BY

 WHAT AUTHORITY?

 By

 Robert Hugh Benson

 _Author of_

 "The Light Invisible, " "The King's Achievement, " "A Book of the Love of Jesus, " etc. 

 BENIZIGER BROS. PRINTERS TO THE HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE, NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO. 

 _I wish to acknowledge a great debt of gratitude to the Reverend Dom Bede Camm. , O. S. B. , who kindly read this book in proof, and made many valuable corrections and suggestions. _

 ROBERT HUGH BENSON

_Tremans Horsted Keynes October 27, 1904_

 PENATIBVS · FOCISQVE · CARIS

 NECNON · TRIBVS · CARIORIBVS

 APVD · QVAS · SCRIPSI

 IN · QVARVM · AVRES · LEGI

 A · QVIBVS · ADMONITVS · EMENDAVI

 HVNC · LIBRVM

 D. 

 CONTENTS

 PART I

CHAP. PAGE

 I. The Situation 1

 II. The Hall and the House 8

 III. London Town 21

 IV. Mary Corbet 37

 V. A Rider From London 51

 VI. Mr. Stewart 64

 VII. The Door in the Garden Wall 79

VIII. The Taking of Mr. Stewart 90

 IX. Village Justice 99

 X. A Confessor 108

 XI. Master Calvin 124

 XII. A Winding Up 140

 PART II

 I. Anthony in London 152

 II. Some New Lessons 168

 III. Hubert's Return 183

 IV. A Counter March 196

 V. The Coming of the Jesuits 213

 VI. Some Contrasts 235

 VII. A Message From the City 252

VIII. The Massing-House 267

 IX. From Fulham to Greenwich 279

 X. The Appeal to Cæsar 296

 XI. A Station of the Cross 313

 XII. A Strife of Tongues 334

XIII. The Spiritual Exercises 351

 XIV. Easter Day 368

 PART III

 I. The Coming of Spain 384

 II. Men of War and Peace 390

 III. Home-Coming 404

 IV. Stanfield Place 421

 V. Joseph Lackington 429

 VI. A Departure 439

 VII. Northern Religion 453

VIII. In Stanstead Woods 468

 IX. The Alarm 484

 X. The Passage To the Garden-house 492

 XI. The Garden-house 505

 XII. The Night Ride 521

XIII. In Prison 526

 XIV. An Open Door 541

 XV. The Rolling of the Stone 552

 BY WHAT AUTHORITY?

 PART I

 CHAPTER I

 THE SITUATION

To the casual Londoner who lounged, intolerant and impatient, at theblacksmith's door while a horse was shod, or a cracked spoke mended, Great Keynes seemed but a poor backwater of a place, compared with therush of the Brighton road eight miles to the east from which he hadturned off, or the whirling cauldron of London City, twenty miles to thenorth, towards which he was travelling. 

The triangular green, with its stocks and horse-pond, overlooked by thegrey benignant church-tower, seemed a tame exchange for seethingCheapside and the crowded ways about the Temple or Whitehall; and it wasstrange to think that the solemn-faced rustics who stared respectfully atthe gorgeous stranger were of the same human race as the quick-eyed, voluble townsmen who chattered and laughed and grimaced over the newsthat came up daily from the Continent or the North, and was tossed to andfro, embroidered and discredited alternately, all day long. 

And yet the great waves and movements that, rising in the hearts of kingsand politicians, or in the sudden strokes of Divine Providence, sweptover Europe and England, eventually always rippled up into this placidcountry village; and the lives of Master Musgrave, who had retired uponhis earnings, and of old Martin, who cobbled the ploughmen's shoes, weredefinitely affected and changed by the plans of far-away Scottishgentlemen, and the hopes and fears of the inhabitants of South Europe. Through all the earlier part of Elizabeth's reign, the menace of theSpanish Empire brooded low on the southern horizon, and a responsivemutter of storm sounded now and again from the north, where Mary Stuartreigned over men's hearts, if not their homes; and lovers of secularEngland shook their heads and were silent as they thought of their tinycountry, so rent with internal strife, and ringed with danger. 

For Great Keynes, however, as for most English villages and towns at thistime, secular affairs were so deeply and intricately interwoven withecclesiastical matters that none dared decide on the one question withoutconsidering its relation to the other; and ecclesiastical affairs, too, touched them more personally than any other, since every religious changescored a record of itself presently within the church that was asfamiliar to them as their own cottages. 

On none had the religious changes fallen with more severity than on theMaxwell family that lived in the Hall, at the upper and southern end ofthe green. Old Sir Nicholas, though his convictions had survived thetempest of unrest and trouble that had swept over England, and he hadremained a convinced and a stubborn Catholic, yet his spiritual systemwas sore and inflamed within him. To his simple and obstinate soul it wasan irritating puzzle as to how any man could pass from the old to a newfaith, and he had been known to lay his whip across the back of a servantwho had professed a desire to try the new religion. 

His wife, a stately lady, a few years younger than himself, did what shecould to keep her lord quiet, and to save him from incurring by hisindiscretion any further penalties beyond the enforced journeys beforethe Commission, and the fines inflicted on all who refused to attendtheir parish church. So the old man devoted himself to his estates andthe further improvement of the house and gardens, and to the inculcationof sound religious principles into the minds of his two sons who wereliving at home with their parents; and strove to hold his tongue, and hishand, in public. 

The elder of these two, Mr. James as he was commonly called, was rather amysterious personage to the village, and to such neighbours as they had. He was often in town, and when at home, although extremely pleasant andcourteous, never talked about himself and seemed to be only verymoderately interested in the estate and the country-life generally. This, coupled with the fact that he would presumably succeed his father, gaverise to a good deal of gossip, and even some suspicion. 

His younger brother Hubert was very different; passionately attached tosport and to outdoor occupations, a fearless rider, and in every way akindly, frank lad of about eighteen years old. The fifth member of thefamily, Lady Maxwell's sister, Mistress Margaret Torridon, was aquiet-faced old lady, seldom seen abroad, and round whom, as round hereldest nephew, hung a certain air of mystery. 

The difficulties of this Catholic family were considerable. Sir Nicholas'religious sympathies were, of course, wholly with the spiritual side ofSpain, and all that that involved, while his intense love of England gavehim a horror of the Southern Empire that the sturdiest patriot might haveenvied. And so with his attitude towards Mary Stuart and her Frenchbackground. While his whole soul rose in loathing against the crime ofDarnley's murder, to which many of her enemies proclaimed her accessory, it was kindled at the thought that in her or her child lately crowned asJames VI. Of Scotland, lay the hope of a future Catholic succession; andthis religious sympathy was impassioned by the memory of an interview afew years ago, when he had kissed that gracious white hand, and lookedinto those alluring eyes, and, kneeling, stammered out in broken Frenchhis loyalty and his hopes. Whether it was by her devilish craft as herenemies said, or her serene and limpid innocence as her friends said, orby a maddening compound of the two, as later students have said--at leastshe had made the heart and confidence of old Sir Nicholas her own. 

But there were troubles more practical than these mental struggles; itwas a misery, beyond describing, to this old man and his wife to see thechurch, where once they had worshipped and received the sacraments, givenover to what was, in their opinion, a novel heresy, and the charge of aschismatic minister. There, in the Maxwell chapel within, lay the bonesof their Catholic ancestors; and there they had knelt to adore andreceive their Saviour; and now for them all was gone, and the light wasgone out in the temple of the Lord. In the days of the previous Rectormatters were not so desperate; it had been their custom to receive fromhis hands at the altar-rail of the Church hosts previously consecrated atthe Rectory; for the incumbent had been an old Marian priest who had notscrupled so to relieve his Catholic sheep of the burden of recusancy, while he fed his Protestant charges with bread and wine from theCommunion table. But now all that was past, and the entire family wascompelled year by year to slip off into Hampshire shortly before Easterfor their annual duties, and the parish church that their forefathers hadbuilt, endowed and decorated, knew them no more. 

But the present Rector, the Reverend George Dent, was far from a bigot;and the Papists were more fortunate than perhaps, in their bitterness, they recognised; for the minister was one of the rising Anglican school, then strange and unfamiliar, but which has now established itself as themain representative section of the Church of England. He welcomed theeffect but not the rise of the Reformation, and rejoiced that theincrustations of error had been removed from the lantern of the faith. But he no less sincerely deplored the fanaticism of the Puritan andGenevan faction. He exulted to see England with a church truly her own atlast, adapted to her character, and freed from the avarice and tyranny ofa foreign despot who had assumed prerogatives to which he had no right. But he reverenced the Episcopate, he wore the prescribed dress, he usedthe thick singing-cakes for the Communion, and he longed for the timewhen nation and Church should again be one; when the nation shouldworship through a Church of her own shaping, and the Church share theglory and influence of her lusty partner and patron. 

But Mrs. Dent had little sympathy with her husband's views; she hadassimilated the fiery doctrines of the Genevan refugees, and to her mindher husband was balancing himself to the loss of all dignity andconsistency in an untenable position between the Popish priesthood on theone side and the Gospel ministry on the other. It was an unbearablethought to her that through her husband's weak disposition and principleshis chief parishioners should continue to live within a stone's throw ofthe Rectory in an assured position of honour, and in personalfriendliness to a minister whose ecclesiastical status and claims theydisregarded. The Rector's position then was difficult and trying, no lessin his own house than elsewhere. 

The third main family in the village was that of the Norrises, who livedin the Dower House, that stood in its own grounds and gardens a fewhundred yards to the north-west of the village green. The house hadoriginally been part of the Hall estate; but it had been sold some fiftyyears before. The present owner, Mr. Henry Norris, a widower, lived therewith his two children, Isabel and Anthony, and did his best to bring themup in his own religious principles. He was a devout and cultivatedPuritan, who had been affected by the New Learning in his youth, and hadconformed joyfully to the religious changes that took place in Edward'sreign. He had suffered both anxiety and hardships in Mary's reign, whenhe had travelled abroad in the Protestant countries, and made theacquaintance of many of the foreign reformers--Beza, Calvin, and even thegreat Melancthon himself. It was at this time, too, that he had lost hiswife. It had been a great joy to him to hear of the accession ofElizabeth, and the re-establishment of a religion that was sincerely hisown; and he had returned immediately to England with his two littlechildren, and settled down once more at the Dower House. Here his wholetime that he could spare from his children was divided between prayer andthe writing of a book on the Eucharist; and as his children grew up hemore and more retired into himself and silence and communing with God, and devoted himself to his book. It was beginning to be a great happinessto him to find that his daughter Isabel, now about seventeen years old, was growing up into active sympathy with his principles, and that thepassion of her soul, as of his, was a tender deep-lying faith towardsGod, which could exist independently of outward symbols and ceremonies. But unlike others of his school he was happy too to notice and encouragefriendly relations between Lady Maxwell and his daughter, since herecognised the sincere and loving spirit of the old lady beneath hersuperstitions, and knew very well that her friendship would do for thegirl what his own love could not. 

The other passion of Isabel's life at present lay in her brother Anthony, who was about three years younger than herself, and who was just now moreinterested in his falcons and pony than in all the religious systems andhuman relationships in the world, except perhaps in his friendship forHubert, who besides being three or four years older than himself, caredfor the same things. 

And so relations between the Hall and the Dower House were all that theyshould be, and the path that ran through the gardens of the one and theyew hedge and orchard of the other was almost as well trodden as if allstill formed one estate. 

As for the village itself, it was exceedingly difficult to gaugeaccurately the theological atmosphere. The Rector despaired of doing so. It was true that at Easter the entire population, except the Maxwells andtheir dependents, received communion in the parish church, or at leastprofessed their willingness and intention to do so unless prevented bysome accident of the preceding week; but it was impossible to be blind tothe fact that many of the old beliefs lingered on, and that there waslittle enthusiasm for the new system. Rumours broke out now and againthat the Catholics were rising in the north; that Elizabeth contemplateda Spanish or French marriage with a return to the old religion; that MaryStuart would yet come to the throne; and with each such report there cameoccasionally a burst of joy in unsuspected quarters. Old Martin, forexample, had been overheard, so a zealous neighbour reported, blessingOur Lady aloud for her mercies when a passing traveller had insisted thata religious league was in progress of formation between France and Spain, and that it was only a question of months as to when mass should be saidagain in every village church; but then on the following Sunday thecobbler's voice had been louder than all in the metrical psalm, and onthe Monday he had paid a morning visit to the Rectory to satisfy himselfon the doctrine of Justification, and had gone again, praising God andnot Our Lady, for the godly advice received. 

But again, three years back, just before Mr. Dent had come to the place, there had been a solemn burning on the village-green of all suchmuniments of superstition as had not been previously hidden by the priestand Sir Nicholas; and in the rejoicings that accompanied this return topure religion practically the whole agricultural population had joined. Some Justices had ridden over from East Grinsted to direct this rusticreformation, and had reported favourably to the new Rector on his arrivalof the zeal of his flock. The great Rood, they told him, with SS. Maryand John, four great massy angels, the statue of St. Christopher, theVernacle, a brocade set of mass vestments and a purple cope, had perishedin the flames, and there had been no lack of hands to carry faggots; andnow the Rector found it difficult to reconcile the zeal of hisparishioners (which indeed he privately regretted) with the sudden andunexpected lapses into superstition, such as was Mr. Martin's gratitudeto Our Lady, and others of which he had had experience. 

As regards the secular politics of the outside world, Great Keynes tookbut little interest. It was far more a matter of concern whether mass ormorning prayer was performed on Sunday, than whether a German bridegroomcould be found for Elizabeth, or whether she would marry the Duke ofAnjou; and more important than either were the infinitesimal details ofdomestic life. Whether Mary was guilty or not, whether her supporterswere rising, whether the shadow of Spain chilled the hearts of men inLondon whose affair it was to look after such things; yet the cows mustbe milked, and the children washed, and the falcons fed; and it was thesethings that formed the foreground of life, whether the sky were stormy orsunlit. 

And so, as the autumn of '69 crept over the woods in flame and russet, and the sound of the sickle was in folks' ears, the life at Great Keyneswas far more tranquil than we should fancy who look back on thosestirring days. The village, lying as it did out of the direct routebetween any larger towns, was not so much affected by the gallop of thecouriers, or the slow creeping rumours from the Continent, as villagesthat lay on lines of frequent communication. So the simple life went on, and Isabel went about her business in Mrs. Carroll's still-room, andAnthony rode out with the harriers, and Sir Nicholas told his beads inhis room--all with nearly as much serenity as if Scotland were fairylandand Spain a dream. 

 CHAPTER II

 THE HALL AND THE HOUSE

Anthony Norris, who was now about fourteen, went up to King's College, Cambridge, in October. He was closeted long with his father the nightbefore he left, and received from him much sound religious advice andexhortation; and in the morning, after an almost broken-hearted good-byefrom Isabel, he rode out with his servant following on another horse andleading a packhorse on the saddle of which the falcons swayed andstaggered, and up the curving drive that led round into the villagegreen. He was a good-hearted and wholesome-minded boy, and left a realache behind him in the Dower House. 

Isabel indeed ran up to his room, after she had seen his feathered capdisappear at a trot through the gate, leaving her father in the hall; andafter shutting and latching the door, threw herself on his bed, andsobbed her heart out. They had never been long separated before. For thelast three years he had gone over to the Rectory morning by morning to beinstructed by Mr. Dent; but now, although he would never make a greatscholar, his father thought it well to send him up to Cambridge for twoor three years, that he might learn to find his own level in the world. 

Anthony himself was eager to go. If the truth must be told, he fretted alittle against the restraints of even such a moderate Puritan householdas that of his father's. It was a considerable weariness to Anthony tokneel in the hall on a fresh morning while his father read, even thoughwith fervour and sincerity, long extracts from "Christian Prayers andHoly Meditations, " collected by the Reverend Henry Bull, when the realworld, as Anthony knew it, laughed and rippled and twinkled outside inthe humming summer air of the lawn and orchard; or to have to listen togodly discourses, however edifying to elder persons, just at the timewhen the ghost-moth was beginning to glimmer in the dusk, and the heavytrout to suck down his supper in the glooming pool in the meadow belowthe house. 

His very sports, too, which his father definitely encouraged, wereobviously displeasing to the grave divines who haunted the house so oftenfrom Saturday to Monday, and spoke of high doctrinal matters atmeal-times, when, so Anthony thought, lighter subjects should prevail. They were not interested in his horse, and Anthony never felt quite thesame again towards one good minister who in a moment of severity calledEliza, the glorious peregrine that sat on the boy's wrist and shook herbells, a "vanity. " And so Anthony trotted off happy enough on his way toCambridge, of which he had heard much from Mr. Dent; and where, althoughthere too were divines and theology, there were boys as well who actedplays, hunted with the hounds, and did not call high-bred hawks"vanities. "

Isabel was very different. While Anthony was cheerful and active like hismother who had died in giving him life, she, on the other hand, was quietand deep like her father. She was growing up, if not into actual beauty, at least into grace and dignity: but there were some who thought herbeautiful. She was pale with dark hair, and the great grey eyes of herfather; and she loved and lived in Anthony from the very differencebetween them. She frankly could not understand the attraction of sport, and the things that pleased her brother; she was afraid of the hawks, andliked to stroke a horse and kiss his soft nose better than to ride him. But, after all, Anthony liked to watch the towering bird, and to hear andindeed increase the thunder of the hoofs across the meadows behind thestomping hawk; and so she did her best to like them too; and she wasoften torn two ways by her sympathy for the partridge on the one hand, asit sped low and swift across the standing corn with that dread shadowfollowing, and her desire, on the other hand, that Anthony should not bedisappointed. 

But in the deeper things of the spirit, too, there was a wide differencebetween them. As Anthony fidgeted and sighed through his chair-backmorning and evening, Isabel's soul soared up to God on the wings of thosesounding phrases. She had inherited all her father's tender piety, andlived, like him, on the most intimate terms with the spiritual world. Andthough, of course, by training she was Puritan, by character she wasPuritan too. As a girl of fourteen she had gone with Anthony to see thecleansing of the village temple. They had stood together at the west endof the church a little timid at the sight of that noisy crowd in thequiet house of prayer; but she had felt no disapproval at that fiercevindication of truth. Her father had taught her of course that the purestworship was that which was only spiritual; and while since childhood shehad seen Sunday by Sunday the Great Rood overhead, she had never paid itany but artistic attention. The men had the ropes round it now, and itwas swaying violently to and fro; and then, even as the children watched, a tie had given, and the great cross with its pathetic wide-armed figurehad toppled forward towards the nave, and then crashed down on thepavement. A fanatic ran out and furiously kicked the thorn-crowned headtwice, splintering the hair and the features, and cried out on it as anidol; and yet Isabel, with all her tenderness, felt nothing more than avague regret that a piece of carving so ancient and so delicate should bebroken. 

But when the work was over, and the crowd and Anthony with them hadstamped out, directed by the justices, dragging the figures and the oldvestments with them to the green, she had seen something which touchedher heart much more. She passed up alone under the screen, which they hadspared, to see what had been done in the chancel; and as she went sheheard a sobbing from the corner near the priest's door; and there, crouched forward on his face, crying and moaning quietly, was the oldpriest who had been rector of the church for nearly twenty years. He hadsomehow held on in Edward's time in spite of difficulties; had thankedGod and the Court of Heaven with a full heart for the accession of Mary;had prayed and deprecated the divine wrath at the return of theProtestant religion with Elizabeth; but yet had somehow managed to keepthe old faith alight for eight years more, sometimes evading, sometimesresisting, and sometimes conforming to the march of events, in hopes ofbetter days. But now the blow had fallen, and the old man, tooill-instructed to hear the accents of new truth in the shouting of thatnoisy crowd and the crash of his images, was on his knees before thealtar where he had daily offered the holy sacrifice through all thosetroublous years, faithful to what he believed to be God's truth, nowbewailing and moaning the horrors of that day, and, it is to be feared, unchristianly calling down the vengeance of God upon his faithless flock. This shocked and touched Isabel far more than the destruction of theimages; and she went forward timidly and said something; but the old manturned on her a face of such misery and anger that she had run straightout of the church, and joined Anthony as he danced on the green. 

On the following Sunday the old priest was not there, and a fervent youngminister from London had taken his place, and preached a stirring sermonon the life and times of Josiah; and Isabel had thanked God on her kneesafter the sermon for that He had once more vindicated His awful Name andcleansed His House for a pure worship. 

But the very centre of Isabel's religion was the love of the Saviour. ThePuritans of those early days were very far from holding a negative orcolourless faith. Not only was their belief delicately dogmatic toexcess; but it all centred round the Person of the Lord Jesus Christ. AndIsabel had drunk in this faith from her father's lips, and fromdevotional books which he gave her, as far back as she could rememberanything. Her love for the Saviour was even romantic and passionate. Itseemed to her that He was as much a part of her life, and of her actualexperience, as Anthony or her father. Certain places in the lanes about, and certain spots in the garden, were sacred and fragrant to her becauseher Lord had met her there. It was indeed a trouble to her sometimes thatshe loved Anthony so much; and to her mind it was a less worthy kind oflove altogether; it was kindled and quickened by such little externaldetails, by the sight of his boyish hand brown with the sun, and scarredby small sporting accidents, such as the stroke of his bird's beak ortalons, or by the very outline of the pillow where his curly head hadrested only an hour or two ago. Whereas her love for Christ was a deepand solemn passion that seemed to well not out of His comeliness or evenHis marred Face or pierced Hands, but out of His wide encompassing lovethat sustained and clasped her at every moment of her conscious attentionto Him, and that woke her soul to ecstasy at moments of high communion. These two loves, then, one so earthly, one so heavenly, but both sosweet, every now and then seemed to her to be in slight conflict in herheart. And lately a third seemed to be rising up out of the plane ofsober and quiet affections such as she felt for her father, and stillfurther complicating the apparently encountering claims of love to Godand man. 

Isabel grew quieter in a few minutes and lay still, following Anthonywith her imagination along the lane that led to the London road, and thenpresently she heard her father calling, and went to the door to listen. 

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

She called out that she would be down in a moment; and then going acrossto her own room she washed her face and came downstairs. There was atall, pleasant-faced lad of about her own age standing near the open doorthat led into the garden; and he came forward nervously as she entered. 

"I came back last night, Mistress Isabel, " he said, "and heard thatAnthony was going this morning: but I am afraid I am too late. "

She told him that Anthony had just gone. 

"Yes, " he said, "I came to say good-bye; but I came by the orchard, andso we missed one another. "

Isabel asked a word or two about his visit to the North, and they talkedfor a few minutes about a rumour that Hubert had heard of a rising onbehalf of Mary: but Hubert was shy and constrained, and Isabel was stilla little tremulous. At last he said he must be going, and then suddenlyremembered a message from his mother. 

"Ah!" he said, "I was forgetting. My mother wants you to come up thisevening, if you have time. Father is away, and my aunt is unwell and isupstairs. "

Isabel promised she would come. 

"Father is at Chichester, " went on Hubert, "before the Commission, but wedo not expect him back till to-morrow. "

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

The fact was that Sir Nicholas had again been summoned for recusancy. Itwas an expensive matter to refuse to attend church, and Sir Nicholasprobably paid not less than £200 or £300 a year for the privilege ofworshipping as his conscience bade. 

In the evening Isabel asked her father's leave to be absent after supper, and then drawing on her hood, walked across in the dusk to the Hall. Hubert was waiting for her at the boundary door between the twoproperties. 

"Father has come back, " he said, "but my mother wants you still. " Theywent on together, passed round the cloister wing to the south of thehouse: the bell turret over the inner hall and the crowded roofs stood upagainst the stars, as they came up the curving flight of shallow stepsfrom the garden to the tall doorway that led into the hall. 

It was a pleasant, wide, high room, panelled with fresh oak, and hungwith a little old tapestry here and there, and a few portraits. Astaircase rose out of it to the upper story. It had a fret-ceiling, withflower-de-luce and rose pendants, and on the walls between the tapestrieshung a few antlers and pieces of armour, morions and breast-plates, witha pair of pikes or halberds here and there. A fire had been lighted inthe great hearth as the evenings were chilly; and Sir Nicholas wasstanding before it, still in his riding-dress, pouring out resentment andfury to his wife, who sat in a tall chair at her embroidery. She turnedsilently and held out a hand to Isabel, who came and stood beside her, while Hubert went and sat down near his father. Sir Nicholas scarcelyseemed to notice their entrance, beyond glancing up for a moment underhis fierce white eyebrows; but went on growling out his wrath. He was afine rosy man, with grey moustache and pointed beard, and a thick head ofhair, and he held in his hand his flat riding cap, and his whip withwhich from time to time he cut at his boot. 

"It was monstrous, I told the fellow, that a man should be haled from hishome like this to pay a price for his conscience. The religion of myfather and his father and all our fathers was good enough for me; and whyin God's name should the Catholic have to pay who had never changed hisfaith, while every heretic went free? And then to that some stripling ofa clerk told me that a religion that was good enough for the Queen'sGrace should be good enough for her loyal subjects too; but my Lordsilenced him quickly. And then I went at them again; and all my Lordwould do was to nod his head and smile at me as if I were a child; andthen he told me that it was a special Commission all for my sake, and SirArthur's, who was there too, my dear. .. . Well, well, the end was that Ihad to pay for their cursed religion. "

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

"Well, I paid, " went on Sir Nicholas, "but I showed them, thank God, whatI was: for as we came out, Sir Arthur and I together, what should we seebut another party coming in, pursuivant and all; and in the mid of themthat priest who was with us last July. --Well, well, we'll leave his namealone--him that said he was a priest before them all in September; and Iwent down on my knees, thank God, and Sir Arthur went down on his, and weasked his blessing before them all, and he gave it us: and oh! my Lordwas red and white with passion. "

"That was not wise, sweetheart, " said Lady Maxwell tranquilly, "thepriest will have suffered for it afterwards. "

"Well, well, " grumbled Sir Nicholas, "a man cannot always think, but weshowed them that Catholics were not ashamed of their religion--yes, andwe got the blessing too. "

"Well, but here is supper waiting, " said my lady, "and Isabel, too, whomyou have not spoken to yet. "

Sir Nicholas paid no attention. 

"Ah! but that was not all, " he went on, savagely striking his boot again, "at the end of all who should I see but that--that--damned rogue--whomGod reward!"--and he turned and spat into the fire--"Topcliffe. There hewas, bowing to my Lord and the Commissioners. When I think of that man, "he said, "when I think of that man--" and Sir Nicholas' kindly oldpassionate face grew pale and lowering with fury, and his eyebrows bentthemselves forward, and his lower lip pushed itself out, and his handclosed tremblingly on his whip. 

His wife laid down her embroidery and came to him. 

"There, sweetheart, " she said, taking his cap and whip. "Now sit down andhave supper, and leave that man to God. "

Sir Nicholas grew quiet again; and after a saying a word or two ofapology to Isabel, left the room to wash before he sat down to supper. 

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

"Hush, my son, " said his mother, "your father does not like his name tobe spoken. "

Presently Sir Nicholas returned, and sat down to supper. Gradually hisgood nature returned, and he told them what he had seen in Chichester, and the talk he had heard. How it was reported to his lordship the Bishopthat the old religion was still the religion of the people's hearts--how, for example, at Lindfield they had all the images and the altar furniturehidden underground, and at Battle, too; and that the mass could be set upagain at a few hours' notice: and that the chalices had not been melteddown into communion cups according to the orders issued, and so on. Andthat at West Grinsted, moreover, the Blessed Sacrament was therestill--praise God--yes, and was going to remain there. He spoke freelybefore Isabel, and yet he remembered his courtesy too, and did not abusethe new-fangled religion, as he thought it, in her presence; or seek inany way to trouble her mind. If ever in an excess of anger he was carriedaway in his talk, his wife would always check him gently; and he wouldalways respond and apologise to Isabel if he had transgressed goodmanners. In fact, he was just a fiery old man who could not change hisreligion even at the bidding of his monarch, and could not understand howwhat was right twenty years ago was wrong now. 

Isabel herself listened with patience and tenderness, and awe too;because she loved and honoured this old man in spite of the darkness inwhich he still walked. He also told them in lower tones of a rumour thatwas persistent at Chichester that the Duke of Norfolk had been imprisonedby the Queen's orders, and was to be charged with treason; and that hewas at present at Burnham, in Mr. Wentworth's house, under the guard ofSir Henry Neville. If this was true, as indeed it turned out to be later, it was another blow to the Catholic cause in England; but Sir Nicholaswas of a sanguine mind, and pooh-poohed the whole affair even while herelated it. 

And so the evening passed in talk. When Sir Nicholas had finished supper, they all went upstairs to my lady's withdrawing-room on the first floor. This was always a strange and beautiful room to Isabel. It was panelledlike the room below, but was more delicately furnished, and a tall harpstood near the window to which my lady sang sometimes in a sweettremulous old voice, while Sir Nicholas nodded at the fire. Isabel, too, had had some lessons here from the old lady; but even this mild vanitytroubled her puritan conscience a little sometimes. Then the room, too, had curious and attractive things in it. A high niche in the oak over thefireplace held a slender image of Mary and her Holy Child, and from theChild's fingers hung a pair of beads. Isabel had a strange sensesometimes as if this holy couple had taken refuge in that niche when theywere driven from the church; but it seemed to her in her steadier moodsthat this was a superstitious fancy, and had the nature of sin. 

This evening the old lady went to her harp, while Isabel sat down nearher in the wide window seat and looked out over the dark lawn, where thewhite dial glimmered like a phantom, and thought of Anthony again. SirNicholas went and stretched himself before the fire, and closed his eyes, for he was old, and tired with his long ride; and Hubert sat down in adark corner near him whence he could watch Isabel. After a few ripplingchords my lady began to sing a song by Sir Thomas Wyatt, whom she and SirNicholas had known in their youth; and which she had caused to be set tomusic by some foreign chapel master. It was a sorrowful little song, withthe title, "He seeketh comfort in patience, " and possibly she chose it onpurpose for this evening. 

 "Patience! for I have wrong, And dare not shew wherein; Patience shall be my song; Since truth can nothing win. Patience then for this fit; Hereafter comes not yet. "

While she sang, she thought no doubt of the foolish brave courtier wholacked patience in spite of his singing, and lost his head for it; hervoice shook once or twice: and old Sir Nicholas shook his drowsy headwhen she had finished, and said "God rest him, " and then fell fastasleep. 

Then he presently awoke as the others talked in whispers, and joined intoo: and they talked of Anthony, and what he would find at Cambridge; andof Alderman Marrett, and his house off Cheapside, where Anthony would liethat night; and of such small and tranquil topics, and left fiercerquestions alone. And so the evening came to an end; and Isabel saidgood-night, and went downstairs with Hubert, and out into the gardenagain. 

"I am sorry that Sir Nicholas has been so troubled, " she said to Hubert, as they turned the corner of the house together. "Why cannot we leave oneanother alone, and each worship God as we think fit?"

Hubert smiled in the darkness to himself. 

"I am afraid Queen Mary did not think it could be done, either, " he said. "But then, Mistress Isabel, " he went on, "I am glad that you feel thatreligion should not divide people. "

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

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

"Yes?" she asked. 

"Nothing, " said Hubert. 

They had reached the door in the boundary wall by now, and Isabel wouldnot let him come further with her and bade him good-night. But Hubertstill stood, with his hand on the door, and watched the white figure fadeinto the dusk, and listened to the faint rustle of her skirt over the dryleaves; and then, when he heard at last the door of the Dower House openand close, he sighed to himself and went home. 

Isabel heard her father call from his room as she passed through thehall; and went in to him as he sat at his table in his furred gown, withhis books about him, to bid him good-night and receive his blessing. Helifted his hand for a moment to finish the sentence he was writing, andshe stood watching the quill move and pause and move again over thepaper, in the candlelight, until he laid the pen down, and rose and stoodwith his back to the fire, smiling down at her. He was a tall, slenderman, surprisingly upright for his age, with a delicate, bearded, scholar's face; the little plain ruff round his neck helped to emphasisethe fine sensitiveness of his features; and the hands which he stretchedout to his daughter were thin and veined. 

"Well, my daughter, " he said, looking down at her with his kindly greyeyes so like her own, and holding her hands. 

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

He nodded briskly. 

"And you, child?" he asked. 

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

"And was Sir Nicholas there?"

She told him what had passed, and how Sir Nicholas had been fined againfor his recusancy; and how Lady Maxwell had sung one of Sir ThomasWyatt's songs. 

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

"Yes, father, Hubert. "

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

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

Her father said nothing, but still looked steadily down into her eyes fora moment, and then turned and looked away from her into the fire. 

"You must take care, " he said gently. "Remember he is a Papist, born andbred; and that he has a heart to be broken too. "

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

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

Then he kissed her on the forehead and laid his hand on her head, andlooked up, as the Puritan manner was. 

"May the God of grace bless you, my daughter; and make you faithful tothe end. " And then he looked into her eyes again, smiled and nodded; andshe went out, leaving him standing there. 

Mr. Norris had begun to fear that the boy loved Isabel, but as yet he didnot know whether Isabel understood it or even was aware of it. Themarriage difficulties of Catholics and Protestants were scarcely yetexisting; and certainly there was no formulated rule of dealing withthem. Changes of religion were so frequent in those days thatdifficulties, when they did arise, easily adjusted themselves. It wasconsidered, for example, by politicians quite possible at one time thatthe Duke of Anjou should conform to the Church of England for the sake ofmarrying the Queen: or that he should attend public services with her, and at the same time have mass and the sacraments in his own privatechapel. Or again, it was open to question whether England as a wholewould not return to the old religion, and Catholicism be the onlytolerated faith. 

But to really religious minds such solutions would not do. It would havebeen an intolerable thought to this sincere Puritan, with all histolerance, that his daughter should marry a Catholic; such an arrangementwould mean either that she was indifferent to vital religion, or that shewas married to a man whose creed she was bound to abhor and anathematise:and however willing Mr. Norris might be to meet Papists on terms ofsocial friendliness, and however much he might respect their personalcharacters, yet the thought that the life of any one dear to him shouldbe irretrievably bound up with all that the Catholic creed involved, wassimply an impossible one. 

Besides all this he had no great opinion of Hubert. He thought hedetected in him a carelessness and want of principle that would make himhesitate to trust his daughter to him, even if the insuperable barrier ofreligion were surmounted. Mr. Norris liked a man to be consistent andzealous for his creed, even if that creed were dark andsuperstitious--and this zeal seemed to him lamentably lacking in Hubert. More than once he had heard the boy speak of his father with an air ofeasy indulgence, that his own opinion interpreted as contempt. 

"I believe my father thinks, " he had once said, "that every penny he paysin fines goes to swell the accidental glory of God. "

And Hubert had been considerably startled and distressed when the elderman had told him to hold his tongue unless he could speak respectfully ofone to whom he owed nothing but love and honour. This had happened, however, more than a year ago; and Hubert had forgotten it, no doubt, even if Mr. Norris had not. 

And as for Isabel. 

It is exceedingly difficult to say quite what place Hubert occupied inher mind. She certainly did not know herself much more than that sheliked the boy to be near her; to hear his footsteps coming along the pathfrom the Hall. This morning when her father had called up to her thatHubert was come, it was not so hard to dry her tears for Anthony'sdeparture. The clouds had parted a little when she came and found thistall lad smiling shyly at her in the hall. As she had sat in the windowseat, too, during Lady Maxwell's singing, she was far from unconsciousthat Hubert's face was looking at her from the dark corner. And as theywalked back together her simplicity was not quite so transparent as theboy himself thought. 

Again when her father had begun to speak of him just now, although shewas able to meet his eyes steadily and smilingly, yet it was just aneffort. She had not mentioned Hubert herself, until her father had namedhim; and in fact it is probably safe to say that during Hubert's visit tothe north, which had lasted three or four months, he had made greaterprogress towards his goal, and had begun to loom larger than ever in theheart of this serene grey-eyed girl, whom he longed for so irresistibly. 

And now, as Isabel sat on her bed before kneeling to say her prayers. Hubert was in her mind even more than Anthony. She tried to wonder whather father meant, and yet only too well she knew that she knew. She hadforgotten to look into Anthony's room where she had cried so bitterlythis morning, and now she sat wide-eyed, and self-questioning as towhether her heavenly love were as lucid and single as it had been; andwhen at last she went down on her knees she entreated the King of Love tobless not only her father, and her brother Anthony who lay under theAlderman's roof in far-away London; but Sir Nicholas and Lady Maxwell, and Mistress Margaret Hallam, and--and--Hubert--and James Maxwell, hisbrother; and to bring them out of the darkness of Papistry into theglorious liberty of the children of the Gospel. 

 CHAPTER III

 LONDON TOWN

Isabel's visit to London, which had been arranged to take place theChristmas after Anthony's departure to Cambridge, was full of bewilderingexperiences to her. Mr. Norris from time to time had references to lookup in London, and divines to consult as to difficult points in his bookon the Eucharist; and this was a favourable opportunity to see Mr. Dering, the St. Paul's lecturer; so the two took the opportunity, andwith a couple of servants drove up to the City one day early in Decemberto the house of Alderman Marrett, the wool merchant, and a friend of Mr. Norris' father; and for several days both before and after Anthony'sarrival from Cambridge went every afternoon to see the sights. The mazeof narrow streets of high black and white houses with their iron-worksigns, leaning forward as if to whisper to one another, leaving strips ofsky overhead; the strange play of lights and shades after nightfall; thefantastic groups; the incessant roar and rumble of the crowdedalleys--all the commonplace life of London was like an enchanted pictureto her, opening a glimpse into an existence of which she had knownnothing. 

To live, too, in the whirl of news that poured in day after day borne bysplashed riders and panting horses;--this was very different to the slowround of country life, with rumours and tales floating in, mellowed bydoubt and lapse of time, like pensive echoes from another world. Forexample, morning by morning, as she came downstairs to dinner, there wasthe ruddy-faced Alderman with his fresh budget of news of thenorth;--Lords Northumberland and Westmoreland with a Catholic force ofseveral thousands, among which were two cousins of Mrs. Marrettherself--and the old lady nodded her head dolorously incorroboration--had marched southwards under the Banner of the FiveWounds, and tramped through Durham City welcomed by hundreds of thecitizens; the Cathedral had been entered, old Richard Norton with thebanner leading; the new Communion table had been cast out of doors, theEnglish Bible and Prayer-book torn to shreds, the old altar reverentlycarried in from the rubbish heap, the tapers rekindled, and amidhysterical enthusiasm Mass had been said once more in the old sanctuary. 

Then they had moved south; Lord Sussex was powerless in York; the Queen, terrified and irresolute, alternately storming and crying; Spain wasabout to send ships to Hartlepool to help the rebels; Mary Stuart wouldcertainly be rescued from her prison at Tutbury. Then Mary had been movedto Coventry; then came a last flare of frightening tales: York hadfallen; Mary had escaped; Elizabeth was preparing to flee. 

And then one morning the Alderman's face was brighter: it was all a lie, he said. The revolt had crumbled away; my Lord Sussex was impregnablyfortified in York with guns from Hull; Lord Pembroke was gathering forcesat Windsor; Lords Clinton, Hereford and Warwick were converging towardsYork to relieve the siege. And as if to show Isabel it was not a mereromance, she could see the actual train-bands go by up Cheapside with thegleam of steel caps and pike-heads, and the mighty tramp of disciplinedfeet, and the welcoming roar of the swarming crowds. 

Then as men's hearts grew lighter the tale of chastisement began to betold, and was not finished till long after Isabel was home again. Greenafter green of the windy northern villages was made hideous by thehanging bodies of the natives, and children hid their faces and ran bylest they should see what her Grace had done to their father. 

In spite of the Holy Sacrifice, and the piteous banner, and the call tofight for the faith, the Catholics had hung back and hesitated, and thecatastrophe was complete. 

The religion of London, too, was a revelation to this country girl. Shewent one Sunday to St. Paul's Cathedral, pausing with her father beforethey went in to see the new restorations and the truncated steeple struckby lightning eight years before, which in spite of the Queen's angryurging the citizens had never been able to replace. 

There was a good congregation at the early morning prayer; and the organsand the singing were to Isabel as the harps and choirs of heaven. Thecanticles were sung to Shephard's setting by the men and children of St. Paul's all in surplices: and the dignitaries wore besides their grey furalmuces, which had not yet been abolished. The grace and dignity of thewhole service, though to older people who remembered the unreformedworship a bare and miserable affair, and to Mr. Norris, with his sinceresimplicity and spirituality, a somewhat elaborate and sensuous mode ofhonouring God, yet to Isabel was a first glimpse of what the mystery ofworship meant. The dim towering arches, through which the dustyrichly-stained sunbeams poured, the far-away murmurous melodies thatfloated down from the glimmering choir, the high thin pealing organ, allcombined to give her a sense of the unfathomable depths of the DivineMajesty--an element that was lacking in the clear-cut personal Puritancreed, in spite of the tender associations that made it fragrant for her, and the love of the Saviour that enlightened and warmed it. The sight ofthe crowds outside, too, in the frosty sunlight, gathered round the greystone pulpit on the north-east of the Cathedral, and streaming down everyalley and lane, the packed galleries, the gesticulating black figure ofthe preacher--this impressed on her an idea of the power of corporatereligion, that hours at her own prayer-desk, or solitary twilight walksunder the Hall pines, or the uneventful divisions of the Rector's villagesermons, had failed to give. 

It was this Sunday in London that awakened her quiet soul from the lonelycompanionship of God, to the knowledge of that vast spiritual world ofmen of which she was but one tiny cell. Her father observed her quietlyand interestedly as they went home together, but said nothing beyond anindifferent word or two. He was beginning to realise the serious realityof her spiritual life, and to dread anything that would even approximateto coming between her soul and her Saviour. The father and daughterunderstood one another, and were content to be silent together. 

Her talks with Mrs. Marrett, too, left their traces on her mind. TheAlderman's wife, for the first time in her life, found her views andreminiscences listened to as if they were oracles, and she needed littleencouragement to pour them out in profusion. She was especially generouswith her tales of portents and warnings; and the girl was more than onceconsiderably alarmed by what she heard while the ladies were alone in thedim firelit parlour on the winter afternoons before the candles werebrought in. 

"When you were a little child, my dear, " began the old lady one day, "there was a great burning made everywhere of all the popish images andvestments; all but the copes and the altar-cloths that they made intodresses for the ministers' new wives, and bed-quilts to cover them; andthere were books and banners and sepulchres and even relics. I went outto see the burning at Paul's, and though I knew it was proper that theold papistry should go, yet I was uneasy at the way it was done. 

"Well, " went on the old lady, glancing about her, "I was sitting in thisvery room only a few days after, and the air began to grow dark andheavy, and all became still. There had been two or three cocks crowingand answering one another down by the river, and others at a distance;and they all ceased: and there had been birds chirping in the roof, andthey ceased. And it grew so dark that I laid down my needle and went tothe window, and there at the end of the street over the houses there wascoming a great cloud, with wings like a hawk, I thought; but some saidafterwards that, when they saw it, it had fingers like a man's hand, andothers said it was like a great tower, with battlements. However that maybe, it grew nearer and larger, and it was blue and dark like that curtainthere; and there was no wind to stir it, for the windows had ceasedrattling, and the dust was quiet in the streets; and still it came onquickly, growing as it came; and then there came a far-away sound, like aheavy waggon, or, some said, like a deep voice complaining. And I turnedaway from the window afraid; and there was the cat, that had been on achair, down in the corner, with her back up, staring at the cloud: andthen she began to run round the room like a mad thing, and presentlywhisked out of the door when I opened it. And I went to find Mr. Marrett, and he had not come in, and all the yard was quiet. I could only hear ahorse stamp once or twice in the stable. And then as I saw calling outfor some one to come, the storm broke, and the sky was all one dark cloudfrom side to side. For three hours it went on, rolling and clapping, andthe lightning came in through the window that I had darkened and throughthe clothes over my head; for I had gone to my bed and rolled myselfround under the clothes. And so it went on--and, my dear--" and Mrs. Marrett put her head close to Isabel's--"I prayed to our Lady and thesaints, which I had not done since I was married; and asked them to prayGod to keep me safe. And then at the end came a clap of thunder and aflash of lightning more fearful than all that had gone before; and atthat very moment, so Mr. Marrett told me when he came in, two of thedoors in St. Denys' Church in Fanshawe Street were broken in pieces bysomething that crushed them in, and the stone steeple of Allhallow Churchin Bread Street was broken off short, and a part of it killed a dog thatwas beneath, and overthrew a man that played with the dog. "

Isabel could hardly restrain a shiver and a glance round the dark oldroom, so awful were Mrs. Marrett's face and gestures and loud whisperingtone, as she told this. 

"Ah! but, my dear, " she went on, "there was worse happened to poor KingHal, God rest him--him who began to reform the Church, as they say, anddestroyed the monasteries. All the money that he left for masses for hissoul was carried off with the rest at the change of religion; and thatwas bad enough, but this is worse. This is a tale, my dear, that I haveheard my father tell many a time; and I was a young woman myself when ithappened. The King's Grace was threatened by a friar, I think ofGreenwich, that if he laid hands on the monasteries he should be as Ahabwhose blood was licked by dogs in the very place which he took from aman. Well, the friar was hanged for his pains, and the King lived. Andthen at last he died, and was put in a great coffin, and carried throughLondon; and they put the coffin in an open space in Sion Abbey, which theKing had taken. And in the night there came one to view the coffin, andto see that all was well. And he came round the corner, and there stoodthe great coffin--(for his Grace was a great stout man, my dear)--ontrestles in the moonlight, and beneath it a great black dog that lappedsomething: and the dog turned as the man came, and some say, but not myfather, that the dog's eyes were red as coals, and that his mouth andnostrils smoked, and that he cast no shadow; but (however that may be)the dog turned and looked and then ran; and the man followed him into ayard, but when he reached there, there was no dog. And the man went backto the coffin afraid; and he found the coffin was burst open, and--and--"

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

"There, there, my dear. I am a foolish old woman; and I'll tell you nomore. "

Isabel was really terrified, and entreated Mrs. Marrett to tell hersomething pleasant to make her forget these horrors; and so she told herold tales of her youth, and the sights of the city, and the great doingsin Mary's reign; and so the time passed pleasantly till the gentlemencame home. 

At other times she told her of Elizabeth and the great nobles, andIsabel's heart beat high at it, and at the promise that before she leftshe herself should see the Queen, even if she had to go to Greenwich orNonsuch for it. 

"God bless her, " said Mrs. Marrett loyally, "she's a woman like ourselvesfor all her majesty. And she likes the show and the music too, like usall. I declare when I see them all a-going down the water to Greenwich, or to the Tower for a bear-baiting, with the horns blowing and the gunsfiring and the banners and the barges and the music, I declare sometimesI think that heaven itself can be no better, God forgive me! Ah! but Iwish her Grace 'd take a husband; there are many that want her; and thenwe could laugh at them all. There's so many against her Grace now who'dbe for her if she had a son of her own. There's Duke Charles whosepicture hangs in her bedroom, they say; and Lord Robert Dudley--there's ahandsome spark, my dear, in his gay coat and his feathers and his ruff, and his hand on his hip, and his horse and all. I wish she'd take him andhave done with it. And then we'd hear no more of the nasty Spaniards. There's Don de Silva, for all the world like a monkey with his brown faceand mincing ways and his grand clothes. I declare when Captain Hawkinscame home, just four years ago last Michaelmas, and came up to Londonwith his men, all laughing and rolling along with the people cheeringthem, I could have kissed the man--to think how he had made the brown mendance and curse and show their white teeth! and to think that the Don hadto ask him to dinner, and grin and chatter as if nought had happened. "

And Mrs. Marrett's good-humoured face broke into mirth at the thought ofthe Ambassador's impotence and duplicity. 

Anthony's arrival in London a few days before Christmas removed the oneobstacle to Isabel's satisfaction--that he was not there to share it withher. The two went about together most of the day under their father'scare, when he was not busy at his book, and saw all that was to be seen. 

One afternoon as they were just leaving the courtyard of the Tower, whichthey had been visiting with a special order, a slight reddish-haired man, who came suddenly out of a doorway of the White Tower, stopped a momentirresolutely, and then came towards them, bare-headed and bowing. He hadsloping shoulders and a serious-looking mouth, with a reddish beard andmoustache, and had an air of strangely mingled submissiveness andcapability. His voice too, as he spoke, was at once deferential anddecided. 

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

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

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

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

The man bowed again. 

"I left about eight years ago, sir; and by the blessing of God, havegained a little post under the Government. But I wished to tell you, sir, that I have been happily led to change my religion. I was a Papist, sir, you know. "

Mr. Norris congratulated him. 

"I thank you, sir, " said Lackington. 

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

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

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

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

"If you are leaving, Mr. Norris, would you allow me to walk with you afew steps? I have much I would like to ask you of my old master andmistress. "

The four passed out together; the two children in front; and as they wentLackington asked most eagerly after the household at the Hall, andespecially after Mr. James, for whom he seemed to have a specialaffection. 

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

"Indeed, sir, " said the servant, with a look of great interest, "I hadheard it too, sir; but did not know whether to believe it. "

Lackington also gave many messages of affection to others of thehousehold, to Piers the bailiff, and a couple of the foresters: andfinished by entreating Mr. Norris to use him as he would, telling him howanxious he was to be of service to his friends, and asking to beentrusted with any little errands or commissions in London that thecountry gentleman might wish performed. 

"I shall count it, sir, a privilege, " said the servant, "and you shallfind me prompt and discreet. "

One curious incident took place just as Lackington was taking his leaveat the turning down into Wharf Street; a man hurrying eastwards almostran against them, and seemed on the point of apologising, but his facechanged suddenly, and he spat furiously on the ground, mumblingsomething, and hurried on. Lackington seemed to see nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That was just it, " said Anthony. 

Anthony's talk about Cambridge during these first evenings in London wasfascinating to Isabel, if not to their father, too. It concerned ofcourse himself and his immediate friends, and dealt with such subjects ascock-fighting a good deal; but he spoke also of the public disputationsand the theological champions who crowed and pecked, not unlike cocksthemselves, while the theatre rang with applause and hooting. The sportwas one of the most popular at the universities at this time. But aboveall his tales of the Queen's visit a few years before attracted the girl, for was she not to see the Queen with her own eyes?

"Oh! father, " said the lad, "I would I had been there five years agowhen she came. Master Taylor told me of it. They acted the _Aulularia_, you know, in King's Chapel on the Sunday evening. Master Taylor took apart, I forget what; and he told me how she laughed and clapped. Andthen there was a great disputation before her, one day, in St. Mary'sChurch, and the doctors argued, I forget what about, but Master Taylorsays that of course the Genevans had the best of it; and the Queenspoke, too, in Latin, though she did not wish to, but my lord of Elypersuaded her to it; so you see she could not have learned it by heart, as some said. And she said she would give some great gift to theUniversity; but Master Taylor says they are still waiting for it; but itmust come soon, you see, because it is the Queen's Grace who haspromised it; but Master Taylor says he hopes she has forgotten it, buthe laughs when I ask him what he means, and says it again. "

"Who is this Master Taylor?" asked his father. 

"Oh! he is a Fellow of King's, " said Anthony, "and he told me about theProvost too. The Provost is half a Papist, they say: he is very old now, and he has buried all the vessels and the vestments of the Chapel, theysay, somewhere where no one knows; and he hopes the old religion willcome back again some day; and then he will dig them up. But that isPapistry, and no one wants that at Cambridge. And others say that he isa Papist altogether, and has a priest in his house sometimes. But I donot think he can be a Papist, because he was there when the Queen wasthere, bowing and smiling, says Master Taylor; and looking on the Queenso earnestly, as if he worshipped her, says Master Taylor, all the timethe Chancellor was talking to her before they went into the chapel forthe _Te Deum_. But they wished they had kept some of the things, likethe Provost, says Master Taylor, because they were much put to it whenher Grace came down for stuffs to cover the communion-tables and forsurplices, for Cecil said she would be displeased if all was bare andpoor. Is it true, father, " asked Anthony, breaking off, "that the Queenlikes popish things, and has a crucifix and tapers on the table in herchapel?"

"Ah! my son, " said Mr. Norris, smiling, "you must ask one who knows. Andwhat else happened?"

"Well, " said Anthony, "the best is to come. They had plays, you know, the _Dido_, and one called _Ezechias_, before the Queen. Oh! and shesent for one of the boys, they say, and--and kissed him, they say; but Ithink that cannot be true. "

"Well, my son, go on!"

"Oh! and some of them thought they would have one more play before shewent; but she had to go a long journey and left Cambridge before theycould do it, and they went after her to--to Audley End, I think, whereshe was to sleep, and a room was made ready, and when all was prepared, though her Grace was tired, she came in to see the play. Master Taylorwas not there; he said he would rather not act in that one; but he hadthe story from one who acted, but no one knew, he said, who wrote theplay. Well, when the Queen's Grace was seated, the actors came on, dressed, father, dressed"--and Anthony's eyes began to shine withamusement--"as the Catholic Bishops in the Tower. There was Bonner in hispopish vestments--some they had from St. Benet's--with a staff and histall mitre, and a lamb in his arms; and he stared at it and gnashed histeeth at it as he tramped in; and then came the others, all like bishops, all in mass-vestments or cloth cut to look like them; and then at the endcame a dog that belonged to one of them, well-trained, with the PopishHost in his mouth, made large and white, so that all could see what itwas. Well, they thought the Queen would laugh as she was a Protestant, but no one laughed; some one said something in the room, and a lady criedout; and then the Queen stood up and scolded the actors, and trouncedthem well with her tongue, she did, and said she was displeased; and thenout she went with all her ladies and gentlemen after her, except one ortwo servants who put out the lights at once without waiting, and brokeBonner's staff, and took away the Host, and kicked the dog, and told themto be off, for the Queen's Grace was angered with them; and so they hadto get back to Cambridge in the dark as well as they might. "

"Oh! the poor boys!" said Mrs. Marrett, "and they did it all to pleaseher Grace, too. "

"Yes, " said the Alderman, "but the Queen thought it enough, I dare say, to put the Bishops in prison, without allowing boys to make a mock ofthem and their faith before her. "

"Yes, " said Anthony, "I thought that was it. "

When the Alderman came in a day or two later with the news that Elizabethwas to come up from Nonsuch the next day, and to pass down Cheapside onher way to Greenwich, the excitement of Isabel and Anthony wasindescribable. 

Cheapside was joyous to see, as the two, with their father behind themtalking to a minister whose acquaintance he had made, sat at afirst-floor window soon after mid-day, waiting to see the Queen go by. Many of the people had hung carpets or tapestries, some of taffetas andcloth-of-gold, out of their balconies and windows, and the very signsthemselves, --fantastic ironwork, with here and there a grotesque beastrampant, or a bright painting, or an escutcheon;--with the gay, good-tempered crowds beneath and the strip of frosty blue sky, crossedby streamers from side to side, shining above the towering eaves andgables of the houses, all combined to make a scene so astonishing thatit seemed scarcely real to these country children. 

It was yet some time before she was expected; but there came a suddenstir from the upper end of Cheapside, and then a burst of cheering andlaughter and hoots. Anthony leaned out to see what was coming, but couldmake out nothing beyond the head of a horse, and a man driving it fromthe seat of a cart, coming slowly down the centre of the road. Thelaughter and noise grew louder as the crowds swayed this way and that tomake room. Presently it was seen that behind the cart a little space waskept, and Anthony made out the grey head of a man at the tail of thecart, and the face of another a little way behind; then at last, as thecart jolted past, the two children saw a man stripped to the waist, hishands tied before him to the cart, his back one red wound; while ahangman walked behind whirling his thonged whip about his head andbringing it down now and again on the old man's back. At each lash theprisoner shrank away, and turned his piteous face, drawn with pain, fromside to side, while the crowd yelled and laughed. 

"What's it for, what's it for?" inquired Anthony, eager and interested. 

A boy leaning from the next window answered him. 

"He said Jesus Christ was not in heaven. "

At that moment a humorist near the cart began to cry out:

"Way for the King's Grace! Way for the King's Grace!" and the crowd tookthe idea instantly: a few men walking with the cart formed lines likegentlemen ushers, uncovering their heads and all crying out the samewords; and one eager player tried to walk backwards until he was trippedup. And so the dismal pageant of this red-robed king of anguish went by;and the hoots and shouts of his heralds died away. Anthony turned toIsabel, exultant and interested. 

"Why, Isabel, " he said, "you look all white. What is it? You know he's ablasphemer. "

"I know, I know, " said Isabel. 

Then suddenly, far away, came the sound of trumpets, and gusts of distantcheering, like the sound of the wind in thick foliage. Anthony leaned outagain, and an excited murmur broke out once more, as all faces turnedwestwards. A moment more, and Anthony caught a flash of colour from thecorner near St. Paul's Churchyard; then the shrill trumpets soundednearer, and the cheering broke out at the end, and ran down the streetlike a wave of noise. From every window faces leaned out; even on theroofs and between the high chimney pots were swaying figures. 

Masses of colour now began to emerge, with the glitter of steel, roundthe bend of the street, where the winter sunshine fell; and the crowdsbegan to surge back, and against the houses. At first Anthony could makeout little but two moving rippling lines of light, coming parallel, pressing the people back; and it was not until they had come opposite thewindow that he could make out the steel caps and pikeheads of men inhalf-armour, who, marching two and two with a space between them, led theprocession and kept the crowds back. There they went, with immovabledisciplined faces, grounding their pike-butts sharply now and again, caring nothing for the yelp of pain that sometimes followed. Immediatelybehind them came the aldermen in scarlet, on black horses that tossedtheir jingling heads as they walked. Anthony watched the solemn faces ofthe old gentlemen with a good deal of awe, and presently made out hisfriend, Mr. Marrett, who rode near the end, but who was too muchengrossed in the management of his horse to notice the two children whocried out to him and waved. The serjeants-of-arms followed, and then twolines again of gentlemen-pensioners walking, bare-headed, carrying wands, in short cloaks and elaborate ruffs. But the lad saw little of them, forthe splendour of the lords and knights that followed eclipsed themaltogether. The knights came first, in steel armour with raised vizors, the horses too in armour, moving sedately with a splendid clash of steel, and twinkling fiercely in the sunshine; and then, after them (and Anthonydrew his breath swiftly) came a blaze of colour and jewels as the greatlords in their cloaks and feathered caps, metal-clasped and gemmed, cameon their splendid long-maned horses; the crowd yelled and cheered, andgreat names were tossed to and fro, as the owners passed on, each talkingto his fellow as if unconscious of the tumult and even of the presence ofthese shouting thousands. The cry of the trumpets rang out again high andshattering, as the trumpeters and heralds in rich coat-armour came next;and Anthony looked a moment, fascinated by the lions and lilies, and thebrightness of the eloquent horns, before he turned his head to see theLord Mayor himself, mounted on a great stately white horse, that neededno management, while his rider bore on a cushion the sceptre. Ah! she wascoming near now. The two saw nothing of the next rider who carried aloftthe glittering Sword of State, for their eyes were fixed on the sixplumed heads of the horses, with grooms and footmen in cassock-coats andvenetian hose, and the great gilt open carriage behind that swayed andjolted over the cobbles. She was here; she was here; and the loyal crowdsyelled and surged to and fro, and cloths and handkerchiefs flapped andwaved, and caps tossed up and down, as at last the great creakingcarriage came under the window. 

This is what they saw in it. 

A figure of extraordinary dignity, sitting upright and stiff like a paganidol, dressed in a magnificent and fantastic purple robe, with a greatdouble ruff, like a huge collar, behind her head; a long taper waist, voluminous skirts spread all over the cushions, embroidered with curiousfigures and creatures. Over her shoulders, but opened in front so as toshow the ropes of pearls and the blaze of jewels on the stomacher, was apurple velvet mantle lined with ermine, with pearls sewn into it here andthere. Set far back on her head, over a pile of reddish-yellow hair drawntightly back from the forehead, was a hat with curled brims, elaboratelyembroidered, with the jewelled outline of a little crown in front, and ahigh feather topping all. 

And her face--a long oval, pale and transparent in complexion, with asharp chin, and a high forehead; high arched eyebrows, auburn, but alittle darker than her hair; her mouth was small, rising at the corners, with thin curved lips tightly shut; and her eyes, which were clear incolour, looked incessantly about her with great liveliness andgood-humour. 

There was something overpowering to these two children who looked, tooawed to cheer, in this formidable figure in the barbaric dress, thegorgeous climax of a gorgeous pageant. Apart from the physical splendour, this solitary glittering creature represented so much--it was theincarnate genius of the laughing, brutal, wanton English nation, that sathere in the gilded carriage and smiled and glanced with tight lips andclear eyes. She was like some emblematic giant, moving in a processionalcar, as fantastic as itself, dominant and serene above the heads of themaddened crowds, on to some mysterious destiny. A sovereign, howeverpersonally inglorious, has such a dignity in some measure; and Elizabethadded to this an exceptional majesty of her own. Henry would not havebeen ashamed for this daughter of his. What wonder then that these crowdswere delirious with love and loyalty and an exultant fear, as thisoverwhelming personality went by:--this pale-faced tranquil virgin Queen, passionate, wanton, outspoken and absolutely fearless; with a sufficientreserve of will to be fickle without weakness; and sufficient grasp ofher aims to be indifferent to her policy; untouched by vital religion;financially shrewd; inordinately vain. And when this strange dominantcreature, royal by character as by birth, as strong as her father and aswanton as her mother, sat in ermine and velvet and pearls in a royalcarriage, with shrewd-faced wits, and bright-eyed lovers, and solemnstatesmen, and great nobles, vacuous and gallant, glittering and jinglingbefore her; and troops of tall ladies in ruff and crimson mantle ridingon white horses behind; and when the fanfares went shattering down thestreet, vibrating through the continuous roar of the crowd and the shrillcries of children and the mellow thunder of church-bells rockingoverhead, and the endless tramp of a thousand feet below; and when thewhole was framed in this fantastic twisted street, blazing withtapestries and arched with gables and banners, all bathed in glory by theclear frosty sunshine--it is little wonder that for a few minutes atleast this country boy felt that here at last was the incarnation of hisdreams; and that his heart should exult, with an enthusiasm he could notinterpret, for the cause of a people who could produce such a queen, andof a queen who could rule such a people; and that his imagination shouldbe fired with a sudden sense that these were causes for which thesacrifice of a life would be counted cheap, if they might thereby befurthered. 

Yet, in this very moment, by one of those mysterious suggestions thatrise from the depth of a soul, the image sprang into his mind, and poiseditself there for an instant, of the grey-haired man who had passed halfan hour ago, sobbing and shrinking at the cart's tail. 

 CHAPTER IV

 MARY CORBET

The spring that followed the visit to London passed uneventfully at GreatKeynes to all outward appearances; and yet for Isabel they weresignificant months. In spite of herself and of the word of warning fromher father, her relations with Hubert continued to draw closer. For onething, he had been the first to awaken in her the consciousness that shewas lovable in herself, and the mirror that first tells that to a soulalways has something of the glow of the discovery resting upon it. 

Then again his deference and his chivalrous air had a strange charm. WhenIsabel rode out alone with Anthony, she often had to catch the swinginggate as he rode through after opening it, and do such little things forherself; but when Hubert was with them there was nothing of that kind. 

And, once more, he appealed to her pity; and this was the most subtleelement of all. There was no doubt that Hubert's relations with his fieryold father became strained sometimes, and it was extraordinarily sweet toIsabel to be made a confidant. And yet Hubert never went beyond a certainpoint; his wooing was very skilful: and he seemed to be conscious of heruneasiness almost before she was conscious of it herself, and to relapsein a moment into frank and brotherly relations again. 

He came in one night after supper, flushed and bright-eyed, and found heralone in the hall: and broke out immediately, striding up and down as shesat and watched him. 

"I cannot bear it; there is Mr. Bailey who has been with us all Lent; heis always interfering in my affairs. And he has no charity. I know I am aCatholic and that; but when he and my father talk against theProtestants, Mistress Isabel, I cannot bear it. They were abusing theQueen to-night--at least, " he added, for he had no intention toexaggerate, "they were saying she was a true daughter of her father; andsneers of that kind. And I am an Englishman, and her subject; and I saidso; and Mr. Bailey snapped out, 'And you are also a Catholic, my son, 'and then--and then I lost my temper, and said that the Catholic religionseemed no better than any other for the good it did people; and that theRector and Mr. Norris seemed to me as good men as any one; and of courseI meant him and he knew it; and then he told me, before the servants, that I was speaking against the faith; and then I said I would soonerspeak against the faith than against good Christians; and then he flamedup scarlet, and I saw I had touched him; and then my father got scarlettoo, and my mother looked at me, and my father told me to leave the tablefor an insolent puppy; and I knocked over my chair and stamped out--andoh! Mistress Isabel, I came straight here. "

And he flung down astride of a chair with his arms on the back, anddropped his head on to them. 

It would have been difficult for Hubert, even if he had been very cleverindeed, to have made any speech which would have touched Isabel more thanthis. There was the subtle suggestion that he had defended theProtestants for her sake; and there was the open defence of her father, and defiance of the priests whom she feared and distrusted; there was awarm generosity and frankness running through it all; and lastly, therewas the sweet flattering implication that he had come to her to beunderstood and quieted and comforted. 

Then, when she tried to show her disapproval of his quick temper, and hadsucceeded in showing a poorly disguised sympathy instead, he had flungaway again, saying that she had brought him to his senses as usual, andthat he would ask the priest's pardon for his insolence at once; andIsabel was left standing and looking at the fire, fearing that she wasbeing wooed, and yet not certain, though she loved it. And then, too, there was the secret hope that it might be through her that he mightescape from his superstitions, and--and then--and she closed her eyes andbit her lip for joy and terror. 

She did not know that a few weeks later Hubert had an interview with hisfather, of which she was the occasion. Lady Maxwell had gone to herhusband after a good deal of thought and anxiety, and told him what shefeared; asking him to say a word to Hubert. Sir Nicholas had beenstartled and furious. It was all the lad's conceit, he said; he had noreal heart at all; he only flattered his vanity in making love; he had nolove for his parents or his faith, and so on. She took his old hand inher own and held it while she spoke. 

"Sweetheart, " she said, "how old were you when you used to come riding toOverfield? I forget. " And there came peace into his angry, puzzled oldeyes, and a gleam of humour. 

"Mistress, " he said, "you have not forgotten. " For he had been justeighteen, too. And he took her face in his hands delicately, and kissedher on the lips. 

"Well, well, " he said, "it is hard on the boy; but it must not go on. Send him to me. Oh! I will be easy with him. "

But the interview was not as simple as he hoped; for Hubert was irritableand shamefaced; and spoke lightly of the Religion again. 

"After all, " he burst out, "there are plenty of good men who have leftthe faith. It brings nothing but misery. "

Sir Nicholas' hands began to shake, and his fingers to clench themselves;but he remembered the lad was in love. 

"My son, " he said, "you do not know what you say. "

"I know well enough, " said Hubert, with his foot tapping sharply. "I saythat the Catholic religion is a religion of misery and death everywhere. Look at the Low Countries, sir. "

"I cannot speak of that, " said his father; and his son sneered visibly;"you and I are but laymen; but this I know, and have a right to say, thatto threaten me like that is the act of a--is not worthy of my son. Mydear boy, " he said, coming nearer, "you are angry; and, God forgive me!so am I; but I promised your mother, " and again he broke off, "and wecannot go on with this now. Come again this evening. "

Hubert stood turned away, with his head against the high oak mantelpiece;and there was silence. 

"Father, " he said at last, turning round, "I ask your pardon. "

Sir Nicholas stepped nearer, his eyes suddenly bright with tears, and hismouth twitching, and held out his hand, which Hubert took. 

"And I was a coward to speak like that--but, but--I will try, " went onthe boy. "And I promise to say nothing to her yet, at any rate. Will thatdo? And I will go away for a while. "

The father threw his arms round him. 

As the summer drew on and began to fill the gardens and meadows withwealth, the little Italian garden to the south-west of the Hall waswhere my lady spent most of the day. Here she would cause chairs to bebrought out for Mistress Margaret and herself, and a small selection ofdevotional books, an orange leather volume powdered all over withpierced hearts, filled with extracts in a clear brown ink, another bookcalled _Le Chappellet de Jésus_, while from her girdle beside herpocket-mirror there always hung an olive-coloured "Hours of the BlessedVirgin, " fastened by a long strip of leather prolonged from the binding. Here the two old sisters would sit, in the shadow of the yew hedge, taking it by turns to read and embroider, or talking a little now andthen in quiet voices, with long silences broken only by the hum ofinsects in the hot air, or the quick flight of a bird in the tall treesbehind the hedge. 

Here too Isabel often came, also bringing her embroidery; and sat andtalked and watched the wrinkled tranquil faces of the two old ladies, andenvied their peace. Hubert had gone, as he had promised his father, on along visit, and was not expected home until at least the autumn. 

"James will be here to-morrow, " said Lady Maxwell, suddenly, one hotafternoon. Isabel looked up in surprise; he had not been at home for solong; but the thought of his coming was very pleasant to her. 

"And Mary Corbet, too, " went on the old lady, "will be here to-morrow orthe day after. "

Isabel asked who this was. 

"She is one of the Queen's ladies, my dear; and a great talker. "

"She is very amusing sometimes, " said Mistress Margaret's clear littlevoice. 

"And Mr. James will be here to-morrow?" said Isabel. 

"Yes, my child. They always suit one another; and we have known Mary foryears. "

"And is Miss Corbet a Catholic?"

"Yes, my dear; her Grace seems to like them about her. "

When Isabel went up again to the Hall in the evening, a couple of dayslater, she found Mr. James sitting with his mother and aunt in the samepart of the garden. Mr. James, who rose as she came through the yewarchway, and stood waiting to greet her, was a tall, pleasant, brown-faced man. Isabel noticed as she came up his strong friendly face, that had something of Hubert's look in it, and felt an immediate sense ofrelief from her timidity at meeting this man, whose name, it was said, was beginning to be known among the poets, and about whom the still moreformidable fact was being repeated, that he was a rising man at Court andhad attracted the Queen's favour. 

As they sat down again together, she noticed, too, his strong delicatehand in its snowy ruff, for he was always perfectly dressed, as it lay onhis knee; and again thought of Hubert's browner and squarer hand. 

"We were talking, Mistress Isabel, about the play, and the new theatres. I was at the Blackfriars' only last week. Ah! and I met Buxton there, " hewent on, turning to his mother. 

"Dear Henry, " said Lady Maxwell. "He told me when I last saw him that hecould never go to London again; his religion was too expensive, he said. "

Mr. James' white teeth glimmered in a smile. 

"He told me he was going to prison next time, instead of paying the fine. It would be cheaper, he thought. "

"I hear her Grace loves the play, " said Mistress Margaret. 

"Indeed she does. I saw her at Whitehall the other day, when the childrenof the Chapel Royal were acting; she clapped and called out with delight. But Mistress Corbet can tell you more than I can--Ah! here she is. "

Isabel looked up, and saw a wonderful figure coming briskly along theterrace and down the steps that led from the house. Miss Corbet wasdressed with what she herself would have said was a milkmaid's plainness;but Isabel looked in astonishment at the elaborate ruff and wings ofmuslin and lace, the shining peacock gown, the high-piled coils of blackhair, and the twinkling buckled feet. She had a lively bright face, alittle pale, with a high forehead, and black arched brows and dancingeyes, and a little scarlet mouth that twitched humorously now and thenafter speaking. She rustled up, flicking her handkerchief, and exclaimingagainst the heat. Isabel was presented to her; she sat down on a settleMr. James drew forward for her, with the handkerchief still whisking atthe flies. 

"I am ashamed to come out like this, " she began. "Mistress Plesse wouldbreak her heart at my lace. You country ladies have far more sense. I amthe slave of my habits. What were you talking of, that you look sogravely at me?"

Mr. James told her. 

"Oh, her Grace!" said Miss Corbet. "Indeed, I think sometimes she isnever off the stage herself. Ah! and what art and passion she shows too!"

"We are all loyal subjects here, " said Mr. James; "tell us what youmean. "

"I mean what I say, " she said. "Never was there one who loved play-actingmore and to occupy the centre of the stage, too. And the throne too, ifthere be one, " she added. 

Miss Corbet talked always at her audience; she hardly ever lookeddirectly at any one, but up or down, or even shut her eyes and tilted herface forward while she talked; and all the while she kept an incessantmovement of her lips or handkerchief, or tapped her foot, or shifted herposition a little. Isabel thought she had never seen any one so restless. 

Then she went on to tell them of the Queen. She was so startlingly frankthat Lady Maxwell again and again looked up as if to interrupt; but shealways came off the thin ice in time. It was abominable gossip; but shetalked with such a genial air of loyal good humour, that it was verydifficult to find fault. Miss Corbet was plainly accustomed to act asCourt Circular, or even as lecturer and show-woman on the most popularsubject in England. 

"But her Grace surpassed herself in acting the tyrant last January; youwould have sworn her really angry. This was how it fell out. I was in theanteroom one day, waiting for her Grace, when I thought I heard her call. So I tapped; I got no clear answer, but I heard her voice within, so Ientered. And there was her Majesty, sitting a little apart in a chair byherself, with the Secretary--poor rat--white-faced at the table, writingwhat she bade him, and looking at her, quick and side-ways, like a childat a lifted rod; and there was her Grace: she had kicked her stool over, and one shoe had fallen; and she was striking the arm of her chair as shespoke, and her rings rapped as loud as a drunken watchman. And her facewas all white, and her eyes glaring"--and Mary began to glare and raiseher voice too--"and she was crying out, 'By God's Son, sir, I will havethem hanged. Tell the----' (but I dare not say what she called my LordSussex, but few would have recognised him from what she said)--'tell himthat I will have my will done. These--' (and she called the rebels a nameI dare not tell you)--'these men have risen against me these two months;and yet they are not hanged. Hang them in their own villages, that theirchildren may see what treason brings. ' All this while I was standing atthe open door, thinking she had called me; but she was as if she sawnought but the gallows and hell-fire beyond; and I spoke softly to her, asking what she wished; and she sprang up and ran at me, and struckme--yes; again and again across the face with her open hand, rings andall--and I ran out in tears. Yes, " went on Miss Corbet in a moment, dropping her voice, and pensively looking up at nothing, "yes; you wouldhave said she was really angry, so quick and natural were her movementsand so loud her voice. "

Mr. James' face wrinkled up silently in amusement; and Lady Maxwellseemed on the point of speaking; but Miss Corbet began again:

"And to see her Grace act the lover. It was a miracle. You would havesaid that our Artemis repented of her coldness; if you had not known itwas but play-acting; or let us say perhaps a rehearsal--if you had seenwhat I once saw at Nonsuch. It was on a summer evening; and we were allon the bowling green, and her Grace was within doors, not to bedisturbed. My Lord Leicester was to come, but we thought had not arrived. Then I had occasion to go to my room to get a little book I had promisedto show to Caroline; and, thinking no harm, I ran through into the court, and there stood a horse, his legs apart, all steaming and blowing. Somecourier, said I to myself, and never thought to look at the trappings;and so I ran upstairs to go to the gallery, across which lay my chamber;and I came up, and just began to push open the door, when I heard herGrace's voice beyond, and, by the mercy of God, I stopped; and dared notclose the door again nor go downstairs for fear I should be heard. Andthere were two walking within the gallery, her Grace and my lord, and mylord was all disordered with hard riding, and nearly as spent as his poorbeast below. And her Grace had her arm round his neck, for I saw themthrough the chink; and she fondled and pinched his ear, and said over andover again, 'Robin, my sweet Robin, ' and then crooned and moaned at him;and he, whenever he could fetch a breath--and oh! I promise you he didblow--murmured back, calling her his queen, which indeed she was, and hissweetheart and his moon and his star--which she was not: but 'twas all inthe play. Well, again by the favour of God, they did not see how the doorwas open and I couched behind it, for the sun was shining level throughthe west window in their eyes; but why they did not hear me as I ranupstairs and opened the door, He only knows--unless my lord was toosorely out of breath and her Grace too intent upon her play-acting. Well, I promise you, the acting was so good--he so spent and she sotender--that I nearly cried out Brava as I saw them; but that Iremembered in time 'twas meant to be a private rehearsal. But I have seenher Grace act near as passionate a part before the whole companysometimes. "

The two old ladies seemed not greatly pleased with all this talk; and asfor Isabel she sat silent and overwhelmed. Mary Corbet glanced quickly attheir faces when she had done, and turned a little in her seat. 

"Ah! look at that peacock, " she cried out, as a stately bird steppeddelicately out of the shrubbery on to the low wall a little way off, andstood balancing himself. "He is loyal too, and has come to hear news ofhis Queen. "

"He has come to see his cousin from town, " said Mr. James, looking atMiss Corbet's glowing dress, "and to learn of the London fashions. "

Mary got up and curtseyed to the astonished bird, who looked at her withhis head lowered, as he took a high step or two, and then paused again, with his burnished breast swaying a little from side to side. 

"He invites you to a dance, " went on Mr. James gravely, "a pavane. "

Miss Corbet sat down again. 

"I dare not dance a pavane, " she said, "with a real peacock. "

"Surely, " said Mr. James, with a courtier's air, "you are too pitiful forhim, and too pitiless for us. "

"I dare not, " she said again, "for he never ceases to practise. "

"In hopes, " said Mr. James, "that one day you will dance it with him. "

And then the two went off into the splendid fantastic nonsense that thewits loved to talk; that grotesque, exaggerated phrasing made fashionableby Lyly. It was like a kind of impromptu sword-exercise in an assault ofarms, where the rhythm and the flash and the graceful turns are of moreimportance than the actual thrusts received. The two old ladiesembroidered on in silence, but their eyes twinkled, and little wrinklesflickered about the corners of their lips. But poor Isabel satbewildered. It was so elaborate, so empty; she had almost said, so wickedto take the solemn gift of speech and make it dance this wild fandango;and as absurdity climbed and capered in a shower of sparks and gleams onthe shoulders of absurdity, and was itself surmounted; and the names ofheathen gods and nymphs and demi-gods and loose-living classical womenwhisked across the stage, and were tossed higher and higher, until thewhole mad erection blazed up and went out in a shower of stars and gemsof allusions and phrases, like a flight of rockets, bright andbewildering at the moment, but leaving a barren darkness and dazzled eyesbehind--the poor little Puritan country child almost cried withperplexity and annoyance. If the two talkers had looked at one anotherand burst into laughter at the end, she would have understood it to be ajoke, though, to her mind, but a poor one. But when they had ended, andMary Corbet had risen and then swept down to the ground in a great silentcurtsey, and Mr. James, the grave, sensible gentleman, had solemnly bowedwith his hand on his heart, and his heels together like a Monsieur, andthen she had rustled off in her peacock dress to the house, with hermuslin wings bulging behind her; and no one had laughed or reproved orexplained; it was almost too much, and she looked across to Lady Maxwellwith an appeal in her eyes. 

Mr. James saw it and his face relaxed. 

"You must not take us too seriously, Mistress Isabel, " he said in hiskindly way. "It is all part of the game. "

"The game?" she said piteously. 

"Yes, " said Mistress Margaret, intent on her embroidery, "the game ofplaying at kings and queens and courtiers and ruffs and high-stepping. "

Mr. James' face again broke into his silent laugh. 

"You are acid, dear aunt, " he said. 

"But----" began Isabel again. 

"But it is wrong, you think, " he interrupted, "to talk such nonsense. Well, Mistress Isabel, I am not sure you are not right. " And the dancinglight in his eyes went out. 

"No, no, no, " she cried, distressed. "I did not mean that. Only I did notunderstand. "

"I know, I know; and please God you never will. " And he looked at herwith such a tender gravity that her eyes fell. 

"Isabel is right, " went on Mistress Margaret, in her singularly sweet oldvoice; "and you know it, my nephew. It is very well as a pastime, butsome folks make it their business; and that is nothing less than foolingwith the gifts of the good God. "

"Well, aunt Margaret, " said James softly, "I shall not have much more ofit. You need not fear for me. "

Lady Maxwell looked quickly at her son for a moment, and down again. Hemade an almost imperceptible movement with his head, Mistress Margaretlooked across at him with her tender eyes beaming love and sorrow; andthere fell a little eloquent silence; while Isabel glanced shyly from oneto the other, and wondered what it was all about. 

Miss Mary Corbet stayed a few weeks, as the custom was when travellingmeant so much; but Isabel was scarcely nearer understanding her. Sheaccepted her, as simple clean souls so often have to accept riddles inthis world, as a mystery that no doubt had a significance, though shecould not recognise it. So she did not exactly dislike or distrust her, but regarded her silently out of her own candid soul, as one would say asmall fearless bird in a nest must regard the man who thrusts his strangehot face into her green pleasant world, and tries to make endearingsounds. For Isabel was very fascinating to Mary Corbet. She had scarcelyever before been thrown so close to any one so serenely pure. She wouldcome down to the Dower House again and again at all hours of the day, rustling along in her silk, and seize upon Isabel in the little upstairsparlour, or her bedroom, and question her minutely about her ways andideas; and she would look at her silently for a minute or two together;and then suddenly laugh and kiss her--Isabel's transparency was almost asgreat a riddle to her as her own obscurity to Isabel. And sometimes shewould throw herself on Isabel's bed, and lie there with her arms behindher head, to the deplorable ruin of her ruff; with her buckled feettwitching and tapping; and go on and on talking like a running stream inthe sun that runs for the sheer glitter and tinkle of it, andaccomplishes nothing. But she was more respectful to Isabel's simplicitythan at first, and avoided dangerous edges and treacherous ground in amanner that surprised herself, telling her of the pageants at Court andfair exterior of it all, and little about the poisonous conversations andjests and the corrupt souls that engaged in them. 

She was immensely interested in Isabel's religion. 

"Tell me, child, " she said one day, "I cannot understand such a religion. It is not like the Protestant religion at Court at all. All that theProtestants do there is to hear sermons--it is all so dismal and noisy. But here, with you, you have a proper soul. It seems to me that you arelike a little herb-garden, very prim and plain, but living and wholesomeand pleasant to walk in at sunset. And these Protestants that I know aremore like a paved court at noon--all hot and hard and glaring. They giveme the headache. Tell me all about it. "

Of course Isabel could not, though she tried again and again. Herdefinitions were as barren as any others. 

"I see, " said Mary Corbet one day, sitting up straight and looking atIsabel. "It is not your religion but you; your religion is as dull as allthe rest. But your soul is sweet, my dear, and the wilderness blossomswhere you set your feet. There is nothing to blush about. It's no creditto you, but to God. "

Isabel hated this sort of thing. It seemed to her as if her soul wasbeing dragged out of a cool thicket from the green shadow and theflowers, and set, stripped, in the high road. 

Another time Miss Corbet spoke yet more plainly. 

"You are a Catholic at heart, my dear; or you would be if you knew whatthe Religion was. But your father, good man, has never understood ithimself; and so you don't know it either. What you think about us, mydear, is as much like the truth as--as--I am like a saint, or you like asinner. I'll be bound now that you think us all idolaters!"

Isabel had to confess that she did think something of the sort. 

"There, now, what did I say? Why haven't either of those two old nuns atthe Hall taught you any better?"

"They--they don't talk to me about religion. "

"Ah! I see; or the Puritan father would withdraw his lamb from thewolves. But if they are wolves, my dear, you must confess that they havethe decency to wear sheep's clothing, and that the disguise isexcellent. "

And so it gradually came about that Isabel began to learn an immense dealabout what the Catholics really believed--far more than she had everlearnt in all her life before from the ladies at the Hall, who wereunwilling to teach her, and her father, who was unable. 

About half-way through Miss Corbet's visit, Anthony came home. At firsthe pronounced against her inexorably, dismissing her as nonsense, and asa fine lady--terms to him interchangeable. Then his condemnation began tofalter, then ceased; then acquittal, and at last commendation succeeded. For Miss Corbet asked his advice about the dogs, and how to get thatwonderful gloss on their coats that his had; and she asked his help, too, once or twice and praised his skill, and once asked to feel his muscle. 

And then she was so gallant in ways that appealed to him. She was not inthe least afraid of Eliza. She kissed that ferocious head in spite of theglare of that steady yellow eye; and yet all with an air of trusting toAnthony's protection. She tore her silk stocking across the instep in abramble and scratched her foot, without even drawing attention to it, asshe followed him along one of his short cuts through the copse; and itwas only by chance that he saw it. And then this gallant girl, so simpleand ignorant as she seemed out of doors, was like a splendid queenindoors, and was able to hold her own, or rather to soar above all theseelders who were so apt to look over Anthony's head on grave occasions;and they all had to listen while she talked. In fact, the first time hesaw her at the Hall in all her splendour, he could hardly realise it wasthe same girl, till she laughed up at him, and nodded, and said how muchshe had enjoyed the afternoon's stroll, and how much she would have totell when she got back to Court. In short, so incessant were her posesand so skilful her manner and tone, and so foolish this poor boy, that ina very few days, after he had pronounced her to be nonsense, Anthony wasat her feet, hopelessly fascinated by the combination of the glitter andfriendliness of this fine Court lady. To do her justice, she would havebehaved exactly the same to a statue, or even to nothing at all, as apeacock dances and postures and vibrates his plumes to a kitten; and hadno more deliberate intention of giving pain to anybody than a nightshadehas of poisoning a silly sheep. 

The sublime conceit of a boy of fifteen made him of course think that shehad detected in him a nobility that others overlooked, and so Anthonybegan a gorgeous course of day-dreaming, in which he moved as a kind ofking, worshipped and reverenced by this splendid creature, who after adisillusionment from the empty vanities of a Court life and a Queen'sfavour, found at last the lord of her heart in a simple manly youngcountryman. These dreams, however, he had the grace and modesty to keepwholly to himself. 

Mary came down one day and found the two in the garden together. 

"Come, my child, " she said, "and you too, Master Anthony, if you canspare time to escort us; and take me to the church. I want to see it. "

"The church!" said Isabel, "that is locked: we must go to the Rectory. "

"Locked!" exclaimed Mary, "and is that part of the blessed Reformation?Well, come, at any rate. "

They all went across to the village and down the green towards theRectory, whose garden adjoined the churchyard on the south side of thechurch. Anthony walked with something of an air in front of the twoladies. Isabel told her as they went about the Rector and his views. Marynodded and smiled and seemed to understand. 

"We will tap at the window, " said Anthony, "it is the quickest way. "

They came up towards the study window that looked on to the drive; whenAnthony, who was in front, suddenly recoiled and then laughed. 

"They are at it again, " he said. 

The next moment Mary was looking through the window too. The Rector wassitting in his chair opposite, a small dark, clean-shaven man, but hisface was set with a look of distressed determination, and his lower lipwas sucked in; his eyes were fixed firmly on a tall, slender woman whoseback was turned to the window and who seemed to be declaiming, withoutstretched hand. The Rector suddenly saw the faces at the window. 

"We seem to be interrupting, " said Mary coolly, as she turned away. 

 CHAPTER V

 A RIDER FROM LONDON

"We will walk on, Master Anthony, " said Mistress Corbet. "Will you bringthe keys when the Rector and his lady have done?"

She spoke with a vehement bitterness that made Isabel look at her inamazement, as the two walked on by the private path to the churchyardgate. Mary's face was set in a kind of fury, and she went forward withher chin thrust disdainfully out, biting her lip. Isabel said nothing. 

As they reached the gate they heard steps behind them; and turning sawthe minister and Anthony hastening together. Mr. Dent was in his cassockand gown and square cap, and carried the keys. His little scholarly face, with a sharp curved nose like a beak, and dark eyes set rather too closetogether, was not unlike a bird's; and a way he had of sudden sharpmovements of his head increased the likeness. Mary looked at him withscarcely veiled contempt. He glanced at her sharply and uneasily. 

"Mistress Mary Corbet?" he said, interrogatively. 

Mary bowed to him. 

"May we see the church, sir; your church, I should say perhaps; that is, if we are not disturbing you. "

Mr. Dent made a polite inclination, and opened the gate for them to gothrough. Then Mary changed her tactics; and a genial, good-humoured lookcame over her face; but Isabel, who glanced at her now and again as theywent round to the porch at the west-end, still felt uneasy. 

As the Rector was unlocking the porch door, Mary surveyed him with apleased smile. 

"Why, you look quite like a priest, " she said. "Do your bishops, orwhatever you call them, allow that dress? I thought you had done awaywith it all. "

Mr. Dent looked at her, but seeing nothing but geniality and interest inher face, explained elaborately in the porch that he was a Catholicpriest, practically; though the word minister was more commonly used; andthat it was the old Church still, only cleansed from superstitions. Maryshook her head at him cheerfully, smiling like a happy, puzzled child. 

"It is all too difficult for me, " she said. "It cannot be the sameChurch, or why should we poor Catholics be so much abused and persecuted?Besides, what of the Pope?"

Mr. Dent explained that the Pope was one of the superstitions inquestion. 

"Ah! I see you are too sharp for me, " said Mary, beaming at him. 

Then they entered the church; and Mary began immediately on a runningcomment. 

"How sad that little niche looks, " she said. "I suppose Our Lady is inpieces somewhere on a dunghill. Surely, father--I beg your pardon, Mr. Dent--it cannot be the same religion if you have knocked Our Lady topieces. But then I suppose you would say that she was a superstition, too. And where is the old altar? Is that broken, too? And is that asuperstition, too? What a number there must have been! And the holywater, too, I see. But that looks a very nice table up there you haveinstead. Ah! And I see you read the new prayers from a new desk outsidethe screen, and not from the priest's stall. Was that a superstition too?And the mass vestments? Has your wife had any of them made up to beuseful? The stoles are no good, I fear; but you could make charmingstomachers out of the chasubles. "

They were walking slowly up the centre aisle now. Mr. Dent had to explainthat the vestments had been burnt on the green. 

"Ah! yes; I see, " she said, "and do you wear a surplice, or do you notlike them? I see the chancel roof is all broken--were there angels thereonce? I suppose so. But how strange to break them all! Unless they aresuperstitions, too? I thought Protestants believed in them; but I see Iwas wrong. What _do_ you believe in, Mr. Dent?" she asked, turning large, bright, perplexed eyes upon him for a moment: but she gave him no timeto answer. 

"Ah!" she cried suddenly, and her voice rang with pain, "there is thealtar-stone. " And she went down on her knees at the chancel entrance, bending down, it seemed, in an agony of devout sorrow and shame; andkissed with a gentle, lingering reverence the great slab with its fivecrosses, set in the ground at the destruction of the altar to show therewas no sanctity attached to it. 

She knelt there a moment or two, her lips moving, and her black eyes castup at the great east window, cracked and flawed with stones and poles. The Puritan boy and girl looked at her with astonishment; they had notseen this side of her before. 

When she rose from her knees, her eyes seemed bright with tears, and hervoice was tender. 

"Forgive me, Mr. Dent, " she said, with a kind of pathetic dignity, putting out a slender be-ringed hand to him, "but--but you know--for Ithink perhaps you have some sympathy for us poor Catholics--you know whatall this means to me. "

She went up into the chancel and looked about her in silence. 

"This was the piscina, Mistress Corbet, " said the Rector. 

She nodded her head regretfully, as at some relic of a dead friend; butsaid nothing. They came out again presently, and turned through the oldiron gates into what had been the Maxwell chapel. The centre was occupiedby an altar-tomb with Sir Nicholas' parents lying in black stone upon it. Old Sir James held his right gauntlet in his left hand, and with hisright hand held the right hand of his wife, which was crossed over tomeet it; and the two steady faces gazed upon the disfigured roof. Thealtar, where a weekly requiem had been said for them, was gone, and thefootpace and piscina alone showed where it had stood. 

"This was a chantry, of course?" said Mistress Corbet. 

The Rector confessed that it had been so. 

"Ah!" she said mournfully, "the altar is cast out and the priest gone;but--but--forgive me, sir, the money is here still? But then, " she added, "I suppose the money is not a superstition. "

When they reached the west entrance again she turned and looked up theaisle again. 

"And the Rood!" she said. "Even Christ crucified is gone. Then, in God'sname what is left?" And her eyes turned fiercely for a moment on theRector. 

"At least courtesy and Christian kindness is left, madam, " he saidsternly. 

She dropped her eyes and went out; and Isabel and Anthony followed, startled and ashamed. But Mary had recovered herself as she came on tothe head of the stone stairs, beside which the stump of the churchyardcross stood; standing there was the same tall, slender woman whose backthey had seen through the window, and who now stood eyeing Mary withhalf-dropped lids. Her face was very white, with hard lines from nose tomouth, and thin, tightly compressed lips. Mary swept her with one look, and then passed on and down the steps, followed by Isabel and Anthony, asthe Rector came out, locking the church door again behind him. 

As they went up the green, a shrill thin voice began to scold from overthe churchyard wall, and they heard the lower, determined voice of theminister answering. 

"They are at it again, " said Anthony, once more. 

"And what do you mean by that, Master Anthony?" said Mistress Corbet, whoseemed herself again now. 

"She is just a scold, " said the lad, "the village-folk hate her. "

"You seem not to love her, " said Mary, smiling. 

"Oh! Mistress Corbet, do you know what she said--" and then he broke off, crimson-faced. 

"She is no friend to Catholics, I suppose, " said Mary, seeming to noticenothing. 

"She is always making mischief, " he went on eagerly. "The Rector would bewell enough but for her. He is a good fellow, really. "

"There, there, " said Mary, "and you think me a scold, too, I daresay. Well, you know I cannot bear to see these old churches--well, perhaps Iwas--" and then she broke off again, and was silent. 

The brother and sister presently turned back to the Dower House; and Marywent on, and through the Hall straight into the Italian garden whereMistress Margaret was sitting alone at her embroidery. 

"My sister has been called away by the housekeeper, " she explained, "butshe will be back presently. "

Mary sat down and took up the little tawny book that lay by LadyMaxwell's chair, and began to turn it over idly while she talked. The oldlady by her seemed to invite confidences. 

"I have been to see the church, " said Mary. "The Rector showed it to me. What a beautiful place it must have been. "

"Ah!" said Mistress Margaret "I only came to live here a few years ago;so I have never known or loved it like my sister or her husband. They canhardly bear to enter it now. You know that Sir Nicholas' father andgrandfather are buried in the Maxwell chapel; and it was his father whogave the furniture of the sanctuary, and the images of Our Lady and SaintChristopher that they burned on the green. "

"It is terrible, " said Mary, a little absently, as she turned the pagesof the book. 

Mistress Margaret looked up. 

"Ah! you have one of my books there, " she said. "It is a littlecollection I made. "

Miss Corbet turned to the beginning, but only found a seal with aninscription. 

"But this belonged to a nunnery, " she said. 

"Yes, " said Mistress Margaret, tranquilly, "and I am a nun. "

Mary looked at her in astonishment. 

"But, but, " she began. 

"Yes, Mistress Corbet; we were dispersed in '38; some entered the othernunneries; and some went to France; but, at last, under circumstancesthat I need not trouble you with, I came here under spiritual direction, and have observed my obligations ever since. "

"And have you always said your offices?" Mary asked astonished. 

"Yes, my dear; by the mercy of God I have never failed yet. I tell youthis of course because you are one of us, and because you have a faithfulheart. " Mistress Margaret lifted her great eyes and looked at Marytenderly and penetratingly. 

"And this is one of your books?" she asked. 

"Yes, my dear. I was allowed at least to take it away with me. My sisterhere is very fond of it. "

Mary opened it again, and began to turn the pages. 

"Is it all in your handwriting, Mistress Torridon?"

"Yes, my child; I continued writing in it ever since I first enteredreligion in 1534; so you see the handwriting changes a little, " and shesmiled to herself. 

"Oh, but this is charming, " cried Mary, intent on the book. 

"Read it, my dear, aloud. "

Mary read:

 "Let me not rest, O Lord, nor have quiet, But fill my soul with spiritual travail, To sing and say, O mercy, Jesu sweet; Thou my protection art in the battail. Set thou aside all other apparail; Let me in thee feel all my affiance. Treasure of treasures, thou dost most avail. Grant ere I die shrift, pardon, repentance. "

Her voice trembled a little and ceased. 

"That is from some verses of Dan John Lydgate, I think, " said MistressMargaret. 

"Here is another, " said Mary in a moment or two. 

 "Jesu, at thy will, I pray that I may be, All my heart fulfil with perfect love to thee: That I have done ill, Jesu forgive thou me: And suffer me never to spill, Jesu for thy pity. "

"The nuns of Hampole gave me that, " said Mistress Margaret. "It is byRichard Rolle, the hermit. "

"Tell me a little, " said Mary Corbet, suddenly laying down the book, "about the nunnery. "

"Oh, my dear, that is too much to ask; but how happy we were. All was sostill; it used to seem sometimes as if earth were just a dream; and thatwe walked in Paradise. Sometimes in the Greater Silence, when we hadspoken no word nor heard one except in God's praise, it used to seem thatif we could but be silent a little longer, and a little more deeply, inour hearts as well, we should hear them talking in heaven, and the harps;and the Saviour's soft footsteps. But it was not always like that. "

"You mean, " said Mary softly, "that, that--" and she stopped. 

"Oh, it was hard sometimes; but not often. God is so good. But He usedto allow such trouble and darkness and noise to be in our heartssometimes--at least in mine. But then of course I was always very wicked. But sitting in the nymph-hay sometimes on a day like this, as we wereallowed to do; with just tall thin trees like poplars and cypresses roundus: and the stream running through the long grass; and the birds, and thesoft sky and the little breeze; and then peace in our hearts; and thelove of the Saviour round us--it seemed, it seemed as if God had nothingmore to give; or, I should say, as if our hearts had no more space. "

Mary was strangely subdued and quiet. Her little restless movements werestill for once; and her quick, vivacious face was tranquil and a littleawed. 

"Oh, Mistress Margaret, I love to hear you talk like that. Tell me more. "

"Well, my dear, we thought too much about ourselves, I think; and toolittle about God and His poor children who were not so happy as we were;so then the troubles began; and they got nearer and nearer; and at lastthe Visitor came. He--he was my brother, my dear, which made it harder;but he made a good end. I will tell you his story another time. He tookaway our great crucifix and our jewelled cope that old Mr. Wickham usedto wear on the Great Festivals; and left us. He turned me out, too; andanother who asked to go, but I went back for a while. And then, my dear, although we offered everything; our cows and our orchard and our hens, and all we had, you know how it ended; and one morning in May old Mr. Wickham said mass for us quite early, before the sun was risen, for thelast time; and, --and he cried, my dear, at the elevation; and--and wewere all crying too I think, and we all received communion together forthe last time--and, --and, then we all went away, leaving just old DameAgnes to keep the house until the Commissioner came. And oh, my dear, Idon't think the house ever looked so dear as it did that morning, just asthe sun rose over the roofs, and we were passing out through the meadowdoor where we had sat so often, to where the horses were waiting to takeus away. "

Miss Corbet's own eyes were full of tears as the old lady finished: andshe put out her white slender hand, which Mistress Torridon took andstroked for a moment. 

"Well, " she said, "I haven't talked like this for a long while; but Iknew you would understand. My dear, I have watched you while you havebeen here this time. "

Mary Corbet smiled a little uneasily. 

"And you have found me out?" she answered smiling. 

"No, no; but I think our Saviour has found you out--or at least He isdrawing very near. "

A slight discomfort made itself felt in Mary's heart. This nun then waslike all the rest, always trying to turn the whole world into monks andnuns by hints and pretended intuitions into the unseen. 

"And you think I should be a nun too?" she asked, with just a shade ofcoolness in her tone. 

"I should suppose not, " said Mistress Margaret, tranquilly. "You do notseem to have a vocation for that, but I should think that our Lord meansyou to serve Him where you are. Who knows what you may not accomplish?"

This was a little disconcerting to Mary Corbet; it was not at all whatshe had expected. She did not know what to say; and took up the leatherbook again and began to turn over the pages. Mistress Margaret went onserenely with her embroidery, which she had neglected during the lastsentence or two; and there was silence. 

"Tell me a little more about the nunnery, " said Mary in a minute or two, leaning back in her chair, with the book on her knees. 

"Well, my dear, I scarcely know what to say. It is all far off now like achildhood. We talked very little; not at all until recreation; except bysigns, and we used to spend a good deal of our time in embroidery. Thatis where I learnt this, " and she held out her work to Mary for a moment. It was an exquisite piece of needlework, representing a stag runningopen-mouthed through thickets of green twining branches that wrappedthemselves about his horns and feet. Mary had never seen anything quitelike it before. 

"What does it mean?" she asked, looking at it curiously. 

"_Quemadmodum cervus_, "--began Mistress Margaret; "as the hart brayethafter the waterbrooks, "--and she took the embroidery and began to go onwith it. --"It is the soul, you see, desiring and fleeing to God, whilethe things of the world hold her back. Well, you see, it is difficult totalk about it; for it is the inner life that is the real history of aconvent; the outer things are all plain and simple like all else. "

"Well, " said Mary, "is it really true that you were happy?"

The old lady stopped working a moment and looked up at her. 

"My dear, there is no happiness in the world like it, " she said simply. "I dream sometimes that we are all back there together, and I wake cryingfor joy. The other night I dreamed that we were all in the chapel again, and that it was a spring morning, with the dawn beginning to show thepainted windows, and that all the tapers were burning; and that mass wasbeginning. Not one stall was empty; not even old Dame Gertrude, who diedwhen I was a novice, was lacking, and Mr. Wickham made us a sermon afterthe creed, and showed us the crucifix back in its place again; and toldus that we were all good children, and that Our Lord had only sent usaway to see if we would be patient; and that He was now pleased with us, and had let us come home again; and that we should never have to go awayagain; not even when we died; and then I understood that we were inheaven, and that it was all over; and I burst out into tears in my stallfor happiness; and then I awoke and found myself in bed; but my cheekswere really wet. --Well, well, perhaps, by the mercy of God it may allcome true some day. "

She spoke so simply that Mary Corbet was amazed; she had always fanciedthat the Religious Life was a bitter struggle, worth, indeed, living forthose who could bear it, for the sake of the eternal reward; but it hadscarcely even occurred to her that it was so full of joy in itself; andshe looked up under her brows at the old lady, whose needle had stoppedfor a moment. 

A moment after and Lady Maxwell appeared coming down the steps into thegarden; and at her side Anthony, who was dressed ready for riding. 

Old Mistress Margaret had, as she said, been watching Mary Corbet thoselast few weeks; and had determined to speak to her plainly. Her instincthad told her that beneath this flippancy and glitter there was somethingthat would respond; and she was anxious to leave nothing undone by whichMary might be awakened to the inner world that was in such danger ofextinction in her soul. It cost the old lady a great effort to breakthrough her ordinary reserve, but she judged that Mary could only bereached on her human side, and that there were not many of her friendswhose human sympathy would draw her in the right direction. It isstrange, sometimes, to find that some silent old lady has a power forsounding human character, which far shrewder persons lack; and this quietold nun, so ignorant, one would have said, of the world and of themotives from which ordinary people act, had managed somehow to touchsprings in this girl's heart that had never been reached before. 

And now as Miss Corbet and Lady Maxwell talked, and Anthony lolledembarrassed beside them, attempting now and then to join in theconversation, Mistress Margaret, as she sat a little apart and workedaway at the panting stag dreamed away, smiling quietly to herself, of allthe old scenes that her own conversation had called up into clearerconsciousness; of the pleasant little meadow of the Sussex priory, withthe old apple-trees and the straight box-lined path called the nun's walkfrom time immemorial; all lighted with the pleasant afternoon glow, as itstreamed from the west, throwing the slender poplar shadows across thegrass; and of the quiet chatter of the brook as it over-flowed from thefish ponds at the end of the field and ran through the meadows beyond thehedge. The cooing of the pigeons as they sunned themselves round the dialin the centre of this Italian garden and on the roof of the hall helpedon her reminiscences, for there had been a dovecote at the priory. Wherewere all her sisters now, those who had sat with her in the same sombrehabits in the garth, with the same sunshine in their hearts? Some sheknew, and thanked God for it, were safe in glory; others were old likeher, but still safe in Holy Religion in France where as yet there waspeace and sanctuary for the servants of the Most High; one or two--andfor these she lifted up her heart in petition as she sat--one or two hadgone back to the world, relinquished everything, and died to grace. Thenthe old faces one by one passed before her; old Dame Agnes with hermumbling lips and her rosy cheeks like wrinkled apples, looking so freshand wholesome in the white linen about her face; and then the others oneby one--that white-faced, large-eyed sister who had shown such passionatedevotion at first that they all thought that God was going to raise up asaint amongst them--ah! God help her--she had sunk back at thedissolution, from those heights of sanctity towards whose summits she hadset her face, down into the muddy torrent of the world that went roaringdown to the abyss--and who was responsible? There was Dame Avice, theSacristan, with her businesslike movements going about the garden, gathering flowers for the altar, with her queer pursed lips as shearranged them in her hands with her head a little on one side; howannoying she used to be sometimes; but how good and tender at heart--Godrest her soul! And there was Mr. Wickham, the old priest who had beentheir chaplain for so many years, and who lived in the village parsonage, waited upon by Tom Downe, that served at the altar too--he who had gotthe horses ready when the nuns had to go at last on that far-off Maymorning, and had stood there, holding the bridles and trying to hide hiswet face behind the horses; where was Tom now? And Mr. Wickham too--hehad gone to France with some of the nuns; but he had never settled downthere--he couldn't bear the French ways--and besides he had left hisheart behind him buried in the little Sussex priory among the meadows. 

And so the old lady sat, musing; while the light and shadow ofreminiscence moved across her face; and her lips quivered or her eyeswrinkled up with humour, at the thought of all those old folks with theirfaces and their movements and their ways of doing and speaking. Ah! well, please God, some day her dream would really come true; and they shall allbe gathered again from France and England with their broken hearts mendedand their tears wiped away, and Mr. Wickham himself shall minister tothem and make them sermons, and Tom Downe too shall be there to ministerto him--all in one of the many mansions of which the Saviour spoke. 

And so she heard nothing of the talk of the others; though her sisterlooked at her tenderly once or twice; and Mary Corbet chattered andtwitched her buckles in the sun, and Anthony sat embarrassed in the midstof Paradise; and she knew nothing of where she was nor of what washappening round her, until Mary Corbet said that it was time for thehorses to be round, and that she must go and get ready and not keep Mr. James and Mr. Anthony waiting. Then, as she and Anthony went towards thehouse, the old lady looked up from the braying stag and found herselfalone with her sister. 

Mistress Margaret waited until the other two disappeared up the steps, and then spoke. 

"I have told her all, sister, " she said, "she can be trusted. "

Lady Maxwell nodded gently. 

"She has a good heart, " went on the other, "and our Lord no doubt willfind some work for her to do at Court. "

There was silence again; broken by the gentle little sound of the silkbeing drawn through the stuff. 

"You know best, Margaret, " said Lady Maxwell. 

Even as she spoke there was the sound of a door thrown violently open andold Sir Nicholas appeared on the top of the steps, hatless and plainly ina state of great agitation; beside him stood a courier, covered with thedust of the white roads, and his face crimson with hard riding. SirNicholas stood there as if dazed, and Lady Maxwell sprang up quickly togo to him. But a moment after there appeared behind him a little group, his son James, Miss Corbet and a servant or two; while Anthony hung back;and Mr. James came up quickly, and took his father by the arm; andtogether the little company came down the steps into the still and sunnygarden. 

"What is it?" cried Lady Maxwell, trying to keep her voice under control;while Mistress Margaret laid her work quietly down, and stood up too. 

"Tell my lady, " said Sir Nicholas to the courier, who stood a littleapart. 

"If you please, my lady, " he said, as if repeating a lesson, "a Bull ofthe Holy Father has been found nailed to the door of the Bishop ofLondon's palace, deposing Elizabeth and releasing all her subjects fromtheir allegiance. "

Lady Maxwell went to her husband and took him by the arm gently. 

"What does it mean, sweetheart?" she asked. 

"It means that Catholics must choose between their sovereign and theirGod. "

"God have mercy, " said a servant behind. 

 CHAPTER VI

 MR. STEWART

Sir Nicholas' exclamatory sentence was no exaggeration. That terriblechoice of which he spoke, with his old eyes shining with the desire tomake it, did not indeed come so immediately as he anticipated; but itcame none the less. From every point of view the Bull was unfortunate, though it may have been a necessity; for it marked the declaration of warbetween England and the Catholic Church. A gentle appeal had been triedbefore; Elizabeth, who, it must be remembered had been crowned duringmass with Catholic ceremonial, and had received the Blessed Sacrament, had been entreated by the Pope as his "dear daughter in Christ" to returnto the Fold; and now there seemed to him no possibility left but thisultimatum. 

It is indeed difficult to see what else, from his point of view, he couldhave done. To continue to pretend that Elizabeth was his "dear daughter"would have discredited his fatherly authority in the eyes of the wholeChristian world. He had patiently made an advance towards his waywardchild; and she had repudiated and scorned him. Nothing was left but torecognise and treat her as an enemy of the Faith, an usurper of spiritualprerogatives, and an apostate spoiler of churches; to do this mightcertainly bring trouble upon others of his less distinguished but moreobedient children, who were in her power; but to pretend that thesuffering thus brought down upon Catholics was unnecessary, and that thePope alone was responsible for their persecution, is to be blind to thefact that Elizabeth had already openly defied and repudiated hisauthority, and had begun to do her utmost to coax and compel his childrento be disobedient to their father. 

The shock of the Bull to Elizabeth was considerable; she had not expectedthis extreme measure; and it was commonly reported too that France andSpain were likely now to unite on a religious basis against England; andthat at least one of these Powers had sanctioned the issue of the Bull. This of course helped greatly to complicate further the alreadycomplicated political position. Steps were taken immediately tostrengthen England's position against Scotland with whom it was now, morethan ever, to be feared that France would co-operate; and the ChannelFleet was reinforced under Lord Clinton, and placed with respect toFrance in what was almost a state of war, while it was already in aninformal state of war with Spain. There was fierce confusion in the PrivyCouncil. Elizabeth, who at once began to vacillate under the combinedthreats of La Mothe, the French ambassador, and the arguments of thefriend of Catholics, Lord Arundel, was counter-threatened with ruin byLord Keeper Bacon unless she would throw in her lot finally with theProtestants and continue her hostility and resistance to the CatholicScotch party. But in spite of Bacon Elizabeth's heart failed her, and ifit had not been for the rashness of Mary Stuart's friends, LordSouthampton and the Bishop of Ross, the Queen might have been induced tosubstitute conciliation for severity towards Mary and the Catholic partygenerally. Southampton was arrested, and again there followed the furtherencouragement of the Protestant camp by the rising fortunes of theHuguenots and the temporary reverses to French Catholicism; so thependulum swung this way and that. Elizabeth's policy changed almost fromday to day. She was tormented with temporal fears of a continentalcrusade against her, and by the spiritual terrors of the Pope's Bull; andher unfathomable fickleness was the despair of her servants. 

Meanwhile in the religious world a furious paper war broke out; andvolleys from both sides followed the solemn roar and crash of _Regnansin Excelsis_. 

But while the war of words went on, and the theological assaults andcharges were given and received, repulsed or avoided, something practicalmust, it was felt, be done immediately; and search was made high and lowfor other copies of the Bull. The lawyers in the previous year had fallenunder suspicion of religious unsoundness; judges could not be trusted toconvict Catholics accused of their religion; and counsel was unwilling toprosecute them; therefore the first inquisition was made in the Inns ofCourt; and almost immediately a copy of the Bull was found in the room ofa student in Lincoln's Inn, who upon the rack in the Tower confessed thathe had received it from one John Felton, a Catholic gentleman who livedupon his property in Southwark. Upon Felton's arrest (for he had notattempted to escape) he confessed immediately, without pressure, that hehad affixed the Bull to the Bishop of London's gate; but although he wasracked repeatedly he would not incriminate a single person besideshimself; but at his trial would only assert with a joyous confidence thathe was not alone; and that twenty-five peers, six hundred gentlemen, andthirty thousand commoners were ready to die in the Holy Father's quarrel. He behaved with astonishing gallantry throughout, and after hiscondemnation had been pronounced upon the fourth of August at theGuildhall, on the charge of high-treason, he sent a diamond ring from hisown finger, of the value of £400, to the Queen to show that he bore herno personal ill-will. He had been always a steadfast Catholic; his wifehad been maid of honour to Mary and a friend of Elizabeth's. On Augustthe eighth he suffered the abominable punishment prescribed; he was drawnon a hurdle to the gate of the Bishop's palace in S. Paul's Churchyard, where he had affixed the Bull, hanged upon a new gallows, cut down beforehe was unconscious, disembowelled and quartered. His name has since beenplaced on the roll of the Blessed by the Apostolic See in whose quarrelhe so cheerfully laid down his life. 

News of these and such events continued of course to be eagerly soughtafter by the Papists all over the kingdom; and the Maxwells down at GreatKeynes kept in as close touch with the heart of affairs as almost anyprivate persons in the kingdom out of town. Sir Nicholas was one of thosefiery natures to whom opposition or pressure is as oil to flame. He beganat once to organise his forces and prepare for the struggle that wasbound to come. He established first a kind of private post to London andto other Catholic houses round; for purposes however of defence ratherthan offence, so that if any steps were threatened, he and his friendsmight be aware of the danger in time. There was great sorrow at the newsof John Felton's death; and mass was said for his soul almost immediatelyin the little oratory at Maxwell Court by one of the concealed priestswho went chiefly between Hampshire and Sussex ministering to theCatholics of those districts. Mistress Margaret spent longer than ever ather prayers; Lady Maxwell had all she could do to keep her husband fromsome furious act of fanatical retaliation for John Felton's death--someuseless provocation of the authorities; the children at the Dower Housebegan to come to the Hall less often, not because they were lesswelcomed, but because there was a constraint in the air. All seemedpreoccupied; conversations ceased abruptly on their entrance, and fits ofabstraction would fall from time to time upon their kindly hosts. In themeanwhile, too, the preparations for James Maxwell's departure, which hadalready begun to show themselves, were now pushed forward rapidly; andone morning in the late summer, when Isabel came up to the Hall, shefound that Lady Maxwell was confined to her room and could not be seenthat day; she caught a glimpse of Sir Nicholas' face as he quicklycrossed the entrance hall, that made her draw back from daring to intrudeon such grief; and on inquiry found that Mr. James had ridden away thatmorning, and that the servants did not know when to expect him back, norwhat was his destination. 

In other ways also at this time did Sir Nicholas actively help on hisparty. Great Keynes was in a convenient position and circumstances foragents who came across from the Continent. It was sufficiently nearLondon, yet not so near to the highroad or to London itself as to makedisturbance probable; and its very quietness under the spiritual care ofa moderate minister like Mr. Dent, and its serenity, owing to the secretsympathy of many of the villagers and neighbours, as well as from thepersonal friendship between Sir Nicholas and the master of the DowerHouse--an undoubted Protestant--all these circumstances combined to makeMaxwell Hall a favourite halting-place for priests and agents from theContinent. Strangers on horseback or in carriages, and sometimes even onfoot, would arrive there after nightfall, and leave in a day or two forLondon. Its nearness to London enabled them to enter the city at any hourthey thought best after ten or eleven in the forenoon. They came on veryvarious businesses; some priests even stayed there and made the Hall acentre for their spiritual ministrations for miles round; others camewith despatches from abroad, some of which were even addressed to greatpersonages at Court and at the Embassies where much was being done by theAmbassadors at this time to aid their comrades in the Faith, and to otherleading Catholics; and others again came with pamphlets printed abroadfor distribution in England, some of them indeed seditious, but many ofthem purely controversial and hortatory, and with other devotionalarticles and books such as it was difficult to obtain in England, andmight not be exposed for public sale in booksellers' shops: Agnus Deis, beads, hallowed incense and crosses were being sent in large numbers fromabroad, and were eagerly sought after by the Papists in all directions. It was remarkable that while threatening clouds appeared to be gatheringon all sides over the Catholic cause, yet the deepening peril wasaccompanied by a great outburst of religious zeal. It was reported to theArchbishop that "massing" was greatly on the increase in Kent; and wasattributed, singularly enough, to the Northern Rebellion, which had endedin disaster for the Papists; but the very fact that such a movement couldtake place at all probably heartened many secret sympathisers, who hadhitherto considered themselves almost alone in a heretic population. 

Sir Nicholas came in one day to dinner in a state of great fury. One ofhis couriers had just arrived with news from London; and the old man camein fuming and resentful. 

"What hypocrisy!" he cried out to Lady Maxwell and Mistress Margaret, whowere seated at table. "Not content with persecuting Catholics, they willnot even allow us to say we are persecuted for the faith. Here is theLord Keeper declaring in the Star Chamber that no man is to be persecutedfor his private faith, but only for his public acts, and that the Queen'sGrace desires nothing so little as to meddle with any man's conscience. Then I suppose they would say that hearing mass was a public act andtherefore unlawful; but then how if a man's private faith bids him tohear mass? Is not that meddling with his private conscience to forbid himto go to mass? What folly is this? And yet my Lord Keeper and her Graceare no fools! Then are they worse than fools?"

Lady Maxwell tried to quiet the old man, for the servants were not out ofthe room; and it was terribly rash to speak like that before them; but hewould not be still nor sit down, but raged up and down before the hearth, growling and breaking out now and again. What especially he could not getoff his mind was that this was the Old Religion that was prescribed. ThatEngland for generations had held the Faith, and that then the Faith andall that it involved had been declared unlawful, was to him iniquityunfathomable. He could well understand some new upstart sect beingpersecuted, but not the old Religion. He kept on returning to this. 

"Have they so far forgotten the Old Faith as to think it can be held in aman's private conscience without appearing in his life, like theirmiserable damnable new fangled Justification by faith without works? Orthat a man can believe in the blessed sacrament of the altar and yet notdesire to receive it; or in penance and yet not be absolved; or in Peterand yet not say so, nor be reconciled. You may believe, say they, oftheir clemency, what you like; be justified by that; that is enough!Bah!"

However mere declaiming against the Government was barren work, and SirNicholas soon saw that; and instead, threw himself with more vigour thanever into entertaining and forwarding the foreign emissaries. 

Mary Corbet had returned to London by the middle of July; and Hubert wasnot yet returned; so Sir Nicholas and the two ladies had the Hall tothemselves. Now it must be confessed that the old man had neither thenature nor the training for the _rôle_ of a conspirator, even of themildest description. He was so exceedingly impulsive, unsuspicious andpassionate that it would have been the height of folly to entrust himwith any weighty secret, if it was possible to dispense with him; but theCatholics over the water needed stationary agents so grievously; and SirNicholas' name commanded such respect, and his house such conveniences, that they overlooked the risk involved in making him their confidant, again and again; besides it need not be said that his honour and fidelitywas beyond reproach; and those qualities after all balance favourablyagainst a good deal of shrewdness and discretion. He, of course, wasserenely unable to distinguish between sedition and religion; andentertained political meddlers and ordinary priests with an equalenthusiasm. It was pathetic to Lady Maxwell to see her simple old husbandshuffling away his papers, and puzzling over cyphers and perpetuallyleaving the key of them lying about, and betraying again and again whenhe least intended it, by his mysterious becks and nods and glances andoracular sayings, that some scheme was afoot. She could have helped himconsiderably if he had allowed her; but he had an idea that thecapacities of ladies in general went no further than their harps, theirembroidery and their devotions; and besides, he was chivalrouslyunwilling that his wife should be in any way privy to business thatinvolved such risks as this. 

One sunny morning in August he came into her room early just as she wasfinishing her prayers, and announced the arrival of an emissary fromabroad. 

"Sweetheart, " he said, "will you prepare the east chamber for a young manwhom we will call Mr. Stewart, if you please, who will arrive to-night. He hopes to be with us until after dusk to-morrow when he will leave; andI shall be obliged if you will---- No, no, my dear. I will order thehorses myself. "

The old man then bustled off to the stableyard and ordered a saddle-horseto be taken at once to Cuckfield, accompanied by a groom on anotherhorse. These were to arrive at the inn and await orders from a stranger"whom you will call Mr. Stewart, if you please. " Mr. Stewart was tochange horses there, and ride on to Maxwell Hall, and Sir Nicholasfurther ordered the same two horses and the same groom to be ready thefollowing evening at about nine o'clock, and to be at "Mr. Stewart's"orders again as before. 

This behaviour of Sir Nicholas' was of course most culpably indiscreet. Achild could not but have suspected something, and the grooms, who were ofcourse Catholics, winked merrily at one another when the conspirator'sback was turned, and he had hastened in a transport of zeal andpreoccupation back again to the house to interrupt his wife in herpreparations for the guest. 

That evening "Mr. Stewart" arrived according to arrangements. He was aslim red-haired man, not above thirty years of age, the kind of man hisenemies would call foxy, with a very courteous and deliberate manner, andhe spoke with a slight Scotch accent. He had the air of doing everythingon purpose. He let his riding-whip fall as he greeted Lady Maxwell in theentrance hall; but picked it up with such a dignified grace that youwould have sworn he had let it fall for some wise reason of his own. Hehad a couple of saddle-bags with him, which he did not let out of hissight for a moment; even keeping his eye upon them as he met the ladiesand saluted them. They were carried up to the east chamber directly, their owner following; where supper had been prepared. There was no realreason, since he arrived with such publicity, why he should not havesupped downstairs, but Sir Nicholas had been peremptory. It was by hisdirections also that the arrival had been accomplished in the manner ithad. 

After he had supped, Sir Nicholas receiving the dishes from the servants'hands at the door of the room with the same air of secrecy and despatch, his host suggested that he should come to Lady Maxwell's drawing-room, asthe ladies were anxious to see him. Mr. Stewart asked leave to bring alittle valise with him that had travelled in one of the bags, and thenfollowed his host who preceded him with a shaded light along the gallery. 

When he entered he bowed again profoundly, with a slightly French air, tothe ladies and to the image over the fire; and then seated himself, andasked leave to open his valise. He did so with their permission, anddisplayed to them the numerous devotional articles and books that itcontained. The ladies and Sir Nicholas were delighted, and set aside atonce some new books of devotion, and then they fell to talk. TheNetherlands, from which Mr. Stewart had arrived two days before, on theeast coast, were full at this time of Catholic refugees, under the Dukeof Alva's protection. Here they had been living, some of them even fromElizabeth's accession, and Sir Nicholas and his ladies had many inquiriesto make about their acquaintances, many of which Mr. Stewart was able tosatisfy, for, from his conversation he was plainly one in the confidenceof Catholics both at home and abroad. And so the evening passed awayquietly. It was thought better by Sir Nicholas that Mr. Stewart shouldnot be present at the evening devotions that he always conducted for thehousehold in the dining-hall, unless indeed a priest were present to takehis place; so Mr. Stewart was again conducted with the same secrecy tothe East Chamber; and Sir Nicholas promised at his request to look in onhim again after prayers. When prayers were over, Sir Nicholas went up tohis guest's room, and found him awaiting him in a state of evidentexcitement, very unlike the quiet vivacity and good humour he had shownwhen with the ladies. 

"Sir Nicholas, " he said, standing up, as his host came in, "I have nottold you all my news. " And when they were both seated he proceeded:

"You spoke a few minutes ago, Sir Nicholas, of Dr. Storey; he has beencaught. "

The old man exclaimed with dismay. Mr. Stewart went on:

"When I left Antwerp, Sir Nicholas, Dr. Storey was in the town. I saw himmyself in the street by the Cathedral only a few hours before I embarked. He is very old, you know, and lame, worn out with good works, and he washobbling down the street on the arm of a young man. When I arrived atYarmouth I went out into the streets about a little business I had with abookseller, before taking horse. I heard a great commotion down near thedocks, at the entrance of Bridge Street; and hastened down there; andthere I saw pursuivants and seamen and officers all gathered about acarriage, and keeping back the crowd that was pressing and crying out toknow who the man was; and presently the carriage drove by me, scatteringthe crowd, and I could see within; and there sat old Dr. Storey, verywhite and ill-looking, but steady and cheerful, whom I had seen the veryday before in Antwerp. Now this is very grievous for Dr. Storey; and Ipray God to deliver him; but surely the Duke and the King of Spain mustmove now. They cannot leave him in Cecil's hands; and then, Sir Nicholas, we must all be ready, for who knows what may happen. "

Sir Nicholas was greatly moved. There was one of the perplexities whichso much harassed all the Papists at this time. It seemed certain that Mr. Stewart's prediction must be fulfilled. Dr. Storey was a naturalisedsubject of King Philip and in the employment of Alva, and he had beencarried off forcibly by the English Government. It afterwards came outhow it had been done. He had been lured away from Antwerp and enticed onboard a trader at Bergen-op-Zoom, by Cecil's agents with the help of atraitor named Parker, on pretext of finding heretical books therearriving from England; and as soon as he had set foot on deck he washurried below and carried straight off to Yarmouth. Here then was SirNicholas' perplexity. To welcome Spain when she intervened and to workactively for her, was treason against his country; to act against Spainwas to delay the re-establishment of the Religion--something thatappeared to him very like treason against his faith. Was the dreadfulchoice between his sovereign and his God, he wondered as he paced up anddown and questioned Mr. Stewart, even now imminent?

The whole affair, too, was so formidable and so mysterious that thehearts of these Catholics and of others in England when they heard thetale began to fail them. Had the Government then so long an arm and sokeen an eye? And if it was able to hale a man from the shadow of theCathedral at Antwerp and the protection of the Duke of Alva into thehands of pursuivants at Yarmouth within the space of a few hours, whothen was safe?

And so the two sat late that night in the East Chamber; and laid schemesand discussed movements and probabilities and the like, until the dawnbegan to glimmer through the cracks of the shutters and the birds tochirp in the eaves; and Sir Nicholas at last carried to bed with him ananxious and a heavy heart. Mr. Stewart, however, did not seem so greatlydisturbed; possibly because on the one side he had not others dearer tohim than his own life involved in these complex issues: and partlybecause he at any rate has not the weight of suspense and indecision thatso drew his host two ways at once, for Mr. Stewart was whole-heartedlycommitted already, and knew well how he would act should the choicepresent itself between Elizabeth and Philip. 

The following morning Sir Nicholas still would not allow his guest tocome downstairs, and insisted that all his meals should be served in theEast Chamber, while he himself, as before, received the food at the doorand set it before Mr. Stewart. Mr. Stewart was greatly impressed andtouched by the kindness of the old man, although not by his capacity forconspiracy. He had intended indeed to tell his host far more than he haddone of the movements of political and religious events, for he could notbut believe, before his arrival, that a Catholic so prominent andinfluential as Sir Nicholas was becoming by reputation among the refugeesabroad, was a proper person to be entrusted even with the highestsecrets; but after a very little conversation with him the night before, he had seen how ingenuous the old man was, with his laughable attempts atsecrecy and his lamentable lack of discretion; and so he had contentedhimself with general information and gossip, and had really told SirNicholas very little indeed of any importance. 

After dinner Sir Nicholas again conducted his guest to the drawing-room, where the ladies were ready to receive him. He had obtained Mr. Stewart'spermission the night before to tell his wife and sister-in-law the newsabout Dr. Storey; and the four sat for several hours together discussingthe situation. Mr. Stewart was able to tell them too, in greater detail, the story of Lord Sussex's punitive raid into Scotland in the precedingApril. They had heard of course the main outline of the story with thekind of embroideries attached that were usual in those days of inaccuratereporting; but their guest was a Scotchman himself and had had thestories first-hand in some cases from those rendered homeless by theraid, who had fled to the Netherlands where he had met them. Briefly theraid was undertaken on the pretended plea of an invitation from the"King's men" or adherents of the infant James; but in reality to chastiseScotland and reduce it to servility. Sussex and Lord Hunsdon in the east, Lord Scrope on the west, had harried, burnt, and destroyed in the wholecountryside about the Borders. Especially had Tiviotdale suffered. Altogether it was calculated that Sussex had burned three hundredvillages and blown up fifty castles, and forty more "strong houses, " someof these latter, however, being little more than border peels. Mr. Stewart's accounts were the more moving in that he spoke in a quietdelicate tone, and used little picturesque phrases in his speech. 

"Twelve years ago, " said Mr. Stewart, "I was at Branxholme myself. It wasa pleasant house, well furnished and appointed; fortified, too, as allneed to be in that country, with sheaves of pikes in all the lower rooms, and Sir Walter Scott gave me a warm welcome, for I was there on abusiness that pleased him. He showed me the gardens and orchards, allgreen and sweet, like these of yours, Lady Maxwell. And it seemed to me ahome where a man might be content to spend all his days. Well, my LordSussex has been a visitor there now; and what he has left of the housewould not shelter a cow, nor what is left of the pleasant gardens sustainher. At least, so one of the Scots told me whom I met in the Netherlandsin June. "

He talked, too, of the extraordinary scenes of romance and chivalry inwhich Mary Queen of Scots moved during her captivity under Lord Scrope'scare at Bolton Castle in the previous year. He had met in his travels inFrance one of her undistinguished adherents who had managed to get aposition in the castle during her detention there. 

"The country was alive with her worshippers, " said Mr. Stewart. "Theyswarmed like bees round a hive. In the night voices would be heard cryingout to her Grace out of the darkness round the castle; and when theguards rode out they would find no man but maybe hear just a laugh ortwo. Her men would lie out at night and watch her window (for she wouldnever go to rest till late), and pray towards it as if it were a lightbefore the blessed sacrament. When she rode out a-hunting, with herguards of course about her, and my Lord Scrope or Sir Francis Knollysnever far away, a beggar maybe would be sitting out on the road and askan alms; and cry out 'God save your Grace'; but he would be a beggar whowas accustomed to wear silk next his skin except when he went a-begging. Many young gentlemen there were, yes and old ones too, who would thankGod for a blow or a curse from some foul English trooper for his meat, ifonly he might have a look from the Queen's eyes for his grace beforemeat. Oh! they would plot too, and scheme and lie awake half the nightspinning their webs, not to catch her Grace indeed, but to get her awayfrom that old Spider Scrope; and many's the word and the scrap of paperthat would go in to her Grace, right under the very noses of my LordScrope and Sir Francis themselves, as they sat at their chess in theQueen's chamber. It's a long game of chess that the two Queens areplaying; but thank our Lady and the Saints it's not mate yet--not mateyet; and the White Queen will win, please God, before the board'sover-turned. "

And he told them, too, of the failure of the Northern Rebellion, and thewretchedness of the fugitives. 

"They rode over the moors to Liddisdale, " he said, "ladies and all, inbitter weather, wind and snow, day after day, with stories of Clinton'stroopers all about them, and scarcely time for bite or sup or sleep. Mylady Northumberland was so overcome with weariness and sickness that shecould ride no more at last, and had to be left at John-of-the-Side'shouse, where she had a little chamber where the snow came in at onecorner, and the rats ran over my lady's face as she lay. My LordsNorthumberland and Westmoreland were in worse case, and spent theirChristmas with no roof over them but what they could find out in thebraes and woods about Harlaw, and no clothes but the foul rags that somebeggar had thrown away, and no food but a bird or a rabbit that theycould pick up here and there, or what their friends could get to them nowand again privately. And then my Lord Northumberland's little daughterswhom he was forced to leave behind at Topcliff--a sweet Christmas theyhad! Their money and food was soon spent; they could have scarcely a firein that bitter hard season; and God who feeds the ravens alone knows howthey were sustained; and for entertainment to make the time pass merrily, all they had was to see the hanging of their own servants in scores aboutthe house, who had served them and their father well; and all their musicat night was the howling of the wind in those heavily ladenChristmas-trees, and the noise of the chains in which the men werehanged. "

Mr. Stewart's narratives were engrossing to the two ladies and SirNicholas. They had never come so close to the struggles of the Catholicsin the north before; and although the Northern Rebellion had ended sodisastrously, yet it was encouraging, although heartbreaking too, to hearthat delicate women and children were ready gladly to suffer suchmiseries if the religious cause that was so dear to them could be therebyhelped. Sir Nicholas, as has been said, was in two minds as to thelawfulness of rising against a temporal sovereign in defence of religiousliberties. His whole English nature revolted against it, and yet so manyspiritual persons seemed to favour it. His simple conscience wasperplexed. But none the less he could listen with the most intenseinterest and sympathy to these tales of these co-religionists of his own, who were so clearly convinced of their right to rebel in defence of theirfaith. 

And so with such stories the August afternoon passed away. It was athundery day, which it would have been pleasanter to spend in the garden, but that, Sir Nicholas said, under the circumstances was not to bethought of; so they threw the windows wide to catch the least breath ofair; and the smell of the flower-garden came sweetly up and flooded thelow cool room; and so they sat engrossed until the evening. 

Supper was ordered for Mr. Stewart at half-past seven o'clock; and thismeal Sir Nicholas had consented should be laid downstairs in his ownprivate room opening out of the hall, and that he and his ladies shouldsit down to table at the same time. Mr. Stewart went to his room an hourbefore to dress for riding, and to superintend the packing of hissaddle-bags; and at half-past seven he was conducted downstairs by SirNicholas who insisted on carrying the saddle-bags with his own hands, andthey found the two ladies waiting for them in the panelled study that hadone window giving upon the terrace that ran along the south of the houseabove the garden. When supper had been brought in by Sir Nicholas' ownbody-servant, Mr. Boyd, they sat down to supper after a grace from SirNicholas. The horses were ordered for nine o'clock. 

 CHAPTER VII

 THE DOOR IN THE GARDEN-WALL

On the morning of the day after Mr. Stewart's secret arrival at MaxwellHall, the Rector was walking up and down the lawn that adjoined thechurchyard. 

He had never yet wholly recovered from the sneers of Mistress Corbet; thewounds had healed but had not ceased to smart. How blind these Papistswere, he thought! how prejudiced for the old trifling details of worship!how ignorant of the vital principles still retained! The old realities ofGod and the faith and the Church were with them still, in this village, he reminded himself; it was only the incrustations of error that had beenremoved. Of course the transition was difficult and hearts were sore; butthe Eternal God can be patient. But then, if the discontent of thePapists smouldered on one side, the fanatical and irresponsible zeal ofthe Puritans flared on the other. How difficult, he thought, to steer thesafe middle course! How much cool faith and clearsightedness it needed!He reminded himself of Archbishop Parker who now held the rudder, andcomforted himself with the thought of his wise moderation in dealing withexcesses, his patient pertinacity among the whirling gusts of passion, that enabled him to wait upon events to push his schemes, and his tenderknowledge of human nature. 

But in spite of these reassuring facts Mr. Dent was anxious. What couldeven the Archbishop do when his suffragans were such poor creatures; andwhen Leicester, the strongest man at Court, was a violent Puritanpartisan? The Rector would have been content to bear the troubles of hisown flock and household if he had been confident of the larger cause; butthe vagaries of the Puritans threatened all with ruin. That morning onlyhe had received a long account from a Fellow of his own college of CorpusChristi, Cambridge, and a man of the same views as himself, of theviolent controversy raging there at that time. 

"The Professor, " wrote his friend, referring to Thomas Cartwright, "isplastering us all with his Genevan ways. We are all Papists, it seems!He would have neither bishop nor priest nor archbishop nor dean norarchdeacon, nor dignitaries at all, but just the plain Godly Minister, ashe names it. Or if he has the bishop and the deacon they are to be the_Episcopos_ and the _Diaconos_ of the Scripture, and not the Papishcounterfeits! Then it seems that the minister is to be made not by Godbut by man--that the people are to make him, not the bishop (as if thesheep should make the shepherd). Then it appears we are Papists too forkneeling at the Communion; this he names a 'feeble superstition. ' Then hewould have all men reside in their benefices or vacate them; and all thatdo not so, it appears, are no better than thieves or robbers. 

"And so he rages on, breathing out this smoky stuff, and all the youngmen do run after him, as if he were the very Pillar of Fire to lead themto Canaan. One day he says there shall be no bishop--and my Lord of Elyrides through Petty Cury with scarce a man found to doff cap and say 'mylord' save foolish 'Papists' like myself! Another day he will have nodistinction of apparel; and the young sparks straight dress likeministers, and the ministers like young sparks. On another he likes notSaint Peter his day, and none will go to church. He would have us all tobe little Master Calvins, if he could have his way with us. But theMaster of Trinity has sent a complaint to the Council with chargesagainst him, and has preached against him too. But no word hath yet comefrom the Council; and we fear nought will be done; to the sore injury ofChrist His holy Church and the Protestant Religion; and the triumphing oftheir pestilent heresies. "

So the caustic divine wrote, and the Rector of Great Keynes washeavy-hearted as he walked up and down and read. Everywhere it was thesame story; the extreme precisians openly flouted the religion of theChurch of England; submitted to episcopal ordination as a legal necessityand then mocked at it; refused to wear the prescribed dress, andrepudiated all other distinctions too in meats and days as Judaicremnants; denounced all forms of worship except those directly sanctionedby Scripture; in short, they remained in the Church of England and drewher pay while they scouted her orders and derided her claims. Further, they cried out as persecuted martyrs whenever it was proposed to insistthat they should observe their obligations. But worse than all, for suchconscientious clergymen as Mr. Dent, was the fact that bishops preferredsuch men to livings, and at the same time were energetic against thePapist party. It was not that there was not an abundance of disciplinarymachinery ready at the bishop's disposal or that the Queen was opposed tocoercion--rather she was always urging them to insist upon conformity;but it seemed rather to such sober men as the Rector that the principleof authority had been lost with the rejection of the Papacy, and thatanarchy rather than liberty had prevailed in the National Church. Indarker moments it seemed to him and his friends as if any wild fancy wastolerated, so long as it did not approximate too closely to the OldReligion; and they grew sick at heart. 

It was all the more difficult for the Rector, as he had so littlesympathy in the place; his wife did all she could to destroy friendlyrelations between the Hall and the Rectory, and openly derided herhusband's prelatical leanings; the Maxwells themselves disregarded hispriestly claims, and the villagers thought of him as an official paid topromulgate the new State religion. The only house where he found sympathyand help was the Dower House; and as he paced up and down his garden now, his little perplexed determined face grew brighter as he made up his mindto see Mr. Norris again in the afternoon. 

During his meditations he heard, and saw indistinctly, through theshrubbery that fenced the lawn from the drive, a mounted man ride up tothe Rectory door. He supposed it was some message, and held himself inreadiness to be called into the house, but after a minute or two he heardthe man ride off again down the drive into the village. At dinner hementioned it to his wife, who answered rather shortly that it was amessage for her; and he let the matter drop for fear of giving offence;he was terrified at the thought of provoking more quarrels than wereabsolutely necessary. 

Soon after dinner he put on his cap and gown, and to his wife's inquiriestold her where he was going, and that after he had seen Mr. Norris hewould step on down to Comber's, where was a sick body or two, and thatshe might expect him back not earlier than five o'clock. She noddedwithout speaking, and he went out. She watched him down the drive fromthe dining-room window and then went back to her business with an oddexpression. 

Mr. Norris, whom he found already seated at his books again after dinner, took him out when he had heard his errand, and the two began to walk upand down together on the raised walk that ran along under a line of pinesa little way from the house. 

The Rector had seldom found his friend more sympathetic and tender; heknew very well that their intellectual and doctrinal standpoints weredifferent, but he had not come for anything less than spiritual help, andthat he found. He told him all his heart, and then waited, while theother, with his thin hands clasped behind his back, and his great greyeyes cast up at the heavy pines and the tender sky beyond, began tocomfort the minister. 

"You are troubled, my friend, " he said, "and I do not wonder at it, bythe turbulence of these times. On all sides are fightings and fears. Ofcourse I cannot, as you know, regard these matters you have spokenof--episcopacy, ceremonies at the Communion and the like--in the gravelight in which you see them; but I take it, if I understand you rightly, that it is the confusion and lack of any authority or respect forantiquity that is troubling you more. You feel yourself in a sad plightbetween these raging waves; tossed to and fro, battered upon by bothsides, forsaken and despised and disregarded. Now, indeed, although I donot stand quite where you do, yet I see how great the stress must be;but, if I may say so to a minister, it is just what you regard as yourshame that I regard as your glory. It is the mark of the cross that is onyour life. When our Saviour went to his passion, he went in the sameplight as that in which you go; both Jew and Gentile were against him onthis side and that; his claims were disallowed, his royalty denied; hewas despised and rejected of men. He did not go to his passion as to asplendid triumph, bearing his pain like some solemn and mysteriousdignity at which the world wondered and was silent; but he went batteredand spat upon, with the sweat and the blood and the spittle running downhis face, contemned by the contemptible, hated by the hateful, rejectedby the outcast, barked upon by the curs; and it was that that made hispassion so bitter. To go to death, however painful, with honour andapplause, or at least with the silence of respect, were easy; it is nothard to die upon a throne; but to live on a dunghill with Job, that isbitterness. Now again I must protest that I have no right to speak likethis to a minister, but since you have come to me I must needs say what Ithink; and it is this that some wise man once said, 'Fear honour, forshame is not far off. Covet shame, for honour is surely to follow. ' Ifthat be true of the philosopher, how much more true is it of theChristian minister whose profession it is to follow the Saviour and to bemade like unto him. "

He said much more of the same kind; and his soft balmy faith soothed theminister's wounds, and braced his will. The Rector could not help halfenvying his friend, living, as it seemed, in this still retreat, apartfrom wrangles and controversy, with the peaceful music and sweetfragrance of the pines, and the Love of God about him. 

When he had finished he asked the Rector to step indoors with him; andthere in his own room took down and read to him a few extracts from theGerman mystics that he thought bore upon his case. Finally, to put him athis ease again, for it seemed an odd reversal that he should be comingfor comfort to his parishioners, Mr. Norris told him about his twochildren, and in his turn asked his advice. 

"About Anthony, " he said, "I am not at all anxious. I know that the boyfancies himself in love; and goes sighing about when he is at home; buthe sleeps and eats heartily, for I have observed him; and I thinkMistress Corbet has a good heart and means no harm to him. But about mydaughter I am less satisfied, for I have been watching her closely. Sheis quiet and good, and, above all, she loves the Saviour; but how do Iknow that her heart is not bleeding within? She has been taught to holdherself in, and not to show her feelings; and that, I think, is as much adrawback sometimes as wearing the heart upon the sleeve. "

Mr. Dent suggested sending her away for a visit for a month or two. Hishost mused a moment and then said that he himself had thought of that;and now that his minister said so too, probably, under God, that was whatwas needed. The fact that Hubert was expected home soon was an additionalreason; and he had friends in Northampton, he said, to whom he could sendher. "They hold strongly by the Genevan theology there, " he said smiling, "but I think that will do her no harm as a balance to the Popery atMaxwell Hall. "

They talked a few minutes more, and when the minister rose to take hisleave, Mr. Norris slipped down on his knees as if it was the naturalthing to do and as if the minister were expecting it; and asked his guestto engage in prayer. It was the first time he had ever done so; probablybecause this talk had brought them nearer together spiritually than everbefore. The minister was taken aback, and repeated a collect or two fromthe Prayer-book; then they said the Lord's Prayer together, and then Mr. Norris without any affectation engaged in a short extempore prayer, asking for light in these dark times and peace in the storm; and beggingthe blessing of God upon the village and "upon their shepherd to whomThou hast given to drink of the Cup of thy Passion, " and upon his ownchildren, and lastly upon himself, "the chief of sinners and the least ofthy servants that is not worthy to be called thy friend. " It touched Mr. Dent exceedingly, and he was yet more touched and reconciled to theincident when his host said simply, remaining on his knees, with eyesclosed and his clear cut tranquil face upturned:

"I ask your blessing, sir. "

The Rector's voice trembled a little as he gave it. And then with realgratitude and a good deal of sincere emotion he shook his friend's hand, and rustled out from the cool house into the sunlit garden, greetingIsabel who was walking up and down outside a little pensively, and tookthe field-path that led towards the hamlet where his sick folk wereexpecting him. 

As he walked back about five o'clock towards the village he noticed therewas thunder in the air, and was aware of a physical oppression, but inhis heart it was morning and the birds singing. The talk earlier in theafternoon had shown him how, in the midst of the bitterness of the Cup, to find the fragrance where the Saviour's lips had rested and that wasjoy to him. And again, his true pastor's heart had been gladdened by theway his ministrations had been received that afternoon. A sour old manwho had always scowled at him for an upstart, in his foolish old desireto be loyal to the priest who had held the benefice before him, hadmelted at last and asked his pardon and God's for having treated him soill; and he had prepared the old man for death with great contentment tothem both, and had left him at peace with God and man. On looking back onit all afterwards he was convinced that God had thus strengthened him forthe trouble that was awaiting him at home. 

He had hardly come into his study when his wife entered with a strangelook, breathing quick and short; she closed the door, and stood near it, looking at him apprehensively. 

"George, " she said, rather sharply and nervously, "you must not be vexedwith me, but----"

"Well?" he said heavily, and the warmth died out of his heart. He knewsomething terrible impended. 

"I have done it for the best, " she said, and obstinacy and a kind ofimpatient tenderness strove in her eyes as she looked at him. "You mustshow yourself a man; it is not fitting that loose ladies of the Courtshould mock--" He got up; and his eyes were determined too. 

"Tell me what you have done, woman, " he cried. 

She put out her hand as if to hold him still, and her voice rang hard andthin. 

"I will say my say, " she said. "It is not for that that I have done it. But you are a Gospel-minister, and must be faithful. The Justice is here. I sent for him. "

"The Justice?" he said blankly; but his heart was beating heavily in histhroat. 

"Mr. Frankland from East Grinsted, with a couple of pursuivants and acompany of servants. There is a popish agent at the Hall, and they arecome to take him. "

The Rector swallowed with difficulty once or twice, and then tried tospeak, but she went on. "And I have promised that you shall take them inby the side door. "

"I will not!" he cried. 

She held up her hand again for silence, and glanced round at the door. 

"I have given him the key, " she said. 

This was the private key, possessed by the incumbent for generationspast, and Sir Nicholas had not withdrawn it from the Protestant Rector. 

"There is no choice, " she said. "Oh! George, be a man!" Then she turnedand slipped out. 

He stood perfectly still for a moment; his pulses were racing; he couldnot think. He sat down and buried his face in his hands; and graduallyhis brain cleared and quieted. Then he realised what it meant, and hissoul rose in blind furious resentment. This was the last straw; it wasthe woman's devilish jealousy. But what could he do? The Justice washere. Could he warn his friends? He clenched his fingers into his hair asthe situation came out clear and hard before his brain. Dear God, whatcould he do?

There were footsteps in the flagged hall, and he raised his head as thedoor opened and a portly gentleman in riding-dress came in, followed byMrs. Dent. The Rector rose confusedly, but could not speak, and his eyeswandered round to his wife again and again as she took a chair in theshadow and sat down. But the magistrate noticed nothing. 

"Aha!" he said, beaming, "You have a wife, sir, that is a jewel. Solomonnever spoke a truer word; an ornament to her husband, he said, I think;but you as a minister should know better than I, a mere layman"; and hisface creased with mirth. 

What did the red-faced fool mean? thought the Rector. If only he wouldnot talk so loud! He must think, he must think. What could he do?

"She was very brisk, sir, " the magistrate went on, sitting down, and theRector followed his example, sitting too with his back to the window andhis hand to his head. 

Then Mr. Frankland went on with his talk; and the man sat there, stillglancing from time to time mechanically towards his wife, who was therein the shadow with steady white face and hands in her lap, watching thetwo men. The magistrate's voice seemed to the bewildered man to roll onlike a wheel over stones; interminable, grinding, stupefying. What was hesaying? What was that about his wife? She had sent to him the day before, had she, and told him of the popish agent's coming?--Ah! A dangerous manwas he, a spreader of seditious pamphlets? At least they supposed he wasthe man. --Yes, yes, he understood; these fly-by-nights were threatenersof the whole commonwealth; they must be hunted out like vermin--just so;and he as a minister of the Gospel should be the first to assist. --Justso, he agreed with all his heart, as a minister of the Gospel. (Yes, but, dear Lord, what was he to do? This fat man with the face of a butchermust not be allowed to--) Ah! what was that? He had missed that. WouldMr. Frankland be so good as to say it again? Yes, yes, he understood now;the men were posted already. No one suspected anything; they had come bythe bridle path. --Every door? Did he understand that every door of theHall was watched? Ah! that was prudent; there was no chance then of anyone sending a warning in? Oh, no, no, he did not dream for a moment thatthere was any concealed Catholic who would be likely to do such a thing. But he only wondered. --Yes, yes, the magistrate was right; one could notbe too careful. Because--ah!--What was that about Sir Nicholas? Yes, yes, indeed he was a good landlord, and very popular in the village. --Ah! justso; it had better be done quietly, at the side door. Yes, that was theone which the key fitted. But, but, he thought perhaps, he had better notcome in, because Sir Nicholas was his friend, and there was no use inmaking bad blood. --Oh! not to the house; very well, then, he would comeas far as the yew hedge at--at what time did the magistrate say? Athalf-past eight; yes, that would be best as Mr. Frankland said, becauseSir Nicholas had ordered the horses for nine o'clock; so they would comeupon them just at the right time. --How many men, did Mr. Frankland say?Eight? Oh yes, eight and himself, and--he did not quite follow the plan. Ah! through the yew hedge on to the terrace and through the south doorinto the hall; then if they bolted--they? Surely he had understood themagistrate to say there was only one? Oh! he had not understood that. SirNicholas too? But why, why? Good God, as a harbourer of priests?--No, butthis fellow was an agent, surely. Well, if the magistrate said so, ofcourse he was right; but he would have thought himself that Sir Nicholasmight have been left--ah! Well, he would say no more. He quite saw themagistrate's point now. --No, no, he was no favourer; God forbid! his wifewould speak for him as to that; Marion would bear witness. --Well, well, he thanked the magistrate for his compliments, and would he proceed withthe plan? By the south door, he was saying, yes, into the hall. --Yes, theEast room was Sir Nicholas' study; or of course they might be suppingupstairs. But it made no difference; no, the magistrate was right aboutthat. So long as they held the main staircase, and had all the otherdoors watched, they were safe to have him. --No, no, the cloister wingwould not be used; they might leave that out of their calculations. Besides, did not the magistrate say that Marion had seen the lights inthe East wing last night? Yes, well, that settled it. --And the signal?Oh, he had not caught that; the church bell, was it to be? But what for?Why did they need a signal? Ah! he understood, for the advance athalf-past eight. --Just so, he would send Thomas up to ring it. WouldMarion kindly see to that?--Yes, indeed, his wife was a woman to be proudof; such a faithful Protestant; no patience with these seditious roguesat all. Well, was that all? Was there anything else?--Yes, how dark itwas getting; it must be close on eight o'clock. Thomas had gone, had he?That was all right. --And had the men everything they wanted?--Well, yes;although the village did go to bed early it would perhaps be better tohave no lights; because there was no need to rouse suspicion. --Oh! verywell; perhaps it would be better for Mr. Frankland to go and sit with themen and keep them quiet. And his wife would go, too, just to make surethey had all they wanted. --Very well, yes; he would wait here in the darkuntil he was called. Not more than a quarter of an hour? Thank you, yes. --

Then the door had closed; and the man, left alone, flung himself down inhis chair, and buried his face again in his arms. 

Ah! what was to be done? Nothing, nothing, nothing. And there they wereat the Hall, his neighbours and friends. The kind old Catholic and hisladies! How would he ever dare to meet their eyes again? But what couldbe done? Nothing!

How far away the afternoon seems; that quiet sunny walk beneath thepines. His friend is at his books, no doubt, with the silver candles, andthe open pages, and his own neat manuscript growing under his whitescholarly fingers. And Isabel; at her needlework before the fire. --Howpeaceful and harmless and sweet it all is! And down there, not fiftyyards away, is the village; every light out by now; and the children andparents, too, asleep. --Ah! what will the news be when they waketo-morrow?--And that strange talk this afternoon, of the Saviour and HisCup of pain, and the squalor and indignity of the Passion! Ah! yes, hecould suffer with Jesus on the Cross, so gladly, on that Tree ofLife--but not with Judas on the Tree of Death!

And the minister dropped his face lower, over the edge of his desk; andthe hot tears of misery and self-reproach and impotence began to run. There was no help, no help anywhere. All were against him--even his wifeherself; and his Lord. 

Then with a moan he lifted his hot face into the dusk. 

"Jesus, " he cried in his soul, "Thou knowest all things; Thou knowestthat I love Thee. "

There came a tapping on the door; and the door opened an inch. 

"It is time, " whispered his wife's voice. 

 CHAPTER VIII

 THE TAKING OF MR. STEWART

They were still sitting over the supper-table at the Hall. The sun hadset about the time they had begun, and the twilight had deepened intodark; but they had not cared to close the shutters as they were to moveso soon. The four candles shone out through the windows, and there stillhung a pale glimmer outside owing to the refraction of light from thewhite stones of the terrace. Beyond on the left there sloped away a highblack wall of impenetrable darkness where the yew hedge stood; over thatwas the starless sky. Sir Nicholas' study was bright with candlelight, and the lace and jewels of Lady Maxwell (for her sister wore none) addeda vague pleasant sense of beauty to Mr. Stewart's mind; for he was onewho often fared coarsely and slept hard. He sighed a little to himself ashe looked out over this shining supper-table past the genial smiling faceof Sir Nicholas to the dark outside; and thought how in less than an hourhe would have left the comfort of this house for the grey road and itshardships again. It was extraordinarily sweet to him (for he was a man oftaste and a natural inclination to luxury) to stay a day or two now andagain at a house like this and mix again with his own equals, instead ofwith the rough company of the village inn, or the curious foreignconspirators with their absence of educated perception and their doubtfulcleanliness. He was a man of domestic instincts and good birth andbreeding, and would have been perfectly at his ease as the master of somehousehold such as this; with a chapel and a library and a pleasant gardenand estate; spending his days in great leisure and good deeds. Andinstead of all this, scarcely by his own choice but by what he would havecalled his vocation, he was partly an exile living from hand to mouth inlodgings and inns, and when he was in his own fatherland, a huntedfugitive lurking about in unattractive disguises. He sighed again once ortwice. There was silence a moment or two. 

There sounded one note from the church tower a couple of hundred yardsaway. Lady Maxwell heard it, and looked suddenly up; she scarcely knewwhy, and caught her sister's eyes glancing at her. There was a shade ofuneasiness in them. 

"It is thundery to-night, " said Sir Nicholas. Mr. Stewart did not speak. Lady Maxwell looked up quickly at him as he sat on her right facing thewindow; and saw an expression of slight disturbance cross his face. Hewas staring out on to the quickly darkening terrace, past Sir Nicholas, who with pursed lips and a little frown was stripping off his grapes fromthe stalk. The look of uneasiness deepened, and the young man half rosefrom his chair, and sat down again. 

"What is it, Mr. Stewart?" said Lady Maxwell, and her voice had a ring ofterror in it. Sir Nicholas looked up quickly. 

"Eh, eh?"--he began. 

The young man rose up and recoiled a step, still staring out. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said, "but I have just seen several men pass thewindow. "

There was a rush of footsteps and a jangle of voices outside in the hall;and as the four rose up from table, looking at one another, there was arattle at the handle outside, the door flew open, and a ruddystrongly-built man stood there, with a slightly apprehensive air, andholding a loaded cane a little ostentatiously in his hand; the faces ofseveral men looked over his shoulder. 

Sir Nicholas' ruddy face had paled, his mouth was half open with dismay, and he stared almost unintelligently at the magistrate. Mr. Stewart'shand closed on the handle of a knife that lay beside his plate. 

"In the Queen's name, " said Mr. Frankland, and looked from the knife tothe young man's white determined face, and down again. A little sobbingbroke from Lady Maxwell. 

"It is useless, sir, " said the magistrate; "Sir Nicholas, persuade yourguest not to make a useless resistance; we are ten to one; the house hasbeen watched for hours. "

Sir Nicholas took a step forward, his mouth closed and opened again. LadyMaxwell took a swift rustling step from behind the table, and threw herarm round the old man's neck. Still none of them spoke. 

"Come in, " said the magistrate, turning a little. The men outside filedin, to the number of half a dozen, and two or three more were left in thehall. All were armed. Mistress Margaret who had stood up with the rest, sat down again, and rested her head on her hand; apparently completely ather ease. 

"I must beg pardon, Lady Maxwell, " he went on, "but my duty leaves me nochoice. " He turned to the young man, who, on seeing the officers had laidthe knife down again, and now stood, with one hand on the table, ratherpale, but apparently completely self-controlled, looking a littledisdainfully at the magistrate. 

Then Sir Nicholas made a great effort; but his face twitched as he spoke, and the hand that he lifted to his wife's arm shook with nervousness, andhis voice was cracked and unnatural. 

"Sit down, my dear, sit down. --What is all this?--I do notunderstand. --Mr. Frankland, sir, what do you want of me?--And who are allthese gentlemen?--Won't you sit down, Mr. Frankland and take a glass ofwine. Let me make Mr. Stewart known to you. " And he lifted a shaking handas if to introduce them. 

The magistrate smiled a little on one side of his mouth. 

"It is no use, Sir Nicholas, " he said, "this gentleman, I fear, is wellknown to some of us already. --No, no, sir, " he cried sharply, "the windowis guarded. "

Mr. Stewart, who had looked swiftly and sideways across at the window, faced the magistrate again. 

"I do not know what you mean, sir, " he said. "It was a lad who passed thewindow. "

There was a movement outside in the hall; and the magistrate stepped tothe door. 

"Who is there?" he cried out sharply. 

There was a scuffle, and a cry of a boy's voice; and a man appeared, holding Anthony by the arm. 

Mistress Margaret turned round in her seat; and said in a perfectlynatural voice, "Why, Anthony, my lad!"

There was a murmur from one or two of the men. 

"Silence, " called out the magistrate. "We will finish the other affairfirst, " and he made a motion to hold Anthony for a moment. --"Now then, doany of you men know this gentleman?"

A pursuivant stepped out. 

"Mr. Frankland, sir; I know him under two names--Mr. Chapman and Mr. Wode. He is a popish agent. I saw him in the company of Dr. Storey inAntwerp, four months ago. "

Mr. Stewart blew out his lips sharply and contemptuously. 

"Pooh, " he said; and then turned to the man and bowed ironically. 

"I congratulate you, my man, " he said, in a tone of bitter triumph. "InApril I was in France. Kindly remember this man's words, Mr. Frankland;they will tell in my favour. For I presume you mean to take me. "

"I will remember them, " said the magistrate. 

Mr. Stewart bowed to him; he had completely regained his composure. Thenhe turned to Sir Nicholas and Lady Maxwell, who had been watching in abewildered silence. 

"I am exceedingly sorry, " he said, "for having brought this annoyance onyou, Lady Maxwell; but these men are so sharp that they see nothing butguilt everywhere. I do not know yet what my crime is. But that can wait. Sir Nicholas, we should have parted anyhow in half an hour. We shall onlysay good-bye here, instead of at the door. "

The magistrate smiled again as before; and half put up his hand to hideit. 

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Chapman; but you need not part from Sir Nicholasyet. I fear, Sir Nicholas, that I shall have to trouble you to come withus. "

Lady Maxwell drew a quick hissing breath; her sister got up swiftly andwent to her, as she sat down in Sir Nicholas' chair, still holding theold man's hand. 

Sir Nicholas turned to his guest; and his voice broke again and again ashe spoke. 

"Mr. Stewart, " he said, "I am sorry that any guest of mine should besubject to these insults. However, I am glad that I shall have thepleasure of your company after all. I suppose we ride to East Grinsted, "he added harshly to the magistrate, who bowed to him. --"Then may I havemy servant, sir?"

"Presently, " said Mr. Frankland, and then turned to Anthony, who had beenstaring wild-eyed at the scene, "Now who is this?"

A man answered from the rank. 

"That is Master Anthony Norris, sir. "

"Ah! and who is Master Anthony Norris? A Papist, too?"

"No, sir, " said the man again, "a good Protestant; and the son of Mr. Norris at the Dower House. "

"Ah!" said the magistrate again, judicially. "And what might you bewanting here, Master Anthony Norris?"

Anthony explained that he often came up in the evening, and that hewanted nothing. The magistrate eyed him a moment or two. 

"Well, I have nothing against you, young gentleman. But I cannot let yougo, till I am safely set out. You might rouse the village. Take him outtill we start, " he added to the man who guarded him. 

"Come this way, sir, " said the officer; and Anthony presently foundhimself sitting on the long oak bench that ran across the western end ofthe hall, at the foot of the stairs, and just opposite the door of SirNicholas' room where he had just witnessed that curious startling scene. 

The man who had charge of him stood a little distance off, and did nottrouble him further, and Anthony watched in silence. 

The hall was still dark, except for one candle that had been lighted bythe magistrate's party, and it looked sombre and suggestive of tragedy. Floor walls and ceiling were all dark oak, and the corners were full ofshadows. A streak of light came out of the slightly opened door opposite, and a murmur of voices. The rest of the house was quiet; it had all beenarranged and carried out without disturbance. 

Anthony had a very fair idea of what was going forward; he knew of coursethat the Catholics were always under suspicion, and now understoodplainly enough from the conversation he had heard that the reddish-hairedyoung man, standing so alert and cheerful by the table in there, hadsomehow precipitated matters. Anthony himself had come up on sometrifling errand, and had run straight into this affair; and now he satand wondered resentfully, with his eyes and ears wide open. 

There were men at all the inner doors now; they had slipped in from theouter entrances as soon as word had reached them that the prisoners weresecured, and only a couple were left outside to prevent the alarm beingraised in the village. These inner sentinels stood motionless at the footof the stairs that rose up into the unlighted lobby overhead, at the doorthat led to the inner hall and the servants' quarters, and at those thatled to the cloister wing and the garden respectively. 

The murmur of voices went on in the room opposite; and presently a manslipped out and passed through the sentinels to the door leading to thekitchens and pantry; he carried a pike in his hand, and was armed with asteel cap and breast-piece. In a minute he had returned followed by Mr. Boyd, Sir Nicholas' body-servant; the two passed into the study--and amoment later the dark inner hall was full of moving figures and rustlingsand whisperings, as the alarmed servants poured up from downstairs. 

Then the study door opened again, and Anthony caught a glimpse of thelighted room; the two ladies with Sir Nicholas and his guest were seatedat table; there was the figure of an armed man behind Mr. Stewart'schair, and another behind Lady Maxwell's; then the door closed again asMr. Boyd with the magistrate and a constable carrying a candle came out. 

"This way, sir, " said the servant; and the three crossed the hall, andpassing close by Anthony, went up the broad oak staircase that led to theupper rooms. Then the minutes passed away; from upstairs came the noiseof doors opening and shutting, and footsteps passing overhead; from theinner hall the sound of low talking, and a few sobs now and again from afrightened maid; from Sir Nicholas' room all was quiet except once whenMr. Stewart's laugh, high and natural, rang out. Anthony thought of thatstrong brisk face he had seen in the candlelight; and wondered how hecould laugh, with death so imminent--and worse than death; and a warmthof admiration and respect glowed at the lad's heart. The man by Anthonysighed and shifted his feet. 

"What is it for?" whispered the lad at last. 

"I mustn't speak to you, sir, " said the man. 

At last the footsteps overhead came to the top of the stairs. Themagistrate's voice called out sharply and impatiently:

"Come along, come along"; and the three, all carrying bags and valisescame downstairs again and crossed the hall. Again the door opened as theywent in, leaving the luggage on the floor; and Anthony caught anotherglimpse of the four still seated round the table; but Sir Nicholas' headwas bowed upon his hands. 

Then again the door closed; and there was silence. 

Once more it was flung open, and Anthony saw the interior of the roomplainly. The four were standing up, Mr. Stewart was bowing to LadyMaxwell; the magistrate stood close beside him; then a couple of menstepped up to the young man's side as he turned away, and the three cameout into the hall and stood waiting by the little heap of luggage. Mr. Frankland came next, with the man-servant close beside him, and the restof the men behind; and the last closed the door and stood by it. Therewas a dead silence; Anthony sprang to his feet in uncontrollableexcitement. What was happening? Again the door opened, and the men maderoom as Mistress Margaret came out, and the door shut. 

She came swiftly across, with her little air of dignity and confidence, towards Anthony, who was standing forward. 

"Why, Master Anthony, " she said, "dear lad; I did not know they had keptyou, " and she took his hand. 

"What is it, what is it?" he whispered sharply. 

"Hush, " she said; and the two stood together in silence. 

The moments passed; Anthony could hear the quick thumping beat of his ownheart, and the breathing of Mistress Margaret; but the hall was perfectlyquiet, where the magistrate with the prisoner and his men stood in anirregular dark group with the candle behind them; and no sound came fromthe room beyond. 

Then the handle turned, and a crack of light showed; but no furthersound; then the door opened wide, a flood of light poured out and SirNicholas tottered into the hall. 

"Margaret, Margaret, " he cried. "Where are you? Go to her. "

There was a strange moaning sound from the brightly lighted room. The oldlady dropped Anthony's hand and moved swiftly and unfalteringly across, and once more the door closed behind her. 

There was a sharp word of command from the magistrate, and the sentriesfrom every door left their posts, and joined the group which, with SirNicholas and his guest and Mr. Boyd in the centre, now passed out throughthe garden door. 

The magistrate paused as he saw Anthony standing there alone. 

"I can trust you, young gentleman, " he said, "not to give the alarm tillwe are gone?"

Anthony nodded, and the magistrate passed briskly out on to the terrace, shutting the door behind him; there was a rush of footsteps and a murmurof voices and the hall was filled with the watching servants. 

As the chorus of exclamations and inquiries broke out, Anthony ranstraight through the crowd to the garden door, and on to the terrace. They had gone to the left, he supposed, but he hesitated a moment tolisten; then he heard the stamp of horses' feet and the jingle ofsaddlery, and saw the glare of torches through the yew hedge; and heturned quickly and ran along the terrace, past the flood of light thatpoured out from the supper room, and down the path that led to theside-door opposite the Rectory. It was very dark, and he stumbled once ortwice; then he came to the two or three stairs that led down to the doorin the wall, and turned off among the bushes, creeping on hands and feettill he reached the wall, low on this side, but deep on the other; andlooked over. 

The pursuivants with their men had formed a circle round the twoprisoners, who were already mounted and who sat looking about them as theluggage was being strapped to their saddles before and behind; thebridles were lifted forward over the horses' heads, and a couple of theguard held each rein. The groom who had brought round the two horses forMr. Stewart and himself stood white-faced and staring, with his back tothe Rectory wall. The magistrate was just mounting at a little distancehis own horse, which was held by the Rectory boy. Mr. Boyd, it seemed, was to walk with the men. Two or three torches were burning by now, andevery detail was distinct to Anthony, as he crouched among the dry leavesand peered down on to the group just beneath. 

Sir Nicholas' face was turned away from him; but his head was sunk on hisbreast, and he did not stir or lift it as his horse stamped at thestrapping on of the valise Mr. Boyd had packed for him. Mr. Stewart saterect and motionless, and his face as Anthony saw it was confident andfearless. 

Then suddenly the door in the Rectory wall opposite was flung open, and afigure in flying black skirts, but hatless, rushed out and through theguard straight up to the old man's knee. There was a shout from the menand a movement to pull him off, but the magistrate who was on his horseand just outside the circle spoke sharply, and the men fell back. 

"Oh, Sir Nicholas, Sir Nicholas, " sobbed the minister, his face halfburied in the saddle. Anthony saw his shoulders shaking, and his handsclutching at the old man's knee. "Forgive me, forgive me. "

There was no answer from Sir Nicholas; he still sat unmoved, his chin onhis breast, as the Rector sobbed and moaned at his stirrup. 

"There, there, " said the magistrate decidedly, over the heads of theguard, "that is enough, Mr. Dent"; and he made a motion with his hand. 

A couple of men took the minister by the shoulders and drew him, stillcrying out to Sir Nicholas, outside the group; and he stood there dazedand groping with his hands. There was a word of command; and the guardmoved off at a sharp walk, with the horses in the centre, and as theyturned, the lad saw in the torchlight the old man's face drawn andwrinkled with sorrow, and great tears running down it. 

The Rector leaned against his own wall, with his hands over his face; andAnthony looked at him with growing suspicion and terror as the flare ofthe torches on the trees faded, and the noise of the troop died awayround the corner. 

 CHAPTER IX

 VILLAGE JUSTICE

The village had never known such an awakening as on the morning thatfollowed Sir Nicholas' arrest. Before seven o'clock every house knew it, and children ran half-dressed to the outlying hamlets to tell the story. Very little work was done that day, for the estate was disorganised; andthe men had little heart for work; and there were groups all day on thegreen, which formed and re-formed and drifted here and there anddiscussed and sifted the evidence. It was soon known that the Rectoryhousehold had had a foremost hand in the affair. The groom, who had beenpresent at the actual departure of the prisoners had told the story ofthe black figure that ran out of the door, and of what was cried at theold man's knee; and how he had not moved nor spoken in answer; andThomas, the Rectory boy, was stopped as he went across the green in theevening and threatened and encouraged until he told of the stroke on thechurch-bell, and the Rectory key, and the little company that had sat allthe afternoon in the kitchen over their ale. He told too how a couple ofhours ago he had been sent across with a note to Lady Maxwell, and thatit had been returned immediately unopened. 

So as night fell, indignation had begun to smoulder fiercely against theminister, who had not been seen all day; and after dark had fallen thename "Judas" was cried in at the Rectory door half a dozen times, and astone or two from the direction of the churchyard had crashed on thetiles of the house. 

Mr. Norris had been up all day at the Hall, but he was the only visitoradmitted. All day long the gate-house was kept closed, and the samemessage was given to the few horsemen and carriages that came to inquireafter the truth of the report from the Catholic houses round, to theeffect that it was true that Sir Nicholas and a friend had been taken offto London by the Justice from East Grinsted; and that Lady Maxwell beggedthe prayers of her friends for her husband's safe return. 

Anthony had ridden off early with a servant, at his father's wish, tofollow Sir Nicholas and learn any news of him that was possible, to dohim any service he was able, and to return or send a message the next daydown to Great Keynes; and early in the afternoon he returned with theinformation that Sir Nicholas was at the Marshalsea, that he was well andhappy, that he sent his wife his dear love, and that she should have aletter from him before nightfall. He rode straight to the Hall with thenews, full of chastened delight at his official importance, just pausingto tell a group that was gathered on the green that all was well so far, and was shown up to Lady Maxwell's own parlour, where he found her, veryquiet and self-controlled, and extremely grateful for his kindness inriding up to London and back on her account. Anthony explained too thathe had been able to get Sir Nicholas one or two comforts that the prisondid not provide, a pillow and an extra coverlet and some fruit; and heleft her full of gratitude. 

His father had been up to see the ladies two or three times, and in spiteof the difference in religion had prayed with them, and talked a little;and Lady Maxwell had asked that Isabel might come up to supper and spendthe evening. Mr. Norris promised to send her up, and then added:

"I am a little anxious, Lady Maxwell, lest the people may show theiranger against the Rector or his wife, about what has happened. "

Lady Maxwell looked startled. 

"They have been speaking of it all day long, " he said, "they knoweverything; and it seems the Rector is not so much to blame as his wife. It was she who sent for the magistrate and gave him the key and arrangedit all; he was only brought into it too late to interfere or refuse. "

"Have you seen him?" asked the old lady. 

"I have been both days, " he said, "but he will not see me; he is in hisstudy, locked in. "

"I may have treated him hardly, " she said, "I would not open his note;but at least he consented to help them against his friend. " And her oldeyes filled with tears. 

"I fear that is so, " said the other sadly. 

"But speak to the people, " she said, "I think they love my husband, andwould do nothing to grieve us; tell them that nothing would pain eitherof us more than that any should suffer for this. Tell them they must donothing, but be patient and pray. "

There was a group still on the green near the pond as Isabel came up tosupper that evening about six o'clock. Her father, who had given LadyMaxwell's message to the people an hour or two before, had asked her togo that way and send down a message to him immediately if there seemed tobe any disturbance or threatening of it; but the men were very quiet. Mr. Musgrave was there, she saw, sitting with his pipe, on the stocks, andPiers, the young Irish bailiff, was standing near; they all were silentas the girl came up, and saluted her respectfully as usual; and she sawno signs of any dangerous element. There were one or two older women withthe men, and others were standing at their open doors on all sides as shewent up. The Rectory gate was locked, and no one was to be seen within. 

Supper was laid in Sir Nicholas' room, as it generally was, and as it hadbeen two nights ago; and it was very strange to Isabel to know that itwas here that the arrest had taken place; the floor, too, she noticed asshe came in, all about the threshold was scratched and dented by roughboots. 

Lady Maxwell was very silent and distracted during supper; she madeefforts to talk again and again, and her sister did her best to interesther and keep her talking; but she always relapsed after a minute or twointo silence again, with long glances round the room, at the Vernacleover the fireplace, the prie-dieu with the shield of the Five Woundsabove it, and all the things that spoke so keenly of her husband. 

What a strange room it was, too, thought Isabel, with its odd mingling ofthe two worlds, with the tapestry of the hawking scene and the stiffherons and ladies on horseback on one side, and the little shelf ofdevotional books on the other; and yet how characteristic of its ownerwho fingered his cross-bow or the reins of his horse all day, and hisbeads in the evening; and how strange that an old man like Sir Nicholas, who knew the world, and had as much sense apparently as any one else, should be willing to sacrifice home and property and even life itself, for these so plainly empty superstitious things that could not please aGod that was Spirit and Truth! So Isabel thought to herself, with nobitterness or contempt, but just a simple wonder and amazement, as shelooked at the painted tokens and trinkets. 

It was still daylight when they went upstairs to Lady Maxwell's roomabout seven, but the clear southern sky over the yew hedges and the tallelms where the rooks were circling, was beginning to be flushed with deepamber and rose. Isabel sat down in the window seat with the sweet airpouring in and looked out on to the garden with its tiled paths and itscool green squares of lawn, and the glowing beds at the sides. Over toher right the cloister court ran out, with its two rows of windows, bedrooms above with galleries beyond, as she knew, and parlours andcloisters below; the pleasant tinkle of the fountain in the court camefaintly to her ears across the caw of the rooks about the elms and thelow sounds from the stables and the kitchen behind the house. Otherwisethe evening was very still; the two old ladies were sitting near thefireplace; Lady Maxwell had taken up her embroidery, and was looking atit listlessly, and Mistress Margaret had one of her devotional books andwas turning the pages, pausing here and there as she did so. 

Presently she began to read, without a word of introduction, one of themusings of the old monk John Audeley in his sickness, and as the tenderlines stepped on, that restless jewelled hand grew still. 

 "As I lay sick in my languor In an abbey here by west; This book I made with great dolour, When I might not sleep nor rest. Oft with my prayers my soul I blest, And said aloud to Heaven's King, 'I know, O Lord, it is the best Meekly to take thy visiting. Else well I wot that I were lorn (High above all lords be he blest!) All that thou dost is for the best; By fault of Thee was no man lost, That is here of woman born. '"

And then she read some of Rolle's verses to Jesus, the "friend of allsick and sorrowful souls, " and a meditation of his on the Passion, andthe tranquil thoughts and tender fragrant sorrows soothed the tornthrobbing soul; and Isabel saw the old wrinkled hand rise to herforehead, and the embroidery, with the needle still in it slipped to theground; as the holy Name "like ointment poured forth" gradually broughtits endless miracle and made all sweet and healthful again. 

Outside the daylight was fading; the luminous vault overhead wasdeepening to a glowing blue as the sunset contracted on the westernhorizon to a few vivid streaks of glory; the room was growing darkerevery moment; and Mistress Margaret's voice began to stumble over words. 

The great gilt harp in the corner only gleamed here and there now insingle lines of clear gold where the dying daylight fell on the strings. The room was full of shadows and the image of the Holy Mother and Childhad darkened into obscurity in their niche. The world was silent now too;the rooks were gone home and the stir of the household below had ceased;and in a moment more Mistress Margaret's voice had ceased too, as shelaid the book down. 

Then, as if the world outside had waited for silence before speaking, there came a murmur of sound from the further side of the house. Isabelstarted up; surely there was anger in that low roar from the village; wasit this that her father had feared? Had she been remiss? Lady Maxwell toosprang up and faced the window with wide large eyes. 

"The letter!" she said; and took a quick step towards the door; butMistress Margaret was with her instantly, with her arm about her. 

"Sit down, Mary, " she said, "they will bring it at once"; and her sisterobeyed; and she sat waiting and looking towards the door, clasping andunclasping her hands as they lay on her lap; and Mistress Margaret stoodby her, waiting and watching too. Isabel still stood by the windowlistening. Had she been mistaken then? The roar had sunk into silence fora moment; and there came back the quick beat of a horse's hoofs outsideon the short drive between the gatehouse and the Hall. They were right, then; and even as she thought it, and as the wife that waited for news ofher husband drew a quick breath and half rose in her seat at the sound ofthat shod messenger that bore them, again the roar swelled up louder thanever; and Isabel sprang down from the low step of the window-seat intothe dusky room where the two sisters waited. 

"What is that? What is that?" she whispered sharply. 

There was a sound of opening doors, and of feet that ran in the housebelow; and Lady Maxwell rose up and put out her hand, as a man-servantdashed in with a letter. 

"My lady, " he said panting, and giving it to her, "they are attacking theRectory. "

Lady Maxwell, who was half-way to the window now, for light to read herhusband's letter, paused at that. 

"The Rectory?" she said. "Why--Margaret----" then she stopped, and Isabelclose beside her, saw her turn resolutely from the great sealed letter inher hand to the door, and back again. 

"Jervis told us, my lady; none saw him as he rode through--they werebreaking down the gate. "

Then Lady Maxwell, with a quick movement, lifted the letter to her lipsand kissed it, and thrust it down somewhere out of sight in the folds ofher dress. 

"Come, Margaret, " she said. 

Isabel followed them down the stairs and out through the hall-door; andthere, as they came out on to the steps that savage snarling roar swelledup from the green. There was laughter and hooting mixed with that growlof anger; but even the laughter was fierce. The gatehouse stood up blackagainst the glare of torches, and the towers threw great swinging shadowson the ground and the steps of the Hall. 

Isabel followed the two grey glimmering figures, and was astonished atthe speed with which she had to go. The hoofs of the courier's horse rangon the cobbles of the stable-yard as they came down towards thegatehouse, and the two wings of the door were wide-open through which hehad passed just now; but the porter was gone. 

Ah! there was the crowd; but not at the Rectory. On the right the Rectorygate lay wide open, and a flood of light poured out from the house-doorat the end of the drive. Before them lay the dark turf, swarming withblack figures towards the lower end; and a ceaseless roar came from them. There were half a dozen torches down there, tossing to and fro; Isabelsaw that the crowd was still moving down towards the stocks and the pond. 

Now the two ladies in front of her were just coming up with the skirts ofthe crowd; and there was an exclamation or two of astonishment as thewomen and children saw who it was that was coming. Then there came thefurious scream of a man, and the crowd parted, as three men came reelingout together, two of them trying with all their power to restrain afighting, kicking, plunging man in long black skirts, who tore and beatwith his hands. The three ladies stopped for a moment, close together;and simultaneously the struggling man broke free and dashed back into thecrowd, screaming with anger and misery. 

"Marion, Marion--I am coming--O God!"

And Isabel saw with a shock of honor that sent her crouching and clingingclose to Mistress Margaret, that it was the Rector. But the two men wereafter him and caught him by the shoulders as he disappeared; and as theyturned they faced Lady Maxwell. 

"My lady, my lady, " stammered one, "we mean him no harm. We----" But hisvoice stopped, as there came a sudden silence, rent by a high terribleshriek and a splash; followed in a moment by a yell of laughter andshouting; and Lady Maxwell threw herself into the crowd in front. 

There were a few moments of jostling in the dark, with the reek and pressof the crowd about her; and Isabel found herself on the brink of theblack pond, with Lady Maxwell on one side, and Piers on the other keepingthe crowd back, and a dripping figure moaning and sobbing in the trampledmud at Lady Maxwell's feet. There was silence enough now, and the ring offaces opposite stared astonished and open-mouthed at the tall old ladywith her grey veiled head upraised, as she stood there in the torchlightand rated them in her fearless indignant voice. 

"I am ashamed, ashamed!" cried Lady Maxwell. "I thought you were men. Ithought you loved my husband; and--and me. " Her voice broke, and thenonce more she cried again. "I am ashamed, ashamed of my village. "

And then she stooped to that heaving figure that had crawled up, and laidhold tenderly of the arms that were writhed about her feet. 

"Come home, my dear, " Isabel heard her whisper. 

It was a strange procession homeward up the trampled turf. The crowd hadbroken into groups, and the people were awed and silent as they watchedthe four women go back together. Isabel walked a little behind with herfather and Anthony, who had at last been able to come forward through thepress and join them; and a couple of the torchbearers escorted them. Infront went the three, on one side Lady Maxwell, her lace and silksplashed and spattered with mud, and her white hands black with it, andon the other the old nun, each with an arm thrown round the woman in thecentre who staggered and sobbed and leaned against them as she went, withher long hair and her draggled clothes streaming with liquid mud everystep she took. Once they stopped, at a group of three men. The Rector wassitting up, in his torn dusty cassock, and Isabel saw that one of hisbuckled shoes was gone, as he sat on the grass with his feet before him, but quiet now, with his hands before him, and a dazed stupid look in hislittle black eves that blinked at the light of the torch that was heldover him; he said nothing as he looked at his wife between the twoladies, but his lips moved, and his eyes wandered for a moment to LadyMaxwell's face, and then back to his wife. 

"Take him home presently, " she said to the men who were with him--andthen passed on again. 

As they got through the gatehouse, Isabel stepped forward to MistressMargaret's side. 

"Shall I come?" she whispered; and the nun shook her head; so she withher father and brother stood there to watch, with the crowd silent andashamed behind. The two torchbearers went on and stood by the steps asthe three ladies ascended, leaving black footmarks as they went. The doorwas open and faces of servants peeped out, and hands were thrust out totake the burden from their mistress, but she shook her head, and thethree came in together, and the door closed. 

As the Norrises went back silently, the Rector passed them, with a littlegroup accompanying him too; he, too, could hardly walk alone, soexhausted was he with his furious struggles to rescue his wife. 

"Take your sister home, " said Mr. Norris to Anthony; and they saw himslip off and pass his arm through the Rector's, and bend down hishandsome kindly face to the minister's staring eyes and moving lips as hetoo led him homewards. 

Even Anthony was hushed and impressed, and hardly spoke a word until heand Isabel turned off down the little dark lane to the Dower House. 

"We could do nothing, " he said, "father and I--until Lady Maxwell came. "

"No, " said Isabel softly, "she only could have done it. "

 CHAPTER X

 A CONFESSOR

Sir Nicholas and the party were lodged at East Grinsted the night oftheir arrest, in the magistrate's house. Although he was allowed privacyin his room, after he had given his word of honour not to attempt anescape, yet he was allowed no conversation with Mr. Stewart or his ownservant except in the presence of the magistrate or one of thepursuivants; and Mr. Stewart, since he was personally unknown to themagistrate, and since the charge against him was graver, was not on anyaccount allowed to be alone for a moment, even in the room in which heslept. The following day they all rode on to London, and the twoprisoners were lodged in the Marshalsea. This had been for a long whilethe place where Bishop Bonner was confined; and where Catholic prisonerswere often sent immediately after their arrest; and Sir Nicholas at anyrate found to his joy that he had several old friends among theprisoners. He was confined in a separate room; but by the kindness of hisgaoler whom he bribed profusely as the custom was, through his servant, he had many opportunities of meeting the others; and even of approachingthe sacraments and hearing mass now and then. 

He began a letter to his wife on the day of his arrival and finished itthe next day which was Saturday, and it was taken down immediately by thecourier who had heard the news and had called at the prison. In fact, hewas allowed a good deal of liberty; although he was watched and hisconversation listened to, a good deal more than he was aware. Mr. Stewart, however, as he still called himself, was in a much harder case. The saddle-bags had been opened on his arrival, and incriminatingdocuments found. Besides the "popish trinkets" they were found to containa number of "seditious pamphlets, " printed abroad for distribution inEngland; for at this time the College at Douai, under its founder Dr. William Allen, late Principal of St. Mary's Hall, Oxford, was active inthe production of literature; these were chiefly commentaries on theBull; as well as exhortations to the Catholics to stand firm and topersevere in recusancy, and to the schismatic Catholics, as they werecalled, to give over attending the services in the parish churches. Therewere letters also from Dr. Storey himself, whom the authorities alreadyhad in person under lock and key at the Tower. These were quitesufficient to make Mr. Stewart a prize; and he also was very shortlyafterwards removed to the Tower. 

Sir Nicholas wrote a letter at least once a week to his wife; but writingwas something of a labour to him; it was exceedingly doubtful to his mindwhether his letters were not opened and read before being handed to thecourier, and as his seal was taken from him his wife could not telleither. However they seemed to arrive regularly; plainly therefore theauthorities were either satisfied with their contents or else did notthink them worth opening or suppressing. He was quite peremptory that hiswife should not come up to London; it would only increase his distress, he said; and he liked to think of her at Maxwell Hall; there were otherreasons too that he was prudent enough not to commit to paper, and whichshe was prudent enough to guess at, the principal of which was, ofcourse, that she ought to be there for the entertaining and helping ofother agents or priests who might be in need of shelter. 

The old man got into good spirits again very soon. It pleased him tothink that God had honoured him by imprisonment; and he said as much onceor twice in his letters to his wife. He was also pleased with a sense ofthe part he was playing in the _rôle_ of a conspirator; and he underlinedand put signs and exclamation marks all over his letters of which hethought his wife would understand the significance, but no one else;whereas in reality the old lady was sorely puzzled by them, and theauthorities who opened the letters generally read them of course like aprinted book. 

One morning about ten days after his arrival the Governor of the prisonlooked in with the gaoler, and announced to Sir Nicholas, after greetinghim, that he was to appear before the Council that very day. This, ofcourse, was what Sir Nicholas desired, and he thanked the Governorcordially for his good news. 

"They will probably keep you at the Tower, Sir Nicholas, " said theGovernor, "and we shall lose you. However, sir, I hope you will be morecomfortable there than we have been able to make you. "

The knight thanked the Governor again, and said good-day to him withgreat warmth; for they had been on the best of terms with one anotherduring his short detention at the Marshalsea. 

The following day Sir Nicholas wrote a long letter to his wife describinghis examination. 

"We are in _royal lodgings_ here at last, sweetheart; Mr. Boyd brought myluggage over yesterday; and I am settled _for the present_ in a room ofmy own in the White Tower; with a prospect over the Court. I was hadbefore my lords yesterday in the Council-room; we drove hither from theMarshalsea. There was a bay window in the room. I promise you they gotlittle enough from me. There was my namesake, Sir Nicholas Bacon, mylords Leicester and Pembroke, and Mr. Secretary Cecil; Sir James Crofts, the Controller of the Household, and one or two more; but these were theprincipal. I was set before the table on a chair alone with none to guardme; but with men at the doors I knew very well. My lords were verycourteous to me; though they laughed more than was seemly at such gravetimes. They questioned me much as to my religion. Was I a papist? If theymeant by that a _Catholic_, that I was, and thanked God for it everyday--(those nicknames like me not). Was I then a recusant? If by thatthey meant, Did I go to their Genevan Hotch-Potch? That I did not nornever would. I thought to have said a word here about St. Cyprian hiswork _De Unitate Ecclesiae_, as F----r X. Told me, but they would not letme speak. Did I know Mr. Chapman? If by that they meant Mr. Stewart, thatI did, and for a courteous God-fearing gentleman too. Was he a Papist, ora Catholic if I would have it so? That I would not tell them; let themfind that out with their pursuivants and that crew. Did I thinkProtestants to be fearers of God? That I did not; they feared nought butthe Queen's Majesty, so it seemed to me. Then they all laughed at once--Iknow not why. Then they grew grave; and Mr. Secretary began to ask mequestions, sharp and hard; but I would not be put upon, and answered himagain as he asked. Did I know ought of Dr. Storey? Nothing, said I, savethat he is a good Catholic, and that they had taken him. _He is aseditious rogue_, said my Lord Pembroke. _That he is not_, said I. Thenthey asked me what I thought of the Pope and his Bull, and whether he candepose princes. I said I thought him to be the Vicar of Christ; and as tohis power to depose princes, that I supposed he could do, if he said so. Then two or three cried out on me that I had not answered honestly; andat that I got wrath; and then they laughed again, at least I saw SirJames Crofts at it. And Mr. Secretary, looking very hard at me askedwhether if Philip sent an armament against Elizabeth to depose her, Iwould fight for him or her grace. For neither, said I: I am too old. _Forwhich then would you pray?_ said they. _For the Queen's Grace_, said I, _for that she was my sovereign_. This seemed to content them; and theytalked a little among themselves. They had asked me other questions tooas to my way of living; whether I went to mass. They asked me too alittle more about Mr. Stewart. Did I know him to be a seditious rascal?That I did not, said I. _Then how_, asked they, _did you come to receivehim and his pamphlets?_ Of his pamphlets, said I, I know nothing; I sawnothing in his bags save beads and a few holy books and such things. (Yousee, sweetheart, I did him no injury by saying so, because I knew thatthey had his bags themselves. ) And I said I had received him because hewas recommended to me by some good friends of mine abroad, and I toldthem their names too; for they are safe in Flanders now. 

"And when they had done their questions they talked again for a while; andI was sent out to the antechamber to refresh myself; and Mr. Secretarysent a man with me to see that I had all I needed; and we talked togethera little, and he said the Council were in good humour at the taking ofDr. Storey; and he had never seen them so merry. Then I was had backagain presently; and Mr. Secretary said I was to stay in the Tower; andthat Mr. Boyd was gone already to bring my things. And so after that Iwent by water to the Tower, and here I am, sweetheart, well and cheerful, praise God. .. . 

"My dearest, I send you my heart's best love. God have you in his holykeeping. "

The Council treated the old knight very tenderly. They were shrewd enoughto see his character very plainly; and that he was a simple man who knewnothing of sedition, but only had harboured agents thinking them to be asguileless as himself. As a matter of fact, Mr. Stewart was an agent ofDr. Storey's; and was therefore implicated in a number of very gravecharges. This of course was a very serious matter; but both in theexamination of the Council, and in papers in Mr. Stewart's bags, nothingcould be found to implicate Sir Nicholas in any political intrigue atall. The authorities were unwilling too to put such a man to the torture. There was always a possibility of public resentment against the tortureof a man for his religion alone; and they were desirous not to arousethis, since they had many prisoners who would be more productive subjectsof the rack than a plainly simple and loyal old man whose only crime washis religion. They determined, however, to make an attempt to get alittle more out of Sir Nicholas by a device which would excite noresentment if it ever transpired, and one which was more suited to theold man's nature and years. 

Sir Nicholas thus described it to his wife. 

"Last night, my dearest, I had a great honour and consolation. I wasawakened suddenly towards two o'clock in the morning by the door of myroom opening and a man coming in. It was somewhat dark, and I could notsee the man plainly, but I could see that he limped and walked with astick, and he breathed hard as he entered. I sat up and demanded of himwho he was and what he wanted; and telling me to be still, he said thathe was Dr. Storey. You may be sure, sweetheart, that I sprang up at that;but he would not let me rise; and himself sat down beside me. He saidthat by the _kindness_ of a gaoler he had been allowed to come; and thathe must not stay with me long; that he had heard of me from his goodfriend Mr. Stewart. I asked him how he did, for I heard that he had beenracked; and he said yes, it was true; but that by the mercy of God andthe prayers of the saints he had held his peace and they knew nothingfrom him. Then he asked me a great number of questions about the _men Ihad entertained_, and where they were now; and he knew many of theirnames. Some of them were friends of his own, he said; especially thepriests. We talked a good while, till the morning light began; and thenhe said he must be gone or the head gaoler would know of his visit, andso he went. I wish I could have seen his face, sweetheart, for I thinkhim a great servant of God; but it was still too dark when he went, andwe dared not have a light for fear it should be seen. "

This was as a matter of fact a ruse of the authorities. It was not Dr. Storey at all who was admitted to Sir Nicholas' prison, but Parker, whohad betrayed him at Antwerp. It was so successful, for Sir Nicholas toldhim all that he knew (which was really nothing at all) that it wasrepeated a few months later with richer results; when the conspiratorBaily, hysterical and almost beside himself with the pain of the rack, under similar circumstances gave up a cypher which was necessary to theCouncil in dealing with the correspondence of Mary Stuart. However, SirNicholas never knew the deception, and to the end of his days was proudthat he had actually met the famous Dr. Storey, when they were bothimprisoned in the Tower together, and told his friends of it withreverent pride when the doctor was hanged a year later. 

Hubert, who had been sent for to take charge of the estate, had come toLondon soon after his father's arrival at the Tower; and was allowed aninterview with him in the presence of the Lieutenant. Hubert was greatlyaffected; though he could not look upon the imprisonment with the samesolemn exultation as that which his father had; but it made a realimpression upon him to find that he took so patiently this separationfrom home and family for the sake of religion. Hubert receivedinstructions from Sir Nicholas as to the management of the estate, for itwas becoming plain that his father would have to remain in the Tower forthe present; not any longer on a really grave charge, but chiefly becausehe was an obstinate recusant and would promise nothing. The law and itsadministration at this time were very far apart; the authorities were notvery anxious to search out and punish those who were merely recusants orrefused to take the oath of supremacy; and so Hubert and Mr. Boyd andother Catholics were able to come and go under the very nose of justicewithout any real risk to themselves; but it was another matter to let asturdy recusant go from prison who stoutly refused to give any sort ofpromise or understanding as to future behaviour. 

Sir Nicholas was had down more than once to further examination beforethe Lords Commissioners in the Lieutenant's house; but it was a very tameand even an amusing affair for all save Sir Nicholas. It was so easy toprovoke him; he was so simple and passionate that they could get almostanything they wanted out of him by a little adroit baiting; and more thanonce his examination formed a welcome and humorous entr'acte between tworeal tragedies. Sir Nicholas, of course, never suspected for a momentthat he was affording any amusement to any one. He thought their wearylaughter to be sardonic and ironical, and he looked upon himself as avery desperate fellow indeed; and wrote glowing accounts of it all to hiswife, full of apostrophic praises to God and the saints, in a hand thatshook with excitement and awe at the thought of the important scenes inwhich he played so prominent a part. 

But there was no atmosphere of humour about Mr. Stewart. He haddisappeared from Sir Nicholas' sight on their arrival at the Marshalsea, and they had not set eyes on one another since; nor could all theknight's persuasion and offer of bribes make his gaoler consent to takeany message or scrap of paper between them. He would not even answer morethan the simplest inquiries about him, --that he was alive and in theTower, and so forth; and Sir Nicholas prayed often and earnestly for thatdeliberate and vivacious young man who had so charmed and interested themall down at Great Keynes, and who had been so mysteriously engulfed bythe sombre majesty of the law. 

"I fear, " he wrote to Lady Maxwell, "I fear that _our friend_ must besick or dying. But I can hear no news of him; when I am allowed sometimesto walk in the court or on the leads he is never there. My _attendant_Mr. Jakes looks glum and says nothing when I ask him how my friend does. My dearest, do not forget him in your prayers nor your old loving husbandeither. "

One evening late in October Mr. Jakes did not come as usual to bring SirNicholas his supper at five o'clock; the time passed and still he did notcome. This was very unusual. Presently Mrs. Jakes appeared instead, carrying the food which she set down at the door while she turned the keybehind her. Sir Nicholas rallied her on having turned gaoler; but sheturned on him a face with red eyes and lined with weeping. 

"O Sir Nicholas, " she said, for these two were good friends, "what awicked place this is! God forgive me for saying so; but they've had thatyoung man down there since two o'clock; and Jakes is with them to help;and he told me to come up to you, Sir Nicholas, with your supper, if theyweren't done by five; and if the young gentleman hadn't said what theywanted. "

Sir Nicholas felt sick. 

"Who is it?" he asked. 

"Why, who but Mr. Stewart?" she said; and then fell weeping again, andwent out forgetting to lock the door behind her in her grief. SirNicholas sat still a moment, sick and shaken; he knew what it meant; butit had never come so close to him before. He got up presently and went tothe door to listen for he knew not what. But there was no sound but themoan of the wind up the draughty staircase, and the sound of a prisonersinging somewhere above him a snatch of a song. He looked out presently, but there was nothing but the dark well of the staircase disappearinground to the left, and the glimmer of an oil lamp somewhere from thedepths below him, with wavering shadows as the light was blown about bythe gusts that came up from outside. There was nothing to be done ofcourse; he closed the door, went back and prayed with all his might forthe young man who was somewhere in this huge building, in his agony. 

Mr. Jakes came up himself within half an hour to see if all was well; butsaid nothing of his dreadful employment or of Mr. Stewart; and SirNicholas did not like to ask for fear of getting Mrs. Jakes into trouble. The gaoler took away the supper things, wished him good-night, went outand locked the door, apparently without noticing it had been left undonebefore. Possibly his mind was too much occupied with what he had beenseeing and doing. And the faithful account of all this went down in duetime to Great Keynes. 

The arrival of the courier at the Hall on Wednesday and Saturday was agreat affair both to the household and to the village. Sir Nicholas senthis letter generally by the Saturday courier, and the other brought akind of bulletin from Mr. Boyd, with sometimes a message or two from hismaster. These letters were taken by the ladies first to the study, as ifto an oratory, and Lady Maxwell would read them slowly over to hersister. And in the evening, when Isabel generally came up for an hour ortwo, the girl would be asked to read them slowly all over again to thetwo ladies who sat over their embroidery on either side of her, and whointerrupted for the sheer joy of prolonging it. And they would discusstogether the exact significance of all his marks of emphasis and irony;and the girl would have all she could do sometimes not to feel a disloyalamusement at the transparency of the devices and the simplicity of theloving hearts that marvelled at the writer's depth and ingenuity. But shewas none the less deeply impressed by his courageous cheerfulness, and bythe power of a religion that in spite of its obvious weaknesses andimprobabilities yet inspired an old man like Sir Nicholas with so muchfortitude. 

At first, too, a kind of bulletin was always issued on the Sunday andThursday mornings, and nailed upon the outside of the gatehouse, so thatany who pleased could come there and get first-hand information; and aninterpreter stood there sometimes, one of the educated younger sons ofMr. Piers, and read out to the groups from Lady Maxwell's sprawling oldhandwriting, news of the master. 

"Sir Nicholas has been had before the Council, " he read out one day in ahigh complacent voice to the awed listeners, "and has been sent to theTower of London. " This caused consternation in the village, as it wassupposed by the country-folk, not without excuse, that the Tower was theantechamber of death; but confidence was restored by the furtherannouncement a few lines down that "he was well and cheerful. "

Great interest, too, was aroused by more domestic matters. 

"Sir Nicholas, " it was proclaimed, "is in a little separate chamber ofhis own. Mr. Jakes, his gaoler, seems an honest fellow. Sir Nicholas hatha little mattress from a friend that Mr. Boyd fetched for him. He hasdinner at eleven and supper at five. Sir Nicholas hopes that all are wellin the village. "

But other changes had followed the old knight's arrest. The furiousindignation in the village against the part that the Rectory had playedin the matter, made it impossible for the Dents to remain there. That theminister's wife should have been publicly ducked, and that not by a fewblackguards but by the solid fathers and sons with the applause of thewives and daughters, made her husband's position intolerable, and furtherevidence was forthcoming in the behaviour of the people towards theRector himself; some boys had guffawed during his sermon on the followingSunday, when he had ventured on a word or two of penitence as to hisshare in the matter, and he was shouted after on his way home. 

Mrs. Dent seemed strangely changed and broken during her stay at theHall. She had received a terrible shock, and it was not safe to move herback to her own house. For the first two or three nights, she would startfrom sleep again and again screaming for help and mercy and nothing wouldquiet her till she was wide awake and saw in the fire-light the curtainedwindows and the bolted door, and the kindly face of an old servant orMistress Margaret with her beads in her hand. Isabel, who came up to seeher two or three times, was both startled and affected by the change inher; and by the extraordinary mood of humility which seemed to have takenpossession of the hard self-righteous Puritan. 

"I begged pardon, " she whispered to the girl one evening, sitting up inbed and staring at her with wide, hard eyes, "I begged pardon of LadyMaxwell, though I am not fit to speak to her. Do you think she can everforgive me? Do you think she can? It was I, you know, who wrought all themischief, as I have wrought all the mischief in the village all theseyears. She said she did, and she kissed me, and said that our Saviour hadforgiven her much more. But--but do you think she has forgiven me?" Andthen again, another night, a day or two before they left the place, shespoke to Isabel again. 

"Look after the poor bodies, " she said, "teach them a little charity; Ihave taught them nought but bitterness and malice, so they have but givenme my own back again. I have reaped what I have sown. "

So the Dents slipped off early one morning before the folk were up; andby the following Sunday, young Mr. Bodder, of whom the Bishop entertaineda high opinion, occupied the little desk outside the chancel arch; andGreat Keynes once more had to thank God and the diocesan that itpossessed a proper minister of its own, and not a mere unordained reader, which was all that many parishes could obtain. 

Towards the end of September further hints began to arrive, very muchunderlined, in the knight's letters, of Mr. Stewart and his sufferings. 

"You remember _our friend_, " Isabel read out one Saturday evening, "_not_Mr. Stewart. " (This puzzled the old ladies sorely till Isabel explainedtheir lord's artfulness. ) "My dearest, I fear the worst for him. I do notmean apostacy, thank God. But I fear that these _wolves_ have torn himsadly, in their _dens_. " Then followed the story of Mrs. Jakes, with allits horror, all the greater from the obscurity of the details. 

Isabel put the paper down trembling, as she sat on the rug before thefire in the parlour upstairs, and thought of the bright-eyed, red-hairedman with his steady mouth and low laugh whom Anthony had described toher. 

Lady Maxwell posted upon the gatehouse:

"Sir Nicholas fears that a _friend_ is in sore trouble; he hopes he maynot _yield_. "

Then, after a few days more, a brief notice with a black-line drawn roundit, that ran, in Mr. Bodder's despite:

"Our _friend_ has passed away. Pray for his soul. "

Sir Nicholas had written in great agitation to this effect. 

"My sweetheart, I have heavy news to-day. There was a great company offolks below my window to-day, in the Inner Ward, where the road runs upbelow the Bloody Tower. It was about nine of the clock. And there was ahorse there whose head I could see; and presently from the BeauchampTower came, as I thought, an old man between two warders; and then Icould not very well see; the men were in my way; but soon the horse wentoff, and the men after him; and I could hear the groaning of the crowdthat were waiting for them outside. And when Mr. Jakes brought me mydinner at eleven of the clock, he told me it was our friend--(think ofit, my dearest--him whom I thought an old man!)--that had been taken offto Tyburn. And now I need say no more, but bid you pray for his soul. "

Isabel could hardly finish reading it; for she heard a quick sobbingbreath behind her, and felt a wrinkled old hand caressing her hair andcheek as her voice faltered. 

Meanwhile Hubert was in town. Sir Nicholas had at first intended him togo down at once and take charge of the estate; but Piers was verycompetent, and so his father consented that he should remain in Londonuntil the beginning of October; and this too better suited Mr. Norris'plans who wished to send Isabel off about the same time to Northampton. 

When Hubert at last did arrive, he soon showed himself extremely capableand apt for the work. He was out on the estate from morning till night onhis cob, and there was not a man under him from Piers downwards who hadanything but praise for his insight and industry. 

There was in Hubert, too, as there so often is in country-boys who loveand understand the life of the woods and fields, a balancing quality of adeep vein of sentiment; and this was now consecrated to Isabel Norris. Hehad pleasant dreams as he rode home in the autumn evening, under thesweet keen sky where the harvest moon rose large and yellow over thehills to his left and shed a strange mystical light that blended in akind of chord with the dying daylight. It was at times like that, whenthe air was fragrant with the scent of dying leaves, with perhaps a touchof frost in it, and the cottages one by one opened red glowing eyes inthe dusk, that the boy began to dream of a home of his own and pleasantdomestic joys; of burning logs on the hearth and lighted candles, and adear slender figure moving about the room. He used to rehearse to himselflittle meetings and partings; look at the roofs of the Dower Houseagainst the primrose sky as he rode up the fields homewards; identify herwindow, dark now as she was away; and long for Christmas when she wouldbe back again. The only shadow over these delightful pictures was theuncertainty as to the future. Where after all would the home be? For hewas a younger son. He thought about James very often. When he came backwould he live at home? Would it all be James' at his father's death, these woods and fields and farms and stately house? Would it ever come tohim? And, meanwhile where should he and Isabel live, when the religiousdifficulty had been surmounted, as he had no doubt that it would besooner or later?

When he thought of his father now, it was with a continually increasingrespect. He had been inclined to despise him sometimes before, as one ofa simple and uneventful life; but now the red shadow of the Law conferreddignity. To have been imprisoned in the Tower was a patent of nobility, adding distinction and gravity to the commonplace. Something of the gloryeven rested on Hubert himself as he rode and hawked with other Catholicboys, whose fathers maybe were equally zealous for the Faith, but lessdistinguished by suffering for it. 

Before Anthony went back to Cambridge, he and Hubert went out nearlyevery day together with or without their hawks. Anthony was about threeyears the younger, and Hubert's additional responsibility for the estatemade the younger boy more in awe of him than the difference in their ageswarranted. Besides, Hubert knew quite as much about sport, and had moreopportunities for indulging his taste for it. There was no heronry athand; besides, it was not the breeding time which is the proper seasonfor this particular sport; so they did not trouble to ride out to one;but the partridges and hares and rabbits that abounded in the Maxwellestate gave them plenty of quarreys. They preferred to go out generallywithout the falconer, a Dutchman, who had been taken into the service ofSir Nicholas thirty years before when things had been more prosperous; itwas less embarrassing so; but they would have a lad to carry the "cadge, "and a pony following them to carry the game. They added to the excitementof the sport by making it a competition between their birds; and flyingthem one after another, or sometimes at the same quarry, as in coursing;but this often led to the birds' crabbing. 

Anthony's peregrine Eliza was almost unapproachable; and the lad was themore proud of her as he had "made" her himself, as an "eyess" or youngfalcon captured as a nestling. But, on the other hand, Hubert's goshawkMargaret, a fiery little creature, named inappropriately enough after histranquil aunt, as a rule did better than Anthony's Isabel, and broughtthe scores level again. 

There was one superb day that survived long in Anthony's memory andconversation; when he had done exceptionally well, when Eliza hadsurpassed herself, and even Isabel had acquitted herself with credit. Itwas one of those glorious days of wind and sun that occasionally fall inearly October, with a pale turquoise sky overhead, and air that seems tosparkle and intoxicate like wine. They went out together after dinnerabout noon; their ponies and spaniels danced with the joy of life; LadyMaxwell cried to them from the north terrace to be careful, and pointedout to Mr. Norris who had dined with them what a graceful seat Huberthad; and then added politely, but as an obvious afterthought, thatAnthony seemed to manage his pony with great address. The boys turned offthrough the village, and soon got on to high ground to the west of thevillage and all among the stubble and mustard, with tracts of rich sunlitcountry, of meadows and russet woodland below them on every side. Thenthe sport began. It seemed as if Eliza could not make a mistake. Thererose a solitary partridge forty yards away with a whirl of wings; (thecoveys were being well broken up by now) Anthony unhooded his bird and"cast off, " with the falconer's cry "Hoo-ha, ha, ha, ha, " and up soaredEliza with the tinkle of bells, on great strokes of those mighty wings, up, up, behind the partridge that fled low down the wind for his life. The two ponies were put to the gallop as the peregrine began to "stoop";and then down like a plummet she fell with closed wings, "raked" thequarry with her talons as she passed; recovered herself, and as Anthonycame up holding out the _tabur-stycke_, returned to him and was hoodedand leashed again; and sat there on his gloved wrist with wet claws, justshivering slightly from her nerves, like the aristocrat she was; whileher master stroked her ashy back and the boy picked up the quarry, admiring the deep rent before he threw it into the pannier. 

Then Hubert had the next turn; but his falcon missed his first stoop, anddid not strike the quarry till the second attempt, thus scoring one toAnthony's account. Then the peregrines were put back on the cadge as theboys got near to a wide meadow in a hollow where the rabbits used tofeed; and the goshawks Margaret and Isabel were taken, each in turnsitting unhooded on her master's wrist, while they all watched the longthin grass for the quick movement that marked the passage of arabbit;--and then in a moment the bird was cast off. The goshawk wouldrise just high enough to see the quarry in the grass, then fly straightwith arched wings and pounces stretched out as she came over the quarry;then striking him between the shoulders would close with him; and hermaster would come up and take her off, throw the rabbit to thegame-carrier; and the other would have the next attempt. 

And so they went on for three or four hours, encouraging their birds, whooping the death of the quarry, watching with all the sportsman'skeenness the soaring and stooping of the peregrines, the raking off ofthe goshawks; listening to the thrilling tinkle of the bells, and takingback their birds to sit triumphant and complacent on their master'swrists, when the quarry had been fairly struck, and furious and sullenwhen it had eluded them two or three times till their breath left them inthe dizzy rushes, and they "canceliered" or even returned disheartenedand would fly no more till they had forgotten--till at last the shadowsgrew long, and the game more wary, and the hawks and ponies tired; andthe boys put up the birds on the cadge, and leashed them to it securely;and jogged slowly homewards together up the valley road that led to thevillage, talking in technical terms of how the merlin's feather must be"imped" to-morrow; and of the relative merits of the "varvels" or littlesilver rings at the end of the jesses through which the leash ran, andthe Dutch swivel that Squire Blackett always used. 

As they got nearer home and the red roofs of the Dower House began toglow in the ruddy sunlight above the meadows, Hubert began to shift theconversation round to Isabel, and inquire when she was coming home. Anthony was rather bored at this turn of the talk; but thought she wouldbe back by Christmas at the latest; and said that she was atNorthampton--and had Hubert ever seen such courage as Eliza's? But Hubertwould not be put off; but led the talk back again to the girl; and atlast told Anthony under promise of secrecy that he was fond of Isabel, and wished to make her his wife;--and oh! did Anthony think she caredreally for him. Anthony stared and wondered and had no opinion at all onthe subject; but presently fell in love with the idea that Hubert shouldbe his brother-in-law and go hawking with him every day; and he added aprivate romance of his own in which he and Mary Corbet should be at theDower House, with Hubert and Isabel at the Hall; while the elders, hisown father, Sir Nicholas, Mr. James, Lady Maxwell, and Mistress Torridonhad all taken up submissive and complacent attitudes in the middledistance. 

He was so pensive that evening that his father asked him at supperwhether he had not had a good day; which diverted his thoughts fromMistress Corbet, and led him away from sentiment on a stream of his owntalk with long backwaters of description of this and that stoop, and ofexactly the points in which he thought the Maxwells' falconer had failedin the training of Hubert's Jane. 

Hubert found a long letter waiting from his father which Lady Maxwellgave him to read, with messages to himself in it about the estate, whichbrought him down again from the treading of rosy cloud-castles with aphantom Isabel whither his hawks and the shouting wind and the happy dayhad wafted him, down to questions of barns and farm-servants and thesober realities of harvest. 

 CHAPTER XI

 MASTER CALVIN

Isabel reached Northampton a day or two before Hubert came back to GreatKeynes. She travelled down with two combined parties going to Leicesterand Nottingham, sleeping at Leighton Buzzard on the way; and on theevening of the second day reached the house of her father's friend Dr. Carrington, that stood in the Market Square. 

Her father's intention in sending her to this particular town andhousehold was to show her how Puritanism, when carried to its extreme, was as orderly and disciplined a system, and was able to control thelives of its adherents, as well as the Catholicism whose influence on hercharacter he found himself beginning to fear. But he wished also that sheshould be repelled to some extent by the merciless rigidity she wouldfind at Northampton, and thus, after an oscillation or two come to restin the quiet eclecticism of that middle position which he occupiedhimself. 

The town indeed was at this time a miniature Geneva. There was somethingin the temper of its inhabitants that made it especially susceptible tothe wave of Puritanism that was sweeping over England. Lollardy hadflourished among them so far back as the reign of Richard II; when themayor, as folks told one another with pride, had plucked a mass-priest bythe vestment on the way to the altar in All Saints' Church, and had madehim give over his mummery till the preacher had finished his sermon. 

Dr. Carrington, too, a clean-shaven, blue-eyed, grey-haired man, churchwarden of Saint Sepulchre's, was a representative of the straitestviews, and desperately in earnest. For him the world ranged itself intothe redeemed and the damned; these two companies were the pivots of lifefor him; and every subject of mind or desire was significant only so faras it bore relations to be immutable decrees of God. But his fierce andmerciless theological insistence was disguised by a real human tendernessand a marked courtesy of manner; and Isabel found him a kindly andthoughtful host. 

Yet the mechanical strictness of the household, and the overpoweringsense of the weightiness of life that it conveyed, was a revelation toIsabel. Dr. Carrington at family prayers was a tremendous figure, as hekneeled upright at the head of the table in the sombre dining-room; andit seemed to Isabel in her place that the pitiless all-seeing Presencethat kept such terrifying silence as the Doctor cried on Jehovah, wasalmost a different God to that whom she knew in the morning parlour athome, to whom her father prayed with more familiarity but no lessromance, and who answered in the sunshine that lay on the carpet, and theshadows of boughs that moved across it, and the chirp of the birds underthe eaves. And all day long she thought she noticed the same difference;at Great Keynes life was made up of many parts, the love of family, thecountry doings, the worship of God, the garden, and the company of theHall ladies; and the Presence of God interpenetrated all like light orfragrance; but here life was lived under the glare of His eye, andabsorption in any detail apart from the consciousness of thatencompassing Presence had the nature of sin. 

On the Saturday after her arrival, as she was walking by the Nen withKate Carrington, one of the two girls, she asked her about the crowd ofministers she had seen in the streets that morning. 

"They have been to the Prophesyings, " said Kate. "My father says thatthere is no exercise that sanctifies a godly young minister so quickly. "

Kate went on to describe them further. The ministers assembled eachSaturday at nine o'clock, and one of their number gave a shortBible-reading or lecture. Then all present were invited to join in thediscussion; the less instructed would ask questions, the more experiencedwould answer, and debate would run high. Such a method Kate explained, who herself was a zealous and well instructed Calvinist, was the surestand swiftest road to truth, for every one held the open Scriptures in hishand, and interpreted and checked the speakers by the aid of thatinfallible guide. 

"But if a man's judgment lead him wrong?" asked Isabel, who professedlyadmitted authority to have some place in matters of faith. 

"All must hold the Apostles' Creed first of all, " said Kate, "and mustset his name to a paper declaring the Pope to be antichrist, with othertruths upon it. "

Isabel was puzzled; for it seemed now as if Private Judgment were notsupreme among its professors; but she did not care to question further. It began to dawn upon her presently, however, why the Queen was so fierceagainst Prophesyings; for she saw that they exercised that spirit ofexclusiveness, the property of Papist and Puritan alike; which, since itwas the antithesis of the tolerant comprehensiveness of the Church ofEngland, was also the enemy of the theological peace that Elizabeth wasseeking to impose upon the country; and that it was for that reason thatPapist and Puritan, sundered so far in theology, were united in sufferingfor conscience' sake. 

On the Sunday morning Isabel went with Mrs. Carrington and the two girlsto the round Templars' Church of Saint Sepulchre, for the Morning Prayerat eight o'clock, and then on to St. Peter's for the sermon. It was thelatter function that was important in Puritan eyes; for the word preachedwas considered to have an almost sacramental force in the application oftruth and grace to the soul; and crowds of people, with downcast eyes andin sombre dress, were pouring down the narrow streets from all thechurches round, while the great bell beat out its summons from the Normantower. The church was filled from end to end as they came in, meeting Dr. Carrington at the door, and they all passed up together to the pewreserved for the churchwarden, close beneath the pulpit. 

As Isabel looked round her, it came upon her very forcibly what she hadbegun to notice even at Great Keynes, that the religion preached theredid not fit the church in which it was set forth; and that, though greatefforts had been made to conform the building to the worship. There hadbeen no half measures at Northampton, for the Puritans had a loathing ofwhat they called a "mingle-mangle. " Altars, footpaces, and piscinæ hadbeen swept away and all marks of them removed, as well as the rood-loftand every image in the building; the stained windows had been replaced byplain glass painted white; the walls had been whitewashed from roof tofloor, and every suspicion of colour erased except where texts ofScripture ran rigidly across the open wall spaces: "We are not under theLaw, but under Grace, " Isabel read opposite her, beneath the clerestorywindows. And, above all, the point to which all lines and eyes converged, was occupied no longer by the Table but by the tribunal of the Lord. Yetunderneath the disguise the old religion triumphed still. Beneath thegreat plain orderly scheme, without depth of shadows, dominated by thetowering place of Proclamation where the crimson-faced herald waited tobegin, the round arches and the elaborate mouldings, and the cool depthsbeyond the pillars, all declared that in the God for whom that temple wasbuilt, there was mystery as well as revelation, Love as well as Justice, condescension as well as Majesty, beauty as well as awfulness, invitations as well as eternal decrees. 

Isabel looked up presently, as the people still streamed in, and watchedthe minister in his rustling Genevan gown, leaning with his elbows on theBible that rested open on the great tasselled velvet cushion before him. Everything about him was on the grand scale; his great hands were claspedand protruded over the edge of the Book; and his heavy dark face lookedmenacingly round on the crowded church; he had the air of a melancholygiant about to engage in some tragic pleasure. But Isabel's instinctivedislike began to pass into positive terror so soon as he began to preach. 

When the last comers had found a place, and the talking had stopped, hepresently gave out his text, in a slow thunderous voice, that silencedthe last whispers:

"What shall we then say to these things? If God be on our side, who canbe against us?"

There were a few slow sentences, in a deep resonant voice, uttering eachsyllable deliberately like the explosion of a far-off gun, and in aminute or two he was in the thick of Calvin's smoky gospel. Doctrine, voice, and man were alike terrible and overpowering. 

There lay the great scheme in a few minutes, seen by Isabel as thoughthrough the door of hell, illumined by the glare of the eternal embers. The huge merciless Will of God stood there before her, disclosed in allits awfulness, armed with thunders, moving on mighty wheels. Theforeknowledge of God closed the question henceforth, and, if proof wereneeded, made predestination plain. There was man's destiny, irrevocablyfixed, iron-bound, changeless and immovable as the laws of God's ownbeing. Yet over the rigid and awful Face of God, flickered a faint light, named mercy; and this mercy vindicated its existence by demanding thatsome souls should escape the final and endless doom that was the duereward of every soul conceived and born in enmity against God and underthe frown of His Justice. 

Then, heralded too by wrath, the figure of Jesus began to glimmer throughthe thunderclouds; and Isabel lifted her eyes, to look in hope. But Hewas not as she had known him in His graciousness, and as He had revealedHimself to her in tender communion, and among the flowers and under theclear skies of Sussex. Here, in this echoing world of wrath He stood, pale and rigid, with lightning in His eyes, and the grim and crimsonCross behind him; and as powerless as His own Father Himself to save onepoor timid despairing hoping soul against whom the Eternal Decree hadgone forth. Jesus was stern and forbidding here, with the red glare ofwrath on His Face too, instead of the rosy crown of Love upon Hisforehead; His mouth was closed with compressed lips which surely wouldonly open to condemn; not that mouth, quivering and human, that hadsmiled and trembled and bent down from the Cross to kiss poor souls thatcould not hope, nor help themselves, that had smiled upon Isabel eversince she had known Him. It was appalling to this gentle maiden soul thathad bloomed and rejoiced so long in the shadow of His healing, to be tornout of her retreat and set thus under the consuming noonday of theJustice of this Sun of white-hot Righteousness. 

For, as she listened, it was all so miserably convincing; her own littleessays of intellect and flights of hopeful imagination were caught up andwhirled away in the strong rush of this man's argument; her timidexpectancy that God was really Love, as she understood the word in thevision of her Saviour's Person, --this was dashed aside as a childishfancy; the vision of the Father of the Everlasting Arms receded into therealm of dreams; and instead there lowered overhead in this furioustempest of wrath a monstrous God with a stony Face and a stonier Heart, who was eternally either her torment or salvation; and Isabel thought, and trembled at the blasphemy, that if God were such as this, the onewould be no less agony than the other. Was this man bearing falsewitness, not only against his neighbour, but far more awfully, againsthis God? But it was too convincing; it was built up on an iron hammeredframework of a great man's intellect and made white hot with anothergreat man's burning eloquence. But it seemed to Isabel now and again asif a thunder-voiced virile devil were proclaiming the Gospel ofEverlasting shame. There he bent over the pulpit with flaming face andgreat compelling gestures that swayed the congregation, eliciting theemotions he desired, as the conductor's baton draws out the music (forthe man was a great orator), and he stormed and roared and seemed tomarshal the very powers of the world to come, compelling them by his nod, and interpreting them by his voice; and below him sat this poor child, tossed along on his eloquence, like a straw on a flood; and yet hatingand resenting it and struggling to detach herself and disbelieve everyword he spoke. 

As the last sands were running out in his hour-glass, he came to harbourfrom this raging sea; and in a few deep resonant sentences, like thosewith which he began, he pictured the peace of the ransomed soul, thatknows itself safe in the arms of God; that rejoices, even in this world, in the Light of His Face and the ecstasy of His embrace; that dwells bywaters of comfort and lies down in the green pastures of the HeavenlyLove; while, round this little island of salvation in an ocean of terror, the thunders of wrath sound only as the noise of surge on a far-off reef. 

The effect on Isabel was very great. It was far more startling than hervisit to London; there her quiet religion had received high sanction inthe mystery of S. Paul's. But here it was the plainest Calvinism preachedwith immense power. The preacher's last words of peace were no peace toher. If it was necessary to pass those bellowing breakers of wrath toreach the Happy Country, then she had never reached it yet; she had livedso far in an illusion; her life had been spent in a fool's paradise, where the light and warmth and flowers were but artificial after all; andshe knew that she had not the heart to set out again. Though sherecognised dimly the compelling power of this religion, and that it wasone which, if sincerely embraced, would make the smallest details of lifemomentous with eternal weight, yet she knew that her soul could neverrespond to it, and whether saved or damned that it could only cower inmiserable despair under a Deity that was so sovereign as this. 

So her heart was low and her eyes sad as she followed Mrs. Carrington outof church. Was this then really the Revelation of the Love of God in thePerson of Jesus Christ? Had all that she knew as the Gospel melted downinto this fiery lump?

The rest of the day did not alter the impression made on her mind. Therewas little talk, or evidence of any human fellowship, in the Carringtonhousehold on the Lord's Day; there was a word or two of gravecommendation on the sermon during dinner; and in the afternoon there wasthe Evening Prayer to be attended in St. Sepulchre's followed by anexposition, and a public catechising on Calvin's questions and answers. Here the same awful doctrines reappeared, condensed with an icy reality, even more paralysing than the burning presentation of them in themorning's sermon. She was spared questions herself, as she was astranger; and sat to hear girls of her own age and older men and womenwho looked as soft-hearted as herself, utter definitions of the method ofsalvation and the being and character of God that compelled the assent ofher intellect, while they jarred with her spiritual experience asfiercely as brazen trumpets out of tune. 

In the evening there followed further religious exercises in the darkdining-room, at the close of which Dr. Carrington read one of Mr. Calvin's Genevan discourses, from his tall chair at the head of thetable. She looked at him at first, and wondered in her heart whether thatman, with his clear gentle voice, and his pleasant old face crowned withiron-grey hair seen in the mellow candlelight, really believed in theterrible gospel of the morning; for she heard nothing of the academicdiscourse that he was reading now, and presently her eyes wandered awayout of the windows to the pale night sky. There still glimmered a faintstreak of light in the west across the Market Square; it seemed to her asa kind of mirror of her soul at this moment; the tender daylight hadfaded, though she could still discern the token of its presence far away, and as from behind the bars of a cage; but the night of God's wrath wasfast blotting out the last touch of radiance from her despairing soul. 

Dr. Carrington looked at her with courteous anxiety, but with approvaltoo, as he held her hand for a moment as she said good-night to him. There were shadows of weariness and depression under her eyes, and thecorners of her mouth drooped a little; and the doctor's heart stirredwith hope that the Word of God had reached at last this lamb of His whohad been fed too long on milk, and sheltered from the sun; but who wasnow coming out, driven it might be, and unhappy, but still on its way tothe plain and wholesome pastures of the Word that lay in the glow of theunveiled glory of God. 

Isabel in her dark room upstairs was miserable; she stood long at herwindow her face pressed against the glass, and looked at the sky, fromwhich the last streak of light had now died, and longed with all hermight for her own oak room at home, with her prie-dieu and the familiarthings about her; and the pines rustling outside in the sweet night-wind. It seemed to her as if an irresistible hand had plucked her out fromthose loved things and places, and that a penetrating eye were examiningevery corner of her soul. In one sense she believed herself nearer to Godthan ever before, but it was heartbreaking to find Him like this. Shewent to sleep with the same sense of a burdening Presence resting on herspirit. 

The next morning Dr. Carrington saw her privately and explained to her anotice that she had not understood when it had been given out in churchthe day before. It was to the effect that the quarterly communion wouldbe administered on the following Sunday, having been transferred thatyear from the Sunday after Michaelmas Day, and that she must hold herselfin readiness on the Wednesday afternoon to undergo the examination thatwas enforced in every household in Northampton, at the hands of theMinister and Churchwardens. 

"But you need not fear it, Mistress Norris, " he said kindly, seeing heralarm. "My daughter Kate will tell you all that is needful. "

Kate too told her it would be little more than formal in her case. 

"The minister will not ask you much, " she said, "for you are a stranger, and my father will vouch for you. He will ask you of irresistible grace, and of the Sacrament. " And she gave her a couple of books from which shemight summarise the answers; especially directing her attention toCalvin's Catechism, telling her that that was the book with which all theservants and apprentices were obliged to be familiar. 

When Wednesday afternoon came, one by one the members of the householdwent before the inquisition that held its court in the dining-room; andlast of all Isabel's turn came. The three gentlemen who sat in the middleof the long side of the table, with their backs to the light, half roseand bowed to her as she entered; and requested her to sit opposite tothem. To her relief it was the Minister of St. Sepulchre's who was toexamine her--he who had read the service and discoursed on the Catechism, not the morning preacher. He was a man who seemed a little ill at easehimself; he had none of the superb confidence of the preacher; butappeared to be one to whose natural character this stern _rôle_ was notaltogether congenial. He asked a few very simple questions; as to whenshe had last taken the Sacrament; how she would interpret the words, "This is my Body"; and looked almost grateful when she answered quietlyand without heat. He asked her too three or four of the simpler questionswhich Kate had indicated to her; all of which she answered satisfactorily;and then desired to know whether she was in charity with all men; andwhether she looked to Jesus Christ alone as her one Saviour. Finally heturned to Dr. Carrington, and wished to know whether Mistress Norriswould come to the sacrament at five or nine o'clock, and Dr. Carringtonanswered that she would no doubt wish to come with his own wife anddaughters at nine o'clock; which was the hour for the folks who werebetter to do. And so the inquisition ended much to Isabel's relief. 

But this was a very extraordinary experience to her; it gave her a firstglimpse into the rigid discipline that the extreme Puritans wished to seeenforced everywhere; and with it a sense of corporate responsibility thatshe had not appreciated before; the congregation meant something to hernow; she was no longer alone with her Lord individually, but understoodthat she was part of a body with various functions, and that the care ofher soul was not merely a personal matter for herself, but involved herminister and the officers of the Church as well. It astonished her tothink that this process was carried out on every individual who lived inthe town in preparation for the sacrament on the following Sunday. 

Isabel, and indeed the whole household, spent the Friday and Saturday inrigid and severe preparation. No flesh food was eaten on either of thedays; and all the members of the family were supposed to spend severalhours in their own rooms in prayer and meditation. She did not find thisdifficult, as she was well practised in solitude and prayer, and shescarcely left her room all Saturday except for meals. 

"O Lord, " Isabel repeated each morning and evening at her bedside duringthis week, "the blind dulness of our corrupt nature will not suffer ussufficiently to weigh these thy most ample benefits, yet, nevertheless, at the commandment of Jesus Christ our Lord, we present ourselves to thisHis table, which He hath left to be used in remembrance of His deathuntil His coming again, to declare and witness before the world, that byHim alone we have received liberty and life; that by Him alone dost thouacknowledge us to be thy children and heirs; that by Him alone we haveentrance to the throne of thy grace; that by Him alone we are possessedin our spiritual kingdom, to eat and drink at His table, with whom wehave our conversation presently in heaven, and by whom our bodies shallbe raised up again from the dust, and shall be placed with Him in thatendless joy, which Thou, O Father of mercy, hast prepared for thineelect, before the foundation of the world was laid. "

And so she prepared herself for that tryst with her Beloved in a foreignland where all was strange and unfamiliar about her: yet He was hourlydrawing nearer, and she cried to Him day by day in these words soredolent to her with associations of past communions, and of moments ofgreat spiritual elevation. The very use of the prayer this week was likea breeze of flowers to one in a wilderness. 

On the Saturday night she ceremoniously washed her feet as her father hadtaught her; and lay down happier than she had been for days past, forto-morrow would bring the Lover of her soul. 

On the Sunday all the household was astir early at their prayers, andabout half-past eight o'clock all, including the servants who had justreturned from the five o'clock service, assembled in the dining-room; thenoise of the feet of those returning from church had ceased on thepavement of the square outside, and all was quiet except for the solemnsound of the bells, as Dr. Carrington offered extempore prayer for allwho were fulfilling the Lord's ordinance on that day. And Isabel oncemore felt her heart yearn to a God who seemed Love after all. 

St. Sepulchre's was nearly full when they arrived. The mahogany table hadbeen brought down from the eastern wall to beneath the cupola, and stoodthere with a large white cloth, descending almost to the ground on everyside; and a row of silver vessels, flat plates and tall new Communioncups and flagons, shone upon it. Isabel buried her face in her hands, andtried to withdraw into the solitude of her own soul; but the noise of thefeet coming and going, and the talking on all sides of her, were terriblydistracting. Presently four ministers entered and Isabel was startled tosee, as she raised her face at the sudden silence, that none of them worethe prescribed surplice; for she had not been accustomed to the views ofthe extreme Puritans to whom this was a remnant of Popery; an indifferentthing indeed in itself, as they so often maintained; but far fromindifferent when it was imposed by authority. One entered the pulpit; theother three took their places at the Holy Table; and after a metricalPsalm sung in the Genevan fashion, the service began. At the proper placethe minister in the pulpit delivered an hour's sermon of the type towhich Isabel was being now introduced for the first time; but bearingagain and again on the point that the sacrament was a confession to theworld of faith in Christ; it was in no sense a sacrificial act towardsGod, "as the Papists vainly taught"; this part of the sermon was spoiled, to Isabel's ears at least, by a flood of disagreeable words poured outagainst the popish doctrine; and the end of the sermon consisted of asearching exhortation to those who contemplated sin, who bore malice, whowere in any way holding aloof from God, "to cast themselves mightily uponthe love of the Redeemer, bewailing their sinful lives, and purposing toamend them. " This act, wrought out in the silence of the soul even nowwould transfer the sinner from death unto life; and turn what threatenedto be poison into a "lively and healthful food. " Then he turned to thosewho came prepared and repentant, hungering and thirsting after the Breadof Life and the Wine that the Lord had mingled; and congratulated them ontheir possession of grace, and on the rich access of sanctification thatwould be theirs by a faithful reception of this comfortable sacrament;and then in half a dozen concluding sentences he preached Christ, as"food to the hungry; a stream to the thirsty; a rest for the weary. It isHe alone, our dear Redeemer, who openeth the Kingdom of Heaven, to whichmay He vouchsafe to bring us for His Name's sake. "

Isabel was astonished to see that the preacher did not descend from thepulpit after the sermon, but that as soon as he had announced that themayor would sit at the Town Hall with the ministers and churchwardens onthe following Thursday to inquire into the cases of all who had notpresented themselves for Communion, he turned and began to busy himselfwith the great Bible that lay on the cushion. The service went on, andthe conducting of it was shared among the three ministers standing, oneat the centre of the table which was placed endways, and the others atthe two ends. As the Prayer of Consecration was begun, Isabel hid herface as she was accustomed to do, for she believed it to be the principalpart of the service, and waited for the silence that in her experiencegenerally followed the Amen. But a voice immediately began from thepulpit, and she looked up, startled and distracted. 

"Then Jesus said unto them, " pealed out the preacher's voice, "All yeshall be offended by me this night, for it is written, I will smite theshepherd and the sheep shall be scattered. But after I am risen, I willgo into Galilee before you. "

Ah! why would not the man stop? Isabel did not want the past Saviour butthe present now; not a dead record but a living experience; above all, not the minister but the great High Priest Himself. 

"He began to be troubled and in great heaviness, and said unto them, Mysoul is very heavy, even unto the death; tarry here and watch. "

The three ministers had communicated by now; and there was a rustle andclatter of feet as the empty seats in front, hung with houselling cloths, began to be filled. The murmur of the three voices below as the ministerspassed along with the vessels were drowned by the tale of the Passionthat rang out overhead. 

"Couldest thou not watch one hour? Watch and pray, that ye enter not intotemptation. The spirit indeed is ready, but the flesh is weak. "

It was coming near to Isabel's turn; the Carringtons already werebeginning to move; and in a moment or two she rose and followed them out. The people were pressing up the aisles; and as she stood waiting her turnto pass into the white-hung seat, she could not help noticing thedisorder that prevailed; some knelt devoutly, some stood, some sat toreceive the sacred elements; and all the while louder and louder, abovethe rustling and the loud whispering of the ministers and the shufflingof feet, the tale rose and fell on the cadences of the preacher's voice. Now it was her turn; she was kneeling with palms outstretched and closedeyes. Ah! would he not be silent for one moment? Could not the realityspeak for itself, and its interpreter be still? Surely the King of Loveneeded no herald when Himself was here. 

"And anon in the dawning, the high Priests held a Council with Elders andthe Scribes and the whole Council, and bound Jesus and led Him away. " . .. 

And so it was over presently, and she was back again in her seat, distracted and miserable; trying to pray, forcing herself to attend nowto the reader, now to her Saviour with whom she believed herself inintimate union, and finding nothing but dryness and distractioneverywhere. How interminable it was! She opened her eyes, and what shesaw amazed and absorbed her for a few moments; some were sitting back andtalking; some looking cheerfully about them as if at a publicentertainment; one man especially overwhelmed her imagination; with agreat red face and neck like a butcher, animal and brutal, with a heavyhanging jowl and little narrow lack-lustre eyes--how bored and depressedhe was by this long obligatory ceremony! Then once more she closed hereyes in self-reproach at her distractions; here were her lips stillfragrant with the Wine of God, the pressure of her Beloved's arm stillabout her; and these were her thoughts, settling like flies, oneverything. .. . 

When she opened them again the last footsteps were passing down theaisle, the dripping Cups were being replaced by the ministers, andcovered with napkins, and the tale of Easter was in telling from thepulpit like the promise of a brighter day. 

"And they said one to another, Who shall roll us away the stone from thedoor of the sepulchre? And when they looked, they saw that the stone wasrolled away (for it was a very great one). "

So read the minister and closed the book; and _Our Father_ began. 

In the evening, when all was over, and the prayers said and theexpounding and catechising finished, in a kind of despair she slippedaway alone, and walked a little by herself in the deepening twilightbeside the river; and again she made effort after effort to catch someconsciousness of grace from this Sacrament Sunday, so rare and soprecious; but an oppression seemed to dwell in the very air. The lowrain-clouds hung over the city, leaden and chill, the path where shewalked was rank with the smell of dead leaves, and the trees and grassdripped with lifeless moisture. As she goaded and allured alternately herown fainting soul, it writhed and struggled but could not rise; there wasno pungency of bitterness in her self-reproach, no thrill of joy in heraspiration; for the hand of Calvin's God lay heavy on the delicatelanguid thing. 

She walked back at last in despair over the wet cobblestones of the emptymarket square; but as she came near the house, she saw that the squarewas not quite empty. A horse stood blowing and steaming before Dr. Carrington's door, and her own maid and Kate were standing hatless in thedoorway looking up and down the street. Isabel's heart began to beat, andshe walked quicker. In a moment Kate saw her, and began to beckon andcall; and the maid ran to meet her. 

"Mistress Isabel, Mistress Isabel, " she cried, "make haste. "

"What is it?" asked the girl, in sick foreboding. 

"There is a man come from Great Keynes, " began the maid, but Kate stoppedher. 

"Come in, Mistress Isabel, " she said, "my father is waiting for you. "

Dr. Carrington met her at the dining-room door; and his face was tenderand full of emotion. 

"What is it?" whispered the girl sharply. "Anthony?"

"Dear child, " he said, "come in, and be brave. "

There was a man standing in the room with cap and whip in hand, spurredand splashed from head to foot; Isabel recognised one of the grooms fromthe Hall. 

"What is it?" she said again with a piteous sharpness. 

Dr. Carrington laid his hands gently on her shoulders, and looked intoher eyes. 

"It is news of your father, " he said, "from Lady Maxwell. "

He paused, and the steady gleam of his eyes strengthened and quieted her, then he went on deliberately, "The Lord hath given and the Lord hathtaken it. "

He paused as if for an answer, but no answer came; Isabel was staringwhite-faced with parted lips into those strong blue eyes of his: and hefinished:

"Blessed be the name of the Lord. "

 CHAPTER XII

 A WINDING-UP

The curtained windows on the ground-floor of the Dower House shone redfrom within as Isabel and Dr. Carrington, with three or four servantsbehind, rode round the curving drive in front late on the Monday evening. A face peeped from Mrs. Carroll's window as the horse's hoofs sounded onthe gravel, and by the time that Isabel, pale, wet, and worn-out with herseventy miles' ride, was dismounted, Mistress Margaret herself was at thedoor, with Anthony's face at her shoulder, and Mrs. Carroll looking overthe banisters. 

Isabel was not allowed to see her father's body that night, but after shewas in bed, Lady Maxwell herself, who had been sent for when he laydying, came down from the Hall, and told her what there was to tell;while Mistress Margaret and Anthony entertained Dr. Carrington below. 

"Dear child, " said the old lady, leaning with her elbow on the bed, andholding the girl's hand tenderly as she talked, "it was all over in anhour or two. It was the heart, you know. Mrs. Carroll sent for mesuddenly, on Saturday morning; and by the time I reached him he could notspeak. They had carried him upstairs from his study, where they had foundhim; and laid him down on his bed, and--yes, yes--he was in pain, but hewas conscious, and he was praying I think; his lips moved. And I kneltdown by the bed and prayed aloud; he only spoke twice; and, my dear, itwas your name the first time, and the name of His Saviour the secondtime. He looked at me, and I could see he was trying to speak; and thenon a sudden he spoke 'Isabel. ' And I think he was asking me to take careof you. And I nodded and said that I would do what I could, and he seemedsatisfied and shut his eyes again. And then presently Mr. Bodder began aprayer--he had come in a moment before; they could not find him atfirst--and then, and then your dear father moved a little and raised hishand, and the minister stayed; and he was looking up as if he sawsomething; and then he said once, 'Jesus' clear and loud; and, and--thatwas all, dear child. "

The next morning she and Anthony, with the two old ladies, one of whomwas always with them during these days, went into the darkened oak roomon the first floor, where he had died and now rested. The red curtainsmade a pleasant rosy light, and it seemed to the children impossible tobelieve that that serene face, scarcely more serene than in life, withits wide closed lids under the delicate eyebrows, and contented clean-cutmouth, and the scholarly hands closed on the breast, all in a wealth ofautumn flowers and dark copper-coloured beech leaves, were not the faceand hands of a sleeping man. 

But Isabel did not utterly break down till she saw his study. She drewthe curtains aside herself, and there stood his table; his chair wasbeside it, pushed back and sideways as if he had that moment left it; andon the table itself the books she knew so well. 

In the centre of the table stood his inlaid desk, with the papers lyingupon it, and his quill beside them, as if just laid down; even theink-pot was uncovered just as he had left it, as the agony began to layits hand upon his heart. She stooped and read the last sentence. 

"This is the great fruit, that unspeakable benefit that they do eat anddrink of that labour and are burden, and come--" and there it stopped;and the blinding tears rushed into the girl's eyes, as she stooped tokiss the curved knob of the chair-arm where his dear hand had lastrested. 

When all was over a day or two later the two went up to stay at the Hall, while the housekeeper was left in charge of the Dower House. Lady Maxwelland Mistress Margaret had been present at the parish church on theoccasion of the funeral, for the first time ever since the old Marianpriest had left; and had assisted too at the opening of the will, whichwas found, tied up and docketed in one of the inner drawers of the inlaiddesk; and before its instructions were complied with, Lady Maxwell wishedto have a word or two with Isabel and Anthony. 

She made an opportunity on the morning of Anthony's departure forCambridge, two days after the funeral, when Mistress Margaret was out ofthe room, and Hubert had ridden off as usual with Piers, on the affairsof the estate. 

"My child, " said she to Isabel, who was lying back passive and listlesson the window-seat. "What do you think your cousin will direct to bedone? He will scarcely wish you to leave home altogether, to stay withhim. And yet, you understand, he is your guardian. "

Isabel shook her head. 

"We know nothing of him, " she said, wearily, "he has never been here. "

"If you have a suggestion to make to him you should decide at once, " theother went on, "the courier is to go on Monday, is he not, Anthony?"

The boy nodded. 

"But will he not allow us, " he said, "to stay at home as usual?Surely----"

Lady Maxwell shook her head. 

"And Isabel?" she asked, "who will look after her when you are away?"

"Mrs. Carroll?" he said interrogatively. 

Again she shook her head. 

"He would never consent, " she said, "it would not be right. "

Isabel looked up suddenly, and her eyes brightened a little. 

"Lady Maxwell--" she began, and then stopped, embarrassed. 

"Well, my dear?"

"What is it, Isabel?" asked Anthony. 

"If it were possible--but, but I could not ask it. "

"If you mean Margaret, my dear"; said the old lady serenely, drawing herneedle carefully through, "it was what I thought myself; but I did notknow if you would care for that. Is that what you meant?"

"Oh, Lady Maxwell, " said the girl, her face lighting up. 

Then the old lady explained that it was not possible to ask them to livepermanently at the Hall, although of course Isabel must do so until anarrangement had been made; because their father would scarcely havewished them to be actually inmates of a Catholic house; but that heplainly had encouraged close relations between the two houses, andindeed, Lady Maxwell interpreted his mention of his daughter's name, andhis look as he said it, in the sense that he wished those relations tocontinue. She thought therefore that there was no reason why their newguardian's consent should not be asked to Mistress Margaret's coming overto the Dower House to take charge of Isabel, if the girl wished it. Hehad no particular interest in them; he lived a couple of hundred milesaway, and the arrangement would probably save him a great deal of troubleand inconvenience. 

"But you, Lady Maxwell, " Isabel burst out, her face kindled with hope, for she had dreaded the removal terribly, "you will be lonely here. "

"Dear child, " said the old lady, laying down her embroidery, "God hasbeen gracious to me; and my husband is coming back to me; you need notfear for me. " And she told them, with her old eyes full of happy tears, how she had had a private word, which they must not repeat, from aCatholic friend at Court, that all had been decided for Sir Nicholas'release, though he did not know it himself yet, and that he would be athome again for Advent. The prison fever was beginning to cause alarm, andit seemed that a good fine would meet the old knight's case better thanany other execution of justice. 

So then, it was decided; and as Isabel walked out to the gatehouse afterdinner beside Anthony, with her hand on his horse's neck, and as shewatched him at last ride down the village green and disappear roundbehind the church, half her sorrow at losing him was swallowed up in thepractical certainty that they would meet again before Christmas in theirold home, and not in a stranger's house in the bleak North country. 

On the following Thursday, Sir Nicholas' weekly letter showed evidencethat the good news of his release had begun to penetrate to him; his wifelonged to tell him all she had heard, but so many jealous eyes were onthe watch for favouritism that she had been strictly forbidden to pass onher information. However there was little need. 

"I am in hopes, " he wrote, "of keeping Christmas in a merrier place thanprison. I do not mean _heaven_, " he hastened to add, for fear of alarminghis wife. "Good Mr. Jakes tells me that Sir John is ill to-day, and thathe fears the gaol-fever; and if it is the gaol-fever, sweetheart, whichpray God it may not be _for Sir John's sake_, it will be the fourteenthcase in the Tower; and folks say that we shall all be let home again; butwith another good fine, they say, to keep us poor and humble, and mindfulof the Queen's Majesty her laws. However, dearest, I would gladly pay athousand pounds, if I had them, to be home again. "

But there was news at the end of the letter that caused consternation inone or two hearts, and sent Hubert across, storming and almost crying, toIsabel, who was taking a turn in the dusk at sunset. She heard his stepbeyond the hedge, quick and impatient, and stopped short, hesitating andwondering. 

He had behaved to her with extraordinary tact and consideration, and shewas very conscious of it. Since her sudden return ten days before fromthe visit which had been meant to separate them, he had not spoken a wordto her privately, except a shy sentence or two of condolence, stammeredout with downcast eyes, but which from the simplicity and shortness ofthe words had brought up a sob from her heart. She guessed that he knewwhy she had been sent to Northampton, and had determined not to takeadvantage in any way of her sorrow. Every morning he had disappearedbefore she came down, and did not come back till supper, where he satsilent and apart, and yet, when an occasion offered itself, behaved witha quick attentive deference that showed her where his thoughts had been. 

Now she stood, wondering and timid, at that hurried insistent step on theother side of the hedge. As she hesitated, he came quickly through thedoorway and stopped short. 

"Mistress Isabel, " he said, with all his reserve gone, and looking at herimploringly, but with the old familiar air that she loved, "have youheard? I am to go as soon as my father comes back. Oh! it is a shame!"

His voice was full of tears, and his eyes were bright and angry. Herheart leapt up once and then seemed to cease beating. 

"Go?" she said; and even as she spoke knew from her own dismay how dearthat quiet chivalrous presence was to her. 

"Yes, " he went on in the same voice. "Oh! I know I should not speak;and--and especially now at all times; but I could not bear it; nor thatyou should think it was my will to go. "

She stood still looking at him. 

"May I walk with you a little, " he said, "but--I must not say much--Ipromised my father. "

And then as they walked he began to pour it out. 

"It is some old man in Durham, " he said, "and I am to see to his estates. My father will not want me here when he comes back, and, and it is to besoon. He has had the offer for me; and has written to tell me. There isno choice. "

She had turned instinctively towards the house, and the high roofs andchimneys were before them, dark against the luminous sky. 

"No, no, " said Hubert, laying his hand on her arm; and at the touch shethrilled so much that she knew she must not stay, and went forwardresolutely up the steps of the terrace. 

"Ah! let me speak, " he said; "I have not troubled you much, MistressIsabel. "

She hesitated again a moment. 

"In my father's room, " he went on, "and I will bring the letter. "

She nodded and passed into the hall without speaking, and turned to SirNicholas' study; while Hubert's steps dashed up the stairs to hismother's room. Isabel went in and stood on the hearth in the firelightthat glowed and wavered round the room on the tapestry and the prie-dieuand the table where Hubert had been sitting and the tall shutteredwindows, leaning her head against the mantelpiece, doubtful andmiserable. 

"Listen, " said Hubert, bursting into the room a moment later with thesheet open in his hand. 

"'Tell Hubert that Lord Arncliffe needs a gentleman to take charge of hisestates; he is too old now himself, and has none to help him. I have hadthe offer for Hubert, and have accepted it; he must go as soon as I havereturned. I am sorry to lose the lad, but since James----'" and Hubertbroke off. "I must not read that, " he said. 

Isabel still stood, stretching her hands out to the fire, turned a littleaway from him. 

"But what can I say?" went on the lad passionately, "I must go; and--andGod knows for how long, five or six years maybe; and I shall come backand find you--and find you----" and a sob rose up and silenced him. 

"Hubert, " she said, turning and looking with a kind of waveringsteadiness into his shadowed eyes, and even then noticing the clean-cutfeatures and the smooth curve of his jaw with the firelight on it, "youought not----"

"I know, I know; I promised my father; but there are some things I cannotbear. Of course I do not want you to promise anything; but I thought thatif perhaps you could tell me that you thought--that you thought therewould be no one else; and that when I came back----"

"Hubert, " she said again, resolutely, "it is impossible: ourreligions----"

"But I would do anything, I think. Besides, in five years so much mayhappen. You might become a Catholic--or--or, I might come to see that theProtestant Religion was nearly the same, or as true at least--or--or--somuch might happen. --Can you not tell me anything before I go?"

A keen ray of hope had pierced her heart as he spoke; and she scarcelyknew what she said. 

"But, Hubert, even if I were to say----"

He seized her hands and kissed them again and again. 

"Oh! God bless you, Isabel! Now I can go so happily. And I will not speakof it again; you can trust me; it will not be hard for you. "

She tried to draw her hands away, but he still held them tightly in hisown strong hands, and looked into her face. His eyes were shining. 

"Yes, yes, I know you have promised nothing. I hold you to nothing. Youare as free as ever to do what you will with me. But, "--and he lifted herhands once more and kissed them, and dropped them; seized his cap and wasgone. 

Isabel was left alone in a tumult of thought and emotion. He had takenher by storm; she had not guessed how desperately weak she was towardshim, until he had come to her like this in a whirlwind of passion andstood trembling and almost crying, with the ruddy firelight on his face, and his eyes burning out of shadow. She felt fascinated still by thatmingling of a boy's weakness and sentiment and of a man's fire andpurpose; and she sank down on her knees before the hearth and lookedwonderingly at her hands which he had kissed so ardently, now transparentand flaming against the light as if with love. Then as she looked at thered heart of the fire the sudden leaping of her heart quieted, and therecrept on her a glow of steady desire to lean on the power of this tallyoung lover of hers; she was so utterly alone without him it seemed as ifthere were no choice left; he had come and claimed her in virtue of themaster-law, and she--how much had she yielded? She had not promised; butshe had shown evidently her real heart in those half dozen words; and hehad interpreted them for her; and she dared not in honesty repudiate hisinterpretation. And so she knelt there, clasping and unclasping herhands, in a whirl of delight and trembling; all the bounds of that soberinner life seemed for the moment swept away; she almost began to despiseits old coldnesses and limitations. How shadowy after all was the love ofGod, compared with this burning tide that was bearing her along on itsbosom!. .. 

She sank lower and lower into herself among the black draperies, claspingthose slender hands tightly across her breast. 

Suddenly a great log fell with a crash, the red glow turned into leapingflames; the whole dark room seemed alive with shadows that fled to andfro, and she knelt upright quickly and looked round her, terrified andashamed. --What was she doing here? Was it so soon then that she wassetting aside the will of her father, who trusted and loved her so well, and who lay out there in the chancel vault? Ah! she had no right here inthis room--Hubert's room now, with his cap and whip lying across thepapers and the estate-book, and his knife and the broken jesses on theseat of the chair beside her. There was his step overhead again. She mustbe gone before he came back. 

There was high excitement on the estate and in the village a week or twolater when the rumour of Sir Nicholas' return was established, and thepaper had been pinned up to the gatehouse stating, in Lady Maxwell's ownhandwriting, that he would be back sometime in the week before AdventSunday. Reminiscences were exchanged of the glorious day when the oldknight came of age, over forty years ago; of the sports on the green, ofthe quintain-tilting for the gentlefolks, and the archery in the meadowbehind the church for the vulgar; of the high mass and the dinner thatfollowed it. It was rumoured that Mr. Hubert and Mr. Piers had alreadyselected the ox that was to be roasted whole, and that materials for thebonfire were in process of collection in the woodyard of the home farm. 

Sir Nicholas' letters became more and more emphatically underlined andincoherent as the days went on, and Lady Maxwell less and less willingfor Isabel to read them; but the girl often found the old lady hastilyputting away the thin sheets which she had just taken out to read toherself once again, on which her dear lord had scrawled down his veryheart itself, as if his courting of her were all to do again. 

It was not until the Saturday morning that the courier rode in throughthe gatehouse with the news that Sir Nicholas was to be released thatday, and would be down if possible before nightfall. All the men on theestate were immediately called in and sent home to dress themselves; andan escort of a dozen grooms and servants led by Hubert and Piers rode outat once on the north road, with torches ready for kindling, to meet theparty and bring them home; and all other preparations were set forward atonce. 

Towards eight o'clock Lady Maxwell was so anxious and restless thatIsabel slipped out and went down to the gatehouse to look out for herselfif there were any signs of the approach of the party. She went up to oneof the little octagonal towers, and looked out towards the green. 

It was a clear starlight night, but towards the village all was bathed inthe dancing ruddy light of the bonfire. It was burning on a little moundat the upper end of the green, just below where Isabel stood, and a heavycurtain of smoke drifted westwards. As she looked down on it she sawagainst it the tall black posts of the gigantic jack and the slowlyrevolving carcass of the ox; and round about the stirring crowd of thevillage folk, their figures black on this side, luminous on that. Shecould even make out the cassock and square cap of Mr. Bodder as he movedamong his flock. The rows of houses on either side, bright and clear atthis end, melted away into darkness at the lower end of the green, whereon the right the church tower rose up, blotting out the stars, itselfjust touched with ruddy light, and on the top of which, like a large staritself, burned the torch of the watcher who was looking out towards thenorth road. There was a ceaseless hum of noise from the green, pierced bythe shrill cries of the children round the glowing mass of the bonfire, but there was no disorder, as the barrels that had been rolled out of theHall cellars that afternoon still stood untouched beneath the Rectorygarden-wall. Isabel contrasted in her mind this pleasant human tumultwith the angry roaring she had heard from these same country-folk a fewmonths before, when she had followed Lady Maxwell out to the rescue ofthe woman who had injured her; and she wondered at these strange souls, who attended a Protestant service, but were so fierce and so genial intheir defence and welcome of a Catholic squire. 

As she thought, there was a sudden movement of the light on the churchtower; it tossed violently up and down, and a moment later the jubilantclangour of the bells broke out. There was a sudden stir in the figureson the green, and a burst of cheering rose. Isabel strained her eyesnorthwards, but the road took a turn beyond the church and she could seenothing but darkness and low-hung stars and one glimmering window. Sheturned instinctively to the house behind her, and there was the doorflung wide, and she could make out the figures of the two ladies againstthe brightly lit hall beyond, wrapped like herself, in cloak and hood, for the night was frosty and cold. 

As she turned once more she heard the clear rattle of trotting hoofs onthe hard road, and a glow began to be visible at the lower dark end ofthe village. The cheering rose higher, and the bells were all clashingtogether in melodious discord, as in the angle of the road a group oftossing torches appeared. Then she could make out the horsemen; threeriding together, and the others as escort round them. The crowd hadpoured off the grass on to the road by now, and the horses were coming upbetween two shouting gesticulating lines which closed after them as theywent. Now she could make out the white hair of Sir Nicholas, as he bowedbare-headed right and left; and Hubert's feathered cap, on one side ofhim, and Mr. Boyd's black hat on the other. They had passed the bonfirenow, and were coming up the avenue, the crowds still streaming afterthem, and the church tower bellowing rough music overhead. Isabel leanedout over the battlements, and saw beneath her the two old ladies waitingjust outside the gate by the horse-block; and then she drew back, hereyes full of tears, for she saw Sir Nicholas' face as he caught sight ofhis wife. 

There was a sudden silence as the horses drew up; and the crowds ceasedshouting, and when Isabel leaned over again Sir Nicholas was on thehorse-block, the two ladies immediately behind him, and the peoplepressing forward to hear his voice. It was a very short speech; andIsabel overhead could not catch more than detached phrases of it, "forthe faith"--"my wife and you all"--"home again"--"my son Huberthere"--"you and your families"--"the Catholic religion"--"the Queen'sgrace"--"God save her Majesty. "

Then again the cheering broke out; and Isabel crossed over to see thempass up to the house and to the bright door set wide for them, and evenas she watched them go up the steps, and Hubert's figure close behind, she suddenly dropped her forehead on to the cold battlement, and drew asharp breath or two, for she remembered again what it all meant to himand to herself. 

 PART II

 CHAPTER I

 ANTHONY IN LONDON

The development of a nation is strangely paralleled by the development ofan individual. There comes in both a period of adolescence, of thestirring of new powers, of an increase of strength, of the dawn of newideals, of the awaking of self-consciousness; contours become defined andabrupt, awkward and hasty movements succeed to the grace of childhood;and there is a curious mingling of refinement and brutality, stupidityand tenderness; the will is subject to whims; it is easily roused and notso easily quieted. Yet in spite of the attendant discomforts the wholeperiod is undeniably one of growth. 

The reign of Elizabeth coincided with this stage in the development ofEngland. The young vigour was beginning to stir--and Hawkins and Draketaught the world that it was so, and that when England stretched herselfcatastrophe abroad must follow. She loved finery and feathers and velvet, and to see herself on the dramatic stage and to sing her love-songsthere, as a growing maid dresses up and leans on her hand and looks intoher own eyes in the mirror--and Marlowe and Greene and Shakespeare arewitnesses to it. Yet she loved to hang over the arena too and watch thebear-baiting and see the blood and foam and listen to the snarl of thehounds, as a lad loves sport and things that minister death. Her policy, too, under Elizabeth as her genius, was awkward and ill-considered andcapricious, and yet strong and successful in the end, as a growing lad, while he is clumsier, yet manages to leap higher than a year ago. 

And once more, to carry the parallel still further, during the middleperiod of the reign, while the balance of parties and powers remainedmuch the same, principles and tendencies began to assert themselves moredefinitely, just as muscles and sinews begin to appear through the roundcontour of the limbs of a growing child. 

Thus, from 1571 to 1577, while there was no startling reversal ofelements in the affairs of England, the entire situation became moredefined. The various parties, though they scarcely changed in theirmutual relations, yet continued to develop swiftly along their respectivelines, growing more pronounced and less inclined to compromise; foreignenmities and expectations became more acute; plots against the Queen'slife more frequent and serious, and the countermining of them underWalsingham more patient and skilful; competition and enterprise in trademore strenuous; Scottish affairs more complicated; movements of revoltand repression in Ireland more violent. 

What was true of politics was also true of religious matters, for the twowere inextricably mingled. The Puritans daily became more clamorous andintolerant; their "Exercises" more turbulent, and their demands moreunreasonable and one-sided. The Papists became at once more numerous andmore strict; and the Government measures more stern in consequence. Theact of '71 made it no less a crime than High Treason to reconcile or bereconciled to the Church of Rome, to give effect to a Papal Bull, to bein possession of any muniments of superstition, or to declare the Queen aheretic or schismatic. The Church of England, too, under the wiseguidance of Parker, had begun to shape her course more and moreresolutely along the lines of inclusiveness and moderation; to realiseherself as representing the religious voice of a nation that was widelydivided on matters of faith; and to attempt to include within her foldevery individual that was not an absolute fanatic in the Papist orPuritan direction. 

Thus, in every department, in home and foreign politics, in art andliterature, and in religious independence, England was rising and shakingherself free; the last threads that bound her to the Continent weresnapped by the Reformation, and she was standing with her soul, as shethought, awake and free at last, conscious of her beauty and herstrength, ready to step out at last before the world, as a dominant andimperious power. 

Anthony Norris had been arrested, like so many others, by the vision ofthis young country of his, his mother and mistress, who stood there, waiting to be served. He had left Cambridge in '73, and for three yearshad led a somewhat aimless life; for his guardian allowed him a generousincome out of his father's fortune. He had stayed with Hubert in thenorth, had yawned and stretched himself at Great Keynes, had gone to andfro among friends' houses, and had at last come to the conclusion, towhich he was aided by a chorus of advisers, that he was wasting his time. 

He had begun then to look round him for some occupation, and in the finalchoice of it his early religious training had formed a large element. Ithad kept alive in him a certain sense of the supernatural, that hisexuberance of physical life might otherwise have crushed; and now as helooked about to see how he could serve his country, he became aware thather ecclesiastical character had a certain attraction for him; he had hadindeed an idea of taking Orders; but he had relinquished this by now, though he still desired if he might to serve the National Church in someother capacity. There was much in the Church of England to appeal to hersons; if there was a lack of unity in her faith and policy, yet that waslargely out of sight, and her bearing was gallant and impressive. She hadgreat wealth, great power and great dignity. The ancient buildings andrevenues were hers; the civil power was at her disposal, and the Queenwas eager to further her influence, and to protect her bishops from theencroaching power of Parliament, claiming only for the crown the right tobe the point of union for both the secular and ecclesiastical sections ofthe nation, and to stamp by her royal approval or annul by her veto theacts of Parliament and Convocation alike. It seemed then to Anthony'seyes that the Church of England had a tremendous destiny before her, asthe religious voice of the nation that was beginning to make itself sodominant in the council of the world, and that there was no limit to theinfluence she might exercise by disciplining the exuberant strength ofEngland, and counteracting by her soberness and self-restraint thepassionate fanaticism of the Latin nations. So little by little in placeof the shadowy individualism that was all that he knew of religion, thererose before him the vision of a living church, who came forth terrible asan army with banners, surrounded by all the loyalty that nationalismcould give her, with the Queen herself as her guardian, and great princesand prelates as her supporters, while at the wheels of her splendid carwalked her hot-blooded chivalrous sons, who served her and spread herglories by land and sea, not perhaps chiefly for the sake of herspiritual claims, but because she was bone of their bone; and was no lesszealous than themselves for the name and character of England. 

When, therefore, towards the end of '76, Anthony received the offer of aposition in the household of the Archbishop of Canterbury, through therecommendation of the father of one of his Cambridge friends, he acceptedit with real gratitude and enthusiasm. 

The post to which he was appointed was that of Gentleman of the Horse. His actual duties were not very arduous owing to the specialcircumstances of Archbishop Grindal; and he had a good deal of time tohimself. Briefly, they were as follows--He had to superintend the Yeomanof the Horse, and see that he kept full accounts of all the horses instable or at pasture, and of all the carriages and harness and the like. Every morning he had to present himself to the Archbishop and receivestable-orders for the day, and to receive from the yeoman accounts of thestables. Every month he examined the books of the yeoman before passingthem on to the steward. His permission too was necessary before anyguest's or stranger's horse might be cared for in the Lambeth stables. 

He was responsible also for all the men and boys connected with thestable; to engage them, watch their morals and even the performance oftheir religious duties, and if necessary report them for dismissal to thesteward of the household. In Archbishop Parker's time this had been abusy post, as the state observed at Lambeth and Croydon was veryconsiderable; but Grindal was of a more retiring nature, disliking as wassaid, "lordliness"; and although still the household was an immenseaffair, in its elaborateness and splendour beyond almost any but royalhouseholds of the present day, still Anthony's duties were far fromheavy. The Archbishop indeed at first dispensed with this officealtogether, and concentrated all the supervision of the stable on theyeoman, and Anthony was the first and only Gentleman of the Horse thatArchbishop Grindal employed. The disgrace and punishment under which theArchbishop fell so early in his archiepiscopate made this particular posteasier than it would even otherwise have been; as fewer equipages wererequired when the Archbishop was confined to his house, and theestablishment was yet further reduced. 

Ordinarily then his duties were over by eleven o'clock, except whenspecial arrangements were to be made. He rose early, waited upon theArchbishop by eight o'clock, and received his orders for the day; theninterviewed the yeoman; sometimes visited the stables to receivecomplaints, and was ready by half-past ten to go to the chapel for themorning prayers with the rest of the household. At eleven he dined at theSteward's table in the great hall, with the other principal officers ofthe household, the chaplain, the secretaries, and the gentlemen ushers, with guests of lesser degree. This great hall with its two entrances atthe lower end near the gateway, its magnificent hammer-beam roof, itsdaïs, its stained glass, was a worthy place of entertainment, and hadbeen the scene of many great feasts and royal visits in the times ofprevious archbishops in favour with the sovereign, and of a splendidbanquet at the beginning of Grindal's occupancy of the see. Now, however, things were changed. There were seldom many distinguished persons to dinewith the disgraced prelate; and he himself preferred too to entertainthose who could not repay him again, after the precept of the gospel; andbesides the provision for the numerous less important guests who dineddaily at Lambeth, a great tub was set at the lower end of the hall as ithad been in Parker's time, and every day after dinner under the steward'sdirection was filled with food from the tables, which was afterwardsdistributed at the gate to poor people of the neighbourhood. 

After dinner Anthony's time was often his own, until the evening prayersat six, followed by supper again spread in the hall. It was necessary forhim always to sleep in the house, unless leave was obtained from thesteward. This gentleman, Mr. John Scot, an Esquire, took a fancy toAnthony, and was indulgent to him in many ways; and Anthony had, as amatter of fact, little difficulty in coming and going as he pleased sosoon as his morning duties were done. 

Lambeth House had been lately restored by Parker, and was now a verybeautiful and well-kept place. Among other repairs and buildings he hadre-roofed the great hall that stood just within Morton's gateway; he hadbuilt a long pier into the Thames where the barge could be entered easilyeven at low tide; he had rebuilt the famous summerhouse of Cranmer's inthe garden, besides doing many sanitary alterations and repairs; and thehouse was well kept up in Grindal's time. 

Anthony soon added a great affection and tenderness to the awe that hefelt for the Archbishop, who was almost from the first a pathetic andtouching figure. When Anthony first entered on his duties in November'76, he found the Archbishop in his last days of freedom and good favourwith the Queen. Elizabeth, he soon learnt from the gossip of thehousehold, was as determined to put down the Puritan "prophesyings" asthe popish services; for both alike tended to injure the peace she wasresolved to maintain. Rumours were flying to and fro; the Archbishop wascontinually going across the water to confer with his friends and theLords of the Council, and messengers came and went all day; and it wassoon evident that the Archbishop did not mean to yield. It was said thathis Grace had sent a letter to her Majesty bidding her not to meddle withwhat did not concern her, telling her that she, too, would one day haveto render account before Christ's tribunal, and warning her of God'sanger if she persisted. 

Her Majesty had sworn like a trooper, a royal page said one day as helounged over the fire in the guard-room, and had declared that if she waslike Ozeas and Ahab and the rest, as Grindal had said she was, she wouldtake care that he, at least, should be like Micaiah the son of Imlah, before she had done with him. Then it began to leak out that Elizabethwas sending her commands to the bishops direct instead of through theirMetropolitan; and, as the days went by, it became more and more evidentthat disgrace was beginning to shadow Lambeth. The barges that drew up atthe watergate were fewer as summer went on, and the long tables in hallwere more and more deserted; even the Archbishop himself seemed silentand cast down. Anthony used to watch him from his window going up anddown the little walled garden that looked upon the river, with his handsclasped behind him and his black habit gathered up in them, and his chinon his breast. He would be longer than ever too in chapel after themorning prayer, and the company would wait and wonder in the anteroomtill his Grace came in and gave the signal for dinner. And at last theblow fell. 

On one day in June, Anthony, who had been on a visit to Isabel at GreatKeynes, returned to Lambeth in time for morning prayer and dinner justbefore the gates were shut by the porter, having ridden up early with acouple of grooms. There seemed to him to be an air of constraint abroadas the guests and members of the household gathered for dinner. Therewere no guests of high dignity that day, and the Archbishop sat at hisown table silent and apart. Anthony, from his place at the steward'stable, noticed that he ate very sparingly, and that he appeared even morepreoccupied and distressed than usual. His short-sighted eyes, kind andbrown, surrounded by wrinkles from his habit of peering closely ateverything, seemed full of sadness and perplexity, and his hand fumbledwith his bread continually. Anthony did not like to ask anything of hisneighbours, as there were one or two strangers dining at the steward'stable that day; and the moment dinner was over, and grace had been saidand the Archbishop retired with his little procession preceded by a whitewand, an usher came running back to tell Master Norris that his Gracedesired to see him at once in the inner cloister. 

Anthony hastened round through the court between the hall and the river, and found the Archbishop walking up and down in his black habit with theround flapped cap, that, as a Puritan, he preferred to the squarehead-dress of the more ecclesiastically-minded clergy, still lookingtroubled and cast down, continually stroking his dark forked beard, andtalking to one of his secretaries. Anthony stood at a little distance atthe open side of the court near the river, cap in hand, waiting till theArchbishop should beckon him. The two went up and down in the shade inthe open court outside the cloisters, where the pump stood, and where thepulpit had been erected for the Queen's famous visit to his predecessor;when she had sat in a gallery over the cloister and heard the chaplain'ssermon. On the north rose up the roof of the chapel. The cloistersthemselves were poor buildings--little more than passages with acontinuous row of square windows running along them the height of a man'shead. 

After a few minutes the secretary left the Archbishop with an obeisance, and hastened into the house through the cloister, and presently theArchbishop, after a turn or two more with the same grave air, peeredtowards Anthony and then called him. 

Anthony immediately came towards him and received orders that half adozen horses with grooms should be ready as soon as possible, who were toreceive orders from Mr. Richard Frampton, the secretary; and that threeor four horses more were to be kept saddled till seven o'clock thatevening in case further messages were wanted. 

"And I desire you, Mr. Norris, " said the Archbishop, "to let the menunder your charge know that their master is in trouble with the Queen'sGrace; and that they can serve him best by being prompt and obedient. "

Anthony bowed to the Archbishop, and was going to withdraw, but theArchbishop went on:

"I will tell you, " he said, "for your private ear only at present, that Ihave received an order this day from my Lords of the Council, bidding meto keep to my house for six months; and telling me that I am sequesteredby the Queen's desire. I know not how this will end, but the cause isthat I will not do her Grace's will in the matter of the Exercises, as Iwrote to tell her so; and I am determined, by God's grace, not to yieldin this thing; but to govern the charge committed to me as He gives melight. That is all, Mr. Norris. "

The whole household was cast into real sorrow by the blow that had fallenat last on the master; he was "loving and grateful to servants"; and wasfree and liberal in domestic matters, and it needed only a hint that hewas in trouble, for his officers and servants to do their utmost for him. 

Anthony's sympathy was further aroused by the knowledge that the Papists, too, hated the old man, and longed to injure him. There had been a greatincrease of Catholics this year; the Archbishop of York had reported that"a more stiff-necked, wilful, or obstinate people did he never hear of";and from Hereford had come a lament that conformity itself was a mockery, as even the Papists that attended church were a distraction when they gotthere, and John Hareley was instanced as "reading so loud upon his Latinpopish primer (that he understands not) that he troubles both ministerand people. " In November matters were so serious that the Archbishop felthimself obliged to take steps to chastise the recusants; and in Decembercame the news of the execution of Cuthbert Maine at Launceston inCornwall. 

How much the Catholics resented this against the Archbishop was broughtto Anthony's notice a day or two later. He was riding back for morningprayer after an errand in Battersea, one frosty day, and had just come insight of Morton's Gateway, when he observed a man standing by it, whoturned and ran, on hearing the horse's footsteps, past Lambeth Church anddisappeared in the direction of the meadows behind Essex House. Anthonychecked his horse, doubtful whether to follow or not, but decided to seewhat it was that the man had left pinned to the door. He rode up anddetached it, and found it was a violent and scurrilous attack upon theArchbishop for his supposed share in the death of the two Papists. Itdenounced him as a "bloody pseudo-minister, " compared him to Pilate, andbade him "look to his congregation of lewd and profane persons that henamed the Church of England, " for that God would avenge the blood of hissaints speedily upon their murderers. 

Anthony carried it into the hall, and after showing it to Mr. Scot, putit indignantly into the fire. The steward raised his eyebrows. 

"Why so, Master Norris?" he asked. 

"Why, " said Anthony sharply, "you would not have me frame it, and show tomy lord. "

"I am not sure, " said the other, "if you desire to injure the Papists. Such foul nonsense is their best condemnation. It is best to keepevidence against a traitor, not destroy it. Besides, we might have caughtthe knave, and now we cannot, " he added, looking at the black shrivellingsheet half regretfully. 

"It is a mystery to me, " said Anthony, "how there can be Papists. "

"Why, they hate England, " said the steward, briefly, as the bell rang formorning prayer. As Anthony followed him along the gallery, he thoughthalf guiltily of Sir Nicholas and his lady, and wondered whether that wastrue of them. But he had no doubt that it was true of Catholics as aclass; they had ceased to be English; the cause of the Pope and the Queenwere irreconcilable; and so the whole incident added more fuel to the hotflame of patriotism and loyalty that burnt so bright in the lad's soul. 

But it was fanned yet higher by a glimpse he had of Court-life; and heowed it to Mary Corbet whom he had only seen momentarily in public onceor twice, and never to speak to since her visit to Great Keynes over sixyears ago. He had blushed privately and bitten his lip a good many timesin the interval, when he thought of his astonishing infatuation, and yetthe glamour had never wholly faded; and his heart quickened perceptiblywhen he opened a note one day, brought by a royal groom, that asked himto come that very afternoon if he could, to Whitehall Palace, whereMistress Corbet would be delighted to see him and renew theiracquaintance. 

As he came, punctual to the moment, into the gallery overlooking thetilt-yard, the afternoon sun was pouring in through the oriel window, andthe yard beyond seemed all a haze of golden light and dust. He heard anexclamation, as he paused, dazzled, and the servant closed the doorbehind him; and there came forward to him in the flood of glory, the sameresplendent figure, all muslin and jewels, that he remembered so well, with the radiant face, looking scarcely older, with the same dancing eyesand scarlet lips. All the old charm seemed to envelop him in a moment ashe saluted her with all the courtesy of which he was capable. 

"Ah!" she cried, "how happy I am to see you again--those dear days atGreat Keynes!" And she took both his hands with such ardour that poorAnthony was almost forced to think that he had never been out of herthoughts since. 

"How can I serve you, Mistress Corbet?" he asked. 

"Serve me? Why, by talking to me, and telling me of the country. Whatdoes the lad mean? Come and sit here, " she said, and she drew him to thewindow seat. 

Anthony looked out into the shining haze of the tilt-yard. Some one witha long pole was struggling violently on the back of a horse, jerking thereins and cursing audibly. 

"Look at that fool, " said Mary, "he thinks his horse as great a dolt ashimself. Chris, Chris, " she screamed through her hands--"you sodden ass;be quieter with the poor beast--soothe him, soothe him. He doesn't knowwhat you want of him with your foul temper and your pole going like awindmill about his ears. "

The cursing and jerking ceased, and a red furious face with thick blackbeard and hair looked up. But before the rider could speak, Mary went onagain:

"There now, Chris, he is as quiet as a sheep again. Now take him at it. "

"What does he want?" asked Anthony. "I can scarcely see for the dust. "

"Why, he's practising at the quintain;--ah! ah!" she cried out again, asthe quintain was missed and swung round with a hard buffet on the man'sback as he tore past. "Going to market, Chris? You've got a sturdyshepherd behind you. Baa, baa, black sheep. "

"Who's that?" asked Anthony, as the tall horseman, as if driven by thestorm of contumely from the window, disappeared towards the stable. 

"Why that's Chris Hatton--whom the Queen calls her sheep, and he's assilly as one, too, with his fool's face and his bleat and his great eyes. He trots about after her Grace, too, like a pet lamb. Bah! I'm sick ofhim. That's enough of the ass; tell me about Isabel. "

Then they fell to talking about Isabel; and Mary eyed him as he answeredher questions. 

"Then she isn't a Papist, yet?" she asked. 

Anthony's face showed such consternation that she burst out laughing. 

"There, there, there!" she cried. "No harm's done. Then that tall lad, who was away last time I was there--well, I suppose he's not turnedProtestant?"

Anthony's face was still more bewildered. 

"Why, my dear lad, " she said, "where are your eyes?"

"Mistress Corbet, " he burst out at last, "I do not know what you mean. Hubert has been in Durham for years. There is no talk----" and hestopped. 

Mary's face became sedate again. 

"Well, well, " she said, "I always was a tattler. It seems I am wrongagain. Forgive me, Master Anthony. "

Anthony was indeed astonished at her fantastic idea. Of course he knewthat Hubert had once been fond of Isabel, but that was years ago, whenthey had been all children together. Why, he reflected, he too had beenfoolish once--and he blushed a little. 

Then they went on to talk of Great Keynes, Sir Nicholas, and Mr. Stewart's arrest and death; and Mary asked Anthony to excuse her interestin such matters, but Papistry had always been her religion, and whatcould a poor girl do but believe what she was taught? Then they went onto speak of more recent affairs, and Mary made him describe to her hislife at Lambeth, and everything he did from the moment he got up to themoment he went to bed again; and whether the Archbishop was a kindmaster, and how long they spent at prayers, and how many courses they hadat dinner; and Anthony grew more and more animated and confidential--shewas so friendly and interested and pretty, as she leaned towards him andquestioned and listened, and the faint scent of violet from her dressawakened his old memories of her. 

And then at last she approached the subject on which she had chieflywished to see him--which was that he should speak to the steward atLambeth on behalf of a young man who was to be dismissed, it seemed, fromthe Archbishop's service, because his sister had lately turned Papist andfled to a convent abroad. It was a small matter; and Anthony readilypromised to do his best, and, if necessary, to approach the Archbishophimself: and Mistress Corbet was profusely grateful. 

They had hardly done talking of the matter, when a trumpet blew suddenlysomewhere away behind the building they were in. Mary held up a whitefinger and put her head on one side. 

"That will be the Ambassador, " she said. 

Anthony looked at her interrogatively. 

"Why, you country lad!" she said, "come and see. "

She jumped up, and he followed her down the gallery, and along throughinterminable corridors and ante-chambers, and up and down the stairs ofthis enormous palace; and Anthony grew bewildered and astonished as hewent at the doors on all sides, and the roofs that ranged themselvesevery way as he looked out. And at last Mary stopped at a window, andpointed out. 

The courtyard beneath was alive with colour and movement. In front of theentrance opposite waited the great gilded state carriage, and another wasjust driving away. On one side a dozen ladies on grey horses were drawnup, to follow behind the Queen when she should come out; and a double rowof liveried servants were standing bare-headed round the empty carriage. The rest of the court was filled with Spanish and English nobles, mounted, with their servants on foot; all alike in splendid costumes--theSpaniards with rich chains about their necks, and tall broad-brimmed hatsdecked with stones and pearls, and the Englishmen in feathered buckledcaps and short cloaks thrown back. Two or three trumpeters stood on thesteps of the porch. Anthony did not see much state at Lambeth, and thesplendour and gaiety of this seething courtyard exhilarated him, and hestared down at it all, fascinated, while Mary Corbet poured out a causticcommentary:

"There is the fat fool Chris again, all red with his tilting. I wouldlike to baa at him again, but I dare not with all these foreign folk. There is Leicester, that tall man with a bald forehead in the cap withthe red feather, on the white horse behind the carriage--he always keepsclose to the Queen. He is the enemy of your prelate, Master Anthony, youknow. .. . That is Oxford, just behind him on the chestnut. Yes, look wellat him. He is the prince of the tilt-yard; none can stand against him. You would say he was at his nine-pins, when he rides against them all. .. . And he can do more than tilt. These sweet-washed gloves"--and she flappedan embroidered pair before Anthony--"these he brought to England. Godbless and reward him for it!" she added fervently. .. . "I do not seeBurghley. Eh! but he is old and gouty these days; and loves a cushion anda chair and a bit of flannel better than to kneel before her Grace. Youknow, she allows him to sit when he confers with her. But then, she isever prone to show mercy to bearded persons. .. . Ah! there is dear Sidney;that is a sweet soul. But what does he do here among the stones andmortar when he has the beeches of Penshurst to walk beneath. He is not sowise as I thought him. .. . But I must say I grow weary of his nymphs andhis airs of Olympus. And for myself, I do not see that Flora andPhoebus and Maia and the rest are a great gain, instead of Our Lady andSaint Christopher and the court of heaven. But then I am a Papist and nota heathen, and therefore blind and superstitious. Is that not so, MasterAnthony?. .. And there is Maitland beside him, with the black velvet capand the white feather, and his cross eyes and mouth. Now I wish he wereat Penshurst, or Bath--or better still, at Jericho, for it is furtheroff. I cannot bear that fellow. .. . Why, Sussex is going on the water, too, I see. Now what brings him here? I should have thought his affairsgave him enough to think of. .. . There he is, with his groom behind him, on the other chestnut. I am astonished at him. He is all for this Frenchmarriage, you know. So you may figure to yourself Mendoza's love for him!They will be like two cats together on the barge; spitting and snarlingsoftly at one another. Her Grace loves to balance folk like that; firstone stretches his claws, and then the other; then one arches his back andsnarls, and the other scratches his face for him; and then when all isflying fur and blasphemy, off slips her Grace and does what she will. "

It was an astonishing experience for Anthony. He had stepped out from hisworkaday life among the grooms and officers and occasional glimpses ofhis lonely old master, into an enchanted region, where great personageswhose very names were luminous with fame, now lived and breathed andlooked cheerful or sullen before his very eyes; and one who knew them intheir daily life stood by him and commented and interpreted them for him. He listened and stared, dazed with the strangeness of it all. 

Mistress Corbet was proceeding to express her views upon the foreignelement that formed half the pageant, when the shrill music broke outagain in the palace, and the trumpeters on the steps took it up; and astir and bustle began. Then out of the porch began to stream aprocession, like a river of colour and jewels, pouring from the foot ofthe carved and windowed wall, and eddying in a tumbled pool about thegreat gilt carriage;--ushers and footmen and nobles and ladies and pagesin bewildering succession. Anthony pressed his forehead to the glass ashe watched, with little exclamations, and Mary watched him, amused andinterested by his enthusiasm. 

And last moved the great canopy bending and swaying under the doorway, and beneath it, like two gorgeous butterflies, at the sight of whom allthe standing world fell on its knees, came the pale Elizabeth with herauburn hair, and the brown-faced Mendoza, side by side; and entered thecarriage with the five plumes atop and the caparisoned horses thatstamped and tossed their jingling heads. The yard was already emptyingfast, _en route_ for Chelsea Stairs; and as soon as the two were seated, the shrill trumpets blew again, and the halberdiers moved off with thecarriage in the midst, the great nobles going before, and the ladiesbehind. The later comers mounted as quickly as possible, as their horseswere brought in from the stable entrance, and clattered away, and in fiveminutes the yard was empty, except for a few sentries at their posts, anda servant or two lounging at the doorway; and as Anthony still stared atthe empty pavement and the carpeted steps, far away from the direction ofthe Abbey came the clear call of the horns to tell the loyal folk thatthe Queen was coming. 

It was a great inspiration for Anthony. He had seen world-powersincarnate below him in the glittering rustling figure of the Queen, andthe dark-eyed courtly Ambassador in his orders and jewels at her side. There they had sat together in one carriage; the huge fiery realm of thesouth, whose very name was redolent with passion and adventure andboundless wealth; and the little self-contained northern kingdom, nowbeginning to stretch its hands, and quiver all along its tingling sinewsand veins with fresh adolescent life. And Anthony knew that he was one ofthe cells of this young organism; and that in him as well as in Elizabethand this sparkling creature at his side ran the fresh red blood ofEngland. They were all one in the possession of a common life; and hisheart burned as he thought of it. 

After he had parted from Mary he rode back to Westminster, and crossedthe river by the horse-ferry that plied there. And even as he landed andgot his beast, with a deal of stamping and blowing, off the echoingboards on to the clean gravel again, there came down the reaches of theriver the mellow sound of music across a mile of water, mingled with thedeep rattle of oars, and sparkles of steel and colour glittered from thefar-away royal barges in the autumn sunshine; and the lad thought withwonder how the two great powers so savagely at war upon the salt sea, were at peace here, sitting side by side on silken cushions and listeningto the same trumpets of peace upon the flowing river. 

 CHAPTER II

 SOME NEW LESSONS

The six years that followed Sir Nicholas' return and Hubert's departurefor the North had passed uneventfully at Great Keynes. The old knight hadbeen profoundly shocked that any Catholic, especially an agent sovaluable as Mr. Stewart, should have found his house a death-trap; andalthough he continued receiving his friends and succouring them, he didso with more real caution and less ostentation of it. His religious zealand discretion were further increased by the secret return to the "OldReligion" of several of his villagers during the period; and a very faircongregation attended Mass so often as it was said in the cloister wingof the Hall. The new rector, like his predecessor, was content to let thesquire alone; and unlike him had no wife to make trouble. 

Then, suddenly, in the summer of '77, catastrophes began, headed by theunexpected return of Hubert, impatient of waiting, and with new plans inhis mind. 

Isabel had been out with Mistress Margaret walking in the dusk one Augustevening after supper, on the raised terrace beneath the yews. They hadbeen listening to the loud snoring of the young owls in the ivy on thechimney-stack opposite, and had watched the fierce bird slide silentlyout of the gloom, white against the blackness, and disappear down amongthe meadows. Once Isabel had seen him pause, too, on one of his returnjourneys, suspicious of the dim figures beneath, silhouetted on a branchagainst the luminous green western sky, with the outline of a mouse withits hanging tail plain in his crooked claws, before he glided to his nestagain. As Isabel waited she heard the bang of the garden-door, but gaveit no thought, and a moment after Mistress Margaret asked her to fetch acouple of wraps from the house for them both, as the air had a touch ofchill in it. She came down the lichened steps, crossed the lawn, andpassed into the unlighted hall. As she entered, the door opposite opened, and for a moment she saw the silhouette of a man's figure against thebright passage beyond. Her heart suddenly leapt, and stood still. 

"Anthony!" she whispered, in a hush of suspense. 

There was a vibration and a step beside her. 

"Isabel!" said Hubert's voice. And then his arms closed round her for thefirst time in her life. She struggled and panted a moment as she felt hisbreath on her face; and he released her. She recoiled to the door, andstood there silent and panting. 

"Oh! Isabel!" he whispered; and again, "Isabel!"

She put out her hand and grasped the door-post behind her. 

"Oh! Hubert! Why have you come?"

He came a step nearer and she could see the faint whiteness of his facein the western glimmer. 

"I cannot wait, " he said, "I have been nearly beside myself. I have leftthe north--and I cannot wait so long. "

"Well?" she said; and he heard the note of entreaty and anxiety in hervoice. 

"I have my plans, " he answered; "I will tell you to-morrow. Where is myaunt?"

Isabel heard a step on the gravel outside. 

"She is coming, " she said sharply. Hubert melted into the dark, and shesaw the opposite door open and let him out. 

The next day Hubert announced his plans to Sir Nicholas, and a conflictfollowed. 

"I cannot go on, sir, " he said, "I cannot wait for ever. I am treatedlike a servant, too; and you know how miserably I am paid, I have obeyedyou for six years, sir; and now I have thrown up the post and told mylord to his face that I can bear with him no longer. "

Sir Nicholas' face, as he sat in his upright chair opposite the boy, grewflushed with passion. 

"It is your accursed temper, sir, " he said violently. "I know you of old. Wait? For what? For the Protestant girl? I told you to put that from yourmind, sir. "

Hubert did not propose as yet to let his father into all his plans. 

"I have not spoken her name, sir, I think. I say I cannot wait for myfortune; I may be impatient, sir--I do not deny it. "

"Then how do you propose to better it?" sneered his father. 

"In November, " said Hubert steadily, looking his father in the eyes, "Isail with Mr. Drake. "

Sir Nicholas' face grew terrific. He rose, and struck the table twicewith his clenched fist. 

"Then, by God, sir, Mr. Drake may have you now. "

Hubert's face grew white with anger; but he had his temper under control. 

"Then I wish you good-day, sir, " and he left the room. 

When the boy had left the house again for London, as he did the sameafternoon, Lady Maxwell tried to soothe the old man. It was impossible, even for her, to approach him before. 

"Sweetheart, " she said tranquilly, as he sat and glowered at his platewhen supper was over and the men had left the room, "sweetheart, we musthave Hubert down here again. He must not sail with Mr. Drake. "

The old man's face flared up again in anger. 

"He may follow his own devices, " he cried. "I care not what he does. Hehas given up the post that I asked for him; and he comes striding andruffling home with his hat cocked and--and----"; his voice becameinarticulate. 

"He is only a boy, sweetheart; with a boy's hot blood--you would soonerhave him like that than a milk-sop. Besides--he is our boy. "

The old man growled. His wife went on:

"And now that James cannot have the estate, he must have it, as you know, and carry on the old name. "

"He has disgraced it, " burst out the angry old man, "and he is going nowwith that damned Protestant to harry Catholics. By the grace of God Ilove my country, and would serve her Grace with my heart's blood--butthat my boy should go with Drake----!" and again his voice failed. 

It was a couple of days before she could obtain her husband's leave towrite a conciliatory letter, giving leave to Hubert to go with Drake, ifhe had made any positive engagement (because, as she represented to SirNicholas, there was nothing actually wrong or disloyal to the Faith init)--but entreating him with much pathos not to leave his old parents sobitterly. 

 * * * *

"Oh, my dear son, " the end of the letter ran, "your father is old; andGod, in whose hand are our days, alone knows how long he will live; andI, too, my son, am old. So come back to us and be our dear child again. You must not think too hardly of your father's words to you; he is quickand hot, as you are, too--but indeed we love you dearly. Your room hereis ready for you; and Piers wants a firm hand now over him, as yourfather is so old. So come back, my darling, and make our old hearts gladagain. "

But the weeks passed by, and no answer came, and the old people's heartsgrew sick with suspense; and then, at last, in September the courierbrought a letter, written from Plymouth, which told the mother that itwas too late; that he had in fact engaged himself to Mr. Drake in Augustbefore he had come to Great Keynes at all; and that in honour he mustkeep his engagement. He asked pardon of his father for his hastiness; butit seemed a cold and half-hearted sorrow; and the letter ended byannouncing that the little fleet would sail in November; and that atpresent they were busy fitting the ships and engaging the men; and thatthere would be no opportunity for him to return to wish them good-byebefore he sailed. It was plain that the lad was angry still. 

Sir Nicholas did not say much; but a silence fell on the house. LadyMaxwell sent for Isabel, and they had a long interview. The old lady wasastonished at the girl's quietness and resignation. 

Yes, she said, she loved Hubert with all her heart. She had loved him fora long while. No, she was not angry, only startled. What would she doabout the difference in religion? Could she marry him while one was aCatholic and the other a Protestant? No, they would never be happy likethat; and she did not know what she would do. She supposed she would waitand see. Yes, she would wait and see; that was all that could bedone. --And then had come a silent burst of tears, and the girl had sunkdown on her knees and hidden her face in the old lady's lap, and thewrinkled jewelled old hand passed quietly over the girl's black hair; butno more had been said, and Isabel presently got up and went home to theDower House. 

The autumn went by, and November came, and there was no further word fromHubert. Then towards the end of November a report reached them fromAnthony at Lambeth that the fleet had sailed; but had put back intoFalmouth after a terrible storm in the Channel. And hope just raised itshead. 

Then one evening after supper Sir Nicholas complained of fever andrestlessness, and went early to bed. In the night he was delirious. Mistress Margaret hastened up at midnight from the Dower House, and agroom galloped off to Lindfield before morning to fetch the doctor, andanother to fetch Mr. Barnes, the priest, from Cuckfield. Sir Nicholas wasbled to reduce the fever of the pneumonia that had attacked him. All daylong he was sinking. About eleven o'clock that night he fell asleep, apparently, and Lady Maxwell, who had watched incessantly, was persuadedto lie down; but at three o'clock in the morning, on the first ofDecember, Mistress Margaret awakened her, and together they knelt by thebedside of the old man. The priest, who had anointed him on the previousevening, knelt behind, repeating the prayers for the dying. 

Sir Nicholas lay on his back, supported by pillows, under the gloom ofthe black old four-posted bed. A wood-fire glowed on the hearth, and theair was fragrant with the scent of the burning cedar-logs. A crucifix wasin the old man's hands; but his eyes were bright with fever, and hisfingers every now and then relaxed, and then tightened their hold againon the cool silver of the figure of the crucified Saviour. His lips weremoving tremulously, and his ruddy old face was pale now. 

The priest's voice went on steadily; the struggle was beginning. 

"_Proficiscere, anima christiana, de hoc mundo_. --Go forth, Christiansoul, from this world in the name of God the Father Almighty, who createdthee; in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, Who sufferedfor thee; in the name of the Holy Ghost, who was shed forth upon thee; Inthe name of Angels and Archangels; in the name of Thrones and Dominions;in the name of Principalities and Powers----"

Suddenly the old man, whose head had been slowly turning from side toside, ceased his movement, and his open mouth closed; he was lookingsteadily at his wife, and a look of recognition came back to his eyes. 

"Sweetheart, " he said; and smiled, and died. 

 * * * *

Isabel did not see much of Mistress Margaret for the next few days; shewas constantly with her sister, and when she came to the Dower House nowand then, said little to the girl. There were curious rumours in thevillage; strangers came and went continually, and there was a vastcongregation at the funeral, when the body of the old knight was laid torest in the Maxwell chapel. The following day the air of mysterydeepened; and young Mrs. Melton whispered to Isabel, with many glancesand becks, that she and her man had seen lights through the chapelwindows at three o'clock that morning. Isabel went into the chapelpresently to visit the grave, and there was a new smear of black on theeast wall as if a taper had been set too near. 

The courier who had been despatched to announce to Hubert that his fatherhad died and left him master of the Hall and estate, with certainconditions, returned at the end of the month with the news that the fleethad sailed again on the thirteenth, and that Hubert was gone with it; soLady Maxwell, now more silent and retired than ever, for the presentretained her old position and Mr. Piers took charge of the estate. 

Although Isabel outwardly was very little changed in the last six years, great movements had been taking place in her soul, and if Hubert had onlyknown the state of the case, possibly he would not have gone so hastilywith Mr. Drake. 

The close companionship of such an one as Mistress Margaret was doing itsalmost inevitable work; and the girl had been learning that behind thebrilliant and even crude surface of the Catholic practice, there laystill and beautiful depths of devotion which she had scarcely dreamed of. The old nun's life was a revelation to Isabel; she heard from her bed inthe black winter mornings her footsteps in the next room, and soon learntthat Mistress Margaret spent at least two hours in prayer before sheappeared at all. Two or three times in the day she knew that she retiredagain for the same purpose, and again an hour after she was in bed, therewere the same gentle movements next door. She began to discover, too, that for the Catholic, as well as for the Puritan, the Person of theSaviour was the very heart of religion; that her own devotion to Christwas a very languid flame by the side of the ardent inarticulate passionof this soul who believed herself His wedded spouse; and that the worshipof the saints and the Blessed Mother instead of distracting the love ofthe Christian soul rather seemed to augment it. The King of Love stood, as she fancied sometimes, to Catholic eyes, in a glow of ineffablesplendour; and the faces of His adoring Court reflected the ruddy gloryon all sides; thus refracting the light of their central Sun, instead of, as she had thought, obscuring it. 

Other difficulties, too, began to seem oddly unreal and intangible, whenshe had looked at them in the light of Mistress Margaret's clear old eyesand candid face. It was a real event in her inner life when she firstbegan to understand what the rosary meant to Catholics. Mistress Corbethad told her what was the actual use of the beads; and how the mysteriesof Christ's life and death were to be pondered over as the variousprayers were said; but it had hitherto seemed to Isabel as if this methodwere an elaborate and superstitious substitute for reading the inspiredrecord of the New Testament. 

She had been sitting out in the little walled garden in front of theDower House one morning on an early summer day after her father's death, and Mistress Margaret had come out in her black dress and stood for amoment looking at her irresolutely, framed in the dark doorway. Then shehad come slowly across the grass, and Isabel had seen for the first timein her fingers a string of ivory beads. Mistress Margaret sat down on agarden chair a little way from her, and let her hands sink into her lap, still holding the beads. Isabel said nothing, but went on reading. Presently she looked up again, and the old lady's eyes were half-closed, and her lips just moving; and the beads passing slowly through herfingers. She looked almost like a child dreaming, in spite of herwrinkles and her snowy hair; the pale light of a serene soul lay on herface. This did not look like the mechanical performance that Isabel hadalways associated with the idea of beads. So the minutes passed away;every time that Isabel looked up there was the little white face with thelong lashes lying on the cheek, and the crown of snowy hair and lace, andthe luminous look of a soul in conscious communion with the unseen. 

When the old lady had finished, she twisted the beads about her fingersand opened her eyes. Isabel had an impulse to speak. 

"Mistress Margaret, " she said, "may I ask you something?"

"Of course, my darling, " the old lady said. 

"I have never seen you use those before--I cannot understand them. "

"What is it, " asked the old lady, "that you don't understand?"

"How can prayers said over and over again like that be any good?"

Mistress Margaret was silent for a moment. 

"I saw young Mrs. Martin last week, " she said, "with her little girl inher lap. Amy had her arms round her mother's neck, and was being rockedto and fro; and every time she rocked she said 'Oh, mother. '"

"But then, " said Isabel, after a moment's silence, "she was only achild. "

"'Except ye become like little children--'" quoted Mistress Margaretsoftly--"you see, my Isabel, we are nothing more than children with Godand His Blessed Mother. To say 'Hail Mary, Hail Mary, ' is the best way oftelling her how much we love her. And then this string of beads is likeOur Lady's girdle, and her children love to finger it, and whisper toher. And then we say our paternosters, too; and all the while we aretalking she is shewing us pictures of her dear Child, and we look at allthe great things He did for us, one by one; and then we turn the page andbegin again. "

"I see, " said Isabel; and after a moment or two's silence MistressMargaret got up and went into the house. 

The girl sat still with her hands clasped round her knee. How strange anddifferent this religion was to the fiery gospel she had heard last yearat Northampton from the harsh stern preacher, at whose voice a veilseemed to rend and show a red-hot heaven behind! How tender and simplethis was--like a blue summer's sky with drifting clouds! If only it wastrue! If only there were a great Mother whose girdle was of beads strungtogether, which dangled into every Christian's hands; whose face bentdown over every Christian's bed; and whose mighty and tender arms thathad held her Son and God were still stretched out beneath her otherchildren. And Isabel, whose soul yearned for a mother, sighed as shereminded herself that there was but "one Mediator between God andman--the man, Christ Jesus. "

And so the time went by, like an outgoing tide, silent and steady. Theold nun did not talk much to the girl about dogmatic religion, for shewas in a difficult position. She was timid certainly of betraying herfaith by silence, but she was also timid of betraying her trust byspeech. Sometimes she felt she had gone too far, sometimes not farenough; but on the whole her practice was never to suggest questions, butonly to answer them when Isabel asked; and to occupy herself withaffirmative rather than with destructive criticism. More than this shehesitated to do out of honour for the dead; less than this she dared notdo out of love for God and Isabel. But there were three or fourconversations that she felt were worth waiting for; and the look onIsabel's face afterwards, and the sudden questions she would asksometimes after a fit of silence, made her friend's heart quicken towardsher, and her prayers more fervent. 

The two were sitting together one December day in Isabel's upstairs roomand the girl, who had just come in from a solitary walk, was halfkneeling on the window-seat and drumming her fingers softly on the panesas she looked out at the red western sky. 

"I used to think, " she said, "that Catholics had no spiritual life; butnow it seems to me that in comparison we Puritans have none. You know somuch about the soul, as to what is from God and what from the Evil One;and we have to grope for ourselves. And yet our Saviour said that Hissheep should know His voice. I do not understand it. " And she turnedtowards Mistress Margaret who had laid down her work and was listening. 

"Dear child, " she said, "if you mean our priests and spiritual writers, it is because they study it. We believe in the science of the soul; andwe consult our spiritual guides for our soul's health, as the leech forour body's health. "

"But why must you ask the priest, if the Lord speaks to all alike?"

"He speaks through the priest, my dear, as He does through thephysician. "

"But why should the priest know better than the people?" pursued Isabel, intent on her point. 

"Because he tells us what the Church says, " said the other smiling, "itis his business. He need not be any better or cleverer in other respects. The baker may be a thief or a foolish fellow; but his bread is good. "

"But how do you know, " went on Isabel, who thought Mistress Margaret alittle slow to see her point--"how do you know that the Church is right?"

The old nun considered a moment, and then lifted her embroidery again. 

"Why do you think, " she asked, beginning to sew, "that each single soulthat asks God's guidance is right?"

"Because the Holy Ghost is promised to such, " said Isabel wondering. 

"Then is it not likely, " went on the other still stitching, "that themillions of souls who form Holy Church are right, when they all agreetogether?" Isabel moved a little impatiently. 

"You see, " went on Mistress Margaret, "that is what we Catholics believeour Saviour meant when He said that the gates of hell should not prevailagainst His Church. "

But Isabel was not content. She broke in:

"But why are not the Scriptures sufficient? They are God's Word. "

The other put down her embroidery again, and smiled up into the girl'spuzzled eyes. 

"Well, my child, " she said, "do they seem sufficient, when you look atChristendom now? If they are so clear, how is it that you have theLutherans, and the Anabaptists, and the Family of Love, and theCalvinists, and the Church of England, all saying they hold to theScriptures alone. Nay, nay; the Scriptures are the grammar, and theChurch is the dame that teaches out of it, and she knows so well muchthat is not in the grammar, and we name that tradition. But where thereis no dame to teach, the children soon fall a-fighting about the book andthe meaning of it. "

Isabel looked at Mistress Margaret a moment, and then turned back againto the window in silence. 

At another time they had a word or two about Peter's prerogatives. 

"Surely, " said Isabel suddenly, as they walked together in the garden, "Christ is the one Foundation of the Church, St. Paul tells us soexpressly. "

"Yes, my dear, " said the nun, "but then Christ our Lord said: 'Thou artPeter, and on this rock I will build my Church. ' So he who is the onlyGood Shepherd, said to Peter, 'Feed My sheep'; and He that is _ClavisDavid_ and that openeth and none shutteth said to him, 'I will givethee the keys, and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound inheaven. ' That is why we call Peter the Vicar of Christ. "

Isabel raised her eyebrows. 

"Surely, surely----" she began. 

"Yes, my child, " said Mistress Margaret, "I know it is new and strange toyou; but it was not to your grandfather or his forbears: to them, as tome, it is the plain meaning of the words. We Catholics are a simple folk. We hold that what our Saviour said simply He meant simply: as we do inthe sacred mystery of His Body and Blood. To us, you know, " she went on, smiling, with a hand on the girl's arm, "it seems as if you Protestantstwisted the Word of God against all justice. "

Isabel smiled back at her; but she was puzzled. The point of view was newto her. And yet again in the garden, a few months later, as they sat outtogether on the lawn, the girl opened the same subject. 

"Mistress Margaret, " she said, "I have been thinking a great deal; and itseems very plain when you talk. But you know our great divines couldanswer you, though I cannot. My father was no Papist; and Dr. Grindal andthe Bishops are all wise men. How do you answer that?"

The nun looked silently down at the grass a moment or two. 

"It is the old tale, " she said at last, looking up; "we cannot believethat the babes and sucklings are as likely to be right in such matters asthe wise and prudent--even more likely, if our Saviour's words are to bebelieved. Dear child, do you not see that our Lord came to save all men, and call all men into His Church; and that therefore He must have markedHis Church in such a manner that the most ignorant may perceive it aseasily as the most learned? Learning is very well, and it is the gift ofGod; but salvation and grace cannot depend upon it. It needs an architectto understand why Paul's Church is strong and beautiful, and what makesit so; but any child or foolish fellow can see that it is so. "

"I do not understand, " said Isabel, wrinkling her forehead. 

"Why this--that you are as likely to know the Catholic Church when yousee it, as Dr. Grindal or Dr. Freake, or your dear father himself. Only adivine can explain about it and understand it, but you and I are as fitto see it and walk into it, as any of them. "

"But then why are they not all Catholics?" asked Isabel, stillbewildered. 

"Ah!" said the nun, softly, "God alone knows, who reads hearts and callswhom He will. But learning, at least, has nought to do with it. "

Conversations of this kind that took place now and then between the twowere sufficient to show Mistress Margaret, like tiny bubbles on thesurface of a clear stream, the swift movement of this limpid soul thatshe loved so well. But on the other hand, all the girl's past life, andmost sacred and dear associations, were in conflict with this movement;the memory of her quiet, wise father rose and reproached her sometimes;Anthony's enthusiastic talk, when he came down from Lambeth, on theglorious destinies of the Church of England, of her gallant protestagainst the corruptions of the West, and of her future unique position inChristendom as the National Church of the most progressive country--allthis caused her to shrink back terrified from the bourne to which she wasdrifting, and from the breach that must follow with her brother. Butabove all else that caused her pain was the shocking suspicion that herlove for Hubert perhaps was influencing her, and that she was living ingross self-deception as to the sincerity of her motives. 

This culminated at last in a scene that seriously startled the old nun;it took place one summer night after Hubert's departure in Mr. Drake'sexpedition. Mistress Margaret had seen Isabel to her room, and an hourlater had finished her night-office and was thinking of preparing herselfto bed, when there was a hurried tap at the door, and Isabel came quicklyin, her face pale and miserable, her great grey eyes full of trouble anddistraction, and her hair on her shoulders. 

"My dear child, " said the nun, "what is it?"

Isabel closed the door and stood looking at her, with her lips parted. 

"How can I know, Mistress Margaret, " she said, in the voice of asleep-walker, "whether this is the voice of God or of my own wicked self?No, no, " she went on, as the other came towards her, frightened, "let metell you. I must speak. "

"Yes, my child, you shall; but come and sit down first, " and she drew herto a chair and set her in it, and threw a wrap over her knees and feet;and sat down beside her, and took one of her hands, and held it betweenher own. 

"Now then, Isabel, what is it?"

"I have been thinking over it all so long, " began the girl, in the sametremulous voice, with her eyes fixed on the nun's face, "and to-night inbed I could not bear it any longer. You see, I love Hubert, and I used tothink I loved our Saviour too; but now I do not know. It seems as if Hewas leading me to the Catholic Church; all is so much more plain and easythere--it seems--it seems--to make sense in the Catholic Church; and allthe rest of us are wandering in the dark. But if I become a Catholic, yousee, I can marry Hubert then; and I cannot help thinking of that; andwanting to marry him. But then perhaps that is the reason that I think Isee it all so plainly; just because I want to see it plainly. And what amI to do? Why will not our Lord shew me my own heart and what is HisWill?"

Mistress Margaret shook her head gently. 

"Dear child, " she said, "our Saviour loves you and wishes to make youhappy. Do you not think that perhaps He is helping you and making it easyin this way, by drawing you to His Church through Hubert. Why should notboth be His Will? that you should become a Catholic and marry Hubert aswell?"

"Yes, " said Isabel, "but how can I tell?"

"There is only one thing to be done, " went on the old lady, "be quitesimple and quiet. Whenever your soul begins to be disturbed and anxious, put yourself in His Hands, and refuse to decide for yourself. It is soeasy, so easy. "

"But why should I be so anxious and disturbed, if it were not our Lordspeaking and warning me?"

"In the Catholic Church, " said Mistress Margaret, "we know well about allthose movements of the soul; and we call them scruples. You must resistthem, dear child, like temptations. We are told that if a soul is ingrace and desires to serve God, then whenever our Lord speaks it is tobring sweetness with Him; and when it is the evil one, he bringsdisturbance. And that is why I am sure that these questionings are notfrom God. You feel stifled, is it not so, when you try to pray? and allseems empty of God; the waves and storms are going over you. But liestill and be content; and refuse to be disturbed; and you will soon be atpeace again and see the light clearly. "

Mistress Margaret found herself speaking simply in short words andsentences as to a child. She had seen that for a long while past theclouds had been gathering over Isabel, and that her soul was at presentcompletely overcast and unable to perceive or decide anything clearly;and so she gave her this simple advice, and did her utmost to soothe her, knowing that such a clean soul would not be kept long in the dark. 

She knelt down with Isabel presently and prayed aloud with her, in aquiet even voice; a patch of moonlight lay on the floor, and something ofits white serenity seemed to be in the old nun's tones as she entreatedthe merciful Lord to bid peace again to this anxious soul, and let hersee light again through the dark. 

And when she had taken Isabel back again to her own room at last, and hadseen her safely into bed, and kissed her good-night, already the girl'sface was quieter as it lay on the pillow, and the lines were smoothed outof her forehead. 

"God bless you!" said Mistress Margaret. 

 CHAPTER III

 HUBERT'S RETURN

After the sailing of Mr. Drake's expedition, the friends of the adventurershad to wait in patience for several months before news arrived. Then the_Elizabeth_, under the command of Mr. Winter, which had been separatedfrom Mr. Drake's _Pelican_ in a gale off the south-west coast of America, returned to England, bringing the news of Mr. Doughty's execution fordesertion; but of the _Pelican_ herself there was no further news untilcomplaints arrived from the Viceroy of New Spain of Mr. Drake's ravagesup the west coast. Then silence again fell for eighteen months. 

Anthony had followed the fortunes of the _Pelican_, in which Hubert hadsailed, with a great deal of interest: and it was with real relief thatafter the burst of joy in London at the news of her safe return toPlymouth with an incalculable amount of plunder, he had word from LadyMaxwell that she hoped he would come down at once to Great Keynes, andhelp to welcome Hubert home. He was not able to go at once, for hisduties detained him; but a couple of days after the Hall had welcomed itsnew master, Anthony was at the Dower House again with Isabel. He foundher extraordinarily bright and vivacious, and was delighted at thechange, for he had been troubled the last time he had seen her a fewmonths before, at her silence and listlessness; but her face was radiantnow, as she threw herself into his arms at the door, and told him thatthey were all to go to supper that night at the Hall; and that Hubert hadbeen keeping his best stories on purpose for his return. She showed him, when they got up to his room at last, little things Hubert had givenher--carved nuts, a Spanish coin or two, and an ingot of gold--but ofwhich she would say nothing, but only laugh and nod her head. 

Hubert, too, when he saw him that evening seemed full of the same sort ofhalf-suppressed happiness that shone out now and again suddenly. There hesat, for hours after supper that night, broader and more sunburnt thanever, with his brilliant eyes glancing round as he talked, and his sinewyman's hand, in the delicate creamy ruff, making little explanatorymovements, and drawing a map once or twice in spilled wine on thepolished oak; the three ladies sat forward and watched him breathlessly, or leaned back and sighed as each tale ended, and Anthony found himself, too, carried away with enthusiasm again and again, as he looked at thisgallant sea-dog in his gold chain and satin and jewels, and listened tohis stories. 

"It was bitter cold, " said Hubert in his strong voice, telling them ofMr. Doughty's death, "on the morning itself: and snow lay on the deckswhen we rose. Mr. Fletcher had prepared a table in the poop-cabin, with awhite cloth and bread and wine; and at nine of the clock we were allassembled where we might see into the cabin: and Mr. Fletcher said theCommunion service, and Mr. Drake and Mr. Doughty received the sacramentthere at his hands. Some of Mr. Doughty's men had all they could do tokeep back their tears; for you know, mother, they were good friends. Andthen when it was done, we made two lines down the deck to where the blockstood by the main-mast; and the two came down together; and they kissedone another there. And Mr. Doughty spoke to the men, and bade them prayfor the Queen's Grace with him; and they did. And then he and Mr. Drakeput off their doublets, and Mr. Doughty knelt at the block, and saidanother prayer or two, and then laid his head down, and he was shiveringa little with cold, and then, when he gave the sign, Mr. Drake----" andHubert brought the edge of his hand down sharply, and the glasses rang, and the ladies drew quick hissing breaths; and Lady Maxwell put her handon her son's arm, as he looked round on all their faces. 

Then he told them of the expedition up the west coast, and of the townsthey sacked; and the opulent names rolled oddly off his tongue, andseemed to bring a whiff of southern scent into this panelled Englishroom, --Valparaiso, Tarapaca, and Arica--; and of the capture of the_Cacafuego_ off Quibdo; and of the enormous treasure they took, thegreat golden crucifix with emeralds of the size of pigeon's eggs, and thechests of pearls, and the twenty-six tons of silver, and the wedges ofpure gold from the Peruvian galleon, and of the golden falcon from theChinese trader that they captured south of Guatulco. And he described thesearch up the coast for the passage eastwards that never existed; and ofDrake's superb resolve to return westwards instead, by the Moluccas; andhow they stayed at Ternate, south of Celebes, and coasted along Javaseeking a passage, and found it in the Sunda straits, and broke out fromthe treacherous islands into the open sea; crossed to Africa, rounded theCape of Good Hope; came up the west coast, touching at Sierra Leone, andso home again along the Spanish and French coasts, to Plymouth Sound andthe pealing of Plymouth bells. 

And he broke out into something very like eloquence when he spoke ofDrake. 

"Never was such a captain, " he cried, "with his little stiff beard andhis obstinate eyes. I have seen him stand on the poop, when the arrowswere like hail on the deck, with one finger in the ring round hisneck, --so": and Hubert thrust a tanned finger into a link of his chain, and lifted his chin, "just making little signs to the steersman, with hishand behind his back, to bring the ship nearer to the Spaniard; as cool, I tell you, as cool as if he were playing merelles. Oh! and then when weboarded, out came his finger from his ring; and there was none thatstruck so true and fierce; and all in silence too, without an oath or acry or a word; except maybe to give an order. But he was very sharp withall that angered him. When we sighted the _Madre di Dios_, I ran intohis cabin to tell him of it, without saluting, so full was my head ofthe chase. And he looked at me like ice; and then roared at me to knowwhere my manners were, and bade me go out and enter again properly, before he would hear my news; and then I heard him rating the man thatstood at his door for letting me pass in that state. At his dinner, too, which he took alone, there were always trumpets to blow, as when herGrace dines. When he laughed it seemed as if he did it with a grave face. There was a piece of grand fooling when we got out from among those wearyIndian islands; where the great crabs be, and flies that burn in thedark, as I told you. Mr. Fletcher, the minister, played the coward onenight when we ran aground; and bade us think of our sins and our immortalsouls, instead of urging us to be smart about the ship; and he did it, too, not as Mr. Drake might do, but in such a melancholy voice as if wewere all at our last hour; so when we were free of our trouble, and outon the main again, we were all called by the drum to the forecastle, andthere Mr. Drake sat on a sea-chest as solemn as a judge, so that not aman durst laugh, with a pair of pantoufles in his hand; and Mr. Fletcherwas brought before him, trying to smile as if 'twas a jest for him too, between two guards; and there he was arraigned; and the witnesses werecalled; and Tom Moore said how he was tapped on the shoulder by Mr. Fletcher as he was getting a pick from the hold; and how he was as whiteas a ghost and bade him think on Mr. Doughty, how there was no mercy forhim when he needed it, and so there would be none for us--and then otherwitnesses came, and then Mr. Fletcher tried to make his defence, sayinghow it was the part of a minister to bid men think on their souls; but'twas no good. Mr. Drake declared him guilty; and sentenced him to bekept in irons till he repented of that his cowardice; and then, which wasthe cream of the joke, since the prisoner was a minister, Mr. Drakedeclared him excommunicate, and cut off from the Church of God, and givenover to the devil. And he was put in irons, too, for a while; so 'twasnot all a joke. "

"And what is Mr. Drake doing now?" asked Lady Maxwell. 

"Oh! Drake is in London, " said Hubert. "Ah! yes, and you must all come toDeptford when her Grace is going to be there. Anthony, lad, you'll come?"

Anthony said he would certainly do his best; and Isabel put out her handto her brother, and beamed at him; and then turned to look at Hubertagain. 

"And what are you to do next?" asked Mistress Margaret. 

"Well, " he said, "I am to go to Plymouth again presently, to help to getthe treasure out of the ships; and I must be there, too, for the springand summer, for Drake wants me to help him with his new expedition. "

"But you are not going with him again, my son?" said his mother quickly. 

Hubert put out his hand to her. 

"No, no, " he said, "I have written to tell him I cannot. I must take myfather's place here. He will understand"; and he gave one swift glance atIsabel, and her eyes fell. 

Anthony was obliged to return to Lambeth after a day or two, and hecarried with him a heart full of admiration and enthusiasm for hisfriend. He had wondered once or twice, too, as his eyes fell on Isabel, whether there was anything in what Mistress Corbet had said; but he darednot speak to her, and still less to Hubert, unless his confidence wasfirst sought. 

The visit to Deptford, which took place a week or two later, gave anadditional spurt to Anthony's nationalism. London was all on fire at thereturn of the buccaneers, and as Anthony rode down the south bank of theriver from Lambeth to join the others at the inn, the three miles ofriver beyond London Bridge were an inspiriting sight in the bright wintersunshine, crowded with craft of all kinds, bright with bunting, that weremaking their way down to the naval triumph. The road, too, was thick withvehicles and pedestrians. 

It was still early when he met his party at the inn, and Hubert took themimmediately to see the _Pelican_ that was drawn up in a little creek onthe south bank. Mistress Margaret had not come, so the four went togetherall over the ship that had been for these years the perilous home of thissunburnt lad they all loved so well. Hubert pointed out Drake's own cabinat the poop, with its stern-windows, where the last sacrament of the twofriends had been celebrated; and where Drake himself had eaten in royalfashion to the sound of trumpets and slept with all-night sentries at hisdoor. He showed them too his own cabin, where he had lived with threemore officers, and the upper poop-deck where Drake would sit hour afterhour with his spy-glass, ranging the horizons for treasure-ships. And heshowed them, too, the high forecastle, and the men's quarters; and Isabelfingered delicately the touch-holes of the very guns that had roared andsnapped so fiercely at the Dons; and they peered down into the dark emptyhold where the treasure-chests had lain, and up at the three masts andthe rigging that had borne so long the swift wings of the _Pelican_. Andthey heard the hiss and rattle of the ropes as Hubert ordered a man torun up a flag to show them how it was done; and they smelled the strangetarry briny smell of a sea-going ship. 

"You are not tired?" Anthony said to his sister, as they walked back tothe inn from which they were to see the spectacle. She shook her headhappily; and Anthony, looking at her, once more questioned himselfwhether Mistress Corbet were right or not. 

When they had settled down at last to their window, the crowds weregathering thicker every moment about the entrance to the ship, which layin the creek perhaps a hundred yards from the inn, and on the road alongwhich the Queen was to come from Greenwich. Anthony felt his whole heartgo out in sympathy to these joyous shouting folk beneath, who were hereto celebrate the gallant pluck of a little bearded man and his followers, who for the moment stood for England, and in whose presence just now theQueen herself must take second place. Even the quacks and salesmen whowere busy in their booths all round used patriotism to push theirbargains. 

"Spanish ointment, Spanish ointment!" bellowed a red-faced herbalist in adoctor's gown, just below the window. "The Dons know what's best forwounds and knocks after Frankie Drake's visit"; and the crowd laughed andbought up his boxes. And another drove a roaring business in green glassbeads, reported to be the exact size of the emeralds taken from the_Cacafuego_; and others sold little models of the _Pelican_, warranted tofrighten away Dons and all other kinds of devils from the house thatpossessed one. Isabel laughed with pleasure, and sent Anthony down to buyone for her. 

But perhaps more than all else the sight of the seamen themselves stirredhis heart. Most of them, officers as well as men, were dressed withabsurd extravagance, for the prize-money, even after the deduction of theQueen's lion-share, had been immense, but beneath their plumed andjewel-buckled caps, brown faces looked out, alert and capable, with tightlips and bright, puckered eyes, with something of the terrier in theirexpression. There they swaggered along with a slight roll in their walk, by ones or twos, through the crowd that formed lanes to let them pass, and surged along in their wake, shouting after them and clapping them onthe back. Anthony watched them eagerly as they made their way from alldirections to where the _Pelican_ lay; for it was close on noon. Thenfrom far away came the boom of the Tower guns, and then the nearer crashof those that guarded the dockyard; and last the deafening roar of the_Pelican_ broadside; and then the smoke rose and drifted in a heavy veilin the keen frosty air over the cheering crowds. When it lifted again, there was the flash of gold and colour from the Greenwich road, and thehigh braying of the trumpets pierced the roaring welcome of the people. But the watchers at the windows could see no more over the heads of thecrowd than the plumes of the royal carriage, as the Queen dismounted, anda momentary glimpse of her figure and the group round her as she passedon to the deck of the _Pelican_ and went immediately below to thebanquet, while the parish church bells pealed a welcome. 

Lady Maxwell insisted that Isabel should now dine, as there would be nomore to be seen till the Queen should come up on deck again. 

Of the actual ceremony of the knighting of Mr. Drake they had a very fairview, though the figures were little and far away. The first intimationthey had that the banquet was over was the sight of the scarlet-cladyeomen emerging one by one up the little hatchway that led below. Thehalberdiers lined the decks already, with their weapons flashing in longcurved lines; and by the time that the trumpets began to sound to showthat the Queen was on her way from below, the decks were one dense massof colour and steel, with a lane left to the foot of the poop-stairs bywhich she would ascend. Then at last the two figures appeared, the Queenradiant in cloth of gold, and Mr. Drake, alert and brisk, in his Courtsuit and sword. There was silence from the crowd as the adventurer kneltbefore the Queen, and Anthony held his breath with excitement as hecaught the flash of the slender sword that an officer had put into theQueen's hand; and then an inconceivable noise broke out as Sir FrancisDrake stood up. The crowd was one open mouth, shouting, the church bellsburst into peals overhead, answered by the roll of drums from the deckand the blare of trumpets; and then the whole din sank into nothingnessfor a moment under the heart-shaking crash of the ship's broadside, echoed instantly by the deeper roar of the dockyard guns, and answeredafter a moment or two from far away by the dull boom from the Tower. AndAnthony leaned yet further from the window and added his voice to thetumult. 

As he rode back alone to Lambeth, after parting with the others at LondonBridge, for they intended to go down home again that night, he wasglowing with national zeal. He had seen not only royalty and magnificencebut an apotheosis of character that day. There in the little trim figurewith the curly hair kneeling before the Queen was England at itsbest--England that sent two ships against an empire; and it was theChurch that claimed Sir Francis Drake as a son, and indeed a devoted one, in a sense, that Anthony himself was serving here at Lambeth, and forwhich he felt a real and fervent enthusiasm. 

He was surprised a couple of days later to receive a note in LadyMaxwell's handwriting, brought up by a special messenger from the Hall. 

"There is a friend of mine, " she wrote, "to come to Lambeth Housepresently, he tells me, to be kept a day or two in ward before he is sentto Wisbeach. He is a Catholic, named Mr. Henry Buxton, who showed megreat love during the sorrow of my dear husband's death; and I write toyou to show kindness to him, and to get him a good bed, and all that maycomfort him: for I know not whether Lambeth Prison is easy or hard; but Ihope perhaps that since my Lord Archbishop is a prisoner himself he haspity on such as are so too; and so my pains be in vain. However, if youwill see Mr. Buxton at least, and have some talk with him, and show himthis letter, it will cheer him perhaps to see a friend's face. "

Anthony of course made inquiries at once, and found that Mr. Buxton wasto arrive on the following afternoon. It was the custom to send prisonersoccasionally to Lambeth, more particularly those more distinguished, orwho, it was hoped, could be persuaded to friendly conference. Mr. Buxton, however, was thought to be incorrigible, and was only sent there becausethere was some delay in the preparations for his reception at Wisbeach, which since the previous year had been used as an overflow prison forPapists. 

On the evening of the next day, which was Friday, Anthony went straightout from the Hall after supper to the gateway prison, and found Mr. Buxton at a fish supper in the little prison in the outer part of theeastern tower. He introduced himself, but found it necessary to show LadyMaxwell's letter before the prisoner was satisfied as to his identity. 

"You must pardon me, Mr. Norris, " he said, when he had read the letterand asked a question or two, "but we poor Papists are bound to be shy. Why, in this very room, " he went on, pointing to the inner corner awayfrom the door, and smiling, "for aught I know a man sits now to hear us. "

Anthony was considerably astonished to see this stranger point soconfidently to the hiding-hole, where indeed the warder used to sitsometimes behind a brick partition, to listen to the talk of theprisoners; and showed his surprise. 

"Ah, Mr. Norris, " the other said, "we Papists are bound to be wellinformed; or else where were our lives? But come, sir, let us sit down. "

Anthony apologised for interrupting him at his supper, and offered tocome again, but Mr. Buxton begged him not to leave, as he had nearlyfinished. So Anthony sat down, and observed the prison and the prisoner. It was fairly well provided with necessaries: a good straw bed lay in onecorner on trestles; and washing utensils stood at the further wall; andthere was an oil lamp that hung high up from an iron pin. The prisoner'sluggage lay still half unpacked on the floor, and a row of pegs held ahat and a cloak. Mr. Buxton himself was a dark-haired man with a shortbeard and merry bright eyes; and was dressed soberly as a gentleman; andbehaved himself with courtesy and assurance. But it was a queer placewith this flickering lamp, thought Anthony, for a gentleman to be eatinghis supper in. When Mr. Buxton had finished his dish of roach and atankard of ale, he looked up at Anthony, smiling. 

"My lord knows the ways of Catholics, then, " he said, pointing to thebones on his plate. 

Anthony explained that the Protestants observed the Friday abstinence, too. 

"Ah yes, " said the other, "I was forgetting the Queen's late injunctions. Let us see; how did it run? 'The same is not required for any liking ofPapish Superstitions or Ceremonies (is it?) hitherto used, which utterlyare to be detested of all Christian folk'; (no, the last word or two is agloss), 'but only to maintain the mariners in this land, and to set mena-fishing. ' That is the sense of it, is it not, sir? You fast, that is, not for heavenly reasons, which were a foolish and Papish thing to do;but for earthly reasons, which is a reasonable and Protestant thing todo. "

Anthony might have taken this assault a little amiss, if he had not seena laughing light in his companion's eyes; and remembered, too, thatimprisonment is apt to breed a little bitterness. So be smiled back athim. Then soon they fell to talking of Lady Maxwell and Great Keynes, where it seemed that Mr. Buxton had stayed more than once. 

"I knew Sir Nicholas well, " he said, "God rest his soul. It seems to mehe is one of those whose life continually gave the lie to men who saythat a Catholic can be no true Englishman. There never beat a more loyalheart than his. "

Anthony agreed; but asked if it were not true that Catholics were indifficulties sometimes as to the proper authority to be obeyed--the Popeor the Prince. 

"It is true, " said the other, "or it might be. Yet the principle isclear, _Date Cæsari quae sunt Cæsaris_. The difficulty lies but in theapplication of the maxim. "

"But with us, " said Anthony--"Church of England folk, --there hardly canbe ever any such difficulty; for the Prince of the State is the Governorof the Church as well. "

"I take your point, " said Mr. Buxton. "You mean that a National Church isbetter, for that spiritual and temporal authorities are then at one. "

"Just so, " said Anthony, beginning to warm to his favourite theme. "TheChurch is the nation regarded as religious. When England wars on land itis through her army, which is herself under arms; when on sea she embarksin the navy; and in the warfare with spiritual powers, it is through herChurch. And surely in this way the Church must always be the Church ofthe people. The Englishman and the Spaniard are like cat and dog; theylike not the same food nor the same kind of coat; I hear that theirbuildings are not like ours; their language, nay, their faces and minds, are not like ours. Then why should be their prayers and their religion? Iquarrel with no foreigner's faith; it is God who made us so. "

Anthony stopped, breathless with his unusual eloquence; but it was thesubject that lay nearest to his heart at present, and he found no lack ofwords. The prisoner had watched him with twinkling eyes, nodding his headas if in agreement; and when he had finished his little speech, noddedagain in meditative silence. 

"It is complete, " he answered, "complete. And as a theory would beconvincing; and I envy you, Master Norris, for you stand on the top ofthe wave. That is what England holds. But, my dear sir, Christ our Lordrefused such a kingdom as that. My kingdom, He said, is not of thisworld--is not, that is, ruled by the world's divisions and systems. Youhave described Babel, --every nation with its own language. But it was toundo Babel and to build one spiritual city that our Saviour came down, and sent the Holy Ghost to make the Church at Pentecost out of Arabiansand Medes and Elamites--to break down the partition-walls, as the apostletells us, --that there be neither Jew nor Greek, barbarian norScythian--and to establish one vast kingdom (which for that very reasonwe name Catholic), to destroy differences between nation and nation, bylifting each to be of the People of God--to pull down Babel, the City ofConfusion, and build Jerusalem the City of Peace. Dear God!" cried Mr. Buxton, rising in his excitement, and standing over Anthony, who lookedat him astonished and bewildered. "You and your England would parcel outthe Kingdom of heaven into national Churches, as you name them--among allthe kingdoms of the world; and yet you call yourselves the servants ofHim who came to do just the opposite--yes, and who will do it, in spiteof you, and make the kingdoms of this world, instead, the Kingdom of ourLord and of His Christ. Why, if each nation is to have her Church, whynot each county and each town--yes, and each separate soul, too; for allare different! Nay, nay, Master Norris, you are blinded by the Prince ofthis world. He is shewing you even now from an high mountain the kingdomsof this world and the glory of them: lift your eyes, dear lad, to thehills from whence cometh your help; those hills higher than the mountainwhere you stand; and see the new Jerusalem, and the glory of her, comingdown from God to dwell with men. "

Mr. Buxton stood, his eyes blazing, plainly carried away wholly byenthusiasm; and Anthony, in spite of himself, could not be angry. Hemoistened his lips once or twice. 

"Well, sir; of course I hold with what you say, in one sense; but it isnot come yet; and never will, till our Lord comes back to make allplain. "

"Not come yet?" cried the other, "Not come yet! Why, what is the one HolyCatholic and Apostolic Church but that? There you have one visiblekingdom, gathered out of every nation and tongue and people, as theapostle said. I have a little estate in France, Master Norris, where I gosometimes; and there are folk in their wooden shoes, talking a differenthuman tongue to me, but, thank God! the same divine one--of contritionand adoration and prayer. There we have the same mass, the samepriesthood, the same blessed sacrament and the same Faith, as in my ownlittle oratory at Stanfield. Go to Spain, Africa, Rome, India; whereverChrist is preached; there is the Church as it is here--the City of Peace. And as for you and your Church! with whom do you hold communion?"

This stung Anthony, and he answered impulsively. 

"In Geneva and Frankfort, at least, there are folk who speak the samedivine tongue, as you call it, as we do; they and we are agreed inmatters of faith. "

"Indeed, " said Mr. Burton sharply, "then what becomes of yourNationalism, and the varied temperaments that you told me God had made?"

Anthony bit his lip; he had overshot his mark. But the other swept on;and as he talked began to step up and down the little room, in a kind ofrhapsody. 

"Is it possible?" he cried, "that men should be so blind as to prefer thelittle divided companies they name National Churches--all confusion anddenial--to that glorious kingdom that Christ bought with his own dearblood, and has built upon Peter, against which the gates of hell shallnot prevail. Yes, I know it is a flattering and a pleasant thought thatthis little nation should have her own Church; and it is humbling andbitter that England should be called to submit to a foreign potentate inthe affairs of faith--Nay, cry they like the Jews of old, not Christ butBarabbas--we will not have this Man to reign over us. And yet this isGod's will and not that. Mark me, Mr. Norris, what you hope will nevercome to be--the Liar will not keep his word--you shall not have thatNational Church that you desire: as you have dealt, so will it be dealtto you: as you have rejected, so will you be rejected. England herselfwill cast you off: your religious folk will break into a hundreddivisions. Even now your Puritans mock at your prelates--so soon! And ifthey do thus now, what will they do hereafter? You have cast awayAuthority, and authority shall forsake you. Behold your house is leftunto you desolate. "

"Forgive me, Mr. Norris, " he added after a pause, "if I have beendiscourteous, and have forgotten my manners; but--but I would, as theapostle said, that you were altogether as I am, except these bonds. "

 CHAPTER IV

 A COUNTER-MARCH

Isabel was sitting out alone in the Italian garden at the Hall, oneafternoon in the summer following the visit to Deptford. Hubert was downat Plymouth, assisting in the preparations for the expedition that Drakehoped to conduct against Spain. The two countries were technically atpeace, but the object with which he was going out, with the moral andfinancial support of the Queen, was a corporate demonstration againstSpain, of French, Portuguese, and English ships under the main command ofDon Antonio, the Portuguese pretender; it was proposed to occupy Terceirain the Azores; and Drake and Hawkins entertained the highest hopes oflaying their hands on further plunder. 

She was leaning back in her seat, with her hands behind her head, thinking over her relations with Hubert. When he had been at home at theend of the previous year, he had apparently taken it for granted that themarriage would be celebrated; he had given her the gold nugget, that shehad showed Anthony, telling her he had brought it home for thewedding-ring; and she understood that he was to come for his final answeras soon as his work at Plymouth was over. But not a word of explanationhad passed between them on the religious difficulty. He had silenced heremphatically and kindly once when she had approached it; and she gatheredfrom his manner that he suspected the direction in which her mind wasturning and was generously unwilling for her to commit herself an inchfurther than she saw. Else whence came his assurance? And, for herself, things were indeed becoming plain: she wondered why she had hesitated solong, why she was still hesitating; the cup was brimming above the edge;it needed but a faint touch of stimulus to precipitate all. 

And so Isabel lay back and pondered, with a touch of happy impatience atthe workings of her own soul; for she dared not act without the finaltouch of conviction. Mistress Margaret had taught her that the swiftestflight of the soul was when there was least movement, when the soul knewhow to throw itself with that supreme effort of cessation into the Handsof God, that He might bear it along: when, after informing the intellectand seeking by prayer for God's bounty, the humble client of Heavenwaited with uplifted eyes and ready heart until God should answer. And soshe waited, knowing that the gift was at hand, yet not daring to snatchit. But, in the meanwhile, her imagination at least might act withoutrestraint; so she sent it out, like a bird from the Ark, to bring her theearnest of peace. There, in the cloister-wing, somewhere, lay the chapel, where she and Hubert would kneel together;--somewhere beneath that greyroof. That was the terrace where she would walk one day as one who has aright there. Which of these windows would be hers? Not Lady Maxwell's, ofcourse; she must keep that. .. . Ah! how good God was!

The tall door on to the terrace opened, and Mistress Margaret peered outwith a letter in her hand. Isabel called to her; and the old nun camedown the steps into the garden. Why did she walk so falteringly, the girlwondered, as if she could not see? What was it? What was it?

Isabel rose to her feet, startled, as the nun with bent head came up thepath. "What is it, Mistress Margaret?"

The other tried to smile at her, but her lips were trembling too much;and the girl saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. She put theletter into her hand. 

Isabel lifted it in an agony of suspense; and saw her name, in Hubert'shandwriting. 

"What is it?" she said again, white to the lips. 

The old lady as she turned away glanced at her; and Isabel saw that herface was all twitching with the effort to keep back her tears. The girlhad never seen her like that before, even at Sir Nicholas' death. Wasthere anything, she wondered as she looked, worse than death? But she wastoo dazed by the sight to speak, and Mistress Margaret went slowly backto the house unquestioned. 

Isabel turned the letter over once or twice; and then sat down and openedit. It was all in Hubert's sprawling handwriting, and was dated fromPlymouth. 

It gave her news first about the squadron; saying how Don Antonio hadleft London for Plymouth, and was expected daily; and then followed thisparagraph:

"And now, dearest Isabel, I have such good news to give you. _I haveturned Protestant_; and there is no reason why we should not be marriedas soon as I return. I know this will make you happy to think that ourreligions are no longer different. I have thought of this so long; butwould not tell you before for fear of disappointing you. Sir FrancisDrake's religion seems to me the best; it is the religion of all the'sea-dogs' as they name us; and of the Queen's Grace, and it will be soonof all England; and more than all it is the religion of my dearestmistress and love. I do not, of course, know very much of it as yet; butgood Mr. Collins here has shown me the superstitions of Popery; and Ihope now to be justified by faith without works as the gospel teaches. Ifear that my mother and aunt will be much distressed by this news; I havewritten, too, to tell them of it. You must comfort them, dear love; andperhaps some day they, too, will see as we do. " Then followed a fewmessages, and loving phrases, and the letter ended. 

Isabel laid it down beside her on the low stone wall; and looked roundher with eyes that saw nothing. There was the grey old house before her, and the terrace, and the cloister-wing to the left, and the hot sunshinelay on it all, and drew out scents and colours from the flower-beds, andjoy from the insects that danced in the trembling air; and it all meantnothing to her; like a picture when the page is turned over it. Fiveminutes ago she was regarding her life and seeing how the Grace of Godwas slowly sorting out its elements from chaos to order--the road wasunwinding itself before her eyes as she trod on it day by day--now a handhad swept all back into disorder, and the path was hidden by the ruins. 

Then gradually one thought detached itself, and burned before her, vividand startling; and in all its terrible reality slipped between her andthe visible world on which she was staring. It was this: to embrace theCatholic Faith meant the renouncing of Hubert. As a Protestant she mightconceivably have married a Catholic; as a Catholic it was inconceivablethat she should marry an apostate. 

Then she read the letter through again carefully and slowly; and wasastonished at the unreality of Hubert's words about Romish superstitionand gospel simplicity. She tried hard to silence her thoughts; but tworeasons for Hubert's change of religion rose up and insisted on makingthemselves felt; it was that he might be more in unity with thebuccaneers whom he admired; second, that there might be no obstacle totheir marriage. And what then, she asked, was the quality of the heart hehad given her?

Then, in a flash of intuition, she perceived that a struggle lay beforeher, compared with which all her previous spiritual conflicts were aschild's play; and that there was no avoiding it. The vision passed, andshe rose and went indoors to find the desolate mother whose boy had lostthe Faith. 

A month or two of misery went by. For Lady Maxwell they passed withrecurring gusts of heart-broken sorrow and of agonies of prayer for herapostate son. Mistress Margaret was at the Hall all day, soothing, encouraging, even distracting her sister by all the means in her power. The mother wrote one passionate wail to her son, appealing to all thatshe thought he held dear, even yet to return to the Faith for which hisfather had suffered and in which he had died; but a short answer onlyreturned, saying it was impossible to make his defence in a letter, andexpressing pious hopes that she, too, one day would be as he was; thesame courier brought a letter to Isabel, in which he expressed his wonderthat she had not answered his former one. 

And as for Isabel, she had to pass through this valley of darkness alone. Anthony was in London; and even if he had been with her could not havehelped her under these circumstances; her father was dead--she thankedGod for that now--and Mistress Margaret seemed absorbed in her sister'sgrief. And so the girl fought with devils alone. The arguments forCatholicism burned pitilessly clear now; every line and feature in themstood out distinct and hard. Catholicism, it appeared to her, alone hadthe marks of the Bride, visible unity, visible Catholicity, visibleApostolicity, visible Sanctity;--there they were, the seals of the mostHigh God. She flung herself back furiously into the Protestantism fromwhich she had been emerging; there burned in the dark before her themarks of the Beast, visible disunion, visible nationalism, visibleErastianism, visible gulfs where holiness should be: that system in whichnow she could never find rest again glared at her in all its unconvincingincoherence, its lack of spirituality, its adulterous union with thecivil power instead of the pure wedlock of the Spouse of Christ. Shewondered once more how she dared to have hesitated so long; or dared tohesitate still. 

On the theological side intellectual arguments of this kind started out, strong and irrefutable; her emotional drawings towards Catholicism forthe present retired. Feelings might have been disregarded or discreditedby a strong effort of the will; these apparently cold phenomena thatpresented themselves to her intellect, could not be thus dealt with. Yet, strangely enough, even now she would not throw herself resolutely intoCatholicism: the fierce stimulus instead of precipitating the crisis, petrified it. More than once she started up from her knees in her owndark room, resolved to awaken the nun and tell her she would wait nolonger, but would turn Catholic at once and have finished with the miseryof suspense: and even as she moved to the door her will found itselfagainst an impenetrable wall. 

And then on the other side all her human nature cried out forHubert--Hubert--Hubert. There he stood by her in fancy, day and night, that chivalrous, courteous lad, who had been loyal to her so long; hadwaited so patiently; had run to her with such dear impatience; who was sowholesome, so strong, so humble to her; so quick to understand her wants, so eager to fulfil them; so bound to her by associations; so fit a matefor the very differences between them. And now these two claims were nolonger compatible; in his very love for her he had ended thatpossibility. All those old dreams; the little scenes she had rehearsed, of their first mass, their first communion together; their walks in thetwilight; their rides over the hills; the new ties that were to draw theold ladies at the Hall and herself so close together--all this waschanged; some of those dreams were now for ever impossible, others onlypossible on terms that she trembled even to think of. Perhaps it wasworst of all to reflect that she was in some measure responsible for hischange of religion; she fancied that it was through her slowness torespond to light, her delaying to confide in him, that he had been driventhrough impatience to take this step. And so week after week went by andshe dared not answer his letter. 

The old ladies, too, were sorely puzzled at her. It was impossible forthem to know how far her religion was changing. She had kept up the samereserve towards them lately as towards Hubert, chiefly because she fearedto disappoint them; and so after an attempt to tell each other a littleof their mutual sympathy, the three women were silent on the subject ofthe lad who was so much to them all. 

She began to show her state a little in her movements and appearance. Shewas languid, soon tired and dispirited; she would go for short, lonelywalks, and fall asleep in her chair worn out when she came in. Her greyeyes looked longer and darker; her eyelids and the corners of her mouthbegan to droop a little. 

Then in October he came home. 

Isabel had been out a long afternoon walk by herself through thereddening woods. They had never, since the first awakening of theconsciousness of beauty in her, meant so little to her as now. Itappeared as if that keen unity of a life common to her and all livingthings had been broken or obscured; and that she walked in an isolationall the more terrible in that she was surrounded by the dumb presence ofwhat she loved. Last year the quick chattering cry of the blackbird, theevening mists over the meadows, the stir of the fading life of the woods, the rustling scamper of the rabbit over the dead leaves, the solemn callof the homing rooks--all this, only last year, went to make up the sweetnatural atmosphere in which her spirit moved and breathed at ease. Nowshe was excommunicate from that pleasant friendship, banned by nature andforgotten by the God who made it and was immanent within it. Herrelations to the Saviour, who only such a short time ago had been thePerson round whom all the joys of life had centred, from whom theyradiated, and to whom she referred them all--these relations had begun tobe obscured by her love for Hubert, and now had vanished altogether. Shehad regarded her earthly and her heavenly lover as two persons, each ofwhom had certain claims upon her heart, and each of whom she had hoped tosatisfy in different ways; instead of identifying the two, and servingeach not apart from, but in the other. And it now seemed to her that shewas making experience of a Divine jealousy that would suffer her to besatisfied neither with God nor man. Her soul was exhausted by internalconflict, by the swift alternations of attraction and repulsion betweenthe poles of her supernatural and natural life; so that when it turnedwearily from self to what lay outside, it was not even capable, asbefore, of making that supreme effort of cessation of effort which wasnecessary to its peace. It seemed to her that she was self-poised inemptiness, and could neither touch heaven or earth--crucified so highthat she could not rest on earth, so low that she could not reach toheaven. 

She came in weary and dispirited as the candles were being lighted in hersitting-room upstairs; but she saw the gleam of them from the garden withno sense of a welcoming brightness. She passed from the garden into thedoor of the hall which was still dark, as the fire had nearly burneditself out. As she entered the door opposite opened, and once more shesaw the silhouette of a man's figure against the lighted passage beyond;and again she stopped frightened, and whispered "Anthony. "

There was a momentary pause as the door closed and all was dark again;and then she heard Hubert's voice say her name; and felt herself wrappedonce more in his arms. For a moment she clung to him with furiouslonging. Ah! this is a tangible thing, she felt, this clasp; the faintcleanly smell of his rough frieze dress refreshed her like wine, and shekissed his sleeve passionately. And the wide gulf between them yawnedagain; and her spirit sickened at the sight of it. 

"Oh! Hubert, Hubert!" she said. 

She felt herself half carried to a high chair beside the fire-place andset down there; then he re-arranged the logs on the hearth, so that theflames began to leap again, showing his strong hands and keen clear-cutface; then he turned on his knees, seized her two hands in his own, andlifted them to his lips; then laid them down again on her knee, stillholding them; and so remained. 

"Oh! Isabel, " he said, "why did you not write?"

She was silent as one who stares fascinated down a precipice. 

"It is all over, " he went on in a moment, "with the expedition. TheQueen's Grace has finally refused us leave to go--and I have come back toyou, Isabel. "

How strong and pleasant he looked in this leaping fire-light! how real!and she was hesitating between this warm human reality and the chillypossibilities of an invisible truth. Her hands tightened instinctivelywithin his, and then relaxed. 

"I have been so wretched, " she said piteously. 

"Ah! my dear, " and he threw an arm round her neck and drew her face downto his, "but that is over now. " She sat back again; and then an access ofpurpose poured into her and braced her will to an effort. 

"No, no, " she began, "I must tell you. I was afraid to write. Hubert, Imust wait a little longer. I--I do not know what I believe. "

He looked at her, puzzled. 

"What do you mean, dearest?'

"I have been so much puzzled lately--thinking so much--and--and--I amsorry you have become a Protestant. It makes all so hard. "

"My dear, this is--I do not understand. "

"I have been thinking, " went on Isabel bravely, "whether perhaps theCatholic Church is not right after all. "

Hubert loosed her hands and stood up. She crouched into the shadow of theinterior of the high chair, and looked up at him, terrified. His cheektwitched a little. 

"Isabel, this is foolishness. I know what the Catholic faith is. It isnot true; I have been through it all. "

He was speaking nervously and abruptly. She said nothing. Then hesuddenly dropped on his knees himself. 

"My dearest, I understand. You were doing this for me. I quiteunderstand. It is what I too----" and then he stopped. 

"I know, I know, " she cried piteously. "It is just what I have feared soterribly--that--that our love has been blinding us both. And yet, whatare we to do, what are we to do? Oh! God--Hubert, help me. "

Then he began to speak in a low emphatic voice, holding her hands, delicately stroking one of them now and again, and playing with herfingers. She watched his curly head in the firelight as he talked, andhis keen face as he looked up. 

"It is all plain to me, " he said, caressingly. "You have been living herewith my aunt, a dear old saint; and she has been talking and telling youall about the Catholic religion, and making it seem all true and good. And you, my dear child, have been thinking of me sometimes, and loving mea little, is it not so? and longing that religion should not separate us;and so you began to wish it was true; and then to hope it was; and atlast you have begun to think it is. But it is not your true sweet selfthat believes it. Ah! you know in your heart of hearts, as I have knownso long, that it is not true; that it is made up by priests and nuns; andit is very beautiful, I know, my dearest, but it is only a lovely tale;and you must not spoil all for the sake of a tale. And I have beengradually led to the light; it was your--" and his voice faltered--"yourprayers that helped me to it. I have longed to understand what it wasthat made you so sweet and so happy; and now I know; it is your ownsimple pure religion; and--and--it is so much more sensible, so much morelikely to be true than the Catholic religion. It is all in the Bible yousee; so plain, as Mr. Collins has showed me. And so, my dear love, I havecome to believe it too; and you must put all these fancies out of yourhead, these dreams; though I love you, I love you, " and he kissed herhand again, "for wishing to believe them for my sake--and--and we will bemarried before Christmas; and we will have our own fairy-tale, but itshall be a true one. "

This was terrible to Isabel. It seemed as if her own haunting thoughtthat she was sacrificing a dream to reality had become incarnate in herlover and was speaking through his lips. And yet in its very incarnation, it seemed to reveal its weakness rather than its strength. As a darksuggestion the thought was mighty; embodied in actual language it seemedto shrink a little. But then, on the other hand--and so the interiorconflict began to rage again. 

She made a movement as if to stand up; but he pressed her back into thechair. 

"No, my dearest, you shall be a prisoner until you give your parole. "

Twice Isabel made an effort to speak; but no sound came. It seemed as ifthe raging strife of thoughts deafened and paralysed her. 

"Now, Isabel, " said Hubert. 

"I cannot, I cannot, " she cried desperately, "you must give me time. Itis too sudden, your returning like this. You must give me time. I do notknow what I believe. Oh, dear God, help me. "

"Isabel, promise! promise! Before Christmas! I thought it was all to beso happy, when I came in through the garden just now. My mother willhardly speak to me; and I came to you, Isabel, as I always did; I felt sosure you would be good to me; and tell me that you would always love me, now that I had given up my religion for love of you. And now----" andHubert's voice ended in a sob. 

Her heart seemed rent across, and she drew a sobbing sigh. Hubert heardit, and caught at her hands again as he knelt. 

"Isabel, promise, promise. "

Then there came that gust of purpose into her heart again; she made adetermined effort and stood up; and Hubert rose and stood opposite her. 

"You must not ask me, " she said, bravely. "It would be wicked to decideyet. I cannot see anything clearly. I do not know what I believe, norwhere I stand. You must give me time. "

There was a dead silence. His face was so much in shadow that she couldnot tell what he was thinking. He was standing perfectly still. 

"Then that is all the answer you will give me?" he said, in a perfectlyeven voice. 

Isabel bowed her head. 

"Then--then I wish you good-night, Mistress Norris, " and he bowed to her, caught up his cap and went out. 

She could not believe it for a moment, and caught her breath to cry outafter him as the door closed; but she heard his step on the stonepavement outside, the crunch of the gravel, and he was gone. Then shewent and leaned her head against the curved mantelshelf and stared intothe logs that his hands had piled together. 

This, then, she thought, was the work of religion; the end of all heraspirations and efforts, that God should mock them by bringing love intotheir life, and then when they caught at it and thanked him for it, itwas whisked away again, and left their hands empty. Was this the Fatherof Love in whom she had been taught to believe, who treated His childrenlike this? And so the bitter thoughts went on; and yet she knew in herheart that she was powerless; that she could not go to the door and callHubert and promise what he asked. A great Force had laid hold of her, itmight be benevolent or not--at this moment she thought not--but it wasirresistible; and she must bow her head and obey. 

And even as she thought that, the door opened again, and there wasHubert. He came in two quick steps across the room to her, and thenstopped suddenly. 

"Mistress Isabel, " he asked, "can you forgive me? I was a brute just now. I do not ask for your promise. I leave it all in your hands. Do with mewhat you will. But--but, if you could tell me how long you think it willbe before you know----"

He had touched the right note. Isabel's heart gave a leap of sorrow andsympathy. "Oh, Hubert, " she said brokenly, "I am so sorry; but I promiseI will tell you--by Easter?" and her tone was interrogative. 

"Yes, yes, " said Hubert. He looked at her in silence, and she saw strangelines quivering at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes large andbrilliant in the firelight. Then the two drew together, and he took herin his arms strongly and passionately. 

 * * * *

There was a scene that night between the mother and son. MistressMargaret had gone back to the Dower House for supper; and Lady Maxwelland Hubert were supping in Sir Nicholas' old study that would soon bearranged for Hubert now that he had returned for good. They had been verysilent during the meal, while the servants were in the room, talking onlyof little village affairs and of the estate, and of the cancelling of theproposed expedition. Hubert had explained to his mother that it wasgenerally believed that Elizabeth had never seriously intended theEnglish ships to sail, but that she only wished to draw Spain's attentionoff herself by setting up complications between that country and France;and when she had succeeded in this by managing to get the French squadronsafe at Terceira, she then withdrew her permission to Drake and Hawkins, and thus escaped from the quarrel altogether. But it was a poor makeshiftfor conversation. 

When the servants had withdrawn, a silence fell. Presently Hubert lookedacross the table between the silver branched candlesticks. 

"Mother, " he said, "of course I know what you are thinking. But I cannotconsent to go through all the arguments; I am weary of them. Neither willI see Mr. Barnes to-morrow at Cuckfield or here. I am satisfied with myposition. "

"My son, " said Lady Maxwell with dignity, "I do not think I have spokenthat priest's name; or indeed any. "

"Well, " said Hubert, impatiently, "at any rate I will not see him. But Iwish to say a few words about this house. We must have our positionsclear. My father left to your use, did he not, the whole of thecloister-wing? I am delighted, dear mother, that he did so. You will behappy there I know; and of course I need not say that I hope you willkeep your old room overhead as well; and, indeed, use the whole house asyou have always done. I shall be grateful if you will superintend it all, as before--at least, until a new mistress comes. "

"Thank you, my son. "

"I will speak of that in a moment, " he went on, looking steadily at thetable-cloth; "but there was a word I wished to say first. I am now aloyal subject of her Grace in all things; in religion as in all else. And--and I fear I cannot continue to entertain seminary priests as myfather used to do. My--my conscience will not allow that. But of course, mother, I need not say that you are at perfect liberty to do what youwill in the cloister-wing; I shall ask no questions; and I shall set notraps or spies. But I must ask that the priests do not come into thispart of the house, nor walk in the garden. Fortunately you have a lawn inthe cloister; so that they need not lack fresh air or exercise. "

"You need not fear, Hubert, " said his mother, "I will not embarrass you. You shall be in no danger. "

"I think you need not have said that, mother; I am not usually thought acoward. "

Lady Maxwell flushed a little, and began to finger her silver knife. 

"However, " Hubert went on, "I thought it best to say that. The chapel, you see, is in that wing; and you have that lawn; and--and I do not thinkI am treating you hardly. "

"And is your brother James not to come?" asked his mother. 

"I have thought much over that, " said Hubert; "and although it is hard tosay it, I think he had better not come to my part of the house--at leastnot when I am here; I must know nothing of it. You must do what you thinkwell when I am away, about him and others too. It is very difficult forme, mother; please do not add to the difficulty. "

"You need not fear, " said Lady Maxwell steadily; "you shall not betroubled with any Catholics besides ourselves. "

"Then that is arranged, " said the lad. "And now there is a word more. What have you been doing to Isabel?" And he looked sharply across thetable. His mother's eyes met his fearlessly. 

"I do not understand you, " she said. 

"Mother, you must know what I mean. You have seen her continually. "

"I have told you, my son, that I do not know. "

"Why, " burst out Hubert, "she is half a Catholic. "

"Thank God, " said his mother. 

"Ah! yes; you thank God, I know; but whom am I to thank for it?"

"I would that you could thank Him too. "

Hubert made a sharp sound of disgust. 

"Ah! yes, " he said scornfully, "I knew it; _Non nobis Domine_, and therest. "

"Hubert, " said Lady Maxwell, "I do not think you mean to insult me inthis house; but either that is an insult, or else I misunderstood youwholly, and must ask your pardon for it. "

"Well, " he said, in a harsh voice, "I will make myself plain. I believethat it is through the influence of you and Aunt Margaret that this hasbeen brought about. "

At the moment he spoke the door opened. 

"Come in, Margaret, " said her sister, "this concerns you. "

The old nun came across to Hubert with her anxious sweet face; and puther old hand tenderly on his black satin sleeve as he sat and wrenched ata nut between his fingers. 

"Hubert, dear boy, " she said, "what is all this? Will you tell me?"

Hubert rose, a little ashamed of himself, and went to the door and closedit; and then drew out a chair for his aunt, and put a wine-glass for her. 

"Sit down, aunt, " he said, and pushed the decanter towards her. 

"I have just left Isabel, " she said, "she is very unhappy aboutsomething. You saw her this evening, dear lad?"

"Yes, " said Hubert, heavily, looking down at the table and taking upanother nut, "and it is of that that I have been speaking. Who has madeher unhappy?"

"I had hoped you would tell us that, " said Mistress Margaret; "I came upto ask you. "

"My son has done us--me--the honour----" began Lady Maxwell; but Hubertbroke in:

"I left Isabel here last Christmas happy and a Protestant. I have comeback here now to find her unhappy and half a Catholic, if notmore--and----"

"Oh! are you sure?" asked Mistress Margaret, her eyes shining. "ThankGod, if it be so!"

"Sure?" said Hubert, "why she will not marry me; at least not yet. "

"Oh, poor lad, " she said tenderly, "to have lost both God and Isabel. "

Hubert turned on her savagely. But the old nun's eyes were steady andserene. 

"Poor lad!" she said again. 

Hubert looked down again; his lip wrinkled up in a little sneer. 

"As far as I am concerned, " he said, "I can understand your not caring, but I am astonished at this response of yours to her father'sconfidence!"

Lady Maxwell grew white to the lips. 

"I have told you, " she began--"but you do not seem to believe it--that Ihave had nothing to do, so far as I know, with her conversion, which"--and she raised her voice bravely--"I pray God to accomplish. Shehas, of course, asked me questions now and then; and I have answeredthem--that is all. "

"And I, " said Mistress Margaret, "plead guilty to the same charge, and tono other. You are not yourself, dear boy, at present; and indeed I do notwonder at it; and I pray God to help you; but you are not yourself, oryou would not speak like this to your mother. "

Hubert rose to his feet; his face was white under the tan, and the ruffleround his wrist trembled as he leaned heavily with his fingers on thetable. 

"I am only a plain Protestant now, " he said bitterly, "and I have beenwith Protestants so long that I have forgotten Catholic ways; but----"

"Stay, Hubert, " said his mother, "do not finish that. You will be sorryfor it presently, if you do. Come, Margaret. " And she moved towards thedoor; her son went quickly past and opened it. 

"Nay, nay, " said the nun. "Do you be going, Mary. Let me stay with thelad, and we will come to you presently. " Lady Maxwell bowed her head andpassed out, and Hubert closed the door. 

Mistress Margaret looked down on the table. 

"You have given me a glass, dear boy; but no wine in it. "

Hubert took a couple of quick steps back, and faced her. 

"It is no use, it is no use, " he burst out, and his voice was broken withemotion, "you cannot turn me like that. Oh, what have you done with myIsabel?" He put out his hand and seized her arm. "Give her back to me, Aunt Margaret; give her back to me. "

He dropped into his seat and hid his face on his arm; and there was a sobor two. 

"Sit up and be a man, Hubert, " broke in Mistress Margaret's voice, clearand cool. 

He looked up in amazement with wet indignant eyes. She was looking athim, smiling tenderly. 

"And now, for the second time, give me half a glass of wine, dear boy. "

He poured it out, bewildered at her self-control. 

"For a man that has been round the world, " she said, "you are but afoolish child. "

"What do you mean?"

"Have you never thought of a way of yet winning Isabel, " she asked. 

"What do you mean?" he repeated. 

"Why, come back to the Church, dear lad; and make your mother and mehappy again, and marry Isabel, and save your own soul. "

"Aunt Margaret, " he cried, "it is impossible. I have truly lost my faithin the Catholic religion; and--and--you would not have me a hypocrite. "

"Ah! ah!" said the nun, "you cannot tell yet. Please God it may comeback. Oh! dear boy, in your heart you know it is true. "

"Before God, in my heart I know that it is not true. "

"No, no, no, " she said; but the light died out of her eyes, and shestretched a tremulous hand. 

"Yes, Aunt Margaret, it is so. For years and years I have been doubting;but I kept on just because it seemed to me the best religion; and--and Iwould not be driven out of it by her Grace's laws against my will, like adog stoned from his kennel. "

"But you are only a lad still, " she said piteously. He laughed a little. 

"But I have had the gift of reason and discretion nearly twenty years, apriest would tell me. Besides, Aunt Margaret, I could not be such a--acur--as to come back without believing. I could never look Isabel in theeyes again. "

"Well, well, " said the old lady, "let us wait and see. Do you intend tobe here now for a while?"

"Not while Isabel is like this, " he said. "I could not. I must go awayfor a while, and then come back and ask her again. "

"When will she decide?"

"She told me by next Easter, " said Hubert. "Oh, Aunt Margaret, pray forus both. "

The light began to glimmer again in her eyes. 

"There, dear boy, " she said, "you see you believe in prayer still. "

"But, aunt, " said Hubert, "why should I not? Protestants pray. "

"Well, well, " said the old nun again. "Now you must come to your mother;and--and be good to her. "

 CHAPTER V

 THE COMING OF THE JESUITS

The effect on Anthony of Mr. Buxton's conversation was very considerable. He had managed to keep his temper very well during the actual interview;but he broke out alone afterwards, at first with an angry contempt. Theabsurd arrogance of the man made him furious--the arrogance that hadpuffed away England and its ambitions and its vigour--palpable evidencesof life and reality, and further of God's blessing--in favour of amiserable Latin nation which had the presumption to claim the possessionof Peter's Chair and of the person of the Vicar of Christ! Test it, saidthe young man to himself, by the ancient Fathers and Councils that Dr. Jewel quoted so learnedly, and the preposterous claim crumbled to dust. Test it, yet again, by the finger of Providence; and God Himselfproclaimed that the pretensions of the spiritual kingdom, of which theprisoner in the cell had bragged, are but a blasphemous fable. AndAnthony reminded himself of the events of the previous year. 

Three great assaults had been made by the Papists to win back England tothe old Religion. Dr. William Allen, the founder of Douai College, hadalready for the last seven or eight years been pouring seminary priestsinto England, and over a hundred and twenty were at work among theircountrymen, preparing the grand attack. This was made in three quartersat once. 

In Scotland it was chiefly political, and Anthony thought, with a bittercontempt, of the Count d'Aubigny, Esmé Stuart, who was supposed to be anemissary of the Jesuits; how he had plotted with ecclesiastics andnobles, and professed Protestantism to further his ends; and of all thestories of his duplicity and evil-living, told round the guard-room fire. 

In Ireland the attempt was little else than ludicrous. Anthony laughedfiercely to himself as he pictured the landing of the treacherous foolsat Dingle, of Sir James FitzMaurice and his lady, very wretched and giddyafter their voyage, and the barefooted friars, and Dr. Sanders, and thebanner so solemnly consecrated; and of the sands of Smerwick, when allwas over a year later, and the six hundred bodies, men and women who hadpreferred Mr. Buxton's spiritual kingdom to Elizabeth's kindly rule, stripped and laid out in rows, like dead game, for Lord Grey de Wilton toreckon them by. 

But his heart sank a little as he remembered the third method of attack, and of the coming of the Jesuits. By last July all London knew that theywere here, and men's hearts were shaken with apprehension. They remindedone another of the April earthquake that had tolled the great Westminsterbell, and thrown down stones from the churches. One of the Lambethguards, a native of Blunsdon, in Wiltshire, had told Anthony himself thata pack of hell-hounds had been heard there, in full cry after a ghostlyquarry. Phantom ships had been seen from Bodmin attacking a phantomcastle that rode over the waves off the Cornish coast. An old woman ofBlasedon had given birth to a huge-headed monster with the mouth of amouse, eight legs, and a tail; and, worse than all, it was whispered inthe Somersetshire inns that three companies of black-robed men, sixty innumber, had been seen, coming and going overhead in the gloom. These twostrange emissaries, Fathers Persons and Campion--how they appealed to theimagination, lurking under a hundred disguises, now of servants, now ofgentlemen of means and position! It was known that they were still inEngland, going about doing good, their friends said who knew them;stirring up the people, their enemies said who were searching for them. Anthony had seen with his own eyes some of the papers connected withtheir presence--that containing a statement of their objects in coming, namely, that they were spiritual not political agents, seeking recruitsfor Christ and for none else; Campion's "Challenge and Brag, " offering tomeet any English Divine on equal terms in a public disputation; besidesone or two of the controversial pamphlets, purporting to be printed atDouai, but really emanating from a private printing-press in England, asthe Government experts had discovered from an examination of thewater-marks of the paper employed. 

Yet as the weeks went by, and his first resentment cooled, Mr. Buxton'sarguments more and more sank home, for they had touched the very pointwhere Anthony had reckoned that his own strength lay. He had never beforeheard Nationalism and Catholicism placed in such flat antithesis. Infact, he had never before really heard the statement of the Catholicposition; and his fierce contempt gradually melted into respect. Boththeories had a concrete air of reality about them; his own imaged itselfunder the symbols of England's power; the National Church appealed to himso far as it represented the spiritual side of the English people; andMr. Buxton's conception appealed to him from its very audacity. Thisgreat spiritual kingdom, striding on its way, trampling down the barriersof temperament and nationality, disregarding all earthly limitations andartificial restraints, imperiously dominating the world in spite of theworld's struggles and resentment--this, after all, as he thought over it, was--well--was a new aspect of affairs. The coming of the Jesuits, too, emphasised the appeal: here were two men, as the world itself confessed, of exceptional ability--for Campion had been a famous Oxford orator, andPersons a Fellow of Balliol--choosing, under a free-will obedience, firsta life of exile, and then one of daily peril and apprehension, the verythought of which burdened the imagination with horror; hunted likevermin, sleeping and faring hard, their very names detested by themajority of their countrymen, with the shadow of the gallows moving withthem, and the reek of the hangman's cauldron continually in theirnostrils--and for what? For Mr. Buxton's spiritual kingdom! Well, Anthonythought to himself as the weeks went by and his new thoughts sank deeper, if it is all a superstitious dream, at least it is a noble one!

What, too, was the answer, he asked himself, that England gave to FatherCampion's challenge, and the defence that the Government was preparingagainst the spiritual weapons of the Jesuits? New prisons at Framinghamand Battersea; new penalties enacted by Parliament; and, above all, theunanswerable argument of the rack, and the gallows finally to close thediscussion. And what of the army that was being set in array against thepriests, and that was even now beginning to scour the country roundBerkshire, Oxfordshire, and London? Anthony had to confess to himselfthat they were queer allies for the servants of Christ; for traitors, liars, and informers were among the most trusted Government agents. 

In short, as the spring drew on, Anthony was not wholly happy. Again andagain in his own room he studied a little manuscript translation ofFather Campion's "Ten Reasons, " that had been taken from a popishprisoner, and that a friend had given him; and as he read its exultantrhetoric, he wondered whether the writer was indeed as insincere andtreacherous as Mr. Scot declared. There seemed in the paper a recklessoutspokenness, calculated rather to irritate than deceive. 

"I turn to the Sacraments, " he read, "none, none, not two, not one, Oholy Christ, have they left. Their very bread is poison. Their baptism, though it be true, yet in their judgment is nothing. It is not the savingwater! It is not the channel of Grace! It brings not Christ's merits tous! It is but a sign of salvation!" And again the writer cried toElizabeth to return to the ancient Religion, and to be in truth what shewas in name, the Defender of the Faith. 

"'Kings shall be thy nursing fathers, ' thus Isaiah sang, 'and Queens thynursing mothers. ' Listen, Elizabeth, most Mighty Queen! To thee the greatProphet sings! He teaches thee thy part. Join then thyself to theseprinces!. .. O Elizabeth, a day, a day shall come that shall show theeclearly which have loved thee the better, the Society of Jesus or Luther'sbrood!"

What arrogance, thought Anthony to himself, and what assurance too!

Meanwhile in the outer world things were not reassuring to the friends ofthe Government: it was true that half a dozen priests had been capturedand examined by torture, and that Sir George Peckham himself, who wasknown to have harboured Campion, had been committed to the Marshalsea;but yet the Jesuits' influence was steadily on the increase. More andmore severe penalties had been lately enacted; it was now declared to behigh treason to reconcile or be reconciled to the Church of Rome;overwhelming losses in fortune as well as liberty were threatened againstall who said or heard Mass or refused to attend the services of theEstablishment; but, as was discovered from papers that fell from time totime into the hands of the Government agents, the only answer of thepriests was to inveigh more strenuously against even occasionalconformity, declaring it to be the mortal sin of schism, if not ofapostasy, to put in an appearance under any circumstances, except thoseof actual physical compulsion, at the worship in the parish churches. Worse than all, too, was the fact that this severe gospel began toprevail; recusancy was reported to be on the increase in all parts of thecountry; and many of the old aristocracy began to return to the faith oftheir fathers: Lords Arundel, Oxford, Vaux, Henry Howard, and Sir FrancisSouthwell were all beginning to fall under the suspicion of the shrewdestGovernment spies. 

The excitement at Lambeth ran higher day by day as the summer drew on;the net was being gradually contracted in the home counties; spies werereported to be everywhere, in inns, in the servants' quarters ofgentlemen's houses, lounging at cross roads and on village greens. Campion's name was in every mouth. Now they were on his footsteps, it wassaid; now he was taken; now he was gone back to France; now he was inLondon; now in Lancashire; and each rumour in turn corrected itspredecessor. 

Anthony shared to the full in the excitement; the figure of the quarry, after which so many hawks were abroad, appealed to his imagination. Hedreamed of him at night, once as a crafty-looking man with narrow eyesand stooping shoulders, that skulked and ran from shadow to shadow acrossa moonlit country; once as a ruddy-faced middle-aged gentleman ridingdown a crowded street; and several times as a kind of double of Mr. Stewart, whom he had never forgotten, since he had watched him in thelittle room of Maxwell Hall, gallant and alert among his enemies. 

At last one day in July, as it drew on towards evening, and as Anthonywas looking over the stable-accounts in his little office beyond thePresence Chamber, a buzz of talk and footsteps broke out in the courtbelow; and a moment later the Archbishop's body-servant ran in to saythat his Grace wished to see Mr. Norris at once in the gallery thatopened out of the guard-room. 

"And I think it is about the Jesuits, sir, " added the man, evidentlyexcited. 

Anthony ran down at once and found his master pacing up and down, with acourier waiting near the steps at the lower end that led to Chichele'stower. The Archbishop stopped by a window, emblazoned with CardinalPole's emblem, and beckoned to him. 

"See here, Master Norris, " he said, "I have received news that Campion isat last taken: it may well be false, as so often before; but take horse, if you please, and ride into the city and find the truth for me. I willnot send a groom; they believe the maddest tales. You are at liberty?" headded courteously. 

"Yes, your Grace, I will ride immediately. "

As he rode down the river-bank towards London Bridge ten minutes later, he could not help feeling some dismay as well as excitement at the newshe was to verify. And yet what other end was possible? But what a doomfor the brilliant Oxford orator, even though he had counted the cost!

Streams of excited people were pouring across the bridge into the city;Campion's name was on every tongue; and Anthony, as he passed under thehigh gate, noticed a man point up at the grim spiked heads above it, andlaugh to his companion. There seemed little doubt, from the unanimity ofthose whom he questioned, that the rumour was true; and some even saidthat the Jesuit was actually passing down Cheapside on his way to theTower. When at last Anthony came to the thoroughfare the crowd was asdense as for a royal progress. He checked his horse at the door of aninn-yard, and asked an ostler that stood there what it was all about. 

"It is Campion, the Jesuit, sir, " said the man. "He has been taken atLyford, and is passing here presently. "

The man had hardly finished speaking when a yell came from the end of thestreet, and groans and hoots ran down the crowd. Anthony turned in hissaddle, and saw a great stir and movement, and then horses' and men'sheads moving slowly down over the seething surface of the crowd, as ifswimming in a rough sea. He could make little out, as the company cametowards him, but the faces of the officers and pursuivants who rode inthe front rank, four or five abreast; then followed the faces of three orfour others, also riding between guards, and Anthony looked eagerly atthem; but they were simple faces enough, a little pale and quiet; one waslike a farmer's, ruddy and bearded;--surely Campion could not be amongthose! Then more and more, riding two and two, with a couple of armedguards with each pair; some looked like country-men or servants, somelike gentlemen, and one or two might be priests; but the crowd seemed topay them no attention beyond a glance or two. Ah! what was this comingbehind?

There was a space behind the last row of guards, and then came a separatetroop riding all together, of half a dozen men at least, and one in thecentre, with something white in his hat. The ferment round this group wastremendous; men were leaping up and yelling, like hounds round a cartedstag; clubs shot up menacingly, and a storm of ceaseless execration ragedoutside the compact square of guards who sat alert and ready to beat offan attack. Once a horse kicked fiercely as a man sprang to hishind-quarters, and there was a scream of pain and a burst of laughing. 

Anthony sat trembling with excitement as the first group had passed, andthis second began to come opposite the entrance where he sat. This thenwas the man!

The rider in the centre sat his horse somewhat stiffly, and Anthony sawthat his elbows were bound behind his back, and his hands in front; thereins were drawn over his horse's head and a pursuivant held them oneither side. The man was dressed as a layman, in a plumed hat and a buffjerkin, such as soldiers or plain country-gentlemen might use; and in thehat was a great paper with an inscription. Anthony spelt it out. 

"Campion, the Seditious Jesuit. "

Then he looked at the man's face. 

It was a comely refined face, a little pale but perfectly serene: hispointed dark brown beard and moustache were carefully trimmed; and hislarge passionate eyes looked cheerfully about him. Anthony stared at him, wholly fascinated; for above the romance that hung about the huntedpriest and the glamour of the dreaded Society which he represented, therewas a chivalrous fearless look in his face that drew the heart of theyoung man almost irresistibly. At least he did not look like the skulkingknave at whom all the world was sneering, and of whom Anthony had dreamtso vividly a few nights before. 

The storm of execration from the faces below, and the faces crowding atthe windows, seemed to affect him not at all; and he looked from side toside as if they were cheering him rather than crying against him. Oncehis eyes met Anthony's and rested on them for a moment; and a strangethrill ran through him and he shivered sharply. 

 * * * *

And yet he felt, too, a distinct and irresistible movement of attractiontowards this felon who was riding towards his agony and passion; and hewas conscious at the same time of that curious touch of wonder that hehad felt years before towards the man whipped at the cart's tail, as towhether the solitary criminal were not in the right, and the clamorousaccusers in the wrong. Campion in a moment had passed on and turned hishead. 

In that moment, too, Anthony caught a sudden clear instantaneousimpression of a group of faces in the window opposite. There were acouple of men in front, stout city personages no doubt, with crimsonfaces and open mouths cursing the traitorous Papist and the craftyvagrant fox trapped at last; but between them, looking over theirshoulders, was a woman's face in which Anthony saw the most intensestruggle of emotions. The face was quite white, the lips parted, the eyesstraining, and sorrow and compassion were in every line, as she watchedthe cheerful priest among his warders; and yet there rested on it, too, astrange light as of triumph. It was the face of one who sees victory evenat the hour of supremest failure. In an instant more the face hadwithdrawn itself into the darkness of the room. 

When the crowds had surged down the street in the direction of the Tower, yelling in derision as Campion saluted the lately defaced CheapsideCross, Anthony guided his horse out through the dispersing groups, realising as he did so, with a touch of astonishment at the coincidence, that he had been standing almost immediately under the window whence heand Isabel had leaned out so many years before. 

 * * * *

The sun was going down behind the Abbey as he rode up towards Lambeth, and the sky above and the river beneath were as molten gold. The Abbeyitself, with Westminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament below, stoodup like mystical palaces against the sunset; and it seemed to Anthony ashe rode, as if God Himself were illustrating in glorious illumination theclosing pages of that human life of which a glimpse had opened to him inCheapside. It did not appear to him as it had done in the days of hisboyish love as if heaven and earth were a stage for himself to walk andpose upon; but he felt intensely now the dominating power of thepersonality of the priest; and that he himself was no more than aspectator of this act of a tragedy of which the priest was both hero andvictim, and for which this evening glory formed so radiant a scene. Theold intellectual arguments against the cause that the priest representedfor the moment were drowned in this flood of splendour. When he arrivedat Lambeth and had reached the Archbishop's presence, he told him thenews briefly, and went to his room full of thought and perplexity. 

In a few days the story of Campion's arrest was known far and wide. Ithad been made possible by the folly of one Catholic and the treachery ofanother; and when Anthony heard it, he was stirred still more by thecontrast between the Jesuit and his pursuers. The priest had returned tothe moated grange at Lyford, after having already paid as long a visitthere as was prudent, owing to the solicitations of a number of gentlemenwho had ridden after him and his companion, and who wished to hear hiseloquence. He had returned there again, said mass on the Sunday morning, and preached afterwards, from a chair set before the altar, a sermon onthe tears of the Saviour over apostate Jerusalem. But a false disciplehad been present who had come in search of one Payne; and this man, knownafterwards by the Catholics as Judas Eliot or Eliot Iscariot, hadgathered a number of constables and placed them about the manor-house;and before the sermon was over he went out quickly from the table of theLord, the house was immediately surrounded, and the alarm was raised by awatcher placed in one of the turrets after Eliot's suspicious departure. The three priests present, Campion and two others, were hurried into ahiding-hole over the stairs. The officers entered, searched, and foundnothing; and were actually retiring, when Eliot succeeded in persuadingthem to try again; they searched again till dark, and still foundnothing. Mrs. Yate encouraged them to stay the night in the house, andentertained them with ale; and then when all was quiet, insisted onhearing some parting words from her eloquent guest. He came out into theroom where she had chosen to spend the night until the officers weregone; and the rest of the Catholics, some Brigittine nuns and others, metthere through private passages and listened to him for the last time. Asthe company was dispersing one of the priests stumbled and fell, making anoise that roused the sentry outside. Again the house was searched, andagain with no success. In despair they were leaving it, when Jenkins, Eliot's companion, who was coming downstairs with a servant of the house, beat with his stick on the wall, saying that they had not searched there. It was noticed that the servant showed signs of agitation; and men werefetched to the spot; the wall was beaten in and the three priests werefound together, having mutually shriven one another, and made themselvesready for death. 

Campion was taken out and sent first to the Sheriff of Berkshire, andthen on towards London on the following day. 

 * * * *

The summer days went by, and every day brought its fresh rumour aboutCampion. Sir Owen Hopton, Governor of the Tower, who at first hadcommitted his prisoner to Little-Ease, now began to treat him with morehonour; he talked, too, mysteriously, of secret interviews and promisesand understandings; and gradually it began to get about that Campion wasyielding to kindness; that he had seen the Queen; that he was to recantat Paul's Cross; and even that he was to have the See of Canterbury. Thislast rumour caused great indignation at Lambeth, and Anthony was morepressed than ever to get what authentic news he could of the Jesuit. Thenat the beginning of August came a burst of new tales; he had been racked, it was said, and had given up a number of names; and as the month went bymore and more details, authentic and otherwise, were published. Thosefavourably inclined to the Catholics were divided in opinion; some fearedthat he had indeed yielded to an excess of agony; others, and theseproved to be in the right when the truth came out, that he had only givenup names which were already known to the authorities; though even forthis he asked public pardon on the scaffold. 

Towards the end of August the Archbishop again sent expressly for Anthonyand bade him accompany his chaplain on the following day to the Tower, tobe present at the public disputation that was to take place betweenEnglish divines and the Jesuit. 

"Now he will have the chance he craved for, " said Grindal. "He hathbragged that he would meet any and all in dispute, and now the Queen'sclemency hath granted it him. "

On the following day in the early morning sunshine the minister andAnthony rode down together to the Tower, where they arrived a few minutesbefore eight o'clock, and were passed through up the stairs into St. John's chapel to the seats reserved for them. 

It was indeed true that the authorities had determined to give Campionhis chance, but they had also determined to make it as small as possible. He was not even told that the discussion was to take place until themorning of its occasion, and he was allowed no opportunity for developinghis own theological position; the entire conduct of the debate was in thehands of his adversaries; he might only parry, seldom riposte, and neverattack. 

When Anthony found himself in his seat he looked round the chapel. Almostimmediately opposite him, on a raised platform against a pillar, stoodtwo high seats occupied by Deans Nowell and Day, who were to conduct thedisputation, and who were now talking with their heads together while asecretary was arranging a great heap of books on the table before them. On either side, east and west, stretched chairs for the divines that wereto support them in debate, should they need it; and the platform on whichAnthony himself had a chair was filled with a crowd of clergy andcourtiers laughing and chatting together. A little table, also heapedwith books, with seats for the notaries, stood in the centre of the nave, and not far from it were a number of little wooden stools which theprisoners were to occupy. Plainly they were to be allowed no advisers andno books; even the physical support of table and chairs was denied tothem in spite of their weary racked bodies. The chapel, bright with themorning sunlight that streamed in through the east windows of the bareNorman sanctuary, hummed with the talk and laughter of those who had cometo see the priest-baiting and the vindication of the Protestant Religion;though, as Anthony looked round, he saw here and there an anxious or adowncast face of some unknown friend of the Papists. 

He himself was far from easy in his mind. He had been studying Campion's"Ten Reasons" more earnestly than ever, and was amazed to find that thevery authorities to which Dr. Jewel deferred, namely, the Scripturesinterpreted by Fathers and Councils and illustrated by History, wereexactly Campion's authorities, too; and that the Jesuit's appeal to themwas no less confident than the Protestant's. That fact had, of course, suggested the thought that if there were no further living authority inexistence to decide between these two scholars, Christendom was in a poorposition. When doctors differed, where was the layman to turn? To his ownprivate judgment, said the Protestant. But then Campion's privatejudgment led him to submit to the Catholic claim! This then at presentweighed heavily on Anthony's mind. Was there or was there not anauthority on earth capable of declaring to him the Revelation of God? Forthe first time he was beginning to feel a logical and spiritual necessityfor an infallible external Judge in matters of faith; and that theCatholic Church was the only system that professed to supply it. Thequestion of the existence of such an authority was, with the doctrine ofjustification, one of those subjects continually in men's minds andconversations, and to Anthony, unlike others, it appeared morefundamental even than its companion. All else seemed secondary. Indulgences, the Mass, Absolution, the Worship of Mary and theSaints--all these must stand or fall on God's authority made known toman. The one question for him was, Where was that authority to becertainly found?

There came the ringing tramp of footsteps; the buzz of talk ceased andthen broke out again, as the prisoners, with all eyes bent upon them, surrounded by a strong guard of pikemen, were seen advancing up thechapel from the north-west door towards the stools set ready for them. Anthony had no eyes but for Campion who limped in front, supported oneither side by a warder. He could scarcely believe at first that this wasthe same priest who had ridden so bravely down Cheapside. Now he wasbent, and walked like an old broken man; his face was deathly pale, withshadows and lines about his eyes, and his head trembled a little. Therewere one or two exclamations of pity, for all knew what had caused thechange; and Anthony heard an undertone moan of sorrow and anger from someone in a seat behind him. 

The prisoners sat down; and the guards went to their places. Campion tookhis seat in front, and turned immediately from side to side, running hisdark eyes along the faces to see where were his adversaries; and oncemore Anthony met his eyes, and thrilled at it. Through the pallor andpain of his face, the same chivalrous spirit looked out and called forhomage and love, that years ago at Oxford had made young men, mockinglynicknamed after their leader, to desire his praise more passionately thananything on earth, and even to imitate his manners and dress and gait, for very loyalty and devotion. Anthony could not take his eyes off him;he watched the clear-cut profile of his face thrown fearlessly forward, waited in tense expectation to hear him speak, and paid no attention tothe whisperings of the chaplain beside him. 

 * * * *

Presently the debate began. It was opened by Dean Nowell from his highseat, who assured Father Campion of the disinterested motives of himselfand his reverend friends in holding this disputation. It was, after all, only what the priest had demanded; and they trusted by God's grace thatthey would do him good and help him to see the truth. There was nounfairness, said the Dean, who seemed to think that some apology wasneeded, in taking him thus unprepared, since the subject of debate wouldbe none other than Campion's own book. The Jesuit looked up, nodded hishead, and smiled. 

"I thank you, Mr. Dean, " he said, in his deep resonant voice, and therefell a dead hush as he spoke. "I thank you for desiring to do me good, and to take up my challenge; but I must say that I would I had understoodof your coming, that I might have made myself ready. "

Campion's voice thrilled strangely through Anthony, as the glance fromhis eyes had done. It was so assured, so strong and delicate aninstrument, and so supremely at its owner's command, that it was hardlyless persuasive than his personality and his learning that madethemselves apparent during the day. And Anthony was not alone in hisimpressions of the Jesuit. Lord Arundel afterwards attributed hisconversion to Campion's share in the discussions. Again and again duringthe day a murmur of applause followed some of the priest's clean-cutspeeches and arguments, and a murmur of disapproval the fierce thrustsand taunts of his opponents; and by the end of the day's debate, somarked was the change of attitude of the crowd that had come to triumphover the Papist, and so manifest their sympathy with the prisoners, thatit was thought advisable to exclude the public from the subsequentdiscussions. 

On this first day, all manner of subjects were touched upon, such as thecomparative leniency of Catholic and Protestant governments, the positionof Luther with regard to the Epistle of St. James, and other matterscomparatively unimportant, in the discussion of which a great deal oftime was wasted. Campion entreated his opponents to leave such minorquestions alone, and to come to doctrinal matters; but they preferred tokeep to details rather than to principles, and the priest had scarcelyany opportunity to state his positive position at all. The only doctrinalmatter seriously touched upon was that of Justification by Faith; andtexts were flung to and fro without any great result. "We are justifiedby faith, " cried one side. "Though I have all faith and have not charity, I am nothing, " cried the other. The effect on Anthony of this day'sdebate arose rather from the victorious personality of the priest thanfrom his arguments. His gaiety, too, was in strange contrast to thesolemn Puritanism of his enemies. For instance, he was on the point thatCouncils might err in matters of fact, but that the Scriptures could not. 

"As for example, " he said, his eyes twinkling out of his drawn face, "Iam bound under pain of damnation to believe that Toby's dog had a tail, because it is written, he wagged it. "

The Deans looked sternly at him, as the audience laughed. 

"Now, now, " said one of them, "it becomes not to deal so triflingly withmatters of weight. "

Campion dropped his eyes, demurely, as if reproved. 

"Why, then, " he said, "if this example like you not, take another. I mustbelieve that Saint Paul had a cloak, because he willeth Timothy to bringit with him. "

Again the crowd laughed; and Anthony laughed, too, with a strange sob inhis throat at the gallant foolery, which, after all, was as much to thepoint as a deal that the Deans were saying. 

But the second day's debate, held in Hopton's Hall, was on more vitalmatters; and Anthony again and again found himself leaning forwardbreathlessly, as Drs. Goode and Fulke on the one side, and Campion on theother, respectively attacked and defended the Doctrine of the VisibleChurch; for this, for Anthony, was one of the crucial points of thedispute between Catholicism and Protestantism. Anthony believed alreadythat the Church was one; and if it was visible, surely, he thought tohimself, it must be visibly one; and in that case, it is evident wherethat Church is to be found. But if it is invisible, it may be invisiblyone, and then as far as that matter is concerned, he may rest in theChurch of England. If not--and then he recoiled from the gulf thatopened. 

"It must be an essential mark of the Church, " said Campion, "and such aquality as is inseparable. It must be visible, as fire is hot, and watermoist. "

Goode answered that when Christ was taken and the Apostles fled, then atleast the Church was invisible; and if then, why not always?

"It was a Church inchoate, " answered the priest, "beginning, notperfect. "

But Goode continued to insist that the true Church is known only to God, and therefore invisible. 

"There are many wolves within, " he said, "and many sheep without. "

"I know not who is elect, " retorted Campion, "but I know who is aCatholic. "

"Only the elect are of the Church, " said Goode. 

"I say that both good and evil are of the visible Church, " answered theother. 

"To be elect or true members of Christ is one thing, " went on Goode, "andto be in the visible Church is another. "

 * * * *

As the talk went on, Anthony began to see where the confusion lay. TheProtestants were anxious to prove that membership in a visible body didnot ensure salvation but then the Catholics never claimed that it did;the question was: Did or did not Christ intend there to be a visibleChurch, membership in which should be the normal though not theinfallible means of salvation?

They presently got on to the _a priori_ point as to whether a visibleChurch would seem to be a necessity. 

"There is a perpetual commandment, " said the priest, "in Mattheweighteen--'Tell the Church'; but that cannot be unless the Church isvisible; _ergo_, the visibility of the Church is continual. "

"When there is an established Church, " said Goode, "this remedy is to besought for. But this cannot be always had. "

"The disease is continual, " answered Campion; "_ergo_ the remedy must becontinual. " Then he left the _a priori_ ground and entered theirs. "Towhom should I have gone, " he cried, "before Luther's time? What prelatesshould I have made my complaint unto in those days? Where was your Churchnine hundred years ago? Whose were John Huss, Jerome of Prague, theWaldenses? Were they yours?" Then he turned scornfully to Fulke, "Helphim, Master Doctor. "

And Fulke repeated Goode's assertion, that valuable as the remedy is, itcannot always be had. 

Anthony sat back, puzzled. Both sides seemed right. Persecution mustoften hinder the full privileges of Church membership and the exercise ofdiscipline. Yet the question was, What was Christ's intention? Was itthat the Church should be visible? It seemed that even the ministersallowed that, now. And if so, why then the Catholic's claim that Christ'sintention had never been wholly frustrated, but that a visible unity wasto be found amongst themselves--surely this was easier to believe thanthe Protestant theory that the Church which had been visible for fifteencenturies was not really the Church at all; but that the true Church hadbeen invisible--in spite of Christ's intention--during all that period, and was now to be found only in small separated bodies scattered here andthere. How of the prevailing of the gates of hell, if that were allowedto be true?

 * * * *

At two o'clock they reassembled for the afternoon conference; and nowthey got even closer to the heart of the matter, for the subject was tobe, whether the Church could err?

Fulke asserted that it could, and did; and made a syllogism:

"Whatsoever error is incident to every member, is incident to the whole. But it is incident to every member to err; _ergo_, to the whole. "

"I deny both _major_ and _minor_, " said Campion quietly. "Every man mayerr, but not the whole gathered together; for the whole hath a promise, but so hath not every particular man. "

Fulke denied this stoutly, and beat on the table. 

"Every member hath the spirit of Christ, " he said, "which is the spiritof truth; and therefore hath the same promise that the whole hath. "

"Why, then, " said Campion, smiling, "there should be no heretics. "

"Yes, " answered Fulke, "heretics may be within the Church, but not of theChurch. "

And so they found themselves back again where they started from. 

Anthony sat back on the oak bench and sighed, and glanced round at theinterested faces of the theologians and the yawns of the amateurs, as thedebate rolled on over the old ground, and touched on free will, andgrace, and infant baptism; until the Lieutenant interposed:

"Master Doctors, " he said, with a judicial air, "the question that wasappointed before dinner was, whether the visible Church may err"--towhich Goode retorted that the digressions were all Campion's fault. 

Then the debate took the form of contradictions. 

"Whatsoever congregation doth err in matters of faith, " said Goode, "isnot the true Church; but the Church of Rome erreth in matters of faith;_ergo_, it is not the true Church. "

"I deny your _minor_, " said Campion, "the Church of Rome hath not erred. "Then the same process was repeated over the Council of Trent; and thedebate whirled off once more into details and irrelevancies about imputedrighteousness, and the denial of the Cup to the laity. 

Again the audience grew restless. They had not come there, most of them, to listen to theological minutiæ, but to see sport; and this interminablechopping of words that resulted in nothing bored them profoundly. Amurmur of conversation began to buzz on all sides. 

Campion was in despair. 

"Thus shall we run into all questions, " he cried hopelessly, "and then weshall have done this time twelve months. "

But Fulke would not let him be; but pressed on a question about theCouncil of Nice. 

"Now we shall have the matter of images, " sighed Campion. 

"You are _nimis acutus_, " retorted Fulke, "you will leap over the stileor ever you come to it. I mean not to speak of images. "

And so with a few more irrelevancies the debate ended. 

The third debate in September (on the twenty-third), at which Anthony wasagain present, was on the subject of the Real Presence in the BlessedSacrament. 

Fulke was in an evil temper, since it was common talk that Campion hadhad the best of the argument on the eighteenth. 

"The other day, " he said, "when we had some hope of your conversion, weforbare you much, and suffered you to discourse; but now that we see youare an obstinate heretic, and seek to cover the light of the truth withmultitude of words, we mean not to allow you such large discourses as wedid. "

"You are very imperious to-day, " answered Campion serenely, "whatsoeverthe matter is. I am the Queen's prisoner, and none of yours. "

"Not a whit imperious, " said Fulke angrily, --"though I will exact of youto keep the right order of disputation. "

Then the argument began. It soon became plain to Anthony that it waspossible to take the Scripture in two senses, literally andmetaphorically. The sacrament either was literally Christ's body, or itwas not. Who then was to decide? Father Campion said it meant the one;Dr. Fulke the other. Could it be possible that Christ should leave Hispeople in doubt as to such a thing? Surely not, thought Anthony. Well, then, where is the arbiter? Father Campion says, The Church; Dr. Fulkesays, The Scripture. But that is a circular argument, for the question tobe decided is: What does the Scripture mean? for it may mean at least twothings, at least so it would seem. Here then he found himself face toface with the claims of the Church of Rome to be that arbiter; and hisheart began to grow sick with apprehension as he saw how that Churchsupplied exactly what was demanded by the circumstances of the case--thatis, an infallible living guide as to the meaning of God's Revelation. Thesimplicity of her claim appalled him. 

He did not follow the argument closely, since it seemed to him but asecondary question now; though he heard one or two sentences. At onepoint Campion was explaining what the Church meant by substance. It wasthat which transcended the senses. 

"Are you not Dr. Fulke?" he said. "And yet I see nothing but your colourand exterior form. The substance of Dr. Fulke cannot be seen. "

"I will not vouchsafe to reply upon this answer, " snarled Fulke, whosetemper had not been improved by the debate--"too childish for asophister!"

Then followed interminable syllogisms, of which Campion would not acceptthe premises; and no real progress was made. The Jesuit tried to explainthe doctrine that the wicked may be said not to eat the Body in theSacrament, because they receive not the virtue of It, though they receivethe Thing; but Fulke would not hear him. The distinction was new toAnthony, with his puritan training, and he sat pondering it while thedebate passed on. 

The afternoon discussion, too, was to little purpose. More and moreAnthony, and others with him, began to see that the heart of the matterwas the authority of the Church; and that unless that was settled, allother debate was beside the point; and the importance of this was broughtout for him more clearly than ever on the 27th of the month, when thefourth and last debate took place, and on the subject of the sufficiencyof the Scriptures unto salvation. 

Mr. Charke, who had now succeeded as disputant, began with extemporeprayer, in which as usual the priest refused to join, praying andcrossing himself apart. 

Mr. Walker then opened the disputation with a pompous and insolent speechabout "one Campion, " an "unnatural man to his country, degenerated froman Englishman, an apostate in religion, a fugitive from this realm, unloyal to his prince. " Campion sat with his eyes cast down, until theminister had done. 

Then the discussion began. The priest pointed out that Protestants werenot even decided as to what were Scriptures and what were not, sinceLuther rejected three epistles in the New Testament; therefore, heargued, the Church is necessary as a guide, first of all, to tell menwhat is Scripture. Walker evaded by saying he was not a Lutheran but aChristian; and then the talk turned on to apocryphal books. But it wasnot possible to evade long, and the Jesuit soon touched his opponent. 

"To leave a door to traditions, " he said, "which the Holy Ghost maydeliver to the true Church, is both manifest and seen: as in the Baptismof infants, the Holy Ghost proceeding from Father to Son, and such otherthings mentioned, which are delivered by tradition. Prove these directlyby the Scripture if you can!"

Charke answered by the analogy of circumcision which infants received, and by quoting Christ's words as to "sending" of the Comforter; and theywere soon deep in detailed argument; but once more Anthony saw that itwas all a question of the interpretation of Scripture; and, therefore, that it would seem that an authoritative interpreter was necessary--andwhere could such be found save in an infallible living Voice? And oncemore a question of Campion's drove the point home. 

"Was all Scripture written when the Apostles first taught?" And Charkedared not answer yes. 

The afternoon's debate concerned justification by faith, and this, morethan ever, seemed to Anthony a secondary matter, now that he wasrealising what the claim of a living authority meant; and he sat back, only interested in watching the priest's face, so controlled yet sotransparent in its simplicity and steadfastness, as he listened to theministers' brutal taunts and insolence, and dealt his quiet skilfulparries and ripostes to their incessant assaults. At last the Lieutenantstruck the table with his hand, and intimated that the time was past, andafter a long prayer by Mr. Walker, the prisoners were led back to theircells. 

As Anthony rode back alone in the evening sunlight, he was as one whowas seeing a vision. There was indeed a vision before him, that hadbeen taking shape gradually, detail by detail, during these last months, and ousting the old one; and which now, terribly emphasised by Campion'sarguments and illuminated by the fire of his personality, towered upimperious, consistent, dominating--and across her brow her title, TheCatholic Church. Far above all the melting cloudland of theory shemoved, a stupendous fact; living, in contrast with the dead past towhich her enemies cried in vain; eloquent when other systems were dumb;authoritative when they hesitated; steady when they reeled and fell. About her throne dwelt her children, from every race and age, secure inher protection, and wise with her knowledge, when other men faltered andquestioned and doubted: and as Anthony looked up and saw her for thefirst time, he recognised her as the Mistress and Mother of his soul; andalthough the blinding clouds of argument and theory and self-distrustrushed down on him again and filled his eyes with dust, yet he knew hehad seen her face in very truth, and that the memory of that vision couldnever again wholly leave him. 

 CHAPTER VI

 SOME CONTRASTS

In the Lambeth household the autumn passed by uneventfully. The rigour ofthe Archbishop's confinement had been mitigated, and he had been allowednow and again to visit his palace at Croydon; but his inactivity stillcontinued as the sequestration was not removed; Elizabeth had refused tolisten to the petition of Convocation in '80 for his reinstatement. Anthony went down to the old palace once or twice with him; and wasbrought closer to him in many ways; and his affection and tendernesstowards his master continually increased. Grindal was a pathetic figureat this time, with few friends, in poor health, out of favour with theQueen, who had disregarded his existence; and now his afflictions wererendered more heavy than ever by the blindness that was creeping overhim. The Archbishop, too, in his loneliness and sorrow, was drawn closerto his young officer than ever before; and gradually got to rely upon himin many little ways. He would often walk with Anthony in the gardens atLambeth, leaning upon his arm, talking to him of his beloved flowers andherbs which he was now almost too blind to see; telling him queer factsabout the properties of plants; and even attempting to teach him a littleirrelevant botany now and then. 

They were walking up and down together, soon after Campion's arrest, oneAugust morning before prayers in a little walled garden on the river thatGrindal had laid out with great care in earlier years. 

"Ah, " said the old man, "I am too blind to see my flowers now, Mr. Norris; but I love them none the less; and I know their places. Nowthere, " he went on, pointing with his stick, "there I think grows mymastick or marum; perhaps I smell it, however. What is that flower like, Mr. Norris?"

Anthony looked at it, and described its little white flower and itsleaves. 

"That is it, " said the Archbishop, "I thought my memory served me. It isa kind of marjoram, and it has many virtues, against cramps, convulsionsand venomous bites--so Galen tells us. " Then he went on to talk of thesimple old plants that he loved best; of the two kinds of basil that healways had in his garden; and how good it was mixed in sack against theheadache; and the male penny-royal, and how well it had served him oncewhen he had great internal trouble. 

"Mr. Gerrard was here a week or two ago, Mr. Norris, when you were downat Croydon for me. He is my Lord Burghley's man; he oversees his gardensat Wimbledon House, and in the country. He was telling me of a rascal hehad seen at a fair, who burned henbane and made folks with the toothachebreathe in the fumes; and then feigned to draw a worm forth from theaching tooth; but it was no worm at all, but a lute string that he heldready in his hand. There are sad rascals abroad, Mr. Norris. "

The old man waxed eloquent when they came to the iris bed. 

"Ah! Mr. Norris, the flowers-de-luce are over by now, I fear; but whatwonderful creatures of God they are, with their great handsome heads andtheir cool flags. I love to hear a bed of them rustle all together andshake their spears and nod their banners like an army in array. And thenthey are not only for show. Apuleius says that they are good against thegout. I asked Mr. Gerrard whether my lord had tried them; but he said no, he would not. "

At the violet bed he was yet more emphatic. 

"I think, Mr. Norris, I love these the best of all. They are lowlycreatures; but how sweet! and like other lowly creatures exalted by theirMaker to do great things as his handmaidens. The leaves are good againstinflammations, and the flowers against ague and hoarseness as well. Andthen there is oil-of-violets, as you know; and violet-syrup andsugar-violet; then they are good for blisters; garlands of them were anancient cure for the headache, as I think Dioscorides tells us. And theyare the best of all cures for some children's ailments. "

And so they walked up and down together; the Archbishop talking quietlyon and on; and helping quite unknown to himself by his tender irrelevantold man's talk to soothe the fever of unrest and anxiety that wasbeginning to torment Anthony so much now. His conversation, like the veryflowers he loved to speak of, was "good against inflammations. "

Anthony came to him one morning, thinking to please him, and brought hima root that he had bought from a travelling pedlar just outside thegateway. 

"This is a mandrake root, your Grace; I heard you speak of it the otherday. "

The Archbishop took it, smiling, felt it carefully, peered at it a minuteor two. "No, my son, " he said, "I fear you have met a knave. This isbriony-root carved like a mandrake into the shape of a man's legs. It isworthless, I fear; but I thank you for the kind thought, Mr. Norris, " andhe gave the root back to him. "And the stories we hear of the mandrake, Ifear, are fables, too. Some say that they only grow beneath gallows fromthat which falls there; that the male grows from the corruption of aman's body; and the female from that of a woman's; but that is surely alie, and a foul one, too. And then folks say that to draw it up meansdeath; and that the mandrake screams terribly as it comes up; and so theybid us tie a dog to it, and then drive the dog from it so as to draw itup so. I asked Mr. Baker, the chirurgeon in the household of my LordOxford, the other day, about that; and he said that such tales be butdoltish dreams and old wives' fables. But the true mandrake is a cleanand wholesome plant. The true ointment Populeon should have the juice ofthe leaves in it; and the root boiled and strained causes drowsiness. Ithath a predominate cold faculty, Galen saith; but its true home is not inEngland at all. It comes from Mount Garganus in Apulia. "

It was pathetic, Anthony thought sometimes, that this old prelate shouldbe living so far from the movements of the time, owing to no fault of hisown. During these months the great tragedy of Campion's passion wasproceeding a couple of miles away; but the Archbishop thought less of itthan of the death of an old tree. The only thing from the outside worldthat seemed to ruffle him was the behaviour of the Puritans. Anthony waspassing through "le velvet-room" one afternoon when he heard voices inthe Presence Chamber beyond; and almost immediately heard the Archbishop, who had recognised his step, call his name. He went in and found him witha stranger in a dark sober dress. 

"Take this gentleman to Mr. Scot, " he said, "and ask him to give him somerefreshment; for that he must be gone directly. "

When Anthony had taken the gentleman to the steward, he returned to theArchbishop for any further instructions about him. 

"No, Mr. Norris, my business is done with him. He comes from my lord ofNorwich, and must be returning this evening. If you are not occupied, Mr. Norris, will you give me your arm into the garden?"

They went out by the vestry-door into the little cloisters, and skirtingthe end of the creek that ran up by Chichele's water-tower began to paceup and down the part of the garden that looked over the river. 

"My lord has sent to know if I know aught of one Robert Browne, with whomhe is having trouble. This Mr. Browne has lately come from Cambridge, andso my lord thought I might know something of him; but I do not. Thisgentleman has been saying some wild and foolish things, I fear; anddesires that every church should be free of all others; and shouldappoint its own minister, and rule its own affairs without interference, and that prophesyings should be without restraint. Now, you know, Mr. Norris, I have always tried to serve that party, and support them intheir gospel religion; but this goes too far. Where were any governanceat all, if all this were to come about? where were the Rule of Faith? thepower of discipline? Nay, where were the unity for which our Saviourprayed? It liketh me not. Good Dr. Freake, as his messenger tells me, feels as I do about this; and desires to restrain Mr. Browne, but he isso hot he will not be restrained; and besides, he is some kin to my LordBurghley, so I fear his mouth will be hard to stop. "

Anthony could not help thinking of Mr. Buxton's prediction that theChurch of England had so repudiated authority, that in turn her own wouldone day be repudiated. 

"A Papist prisoner, your Grace, " he said, "said to me the other day thatthis would be sure to come: that the whole principle of Church authorityhad been destroyed in England; and that the Church of England would moreand more be deserted by her children; for that there was no necessarycentre of unity left, now that Peter was denied. "

"It is what a Papist is bound to say, " replied the Archbishop; "but it iseasy to prophesy, when fulfilment may be far away. Indeed, I think weshall have trouble with some of these zealous men; and the Queen's Gracewas surely right in desiring some restraint to be put upon the Exercises. But it is mere angry raving to say that the Church of England will losethe allegiance of her children. "

Anthony could not feel convinced that events bore out the Archbishop'sassertion. Everywhere the Puritans were becoming more outrageouslydisloyal. There were everywhere signs of disaffection and revolt againstthe authorities of the Establishment, even on the part of the mostsincere and earnest men, many of whom were looking forward to the daywhen the last rags of popery should be cast away, and formalPresbyterianism inaugurated in the Church of England. EpiscopalOrdination was more and more being regarded as a merely civilrequirement, but conveying no ministerial commission; recognition by thecongregation with the laying on of the hands of the presbyterate was theonly ordination they allowed as apostolic. 

Anthony said a word to the Archbishop about this. 

"You must not be too strict, " said the old man. "Both views can besupported by the Scriptures; and although the Church of England atpresent recognises only Episcopal Ordination within her own borders, shedoes not dare to deny, as the Papists fondly do, that other rites may notbe as efficacious as her own. That, surely, Master Norris, is inaccordance with the mind of Christ that hath the spirit of liberty. "

Much as Anthony loved the old man and his gentle charity, this doctrinalposition as stated by the chief pastor of the Church of England scarcelyserved to establish his troubled allegiance. 

During these autumn months, too, both between and after the disputationsin the Tower, the image of Campion had been much in his thoughts. Everywhere, except among the irreconcilables, the Jesuit was being wellspoken of: his eloquence, his humour, and his apparent sincerity werebeing greatly commented on in London and elsewhere. Anthony, as has beenseen, was being deeply affected on both sides of his nature; the shrewdwit of the other was in conflict with his own intellectual convictions, and this magnetic personality was laying siege to his heart. And now thelast scene of the tragedy, more affecting than all, was close at hand. 

Anthony was present first at the trial in Westminster Hall, which tookplace during November, and was more than ever moved by what he saw andheard there. The priest, as even his opponents confessed, had by now "wona marvellously good report, to be such a man as his like was not to befound, either for life, learning, or any other quality which mightbeautify a man. " And now here he stood at the bar, paler than ever, sonumbed with racking that he could not lift his hand to plead--that supplemusician's hand of his, once so skilful on the lute--so that Mr. Sherwinhad to lift it for him out of the furred cuff in which he had wrapped it, kissing it tenderly as he did so, in reverence for its sufferings; and hesaw, too, the sleek face of Eliot, in his red yeoman's coat, as he stoodchatting at the back, like another Barabbas whom the people preferred tothe servant of the Crucified. And, above all, he heard Campion's stirringdefence, spoken in that same resonant sweet voice, though it broke nowand then through weakness, in spite of the unconquerable purpose andcheerfulness that showed in his great brown eyes, and round his delicatehumorous mouth. It was indeed an astonishing combination of sincerity andeloquence, and even humour, that was brought to bear on the jury, and allin vain, during those days. 

"If you want to dispute as though you were in the schools, " cried one ofthe court, when he found himself out of his depth, "you are only provingyourself a fool. "

"I pray God, " said Campion, while his eyes twinkled, "I pray God make usboth sages. " And, in spite of the tragedy of the day, a little hum oflaughter ran round the audience. 

"If a sheep were stolen, " he argued again, in answer to the presuppositionthat since some Catholics were traitors, therefore these were--"and awhole family called in question for the same, were it good manner ofproceeding for the accusers to say 'Your great grandfathers and fathersand sisters and kinsfolk all loved mutton; _ergo_, you have stolen thesheep'?"

Again, in answer to the charge that he and his companions had conspiredabroad, he said, "As for the accusation that we plotted treason at Rheims, reflect, mylords, how just this charge is! For see! First we never met there at all;then, many of us have never been at Rheims at all; finally, we were neverin our lives all together, except at this hour and in prison. "

Anthony heard, too, Campion expose the attempt that was made to shift thecharge from religion to treason. 

"There was offer made to us, " he cried indignantly, "that if we wouldcome to the church to hear sermons and the word preached, we should beset at large and at liberty; so Pascall and Nicholls"--(two apostates)"otherwise as culpable in all offences as we, upon coming to church werereceived to grace and had their pardon granted; whereas, if they had beenso happy as to have persevered to the end, they had been partakers of ourcalamities. So that our religion was cause of our imprisonment, and _exconsequenti_, of our condemnation. "

The Queen's Counsel tried to make out that certain secrets that Campion, in an intercepted letter, had sworn not to reveal, must be treasonable orhe would not so greatly fear their publication. To this the priest made astately defence of his office, and declaration of his staunchness. Heshowed how by his calling as a priest he was bound to secrecy in mattersheard in confession, and that these secret matters were of this nature. 

"These were the hidden matters, " he said, "these were the secrets, to therevealing whereof I cannot nor will not be brought, come rack, comerope!"

And again, when Sergeant Anderson interpreted a phrase of Campion'sreferring to the great day to which he looked forward, as meaning the dayof a foreign papal invasion, the prisoner cried in a loud voice:

"O Judas, Judas! No other day was in my mind, I protest, than thatwherein it should please God to make a restitution of faith and religion. Whereupon, as in every pulpit every Protestant doth, I pronounced a greatday, not wherein any temporal potentate should minister, but wherein theterrible Judge should reveal all men's consciences, and try every man ofeach kind of religion. This is the day of change, this is the great daywhich I threatened; comfortable to the well-behaving, and terrible to allheretics. Any other day but this, God knows I meant not. "

Then, after the other prisoners had pleaded, Campion delivered a finaldefence to the jury, with a solemnity that seemed to belong to a judgerather than a criminal. The babble of tongues that had continued most ofthe day was hushed to a profound silence in court as he stood and spoke, for the sincerity and simplicity of the priest were evident to all, andcombined with his eloquence and his strange attractive personality, dominated all but those whose minds were already made up before enteringthe court. 

"What charge this day you sustain, " began the priest, in a steady lowvoice, with his searching eyes bent on the faces before him, "and whataccount you are to render at the dreadful Day of Judgment, whereof Icould wish this also were a mirror, I trust there is not one of you butknoweth. I doubt not but in like manner you forecast how dear theinnocent is to God, and at what price He holdeth man's blood. Here we areaccused and impleaded to the death, "--he began to raise his voice alittle--"here you do receive our lives into your custody; here must beyour device, either to restore them or condemn them. We have no whitherto appeal but to your consciences; we have no friends to make there butyour heeds and discretions. " Then he touched briefly on the evidence, showing how faulty and circumstantial it was, and urged them to rememberthat a man's life by the very constitution of the realm must not besacrificed to mere probabilities or presumptions; then he showed theuntrustworthiness of his accusers, how one had confessed himself amurderer, and how another was an atheist. Then he ended with a word ortwo of appeal. 

"God give you grace, " he cried, "to weigh our causes aright, and haverespect to your own consciences; and so I will keep the jury no longer. Icommit the rest to God, and our convictions to your good discretions. "

When the jury had retired, and all the judges but one had left the benchuntil the jury should return, Anthony sat back in his place, his heartbeating and his eyes looking restlessly now on the prisoners, now on thedoor where the jury had gone out, and now on Judge Ayloff, whom he knew alittle, and who sat only a few feet away from him on one side. He couldhear the lawyers sitting below the judge talking among themselves; andpresently one of them leaned over to him. 

"Good-day, Mr. Norris, " he said, "you have come to see an acquittal, Idoubt not. No man can be in two minds after what we have heard; at leastconcerning Mr. Campion. We all think so, here, at any rate. "

The lawyer was going on to say a word or two more as to the priest'seloquence, when there was a sharp exclamation from the judge. Anthonylooked up and saw Judge Ayloff staring at his hand, turning it over whilehe held his glove in the other; and Anthony saw to his surprise that thefingers were all blood-stained. One or two gentlemen near him turned andlooked, too, as the judge, still staring and growing a little pale, wipedthe blood quickly away with the glove; but the fingers grew crimson againimmediately. 

"'S'Body!" said Ayloff, half to himself; "'tis strange, there is nowound. " A moment later, looking up, he saw many of his neighboursglancing curiously at his hand and his pale face, and hastily thrust onhis glove again; and immediately after the jury returned, and the judgesfiled in to take their places. Anthony's attention was drawn off again, and the buzz of talk in the court was followed again by a deep silence. 

The verdict of _Guilty_ was uttered, as had been pre-arranged, and theQueen's Counsel demanded sentence. 

"Campion and the rest, " said Chief Justice Wray, "What can you say whyyou should not die?"

Then Campion, still steady and resolute, made his last useless appeal. 

"It was not our death that ever we feared. But we knew that we were notlords of our own lives, and therefore for want of answer would not beguilty of our own deaths. The only thing that we have now to say is, thatif our religion do make us traitors, we are worthy to be condemned; butotherwise are and have been true subjects as ever the Queen had. Incondemning us, you condemn all your own ancestors, " and as he said this, his voice began to rise, and he glanced steadily and mournfully round atthe staring faces about him, "all the ancient priests, bishops, andkings--all that was once the glory of England, the island of saints, andthe most devoted child of the See of Peter. " Then, as he went on, heflung out his wrenched hands, and his voice rang with indignant defiance. "For what have we taught, " he cried, "however you may qualify it with theodious name of treason, that they did not uniformly teach? To becondemned with these old lights--not of England only, but of theworld--by their degenerate descendants, is both gladness and glory tous. " Then, with a superb gesture, he sent his voice pealing through thehall: "God lives, posterity will live; their judgment is not so liable tocorruption as that of those who are now about to sentence us to death. "

There was a burst of murmurous applause as he ended, which stilledimmediately, as the Chief Justice began to deliver sentence. But when thehorrible details of his execution had been enumerated, and the formulahad ended, it was the prisoner's turn to applaud:--

"_Te Deum laudamus!_" cried Campion; "_Te Dominum confitemur. _"

"_Haec est dies_, " shouted Sherwin, "_quam fecit Dominus; exultemus etlaetemur in illâ_": and so with the thanksgiving and joy of the condemnedcriminals, the mock-trial ended. 

When Anthony rode down silently and alone in the rain that Decembermorning a few days later, to see the end, he found a vast silent crowdassembled on Tower Hill and round the gateway, where the four horses werewaiting, each pair harnessed to a hurdle laid flat on the ground. Hewould not go in, for he could scarcely trust himself to speak, so greatwas his horror of the crime that was to be committed; so he backed hishorse against the wall, and waited over an hour in silence, scarcelyhearing the murmurs of impatience that rolled round the great crowd fromtime to time, absorbed in his own thoughts. Here was the climax of thesedays of misery and self-questioning that had passed since the trial inWestminster Hall. It was no use, he argued to himself, to pretendotherwise. These three men of God were to die for their religion--and areligion too which was gradually detaching itself to his view from themists and clouds that hid it, as the one great reality and truth of God'sRevelation to man. He had come, he knew, to see not an execution but amartyrdom. 

There was a trampling from within, the bolts creaked, and the gate rolledback; a company of halberdiers emerged, and in their midst the threepriests in laymen's dress; behind followed a few men on horseback, with alittle company of ministers, bible in hand; and then a rabble of officersand pursuivants. Anthony edged his horse in among the others, as thecrowd fell back, and took up his place in the second rank of ridersbetween a gentleman of his acquaintance who made room for him on the oneside, and Sir Francis Knowles on the other, and behind the Towerofficials. 

Then, once more he heard that ringing bass voice whose first soundsilenced the murmurs of the surging excited crowd. 

"God save you all, gentlemen! God bless you and make you all goodCatholics. "

Then, as the priest turned to kneel towards the east, he saw his facepaler than ever now, after his long fast in preparation for death. Therain was still falling as Campion in his frieze gown knelt in the mud. There was silence as he prayed, and as he ended aloud by commending hissoul to God. 

"_In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum. _"

 * * * *

The three were secured to the hurdles, Briant and Sherwin on the one, Campion on the other, all lying on their backs, with their feet towardsthe horse's heels. The word to start was given by Sir Owen Hopton whorode with Charke, the preacher of Gray's Inn, in the front rank; thelashed horses plunged forward, with the jolting hurdles spattering mudbehind them; and the dismal pageant began to move forward through thecrowd on that way of sorrows. There was a ceaseless roar and babble ofvoices as they went. Charke, in his minister's dress, able now to declaimwithout fear of reply, was hardly silent for a moment from mocking andrebuking the prisoners, and making pompous speeches to the people. 

"See here, " he cried, "these rogueing popish priests, laid by theheels--aye, by the heels--at last; in spite of their tricks and turns. See this fellow in his frieze gown, dead to the world as he brags; andknow how he skulked and hid in his disguises till her Majesty's servantsplucked him forth! We will disguise him, we will disguise him, ere wehave done with him, that his own mother should not know him. Ha, now!Campion, do you hear me?"

And so the harsh voice rang out over the crowd that tramped alongside, and up to the faces that filled every window; while the ministers belowkept up a ceaseless murmur of adjuration and entreaty and threatening, with a turning of leaves of their bibles, and bursts of prayer, over thethree heads that jolted and rocked at their feet over the cobblestonesand through the mud. The friends of the prisoners walked as near to themas they dared, and their lips moved continually in prayer. 

Every now and then as Anthony craned his head, he could see Campion'sface, with closed eyes and moving lips that smiled again and again, allspattered and dripping with filth; and once he saw a gentleman walkingbeside him fearlessly stoop down and wipe the priest's face with ahandkerchief. Presently they had passed up Cheapside and reached Newgate;in a niche in the archway itself stood a figure of the Mother of Godlooking compassionately down; and as Campion's hurdle passed beneath it, her servant wrenched himself a few inches up in his bonds and bowed tohis glorious Queen; and then laid himself down quietly again, as a chorusof lament rose from the ministers over his superstition and obstinateidolatry that seemed as if it would last even to death; and Charke too, who had become somewhat more silent, broke out again into revilings. 

 * * * *

The crowd at Tyburn was vast beyond all reckoning. Outside the gate itstretched on every side, under the elms, a few were even in the branches, along the sides of the stream; everywhere was a sea of heads, out ofwhich, on a little eminence like another Calvary, rose up the tall postsof the three-cornered gallows, on which the martyrs were to suffer. Asthe hurdles came slowly under the gate, the sun broke out for the firsttime; and as the horses that drew the hurdles came round towards thecarts that stood near the gallows and the platform on which thequartering block stood, a murmur began that ran through the crowd fromthose nearest the martyrs. --"But they are laughing, they are laughing!"

The crowd gave a surge to and fro as the horses drew up, and Anthonyreined his own beast back among the people, so that he was just oppositethe beam on which the three new ropes were already hanging, and beneathwhich was standing a cart with the back taken out. In the cart waited adreadful figure in a tight-fitting dress, sinewy arms bare to theshoulder, and a butcher's knife at his leather girdle. A little distanceaway stood the hateful cauldron, bubbling fiercely, with black smokepouring from under it: the platform with the block and quartering-axestood beneath the gallows; and round this now stood the officers, withNorton the rack-master, and Sir Owen Hopton and the rest, and the threepriests, with the soldiers forming a circle to keep the crowd back. 

The hangman stooped as Anthony looked, and a moment later Campion stoodbeside him on the cart, pale, mud-splashed, but with the same serenesmile; his great brown eyes shone as they looked out over the wideheaving sea of heads, from which a deep heart-shaking murmur rose as thefamous priest appeared. Anthony could see every detail of what went on;the hangman took the noose that hung from above, and slipped it over theprisoner's head, and drew it close round his neck; and then himselfslipped down from the cart, and stood with the others, still well abovethe heads of the crowd, but leaving the priest standing higher yet on thecart, silhouetted, rope and all, framed in the posts and cross-beam, fromwhich two more ropes hung dangling against the driving clouds and bluesky over London city. 

 * * * *

Campion waited perfectly motionless for the murmur of innumerable voicesto die down; and Anthony, fascinated and afraid beneath that overpoweringserenity, watched him turn his head slowly from side to side with a"majestical countenance, " as his enemies confessed, as if he were on thepoint of speaking. Silence seemed to radiate out from him, spreading likea ripple, outwards, until the furthest outskirts of that huge crowd wasmotionless and quiet; and then without apparent effort, his voice beganto peal out. 

 * * * *

"'_Spectaculum facti sumus Deo, angelis et hominibus. _' These are thewords of Saint Paul, Englished thus, 'We are made a spectacle or sightunto God, unto His angels, and unto men';--verified this day in me, whoam here a spectacle unto my Lord God, a spectacle unto His angels, andunto you men, satisfying myself to die as becometh a true Christian andCatholic man. "

He was interrupted by cries from the gentlemen beneath, and turned alittle, looking down to see what they wished. 

"You are not here to preach to the people, " said Sir Francis Knowles, angrily, "but to confess yourself a traitor. "

Campion smiled and shook his head. 

"No, no, " he said: and then looking up and raising his voice, --"as to thetreasons which have been laid to my charge, and for which I am come hereto suffer, I desire you all to bear witness with me, that I am thereofaltogether innocent. "

There was a chorus of anger from the gentlemen, and one of them called upsomething that Anthony could not hear. Campion raised his eyebrows. 

"Well, my lord, " he cried aloud, and his voice instantly silenced againthe noisy buzz of talk, "I am a Catholic man and a priest: in that faithhave I lived, and in that faith do I intend to die. If you esteem myreligion treason, then am I guilty; as for other treason, I nevercommitted any, God is my judge. But you have now what you desire. Ibeseech you to have patience, and suffer me to speak a word or two fordischarge of my conscience. "

There was a furious burst of refusals from the officers. 

"Well, " said Campion, at last, looking straight out over the crowd, "itseems I may not speak; but this only will I say; that I am whollyinnocent of all treason and conspiracy, as God is my judge; and I beseechyou to credit me, for it is my last answer upon my death and soul. As forthe jury I do not blame them, for they were ignorant men and easilydeceived. I forgive all who have compassed my death or wronged me in anywhit, as I hope to be forgiven; and I ask the forgiveness of all thosewhose names I spoke upon the rack. "

Then he said a word or two more of explanation, such as he had saidduring his trial, for the sake of those Catholics whom this a concessionof his had scandalised, telling them that he had had the promise of theCouncil that no harm should come to those whose names he revealed; andthen was silent again, closing his eyes; and Anthony, as he watched him, saw his lips moving once more in prayer. 

Then a harsh loud voice from behind the cart began to proclaim that theQueen punished no man for religion but only for treason. A fierce murmurof disagreement and protest began to rise from the crowd; and Anthonyturning saw the faces of many near him frowning and pursing their lips, and there was a shout or two of denial here and there. The harsh voiceceased, and another began:

"Now, Mr. Campion, " it cried, "tell us, What of the Pope? Do you renouncehim?"

Campion opened his eyes and looked round. 

"I am a Catholic, " he said simply; and closed his eyes again for prayer, as the voice cried brutally:

"In your Catholicism all treason is contained. "

Again a murmur from the crowd. 

Then a new voice from the black group of ministers called out:

"Mr. Campion, Mr. Campion, leave that popish stuff, and say, 'Christ havemercy on me. '"

Again the priest opened his eyes. 

"You and I are not one in religion, sir, wherefore I pray you contentyourself. I bar none of prayer, but I only desire them of the householdof faith to pray with me; and in mine agony to say one creed. "

Again he closed his eyes. 

"_Pater noster qui es in cælis. _". .. 

"Pray in English, pray in English!" shouted a voice from the minister'sgroup. 

Once more the priest opened his eyes; and, in spite of the badgering, hiseyes shone with humour and his mouth broke into smiles, so that a greatsob of pity and love broke from Anthony. 

"I will pray to God in a language that both He and I well understand. "

"Ask her Grace's forgiveness, Mr. Campion, and pray for her, if you beher true subject. "

"Wherein have I offended her? In this I am innocent. This is my lastspeech; in this give me credit--I have and do pray for her. "

"Aha! but which queen?--for Elizabeth?"

"Ay, for Elizabeth, your queen and my queen, unto whom I wish a longquiet reign with all prosperity. "

 * * * *

There was the crack of a whip, the scuffle of a horse's feet, a ripplingmovement over the crowd, and a great murmured roar, like the roar of thewaves on a pebbly beach, as the horse's head began to move forward; andthe priest's figure to sway and stagger on the jolting cart. Anthony shuthis eyes, and the murmur and cries of the crowd grew louder and louder. Once more the deep sweet voice rang out, loud and penetrating:

"I die a true Catholic. .. . "

Anthony kept his eyes closed, and his head bent, as great sobs began tobreak up out of his heart. .. . 

Ah! he was in his agony now! that sudden cry and silence from the crowdshowed it. What was it he had asked? one creed?--

"I believe in God the Father Almighty. " . .. 

The soft heavy murmur of the crowd rose and fell. Catholics were prayingall round him, reckless with love and pity:

"Jesu, Jesu, save him! Be to him a Jesus!". .. 

"Mary pray! Mary pray!". .. 

"_Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem. _". .. 

"_Passus sub Pontio Pilato. _". .. 

"Crucified dead and buried. ". .. 

"The forgiveness of sins. ". .. 

"And the Life Everlasting. ". .. 

 * * * *

Anthony dropped his face forward on to his horse's mane. 

 CHAPTER VII

 A MESSAGE FROM THE CITY

Sir Francis Walsingham sat in his private room a month after FatherCampion's death. 

He had settled down again now to his work which had been so grievouslyinterrupted by his mission to France in connection with a new treatybetween that country and England in the previous year. The secretdetective service that he had inaugurated in England chiefly for theprotection of the Queen's person was a vast and complicated business, andthe superintendence of this, in addition to the other affairs of hisoffice, made him an exceedingly busy man. England was honeycombed withmines and countermines both in the political and the religious world, andit needed all this man's brilliant and trained faculties to keep abreastwith them. His spies and agents were everywhere; and not only in England:they circled round Mary of Scotland like flies round a wounded creature, seeking to settle and penetrate wherever an opening showed itself. TheseScottish troubles would have been enough for any ordinary man; butWalsingham was indefatigable, and his agents were in every prison, lurking round corridors in private houses, found alike in thieves'kitchens and at gentlemen's tables. 

Just at present Walsingham was anxious to give all the attention he couldto Scottish affairs; and on this wet dreary Thursday morning in Januaryas he sat before his bureau, he was meditating how to deal with an affairthat had come to him from the heart of London, and how if possible toshift the conduct of it on to other shoulders. 

He sat and drummed his fingers on the desk, and stared meditatively atthe pigeon-holes before him. His was an interesting face, with large, melancholy, and almost fanatical eyes, and a poet's mouth and forehead;but it was probably exactly his imaginative faculties that enabled him topicture public affairs from the points of view of the very variouspersons concerned in them; and thereby to cope with the complicationsarising out of these conflicting interests. 

He stroked his pointed beard once or twice, and then struck a hand-bellat his side; and a servant entered. 

"If Mr. Lackington is below, " he said, "show him here immediately, " andthe servant went out. 

Lackington, sometime servant to Sir Nicholas Maxwell, had entered SirFrancis' service instead, at the same time that he had exchanged theCatholic for the Protestant religion; and he was now one of his mosttrusted agents. But he had been in so many matters connected withrecusancy, that a large number of the papists in London were beginning toknow him by sight; and the affairs were becoming more and more scarce inwhich he could be employed among Catholics with any hope of success. Itwas his custom to call morning by morning at Sir Francis' office andreceive his instructions; and just now he had returned from business inthe country. Presently he entered, closing the door behind him, and bowedprofoundly to his master. 

"I have a matter on hand, Lackington, " said Sir Francis, without lookingat him, and without any salutation beyond a glance and a nod as heentered, --"a matter which I have not leisure to look into, as it is not, I think, anything more than mere religion; but which might, I think, repay you for your trouble, if you can manage it in any way. But it is atroublesome business. These are the facts. 

"No. 3 Newman's Court, in the City, has been a suspected house for somewhile. I have had it watched, and there is no doubt that the papists useit. I thought at first that the Scots were mixed up with it; but that isnot so. Yesterday, a boy of twelve years old, left the house in theafternoon, and was followed to a number of houses, of which I will giveyou the list presently; and was finally arrested in Paul's Churchyard andbrought here. I frightened him with talk of the rack; and I think I havethe truth out of him now; I have tested him in the usual ways--and allthat I can find is that the house is used for mass now and then; and thathe was going to the papists' houses yesterday to bid them come for nextSunday morning. But he was stopped too soon: he had not yet told thepriest to come. Now unless the priest is told to-night by one whom hetrusts, there will be no mass on Sunday, and the nest of papists willescape us. It is of no use to send the boy; as he will betray all by hisbehaviour, even if we frighten him into saying what we wish to thepriest. I suppose it is of no use your going to the priest and feigningto be a Catholic messenger; and I cannot at this moment see what is to bedone. If there were anything beyond mere religion in this, I would spareno pains to hunt them out; but it is not worth my while. Yet there is thereward; and if you think that you can do anything, you can have it foryour pains. I can spare you till Monday, and of course you shall havewhat men you will to surround the house and take them at mass, if you canbut get the priest there. "

"Thank you, sir, " said Lackington deferentially. "Have I your honour'sleave to see the boy in your presence?"

Walsingham struck the bell again. 

"Bring the lad that is locked in the steward's parlour, " he said, whenthe servant appeared. --"Sit down, Lackington, and examine him when hecomes. "

And Sir Francis took down some papers from a pigeon-hole, sorted out oneor two, and saying, "Here are his statements, " handed them to the agent;who began to glance through them at once. Walsingham then turned to histable again and began to go on with his letters. 

In a moment or two the door opened, and a little lad of twelve years old, came in, followed by the servant. 

"That will do, " said Walsingham, without looking up; "You can leave himhere, " and the servant went out. The boy stood back against the wall bythe door, his face was white and his eyes full of horror, and he lookedin a dazed way at the two men. 

"What is your name, boy?" began Lackington in a sharp, judicial tone. 

"John Belton, " said the lad in a tremulous voice. 

"And you are a little papist?" asked the agent. 

"No sir; a Protestant. "

"Then how is it that you go on errands for papists?"

"I am a servant, sir, " said the boy imploringly. 

Lackington turned the papers over for a moment or two. 

"Now you know, " he began again in a threatening voice, "that thisgentleman has power to put you on the rack; you know what that is?"

The boy nodded in mute white-faced terror. 

"Well, now, he will hear all you say; and will know whether you say thetruth or not. Now tell me if you still hold to what you said yesterday. "

And then Lackington with the aid of the papers ran quickly over the storythat Sir Francis had related. "Now do you mean to tell me, John Belton, "he added, "that you, a Protestant, and a lad of twelve, are employed onthis work by papists, to gather them for mass?"

The boy looked at him with the same earnest horror. 

"Yes, sir, yes, sir, " he said, and there was a piteous sob in his voice. "Indeed it is all true: but I do not often go on these messages for mymaster. Mr. Roger generally goes: but he is sick. "

"Oho!" said Lackington, "you did not say that yesterday. "

The boy was terrified. 

"No, sir, " he cried out miserably, "the gentleman did not ask me. "

"Well, who is Mr. Roger? What is he like?"

"He is my master's servant, sir; and he wears a patch over his eye; andstutters a little in his speech. "

These kinds of details were plainly beyond a frightened lad's power ofinvention, and Lackington was more satisfied. 

"And what was the message that you were to give to the folk and thepriest?"

"Please, sir, 'Come, for all things are now ready. '"

This was such a queer answer that Lackington gave an incredulousexclamation. 

"It is probably true, " said Sir Francis, without looking up from hisletters; "I have come across the same kind of cypher, at least oncebefore. "

"Thank you, sir, " said the agent. "And now, my boy, tell me this. How didyou know what it meant?"

"Please, sir, " said the lad, a little encouraged by the kinder tone, "Ihave noticed that twice before when Mr. Roger could not go, and I wassent with the same message, all the folks and the priest came on the nextSunday; and I think that it means that all is safe, and that they cancome. "

"You are a sharp lad, " said the spy approvingly. "I am satisfied withyou. "

"Then, sir, may I go home?" asked the boy with hopeful entreaty in hisvoice. 

"Nay, nay, " said the other, "I have not done with you yet. Answer me somemore questions. Why did you not go to the priest first?"

"Because I was bidden to go to him last, " said the boy. "If I had been toall the other houses by five o'clock last night, then I was to meet thepriest at Papists' Corner in Paul's Church. But if I had not donethem--as I had not, --then I was to see the priest to-night at the sameplace. "

Lackington mused a moment. 

"What is the priest's name?" he asked. 

"Please, sir, Mr. Arthur Oldham. "

The agent gave a sudden start and a keen glance at the boy, and thensmiled to himself; then he meditated, and bit his nails once or twice. 

"And when was Mr. Roger taken ill?"

"He slipped down at the door of his lodging and hurt his foot, atdinner-time yesterday; and he could not walk. "

"His lodging? Then he does not sleep in the house?"

"No sir; he sleeps in Stafford Alley, round the corner. "

"And where do you live?"

"Please, sir, I go home to my mother nearly every night; but not always. "

"And where does your mother live?"

"Please, sir, at 4 Bell's Lane. "

Lackington remained deep in thought, and looked at the boy steadily for aminute or two. 

"Now, sir; may I go?" he asked eagerly. 

Lackington paid no attention, and he repeated his question. The agentstill did not seem to hear him, but turned to Sir Francis, who was stillat his letters. 

"That is all, sir, for the present, " he said. "May the boy be kept heretill Monday?"

The lad broke out into wailing; but Lackington turned on him a face sosavage that his whimpers died away into horror-stricken silence. 

"As you will, " said Sir Francis, pausing for a moment in his writing, andstriking the bell again; and, on the servant's appearance, gave ordersthat John Belton should be taken again to the steward's parlour untilfurther directions were received. The boy went sobbing out and down thepassage again under the servant's charge, and the door closed. 

"And the mother?" asked Walsingham abruptly, pausing with pen upraised. 

"With your permission, sir, I will tell her that her boy is in trouble, and that if his master sends to inquire for him, she is to say he is sickupstairs. "

"And you will report to me on Monday?"

"Yes, sir; by then I shall hope to have taken the crew. "

Sir Francis nodded his head sharply, and the pen began to fly over thepaper again; as Lackington slipped out. 

 * * * *

Anthony Norris was passing through the court of Lambeth House in theafternoon of the same day, when the porter came to him and said there wasa child waiting in the Lodge with a note for him; and would Master Norriskindly come to see her. He found a little girl on the bench by the gate, who stood up and curtseyed as the grand gentleman came striding in; andhanded him a note which he opened at once and read. 

"For the love of God, " the note ran, "come and aid one who can be ofservice to a friend: follow the little maid Master Norris, and she willbring you to me. If you have any friends at _Great Keynes_, for the loveyou bear to them, come quickly. "

Anthony turned the note over; it was unsigned, and undated. On hisinquiry further from the little girl, she said she knew nothing about thewriter; but that a gentleman had given her the note and told her to bringit to Master Anthony Norris at Lambeth House; and that she was to takehim to a house that she knew in the city; she did not know the name ofthe house, she said. 

It was all very strange, thought Anthony, but evidently here was some onewho knew about him; the reference to Great Keynes made him think uneasilyof Isabel and wonder whether any harm had happened to her, or whether anydanger threatened. He stood musing with the note between his fingers, andthen told the child to go straight down to Paul's Cross and await himthere, and he would follow immediately. The child ran off, and Anthonywent round to the stables to get his horse. He rode straight down to thecity and put up his horse in the Bishop's stables, and then went roundwith his riding-whip in his hand to Paul's Cross. 

It was a dull miserable afternoon, beginning to close in with a fine rainfalling, and very few people were about; and he found the child crouchedup against the pulpit in an attempt to keep dry. 

"Come, " he said kindly, "I am ready; show me the way. "

The child led him along by the Cathedral through the churchyard, and thenby winding passages, where Anthony kept a good look-out at the corners;for a stab in the back was no uncommon thing for a well-dressed gentlemanoff his guard. The houses overhead leaned so nearly together that thedarkening sky disappeared altogether now and then; at one spot Anthonycaught a glimpse high up of Bow Church spire; and after a corner or twothe child stopped before a doorway in a little flagged court. 

"It is here, " she said; and before Anthony could stop her she had slippedaway and disappeared through a passage. He looked at the house. It was atumble-down place; the door was heavily studded with nails, and gave amost respectable air to the house: the leaded windows were just over hishead, and tightly closed. There was an air of mute discretion and silenceabout the place that roused a vague discomfort in Anthony's mind; heslipped his right hand into his belt and satisfied himself that the hiltof his knife was within reach. Overhead the hanging windows and eavesbulged out on all sides; but there was no one to be seen; it seemed aplace that had slipped into a backwater of the humming stream of thecity. The fine rain still falling added to the dismal aspect of thelittle court. He looked round once more; and then rapped sharply at thedoor to which the child had pointed. 

There was silence for at least a minute; then as he was about to knockagain there was a faint sound overhead, and he looked up in time to see aface swiftly withdrawn from one of the windows. Evidently an occupant ofthe house had been examining the visitor. Then shuffling footsteps camealong a passage within, and a light shone under the door. There was anoise of bolts being withdrawn, and the rattle of a chain; and then thehandle turned and the door opened slowly inwards, and an old woman stoodthere holding an oil lamp over her head. This was not very formidable atany rate. 

"I have been bidden to come here, " he said, "by a letter delivered to mean hour ago. "

"Ah, " said the old woman, and looked at him peeringly, "then you are forMr. Roger?"

"I daresay, " said Anthony, a little sharply. He was not accustomed to betreated like this. The old woman still looked at him suspiciously; andthen, as Anthony made a movement of impatience, she stepped back. 

"Come in, sir, " she said. 

He stepped in, and she closed and fastened the door again behind him; andthen, holding the oil-lamp high over her head, she advanced in herslippers towards the staircase, and Anthony followed. On the stairs sheturned once to see if he was coming, and beckoned him on with a movementof her head. Anthony looked about him as he went up: there was nothingremarkable or suspicious about the house in any way. It was cleaner thanhe had been led to expect by its outside aspect; wainscoted to theceiling with oak; and the stairs were strong and well made. It wasplainly a very tolerably respectable place; and Anthony began to thinkfrom its appearance that he had been admitted at the back door of somewell-to-do house off Cheapside. The banisters were carved with somedistinction; and there were the rudimentary elements of linen-patterndesign on the panels that lined the opposite walls up to the height ofthe banisters. The woman went up and up, slowly, panting a little; ateach landing she turned and glanced back to see that her companion wasfollowing: all the doors that they passed were discreetly shut; and thehouse was perfectly dark except for the flickering light of the woman'slamp, and silent except for the noise of the footsteps and the rush of amouse now and then behind the woodwork. 

At the third landing she stopped, and came close up to Anthony. 

"That is the door, " she whispered hoarsely; and pointed with her thumbtowards a doorway that was opposite the staircase. "Ask for MasterRoger. "

And then without saying any more, she set the lamp down on the flat headof the top banister and herself began to shuffle downstairs again intothe dark house. 

Anthony stood still a moment, his heart beating a little. What was thisstrange errand? and Isabel! what had she to do with this house buriedaway in the courts of the great city? As he waited he heard a door closesomewhere behind him, and the shuffling footsteps had ceased. He touchedthe hilt of his knife once again to give himself courage; and then walkedslowly across and rapped on the door. Instantly a voice full of tremblingexpectancy, cried to him to come in; he turned the handle and steppedinto the fire-lit room. 

It was extremely poorly furnished; a rickety table stood in the centrewith a book or two and a basin with a plate, a saucepan hissed andbubbled on the fire; in the corner near the window stood a poor bed; andto this Anthony's attention was immediately directed by a voice thatcalled out hoarsely:

"Thank God, sir, thank God, sir, you have come! I feared you would not. "

Anthony stepped towards it wondering and expectant, but reassured. Lyingin the bed, with clothes drawn up to the chin was the figure of a man. There was no light in the room, save that given by the leaping flames onthe hearth; and Anthony could only make out the face of a man with apatch over one eye; the man stretched a hand over the bed clothes as hecame near, and Anthony took it, a little astonished, and received astrong trembling grip of apparent excitement and relief: "Thank God, sir!" the man said again, "but there is not too much time. "

"How can I serve you?" said Anthony, sitting on a chair near the bedside. "Your letter spoke of friends at Great Keynes. What did you mean bythat?"

"Is the d-door closed, sir?" asked the man anxiously; stuttering a littleas he spoke. 

Anthony stepped up and closed it firmly; and then came back and sat downagain. 

"Well then, sir; I believe you are a friend of the priest Mr. M-Maxwell's. "

Anthony shook his head. 

"There is no priest of that name that I know. "

"Ah, " cried the man, and his voice shook, "have I said too much? You areMr. Anthony Norris of the Dower House, and of the Archbishop'shousehold?". .. 

"I am, " said Anthony, "but yet----"

"Well, well, " said the man, "I must go forward now. He whom you know asMr. James Maxwell is a Catholic p-priest, known to many under the name ofMr. Arthur Oldham. He is in sore d-danger. "

Anthony was silent through sheer astonishment. This then was the secretof the mystery that had hung round Mr. James so long. The few times hehad met him in town since his return, it had been on the tip of histongue to ask what he did there, and why Hubert was to be master of theHall; but there was something in Mr. James' manner that made the askingof such a question appear an impossible liberty; and it had remainedunasked. 

"Well, " said the man in bed, in anxious terror, "there is no mistake, isthere?"

"I said nothing, " said Anthony, "for astonishment; I had no idea that hewas a priest. And how can I serve him?"

"He is in sore danger, " said the man, and again and again there came thestutter. "Now I am a Catholic: you see how much I t-trust you sir. I amthe only one in this house. I was entrusted with a m-message to Mr. Maxwell to put him on his guard against a danger that threatens him. Iwas to meet him this very evening at five of the clock; and thisafternoon as I left my room, I slipped and so hurt my foot that I cannotput it to the ground. I dared not send a l-letter to Mr. Maxwell, forfear the child should be followed; I dared not send to another Catholic;nor indeed did I know where to find one whom Mr. M-Maxwell would know andtrust, as he is new to us here; but I had heard him speak of his friendMr. Anthony Norris, who was at Lambeth House; and I determined, sir, tosend the child to you; and ask you to do this service for your friend;for an officer of the Archbishop's household is beyond suspicion. N-now, sir, will you do this service? If you do it not, I know not where to turnfor help. "

Anthony was silent. He felt a little uneasy. Supposing that there wassedition mixed up in this! How could he trust the man's story? How couldhe be certain in fact that he was a Catholic at all? He looked at himkeenly in the fire-light. The man's one eye shone in deep anxiety, andhis forehead was wrinkled; and he passed his hand nervously over hismouth again and again. 

"How can I tell, " said Anthony, "that all this is true?"

The man with an impatient movement unfastened his shirt at the neck anddrew up on a string that was round his neck a little leather case. 

"Th-there, sir, " he stammered, drawing the string over his head. "T-takethat to the fire and see what it is. "

Anthony took it curiously, and holding it close to the fire drew off thelittle case; there was the wax medal stamped with the lamb, called_Agnus Dei_. 

"Th-there, " cried the man from the bed, "now I have p-put myself in yourhands--and if more is w-wanted----" and as Anthony came back holding themedal, the man fumbled beneath the pillow and drew out a rosary. 

"N-now, sir, do you believe me?"

It was felony to possess these things and Anthony had no more doubts. 

"Yes, " he said, "and I ask your pardon. " And he gave back the _AgnusDei_. "But there is no sedition in this?"

"N-none, sir, I give you my word, " said the man, apparently greatlyrelieved, and sinking back on his pillow. "I will tell you all, and youcan judge for yourself; but you will promise to be secret. " And whenAnthony had given his word, he went on. 

"M-Mass was to have been said in Newman's Court on Sunday, at number 3, but that c-cursed spy Walsingham, hath had wind of it. His men have beenlurking round there; and it is not safe. However, there is no need to saythat to Mr. Maxwell; he will understand enough if you will give him amessage of half a dozen words from me, --Mr. Roger. You can tell him thatyou saw me, if you wish to. But ah! sir, you give me your word to say nomore to any one, not even to Mr. Maxwell himself, for it is in a publicplace. And then I will tell you the p-place and the m-message; but wemust be swift, because the time is near; it is at five of the clock thathe will look for a messenger. "

"I give you my word, " said Anthony. 

"Well, sir, the place is Papists' Corner in the Cathedral, and the wordsare these, 'Come, for all things are now ready. ' You know sir, that weCatholics go in fear of our lives, and like the poor hares have to doubleand turn if we would escape. If any overhears that message, he will neverknow it to be a warning. And it was for that that I asked your word tosay no more than your message, with just the word that you had seen meyourself. You may tell him, of course sir, that Mr. Roger had a patchover his eye and st-stuttered a little in his speech; and he will know itis from me then. Now, sir, will you tell me what the message is, and theplace, to be sure that you know them; and then, sir, it will be time togo; and God bless you, sir. God bless you for your kindness to us poorpapists!"

The man seized Anthony's gloved hand and kissed it fervently once ortwice. 

Anthony repeated his instructions carefully. He was more touched than hecared to show by the evident gratitude and relief of this poor terrifiedCatholic. 

"Th-that is right, sir; that is right; and now, sir, if you please, begone at once; or the Father will have left the Cathedral. The child willbe in the court below to show you the way out to the churchyard. Godbless you, sir; and reward you for your kindness!"

And as Anthony went out of the room he heard benedictions mingled withsobs following him. The woman was nowhere to be seen; so he took theoil-lamp from the landing, and found his way downstairs again, unfastenedthe front door, and went out, leaving the lamp on the floor. The childwas leaning against the wall opposite; he could just see the glimmer ofher face in the heavy dusk. 

"Come, my child, " he said, "show me the way to the churchyard. "

She came forward, and he began to follow her out of the little flaggedcourt. He turned round as he left the court and saw high up against theblackness overhead a square of window lighted with a glow from within;and simultaneously there came the sound of bolts being shut in the doorthat he had just left. Evidently the old woman had been on the watch, andwas now barring the door behind him. 

It wanted courage to do as Anthony was doing, but he was not lacking inthat; it was not a small matter to go to Papists' Corner and give awarning to a Catholic priest: but firstly, James Maxwell was his friend, and in danger: secondly, Anthony had no sympathy with religiouspersecution; and thirdly, as has been seen, the last year had made areally deep impression upon him: he was more favourably inclined to theCatholic cause than he had ever imagined to be possible. 

As he followed the child through the labyrinth of passages, passing everynow and then the lighted front of a house, or a little group of idlers(for the rain had now ceased) who stared to see this gentleman in suchcompany, his head was whirling with questions and conjectures. Was it notafter all a dishonourable act to the Archbishop in whose service he was, thus to take the side of the Papists? But that it was too late toconsider now. --How strange that James Maxwell was a priest! That ofcourse accounted at once for his long absence, no doubt in the seminaryabroad, and his ultimate return, and for Hubert's inheriting the estates. And then he passed on to reflect as he had done a hundred times before onthis wonderful Religion that allured men from home and wealth andfriends, and sent them rejoicing to penury, suspicion, hatred, peril, anddeath itself, for the kingdom of heaven's sake. 

Suddenly he found himself in the open space opposite the Cathedral--thechild had again disappeared. 

It was less dark here; the leaden sky overhead still glimmered with apale sunset light; and many house-windows shone out from within. Hepassed round the south side of the Cathedral, and entered the westerndoor. The building was full of deep gloom only pricked here and there byan oil-lamp or two that would presently be extinguished when theCathedral was closed. The air was full of a faint sound, made up fromechoes of the outside world and the footsteps of a few people who stilllingered in groups here and there in the aisles, and talked amongthemselves. The columns rose up in slender bundles and faded into thepale gloom overhead; as he crossed the nave on the way to Papists' Cornerfar away to the east rose the dark carving of the stalls against theglimmering stone beyond. It was like some vast hall of the dead; thenoise of the footsteps seemed like an insolent intrusion on this templeof silence; and the religious stillness had an active and sombrecharacter of its own more eloquent and impressive than all the tumultthat man could make. 

As Anthony came to Papists' Corner he saw a very tall solitary figurepassing slowly from east to west; it was too dark to distinguish faces;so he went towards it, so that at the next turn they would meet face toface. When he was within two or three steps the man before him turnedabruptly; and Anthony immediately put out his hand smiling. 

"Mr. Arthur Oldham, " he said. 

The man started and peered curiously through the gloom at him. 

"Why Anthony!" he exclaimed, and took his hand, "what is your businesshere?" And they began slowly to walk westwards together. 

"I am come to meet Mr. Oldham, " he said, "and to give him a message; andthis is it, 'Come, for all things are now ready!'"

"My dear boy, " said James, stopping short, "you must forgive me; but whatin the world do you mean by that?"

"I come from Mr. Roger, " said Anthony, "you need not be afraid. He hashad an accident and sent for me. "

"Mr. Roger?" said James interrogatively. 

"Yes, " said Anthony, "he hath a patch over one eye; and stutterssomewhat. "

James gave a sigh of relief. 

"My dear boy, " he said, "I cannot thank you enough. You know what itmeans then?"

"Why, yes, " said Anthony. 

"And you a Protestant, and in the Archbishop's household?"

"Why, yes, " said Anthony, "and a Christian and your friend. "

"God bless you, Anthony, " said the priest; and took his hand and pressedit. 

They were passing out now under the west door, and stood together for amoment looking at the lights down Ludgate Hill. The houses about AmenCourt stood up against the sky to their right. 

"I must not stay, " said Anthony, "I must fetch my horse and be back atLambeth for evening prayers at six. He is stabled at the Palace here. "

"Well, well, " said the priest, "I thank God that there are true heartslike yours. God bless you again my dear boy--and--and make you one of ussome day!"

Anthony smiled at him a little tremulously, for the gratitude and theblessing of this man was dear to him; and after another hand grasp, heturned away to the right, leaving the priest still half under the shadowof the door looking after him. 

He had done his errand promptly and discreetly. 

 CHAPTER VIII

 THE MASSING-HOUSE

Newman's Court lay dark and silent under the stars on Sunday morning alittle after four o'clock. The gloomy weather of the last three or fourdays had passed off in heavy battalions of sullen sunset clouds on thepreceding evening, and the air was full of frost. By midnight thin icewas lying everywhere; pendants of it were beginning to form on theoverhanging eaves; and streaks of it between the cobble-stones that pavedthe court. The great city lay in a frosty stillness as of death. 

The patrol passed along Cheapside forty yards away from the entrance ofthe court, a little after three o'clock; and a watchman had cried outhalf an hour later, that it was a clear night; and then he too had gonehis way. The court itself was a little rectangular enclosure with twoentrances, one to the north beneath the arch of a stable that gave on toNewman's Passage, which in its turn opened on to St. Giles' Lane that ledto Cheapside; the other, at the further end of the long right-hand side, led by a labyrinth of passages down in the direction of the wharfs to thewest of London Bridge. There were three houses to the left of theentrance from Newman's Passage; the back of a ware-house faced them onthe other long side with the door beyond; and the other two sides wererespectively formed by the archway of the stable with a loft over it, anda blank high wall at the opposite end. 

A few minutes after four o'clock the figure of a woman suddenly appearedsoundlessly in the arch under the stables; and after standing there amoment advanced along the front of the houses till she reached the thirddoor. She stood here a moment in silence, listening and looking towardsthe doorway opposite, and then rapped gently with her finger-nail elevenor twelve times. Almost immediately the door opened, showing onlydarkness within; she stepped in, and it closed silently behind her. Thenthe minutes slipped away again in undisturbed silence. At about twentyminutes to five the figure of a very tall man dressed as a layman slippedin through the door that led towards the river, and advanced to the doorwhere he tapped in the same manner as the woman before him, and wasadmitted at once. After that people began to come more frequently, somehesitating and looking about them as they entered the court, someslipping straight through without a pause, and going to the door, whichopened and shut noiselessly as each tapped and was admitted. Sometimestwo or three would come together, sometimes singly; but by five o'clockabout twenty or thirty persons had come and been engulfed by theblackness that showed each time the door opened; while no glimmer oflight from any of the windows betrayed the presence of any living soulwithin. At five o'clock the stream stopped. The little court lay assilent under the stars again as an hour before. It was a night ofbreathless stillness; there was no dripping from the eaves; no sound ofwheels or hoofs from the city; only once or twice came the long howl of adog across the roofs. 

Ten minutes passed away. 

Then without a sound a face appeared like a pale floating patch in thedark door that opened on to the court. It remained hung like a mask inthe darkness for at least a minute; and then a man stepped through on tothe cobblestones. Something on his head glimmered sharply in thestarlight; and there was the same sparkle at the end of a pole that hecarried in his hand; he turned and nodded; and three or four men appearedbehind him. 

Then out of the darkness of the archway at the other end of the courtappeared a similar group. Once a man slipped on the frozen stones andcursed under his breath, and the leader turned on him with a fierceindrawing of his breath; but no word was spoken. 

Then through both entrances streamed dark figures, each with a steelyglitter on head and breast, and with something that shone in their hands;till the little court seemed half full of armed men; but the silence wasstill formidable in its depth. 

The two leaders came together to the door of the third house, and theirheads were together; and a few sibilant consonants escaped them. Thebreath of the men that stood out under the starlight went up like smokein the air. It was now a quarter-past five. 

Three notes of a hand-bell sounded behind the house; and then, withoutany further attempt at silence, the man who had entered the court firstadvanced to the door and struck three or four thundering blows on it witha mace, and shouted in a resonant voice:

"Open in the Queen's Name. "

The men relaxed their cautious attitudes, and some grounded theirweapons; others began to talk in low voices; a small party advancednearer their leaders with weapons, axes and halberds, uplifted. 

By now the blows were thundering on the door; and the same shatteringvoice cried again and again:

"Open in the Queen's name; open in the Queen's name!"

The middle house of the three was unoccupied; but the windows of thehouse next the stable, and the windows in the loft over the archway, where the stable-boys slept, suddenly were illuminated; latches werelifted, the windows thrust open and heads out of them. 

Then one or two more pursuivants came up the dark passage bearing flamingtorches with them. A figure appeared on the top of the blank wall at theend, and pointed and shouted. The stable-boys in a moment more appearedin their archway, and one or two persons came out of the house next thestable, queerly habited in cloaks and hats over their night-attire. 

 * * * *

The din was now tremendous; the questions and answers shouted to and frowere scarcely audible under the thunder that pealed from the battereddoor; a party had advanced to it and were raining blows upon the lock andhinges. The court was full of a ruddy glare that blazed on thehalf-armour and pikes of the men, and the bellowing and the crashes andthe smoke together went up into the night air as from the infernal pit. It was a hellish transformation from the deathly stillness of a fewminutes--a massacre of the sweet night silence. And yet the house wherethe little silent stream of dark figures had been swallowed up rose uphigh above the smoky cauldron, black, dark, and irresponsive. 

 * * * *

There rose a shrill howling from behind the house, and the figure on thetop of the wall capered and gesticulated again. Then footsteps camerunning up the passage, and a pursuivant thrust his way through to theleaders; and, in a moment or two, above the din a sharp word was given, and three or four men hurried out through the doorway by which the manhad come. Almost at the same moment the hinges of the door gave way, thewhole crashed inwards, and the attacking party poured into the darkentrance hall beyond. By this time the noise had wakened many in thehouses round, and lights were beginning to shine from the high windowsinvisible before, and a concourse of people to press in from all sides. The approaches had all been guarded, but at the crash of the door some ofthe sentries round the nearer corners hurried into the court, and thecrowd poured after them; and by the time that the officers and men haddisappeared into the house, their places had been filled by thespectators, and the little court was again full of a swaying, seething, shouting mass of men, with a few women with hoods and cloaks amongthem--inquiries and information were yelled to and fro. 

"It was a nest of papists--a wasp's nest was being smoked out--what harmhad they done?--It was a murder; two women had had their throatscut. --No, no; it was a papists' den--a massing-house. --Well, God save herGrace and rid her of her enemies. With these damned Spaniards everywhere, England was going to ruin. --They had escaped at the back. No; they triedthat way, but it was guarded. --There were over fifty papists, some said, in that house. --It was a plot. Mary was mixed up in it. The Queen was tobe blown up with powder, like poor Darnley. The barrels were all storedthere. --No, no, no! it was nothing but a massing-house. --Who was thepriest?--Well, they would see him at Tyburn on a hurdle; and serve himright with his treasonable mummery. --No, no! they had had enough ofblood. --Campion had died like a man; and an Englishman too--praying forhis Queen. "--The incessant battle and roar went up. 

 * * * *

Meanwhile lights were beginning to shine everywhere in the dark house. Aman with a torch was standing in a smoky glare half way up the stairsseen through the door, and the interior of the plain hall wasilluminated. Then the leaded panes overhead were beginning to shine out. Steel caps moved to and fro; gigantic shadows wavered; the shadow of ahalberd head went across a curtain at one of the lower windows. 

A crimson-faced man threw open a window and shouted instructions to thesentry left at the door, who in answer shook his head and pointed to thebellowing crowd; the man at the window made a furious gesture anddisappeared. The illumination began to climb higher and higher as thesearchers mounted from floor to floor; thin smoke began to go up from oneor two of the chimneys in the frosty air;--they were lighting straw tobring down any fugitives concealed in the chimneys. Then the sound ofheavy blows began to ring out; they were testing the walls everywhere forhiding-holes; there was a sound of rending wood as the flooring was tornup. Then over the parapet against the stairs looked a steel-crowned faceof a pursuivant. The crowd below yelled and pointed at first, thinking hewas a fugitive; but he grinned down at them and disappeared. 

Then at last came an exultant shout; then a breathless silence; then thecrowd began to question and answer again. 

"They had caught the priest!--No, the priest had escaped, --damn him!--Itwas half a dozen women. No, no! they had had the women ten minutes ago ina room at the back. --What fools these pursuivants were!--They had foundthe chapel and the altar. --What a show it would all make at thetrial!--Ah! ah! it was the priest after all. "

 * * * *

Those nearest the door saw the man with the torch on the stairs standback a little; and then a dismal little procession began to appear roundthe turn. 

First came a couple of armed men, looking behind them every now and then;then a group of half a dozen women, whom they had found almostimmediately, but had been keeping for the last few minutes in a roomupstairs; then a couple more men. Then there was a little space; and thenmore constables and more prisoners. Each male prisoner was guarded by twomen; the women were in groups. All these came out to the court. The crowdbegan to sway back against the walls, pointing and crying out; and a lanewith living walls was formed towards the archway that opened intoNewman's Passage. 

When the last pursuivants who brought up the rear had reached the door, an officer, who had been leaning from a first-floor window with the paleface of Lackington peering over his shoulder, gave a sharp order; and theprocession halted. The women, numbering fourteen or fifteen, were placedin a group with some eight men in hollow square round them; then came adozen men, each with a pursuivant on either side. But plainly they werenot all come; they were still waiting for something; the officer andLackington disappeared from the window; and for a moment too, the crowdwas quiet. 

A murmur of excitement began to rise again, as another group was seendescending the stairs within. The officer came first, looking back andtalking as he came; then followed two pursuivants with halberds, andimmediately behind them, followed by yet two men, walked James Maxwell incrimson vestments all disordered, with his hands behind him, and hiscomely head towering above the heads of the guard. The crowd surgedforward, yelling; and the men at the door grounded their halberds sharplyon the feet of the front row of spectators. As the priest reached thedoor, a shrill cry either from a boy or a woman pierced the roaring ofthe mob. "God bless you, father, " and as he heard it he turned and smiledserenely. His face was white, and there was a little trickle of blood rundown across it from some wound in his head. The rest of the prisonersturned towards him as he came out; and again he smiled and nodded atthem. And so the Catholics with their priest stood a moment in thatdeafening tumult of revilings, before the officer gave the word toadvance. 

Then the procession set forward through the archway; the crowd pressingback before them, like the recoil of a wave, and surging after them againin the wake. High over the heads of all moved the steel halberds, shininglike grim emblems of power; the torches tossed up and down and threwmonstrous stalking shadows on the walls as they passed; the steel capsedged the procession like an impenetrable hedge; and last moved thecrimson-clad priest, as if in some church function, but with a bristlingbarrier about him; then came the mob, pouring along the narrow passages, jostling, cursing, reviling, swelled every moment by new arrivals dashingdown the alleys and courts that gave on the thoroughfare; and so withtramp and ring of steel the pageant went forward on its way of sorrows. 

 * * * *

Before six o'clock Newman's Court was empty again, except for one armedfigure that stood before the shattered door of No. 3 to guard it. Insidethe house was dark again except in one room high up where the altar hadstood. Here the thick curtains against the glass had been torn down, andthe window was illuminated; every now and again the shadows on theceiling stirred a little as if the candle was being moved; and once thewindow opened and a pale smooth face looked out for a moment, and thenwithdrew again. Then the light disappeared altogether; and presentlyshone out in another room on the same floor; then again after an half anhour or so it was darkened; and again reappeared on the floor below. Andso it went on from room to room; until the noises of the waking citybegan, and the stars paled and expired. Over the smokeless town the skybegan to glow clear and brilliant. The crowing of cocks awoke here andthere; a church bell or two began to sound far away over the roofs. Thepale blue overhead grew more and more luminous; the candle went out onthe first floor; the steel-clad man stretched himself and looked at thegrowing dawn. 

A step was heard on the stairs, and Lackington came down, carrying asmall valise apparently full to bursting. He looked paler than usual; anda little hollow-eyed for want of sleep. He came out and stood by thesoldier, and looked about him. Everywhere the court showed signs of thenight's tumult. Crumbled ice from broken icicles and trampled frozenpools lay powdered on the stones. Here and there on the walls were greatsmears of black from the torches, and even one or two torn bits of stuffand a crushed hat marked where the pressure had been fiercest. Mosteloquent of all was the splintered door behind him, still held fast byone stout bolt, but leaning crookedly against the dinted wall of theinterior. 

"A good night's work, friend, " said Lackington to the man. "Another hivetaken, and here"--and he tapped his valise--"here I bear the best of thehoney. "

The soldier looked heavily at the bag. He was tired too; and he did notcare for this kind of work. 

"Well, " said Lackington again, "I must be getting home safe. Keep thedoor; you shall be relieved in one hour. "

The soldier nodded at him; but still said nothing; and Lackington liftedthe valise and went off too under the archway. 

 * * * *

That same morning Lady Maxwell in her room in the Hall at Great Keynesawoke early before dawn with a start. She had had a dream but could notremember what it was, except that her son James was in it, and seemed tobe in trouble. He was calling on her to save him, she thought, and awokeat the sound of his voice. She often dreamt of him at this time; for thelife of a seminary priest was laid with snares and dangers. But thisdream seemed worse than all. 

She struck a light, and looked timidly round the room; it seemed stillringing with his voice. A great tapestry in a frame hung over themantelpiece, Actæon followed by his hounds; the hunter panted as he ran, and was looking back over his shoulder; and the long-jawed dogs streamedbehind him down a little hill. 

So strong was the dream upon the old lady that she felt restless, andpresently got up and went to the window and opened a shutter to look out. A white statue or two beyond the terrace glimmered in the dusk, and thestars were bright in the clear frosty night overhead. She closed theshutter and went back again to bed; but could not sleep. Again and againas she was dozing off, something would startle her wide awake again:sometimes it was a glimpse of James' face; sometimes he seemed to behurrying away from her down an endless passage with closed doors; he wasdressed in something crimson. She tried to cry out, her voice would notrise above a whisper. Sometimes it was the dream of his voice; and onceshe started up crying out, "I am coming, my son. " Then at last she awokeagain at the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor outside; andstared fearfully at the door to see what would enter. But it was only themaid come to call her mistress. Lady Maxwell watched her as she openedthe shutters that now glimmered through their cracks, and let a greatflood of light into the room from the clear shining morning outside. 

"It is a frosty morning, my lady, " said the maid. 

"Send one of the men down to Mistress Torridon, " said Lady Maxwell, "andask her to come here as soon as it is convenient. Say I am well; butwould like to see her when she can come. "

There was no priest in the house that Sunday, so there could be no mass;and on these occasions Mistress Margaret usually stayed at the DowerHouse until after dinner; but this morning she came up within half anhour of receiving the message. 

She did not pretend to despise her sister's terror, or call itsuperstitious. 

"Mary, " she said, taking her sister's jewelled old fingers into her owntwo hands, "we must leave all this to the good God. It may mean much, orlittle, or nothing. He only knows; but at least we may pray. Let me tellIsabel; a child's prayers are mighty with Him; and she has the soul of alittle child still. "

So Isabel was told; and after church she came up to dine at the Hall andspend the day there; for Lady Maxwell was thoroughly nervous and upset:she trembled at the sound of footsteps, and cried out when one of the mencame into the room suddenly. 

Isabel went again to evening prayer at three o'clock; but could not keepher thoughts off the strange nervous horror at the Hall, though it seemedto rest on no better foundation than the waking dreams of an oldlady--and her mind strayed away continually from the darkening chapel inwhich she sat, so near where Sir Nicholas himself lay, to the upstairsparlour where the widow sat shaken and trembling at her own curiousfancies about her dear son. 

Mr. Bodder's sermon came to an end at last; and Isabel was able to getaway, and hurry back to the Hall. She found the old ladies as she hadleft them in the little drawing-room, Lady Maxwell sitting on thewindow-seat near the harp, preoccupied and apparently listening forsomething she knew not what. Mistress Margaret was sitting in a tallpadded porter's chair reading aloud from an old English mystic, but hersister was paying no attention, and looked strangely at the girl as shecame in. Isabel sat down near the fire and listened; and as she listenedthe memory of that other day, years ago, came to her when she sat oncebefore with these two ladies in the same room, and Mistress Margaret readto them, and the letter came from Sir Nicholas; and then the suddenclamour from the village. So now she sat with terror darkening over her, glancing now and again at that white expectant face, and herselflistening for the first far-away rumour of the dreadful interruption thatshe now knew must come. 

"The Goodness of God, " read the old nun, "is the highest prayer, and itcometh down to the lowest part of our need. It quickeneth our soul andbringeth it on life, and maketh it for to waxen in grace and virtue. Itis nearest in nature; and readiest in grace: for it is the same gracethat the soul seeketh, and ever shall seek till we know verily that Hehath us all in Himself enclosed. For he hath no despite of that He hathmade, nor hath He any disdain to serve us at the simplest office that toour body belongeth in nature, for love of the soul that He hath made toHis own likeness. For as the body is clad in the clothes, and the fleshin the skin, and the bones in the flesh, and the heart in the whole, soare we, soul and body, clad in the Goodness of God, and enclosed. Yea, and more homely; for all these may waste and wear away, but the Goodnessof God is ever whole; and more near to us without any likeness; for trulyour Lover desireth that our soul cleave to Him with all its might, andthat we be evermore cleaving to His goodness. For of all things thatheart may think, this most pleaseth God, and soonest speedeth us. For oursoul is so specially loved of Him that is highest, that it overpasseththe knowing of all creatures----"

"Hush, " said Lady Maxwell suddenly, on her feet, with a lifted hand. 

There was a breathless silence in the room; Isabel's heart beat thick andheavy and her eyes grew large with expectancy; it was a windless frostynight again, and the ivy outside on the wall, and the laurels in thegarden seemed to be silently listening too. 

"Mary, Mary, " began her sister, "you----;" but the old lady lifted herhand a little higher; and silence fell again. 

Then far away in the direction of the London road came the clear beat ofthe hoofs of a galloping horse. 

Lady Maxwell bowed her head, and her hand slowly sank to her side. Theother two stood up and remained still while the beat of the hoofs grewand grew in intensity on the frozen road. 

"The front door, " said Lady Maxwell. 

Mistress Margaret slipped from the room and went downstairs; Isabel tooka step or two forward, but was checked by the old lady's uplifted handagain. And again there was a breathless silence, save for the beat of thehoofs now close and imminent. 

A moment later the front door was opened, and a great flood of cold airswept up the passages; the portrait of Sir Nicholas in the halldownstairs, lifted and rattled against the wall. Then came the clatter onthe paved court; and the sound of a horse suddenly checked with theslipping up of hoofs and the jingle and rattle of chains and stirrups. There were voices in the hall below, and a man's deep tones; then camesteps ascending. 

Lady Maxwell still stood perfectly rigid by the window, waiting, andIsabel stared with white face and great open eyes at the door; outside, the flame of a lamp on the wall was blowing about furiously in thedraught. 

Then a stranger stepped into the room; evidently a gentleman; he bowed tothe two ladies, and stood, with the rime on his boots and a whip in hishand, a little exhausted and disordered by hard riding. 

"Lady Maxwell?" he said. 

Lady Maxwell bowed a little. 

"I come with news of your son, madam, the priest; he is alive and well;but he is in trouble. He was taken this morning in his mass-vestments;and is in the Marshalsea. "

Lady Maxwell's lips moved a little; but no sound came. 

"He was betrayed, madam, by a friend. He and thirty other Catholics weretaken all together at mass. "

Then Lady Maxwell spoke; and her voice was dead and hard. 

"The friend, sir! What was his name?"

"The traitor's name, madam, is Anthony Norris. "

The room turned suddenly dark to Isabel's eyes; and she put up her handand tore at the collar round her throat. 

"Oh no, no, no, no!" she cried, and tottered a step or two forward andstood swaying. 

Lady Maxwell looked from one to another with eyes that seemed to seenothing; and her lips stirred again. 

Mistress Margaret who had followed the stranger up, and who stood nowbehind him at the door, came forward to Isabel with a little cry, withher hands trembling before her. But before she could reach her, LadyMaxwell herself came swiftly forward, her head thrown back, and her armsstretched out towards the girl, who still stood dazed and swaying moreand more. 

"My poor, poor child!" said Lady Maxwell; and caught her as she fell. 

 CHAPTER IX

 FROM FULHAM TO GREENWICH

Anthony in London, strangely enough, heard nothing of the arrest on theSunday, except a rumour at supper that some Papists had been taken. Ithad sufficient effect on his mind to make him congratulate himself thathe had been able to warn his friend last week. 

At dinner on Monday there were a few guests; and among them, one SirRichard Barkley, afterwards Lieutenant of the Tower. He sat at theArchbishop's table, but Anthony's place, on the steward's left hand, brought him very close to the end of the first table where Sir Richardsat. Dinner was half way through, when Mr. Scot who was talking toAnthony, was suddenly silent and lifted his hand as if to check theconversation a moment. 

"I saw them myself, " said Sir Richard's voice just behind. 

"What is it?" whispered Anthony. 

"The Catholics, " answered the steward. 

"They were taken in Newman's Court, off Cheapside, " went on the voice, "nearly thirty, with one of their priests, at mass, in his trinketstoo--Oldham his name is. "

There was a sudden crash of a chair fallen backwards, and Anthony wasstanding by the officer. 

"I beg your pardon, Sir Richard Barkley, " he said;--and a dead silencefell in the hall. --"But is that the name of the priest that was takenyesterday?"

Sir Richard looked astonished at the apparent insolence of this youngofficial. 

"Yes, sir, " he said shortly. 

"Then, then, ----" began Anthony; but stopped; bowed low to the Archbishopand went straight out of the hall. 

 * * * *

Mr. Scot was waiting for him in the hall when he returned late thatnight. Anthony's face was white and distracted; he came in and stood bythe fire, and stared at him with a dazed air. 

"You are to come to his Grace, " said the steward, looking at him insilence. 

Anthony nodded without speaking, and turned away. 

"Then you cannot tell me anything?" said Mr. Scot. The other shook hishead impatiently, and walked towards the inner door. 

The Archbishop was sincerely shocked at the sight of his young officer, as he came in and stood before the table, staring with bewildered eyes, with his dress splashed and disordered, and his hands still holding thewhip and gloves. He made him sit down at once, and after Anthony haddrunk a glass of wine, he made him tell his story and what he had donethat day. 

He had been to the Marshalsea; it was true Mr. Oldham was there, and hadbeen examined. Mr. Young had conducted it. --The house at Newman's Courtwas guarded: the house behind Bow Church was barred and shut up, and thepeople seemed gone away. --He could not get a word through to Mr. Oldham, though he had tried heavy bribery. --And that was all. 

Anthony spoke with the same dazed air, in short broken sentences; butbecame more himself as the wine and the fire warmed him; and by the timehe had finished he had recovered himself enough to entreat the Archbishopto help him. 

"It is useless, " said the old man. "What can I do? I have no power. And--and he is a popish priest! How can I interfere?"

"My lord, " cried Anthony desperately, flushed and entreating, "all hasbeen done through treachery. Do you not see it? I have been a brainlessfool. That man behind Bow Church was a spy. For Christ's sake help us, my lord!"

Grindal looked into the lad's great bright eyes; sighed; and threw outhis hands despairingly. 

"It is useless; indeed it is useless, Mr. Norris. But I will tell you allthat I can do. I will give you to-morrow a letter to Sir FrancisWalsingham. I was with him abroad as you know, in the popish times ofMary: and he is still in some sort a friend of mine--but you mustremember that he is a strong Protestant; and I do not suppose that hewill help you. Now go to bed, dear lad; you are worn out. "

Anthony knelt for the old man's blessing, and left the room. 

 * * * *

The interview next day was more formidable than he had expected. He wasat the Secretary's house by ten o'clock, and waited below while theArchbishop's letter was taken up. The servant came back in a few minutes, and asked him to follow; and in an agony of anxiety, but with a clearhead again this morning, and every faculty tense, he went upstairs afterhim, and was ushered into the room where Walsingham sat at a table. 

There was silence as the two bowed, but Sir Francis did not offer torise, but sat with the Archbishop's letter in his hand, glancing throughit again, as the other stood and waited. 

"I understand, " said the Secretary at last, and his voice was dry andunsympathetic, --"I understand, from his Grace's letter, that you desireto aid a popish priest called Oldham or Maxwell, arrested at mass onSunday morning in Newman's Court. If you will be so good as to tell me inwhat way you desire to aid him, I can be more plain in my answer. You donot desire, I hope, Mr. Norris, anything but justice and a fair trial foryour friend?"

Anthony cleared his throat before answering. 

"I--he is my friend, as you say, Sir Francis; and--and he hath beencaught by foul means. I myself was used, as I have little doubt, in hiscapture. Surely there is no justice, sir, in betraying a man by means ofhis friend. " And Anthony described the ruse that had brought it allabout. 

Sir Francis listened to him coldly; but there came the faintest spark ofamusement into his large sad eyes. 

"Surely, Mr. Norris, " he said, "it was somewhat simple; and I have nodoubt at all that it all is as you say; and that the poor stutteringcripple with a patch was as sound and had as good sight and power ofspeech as you and I; but the plan was, it seems, if you will forgive me, not so simple as yourself. It would be passing strange, surely that theman, if a friend of the priest's, could find no Catholic to take hismessage; but not at all strange if he were his enemy. I do not thinksincerely, sir, that it would have deceived me. But that is not now thepoint. He is taken now, fairly or foully, and--what was it you wished meto do?"

"I hoped, " said Anthony, in rising indignation at this insolence, "thatyou would help me in some way to undo this foul unjustice. Surely, sir, it cannot be right to take advantage of such knavish tricks. "

"Good Mr. Norris, " said the Secretary, "we are not playing a game, withrules that must not be broken, but we are trying to serve justice"--hisvoice rose a little in sincere enthusiasm--"and to put down all falsepractices, whether in religion or state, against God or the prince. Surely the point for you and me is not, ought this gentleman to have beentaken in the manner he was; but being taken, is he innocent or guilty?"

"Then you will not help me?"

"I will certainly not help you to defeat justice, " said the other. "Mr. Norris, you are a young man; and while your friendship does your heartcredit, your manner of forwarding its claims does not equally commendyour head. I counsel you to be wary in your speech and actions; or theymay bring you into trouble some day yourself. After all, as no doubt yourfriends have told you, you played what, as a minister of the Crown, Imust call a knave's part in attempting to save this popish traitor, although by God's Providence, you were frustrated. But it is indeed goingtoo far to beg me to assist you. I have never heard of such audacity!"

Anthony left the house in a fury. It was true, as the Archbishop hadsaid, that Sir Francis Walsingham was a convinced Protestant; but he hadexpected to find in him some indignation at the methods by which thepriest had been captured; and some desire to make compensation for it. 

He went again to the Marshalsea; and now heard that James had beenremoved to the Tower, with one or two of the Catholics who had been introuble before. This was serious news; for to be transferred to the Towerwas often but the prelude to torture or death. He went on there, however, and tried again to gain admittance, but it was refused, and thedoorkeeper would not even consent to take a message in. Mr. Oldham, hesaid, was being straitly kept, and it would be as much as his place wasworth to admit any communication to him without an order from theCouncil. 

When Anthony got back to Lambeth after this fruitless day, he found animploring note from Isabel awaiting him; and one of the grooms from theHall to take his answer back. 

"Write back at once, dear Anthony, " she wrote, "and explain this terriblething, for I know well that you could not do what has been told us ofyou. But tell us what has happened, that we may know what to think. PoorLady Maxwell is in the distress you may imagine; not knowing what willcome to Mr. James. She will come to London, I think, this week. Write atonce now, my Anthony, and tell us all. "

Anthony scribbled a few lines, saying how he had been deceived; andasking her to explain the circumstances to Lady Maxwell, who no doubtwould communicate them to her son as soon as was possible; he added thathe had so far failed to get a message through the gaoler. He gave thenote himself to the groom; telling him to deliver it straight intoIsabel's hands, and then went to bed. 

In the morning he reported to the Archbishop what had taken place. 

"I feared it would be so, " Grindal said. "There is nothing to be done butto commit your friend into God's hands, and leave him there. "

"My Lord, " said Anthony, "I cannot leave it like that. I will go and seemy lord bishop to-day; and then, if he can do nothing to help, I willeven see the Queen's Grace herself. "

Grindal threw up his hands with a gesture of dismay. 

"That will ruin all, " he said. "An officer of mine could do nothing butanger her Grace. "

"I must do my best, " said Anthony; "it was through my folly he is inprison, and I could never rest if I left one single thing undone. "

Just as Anthony was leaving the house, a servant in the royal liverydashed up to the gate; and the porter ran out after Anthony to call himback. The man delivered to him a letter which he opened then and there. It was from Mistress Corbet. 

"What can be done, " the letter ran, "for poor Mr. James? I have heard atale of you from a Catholic, which I know is a black lie. I am sure thateven now you will be doing all you can to save your friend. I told theman that told me, that he lied and that I knew you for an honestgentleman. But come, dear Mr. Anthony; and we will do what we can betweenus. Her Grace noticed this morning that I had been weeping; I put her offwith excuses that she knows to be excuses; and she is so curious that shewill not rest till she knows the cause. Come after dinner to-day; we areat Greenwich now; and we will see what may be done. It may even beneedful for you to see her Grace yourself, and tell her the story. Yourloving friend, Mary Corbet. "

Anthony gave a message to the royal groom, to tell Mistress Corbet thathe would do as she said, and then rode off immediately to the city. Therewas another disappointing delay as the Bishop was at Fulham; and thitherhe rode directly through the frosty streets under the keen morningsunshine, fretting at the further delay. 

He had often had occasion to see the Bishop before, and Aylmer had takensomething of a liking to this staunch young churchman; and now as theyoung man came hurrying across the grass under the elms, the Bishop, whowas walking in his garden in his furs and flapped cap, noticed hisanxious eyes and troubled face, and smiled at him kindly, wondering whathe had come about. The two began to walk up and down together. Thesunshine was beginning to melt the surface of the ground, and the birdswere busy with breakfast-hunting. 

"Look at that little fellow!" cried the Bishop, pointing to a thrush onthe lawn, "he knows his craft. "

The thrush had just rapped several times with his beak at a worm's earth, and was waiting with his head sideways watching. 

"Aha!" cried the Bishop again, "he has him. " The thrush had seized theworm who had come up to investigate the noise, and was now staggeringbackwards, bracing himself, and tugging at the poor worm, who, in amoment more was dragged out and swallowed. 

"My lord, " said Anthony, "I came to ask your pity for one who wasbetrayed by like treachery. "

The Bishop looked astonished, and asked for the story; but when he heardwho it was that had been taken, and under what circumstances, thekindliness died out of his eyes. He shook his head severely when Anthonyhad done. 

"It is useless coming to me, sir, " he said. "You know what I think. To beordained beyond the seas and to exercise priestly functions in England isnow a crime. It is useless to pretend anything else. It is revolt againstthe Queen's Grace and the peace of the realm. And I must confess I amastonished at you, Mr. Norris, thinking that anything ought to be done toshield a criminal, and still more astonished that you should think Iwould aid you in that. I tell you plainly that I am glad that the fellowis caught, for that I think there will be presently one less fire-brandin England. I know it is easy to cry out against persecution andinjustice; that is ever the shallow cry of the mob; but this is not areligious persecution, as you yourself very well know. It is because theRoman Church interferes with the peace of the realm and the Queen'sauthority that its ordinances are forbidden; we do not seek to touch aman's private opinions. However, you know all that as well as I. "

Anthony was raging now with anger. 

"I am not so sure, my lord, as I was, " he said. "I had hoped from yourlordship at any rate to find sympathy for the base trick whereby myfriend was snared; and I find it now hard to trust the judgment of anywho do not feel as I do about it. "

"That is insolence, Mr. Norris, " said Aylmer, stopping in his walk andturning upon him his cold half-shut eyes, "and I will not suffer it. "

"Then, my lord, I had better begone to her Grace at once. "

"To her Grace!" exclaimed the Bishop. 

"_Appello Cæsarem_, " said Anthony, and was gone again. 

 * * * *

As Anthony came into the courtyard of Greenwich Palace an hour or twolater he found it humming with movement and noise. Cooks were going toand fro with dishes, as dinner was only just ending; servants in theroyal livery were dashing across with messages; a few great hounds forthe afternoon's baiting were in a group near one of the gateways, snuffing the smell of cookery, and howling hungrily now and again. 

Anthony stopped one of the men, and sent him with a message to MistressCorbet; and the servant presently returned, saying that the Court wasjust rising from dinner, and Mistress Corbet would see him in a parlourdirectly, if the gentleman would kindly follow him. A groom took hishorse off to the stable, and Anthony himself followed the servant to alittle oak-parlour looking on to a lawn with a yew hedge and a dial. Hefelt as one moving in a dream, bewildered by the rush of interviews, andoppressed by the awful burden that he bore at his heart. Nothing anylonger seemed strange; and he scarcely gave a thought to what it meantwhen he heard the sound of trumpets in the court, as the Queen left theHall. In five minutes more Mistress Corbet burst into the room; and heranxious look broke into tenderness at the sight of the misery in thelad's face. 

"Oh, Master Anthony, " she cried, seizing his hand, "thank God you arehere. And now what is to be done for him?"

They sat down together in the window-seat. Mary was dressed in anelaborate rose-coloured costume; but her pretty lips were pale, and hereyes looked distressed and heavy. 

"I have hardly slept, " she said, "since Saturday night. Tell me all thatyou know. "

Anthony told her the whole story, mechanically and miserably. 

"Ah, " she said, "that was how it was. I understand it now. And what canwe do? You know, of course, that he has been questioned in the Tower. "

Anthony turned suddenly white and sick. 

"Not the--not the----" he began, falteringly. 

She nodded at him mutely with large eyes and compressed lips. 

"Oh, my God, " said Anthony; and then again, "O God. "

She took up one of his brown young hands and pressed it gently betweenher white slender ones. 

"I know, " she said, "I know; he is a gallant gentleman. "

Anthony stood up shaking; and sat down again. The horror had goaded himinto clearer consciousness. 

"Ah! what can we do?" he said brokenly. "Let me see the Queen. She willbe merciful. "

"You must trust to me in this, " said Mary, "I know her; and I know thatto go to her now would be madness. She is in a fury with Pinart to-day atsomething that has passed about the Duke. You know Monsieur is here; shekissed him the other day, and the Lord only knows whether she will marryhim or not. You must wait a day or two; and be ready when I tell you. "

"But, " stammered Anthony, "every hour we wait, he suffers. "

"Oh, you cannot tell that, " said Mary, "they give them a long restsometimes; and it was only yesterday that he was questioned. "

Anthony sat silently staring out on the fresh lawn; there was still apatch of frost under the shadow of the hedge he noticed. 

"Wait here a moment, " said Mary, looking at him; and she got up and wentout. 

Anthony still sat staring and thinking of the horror. Presently Mary wasat his side again with a tall venetian wine-glass brimming with whitewine. 

"Here, " she said, "drink this, "--and then--"have you dined to-day?"

"There was not time, " said Anthony. 

She frowned at him almost fiercely. 

"And you come here fasting, " she said, "to face the Queen! You foolishboy; you know nothing. Wait here, " she added imperiously, and again sheleft the room. 

Anthony still stared out of doors, twisting the empty glass in his hand;until again came her step and the rustle of her dress. She took the glassfrom him and put it down. A servant had followed her back into the roomin a minute or two with a dish of meat and some bread; he set it on thetable, and went out. 

"Now, " said Mary, "sit down and eat before you speak another word. " AndAnthony obeyed. The servant presently returned with some fruit, and againleft them. All the while Anthony was eating, Mary sat by him and told himhow she had heard the whole story from another Catholic at court; and howthe Queen had questioned her closely the night before, as to what themarks of tears meant on her cheeks. 

"It was when I heard of the racking, " explained Mary, "I could not helpit. I went up to my room and cried and cried. But I would not tell herGrace that: it would have been of no use; so I said I had a headache;but I said it in such a way as to prepare her for more. She has notquestioned me again to-day; she is too full of anger and of thebear-baiting; but she will--she will. She never forgets; and then Mr. Anthony, it must be you to tell her. You are a pleasant-faced young man, sir, and she likes such as that. And you must be both forward and modestwith her. She loves boldness, but hates rudeness. That is why Chris is sobeloved by her. He is a fool, but he is a handsome fool, and a forwardfool, and withal a tender fool; and sighs and cries, and calls her hisGoddess; and says how he takes to his bed when she is not there, which ofcourse is true. The other day he came to her, white-faced, sobbing likea frightened child, about the ring she had given Monsieur _le petitgrenouille_. And oh, she was so tender with him. And so, Mr. Anthony, youmust not be just forward with her, and frown at her and call her Jezebeland tyrant, as you would like to do; but you must call her Cleopatra, andDiana as well. Forward and backward all in one; that is the way she lovesto be wooed. She is a woman, remember that. "

"I must just let my heart speak, " said Anthony, "I cannot twist andturn. "

"Yes, yes, " said Mary, "that is what I mean; but mind that it is yourheart. "

They went on talking a little longer; when suddenly the trumpets pealedout again. Mary rose with a look of consternation. 

"I must fly, " she said, "her Grace will be starting for the pit directly;and I must be there. Do you follow, Mr. Anthony; I will speak to aservant in the court about you. " And in a moment she was gone. 

When Anthony had finished the fruit and wine, he felt considerablyrefreshed; and after waiting a few minutes, went out into the courtagain, which he found almost deserted, except for a servant or two. Oneof these came up to him, and said respectfully that Mistress Corbet hadleft instructions that Mr. Norris was to be taken to the bear-pit; soAnthony followed him through the palace to the back. 

 * * * *

It was a startlingly beautiful sight that his eyes fell upon when he cameup the wooden stairs on to the stage that ran round the arena where thesport was just beginning. It was an amphitheatre, perhaps forty yardsacross; and the seats round it were filled with the most brilliantcostumes, many of which blazed with jewels. Hanging over the top of thepalisade were rich stuffs and tapestries. The Queen herself no doubt withAlençon was seated somewhere to the right, as Anthony could see by thecanopy, with the arms of England and France embroidered upon its front;but he was too near to her to be able to catch even a glimpse of her faceor figure. The awning overhead was furled, as the day was so fine, andthe winter sunshine poured down on the dresses and jewels. All the Courtwas there; and Anthony recognised many great nobles here and there in thespecially reserved seats. A ceaseless clangour of trumpets and cymbalsfilled the air, and drowned not only the conversation but the terrificnoise from the arena where half a dozen great dogs, furious with hungerand excited as much by the crowds and the brazen music overhead as by thepresence of their fierce adversary, were baiting a huge bear chained to aring in the centre of the sand. 

Anthony's heart sank a little as he noticed the ladies of the Courtapplauding and laughing at the abominable scene below, no doubt inimitation of their mistress who loved this fierce sport; and as hethought of the kind of heart to which he would have to appeal presently. 

So through the winter afternoon the bouts went on; the band answered withharsh chords the death of the dogs one by one, and welcomed the collapseof the bear with a strident bellowing passage on the great horns anddrums; and by the time it was over and the spectators rose to their feet, Anthony's hopes were lower than ever. Can there be any compassion left, he wondered, in a woman to whom such an afternoon was nothing more than acharming entertainment?

By the time he was able to get out of his seat and return to thecourtyard, the procession had again disappeared, but he was escorted bythe same servant to the parlour again, where Mistress Corbet presentlyrustled in. 

"You must stay to-night, " she said, "as late as possible. I wish youcould sleep here; but we are so crowded with these Frenchmen andHollanders that there is not a bed empty. The Queen is in better humour, and if the play goes well, it may be that a word said even to-night mightreach her heart. I will tell you when it is over. You must be present. Iwill send you supper here directly. "

Anthony inquired as to his dress. 

"Nay, nay, " said Mistress Corbet, "that will do very well; it is soberand quiet, and a little splashed: it will appear that you came in suchhaste that you could not change it. Her Grace likes to see a man hot andin a hurry sometimes; and not always like a peacock in the shade. --And, Master Anthony, it suits you very well. "

He asked what time the play would be over, and that his horse might besaddled ready for him when he should want it; and Mary promised to see toit. 

He felt much more himself as he supped alone in the parlour. Thebewilderment had passed; the courage and spirit of Mary had infected hisown, and the stirring strange life of the palace had distracted him fromthat dreadful brooding into which he had at first sunk. 

When he had finished supper he sat in the window seat, pondering andpraying too that the fierce heart of the Queen might be melted, and thatGod would give him words to say. 

There was much else too that he thought over, as he sat and watched theilluminated windows round the little lawn on which his own looked, andheard the distant clash of music from the Hall where the Queen wassupping in state. He thought of Mary and of her gay and tender nature;and of his own boyish love for her. That indeed had gone, or rather hadbeen transfigured into a brotherly honour and respect. Both she and he, he was beginning to feel, had a more majestic task before them thanmarrying and giving in marriage. The religion which made this woman whatshe was, pure and upright in a luxurious and treacherous Court, tenderamong hard hearts, sympathetic in the midst of selfish lives--thisReligion was beginning to draw this young man with almost irresistiblepower. Mary herself was doing her part bravely, witnessing in aProtestant Court to the power of the Catholic Faith in her own life; andhe, what was he doing? These last three days were working miracles inhim. The way he had been received by Walsingham and Aylmer, theirapparent inability to see his point of view on this foul bit oftreachery, the whole method of the Government of the day;--and above allthe picture that was floating now before his eyes over the dark lawn, ofthe little cell in the Tower and the silent wrenched figure lying uponthe straw--the "gallant gentleman" as Mary had called him, who hadreckoned all this price up before he embarked on the life of a priest, and was even now paying it gladly and thankfully, no doubt--all thisdeepened the previous impressions that Anthony's mind had received; andas he sat here amid the stir of the royal palace, again and again avision moved before him, of himself as a Catholic, and perhaps---- ButIsabel! What of Isabel? And at the thought of her he rose and walked toand fro. 

 * * * *

Presently the servant came again to take Anthony to the Presence Chamber, where the play was to take place. 

"I understand, sir, from Mistress Corbet, " said the man, closing the doorof the parlour a moment, "that you are come about Mr. Maxwell. I am aCatholic, too, sir, and may I say, sir, God bless and prosper you inthis. --I--I beg your pardon, sir, will you follow me?"

The room was full at the lower end where Anthony had to stand, as he wasnot in Court dress; and he could see really nothing of the play, and hearvery little either. The children of Paul's were acting some classicalplay which he did not know: all he could do was to catch a glimpse nowand again of the protruding stage, with the curtains at the back, and theglitter of the armour that the boys wore; and hear the songs that wereaccompanied by a little string band, and the clash of the brass at themore martial moments. The Queen and the Duke, he could see, sat togetherimmediately opposite the stage, on raised seats under a canopy; a groupof halberdiers guarded them, and another small company of them was rangedat the sides of the stage. Anthony could see little more than this, andcould hear only isolated sentences here and there, so broken was thepiece by the talking and laughing around him. But he did not like to moveas Mistress Corbet had told him to be present, so he stood therelistening to the undertone talk about him, and watching the faces. Whathe did see of the play did not rouse him to any great enthusiasm. Hisheart was too heavy with his errand, and it seemed to him that theoccasional glimpses he caught of the stage showed him a very tiresomehero, dressed in velvet doubled and hose and steel cap, strangelyunconvincing, who spoke his lines pompously, and was as unsatisfactory asthe slender shrill-voiced boy who, representing a woman of marvellousbeauty and allurement, was supposed to fire the conqueror's blood withpassion. 

At last it ended; and an "orator" in apparel of cloth of gold, spoke akind of special epilogue in rhyming metre in praise of the Virgin Queen, and then retired bowing. 

Immediately there was a general movement; the brass instruments began toblare out, and an usher at the door desired those who were blocking theway to step aside to make way for the Queen's procession, which wouldshortly pass out. Anthony himself went outside with one or two more, andthen stood aside waiting. 

There was a pause and then a hush; and the sound of a high rating woman'svoice, followed by a murmur of laughter. 

In a moment more the door was flung open again, and to Anthony's surpriseMistress Corbet came rustling out, as the people stepped back to makeroom. Her eyes fell on Anthony near the door, and she beckoned him tofollow, and he went down the corridor after her, followed her silentlyalong a passage or two, wondering why she did not speak, and then cameafter her into the same little oak parlour where he had supped. A servantfollowed them immediately with lighted candles which he set down andretired. 

Anthony looked at Mistress Corbet, and saw all across her pale cheek thefiery mark of the five fingers of a hand, and saw too that her eyes werefull of tears, and that her breath came unevenly. 

"It is no use to-night, " she said, with a sob in her voice; "her Grace isangry with me. "

"And, and----" began Anthony in amazement. 

"And she struck me, " said Mary, struggling bravely to smile. "It was allmy fault, "--and a bright tear or two ran down on to her delicate lace. "Iwas sitting near her Grace, and I could not keep my mind off poor JamesMaxwell; and I suppose I looked grave, because when the play was over, she beckoned me up, and--and asked how I liked it, and why I looked sosolemn--for she would know--was it for _Scipio Africanus_, or some otherman? And--and I was silent; and Alençon, that little frog-man burst outlaughing and said to her Grace something--something shameful--inFrench--but I understood, and gave him a look; and her Grace saw it, and, and struck me here, before all the Court, and bade me begone. "

"Oh! it is shameful, " said Anthony, furiously, his own eyes bright too, at the sight of this gallant girl and her humiliation. 

"You cannot stay here, Mistress Corbet. This is the second time at least, is it not?"

"Ah! but I must stay, " she said, "or who will speak for the Catholics?But now it is useless to think of seeing her Grace to-night. Yetto-morrow, maybe, she will be sorry, --she often is--and will want to makeamends; and then will be our time, so you must be here to-morrow bydinner-time at least. "

"Oh, Mistress Corbet, " said the boy, "I wish I could do something. "

"You dear lad!" said Mary, and then indeed the tears ran down. 

 * * * *

Anthony rode back to Lambeth under the stars, anxious and dispirited, andall night long dreamed of pageants and progresses that blocked the streetdown which he must ride to rescue James. The brazen trumpets rang outwhenever he called for help or tried to explain his errand; and Elizabethrode by, bowing and smiling to all save him. 

 * * * *

The next day he was at Greenwich again by dinner-time, and again dined byhimself in the oak parlour, waited upon by the Catholic servant. He wasjust finishing his meal when in sailed Mary, beaming. 

"I told you so, " she said delightedly, "the Queen is sorry. She pinchedmy ear just now, and smiled at me, and bade me come to her in her privateparlour in half an hour; and I shall put my petition then; so be ready, Master Anthony, be ready and of a good courage; for, please God, we shallsave him yet. "

Anthony looked at her, white and scared. 

"What shall I say?" he said. 

"Speak from your heart, sir, as you did to me yesterday. Be bold, yet notoverbold. Tell her plainly that he is your friend; and that it wasthrough your action he was betrayed. Say that you love the man. She likesloyalty. --Say he is a fine upstanding fellow, over six feet in height, with a good leg. She likes a good leg. --Say that he has not a wife, andwill never have one. Wives and husbands like her not--in spite of _lepetit grenouille_. --And look straight in her face, Master Anthony, as youlooked in mine yesterday when I was a cry-baby. She likes men to dothat. --And then look away as if dazzled by her radiancy. She likes thateven more. "

Anthony looked so bewildered by these instructions that Mary laughed inhis face. 

"Here then, poor lad, " she said, "I will tell you in a word. Tell thetruth and be a man;--a man! She likes that best of all; though she likessheep too, such as Chris Hatton, and frogs like the Duke, and apes likethe little Spaniard, and chattering dancing monkeys like theFrenchman--and--and devils, like Walshingham. But do you be a man andrisk it. I know you can manage that. " And Mary smiled at him socheerfully, that Anthony felt heartened. 

"There, " she said, "now you look like one. But you must have some morewine first, I will send it in as I go. And now I must go. Wait here forthe message. " She gave him her hand, and he kissed it, and she went out, nodding and smiling over her shoulder. 

Anthony sat miserably on the window-seat. 

Ah! so much depended on him now. The Queen was in a good humour, and sucha chance might never occur again;--and meantime James Maxwell waited inthe Tower. 

The minutes passed; steps came and went in the passage outside; andAnthony's heart leaped into his mouth at each sound. Once the dooropened, and Anthony sprang to his feet trembling. But it was only theservant with the wine. Anthony took it--a fiery Italian wine, and drew along draught that sent his blood coursing through his veins, and set hisheart a-beating strongly again. And even as he set the cup down, the doorwas open again, and a bowing page was there. 

"May it please you, sir, the Queen's Grace has sent me for you. "

Anthony got up, swallowed in his throat once or twice, and motioned togo; the boy went out and Anthony followed. 

They went down a corridor or two, passing a sentry who let the well-knownpage and the gentleman pass without challenging; ascended a twisted oakstaircase, went along a gallery, with stained glass of heraldic emblemsin the windows, and paused before a door. The page, before knocking, turned and looked meaningly at Anthony, who stood with every pulse in hisbody racing; then the boy knocked, opened the door; Anthony entered, andthe door closed behind him. 

 CHAPTER X

 THE APPEAL TO CÆSAR

The room was full of sunshine that poured in through two tall windowsopposite, upon a motionless figure that sat in a high carved chair by thetable, and watched the door. This figure dominated the whole room: thelad as he dropped on his knees, was conscious of eyes watching him frombehind the chair, of tapestried walls, and a lute that lay on the table, but all those things were but trifling accessories to that scarletcentral figure with a burnished halo of auburn hair round a shadowedface. 

 * * * *

There was complete silence for a moment or two; a hound bayed in thecourt outside, and there came a far-away bang of a door somewhere in thepalace. There was a rustle of silk that set every nerve of his bodythrilling, and then a clear hard penetrating voice spoke two words. 

"Well, sir?"

Anthony drew a breath, and swallowed in his throat. 

"Your Grace, " he said, and lifted his eyes for a moment, and dropped themagain. But in the glimpse every detail stamped itself clear on hisimagination. There she sat in vivid scarlet and cloth of gold, radiatinglight; with high puffed sleeves; an immense ruff fringed with lace. Thenarrow eyes were fixed on him, and as he now waited again, he knew thatthey were running up and down his figure, his dark splashed hose and histumbled doublet and ruff. 

"You come strangely dressed. "

Anthony drew a quick breath again. 

"My heart is sick, " he said. 

There was another slight movement. 

"Well, sir, " the voice said again, "you have not told us why you arehere. "

"For justice from my queen, " he said, and stopped. "And for mercy from awoman, " he added, scarcely knowing what he said. 

Again Elizabeth stirred in her chair. 

"You taught him that, you wicked girl, " she said. 

"No, madam, " came Mary's voice from behind, subdued and entreating, "itis his heart that speaks. "

"Enough, sir, " said Elizabeth; "now tell us plainly what you want of us. "

Then Anthony thought it time to be bold. He made a great effort, and thesense of constraint relaxed a little. 

"I have been, your Grace, to Sir Francis Walsingham, and my lord Bishopof London, and I can get neither justice nor mercy from either; and so Icome to your Grace, who are their mistress, to teach them manners. "

"Stay, " said Elizabeth, "that is insolence to my ministers. "

"So my lord said, " answered Anthony frankly, looking into that hard clearface that was beginning to be lined with age. And he saw that Elizabethsmiled, and that the face behind the chair nodded at him encouragingly. 

"Well, insolence, go on. "

"It is on behalf of one who has been pronounced a felon and a traitor byyour Grace's laws, that I am pleading; but one who is a very gallantChristian gentleman as well. "

"Your friend lacks not courage, " interrupted Elizabeth to Mary. 

"No, your Grace, " said the other, "that has never been considered hisfailing. "

Anthony waited, and then the voice spoke again harshly. 

"Go on with the tale, sir. I cannot be here all day. "

"He is a popish priest, your Majesty; and he was taken at mass in hisvestments, and is now in the Tower; and he hath been questioned on therack. And, madam, it is piteous to think of it. He is but a young manstill, but passing strong and tall. "

"What has this to do with me, sir?" interrupted the Queen harshly. "Icannot pardon every proper young priest in the kingdom. What else isthere to be said for him?"

"He was taken through the foul treachery of a spy, who imposed upon me, his friend, and caused me all unknowing to say the very words thatbrought him into the net. "

And then, more and more, Anthony began to lose his self-consciousness, and poured out the story from the beginning; telling how he had beenbrought up in the same village with James Maxwell; and what a loyalgentleman he was; and then the story of the trick by which he had beendeceived. As he spoke his whole appearance seemed to change; instead ofthe shy and rather clumsy manner with which he had begun, he was nownatural and free; he moved his hands in slight gestures; his blue eyeslooked the Queen fairly in the face; he moved a little forward on hisknees as he pleaded, and he spoke with a passion that astonished bothMary and himself afterwards when he thought of it, in spite of his shortand broken sentences. He was conscious all the while of an intenseexternal strain and pressure, as if he were pleading for his life, andthe time was short. Elizabeth relaxed her rigid attitude, and leaned herchin on her hand and her elbow on the table and watched him, her thinlips parted, the pearl rope and crown on her head, and the pearl pendantsin her ears moving slightly as she nodded at points in his story. 

"Ah! your Grace, " he cried, lifting his open hands towards her a little, "you have a woman's heart; all your people say so. You cannot allow thisman to be so trapped to his death! Treachery never helped a cause yet. Ifyour men cannot catch these priests fairly, then a-God's name, let themnot catch them at all! But to use a friend, and make a Judas of him; tomake the very lips that have spoken friendly, speak traitorously; to baitthe trap like that--it is devilish. Let him go, let him go, madam! Onepriest more or less cannot overthrow the realm; but one more foul crimedone in the name of justice can bring God's wrath down on the nation. Ihold that a trick like that is far worse than all the disobedience in theworld; nay--how can we cry out against the Jesuits and the plotters, ifwe do worse ourselves? Madam, madam, let him go! Oh! I know I cannotspeak as well in this good cause, as some can in a bad cause, but let thecause speak for itself. I cannot speak, I know. "

"Nay, nay, " said Elizabeth softly, "you wrong yourself. You have anhonest face, sir; and that is the best recommendation to me. 

"And so, Minnie, " she went on, turning to Mary, "this was your petition, was it; and this your advocate? Well, you have not chosen badly. Now, youspeak yourself. "

Mary stood a moment silent, and then with a swift movement came round thearm of the Queen's chair, and threw herself on her knees, with her handsupon the Queen's left hand as it lay upon the carved boss, and her voicewas as Anthony had never yet heard it, vibrant and full of tears. 

"Oh! madam, madam; this poor lad cannot speak, as he says; and yet hissad honest face, as your Grace said, is more eloquent than all words. Andthink of the silence of the little cell upstairs in the Tower; where agallant gentleman lies, all rent and torn with the rack; and, --and how helistens for the footsteps outside of the tormentors who come to drag himdown again, all aching and heavy with pain, down to that fierce engine inthe dark. And think of his gallant heart, your Grace, how brave it is;and how he will not yield nor let one name escape him. Ah! not because heloves not your Grace nor desires to serve you; but because he serves yourGrace best by serving and loving his God first of all. --And think how hecannot help a sob now and again; and whispers the name of his Saviour, asthe pulleys begin to wrench and twist. --And, --and, --do not forget hismother, your Grace, down in the country; how she sits and listens andprays for her dear son; and cannot sleep, and dreams of him when at lastshe sleeps, and wakes screaming and crying at the thought of the boy shebore and nursed in the hands of those harsh devils. And--and, you canstop it all, your Grace, with one little word; and make that mother'sheart bless your name and pray for you night and morning till shedies;--and let that gallant son go free, and save his racked body beforeit be torn asunder;--and you can make this honest lad's heart happy againwith the thought that he has saved his friend instead of slaying him. Look you, madam, he has come confessing his fault; saying bravely to yourGrace that he did try to do his friend a service in spite of the laws, for that he held love to be the highest law. Ah! how many happy souls youcan make with a word; because you are a Queen. --What is it to be aQueen!--to be able to do all that!--Oh! madam, be pitiful then, and showmercy as one day you hope to find it. "

Mary spoke with an intense feeling; her voice was one long straining sobof appeal; and as she ended her tears were beginning to rain down on thehand she held between her own; she lifted it to her streaming face andkissed it again and again; and then dropped her forehead upon it, and sorested in dead silence. 

Elizabeth swallowed in her throat once or twice; and then spoke, and hervoice was a little choked. 

"Well, well, you silly girl. --You plead too well. "

Anthony irresistibly threw his hands out as he knelt. 

"Oh! God bless your Grace!" he said; and then gave a sob or two himself. 

"There, there, you are a pair of children, " she said; for Mary waskissing her hand again and again. "And you are a pretty pair, too, " sheadded. "Now, now, that is enough, stand up. "

Anthony rose to his feet again and stood there; and Mary went round againbehind the chair. 

"Now, now, you have put me in a sore strait, " said Elizabeth; "betweenyou I scarcely know how to keep my word. They call me fickle enoughalready. But Frank Walsingham shall do it for me. He is certainly at theback of it all, and he shall manage it. It shall be done at once. Call apage, Minnie. "

Mary Corbet went to the back of the room into the shadow, opened a doorthat Anthony had not noticed, and beckoned sharply; in a moment or two apage was bowing before Elizabeth. 

"Is Sir Francis Walsingham in the palace?" she asked, --"then bring himhere, " she ended, as the boy bowed again. 

"And you too, " she went on, "shall hear that I keep my word, "--shepointed towards the door whence the page had come. --"Stand there, " shesaid, "and leave the door ajar. "

Mary gave Anthony her hand and a radiant smile as they went together. 

"Aha!" said Elizabeth, "not in my presence. "

Anthony flushed with fury in spite of his joy. 

 * * * *

They went in through the door, and found themselves in a tiny panelledroom with a little slit of a window; it was used to place a sentry or apage within it. There were a couple of chairs, and the two sat down towait. 

"Oh, thank God!" whispered Anthony. 

Again the harsh voice rang out from the open door. 

"Now, now, no love-making within there!"

Mary smiled and laid her finger on her lips. Then there came the rippleof a lute from the outer room, played not unskilfully. Mary smiled againand nodded at Anthony. Then, a metallic voice, but clear enough andtuneful, began to sing a verse of the little love-song of Harrington's, _Whence comes my love?_

It suddenly ceased in the middle of the line, and the voice cried to someone to come in. 

Anthony could hear the door open and close again, and a movement or two, which doubtless represented Walsingham's obeisance. Then the Queen'svoice began again, low, thin, and distinct. The two in the inner roomlistened breathlessly. 

"I wish a prisoner in the Tower to be released, Sir Francis; without anytalk or to-do. And I desire you to do it for me. "

There was silence, and then Walsingham's deep tones. 

"Your Grace has but to command. "

"His name is James Maxwell, and he is a popish priest. "

A longer silence followed. 

"I do not know if your Grace knows all the circumstances. "

"I do, sir, or I should not interfere. "

"The feeling of the people was very strong. "

"Well, and what of that?"

"It will be a risk of your Grace's favour with them. "

"Have I not said that my name was not to appear in the matter? And do youthink I fear my people's wrath?"

There was silence again. 

"Well, Sir Francis, why do you not speak?"

"I have nothing to say, your Grace. "

"Then it will be done?"

"I do not see at present how it can be done, but doubtless there is away. "

"Then you will find it, sir, immediately, " rang out the Queen's metallictones. 

(Mary turned and nodded solemnly at Anthony, with pursed lips. )

"He was questioned on the rack two days ago, your Grace. "

"Have I not said I know all the circumstances? Do you wish me to say itagain?"

The Queen was plainly getting angry. 

"I ask your pardon, madam; but I only meant that he could not travelprobably, yet awhile. He was on the rack for four hours, I understand. "

(Anthony felt that strange sickness rise again; but Mary laid her coolhand on his and smiled at him. )

"Well, well, " rasped out Elizabeth, "I do not ask impossibilities. "

"They would cease to be so, madam, if you did. "

(Mary within the little room put her lips to Anthony's ear:

"Butter!" she whispered. )

"Well, sir, " went on the Queen, "you shall see that he has a physician, and leave to travel as soon as he will. "

"It shall be done, your Grace. "

"Very well, see to it. "

"I beg your Grace's pardon; but what----"

"Well, what is it now?"

"I would wish to know your Grace's pleasure as to the future for Mr. Maxwell. Is no pledge of good behaviour to be exacted from him?"

"Of course he says mass again at his peril. Either he must take the oathat once, or he shall be allowed forty-eight hours' safe-conduct with hispapers for the Continent. "

"Your Grace, indeed I must remonstrate----"

Then the Queen's wrath burst out; they heard a swift movement, and therap of her high heels as she sprang to her feet. 

"By God's Son, " she screamed, "am I Queen or not? I have had enough ofyour counsel. You presume, sir--" her ringed hand came heavily down onthe table and they heard the lute leap and fall again. --"You presume onyour position, sir. I made you, and I can unmake you, and by God I will, if I have another word of your counselling. Be gone, and see that it bedone; I will not bid twice. "

There was silence again; and they heard the outer door open and close. 

Anthony's heart was beating wildly. He had sprung to his feet in atrembling excitement as the Queen had sprung to hers. The mere ring ofthat furious royal voice, even without the sight of her pale wrathfulface and blazing eyes that Walsingham looked upon as he backed out fromthe presence, was enough to make this lad's whole frame shiver. Maryapparently was accustomed to this; for she looked up at Anthony, laughingsilently, and shrugged her shoulders. 

Then they heard the Queen's silk draperies rustle and her pearls chinktogether as she sank down again and took up her lute and struck thestrings. Then the metallic voice began again, with a little tremor in it, like the ground-swell after a storm; and she sang the verse through inwhich she had been interrupted:

 "Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek-- Yet not a heart to save my pain; O Venus, take thy gifts again! Make not so fair to cause our moan, Or make a heart that's like your own. "

The lute rippled away into silence. 

 * * * *

Mary rose quietly to her feet and nodded to Anthony. 

"Come back, you two!" cried the Queen. 

Mary stepped straight through, the lad behind her. 

"Well, " said the Queen, turning to them and showing her black teeth in asmile. "Have I kept my word?"

"Ah! your Grace, " said Mary, curtseying to the ground, "you have madesome simple loving hearts very happy to-day--I do not mean Sir Francis'. "

The Queen laughed. 

"Come here, child, " she said, holding out her glittering hand, "downhere, " and Mary sank down on the Queen's footstool, and leaned againsther knee like a child, smiling up into her face; while Elizabeth put herhand under her chin and kissed her twice on the forehead. 

"There, there, " she said caressingly, "have I made amends? Am I a hardmistress?"

And she threw her left hand round the girl's neck and began to play withthe diamond pendant in her ear, and to stroke the smooth curve of hercheek with her flashing fingers. 

Anthony, a little on one side, stood watching and wondering at this silkytigress who raged so fiercely just now. 

Elizabeth looked up in a moment and saw him. 

"Why, here is the tall lad here still, " she said, "eyeing us as if wewere monsters. Have you never yet seen two maidens loving one another, that you stare so with your great eyes? Aha! Minnie; he would like to besitting where I am--is it not so, sir?"

"I would sooner stand where I am, madam, " said Anthony, by a suddeninspiration, "and look upon your Grace. "

"Why, he is a courtier already, " said the Queen. "You have been givinghim lessons, Minnie, you sly girl. "

"A loyal heart makes the best courtier, madam, " said Mary, taking theQueen's hand delicately in her own. 

"And next to looking upon my Grace, Mr. Norris, " said Elizabeth, "what doyou best love?"

"Listening to your Grace, " said Anthony, promptly. 

Mary turned and flashed all her teeth upon him in a smile, and her eyesdanced in her head. 

Elizabeth laughed outright. 

"He is an apt pupil, " she said to Mary. 

"--You mean the lute, sir?" she added. 

"I mean your Grace's voice, madam. I had forgotten the lute. "

"Ah, a little clumsy!" said the Queen; "not so true a thrust as theothers. "

"It was not for lack of good-will, " said poor Anthony blushing a little. He felt in a kind of dream, fencing in language with this strange mightycreature in scarlet and pearls, who sat up in her chair and dartedremarks at him, as with a rapier. 

"Aha!" said the Queen, "he is blushing! Look, Minnie!" Mary looked at himdeliberately. Anthony became scarlet at once; and tried a desperateescape. 

"It is your livery, madam, " he said. 

Mary clapped her hands, and glanced at the Queen. 

"Yes, Minnie; he does his mistress credit. "

"Yes, your Grace; but he can do other things besides talk, " explainedMary. 

Anthony felt like a horse being shown off by a skilful dealer, but he wasmore at his ease too after his blush. 

"Extend your mercy, madam, " he said, "and bid Mistress Corbet hold hertongue and spare my shame. "

"Silence, sir!" said the Queen. "Go on, Minnie; what else can he do?"

"Ah! your Grace, he can hawk. Oh! you should see his peregrine;--namedafter your Majesty. That shows his loyal heart. "

"I am not sure of the compliment, " said the Queen; "hawks are fiercecreatures. "

"It was not for her fierceness, " put in Anthony, "that I named her afteryour Grace. "

"Why, then, Mr. Norris?"

"For that she soars so high above all other creatures, " said the lad, "and--and that she never stoops but to conquer. "

Mary gave a sudden triumphant laugh, and glanced up, and Elizabeth tappedher on the cheek sharply. 

"Be still, bad girl, " she said. "You must not prompt during the lesson. "

And so the talk went on. Anthony really acquitted himself with greatcredit, considering the extreme strangeness of his position; but such anintense weight had been lifted off his mind by the Queen's pardon ofJames Maxwell, that his nature was alight with a kind of intoxication. 

All his sharpness, such as it was, rose to the surface; and Mary too wasamazed at some of his replies. Elizabeth took it as a matter of course;she was accustomed to this kind of word-fencing; she did not do it verywell herself: her royalty gave her many advantages which she oftenavailed herself of; and her address was not to be compared for a momentwith that of some of her courtiers and ladies. But still she was amusedby this slender honest lad who stood there before her in his gracefulsplashed dress, and blushed and laughed and parried, and delivered hispoint with force, even if not with any extraordinary skill. 

But at last she began to show signs of weariness; and Mary managed toconvey to Anthony that it was time to be off. So he began to make hisadieux. 

"Well, " said Elizabeth, "let us see you at supper to-night; and in theparlours afterwards. --Ah!" she cried, suddenly, "neither of you must saya word as to how your friend was released. It must remain the act of theCouncil. My name must not appear; Walsingham will see to that, and youmust see to it too. "

They both promised sincerely. 

"Well, then, lad, " said Elizabeth, and stretched out her hand; and Maryrose and stood by her. Anthony came up and knelt on the cushion andreceived the slender scented ringed hand on his own, and kissed itardently in his gratitude. As he released it, it cuffed him gently on thecheek. 

"There, there!" said Elizabeth, "Minnie has taught you too much, itseems. "

Anthony backed out of the presence, smiling; and his last glimpse wasonce more of the great scarlet-clad figure with the slender waist, andthe priceless pearls, and the haze of muslin behind that crowned auburnhead, and the pale oval face smiling at him with narrow eyes--and all ina glory of sunshine. 

 * * * *

He did not see Mary Corbet again until evening as she was with the Queenall the afternoon. Anthony would have wished to return to Lambeth; but itwas impossible, after the command to remain to supper; so he wandereddown along the river bank, rejoicing in the success of his petition; andwondering whether James had heard of his release yet. 

Of course it was just a fly in the ointment that his own agency in thematter could never be known. It would have been at least some sort ofcompensation for his innocent share in the whole matter of the arrest. However, he was too happy to feel the sting of it. He felt, of course, greatly drawn to the Queen for her ready clemency; and yet there wassomething repellent about her too in spite of it. He felt in his heartthat it was just a caprice, like her blows and caresses; and then theassumption of youth sat very ill upon this lean middle-aged woman. Hewould have preferred less lute-playing and sprightly innuendo, and moretenderness and gravity. 

 * * * *

Mary had arranged that a proper Court-suit should be at his disposal forsupper, and a room to himself; so after he had returned at sunset, hechanged his clothes. The white silk suit with the high hosen, theembroidered doublet with great puffed and slashed sleeves, the shortgreen-lined cloak, the white cap and feather, and the slender sword withthe jewelled hilt, all became him very well; and he found too that Maryhad provided him with two great emerald brooches of her own, that hepinned on, one at the fastening of the crisp ruff and the other on hiscap. 

He went to the private chapel for the evening prayer at half-past six;which was read by one of the chaplains; but there were very few personspresent, and none of any distinction. Religion, except as a department ofpolitics, was no integral part of Court life. The Queen only occasionallyattended evening-prayer on week days; and just now she was too busy withthe affair of the Duke of Alençon to spend unnecessary time in thatmanner. 

When the evening prayer was over he followed the little company into thelong gallery that led towards the hall, through which the Queen'sprocession would pass to supper; and there he attached himself to a groupof gentlemen, some of whom he had met at Lambeth. While they weretalking, the clang of trumpets suddenly broke out from the direction ofthe Queen's apartments; and all threw themselves on their knees andremained there. The doors were flung open by servants stationed behindthem; and the wands advanced leading the procession; then came thetrumpeters blowing mightily, with a drum or two beating the step; andthen in endless profusion, servants and guards; gentlemen pensionersmagnificently habited, for they were continually about the Queen'sperson; and at last, after an official or two bearing swords, came theQueen and Alençon together; she in a superb purple toilet with brocadedunderskirt and high-heeled twinkling shoes, and breathing out essences asshe swept by smiling; and he, a pathetic little brown man, pockmarked, with an ill-shapen nose and a head too large for his undersized body, ina rich velvet suit sparkling all over with diamonds. 

As they passed Anthony he heard the Duke making some French compliment inhis croaking harsh voice. Behind came the crowd of ladies, nodding, chattering, rustling; and Anthony had a swift glance of pleasure fromMistress Corbet as she went by, talking at the top of her voice. 

The company followed on to the hall, behind the distant trumpets, andAnthony found himself still with his friends somewhere at the lowerend--away from the Queen's table, who sat with Alençon at her side on adaïs, with the great folks about her. All through supper the mostastonishing noise went on. Everyone was talking loudly; the servants ranto and fro over the paved floor; there was the loud clatter over theplates of four hundred persons; and, to crown all, a band in themusicians' gallery overhead made brazen music all supper-time. Anthonyhad enough entertainment himself in looking about the greatbanqueting-hall, so magnificently adorned with tapestries and armour andantlers from the park; and above all by the blaze of gold and silverplate both on the tables and on the sideboards; and by watching the armyof liveried servants running to and fro incessantly; and the glowingcolours of the dresses of the guests. 

Supper was over at last; and a Latin grace was exquisitely sung in fourparts by boys and men stationed in the musicians' gallery; and then theQueen's procession went out with the same ceremony as that with which ithad entered. Anthony followed behind, as he had been bidden by the Queento the private parlours afterwards; but he presently found his way barredby a page at the foot of the stairs leading to the Queen's apartments. 

It was in vain that he pleaded his invitation; it was useless, as theyoung gentleman had not been informed of it. Anthony asked if he mightsee Mistress Corbet. No, that too was impossible; she was gone upstairswith the Queen's Grace and might not be disturbed. Anthony, in despair, not however unmixed with relief at escaping a further ordeal, was aboutto turn away, leaving the officious young gentleman swaggering on thestairs like a peacock, when down came Mistress Corbet herself, sailingdown in her splendour, to see what was become of the gentleman of theArchbishop's house. 

"Why, here you are!" she cried from the landing as she came down, "andwhy have you not obeyed the Queen's command?"

"This young gentleman, " said Anthony, indicating the astonished page, "would not let me proceed. "

"It is unusual, Mistress Corbet, " said the boy, "for her Grace's gueststo come without my having received instructions, unless they are greatfolk. "

Mistress Corbet came down the last six steps like a stooping hawk, herwings bulged behind her; and she caught the boy one clean light cuff onthe side of the head. 

"You imp!" she said, "daring to doubt the word of this gentleman. And theQueen's Grace's own special guest!"

The boy tried still to stand on his dignity and bar the way, but it wasdifficult to be dignified with a ringing head and a scarlet ear. 

"Stand aside, " said Mary, stamping her little buckled foot, "thisinstant; unless you would be dragged by your red ear before the Queen'sGrace. Come, Master Anthony. "

So the two went upstairs together, and the lad called up after thembitterly:

"I beg your pardon, Mistress; I did not recognise he was your gallant. "

"You shall pay for that, " hissed Mary over the banisters. 

They went along a passage or two, and the sound of a voice singing to avirginal began to ring nearer as they went, followed by a burst ofapplause. 

"Lady Leicester, " whispered Mary; and then she opened the door and theywent in. 

There were three rooms opening on one another with wide entrances, sothat really one long room was the result. They were all three fairlyfull; that into which they entered, the first in the row, was occupied bysome gentlemen-pensioners and ladies talking and laughing; some playingshove-groat, and some of them still applauding the song that had justended. The middle room was much the same; and the third, which was a stephigher than the others, was that in which was the Queen, with LadyLeicester and a few more. Lady Leicester had just finished a song, andwas laying her virginal down. There was a great fire burning in themiddle room, with seats about it, and here Mary Corbet brought Anthony. Those near him eyed him a little; but his companion was sufficientwarrant of his respectability; and they soon got into talk, which wassuddenly interrupted by the Queen's voice from the next room. 

"Minnie, Minnie, if you can spare a moment from your lad, come and helpus at a dance. "

The Queen was plainly in high good-humour; and Mary got up and went intothe Queen's room. Those round the fire stood up and pushed the seatsback, and the games ceased in the third room; as her Grace neededspectators and applause. 

Then there arose the rippling of lutes from the ladies in the next room, in slow swaying measure, with the gentle tap of a drum now and again; andthe _pavane_ began--a stately dignified dance; and among all the ladiesmoved the great Queen herself, swaying and bending with much grace anddignity. It was the strangest thing for Anthony to find himself here, araven among all these peacocks, and birds of paradise; and he wonderedat himself and at the strange humour of Providence, as he watched theshimmer of the dresses and the sparkle of the shoes and jewels, and thesoft clouds of muslin and lace that shivered and rustled as the ladiesstepped; the firelight shone through the wide doorway on this glowingmovement, and groups of candles in sconces within the room increased andsteadied the soft intensity of the light. The soft tingling instruments, with the slow tap-tap marking the measure like a step, seemed atranslation into chord and melody of this stately tender exercise. And sothis glorious flower-bed, loaded too with a wealth of essences in thedresses and the sweet-washed gloves, swayed under the wind of the music, bending and rising together in slow waves and ripples. Then it ceased;and the silence was broken by a quick storm of applause; while thedancers waited for the lutes. Then all the instruments broke out togetherin quick triple time; the stringed instruments supplying a hastythrobbing accompaniment, while the shrill flutes began to whistle and thedrums to gallop;--there was yet a pause in the dance, till the Queen madethe first movement;--and then the whole whirled off on the wings of a_coranto_. 

It was bewildering to Anthony, who had never even dreamed of such a dancebefore. He watched first the lower line of the shoes; and the wholefloor, in reality above, and in the mirror of the polished boards below, seemed scintillating in lines of diamond light; the heavy underskirts ofbrocade, puffed satin, and cloth of gold, with glimpses of foamy lacebeneath, whirled and tossed above these flashing vibrations. Then helooked at the higher strata, and there was a tossing sea of faces andwhite throats, borne up as it seemed--now revealed, now hidden--on cloudsof undulating muslin and lace, with sparkles of precious stones set inruff and wings and on high piled hair. 

He watched, fascinated, the faces as they appeared and vanished; therewas every imaginable expression; the serious looks of one who tookdancing as a solemn task, and marked her position and considered hersteps; the wild gaiety of another, all white teeth and dimples and eyes, intoxicated by movement and music and colour, as men are by wine, andguided and sustained by the furious genius of the dance, rather than byintention of any kind. There was the courtly self-restraint of one tallbeauty, who danced as a pleasant duty and loved it, but never lostcontrol of her own bending, slender grace; ah! and there was the ovalface crowned with auburn hair and pearls, the lower lip drawn up underthe black teeth with an effort, till it appeared to snarl, and the ropesof pearls leaping wildly on her lean purple stomacher. And over all thegrave oak walls and the bright sconces and the taper flames blown aboutby the eddying gusts from the whirlpool beneath. 

As Anthony went down the square winding staircase, an hour later when theevening was over, and the keen winter air poured up to meet him, hisbrain was throbbing with the madness of dance and music and whirlingcolour. Here, it seemed to him, lay the secret of life. For a few minuteshis old day-dreams came back but in more intoxicating dress. The figureof Mary Corbet in her rose-coloured silk and her clouds of black hair, and her jewels and her laughing eyes and scarlet mouth, and her violetfragrance and her fire--this dominated the boy. As he walked towards thestables across the starlit court, she seemed to move before him, to holdout her hands to him, to call him her own dear lad; to invite him out ofthe drab-coloured life that lay on all sides, behind and before, up intoa mystic region of jewelled romance, where she and he would live and beone in the endless music of rippling strings and shrill flutes and themaddening tap of a little hidden drum. 

But the familiar touch of his own sober suit and the creaking saddle ashe rode home to Lambeth, and the icy wind that sang in the river sedges, and the wholesome smell of the horse and the touch of the coarse hair atthe shoulder, talked and breathed the old Puritan common sense back tohim again. That warm-painted, melodious world he had left was gaudynonsense; and dancing was not the same as living; and Mary Corbet was notjust a rainbow on the foam that would die when the sun went in; but bothshe and he together were human souls, redeemed by the death of theSaviour, with His work to do and no time or energy for folly; and JamesMaxwell in the Tower--(thank God, however, not for long!)--James Maxwellwith his wrenched joints and forehead and lips wet with agony, was in theright; and that lean bitter furious woman in the purple and pearls, whosupped to the blare of trumpets, and danced to the ripple of lutes, wholly and utterly and eternally in the wrong. 

 CHAPTER XI

 A STATION OF THE CROSS

Philosophers tell us that the value of existence lies not in the objectsperceived, but in the powers of perception. The tragedy of a child over abroken doll is not less poignant than the anguish of a worshipper over abroken idol, or of a king over a ruined realm. Thus the conflict ofIsabel during those past autumn and winter months was no less august thanthe pain of the priest on the rack, or the struggle of his innocentbetrayer to rescue him, or the misery of Lady Maxwell over the sorrowsthat came to her in such different ways through her two sons. 

Isabel's soul was tender above most souls; and the powers of feeling painand of sustaining it were also respectively both acute and strong. Thesense of pressure, or rather of disruption, became intolerable. She wasindeed a soul on the rack; if she had been less conscientious she wouldhave silenced the voice of Divine Love that seemed to call to her fromthe Catholic Church; if she had been less natural and feminine she wouldhave trampled out of her soul the appeal of the human love of Hubert. Asit was, she was wrenched both ways. Now the cords at one end or the otherwould relax a little, and the corresponding relief was almost a shock;but when she tried to stir and taste the freedom of decision that nowseemed in her reach, they would tighten again with a snap; and she wouldfind herself back on the torture. To herself she seemed powerless; itappeared to her, when she reflected on it consciously, that it was merelya question as to which part of her soul would tear first, as to whichultimately retained her. She began to be terrified at solitude; thethought of the coming night, with its long hours of questioning andtorment until the dawn, haunted her during the day. She would read in herroom, or remain at her prayers, in the hopes of distracting herself fromthe struggle, until sleep seemed the supreme necessity: then, when shelay down, sleep would flap its wings in mockery and flit away, leavingher wide-awake staring at the darkness of the room or of her own eyelids, until the windows began to glimmer and the cocks to crow from farmbuildings. 

In spite of her first resolve to fight the battle alone, she soon foundherself obliged to tell Mistress Margaret all that was possible; but shefelt that to express her sheer need of Hubert, as she thought it, wasbeyond her altogether. How could a nun understand?

"My darling, " said the old lady, "it would not be Calvary without thedarkness; and you cannot have Christ without Calvary. Remember that theLight of the World makes darkness His secret place; and so you see thatif you were able to feel that any human soul really understood, it wouldmean that the darkness was over. I have suffered that Night twice myself;the third time I think, will be in the valley of death. "

Isabel only half understood her; but it was something to know that othershad tasted the cup too; and that what was so bitter was not necessarilypoisonous. 

At another time as the two were walking together under the pines oneevening, and the girl had again tried to show to the nun the burningdesolation of her soul, Mistress Margaret had suddenly turned. 

"Listen, dear child, " she said, "I will tell you a secret. Over there, "and she pointed out to where the sunset glowed behind the tree trunks andthe slope beyond, "over there, in West Grinsted, rests our dear Lord inthe blessed sacrament. His Body lies lonely, neglected and forgotten byall but half a dozen souls; while twenty years ago all England reverencedIt. Behold and see if there be any sorrow--" and then the nun stopped, asshe saw Isabel's amazed eyes staring at her. 

But it haunted the girl and comforted her now and then. Yet in thefierceness of her pain she asked herself again and again, was ittrue--was it true? Was she sacrificing her life for a dream, afairy-story? or was it true that there the body, that had hung on thecross fifteen hundred years ago, now rested alone, hidden in a silverpyx, within locked doors for fear of the Jews. --Oh! dear Lord, was ittrue?

Hubert had kept his word, and left the place almost immediately after hislast interview; and was to return at Easter for his final answer. Christmas had come and gone; and it seemed to her as if even thetenderest mysteries of the Christian Religion had no touch with her now. She walked once more in the realm of grace, as in the realm of nature, anexile from its spirit. All her sensitive powers seemed so absorbed ininterior pain that there was nothing in her to respond to or appreciatethe most keen external impressions. As she awoke and looked up onChristmas morning early, and saw the frosted panes and the snow lyinglike wool on the cross-bars, and heard the Christmas bells peal out inthe listening air; as she came downstairs and the old pleasant acridsmell of the evergreens met her, and she saw the red berries over eachpicture, and the red heart of the wood-fire; nay, as she knelt at thechancel rails, and tried in her heart to adore the rosy Child in themanger, and received the sacred symbols of His Flesh and Blood, andentreated Him to remember His loving-kindness that brought Him down fromheaven--yet the whole was far less real, less intimate to her, than thesound of Hubert's voice as he had said good-bye two months ago; less realthan one of those darting pangs of thought that fell on her heart all daylike a shower of arrows. 

And then, when the sensitive strings of her soul were stretched toanguish, a hand dashed across them, striking a wailing discord, and theydid not break. The news of Anthony's treachery, and still more hissilence, performed the incredible, and doubled her pain without breakingher heart. 

On the Tuesday morning early Lady Maxwell had sent her note by a courier;bidding him return at once with the answer. The evening had come, and hehad not appeared. The night passed and the morning came; and it was nottill noon that the man at last arrived, saying he had seen Mr. Norris onthe previous evening, and that he had read the note through there andthen, and had said there was no answer. Surely there could be but oneexplanation of that--that no answer was possible. 

It could not be said that Isabel actively considered the question andchose to doubt Anthony rather than to trust him. She was so nearlypassive now, with the struggle she had gone through, that this blow cameon her with the overwhelming effect of an hypnotic suggestion. Her willdid not really accept it, any more than her intellect really weighed it;but she succumbed to it; and did not even write again, nor question theman further. Had she done this she might perhaps have found out thetruth, that the man, a stupid rustic with enough shrewdness to lie, butnot enough to lie cleverly, had had his foolish head turned by the buzzof London town and the splendour of Lambeth stables and the friendlinessof the grooms there, and had got heavily drunk on leaving Anthony; thatthe answer which he had put into his hat had very naturally fallen outand been lost; and that when at last he returned to the country alreadyeight hours after his time, and found the note was missing, he hadstalwartly lied, hoping that the note was unimportant and that thingswould adjust themselves or be forgotten before a day of reckoning shouldarrive. 

And so Isabel's power of resistance collapsed under this last blow; andher soul lay still at last, almost too much tormented to feel. Her lasthope was gone; Anthony had betrayed his friend. 

The week crept by, and Saturday came. She went out soon after dinner tosee a sick body or two in an outlying hamlet; for she had never forgottenMrs. Dent's charge, and, with the present minister's approval, stillvisited the sick one or two days a week at least. Then towards sunset shecame homewards over some high ground on the outskirts of Ashdown Forest. The snow that had fallen before Christmas, had melted a week or two ago;and the frost had broken up; it was a heavy leaden evening, with an angryglow shining, as through chinks of a wall, from the west towards whichshe was going. The village lay before her in the gloom; and lights werebeginning to glimmer here and there. She contrasted in a lifeless waythat pleasant group of warm houses with their suggestions of love andhomeliness with her own desolate self. She passed up through the villagetowards the Hall, whither she was going to report on the invalids to LadyMaxwell; and in the appearance of the houses on either side she thoughtthere was an unaccustomed air. Several doors stood wide open with thebrightness shining out into the twilight, as if the inhabitants hadsuddenly deserted their homes. Others were still dark and cold, althoughthe evening was drawing on. There was not a moving creature to be seen. She passed up, wondering a little, through the gatehouse, and turned intothe gravel sweep; and there stopped short at the sight of a great crowdof men and women and children, assembled in dead silence. Some one wasstanding at the entrance-steps, with his head bent as if he were talkingto those nearest him in a low voice. 

As she came up there ran a whisper of her name; the people drew back tolet her through, and she passed, sick with suspense, to the man on thesteps, whom she now recognised as Mr. James' body-servant. His facelooked odd and drawn, she thought. 

"What is it?" she asked in a sharp whisper. 

"Mr. James is here, madam; he is with Lady Maxwell in the cloister-wing. Will you please to go up?"

"Mr. James! It is no news about Mr. Anthony--or--or Mr. Hubert!"

"No, madam. " The man hesitated. "Mr. James has been racked, madam. "

The man's voice broke in a great sob as he ended. 

"Ah!"

She reeled against the post; a man behind caught her and steadied her;and there was a quick breath of pity from the crowd. 

"Ah, poor thing!" said a woman's voice behind her. 

"I beg your pardon, madam, " said the servant. "I should not have----"

"And--and he is upstairs?"

"He and my lady are together, madam. "

She looked at him a moment, dazed with the horror of it; and then goingpast him, pushed open the door and went through into the inner hall. Hereagain she stopped suddenly: it was half full of people, silent andexpectant--the men, the grooms, the maid-servants, and even two or threefarm-men. She heard the rustle of her name from the white faces thatlooked at her from the gloom; but none moved; and she crossed the hallalone, and turned down the lower corridor that led to the cloister-wing. 

At the foot of the staircase she stopped again; her heart drummed in herears, as she listened intently with parted lips. There was a profoundsilence; the lamp on the stairs had not been lighted, and the terracewindow only let in a pale glimmer. 

It was horrible to her! this secret presence of incarnate pain thatbrooded somewhere in the house, this silence of living anguish, worsethan death a thousand times!

Where was he? What would it look like? Even a scream somewhere would haverelieved her, and snapped the tension of the listening stillness that layon her like a shocking nightmare. This lobby with its well-knowndoors--the banister on which her fingers rested--the well of thestaircase up which she stared with dilated eyes--all was familiar; andyet, somewhere in the shadows overhead lurked this formidable Presence ofpain, mute, anguished, terrifying. .. . 

She longed to run back, to shriek for help; but she dared not: and stoodpanting. She went up a couple of steps--stopped, listened to the sickthumping of her heart--took another step and stopped again; and so, listening, peering, hesitating, came to the head of the stairs. 

Ah! there was the door, with a line of light beneath it. It was therethat the horror dwelt. She stared at the thin bright line; waited andlistened again for even a moan or a sigh from within, but none came. 

Then with a great effort she stepped forward and tapped. 

There was no answer; but as she listened she heard from within the gentletinkle of some liquid running into a bowl, rhythmically, and with pauses. Then again she tapped, nervously and rapidly, and there was a murmur fromthe room; she opened the door softly, pushed it, and took a step into theroom, half closing it behind her. 

There were two candles burning on a table in the middle of the room, andon the near side of it was a group of three persons. .. . 

Isabel had seen in one of Mistress Margaret's prayer-books an engravingof an old Flemish Pietà--a group of the Blessed Mother holding in herarms the body of her Crucified Son, with the Magdalen on one side, supporting one of the dead Saviour's hands. Isabel now caught her breathin a sudden gasp; for here was the scene reproduced before her. 

Lady Maxwell was on a low seat bending forwards; the white cap and ruffseemed like a veil thrown all about her head and beneath her chin; shewas holding in her arms the body of her son, who seemed to have faintedas he sat beside her; his head had fallen back against her breast, andhis pointed beard and dark hair and her black dress beyond emphasised thedeathly whiteness of his face on which the candlelight fell; his mouthwas open, like a dead man's. Mistress Margaret was kneeling by his lefthand, holding it over a basin and delicately sponging it; and the wholeair was fragrant and aromatic with some ointment in the water; a longbandage or two lay on the ground beside the basin. The evening light overthe opposite roofs through the window beyond mingled with the light ofthe tapers, throwing a strange radiance over the group. The table onwhich the tapers stood looked to Isabel like a stripped altar. 

She stood by the door, her lips parted, motionless; looking with greateyes from face to face. It was as if the door had given access to anotherworld where the passion of Christ was being re-enacted. 

Then she sank on her knees, still watching. There was no sound but thefaint ripple of the water into the basin and the quiet breathing of thethree. Lady Maxwell now and then lifted a handkerchief in silence andpassed it across her son's face. Isabel, still staring with great wideeyes, began to sigh gently to herself. 

"Anthony, Anthony, Anthony!" she whispered. 

"Oh, no, no, no!" she whispered again under her breath. "No, Anthony! youcould not, you could not!"

Then from the man there came one or two long sighs, ending in a moan thatquavered into silence; he stirred slightly in his mother's arms; and thenin a piteous high voice came the words "_Jesu . .. Jesu . .. Esto mihi. .. Jesus_. "

Consciousness was coming back. He fancied himself still on the rack. 

Lady Maxwell said nothing, but gathered him a little closer, and bent herface lower over him. 

Then again came a long sobbing indrawn breath; James struggled for amoment; then opened his eyes and saw his mother's face. 

Mistress Margaret had finished with the water; and was now swiftlymanipulating a long strip of white linen. Isabel still sunk on her kneeswatched the bandage winding in and out round his wrist, and between histhumb and forefinger. 

Then he turned his head sharply towards her with a gasp as if in pain;and his eyes fell on Isabel. 

"Mistress Isabel, " he said; and his voice was broken and untuneful. 

Mistress Margaret turned; and smiled at her; and at the sight theintolerable compression on the girl's heart relaxed. 

"Come, child, " she said, "come and help me with his hand. No, no, liestill, " she added; for James was making a movement as if to rise. 

James smiled at her as she came forward; and she saw that his face had astrange look as if after a long illness. 

"You see, Mistress Isabel, " he said, in the same cracked voice, and withan infinitely pathetic courtesy, "I may not rise. "

Isabel's eyes filled with sudden tears, his attempt at his old manner wasmore touching than all else; and she came and knelt beside the old nun. 

"Hold the fingers, " she said; and the familiar old voice brought the girla stage nearer her normal consciousness again. 

Isabel took the priest's fingers and saw that they were limp and swollen. The sleeve fell back a little as Mistress Margaret manipulated thebandage; and the girl saw that the forearm looked shapeless anddiscoloured. 

She glanced up in swift terror at his face, but he was looking at hismother, whose eyes were bent on his; Isabel looked quickly down again. 

"There, " said Mistress Margaret, tying the last knot, "it is done. "

Mr. James looked his thanks over his shoulder at her, as she nodded andsmiled before turning to leave the room. 

Isabel sat slowly down and watched them. 

"This is but a flying visit, Mistress Isabel, " said James. "I must leaveto-morrow again. "

He had sat up now, and settled himself in his seat, though his mother'sarm was still round him. The voice and the pitiful attempt were terribleto Isabel. Slowly the consciousness was filtering into her mind of whatall this implied; what it must have been that had turned this tallself-contained man into this weak creature who lay in his mother's arms, and fainted at a touch and sobbed. She could say nothing; but could onlylook, and breathe, and look. 

Then it suddenly came to her mind that Lady Maxwell had not spoken aword. She looked at her; that old wrinkled face with its white crown ofhair and lace had a new and tremendous dignity. There was no anxiety init; scarcely even grief; but only a still and awful anguish, toweringabove ordinary griefs like a mountain above the world; and there was thesupreme peace too that can only accompany a supreme emotion--she seemedconscious of nothing but her son. 

Isabel could not answer James; and he seemed not to expect it; he hadturned back to his mother again, and they were looking at one another. Then in a moment Mistress Margaret came back with a glass that she put toJames' lips; and he drank it without a word. She stood looking at thegroup an instant or two, and then turned to Isabel. 

"Come downstairs with me, my darling; there is nothing more that we cando. "

They went out of the room together; the mother and son had not stirredagain; and Mistress Margaret slipped her arm quickly round the girl'swaist, as they went downstairs. 

 * * * *

In the cloister beneath was a pleasant little oak parlour looking out onto the garden and the long south side of the house. Mistress Margarettook the little hand-lamp that burned in the cloister itself as theypassed along silently together, and guided the girl through into theparlour on the left-hand side. There was a tall chair standing before thehearth, and as Mistress Margaret sat down, drawing the girl with her, Isabel sank down on the footstool at her feet, and hid her face on theold nun's knees. 

There was silence for a minute or two. Mistress Margaret set down thelamp on the table beside her, and passed her hands caressingly over thegirl's hands and hair; but said nothing, until Isabel's whole body heavedup convulsively once or twice, before she burst into a torrent ofweeping. 

"My darling, " said the old lady in a quiet steady voice, "we should thankGod instead of grieving. To think that this house should have given twoconfessors to the Church, father and son! Yes, yes, dear child, I knowwhat you are thinking of, the two dear lads we both love; well, well, wedo not know, we must trust them both to God. It may not be true ofAnthony; and even if it be true--well, he must have thought he wasserving his Queen. And for Hubert----"

Isabel lifted her face and looked with a dreadful questioning stare. 

"Dear child, " said the nun, "do not look like that. Nothing is so bad asnot trusting God. "

"Anthony, Anthony!". .. Whispered the girl. 

"James told us the same story as the gentleman on Sunday, " went on thenun. "But he said no hard word, and he does not condemn. I know hisheart. He does not know why he is released, nor by whose order: but anorder came to let him go, and his papers with it: and he must be out ofEngland by Monday morning: so he leaves here to-morrow in the litter inwhich he came. He is to say mass to-morrow, if he is able. "

"Mass? Here?" said the girl, in the same sharp whisper; and her sobbingceased abruptly. 

"Yes, dear; if he is able to stand and use his hands enough. They havesettled it upstairs. "

Isabel continued to look up in her face wildly. 

"Ah!" said the old nun again. "You must not look like that. Remember thathe thinks those wounds the most precious things in the world--yes--andhis mother too!"

"I must be at mass, " said Isabel; "God means it. "

"Now, now, " said Mistress Margaret soothingly, "you do not know what youare saying. "

"I mean it, " said Isabel, with sharp emphasis; "God means it. "

Mistress Margaret took the girl's face between her hands, and lookedsteadily down into her wet eyes. Isabel returned the look as steadily. 

"Yes, yes, " she said, "as God sees us. "

Then she broke into talk, at first broken and incoherent in language, butdefinite and orderly in ideas, and in her interpretations of these lastmonths. 

Kneeling beside her with her hands clasped on the nun's knee, Isabel toldher all her struggles; disentangling at last in a way that she had neverbeen able to do before, all the complicated strands of self-will andguidance and blindness that had so knotted and twisted themselves intoher life. The nun was amazed at the spiritual instinct of this Puritanchild, who ranged her motives so unerringly; dismissing this as of self, marking this as of God's inspiration, accepting this and rejecting thatelement of the circumstances of her life; steering confidently betweenthe shoals of scrupulous judgment and conscience on the one side, and thehidden rocks of presumption and despair on the other--these very dangersthat had baffled and perplexed her so long--and tracing out through themall the clear deep safe channel of God's intention, who had allowed herto emerge at last from the tortuous and baffling intricacies of characterand circumstance into the wide open sea of His own sovereign Will. 

It seemed to the nun, as Isabel talked, as if it needed just a finaltouch of supreme tragedy to loosen and resolve all the complications; andthat this had been supplied by the vision upstairs. There she had seen atriumphant trophy of another's sorrow and conquest. There was hardly anelement in her own troubles that was not present in that human Pietàupstairs--treachery--loneliness--sympathy--bereavement--and above all thesupreme sacrificial act of human love subordinated to divine--human love, purified and transfigured and rendered invincible and immortal by thevery immolation of it at the feet of God--all this that the son andmother in their welcome of pain had accomplished in the crucifixion ofone and the heart-piercing of the other--this was light opened to theperplexed, tormented soul of the girl--a radiance poured out of thedarkness of their sorrow and made her way plain before her face. 

"My Isabel, " said the old nun, when the girl had finished and was hidingher face again, "this is of God. Glory to His Name! I must ask James'leave; and then you must sleep here to-night, for the mass to-morrow. "

 * * * *

The chapel at Maxwell Hall was in the cloister wing; but a strangervisiting the house would never have suspected it. Opening out of LadyMaxwell's new sitting-room was a little lobby or landing, about fouryards square, lighted from above; at the further end of it was the doorinto her bedroom. This lobby was scarcely more than a broad passage; andwould attract no attention from any passing through it. The only piece offurniture in it was a great tall old chest as high as a table, that stoodagainst the inner wall beyond which was the long gallery that looked downupon the cloister garden. The lobby appeared to be practically as broadas the two rooms on either side of it; but this was effected by the outerwall being made to bulge a little; and the inner wall being thinner thaninside the two living-rooms. The deception was further increased by thetwo living-rooms being first wainscoted and then hung with thicktapestry; while the lobby was bare. A curious person who should look inthe chest would find there only an old dress and a few pieces of stuff. This lobby, however, was the chapel; and through the chest was theentrance to one of the priest's hiding holes, where also the altar-stoneand the ornaments and the vestments were kept. The bottom of the chestwas in reality hinged in such a way that it would fall, on the properpressure being applied in two places at once, sufficiently to allow theside of the chest against the wall to be pushed aside, which in turn gaveentrance to a little space some two yards long by a yard wide; and herewere kept all the necessaries for divine worship; with room besides for acouple of men at least to be hidden away. There was also a way from thishole on to the roof, but it was a difficult and dangerous way; and wasonly to be used in case of extreme necessity. 

It was in this lobby that Isabel found herself the next morning kneelingand waiting for mass. She had been awakened by Mistress Margaret shortlybefore four o'clock and told in a whisper to dress herself in the dark;for it was impossible under the circumstances to tell whether the housewas not watched; and a light seen from outside might conceivably causetrouble and disturbance. So she had dressed herself and come down fromher room along the passages, so familiar during the day, so sombre andsuggestive now in the black morning with but one shaded light placed atthe angles. Other figures were stealing along too; but she could not tellwho they were in the gloom. Then she had come through the littlesitting-room where the scene of last night had taken place and into thelobby beyond. 

But the whole place was transformed. 

Over the old chest now hung a picture, that usually was in Lady Maxwell'sroom, of the Blessed Mother and her holy Child, in a great carved frameof some black wood. The chest had become an altar: Isabel could see theslight elevation in the middle of the long white linen cloth where thealtar-stone lay, and upon that again, at the left corner, a pile of linenand silk. Upon the altar at the back stood two slender silvercandlesticks with burning tapers in them; and a silver crucifix betweenthem. The carved wooden panels, representing the sacrifice of Isaac onthe one half and the offering of Melchisedech on the other, servedinstead of an embroidered altar-frontal. Against the side wall stood alittle white-covered folding table with the cruets and other necessariesupon it. 

There were two or three benches across the rest of the lobby; and atthese were kneeling a dozen or more persons, motionless, their facesdowncast. There was a little wind such as blows before the dawn moaninggently outside; and within was a slight draught that made the taperflames lean over now and then. 

Isabel took her place beside Mistress Margaret at the front bench; and asshe knelt forward she noticed a space left beyond her for Lady Maxwell. Amoment later there came slow and painful steps through the sitting-room, and Lady Maxwell came in very slowly with her son leaning on her arm andon a stick. There was a silence so profound that it seemed to Isabel asif all had stopped breathing. She could only hear the slow plunging pulseof her own heart. 

James took his mother across the altar to her place, and left her there, bowing to her; and then went up to the altar to vest. As he reached itand paused, a servant slipped out and received the stick from him. Thepriest made the sign of the cross, and took up the amice from thevestments that lay folded on the altar. He was already in his cassock. 

Isabel watched each movement with a deep agonising interest; he was sofrail and broken, so bent in his figure, so slow and feeble in hismovements. He made an attempt to raise the amice but could not, andturned slightly; and the man from behind stepped up again and lifted itfor him. Then he helped him with each of the vestments, lifted the albover his head and tenderly drew the bandaged hands through the sleeves;knit the girdle round him; gave him the stole to kiss and then placed itover his neck and crossed the ends beneath the girdle and adjusted theamice; then he placed the maniple on his left arm, but so tenderly! andlastly, lifted the great red chasuble and dropped it over his head andstraightened it--and there stood the priest as he had stood last Sunday, in crimson vestments again; but bowed and thin-faced now. 

Then he began the preparation with the servant who knelt beside him inhis ordinary livery, as server; and Isabel heard the murmur of the Latinwords for the first time. Then he stepped up to the altar, bent slowlyand kissed it and the mass began. 

Isabel had a missal, lent to her by Mistress Margaret; but she hardlylooked at it; so intent was she on that crimson figure and his strangemovements and his low broken voice. It was unlike anything that she hadever imagined worship to be. Public worship to her had meant hitherto oneof two things--either sitting under a minister and having the wordapplied to her soul in the sacrament of the pulpit; or else the saying ofprayers by the minister aloud and distinctly and with expression, so thatthe intellect could follow the words, and assent with a hearty Amen. Theminister was a minister to man of the Word of God, an interpreter of Hisgospel to man. 

But here was a worship unlike all this in almost every detail. The priestwas addressing God, not man; therefore he did so in a low voice, and in atongue as Campion had said on the scaffold "that they both understood. "It was comparatively unimportant whether man followed it word for word, for (and here the second radical difference lay) the point of the worshipfor the people lay, not in an intellectual apprehension of the words, butin a voluntary assent to and participation in the supreme act to whichthe words were indeed necessary but subordinate. It was the thing thatwas done; not the words that were said, that was mighty with God. Here, as these Catholics round Isabel at any rate understood it, and as she toobegan to perceive it too, though dimly and obscurely, was the sublimemystery of the Cross presented to God. As He looked down well pleasedinto the silence and darkness of Calvary, and saw there the actaccomplished by which the world was redeemed, so here (this handful ofdisciples believed), He looked down into the silence and twilight of thislittle lobby, and saw that same mystery accomplished at the hands of onewho in virtue of his participation in the priesthood of the Son of Godwas empowered to pronounce these heart-shaking words by which the Bodythat hung on Calvary, and the Blood that dripped from it there, wereagain spread before His eyes, under the forms of bread and wine. 

Much of this faith of course was still dark to Isabel; but yet sheunderstood enough; and when the murmur of the priest died to a throbbingsilence, and the worshippers sank in yet more profound adoration, andthen with terrible effort and a quick gasp or two of pain, those wrenchedbandaged hands rose trembling in the air with Something that glimmeredwhite between them; the Puritan girl too drooped her head, and lifted upher heart, and entreated the Most High and most Merciful to look down onthe Mystery of Redemption accomplished on earth; and for the sake of theWell-Beloved to send down His Grace on the Catholic Church; to strengthenand save the living; to give rest and peace to the dead; and especiallyto remember her dear brother Anthony, and Hubert whom she loved; andMistress Margaret and Lady Maxwell, and this faithful household: and thepoor battered man before her, who, not only as a priest was made like tothe Eternal Priest, but as a victim too had hung upon a prostrate cross, fastened by hands and feet; thus bearing on his body for all to see themarks of the Lord Jesus. 

 * * * *

Lady Maxwell and Mistress Margaret both rose and stepped forward afterthe Priest's Communion, and received from those wounded hands the BrokenBody of the Lord. 

And then the mass was presently over; and the server stepped forwardagain to assist the priest to unvest, himself lifting each vestment off, for Father Maxwell was terribly exhausted by now, and laying it on thealtar. Then he helped him to a little footstool in front of him, for himto kneel and make his thanksgiving. Isabel looked with an odd wonder atthe server; he was the man that she knew so well, who opened the door forher, and waited at table; but now a strange dignity rested on him as hemoved confidently and reverently about the awful altar, and touched thevestments that even to her Puritan eyes shone with new sanctity. Itstartled her to think of the hidden Catholic life of this house--of theseservants who loved and were familiar with mysteries that she had beentaught to dread and distrust, but before which she too now was to bow herbeing in faith and adoration. 

After a minute or two, Mistress Margaret touched Isabel on the arm andbeckoned to her to come up to the altar, which she began immediately tostrip of its ornaments and cloth, having first lit another candle on oneof the benches. Isabel helped her in this with a trembling dread, as allthe others except Lady Maxwell and her son were now gone out silently;and presently the picture was down, and leaning against the wall; theornaments and sacred vessels packed away in their box, with the vestmentsand linen in another. Then together they lifted off the heavy altarstone. Mistress Margaret next laid back the lid of the chest; and put herhands within, and presently Isabel saw the back of the chest fall back, apparently into the wall. Mistress Margaret then beckoned to Isabel toclimb into the chest and go through; she did so without much difficulty, and found herself in the little room behind. There was a stool or two andsome shelves against the wall, with a plate or two upon them and one ortwo tools. She received the boxes handed through, and followed MistressMargaret's instructions as to where to place them; and when all was done, she slipped back again through the chest into the lobby. 

The priest and his mother were still in their places, motionless. Mistress Margaret closed the chest inside and out, beckoned Isabel intothe sitting-room and closed the door behind them. Then she threw her armsround the girl and kissed her again and again. 

"My own darling, " said the nun, with tears in her eyes. "God blessyou--your first mass. Oh! I have prayed for this. And you know all oursecrets now. Now go to your room, and to bed again. It is only a littleafter five. You shall see him--James--before he goes. God bless you, mydear!"

She watched Isabel down the passage; and then turned back again to wherethe other two were still kneeling, to make her own thanksgiving. 

Isabel went to her room as one in a dream. She was soon in bed again, butcould not sleep; the vision of that strange worship she had assisted at;the pictorial details of it, the glow of the two candles on the shouldersof the crimson chasuble as the priest bent to kiss the altar or to adore;the bowed head of the server at his side; the picture overhead with theMother and her downcast eyes, and the radiant Child stepping from herknees to bless the world--all this burned on the darkness. With the leasteffort of imagination too she could recall the steady murmur of theunfamiliar words; hear the rustle of the silken vestment; the stirringsand breathings of the worshippers in the little room. 

Then in endless course the intellectual side of it all began to presentitself. She had assisted at what the Government called a crime; it wasfor that--that collection of strange but surely at least innocentthings--actions, words, material objects--that men and women of the sameflesh and blood as herself were ready to die; and for which othersequally of one nature with herself were ready to put them to death. Itwas the mass--the mass--she had seen--she repeated the word to herself, so sinister, so suggestive, so mighty. Then she began to think again--ifindeed it is possible to say that she had ever ceased to think of him--ofAnthony, who would be so much horrified if he knew; of Hubert, who hadrenounced this wonderful worship, and all, she feared, for love ofher--and above all of her father, who had regarded it with suchrepugnance:--yes, thought Isabel, but he knows all now. Then she thoughtof Mistress Margaret again. After all, the nun had a spiritual life whichin intensity and purity surpassed any she had ever experienced or evenimagined; and yet the heart of it all was the mass. She thought of theold wrinkled quiet face when she came back to breakfast at the DowerHouse: she had soon learnt to read from that face whether mass had beensaid that morning or not at the Hall. And Mistress Margaret was only oneof thousands to whom this little set of actions half seen and words halfheard, wrought and said by a man in a curious dress, were more preciousthan all meditation and prayer put together. Could the vastsuperstructure of prayer and effort and aspiration rest upon a piece ofempty folly such as children or savages might invent?

Then very naturally, as she began now to get quieter and less excited, she passed on to the spiritual side of it. 

Had that indeed happened that Mistress Margaret believed--that the veryBody and Blood of her own dear Saviour, Jesus Christ, had in virtue ofHis own clear promise--His own clear promise!--become present there underthe hands of His priest? Was it, indeed, --this half-hour action, --themost august mystery of time, the Lamb eternally slain, presenting Himselfand His Death before the Throne in a tremendous and bloodlessSacrifice--so august that the very angels can only worship it afar offand cannot perform it; or was it all a merely childish piece ofblasphemous mummery, as she had been brought up to believe? And then thisPuritan girl, who was beginning to taste the joys of release from hermisery now that she had taken this step, and united a whole-heartedoffering of herself to the perfect Offering of her Lord--now her soulmade its first trembling movement towards a real external authority. "Ibelieve, " she rehearsed to herself, "not because my spiritual experiencetells me that the Mass is true, for it does not; not because the Biblesays so, because it is possible to interpret that in more than one way;but because that Society which I now propose to treat as Divine--theRepresentative of the Incarnate Word--nay, His very mystical Body--tellsme so: and I rely upon that, and rest in her arms, which are the Arms ofthe Everlasting, and hang upon her lips, through which the InfallibleWord speaks. "

And so Isabel, in a timid peace at last, from her first act of Catholicfaith, fell asleep. 

She awoke to find the winter sun streaming into her room, and MistressMargaret by her bedside. 

"Dear child, " said the old lady, "I would not wake you earlier; you havehad such a short night; but James leaves in an hour's time; and it isjust nine o'clock, and I know you wish to see him. "

When she came down half an hour later she found Mistress Margaret waitingfor her outside Lady Maxwell's room. 

"He is in there, " she said. "I will tell Mary"; and she slipped in. Isabel outside heard the murmur of voices, and in a moment more wasbeckoned in by the nun. 

James Maxwell was sitting back in a great chair, looking exhausted andwhite. His mother, with something of the same look of supreme sufferingand triumph, was standing behind his chair. She smiled gravely andsweetly at Isabel, as if to encourage her; and went out at the furtherdoor, followed by her sister. 

"Mistress Isabel, " said the priest, without any introductory words, inhis broken voice, and motioning her to a seat, "I cannot tell you whatjoy it was to see you at mass. Is it too much to hope that you will seekadmission presently to the Catholic Church?"

Isabel sat with downcast eyes. His tone was a little startling to her. Itwas as courteous as ever, but less courtly: there was just the faintestring in it, in spite of its weakness, as of one who spoke with authority. 

"I--I thank you, Mr. James, " she said. "I wish to hear more at any rate. "

"Yes, Mistress Isabel; and I thank God for it. Mr. Barnes will be theproper person. My mother will let him know; and I have no doubt that hewill receive you by Easter, and that you can make your First Communion onthat day. "

She bowed her head, wondering a little at his assurance. 

"You will forgive me, I know, if I seem discourteous, " went on thepriest, "but I trust you understand the terms on which you come. You comeas a little child, to learn; is it not so? Simply that?"

She bowed her head again. 

"Then I need not keep you. If you will kneel, I will give you myblessing. "

She knelt down at once before him, and he blessed her, lifting hiswrenched hand with difficulty and letting it sink quickly down again. 

By an impulse she could not resist she leaned forward on her knees andtook it gently into her two soft hands and kissed it. 

"Oh! forgive him, Mr. Maxwell; I am sure he did not know. " And then hertears poured down. 

"My child, " said his voice tenderly, "in any case I not only forgive him, but I thank him. How could I not? He has brought me love-tokens from myLord. "

She kissed his hand again, and stood up; her eyes were blinded withtears; but they were not all for grief. 

Then Mistress Margaret came in from the inner room, and led the girl out;and the mother came in once more to her son for the ten minutes before hewas to leave her. 

 CHAPTER XII

 A STRIFE OF TONGUES

Anthony now settled down rather drearily to the study of religiouscontroversy. The continual contrasts that seemed forced upon him by therival systems of England and Rome (so far as England might be said tohave a coherent system at this time), all tended to show him that therewere these two sharply-divided schemes, each claiming to representChrist's Institution, and each exclusive of the other. Was it of Christ'sinstitution that His Church should be a department of the National Life;and that the civil prince should be its final arbiter and ruler, howeverlittle he might interfere in its ordinary administration? This wasElizabeth's idea. Or was the Church, as Mr. Buxton had explained it, ahuge unnational Society, dependent, it must of course be, to some extenton local circumstances, but essentially unrestricted by limit ofnationality or of racial tendencies? This was the claim of Rome. Ofcourse an immense number of other arguments circled round this--in fact, most of the arguments that are familiar to controversialists at thepresent day; but the centre of all, to Anthony's mind, as indeed it wasto the mind of the civil and religious authorities of the time, was thequestion of supremacy--Elizabeth or Gregory?

He read a certain number of books; and it will be remembered that he hadfollowed, with a good deal of intelligence, Campion's arguments. Anthonywas no theologian, and therefore missed perhaps the deep, subtlearguments; but he had a normal mind, and was able to appreciate andremember some salient points. 

For example, he was impressed greatly by the negative character ofProtestantism in such books as Nicholl's "Pilgrimage. " In this work a manwas held up as a type to be imitated whose whole religion to allappearances consisted of holding the Pope to be Antichrist, and hisChurch the synagogue of Satan, of disliking the doctrines of merit and ofjustification by works, of denying the Real Presence, and of holdingnothing but what could be proved to his own satisfaction by theScriptures. 

Then he read as much as he could of the great Jewell controversy. ThisBishop of Salisbury, who had, however, recanted his Protestant opinionsunder Mary, and resumed them under Elizabeth, had published in 1562 his"Apology of the Church of England, " a work of vast research and learning. Mr. Harding, who had also had the advantage of having been on both sides, had answered it; and then the battle was arrayed. It was of course mostlyabove Anthony's head; but he gained from what he was able to read of it avery fair estimate of the conflicting theses, though he probably couldnot have stated them intelligibly. He also made acquaintance with anotherwriter against Jewell, --Rastall; and with one or two of Mr. Willet'sbooks, the author of "Synopsis Papismi" and "Tretrastylon Papisticum. "

Even more than by paper controversy, however, he was influenced byhistory that was so rapidly forming before his eyes. The fact and thesignificance of the supremacy of the Queen in religion was impressed uponhim more vividly by her suspension of Grindal than by all the books heever read: here was the first ecclesiastic of the realm, a devout, humbleand earnest man, restrained from exercising his great qualities as rulerand shepherd of his people, by a woman whose religious charactercertainly commanded no one's respect, even if her moral life were freefrom scandal; and that, not because the Archbishop had been guilty of anycrime or heresy, or was obviously unfitted for his post, but because hisconscientious judgment on a point of Church discipline and libertydiffered from hers; and this state of things was made possible not by anusurpation of power, but by the deliberately ordered system of the Churchof England. Anthony had at least sufficient penetration to see that this, as a fundamental principle of religion, however obscured it might be bysubsequent developments, was yet fraught with dangers compared with whichthose of papal interference were comparatively trifling--dangers that is, not so much to earthly peace and prosperity, as to the whole spiritualnature of the nation's Christianity. 

Yet another argument had begun to suggest itself, bearing upon the samepoint, of the relative advantages and dangers of Nationalism. When he hadfirst entered the Archbishop's service he had been inspired by thethought that the Church would share in the rising splendour of England;now he began to wonder whether she could have strength to resist therising worldliness that was bound to accompany it. It is scarcely likelythat men on fire with success, whether military or commercial, will bepatient of the restraints of religion. If the Church is independent ofthe nation, she can protest and denounce freely; if she is knit closelyto the nation, such rebuke is almost impossible. 

A conversation that Anthony had on this subject at the beginning ofFebruary helped somewhat to clear up this point. 

He was astonished after dinner one day to hear that Mr. Henry Buxton wasat the porter's lodge desiring to see him, and on going out he found thatit was indeed his old acquaintance, the prisoner. 

"Good-day, Master Norris, " said the gentleman, with his eyes twinkling;"you see the mouse has escaped, and is come to call upon the cat. "

Anthony inquired further as to the details of his release. 

"Well, you see, " said Mr. Buxton, "they grew a-weary of me. I talked soloud at them all for one thing; and then you see I was neither priest noragent nor conspirator, but only a plain country gentleman: so they tooksome hundred or two pounds off me, to make me still plainer; and let mego. Now, Mr. Norris, will you come and dine with me, and resume ourconversation that was so rudely interrupted by my journey last time? Butthen you see her Majesty would take no denial. "

"I have just dined, " said Anthony, "but----"

"Well, I will not ask you to see me dine again, as you did last time; butwill you then sup with me? I am at the 'Running Horse, ' Fleet Street, until to-morrow. "

Anthony accepted gladly; for he had been greatly taken with Mr. Buxton;and at six o'clock that evening presented himself at the "Running Horse, "and was shown up to a private parlour. 

He found Mr. Buxton in the highest good-humour; he was even now on hisway from Wisbeach, home again to Tonbridge, and was only staying inLondon to finish a little business he had. 

Before supper was over, Anthony had laid his difficulties before him. 

"My dear friend, " said the other, and his manner became at once sober andtender, "I thank you deeply for your confidence. After being thoughtmidway between a knave and a fool for over a year, it is a comfort to betreated as an honest gentleman again. I hold very strongly with what yousay; it is that, under God, that has kept me steady. As I said to youlast time, Christ's Kingdom is not of this world. Can you imagine, forexample, Saint Peter preaching religious obedience to Nero to be aChristian's duty? I do not say (God forbid) that her Grace is a Nero, oreven a Poppæa; but there is no particular reason why some successor ofhers should not be. However, Nero or not, the principle is the same. I donot deny that a National Church may be immensely powerful, may convertthousands, may number zealous and holy men among her ministers andadherents--but yet her foundation is insecure. What when the tempest ofGod's searching judgments begins to blow?

"Or, to put it plainer, in a parable, you have seen, I doubt not, agallant and his mistress together. So long as she is being wooed by him, she can command; he sighs and yearns and runs on errands--in short, sherules him. But when they are wedded--ah me! It is she--if he turns out abrute, that is--she that stands while my lord plucks off his boots--shewho runs to fetch the tobacco-pipe and lights it and kneels by him. Now Ihold that to wed the body spiritual to the body civil, is to wed adelicate dame to a brute. He may dress her well, give her jewels, clapher kindly on the head--but she is under him and no free woman. Ah!"--andthen Mr. Buxton's eyes began to shine as Anthony remembered they had donebefore, and his voice to grow solemn, --"and when the spouse is the Brideof Christ, purchased by His death, what then would be the sin to wed herto a carnal nation, who shall favour her, it may be, while she looksyoung and fair; but when his mood changes, or her appearance, then she ishis slave and his drudge! His will and his whims are her laws; as hechanges, so must she. She has to do his foul work; as she had to do forKing Henry, as she is doing it now for Queen Bess; and as she will alwayshave to do, God help her, so long as she is wedded to the nation, insteadof being free as the handmaiden and spouse of Christ alone. My faithwould be lost, Mr. Norris, and my heart broken quite, if I were forced tothink the Church of England to be the Church of Christ. "

They talked late that evening in the private baize-curtained parlour onthe third floor. Anthony produced his difficulties one by one, and Mr. Buxton did his best to deal with them. For example, Anthony remarked onthe fact that there had been no breach of succession as to the edificesand endowments of the Church; that the sees had been canonically filled, and even the benefices; and that therefore, like it or not, the Church ofEngland now was identical with the Pre-Reformation Church. 

"_Distinguo_, " said his friend. "Of course she is the successor in onesense: what you say is very true. It is impossible to put your fingerall along the line of separation. It is a serrated line. The affairs of aChurch and a nation are so vast that that is sure to be so; although ifyou insist, I will point to the Supremacy Act of 1559 and the UniformityAct of the same year as very clear evidences of a breach with the ancientorder; in the former the governance is shifted from its original owner, the Vicar of Christ, and placed on Elizabeth; it was that that theCarthusian Fathers and Sir Thomas More and many others died sooner thanallow: and the latter Act sweeps away all the ancient forms of worship infavour of a modern one. But I am not careful to insist upon those points;if you deny or disprove them, --though I do not envy any who attemptsthat--yet even then my principle remains, that all that to which theChurch of England has succeeded is the edifices and the endowments; butthat her spirit is wholly new. If a highwayman knocks me down to-morrow, strips me, clothes himself with my clothes, and rides my horse, he iscertainly my successor in one sense; yet he will be rash if he presentshimself to my wife and sons--though I have none, by the way--as theproper owner of my house and name. "

"But there is no knocking down in the question, " said Anthony. "Thebishops and clergy, or the greater part of them, consented to thechange. "

Mr. Buxton smiled. 

"Very well, " he said; "yet the case is not greatly different if thegentleman threatens me with torture instead, if I do not voluntarily givehim my clothes and my horse. If I were weak and yielded to him, yes, andmade promises of all kinds in my cowardice--yet he would be no nearerbeing the true successor of my name and fortune. And if you read herGrace's Acts, and King Henry's too, you will find that that was preciselywhat took place. My dear sir, " Mr. Buxton went on, "if you will pardon mysaying it, I am astounded at the effrontery of your authorities who claimthat there was no breach. Your Puritans are wiser; they at least franklysay that the old was Anti-Christian; that His Holiness (God forgive mefor saying it!), was an usurper: and that the new Genevan theology is theold gospel brought to light again. That I can understand; and indeed mostof your churchmen think so too; and that there was a new beginning madewith Protestantism. But when her Grace calls herself a Catholic, andtells the poor Frenchmen that it is the old religion here still: and yourbishops, or one or two of them rather, like Cheyney, I suppose, say sotoo--then I am rendered dumb--(if that were possible). If it is the same, then why, a-God's name, were the altars dragged down, and the screensburned, and the vestments and the images and the stoups and the picturesand the ornaments, all swept out? Why, a-God's name, was the old massblotted out and this new mingle-mangle brought in, if it be all one? Andfor the last time, a-God's name, why is it death to say mass now, if itbe all one? Go, go: Such talk is foolishness, and worse. "

Mr. Buxton was silent for a moment as Anthony eyed him; and then burstout again. 

"Ah! but worse than all are the folks that stand with one leg on eitherstool. We are the old Church, say they;--standing with the Protestant legin the air, --therefore let us have the money and the buildings: they areour right. And then when a poor Catholic says, Then let us have the oldmass, and the old penance and the old images: Nay, nay, nay, they say, lifting up the Catholic leg and standing on the other, those are Popery;and we are Protestants; we have made away with all such mummery andmuniments of superstition. And so they go see-sawing to and fro. When yourun at one leg they rest them on the other, and you know not where totake them. "

And so the talk went on. When the evening was over, and Anthony wasrising to return to Lambeth, Mr. Buxton put his hand on his arm. 

"Good Mr. Norris, " he said, "you have been very patient with me. I haveclacked this night like an old wife, and you have borne with me: and nowI ask your pardon again. But I do pray God that He may show you light andbring you to the true Church; for there is no rest elsewhere. "

Anthony thanked him for his good wishes. 

"Indeed, " he said, too, "I am grateful for all that you have said. Youhave shown me light, I think, on some things, and I ask your prayers. "

"I go to Stanfield to-morrow, " said Mr. Buxton; "it is a pleasant house, though its master says so, not far from Sir Philip Sidney's: if you wouldbut come and see me there!"

"I am getting greatly perplexed, " said Anthony, "and I think that in goodfaith I cannot stay long with the Archbishop; and if I leave him howgladly will I come to you for a few days; but it must not be till then. "

"Ah! if you would but make the Spiritual Exercises in my house; I willprovide a conductor; and there is nothing that would resolve your doubtsso quickly. "

Anthony was interested in this; and asked further details as to whatthese were. 

"It is too late, " said Mr. Buxton, "to tell you to-night. I will writefrom Stanfield. "

Mr. Buxton came downstairs with Anthony to see him on to his horse, andthey parted with much good-will; and Anthony rode home with a heavy andperplexed heart to Lambeth. 

 * * * *

He spent a few days more pondering; and then determined to lay hisdifficulties before the Archbishop; and resign his position if Grindalthought it well. 

He asked for an interview, and the Archbishop appointed an hour in theafternoon at which he would see him in Cranmer's parlour, the room abovethe vestry which formed part of the tower that Archbishop Cranmer hadadded to Lambeth House. 

Anthony, walking up and down in the little tiled cloisters by the creek, a few minutes before the hour fixed, heard organ-music rolling out of thechapel windows; and went in to see who was playing. He came in throughthe vestry, and looking to the west end gallery saw there the back of oldDr. Tallis, seated at the little positive organ that the late Archbishophad left in his chapel, and which the present Archbishop had gladlyretained, for he was a great patron of music, and befriended manymusicians when they needed help--Dr. Tallis, as well as Byrd, Morley andTye. There were a few persons in the chapel listening, the Reverend Mr. Wilson, one of the chaplains, being among them; and Anthony thought thathe could not do better than sit here a little and quiet his thoughts, which were nervous and distracted at the prospect of his cominginterview. He heard voices from overhead, which showed that theArchbishop was engaged; so he spoke to an usher stationed in the vestry, telling him that he was ready as soon as the Archbishop could receivehim, and that he would wait in the chapel; and then made his way down toone of the return stalls at the west end, against the screen, and tookhis seat there. 

This February afternoon was growing dark, and the only lights in thechapel were those in the organ loft; but there was still enough daylightoutside to make the windows visible--those famous windows of Morton's, which, like those in King's Chapel, Cambridge, combined and interpretedthe Old and New Testaments by an ingenious system of types and antitypes, in the manner of the "Biblia Pauperum. " There was then only a singlesubject in each light; and Anthony let his eyes wander musingly to andfro in the east window from the central figure of the Crucified to thetypes on either side, especially to a touching group of the unconsciousIsaac carrying the wood for his own death, as Christ His Cross. Beneath, instead of the old stately altar glowing with stuffs and precious metalsand jewels which had once been the heart of this beautiful shrine, therestood now a plain solid wooden table that the Archbishop used for theCommunion. Anthony looked at it, and sighed a little to himself. Did thealtar and the table then mean the same thing?

Meanwhile the glorious music was rolling overhead in the high vaultedroof. The old man was extemporising; but his manner was evident even inthat; there was a simple solemn phrase that formed his theme, and roundthis adorning and enriching it moved the grave chords. On and ontravelled the melody, like the flow of a broad river; now slidingsteadily through a smiling land of simple harmonies, where dwelt a peopleof plain tastes and solid virtues; now passing over shallows where thesun glanced and played in the brown water among the stones, as lightarpeggio chords rippled up and vanished round about the melody; nowentering a land of mighty stones and caverns where the echoes rang hollowand resonant, as the counterpoint began to rumble and trip like bouldersfar down out of sight, in subaqueous gloom; now rolling out again andwidening, fuller and deeper as it went, moving in great masses towardsthe edge of the cataract that lies like a line across the landscape: itis inevitable now, the crash must come;--a chord or twopausing, --pausing;--and then the crash, stupendous and sonorous. 

Then on again through elaborate cities where the wits and courtiersdwell, and stately palaces slide past upon the banks, and barges moveupon its breast, on to the sea--that final full close that embraces andengulfs all music, all effort, all doubts and questionings, whether inart or theology, all life of intellect, heart or will--that fathomlesseternal deep from which all comes and to which all returns, that men callthe Love of God. 

 * * * *

Anthony stirred in his seat; he had been here ten minutes, proposing totake his restless thoughts in hand and quiet them; and, lo! it had beendone for him by the master who sat overhead. Here he, for the moment, remained, ready for anything--glad to take up the wood and bear it to theMount of Sacrifice--content to be carried on in that river of God's Willto the repose of God's Heart--content to dwell meantime in the echoingcaverns of doubt--in the glancing shadows and lights of an activelife--in his own simple sunlit life in the country--or even to plungeover the cataract down into the fierce tormented pools in the dark--forafter all the sea lay beyond; and he who commits himself to the river isbound to reach it. 

He heard a step, and the usher stood by him. 

"His Grace is ready, Master Norris. "

Anthony rose and followed him. 

The Archbishop received him with the greatest kindness. As Anthony camein he half rose, peering with his half-blind eyes, and smiling andholding out his hands. 

"Come, Master Norris, " he said, "you are always welcome. Sit down;" andhe placed him in a chair at the table close by his own. 

"Now, what is it?" he said kindly; for the old man's heart was a littleanxious at this formal interview that had been requested by thisfavourite young officer of his. 

Then Anthony, without any reserve, told him all; tracing out the longtale of doubt by landmarks that he remembered; mentioning the effectproduced on his mind by the Queen's suspension of the Archbishop, especially dwelling on the arrest, the examination and the death ofCampion, that had made such a profound impression upon him; upon his ownreading and trains of thought, and the conversations with Mr. Buxton, though of course he did not mention his name; he ended by saying that hehad little doubt that sooner or later he would be compelled to leave thecommunion of the Church of England for that of Rome; and by placing hisresignation in the Archbishop's hands, with many expressions of gratitudefor the unceasing kindness and consideration that he had always receivedat his hands. 

There was silence when he had finished. A sliding panel in the wall nearthe chapel had been pushed back, and the mellow music of Dr. Tallispealed softly in, giving a sweet and melodious background, scarcelyperceived consciously by either of them, and yet probably mellowing andsoftening their modes of expression during the whole of the interview. 

"Mr. Norris, " said the Archbishop at last, "I first thank you for thegenerous confidence you have shown towards me: and I shall put myselfunder a further obligation to you by accepting your resignation: and thisI do for both our sakes. For yours, because, as you confess, this actionof the Queen's--(I neither condemn nor excuse it myself)--this action hasinfluenced your thoughts: therefore you had best be removed from it to aplace where you can judge more quietly. And I accept it for my own saketoo; for several reasons that I need not trouble you with. But in doingthis, I desire you, Mr. Norris, to continue to draw your salary untilMidsummer:--nay, nay, you must let me have my say. You are at liberty towithdraw as soon as you have wound up your arrangements with Mr. Somerdine; he will now, as Yeoman of the Horse, have your duties as wellas his own; for I do not intend to have another Gentleman of the Horse. As regards an increase of salary for him, that can wait until I see himmyself. In any case, Mr. Norris, I think you had better withdraw beforeMid-Lent Sunday. 

"And now for your trouble. I know very well that I cannot be of muchservice to you. I am no controversialist. But I must bear my witness. This Papist with whom you have had talk seems a very plausible fellow. His arguments sound very plain and good; and yet I think you could proveanything by them. They seem to me like that openwork embroidery such asyou see on Communion linen sometimes, in which the pattern is formed bywithdrawing certain threads. He has cleverly omitted just those pointsthat would ruin his argument; and he has made a pretty design. But anyskilful advocate could make any other design by the same methods. He hasnot thought fit to deal with such words of our Saviour as what He says onTradition; with what the Scriptures say against the worshipping ofangels; with what St. Paul says in his Epistle to the Colossians, in thesecond chapter, concerning all those carnal ordinances which were doneaway by Christ, but which have been restored by the Pope in his despite;he does not deal with those terrible words concerning the man of sin andthe mystery of iniquity. In fact, he takes just one word that Christ letfall about His Kingdom, and builds this great edifice upon it. You mightretort to him in a thousand ways such as these. Bishop Jewell, in hisbook, as you know, deals with these questions and many more; far morefully than it is possible for you and me even to dream of doing. Nay, Mr. Norris; the only argument I can lay before you is this. There aredifficulties and troubles everywhere; that there are such in the Churchof England, who would care to deny? that there are equally such, aye, andfar more, in the Church of Rome, who would care to deny, either?Meanwhile, the Providence of God has set you here and not there. Whateveryour difficulties are here, are not of your choosing; but if you flythere (and I pray God you will not) there they will be. Be content, Master Norris; indeed you have a goodly heritage; be content with it;lest losing that you lose all. "

Anthony was greatly touched by this moderate and courteous line that theArchbishop was taking. He knew well in his heart that the Church of Romewas, in the eyes of this old man, a false and deceitful body, for whomthere was really nothing to be said. Grindal, in his travels abroadduring the Marian troubles, had been deeply attracted by the Genevantheology, with whose professors he had never wholly lost touch; andAnthony guessed what an effort it was costing him, and what a strain itwas on his conscience, thus to combine courtesy with faithfulness to whathe believed to be true. 

Grindal apparently feared he had sacrificed his convictions, for hepresently added: "You know, Mr. Norris, that I think very much worse ofPapistry than I have expressed; but I have refrained because I think thatwould not help you; and I desire to do that more than to relieve myself. "

Anthony thanked him for his gentleness; saying that he quite understoodhis motives in speaking as he had done, and was deeply obliged to him forit. 

The Archbishop, however, as indeed were most of the English Divines ofthe time, was far more deeply versed in destructive than constructivetheology; and, to Anthony's regret, was presently beginning in thatdirection. 

"It is beyond my imagination. Mr. Norris, " he said, "that any who haveknown the simple Gospel should return to the darkness. See here, " he wenton, rising, and fumbling among his books, "I have somewhere here whatthey call an Indulgence. "

He searched for a few minutes, and presently shook out of the leaves ofJewell's book a paper which he peered at, and then pushed over toAnthony. 

It was a little rectangular paper, some four or five inches long; bearinga figure of Christ, wounded, with His hands bound together before Him, and the Cross with the superscription rising behind. In compartments oneither side were instruments of the Passion, the spear, and the reed withthe sponge, with other figures and emblems. Anthony spelt out theinscription. 

"Read it aloud, Mr. Norris, " said the Archbishop. 

"'To them, '" read Anthony, "'that before this image of pity devoutly sayfive paternosters, five aves and a credo, piteously beholding these armsof Christ's Passion, are granted thirty-two thousand seven hundred andfifty-five years of pardon. '"

"Now, Mr. Norris, " said the Archbishop, "have you considered that it isto that kind of religion that you are attracted? I will not comment onit; there is no need. "

"Your Grace, " said Anthony slowly, laying the paper down, "I need notsay, I think, that this kind of thing is deeply distasteful to me too. Your Grace cannot dislike it more than I do. But then I do not understandit; I do not know what indulgences mean; I only know that were they asmad and foolish as we Protestants think them, no truthful or good mancould remain a Papist for a day; but then there are many thoughtful andgood men Papists; and I conclude from that that what we think theindulgences to be, cannot be what they really are. There must be someother explanation. 

"And again, my lord, may I add this? If I were a Turk I should find manythings in the Christian religion quite as repellent to me; for example, how can it be just, I should ask, that the death of an innocent man, suchas Christ was, should be my salvation? How, again, is it just that faithshould save? Surely one who has sinned greatly ought to do somethingtowards his forgiveness, and not merely trust to another. But you, mylord, would tell me that there are explanations of these difficulties, and of many more too, of which I should gradually understand more andmore after I was a Christian. Or again, it appears to me even now, Christian as I am, judging as a plain man, that predestinationcontradicts free-will; and no explanation can make them both reasonable. Yet, by the grace of God, I believe all these doctrines and many more, not because I understand them, for I do not; but because I believe thatthey are part of the Revelation of God. It is just so, too, with theRoman Catholic Church. I must not take this or that doctrine by itself;but I must make up my mind whether or no it is the one only CatholicChurch, and then I shall believe all that she teaches, because sheteaches it, and not because I understand it. You must forgive my dulness, my lord; but I am but a layman, and can only say what I think in simplewords. "

"But we must judge of a Christian body by what that body teaches, " saidthe Archbishop. "On what other grounds are you drawn to the Papists, except by what they teach?"

"Yes, your Grace, " said Anthony, "I do judge of the general body ofdoctrine, and of the effect upon the soul as a whole; but that is not thesame as taking each small part, and making all hang upon that. "

"Well, Mr. Norris, " said the Archbishop, "I do not think we can talk muchmore now. It is new to me that these difficulties are upon you. But Ientreat you to talk to me again as often as you will; and to othersalso--Dr. Redmayn, Mr. Chambers and others will be happy if they can beof any service to you in these matters: for few things indeed wouldgrieve me more than that you should turn Papist. "

Anthony thanked the Archbishop very cordially for his kindness, and, after receiving his blessing, left his presence. He had two or three moretalks with him before he left, but his difficulties were in no wayresolved. The Archbishop had an essentially Puritan mind, and could notenter into Anthony's point of view at all. It may be roughly said thatfrom Grindal's standpoint all turned on the position and responsibilityof the individual towards the body to which he belonged: and that Anthonyrather looked at the corporate side first and the individual second. Grindal considered, for example, the details of the Catholic religion inreference to the individual, asking whether he could accept this or that:Anthony's tendency was rather to consider the general question first, andto take the difficulties in his stride afterwards. Anthony also hadinterviews with the Archdeacon and chaplain whom Grindal had recommended;but these were of even less service to him, as Dr. Redmayn was so franklycontemptuous, and Mr. Chambers so ignorant, of the Romish religion thatAnthony felt he could not trust their judgment at all. 

In the meanwhile, during this last fortnight of Anthony's Lambeth life, he received a letter from Mr. Buxton, explaining what were the SpiritualExercises to which he had referred, and entreating Anthony to come andstay with him at Stanfield. 

"Now come, dear Mr. Norris, " he wrote, "as soon as you leave theArchbishop's service; I will place three or four rooms at your disposal, if you wish for quiet; for I have more rooms than I know what to do with;and you shall make the Exercises if you will with some good priest. Theyare a wonderful method of meditation and prayer, designed by IgnatiusLoyola (one day doubtless to be declared saint), for the bringing about aresolution of all doubts and scruples, and so clearing the eye of thesoul that she discerns God's Will, and so strengthening her that shegladly embraces it. And that surely is what you need just now in yourperplexity. "

The letter went on to describe briefly the method followed, and ended byentreating him again to come and see him. Anthony answered this bytelling him of his resignation of his post at Lambeth, and accepting hisinvitation; and he arranged to spend the last three weeks before Easterat Stanfield, and to go down there immediately upon leaving Lambeth. Hedetermined not to go to Great Keynes first, or to see Isabel, lest hisresolution should be weakened. Already, he thought, his motives weresufficiently mixed and perverted without his further aggravating theirearthly constituents. 

He wrote to his sister, however, telling her of his decision to leaveLambeth; and adding that he was going to stay with a friend until Easter, when he hoped to return to the Dower House, and take up his abode therefor the present. He received what he thought a very strange letter inreturn, written apparently under excitement strongly restrained. He readin it a very real affection for himself, but a certain reserve in it too, and even something of compassion; and there was a sentence in it thatabove all others astonished him. 

"J. M. Has been here, and is now gone to Douai. Oh! dear brother, sometime no doubt you will tell us all. I feel so certain that there is muchto explain. "

Had she then guessed his part in the priest's release? Anthony wondered;but at any rate he knew, after his promise to the Queen, that he must notgive her any clue. He was also surprised to hear that James had been toGreat Keynes. He had inquired for him at the Tower on the Monday afterhis visit to Greenwich, and had heard that Mr. Maxwell was already goneout of England. He had not then troubled to write again, as he had nodoubt but that his message to Lady Maxwell, which he had sent in his noteto Isabel, had reached her; and that certainly she, and probably Jamestoo, now knew that he had been an entirely unconscious and innocentinstrument in the priest's arrest. But that note, as has been seen, neverreached its destination. Lady Maxwell did not care to write to thebetrayer of her son; and Isabel on the one hand hoped and believed nowthat there was some explanation, but on the other did not wish to ask forit again, since her first request had been met by silence. 

As the last days of his life at Lambeth were coming to an end, Anthonybegan to send off his belongings on pack-horses to Great Keynes; and bythe time that the Saturday before Mid-Lent Sunday arrived, on which hewas to leave, all had gone except his own couple of horses and the bagscontaining his personal luggage. 

His last interview with the Archbishop affected him very greatly. 

He found the old man waiting for him, walking up and down Cranmer'sparlour in an empty part of the room, where there was no danger of hisfalling. He peered anxiously at Anthony as he entered. 

"Mr. Norris, " he said, "you are greatly on my mind. I fear I have notdone my duty to you. My God has taken away the great charge he called meto years ago, to see if I were fit or not for the smaller charge of mineown household, and not even that have I ruled well. "

Anthony was deeply moved. 

"My lord, " he said, "if I may speak plainly to you, I would say that tomy mind the strongest argument for the Church of England is that shebrings forth piety and goodness such as I have seen here. If it were notfor that, I should no longer be perplexed. "

Grindal held up a deprecating hand. 

"Do not speak so, Mr. Norris. That grieves me. However, I beseech you toforgive me for all my remissness towards you, and I wish to tell youthat, whatever happens, you shall never cease to have an old man'sprayers. You have been a good and courteous servant to me always--morethan that, you have been my loving friend--I might almost say my son: andthat, in a world that has cast me off and forgotten me, I shall noteasily forget. God bless you, my dear son, and give you His light andgrace. "

When Anthony rode out of the gateway half an hour later, with his servantand luggage behind him, it was only with the greatest difficulty that hecould keep from tears as he thought of the blind old man, living inloneliness and undeserved disgrace, whom he was leaving behind him. 

 CHAPTER XIII

 THE SPIRITUAL EXERCISES

Anthony found that Mr. Buxton had seriously underestimated himself indescribing his position as that of a plain country gentleman. Stanfieldwas one of the most beautiful houses that he had ever seen. On the dayafter his arrival, his host took him all over the house, at his earnestrequest, and told him its story; and as they passed from room to room, again and again Anthony found himself involuntarily exclaiming at the newand extraordinary beauties of architecture and furniture that revealedthemselves. 

The house itself had been all built in the present reign, before itsowner had got into trouble; and had been fitted throughout on the mostlavish scale, with furniture of German as well as of English manufacture. Mr. Buxton was a collector of pictures and other objects of art; and hishouse contained some of the very finest specimens of painting, bronzes, enamels, plate and woodwork procurable from the Continent. 

The house was divided into two sections; the chief living rooms were in along suite looking to the south on to the gardens, with a corridor on thenorth side running the whole length of the house on the ground-floor, from which a staircase rose to a similar corridor or gallery on the firstfloor. The second section of the house was a block of some half-dozensmallish rooms, with a private staircase of their own, and a privateentrance and little walled garden as well in front. The house was mostlypanelled throughout, and here and there hung pieces of magnificenttapestry and cloth of arras. All was kept, too, with a care that wasunusual in those days--the finest woodwork was brought to a high polish, as well as all the brass utensils and steel fire-plates and dogs and suchthings. No two rooms were alike; each possessed some markedcharacteristic of its own--one bedroom, for example, was distinguished byits fourpost bed with its paintings on the canopy and head--another, byits little two-light high window with Adam and Eve in stained glass;another with a little square-window containing a crucifix, which wasgenerally concealed by a sliding panel; another by two secret cupboardsover the fire-place, and its recess fitted as an oratory; another by amagnificent piece of tapestry representing Saint Clara and Saint Thomasof Aquin, each holding a monstrance, with a third great monstrance in thecentre, supported by angels. 

Downstairs the rooms were on the same scale of magnificence. Thedrawing-room had an exquisite wooden ceiling with great pendantselaborately carved; the dining-room was distinguished by its glass, containing a collection of coats-of-arms of many of Mr. Buxton's friendswho had paid him visits; the hall by its vast fire-place and thetapestries that hung round it. 

The exterior premises were scarcely less remarkable; a fine row ofstables, and kennels where greyhounds were kept, stood to the north andthe east of the house; but the wonder of the country was the gardens tothe south. Anthony hardly knew what to say for admiration as he wentslowly through these with his host, on the bright spring morning, aftervisiting the house. These were elaborately laid out, and under Mr. Buxton's personal direction, for he was one of the few people in Englandat this time who really understood or cared for the art. His avenue ofsmall clipped limes running down the main walk of the garden, hisyew-hedges fashioned with battlements and towers; his great garden housewith its vane; his fantastic dial in the fashion of a tall striped polesurmounted by a dragon;--these were the astonishment of visitors; and itwas freely said that had not Mr. Buxton been exceedingly adroit he wouldhave paid the penalty of his magnificence and originality by being forcedto receive a royal visit--a favour that would have gone far toimpoverish, if not to ruin him. The chancel of the parish-churchoverlooked the west end of his lime-avenue, while the east end of thegarden terminated in a great gateway, of stone posts and wrought irongates that looked out to the meadows and farm buildings of the estate, and up to which some day no doubt a broad carriage drive would be laiddown. But at present the sweep of the meadows was unbroken. 

It was to this beautiful place that Anthony found himself welcomed. Hishost took him at once on the evening of his arrival to the west block, and showed him his bedroom--that with the little cupboards and theoratory recess; and then, taking him downstairs again, showed him acharming little oak parlour, which he told him would be altogether at hisprivate service. 

"And you see, " added Mr. Buxton, "in this walled garden in front you canhave complete privacy, and thus can take the air without ever coming tothe rest of the house; to which there is this one entrance on the groundfloor. " And then he showed him how the lower end of the long corridorcommunicated with the block. 

"The only partners of this west block, " he added, "will be the twopriests--Mr. Blake, my chaplain, and Mr. Robert, who is staying with me aweek or two; and who, I hope, will conduct you through the Exercises, ashe is very familiar with them. You will meet them both at supper: ofcourse they will be both dressed as laymen. The Protestants blamed poorCampion for that, you know; but had he not gone in disguise, they wouldonly have hanged him all the sooner. I like not hypocrisy. "

Anthony was greatly impressed by Father Robert when he met him at supper. He was a tall and big man, who seemed about forty years of age, with along square-jawed face, a pointed beard and moustache, and shrewdpenetrating eyes. He seemed to be a man in advance of his time; he wasfull of reforms and schemes that seemed to Anthony remarkably to thepoint; and they were reforms too quite apart from ecclesiasticism, butrather such as would be classed in our days under the title of ChristianSocialism. 

For example, he showed a great sympathy for the condition of the poor andoutcast and criminals; and had a number of very practical schemes fortheir benefit. 

"Two things, " he said, in answer to a question of Anthony's, "I would doto-morrow if I had the power. First I would allow of long leases forfifty and a hundred years. Everywhere the soil is becoming impoverished;each man squeezes out of it as much as he can, and troubles not to feedthe land or to care for it beyond his time. Long leases, I hold, wouldremedy this. It would encourage the farmer to look before him and thinkof his sons and his sons' sons. And second, I would establish banks forpoor men. There is many a man now a-begging who would be living still inhis own house, if there had been some honest man whom he could havetrusted to keep his money for him, and, maybe, give him something for theloan of it: for in these days, when there is so much enterprise, moneyhas become, as it were, a living thing that grows; or at the least a toolthat can be used; and therefore, when it is lent, it is right that theborrower should pay a little for it. This is not the same as the usurythat Holy Church so rightly condemns: at least, I hold not, though some, I know, differ from me. "

After supper the talk turned on education: here, too, the priest had hisviews. 

"But you are weary of hearing me!" he said, in smiling apology. "You willthink me a schoolmaster. "

"And I pray you to consider me your pupil, " said Mr. Buxton. The priestmade a little deprecating gesture. 

"First, then, " he said, "I would have a great increase of grammarschools. It is grievous to think of England as she will be when thisgeneration grows up: the schooling was not much before; but now she haslost first the schools that were kept by Religious, and now the teachingthat the chantry-priests used to give. But this perhaps may turn toadvantage; for when the Catholic Religion is re-established in theserealms, she will find how sad her condition is; and, I hope, will remedyit by a better state of things than before--first, by a great number ofgrammar schools where the lads can be well taught for small fees, andwhere many scholarships will be endowed; and then, so great will be theincrease of learning, as I hope, that we shall need to have a thirduniversity, to which I should join a third Archbishoprick, for thegreater dignity of both; and all this I should set in the northsomewhere, Durham or Newcastle, maybe. "

He spoke, too, with a good deal of shrewdness of the increase of highwayrobbery, and the remedies for it; remarking that, although in otherrespects the laws were too severe, in this matter their administrationwas too lax; since robbers of gentle birth could generally rely onpardon. He spoke of the Holy Brotherhood in Spain (with which country heseemed familiar), and its good results in the putting down of violence. 

Anthony grew more and more impressed by this man's practical sense andability; but less drawn to him in consequence as his spiritual guide. Hefancied that true spirituality could scarcely exist in this intenselypractical nature. When supper was over, and the priests had gone back totheir rooms, and his host and he were seated before a wide blazing hearthin Mr. Buxton's own little room downstairs, he hinted something of thesort. Mr. Buxton laughed outright. 

"My dear friend, " he said, "you do not know these Jesuits (for of courseyou have guessed that he is one); their training and efficiency is beyondall imagining. In a week from now you will be considering how ever FatherRobert can have the heart to eat his dinner or say 'good-day' with such aspiritual vision and insight as he has. You need not fear. Like the angelin the Revelation, he will call you up to heaven, hale you to the abyssand show you things to come. And, though you may not believe it, it isthe man's intense and simple piety that makes him so clear-sighted andpractical; he lives so close to God that God's works and methods, soperplexing to you and me, are plain to him. "

They went on talking together for a while. Mr. Buxton said that FatherRobert had thought it best for Anthony not to enter Retreat until theMonday evening; by which time he could have sufficiently familiarisedhimself with his new surroundings, so as not to find them a distractionduring his spiritual treatment. Anthony agreed to this. Then they talkedof all kinds of things. His host told him of his neighbours; andexplained how it was that he enjoyed such liberty as he did. 

"You noticed the church, Mr. Norris, did you not, at your arrival, overlooking the garden? It is a great advantage to me to have it soclose. I can sit in my own garden and hear the Genevan thunders fromwithin. He preaches so loud that I might, if I wished, hear sermons, andthus satisfy the law and his Reverence; and at the same time not goinside an heretical meeting-house, and thus satisfy my own conscience andHis Holiness. But I fear that would not have saved me, had I not the earof his Reverence. I will tell you how it was. When the laws began to beenforced hereabouts, his Reverence came to see me; and sat in that verychair that you now occupy. 

"'I hear, ' said he, cocking his eye at me, 'that her Grace is becomingstrict, and more careful for the souls of her subjects. '

"I agreed with him, and said I had heard as much. 

"'The fine is twenty pounds a month, ' says he, 'for recusancy, ' and thenhe looks at me again. "

"At first I did not catch his meaning; for, as you have noticed, Mr. Norris, I am but a dull man in dealing with these sharp and subtleProtestants: and then all at once it flashed across me. 

"'Yes, your Reverence, ' I said, 'and it will be the end of poor gentlemenlike me, unless some kind friend has pity on them. How happy I am inhaving you!' I said, 'I have never yet shown my appreciation as I should:and I propose now to give you, to be applied to what purposes you will, whether the sustenance of the minister or anything else, the sum of tenpounds a month; so long as I am not troubled by the Council. Of course, if I should be fined by the Council, I shall have to drop my appreciationfor six months or so. '

"Well, Mr. Norris, you will hardly believe it, but the old doctor openedhis mouth and gulped and rolled his eyes, like a trout taking a fly; andI was never troubled until fifteen months ago, when they got at me inspite of him. But he has lost, you see, a matter of one hundred and fiftypounds while I have been at Wisbeach; and I shall not begin to appreciatehim again for another six months; so I do not think I shall be troubledagain. "

Anthony was amazed, and said so. 

"Well, " said the other, "I was astonished too; and should never havedreamt of appreciating him in such a manner unless he had proposed it. Ihad a little difficulty with Mr. Blake, who told me that it was a_libellum_, and that I should be ashamed to pay hush money. But I toldhim that he might call it what he pleased, but that I would sooner payten pounds a month and be in peace, than twenty pounds a month and beperpetually harassed: and Father Robert agrees with me, and so the otheris content now. "

The next day, which was Sunday, passed quietly. Mass was no doubt saidsomewhere in the house; though Anthony saw no signs of it. He himselfattended the reverend doctor's ministrations in the morning; and foundhim to be what he had been led to expect. 

In the afternoon he walked up and down the lime avenue with FatherRobert, while the evening prayer and sermon rumbled forth through thebroken chancel window; and they talked of the Retreat and thearrangements. 

"You no doubt think, Mr. Norris, " said the priest, "that I shall preachat you in this Retreat, and endeavour to force you into the CatholicChurch; but I shall do nothing of the kind. The whole object of theExercises is to clear away the false motives that darken the soul; toplace the Figure of our Redeemer before the soul as her dear and adorableLover and King; and then to kindle and inspire the soul to choose hercourse through the grace of God, for the only true final motive of allperfect action, --that is, the pure Love of God. Of course I believe, withthe consent of my whole being, that the Catholic Church is in the right;but I shall not for a moment attempt to compel you to accept her. Thefinal choice, as indeed the Retreat too, must be your free action, notmine. "

They arranged too the details of the Retreat; and Anthony was shown thelittle room beyond Father Robert's bedroom, where the Exercises would begiven; and informed that another gentleman who lived in the neighbourhoodwould come in every day for them too, but that he would have his mealsseparately, and that Anthony himself would have his own room and the roombeneath entirely at his private disposal, as well as the little walledgarden to walk in. 

The next day Mr. Buxton took Anthony a long ride, to invigorate him forthe Retreat that would begin after supper. Anthony learned to hisastonishment and delight that Mary Corbet was a great friend of Mr. Buxton's. 

"Why, of course I know her, " he said. "I have known her since she was atiny girl, and threw her mass-book at the minister's face the first timehe read the morning prayer. God only knows why she was so wroth with theman for differing from herself on a point that has perplexed the wisestheads: but at any rate, wroth she was, and bang went her book. I had totake her out, and she was spitting like a kitten all down the aisle whenthe dog puts his head into the basket. 

"'What's that man doing here?' she screamed out; 'where's the altar andthe priest?' And then at the door, as luck would have had it, she sawthat Saint Christopher was gone; and she began bewailing and bemoaninghim until you'd have thought he'd have been bound to come down fromheaven, as he did once across the dark river, and see what in the worldthe crying child wanted with him. "

 * * * *

They came about half-way in their ride through the village of Penshurst;and on reaching the Park turned off under the beeches towards the house. 

"We have not time to go in, " said Mr. Buxton, "but I hope you will seethe house sometime; it is a pattern of what a house should be; and has apattern master. "

As they came up to the Edwardine Gate-house, a pleasant-faced, quietly-dressed gentleman came riding out alone. 

"Why, here he is!" said Mr. Buxton, and greeted him with great warmth, and made Anthony known to him. 

"I am delighted to know Mr. Norris, " said Sidney, with that keen friendlylook that was so characteristic of him. "I have heard of him from manyquarters. "

He entreated them to come in; but Mr. Buxton said they had not time; butwould if they might just glance into the great court. So Sidney took themthrough the gate-house and pointed out one or two things of interest fromthe entrance, the roof of the Great Hall built by Sir John de Pulteney, the rare tracery in its windows and the fine living-rooms at one side. 

"I thank God for it every day, " said Sidney gravely. "I cannot imaginewhy He should have given it me. I hope I am not fool enough to disparageHis gifts, and pretend they are nothing: indeed, I love it with all myheart. I would as soon think of calling my wife ugly or a shrew. "

"That is a good man and a gentleman, " said Mr. Buxton, as they rode awayat last in the direction of Leigh after leaving Sidney to branch offtowards Charket, "and I do not know why he is not a Catholic. And he is acritic and a poet, men say, too. "

"Have you read anything of his?" asked Anthony. 

"Well, " said the other, "to tell the truth, I have tried to read somesheets of his that he wrote for his sister, Lady Pembroke. He calls it'Arcadia'; I do not know whether it is finished or ever will be. But itseemed to me wondrous dull. It was full of shepherds and swains andnymphs, who are perpetually eating collations which Phoebus or sunburntAutumn, and the like, provides of his bounty; or any one but GodAlmighty; or else they are bathing and surprising one another all daylong. It is all very sweet and exquisite, I know; and the Greece, wherethey all live and love one another, must be a very delightful country, asunlike this world as it is possible to imagine; but it wearies me. I likeplain England and plain folk and plain religion and plain fare; but thenI am a plain man, as I tell you so often. "

As the afternoon sun drew near setting, they came through Tonbridge. 

"Now, what can a man ask more, " said Mr. Buxton, as they rode through it, "than a good town like this? It is not a great place, I know, with solemnbuildings and wide streets; neither is it a glade or a dell; but it is agood clean English town; and I would not exchange it for Arcadia orAthens either. "

Stanfield lay about two miles to the west; and on their way out, Mr. Buxton talked on about the country and its joys and its usefulness. 

"Over there, " he said, pointing towards Eridge, "was the first cannonmade in England. I do not know if that is altogether to its credit, butit at least shows that we are not quite idle and loutish in the country. Then all about here is the iron; the very stirrups you ride in, Mr. Norris, most likely came from the ground beneath your feet; but it is sadto see all the woods cut down for the smelting of it. All these placesfor miles about here, and about Great Keynes too, are all named after thethings of forestry and hunting. Buckhurst, Hartfield, Sevenoaks, ForestRow, and the like, all tell of the country, and will do so long after weare dead and gone. "

They reached Stanfield, rode past the green and the large piece of waterthere, and up the long village street, and turned into the iron gatesbeyond the church, just as the dusk fell. 

That evening after supper the Retreat began. The conduct of the SpiritualExercises had not reached the elaboration to which they have beenperfected since; nor, in Anthony's case, a layman and a young man, didFather Robert think fit to apply it even in all the details in which itwould be used for a priest or for one far advanced in the spiritual life;but it was severe enough. 

Every evening Father Robert indicated the subject of the following day'smeditation; and then after private prayer Anthony retired to his room. Herose about seven o'clock in the morning, and took a little food at eight;then shortly before nine the first meditation was given elaborately. Thefirst examination of conscience was made at eleven; followed by dinner athalf-past. From half-past twelve to half-past one Anthony rested in hisroom; then until three he was encouraged to walk in the garden; at threethe meditation was to be recalled point by point in the chapel, followedby spiritual reading; at five o'clock supper was served; and at half-pastsix the meditation was repeated with tremendous emphasis and fervent actsof devotion; at half-past eight a slight collation was laid in his room;and at half-past nine the meditation for the following day was given. Father Robert in his previous talks with Anthony had given himinstructions as to how to occupy his own time, to keep his thoughts fixedand so forth. He had thought it wise too not to extend the Retreat forlonger than a fortnight; so that it was proposed to end it on PalmSunday. Two or three times in the week Anthony rode out by himself; andFather Robert was always at his service, besides himself coming sometimesto talk to him when he thought the strain or the monotony was getting tooheavy. 

As for the Exercises themselves, the effect of them on Anthony was beyondall description. First the circumstances under which they were given wereof the greatest assistance to their effectiveness. There was every aidthat romance and mystery could give. Then it was in a strange andbeautiful house where everything tended to caress the mind out of allself-consciousness. The little panelled room in which the exercises weregiven looked out over the quiet garden, and no sound penetrated there butthe far-off muffled noises of the peaceful village life, the rustle ofthe wind in the evergreens, and the occasional coo or soft flappingflight of a pigeon from the cote in the garden. The room itself wasfurnished with two or three faldstools and upright wooden arm-chairs oftolerable comfort; a table was placed at the further end, on which stooda realistic Spanish crucifix with two tapers always burning before it;and a little jar of fragrant herbs. Then there was the continual sense ofslight personal danger that is such a spur to refined natures; here was aCatholic house, of which every member was strictly subject to penalties, and above all one of that mysterious Society of Jesus, the very vanguardof the Catholic army, and of which every member was a picked and trainedchampion. Then there was the amazing enthusiasm, experience, and skill ofFather Robert, as he called himself; who knew human nature as ananatomist knows the structure of the human body; to whom the bewilderingtangle of motives, good, bad and indifferent, in the soul, was as plainas paths in a garden; who knew what human nature needed, what it coulddispense with, what was its power of resistance; and who had at hisdisposal for the storming of the soul an armoury of weapons and engines, every specimen of which he had tested and wielded over and over again. Little as Anthony knew it, Father Robert, during the first two days afterhis arrival, had occupied himself with sounding and probing the lad'ssoul, trying his intellect by questions that scarcely seemed to be so, taking the temperature of his emotional nature by tales and adroitremarks, and watching the effect of them; in short, with studying thesoul who had come for his treatment as a careful doctor examines thehealth of a new patient before he issues his prescription. And then, lastly, there were the Exercises themselves, a mighty weapon in anyhands; and all but irresistible when directed by the skill, and inspiredby the enthusiasm and sincere piety of such a man as Father Robert. 

The Exercises fell into three parts, each averaging in Anthony's caseabout five days. First came the Purgative Exercises: the object of thesewas to cleanse and search out the very recesses of the soul; as fireseparates gold from alloy. 

As Anthony knelt in the little room before the Crucifix day by day, itseemed to him as if the old conventional limitations and motives ofaction and control were rolling back, revealing the realities of thespiritual world. The Exercises began with an elaborate exposition of theEnd of man--which may be roughly defined as the Glory of God attainedthrough the saving and sanctifying of the individual. Every creature ofGod, then, that the soul encounters must be tested by this rule, How fardoes the use of it serve for the final end? For it must be used so far, and no farther. Here then was a diagram of the Exercises, given inminiature at the beginning. 

Then the great facts that practically all men acknowledge, and upon whichso few act, were brought into play. Hell, Judgment and Death in turnbegan to work upon the lad's soul--these monstrous elemental Truths thatunderlie all things. As Father Robert's deep vibrating voice spoke, itappeared to Anthony as if the room, the walls, the house, the world, allshrank to filmy nothingness before the appalling realities of thesethings. In that strange and profound "Exercise of the senses" he heardthe moaning and the blasphemies of the damned, of those rebellious freewills that have enslaved themselves into eternal bondage by a deliberaterejection of God--he put out his finger and tasted the bitterness oftheir furious tears--the very reek of sin came to his nostrils, of thatcorruption that is in existence through sin; nay, he saw the very flaminghells red with man's wrath against his Maker. 

Then he traced back, under the priest's direction, the Judgment throughwhich every soul must pass; he saw the dead, great and small, standbefore God; the books, black with blotted shame, were borne forth by therecording angels and spread before the tribunal. His ears tingled withthat condemning silence of the Judge beyond Whom there is no appeal, fromwhose sentence there is no respite, and from whose prison there is nodischarge; and rang with that pealing death-sentence at which the angelshide their faces, but to which the conscience of the criminal assentsthat it is just. His soul looked out at those whirling hosts on eitherside, that black cloud going down to despair, that radiant companyhastening to rise to the Uncreated Light in whom there is no darkness atall--and cried in piteous suspense to know on which side she herself oneday would be. 

Then he came yet one step further back still, and told himself the storyof his death. He saw the little room where he would lie, his bed in onecorner; he saw Isabel beside the bed; he saw himself, white, gasping, convulsed, upon it--the shadows of the doctor and the priest were uponthe wall--he heard his own quick sobbing breath, he put out his fingerand touched his own forehead wet with the death-dew--he tasted and smeltthe faint sickly atmosphere that hangs about a death chamber; and hewatched the grey shadow of Azrael's wing creep across his face. Then hesaw the sheet and the stiff form beneath it; and knew that they were hisfeatures that were hidden; and that they were his feet that stood upstark below the covering. Then he visited his own grave, and saw themonth-old grass blowing upon it, and the little cross at the head; thenhe dug down through the soil, swept away the earth from his coffin-plate;drew the screws and lifted the lid. .. . 

Then he placed sin beneath the white light; dissected it, analysed it, weighed it and calculated its worth, watched its development in thecongenial surroundings of an innocent soul, that is rich in grace andleisure and gifts, and saw the astonishing reversal of God's primal lawillustrated in the process of corruption--the fair, sweet, fragrantcreature passing into foulness. He looked carefully at the stages andmodes of sin--venial sins, those tiny ulcers that weaken, poison andspoil the soul, even if they do not slay it--lukewarmness, that deathlyslumber that engulfs the living thing into gradual death--and, finally, mortal sin, that one and only wholly hideous thing. He saw theindescribable sight of a naked soul in mortal sin; he saw how the earthshrank from it, how nature grew silent at it, how the sun darkened at it, how hell yelled at it, and the Love of God sickened at it. 

And so, as the purgative days went by, these tempests poured over hissoul, sifted through it, as the sea through a hanging weed, till all thatwas not organically part of his life was swept away, and he was left asimple soul alone with God. Then the second process began. 

To change the metaphor, the canvas was now prepared, scoured, bleachedand stretched. What is the image to be painted upon it? It is the imageof Christ. 

Now Father Robert laid aside his knives and his hammer, and took up hissoft brushes, and began stroke by stroke, with colours beyond imagining, to lay upon the eager canvas the likeness of an adorable Lover and King. Anthony watched the portrait grow day by day with increasing wonder. Wasthis indeed the Jesus of Nazareth of whom he had read in the Gospels? herubbed his eyes and looked; and yet there was no possibility ofmistake, --line for line it was the same. 

But this portrait grew and breathed and moved, and passed through all thestages of man's life. First it was the Eternal Word in the bosom of theFather, the Beloved Son who looked in compassion upon the warring worldbeneath; and offered Himself to the Father who gave Him through theEnergy of the Blessed Spirit. 

Then it was a silent Maid that he saw waiting upon God, offering herselfwith her lily beside her; and in answer on a sudden came the lightning ofGabriel's appearing, and, lo! the Eternal Word stole upon her down a rayof glory. And then at last he saw the dear Child born; and as he lookedhe was invited to enter the stable; and again he put out his hand andtouched the coarse straw that lay in the manger, and fingered the roughbrown cord that hung from Mary's waist, and smelled the sweet breath ofthe cattle, and the burning oil of Joseph's lantern hung against thewall, and shivered as the night wind shrilled under the ill-fitting doorand awoke the tender Child. 

Then he watched Him grow to boyhood, increasing in wisdom and stature, Him who was uncreated Wisdom, and in whose Hands are the worlds--followedHim, loving Him more at every step, to and from the well at Nazareth withthe pitcher on His head: saw Him with blistered hands and aching back inthe carpenter's shop; then at last went south with Him to Jordan;listened with Him, hungering, to the jackals in the wilderness; rockedwith Him on the high Temple spire; stared with Him at the Empires of alltime, and refused them as a gift. Then he went with Him from miracle tomiracle, laughed with joy at the leper's new skin; wept in sorrow and joywith the mother at Nain, and the two sisters at Bethany; knelt with Maryand kissed His feet; went home with Matthew and Zaccheus, and sat at meatwith the merry sinners; and at last began to follow silent and amazedwith face set towards Jerusalem, up the long lonely road from Jericho. 

Then, with love that almost burned his heart, he crouched at the moonlitdoor outside and watched the Supper begin. Judas pushed by him, muttering, and vanished in the shadows of the street. He heard the hushfall as the Bread was broken and the Red Wine uplifted; and he hid hisface, for he dared not yet look with John upon a glory whose veils wereso thin. Then he followed the silent company through the overhung streetsto the Temple Courts, and down across the white bridge to the gardendoor. Then, bolder, he drew near, left the eight and the three and kneltclose to the single Figure, who sobbed and trembled and sweated blood. Then he heard the clash of weapons and saw the glare of the torches, andlonged to warn Him but could not; saw the bitter shame of the kiss andthe arrest and the flight; and followed to Caiaphas' house; heard thestinging slap; ran to Pilate's house; saw that polished gentleman yawnand sneer; saw the clinging thongs and the splashed floor when thescourging was over; followed on to Calvary; saw the great Cross rise upat last over the heads of the crowd, and heard the storm of hoots andlaughter and the dry sobs of the few women. Then over his head the sungrew dull, and the earth rocked and split, as the crosses reeled withtheir swinging burdens. Then, as the light came back, and the earth endedher long shudder, he saw in the evening glow that his Lord was dead. Thenhe followed to the tomb; saw the stone set and sealed and the watchappointed; and went home with Mary and John, and waited. 

Then on Easter morning, wherever his Lord was, he was there too; withMary in that unrecorded visit; with the women, with the Apostles; on theroad to Emmaus; on the lake of Galilee; and his heart burned with Christat his side, on lake and road and mountain. 

Then at last he stood with the Twelve and saw that end that was soglorious a beginning; saw that tender sky overhead generate its strangecloud that was the door of heaven; heard far away the trumpets cry, andthe harps begin to ripple for the new song that the harpers had learnedat last; and then followed with his eyes the Lord whom he had now learnedto know and love as never before, as He passed smiling and blessing intothe heaven from which one day He will return. .. . 

 * * * *

There, then, as Anthony looked on the canvas, was that living, movingface and figure. What more could He have done that He did not do? Whatperfection could be dreamed of that was not already a thousand times His?

And when the likeness was finished, and Father Robert stepped aside fromthe portrait that he had painted with such tender skill and love, it islittle wonder that this lad threw himself down before that eloquentvision and cried with Thomas, My Lord and my God!

 * * * *

Then, very gently, Father Robert led him through those last steps; upfrom the Illuminative to the Unitive; from the Incarnate Life with itswarm human interests to that Ineffable Light that seems so chill andunreal to those who only see it through the clouds of earth, into thatkeen icy stillness, where only favoured and long-trained souls canbreathe, up the piercing air of the slopes that lead to the Throne, andthere in the listening silence of heaven, where the voice of adorationitself is silent through sheer intensity, where all colours return towhiteness and all sounds to stillness, all forms to essence and allcreation to the Creator, there he let him fall in self-forgetting loveand wonder, breathe out his soul in one ardent all-containing act, andmake his choice. 

 CHAPTER XIV

 EASTER DAY

Holy Week passed for Anthony like one of those strange dreams in whichthe sleeper awakes to find tears on his face, and does not know whetherthey are for joy or sorrow. At the end of the Retreat that closed on PalmSunday evening, Anthony had made his choice, and told Father Robert. 

It was not the Exercises themselves that were the direct agent, any morethan were the books he had read: the books had cleared away intellectualdifficulties, and the Retreat moral obstacles, and left his soul desiringthe highest, keen to see it, and free to embrace it. The thought that hewould have to tell Isabel appeared to him of course painful anddifficult; but it was swallowed up in the joy of his conversion. He madean arrangement with Father Robert to be received at Cuckfield on EasterEve; so that he might have an opportunity of telling Isabel before hetook the actual step. The priest told him he would give him a letter toMr. Barnes, so that he might be received immediately upon his arrival. 

Holy Week, then, was occupied for Anthony in receiving instruction eachmorning in the little oak parlour from Father Robert; and in attendingthe devotions in the evening with the rest of the household. He alsoheard mass each day. 

It was impossible, of course, to carry out the special devotions of theseason with the splendour and elaboration that belonged to them; butAnthony was greatly impressed by what he saw. The tender reverence withwhich the Catholics loved to linger over the details of the Passion, andto set them like precious jewels in magnificent liturgical settings, andthen to perform these stately heart-broken approaches to God with all thedignity and solemnity possible, appealed to him in strong contrast to thecold and loveless services, as he now thought them, of the EstablishedChurch that he had left. 

On the Good Friday evening he was long in the parlour with Father Robert. 

"I am deeply thankful, my son, " he said kindly, "that you have been ableto come to a decision. Of course I could have wished you to enter theSociety; but God has not given you a vocation to that apparently. However, you can do great work for Him as a seminary priest; and I amexceedingly glad that you will be going to Douai so soon. "

"I must just put my affairs in order at home, " he said, "and see whatarrangements my sister will wish to make; and by Midsummer at the latestI shall hope to be gone. "

"I must be off early to-morrow, " said the priest. "I have to be far fromhere by to-morrow night, in a house where I shall hope to stay until I, too, go abroad again. Possibly we may meet at Douai in the autumn. Well, my son, pray for me. "

Anthony knelt for his blessing, and the priest was gone. 

Presently Mr. Buxton came in and sat down. He was full of delight at theresult of his scheme; and said so again and again. 

"Who could have predicted it?" he cried. "To think that you were visitingme in prison fifteen months ago; and now this has come about in my house!Truly the Gospel blessing on your action has not been long on the way!And that you will be a priest, too! You must come and be my chaplain someday; if we are both alive and escape the gallows so long. Old Mr. Blakeis sore displeased with me. I am a trial to him, I know. He will hardlyspeak to me in my own house; I declare I tremble when I meet him in thegallery; for fear he will rate me before my servants. I forget what hislast grievance is; but I think it is something to do with a saint that hewishes me to be devout to; and I do not like her. Of course I do notdoubt her sanctity; but Mr. Blake always confuses veneration and liking. I yield to none in my veneration for Saint What's-her-name; but I do notlike her; and that is an end of the matter. "

After a little more talk, Mr. Buxton looked at Anthony curiously a momentor two; and then said:

"I wonder you have not guessed yet who Father Robert is; for I am sureyou know that that cannot be his real name. "

Anthony looked at him wonderingly. 

"Well, he is in bed now; and will be off early to-morrow; and I have hisleave to tell you. He is Father Persons, of whom you may have heard. "

Anthony stared. 

"Yes, " said his host, "the companion of Campion. All the world supposeshim to be in Rome; and I think that not half-a-dozen persons besidesourselves know where he is; but at this moment, I assure you, FatherRobert Persons, of the Society of Jesus, is asleep (or awake, as the casemay be) in the little tapestry chamber overhead. "

"Now, " went on Mr. Buxton, "that you are one of us, I will tell you quiteplainly that Father Robert, as we will continue to call him, is in myopinion one of the most devout priests that ever said mass; and also oneof the most shrewd men that ever drew breath; but I cannot follow himeverywhere. You will find, Mr. Anthony, that the Catholics in England areof two kinds: those who seem to have as their motto the text I quoted toyou in Lambeth prison; and who count their duty to Cæsar as scarcely lessimportant than their direct duty to God. I am one of these: I sincerelydesire above all things to serve her Grace, and I would not, for all theworld, join in any confederacy to dethrone her, for I hold she is mylawful and true Prince. Then there is another party who would nothesitate for a moment to take part against their Prince, though I do notsay to the slaying of her, if thereby the Catholic Religion could beestablished again in these realms. It is an exceedingly difficult point;and I understand well how honest and good men can hold that view: forthey say, and rightly, that the Kingdom of God is the first thing in theworld, and while they may not commit sin of course to further it, yet inthings indifferent they must sacrifice all for it; and, they add, it isindifferent as to who sits on the throne of England; therefore one Princemay be pushed off it, so long as no crime is committed in the doing ofit, and another seated there; if thereby the Religion may be soestablished again. You see the point, Mr. Anthony, no doubt; and how fineand delicate it is. Well, Father Robert is, I think, of that party; andso are many of the authorities abroad. Now I tell you all this, and onthis sacred day too, because I may have no other opportunity; and I donot wish you to be startled or offended after you have become a Catholic. And I entreat you to be warm and kindly to those who take other viewsthan your own; for I fear that many troubles lie in front of us of ourown causing: for there are divisions amongst us already: although not atall of course (for which I thank God) on any of the saving truths of theFaith. "

Anthony's excitement on hearing Father Robert's real name was very great. As he lay in bed that night the thought of it all would hardly let himsleep. He turned to and fro, trying to realise that there, within a dozenyards of him, lay the famous Jesuit for whose blood all ProtestantEngland was clamouring. The name of Persons was still sinister andterrible even to this convert; and he could scarcely associate in histhoughts all its suggestiveness with that kindly fervent lover of JesusChrist who had led him with such skill and tenderness along the way ofthe Gospel. Others in England were similarly astonished in later years tolearn that a famous Puritan book of devotions was scarcely other than areprint of Father Persons' "Christian Directory. "

The following day about noon, after an affectionate good-bye to his hostand Mr. Blake, Anthony rode out of the iron-wrought gates and down thevillage street in the direction of Great Keynes. 

It was a perfect spring-day. Overhead there was a soft blue sky withtranslucent clouds floating in it; underfoot and on all sides the mysteryof life was beginning to stir and manifest itself. The last touch ofbitterness had passed from the breeze, and all living growth was makinghaste out into the air. The hedges were green with open buds, andbubbling with the laughter and ecstasy of the birds; the high slopingoverhung Sussex lanes were sweet with violets and primroses; and here andthere under the boughs Anthony saw the blue carpet of bell-flowersspread. Rabbits whisked in and out of the roots, superintending andprovisioning the crowded nurseries underground; and as Anthony came out, now and again on the higher and open spaces larks vanished up their airyspirals of song into the illimitable blue; or hung, visible musicalspecks against a fleecy cloud, pouring down their thin cataract ofmelody. And as he rode, for every note of music and every glimpse ofcolour round him, his own heart poured out pulse after pulse of thatspiritual essence that lies beneath all beauty, and from which all beautyis formed, to the Maker of all this and the Saviour of himself. Therewere set wide before him now the gates of a kingdom, compared to whichthis realm of material life round about was but a cramped and wintryprison after all. 

How long he had lived in the cold and the dark! he thought; kept alive bythe refracted light that stole down the steps to where he sat in theshadow of death; saved from freezing by the warmth of grace that managedto survive the chill about him; and all the while the Catholic Church wasglowing and pulsating with grace, close to him and yet unseen; that greatrealm full of heavenly sunlight, that was the life of all itsmembers--that sunlight that had poured down so steadily ever since thewinter had rolled away on Calvary; and that ever since then had beenelaborating and developing into a thousand intricate forms all that wascapable of absorbing it. One by one the great arts had been drawn intothat Kingdom, transformed and immortalised by the vital and miraculoussap of grace; philosophies, languages, sciences, all in turn were takenup and sanctified; and now this Puritan soul, thirsty for knowledge andgrace, and so long starved and imprisoned, was entering at last into herheritage. 

All this was of course but dimly felt in the direct perceptions ofAnthony; but Father Robert had said enough to open something of thevision, and he himself had sufficient apprehension to make him feel thatthe old meagre life was passing away, and a new life of unfathomedpossibilities beginning. As he rode the wilderness appeared to rejoiceand blossom like the rose, as the spring of nature and grace stirredabout and within him; and only an hour or two's ride away lay the veryhills and streams of the Promised Land. 

 * * * *

About half-past three he crossed the London road, and before four o'clockhe rode round to the door of the Dower House, dismounted, telling thegroom to keep his horse saddled. 

He went straight through the hall, calling Isabel as he went, and intothe garden, carrying his flat cap and whip and gloves: and as he came outbeneath the holly tree, there she stood before him on the top of the oldstone garden steps, that rose up between earthen flower-jars to theyew-walk on the north of the house. He went across the grass smiling, andas he came saw her face grow whiter and whiter. She was in a dark sergedress with a plain ruff, and a hood behind it, and her hair was coiled ingreat masses on her head. She stood trembling, and he came up and tookher in his arms tenderly and kissed her, for his news would be heavypresently. 

"Why, Isabel, " he said, "you look astonished to see me. But I could notwell send a man, as I had only Geoffrey with me. "

She tried to speak, but could not; and looked so overwhelmed andterrified that Anthony grew frightened; he saw he must be very gentle. 

"Sit down, " he said, drawing her to a seat beside the path at the head ofthe steps: "and tell me the news. "

By a great effort she regained her self-control. 

"I did not know when you were coming, " she said tremulously. "I wasstartled. "

He talked of his journey for a few minutes; and of the kindness of thefriend with whom he had been staying, and the beauty of the house andgrounds, and so on; until she seemed herself again; and the piteousstartled look had died out of her eyes: and then he forced himself toapproach his point; for the horse was waiting saddled; and he must get toCuckfield and back by supper if possible. 

He took her hand and played with it gently as he spoke, turning over herrings. 

"Isabel, " he said, "I have news to tell you. It is not bad news--at leastI think not--it is the best thing that has ever come to me yet, by thegrace of God, and so you need not be anxious or frightened. But I amafraid you may think it bad news. It--it is about religion, Isabel. "

He glanced at her, and saw that terrified look again in her face: she wasstaring at him, and her hand in his began to twitch and tremble. 

"Nay, nay, " he said, "there is no need to look like that. I have not lostmy faith in God. Rather, I have gained it. Isabel, I am going to be aCatholic. "

A curious sound broke from her lips; and a look so strange came into herface that he threw his arm round her, thinking she was going to faint:and he spoke sharply. 

"Isabel, Isabel, what is there to fear? Look at me!"

Then a cry broke from her white lips, and she struggled to stand up. 

"No, no, no! you are mocking me. Oh! Anthony, what have I done, that youshould treat me like this?"

"Mocking!" he said, "before God I am not. My horse is waiting to take meto the priest. "

"But--but--" she began again. "Oh! then what have you done to JamesMaxwell?"

"James Maxwell! Why? What do you mean? You got my note!"

"No--no. There was no answer, he said. "

Anthony stared. 

"Why, I wrote--and then Lady Maxwell! Does she not know, and Jameshimself?"

Isabel shook her head and looked at him wildly. 

"Well, well, that must wait; one thing at a time, " he said. "I _cannot_wait now. I must go to Cuckfield. Ah! Isabel, say you understand. "

Once or twice she began to speak, but failed; and sat panting and staringat him. 

"My darling, " he said, "do not look like that: we are both Christiansstill: we at least serve the same God. Surely you will not cast me offfor this?"

"Cast you off?" she said; and she laughed piteously and sharply; and thenwas grave again. Then she suddenly cried, "Oh, Anthony, swear to me you are not mocking me. "

"My darling, " he said, "why should I mock you? I have made the Exercises, and have been instructed; and I have here a letter to Mr. Barnes from thepriest who has taught me; so that I may be received to-night, and make myEaster duties: and Geoffrey is still at the door holding Roland to takeme to Cuckfield to-night. "

"To Cuckfield!" she said. "You will not find Mr. Barnes there. "

"Not there! why not? Where shall I find him? How do you know?"

"Because he is here, " she went on in the same strange voice, "at theHall. "

"Well, " said Anthony, "that saves me a journey. Why is he here?"

"He is here to say mass to-morrow. "

"Ah!"

"And--and----"

"What is it, Isabel?"

"And--to receive me into the Church to-night. "

 * * * *

The brother and sister walked up and down that soft spring evening aftersupper, on the yew-walk; with the whispers and caresses of the scented, breeze about them, the shy dewy eyes of the stars looking down at thembetween the tall spires of the evergreens overhead; and in their heartsthe joy of lovers on a wedding-night. 

Anthony had soon told the tale of James Maxwell and Isabel had nearlyknelt to ask her brother's pardon for having ever allowed even the shadowof a suspicion to darken her heart. Lady Maxwell, too, who had come downwith her sister to see Isabel about some small arrangement, was told; andshe too had been nearly overwhelmed with the joy of knowing that the ladwas innocent, and the grief of having dreamed he could be otherwise, andat the wholly unexpected news of his conversion; but she had gone at lastback to the Hall to make all ready for the double ceremony of that night, and the Paschal Feast on the next day. Mistress Margaret was in Isabel'sroom, moving about with a candle, and every time that the two reached theturn at the top of the steps they saw her light glimmering. 

Then Anthony, as they walked under the stars, told Isabel of his greathope that he, too, one day would be a priest, and serve God and hiscountrymen that way. 

"Oh, Anthony, " she whispered, and clung to that dear arm that held herown; terrified for the moment at the memory of what had been the price ofpriesthood to James Maxwell. 

"And where shall you be trained for it?" she asked. 

"At Douai: and--Isabel--I think I must go this summer. "

"This summer!" she said. "Why----" and she was silent. 

"Anthony, " she went on, "I would like to tell you about Hubert. "

And then the story of the past months came out; she turned away her faceas she talked; and at last she told him how Hubert had come for hisanswer, a week before his time. 

"It was on Monday, " she said. "I heard him on the stairs, and stood up ashe came in; and he stopped at the door in silence, and I could not bearto look at him. I could hear him breathing quickly; and then I could notbear to--think of it all; and I dropped down into my chair again, and hidmy face in my arm and burst into crying. And still he said nothing, but Ifelt him come close up to me and kneel down by me; and he put his handover mine, and held them tight; and then he whispered in a kind of quickway:

"'I will be what you please; Catholic or Protestant, or what you will';and I lifted my head and looked at him, because it was dreadful to hearhim--Hubert--say that: and he was whiter than I had ever seen him; andthen--then he began to wrinkle his mouth--you know the way he does whenhis horse is pulling or kicking: and then he began to say all kinds ofthings: and oh! I was so sorry; because he had behaved so well tillthen. "

"What did he say?" asked Anthony quickly. 

"Ah! I have tried to forget, " said Isabel. "I do not want to think of himas he was when he was angry and disappointed. At last he flung out of theroom and down the stairs, and I have not seen him since. But Lady Maxwellsent for me the same evening an hour later; and told me that she couldnot live there any longer. She said that Hubert had ridden off to London;and would not be down again till Whitsuntide; but that she must be gonebefore then. So I am afraid that he said things he ought not; but ofcourse she did not tell me one word. And she asked me to go with her. And, and--Anthony, I did not know what to say; because I did not knowwhat you would do when you heard that I was a Catholic; I was waiting totell you when you came home--but now--but now----Oh, Anthony, mydarling!"

At last the two came indoors. Mistress Margaret met them in the hall. Shelooked for a moment at the two; at Anthony in his satin and lace and hissmiling face over his ruff and his steady brown eyes; and Isabel on hisarm, with her clear pale face and bosom and black high-piled hair, andher velvet and lace, and a rope of pearls. 

"Why, " said the old nun, smiling, "you look a pair of lovers. "

Then presently the three went together up to the Hall. 

 * * * *

An hour or two passed away; the Paschal moon was rising high over thetall yew hedge behind the Italian garden; and the Hall lay beneath itwith silver roofs and vane; and black shadows under the eaves and in theangles. The tall oriel window of the Hall looking on to the terrace shoneout with candlelight; and the armorial coats of the Maxwells and thefamilies they had married with glimmered in the upper panes. From thecloister wing there shone out above the curtains lines of light in LadyMaxwell's suite of rooms, and the little oak parlour beneath, as well asfrom one or two other rooms; but the rest of the house, with theexception of the great hall and the servants' quarters, was all dark. Itwas as if the interior life had shifted westwards, leaving the remainderdesolate. The gardens to the south were silent, for the night breeze haddropped; and the faint ripple of the fountain within the cloister-courtwas the only sound that broke the stillness. And once or twice the sleepychirp of a bird nestling by his mate in the deep shrubberies showed thatthe life of the spring was beating out of sight. 

And then at last the door in the west angle of the terrace, between thecloister wing and the front of the house, opened, and a flood of mellowlight poured out on to the flat pavement. A group stood within the littleoaken red-tiled lobby; Lady Maxwell and her sister, slender and dignifiedin their dark evening dresses and ruffs; Anthony holding his cap, andIsabel with a lace shawl over her head, and at the back the white hairand ruddy face of old Mr. Barnes in his cassock at the bottom of thestairs. 

As Mistress Margaret opened the door and looked out, Lady Maxwell tookIsabel in her arms and kissed her again and again. Then Anthony took theold lady's hand and kissed it, but she threw her other hand round him andkissed him too on the forehead. Then without another word the brother andsister came out into the moonlight, passed down the side of the cloisterwing, and turning once to salute the group who waited, framed and bathedin golden light, they turned the corner to the Dower House. Then the doorclosed; the oriel window suddenly darkened, and an hour after the lightsin the wing went out, and Maxwell Hall lay silver and grey again in themoonlight. 

The night passed on. Once Isabel awoke, and saw her windows blue andmystical and her room full of a dim radiance from the bright nightoutside. It was irresistible, and she sprang out of bed and went to thewindow across the cool polished oak floor, and leaned with her elbows onthe sill, looking out at the square of lawn and the low ivied wallbeneath, and the tall trees rising beyond ashen-grey and olive-black inthe brilliant glory that poured down from almost directly overhead, forthe Paschal moon was at its height above the house. 

And then suddenly the breathing silence was broken by a ripple of melody, and another joined and another; and Isabel looked and wondered andlistened, for she had never heard before the music of the mysteriousnight-flight of the larks all soaring and singing together when the restof the world is asleep. And she listened and wondered as the stream ofsong poured down from the wonderful spaces of the sky, rising to far-offecstasies as the wheeling world sank yet further with its sleepingmeadows and woods beneath the whirling singers; and then the earth for amoment turned in its sleep as Isabel listened, and the trees stirred asone deep breath came across the woods, and a thrush murmured a note ortwo beside the drive, and a rabbit suddenly awoke in the field and ran onto the lawn and sat up and looked at the white figure at the window; andfar away from the direction of Lindfield a stag brayed. 

"So longeth my soul, " whispered Isabel to herself. 

Then all grew still again; the trees hushed; the torrent of music, moretumultuous as it neared the earth, suddenly ceased; and Isabel at thewindow leaned further out and held her hands in the bath of light; andspoke softly into the night:

"Oh, Lord Jesus, how kind Thou art to me!"

 * * * *

Then at last the morning came, and Christ was risen beyond a doubt. 

Just before the sun came up, when all the sky was luminous to meet him, the two again passed up and round the corner, and into the little door inthe angle. There was the same shaded candle or two, for the house was yetdark within; and they passed up and on together through the sitting-roominto the chapel where each had made a First Confession the night before, and had together been received into the Catholic Church. Now it was allfragrant with flowers and herbs; a pair of tall lilies leaned theirdelicate heads towards the altar, as if to listen for the soundlessComing in the Name of the Lord; underfoot all about the altar lay sprigsof sweet herbs, rosemary, thyme, lavender, bay-leaves; with whiteblossoms scattered over them--a soft carpet for the Pierced Feet; notlike those rustling palm-swords over which He rode to death last week. The black oak chest that supported the altar-stone was glorious in itsvesture of cloth-of-gold; and against the white-hung wall at the back, behind the silver candlesticks, leaned the gold plate of the house, to dohonour to the King. And presently there stood there the radiant rustlingfigure of the Priest, his personality sheathed and obliterated beneaththe splendid symbolism of his vestments, stiff and chinking with jewelsas he moved. 

The glorious Mass of Easter Day began. 

"_Immolatus est Christus. Itaque epulemur_, " Saint Paul cried from thesouth corner of the altar to the two converts. "Christ our Passover issacrificed for us; therefore let us keep the feast, but not with the oldleaven. "

"_Quis revolvet nobis lapidem?_" wailed the women. "Who shall roll usaway the stone from the door of the sepulchre?"

"And when they looked, " cried the triumphant Evangelist, "they saw thatthe stone was rolled away; for it was very great"--"_erat quippe magnusvalde_. "

Here then they knelt at last, these two come home together, these who hadfollowed their several paths so resolutely in the dark, not knowing thatthe other was near, yet each seeking a hidden Lord, and finding both Himand one another now in the full and visible glory of His Face--_orto jamsole_--for the Sun of Righteousness had dawned, and there was healing forall sorrows in His Wings. 

"_Et credo in unam sanctam Catholicam et Apostolicam Ecclesiam_"--theirhearts cried all together. "I believe at last in a Catholic Church; one, for it is built on one and its faith is one; holy, for it is the Daughterof God and the Mother of Saints; Apostolic, for it is guided by thePrince of Apostles and very Vicar of Christ. "

"_Et exspecto vitam venturi saeculi. _" "I look for the life of the worldto come; and I count all things but loss, houses and brethren and sistersand father and mother and wife and children and lands, when I look tothat everlasting life, and Him Who is the Way to it. _Amen. _"

So from step to step the liturgy moved on with its sonorous and exultanttramp, and the crowding thoughts forgot themselves, and watched as thesplendid heralds went by; the triumphant trumpets of _Gloria in excelsis_had long died away; the proclamation of the names and titles of the Princehad been made. _Unum Dominum Jesum Christum_; _Filium Dei Unigenitum_;_Ex Patre natum ante omnia saecula_; _Deum de Deo_; _Lumen de Lumine_;_Deum Verum de Deo Vero_; _Genitum non factum_; _Consubstantialem Patri. _

Then His first achievement had been declared; "_Per quem omnia factasunt. _"

Then his great and later triumphs; how He had ridden out alone from thePalace and come down the steep of heaven in quest of His Love; how He haddisguised Himself for her sake; and by the crowning miracle of love, themightiest work that Almighty God has ever wrought, He was made man; andthe herald hushed his voice in awe as he declared it, and the peoplethrew themselves prostrate in honour of this high and lowly Prince; thenwas recounted the tale of those victories that looked so bitterly likefailures, and the people held their breath and whispered it too; then inrising step after step His last conquests were told; how the Black Knightwas overthrown, his castle stormed and his prison burst; and the story ofthe triumph of the return and of the Coronation and the Enthronement atthe Father's Right Hand on high. 

The heralds passed on; and mysterious figures came next, bearingMelchisedech's gifts; shadowing the tremendous event that follows onbehind. 

After a space or two came the first lines of the bodyguard, the heavenlycreatures dimly seen moving through clouds of glory, Angels, Dominations, Powers, Heavens, Virtues, and blessed Seraphim, all crying out togetherto heaven and earth to welcome Him Who comes after in the bright shadowof the Name of the Lord; and the trumpets peal out for the last time, "Hosanna in the highest. "

Then a hush fell, and presently in the stillness came riding the greatPersonages who stand in heaven about the Throne; first, the Queen Motherherself, glorious within and without, moving in clothing of wrought gold, high above all others; then, the great Princes of the Blood Royal, whoare admitted to drink of the King's own Cup, and sit beside Him on theirthrones, Peter and Paul and the rest, with rugged faces and scarredhands; and with them great mitred figures, Linus, Cletus and Clement, with their companions. 

And then another space and a tingling silence; the crowds bow down likecorn before the wind, the far-off trumpets are silent; and He comes--Hecomes!

On He moves, treading under foot the laws He has made, yet borne up bythem as on the Sea of Galilee; He Who inhabits eternity at an instant ismade present; He Who transcends space is immanent in material kind; HeWho never leaves the Father's side rests on His white linen carpet, heldyet unconfined; in the midst of the little gold things and embroidery andcandle-flames and lilies, while the fragrance of the herbs rises aboutHim. There rests the gracious King, before this bending group; the restof the pageant dies into silence and nothingness outside the radiantcircle of His Presence. There is His immediate priest-herald, who hasmarked out this halting-place for the Prince, bowing before Him, strivingby gestures to interpret and fulfil the silence that words must alwaysleave empty; here behind are the adoring human hearts, each looking withclosed eyes into the Face of the Fairest of the children of men, eachcrying silently words of adoration, welcome and utter love. 

The moments pass; the court ceremonies are performed. The Virgins thatfollow the Lamb, Felicitas, Perpetua, Agatha and the rest step forwardsmiling, and take their part; the Eternal Father is invoked again in theSon's own words; and at length the King, descending yet one further stepof infinite humility, flings back the last vesture of His outward Royaltyand casts Himself in a passion of haste and desire into the still andinvisible depths of these two quivering hearts, made in His own Image, that lift themselves in an agony of love to meet Him. .. . 

 * * * *

Meanwhile the Easter morning is deepening outside; the sun is risingabove the yew hedge, and the dew flashes drop by drop into a diamond andvanishes; the thrush that stirred and murmured last night is pouring outhis song; and the larks that rose into the moonlight are running to andfro in the long meadow grass. The tall slender lilies that have not beenchosen to grace the sacramental Presence-Chamber, are at least in theKing's own garden, where He walks morning and evening in the cool of theday; and waiting for those who will have seen Him face to face. .. . 

And presently they come, the tall lad and his sister, silent andtogether, out into the radiant sunlight; and the joy of the morning andthe singing thrush and the jewels of dew and the sweet swaying lilies areshamed and put to silence by the joy upon their faces and in theirhearts. 

 PART III

 CHAPTER I

 THE COMING OF SPAIN

The conflict between the Old Faith and the lusty young Nation wentsteadily forward after the Jesuit invasion; more and more priests pouredinto England; more and more were banished, imprisoned and put to death. The advent of Father Holt, the Jesuit, to Scotland in 1583 was a signalfor a new outburst of Catholic feeling, which manifested itself not onlyin greater devotion to Religion, but, among the ill-instructed andimpatient, in very questionable proceedings. In fact, from this timeonward the Catholic cause suffered greatly from the division of itssupporters into two groups; the religious and the political, as they maybe named. The former entirely repudiated any desire or willingness tomeddle with civil matters; its members desired to be both Catholics andEnglishmen; serving the Pope in matters of Faith and Elizabeth in mattersof civil life; but they suffered greatly from the indiscretions andfanaticism of the political group. The members of that party franklyregarded themselves as at war with an usurper and an heretic; and usedwarlike methods to gain their ends; plots against the Queen's life wereset on foot; and their promoters were willing enough to die in defence ofthe cause. But the civil Government made the fatal mistake of notdistinguishing between the two groups; again and again loyal Englishmenwere tortured and hanged as traitors, because they shared their faithwith conspirators. 

There was one question, however, that was indeed on the borderline, exceedingly difficult to answer in words, especially for scrupulousconsciences; and that was whether they believed in the Pope's deposingpower; and this question was adroitly and deliberately used by theGovernment in doubtful cases to ensure a conviction. But whether or notit was possible to frame a satisfactory answer in words, yet the accusedwere plain enough in their deeds; and when the Armada at length waslaunched in '88, there were no more loyal defenders of England than thepersecuted Catholics. Even before this, however, there had appeared signsof reaction among the Protestants, especially against the torture anddeath of Campion and his fellows; and Lord Burghley in '83 attempted toquiet the people's resentment by his anonymous pamphlet, "Execution ofJustice in England, " to which Cardinal Allen presently replied. 

Ireland, which had been profoundly stirred by the military expeditionfrom the continent in '80, at length was beaten and slashed intosubmission again; and the torture and execution of Hurley by martial law, which Elizabeth directed on account of his appointment to the See ofCashel, when the judges had pronounced there to be no case against him;and a massacre on the banks of the Moy in '86 of Scots who had comeacross as reinforcements to the Irish;--these were incidents in the blacklist of barbarities by which at last a sort of temporary quiet wasbrought to Ireland. 

In Scottish affairs, the tangle, unravelled even still, of which MaryStuart was the centre, led at last to her death. Walsingham, withextraordinary skill, managed to tempt her into a dangerouscorrespondence, all of which he tapped on the way: he supplied to her infact the very instrument--an ingeniously made beer-barrel--through whichthe correspondence was made possible, and, after reading all the letters, forwarded them to their several destinations. When all was ripe hebrought his hand down on a group of zealots, to whose designs Mary wassupposed to be privy; and after their execution, finally succeeded, in'87, in obtaining Elizabeth's signature to her cousin's death-warrant. The storm already raging against Elizabeth on the Continent, but fannedto fury by this execution, ultimately broke in the Spanish Armada in thefollowing year. 

Meanwhile, at home, the affairs of the Church of England were far fromprosperous. Puritanism was rampant; and a wail of dismay was evoked bythe new demands of a Commission under Whitgift's guidance, in '82, whereby the Puritan divines were now called upon to assent to the Queen'sSupremacy, the Thirty-nine Articles and the Prayer Book. In spite of theopposition, however, of Burghley and the Commons, Whitgift, who had bythis time succeeded to Canterbury upon Grindal's death, remained firm;and a long and dreary dispute began, embittered further by the executionof Mr. Copping and Mr. Thacker in '83 for issuing seditious books in thePuritan cause. A characteristic action in this campaign was the issuingof a Puritan manifesto in '84, consisting of a brief, well-writtenpamphlet of a hundred and fifty pages under the title "A LearnedDiscourse of Ecclesiastical Government, " making the inconsistent claim ofdesiring a return to the Primitive and Scriptural model, and at the sametime of advocating an original scheme, "one not yet handled. " It waspractically a demand for the Presbyterian system of pastorate andgovernment. To this Dr. Bridges replies with a tremendous tome of overfourteen hundred pages, discharged after three years of laborious toil;and dealing, as the custom then was, line by line, with the Puritanattack. To this in the following year an anonymous Puritan, under thename of Martin Marprelate, retorts with a brilliant and sparkling riposteaddressed to "The right puissant and terrible priests, my clergy-mastersof the Convocation-house, " in which he mocks bitterly at the prelates, accusing them of Sabbath-breaking, time-serving, and popery, --calling one"dumb and duncetical, " another "the veriest coxcomb that ever wore velvetcap, " and summing them up generally as "wainscot-faced bishops, " "proud, popish, presumptuous, profane paltry, pestilent, and perniciousprelates. "

The Archbishop had indeed a difficult team to drive; especially as hiscoadjutors were not wholly proof against Martin's jibes. In '84 hisbrother of York had been mixed up in a shocking scandal; in '85 theBishop of Lichfield was accused of simony; Bishop Aylmer was continuallyunder suspicion of avarice, dishonesty, vanity and swearing; and theBench as a whole was universally reprobated as covetous, stingy and weak. 

 * * * *

In civil matters, England's relation with Spain was her most importantconcern. Bitter feeling had been growing steadily between the twocountries ever since Drake's piracies in the Spanish dominions inAmerica; and a gradually increasing fleet at Cadiz was the outward signof it. Now the bitterness was deepened by the arrest of English ships inthe Spanish ports in the early summer of '85, and the swift reprisals ofDrake in the autumn; who intimidated and robbed important towns on thecoast, such as Vigo, where his men behaved with revolting irreverence inthe churches, and Santiago; and then proceeded to visit and spoil S. Domingo and Carthagena in the Indies. 

Again in '87 Drake obtained the leave of the Queen to harass Spain oncemore, and after robbing and burning all the vessels in Cadiz harbour, hestormed the forts at Faro, destroyed Armada stores at Corunna, andcaptured the great treasure-ship _San Felipe_. 

Elizabeth was no doubt encouraged in her apparent recklessness by thebelief that with the Netherlands, which she had been compelled at last toassist, in a state of revolt, Spain would have little energy forreprisals upon England; but she grew more and more uneasy when newscontinued to arrive in England of the growing preparations for theArmada; France, too, was now so much involved with internal struggles, asthe Protestant Henry of Navarre was now the heir to her Catholic throne, that efficacious intervention could no longer be looked for from thatquarter, and it seemed at last as if the gigantic Southern power wasabout to inflict punishment upon the little northern kingdom which hadinsulted her with impunity so long. 

In the October of '87 certain news arrived in England of the giganticpreparations being made in Spain and elsewhere: and hearts began to beat, and tongues to clack, and couriers to gallop. Then as the months went by, and tidings sifted in, there was something very like consternation in thecountry. Men told one another of the huge armament that was on its way, the vast ships and guns--all bearing down on tiny England, like a bull ona terrier. They spoke of the religious fervour, like that of a crusade, that inspired the invasion, and was bringing the flower of the Spanishnobility against them: the superstitious contrasted their own _Lion_, _Revenge_, and _Elizabeth Jonas_ with the Spanish _San Felipe_, _SanMatteo_, and _Our Lady of the Rosary_: the more practical thought witheven deeper gloom of the dismal parsimony of the Queen, who dribbled outstores and powder so reluctantly, and dismissed her seamen at the leasthint of delay. 

Yet, little by little, as midsummer came and went, beacons were gatheringon every hill, ships were approaching efficiency, and troops assemblingat Tilbury under the supremely incompetent command of Lord Leicester. 

Among the smaller seaports on the south coast, Rye was one of the mostactive and enthusiastic; the broad shallow bay was alive withfishing-boats, and the steep cobbled streets of the town were filled allday with a chattering exultant crowd, cheering every group of seamen thatpassed, and that spent long hours at the quay watching the busy life ofthe ships, and predicting the great things that should fall when theSpaniards encountered the townsfolk, should the Armada survive Drake'sonslaught further west. 

About July the twentieth more definite news began to arrive. At leastonce a day a courier dashed in through the south-west gate, with newsthat all must hold themselves ready to meet the enemy by the end of themonth; labour grew more incessant and excitement more feverish. 

About six o'clock on the evening of the twenty-ninth, as a long row ofpowder barrels was in process of shipping down on the quay, the men whowere rolling them suddenly stopped and listened; the line of onlookerspaused in their comments, and turned round. From the town above came anoutburst of cries, followed by the crash of the alarm from thechurch-tower. In two minutes the quay was empty. Out of every passagethat gave on to the main street poured excited men and women, somehysterically laughing, some swearing, some silent and white as they ran. For across the bay westwards, on a point beyond Winchelsea, in the stillevening air rose up a stream of smoke shaped like a pine-tree, with a redsmouldering root; and immediately afterwards in answer the Ypres towerbehind the town was pouring out a thick drifting cloud that told to thewatchers on Folkestone cliffs that the dreaded and longed-for foe was insight of England. 

Then the solemn hours of waiting began to pass. Every day and night therewere watchers, straining their eyes westwards in case the Armada shouldattempt to coast along England to force a landing anywhere, andsouthwards in case they should pass nearer the French coast on their wayto join the Prince of Parma; but there was little to be seen over thatwide ring of blue sea except single vessels, or now and againhalf-a-dozen in company, appearing and fading again on some unknownquest. The couriers that came in daily could not tell them much; onlythat there had been indecisive engagements; that the Spaniards had notyet attempted a landing anywhere; and that it was supposed that theywould not do so until a union with the force in Flanders had beeneffected. 

And so four days of the following week passed; then on Thursday, Augustthe fourth, within an hour or two after sunrise, the solemn booming ofguns began far away to the south-west; but the hours passed; and beforenightfall all was silent again. 

The suspense was terrible; all night long there were groups parading thestreets, anxiously conjecturing, now despondently, now cheerfully. 

Then once again on the Friday morning a sudden clamour broke out in thetown, and almost simultaneously a pinnace slipped out, spreading herwings and making for the open sea. A squadron of English ships had beensighted flying eastwards; and the pinnace was gone to get news. The shipswere watched anxiously by thousands of eyes, and boats put out all alongthe coast to inquire; and within two or three hours the pinnace was backagain in Rye harbour, with news that set bells ringing and men shouting. On Wednesday, the skipper reported, there had been an indecisiveengagement during the dead calm that had prevailed in the Channel; acouple of Spanish store-vessels had been taken on the following morning, and a general action had followed, which again had been indecisive; butin which the English had hardly suffered at all, while it was supposedthat great havoc had been wrought upon the enemy. 

But the best of the news was that the Rye contingent was to set sail atonce, and unite with the English fleet westward of Calais by mid-day onSaturday. The squadron that had passed was under the command of theAdmiral himself, who was going to Dover for provisions and ammunition, and would return to his fleet before evening. 

Before many hours were passed, Rye harbour was almost empty, and hundredsof eyes were watching the ships that carried their husbands and sons andlovers out into the pale summer haze that hung over the coast of France;while a few sharp-eyed old mariners on points of vantage muttered to oneanother that in the haze there was a patch of white specks to be seenwhich betokened the presence of some vast fleet. 

That night the sun set yellow and stormy, and by morning thecobble-stones of Rye were wet and dripping with storm-showers, and aswell was beginning to lap and sob against the harbour walls. 

 CHAPTER II

 MEN OF WAR AND PEACE

The following days passed in terrible suspense for all left behind atRye. Every morning all the points of vantage were crowded; the Yprestower itself was never deserted day or night; and all the sharpest eyesin the town were bent continually out over that leaden rolling sea thatfaded into haze and storm-cloud in the direction of the French coast. Butthere was nothing to be seen on that waste of waters but the single boatsthat flew up channel or laboured down it against the squally west wind, far out at sea. Once or twice fishing-boats put in at Rye; but theirreports were so contradictory and uncertain that they increased ratherthan allayed the suspense and misery. Now it was a French boat thatreported the destruction of the _Triumph_; now an Englishman that sworeto having seen Drake kill Medina-Sidonia with his own hand on his poop;but whatever the news might be, the unrest and excitement ran higher andhigher. St. Clare's chapel in the old parish church of St. Nicholas wascrowded every morning at five o'clock by an excited congregation ofwomen, who came to beg God's protection on their dear ones struggling outthere somewhere towards the dawn with those cruel Southern monsters. Especially great was the crowd on the Tuesday morning following thedeparture of the ships; for all day on Monday from time to time came afar-off rolling noise from the direction of Calais; which many declaredto be thunder, with an angry emphasis that betrayed their real opinion. 

When they came out of church that morning, and were streaming down to thequay as usual to see if any news had come in during the night, a seamancalled to them from a window that a French vessel was just entering theharbour. 

When the women arrived at the water's edge they found a good crowdalready assembled on the quay, watching the ship beat in against thenorth-west wind, which had now set in; but she aroused no particularcomment as she was a well-known boat plying between Boulogne and Rye; andby seven o'clock she was made fast to the quay. 

There were the usual formalities, stricter than usual during war, to begone through before the few passengers were allowed to land: but all wasin order; the officers left the boat, and the passengers came up theplank, the crowd pressing forward as they came, and questioning themeagerly. No, there was no certain news, said an Englishman at last, wholooked like a lawyer; it was said at Boulogne the night before that therehad been an engagement further up beyond the Straits; they had all heardguns; and it was reported by the last cruiser who came in before the boatleft that a Spanish galleasse had run aground and had been claimed by M. Gourdain, the governor of Calais; but probably, added the shrewd-eyedman, that was just a piece of their dirty French pride. The crowd smiledruefully; and a French officer of the boat who was standing by thegangway scowled savagely, as the lawyer passed on with a demure face. 

Then there was a pause in the little stream of passengers; and then, outof the tiny door that led below decks, walking swiftly, and carrying along cloak over her arm, came Isabel Norris, in a grey travelling dress, followed by Anthony and a couple of servants. The crowd fell back for thelady, who passed straight up through them; but one or two of the mencalled out for news to Anthony. He shook his head cheerfully at them. 

"I know no more than that gentleman, " he said, nodding towards thelawyer; and then followed Isabel; and together they made their way up tothe inn. 

 * * * *

Anthony was a good deal changed in the last six years; his beard andmoustache were well grown; and he had a new look of gravity in his browneyes; when he had smiled and shaken his head at the eager crowd just now, showing his white regular teeth, he looked as young as ever; but theserious look fell on his face again, as he followed Isabel up the steeplittle cobbled slope in his buff dress and plumed hat. 

There was not so much apparent change in Isabel; she was a shade gravertoo, her walk a little slower and more dignified, and her lips, a littlethinner, had a line of strength in them that was new; and even now as shewas treading English ground again for the first time for six years, thelook of slight abstraction in her eyes that is often the sign of a stronginner life, was just a touch deeper than it used to be. 

They went up together with scarcely a word; and asked for a private roomand dinner in two hours' time; and a carriage and horses for the servantsto be ready at noon. The landlord, who had met them at the door, shookhis head. 

"The private room, sir, and the dinner--yes, sir--but the horses----" andhe spread his hands out deprecatingly. "There is not one in the stall, "he added. 

Anthony considered a moment. 

"Well, what do you propose? We are willing to stay a day or two, if youthink that by then----"

"Ah, " said the landlord, "to-morrow is another matter. I expect two of mycarriages home to-night, sir, from London; but the horses will not beable to travel till noon to-morrow. "

"That will do, " said Anthony; and he followed Isabel upstairs. 

It was very strange to them both to be back in England after so long. They had settled down at Douai with the Maxwells; but, almost immediatelyon their arrival, Mistress Margaret was sent for by her Superior to thehouse of her Order at Brussels; and Lady Maxwell was left alone withIsabel in a house in the town; for Anthony was in the seminary. 

Then, in '86 Lady Maxwell had died, quite suddenly. Isabel herself hadfound her at her prie-dieu in the morning, still in her evening dress;she was leaning partly against the wall; her wrinkled old hands wereclasped tightly together on a little ivory crucifix, on the top of thedesk; and her snow-white head, with the lace drooping from it like abridal veil, was bowed below them. Isabel, who had not dared to move her, had sent instantly for a little French doctor, who had thrown up hishands in a kind of devout ecstasy at that wonderful old figure, rigid inan eternal prayer. The two tall tapers she had lighted eight hours beforewere still just alight beside her, and looked strange in the morningsunshine. 

"Pendant ses oraisons! pendant ses oraisons!" he murmured over and overagain; and then had fallen on his knees and kissed the drooping lace ofher sleeve. 

"Priez pour moi, madame, " he whispered to the motionless figure. 

And so the old Catholic who had suffered so much had gone to her rest. The fact that her son James had been living in the College during herfour years' stay at Douai had been perhaps the greatest possibleconsolation to her for being obliged to be out of England; for she sawhim almost daily; and it was he who sang her Requiem. Isabel had thengone to live with other friends in Douai, until Anthony had been ordainedpriest in the June of '88, and was ready to take her to England; and nowthe two were bound for Stanfield, where Anthony was to act as chaplainfor the present, as Mr. Buxton had predicted so long before. Old Mr. Blake had died in the spring of the year, still disapproving of hispatron's liberal notions, and Mr. Buxton had immediately sent a specialmessenger all the way to Douai to secure Anthony's services; and hadinsisted moreover that Isabel should accompany her brother. They intendedhowever to call at the Dower House on the way, which had been left underthe charge of old Mrs. Carroll; and renew the memories of their own dearhome. 

They talked little at dinner; and only of general matters, their journey, the Armada, their joy at getting home again; for they had been expresslywarned by their friends abroad against any indiscreet talk even when theythought themselves alone, and especially in the seaports, where soconstant a watch was kept for seminary priests. The presence of Isabel, however, was the greatest protection to Anthony; as it was almost unknownthat a priest should travel with any but male companions. 

Then suddenly, as they were ending dinner, a great clamour broke out inthe town below them; a gun was fired somewhere; and footsteps began torush along the narrow street outside. Anthony ran to the window andcalled to know what was the matter; but no one paid any attention to him;and he presently sat down again in despair, and with one or two wistfullooks. 

"I will go immediately, " he said to Isabel, "and bring you word. "

A moment after a servant burst into the room. 

"It is a Spanish ship, sir, " he said, "a prize--rounding Dungeness. "

In the afternoon, when the first fierce excitement was over, Anthony wentdown to the quay. He did not particularly wish to attract attention, andso he kept himself in the background somewhat; but he had a good view ofher as she lay moored just off the quay, especially when one of the townguard who had charge of the ropes that kept the crowd back, seeing agentleman in the crowd, beckoned him through. 

"Your honour will wish to see the prize?" he said, in hopes of a triflefor himself; "make way there for the gentleman. "

Anthony thought it better under these circumstances to accept theinvitation, so he gave the man something, and slipped through. On thequay was a pile of plunder from the ship: a dozen chests carved andsteel-clamped stood together; half-a-dozen barrels of powder; the ship'sbell rested amid a heap of rich clothes and hangings; a silver crucifixand a couple of lamps with their chains lay tumbled on one side; and aparson was examining a finely carved mahogany table that stood near. 

He looked up at Anthony. 

"For the church, sir, " he said cheerfully. "I shall make application toher Grace. "

Anthony smiled at him. 

"A holy revenge, sir, " he said. 

The ship herself had once been a merchantman brig; so much Anthony couldtell, though he knew little of seamanship; but she had been armed heavilywith deep bulwarks of timber, pierced for a dozen guns on each broadside. Now, however, she was in a terrible condition. The solid bulwarks wererent and shattered, as indeed was her whole hull; near the waterline werenailed sheets of lead, plainly in order to keep the water from enteringthe shot-holes; she had only one mast; and that was splintered in morethan one place; a spar had been rigged up on to the stump of thebowsprit. The high poop such as distinguished the Spanish vessels was inthe same deplorable condition; as well as the figure-head, whichrepresented a beardless man with a halo behind his head, and which borethe marks of fierce hacks as well as of shot. 

Anthony read the name, --the _San Juan da Cabellas_. 

From the high quay too he could see down on to the middle decks, andthere was the most shocking sight of all, for the boards and themast-stumps and the bulwarks and the ship's furniture were all alikesplashed with blood, some of the deeper pools not even yet dry. It wasevident that the _San Juan_ had not yielded easily. 

Presently Anthony saw an officer approaching, and not wishing to be ledinto conversation slipped away again through the crowd to take Isabel thenews. 

The two remained quietly upstairs the rest of the afternoon, listening tothe singing and the shouting in the streets, and watching from theirwindow the groups that swung and danced to and fro in joy at Rye'scontribution to the defeat of the invaders. When the dusk fell the noisewas louder than ever as the men began to drink more deep, and torcheswere continually tossing up and down the steep cobbled streets; the dinreached its climax about half-past nine, when the main body of therevellers passed up towards the inn, and, as Anthony saw from the window, finally entered through the archway below; and then all grew tolerablyquiet. Presently Isabel said that she would go to bed, but just beforeshe left the room, the servant again came in. 

"If you please, sir, Lieutenant Raxham, of the _Seahorse_, is telling thetale of the capture of the Spanish ship; and the landlord bid me come andtell you. "

Anthony glanced at Isabel, who nodded at him. 

"Yes; go, " she said, "and come up and tell me the news afterwards, if itis not very late. "

When Anthony came downstairs he found to his annoyance that the place ofhonour had been reserved for him in a tall chair next to the landlord'sat the head of the table. The landlord rose to meet his guest. 

"Sit here, sir, " he said. "I am glad you have come. And now, Mr. Raxham----"

Anthony looked about him with some dismay at this extreme publicity. Theroom was full from end to end. They were chiefly soldiers who sat at thetable--heavy-looking rustics from Hawkhurst, Cranbrook and Appledore, inbrigantines and steel caps, who had been sent in by the magistrates tothe nearest seaport to assist in the defence of the coast--a few of themwore corselets with almain rivets and carried swords, while thepike-heads of the others rose up here and there above the crowd. The restof the room was filled with the townsmen of Rye--those who had beenretained for the defence of the coast, as well as others who for anyphysical reason could not serve by sea or land. There was an air ofextraordinary excitement in the room. The faces of the most stolid weretransfigured, for they were gathered to hear of the struggle their owndear England was making; the sickening pause of those months of waitinghad ended at last; the huge southern monster had risen up over the edgeof the sea, and the panting little country had flown at his throat andgrappled him; and now they were hearing the tale of how deep her fangshad sunk. 

The crowd laughed and applauded and drew its breath sharply, as one man;and the silence now and then was startling as the young officer told hisstory; although he had few gifts of rhetoric, except a certain vividvocabulary. He himself was a lad of eighteen or so, with a pleasantreckless face, now flushed with drink and excitement, and sparkling eyes;he was seated in a chair upon the further end of the table, so that allcould hear his story; and he had a cup of huff-cup in his left hand as hetalked, leaving his right hand free to emphasise his points and slap hisleg in a clumsy sort of oratory. His tale was full of little similes, atwhich his audience nodded their heads now and then, approvingly. He hadapparently already begun his story, for when Anthony had taken his seatand silence had been obtained, he went straight on without any furtherintroduction. 

The landlord leaned over to Anthony. "The _San Juan_, " he whisperedbehind his hot hairy hand, and nodded at him with meaning eyes. 

"And every time they fired over us, " went on the lieutenant, "and wefired into them; and the only damage they did us was their muskets in thetops. They killed Tom Dane like that"--there was a swift hiss of breathfrom the room; but the officer went straight on--"shot him through theback as he bent over his gun; and wounded old Harry and a score more; butall the while, lads, we were a-pounding at them with the broadsides as wecame round, and raking them with the demi-cannon in the poop, until--well; go you and see the craft as she lies at the quay if youwould know what we did. I tell you, as we came at her once towards theend, I saw that she was bleeding through her scuppers like a pig, fromthe middle deck. They were all packed up there together--sailors andsoldiers and a priest or two; and scarce a ball could pass between thepoop and the forecastle without touching flesh. "

The lad stopped a moment and took a pull at his cup, and a murmur of talkbroke out in the room. Anthony was surprised at his accent and manner ofspeaking, and heard afterwards that he was the son of the parson at oneof the inland villages, and had had an education. In a moment he went on. 

"Well--it would be about noon, just before the Admiral came up fromCalais, that the old _Seahorse_ was lost. We came at the dons again as wehad done before, only closer than ever; and just as the captain gave theword to put her about, a ball from one of their guns which they hadtrained down on us, cut old Dick Kemp in half at the helm, and broke thetiller to splinters. "

"Old Dick?" said a man's voice out of the reeking crowd, "Old Dick?"

There was a murmur round him, bidding him hold his tongue; and the ladwent on. 

"Well, we drifted nearer and nearer. There was nought to do but to bangat them; and that we did, by God--and to board her if we touched. Well, Iworked my saker, and saw little else--for the smoke was like a blacksea-fog; and the noise fit to crack your ears. Mine sing yet with it; thecaptain was bawling from the poop, and there were a dozen pikemen readybelow; and then on a sudden came the crash; and I looked up and there wasthe Spaniards' decks above us, and the poop like a tower, with a grinningdon or two looking down; and there was I looking up the muzzle of aculverin. I skipped towards the poop, shouting to the men; and the donsfired their broadside as I went. --God save us from that din! But I knewthe old _Seahorse_ was done this time--the old ship lurched and shook asthe balls tore through her and broke her back; and there was such a yellas you'll never hear this side of hell. Well--I was on the poop by now, and the men after me; for you see the poop of the _Seahorse_ was as highas the middle deck of the Spaniard, and we must board from there or notat all. Well, lads, there was the captain before me. He had fought cooltill then, as cool as a parson among his roses, with never an oath fromhis mouth--but now he was as scarlet as a poppy, and his eyes were likeblue fire, and his mouth jabbered and foamed; he was so hot, you see, atthe loss of his ship. He was dancing to and fro waiting while the poopswung round on the tide; and the old craft plunged deeper in every wavethat lifted her, but he cared no more for that nor for the musket-ballsfrom the tops, nor for the brown grinning devils who shook their pikes athim from the decks, than--than a mad dog cares for a shower of leaves;but he stamped there and cursed them and damned them as they laughed athim; and then in a moment the poop touched. 

"Well, lads--" and the lieutenant set his cup down on the table, clappedhis hands on his knees, laughed shortly and nervously once or twice, andlooked round. "Well, lads, I have never seen the like. The captain wentfor them like a wild cat; one step on the rail and the next among them;and was gone like a stone into water"--and the lad clapped his hand onhis thigh. "I saw one face slit up from chin to eye; and another splitacross like an apple; and then we were after him. The men were mad, too--what was left of us; and we poured up on to the decks and left theold _Seahorse_ to die. Well, we had our work before us--but it was nogood. The dons could do nothing; I was after the captain as he wentthrough the pack and came out just behind him; there were half a dozen ofthem down now; and the noise and the foreign oaths went up like smoke;and the captain himself was bleeding down one side of his face andgrunting as he cut and stabbed; and I had had a knife through the arm;but he went up on to the poop; and as I followed, the Spaniards broke andthrew down their arms--they saw 'twas no use, you see. When we reachedthe poop-stairs an officer in a blue coat came forward jabbering somejargon; but the captain would have no parley with him, but flung his dagclean into the man's face, and over he went backwards--with his damnedhigh heels in the air. "

There was a sudden murmur of laughter from the room; Anthony glanced offthe lieutenant's grinning ruddy face for a moment, and saw the rows oflistening faces all wrinkled with mirth. 

"Well, " went on the lad, "up went the captain, and I after him. Thenthere came across the deck, very slow and stately, the Spanish captainhimself, in a fine laced coat and a plumed hat, and he was holding outhis sword by the blade and bowed as we ran towards him, and began somedamned foreign nonsense, with his _Señor_--but the captain would havenone o' that, I tell you he was like Tom o' Bedlam now--so as the Señorgrinned at him with his monkey face and bowed and wagged, the captainfetched him a slash across the cheek with his sword that cut up into hishead; and that don went spinning across the poop like a morris-man andbrought up against the rail, and then down he came, " and the lad dashedhis hand on his thigh again--"as dead as mutton. "

Again came a louder gust of laughter from the room. Anthony half rose inhis chair, and then sat down again. 

"Well, " said the lad, "and that was not all. Down he raged again to thedecks and I behind him--I tell you, it was like a butcher's shop--but itwas quieter now--the fighting was over--and the Spaniards were all runbelow, except half-a-dozen in the tops; looking down like young rooks atan archer. There had been a popish priest too with his crucifix in onehand and his god-almighty in the other, over a dying man as we came up;but as we came down there he lay in his black gown with a hole throughhis heart and his crucifix gone. One of the lads had got it no doubt. Well, the captain brought up at the main mast. 'God's blood, ' he bawled, 'where are the brown devils got to?' Some one told him, and pointed downthe hatch. Well, then I turned sick with my wound and the smell of theplace and all; and I knew nothing more till I found myself sitting on adead don, with the captain holding me up and pouring a cordial down mythroat. "

Then talk and laughter broke out in the audience; but the landlord heldup his hand for silence. 

"And what of the others?" he shouted. 

"Dead meat too, " said the lad--"the captain went down with a dozen ormore and hunted them out and finished them. There was one, Dick told meafterwards, " and the lieutenant gave a cackle of mirth, "that they huntedtwice round the ship before he jumped over yelling to some popish saintto help him; but it seems he was deaf, like the old Baal that parsontells of o' Sundays. The dirty swine to run like that! Well, he's got hisbellyful now of the salt water that he came so far to see. And then thecaptain with his own hands trained a robinet that was on the poop on tothe tops; and down the birds came, one by one; for their powder up therewas all shot off. "

"And the _Seahorse_?" said the landlord again. 

There fell a dead silence: all in the room knew that the ship was lost, but it was terrible to hear it again. The lad's face broke into lines ofgrief, and he spoke huskily. 

"Gone down with the dead and wounded; and the rest of the fleet a mileaway. "

Then the lieutenant went on to describe how he himself had been deputedto bring the _San Juan_ into port with the wounded on board, while thecaptain and the rest of the crew by Drake's orders attached themselves tovarious vessels that were short-handed, and how the English fleet hadfollowed what was left of the Spaniards when the fight ended at sunset, up towards the North Sea. 

When he finished his story there was a tremendous outburst of cheeringand hammering upon the table, and the feet and the pike-butts thunderedon the floor, and a name was cried again and again as the cups wereemptied. 

"God save her Grace and old England!" yelled a slim smooth-faced archerfrom Appledore. 

"God send the dons and all her foes to hell!" roared a burly pikeman withhis cup in the air. Then the room shook again as the toasts were drunkwith applauding feet and hands. 

Anthony turned to the landlord, who had just ceased thumping with hisgreat red fists on the table. 

"What was the captain's name?" he asked, when a slight lull came. 

"Maxwell, " said the crimson-faced man. "Hubert Maxwell--one of Drake'sown men. "

 * * * *

When Anthony came upstairs he heard his name called through the door, andwent in to Isabel's room to find her sitting up in bed in the gloom ofthe summer night; the party below had broken up, and all was quiet exceptfor the far-off shouts and hoots of cheerful laughter from the dispersinggroups down among the narrow streets. 

"Well?" she said, as he came in and stood in the doorway. 

"It is just the story of the prize, " he said, "and it seems that Huberthad the taking of it. "

There was silence a moment. Anthony could see her face, a motionless paleoutline, and her arms clasped round her knees as she sat up in bed. 

"Hubert?" she asked in an even voice. 

"Yes, Hubert. "

There was silence a moment. 

"Well?" she said again. 

"He is safe, " said Anthony, "and fought gallantly. I will tell you moreto-morrow. "

"Ah!" said Isabel softly; and then lay down again. 

"Good-night, Anthony. "

"Good-night. "

But Anthony dared not tell her the details next day, after all. 

 * * * *

There was still a difficulty about the horses; they had not arrived untilthe Wednesday morning, and were greatly exhausted by a long andtroublesome journey; so the travellers consented to postpone theirjourney for yet one more day. The weather, which had been thickening, grew heavier still in the afternoon, and great banks of clouds wererising out of the west. Anthony started out about four o'clock for a walkalong the coast; and, making a long round in the direction of Lydd, didnot finally return until about seven. As he came in at the north-east ofthe town he noticed how empty the streets were, and passed on down in thedirection of the quay. As he turned down the steep street into theharbour groups began to pour up past him, laughing and exclaiming; and ina moment more came Isabel walking alone. He looked at her anxiously, forhe saw something had happened. Her quiet face was lit up with someinterior emotion, and her mouth was trembling. 

"The Armada is routed, " she said; "and I have seen Hubert. "

The two turned back together and walked silently up to the inn. There shetold him the story. She had been told that Captain Maxwell was come inthe _Elizabeth_, for provisions for Lord Howard Seymour's squadron, towhich his new command was attached; and that he was even now in harbour. At that she had gone straight down alone. 

"Oh, Anthony!" she cried, "you know how it is with me. I could not helpit. I am not ashamed of it. God Almighty knows all, and is not wrath withme. So I went down and was in the crowd as he came down again with themayor, Mr. Hamon; we all made way for them, and the men cheeredthemselves scarlet; but he came down cool and quiet; you know hisway--with his eyes half shut; and--and--he was so brown; and he lookssad--and he had a great plaister on the left temple. And then he saw me. "

Isabel sprang up, and came up to Anthony and took his hands. "Oh!Anthony; I was very happy then; because he took off his cap and bowed;and his face was all lighted; and he took my hand and kissed it--and thenmade Mr. Hamon known to me. The crowd laughed and said things--but I didnot care; and he soon silenced them, he looked round so fiercely; andthen I went on board with him--he would have it so--and he showed useverything--and we sat a little in the cabin; and he told me of his wifeand child. She is the daughter of a Plymouth minister; he knew her whenhe was with Drake; and he told me all about her, so you see----" Isabelbroke off; and sat down in the high window seat. "And then he asked meabout you; and I said you were here; and that we were going to stay alittle while with Mr. Buxton of Stanfield--you see I knew we could trusthim; and Mr. Hamon was in the passage just then looking at the guns; andthen a sailor came in to say that all was ready; and so we came away. Butit was so good to see him again; and to know that he was so happy. "

Anthony looked at his sister in astonishment; her quiet manner was gone, and she was talking again almost like an excited child; and so happily. It was very strange, he thought. He sat down beside her. 

"Oh, Anthony!" she said, "do you understand? I love him dearly still; andhis wife and child too. God bless them all and keep them!"

The mystery was still deep to him; and he feared to say what he shouldnot; so he kissed Isabel silently; and the two sat there together andlooked out over the crowding red roofs to the glowing western sky acrossthe bay below them. 

 CHAPTER III

 HOME-COMING

It was a stormy summer evening as the brother and sister rode up betweenthe last long hills that led to Great Keynes. A south-west wind had beenrising all day, that same wind that was now driving the ruined Armada upinto the fierce North Sea, with the fiercer men behind to bar the return. But here, twenty miles inland, with the high south-downs to break thegale, the riders were in comparative quiet, though the great treesoverhead tossed their heavy rustling heads as the gusts struck them nowand again. 

The party had turned off, as the dusk was falling, from the main-roadinto bridle-paths that they knew well, and were now approaching thevillage through the water meadows on the south-east side along a ridethat would bring them, round the village, direct to the Dower House. Inthe gloom Anthony could make out the tall reeds, and the loosestrife andwillowherb against them, that marked the course of the stream where hehad caught trout, as a boy; and against the western sky, as he turned inhis saddle, rose up the high windy hills where he had hawked with Hubertso many years before. It was a strange thought to him as he rode alongthat his very presence here in his own country was an act of high treasonby the law lately passed, and that every day he lived here must be a dayof danger. 

For Isabel, too, it was strange to be riding up again towards thebattlefield of her desires--that battlefield where she had lived foryears in such childish faith and peace without a suspicion of the forcesthat were lurking beneath her own quiet nature. But to both of them thesense of home-coming was stronger than all else--that strange passion fora particular set of inanimate things--or, at the most, for an associationof ideas--that has no parallel in human emotions; and as they rode up thedarkening valley and the lights of the high windows of the Hall began toshow over the trees on their right, Anthony forgot his treason and Isabelher conflicts, and both felt a lump rise in the throat, and their heartsbegin to beat quicker with a strange pleasurable pulse, and to Isabel'seyes at least there rose up great tears of happiness and content; neitherdared speak, but both looked eagerly about at the pool where the Mayfliesused to dance, at the knoll where the pigeons nested, at the little lowbridge beneath which their inch-long boats used to slide sideways intodarkness, and the broad marshy flats where the gorgeous irises grew. 

"How the trees have grown!" said Anthony at last, with an effort; "Icannot see the lights from the house. "

"Mrs. Carroll will have made ready the first-floor rooms then, on thesouth. "

"I am sorry they are not our own, " said Anthony. 

"Ah, look! there is the dovecote, " cried Isabel. 

They were passing up now behind the farm buildings; and directlyafterwards came round in front of the little walled garden to the west ofthe house. 

There was a sudden exclamation from Anthony; and Isabel stared in silentdismay. The old house rose up before them with its rows of square windowsagainst the night sky, dark. There was not a glimmer anywhere; even Mrs. Carroll's own room on the south was dark. They reined their horses in andstood a moment. 

"Oh, Anthony, Anthony!" cried Isabel suddenly, "what is it? Is there noone there?"

Anthony shook his head; and then put his tired beast to a shambling trotwith Isabel silent again with weariness and disappointment behind him. They passed along outside the low wall, turned the corner of the houseand drew up at the odd little doorway in the angle at the back of thehouse. The servants had drawn up behind them, and now pressed up to holdtheir horses; and the brother and sister slipped off and went towards thedoor. Anthony passed under the little open porch and put his hand out tothe door; it was quite dark underneath the porch, and he felt further andfurther, and yet there was no door; his foot struck the step. He felt hisway to the doorposts and groped for the door; but still there was none;he could feel the panelling of the lobby inside the doorway, and that wasall. He drew back, as one would draw back from a dead face on which onehad laid a hand in the dark. 

"Oh, Anthony!" said Isabel again, "what is it?" She was still outside. 

"Have you a light?" said Anthony hoarsely to the servants. 

The man nearest him bent and fumbled in the saddle-bags, and after whatseemed an interminable while kindled a little bent taper and handed it tohim. As he went towards the porch shading it with his hand, Isabel sprangpast him and went before; and then, as the light fell through thedoorway, stopped in dead and bewildered silence. 

The door was lying on the floor within, shattered and splintered. 

Anthony stepped beside her, and she turned and clung to his arm, and asob or two made itself heard. Then they looked about them. The banistersabove them were smashed, and like a cataract, down the stairs lay aconfused heap of crockery, torn embroidery and clothes, books, and brokenfurniture. 

Anthony's hand shook so much that the shadows of the broken banisterswaved on the wall above like thin exulting dancers. 

Suddenly Anthony started. 

"Mrs. Carroll, " he exclaimed, and he darted upstairs past the ruins intoher two rooms halfway up the flight; and in a minute or two was back withIsabel. 

"She has escaped, " he said in a low voice; and then the two stood lookingabout them silently again. The door leading to the cellars on the leftwas broken too; and fragments of casks and bottles lay about the steps;the white wall was splashed with drink, and there was a smell of spiritsin the air. Evidently the stormers had thought themselves worthy of theirhire. 

"Come, " he said again; and leaving the entrance lobby, the two passed tothe hall-door and pushed that open and looked. There was the same furiousconfusion there; the tapestry was lying tumbled and rent on thefloor--the high oak mantelpiece was shattered, and doleful cracks andsplinters in the panelling all round showed how mad the attack had been;one of the pillars of the further archway was broken clean off, and thebrickwork showed behind; the pictures had been smashed and added to theheap of wrecked furniture and broken glass in the middle. 

"Come, " he said once more; and the two passed silently through the brokenarchway, and going up the other flight of stairs, gradually made theround of the house. Everywhere it was the same, except in the servants'attics, where, apparently, the mob had not thought it worth while to go. 

Isabel's own room was the most pitiable of all; the windows had only theleaden frames left, and those bent and battered; the delicate panellingwas scarred and split by the shower of stones that had poured in throughthe window and that now lay in all parts of the room. A painting of hermother that had hung over her bed was now lying face downwards on thefloor. Isabel turned it over silently; a stone had gone through the face;and it had been apparently slit too by some sharp instrument. Even theslender oak bed was smashed in the centre, as if half a dozen men hadjumped upon it at once; and the little prie-dieu near the window had beendeliberately hacked in half. Isabel looked at it all with wide startledeyes and parted lips; and then suddenly sank down on the wrecked bedwhere she had hoped to sleep that night, and began to sob like a child. 

"Ah! I did think--I did think----" she began. 

Anthony stooped and tried to lift her. 

"Come, my darling, " he said, "is not this a high honour? _Qui relinquitdomos!_"

"Oh! why have they done it?" sobbed Isabel. "What harm have we donethem?" and she began to wail. She was thoroughly over-tired andover-wrought; and Anthony could not find it in his heart to blame her;but he spoke again bravely. 

"We are Catholics, " he said; "that is why they have done it. Do not throwaway this grace that our Lord has given us; embrace it and make ityours. "

It was the priest that was speaking now; and Isabel turned her face andlooked at him; and then got up and hid her face on his shoulder. 

"Oh, Anthony, help me!" she said; and so stood there, quiet. 

 * * * *

He came down presently to the servants, while Isabel went upstairs toprepare the rooms in the attics; for it was impossible for them to ridefurther that night; so they settled to sleep there, and stable thehorses; and to ride on early the next day, and be out of the villagebefore the folks were about. Anthony gave directions to the servants, whowere Catholics too, and explained in a word or two what had happened; andbade them come up to the house as soon as they had fed and watered thebeasts; meanwhile he took the saddle-bags indoors and spread out theirremaining provisions in one of the downstairs rooms; and soon Isabeljoined him. 

"I have made up five beds, " she said, and her voice and lips were steady, and her eyes grave and serene again. 

The five supped together in the wrecked kitchen, a fine room on the eastof the house, supported by a great oak pillar to which the horses ofguests were sometimes attached when the stable was full. 

Isabel managed to make a fire and to boil some soup; but they hung thickcurtains across the shattered windows, and quenched the fire as soon asthe soup was made, for fear that either the light or the smoke from thechimney should arouse attention. 

When supper was over, and the two men-servants and Isabel's French maidwere washing up in the scullery, Isabel suddenly turned to Anthony asthey sat together near the fireplace. 

"I had forgotten, " she said, "what we arranged as we rode up. I must goand tell her still. "

Anthony looked at her steadily a moment. 

"God keep you, " he said. 

She kissed him and took her riding-cloak, drew the hood over her head, and went out into the dark. 

 * * * *

It was with the keenest relief that, half an hour later, Anthony heardher footstep again in the red-tiled hall outside. The servants were goneupstairs by now, and the house was quiet. She came in, and sat by himagain and took his hand. 

"Thank God I went, " she said. "I have left her so happy. "

"Tell me all, " said Anthony. 

"I went through the garden, " said Isabel, "but came round to the front ofthe house so that they might not think I came from here. When the servantcame to the door--he was a stranger, and a Protestant no doubt--I said atonce that I brought news of Mr. Maxwell from Rye; and he took me straightin and asked me to come in while he fetched her woman. Then her womancame out and took me upstairs, up into Lady Maxwell's old room; and thereshe was lying in bed under the great canopy. Oh, Anthony, she is sopretty! her golden hair was lying out all over the pillow, and her faceis so sweet. She cried out when I came in, and lifted herself on herelbow; so I just said at once, 'He is safe and well'; and then she wentoff into sobs and laughter; so that I had to go and soothe her--her womanwas so foolish and helpless; and very soon she was quiet: and then shecalled me her darling, and she kissed me again and again; and told thewoman to go and leave us together; and then she lifted the sheet; andshowed me the face of a little child. Oh Anthony; Hubert's child andhers, the second, born on Tuesday--only think of that. 'Mercy, I wasgoing to call her, ' she said, 'if I had not heard by to-morrow, but now Ishall call her Victory. '"

Anthony looked quickly at his sister, with a faint smile in his eyes. 

"And what did you say?" he asked. 

Isabel smiled outright; but her eyes were bright with tears too. 

"'You have guessed, ' she said. 'Yes, ' I said, 'call her Mercy all thesame, ' and she kissed me again, and cried, and said that she would. Andthen I told her all about Hubert; and about his little wound; and howwell he looked; and how all the fighting was most likely over; and whathis cabin looked like. And then she suddenly guessed who I was, and askedme; and I could not deny it, you know; but she promised not to tell. Thenshe told me all about the house here; and how she was afraid Hubert hadsaid something impatient about people who go to foreign parts and leavetheir country to be attacked, 'But you know he did not really mean it, 'she said; and of course he did not. Well, the people had remembered that, and it spread and spread; and when the news of the Armada came last week, a mob came over from East Grinsted, and they sat drinking and drinking inthe village; and of course Grace could not go out to them; and all theold people are gone, and the Catholics on the estate--and so at last theyall came out roaring and shouting down the drive, and Mrs. Carroll waswarned and slipped out to the Hall; and she is now gone to Stanfield towait for us--and then the crowd broke into the house--but, oh Anthony, Grace was so sorry, and cried sore to think of us here; and asked us tocome and stay there; but of course I told her we could not: and then Isaid a prayer for her; and we kissed one another again; and then I cameaway. "

Anthony looked at his sister, and there was honour and pride of her inhis eyes. 

 * * * *

The ride to Stanfield next day was a long affair, at a foot's-pace allthe way: the horses were thoroughly tired with their journey, and theywere obliged to start soon after three o'clock in the morning after avery insufficient rest; they did not reach Groombridge till nearly teno'clock, when they dined, and then rode on towards Tonbridge about noon. There were heavy hearts to be carried as well. The attempt to welcome themisery of their home-coming was a bitter effort; all the more bitter forthat it was an entirely unexpected call upon them. During those six yearsabroad probably not a day had passed without visions of Great Keynes, andthe pleasant and familiar rooms and garden of their own house, and mentalrehearsals of their return. The shock of the night before too had beenemphasised by the horror of the cold morning light creeping through theempty windows on to the cruel heaps within. The garden too, seen in thedim morning, with its trampled lawns and wrecked flower-beds heaped withwithered sunflowers, bell-blossoms and all the rich August growth, withthe earthen flower-bowls smashed, the stone balls on the gate overturned, and the laurels at the corner uprooted--all this was a horrible pain toIsabel, to whom the garden was very near as dear and familiar as her ownroom. So it was a silent and sorrowful ride; and Anthony's heart rose inrelief as at last up the grey village-street he saw the crowded roofs ofStanfield Place rise over the churchyard wall. 

Their welcome from Mr. Buxton went far to compensate for all. 

"My dear boy, " he said, "or, my dear father, as I should call you inprivate, you do not know what happiness is mine to-day. It is a greatthing to have a priest again; but, if you will allow me to say so, it isa greater to have my friend--and what a sister you have upstairs!"

They were in Mr. Buxton's own little room on the ground-floor, and Isabelhad gone to rest until supper. 

Anthony told him of the grim surprise that had awaited them at GreatKeynes. "So you must forgive my sister if she is a little sad. "

"Yes, yes, " said Mr. Buxton, "I had heard from Mrs. Carroll last nightwhen she arrived here. But there was no time to warn you. I had expectedyou to-day, though Mrs. Carroll did not. "

(Anthony had sent a man straight from Rye to Stanfield. )

"But Mistress Isabel, as I shall venture to call her, must do what shecan with this house and garden. I need not say how wholly it is hers. AndI shall call you Anthony, " he added--"in public, at least. And, forstrangers, you are just here as my guest; and you shall be calledCapell--a sound name; and you shall be Catholics too; though you are nopriest, of course, in public--and you have returned from the Continent. Ihold it is no use to lie when you can be found out. I do not know whatyour conscience is, Father Anthony; but, for myself, I count us Catholicsto be _in statu belli_ now; and therefore I shall lie frankly and fullywhen there is need; and you may do as you please. Old Mr. Blake used tobid me prevaricate instead; but that always seemed to me two lies insteadof one--one to the questioning party and the other to myself; and so Ialways said to him, but he would not have it so. I wondered he did nottell me that two negatives made an affirmative; but he was not cleverenough, the good father. So my own custom is to tell one plain lie whenneeded, and shame the devil. "

It was pleasant to Anthony to hear his friend talk again, and he said so. His host's face softened into a great tenderness. 

"Dear lad, I know what you mean. Please God you may find this a happyhome. "

A couple of hours later, when Anthony and Isabel came down together fromtheir rooms in the old wing, they found Mr. Buxton in his black satin andlace in the beautiful withdrawing-room on the ground-floor. It wasalready past the supper-hour, but their host showed no signs of goinginto the hall. At last he apologised. 

"I ask your pardon, Mistress Isabel; but I have a guest come to stay withme, who only arrived an hour ago; and she is a great lady and must haveher time. Ah! here she is. "

The door was flung open and a radiant vision appeared. The door was alittle way off, and there were no candles near it; but there swelled andrustled into the room a figure all in blue and gold, with a whitedelicate ruff; and diamond buckles shone beneath the rich brocadedpetticoat. Above rose a white bosom and throat scintillating withdiamonds, and a flushed face with scarlet lips, all crowned by piles ofblack hair, with black dancing eyes beneath. Still a little in the shadowthis splendid figure swept down with a great curtsey, which Isabel met byanother, while the two gentlemen bowed low; and then, as the strangerswayed up again into the full light of the sconces, Anthony recognisedMary Corbet. 

He stood irresolute with happy hesitation; and she came up smilingbrilliantly; and before he could stay her dropped down on one knee andtook his hand and kissed it; just as the man left the room. 

"God bless you, Father Anthony!" she said; and as he looked at her, asshe glanced up, he could not tell whether her eyes shone with tears orlaughter. 

"This is very charming and proper, Mistress Corbet, and like a truedaughter of the Church, " put in Mr. Buxton, "but I shall be obliged toyou if you will not in future kiss priests' hands nor call them Father inthe presence of the servants--at least not in my house. "

"Ah!" she said, "you were always prudent. Have you seen his secretdoors?" she went on to Anthony. "The entire Catholic Church might playhare and hounds with the Holy Father as huntsman and the Cardinals as thewhips, through Mr. Buxton's secret labyrinths. "

"Wait until you are hare, and it is other than Holy Church that isa-hunting, " said Mr. Buxton, "and you will thank God for my labyrinths, as you call them. "

Then she greeted Isabel with great warmth. 

"Why, my dear, " she said, "you are not the little Puritan maiden anylonger. We must have a long talk to-night; and you shall tell meeverything. "

"Mistress Mary is not so greatly changed, " said Isabel, smiling. "Shealways would be told everything. "

It was strange to Anthony to meet Mary again after so long, and to findher so little changed, as Isabel had said truly. He himself had passedthrough so much since they had last met at Greenwich over six yearsago--his conversion, his foreign sojourn, and, above all, the bewilderingand intoxicating sweetness of his ordination and priestly life. And yethe felt as close to Mary as ever, knit in a bond of wonderful goodfellowship and brotherhood such as he had never felt to any other in justthat kind and degree. He watched her, warm and content, as she talkedacross the polished oak and beneath the gleam of the candles; andlistened, charmed by her air and her talk. 

"There is not so much news of her Grace, " she said, "save that she isturning soldier in her old age. She rode out to Tilbury, you know, theother day, in steel cuirass and scarlet; out to see her dear Robin andthe army; and her royal face was all smiles and becks, and lord! how thesoldiers cheered! But if you had seen her as I did, in her room when shefirst buckled on her armour, and the joints did not fit--yes, and heardher! there were no smiles to spare then. She lodged at Mr. Rich's, youknow, two nights; but he would be Mr. Poor, I should suppose, by the timeher Grace left him; for he will not see the worth of a shoelace again ofall that he expended on her. "

"You see, " remarked Mr. Buxton to Isabel, "how fortunate we are in havingsuch a friend of her Grace's with us. We hear all the cream of the news, even though it be a trifle sour sometimes. "

"A lover of her Grace, " said Mary, "loves the truth about her, howeverbitter. But then I have no secret passages where I may hide from mysovereign!"

"The cream can scarce be but sour, " said Anthony, "near her Grace: thereis so much thunder in the air. "

"Yes, but the sun came out when you were there, Anthony, " put in Isabel, smiling. 

"But even the light of her glorious countenance is trying, " said Mary. "She is overpowering in thunder and sunshine alike. "

"We have had enough of that metaphor, " observed Mr. Buxton. 

 * * * *

Then Anthony had to talk, and tell all the foreign news of Douai and Romeand Cardinal Allen; and of Father Persons' scheme for a college atValladolid. 

"Father Robert is a superb beggar--as he is superb in all things, " saidMr. Buxton. "I dare not think how much he got from me for his college;and then I do not even approve of his college. His principles are toological for me. I have ever had a weakness for the _non sequitur_. "

This led on to the Armada; Anthony told his experience of it; how he hadseen at least the sails of Lord Howard's squadron far away against thedawn; and this led on again to a sharp discussion when the servants hadleft the room. 

"I do not know, " said Mary at last; "it is difficult--is not the choicebetween God and Elizabeth? If I were a man, why should I not take up armsto defend my religion? Since I am a woman, why should I not pray forPhilip's success? It is a bitter hard choice, I know; but why need Iprefer my country to my faith? Tell me that, Father Anthony. "

"I can only tell you my private opinion, " said Anthony, "and that is, that both duties may be done. As Mr. Buxton here used to tell me, theduty to Cæsar is as real as the duty to God. A man is bound to both; foreach has its proper bounds. When either oversteps them it must beresisted. When Elizabeth bids me deny my faith, I tell her I would soonerdie. When a priest bids me deny my country, I tell him I would sooner bedamned. "

Mary clapped her hands. 

"I like to hear a man talk like that, " she cried. "But what of the HolyFather and his excommunication of her Grace?"

Anthony looked up at her sharply, and then smiled; Isabel watched himwith a troubled face. 

"Aquinas holds, " he said, "that an excommunication of sovereign andpeople in a lump is invalid. And until the Holy Father tells me himselfthat Aquinas is wrong, I shall continue to think he is right. "

"God-a-mercy!" burst in Mr. Buxton, "what a to-do! Leave it alone untilthe choice must be made; and meanwhile say your prayers for Pope andQueen too, and hear mass and tell your beads and hold your tongue: thatis what I say to myself. Mistress Mary, I will not have my chaplainheckled; here is his lady sister all a-tremble between heresy andtreason. "

They sat long over the supper-table, talking over the last six years andthe times generally. More than once Mary showed a strange bitternessagainst the Queen. At last Mr. Buxton showed his astonishment plainly. 

"I do not understand you, " he said. "I know that at heart you are loyal;and yet one might say you meditated her murder. "

Mary's face grew white with passion and her eyes blazed. 

"Ah!" she hissed, "you do not understand, you say? Then where is yourheart? But then you did not see Mary Stuart die. "

Anthony looked at her, amazed. 

"And you did, Mistress Mary?" he asked. 

Mary bowed, with her lips set tight to check their trembling. 

"I will tell you, " she said, "if our host permits"; and she glanced athim. 

"Then come this way, " he said, and they rose from table. 

They went back again to the withdrawing-room; a little cedar-fire hadbeen kindled under the wide chimney; and the room was full of dancingshadows. The great plaster-pendants, the roses, the crowns, and theportcullises on the ceiling seemed to waver in the firelight, for Mr. Buxton at a sign from Mary blew out the four tapers that were burning inthe sconces. They all sat down in the chairs that were set round thefire, Mary in a tall porter's chair with flaps that threw a shadow on herface when she leaned back; and she took a fan in her hand to keep thefire, or her friends' eyes, from her face should she need it. 

She first told them very briefly of the last months of Mary's life, ofthe web that was spun round her by Walsingham's tactics, and her ownfriends' efforts, until it was difficult for her to stir hand or footwithout treason, real or pretended, being set in motion somewhere. Thenshe described how at Christmas '86 Elizabeth had sent her--MaryCorbet--as a Catholic, up to the Queen of the Scots at Fotheringay, on aprivate mission to attempt to win the prisoner's confidence, and topersuade her to confess to having been privy to Babington's conspiracy;and how the Scottish Queen had utterly denied it, even in the mostintimate conversations. Sentence had been already passed, but the warranthad not been signed; and it never would have been signed, said MistressCorbet, if Mary had owned to the crime of which she was accused. 

"Ah! how they insulted her!" cried Mary Corbet indignantly. "She showedme one day the room where her throne had stood. Now the cloth of statehad been torn down by Sir Amyas Paulet's men, and he himself dared to sitwith his hat on his head in the sovereign's presence! The insolence ofthe hound! But the Queen showed me how she had hung a crucifix where herroyal arms used to hang. 'J'appelle, ' she said to me, 'de la reine au roides rois. '"

Mistress Corbet went on to tell of the arrival of Walsingham'sbrother-in-law, Mr. Beale, with the death-warrant on that February Sundayevening. 

"I saw his foxy face look sideways up at the windows as he got off hishorse in the courtyard; and I knew that our foes had triumphed. Then theother bloodhounds began to arrive; my lord of Kent on the Monday andShrewsbury on the Tuesday. Then they came in to us after dinner; and theytold her Grace it was to be for next day. I was behind her chair and sawher hand on the boss of the arm, and it did not stir nor clench; she saidit could not be. She could not believe it of Elizabeth. 

"When she did at last believe it, there was no wild weeping or crying formercy; but she set her affairs in order, queenly, and yet sedately too. She first thought of her soul, and desired that M. De Preau might come toher and hear her confession; but they would not permit it. They offeredher Dr. Fletcher instead, 'a godly man, ' as my lord of Kent called him. 'Je ne m'en doute pas, ' she said, smiling. But it was hard not to have apriest. 

"Then she set her earthly affairs in order when she had examined her souland made confession to God without the Dean's assistance. We all suppedtogether when it was growing late; and I thought, Father Anthony--indeedI did--of another Supper long ago. Then M. Gorion was sent for to arrangesome messages and gifts; and until two of the clock in the morning wewatched with her or served her as she wrote and gave orders. The courtoutside was full of comings and goings. As I passed down the passage Isaw the torches of the visitors that were come to see the end; and once Iheard a hammering from the great hall. Then she went to her bed; and Ithink few lay as quiet as she in the castle that night. I was with herladies when they waked her before dawn; and it was hard to see that sweetface on the pillow open its eyes again to what was before her. 

"Then when she was dressed I went in again, and we all went to theoratory, where she received our Saviour from the golden pyx which theHoly Father had sent her; for, you see, they would allow no priest tocome near her. .. . 

"Presently the gentlemen knocked. When we tried to follow we wereprevented; they wished her to die alone among her enemies; but at lasttwo of the ladies were allowed to go with her. 

"I ran out another way, and sent a message to my Lord Shrewsbury, whoknew me at court. As I waited in the courtyard, the musicians there wereplaying 'The Witches' Dirge, ' as is done at the burnings--and all to mockat my queen! At last a halberdier was sent to bring me in. "

Mary Corbet was silent a moment or two and leaned back in her chair; andthe others dared not speak. The strange emotion of her voice and thestillness of that sparkling figure in the porter's chair affected themprofoundly. Her face was now completely shaded by a fan. 

"It was in the hall, where a great fire was burning on the hearth. Thestage stood at the upper end; all was black. The crowd of gentlemenfilled the hall and all were still and reverent except--except a devilwho laughed as my queen came in, all in black. She was smiling and brave, and went up the steps and sat on her black throne and looked about her. The--the _things_ were just in front of her. 

"Then the warrant was read by Beale, and I saw the lords glance at her asit ended; but there was nought but joyous hope in her face. She lookednow and again gently on the ivory crucifix in her hand, as she listened;and her lips moved to--to--Him who was delivered to death for her. "

Mary Corbet gave one quick sob, and was silent again for an instant. Thenshe went on in a yet lower voice. 

"Dr. Fletcher tried to address her, but he stammered and paused three orfour times; and the queen smiled on him and bade him not trouble himself, for that she lived and died a Catholic. But they would not let her be; soshe looked on her crucifix and was silent; and even then my lord of Kentbadgered her and told her Christ crucified in her hand would not saveher, except He was engraved on her heart. 

"Then she knelt at her chair and tried to pray softly to herself; butFletcher would not have that, and prayed himself, aloud, and all thegentlemen in the hall began to pray aloud with him. But Mary prayed on inLatin and English aloud, and prevailed, for all were silent at the endbut she. 

"And at last she kissed the crucifix and cried in a sweet piercing voice, 'As thine arms, O Jesus, were spread upon the Cross, so receive me intoThy mercy and forgive me my sins!'"

Again Mistress Corbet was silent; and Anthony drew a long sobbing breathof pure pity, and Isabel was crying quietly to herself. 

"When the headsmen offered to assist her, " went on the low voice, "thequeen smiled at the gentlemen and said that she had never had such groomsbefore; and then they let the ladies come up. When they began to help herwith her dress I covered my face--I could not help it. There was such astillness now that I could hear her beads chink at her girdle. When Ilooked again, she was ready, with her sweet neck uncovered: all round herwas black but the headsman, who wore a white apron over his velvet, andshe, in her beauty, and oh! her face was so fair and delicate and hereyes so tender and joyous. And as her ladies looked at her, they sobbedpiteously. 'Ne criez vous, ' said she. 

"Then she knelt down, and Mistress Mowbray bound her eyes. She smiledagain under the handkerchief. 'Adieu, ' she said, and then, 'Au revoir. '

"Then she said once more a Latin psalm, and then laid her head down, ason a pillow. 

"'In manus tuas, Domine, ' she said. "

 * * * *

Mary Corbet stopped, and leaned forward a little, putting her hand intoher bosom; Anthony looked at her as she drew up a thin silk cord with aruby ring attached to it. 

"This was hers, " she said simply, and held it out. Each of the Catholicstook it and kissed it reverently, and Mary replaced it. 

"When they lifted her, " she added, "a little dog sprang out from herclothes and yelped. And at that the man near me, who had laughed as shecame in, wept. "

 * * * *

Then the four sat silent in the firelight. 

 CHAPTER IV

 STANFIELD PLACE

Life at Stanfield Place was wonderfully sweet to Anthony and Isabel aftertheir exile abroad, for both of them had an intense love of England andof English ways. The very sight of fair-faced children, and the noise oftheir shrill familiar voices from the village street, the depths of theAugust woods round them, the English manners of living--all this wasalive with a full deliberate joy to these two. Besides, there was theunfailing tenderness and gaiety of Mr. Buxton; and at first there was thepleasant company of Mary Corbet as well. 

There was little or no anxiety resting on any of them. "God was served, "as the celebration of mass was called, each morning in the little roomwhere Anthony had made the exercises, and the three others were alwayspresent. It was seldom that the room was not filled to over-flowing onSundays and holy-days with the household and the neighbouring Catholics. 

Everything was, of course, perfection in the little chapel when it wasfurnished; as was all that Mr. Buxton possessed. There was a wonderfulgolden crucifix by an unknown artist, that he had picked up in histravels, that stood upon the altar, with the bird-types of the Saviour ateach of the four ends; a pelican at the top, an eagle on the rightsupporting its young which were raising their wings for a flight, on theleft a phoenix amid flames, and at the foot a hen gathering herchickens under her wings--all the birds had tiny emerald eyes; the figureon the cross was beautifully wrought, and had rubies in hands and feetand side. There were also two silver altar-candlesticks designed byMarrina for the Piccolomini chapel in the church of St. Francis in Siena;and two more, plainer, for the Elevation. The vestments were exquisite;those for high festivals were cloth of gold; and the other white oneswere beautifully worked with seed pearls, and jewelled crosses on thestole and maniple. The other colours, too, were well represented, andwere the work of a famous convent in the south of France. All the otherarticles, too, were of silver: the lavabo basin, the bell, the thurible, the boat and spoon, and the cruets. It was a joy to all the Catholics whocame to see the worship of God carried on with such splendour, when in somany places even necessaries were scarcely forthcoming. 

There was a little hiding-hole between the chapel and the priest's room, just of a size to hold the altar furniture and the priests in case of asudden alarm; and there were several others in the house too, which Mr. Buxton had showed to Anthony with a good deal of satisfaction, on themorning after his arrival. 

"I dared not show them to you the last time you were here, " he said, "andthere was no need; but now there must be no delay. I have lately madesome more, too. Now here is one, " he said, stopping before the greatcarved mantelpiece in the hall. 

He looked round to see that no servant was in the room, and then, standing on a settee before the fire, touched something above, and acircular hole large enough for a man to clamber through appeared in themidst of the tracery. 

"There, " he said, "and you will find some cured ham and a candle, with afew dates within, should you ever have need to step up there--which, prayGod, you may not. "

"What is the secret?" asked Anthony, as the tracery swung back intoplace, and his host stepped down. 

"Pull the third roebuck's ears in the coat of arms, or rather push them. It closes with a spring, and is provided with a bolt. But I do notrecommend that refuge unless it is necessary. In winter it is too hot, for the chimney passes behind it; and in summer it is too oppressive, forthere is not too much air. "

At the end of the corridor that led in the direction of the little oldrooms where Anthony had slept in his visit, Mr. Buxton stopped before theportrait of a kindly-looking old gentleman that hung on the wall. 

"Now there is an upright old man you would say; and indeed he was, for hewas my own uncle, and made a godly end of it last year. But now see whata liar I have made of him!"

Mr. Buxton put his hand behind the frame, and the whole picture openedlike a door showing a space within where three or four could stand. Anthony stepped inside and his friend followed him, and after showing himsome clothes hanging against the wall closed the picture after them, leaving them in the dark. 

"Now see what a sharp-eyed old fellow he is too, " whispered his host. Anthony looked where he was guided, and perceived two pinholes throughwhich he could see the whole length of the corridor. 

"Through the centre of each eye, " whispered his friend. "Is he not shrewdand secret? And now turn this way. "

Anthony turned round and saw the opposite wall slowly opening; and in amoment more he stepped out and found himself in the lobby outside thelittle room where he had made the exercises six years ago. He heard adoor close softly as he looked about him in astonishment, and on turninground saw only an innocent-looking set of shelves with a couple of booksand a little pile of paper and packet of quills upon them. 

"There, " said Mr. Buxton, "who would suspect Tacitus his history andJuvenal his satires of guarding the passage of a Christian ecclesiasticfleeing for his life?"

Then he showed him the secret, how one shelf had to be drawn outsteadily, and the nail in another pressed simultaneously, and how thenthe entire set of shelves swung open. 

Then they went back and he showed him the spring behind the frame of thepicture. 

"You see the advantage of this, " he went on: "on the one side you mayflee upstairs, a treasonable skulking cassocked jack-priest with thelords and the commons and the Queen's Majesty barking at your heels; andon the other side you may saunter down the gallery without your beard andin a murrey doublet, a friend of Mr. Buxton's, taking the air andwondering what the devil all the clamouring be about. "

Then he took him downstairs again and showed him finally the escape ofwhich he was most proud--the entrance, designed in the cellar-staircase, to an underground passage from the cellars, which led, he told him, across to the garden-house beyond the lime-avenue. 

"That is the pride of my heart, " he said, "and maybe will be useful someday; though I pray not. Ah! her Grace and her honest Council are right. We Papists are a crafty and deceitful folk, Father Anthony. "

 * * * *

The four grew very intimate during those few weeks; they had manymemories and associations in common on which to build up friendship, andthe aid of a common faith and a common peril with which to cement it. Thegracious beauty of the house and the life at Stanfield, too, gilded itall with a very charming romance. They were all astonished at the easyintimacy with which they behaved, one to another. 

Mary Corbet was obliged to return to her duties at Court at the beginningof September; and she had something of an ache at her heart as the timedrew on; for she had fallen once more seriously in love with Isabel. Shesaid a word of it to Mr. Buxton. They were walking in the lime-avenuetogether after dinner on the last day of Mary's visit. 

"You have a good chaplain, " she said; "what an honest lad he is! and howserious and recollected! Please God he at least may escape their claws!"

"It is often so, " said Mr. Buxton, "with those wholesome out-of-doorboys; they grow up into such simple men of God. "

"And Isabel!" said Mary, rustling round upon him as she walked. "What agreat dame she is become! I used to lie on her bed and kick my heels andlaugh at her; but now I would like to say my prayers to her. She issomewhat like our Lady herself, so grave and serious, and yet so warm andtender. "

Mr. Buxton nodded sharply. 

"I felt sure you would feel it, " he said. 

"Ah! but I knew her when she was just a child; so simple that I loved tostartle her. But now--but now--those two ladies have done wonders withher. She has all the splendour of Mary Maxwell, and all the softness ofMargaret. "

"Yes, " said the other meditatively; "the two ladies have done it--or, thegrace of God. "

Mary looked at him sideways and her lips twitched a little. 

"Yes--or the grace of God, as you say. "

The two laughed into each other's eyes, for they understood one anotherwell. Presently Mary went on:

"When you and I fence together at table, she does not turn frigid like somany holy folk--or peevish and bewildered like stupid folk--but she justlooks at us, and laughs far down in those deep grey eyes of hers. Oh! Ilove her!" ended Mary. 

They walked in silence a minute or two. 

"And I think I do, " said Mr. Buxton softly. 

"Eh?" exclaimed Mary, "you do what?" She had quite forgotten her lastsentence. 

"It is no matter, " he said yet more softly; and would say no more. 

Presently the talk fell on the Maxwells; and came round to Hubert. 

"They say he would be a favourite at Court, " said Mary, "had he not awife. But her Grace likes not married men. She looked kindly upon him atDeptford, I know; and I have seen him at Greenwich. You know, of course, about Isabel?"

Mr. Buxton shook his head. 

"Why, it was common talk that they would have been man and wife yearsago, had not the fool apostatised. "

Her companion questioned her further, and soon had the whole story out ofher. "But I am thankful, " ended Mary, "that it has so ended. "

The next day she went back to Court; and it was with real grief that thethree watched her wonderful plumed riding-hat trot along behind the topof the churchyard wall, with her woman beside her, and her littleliveried troop of men following at a distance. 

The days passed by, bringing strange tidings to Stanfield. News continuedto reach the Catholics of the good confessions witnessed here and therein England by priests and laity. At the end of July, three priests, Garlick, Ludlam and Sympson, had been executed at Derby, and at the endof August the defeat of the Armada seemed to encourage Elizabeth yetfurther, and Mr. Leigh, a priest, with four laymen and Mistress MargaretWard, died for their religion at Tyburn. 

By the end of September the news of the hopeless defeat and disappearanceof the Armada had by now been certified over and over again. Terriblestories had come in during August of that northward flight of all thatwas left of the fleet over the plunging North Sea up into the stormycoast of Scotland; then rumours began of the miseries that were fallingon the Spaniards off Ireland--Catholic Ireland from which they had hopedso much. There was scarcely a bay or a cape along the west coast wheresome ship had not put in, with piteous entreaties for water and aid--andscarcely a bay or a cape that was not blood-guilty. Along the straightcoast from Sligo Bay westwards, down the west coast, Clew Bay, Connemara, and haunted Dingle itself, where the Catholic religion under arms hadbeen so grievously chastened eight years ago--everywhere half-drowned orhalf-starved Spaniards, piteously entreating, were stripped and put tothe sword either by the Irish savages or the English gentlemen. Thechurch-bells were rung in Stanfield and in every English village, and theflame of national pride and loyalty burned fiercer and higher than ever. 

 * * * *

On the last day of September Isabel, just before dinner in her room, heard the trot of a couple of horses coming up the short drive, and ongoing downstairs almost ran against Hubert as he came from the corridorinto the hall, as the servant ushered him in. 

The two stopped and looked at one another in silence. 

Hubert was flushed with hard riding and looked excited; Isabel's faceshowed nothing but pleasure and surprise. The servant too stopped, hesitating. 

Then Isabel put out her hand, smiling; and her voice was natural andcontrolled. 

"Why, Mr. Hubert, " she said, "it is you! Come through this way"; and shenodded to the servant, who went forward and opened the door of the littleparlour and stood back, as Isabel swept by him. 

When the door was closed, and the servant's footsteps had died away, Hubert, as he stood facing Isabel, spoke at last. 

"Mistress Isabel, " he said almost imploringly, "what can I say to you?Your home has been wrecked; and partly through those wild and foolishwords of mine; and you repay it by that act of kindness to my wife! I amcome to ask your pardon, and to thank you. I only reached home lastnight. "

"Ah! that was nothing, " said Isabel gently; "and as for the house----"

"As for the house, " he said, "I was not master of myself when I saidthose words that Grace told you of; and I entreat you to let me repairthe damage. "

"No, no, " she said, "Anthony has given orders; that will all be done. "

"But what can I do then?" he cried passionately; "if you but knew mysorrow--and--and--more than that, my----"

Isabel had raised her grave eyes and was looking him full in the facenow; and he stopped abashed. 

"How is Grace, and Mercy?" she asked in perfectly even tones. 

"Oh! Isabel----" he began; and again she looked at him, and then went tothe door. 

"I hear Mr. Buxton, " she said; and steps came along through the hall; sheopened the door as he came up. Mr. Buxton stopped abruptly, and the twomen drew themselves up and seemed to stiffen, ever so slightly. A shadeof aggressive contempt came on Hubert's keen brown face that towered upso near the low oak ceiling; while Mr. Buxton's eyelids just drooped, andhis features seemed to sharpen. There was an unpleasant silence: Isabelbroke it. 

"You remember Master Hubert Maxwell?" she said almost entreatingly. Hesmiled kindly at her, but his face hardened again as he turned once moreto Hubert. 

"I remember the gentleman perfectly, " he said, "and he no doubt knows me, and why I cannot ask him to remain and dine with us. "

Hubert smiled brutally. 

"It is the old story of course, the Faith! I must ask your pardon, sir, for intruding. The difficulty never came into my mind. The truth is thatI have lived so long now among Protestants that I had quite forgottenwhat Catholic charity is like!"

He said this with such extreme bitterness and fury that Isabel put outher hand instinctively to Mr. Buxton, who smiled at her once more, andpressed it in his own. Hubert laughed again sharply; his face grew whiteunder the tan, and his lips wrinkled back once or twice. 

"So, if you can spare me room to pass, " he went on in the same tone, "Iwill begone to the inn. "

Mr. Buxton stepped aside from the door, and Hubert bowed to Isabel so lowthat it was almost an insult in itself, and strode out, his spurs ringingon the oak boards. 

When he half turned outside the front door to beckon to his groom tobring up the horses, he became aware that Isabel was beside him. 

"Hubert, " she said, "Hubert, I cannot bear this. "

There were tears in her voice, and he could not help turning and lookingat her. Her face, more grave and transparent than ever, was raised tohis; her red down-turned lips were trembling, and her eyes were full of agreat emotion. He turned away again sharply. 

"Hubert, " she said again, "I was not born a Catholic, and I do not feellike Mr. Buxton. And--and I do thank you for coming; and for your desireto repair the house; and--and will you give my love to Grace?"

Then he suddenly turned to her with such passion in his eyes that sheshrank back. At the same moment the groom brought up the horses; heturned and mounted without a word, but his eyes were dim with love andanger and jealousy. Then he drove his spurs into his great grey mare, andIsabel watched him dash between the iron gates, with his groom only halfmounted holding back his own plunging horse. Then she went within doorsagain. 

 CHAPTER V

 JOSEPH LACKINGTON

It was a bitter ride back to Great Keynes for Hubert. He had justreturned from watching the fifty vessels, which were all that were leftof the Great Armada, pass the Blaskets, still under the nominal commandof Medina Sidonia, on their miserable return to Spain; and he had comeback as fast as sails could carry him, round the stormy Land's-End upalong the south coast to Rye, where on his arrival he had been almostworshipped by the rejoicing townsfolk. Yet all through his voyage andadventures, at any rate since his interview with her at Rye, it had beenthe face of Isabel there, and not of Grace, that had glimmered to him inthe dark, and led him from peril to peril. Then, at last, on his arrivalat home, he had heard of the disaster to the Dower House, and his ownunintended share in it; and of Isabel's generous visit to his wife; andat that he had ordered his horse abruptly over-night and ridden offwithout a word of explanation to Grace on the following morning. And hehad been met by a sneering man who would not sit at table with him, andwho was the protector and friend of Isabel. 

 * * * *

He rode up through the village just after dark and in through thegatehouse up to the steps. A man ran to open the door, and as Hubert camethrough told him that a stranger had ridden down from London and hadarrived at mid-day, and that he had been waiting ever since. 

"I gave the gentleman dinner in the cloister parlour, sir; and he is atsupper now, " added the man. 

Hubert nodded and pushed through the hall. He heard his name calledtimidly from upstairs, and looking up saw his wife's golden head over thebanisters. 

"Well!" he said. 

"Ah, it is you. I am so glad. "

"Who else should it be?" said Hubert, and passed through towards thecloister wing, and opened the door of the little parlour where Isabel andMistress Margaret had sat together years before, the night of Mr. James'return, and of the girl's decision. 

A stranger rose up hastily as he came in, and bowed with great deference. Hubert knew his face, but could not remember his name. 

"I ask your pardon, Mr. Maxwell; but your man would take no denial, " andhe indicated the supper-table with a steaming dish and a glass jug ofwine ruddy in the candlelight. Hubert looked at him curiously. 

"I know you, sir, " he said, "but I cannot put a name to your face. "

"Lackington, " said the man with a half smile; "Joseph Lackington. "

Hubert still stared; and then suddenly burst into a short laugh. 

"Why, yes, " he said; "I know now. My father's servant. "

The man bowed. 

"Formerly, sir; and now agent to Sir Francis Walsingham, " he said, withsomething of dignity in his manner. 

Hubert saw the hint, but could not resist a small sneer. 

"Why, I am pleased to see you, " he said. "You have come to see yourold--home?" and he threw himself into a chair and stretched his legs tothe blaze, for he was stiff with riding. Lackington instantly sat downtoo, for his pride was touched. 

"It was not for that, Mr. Maxwell, " he said almost in the tone of anequal, "but on a mission for Sir Francis. "

Hubert looked at him a moment as he sat there in the candlelight, withhis arm resting easily on the table. He was plainly prosperous, and waseven dressed with some distinction; his reddish beard was trimmed to apoint; his high forehead was respectably white and bald; and his sealshung from his belt beside his dagger with an air of ease and solidity. Perhaps he was of some importance; at any rate, Sir Francis Walsinghamwas. Hubert sat up a little. 

"A mission to me?" he said. 

Lackington nodded. 

"A few questions on a matter of state. "

He drew from his pouch a paper signed by Sir Francis authorising him asan agent, for one month, and dated three days back; and handed it toHubert. 

"I obtained that from Sir Francis on Monday, as you will see. You cantrust me implicitly. "

"Will the business take long?" asked Hubert, handing the paper back. 

"No, Mr. Maxwell; and I must be gone in an hour in any case. I have to beat Rye at noon to-morrow; and I must sleep at Mayfield to-night. "

"At Rye, " said Hubert, "why I came from there yesterday. "

Lackington bowed again, as if he were quite aware of this; but saidnothing. 

"Then I will sup here, " went on Hubert, "and we will talk meantime. "

When a place had been laid for him, he drew his chair round to the tableand began to eat. 

"May I begin at once?" asked Lackington, who had finished. 

Hubert nodded. 

"Then first I believe it to be a fact that you spoke with Mistress IsabelMorris on board the _Elizabeth_ at Rye on the tenth of August last. "

Hubert had started violently at her name; but did his utmost to gainoutward command of himself again immediately. 

"Well?" he said. 

--"And with Master Anthony Norris, lately made a priest beyond the seas. "

"That is a lie, " said Hubert. 

Lackington politely lifted his eyebrows. 

"Indeed?" he said. "That he was made a priest, or that you spoke withhim?"

"That I know aught of him, " said Hubert. His heart was beating furiously. 

Lackington made a note rather ostentatiously; he could see that Hubertwas frightened, and thought that it was because of a possible accusationof having dealings with a traitor. 

"And as regards Mistress Norris, " he said judicially, with his pencilraised, "you deny having spoken with her?"

Hubert was thinking furiously. Then he saw that Lackington knew too muchfor its being worth his own while to deny it. 

"No, I never denied that, " he said, lifting his fork to his mouth; and hewent on eating with a deliberate ease as Lackington again made a note. 

The next question was a home-thrust. 

"Where are they both now?" asked Lackington, looking at him. Hubert'smind laboured like a mill. 

"I do not know, " he said. 

"You swear it?"

"I swear it. "

"Then Mistress Norris has changed her plans?" said Lackington swiftly. 

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why she told you where they were going when you met?" said the other ina remonstrating tone. 

Hubert suddenly saw the game. If the authorities really knew that, itwould have been a useless question. He stared at Lackington with anadmirable vacancy. 

"Indeed she did not, " he said. "For aught I know, they--she is in Franceagain. "

"They?" said Lackington shrewdly. "Then you do know somewhat of thepriest?"

But Hubert was again too sharp. 

"Only what you told me just now, when you said he was at Rye. I supposedyou were telling the truth. "

Lackington passed his hand smoothly over his mouth and beard, and smiled. Either Hubert was very sharp or else he had told everything; and he didnot believe him sharp. 

"Thank you, Mr. Maxwell, " he said, with a complete dropping of hisjudicial manner. "I will not pretend not to be disappointed; but Ibelieve what you say about France is true; and that it is no use lookingfor him further. "

Hubert experienced an extraordinary relief. He had saved Isabel. He drankoff a glass of claret. "Tell me everything, " he said. 

"Well, " said Lackington, "Mr. Thomas Hamon is my informant. He sent up toSir Francis the message that a lady of the name of Norris had beenintroduced to him at Rye; because he thought he remembered some stir inthe county several years ago about some reconciliations to Rome connectedwith that name. Of course we knew everything about that: and we have ouragents at the seminaries too; so we concluded that she was one of ourbirds; the rest, of course, was guesswork. Mr. Norris has certainly leftDouai for England; and he may possibly even now be in England; but fromyour information and others', I now believe that Mistress Isabel cameacross first, and that she found the country too hot, what with theSpaniards and all; and that she returned to France at once. Of courseduring that dreadful week, Mr. Maxwell, we could not be certain of allvessels that came and went; so I think she just slipped across again; andthat they are both waiting in France. We shall keep good watch now at theports, I can promise you. "

Hubert's emotions were varied during this speech. First shame at havingentirely forgotten the mayor of Rye and his own introduction of Isabel tohim; then astonishment at the methods of Walsingham's agents; and lastlyintense triumph and relief at having put them off Isabel's track. ForAnthony, too, he had nothing but kindly feelings; so, on the whole, hethought he had done well for his friends. 

The two talked a little longer; Lackington was a stimulating companionfrom both his personality and his position; and Hubert found himselfalmost sorry when his companion said he must be riding on to Mayfield. Ashe walked out with him to the front door, he suddenly thought of Mr. Buxton again and his reception in the afternoon. They had wandered intheir conversation so far from the Norrises by now that he felt sure hecould speak of him without doing them any harm. So, as they stood on thesteps together, waiting for Lackington's horse to come round, he suddenlysaid:

"Do you know aught of one Buxton, who lives somewhere near Tonbridge, Ithink?"

"Buxton, Buxton?" said the other. 

"I met him in town once, " went on Hubert smoothly; "a little man, dark, with large eyes, and looks somewhat like a Frenchman. "

"Buxton, Buxton?" said the other again. "A Papist, is he not?"

"Yes, " said Hubert, hoping to get some information against him. 

"A friend?" asked Lackington. 

"No, " said Hubert with such vehemence that Lackington looked at him. 

"I remember him, " he said in a moment; "he was imprisoned at Wisbeach sixor seven years ago. But I do not think he has been in trouble since. Youwish, you wish----?" he went on interrogatively. 

"Nothing, " said Hubert; but Lackington saw the hatred in his eyes. 

The horses came round at this moment; and Lackington said good-bye toHubert with a touch of the old deference again, and mounted. Hubertwatched him out under the gatehouse-lamp into the night beyond, and thenhe went in again, pondering. 

His wife was waiting for him in the hall now--a delicate golden-hairedfigure, with pathetic blue eyes turned up to him. She ran to him and tookhis arm timidly in her two hands. 

"Oh! I am glad that man has gone, Hubert. "

He looked down at her almost contemptuously. 

"Why, you know nothing of him!" he said. 

"Not much, " she said, "but he asked me so many questions. "

Hubert started and looked suddenly at her, in terror. 

"Oh, Hubert!" she said, shrinking back frightened. 

"Questions!" he said, seizing her hands. "Questions of whom?"

"Of--of--Mistress Isabel Norris, " she said, almost crying. 

"And--and--what did you say? Did you tell him?"

"Oh, Hubert!--I am so sorry--ah! do not look like that. "

"What did you say? What did you say?" he said between his teeth. 

"I--I--told a lie, Hubert; I said I had never seen her. "

Hubert took his wife suddenly in his two arms and kissed her three orfour times. 

"You darling, you darling!" he said; and then stooped and picked her up, and carried her upstairs, with her head against his cheek, and her tearsrunning down because he was pleased with her, instead of angry. 

They went upstairs and he set her down softly outside the nursery door. 

"Hush, " she said, smiling up at him; and then softly opened the door andlistened, her finger on her lip; there was no sound from within; then shepushed the door open gently, and the wife and husband went in. 

There was a shaded taper still burning in a high bracket where an imageof the Mother of God had stood in the Catholic days of the house. Hubertglanced up at it and remembered it, with just a touch at his heart. Beneath it was a little oak cot, where his four-year-old boy laysleeping; the mother went across and bent over it, and Hubert leaned hisbrown sinewy hands on the end of the cot and watched him. There his sonlay, with tangled curls on the pillow; his finger was on his lips as ifhe bade silence even to thought. Hubert looked up, and just above thebed, where the crucifix used to hang when he himself had slept in thisnursery, probably on the very same nail, he thought to himself, was arusty Spanish spur that he himself had found in a sea-chest of the _SanJuan_. The boy had hung up with a tarry bit of string this emblem of hisfather's victory, as a protection while he slept. 

The child stirred in his sleep and murmured as the two watched him. 

"Father's home again, " whispered the mother. "It is all well. Go to sleepagain. "

When she looked up again to her husband, he was gone. 

 * * * *

It was not often that Hubert had regrets for the Faith he had lost; butto-night things had conspired to prick him. There was his rebuff from Mr. Buxton; there was the sight of Isabel in the dignified grace that he hadnoticed so plainly before; there had been the interview with theex-Catholic servant, now a spy of the Government, and a remorseless enemyof all Catholics; and lastly there were the two little external remindersof the niche and the nail over his son's bed. 

He sat long before the fire in Sir Nicholas' old room, now his own study. As he lay back and looked about him, how different this all was, too! Themantelpiece was almost unaltered; the Maxwell devices, two-headed eagles, hurcheons and saltires, on crowded shields, interlaced with the motto_Reviresco_, all newly gilded since his own accession to the estate, roseup in deep shadow and relief; but over it, instead of the little oldpicture of the Vernacle that he remembered as a child, hung his ownsword. Was that a sign of progress? he wondered. The tapestry on the eastwall was the same, a hawking scene with herons and ladies in immenseheaddresses that he had marvelled at as a boy. But then the books on theshelves to the right of the door, they were different; there had been olddevotional books in his father's time, mingled strangely with small workson country life and sports; now the latter only remained, and the nearestto a devotional book was a volume of a mystical herbalist who identifiedplants with virtues, strangely and ingeniously. Then the prie-dieu, wherethe beads had hung and the little wooden shield with the Five Woundspainted upon it--that was gone; and in its place hung a cupboard where hekept a crossbow and a few tools for it; and old hawk-lures and jesses andthe like. 

Then he lay back again, and thought. 

Had he then behaved unworthily? This old Faith that had been handed downfrom father and son for generations; that had been handed to him too asthe most precious heirloom of all--for which his father had so gladlysuffered fines and imprisonment, and risked death--he had thrown it over, and for what? For Isabel, he confessed to himself; and then the--thePower that stands behind the visible had cheated him and withdrawn thatfor which he had paid over that great price. Was that a reckless andbrutal bargain on his side--to throw over this strange delicate thingcalled the Faith for which so many millions had lived and died, all for awoman's love? A curious kind of family pride in the Faith began to prickhim. After all, was not honour in a manner bound up with it too; and mostof all when such heavy penalties attached themselves to the profession ofit? Was that the moment when he should be the first of his line toabandon it?

_Reviresco_--"I renew my springtide. " But was not this a strangegrafting--a spur for a crucifix, a crossbow for a place of prayer?_Reviresco_--There was sap indeed in the old tree; but from what soil didit draw its strength?

His heart began to burn with something like shame, as it had burned nowand again at intervals during these past years. Here he lay back in hisfather's chair, in his father's room, the first Protestant of theMaxwells. Then he passed on to a memory. 

As he closed his eyes, he could see even now the chapel upstairs, withthe tapers alight and the stiff figure of the priest in the midst of theglow; he could smell the flowers on the altar, the June roses strewn onthe floor in the old manner, and their fresh dewy scent mingled with thefragrance of the rich incense in an intoxicating chord; he could hear therustle that emphasised the silence, as his mother rose from his side andwent up for communion, and the breathing of the servants behind him. 

Then for contrast he remembered the whitewashed church where he attendednow with his wife, Sunday by Sunday, the pulpit occupied by the blackfigure of the virtuous Mr. Bodder pronouncing his discourse, the greattexts that stood out in their new paint from the walls, the table thatstood out unashamed and sideways in the midst of the chancel. And whichof the two worships was most like God?. .. 

Then he compared the worshippers in either mode. Well, Drake, his hero, was a convinced Protestant; the bravest man he had ever met or dreamedof--fiery, pertinacious, gloriously insolent. He thought of his sailors, on whom a portion of Drake's spirit fell, their gallantry, theirfearlessness of death and of all that comes after; of Mr. Bodder, who wasnow growing middle-aged in the Vicarage--yes, indeed, they were alladmirable in various ways, but were they like Christ?

On the other hand, his father, in spite of his quick temper, his mother, brother, aunt, the priests who came and went by night, Isabel--and atthat he stopped: and like a deep voice in his ear rose up the lasttremendous question, What if the Catholic Religion be true after all? Andat that the supernatural began to assert itself. It seemed as if theempty air were full of this question, rising in intensity and emphasis. What if it is true? What if it is true? _What if it is true?_

He sat bolt upright and looked sharply round the room; the candles burnedsteadily in the sconce near the door. The tapestry lifted and droppednoiselessly in the draught; the dark corners beyond the press and in thewindow recesses suggested presences that waited; the wide chimney sighedsuddenly once. 

Was that a voice in his ear just now, or only in his heart? But in eithercase----

He made an effort to command himself, and looked again steadily round theroom; but there seemed no one there. But what if the old tale be true? Inthat case he is not alone in this little oak room, for there is no suchthing as loneliness. In that case he is sitting in full sight of AlmightyGod, whom he has insulted; and of the saints whose power he hasrepudiated; and of the angels good and bad who have---- Ah! what wasthat? There had seemed to come a long sigh somewhere behind him; on hisleft surely. --What was it? Some wandering soul? Was it, could it be thesoul of one who had loved him and desired to warn him before it was toolate? Could it have been----and then it came again; and the hair prickledon his head. 

How deathly still it is, and how cold! Ah! was that a rustle outside; atap?. .. In God's name, who can that be?. .. 

And then Hubert licked his dry lips and brought them together and smiledat Grace, who had come down, opening the doors as she came, to see why hehad not come to bed. 

Bah! what a superstitious fool he was, after all!

 CHAPTER VI

 A DEPARTURE

The months went by happily at Stanfield; and, however ill went thefortunes of the Church elsewhere, here at least were peace andprosperity. Most discouraging news indeed did reach them from time totime. The severe penalties now enacted against the practice of theCatholic Religion were being enforced with great vigour, and the weakmembers of the body began to fail. Two priests had apostatised atChichester earlier in the year, one of them actually at the scaffold onBroyle Heath; and then in December there were two more recantations atPaul's Cross. Those Catholics too who threw up the Faith generally becamethe most aggressive among the persecutors, to testify to their ownconsciences, as well to the Protestants, of the sincerity of theirconversion. 

But in Stanfield the Church flourished, and Anthony had the greathappiness of receiving his first convert in the person of Mr. Rowe, theyoung owner of a house called East Maskells, separated from StanfieldPlace by a field-path of under a mile in length, though the road roundwas over two; and the comings and goings were frequent now between thetwo houses. Mr. Rowe was at present unmarried, and had his aunt to keephouse for him, a tolerant old maiden lady who had conformed placidly tothe Reformed Religion thirty years before, and was now grown content withit. Several "schismatics" too--as those Catholics were called whoattended their parish church--had waxed bolder, and given up theirconformity to the Establishment; so it was a happy and courageous flockthat gathered Sunday by Sunday at Stanfield Place. 

 * * * *

Just before Christmas, Anthony received a long and affectionate letterfrom James Maxwell, who was still at Douai. 

"The Rector will still have me here, " he wrote, "and shows me to theyoung men as if I were a kind of warrior; which is bad for pride; butthen he humbles me again by telling me I am of more use here as anexample, than I should be in England; and that humbles me again. So I amcontent to stay. It is a humbling thing, too, to find young men who cantell me the history of my arms and legs better than I know it myself. Butthe truth is, I can never walk well again--yet _laudetur JesusChristus_. "

Then James Maxwell wrote a little about his grief for Hubert; gave alittle news of foreign movements among the Catholics; and finally endedas follows:

"At last I understand who your friend was behind Bow Church, whostuttered and played the Catholic so well. It was our old servantLackington; who turned Protestant and entered Walsingham's service. Ihear all this from one P. Lately in the same affairs, but now turned toChrist his service instead; and who has entered here as a student. Sobeware of him; he has a pointed beard now, and a bald forehead. I hear, too, from the same source that he was on your track when you landed, butnow thinks you to be in France. However, he knows of you; so I counselyou not to abide over long in one place. Perhaps you may go toLancashire; that is like heaven itself for Catholics. Their zeal andpiety there are beyond praise; but I hear they somewhat lack priests. Godkeep you always, my dear Brother; and may the Queen of Heaven intercedefor you. Pray for me. "

 * * * *

Soon after the New Year, Mary Corbet was able to get away from Court andcome down again to her friends for a month or two at Stanfield. 

During her stay they all had an adventure together at East Maskells. Theyhad been out a long expedition into the woods one clear frosty day androde in just at sunset for an early supper with Mr. Rowe and his aunt. 

They had left their horses at the stable and come in round the back ofthe house; so that they missed the servant Miss Rowe had placed at thefront door to warn them, and came straight into the winter-parlour, wherethey found Miss Rowe in conversation with an ecclesiastic. There was notime to retreat; and Anthony in a moment more found himself beingintroduced to a minister he had met at Lambeth more than once--theReverend Robert Carr, who had held the odd title of "Archbishop's Curate"and the position of minister in charge of the once collegiate church ofAll Saints', Maidstone, ever since the year '59. He had ridden up fromMaidstone for supper and lodging, and was on his way to town. 

Anthony managed to interrupt Miss Rowe before she came to his assumedname Capell, and remarked rather loudly that he had met Mr. Carr before;who recognised him too, and greeted him by his real name. 

It was an uncomfortable situation, as Mr. Carr was quite unaware of thereligion of five out of six of those present, and very soon began to givevoice to his views on Papistry. He was an oldish man by now, and of someimportance in Maidstone, where he had been appointed Jurat by theCorporation, and was a very popular and influential man. 

"The voice of the people, " he said in the midst of a conversation on thenational feeling towards Spain, "that is what we must hearken to. Evensovereigns themselves must come to that some day. They must rule byobeying; as man does with God's laws in nature. "

"Would you say that, sir, of her Grace?" asked Mary Corbet meekly. 

"I should, madam; though I fear she has injured her power by herbehaviour this year. It was her people who saved her. --Hawkins, who isnow ruined as he says; my lord Howard, who has paid from his own pursefor the meat and drink of her Grace's soldiers, and those who fought withthem; and not her Grace, who saved them; or Leicester, now gone to hisaccount, who sat at Tilbury and did the bowing and the prancing and thetalking while Hawkins and the rest did the fighting. No, madam, it is thevoice of the people to which we must hearken. "

This was rather confused and dangerous talking too; but here was plainlya man to be humoured; he looked round him with a suffused face and theeye of a cock, and a little white plume on his forehead increased hisappearance of pugnacity. 

"It is the same in religion, " he said, when all preserved a deferentialsilence; "it is that that lies at the root of papist errors. As you knowvery well, " he went on, turning suddenly on Anthony, "our bishops donothing to guide men's minds; they only seem to: they ride atop like thefigure on a cock-horse, but it is the legs beneath that do the work andthe guiding too: now that is right and good; and the Church of Englandwill prosper so long as she goes like that. But if the bishops try torule they will find their mistake. Now the Popish Church is not likethat; she holds that power comes from above, that the Pope guides thebishops, the bishops the priests, and the priests the people. "

"And the Holy Ghost the Pope; is it not so, sir?" asked Mr. Buxton. 

Mr. Carr turned an eye on him. 

"So they hold, sir, " he said after a pause. 

"They think then, sir, that the shepherds guide the sheep?" asked Anthonyhumbly. 

Mary Corbet gave a yelp of laughter; but when Mr. Carr looked at her shewas grave and deferential again. Miss Rowe looked entreatingly from faceto face. The minister did not notice Anthony's remark; but swept on againon what was plainly his favourite theme, --the infallibility of thepeople. It was a doctrine that was hardly held yet by any; but the nextcentury was to see its gradual rise until it reached its climax in thePuritanism of the Stuart times. It was true, as Mr. Carr said, thatElizabeth had ruled by obeying; and that the people of England, encouraged by success in resisting foreign domination, were about to passon to the second position of resisting any domination at all. 

Presently he pulled out of his pocket a small printed sheet, and was soondeclaiming from it. It was not very much to the point, except asillustrating the national spirit which he believed so divine. It was aballad describing the tortures which the Spaniards had intended toinflict upon the heretic English, and began:

 "All you that list to look and see What profit comes from Spain, And what the Pope and Spaniards both Prepared for our gain. Then turn your eyes and lend your ears And you shall hear and see What courteous minds, what gentle hearts, They bear to thee and me!

And it ended in the same spirit:

 "Be these the men that are so mild Whom some so holy call! The Lord defend our noble Queen And country from them all!"

"There!" the minister cried when he had done, "that is what the Papistsare like! Trust me; I know them I should know one in a moment if heventured into this room, by his crafty face. But the Lord will defend Hisown Englishmen; nay! He has done so. 'God blew and they were scattered, '"he ended, quoting from the Armada medal. 

 * * * *

As the four rode home by pairs across the field-path in the frostymoonlight Mr. Buxton lamented to Anthony the effect of the Armada. 

"The national spirit is higher than ever, " he said, "and it will be thedeath of Catholicism here for the present. Our country squires, I fear, faithful Catholics to this time, are beginning to wonder and question. When will our Catholic kings learn that Christ His Kingdom is not of thisworld? Philip has smitten the Faith in England with the weapon which hedrew in its defence, as he thought. "

"I was once of that national spirit myself, " said Anthony. 

"I remember you were, " said Mr. Buxton, smiling; "and what grace has doneto you it may do to others. "

 * * * *

The spring went by, and in the week after Easter, James' news aboutLancashire was verified by a letter from a friend of Mr. Buxton's, a Mr. Norreys, the owner of one of the staunch Catholic houses, Speke Hall, onthe bank of the Mersey. 

"Here, " he wrote, "by the mercy of God there is no lack of priests, though there be none to spare; my own chaplain says mass by dispensationthrice on Sunday; but on the moors the sheep look up and are not fed; andsuch patient sheep! I heard but last week of a church where the folkresort, priest or no, each Sunday to the number of two hundred, and areled by a lector in devotion, ending with an act of spiritual communionmade all together. These damnable heresies of which the apostle wrotehave not poisoned the springs of sound doctrine; some of us here knownaught yet of Elizabeth and her supremacy, or even of seven-wived Harryhis reformation. Send us then, dear friend, a priest, or at least thepromise of one; lest we perish quite. "

Mr. Buxton had a sore struggle with himself over this letter; but at lasthe carried it to Anthony. 

"Read that, " he said; and stood waiting. 

Anthony looked up when he had done. 

"I am your chaplain, " he said, "but I am God's priest first. "

"Yes, dear lad, " said his friend, "I feared you would say so; and I willsay so to Norreys"; and he left the room at once. 

And so at last it came to be arranged that Anthony should leave forLancashire at the end of July; and that after his departure Stanfieldshould be served occasionally by the priest who lived on the outskirts ofTonbridge; but the daily mass would have to cease, and that was a soretrouble to Mr. Buxton. No definite decision could be made as to whenAnthony could return; that must wait until he saw the needs ofLancashire; but he hoped to be able at least to pay a visit to Stanfieldagain in the spring of the following year. 

It was arranged also, of course, that Isabel should accompany herbrother. They were both of large independent means, and could travel insome dignity; and her presence would be under these circumstances aprotection as well as a comfort to Anthony. It would need very greatsharpness to detect the seminary priest under Anthony's disguise, andamid the surroundings of his cavalcade of four or five armed servants, aFrench maid, and a distinguished-looking lady. 

Yet, in spite of this, Mr. Buxton resolved to do his utmost to preventIsabel from going to Lancashire; partly, of course, he disliked thethought of the dangers and hardships that she was certain to encounter;but the real motive was that he had fallen very deeply in love with her. It was her exceptional serenity that seemed to him her greatest charm;her movements, her face, her grey eyes, the very folds of her dressseemed to breathe with it; and to one of Mr. Buxton's temperament such apresence was cool and sweet and strangely fascinating. 

It was now April, and he resolved to devote the next month or two topreparing her for his proposal; and he wrote frankly to Mary Corbettelling her how matters stood, entreating her to come down for July andcounsel him. Mary wrote back at once, rather briefly, promising to come;but not encouraging him greatly. 

"I would I could cheer you more, " she wrote; "of course I have not seenIsabel since January; but, unless she has changed, I do not think shewill marry you. I am writing plainly you see, as you ask in your letter. But I can still say, God prosper you. "

 * * * *

As the spring went by and the summer came on, Isabel grew yet moresilent. As the evenings began to lengthen out she used to spend much timebefore and after supper in walking up and down the clipped lime avenuebetween the east end of the church and the great gates that looked overthe meadows across which the stream and the field-path ran towards EastMaskells. Mr. Buxton would watch her sometimes from an upstairs window, himself unseen, and occasionally would go out and talk with her; but hefound it harder than he used to get on to intimate relations; and hebegan to suspect that he had displeased her in some way, and that MaryCorbet was right. In the afternoon she and Anthony would generally rideout together, once or twice going round by Penshurst, and their hostwould torture himself by his own indecision as regards accompanying them;sometimes doing so, sometimes refraining, and regretting whichever hedid. More and more he began to look forward to Mary's coming and thebenefit of her advice; and at last, at the end of June, she came. 

Their first evening together was delightful for them all. She was happyat her escape from Court; her host was happy at the prospect of hercounsel; and all four were happy at being together again. 

They did not meet till supper, and even that was put off an hour, becauseMary had not come, and when she did arrive she was full of excitement. 

"I will tell you all at supper, " she said to her host, whom she met inthe hall. "Oh! how late I am!" and she whirled past him and upstairswithout another word. 

 * * * *

"I will first give you the news in brief, " she said, when Anthony hadsaid grace and they were seated, all four of them as before; and thetrumpet-flourish was silent that had announced the approach of thevenison. 

"Mutton's new chaplain, Dr. Bancroft, will be in trouble soon; he hathbeen saying favourable things for some of us poor papists, and hath ratedthe Precisians soundly. Sir Francis Knollys is wroth with him; but thatis no matter. --Her Grace played at cards till two of the clock thismorning, and that is why I am so desperate sleepy to-night, for I had tosit up too; and that is a great matter. --Drake and Norris, 'tis said, have whipped the dons again at Corunna; and the Queen has sworn to pullmy lord Essex his ears for going with them and adventuring his preciousself; and that is no matter at all, but will do him good. --GeorgeLuttrell hath put up a coat of arms in his hall at Dunster, which is agreat matter to him, but to none else;--and I have robbed a highwaymanthis day in the beech woods this side of Groombridge. "

"Dear lady, " said Mr. Buxton resignedly, as the others looked upstartled, "you are too swift for our dull rustic ears; we will begin atthe end, if you please. Is it true you have robbed an highwayman?"

"It is perfectly true, " she said, and unlatched a ruby brooch, madeheart-shape, from her dress. "There is the plunder, " and she held it outfor inspection. 

"Then tell us the tale, " said Anthony. 

"It would be five of the clock, " said Mary, "as we came throughGroombridge, and then into the woods beyond. I had bidden my knaves rideon before with my woman; I came down into a dingle where there was astream; and, to tell the truth, I had my head down and was a-nodding, when my horse stopped; and I looked up of a sudden and there was a man ona bay mare, with a mask to his mouth, a gay green suit, a brown beardturning grey, and this ruby brooch at his throat; and he had caught mybridle. I saw him start when I lifted my head, as if he were taken aback. I said nothing, but he led my horse off the road down among the treeswith a deep little thicket where none could see us. As we went I wasthinking like a windmill; for I knew I had seen the little red broochbefore. 

"When we reached the little open space, I asked him what he wished withme. 

"'Your purse, madam, ' said he. 

"'My woman hath it, ' said I. 

"'Your jewels then, madam, ' said he. 

"'My woman hath them, ' said I, 'save this paste buckle in my hat, towhich you are welcome. ' It was diamonds, you know; but I knew he wouldnot know that. 

"'What a mistake, ' I said, 'to stop the mistress and let the maid gofree!'

"'Nay, ' he said, 'I am glad of it; for at least I will have a dance withthe mistress; and I could not with the maid. '

"'You are welcome to that, ' I said, and I slipped off my horse, to humourhim, and even as I slipped off I knew who he was, for although many havered brooches, and many brown beards turning grey, few have both together;but I said nothing. And there--will you believe it?--we danced under thebeech-trees like Phyllis and Corydon, or whoever they are that Sidney isalways prating of; or like two fools, I would sooner say. Then when wehad done, I made him a curtsey. 

"'Now you must help me up, ' said I, and he mounted me without a word, forhe was a stoutish gallant and somewhat out of breath. And then what didthe fool do but try to kiss me, and as he lifted his arm I snatched thebrooch and put spur to my horse, and as we went up the bank I screamed athim, 'Claude, you fool, go home to your wife and take shame to yourself. 'And when I was near the road I looked back, and he still stood there allagape. "

"And what was his name?" asked Anthony. 

"Nay, nay, I have mocked him enough. And I know four Claudes, so you neednot try to guess. "

 * * * *

When supper was over, Mr. Buxton and Mary walked up and down the southpath of the garden between the yews, while the other two sat just outsidethe hall window on a seat placed on the tiled terrace that ran round thehouse. 

"How I have longed for you to come, Mistress Mary, " he said, "and counselme of the matter we wrote about. Tell me what to do. "

Mary looked meditatively out to the strip of moon that was rising out tothe east in the June sky. Then she looked tenderly at her friend. 

"I hate to pain you, " she said, "but cannot you see that it isimpossible? I may be wrong; but I think her heart is so given to ourSaviour that there is no love of that sort left. "

"Ah, how can you say that?" he cried; "the love of the Saviour does nothinder earthly love; it purifies and transfigures it. "

"Yes, " said Mary gravely, "it is often so--but the love of the truespouse of Christ is different. That leaves no room for an earthlybridegroom. "

Mr. Buxton was silent a moment or two. 

"You mean it is the love of the consecrated soul?"

Mary bowed her head. "But I cannot be sure, " she added. 

"Then what shall I do?" he said again, almost piteously; and Mary couldsee even in the faint moonlight that his pleasant face was all broken upand quivering. She laid her hand gently on his arm, and her ringsflashed. 

"You must be very patient, " she said, "very full of deference--and grave. You must not be ardent nor impetuous, but speak slowly and reverently toher, but at no great length; be plain with her; do not look in her face, and do not show anxiety or despair or hope. You need not fear that yourlove will not be plain to her. Indeed, I think she knows it already. "

"Why, I have not----" he began. 

"I know you have not spoken to her; but I saw that she only looked at youonce during supper, and that was when your face was turned from her; shedoes not wish to look you in the eyes. "

"Ah, she hates me, " he sighed. 

"Do not be foolish, " said Mary, "she honours you, and loves you, and isgrieved for your grief; but I do not think she will marry you. "

"And when shall I speak?" he asked. 

"You must wait; God will make the opportunity--in any case. You must notattempt to make it. That would terrify her. "

"And you will speak for me. "

Mary smiled at him. 

"Dear friend, " she said, "sometimes I think you do not know us at all. Doyou not see that Isabel is greater than all that? What she knows, sheknows. I could tell her nothing. "

 * * * *

The days passed on; the days of the last month of the Norrises' stay atStanfield. Half-way through the month came the news of the Oxfordexecutions. 

"Ah! listen to this, " cried Mr. Buxton, coming out to them one evening inthe garden with a letter in his hand. "'Humphrey Prichard, '" he read, "'made a good end. He protested he was condemned for the Catholic Faith;that he willingly died for it; that he was a Catholic. One of theirministers laughed at him, saying he was a poor ignorant fellow who knewnot what it was to be a Catholic. 'I know very well;' said Humphrey, 'though I cannot say it in proper divinity language. ' There is theReligion for you!" went on Mr. Buxton; "all meet there, wise and simplealike. There is no difference; no scholarship is needed for faith. 'Iknow what it is, ' cried Humphrey, 'though I cannot explain it!'"

The news came to Anthony just when he needed it; he felt he had done solittle to teach his flock now he was to leave them; but if he had onlydone something to keep alive the fire of faith, he had not lost his time;and so he went about his spiritual affairs with new heart, encouragingthe wavering, whom he was to leave, warning the over-confident, urgingthe hesitating, and saying good-bye to them all. Isabel went with himsometimes; or sometimes walked or rode with Mary, and was silent for themost part in public. The master of the house himself did his affairs, andcarried a heavier heart each day. And at last the opportunity came whichMary had predicted. 

He had come in one evening after a hot ride alone over to Tonbridge onsome business with the priest there; and had dressed for supperimmediately on coming in. 

As there was still nearly an hour before supper, he went out to walk upand down the same yew-alley near the garden-house where he had walkedwith Mary. Anthony and Isabel had returned a little later from EastMaskells, and they too had dressed early. Isabel threw a lace shawl overher head, and betook herself too to the alley; and there she turned acorner and almost ran into her host. 

It was, as Mary had said, a God-made opportunity. Neither time nor placecould have been improved. If externals were of any value to thiscourtship, all that could have helped was there. The setting of thepicture was perfect; a tall yew-hedge ran down the northern side of thewalk, cut, as Bacon recommended, not fantastically but "with some prettypyramids"; a strip of turf separated it from the walk, giving a senseboth of privacy and space; on the south side ran flower-beds in the turf, with yews and cypresses planted here and there, and an oak paling beyond;to the east lay the "fair mount, " again recommended by the sameauthority, but not so high, and with but one ascent; to the west the pathdarkened under trees, and over all rose up against the sunset sky thetall grotesque towers and vanes of the garden-house. The flowers burnedwith that ember-like glow which may be seen on summer evenings, andpoured out their scent; the air was sweet and cool, and white moths werebeginning to poise and stir among the blossoms. The two actors on thisscene too were not unworthy of it; his dark velvet and lace with theglimmer of diamonds here and there, and his delicate bearded clean-cutface, a little tanned, thrown into relief by the spotless crisp ruffbeneath, and above all his air of strength and refinement andself-possession--all combined to make him a formidable stormer of agirl's heart. And as he looked on her--on her clear almost luminous faceand great eyes, shrined in the drooping lace shawl, through which a jewelor two in her black hair glimmered, her upright slender figure in itsdark sheath, and the hand, white and cool, that held her shawl togetherover her breast--he had a pang of hope and despair at once, at the suddensense of need of this splendid creature of God to be one with him, andreign with him over these fair possessions; and of hopelessness at thethought that anything so perfect could be accomplished in this imperfectworld. 

He turned immediately and walked beside her, and they both knew, in thesilence that followed, that the crisis had come. 

"Mistress Isabel, " he said, still looking down as he spoke, and his voicesounded odd to her ears, "I wonder if you know what I would say to you. "

There came no sound from her, but the rustle of her dress. 

"But I must say it, " he went on, "follow what may. It is this. I love youdearly. "

Her walk faltered beside him, and it seemed as if she would stand still. 

"A moment, " he said, and he lifted his white restrained face. "I ask youto be patient with me. Perhaps I need not say that I have never said thisto any woman before; but more, I have never even thought it. I do notknow how to speak, nor what I should say; beyond this, that since I firstmet you at the door across there, a year ago, you have taught me eversince what love means; and now I am come to you, as to my dear mistress, with my lesson learnt. "

They were standing together now; he was still turned a little away fromher, and dared not lift his eyes to her face again. Then of a sudden hefelt her hand on his arm for a moment, and he looked up, and saw her eyesall swimming with sorrow. 

"Dear friend, " she said quite simply, "it is impossible--Ah! what can Isay?"

"Give me a moment more, " he said; and they walked on slowly. "I know whatpresumption this is; but I will not spin phrases about that. Nor do I askwhat is impossible; but I will only ask leave to teach you in my turnwhat love means. "

"Oh! that is the hardest of all to say, " she said, "but I know already. "

He did not quite understand, and glanced at her a moment. 

"I once loved too, " she whispered. He drew a sharp breath. 

"Forgive me, " he said, "I forced that from you. "

"You are never anything but courteous and kind, " she said, "and thatmakes this harder than all. "

They walked in silence half a dozen steps. 

"Have I distressed you?" he asked, glancing at her again. 

Then she looked full in his face, and her eyes were overflowing. 

"I am grieved for your sorrow, " she said, "and at my own unworthiness, you know that?"

"I know that you are now and always will be my dear mistress and queen. "

His voice broke altogether as he ended, and he bent and took her handdelicately in his own, as if it were royal, and kissed it. Then she gavea great sob and slipped away through the opening in the clipped hedge;and he was left alone with the dusk and his sorrow. 

 * * * *

A week later Anthony and Isabel were saying good-bye to him in the earlysummer morning: the pack-horses had started on before, and there werejust the two saddle-horses at the low oak door, with the servants'behind. When Mr. Buxton had put Isabel into the saddle, he held her handfor a moment; Anthony was mounting behind. 

"Mistress Isabel, " he whispered; "forgive me; but I find I cannot takeyour answer; you will remember that. "

She shook her head without speaking, but dared not even look into hiseyes; though she turned her head as she rode out of the gates for a lastlook at the peaked gables and low windows of the house where she had beenso happy. There was still the dark figure motionless against the pale oakdoor. 

"Oh, Anthony!" she whispered brokenly, "our Lord asks very much. "

 CHAPTER VII

 NORTHERN RELIGION

The Northern counties were distinguished among all in England for theirloyalty to the old Faith; and this was owing, no doubt, to the charactersof both the country and the inhabitants;--it was difficult for theofficers of justice to penetrate to the high moorland and deep ravines, and yet more difficult to prevail with the persons who lived there. Twenty-two years before the famous Lancashire League had been formed, under the encouragement of Dr. Allen, afterwards the Cardinal, whosemembers pledged themselves to determined recusancy; with the result thathere and there church-doors were closed, and the Book of Common Prayerutterly refused. Owing partly to Bishop Downman's laxity towards therecusants, the principles of the League had retained their holdthroughout the county, ever since '68, when ten obstinate Lancastrianshad been haled before the Council, of whom one, the famous Sir JohnSouthworth himself, suffered imprisonment more than once. 

Anthony and Isabel then found their life in the North very different tothat which they had been living at Stanfield. Near the towns, of course, precaution was as necessary as anywhere else in England, but once theyhad passed up on to the higher moorlands they were able to throw off allanxiety, as much as if the penal laws of England were not in force there. 

It was pleasant, too, to go, as they did, from great house to greathouse, and find the old pre-Reformation life of England in full vigour;the whole family present at mass so often as it was said, desirous of thesacraments, and thankful for the opportunities of grace that the arrivalof the priest afforded. Isabel would often stay at such houses a week ortwo together, while Anthony made rounds into the valleys and to themoorland villages round-about; and then the two would travel on togetherwith their servants to the next village. Anthony's ecclesiastical outfitwas very simple. Among Isabel's dresses lay a brocade vestment that mighteasily pass notice if the luggage was searched; and Anthony carried inhis own luggage a little altar-stone, a case with the holy oils, a tinychalice and paten, singing-cakes, and a thin vellum-bound Missal andRitual in one volume, containing the order of mass, a few votive masses, and the usual benedictions for holy-water, rue and the like, and theoccasional offices. 

In this manner they first visited many of the famous old Lancashirehouses, some of which still stand, Borwick Hall, Hall-i'-the-Wood, Lydiate Hall, Thurnham, Blainscow, where Campion had once been so nearlytaken, and others, all of which were provided with secret hiding-placesfor the escape of the priest, should a sudden alarm be raised. In none ofthem, however, did he find the same elaboration of device as at StanfieldPlace. 

First, however, they went to Speke Hall, the home of Mr. Norreys, on thebanks of the Mersey, a beautiful house of magpie architecture, andfurnished with a remarkable underground passage to the shore of theMersey, the scene of Richard Brittain's escape. 

Here they received a very warm welcome. 

"It is as I wrote to Mr. Buxton, " said his host on the evening of theirarrival, "in many places in this country any religion other than theCatholic is unknown. The belief of the Protestant is as strange as thatof the Turk, both utterly detested. I was in Cumberland a few monthsback; there in more than one village the old worship goes on as it hasdone since Christianity first came to this island. But I hope you will goup there, now that you have come so far. You would do a great work forChrist his Church. "

He told him, too, a number of stories of the zeal and constancy shown onbehalf of the Religion; of small squires who were completely ruined bythe fines laid upon them; of old halls that were falling to piecesthrough the ruin brought upon their staunch owners; and above all of thepriests that Lancashire had added to the roll of the martyrs--Anderton, Marsden, and Thompson among others--and of the joy shown when theglorious news of their victory over death reached the place where theyhad been born or where they had ministered. 

"At Preston, " he said, "when the news of Mr. Greenaway's death reachedthem, they tolled the bells for sorrow. But his old mother ran from herhouse to the street when they had broken the news to her: 'Peal them, peal them!' she cried, 'for I have borne a martyr to God. '"

He talked, too, of Campion, of his sermons on "The King who went ajourney, " and the "Hail, Mary"; and told him of the escape at BlainscowHall, where the servant-girl, seeing the pursuivants at hand, pushed theJesuit, with quick wit and courage, into the duck-pond, so that he cameout disguised indeed--in green mud--and was mocked at by the veryofficers as a clumsy suitor of maidens. 

Anthony's heart warmed within him as he sat and listened to these talesof patience and gallantry. 

"I would lay down my life to serve such folk, " he said; and Isabel lookedwith deep-kindled eyes from the one to the other. 

They did not stay more than a day or two at Speke Hall, for, as Mr. Norreys said, the necessaries of salvation were to be had there already;but they moved on almost at once northwards, always arriving at somecentral point for Saturdays and Sundays, so that the Catholics roundcould come in for shrift and housel. In this manner they passed upthrough Lancashire, and pushed still northwards, hearing that a priestwas sorely needed, through the corner of Westmoreland, up the Lakecountry, through into Cumberland itself. At Kendal, where they stayed twonights, Anthony received a message that determined him, afterconsultation with Isabel, to push on as far as Skiddaw, and to make thatthe extreme limit of his journey. He sent the messenger, a wild-lookingNorth-countryman, back with a verbal answer to that effect, and named adate when they would arrive. 

It was already dark, two weeks later, when they arrived at the pointwhere the guide was to meet them, as they had lost their way more thanonce already. Here were a couple of men with torches, waiting for thembehind a rock, who had come down from the village, a mile farther on, tobring them up the difficult stony path that was the only means of accessto it. The track went up a ravine, with a rock-wall rising on their left, on which the light of the torches shone, and tumbled ground, covered withheather, falling rapidly away on their right down to a gulf of darknesswhence they could hear the sound of the torrent far below; the path wasuneven, with great stones here and there, and sharp corners in it, and asthey went it was all they could do to keep their tired horses fromstumbling, for a slip would have been dangerous under the circumstances. The men who led them said little, as it was impossible for a horse and aman to walk abreast, but Anthony was astonished to see again and again, as they turned a corner, another man with a torch and some weapon, apike, or a sword, start up and salute him, or sometimes a group, withbarefooted boys, and then attach themselves to the procession eitherbefore or behind; until in a short while there was an escort of somethirty or forty accompanying the cavalcade. At last, as they turned acorner, the lighted windows of a belfry showed against the dark moorbeyond, and in a moment more, as if there were a watcher set there tolook out for the torches, a peal of five bells clashed out from thetower; then, as they rose yet higher, the path took a sudden turn and adip between two towering rocks, and the whole village lay beneath them, with lights in every window to welcome the priest, the first that theyhad seen for eight months, when the old Marian rector, the elder brotherof the squire, had died. 

It was now late, so Anthony and Isabel were conducted immediately to theHall, an old house immediately adjoining the churchyard; and here, too, the windows were blazing with welcome, and the tall squire, Mr. Brian, with his wife and children behind, was standing before the brighthall-door at the top of the steps. The men and boys that had brought themso far, and were standing in the little court with their torchesuplifted, now threw themselves on their knees to receive the priest'sblessing, before they went home; and Anthony blessed them and thankedthem, and went indoors with his sister, strangely moved and uplifted. 

 * * * *

The two following days were full of hard work and delight for Anthony. Hewas to say mass at half-past six next morning, and came out of the housea little after six o'clock; the sun was just rising to his right over ashoulder of Skiddaw, which dominated the eastern horizon; and all roundhim, stretched against the sky in all directions, were the high purplemoors in the strange dawn-light. Immediately in front of him, not thirtyyards away, stood the church, with its tower, two aisles, and a chapel ona little promontory of rock which jutted out over the bed of the torrentalong which he had climbed the night before; and to his left lay thestraggling street of the village. All was perfectly still except for thedash of the stream over the rocks; but from one or two houses a thinskein of smoke was rising straight into the air. Anthony stood rapt indelight, and drew long breaths of the cool morning air, laden withfreshness and fragrant with the mellow scent of the heather and theautumnal smells. 

He was completely taken by surprise when he entered the church, for, forthe first time since he could remember, he saw an English church in itstrue glory. It had been built for a priory-church of Holm-Cultram, butfor some reason had never been used as that, and had become simply theparish church of the village. Across the centre and the northern aisleran an elaborate screen, painted in rich colours, and the southernchapel, which ran eastwards of the porch, was separated in a similar wayfrom the rest of the church. Over the central screen was the great rood, with its attendant figures, exquisitely carved and painted; in everydirection, as Anthony looked beyond the screens, gleamed rich windows, with figures and armorial bearings; here and there tattered banners hungon the walls; St. Christopher stood on the north wall opposite the door, to guard from violence all who looked upon him day by day; a littlepainting of the Baptist hung on a pillar over against the font, and aVernacle by the pulpit; and all round the walls hung little pictures, that the poor and unlearned might read the story of redemption there. Butthe chief glory of all was the solemn high altar, with its riddellssurmounted by taper-bearing gilded angels, with its brocade cloth, andits painted halpas behind; and above it, before the rich window whichsmouldered against the dawn, hung the awful pyx, covered by the whitesilk cloth, but empty; waiting for the priest to come and bid theShechinah of the Lord to brood there again over this gorgeous thronebeneath, against the brilliant halo of the painted glass behind. 

Anthony knelt a moment and thanked God for bringing him here, and thenpassed up into the north aisle, where the image of the Mother of Godpresided, as she had done for three hundred years, over her little altaragainst the wall. Anthony said his preparation and vested at the altar;and was astonished to find at least thirty people to hear mass: none, ofcourse, made their communion, but Anthony, when he had ended, placed theBody of the Lord once more in the hanging pyx and lit the lamp before it. 

Then all day he sat in the north chapel, with the dash and loud thunderof the mountain stream entering through the opened panes of the eastwindow, and the stained sunlight, in gorgeous colours, creeping acrossthe red tiles at his feet, glowing and fading as the clouds moved overthe sun, while the people came and were shriven; with the exception of anhour in the middle of the day and half an hour for supper in the evening, he was incessantly occupied until nine o'clock at night. From the uplanddales all round they streamed in, at news of the priest, and those whohad come from far and were fasting he communicated at once from theReserved Sacrament. At last, tired out, but intensely happy, he went backto the Hall. 

But the next morning was yet more startling. Mass was at eight o'clock, and by the time Anthony entered the church he found a congregation ofnearly two hundred souls; the village itself did not number aboveseventy, but many came in from the country round, and some had stayed allnight in the church-porch. Then, too, he heard the North-country singingin the old way; all the mass music was sung in three parts, except theunchanging melody of the creed, which, like the tremendous and unchangingwords themselves, at one time had united the whole of England; but whatstirred Anthony more than all were the ancient hymns sung here and thereduring the service, some in Latin, which a few picked voices rendered, and some in English, to the old lilting tunes which were as much thegrowth of the north-country as the heather itself. The "Ave Verum Corpus"was sung after the Elevation, and Anthony felt that his heart would breakfor very joy; as he bent before the Body of his Lord, and the voicesbehind him rose and exulted up the aisles, the women's and children'svoices soaring passionately up in the melody, the mellow men's voicesestablishing, as it seemed, these ecstatic pinnacles of song on mightyand immovable foundations. 

Vespers were said at three o'clock, after baptisms and more confessions;and Anthony was astonished at the number of folk who could answer thepriest. After vespers he made a short sermon, and told the peoplesomething of what he had seen in the South, of the martyrdoms at Tyburn, and of the constancy of the confessors. 

"'Be thou faithful unto death, '" he said. "So our Saviour bids us, and Hegives us a promise too: 'I will give thee a crown of life. ' Beloved, someday the tide of heresy will creep up these valleys too; and it will bearmany things with it, the scaffold and the gallows and the knife maybe. And then our Lord will see which are His; then will be the time thatgrace will triumph--that those who have used the sacraments withdevotion; that have been careful and penitent with their sins, that havehungered for the Bread of Life--the Lord shall stand by them and savethem, as He stood by Mr. Sherwin on the rack, and Father Campion on thescaffold, and Mistress Ward and many more, of whom I have not had time totell you. He who bids us be faithful, Himself will be faithful; and Hewho wore the crown of thorns will bestow upon us the crown of life. "

Then they sang a hymn to our Lady:

 "Hail be thou, Mary, the mother of Christ, "

and the old swaying tune rocked like a cradle, and the people looked uptowards their Mother's altar as they sang--their Mother who had ruledthem so sweetly and so long--and entreated her in their hearts, who stoodby her Son's Cross, to stand by theirs too should God ever call them todie upon one. 

The next day Mr. Brian took Anthony a long walk as soon as dinner wasover, across the moors towards the north side of Skiddaw. Anthony foundthe old man a delightful and garrulous companion, full of tales of thecountryside, historical, religious, naturalistic, and supernatural. Asthey stood on a little eminence and looked back to where the church-towerpricked out of the deep crack in the moors where it stood, he told himthe tale of the coming of the pursuivants. 

"They first troubled us in '72, " he said; "they had not thought it worthwhile before to disturb themselves for one old man like my brother, whowas like to die soon; but in April of that year they first sent up theirmen. But it was only a pair of pursuivants, for they knew nothing ofthe people; they came up, the poor men, to take my brother down toCockermouth to answer on his religion to some bench of ministers that satthere. Well, they met him, in his cassock and square cap, coming out ofthe church, where he had just replaced the Most Holy Sacrament aftergiving communion to a dying body. 'Heh! are you the minister?' say they. 

"'Heh! I am the priest, if that is what you mean, ' he answers back. (Hewas a large man, like myself, was my brother. )

"'Well, come, old man, ' say they, 'we must help you down to Cockermouth. '

"Well, a few words passed; and the end was that he called out to Tim, wholived just against the church; and told them what was forward. 

"Well, the pursuivants got back to Cockermouth with their lives, but notmuch else; and reported to the magistrates that the wild Irish themselveswere little piminy maids compared to the folk they had visited that day. 

"So there was a great to-do, and a deal of talk; and in the next monththey sent up thirty pikemen with an officer and a dozen pursuivants, andall to take one old priest and his brother. I had been in Kendal in Aprilwhen they first came--but they put it all down to me. 

"Well, we were ready for them this time; the bells had been ringing tocall in the folk since six of the clock in the morning; and bydinner-time, when the soldiers were expected, there was a matter of twohundred men, I should say, some with scythes and sickles, and some withstaves or shepherds' crooks; the children had been sent down sooner tostone the men all the way up the path; and by the time that they hadreached the churchyard gate there was not a man of them but had a cut ora bruise upon him. Then, when they turned the corner, black with wrath, there were the lads gathered about the church-porch each with his weapon, and each white and silent, waiting for what should fall. 

"Now you wonder where we were. We were in the church, my brother and I;for our people had put us there against our will, to keep us safe, theysaid. Eh! but I was wroth when Olroyd and the rest pushed me through thedoor. However, there we were, locked in; I was up in one window, and mybrother was in the belfry as I thought, each trying to see what wasforward. I saw the two crowds of them, silent and wrathful, with nottwenty yards between them, and a few stones still sailing among thesoldiers now and again; the pikes were being set in array, and our ladswere opening out to let the scythes have free play, when on a sudden Iheard the tinkle of a bell round the outside of the tower, and I climbeddown from my place, and up again to one of the west windows; there was afearsome hush outside now, and I could see some of the soldiers in frontwere uneasy; they had their eyes off the lads and round the side of thetower. And then I saw little Dickie Olroyd in his surplice ringing a belland bearing a candle, and behind him came my brother, in a purple cope Ihad never set eyes on before, with his square cap and a great book, andhis eyes shining out of his head, and his lips opening and mouthing outLatin; and then he stopped, laid the book reverently on a tombstone, lifted both hands, and brought them down with the fingers out, and hiseyes larger than ever. I could see the soldiers were ready to break andscatter, for some were Catholics no doubt, and many more feared thepriest; and then on a sudden my brother caught the candle out of Dickie'shand, blew it out with a great puff, while Dickie rattled upon the bell, and then he dashed the smoking candle among the soldiers. The soldiersbroke and fled like hares, out of the churchyard, down the street anddown the path to Cockermouth; the officer tried to stay them, but 'twasno use; the fear of the Church was upon them, and her Grace herself couldnot have prevailed with them. Well, when they let us out, the lads wereall a-trembling too; for my brother's face, they said, was like thedestroying angel; and I was somewhat queer myself, and I was astonishedtoo; for he was kind-hearted, was my brother, and would not hurt a fly'sbody; much less damn his soul; and, after all, the poor soldiers were notto blame; and 'twas a queer cursing, I thought too, to be done like that;but maybe 'twas a new papal method. I went round to the north chapel, andthere he was taking off his cope. 

"'Well, ' he said to me, 'how did I do it?'

"'Do it?' I said; 'do it? Why, you've damned those poor lads' soulseternally. The hand of the Lord was with you, ' I said. 

"'Damned them?' said he; 'nonsense! 'Twas only your old herbal that Iread at them; and the cope too, 'twas inside out. '"

 * * * *

Then the old man told Anthony other stories of his earlier life, how hehad been educated at the university and been at Court in King Henry'sreign and Queen Mary's, but that he had lost heart at Elizabeth'saccession, and retired to his hills, where he could serve God accordingto his conscience, and study God's works too, for he was a keennaturalist. He told Anthony many stories about the deer, and the herds ofwild white hornless cattle that were now practically extinct on thehills, and of a curious breed of four-horned sheep, skulls of all ofwhich species hung in his hall, and of the odd drinking-horns thatAnthony had admired the day before. There was one especially that hetalked much of, a buffalo horn on three silver feet fashioned like thelegs of an armed man; round the centre was a filleting inscribed, "_Quipugnat contra tres perdet duos_, " and there was a cross patée on thehorn, and two other inscriptions, "_Nolite extollere cornu in altu'_" and"_Qui bibat me adhuc siti'_. " Mr. Brian told him it had been brought fromItaly by his grandfather. 

They put up a quantity of grouse and several hares as they walked acrossthe moor; one of the hares, which had a curious patch of white betweenhis ears like a little night-cap, startled Mr. Brian so much that heexclaimed aloud, crossed himself, and stood, a little pale, watching thehare's head as it bobbed and swerved among the heather. 

"I like it not, " he said to Anthony, who inquired what was the matter. "Satan hath appeared under some such form to many in history. JoachimusCamerarius, who wrote _de natura dæmonum_, tells, I think, a story ofa hare followed by a fox that ran across the path of a young man whowas riding on a horse, and who started in pursuit. Up and down hills anddales they went, and soon the fox was no longer there, and the hare grewlarger and blacker as it went; and the young man presently saw that hewas in a country that he knew not; it was all barren and desolate roundhim, and the sky grew dark. Then he spurred his horse more furiously, andhe drew nearer and nearer to the great hare that now skipped along like astag before him; and then, as he put out his hand to cut the hare down, the creature sprang into the air and vanished, and the horse fell dead;and the man was found in his own meadow by his friends, in a swound, withhis horse dead beside him, and trampled marks round and round the field, and the pug-marks of what seemed like a great tiger beside him, where thebeast had sprung into the air. "

When Mr. Brian found that Anthony was interested in such stories, he toldhim plenty of them; especially tales that seemed to join in a strangeunity of life, demons, beasts and men. It was partly, no doubt, hisstudies as a naturalist that led him to insist upon points that unitedrather than divided the orders of creation; and he told him stories firstfrom such writers as Michael Verdunus and Petrus Burgottus, who relateamong other marvels how there are ointments by the use of which shepherdshave been known to change themselves into wolves and tear the sheep thatthey should have protected; and he quoted to him St. Augustine's owntestimony, to the belief that in Italy certain women were able to changethemselves into heifers through the power of witchcraft. Finally, he toldhim one or two tales of his own experience. 

"In the year '63, " he said, "before my marriage, I was living alone inthe Hall; I was a young man, and did my best to fear nought but deadlysin. I was coming back late from Threlkeld, round the south of Skiddawthat you see over there; and was going with a lantern, for it would beten o'clock at night, and the time of year was autumn. I was still a mileor two from the house, and was saying my beads as I came, for I hold thatis a great protection; when I heard a strange whistling noise, with amurmur in it, high up overhead in the night. 'It is the birds goingsouth, ' I said to myself, for you know that great flocks fly by nightwhen the cold begins to set in; but the sound grew louder and moredistinct, and at last I could hear the sound as of words gabbled in aforeign tongue; and I knew they were no birds, though maybe they hadwings like them. But I knew that a Christened soul in grace has nought tofear from hell; so I crossed myself and said my beads, and kept my eyeson the ground, and presently I saw my lights burning in the house, andheard the roar of the stream, and the gabbling above me ceased, as thesound of the running water began. But that night I awoke again and again;and the night seemed hot and close each time, as if a storm was near, butthere was no thunder. Each time I heard the roar of the stream below thehouse, and no more. At last, towards the morning, I set my window widethat looks towards the stream, and leaned out; and there beneath me, crowded against the wall of the house, as I could see in the growinglight, was a great flock of sheep, with all their heads together towardsthe house, as close as a score of dogs could pack them, and they were allstill as death, and their backs were dripping wet; for they had come downthe hills and swum the stream, in order to be near a Christened man andaway from what was abroad that night. 

"My shepherds told me the same that day, that everywhere the sheep hadcome down to the houses, as if terrified near to death; and at Keswick, whither I went the next market-day, they told me the same tale, and thattwo men had each found a sheep that could not travel; one had a brokenleg, and the other had been cast; but neither had another mark or woundor any disease upon him, but that both were lying dead upon Skiddaw; andthe look in the dead eyes, they said, was fit to make a man forget hismanhood. "

Anthony found the old man the most interesting companion possible, and hepersuaded him to accompany him on several of the expeditions that he hadto make to the hamlets and outlying cottages round, in his spiritualministrations; and both he and Isabel were sincerely sorry when twoSundays had passed away, and they had to begin to move south again intheir journeyings. 

 * * * *

And so the autumn passed and winter began, and Anthony was slowly movingdown again, supplying the place of priests who had fallen sick or haddied, visiting many almost inaccessible hamlets, and everywhereencouraging the waverers and seeking the wanderers, and rejoicing overthe courageous, and bringing opportunities of grace to many who longedfor them. He met many other well-known priests from time to time, andtook counsel with them, but did not have time to become very intimatewith any of them, so great were the demands upon his services. In thismanner he met John Colleton, the canonist, who had returned from hisbanishment in '87, but found him a little dull and melancholy, though hisdevotion was beyond praise. He met, too, the Jesuit Fathers EdwardOldcorne and Richard Holtby, the former of whom had lately come fromHindlip. 

He spent Christmas near Cartmel-in-Furness, and after the new year hadopened, crossed the Ken once more near Beetham, and began to returnslowly down the coast. Everywhere he was deeply touched by the devotionof the people, who, in spite of long months without a priest, had yetclung to the observance of their religion so far as was possible, and nowwelcomed him like an angel of God; and he had the great happiness too ofreconciling some who, yielding to loneliness and pressure, had conformedto the Establishment. In these latter cases he was almost startled by thedepth of Catholic convictions that had survived. 

"I never believed it, father, " said a young squire to him, near Garstang. "I knew that it was but a human invention, and not the Gospel that myfathers held, and that Christ our Saviour brought on earth; but I lostheart, for that no priest came near us, and I had not had the sacramentsfor nearly two years; and I thought that it were better to have somereligion than none at all, so at last I went to church. But there is noneed to talk to me, father, now I have made my confession, for I knowwith my whole soul that the Catholic Religion is the true one--and I haveknown it all the while, and I thank God and His Blessed Mother, and you, father, too, for helping me to say so again, and to come back to grace. "

At last, at the beginning of March, Anthony and Isabel found themselvesback again at Speke Hall, warmly welcomed by Mr. Norreys. 

"You have done a good work for the Church, Mr. Capell, " said his host, "and God will reward you and thank you for it Himself, for we cannot. "

"And I thank God, " said Anthony, "for the encouragement to faith that thesight of the faithful North has given to me; and pray Him that I maycarry something of her spirit back with me to the south. "

There were letters waiting for him at Speke Hall, one from Mr. Buxton, urging them to come back, at least for the present, to Stanfield Place, so soon as the winter work in the north was over; and another from theRector of the College at Douai to the same effect. There was also onemore, written from a little parish in Kent, from a Catholic lady who wasaltogether a stranger to him, but who plainly knew all about him, entreating him to call at her house when he was in the south again; herhusband, she said, had met him once at Stanfield and had been stronglyattracted by him to the Catholic Church, and she believed that if Anthonywould but pay them a visit her husband's conversion would be broughtabout. Anthony could not remember the man's name, but Isabel thought thatshe did remember some such person at a small private conference thatAnthony had given in Mr. Buxton's house, for the benefit of Catholics andthose who were being drawn towards the Religion. 

The lady, too, gave him instructions as to how he should come from Londonto her house, recommending him to cross the Thames at a certain spot thatshe described near Greenhithe, and to come on southwards along a routethat she marked for him, to the parish of Stanstead, where she lived. This, then, was soon arranged, and after letters had been sent offannouncing Anthony's movements, he left Speke Hall with Isabel, about afortnight later. 

 CHAPTER VIII

 IN STANSTEAD WOODS

On the first day of June, Anthony and Isabel, with their three armedservants and the French maid behind them, were riding down throughThurrock to the north bank of the Thames opposite Greenhithe. As theywent Anthony pulled out and studied the letter and the little map thatMrs. Kirke had sent to guide them. 

"On the right-hand side, " she wrote, "when you come to the ferry, standsa little inn, the 'Sloop, ' among trees, with a yard behind it. Mr. Bender, the host, is one of us; and he will get your horses on board, anddo all things to forward you without attracting attention. Give him somesign that he may know you for a Catholic, and when you are alone with himtell him where you are bound. "

There were one or two houses standing near the bank, as they rode downthe lane that led to the river, but they had little difficulty inidentifying the "Sloop, " and presently they rode into the yard, and, leaving their horses with the servants, stepped round into the littlesmoky front room of the inn. 

A man, dressed somewhat like a sailor, was sitting behind a table, wholooked up with a dull kind of expectancy and whom Anthony took as thehost; and, in order to identify him and show who he himself was, he tookup a little cake of bread that was lying on a platter on the table, andbroke it as if he would eat. This was one of Father Persons' devices, andwas used among Catholics to signify their religion when they were withstrangers, since it was an action that could rouse no suspicion amongothers. The man looked in an unintelligent way at Anthony, who turnedaway and rapped upon the door, and as a large heavily-built man came out, broke it again, and put a piece into his mouth. The man lifted hiseyebrows slightly, and just smiled, and Anthony knew he had found hisfriend. 

"Come this way, sir, " he said, "and your good lady, too. "

They followed him into the inner room of the house, a kind of littlekitchen, with a fire burning and a pot over it, and one or two barrels ofdrink against the wall. A woman was stirring the pot, for it was neardinner-time, and turned round as the strangers came in. It was plainly aninn that was of the poorest kind, and that was used almost entirely bywatermen or by travellers who were on their way to cross the ferry. 

"The less said the better, " said the man, when he had shut the door. "Howcan I serve you, sir?"

"We wish to take our horses and ourselves across to Greenhithe, " saidAnthony, "and Mrs. Kirke, to whom we are going, bade us make ourselvesknown to you. "

The man nodded and smiled. 

"Yes, sir, that can be managed directly. The ferry is at the other banknow, sir; and I will call it across. Shall we say in half an hour, sir;and, meanwhile, will you and your lady take something?"

Anthony accepted gladly, as the time was getting on, and ordered dinnerfor the servants too, in the outer room. As the landlord was going to thedoor, he stopped him. 

"Who is that man in the other room?" he asked. 

The landlord gave a glance at the door, and came back towards Anthony. 

"To tell the truth, sir, I do not know. He is a sailor by appearance, andhe knows the talk; but none of the watermen know him; and he seems to donothing. However, sir, there's no harm in him that I can see. "

Anthony told him that he had broken the bread before him, thinking he wasthe landlord. The real landlord smiled broadly. 

"Thank God, I am somewhat more of a man than that, " for the sailor waslean and sun-dried. Then once more Mr. Bender went to the door to callthe servants in. 

"Why, the man's gone, " he said, and disappeared. Then they heard hisvoice again. "But he's left his groat behind him for his drink, so all'swell"; and presently his voice was heard singing as he got the tableready for the servants. 

In a little more than half an hour the party and the horses were safelyon the broad bargelike ferry, and Mr. Bender was bowing on the bank andwishing them a prosperous journey, as they began to move out on to thewide river towards the chalk cliffs and red roofs of Greenhithe thatnestled among the mass of trees on the opposite bank. In less than tenminutes they were at the pier, and after a little struggle to get thehorses to land, they were mounted and riding up the straight littlestreet that led up to the higher ground. Just before they turned thecorner they heard far away across the river the horn blown to summon theferry-boat once more. 

 * * * *

There were two routes from Greenhithe to Stanstead, the one to the rightthrough Longfield and Ash, the other to the left through Southfleet andNursted. There was very little to choose between them as regardsdistance, and Mrs. Kirke had drawn a careful sketch-map with a few notesas to the characteristics of each route. There were besides, particularlythrough the thick woods about Stanstead itself, innumerable cross-pathsintersecting one another in all directions. The travellers had decided atthe inn to take the road through Longfield; since, in spite of otherdisadvantages, it was the less frequented of the two, and they wereanxious above all things to avoid attention. Their horses were tired; andas they had plenty of time before them they proposed to go at afoot's-pace all the way, and to take between two and three hours to coverthe nine or ten miles between Greenhithe and Stanstead. 

It was a hot afternoon as they passed through Fawkham, and it wasdelightful to pass from the white road in under the thick arching treesjust beyond the village. There everything was cool shadow, the insectssang in the air about them, an early rabbit or two cantered across theroad and disappeared into the thick undergrowth; once the song of thebirds about them suddenly ceased, and through an opening in the greenrustling vault overhead they saw a cruel shape with motionless wingsglide steadily across. 

They did not talk much, but let the reins lie loose; and enjoyed the coolshadow and the green lights and the fragrant mellow scents of the woodsabout them; while their horses slouched along on the turf, switchingtheir tails and even stopping sometimes for a second in a kind ofdesperate greediness to snatch a green juicy mouthful at the side. 

Isabel was thinking of Stanfield, and wondering how the situation wouldadjust itself; Mary Corbet would be there, she knew, to meet them; and itwas a comfort to think she could consult her; but what, she askedherself, would be her relations with the master of the house?

Suddenly Anthony's horse stepped off the turf on the opposite side of theroad and began to come towards her, and she moved her beast a little tolet him come on the turf beside her. 

"Isabel, " said Anthony, "tell me if you hear anything. "

She looked at him, suddenly startled. 

"No, no, " he said, "there is nothing to fear; it is probably my fancy;but listen and tell me. "

She listened intently. There was the creaking of her own saddle, the softfootfalls of the horses, the hum of the summer woods, and the sound ofthe servants' horses behind. 

"No, " she said, "there is nothing beyond----"

"There!" he said suddenly; "now do you hear it?"

Then she heard plainly the sound either of a man running, or of a horsewalking, somewhere behind them. 

"Yes, " she said, "I hear something; but what of it?"

"It is the third time I have heard it, " he said: "once in the woodsbehind Longfield, and once just before the little village with thesteepled church. "

The sound had ceased again. 

"It is some one who has come nearly all the way from Greenhithe behindus. Perhaps they are not following--but again----"

"They?" she said; "there is only one. "

"There are three, " he answered; "at least; the other two are on the turfat the side--but just before the village I heard all three of them--orrather certainly more than two--when they were between those two wallswhere there was no turf. "

Isabel was staring at him with great frightened eyes. He smiled back ather tranquilly. 

"Ah, Isabel!" he said, "there is nothing really to fear, in any case. "

"What shall you do?" she asked, making a great effort to control herself. 

"I think we must find out first of all whether they are after us. We mustcertainly not ride straight to the Manor Lodge if it is so. "

Then he explained his plan. 

"See here, " he said, holding the map before her as he rode, "we shallcome to Fawkham Green in five minutes. Then our proper road leadsstraight on to Ash, but we will take the right instead, towards Eynsford. Meanwhile, I will leave Robert here, hidden by the side of the road, tosee who these men are, and what they look like; and we will ride onslowly. When they have passed, he will come out and take the road weshould have taken, and he then will turn off to the right too before hereaches Ash; and by trotting he will easily come up with us at thiscorner, " and he pointed to it on the map--"and so he will tell us whatkind of men they are; and they will never know that they have been spiedupon; for, by this plan, he will not have to pass them. Is that a goodplot?" and he smiled at her. 

Isabel assented, feeling dazed and overwhelmed. She could hardly bringher thoughts to a focus, for the fears that had hovered about her eversince they had left Lancashire and come down to the treacherous south, had now darted upon her, tearing her heart with terror and blinding hereyes, and bewildering her with the beating of their wings. 

Anthony quietly called up Robert, and explained the plan. He was a lad ofa Catholic family at Great Keynes, perfectly fearless and perfectlydevoted to the Church and to the priest he served. He nodded his headbriskly with approval as the plan was explained. 

"Of course it may all be nothing, " ended Anthony, "and then you willthink me a poor fool?"

The lad grinned cheerfully. 

"No, sir, " he said. 

All this while they had been riding slowly on together, and now the woodshowed signs of coming to an end; so Anthony told the groom to ride fiftyyards into the undergrowth at once, to bandage his horse's eyes, and totie him to a tree; and then to creep back himself near the road, so as tosee without being seen. The men who seemed to be following were at leasthalf a mile behind, so he would have plenty of time. 

Then they all rode on together again, leaving Robert to find his way intothe wood. As they went, Isabel began to question her brother, and Anthonygave her his views. 

"They have not come up with us, because they know we are four men tothree--if, as I think, they are not more than three--that is one reason;and another is that they love to track us home before they take us; andthus take our hosts too as priests' harbourers. Now plainly these men donot know where we are bound, or they would not follow us so closely. Bestof all, too, they love to catch us at mass for then they have no troublein proving their case. I think then that they will not try to take ustill we reach the Manor Lodge; and we must do our best to shake them offbefore that. Now the plot I have thought of is this, that--should itprove as I think it will--we should ride slower than ever, as if ourhorses were weary, down the road along which Robert will have come afterhe has joined us, and turn down as if to go to Kingsdown, and when wehave gone half a mile, and are well round that sharp corner, double backto it, and hide all in the wood at the side. They will follow our tracks, and there are no houses at which they can ask, and there seem notravellers either on these by-roads, and when they have passed us wedouble back at the gallop, and down the next turning, which will bring usin a couple of miles to Stanstead. There is a maze of roads thereabouts, and it will be hard if we do not shake them off; for there is not ahouse, marked upon the map, at which they can ask after us. "

Isabel did her utmost to understand, but the horror of the pursuit hadoverwhelmed her. The quiet woods into which they had passed again afterleaving Fawkham Green now seemed full of menace; the rough road, with thedeep powdery ruts and the grass and fir-needles at the side, no longerseemed a pleasant path leading home, but a treacherous device to leadthem deeper into danger. The creatures round them, the rabbits, thepigeons that flapped suddenly out of all the tall trees, the tits thatfluttered on and chirped and fluttered again, all seemed united againstAnthony in some dreadful league. Anthony himself felt all his powers ofobservation and device quickened and established. He had lived so long inthe expectation of a time like this, and had rehearsed and mastered theemotions of terror and suspense so often, that he was ready to meet them;and gradually his entire self-control and the unmoved tones of his voiceand his serene alert face prevailed upon Isabel; and by the time thatthey slowly turned the last curve and saw Robert on his black horsewaiting for them at the corner, her sense of terror and bewilderment hadpassed, her heart had ceased that sick thumping, and she, too, wastranquil and capable. 

Robert wheeled his horse and rode beside Anthony round the sharp cornerto the left up the road along which he had trotted just now. 

"There are three of them, sir, " he said in an even, businesslike voice;"one of them, sir, on a brown mare, but I couldn't see aught of him, sir;he was on the far side of the track; the second is like a groom on a greyhorse, and the third is dressed like a sailor, sir, on a brown horse. "

"A sailor?" said Anthony; "a lean man, and sunburnt, with a whistle?"

"I did not see the whistle, sir; but he is as you say. "

This made it certain that it was the man they had seen in the innopposite Greenhithe; and also practically certain that he was a spy; fornothing that Anthony had done could have roused his suspicions except thebreaking of the bread; and that would only be known to one who was deepin the counsels of the Catholics. All this made the pursuit the moreformidable. 

So Anthony meditated; and presently, calling up the servants behind, explained the situation and his plan. The French maid showed signs ofhysteria and Isabel had to take her aside and quiet her, while the menconsulted. Then it was arranged, and the servants presently droppedbehind again a few yards, though the maid still rode with Isabel. Thenthey came to the road on the right that would have led them to Kingsdown, and down this they turned. As they went, Anthony kept a good look-out fora place to turn aside; and a hundred yards from the turning saw what hewanted. On the left-hand side a little path led into the wood; it wasovergrown with brambles, and looked as if it were now disused. Anthonygave the word and turned his horse down the entrance, and was followed insingle file by the others. There were thick trees about them on everyside, and, what was far more important, the road they had left at thispoint ran higher than usual, and was hard and dry; so the horses' hoofsas they turned off left no mark that would be noticed. 

After riding thirty or forty yards, Anthony stopped, turned his horseagain, and forced him through the hazels with some difficulty, and theothers again followed in silence through the passage he had made. Presently Anthony stopped; the branches that had swished their faces asthey rode through now seemed a little higher; and it was possible to sithere on horseback without any great discomfort. 

"I must see them myself, " he whispered to Isabel; and slipped off hishorse, giving the bridle to Robert. 

"Oh! mon Dieu!" moaned the maid; "mon Dieu! Ne partez pas!"

Anthony looked at her severely. 

"You must be quiet and brave, " he said sternly. "You are a Catholic too;pray, instead of crying. "

Then Isabel saw him slip noiselessly towards the road, which was somefifty yards away, through the thick growth. 

 * * * *

It was now a breathless afternoon. High overhead the sun blazed in acloudless sky, but down here all was cool, green shadow. There was not asound to be heard from the woods, beyond the mellow hum of the flies;Anthony's faint rustlings had ceased; now and then a saddle creaked, or ahorse blew out his nostrils or tossed his head. One of the men wound hishandkerchief silently round a piece of his horse's head-harness thatjingled a little. The maid drew a soft sobbing breath now and then, butshe dared not speak after the priest's rebuke. 

Then suddenly there came another sound to Isabel's ears; she could notdistinguish at first what it was, but it grew nearer, and presentlyresolved itself into the fumbling noise of several horses' feet walkingtogether, twice or three times a stirrup chinked, once she heard amuffled cough; but no word was spoken. Nearer and nearer it came, untilshe could not believe that it was not within five yards of her. Her heartbegan again that sick thumping; a fly that she had brushed away again andagain now crawled unheeded over her face, and even on her white partedlips; but a sob of fear from the maid recalled her, and she turned asharp look of warning on her. Then the fumbling noise began to die away:the men were passing. There was something in their silence that was moreterrible than all else; it reminded her of hounds running on a hot scent. 

Then at last there was silence; then gentle rustlings again over lastyear's leaves; and Anthony came back through the hazels. He nodded at hersharply. 

"Now, quickly, " he said, and took his horse by the bridle and began tolead him out again the way they had come. At the entrance he looked outfirst; the road was empty and silent. Then he led his horse clear, andmounted as the others came out one by one in single file. 

"Now follow close; and watch my hand, " he said; and he put his horse to aquick walk on the soft wayside turf. As the distance widened between themand the men who were now riding away from them, the walk became a trot, and then quickly a canter, as the danger of the sound being carried totheir pursuers decreased. 

It seemed to Isabel like some breathless dream as she followed Anthony'sback, watching the motions of his hand as he signed in which direction hewas going to turn next. What was happening, she half wondered to herself, that she should be riding like this on a spent horse, as if in somedreadful game, turning abruptly down lanes and rides, out across the highroad, and down again another turn, with the breathing and creaking andjingling of others behind her? Years ago the two had playedFollow-my-leader on horseback in the woods above Great Keynes. Sheremembered this now; and a flood of memories poured across her mind anddiluted the bitterness of this shocking reality. Dear God, what a game!

Anthony steered with skill and decision. He had been studying the mapwith great attention, and even now carried it loose in his hand andglanced at it from time to time. Above all else he wished to avoidpassing a house, for fear that the searchers might afterwards inquire atit; and he succeeded perfectly in this, though once or twice he wasobliged to retrace his steps. There was little danger, he knew now, ofthe noise of the horses' feet being any guide to those who weresearching, for the high table-land on which they rode was a labyrinth oflanes and rides, and the trees too served to echo and confuse the noisethey could not altogether avoid making. Twice they passed travellers, onea farmer on an old grey horse, who stared at this strange hurrying party;and once a pedlar, laden with his pack, who trudged past, head down. 

Isabel's horse was beginning to strain and pant, and she herself to growgiddy with heat and weariness, when she saw through the trees an oldfarmhouse with latticed windows and a great external chimney, standing ina square of cultivated ground; and in a moment more the path they werefollowing turned a corner, and the party drew up at the back of thehouse. 

At the noise of the horses' footsteps a door at the back had opened, anda woman's face looked out and drew back again; and presently from thefront Mrs. Kirke came quickly round. She was tall and slender andmiddle-aged, with a somewhat anxious face; but a look of great reliefcame over it as she saw Anthony. 

"Thank God you are come, " she said; "I feared something had happened. "

Anthony explained the circumstances in a few words. 

"I will ride on gladly, madam, if you think right; but I will ask you inany case to take my sister in. "

"Why, how can you say that?" she said; "I am a Catholic. Come in, father. But I fear there is but poor accommodation for the servants. "

"And the horses?" asked Anthony. 

"The barn at the back is got ready for them, " she said; "perhaps it wouldbe well to take them there at once. " She called a woman, and sent her toshow the men where to stable the horses, while Anthony and Isabel and themaid dismounted and came in with her to the house. 

There, they talked over the situation and what was best to be done. Herhusband had ridden over to Wrotham, and she expected him back for supper;nothing then could be finally settled till he came. In the meantime theManor Lodge was probably the safest place in all the woods, Mrs. Kirkedeclared; the nearest house was half a mile away, and that was theRectory; and the Rector himself was a personal friend and favourable toCatholics. The Manor Lodge, too, stood well off the road to Wrotham, andnot five strangers appeared there in the year. Fifty men might hunt thewoods for a month and not find it; in fact, Mr. Kirke had taken the houseon account of its privacy, for he was weary, his wife said, of paying herfines for recusancy; and still more unwilling to pay his own, when thathappy necessity should arrive; for he had now practically made up hismind to be a Catholic, and only needed a little instruction before beingreceived. 

"He is a good man, father, " she said to Anthony, "and will make a goodCatholic. "

Then she explained about the accommodation. Isabel and the maid wouldhave to sleep together in the spare room, and Anthony would have thelittle dressing-room opening out of it; and the men, she feared, wouldhave to shake down as well as they could in the loft over the stable inthe barn. 

At seven o'clock Mr. Kirke arrived; and when the situation had beenexplained to him, he acquiesced in the plan. He seemed confident thatthere was but little danger; and he and Anthony were soon deep intheological talk. 

Anthony found him excellently instructed already; he had, in fact, evenprepared for his confession; his wife had taught him well; and it was theprospect of this one good opportunity of being reconciled to the Churchthat had precipitated matters and decided him to take the step. He was adelightful companion, too, intelligent, courageous, humorous and modest, and Anthony thought his own labour and danger well repaid when, a littleafter midnight, he heard his confession and received him into the Church. It was impossible for Mr. Kirke to receive communion, as he had wished, for there were wanting some of the necessaries for saying mass; so hepromised to ride across to Stanfield in a week or so, stay the night andcommunicate in the morning. 

Then early the next morning a council was held as to the best way for theparty to leave for Stanfield. The men were called up, and their opinionsasked; and gradually step by step a plan was evolved. 

The first requirement was that, if possible, the party should not berecognisable; the second that they should keep together for mutualprotection; for to separate would very possibly mean the apprehension ofsome one of them; the third was that they should avoid so far as waspossible villages and houses and frequented roads. 

Then the first practical suggestion was made by Isabel that the maidshould be left behind, and that Mr. Kirke should bring her on with him toStanfield when he came a week later. This he eagerly accepted, andfurther offered to keep all the luggage they could spare, take charge ofthe men's liveries, and lend them old garments and hats of his own--toone a cloak, and to another a doublet. In this way, he said, it wouldappear to be a pleasure party rather than one of travellers, and, shouldthey be followed, this would serve to cover their traces. The travellingby unfrequented roads was more difficult; for that in itself mightattract attention should they actually meet any one. 

Anthony, who had been thinking in silence a moment or two, now broke in. 

"Have you any hawks, Mr. Kirke?" he asked. 

"Only one old peregrine, " he said, "past sport. "

"She will do, " said Anthony; "and can you borrow another?"

"There is a merlin at the Rectory, " said Mr. Kirke. 

Then Anthony explained his plan, that they should pose as ahawking-party. Isabel and Robert should each carry a hawk, while hehimself would carry on his wrist an empty leash and hood as if a hawk hadescaped; that they should then all ride together over the open country, avoiding every road, and that, if they should see any one on the way, they should inquire whether he had seen an escaped falcon or heard thetinkle of the bells; and this would enable them to ask the way, should itbe necessary, without arousing suspicion. 

This plan was accepted, and the maid was informed to her great reliefthat she might remain behind for a week or so, and then return with Mr. Kirke after the searchers had left the woods. 

It was a twenty-mile ride to Stanfield; and it was thought safer on thewhole not to remain any longer where they were, as it was impossible toknow whether a shrewd man might not, with the help of a little luck, stumble upon the house; so, when dinner was over, and the servants hadchanged into Mr. Kirke's old suits, and the merlin had been borrowed fromthe Rectory for a week's hawking, the horses were brought round and theparty mounted. 

Mr. Kirke and Anthony had spent a long morning together discussing theroute, and it had been decided that it would be best to keep along thehigh ridge due west until they were a little beyond Kemsing, which theywould be able to see below them in the valley; and then to strike acrossbetween that village and Otford, and keeping almost due south ride upthrough Knole Park; then straight down on the other side into the Weald, and so past Tonbridge home. 

Mr. Kirke himself insisted on accompanying them on his cob until he hadseen them clear of the woods on the high ground. Both he and his wifewere full of gratitude to Anthony for the risk and trouble he hadundergone, and did their utmost to provide them with all that wasnecessary for their disguise. At last, about two o'clock, the five menand Isabel rode out of the little yard at the back of the Manor Lodge andplunged into the woods again. 

The afternoon hush rested on the country as they followed Mr. Kirke alonga narrow seldom-used path that led almost straight to the point where itwas decided that they should strike south. In half a dozen places it cutacross lanes, and once across the great high road from Farningham toWrotham. As they drew near this, Mr. Kirke, who was riding in front, checked them. 

"I will go first, " he said, "and see if there is danger. "

In a minute he returned. 

"There is a man about a hundred yards up the road asleep on a bank; andthere is a cart coming up from Wrotham: that is all I can see. Perhaps wehad better wait till the cart is gone. "

"And what is the man like?" asked Anthony. 

"He is a beggar, I should say; but has his hat over his eyes. "

They waited till the cart had passed. Anthony dismounted and went to theentrance of the path and peered out at the man; he was lying, as Mr. Kirke had said, with his hat over his eyes, perfectly still. Anthonyexamined him a minute or two; he was in tattered clothes, and a greatstick and a bundle lay beside him. 

"It is a vagabond, " he said, "we can go on. "

The whole party crossed the road, pushing on towards the edge of the highdowns over Kemsing; and presently came to the Ightam road where it beganto run steeply down hill; here, too, Mr. Kirke looked this way and that, but no one was in sight, and then the whole party crossed; they keptinside the edge of the wood all the way along the downs for another mileor so, with the rich sunlit valley seen in glimpses through the treeshere and there, and the Pilgrim's Way lying like a white ribbon a coupleof hundred feet below them, until at last Kemsing Church, with St. Edith's Chantry at the side, lay below and behind them, and they came outon to the edge of a great scoop in the hill, like a theatre, and the bluewoods and hills of Surrey showed opposite beyond Otford and Brasted. 

Here they stopped, a little back from the edge, and Mr. Kirke gave themtheir last instructions, pointing out Seal across the valley, which theymust leave on their left, skirting the meadows to the west of the church, and passing up towards Knole beyond. 

"Let the sun be a little on your right, " he said, "all the way; and youwill strike the country above Tonbridge. "

Then they said good-bye to one another; Mr. Kirke kissed the priest'shand in gratitude for what he had done for him, and then turned backalong the edge of the downs, riding this time outside the woods, whilethe party led their horses carefully down the steep slope, across thePilgrim's Way, and then struck straight out over the meadows to Seal. 

Their plan seemed supremely successful; they met a few countrymen andlads at their work, who looked a little astonished at first at this greatparty riding across country, but more satisfied when Anthony had inquiredof them whether they had seen a falcon or heard his bells. No, they hadnot, they said; and went on with their curiosity satisfied. Once, as theywere passing down through a wood on to the Weald, Isabel, who had turnedin her saddle, and was looking back, gave a low cry of alarm. 

"Ah! the man, the man!" she said. 

The others turned quickly, but there was nothing to be seen but the longstraight ride stretching up to against the sky-line three or four hundredyards behind them. Isabel said she thought she saw a rider pass acrossthis little opening at the end, framed in leaves; but there were stagseverywhere in the woods here, and it would have been easy to mistake onefor the other at that distance, and with such a momentary glance. 

Once again, nearer Tonbridge, they had a fright. They had followed up agrass ride into a copse, thinking it would bring them out somewhere, butit led only to the brink of a deep little stream, where the plank bridgehad been removed, so they were obliged to retrace their steps. As theyre-emerged into the field from the copse, a large heavily-built man on abrown mare almost rode into them. He was out of breath, and his horseseemed distressed. Anthony, as usual, immediately asked if he had seen orheard anything of a falcon. 

"No, indeed, gentlemen, " he said, "and have you seen aught of a bitch whobolted after a hare some half mile back. A greyhound I should be loath tolose. "

They had not, and said so; and the man, still panting and mopping hishead, thanked them, and asked whether he could be of any service indirecting them, if they were strange to the country; but they thought itbetter not to give him any hint of where they were going, so he rode offpresently up the slope across their route and disappeared, whistling forhis dog. 

And so at last, about four o'clock in the afternoon, they saw the churchspire of Stanfield above them on the hill, and knew that they were nearthe end of their troubles. Another hundred yards, and there were theroofs of the old house, and the great iron gates, and the vanes of thegarden-house seen over the clipped limes; and then Mary Corbet and Mr. Buxton hurrying in from the garden, as they came through the low oakdoor, into the dear tapestried hall. 

 CHAPTER IX

 THE ALARM

A very happy party sat down to supper that evening in Stanfield Place. 

Anthony had taken Mr. Buxton aside privately when the first greetingswere over, and told him all that happened: the alarm at Stanstead; hisdevice, and the entire peace they had enjoyed ever since. 

"Isabel, " he ended, "certainly thought she saw a man behind us once; butwe were among the deer, and it was dusky in the woods; and, for myself, Ithink it was but a stag. But, if you think there is danger anywhere, Iwill gladly ride on. "

Mr. Buxton clapped him on the shoulder. 

"My dear friend, " he said, "take care you do not offend me. I am a slowfellow, as you know; but even my coarse hide is pricked sometimes. Do notsuggest again that I could permit any priest--and much less my own dearfriend--to leave me when there was danger. But there is none in thiscase--you have shaken the rogues off, I make no doubt; and you will juststay here for the rest of the summer at the very least. "

Anthony said that he agreed with him as to the complete baffling of thepursuers, but added that Isabel was still a little shaken, and would Mr. Buxton say a word to her. 

"Why, I will take her round the hiding-holes myself after supper, andshow her how strong and safe we are. We will all go round. "

In the withdrawing-room he said a word or two of reassurance to herbefore the others were down. 

"Anthony has told me everything, Mistress Isabel; and I warrant that theknaves are cursing their stars still on Stanstead hills, twenty milesfrom here. You are as safe here as in Greenwich palace. But after supper, to satisfy you, we will look to our defences. But, believe me, there isnothing to fear. "

He spoke with such confidence and cheerfulness that Isabel felt her fearsmelting, and before supper was over she was ashamed of them, and said so. 

"Nay, nay, " said Mr. Buxton, "you shall not escape. You shall see everyone of them for yourself. Mistress Corbet, do you not think that just?"

"You need a little more honest worldliness, Isabel, " said Mary. "I do nothesitate to say that I believe God saves the priests that have the besthiding-holes. Now that is not profane, so do not look at me like that. "

"It is the plainest sense, " said Anthony, smiling at them both. 

They went the round of them all with candles, and Anthony refreshed hismemory; they visited the little one in the chapel first, then thecupboard and portrait-door at the top of the corridor, the chamber overthe fireplace in the hall, and lastly, in the wooden cellar-steps theylifted the edge of the fifth stair from the bottom, so that its front andthe top of the stair below it turned on a hinge and dropped open, leavinga black space behind: this was the entrance to the passage that ledbeneath the garden to the garden-house on the far side of the avenue. 

Mistress Corbet wrinkled her nose at the damp earthy smell that breathedout of the dark. 

"I am glad I am not a priest, " she said. "And I would sooner be burieddead than alive. And there is a rat there that sorely needs burying. "

"My dear lady!" cried the contriver of the passage indignantly, "herGrace might sleep there herself and take no harm. There is not even thewhisker of a rat. "

"It is not the whisker that I mind, " said Mary, "it is the rest of him. "

Mr. Buxton immediately set his taper down and climbed in. 

"You shall see, " he said, "and I in my best satin too!"

He was inside the stairs now and lying on his back on the smooth boardthat backed them. He sidled himself slowly along towards the wall. 

"Press the fourth brick of the fourth row, " he said. 

"You remember, Father Anthony?"

He had reached now what seemed to be the brick wall against which theends of the stairs rested; and that closed that end of the cellarsaltogether. Anthony leaned in with a candle, and saw how that part of thewall against his friend's right side slowly turned into the dark as thefourth brick was pressed, and a little brick-lined passage appearedbeyond. Mr. Buxton edged himself sideways into the passage, and thenstood nearly upright. It was an excellent contrivance. Even if thesearchers should find the chamber beneath the stairs, which was unlikely, they would never suspect that it was only a blind to a passage beyond. The door into the passage consisted of a strong oaken door disguised onthe outside by a facing of brick-slabs; all the hinges were within. 

"As sweet as a flower, " said the architect, looking about him. His voicerang muffled and hollow. 

"Then the friends have removed the corpse, " said Mary, putting her headin, "while you were opening the door. There! come out; you will takecold. I believe you. "

"Are you satisfied?" said Mr. Buxton to Isabel, as they went upstairsagain. 

"What are your outer defences?" asked Mary, before Isabel could answer. 

"You shall see the plan in the hall, " said Mr. Buxton. 

He took down the frame that held the plan of the house, and showed themthe outer doors. There was first the low oak front door on the north, opening on to the little court; this was immensely strong and would standbattering. Then on the same side farther east, within the stable-court, there was the servants' door, protected by chains, and an oak bolt thatran across. On the extreme east end of the house there was a door openinginto the garden from the withdrawing-room, the least strong of all; therewas another on the south side, opposite the front door--that gave on tothe garden; and lastly there was an entrance into the priests' end of thehouse, at the extreme west, from the little walled garden where Anthonyhad meditated years ago. This walled garden had a very strong door of itsown opening on to the lane between the church and the house. 

"But there are only three ways out, really, " said Mr. Buxton, "for thegarden walls are high and strong. There is the way of the walled garden;the iron-gates across the drive; and through the stable-yard on to thefield-path to East Maskells. All the other gates are kept barred; andindeed I scarcely know where the keys are. "

"I am bewildered, " said Mary. 

"Shall we go round?" he asked. 

"To-morrow, " said Mary; "I am tired to-night, and so is this poor child. Come, we will go to bed. "

Anthony soon went too. Both he and Isabel were tired with the journey andthe strain of anxiety, and it was a keen joy to him to be back again inhis own dear room, with the tapestry of St. Thomas of Aquin and St. Clareopposite the bed, and the wide curtained bow-window which looked out onthe little walled garden. 

 * * * *

Mr. Buxton was left alone in the great hall below with the two tapersburning, and the starlight with all the suffused glow of a summer nightmaking the arms glimmer in the tall windows that looked south. Lower, thewindows were open, and the mellow scents of the June roses, and of thesweet-satyrian and lavender poured in; the night was very still, but thefaintest breath came from time to time across the meadows and rustled inthe stiff leaves with the noise of a stealthy movement. 

"I will look round, " said Mr. Buxton to himself. 

He stepped out immediately into the garden by the hall door, and turnedto the east, passing along the lighted windows. His step sounded on thetiles, and a face looked out swiftly from Isabel's room overhead; but hisfigure was plain in the light from the windows as he came out round thecorner; and the face drew back. He crossed the east end of the house, andwent through a little door into the stable-yard, locking it after him. Inthe kennels in the corner came a movement, and a Danish hound came outsilently into the cage before her house, and stood up, like a slendergrey ghost, paws high up in the bars, and whimpered softly to her lord. He quieted her, and went to the door in the yard that opened on to thefield-path to East Maskells, unbarred it and stepped through. There was adry ditch on his left, where nettles quivered in the stirring air; and aheavy clump of bushes rose beyond, dark and impenetrable. Mr. Buxtonstared straight at these a moment or two, and then out towards EastMaskells. There lay his own meadows, and the cattle and horses secure andsleeping. Then he stepped back again; barred the door and walked upthrough the stable-yard into the front court. There the great iron gatesrose before him, diaphanous-looking and flimsy in the starlight. He wentup to them and shook them; and a loose shield jangled fiercely overhead. Then he peered through, holding the bars, and saw the familiar patch ofgrass beyond the gravel sweep, and the dark cottages over the way. Thenhe made his way back to the front door, unlocked it with his private key, passed through the hall, through a parlour or two into the lower floor ofthe priests' quarters; unlocked softly the little door into the walledgarden, and went out on tip-toe once more. Even as he went, Anthony'slight overhead went out. Mr. Buxton went to the garden door, unfastenedit, and stepped out into the road. Above him on his left rose up thechancel of the parish church, the roofs crowded behind; and immediatelyin front was the high-raised churchyard, with the tall irregular wall andthe trees above all, blotting out the stars. 

Then he came back the same way, fastening the doors as he passed, andreached the hall, where the tapers still burned. He blew out one and tookthe other. 

"I suppose I am a fool, " he said; "the lad is as safe as in his mother'sarms. " And he went upstairs to bed. 

 * * * *

Mary Corbet rose late next morning, and when she came down at last foundthe others in the garden. She joined them as they walked in the littleavenue. 

"Have not the priest-hunters arrived?" she asked. "What are they about?And you, dear Isabel, how did you sleep?"

Isabel looked a little heavy-eyed. "I did not sleep well, " she said. 

"I fear I disturbed her, " said Mr. Buxton. "She heard me as I went roundthe house. "

"Why did you go round the house?" asked Anthony. 

"I often do, " he said shortly. 

"And there was no one?" asked Mary. 

"There was no one. "

"And what would you have done if there had been?"

"Yes, " said Anthony, "what would you have done to warn us all?"

Mr. Buxton considered. 

"I should have rung the alarm, I think, " he said. 

"But I did not know you had one, " said Mary. 

Mr. Buxton pointed to a turret peeping between two high gables, above hisown room. 

"And what does it sound like?"

"It is deep, and has a dash of sourness or shrillness in it. I cannotdescribe it. Above all, it is marvellous loud. "

"Then, if we hear it, we shall know the priest-hunters are on us?" askedMary. Mr. Buxton bowed. 

"Or that the house is afire, " he said, "or that the French or Spanish arelanded. "

To tell the truth, he was just slightly uneasy. Isabel had been far moresilent than he had ever known her, and her nerves were plainly at anacute tension; she started violently even now, when a servant came outbetween two yew-hedges to call Mr. Buxton in. Her alarm had affected him, and besides, he knew something of the extraordinary skill and patience ofWalsingham's agents, and even the story of the ferry had startled him. Could it really be, he had wondered as he tossed to and fro in the hotnight, that this innocent priest had thrown off his pursuers socompletely as had appeared? In the morning he had sent down a servant tothe inn to inquire whether anything had been seen or heard of adisquieting nature; now the servant had come to tell him, as he hadordered, privately. He went with the man in through the hall-door, leaving the others to walk in the avenue, and then faced him. 

"Well?" he said sharply. 

"No, sir, there is nothing. There is a party there travelling on toBrighthelmstone this afternoon, and four drovers who came in last night, sir; and two gentlemen travelling across country; but they left earlythis morning. "

"They left, you say?"

"They left at eight o'clock, sir. "

Mr. Buxton's attention was attracted to these two gentlemen. 

"Go and find out where they came from, " he said, "and let me know afterdinner. "

The man bowed and left the room, and almost immediately the dinner-bellrang. 

Mary was frankly happy; she loved to be down here in this superb weatherwith her friends; she enjoyed this beautiful house with its furniture andpictures, and even took a certain pleasure in the hiding-holesthemselves; although in this case she was satisfied they would not beneeded. She had heard the tale of the Stanstead woods, and had no shadowof doubt but that the searchers, if, indeed, they were searchers at all, were baffled. So at dinner she talked exactly as usual; and the cloud ofslight discomfort that still hung over Isabel grew lighter and lighter asshe listened. The windows of the hall were flung wide, and the warmsummer air poured from the garden into the cool room with its polishedfloor, and table decked with roses in silver bowls, with its gravetapestries stirring on the walls behind the grim visors and pikes thathung against them. 

The talk turned on music. 

"Ah! I would I had my lute, " sighed Mary, "but my woman forgot to bringit. What a garden to sing in, in the shade of the yews, with thegarden-house behind to make the voice sound better than it is!"

Mr. Buxton made a complimentary murmur. 

"Thank you, " she said, "Master Anthony, you are wool-gathering. "

"Indeed not, " he said, "but I was thinking where I had seen a lute. Ah!it is in the little west parlour. "

"A lute!" cried Mary. "Ah! but I have no music; and I have not thecourage to sing the only song I know, over and over again. "

"But there is music too, " said Anthony. 

Mary clapped her hands. 

"When dinner is over, " she said, "you and I will go to find it. "

Dinner was over at last, and the four rose. 

"Come, " said Mary; while Isabel turned into the garden and Mr. Buxtonwent to his room. "We will be with you presently, " she cried afterIsabel. 

Then the two went together to the little west parlour, oak-panelled, witha wide fireplace with the logs in their places, and the latticed windowswith their bottle-end glass, looking upon the walled garden. Anthonystood on a chair and opened the top window, letting a flood of summernoises into the room. 

They found the lute music, written over its six lines with the queer F'sand double F's and numerals--all Hebrew to Anthony, but bursting andblossoming with delicate melodies to Mary's eyes. Then she took up thelute, and tuned it on her knee, still sitting in a deep lounging-chair, with her buckled feet before her; while Anthony sat opposite and watchedher supple flashing fingers busy among the strings, and her graveabstracted look as she listened critically. Then she sounded the stringsin little rippling chords. 

"Ah! it is a sweet old lute, " she said. "Put the music before me. "

Anthony propped it on a chair. 

"Is that the right side up?" he asked. 

Mary smiled and nodded, still looking at the music. 

"Now then, " she said, and began the prelude. 

 * * * *

Anthony threw himself back in his chair as the delicate tinkling began topour out and overscore the soft cooing of a pigeon on the roofs somewhereand the murmur of bees through the open window. It was an old preciselittle love-song from Italy, with a long prelude, suggesting by itstender minor chords true and restrained love, not passionate but tender, not despairing but melancholy; it was a love that had for its symbols notthe rose and the lily, but the lavender and thyme--acrid in itssweetness. The prelude had climbed up by melodious steps to the keynote, and was now rippling down again after its aspirations. 

Mary stirred herself. 

Ah! now the voice would come in the last chord----when all the music wasfirst drowned and then ceased, as with crash after crash a great bell, sonorous and piercing, began to sound from overhead. 

 CHAPTER X

 THE PASSAGE TO THE GARDEN-HOUSE

The two looked at one another with parted lips, but without a word. Thenboth rose simultaneously. Then the bell jangled and ceased; and a crowdof other noises began; there were shouts, tramplings of hoofs in thecourt; shrill voices came over the wall; then a scream or two. Marysprang to the door and opened it, and stood there listening. 

Then from the interior of the house came an indescribable din, tramplingsof feet and shouts of anger; then violent blows on woodwork. It camenearer in a moment of time, as a tide comes in over flat sands, remorselessly swift. Then Mary with one movement was inside again, andhad locked the door and drawn the bolt. 

"Up there, " she said, "it is the only way--they are outside, " and shepointed to the chimney. 

Anthony began to remonstrate. It was intolerable, he felt, to climb upthe chimney like a hunted cat, and he began a word or two. But Maryseized his arm. 

"You must not be caught, " she said, "there are others"; and there came aconfused battering and trampling outside. She pushed him towards thechimney. Then decision came to him, and he bent his head and stepped uponthe logs laid upon the ashes, crushing them down. 

"Ah! go, " said Mary's voice behind him, as the door began to bulge andcreak. There was plainly a tremendous struggle in the little passageoutside. 

Anthony threw his hands up and felt a high ledge in the darkness, grippedit with his hands and made a huge effort combined of a tug and a spring;his feet rapped sharply for a moment or two on the iron fire-plate; andthen his knee reached the ledge and he was up. He straightened himself onthe ledge, stood upright and looked down; two white hands with rings onthem were lifting the logs and drawing them out from the ashes, shakingthem and replacing them by others from the wood-basket; and alldeliberately, as if laying a fire. Then her voice came up to him, hushedbut distinct. 

"Go up quickly. I will feign to be burning papers; there will be smoke, but no sparks. It is green wood. "

Anthony again felt above him, and found two iron half-rings in thechimney, one above the other; he was in semi-darkness here, but far abovethere was a patch of pale smoky light; and all the chimney seemed full ofa murmurous sound. He tugged at the rings and found them secure, and drewhimself up steadily by the higher one, until his knee struck the lower;then with a great effort he got his knee upon it, then his left foot, andagain straightened himself. Then, as he felt in the darkness once more, he found a system of rings, one above the other, up the side of thechimney, by which it was not hard to climb. As he went up he began toperceive a sharp acrid smell, his eyes smarted and he closed them, buthis throat burned; he climbed fiercely; and then suddenly saw immediatelybelow him another hearth; he was looking over the fireplate of some otherroom. In a moment more he thrust his head over, and drew a long breath ofclear air; then he listened intently. From below still came a murmur ofconfusion; but in this room all was quiet. He began to think frantically. He could not remain in the chimney, it was hopeless; they would soonlight fires, he knew, in all the chimneys, and bring him down. What roomwas this? He was bewildered and could not remember. But at least he wouldclimb into it and try to escape. In a moment more he had lifted himselfover the fireplate and dropped safely on to the hearth of his ownbedroom. 

The fresh air and the familiarity of the room, as he looked round, sweptthe confusion out of his brain like a breeze. The thundering and shoutingcontinued below. Then he went on tip-toe to the door and opened it. Roundto the right was the head of the stairs which led straight into thelittle passage where the struggle was going on. He could hear Robert'svoice in the din; plainly there was no way down the stairs. To the leftwas the passage that ended in a window, with the chapel door at the leftand the false shelves on the right. He hesitated a moment between the twohiding-places, and then decided for the cupboard; there was a cleandoublet there; his own was one black smear of soot, and as he thought ofit, he drew off his sooty shoes. His hose were fortunately dark. Hestepped straight out of the door, leaving it just ajar. Even as he leftit there was a thunder of footsteps on the stairs, and he was at theshelves in a moment, catching a glimpse through the window on his left ofthe front court crowded with men and horses. He had opened and shut thesecret door three or four times the evening before, and his hands closedalmost instinctively on the two springs that must be workedsimultaneously. He made the necessary movement, and the shelves with thewall behind it softly slid open and he sprang in. But as he closed it heheard one of the two books drop, and an exclamation from the passage hehad just left; then quick steps from the head of the stairs; the stepsclattered past the door and into the chapel opposite and stopped. 

Anthony felt about him in the darkness, found the doublet and lifted itoff the nail; slipped off his own, tearing his ruff as he did so; andthen quickly put on the other. He had no shoes; but that would not be sonoticeable. He had not seriously thought of the possibility of escapingthrough the portrait-door, as he felt sure the house would be overrun bynow; but he put his eyes to the pinholes and looked out; and to hisastonishment saw that the gallery was empty. There it lay, with itsFlemish furniture on the right and its row of windows on the left, andall as tranquil as if there were no fierce tragedy of terror and wrathraging below. Again decision came to him; by a process of thought soswift that it was an intuition, he remembered that the fall of the bookoutside would concentrate attention on that corner; it could not be longbefore the shelves were broken in, and if he did not escape now therewould be no possibility later. Then he unslid the inside bolt, and theportrait swung open; he closed it behind, and sped on silent shoelessfeet down the polished floor of the gallery. 

Of course the great staircase was hopeless. The hall would be seethingwith men. But there was just a chance through the servants' quarters. Hedashed past the head of the stairs, catching a glimpse of heads andsparkles of steel over the banisters, and through the half-opened door atthe end, finding himself in the men's corridor that was a continuation ofthe gallery he had left. On his left rose the head of the back-stairs, that led first with a double flight to the offices, the pantry, thebuttery and the kitchen, and than, lower still, a single third flightdown to the cellar. 

He looked down the stairs; at the bottom of the first double flight werea couple of maids, screaming and white-faced, leaning and pressingagainst the door, immediately below the one he had just come throughhimself. The door was plainly barred as well, for it was now thudding andcracking with blows that were being showered upon it from the other side. The maids, it seemed to him, in a panic had locked the door; but thatpanic might be his salvation. He dashed down the stairs; the maidsscreamed louder than ever when they saw this man, whom they did notrecognise, with blackened face and hands come in noiseless leaps downtowards them; but Anthony put his finger on his lips as he flew pastthem; then he dashed open the little door that shut off thecellar-flight, closed it behind him, and was immediately in the dark. 

Then he groped his way down, feeling the rough brick wall as he went, till he reached the floor of the cellar. The air was cool and damp here, and it refreshed him, for he was pouring with sweat. The noise, too, andconfusion which, during his flight, had been reverberating through thehouse with a formidable din, now only reached him as a far-away murmur. 

As he counted the four steps up, and then lifted the overhanging edge, there came upon him irresistibly the contrast between the serene partyhere last night, with their tapers and their delicate dresses and Mary'scool clear-clipped voice--and his own soot-stained person, his desperateenergy and his quick panting and heart-beating. Then the steps droppedand he slid in; lifted them again as he lay on his back, and heard thespring catch as they closed. Then he was in silence, too, and comparativesafety. But he dared not rest yet, and edged himself along as he had seenMr. Buxton do last night. Which brick was it? "The fourth of the fourth, "he murmured, and counted, and pressed it. Again the door pushed back, andwith a little struggle he was first on his knees, and then on his feet. Then he swung the door to again behind him. 

Then for the first time he rested; he leaned against the brick-lined sideof the tunnel and passed his blackened hands over his face. Five minutesago--yes--certainly not five minutes ago he was lounging in the westparlour, at the other end of the house, while Mary played the prelude toan Italian love-song. --What was she doing now? God bless her for herquick courage!--And Isabel and Buxton--where were they all? How deadlysick and tired he felt!--Again he passed his hands over his face in thepitch darkness. --Well, he must push on. 

He turned and began to grope patiently through the blackness--step bystep--feeling the roughness of the bricks beneath with his shoeless feetbefore he set them down; once or twice he stepped into a little icy pool, which had collected through some crack in the vaulting overhead; once, too, he slipped on a lump of something wet and shapeless; and thoughteven then of Mary's suspicions the night before. He pushed on, shiveringnow with cold and excitement, through what seemed the interminabletunnel, until at last his outstretched hands touched wood before him. Hehad not seen this end of the passage for nearly two years, and hewondered if he could remember the method of opening, and gave a gulp ofhorror at the thought that he might not. But there had been no reason tomake a secret of the inside of the door, and he presently found a buttonand drew it; it creaked rustily, but gave, and the door with another pullopened inwards, and there was a faint glimmer of light. Then heremembered that the entrances to the tunnel at either end were exactly onthe same system; and putting out his hands felt the slope of theunderside of the staircase, cutting diagonally across the opening of thepassage. He slid himself on to the boarding sideways, and drew thebrickwork towards him till the spring snapped, and lay there to considerbefore he went farther. 

First he ran over in his mind the construction of the garden-house. 

The basement in which he was lying corresponded to the cellar under thehouse from which he had come, and ran the whole length of the building, about forty feet by twenty. It was a large empty chamber, where nothingof any value was kept. He remembered last time he was here seeing a heapof tiles in one corner, with a pile of disused poles; pieces of rope, andold iron in another. The stairs led up through an ordinary trap-door intowhat was the ground-floor of the house. This, too, was one immense room, with four latticed windows looking on to the garden, and one with opaqueglass on to the lane at the back; and a great door, generally keptlocked, for rather more valuable things were kept here, such as thegarden-roller, flower-pots, and the targets for archery. Then a lightstaircase led straight up from this room to the next floor, which wasdivided into two, both of which, so far as Anthony remembered, wereempty. Mr. Buxton had thought of letting his gardeners sleep there whenhe had at first built this immense useless summer-house; but he hadultimately built a little gardener's cottage adjoining it. The twofantastic towers that flanked the building held nothing but staircases, which could be entered by either of the two floors, and which ascended totiny rooms with windows on all four sides. 

When Anthony had run over these details as he lay on his back, he pushedup the stair over his face and let the front of it with the step of thenext swing inwards; the light was stronger now, and poured in, thoughstill dim, through three half-moon windows, glazed and wired, that justrose above the level of the ground outside. Then he extricated himself, closed the steps behind him, and went up the stairs. 

The trap-door at the top was a little stiff, but he soon raised it, andin a moment more was standing in the ground-floor room of thegarden-house. All round him was much as he remembered it; he first wentto the door and found it securely fastened, as it often was for daystogether; he glanced at the windows to assure himself that they werebottle-glass too, and then went to them to look out. He was fortunateenough to find the corner of one pane broken away; he put his eye tothis, and there lay a little lawn, with a yew-hedge beyond blotting outall of the great house opposite except the chimneys, --the house whicheven across the whole space of garden hummed like a hive. On the lawn wasa chair, and an orange-bound book lay face down on the grass beside it. Anthony stared at it; it was the book that he had seen in Isabel's handnot half an hour ago, as she had gone out into the garden from the hallto wait until he and Mary joined her with the lute. 

And at that the priest knelt down before the window, covered his facewith his hands, and began to stammer and cry to God: "O God! God! God!"he said. 

 * * * *

When Mary Corbet had seen Anthony's feet disappear, she already had theoutline of a plan in her mind. To light a fire and pretend to be burningimportant papers would serve as an excuse for keeping the door fast; itwould also suggest at least that no one was in the chimney. The ordinarywood, however, sent up sparks; but she had noticed before a little greenwood in the basket, and knew that this did not do so to the same extent;so she pulled out the dry wood that Anthony had trodden into the ashesand substituted the other. Then she had looked round for paper;--the lutemusic, that was all. Meantime the door was giving; the noise outside wasterrible; and it was evident that one or two of the servants wereobstructing the passage of the pursuivants. 

When at last the door flew in, there was a fire cracking furiously on thehearth, and a magnificently dressed lady kneeling before it, crushingpaper into the flames. Half a dozen men now streamed in and more began tofollow, and stood irresolute for a moment, staring at her. From theresistance they had met with they had been certain that the priest washere, and this sight perplexed them. A big ruddy man, however, who ledthem, sprang across the room, seized Mary Corbet by the shoulders andwhisked her away against the wall, and then dashed the half-burnt paperout of the grate and began to beat out the flames. 

Mary struggled violently for a moment; but the others were upon her andheld her, and she presently stood quiet. Then she began upon them. 

"You insolent hounds!" she cried, "do you know who I am?" Her cheeks werescarlet and her eyes blazing; she seemed in a superb fury. 

"Burning treasonable papers, " growled the big man from his knees on thehearth, "that is enough for me. "

"Who are you, sir, that dare to speak to me like that?"

The man got up; the flames were out now, and he slipped the papers into apocket. Mary went on immediately. 

"If I may not burn my own lute music, or keep my door locked, without ariotous mob of knaves breaking upon me---- Ah! how dare you?" and shestamped furiously. 

The pursuivant came up close to her, insolently. 

"See here, my lady----" he began. 

The men had fallen back from her a little now that the papers were safe, and she lifted her ringed hand and struck his ruddy face with all hermight. There was a moment of confusion and laughter as he recoiled. 

"Now will you remember that her Grace's ladies are not to be trifledwith?"

There was a murmur from the crowded room, and a voice near the doorcried:

"She says truth, Mr. Nichol. It is Mistress Corbet. "

Nichol had recovered himself, but was furiously angry. 

"Very good, madam, but I have these papers now, " he said, "they can stillbe read. "

"You blind idiot, " hissed Mary, "do you not know lute music when you seeit?"

"I know that ladies do not burn lute music with locked doors, " observedNichol bitterly. 

"The more fool you!" screamed Mary, "when you have caught one at it. "

"That will be seen, " sneered Mr. Nichol. 

"Not by a damned blind scarlet-faced porpoise!" screamed Mary, apparentlymore in a passion than ever, and a burst of laughter came from the men. 

This was too much for Mr. Nichol. This coarse abuse stung him cruelly. 

"God's blood, " he bellowed at the room; "take this vixen out and searchthe place. " And a torrent of oaths drove the crowd about the door outinto the passage again. 

A couple of men took Mary by the fierce ringed hands of hers that stilltwitched and clenched, and led her out; she spat insults over hershoulders as she went. But she had held him in talk as she intended. 

"Now then, " roared Nichol again, "search, you dogs!"

He himself went outside too, and seeing the stairs stamped up them. Hewas just in time to see the Tacitus settle down with crumpled pages;stopped for a moment, bewildered, for it lay in the middle of thepassage; and then rushed at the open door on the left, dashed it open, and found a little empty room, with a chair or two, and a table--but nosign of the priest. It was like magic. 

Then out he came once more, and went into Anthony's own room. The greatbed was on his right, the window opposite, the fireplace to the left, andin the middle lay two sooty shoes. Instinctively he bent and touchedthem, and found them warm; then he sprang to the door, still keeping hisface to the room, and shouted for help. 

"He is here, he is here!" he cried. And a thunder of footsteps on thestairs answered him. 

 * * * *

Meanwhile the men that held Mary followed the others along the passage, but while the leaders went on and round into the lower corridor, the twomen-at-arms with their prisoner turned aside into the parlour that servedas an ante-chamber to the hall beyond, where they released her. Here, though it was empty of people, all was in confusion; the table had beenoverturned in the struggle that had raged along here between Lackington'smen, who had entered from the front door, and the servants of the house, who had rushed in from their quarters at the first alarm and interceptedthem. One chair lay on its side, with its splintered carved arm besideit. As Mary stood a moment looking about her, the door from the hall thathad been closed, again opened, and Isabel came through; and a man's voicesaid:

"You must wait here, madam"; then the door closed behind her. 

"Isabel, " said Mary. 

The two looked at one another a moment, but before either spoke again thedoor again half-opened, and a voice began to speak, as if its owner stillheld the handle. 

"Very well, Lackington, keep him in his room. I will go through here toNichol. "

Isabel had drawn a sharp breath as the voice began, and as the dooropened wider she turned and faced it. Then Hubert came in, and recoiledon the threshold. There fell a complete silence in the room. 

"Hubert, " said Isabel after a moment, "what are you doing here?"

Hubert shut the door abruptly and leaned against it, staring at her; hisface had gone white under the tan. Isabel still looked at him steadily, and her eyes were eloquent. Then she spoke again, and something in hervoice quickened the beating of Mary's heart as she listened. 

"Hubert, have you forgotten us?"

Still Hubert stared; then he stood upright. The two men-at-arms werewatching in astonishment. 

"I will see to the ladies, " he said abruptly, and waved his hand. Theystill hesitated a moment. 

"Go, " he said again sharply, and pointed to the door. He was amagistrate, and responsible; and they turned and went. 

Then Hubert looked at Isabel again. 

"Isabel, " he said, "if I had known----"

"Stay, " she interrupted, "there is no time for explanations except mine. Anthony is in the house; I do not know where. You must save him. "

There was no entreaty or anxiety in her voice; nothing but a supremedignity and an assurance that she would be obeyed. 

"But----" he began. The door was opened from the hall, and a little partyof searchers appeared, but halted when the magistrate turned round. 

"Come with me, " he said to the two women, "you must have a room kept foryou upstairs, " and he held back the door for them to pass. 

Isabel put out her hand to Mary, and the two went out together into thehall past the men, who stood back to let them through, and Hubertfollowed. They turned to the left to the stairs, looking as they wentupon the wild confusion. Above them rose the carved ceiling, and in thecentre of the floor, untouched, by a strange chance, stood thedinner-table, still laid with silver and fruit and flowers. But all elsewas in disarray. The leather screen that had stood by the door into theentrance hall had been overthrown, and had carried with it a tallflowering plant that now lay trampled and broken before the hearth. Acouple of chairs lay on their backs between the windows; the rug underthe window was huddled in a heap, and all over the polished boards werescratches and dents; a broken sword-hilt lay on the floor with afeathered cap beside it. There were half a dozen men guarding the fourdoors; but the rest were gone; and from overhead came tramplings andshouts as the hunt swept to and fro in the upper floors. 

At the top of the stairs was Mary's room; the two ladies, who had gonesilently upstairs with Hubert behind them, stopped at the door of it. 

"Here, if you please, " said Mary. 

Before Hubert could answer, Lackington came down the passage, hurryingwith a drawn sword, and his hat on his head. Isabel did not recognise himas he stopped and tapped Hubert on the arm familiarly. 

"The prisoners must not be together, " he said. 

Hubert drew back his arm and looked the man in the face. 

"They are not prisoners; and they shall be together. Take off your hat, sir. "

Then, as Lackington drew back astonished, he opened the door. 

"You shall not be disturbed here, " he said, and the two went in, and thedoor closed behind them. There was a murmur of voices outside the door, and they heard a name called once or twice, and the sound of footsteps. Then came a tap, and Hubert stepped in quietly and closed the door. 

"I have placed my own man outside, " he said, "and none shall troubleyou--and--Mistress Isabel--I will do my best. " Then he bowed and wentout. 

 * * * *

The long miserable afternoon began. They watched through the windows thesentries going up and down the broad paths between the glowingflower-beds; and out, over the high iron fence that separated the gardenfrom the meadows, the crowd of villagers and children watching. 

But the real terror for them both lay in the sounds that came from theinterior of the house. There was a continual tramp of the sentries placedin every corridor and lobby, and of the messengers that went to and fro. Then from room after room came the sounds of blows, the rending ofwoodwork, and once or twice the crash of glass, as the searchers wentabout their work; and at every shout the women shuddered or drew theirbreath sharply, for any one of the noises might be the sign of Anthony'sarrest. 

The two had soon talked out every theory in low voices, but they bothagreed that he was still in the house somewhere, and on the upper floor. It was impossible, they thought, for him to have made his way down. Therewere four possibilities, therefore: either he might still be in thechimney--in that case it was no use hoping; or he was in the chapel-hole;or in that behind the portrait; or in one last one, in the room next totheir own. The searchers had been there early in the afternoon, butperhaps had not found it; its entrance was behind the window shutter, andwas contrived in the thickness of the wall. So they talked, these two, and conjectured and prayed, as the evening drew on; and the sun began tosink behind the church, and the garden to lie in cool shadow. 

About eight there was a tap at the door, and Hubert came in with a trayof food in his hands, which he set down. 

"All is in confusion, " he said, "but this is the best I can do. "--Hebroke off. 

"Mistress Isabel, " he said, coming nearer to the two as they sat togetherin the window-seat, "I can do little; they have found three hiding-holes;but so far he has escaped. I do what I can to draw them off, but they aretoo clever and zealous. If you can tell me more, perhaps I can do more. "

The two were looking at him with startled eyes. 

"Three?" Mary said. 

"Yes, three--and indeed----" He stopped as Isabel got up and came towardshim. 

"Hubert, " she said resolutely, "I must tell you. He must be still in thechimney of the little west parlour. Do what you can. "

"The west parlour!" he said. "That was where Mistress Corbet was burningthe papers?"

"Yes, " said Mary. 

"He is not there, " said Hubert; "we have sent a boy up and down italready. "

"Ah! dear God!" said Mary from the window-seat, "then he has escaped. "

Isabel looked from one to the other and shook her head. 

"It cannot be, " she said. "The guards were all round the house before thealarm rang. "

Hubert nodded, and Mary's face fell. 

"Then is there no way out?" he asked. 

Mary sprang up with shining eyes. 

"He has done it, " she said, and threw her arms round Isabel and kissedher. 

"Well, " said Hubert, "what can I do?"

"You must leave us, " said Isabel; "come back later. "

"Then when we have searched the garden-house--why, what is it?"

A look of such anguish had come into their faces that he stopped amazed. 

"The garden-house!" cried Mary; "no, no, no!"

"No, no, Hubert, Hubert!" cried Isabel, "you must not go there. "

"Why, " he said, "it was I that proposed it; to draw them from the house. "

There came from beneath the windows a sudden tramp of footsteps, and thenNichol's voice, distinctly heard through the open panes. 

"We cannot wait for him. Come, men. "

"They are going without me, " said Hubert; and turned and ran through thedoor. 

 CHAPTER XI

 THE GARDEN-HOUSE

During that long afternoon the master of the house had sat in his ownroom, before his table, hearing the ceaseless footsteps and the voicesoverhead, and the ring of feet on the tiles outside his window, knowingthat his friend and priest was somewhere in the house, crouching in somedark little space, listening to the same footsteps and voices as theycame and went by his hiding-place, and that he himself was absolutelypowerless to help. 

He had been overpowered in the first rush as he pealed on the alarm-bell, to which he had rushed when the groom burst in from the stable-yardcrying that the outer court was full of men. Lackington had then sent himunder guard to his own room, where he had been locked in with an armedconstable to prevent any possibility of escape. In the struggle he hadreceived a blow on the head which had completely dazed him; all hisresource left him; and he had no desire even to move from his chair. 

Now he sat, with his head on his breast, and his mind going the ceaselessround of all the possible places where Anthony might be. Little scenes, too, of startling vividness moved before him, as he sat there withhalf-closed eyes--scenes of the imagined arrest--the scuffle as theportrait was torn away and Anthony burst out in one last desperateattempt to escape. He saw him under every kind of circumstance--dashingup stairs and being met at the top by a man with a pike--running andcrouching through the withdrawing-room itself next door--gliding withburning eyes past the yew-hedges in a rush for the iron gates, only tofind them barred--on horseback with his hands bound and a despairinguplifted face with pike-heads about him. --So his friend dreamed miserablyon, open-eyed, but between waking and the sleep of exhaustion, until thecrowning vision flashed momentarily before his eyes of the scaffold andthe cauldron with the fire burning and the low gallows over the heads ofthe crowd, and the butcher's block and knife; and then he moaned and satup and stared about him, and the young pursuivant looked at himhalf-apprehensively. 

Towards evening the house grew quieter; once, about six o'clock, therewere voices outside, the door from the hall was unlocked, and aheavily-built, ruddy man came in with two pikemen, locking the doorbehind him. They paid no attention to the prisoner, and he watched themmechanically as they went round the room, running their eyes up and downthe panelling, and tapping here and there. 

"The room has been searched, sir, already, " said the young constable tothe ruddy-faced man, who glanced at him and nodded, and then continuedthe scrutiny. They reached the fireplace and the officer reached up andtapped the wood over the mantelpiece half-a-dozen times. 

"Here, " he called, pointing to a spot. 

A pikeman came up, placed the end of his pike into the oak, and leanedsuddenly and heavily upon it: the steel crashed in an inch, and stoppedas it met the stonework behind. The officer made a motion, the pike waswithdrawn, and he stood on tip-toe and put his finger into the splinteredpanel. Then he was satisfied and they passed on, still tapping the walls, and went out of the other door, locking it again behind them. 

An hour later there were voices and steps again, and a door was unlockedand opened, and Mr. Graves, the Tonbridge magistrate stepped in alone. Hewas a pale scholarly-looking man with large eyes, and a weak mouth onlypartly covered by his beard. 

"You can go, " he said nervously to the constable, "but remain outside. "The young man saluted him and passed out. 

The magistrate looked quickly and sideways at Mr. Buxton as he sat andlooked at him. 

"I am come to tell you, " he said, "that we cannot find the priest. " Hehesitated and stopped. "We have found several hiding-holes, " he went on, "and they are all empty. I--I hope there is no mistake. "

A little thrill ran through the man who sat in the chair; the lethargybegan to clear from his brain, like a morning mist when a breeze rises;he sat a little more upright and gripped the arms of his chair; he saidnothing yet, but he felt power and resource flowing back to his brain, and the pulse in his temples quieted. Why, if the lad had not been takenyet, he must surely be out of the house. 

"I trust there is no mistake, " said the magistrate again nervously. 

"You may well trust so, " said the other; "it will be a grievous thing foryou, sir, otherwise. "

"Indeed, Mr. Buxton, I think you know I am no bigot. I was sent for byMr. Lackington last night. I could not refuse. It was not my wish----"

"Yet you have issued your warrant, and are here in person to execute it. May I inquire how many of my cupboards you have broken into? And I hopeyour men are satisfied with my plate. "

"Indeed, sir, " said the magistrate, "there has been nothing of that kind. And as for the cupboards, there were but three----"

Three!--then the lad is out of the house, thought the other. But where?

"And I trust you have not spared to break down my servants' rooms, andthe stables as well as pierce all my panelling. "

"There was no need to search the stables, Mr. Buxton; our men were roundthe house before we entered. They have been watching the entrances sinceeight o'clock last night. "

Mr. Buxton felt bewildered. His instinct had been right, then, the nightbefore. 

"The party was followed from near Wrotham, " went on the magistrate. "Thepriest was with them then; and, we suppose, entered the house. "

"You suppose!" snapped the other. "What the devil do you mean bysupposing? You have looked everywhere and cannot find him?"

The magistrate shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly, as he stood andstared at the angry man. 

"And the roofs?" added Mr. Buxton sneeringly. 

"They have been thoroughly searched. "

Then there is but one possible theory, he reflected. The lad is in thegarden-house. And what if they search that?

"Then may I ask what you propose to destroy next, Mr. Graves?"

He saw that this tone was having its effect on the magistrate, who wasbut a half-hearted persecutor, with but feeble convictions and will, ashe knew of old. 

"I--I entreat you not to speak to me like that, sir, " he said. "I havebut done my duty. "

Then the other rose from his chair, and his eyes were stern and brightagain and his lips tight. 

"Your duty, sir, seems a strange matter, when it leads you to break intoa friend's house, assault him and his servants and his guests, anddestroy his furniture, in search of a supposed priest whom you have nevereven seen. Now, sir, if this matter comes to her Grace's ears, I will notanswer for the consequences; for you know Mistress Corbet, herlady-in-waiting, is one of my guests. --And, speaking of that, where aremy guests?"

"The two ladies, Mr. Buxton, are safe and sound upstairs, I assure you. "

The magistrate's voice was trembling. 

"Well, sir, I have one condition to offer you. Either you and your menwithdraw within half an hour from my house and grounds, and leave me andmy two guests to ourselves, or else I lay the whole matter, throughMistress Corbet, before her Grace. " Mr. Buxton beat his hand once on thetable as he ended, and looked with a contemptuous inquiry at themagistrate. 

But the worm writhed up at the heel. 

"How can you talk like this, sir, " he burst out, "as if you had but twoguests?"

"Two guests? I do not understand you. How should there be more?"

"Then for whom are the four places laid at table?" he answeredindignantly. 

Mr. Buxton felt a sudden desperate sinking, and he could not answer for amoment. The magistrate passed his shaking hand over his mouth and beardonce or twice; but the thrust had gone home, and there was no parry orriposte. He followed it up. 

"Now, sir, be reasonable. I came in here to make terms. We _know_ thepriest has been here. It is certain beyond all question. All that isuncertain is whether he is here now or escaped. We have searchedthoroughly; we must search again to-morrow; but in the meanwhile, whileyou yourself must be under restraint, your guests shall have what libertythey wish; and you yourself shall have all reasonable comfort and ease. So--so, if we do not find the priest, I trust that you and--and--MistressCorbet will agree to overlook any rashness on my part--and--and let herGrace remain in ignorance. "

Mr. Buxton had been thinking furiously during this little speech. He sawthe mistake he had made in taking the high line, and his wretchedforgetfulness of the fourth place at table. He must make terms, though ittasted bitter. 

"Well, Mr. Graves, " he said, "I have no wish to be hard upon you. All Iask is to be out of the house when the search is made, and that theladies shall come and go as they please. "

The magistrate leapt at the lure like a trout. 

"Yes, yes, Mr. Buxton, it shall be as you say. And to what house will youretire?"

Mr. Buxton appeared to reflect; he tapped on the table with a meditativefinger and looked at the ceiling. 

"It must not be too far away, " he said slowly, "and--and the Rector wouldscarce like to receive me. Perhaps in--or----Why not my summer-house?" headded suddenly. 

Mr. Graves' face was irradiated with smiles. 

"Thank you, Mr. Buxton, certainly, it shall be as you say. And where isthe summer-house?"

"It is across the garden, " said the other carelessly. "I wonder you havenot searched it in your zeal. "

"Shall I send a man to prepare it?" asked the magistrate eagerly. "Willyou go there to-night?"

"Well, shall we go across there together now? I give you my parole, " headded, smiling, and standing up. 

"Indeed, --as you wish. I cannot tell you, sir, how grateful I am. Youhave made my duty almost a pleasure, sir. "

They went out together into the hall, Mr. Buxton carrying the key of thegarden-house that he had taken from the drawer of his table; he glancedruefully at the wrecked furniture and floor, and his eyes twinkled for amoment as they rested on the four places at table still undisturbed, andthen met the magistrate's sidelong look. The men were still at the doors, resting now on chairs or leaning against the wall, with their weaponsbeside them; it was weary work this mounting sentry and losing the hunt, and their faces showed it. The two passed out together into the garden, and began to walk up the path that led straight across the avenue towhere the high vanes of the garden-house stood up grotesque and toweringagainst the evening sky, above the black yew-hedges. 

All the while they went Mr. Buxton was thinking out his plan. It wasstill incoherent; but, at any rate, it was a step gained to be able tocommunicate with Anthony again; and at least the poor lad should havesome supper. And then he smiled to himself with relief as he saw what animprovement there had been in the situation as it had appeared to him anhour ago. Why, they would search the house again next day; find no one, and retire apologising. His occupancy of the garden-house with themagistrate's full consent would surely secure it from search; and he wasnot so well satisfied with the disguised entrance to the passage at thisend as with that in the cellar. 

They reached the door at last. There were three steps going up to it, andMr. Buxton went up them, making a good deal of noise as he did so, toensure Anthony's hearing him should he be above ground. Then, as if withgreat difficulty, he unlocked the door, rattling it, and clicking sharplywith his tongue at its stiffness. 

"You see, Mr. Graves. " he said, rather loud, as he opened the door alittle, "my prison will not be a narrow one. " He threw the door open, gave a glance round, and was satisfied. The targets leaned against onewall, and two rows of flower-pots stood in the corner near where thewindow opened into the lane, but there was no sign of occupation. Mr. Buxton went across, threw the window open and looked out. There was asteel cap three or four feet below, and a pike-head; and at the sound ofthe latch a bearded face looked up. 

"I see you have a sentry there, " said Mr. Buxton carelessly. 

"Ah! that is one of Mr. Maxwell's men. "

"Mr. Maxwell's!" said the other, startled. "Is he in this affair too?"

"Yes; have you not heard? He came from Great Keynes this morning. Mr. Lackington sent for him. "

Mr. Buxton's face grew dark. 

"Ah yes, I see--a pretty revenge. "

The magistrate was on the point of asking an explanation, for he felt onthe best of terms again now with his prisoner, when there were footstepsoutside and voices; and there stood four constables, with Nichol, HubertMaxwell and Lackington in furious debate coming up the path behind. 

They looked up suddenly, and saw the door open and the magistrate and hisprisoner standing in the opening. The four constables stood waiting forfurther orders while their three chiefs came up. 

"Now, now, now!" said Mr. Graves peevishly, "what is all this?"

"We have come to search this house, sir, " said Nichol cheerfully. 

"See here, sir, " said Hubert, "have you given orders for this?"

"Enough, enough, " said Lackington coolly. "Search, men. "

The pursuivants advanced to the steps. Then Mr. Buxton turned fiercely onthem all. 

"See here!" he cried, and his voice rang out across the garden. "Youbring me here, Mr. Graves, promising me a little peace and quietness, after your violent and unwarranted attack upon my house to-day. I havebeen patient and submissive to all suggestions; I leave my entire houseat your disposal; I promise to lay no complaints before her Grace, solong as you will let me retire here till it is over--and now your menpersecute me even here. Have you no mind of your own, sir?" he shouted. 

"Really, sir----" began Hubert. 

"And as for you, Mr. Maxwell, " went on the other fiercely, "are you notcontent with your triumph so far? Cannot you leave me one corner tomyself, or would your revenge be not full enough for you, then?"

"You mistake me, sir, " said Hubert, making a violent effort to controlhimself; "I am on your side in this matter. "

"That is what I am beginning to think, " said Lackington insolently. 

"You think!" roared Mr. Buxton; "and who the devil are you?"

"See here, gentlemen, " said Mr. Nichol, "what is the dispute? Here is anempty house, Mr. Buxton tells us; and Mr. Maxwell tells us the same. Well, then, let these honest fellows run through the empty house; it willnot take ten minutes, and Mr. Buxton and his friend can take the airmeanwhile. A-God's name, let us not dispute over a trifle. "

"Then, a-God's name, let me go to my own house, " bellowed Mr. Buxton, "and these gentlemen can have the empty house to disport themselves intill doomsday--or till her Grace looks into the matter"; and he made amotion to run down the steps, but his heart sank. Mr. Graves put out adeprecating hand and touched his arm; and Mr. Buxton very readily turnedat once with a choleric face!

"No, no, no!" cried the magistrate. "These gentlemen are here on mywarrant, and they shall not search the place. Mr. Buxton, I entreat younot to be hasty. Come back, sir. "

Mr. Buxton briskly reascended. 

"Well, then, Mr. Graves, I entreat you to give your orders, and let yourwill be known. I am getting hungry for my supper, too, sir. It is alreadyan hour past my time. "

"Sup in the house, sir, " said Mr. Nichol smoothly, "and we shall havedone by then. "

Then Hubert blazed up; he took a step forward. 

"Now, you fellow, " he said to Nichol, "hold your damned tongue. Mr. Graves and I are the magistrates here, and we say that this gentlemanshall sup and sleep here in peace, so you may take your pursuivantselsewhere. "

Lackington looked up with a smile. 

"No, Mr. Maxwell, I cannot do that. These men are under my orders, and Ishall leave two of them here and send another to keep your fellow companyat the back, We will not disturb Mr. Buxton further to-night; butto-morrow we shall see. "

Mr. Buxton paid no sort of further attention to him, but turned to themagistrates. 

"Well, gentlemen, what is your decision?"

"You shall sleep here in peace, sir, " said Mr. Graves resolutely. "I canpromise nothing for to-morrow. "

"Then will you kindly allow one of my men to bring me supper and a couchof some kind, and I shall be obliged if the ladies may sup with me. "

"That they shall, " assented Mr. Graves. "Mr. Maxwell, will you escortthem here?"

Hubert, who was turning away, nodded and disappeared round the yew-hedge. Lackington, who had been talking in an undertone to the pursuivants, nowwent up another alley with one of them and Mr. Nichol, and disappearedtoo in the gathering gloom of the garden. The other two pursuivantsseparated and each moved a few steps off and remained just out of sight. Plainly they were to remain on guard. Mr. Buxton and the magistrate satdown on a couple of garden-chairs. 

"That is an obstinate fellow, sir, " said Mr. Graves. 

"They are certainly both of them very offensive fellows, sir. I wasastonished at your indulgence towards them. "

The magistrate was charmed by this view of the case, and remained talkingwith Mr. Buxton until footsteps again were heard, and the two ladiesappeared, with Hubert with them, and a couple of men carrying each a trayand the other necessaries he had asked for. 

Mr. Buxton and the magistrate rose to meet the ladies and bowed. 

"I cannot tell you, " began their host elaborately, "what distress allthis affair has given me. I trust you will forgive any inconvenience youmay have suffered. "

Both Isabel and Mary looked white and strained, but they respondedgallantly; and as the table was being prepared the four talked almost asif there were no bitter suspense at three of their hearts at least. Mr. Graves was nervous and uneasy, but did his utmost to propitiate Mary. Atlast he was on the point of withdrawing, when Mr. Buxton entreated him tosup with them. 

"I must not, " he said; "I am responsible for your property, Mr. Buxton. "

"Then I understand that these ladies may come and go as they please?" heasked carelessly. 

"Certainly, sir. "

"Then may I ask too the favour that you will place one of your own men atthe door who can conduct them to the house when they wish to go, and whocan remain and protect me too from any disturbance from either of the twoofficious persons who were here just now?"

Mr. Graves, delighted at this restored confidence, promised to do so, andtook an elaborate leave; and the three sat down to supper; the door wasleft open, and they could see through it the garden, over which veilafter veil of darkness was beginning to fall. The servants had lightedtwo tapers, and the inside of the great room with its queer furniture oftargets and flower-pots was plainly visible to any walking outside. Onceor twice the figure of a man crossed the strip of light that lay acrossthe gravel. 

It was a strange supper. They said innocent things to one another in atone loud enough for any to hear who cared to be listening, about theannoyance of it all, the useless damage that had been done, the warmth ofthe summer night, and the like, and spoke in low soundless sentences ofwhat was in all their hearts. 

"That red-faced fellow, " said Mary, "would be the better of some manners. (He is in the passage below, I suppose. )"

"It is scarce an ennobling life--that of a manhunter, " said Mr. Buxton. ("Yes. I am sure of it. ")

"They have broken your little cupboard, I fear. " said Mary again. ("Tellme your plan, if you have one. ")

And so step by step a plan was built up. It had been maturing in Mr. Buxton's mind gradually after he had learnt the ladies might sup withhim; and little by little he conveyed it to them. He managed to writedown the outline of it as he sat at table, and then passed it to each toread, and commented on it and answered their questions about it, all inthe same noiseless undertone, with his lips indeed scarcely moving. Therewere many additions and alterations made in it as the two ladies workedupon it too, but by the time supper was over it was tolerably complete. It seemed, indeed, almost desperate, but the case was desperate. It wascertain that the garden-house would be searched next day; Lackington'ssuspicions were plainly roused, and it was too much to hope thatsearchers who had found three hiding-places in one afternoon would failto find a fourth. It appeared then that it was this plan or none. 

They supped slowly, in order to give time to think out and work out thescheme, and to foresee any difficulties beyond those they had alreadycounted on; and it was fully half-past nine before the two ladies rose. Their host went with them to the door, called up Mr. Graves' man, andwatched them pass down the path out of sight. He stood a minute or twolonger looking across towards the house at the dusky shapes in the gardenand the strip of gravel, grass, and yew that was illuminated from hisopen door. Then he spoke to the men that he knew were just out of sight. 

"I am going to bed presently. Kindly do not disturb me. " There was noanswer; and he closed the two high doors and bolted them securely. 

He dared not yet do what he wished, for fear of arousing suspicion, so hewent to the other window and looked out into the lane. He could just makeout the glimmer of steel on the opposite bank. 

"Good-night, my man, " he called out cheerfully. 

Again there was no answer. There was something sinister in these watchingpresences that would not speak, and his heart sank a little as he put-tothe window without closing it. He went next to the pile of rugs andpillows that his men had brought across, and arranged them in the corner, just clear of the trap-door. Then he knelt and said his evening prayers, and here at least was no acting. Then he rose again and took off hisdoublet and ruff and shoes so that he was dressed only in a shirt, trunksand hose. Then he went across to the supper-table, where the tapers stillburned, and blew them out, leaving the room in complete darkness. Then hewent back to his bed, and sat and listened. 

Up to this point he had been aware that probably at least one pair ofeyes had been watching him; for, although the windows were of bottle-endglass, yet it was exceedingly likely that there would be some clear glassin them; and, with the tapers burning inside, his movements would allhave been visible to either of Lackington's men who cared to put his eyeto the window. But now he was invisible. Yet, as he thought of it, heslipped on his doublet again to hide the possible glimmer of his whiteshirt. There was the silence of the summer night about him--the silenceonly emphasised by its faint sounds. The house was quiet across thegarden, though once or twice he thought he heard a horse stamp. Oncethere came a little stifled cough from outside his window; there was thesilky rustle of the faint breeze in the trees outside; and now and againcame the snoring of a young owl in the ivy somewhere overhead. 

He counted five hundred deliberately, to compel himself to wait; andmeanwhile his sub-conscious self laboured at the scheme. Then he glancedthis way and that with wide eyes; his ears sang with intentness oflistening. Then, very softly he shifted his position, and found with hisfingers the ring that lifted the trap-door above the stairs. 

There was no concealment about this, and without any difficulty he liftedthe door with his right hand and leaned it against the wall; then helooked round again and listened. From below came up the damp earthybreath of the basement, and he heard a rat scamper suddenly to shelter. Then he lifted his feet from the rugs and dropped them noiselessly on thestairs, and supporting himself by his hands on the floor went down a stepor two. Then a stair creaked under his weight; and he stopped in anagony, hearing only the mad throbbing in his own ears. But all was silentoutside. And so step by step he descended into the cool darkness. Hehesitated as to whether he should close the trap-door or not, there was arisk either way; but he decided to do so, as he would be obliged to makesome noise in opening the secret doors and communicating with Anthony. Atlast his feet touched the earth floor, and he turned as he sat andcounted the steps--the fourth, the fifth, and tapped upon it. There wasno answer; he put his lips to it and whispered sharply:

"Anthony, Anthony, dear lad. "

Still there was no answer. Then he lifted the lid, and managed to holdthe woodwork below, as he knelt on the third step, so that it descendednoiselessly. He put out his other hand and felt the boards. Anthony hadretired into the passage then, he told himself, as he found the spaceempty. He climbed into the hole, pushed himself along and counted thebricks--the fourth of the fourth--pressed it, and pushed at the door; andit was fast. 

For the first time a horrible spasm of terror seized him. Had heforgotten? or was it all a mistake, and Anthony not there? He turned inhis place, put his shoulders against the door and his feet against thewoodwork of the stairs, and pushed steadily; there were one or two loudcreaks, and the door began to yield. Then he knew Anthony was there; arush of relief came into his heart--and he turned and whispered again. 

"Anthony, dear lad, Anthony, open quickly; it is I. "

The brickwork slid back and a hand touched his face out of the pitchdarkness of the tunnel. 

"Who is it? Is it you?" came a whisper. 

"It is I, yes. Thank God you are here. I feared----"

"How could I tell?" came the whisper again. "But what is the news? Areyou escaped?"

"No, I am a prisoner, and on parole. But there is no time for that. Youmust escape--we have a plan--but there is not much time. "

"Why should I not remain here?"

"They will search to-morrow--and--and this end of the tunnel is not sowell concealed as the other. They would find you. They suspect you arehere, and there are guards round this place. "

There was a movement in the dark. 

"Then why think----" began the whisper. 

"No, no, we have a plan. Mary and Isabel approve. Listen carefully. Thereis but one guard at the back here, in the lane. Mary has leave to comeand go now as she pleases--they are afraid of her; she will leave thehouse in a few minutes now to ride to East Maskells, with two grooms anda maid behind one of them. She will ride her own horse. When she haspassed the inn she will bid the groom who has the maid to wait for her, while she rides down the lane with the other, Robert, to speak to methrough the window. The pursuivant, we suppose, will not forbid that, ashe knows they have supped with me just now. As we talk, Robert will watchhis chance and spring on the pursuivant. As soon as the struggle beginsyou will drop from the window; it is but eight feet; and help him tosecure the man and gag him. However much din they make the others cannotreach the man in time to help, for they will have to come round from thehouse, and you will have mounted Robert's horse; and you and Marytogether will gallop down the lane into the road, and then where youwill. We advise East Maskells. I do not suppose there will be anypursuit. They will have no horses ready. Do you understand it?"

There was silence a moment; Mr. Buxton could hear Anthony breathing inthe darkness. 

"I do not like it, " came the whisper at last; "it seems desperate. Ahundred things may happen. And what of Isabel and you?"

"Dear friend; I know it is desperate, but not so desperate as yourremaining here would be for us all. "

Again there was silence. 

"What of Robert? How will he escape?"

"If you escape they will have nothing against Robert; for they can provenothing as to your priesthood. But if they catch you here--and theycertainly will, if you remain here--they will probably hang him, for hefought for you gallantly in the house. And he too will have time to run. He can run through the door into the meadows. But they will not care forhim if they know you are off. "

Again silence. 

"Well?" whispered Mr. Buxton. 

"Do you wish it?"

"I think it is the only hope. "

"Then I will do it. "

"Thank God! And now you must come up with me. Put off your shoes. "

"I have none. "

"Then follow, and do not make a sound. "

 * * * *

Very cautiously Mr. Buxton extricated himself; for he had been lying onhis side while he whispered to Anthony; and presently was crouched on thestairs above, as he heard the stirrings of his friend in the dark belowhim. There came the click of the brickwork door; then slow shufflings;once a thump on the hollow boards that made his heart leap; then afterwhat seemed an interminable while, came the sound of latching the fifthstair into its place; and he felt his foot grasped. Then he turned andascended slowly on hands and knees, feeling now and again for thetrap-door over him--touched it--raised it, and crawled out on to therugs. The room seemed to him comparatively light after the heavy darknessof the basement, and passage below, and he could make out thesupper-table and the outline of the targets on the opposite wall. Then hesaw a head follow him; then shoulders and body; and Anthony crept out andsat on the rugs beside him. Their hands met in a trembling grip. 

"Supper, dear lad?" whispered Mr. Buxton, with his mouth to the other'sear. 

"Yes, I am hungry, " came the faintest whisper back. 

Mr. Buxton rose and went on tip-toe to the table, took off some food anda glass of wine that he had left purposely filled and came back withthem. 

There the two friends sat; Mr. Buxton could just hear the movement ofAnthony's mouth as he ate. The four windows glimmered palely before them, and once or twice the tall doors rattled faintly as the breeze stirredthem. 

Then suddenly came a sound that made Anthony's hand pause on the way tohis mouth; Mr. Buxton drew a sharp breath; it was the noise of three orfour horses on the road beyond the church. Then they both stood upwithout a word, and Mr. Buxton went noiselessly across to the window thatlooked on to the lane and remained there, listening. The horses were nowpassing down the street, and the noise of their hoofs grew fainter behindthe houses. 

Anthony saw his friend in the twilight beckon, and he went across andstood by him. Suddenly the hoofs sounded loud and near; and they heardthe pursuivant below stand up from the bank opposite. Then Mary's voicecame distinct and cheerful. 

"How dark it is!"

The horses were coming down the lane. 

 CHAPTER XII

 THE NIGHT-RIDE

The sound of hoofs came nearer; Anthony's heart, as he crouched below thewindow, ready to spring up and over when the signal was given, beat insick thumpings at the base of his throat, but with a fierce excitementand no fear. His hands clenched and unclenched. Mr. Buxton stood back alittle, waiting; he must feign to be asleep at first. 

Then came suddenly a sharp challenge from the sentry. 

"It is Mistress Corbet, " came Mary's cool high tones, "and I desire tospeak with Mr. Buxton. "

The man hesitated. 

"You cannot, " he said. 

"Cannot!" she cried; "why, fellow, do you know who I am? And I have justsupped with him. "

There came a sudden sound from the other side of the summer-house, andboth men in the room knew that the guards in the garden were listening. 

"I am sorry, madam, but I have no orders. "

"Then do not presume, you hound, " came Mary's voice again, with a ring ofanger. "Ho, there, Mr. Buxton, come to the window. "

"Be ready, " he whispered to Anthony. 

"Stand back, madam, " said the pursuivant, "or I shall call for help. "

Then Mr. Buxton threw back the window. 

"Who is there?" he asked coolly. ("Stand up Anthony. ")

"It is I, Mr. Buxton, but this insolent dog----"

"Stand _back_, madam, I say, " cried the voice of the guard. Then from thegarden behind came running footsteps and voices; and a red light shonethrough the windows behind. 

"Now, " whispered the voice over Anthony's head sharply. 

There came a loud shout from the guard, "Help there, help!"

Anthony put his hands on to the sill and lifted himself easily. The groomhad slipped from his horse while Mary held the bridle, and was advancingat the guard, and there was something in his hand. The sentry, who wasstanding immediately under the window, now dropped his pike pointforward; and as a furious rattling began at the doors on the garden side, Anthony dropped, and came down astride of the man's neck, who crashed tothe ground. Then the groom was on him too. 

"Leave him to me, sir. Mount. "

The groom's hands were busy with something about the struggling man'sneck: the shouts choked and ceased. 

"You will strangle the man, " said Anthony sharply. 

"Nonsense, " said Mary; "mount, mount. They are coming. "

Anthony ran to the horse, that was beginning to scurry and plunge; threwhimself across the saddle and caught the reins. 

"Up?" said Mary. 

"Up"; and he slung his right leg over the flank and sat up, as Maryreleased the bridle, and dashed off, scattering gravel. 

From the direction of the church came cries and the quick rattle of agalloping horse. Anthony dashed his shoeless heels into the horse's sidesand leaned forward, and in a moment more was flying down the lane afterMary. From in front came a shout of warning, with one or two screams, andthen Anthony turned the corner, checking his horse slightly at the angle, saw a torch somewhere to his right, a group of scared faces, a groom andwoman clinging to him on a plunging horse, and the white road; and thenfound himself with loose reins, and flying stirrups, thundering down thevillage street, with Mary on her horse not two lengths in front. The roarof the hoofs behind, and of the little shouting crowd, with the screamingwoman on the horse, died behind him as the wind began to boom in hisears. Mary was looking round now, and slightly checking her horse as theyneared the bottom of the long village street. In half a dozen stridesAnthony came up on her right. Then the pool gleamed before them justbeyond the fork of the road. 

"Left!" screamed Mary through the roar of the racing air, and turned herhorse off up the road that led round in a wide sweep of two miles to EastMaskells and the woods beyond, and Anthony followed. He had settled downin the saddle now, and had brought his maddened horse under control; hisfeet were in the stirrups, but there was no lessening of the speed. Theyhad left the last house now, and on either side the black bushes andheatherland streamed past, with the sudden gleam of water here and thereunder the starlight that showed the ditches and holes with which theground on either side of the road was honeycombed. 

Then Mary turned her head again, and the words came detached and sharp. 

"They are after us--could not help--horses saddled. "

Anthony turned his head to release one ear from the roar of the air, andheard the thundering rattle of hoofs in the distance, but even as helistened it grew fainter. 

"We are gaining!" he shouted. 

Mary nodded, and her teeth gleamed white in a smile. 

"Ours are fresh, " she screamed. 

Then there was silence between them again; they had reached a little hilland eased their horses up it; a heavy fringe of trees crowned it on theirright, black against the stars, and a gleam of light showed the presenceof a house among them. Farther and farther behind them sounded the hoofs;then they were swaying and rocking again down the slope that led to thelong flat piece of road that ended in the slope up to East Maskells. Itwas softer going now and darker too, as there were trees overhead;pollared willows streamed past them as they went; and twice there was asnort and a hollow thunder of hoofs as a young sleeping horse awoke andraced them a few yards in the meadows at the side. Once Anthony's horseshied at a white post, and drew in front a yard or two; and he heard fora moment under the rattle the cool gush of the stream that flowed beneaththe road and the scream of a water-fowl as she burst from the reeds. 

A great exultation began to fill Anthony's heart. What a ride this was, in the glorious summer night--reckless and intoxicating! What a contrast, this sweet night air streaming past him, this dear world of livingthings, his throbbing horse beneath him, the birds and beasts round him, and this gallant girl swaying and rejoicing too beside him! What acontrast was all this to that terrible afternoon, only a few hoursaway--of suspense and skulking like a rat in a sewer; in a dark, closepassage underground breathing death and silence round him! An escape withthe fresh air in the face and the glorious galloping music of hoofs isanother matter to an escape contrived by holding the breath and fearingto move in a mean hiding-hole. And as all this flooded in upon him, incoherently but overpoweringly, he turned and laughed loud with joy. 

They had nearly come to an end of the flat by now. In front of them rosethe high black mass of trees where safety lay; somewhere to the right, not a quarter of a mile in front, just off the road, lay East Maskells. They would draw rein, he reflected, when they reached the outer gates, and listen; and if all was quiet behind them, Mary at least should askfor shelter. For himself, perhaps it would be safer to ride on into thewoods for the present. He began to move his head as he rode to see ifthere were any light in the house before him; it seemed dark; but perhapshe could not see the house from here. Gradually his horse slackened alittle, as the rise in the ground began, and he tossed the reins once ortwice. 

Then there was a sharp hiss and blow behind him; his horse snorted andleapt forward, almost unseating him, and then, still snorting with headraised and jerking, dashed at the slope. There was a cry and a loudreport; he tugged at the reins, but the horse was beside himself, and herode fifty yards before he could stop him. Even as he wrenched him intosubmission another horse with head up and flying stirrup and reinsthundered past him and disappeared into the woods beyond the house. 

Then, trembling so that he could hardly hold the reins, he urged hishorse back again at a stumbling trot towards what he knew lay at the footof the slope, and to meet the tumult that grew in nearness and intensityup the road along which he had just galloped. 

There was a dark group on the pale road in front of him, twenty yardsthis side of the field-path that led from Stanfield Place; he took hisfeet from the stirrups as he got near, and in a moment more threw hisright leg forward over the saddle and slipped to the ground. 

He said no word but pushed away the two men, and knelt by Mary, takingher head on his knee. The men rose and stood looking down at them. 

"Mary, " he said, "can you hear me?"

He bent close over the white face; her hand rose to her breast, and cameaway dark. She was shot through the body. Then she pushed him sharply. 

"Go, " she whispered, "go. "

"Mary, " he said again, "make your confession--quickly. Stand back, youmen. "

They obeyed him; and he bent his ear towards the mouth he could so dimlysee. There was a sob or two--a long moaning breath--and then the murmurof words, very faint and broken by gulps for breath. He noticed nothingof the hoofs that dashed up the road and stopped abruptly, and of themurmur of voices that grew round him; he only heard the gasping whisper, the words that rose one by one, with pauses and sighs, into his ear. .. . 

"Is that all?" he said, and a silence fell on all who stood round, now acomplete circle about the priest and the penitent. The pale face movedslightly in assent; he could see the lips were open, and the breath wascoming short and agonised. 

". .. _In nomine Patris_--his hand rose above her and moved cross-ways inthe air--_et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_. _Amen. _"

Then he bent low again and looked; the bosom was still rising andfalling, the shut eyes lifted once and looked at him. Then the lids fellagain. 

"_Benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris et Filii et Spiritus sancti, descendat super te et maneat semper. Amen. _"

Then there fell a silence. A horse blew out its nostrils somewhere behindand stamped; then a man's voice cried brutally:

"Now then, is that popish mummery done yet?"

There was a murmur and stir in the group. But Anthony had risen. 

"That is all, " he said. 

 CHAPTER XIII

 IN PRISON

Anthony found several friends in the Clink prison in Southwark, whitherhe was brought up from Stanfield Place after his arrest. 

Life there was very strange, a combination of suffering and extraordinaryrelaxation. He had a tiny cell, nine feet by five, with one little windowhigh up, and for the first month of his imprisonment wore irons; at thesame time his gaoler was so much open to bribery that he always found hisdoor open on Sunday morning, and was able to shuffle upstairs and saymass in the cell of Ralph Emerson, once the companion of Campion, and alay-brother of the Society of Jesus. There he met a large number ofCatholics--some of whom he had come across in his travels--and he evenministered the sacraments to others who managed to come in from theoutside. His chief sorrow was that his friend and host had been taken tothe Counter in Wood Street. 

It was a month before he heard all that had happened on the night of hisarrest, and on the previous days: he had been separated at once from hisfriends; and although he had heard his guards talking both in the hallwhere he had been kept the rest of the night, and during the long hotride to London the next day, yet at first he was so bewildered by Mary'sdeath that what they said made little impression on him. But after he hadbeen examined both by magistrates and the Commissioners, and very littleevidence was forthcoming, his irons were struck off and he was allowedmuch more liberty than before; and at last, to his great joy, Isabel wasadmitted to see him. She herself had come straight up to the Marretts'house, both of whom still lived on in Wharf Street, though old andinfirm; and day by day she attempted to get access to her brother; untilat last, by dint of bribery, she was successful. 

Then she told him the whole story. 

 * * * *

"When we left the garden-house, " she said, "we went straight back, andMary found Mr. Graves in the parlour off the hall. Oh, Anthony, how sheordered him about! And how frightened he was of her! The end was that hesent a message to the stables for her horses to be got ready, as shesaid. I went up with her to help her to make ready, and we kissed oneanother up there, for, you know, we dared not make as if we said good-byedownstairs. Then we came down for her to mount; and then we saw what wehad not known before, that all the stable-yard was filled with the men'shorses saddled and bridled. However, we said nothing, except that Maryasked a man what--what the devil he was looking at, when he stared up ather as she stood on the block drawing on her gloves before she mounted. There were one or two torches burning in cressets, and I saw her soplainly turn the corner down towards the church. 

"Then I went upstairs again, but I could not go to my room, but stood atthe gallery window outside looking down at the court, for I knew that ifthere was any danger it would come from there. 

"Then presently I heard a noise, and a shouting, and a man ran in throughthe gates to the stable-yard; and, almost directly it seemed, three orfour rode out, at full gallop across the court and down by the church. The window was open and I could hear the noise down towards the village. Then more and more came pouring out, and all turned the corner andgalloped; all but one, whose horse slipped and came down with a crash. Oh, Anthony! how I prayed!

"Then I saw Mr. Lackington"--Isabel stopped a moment at the name, andthen went on again--"and he was on horseback too in the court; but he wasshouting to two or three more who were just mounting. 'Across thefield--across the field---cut them off!' I could hear it so plainly; andI saw the stable-gate was open, and they went through, and I could hearthem galloping on the grass. And then I knew what was happening; and Iwent back to my room and shut the door. "

Isabel stopped again; and Anthony took her hand softly in his own andstroked it. Then she went on. 

"Well, I saw them bring you back, from the gallery window--and ran to thetop of the stairs and saw you go through into the hall where themagistrates were waiting, and the door was shut; and then I went back tomy place at the window--and then presently they brought in Mary. Ireached the bottom of the stairs just as they set her down. And I toldthem to bring her upstairs; and they did, and laid her on the bed wherewe had sat together all the afternoon. .. . And I would let no one in: Idid it all myself; and then I set the tapers round her, and put thecrucifix that was round my neck into her fingers, which I had laid on herbreast . .. And there she lay on the great bed . .. And her face was like achild's, fast asleep--smiling: and then I kissed her again, andwhispered, 'Thank you, Mary'; for, though I did not know all, I knewenough, and that it was for you. "

Anthony had thrown his arms on the table and his face was buried in them. Isabel put out her hand and stroked his curly head gently as she went on, and told him in the same quiet voice of how Mary had tried to save him bylashing his horse, as she caught sight of the man waiting at the entranceof the field-path, and riding in between him and Anthony. The man haddeclared in his panic of fear before the magistrates that he had neverdreamt of doing Mistress Corbet an injury, but that she had ridden acrossjust as he drew the trigger to shoot the priest's horse and stop him thatway. 

When Isabel had finished Anthony still lay with his head on his arms. 

"Why, Anthony, my darling, " she said, "what could be more perfect? Howproud I am of you both!"

She told him, too, how they had been tracked to Stanfield--Lackington hadlet it out in his exultation. 

The sailor at Greenhithe was one of his agents--an apostate, like hismaster. He had recognised that the party consisted of Catholics byAnthony's breaking of the bread. He had been placed there to watch theferry; and had sent messages at once to Nichol and Lackington. Then theparty had been followed, but had been lost sight of, thanks to Anthony'sruse. Nichol had then flung out a cordon along the principal roads thatbounded Stanstead Woods on the south; and Lackington, when he arrived afew hours later, had kept them there all night. The cordon consisted ofidlers and children picked up at Wrotham; and the tramp who feigned to beasleep had been one of them. When they had passed, he had given thesignal to his nearest neighbour, and had followed them up. Nichol wassoon at the place, and after them; and had followed to Stanfield withLackington behind. Then watchers had been set round the house; themagistrates communicated with; and as soon as Hubert and Mr. Graves hadarrived the assault had been made. Hubert had not been told who thepriest was; but he had leapt at an opportunity to harass Mr. Buxton: hehad been given to understand that Anthony and Isabel were still in thenorth. 

"He did not know; indeed he did not, " cried Isabel piteously. 

At another time, when she had gained admittance to him, she gave himmessages from the Marretts, who had kept a great affection for the lad, who had told them tales of College that Christmas time; and she told himtoo of the coming of an old friend to see her there. 

"It was poor Mr. Dent, " she said; "he looks so old now. His wife diedthree years ago; you know he has a city-living and does chaplain's workat the Tower sometimes; and he is coming to see you, Anthony, and talk toyou. "

Three or four days later he came. 

Anthony was greatly touched at his kindness in coming. He lookedconsiderably older than his age; his hair had grown thin and grey abouthis temples, and the sharp birdlike outline of his face and featuresseemed blurred and indeterminate. His creed too, and his whole manner oflooking at things of faith, seemed to have undergone a similar process. The two had a long talk. 

"I am not going to argue with you, Mr. Norris, " he said, "though I stillthink your religion wrong. But I have learnt this at least, that thegreatest of all is charity, and if we love the same God, and His BlessedSon, and one another, I think that is best of all. I have learnt thatfrom my wife--my dear wife, " he added softly. "I used to hold much withdoctrine at one time, and loved to chop arguments; but our Saviour didnot, and so I will not. "

Anthony was delighted that he took this line, for he knew there are someminds that apparently cannot be loyal to both charity and truth at thesame time, and Mr. Dent's seemed to be one of them; so the two talked ofold times at Great Keynes, and of the folks there, and at last of Hubert. 

"I saw him in the City last week, " said Mr. Dent, "and he is a changedman. He looks ten years older than this time last year; I scarcely knowwhat has come to him. I know he has thrown up his magistracy, and theLindfield parson tells me that the talk is that Mr. Maxwell is going onanother voyage, and leaving his wife and children behind him again. "

Anthony told him gently of Hubert's share in the events at Stanfield, adding what real and earnest attempts he had made to repair the injury hehad done as soon as he had learnt that it was his friend that was inhiding. 

"There was no treachery against me, Mr. Dent, you see, " he added. 

Mr. Dent pecked a little in the air with pursed lips and eyes fixed onthe ground; and a vision of the pulpit at Great Keynes moved beforeAnthony's eyes. 

"Yes, yes, yes, " he said; "I understand--I quite understand. "

Before Mr. Dent took his leave he unburdened himself of what he hadreally come to say. 

"Master Anthony, " he said, standing up and fingering his hat round andround, "I said I talked no doctrine now; but I must unsay that; and--youwill not think me impertinent if I ask you something?"

"My dear Mr. Dent----" began the other, standing and smiling too. 

"Thank you, thank you--I felt sure--then it is this: I do not know muchabout the Popish religion, though I used to once, and I may be verymistaken; but I would like you to satisfy me before I go on one point";and he fixed his anxious peering eyes on Anthony's face. "Can you say, Master Anthony, from a full heart, that you fix all your hope andconfidence for salvation in Christ's merits alone?"

Anthony smiled frankly in his face. 

"Indeed, in none other, " he said, "and from a full heart. "

"Ah well, " and the birdlike face began to beam and twitch, "and--andthere is nothing of confidence in yourself and your works--and--and thereis no talk of Holy Mary in the matter?"

Anthony smiled again. He wished to avoid useless controversy. 

"Briefly, " he said, "my belief is that I am a very great sinner, that Ideserve eternal hell; but I humbly place all my trust in the PreciousBlood of my Saviour, and in that alone. Does that satisfy you?"

Mr. Dent's face was breaking into smiles, and at the end he took thepriest's face in his hands and kissed him gently twice on the cheeks. 

"Then, my dear boy, I fear nothing for you. May that salvation you hopefor be yours. " And then without a word he was gone. 

Anthony's conscience reproached him a little that he had said nothing ofthe Church to the minister; but Mr. Dent had been so peremptory aboutdoctrine that it was hard for the younger man to say what he would havewished. He told him, however, plainly on his next visit that he heldwhole-heartedly too that the Catholic Church was the treasury of Gracethat Christ had instituted, and added a little speech about his longingto see his old friend a Catholic too; but Mr. Dent shook his head. Thecorners of his eyes wrinkled a little, and a shade of his old fretfulnesspassed over his face. 

"Nay, if you talk like that, " he said, "I must be gone. I am notheologian. You must let me alone. "

He gave him news this time of Mr. Buxton. 

"He is in the Counter, as you know, " he said, "and is a very bright andcheerful person, it seems to me. Mistress Isabel asked me to see him andgive her news of him, for she cannot get admittance. He is in a cell, little and nasty; but he said to me that a Protestant prison was aPapist's pleasaunce--in fact he said it twice. And he asked very eagerlyafter you and Mistress Isabel. He tried, too, to inveigle me into talk ofPeter his prerogative, but I would not have it. It was Lammas Day when Isaw him, and he spoke much of it. "

Anthony asked whether there was anything said of what punishment Mr. Buxton would suffer. 

"Well, " said Mr. Dent, "the Lieutenant of the Tower told me that herGrace was so sad at the death of Mistress Corbet that she was determinedthat no more blood should be shed than was obliged over this matter; andthat Mr. Buxton, he thought, would be but deprived of his estates andbanished; but I know not how that may be. But we shall soon know. "

These weeks of waiting were full of consolation and refreshment toAnthony: the nervous stress of the life of the seminary priest inEngland, full of apprehension and suspense, crowned, as it had been inhis case, by the fierce excitement of the last days of his liberty--allthis had strained and distracted his soul, and the peace of the prisonlife, with the certainty that no efforts of his own could help him now, quieted and strengthened him for the ordeal he foresaw. At this time, too, he used to spend two or three hours a day in meditation, and foundthe greatest benefit in following the tranquil method of prayerprescribed by Louis de Blois, with whose writings he had madeacquaintance at Douai. Each morning, too, he said a "dry mass, " andduring the whole of his imprisonment at the Clink managed to make hisconfession at least once a week, and besides his communion at mass onSundays, communicated occasionally from the Reserved Sacrament, which hewas able to keep in a neighbouring cell, unknown to his gaoler. 

And so the days went by, as orderly as in a Religious House; he rose at afixed hour, observed the greatest exactness in his devotions, and did hisutmost to prevent any visitors being admitted to see him, or any fromanother cell coming into his own, until he had finished his firstmeditation and said his office. And there began to fall upon him a kindof mellow peace that rose at times of communion and prayer to a point soravishing, that he began to understand that it would not be a light crossfor which such preparatory graces were necessary. 

 * * * *

Towards the middle of September he received intelligence that evidencehad been gathering against him, and that one or two were come fromLancashire under guard; and that he would be brought before theCommissioners again immediately. 

Within two days this came about. He was sent for across the water to theTower, and after waiting an hour or two with his gaoler downstairs in thebasement of the White Tower, was taken up into the great Hall where theCouncil sat. There was a table at the farther end where they weresitting, and as Anthony looked round he saw through openings all round inthe inner wall the little passage where the sentries walked, and heardtheir footfalls. 

The preliminaries of identification and the like had been disposed of atprevious examinations before Mr. Young--a name full of sinistersuggestiveness to the Catholics; and so, after he had been given a seatat a little distance from the table behind which the Commissioners sat, he was questioned minutely as to his journey in the North of England. 

"What were you there for, Mr. Norris?" inquired the Secretary of theCouncil. 

"I went to see friends, and to do my business. "

"Then that resolves itself into two heads: One, Who are your friends. Two, What was your business?"

Now it had been established beyond a doubt at previous examinations thathe was a priest; a student of Douai who had apostatised had positivelyidentified him; so Anthony answered boldly:

"My friends were Catholics; and my business was the reconciling of soulsto their Creator. "

"And to the Pope of Rome, " put in Wade. 

"Who is Christ's Vicar, " continued Anthony. 

"And a pestilent knave, " concluded a fiery-faced man whom Anthony did notknow. 

But the Commissioners wanted more than that; it was true that Anthony wasalready convicted of high treason in having been ordained beyond the seasand in exercising his priestly functions in England; but the exacting ofthe penalty for religion alone was apt to raise popular resentment; andit was far preferable in the eyes of the authorities to entangle a priestin the political net before killing him. So they passed over for thepresent his priestly functions and first demanded a list of all theplaces where he had stayed in the north. 

"You ask what is impossible, " said Anthony, with his eyes on the groundand his heart beating sharply, for he knew that now peril was near. 

"Well, " said Wade, "let us put it another way. We know that you were atSpeke Hall, Blainscow, and other places. I have a list here, " and hetapped the table, "but we want your name to it. "

"Let me see the paper, " said Anthony. 

"Nay, nay, tell us first. "

"I cannot sign the paper except I see it, " said Anthony, smiling. 

"Give it him, " said a voice from the end of the table. 

"Here then, " said Wade unwillingly. 

Anthony got up and took the paper from him, and saw one or two placesnamed where he had not been, and saw that it had been drawn up at anyrate partly on guesswork. 

He put the paper down and went back to his chair and sat down. 

"It is not true, " he said, looking steadily at the Secretary; "I cannotsign it. "

"Do you deny that you have been to any of these places?" inquired Wadeindignantly. 

"The paper is not true, " said Anthony again. 

"Well, then, show us what is not true upon it. "

"I cannot. "

"We will find means to persuade you, " said the Secretary. 

"If God permits, " said Anthony. 

Wade glanced round inquiringly and shrugged his shoulders; one or twoshook their heads. 

"Well, then, we will turn to another point. There are known to have beencertain Jesuit priests in Lancashire in November of last year--do youdeny that, sir?"

"You ask too much, " said Anthony, smiling again; "they may have beenthere for aught I know, for I certainly did not see them elsewhere at thetime you mention. "

Wade frowned, but the one at the end laughed loud. 

"He has you there, Wade, " he said. 

"This is foolery, " said the Secretary. "Well, these two, Father EdwardOldcorne and Father Holtby were in Lancashire in November; and you, Mr. Norris, spoke with them then. We wish to know where they are now, and youmust tell us. "

"You have yet to prove that I spoke with them, " said Anthony, for thetrap was too transparent. 

"But we know that. "

"That may or may not be; but it is for you to prove it. "

"Nay, for you to tell us. "

"For you to prove it. "

Wade lost his temper. 

"Well, then, " he cried, "take this paper and see which of us is in theright. "

Anthony rose again, wondering what the paper could be, and came towardsthe table. He saw it bore a name at the end, and as he advanced saw thatit had an official appearance. Wade still held it; but Anthony took it inhis hand too to steady it, and began to read; but as he read a mist rosebefore his eyes, and the paper shook violently. It was a warrant to puthim to the torture. 

Wade laughed a little. 

"Why, see, Mr. Norris, how you tremble at the warrant; what will it bewhen you----"

But a voice murmured "Shame!" and he stopped and stared. 

Anthony passed his hand over his eyes and went back to his chair and satdown; he saw his knees trembling as he sat, and hated himself for it; buthe cried bravely:

"The flesh is weak, but, please God, the spirit is willing. "

"Well, then, " said Wade again, "must we execute this warrant, or will youtell us what we would know?"

"You must do what God permits, " said Anthony. 

Wade sat down, throwing the warrant on the table, and began to talk in alow voice to those who sat next him. Anthony fixed his eyes on theground, and did his utmost to keep his thoughts steady. 

Now he realised where he was, and what it all meant. The little door tothe left, behind him, that he had noticed as he came in, was the door ofwhich he had heard other Catholics speak, that led down to the greatcrypt, where so many before him had screamed and fainted and called onGod, from the rack that stood at the foot of the stairs, or from thepillar with the fixed ring at its summit. 

He had faced all this in his mind again and again, but it was a differentthing to have the horror within arm's length; old phrases he had heard ofthe torture rang in his mind--a boast of Norton's, the rackmaster, whohad racked Brian, and which had been repeated from mouth to mouth--thathe had "made Brian a foot longer than God made him"; words of JamesMaxwell's that he had let drop at Douai; the remembrance of his limp; andof Campion's powerlessness to raise his hand when called upon toswear--all these things crowded on him now; and there seemed to rest onhim a crushing swarm of fearful images and words. He made a great effort, and closed his eyes, and repeated the holy name of Jesus over and overagain; but the struggle was still fierce when Wade's voice, harsh anddry, broke in and scattered the confusion of mind that bewildered him. 

"Take the prisoner to a cell; he is not to go back to the Clink. "

Anthony felt a hand on his arm, and the gaoler was looking at him withcompassion. 

"Come, sir, " he said. 

Anthony rose feeling heavy and exhausted; but remembered to bow to theCommissioners, one or two of whom returned it. Then he followed thegaoler out into the ante-room, who handed him over to one of the Towerofficials. 

"I must leave you here, sir, " he said; "but keep a good heart; it willnot be for to-day. "

 * * * *

When Anthony got to his new cell, which was in the Salt Tower, he wasbitterly angry and disappointed with himself. Why, he had turned whiteand sick like a child, not at the pain of the rack, not even at the sightof it, but at the mere warrant! He threw himself on his knees, and boweddown till his head beat against the boards. 

"O Lord Jesus, " he prayed, "give me of Thy Manhood. "

 * * * *

He found that this prison was more rigorous than the Clink; no liberty toleave the cell could possibly be obtained, and no furniture was provided. The gaoler, when he had brought up his dinner, asked whether he couldsend any message for him for a bed. Anthony gave Isabel's address, knowing that the authorities were already aware that she was a Catholic, and indeed she had given bail to come up for trial if called upon, andthat his information could injure neither her nor the Marretts, who weresound Church of England people; and in the afternoon a mattress and someclothes arrived for him. 

Anthony noticed at dinner that the knife provided was of a veryinconvenient shape, having a round blunt point, and being sharp only at alower part of the blade; and when the keeper came up with his supper heasked him to bring him another kind. The man looked at him with a queerexpression. 

"What is the matter?" asked Anthony; "cannot you oblige me?"

The man shook his head. 

"They are the knives that are always given to prisoners under warrant fortorture. "

Anthony did not understand him, and looked at him, puzzled. 

"For fear they should do themselves an injury, " added the gaoler. 

Then the same shudder ran over his body again. 

"You mean--you mean. .. . " he began. The gaoler nodded, still looking athim oddly, and went out; and Anthony sat, with his supper untasted, staring before him. 

 * * * *

By a kind of violent reaction he had a long happy dream that night. Thefierce emotions of that day had swept over his imagination and scoured itas with fire, and now the underlying peace rose up and flooded it withsweetness. 

He thought he was in the north again, high up on a moor, walking with onewho was quite familiar to him, but whose person he could not rememberwhen he woke; he did not even know whether it was man or woman. It was aperfect autumn day, he thought, like one of those he had spent there lastyear; the heather and the gorse were in flower, and the air was redolentfrom their blossoms; he commented on this to the person at his side, whotold him it was always so there. Mile after mile the moor rose anddipped, and, although Skiddaw was on his right, purple and grey, yet tohis left there was a long curved horizon of sparkling blue sea. It was acloudless day overhead, and the air seemed kindling and fresh round himas it blew across the stretches of heather from the western sea. Hehimself felt full of an extraordinary vitality, and the mere movement ofhis limbs gave him joy as he went swiftly and easily forward over theheather. There was the sound of the wind in his ears, and again and againthere came the gush of water from somewhere out of sight--as he had heardit in the church by Skiddaw. There was no house or building of any kindwithin sight, and he felt a great relief in these miles of heath and thesense of holiday that they gave him. But all the joy round him and in hisheart found their point for him in the person that went with him; thispresence was their centre, as a diamond in a gold ring, or as a thronedfigure in a Court circle. All else existed for the sake of thisperson;--the heather blossomed and the gorse incensed the air, and thesea sparkled, and the sky was blue, and the air kindled, and his ownheart warmed and throbbed, for that only. When he tried to see who itwas, there was nothing to see; the presence existed there as a centre ina sphere, immeasurable and indiscernible; sometimes he thought it wasMary, sometimes he thought it Henry Buxton, sometimes Isabel--once evenhe assured himself it was Mistress Margaret, and once James Maxwell--andwith the very act of identification came indecision again. Thisuncertainty waxed into a torment, and yet a sweet torment, as of a loverwho watches his mistress' shuttered house; and this torment swelled yethigher and deeper until it was so great that it had absorbed the wholeradiant fragrant circle of the hills where he walked; and then came theblinding knowledge that the Presence was all these persons so dear tohim, and far more; that every tenderness and grace that he had loved inthem--Mary's gallantry and Isabel's serene silence and his friend'sfellowship, and the rest--floated in the translucent depths of it, stained and irradiated by it, as motes in a sunbeam. 

And then he woke, and it was through tears of pure joy that he saw therafters overhead, and the great barred door, and the discoloured wallabove his bed. 

 * * * *

When his gaoler brought him dinner that day it was half an hour earlierthan usual; and when Anthony asked him the reason he said that he did notknow, but that the orders had run so; but that Mr. Norris might takeheart; it was not for the torture, for Mr. Topcliffe, who superintendedit, had told the keeper of the rack-house that nothing would be wantedthat day. 

He had hardly finished dinner when the gaoler came up again and said thatthe Lieutenant was waiting for him below, and that he must bring his hatand cloak. 

Since his arrest he had worn his priest's habit every day, so he nowthrew the cloak over his arm and took his hat, and followed the gaolerdown. 

In passing through the court he went by a group of men that were talkingtogether, and he noticed very especially a tall old man with a grey head, in a Court suit with a sword, and very lean about the throat, who lookedat him hard as he passed. As he reached the archway where the Lieutenantwas waiting, he turned again and saw the sunken eyes of the old man stilllooking after him; when he turned to the gaoler he saw the same odd lookin his face that he had noticed before. 

"Why do you look like that?" he asked. "Who is that old man?"

"That is Mr. Topcliffe, " said the keeper. 

The Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir Richard Barkley, saluted him kindly atthe gate, and begged him to follow him; the keeper still came after andanother stepped out and joined them, and the group of four togetherpassed out through the Lion's Tower and across the moat to a littledoorway where a closed carriage was waiting. The Lieutenant and Anthonystepped inside; the two keepers mounted outside; and the carriage setoff. 

Then the Lieutenant turned to the priest. 

"Do you know where you are going, Mr. Norris?"

"No, sir. "

"You are going to Whitehall to see the Queen's Grace. "

 CHAPTER XIV

 AN OPEN DOOR

When the carriage reached the palace they were told that the Queen wasnot yet come from Greenwich; and they were shown into a little ante-roomnext the gallery where the interview was to take place. The Queen, theLieutenant told Anthony, was to come up that afternoon passing throughLondon, and that she had desired to see him on her way through toNonsuch; he could not tell him why he was sent for, though he conjecturedit was because of Mistress Corbet's death, and that her Grace wished toknow the details. 

"However, " said the Lieutenant, "you now have your opportunity to speakfor yourself, and I think you a very fortunate man, Mr. Norris. Few havehad such a privilege, though I remember that Mr. Campion had it too, though he made poor use of it. "

Anthony said nothing. His mind was throbbing with memories andassociations. The air of state and luxury in the corridors through whichhe had just come, the discreet guarded doors, the servants in the royalliveries standing here and there, the sense of expectancy that mingledwith the solemn hush of the palace--all served to bring up the figure ofMary Corbet, whom he had seen so often in these circumstances; and thethought of her made the peril in which he stood and the hope of escapefrom it seem very secondary matters. He walked to the window presentlyand looked out upon the little court below, one of the innumerable yardsof that vast palace, and stood staring down on the hound that was chainedthere near one of the entrances, and that yawned and blinked in theautumn sunshine. 

Even as he looked the dog paused in the middle of his stretch and stoodexpectant with his ears cocked, a servant dashed bareheaded down a coupleof steps and out through the low archway; and simultaneously Anthonyheard once more the sweet shrill trumpets that told of the Queen'sapproach; then there came the roll of drums and the thunder of horses'feet and the noise of wheels; the trumpets sang out again nearer, and therumbling waxed louder as the Queen's cavalcade, out of sight, passed theentrance of the archway down upon which Anthony looked; and then stilled, and the palace itself began to hum and stir; a door or two banged in thedistance, feet ran past the door of the ante-room, and the strain of thetrumpets sounded once in the house itself. Then all grew quiet once more, and Anthony turned from the window and sat down again by the Lieutenant. 

There was silence for a few minutes. The Lieutenant stroked his beardgently and said a word or two under his breath now and again to Anthony;once or twice there came the swift rustle of a dress outside as a ladyhurried past; then the sound of a door opening and shutting; then moresilence; then the sound of low talking, and at last the sound offootsteps going slowly up and down the gallery which adjoined theante-room. 

Still the minutes passed, but no summons came. Anthony rose and went tothe window again, for, in spite of himself, this waiting told upon him. The dog had gone back to his kennel and was lying with his nose justoutside the opening. Anthony wondered vacantly to himself what door itwas that he was guarding, and who lived in the rooms that looked outbeside it. Then suddenly the door from the gallery opened and a pageappeared. 

"The Queen's Grace will see Mr. Norris alone. "

Anthony went towards him, and the page opened the door wide for him to gothrough, and then closed it noiselessly behind him, and Anthony was inthe presence. 

 * * * *

It was with a sudden bewilderment that he recognised he was in the samegallery as that in which he had talked and sat with Mary Corbet. Therewere the long tapestries hanging opposite him, with the tall threewindows dividing them, and the suits of steel armour that he remembered. He even recalled the pattern of the carpet across which Mary Corbet hadcome forward to meet him, and that still lay before the tall window atthe end that looked on to the Tilt-yard. The sun was passing round to thewest now, and shone again across the golden haze of the yard through thisgreat window, with the fragments of stained glass at the top. The memoryleapt into life even as he stepped out and stood for a moment, dazed inthe sunshine, at the door that opened from the ante-room. 

But the figure that turned from the window and faced him was not likeMary's. It was the figure of an old woman, who looked tall with hertowering head-dress and nodding plume; she was dressed in a great darkred mantle thrown back on her shoulders, and beneath it was a pale yellowdress sown all over with queer devices; on the puffed sleeve of the armthat held the stick was embroidered a great curling snake that shone withgold thread and jewels in the sunlight, and powdered over the skirt wererepresentations of human eyes and other devices, embroidered with darkthread that showed up plainly on the pale ground. So much he saw down oneside of the figure on which the light shone; the rest was to his dazzledeyes in dark shadow. He went down on his knees at once before thistremendous figure, seeing the buckled feet that twinkled below the skirtcut short in front, and remained there. 

There was complete silence for a moment, while he felt the Queen lookingat him, and then the voice he remembered, only older and harsher, nowsaid:

"What is all this, Mr. Norris?"

Anthony looked for a moment and saw the Queen's eyes fixed on him; but hesaid nothing, and looked down again. 

"Stand up, " said the Queen, not unkindly, "and walk with me. "

Anthony stood up at once, and heard the stiff rustle of her dress and thetap of her heels and stick on the polished boards as she came towardshim. Then he turned with her down the long gallery. 

Until this moment, ever since he had heard that he was to see the Queen, he had felt nervous and miserable; but now this had left him, and he feltat his ease. To be received in this way, in privacy, and to accompany herup and down the gallery as she took her afternoon exercise was lessembarrassing than the formal interview he had expected. The two walkedthe whole length of the gallery without a word, and it was not until theyturned and faced the end that looked on to the Tilt-yard that the Queenspoke; and her voice was almost tender. 

"I understand that you were with Minnie Corbet when she died, " she said. 

"She died for me, your Grace, " said Anthony. 

The Queen looked at him sharply. 

"Tell me the tale, " she said. 

And Anthony told her the whole story of the escape and the ride; speakingtoo for his friend, Mr. Buxton, and of Mary's affection for him. 

"Your Grace, " he ended, "it sounds a poor tale of a man that a womanshould die for him so; but I can say with truth that with God's grace Iwould have died a hundred deaths to save her. "

The Queen was silent for a good while when the story was over, andAnthony thought that perhaps she could not speak; but he dared not lookat her. 

Then she spoke very harshly:

"And you, Mr. Norris, why did you not escape?"

"Your Grace would not have done so. "

"When I saw that she was dying, I would. "

"Not if you had been a priest, your Grace. "

"What is that?" asked the Queen, suddenly facing him. 

"I am a priest, madam, and she was a Catholic, and my duty was besideher. "

"Eh?"

"I shrived her, your Grace, before she died. "

"Why! they did not tell me that. "

Anthony was silent. 

They walked on a few steps, and the Queen stood silent too, looking downupon the Tilt-yard. Then she turned abruptly, and Anthony turned withher, and they began to go up and down again. 

"It was gallant of you both, " she said shortly. "I love that my peopleshould be of that sort. " Then she paused. "Tell me, " she went on, "didMary love me?"

Anthony was silent for a moment. 

"The truth, Mr. Norris, " she said. 

"Mistress Corbet was loyalty itself, " he answered. 

"Nay, nay, nay, not loyalty but love I asked you of. How did she speak ofme?"

"Well, your Grace, Mistress Corbet had a shrewd wit, and she used itfreely on friend and foe, but her very sharpness on your Grace, sometimes, showed her love; for she hated to think you otherwise thanwhat she deemed the best. "

The Queen stopped full in her walk. 

"That is very pleasantly put, " she said; "I told Minnie you were acourtier. "

Again the two walked on. 

"Then she used her tongue on me?"

"Your Grace, I have never met one on whom she did not: but her heart wastrue. "

"I know that, I know that, Mr. Norris. Tell me something she said. "

Anthony racked his brains for something not too severe. 

"Mistress Corbet once said that the Queen's most disobedient subject washerself. "

"Eh?" said Elizabeth, stopping in her walk. 

"'Because, ' said Mistress Corbet, 'she can never command herself, '"finished Anthony. 

The Queen looked at Anthony, puzzled a moment; and then chuckled loudlyin her throat. 

"The impertinent minx!" she said, "that was when I had clouted her, nodoubt. "

Again they walked up and down in silence a little while. Anthony began towonder whether this was all for which the Queen had sent for him. He wasastonished at his own self-possession; all the trembling awe with whichhe had faced the Queen at Greenwich was gone; he had forgotten for themoment even his own peril; and he felt instead even something of pity forthis passionate old woman, who had aged so quickly, whose favourites oneby one were dropping off, or at the best giving her only an exaggeratedand ridiculous devotion, at the absurdity of which all the world laughed. Here was this old creature at his side, surrounded by flatterers andadventurers, advancing through the world in splendid and jewelledraiment, with trumpets blowing before her, and poets singing her praises, and crowds applauding in the streets, and sneering in their own houses atthe withered old virgin-Queen who still thought herself a Diana--and allthe while this triumphal progress was at the expense of God's Church, hercar rolled over the bodies of His servants, and her shrunken, gemmedfingers were red in their blood;--so she advanced, thought Anthony, dayby day towards the black truth and the eternal loneliness of the darknessthat lies outside the realm where Christ only is King. 

Elizabeth broke in suddenly on his thoughts. 

"Now, " she said, "and what of you, Mr. Norris?"

"I am your Grace's servant, " he said. 

"I am not so sure of that, " said Elizabeth. "If you are my servant, whyare you a priest, contrary to my laws?"

"Because I am Christ's servant too, your Grace. "

"But Christ's apostle said, 'Obey them that have the rule over you. '"

"In indifferent matters, madam. "

The Queen frowned and made a little angry sound. 

"I cannot understand you Papists, " said the Queen. "What a-God's name doyou want? You have liberty of thought and faith; I desire to inquire intono man's private opinions. You may worship Ashtaroth if it please you, inyour own hearts; and God looks to the heart, and not to the outer man. There is a Church with bishops like your own, and ministers; there arethe old churches to worship in--nay, you may find the old ornaments stillin use. We have sacraments as you have; you may seek shrift if you will;nay, in some manner we have the mass--though we do not call it so--but wefollow Christ's ordinance in the matter, and you can do no more. We havethe Word of God as you have, and we use the same creeds. What more canthe rankest Papist ask? Tell me that, Mr. Norris; for I am a-weary ofyour folk. "

The Queen turned and faced him again a moment, and her eyes were peevishand resentful. 

Presently she went on again. 

"Mr. Campion told me it was the oath that troubled him. He could not takeit, he said. I told the fool that I was not Head of the Church as Christwas, but only the supreme governor, as the Act declares, in all spiritualand ecclesiastical things:--I forget how it runs, --but I showed it him, and asked him whether it were not true; and I asked him too how it wasthat Margaret Roper could take the oath, and so many thousands of personsas full Christian as himself--and he could not answer me. "

The Queen was silent again. Then once more she went on indignantly:

"It is yourselves that have brought all this trouble on your heads. Seewhat the Papists have done against me; they have excommunicated me, deposed me--though in spite of it I still sit on the throne; they havesent an Armada against me; they have plotted against me, I know not howmany times; and then, when I defend myself and hang a few of the wolves, lo! they are Christ's flock at once for whom he shed His precious blood, and His persecuted lambs, and I am Jezebel straightway and Athaliah andBeelzebub's wife--and I know not what. "

The Queen stopped, out of breath, and looked fiercely at Anthony, whosaid nothing. 

"Tell me how you answer that, Mr. Norris?" said the Queen. 

"I dare not deal with such great matters, " said Anthony, "for your Graceknows well that I am but a poor priest that knows nought of state-craft;but I would like to ask your Highness two questions only. The first is:whether your Grace had aught to complain of in the conduct of yourCatholic subjects when the Armada was here; and the second, whether therehath been one actual attempt upon your Grace's life by private persons?"

"That is not to the purpose, " said the Queen peevishly. 

"It was Catholics who fought against me in the Armada, and it wasCatholics who plotted against me at Court. "

"Then there is a difference in Catholics, your Grace, " said Anthony. 

"Ah! I see what you would be at. "

"Yes, your Highness; I would rather say, Although they be Catholics theydo these things. "

There was silence again, which Anthony did not dare to break; and the twowalked up the whole length of the gallery without speaking. 

"Well, well, " said Elizabeth at last, "but this was not why I sent foryou. We will speak of yourself now, Mr. Norris. I hope you are not anobstinate fellow. Eh?"

Anthony said nothing, and the Queen went on. 

"Now, as I have told you, I judge no man's private opinions. You maybelieve what you will. Remember that. You may believe what you will; nay, you may practise your religion so long as it is private and unknown tome. "

Anthony began to wonder what was coming; but he still said nothing as theQueen paused. She stood a moment looking down into the empty Tilt-yardagain, and then turned and sat suddenly in a chair that stood beside thewindow, and put up a jewelled hand to shield her face, with her elbow onthe arm, while Anthony stood before her. 

"I remember you, Mr. Norris, very well at Greenwich; you spoke up sharplyenough, and you looked me in the eyes now and then as I like a man to do;and then Minnie loved you, too. I wish to show you kindness for hersake. "

Anthony's heart began to fail him, for he guessed now what was coming andthe bitter struggle that lay before him. 

"Now, I know well that the Commissioners have had you before them; theyare tiresome busybodies. Walsingham started all that and set thema-spying and a-defending of my person and the rest of it; but they areloyal folk, and I suppose they asked you where you had been and with whomyou had stayed, and so on?"

"They did, your Grace. "

"And you would not tell them, I suppose?"

"I could not, madam; it would have been against justice and charity to doso. "

"Well, well, there is no need now, for I mean to take you out of theirhands. "

A great leap of hope made itself felt in Anthony's heart; he did not knowhow heavy the apprehension lay on him till this light shone through. 

"They will be wrath with me, I know, and will tell me that they cannotdefend me if I will not help them; but, when all is said, I am Queen. NowI do not ask you to be a minister of my Church, for that, I think, youwould never be; but I think you would like to be near me--is it not so?And I wish you to have some post about the Court; I must see what it isto be. "

Anthony's heart began to sink again as he watched the Queen's face as shesat tapping a foot softly and looking on the floor as she talked. Thoselines of self-will about the eyes and mouth surely meant something. 

Then she looked up, still with her cheek on her right hand. 

"You do not thank me, Mr. Norris. "

Anthony made a great effort; but he heard his own voice quiver a little. 

"I thank your Grace for your kindly intentions toward me, with all myheart. "

The Queen seemed satisfied, and looked down again. 

"As to the oath, I will not ask you to take it formally, if you will giveme an assurance of your loyalty. "

"That, your Grace, I give most gladly. "

His heart was beating again in great irregular thumps in his throat; hehad the sensation of swaying to and fro on the edge of a precipice, nowtowards safety and now towards death; it was the cruellest pain he hadsuffered yet. But how was it possible to have some post at Court withoutrelinquishing the exercise of his priesthood? He must think it out; whatdid the Queen mean?

"And, of course, you will not be able to say mass again; but I shall nothinder your hearing it at the Ambassador's whenever you please. "

Ah! it had come; his heart gave a leap and seemed to cease. 

"Your Grace must forgive me, but I cannot consent. "

There was a dead silence; when Anthony looked up, she was staring at himwith the frankest astonishment. 

"Did you think, Mr. Norris, you could be at Court and say mass toowhenever you wished?" Her voice rang harsh and shrill; her anger wasrising. 

"I was not sure what your Grace intended for me. "

"The fellow is mad, " she said, still staring at him. "Oh! take care, takecare!"

"Your Grace knows I intend no insolence. "

"You mean to say, Mr. Norris, that you will not take a pardon and a postat Court on those terms?"

Anthony bowed; he could not trust himself to speak, so bitter was thereaction. 

"But, see man, you fool; if you die as a traitor you will never say massagain either. "

"But that will not be with my consent, your Grace. "

"And you refuse the pardon?"

"On those terms, your Grace, I must. "

"Well----" and she was silent a moment, "you are a fool, sir. "

Anthony bowed again. 

"But I like courage. --Well, then, you will not be my servant?"

"I have ever been that, your Grace; and ever will be. "

"Well, well, --but not at Court?"

"Ah! your Grace knows I cannot, " cried Anthony, and his voice rangsorrowfully. 

Again there was silence. 

"You must have your way, sir, for poor Minnie's sake; but it passes myunderstanding what you mean by it. And let me tell you that not many havetheir way with me, rather than mine. "

Again hope leapt up in his heart. The Queen then was not so ungracious. 

He looked up and smiled--and down again. 

"Why, the man's lips are all a-quiver. What ails him?"

"It is your Grace's kindness. "

"I must say I marvel at it myself, " observed Elizabeth. "You near angeredme just now; take care you do not so quite. "

"I would not willingly, as your Grace knows. "

"Then we will end this matter. You give me your assurance of loyalty tomy person. "

"With all my heart, madam, " said Anthony eagerly. 

"Then you must get to France within the week. The other too--Buxton--heloses his estate, but has his life. I am doing much for Minnie's sake. "

"How can I thank your Grace?"

"And I will cause Sir Richard to give it out that you have taken theoath. Call him in. "

There was a quick gasp from the priest; and then he cried with agony inhis voice:

"I cannot, your Grace, I cannot. "

"Cannot call Sir Richard! Why, you are mad, sir!"

"Cannot consent; I have taken no oath. "

"I know you have not. I do not ask it. "

Elizabeth's voice came short and harsh; her patience was vanishing, andAnthony knew it and looked at her. She had dropped her hand, and it wasclenching and unclenching on her knee. Her stick slipped on the polishedboards and fell; but she paid it no attention. She was looking straightat the priest; her high eyebrows were coming down; her mouth wasbeginning to mumble a little; he could see in the clear sunlight thatfell on her sideways through the tall window a thousand little wrinkles, and all seemed alive; the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouthdeepened as he watched. 

"What a-Christ's name do you want, sir?"

It was like the first mutter of a storm on the horizon; but Anthony knewit must break. He did not answer. 

"Tell me, sir; what is it now?"

Anthony drew a long breath and braced his will, but even as he spoke heknew he was pronouncing his own sentence. 

"I cannot consent to leave the country and let it be given out that I hadtaken the oath, your Grace. It would be an apostasy from my faith. "

Elizabeth sprang to her feet without her stick, took one step forward, and gave Anthony a fierce blow on the cheek with her ringed hand. Herecoiled a step at the shock of it, and stood waiting with his eyes onthe ground. Then the Queen's anger poured out in words. Her eyes burnedwith passion out of an ivory-coloured face, and her voice rang high andharsh, and her hands continually clenched and unclenched as she screamedat him. 

"God's Body! you are the ungratefullest hound that ever drew breath. Isend for you to my presence, and talk and walk with you like a friend. Ioffer you a pardon and you fling it in my face. I offer you a post atCourt and you mock it; you flaunt you in your treasonable livery in myvery face, and laugh at my clemency. You think I am no Queen, but a weakwoman whom you can turn and rule at your will. God's Son! I will show youwhich is sovereign. Call Sir Richard in, sir; I will have him in thisinstant. Sir Richard, Sir Richard!" she screamed, stamping with fury. 

The door into the ante-room behind opened, and Sir Richard Barkleyappeared, with a face full of apprehension. He knelt at once. 

"Stand up, Sir Richard, " she cried, "and look at this man. You know him, do you not? and I know him now, the insolent dog! But his own mothershall not in a week. Look at him shaking there, the knave; he will shakemore before I have done with him. Take him back with you, Sir Richard, and let them have their will of him. His damned pride and insolence shallbe broken. S' Body, I have never been so treated! Take him out, SirRichard, take him out, I tell you!"

 CHAPTER XV

 THE ROLLING OF THE STONE

It was a week later, and a little before dawn, that Isabel was kneelingby Anthony's bed in his room in the Tower. The Lieutenant had sent forher to his lodging the evening before, and she had spent the whole nightwith her brother. He had been racked four times in one week, and wasdying. 

 * * * *

The city and the prison were very quiet now; the carts had not yet begunto roll over the cobble-stones and the last night-wanderers had gonehome. He lay, on the mattress that she had sent in to him, in the cornerof his cell under the window, on his back and very still, covered fromchin to feet with her own fur-lined cloak that she had thrown over him;his head was on a low pillow, for he could not bear to lie high; his feetmade a little mound under the coverlet, and his arms lay straight at hisside; but all that could be seen of him was his face, pinched and whitenow with hollows in his cheeks and dark patches and lines beneath hisclosed eyes, and his soft pointed brown beard that just rested on the furedging of Isabel's cloak; his lips were drawn tight, but slightly parted, showing the rim of his white teeth, as if he snarled with pain. 

The only furniture in the room was a single table and chair; the tablewas drawn up not far from the bed, and a book or two, with a flask ofcordial and some fragments of food on a plate lay upon it; his cloak anddoublet and ruff lay across the chair and his shoes below it, and alittle linen lay in a pile in another corner; but the clothes in which hehad been tortured the evening before, his shirt and hose, could not betaken off him and he lay in them still. They had been so soaked withsweat, that Isabel had found him shivering, and laid her cloak over him, and now he lay quiet and warm. 

Earlier in the night she had been reading to him, and a taper stillburned in a candlestick on the table; but for the last two hours he hadlain either in a sleep or a swoon, and she had laid the book down and waswatching him. 

He was so motionless that he would have seemed dead except for the steadyrise and fall of a fold in the mantle, and for a sudden muscular twitchevery few minutes. Isabel herself was scarcely less motionless; her facewas clear and pale as it always was, but perfectly serene, and even herlips did not quiver. She was kneeling and leaning back now, and her handswere clasped in her lap. There was a proud content in her face; her dearbrother had not uttered one name on the rack except those of the Saviourand of the Blessed Mother. So the Lieutenant had told her. 

Suddenly his eyes opened and there was nothing but peace in them; and hislips moved. Isabel leaned forward on her hands and bent her ear to hismouth till his breath was warm on it, and she could hear the whisper. .. . 

Then she opened the book that lay face down on the table and began toread on, from the point at which she had laid it down two hours before. 

"'_Erat autem hora tertia: et crucifixerunt eum. _ And it was the thirdhour and they crucified him . .. And with him they crucify two thieves, the one on his right hand, and the other on his left. And the scripturewas fulfilled which saith, And he was numbered with the transgressors. '"

Her voice was slow and steady as she read the unfamiliar Latin, stillkneeling, with the book a little raised to catch the candlelight, and hergrave tranquil eyes bent upon it. Only once did her voice falter, andthen she commanded it again immediately; and that, as she read "_Erantautem et mulieres de longe aspicientes_. " "There were also women lookingon afar off. "

And so the tale crept on, minute by minute, and the priest lay withclosed eyes to hear it; until the mocking was complete, and the darknessof the sixth hour had come and gone, and the Saviour had cried aloud onHis Father, and given up the ghost; and the centurion that stood by hadborne witness. And the great Criminal slept in the garden, in thesepulchre "wherein was never man yet laid. "

There was a listening silence as the voice ceased without another falter. Isabel laid the book down and looked at him again; and his eyes openedlanguidly. 

He had not yet said more than single words, and even now his voice was sofaint that she had to put her ear close to his mouth. It seemed to herthat his soul had gone into some inner secret chamber of profound peace, so deep that it was a long and difficult task to send a thought to thesurface through his lips. 

She could just hear him, and she answered clearly and slowly as to adazed child, pausing between every word. 

"I cannot get a priest; it is not allowed. "

Still his eyes bent on her; what was it he said? what was it?. .. 

Then she heard, and began to repeat short acts of contrition clearly anddistinctly, pausing between the phrases, in English, and his eyes closedas she began:

"O my Jesus--I am heartily sorry--that I have--crucified thee--by mysins--Wash my soul--in Thy Precious Blood. O my God--I am sorry--that Ihave--displeased Thee--because thou art All-good. I hate all thesins--that I have done--against Thy Divine Majesty. "

And so phrase after phrase she went on, giving him time to hear and tomake an inner assent of the will; and repeating also other short vocalprayers that she knew by heart. And so the delicate skein of prayer rosefrom the altar where this morning sacrifice lay before God, waiting theconsummation of His acceptance. 

Presently she ended, and he lay again with closed eyes and mute face. Then again they opened, and she bent down to listen. .. . 

"It will all be well with me, " she answered, raising her head again. "Mistress Margaret has written from Brussels. I shall go there for awhile. .. . Yes, Mr. Buxton will take me; next week: he goes to Normandy, to his estate. "

Again his lips moved and she listened. .. . 

A faint flush came over her face. She shook her head. 

"I do not know; I think not. I hope to enter Religion. .. . No, I have notyet determined. .. . The Dower House?. .. Yes, I will sell it. .. . Yes, toHubert, if he wishes it. "

Every word he whispered was such an effort that she had to pause againand again before he could make her understand; and often she judged moreby the movement of his lips than by any sound that came from him. Now andthen too she lifted her handkerchief, soaked in a strong violet scent, and passed it over his forehead and lips. She motioned with the flask ofcordial once or twice, but his eyes closed for a negative. 

As she knelt and watched him, her thoughts circled continually in littleflights; to the walled garden of the Dower House in sunshine, and Anthonyrunning across it in his brown suit, with the wallflowers behind himagainst the old red bricks and ivy, and the tall chestnut rising behind;to the wind-swept hills, with the thistles and the golden-rod, and thehazel thickets, and Anthony on his pony, sunburnt and voluble, hawk onwrist, with a light in his eyes; to the warm panelled hall in winter, with the tapers on the round table, and Anthony flat on his face, withhis feet in the air before the hearth, that glowed and roared up the widechimney behind, and his chin on his hands, and a book open before him;or, farther back even still, to Anthony's little room at the top of thehouse, his clothes on a chair, and the boy himself sitting up in bed withhis arms round his knees as she came in to wish him good-night and talkto him a minute or two. And every time the circling thought came home andsettled again on the sight of that still straight figure lying on themattress, against the discoloured bricks, with the light of the taperglimmering on his thin face and brown hair and beard; and every time herheart consented that this was the best of all. 

A bird chirped suddenly from some hole in the Tower, once, and then threeor four times; she glanced up at the window and the light of dawn wasbeginning. Then, as the minutes went by, the city began to stir itselffrom sleep. There came a hollow whine from the Lion-gate fifty yardsaway; up from the river came the shout of a waterman; two or three timesa late cock crew; and still the light crept on and broadened. But Anthonystill lay with his eyes closed. 

At last over the cobbles outside a cart rattled, turned a corner and wassilent. Anthony had opened his eyes now and was looking at her again; andagain she bent down to listen; . .. And then opened and read again. 

"'_Et cum transisset sabbatum Maria Magdalene et Maria Jacobi et Salomeemerunt aromata, ut venientes ungerent Jesum. _'

"'And when the Sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother ofJames and Salome, had bought sweet spices that they might come and anointhim. '"

A slight sound made her look up. Anthony's eyes were kindling and hislips moved; she bent again and listened. .. . What was it he said?. .. 

Yes, it was so, and she smiled and nodded at him: she was reading theGospel for Easter Day, the Gospel of the first mass that they had heardtogether on that spring morning at Great Keynes, when their Lord had ledthem so far round by separate paths to meet one another at His altar. Andnow they were met again here. She read on:

"'_Et valde mane una sabbatorum, veniunt ad monumentum, orto jamsole. _'

"'Very early they came unto the sepulchre at the rising of the sun; andthey said among themselves, Who shall roll us away the stone from thedoor of the sepulchre? And when they looked, they saw that the stone wasrolled away, for it was very great. '. .. 

"'. .. _magnus valde_, '" read Isabel; and looked up again;--and thenclosed the book. There was no need to read more. 

 * * * *

She walked across the court half an hour later, just as the sun came up;and passed out through the Lieutenant's lodging, and out by the narrowbridge on to the Tower wharf. 

To the left and behind her, as she looked eastwards down the river, laythe heavy masses of the prison she had left, and the high walls andturrets were gilded with glory. The broad river itself was one rollingglory too; the tide was coming in swift and strong and a barge or twomoved upwards, only half seen in the bewildering path of the sun. The airwas cool and keen, and a breeze from the water stirred Isabel's hair asshe stood looking, with the light on her face. It was a cloudless Octobermorning overhead. Even as she stood a flock of pigeons streamed acrossfrom the south side, swift-flying and bathed in light; and her eyesfollowed them a moment or two. 

As she stood there silent, a step came up the wharf from the direction ofSt. Katharine's street, and a man came walking quickly towards her. Hedid not see who she was until he was close, and then he started and tookoff his hat; it was Lackington on his way to some business at the Tower;but she did not seem to see him. She turned almost immediately and beganto walk westwards, and the glory in her eyes was supreme. And as she wentthe day deepened above her.