had an intense love of England and\nof English ways. The very sight of fair-faced children, and the noise of\ntheir shrill familiar voices from the village street, the depths of the\nAugust woods round them, the English manners of living--all this was\nalive with a full deliberate joy to these two. Besides, there was the\nunfailing tenderness and gaiety of Mr. Buxton; and at first there was the\npleasant company of Mary Corbet as well.\n\nThere was little or no anxiety resting on any of them. \"God was served,\"\nas the celebration of mass was called, each morning in the little room\nwhere Anthony had made the exercises, and the three others were always\npresent. It was seldom that the room was not filled to over-flowing on\nSundays and holy-days with the household and the neighbouring Catholics.\n\nEverything was, of course, perfection in the little chapel when it was\nfurnished; as was all that Mr. Buxton possessed. There was a wonderful\ngolden crucifix by an unknown artist, that he had picked up in his\ntravels, that stood upon the altar, with the bird-types of the Saviour at\neach of the four ends; a pelican at the top, an eagle on the right\nsupporting its young which were raising their wings for a flight, on the\nleft a phoenix amid flames, and at the foot a hen gathering her\nchickens under her wings--all the birds had tiny emerald eyes; the figure\non the cross was beautifully wrought, and had rubies in hands and feet\nand side. There were also two silver altar-candlesticks designed by\nMarrina for the Piccolomini chapel in the church of St. Francis in Siena;\nand two more, plainer, for the Elevation. The vestments were exquisite;\nthose for high festivals were cloth of gold; and the other white ones\nwere beautifully worked with seed pearls, and jewelled crosses on the\nstole and maniple. The other colours, too, were well represented, and\nwere the work of a famous convent in the south of France. All the other\narticles, too, were of silver: the lavabo basin, the bell, the thurible,\nthe boat and spoon, and the cruets. It was a joy to all the Catholics who\ncame to see the worship of God carried on with such splendour, when in so\nmany places even necessaries were scarcely forthcoming.\n\nThere was a little hiding-hole between the chapel and the priest's room,\njust of a size to hold the altar furniture and the priests in case of a\nsudden alarm; and there were several others in the house too, which Mr.\nBuxton had showed to Anthony with a good deal of satisfaction, on the\nmorning after his arrival.\n\n\"I dared not show them to you the last time you were here,\" he said, \"and\nthere was no need; but now there must be no delay. I have lately made\nsome more, too. Now here is one,\" he said, stopping before the great\ncarved mantelpiece in the hall.\n\nHe looked round to see that no servant was in the room, and then,\nstanding on a settee before the fire, touched something above, and a\ncircular hole large enough for a man to clamber through appeared in the\nmidst of the tracery.\n\n\"There,\" he said, \"and you will find some cured ham and a candle, with a\nfew dates within, should you ever have need to step up there--which, pray\nGod, you may not.\"\n\n\"What is the secret?\" asked Anthony, as the tracery swung back into\nplace, and his host stepped down.\n\n\"Pull the third roebuck's ears in the coat of arms, or rather push them.\nIt closes with a spring, and is provided with a bolt. But I do not\nrecommend that refuge unless it is necessary. In winter it is too hot,\nfor the chimney passes behind it; and in summer it is too oppressive, for\nthere is not too much air.\"\n\nAt the end of the corridor that led in the direction of the little old\nrooms where Anthony had slept in his visit, Mr. Buxton stopped before the\nportrait of a kindly-looking old gentleman that hung on the wall.\n\n\"Now there is an upright old man you would say; and indeed he was, for he\nwas my own uncle, and made a godly end of it last year. But now see what\na liar I have made of him!\"\n\nMr. Buxton put his hand behind the frame, and the whole picture opened\nlike a door showing a space within where three or four could stand.\nAnthony stepped inside and his friend followed him, and after showing him\nsome clothes hanging against the wall closed the picture after them,\nleaving them in the dark.\n\n\"Now see what a sharp-eyed old fellow he is too,\" whispered his host.\nAnthony looked where he was guided, and perceived two pinholes through\nwhich he could see the whole length of the corridor.\n\n\"Through the centre of each eye,\" whispered his friend. \"Is he not shrewd\nand secret? And now turn this way.\"\n\nAnthony turned round and saw the opposite wall slowly opening; and in a\nmoment more he stepped out and found himself in the lobby outside the\nlittle room where he had made the exercises six years ago. He heard a\ndoor close softly as he looked about him in astonishment, and on turning\nround saw only an innocent-looking set of shelves with a couple of books\nand a little pile of paper and packet of quills upon them.\n\n\"There,\" said Mr. Buxton, \"who would suspect Tacitus his history and\nJuvenal his satires of guarding the passage of a Christian ecclesiastic\nfleeing for his life?\"\n\nThen he showed him the secret, how one shelf had to be drawn out\nsteadily, and the nail in another pressed simultaneously, and how then\nthe entire set of shelves swung open.\n\nThen they went back and he showed him the spring behind the frame of the\npicture.\n\n\"You see the advantage of this,\" he went on: \"on the one side you may\nflee upstairs, a treasonable skulking cassocked jack-priest with the\nlords and the commons and the Queen's Majesty barking at your heels; and\non the other side you may saunter down the gallery without your beard and\nin a murrey doublet, a friend of Mr. Buxton's, taking the air and\nwondering what the devil all the clamouring be about.\"\n\nThen he took him downstairs again and showed him finally the escape of\nwhich he was most proud--the entrance, designed in the cellar-staircase,\nto an underground passage from the cellars, which led, he told him,\nacross to the garden-house beyond the lime-avenue.\n\n\"That is the pride of my heart,\" he said, \"and maybe will be useful some\nday; though I pray not. Ah! her Grace and her honest Council are right.\nWe Papists are a crafty and deceitful folk, Father Anthony.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe four grew very intimate during those few weeks; they had many\nmemories and associations in common on which to build up friendship, and\nthe aid of a common faith and a common peril with which to cement it. The\ngracious beauty of the house and the life at Stanfield, too, gilded it\nall with a very charming romance. They were all astonished at the easy\nintimacy with which they behaved, one to another.\n\nMary Corbet was obliged to return to her duties at Court at the beginning\nof September; and she had something of an ache at her heart as the time\ndrew on; for she had fallen once more seriously in love with Isabel. She\nsaid a word of it to Mr. Buxton. They were walking in the lime-avenue\ntogether after dinner on the last day of Mary's visit.\n\n\"You have a good chaplain,\" she said; \"what an honest lad he is! and how\nserious and recollected! Please God he at least may escape their claws!\"\n\n\"It is often so,\" said Mr. Buxton, \"with those wholesome out-of-door\nboys; they grow up into such simple men of God.\"\n\n\"And Isabel!\" said Mary, rustling round upon him as she walked. \"What a\ngreat dame she is become! I used to lie on her bed and kick my heels and\nlaugh at her; but now I would like to say my prayers to her. She is\nsomewhat like our Lady herself, so grave and serious, and yet so warm and\ntender.\"\n\nMr. Buxton nodded sharply.\n\n\"I felt sure you would feel it,\" he said.\n\n\"Ah! but I knew her when she was just a child; so simple that I loved to\nstartle her. But now--but now--those two ladies have done wonders with\nher. She has all the splendour of Mary Maxwell, and all the softness of\nMargaret.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the other meditatively; \"the two ladies have done it--or, the\ngrace of God.\"\n\nMary looked at him sideways and her lips twitched a little.\n\n\"Yes--or the grace of God, as you say.\"\n\nThe two laughed into each other's eyes, for they understood one another\nwell. Presently Mary went on:\n\n\"When you and I fence together at table, she does not turn frigid like so\nmany holy folk--or peevish and bewildered like stupid folk--but she just\nlooks at us, and laughs far down in those deep grey eyes of hers. Oh! I\nlove her!\" ended Mary.\n\nThey walked in silence a minute or two.\n\n\"And I think I do,\" said Mr. Buxton softly.\n\n\"Eh?\" exclaimed Mary, \"you do what?\" She had quite forgotten her last\nsentence.\n\n\"It is no matter,\" he said yet more softly; and would say no more.\n\nPresently the talk fell on the Maxwells; and came round to Hubert.\n\n\"They say he would be a favourite at Court,\" said Mary, \"had he not a\nwife. But her Grace likes not married men. She looked kindly upon him at\nDeptford, I know; and I have seen him at Greenwich. You know, of course,\nabout Isabel?\"\n\nMr. Buxton shook his head.\n\n\"Why, it was common talk that they would have been man and wife years\nago, had not the fool apostatised.\"\n\nHer companion questioned her further, and soon had the whole story out of\nher. \"But I am thankful,\" ended Mary, \"that it has so ended.\"\n\nThe next day she went back to Court; and it was with real grief that the\nthree watched her wonderful plumed riding-hat trot along behind the top\nof the churchyard wall, with her woman beside her, and her little\nliveried troop of men following at a distance.\n\nThe days passed by, bringing strange tidings to Stanfield. News continued\nto reach the Catholics of the good confessions witnessed here and there\nin England by priests and laity. At the end of July, three priests,\nGarlick, Ludlam and Sympson, had been executed at Derby, and at the end\nof August the defeat of the Armada seemed to encourage Elizabeth yet\nfurther, and Mr. Leigh, a priest, with four laymen and Mistress Margaret\nWard, died for their religion at Tyburn.\n\nBy the end of September the news of the hopeless defeat and disappearance\nof the Armada had by now been certified over and over again. Terrible\nstories had come in during August of that northward flight of all that\nwas left of the fleet over the plunging North Sea up into the stormy\ncoast of Scotland; then rumours began of the miseries that were falling\non the Spaniards off Ireland--Catholic Ireland from which they had hoped\nso much. There was scarcely a bay or a cape along the west coast where\nsome ship had not put in, with piteous entreaties for water and aid--and\nscarcely a bay or a cape that was not blood-guilty. Along the straight\ncoast from Sligo Bay westwards, down the west coast, Clew Bay, Connemara,\nand haunted Dingle itself, where the Catholic religion under arms had\nbeen so grievously chastened eight years ago--everywhere half-drowned or\nhalf-starved Spaniards, piteously entreating, were stripped and put to\nthe sword either by the Irish savages or the English gentlemen. The\nchurch-bells were rung in Stanfield and in every English village, and the\nflame of national pride and loyalty burned fiercer and higher than ever.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nOn the last day of September Isabel, just before dinner in her room,\nheard the trot of a couple of horses coming up the short drive, and on\ngoing downstairs almost ran against Hubert as he came from the corridor\ninto the hall, as the servant ushered him in.\n\nThe two stopped and looked at one another in silence.\n\nHubert was flushed with hard riding and looked excited; Isabel's face\nshowed nothing but pleasure and surprise. The servant too stopped,\nhesitating.\n\nThen Isabel put out her hand, smiling; and her voice was natural and\ncontrolled.\n\n\"Why, Mr. Hubert,\" she said, \"it is you! Come through this way\"; and she\nnodded to the servant, who went forward and opened the door of the little\nparlour and stood back, as Isabel swept by him.\n\nWhen the door was closed, and the servant's footsteps had died away,\nHubert, as he stood facing Isabel, spoke at last.\n\n\"Mistress Isabel,\" he said almost imploringly, \"what can I say to you?\nYour home has been wrecked; and partly through those wild and foolish\nwords of mine; and you repay it by that act of kindness to my wife! I am\ncome to ask your pardon, and to thank you. I only reached home last\nnight.\"\n\n\"Ah! that was nothing,\" said Isabel gently; \"and as for the house----\"\n\n\"As for the house,\" he said, \"I was not master of myself when I said\nthose words that Grace told you of; and I entreat you to let me repair\nthe damage.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" she said, \"Anthony has given orders; that will all be done.\"\n\n\"But what can I do then?\" he cried passionately; \"if you but knew my\nsorrow--and--and--more than that, my----\"\n\nIsabel had raised her grave eyes and was looking him full in the face\nnow; and he stopped abashed.\n\n\"How is Grace, and Mercy?\" she asked in perfectly even tones.\n\n\"Oh! Isabel----\" he began; and again she looked at him, and then went to\nthe door.\n\n\"I hear Mr. Buxton,\" she said; and steps came along through the hall; she\nopened the door as he came up. Mr. Buxton stopped abruptly, and the two\nmen drew themselves up and seemed to stiffen, ever so slightly. A shade\nof aggressive contempt came on Hubert's keen brown face that towered up\nso near the low oak ceiling; while Mr. Buxton's eyelids just drooped, and\nhis features seemed to sharpen. There was an unpleasant silence: Isabel\nbroke it.\n\n\"You remember Master Hubert Maxwell?\" she said almost entreatingly. He\nsmiled kindly at her, but his face hardened again as he turned once more\nto Hubert.\n\n\"I remember the gentleman perfectly,\" he said, \"and he no doubt knows me,\nand why I cannot ask him to remain and dine with us.\"\n\nHubert smiled brutally.\n\n\"It is the old story of course, the Faith! I must ask your pardon, sir,\nfor intruding. The difficulty never came into my mind. The truth is that\nI have lived so long now among Protestants that I had quite forgotten\nwhat Catholic charity is like!\"\n\nHe said this with such extreme bitterness and fury that Isabel put out\nher hand instinctively to Mr. Buxton, who smiled at her once more, and\npressed it in his own. Hubert laughed again sharply; his face grew white\nunder the tan, and his lips wrinkled back once or twice.\n\n\"So, if you can spare me room to pass,\" he went on in the same tone, \"I\nwill begone to the inn.\"\n\nMr. Buxton stepped aside from the door, and Hubert bowed to Isabel so low\nthat it was almost an insult in itself, and strode out, his spurs ringing\non the oak boards.\n\nWhen he half turned outside the front door to beckon to his groom to\nbring up the horses, he became aware that Isabel was beside him.\n\n\"Hubert,\" she said, \"Hubert, I cannot bear this.\"\n\nThere were tears in her voice, and he could not help turning and looking\nat her. Her face, more grave and transparent than ever, was raised to\nhis; her red down-turned lips were trembling, and her eyes were full of a\ngreat emotion. He turned away again sharply.\n\n\"Hubert,\" she said again, \"I was not born a Catholic, and I do not feel\nlike Mr. Buxton. And--and I do thank you for coming; and for your desire\nto repair the house; and--and will you give my love to Grace?\"\n\nThen he suddenly turned to her with such passion in his eyes that she\nshrank back. At the same moment the groom brought up the horses; he\nturned and mounted without a word, but his eyes were dim with love and\nanger and jealousy. Then he drove his spurs into his great grey mare, and\nIsabel watched him dash between the iron gates, with his groom only half\nmounted holding back his own plunging horse. Then she went within doors\nagain.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER V\n\n                          JOSEPH LACKINGTON\n\n\nIt was a bitter ride back to Great Keynes for Hubert. He had just\nreturned from watching the fifty vessels, which were all that were left\nof the Great Armada, pass the Blaskets, still under the nominal command\nof Medina Sidonia, on their miserable return to Spain; and he had come\nback as fast as sails could carry him, round the stormy Land's-End up\nalong the south coast to Rye, where on his arrival he had been almost\nworshipped by the rejoicing townsfolk. Yet all through his voyage and\nadventures, at any rate since his interview with her at Rye, it had been\nthe face of Isabel there, and not of Grace, that had glimmered to him in\nthe dark, and led him from peril to peril. Then, at last, on his arrival\nat home, he had heard of the disaster to the Dower House, and his own\nunintended share in it; and of Isabel's generous visit to his wife; and\nat that he had ordered his horse abruptly over-night and ridden off\nwithout a word of explanation to Grace on the following morning. And he\nhad been met by a sneering man who would not sit at table with him, and\nwho was the protector and friend of Isabel.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nHe rode up through the village just after dark and in through the\ngatehouse up to the steps. A man ran to open the door, and as Hubert came\nthrough told him that a stranger had ridden down from London and had\narrived at mid-day, and that he had been waiting ever since.\n\n\"I gave the gentleman dinner in the cloister parlour, sir; and he is at\nsupper now,\" added the man.\n\nHubert nodded and pushed through the hall. He heard his name called\ntimidly from upstairs, and looking up saw his wife's golden head over the\nbanisters.\n\n\"Well!\" he said.\n\n\"Ah, it is you. I am so glad.\"\n\n\"Who else should it be?\" said Hubert, and passed through towards the\ncloister wing, and opened the door of the little parlour where Isabel and\nMistress Margaret had sat together years before, the night of Mr. James'\nreturn, and of the girl's decision.\n\nA stranger rose up hastily as he came in, and bowed with great deference.\nHubert knew his face, but could not remember his name.\n\n\"I ask your pardon, Mr. Maxwell; but your man would take no denial,\" and\nhe indicated the supper-table with a steaming dish and a glass jug of\nwine ruddy in the candlelight. Hubert looked at him curiously.\n\n\"I know you, sir,\" he said, \"but I cannot put a name to your face.\"\n\n\"Lackington,\" said the man with a half smile; \"Joseph Lackington.\"\n\nHubert still stared; and then suddenly burst into a short laugh.\n\n\"Why, yes,\" he said; \"I know now. My father's servant.\"\n\nThe man bowed.\n\n\"Formerly, sir; and now agent to Sir Francis Walsingham,\" he said, with\nsomething of dignity in his manner.\n\nHubert saw the hint, but could not resist a small sneer.\n\n\"Why, I am pleased to see you,\" he said. \"You have come to see your\nold--home?\" and he threw himself into a chair and stretched his legs to\nthe blaze, for he was stiff with riding. Lackington instantly sat down\ntoo, for his pride was touched.\n\n\"It was not for that, Mr. Maxwell,\" he said almost in the tone of an\nequal, \"but on a mission for Sir Francis.\"\n\nHubert looked at him a moment as he sat there in the candlelight, with\nhis arm resting easily on the table. He was plainly prosperous, and was\neven dressed with some distinction; his reddish beard was trimmed to a\npoint; his high forehead was respectably white and bald; and his seals\nhung from his belt beside his dagger with an air of ease and solidity.\nPerhaps he was of some importance; at any rate, Sir Francis Walsingham\nwas. Hubert sat up a little.\n\n\"A mission to me?\" he said.\n\nLackington nodded.\n\n\"A few questions on a matter of state.\"\n\nHe drew from his pouch a paper signed by Sir Francis authorising him as\nan agent, for one month, and dated three days back; and handed it to\nHubert.\n\n\"I obtained that from Sir Francis on Monday, as you will see. You can\ntrust me implicitly.\"\n\n\"Will the business take long?\" asked Hubert, handing the paper back.\n\n\"No, Mr. Maxwell; and I must be gone in an hour in any case. I have to be\nat Rye at noon to-morrow; and I must sleep at Mayfield to-night.\"\n\n\"At Rye,\" said Hubert, \"why I came from there yesterday.\"\n\nLackington bowed again, as if he were quite aware of this; but said\nnothing.\n\n\"Then I will sup here,\" went on Hubert, \"and we will talk meantime.\"\n\nWhen a place had been laid for him, he drew his chair round to the table\nand began to eat.\n\n\"May I begin at once?\" asked Lackington, who had finished.\n\nHubert nodded.\n\n\"Then first I believe it to be a fact that you spoke with Mistress Isabel\nNorris on board the _Elizabeth_ at Rye on the tenth of August last.\"\n\nHubert had started violently at her name; but did his utmost to gain\noutward command of himself again immediately.\n\n\"Well?\" he said.\n\n--\"And with Master Anthony Norris, lately made a priest beyond the seas.\"\n\n\"That is a lie,\" said Hubert.\n\nLackington politely lifted his eyebrows.\n\n\"Indeed?\" he said. \"That he was made a priest, or that you spoke with\nhim?\"\n\n\"That I know aught of him,\" said Hubert. His heart was beating furiously.\n\nLackington made a note rather ostentatiously; he could see that Hubert\nwas frightened, and thought that it was because of a possible accusation\nof having dealings with a traitor.\n\n\"And as regards Mistress Norris,\" he said judicially, with his pencil\nraised, \"you deny having spoken with her?\"\n\nHubert was thinking furiously. Then he saw that Lackington knew too much\nfor its being worth his own while to deny it.\n\n\"No, I never denied that,\" he said, lifting his fork to his mouth; and he\nwent on eating with a deliberate ease as Lackington again made a note.\n\nThe next question was a home-thrust.\n\n\"Where are they both now?\" asked Lackington, looking at him. Hubert's\nmind laboured like a mill.\n\n\"I do not know,\" he said.\n\n\"You swear it?\"\n\n\"I swear it.\"\n\n\"Then Mistress Norris has changed her plans?\" said Lackington swiftly.\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\"\n\n\"Why she told you where they were going when you met?\" said the other in\na remonstrating tone.\n\nHubert suddenly saw the game. If the authorities really knew that, it\nwould have been a useless question. He stared at Lackington with an\nadmirable vacancy.\n\n\"Indeed she did not,\" he said. \"For aught I know, they--she is in France\nagain.\"\n\n\"They?\" said Lackington shrewdly. \"Then you do know somewhat of the\npriest?\"\n\nBut Hubert was again too sharp.\n\n\"Only what you told me just now, when you said he was at Rye. I supposed\nyou were telling the truth.\"\n\nLackington passed his hand smoothly over his mouth and beard, and smiled.\nEither Hubert was very sharp or else he had told everything; and he did\nnot believe him sharp.\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Maxwell,\" he said, with a complete dropping of his\njudicial manner. \"I will not pretend not to be disappointed; but I\nbelieve what you say about France is true; and that it is no use looking\nfor him further.\"\n\nHubert experienced an extraordinary relief. He had saved Isabel. He drank\noff a glass of claret. \"Tell me everything,\" he said.\n\n\"Well,\" said Lackington, \"Mr. Thomas Hamon is my informant. He sent up to\nSir Francis the message that a lady of the name of Norris had been\nintroduced to him at Rye; because he thought he remembered some stir in\nthe county several years ago about some reconciliations to Rome connected\nwith that name. Of course we knew everything about that: and we have our\nagents at the seminaries too; so we concluded that she was one of our\nbirds; the rest, of course, was guesswork. Mr. Norris has certainly left\nDouai for England; and he may possibly even now be in England; but from\nyour information and others', I now believe that Mistress Isabel came\nacross first, and that she found the country too hot, what with the\nSpaniards and all; and that she returned to France at once. Of course\nduring that dreadful week, Mr. Maxwell, we could not be certain of all\nvessels that came and went; so I think she just slipped across again; and\nthat they are both waiting in France. We shall keep good watch now at the\nports, I can promise you.\"\n\nHubert's emotions were varied during this speech. First shame at having\nentirely forgotten the mayor of Rye and his own introduction of Isabel to\nhim; then astonishment at the methods of Walsingham's agents; and lastly\nintense triumph and relief at having put them off Isabel's track. For\nAnthony, too, he had nothing but kindly feelings; so, on the whole, he\nthought he had done well for his friends.\n\nThe two talked a little longer; Lackington was a stimulating companion\nfrom both his personality and his position; and Hubert found himself\nalmost sorry when his companion said he must be riding on to Mayfield. As\nhe walked out with him to the front door, he suddenly thought of Mr.\nBuxton again and his reception in the afternoon. They had wandered in\ntheir conversation so far from the Norrises by now that he felt sure he\ncould speak of him without doing them any harm. So, as they stood on the\nsteps together, waiting for Lackington's horse to come round, he suddenly\nsaid:\n\n\"Do you know aught of one Buxton, who lives somewhere near Tonbridge, I\nthink?\"\n\n\"Buxton, Buxton?\" said the other.\n\n\"I met him in town once,\" went on Hubert smoothly; \"a little man, dark,\nwith large eyes, and looks somewhat like a Frenchman.\"\n\n\"Buxton, Buxton?\" said the other again. \"A Papist, is he not?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hubert, hoping to get some information against him.\n\n\"A friend?\" asked Lackington.\n\n\"No,\" said Hubert with such vehemence that Lackington looked at him.\n\n\"I remember him,\" he said in a moment; \"he was imprisoned at Wisbeach six\nor seven years ago. But I do not think he has been in trouble since. You\nwish, you wish----?\" he went on interrogatively.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Hubert; but Lackington saw the hatred in his eyes.\n\nThe horses came round at this moment; and Lackington said good-bye to\nHubert with a touch of the old deference again, and mounted. Hubert\nwatched him out under the gatehouse-lamp into the night beyond, and then\nhe went in again, pondering.\n\nHis wife was waiting for him in the hall now--a delicate golden-haired\nfigure, with pathetic blue eyes turned up to him. She ran to him and took\nhis arm timidly in her two hands.\n\n\"Oh! I am glad that man has gone, Hubert.\"\n\nHe looked down at her almost contemptuously.\n\n\"Why, you know nothing of him!\" he said.\n\n\"Not much,\" she said, \"but he asked me so many questions.\"\n\nHubert started and looked suddenly at her, in terror.\n\n\"Oh, Hubert!\" she said, shrinking back frightened.\n\n\"Questions!\" he said, seizing her hands. \"Questions of whom?\"\n\n\"Of--of--Mistress Isabel Norris,\" she said, almost crying.\n\n\"And--and--what did you say? Did you tell him?\"\n\n\"Oh, Hubert!--I am so sorry--ah! do not look like that.\"\n\n\"What did you say? What did you say?\" he said between his teeth.\n\n\"I--I--told a lie, Hubert; I said I had never seen her.\"\n\nHubert took his wife suddenly in his two arms and kissed her three or\nfour times.\n\n\"You darling, you darling!\" he said; and then stooped and picked her up,\nand carried her upstairs, with her head against his cheek, and her tears\nrunning down because he was pleased with her, instead of angry.\n\nThey went upstairs and he set her down softly outside the nursery door.\n\n\"Hush,\" she said, smiling up at him; and then softly opened the door and\nlistened, her finger on her lip; there was no sound from within; then she\npushed the door open gently, and the wife and husband went in.\n\nThere was a shaded taper still burning in a high bracket where an image\nof the Mother of God had stood in the Catholic days of the house. Hubert\nglanced up at it and remembered it, with just a touch at his heart.\nBeneath it was a little oak cot, where his four-year-old boy lay\nsleeping; the mother went across and bent over it, and Hubert leaned his\nbrown sinewy hands on the end of the cot and watched him. There his son\nlay, with tangled curls on the pillow; his finger was on his lips as if\nhe bade silence even to thought. Hubert looked up, and just above the\nbed, where the crucifix used to hang when he himself had slept in this\nnursery, probably on the very same nail, he thought to himself, was a\nrusty Spanish spur that he himself had found in a sea-chest of the _San\nJuan_. The boy had hung up with a tarry bit of string this emblem of his\nfather's victory, as a protection while he slept.\n\nThe child stirred in his sleep and murmured as the two watched him.\n\n\"Father's home again,\" whispered the mother. \"It is all well. Go to sleep\nagain.\"\n\nWhen she looked up again to her husband, he was gone.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nIt was not often that Hubert had regrets for the Faith he had lost; but\nto-night things had conspired to prick him. There was his rebuff from Mr.\nBuxton; there was the sight of Isabel in the dignified grace that he had\nnoticed so plainly before; there had been the interview with the\nex-Catholic servant, now a spy of the Government, and a remorseless enemy\nof all Catholics; and lastly there were the two little external reminders\nof the niche and the nail over his son's bed.\n\nHe sat long before the fire in Sir Nicholas' old room, now his own study.\nAs he lay back and looked about him, how different this all was, too! The\nmantelpiece was almost unaltered; the Maxwell devices, two-headed eagles,\nhurcheons and saltires, on crowded shields, interlaced with the motto\n_Reviresco_, all newly gilded since his own accession to the estate, rose\nup in deep shadow and relief; but over it, instead of the little old\npicture of the Vernacle that he remembered as a child, hung his own\nsword. Was that a sign of progress? he wondered. The tapestry on the east\nwall was the same, a hawking scene with herons and ladies in immense\nheaddresses that he had marvelled at as a boy. But then the books on the\nshelves to the right of the door, they were different; there had been old\ndevotional books in his father's time, mingled strangely with small works\non country life and sports; now the latter only remained, and the nearest\nto a devotional book was a volume of a mystical herbalist who identified\nplants with virtues, strangely and ingeniously. Then the prie-dieu, where\nthe beads had hung and the little wooden shield with the Five Wounds\npainted upon it--that was gone; and in its place hung a cupboard where he\nkept a crossbow and a few tools for it; and old hawk-lures and jesses and\nthe like.\n\nThen he lay back again, and thought.\n\nHad he then behaved unworthily? This old Faith that had been handed down\nfrom father and son for generations; that had been handed to him too as\nthe most precious heirloom of all--for which his father had so gladly\nsuffered fines and imprisonment, and risked death--he had thrown it over,\nand for what? For Isabel, he confessed to himself; and then the--the\nPower that stands behind the visible had cheated him and withdrawn that\nfor which he had paid over that great price. Was that a reckless and\nbrutal bargain on his side--to throw over this strange delicate thing\ncalled the Faith for which so many millions had lived and died, all for a\nwoman's love? A curious kind of family pride in the Faith began to prick\nhim. After all, was not honour in a manner bound up with it too; and most\nof all when such heavy penalties attached themselves to the profession of\nit? Was that the moment when he should be the first of his line to\nabandon it?\n\n_Reviresco_--\"I renew my springtide.\" But was not this a strange\ngrafting--a spur for a crucifix, a crossbow for a place of prayer?\n_Reviresco_--There was sap indeed in the old tree; but from what soil did\nit draw its strength?\n\nHis heart began to burn with something like shame, as it had burned now\nand again at intervals during these past years. Here he lay back in his\nfather's chair, in his father's room, the first Protestant of the\nMaxwells. Then he passed on to a memory.\n\nAs he closed his eyes, he could see even now the chapel upstairs, with\nthe tapers alight and the stiff figure of the priest in the midst of the\nglow; he could smell the flowers on the altar, the June roses strewn on\nthe floor in the old manner, and their fresh dewy scent mingled with the\nfragrance of the rich incense in an intoxicating chord; he could hear the\nrustle that emphasised the silence, as his mother rose from his side and\nwent up for communion, and the breathing of the servants behind him.\n\nThen for contrast he remembered the whitewashed church where he attended\nnow with his wife, Sunday by Sunday, the pulpit occupied by the black\nfigure of the virtuous Mr. Bodder pronouncing his discourse, the great\ntexts that stood out in their new paint from the walls, the table that\nstood out unashamed and sideways in the midst of the chancel. And which\nof the two worships was most like God?...\n\nThen he compared the worshippers in either mode. Well, Drake, his hero,\nwas a convinced Protestant; the bravest man he had ever met or dreamed\nof--fiery, pertinacious, gloriously insolent. He thought of his sailors,\non whom a portion of Drake's spirit fell, their gallantry, their\nfearlessness of death and of all that comes after; of Mr. Bodder, who was\nnow growing middle-aged in the Vicarage--yes, indeed, they were all\nadmirable in various ways, but were they like Christ?\n\nOn the other hand, his father, in spite of his quick temper, his mother,\nbrother, aunt, the priests who came and went by night, Isabel--and at\nthat he stopped: and like a deep voice in his ear rose up the last\ntremendous question, What if the Catholic Religion be true after all? And\nat that the supernatural began to assert itself. It seemed as if the\nempty air were full of this question, rising in intensity and emphasis.\nWhat if it is true? What if it is true? _What if it is true?_\n\nHe sat bolt upright and looked sharply round the room; the candles burned\nsteadily in the sconce near the door. The tapestry lifted and dropped\nnoiselessly in the draught; the dark corners beyond the press and in the\nwindow recesses suggested presences that waited; the wide chimney sighed\nsuddenly once.\n\nWas that a voice in his ear just now, or only in his heart? But in either\ncase----\n\nHe made an effort to command himself, and looked again steadily round the\nroom; but there seemed no one there. But what if the old tale be true? In\nthat case he is not alone in this little oak room, for there is no such\nthing as loneliness. In that case he is sitting in full sight of Almighty\nGod, whom he has insulted; and of the saints whose power he has\nrepudiated; and of the angels good and bad who have---- Ah! what was\nthat? There had seemed to come a long sigh somewhere behind him; on his\nleft surely.--What was it? Some wandering soul? Was it, could it be the\nsoul of one who had loved him and desired to warn him before it was too\nlate? Could it have been----and then it came again; and the hair prickled\non his head.\n\nHow deathly still it is, and how cold! Ah! was that a rustle outside; a\ntap?... In God's name, who can that be?...\n\nAnd then Hubert licked his dry lips and brought them together and smiled\nat Grace, who had come down, opening the doors as she came, to see why he\nhad not come to bed.\n\nBah! what a superstitious fool he was, after all!\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER VI\n\n                             A DEPARTURE\n\n\nThe months went by happily at Stanfield; and, however ill went the\nfortunes of the Church elsewhere, here at least were peace and\nprosperity. Most discouraging news indeed did reach them from time to\ntime. The severe penalties now enacted against the practice of the\nCatholic Religion were being enforced with great vigour, and the weak\nmembers of the body began to fail. Two priests had apostatised at\nChichester earlier in the year, one of them actually at the scaffold on\nBroyle Heath; and then in December there were two more recantations at\nPaul's Cross. Those Catholics too who threw up the Faith generally became\nthe most aggressive among the persecutors, to testify to their own\nconsciences, as well to the Protestants, of the sincerity of their\nconversion.\n\nBut in Stanfield the Church flourished, and Anthony had the great\nhappiness of receiving his first convert in the person of Mr. Rowe, the\nyoung owner of a house called East Maskells, separated from Stanfield\nPlace by a field-path of under a mile in length, though the road round\nwas over two; and the comings and goings were frequent now between the\ntwo houses. Mr. Rowe was at present unmarried, and had his aunt to keep\nhouse for him, a tolerant old maiden lady who had conformed placidly to\nthe Reformed Religion thirty years before, and was now grown content with\nit. Several \"schismatics\" too--as those Catholics were called who\nattended their parish church--had waxed bolder, and given up their\nconformity to the Establishment; so it was a happy and courageous flock\nthat gathered Sunday by Sunday at Stanfield Place.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nJust before Christmas, Anthony received a long and affectionate letter\nfrom James Maxwell, who was still at Douai.\n\n\"The Rector will still have me here,\" he wrote, \"and shows me to the\nyoung men as if I were a kind of warrior; which is bad for pride; but\nthen he humbles me again by telling me I am of more use here as an\nexample, than I should be in England; and that humbles me again. So I am\ncontent to stay. It is a humbling thing, too, to find young men who can\ntell me the history of my arms and legs better than I know it myself. But\nthe truth is, I can never walk well again--yet _laudetur Jesus\nChristus_.\"\n\nThen James Maxwell wrote a little about his grief for Hubert; gave a\nlittle news of foreign movements among the Catholics; and finally ended\nas follows:\n\n\"At last I understand who your friend was behind Bow Church, who\nstuttered and played the Catholic so well. It was our old servant\nLackington; who turned Protestant and entered Walsingham's service. I\nhear all this from one P. lately in the same affairs, but now turned to\nChrist his service instead; and who has entered here as a student. So\nbeware of him; he has a pointed beard now, and a bald forehead. I hear,\ntoo, from the same source that he was on your track when you landed, but\nnow thinks you to be in France. However, he knows of you; so I counsel\nyou not to abide over long in one place. Perhaps you may go to\nLancashire; that is like heaven itself for Catholics. Their zeal and\npiety there are beyond praise; but I hear they somewhat lack priests. God\nkeep you always, my dear Brother; and may the Queen of Heaven intercede\nfor you. Pray for me.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nSoon after the New Year, Mary Corbet was able to get away from Court and\ncome down again to her friends for a month or two at Stanfield.\n\nDuring her stay they all had an adventure together at East Maskells. They\nhad been out a long expedition into the woods one clear frosty day and\nrode in just at sunset for an early supper with Mr. Rowe and his aunt.\n\nThey had left their horses at the stable and come in round the back of\nthe house; so that they missed the servant Miss Rowe had placed at the\nfront door to warn them, and came straight into the winter-parlour, where\nthey found Miss Rowe in conversation with an ecclesiastic. There was no\ntime to retreat; and Anthony in a moment more found himself being\nintroduced to a minister he had met at Lambeth more than once--the\nReverend Robert Carr, who had held the odd title of \"Archbishop's Curate\"\nand the position of minister in charge of the once collegiate church of\nAll Saints', Maidstone, ever since the year '59. He had ridden up from\nMaidstone for supper and lodging, and was on his way to town.\n\nAnthony managed to interrupt Miss Rowe before she came to his assumed\nname Capell, and remarked rather loudly that he had met Mr. Carr before;\nwho recognised him too, and greeted him by his real name.\n\nIt was an uncomfortable situation, as Mr. Carr was quite unaware of the\nreligion of five out of six of those present, and very soon began to give\nvoice to his views on Papistry. He was an oldish man by now, and of some\nimportance in Maidstone, where he had been appointed Jurat by the\nCorporation, and was a very popular and influential man.\n\n\"The voice of the people,\" he said in the midst of a conversation on the\nnational feeling towards Spain, \"that is what we must hearken to. Even\nsovereigns themselves must come to that some day. They must rule by\nobeying; as man does with God's laws in nature.\"\n\n\"Would you say that, sir, of her Grace?\" asked Mary Corbet meekly.\n\n\"I should, madam; though I fear she has injured her power by her\nbehaviour this year. It was her people who saved her.--Hawkins, who is\nnow ruined as he says; my lord Howard, who has paid from his own purse\nfor the meat and drink of her Grace's soldiers, and those who fought with\nthem; and not her Grace, who saved them; or Leicester, now gone to his\naccount, who sat at Tilbury and did the bowing and the prancing and the\ntalking while Hawkins and the rest did the fighting. No, madam, it is the\nvoice of the people to which we must hearken.\"\n\nThis was rather confused and dangerous talking too; but here was plainly\na man to be humoured; he looked round him with a suffused face and the\neye of a cock, and a little white plume on his forehead increased his\nappearance of pugnacity.\n\n\"It is the same in religion,\" he said, when all preserved a deferential\nsilence; \"it is that that lies at the root of papist errors. As you know\nvery well,\" he went on, turning suddenly on Anthony, \"our bishops do\nnothing to guide men's minds; they only seem to: they ride atop like the\nfigure on a cock-horse, but it is the legs beneath that do the work and\nthe guiding too: now that is right and good; and the Church of England\nwill prosper so long as she goes like that. But if the bishops try to\nrule they will find their mistake. Now the Popish Church is not like\nthat; she holds that power comes from above, that the Pope guides the\nbishops, the bishops the priests, and the priests the people.\"\n\n\"And the Holy Ghost the Pope; is it not so, sir?\" asked Mr. Buxton.\n\nMr. Carr turned an eye on him.\n\n\"So they hold, sir,\" he said after a pause.\n\n\"They think then, sir, that the shepherds guide the sheep?\" asked Anthony\nhumbly.\n\nMary Corbet gave a yelp of laughter; but when Mr. Carr looked at her she\nwas grave and deferential again. Miss Rowe looked entreatingly from face\nto face. The minister did not notice Anthony's remark; but swept on again\non what was plainly his favourite theme,--the infallibility of the\npeople. It was a doctrine that was hardly held yet by any; but the next\ncentury was to see its gradual rise until it reached its climax in the\nPuritanism of the Stuart times. It was true, as Mr. Carr said, that\nElizabeth had ruled by obeying; and that the people of England,\nencouraged by success in resisting foreign domination, were about to pass\non to the second position of resisting any domination at all.\n\nPresently he pulled out of his pocket a small printed sheet, and was soon\ndeclaiming from it. It was not very much to the point, except as\nillustrating the national spirit which he believed so divine. It was a\nballad describing the tortures which the Spaniards had intended to\ninflict upon the heretic English, and began:\n\n    \"All you that list to look and see\n      What profit comes from Spain,\n    And what the Pope and Spaniards both\n      Prepared for our gain.\n    Then turn your eyes and lend your ears\n      And you shall hear and see\n    What courteous minds, what gentle hearts,\n      They bear to thee and me!\n\nAnd it ended in the same spirit:\n\n    \"Be these the men that are so mild\n      Whom some so holy call!\n    The Lord defend our noble Queen\n      And country from them all!\"\n\n\"There!\" the minister cried when he had done, \"that is what the Papists\nare like! Trust me; I know them. I should know one in a moment if he\nventured into this room, by his crafty face. But the Lord will defend His\nown Englishmen; nay! He has done so. 'God blew and they were scattered,'\"\nhe ended, quoting from the Armada medal.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAs the four rode home by pairs across the field-path in the frosty\nmoonlight Mr. Buxton lamented to Anthony the effect of the Armada.\n\n\"The national spirit is higher than ever,\" he said, \"and it will be the\ndeath of Catholicism here for the present. Our country squires, I fear,\nfaithful Catholics to this time, are beginning to wonder and question.\nWhen will our Catholic kings learn that Christ His Kingdom is not of this\nworld? Philip has smitten the Faith in England with the weapon which he\ndrew in its defence, as he thought.\"\n\n\"I was once of that national spirit myself,\" said Anthony.\n\n\"I remember you were,\" said Mr. Buxton, smiling; \"and what grace has done\nto you it may do to others.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe spring went by, and in the week after Easter, James' news about\nLancashire was verified by a letter from a friend of Mr. Buxton's, a Mr.\nNorreys, the owner of one of the staunch Catholic houses, Speke Hall, on\nthe bank of the Mersey.\n\n\"Here,\" he wrote, \"by the mercy of God there is no lack of priests,\nthough there be none to spare; my own chaplain says mass by dispensation\nthrice on Sunday; but on the moors the sheep look up and are not fed; and\nsuch patient sheep! I heard but last week of a church where the folk\nresort, priest or no, each Sunday to the number of two hundred, and are\nled by a lector in devotion, ending with an act of spiritual communion\nmade all together. These damnable heresies of which the apostle wrote\nhave not poisoned the springs of sound doctrine; some of us here know\nnaught yet of Elizabeth and her supremacy, or even of seven-wived Harry\nhis reformation. Send us then, dear friend, a priest, or at least the\npromise of one; lest we perish quite.\"\n\nMr. Buxton had a sore struggle with himself over this letter; but at last\nhe carried it to Anthony.\n\n\"Read that,\" he said; and stood waiting.\n\nAnthony looked up when he had done.\n\n\"I am your chaplain,\" he said, \"but I am God's priest first.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear lad,\" said his friend, \"I feared you would say so; and I will\nsay so to Norreys\"; and he left the room at once.\n\nAnd so at last it came to be arranged that Anthony should leave for\nLancashire at the end of July; and that after his departure Stanfield\nshould be served occasionally by the priest who lived on the outskirts of\nTonbridge; but the daily mass would have to cease, and that was a sore\ntrouble to Mr. Buxton. No definite decision could be made as to when\nAnthony could return; that must wait until he saw the needs of\nLancashire; but he hoped to be able at least to pay a visit to Stanfield\nagain in the spring of the following year.\n\nIt was arranged also, of course, that Isabel should accompany her\nbrother. They were both of large independent means, and could travel in\nsome dignity; and her presence would be under these circumstances a\nprotection as well as a comfort to Anthony. It would need very great\nsharpness to detect the seminary priest under Anthony's disguise, and\namid the surroundings of his cavalcade of four or five armed servants, a\nFrench maid, and a distinguished-looking lady.\n\nYet, in spite of this, Mr. Buxton resolved to do his utmost to prevent\nIsabel from going to Lancashire; partly, of course, he disliked the\nthought of the dangers and hardships that she was certain to encounter;\nbut the real motive was that he had fallen very deeply in love with her.\nIt was her exceptional serenity that seemed to him her greatest charm;\nher movements, her face, her grey eyes, the very folds of her dress\nseemed to breathe with it; and to one of Mr. Buxton's temperament such a\npresence was cool and sweet and strangely fascinating.\n\nIt was now April, and he resolved to devote the next month or two to\npreparing her for his proposal; and he wrote frankly to Mary Corbet\ntelling her how matters stood, entreating her to come down for July and\ncounsel him. Mary wrote back at once, rather briefly, promising to come;\nbut not encouraging him greatly.\n\n\"I would I could cheer you more,\" she wrote; \"of course I have not seen\nIsabel since January; but, unless she has changed, I do not think she\nwill marry you. I am writing plainly you see, as you ask in your letter.\nBut I can still say, God prosper you.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAs the spring went by and the summer came on, Isabel grew yet more\nsilent. As the evenings began to lengthen out she used to spend much time\nbefore and after supper in walking up and down the clipped lime avenue\nbetween the east end of the church and the great gates that looked over\nthe meadows across which the stream and the field-path ran towards East\nMaskells. Mr. Buxton would watch her sometimes from an upstairs window,\nhimself unseen, and occasionally would go out and talk with her; but he\nfound it harder than he used to get on to intimate relations; and he\nbegan to suspect that he had displeased her in some way, and that Mary\nCorbet was right. In the afternoon she and Anthony would generally ride\nout together, once or twice going round by Penshurst, and their host\nwould torture himself by his own indecision as regards accompanying them;\nsometimes doing so, sometimes refraining, and regretting whichever he\ndid. More and more he began to look forward to Mary's coming and the\nbenefit of her advice; and at last, at the end of June, she came.\n\nTheir first evening together was delightful for them all. She was happy\nat her escape from Court; her host was happy at the prospect of her\ncounsel; and all four were happy at being together again.\n\nThey did not meet till supper, and even that was put off an hour, because\nMary had not come, and when she did arrive she was full of excitement.\n\n\"I will tell you all at supper,\" she said to her host, whom she met in\nthe hall. \"Oh! how late I am!\" and she whirled past him and upstairs\nwithout another word.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\n\"I will first give you the news in brief,\" she said, when Anthony had\nsaid grace and they were seated, all four of them as before; and the\ntrumpet-flourish was silent that had announced the approach of the\nvenison.\n\n\"Mutton's new chaplain, Dr. Bancroft, will be in trouble soon; he hath\nbeen saying favourable things for some of us poor papists, and hath rated\nthe Precisians soundly. Sir Francis Knollys is wroth with him; but that\nis no matter.--Her Grace played at cards till two of the clock this\nmorning, and that is why I am so desperate sleepy to-night, for I had to\nsit up too; and that is a great matter.--Drake and Norris, 'tis said,\nhave whipped the dons again at Corunna; and the Queen has sworn to pull\nmy lord Essex his ears for going with them and adventuring his precious\nself; and that is no matter at all, but will do him good.--George\nLuttrell hath put up a coat of arms in his hall at Dunster, which is a\ngreat matter to him, but to none else;--and I have robbed a highwayman\nthis day in the beech woods this side of Groombridge.\"\n\n\"Dear lady,\" said Mr. Buxton resignedly, as the others looked up\nstartled, \"you are too swift for our dull rustic ears; we will begin at\nthe end, if you please. Is it true you have robbed an highwayman?\"\n\n\"It is perfectly true,\" she said, and unlatched a ruby brooch, made\nheart-shape, from her dress. \"There is the plunder,\" and she held it out\nfor inspection.\n\n\"Then tell us the tale,\" said Anthony.\n\n\"It would be five of the clock,\" said Mary, \"as we came through\nGroombridge, and then into the woods beyond. I had bidden my knaves ride\non before with my woman; I came down into a dingle where there was a\nstream; and, to tell the truth, I had my head down and was a-nodding,\nwhen my horse stopped; and I looked up of a sudden and there was a man on\na bay mare, with a mask to his mouth, a gay green suit, a brown beard\nturning grey, and this ruby brooch at his throat; and he had caught my\nbridle. I saw him start when I lifted my head, as if he were taken aback.\nI said nothing, but he led my horse off the road down among the trees\nwith a deep little thicket where none could see us. As we went I was\nthinking like a windmill; for I knew I had seen the little red brooch\nbefore.\n\n\"When we reached the little open space, I asked him what he wished with\nme.\n\n\"'Your purse, madam,' said he.\n\n\"'My woman hath it,' said I.\n\n\"'Your jewels then, madam,' said he.\n\n\"'My woman hath them,' said I, 'save this paste buckle in my hat, to\nwhich you are welcome.' It was diamonds, you know; but I knew he would\nnot know that.\n\n\"'What a mistake,' I said, 'to stop the mistress and let the maid go\nfree!'\n\n\"'Nay,' he said, 'I am glad of it; for at least I will have a dance with\nthe mistress; and I could not with the maid.'\n\n\"'You are welcome to that,' I said, and I slipped off my horse, to humour\nhim, and even as I slipped off I knew who he was, for although many have\nred brooches, and many brown beards turning grey, few have both together;\nbut I said nothing. And there--will you believe it?--we danced under the\nbeech-trees like Phyllis and Corydon, or whoever they are that Sidney is\nalways prating of; or like two fools, I would sooner say. Then when we\nhad done, I made him a curtsey.\n\n\"'Now you must help me up,' said I, and he mounted me without a word, for\nhe was a stoutish gallant and somewhat out of breath. And then what did\nthe fool do but try to kiss me, and as he lifted his arm I snatched the\nbrooch and put spur to my horse, and as we went up the bank I screamed at\nhim, 'Claude, you fool, go home to your wife and take shame to yourself.'\nAnd when I was near the road I looked back, and he still stood there all\nagape.\"\n\n\"And what was his name?\" asked Anthony.\n\n\"Nay, nay, I have mocked him enough. And I know four Claudes, so you need\nnot try to guess.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nWhen supper was over, Mr. Buxton and Mary walked up and down the south\npath of the garden between the yews, while the other two sat just outside\nthe hall window on a seat placed on the tiled terrace that ran round the\nhouse.\n\n\"How I have longed for you to come, Mistress Mary,\" he said, \"and counsel\nme of the matter we wrote about. Tell me what to do.\"\n\nMary looked meditatively out to the strip of moon that was rising out to\nthe east in the June sky. Then she looked tenderly at her friend.\n\n\"I hate to pain you,\" she said, \"but cannot you see that it is\nimpossible? I may be wrong; but I think her heart is so given to our\nSaviour that there is no love of that sort left.\"\n\n\"Ah, how can you say that?\" he cried; \"the love of the Saviour does not\nhinder earthly love; it purifies and transfigures it.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mary gravely, \"it is often so--but the love of the true\nspouse of Christ is different. That leaves no room for an earthly\nbridegroom.\"\n\nMr. Buxton was silent a moment or two.\n\n\"You mean it is the love of the consecrated soul?\"\n\nMary bowed her head. \"But I cannot be sure,\" she added.\n\n\"Then what shall I do?\" he said again, almost piteously; and Mary could\nsee even in the faint moonlight that his pleasant face was all broken up\nand quivering. She laid her hand gently on his arm, and her rings\nflashed.\n\n\"You must be very patient,\" she said, \"very full of deference--and grave.\nYou must not be ardent nor impetuous, but speak slowly and reverently to\nher, but at no great length; be plain with her; do not look in her face,\nand do not show anxiety or despair or hope. You need not fear that your\nlove will not be plain to her. Indeed, I think she knows it already.\"\n\n\"Why, I have not----\" he began.\n\n\"I know you have not spoken to her; but I saw that she only looked at you\nonce during supper, and that was when your face was turned from her; she\ndoes not wish to look you in the eyes.\"\n\n\"Ah, she hates me,\" he sighed.\n\n\"Do not be foolish,\" said Mary, \"she honours you, and loves you, and is\ngrieved for your grief; but I do not think she will marry you.\"\n\n\"And when shall I speak?\" he asked.\n\n\"You must wait; God will make the opportunity--in any case. You must not\nattempt to make it. That would terrify her.\"\n\n\"And you will speak for me.\"\n\nMary smiled at him.\n\n\"Dear friend,\" she said, \"sometimes I think you do not know us at all. Do\nyou not see that Isabel is greater than all that? What she knows, she\nknows. I could tell her nothing.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe days passed on; the days of the last month of the Norrises' stay at\nStanfield. Half-way through the month came the news of the Oxford\nexecutions.\n\n\"Ah! listen to this,\" cried Mr. Buxton, coming out to them one evening in\nthe garden with a letter in his hand. \"'Humphrey Prichard,'\" he read,\n\"'made a good end. He protested he was condemned for the Catholic Faith;\nthat he willingly died for it; that he was a Catholic. One of their\nministers laughed at him, saying he was a poor ignorant fellow who knew\nnot what it was to be a Catholic. 'I know very well;' said Humphrey,\n'though I cannot say it in proper divinity language.' There is the\nReligion for you!\" went on Mr. Buxton; \"all meet there, wise and simple\nalike. There is no difference; no scholarship is needed for faith. 'I\nknow what it is,' cried Humphrey, 'though I cannot explain it!'\"\n\nThe news came to Anthony just when he needed it; he felt he had done so\nlittle to teach his flock now he was to leave them; but if he had only\ndone something to keep alive the fire of faith, he had not lost his time;\nand so he went about his spiritual affairs with new heart, encouraging\nthe wavering, whom he was to leave, warning the over-confident, urging\nthe hesitating, and saying good-bye to them all. Isabel went with him\nsometimes; or sometimes walked or rode with Mary, and was silent for the\nmost part in public. The master of the house himself did his affairs, and\ncarried a heavier heart each day. And at last the opportunity came which\nMary had predicted.\n\nHe had come in one evening after a hot ride alone over to Tonbridge on\nsome business with the priest there; and had dressed for supper\nimmediately on coming in.\n\nAs there was still nearly an hour before supper, he went out to walk up\nand down the same yew-alley near the garden-house where he had walked\nwith Mary. Anthony and Isabel had returned a little later from East\nMaskells, and they too had dressed early. Isabel threw a lace shawl over\nher head, and betook herself too to the alley; and there she turned a\ncorner and almost ran into her host.\n\nIt was, as Mary had said, a God-made opportunity. Neither time nor place\ncould have been improved. If externals were of any value to this\ncourtship, all that could have helped was there. The setting of the\npicture was perfect; a tall yew-hedge ran down the northern side of the\nwalk, cut, as Bacon recommended, not fantastically but \"with some pretty\npyramids\"; a strip of turf separated it from the walk, giving a sense\nboth of privacy and space; on the south side ran flower-beds in the turf,\nwith yews and cypresses planted here and there, and an oak paling beyond;\nto the east lay the \"fair mount,\" again recommended by the same\nauthority, but not so high, and with but one ascent; to the west the path\ndarkened under trees, and over all rose up against the sunset sky the\ntall grotesque towers and vanes of the garden-house. The flowers burned\nwith that ember-like glow which may be seen on summer evenings, and\npoured out their scent; the air was sweet and cool, and white moths were\nbeginning to poise and stir among the blossoms. The two actors on this\nscene too were not unworthy of it; his dark velvet and lace with the\nglimmer of diamonds here and there, and his delicate bearded clean-cut\nface, a little tanned, thrown into relief by the spotless crisp ruff\nbeneath, and above all his air of strength and refinement and\nself-possession--all combined to make him a formidable stormer of a\ngirl's heart. And as he looked on her--on her clear almost luminous face\nand great eyes, shrined in the drooping lace shawl, through which a jewel\nor two in her black hair glimmered, her upright slender figure in its\ndark sheath, and the hand, white and cool, that held her shawl together\nover her breast--he had a pang of hope and despair at once, at the sudden\nsense of need of this splendid creature of God to be one with him, and\nreign with him over these fair possessions; and of hopelessness at the\nthought that anything so perfect could be accomplished in this imperfect\nworld.\n\nHe turned immediately and walked beside her, and they both knew, in the\nsilence that followed, that the crisis had come.\n\n\"Mistress Isabel,\" he said, still looking down as he spoke, and his voice\nsounded odd to her ears, \"I wonder if you know what I would say to you.\"\n\nThere came no sound from her, but the rustle of her dress.\n\n\"But I must say it,\" he went on, \"follow what may. It is this. I love you\ndearly.\"\n\nHer walk faltered beside him, and it seemed as if she would stand still.\n\n\"A moment,\" he said, and he lifted his white restrained face. \"I ask you\nto be patient with me. Perhaps I need not say that I have never said this\nto any woman before; but more, I have never even thought it. I do not\nknow how to speak, nor what I should say; beyond this, that since I first\nmet you at the door across there, a year ago, you have taught me ever\nsince what love means; and now I am come to you, as to my dear mistress,\nwith my lesson learnt.\"\n\nThey were standing together now; he was still turned a little away from\nher, and dared not lift his eyes to her face again. Then of a sudden he\nfelt her hand on his arm for a moment, and he looked up, and saw her eyes\nall swimming with sorrow.\n\n\"Dear friend,\" she said quite simply, \"it is impossible--Ah! what can I\nsay?\"\n\n\"Give me a moment more,\" he said; and they walked on slowly. \"I know what\npresumption this is; but I will not spin phrases about that. Nor do I ask\nwhat is impossible; but I will only ask leave to teach you in my turn\nwhat love means.\"\n\n\"Oh! that is the hardest of all to say,\" she said, \"but I know already.\"\n\nHe did not quite understand, and glanced at her a moment.\n\n\"I once loved too,\" she whispered. He drew a sharp breath.\n\n\"Forgive me,\" he said, \"I forced that from you.\"\n\n\"You are never anything but courteous and kind,\" she said, \"and that\nmakes this harder than all.\"\n\nThey walked in silence half a dozen steps.\n\n\"Have I distressed you?\" he asked, glancing at her again.\n\nThen she looked full in his face, and her eyes were overflowing.\n\n\"I am grieved for your sorrow,\" she said, \"and at my own unworthiness,\nyou know that?\"\n\n\"I know that you are now and always will be my dear mistress and queen.\"\n\nHis voice broke altogether as he ended, and he bent and took her hand\ndelicately in his own, as if it were royal, and kissed it. Then she gave\na great sob and slipped away through the opening in the clipped hedge;\nand he was left alone with the dusk and his sorrow.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nA week later Anthony and Isabel were saying good-bye to him in the early\nsummer morning: the pack-horses had started on before, and there were\njust the two saddle-horses at the low oak door, with the servants'\nbehind. When Mr. Buxton had put Isabel into the saddle, he held her hand\nfor a moment; Anthony was mounting behind.\n\n\"Mistress Isabel,\" he whispered; \"forgive me; but I find I cannot take\nyour answer; you will remember that.\"\n\nShe shook her head without speaking, but dared not even look into his\neyes; though she turned her head as she rode out of the gates for a last\nlook at the peaked gables and low windows of the house where she had been\nso happy. There was still the dark figure motionless against the pale oak\ndoor.\n\n\"Oh, Anthony!\" she whispered brokenly, \"our Lord asks very much.\"\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER VII\n\n                          NORTHERN RELIGION\n\n\nThe Northern counties were distinguished among all in England for their\nloyalty to the old Faith; and this was owing, no doubt, to the characters\nof both the country and the inhabitants;--it was difficult for the\nofficers of justice to penetrate to the high moorland and deep ravines,\nand yet more difficult to prevail with the persons who lived there.\nTwenty-two years before the famous Lancashire League had been formed,\nunder the encouragement of Dr. Allen, afterwards the Cardinal, whose\nmembers pledged themselves to determined recusancy; with the result that\nhere and there church-doors were closed, and the Book of Common Prayer\nutterly refused. Owing partly to Bishop Downman's laxity towards the\nrecusants, the principles of the League had retained their hold\nthroughout the county, ever since '68, when ten obstinate Lancastrians\nhad been haled before the Council, of whom one, the famous Sir John\nSouthworth himself, suffered imprisonment more than once.\n\nAnthony and Isabel then found their life in the North very different to\nthat which they had been living at Stanfield. Near the towns, of course,\nprecaution was as necessary as anywhere else in England, but once they\nhad passed up on to the higher moorlands they were able to throw off all\nanxiety, as much as if the penal laws of England were not in force there.\n\nIt was pleasant, too, to go, as they did, from great house to great\nhouse, and find the old pre-Reformation life of England in full vigour;\nthe whole family present at mass so often as it was said, desirous of the\nsacraments, and thankful for the opportunities of grace that the arrival\nof the priest afforded. Isabel would often stay at such houses a week or\ntwo together, while Anthony made rounds into the valleys and to the\nmoorland villages round-about; and then the two would travel on together\nwith their servants to the next village. Anthony's ecclesiastical outfit\nwas very simple. Among Isabel's dresses lay a brocade vestment that might\neasily pass notice if the luggage was searched; and Anthony carried in\nhis own luggage a little altar-stone, a case with the holy oils, a tiny\nchalice and paten, singing-cakes, and a thin vellum-bound Missal and\nRitual in one volume, containing the order of mass, a few votive masses,\nand the usual benedictions for holy-water, rue and the like, and the\noccasional offices.\n\nIn this manner they first visited many of the famous old Lancashire\nhouses, some of which still stand, Borwick Hall, Hall-i'-the-Wood,\nLydiate Hall, Thurnham, Blainscow, where Campion had once been so nearly\ntaken, and others, all of which were provided with secret hiding-places\nfor the escape of the priest, should a sudden alarm be raised. In none of\nthem, however, did he find the same elaboration of device as at Stanfield\nPlace.\n\nFirst, however, they went to Speke Hall, the home of Mr. Norreys, on the\nbanks of the Mersey, a beautiful house of magpie architecture, and\nfurnished with a remarkable underground passage to the shore of the\nMersey, the scene of Richard Brittain's escape.\n\nHere they received a very warm welcome.\n\n\"It is as I wrote to Mr. Buxton,\" said his host on the evening of their\narrival, \"in many places in this country any religion other than the\nCatholic is unknown. The belief of the Protestant is as strange as that\nof the Turk, both utterly detested. I was in Cumberland a few months\nback; there in more than one village the old worship goes on as it has\ndone since Christianity first came to this island. But I hope you will go\nup there, now that you have come so far. You would do a great work for\nChrist his Church.\"\n\nHe told him, too, a number of stories of the zeal and constancy shown on\nbehalf of the Religion; of small squires who were completely ruined by\nthe fines laid upon them; of old halls that were falling to pieces\nthrough the ruin brought upon their staunch owners; and above all of the\npriests that Lancashire had added to the roll of the martyrs--Anderton,\nMarsden, and Thompson among others--and of the joy shown when the\nglorious news of their victory over death reached the place where they\nhad been born or where they had ministered.\n\n\"At Preston,\" he said, \"when the news of Mr. Greenaway's death reached\nthem, they tolled the bells for sorrow. But his old mother ran from her\nhouse to the street when they had broken the news to her: 'Peal them,\npeal them!' she cried, 'for I have borne a martyr to God.'\"\n\nHe talked, too, of Campion, of his sermons on \"The King who went a\njourney,\" and the \"Hail, Mary\"; and told him of the escape at Blainscow\nHall, where the servant-girl, seeing the pursuivants at hand, pushed the\nJesuit, with quick wit and courage, into the duck-pond, so that he came\nout disguised indeed--in green mud--and was mocked at by the very\nofficers as a clumsy suitor of maidens.\n\nAnthony's heart warmed within him as he sat and listened to these tales\nof patience and gallantry.\n\n\"I would lay down my life to serve such folk,\" he said; and Isabel looked\nwith deep-kindled eyes from the one to the other.\n\nThey did not stay more than a day or two at Speke Hall, for, as Mr.\nNorreys said, the necessaries of salvation were to be had there already;\nbut they moved on almost at once northwards, always arriving at some\ncentral point for Saturdays and Sundays, so that the Catholics round\ncould come in for shrift and housel. In this manner they passed up\nthrough Lancashire, and pushed still northwards, hearing that a priest\nwas sorely needed, through the corner of Westmoreland, up the Lake\ncountry, through into Cumberland itself. At Kendal, where they stayed two\nnights, Anthony received a message that determined him, after\nconsultation with Isabel, to push on as far as Skiddaw, and to make that\nthe extreme limit of his journey. He sent the messenger, a wild-looking\nNorth-countryman, back with a verbal answer to that effect, and named a\ndate when they would arrive.\n\nIt was already dark, two weeks later, when they arrived at the point\nwhere the guide was to meet them, as they had lost their way more than\nonce already. Here were a couple of men with torches, waiting for them\nbehind a rock, who had come down from the village, a mile farther on, to\nbring them up the difficult stony path that was the only means of access\nto it. The track went up a ravine, with a rock-wall rising on their left,\non which the light of the torches shone, and tumbled ground, covered with\nheather, falling rapidly away on their right down to a gulf of darkness\nwhence they could hear the sound of the torrent far below; the path was\nuneven, with great stones here and there, and sharp corners in it, and as\nthey went it was all they could do to keep their tired horses from\nstumbling, for a slip would have been dangerous under the circumstances.\nThe men who led them said little, as it was impossible for a horse and a\nman to walk abreast, but Anthony was astonished to see again and again,\nas they turned a corner, another man with a torch and some weapon, a\npike, or a sword, start up and salute him, or sometimes a group, with\nbarefooted boys, and then attach themselves to the procession either\nbefore or behind; until in a short while there was an escort of some\nthirty or forty accompanying the cavalcade. At last, as they turned a\ncorner, the lighted windows of a belfry showed against the dark moor\nbeyond, and in a moment more, as if there were a watcher set there to\nlook out for the torches, a peal of five bells clashed out from the\ntower; then, as they rose yet higher, the path took a sudden turn and a\ndip between two towering rocks, and the whole village lay beneath them,\nwith lights in every window to welcome the priest, the first that they\nhad seen for eight months, when the old Marian rector, the elder brother\nof the squire, had died.\n\nIt was now late, so Anthony and Isabel were conducted immediately to the\nHall, an old house immediately adjoining the churchyard; and here, too,\nthe windows were blazing with welcome, and the tall squire, Mr. Brian,\nwith his wife and children behind, was standing before the bright\nhall-door at the top of the steps. The men and boys that had brought them\nso far, and were standing in the little court with their torches\nuplifted, now threw themselves on their knees to receive the priest's\nblessing, before they went home; and Anthony blessed them and thanked\nthem, and went indoors with his sister, strangely moved and uplifted.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe two following days were full of hard work and delight for Anthony. He\nwas to say mass at half-past six next morning, and came out of the house\na little after six o'clock; the sun was just rising to his right over a\nshoulder of Skiddaw, which dominated the eastern horizon; and all round\nhim, stretched against the sky in all directions, were the high purple\nmoors in the strange dawn-light. Immediately in front of him, not thirty\nyards away, stood the church, with its tower, two aisles, and a chapel on\na little promontory of rock which jutted out over the bed of the torrent\nalong which he had climbed the night before; and to his left lay the\nstraggling street of the village. All was perfectly still except for the\ndash of the stream over the rocks; but from one or two houses a thin\nskein of smoke was rising straight into the air. Anthony stood rapt in\ndelight, and drew long breaths of the cool morning air, laden with\nfreshness and fragrant with the mellow scent of the heather and the\nautumnal smells.\n\nHe was completely taken by surprise when he entered the church, for, for\nthe first time since he could remember, he saw an English church in its\ntrue glory. It had been built for a priory-church of Holm-Cultram, but\nfor some reason had never been used as that, and had become simply the\nparish church of the village. Across the centre and the northern aisle\nran an elaborate screen, painted in rich colours, and the southern\nchapel, which ran eastwards of the porch, was separated in a similar way\nfrom the rest of the church. Over the central screen was the great rood,\nwith its attendant figures, exquisitely carved and painted; in every\ndirection, as Anthony looked beyond the screens, gleamed rich windows,\nwith figures and armorial bearings; here and there tattered banners hung\non the walls; St. Christopher stood on the north wall opposite the door,\nto guard from violence all who looked upon him day by day; a little\npainting of the Baptist hung on a pillar over against the font, and a\nVernacle by the pulpit; and all round the walls hung little pictures,\nthat the poor and unlearned might read the story of redemption there. But\nthe chief glory of all was the solemn high altar, with its riddells\nsurmounted by taper-bearing gilded angels, with its brocade cloth, and\nits painted halpas behind; and above it, before the rich window which\nsmouldered against the dawn, hung the awful pyx, covered by the white\nsilk cloth, but empty; waiting for the priest to come and bid the\nShechinah of the Lord to brood there again over this gorgeous throne\nbeneath, against the brilliant halo of the painted glass behind.\n\nAnthony knelt a moment and thanked God for bringing him here, and then\npassed up into the north aisle, where the image of the Mother of God\npresided, as she had done for three hundred years, over her little altar\nagainst the wall. Anthony said his preparation and vested at the altar;\nand was astonished to find at least thirty people to hear mass: none, of\ncourse, made their communion, but Anthony, when he had ended, placed the\nBody of the Lord once more in the hanging pyx and lit the lamp before it.\n\nThen all day he sat in the north chapel, with the dash and loud thunder\nof the mountain stream entering through the opened panes of the east\nwindow, and the stained sunlight, in gorgeous colours, creeping across\nthe red tiles at his feet, glowing and fading as the clouds moved over\nthe sun, while the people came and were shriven; with the exception of an\nhour in the middle of the day and half an hour for supper in the evening,\nhe was incessantly occupied until nine o'clock at night. From the upland\ndales all round they streamed in, at news of the priest, and those who\nhad come from far and were fasting he communicated at once from the\nReserved Sacrament. At last, tired out, but intensely happy, he went back\nto the Hall.\n\nBut the next morning was yet more startling. Mass was at eight o'clock,\nand by the time Anthony entered the church he found a congregation of\nnearly two hundred souls; the village itself did not number above\nseventy, but many came in from the country round, and some had stayed all\nnight in the church-porch. Then, too, he heard the North-country singing\nin the old way; all the mass music was sung in three parts, except the\nunchanging melody of the creed, which, like the tremendous and unchanging\nwords themselves, at one time had united the whole of England; but what\nstirred Anthony more than all were the ancient hymns sung here and there\nduring the service, some in Latin, which a few picked voices rendered,\nand some in English, to the old lilting tunes which were as much the\ngrowth of the north-country as the heather itself. The \"Ave Verum Corpus\"\nwas sung after the Elevation, and Anthony felt that his heart would break\nfor very joy; as he bent before the Body of his Lord, and the voices\nbehind him rose and exulted up the aisles, the women's and children's\nvoices soaring passionately up in the melody, the mellow men's voices\nestablishing, as it seemed, these ecstatic pinnacles of song on mighty\nand immovable foundations.\n\nVespers were said at three o'clock, after baptisms and more confessions;\nand Anthony was astonished at the number of folk who could answer the\npriest. After vespers he made a short sermon, and told the people\nsomething of what he had seen in the South, of the martyrdoms at Tyburn,\nand of the constancy of the confessors.\n\n\"'Be thou faithful unto death,'\" he said. \"So our Saviour bids us, and He\ngives us a promise too: 'I will give thee a crown of life.' Beloved, some\nday the tide of heresy will creep up these valleys too; and it will bear\nmany things with it, the scaffold and the gallows and the knife maybe.\nAnd then our Lord will see which are His; then will be the time that\ngrace will triumph--that those who have used the sacraments with\ndevotion; that have been careful and penitent with their sins, that have\nhungered for the Bread of Life--the Lord shall stand by them and save\nthem, as He stood by Mr. Sherwin on the rack, and Father Campion on the\nscaffold, and Mistress Ward and many more, of whom I have not had time to\ntell you. He who bids us be faithful, Himself will be faithful; and He\nwho wore the crown of thorns will bestow upon us the crown of life.\"\n\nThen they sang a hymn to our Lady:\n\n    \"Hail be thou, Mary, the mother of Christ,\"\n\nand the old swaying tune rocked like a cradle, and the people looked up\ntowards their Mother's altar as they sang--their Mother who had ruled\nthem so sweetly and so long--and entreated her in their hearts, who stood\nby her Son's Cross, to stand by theirs too should God ever call them to\ndie upon one.\n\nThe next day Mr. Brian took Anthony a long walk as soon as dinner was\nover, across the moors towards the north side of Skiddaw. Anthony found\nthe old man a delightful and garrulous companion, full of tales of the\ncountryside, historical, religious, naturalistic, and supernatural. As\nthey stood on a little eminence and looked back to where the church-tower\npricked out of the deep crack in the moors where it stood, he told him\nthe tale of the coming of the pursuivants.\n\n\"They first troubled us in '72,\" he said; \"they had not thought it worth\nwhile before to disturb themselves for one old man like my brother, who\nwas like to die soon; but in April of that year they first sent up their\nmen. But it was only a pair of pursuivants, for they knew nothing of\nthe people; they came up, the poor men, to take my brother down to\nCockermouth to answer on his religion to some bench of ministers that sat\nthere. Well, they met him, in his cassock and square cap, coming out of\nthe church, where he had just replaced the Most Holy Sacrament after\ngiving communion to a dying body. 'Heh! are you the minister?' say they.\n\n\"'Heh! I am the priest, if that is what you mean,' he answers back. (He\nwas a large man, like myself, was my brother.)\n\n\"'Well, come, old man,' say they, 'we must help you down to Cockermouth.'\n\n\"Well, a few words passed; and the end was that he called out to Tim, who\nlived just against the church; and told them what was forward.\n\n\"Well, the pursuivants got back to Cockermouth with their lives, but not\nmuch else; and reported to the magistrates that the wild Irish themselves\nwere little piminy maids compared to the folk they had visited that day.\n\n\"So there was a great to-do, and a deal of talk; and in the next month\nthey sent up thirty pikemen with an officer and a dozen pursuivants, and\nall to take one old priest and his brother. I had been in Kendal in April\nwhen they first came--but they put it all down to me.\n\n\"Well, we were ready for them this time; the bells had been ringing to\ncall in the folk since six of the clock in the morning; and by\ndinner-time, when the soldiers were expected, there was a matter of two\nhundred men, I should say, some with scythes and sickles, and some with\nstaves or shepherds' crooks; the children had been sent down sooner to\nstone the men all the way up the path; and by the time that they had\nreached the churchyard gate there was not a man of them but had a cut or\na bruise upon him. Then, when they turned the corner, black with wrath,\nthere were the lads gathered about the church-porch each with his weapon,\nand each white and silent, waiting for what should fall.\n\n\"Now you wonder where we were. We were in the church, my brother and I;\nfor our people had put us there against our will, to keep us safe, they\nsaid. Eh! but I was wroth when Olroyd and the rest pushed me through the\ndoor. However, there we were, locked in; I was up in one window, and my\nbrother was in the belfry as I thought, each trying to see what was\nforward. I saw the two crowds of them, silent and wrathful, with not\ntwenty yards between them, and a few stones still sailing among the\nsoldiers now and again; the pikes were being set in array, and our lads\nwere opening out to let the scythes have free play, when on a sudden I\nheard the tinkle of a bell round the outside of the tower, and I climbed\ndown from my place, and up again to one of the west windows; there was a\nfearsome hush outside now, and I could see some of the soldiers in front\nwere uneasy; they had their eyes off the lads and round the side of the\ntower. And then I saw little Dickie Olroyd in his surplice ringing a bell\nand bearing a candle, and behind him came my brother, in a purple cope I\nhad never set eyes on before, with his square cap and a great book, and\nhis eyes shining out of his head, and his lips opening and mouthing out\nLatin; and then he stopped, laid the book reverently on a tombstone,\nlifted both hands, and brought them down with the fingers out, and his\neyes larger than ever. I could see the soldiers were ready to break and\nscatter, for some were Catholics no doubt, and many more feared the\npriest; and then on a sudden my brother caught the candle out of Dickie's\nhand, blew it out with a great puff, while Dickie rattled upon the bell,\nand then he dashed the smoking candle among the soldiers. The soldiers\nbroke and fled like hares, out of the churchyard, down the street and\ndown the path to Cockermouth; the officer tried to stay them, but 'twas\nno use; the fear of the Church was upon them, and her Grace herself could\nnot have prevailed with them. Well, when they let us out, the lads were\nall a-trembling too; for my brother's face, they said, was like the\ndestroying angel; and I was somewhat queer myself, and I was astonished\ntoo; for he was kind-hearted, was my brother, and would not hurt a fly's\nbody; much less damn his soul; and, after all, the poor soldiers were not\nto blame; and 'twas a queer cursing, I thought too, to be done like that;\nbut maybe 'twas a new papal method. I went round to the north chapel, and\nthere he was taking off his cope.\n\n\"'Well,' he said to me, 'how did I do it?'\n\n\"'Do it?' I said; 'do it? Why, you've damned those poor lads' souls\neternally. The hand of the Lord was with you,' I said.\n\n\"'Damned them?' said he; 'nonsense! 'Twas only your old herbal that I\nread at them; and the cope too, 'twas inside out.'\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThen the old man told Anthony other stories of his earlier life, how he\nhad been educated at the university and been at Court in King Henry's\nreign and Queen Mary's, but that he had lost heart at Elizabeth's\naccession, and retired to his hills, where he could serve God according\nto his conscience, and study God's works too, for he was a keen\nnaturalist. He told Anthony many stories about the deer, and the herds of\nwild white hornless cattle that were now practically extinct on the\nhills, and of a curious breed of four-horned sheep, skulls of all of\nwhich species hung in his hall, and of the odd drinking-horns that\nAnthony had admired the day before. There was one especially that he\ntalked much of, a buffalo horn on three silver feet fashioned like the\nlegs of an armed man; round the centre was a filleting inscribed, \"_Qui\npugnat contra tres perdet duos_,\" and there was a cross pat\u00e9e on the\nhorn, and two other inscriptions, \"_Nolite extollere cornu in altu'_\" and\n\"_Qui bibat me adhuc siti'_.\" Mr. Brian told him it had been brought from\nItaly by his grandfather.\n\nThey put up a quantity of grouse and several hares as they walked across\nthe moor; one of the hares, which had a curious patch of white between\nhis ears like a little night-cap, startled Mr. Brian so much that he\nexclaimed aloud, crossed himself, and stood, a little pale, watching the\nhare's head as it bobbed and swerved among the heather.\n\n\"I like it not,\" he said to Anthony, who inquired what was the matter.\n\"Satan hath appeared under some such form to many in history. Joachimus\nCamerarius, who wrote _de natura d\u00e6monum_, tells, I think, a story of\na hare followed by a fox that ran across the path of a young man who\nwas riding on a horse, and who started in pursuit. Up and down hills and\ndales they went, and soon the fox was no longer there, and the hare grew\nlarger and blacker as it went; and the young man presently saw that he\nwas in a country that he knew not; it was all barren and desolate round\nhim, and the sky grew dark. Then he spurred his horse more furiously, and\nhe drew nearer and nearer to the great hare that now skipped along like a\nstag before him; and then, as he put out his hand to cut the hare down,\nthe creature sprang into the air and vanished, and the horse fell dead;\nand the man was found in his own meadow by his friends, in a swound, with\nhis horse dead beside him, and trampled marks round and round the field,\nand the pug-marks of what seemed like a great tiger beside him, where the\nbeast had sprung into the air.\"\n\nWhen Mr. Brian found that Anthony was interested in such stories, he told\nhim plenty of them; especially tales that seemed to join in a strange\nunity of life, demons, beasts and men. It was partly, no doubt, his\nstudies as a naturalist that led him to insist upon points that united\nrather than divided the orders of creation; and he told him stories first\nfrom such writers as Michael Verdunus and Petrus Burgottus, who relate\namong other marvels how there are ointments by the use of which shepherds\nhave been known to change themselves into wolves and tear the sheep that\nthey should have protected; and he quoted to him St. Augustine's own\ntestimony, to the belief that in Italy certain women were able to change\nthemselves into heifers through the power of witchcraft. Finally, he told\nhim one or two tales of his own experience.\n\n\"In the year '63,\" he said, \"before my marriage, I was living alone in\nthe Hall; I was a young man, and did my best to fear nought but deadly\nsin. I was coming back late from Threlkeld, round the south of Skiddaw\nthat you see over there; and was going with a lantern, for it would be\nten o'clock at night, and the time of year was autumn. I was still a mile\nor two from the house, and was saying my beads as I came, for I hold that\nis a great protection; when I heard a strange whistling noise, with a\nmurmur in it, high up overhead in the night. 'It is the birds going\nsouth,' I said to myself, for you know that great flocks fly by night\nwhen the cold begins to set in; but the sound grew louder and more\ndistinct, and at last I could hear the sound as of words gabbled in a\nforeign tongue; and I knew they were no birds, though maybe they had\nwings like them. But I knew that a Christened soul in grace has nought to\nfear from hell; so I crossed myself and said my beads, and kept my eyes\non the ground, and presently I saw my lights burning in the house, and\nheard the roar of the stream, and the gabbling above me ceased, as the\nsound of the running water began. But that night I awoke again and again;\nand the night seemed hot and close each time, as if a storm was near, but\nthere was no thunder. Each time I heard the roar of the stream below the\nhouse, and no more. At last, towards the morning, I set my window wide\nthat looks towards the stream, and leaned out; and there beneath me,\ncrowded against the wall of the house, as I could see in the growing\nlight, was a great flock of sheep, with all their heads together towards\nthe house, as close as a score of dogs could pack them, and they were all\nstill as death, and their backs were dripping wet; for they had come down\nthe hills and swum the stream, in order to be near a Christened man and\naway from what was abroad that night.\n\n\"My shepherds told me the same that day, that everywhere the sheep had\ncome down to the houses, as if terrified near to death; and at Keswick,\nwhither I went the next market-day, they told me the same tale, and that\ntwo men had each found a sheep that could not travel; one had a broken\nleg, and the other had been cast; but neither had another mark or wound\nor any disease upon him, but that both were lying dead upon Skiddaw; and\nthe look in the dead eyes, they said, was fit to make a man forget his\nmanhood.\"\n\nAnthony found the old man the most interesting companion possible, and he\npersuaded him to accompany him on several of the expeditions that he had\nto make to the hamlets and outlying cottages round, in his spiritual\nministrations; and both he and Isabel were sincerely sorry when two\nSundays had passed away, and they had to begin to move south again in\ntheir journeyings.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAnd so the autumn passed and winter began, and Anthony was slowly moving\ndown again, supplying the place of priests who had fallen sick or had\ndied, visiting many almost inaccessible hamlets, and everywhere\nencouraging the waverers and seeking the wanderers, and rejoicing over\nthe courageous, and bringing opportunities of grace to many who longed\nfor them. He met many other well-known priests from time to time, and\ntook counsel with them, but did not have time to become very intimate\nwith any of them, so great were the demands upon his services. In this\nmanner he met John Colleton, the canonist, who had returned from his\nbanishment in '87, but found him a little dull and melancholy, though his\ndevotion was beyond praise. He met, too, the Jesuit Fathers Edward\nOldcorne and Richard Holtby, the former of whom had lately come from\nHindlip.\n\nHe spent Christmas near Cartmel-in-Furness, and after the new year had\nopened, crossed the Ken once more near Beetham, and began to return\nslowly down the coast. Everywhere he was deeply touched by the devotion\nof the people, who, in spite of long months without a priest, had yet\nclung to the observance of their religion so far as was possible, and now\nwelcomed him like an angel of God; and he had the great happiness too of\nreconciling some who, yielding to loneliness and pressure, had conformed\nto the Establishment. In these latter cases he was almost startled by the\ndepth of Catholic convictions that had survived.\n\n\"I never believed it, father,\" said a young squire to him, near Garstang.\n\"I knew that it was but a human invention, and not the Gospel that my\nfathers held, and that Christ our Saviour brought on earth; but I lost\nheart, for that no priest came near us, and I had not had the sacraments\nfor nearly two years; and I thought that it were better to have some\nreligion than none at all, so at last I went to church. But there is no\nneed to talk to me, father, now I have made my confession, for I know\nwith my whole soul that the Catholic Religion is the true one--and I have\nknown it all the while, and I thank God and His Blessed Mother, and you,\nfather, too, for helping me to say so again, and to come back to grace.\"\n\nAt last, at the beginning of March, Anthony and Isabel found themselves\nback again at Speke Hall, warmly welcomed by Mr. Norreys.\n\n\"You have done a good work for the Church, Mr. Capell,\" said his host,\n\"and God will reward you and thank you for it Himself, for we cannot.\"\n\n\"And I thank God,\" said Anthony, \"for the encouragement to faith that the\nsight of the faithful North has given to me; and pray Him that I may\ncarry something of her spirit back with me to the south.\"\n\nThere were letters waiting for him at Speke Hall, one from Mr. Buxton,\nurging them to come back, at least for the present, to Stanfield Place,\nso soon as the winter work in the north was over; and another from the\nRector of the College at Douai to the same effect. There was also one\nmore, written from a little parish in Kent, from a Catholic lady who was\naltogether a stranger to him, but who plainly knew all about him,\nentreating him to call at her house when he was in the south again; her\nhusband, she said, had met him once at Stanfield and had been strongly\nattracted by him to the Catholic Church, and she believed that if Anthony\nwould but pay them a visit her husband's conversion would be brought\nabout. Anthony could not remember the man's name, but Isabel thought that\nshe did remember some such person at a small private conference that\nAnthony had given in Mr. Buxton's house, for the benefit of Catholics and\nthose who were being drawn towards the Religion.\n\nThe lady, too, gave him instructions as to how he should come from London\nto her house, recommending him to cross the Thames at a certain spot that\nshe described near Greenhithe, and to come on southwards along a route\nthat she marked for him, to the parish of Stanstead, where she lived.\nThis, then, was soon arranged, and after letters had been sent off\nannouncing Anthony's movements, he left Speke Hall with Isabel, about a\nfortnight later.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER VIII\n\n                          IN STANSTEAD WOODS\n\n\nOn the first day of June, Anthony and Isabel, with their three armed\nservants and the French maid behind them, were riding down through\nThurrock to the north bank of the Thames opposite Greenhithe. As they\nwent Anthony pulled out and studied the letter and the little map that\nMrs. Kirke had sent to guide them.\n\n\"On the right-hand side,\" she wrote, \"when you come to the ferry, stands\na little inn, the 'Sloop,' among trees, with a yard behind it. Mr.\nBender, the host, is one of us; and he will get your horses on board, and\ndo all things to forward you without attracting attention. Give him some\nsign that he may know you for a Catholic, and when you are alone with him\ntell him where you are bound.\"\n\nThere were one or two houses standing near the bank, as they rode down\nthe lane that led to the river, but they had little difficulty in\nidentifying the \"Sloop,\" and presently they rode into the yard, and,\nleaving their horses with the servants, stepped round into the little\nsmoky front room of the inn.\n\nA man, dressed somewhat like a sailor, was sitting behind a table, who\nlooked up with a dull kind of expectancy and whom Anthony took as the\nhost; and, in order to identify him and show who he himself was, he took\nup a little cake of bread that was lying on a platter on the table, and\nbroke it as if he would eat. This was one of Father Persons' devices, and\nwas used among Catholics to signify their religion when they were with\nstrangers, since it was an action that could rouse no suspicion among\nothers. The man looked in an unintelligent way at Anthony, who turned\naway and rapped upon the door, and as a large heavily-built man came out,\nbroke it again, and put a piece into his mouth. The man lifted his\neyebrows slightly, and just smiled, and Anthony knew he had found his\nfriend.\n\n\"Come this way, sir,\" he said, \"and your good lady, too.\"\n\nThey followed him into the inner room of the house, a kind of little\nkitchen, with a fire burning and a pot over it, and one or two barrels of\ndrink against the wall. A woman was stirring the pot, for it was near\ndinner-time, and turned round as the strangers came in. It was plainly an\ninn that was of the poorest kind, and that was used almost entirely by\nwatermen or by travellers who were on their way to cross the ferry.\n\n\"The less said the better,\" said the man, when he had shut the door. \"How\ncan I serve you, sir?\"\n\n\"We wish to take our horses and ourselves across to Greenhithe,\" said\nAnthony, \"and Mrs. Kirke, to whom we are going, bade us make ourselves\nknown to you.\"\n\nThe man nodded and smiled.\n\n\"Yes, sir, that can be managed directly. The ferry is at the other bank\nnow, sir; and I will call it across. Shall we say in half an hour, sir;\nand, meanwhile, will you and your lady take something?\"\n\nAnthony accepted gladly, as the time was getting on, and ordered dinner\nfor the servants too, in the outer room. As the landlord was going to the\ndoor, he stopped him.\n\n\"Who is that man in the other room?\" he asked.\n\nThe landlord gave a glance at the door, and came back towards Anthony.\n\n\"To tell the truth, sir, I do not know. He is a sailor by appearance, and\nhe knows the talk; but none of the watermen know him; and he seems to do\nnothing. However, sir, there's no harm in him that I can see.\"\n\nAnthony told him that he had broken the bread before him, thinking he was\nthe landlord. The real landlord smiled broadly.\n\n\"Thank God, I am somewhat more of a man than that,\" for the sailor was\nlean and sun-dried. Then once more Mr. Bender went to the door to call\nthe servants in.\n\n\"Why, the man's gone,\" he said, and disappeared. Then they heard his\nvoice again. \"But he's left his groat behind him for his drink, so all's\nwell\"; and presently his voice was heard singing as he got the table\nready for the servants.\n\nIn a little more than half an hour the party and the horses were safely\non the broad bargelike ferry, and Mr. Bender was bowing on the bank and\nwishing them a prosperous journey, as they began to move out on to the\nwide river towards the chalk cliffs and red roofs of Greenhithe that\nnestled among the mass of trees on the opposite bank. In less than ten\nminutes they were at the pier, and after a little struggle to get the\nhorses to land, they were mounted and riding up the straight little\nstreet that led up to the higher ground. Just before they turned the\ncorner they heard far away across the river the horn blown to summon the\nferry-boat once more.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThere were two routes from Greenhithe to Stanstead, the one to the right\nthrough Longfield and Ash, the other to the left through Southfleet and\nNursted. There was very little to choose between them as regards\ndistance, and Mrs. Kirke had drawn a careful sketch-map with a few notes\nas to the characteristics of each route. There were besides, particularly\nthrough the thick woods about Stanstead itself, innumerable cross-paths\nintersecting one another in all directions. The travellers had decided at\nthe inn to take the road through Longfield; since, in spite of other\ndisadvantages, it was the less frequented of the two, and they were\nanxious above all things to avoid attention. Their horses were tired; and\nas they had plenty of time before them they proposed to go at a\nfoot's-pace all the way, and to take between two and three hours to cover\nthe nine or ten miles between Greenhithe and Stanstead.\n\nIt was a hot afternoon as they passed through Fawkham, and it was\ndelightful to pass from the white road in under the thick arching trees\njust beyond the village. There everything was cool shadow, the insects\nsang in the air about them, an early rabbit or two cantered across the\nroad and disappeared into the thick undergrowth; once the song of the\nbirds about them suddenly ceased, and through an opening in the green\nrustling vault overhead they saw a cruel shape with motionless wings\nglide steadily across.\n\nThey did not talk much, but let the reins lie loose; and enjoyed the cool\nshadow and the green lights and the fragrant mellow scents of the woods\nabout them; while their horses slouched along on the turf, switching\ntheir tails and even stopping sometimes for a second in a kind of\ndesperate greediness to snatch a green juicy mouthful at the side.\n\nIsabel was thinking of Stanfield, and wondering how the situation would\nadjust itself; Mary Corbet would be there, she knew, to meet them; and it\nwas a comfort to think she could consult her; but what, she asked\nherself, would be her relations with the master of the house?\n\nSuddenly Anthony's horse stepped off the turf on the opposite side of the\nroad and began to come towards her, and she moved her beast a little to\nlet him come on the turf beside her.\n\n\"Isabel,\" said Anthony, \"tell me if you hear anything.\"\n\nShe looked at him, suddenly startled.\n\n\"No, no,\" he said, \"there is nothing to fear; it is probably my fancy;\nbut listen and tell me.\"\n\nShe listened intently. There was the creaking of her own saddle, the soft\nfootfalls of the horses, the hum of the summer woods, and the sound of\nthe servants' horses behind.\n\n\"No,\" she said, \"there is nothing beyond----\"\n\n\"There!\" he said suddenly; \"now do you hear it?\"\n\nThen she heard plainly the sound either of a man running, or of a horse\nwalking, somewhere behind them.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"I hear something; but what of it?\"\n\n\"It is the third time I have heard it,\" he said: \"once in the woods\nbehind Longfield, and once just before the little village with the\nsteepled church.\"\n\nThe sound had ceased again.\n\n\"It is some one who has come nearly all the way from Greenhithe behind\nus. Perhaps they are not following--but again----\"\n\n\"They?\" she said; \"there is only one.\"\n\n\"There are three,\" he answered; \"at least; the other two are on the turf\nat the side--but just before the village I heard all three of them--or\nrather certainly more than two--when they were between those two walls\nwhere there was no turf.\"\n\nIsabel was staring at him with great frightened eyes. He smiled back at\nher tranquilly.\n\n\"Ah, Isabel!\" he said, \"there is nothing really to fear, in any case.\"\n\n\"What shall you do?\" she asked, making a great effort to control herself.\n\n\"I think we must find out first of all whether they are after us. We must\ncertainly not ride straight to the Manor Lodge if it is so.\"\n\nThen he explained his plan.\n\n\"See here,\" he said, holding the map before her as he rode, \"we shall\ncome to Fawkham Green in five minutes. Then our proper road leads\nstraight on to Ash, but we will take the right instead, towards Eynsford.\nMeanwhile, I will leave Robert here, hidden by the side of the road, to\nsee who these men are, and what they look like; and we will ride on\nslowly. When they have passed, he will come out and take the road we\nshould have taken, and he then will turn off to the right too before he\nreaches Ash; and by trotting he will easily come up with us at this\ncorner,\" and he pointed to it on the map--\"and so he will tell us what\nkind of men they are; and they will never know that they have been spied\nupon; for, by this plan, he will not have to pass them. Is that a good\nplot?\" and he smiled at her.\n\nIsabel assented, feeling dazed and overwhelmed. She could hardly bring\nher thoughts to a focus, for the fears that had hovered about her ever\nsince they had left Lancashire and come down to the treacherous south,\nhad now darted upon her, tearing her heart with terror and blinding her\neyes, and bewildering her with the beating of their wings.\n\nAnthony quietly called up Robert, and explained the plan. He was a lad of\na Catholic family at Great Keynes, perfectly fearless and perfectly\ndevoted to the Church and to the priest he served. He nodded his head\nbriskly with approval as the plan was explained.\n\n\"Of course it may all be nothing,\" ended Anthony, \"and then you will\nthink me a poor fool?\"\n\nThe lad grinned cheerfully.\n\n\"No, sir,\" he said.\n\nAll this while they had been riding slowly on together, and now the wood\nshowed signs of coming to an end; so Anthony told the groom to ride fifty\nyards into the undergrowth at once, to bandage his horse's eyes, and to\ntie him to a tree; and then to creep back himself near the road, so as to\nsee without being seen. The men who seemed to be following were at least\nhalf a mile behind, so he would have plenty of time.\n\nThen they all rode on together again, leaving Robert to find his way into\nthe wood. As they went, Isabel began to question her brother, and Anthony\ngave her his views.\n\n\"They have not come up with us, because they know we are four men to\nthree--if, as I think, they are not more than three--that is one reason;\nand another is that they love to track us home before they take us; and\nthus take our hosts too as priests' harbourers. Now plainly these men do\nnot know where we are bound, or they would not follow us so closely. Best\nof all, too, they love to catch us at mass for then they have no trouble\nin proving their case. I think then that they will not try to take us\ntill we reach the Manor Lodge; and we must do our best to shake them off\nbefore that. Now the plot I have thought of is this, that--should it\nprove as I think it will--we should ride slower than ever, as if our\nhorses were weary, down the road along which Robert will have come after\nhe has joined us, and turn down as if to go to Kingsdown, and when we\nhave gone half a mile, and are well round that sharp corner, double back\nto it, and hide all in the wood at the side. They will follow our tracks,\nand there are no houses at which they can ask, and there seem no\ntravellers either on these by-roads, and when they have passed us we\ndouble back at the gallop, and down the next turning, which will bring us\nin a couple of miles to Stanstead. There is a maze of roads thereabouts,\nand it will be hard if we do not shake them off; for there is not a\nhouse, marked upon the map, at which they can ask after us.\"\n\nIsabel did her utmost to understand, but the horror of the pursuit had\noverwhelmed her. The quiet woods into which they had passed again after\nleaving Fawkham Green now seemed full of menace; the rough road, with the\ndeep powdery ruts and the grass and fir-needles at the side, no longer\nseemed a pleasant path leading home, but a treacherous device to lead\nthem deeper into danger. The creatures round them, the rabbits, the\npigeons that flapped suddenly out of all the tall trees, the tits that\nfluttered on and chirped and fluttered again, all seemed united against\nAnthony in some dreadful league. Anthony himself felt all his powers of\nobservation and device quickened and established. He had lived so long in\nthe expectation of a time like this, and had rehearsed and mastered the\nemotions of terror and suspense so often, that he was ready to meet them;\nand gradually his entire self-control and the unmoved tones of his voice\nand his serene alert face prevailed upon Isabel; and by the time that\nthey slowly turned the last curve and saw Robert on his black horse\nwaiting for them at the corner, her sense of terror and bewilderment had\npassed, her heart had ceased that sick thumping, and she, too, was\ntranquil and capable.\n\nRobert wheeled his horse and rode beside Anthony round the sharp corner\nto the left up the road along which he had trotted just now.\n\n\"There are three of them, sir,\" he said in an even, businesslike voice;\n\"one of them, sir, on a brown mare, but I couldn't see aught of him, sir;\nhe was on the far side of the track; the second is like a groom on a grey\nhorse, and the third is dressed like a sailor, sir, on a brown horse.\"\n\n\"A sailor?\" said Anthony; \"a lean man, and sunburnt, with a whistle?\"\n\n\"I did not see the whistle, sir; but he is as you say.\"\n\nThis made it certain that it was the man they had seen in the inn\nopposite Greenhithe; and also practically certain that he was a spy; for\nnothing that Anthony had done could have roused his suspicions except the\nbreaking of the bread; and that would only be known to one who was deep\nin the counsels of the Catholics. All this made the pursuit the more\nformidable.\n\nSo Anthony meditated; and presently, calling up the servants behind,\nexplained the situation and his plan. The French maid showed signs of\nhysteria and Isabel had to take her aside and quiet her, while the men\nconsulted. Then it was arranged, and the servants presently dropped\nbehind again a few yards, though the maid still rode with Isabel. Then\nthey came to the road on the right that would have led them to Kingsdown,\nand down this they turned. As they went, Anthony kept a good look-out for\na place to turn aside; and a hundred yards from the turning saw what he\nwanted. On the left-hand side a little path led into the wood; it was\novergrown with brambles, and looked as if it were now disused. Anthony\ngave the word and turned his horse down the entrance, and was followed in\nsingle file by the others. There were thick trees about them on every\nside, and, what was far more important, the road they had left at this\npoint ran higher than usual, and was hard and dry; so the horses' hoofs\nas they turned off left no mark that would be noticed.\n\nAfter riding thirty or forty yards, Anthony stopped, turned his horse\nagain, and forced him through the hazels with some difficulty, and the\nothers again followed in silence through the passage he had made.\nPresently Anthony stopped; the branches that had swished their faces as\nthey rode through now seemed a little higher; and it was possible to sit\nhere on horseback without any great discomfort.\n\n\"I must see them myself,\" he whispered to Isabel; and slipped off his\nhorse, giving the bridle to Robert.\n\n\"Oh! mon Dieu!\" moaned the maid; \"mon Dieu! Ne partez pas!\"\n\nAnthony looked at her severely.\n\n\"You must be quiet and brave,\" he said sternly. \"You are a Catholic too;\npray, instead of crying.\"\n\nThen Isabel saw him slip noiselessly towards the road, which was some\nfifty yards away, through the thick growth.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nIt was now a breathless afternoon. High overhead the sun blazed in a\ncloudless sky, but down here all was cool, green shadow. There was not a\nsound to be heard from the woods, beyond the mellow hum of the flies;\nAnthony's faint rustlings had ceased; now and then a saddle creaked, or a\nhorse blew out his nostrils or tossed his head. One of the men wound his\nhandkerchief silently round a piece of his horse's head-harness that\njingled a little. The maid drew a soft sobbing breath now and then, but\nshe dared not speak after the priest's rebuke.\n\nThen suddenly there came another sound to Isabel's ears; she could not\ndistinguish at first what it was, but it grew nearer, and presently\nresolved itself into the fumbling noise of several horses' feet walking\ntogether, twice or three times a stirrup chinked, once she heard a\nmuffled cough; but no word was spoken. Nearer and nearer it came, until\nshe could not believe that it was not within five yards of her. Her heart\nbegan again that sick thumping; a fly that she had brushed away again and\nagain now crawled unheeded over her face, and even on her white parted\nlips; but a sob of fear from the maid recalled her, and she turned a\nsharp look of warning on her. Then the fumbling noise began to die away:\nthe men were passing. There was something in their silence that was more\nterrible than all else; it reminded her of hounds running on a hot scent.\n\nThen at last there was silence; then gentle rustlings again over last\nyear's leaves; and Anthony came back through the hazels. He nodded at her\nsharply.\n\n\"Now, quickly,\" he said, and took his horse by the bridle and began to\nlead him out again the way they had come. At the entrance he looked out\nfirst; the road was empty and silent. Then he led his horse clear, and\nmounted as the others came out one by one in single file.\n\n\"Now follow close; and watch my hand,\" he said; and he put his horse to a\nquick walk on the soft wayside turf. As the distance widened between them\nand the men who were now riding away from them, the walk became a trot,\nand then quickly a canter, as the danger of the sound being carried to\ntheir pursuers decreased.\n\nIt seemed to Isabel like some breathless dream as she followed Anthony's\nback, watching the motions of his hand as he signed in which direction he\nwas going to turn next. What was happening, she half wondered to herself,\nthat she should be riding like this on a spent horse, as if in some\ndreadful game, turning abruptly down lanes and rides, out across the high\nroad, and down again another turn, with the breathing and creaking and\njingling of others behind her? Years ago the two had played\nFollow-my-leader on horseback in the woods above Great Keynes. She\nremembered this now; and a flood of memories poured across her mind and\ndiluted the bitterness of this shocking reality. Dear God, what a game!\n\nAnthony steered with skill and decision. He had been studying the map\nwith great attention, and even now carried it loose in his hand and\nglanced at it from time to time. Above all else he wished to avoid\npassing a house, for fear that the searchers might afterwards inquire at\nit; and he succeeded perfectly in this, though once or twice he was\nobliged to retrace his steps. There was little danger, he knew now, of\nthe noise of the horses' feet being any guide to those who were\nsearching, for the high table-land on which they rode was a labyrinth of\nlanes and rides, and the trees too served to echo and confuse the noise\nthey could not altogether avoid making. Twice they passed travellers, one\na farmer on an old grey horse, who stared at this strange hurrying party;\nand once a pedlar, laden with his pack, who trudged past, head down.\n\nIsabel's horse was beginning to strain and pant, and she herself to grow\ngiddy with heat and weariness, when she saw through the trees an old\nfarmhouse with latticed windows and a great external chimney, standing in\na square of cultivated ground; and in a moment more the path they were\nfollowing turned a corner, and the party drew up at the back of the\nhouse.\n\nAt the noise of the horses' footsteps a door at the back had opened, and\na woman's face looked out and drew back again; and presently from the\nfront Mrs. Kirke came quickly round. She was tall and slender and\nmiddle-aged, with a somewhat anxious face; but a look of great relief\ncame over it as she saw Anthony.\n\n\"Thank God you are come,\" she said; \"I feared something had happened.\"\n\nAnthony explained the circumstances in a few words.\n\n\"I will ride on gladly, madam, if you think right; but I will ask you in\nany case to take my sister in.\"\n\n\"Why, how can you say that?\" she said; \"I am a Catholic. Come in, father.\nBut I fear there is but poor accommodation for the servants.\"\n\n\"And the horses?\" asked Anthony.\n\n\"The barn at the back is got ready for them,\" she said; \"perhaps it would\nbe well to take them there at once.\" She called a woman, and sent her to\nshow the men where to stable the horses, while Anthony and Isabel and the\nmaid dismounted and came in with her to the house.\n\nThere, they talked over the situation and what was best to be done. Her\nhusband had ridden over to Wrotham, and she expected him back for supper;\nnothing then could be finally settled till he came. In the meantime the\nManor Lodge was probably the safest place in all the woods, Mrs. Kirke\ndeclared; the nearest house was half a mile away, and that was the\nRectory; and the Rector himself was a personal friend and favourable to\nCatholics. The Manor Lodge, too, stood well off the road to Wrotham, and\nnot five strangers appeared there in the year. Fifty men might hunt the\nwoods for a month and not find it; in fact, Mr. Kirke had taken the house\non account of its privacy, for he was weary, his wife said, of paying her\nfines for recusancy; and still more unwilling to pay his own, when that\nhappy necessity should arrive; for he had now practically made up his\nmind to be a Catholic, and only needed a little instruction before being\nreceived.\n\n\"He is a good man, father,\" she said to Anthony, \"and will make a good\nCatholic.\"\n\nThen she explained about the accommodation. Isabel and the maid would\nhave to sleep together in the spare room, and Anthony would have the\nlittle dressing-room opening out of it; and the men, she feared, would\nhave to shake down as well as they could in the loft over the stable in\nthe barn.\n\nAt seven o'clock Mr. Kirke arrived; and when the situation had been\nexplained to him, he acquiesced in the plan. He seemed confident that\nthere was but little danger; and he and Anthony were soon deep in\ntheological talk.\n\nAnthony found him excellently instructed already; he had, in fact, even\nprepared for his confession; his wife had taught him well; and it was the\nprospect of this one good opportunity of being reconciled to the Church\nthat had precipitated matters and decided him to take the step. He was a\ndelightful companion, too, intelligent, courageous, humorous and modest,\nand Anthony thought his own labour and danger well repaid when, a little\nafter midnight, he heard his confession and received him into the Church.\nIt was impossible for Mr. Kirke to receive communion, as he had wished,\nfor there were wanting some of the necessaries for saying mass; so he\npromised to ride across to Stanfield in a week or so, stay the night and\ncommunicate in the morning.\n\nThen early the next morning a council was held as to the best way for the\nparty to leave for Stanfield. The men were called up, and their opinions\nasked; and gradually step by step a plan was evolved.\n\nThe first requirement was that, if possible, the party should not be\nrecognisable; the second that they should keep together for mutual\nprotection; for to separate would very possibly mean the apprehension of\nsome one of them; the third was that they should avoid so far as was\npossible villages and houses and frequented roads.\n\nThen the first practical suggestion was made by Isabel that the maid\nshould be left behind, and that Mr. Kirke should bring her on with him to\nStanfield when he came a week later. This he eagerly accepted, and\nfurther offered to keep all the luggage they could spare, take charge of\nthe men's liveries, and lend them old garments and hats of his own--to\none a cloak, and to another a doublet. In this way, he said, it would\nappear to be a pleasure party rather than one of travellers, and, should\nthey be followed, this would serve to cover their traces. The travelling\nby unfrequented roads was more difficult; for that in itself might\nattract attention should they actually meet any one.\n\nAnthony, who had been thinking in silence a moment or two, now broke in.\n\n\"Have you any hawks, Mr. Kirke?\" he asked.\n\n\"Only one old peregrine,\" he said, \"past sport.\"\n\n\"She will do,\" said Anthony; \"and can you borrow another?\"\n\n\"There is a merlin at the Rectory,\" said Mr. Kirke.\n\nThen Anthony explained his plan, that they should pose as a\nhawking-party. Isabel and Robert should each carry a hawk, while he\nhimself would carry on his wrist an empty leash and hood as if a hawk had\nescaped; that they should then all ride together over the open country,\navoiding every road, and that, if they should see any one on the way,\nthey should inquire whether he had seen an escaped falcon or heard the\ntinkle of the bells; and this would enable them to ask the way, should it\nbe necessary, without arousing suspicion.\n\nThis plan was accepted, and the maid was informed to her great relief\nthat she might remain behind for a week or so, and then return with Mr.\nKirke after the searchers had left the woods.\n\nIt was a twenty-mile ride to Stanfield; and it was thought safer on the\nwhole not to remain any longer where they were, as it was impossible to\nknow whether a shrewd man might not, with the help of a little luck,\nstumble upon the house; so, when dinner was over, and the servants had\nchanged into Mr. Kirke's old suits, and the merlin had been borrowed from\nthe Rectory for a week's hawking, the horses were brought round and the\nparty mounted.\n\nMr. Kirke and Anthony had spent a long morning together discussing the\nroute, and it had been decided that it would be best to keep along the\nhigh ridge due west until they were a little beyond Kemsing, which they\nwould be able to see below them in the valley; and then to strike across\nbetween that village and Otford, and keeping almost due south ride up\nthrough Knole Park; then straight down on the other side into the Weald,\nand so past Tonbridge home.\n\nMr. Kirke himself insisted on accompanying them on his cob until he had\nseen them clear of the woods on the high ground. Both he and his wife\nwere full of gratitude to Anthony for the risk and trouble he had\nundergone, and did their utmost to provide them with all that was\nnecessary for their disguise. At last, about two o'clock, the five men\nand Isabel rode out of the little yard at the back of the Manor Lodge and\nplunged into the woods again.\n\nThe afternoon hush rested on the country as they followed Mr. Kirke along\na narrow seldom-used path that led almost straight to the point where it\nwas decided that they should strike south. In half a dozen places it cut\nacross lanes, and once across the great high road from Farningham to\nWrotham. As they drew near this, Mr. Kirke, who was riding in front,\nchecked them.\n\n\"I will go first,\" he said, \"and see if there is danger.\"\n\nIn a minute he returned.\n\n\"There is a man about a hundred yards up the road asleep on a bank; and\nthere is a cart coming up from Wrotham: that is all I can see. Perhaps we\nhad better wait till the cart is gone.\"\n\n\"And what is the man like?\" asked Anthony.\n\n\"He is a beggar, I should say; but has his hat over his eyes.\"\n\nThey waited till the cart had passed. Anthony dismounted and went to the\nentrance of the path and peered out at the man; he was lying, as Mr.\nKirke had said, with his hat over his eyes, perfectly still. Anthony\nexamined him a minute or two; he was in tattered clothes, and a great\nstick and a bundle lay beside him.\n\n\"It is a vagabond,\" he said, \"we can go on.\"\n\nThe whole party crossed the road, pushing on towards the edge of the high\ndowns over Kemsing; and presently came to the Ightam road where it began\nto run steeply down hill; here, too, Mr. Kirke looked this way and that,\nbut no one was in sight, and then the whole party crossed; they kept\ninside the edge of the wood all the way along the downs for another mile\nor so, with the rich sunlit valley seen in glimpses through the trees\nhere and there, and the Pilgrim's Way lying like a white ribbon a couple\nof hundred feet below them, until at last Kemsing Church, with St.\nEdith's Chantry at the side, lay below and behind them, and they came out\non to the edge of a great scoop in the hill, like a theatre, and the blue\nwoods and hills of Surrey showed opposite beyond Otford and Brasted.\n\nHere they stopped, a little back from the edge, and Mr. Kirke gave them\ntheir last instructions, pointing out Seal across the valley, which they\nmust leave on their left, skirting the meadows to the west of the church,\nand passing up towards Knole beyond.\n\n\"Let the sun be a little on your right,\" he said, \"all the way; and you\nwill strike the country above Tonbridge.\"\n\nThen they said good-bye to one another; Mr. Kirke kissed the priest's\nhand in gratitude for what he had done for him, and then turned back\nalong the edge of the downs, riding this time outside the woods, while\nthe party led their horses carefully down the steep slope, across the\nPilgrim's Way, and then struck straight out over the meadows to Seal.\n\nTheir plan seemed supremely successful; they met a few countrymen and\nlads at their work, who looked a little astonished at first at this great\nparty riding across country, but more satisfied when Anthony had inquired\nof them whether they had seen a falcon or heard his bells. No, they had\nnot, they said; and went on with their curiosity satisfied. Once, as they\nwere passing down through a wood on to the Weald, Isabel, who had turned\nin her saddle, and was looking back, gave a low cry of alarm.\n\n\"Ah! the man, the man!\" she said.\n\nThe others turned quickly, but there was nothing to be seen but the long\nstraight ride stretching up to against the sky-line three or four hundred\nyards behind them. Isabel said she thought she saw a rider pass across\nthis little opening at the end, framed in leaves; but there were stags\neverywhere in the woods here, and it would have been easy to mistake one\nfor the other at that distance, and with such a momentary glance.\n\nOnce again, nearer Tonbridge, they had a fright. They had followed up a\ngrass ride into a copse, thinking it would bring them out somewhere, but\nit led only to the brink of a deep little stream, where the plank bridge\nhad been removed, so they were obliged to retrace their steps. As they\nre-emerged into the field from the copse, a large heavily-built man on a\nbrown mare almost rode into them. He was out of breath, and his horse\nseemed distressed. Anthony, as usual, immediately asked if he had seen or\nheard anything of a falcon.\n\n\"No, indeed, gentlemen,\" he said, \"and have you seen aught of a bitch who\nbolted after a hare some half mile back. A greyhound I should be loath to\nlose.\"\n\nThey had not, and said so; and the man, still panting and mopping his\nhead, thanked them, and asked whether he could be of any service in\ndirecting them, if they were strange to the country; but they thought it\nbetter not to give him any hint of where they were going, so he rode off\npresently up the slope across their route and disappeared, whistling for\nhis dog.\n\nAnd so at last, about four o'clock in the afternoon, they saw the church\nspire of Stanfield above them on the hill, and knew that they were near\nthe end of their troubles. Another hundred yards, and there were the\nroofs of the old house, and the great iron gates, and the vanes of the\ngarden-house seen over the clipped limes; and then Mary Corbet and Mr.\nBuxton hurrying in from the garden, as they came through the low oak\ndoor, into the dear tapestried hall.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER IX\n\n                             THE ALARM\n\n\nA very happy party sat down to supper that evening in Stanfield Place.\n\nAnthony had taken Mr. Buxton aside privately when the first greetings\nwere over, and told him all that happened: the alarm at Stanstead; his\ndevice, and the entire peace they had enjoyed ever since.\n\n\"Isabel,\" he ended, \"certainly thought she saw a man behind us once; but\nwe were among the deer, and it was dusky in the woods; and, for myself, I\nthink it was but a stag. But, if you think there is danger anywhere, I\nwill gladly ride on.\"\n\nMr. Buxton clapped him on the shoulder.\n\n\"My dear friend,\" he said, \"take care you do not offend me. I am a slow\nfellow, as you know; but even my coarse hide is pricked sometimes. Do not\nsuggest again that I could permit any priest--and much less my own dear\nfriend--to leave me when there was danger. But there is none in this\ncase--you have shaken the rogues off, I make no doubt; and you will just\nstay here for the rest of the summer at the very least.\"\n\nAnthony said that he agreed with him as to the complete baffling of the\npursuers, but added that Isabel was still a little shaken, and would Mr.\nBuxton say a word to her.\n\n\"Why, I will take her round the hiding-holes myself after supper, and\nshow her how strong and safe we are. We will all go round.\"\n\nIn the withdrawing-room he said a word or two of reassurance to her\nbefore the others were down.\n\n\"Anthony has told me everything, Mistress Isabel; and I warrant that the\nknaves are cursing their stars still on Stanstead hills, twenty miles\nfrom here. You are as safe here as in Greenwich palace. But after supper,\nto satisfy you, we will look to our defences. But, believe me, there is\nnothing to fear.\"\n\nHe spoke with such confidence and cheerfulness that Isabel felt her fears\nmelting, and before supper was over she was ashamed of them, and said so.\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Mr. Buxton, \"you shall not escape. You shall see every\none of them for yourself. Mistress Corbet, do you not think that just?\"\n\n\"You need a little more honest worldliness, Isabel,\" said Mary. \"I do not\nhesitate to say that I believe God saves the priests that have the best\nhiding-holes. Now that is not profane, so do not look at me like that.\"\n\n\"It is the plainest sense,\" said Anthony, smiling at them both.\n\nThey went the round of them all with candles, and Anthony refreshed his\nmemory; they visited the little one in the chapel first, then the\ncupboard and portrait-door at the top of the corridor, the chamber over\nthe fireplace in the hall, and lastly, in the wooden cellar-steps they\nlifted the edge of the fifth stair from the bottom, so that its front and\nthe top of the stair below it turned on a hinge and dropped open, leaving\na black space behind: this was the entrance to the passage that led\nbeneath the garden to the garden-house on the far side of the avenue.\n\nMistress Corbet wrinkled her nose at the damp earthy smell that breathed\nout of the dark.\n\n\"I am glad I am not a priest,\" she said. \"And I would sooner be buried\ndead than alive. And there is a rat there that sorely needs burying.\"\n\n\"My dear lady!\" cried the contriver of the passage indignantly, \"her\nGrace might sleep there herself and take no harm. There is not even the\nwhisker of a rat.\"\n\n\"It is not the whisker that I mind,\" said Mary, \"it is the rest of him.\"\n\nMr. Buxton immediately set his taper down and climbed in.\n\n\"You shall see,\" he said, \"and I in my best satin too!\"\n\nHe was inside the stairs now and lying on his back on the smooth board\nthat backed them. He sidled himself slowly along towards the wall.\n\n\"Press the fourth brick of the fourth row,\" he said.\n\n\"You remember, Father Anthony?\"\n\nHe had reached now what seemed to be the brick wall against which the\nends of the stairs rested; and that closed that end of the cellars\naltogether. Anthony leaned in with a candle, and saw how that part of the\nwall against his friend's right side slowly turned into the dark as the\nfourth brick was pressed, and a little brick-lined passage appeared\nbeyond. Mr. Buxton edged himself sideways into the passage, and then\nstood nearly upright. It was an excellent contrivance. Even if the\nsearchers should find the chamber beneath the stairs, which was unlikely,\nthey would never suspect that it was only a blind to a passage beyond.\nThe door into the passage consisted of a strong oaken door disguised on\nthe outside by a facing of brick-slabs; all the hinges were within.\n\n\"As sweet as a flower,\" said the architect, looking about him. His voice\nrang muffled and hollow.\n\n\"Then the friends have removed the corpse,\" said Mary, putting her head\nin, \"while you were opening the door. There! come out; you will take\ncold. I believe you.\"\n\n\"Are you satisfied?\" said Mr. Buxton to Isabel, as they went upstairs\nagain.\n\n\"What are your outer defences?\" asked Mary, before Isabel could answer.\n\n\"You shall see the plan in the hall,\" said Mr. Buxton.\n\nHe took down the frame that held the plan of the house, and showed them\nthe outer doors. There was first the low oak front door on the north,\nopening on to the little court; this was immensely strong and would stand\nbattering. Then on the same side farther east, within the stable-court,\nthere was the servants' door, protected by chains, and an oak bolt that\nran across. On the extreme east end of the house there was a door opening\ninto the garden from the withdrawing-room, the least strong of all; there\nwas another on the south side, opposite the front door--that gave on to\nthe garden; and lastly there was an entrance into the priests' end of the\nhouse, at the extreme west, from the little walled garden where Anthony\nhad meditated years ago. This walled garden had a very strong door of its\nown opening on to the lane between the church and the house.\n\n\"But there are only three ways out, really,\" said Mr. Buxton, \"for the\ngarden walls are high and strong. There is the way of the walled garden;\nthe iron-gates across the drive; and through the stable-yard on to the\nfield-path to East Maskells. All the other gates are kept barred; and\nindeed I scarcely know where the keys are.\"\n\n\"I am bewildered,\" said Mary.\n\n\"Shall we go round?\" he asked.\n\n\"To-morrow,\" said Mary; \"I am tired to-night, and so is this poor child.\nCome, we will go to bed.\"\n\nAnthony soon went too. Both he and Isabel were tired with the journey and\nthe strain of anxiety, and it was a keen joy to him to be back again in\nhis own dear room, with the tapestry of St. Thomas of Aquin and St. Clare\nopposite the bed, and the wide curtained bow-window which looked out on\nthe little walled garden.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nMr. Buxton was left alone in the great hall below with the two tapers\nburning, and the starlight with all the suffused glow of a summer night\nmaking the arms glimmer in the tall windows that looked south. Lower, the\nwindows were open, and the mellow scents of the June roses, and of the\nsweet-satyrian and lavender poured in; the night was very still, but the\nfaintest breath came from time to time across the meadows and rustled in\nthe stiff leaves with the noise of a stealthy movement.\n\n\"I will look round,\" said Mr. Buxton to himself.\n\nHe stepped out immediately into the garden by the hall door, and turned\nto the east, passing along the lighted windows. His step sounded on the\ntiles, and a face looked out swiftly from Isabel's room overhead; but his\nfigure was plain in the light from the windows as he came out round the\ncorner; and the face drew back. He crossed the east end of the house, and\nwent through a little door into the stable-yard, locking it after him. In\nthe kennels in the corner came a movement, and a Danish hound came out\nsilently into the cage before her house, and stood up, like a slender\ngrey ghost, paws high up in the bars, and whimpered softly to her lord.\nHe quieted her, and went to the door in the yard that opened on to the\nfield-path to East Maskells, unbarred it and stepped through. There was a\ndry ditch on his left, where nettles quivered in the stirring air; and a\nheavy clump of bushes rose beyond, dark and impenetrable. Mr. Buxton\nstared straight at these a moment or two, and then out towards East\nMaskells. There lay his own meadows, and the cattle and horses secure and\nsleeping. Then he stepped back again; barred the door and walked up\nthrough the stable-yard into the front court. There the great iron gates\nrose before him, diaphanous-looking and flimsy in the starlight. He went\nup to them and shook them; and a loose shield jangled fiercely overhead.\nThen he peered through, holding the bars, and saw the familiar patch of\ngrass beyond the gravel sweep, and the dark cottages over the way. Then\nhe made his way back to the front door, unlocked it with his private key,\npassed through the hall, through a parlour or two into the lower floor of\nthe priests' quarters; unlocked softly the little door into the walled\ngarden, and went out on tip-toe once more. Even as he went, Anthony's\nlight overhead went out. Mr. Buxton went to the garden door, unfastened\nit, and stepped out into the road. Above him on his left rose up the\nchancel of the parish church, the roofs crowded behind; and immediately\nin front was the high-raised churchyard, with the tall irregular wall and\nthe trees above all, blotting out the stars.\n\nThen he came back the same way, fastening the doors as he passed, and\nreached the hall, where the tapers still burned. He blew out one and took\nthe other.\n\n\"I suppose I am a fool,\" he said; \"the lad is as safe as in his mother's\narms.\" And he went upstairs to bed.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nMary Corbet rose late next morning, and when she came down at last found\nthe others in the garden. She joined them as they walked in the little\navenue.\n\n\"Have not the priest-hunters arrived?\" she asked. \"What are they about?\nAnd you, dear Isabel, how did you sleep?\"\n\nIsabel looked a little heavy-eyed. \"I did not sleep well,\" she said.\n\n\"I fear I disturbed her,\" said Mr. Buxton. \"She heard me as I went round\nthe house.\"\n\n\"Why did you go round the house?\" asked Anthony.\n\n\"I often do,\" he said shortly.\n\n\"And there was no one?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"There was no one.\"\n\n\"And what would you have done if there had been?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Anthony, \"what would you have done to warn us all?\"\n\nMr. Buxton considered.\n\n\"I should have rung the alarm, I think,\" he said.\n\n\"But I did not know you had one,\" said Mary.\n\nMr. Buxton pointed to a turret peeping between two high gables, above his\nown room.\n\n\"And what does it sound like?\"\n\n\"It is deep, and has a dash of sourness or shrillness in it. I cannot\ndescribe it. Above all, it is marvellous loud.\"\n\n\"Then, if we hear it, we shall know the priest-hunters are on us?\" asked\nMary. Mr. Buxton bowed.\n\n\"Or that the house is afire,\" he said, \"or that the French or Spanish are\nlanded.\"\n\nTo tell the truth, he was just slightly uneasy. Isabel had been far more\nsilent than he had ever known her, and her nerves were plainly at an\nacute tension; she started violently even now, when a servant came out\nbetween two yew-hedges to call Mr. Buxton in. Her alarm had affected him,\nand besides, he knew something of the extraordinary skill and patience of\nWalsingham's agents, and even the story of the ferry had startled him.\nCould it really be, he had wondered as he tossed to and fro in the hot\nnight, that this innocent priest had thrown off his pursuers so\ncompletely as had appeared? In the morning he had sent down a servant to\nthe inn to inquire whether anything had been seen or heard of a\ndisquieting nature; now the servant had come to tell him, as he had\nordered, privately. He went with the man in through the hall-door,\nleaving the others to walk in the avenue, and then faced him.\n\n\"Well?\" he said sharply.\n\n\"No, sir, there is nothing. There is a party there travelling on to\nBrighthelmstone this afternoon, and four drovers who came in last night,\nsir; and two gentlemen travelling across country; but they left early\nthis morning.\"\n\n\"They left, you say?\"\n\n\"They left at eight o'clock, sir.\"\n\nMr. Buxton's attention was attracted to these two gentlemen.\n\n\"Go and find out where they came from,\" he said, \"and let me know after\ndinner.\"\n\nThe man bowed and left the room, and almost immediately the dinner-bell\nrang.\n\nMary was frankly happy; she loved to be down here in this superb weather\nwith her friends; she enjoyed this beautiful house with its furniture and\npictures, and even took a certain pleasure in the hiding-holes\nthemselves; although in this case she was satisfied they would not be\nneeded. She had heard the tale of the Stanstead woods, and had no shadow\nof doubt but that the searchers, if, indeed, they were searchers at all,\nwere baffled. So at dinner she talked exactly as usual; and the cloud of\nslight discomfort that still hung over Isabel grew lighter and lighter as\nshe listened. The windows of the hall were flung wide, and the warm\nsummer air poured from the garden into the cool room with its polished\nfloor, and table decked with roses in silver bowls, with its grave\ntapestries stirring on the walls behind the grim visors and pikes that\nhung against them.\n\nThe talk turned on music.\n\n\"Ah! I would I had my lute,\" sighed Mary, \"but my woman forgot to bring\nit. What a garden to sing in, in the shade of the yews, with the\ngarden-house behind to make the voice sound better than it is!\"\n\nMr. Buxton made a complimentary murmur.\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said, \"Master Anthony, you are wool-gathering.\"\n\n\"Indeed not,\" he said, \"but I was thinking where I had seen a lute. Ah!\nit is in the little west parlour.\"\n\n\"A lute!\" cried Mary. \"Ah! but I have no music; and I have not the\ncourage to sing the only song I know, over and over again.\"\n\n\"But there is music too,\" said Anthony.\n\nMary clapped her hands.\n\n\"When dinner is over,\" she said, \"you and I will go to find it.\"\n\nDinner was over at last, and the four rose.\n\n\"Come,\" said Mary; while Isabel turned into the garden and Mr. Buxton\nwent to his room. \"We will be with you presently,\" she cried after\nIsabel.\n\nThen the two went together to the little west parlour, oak-panelled, with\na wide fireplace with the logs in their places, and the latticed windows\nwith their bottle-end glass, looking upon the walled garden. Anthony\nstood on a chair and opened the top window, letting a flood of summer\nnoises into the room.\n\nThey found the lute music, written over its six lines with the queer F's\nand double F's and numerals--all Hebrew to Anthony, but bursting and\nblossoming with delicate melodies to Mary's eyes. Then she took up the\nlute, and tuned it on her knee, still sitting in a deep lounging-chair,\nwith her buckled feet before her; while Anthony sat opposite and watched\nher supple flashing fingers busy among the strings, and her grave\nabstracted look as she listened critically. Then she sounded the strings\nin little rippling chords.\n\n\"Ah! it is a sweet old lute,\" she said. \"Put the music before me.\"\n\nAnthony propped it on a chair.\n\n\"Is that the right side up?\" he asked.\n\nMary smiled and nodded, still looking at the music.\n\n\"Now then,\" she said, and began the prelude.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nAnthony threw himself back in his chair as the delicate tinkling began to\npour out and overscore the soft cooing of a pigeon on the roofs somewhere\nand the murmur of bees through the open window. It was an old precise\nlittle love-song from Italy, with a long prelude, suggesting by its\ntender minor chords true and restrained love, not passionate but tender,\nnot despairing but melancholy; it was a love that had for its symbols not\nthe rose and the lily, but the lavender and thyme--acrid in its\nsweetness. The prelude had climbed up by melodious steps to the keynote,\nand was now rippling down again after its aspirations.\n\nMary stirred herself.\n\nAh! now the voice would come in the last chord----when all the music was\nfirst drowned and then ceased, as with crash after crash a great bell,\nsonorous and piercing, began to sound from overhead.\n\n\n\n\n                              CHAPTER X\n\n                   THE PASSAGE TO THE GARDEN-HOUSE\n\n\nThe two looked at one another with parted lips, but without a word. Then\nboth rose simultaneously. Then the bell jangled and ceased; and a crowd\nof other noises began; there were shouts, tramplings of hoofs in the\ncourt; shrill voices came over the wall; then a scream or two. Mary\nsprang to the door and opened it, and stood there listening.\n\nThen from the interior of the house came an indescribable din, tramplings\nof feet and shouts of anger; then violent blows on woodwork. It came\nnearer in a moment of time, as a tide comes in over flat sands,\nremorselessly swift. Then Mary with one movement was inside again, and\nhad locked the door and drawn the bolt.\n\n\"Up there,\" she said, \"it is the only way--they are outside,\" and she\npointed to the chimney.\n\nAnthony began to remonstrate. It was intolerable, he felt, to climb up\nthe chimney like a hunted cat, and he began a word or two. But Mary\nseized his arm.\n\n\"You must not be caught,\" she said, \"there are others\"; and there came a\nconfused battering and trampling outside. She pushed him towards the\nchimney. Then decision came to him, and he bent his head and stepped upon\nthe logs laid upon the ashes, crushing them down.\n\n\"Ah! go,\" said Mary's voice behind him, as the door began to bulge and\ncreak. There was plainly a tremendous struggle in the little passage\noutside.\n\nAnthony threw his hands up and felt a high ledge in the darkness, gripped\nit with his hands and made a huge effort combined of a tug and a spring;\nhis feet rapped sharply for a moment or two on the iron fire-plate; and\nthen his knee reached the ledge and he was up. He straightened himself on\nthe ledge, stood upright and looked down; two white hands with rings on\nthem were lifting the logs and drawing them out from the ashes, shaking\nthem and replacing them by others from the wood-basket; and all\ndeliberately, as if laying a fire. Then her voice came up to him, hushed\nbut distinct.\n\n\"Go up quickly. I will feign to be burning papers; there will be smoke,\nbut no sparks. It is green wood.\"\n\nAnthony again felt above him, and found two iron half-rings in the\nchimney, one above the other; he was in semi-darkness here, but far above\nthere was a patch of pale smoky light; and all the chimney seemed full of\na murmurous sound. He tugged at the rings and found them secure, and drew\nhimself up steadily by the higher one, until his knee struck the lower;\nthen with a great effort he got his knee upon it, then his left foot, and\nagain straightened himself. Then, as he felt in the darkness once more,\nhe found a system of rings, one above the other, up the side of the\nchimney, by which it was not hard to climb. As he went up he began to\nperceive a sharp acrid smell, his eyes smarted and he closed them, but\nhis throat burned; he climbed fiercely; and then suddenly saw immediately\nbelow him another hearth; he was looking over the fireplate of some other\nroom. In a moment more he thrust his head over, and drew a long breath of\nclear air; then he listened intently. From below still came a murmur of\nconfusion; but in this room all was quiet. He began to think frantically.\nHe could not remain in the chimney, it was hopeless; they would soon\nlight fires, he knew, in all the chimneys, and bring him down. What room\nwas this? He was bewildered and could not remember. But at least he would\nclimb into it and try to escape. In a moment more he had lifted himself\nover the fireplate and dropped safely on to the hearth of his own\nbedroom.\n\nThe fresh air and the familiarity of the room, as he looked round, swept\nthe confusion out of his brain like a breeze. The thundering and shouting\ncontinued below. Then he went on tip-toe to the door and opened it. Round\nto the right was the head of the stairs which led straight into the\nlittle passage where the struggle was going on. He could hear Robert's\nvoice in the din; plainly there was no way down the stairs. To the left\nwas the passage that ended in a window, with the chapel door at the left\nand the false shelves on the right. He hesitated a moment between the two\nhiding-places, and then decided for the cupboard; there was a clean\ndoublet there; his own was one black smear of soot, and as he thought of\nit, he drew off his sooty shoes. His hose were fortunately dark. He\nstepped straight out of the door, leaving it just ajar. Even as he left\nit there was a thunder of footsteps on the stairs, and he was at the\nshelves in a moment, catching a glimpse through the window on his left of\nthe front court crowded with men and horses. He had opened and shut the\nsecret door three or four times the evening before, and his hands closed\nalmost instinctively on the two springs that must be worked\nsimultaneously. He made the necessary movement, and the shelves with the\nwall behind it softly slid open and he sprang in. But as he closed it he\nheard one of the two books drop, and an exclamation from the passage he\nhad just left; then quick steps from the head of the stairs; the steps\nclattered past the door and into the chapel opposite and stopped.\n\nAnthony felt about him in the darkness, found the doublet and lifted it\noff the nail; slipped off his own, tearing his ruff as he did so; and\nthen quickly put on the other. He had no shoes; but that would not be so\nnoticeable. He had not seriously thought of the possibility of escaping\nthrough the portrait-door, as he felt sure the house would be overrun by\nnow; but he put his eyes to the pinholes and looked out; and to his\nastonishment saw that the gallery was empty. There it lay, with its\nFlemish furniture on the right and its row of windows on the left, and\nall as tranquil as if there were no fierce tragedy of terror and wrath\nraging below. Again decision came to him; by a process of thought so\nswift that it was an intuition, he remembered that the fall of the book\noutside would concentrate attention on that corner; it could not be long\nbefore the shelves were broken in, and if he did not escape now there\nwould be no possibility later. Then he unslid the inside bolt, and the\nportrait swung open; he closed it behind, and sped on silent shoeless\nfeet down the polished floor of the gallery.\n\nOf course the great staircase was hopeless. The hall would be seething\nwith men. But there was just a chance through the servants' quarters. He\ndashed past the head of the stairs, catching a glimpse of heads and\nsparkles of steel over the banisters, and through the half-opened door at\nthe end, finding himself in the men's corridor that was a continuation of\nthe gallery he had left. On his left rose the head of the back-stairs,\nthat led first with a double flight to the offices, the pantry, the\nbuttery and the kitchen, and than, lower still, a single third flight\ndown to the cellar.\n\nHe looked down the stairs; at the bottom of the first double flight were\na couple of maids, screaming and white-faced, leaning and pressing\nagainst the door, immediately below the one he had just come through\nhimself. The door was plainly barred as well, for it was now thudding and\ncracking with blows that were being showered upon it from the other side.\nThe maids, it seemed to him, in a panic had locked the door; but that\npanic might be his salvation. He dashed down the stairs; the maids\nscreamed louder than ever when they saw this man, whom they did not\nrecognise, with blackened face and hands come in noiseless leaps down\ntowards them; but Anthony put his finger on his lips as he flew past\nthem; then he dashed open the little door that shut off the\ncellar-flight, closed it behind him, and was immediately in the dark.\n\nThen he groped his way down, feeling the rough brick wall as he went,\ntill he reached the floor of the cellar. The air was cool and damp here,\nand it refreshed him, for he was pouring with sweat. The noise, too, and\nconfusion which, during his flight, had been reverberating through the\nhouse with a formidable din, now only reached him as a far-away murmur.\n\nAs he counted the four steps up, and then lifted the overhanging edge,\nthere came upon him irresistibly the contrast between the serene party\nhere last night, with their tapers and their delicate dresses and Mary's\ncool clear-clipped voice--and his own soot-stained person, his desperate\nenergy and his quick panting and heart-beating. Then the steps dropped\nand he slid in; lifted them again as he lay on his back, and heard the\nspring catch as they closed. Then he was in silence, too, and comparative\nsafety. But he dared not rest yet, and edged himself along as he had seen\nMr. Buxton do last night. Which brick was it? \"The fourth of the fourth,\"\nhe murmured, and counted, and pressed it. Again the door pushed back, and\nwith a little struggle he was first on his knees, and then on his feet.\nThen he swung the door to again behind him.\n\nThen for the first time he rested; he leaned against the brick-lined side\nof the tunnel and passed his blackened hands over his face. Five minutes\nago--yes--certainly not five minutes ago he was lounging in the west\nparlour, at the other end of the house, while Mary played the prelude to\nan Italian love-song.--What was she doing now? God bless her for her\nquick courage!--And Isabel and Buxton--where were they all? How deadly\nsick and tired he felt!--Again he passed his hands over his face in the\npitch darkness.--Well, he must push on.\n\nHe turned and began to grope patiently through the blackness--step by\nstep--feeling the roughness of the bricks beneath with his shoeless feet\nbefore he set them down; once or twice he stepped into a little icy pool,\nwhich had collected through some crack in the vaulting overhead; once,\ntoo, he slipped on a lump of something wet and shapeless; and thought\neven then of Mary's suspicions the night before. He pushed on, shivering\nnow with cold and excitement, through what seemed the interminable\ntunnel, until at last his outstretched hands touched wood before him. He\nhad not seen this end of the passage for nearly two years, and he\nwondered if he could remember the method of opening, and gave a gulp of\nhorror at the thought that he might not. But there had been no reason to\nmake a secret of the inside of the door, and he presently found a button\nand drew it; it creaked rustily, but gave, and the door with another pull\nopened inwards, and there was a faint glimmer of light. Then he\nremembered that the entrances to the tunnel at either end were exactly on\nthe same system; and putting out his hands felt the slope of the\nunderside of the staircase, cutting diagonally across the opening of the\npassage. He slid himself on to the boarding sideways, and drew the\nbrickwork towards him till the spring snapped, and lay there to consider\nbefore he went farther.\n\nFirst he ran over in his mind the construction of the garden-house.\n\nThe basement in which he was lying corresponded to the cellar under the\nhouse from which he had come, and ran the whole length of the building,\nabout forty feet by twenty. It was a large empty chamber, where nothing\nof any value was kept. He remembered last time he was here seeing a heap\nof tiles in one corner, with a pile of disused poles; pieces of rope, and\nold iron in another. The stairs led up through an ordinary trap-door into\nwhat was the ground-floor of the house. This, too, was one immense room,\nwith four latticed windows looking on to the garden, and one with opaque\nglass on to the lane at the back; and a great door, generally kept\nlocked, for rather more valuable things were kept here, such as the\ngarden-roller, flower-pots, and the targets for archery. Then a light\nstaircase led straight up from this room to the next floor, which was\ndivided into two, both of which, so far as Anthony remembered, were\nempty. Mr. Buxton had thought of letting his gardeners sleep there when\nhe had at first built this immense useless summer-house; but he had\nultimately built a little gardener's cottage adjoining it. The two\nfantastic towers that flanked the building held nothing but staircases,\nwhich could be entered by either of the two floors, and which ascended to\ntiny rooms with windows on all four sides.\n\nWhen Anthony had run over these details as he lay on his back, he pushed\nup the stair over his face and let the front of it with the step of the\nnext swing inwards; the light was stronger now, and poured in, though\nstill dim, through three half-moon windows, glazed and wired, that just\nrose above the level of the ground outside. Then he extricated himself,\nclosed the steps behind him, and went up the stairs.\n\nThe trap-door at the top was a little stiff, but he soon raised it, and\nin a moment more was standing in the ground-floor room of the\ngarden-house. All round him was much as he remembered it; he first went\nto the door and found it securely fastened, as it often was for days\ntogether; he glanced at the windows to assure himself that they were\nbottle-glass too, and then went to them to look out. He was fortunate\nenough to find the corner of one pane broken away; he put his eye to\nthis, and there lay a little lawn, with a yew-hedge beyond blotting out\nall of the great house opposite except the chimneys,--the house which\neven across the whole space of garden hummed like a hive. On the lawn was\na chair, and an orange-bound book lay face down on the grass beside it.\nAnthony stared at it; it was the book that he had seen in Isabel's hand\nnot half an hour ago, as she had gone out into the garden from the hall\nto wait until he and Mary joined her with the lute.\n\nAnd at that the priest knelt down before the window, covered his face\nwith his hands, and began to stammer and cry to God: \"O God! God! God!\"\nhe said.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nWhen Mary Corbet had seen Anthony's feet disappear, she already had the\noutline of a plan in her mind. To light a fire and pretend to be burning\nimportant papers would serve as an excuse for keeping the door fast; it\nwould also suggest at least that no one was in the chimney. The ordinary\nwood, however, sent up sparks; but she had noticed before a little green\nwood in the basket, and knew that this did not do so to the same extent;\nso she pulled out the dry wood that Anthony had trodden into the ashes\nand substituted the other. Then she had looked round for paper;--the lute\nmusic, that was all. Meantime the door was giving; the noise outside was\nterrible; and it was evident that one or two of the servants were\nobstructing the passage of the pursuivants.\n\nWhen at last the door flew in, there was a fire cracking furiously on the\nhearth, and a magnificently dressed lady kneeling before it, crushing\npaper into the flames. Half a dozen men now streamed in and more began to\nfollow, and stood irresolute for a moment, staring at her. From the\nresistance they had met with they had been certain that the priest was\nhere, and this sight perplexed them. A big ruddy man, however, who led\nthem, sprang across the room, seized Mary Corbet by the shoulders and\nwhisked her away against the wall, and then dashed the half-burnt paper\nout of the grate and began to beat out the flames.\n\nMary struggled violently for a moment; but the others were upon her and\nheld her, and she presently stood quiet. Then she began upon them.\n\n\"You insolent hounds!\" she cried, \"do you know who I am?\" Her cheeks were\nscarlet and her eyes blazing; she seemed in a superb fury.\n\n\"Burning treasonable papers,\" growled the big man from his knees on the\nhearth, \"that is enough for me.\"\n\n\"Who are you, sir, that dare to speak to me like that?\"\n\nThe man got up; the flames were out now, and he slipped the papers into a\npocket. Mary went on immediately.\n\n\"If I may not burn my own lute music, or keep my door locked, without a\nriotous mob of knaves breaking upon me---- Ah! how dare you?\" and she\nstamped furiously.\n\nThe pursuivant came up close to her, insolently.\n\n\"See here, my lady----\" he began.\n\nThe men had fallen back from her a little now that the papers were safe,\nand she lifted her ringed hand and struck his ruddy face with all her\nmight. There was a moment of confusion and laughter as he recoiled.\n\n\"Now will you remember that her Grace's ladies are not to be trifled\nwith?\"\n\nThere was a murmur from the crowded room, and a voice near the door\ncried:\n\n\"She says truth, Mr. Nichol. It is Mistress Corbet.\"\n\nNichol had recovered himself, but was furiously angry.\n\n\"Very good, madam, but I have these papers now,\" he said, \"they can still\nbe read.\"\n\n\"You blind idiot,\" hissed Mary, \"do you not know lute music when you see\nit?\"\n\n\"I know that ladies do not burn lute music with locked doors,\" observed\nNichol bitterly.\n\n\"The more fool you!\" screamed Mary, \"when you have caught one at it.\"\n\n\"That will be seen,\" sneered Mr. Nichol.\n\n\"Not by a damned blind scarlet-faced porpoise!\" screamed Mary, apparently\nmore in a passion than ever, and a burst of laughter came from the men.\n\nThis was too much for Mr. Nichol. This coarse abuse stung him cruelly.\n\n\"God's blood,\" he bellowed at the room; \"take this vixen out and search\nthe place.\" And a torrent of oaths drove the crowd about the door out\ninto the passage again.\n\nA couple of men took Mary by the fierce ringed hands of hers that still\ntwitched and clenched, and led her out; she spat insults over her\nshoulders as she went. But she had held him in talk as she intended.\n\n\"Now then,\" roared Nichol again, \"search, you dogs!\"\n\nHe himself went outside too, and seeing the stairs stamped up them. He\nwas just in time to see the Tacitus settle down with crumpled pages;\nstopped for a moment, bewildered, for it lay in the middle of the\npassage; and then rushed at the open door on the left, dashed it open,\nand found a little empty room, with a chair or two, and a table--but no\nsign of the priest. It was like magic.\n\nThen out he came once more, and went into Anthony's own room. The great\nbed was on his right, the window opposite, the fireplace to the left, and\nin the middle lay two sooty shoes. Instinctively he bent and touched\nthem, and found them warm; then he sprang to the door, still keeping his\nface to the room, and shouted for help.\n\n\"He is here, he is here!\" he cried. And a thunder of footsteps on the\nstairs answered him.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nMeanwhile the men that held Mary followed the others along the passage,\nbut while the leaders went on and round into the lower corridor, the two\nmen-at-arms with their prisoner turned aside into the parlour that served\nas an ante-chamber to the hall beyond, where they released her. Here,\nthough it was empty of people, all was in confusion; the table had been\noverturned in the struggle that had raged along here between Lackington's\nmen, who had entered from the front door, and the servants of the house,\nwho had rushed in from their quarters at the first alarm and intercepted\nthem. One chair lay on its side, with its splintered carved arm beside\nit. As Mary stood a moment looking about her, the door from the hall that\nhad been closed, again opened, and Isabel came through; and a man's voice\nsaid:\n\n\"You must wait here, madam\"; then the door closed behind her.\n\n\"Isabel,\" said Mary.\n\nThe two looked at one another a moment, but before either spoke again the\ndoor again half-opened, and a voice began to speak, as if its owner still\nheld the handle.\n\n\"Very well, Lackington, keep him in his room. I will go through here to\nNichol.\"\n\nIsabel had drawn a sharp breath as the voice began, and as the door\nopened wider she turned and faced it. Then Hubert came in, and recoiled\non the threshold. There fell a complete silence in the room.\n\n\"Hubert,\" said Isabel after a moment, \"what are you doing here?\"\n\nHubert shut the door abruptly and leaned against it, staring at her; his\nface had gone white under the tan. Isabel still looked at him steadily,\nand her eyes were eloquent. Then she spoke again, and something in her\nvoice quickened the beating of Mary's heart as she listened.\n\n\"Hubert, have you forgotten us?\"\n\nStill Hubert stared; then he stood upright. The two men-at-arms were\nwatching in astonishment.\n\n\"I will see to the ladies,\" he said abruptly, and waved his hand. They\nstill hesitated a moment.\n\n\"Go,\" he said again sharply, and pointed to the door. He was a\nmagistrate, and responsible; and they turned and went.\n\nThen Hubert looked at Isabel again.\n\n\"Isabel,\" he said, \"if I had known----\"\n\n\"Stay,\" she interrupted, \"there is no time for explanations except mine.\nAnthony is in the house; I do not know where. You must save him.\"\n\nThere was no entreaty or anxiety in her voice; nothing but a supreme\ndignity and an assurance that she would be obeyed.\n\n\"But----\" he began. The door was opened from the hall, and a little party\nof searchers appeared, but halted when the magistrate turned round.\n\n\"Come with me,\" he said to the two women, \"you must have a room kept for\nyou upstairs,\" and he held back the door for them to pass.\n\nIsabel put out her hand to Mary, and the two went out together into the\nhall past the men, who stood back to let them through, and Hubert\nfollowed. They turned to the left to the stairs, looking as they went\nupon the wild confusion. Above them rose the carved ceiling, and in the\ncentre of the floor, untouched, by a strange chance, stood the\ndinner-table, still laid with silver and fruit and flowers. But all else\nwas in disarray. The leather screen that had stood by the door into the\nentrance hall had been overthrown, and had carried with it a tall\nflowering plant that now lay trampled and broken before the hearth. A\ncouple of chairs lay on their backs between the windows; the rug under\nthe window was huddled in a heap, and all over the polished boards were\nscratches and dents; a broken sword-hilt lay on the floor with a\nfeathered cap beside it. There were half a dozen men guarding the four\ndoors; but the rest were gone; and from overhead came tramplings and\nshouts as the hunt swept to and fro in the upper floors.\n\nAt the top of the stairs was Mary's room; the two ladies, who had gone\nsilently upstairs with Hubert behind them, stopped at the door of it.\n\n\"Here, if you please,\" said Mary.\n\nBefore Hubert could answer, Lackington came down the passage, hurrying\nwith a drawn sword, and his hat on his head. Isabel did not recognise him\nas he stopped and tapped Hubert on the arm familiarly.\n\n\"The prisoners must not be together,\" he said.\n\nHubert drew back his arm and looked the man in the face.\n\n\"They are not prisoners; and they shall be together. Take off your hat,\nsir.\"\n\nThen, as Lackington drew back astonished, he opened the door.\n\n\"You shall not be disturbed here,\" he said, and the two went in, and the\ndoor closed behind them. There was a murmur of voices outside the door,\nand they heard a name called once or twice, and the sound of footsteps.\nThen came a tap, and Hubert stepped in quietly and closed the door.\n\n\"I have placed my own man outside,\" he said, \"and none shall trouble\nyou--and--Mistress Isabel--I will do my best.\" Then he bowed and went\nout.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe long miserable afternoon began. They watched through the windows the\nsentries going up and down the broad paths between the glowing\nflower-beds; and out, over the high iron fence that separated the garden\nfrom the meadows, the crowd of villagers and children watching.\n\nBut the real terror for them both lay in the sounds that came from the\ninterior of the house. There was a continual tramp of the sentries placed\nin every corridor and lobby, and of the messengers that went to and fro.\nThen from room after room came the sounds of blows, the rending of\nwoodwork, and once or twice the crash of glass, as the searchers went\nabout their work; and at every shout the women shuddered or drew their\nbreath sharply, for any one of the noises might be the sign of Anthony's\narrest.\n\nThe two had soon talked out every theory in low voices, but they both\nagreed that he was still in the house somewhere, and on the upper floor.\nIt was impossible, they thought, for him to have made his way down. There\nwere four possibilities, therefore: either he might still be in the\nchimney--in that case it was no use hoping; or he was in the chapel-hole;\nor in that behind the portrait; or in one last one, in the room next to\ntheir own. The searchers had been there early in the afternoon, but\nperhaps had not found it; its entrance was behind the window shutter, and\nwas contrived in the thickness of the wall. So they talked, these two,\nand conjectured and prayed, as the evening drew on; and the sun began to\nsink behind the church, and the garden to lie in cool shadow.\n\nAbout eight there was a tap at the door, and Hubert came in with a tray\nof food in his hands, which he set down.\n\n\"All is in confusion,\" he said, \"but this is the best I can do.\"--He\nbroke off.\n\n\"Mistress Isabel,\" he said, coming nearer to the two as they sat together\nin the window-seat, \"I can do little; they have found three hiding-holes;\nbut so far he has escaped. I do what I can to draw them off, but they are\ntoo clever and zealous. If you can tell me more, perhaps I can do more.\"\n\nThe two were looking at him with startled eyes.\n\n\"Three?\" Mary said.\n\n\"Yes, three--and indeed----\" He stopped as Isabel got up and came towards\nhim.\n\n\"Hubert,\" she said resolutely, \"I must tell you. He must be still in the\nchimney of the little west parlour. Do what you can.\"\n\n\"The west parlour!\" he said. \"That was where Mistress Corbet was burning\nthe papers?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mary.\n\n\"He is not there,\" said Hubert; \"we have sent a boy up and down it\nalready.\"\n\n\"Ah! dear God!\" said Mary from the window-seat, \"then he has escaped.\"\n\nIsabel looked from one to the other and shook her head.\n\n\"It cannot be,\" she said. \"The guards were all round the house before the\nalarm rang.\"\n\nHubert nodded, and Mary's face fell.\n\n\"Then is there no way out?\" he asked.\n\nMary sprang up with shining eyes.\n\n\"He has done it,\" she said, and threw her arms round Isabel and kissed\nher.\n\n\"Well,\" said Hubert, \"what can I do?\"\n\n\"You must leave us,\" said Isabel; \"come back later.\"\n\n\"Then when we have searched the garden-house--why, what is it?\"\n\nA look of such anguish had come into their faces that he stopped amazed.\n\n\"The garden-house!\" cried Mary; \"no, no, no!\"\n\n\"No, no, Hubert, Hubert!\" cried Isabel, \"you must not go there.\"\n\n\"Why,\" he said, \"it was I that proposed it; to draw them from the house.\"\n\nThere came from beneath the windows a sudden tramp of footsteps, and then\nNichol's voice, distinctly heard through the open panes.\n\n\"We cannot wait for him. Come, men.\"\n\n\"They are going without me,\" said Hubert; and turned and ran through the\ndoor.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XI\n\n                           THE GARDEN-HOUSE\n\n\nDuring that long afternoon the master of the house had sat in his own\nroom, before his table, hearing the ceaseless footsteps and the voices\noverhead, and the ring of feet on the tiles outside his window, knowing\nthat his friend and priest was somewhere in the house, crouching in some\ndark little space, listening to the same footsteps and voices as they\ncame and went by his hiding-place, and that he himself was absolutely\npowerless to help.\n\nHe had been overpowered in the first rush as he pealed on the alarm-bell,\nto which he had rushed when the groom burst in from the stable-yard\ncrying that the outer court was full of men. Lackington had then sent him\nunder guard to his own room, where he had been locked in with an armed\nconstable to prevent any possibility of escape. In the struggle he had\nreceived a blow on the head which had completely dazed him; all his\nresource left him; and he had no desire even to move from his chair.\n\nNow he sat, with his head on his breast, and his mind going the ceaseless\nround of all the possible places where Anthony might be. Little scenes,\ntoo, of startling vividness moved before him, as he sat there with\nhalf-closed eyes--scenes of the imagined arrest--the scuffle as the\nportrait was torn away and Anthony burst out in one last desperate\nattempt to escape. He saw him under every kind of circumstance--dashing\nup stairs and being met at the top by a man with a pike--running and\ncrouching through the withdrawing-room itself next door--gliding with\nburning eyes past the yew-hedges in a rush for the iron gates, only to\nfind them barred--on horseback with his hands bound and a despairing\nuplifted face with pike-heads about him.--So his friend dreamed miserably\non, open-eyed, but between waking and the sleep of exhaustion, until the\ncrowning vision flashed momentarily before his eyes of the scaffold and\nthe cauldron with the fire burning and the low gallows over the heads of\nthe crowd, and the butcher's block and knife; and then he moaned and sat\nup and stared about him, and the young pursuivant looked at him\nhalf-apprehensively.\n\nTowards evening the house grew quieter; once, about six o'clock, there\nwere voices outside, the door from the hall was unlocked, and a\nheavily-built, ruddy man came in with two pikemen, locking the door\nbehind him. They paid no attention to the prisoner, and he watched them\nmechanically as they went round the room, running their eyes up and down\nthe panelling, and tapping here and there.\n\n\"The room has been searched, sir, already,\" said the young constable to\nthe ruddy-faced man, who glanced at him and nodded, and then continued\nthe scrutiny. They reached the fireplace and the officer reached up and\ntapped the wood over the mantelpiece half-a-dozen times.\n\n\"Here,\" he called, pointing to a spot.\n\nA pikeman came up, placed the end of his pike into the oak, and leaned\nsuddenly and heavily upon it: the steel crashed in an inch, and stopped\nas it met the stonework behind. The officer made a motion, the pike was\nwithdrawn, and he stood on tip-toe and put his finger into the splintered\npanel. Then he was satisfied and they passed on, still tapping the walls,\nand went out of the other door, locking it again behind them.\n\nAn hour later there were voices and steps again, and a door was unlocked\nand opened, and Mr. Graves, the Tonbridge magistrate stepped in alone. He\nwas a pale scholarly-looking man with large eyes, and a weak mouth only\npartly covered by his beard.\n\n\"You can go,\" he said nervously to the constable, \"but remain outside.\"\nThe young man saluted him and passed out.\n\nThe magistrate looked quickly and sideways at Mr. Buxton as he sat and\nlooked at him.\n\n\"I am come to tell you,\" he said, \"that we cannot find the priest.\" He\nhesitated and stopped. \"We have found several hiding-holes,\" he went on,\n\"and they are all empty. I--I hope there is no mistake.\"\n\nA little thrill ran through the man who sat in the chair; the lethargy\nbegan to clear from his brain, like a morning mist when a breeze rises;\nhe sat a little more upright and gripped the arms of his chair; he said\nnothing yet, but he felt power and resource flowing back to his brain,\nand the pulse in his temples quieted. Why, if the lad had not been taken\nyet, he must surely be out of the house.\n\n\"I trust there is no mistake,\" said the magistrate again nervously.\n\n\"You may well trust so,\" said the other; \"it will be a grievous thing for\nyou, sir, otherwise.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mr. Buxton, I think you know I am no bigot. I was sent for by\nMr. Lackington last night. I could not refuse. It was not my wish----\"\n\n\"Yet you have issued your warrant, and are here in person to execute it.\nMay I inquire how many of my cupboards you have broken into? And I hope\nyour men are satisfied with my plate.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir,\" said the magistrate, \"there has been nothing of that kind.\nAnd as for the cupboards, there were but three----\"\n\nThree!--then the lad is out of the house, thought the other. But where?\n\n\"And I trust you have not spared to break down my servants' rooms, and\nthe stables as well as pierce all my panelling.\"\n\n\"There was no need to search the stables, Mr. Buxton; our men were round\nthe house before we entered. They have been watching the entrances since\neight o'clock last night.\"\n\nMr. Buxton felt bewildered. His instinct had been right, then, the night\nbefore.\n\n\"The party was followed from near Wrotham,\" went on the magistrate. \"The\npriest was with them then; and, we suppose, entered the house.\"\n\n\"You suppose!\" snapped the other. \"What the devil do you mean by\nsupposing? You have looked everywhere and cannot find him?\"\n\nThe magistrate shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly, as he stood and\nstared at the angry man.\n\n\"And the roofs?\" added Mr. Buxton sneeringly.\n\n\"They have been thoroughly searched.\"\n\nThen there is but one possible theory, he reflected. The lad is in the\ngarden-house. And what if they search that?\n\n\"Then may I ask what you propose to destroy next, Mr. Graves?\"\n\nHe saw that this tone was having its effect on the magistrate, who was\nbut a half-hearted persecutor, with but feeble convictions and will, as\nhe knew of old.\n\n\"I--I entreat you not to speak to me like that, sir,\" he said. \"I have\nbut done my duty.\"\n\nThen the other rose from his chair, and his eyes were stern and bright\nagain and his lips tight.\n\n\"Your duty, sir, seems a strange matter, when it leads you to break into\na friend's house, assault him and his servants and his guests, and\ndestroy his furniture, in search of a supposed priest whom you have never\neven seen. Now, sir, if this matter comes to her Grace's ears, I will not\nanswer for the consequences; for you know Mistress Corbet, her\nlady-in-waiting, is one of my guests.--And, speaking of that, where are\nmy guests?\"\n\n\"The two ladies, Mr. Buxton, are safe and sound upstairs, I assure you.\"\n\nThe magistrate's voice was trembling.\n\n\"Well, sir, I have one condition to offer you. Either you and your men\nwithdraw within half an hour from my house and grounds, and leave me and\nmy two guests to ourselves, or else I lay the whole matter, through\nMistress Corbet, before her Grace.\" Mr. Buxton beat his hand once on the\ntable as he ended, and looked with a contemptuous inquiry at the\nmagistrate.\n\nBut the worm writhed up at the heel.\n\n\"How can you talk like this, sir,\" he burst out, \"as if you had but two\nguests?\"\n\n\"Two guests? I do not understand you. How should there be more?\"\n\n\"Then for whom are the four places laid at table?\" he answered\nindignantly.\n\nMr. Buxton felt a sudden desperate sinking, and he could not answer for a\nmoment. The magistrate passed his shaking hand over his mouth and beard\nonce or twice; but the thrust had gone home, and there was no parry or\nriposte. He followed it up.\n\n\"Now, sir, be reasonable. I came in here to make terms. We _know_ the\npriest has been here. It is certain beyond all question. All that is\nuncertain is whether he is here now or escaped. We have searched\nthoroughly; we must search again to-morrow; but in the meanwhile, while\nyou yourself must be under restraint, your guests shall have what liberty\nthey wish; and you yourself shall have all reasonable comfort and ease.\nSo--so, if we do not find the priest, I trust that you and--and--Mistress\nCorbet will agree to overlook any rashness on my part--and--and let her\nGrace remain in ignorance.\"\n\nMr. Buxton had been thinking furiously during this little speech. He saw\nthe mistake he had made in taking the high line, and his wretched\nforgetfulness of the fourth place at table. He must make terms, though it\ntasted bitter.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Graves,\" he said, \"I have no wish to be hard upon you. All I\nask is to be out of the house when the search is made, and that the\nladies shall come and go as they please.\"\n\nThe magistrate leapt at the lure like a trout.\n\n\"Yes, yes, Mr. Buxton, it shall be as you say. And to what house will you\nretire?\"\n\nMr. Buxton appeared to reflect; he tapped on the table with a meditative\nfinger and looked at the ceiling.\n\n\"It must not be too far away,\" he said slowly, \"and--and the Rector would\nscarce like to receive me. Perhaps in--or----Why not my summer-house?\" he\nadded suddenly.\n\nMr. Graves' face was irradiated with smiles.\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Buxton, certainly, it shall be as you say. And where is\nthe summer-house?\"\n\n\"It is across the garden,\" said the other carelessly. \"I wonder you have\nnot searched it in your zeal.\"\n\n\"Shall I send a man to prepare it?\" asked the magistrate eagerly. \"Will\nyou go there to-night?\"\n\n\"Well, shall we go across there together now? I give you my parole,\" he\nadded, smiling, and standing up.\n\n\"Indeed,--as you wish. I cannot tell you, sir, how grateful I am. You\nhave made my duty almost a pleasure, sir.\"\n\nThey went out together into the hall, Mr. Buxton carrying the key of the\ngarden-house that he had taken from the drawer of his table; he glanced\nruefully at the wrecked furniture and floor, and his eyes twinkled for a\nmoment as they rested on the four places at table still undisturbed, and\nthen met the magistrate's sidelong look. The men were still at the doors,\nresting now on chairs or leaning against the wall, with their weapons\nbeside them; it was weary work this mounting sentry and losing the hunt,\nand their faces showed it. The two passed out together into the garden,\nand began to walk up the path that led straight across the avenue to\nwhere the high vanes of the garden-house stood up grotesque and towering\nagainst the evening sky, above the black yew-hedges.\n\nAll the while they went Mr. Buxton was thinking out his plan. It was\nstill incoherent; but, at any rate, it was a step gained to be able to\ncommunicate with Anthony again; and at least the poor lad should have\nsome supper. And then he smiled to himself with relief as he saw what an\nimprovement there had been in the situation as it had appeared to him an\nhour ago. Why, they would search the house again next day; find no one,\nand retire apologising. His occupancy of the garden-house with the\nmagistrate's full consent would surely secure it from search; and he was\nnot so well satisfied with the disguised entrance to the passage at this\nend as with that in the cellar.\n\nThey reached the door at last. There were three steps going up to it, and\nMr. Buxton went up them, making a good deal of noise as he did so, to\nensure Anthony's hearing him should he be above ground. Then, as if with\ngreat difficulty, he unlocked the door, rattling it, and clicking sharply\nwith his tongue at its stiffness.\n\n\"You see, Mr. Graves,\" he said, rather loud, as he opened the door a\nlittle, \"my prison will not be a narrow one.\" He threw the door open,\ngave a glance round, and was satisfied. The targets leaned against one\nwall, and two rows of flower-pots stood in the corner near where the\nwindow opened into the lane, but there was no sign of occupation. Mr.\nBuxton went across, threw the window open and looked out. There was a\nsteel cap three or four feet below, and a pike-head; and at the sound of\nthe latch a bearded face looked up.\n\n\"I see you have a sentry there,\" said Mr. Buxton carelessly.\n\n\"Ah! that is one of Mr. Maxwell's men.\"\n\n\"Mr. Maxwell's!\" said the other, startled. \"Is he in this affair too?\"\n\n\"Yes; have you not heard? He came from Great Keynes this morning. Mr.\nLackington sent for him.\"\n\nMr. Buxton's face grew dark.\n\n\"Ah yes, I see--a pretty revenge.\"\n\nThe magistrate was on the point of asking an explanation, for he felt on\nthe best of terms again now with his prisoner, when there were footsteps\noutside and voices; and there stood four constables, with Nichol, Hubert\nMaxwell and Lackington in furious debate coming up the path behind.\n\nThey looked up suddenly, and saw the door open and the magistrate and his\nprisoner standing in the opening. The four constables stood waiting for\nfurther orders while their three chiefs came up.\n\n\"Now, now, now!\" said Mr. Graves peevishly, \"what is all this?\"\n\n\"We have come to search this house, sir,\" said Nichol cheerfully.\n\n\"See here, sir,\" said Hubert, \"have you given orders for this?\"\n\n\"Enough, enough,\" said Lackington coolly. \"Search, men.\"\n\nThe pursuivants advanced to the steps. Then Mr. Buxton turned fiercely on\nthem all.\n\n\"See here!\" he cried, and his voice rang out across the garden. \"You\nbring me here, Mr. Graves, promising me a little peace and quietness,\nafter your violent and unwarranted attack upon my house to-day. I have\nbeen patient and submissive to all suggestions; I leave my entire house\nat your disposal; I promise to lay no complaints before her Grace, so\nlong as you will let me retire here till it is over--and now your men\npersecute me even here. Have you no mind of your own, sir?\" he shouted.\n\n\"Really, sir----\" began Hubert.\n\n\"And as for you, Mr. Maxwell,\" went on the other fiercely, \"are you not\ncontent with your triumph so far? Cannot you leave me one corner to\nmyself, or would your revenge be not full enough for you, then?\"\n\n\"You mistake me, sir,\" said Hubert, making a violent effort to control\nhimself; \"I am on your side in this matter.\"\n\n\"That is what I am beginning to think,\" said Lackington insolently.\n\n\"You think!\" roared Mr. Buxton; \"and who the devil are you?\"\n\n\"See here, gentlemen,\" said Mr. Nichol, \"what is the dispute? Here is an\nempty house, Mr. Buxton tells us; and Mr. Maxwell tells us the same.\nWell, then, let these honest fellows run through the empty house; it will\nnot take ten minutes, and Mr. Buxton and his friend can take the air\nmeanwhile. A-God's name, let us not dispute over a trifle.\"\n\n\"Then, a-God's name, let me go to my own house,\" bellowed Mr. Buxton,\n\"and these gentlemen can have the empty house to disport themselves in\ntill doomsday--or till her Grace looks into the matter\"; and he made a\nmotion to run down the steps, but his heart sank. Mr. Graves put out a\ndeprecating hand and touched his arm; and Mr. Buxton very readily turned\nat once with a choleric face!\n\n\"No, no, no!\" cried the magistrate. \"These gentlemen are here on my\nwarrant, and they shall not search the place. Mr. Buxton, I entreat you\nnot to be hasty. Come back, sir.\"\n\nMr. Buxton briskly reascended.\n\n\"Well, then, Mr. Graves, I entreat you to give your orders, and let your\nwill be known. I am getting hungry for my supper, too, sir. It is already\nan hour past my time.\"\n\n\"Sup in the house, sir,\" said Mr. Nichol smoothly, \"and we shall have\ndone by then.\"\n\nThen Hubert blazed up; he took a step forward.\n\n\"Now, you fellow,\" he said to Nichol, \"hold your damned tongue. Mr.\nGraves and I are the magistrates here, and we say that this gentleman\nshall sup and sleep here in peace, so you may take your pursuivants\nelsewhere.\"\n\nLackington looked up with a smile.\n\n\"No, Mr. Maxwell, I cannot do that. These men are under my orders, and I\nshall leave two of them here and send another to keep your fellow company\nat the back. We will not disturb Mr. Buxton further to-night; but\nto-morrow we shall see.\"\n\nMr. Buxton paid no sort of further attention to him, but turned to the\nmagistrates.\n\n\"Well, gentlemen, what is your decision?\"\n\n\"You shall sleep here in peace, sir,\" said Mr. Graves resolutely. \"I can\npromise nothing for to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Then will you kindly allow one of my men to bring me supper and a couch\nof some kind, and I shall be obliged if the ladies may sup with me.\"\n\n\"That they shall,\" assented Mr. Graves. \"Mr. Maxwell, will you escort\nthem here?\"\n\nHubert, who was turning away, nodded and disappeared round the yew-hedge.\nLackington, who had been talking in an undertone to the pursuivants, now\nwent up another alley with one of them and Mr. Nichol, and disappeared\ntoo in the gathering gloom of the garden. The other two pursuivants\nseparated and each moved a few steps off and remained just out of sight.\nPlainly they were to remain on guard. Mr. Buxton and the magistrate sat\ndown on a couple of garden-chairs.\n\n\"That is an obstinate fellow, sir,\" said Mr. Graves.\n\n\"They are certainly both of them very offensive fellows, sir. I was\nastonished at your indulgence towards them.\"\n\nThe magistrate was charmed by this view of the case, and remained talking\nwith Mr. Buxton until footsteps again were heard, and the two ladies\nappeared, with Hubert with them, and a couple of men carrying each a tray\nand the other necessaries he had asked for.\n\nMr. Buxton and the magistrate rose to meet the ladies and bowed.\n\n\"I cannot tell you,\" began their host elaborately, \"what distress all\nthis affair has given me. I trust you will forgive any inconvenience you\nmay have suffered.\"\n\nBoth Isabel and Mary looked white and strained, but they responded\ngallantly; and as the table was being prepared the four talked almost as\nif there were no bitter suspense at three of their hearts at least. Mr.\nGraves was nervous and uneasy, but did his utmost to propitiate Mary. At\nlast he was on the point of withdrawing, when Mr. Buxton entreated him to\nsup with them.\n\n\"I must not,\" he said; \"I am responsible for your property, Mr. Buxton.\"\n\n\"Then I understand that these ladies may come and go as they please?\" he\nasked carelessly.\n\n\"Certainly, sir.\"\n\n\"Then may I ask too the favour that you will place one of your own men at\nthe door who can conduct them to the house when they wish to go, and who\ncan remain and protect me too from any disturbance from either of the two\nofficious persons who were here just now?\"\n\nMr. Graves, delighted at this restored confidence, promised to do so, and\ntook an elaborate leave; and the three sat down to supper; the door was\nleft open, and they could see through it the garden, over which veil\nafter veil of darkness was beginning to fall. The servants had lighted\ntwo tapers, and the inside of the great room with its queer furniture of\ntargets and flower-pots was plainly visible to any walking outside. Once\nor twice the figure of a man crossed the strip of light that lay across\nthe gravel.\n\nIt was a strange supper. They said innocent things to one another in a\ntone loud enough for any to hear who cared to be listening, about the\nannoyance of it all, the useless damage that had been done, the warmth of\nthe summer night, and the like, and spoke in low soundless sentences of\nwhat was in all their hearts.\n\n\"That red-faced fellow,\" said Mary, \"would be the better of some manners.\n(He is in the passage below, I suppose.)\"\n\n\"It is scarce an ennobling life--that of a manhunter,\" said Mr. Buxton.\n(\"Yes. I am sure of it.\")\n\n\"They have broken your little cupboard, I fear,\" said Mary again. (\"Tell\nme your plan, if you have one.\")\n\nAnd so step by step a plan was built up. It had been maturing in Mr.\nBuxton's mind gradually after he had learnt the ladies might sup with\nhim; and little by little he conveyed it to them. He managed to write\ndown the outline of it as he sat at table, and then passed it to each to\nread, and commented on it and answered their questions about it, all in\nthe same noiseless undertone, with his lips indeed scarcely moving. There\nwere many additions and alterations made in it as the two ladies worked\nupon it too, but by the time supper was over it was tolerably complete.\nIt seemed, indeed, almost desperate, but the case was desperate. It was\ncertain that the garden-house would be searched next day; Lackington's\nsuspicions were plainly roused, and it was too much to hope that\nsearchers who had found three hiding-places in one afternoon would fail\nto find a fourth. It appeared then that it was this plan or none.\n\nThey supped slowly, in order to give time to think out and work out the\nscheme, and to foresee any difficulties beyond those they had already\ncounted on; and it was fully half-past nine before the two ladies rose.\nTheir host went with them to the door, called up Mr. Graves' man, and\nwatched them pass down the path out of sight. He stood a minute or two\nlonger looking across towards the house at the dusky shapes in the garden\nand the strip of gravel, grass, and yew that was illuminated from his\nopen door. Then he spoke to the men that he knew were just out of sight.\n\n\"I am going to bed presently. Kindly do not disturb me.\" There was no\nanswer; and he closed the two high doors and bolted them securely.\n\nHe dared not yet do what he wished, for fear of arousing suspicion, so he\nwent to the other window and looked out into the lane. He could just make\nout the glimmer of steel on the opposite bank.\n\n\"Good-night, my man,\" he called out cheerfully.\n\nAgain there was no answer. There was something sinister in these watching\npresences that would not speak, and his heart sank a little as he put-to\nthe window without closing it. He went next to the pile of rugs and\npillows that his men had brought across, and arranged them in the corner,\njust clear of the trap-door. Then he knelt and said his evening prayers,\nand here at least was no acting. Then he rose again and took off his\ndoublet and ruff and shoes so that he was dressed only in a shirt, trunks\nand hose. Then he went across to the supper-table, where the tapers still\nburned, and blew them out, leaving the room in complete darkness. Then he\nwent back to his bed, and sat and listened.\n\nUp to this point he had been aware that probably at least one pair of\neyes had been watching him; for, although the windows were of bottle-end\nglass, yet it was exceedingly likely that there would be some clear glass\nin them; and, with the tapers burning inside, his movements would all\nhave been visible to either of Lackington's men who cared to put his eye\nto the window. But now he was invisible. Yet, as he thought of it, he\nslipped on his doublet again to hide the possible glimmer of his white\nshirt. There was the silence of the summer night about him--the silence\nonly emphasised by its faint sounds. The house was quiet across the\ngarden, though once or twice he thought he heard a horse stamp. Once\nthere came a little stifled cough from outside his window; there was the\nsilky rustle of the faint breeze in the trees outside; and now and again\ncame the snoring of a young owl in the ivy somewhere overhead.\n\nHe counted five hundred deliberately, to compel himself to wait; and\nmeanwhile his sub-conscious self laboured at the scheme. Then he glanced\nthis way and that with wide eyes; his ears sang with intentness of\nlistening. Then, very softly he shifted his position, and found with his\nfingers the ring that lifted the trap-door above the stairs.\n\nThere was no concealment about this, and without any difficulty he lifted\nthe door with his right hand and leaned it against the wall; then he\nlooked round again and listened. From below came up the damp earthy\nbreath of the basement, and he heard a rat scamper suddenly to shelter.\nThen he lifted his feet from the rugs and dropped them noiselessly on the\nstairs, and supporting himself by his hands on the floor went down a step\nor two. Then a stair creaked under his weight; and he stopped in an\nagony, hearing only the mad throbbing in his own ears. But all was silent\noutside. And so step by step he descended into the cool darkness. He\nhesitated as to whether he should close the trap-door or not, there was a\nrisk either way; but he decided to do so, as he would be obliged to make\nsome noise in opening the secret doors and communicating with Anthony. At\nlast his feet touched the earth floor, and he turned as he sat and\ncounted the steps--the fourth, the fifth, and tapped upon it. There was\nno answer; he put his lips to it and whispered sharply:\n\n\"Anthony, Anthony, dear lad.\"\n\nStill there was no answer. Then he lifted the lid, and managed to hold\nthe woodwork below, as he knelt on the third step, so that it descended\nnoiselessly. He put out his other hand and felt the boards. Anthony had\nretired into the passage then, he told himself, as he found the space\nempty. He climbed into the hole, pushed himself along and counted the\nbricks--the fourth of the fourth--pressed it, and pushed at the door; and\nit was fast.\n\nFor the first time a horrible spasm of terror seized him. Had he\nforgotten? or was it all a mistake, and Anthony not there? He turned in\nhis place, put his shoulders against the door and his feet against the\nwoodwork of the stairs, and pushed steadily; there were one or two loud\ncreaks, and the door began to yield. Then he knew Anthony was there; a\nrush of relief came into his heart--and he turned and whispered again.\n\n\"Anthony, dear lad, Anthony, open quickly; it is I.\"\n\nThe brickwork slid back and a hand touched his face out of the pitch\ndarkness of the tunnel.\n\n\"Who is it? Is it you?\" came a whisper.\n\n\"It is I, yes. Thank God you are here. I feared----\"\n\n\"How could I tell?\" came the whisper again. \"But what is the news? Are\nyou escaped?\"\n\n\"No, I am a prisoner, and on parole. But there is no time for that. You\nmust escape--we have a plan--but there is not much time.\"\n\n\"Why should I not remain here?\"\n\n\"They will search to-morrow--and--and this end of the tunnel is not so\nwell concealed as the other. They would find you. They suspect you are\nhere, and there are guards round this place.\"\n\nThere was a movement in the dark.\n\n\"Then why think----\" began the whisper.\n\n\"No, no, we have a plan. Mary and Isabel approve. Listen carefully. There\nis but one guard at the back here, in the lane. Mary has leave to come\nand go now as she pleases--they are afraid of her; she will leave the\nhouse in a few minutes now to ride to East Maskells, with two grooms and\na maid behind one of them. She will ride her own horse. When she has\npassed the inn she will bid the groom who has the maid to wait for her,\nwhile she rides down the lane with the other, Robert, to speak to me\nthrough the window. The pursuivant, we suppose, will not forbid that, as\nhe knows they have supped with me just now. As we talk, Robert will watch\nhis chance and spring on the pursuivant. As soon as the struggle begins\nyou will drop from the window; it is but eight feet; and help him to\nsecure the man and gag him. However much din they make the others cannot\nreach the man in time to help, for they will have to come round from the\nhouse, and you will have mounted Robert's horse; and you and Mary\ntogether will gallop down the lane into the road, and then where you\nwill. We advise East Maskells. I do not suppose there will be any\npursuit. They will have no horses ready. Do you understand it?\"\n\nThere was silence a moment; Mr. Buxton could hear Anthony breathing in\nthe darkness.\n\n\"I do not like it,\" came the whisper at last; \"it seems desperate. A\nhundred things may happen. And what of Isabel and you?\"\n\n\"Dear friend; I know it is desperate, but not so desperate as your\nremaining here would be for us all.\"\n\nAgain there was silence.\n\n\"What of Robert? How will he escape?\"\n\n\"If you escape they will have nothing against Robert; for they can prove\nnothing as to your priesthood. But if they catch you here--and they\ncertainly will, if you remain here--they will probably hang him, for he\nfought for you gallantly in the house. And he too will have time to run.\nHe can run through the door into the meadows. But they will not care for\nhim if they know you are off.\"\n\nAgain silence.\n\n\"Well?\" whispered Mr. Buxton.\n\n\"Do you wish it?\"\n\n\"I think it is the only hope.\"\n\n\"Then I will do it.\"\n\n\"Thank God! And now you must come up with me. Put off your shoes.\"\n\n\"I have none.\"\n\n\"Then follow, and do not make a sound.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nVery cautiously Mr. Buxton extricated himself; for he had been lying on\nhis side while he whispered to Anthony; and presently was crouched on the\nstairs above, as he heard the stirrings of his friend in the dark below\nhim. There came the click of the brickwork door; then slow shufflings;\nonce a thump on the hollow boards that made his heart leap; then after\nwhat seemed an interminable while, came the sound of latching the fifth\nstair into its place; and he felt his foot grasped. Then he turned and\nascended slowly on hands and knees, feeling now and again for the\ntrap-door over him--touched it--raised it, and crawled out on to the\nrugs. The room seemed to him comparatively light after the heavy darkness\nof the basement, and passage below, and he could make out the\nsupper-table and the outline of the targets on the opposite wall. Then he\nsaw a head follow him; then shoulders and body; and Anthony crept out and\nsat on the rugs beside him. Their hands met in a trembling grip.\n\n\"Supper, dear lad?\" whispered Mr. Buxton, with his mouth to the other's\near.\n\n\"Yes, I am hungry,\" came the faintest whisper back.\n\nMr. Buxton rose and went on tip-toe to the table, took off some food and\na glass of wine that he had left purposely filled and came back with\nthem.\n\nThere the two friends sat; Mr. Buxton could just hear the movement of\nAnthony's mouth as he ate. The four windows glimmered palely before them,\nand once or twice the tall doors rattled faintly as the breeze stirred\nthem.\n\nThen suddenly came a sound that made Anthony's hand pause on the way to\nhis mouth; Mr. Buxton drew a sharp breath; it was the noise of three or\nfour horses on the road beyond the church. Then they both stood up\nwithout a word, and Mr. Buxton went noiselessly across to the window that\nlooked on to the lane and remained there, listening. The horses were now\npassing down the street, and the noise of their hoofs grew fainter behind\nthe houses.\n\nAnthony saw his friend in the twilight beckon, and he went across and\nstood by him. Suddenly the hoofs sounded loud and near; and they heard\nthe pursuivant below stand up from the bank opposite. Then Mary's voice\ncame distinct and cheerful.\n\n\"How dark it is!\"\n\nThe horses were coming down the lane.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XII\n\n                            THE NIGHT-RIDE\n\n\nThe sound of hoofs came nearer; Anthony's heart, as he crouched below the\nwindow, ready to spring up and over when the signal was given, beat in\nsick thumpings at the base of his throat, but with a fierce excitement\nand no fear. His hands clenched and unclenched. Mr. Buxton stood back a\nlittle, waiting; he must feign to be asleep at first.\n\nThen came suddenly a sharp challenge from the sentry.\n\n\"It is Mistress Corbet,\" came Mary's cool high tones, \"and I desire to\nspeak with Mr. Buxton.\"\n\nThe man hesitated.\n\n\"You cannot,\" he said.\n\n\"Cannot!\" she cried; \"why, fellow, do you know who I am? And I have just\nsupped with him.\"\n\nThere came a sudden sound from the other side of the summer-house, and\nboth men in the room knew that the guards in the garden were listening.\n\n\"I am sorry, madam, but I have no orders.\"\n\n\"Then do not presume, you hound,\" came Mary's voice again, with a ring of\nanger. \"Ho, there, Mr. Buxton, come to the window.\"\n\n\"Be ready,\" he whispered to Anthony.\n\n\"Stand back, madam,\" said the pursuivant, \"or I shall call for help.\"\n\nThen Mr. Buxton threw back the window.\n\n\"Who is there?\" he asked coolly. (\"Stand up Anthony.\")\n\n\"It is I, Mr. Buxton, but this insolent dog----\"\n\n\"Stand _back_, madam, I say,\" cried the voice of the guard. Then from the\ngarden behind came running footsteps and voices; and a red light shone\nthrough the windows behind.\n\n\"Now,\" whispered the voice over Anthony's head sharply.\n\nThere came a loud shout from the guard, \"Help there, help!\"\n\nAnthony put his hands on to the sill and lifted himself easily. The groom\nhad slipped from his horse while Mary held the bridle, and was advancing\nat the guard, and there was something in his hand. The sentry, who was\nstanding immediately under the window, now dropped his pike point\nforward; and as a furious rattling began at the doors on the garden side,\nAnthony dropped, and came down astride of the man's neck, who crashed to\nthe ground. Then the groom was on him too.\n\n\"Leave him to me, sir. Mount.\"\n\nThe groom's hands were busy with something about the struggling man's\nneck: the shouts choked and ceased.\n\n\"You will strangle the man,\" said Anthony sharply.\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Mary; \"mount, mount. They are coming.\"\n\nAnthony ran to the horse, that was beginning to scurry and plunge; threw\nhimself across the saddle and caught the reins.\n\n\"Up?\" said Mary.\n\n\"Up\"; and he slung his right leg over the flank and sat up, as Mary\nreleased the bridle, and dashed off, scattering gravel.\n\nFrom the direction of the church came cries and the quick rattle of a\ngalloping horse. Anthony dashed his shoeless heels into the horse's sides\nand leaned forward, and in a moment more was flying down the lane after\nMary. From in front came a shout of warning, with one or two screams, and\nthen Anthony turned the corner, checking his horse slightly at the angle,\nsaw a torch somewhere to his right, a group of scared faces, a groom and\nwoman clinging to him on a plunging horse, and the white road; and then\nfound himself with loose reins, and flying stirrups, thundering down the\nvillage street, with Mary on her horse not two lengths in front. The roar\nof the hoofs behind, and of the little shouting crowd, with the screaming\nwoman on the horse, died behind him as the wind began to boom in his\nears. Mary was looking round now, and slightly checking her horse as they\nneared the bottom of the long village street. In half a dozen strides\nAnthony came up on her right. Then the pool gleamed before them just\nbeyond the fork of the road.\n\n\"Left!\" screamed Mary through the roar of the racing air, and turned her\nhorse off up the road that led round in a wide sweep of two miles to East\nMaskells and the woods beyond, and Anthony followed. He had settled down\nin the saddle now, and had brought his maddened horse under control; his\nfeet were in the stirrups, but there was no lessening of the speed. They\nhad left the last house now, and on either side the black bushes and\nheatherland streamed past, with the sudden gleam of water here and there\nunder the starlight that showed the ditches and holes with which the\nground on either side of the road was honeycombed.\n\nThen Mary turned her head again, and the words came detached and sharp.\n\n\"They are after us--could not help--horses saddled.\"\n\nAnthony turned his head to release one ear from the roar of the air, and\nheard the thundering rattle of hoofs in the distance, but even as he\nlistened it grew fainter.\n\n\"We are gaining!\" he shouted.\n\nMary nodded, and her teeth gleamed white in a smile.\n\n\"Ours are fresh,\" she screamed.\n\nThen there was silence between them again; they had reached a little hill\nand eased their horses up it; a heavy fringe of trees crowned it on their\nright, black against the stars, and a gleam of light showed the presence\nof a house among them. Farther and farther behind them sounded the hoofs;\nthen they were swaying and rocking again down the slope that led to the\nlong flat piece of road that ended in the slope up to East Maskells. It\nwas softer going now and darker too, as there were trees overhead;\npollared willows streamed past them as they went; and twice there was a\nsnort and a hollow thunder of hoofs as a young sleeping horse awoke and\nraced them a few yards in the meadows at the side. Once Anthony's horse\nshied at a white post, and drew in front a yard or two; and he heard for\na moment under the rattle the cool gush of the stream that flowed beneath\nthe road and the scream of a water-fowl as she burst from the reeds.\n\nA great exultation began to fill Anthony's heart. What a ride this was,\nin the glorious summer night--reckless and intoxicating! What a contrast,\nthis sweet night air streaming past him, this dear world of living\nthings, his throbbing horse beneath him, the birds and beasts round him,\nand this gallant girl swaying and rejoicing too beside him! What a\ncontrast was all this to that terrible afternoon, only a few hours\naway--of suspense and skulking like a rat in a sewer; in a dark, close\npassage underground breathing death and silence round him! An escape with\nthe fresh air in the face and the glorious galloping music of hoofs is\nanother matter to an escape contrived by holding the breath and fearing\nto move in a mean hiding-hole. And as all this flooded in upon him,\nincoherently but overpoweringly, he turned and laughed loud with joy.\n\nThey had nearly come to an end of the flat by now. In front of them rose\nthe high black mass of trees where safety lay; somewhere to the right,\nnot a quarter of a mile in front, just off the road, lay East Maskells.\nThey would draw rein, he reflected, when they reached the outer gates,\nand listen; and if all was quiet behind them, Mary at least should ask\nfor shelter. For himself, perhaps it would be safer to ride on into the\nwoods for the present. He began to move his head as he rode to see if\nthere were any light in the house before him; it seemed dark; but perhaps\nhe could not see the house from here. Gradually his horse slackened a\nlittle, as the rise in the ground began, and he tossed the reins once or\ntwice.\n\nThen there was a sharp hiss and blow behind him; his horse snorted and\nleapt forward, almost unseating him, and then, still snorting with head\nraised and jerking, dashed at the slope. There was a cry and a loud\nreport; he tugged at the reins, but the horse was beside himself, and he\nrode fifty yards before he could stop him. Even as he wrenched him into\nsubmission another horse with head up and flying stirrup and reins\nthundered past him and disappeared into the woods beyond the house.\n\nThen, trembling so that he could hardly hold the reins, he urged his\nhorse back again at a stumbling trot towards what he knew lay at the foot\nof the slope, and to meet the tumult that grew in nearness and intensity\nup the road along which he had just galloped.\n\nThere was a dark group on the pale road in front of him, twenty yards\nthis side of the field-path that led from Stanfield Place; he took his\nfeet from the stirrups as he got near, and in a moment more threw his\nright leg forward over the saddle and slipped to the ground.\n\nHe said no word but pushed away the two men, and knelt by Mary, taking\nher head on his knee. The men rose and stood looking down at them.\n\n\"Mary,\" he said, \"can you hear me?\"\n\nHe bent close over the white face; her hand rose to her breast, and came\naway dark. She was shot through the body. Then she pushed him sharply.\n\n\"Go,\" she whispered, \"go.\"\n\n\"Mary,\" he said again, \"make your confession--quickly. Stand back, you\nmen.\"\n\nThey obeyed him; and he bent his ear towards the mouth he could so dimly\nsee. There was a sob or two--a long moaning breath--and then the murmur\nof words, very faint and broken by gulps for breath. He noticed nothing\nof the hoofs that dashed up the road and stopped abruptly, and of the\nmurmur of voices that grew round him; he only heard the gasping whisper,\nthe words that rose one by one, with pauses and sighs, into his ear....\n\n\"Is that all?\" he said, and a silence fell on all who stood round, now a\ncomplete circle about the priest and the penitent. The pale face moved\nslightly in assent; he could see the lips were open, and the breath was\ncoming short and agonised.\n\n\"... _In nomine Patris_--his hand rose above her and moved cross-ways in\nthe air--_et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_. _Amen._\"\n\nThen he bent low again and looked; the bosom was still rising and\nfalling, the shut eyes lifted once and looked at him. Then the lids fell\nagain.\n\n\"_Benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris et Filii et Spiritus sancti,\ndescendat super te et maneat semper. Amen._\"\n\nThen there fell a silence. A horse blew out its nostrils somewhere behind\nand stamped; then a man's voice cried brutally:\n\n\"Now then, is that popish mummery done yet?\"\n\nThere was a murmur and stir in the group. But Anthony had risen.\n\n\"That is all,\" he said.\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XIII\n\n                              IN PRISON\n\n\nAnthony found several friends in the Clink prison in Southwark, whither\nhe was brought up from Stanfield Place after his arrest.\n\nLife there was very strange, a combination of suffering and extraordinary\nrelaxation. He had a tiny cell, nine feet by five, with one little window\nhigh up, and for the first month of his imprisonment wore irons; at the\nsame time his gaoler was so much open to bribery that he always found his\ndoor open on Sunday morning, and was able to shuffle upstairs and say\nmass in the cell of Ralph Emerson, once the companion of Campion, and a\nlay-brother of the Society of Jesus. There he met a large number of\nCatholics--some of whom he had come across in his travels--and he even\nministered the sacraments to others who managed to come in from the\noutside. His chief sorrow was that his friend and host had been taken to\nthe Counter in Wood Street.\n\nIt was a month before he heard all that had happened on the night of his\narrest, and on the previous days: he had been separated at once from his\nfriends; and although he had heard his guards talking both in the hall\nwhere he had been kept the rest of the night, and during the long hot\nride to London the next day, yet at first he was so bewildered by Mary's\ndeath that what they said made little impression on him. But after he had\nbeen examined both by magistrates and the Commissioners, and very little\nevidence was forthcoming, his irons were struck off and he was allowed\nmuch more liberty than before; and at last, to his great joy, Isabel was\nadmitted to see him. She herself had come straight up to the Marretts'\nhouse, both of whom still lived on in Wharf Street, though old and\ninfirm; and day by day she attempted to get access to her brother; until\nat last, by dint of bribery, she was successful.\n\nThen she told him the whole story.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\n\"When we left the garden-house,\" she said, \"we went straight back, and\nMary found Mr. Graves in the parlour off the hall. Oh, Anthony, how she\nordered him about! And how frightened he was of her! The end was that he\nsent a message to the stables for her horses to be got ready, as she\nsaid. I went up with her to help her to make ready, and we kissed one\nanother up there, for, you know, we dared not make as if we said good-bye\ndownstairs. Then we came down for her to mount; and then we saw what we\nhad not known before, that all the stable-yard was filled with the men's\nhorses saddled and bridled. However, we said nothing, except that Mary\nasked a man what--what the devil he was looking at, when he stared up at\nher as she stood on the block drawing on her gloves before she mounted.\nThere were one or two torches burning in cressets, and I saw her so\nplainly turn the corner down towards the church.\n\n\"Then I went upstairs again, but I could not go to my room, but stood at\nthe gallery window outside looking down at the court, for I knew that if\nthere was any danger it would come from there.\n\n\"Then presently I heard a noise, and a shouting, and a man ran in through\nthe gates to the stable-yard; and, almost directly it seemed, three or\nfour rode out, at full gallop across the court and down by the church.\nThe window was open and I could hear the noise down towards the village.\nThen more and more came pouring out, and all turned the corner and\ngalloped; all but one, whose horse slipped and came down with a crash.\nOh, Anthony! how I prayed!\n\n\"Then I saw Mr. Lackington\"--Isabel stopped a moment at the name, and\nthen went on again--\"and he was on horseback too in the court; but he was\nshouting to two or three more who were just mounting. 'Across the\nfield--across the field--cut them off!' I could hear it so plainly; and\nI saw the stable-gate was open, and they went through, and I could hear\nthem galloping on the grass. And then I knew what was happening; and I\nwent back to my room and shut the door.\"\n\nIsabel stopped again; and Anthony took her hand softly in his own and\nstroked it. Then she went on.\n\n\"Well, I saw them bring you back, from the gallery window--and ran to the\ntop of the stairs and saw you go through into the hall where the\nmagistrates were waiting, and the door was shut; and then I went back to\nmy place at the window--and then presently they brought in Mary. I\nreached the bottom of the stairs just as they set her down. And I told\nthem to bring her upstairs; and they did, and laid her on the bed where\nwe had sat together all the afternoon.... And I would let no one in: I\ndid it all myself; and then I set the tapers round her, and put the\ncrucifix that was round my neck into her fingers, which I had laid on her\nbreast ... and there she lay on the great bed ... and her face was like a\nchild's, fast asleep--smiling: and then I kissed her again, and\nwhispered, 'Thank you, Mary'; for, though I did not know all, I knew\nenough, and that it was for you.\"\n\nAnthony had thrown his arms on the table and his face was buried in them.\nIsabel put out her hand and stroked his curly head gently as she went on,\nand told him in the same quiet voice of how Mary had tried to save him by\nlashing his horse, as she caught sight of the man waiting at the entrance\nof the field-path, and riding in between him and Anthony. The man had\ndeclared in his panic of fear before the magistrates that he had never\ndreamt of doing Mistress Corbet an injury, but that she had ridden across\njust as he drew the trigger to shoot the priest's horse and stop him that\nway.\n\nWhen Isabel had finished Anthony still lay with his head on his arms.\n\n\"Why, Anthony, my darling,\" she said, \"what could be more perfect? How\nproud I am of you both!\"\n\nShe told him, too, how they had been tracked to Stanfield--Lackington had\nlet it out in his exultation.\n\nThe sailor at Greenhithe was one of his agents--an apostate, like his\nmaster. He had recognised that the party consisted of Catholics by\nAnthony's breaking of the bread. He had been placed there to watch the\nferry; and had sent messages at once to Nichol and Lackington. Then the\nparty had been followed, but had been lost sight of, thanks to Anthony's\nruse. Nichol had then flung out a cordon along the principal roads that\nbounded Stanstead Woods on the south; and Lackington, when he arrived a\nfew hours later, had kept them there all night. The cordon consisted of\nidlers and children picked up at Wrotham; and the tramp who feigned to be\nasleep had been one of them. When they had passed, he had given the\nsignal to his nearest neighbour, and had followed them up. Nichol was\nsoon at the place, and after them; and had followed to Stanfield with\nLackington behind. Then watchers had been set round the house; the\nmagistrates communicated with; and as soon as Hubert and Mr. Graves had\narrived the assault had been made. Hubert had not been told who the\npriest was; but he had leapt at an opportunity to harass Mr. Buxton: he\nhad been given to understand that Anthony and Isabel were still in the\nnorth.\n\n\"He did not know; indeed he did not,\" cried Isabel piteously.\n\nAt another time, when she had gained admittance to him, she gave him\nmessages from the Marretts, who had kept a great affection for the lad,\nwho had told them tales of College that Christmas time; and she told him\ntoo of the coming of an old friend to see her there.\n\n\"It was poor Mr. Dent,\" she said; \"he looks so old now. His wife died\nthree years ago; you know he has a city-living and does chaplain's work\nat the Tower sometimes; and he is coming to see you, Anthony, and talk to\nyou.\"\n\nThree or four days later he came.\n\nAnthony was greatly touched at his kindness in coming. He looked\nconsiderably older than his age; his hair had grown thin and grey about\nhis temples, and the sharp birdlike outline of his face and features\nseemed blurred and indeterminate. His creed too, and his whole manner of\nlooking at things of faith, seemed to have undergone a similar process.\nThe two had a long talk.\n\n\"I am not going to argue with you, Mr. Norris,\" he said, \"though I still\nthink your religion wrong. But I have learnt this at least, that the\ngreatest of all is charity, and if we love the same God, and His Blessed\nSon, and one another, I think that is best of all. I have learnt that\nfrom my wife--my dear wife,\" he added softly. \"I used to hold much with\ndoctrine at one time, and loved to chop arguments; but our Saviour did\nnot, and so I will not.\"\n\nAnthony was delighted that he took this line, for he knew there are some\nminds that apparently cannot be loyal to both charity and truth at the\nsame time, and Mr. Dent's seemed to be one of them; so the two talked of\nold times at Great Keynes, and of the folks there, and at last of Hubert.\n\n\"I saw him in the City last week,\" said Mr. Dent, \"and he is a changed\nman. He looks ten years older than this time last year; I scarcely know\nwhat has come to him. I know he has thrown up his magistracy, and the\nLindfield parson tells me that the talk is that Mr. Maxwell is going on\nanother voyage, and leaving his wife and children behind him again.\"\n\nAnthony told him gently of Hubert's share in the events at Stanfield,\nadding what real and earnest attempts he had made to repair the injury he\nhad done as soon as he had learnt that it was his friend that was in\nhiding.\n\n\"There was no treachery against me, Mr. Dent, you see,\" he added.\n\nMr. Dent pecked a little in the air with pursed lips and eyes fixed on\nthe ground; and a vision of the pulpit at Great Keynes moved before\nAnthony's eyes.\n\n\"Yes, yes, yes,\" he said; \"I understand--I quite understand.\"\n\nBefore Mr. Dent took his leave he unburdened himself of what he had\nreally come to say.\n\n\"Master Anthony,\" he said, standing up and fingering his hat round and\nround, \"I said I talked no doctrine now; but I must unsay that; and--you\nwill not think me impertinent if I ask you something?\"\n\n\"My dear Mr. Dent----\" began the other, standing and smiling too.\n\n\"Thank you, thank you--I felt sure--then it is this: I do not know much\nabout the Popish religion, though I used to once, and I may be very\nmistaken; but I would like you to satisfy me before I go on one point\";\nand he fixed his anxious peering eyes on Anthony's face. \"Can you say,\nMaster Anthony, from a full heart, that you fix all your hope and\nconfidence for salvation in Christ's merits alone?\"\n\nAnthony smiled frankly in his face.\n\n\"Indeed, in none other,\" he said, \"and from a full heart.\"\n\n\"Ah well,\" and the birdlike face began to beam and twitch, \"and--and\nthere is nothing of confidence in yourself and your works--and--and there\nis no talk of Holy Mary in the matter?\"\n\nAnthony smiled again. He wished to avoid useless controversy.\n\n\"Briefly,\" he said, \"my belief is that I am a very great sinner, that I\ndeserve eternal hell; but I humbly place all my trust in the Precious\nBlood of my Saviour, and in that alone. Does that satisfy you?\"\n\nMr. Dent's face was breaking into smiles, and at the end he took the\npriest's face in his hands and kissed him gently twice on the cheeks.\n\n\"Then, my dear boy, I fear nothing for you. May that salvation you hope\nfor be yours.\" And then without a word he was gone.\n\nAnthony's conscience reproached him a little that he had said nothing of\nthe Church to the minister; but Mr. Dent had been so peremptory about\ndoctrine that it was hard for the younger man to say what he would have\nwished. He told him, however, plainly on his next visit that he held\nwhole-heartedly too that the Catholic Church was the treasury of Grace\nthat Christ had instituted, and added a little speech about his longing\nto see his old friend a Catholic too; but Mr. Dent shook his head. The\ncorners of his eyes wrinkled a little, and a shade of his old fretfulness\npassed over his face.\n\n\"Nay, if you talk like that,\" he said, \"I must be gone. I am no\ntheologian. You must let me alone.\"\n\nHe gave him news this time of Mr. Buxton.\n\n\"He is in the Counter, as you know,\" he said, \"and is a very bright and\ncheerful person, it seems to me. Mistress Isabel asked me to see him and\ngive her news of him, for she cannot get admittance. He is in a cell,\nlittle and nasty; but he said to me that a Protestant prison was a\nPapist's pleasaunce--in fact he said it twice. And he asked very eagerly\nafter you and Mistress Isabel. He tried, too, to inveigle me into talk of\nPeter his prerogative, but I would not have it. It was Lammas Day when I\nsaw him, and he spoke much of it.\"\n\nAnthony asked whether there was anything said of what punishment Mr.\nBuxton would suffer.\n\n\"Well,\" said Mr. Dent, \"the Lieutenant of the Tower told me that her\nGrace was so sad at the death of Mistress Corbet that she was determined\nthat no more blood should be shed than was obliged over this matter; and\nthat Mr. Buxton, he thought, would be but deprived of his estates and\nbanished; but I know not how that may be. But we shall soon know.\"\n\nThese weeks of waiting were full of consolation and refreshment to\nAnthony: the nervous stress of the life of the seminary priest in\nEngland, full of apprehension and suspense, crowned, as it had been in\nhis case, by the fierce excitement of the last days of his liberty--all\nthis had strained and distracted his soul, and the peace of the prison\nlife, with the certainty that no efforts of his own could help him now,\nquieted and strengthened him for the ordeal he foresaw. At this time,\ntoo, he used to spend two or three hours a day in meditation, and found\nthe greatest benefit in following the tranquil method of prayer\nprescribed by Louis de Blois, with whose writings he had made\nacquaintance at Douai. Each morning, too, he said a \"dry mass,\" and\nduring the whole of his imprisonment at the Clink managed to make his\nconfession at least once a week, and besides his communion at mass on\nSundays, communicated occasionally from the Reserved Sacrament, which he\nwas able to keep in a neighbouring cell, unknown to his gaoler.\n\nAnd so the days went by, as orderly as in a Religious House; he rose at a\nfixed hour, observed the greatest exactness in his devotions, and did his\nutmost to prevent any visitors being admitted to see him, or any from\nanother cell coming into his own, until he had finished his first\nmeditation and said his office. And there began to fall upon him a kind\nof mellow peace that rose at times of communion and prayer to a point so\nravishing, that he began to understand that it would not be a light cross\nfor which such preparatory graces were necessary.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nTowards the middle of September he received intelligence that evidence\nhad been gathering against him, and that one or two were come from\nLancashire under guard; and that he would be brought before the\nCommissioners again immediately.\n\nWithin two days this came about. He was sent for across the water to the\nTower, and after waiting an hour or two with his gaoler downstairs in the\nbasement of the White Tower, was taken up into the great Hall where the\nCouncil sat. There was a table at the farther end where they were\nsitting, and as Anthony looked round he saw through openings all round in\nthe inner wall the little passage where the sentries walked, and heard\ntheir footfalls.\n\nThe preliminaries of identification and the like had been disposed of at\nprevious examinations before Mr. Young--a name full of sinister\nsuggestiveness to the Catholics; and so, after he had been given a seat\nat a little distance from the table behind which the Commissioners sat,\nhe was questioned minutely as to his journey in the North of England.\n\n\"What were you there for, Mr. Norris?\" inquired the Secretary of the\nCouncil.\n\n\"I went to see friends, and to do my business.\"\n\n\"Then that resolves itself into two heads: One, Who are your friends.\nTwo, What was your business?\"\n\nNow it had been established beyond a doubt at previous examinations that\nhe was a priest; a student of Douai who had apostatised had positively\nidentified him; so Anthony answered boldly:\n\n\"My friends were Catholics; and my business was the reconciling of souls\nto their Creator.\"\n\n\"And to the Pope of Rome,\" put in Wade.\n\n\"Who is Christ's Vicar,\" continued Anthony.\n\n\"And a pestilent knave,\" concluded a fiery-faced man whom Anthony did not\nknow.\n\nBut the Commissioners wanted more than that; it was true that Anthony was\nalready convicted of high treason in having been ordained beyond the seas\nand in exercising his priestly functions in England; but the exacting of\nthe penalty for religion alone was apt to raise popular resentment; and\nit was far preferable in the eyes of the authorities to entangle a priest\nin the political net before killing him. So they passed over for the\npresent his priestly functions and first demanded a list of all the\nplaces where he had stayed in the north.\n\n\"You ask what is impossible,\" said Anthony, with his eyes on the ground\nand his heart beating sharply, for he knew that now peril was near.\n\n\"Well,\" said Wade, \"let us put it another way. We know that you were at\nSpeke Hall, Blainscow, and other places. I have a list here,\" and he\ntapped the table, \"but we want your name to it.\"\n\n\"Let me see the paper,\" said Anthony.\n\n\"Nay, nay, tell us first.\"\n\n\"I cannot sign the paper except I see it,\" said Anthony, smiling.\n\n\"Give it him,\" said a voice from the end of the table.\n\n\"Here then,\" said Wade unwillingly.\n\nAnthony got up and took the paper from him, and saw one or two places\nnamed where he had not been, and saw that it had been drawn up at any\nrate partly on guesswork.\n\nHe put the paper down and went back to his chair and sat down.\n\n\"It is not true,\" he said, looking steadily at the Secretary; \"I cannot\nsign it.\"\n\n\"Do you deny that you have been to any of these places?\" inquired Wade\nindignantly.\n\n\"The paper is not true,\" said Anthony again.\n\n\"Well, then, show us what is not true upon it.\"\n\n\"I cannot.\"\n\n\"We will find means to persuade you,\" said the Secretary.\n\n\"If God permits,\" said Anthony.\n\nWade glanced round inquiringly and shrugged his shoulders; one or two\nshook their heads.\n\n\"Well, then, we will turn to another point. There are known to have been\ncertain Jesuit priests in Lancashire in November of last year--do you\ndeny that, sir?\"\n\n\"You ask too much,\" said Anthony, smiling again; \"they may have been\nthere for aught I know, for I certainly did not see them elsewhere at the\ntime you mention.\"\n\nWade frowned, but the one at the end laughed loud.\n\n\"He has you there, Wade,\" he said.\n\n\"This is foolery,\" said the Secretary. \"Well, these two, Father Edward\nOldcorne and Father Holtby were in Lancashire in November; and you, Mr.\nNorris, spoke with them then. We wish to know where they are now, and you\nmust tell us.\"\n\n\"You have yet to prove that I spoke with them,\" said Anthony, for the\ntrap was too transparent.\n\n\"But we know that.\"\n\n\"That may or may not be; but it is for you to prove it.\"\n\n\"Nay, for you to tell us.\"\n\n\"For you to prove it.\"\n\nWade lost his temper.\n\n\"Well, then,\" he cried, \"take this paper and see which of us is in the\nright.\"\n\nAnthony rose again, wondering what the paper could be, and came towards\nthe table. He saw it bore a name at the end, and as he advanced saw that\nit had an official appearance. Wade still held it; but Anthony took it in\nhis hand too to steady it, and began to read; but as he read a mist rose\nbefore his eyes, and the paper shook violently. It was a warrant to put\nhim to the torture.\n\nWade laughed a little.\n\n\"Why, see, Mr. Norris, how you tremble at the warrant; what will it be\nwhen you----\"\n\nBut a voice murmured \"Shame!\" and he stopped and stared.\n\nAnthony passed his hand over his eyes and went back to his chair and sat\ndown; he saw his knees trembling as he sat, and hated himself for it; but\nhe cried bravely:\n\n\"The flesh is weak, but, please God, the spirit is willing.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Wade again, \"must we execute this warrant, or will you\ntell us what we would know?\"\n\n\"You must do what God permits,\" said Anthony.\n\nWade sat down, throwing the warrant on the table, and began to talk in a\nlow voice to those who sat next him. Anthony fixed his eyes on the\nground, and did his utmost to keep his thoughts steady.\n\nNow he realised where he was, and what it all meant. The little door to\nthe left, behind him, that he had noticed as he came in, was the door of\nwhich he had heard other Catholics speak, that led down to the great\ncrypt, where so many before him had screamed and fainted and called on\nGod, from the rack that stood at the foot of the stairs, or from the\npillar with the fixed ring at its summit.\n\nHe had faced all this in his mind again and again, but it was a different\nthing to have the horror within arm's length; old phrases he had heard of\nthe torture rang in his mind--a boast of Norton's, the rackmaster, who\nhad racked Brian, and which had been repeated from mouth to mouth--that\nhe had \"made Brian a foot longer than God made him\"; words of James\nMaxwell's that he had let drop at Douai; the remembrance of his limp; and\nof Campion's powerlessness to raise his hand when called upon to\nswear--all these things crowded on him now; and there seemed to rest on\nhim a crushing swarm of fearful images and words. He made a great effort,\nand closed his eyes, and repeated the holy name of Jesus over and over\nagain; but the struggle was still fierce when Wade's voice, harsh and\ndry, broke in and scattered the confusion of mind that bewildered him.\n\n\"Take the prisoner to a cell; he is not to go back to the Clink.\"\n\nAnthony felt a hand on his arm, and the gaoler was looking at him with\ncompassion.\n\n\"Come, sir,\" he said.\n\nAnthony rose feeling heavy and exhausted; but remembered to bow to the\nCommissioners, one or two of whom returned it. Then he followed the\ngaoler out into the ante-room, who handed him over to one of the Tower\nofficials.\n\n\"I must leave you here, sir,\" he said; \"but keep a good heart; it will\nnot be for to-day.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nWhen Anthony got to his new cell, which was in the Salt Tower, he was\nbitterly angry and disappointed with himself. Why, he had turned white\nand sick like a child, not at the pain of the rack, not even at the sight\nof it, but at the mere warrant! He threw himself on his knees, and bowed\ndown till his head beat against the boards.\n\n\"O Lord Jesus,\" he prayed, \"give me of Thy Manhood.\"\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nHe found that this prison was more rigorous than the Clink; no liberty to\nleave the cell could possibly be obtained, and no furniture was provided.\nThe gaoler, when he had brought up his dinner, asked whether he could\nsend any message for him for a bed. Anthony gave Isabel's address,\nknowing that the authorities were already aware that she was a Catholic,\nand indeed she had given bail to come up for trial if called upon, and\nthat his information could injure neither her nor the Marretts, who were\nsound Church of England people; and in the afternoon a mattress and some\nclothes arrived for him.\n\nAnthony noticed at dinner that the knife provided was of a very\ninconvenient shape, having a round blunt point, and being sharp only at a\nlower part of the blade; and when the keeper came up with his supper he\nasked him to bring him another kind. The man looked at him with a queer\nexpression.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" asked Anthony; \"cannot you oblige me?\"\n\nThe man shook his head.\n\n\"They are the knives that are always given to prisoners under warrant for\ntorture.\"\n\nAnthony did not understand him, and looked at him, puzzled.\n\n\"For fear they should do themselves an injury,\" added the gaoler.\n\nThen the same shudder ran over his body again.\n\n\"You mean--you mean....\" he began. The gaoler nodded, still looking at\nhim oddly, and went out; and Anthony sat, with his supper untasted,\nstaring before him.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nBy a kind of violent reaction he had a long happy dream that night. The\nfierce emotions of that day had swept over his imagination and scoured it\nas with fire, and now the underlying peace rose up and flooded it with\nsweetness.\n\nHe thought he was in the north again, high up on a moor, walking with one\nwho was quite familiar to him, but whose person he could not remember\nwhen he woke; he did not even know whether it was man or woman. It was a\nperfect autumn day, he thought, like one of those he had spent there last\nyear; the heather and the gorse were in flower, and the air was redolent\nfrom their blossoms; he commented on this to the person at his side, who\ntold him it was always so there. Mile after mile the moor rose and\ndipped, and, although Skiddaw was on his right, purple and grey, yet to\nhis left there was a long curved horizon of sparkling blue sea. It was a\ncloudless day overhead, and the air seemed kindling and fresh round him\nas it blew across the stretches of heather from the western sea. He\nhimself felt full of an extraordinary vitality, and the mere movement of\nhis limbs gave him joy as he went swiftly and easily forward over the\nheather. There was the sound of the wind in his ears, and again and again\nthere came the gush of water from somewhere out of sight--as he had heard\nit in the church by Skiddaw. There was no house or building of any kind\nwithin sight, and he felt a great relief in these miles of heath and the\nsense of holiday that they gave him. But all the joy round him and in his\nheart found their point for him in the person that went with him; this\npresence was their centre, as a diamond in a gold ring, or as a throned\nfigure in a Court circle. All else existed for the sake of this\nperson;--the heather blossomed and the gorse incensed the air, and the\nsea sparkled, and the sky was blue, and the air kindled, and his own\nheart warmed and throbbed, for that only. When he tried to see who it\nwas, there was nothing to see; the presence existed there as a centre in\na sphere, immeasurable and indiscernible; sometimes he thought it was\nMary, sometimes he thought it Henry Buxton, sometimes Isabel--once even\nhe assured himself it was Mistress Margaret, and once James Maxwell--and\nwith the very act of identification came indecision again. This\nuncertainty waxed into a torment, and yet a sweet torment, as of a lover\nwho watches his mistress' shuttered house; and this torment swelled yet\nhigher and deeper until it was so great that it had absorbed the whole\nradiant fragrant circle of the hills where he walked; and then came the\nblinding knowledge that the Presence was all these persons so dear to\nhim, and far more; that every tenderness and grace that he had loved in\nthem--Mary's gallantry and Isabel's serene silence and his friend's\nfellowship, and the rest--floated in the translucent depths of it,\nstained and irradiated by it, as motes in a sunbeam.\n\nAnd then he woke, and it was through tears of pure joy that he saw the\nrafters overhead, and the great barred door, and the discoloured wall\nabove his bed.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nWhen his gaoler brought him dinner that day it was half an hour earlier\nthan usual; and when Anthony asked him the reason he said that he did not\nknow, but that the orders had run so; but that Mr. Norris might take\nheart; it was not for the torture, for Mr. Topcliffe, who superintended\nit, had told the keeper of the rack-house that nothing would be wanted\nthat day.\n\nHe had hardly finished dinner when the gaoler came up again and said that\nthe Lieutenant was waiting for him below, and that he must bring his hat\nand cloak.\n\nSince his arrest he had worn his priest's habit every day, so he now\nthrew the cloak over his arm and took his hat, and followed the gaoler\ndown.\n\nIn passing through the court he went by a group of men that were talking\ntogether, and he noticed very especially a tall old man with a grey head,\nin a Court suit with a sword, and very lean about the throat, who looked\nat him hard as he passed. As he reached the archway where the Lieutenant\nwas waiting, he turned again and saw the sunken eyes of the old man still\nlooking after him; when he turned to the gaoler he saw the same odd look\nin his face that he had noticed before.\n\n\"Why do you look like that?\" he asked. \"Who is that old man?\"\n\n\"That is Mr. Topcliffe,\" said the keeper.\n\nThe Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Richard Barkley, saluted him kindly at\nthe gate, and begged him to follow him; the keeper still came after and\nanother stepped out and joined them, and the group of four together\npassed out through the Lion's Tower and across the moat to a little\ndoorway where a closed carriage was waiting. The Lieutenant and Anthony\nstepped inside; the two keepers mounted outside; and the carriage set\noff.\n\nThen the Lieutenant turned to the priest.\n\n\"Do you know where you are going, Mr. Norris?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"You are going to Whitehall to see the Queen's Grace.\"\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XIV\n\n                             AN OPEN DOOR\n\n\nWhen the carriage reached the palace they were told that the Queen was\nnot yet come from Greenwich; and they were shown into a little ante-room\nnext the gallery where the interview was to take place. The Queen, the\nLieutenant told Anthony, was to come up that afternoon passing through\nLondon, and that she had desired to see him on her way through to\nNonsuch; he could not tell him why he was sent for, though he conjectured\nit was because of Mistress Corbet's death, and that her Grace wished to\nknow the details.\n\n\"However,\" said the Lieutenant, \"you now have your opportunity to speak\nfor yourself, and I think you a very fortunate man, Mr. Norris. Few have\nhad such a privilege, though I remember that Mr. Campion had it too,\nthough he made poor use of it.\"\n\nAnthony said nothing. His mind was throbbing with memories and\nassociations. The air of state and luxury in the corridors through which\nhe had just come, the discreet guarded doors, the servants in the royal\nliveries standing here and there, the sense of expectancy that mingled\nwith the solemn hush of the palace--all served to bring up the figure of\nMary Corbet, whom he had seen so often in these circumstances; and the\nthought of her made the peril in which he stood and the hope of escape\nfrom it seem very secondary matters. He walked to the window presently\nand looked out upon the little court below, one of the innumerable yards\nof that vast palace, and stood staring down on the hound that was chained\nthere near one of the entrances, and that yawned and blinked in the\nautumn sunshine.\n\nEven as he looked the dog paused in the middle of his stretch and stood\nexpectant with his ears cocked, a servant dashed bareheaded down a couple\nof steps and out through the low archway; and simultaneously Anthony\nheard once more the sweet shrill trumpets that told of the Queen's\napproach; then there came the roll of drums and the thunder of horses'\nfeet and the noise of wheels; the trumpets sang out again nearer, and the\nrumbling waxed louder as the Queen's cavalcade, out of sight, passed the\nentrance of the archway down upon which Anthony looked; and then stilled,\nand the palace itself began to hum and stir; a door or two banged in the\ndistance, feet ran past the door of the ante-room, and the strain of the\ntrumpets sounded once in the house itself. Then all grew quiet once more,\nand Anthony turned from the window and sat down again by the Lieutenant.\n\nThere was silence for a few minutes. The Lieutenant stroked his beard\ngently and said a word or two under his breath now and again to Anthony;\nonce or twice there came the swift rustle of a dress outside as a lady\nhurried past; then the sound of a door opening and shutting; then more\nsilence; then the sound of low talking, and at last the sound of\nfootsteps going slowly up and down the gallery which adjoined the\nante-room.\n\nStill the minutes passed, but no summons came. Anthony rose and went to\nthe window again, for, in spite of himself, this waiting told upon him.\nThe dog had gone back to his kennel and was lying with his nose just\noutside the opening. Anthony wondered vacantly to himself what door it\nwas that he was guarding, and who lived in the rooms that looked out\nbeside it. Then suddenly the door from the gallery opened and a page\nappeared.\n\n\"The Queen's Grace will see Mr. Norris alone.\"\n\nAnthony went towards him, and the page opened the door wide for him to go\nthrough, and then closed it noiselessly behind him, and Anthony was in\nthe presence.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nIt was with a sudden bewilderment that he recognised he was in the same\ngallery as that in which he had talked and sat with Mary Corbet. There\nwere the long tapestries hanging opposite him, with the tall three\nwindows dividing them, and the suits of steel armour that he remembered.\nHe even recalled the pattern of the carpet across which Mary Corbet had\ncome forward to meet him, and that still lay before the tall window at\nthe end that looked on to the Tilt-yard. The sun was passing round to the\nwest now, and shone again across the golden haze of the yard through this\ngreat window, with the fragments of stained glass at the top. The memory\nleapt into life even as he stepped out and stood for a moment, dazed in\nthe sunshine, at the door that opened from the ante-room.\n\nBut the figure that turned from the window and faced him was not like\nMary's. It was the figure of an old woman, who looked tall with her\ntowering head-dress and nodding plume; she was dressed in a great dark\nred mantle thrown back on her shoulders, and beneath it was a pale yellow\ndress sown all over with queer devices; on the puffed sleeve of the arm\nthat held the stick was embroidered a great curling snake that shone with\ngold thread and jewels in the sunlight, and powdered over the skirt were\nrepresentations of human eyes and other devices, embroidered with dark\nthread that showed up plainly on the pale ground. So much he saw down one\nside of the figure on which the light shone; the rest was to his dazzled\neyes in dark shadow. He went down on his knees at once before this\ntremendous figure, seeing the buckled feet that twinkled below the skirt\ncut short in front, and remained there.\n\nThere was complete silence for a moment, while he felt the Queen looking\nat him, and then the voice he remembered, only older and harsher, now\nsaid:\n\n\"What is all this, Mr. Norris?\"\n\nAnthony looked for a moment and saw the Queen's eyes fixed on him; but he\nsaid nothing, and looked down again.\n\n\"Stand up,\" said the Queen, not unkindly, \"and walk with me.\"\n\nAnthony stood up at once, and heard the stiff rustle of her dress and the\ntap of her heels and stick on the polished boards as she came towards\nhim. Then he turned with her down the long gallery.\n\nUntil this moment, ever since he had heard that he was to see the Queen,\nhe had felt nervous and miserable; but now this had left him, and he felt\nat his ease. To be received in this way, in privacy, and to accompany her\nup and down the gallery as she took her afternoon exercise was less\nembarrassing than the formal interview he had expected. The two walked\nthe whole length of the gallery without a word, and it was not until they\nturned and faced the end that looked on to the Tilt-yard that the Queen\nspoke; and her voice was almost tender.\n\n\"I understand that you were with Minnie Corbet when she died,\" she said.\n\n\"She died for me, your Grace,\" said Anthony.\n\nThe Queen looked at him sharply.\n\n\"Tell me the tale,\" she said.\n\nAnd Anthony told her the whole story of the escape and the ride; speaking\ntoo for his friend, Mr. Buxton, and of Mary's affection for him.\n\n\"Your Grace,\" he ended, \"it sounds a poor tale of a man that a woman\nshould die for him so; but I can say with truth that with God's grace I\nwould have died a hundred deaths to save her.\"\n\nThe Queen was silent for a good while when the story was over, and\nAnthony thought that perhaps she could not speak; but he dared not look\nat her.\n\nThen she spoke very harshly:\n\n\"And you, Mr. Norris, why did you not escape?\"\n\n\"Your Grace would not have done so.\"\n\n\"When I saw that she was dying, I would.\"\n\n\"Not if you had been a priest, your Grace.\"\n\n\"What is that?\" asked the Queen, suddenly facing him.\n\n\"I am a priest, madam, and she was a Catholic, and my duty was beside\nher.\"\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"I shrived her, your Grace, before she died.\"\n\n\"Why! they did not tell me that.\"\n\nAnthony was silent.\n\nThey walked on a few steps, and the Queen stood silent too, looking down\nupon the Tilt-yard. Then she turned abruptly, and Anthony turned with\nher, and they began to go up and down again.\n\n\"It was gallant of you both,\" she said shortly. \"I love that my people\nshould be of that sort.\" Then she paused. \"Tell me,\" she went on, \"did\nMary love me?\"\n\nAnthony was silent for a moment.\n\n\"The truth, Mr. Norris,\" she said.\n\n\"Mistress Corbet was loyalty itself,\" he answered.\n\n\"Nay, nay, nay, not loyalty but love I asked you of. How did she speak of\nme?\"\n\n\"Well, your Grace, Mistress Corbet had a shrewd wit, and she used it\nfreely on friend and foe, but her very sharpness on your Grace,\nsometimes, showed her love; for she hated to think you otherwise than\nwhat she deemed the best.\"\n\nThe Queen stopped full in her walk.\n\n\"That is very pleasantly put,\" she said; \"I told Minnie you were a\ncourtier.\"\n\nAgain the two walked on.\n\n\"Then she used her tongue on me?\"\n\n\"Your Grace, I have never met one on whom she did not: but her heart was\ntrue.\"\n\n\"I know that, I know that, Mr. Norris. Tell me something she said.\"\n\nAnthony racked his brains for something not too severe.\n\n\"Mistress Corbet once said that the Queen's most disobedient subject was\nherself.\"\n\n\"Eh?\" said Elizabeth, stopping in her walk.\n\n\"'Because,' said Mistress Corbet, 'she can never command herself,'\"\nfinished Anthony.\n\nThe Queen looked at Anthony, puzzled a moment; and then chuckled loudly\nin her throat.\n\n\"The impertinent minx!\" she said, \"that was when I had clouted her, no\ndoubt.\"\n\nAgain they walked up and down in silence a little while. Anthony began to\nwonder whether this was all for which the Queen had sent for him. He was\nastonished at his own self-possession; all the trembling awe with which\nhe had faced the Queen at Greenwich was gone; he had forgotten for the\nmoment even his own peril; and he felt instead even something of pity for\nthis passionate old woman, who had aged so quickly, whose favourites one\nby one were dropping off, or at the best giving her only an exaggerated\nand ridiculous devotion, at the absurdity of which all the world laughed.\nHere was this old creature at his side, surrounded by flatterers and\nadventurers, advancing through the world in splendid and jewelled\nraiment, with trumpets blowing before her, and poets singing her praises,\nand crowds applauding in the streets, and sneering in their own houses at\nthe withered old virgin-Queen who still thought herself a Diana--and all\nthe while this triumphal progress was at the expense of God's Church, her\ncar rolled over the bodies of His servants, and her shrunken, gemmed\nfingers were red in their blood;--so she advanced, thought Anthony, day\nby day towards the black truth and the eternal loneliness of the darkness\nthat lies outside the realm where Christ only is King.\n\nElizabeth broke in suddenly on his thoughts.\n\n\"Now,\" she said, \"and what of you, Mr. Norris?\"\n\n\"I am your Grace's servant,\" he said.\n\n\"I am not so sure of that,\" said Elizabeth. \"If you are my servant, why\nare you a priest, contrary to my laws?\"\n\n\"Because I am Christ's servant too, your Grace.\"\n\n\"But Christ's apostle said, 'Obey them that have the rule over you.'\"\n\n\"In indifferent matters, madam.\"\n\nThe Queen frowned and made a little angry sound.\n\n\"I cannot understand you Papists,\" said the Queen. \"What a-God's name do\nyou want? You have liberty of thought and faith; I desire to inquire into\nno man's private opinions. You may worship Ashtaroth if it please you, in\nyour own hearts; and God looks to the heart, and not to the outer man.\nThere is a Church with bishops like your own, and ministers; there are\nthe old churches to worship in--nay, you may find the old ornaments still\nin use. We have sacraments as you have; you may seek shrift if you will;\nnay, in some manner we have the mass--though we do not call it so--but we\nfollow Christ's ordinance in the matter, and you can do no more. We have\nthe Word of God as you have, and we use the same creeds. What more can\nthe rankest Papist ask? Tell me that, Mr. Norris; for I am a-weary of\nyour folk.\"\n\nThe Queen turned and faced him again a moment, and her eyes were peevish\nand resentful.\n\nPresently she went on again.\n\n\"Mr. Campion told me it was the oath that troubled him. He could not take\nit, he said. I told the fool that I was not Head of the Church as Christ\nwas, but only the supreme governor, as the Act declares, in all spiritual\nand ecclesiastical things:--I forget how it runs,--but I showed it him,\nand asked him whether it were not true; and I asked him too how it was\nthat Margaret Roper could take the oath, and so many thousands of persons\nas full Christian as himself--and he could not answer me.\"\n\nThe Queen was silent again. Then once more she went on indignantly:\n\n\"It is yourselves that have brought all this trouble on your heads. See\nwhat the Papists have done against me; they have excommunicated me,\ndeposed me--though in spite of it I still sit on the throne; they have\nsent an Armada against me; they have plotted against me, I know not how\nmany times; and then, when I defend myself and hang a few of the wolves,\nlo! they are Christ's flock at once for whom he shed His precious blood,\nand His persecuted lambs, and I am Jezebel straightway and Athaliah and\nBeelzebub's wife--and I know not what.\"\n\nThe Queen stopped, out of breath, and looked fiercely at Anthony, who\nsaid nothing.\n\n\"Tell me how you answer that, Mr. Norris?\" said the Queen.\n\n\"I dare not deal with such great matters,\" said Anthony, \"for your Grace\nknows well that I am but a poor priest that knows nought of state-craft;\nbut I would like to ask your Highness two questions only. The first is:\nwhether your Grace had aught to complain of in the conduct of your\nCatholic subjects when the Armada was here; and the second, whether there\nhath been one actual attempt upon your Grace's life by private persons?\"\n\n\"That is not to the purpose,\" said the Queen peevishly.\n\n\"It was Catholics who fought against me in the Armada, and it was\nCatholics who plotted against me at Court.\"\n\n\"Then there is a difference in Catholics, your Grace,\" said Anthony.\n\n\"Ah! I see what you would be at.\"\n\n\"Yes, your Highness; I would rather say, Although they be Catholics they\ndo these things.\"\n\nThere was silence again, which Anthony did not dare to break; and the two\nwalked up the whole length of the gallery without speaking.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Elizabeth at last, \"but this was not why I sent for\nyou. We will speak of yourself now, Mr. Norris. I hope you are not an\nobstinate fellow. Eh?\"\n\nAnthony said nothing, and the Queen went on.\n\n\"Now, as I have told you, I judge no man's private opinions. You may\nbelieve what you will. Remember that. You may believe what you will; nay,\nyou may practise your religion so long as it is private and unknown to\nme.\"\n\nAnthony began to wonder what was coming; but he still said nothing as the\nQueen paused. She stood a moment looking down into the empty Tilt-yard\nagain, and then turned and sat suddenly in a chair that stood beside the\nwindow, and put up a jewelled hand to shield her face, with her elbow on\nthe arm, while Anthony stood before her.\n\n\"I remember you, Mr. Norris, very well at Greenwich; you spoke up sharply\nenough, and you looked me in the eyes now and then as I like a man to do;\nand then Minnie loved you, too. I wish to show you kindness for her\nsake.\"\n\nAnthony's heart began to fail him, for he guessed now what was coming and\nthe bitter struggle that lay before him.\n\n\"Now, I know well that the Commissioners have had you before them; they\nare tiresome busybodies. Walsingham started all that and set them\na-spying and a-defending of my person and the rest of it; but they are\nloyal folk, and I suppose they asked you where you had been and with whom\nyou had stayed, and so on?\"\n\n\"They did, your Grace.\"\n\n\"And you would not tell them, I suppose?\"\n\n\"I could not, madam; it would have been against justice and charity to do\nso.\"\n\n\"Well, well, there is no need now, for I mean to take you out of their\nhands.\"\n\nA great leap of hope made itself felt in Anthony's heart; he did not know\nhow heavy the apprehension lay on him till this light shone through.\n\n\"They will be wrath with me, I know, and will tell me that they cannot\ndefend me if I will not help them; but, when all is said, I am Queen. Now\nI do not ask you to be a minister of my Church, for that, I think, you\nwould never be; but I think you would like to be near me--is it not so?\nAnd I wish you to have some post about the Court; I must see what it is\nto be.\"\n\nAnthony's heart began to sink again as he watched the Queen's face as she\nsat tapping a foot softly and looking on the floor as she talked. Those\nlines of self-will about the eyes and mouth surely meant something.\n\nThen she looked up, still with her cheek on her right hand.\n\n\"You do not thank me, Mr. Norris.\"\n\nAnthony made a great effort; but he heard his own voice quiver a little.\n\n\"I thank your Grace for your kindly intentions toward me, with all my\nheart.\"\n\nThe Queen seemed satisfied, and looked down again.\n\n\"As to the oath, I will not ask you to take it formally, if you will give\nme an assurance of your loyalty.\"\n\n\"That, your Grace, I give most gladly.\"\n\nHis heart was beating again in great irregular thumps in his throat; he\nhad the sensation of swaying to and fro on the edge of a precipice, now\ntowards safety and now towards death; it was the cruellest pain he had\nsuffered yet. But how was it possible to have some post at Court without\nrelinquishing the exercise of his priesthood? He must think it out; what\ndid the Queen mean?\n\n\"And, of course, you will not be able to say mass again; but I shall not\nhinder your hearing it at the Ambassador's whenever you please.\"\n\nAh! it had come; his heart gave a leap and seemed to cease.\n\n\"Your Grace must forgive me, but I cannot consent.\"\n\nThere was a dead silence; when Anthony looked up, she was staring at him\nwith the frankest astonishment.\n\n\"Did you think, Mr. Norris, you could be at Court and say mass too\nwhenever you wished?\" Her voice rang harsh and shrill; her anger was\nrising.\n\n\"I was not sure what your Grace intended for me.\"\n\n\"The fellow is mad,\" she said, still staring at him. \"Oh! take care, take\ncare!\"\n\n\"Your Grace knows I intend no insolence.\"\n\n\"You mean to say, Mr. Norris, that you will not take a pardon and a post\nat Court on those terms?\"\n\nAnthony bowed; he could not trust himself to speak, so bitter was the\nreaction.\n\n\"But, see man, you fool; if you die as a traitor you will never say mass\nagain either.\"\n\n\"But that will not be with my consent, your Grace.\"\n\n\"And you refuse the pardon?\"\n\n\"On those terms, your Grace, I must.\"\n\n\"Well----\" and she was silent a moment, \"you are a fool, sir.\"\n\nAnthony bowed again.\n\n\"But I like courage.--Well, then, you will not be my servant?\"\n\n\"I have ever been that, your Grace; and ever will be.\"\n\n\"Well, well,--but not at Court?\"\n\n\"Ah! your Grace knows I cannot,\" cried Anthony, and his voice rang\nsorrowfully.\n\nAgain there was silence.\n\n\"You must have your way, sir, for poor Minnie's sake; but it passes my\nunderstanding what you mean by it. And let me tell you that not many have\ntheir way with me, rather than mine.\"\n\nAgain hope leapt up in his heart. The Queen then was not so ungracious.\n\nHe looked up and smiled--and down again.\n\n\"Why, the man's lips are all a-quiver. What ails him?\"\n\n\"It is your Grace's kindness.\"\n\n\"I must say I marvel at it myself,\" observed Elizabeth. \"You near angered\nme just now; take care you do not so quite.\"\n\n\"I would not willingly, as your Grace knows.\"\n\n\"Then we will end this matter. You give me your assurance of loyalty to\nmy person.\"\n\n\"With all my heart, madam,\" said Anthony eagerly.\n\n\"Then you must get to France within the week. The other too--Buxton--he\nloses his estate, but has his life. I am doing much for Minnie's sake.\"\n\n\"How can I thank your Grace?\"\n\n\"And I will cause Sir Richard to give it out that you have taken the\noath. Call him in.\"\n\nThere was a quick gasp from the priest; and then he cried with agony in\nhis voice:\n\n\"I cannot, your Grace, I cannot.\"\n\n\"Cannot call Sir Richard! Why, you are mad, sir!\"\n\n\"Cannot consent; I have taken no oath.\"\n\n\"I know you have not. I do not ask it.\"\n\nElizabeth's voice came short and harsh; her patience was vanishing, and\nAnthony knew it and looked at her. She had dropped her hand, and it was\nclenching and unclenching on her knee. Her stick slipped on the polished\nboards and fell; but she paid it no attention. She was looking straight\nat the priest; her high eyebrows were coming down; her mouth was\nbeginning to mumble a little; he could see in the clear sunlight that\nfell on her sideways through the tall window a thousand little wrinkles,\nand all seemed alive; the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth\ndeepened as he watched.\n\n\"What a-Christ's name do you want, sir?\"\n\nIt was like the first mutter of a storm on the horizon; but Anthony knew\nit must break. He did not answer.\n\n\"Tell me, sir; what is it now?\"\n\nAnthony drew a long breath and braced his will, but even as he spoke he\nknew he was pronouncing his own sentence.\n\n\"I cannot consent to leave the country and let it be given out that I had\ntaken the oath, your Grace. It would be an apostasy from my faith.\"\n\nElizabeth sprang to her feet without her stick, took one step forward,\nand gave Anthony a fierce blow on the cheek with her ringed hand. He\nrecoiled a step at the shock of it, and stood waiting with his eyes on\nthe ground. Then the Queen's anger poured out in words. Her eyes burned\nwith passion out of an ivory-coloured face, and her voice rang high and\nharsh, and her hands continually clenched and unclenched as she screamed\nat him.\n\n\"God's Body! you are the ungratefullest hound that ever drew breath. I\nsend for you to my presence, and talk and walk with you like a friend. I\noffer you a pardon and you fling it in my face. I offer you a post at\nCourt and you mock it; you flaunt you in your treasonable livery in my\nvery face, and laugh at my clemency. You think I am no Queen, but a weak\nwoman whom you can turn and rule at your will. God's Son! I will show you\nwhich is sovereign. Call Sir Richard in, sir; I will have him in this\ninstant. Sir Richard, Sir Richard!\" she screamed, stamping with fury.\n\nThe door into the ante-room behind opened, and Sir Richard Barkley\nappeared, with a face full of apprehension. He knelt at once.\n\n\"Stand up, Sir Richard,\" she cried, \"and look at this man. You know him,\ndo you not? and I know him now, the insolent dog! But his own mother\nshall not in a week. Look at him shaking there, the knave; he will shake\nmore before I have done with him. Take him back with you, Sir Richard,\nand let them have their will of him. His damned pride and insolence shall\nbe broken. S' Body, I have never been so treated! Take him out, Sir\nRichard, take him out, I tell you!\"\n\n\n\n\n                             CHAPTER XV\n\n                       THE ROLLING OF THE STONE\n\n\nIt was a week later, and a little before dawn, that Isabel was kneeling\nby Anthony's bed in his room in the Tower. The Lieutenant had sent for\nher to his lodging the evening before, and she had spent the whole night\nwith her brother. He had been racked four times in one week, and was\ndying.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nThe city and the prison were very quiet now; the carts had not yet begun\nto roll over the cobble-stones and the last night-wanderers had gone\nhome. He lay, on the mattress that she had sent in to him, in the corner\nof his cell under the window, on his back and very still, covered from\nchin to feet with her own fur-lined cloak that she had thrown over him;\nhis head was on a low pillow, for he could not bear to lie high; his feet\nmade a little mound under the coverlet, and his arms lay straight at his\nside; but all that could be seen of him was his face, pinched and white\nnow with hollows in his cheeks and dark patches and lines beneath his\nclosed eyes, and his soft pointed brown beard that just rested on the fur\nedging of Isabel's cloak; his lips were drawn tight, but slightly parted,\nshowing the rim of his white teeth, as if he snarled with pain.\n\nThe only furniture in the room was a single table and chair; the table\nwas drawn up not far from the bed, and a book or two, with a flask of\ncordial and some fragments of food on a plate lay upon it; his cloak and\ndoublet and ruff lay across the chair and his shoes below it, and a\nlittle linen lay in a pile in another corner; but the clothes in which he\nhad been tortured the evening before, his shirt and hose, could not be\ntaken off him and he lay in them still. They had been so soaked with\nsweat, that Isabel had found him shivering, and laid her cloak over him,\nand now he lay quiet and warm.\n\nEarlier in the night she had been reading to him, and a taper still\nburned in a candlestick on the table; but for the last two hours he had\nlain either in a sleep or a swoon, and she had laid the book down and was\nwatching him.\n\nHe was so motionless that he would have seemed dead except for the steady\nrise and fall of a fold in the mantle, and for a sudden muscular twitch\nevery few minutes. Isabel herself was scarcely less motionless; her face\nwas clear and pale as it always was, but perfectly serene, and even her\nlips did not quiver. She was kneeling and leaning back now, and her hands\nwere clasped in her lap. There was a proud content in her face; her dear\nbrother had not uttered one name on the rack except those of the Saviour\nand of the Blessed Mother. So the Lieutenant had told her.\n\nSuddenly his eyes opened and there was nothing but peace in them; and his\nlips moved. Isabel leaned forward on her hands and bent her ear to his\nmouth till his breath was warm on it, and she could hear the whisper....\n\nThen she opened the book that lay face down on the table and began to\nread on, from the point at which she had laid it down two hours before.\n\n\"'_Erat autem hora tertia: et crucifixerunt eum._ And it was the third\nhour and they crucified him ... And with him they crucify two thieves,\nthe one on his right hand, and the other on his left. And the scripture\nwas fulfilled which saith, And he was numbered with the transgressors.'\"\n\nHer voice was slow and steady as she read the unfamiliar Latin, still\nkneeling, with the book a little raised to catch the candlelight, and her\ngrave tranquil eyes bent upon it. Only once did her voice falter, and\nthen she commanded it again immediately; and that, as she read \"_Erant\nautem et mulieres de longe aspicientes_.\" \"There were also women looking\non afar off.\"\n\nAnd so the tale crept on, minute by minute, and the priest lay with\nclosed eyes to hear it; until the mocking was complete, and the darkness\nof the sixth hour had come and gone, and the Saviour had cried aloud on\nHis Father, and given up the ghost; and the centurion that stood by had\nborne witness. And the great Criminal slept in the garden, in the\nsepulchre \"wherein was never man yet laid.\"\n\nThere was a listening silence as the voice ceased without another falter.\nIsabel laid the book down and looked at him again; and his eyes opened\nlanguidly.\n\nHe had not yet said more than single words, and even now his voice was so\nfaint that she had to put her ear close to his mouth. It seemed to her\nthat his soul had gone into some inner secret chamber of profound peace,\nso deep that it was a long and difficult task to send a thought to the\nsurface through his lips.\n\nShe could just hear him, and she answered clearly and slowly as to a\ndazed child, pausing between every word.\n\n\"I cannot get a priest; it is not allowed.\"\n\nStill his eyes bent on her; what was it he said? what was it?...\n\nThen she heard, and began to repeat short acts of contrition clearly and\ndistinctly, pausing between the phrases, in English, and his eyes closed\nas she began:\n\n\"O my Jesus--I am heartily sorry--that I have--crucified thee--by my\nsins--Wash my soul--in Thy Precious Blood. O my God--I am sorry--that I\nhave--displeased Thee--because thou art All-good. I hate all the\nsins--that I have done--against Thy Divine Majesty.\"\n\nAnd so phrase after phrase she went on, giving him time to hear and to\nmake an inner assent of the will; and repeating also other short vocal\nprayers that she knew by heart. And so the delicate skein of prayer rose\nfrom the altar where this morning sacrifice lay before God, waiting the\nconsummation of His acceptance.\n\nPresently she ended, and he lay again with closed eyes and mute face.\nThen again they opened, and she bent down to listen....\n\n\"It will all be well with me,\" she answered, raising her head again.\n\"Mistress Margaret has written from Brussels. I shall go there for a\nwhile.... Yes, Mr. Buxton will take me; next week: he goes to Normandy,\nto his estate.\"\n\nAgain his lips moved and she listened....\n\nA faint flush came over her face. She shook her head.\n\n\"I do not know; I think not. I hope to enter Religion.... No, I have not\nyet determined.... The Dower House?... Yes, I will sell it.... Yes, to\nHubert, if he wishes it.\"\n\nEvery word he whispered was such an effort that she had to pause again\nand again before he could make her understand; and often she judged more\nby the movement of his lips than by any sound that came from him. Now and\nthen too she lifted her handkerchief, soaked in a strong violet scent,\nand passed it over his forehead and lips. She motioned with the flask of\ncordial once or twice, but his eyes closed for a negative.\n\nAs she knelt and watched him, her thoughts circled continually in little\nflights; to the walled garden of the Dower House in sunshine, and Anthony\nrunning across it in his brown suit, with the wallflowers behind him\nagainst the old red bricks and ivy, and the tall chestnut rising behind;\nto the wind-swept hills, with the thistles and the golden-rod, and the\nhazel thickets, and Anthony on his pony, sunburnt and voluble, hawk on\nwrist, with a light in his eyes; to the warm panelled hall in winter,\nwith the tapers on the round table, and Anthony flat on his face, with\nhis feet in the air before the hearth, that glowed and roared up the wide\nchimney behind, and his chin on his hands, and a book open before him;\nor, farther back even still, to Anthony's little room at the top of the\nhouse, his clothes on a chair, and the boy himself sitting up in bed with\nhis arms round his knees as she came in to wish him good-night and talk\nto him a minute or two. And every time the circling thought came home and\nsettled again on the sight of that still straight figure lying on the\nmattress, against the discoloured bricks, with the light of the taper\nglimmering on his thin face and brown hair and beard; and every time her\nheart consented that this was the best of all.\n\nA bird chirped suddenly from some hole in the Tower, once, and then three\nor four times; she glanced up at the window and the light of dawn was\nbeginning. Then, as the minutes went by, the city began to stir itself\nfrom sleep. There came a hollow whine from the Lion-gate fifty yards\naway; up from the river came the shout of a waterman; two or three times\na late cock crew; and still the light crept on and broadened. But Anthony\nstill lay with his eyes closed.\n\nAt last over the cobbles outside a cart rattled, turned a corner and was\nsilent. Anthony had opened his eyes now and was looking at her again; and\nagain she bent down to listen; ... and then opened and read again.\n\n\"'_Et cum transisset sabbatum Maria Magdalene et Maria Jacobi et Salome\nemerunt aromata, ut venientes ungerent Jesum._'\n\n\"'And when the Sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of\nJames and Salome, had bought sweet spices that they might come and anoint\nhim.'\"\n\nA slight sound made her look up. Anthony's eyes were kindling and his\nlips moved; she bent again and listened.... What was it he said?...\n\nYes, it was so, and she smiled and nodded at him: she was reading the\nGospel for Easter Day, the Gospel of the first mass that they had heard\ntogether on that spring morning at Great Keynes, when their Lord had led\nthem so far round by separate paths to meet one another at His altar. And\nnow they were met again here. She read on:\n\n\"'_Et valde mane una sabbatorum, veniunt ad monumentum, orto jam\nsole._'\n\n\"'Very early they came unto the sepulchre at the rising of the sun; and\nthey said among themselves, Who shall roll us away the stone from the\ndoor of the sepulchre? And when they looked, they saw that the stone was\nrolled away, for it was very great.'...\n\n\"'... _magnus valde_,'\" read Isabel; and looked up again;--and then\nclosed the book. There was no need to read more.\n\n                   *          *          *          *\n\nShe walked across the court half an hour later, just as the sun came up;\nand passed out through the Lieutenant's lodging, and out by the narrow\nbridge on to the Tower wharf.\n\nTo the left and behind her, as she looked eastwards down the river, lay\nthe heavy masses of the prison she had left, and the high walls and\nturrets were gilded with glory. The broad river itself was one rolling\nglory too; the tide was coming in swift and strong and a barge or two\nmoved upwards, only half seen in the bewildering path of the sun. The air\nwas cool and keen, and a breeze from the water stirred Isabel's hair as\nshe stood looking, with the light on her face. It was a cloudless October\nmorning overhead. Even as she stood a flock of pigeons streamed across\nfrom the south side, swift-flying and bathed in light; and her eyes\nfollowed them a moment or two.\n\nAs she stood there silent, a step came up the wharf from the direction of\nSt. Katharine's street, and a man came walking quickly towards her. He\ndid not see who she was until he was close, and then he started and took\noff his hat; it was Lackington on his way to some business at the Tower;\nbut she did not seem to see him. She turned almost immediately and began\nto walk westwards, and the glory in her eyes was supreme. And as she went\nthe day deepened above her.","title":"By What Authority?","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":206471}