It might have been, by Emily Sarah Holt. 

_______________________________________________________________________This book is mainly about the treasonable plot to blow up Parliament, bymining through to its lowest floor, or basement, from an adjacent house. This plot was hatched by a number of Catholic gentlemen, and was quiteingenious. These people came from a wide area of England, and numberedabout thirty. One point of interest to your reviewer is that one of theplaces where they met, or retreated to when not personally involved inmining, was a house called White Webbs, just on what is now the northernlimit of London. This house is now in use as a very nice and popularrestaurant, well known to me. It was at the time a disused huntinglodge in Enfield Chase. 

The discovery of the plot, and the execution of its participants iscelebrated every year in Britain, with great displays of fireworks, on aday (5th November) named after one of the plotters, Guy Fawkes. It isinteresting to learn so much more about the background of this plot. 

Emily Holt wrote a large number of books with a historical background. This book is the third of a series involving a family from Derwent-waterin the north of England. The link with the Gunpowder plot is ratherweak, but worth reading if you enjoyed the first two books of theseries. On the other hand the majority of the book deals with the plot, and is very well researched, and told in a very plausible manner. 

As usual with this author you will find that there are a good manyfootnotes, which we have done our best to make available but notintrusive. There is a great deal of conversation in ElizabethanEnglish, but this will not bother you if you are used to reading theplays of Shakespeare. Finally, there are a few short extracts fromcontemporary letters, in which the spelling would not pass muster thesedays, but there were no real standards of spelling in those times. Ina very few cases in these letters we have adjusted the spelling to giveyou, the reader, greater ease in comprehending them. 

You may care to make this book into an audiobook, in which case it willtake about 12. 5 hours to play. We hope you will do this because it willmake it much easier for you to enjoy the book. 

________________________________________________________________________IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT. 

PREFACE. 

"There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof arethe ways of death. " That is one of the main lessons to be learned fromthe strange story of the Gunpowder Plot. 

The narrative here given, so far as its historical portion is concerned, is taken chiefly from original and contemporaneous documents. It hasbeen carefully kept to facts--in themselves more interesting than anyfiction--and scarcely a speech or an incident has been admitted, howeversmall, for which authority could not be adduced. 

Those of my Readers who have made the acquaintance of _Lettice Eden_, and _Joyce Morrell's Harvest_, will meet some old friends in this tale. 

CHAPTER ONE. 

THE LAST NIGHT IN THE OLD HOME. 

 "Which speaks the truth--fair Hope or ghastly Fear? God knoweth, and not I. Only, o'er both, Love holds her torch aloft, And will, until I die. "

"Fiddle-de-dee! Do give over snuffing and snivelling and sobbing, andtell me if you want your warm petticoat in the saddle-bag. You'd make asaint for to swear!" More sobs, and one or two disjointed words, wereall that came in answer. The sobbing sister, who was the younger of thepair, wore widow's mourning, and was seated in a rocking-chair near thewindow of a small, but very comfortable parlour. Her complexion waspale and sallow, her person rather slightly formed, and her wholeappearance that of a frail, weak little woman, who required perpetualcare and shielding. The word require has two senses, and it is hereused in both. She needed it, and she exacted it. 

The elder sister, who stood at the parlour door, was about as unlike theyounger as could well be. She was quite a head taller, rosy-cheeked, sturdily-built, and very brisk in her motions. Disjointed though hersister's words were, she took them up at once. 

"You'll have your thrum hat, did you say? [Note 1. ] Where's the goodof crying over it? You've got ne'er a thing to cry for. "

Another little rush of sobs replied, amid which a quick ear could detectthe words "unfeeling" and "me a poor widow. "

"Unfeeling, marry!" said the elder sister. "I'm feeling a whole warmpetticoat for you. And tears won't ward off either cramp or rheumatism, my dear--don't think it; but a warm petticoat may. Will you have it, orno?"

"Oh, as you please!" was the answer, in a tone which might have suitedarrangements for the speaker's funeral. 

"Then I please to put it in the saddle-bag, " cheerily responded theelder. "Lettice, come with me, maid. I can find thee work above in thechamber. "

A slight sound behind the screen, at the farther end of the parlour, which sheltered the widow from any draught proceeding from the window, was followed by the appearance of a young girl not hitherto visible. She was just eighteen years of age, and resembled neither of the elderladies, being handsomer than either of them had ever been, yet notsufficiently so to be termed beautiful. A clear complexion, rosy butnot florid, golden-brown hair and plenty of it, dark grey eyes shaded bydark lashes, and a pleasing, good-humoured, not self-consciousexpression--this was Lettice, who said in a clear musical voice, "Yes, Aunt, " and stood ready for further orders. 

As the door shut upon the aunt and niece, the former said, as if to thesister left behind in the parlour--

"A poor widow! Ay, forsooth, poor soul, that you are! for you have madeof your widowhood so black a pall that you cannot see God's blue skythrough it. Dear heart, but why ever they called her Faith, and meTemperance! I've well-nigh as little temperance as she has faith, andneither of them would break a cat's back. "

By this time they were up in the bedchamber; and Lettice was kept busyfolding, pinning, tying up, and smoothing out one garment after another, until at last her aunt said--

"Now, Lettice, bring thine own gear, such as thou wilt need till welight at Minster Lovel, for there can we shift our baggage. Thy blackbeaver hat thou wert best to journey in, for though it be good, 'tiswell worn; and thy grey kirtle and red gown. Bring the blue gown, andthe tawny kirtle with the silver aglets [tags, spangles] pendant, andthy lawn rebatoes, [turn-over collar] and a couple of kerchiefs, and thysatin hat Thou wert best leave out a warm kerchief for the journey. "

"And my velvet hood, Aunt, and the green kirtle?"

"Nay, I have packed them, not to be fetched out till we reach London. Thou mayest have thy crimson sleeves withal, an' it list thee. "

Lettice fetched the things, and her aunt packed them in one of the greatleather trunks, with beautiful neatness. As she smoothed out the bluekirtle, she asked--"Lettice, art thou sorry to be gone?"

"Truly, Aunt, I scarce know, " was the answer. "I am sorry to leave AuntMilisent and my cousins, and Aunt Frances, "--but Aunt Frances was anevident after-thought--"and I dare say I shall be sorry to leave all theplaces I know, when the time comes. But then so many of us are going, --you, and Grandmother, and Aunt Edith, and Cousin Aubrey, and AuntFaith--and there are so many new places to see, that on the whole Idon't think I am very sorry. "

"No, very like not, child. "

"Not now, " said a third voice, softly, and Lettice looked up at anotheraunt whose presence she had not previously noticed. This was certainlyno sister of the two plain women whose acquaintance we have just made. Temperance Murthwaite had outlived her small share of good looks, andFaith's had long since been washed away in tears; but Edith Louvaine hadbeen extremely beautiful, and yet was so notwithstanding her fortyyears. Her hair was dark brown, with a golden gleam when the sun caughtit, and her eyes a deep blue, almost violet. Her voice was sweet andquiet--of that type of quietness which hides behind it a reserve ofpower and feeling. "At eighteen, Lettice, we are not commonly sorry toleave home. Much sorrier at thirty-eight: and at eighty, I think, thereis little to leave but graves. "

"Ay, but they're not all dug by the sexton, " remarked Temperance, patting the blue kirtle to make it lie in the hole she had left for it. "At any rate, the sorest epitaphs are oft invisible save to them thathave eyes to see them. "

Edith did not answer, and the work went on. At length, suddenly, thequestion was asked--

"Whence came you, Edith?"

"From Mere Lea, whither I have been with Mother and Aubrey, to sayfarewell. "

"And for why came you hither? Not to say farewell, I reckon. "

"Nay, " replied Edith, smiling. "I thought I might somewhat help you, Temperance. We must all try to spare poor Faith. "

"Spare poor Faith!" repeated Temperance, in a sarcastic tone. "Tell youwhat, Edith Louvaine, --if you'd think a bit less of sparing her, andshe'd think a bit more of sparing you, it would be a sight better forpoor Faith and poor Edith too. "

"I? I don't want to be spared, " answered Edith. 

"No, you don't, and that's just it. And Faith does. And she oughtn't. And you oughtn't. "

"Nay, Temperance. Remember, she is a widow. "

"Small chance of my forgetting it. Doesn't she tell me so six dozentimes a day? Ask Faith to do any thing she loveth not, and she's alwaysa widow. I've had my thoughts whether I could not be an orphan when I'mwanted to do something disagreeable. What think you?"

"I think your bark is worse than your bite, Temperance, " said Edith, smiling. 

"I'm about weary of barking, " answered Temperance, laying smooth a pieceof cobweb lawn. "I think I'll bite, one of these days. Deary me, butthere are widows of divers sorts! If ever there were what Paul calls `awidow indeed, ' it is my Lady Lettice; and she doesn't make a screen ofit, as Faith does, against all the east winds that blow. Well, well!Give me that pin-case, Lettice, and the black girdle yonder; I lacksomewhat to fill up this corner. What hour must we be at Selwick, Edith?"

"At five o' the clock the horses are bidden. "

"Very good. You'll bide to supper?"

"Nay, not without I can help you. "

"You'll not help me without you'll tell Faith she's a snivellinglazy-bones, and that you'll not, I know. Go and get your beauty-sleep--and comfort Lady Lettice all you can. "

When Edith had departed, and the packing was finished, the aunt andniece went down to supper. It consisted of Polony sausages, sweetmeats, and an egg-pie--a Lancashire dainty, which Rachel the cook occasionallysent up, for she was a native of that county. During the entire meal, Faith kept up a slow rain of lamentations, for her widowhood, the sadnecessity of leaving her home, and the entire absence of sympathy whichshe experienced in all around her: till at last her sister inquired--

"Faith, will you have any more pie?"

"N-o, " said Faith with a sob, having eaten nearly half of it. 

"Nor any more sausage?"

"Oh no!" she answered, heaving a weary sigh. 

"Nor sucketts [sweetmeats; subsequently spelt _succadet_] neither?"

Faith shook her head dolefully. 

"Then I'll help you to a little of one other thing, which you needsorely; and that's a bit of advice. "

Faith moaned behind her handkerchief. 

"As to quitting home, that's your own choice; so don't go and pretend tofret over it. And as to sparing you, you've been spared a deal toomuch, and I've been a fool to do it. And just bethink you, Faith, thatif we are now to make one family with my Lady Lettice and Edith, you'dbest be thinking how you can spare them. My Lady Lettice is a dealnewer widow than you, and she's over seventy years on her back, andyou've but forty--"

"Thirty-nine, " corrected Faith in a choked voice. 

"And she's leaving her home not from choice, but because she has nochoice; and she has spent over fifty years in it, and is like an old oakwhich can ill bear uprooting. I only trust those Newcastle Louvaineswill get what they deserve. I say it's a burning shame, never to comeforward nor claim aught for fifty years, until Sir Aubrey and both hissons were gone, and then down they pounce like vultures on the widow andher orphan grandson, and set up a claim, forsooth, to the estate--afterall these years! I don't believe they have any right--or at any rate, they've no business to have it: and if my Lady Lettice had been of mymind, she'd have had a fight for it, instead of giving in to them; andif Aubrey Banaster had had a scrap of gumption, he'd have seen to it. He is the eldest man of the family, and they're pretty nigh all lads buthim. Howbeit, let that pass. Only I want you, Faith, to think of it, and not go treating my Lady Lettice to a dish of tears every meal shesits down to, or she'll be sorry you're her daughter-in-law, if sheisn't now; and if her name were Temperance Murthwaite it's much if shewouldn't be. "

"Oh, you can say what you like--you always do--"

"Beg your pardon, Faith; I very generally don't. "

"You haven't a bit of feeling for a poor widow. I hope you may never bea widow--"

"Thank you; I'll have a care of that. Now, Lettice! jump up, maid, anddon your hat and mantle, and I will run down with you to Selwick whilethere's a bit of light. My Lady Lettice thought you'd best be thereto-night, so you could be up early and of some use to your Aunt Edith. "

It was not Temperance Murthwaite's custom to let the grass grow underher feet, and the three miles which lay between the little house atKeswick and Selwick Hall were put behind her and Lettice when anotherhour was over. 

Selwick Hall stood on the bank of Derwentwater, and was the residence ofLettice's grandmother, the widowed Lady Louvaine, her daughter Edith, her grandson Aubrey, and Hans Floriszoon, the orphan nephew of an oldfriend, Mynheer Stuyvesant, who had been adopted into the family when alittle child. It was also theoretically the abode of Lettice's AuntFaith, who was Aubrey's mother, and who practically flitted from the onehouse to the other at her rather capricious will. It had become herhabit to depart to Keswick whenever her feelings were outraged atSelwick; and as Faith's feelings were of that order which any thingmight outrage, and nobody knew of it till they were outraged, her abodeduring the last six years had been mainly with the sister who neverpetted her, but from whom she would stand ten times more than from thetenderer hearts at Selwick. 

Lettice's hand was on the door when it opened, and there stood herCousin Aubrey. 

"Good even, Aunt Temperance, " said he. "You are right in time forsupper. "

"Thank you, Master Aubrey Late-hours, " replied she; "'tis a bit too latefor my supper, and Lettice's likewise, without she can eat two of anight. How is it with my Lady Lettice? I hope, lad, you help andcomfort her all you can. "

Aubrey looked rather astonished. 

"Comfort her?" he said. "She's all right. "

"How old are you, Aubrey?"

"Why, Aunt Temperance, you know I was twenty last month. "

"One makes blunders betimes, lad. That speech of thine sounded aboutten. "

"What mean you, Aunt Temperance?"

"Nay, lad, if God have not given thee eyes and brains, I shall beill-set to do it. --Run in, Lettice. _No_, I'm not coming--not whileto-morrow morning. Remember to be up early, and help all you can--bothof you. Good even. "

Temperance shut the door, and they heard her quick foot tread sharplydown the gravel walk. 

"I say, 'tis jolly moving house, isn't it?" said Aubrey. 

"I can't think why Aunt Temperance supposes that Grandmother or any bodyshould want comforting. "

"Well, we are young, and she is old, " replied Lettice; "I suppose oldfolks care more about those things, perhaps. "

"Oh, 'tis but because they are lazy and have the rheumatism, " saidAubrey, laughing. "Beside, Grandmother cares not about things likeMother. Mother's for ever fretting, but Grandmother's always cheery. "

The cousins left the deep whitewashed porch and the oak-panelled hall, and went forward into the chief sitting-room of the house, known as thegreat parlour. The word "withdrawing-room" was still restricted topalaces and palatial mansions, and had not descended so low as to acountry gentleman's house like Selwick Hall. The great parlour was alarge room with a floor of polished oak, hung with tapestry in which theprevailing colour was red, and the chairs held cushions of red velvet. On the tiled hearth a comfortable fire burned softly away, and in alarge chair of dark carved wood beside it, propped up with cushions ofred velvet, sat an old lady of seventy-six, looking the very picture ofcomfort and sweetness. And though "her golden hairs time had to silverturned, " and she was now a widow indeed, and desolate, some of myreaders may recognise their old friend Lettice Eden. Her eyes, though alittle sunken, kept their clear blue, and her complexion was still fairand peach-like, with a soft, faint rose-colour, like a painting onchina. She had a loving smile for every one, and a gentle, soothingvoice, which the children said half cured the little troubles whereinthey always ran to Grandmother. Aunt Faith was usually too deep in herown troubles, and Aunt Edith, though always kind, was also invariablybusy; while there was considerable hesitation in making an appeal toAunt Temperance, who might answer it with a box on the ear instead of acomforting kiss, or at best had an awkward way of turning the tables onthe plaintiff by making him out to be the offender instead of thedefendant. But nobody ever hesitated to appeal to Grandmother, whosevery rebukes fell as softly as rose-leaves, and were always so justlydeserved that they had twice the effect of those which came fromperpetual fault-finders. Aubrey had grown up in this atmosphere, but itwas much newer to his cousin Lettice, the daughter of Dudley Murthwaiteand Helen Louvaine. Until she was twelve years old, Lettice had dweltwith her father at Skiddaw Force, her Aunt Temperance having suppliedthe place of the dead mother who had faded from her child's memory, forHelen passed away when her daughter was only two years old. It had notbeen exactly Dudley's choice which had placed Temperance in thatposition. He would have preferred his wife's youngest sister, Edith, tofill the vacant place of mother to his little girl; but Edith firmlythough kindly declined to make her home away from Selwick Hall. Thenatural explanation of course was that she, being the only unmarrieddaughter of the house, preferred to remain with her parents. Edith saidso, and all her friends repeated it, and thought it very natural andproper. And no one knew, except God and Edith, that the reason givenwas only half the truth, and that the last place in this world whichEdith Louvaine could take was the place of that dead sister Helen whohad so unconsciously taken the one thing which Edith coveted forherself. Thus thrown back on one of his own sisters, Dudley tried nextto persuade Faith to make her home with him. It might have been betterfor Faith if she had done so. But she liked the more luxurious life ofSelwick Hall, where she had only to represent herself as tired or poorlyto have any exertion taken for her by some one else; and she was one ofthose unconscious impostors who begin by imposing on themselves. Whatever she wished to do, she was always capable of persuading herselfthat she ought to do. Faith therefore declined to remove to herbrother's house. The last resource was Temperance, who, when appealedto, averred herself perfectly ready to go wherever she was most wanted. One baggage-horse would be enough for her luggage, she thanked goodness;she had two gowns for winter and two for summer, and no reasonable womanought to have any more. As to ruffs and puffs, cuffs and muffs, shetroubled herself with none of those ridiculous vanities. A plain lacedbodice and skirt were good enough to work in, and a pair of stout shoesto keep her out of the mire, with a hat and kerchief for outdoor wear, and a warm cloak for cold weather. Her miscellaneous possessions werelimited to a big work-basket, two silver spoons and a goblet, and threebooks--namely, a copy of the four Gospels, a Prayer-book, and Luther onthe Lord's Prayer. Packing and unpacking were small matters. In thesecircumstances, and Temperance's change of residence was the affair of anafternoon. Six years afterwards her brother Dudley died; andTemperance, taking into consideration the facts that Skiddaw Force was avery lonely place, having no house within some miles save a few isolatedcottages of charcoal-burners and shepherds; that a small house atKeswick belonged to Lettice; and that the child's grand-parents on themother's side were desirous to have her near them, let the house atSkiddaw Force, and came to live at Keswick. 

The family at Selwick Hall had once been much larger than now. All weregone but these few--Milisent to another home; Anstace, Walter, and Helenlay in the churchyard, and Ned, the father of young Aubrey, under thewaves of the North Atlantic; and then Mynheer Stuyvesant, the old Dutchgentleman who had been driven from his own land for the faith's sake, and having been the boys' tutor, had stayed for love after necessity wasover, took his last journey to the better country; and dear, honest, simple Cousin Bess Wolvercot, friend and helper of all, went to receiveher reward, with--

 "Nothing to leave but a worn-out frame, And a name without a stain; Nothing to leave but an empty place, That nothing could fill again--"

And after that, Lady Lettice felt herself growing old. The eveningshadows crept further, and her right hand in household affairs was gone;but with the constant love and aid of Edith, she held on her way, untilthe sorest blow of all fell on her, and the husband who had been evercounsellor and comforter and stay, left her side for the continuingCity. Since then, Lettice Louvaine had been simply waiting for the daywhen she should join him again, and in the interim trying throughgrowing infirmities to "do the next thing, "--remembering the wordsuttered so long ago by his beloved cousin Anstace, that some day thenext step would be the last step. 

When Sir Aubrey Louvaine died, at the age of seventy-nine, two yearsbefore the story opens, Aubrey, his grandson and namesake, became theowner of Selwick Hall: but being under age, every thing was left in thehands of his grandmother. 

The pang of Lady Louvaine's bereavement was still fresh when anotherblow fell on her. Her husband had inherited Selwick from a distantcousin, known in the neighbourhood as the Old Squire. The Old Squire'stwo sons, Nicholas and Hugh, had predeceased him, Sir Aubrey had takenpeaceable possession of the estate, and no one ever doubted his titlefor fifty years, himself least of all. Three months after his death, Lady Louvaine was astounded to receive a lawyer's letter, claiming theSelwick lands on behalf of one Oswald Louvaine of Newcastle, a young manwho asserted himself to be the grandson of the long-deceased Hugh. Hisdocumentary proofs were all in order, his witnesses were numerous andpositive, and Lady Louvaine possessed no counter-proof of any kind torebut this unheard-of claim. After a vain search among her husband'spapers, and a consultation with such of her friends and relatives as shejudged suitable, she decided not to carry the matter into a court oflaw, but to yield peaceable possession to young Oswald, on considerationof his giving her a writ of immunity from paying back dues of any kind, which indeed it would have been quite out of her power to discharge. Sir Aubrey's income was comfortably sufficient for the family wants, butthere was little to spare when both ends had met. Mr Oswald acceptedthe terms as an immense favour on his part; and at the age ofseventy-six Lady Louvaine was deprived of the home wherein she had dweltfor fifty-six years, and summoned like Abraham to go forth into the landwhich God would show her. 

Where to go was the next question. Her daughter Milisent, with herhusband Robert Lewthwaite, would gladly have received her, and imploredher to come to them; but nine children, a full house, and a smallincome, barred the way in that direction. No offer of a home came fromRed Banks, where the children of her eldest daughter Anstace lived, andwhere the income was twice as large as at Mere Lea, while the family didnot amount to half the number. Temperance Murthwaite trudged up toSelwick to offer the tiny house which was part of Lettice's littlepatrimony, actually proposing herself to go to service, and leaveLettice in her grandmother's care. This Faith regarded as a cruelinjury, and Lady Louvaine would not hear of it. From herdaughter-in-law. Mrs Walter Louvaine, at Kendal, came asweetly-perfumed and sweetly-worded letter, wherein the writer offered--a thousand apologies, and a dozen excuses for not receiving her dear andrevered mother. Her grief in having so to write, she assured them, wasincalculable and inconsolable. She begged that it might be taken intoconsideration that Diana was shortly to be married, and would require atrousseau--which, she did not add, comprised a pound of gold lace, andsix pairs of silk stockings at two guineas the pair: that Montague, being in a nobleman's household, was an appalling expense to her; thatthe younger boys were growing up and would require situations found forthem, while Jane and Frances would some day need portioning: all whichfacts were so many heavy burdens, --and had not the Apostle said that hewho neglected to provide for his own was worse than an infidel? LadyLouvaine received this letter with a slight sigh, a gentle smile, and"Poor Frances!" But the usually calm, sunny temper of Edith was notproof against it. She tore the letter in two and flung the fragmentsinto the fire. 

"Edith, my dear daughter!" ejaculated her astonished mother. 

"Mother, I can't stand it!" was the response. "I must either do this orsomething worse. And to drag in the Apostle Paul as a prop for suchhypoc--I'll just go and churn, and perhaps I can talk like a Christianwhen I come back!"

Such things as these did not move Lady Louvaine. But there were twothings which did move her, even to tears. The first was when Hansbrought her a little box in which lay five silver pieces, entreating herto accept them, such as they were--and she found after closecross-examination that part of the money was the boy's savings to buycherished books, and part the result of the sale of his solitaryvaluable possession, a pair of silver buckles. The other took placewhen notice was given to all the servants. Each received his or herwages, and a little token of remembrance, with bow or courtesy, and anexpression of regret on leaving so kind a mistress, mingled with goodwishes for her future welfare: all but one. That one was Charity, theunder-housemaid from Pendle. Charity rolled up her arms in her apron, and said curtly--"Nay!"

"But, Charity, I _owe_ you this, " responded her mistress in somesurprise. 

"If you're bound to reckon up, my Lady, betwixt you and me, there mun besomewhat set down o' tother side o' th' book, " announced Charitysturdily. "Yo' mun mind you 'at yo' took me ba'at [without] acommendation, because nob'ry [nobody] 'd have me at after MistressWatson charged me wi' stealing her lace fall, 'at she found at afteramongst her kerchiefs; that's a hundred pound to th' good. And yo'nursed me through th' fever--that's another. And yo' held me back fro'wedding wi' yon wastrel [scoundrel] Nym Thistlethwaite, till I'd seen abit better what manner of lad he were, and so saved me fro' being apoor, bruised, heart-broke thing like their Margery is now, 'at he didwed wi'--and that counts for five hundred at least. That's sevenhundred pound, Madam, and I've nobut twelve i' th' world--I'm bankrupt. So, if you please, we'll have no reckonings, or I shall come off warst. And would you please to tell me when you look to be i' London town, andwhere you'll 'light first?"

"My good Charity! they named thee not ill, " answered Lady Louvaine. "Itrust to be in London the end of March--nigh on Lady Day; and I light atthe White Bear, in the King's Street, Westminster. "

"Pray you, Madam, how many miles is it hence?"

"'Tis about two hundred miles, Charity. "

For a moment Charity was silent. Then she said, "An't like you, Madam, I'd fain go the first o' March. "

Lady Louvaine was a little surprised, for she had given her servants amonth's notice, which would expire on the fifteenth of March. However, if Charity preferred to be paid in time instead of money, that was herown affair. She assented, and Charity, dropping another courtesy, leftthe room. 

Lady Louvaine's house in London had been obtained through the Earl ofOxford, a distant cousin of her husband, in whose household her sonWalter had long before taken unwholesome lessons in fashion andextravagance. The Earl, now in his grand climacteric, had outlived hisyouthful frivolity, and though he had become a hard and austere man, wasyet willing to do a kindness to his kinsman's widow by engaging a housefor her, and offering for her grandson a squire's place which happenedto be vacant in his household. She would have preferred some less showyand more solid means of livelihood for Aubrey, whose character was yetunfixed, and whose disposition was lighter than she liked to see it: butno other offered, and she accepted this. 

A few days before the time for departure, up trudged TemperanceMurthwaite again. 

"Madam, " said she, "I'm something 'feared I'm as welcome as water into aship, for I dare guess you've enough to do with the hours, but truth totell, I'm driven to it. Here's Faith set to go after you to London. "

"Poor child! let her come. "

"I can get as far as `poor, ' Madam, but I can go no further with you, "answered Temperance grimly. "Somebody's poor enough, I cast no doubt, but I don't think it's Faith. But you have not yet beheld all yourcalamities. If Faith goes, I must go too--and if I go, and she, thenmust Lettice. "

"Dear Temperance, I shall be verily glad. "

"Lady Lettice, you're too good for this world!--and there aren't tenfolks in it to whom I ever said that. Howbeit, you shall not lose byme, for I purpose to take Rachel withal and she and I can do thehousework betwixt us, and so set Edith free to wait on you. Were youthinking to carry servants, or find them there?"

"I thought to find one there. More than one, methinks, we can scarceafford. "

"Well then for that shall Rachel serve: and I'll work the cost of mykeep and more, you shall see. I can spin with the best, and weave too;you'll never come short of linen nor linsey while I'm with you--andLettice can run about and save steps to us all. What think you?--said Iwell?"

"Very well indeed, my dear: I were fain to have you. "

"Then you'll look for us. Good-morrow!" The last evening was a busyone for all parties, and there was little time to spare for indulgencein remembrance or regret. It was two hours later than usual, whenLettice at last lay down to sleep and even then, sleep seemed long incoming. She heard her Aunt Edith's soft movements in the neighbouringgallery, where she was putting final touches to the packing, andpresently they slid unconsciously into the sound of the waterfall atSkiddaw Force, by the side of which Lettice was climbing up to the Towerof London. She knew nothing of the tender, cheerful "Good-night, Motherdear!" given to Lady Louvaine--of the long, pathetic gaze at the moonlitlandscape--of the silently-sobbed prayer, and the passionate rain oftears--such different tears from those of Faith!--which left a wet stainupon Edith's coverlet. It was hard to leave the old home--hard to leavethe new graves. But the next thing the young niece heard wasonly--"Time to rise, Lettice!" spoken in the usual bright manner--and, looking up, she saw Aunt Edith fully dressed. 

Lettice sprang up in a fright, and scrambled into her clothes with allthe haste possible. She, who was to have helped Aunt Edith, to be fastasleep in bed when she was ready! It was not many minutes beforeLettice was dressed, but her morning prayer had in it sundry thingswhich were not prayers. 

Breakfast was nearly over when a curious rolling sound was heard, followed by the tramp of horses: and Aubrey jumped up to look, for itwas half-an-hour too soon for the baggage-horses to be brought. He hadto run into the porch-chamber to see what it was, and before he returnedcame old Roger the serving-man, with a letter in his hand, which he gaveto his mistress. She opened the letter, but finding it somewhatdifficult for dim eyes to make out, she gave it back to Roger, desiringhim to read it. [Note 2. ] So Roger read:--

 "Madam, --Since I need be in London this next weekend, where I look to tarry some time, and am offered a seat in my good Lord of Northumberland's caroche, it were pity that my caroche should go thither empty, in especial when so good and old a friend is likewise on her journey. May I therefore beg that your Ladyship will so far favour me as to use the caroche as your own, from this day until Friday week, when, if it serve your convenience, it may return to me at Radcliffe House? My servants have orders to obey your Ladyship's directions, and to serve you in all regards as myself. 

 "I kiss the hands of fair Mistress Edith, and beg my best compliments to your young gentlemen, and am, Madam, yours to my little power, Dilston. "

Aubrey had come back whilst Roger was reading, and scarcely gave himleave to make an end of the letter. 

"Madam, 'tis my Lord Dilston's caroche, with six great Flanders horses, and three serving-men, all as fine as fiddlers, and never a soul in thecaroche--"

"Truly, this is of the Lord's goodness, " said Lady Louvaine. "I didindeed fear the journey on horseback, but there seemed none othermeans. "

"The like did I for you, dear Mother, " added Edith. "I am most thankfulfor my Lord Dilston's kindly proffer. It shall ease the journey to youmore than all we could do. "

Lady Louvaine bade Edith write an answer, and ordered Roger to take backto Mere Lea the three saddle-horses lent her by Mr Lewthwaite, explaining why they were no longer needed. It was then settled that thefour ladies and Lettice should travel in the coach, Aubrey, Hans, andRachel going on horseback. 

Hans had gone out, and they saw him talking in the front with LordDilston's postillion. Now he came back. "Well, Hans, what wormed youout of the postillion?" inquired Aubrey. 

"His master's goodness, " said Hans. "Have you a bit left for me? or doyou want it all for yourself?"

"It is all for my Lady. My Lord Dilston was meaning to have gone toTown himself in his own caroche, till he heard of your Ladyship'strouble, and then he cast about to know of some friend that was going, so he might leave it for you. Then he heard of my Lord ofNorthumberland, and he begged a seat in his caroche; and Madam Penelopestuffed the caroche with all the cushions that were in the house, and ahamper of baked meats, and wine, and a great fur mantle to lap yourLadyship in; and my Lord bade the postillion to drive very soft, thatyou should not be shaken, without you told him to go fast, and thefootmen were to have a care of you and save you all that they could. Said I not well, his goodness?"

"Truly, Hans, you did so, " answered Edith; "and right thankful should weall be, first to the Lord, and then to my Lord Dilston, that my dearmother can now journey in safety and comfort. "

Lady Louvaine said, softly, "Bless the Lord! and may He bless this kindfriend! Truly, I marvel wherefore it is that every one is so good tome. It must be, surely, for my dead Aubrey's sake. "

"Oh, of course, " said young Aubrey, laughing; "they all hate _you_, Madam, you may be sure. "

His grandmother smiled on him, for she understood him. 

Now came the Murthwaite sisters trudging up the path, Temperancecarrying a heavy basket, and Faith bearing no greater weight than herhandkerchief, behind which, as usual, she was weeping. 

"Good-morrow, Madam, " said Aunt Temperance as she came in. "A fine dayfor our journey. "

"You're to ride in a caroche, Aunt Temperance!" cried Aubrey. 

"Who--me? No, I thank you, my young Master. I never set foot in such athing in my life, nor never will by my good will. I like the feel of ahorse under me well enough; but that finicky gingerbread thing, all o'ergilding--I'd as soon go on a broomstick. Whose is it?"

"'Tis my Lord Dilston's, that hath most kindly proffered it to Motherfor the journey, " replied Edith. "We had settled that we four, withLettice, should journey therein; but if you would rather be onhorseback, Temperance--"

"That would I, by ten mile, " said she. "I hate being cooped up in afour-post bed, with all the curtains drawn; and that lumbering thing'sno better. Faith'll go, I don't doubt; any thing that's a bit smart andshowy!! take her: and Lettice may please herself. I dare say the childwill have a fantasy to ride in a caroche for once in her life. "

"Indeed, Aunt, I would like it, " answered Lettice, "for very like I maynever have such another chance while I live. "

"Truly, that's little like, " retorted Temperance with a laugh. "So havethy ride, child, if thou wilt. --Dear heart! Lady Lettice, I ask yourpardon. "

"For what, Temperance, my dear?"

"Taking your place, Madam, instead of my own. Here am I, deciding whatLettice shall do or not do, when you being in presence, it belongs toyou to judge. "

Lady Louvaine gave her gentle smile. 

"Nay, if we must stand upon our rights, you, Temperance, as her father'ssister, have the right to choose. "

"Then I choose to obey you, Lady Lettice, " said Temperance with acourtesy. 

"Madam, " now announced Hans from the door, "the baggage is packed, andthe caroche awaiteth your Ladyship. "

Edith helped her mother to rise from, her chair. She stood one moment, her hand on Edith's arm; and a look came into her eyes such as adrowning man might give to the white cliffs whereon his home stood, where his wife and his little children were waiting for him. So shestood and looked slowly round the chamber, her eyes travelling from onething to another, till she had gone all over it. And then she said, ina low, pathetic voice--

"`Get thee out of thy country, and from thy father's house, unto theland that I will show thee. ' Once before I had that call, and it led meto him who was the stay and blessing of my life. Yet again I go forth:O my Father, let it lead to Thee, unto Thy holy hill, and to Thytabernacle! Remember Thy word unto Thy servant, wherein Thou hastcaused me to hope--`Certainly I will be with thee, '--`I will not failthee, nor forsake thee, '--`Fear not, for I have redeemed thee: I havecalled thee by thy name; thou art Mine. ' Lord, keep Thine own!--Now, mychildren, let us go hence with God. "

In something like a procession they went forth from Selwick Hall. LadyLouvaine first, leaning on Edith and Hans, to whom Aubrey was alwaysready to resign troublesome duties; then Faith, Temperance, Aubrey, andLettice. 

At the door stood the great coach, painted in dark mulberry-colour andpicked out with gilding, the lining and cushions of blue: and harnessedto it were the six great horses, dark roan, with cream-coloured manes, knotted likewise in blue. The servants wore mulberry-coloured livery, corded with blue. 

Lady Louvaine took her place on the right hand of the coach, facing thehorses, Faith being at her side. Opposite sat Edith, and Lettice by thedoor. 

"Aunt Temperance!" called out Aubrey from the doorstep, "you shall havemy horse, if you will; I am going in the caroche. "

"You are _what_, Sirrah?" demanded Aunt Temperance, with the severity ofat least one Lord Chief-Justice. 

"I shall ride in the caroche, " repeated Aubrey calmly. 

"Northumberland, Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham!" was the awfulanswer. 

The young people knew what that meant. When Temperance said "Dearheart!" she was just a little surprised or put out; when it was"Lancaster and Derby!" she was very much astonished or provoked; butwhen she supplicated the help of "Northumberland, Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham!" it meant from Aunt Temperance what swearingwould from any one else. 

"I should like to know, if you please, Mr Aubrey Louvaine, whether youare a king, a sick woman, or a baby?"

"Well, Aunt, I don't think I am any of them at present. "

"Then you have no business to ride in a caroche till you are. I neverheard of such a thing in my life. A man to ride in a caroche! We shallhave them hemming handkerchiefs to-morrow. "

"You won't have me, " said Aubrey. 

"I won't have you in there, " retorted Temperance bluntly, "without myLady Lettice call you in, and that she won't. Will you, Madam?"

"Certainly not, my dear, after your decision, " she replied. "Indeed, Ido think it too effeminate for men, persons of high honour except, orthem that are sick and infirm. "

"That rascal's not sick, any more than he's a person of honour. --Theebestride thy horse, lad--without thou canst find an ass, which wouldsuit with thee better. --Now, Hans, come and help me to mount. "

When all were mounted, the six great horses tugged and strained at thebig coach, and with a good push from the four farm-servants, it movedforwards, at first slowly, then faster. The farm-servants stoodbareheaded, to see the family depart, crying, "God bless you, my Lady, and bring you home in peace!"

Faith sank back sobbing into the corner, and there were tears in Edith'seyes which she would not let fall. 

"Farewell!" said Lady Louvaine, leaning forward. "Farewell, my good, kind old friends--Thomas, William, Isaac, and Gideon--I wish you God'sblessing, and a better head than I. "

"Nay, nay, that'll ne'er be, nor couldn't, no wise!" cried old Gideon, and the rest all echoed his "Nay, nay!"

"Farewell!" said his mistress again, somewhat faintly, as she sank backinto the corner. "Friends, God will bless me, and He shall bring mehome in peace. "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The thrum is the fringed end of a weaver's web; a thrum hat wasmade of very coarse tufted woollen cloth. 

Note 2. This was quite a common occurrence at that time, whenmen-servants were usually better educated, and ladies and gentlemen muchless so, than now. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

THE JOURNEY TO LONDON. 

 "And yet, I do remember, some dim sense Of vague presentiment Swept o'er me, as beyond the gates we turned To make the long descent. "

At the bridge-end, as they came up, were Milisent and her husband, withseven of their nine children, --even little Fortune, but five years old, whom Milisent lifted into the coach and set on her Aunt Edith's knee, saying "she should say all her life that she had sat in my LordDilston's earache. " Then Milisent came in herself and sat down for amoment between her mother and Faith, whilst her husband talked withAubrey, and all the children crowded about Hans, always a favourite withchildren. After a few minutes' conversation, Robert came up to thecoach-door with--"Time to go, Milly. We must not tarry Mother on herjourney, for she is like to be weary enough ere she come to its end. "

Then Milisent broke down, and threw her arms around her mother, andcried, --"O Mother, Mother, how shall I do without you? Must I never seeyou again?"

"My Milisent, " said Lady Louvaine, "I shall not carry God from thee. And thou wilt surely see me again, sweet heart, where we shall part nomore for ever. "

For a few minutes Milisent wept as if her heart would break; then shewiped her eyes, and kissed them all round, only breaking down a littleagain when she came to her sister Edith. 

"O Edith, darling sister, I never loved thee half well enough!"

Edith was calm now. "Send me the other half in thy letters, Milly, " shereplied, "and I will return it to thee. "

"Ay, we can write betimes, " said Milisent, looking a little comforted. Then to her niece, --"Now, Lettice, I look to thee for all the news. Thefirst day of every month shall we begin to look out for a letter at MereLea; and if my sister cannot write, then must thou. Have a care!"

"So I will, Aunt, " said Lettice. 

Milisent alighted with a rather brighter look--she was not wont to lookany thing but bright--Robert took his leave and then came all thecousins pouring in to say good-bye. So the farewells were spoken, andthey went on their journey; but as far as they could see until hidden bythe hill round which they drove, Milisent's handkerchief was wavingafter them. 

Lady Louvaine bore the journey better than her daughters had feared; andour friends deemed themselves very happy that during the whole of it, they were not once overturned, and only four times stuck in the mud. Atthe end of the fourth day, which was Friday, they came up to the door ofthe Hill House at Minster Lovel. And as they lumbered round the sweepwith their six horses, Edith cried joyously, --"Oh, there's old Rebecca!"

To Edith Louvaine, a visit to the Hill House was in a sense coming home, for its owner, her father's cousin, Joyce Morrell, had been to heralmost a second mother. When people paid distant visits in thesixteenth century, it was not for a week's stay, but for half a year, orat least a quarter. During many years it had been the custom thatvisits of this length should be exchanged between Selwick Hall and theHill House at Minster Lovel alternately, at the close of every twoyears. But Edith, who was Aunt Joyce's special favourite, had paid nowand then a visit between-times; and when, as years and infirmitiesincreased, the meetings were obliged to cease for the elders, Edith'syearly stay of three or four months with the old and lonely cousin hadbecome an institution instead of them. Her feeling, therefore, was muchlike that of a daughter of the house introducing her relatives to herown home; for Lady Louvaine was the only other of the party to whom theHill House had been familiar in old times. 

Its owner, the once active and energetic old lady, now confined to hercouch by partial paralysis, had been called Aunt Joyce by the Louvainesof the second generation ever since their remembrance lasted. To theyounger ones, however, she was a stranger; and they watched with curiouseyes their Aunt Edith's affectionate greeting of the old servantRebecca, who had guarded and amused her as a baby, and loved her as agirl. Rebecca, on her part, was equally glad to see her. 

"Run you in, Mrs Edith, my dear, " said she; "you'll find the mistressin the Credence Chamber. Eh, she has wearied for you!--Good evening, Madam, and I'm fain to see your Ladyship again. Would you please toallow of my help in 'lighting?"

While Rebecca and Hans assisted her mother to descend, Edith ran intothe house with as light and fleet a step as if she were fourteen insteadof forty, and entered a large, low chamber, hung with dark leatherhangings, stamped in gold, where a bright lamp burned on a little table, and on a low couch beside it lay an old lady, covered over with a furcoverlet. She had a pleasant, kindly old face, with fresh rose-colourin her cheeks, and snow-white hair; and her face lighted up when she sawEdith, like a candle set in a dark window. Edith ran to her, and casther arms about her, and she said, "My Edith, mine own dear child!" astenderly as if she had been her own mother. 

Lady Louvaine followed her daughter, leaning on Hans and Rebecca, whotook her up to the couch, and set her down in a large chair furnishedwith soft cushions, which stood close beside, as if it were there onpurpose. She laid her hand upon Joyce's, who fondled it in both hers. Then Joyce gave a little laugh. 

"Lettice, dost thou wonder to hear me laugh?" asked she. "I seemed likeas if I saw, all at once, that sunshine afternoon when thou earnestfirst over from the Manor House, sent of my Lady Norris to make friendswith us. Dost remember?"

"And thou earnest tripping lightly down the stairs, clad of a russetgown, and leddest me up to see Anstace. `Do I remember it!' Ah, Joyce, my sister, there be sore changes since that day!"

"Be there so?" said Joyce, and smiled brightly enough. "A good numberof miles nearer Home, Lettice, and a good number of treasures laid upfor both of us, where neither moth nor rust shall hurt them. Mytreasures are all there which are not likewise thine. And now let mesee the new gems in thy jewel-box. Who art thou, my maid?"

"I am Lettice Murthwaite, Madam, if you please. "

"My dear heart, I do not please to be called Madam. I am thine AuntJoyce. Come here and kiss me, if thou wilt. "

Lettice knelt down by the couch, and kissed the old lady. 

"There is not much of Nell here, Lettice, " said Joyce to Lady Louvaine. "'Tis her father the child is like. Now then, which of these two ladsis Aubrey--he with the thinking brow, or he with the restless eyes?"

Lady Louvaine called Aubrey, and he came up. 

"Why, thou art like nobody, " said Aunt Joyce. "Neither Ned nor Faith, nor any of Ned's elders. Lettice, where is Faith? hast not brought herwithal?"

Faith was in the hall, listening to a lecture from Temperance, embellished by such elegancies as "Stuff and nonsense!" and "Listen toreason!" which ended up at last with "Lancaster and Derby!" and Faithcame slowly in, with her everlasting handkerchief at her eyes. 

"Nay, Faith, sweet heart, no tears!" cried the old lady. "Sure there'snought to weep for this even, without thou art so dog-weary that thoucanst not keep them back. "

"Mistress Morrell, I wish you good even, " said Temperance, coming inafter her sister. "If you'll but learn Faith to keep that handkerchiefof hers in her pocket, you'll have done the best work ever you did sincewe saw you last in Derwent-dale. She's for ever and the day aftera-fretting and a-petting, for why she'd better tell you, for I'm aDutchman if I can make out. "

Aunt Joyce looked from one to the other. 

"So unfeeling!" came Faith's set form, from behind the handkerchief. "And me a poor widow!"

The old lady's face went very grave, and all the cheeriness passed outof it. 

"Faith, you are not the only widow in the chamber, " she said gently. "Temperance, my dear, she is weary, maybe. "

"She hasn't got a bit of call, " rejoined Temperance. "Sat all day longin my Lord Dilston's smart caroche, lolling back in the corner, justlike a feather-bed. Mistress Joyce, 'tis half ill-temper and halffolly--that's what it is. "

"Well, well, my dear, we need not judge our neighbours. --Edith, mychild, thou knowest the house as well as I; wilt thou carry thy friendsabove? Rebecca hath made ready My Lady's Chamber for my Lady, "--with asmile at her old friend--"and the Fetterlock Chamber for Faith andTemperance. The Old Wardrobe is for thee and Lettice, and the ladsshall lie in the Nursery. "

Names to every room, after this fashion, were customary in old houses. The party were to stay at Minster Lovel for four days, from Friday toTuesday, and then to pursue their journey to London. 

In the Old Wardrobe, a pleasant bedchamber on the upper floor, Letticewashed off the dust of the journey, and changed her clothes when thelittle trunk came up which held the necessaries for the night. Then shetried to find her way to the Credence Chamber, and--as was not verysurprising--lost it, coming out into a long picture-gallery where shewas at once struck and entranced by a picture that hung there. Itrepresented a young girl about her own age, laid on a white couch, anddressed in white, but with such a face as she had never seen on anywoman in this life. It was as white as the garments, with large darkeyes, wherein it seemed to Lettice as if her very soul had been melted;a soul that had gone down into some dreadful deep, and having come upsafe, was ever afterwards anxiously ready to help other souls out oftrouble. She would have thought the painter meant it for an angel, butthat angels are not wont to be invalids and lie on couches. Beside thispicture hung another, which reminded her of her Grandfather Louvaine;but this was of a young man, not much older than Aubrey, yet it had hergrandfather's eyes, which she had seen in none else save her Aunt Edith. Now Lettice began to wonder where she was, and how she should find herway; and hearing footsteps, she waited till they came up, when she sawold Rebecca. 

"Why, my dear heart, what do you here?" said she kindly. 

"Truly, I know not, " the youthful visitor answered. "I set forth to godown the stairs, and missed the right turning, as I guess. But prayyou, Rebecca, ere you set me in the way, tell me of whom are these twopictures?"

"Why, " said she, "can you not guess? The one is of your owngrandfather, Sir Aubrey Louvaine. "

"Oh, then it is Grandfather when he was young. But who is this, Rebecca? It looks like an angel, but angels are never sick, and sheseems to be lying sick. "

"There be angels not yet in Heaven, Mistress Lettice, " softly answeredthe old servant. "And if you were to live to the age of Methuselah, you'd never see a portrait of one nearer the angels than this. 'Tis apicture that old Squire--Mistress Joyce's father--would have taken, nighsixty years since, of our angel, our Mistress Anstace, when she was noneso many weeks off the golden gate. They set forth with her in a litterfor London town, and what came back was her coffin, and that picture. "

"Was she like that?" asked Lettice, scarcely above her breath, for shefelt as if she could not speak aloud, any more than in church. 

"She was, and she was not, " said old Rebecca. "Them that knew her mightbe minded of her. She was like nothing in this world. But, my dearheart, I hear Mrs Edith calling for you. Here be the stairs, and theCredence Chamber, where supper is laid, is the first door on your leftafter you reach the foot. "

On the Saturday evening, as they sat round the fire in the CredenceChamber, Edith asked Aunt Joyce if old Dr Cox were still parson ofMinster Lovel. 

"Nay, " said she; "I would he were. We have a new lord and new laws, thewhich do commonly go together. "

"What manner of lord?" inquired Edith. 

"And what make of laws?" said Temperance. 

"Bad, the pair of them, " said the old lady. 

"Why, is he a gamester or drunkard?" asked Lady Louvaine. 

"Or a dumb dog that cannot bark?" suggested Temperance. 

"Well, I'd fain have him a bit dumber, " was Aunt Joyce's answer. "Atleast, I wish he'd dance a bit less. "

"Dance!" cried Edith. 

"Well!" said Aunt Joyce, "what else can you call it, when a man measureshis steps, goes two steps up and bows, then two steps down and bows, then up again one step, with a great courtesy, and holds up his hands asif he were astonished--when there's nothing in the world to astonish himexcept his own foolish antics?"

"But where doth he this?" said Lady Louvaine: "here in the chamber, orout of door?"

"Dear heart! in the church. "

"But for why?"

"Prithee ask at him, for I can ne'er tell thee. "

"Did you ne'er ask him, Aunt?" said Edith. 

"For sure did I, and gat no answer that I could make aught of: only somefolly touching Catholic practice, and the like. And, `Master Twinham, 'said I, `I know not well what you would be at, but I can tell you, Ilived through the days of Queen Mary, and, if that be what you mean byCatholic practices, they are practices we don't want back again. ' Well, he mumbled somewhat about being true to the Church, and such like: butif he be an honest man, my shoes be made of Shrewsbury sweet bread. Wetumbled all such practices out of the Church, above forty years gone;and what's more, we'll not stand to have them brought in again, thoughthere be some may try. "

"They will not bring any such folly in while the Queen liveth, I guess, "answered Edith. 

"Amen! but the Queen, God bless her! is seventy this year. "

"Would you have her live for ever, Aunt Joyce?" asked Aubrey. 

"Would she could!" she answered. "As to this fellow, I know not whathe'll be at next. He told me to my face that a Papist was better than aPuritan. `Well, Mr Twinham, ' said I, `you may be a Papist, but I am aPuritan, and there I tarry till I find somewhat better. '"

"Why, Joyce!" said Lady Louvaine, smiling, "thou wert not wont to callthyself a Puritan, in the old days when thou and Bess Wolvercot used topick a crow betwixt you over Dr Meade's surplice at Keswick. "

"No, I wasn't, " said she. "But I tell you, Lettice, there be thingshuman nature cannot bear. A clean white surplice and Christ's Gospel isone thing, and a purple vestment and an other Gospel is another. And ifI'm to swallow the purple vestment along with the white surplice, I'llhave neither. As to old Bess, dear blessed soul! she's in her rightplace, where she belongs; and if I may creep in at a corner of Heaven'sdoor and clean her golden sandals, I shall be thankful enough, the Lordknows. "

"But, Mrs Morrell! sure you never mean to say that surplices be givingplace to purple vestments down this road!" cried Temperance in muchhorror. 

"Children, " said the old lady very solemnly, "we two, in God's mercy, shall not live to see what is coming, but very like you will. And Itell you, all is coming back which our fathers cast forth into theValley of Hinnom, and afore you--Temperance, Faith, and Edith--be oldwomen, it will be set up in the court of the Temple. Ay, much if itcreep not into the Holy of Holies ere those three young folks have asilver hair. The Devil is coming, children: he's safe to be first; andin his train are the priests and the Pope. They are all coming: andyou'll have to turn them out again, as your grandfathers did. And don'tyou fancy that shall be an easy task. It'll be the hardest whereto youever set your shoulders. God grant you win through it! There are twodangers afore you, and when I say that, I mean not the torture-chamberand the stake. Nay, I am thinking of worser dangers than those--snareswherein feet are more easily trapped, a deal. List to me, for ere manyyears be over, you will find that I speak truth. The lesser danger isif the Devil come to you in his black robes, and offer to buy you withthat which he guesseth to be your price--and that shall not be the samefor all: a golden necklace may tempt one, and a place at Court another, and a Barbary mare a third. But worse, far worse, is the danger whenthe Devil comes in his robes of light; when he gilds his _lie_ with acover of outside truth; when he quotes Scripture for his purpose, twisting it so subtilely that if the Spirit of God give you not theanswer, you know not how to answer him. Remember, all you young ones, and Aubrey in especial, that no man can touch pitch and not be denied. `Evil communications corrupt good manners:' and they corrupt them worstand quickest when you see not that they be evil. If you think thescales be falling from your eyes, make very sure that they are notgrowing on them. And you can do that only by keeping very close toGod's footstool and to God's Word. Be sure of this: whatsoever leadsyou away from that Book leads you wrong. I care not what it be--King orPope, priest or layman, blind faith or blind reason, --he that neglectsand sets aside the Word of God, for whatever cause, and whatever thinghe would put in his place--children, his ways incline unto Hell, and hispaths unto the dead. Go not after him, nor follow him. Mark my words, and see, twenty and yet more forty years hence, if they come not true. "

Aubrey whispered to Lettice, "What made her pick out me in `especial, 'trow? I'm not about to handle no pitch. "

But Hans said, with his gravest face, "I thank you, Madam, " and seemedto be thinking hard about something all the rest of the evening. 

On the Sunday morning, all went to church except the two old ladies, whocould honestly plead infirmity. 

When they came out, Lettice, who was burning to speak her mind, exclaimed, --"Saw you ever a parson so use himself, Aubrey? Truly I knownot how to specify it--turning, and twisting, and bowing, and casting upof his hands and eyes--it well-nigh made me for to laugh!"

"Like a merry Andrew or a cheap Jack, " laughed Aubrey. 

"I thought his sermon stranger yet, " said Hans, "nor could I see what ithad to do with his text. "

"What was his text?" inquired heedless Aubrey. 

"`Thou shalt love the Lord thy God, '" repeated Hans. 

"Ay, and all he did, the hour through, " cried Lettice, "was to bid usobey the Church, and hear the Church, and not run astray after nonovelties in religion. And the Church is not the Lord our God, neitheris religion, so far as I see. "

"I mind Sir Aubrey once saying, " added Hans, "that when a bride talkedever of herself, and nothing of her bridegroom, it was a very ill auguryof the state of her heart. "

"But saw you those two great candlesticks on the holy table?--what forbe they?" said Lettice. 

"Oh, they be but ornaments of the church, " answered Aubrey, carelessly. 

"But we have none such in Keswick Church: and what is the good ofcandlesticks without candles?"

"The candles will come, " quietly replied Hans. 

"Ah! you're thinking of what the old gentlewoman said last night--confess, Master Sobersides!" said Aubrey. 

"I have thought much on it, " answered Hans, who walked along, carryingthe ladies' prayer-books; for the road being dirty, they had enough todo in holding up their gowns. "And I think she hath the right. "

"Hans, I marvel how old thou wert when thou wert born!" said Aubrey. 

"I think, very like, about as old as you were, " said Hans. 

"Well, Mr Louvaine, you are a complete young gentleman!" cried his AuntTemperance, looking back at him. "To suffer three elder gentlewomen totrudge in the mire, and never so much as offer to hand one of them!Those were not good manners, my master, when I was a young maid--butseeing how things be changed now o' days, maybe that has gone along withthem. Come hither at once, thou vagrant, and give thine hand to thymother, like a dutiful son as thou shouldest be, and art not. "

"Oh, never mind me!" sighed Faith. "I have given over expecting such athing. I am only a poor widow. "

"Madam, " apologised Hans, very red in the face, "I do truly feel ashamedthat I have no better done my duty, and I entreat you not--"

"I was not faulting thee, lad, " said Temperance. "We have already ladenthee with books; and it were too much to look for thee to do thine ownduty and other folks' too. It's this lazy lad I want. I dare be boundhe loveth better to crack jests with his cousins than to be dutiful tohis old mother and aunts. "

"Temperance, I am only thirty-nine, " said Faith in an injured voice. "Iam the youngest of us three. "

"Oh deary me! I ask your pardon, " cried Temperance, with a queer set ofher lips. "Yes, Madam, you are; Edith is an old woman of forty, and I adecrepit creature of forty-five; but you are a giddy young thing ofthirty-nine. I'll try to mind it, at least till your next birthday. "

Lettice laughed, and Aunt Temperance did not look angry, though shepulled a face at her. Edith smiled, and said pleasantly--

"Come, Aubrey, hand thy mother on my side; I will walk with Lettice andHans. "

"Aunt Edith, " said Lettice, "pray you, why be those candlesticks on theholy table, with never a candle in them?"

"I cannot tell, Lettice, " replied she; "I fear, if the parson dared, there would be candles in them, and belike will, ere long. "

"Think you Aunt Joyce is right in what she said last night?"

"I fear so, Lettice, " she answered very gravely. "We have not yet seenthe last, I doubt, of Satan and his Roman legion. "

The same afternoon, Lettice had a talk with old Rebecca, which almostfrightened her. She went up to the gallery for another look at the twopictures, and Rebecca passing by, Lettice begged that if she were notvery busy, she would tell her something about them. In reply she hearda long story, which increased her reverential love for the deadgrandfather, and made her think that "Cousin Anstace" must have been anangel indeed. Rebecca had lived in the Hill House for sixty years, andshe well remembered her mistress's sister. 

"Mind you Queen Mary's days, Rebecca?" asked Lettice. 

"Eh, sweet heart!" said the old servant. "They could ne'er be forgot byany that lived in them. "

"Saw you any of the dreadful burnings?"

"Ay, did I, Mrs Lettice, " said she, --"even the head and chief of themall, of my Lord's Grace of Canterbury. I saw him hold forth his righthand in the flame, that had signed his recantation: and after all wasover, and the fire out, I drew nigh with the crowd, and beheld his heartentire, uncharred amongst the ashes. Ah my mistress! if once you sawsuch a sight as that, you could never forget it, your whole lifethereafter. "

"It must have been dreadful, Rebecca!" said Lettice. 

"Well, it was, in one way, " she answered: "and yet, in another, it wasright strengthening. I never felt so strong in the faith as that hour, and for some while after. It was like as if Heaven had been opened tome, and I had a glimpse of the pearly portals, and the golden street, and the white waving wings of the angels as he went in. "

"Saw you the Bishops burned, Rebecca--Dr Ridley and Dr Latimer?"

"I did not, Mrs Lettice; yet have I seen them both, prisoners, ledthrough Oxford streets. Dr Ridley was a man with a look so grave thatit was well-nigh severe: but Dr Latimer could break a jest with anyman, and did, yea, with his very judges. "

"Were you ever in any danger, Rebecca?--or Mrs Morrell?"

"I never was, Mrs Lettice; but my good mistress was once well-nightaken of the catchpoll [constable]. You ask her to tell you the story, how she came at him with the red-hot poker. And after that full quicklyshe packed her male, and away to Selwick to Sir Aubrey and her Ladyship, where she tarried hid until Queen Elizabeth came in. "

"Think you there shall ever be such doings in England again?"

"The Lord knoweth, " and old Rebecca shook her white head. "There's nota bit of trust to be put in them snakes of priests and Jesuits and suchlike: not a bit! Let them get the upper hand again, and we shall havethe like times. Good Lord, deliver us from them all!"

Lettice went down, intending to ask Aunt Joyce to tell her the story ofthe red-hot poker; but she never thought of it again, so absorbed wasshe with what the two old ladies were saying as she came in. They didnot hear her enter: and the first word she heard made her so desirous ofmore, that she crept as softly as she could to a seat. Curiosity washer besetting sin. 

"She used not to be thus, " said Lady Louvaine. "Truly, I know not whathath thus sorrowfully changed the poor child; but I would some meansmight be found to undo the same. Even for some years after Ned's death, I mind not this change; it came on right slowly and by degrees. "

Lettice felt pretty sure that "she" was Aunt Faith. 

"'Tis weakness, I suppose, " said Lady Louvaine, in a questioning tone. 

"Ay, we are all weak some whither, " replied Aunt Joyce; "and Faith'sweakness is a sort to show. She is somewhat too ready to nurse herweaknesses, and make pets of them. 'Tis bad enough for a woman to pether own virtues; but when she pets her vices, 'tis a hard thing tobetter her. But, Lettice, there is a strong soul among you--a raresoul, in good sooth; and there is one other, of whose weakness, and whatare like to be its consequences, I am far more in fear than of Faith's. "

"Nay, who mean you?" asked Lady Louvaine in a perplexed voice. 

"I mean the two lads--Hans and Aubrey. "

"Hans is a good lad, truly. "

"Hans has more goodness in him than you have seen the end of, by many amile. But Aubrey!"

"You reckon not Aubrey an ill one, I hope?"

"By which you mean, one that purposes ill? Oh no, by no means. He is afar commoner character--one that hath no purpose, and so being, dothmore real ill than he that sets forth to do it of malicious intent. "

"Are you assured you wrong not the lad, Joyce, in so saying?"

"If I do, you shall full shortly know it. I trust it may be so. But heseems to me to have a deal more of Walter in him than Ned, and to beright the opposite of our Aubrey in all main conditions. "

"Ah, " sighed the widow, in a very tender tone, "there can be no two ofhim!" Then after a little pause, "And what sayest thou to Lettice--mylittle Lettice?"

The concealed listener pricked up both her ears. 

Aunt Joyce gave a little laugh. "Not so very unlike an other Letticethat once I knew, " said she. "Something less like to fall in the sametrap, methinks, and rather more like to fall in an other. "

"Now, tell me what other?"

"I mean, dear heart, less conceit of her favour [beauty], and more ofher wisdom. A little over-curious and ready to meddle in matters thatconcern her not. A good temper, methinks, and more patience than eitherof her aunts on the father's side: as to humility--well, we have none ofus too much of that. "

"Joyce, wouldst thou like to have us leave Lettice a while with thee?She could wait on thee and read to thee, and be like a daughter to thee. I will, if thou wouldst wish it. "

"Nay, that would I not, Lettice, for the child's own sake. It were farbetter for her to go with you. There is an offer thou couldst make me, of that fashion, that my self-denial were not equal to refuse. So seethou make it not. "

"What, now? Not Hans, trow?"

"Edith. "

"O Joyce!"

"Ay, dear heart, I know. Nay, fear not. I'll not take the last bud offthe old tree. But, thyself saved, Lettice, there is none left in allthe world that I love as I love her. Perchance she will find it out oneday. "

"Joyce, my dear sister--"

"Hold thy peace, Lettice. I'll not have her, save now and again on avisit. And not that now. Thou shouldst miss her sorely, in settlingdown in thy new home. Where shall it be?"

"In the King's Street of Westminster. My good Lord Oxford hath madeearnest with a gentleman, a friend of his, that hath there an estate, tolet us on long lease an house and garden he hath, that now be standingempty. "

"Ay, that is a pleasant, airy place, nigh the fields. At what rent?"

"Twenty-four shillings the quarter. Houses be dearer there than up inHolborn, yet not so costly as in the City; and it shall not be far forAubrey, being during the day in the Court with his Lord. "

"Lettice, you shall need to pray for that boy. "

"What shall I ask for him, Joyce?"

"`That he may both perceive and know what things he ought to do, andalso may have grace and power faithfully to fulfil the same. ' Don't lethim rule you. He is very like to try it, the only man in a family ofwomen--for he shall make little account of Hans Moriszoon, though thereis more sense in Hans's little finger than in all Aubrey's brains. If Ican see into the future, Aubrey is not unlike to push you o'er, and Hansto pick you up again. Have a care, Lettice. You remember when Walterwas in Court, with my Lord Oxford?"

"O Joyce!"

Lettice wondered what they meant, for she had never heard of her UncleWalter being with Lord Oxford. She had never much liked Uncle Walter. He was always rather stiff and stern, and he used to come down sharplyon niece or nephew if they did any thing wrong, yet not like herGrandfather Murthwaite, who was slow and solemn, and seemed to mournover their evil deeds; but Uncle Walter was quick and sharp, and hesnapped at them. They were under the impression that he never couldhave done a naughty thing in the whole course of his life, because healways seemed so angry and astonished to see the children do so. Lettice, therefore, was curious to hear about Uncle Walter. 

"Well, " said Aunt Joyce, "not exactly the same, yet too like. He'lltake the colour of his company, like Walter: and he shall be evenlyfree-handed with his money--"

Lettice stared, though there was nothing to stare at but Aunt Joyce'sbig grey cat, curled up in the window-seat Uncle Walter a spendthrift!she could not even imagine it. Did she not remember her Cousin Jane'ssurprise when her father gave her a shilling for a birthday present?When Lettice listened again, Aunt Joyce was saying--

"He's no standing-ground. Whatso be the fantasy of the moment, after ithe goes; and never stays him to think what is like to come thereof, farless what might come. But that which causes me fear more for him thanWalter, is the matter of friends. Walter was not one to run afterfolks; he was frighted of lowering himself in the eyes of them he knew, but methinks he ran not after them as Aubrey doth. Hast ever watched adog make friends of other dogs? for Aubrey hath right the dog's way. After every dog he goes, and gives a sniff at him; and if the savoursuit, he's Hail, fellow, well met! with him the next minute. Bewarethat Aubrey makes no friend he bringeth not home, so far as you can: andyet, Beware whom he bringeth, for Lettice' sake. 'Tis hard matter:`good for the head is evil for the neck and shoulders. ' To govern thatlad shall ask no little wisdom; and if thou have it not, thou knowestwhere to ask. I would his mother had more, or that his father hadlived. Well! that's evil wishing; God wist better than I. But the lad'll be a sore care to thee, and an heavy. "

"I fear so much, indeed, " said Lady Louvaine, and she sighed. 

Then Edith came in, and exclaimed, "What, all in the dark?" and AuntJoyce bade her call Rebecca to bring light. So the naughty Letticeslipped out, and in five minutes more came boldly in, and no one knewwhat she had heard. 

As they sat round the fire that evening, Aunt Joyce asked suddenly, "Tell me, you three young folks, what be your ambitions? What desireyou most of all things to be, do, or have?--Lettice?"

"Why, Aunt, I can scarce tell, " said Lettice, "for I never thoughtthereupon. "

"She should choose to be beautiful, of course, " suggested Aubrey. "Allwomen do. "

"Marry come up, my young Master!" cried his Aunt Temperance. 

"Oh, let him be, Temperance, " answered Aunt Joyce. "He knows a dealmore about women than thou and I; 'tis so much shorter a time since hewas one. "

Temperance laughed merrily, and Aubrey looked disconcerted. 

"I think I care not much to be beautiful, Aunt, nor rich, " said Lettice:"only sufficient to be not uncomely nor tried of poverty. But so far asI myself can tell what I do most desire is to know things--all thingsthat ever there be to know. I would like that, I think, above all. "

"To know God and all good things were a very good and wise wish, Lettice, " was Aunt Joyce's answer; "but to know evil things, this wasthe very blunder that our mother Eve made in Eden. Prithee, repeat itnot. Now, Aubrey, what is thy wish?"

"I would like to be a rich king, " said he. "Were I a fairy queen, Aubrey, I would not give thee thy wish: for thou couldst scarce make aworser. `They that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare, ' andthey that seek power be little behind them. `Godliness is greatriches, ' lad, `if a man be content with that he hath. '"

"Methinks, Aunt, that is one of your favourite texts, " remarked Edith. 

"Ay, " said she, "it is. `Enough is as good as a feast. ' Hans, 'tis thyturn. "

Hans had sat gravely looking into the fire while the others talked. Nowhe looked up, and answered--

"Madam, I am ambitious more than a little. I desire to do God's will, and to be content therewith. "

"Angels could win no further, " answered Aunt Joyce, with much feeling inher voice. "Ay, lad; thou hast flown at highest game of all. "

"Why, Aunt!" said Aubrey, "never heard I a meaner wish. Any man coulddo that. "

"Prithee do it, then, " replied Aunt Joyce, "and I for one shall be fullfain to see thee. "

"No man ever yet fulfilled that wish, " added Edith, "save only Christour Lord. "

Lady Louvaine sighed somewhat heavily; and Joyce asked, "What is it, dear heart?"

"Ah!" said she, "thy question, Joyce, and the children's answers, sendme back a weary way, nigh sixty years gone, to the time when I dweltbowerwoman with my Lady of Surrey, when one even the Lady of Richmondwilled us all to tell our desires after this manner. I mind not wellall the answers, but I know one would see a coronation, and an otherfair sights in strange lands: and I, being then young and very foolish, wished for a set of diamond, and my Lady of Richmond herself to be aqueen. But my Aubrey's wish was something like Hans's, for he said hedesired to be an angel. Ah me! nigh sixty years!"

"He hath his wish, " responded Aunt Joyce softly. "And methinks Hans islike to have his also, so far as mortal man may compass it. There besome wishes, children, that fulfil themselves: and aspirations after Godbe of that sort. `He meeteth them that remember Him. ' Lettice, I trustthou mayest have thy wish to a reasonable length, so far as is good forthee: and, Aubrey, I can but desire the disappointment of thine, for itwere very evil for thee. But thou, Hans Floriszoon, `go in peace; andthe God of Israel grant thee thy petition that thou hast asked of Him. '"

It was hard work for those two old friends to part, each knowing that itwas almost certain they would never again meet until they clasped handsin the Paradise of God. When it came to the farewell, Lady Louvaineknelt down, though with difficulty--for Joyce could not raise herself--and the adopted sisters exchanged one long fervent embrace. 

"O Joyce, my friend, my sister! my one treasure left to me from longago! We shall never kiss again till--"

Lettice Louvaine's voice was lost in sobs. 

"Maybe, dear heart--maybe not. Neither thou nor I can know the purposesof God. If so, farewell till the Golden City!--and if thou win in aforeme at the pearly portals, give them all my true love, and say I shallsoon be at home. "

"Farewell, love! There is none to call me Lettice but thee, left now. "

"Nay, sweet heart, not so. `I have called thee by thy name. ' Therewill be One left to call thee `Lettice, ' until He summon thee by thatfamiliar name to enter the Holy City. "

So they journeyed on towards London. It was on the afternoon of thetwenty-fourth of March that they sighted the metropolis at last from thesummit of Notting Hill. They drove down the Oxford road, bounded oneither side by green hedges, with here and there a house--the busyOxford Street of our day--turned down the Hay Market to Charing Cross, and passed by Essex Gate and its companion portal, the Court Gate, through "the Court, " now known as Whitehall, emerging upon "the King'sStreet. " There was no Parliament Street in those days. 

As they turned into King Street, it struck the elders of the party thatthere seemed to be an unusual stir of some kind. The streets were morecrowded than usual, men stood in little knots to converse, and the talkwas manifestly of a serious kind. Lady Louvaine bade Edith look out andcall Aubrey, whom she desired to inquire of some responsible person themeaning of this apparent commotion. Aubrey reined in his horseaccordingly, as he passed a gentleman in clerical attire, which at thatdate implied a cassock, bands, and black stockings. Had Aubrey knownit, the narrowness of the bands, the tall hat, the pointed shoes, andthe short garters, also indicated that the clergyman in question was aPuritan. 

"Pray you, Sir, is there news of import come?" inquired the youth: "orwhat means this ado?"

The clergyman stopped suddenly, and looked up at his questioner. 

"What means it?" he said sadly. "Friend, the great bell of Paul's wasrung this morrow. "

"I cry you mercy, Sir. Being a countryman, I take not your meaning. "

"The great bell of Paul's, " explained the stranger, "tolls never but forone thing, and hath been silent for over forty years. "

"Good lack! not the plague, I trust?" cried Aubrey. 

"Would it were no worse! Nay, this means that we are sheep without ashepherd--that she who hath led us for three-and-forty years, who underGod saved us from Pope and Spaniard, can lead us no more for ever. Lad, no worser news could come to Englishmen than this. Queen Elizabeth hathpassed away. "

So, under the shadow of that dread sorrow, and that perilous uncertainfuture, they entered their new home. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

HOW IT FIRST BEGAN. 

 "O Conspiracy! Sham'st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? Oh, then, by day, Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage?"

 _Shakespeare_. 

The new home was the midmost of three contiguous houses, standing on thewestern side of King Street, and nearly opposite to what is now theentrance to New Palace Yard. They were a little larger and morepretentious than most of the houses in this street, and a goodsizedgarden ran backwards from each towards Saint James's Park. As everyhouse had then its name and a signboard to exhibit it--numbers being notyet applied to houses--these were no exception to the rule. That one ofthe trio nearest to the Abbey displayed a golden fish upon itssignboard; the middle one hung out a white bear; while from thenorthernmost swung a panel representing an extremely stiff and angularcreature apparently intended to suggest an angel. The young people mademerry over their sign, Aubrey insisting that Hans was the White Bear, and Lettice retorting that it was Aubrey himself. 

Hans and Aubrey sprang from their horses at the door; and while thelatter rang the bell, the former busied himself in helping the ladies toalight. Whether any one would be inside the house was a problemrequiring solution; and they thought it worth while to ascertain thisbefore going further. In a moment, quick steps were heard approaching, and the door was opened by a woman who hardly showed herself behind it. 

Lady Louvaine came in first, leaning on Hans. 

"Good evening, " she said to the portress. "It was good of my LordOxford to provide--nay! Charity!"

"Ay, Madam, it's me, " said the familiar voice of the old servant, whomher mistress believed she had left behind in Cumberland. 

"Why, old friend! when earnest thou hither?"

"You'd best sit you down afore you hear folks their catechisms, " saidCharity, coolly, leading the way to a pleasant parlour hung andupholstered in green, where a fire was burning on the hearth, and alarge cushioned chair stood beside it. "When did I come? Well, let'ssee?--it was o' Tuesday last. "

"But how?" queried her mistress, in a tone which was a mixture ofastonishment and perplexity. 

"Same how as I get to most places, Madam--on my feet. "

"You walked to London, Charity?"

"Ay, I did. I'm good for fifteen miles at a stretch. "

"And whence gat you the money for your lodging?"

Charity laughed. "I never paid a halfpenny for lodging nobut [Note 1]once, and that was th' last night afore I got here. Some nights I layin a barn upo' th' hay: but most on 'em I got took in at a farm-house, and did an hour or two's work for 'em i' th' morn to pay for my lodgingand breakfast. But some on 'em gave it me right out for nought--justfor company like. I bought my victuals, of course: but I should ha'wanted them wherever I'd been. "

"And what led you to wish for life in London, Charity?"

"Eh! bless you, I want none to live i' London. It's a great, smoky, dirty place. "

"Then what did you want?"

"I wanted yo', " said Charity, with a nod at her mistress. "LadyLettice, yo'll not turn me away? If things is so bad you cannot affordto keep me, you shalln't: I can earn enough by my spinning half th' day, and serve you i' t' other half. But yo'll want two: I'm sure Rachel canne'er do all th' work, and you'd best have me, for nob'ry else 'll putso much heart into 't as I shall. Do let me stop, for I cannot abear toleave you. "

It was a moment before Lady Louvaine could speak. Then she held out herhand to Charity. 

"My faithful Charity, I will not turn thee away! So long as I have twoloaves of bread, thou mayest be sure of one. "

"Thank God, that's all right!" said Charity with a sigh of evidentrelief. "We's [we shall] get on famous, Rachel and me, and nother on us'll feel as if we'd been cast away of a desert island, as I've beenfeeling afore yo' come. Eh, but it is a town, is this!"

"Charity, I wonder how you won in the house, " said Edith. "My LordOxford--"

"I've got a bit more gumption, Mrs Edith, than you credit me with. Ibrought a letter to my Lord, or I should ne'er ha' looked to get inelse. "

"A letter!--from whom?"

"Fro' Mrs Joyce Morrell, to tell him who I were, and a bit more, Ireckon. "

"I asked my Lord Oxford of his goodness to speak to some upholder[upholsterer] to send in a little necessary furnishing, " said LadyLouvaine, looking round, "such as were strictly needful, and should lastus till we could turn us about: but methinks he hath done somewhat morethan that. "

"You'll turn you round middling easy, Madam, " answered Charity. "Th'upholder were bidden to put th' house to rights all through, and sendthe bill to Mistress Joyce. She gave me lodging fro' Setterday toMonday, and bade me see to 't that yo' had all things comfortable. `Don't split sixpences, ' she saith; `the bigger the charges the better, so long as they be for true comfort and not for gimcracks. ' So, Madam, I hope we've hit your Ladyship's liking, for me and Mrs Joyce, we triedhard--me at choosing, and she at paying. So that's how it were. "

And dropping a quick courtesy, Charity departed with too much alacrityfor thanks. 

Lady Louvaine's eyes followed her. 

"The lines are fallen unto us in pleasant places, " quoted Edith, softly. 

"Ay, " answered her mother. "And the pillar of the cloud hath gonebefore. "

Charity found Rachel in the kitchen, carrying a carpet-bag and a greatbundle, and gazing round her with a bewildered air. 

"Well, lass, what's ta'en thee?" was her greeting. 

"Eh, Charity Ashworth, is that thee? Where art thou fro'?"

"Where are we both come to? That's more to th' purpose. "

"I'm banished my country, that's all I know, " said Rachel, blankly. "I'm glad to see thee, schuzheaw. " [Note 2. ]

"Dost thou mean to carry yon for th' rest o' thy life?" demandedCharity, laying hands on the carpet-bag. "Come, wake up, lass, and looksharp, for there'll be some supper wanted. "

A very expressive shake of Rachel's head was the response. But she setdown the bundle, and began to unfasten her sleeves for work. Sleeveswere not then stitched to the gown, but merely hooked or buttoned in, and were therefore easily laid aside when needful. 

"What's the price o' eggs this road on?" asked she. 

"Nought. We 'n getten th' hens to lay 'em. Down i' th' market they'refour a penny. "

"Eggs--four a penny!" ejaculated the horrified cook. 

"Ay--they're a bonnie price, aren't they? Ten to a dozen the penny atKeswick. Chickens be twopence and threepence apiece. "

Rachel turned and faced her colleague with a solemn air. "CharityAshworth, wilt thou tell me what we've come here for?"

"`To do our duty in that state of life to which it shall please God tocall us, '" said Charity, sturdily. "There's twenty hens i' yon yard atth' end o' th' garden, and two cows i' th' shippen, and three black pigsi' th' sty, --Mistress Joyce ordered 'em--and two pairs o' hands, and twobrains, and two hearts, and the grace o' God: and if thou wants aughtmore, thou'lt have to ask Him for it. So now let's be sharp and see toth' supper. "

As they sat at breakfast the next morning, which was Lady Day andSunday, Lady Louvaine said--

"I would fain know what manner of neighbours we shall have here, whetherpleasant or displeasant; for some of our comfort shall hang thereon. "

"Oh, there's a capital fellow at the Golden Fish, " cried Aubrey. "Hisname is Tom Rookwood, and his sister Dorothy is the prettiest girl Ihave seen this month. I know nought of the Angel. "

"Ah!" said Hans, and shook his head, "I have seen the Angel. "

"And is he angelic?" responded Aubrey. 

"There be angels good and ill, " Hans made answer. "Madam, I were bestforewarn you--there's a tongue dwelleth there. "

"What manner of tongue, Hans?" said Lady Louvaine, smiling. 

"One that goes like a beggar's clap-dish, " said he; "leastwise, it didall the while I was in the garden this morning. She greeted me o'er thewall, and would know who we were, and every one of our names, and whatkin we were one to the other, and whence we came, and wherefore, and howlong we looked to tarry--she should have asked me what we had to ourbreakfast, if I had not come in. "

"And how much toldest her?" inquired Temperance. 

"Not a word that I could help, " answered Hans. "Indeed, that is theonly comfort of her--that she asks questions so fast you can scarceslide in an answer. She was free enough with her information as well--told me her name, and how many children she had, and that she paidthree-and-fourpence the yard for her perpetuance gown. "

"And what is her name?" asked Faith. 

"Silence Abbott, " said he. 

"She scarce answers to it, seemingly, " replied Temperance. 

"Where made you acquaintance with your Tom Rookwood, Aubrey?" said hisgrandmother. 

"At the door, " said he. "His father is a gentleman of Suffolk, ayounger son of Rookwood of Coldham Hall. He has three sisters, --I sawnot the other two; but I say, that Dorothy's a beauty!"

"Well!" replied Temperance. "Folks say, `As mute as a fish'; but itseems to me the Golden Fish is well-nigh as talkative as the Angel. Mind thy ways, Aubrey, and get not thyself into no tanglements with noDorothys. It shall be time enough for thee to wed ten years hence. "

"And have a care that Mr Rookwood be himself an upright and God-fearingman, " added his Aunt Edith. 

"Oh, he's all right!" answered Aubrey, letting Dorothy go by. "He saithhe can hit a swallow flying at eighty paces. "

"More shame for him!" cried Edith. "What for should he hit a swallow?"

"He has promised to show me all sorts of things, " added Aubrey. 

"Have a care, " said Lady Louvaine, "that he lead thee not into thebriars, my boy, and there leave thee. "

The Monday morning brought a visitor--Mrs Abbott, from the Angel, afterwhose stay Edith declared that a day's hard work would have fatigued herless of the two inflictions. This lady's freedom in asking questions, without the remotest sense of delicacy, was only to be paralleled by herreadiness to impart information. The party at the White Bear knewbefore she went home, that she had recently had her parlour newly hungwith arras, representing the twelve labours of Hercules: that sheintended to have roast veal to supper: that her worsted under-stockingshad cost her four-and-sixpence the pair: that her husband was a verytrying man, and her eldest son the cleverest youth in Westminster. 

"Worsted stockings four-and-sixpence!" cried Temperance. "What a sinfulprice to pay! And I declare if they ask not three shillings andfourpence for a quarter of veal! Why, I mind the time when in Keswickit was but sixteen pence. Truly, if things wax higher in price than nowthey are, it shall be an hard matter to live. This very morrow was Iasked a shilling for a calf's head of the butcher, and eightpence for alemon of the costard-monger, whereat I promise you I fumed a bit; butwhen it came to threepence apiece for chickens, --Lancaster and Derby!It shall cost us here ever so much more to live. "

"It shall not, " said Hans. "There be five acres of garden, and save forforeign fruits and spices, you shall ask little of the costard-mongershortly. "

"But who is to dig and dress it?" moaned Faith. "Aubrey cannot, all theday with his Lord, even if he were not away o' nights: and Charity shallhave too much to do. "

"I have two hands, Madam, " answered Hans, "and will very quickly have aspade in them: and ere I do aught else will I set the garden a-going, that Rachel and Charity can keep it in good order, with a littleoverlooking from you. "

"Me!" cried Faith, with a gasp of horror. 

"Right good for you!" said her sister. "I'll not help at that work; Ishall leave it for you. As to foreign fruits and spices, we'll havenone of them, save now and then a lemon for the Lady Lettice--she lovesthe flavour, and we'll not have her go short of comforts--but for allelse, I make no 'count of your foreign spice. Rosemary, thyme, mint, savoury, fennel, and carraway be spice enough for any man, and a dealbetter than all your far-fetched maces, and nutmegs, and peppers, thatbe fetched over here but to fetch the money out of folks' pockets: andwormwood and currant wine are every bit as good, and a deal wholesomer, than all your sherris-sack and Portingale rubbish. Hans, lad, let'shave a currant-bush or two in that garden; I can make currant wine withany, though I say it, and gooseberry too. I make no count of yourforeign frumps and fiddlements. What's all your Champagne but justgooseberry with a French name to it? and how can that make it anysweeter? I'll be bounden half of it is made of gooseberries, if folksmight but know. And as to your Rhenish and claret, and such stuff, Iwould not give a penny for the lot--I'd as soon have a quart of alegar. Nay, nay! we are honest English men and women, and let us live like it. "

"But, Temperance, my dear, " suggested Lady Louvaine, with a smile, "ifno foreign fruits had ever been brought to England, nor planted here, our table should be somewhat scanty. In truth, we should have butlittle, I believe, save acorns and beech-nuts. "

"Nay, come!" responded Temperance; "wouldn't you let us have a bit ofparsley, or a barberry or twain?"

"Parsley!" said Lady Louvaine, smiling again. "Why, Temperance, thatcame first into England from Italy the year Anstace was born--the secondof King Edward. " [Note 3. ]

"Dear heart, did it so?" quoth she. "And must not we have so much as acabbage or a sprig of sweet marjoram?"

"Sweet marjoram came in when thou wert a babe, Temperance; and I haveheard my mother say that cabbages were brought hither from Flanders theyear my sister Edith was born. She was five years elder than I, anddied in the cradle. "

"Well!" concluded Temperance, "then I'll hold my peace and munch myacorns. But I reckon I may have a little salt to them. "

"Ay, that mayest thou, and honey too. "

The next day, the Golden Fish swam in at the door; and it came in theform of Mistress Rookwood and her daughter Gertrude, who seemedpleasanter people than Mrs Abbott. A few days afterwards came theRector, Mr Marshall, with his wife and daughter; and though--or perhapsbecause--Agnes Marshall was very quiet, they liked her best of any womanthey had yet seen. Before they had stayed long, the Rector asked ifLady Louvaine had made acquaintance with any of her neighbours. Sheanswered, only with two houses, the one on either side. 

Mr Marshall smiled. "Well, Mistress Abbott means no ill, methinks, though her tongue goeth too fast to say she doth none. Yet is her talkthe worst thing about her. Tell her no secrets, I pray you. But Iwould warn you somewhat to have a care of the Rookwoods. "

"Pray you, Sir, after what fashion?" asked Lady Louvaine. "If I knowfrom what quarter the arrow is like to come, it shall be easier to holdup the shield against it. "

"Well, " said he, "they come to church, and communicate, and pay alltheir dues; they may be honest folks: but this can I tell you, MrRookwood is brother to a Papist, and is hand in glove with divers Popishperverts. Wherefore, my Lady Louvaine, I would not have you suffer youryoung folks to be too intimate with theire; for though these Rookwoodsmay be safe and true--I trust they are--yet have they near kinsmen whichassuredly are not, who should very like be met at their house. So letme advise you to have a care. "

"That will I, most surely, " said she: "and I thank you, Sir, for puttingme on my guard. "

In May the King arrived from Scotland, and in June the Queen, with thePrince, Prince Charles, and the Lady Elizabeth. "Princess" at this timeindicated the Princess of Wales alone, and the first of our King'sdaughters to whom the term was applied, except as heiress of England, were the daughters of Charles the First. Henry Prince of Wales was aboy of nine years old, his sister a child of seven, and the littleCharles only three. The youthful Princess was placed in the charge ofLord Harrington, at Combe Abbey, near Coventry--a fact to which therewill be occasion to refer again. The Princes remained with theirparents, to the great satisfaction of the Queen, who had struggled asceaselessly as vainly against the rigid Scottish custom of educating theheir-apparent away from Court Queen Anne of Denmark was a graceful, elegant woman, with extremely fair complexion and abundant fair hair. The King was plain even to ungainliness--a strange thing for the son ofone of the most beautiful women that ever lived. The wisdom of Jamesthe First has been by different writers highly extolled andcontemptuously derided. It seems to me to have partaken, likeeverything else, of the uncertainty of its author. He did giveutterance to some apothegms of unquestionable wisdom, and also to somespeeches of egregious folly. His subjects did not err far when theynicknamed their Scottish master and their "dear dead Queen, " hispredecessor, "King Elizabeth and Queen James. " Yet justice requires theadmission that the chief root of James's many failings was his intense, unreasoning, constitutional timidity, which would have been ludicrous ifit had been less pitiful. He could not see a drawn sword withoutshuddering, even if drawn for his own defence; and when knighting a man, it was necessary for the Lord Chamberlain to come to his Majesty's help, and guide the blade, lest the recipient of the honour should be woundedby the unsteadiness of the King's hand under the strong shuddering whichseized him. So afraid was he of possible assassins that he always worea thickly-padded cotton garment under his clothes, to turn aside bulletor dagger. 

Lord Oxford came to Town in May, and Aubrey at once began his duties asa squire in his household. During June and July, he ran into the WhiteBear some half-dozen times in an evening, he said, to assure them thathe was still alive. In August and September he was more remiss: andafter October had set in, they scarcely saw him once a month. It wasnoticeable, when he did come, that the young gentleman was becoming morefashionable and courtly than of old. Lettice asked him once if he hadbidden the tailor to make his garments of snips, since the brown suitwhich had been his Sunday best was breaking out all over into slasheswhence puffs of pink were visible. Aubrey drew himself up with a laugh, and told his cousin that she knew nothing of the fashions. Letticefancied she caught the gleam of a gold chain beneath his doublet, but itwas carefully buttoned inside so as not to show. 

Meanwhile, Hans--whose brown suit did not break out like Aubrey's--wasvery busy in the garden, which he diligently dug and stocked. When thiswas done, he applied to a neighbouring notary, and brought home bundlesof copying, at which he worked industriously in an evening. In theafternoon he was generally from home; what he did with himself on theseoccasions he did not say, and he was so commonly and thoroughly trustedthat no one thought it necessary to ask him. 

Edith and Temperance, coming in together one evening, were informed thatMrs Rookwood had called during their absence, bringing with herDorothy, Aubrey's beauty. 

"And didst thou think her beauteous, Lettice?" asked her Aunt Edith, with an amused smile. 

"Truly, Aunt Edith, I marvel what Aubrey would be at. His fancies mustbe very diverse from mine. I would liever a deal have our Rachel. "

Temperance laughed, for Rachel had few claims of this nature. 

"What like is she, Lettice?"

"She hath jet-black hair, Aunt, and thick black brows, with greatshining eyes--black likewise; and a big nose-end, and pouting big redlips. "

"Humph! I reckon folks see beauty with differing eyes, " saidTemperance. 

The coronation did not take place before July. It was followed bysevere pestilence, supposed to arise from the numbers who crowded intoTown to witness the ceremony. Temperance kept fires of sweet herbsburning in the garden, and insisted on every body swallowing liberaldoses of brick and wormwood, fasting, in the morning--her sovereignremedy against infection. Mrs Abbott said that her doctor ordered herpowder of bezoar stone for the same purpose, while the Rookwoods heldfirmly by a mixture of unicorn's horn and salt of gold. In consequenceor in spite of these invaluable applications, no one suffered in thethree houses in King Street. His Majesty was terribly afraid of thepestilence; all officials not on duty were ordered home, and allsuitors--namely, petitioners--were commanded to avoid the Court tillwinter. A solemn fast for this visitation was held in August; thestatutes against vagabonds and "masterless men" were confirmed, whereatTemperance greatly rejoiced; and "dangerous rogues" were to be banished. 

This last item was variously understood, some supposing it aimed at theJesuits, and some at the Puritans. It was popularly reported that theKing "loved no Puritans, " as it was now usual to term those Churchmenwho declined to walk in the Ritualistic ways of the High Church party. To restrict the term Puritan to Nonconformists is a modern mistake. When, therefore, James began his reign by large remittances of fines tohis Romish subjects, issued a declaration against toleration, revivedthe Star Chamber, and appointed Lord Henry Howard, a Roman Catholic, tothe Privy Council, the Papists were encouraged, and the Puritans tookalarm. The latter prepared to emigrate on a large scale to the Americanplantations, where no man could control them in religious matters; theformer raised their heads and ventured on greater liberties than theyhad dared to take during the reign of the dead Queen. The FrenchAmbassador, however, curled his lip contemptuously, and informed hismaster that James was a hypocrite. 

The position of the English Roman Catholics at this time was peculiarand not agreeable. But in order to understand it, we must go back forthirty-five years--to the close of that halcyon period, the earliest tenyears of Elizabeth, when the few Romanists then left in Englandgenerally came to church like other good citizens, and if they chose topractise the rites of their own faith in private, no notice was taken ofit. It was not the Protestant Government, but the Papal See, which wasresponsible for the violent ending of this satisfactory state of things, when it was perceived at Rome that the Reformation was so thoroughlysettled, and the nation so completely severed from Latin control, that(in the words of one of those who attempted the Queen's life) "unlessMistress Elizabeth were suddenly taken away, all the devils in Hellshould not be able to shake it. " In 1568, therefore, Pope Pius theFifth put forth a Bull which excommunicated Queen Elizabeth, deposedher, absolved her subjects from their allegiance, and solemnly cursedthem if they continued to obey her. To her Protestant subjects, ofcourse, this act of usurpation was mere waste paper--the private spleenof an Italian priest who had no jurisdiction in this realm of England. But to the Romanists it was the solemn decree of Christ by His appointedVicar, to be obeyed at the peril of their salvation. The first visibleeffect of the Bull was that they all "did forthwith refrain the church, "and joined no more with their fellow-subjects in public prayer. TheQueen contented herself in answer with forbidding the bringing in ofBulls--which was no more than Edward the First had done before her. Hadthe Pope and the Jesuits been then content to let matters rest, nodifficulty might have arisen: but they would not. First Mayne, thenCampion, the first Jesuit who entered England, were sent to "movesedition, " and to "make a party in execution of the former Bull. " Tothis followed an influx of treasonable books. It had now become evidentthat the Papal Bull was to be no mere _brutum fulmen_ which might besafely left alone to die out, but a deliberate attempt to stir uprebellion against the Queen. For the Government to have kept silencewould have been practically to throw their influence into the scaleagainst the reign and the life of their Sovereign Lady. 

It is now fashionable with a certain section to stigmatise Elizabeth asa persecutor, and to represent the penal laws against the Papistsenacted in her reign as cruel oppressions of innocent and harmlesspersons, enforced simply because they believed certain religiousdoctrines. Those who will carefully follow the facts can hardly avoidseeing that the disloyalty preceded the coercion, and that if theRomanists were maddened into plotting against the Government byoppressive laws, those laws were not due to groundless fear or malice, but were simply the just reward of their own deeds. During the fiveyears of Queen Mary, three hundred men, women, and children, were put todeath for their religious opinions only. During the forty-four years ofQueen Elizabeth, less than thirty priests, and five harbourers ofpriests, were executed, not for their opinions nor their religion, butfor distinctly treasonable practices. [Note 4. ]

When matters had come to this pass, in 1580, the first penal laws wereissued, against recusancy and seditious publications. The penalty forrecusancy--by which was meant a legal conviction for absence from publicworship on religious grounds--"was not loss of life or limb, or wholeestate, but only a pecuniary mulct and penalty; and that also only untilthey would submit and conform themselves and again come to church, asthey had done for ten years before the Pope's Bull. " Twenty pounds perlunar month was the fine imposed; but this referred only to adult males, "not being let by sickness. " Compared with the laws of Queen Mary, andeven of her predecessors, this penalty was gentleness itself; and thosemodern writers who see in it cruelty and rigour must have littleknowledge of comparative history. Yet so far was this from stopping theflow of treason, that a Jesuit mission entered England with the specialpurpose of teaching the people that under the Bull of Pope Pius theQueen stood excommunicated, and that it was a positive sin to obey her. Their success was only too manifest. Men of all sorts and conditions, from peers to peasants, were "reconciled" in numbers by their teaching. If this were to go on, not only would Elizabeth's life be the forfeit, but the Reformation settlement would be uprooted and undone, and theblood of the Marian martyrs would have been shed for nought. 

The laws were now made more stringent. By the Act of 1580 it had beenprovided that every priest saying mass should be liable to a fine of twohundred marks (133 pounds), with half that sum for every hearer, andboth to imprisonment for a year, or in the priest's case until the finewas paid. Now, all Jesuits and priests ordained since the Queen'saccession were banished the kingdom, being allowed forty days after theclose of the session; and none were to enter it, on penalty of death. All persons receiving or assisting such priests were held guilty offelony. Recusants were to be imprisoned until they should conform, andif they remained obstinate for three months, they must be banished. 

These penal laws, however, were rarely enforced. They were kept as asword of Damocles, suspended over the heads of the unhappy Romanists, and capable of being brought down on them at any moment. In the handsof an unscrupulous Minister of the Crown they might be made an agency ofconsiderable vexation: yet no reasonable remonstrance could be offeredto the reminder that these penalties were inflicted by law, and it wasonly of the Queen's clemency that they had not been earlier exacted. Itmust also be admitted that the penal laws bore in reality much harder onthe Romanists than they seem to do in Protestant eyes. To deprive aProtestant of the services of a clergyman is at most to incommode him;to deprive a Papist of his priest is equivalent in his eyes to deprivinghim of his salvation. To them, therefore, it was a matter of life anddeath. And yet, it must not be forgotten, they had brought it onthemselves. 

With the death of Elizabeth came a serious change. Revile her as theymight, under her the Romanists had been on the whole gently and justlyused. But it was in reality, though they could not see it, after herthe deluge. 

Who was to be Elizabeth's successor had been for years at once a seriousand an unsettled question. There were three persons living when shedied, each of whom could have put forward a claim to the Crown onvarious grounds. 

Humanly speaking, the decision was made by two groups of persons--theCareys and Cecils, and the Romanists of England--both of whom weredetermined that James of Scotland should succeed. The latter had beenworking for some time past, and had secured promises from James that hewould extend special toleration to them. He was expected to look kindlyon the party which had adhered to his mother--it would be difficult tosay why, since in Scotland his adherents had always been at war withhers--and it was remembered that he had been born and baptised in theChurch of Rome. The Roman party, therefore, wrought earnestly in hisfavour. Sir Thomas Tresham proclaimed him at Northampton, atconsiderable personal risk; his sons and Lord Monteagle assisted theEarl of Southampton to hold the Tower for James. The Pope, Clement theEighth, was entirely on James's side, of whose conversion he entertainedthe warmest hopes. To the French Ambassador, Monsieur de Beaumont, James asserted that "he was no heretic, that is, refusing to recognisethe truth; neither was he a Puritan, nor separated from the Church: heheld episcopacy as necessary, and the Pope as the chief bishop, namely, the president and moderator of councils, but not the head nor superior. "

We in this nineteenth century, accustomed to ideas of complete andperpetual toleration, and alas! also to Gallio-like apathy andindifference, can scarcely form a conception of what was at that timethe popular estimate of a Papist. A fair view of it is given by thefollowing sarcastic description, written on the fly-leaf of a volume ofmanuscript sermons of this date. 

"The Blazon of a Papist [`priest' is erased] contrived prettily by somHerault of Armes in ye compasse of Armoury. 

"First. There is papist Rampant, a furious beast: 'tis written that theDiuell goes about like a roaring Lion, but the Diuell himselfe is notmore fierce and rigorous then is papist where [he] is of force andability to shew his tyranny: wittnes ye murthers, ye massacres, yeslaughters, ye poysoning, ye stabbing, ye burning, ye broyling, yetorturing, ye tormenting, ye persecuting, with other their bloodyexecutions, euery [sic] fresh in example, infinite to be told, andhorrible to be rememberd. 

"Second. A papist Passant: he's an instrument of sedition, ofinsurrection, of treason, of Rebellion, a priest, a Jesuite, a seminary, and such other as find so many friends in England and Ireland both toreceaue and harbour them, that it is to be feard we shall smart for itone day. 

"Third. A papist Volant; of all the rest, these I take to do the leastharme: yet they will say they fly for their consciences, when itsapparently known they both practice and conspire. 

"Fourth. A papist Regardant; he obserus times, occasions, places, andpersons, and though he be one of the Popes intelligencers, yet he walkswith such circumspection and heed, that he is not known but to his ownfaction. 

"Fifth. A papist Dormant: he's a sly companion, subtill as a fox: hesleeps with open eyes, yet somtymes seeming to winke, he looks and priesinto opportunity, still feeding himselfe with those hopes that I am inhope shall never do him good. 

"Sixth. A papist Couchant: this is a daungerous fellow, and much to befeard; he creeps into the bosom of ye state, and will not stick to lookinto ye Court, nay, if he can, into Court counsells: he will shewhimselfe tractable to ye co[mm]on wealthe prescriptions, and with thisshew of obedience to Law, he doth ye Pope more service then 20 othersthat are more resisting. 

"Seventh. A papist Pendant: indeed a papist pendant is in his primep'fection: a papist pendant is so fitting a piece of Armoury for ye timepresent, as all Herauds in England are not able better to display him: apapist is then in chiefe when he is a Pendant, and he neuer comes to sohigh p'ferment, but by ye Popes especiall blessing. " [Note 5. ]

James's first act, when his succession was peaceably ensured, was toremit the fines for recusancy. For the first and second years of hisreign, they were not enforced at all. The sum paid into the Exchequeron this account, in the last year of Elizabeth, was 10, 333 pounds; inthe first and second years of James it was about 300 and 200 poundsrespectively. But in his third year, the fines were suddenly revived, and the Romanists took alarm. The King was evidently playing themfalse. He had been heard to say that "the Pope was the trueAntichrist, " that "he would lose his crown and his life before he wouldalter religion;" that "he never had any thought of granting tolerationto the Catholics, and that if he thought that his son would condescendto any such course, he would wish the kingdom translated to hisdaughter;" and lastly, that "he had given them a year of probation, toconform themselves, which, seeing it had not wrought that effect, he hadfortified all the laws against them, and commanded them to be put inexecution to the uttermost. "

Early in 1604, all Jesuits and seminary priests were banished; therecusancy fines and arrears were soon after stringently exacted, andmany Roman Catholic families almost reduced to beggary. Suddendomiciliary visits were made in search of concealed priests, usually inthe dead of night: empty beds were examined, walls struck with mallets, rapiers thrust into the chinks of wainscots. The Jesuit missionarieswere in especial danger; they went about disguised, hid themselves undersecular callings and travelled from one house to another, using adifferent name at each, to avoid discovery. One priest, named Moatford, passed as the footman of Lord Sandys' daughter, wore his livery, andsaid mass in secret when it seemed safe to do so. Serious difficultieswere thrown in the way of educating children; if they were sent abroad, the parents were subject to a fine of 100 pounds; if taught at home by arecusant tutor, both he and his employer were mulcted in forty shillingsper day. 

It was in these circumstances that the Gunpowder Plot originated, --notfrom some sudden ebullition of groundless malice: and it was due, not tothe Romanists at large, but to that section of them only whichconstituted the Jesuit party. 

It is not generally understood that the Roman Church, which boasts soloudly of her perfect unity, is really divided in two parties, onesiding with, and the other against, that powerful and mysterious bodycalling itself the Society of Jesus. It is with this body, "the powerbehind the Pope, "--which Popes have ere this striven to put down, andhave only fallen a sacrifice themselves--that political plots have mostcommonly originated, and the Gunpowder Plot was no exception to thegeneral rule. It was entirely got up by the Jesuit faction, theordinary Roman Catholics not merely having nothing to do with it, butplacing themselves, when interrogated, in positive opposition to it. 

There are certain peculiarities concerning the conspirators whichdistinguish this enterprise from others of its class. They were mostlyyoung men; they _were_ nearly all connected by ties of blood ormarriage; two-thirds of them, if not more, were perverts fromProtestantism; and so far from being the vulgar, brutal miscreantsusually supposed, they were--with one exception--gentlemen of name andfamily, and some of good fortune; educated and accomplished men, whohonestly believed themselves to be doing God service. It is instructiveto read their profound conviction that they were saving their country'shonour, furthering their own salvation, and promoting the glory of God. The slaughter of the innocents which necessarily attended their projectwas lamentable indeed, but inevitable, and gave rise to as little realcompunction as the eating of beef and mutton. These men were by nomeans heartless; they were only blind from ignorance of Scripture, andexcess of zeal in a false cause. 

The original propounder of the plot was unquestionably Robert Catesby, of Ashby Saint Ledgers, a Northamptonshire gentleman of ancient ancestryand fair estate. He first whispered it in secret to John Wright, aLincolnshire squire, and soon afterwards to Thomas Winter, a youngerbrother of the owner of Huddington Hall in Worcestershire, and a distantcousin of an old friend of some of my readers--Edward Underhill, the"Hot Gospeller. " Thomas Winter communicated it in Flanders to GuyFawkes, a young officer of Yorkshire birth, and these four met with afifth, Thomas Percy, cousin and steward of the Earl of Northumberland. The object of the meeting was to consider the condition of the RomanCatholics, with a view to taking action for its relief. There was alsoa priest in the company, but who he was did not transpire, though it isalmost certain to have been one of the three Jesuits chiefly concernedin the plot--John Gerard, Oswald Greenway, or Henry Garnet. Percy, usually fertile in imagination and eager in action, was ready with aproposition at once. He said--

"The only way left for us is to kill the King; and that will I undertaketo do. From him we looked for bread, and have received nought savestones. Let him be prayed to visit my Lord Mordaunt at Turvey, where amasque may be had for him; and he once there, in the house of one of us(though my Lord be not known so to be), he is at our mercy. How sayyou, gentlemen?"

"Nay, my son, " replied the priest. "There is a better course in hand--even to cut up the very roots, and remove all impediments whatsoever. "

"That were to run great risk and accomplish little, " added Catesby. "No, Tom: thou shalt not adventure thyself to so small purpose. If thouwilt be a traitor, I have in mine head a much further design thanthat, --to greater advantage, and that can never be discovered. "

Every body wished to know his meaning. 

"I have bethought me, " continued Catesby, "of a way at one instant todeliver us from all our bonds, and without any foreign help to replantagain the Catholic religion. In a word, it is to blow up the ParliamentHouse with gunpowder, for in that place have they done us all themischief, and perchance God hath designed that place for theirpunishment. "

"Truly, a strange proposal!" said Thomas Winter. "The scandal would beso great that the Catholic religion might sustain thereby. "

"The nature of the disease requires so sharp a remedy, " was Catesby'sreply. 

"But were it lawful?" objected John Wright. "Ask your ghostly father, "said Catesby, who was pretty sure of the answer in that case. 

"But remember, " said Winter, "there are many of our friends and Catholicbrethren amongst the Lords: shall we destroy them with the rest?"

Catesby's answer was in principle that of Caiaphas. "Ay: 'tis expedientthe few die for the good of the many. "

The next step was to obtain a house convenient for their operations, --namely, so close to the Houses of Parliament that they could carry amine from its cellar right under the House. Percy was deputed to attendto this matter, as his circumstances offered an excuse for his seekingsuch a house. He was one of the band of gentlemen pensioners, whoseduty it was to be in daily attendance on the King; a position into whichhe had been smuggled by his cousin Lord Northumberland, without havingtaken the oath requisite for _it_. This oath Percy could notconscientiously have taken, since by it he renounced the authority ofthe Pope. A little study of the topography induced him to fix on twocontiguous houses, which stood close to the House of Lords. Oninvestigation, it was found that these two houses belonged to theParliament, and were held by Mr Wyniard, Keeper of the King's Wardrobe, "an ancient and honest servant of Queen Elizabeth. " Both, however, hadbeen sub-let by him--the nearer to Mr Henry Ferris; the further toGideon Gibbons, a public porter, subsequently utilised by the plotters, to his danger and discomfort. Percy, therefore, in March, 1604, "beganto labour earnestly" with Mr Wyniard and his wife to obtain thesehouses. Mrs Wyniard seems chiefly to have attended to this business;her husband was not improbably incapacitated by age or ill-health. Percy's efforts proved successful. He was accepted as tenant by theWyniards at a rent of 12 pounds per annum, Mr Ferris being bought outwith 30 pounds for his good-will and 5 pounds more "in consideration ofthe charges of the house. " The agreement was signed on the 24th of May. 

The next united act of these five exemplary gentlemen was to meet at ahouse "in the fields behind Saint Clement's Church, near the arch, nearthe well called Saint Clement's Well. " This seems to have been theresidence of the Jesuit priest Gerard; but it is uncertain whether itwas identical with that of Percy, or with that of Mrs Herbert, whereFawkes had apartments, both which are also described as "beyond SaintClement's. " Gerard, who was in the company, was with delicateconsideration left in an upper room, where he was provided with allnecessaries for the celebration of mass, while the conspiratorsproceeded to business alone in the lower apartment. Taking a primer inhis hand, Catesby administered to his four accomplices this oath, whichhe also took himself:--

"You swear by the blessed Trinity, and by the Sacrament which you nowpropose to receive, never to disclose directly or indirectly, by word orcircumstance, the matter that shall be proposed to you to keep secret, nor desist from the execution thereof till the rest shall give youleave. "

Then they passed into the upper room, where Gerard stood ready robed, and received the host from his hands--with what "intention" beingunknown to him, if the assertion of the conspirators may be believed. 

I have gone rather too far, chronologically speaking, in order to tellthis part of the story straight through; and now we must go back alittle. About four months before this oath was taken, in January, 1604, was held the famous conference of bishops at Hampton Court. The King, who, though baptised a Roman Catholic, had been educated as aPresbyterian, propounded various queries to the hierarchy concerningpractices which puzzled him in the Church of England, of which he wasnow the supreme head upon earth. In the first place, he desired to knowthe meaning of the rite of confirmation: "if they held the sacrament ofbaptism invalidous without it, then was it in his judgment blasphemous;yet if it were only that children might themselves profess and beblessed, then very good. " The absolution of the Church he had heardcompared to the Pope's pardons. Private baptism, he would haveadministered only by a lawful minister; and concerning excommunicationshe had also something to say. On all these points the bishops fullysatisfied his Majesty, "whose exquisite expositions did breed wonder andastonishment in that learned and noble audience. " Modern readers of theproceedings have been much less inclined to astonishment, except indeedthat the bishops should have been so easily astonished. On the secondday, a deputation was received from the Puritan ministers, whopetitioned for four points--which had they gained, the nineteenthcentury would have found its burdens considerably lightened. Theyrequested that the doctrine of the Church might be preserved pure, according to God's Word; that good pastors might be planted in allchurches, to preach in the same; that the Book of Common Prayer might befitted to more increase of piety; and that Church government might besincerely ministered according to God's Word. 

King James made the deputation explain themselves; and after a day'sdebate, he angrily told them that they were aiming at a Scottishpresbytery, which agreed with monarchy as well as God and the Devil. "No bishop, no king!" added his Majesty. Some few members of theConference maintained that the Puritans had been crushed and insulted;but Chancellor Egerton said he had never seen king and priest so fullyunited in one person as in that of his sacred Majesty, and Bancroft(afterwards Archbishop) fell upon his knees, unctuously exclaiming thathis heart melted for joy to think that England was blessed with such aruler. The bishops and privy-councillors then conferred alone, altereda few expressions in the Liturgy, and summoned the Puritans to heartheir decision. Dr Raynolds, the Puritan spokesman, entreated that theuse of the surplice and the sign of the cross in baptism might be laidaside, or at least not made compulsory, but the King sternly told himthat they preferred the credit of a few private men to the peace of theChurch; that he would have none of this arguing; "wherefore let themconform, and quickly too, or they shall hear of it. " By thisshort-sighted policy, the opportunity for really securing peace to theChurch was lost for sixty years, and many of the troubles of the nextreign were sown. The next step was to arrest ten of the Puritanleaders; and then to eject from their benefices three hundred clergy ofthat school. Among these was Mr Marshall, the pastor of our friends. Lady Louvaine was sorely troubled. She said they were now as sheepwithout a shepherd, and were but too likely to have a shepherd set overthem who would fleece and devour the sheep. Of these clergy some joinedthe Presbyterians, some the Brownists--whom people now began to callIndependents: others remained in the Church, ceasing to minister, andfollowing such callings as they deemed not unbecoming the position of aChristian minister--chiefly tutorship and literature. Mr Marshall wasin the last class. He said better times might come, and he could notsee his way to desert the Church, though her ways to him at this presentwere somewhat step-motherly. 

"But how, Mr Marshall, if the Church cast you forth?" asked Temperance. 

"Then must I needs go, " he answered with a smile. "But that, look you, were not my deed, nor should I be responsible for it before God. Solong as I break not her laws, she hath no right to eject me; and so longas she abideth in the truth, I have no right to desert her. "

"But the bishops abide not in the truth, as I take it. "

"The bishops be not the Church, " replied he. "Let the Articles andHomilies be changed, with evil tendency, and then that is to change theChurch. I go forth of her then at once; for she should be no longer theChurch of my faith, to which I sware obedience, and she hath not thatright over me to require me to change with her. But so long as theseare left unaltered, what matter though bishops change? They are notimmortal: and very sure am I they are not infallible. "

"What think you, Mother?" said Edith. 

"Children, " replied Lady Louvaine, laying down her knitting in her lap, "I can get no further at this present than one line of Saint John: `HeHimself knew what He would do. ' I do not know what He will do. It maybe, as it then was, something that none of all His disciples can guess. One step at a time is all He allows us to see, and all He bids us take. `He calleth His own sheep by name, and leadeth them out'; but also, `Hegoeth before them. ' At times He leads them, I think, outside the fold;and if He is outside, and we hear His voice, we must needs go to Him. Yet is this rare, and we should make very sure that it is from withoutwe hear the familiar voice, and not rush forth in haste when He may becalling from within. Let us know that He is on the road before us, andthen we need have no fear to run fast, no doubt whither the road willlead. There be some sheep in such haste to run that they must needs gopast the Shepherd; and then have they no longer a leader, and are verylike to miss the right way. "

"You have the right, Lady Louvaine, " said Mr Marshall. "`He thatbelieveth shall not make haste. ' Yet there be sheep--to follow yourimagery, or truly that of our Lord--that will lag behind, and never keeppace with the Shepherd. "

"Ay, " she answered: "and I know not if that be not the commoner fault ofthe twain. He calls, and calls, and they come not; and such sheep findmany a sharp tap from the rod ere they will walk, never say run. OurShepherd is human, therefore He can feel for us; He is Divine, thereforecan He have patience with us. Let us thank God for both. "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Except, only. This, now a Northern provincialism, is anarchaism at least as old as the fourteenth century. 

Note 2. Nevertheless. This strictly Lancastrian provincialism issupposed to be a corruption of "choose how. " Its exact pronunciationcan hardly be put into English letters. 

Note 3. This was a revival; for "persille" is found on the Rolls ofEdward II. 

Note 4. This is the computation of Sir Edward Coke in his openingspeech at the trial of the Gunpowder conspirators. 

Note 5. The little manuscript volume wherein this is inscribed, whichis in my own possession, consists of sermons--not very legible, andmostly very dry by the Rev. Thomas Stone, their dates ranging from 1622to 1666, with a few occasional memoranda interspersed. 

CHAPTER FOUR. 

WE GET INTO BAD COMPANY. 

 "Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the fly: "'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy. "

One afternoon during that winter, as Lettice was coming down-stairs, hersense of smell was all at once saluted by a strange odour, which did notstrike her as having any probable connection with Araby the blest, mixedwith slight curls of smoke suggestive of the idea that something was onfire. But before she had done more than wonder what might be thematter, a sound reached her from below, arguing equal astonishment anddisapproval on the part of Aunt Temperance. 

"Northumberland, Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham!" was theejaculation of that lady. "Lad, art thou afire, or what ails thee?"

The answering laugh was in Aubrey's voice. "Why, Aunt!" said he, "isthis the first time you did ever see a man to drink Uppowoc?"

"`Drink up a work!'" exclaimed she. "What on earth--"

"Picielt, " said he. 

"Lettice, is that thou?" inquired Aunt Temperance. "Call Charityquickly, and bid her run for the apothecary: this boy's gone mad. "

A ringing peal of laughter from Aubrey was the answer. Lettice had comefar enough to see him now, and there he stood in the hall (his coat moreslashed and puffed than ever), and in his hand a long narrow tube ofsilver, with a little bowl at the end, in which was something that sentforth a great smoke and smell. 

"Come, Aunt Temperance!" cried he. "Every gentleman in the land, well-nigh, doth now drink the Indian weed. 'Tis called uppovoc, picielt, petum [whence comes petunia], or tobago, and is sold for itsweight in silver; men pick out their biggest shillings to lay againstit, and 'tis held a favour for a gentlewoman to fill the pipe for herservant [suitor]. I have heard say some will spend three or fourhundred a year after this manner, drinking it even at the table; andthey that refuse be thought peevish and ill company. "

"And whither must we flee to get quit of it?" quoth she grimly. 

"That cannot I say, Aunt. In France they have it, calling it Nicotine, from one Nicot, that did first fetch it thither; 'twas one Ralph Lanethat brought it to England. Why, what think you? there are over sixthousand shops in and about London, where they deal in it now. "

"Six thousand shops for that stinking stuff!"

"Oh, not for this alone. The apothecaries, grocers, and chandlers haveit, and in every tavern you shall find the pipe handed round, evenwhere, as in the meaner sort, it be made but of a walnut shell and astraw. Why, Aunt, 'tis wondrous wholesome and healing for diversdiseases. "

"Let's hear which of them. "

"Well--migraines [headaches], colics, toothache, ague, colds, obstructions through wind, and fits of the mother [hysterics]; gout, epilepsy, and hydropsy [dropsy]. The brain, look you, being naturallycold and wet, all hot and dry things must be good for it. "

"I'd as soon have any of those divers distempers as _that_, " solemnlyannounced Aunt Temperance. "`Brain cold and wet!' when didst thouhandle thy brains, that thou shouldst know whether they be cold or not?"

"I do ensure you, Aunt, thus saith Dr Barclay, one of the firstphysicians in London town, which useth this tobago for all thesediseases. He only saith 'tis not to be touched with food, or after it, but must be took fasting. Moreover, it helps the digestion. "

"It'll not help mine. And prithee, Mr Aubrey Louvaine, which of allthis list of disorders hast thou?"

"I, Aunt? Oh, I'm well enough. "

"Dear heart! When I am well enough, I warrant you, I take no physic. "

"Oh, but, Aunt, 'tis not physic only. 'Tis rare comforting andsoothing. "

Aunt Temperance's face was a sight to see. She looked Aubrey over fromthe crown of his head to his boots, till his face flushed red, though hetried to laugh it away. 

"Soothing!" said she in a long-drawn indescribable tone. "Lettice, prithee tell me what year we be now in?"

"In the year of our Lord 1603, Aunt, " said Lettice, trying not to laugh. 

"Nay, " answered she, "that cannot be: for my nephew, Aubrey Louvaine, was born in the year of our Lord 1583, and he is yet, poor babe, in thecradle, and needs rocking and hushing a-by-bye. S-o-o-t-h-i-n-g!" andAunt Temperance drew out the word in a long cry, for all the world likea whining baby. "Lad, if you desire not the finest thrashing ever youhad yet, cast down that drivelling folly of a silver toy, and turn upyour sleeves and go to work like a man! When you lie abed ill of thesmallpox you may say you want soothing, and no sooner: and if I hearsuch another word out of your mouth, I'll leather you while I can standover you. "

Aunt Temperance marched to the parlour door, and flung it wide open. 

"Madam, " said she, "give me leave to introduce to your Ladyship the Kingof Fools. I go forth to buy a cradle for him, and Edith, prithee run tothe kitchen and dress him some pap. He lacks soothing, Madam; andhaving been brought so low as to seek it, poor fool, at the hands of theevillest-smelling weed ever was plucked off a dunghill, I am moved tocrave your Ladyship's kindliness for him. Here's his rattle, "--and AuntTemperance held forth the silver pipe, --"which lacks but the bells to beas rare a fool's staff as I have seen of a summer day. --Get thee in, thou poor dizard dolt! [Note 1] to think that I should have to callsuch a patch my cousin!"

Lady Louvaine sat, looking first at Aubrey and then at Temperance, asthough she marvelled what it all meant. Edith said, laughingly--

"Why, Aubrey, what hast thou done, my boy, so to vex thine aunt?" andFaith, throwing down her work, rose and came to Aubrey. 

"My darling! my poor little boy!" she cried, as a nurse might to achild; but Faith's blandishment was real, while Temperance's wasmockery. 

All Aunt Temperance's mocking, nevertheless, provoked Aubrey less thanhis mother's reality. He flushed red again, and looked ready to weep, had it been less unmanly. Temperance took care not to lose her chance. 

"Ay, poor little boy!" said she. "Prithee, Faith, take him on thy lapand cuddle him, and dandle him well, and sing him a song o' sixpence. Oh, my little rogue, my pretty bird! well, then, it shall have a newcoral, it shall--Now, Madam, pray you look on this piece of wastry!(Dear heart, but a fool and his money be soon parted!) What think you'tis like?"

"Truly, my dear, that cannot I say, " replied Lady Louvaine, looking atthe pipe as Temperance held it out: "but either that or somewhat else, it strikes me, hath a marvellous ill savour. "

"Ill savour, Madam!" cried Temperance. "Would you even such mean scentsas roses and lilies to this celestial odour? Truly, this must it be theangels put in their pouncet-boxes. I am informed of my Lord of Tobagohere that all the gentlemen of the Court do use to perfume their velvetswith it. "

"Well, I can tell you of two which so do, " said Aubrey in a nettledfashion--"my Lord of Northumberland and Sir Walter Raleigh: and you'llnot call them fools, Aunt Temperance. "

"I'll give you a bit of advice, Mr Louvaine: and that is, not to layyour week's wages out in wagers what I shall do. I call any man foolthat is given to folly: and as to this filthy business, I should scarcestick at the King's Majesty himself. "

"Nay, the King is clean contrary thereto, " saith Aubrey, with a ratherunwilling air: "I hear of my Lord that he saith it soils the inwardparts of men with oily soot, and is loathsome to the eye, hateful to thenose, harmful to the brain, dangerous to the lungs, counted effeminateamong the Indians themselves, and by the Spanish slaves called sauce forLutheran curs. "

"Well, on my word!" cried Aunt Temperance. "And knowing this, thouLutheran cur, thou wilt yet soil thine inward parts with this oilysoot?"

"Oh, Aunt, every one so doth. "

Lady Louvaine and Edith exchanged sorrowful looks, and the former said--

"Aubrey, my boy, no true man accounts that a worthy reason for hisdeeds. It was true of the Israelites when they fell to worship thegolden calf, and of the scribes and priests when they cried, `CrucifyHim!' Hadst thou been in that crowd before Pontius Pilate, wouldst thouhave joined that cry?"

Edith went up to her mother, and said in a low voice, "May I tell him?"

Evidently it cost Lady Louvaine some pain to say "Yes, " yet she said it. Edith went back to her seat. 

"Aubrey, " she said, "four-and-twenty years gone, thine uncle, my brotherWalter, was what thou art now, in the very same office and household. His wages were then sixteen pound by the year--"

"But mine are thirty-five, Aunt, " responded Aubrey quickly, as though heguessed what she was about to say. 

"In order to be like every one else, Aubrey, and not come in bad odourwith his fellows, he spent well-nigh four hundred pound by the year, and--"

"Uncle Walter!" cried Aubrey in amazement, and Lettice could have beenhis echo. 

"Ay!" said Edith, sadly. "And for over ten years thereafter was myfather so crippled with his debts, that I mind it being a fine treatwhen I and my sisters had a new gown apiece, though of the commonestserge, and all but bare necessaries were cut off from our board. Walterlaid it so to heart that of a spendthrift he became a miser. I wouldnot have thee so to do, but I bid thee mind that we have very little tolive on, owing all we yet have, and have brought withal, to the goodnessof my dear Aunt Joyce; and if thou fall in such ways, Aubrey--"

"Dear heart, Aunt! Think you I have no wit?"

"Thou hast not an ill wit, my lad, " said Aunt Temperance, "if a wise manhad the keeping of it. "

"Temperance, you are so unfeeling!" exclaimed Faith. "Must I needsstand up for my fatherless boy?"

"You'd ruin any lad you were mother to, " answered her sister. 

Hans now coming in, she set on him. 

"Look here, Hans Floriszoon! Didst ever see any thing like this?"

Hans smiled. "Oh ay, Mistress Murthwaite, I have seen men to use them. "

"Hast one of these fiddle-faddles thyself? or dost thou desire to haveone?"

"Neither, in good sooth, " was his reply. 

"There, Mr Louvaine! hearken, prithee. "

"Hans is only a boy; I am a man, " said Aubrey, loftily: though Hans wasbut a year younger than himself. 

"Lancaster and Derby! and are you then content, my Lord Man, that acontemptible boy should have better wit than your magnifical self?Truly, I think Hans was a man before thou hadst ended sucking of thythumb. "

Just then Charity brought in the Rector. 

"See you here, Mr Marshall!" cried Temperance, brandishing her pipe. "Be you wont to solace your studies with this trumpery?"

Mr Marshall smiled. "Truly, nay, Mistress Murthwaite; 'tis accountedscandalous for divines to use that tobago, not to name the high costthereof. "

"Pray you, how many pence by the ounce hath any man the face to ask forthis stinking stuff?"

"Three shillings or more, and that the poorest sort. "

"Mercy me! And can you tell me how folks use it that account itphysical?"

"Ay, I have heard tell that the manner of using it as physic is to fillthe patient's mouth with a ball of the leaves, when he must incline theface downward, and keep his mouth open, not moving his tongue: then dothit draw a flood of water from all parts of the body. Some physicianswill not use it, saying it causeth over-quick digestion, and fills thestomach full of crudities. For a cold or headache the fumes of the pipeonly are taken. His Majesty greatly loathes this new fashion, sayingthat the smoke thereof resembles nothing so much as the Stygian fume ofthe bottomless pit, and likewise that 'tis a branch of drunkenness, which he terms the root of all sins. "

Aubrey laughed rather significantly. 

"Why, " asked his mother, "is the King's Majesty somewhat given thatway?"

"Well, I have heard it said that when the King of Denmark was here, their two Majesties went not to bed sober every night of the week:marry, 'tis whispered all the Court ladies kept not so steady feet asthey might have done. "

"Alack the day! not the Queen, I hope?"

"Nay, I heard no word touching her. "

"Ah, friends!" said Mr Marshall with a sigh, "let me ensure you thatEngland's mourning is not yet over for Queen Elizabeth, and we may liveto lament our loss of her far sorer than now we do. Folks say she wassomething stingy with money, loving not to part with it sooner than shesaw good reason: but some folks will fling their money right and leftwith no reason at all. The present Court much affecteth masques, plays, and such like, so that now there be twenty where her late Majesty wouldsee one. "

"Mr Marshall, " asked Edith, "is it true, as I have heard say, that KingJames is somewhat Papistically given?"

"Ay and no, " said he. "He is not at all thus, in the signification ofobeying the Pope, or suffering himself to be ridden of priests: in nowise. But he hates a Puritan worse than a Papist. Mind you not that inhis speech when he opened his first Parliament, he said that he didacknowledge the Roman Church to be our mother Church, though defiledwith some infirmities and corruptions?"

"Yet he said also, if I err not, that he sucked in God's truth with hisnurse's milk. "

"Ay. But what one calls God's truth is not what an other doth. All thePapistry in the world is not in the Roman Church; and assuredly she isin no sense our mother. "

"Truly, I thought Saint Austin brought the Gospel hither from Rome. "

"Saint Austin brought a deal from Rome beside the Gospel, and he was notthe first to bring that. The Gallican Church had before him brought itto Kent; and long ere that time had the ancient British Church beenevangelised from no sister Church at all, but right from the Holy Landitself, and as her own unchanging voice did assert, by the belovedApostle Saint John. "

"That heard I never afore, " said Lady Louvaine, who seemed greatlyinterested. "Pray you, Mr Marshall, is this true?"

"I do ensure you it is, " replied he; "that is, so far as the wit of manat this distance of time may discern the same. "

"Was the French Church, then, lesser corrupted than that of Rome?"queried Edith. 

"Certainly so, " he said: "and it hath resisted the Pope's usurpationsnigh as much as our own Church of England. I mean not in respect of theReformation, but rather the time before the Reformation, when our kingswere ever striving with the Pope concerning his right to appoint untodignities and livings. Yet the Reformation itself began first inFrance, and had they in authority been willing to aid it as in England, France had been a Protestant country at this day. "

That evening, as they sat round the fire, Hans astonished them all. 

"Lady Lettice, " said he, "were you willing that I should embark intrade?"

"Hans, my dear boy!" was the astonished response. 

"I will not do it without your good-will thereto, " said he; "nor would Iat all have done it, could I have seen any better way. But I feel thatI ought to be a-work on some matter, and not tarry a burden on yourhands: and all this time have I been essaying two matters--to look outfor a service, and to make a little money for you. The second I have insome sense accomplished, though not to the extent I did desire, and herebe the proceeds, "--and rising from his seat, Hans opened his purse, andpoured several gold pieces into his friend's lap. "The former, howbeit, is not--"

He was interrupted by a little cry from Lady Louvaine. 

"Hans! thou surely thinkest not, dear lad, that I shall strip thee ofthy first earnings, won by hard work?"

"You will, Lady Lettice, without you mean to disappoint and disheartenme very sore, " he answered. 

"But all this!" she exclaimed. 

"'Tis much less than I would have had it; and it hath taken methree-quarters of a year to scrape so much together. But--nay, LadyLettice, forgive me, but never a penny will I take back. You sureforget that I owe all unto you. What should have come of me but for youand Sir Aubrey? But I was about to say, I have essayed in everydirection to take service with a gentleman, and cannot compass it in anywise. So I see no other way but to go into trade. "

"But, Hans, thou art a gentleman's son!"

"I am a King's son, Madam, " said Hans with feeling: "and if I tarnishnot the escocheon of my heavenly birth by honest craft, then shall Ihave no fear for that of mine earthly father. "

"Yet if so were, dear lad--though I should be verily sorry to see theecome down so low--yet bethink thee, thine apprenticeship may not becompassed without a good payment in money. "

"Your pardon, Madam. There is one craftsman in London that is willingto receive me without a penny. Truly, I did nothing to demerit it, since I did but catch up his little maid of two years, that could scarcetoddle, from being run over by an horse that had brake loose from therein. Howbeit, it pleaseth him to think him under an obligation to me, and his good wife likewise. And having made inquiries diligently, Ifind him to be a man of good repute, one that feareth God and dealethjustly and kindly by men: also of his wife the neighbours speak well. Seeing, then, all doors shut upon me save this one, whereat I may freelyenter, it seems to me, under your Ladyship's leave, that this is the waywhich God hath prepared for me to walk in: yet if you refuse permission, then I shall know that I have erred therein. "

"Hans, I would give my best rebate Aubrey had one half thy wit andgoodness!" cried Temperance. 

"I thank you for the compliment, Mistress Murthwaite, " said Hans, laughingly. "But truly, as for my wit, I should be very ill-set tospare half of it; and as for my goodness, I wish him far more of hisown. "

"Where dwells this friend of thine, Hans?" inquired Lady Louvaine. "What is his name? and what craft doth he follow?"

"He dwells near, Madam, in Broad Saint Giles'; his name, Andrew Leigh, and is a silkman. "

"We shall miss thee, my boy, " said Edith. 

"Mrs Edith, that was the only one point that made me to doubt if Ishould take Master Leigh's offer or no. If my personal service be ofmore value to you than my maintenance is a burden, I pray you tell itme: but if not--"

"We never yet reckoned thy maintenance a burden, my dear, " answered LadyLouvaine, lovingly. "And indeed we shall miss thee more than a little. Nevertheless, Hans, I think thou hast wisely judged. There is thine ownfuture to look to: and though, in very deed, I am sorry that life offerthee no fairer opening, yet the Lord wot best that which shall be bestfor thee. Ay, Hans: thou wilt do well to take the offer. "

But there were tears in her eyes as she spoke. 

The old feudal estimate was still strong in men's minds, by which themost honourable of all callings was held to be domestic service; then, trade and handicraft; and, lowest and meanest of all, those occupationsby which men were not fed, clothed, nor instructed, but merely amused. Musicians, painters, poetasters, and above all, actors, were looked onas the very dregs of mankind. The views of the old Lollards, who heldthat art, not having existed in Paradise, was a product of the serpent, had descended to the Puritans in a modified form. Was it surprising, when on every side they saw the serpent pressing the arts and sciencesinto his service? It was only in the general chaos of the Restorationthat this estimate was reversed. The view of the world at present isexactly opposite: and the view taken by the Church is too often that ofthe world. Surely the dignity of labour is lost when men labour toproduce folly, and call it work. There can be no greater waste eitherof time, money, or toil, than to expend them on that which satisfiethnot. 

When Hans came home, a day or two afterwards, he went straight to LadyLouvaine and kissed her hand. 

"Madam, " said he, in a low voice of much satisfaction, "I bring goodnews. I have covenanted with Mr Leigh, who has most nobly granted me, at my request, a rare favour unto a 'prentice--leave to come home whenthe shop is closed, and to lie here, so long as I am every morrow at mywork by six of the clock. I can yet do many little things that may saveyou pain and toil, and I shall hear every even of your welfare. "

"My dear lad, God bless thee!" replied Lady Louvaine, and laid her handupon his head. 

Somewhat later in the evening came Aubrey, to whom all this concerningHans was news. 

"Master Floriszoon, silkman, at the Black Boy in Holborn!" cried he, laughingly. "Pray you, my worthy Master, how much is the best velvet bythe yard? and is green stamyn now in fashion? Whereto cometh galownelace the ounce? Let us hear thee cry, `What do you lack?' that we, maysee if thou hast the true tone. Hans Floriszoon, I thought thou hadstmore of the feeling of a gentleman in thee. "

The blood flushed to Hans' forehead, yet he answered quietly enough. 

"Can a gentleman not measure velvet? and what harm shall it work him toknow the cost of it?"

"That is a quibble, " answered Aubrey, loftily. "For any gentleman tosoil his fingers with craft is a blot on his escocheon, and that youknow as well as I. "

"For any man, gentle or simple, to soil his fingers with sin, or histongue with falsehood, is a foul blot on his escocheon, " replied Hans, looking Aubrey in the face. 

Once more the blood mounted to Aubrey's brow, and he answered with somewarmth, "What mean you?"

"I did but respond to your words. Be mine other than truth?"

"Be not scurrilous, boy!" said Aubrey, angrily. 

"Hans, I am astonished at you!" said Faith. "I know not how it is, butsince we came to London, you are for ever picking quarrels with Aubrey, and seeking occasion against him. Are you envious of his betterfortune, or what is it moves you?"

It was a minute before Hans answered, and when he did so, his voice wasvery quiet and low. 

"I am sorry to have vexed you, Mrs Louvaine. If I know myself, I donot envy Aubrey at all; and indeed I desire to pick no quarrel with anyman, and him least of any. "

Then, turning to Aubrey, he held out his hand. "Forgive me, if I saidaught I should not. "

Aubrey took the offered hand, much in the manner of an insulted monarchto a penitent rebel. Lettice glanced just then at her Aunt Edith, andsaw her gazing from one to the other of the two, with a perplexed andpossibly displeased look on her face, but whether it were with Aubrey orwith Hans, Lettice could not tell. What made Aubrey so angry did notappear. 

Lettice's eyes went to her grandmother. On her face was a verysorrowful look, as if she perceived and recognised some miserablepossibility which she had known in the past, and now saw advancing withdistress. But she did not speak either to Hans or Aubrey. 

The full moon of a spring evening, almost as mild as summer, lighted upthe Strand, throwing into bold relief the figure of a young man, fashionably dressed, who stood at the private door of a tailor's shop, the signboard of which exhibited a very wild-looking object of humanspecies, clad in a loose frock, with bare legs and streaming hair, knownto the initiated as the sign of the Irish Boy. 

Fashionably dressed meant a good deal at that date. It implied adoublet of velvet or satin, puffed and slashed exceedingly, and oftencovered with costly embroidery or gold lace; trunk hose, padded to anenormous width, matching the doublet in cost, and often in pattern;light-coloured silk stockings, broad-toed shoes, with extremely highheels, and silver buckles, or gold-edged shoe-strings; garters of broadsilk ribbons, often spangled with gold, and almost thick enough forsashes; a low hat with a feather and silk hatband, the latter sometimesstudded with precious stones; a suspicion of stays in the region of thewaist, but too likely to be justified by fact; fringed and perfumedgloves of thick white Spanish leather; lace ruffs about the neck andwrists, the open ones of immense size, the small ones closer than in theprevious reign; ear-rings and love-locks: and over all, a gaudy cloak, or rather cape, reaching little below the elbow. In the youth's handwas an article of the first necessity in the estimation of a gentlemanof fashion, --namely, a tobacco-box, in this instance of chased silver, with a mirror in the lid, whereby its owner might assure himself thathis ruff sat correctly, and that his love-locks were not out of curl. Along slender cane was in the other hand, which the youth twirled withbusy idleness, as he carelessly hummed a song. 

 "Let's cast away care, and merrily sing, For there's a time for every thing: He that plays at his work, and works at his play, Doth neither keep working nor holy day. "

A second youth came down the street westwards, walking not with an airof haste, but of one whose time was too valuable to be thrown away. Hewas rather shorter and younger than the first, and was very differentlyattired. He wore a fustian doublet, without either lace or embroidery;a pair of unstuffed cloth hose, dark worsted stockings, shoes withnarrow toes and plain shoe-strings of black ribbon; a flat cap; clothgloves, unadorned and unscented, and a cloak of black cloth, of a morerational length than the other. As he came to the tailor's shop hehalted suddenly. 

"Aubrey!" The tone was one of surprise and pain. 

"Spy!" was the angry response. 

"I am no spy, and you know it. But I would ask what you do here andnow?"

"Are you my gaoler, that I must needs give account to you?"

"I am your brother, Aubrey; and I, as well as you, am my brother'skeeper in so far as concerns his welfare. It is over a month since youvisited us, and your mother and Lady Lettice believe you to be with yourLord in Essex. How come you hither, so late at night, and at anotherdoor than your own?"

"No business of yours! May a man not call to see his tailor?"

"Men do not commonly go to their tailors after shops be shut. "

"Oh, of course, you wot all touching shop matters. Be off to yourgrograne and cambric! I'm not your apprentice. "

"My master's shop is shut with the rest. Aubrey, I saw you last night--though till now I tried to persuade myself it was not you--in Holborn, leaving the door of the Green Dragon. What do you there?"

The answer came blazing with wrath. 

"You saw--you mean, sneaking, blackguardly traitor of a Dutchshopkeeper! I'll have no rascal spies dogging my steps, and--"

"Aubrey, " said the quiet voice that made reply, "you know me better thanthat. I never played the spy on you yet, and I trust you will nevergive me cause. Yet what am I to think when as I pass along the street Ibehold you standing at the door of a Pa--"

"Hold your tongue!"

The closing word was cut sharply in two by that fierce response. Itmight be a pavior, a pear-monger, or a Papist. Hans was silent untilAubrey had again spoken, which he did in a hard, constrained tone. 

"I shall go where I please, without asking your leave or any body'selse! I am of age, and I have been tied quite long enough to theapron-strings of a parcel of women: but I mean not to cut myself loosefrom them, only to pass under guidance of a silly lad that hath never aspark of spirit in him, and would make an old woman of me if I gave himleave. " Then, in a voice more like his own, he added, "Get you in toyour knitting, old Mistress Floriszoon, and tie your cap well o'er yourears, lest the cold wind give you a rheum. "

"I will go in when you come with me, " said Hans calmly. 

"I will not. "

"To-night, Aubrey--only just to-night!"

"And what for to-night, prithee? I have other business afloat. To-morrow I will maybe look in. "

Perhaps Aubrey was growing a little ashamed of his warmth, for his voicehad cooled down. 

"We can never do right either to-morrow or yesterday, " answered Hans. "To-night is all we have at this present. "

"I tell you I will not!" The anger mounted again. "I will not be atthe beck and call of a beggarly tradesfellow!"

"You love better to be at Satan's?"

"Take that for your impudence!"

There was the sound of a sharp, heavy blow--so heavy that the recipientalmost staggered under it. Then came an instant's dead silence: andthen a voice, very low, very sorrowful, yet with no anger in it--

"Good-night, Aubrey. I hope you will come to-morrow. "

And Hans's steps died away in the distance. 

Left to himself, Aubrey's feelings were far from enviable. He wascompelled to recognise the folly of his conduct, as more calculated tofan than deter suspicion; and it sorely nettled him also to perceivethat Hans, shopkeeper though he might be, had shown himself much thetruer gentleman of the two. But little time was left him to indulge inthese unpleasant reflections, for the door behind him was opened by agirl. 

"Mr Catesby at home?"

"Ay, Sir, and Mr Winter is here. Pray you, walk up. "

Aubrey did as he was requested, adding an unnecessary compliment on thegood looks of the portress, to which she responded by a simper ofgratified vanity--thereby showing that neither belonged to the wisestclass of mankind--and he was ushered upstairs, into a small but pleasantparlour, where three gentlemen sat conversing. A decanter stood on thetable, half full of wine, and each gentleman was furnished with a glass. The long silver pipe was passing round from one to another, and itssmoker looked up as Aubrey was announced. 

"Ah! welcome, Mr Louvaine. Mr Winter, you know this gentleman. Sir, this is my very good friend Mr Darcy, "--indicating the third person bya motion of the hand. "Mr Darcy, suffer me to make you acquainted withMr Louvaine, my good Lord Oxford's gentleman and a right pleasantcompanion. --Pray you, help yourself to Rhenish, and take a pipe. "

Aubrey accepted the double invitation, and was soon puffing at the pipewhich Catesby handed to him. 

He had not taken much notice of the stranger, and none at all of agesture on the part of Mr Catesby as he introduced him--a momentarystroking upwards of his forehead, intended as a sign not to Aubrey, butto the other. The stranger, however, perfectly understood it. To himit said, "Here is a simpleton: mind what you say. "

Mr Catesby, the occupant of the furnished apartments, was a man ofunusually lofty height, being over six feet, and of slender build, though well-proportioned; he had a handsome and expressive face, and, while not eloquent, was possessed of the most fascinating and attractivemanners by which man ever dragged his fellow-man to evil. Mr Winter, on the other hand, was as short as his friend was tall. His ratherhandsome features were of the Grecian type, and he had the power ofinfusing into them at will a look of the most touching child-likeinnocence. He spoke five, languages, and was a well-read man for histime. 

The stranger, to whom Aubrey had been introduced as Mr Darcy, was anolder man than either of the others. Mr Catesby was aged thirty-two, and Mr Winter about thirty-five; but Mr Darcy was at least fifty. Hewas a well-proportioned man, and dressed with studied plainness. Along, narrow face, with very large, heavy eyelids, and a long but nothooked nose, were relieved by a moustache, and a beard square andslightly forked in the midst. This moustache hid a mouth which was thecharacteristic feature of the face. No physiognomist would have placedthe slightest confidence in the owner of that mouth. It was at oncesanctimonious and unstable. The manners of its possessor might be suaveor severe; his reputation might be excellent or execrable; but with thatmouth, a Pharisee and a hypocrite at heart he must be. This gentlemanfound it convenient not to be too invariably known by a single name, andthat whereby he had been introduced to Aubrey was one of five aliases--his real one making a sixth. Different persons, in various parts of thecountry, were acquainted with him as Mr Mease, Mr Phillips, MrFarmer, and--his best-known alias--Mr Walley. But his real name wasHenry Garnet, and he was a Jesuit priest. 

To do justice to Aubrey Louvaine, who, though weak and foolish, beingmainly led astray by his own self-sufficiency, was far from beingdeliberately wicked, it must be added that he entertained not the leastidea of the real characters of his new friends. At the house of MrThomas Rookwood, whither he was attracted by the fair Dorothy--who, hadhe but known it, regarded him with cleverly concealed contempt--he hadmade the acquaintance of Mr Ambrose Rookwood, the elder of thebrothers, and the owner of Coldham Hall. This gentleman, to Aubrey'staste, was not attractive; but by him he was introduced to Mr Percy, and later, to Mr Thomas Winter, in whose society the foolish youth tookgreat pleasure. For Mr Catesby he did not so much care; the fact beingthat he was too clever to suit Aubrey's fancy. 

Neither had Aubrey any conception of the use which was being made of himby his new friends. He was very useful; he had just brains enough, andnot too much, to serve their purpose. It delighted Aubrey to air hisfamiliarity with the Court and nobility, and it was convenient to themto know some one whom they could pump without his ever suspecting thathe was being pumped. They often required information concerning themovements and present whereabouts of various eminent persons; andnothing was easier than to obtain it from Aubrey as they sat and smoked. A few glasses of Rhenish wine, and a few ounces of tobacco, were wellworth expending for the purpose. 

Aubrey's anger with Hans, therefore, was not based on any fear ofdiscovery, arising from suspicion of his associates. He was only aimingat independence, combined with a little secret unwillingness toacknowledge his close connection with Mr Leigh's apprentice. Of thereal end of the road on which he was journeying, he had not the leastidea. Satan held out to him with a smile a fruit pleasant to the eyesand good for food, saying, "Thou shalt be as a god, " and Aubrey likedthe prospect, and accepted the apple. 

Having enjoyed himself for about an hour in this manner, and--quiteunconsciously on his part--given some valuable information to hisassociates, he bade them good evening, and returned to Lord Oxford'smansion, in a state of the most delicately-balanced uncertainty whetherto appear or not at the White Bear on the following evening. If only hecould know how much Hans would tell the ladies!

In the room which he had left, he formed for some minutes the subject ofconversation. 

"Where picked you up that jewel?" asked Garnet of Winter. 

"He lives--or rather his friends do--next door to Tom Rookwood, "answered Winter. 

"A pigeon worth plucking?" was the next question. 

"As poor as a church-mouse, but he knows things we need to know, and inpoint of wits he is a very pigeon. He no more guesseth what time of dayit is with us than my Lord Secretary doth. "

The trio laughed complacently, but a rather doubtful expressionsucceeded that of amusement in Garnet's face. 

"Now, good gentlemen, be quiet, " said he, piously. Was there a fainttwinkle in his eyes? "God will do all for the best. We must get it byprayer at God's hands, in whose hands are the hearts of princes. "

"You pray, by all means, and we'll work, " said Catesby, removing thepipe from his lips for an instant. 

At that moment the door opened, and a fourth gentleman made hisappearance. He was as tall and as handsome as Catesby; but theconsiderable amount of white in his dark hair, and more slightly in hisbroad beard, made him look older than his real age, which was forty-six. He stooped a little in the shoulders. His manners were usually gentleand grave; but a pair of large and very lively eyes and an occasionalimpulsive eagerness of speech, wherein he was ready and fluent at alltimes, showed that there was more fire and life in his character thanappeared on the surface. Those who knew him well were aware that histemper was impetuous and precipitate, and on given occasions might betermed quarrelsome without calumny. 

"Shall we always talk, gentlemen, and never do anything?" demanded thenewcomer, without previous greeting. 

"Come in, Mr Percy, and with a right good welcome! The talk iswell-nigh at an end, and the doing beginneth. "

"Our Lady be thanked!" was Percy's response. "We have dallied anddelayed long enough. This morning have I been with Mr Fawkes over thehouse; and I tell you, the mining through that wall shall be no child'splay. "

Winter lifted his eyebrows and pursed his lips. Catesby only remarked, "We must buy strong pickaxes, then, " and resumed his puffing in thecalmest manner. 

"The seventh of February, is it not, Parliament meets?"

"Ay. I trust the Bulls will come from Rome before that. "

"They will be here in time, " said Garnet, rising. "Well, I wish yougood-night, gentlemen. 'Tis time I was on my way to Wandsworth. I lieto-night at Mrs Anne's, whither she looks for her cousin Tresham tocome. "

"My commendations to my cousins, " said Catesby. "Good-night. We meetat White Webbs on Tuesday. "

"_Pax vobiscum_, " said Garnet softly, as he left the room. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. All these are old terms signifying a fool or idiot. Patch wasthe favourite jester of Henry the Eighth, whose name was used assynonymous with fool. 

CHAPTER FIVE. 

BEGINS WITH TEMPERANCE, AND ENDS WITH TREACHERY. 

 "Whate'er we do, we all are doing this-- Reaping the harvest of our yesterdays, Sowing for our to-morrows. "

 S. V. Partridge. 

On the following evening, Aubrey put in an appearance at the White Bear. As soon as he entered, he gave a quick, troubled look round theparlour, before he went up to kiss his grandmother's hand. His AuntTemperance greeted him with, "Give you good even, my Lord Chamberlain!Lancaster and Derby! do but look on him! Blue feather in his hat--laceruff and ruffles--doublet of white satin with gold aglets--trunk hose o'blue velvet, paned with silver taffeta--garters of blue and white silk--and I vow, a pair o' white silken hose, and shoes o' Spanish leather. Pray you, my Lord, is your allowance from the King's Majesty fivehundred pounds or a thousand by the year?"

"Now, Aunt, you know, " said Aubrey, laughing. "That thou art aspendthrift?" answered she. "Ay, I do: and if thou run not into debtthis side o' Christmas, my name is not Temperance Murthwaite. "

"I'm not in debt a penny, " retorted he. 

"Then somebody must have given thee thy pantofles, " replied she. "Bethey a cast-off pair of his Majesty's, or did my Lord Oxford so muchalms to thee?"

Aubrey laughed again, as merrily as if he had not a care nor a fault inthe world. 

"They cost not so much as you reckon, " he said. 

"Four yards of velvet, " calculated Aunt Temperance--"you'll not do itunder, stuffed that wise of bombast, nor buy that quality, neither, under eighteen shillings the yard--let's see, --that is three poundstwelve shillings: silver taffeta, a yard and an half, twenty-two andsixpence--that's four pounds fourteen and six; then the lining, dowlas, I suppose, at fourteen pence--"

"They are lined with perpetuana, Aunt, " answered Aubrey, who seemedgreatly amused by this reckoning. 

"Perpetuana--_lining_? Thou reckless knave! Three-and-fourpence theyard at the least--well, we'll say ten shillings--five pounds four andsix: and the lace, at four shillings by the ounce, and there'll be twoounces there, good: five pounds twelve shillings and sixpence, as I'm aliving woman! 'Tis sinful waste, lad: that's what it is. Your fathernever wore such Babylonian raiment, nor your grandfather neither, andthere was ten times the wisdom and manliness in either of them thatthere'll ever be in you, except you mean to turn your coat ere you are amonth elder. "

As Aubrey turned to reply, his eyes fell on Hans, coming home from themercer's. His face changed in a minute: but Hans came forward with hishand held out as cordially as usual, and a look of real pleasure in hiseyes. 

"Good even, Aubrey; I am glad to see you, " said he. 

"Ay, see him, do!" cried Temperance, before Aubrey could answer; and heonly gave his hand in silence. "Look at him, Hans! Didst ever beholdsuch a pair of pantofles? Five pounds twelve shillings and sixpence!How much cost thine?"

"Mine be not so brave as these, " replied Hans, smiling. "My LordOxford's squire must needs wear better raiment than a silkman'sapprentice, Mrs Murthwaite. "

"Five pounds twelve shillings and sixpence!" persisted she. 

"Come, now, Aunt Temperance! They cost not the half, " said Aubrey. 

"Who didst thou cheat out of them, then?" asked she. 

"I bought them, " he answered, laughing, "of a young noble that had bornethem but twice, and was ill content with the cut and colour of them. "

"He'll come to no good, " sternly pronounced Aunt Temperance. 

"You made a good bargain, " said Hans. "That velvet cost full a poundthe yard, I should say. "

"Aubrey, " inquired Temperance, "I do marvel, and I would fain know, whatthou dost all the day long? Doth thy Lord keep thee standing by hischair, first o' one leg, and then o' tother, while he hath an errand forthee?"

"Why, no, Aunt! I am not an errand-lad, " said Aubrey, and laughed moremerrily than ever. "Of late is his Lordship greatly incommoded, andhath kept his chamber during many days of this last month; but when hehath his health, I will specify unto you what I do. "

"Prithee specify, and I shall be fain to hearken. "

"Well, of a morning I aid his Lordship at his _lever_, and afterbreakfast I commonly ride with him, if it be my turn: then will he readan hour or twain in the law, without the Parliament be sitting, when heis much busied, being not only a morning man, but at committees also; inthe afternoon he is often at Court, or practising of music--just now heexerciseth himself in broken music [the use of stringed instruments] andbrachigraphy [shorthand]: then in the evening we join my Lady and hergentlewomen in the withdrawing chamber, and divers gestes and conceitsbe used--such as singing, making of anagrams, guessing of riddles, andso forth. There is my day. "

"Forsooth, and a useless one it is, " commented she. "The law-books andthe Parliament business seem the only decent things in it. "

"Ah, 'tis full little changed, " remarked Lady Louvaine, "these sixtyyears since I dwelt at Surrey Place. " And she sighed. 

"Temperance, I am astonished at you, " interposed Faith. "You do noughtsave fault-find poor Aubrey. "

"Poor Aubrey! ay, that he is, " returned his Aunt, "and like to be asight poorer, for all that I can see. If you'll fault-find him a bitmore, Faith, there'll not be so much left for me to do. "

"What is the matter?" asked Edith, coming softly in. 

"There's a pair of velvet pantofles and an other of silken hose thematter, my dear, " answered Temperance, "and a beaver hat with a braveblue feather in it. I trust you admire them as they deserve, and himlikewise that weareth them. "

"They are brave, indeed, " said Edith, in her quiet voice. "I would fainhope it is as fair within as without, my boy. "

She looked up in his face as she spoke with yearning love in her eyes;and as Aubrey bent his head to kiss her, he said, in the softest tonewhich he had yet employed since his entrance, "I am afraid not, AuntEdith. "

And Edith answered, in that low, tender voice--

"`Thy beauty was perfect through My comeliness which I had put uponthee. ' Dear Aubrey, let us seek that. "

Aubrey made no answer beyond a smile, and quickly turned theconversation, on his mother asking if he brought any news. 

"But little, " said he. "There be new laws against witchcraft, which isgrown greater and more used than of old, and the King is mightily setagainst it--folks say he is afraid of it. None should think, I ensureyou, how easily frightened is his Majesty, and of matters that shouldnever fright any save a child. "

"But that is not news, Aubrey, " said his mother plaintively. "I want tohear something new. "

"There isn't an artichoke in the market this morrow, " suddenly remarkedher sister. 

"Temperance, what do you mean?"

"Why, that's news, isn't it? I am sure you did not know it, till I toldyou. "

Mrs Louvaine closed her eyes with an air of deeply-tried forbearance. 

"Come, lad, out with thy news, " added Temperance. "Wherewith hath myLady guarded her new spring gowns? That shall serve, I reckon. "

Aubrey laughed. "I have not seen them yet, Aunt. But I heard say ofone of the young gentlewomen that silk is now for the first to be wovenin England, so 'tis like to be cheaper than of old. "

"There's a comfort!" said Mrs Louvaine, rather less languidly thanusual. 

"I heard tell likewise of a fresh colewort, from Cyprus in the East--they call it broccoli or kale-flower. Methinks there is nought else, without you would hear of a new fashion of building of churches, latecome up--but his Lordship saith 'tis a right ancient fashion, whereinthe old Greeks were wont to build their houses and temples. "

"Methinks it scarce meet to go to the heathen for the pattern of achurch, " said Lady Louvaine; "are not our old churches fair enough, andsuitable for their purpose?"

"In this new fashion he no chancels, " said Aubrey. 

"Well, and I should hold with that, " cried Temperance: "they give riseto vain superstitions. If there be no mass, what lack we of a chancel?"

"If men list, my dear, to bring in the superstitions, " quietly remarkedLady Louvaine, "they shall scarce stick at the want of a chancel. "

"True, Madam: yet would I fain make it as hard to bring them as ever Icould. "

Aubrey left his friends about six o'clock, and Hans followed him to thedoor. On the steps there was a short, low-toned conversation. 

"Hans, after all, thou art a good lad. Did I hurt thee?"

"'Tis all o'er now, Aubrey: no matter. "

"Then I did. Well, I am sorry. Shall I give thee a silver chain tomake up, old comrade?"

"All is made up. Prithee, give me nothing--save--my brother Aubrey. "

Aubrey's tone was glib and light, though with a slight sub-accent ofregret. Hans's voice was more hesitating and husky. It cost Hans muchto allow any one a glimpse into his heart; it cost Aubrey nothing. But, as is often the case, the guarded chamber contained rare treasure, whilein the open one there was nothing to guard. 

"Thou art a good lad!" said Aubrey again, in a slightly ashamed tone, ashe took the offered hand. "Truly, Hans, I was after none ill, only--well, I hate to be watched and dogged, or aught like thereto. "

"Who does not?" replied Hans. "And in truth likewise, I was but cominghome, and spake my astonishment at seeing you. "

"We are friends, then?"

"God forbid we should ever be any thing else! Good-night, and God keepyou in His way!"

Not many days afterwards, an event happened, of some consequence to ourfriends at the White Bear. Their one powerful friend, Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford, died in June, 1604. 

A strange study for a student of human nature is this Earl of Oxford--acurious compound, like his late royal lady, of greatness and littleness. He began life as a youthful exquisite. His costumes were moreextravagant, his perfumes more choice, his Italian more pure and fluent, than those of the other dilettante nobles of his time. He was a minorpoet of some note in his day, and was esteemed to be the first writer ofcomedy then living--though Shakespeare was living too. In middle lifehe blossomed out into a military patriot. He ended his days as a hard, cold, morose old man. His life-lamp was used up: it had been made so toflare in early youth, that there was no oil left to light him at theend, when light and warmth were most needed. Having quarrelled with hisfather-in-law, the great Earl of Burleigh, he registered a savage andsenseless vow to "ruin his daughter, " which he could do only by ruininghimself. In pursuance of this insane resolution, he spent right andleft, until his estate was wrecked, and the innocent Countess Anne washunted into her grave. 

The son who succeeded to his father's title, and to the few acres whichthis mad folly had not flung away, was a mere boy of twelve years old. It became a serious question in Lady Louvaine's mind whether Aubreyshould remain in the household after the decease of the old Earl. Shefound, however, that the widowed Countess Elizabeth kept a very orderlyhouse, and a strict hand over her son and his youthful companions, sothat Lady Louvaine, who saw no other door open, thought it best to leaveAubrey where he was. The Countess, who had been Maid of Honour to QueenElizabeth, had been well drilled by that redoubtable lady into properand submissive behaviour; and she now required similar good conduct fromher dependants, with excellent reasons for absence or dereliction fromduty. That she was never deceived would be too much to say. 

Meanwhile, matters progressed busily in the house by the river-side. The conspirators took in a sixth accomplice--Christopher Wright, theyounger brother of John--and the six began their mine, about theeleventh of December, 1604. 

The wall of the House of Lords was three yards in thickness; the cellarof Percy's house was extremely damp, being close to the river, and thewater continually oozed through into the mine. Finding their task moredifficult than they had anticipated, a seventh was now taken into thenumber--a pervert, Robert Keyes, the son of a Protestant clergyman inDerbyshire. A second house was hired at Lambeth, of which Keyes wasplaced in charge, while to Fawkes was committed the chief business oflaying in the combustibles, first in the Lambeth house, and afterwardsof removing them to that at Westminster. Fawkes went cautiously abouthis business, purchasing his materials in various parts of the City, soas not to excite suspicion. He provided in all, three thousand billetsof wood, five hundred faggots, thirty-six barrels of gunpowder, withstones and bars of iron, in order that the explosion might be moredestructive. From the Bankside, or south bank of the Thames, where itlay in hampers, twenty barrels of the powder was first brought in boats, by night, to the house at Westminster, where it was stored in the cellarto await the finishing of the mine. By Christmas they had penetratedthe wall of Percy's house, and had reached that of the House of Lords. They thought it desirable now to rest for the Christmas holidays; Keyeswas left in charge of the house at Lambeth, and the others departed invarious directions. 

"Well, upon my word! Prithee, good my master, who's your tailor?"

The speaker was Temperance Murthwaite, who was clad in the plainest ofbrownish drab serges, without an unnecessary tag or scrap of fringe, andcarried on her arm an unmistakable market-basket, from which protrudedthe legs of a couple of chickens and sundry fish-tails, notwithstandingthe clean cloth which should have hidden such ignoble articles frompublic view. The person addressed was Mr Aubrey Louvaine, and hiscostume was a marvel of art and a feast of colour. 

"My tailor is Adrian Sewell, Aunt, in Thieving Lane--"

"Like enough!" was the response. "Well, Gentleman?"

"Shall I--" The words died on Aubrey's lips. His aunt, who read histhoughts exactly, stood wickedly enjoying the situation. 

"Shall you carry the basket? By all means, if it please your Highness. Have a care, though, lest the tails of those whitings sully yon bravecrimson velvet, and see the fowls thrust not their talons into thatSpanish lace. Methinks, Master Aubrey, considering your bravery ofarray, you were best pocket your civility this morrow. It'll be lesserlike to harm the lace and velvet than the chicks' legs and thefish-tails. You may keep me company an' you will, if I be good enoughto trudge alongside so fine a Whitsuntide show as you are. That's twoof 'em. "

"Of what, Aunt?" said Aubrey, feeling about as unhappy as a mixture ofhumiliation and apprehension could make him. If they were to meet oneof Lord Oxford's gentlemen, or one of his wealthy acquaintances, he feltas though he should want the earth to open and swallow him. 

"Suits, Gentleman, " was the reply. "Blue and white the first; crimsonand silver the second. Haven't seen the green and gold yet, nor theyellow, nor purple. Suppose they're in the wardrobe. Rather earlytimes, to be thus bedizened, or seems so to working folks--the Abbeyclock went eight but a few minutes since. But quality is donned early, I know. "

As Mistress Temperance emitted this tingling small-shot of words, shewas marching with some rapidity up Old Palace Yard and the Abbey Close, her magnificent nephew keeping pace with her, right sore against hiswill. At last Aubrey could bear no longer. The windows of the GoldenFish were in sight, and his soul was perturbed by a vision of the fairDorothy, who might be looking out, and whose eyes might light on thejewel of himself in this extremely incongruous setting of AuntTemperance and the fish-tails. 

"Aunt Temperance, couldn't--" Aubrey's words did not come so readily asusual, that morning. 

"Couldn't I walk slower?" suggested the aggravating person who was thecause of his misery. "Well, belike I could. --There's Mrs Gertrude upat the window yonder--without 'tis Mrs Dorothy. --There's no hurry inespecial, only I hate to waste time. "

And suiting the action to the word, Aunt Temperance checked her steps, so as to give the young lady, whether it were Gertrude or Dorothy, amore leisurely view of the fish-tails. 

"Couldn't Rachel go marketing instead of you?" sputtered out Aubrey. 

"Rachel has her own work; and so has Charity. And so have I, MrLouvaine. I suppose you haven't, as you seem to be gallivanting aboutWestminster in crimson and silver at eight o'clock of a morning. Nowthen--"

"Aunt, 'tis not my turn this morrow to wait on my Lord's _lever_. Ishall be at his _coucher_ this even. "

"You may open the door, my master, if it demean not so fine agentleman. --Good maid! Take my basket, Rachel. The fish for dinner, and the chicken for to-morrow. "

"There's nobut four whitings here, Mistress: shouldn't there be five?"

"Hush thee, good maid. They're twopence apiece. "

"Eh, yo' never sen [say] so!"

"Ay, but I do. Let be; I'll have a bit of green stuff, or something. "

And as Rachel, looking but half satisfied, went off with the basket, Temperance threw open the parlour door. 

"Madam, suffer me to announce the Duke of Damask, the Prince of Plush, the Viscount of Velvet, and the Baron of Bombast. Pray you, look notfor four nobles; there is but one. "

"Aubrey!" was the response, in diverse tones, from the three ladies. 

The object of this attention did not look happy; but he walked in andoffered due greeting to his relatives. Temperance sat down, untied herplain black hood, and laid it aside. 

"And whither might your Lordship be going when I captivated you?" askedshe. "Not to this house, for you had passed it by. "

"In good sooth, Aunt, I did not--I meant, indeed--I should maybe havelooked in, " stammered the young man. 

"Tell no lies, my lad, for thou dost it very ill, " was Aunt Temperance'smost inconsiderate reply. 

"You might come to see us oftener, I'm sure, Aubrey, if you would, " saidhis mother in a plaintive voice. "It is hard, when I have only onechild, that he should never care to come. I wish you had been a girllike Lettice, and then we could have had some comfort out of you. "

"My dear, " said Aunt Temperance, "he is devoutly thankful he's not. Hedoesn't want to be tied at the aprons of a parcel of women, trust me. Have you had your pipe of open-work, or what you are pleased to call it, Gentleman, this morrow? Only think of hanging that filthy stench aboutthose velvet fal-lals! With whom spent you last even, lad?"

The question came so suddenly that Aubrey was startled into truth. "With some friends of mine in the Strand, Aunt. " The next instant hewas sorry. 

"Let's have their names, " said Aunt Temperance. 

"Well, Tom Rookwood was one. "

"Folks generally put the best atop. Hope _he_ wasn't the best. Whoelse?"

"Some gentlemen to whom Rookwood introduced me. "

"I want their names, " said the female examiner. 

"Well--one of them is a Mr Winter. " Aubrey spoke with greatreluctance, as his aunt saw well. He selected Winter's name as beingleast uncommon of the group. But he soon found that Destiny, in theperson of Aunt Temperance, did not mean to let him off so lightly asthis. 

"What sort of an icicle is he?"

"He isn't an icicle at all, Aunt, but a very good fellow and rightpleasant company. "

"Prithee bring him to see us. Where lodgeth he?--is he a London man?"

"He is a Worcestershire gentleman, on a visit hither. "

"Pass him. Who else?"

"Well--a man named Darcy. "

"A man, and _not_ a gentleman? Whence comes he?"

"I don't know. Scarcely a gentleman, seeing he deals in horses. "

"Horses are good fellows enough, mostly: but folks who deal in horsesare apt to be worser, --why, can I never tell. Is the horse-dealerpleasant company belike?"

"Not so much to my liking as Mr Winter. "

"I'm fain to hear it. Who else?"

"There is a Mr Percy, kin to my Lord Northumberland. "

Aunt Temperance drew in her breath with an inverted whistle. "Lo, younow, we are in select society!"

But Edith turned suddenly round. "Aubrey, is he a true Protestant?"She knew that Lord Northumberland was reckoned "the head of therecusants. "

"I really don't know, Aunt, " replied Aubrey, to whom the idea had neverbefore occurred. "I never heard him say aught whence I could guess it. He is a very agreeable man. "

"The more agreeable, maybe, the more dangerous. My boy, do have a care!`He that is not with Me is against Me. '"

"Oh, he's all right, I am sure, " said Aubrey, carelessly. 

"You seem sure on small grounds, " said Aunt Temperance. "Well, have wemade an end?--is he the last?"

"No, there is one other--Mr Catesby. "

Aubrey had deliberately left Catesby to the last, yet he could not haveexplained for what reason. Lady Louvaine spoke for the first time. 

"Catesby?--a Catesby of Ashby Ledgers?"

"I have not heard, further than that his home is in Northamptonshire, and his mother the Lady Anne Catesby. "

"I think it is. They are a Popish family, or were, not many years ago. Aubrey, come here. "

The young man obeyed, in some surprise. His gentle grandmother was notwont to speak in tones of such stern determination as these. 

"My boy!" she said, "I charge thee on my benison, and by the dear memoryof him from whom thou hast thy name, that thou endeavour thyself tothine utmost to discover whether these men be Papists or no. Ask not ofthemselves--they may deceive thee; and a Papist oft counts deceit nowrong when it is done in the interests of his Church. Make mycompliments to my cousin, my Lady Oxford, and give her the names ofthese gentlemen, and where they lodge; saying also that I do mostearnestly beseech that she will make inquiry by her chaplain, and giveme to know, how they stand concerned in this matter. Aubrey, you knownot the danger of such friendship: I do. Obey me, at your peril. "

Never in his life had Aubrey heard such words from the usually soft, sweet lips of the Lady Lettice. He was thoroughly frightened, all themore because the dangers to be feared were so vague and unknown. A fewminutes before, he had been feeling vexed with his Aunt Temperance forcatechising him so strictly about his friends. Now, this sensation hadquite given way before astonishment and vague apprehension. 

"Yes, Madam, I will, " he answered gravely. 

And he meant it. But--

What a number of excellent people, and what a multiplicity of gooddeeds, there would be in this naughty world, if only that littleconjunction could be left out!

Aubrey quitted the White Bear with the full intention of carrying outhis grandmother's behest. But not just now. He must do it, of course, before he saw her again. Lady Oxford might take it into her head to paya visit to Lady Louvaine, in which case it would surely be discovered ifthe question had not been passed on. Of course it must be done: only, not just now. He might surely spend a few more pleasant evenings atWinter's lodgings, before he set on foot those disagreeable inquirieswhich might end in his being deprived of the pleasure. Lady Oxford, therefore, was not troubled that evening, --nor the next, nor indeed fora goodly number to follow. But within a week of his visit to the WhiteBear, when the sharp edge of his grandmother's words had been a littleblunted by time, and the cares of other things had entered in, Aubreyagain made his way to the lodgings occupied by Winter at the sign of theDuck, in the Strand, "hard by Temple Bar. "

There were various reasons for this action. In the first place, Aubreywas entirely convinced that the judgment of a man of twenty-one was tobe preferred before that of a woman of seventy-seven. Secondly, heenjoyed Winter's society. Thirdly, he liked Winter's tobacco. Fourthly, he admired Betty, who usually let him in, and who, being evenmore foolish than himself, was not at all averse to a few emptycompliments and a little frothy banter, which he was very ready tobestow. For Aubrey was not of that sterling metal of which hisgrandfather had been made, "who loved one only and who clave to her, "and to whom it would have been a moral impossibility to flirt with onewoman while he was making serious love to another. Lastly, the societyof his friends had acquired an added zest by the probability of itsbeing a dangerous luxury. He loved dearly to poise himself on the edgeof peril, though of course, like all who do so, he had not the slightestintention of falling in. 

On the evening in question, Betty made no appearance, and Aubrey was letin by her mistress, a plain-featured middle-aged woman, on whom he hadno temptation to waste his perfumes. He made his way up the stairs toWinter's door, and his hand was on the latch when he heard Percy'svoice. 

"Through by the seventh of February! You'll be nothing of the sort. "

"I cry you mercy. I think we shall, " answered Catesby. 

Aubrey lifted the latch, and entered. 

Four gentlemen sat round the fire--Winter and Catesby; Percy, whomAubrey knew, and in whose hand was the pipe; and a fourth, a tall, dark, and rather fine-looking man, with brown hair, auburn beard, and amoustache the ends of which curled upwards. 

"Ha! Mr Louvaine? You are right welcome, " said Winter, rising togreet his young friend, while Percy took his pipe from his lips, andoffered it to the latter. Nobody introduced the stranger, and Aubreytook but little notice of him, especially as thenceforth he sat insilence. He might have paid more if he could have known that afterthree hundred years had rolled by, and the names of all then known aseminent men should have faded from common knowledge, the name of thatman should be fresh in the memory of every Englishman, and deeplyinteresting to every English boy. He was in the company of Guy Fawkes. 

To appear as a nameless stranger, and indeed to appear at all as littleas possible, was Fawkes's policy at this moment. He was just about topresent himself on the stage as John Johnson, "Mr Percy's man, " and forany persons in London to know him by his own name would be a seriousdrawback, for it was to a great extent because he was unknown in Townthat he had been selected to play this part. Yet matters were not quiteready for the assumption of his new character. He therefore sat silent, and was not introduced. 

They smoked, sipped Rhenish wine, and chatted on indifferent subjects, for an hour or more; discussed the "sleeping preacher, " Richard Haydock, then just rising into notoriety--who professed to deliver his sermons inhis sleep, and was afterwards discovered to be an imposter; the lastbenefaction in the parish church, for two poor Irish gentlewomen ontheir journey home, recommended by letters from the Council; the lastnew ballad. 

"But have you beheld, " asked Winter, when these topics were exhausted, "the King's new caroche of the German fashion, with a roof to fallasunder at his Majesty's pleasure?"

"I have, " said Catesby; "and methinks it shall take with many, gentlewomen more in especial. "

"Wherefore, now?" inquired Percy, laughing. "Think you gentlewomen lackair rather than gentlemen, or that they shall think better to show theirdainty array and their fair faces?"

"A little of both, " was the answer. 

"There is truly great increase in coaches of late years, " remarkedWinter. 

"Why, the saddlers are crying out they are like to be ruined, " saidPercy; "the roads are cloyed and pestered, and the horses lamed. "

"Ay, and that is not the worst of it, " added Catesby. "Evil-disposedpersons, who dare not show themselves openly for fear of correction, shadow and securely convey themselves in coaches, and so are not to bedistinguished from persons of honour. "

The whole company agreed that this was extremely shocking, and piouslydenounced all evil-disposed persons in a style which Aubrey thought mostedifying. As he walked back later, he meditated whether he should makethose inquiries of Lady Oxford that night, and decided not to do so. Noreal Papist or traitor, thought the innocent youth, would be likely todenounce evil-disposed persons! The airs they had been singing, beforeparting, recurred to his mind, and he hummed fragments of them as hewent along. "Row well, ye mariners", "All in a garden green", "Phillidaflouts me, " and the catch of "Whoop, Barnaby!" finishing up with"Greensleeves" and one or two madrigals--these had been their eveningentertainment: but madrigals were becoming unfashionable, and were notheard now so often as formerly. The music of Elizabeth's day, which wasmainly harmony with little melody, containing "scarcely any tune thatthe uncultivated ear could carry away, " was giving way to a less learnedbut more melodious style. Along with this, there was a rapid increasein the cultivation of instrumental music, while vocal music continued tobe exceedingly popular. It was usual enough for tradesmen and artisansto take part in autiphons, glees, and part-songs of all kinds, whileballads were in such general favour that ballad-mongers could earntwenty shillings a day. A bass viol generally hung in a drawing-roomfor the visitors to play; but the few ladies who used this instrumentwere thought masculine. The education of girls at this time admitted ofscarcely any accomplishment but music: they were taught to read, write, sew, and cook, to play the virginals, lute, and cithern, and to readprick-song at sight, --namely, to sing from the score, withoutaccompaniment. Those who were acquainted with any language beside theirown were the few and highly-cultured; and a girl who knew French orItalian was still more certain to have learned Latin, if not Greek. German and Spanish were scarcely ever taught; indeed, the former wasregarded as quite outside the list of learnable tongues. 

It was a sore trouble to Aubrey that the White Bear and the Golden Fishwere next door to each other. Had he had the ordering of theirtopography, they would have been so situated that he could have droppedinto the latter, to sun himself in the eyes of the fair Dorothy, withoutthe least fear of being seen from the former. He stood in wholesomefear of his Aunt Temperance's sharp speeches, and had a less wholesome, because more selfish, dislike of his mother's ceaseless complaints. Moreover, Aunt Edith was wont to disturb his equanimity by a few quietoccasional words which would ring in his ears for days afterwards, andmake him very uncomfortable. Her speeches were never long, but theywere often weighty, and were adapted to make their hearers considertheir ways, and think what they would do in the end thereof--a style ofconsideration always unwelcome to Aubrey, and especially so since hisview of the world had been enlarged by coming to London. 

He was just now in an awkward position, and the centre and knot of theawkwardness was Dorothy Rookwood. He was making no way with Dorothy. Her brother he met frequently at Winter's rooms, but if he wished to seeher, he must go to her home. If he went there, he must call at theWhite Bear. If he did that, he must first deliver his grandmother'smessage to Lady Oxford. And only suppose that Lady Oxford's inquiriesshould lead to discoveries which would end in a rupture between theGolden Fish and the White Bear--in Aubrey's receiving an order to dropall acquaintance with the Rookwoods! For Aubrey's training, while verykindly conducted, had been one of decided piety; and unchanged as washis heart, the habits and tone of eighteen years were not readily shakenoff. He could not feel easy in doing many things that he saw others do;he could not take upon his lips with impunity words which he heardfreely used around him. His conscience was unseared as yet, and ittormented him sorely. The result of these reflections was that Aubreyturned into Oxford House, without visiting King Street at all, andsought his bed without making any attempt to convey the message. 

Before the conspirators resumed their work after the Christmas holidays, they took two more into their number. These were Robert Winter ofHuddington, the elder brother of Thomas, and John Grant of Norbrook, whohad married Dorothy, sister of the Wrights. Catesby and Thomas Winterwent down to the Catherine Wheel at Oxford, whence they sent for theirfriends to come to them, and having first pledged them to secrecy, theywere then initiated into the plot. 

It was about this Christmas that Catesby also took into his confidencethe only one of the conspirators who was not a gentleman--his ownservant, Thomas Bates, partly because he had "great opinion of him forhis long-tried fidelity, " and partly also because, having been employedin carrying messages, he suspected that he had some inkling of thesecret, and wished that, like the rest, he should be bound to keep it byoath. Bates is described as a yeoman, and "a man of mean station, whohad been much persecuted on account of religion. " Having been desiredto confirm his oath by receiving the Sacrament "with intention, " and asa pre-requisite of this was confession, Bates went to Greenway, whom heacquainted with the particulars, "which he was not desirous to hear, "and asked if he might lawfully join in such work. Greenway directed himto keep the secret, "because it was for a good cause, " and forbade himto name the subject to any other priest. This is Bates's account;Greenway asserts that Bates never named the subject to him, either in orout of confession; but the Jesuit code of morality required his denial, if he had heard it in confession only. Poor Bates was the most innocentof the conspirators, and the most truly penitent: he was rather a tooland a victim than a miscreant. He lost his life through neglect of amuch-forgotten precept--"If sinners entice thee, consent thou not. "

The conspirators now set to work again on their mine, and wrought tillCandlemas Day, by which time they were half through the wall of theHouse. Fawkes was on all occasions the sentinel. They had providedthemselves with "baktmeats, " pasties, and hard-boiled eggs, sufficientfor twenty days, in order to avoid exciting the suspicions of theirneighbours by constantly bringing fresh provisions to a house supposedto be occupied by one person alone. The labour was very severe, especially to Catesby and Percy, on account of their unusual height. The oozing in of the water was a perpetual annoyance. But one day, something terrible occurred. 

As the amateur miners plied their picks with diligence, the toll of abell was suddenly heard. John Wright, who was furthest in the mine, stopped with uplifted tool. 

"Blessed saints! what can that be?"

Work was unanimously suspended. 

"It comes from the very midst of the wall!" said Catesby, growing ashade paler. 

"_Refugium peccatorum, ora pro nobis_!" piously entreated Percy, crossing himself. 

"Call Mr Fawkes, " suggested Christopher. 

Mr Fawkes was summoned, by his official name of Johnson; and comingdown into the cellar, declared that he also distinctly heard the uncannysound. 

"'Tis the Devil that seeketh to make stay of our work, " pronouncedPercy--a most improbable suggestion, for Satan surely had no cause tointerfere with his servants when engaged in his own business. 

"Have we here any holy water?" asked Catesby. 

"Ay, there is in the bedchamber, " said Fawkes. 

"Pray you, fetch it quickly. "

The holy water was at once brought, and the wall was sprinkled with it. At that moment the tolling ceased. 

"Blessed be our Lady! the holy water hath stayed it, " said Percy. 

After a few minutes' pause, the work was recommenced: but it had gone onfor barely an hour when again the unearthly bell began its work. Oncemore the benitier was brought, and the wall sprinkled; whereupon thediabolical noise stopped at once. For several days these processes wererepeated, the bell invariably being silenced by the sprinkling of theblessed element. At least, so said the conspirators. 

About the second of February, there was another scare. A strangerushing noise was heard on the other side of the wall, from what causewas unknown; and Catesby, as usual the chief director, whispered toFawkes to go out and ascertain what it was. 

Fawkes accordingly went upstairs, and out into the street. A waggonstood before the door of the House of Lords, and men were busy carryingsacks and tubs from the cellar to the waggon. Charcoal only was thensold by the sack; sea-coal being disposed of in tubs. 

"Good-morrow, Master, " said Roger Neck, the servant who wassuperintending the transaction, as Fawkes paused a moment, apparently tolook on, after the fashion of an idle man. Roger had seen him more thanonce, passing in and out of Percy's house; but he was the only one ofthe plotters ever visible in the daytime. 

"Good-morrow, friend. Selling your coals off?"

"Ay, we're doing a middling stroke of business this morrow. "

"How much a load? We shall want some ere long. "

"Charcoal, fourteen shillings; cannel, sixpence to ninepence, accordingto quality. "

Fawkes walked down the street, to avoid suspicion, into King Street, where he turned into the first shop to which he came. It happened to bea cutler's, and he bought the first thing he saw--a dozen knives ofSheffield make. Had they been London-made, they would have cost fourtimes as much as the modest shilling demanded for them. He thenreturned to Percy's house, carrying the knives in his hand. Fawkes hadnow fully blossomed out in his new role of "Mr Percy's man, " and wasclad in blue camlet accordingly, blue being then the usual wear ofservants out of livery. 

"What is it, Johnson?" asked Percy, addressing Fawkes by his assumedname, when he came down into the cellar. 

"It is a dozen of Sheffield knives, Master, " replied Fawkes a littledrily: "and by the same token, our next neighbour is selling his coals, and looks not unlike to clear out his cellar. "

"Is that all?"

"That is all. "

Two of the conspirators looked at each other. 

"If you could hire the cellar--" suggested Catesby. 

"Done!" said Percy. "It should save us a peck of trouble. "

"Who owns it?--or who hath it?" asked Catesby. 

"Why, for who owns it, I guess the Parliament House, " answered Fawkes;"but for who hath it, that must we discover. "

"Pray you, make haste and discover it, then. "

Fawkes went out again to make inquiries. He found without difficultythat the cellar, like the houses adjoining, was held by the Wyniards, and it was agreed that Percy should call on them and endeavour to obtainit. 

He accordingly went to see his landlady, to whom he represented that hewished to bring his wife up to live with him in London--she was in thecountry at present, and he missed her sorely--but if that were done, hemust have more stowage for wood and coals. 

Mrs Wyniard's interest was aroused at once in a man who cared for hiswife, and felt a want of her society. 

"Well, now, I am sorry!" said she. "You see, we've let that vault toMrs Skinner--leastwise, Mrs Bright, she is now--o' King Street, tostore her coals. Her new husband's a coal-seller, see you. You shouldhave had it, as sure as can be, if I hadn't. "

"It were very much to my commodity, " said Percy, truthfully this time, "if I could hire that cellar, and, "--the second half of the sentence wasa falsehood--"I have already been to Mrs Skinner, and hold herconsent. "

"Well, now, but that's a bit mean o' Skinner's wife, " said Mrs Wyniardin a vexed tone; "she shouldn't ha' done that and ne'er ha' let me know. I wouldn't ha' thought that of Ellen Skinner--no, I wouldn't. "

"But, " suggested Percy, insinuatingly, "if I gave you twenty shillingsover for your good-will, and prayed you to say nought to Mrs Skinner, and I will likewise content her?"

"Well, you know how to drive a bargain, forsooth, " answered MrsWyniard, laughing. "Come, I'll let Widow Skinner be--Mistress Bright, Imean. You shall have the vault for four pounds a quarter, if so beshe's content. "

Percy's next visit was to the coal-seller and his bride. Mr Bright wasnot at home, but Mrs Bright was; and though she could not write hername [Note 1], she could use her tongue to some purpose. 

"To be sure we hold the cellar. Sixteen pound by the year, and that'splenty. Takes a many loads of coals to make that, I warrant you. "

"I wondered, " said Percy in a careless manner, as though he did not muchcare whether he got it or not, "whether you might let me the cellar forthe same purpose? I think to lay in wood and coals for the winter, andmy own cellar is scarce large enough, for I am a Northern man, and lovea good fire. This cellar of yours, being so close by, should be greatlyto my convenience, if you were willing. "

"Well, to be sure, and it would so!" assented innocent Mrs Bright. "You see, I can't speak certain till my master comes in, but I'm sureyou may take it as good: he mostly does as I bid him. So we'll say, ifMrs Wyniard be content to accept the rent from you, you shall have itat four pound by the quarter, and give me forty shillings in my hand. "[Note 2. ]

"Done, " said Percy, "if your husband consent. "

"I'll see to it he doth, " she answered with a capable nod. 

The bargain was struck: Andrew Bright did as he was told, and Percy wasto become the occupant of the cellar without delay. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. She signed her deposition by a mark, while her servant RogerNeck, wrote his name. 

Note 2. Examination of Ellen Bright, Gunpowder Plot Book, article 24. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

WAIT A MONTH. 

 "Alas, long-suffering and most patient God! Thou needst be surelier God to bear with us Than even to have made us. "

 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

The conspirators had just concluded their bargain, and decided that thecellar must be stored with materials in all haste, to be ready for themeeting of Parliament on the seventh of February, when like a bomb-shellin their midst fell a royal proclamation, proroguing Parliament againuntil the third of October. To go on now, especially in haste, wasplainly a useless proceeding. 

A short consultation was held, which ended in the decision that theyshould part and scatter themselves in different places. Fawkesparticularly was enjoined to keep out of the way, since he was wanted toappear as a stranger when the moment arrived for action; he thereforedetermined to go abroad. 

The rest dispersed in various directions: Percy was left alone at thehouse in Westminster, where he beguiled his leisure by having a doormade through the wall, where the mine had been, so as to give him easieraccess to the vault under the House, and better opportunities ofcarrying in the combustibles unseen. They agreed to meet again, readyfor work, on the second of September; and before parting, one other wasadmitted to their fellowship, to whom was confided the task of aidingFawkes to accumulate the store of powder. This was Mr AmbroseRookwood, of Coldham Hall, Suffolk. 

Before Fawkes left England, he accomplished one important piece ofbusiness, by carrying into the vault beneath the House all the wood andcoals hitherto stored in Percy's cellar. Among it was carefully hiddenthe gunpowder also in waiting, billets of wood being heaped upon thebarrels. The door was then locked, and Fawkes took the key, marking thedoor on the inside in such a manner that its having been opened could bedetected thereafter. The wife of the porter, Gideon Gibbons, the nextdoor neighbour, was placed in charge of Percy's house, in which notell-tale combustibles had now been left. Keyes was made againcustodian of the house at Lambeth. 

These arrangements being complete, Percy went to see his wife, whom hehad left in the country, and Fawkes, embarking at Dover, took hisjourney to Brussels, where he resumed his own name. 

When Aubrey applied next at the door of Winter's lodgings, he wasinformed that the gentlemen were gone into the country. He turned backdisappointed--after a little frothy banter with Betty, which it would bea sad waste of paper and ink to detail--and began to consider what heshould do next. A sensation of extreme relief came to his mind, as theidea occurred to him that there could be no need at all to make anyinquiries during the absence of his friends. He might visit the fairDorothy, and even venture into the jaws of the White Bear, without fearof any thing unpleasant. Merely to say that his friends had left Town, and he was not now cultivating their society, would surely satisfy hisgrandmother: and as for any thing else, --why, let fate take care of thefuture. Being usually the creature of impulse, no sooner was this said, or rather thought, than it was done. Aubrey turned away from the Duck, and retraced his steps to Charing Cross, left Whitehall behind him, andcame out into King Street. 

Now came the tug of war. Would he meet Aunt Temperance? or would thatformidable and irresistible individual pounce upon him from the door?But all was still, and he reached the Golden Fish without any mishap. 

Another disappointment! He was shown into the parlour, where Gertruderose to meet him, and Mrs Rookwood came in a few minutes later. Tomwas spending the evening with friends, and Anne was with him. Aubreycared nothing about Anne, whom he mentally dubbed a stupid idiot; forTom's absence he was more sorry. But what was Dorothy doing that shedid not shine on her worshipper?

"Had you honoured us with a visit last Tuesday, Mr Louvaine, " saidGertrude, glancing at him, as she was wont to do, out of the corners ofher dark eyes, "we had enjoyed the happiness of bringing you acquaintedwith our uncle Rookwood of Coldham Hall. He left us, o' Wednesday inthe morning, for his place in Suffolk. "

"Doll is gone with him, " placidly added Mrs Rookwood. 

The bright colours of Gertrude's embroidery took a sudden tarnish in theeyes of the visitor. 

"Ay, for a month or two, " said Gertrude, lightly. "She shall find amerry house at Coldham, you may be sure. Our cousins, and all theBurgesses, and the Collinsons--ever so many young gentlemen andgentlewomen--and, " with a slight, significant laugh, "Mr Roland Burgessin particular. "

Aubrey felt as if he should exceedingly have enjoyed despatching MrRoland Burgess to the Caucasus, or Cochin-China, or any otherinconceivably remote locality. He did not stay long after that. Therewas nothing to keep him. Bows and courtesies were exchanged, andAubrey, feeling as if life were flat and unsatisfying, turned into theWhite Bear. 

It was nearly dusk, and he could not see whom he met by the parlourdoor. 

"Is that your Lordship?" greeted him, in the voice of Aunt Temperance. "Blue or yellow this even? Truly, we scarce looked for so much honouras two visits in the twelvemonth. Why, without I err, 'tis not yetthree months since we had leave to see your Lordship's crimson andsilver. Pray you, walk in--you are as welcome as flowers in May, aswise as Waltom's calf, and as safe to mend as sour ale in summer. "

"You are full of compliments, Aunt Temperance, " said Aubrey, half vexedand half laughing. 

"I'm like, with strangers, Gentleman. "

Aubrey went past her into the parlour, to receive a warmer and lesssarcastic welcome from the rest of his relatives--his mother excepted, who reminded him, in her usual plaintive tones, that she was a poorwidow, and it was very hard if she might never see her only child. 

"Well, I am here, Mother. "

"Ay, but you scarce ever come. 'Tis ever so long that we have not seenyou. 'Tis cruel of my Lord Oxford thus to keep you away from your poormother. "

"My Lord Oxford has less to do with it, my dear, than Mr AubreyLouvaine, " said her sister. "Young men don't commonly reckon theirmothers' company the sweetest. They never know on which side theirbread's buttered. "

"No butter will stick on my bread, Aunt, " said Aubrey, answering oneproverb by another. 

Instead of replying, Aunt Temperance lighted a candle and calmly lookedher nephew over. 

"Well!" said she, as the result of her inspection, "if I were donned ingrass-green velvet, guarded o' black, with silver tags, and asilver-bossed girdle, and gloves o' Spanish leather, I should fancy I'dgot a bit o' butter on my bread. Maybe your honour likes it thick?Promotes effusing of bile, that doth. Pray you, how fare yourPapistical friends this even?"

Lady Louvaine looked up and listened for the answer. 

"You set it down they be Papistical somewhat too soon, Aunt, " saidAubrey a little irritably. "Mr Winter and his friends, if they be whomyou hit at, be gone away into the country, and I have not seen them thissome time. "

The next question put to him was the one that Aubrey was expecting, withan expectation which caused his irritability. 

"What said my Lady Oxford to the matter, Aubrey?"

"Truly, Madam, I have not yet made the inquiration. My Lady is at thistime full of business, and seeing my friends were away, I thought youshould not require haste. "

Aubrey's conscience stirred a little uneasily, and he said to it, "Bequiet! I have not told any falsehood. "

"I would not have you to chafe your Lady, if she have no time tolisten, " said Lady Louvaine, with a disappointed look: "but indeed, Aubrey, the matter must be seen to, and not done by halves, moreover. "

A rap at the door preceded Charity, who came to announce Mrs Abbott--aceremony always used at the White Bear, but entirely unnecessary in theeyes of the lady of the Angel. 

"Well, what think you?" she began, before her greetings were well over;for Mistress Abbott was a genuine Athenian, who spent all her leisurehours, and some hours when she should not have been at leisure, in firstgathering information, and then retailing it, not having any specialcare to ascertain its accuracy. "Well, what think you? Here be threeof our neighbours to be presented by the street wardens--Lewce, thebaker, for that they cannot keep his pigs out of the King's Street; JoanCotton the silkwoman as a sower of strife amongst her neighbours; andAdrian Sewell for unlawfully following the trade of a tailor. "

"Why, that is thy tailor, Aubrey!" exclaimed Aunt Temperance. "I trustthou art not deep in his books?"

"Never a whit, Aunt; I owe him ne'er a penny, " said Aubrey, flushing, and not adding that Mr William Patrick's books were separate volumes, nor that those of Nathan Cohen, in Knightriders' Street, were notentirely guiltless of his name. 

"Ay, that's the way, " said Mrs Abbott, nodding her head. "Pay as yougo, and keep from small scores. Truly I would, Mr Louvaine, ourStephen were as wise as you. Such a bill as came in this week past froma silkman in Paternoster Row! White satin collars at eight and tenshillings the piece, and a doublet of the same at two pound; curledfeathers, and velvet doublets, and perfumed gloves at twenty pence ormore. His father's in a heavy taking, I can tell you, and saith heshall be ruined. Look you, we've four lads, and here's Stephen a-goingthis path--and if Seth and Caleb and Ben just go along after Stephen, it'll be a fine kettle o' fish, I can tell you. Oh dear, but you've adeal to be thankful for, and only one to trouble you! The bicker thoselads do make!"

"We have all something wherefore we may be thankful, friend, " said LadyLouvaine gently, when Mrs Abbott stopped to breathe. 

"Well, then, there's the maids--Mall, and Silence, and Prissy, andDorcas, and Hester--and I can promise you, they make such a racketamongst 'em, I'm very nigh worn to a shadow. "

Aubrey and Lettice were giving funny glances at each other, and doingtheir utmost not to disgrace the family by laughing. If Mrs Abbottwere worn to a shadow, shadows were very portly and substantialarticles. 

"I declare, that Prissy! she's such a rattle as never you saw! nogetting a word in for her. I tell her many a time, I wonder her tonguedoes not ache, such a chatterbox as she is. I'm no talker, you see;nobody can say such a thing of me, but as to her--"

A curious sound in Aubrey's direction was rapidly followed by a cough. 

"Eh now, don't you say you've a spring cough!" ejaculated Mrs Abbott, turning her artillery on that young gentleman. "Horehound, and mallow, and coltsfoot, they're the best herbs; and put honey to 'em, and take itfasting of a morrow. There be that saith this new stuff of late comeup--tobago, or what they call it--my husband says he never heard ofaught with so many names. Talking o' names, have you seen that youngmaid, daughter of the baker new set up at back here? Whatever on earthpossessed him to call her Penelope? Dear heart, but they say there's ajolly brunt betwixt my Lord Rich and his Lady--she that was my LadyPenelope Devereux, you know. My Lord he is a great Puritan, and afavourer of that way; and my Lady, she likes a pretty gown and a gaydance as well as e'er a one; so the wars have fallen out betwixt 'em--"

"If it like you, Mistress Abbott, " said Charity, opening the doorimmediately after a knock, "here's your Ben, that says your master wantsyou. "

"Ay, " shouted Ben from the door in no dulcet tones, "and he said if youdidn't come, he'd fetch you. You were safe to be gossiping somewhere, he said, and says he--"

"Take that for your imperence, Sir!" was his mother's answer, hurryingto the door, with a gesture suited to the words. "Well, I do vow, ifever I come forth to have half a word with a neighbour, that man o'mine's sure for to call it gossiping. --Get away wi' thee! I'm coming ina wink. --Well, but you do look cheery and peaceful! I would I could ha'tarried a bit. Mrs Lettice, my dear, you take warning by me, and don'tyou marry a man as gives you no liberty. Stand up for your rights, mydear, and get 'em--that's what I say. Good even! There's no end to theimperence of lads, and no more to the masterfulness of men. Don't youhave nought to do with 'em! Good-night. "

"I could not have stood it another minute!" said Aubrey as soon as shewas out of hearing, while he and Lettice made the walls echo. 

On a calm June evening, three men met at a house in Thames Street, whereGarnet lodged. They were Robert Catesby, the Reverend Oswald Greenway, and the Reverend Henry Garnet. They met to consult and decide on thelast uncertainties, and as it were to finish off the scheme of the plot. The conclusions ended, Garnet let out his friends, who with hats drawnlow down, and faces muffled in their cloaks, glided softly and darklyaway. 

As the month of August ran out, the conspirators gradually returned toLondon, with some exceptions, who joined their ghostly father, Garnet, in a pious pilgrimage to Saint Winifred's Well, better known asHolywell, in Flintshire. The party numbered about thirty, and comprisedLady Digby, two daughters of Lord Vaux, Rookwood, and his wife. ThomasWinter wrote to Grant that "friends" would reach Norbrook on the secondor third of September, begging him to "void his house of Morgan and hisshe-mate, " as otherwise it "would hardly bear all the company. " Theroute taken was from Goathurst, the home and inheritance of Lady Digby, by Daventry, Norbrook, the residence of Grant, Huddington, the house ofRobert Winter, and Shrewsbury, to Holt, in Flintshire. In some uneasynightmare during that pilgrimage, did a faint prescience of that whichwas to come ever flit before the eyes of Ambrose Rookwood, as to thecircumstances wherein he should journey that road again? From Holt theladies walked barefoot to the "holy well, " which, according totradition, had sprung up on the place where Saint Winifred's head hadrolled on being cut off: they remained at the well for the night. Theyreturned the same way, mass being said by Garnet at Huddington andNorbrook. It is difficult to believe that those who went on thispilgrimage could be wholly innocent of "intention" respecting the plotso soon to be executed. 

Fawkes arrived from abroad on the first of September, staying the firstnight at an inn outside Aldgate. The next day, he went down to theTower Wharf, hailed a boat, and was ferried to Westminster, where, underhis alias of John Johnson, and Percy's servant, he relieved Mrs Gibbonsof her charge, took possession of his master's house, and of the cellarwhere was stored his master's stock of winter fuel. A carefulexamination of the door of the vault showed that it had not beentampered with during the absence of the conspirators. 

Winter now returned to London, taking up his abode in his old quartersat the Duck, where Keyes, Rookwood, and Christopher Wright, hadapartments also. Catesby and Percy did not return till later. Thelatter had gone to Bath, where he found Lord Monteagle; and the two sentto Catesby, entreating "the dear Robin" to join them. Catesby obeyed, and came. 

The Bath, as it was then usual to call the ancient city of hot springs, was a very different town from that which we now know. Like all ofRoman origin, its design was cruciform, with four gates, and as usual achurch at every gate. The only one of these churches now standing--andthat has been rebuilt--is Saint James's, at South Gate. The modernfashionable part of Bath, including Milsom Street, the Circus, and theCrescent, lies outside the walls of the ancient Aqua Solis. 

Mr Catesby found his friends in Cheap Street, which ran from StawlesChurch, in the midst of the city, to East Gate, Here he vegetated for aweek, resting after his toil, and applying himself to the business whichhad apparently brought him, by diligent attendance at the King's Bath, on the site of the present Pump-room. Here, at this time, ladies andgentlemen, in elaborate costumes and adorned by wonderful hair-dressing, bathed together under the eyes of the public, which contributed itsquota of amusement and interest by pelting the bathers with dead dogs, cats, and pigs--a state of things not considered disgusting, butlaughable. 

On the morning after the arrival of Catesby, he and Percy went down tothe East Gate, hailed a boat, which ferried them across the Avon, whereLaura Place now stands, and leaving Bathwick Mill on the left hand, theybegan to ascend the hill on whose summit once stood the yet olderBritish city of Caer Badon. 

"Mr Percy, " said Catesby, as they walked slowly upwards, "since I havetarried here, I have had some time for thought; and I can tell you, I amnigh beat out of heart touching our matter. "

"You, Mr Catesby! Truly, I never thought to see you struck into yourdumps. But what now, I beseech you?"

Gentlemen did not, at that time, speak to each other without therespectful prefix of "Mister, " though they might now and then speak ofan acquaintance without it. When intimacy was so great as to warrantlaying it aside, the Christian name took its place. 

"Well, look you here, " said Catesby. "We are all men of birth, but notone of us is a man of money. You, 'tis true, have my LordNorthumberland behind you, but how long time may he tarry? Were he todie, or to take pepper in the nose, where then are we? All is naughtwith us at once, being all but mean men of estate. "

"My cousin of Northumberland is not like to play that prank, or I err, "answered Percy, who well knew that Lord Northumberland was not in allcases cognisant of the use made of his name by this very worthy cousin:"as to death, of course that may hap, --we are all prone to be tumbledout of the world at short notice. But what then is your project? forwithout you have some motion in your mind, good Mr Catesby, I read younot aright. "

"To be sure I have, " said Catesby with a smile. "But first--if Iremember rightly, your friend young Louvaine is not he that can aid usin this juncture?"

"Hasn't a penny to bless himself with, " replied Percy, "save his wagefrom my Lord Oxford, and that were but a drop in the sea for us. Hisold grandmother can do but little for him--so much have I picked out ofhis prattle. But, surely, Mr Catesby, you would not think to take intoour number a green lad such as he, and a simpleton, and a Protestant toboot?"

"Take into our number!" cried Catesby. "Good Mr Percy, you miss thecushion [make a mistake]. A good tale, well tinkered, should serve thatcompanion, and draw silver from his pockets any day. What we lack istwo or three men of good estate, and of fit conditions and discreetyears, that may safely be sworn--and I think I know where to find them. "

"I'll lay my crown to pawn you do!" exclaimed Percy admiringly. "Prayyou, who be they?"

"Sir Everard Digby, of Tilton, in Rutland; and my cousin, Frank Treshamof Rushton. "

"Good men and true? Both are strange to me. "

"Ay; Digby is a staunch Catholic, but may lack some persuasion to joinus. Tresham--well, I count he may be trusted. His money-bags be heavy, though his character is but light. I will make certain that he will notblab nor tattle--that is the thing most to be feared. Know you notFrank Tresham?--my cousin, and my Lord Monteagle's wife's brother. "

"Oh ay! I have met him, " said Percy. "I wist not it was he you meant. "

"I had hope once that Mr Fawkes should bring grist to our mill, " saidGatesby, thoughtfully: "but I see that is but a Will-o'-the-Wisp. "

"Mr Fawkes? Oh no! His father was but a younger son--Mr EdwardFawkes of Farnley, a notary at York, and Registrar of the ConsistoryCourt there. He left him but a farm of some thirty pound by the year, and Guy ran through it like a herring through the water. The only hopeby his means would be the borrowing of money from his step-father, MrFoster, and methinks he hath a larger heart than purse. "

They walked on for a few minutes in silence, when Percy said, "How willyou get hold of these men?"

"Send Tom Winter to Sir Everard, and I will tackle Tresham. Then, whenI return, will we go forth with the mine. "

"Done!" said Percy. 

And the pair of conspirators came down the hill. 

Instead of returning direct to London, Catesby went to visit RobertWinter at Huddington, Percy going to his own house at the upper end ofHolborn. Catesby remained for three days with Robert Winter, whom heinduced to send for Stephen Littleton of Holbeach and his cousinHumphrey Littleton. These gentlemen were not, however, initiated intothe plot, but only desired to lend their assistance to "a matter ofweight, and for the especial good of all Catholics. "

The Christmas holidays being over, the mining was resumed, theconspirators having now added to their number Francis Tresham and SirEverard Digby. It was not done without some difficulty. The oath wasadministered to both; but when they learned to what they had boundthemselves, they recoiled in horror. Sir Everard was disposed of withcomparative ease. His own good sense led him to demur, but no soonerwas he told that three priests had approved of the scheme than, as induty bound, the poor weak creature laid his good sense aside, told hisconscience to be quiet, and united cordially and thoroughly in theproject, finding horses, arms, and money, to the amount of 1500 pounds. If the Church approved, "the prerogative of the laity was to listen andto obey. " Francis Tresham proved less pliable. He at once inquired ifthe Roman Catholic peers were to be warned, so as to keep away fromParliament on the doomed day. 

"Generally, only, " said Catesby. "We have let them understand thatstrict laws are to be passed against the Catholics, which they cannotprevent, and therefore they had best tarry away. "

"My Lord Arundel, though he be not of age, is very desirous to bepresent, " said Percy. 

"My Lord Montague, on the contrary part, would fain be thence, " returnedCatesby, "and I have told him he can do no good there. "

"I asked my Lord Mordaunt if he meant to come, " said Winter, laughing, "and quoth he, `Nay, for I was too much disgusted at the former session, being forced to sit there with my robes on, all the time the King was inchurch. '" [Note 1. ]

"But surely, " cried Tresham, looking from one to another, "you will takesome further means to save our brethren than only these? Mr Percy, younever will suffer your cousin the Earl of Northumberland to perish?"

"Indeed, Mr Tresham, I should be loth so to do, because I am bounden tohim. "

"Gentlemen, " said the voice of Fawkes, who had hitherto been silent inthe conclave, "what we must principally respect is our own safety, andwe will pray for the Catholic Lords. "

"And how shall we set ourselves right with the Catholic commons?"demanded Keyes. 

"Oh, we will satisfy the Catholics at large that the act is done for therestitution of religion, " answered Catesby; "and the heretics, that itwas to prevent the Union sought to be established at this Parliament. "

"Sirs, I cannot brook this!" Tresham broke in eagerly. "My LordsMonteagle and Stourton, as you know, have wedded my sisters. I imploreyou to warn them: at the least, I do beseech you, save my LordMonteagle!"

"What, to tell him what shall hap?" cried Catesby. "Never!"

"Impossible, Mr Tresham!" replied Percy. "I regret it as much as you. "

"They _shall_ be warned!" cried Tresham vehemently. 

"Remember your oath!" answered Catesby sternly. 

"I shall not forget it. But something must be done to save my LordMonteagle. I am beholden to him, and I love him dear. "

"Well, well!" suggested Winter, making an endeavour to cast oil upon thetroubled waters, "can you not be earnest with him to do something onthat day, which shall carry him out of the way?"

"I am afraid not!" said Tresham, shaking his head. "He will reckon ithis duty to be there, or I err. "

"Time enough betwixt now and October, " said Fawkes. 

"Ay, time enough, indeed, " echoed Winter. "My Lord Monteagle may beabroad, or what not, when the Parliament opens. Pray you, Mr Tresham, trouble not yourself. I doubt not all shall go well. "

Tresham murmured something to the effect that things left to drift asthey would did not invariably drift into the right harbour: but hedropped the topic for the moment. 

Hitherto the secret meetings of the conspirators had been in the housebeyond Clement's Inn: but it was now deemed necessary to have a moresecluded and secure retreat. 

In the forest depths of Enfield Chase was an old hunting-lodge, namedWhite Webbs, never used except occasionally by sportsmen. This wasselected as a non-suspicious place of meeting. The conspirators werenow nearly ready: a few days would make them quite so. Satan was alsoready, and probably required no time for preparation. And God was readytoo. 

They met at White Webbs on the 21st of September, just a fortnightbefore the day appointed for the meeting of Parliament: Catesby, theWinters, the Wrights, Digby, Keyes, Grant, and Bates. Tresham was notthere; he had ceased to attend the meetings, and said, if Lord Monteagleat least might not be saved he would neither find the money he hadpromised, nor assist any further with the plot. 

They had not sat many minutes, when Percy and Fawkes joined them, theformer impetuous person being in an evident state of suppressedexcitement, while the latter very cool individual showed no trace ofemotion. 

"Now, what think you?" cried Percy. "The Parliament is prorogued yetagain. "

"Sure, they have never wind of our project?" suggested one of thebrothers Wright. 

"Till when?" demanded Catesby, knitting his brows. 

"For another month--till the fifth of November. "

Catesby pondered for a moment in silence. 

"Is there any stir thereabouts?--any search made of the house or thevault?"

"No--no semblance thereof. "

"Then I think they have not got wind of it. But if so--Mr Fawkes, isall the powder now in the cellar?"

"No, Mr Catesby; there are five or six barrels to come, which I meantto move thither on Monday night next. "

"Wait a little. You had best make sure that all is safe. Tarry foranother fortnight, and move them then. Is this not your minds, gentlemen?"

The rest of the group, as usual, deferred to their leader. 

There was now another point requiring discussion, and it was introducedby Catesby. 

"'Tis time, methinks, gentlemen, that we took thought on a questionwhereof we have not yet spoken. After the thing you wot of is done, what then shall follow? If not the King alone be present there, but theQueen also, and maybe the Prince--"

"If they be, we will not save them, " interjected Fawkes. 

"We need not, " coolly responded Catesby: "but if all be gone, who thenshall be published or elected king?"

"Why, we have never entered into that consideration, " said Grant, dubiously. 

"Had we not best enter into it? Our plans must be ready at once, whenthe time comes, not all hanging betwixt the eyelids. " [i. E. Inuncertainty. ]

"The Queen and Prince are safe to be there, " said Percy. "And in anycase, the Prince were best away; for if all be true that is said, or thehalf thereof, he were like to do us more mischief than his father. Heis not of the King's humour, but more like old Bess--hath a will of hisown, and was bred up strictly Protestant. "

"Bad, that!" said Catesby. "Then the Prince must go. "

"'Tis pity, though, " observed Robert Winter. "A bright little lad. "

Catesby laughed scornfully. "Come now, Robin, no sensibility[susceptibility, sentimentality], I beg! We cannot afford to bepunctual [particular] in this affair. There are bright lads by thedozen everywhere, as cheap as blackberries. Now, what of the littleDuke?"

The man who spoke thus was himself the father of two boys. 

"He'll not be much of aught at five years old, " said Winter. "MrPercy, you were the most like of any of us to win him into your hands. "

Percy, as one of the band of gentleman pensioners, whose duty it was towait on the King, had opportunities of access to the little Prince, beyond any of his accomplices. 

"I will undertake that, " said Percy eagerly. 

"Do we concur, then, to elect him King?" asked Catesby. 

"Hold, good gentlemen! by your leave, we go something too fast, " saidFawkes. "How if Mr Percy be unable--as may be--to win Duke Charlesinto his hands?"

"Why, then comes the Lady Elizabeth, " said Winter. 

"What say you to the only English-born of the royal issue--the LadyMary? She, at least, is uninfect with heresy. "

There was a laugh at this suggestion: for the Princess Mary was notquite five months old. 

"Very well, if we could win her, " answered Catesby: "but she would behard to come by. No--the one easiest had, and as likely as any to serveour turn, is the young lady at Combe. Let the memory of Elizabeth theheretic, so dear to the hearts of Englishmen, be extinguished in thebrighter glories of Elizabeth the Catholic. Bring her up in theCatholic faith, and wed her to a Catholic Prince, and I will lay minehead to pawn that she shall make a right royal queen, and the star ofEngland's glory shall suffer no tarnish in her hands. I have seen thelittle maid, and a bright, brave, bonnie lass she is. "

"How old?" asked Robert Winter. 

"Nine years. Just the right age. Old enough to queen it, and take apleasure therein; and not old enough to have drunk in much heresy--nomore than Fathers Garnet and Gerard can soon distil out again. "

"Nay! Too old, Mr Catesby, " said Thomas Winter. "At five years, thelittle Duke might be so: but not his sister at nine. She'll havelearned heresy enough by then; and women are more perverse than men. They ever hold error tighter, and truth likewise. "

"Well, have the little Duke, if you can win him, " replied Catesby. "Idoubt thereof. "

"Trust me for that, " cried Percy. 

"I'll trust you to break your neck in the attempt, " said Catesby with agrim smile. 

"But how look you to secure the Lady Elizabeth? My Lord Harrington's anold fox, and none so easy to beguile. He shall smell a rat, be sure, before you have half your words out, and then you may whistle for therest of your hopes--and are like enough to do it in the Fleet orNewgate. "

"Kit Wright, " said Percy, addressing the last speaker, who was hiswife's brother, "all the wit in the world is sure not in thine head. Thinkest we shall march up to the door at Combe, and sweetly demand ofmy Lord Harrington that he give us up the Lady Elizabeth? Why, man, wemust compass the matter that he shall wit nought till all be done. "

"You might make a hunting-party, " suggested Fawkes. 

"Say you so, Mr Fawkes? You have eyes in your head. We'll send SirEverard Digby down to see to that business. "

"How went your business, Mr Catesby?" asked Grant. 

"Why, right well, Mr Grant. I gathered together a goodly number offriends to assist the Archduke Albert in Flanders: bought horses, andlaid in powder. All shall be ready when the Archduke hath need ofthem. "

The laugh went round. 

"That was a jolly fantasy of yours, to levy troops for the Archduke, "said Robert Winter. "Truly, these heretics are easy to beguile. Notone, methinks, hath the least suspicion. "

"It were soon up with us if they had, " added his brother. 

"Look out for yourself, Tom, and smoke not too many pipes with externs, "responded Robert. "That young Louvaine that you affect--I scarce trusthim. "

"That affects me, you mean. Trust him! I never do. He's only asimpleton at best. "

"Have you never heard of simpletons carrying tidings?" said Fawkes. "Mind you drop not any chance words, Mr Winter, that might domischief. "

"Let me alone for that, " was the answer. 

"Gentlemen, " said Catesby, who had been in a brown study for someminutes, "methinks Mr Fawkes's proposal to seize the Lady Elizabethunder cover of a hunting-party is good. Sir Everard, will you undertakethis?"

"Willingly. Where must they be gathered?"

"Gather them at Dunchurch, " said Catesby, "for a hunt on Dunsmoor Heath, and for the day of the Parliament's meeting: you shall have notice ofthe blow struck, as quick as a horseman can reach you. As soon as youhear it, then away to Combe, and carry off the young lady to my mother'sat Ashby. Proclaim her Queen, and bring her next day to London, proclaiming her in all the towns on your way. "

"May there not be some awkwardness in the matter, if her brothers bealive?" suggested the most cautious of the party, Robert Winter. 

"Pooh!" ejaculated the impetuous Percy. "`Nothing venture, nothinghave. '"

"`Faint heart never won fair lady' were more pertinent to the occasion, "said Thomas Winter, raising a general laugh. 

"We must see to that, " grimly responded Catesby. 

The conspirators then separated. Sir Everard Digby set out forWarwickshire, Percy went to see Lord Northumberland at Syon, Keyesreturned to Lambeth, and Fawkes resumed his duties at the house on theriverbank. Mr Marshall, on his way to call at the White Bear littleguessed that the apparently respectable, busy man-servant in bluecamlet, who met him as he went down King Street, was engaged in an evilwork which would hand down his name to everlasting infamy. 

Mrs Abbott was standing at her door as he went past. 

"Well to be sure! so 'tis you, Parson? How's Mrs Agnes this even? Ireckoned I saw her t'other day, a-passing through the Strand, but shesaw not me--in a green perpetuance gown, and a black camlet hood. Itrust it'll wear better than mine, for if ever a camlet was no worth, 'tis that Dear heart, the roguery of wool-drapers, and mercers beside!I do hope Master Floriszoon 'll not learn none of their tricks. If Isee my Lady Lettice this next day or twain, I'll drop a word to her. Don't you think she's looking a bit pale and poorly this last week orso? But mayhap you have not seen her, not of late. "

"I have not, but I am now on my way, " answered Mr Marshall, turninginto the White Bear, in the hope of escaping Silence's tongue. It wasthe first word he had been able to cast into the stream she pouredforth. 

"Well, maybe you'll drop a word to her touching Master Floriszoon? Dearheart, what queer names them foreign folks do get! I never could abideno foreigners, and if I--Bless us, the man's off--there's no having aword with him. I say, Charity, I don't believe them eggs you had ofthat--"

"You'll excuse me, Mistress Abbott, but I've no time to waste i' talk. `The talk of the lips tendeth only to penury, '--and if you'll go in andlook for that i' th' Good Book, it'll happen do you a bit o' good--morethan talking. Good even. "

And Charity shut the door uncompromisingly. 

Mr Marshall was too much at home in the White Bear to needannouncement. He tapped softly at the parlour door, and opened it. "Mrs Gertrude, I don't care who saith it! it's a wicked heresy!" werethe first words he heard, in the blunt tones of Temperance Murthwaite. "And it's not true to say we Puritans teach any such thing. It's acalumny and a heresy both. --Mr Marshall, I'm fain to see you. Do, prayyou, tell this young gentlewoman we hold not that if a man but believein the merits of Christ, he may live as he list, and look for Heaven inthe end. 'Tis a calumny, I say--a wicked calumny!"

"A calumny as old as the Apostle James, Mrs Murthwaite, " answered MrMarshall, as he turned from greeting Lady Louvaine. "Some in those dayshad, it should seem, been abusing Paul's doctrine of justification byfaith, and said that a man need but believe, and not live accordingthereto. "

"Why, Mr Marshall, I have heard you to say a man may believe and besaved!" cried Gertrude, who sat on a velvet-covered stool beside LadyLouvaine, having run in from the next door without hood or scarf. 

"That I doubt not, Mrs Gertrude, and yet may, since you have heardPaul, and John, and the Lord Himself, to say it in the Word. But, believe what? Believe that a man once lived whose name was Jesus, andwho was marvellous good, and wrought many great works? That faith shallnot save you, --no more than believing in King James's Majesty should. It is a living faith you must have, and that is a dead. "

"Mr Marshall, I thought Puritans made much of the doctrine of imputedrighteousness?"

"You thought truth, Mrs Gertrude. "

"Well, but what is that save believing that Christ hath wrought allgoodness for me, and I need not work any goodness for mine ownsalvation? Look you, there is no need, if all be done. "

"No need of what? No need that you should attempt to do what you nevercan do, or no need that you should show your love to Him that did it foryou at the cost of His own life?"

"Well!" said Gertrude in a slow, deprecating tone, "but--"

"Mrs Gertrude, you mix up two things which be utterly separate, andwhich cannot mix, no more than oil and water. The man whom Christ hathsaved, it is most true, hath no need to save himself. But hath he noneed to save others? hath he no need to honour Christ? hath he no needto show forth to angels and to men his unity with Christ, the oneness ofhis will with His, the love wherewith Christ's love constraineth him?You mix up justification and sanctification, as though they were butone. Justification is the washing of the soul from sin; sanctificationis the dressing of the soul for Heaven. Sanctification is not a thingyou do for God; 'tis a thing God doth in you. There is need for it, notthat it should justify you before His tribunal, but that it should makeyou meet for His presence-chamber. It were not fit that you shouldenter the King's presence, though cleansed, yet dressed in your oldsoiled clothes. But you make a third minglement of things separate, when you bring in imputed righteousness. The righteousness of Christimputed unto us justifieth us before the bar of God. It payeth ourdebt, it washeth our stains, it unlocketh our fetters. But this is notsanctification. Justification was wrought by Christ for us;sanctification is wrought by the Holy Ghost in us. Justification wascompleted on Calvary; sanctification is not finished so long as we be inthis life, Justification is quick and lively; the moment my faithtoucheth the work of Christ for me, that moment am I fully justified, and for ever. Sanctification is slow, and groweth like a plant. I amas entirely justified as I ever shall be, but I am not as sanctified asI ever shall be. I look to be more and more sanctified--`to grow upunto Him in all things, ' to be like Him, to be purified even as He ispure. I pray you make no mingle-mangle of things that do so differ inthemselves, though 'tis true they come all of one source--the union andthe unity of Christ and the believer. "

Gertrude was yawning behind her hand before the clergyman was halfthrough his explanation. 

"I thank you, Mr Marshall, " said Temperance, who had listenedattentively. "Methinks I had some apprehension of the difference inmyself, but I could not have expounded it thus clearly. "

"To know it in yourself, my sister, is a far greater thing, and abetter, than being able to expound it. --And how is it with you, LadyLettice?"

"Well, Mr Marshall, " she said with her soft smile. "At times I thinkthat a few more pins of the tabernacle are taken down, and then thepassing wind causeth the curtains to shake. But at worst it shall beonly the moving of the pillar of cloud--the `Come up higher' into thevery presence of the King. "

"And in the interim `the Lord sitteth between the cherubim, be thepeople never so unquiet. ' And how is it, dear Sister, with your twoyoung men?"

Lady Louvaine paused to accept Gertrude's offered hand and bid hergood-night. That young woman did not enjoy Mr Marshall's conversation, and suddenly discovered that it was time for her return home. 

"Hans is all I could desire, " said the old lady, returning to thesubject: "he is a dear, good, sober-minded lad as need be. But I willnot disguise from you, Mr Marshall, that I am in some disease of mindtouching Aubrey. "

"May I ask wherefore?"

"You may ask, indeed, yet can I scarce tell. That is no wise-soundingthing to say: yet one may have cause for fear where he hath no evidencefor demonstration. "

"He may so, indeed. Then you reckon there is good cause for fear?"

"Mr Marshall, you told us some time back that our neighbour MrRookwood was brother to a Papist. Know you aught of a friend of his, one Mr Winter, that is in London at times, and hath his lodging in theStrand?"

"A friend of this Mr Rookwood, your neighbour?"

"I reckon so. At least, a friend of his son. "

"Sons do at times make friends apart from their fathers, " said MrMarshall with a smile. "I cannot say, Lady Lettice, that the name isquite unknown to me; yet cannot I, like you, lay a finger on any specialthing I may have heard thereabout. "

"What were the other names, Edith? I cannot call them to mind. "

"Mr Catesby, Mother, and Mr Percy, and Mr Darcy: those, I think, werewhat Aubrey told us. "

"Mr Percy!--what Percy is he?"

"I know not: some kin to my Lord Northumberland. "

"Where dwells he?"

"That know I not. "

"At the Green Dragon in Upper Holborn, in Saint Giles's parish, " saidanother voice. 

"Ha!" echoed Mr Marshall, turning to his new informant. "A recusant, Madam, and a dangerous fellow. And if this Mr Catesby you name be MrRobert Catesby of Ashby Ledgers, he also is a recusant, and if I knowhim, a worser man than the other. "

"Hans, art thou sure of this Mr Percy?--that he whom Aubrey wist is thesame man of whom Mr Marshall speaks?"

"I have seen Aubrey leave his house, Madam. "

Lady Louvaine looked very uneasy. 

"And Mr Darcy?" said Edith. 

"Him I know not, " answered Mr Marshall: which was not surprising, sincehe knew him only as Mr Walley. 

"Hans, how much dost thou know?"

Hans knelt down by the large cushioned chair, and kissed the thin, blue-veined hand. 

"Dear Lady Lettice, I know very little: and Aubrey would account me asneak and a spy, were I to tell you what I do know. But I would notcare for that if it might save him. "

"I do hope Mr Louvaine is not drawn in among them, " said Mr Marshall, thoughtfully. 

"They have been away of late, " replied Hans, "and he hath not been thereso often. "

"Are they away now?"

"No, lately returned. "

"I would I could win Aubrey for a talk, " said Edith. 

"Shall I call at my Lord Oxford's and leave a message that you wouldhave him call here?"

"Truly, Mr Marshall, you should do me a great kindness. "

"Then I so will. Good-night. "

Aubrey was playing billiards with his young master and several of theyounger gentlemen of his household, when he was told that Mr Marshallrequested a word with him. The information alarmed him, for he thoughtit meant bad news. Having obtained the young Earl's leave to go andascertain why he was wanted, Aubrey ran hastily down the stairs, andfound Mr Marshall awaiting him in the hall. 

"Good even, Mr Louvaine, " said he, rising: "I had the honour thisevening to wait on my Lady your grandmother, and was desired to drop aword to you as I went home, to the effect that your friends have a mindto speak with you on some matter of import. Her Ladyship bids you, thefirst opportunity you can make, to visit the White Bear. "

"I will do so, " said Aubrey, recovering from his alarm. "I cry youmercy for my short greeting, but truly I was afraid, not knowing if youhad ill news for me. "

"That I have not at this time, God be thanked! Yet if I may, I wouldfain ask you, Mr Louvaine, whether some time hath not run since you sawyour friends in King Street?"

"Oh no! not very long--at least not more than common--only about--"Aubrey hesitated and flushed, as he realised that it was now the middleof October, and his last visit had been paid early in June. "You see, Sir, I am close tied by my duties here, " he added in haste. 

"So close tied that you may not even be away for an hour? Well, youknow your own duty; do it, and all shall be well. But I would beseechyou not to neglect this call any longer than till your earliestopportunity shall give leave. "

Mr Marshall bowed, and with an official "May God bless you!" passed outof the hall door. Aubrey returned to his urgent duties in thebilliard-room. 

"Who is your visitor, Louvaine?" asked the youthful Earl. 

"If it please your Lordship, 'tis but a messenger from my grandmother. "

"What would the ancient dame?" inquired one of the irreverent younggentlemen-in-waiting. 

"She would have me go and wait on her: what else I know not. I shallfind out, I reckon, when I go. "

"When saw you her Ladyship, Mr Louvaine?" said an unexpected voicebehind him, and Aubrey turned to meet the Countess. 

"Madam, in June last, under your Ladyship's pleasure. "

"It scarcely is to my pleasure. Son Henry, cannot you allow this younggentlemen to visit his friends more often?"

"Under your leave, Madam, he can visit them every day if he will. Itarry him not. "

"Then how comes it, Mr Louvaine, that you have not waited on my LadyLettice for four months?"

Aubrey mentally wished Mr Marshall in America, and himself anywhere butin Oxford House. There was no escape. The wise Countess added nounnecessary words to help him out, but having put her question in plainterms, quietly awaited his reply. He muttered something not veryintelligible, in which "business" was the chiefly audible word. 

"Methinks your duty to your mother and Lady Lettice should be your firstbusiness after God, " said the Countess gravely. "I pray you, MrLouvaine, that you wait on her Ladyship to-morrow even. The Earl willgive you leave. "

Aubrey bowed, and as the Countess took her departure, for she had merelypaused in passing through the room, gave a vicious blow to the nearestbilliard ball. 

"You are in for it now, Louvaine!" said his next neighbour. 

"Poor lad! will his gra'mmer beat him?" suggested another in mockcompassion. 

"He's been stealing apples, and the parson has told of him, " added athird. 

"Will you hold your stupid tongues?" said Aubrey, stung beyondendurance. 

"Take a pinch of sneezing tobago, " said one of his companions, holdingout his snuff-box. "Never mind it, lad! put on a bold face, and useruffling language, and you'll get over this brunt. "

Aubrey flung down his cue and escaped, pursued by his companions'laughter. 

"We were somewhere near the truth, " said the young Earl. 

"He looks for a scolding, take my word for it. "

Very like it Aubrey felt, as he went down King Street on the followingevening. He, too, met a man, not in blue camlet, but in a porter'sfrock, trundling a truck with two or three barrels on it, in whom he didnot in the least recognise the dark, tall stranger to whom he had notbeen introduced in Catesby's rooms. He received a warm welcome at theWhite Bear. 

"Aubrey, hast thou of late seen thine acquaintance Mr Percy?"

"Not since his return out of the country, Madam. "

He had seen Winter, but he did not think it necessary to mention it. 

"Nor Mr Catesby?"

"Nay, save to meet him in the street, Madam. "

"My son, should it give thee great compunction [grief, annoyance] if Ibade thee have no more ado with either of these gentlemen?"

"What mean you, Madam?"

"I mean not that if thou meet them in the street thou shalt not givethem greeting; but no more to visit them in their lodgings. My boy, MrPercy is a Popish recusant, and there is much fear of Mr Catesbylikewise. "

"Not all recusants are bad men, I hope, " answered Aubrey evasively, asif he were unwilling to respond by a direct promise to that effect. 

"I hope likewise: but some are, as we know. And when innocent men bedrawn in with bad men, 'tis often found that the bad slip forth unhurt, and leave the innocent to abide the hazard. Promise me, Aubrey, thatthou wilt haunt [visit] these men's company no longer. "

"Truly, Madam, I know not what I should say to my friends. Bethink youalso, I pray, that I am of age. "

"Of what age?" demanded his Aunt Temperance in her usual style. "Not ofthe age of discretion, I being witness. "

"Of the age at which a man commonly takes care of himself, " answeredAubrey, loftily. 

"`Bate me an ace, quoth Bolton. ' At the age at which a man commonlytakes no care of himself, nor of any other belike. Nor you are not thewisest man of your age in this world, my master: don't go for to thinkit. You don't need to look at me in that way, my fine young gentleman:you'll not get sugar-plums from Temperance Murthwaite when you needrhubarb. "

"I know that, Aunt Temperance, " said Aubrey, trying to laugh. 

"And you may as well open your mouth and take your physic with a goodgrace. If not, there'll be another dose to follow. "

"What?" demanded Aubrey with drawn brows, and a flash in his eyes. 

"`Three can keep a secret if twain be away, '" was the enigmaticalanswer. "Now then, answer Lady Lettice. "

"He has no mind to promise--that can I see, " said Lady Louvaine, sorrowfully. 

"He shall, afore he go, " was the cool reply of Temperance. 

"Aunt Temperance, I am not a babe!" exclaimed Aubrey rather angrily. 

"That you are, and in sore need of leading-strings. "

"Aubrey here?" asked his mother, coming in. "Well now, I do think oneof you might have told me. But you never think of me. Why, Aubrey, itmust be six months since we saw you!"

"Four, Mother, under your pleasure. "

"I am sure 'tis six. Why come you no oftener?"

"I have my duties, " said Aubrey in a rather constrained voice. 

"Closer than to thy mother, my boy?" asked Edith softly. 

"Prithee harry not him, " retorted Aunt Temperance. "Hast thou notheard, he hath his duties? To hold skeins of silk whilst my Lady windsthem, maybe, and to ride the great horse, and play tennis andshuttlecock with his Lord, and to make up his mind to which of all hisLady's damsels he'll make love o' the lightest make. "

"Aubrey, I do hope you are ne'er thinking of marriage!" said hismother's querulous voice. "Thou shouldst be put out of thine office, most like, and not a penny to keep her, and she saddled upon us that--"

"That'll kick and throw her, as like as not, " said Aunt Temperance byway of interjection. 

"I ensure you, Mother, I have no expectations of the kind. 'Tis butAunt Temperance that--that--"

"That sometimes hits the white, Sir, if she do now and then shoot asideo' the mark. Howbeit, hold thou there. And if thou want leave to carryon thine acquaintance with these gentlemen, bring them to see us. I'lllay mine head to an orange I see in ten minutes if they be true men orno. "

"What business have they?" asked Edith. 

Aubrey hesitated. He knew of none except Garnet's pretended professionof horse-dealing. 

"Is there any woman amongst them?" said Temperance. 

"I never saw one. "

"Not even at Mr Percy's house?"

"I went there but once, to ask for him. I have heard that he hath awife, but she lives very privately, and teaches children. He dwellethnot with her, but hath his lodging at my Lord Northumberland's. I neversaw her. "

"That's an ill hearing. 'Tis meet for men to come together bythemselves for business: but to dwell in their own homes, and never awoman with them, wife, mother, sister, nor daughter, --that meansmischief, lad. It means some business of an evil sort, that they don'twant a woman to see through. If there had been one, I went about tosay, take me with thee some even to visit her. I'd have known all aboutit under an hour, trust me. "

"You should have seen nought, Aunt. "

"Tell that to the cowcumbers. You see nought, very like. "

Lady Louvaine laid her hand on her grandson's. 

"Aubrey, promise me at least this: that for a month to come thou wiltnot visit any of these gentlemen. "

After an instant's pause, Aubrey replied, "Very well, Madam; I am readyto promise that. "

"That's not much to promise, " commented Temperance. 

"It is enough, " said Lady Louvaine, quietly. 

An hour later, when Aubrey was gone, Faith asked rather complaininglywhat had induced Lady Louvaine to limit the promise to a month. 

"I cannot tell thee, Faith, " was the answer. "Something seemed towhisper within me that if the lad would promise that, he would be safe. It may be no more than an old woman's fantasy; and even so, no harm isdone. Or it might be that God spake to me--and if thus, let us obey Hisvoice. He knows what He will do, and what men will do. "

"I've as great a mind as ever I had to eat--"

"What to do, Temperance?"

"Get to see those fellows, somehow. "

"Wait the month, Temperance, " suggested Edith, quietly. 

"Wait! you're always for waiting. I want to work. "

"Waiting is often the hardest work, " said Edith. 

The middle of the month was nearly come. The six last barrels of powderwere in the vault; the whole thirty-six were covered with stones andiron bars: Gideon Gibbons, the porter, was delivering at the door threethousand billets and five hundred faggots of wood and another man in aporter's frock was stacking the wood in the vault. 

"There, that's the last lot!" said Gibbons, throwing in a packet oftied-up billets. "Count right, Johnson?"

"All right, Gibbons. "

"Your master likes a good fire, I should say, " observed Gibbons, with agrin of amusement, as he looked into the vault. "There's fuel there tolast most folks a couple of winters. "

"Ay, he doth so: he's a northern man, you see--comes from wheresea-coal's cheaper than here, and they are wont to pile their firesbig. "

"Shouldn't ha' thought them billets wouldn't hardly ha' taken all thatthere room, " said Gibbons, looking into the vault, while he scratchedhis head with one hand, and hitched up his porter's frock to put theother in his pocket. 

"Oh, I didn't stack 'em so tight, " said Mr Percy's man, carelessly, tying up a bit of string which he picked from the floor. 

"Ah! well, but tight or loose, shouldn't hardly ha' thought it. Mastercoming soon, eh?"

"Haven't heard what day. Afore long, very like. "

"Has he e'er a wife that he'll bring?"

"She's in the country, " said the disguised man-servant, who knew thatshe was then at the Green Dragon, teaching sundry little girls themysteries of felling and whipping cambric. 

"Well, 'tis dry work. Come and have a pint at the Maid's Head. "

"No, thank you, I don't care for it. There's a penny for yours. "

As this was the price of a quart of the best ale, Mr Gibbons pocketedthe penny with satisfaction, and forbore to remark censoriously on whathe deemed the very singular taste of Mr Percy's man. He shambledawkwardly off with his waggon, meaning first to put up his horses, andthen go and expend his penny in the beverage wherein his soul delighted. His companion gave a low laugh as he turned the key in the door of thecellar. 

"No, thank you, Gideon Gibbons, " said he to himself. "It may suit youto sit boozing at the Maid's Head, telling all you know and guessingmuch that you don't: here's wishing your early muddlement before you geton the subject of this wood! But it won't do for Guy Fawkes, my finefellow!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Lord Mordaunt was a trimmer, afraid of being known to be aPapist, and, like most half-hearted people, a great sufferer from thestruggle between the conscience and the flesh. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

AN APPLE-CAST AND A LETTER. 

 "Better the blind faith of our youth Than doubt, which all truth braves; Better to die, God's children dear, Than live, the Devil's slaves. "

 Dinah Mulock. 

"Good-morrow, Lady Lettice! I am come to ask a favour. "

"Ask it, I pray you, Mrs Rookwood. "

"Will you suffer Mrs Lettice to come to our apple-cast on Tuesday next?We shall have divers young folks of our neighbours--Mrs Abbott's Mary, Dorcas, and Hester, Mrs Townsend's Rebecca, my Lady Woodward's Dulcibeland Grissel, and such like; and our Doll, I am in hopes, shall be backfrom Suffolk, and maybe her cousin Bessy with her. I have asked MrLouvaine to come, and twain more of my Lord Oxford's gentlemen; and MrManners, Mr Stone, and our Tom, shall be there. What say you?"

Lady Louvaine looked with a smile at her granddaughter, who sat in thewindow with a book. She was not altogether satisfied with theRookwoods, yet less from anything they said or did than from what theyomitted to say and do. They came regularly to church, they attended theSacrament, they asked the Vicar to their dinner-parties, they were veryaffable and friendly to their neighbours. There was absolutely nothingon which it was possible to lay a reproving finger, and say, This iswhat I do not like. And yet, while she could no more give a reason fordistrusting them than the schoolboy for objecting to the famous DrFell, she did instinctively distrust them. Still, Lettice was a goodgirl, on the whole a discreet girl; she had very few pleasures, especially such as took her outside her home, and gave her thecompanionship of girls of her own age. Lettice had been taught, as allPuritan maidens were, that "life is, to do the will of God, " and thatpleasure was not to be sought at all, and scarcely to be accepted exceptin its simplest forms, and as coming naturally along with the duties oflife. An admirable lesson--a lesson which girls sadly need to learnnow, if only for the lowest reason--that pleasures thus taken areinfinitely more pleasing than when sought, and the taste for them iskeener and more enduring. To the moral taste, no less than thephysical, plain fare with a good appetite is incomparably more enjoyablethan the finest dainties with none: and the moral appetite can cloy andpall at least as soon as the physical. Lettice's healthy moral naturehad been content with the plain fare, and had never cried out fordainties. But, like all young folks, she liked a pleasant change, andher grandmother, who had thought her looking pale and somewhat languidwith the summer heat in town, was glad that she should have theenjoyment. She knew she might trust her. 

Not even to herself did Lady Louvaine confess her deepest reason forallowing Lettice to go to the apple-cast--an assembly resembling in itsnature the American "bee, " and having an apple-gathering and storing forits object. It was derived from the fact that Aubrey had been invited. It occurred to her that something might transpire in Lettice's free andinnocent narrative of her enjoyment, which would be of service in thedifficult business of dealing with Aubrey at this juncture. 

Lettice, as beseemed a maiden of her years, was silent, though her eyessaid, "Please!" in very distinct language. 

"I thank you, Mrs Rookwood; Lettice may go. "

Lettice's eyes lighted up. 

"Then, Mrs Lettice, will you step in about nine o'clock? My maids'llbe fain to see you. And if any of you gentlewomen should have a likingto look in--"

"Nay, the girls should count us spoil-sports, " said Edith, laughingly. 

"Now come, Mrs Edith! 'tis not so long since you were a young maid. "

"Twelve good years, Mrs Rookwood: as long, pretty nigh, as HesterAbbott has been in the world. "

"Eh, but years don't go for much, not with some folks. "

"Not with them that keep the dew of their youth, " said Lady Louvainewith a smile. "But to do that, friend, a woman should dwell very nearto Him who only hath immortality. "

It was something so unusual for one of this sober household to go out toa party, that a flutter arose, when Mrs Rookwood had departed, concerning Lettice's costume. 

"She had best go in a washing gown, " was the decision of her practicalAunt Temperance. "If she's to be any good with the apples, she must notwear her Sunday best. "

Lettice's Sunday best was not of an extravagant character, being a darkgreen perpetuana gown, trimmed with silver lace, a mantle ofplum-coloured cloth, and a plum-coloured hood lined with dark green. 

"But a washing gown, Temperance! It should look so mean, " objected MrsLouvaine. 

"Her best gown'll look meaner, if all the lace be hung with cobwebs, andall the frilling lined with apple-parings, " said Temperance. 

"She'll take better care of it than so, I hope, " said Edith. "And alawn gown should be cold for this season. "

"Well, let the child wear her brown kersey. That'll not spoil so muchas some. "

In her heart Lettice hoped she would not have to wear the brown kersey. Brown was such an ugly colour! and the kersey, already worn two seasons, was getting shabby--far too shabby to wear at a party. She would haveliked to put on her best. But no girl of twenty, unmarried, at thatdate decided such matters for herself. 

"Oh, never that ugly thing!" said Mrs Louvaine. "I mean her to wear mypearls, and that brown stuff--"

Wear Aunt Faith's pearls! Lettice's heart beat. 

"Faith, my dear, I would not have the child use ornaments, " said LadyLouvaine quietly. "You wot, those of our way of thinking do commonlydiscard them. Let us not give occasion for scandal. I would haveLettice go neat and cleanly, and not under her station, but no more. "

The palpitations of Lettice's heart sobered down. Of course she couldnot expect to wear pearls and such worldly vanities. Grandmother wasalways right. 

"I can tell you, Mrs Gertrude and Mrs Anne shall not be in brownkersey, " said Mrs Louvaine, in her usual petulant tone. "And if Aubreydon him not in satin and velvet, my name is not Faith. "

"It shouldn't have been, my dear, for it isn't your nature, " was hersister's comment. 

"We need not follow a multitude to do evil, " quietly responded LadyLouvaine, as she sat and knitted peacefully. 

"Well, Madam, what comes that to--the brown kersey, trow? Edith saithtruth, lawn is cold this weather. "

"I think, my dear, the green perpetuana were not too good, with cleanapron, ruff, and cuffs, and a silver lace: but I would have noughtmore. "

So Lettice made her appearance at the apple-cast in her Sunday gown, butdecked with no pearls, and her own brown hair turned soberly back underher hood. She put no hat on over it, as she had only to slip into thenext house. In the hall Tom Rookwood met her, and bowing, requested thehonour of conducting her into the garden, where his sisters and cousinwere already busy with the day's duties. 

On the short ladder which rested against one of the apple-trees stoodDorothy, the tallest of the Rookwoods, clad in a long apron of whitelawn edged with lace, over a dress of rich dark blue silk, gatheringapples, and passing them to Anne at the foot of the ladder, by whom theywere delivered to Gertrude, who packed them in sundry crates ready forthe purpose. By Gertrude's side stood a dark, rosy, merry-looking childof six, whom she introduced to Lettice as her cousin Bessy. Lettice, who had expected Bessy to be much older, was disappointed, for she wascurious to know what kind of a creature a female Papist might be. 

"Now, Tom, do your duty!" cried Dorothy, as Tom was about to retire. "Iam weary of gathering, and you having the longest legs and arms amongstus, should take my place. Here come Mr Montague and Rebecca Townsend;I'm coming down. Up with you!"

Tom pulled a face and obeyed: but showing a disposition to pelt Dorothyand Bessy, instead of carefully delivering the apples unbruised to Anne, he was screamed at and set upon at once, Gertrude leading theopposition. 

"Tom, you wicked wretch! Come down this minute, or else behaveproperly. I shall--"

The--accidental?--descent of an enormous apple on the bridge ofGertrude's nose put her announcement of her intentions to speedy flight:and in laughing over the _fracas_, the ice rapidly melted between theyoung strangers. 

The apple-gathering proceeded merrily, relieved by a few scenes of thissort, until the trees were stripped, the apples laid carefully in thecrates for transportation to the garrets, and on their arrival, ascarefully taken out and spread on sheets of grey paper on the floor. When all was done, the girls were marshalled into Gertrude's room totidy themselves: after which they went down to the dining-room. MrsRookwood had provided an excellent dinner for her youthful guests, including geese, venison, and pheasants, various pies and puddings, Muscadel and Canary wines. After dinner they played games in the halland dining-room, hood-man blind, and hunt the slipper, and when tired ofthese, separated into little groups or formed _tete-a-tetes_ forconversation. Lettice, who could not quite get rid of an outsidefeeling, as if she did not belong to the world in which she foundherself, was taken possession of by her oldest acquaintance, Gertrude, and drawn into a window-seat for what that young lady termed "a properchat. "

"I thought my cousin was to be here, " said Lettice, glancing over thecompany. 

"Ay, Tom asked him, I believe, " said Gertrude. "Maybe his Lord couldnot spare him. Do you miss him?"

"I would like to have seen him, " said Lettice innocently. 

"Tom would not love to hear you say so much, I can tell you, " laughedGertrude. "He admires you very much, Lettice. Oh, do let us drop the`Mistress'--it is so stiff and sober--I hate it. "

"Me!" was all that it occurred to Lettice to answer. 

"You. Don't you like men to admire you?"

"I don't know; they never did. "

Gertrude went off into a soft explosion of silvery laughter. 

"O Lettice, you are good! You have been brought up with all thosesober, starched old gentlewomen, till you don't know what life is--why, my dear, you might as well be a nun!"

"Don't I know what life is?" said Lettice. "I've had twenty years ofit. "

"You haven't had twenty days of it--not _life_. You've been ruled likea copy-book ever since you were born. I have pitied you, poor littlevictim, you cannot guess how much! I begged Mother to try and win youfor to-day. She said she did not believe Starch and Knitting-Pins wouldsuffer it, but she would try. Wasn't I astonished when I heard youreally were to come!"

"What do you mean by Starch and Knitting-Pins?" asked the bewilderedLettice. 

"Oh, that awful aunt of yours who looks as if she had just come out ofthe wash, and your sweet-smiling grandmother who is always fiddling withknitting-pins--"

Gertrude stopped suddenly. She understood, better than Lettice didherself, the involuntary, unpremeditated gesture which put a greaterdistance between them on the window-seat, and knew in a moment that shehad scandalised her guest. 

"My dear creature!" she said with one of her soft laughs, "if youworship your starchy aunt, I won't say another word! And as to my LadyLouvaine, I am sure I never meant the least disrespect to her. Ofcourse she is very sweet and good, and all that: but dear me! have youbeen bred up to think you must not label people with funny names?Everybody does, my dear--no offence meant at all, I assure you. "

"I beg your pardon!" said Lettice stiffly--more so, indeed, than sheknew or meant. "If that be what you call `life, ' I am afraid I knowlittle about it. "

"And wish for no more!" said Gertrude, laughing. "Well, if I offendedyou, I ought to beg pardon. I did not intend it, I am sure. But, mydear, what a pity you do not crisp your hair, or curl it! Thatold-fashioned roll back is as ancient as my grandmother. And a partlet, I declare! They really ought to let you be a _little_ more properlydressed. You never see girls with turned-back hair now. "

Lettice did not know whether to blush for her deficiencies, or to beangry with Gertrude for pointing them out. She felt more inclined tothe latter. 

"Now, if I had you to dress, " said Gertrude complacently, "I should justput you in a decent, neat corset, with a white satin gown, puffed withcrimson velvet, a velvet hood lined with white satin, a girdle of goldand pearls, crimson stockings, white satin slippers, a lace rebato, anda pearl necklace. Oh, how charming you would look! You would not knowyourself. Then I should put a gold bodkin in your hair, and a head-dropof pearls set round a diamond, and bracelets instead of these lawncuffs, and a fan; and wash your face in distilled waters, andodoriferous oils for your hands. "

"But I should not like my hands oily!" said Lettice in amazement. 

Gertrude laughed. "Oh yes, you would, when you were accustomed to it. And then just the least touch on your forehead and cheeks, and--OLettice, my dear, you would have half London at your feet!"

"The `least touch' of what?" inquired Lettice. 

"Oh, just to show the blue veins, you know. "

"`Show the blue veins!' What can you show them with?"

"Oh, just a touch of blue, " said Gertrude, who began to fear she hadgone further than Lettice would follow, and did not want to be tooexplicit. 

"You never, surely, mean--_paint_?" asked Lettice in tones of horror. 

"My dear little Puritan, be not so shocked! I do, really, mean paint;but not all over your face--nothing of the sort: only a touch here andthere. "

"I'll take care it does not touch me, " said Lettice decidedly. "I don'twant to get accustomed to such abominable things. And as to having halfLondon at my feet, there isn't room for it, and I am sure I should notlike it if there were. "

"O Lettice, Lettice!" cried Gertrude amidst her laughter. "I never sawsuch a maid. Why, you are old before you are young. "

"I have heard say, " answered Lettice, laughing herself, "that such as sobe are young when they are old. "

"Oh, don't talk of being old--'tis horrid to think on. But, my dear, you should really have a little fine breeding, and not be bred up amusty, humdrum Puritan. I do hate those she-precise hypocrites, that goabout in close stomachers and ruffles of Geneva print, and cannot somuch as cudgel their maids without a Scripture to back them. Nobodylikes them, you know. Don't grow into one of them. You'll never bemarried if you do. "

Lettice was silent, but she sat with slightly raised eyebrows, and apuzzled expression about her lips. 

"Well, why don't you speak?" said Gertrude briskly. 

"Because I don't know what to say. I can't tell what you expect me tosay: and you give such queer reasons for not doing things. "

"Do I so?" said Gertrude, looking amused. "Why, what queer reasons haveI given?"

"That nobody will like me, and I shall never be married!"

"Well! aren't they very good reasons?"

"They don't seem to me to be reasons at all. I may never be married, whether I do it or not; and that will be as God sees best for me, so whytrouble myself about it? And as to people not liking me because I am aPuritan, don't you remember the Lord's words, `If the world hate you, yeknow that it hated Me before it hated you'?"

"Oh, you sucked in the Bible with your mother's milk, I suppose, " saidGertrude pettishly, "and have had it knitted into you ever since by yourgrandmother's needles. I did not expect you to be a spoil-sport, Lettice. I thought you would be only too happy to come out of yourconvent for a few hours. "

"Thank you, I don't want to be a spoil-sport, and I do not think theBible is, unless the sports are bad ones, and they might as well bespoiled, might they not?"

"There's Mr Stone!" cried Gertrude inconsequently, and in a relievedtone, for Lettice was leading in a direction whither she had no wish tofollow. "Look! isn't he a fine young man? What a shame to havechristened so comely a man by so ugly a name as Jeremy!"

"Do you think so? It is a beautiful name; it means `him whom God hathappointed, '--Aunt Edith says so. "

"Think you I care what it _means_!" was the answer, in a rather vexedtone, though it was accompanied by a laugh. "'Tis ugly andold-fashioned, child. Now your cousin, Mr Louvaine, has a charmingname. But fancy having a name with a sermon wrapped up in it!"

"I do not understand!" said Lettice a little blankly. "You seem tothink little of those things whereof I have been taught to think much;and to think much of those things whereof I have been led to thinklittle. It puzzles me. Excuse me. "

Gertrude laughed more good-naturedly. 

"My dear little innocence!" said she. "I am sorry to let the cold, garish daylight in upon your pretty little stained-glass creed: it isnever pleasant to have scales taken from your eyes. But really, youlook on things in such false colours, that needs must. Why, my child, if you were to go out into the world, you would find all those fancieslaughed to scorn. 'Tis only Puritans love sermons and Bibles and suchthings. No doubt they are all right, and good, and all that; quiteproper for Sunday, and sick-beds, and so on. I am not an infidel, ofcourse. But then--well?"

Lettice's face of utter amazement arrested the flow of words onGertrude's lips. 

"Would your mother think you loved her, Gertrude, if you told her younever wanted to see her except on Sundays and when you were sick? Andif God hears all we say, is it not as good as telling Him that? Youpuzzle me more and more. I have been taught that the world is the enemyof God, and refuses to guide its ways by His Word: but you speak as ifit were something good, that we ought to look up to, and hearken what itbids us. It cannot be both. And what God says about it _must_ betrue. "

"Lettice, whatever one says, you always come back to your Puritan stuff. I wish you would be natural, like other maids. See, I am about to turnyou over to Dorothy. Let us see if she can make something of you--Icannot. --Here, Doll! come and sit here, and talk with Lettice. I wantto go and speak to Grissel yonder. "

Dorothy sat down obediently in the window-seat. 

"I thought Mr Louvaine was to be here to-day, " she said. 

"So did I likewise. I cannot tell why he comes not. "

"Have you seen him lately?"

"No, not in some time. I suppose he is busy. "

Dorothy looked amused. "What think you he doth all the day long?"

Lettice had not been present when Aubrey detailed his day's occupations, and she was under the impression that he led a busy life, with few idlehours. 

"Truly, I know not what, " she answered; "but the Earl, no doubt, hathhis duties, and 'tis Aubrey's to wait on him. "

"The Earl, belike, reads an hour or two with his tutor, seeing he is buta child: and the rest of the time is there music and dancing, riding thegreat horse, playing at billiards, tennis, bowls, and such like. Thatis your cousin's business, Mrs Lettice. "

"Only that?--but I reckon he cannot be let go, but must come after hismaster's heels?"

"He is on duty but three days of every week, save at the _lever_ and_coucher_, and may go whither he list on the other four. "

"Then I marvel he comes not oftener to visit us, " said innocent Lettice. 

"Do you so? I don't, " answered Dorothy, with a little laugh. 

"Why?"

"How old are you, Mrs Lettice?"

The notion of discourtesy connected with this query is modern. 

"I was twenty last June, " said Lettice. 

"Dear heart! I should have supposed you were about two, " said Dorothy, with a little curl of her lip. 

"But my grandmother thinks so likewise, and she is near eighty, " saidLettice. 

"Ah! Extremes meet, " answered Dorothy, biting her lip. 

Lettice tried to think out this obscure remark, but had not made muchprogress, when at the other end of the room she caught a glimpse ofAubrey. Though he stood with his back to her, she felt sure it wasAubrey. She knew him by the poise of his head and the soft golden glosson his hair; and a moment later, his voice reached her ear. He came uptowards them, stopping every minute to speak with some acquaintance, sothat it took him a little time to reach them. 

"There is Cousin Aubrey, " said Lettice. 

Dorothy answered by a nod. "You admire your cousin?"

"Yes, I think he looks very well, " replied Lettice, in her simplicity. 

Dorothy bit her lip again. "He is not so well-favoured as Mr JeremyStone, " said she, "though he hath the better name, and comes of an elderline by much. "

By this time Aubrey had come up. "Ah, Lettice!" said he, kissing her. "Mrs Dorothy, your most obedient, humble servant. "

"Are you?" responded she. 

"Surely I am. Lay your commands on me. "

"Then bring Mr Stone to speak with me. "

Aubrey gave a little shrug of his shoulders, a laugh, and turned away asif to seek Mr Stone: while Dorothy, the moment his back was turned, puther finger on her lip, and slipped out of sight behind a screen, withher black eyes full of mischievous fun. 

"Why, my dear, " said a voice beside Lettice, "is none with you? Ithought I saw Doll by your side but now. "

"She was, Gentlewoman, " answered Lettice, looking up at Mrs Rookwood, and beginning to wish herself at home again. Might she slip away? "MayI pray you of the time?"

Mrs Rookwood was neither of wealth nor rank to carry a watch, so shewent to look at the clock before replying, and Aubrey came up with MrStone. 

"Why, where is gone Mrs Dorothy?" asked the former, knitting his brows. 

"All the beauty has not departed with her, " responded Mr Stonegallantly, bowing low to Lettice, who felt more and more uncomfortableevery minute. 

"'Tis on the stroke of four, my dear, " said Mrs Rookwood, returning:"but I beg you will not hurry away. "

"Oh, but I must, if you please!" answered Lettice, feeling a sensationof instant and intense relief. "Grandmother bade me not tarry beyondfour o'clock. I thank you very much, Gentlewoman, and I wish youfarewell. --Aubrey, you will come with me?"

Aubrey looked extremely indisposed to do so, and Lettice wondered forwhat reason he could possibly wish to stay: but Mrs Rookwood, hearingof Lady Louvaine's order, made no further attempt to delay her youngguest. She called her daughters to take their leave, and in anotherminute the Golden Fish was left behind, and Lettice ran into the door ofthe White Bear. She went straight upstairs, and in the chamber whichthey shared found her Aunt Edith. 

Lettice had no idea how uneasy Edith had been all that day. She had avague, general idea that she was rather a favourite with Aunt Edith--perhaps the one of her nieces whom on the whole she liked best: but ofthe deep pure well of mother-like love in Edith's heart for DudleyMurthwaite's daughter, Lettice had scarcely even a faint conception. She rather fancied herself preferred because, as she supposed, hermother had very likely been Aunt Edith's favourite sister. Littlenotion therefore had Lettice of the network of feeling behind theearnest, wistful eyes, as the aunt laid a hand on each shoulder of theniece, and said--

"Well, Lettice?"

"Aunt Edith, " was the answer, "if that is the world I have been into-day, I hope I shall never go again!"

"Thank God!" spoke Edith's heart in its innermost depths; but her voiceonly said, quietly enough, "Ay so, dear heart? and what misliked thee?"

"It is all so queer! Aunt Edith, they think the world is somethinggood. And they want me to paint my face. And they call Aunt Temperance`Starch. ' And they say I am only two years old. And they purse uptheir faces, and look as if it were something strange, if I quote theBible. And they talk about being married as if it must happen, whetheryou would or not, and as if it were the only thing worth thinking about. And they seemed to think it was quite delightful to have a lot ofgentlemen bowing at yon, and saying all sorts of silly things, and Ithought it was horrid. And altogether, I didn't like it a bit, and Iwanted to get home. "

"Lettice, I prayed God to keep thee, and I think He has kept thee. Mydear heart, mayest thou ever so look on the world which is His enemy, and His contrary!"

Edith's voice was not quite under her control--a most unusual thing withher. 

"Aunt Edith, I did think at first--when Mrs Rookwood came--that Ishould like it very well. I felt as if it would be such a pleasantchange, you know, and--sometimes I have fancied for a minute that Ishould like to know how other maids did, and to taste their life, as itwere, for a little while; because, you see, I knew we were so quiet, andother people seemed to have more brightness and merriment, and--well, Iwanted to see what it was like. "

"Very natural, sweet heart, at thy years. I can well believe it. "

"And so, when Mrs Rookwood asked, I so hoped Grandmother would let mego. And I did enjoy the apple-gathering in the garden, and the gamesafterward in the hall. But when we sat down, and girls came up andtalked to me, and I saw what they had inside their hearts--for if it hadnot been in their hearts, it would not have come on their tongues--AuntEdith, I hope I shall never, never, _never_ have anything more to dowith the world! I'd rather peel onions and scrub tiles every day of mylife than live with people, and perhaps get like them, who could call mydear old Grandmother `Knitting-pins' in scorn, and tell God Himself thatthey only wanted to think of Him on Sundays. That world's anotherworld, and I don't belong to it, and please, I'll keep out of it!"

"Amen, and Amen!" said Aunt Edith. "My Lettice, let us abide in theworld where God is King and Father, and Sun, and Water of Life. Maythat other world where Satan rules ever be another and a strange worldto thee, wherein thou shalt feel thyself a traveller and a stranger. Mychild, there is very much merriment which hath nought to do withhappiness, and very much happiness which hath nought to do with mirth. 'Tis one thing to shut ourselves from God's world which He made, andquite another to keep our feet away from Satan's world which he hathruined. When God saith, `Love not the world, ' He means not, Love notflowers, and song-birds, and bright colours, and sunset skies, and theinnocent laughter of little children. Those belong to His world; and'tis only as we take them out thereof, and hand them unto Satan, andthey get into the Devil's world, that they become evil and hurtful untous. Satan hath ruined, and will yet, so far as he may, all the goodthings of God; and beware of the most innocent-seeming thing so soon asthou shalt see his touch, upon it. Thank God, my darling, that Hesuffered thee not to shut thine eyes thereto! Was Aubrey there, Lettice?"

"He came but late, Aunt, and therefore it was, I suppose, that as itseemed, he had no list to come with me. He said he might look in, perchance, at after. "

"And Mr Tom Rookwood?"

"Ay, he was there, though I saw scarce anything of him but just atfirst. "

Edith was privately glad to hear it. She had been a little afraid ofdesigns upon Lettice from that quarter. 

"Aunt, was it not rude to give nicknames?"

"Very rude, and very uncomely, Lettice. "

"I thought it was horrid!" said Lettice. 

"Louvaine, " Tom Rookwood was saying, next door, "I met Mr Tom Winterthis afternoon, and he asked me if you had gone to the Low Countries totake service under the Archduke. He hath seen nought of you, saith he, these three weeks. "

"I know it, " said Aubrey, sulkily. 

"Well, he told me to bid you to supper with him o' Thursday even next. I shall be there, and Sir Josceline Percy, Sir Edward Bushell, and MrKit Wright. "

"I can't. Wish I could. "

"Why, what's to hinder?"

"Oh, I'm--ah--promised beforehand, " said Aubrey, clumsily. 

"Can't you get off?"

"_No_. But I've as great a mind to go--"

"You come, and never mind the other fellows. You'll find us muchjollier grigs of the twain. "

"I know that. Hang it, Tom, I'll go!"

"There's a brave lad! Four o'clock sharp, at the Duck. I'll meet youthere. "

"Done!"

"Where was he promised, I marvel?" asked Dorothy in a whisper, with ayawn behind her hand. 

"Oh, didn't you see how he flushed and stammered?" said Gertrude, laughing. "I vow, I do believe old Knitting-pins had made him swear onher big Bible that he wouldn't speak another word to Mr Winter. Had itbeen but another merry-making, he should never have looked thus. "

There was no visit from Aubrey at the White Bear that evening. He feltas if he could not meet his grandmother's eyes. He was not yetsufficiently hardened in sin to be easy under an intention of deliberatedisobedience and violation of a solemn promise; yet the sin was toosweet to give up. This once, he said to himself: only this once!--andthen, no more till the month was over. 

When the Saturday evening arrived, Aubrey made a very careful toilet, and set forth for the Strand. It was a long walk, for the Earl ofOxford lived in the City, near Bishopsgate. Aubrey was rather elated atthe idea of making the acquaintance of Sir Josceline Percy and SirEdward Bushell. He was concerned at the family disgrace, as hefoolishly considered it, of Hans's connection with the mercer, andextremely desirous to attain knighthood for himself. The way to dothat, he thought, was to get into society. Here was an opening whichmight conduct him to those Elysian fields--and at the gate stood hisgrandmother, trying to wave him away. He would not be deprived of hisprivileges by the foolish fancies of an old woman. What did old womenknow of the world? Aubrey was not aware that sixty years before, thatvery grandmother, then young Lettice Eden, had thought exactly the samething of those who stood in her way to the same visionary Paradise. 

Temple Bar was just left behind him, and the Duck was near, when toAubrey's surprise, and not by any means to his satisfaction, a hand waslaid upon his shoulder. 

"Hans! you here?"

"Truly so. Where look you I should be an half-hour after closing time?"

This was a most awkward contretemps. How should Hans be got rid ofbefore the Duck was reached?

"You are on your way to the White Bear, " said Hans, in the tone of onewho states an incontrovertible fact, "Have with you. "

Aubrey privately wished Hans in the Arctic Sea or the torrid zone, oranywhere out of the Strand for that afternoon. And as if to render hisdiscomfiture more complete, here came Mr Winter and Tom Rookwood, armin arm, just as they reached Mrs More's door. What on earth was to bedone?

Mr Thomas Rookwood, whose brain was as sharp as a needle, guessed thesituation in a moment, and with much amusement, from a glance atAubrey's face. He, of course, at once recognised Hans, and was at leastas well aware as either that Hans represented the forces of law andorder, and subordination to lawful authority, while Aubrey stood as therepresentative of the grand principle that every man should do what isright in his own eyes. A few low-toned words to Mr Winter preceded adoffing of both the plumed hats, and the greeting from Tom Rookwood asthey passed, of--

"Good even to you both. Charming weather!"

A scarcely perceptible wink of Tom's left eye was designed to showAubrey that his position was understood, and action taken upon it. Aubrey saw and comprehended the gesture. Hans saw it also, but did notcomprehend it except as a sign of some private understanding between thetwo. They walked on together, Aubrey engaged in vexed meditation as tohow he was to get rid of Hans. But Hans had no intention of allowinghimself to be dismissed. He began to talk, and Aubrey had to answer, and could not satisfy himself what course to pursue, till he foundhimself at the door of the White Bear. 

Charity was at the door, doing what every housemaid was then compelledto do, namely, pouring her slops into the gutter. 

"Eh, Mestur Aubrey, is that yo'?" said she. "'Tis a month o' Sundayssin' we've seen you. You might come a bit oftener, I reckon, if you'd amind. Stand out o' th' way a minute, do, while I teem these here slopsout. There's no end to folks' idleness down this road. Here's Marg'etRumboll, at th' back, been bidden by th' third-borough to get herseninto service presently, under pain of a whipping, and Mary Quinton, upyon, to do th' same within a month, at her peril. [Note 1. ] I reckon, if I know aught of either Mall or Marg'et, they'll both look for a placewhere th' work's put forth. Dun ye know o' any such, Mestur Aubrey, upCity way?"

Aubrey was not sufficiently sharp to notice the faint twinkle inCharity's eyes, and the slight accent of sarcasm in her tone. Hansperceived both. 

"I do not, Charity, but I dare be bound there are plenty, " said Aubrey, stepping delicately over the puddle which Charity had just created, soas to cause as little detriment as possible to his Spanish leather shoesand crimson silk stockings. 

"Ay, very like there will. They'll none suit you, Mestur 'Ans; you'renot one of yon sort. Have a care o' th' puddle, Mestur Aubrey, oryou'll mire your brave hose, and there'll be wark for somebody. "

With which Parthian dart, Charity bore off her pail, and Aubrey and Hanswent forward into the parlour, "Good even, my gracious Lord!" was thegreeting with which the former was received. "Your Lordship's visits bescarcer than the sun's, and he has not shown his face none wist when. Marry, but I do believe I've seen that suit afore!"

"Of course you have, Aunt Temperance, " answered the nettled Aubrey. Hewas exceedingly put out. His evening was spoiled; he was deprived ofhis liberty, of his friends' company, of a good dinner--for Mr Wintergave delightful little dinners, and Mrs Elizabeth More, the housewifeat the Duck, was an unusually good cook. Moreover, he was tied down towhat he contemptuously designated in his lofty mind "a parcel of women, "with the unacceptable and very unflattering sarcasms of Aunt Temperanceby way of seasoning. It really was extraordinary, thought Mr Aubrey, that when women passed their fortieth milestone or thereabouts, theyseemed to lose their respect for the nobler sex, and actually presumedto criticise them, especially the younger specimens of that interestinggenus. Such women ought to be kept in their places, and (theoretically)he would see that they were. But when he came in contact with theobnoxious article in the person of Aunt Temperance, in some inscrutablemanner, the young lord of creation never saw it. At the Duck, thecompany were making merry over Tom Rookwood's satirical account ofAubrey's discomfiture. For his company they cared little, and the onlyobject they had for cultivating it was the consideration that he mightbe useful some day. Their conversation was all the freer without him, since all the rest were Papists. 

Something, at that moment, was taking place elsewhere, with which thecompany at the Duck, and even Aubrey Louvaine, were not unconcerned. Lord Monteagle was entertaining friends to supper at his house atHoxton, where he had not resided for some time previously. Just beforethe company sat down to table, a young footman left the house on anerrand, returning a few minutes later. As he passed towards hismaster's door, a man of "indifferent stature, " muffled in a cloak, andhis face hidden by a slouched hat drawn down over the brow, suddenlypresented himself from amongst the trees. 

"Is your Lord within, and may a man have speech of him?" asked theapparition. 

"His Lordship is now sitting down to supper, " was the answer. 

The stranger held out a letter. 

"I pray you, deliver this into your Lord's own hand, " said he, "seeingit holdeth matter of import. "

The young man took the letter, and returned to the house. LordMonteagle was just crossing the hall to the dining-room, when hisservant delivered the letter. Grace having been said, and the businessof supper begun, he unfolded the missive. His Lordship found itdifficult to read, which implies that his education was not of the mostperfect order, for the writing is not at all hard to make out. Butgentlemen were much less versed in the three R's at that date than atthe present time [Note 2], and Lord Monteagle, calling one of hisservants, named Thomas Ward, desired him to read the letter. 

Now, Mr Thomas Ward was in the confidence of the conspirators, --a factof which there is no doubt: and that Lord Monteagle was the same may notinaptly be described as a fact of which there is doubt--an extremelystrong probability, which has been called in question without anydisproof [see Appendix]. Both these gentlemen, however, conductedthemselves with perfect decorum, and as if the subject were entirely newto them. 

This was what Mr Ward read:--

"My Lord out of the loue i beare you [this word was crossed out, andinstead of it was written] some of youere trends i haue a caer of youerpreseruacion. Therfor i would aduyse yowe as yowe tender youer lyf todeuyse some exscuse to shift of youer attendance at this parleament. For god and man hathe concurred to punishe the wickednes of this tymeand thinke not slightlye of this aduertisment but retire youer self intoyoure contri wheare yowe maye expect the euent in safti for thowghetheare be no apparance of anni stir yet i saye they shall receyue aterrible blowe this Parleament and yet they shall not seie who hurtsthem This councel is not to be acontemned because it maye do yowe goodand can do yowe no harm for the dangere is passed as soon as yowe haveburnt the letter and I hope god will giue yowe the grace to mak good useof it to whose holy proteccion I commend yowe. "

The writing was tall, cramped, and angular. There was neither signaturenor date. 

The hearers gazed on each other in perplexed astonishment, not unmixedwith fear. 

"What can it mean?" asked one of the guests. 

"Some fool's prating, " replied Lord Monteagle. "How else could thedanger be past so soon as I had burnt the letter?"

This question no one could answer. Lord Monteagle took the letter fromthe reader, pocketed it, and turned the conversation to other topics. The thoughts of the company soon passed from the singular warning; andoccupied by their own fancies and amusements, they did not notice thattheir host quitted them as soon as they left the dining-room. 

With the letter in his pocket, Lord Monteagle slipped out of his gardengate, mounted his horse, and rode to his house in the Strand. Leavingthe horse here, he went down to the water-side, where he hailed a boat, and was rowed to Westminster Stairs. To hail a boat was as natural andcommon an incident to a Londoner of that day as it is now to call a cabor stop an omnibus. Lord Monteagle stepped lightly ashore, made his wayto the Palace of Whitehall, and asked to speak at once with the Earl ofSalisbury, Lord High Treasurer of England. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. These exemplary women really resided at Southampton, a fewyears later. 

Note 2. A letter of Lord Chief-Justice Popham would be a suitablesubject for a competitive examination. 

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER. 

 "Better to have dwelt unlooked for in some forest's shadows dun, Where the leaves are pierced in triumph by the javelins of the sun! Better to be born and die in some calm nest, howe'er obscure, With a vine about the casements, and a fig-tree at the door!"

The Earl of Salisbury sat in his private cabinet in Whitehall Palace. He was Robert Cecil, younger son of the great Earl of Burleigh, and hehad inherited his father's brains without his father's conscientiousnessand integrity. The dead Queen had never trusted him thoroughly: sheconsidered him, as he was, a schemer--a schemer who might pay to virtuethe tribute of outward propriety, but would pursue the scheme no less. Yet if Robert Cecil cared for any thing on earth which was not RobertCecil, that thing was the Protestant religion and the liberties ofEngland. [Note 1. ] The present Sovereign was under pre-eminentobligation to him, for had he not cast his great weight into the scalein his favour, the chances were that James might very possibly, if notprobably, have been James the Sixth of Scotland still. Lord Salisburywas in person insignificant-looking. When she wished to put him down, his late mistress had been accustomed to address him as "Little man, "and his present master termed him "my little beagle. " His face wassmall, with wizened features, moustache, and pointed beard; and thoughonly forty-five years of age, there were decided silver threads amongthe brown. 

He looked up in surprise at the announcement that Lord Monteaglerequested permission to speak with him quickly. What could this youngRoman Catholic nobleman want with him at nine o'clock in the evening--atime which to his apprehension was much what midnight is to ours?Perhaps it was better to see him at once, and have done with the matter. He would take care to dismiss him quickly. 

"Show my Lord Monteagle this way. "

In another moment Lord Monteagle stood by the table where Salisbury wasseated, his plumed hat in his hand. 

"My Lord, " said he, "I entreat your Lordship's pardon for my latecoming, and knowing your weighty causes, will be as brief as I may. Aletter has been sent me which, in truth, to my apprehension is but theprating of some fool; yet seeing that things are not alway what theyseem, and that there may be more in it than appeareth, I crave yourLordship's leave to lay it before you, that your better judgment maypronounce thereupon. Truly, I am not able to understand it myself. "

And the nameless, undated letter, on which the fate of King andParliament hung, was laid down before Salisbury. 

The Lord High Treasurer read it carefully through; scanned it, back andfront, as if to discover any trace of origin: then leaned back in hischair, and thoughtfully stroked his moustache. 

"Pray you, be seated, my Lord. Whence had you this?"

Lord Monteagle gave such details as he knew. 

"You have no guess from whom it could come?"

"Never a whit. "

"Nor you know not the writing?"

"It resembleth none hand of any that I know. "

There was another short pause, broken by Lord Monteagle's query, "Thinksyour Lordship this of any moment?"

"That were not easy to answer. It may be of serious import; or it maybe but a foolish jest. "

"Truly, at first I thought it the latter; for how could the danger bepast as soon as the letter were burnt?"

"Ah, that might be but--My Lord, I pray you leave this letter with me. I will consider of it, and if I see cause, may lay it before the King. Any way, you have well done to bring it hither. If it be a foolishjest, there is but a lost half-hour: and if, as might be, it is anhonest warning of some real peril that threatens us, you will then havemerited well of your King and country. I may tell you that I havealready received divers advices from beyond seas to the same effect. "

"I thank your Lordship heartily, and I commend you to God. " So saying, Lord Monteagle took his leave. 

The Sunday passed peacefully. Thomas Winter, in his chamber at the signof the Duck, laid down a volume of the writings of Thomas Aquinas, andbegan to think about going to bed; when a hasty rap on the door, and thesound of some one being let in, was succeeded by rapid steps on thestairs. The next moment, Thomas Ward entered the room. 

"What is the matter?" said Winter, the moment he saw his face. 

"The saints wot! A warning letter is sent to my Lord Monteagle, andwhereto it may grow--Hie you to White Webbs when morning breaketh, withall the speed you may, and tell Mr Catesby of this. I fear--I verymuch fear all shall be discovered. "

"It's that rascal Tresham!" cried Winter. "He was earnest to have hissister's husband warned, and said he would not pluck forth not anotherstiver without our promise so to do. "

"Be it who it may, it may be the ruin of us. "

"God forbid! I will be at White Webbs with the dawn, or soon after. "

Before it was light the next morning Winter was on horseback, and wassoon galloping through the country villages of Islington, Holloway, andHornsey, on his way to Enfield Chase. In the depths of that lonelyforest land stood the solitary hunting-lodge, named White Webbs, whichbelonged to Dr Hewick, and was let in the shooting season to sportsmen. This house had been taken by "Mr Meaze" (who was Garnet) as a veryquiet locality, where mass might be said without being overheard byProtestant ears, and no inconvenient neighbours were likely to gossipabout the inmates. In London, Garnet was a horse-dealer; at White Webbshe was a gentleman farmer and a sportsman. Here he established himselfand somebody eke, who has not yet appeared on the scene, and whom it istime to introduce. And I introduce her with no feeling save one ofintense pity, as one more sinned against than sinning--a frail, passion-swayed, impulsive woman, one of the thousands of women whoselives Rome has blighted by making that sin which was no sin, and so inmany instances leading up to that which was sin--poor, loving, unhappyAnne Vaux. 

The Hon. Anne Vaux was a younger daughter of William Lord Vaux ofHarrowden, and Elizabeth Beaumont, his first wife. Like many another, she "loved one only, and she clave to him, " whose happy and honourablewife she might have been, had he been a Protestant clergyman instead ofa Jesuit priest. That Anne Vaux's passionate love for Garnet was forthe man and not the priest, her own letters are sufficient witness, andGarnet returned the love. She took a solemn vow of obedience to theSuperior of the Jesuit Mission in England, in order that she might bewith him where he was, might follow his steps like a faithful dog, thathis people should be her people, and his God her God. But where he diedshe could not die. To "live without the vanished light" was her sadderdestiny. 

At White Webbs, she passed as Mrs Perkins or Parkyns, a widow lady, andthe sister of Mr Mease. She received numerous visitors, beside MrMease himself, --Catesby, who does not appear to have assumed any alias, Mr and Mrs Brooksby (the latter of whom was Anne's sister Eleanor), Tresham, the Winters, and two dubious individuals, who passed under thenames of Robert Skinner and Mr Perkins. The former was accompanied byhis wife, real or professed; the latter professed to be a brother-in-lawof "Mrs Perkins, " and is described as "of middle stature, long visage, and somewhat lean, of a brown hair, and his beard inclining toyellow, "--a description which suits none of the conspirators whosepersonal appearance is known. 

At White Webbs, accordingly, Thomas Winter alighted, and broke in on theparty there assembled, with the startling news that--

"All is discovered! There is a letter sent to my Lord Monteagle, andour action is known. "

The party consisted of Anne Vaux, Fawkes, the Brooksbys, and Catesby, who had presented himself there a few days before, with the avowedobject of joining the royal hunting-party at Royston the next day, butin the morning resolving to "stay and be merry with his friends, " hesettled down comfortably, sent his man for venison, and took his ease. 

The ease and comfort were broken up by this sudden and startling news. 

"Pray you, flee, Mr Catesby, while you have time!" said Winter, anxiously. 

"Nay, I will be further as yet, " was the resolute answer. 

"What shall we now do? How say you?"

"Make sure how much is truth. Go you to Town, Mr Fawkes, to-morrow, assoon as may be, and bring us word what time of day it shall be with us. Try the uttermost; for if the part belonged to myself I would try thesame adventure. "

Fawkes obeyed, on the Wednesday, returning at night, to the great reliefof the conspirators, with reassuring news. There was no appearance ofany attempt to meddle with the cellar; all seemed quiet in London: noexcitement among the people, no signs of special precaution by theauthorities. They might safely go on with the work. 

On the following day, Thomas Winter returned to London, and Fawkesfollowed in the evening, arriving at the Chequers, in Holborn, justbefore it grew dark. He did not stay here, but proceeded to the housenext to the House of Lords, where he slept that night in its solitarybed, turning out his supposed master, as the one bed would notaccommodate both, and "when Mr Percy lay there, his man lay abroad. "

Percy, meanwhile, had not been idle. His vocation as gentlemanpensioner gave him easy access to any part of the Palace; and theprevious day had seen him making himself very agreeable in theapartments of the young Prince, playing with the child, and chatting ina very affable manner with his nurse. 

The youthful Prince's nurse, happily for him, was a shrewd Scotchwoman, and Percy took little by his motion, "Pray you, Mrs Fordun, whitherleads that door?"

"Out o' the chalmer, Sir, " said Agnes Fordun. 

"What time doth his Highness ride forth commonly?"

"When it likes the King's Majesty. "

"How is his Highness attended?"

"Atweel, 'tis maistly by them that gang wi' him. "

"Is his Highness a brisk, lively child, or no?"

"He's what a Prince suld be, " stiffly said Agnes. 

Percy gave her up as impracticable, and reported to his colleagues atWhite Webbs that the Duke could not be compassed. 

"Comes the Prince, then, to the Parliament?" asked Catesby. 

Percy and Winter agreed that on this head rumour was assuming a negativeaspect. 

"Then must we have our horses beyond the water, " said Catesby, "and morehorses and company to surprise the Prince, and let the Duke alone. "

The King returned from Royston on the 31st of October. The nextmorning, Salisbury requested a private audience, and in the Long Galleryof Whitehall Palace, laid before his Majesty the mysterious letter. Theastute Salisbury, and also the Lord Chamberlain, had already fathomedthe meaning of the "terrible blow, " and the means by which it was to beeffected; but the former would scarcely have been a Cecil had he notalso read his royal master. His Majesty must have the matter socommunicated to him that he should be able to believe that his ownsupernatural sagacity had solved a mystery impenetrable to thecommonplace brains of the Lords of the Council. It might be reasonablyanticipated that such a warning should be no mystery to the son of LordDarnley--that his thoughts would fly rapidly to that house in the Kirko' Field, where his own father had received his death-blow, and had notseen who hurt him. That the one word "Gunpowder!" should drop fromwhite, stern lips was to be expected. But do people ever do what isexpected of them by others? In this case, at any rate, nothing half sodramatic took place. 

"His Majesty made a short reply, "--which it may be was then thoughtsuch, but which now would assuredly be set down as long, wordy, andsententious. 

"The incertainty of the writer, and the generality of theadvertisement, " began the royal orator, "besides the small likelihood ofany such conspiracy on the general body of any realm, gives me lesscause to apprehend it as a thing certain to be put in execution. Considering that all conspiracies commonly distinguish of men andpersons, yet seeing the words do rather seem (as far as they are to beregarded) to presage danger to the whole Court of Parliament (over whommy care is greater than over mine own life), and because the wordsdescribe such a form of doing as can be no otherwise interpreted than bysome stratagem of fire and powder, --I wish that there may be specialconsideration had of the nature of all places yielding commodity forthose kinds of attempts: and I will then deliver my further judgment. "

The man who could deliver his judgment in this stilted style of pompousword-building, in such circumstances as were then existing, would haverequired a powdered footman in spotless plush to precede him out of ahouse on fire. I must confess to a little misgiving as to theauthenticity of this speech. It looks much more likely to have beendeliberately penned by my Lord Salisbury in the calm of his officialstudy, when the smoke had cleared away from the battlefield, than tohave been fired off by King James in haste and trepidation--which he wassure to feel--at the moment when the letter was laid before him. Theevidence that the Government account of the circumstances was drawn upwith due regard to what they might and should have been to produce theproper effect on the docile public, and not very much as to what theywere, is irresistible. But as no other narrative exists, we can buthave recourse to the stained-glass article before us. 

His Sacred Majesty having thus exhibited his incomparable wisdom, andbeen properly complimented and adored on account thereof, my LordSalisbury left the gallery with a grave face, and hastily summoning theLords of the Council, went through the farce of laying the letter beforethem. 

"Sire, " said he, when he returned to the King, "the Lords of theCouncil, subject to your Majesty's gracious pleasure, advise that myLord Chamberlain shall straitly view the Parliament House, and my LordMonteagle beseecheth leave to be with him. "

"Gude!" said his Majesty, who to the day of his death never lost hisScottish accent. "I wad ha'e ye likewise, my Lord Salisbury, ta'e noteo' such as wad without apparent necessity seek absence frae theParliament, because 'tis improbable that among a' the nobles, thiswarning should be only gi'en to ane. "

"Sire, your Majesty's command shall be obeyed. "

"Atweel, let the search be made, and report to me, " said the King, as heleft the gallery. 

The following Monday, which was the day before the opening ofParliament, was appointed for the search. 

On the Friday, Catesby, Thomas Winter, and Tresham met at Barnet, whenCatesby angrily accused Tresham of having sent the warning to LordMonteagle, and Tresham vehemently denied it. 

"Marry, it must be you!" said Catesby. "The only ones that harried ustouching the saving of persons were you and Mr Keyes, who would fainhave saved his master, my Lord Mordaunt; all other were consenting tothe general issue that the Catholic Lords should be counselled to tarryaway on account of the new statutes. "

"I never writ nor sent that letter, on my honour!" cried Tresham. 

Did he speak the truth? No man knows to this day. 

On the Saturday, the conspirators had another scare. In Lincoln's InnWalks, Thomas Winter met Tresham, who told him in a terrified whisperthat Lord Salisbury had been to the King, and, there was grave reason tofear, had shown him the fatal letter. Winter hastened away to Catesby, to whom he communicated the news. For the first time Gatesby's heartfailed him. 

"I will be gone!" said he. "Yet--nay, I will stay till Mr Percy come, without whose consent will I do nothing. "

But money was wanted; and one of the moneyed men, who had been drawninto the conspiracy for that purpose, could alone supply it. Tresham, that one who was at hand, took Winter to his apartments in Clerkenwell[Note 2], where he counted out a hundred pounds. 

The same night a letter was brought to Salisbury which had been founddropped in the street. A few words of it were in cipher. It purportedto be written by E. F. Mak to Richard Bankes: and in it these wordsoccurred:--"The gallery with the passage thereto yieldeth the best ofassurance, and a safety of the actors themselves. "

"I hope to behold the tyrannous heretic defeated in his cruelpleasures. " These mysterious hints, coming so quickly after theMonteagle letter, still further alarmed and excited the Council. 

The conspirators gathered on Sunday night in the house behind SaintClement's--Fawkes, Catesby, Thomas Winter, and the two Wrights. Theywere shortly joined by Percy. It was late when they parted--parted, tomeet all together in this world never any more. Catesby had made up hismind to go down into the country the next day; Percy and the Wrightswere preparing to follow; all were ready to escape the moment thenecessity should arise, except Fawkes, who was to fire the powder, andThomas Winter, who said he would tarry and see the end. Some hadalready departed--Sir Everard Digby to Coughton, the house of MrThrockmorton, which he had borrowed--where Garnet already was. 

Percy spent the Monday in a visit to the Earl of Northumberland at Syon;Christopher Wright and Thomas Winter in buying articles needful for thecoming journey. In the morning Rookwood accidentally met Catesby, whosespirits had risen. There was no need to fear things would go on well. 

Three o'clock in the afternoon saw Lord Suffolk, the Lord Chamberlain ofthe Household, accompanied by Lord Monteagle, descending into the vaultsof the House of Lords. They glanced into different parts, and coming tothe cellar immediately under the House, the Lord Chamberlain noticedthat it was apparently filled with stacked faggots. 

"Whose are all these?" said he. 

A tall, dark man, who had unlocked the cellar for their Lordships'entrance, and was now standing by with the key in his hand, gave theanswer, with an air of rustic simplicity. 

"An't like your Lordships, 'tis my master's provision for the winter. "

"Who is your master?" asked the Lord Chamberlain. 

"An't please you, Mr Percy, one of his Majesty's pensioners, that hathhis lodging this next door. "

"I thought none dwelt next door. How long hath your master had thehouse?"

"Under your Lordships' leave, about a year and an half; but hathdeferred his lying there by reason of some occasions which caused him tobe absent. "

"Well, he has laid in a good stock of fuel, " said the Chamberlain, as ifcarelessly; and their Lordships turned and remounted the stairs. 

Arrived at a place where they might speak unheard, the noble searcherslooked each into the other's face with the same question on the lips ofboth. 

"What thinks your Lordship of all this stock of fuel below?"

"Nay, what think you, my Lord?"

"Truly, I am very suspicious thereof. "

"My Lord, the more I do observe the letter, " said Lord Monteagle, earnestly, "and meditate on the words thereof, the more jealous am I ofthe matter, and of this place. Look you, this Mr Percy the pensionerand I had great dearness of friendship between us at one time; he is anear relative of my Lord Northumberland, and a Catholic. Were I you, that cellar should be thoroughly overhauled. "

"Well, let us go to the King. "

It was between five and six o'clock, and the short November daylight wasover, when the searchers brought back their report to his Majesty, recounted their suspicions, and asked what they were to do. 

"Gi'e me a man wi' his heid on his shoulders, " said his Majesty, "and yeha' that, my Lord Monteagle. Noo, I'll just tell ye, I ay held anemaxim, to wit, Either do naething, or do that quhilk shall make a' sure. So ye'll just gang your ways, and ha'e a glint ahint thae faggots inthe bit cellar. "

"If it please your Highness, is there no fear that so we may give roomfor murmurings and evil rumours? If we search this cellar and findnothing, may not men say the Government is unduly suspicious?"

"And, under your Highness' leave, shall it not place my LordNorthumberland in jeopardy?--he being akin to Mr Percy, and his greatfriend. "

"Ay, is there twa heids weel screwit on? I jalouse, my Lord Monteagle, ye're saying ae word for my Lord Northumberland and twa for yoursel'. Be it sae: a man hath but ane life. My Lord Chamberlain, can ye noraise a bit rumour that a wheen o' the hangings are missing that suldha'e been in the Wardrobe in Wyniard's keeping? Then gang your ways, and turn out the faggots. "

"And, if it might please your Majesty, " suggested the Lord Chamberlain, "were it not best some other made the search--one of the gentlemen ofyour privy chamber, --so as to rouse less suspicion?"

"Ay, gang your ways, and send auld Knevet down, wi' a pair or twa o'younger hands to toss the faggots. "

"Might it not be well also, Sire, to extend the search to the housesadjoining the Parliament House, and so make examination of the lodgingwhere Mr Percy lieth?"

"Do sae, do sae, " responded the King. "I affy me in you: only heedthis, What you do, do throughly. "

Just as the Abbey clock struck eleven, Fawkes came out of Percy's rooms, and went down into the vault by the door which had been made theprevious Easter. He carried in one hand a dark lantern, lighted, and inthe other a piece of touchwood, and a match eight or nine inches inlength. As he set the lantern down in the corner of the vault, he felta touch upon his shoulder, and looked up in alarm until he met the eyesof Robert Keyes. 

"Mr Fawkes, take this watch, which Mr Percy sends you, that you maythe better know when to fire the train. "

Keyes spoke in a very low tone, so that he might not be heard outside. Fawkes took the watch, and secreted it carefully. Watches were rare andprecious things, not carried by every gentleman even when wealthy; andPercy had bought this one for its special purpose. 

Keyes departed, and Fawkes opened the door of the vault for a breath offresh air. He had scarcely come out, and closed it behind him, whenanother hand grasped his shoulder, not with the light touch of hisconfederate. 

"Who are you?" asked the voice of an old man. 

"My name is John Johnson, my master; I am Mr Percy's man. "

"Make stay of him, " said the voice; "and you, come after me into thevault. "

Into the vault went Sir Thomas Knevet, and with his men began a searchamong the carefully-stacked wood. It did not take long to lay bare thesix-and-thirty barrels, and by drilling a small hole into two of them tomake sure of the nature of their contents. Spread before them, in thefull magnitude of its horror, lay the "gunpowder treason and plot, "which through the coming ages of English history, should "never beforgot. "

A slight noise overhead alarmed the searchers, who feared lest "MrPercy's man" might be endeavouring to escape. Sir Thomas sent up one ofhis men, named Doubleday, to make sure of him till his return. Fawkes, however, was still in the hands of the watchman, but on Doubleday'sappearance, he requested permission to go to his own room in theadjoining house. This Doubleday allowed, posting himself as watchmen atthe door. No sooner was Fawkes alone than he took the opportunity torid himself of the chief evidences against him, by flinging the matchand tinder out of his window, which overlooked the river. In anotherminute Sir Thomas Knevet and his men entered the chamber. 

"Know you what we have found in your master's cellar?"

"You have found what was there, I suppose, " was the cool reply. 

"Search the man, " was Sir Thomas Knevet's order. But this indignityFawkes resented, and opposed with all his strength. The struggle wassevere, but short. He was overpowered, and bound with his own garters. They found on him the watch which Keyes had brought from Percy. 

"How could you have put fire to the gunpowder, " asked Knevet, "withoutdanger to yourself?"

"I meant to fire it by a match, eight or nine inches long; as soon as Ihad set it I should have fled for mine own safety. If I had been in thecellar when you took me, I would at once have blown up all. "

"Keep a strong guard on this caitiff, " said Sir Thomas, "and you, Doubleday, see to the cellar. I will to his Majesty. "

As he left Percy's house, midnight tolled out on the clock of the Abbey. The fifth of November had begun. 

Sir Thomas Knevet left his prisoner under guard, and returned to theKing. Late as it was, his Majesty had not retired. The members of theCouncil who were at hand--for some always slept in the Palace--werecalled in, the gates secured, a cordon of troops set across King Street, and another at Charing Cross. The remainder of the Council in Town hadbeen sent for, and as soon as they arrived, about one o'clock a. M. , theKing sat at their head in his bedchamber, and Fawkes was brought in andplaced before them. 

Nothing quelled the spirit of Guy Fawkes. The councillors were eager, impatient, vehement: he was calm as a summer eve, cool as the midnightsnow. To their hurried queries he returned straightforward, unabashed, imperturbable answers, still keeping up his character of an ignorantrustic. 

"Tell us, fellow, why that store of gunpowder was laid in?"

"To blow up the Parliament House, " said Fawkes. "When should it havebeen executed?"

"To-morrow, when the King had come, and the Upper House was sitting. "

"Of whom?"

"Of myself. "

"How knew you that the King would come?"

"Only by report, and the making ready his barge. "

"And for what cause?"

"For the advancement of the Catholic religion. "

"You are a Papist?"

"Ay. "

"And wherefore would you be a party to the destruction of so many ofyour own religion?"

"We meant principally to have respected our own safety, and would haveprayed for them. "

"Your name and calling?"

"John Johnson, and Mr Percy's man. "

"Was your master a party to this treason?"

"You can ask him when you see him. "

"Who were your accomplices?"

Then the dark eyes shot forth fire. 

"You would have me betray my friends!" said Guy Fawkes. "The givingwarning to one hath overthrown us all. "

It was found impossible to obtain any further information from Fawkes. Neither fear nor coaxing would induce him to name his accomplices. Hewas sent to the Tower, which he entered by Traitor's Gate. 

"Well, to be sure! Whatten a thingcum's [what sort of a thing] this?Has summat happened sin' we went to bed? Rachel! I say, Rachel, lass!come here. "

Rachel heard the exclamation when Charity opened the front door, andcame running with a wooden spoon in her hand. 

"See thou, lass! dost thou see all them soldiers drawn right across th'street? Look, they're turning folks back 'at goes up, and willn't let'em pass. There's summat up, for sure! What is it, thinkst thou?"

"Thou'd best ask somebry [somebody] as comes down from 'em, " suggestedRachel: "or send in next door. Eh, Mistress Abbott will be some mad[greatly vexed], to think hoo's missed th' news by lying abed. "

"Ah, hoo will. Here--I say, Master! What's up, can you tell us?"

The man addressed stopped. He had been up to the cordon, and had beenturned back by them. 

"Why, there's a plot discovered, " he answered: "one of the worst everwas heard. The Parliament House should have been blown up this verymorning, and you should have been in danger of your lives. "

"Lord, have mercy!" cried Rachel. 

"Thanks be, that 'tis found out!" said Charity. "Be the rogues catched, think you?"

"One of 'em--he that should have fired the mine. They have learnednought of the rest as yet. "

"Well, for sure! Happen [perhaps] he'll tell o' t'others. "

"They'll make him, never fear, " said the man, as he passed on. 

"Why, my maids! are you both so warm this November morrow, that youstand at the street door?" said Edith's voice behind them. "Pritheeshut it, Charity; my mother comes anon. "

Charity obeyed, while Rachel hastily poured the astonishing news intoEdith's ears. The latter grew a shade paler. 

"What be these traitors?" she said. 

"They're Papists, for sure!" said Rachel, decidedly. "Nobry else'dthink of nought so wicked. "

"Ah, I reckon they are, " added Charity, clinching the nail. "They'reright naught [Note 3], the whole boilin' of 'em. "

The news was broken to Lady Louvaine more gently than it had been toEdith; but she clasped her hands with a faint cry of--"Aubrey! If thesebe they with whom he hath consorted, God keep the lad!"

"I trust, Mother dear, God will keep him, " responded Edith, softly. "Would you have him hither?"

"Truly, I know not what to say, daughter. Maybe he is the safest withmy Lady of Oxford. Nay, I think not. "

Now came Temperance with her market-basket, and she had to be told. Herfirst thought was of a practical nature, but it was not Aubrey. 

"Dear heart, you say not so? How ever am I to get to market? Lancasterand Derby! but I would those Papist companions were swept clean away outof the realm. I don't believe there's a loyal man amongst 'em!"

"Nay, Temperance, we know not yet if they be Papists. "

"Know not if they be! Why, of course they are!" was the immediatedecision of Temperance. "What else can they be? There's none othersort ill enough to hammer such naughty work out of their fantasy. `Don't know, ' indeed! don't tell _me_!"

And Temperance and her basket marched away in dudgeon. 

The previous evening had been spent by Christopher Wright, Rookwood, andKeyes at the Duck; and they were the first among the conspirators tohear of the discovery and arrest. At five o'clock in the morning, Christopher Wright made a sudden appearance in Thomas Winter's chamber, where that worthy was sleeping, certainly not the sleep of the just. 

"Rise up, Mr Winter!" he cried excitedly. "Rise and come along toEssex House, for I am going to call upon my Lord Northumberland. Thematter is discovered, by a letter to my Lord Monteagle. "

Thomas Winter sat up in his bed. 

"Go back, Mr Wright, " said he, "and learn what you can about EssexGate. "

Off dashed Christopher, and Winter dressed hastily. He was scarcelyready when his friend returned. 

"Surely, all is lost!" cried Wright, "for Leyton is got on horseback atEssex door, and as he 'parted, he asked if their Lordships would haveany more with him, and being answered `No, ' is rode as fast up FleetStreet as he can ride. "

"Go you, then, to Mr Percy, " urged Winter, "for sure it is for him theyseek, and bid him be gone. I will stay and see the uttermost. "

Away went Wright again, and Winter followed more slowly. He found theCourt gates "straitly guarded, " so that he was not allowed to enter. Then he turned and went down towards the Houses of Parliament, and inthe middle of King Street he found the guard standing, who would not lethim pass. As Winter passed up King Street again, Silence Abbott cameout of her door, having just published herself for the day, and accostedRachel, who was busy with the doorsteps. 

"Why, whatever's all this to-do?" said she, in considerable dismay. Hadshe been wasting daylight and precious material for gossip, by lying inbed half-an-hour longer than usual?

"Why, there's a treason discovered, " said Rachel, wringing out herflannel. 

"Lack-a-day! what manner of treason?"

"Biggest ever was heard on. The King and all th' Lords o' th'Parliament to be blown up. "

Winter hesitated no more. Evidently all was known. To save himself--ifit might be--was the only thing now possible. He went straight to thelivery-stable where he kept his horse, mounted, and set forth forDunchurch, where the hunting-party was to meet. If all were lost inLondon, it was not certain that something might not be retrieved in thecountry. 

It was a grievous blunder, and grievously they answered it. Had theyinstantly gone on board the vessel which lay moored in the river, readyto carry Fawkes away when the mine was fired, and set sail for Flanders, every one of them might have fulfilled the number of his days. It seemsalmost as if their eyes were holden, that they should go up and fall atthe place appointed. 

The first to fly had been Catesby and John Wright. Keyes followed ateight o'clock, going straight to Turvey; Rookwood at eleven, overtakingKeyes three miles beyond Highgate, and Catesby and Wright at Brickhill. As they rode together, Wright "cast their cloaks into a hedge to ridemore speedily. "

Percy had spent the night in the City, but Christopher Wright soon foundhim, and they galloped after their colleagues. At Hockliffe Percy'sservant Story met them with fresh horses, and overtaking the othersfurther on, they at last reached Ashby Saint Ledgers in safety. 

Robert Winter, the elder brother of Thomas, was then at Grafton, theresidence of his father-in-law, stalwart old John Talbot, whither he andhis wife had ridden on the last day of October. He was among the moreinnocent of the plotters, and had taken no active part in anything butthe mining. Riding from Grafton, on the 4th, he spent the night at theBull Inn, Coventry, and next day reached the Hall at Ashby SaintLedgers, where the widowed Lady Catesby held her solitary state. LadyCatesby (_nee_ Anne Throckmorton) and her worthy son were not on thebest terms, having found it necessary or amusing to sue one another inhis Majesty's Law Courts; and shortly before this, Lady Catesby had beento Huddington to request Robert Winter's assistance in making peace withher son. He was now on his way to advise her, and had heard nothing ofthe proceedings in London. But soon after his arrival at the Hall, fourweary, bemired men arrived also. These were Percy, the Wrights, andRookwood, Keyes having left them on the way. 

"Lost, lost!" cried impetuous Percy, as he came, booted, spurred, andcovered with mud, into the very neat drawing-room where Lady Catesby andher young daughter Elizabeth were engaged on their embroidery. "All islost! the whole plot discovered. I cast no doubt proclamations shall beout by morning light to seize us all, with a full relation how short orhow long we be. "

Lady Catesby exerted herself to provide for the refreshment and comfortother very unexpected guests, and they were soon on their way across thehall to supper, when one of the servants came up with a message that"one at the base door prayed speech of Mr Winter. " Robert Winterexcused himself to his hostess, and going to the back-door, he therefound Martha Bates, wife of the Bates who was his fellow--conspiratorand Catesby's servant. 

"Pray you, Sir, " said Martha with a bob of deprecation mingled withdeference, "to come into the fields by the town's end, where is onewould speak quickly with you. "

"Who is it?"

Martha glanced round, as if afraid of the chestnuts overhearing her. 

"Well, Sir, to tell truth, 'tis Mr Catesby; but I pray you, let not myLady Anne know of his being here. "

Robert Winter took his way to the place appointed, and found a group ofsome twelve horsemen awaiting him. 

"Good even! Well, what news?"

"The worst could be. Mr Fawkes is taken, and the whole plotdiscovered. "

"Ay, you have heard it, then? Here are come but now my cousins Wright, with Mr Percy and Mr Rookwood, bringing the same news. What now dowe?"

"What say you?"

"Well, it seems to me best that each should submit himself. "

"We've not yet come to that. Bid them every one follow me to Dunchurchwithout loss of time. Only--mind you let not my mother know of my beinghere. "

"To Dunchurch--what, afore supper? We were but just come into thedining-chamber, and I smell somewhat uncommon good. "

"You may tarry for jugged hare, " said Catesby contemptuously. "I shallride quickly to Dunchurch, and there consult. "

"Well--if you must, have with you. "

"Bring some pies in your pocket, Robin, and then you'll not fall tocannibalism on the way, " called Catesby after him. "And--hark! ask ifany wist the road to Dunchurch, for I know it not. "

The question was put in vain to all the party. It appeared, when theycame up with Catesby, that nobody knew the road to Dunchurch. Guide-posts were a mystery of the future. 

"We must needs have a guide, " said Catesby; "but I am fain at thismoment not to show myself in Ashby. Robin, wilt thou win us one? Gothou to Leeson, the smith, at the entering in of the village as thoucomest from Ravensthorpe--"

"Ay, I know. "

"Ask him if he will guide us to Dunchurch, and he shall be well paid forit. He is safe, being a Catholic. We will follow anon. "

Bennet Leeson, the blacksmith at Ashby Saint Ledgers, had given up workfor the day, and having gone through some extensive ablutions and thesubsequent supper, now stood at his cottage door, looking out on thegreen and taking his rest. He was not enjoying a pipe, for that was asyet a vice of the city, which had not penetrated to rustic and primitiveplaces such as Ashby Saint Ledgers. A horseman came trotting up thestreet, and drew bridle at his door. 

"Give thee good den, smith! Dost know the road to Dunchurch?"

Bennet Leeson took off his leather cap, and scratched his head, as if itwere necessary to clear a path to his brains before the question couldpenetrate so far. 

"Well, I reckon I do, when 'tis wanted. What o' that?"

"Wilt guide me thither?"

"What, this even?"

"Ay, now. "

Bennet's cap came off again, and he repeated the clearing process on theother side of his head. 

"I will content thee well for it, " said the stranger: "but make up thymind, for time presseth. "

A dulcet vision of silver shillings--of which no great number usuallycame his way--floated before the charmed eyes of the blacksmith. 

"Well, I shouldn't mind if I did. Tarry while I get my horse. "

The stranger waited, though rather impatiently, till Bennet reappeared, leading a rough Dunsmoor pony, with a horsecloth tied round it, on whichhe mounted without saddle. 

"Now then, my master. Nay, not that way! You're turning your back onDunchurch so. "

The horseman checked his hasty, start with a smile, and followed hisguide. As they reached the other end of the village, and came out intothe open, Catesby and his companions emerged from the trees, and joinedRobert Winter. 

"Him's growed!" said Bennet Leeson to himself, as he glanced round atthe increased sound of horses' hoofs. "First time I ever see one mansplit his self into thirteen. The beast's split his self too. Wonderif them'll ha' come to six-and-twenty by the time us gets at Dunchurch!"

The company, however, grew no further, and Bennet led them up to thedoor of the Lion at Dunchurch without any more marvels. It was nowabout "seven or eight o'clock in the night. " Catesby, the only one whomhe knew by sight, said to the smith as he dismounted--

"Here, smith, wilt walk the horses a few moments? It shall not beforgot in the reckoning. "

The whole party then went into the Lion, where Sir Everard Digby andothers awaited them. A hurried, eager discussion of future plans tookplace here. The drawer was called to bring bottles of sack and glasses, and before he was well out of hearing, impetuous Percy cried, "We areall betrayed!"

"Softly, an't like you!" responded the cooler Catesby. 

"We must go on now, " cried Percy: "we shall die for it else. "

"But what must we now do?" asked Rookwood. "Go, even yet, to CombeAbbey, and seize on the Lady Elizabeth?"

"We wait for you, Mr Catesby, " said Sir Everard. "You have been ourleader from the beginning, and we of your following will not forsake younow. "

"Too late for anything of that sort, " was Catesby's decision. "Thereare scarce enough of us, and word will sure be sent to my LordHarrington, quicker than we could reach the place. Remember, they willgo direct, and we have come round. Nay, our only way is to gather allour friends together, and see what manner of stand we can make. Innumbers is our safety. "

"Every Catholic in the realm will rally to us, " said Sir Everard. 

"And many Protestants belike, " suggested Robert Winter. 

"Marry, we shall have brave following, ere we be twelve hours older, "said Percy. "But which way go we now?"

"Let us first cross over to Grant's; we shall maybe increase our numbersthere: then go we to Coughton, pressing such as will join us on theway. "

"Done!" said Percy, always the first to agree to anything which wasaction, and not waiting for events. 

Outside, in the meantime, Bennet Leeson was walking the horses, as hehad been requested. 

"Tarry a bit, Leeson: thou hast not yet handled all thou mayest gainthis night, " said a voice the smith knew. 

"Why, whence came you, Tom Bates?"

"You've good eyes, Bennet. I've been behind you ever since we leftAshby. "

"By the same token, but I never saw you. "

"Well, let be seeing me or no--wilt guide me to Rugby and back here foranother shilling?"

Bates and Leeson accordingly rode away to "a little town called Rugby, "where at the bailiffs house they found nine more worthies, who hadfinished their supper, and were playing cards. One of these gentry wasJohn Winter--the half-brother of Robert and Thomas, --whose mother wasthe daughter of Queen Mary's redoubtable Secretary, Sir John Bourne[Note 4]. He was either very simple or very clever, and at thisdistance of time it is not easy to say which. 

Bates delivered the message with which he was charged, that "thegentlemen at Dunchurch desired their company to be merry, " and the ninecard-players accordingly returned with him to that place. Having paidthe promised shilling to Leeson, Bates took his new convoy into the inn, whence the whole party emerged in about a quarter of an hour. 

"That is for thy pains, smith, and I thank thee, " said Catesby, stoopingfrom his saddle to put two shillings in the hand of his guide. 

The whole party now rode away in the direction of Coventry. 

"Well, that's a queer start!" said the blacksmith to himself, lookingfirst after the horsemen, and then down at the money in his hand. "Ifit hadn't a-been Muster Catesby, now, and Tom Bates, might ha' thoughtus 'd been out wi' the fairies this even. You're good silver, aren'tyou? Let we see. Ay--an Edward shovelboard [Note 5], and a newshilling o' King James, and three groats o' Queen Bess--that's not fairysilver, I 'count. Come along, Yethard!" [Note 6] as he scrambled onthe back of his shaggy friend. "Thee and me'll go home now. Us hasdone a good night's work. They shillings 'll please she, if her's notin a tantrum. Gee up wi' thee!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Sicklemore, one of the priests, said with a sigh, "The Divellis in that Lord of Salisbury! All our undoing is his doing, and theexecution of Garnet is his only deed. " (Additional Manuscript 6178, folio 165. )

Note 2. Clerkenwell was a suburb wherein many Roman Catholics dwelt. "There were divers houses of recusants in Saint John's Street, " amongthem those of Sir Henry James and Thomas Sleep, at the last of whichFawkes was a frequent visitor. Mrs Wyniard bore witness that whenFawkes paid her the last quarter's rent, on Sunday, November 3rd, he had"good store of gould in his pocket. "

Note 3. Modern writers are apt to confuse nought and naught. At thistime they were quite distinct, the former signifying _nothing_, and thelatter (whence naughty is derived) _wickedness_. 

Note 4. This is the gentleman described by the Hot Gospeller as comingto the door of the council-chamber, "looking as the wolf doth for alamb; unto whom my two keepers delivered me, " and "he took me ingreedily. " (Narrative of Edward Underhill, Harl. Manuscript 424, folio87, b. )

Note 5. The shilling of Edward the Sixth acquired this popular namefrom being so large and flat, that it was found convenient for use inthe game of shovelboard. 

Note 6. The Northamptonshire pronunciation of Edward. 

CHAPTER NINE. 

ON THE WEARY WAY TO HOLBEACH. 

 "And thou hast fashioned idols of thine own-- Idols of gold, of silver, and of stone: To them hast bowed the knee, and breathed the breath, And they must help thee in the hour of death. "

 Sir Edwin Arnold. 

While the discomfited conspirators were thus speeding on their wearyway, in hope of yet gathering recruits enough to raise the standard ofrebellion in the interests of that Church on whose behalf they countedeverything lawful, Lord Harrington, at Combe Abbey, heard the news, andhurried the little Princess off to Coventry, as a safer place than hisown house, for Coventry was determinately Protestant and loyal. Elizabeth, afterwards well known as the Queen of Bohemia, was deeplyimpressed and horrified with the terrible discovery. 

"What sort of a queen should I have been, " said the true-hearted child, "when I had won to my throne through the blood of my father and mybrothers? Thanked be God that it was not so!"

The metropolis was passing through a ferment of delight, amazement, andactivity. Everywhere in the streets bonfires were blazing, --the firstof those Gunpowder Plot bonfires which every fifth of November has seenafter them. 

A watch was set on Percy's house in Holborn, and his wife was guarded. A priest named Roberts was taken in the house. Mrs Martha Percyappears to have been a fitting mate for a conspirator. She put on anaffectation of the sublimest innocence. How should she know anything?she who lived so quietly, and was entirely occupied in teaching her ownand other children. As to her husband, she had not seen him sinceMidsummer. He was attendant on my Lord of Northumberland, and lodged, as she supposed, in his house. Having thus lulled to sleep thesuspicions of those set to watch her, the next morning Mrs Percy wasnot to be found. Whether she slipped through a door, or climbed out ofa window, or went up the chimney on a broomstick, there was no evidenceto show; but three days later she made her appearance at Norbrook Housein Warwickshire, the residence of her eldest brother, John Wright, andwas affectionately received by her sister-in-law. 

At Westminster, Lord Chief-Justice Popham and Sir Edward Coke sat injudicial ermine, and summoned before them two prisoners--Gideon Gibbonsthe porter, and the clever gentleman who called himself John Johnson, and whose real name was Guy Fawkes. 

Gibbons was soon disposed of, for he was as innocent as he seemed to be. All that he could say was that he had been hired, in his usual way ofbusiness, with two other porters, to carry three thousand billets ofwood to the Parliament House, and that Mr Percy's servant Johnson hadstacked them in the cellar. The key of the house next door had been attimes left in charge of his wife. So much he knew, and no more. 

The examination of "John Johnson" was another matter. The King himselfhad drawn up a paper containing questions to be put to him, and heanswered these and all others with an appearance of perfect franknessand wish to conceal nothing. His replies were in reality a mixture oftruth and falsehood, which was afterwards proved. 

The catechism began as usual, "What is your name?"

"John Johnson. " To this he adhered through two more examinations. 

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-six. " This was true. 

"Where were you born?"

"In Netherdale, in the county of York. "

"How have you lived hitherto?"

"By a farm of thirty pounds a year. "

"How came those wounds in your breast?"

"They are scars from the healing of a pleurisy. "

The treatment of pleurisy in the seventeenth century was apparentlyrather severe. 

Fawkes went on to reply to the articles demanded, that he had neverserved any man but Percy--though he had been in the service of AnthonyBrowne, Lord Montague, a few months before: that he obtained Percy'sservice "only by his own means, being a Yorkshire man"; that he hadlearned French in England, and increased it when abroad; that he wasborn a Papist, and not perverted--which was false. 

Being asked why he was addressed as "Mr Fauks" in a letter (as healleged) from Mrs Colonel Bostock, which was found in his pocket, Mr"Johnson" replied with the coolest effrontery, that it was because hehad called himself so in Flanders, where Mrs Bostock resided. Thisletter was subsequently discovered to come from Anne Vaux. 

Thus far went King James's queries: in respect of which the King desired"if he will no other ways confesse, the gentle tortours to be first usedunto him, _et sic per gradus ad ima tenditur_; and so God speede yourgood work!"

It was not, however, necessary to urge a confession: Mr Percy's manseemed anxious to make a clean breast of it, and promised to telleverything. He proceeded accordingly to lead his examiners astray by alittle truth and a good deal of falsehood. He gave a tolerably accurateaccount of the hiring of the house and the cellar, the bringing in ofthe powder, etcetera, except that he refrained from implicating any onebut himself. There was, at first, a certain air of nobility aboutFawkes, and he sternly refused to become an informer. He declined toadmit his summer journey abroad, and would not allow that the springexcursion had any other object than "to see the country and pass awaythe time. "

"What would you have done, " asked the examiners, "with the Queen and theroyal issue?"

"If they had been there, I would not have helped them. "

"If all had gone, who would have been published or elected King?"

"We never entered into that consideration. "

"What form of government should have succeeded?"

"We were too few to enter into the consideration. The people themselveswould have drawn to a head. " All this was untrue, as Fawkessubsequently allowed. A number of arrests were made, mostly of innocentpersons. All in whose houses the conspirators had lodged. MrsHerbert, Mrs More, the tailor Patrick; Mrs Wyniard, Mrs Bright, andtheir respective servants; Lord Northumberland's gentlemen, and the Earlhimself, were put under lock and key. The poor Earl bemoaned himselfbitterly, and entreated that Percy might be searched for--"who alonecould show him clear as the day, or dark as the night. " He assertedthat Percy had obtained money from him by falsehood: and seeing howexquisitely little value most of these worthy gentlemen seem to have setupon truth, it was not at all unlikely. Lady Northumberland wrote animpulsive letter to Lord Salisbury, entreating him to stand her friendby "salving" her husband's reputation, "much wounded in the opinion ofthe world by this wretched cousin": but the only result of the appealwas to make the Lord Treasurer angry, and give rise to an intercessionin her behalf from her lord and master, who begs Salisbury to "bear withher because she is a woman, " and therefore "not able with fortitude tobear out the crosses of the world as men are: and, " adds the Earlhumorously, "she will sometimes have her own ways, let me do what I can, which is not unknown to you. " [Note 1. ]

The prisoners were remanded, and the great metropolis slept: but therewas no sleep for those bemired and weary horsemen who pressed on thatnight journey to Norbrook. Where Grant joined them is not recorded, butHumphrey Littleton had left them at Dunchurch. His share in the plothad been insignificant, but we shall hear of him again. Catesby, JohnWright, and Percy, who rode in front, beguiled their journey by adiscussion as to how they could procure fresh horses. They wereapproaching Warwick, and it was proposed that Grant and some of theservants should be sent on in front, with instructions to make a raid ona livery-stable in the town, kept by a man named Bennock, and seize asmany horses as they could get. 

Robert Winter, riding behind, saw the men sent on, and pressing forwardto the front, inquired the meaning of it. When told the intention, hecombated it strongly, and did his best to dissuade Catesby from it. Theman who had swallowed the camel of the Gunpowder Plot was scandalised atthe idea of horse-stealing! [Note 2. ]

"I pray you, no more of this!" said Robert Winter. "It will but furtherincrease the wrath of the King. "

"Some of us may not look back, " said Catesby. 

Robert replied with some spirit, for he knew himself to be among theless guilty of the plotters. "Yet others, I hope, may; and therefore, Ibeg you, let this alone. "

Catesby looked up with a faint, sad smile, and tired sleepless eyes. "What, hast thou any hope, Robin? I assure thee, there is none thatknoweth of this action but shall perish. "

When the body of the conspirators reached Warwick, about 3 a. M. , thehorses were almost ready for them to mount. Ten were seized at the thelivery-stable, and a few more were either stolen or borrowed from theCastle. Thus provided, and now about eighty in number, they rode on toGrant's house at Norbrook. On arrival here, they despatched Bates toCoughton, with a letter to Garnet from Digby. This letter was read byGarnet to Greenway, both of whom are represented by Bates as spotlesslyignorant of the plot until that moment. Greenway returned with Bates, at his earnest request, attired in "coulored satten done with gouldlace, " and was met by Catesby with the exclamation--

"Here is a gentleman who will live and die with us!"

From Norbrook Robert Winter despatched a servant in advance, summarilyordering his wife to "go forth of the house, and take the children withher, " which the obedient Gertrude did. About two o'clock on theafternoon of the sixth, thirty-six worn-out men arrived at Huddington, to be re-armed from Robert Winter's armoury; after which, findinghimself rather at a loss in the housekeeping department, the master ofthe house recalled his Gertrude to minister to the comfort of himselfand his guests. 

That submissive lady did her duty, and leaving the children with theneighbour at whose house she had taken refuge, returned to her ownkitchen to superintend a hastily-prepared supper for the wearytravellers. Before this was ready, Catesby and John Wright took RobertWinter aside, and tried hard to induce him to write to hisfather-in-law, attempting to draw him into the now almost hopelessrebellion. 

"There is no remedy, Robin, " said John Wright, "but thou must write aletter to thy father Talbot, to see if thou canst therewith draw himunto us. "

"Nay, that will I not, " was the determined answer. 

"Robin, you must, " said Catesby. 

"My masters, ye know not my father Talbot so well as I, " replied RobinWinter. "All the world cannot draw him from his allegiance. Neitherwould I if I could, in this case. What friends hath my poor wife andchildren but he? And therefore, satisfy yourselves; I will not. "

"Well, then, " suggested Wright, "write as we shall say unto thee toMaster Smallpiece, that serves thy father Talbot. "

Robert Winter, who liked an easy life, suffered himself to be persuadedon this point; and wrote the letter, of which all that now remains is afew half-burnt lines, written in great haste, and barely legible:

"Good Cousin, I fear it will not seem strange to you that--a good numberof resolved Catholics so perform matters of such. . . Will set their moststrength, or hang all those that ever. . . Use your best endeavour to stirup my father Talbot. . . Which I hold much more honourable than to behanged after. . . Cousin, pray for me, I pray you, and send me all suchfriends. . . Haste, I commend you. From Huddington, this 6th ofNovember. "

"R. . . "

Having written this letter, Mr Robert Winter proceeded, not to forward, but to pocket it, and declined to give it up until the next morning, when he resigned it, "to stop a peace withal. "

Late in the evening of the 6th, the conspirators were joined by StephenLittleton and Thomas Winter, the latter of whom had not been able toovertake them any sooner. Before daybreak on the following morning, they assembled in the private chapel of Huddington House, where mass wassung by the family confessor, Mr Hammond, and the Sacrament wasadministered to all present after due confession. Then, leavingHuddington about sunrise, they recommenced their weary flight. 

They were now "armed at all points in open rebellion, " yet with daggersand guns only. Instead of continuing their course, as hitherto, directly westward, they turned towards the north, and made for HewellGrange, the residence of Lord Windsor, where they plundered the armoury. The company had much decreased: one and another every now and thendropped off stealthily, doubtful of what was coming, though Catesby andSir Everard rode pistol in hand, warning them that all who sought tosteal away would be shot without quarter. Percy, Grant, John Wright, and Morgan, were placed behind for the same purpose. As the party rodetowards Hewell Grange, they asked all whom they met to join them. Theusual response was--

"We are for King James; if you go for him, then will we have with you. "

To this the conspirators were wont to reply--"We go for God and thecountry. "

But the shrewd Worcestershire peasants declined to commit themselves toanything so vague as this. 

At last they came to an old countryman, to whom they addressed theircustomary appeal. The old man planted his staff firmly in front of him, and set his back against a wall. 

"I am for King James, " he said, "for whom I will live and die. "

Upon this the disloyalty of the company was plainly manifested by shoutsof "Kill him! kill him!" But there was no time to stop for that, whichprobably saved the brave old loyalist's life. 

Upon leaving Hewell, the conspirators rode up to the houses of all theRoman Catholic gentry in the neighbourhood, and summoned their owners tojoin them for God and the Church. But sore disappointments met them onevery side. From door after door they were driven with horror andcontumely--were openly told that "they had brought ruin on the Catholiccause. "

"Not one man came to take our part, " is their lament, "though we hadexpected so many. " To add to their misery, the rain began to pour downin torrents; one after another deserted them as they fled: and when atlast in the darkness the heath was passed, and Holbeach House wasreached, instead of the gallant company of eighty well-accoutred troopswho had left Norbrook the morning before, there crept into thecourt-yard only eighteen wet and weary men, who had lost all, includinghonour. 

Holbeach House was about two miles from Stourbridge, and was the home ofStephen Littleton, one of the latest to join the plot. Here theworn-out men slept--the last sleep for some of them. 

So weary and worn-out were they, that they sank to sleep just as theywere, in the dining-room--some pillowing their heads on the table, others casting themselves on the floor. At this very unsuitable moment, it seemed good to Mr John Winter to inquire of Percy what he meant todo. [Note 3. ]

Percy, in extremely somnolent tones, answered that he intended to go on. 

"Ay, but how and whither?" responded Thomas Winter, as wide awake as heusually was in all senses. 

"If you have e'er a plan in your head, out with it, " replied Percy. "Just now, I've no head to put one in. "

"If you will hearken to me, " said Thomas, "you will now despatch Robin'sletter to my cousin Smallpiece. "

"What to do?"

"`What to do'!--to win his aid. He is as true a Catholic as any of us. "

"Ay, he's Catholic, but he is very timorous. He has no mind to behanged, trust me. "

"Have you?"

"I should stand to it better than he. Then you'll meet old MasterTalbot, who shall kick you forth ere you have time to say, `An't pleaseyou. '"

"I'll have a care of that. Steenie, wilt have with me?"

Mr Stephen Littleton had to be awoke before he could answer thequestion. As soon as he understood what was demanded of him, heprofessed his readiness to accompany anybody anywhere in the future, solong as he might be let alone to finish his nap at the present. Beforeanother sentence had been uttered, he reverted to an unconscious state. 

Suddenly Sir Everard sprang up. 

"Mr Catesby, methinks I shall best serve you if I go to hasten thesuccours. What think you?"

"If you will, " said Catesby, for once a little doubtfully. 

Ten minutes later, one of the least wearied horses in the group carriedhim away. 

There were troops on their way to Holbeach, but it was not for succour. Sir Richard Walsh, the Sheriff, Sir John Folliott, a few gentlemen, anda party of the King's troops, with all the force of the county, were onthe track of the wretched fugitives. They had chased them fromNorthamptonshire into Warwickshire, from Warwickshire intoWorcestershire, and now they were approaching their last refuge inStaffordshire. 

It was still dark on the Friday morning, when Thomas Winter and StephenLittleton rode to Pepperhill, where old Mr Talbot was at that time. Robert declined to accompany them, and Bates excused himself. To obtainsight of Mr Smallpiece, without being seen by Mr Talbot, was thedelicate business on which they were bent. Leonard Smallpiece seems tohave been an agent or bailiff of Mr Talbot, and a relative of theWinters; he was "exceeding popishe, but very timorous. " [Note 4. ] Thepair of worthies settled that Stephen should remain outside in charge ofthe horses, while Winter tried to effect safe entrance. They rode up tothe yard door, and having dismounted, were about to investigatepossibilities, when without any warning the doors were flung open, andthe sturdy old loyalist owner appeared behind them. 

"How dare you come hither?" was his fierce greeting to the unwelcomevisitors, "considering what speech there is of your tumultuous rising. "

"Sir, " answered Winter, deprecatingly, "my meaning was not to speak withyou, but with one in your house; and I am very sorry I have met withyou. "

"So am I, too!" said John Talbot. "Your coming may be as much as mylife is worth. It is very fit you should be taken. "

"I shall not easily be taken, " was the reply. 

"Fare you well! Get you away!" answered Talbot, as he slammed the gatein Winter's face. 

They came to the conclusion that discretion would be the better part ofvalour, and retraced their steps to Holbeach. Here Stephen went intothe house, leaving Winter outside. The former found his friends verybusily engaged in making preparations for resistance, for they had nowdetermined that at Holbeach their last stand should be made. Theirgunpowder, like themselves, had been soaked in the rain, the Stour beingextremely high, and the cart which they had stolen from Hewell Grange avery low one. Catesby, Rookwood, and Grant, applied themselves to thedrying of the powder. They laid about sixteen pounds of it in a linenbag on the floor, and heaping about two pounds on a platter, placed itin the chimney-corner to dry by the fire. A servant entering to putfresh logs on the fire, was not sufficiently careful of the platter. Aspark flew out, lighted on the powder, and it exploded. Part of theroof was blown off, the linen bag was carried through the hole thusmade, and afterwards taken up uninjured in the court-yard: but the threepowder-dryers, with Henry Morgan, were severely injured both in face andbody. In the same pit that they had dug privily, was their own foottaken. 

When the conspirators thus beheld themselves "hoist with their ownpetard, " the first feeling among them was less fear for their safetythan awe at the just judgment of God. The most guilty among them werealso the most horrified. For a moment those nearest the powder weresupposed to be killed. John Wright lost his head, flung himself on whathe believed to be the corpse of his leader, with a wild cry--

"Woe worth the time that we have seen this day! Bring me the powder!bring me the powder, that I may set it afire, and blow up ourselves andthis house together!"

Rookwood rushed to a picture of the Virgin, and throwing himself on hisknees, confessed "that the act was so bloody that he desired God toforgive him;" in which prayer he was joined by some of the others. Catesby himself lost his firmness, and on recovering himself, gasped outhis fear that God disapproved of their project. Robert Winter andGreenway fled in terror--so far that they never came back. StephenLittleton went off also, but he waited long enough to send a message toThomas Winter, who had not yet come in. 

"Tell him to fly, " said the valiant Stephen, "and so will I. "

Whatever else Thomas Winter was, he was loyal to his oath and to hisfriends. 

 "His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. "

He supposed the news to mean that Catesby was killed. 

"Nay, " said he; "I will first see the body of my friend and bury him, whatsoever befall me. "

Returning to the house, Winter found his friends decidedly alive and"reasonable well. "

"What resolve you to do?" he asked them. 

"We mean here to die, " was the answer. 

"Well!" replied Winter, "I will take such part as you do. "

And John Wright said, "I will live and die among you. "

Not long afterwards, about noon, the Sheriff and his troops surroundedHolbeach House. After several ineffectual summonses to surrender, andthe reading of a proclamation in the King's name bidding the rebels tosubmit themselves, which met only with blunt refusals, the Sheriff firedthe house, and led an attack upon the gates. The conspirators who wereleft showed no lack of courage. They walked out into the court-yard, set the gate open, and took up their stand in front of it, Catesby inthe middle, with Percy and Thomas Winter on either side. At the firstassault, an arrow from a cross-bow had struck Winter in the shoulder, and rendered his right arm useless. The second shot struck John Wright, the third Christopher Wright, the fourth Rookwood. The two Wrightsfell, and were supposed to be dead. 

"Stand by me, Tom, " said Catesby to Winter, "and we will die together. "

"Sir, " was the answer, "I have lost the use of my right arm, and I fearthat will cause _me_ to be taken. "

They were the last words of Robert Catesby. The next bullet passedclean through his body, and lodged in that of Percy at his side. Catesby fell, mortally wounded. He had just strength to crawl on hishands and knees into the vestibule of the house, where stood an image ofthe Virgin: and clasping it in his arms, he died. 

Percy sank down, also wounded to death; he expired the following day. John Wright, recovering somewhat from his wound, called to Bates, anddelivered him a bag of money, entreating him to fly and take it to MrsWright at Norbrook. Winter was seized; Grant, Rookwood, and Morgan, yielded themselves to the Sheriff: but the exasperated mob, rushing in, while the Sheriff's men were lifting one of the wounded, seized upon theothers, stripped and ill-used them, until wounds which might possiblyhave been healed were past cure. John and Christopher Wright died intwo or three days. 

One or two fugitives were brought into Holbeach later; five werearrested at Stourbridge, Sir Everard Digby at Dudley. Bates succeededin making good his escape with the bag, and reached Wolverhampton in thenight. His wife Martha, who lived at Ashby, hearing a false rumour ofhis capture and imprisonment in Shrewsbury Gaol, went to see him, andboth stayed for the night in the same inn at Wolverhampton, neither ofthem knowing the nearness of the other. Bates, finding himself unableto reach Lapworth, and with no hope of escaping finally, delivered thebag of money to a friend to convey to Martha, and departed, not wishingto endanger his friend. He then went to Oldfield, in Shropshire, to thehouse of his cousin, Richard Bates, by whom having been betrayed, he wasapprehended, and brought to London. By his confession on hisexamination, Garnet and Greenway were implicated, though Bates tried hisbest to prove them innocent. 

Sir Richard Walsh conveyed his prisoners to Worcester, where he occupiedhimself in taking their examinations, and sending the informationobtained to the Lords of the Council. Sir Richard Verney was sent toscour the country on the recent track of the fugitives, and to arrestthe relatives and servants of every one of them. John Winter, GertrudeWinter at Huddington, Ludovic Grant at Dudley, Dorothy Grant atNorbrook, and at Lapworth John Wright's wife Dorothy, and Christopher'swife Margaret; Ambrose Rookwood's wife, and her sister; and ThomasRookwood of Claxton, at Bidford, were all gradually added to the group. Mrs Dorothy Grant, whether from fright or loquacity, proved very candidin answering questions, and from her they learned that the missingMartha Percy was "not far off. " Sir Richard Verney, however, found itno easy matter to keep his prisoners when he had got them. Twice hishouse was set on fire, evidently by design; but he held stoutly to thelively ladies in his care, and delivered them all safely in London indue time. 

We must now, for a short time, follow the two conspirators who hadescaped in company, and whose wanderings are not devoid of interest. Robert Winter and Stephen Littleton got safely away from Holbeach, thusevading the miserable fate of their fellow-conspirators. They succeededin reaching the house of a certain Christopher White, a servant ofStephen's cousin, Humphrey Littleton, who lived in the village of King'sRowley. This man they bribed to allow them to remain in his barn untilthe search for the fugitives should have ceased, when they promised togive him a substantial reward, and no longer to endanger him by theirpresence. "There they abode a great while, but with very poor andslender fare, such as otherwise had been too coarse and out of fashionfor them. " A proclamation was meanwhile set forth by Government fortheir discovery, wherein Robert Winter was described as "of meanstature, rather low than otherwise; brown hair and beard, not muchbeard, short hair; somewhat stooping, square made, near forty. " StephenLittleton was "a very tall man; swarthy complexion, no beard or little, brown coloured hair; about thirty. " A neighbour of White's, namedSmart, and apparently smart by nature as well as name, noticed theunusual evidences of prosperity in his neighbour's dwelling, andshrewdly surmised the reason. Upon due consideration of the subject, Mr Smart, like a good many people both before and after him, came tothe conclusion that it was highly unreasonable that his neighbour shouldbe mounting the social ladder when he remained at the bottom. Hetherefore applied himself to the matter, discovered the refugees in thebarn, and strongly recommended his barn as far preferable to White's. The fugitives were persuaded to change their hiding-place. This was nosooner done, than another neighbour, named Hollyhead, set his wits alsoto work, and dulcetly represented that Smart's barn was a much less safeand attractive locality than his house: each of these worthy individualsbeing of course moved by respect to the pecuniary reward for which hehoped. On the departure of his guests, White took fright and fled:which caused "much rumour to be blabbed abroad" concerning the vainsearch and the probable vicinity of the fugitives. Humphrey Littleton, who was in the secret, began to be alarmed, and removed his friends fromHollyhead's house to that of a man named John Perks, in the village ofHagley, close to Hagley Park, the residence of his widowedsister-in-law. It was before dawn on New Year's Day that they reachedthe cottage of Perks, a warrener or gamekeeper, who had been dismissedfrom Mrs Littleton's service for dishonesty. The wearied men knockedat his door; and when Perks came forth, said they were friends, andbegged him to help them to food and shelter. 

"Ye be Mr Stephen Littleton, and Mr Winter, " said Perks. 

"We are so, " they admitted. "Pray you, Goodman, grant us meat andlodging till we be fit for journeying; and when we can travel, thenshall you bring us to London, and have a great reward from the King fortaking us, we being willing to die, and not live any longer in somiserable a condition. "

If Mr Perks's eyes glistened as this distant prospect of a great rewardwas held out to him, they grew yet more radiant when Humphrey Littletoncounted into his hand thirty golden sovereigns, twenty into that of hisman, and seventeen to his sister. Perks led the way to his barn, wheremounting on a barley mow, he formed a large hole in its midst, and herethe unhappy gentlemen were secreted, food being brought to them by Perksas occasion served, by his sister Margaret, or at times by his man, Thomas Burford. Here they might have remained in safety for aconsiderable time without fear of discovery, had not Mr Perksentertained rather too close an affection for barley in another formthan heaped up in a barn--namely, in company with hops and water. MrPerks had a friend, named Poynter, who liked beer and rabbits quite aswell as himself; and one winter night, nine days after the fugitives hadbeen hidden in the mow, these worthies set forth on a poachingexpedition. Returning home somewhat late, and "well tippled in drink, "it occurred to Mr Poynter that it would save him a walk home if hisfriend Perks were to lodge him for the night. The latter, however, didnot see the circumstance in that light, and a tipsy altercationfollowed, which was ended by Perks "shaking off" Poynter, and staggeringhome by himself. The night was cold and wet, and Mr Poynter's temperwas scarcely so cool as the atmosphere. He was tipsily resolved that hewould have a lodging at Perks's expense, whether that gentleman would ornot; and bethinking himself that if Perks's house were locked againsthim, his barn was not, he took thither his unsteady way, and scramblingup the barley mow, to his own unfeigned astonishment dropped into thehole on the top of the sleeping conspirators. 

Thus roused suddenly in the dead of night, and naturally concluding thattheir enemies were upon them, Winter and Littleton sprang up to defendthemselves, and to sell their lives dearly. Poynter, who was quite asmuch amazed and terrified as they could be, as naturally fought for hisown safety, and a desperate struggle ensued. It ended in the twoovercoming the one, and insisting on his remaining with them, so thatthey could be certain of his telling no tales. For four days Poynterremained on the mow, professing resignation and contentment, andlamenting the sore pain which he suffered from a wound in the leg, received in the pursuit of his vocation as a rabbit-stealer. WhenMargaret Perks came with food, and afterwards Burford, Poynter pretendedto be in mortal anguish, and besought them earnestly to bring him somesalve, without which he was quite certain he should die. The salve wasbrought, and the wily Poynter then discovered that lying in the hole hehad not sufficient light to apply it. He was suffered to creep up onthe top of the mow, which he professed to do with the greatestdifficulty. But even there the light was scarcely sufficient: might hedrag himself a little nearer the door? Being now quite deceived by MrPoynter's excellent acting, and believing that he was much too sufferingand disabled to escape, they permitted him to crawl quite to the edge ofthe mow nearest to the light, and of course next to the door. Themoment this point was reached, the disabled cripple slipped down fromthe mow, and the next instant was out of the door and far away, runningwith a fleetness which made it hopeless to think of following him. 

There was still, however, some room for that hope which springs eternalin the human breast. Poynter's friendship for Perks, and theexpectation that Perks could bribe him to secrecy, weighed with thefugitives, who had not sufficiently learned that the friendship of anunprincipled man is worth nothing. 

Poynter, on the other hand, considered his chances superior in theopposite direction. He made at once for Hagley Hall, intending to tellhis story there; but on the way he met with Perks, who was ignorant ofPoynter's recent adventure; and that gentleman suggesting a joint visitto the nearest tavern, Poynter easily suffered his steps to be divertedin that attractive direction. The precious pair of friends dranktogether, and departed to their respective homes. 

Now, Mistress Littleton, the lady of Hagley Park, was a Protestant, anda gentlewoman of extreme discretion; and the day on which Poynter thusmade his escape from the hay-mow had been chosen by her to commence ajourney to London. Before her departure, she summoned her steward, MrHazelwood, and desired him to be circumspect during her absence, "owingto the mischances happening in the county. "

Mistress Littleton having ridden forth on her journey, her worthybrother, Mr Humphrey, commonly called Red Humphrey, who certainly didnot share the discretion of his sister, determined to play the mouseduring the absence of his cat, and to convey his traitor-friends intohis own chamber at Hagley Park. There is reason to think that MistressLittleton was not only a sagacious but also a somewhat managing dame, who rode Red Humphrey with a tighter curb than that reckless individualapproved. Accordingly, having heard of Poynter's escape, and taking oneperson only into his confidence, he repaired to the barn about eleveno'clock that night, and smuggled his cousin and friend away from thebarley mow into the pleasanter shelter of his own room in Hagley Park. The one person thus selected as Humphrey's confidant, was John Fynwoodor Fynes, alias "Jobber, " also known as John Cook, from the office whichhe bore in the household. Humphrey had brought him up, and when come tosuitable age, had induced his sister-in-law to engage him as cook: hetherefore expected this man, being thus beholden to him, to remainfaithful to his interests. But there was another person whose interestswere considerably dearer to John Cook, and that was himself. 

The trio reached Master Humphrey's chamber in safety, aided by JohnCook. Robert Winter turned round as he entered, and grasped the cook'shand. 

"Ah, Jack!" said he, "little wots thy mistress what guests are now inher house, that in so long a space did never so much as look upon afire!"

"Welcome, heartily!" answered Humphrey, motioning to his guests toapproach nearer to the cheerful hearth. "Jack, lad, the time being thuslate, canst kill some hen or chickens about the house, to serve and fitthe present occasion withal? I will recompense it to thee afterward. "

Jack readily undertook the commission, and brought up a very appetisingdish with great diligence and promptness. 

"Master, " said he, "you shall need drink, and the butler is in bed; tocall on him for the key might rouse suspicion. Pray you, shall I run inthe town to my mother, and fetch you drink from thence?"

"So do, honest Jack, and hie thee back quickly. See, here is a testerfor thee. "

Honest Jack picked up the tester, and disappeared. 

It does seem strange, considering the danger which was thus run, thatthe fugitives should not have been satisfied to drink water with theirsupper, since even thus they would have fared much better than they haddone for some time past. But in truth, the very idea of drinking waterwas foreign to men's minds in those days, except in the light of a verycruel hardship, and about the last strait to which a starving man couldbe reduced. 

The mother of Jack kept a small tavern in the village. Thither he ranto fill his jug, and to pour into the ears of the hostess theinteresting fact that the traitors then sought for by the King'sproclamation were at that moment entertained in Master Humphrey'schamber at Hagley Park. 

"Pray you, Mother, " he added, "when morning breaketh, raise the town totake them, for I fear lest I may not, unsuspected, get forth again to doit. "

Having made which little arrangement, honest Jack and his jug returnedto the Park, where the trio of traitors finished their supper, andproceeded to sleep three in a bed. 

To make assurance doubly sure, Jack rapped at Mr Hazelwood's door, andbestowed upon him the same interesting information already given to MrsFynwood. 

The morning being come, the cook paid another visit to his prisoners, whom he found nearly dressed, and looking out of the window to see themeaning of the noise they heard, which was in fact the arrival of theSheriff's officer and his men. Even then, so complete was theirconfidence in Jack, that they never imagined themselves betrayed, andHumphrey, having stowed his friends for more complete security in acloset-room opening out of his chamber, went down into the hall--and metthe officer of the law. 

"Sir, I understand there be in this house certain traitors, so chargedby proclamation of his sacred Majesty, whom you have in keeping. "

"Never an one, my master, I do ensure you, " answered Humphrey, aslightly as if he spoke the truth: and he cut a large slice from the loafstanding on the table. "Pray you, sit down and break your fast; you arefull welcome, as I am sure my good sister should tell you were she athome. After that ye have eaten, ye shall search the house an' yewill. --See here, Jack Cook! make a good toast for these worthy masters;and thou, David Butler, go up to my chamber for my cup--thou shalt findit on the window-ledge, I think. "

Outside, Mr Hazelwood was giving directions for the search, hints beingconstantly supplied to him by the cook as to what transpired within. The butler, David Bate, went to fetch his master's cup, and of coursefound the room empty. As he came to the foot of the back-stair, MasterHumphrey met him. 

"Good David, help me to the key of the back-door into the cellar, " hesaid in a hurried whisper. "As ever thou wilt do anything for me, sticknow to me, and help save my life. "

"Sir, I have not the key, " answered the astonished butler. "The brewerhath it. "

The brewer was hastily summoned, delivered the key, and was as hurriedlydismissed. Then Humphrey ran up to his closet, brought down hisconcealed guests, and conducted them through the buttery towards thecellar. The butler slipped away from them, and told the officers. Thesituation was now desperate. Inside the house the officers werepursuing them; outside, a crowd, in league with the authorities, wasshouting itself hoarse in execration of them. The wretched men made onelast frantic dash around the house, and Robert Winter and StephenLittleton were arrested in the stable-yard, and prevented from reachingthe neighbouring wood. 

But what had become of Red Humphrey? The instant he saw the game wasup, he hurriedly mounted his horse, and eluded his pursuers. But he wasnot to escape much longer. The searching party which Poynter had led tothe barn, disappointed there, scoured the neighbourhood; and atPrestwood the fugitive was taken, and committed to safe custody inStafford Gaol. Even after they were secured, it was no easy matter tocarry the other prisoners to Worcester. While they were "refreshingthemselves" in an alehouse at Hagley--probably the tavern kept by MrsFynwood--a tumult arose among the people outside which almost led totheir rescue; and a few miles from Hagley, Sir Thomas Undirhood and hiscompany overtook the Sheriff, and vainly attempted to gain possession ofthem to take them back to Staffordshire. The Worcestershire men, however, held on grimly to their prize, and at last triumphantly lodgedtheir prisoners in the gaol at Worcester. 

The examinations of the culprits in London went on. They were mainlycharacterised by Mr Fawkes's contradictions on every occasion ofsomething which he had previously said; by the addition of a littleinformation each time; and by the very small amount of light that couldbe obtained from any outsiders. On his third examination, Mr "JohnJohnson" owned that his name was Guy Fawkes; that he was born at York, the son of Edward Fawkes, a younger brother, who had left him "but smallliving, " which he ran through with equally small delay. He denied onhis conscience that he was in orders, "major or minor, regular orsecular": on which occasion he told the truth. Fawkes added that he didnot now desire to destroy the King. 

"It is past, " he said, "and I am now sorry for it, for that I nowperceive that God did not concur with it. "

He admitted also the design on the Lady Elizabeth, but he still declinedto name his accomplices, and proved obdurate to all attempts--and theattempts were basely made--to persuade him to accuse the prisoners inthe Tower, of whom the chief was Sir Walter Raleigh. The utmost hecould be induced to admit concerning this point was that it had been"under consultation that the prisoners in the Tower should haveintelligence" of the intended plot, and that Raleigh and several othershad been named in this connection. 

"We should have been glad to have drawn any, of what religion soever, unto us, " he said: "we meant to have made use of all the discontentedpeople of England. "

But he would not allow, even to the last, that any communication hadactually been made. 

In his fourth examination Fawkes gave the names of those who had been"made privy afterwards, " but he still refused to reveal those of theoriginal traitors. He was accordingly put to the torture. Gentle orungentle, this worked its office: and on the ninth of November, afterhalf-an-hour on the rack, Fawkes recounted the names of all hisaccomplices. He made also an admission which proved of considerableimportance--he mentioned a house in Enfield Chase, "where Walley[Garnet] doth lie. "

Every examination is signed by the prisoner. To the first he signs"Guido Faukes" in a free, elegant Italian hand, the hand of an educatedman. But it is pitiful to see the few faint strokes which sign thefifth, even the "Guido" being left unfinished. He is supposed to havefainted before the word could be written. The subsequent reports arefully signed, and in a firmer hand; but the old free elegant signaturenever comes again. 

That night an unheard-of event occurred at the White Bear. HansFloriszoon was two hours late in coming home. 

"My lad!" said Edith, meeting him in the hall, "we feared some ill hadbefallen thee. "

"It hath not befallen _me_, Mrs Edith, " was the answer; "and may Godavert it from us all! But these men that Aubrey was wont to visit--MrCatesby, Mr Winter, and the rest--are now confessed by the caitiff inthe Tower to have an hand in the plot. "

"Aubrey?" The word was only just breathed from Edith's lips. 

"I went thither at once, and spake with Aubrey, whom I found to haveheard nought, and to be very sore troubled touching Mr Winter, whosefriendship I can see hath been right dear unto him. I besought him tolie very close, --not to come forth at all, and if he would communicatewith us these next few days, to send a messenger to me at Mr Leigh's, and not here, for it seemed to me there was need of caution. After atime, if all blow over, there may be less need. Will you tell my LadyLettice, or no?"

"Dear Hans, thou art ever thoughtful and good. Thou hast done verywell. But I think my mother must be told. Better softly now, thanroughly after--as it may be if it be let alone. "

Lady Louvaine sat silent for a few minutes after that gentlecommunication had been made. Then she said--

"`The floods lift up themselves, and rage mightily: but yet the Lord, who dwelleth on high, is mightier. ' 'Tis strange that it should be somuch harder to trust Him with the body than with the soul! O father, keep my boy from evil!--what is evil, Thou knowest: `undertake for us!'"

On the 23rd of November, one of the prisoners in the Tower escaped thesentence of the law, by an inevitable summons to the higher tribunal ofGod Almighty. Francis Tresham died in his prison cell, retracting withhis last breath, and "upon his salvation, " the previous confession bywhich he had implicated Garnet in the Spanish negotiations. It has beensuggested that he was poisoned by Government because he knew too much;but there is no foundation for the charge except the possibility thathis death might have been convenient to the Government, and the factthat they allowed his wife and servant to be with him in his lastillness goes far to disprove this improbable accusation. 

The authorities were now engaged in lively pursuit of the new trackwhich Fawkes had indicated to them. A house in Enfield Chase whereGarnet was or might be found, was too appetising a dainty to be lightlyresigned. On the 23rd, they obtained a full confession from ThomasWinter, and the actual name of White Webbs. From this moment WhiteWebbs became their Ultima Thule of hope and expectation. 

A poor and mean revenge was taken on the dead Catesby and Percy. Theirbodies were exhumed, and beheaded, and their heads set on the pinnaclesof the Houses of Parliament. The spectators noticed with superstitiousterror that blood flowed from Percy's wound. The authorities seem tohave regarded Percy as the head and front of the conspiracy; they termhim "the arch-traitor. " But by the testimony of both Fawkes and Winter, Catesby was the original deviser of the Gunpowder Plot. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Excerpts from Burghley Papers, Additional Manuscript 6178, folios 58, 184. --Lady Northumberland was Dorothy Devereux, daughter ofWalter Earl of Essex and Lettice Knolles, and sister of the famousRobert Earl of Essex, in whose rebellion so many Romanists took part. Poor Lord Northumberland, if innocent, paid dearly for his relationshipto his "wretched cousin, " being fined 30, 000 pounds, which in 1613 wascommuted to 11, 000 pounds. He borrowed 12, 000 pounds from Peter Vanloreto discharge the fine, and repaid half of it within a year. 

Note 2. The most comical item of this assumption of virtue is thereason, as given by himself, for Mr Rookwood's riding on in advance atthis juncture. "Seeing that he was so well horsed as he was--he havingfifteen or sixteen good bourses--he meant not to adventure himself instealing of any!"

Note 3. "At Holbeach, I demanded of Mr Percy and the rest, _being mostof them asleep_, what they meant to do. " (Letter of John Winter, Gunpowder Plot Book, article 110. )

Note 5. For this shot one of the Sheriff's men, named John Streete, received 2 shillings per day up to 1627. 

CHAPTER TEN. 

THE CHAIN OF OUR SINS. 

 "When on the problems of the past A flood of light has come; When we see the evil that we did, And the good we might have done. "

 Cyrus Thornton. 

On the 27th of January, Robert and Thomas Winter, Guy Fawkes, JohnGrant, Ambrose Rookwood, Robert Keyes, and Thomas Bates were placed upontheir trial at Westminster. 

Grant and Bates were really guilty of very little beyond knowing of theplot and keeping silence. But they all received the same sentence--tobe hung, drawn, and quartered. Sir Everard Digby was tried separately, but to the same end. He alone pleaded guilty; his principal anxietyseemed to be to save the priests--a wish wherein all the conspiratorsagreed. On leaving the dock, Sir Everard, "bowing himself towards theLords, said, `If I may but hear any of your Lordships say, you forgiveme, I shall go more cheerfully to the gallows. ' Whereupon the Lordssaid, `God forgive you, and we do. '"

Of all the conspirators, Sir Everard won the greatest sympathy, from hisrank, his youth, his accomplishments, and especially his fine person--which last drew expressions of pity from the Queen, who was afflictedwith that fatal worship of beauty which was the bane of the Stuart race. 

Three days later, the scaffold was set up at the west end of SaintPaul's Cathedral, and four of the traitors were brought forth to die. They were the four least guilty of the group--Sir Everard Digby, RobertWinter, John Grant, and Thomas Bates. 

As the prisoners were being drawn to the scaffold upon hurdles, apathetic incident took place. Martha Bates had followed her husband toLondon, and as the procession passed by, she rushed from the crowd ofspectators, and flung herself upon the hurdle in an agony. Bates thentold her of the money entrusted to him by Wright, which he wished her tokeep for her own relief, and it was afterwards granted to her by theCrown. 

Arrived at the place of execution, Sir Everard was the first to ascendthe ladder. Very pale, yet very self-controlled, he spoke to thepeople, saying that his conscience had led him into this offence, whichin respect of religion he held to be no sin at all, but in respect ofthe law he confessed that he had done wrong; and he asked forgiveness ofGod, the King, and the kingdom. He declined the ministrations of theclergy, and after a few Latin prayers, crossed himself, and so "made anend of his wicked days in this world, "--an example for all time howlittle education and accomplishments can do to keep man from sin, amartyr to a priest-ridden conscience unenlightened by the Word of God. 

Robert Winter followed next. He scarcely spoke, asked no forgiveness, but after a few silent prayers, passed calmly into the Silent Land. 

The next was John Grant. This grave, melancholy man went smiling to hisdeath. When he was entreated to seek for pardon for his crimes, hisreply was, in a triumphant tone, "I am satisfied that our project was sofar from being sinful, that I rely entirely upon my merits in bearing apart of that noble action, as an abundant satisfaction and expiation forall sins committed by me during the rest of my life!" He died thus witha lie in his right hand, and went to present the filthy rags of his ownrighteousness before His eyes in whose sight the heavens are not pure, and whose command is "Thou shalt do no murder. "

Last came poor Bates, who "seemed sorry for his offence, " and said thatonly his love for his dead master had drawn him to forget his duty toGod, his King and country. And "thus ended that day's business. "

In Old Palace Yard, "over against the Parliament House, "--namely, wherenow stands the statue of Godfrey de Bouillon--the second scaffold waserected on the following day. The four prisoners who were now to sufferwere, the priests excepted, the most guilty of those left alive. Theywere drawn from the Tower on hurdles, as was usual. As they passedalong the Strand, from an open window the beautiful Elizabeth Rookwoodcalled to her husband--

"Ambrose, be of good courage! Thou art to suffer for a great and noblecause. "

Raising himself from the hurdle as well as he could, Rookwood answered, "My dear, pray for me. "

"I will, I will!" she cried. "And do you offer yourself with a goodheart to God and your Creator. I yield you to Him, with as full anassurance that you will be accepted of Him as when He gave you to me. "And so the procession passed on. 

The first to suffer of these was Thomas Winter. He was extremely pale, and seemed sorry for his offence "after a sort;" but he spoke little, merely protesting that he died "a true Catholic. "

Rookwood, who came next, made a long speech. He said that he askedforgiveness of God, whom he had offended in seeking to shed blood, ofthe King, and of the people. He prayed for the King and Royal Family, entreating that the King might become a "Catholic:" [Note 1] and hebesought the King's goodness to his Elizabeth and her children. He wasspared the worst, for he drew his last breath ere it began. 

The next to follow was Keyes. He had said on the trial that hisfortunes being desperate, his fate was "as good now as another time, andfor this cause rather than another. " In this hardened, reckless spirit, he flung himself from the ladder, with such force as to break thehalter. 

Last came "the great devil of all, " Guy Fawkes, who, "being weak withtorture and sickness, was scarce able to go up the ladder. " He made nolong speech, but "after a sort, seemed to be sorry" and askedforgiveness: and "with his crosses and his idle ceremonies" wascast-off, dying instantaneously. 

So ended the awful scenes which were the reward of the Gunpowder Plot. 

But not yet had justice overtaken all the perpetrators of this villainy. Three important traitors were yet at large, and they were all Jesuitpriests. Greenway, who had fled from Holbeach with Robert Winter, hadnot continued in his company. For ten days he hid in barns and cottagesin Worcestershire; but when the proclamation was made for his arrest, thinking it safest to be lost in a crowd in the metropolis, he came toLondon. Here he was one day seized by a man, as they stood among othersreading the proclamation for his arrest. Greenway, with artfulcomposure, denied the identity, but went quietly with his captor tillthey reached an unfrequented street, when the priest, who was a verypowerful man, suddenly set upon his companion, and escaping from him, after a few days' concealment fled to the coast, whence he safelycrossed to the Continent. He afterwards wrote for his superiors anarrative of the plot, wherein all the conspirators are impeccableheroes of the romantic novel type, and the plot--which during itsexistence he upheld and fervently encouraged--is condemned as a "rash, desperate, and wicked" piece of business. He succeeded so well indeceiving his superiors (or else they were equally hypocritical withhimself), that he was appointed Penitentiary to the Pope, and ended hislife in the full favour of that potentate. 

Gerard, also, who had originally assisted the plotters in taking theiroath of secrecy, had now disappeared. So excellent an opinion had theRoman Catholics of him, that many refused to believe "that holy, goodman" could have had any share in the conspiracy. The description ofthis worthy, as given in the proclamation for his arrest, is curious inits detail, and the better worth quoting since it has apparently notbeen printed:--

"John Gerrarde the Jesuit is about thirty years old, of a good stature, something higher than Sir Thomas Leighton [this name is crossed out, andreplaced by the word] ordinary, and upright in his pace and countenance;somewhat staring in his looke and Eyes, curled headed by Nature, andblackish, and not apt to have much hair on his beard. His Nose somewhatwide, and turning up; blebberd lipped [thick-lipped], turning outward, especially the upper lip, upward toward the Nose. Curious in speech, ifhe do continue his custom, and in his speech he flewreth [Note 2] andsmiles much, and a faltering, lisping, or doubling of his tongue in hisspeech. " [Note 3. ] What a picture of a Jesuit! This is the type ofman who practises an art which I never saw to such perfection as once inthe Principal of a Jesuit College--that of:

 "Washing the hands with invisible soap In imperceptible water. "

Lastly, what had become of Garnet? He had not escaped nor left England, yet he seemed in some inscrutable manner to have vanished from the faceof the earth, as completely as a morning mist. 

The next step was to secure White Webbs. Commissioners were sent downto Enfield Chase, with directions to search for that undiscoverablehouse, to make thorough investigation of it, and to take into custodyevery individual therein. They found the place--an old rambling housein the heart of the Chase, full of trap-doors, passages, unexpectedsteps up or down, holes, corners, and cupboards at every turn. But ithad no inhabitants save servants, and they could tell little. Theirmistress was Mrs Perkins, the widowed sister of Mr Mease, a Berkshirefarmer. It was quite true they were Catholics, all allowed; andElizabeth Shepherd admitted that mass had been performed in the house. But what connection could there be between the Gunpowder Plot and worthyMr Mease the faimer, or innocent Mrs Perkins the widow?

Many persons would have resigned the search: but not so Sir WilliamWade. Sir William Wade, the Keeper of the Tower, had an uncommonly keenscent for a heretic which term was in his eyes the equivalent of aJesuit. He could see much further than any one else through amillstone, and detected a Jesuit where no less acute person suspectedanything but a farmer or a horse-dealer. Not only was a Jesuit capableof every crime that man could commit, but every criminal was prettynearly certain to turn out a Jesuit. Moreover, Sir William loved a jokeonly less than he bated a Jesuit; and apathy in any pursuit was not oneof his failings who wrote that "he thanked God on the knees of his soul"for the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot. 

Mr Mease was not to escape Sir William's penetration. He was anxiousto see a little more of Mr Mease, and of Mrs Perkins also. 

For the moment, however, he was doomed to disappointment. Sturdy JamesJohnson, Mrs Perkins' servant, would not betray his employers, evenwhen put to the rack, until he had suffered appallingly. Half-an-hourhad been sufficient to exhaust Guy Fawkes' endurance, but James Johnsonbore three hours. Even then he could tell little. For his mistress'sbrother he knew no name but Mease, except that he had heard himaddressed as "Farmer:" but he did know, and had known for two years, that the real name of his mistress was Anne Vaux. He could also saythat she had been visited by a Mr and Mrs Skinner, a Mr and MrsThomas Jennings, a Mr Catesby, and a little gentleman whom the lattercalled Tom, and whose name he said was Winter. As to himself, Johnsonasserted that he was "a Romishe Catholic, " and "never was at church noryet at mass in his life. " Frightened little Jane Robinson, agedfourteen, admitted that mass had been said in the house, but when askedwhat vestments the priest wore, could only answer that "he wasapparelled like a gentleman. "

Sir William Wade went down once more upon the knees of his soul, whenhis ears were refreshed by these delightful names. At Harrowden, theseat of Lord Vaux, the family had already been questioned to no purpose. Mrs Vaux, the mother of the young Lord, and the sister-in-law of Anne, was astonished that anybody should suspect her of a guilty knowledge ofthe plot. Having previously denied that she knew any such person asGerard, she subsequently confessed that Gerard and Garnet had beenfrequently at her house, and that she had a vague suspicion that"something was going to happen. " Harrowden must be furtherinvestigated; and admissions were wrung from the servants at White Webbswhich satisfied the commission that the relations between Anne Vaux andGarnet had been of an intimate character. Sir William Wade was now onthe track of a Jesuit, and might be trusted to pursue that enticing pathwith eager and untiring accuracy. 

The watch set at Harrowden was removed just too soon. Had it lasted twodays longer, Gerard would have been starved out, for he lay concealed inthe priest's hiding-place. As soon as the watching party took theirleave, he emerged from his refuge, and succeeded through multifariousdifficulties in safely escaping over seas. 

About this time--from what source is uncertain--a hint reached theGovernment to the effect that Gerard might possibly, and Hall wouldprobably, be found in one of the priest's hiding-places at Hendlip Hallin Worcestershire, the residence of Mr Thomas Abington. Edward Hall, alias Oldcorne, [Note 4] was Mr Abington's private chaplain; and thoughthere is little evidence extant to connect him with the plot, theGovernment appear to have been extremely suspicious of him. When, therefore, the suggestion reached them that they might as well inspectthe curiosities of Hendlip Hall, the authorities lost no time in sendingdown Sir Henry Bromley, of Holt Castle, at the head of a searchingparty, for that purpose. 

Until 1825 or thereabouts, Hendlip Hall remained standing, on thehighest ground in the neighbourhood between Droitwich and Worcester, andrather nearer to the latter. A most curious, cunningly-planned, perplexing house it was--a house of houses wherein to secrete apolitical refugee or a Jesuit priest--full of surprises, unexpectedturnings, sliding panels, and inconceivable closets without apparententrances. "There is scarcely an apartment, " wrote a spectator shortlybefore its destruction, "that has not secret ways of going in or goingout; some have back staircases concealed in the walls; others haveplaces of retreat in their chimneys; some have trap-doors, and allpresent a picture of gloom, insecurity, and suspicion. " On one side wasa high tower, from which the approach of any enemy could be easilyobserved. The house had been built in 1572, by John Abington, coffererto Queen Elizabeth; but his son Thomas, the owner in 1605, had added thehiding-places. Such concealed chambers were very common in housesbelonging to Roman Catholic families; and in the safest of all those atHendlip Hall, two priests were at that moment in close confinement. TheGovernment had been so far truly informed. Hall, too, was one of them:but Gerard was not the other. Sir William Wade would have danced indelight, could he have known that his colleagues were on the track ofthe great Provincial of the Jesuit Mission to this heathen country ofEngland, the chief of all the conspirators yet left at large. 

About two months before this, Garnet had come to the conclusion that hewas no longer safe at Coughton, which, as the property of MrThrockmorton, and lately in the occupation of Sir Everard Digby, wouldbe likely to obtain a thorough overhauling. From Mr Hall he hadreceived a pressing invitation to Hendlip for himself and hisconfidential servant, Nicholas Owen, who went by the name of "LittleJohn. " The latter was an old acquaintance at Hendlip, for it was hisingenuity that had devised the numerous hiding-places which had beenadded to the Hall by its present owner. To Hendlip accordingly Garnetremoved from Coughton, --accompanied by Anne Vaux and the Brooksbys, --about the 16th of December, and for some weeks resided with the familywithout concealment. But on Monday, the 20th of January, as the daybroke, Sir Henry Bromley and his troops marched up to and investedHendlip Hall. 

The Hon. Mrs Abington was a sister of Lord Monteagle, and was quite asgood an actress as her brother was an actor. She possessed the power ofassuming the most complete outward composure, as if nothing whateverwere the matter, however adversely things might be going to her wishes. She had also a very quiet, very firm, very unmanageable will. MrAbington was not at home; but that signified little, for the grey marewas unquestionably the superior creature of the pair. 

If the information imparted to her so early on that morning had beenthat the cat had mewed, or that a hen had dropped a feather, the lady ofHendlip could scarcely have received it with more repose of manner. 

"That is what we might look for, " said she. "If it please you, holyFathers, it might be as well that you should repair to one of yourchambers for a while. --Bid Edward come to me. "

Edward, a white-headed confidential servant with an aspect of appallingrespectability, presented himself at once in response to his mistress'ssummons. 

"Edward, " said Mrs Abington, "I would have you, quickly, take up theseholy Fathers to the hole in your chamber, and set Little John andChambers in the next safest. There are enemies approaching. "

Edward bowed his dignified head, and obeyed. 

He led Garnet and Hall up the chief staircase, and into the bedroomoccupied by Edward himself, which stood behind that of his master. 

Garnet cast his eyes round the chamber. 

"Truly, good Edward, " said he, "I scarce see means to hide so much as amouse in this chamber, other than in yonder closet, which is as plain asthe door or the window. "

Edward replied by an amused smile. 

"You've a deal of book-learning, Father Garnet, " said he, "but underyour leave, there's a few things you don't know in this world. "

He walked into the chimney-corner. 

Chimneys, be it remembered, were much wider in the seventeenth centurythan they have been since the invention of grates. There was room inevery chimney-corner, not only for the fire, but for one or two chairsand settles, where people could sit when they wished to warm themselves;and as there was no fire on Edward's hearth, moving about on it was aseasy as in a closet. 

"Are we to fly up the chimney on a pair of broomsticks?" laughed Hall. 

Edward only smiled again, and after a moment's feeling with his handamong the bricks at the side of the chimney, they heard a sound as ofthe pushing back of bolts. Slowly, as if it moved with some difficulty, a square door opened in the chimney, so cleverly concealed that itrequired a skilful detective indeed to guess its existence. The doorwas of wood, "curiously covered over with brick, mortared and made fast"to it, "and coloured black like the other parts of the chimney, thatvery diligent inquiry might well have past by. " Behind it was a verysmall square recess, large enough to hold the two, though notsufficiently high for them to stand upright. A narrow tunnel, inoutward appearance like a chimney, led up to the top of the house, designed for the admission of light and air to the hiding-place, butcapable of conveying no great quantity of either. Having fetched ashort ladder, Edward placed it in position, so that the priests couldclimb up into the chamber. 

"It had been more to your comfort, Fathers, could we have cast forthsome of this furniture, " he said, looking round it: "but it were scarcewise to defer the matter, the house being already invested. "

"Let be, we will serve ourselves of it as it is, and well. "

The priests mounted into the tiny hiding-place. 

"See you, holy Fathers, " Edward asked, "a vessel of tin, standing belowa little hole in the wall? Have a care that you move it not without youfirst stop the hole, for it runneth through into my mistress's chamber, and by a quill or reed therein laid can she minister warm drinks untoyou, as broths and caudle. She can likewise speak to you through thehole, and be heard: but if you hear the noise of feet or strange voicesin that chamber, have a care to lie as squat [quiet] and close as everyou can. So may you safely hover [lie concealed]; for the cleverestsoldier of them all shall be hard put to it to find you here, if itplease God. "

Would it please God? Did no memory come to either of those well-readpriestly refugees of a familiar question--"Shall the throne of iniquityhave fellowship with Thee?"

"A tight fit this, for two!" said Hall. 

"Ay, it is. There hath not been above one here aforetime. But it isthe safest hilling [hiding-place] in the house. Good-day, holy Fathers, and God keep you safe!"

While these scenes were enacting in one part of the house, in anotherSir Henry Bromley was introducing himself to the lady of Hendlip Hall, and, with plumed hat in hand, apologising for his intrusion, and civillyrequesting her permission to examine the house. A kindly, tender-hearted man was the commander of this searching party, but at thesame time a conscientious one, and a determined Protestant. 

If anything could be more considerate and cordial than Sir Henry'sappeal, it was to all appearances the spirit wherein it was received. Mrs Abington begged her visitor not to speak of intrusion. His Majestythe King had no subjects more loyal than every man and woman in thathouse. It was really a source of pleasure to her that her abode shouldbe scrutinised in the most critical manner, and her perfect innocenceand submission to law thus made manifest. The lady at once deliveredher keys--she did not say that a few of them were on a separate bunch--and requested that no quarter might be given. Appearances were socharming, and innocence apparently so clear, that they might havedeluded a more astute man than Sir Henry Bromley. 

Sir Henry, however, had come to do his duty, and he did it in spite ofappearances. Lord Salisbury had furnished him with minute instructions, which pointed decidedly to probable need of caution in this respect. Hewas to search for a suspected vault at the east end of the dining-room;for a similar erection beneath the cellars; for ingenious closetssqueezed in between the walls of upper rooms; for possible holes incorners and chimneys, wainscots which could be pierced by gimlets, double lofts, and concealed chambers in the rafters. Sir Henry set towork. "Madam, " said he to Mrs Abington, "were it not more to theconveniency of yourself and these gentlewomen your friends, that youshould take occasion to pay some visit forth of the house? I fear thenoise made by my men, not to speak of the turning about of your chambersby taking up of boards and trying of wainscots, shall greatly incommodeyou if you tarry. "

Sir Henry wanted sadly to get the ladies away. But Mrs Abington wasquite as sagacious as himself, and more determined. She assured himthat the noise was nothing, and the little novelties of holes in herdining-room floor and broken wainscots in her drawing-room would berather amusing than otherwise. Poor Sir Henry, baffled by this cleverwoman, laments to Lord Salisbury, --"I did never hear so impudent liarsas I find here--all recusants, and all resolved to confess nothing, whatdanger soever they incur. --I could by no means persuade the gentlewomanof the house to depart the house, without I should have carried her, which I held uncivil, as being so nobly born; as I have and do undergothe greater difficulties thereby. "

The Monday night brought home the master of the house. He answered thequeries of the gentlemen in possession with as much apparent franknessas his wife, but assured Sir Henry that the persons for whom he wassearching were absolute strangers to him; he had never seen any of themsave Gerard, and him only some five and twenty years before. Forsuspecting him of harbouring priests, not to speak of traitors, therewas not a shadow of reason!

Sir Henry went on searching, though he was out of hope. In the firstplace, he discovered some parcels of "books and writing, " which showedat that time that "some scholars" must have used them; an ordinarycountry gentleman was not expected to have any books, except Bible andprayer-books, one or two on law, needed in his capacity as a magistrate, a book on etiquette, and a few dog's-eared plays. On the Wednesday adiscovery of more importance was made, for in three or four places whereboards were uplifted, a quantity of "Popish trash" was brought to light. Thus encouraged, the searchers resolved to continue their work, whichthey were on the point of giving up. Mr Abington continued to protesthis supreme innocence of all knowledge or connivance. The books werenone of his; the "Popish stuff" astonished him as much as it did thesearchers. This assumption of exquisite stainlessness lasted until oneday a hiding-place was discovered, which contained his family munimentsand the title-deeds of his estate. After that, Mr Abington protestedno more; and it was needless, for he would not have been believed had hedone so. Sir Henry at once despatched him to Worcester to be taken careof by a magistrate; and "being much wearied, " on Wednesday nightreturned to his own house to take rest, leaving his brother Sir Edwardin charge. 

On the Thursday morning, when he returned to Hendlip, he was met by twowan, gaunt men, whose countenances showed privation and suffering. Theygave their names as William Andrews and George Chambers. 

By some unexplained want of care or foresight, these two unfortunate menhad been suffered to secrete themselves without provisions, and hadnothing but one apple between them from Monday to Thursday. 

Sir Henry was delighted, for at first he thought he had secured Greenwayand Hall. A little further examination, however, showed him that hiscaptives were only the priests' servants; yet he shrewdly surmised thatthe servants being there, the masters in all probability were not faraway. 

For four days more the search was pursued in vain: but on the 27th newscame that not only was Hall certainly concealed in the house, but thatthe most important of all the implicated Jesuits, Garnet, would probablybe found by a diligent continuance of the search. It came from anunexpected quarter--no other than Red Humphrey Littleton. 

Justice had not been slow in overtaking the harbourers of Robert Winterand Stephen Littleton. White and his brothers had got clear away; butSmart, Hollyhead, Perks, and Burford, suffered the last penalty of thelaw. Margaret Perks was pardoned, though condemned to death. HumphreyLittleton received the torture; and when apparently at the point ofdeath, entreated permission to confess important facts, which hepromised to do if his life might be spared. His appeal was granted, andhe then told the authorities that the most important criminal still atlarge would be found in the priest's hiding-place at Hendlip Hall. 

Fortified by this encouraging news, though the prisoners already takendenied all knowledge of any others being hidden in the house, Sir Henrypushed on his search; and at last, on the 28th, eight days after hisarrival, one of his men broke into the cunningly contrived hiding-placein the chimney of Edward's room. This brave discoverer was so terrifiedby his own success that he ran away lest the priests should shoot him;but others coming rapidly to his assistance, the priests offered to comeout if they might do so with quietude. "So they helped us out, " saysGarnet, "very charitably. "

Garnet's account of their experiences in "the hoale, " as he terms it, isnot suggestive of an inviting place. "We were in the hoale seven daysand seven nights and some hours, and were well wearied;" the place wasso encumbered with books and furniture that they "could not find placefor their legs" even when seated; and the cramped positions which theywere compelled to assume caused their legs to swell greatly. Garnetseems to have suffered more of the two. Yet he adds that they were"very merry and content, " and could have stayed three months, thoughwhen they came out at last, "we appeared like two ghosts. "

Sir Henry Bromley at once recognised the Provincial of the JesuitMission; but which of his various aliases really belonged to him puzzledhis captor not a little, and Garnet declined to enlighten him. 

"Call me as you will, " said he; "I refer all to my meeting with my Lordof Salisbury, and he will know me. In truth, I say not thus for anydiscourtesy, but that I will not, in the places we are, be made anobloquy: but when I come to London, I will not be ashamed of my name. "

Sir Henry now marshalled his prisoners for transport to Worcester. Hedescribed them to the authorities as "Humphrey Phillips alias HenryGarnet; John Vincent alias Hall; Thomas Abington, Esquire; WilliamAndrowes alias Nicholas Owen, either a priest or servant to Garnet;George Chambers, servant of Hall; Edward Jarrett, servant of MrsDorathie Abington; William Glandishe, servant of Mr Abington. " [Note5. ] Mr Abington and the priests were taken to Worcester in Sir Henry'scoach. The mind of that gentleman was somewhat exercised as to what hewas to do with them when he got them there. Before leaving Hendlip hehad promised to place them in the house of some bailiff or citizen; butas they were driving into Worcester, he said uneasily--

"My masters, I cannot do for you as I would; I must needs send you tothe gaol. "

"In God's name!" [Note 6] responded Garnet. "But I hope you willprovide we have not irons, for we are lame already, and shall not beable to ride after, to London. "

Sir Henry's tender heart was touched at once. 

"Well, " said he, "I will think of it. "

He thought of it to such purpose, that when they reached the inn, heplaced Garnet in a private room, with a guard--his Reverence says, "toavoid the people's gazing;" Sir Henry would probably have added that itwas also in order to prevent the prisoner's disappearance. Afterdespatching his business he ordered his coach, and took his prisonershome with him to Holt Castle. Here, on their own testimony, they were"exceeding well used, and dined and supped with him and his everyday, "--not without some apprehension on the part of their kindly gaolerthat they might reward him by perverting his young daughters from theProtestant faith. 

When Candlemas Day came, Sir Henry "made a great dinner to endChristmas, " and sent for wine to drink the King's health. It was thencustomary for gentlemen always to dine with their hats on, and touncover when a royal toast was proposed. The hats were doffedaccordingly. The wine came in, and with it a wax candle, lighted--ablessed candle taken at Hendlip, among the "Popish trash, " and destinedfor use on the services of that very day, having "Jesus" painted on oneside of it, and "Maria" on the other. Garnet's heart leaped at thefamiliar sight, and he begged leave to take the candle in his hand. Passing it to Mr Hall, he said, half joyfully, half sadly--

"I am glad yet, that I have carried a holy candle on Candlemas Day. "

Restoring the holy wax to the unholy candlestick, the priests drank theKing's health in what Mr Garnet is kind enough to tell us was "areasonable glass"--a piece of information the more valuable, since thisadjective was not always applicable to his Reverence's glasses. 

When they came to leave Worcester, the parting between Garnet and theladies was almost affectionate. The priest was evidently possessed ofthat strong personal magnetism which some men and women have, and whichis oftener exercised for the purposes of Satan than in the service ofGod. 

"Madam, " he said to Lady Bromley, "I desire you all to think well of metill you see whether I can justify myself in this cause. "

The journey to London took longer than would otherwise have been needed, on account of the condition of the prisoners. Garnet, whose sufferingshad been the more severe, was also the one in whom their results lastedlongest; and on the 5th of February, Sir Henry wrote that he was "but aweak and wearisome traveller. " He was, however, "passing well used atthe King's charge, and that by express orders from my Lord Salisbury, "and "had always the best horse in the company. " Garnet adds, "I hadsorde bickering with ministers by the way. Two very good scholars, andcourteous, Mr Abbott and Mr Barlow, met us at an inn; but two otherrude fellows met us on the way, whose discourtesy I rewarded with plainwords, and so adieu. " The Jesuit Superior apparently rather enjoyed alittle brisk brushing of wits with well-educated gentlemanly clerics, but felt some disgust of abuse which passed for argument with others. On the evening of the 6th of February they reached London, where theywere lodged in the Gate-house, and Garnet was "very sick the first twonights with ill lodging. " It was not until the 13th that the firstexamination took place before the Privy Council at Whitehall. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. To which the reporter adds, "otherwise a Papist, which God forHis mercy ever forbid!"

Note 2. To flewer or fleer is to smile in that grinning manner whichshows all the teeth. Our forefathers considered it a mark of asneering, envious man. 

Note 3. Domestic State Papers, James the First, volume eighteen, article 20. 

Note 4. This most untruthful gentleman asserted that "his true name wasOldcorne;" but Garnet and Anne Vaux both call him Hall in writing toeach other. 

Note 5. Domestic State Papers, James the First, volume 18, article 64. Mrs Dorathie Abington was Mr Abington's maiden sister, who lived atHendlip Hall, and had a priest of her own, a Jesuit, named Butler orLyster. He does not appear in this narrative, and was very likelyabsent. 

Note 6. This was not meant profanely, but was simply equivalent tosaying, "God's will be done!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

ACCORDING TO THAT BEGINNING. 

 "Carry him forth and bury him. Death's peace Rest on his memory! Mercy by his bier Sits silent, or says only these few words-- Let him who is without sin 'mongst ye all Cast the first stone. "

 Dinah Mulock. 

A great crowd had assembled near Whitehall, and was lining Charing Crossand the Tiltyard below, on the morning of that 13th of February, whenSir Henry Bromley and his guard, with the prisoners in their midst, marched down the street to the Palace. Among them were TemperanceMurthwaite and Rachel, and near them was Mrs Abbott. The crowd wasdeeply interested in the prisoners, especially the two priests. 

"There is a Provincial!" said a respectable-looking man who stood nextto Rachel. 

"Ay, and there goeth a young Pope!" returned Temperance, grimly, inallusion to Hall. 

"They bear a good brag, most of 'em, " said the man. "Would we were ridof 'em all, neck and crop!" said another. 

"Pack 'em off to the American plantations!" suggested a third. 

"If I dwelt there, I shouldn't give you thanks, " replied the first. 

"Find some land where nought dwelleth save baboons and snakes, and send'em all there in a lump, " was the response. 

"What think you, Rachel?" demanded Mrs Abbott, who was not often silentfor so long at once. 

"Why, they're men, just like other folks!" was Rachel's contribution. 

"Did you think they'd have horns and tails?" said Temperance. 

"Well, nay, not justly that, " answered Rachel: "but I reckoned they'dha' looked a bit more like wastrels [scoundrels]. Yon lad's none sobad-looking as many a man you may meet i' th' street. And th' owd un'smeterly [middling], too. Happen [perhaps] they aren't any o' theworst. "

"Why, maid, " said the man who had first spoken, "that's Father Garnet, the head of all the Jesuits in this country; there isn't a craftier foxin all England than he. "

"Well, I shouldn't ha' thought it, " saith Rachel. 

"Faces tell not alway truth, " said Temperance. 

"He's good eyes, though, " remarked Mrs Abbott, "though they be a bitheavy, as though he'd had a poor night's rest. "

"He's one o' them long, narrow faces, " said the man; "I never trustsuch. And a long nose, too--just like a fox. "

"Ay, I'll be bound he's a fause [cunning] un, " commented Rachel. 

"His mouth's the worst thing about him, " said Temperance. 

"It's a little un, " observed Rachel. 

"Little or big, it's a false one, " answered Temperance. "There's aprim, fixed, sanctimonious look about it that I wouldn't trust withanything I cared to see safe. "

"Eh, I'd none trust one o' them--not to sell a pound o' butter, " saidRachel. "And by th' same token, Mrs Temperance, I mun be home to skimth' cream, or Charity'll take it off like a gaumless [stupid] lass ashoo [she] is. Hoo can do some things, well enough, but hoo cannot skimcream!"

"Go, good maid, if thou canst win out of this crowd, but methinks thoushalt have thy work cut out to do so. "

"Eh, she will, " said Mrs Abbott. "And mind you, Rachel! if you pullyourself forth, you'll find your gown in rags by the time you're athome. I do hope, neighbour, you deal not with Simpkinson, in theStrand; that rogue sold me ten ells of green stamyn, and charged methirty shillings the ell, and I vow it was scarce made up ere it begana-coming to bits. I'll give it him when I can catch him! and if I servenot our Seth out for dinting in the blackjack last night, I'm a Dutchwoman, and no mistake! Black jacks are half-a-crown apiece, and so Itold him; but I'll give him a bit more afore I've done with him; trustme. There is no keeping lads in order. The mischievousness of 'em'spast count. My husband, he says, `Lads will be lads, '--he's that easy, if a mouse ran away with his supper from under his nose, he'd only callafter it, `Much good may it do thee. ' Do you ever hear mice in yourhouse, Mrs Murthwaite! I'm for ever and the day after plagued wi'them, and I do wish those lads 'ud make theirselves a bit useful andcatch 'em, instead o' dinting in black jacks. But, dear heart, you'llas soon catch the mice as catch them at aught that's useful. They'll--"

"My mistress, " said Mrs Abbott's next neighbour, "may I ask if yourhusband be a very silent man?"

"I'm sure o' that, " said the man who followed him. 

"Eh, bless you, they all talk and chatter at our house while I can'tslip a word in, " was the lady's answer. 

"That's why she has so many to let go out o' door, " remarked the lastspeaker. 

"I thought so, " observed the neighbour, "because I have marked that menand women do mostly wed with their contraries. "

"Why, what mean you?" inquired Mrs Abbott, turning round to look him inthe face. 

"That my way lieth down this by-street, " said he, working himself out ofthe crush into Channon Row, "and so I bid you all good-morrow. "

Temperance Murthwaite laughed to herself, as she let herself in at thedoor of the White Bear, while Mrs Abbott hurried into the Angel with abox on the ear to Dorcas and Hester, who leaned upon the gate watchingthe crowd. 

"Get you in to your business!" said she. "Chatter, chatter, chatter!One might as well live in a cage o' magpies at once, and ha' done withit. Be off with the pair of ye!"

Garnet's admissions in answer to the questions put to him were few andcautious. He allowed that for twenty years he had been the Superior ofthe English Jesuits, but denied any knowledge of the negotiations withSpain, carried on before the death of Queen Elizabeth. As to Fawkes, hehad never seen him but once in his life, at the previous Easter. Questioned about White Webbs, he flatly denied that he ever was there, or anywhere near Enfield Chase "since Bartholomewtide. " He was not inLondon or the suburbs in November. The Attorney-General was very kindto the prisoner, and promised "to make the best construction that hecould" of his answers to the King; but Sir William Wade was not the manto accept the word of a Jesuit, unless it should be the word "Guilty. "He accused Garnet of wholesale violation of the Decalogue in theplainest English, and coolly told him that he could not believe him onhis oath, since the Pope could absolve him for any extent of lying orequivocation. It was plainly no easy matter to beguile Sir WilliamWade. 

The next day, February 14th, Garnet and Hall were removed to the Towerof London, where the former found himself, to his satisfaction, lodgedin "a very fine chamber, " next to that of his brother priest. Here, ashe records in a letter to his friends, he received the best treatment, being "allowed every meal a good draught of excellent claret wine, " aswell as permitted to send for additional sack out of his own purse forhimself and the keeper: and he was suffered to vegetate as he thoughtproper, with only one sorrow to vex his soul--Sir William Wade. 

Sir William Wade, the Lieutenant of the Tower, constituted himself thetorment of poor Garnet's life. He was perpetually passing through hisroom, or at the furthest, loitering in the gallery beyond. Sometimes hetreated the prisoner as beneath contempt, and would not utter a word tohim; at other times he sat down and regaled him with conversation of afree and easy character. The scornful silence was bad enough, but theconversation was considerably worse. Whatever else Garnet was, he wasan English gentleman, as his letters testify; and Sir William Wade wasnot. He was, on the contrary, one of those distressing people who pridethemselves on being outspoken, and calling a spade a spade, which theydo in the most vulgar and disagreeable manner. He favoured the prisonerwith his unvarnished opinion of the Society to which he belonged, andwith unsavoury anecdotes of its members, mingled with the bitterestabuse: and the worthy knight was not the man to spare his adjectiveswhen a sufficient seasoning of them would add zest to a dish of nouns. At other times Sir William dipped his tongue in honey, and used thesweetest language imaginable. It is manifest from the manner in whichGarnet mentions him, that the smallest of his trials was not Sir WilliamWade. 

Mr Garnet's first act, on being inducted into these comfortablequarters in his Majesty's Tower, was to bribe his keeper to wink at hispeccadilloes. A few cups of that supernumerary sack, and an occasionalpiece of silver, were worth expending on the safe carriage of hisletters and other necessities which might in time arise. He madeaffectionate inquiries as to the keeper's domestic relations, anddiscovered that he was blessed with a wife and a mother. To the wife hedespatched a little of that excellent sack, and secured permission forhis letters to be placed in the custody of the mother, who dwelt justoutside the walls. But he was especially rejoiced when, a few daysafter his incarceration, the keeper sidled up to him, with a finger onhis lips and a wink in his eye, and beckoned him to a particular part ofthe room, where with great parade of care and silence he showed him aconcealed door between his own cell and that of Hall, intimating bysigns that secret communications might be held after this fashion, andhe, the keeper, would take care to be conveniently blind and deaf. 

This was a comfort indeed, for the imprisoned priests could now mutuallyforgive each others' sins. There was a little cranny in the top of thedoor, which might be utilised for a mere occasional whisper; but when aregular confession was to be made, the door of communication could beopened for an inch or two. The one drawback was that the vexatious doorinsisted on creaking, as if it were a Protestant door desirous of givingwarning of Popish practices. But the Jesuits were equal to thedifficulty. When the door was to be shut, the unemployed one eitherfell to shovelling coals upon the fire, or was suddenly seized with asevere bronchial cough, so that the ominous creak should not be heardoutside. The comfort, therefore, remained; and heartily glad were theimprisoned Jesuits to have found this means of communication by the kindhelp of their tender-hearted keeper. 

Alas, poor Jesuits! They little knew that they were caught in their owntrap. The treacherous keeper drank their sack, and pocketed theirangels, but their letters rarely went further than my Lord ofSalisbury's desk; and in a convenient closet unseen by them, close tothe creaking door, Mr Forset, a Justice of the Peace, and MrLocherson, Lord Salisbury's secretary, were listening with all theirears to their confidential whispers, and taking thereby bad "coulds"which they subsequently had to go home and nurse. It was fox _versus_fox. As soon as the door was closed under cover of cough or coals, thehidden spies came quickly forth, and in another chamber wrote down theconversation just passed for the benefit of his Majesty's Judges. 

Benighted Protestants were evidently Messrs. Forset and Locherson, forthe "Catholic practice" of auricular confession was to them a strangeand perplexing matter. They innocently record that "the confession wasshort, with a prayer in Latin before they did confess to each other, andbeating their hands on their breasts. " The Confiteor was succeeded bythe whispered confession, in such low tones that scarcely anythingreached the disappointed spies. Hall made his confession first, andGarnet followed. The subsequent conversation was in louder tones, though still whispered. Garnet informed his fellow-conspirator that hewas suspicious of the good faith of some one whose name the spies failedto hear--to which frailty he allowed that he was very subject; that hehad received a note from Thomas Rookwood, who told him of Greenway'sescape, and from Gerard, who therefore was evidently in safety, though"he had been put to great plunges;" that he believed Mrs Anne was inthe Town, and would let them hear from their friends; that the keeperhad accepted an angel, and sundry cups of sack for himself and his wife, and taken them very kindly, --recommending similar treatment on Hall'spart; that Garnet was very much afraid he should be driven to confessWhite Webbs, but if so, he would say that he "was there, but knewnothing of the matter. " Then Hall made a remark lost by the spies, towhich Garnet answered, with a profane invocation--too common in allranks at that day--"How did they know that!" If he were pressed as tohis treasonable practices before the Queen's death, he would admit them, seeing that he held a general pardon up to that time. Garnet bemoanedhimself concerning Sir William Wade, and expressed his annoyance at thepersistent questioning of the Court touching White Webbs. 

"I think it not convenient, " said he, "to deny that we were at WhiteWebbs, they do so much insist upon that place. Since I came out ofEssex I was there two times, and so I may say I was there; but theypress me to be there in October last, which I will by no means confess, but I shall tell them I was not there since Bartholomewtide. "

He expressed his apprehension lest the servants at White Webbs should beexamined and tortured, which might "make them yield to some confession;"a fear which made him more resolute to admit nothing concerning theplace. He was also very much afraid of being asked about certainletters which Lord Monteagle had written. 

"But in truth I am well persuaded, " he concluded, "that I shall windmyself out of that matter; and for any former business, I care not. "

Just as Garnet whispered these words, footsteps were heard approachingthe chamber. 

"Hark you, hark you, Mr Hall!" cried Garnet in haste; "whilst I shutthe door, make a hawking and a spitting. "

Mr Hall obediently and energetically cleared his throat, under cover ofwhich Garnet closed the door, and presented himself the next moment tothe edified eyes of Sir William Wade in the pious aspect of a priesttelling his beads. 

Another conference through the door was held on the 25th of February, wherein Garnet was heard to lament to Hall that he "held not betterconcurrence"--namely, that he did not use diligence to tell exactly thearranged falsehoods on which the two had previously agreed. The poorspies found themselves in difficulties on this occasion through "a cockcrowing under the window of the room, and the cackling of a hen at thevery same instant. " Hall, however, was heard to undertake a betteradherence to his lesson. It is more than once noted by the spies thatin these conferences the prisoners "used not one word of godliness orreligion, or recommending themselves or their cause to God; but all hathbeen how to contrive safe answers. "

During Garnet's imprisonment in the Tower, if his gaolers may betrusted, his consumption of that extra sack was not regulated by therules of the Blue Ribbon Army. They averred that he was "indulgent tohimself" in this particular, and "daily drank sack so liberally as if hemeant to drown sorrow. "

On the 26th, Garnet knew that one of his apprehensions was verified, when he was confronted with poor James Johnson, who had borne thetorture so bravely, and who now admitted that the prisoner thus shown tohim was the man whom he had known at White Webbs as Mr Mease, thesupposed brother of his mistress, Mrs Perkins. He confessed that hehad seen him many times. After this, it was useless to deny White Webbsany longer. Hall was examined on the same day; but being ignorant ofthe evidence given by Johnson, he audaciously affirmed that he had notvisited White Webbs, and knew of no such place. 

That evening, Garnet gave a shilling to his keeper, with a request tohave some oranges brought to him. This fruit, first introduced intoEngland about 1568, was at that time very cheap and plentiful, abouteighteen-pence the hundred being the usual price. Sir William Wade, lounging about the gallery as usual, met the keeper as he came out ofthe cell with the money in his hand. 

"What would the old fox now?" demanded he. 

"An 't please you, Sir, Mr Garnet asked for oranges. "

"Oh, come! he may have an orange or two--he can't do any harm with themwithout he choke himself, and that should spare the King the cost of arope to hang him, " said shrewd Sir William. 

But he was not quite shrewd enough, for it never occurred to hisnon-Jesuitical mind that one of those innocent oranges was destined toplay the part of a traitorous inkstand by the Reverend Henry Garnet. 

A large sheet of paper, folded letter-wise, came out of the prison inthe keeper's hand an hour later. It was addressed to the ReverendThomas Rookwood, and contained only--in appearance--the following veryunobjectionable words. They were written in ink, at the top of thefirst page:--

"Let these spectacles be set in leather, and with a leather case, or letthe fould be fitter for the nose. --Yours for ever, Henry Garnett. "

Who could think of detaining so innocent a missive, or prevent the poorprisoner from obtaining a pair of comfortable spectacles? But when thesheet of paper was held to the fire, a very different letter startedout, in faint tracings of orange-juice:--

"This bearer knoweth that I write thus, but thinks it must be read withwater. The papers sent with bisket-bread I was forced to burn, and didnot read. I am sorry they have, without advise of friends, adventuredin so wicked an action. --I must needs acknowledge my being with the twosisters, and that at White Webbs, as is trew, for they are so jealous ofWhite Webbs that I can no way else satisfy. My names I all confesse butthat last. . . I have acknowledged that I went from Sir Everard's toCoughton. . . Where is Mrs Anne?"

A few days later, on the 2nd of March, after a careful reconnoitre toavoid the ubiquitous Sir William, Garnet applied his lips to the crannyin the door. 

"Hark you! is all well? Let us go to confession first, if you will. "

The spies, ensconced in secret, confess that they heard nothing ofHall's confession, but that Garnet several times interrupted it with"Well, well!"

Garnet then made his own confession, "very much more softlier than heused to whisper in their interloqucions. " It was short, but unless thespy was mistaken, "he confessed that he had drunk so extraordinarilythat he was forced to go two nights to bed betimes. " Then something wassaid concerning Jesuits, to which Garnet added--

"That cannot be; I am Chancellor. It might proceed of the malice of thepriests. "

The conversation on this occasion was brought to a hasty close byGarnet's departure to read or write a letter; Mr Hall being requestedto "make a noise with the shovel" while he was shutting the door. 

The second letter to Mr Thomas Rookwood followed this interview. Itwas equally short in its ostensible length, and piously acknowledged thereceipt of two bands, two handkerchiefs, one pair of socks, and a Bible. Beneath came the important postscript "Your last letter I could notread; the pen did not cast incke. Mr Catesby did me much wrong, andhath confessed that he asked me the question in Queen Elizabeth's timeof the powder action, and I said it was lawfull: all which is mostuntrew. He did it to draw in others. I see no advantage they haveagainst me for the powder action. " [Gunpowder Plot Book, article 242. ]

Garnet added that his friend might communicate with him through lettersleft in charge of the keeper's mother; but he begged him not to pay apersonal visit unless he could first make sure that the redoubtable Wadewas absent. 

An answer from the Reverend Thomas consisted, to all appearance, of asimple sheet of writing-paper, enclosing a pair of spectacles in theircase, and bearing the few words written outside--"I pray you provewhether the spectacles do fit your sight. " Inside, in orange-juice, wasthe real communication, from Anne Vaux, wherein she promised to come tothe garden, and begged Garnet to appoint a time when she might hope tosee him. [Gunpowder Plot Book, article 243. ] This seems to show thatGarnet was sometimes allowed the liberty of the Tower garden. 

On the 5th of March, Hall and Garnet were re-examined, when Hallconfessed the truth of the conversations through the door, and Garnetdenied them. The same day, the latter wrote a long letter, addressed toMrs Anne Vaux or any of his friends, giving a full account of hissufferings while in "the hoale" at Hendlip Hall, and of his presentcondition in the Tower. Remarking that he was permitted to purchasesherry out of his own purse, Garnet adds--

"This is the greatest charge I shall be at, for fire will soon beunnecessary, if I live so long, whereof I am very uncertain, and ascareless. . . They say I was at White Webbs with the conspirators; Isaid, if I was ever there after the 1st of September, I was guilty ofthe powder action. The time of my going to Coughton is a greatpresumption, but all Catholics know it was necessary. I thank God, I amand have been _intrepidus_, wherein I marvail at myself, having had suchapprehension before; but it is God's grace. "

On the third examination, which was on the 6th of March, both Garnet andHall confessed White Webbs at last, --the former, that he had hired thehouse for the meetings of the conspirators, the latter that they had metthere twice in the year. Garnet also allowed that Perkins was the aliasof the Hon. Anne Vaux, to avoid whose indictment he afterwards said hisconfession had been made. It is evident, from several allusions in hisletters, that Garnet was terribly afraid of torture, and almost equallyaverse to confronting witnesses. The first was merely human nature; thesecond speaks ill for his consciousness of that innocence which herepeatedly asserts. 

But not yet had the Gunpowder Plot secured its latest or its saddestvictim. Soon after Sir Henry Bromley's departure from Hendlip, MrsAbington came to London, bringing Anne Vaux with her, and they tooklodgings in Fetter Lane, then a more aristocratic locality than now. Here they remained for a few weeks, doing all that could be done to helpGarnet, and poor Anne continually haunting the neighbourhood of hisprison, and trying to catch glimpses of him, if not to obtain stoleninterviews, at the garden gate. But on the 10th of March theauthorities interfered, and Anne Vaux was a prisoner of the Tower. Examined on the following day, she deposed that she "kept the house atWhite Webbs at her own charge;" that she was visited there by Catesby, Thomas Winter, Tresham, and others, but said that she could not rememberdates nor further names. She refused to admit that Garnet had beenthere, but she allowed that she had been among the party of pilgrims toSaint Winifred's Well, in company with Lady Digby and others whom shedeclined to name. Lastly, she persisted in saying that she had knownnothing of the plot. 

She was told--not improbably by Sir William Wade, and if so, we may besure, not very tenderly--that Garnet had been one of the chiefcriminals. A few sorrowful lines remain showing the spirit in which sheheard it. They were written on the 12th of March. 

"I am most sore to here that Father Garnet shoulde be ane wease pryue tothis most wicked actione, as himselfe euer cauled it, for that hee madeto mee maney greate prostertations to the contrari diuers times sence. 

"Anne Vaux. " [Gunpowder Plot Book, article 201. ]

After this, Garnet gave up the fiction of his total ignorance of theconspirators' object. In his fourth examination, on the 13th of March, he said that on the demise of Queen Elizabeth, he had received a letterfrom the General of the Jesuits, stating that the new Pope Clement hadconfirmed the order of his predecessor that no such plot should be seton foot, and that Garnet had accordingly done what in him lay to turnCatesby from the idea. Catesby, however, thought himself authorised bytwo briefs received by Garnet about twelve months earlier, commandingthe Roman Catholics of England not to consent to any successor ofElizabeth who should refuse to submit to Rome. These Garnet had shownto Catesby before destroying them. It is evident from these admissions, not only that Garnet had been privy to the plot from the first, but alsothat it was known at Rome, and controlled from the Vatican--forbiddenwhen success appeared unlikely, and smiled on as soon as it seemedprobable. 

Shortly after this, a letter came from Anne Vaux--a letter which sadlyreveals the character of its writer, and shows how different life mighthave been for this poor passionate-hearted woman, had she not beencrushed under the iron heel of Rome. 

"To live without you, " she writes to Garnet, "it is not life, but death!Now I see my los. I am and euer will be yours, and so I humbly besecheyou to account me. O that I might see you!"

Her second examination took place a few days later, on the 24th ofMarch. She now acknowledged that Tresham Catesby, and Garnet, used tomeet at her house at Wandsworth: and that Garnet was wont to say tothem, when they were engaged in discussion, --"Good gentlemen, be quiet;God will do all for the best; and we must get it by prayer at God'shands, in whose hands are the hearts of princes. " The confession wascarried to Garnet. Poor frail, loving heart! she meant to save him, andhe knew it. He wrote calmly underneath--

"I do acknowledge these meetings. --H. Garnett. " [Gunpowder Plot Book, article 212. ]

Even her very gaolers dealt pitifully with Anne Vaux. "Thisgentlewoman, " said Lord Salisbury to Garnet, "hath harboured you thesetwelve years last past, and seems to speak for you in her confessions; Ithink she would sacrifice herself for you to do you good, and youlikewise for her. "

Garnet made no answer. 

Letters continued to pass between the cells. A remarkable one was sentto Anne on the 2nd of April, written principally in orange-juice, on thequestion which she had submitted to Garnet as to her living abroad afterher release. 

"Concerning the disposal of yourself, I give you leave to go over tothem. The vow of obedience ceaseth, being made to the Superior of thisMission: you may, upon deliberation, make it to some there. If you liketo stay here, then I exempt you, till a Superior be appointed, whom youmay acquaint: but tell him that you made your vow yourself, and thentold me; and that I limited certain conditions, as that _you are notbound to sin [Note 1] except you be commanded in virtute obedientiae_. We may accept no vows, but men may make them as they list, and we aftergive directions accordingly. Mr Hall dreamed that the General. . . Provided two fair tabernacles or seats for us: and this he dreamedtwice. " [Gunpowder Plot Book, article 245. ]

The sentence in italics is terrible. No Protestant ever penned a darkerindictment against Popery. 

Anne Vaux received this letter, for she answered it at once. She speaksof her "vow of poverty, " and adds--

"Mr Haule his dreame had been a great cumfert, if at the fute of thethrone there had bin a place for me. God and you know my unworthenes. --Yours and not my own, Anne Vaux. " [Gunpowder Plot Book, article 246. ]

On the following day, Garnet wrote again--eight closely covered pages, in his own hand throughout. I append a few extracts from this patheticletter. 

"My very loving and most dear Sister, --I will say what I think it bestfor you to do, when it please God to set you at liberty. If you canstay in England, and enjoy the use of the Sacraments as heretofore, itwould be best: and then I wish that you and your sister live as beforein a house of common repair of the Society, or where the Superior of theMission shall ordinarily remain: or if this cannot be, then make choiceof some one of the Society, as you shall like, which I am sure will begranted you. If you like to go over, stay at Saint Omer, and send forFriar Baldwin, with whom consult where to live: but I think Saint Omerless healthy than Brussels. In respect of your weakness, I think itbetter for you to live abroad, and not in a monastery. Your vow ofobedience, being made to the Superior of the Mission here, when you areover, ceaseth: and then may you consult how to make it again. None ofthe Society can accept a vow of obedience of any; but any one may vow ashe will, and then one of the Society may direct accordingly. "

Garnet proceeds to say that the vow of poverty was to cease in likemanner, and might be similarly renewed. "All that which is forannuities" he had always meant to be hers, in the hope that she wouldafterwards leave it to the Jesuit Mission: but she is at liberty, if shewish it, to alienate a third of this, or if she should desire at anytime to "retire into religion, "--i. E. , to become a nun--and require aportion, she is to help herself freely. He "thanks God most humbly thatin all his speeches and practices he has had a desire to do nothingagainst the glory of God. " He was so much annoyed by having beenmisunderstood by the two spies that he "thought it would make ouractions much more excusable to tell the truth, than to stand to thetorture, or trial by witnesses. " As to his acquaintance with the plot, he sought to hinder it more than men can imagine, as the Pope can tell:how could he have dissuaded the conspirators if he had absolutely knownnothing? But he thought it not allowable to tell what he knew. None ofthem ever told him anything, though they used his name freely--heimplies, more freely than truth justified them in doing: "yet have Ihurt nobody. " He ordered the removal of certain books which he does notfurther describe; if they be found, "you can challenge them as your own, as in truth they are. " He will "die not as a victorious martyr, but asa penitent thief:" but "let God work His will. " The most touching wordsare the last. Up to this point, the spiritual director has beenaddressing his subject. Now the priest disappears, and the man's heartbreaks out. 

"Howsoever I shall die a thief, yet you may assure yourself yourinnocence is such, that but if you die by reason of your imprisonment, you shall die a martyr. [From this point the letter is in Latin. ] `Thetime is come that judgment must begin at the house of God. ' Farewell, my ever beloved in Christ, and pray for me. " [Domestic State Papers, James the First, volume 20, article 11. ]

Yet a few words were to be written before the end. The execution ofHall, which took place at Worcester on the 7th of April, unnerved Garnetas nothing else had done. He wrote, a fortnight later, to her who washis last and had always been his truest friend--a few hurried, incoherent words, which betray the troubled state of his mind. 

"It pleaseth God daily to multiply my crosses. I beseech Him give mepatience and perseverance to the end. I was, after a week's hiding, taken in a friend's house, where our confessions and secret conferenceswere heard, and my letters taken by some indiscretion abroad;--then thetaking of yourself;--after, my arraignment;--then the taking of MrGreenwell;--then the slander of us both abroad;--then the ransackinganew of Erith and the other house;--then the execution of Mr Hall;--andnow, last of all, the apprehension of Richard and Robert: with a cipher, I know not of whose, laid to my charge, and that which was a singularoversight, a letter in cipher, together with the ciphers--which lettermay bring many into question. 

"`The patience of Job ye have heard, and have seen the end of theLord, --that the Lord is very pitiful, and of tender mercy. ' Blessed bethe name of the Lord! [These quotations are in Latin]--Yours, eternally, as I hope, H. G. "

"_21st April_--I thought verily my chamber in Thames Street had beengiven over, and therefore I used it to save Erith; but I might have doneotherwise. "

At the end of the letter is a symbolic sketch. The mystic lettersI. H. S. Within a circle, are surmounted by a cross, and beneath them is aheart pierced by three nails. Underneath is written, in Latin--"God is[the strength] of my heart, and God is my portion for ever. "

So end the last words which passed between the unhappy pair. 

In his sixth examination, four days later, Garnet admitted that as oftenas he and Greenway had met, he had asked concerning the plot, "beingcareful of the matter;" and that "in general" he had inquired who was tobe chosen protector after the explosion; Greenway having answered thatthis "was to be deferred until the blow was passed, and then theprotector to be chosen out of the noblemen that should be saved. " Thiscompletely settles the question as to Garnet's guilty knowledge of theplot before he received Digby's letter. Greenway is here shown to beGarnet's informant; whereas the letter was addressed to Garnet himself, and the occasion on which he received it was the last time that he eversaw Greenway!

A few days before his execution, the prisoner received a visit fromthree Deans, who essayed to converse with him upon various points ofdoctrine. Garnet, however, declined any discussion, on the ground that"it was unlawful for him. " He was asked whether he thought that heshould die a martyr. 

"I a martyr!" exclaimed Garnet, with a deep sigh. "Oh, what a martyrshould I be! God forbid! If, indeed, I were really about to sufferdeath for the sake of the Catholic religion, and if I had never known ofthis project except by the means of sacramental confession, I mightperhaps be accounted worthy of the honour of martyrdom, and mightdeservedly be glorified in the opinion of the Church. As it is, Iacknowledge myself to have sinned in this respects and deny not thejustice of the sentence passed upon me. " Then, after a moment's pause, he added with apparent earnestness, "Would to God that I could recallthat which has been done! Would to God that anything had happenedrather than that this stain of treason should hang upon my name! I knowthat my offence is most grievous, though I have confidence in Christ topardon me on my hearty penitence: but I would give the whole world, if Ipossessed it, to be able to die without the weight of this sin upon mysoul. "

The 1st of May had been originally fixed for the execution, but it wasdelayed until the 3rd. To the last moment, when he received notice ofit, which was on the 29th of April, Garnet fully expected a reprieve. He "could hardly be persuaded to believe" in approaching death. Yeteven then, on the very night before his execution--if we may believe thetestimony of his keepers--he drank so copiously that the gaoler thoughtit necessary to inform the Lieutenant, who came to see for himself, andwas invited, in thick and incoherent accents, to join Garnet in hispotations. Sir William Wade was not the man to allow such a fact torest in silence; and Garnet is neither the first nor the last whosewords have been better than his actions. 

On the 3rd of May, he was drawn on a hurdle to the west end of SaintPaul's Churchyard, where the first conspirators had suffered, and wherethe scaffold was again set up. His conduct on the scaffold wascertainly not that of a martyr, nor that of a penitent thief: theimpenitent thief appeared rather to be his model. Advised by theattendant Deans of Saint Paul's and Winchester to "prepare and settlehimself for another world, and to commence his reconciliation with Godby a sincere and saving repentance, " Garnet answered that he had alreadydone so. He showed himself very unwilling to address the people; butbeing strongly urged by the Recorder, he uttered a few sentences, thepurport of which was that he considered all treason detestable; that heprayed the King's pardon for not revealing that of which he had ageneral knowledge from Catesby, but not otherwise; that he never knewanything of the design of blowing up the Parliament House. The Dean ofWinchester reminded him that he had confessed that Greenway told him allthe circumstances in Essex. "That was in secret confession, " saidGarnet, "which I could by no means reveal. " The Dean having remindedhim that he had already allowed the contrary, the Recorder was about toread his written confessions to the people--a course commanded by theKing if Garnet should deny his guilt upon the scaffold: but Garnetstopped this conviction from his own mouth, by telling the Recorder thathe might spare himself that trouble; he would stand to the confessionshe had signed, and acknowledge himself justly condemned for not havingdeclared his general knowledge of the plot. He then spoke of Anne Vaux, and denounced as slander all the injurious reports concerning hisrelations with her: then he asked what time would be permitted him forprayer. He was told that he should choose his own time, and should notbe interrupted. Kneeling down at the foot of the ladder, Garnetproceeded to his devotions in such a manner as to show that they were tohim the purest formalities: as the words fell from his lips, he wasgazing at the crowd, listening to the attendants, sometimes evenreplying to remarks they made. When he rose from his knees, he wasurged once more to confess his guilt in plain terms. He answered thathe had no more to confess; his guilt had been exaggerated. As heundressed for execution, he said in a low voice to those nearest to him, "There is no salvation for you, unless you hold the Catholic faith. "Their reply was that they were under the impression they did hold it. "But the only Catholic faith, " responded Garnet, "is that professed bythe Church of Rome. " Having ascended the ladder, he addressed thepeople. He expressed in these closing words his grief that he hadoffended the King, and that he had not used more diligence in preventingthe execution of the plot; he was sorry that he had dissembled with theLords of the Council, and that he did not declare the truth until it wasproved against him: "but, " he said, "I did not think they had such sureproofs against me"! He besought all men "not to allow the Catholics tofare worse for his sake, " and bade the latter keep out of sedition. Then he crossed himself, and added--"Jesus Maria! Mary, mother ofgrace, mother of mercy! Save me from mine enemies, and receive me inthe hour of death. In Thine hands I commend my spirit: Thou hastredeemed me, O Lord God of truth!" Crossing himself once more, headded--always in Latin--"By this sign of the cross, may all evil thingsbe dispersed. Plant Thy cross, Lord, in mine heart!" But his lastwords were, "Jesus Maria! Mary, mother of grace!" Then the ladder wasdrawn away, and Henry Garnet, the conspirator and liar, stood beforethat Lord God of truth who will by no means clear the guilty. Byexpress command of the King, the after-horrors of a traitor's death wereomitted. 

Three months after that sad close of life, the Tower gates openedagain--this time to release a prisoner. The Hon. Anne Vaux was biddento go whither she would. Whither she would!--what a mockery to her towhom all the earth and the heavens had been made one vaulted grave--whohad no home left anywhere in the world, for her home had been in theheart of that dead man. To what part of that great wilderness of earthshe carried her bitter grief and her name of scorn, no record has beenleft to tell us, except one. 

Thirty years later, in 1635, a Jesuit school for "Catholic youths of thenobility and gentry" was dispersed by authority. It was at Stanley, asmall hamlet about six miles to the north-east of Derby, a shortdistance from the Nottingham road. The house was known as StanleyGrange, and it was the residence of the Hon. Anne Vaux. 

So she passes out of our sight, old and full of days, true to the end tothe faith for which she had so sorely suffered, and to the memory of thefriend whom she had loved too well. 

"O solitary love that was so strong!"

Let us leave her to the mercy of Him who died for men, and who only canpresume to sit in judgment on that faithful, passionate, broken heart. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. This word is plainly _sin_, though Mr Lemon in his copy triedto read it _him_--an interpretation which he was obliged to abandon. 

CHAPTER TWELVE. 

THE FRUIT OF HIS OWN WAY. 

 "Say not, This brackish well I will not taste; Ere long thou may'st give thanks that even this Is left for thee in such a burning waste. "

 Reverend Horatius Bonar. 

"Tell Mr Louvaine that I desire speech of him. "

The page who received this order looked up in apprehension. Soexceedingly stern were Lady Oxford's tone, and _so frowning_ her aspect, that he trembled for himself, apart from Aubrey. Escaping from thatawful presence at the earliest moment possible, he carried the messageto Aubrey, who when he received it was lounging on a day-bed, or sofa, with his arms crossed behind his head. 

"And you'd best go soon, Sir, " said the page, "for her Ladyship looks asthough she could swallow me in two bites. "

"Then I rather count I'd best not, " said Aubrey, looking very muchindisposed to stir. "What on earth would she have of me? There's noend to the whims and conceits of women. "

He unwreathed his arms and stood up, yawned, and very slowly wentupstairs to the gallery where he had learned that the Countess wasawaiting him. Aubrey Louvaine was at that moment a most unhappy youngman. The first sensation of amazement and horror at the discovery ofthe treachery and wickedness of his chosen friends was past, but theapprehensions for his own safety were not; and as the time went on, thesense of loss, weariness, and disgust of life, rather grew thanlessened. Worst of all, and beyond all, were two better feelings--thehonest affection which Aubrey had scarcely realised before that heentertained for Thomas Winter, and the shock and pain of his miserablefate: and even beyond this, a sense of humiliation, very wholesome yetvery distressing, at the folly of his course, and the wreck which he hadmade of his life. How complete a wreck it was he had not discoveredeven now: but that he had been very foolish, he knew in his inmostheart. And when a man is just making that valuable discovery is not thebest time for other men to tell him of it. 

That Fate was preparing for him not a sedative but a stimulant, he hadlittle doubt as he went slowly on his way to the gallery: but of theastringent nature of that mixture he had equally small idea, until heturned the last corner, and came in sight of the Countess's face. Therewas an aspect of the avenging angel about Lady Oxford, as she stood up, tall and stately, in that corner of the gallery, and held out to Aubreywhat that indiscreet young gentleman recognised as a lost solitaire thatwas wont to fasten the lace ruffles on his wrist. 

"Is this yours, Mr Louvaine?" Her voice said, "Guilty or not guilty?"so plainly that he was almost ready to respond, "Of what?"

Aubrey gave the garnet solitaire a more prolonged examination than itneeded. He felt no doubt of its identity. 

"Yes, Madam, I think it is, " he answered slowly. "At the least, I havelost one that resembles it. "

"I think it is, too, " said the Countess no less sternly. "Do you knowwhere this was found, Mr Louvaine?"

Aubrey began to feel thoroughly alarmed. 

"No, Madam, " he faltered. 

"In the chamber of Thomas Winter, the traitor and Papist, at the sign ofthe Duck, in the Strand. Perhaps you can tell me how it came thither?"

Aubrey was silent, from sheer terror. A gulf seemed to yawn before hisfeet, and the Countess appeared to him in the light of the minister ofwrath waiting to push him into it. With the rapidity of lightning, hiswhole life seemed to pass in sudden review before him--his happychildhood and guarded youth at Selwick Hall, the changed circumstancesof his London experiences, his foolish ways and extravagant expenditure, his friendship with Winter, the quiet home at the White Bear into whichhis fall would bring such disgrace and sorrow, the possible prison andscaffold as the close of all. Was it to end thus? He had meant solittle ill, had done so little wrong. Yet how was he to convince anyone that he had not meant the one, or even that he had not done theother?

In that moment, one circumstance of his early life stood out bright andvivid as if touched with a sunbeam:--an act of childish folly, donefifteen years before, for which his grandfather had made him learn thetext, "Thou God seest me. " It came flashing back upon him now. Had Godseen him all this while? Then He knew all his foolishness--ay, and hisinnocence as well. Could He--would He--help him in this emergency?Aubrey Louvaine had never left off the outward habit of saying prayers;but it was years since he had really prayed before that unheard cry wentup in the gallery of Oxford House--"Lord, save me, for my grandmother'ssake!" He felt as if he dared not ask it for his own. 

All these thoughts followed each other in so short a time that LadyOxford was conscious of little more than a momentary hesitation, beforeAubrey said--

"I suppose I can, Madam. "

He had made up his mind to speak the plain, full truth. Even thatslight touch of the hem of Christ's garment had given him strength. 

"Then do so. Have you visited this man?"

"I have, Madam. "

"How many times?"

"Several times, Madam. I could not say with certainty how many. "

"How long knew you this Thomas Winter?"

"Almost as long as I have dwelt in your Ladyship's house--not fully thattime. "

"Who made you acquaint with him?"

"Mr Percy. "

"What, the arch-traitor?" Percy was then supposed to be what Catesbyreally was--the head and front of the offending. 

"He, Madam. I will not deceive your Ladyship. "

"And pray who made you acquaint with him?" demanded the Countess, grimly. In her heart, as she looked into the eyes honestly raised tohers, she was saying, "The lad is innocent of all ill meaning--a foolishdaw that these kites have plucked:" but she showed no sign of therelenting she really felt. 

"Madam, that was Mr Thomas Rookwood. "

"He that dwells beside the Lady Lettice?"

"His son, Madam. "

"Were you acquaint with any of their wicked designs?"

"Not one of them, Madam, nor I never imagined no such a thing of any ofthose gentlemen. "

"Who of them all have you seen?"

"Madam, I have seen divers of whom I knew no more than to see them, whose names--but no more--I can specify if your Ladyship desire it. Butthose that I did really know and at all consort with were three onlybeside Mr Tom Rookwood--to wit, Mr Percy, Mr Catesby, and Mr ThomasWinter: and I saw but little save of the last. "

"The boy's telling truth, " said Lady Oxford to herself. "He has beenexceedingly foolish, but no worse. " Then aloud she asked, --"Saw youever any priests there?"

"Not to know them for such, Madam. "

"Tampered they with you in any wise as to religion?"

"Never, Madam. "

"And you are yet at heart a true Protestant, and loyal to King James?"

"As much so as I ever was, Madam. "

But as Aubrey spoke, the question arose in his conscience, --What had heever cared about either? Not half as much as he had cared for TomWinter, --nay, not so much as he had cared for Tom Winter's tobacco. 

"Mr Louvaine, " said the Countess, suddenly, "have you discovered thatyou are a very foolish young man?"

Aubrey flushed red, and remained silent. 

"It seems to me, " she continued, "that you speak truth, and that youhave been no worser than foolish. Yet, so being, you must surely guessthat for your own sake, no less than for the Earl's, you must leave thishouse, and that quickly. "

He had not guessed it, and it came upon him like a bomb-shell. LeaveOxford House! What was to become of him?

"And if you will take my advice, you will not essay to win into anyother service. Tarry as still as you can some whither, till matters beblown over, and men begin to forget the inwards of this affair: not inTown. Have you no friend in the country that would take you in for awhile? 'Tis for your own good, and for my Lady Lettice' sake, that Igive you this counsel. "

"Lie hidden in the country!" Aubrey's tones were perfectly aghast. Such an expectation had never visited his least coherent dreams. 

"Mr Louvaine, " said Lady Oxford in a kinder voice, "I can see that youhave never reckoned till this moment whither your course should leadyou, nor what lay at the end of the road you traversed. I am sorry foryou, rather than angered; for I believe you thought no ill: you simplyfailed to think at all, as so many have done before you. Yet is it thetruest kindness not to cover your path by a deluding mist, but to pointout to you plainly the end of the way you are going. Trust me, if thiswitness in mine hand were traced to you by them in power, they shouldnot take your testimony for truth so easily as I may. I know you, andthe stock whence you come; to them, you were but one of a thousand, without favour or distinction. Maybe you think me hard; yet I ensureyou, you have no better friend, nor one that shall give you truercounsel than this which I have given. Go you into the country, thefurther from London the better, and lie as quiet as you may, till thewhole matter be blown over, and maybe some time hence, it shall bepossible to sue you a pardon from his Majesty to cover all. "

"Some time!" broke from Aubrey's lips. 

"Ay, and be thankful it is no worse. He that leaps into a volcano, counting it but a puddle, shall not find it a puddle, but a volcano. You have played with firebrands, Mr Louvaine, and must not marvel norgrumble to feel the scorching of your fingers. "

Aubrey's silence was the issue of sheer despair. 

"You must leave this house to-day, " said the Countess firmly, "and notas though you went on a journey. Go forth this afternoon, as for a walkof pleasure, and carrying nothing save what you can put in your pockets. When you have set a few miles betwixt yourself and the town, you maythen hire an horse, and ride quickly. I would counsel you not tojourney too direct--if you go north or south, tack about somewhat toeast and west; one may ride with far more safety than many. I am not, as you know, over rich, yet I will, for my Lady Lettice' sake, lend youa sufficiency to carry you an hundred miles--and if it fall out that youare not able to return the loan, trouble yourself not thereabout. I amdoing my best for you, Mr Louvaine, not my worst. "

"I thank your Ladyship, " faltered the unhappy youth. "But--must I notso much as visit my grandmother?"

It was no very long time since the White Bear had been to Aubrey atroublesome nuisance. Now it presented itself to his eyes in theenticing form of a haven of peace. He was loved there: and he began toperceive that love, even when it crossed his wishes, was better worthhaving than the due reward of his deeds. 

"Too great a risk to run, " said the Countess, gravely. "If anyinquiration be made for you, and you not found here, the officers ofjustice should go straight thither. No: I will visit my Lady Letticemyself, and soften the thing as best I may to her and to Mrs Louvaine. The only thing, " she paused a moment in thought. "What other friendshave you in London?"

"Truly, none, Madam, save my cousin David--"

"Not a relative. Is there no clergyman that knows you, who is of goodaccount, and a staunch Protestant?"

"There is truly Mr Marshall, a friend of my grandmother, and an ejectedPuritan. "

"Where dwelleth he?"

"In Shoe Lane, Madam. "

"Is he a wise and discreet man?"

"I think, Madam, my grandmother holds him for such. "

"It is possible, " said Lady Oxford, meditatively, "that you might besafe in his house for a day or two, and your friends from the White Bearcould go as if to see him and his wife--hath he a wife?"

"He buried his wife this last summer, Madam: he hath a daughter thatkeeps his house, of about mine own years. "

"If you think it worth to run the risk, you might ask this goodgentleman to give you a day's shelter, so as to speak with your friendsere you depart. It were a risk: yet not, perchance, too great. Youmust judge for yourself. If you choose this way, I will take it onmyself to let your friends know how it is with you. "

It was a bitter pill to swallow. Mr Marshall was about the last man inhis world to whom Aubrey felt any inclination to lay himself under anobligation. Both as a clergyman, a Puritan, and an ejected minister, this undiscerning youth had looked down exceedingly upon his superior. The popular estimate of the clergy was just then at the lowest ebb, andit required some moral courage for any man to take holy orders, who wasneither very high up in rank, nor very low down. This was the resultpartly of the evil lives, and partly of the gross ignorance, of thepre-Reformation priests; the lives were now greatly amended, but toomuch of the ignorance, remained, and the time had not been sufficient toremove the stigma. A clergyman was expected to apprentice his childrento a trade, or at best to place them in domestic service; and he wouldhave been thought forward and impertinent if, when dining with laymen ina good position, he had not spontaneously taken his departure beforedessert made its appearance. To be indebted, therefore, for anessential service to one of this lowly class, Aubrey was sufficientlyfoolish to account a small degradation. 

Happily for him, he had just enough sense left, and had beensufficiently humiliated, to perceive that he could not escape thenecessity of devouring this unpalatable piece of humble pie, and thatthe only choice left him was a choice of bitters. The false manlinesswhich he had been diligently cultivating had vanished into thin air, andsomething of the child's spirit, so long despised, was coming back tohim, --the longing for the sound of a familiar voice, and the touch of atender hand. Even Aunt Temperance would have received, just then, awelcome which might have astonished her. But it showed the character ofthe women of his family that in this emergency Aubrey's thoughtsscarcely touched his mother, and dwelt longingly on his grandmother andhis Aunt Edith. 

The wise Countess waited quietly till Aubrey's meditations had takentime to settle themselves into resolution. 

"Madam, I thank your Ladyship, " he said at last, as he looked up, withan expression which had not dwelt for many a month in his eyes. "Ithink I perceive now how matters stand. Suffer me to say that I neverknew, until now, how foolish I have been. Under your Ladyship's leave, I will take your kindly counsel, and seek aid of Mr Marshall. I wouldlike to see them again. "

His voice faltered as the last words were spoken. 

"So will you do well, " said the Countess, more kindly than before. "Allis not yet lost, Mr Louvaine. You have been foolish, but there is timebefore you wherein you may be wise. "

Aubrey bowed, took his leave, and went to his own room, where he filledhis pockets with a few immediate necessaries and what little money hehad. It was hard to bear, this going forth into the wilderness, not atGod's call, but as the consequence of his own folly--Egypt left behind, and no Canaan in prospect. He must take leave of none save LadyOxford--must appear to none to be what he was--a homeless fugitive withhis life in his hand. As he came down-stairs, he was met in the hall bythe same page who had previously summoned him. 

"My Lady would speak a word with you in her cabinet ere you walk forth. "

Aubrey found Lady Oxford at her desk, busied with household accounts, and a little pile of gold beside her. When she had reminded him thatshe was not rich, she had spoken very truly. That deceased husband ofhers, as wanting in reason in his age as in his youth, having reducedthe great Vere estates to almost nothing, his second wife, the CountessElizabeth, and her young son Earl Henry, had to sustain the dignity ofthe House upon a very insufficient number of gold pieces. Twenty monthshad elapsed since the death of Earl Edward, and the excellent managementand strict economy of the widowed Countess had done something toretrieve the ruined fortunes of the family, but much still remained todo. 

Lady Oxford glanced up at Aubrey as he entered. 

"Mr Louvaine, I owe you your quarter's wages, " she said; "at least, solittle time remains that it need not tarry, and 'tis to my conveniencyto reckon with you this afternoon. " This was said in a voice that thepage could hear. Then, as Aubrey came up to her, with a significantlook, she laid another ten pounds in his hand, with a few words for hisprivate ear. "Let me hear of you in time to come as a good man. God gowith you! Farewell. "

Ten minutes later, Aubrey closed the door of Oxford House for the lasttime, and went out, truly not knowing whither he went. His primarydestination of course was Shoe Lane; but after that--whither?

Through back streets he made his way to Aldersgate, and passed throughit out of the City; over Snow Hill and Holborn Bridge, and down ShoeLane to the small house where Mr Marshall "had his lodging"--to use thephrase of the time--in other words, where he and Agnes made their homein three rooms, the kitchen being open to all the lodgers to cook forthemselves. Two of the rooms were moderately large; these formed thesitting-room, and the clergyman's bedroom and study, the bedroom endbeing parted from the study end by a curtain between the two. Theremaining room, a mere closet, was his daughter's bedchamber. Pleasantest of the three was the sitting-room, the front half of whichwas the general and public portion, while the back was reserved asAgnes's boudoir, where her little work-table and stool were set by asmall window, looking out over the little garden towards Fetter Lane, bounded on the right hand by the wall of Saint Andrew's Church. Thedoor was opened by a rather slipshod girl, the landlady's daughter. 

"Pray you, is Mr Marshall at home?"

"He's not, Sir; he's gone for a country walk. "

"What time look you for him?"

"Well, about dark, I dare say. Mrs Agnes, she's in. "

"Thank you; I will come again about dusk. " Aubrey walked up the lane, turned aimlessly to the left, and sauntered on towards Bloomsbury. Itwas no matter where he went--no matter to any one, himself least of all. Passing Saint Giles's Church, he turned to the right, up a broadcountry road lined by flowery banks, wherein the first primroses ofspring were just beginning to appear. There are primroses there yet--inflower-girls' baskets: they bloom now no otherwise in Tottenham CourtRoad. 

When he had gone some little distance, Aubrey grew tired. It was a warmday for the season; he sat down to rest on the flowery bank, and losthimself in unhappy thought. 

A mile further on, Mr Marshall was coming home down the same road, in amore despondent mood than was usual with him. Things were going badlyfor the Puritans abroad, and for the Marshalls at home. An ejectedminister was at all times an unfashionable person, and usually a verypoor man. His income was small, was growing smaller, and was not at alllikely to take a turn and increase. His wife was gone, and he felt herloss rather more than less as time passed on; and Agnes had her privatetrouble, for her affianced husband, a young tradesman to whom she hadbeen engaged for two years, had jilted her when he heard of her father'sejectment. Altogether, the prospect before the Marshalls was notpleasant. Rent was due, and clothes were needed, and money wasexceedingly scanty. 

In the outside world, too, the sky was dull and gloomy. The Puritanswere in no greater favour than they had been, though the Papists were atthe lowest ebb. That there was any inconsistency in their conduct didnot apparently occur to the authorities, nor that the true way torepress Popery was by cultivating Puritanism. Believing the trueprinciples of the Church of England to be the golden mean between thetwo, they acted under the pleasing illusion that when both halves werecut off, the middle would be left intact, and all the better for theoperation. 

As Mr Marshall walked on in the Tottenham road, he saw a figure seatedon the grassy bank at some distance before him. When he came nearer, heperceived that it was a young man, who sat with his head cast down, inan attitude of meditation, and a light cane in his hand, with which nowand then he switched off the head of an unoffending dandelion. Drawingnearer still, the minister began to suspect that the youth's face wasnot unfamiliar; and when he came close, instead of passing the sitter onthe bank, he stepped down, and took a seat beside him. 

The youth had paid no apparent attention to his companion until thatmoment. His face was turned away northward, and only when Mr Marshallsat down close to him did he seem to perceive that he was not alone. 

"How goes the world with you this afternoon, Mr Louvaine?"

"Mr Marshall! I ask your pardon. I had not seen you. "

"I thought not. You have taken a long walk. "

Aubrey made no reply. 

"Now, how am I to get at this shut-up heart?" said Mr Marshall tohimself. "To say the wrong thing just now may do considerable harm. Yet what is the right one?" Aloud he said only, --"I hope my LadyLettice is well? I know not whether you or I saw her last. "

"I have not seen her for months, " said Aubrey, curtly. 

"Then I am happier than you, for I saw her three weeks since. I thoughther looking somewhat frail and feeble, even more so than her wont; yetvery ripe for Heaven, when as it shall please God to take her. "

There was no answer again. Aubrey's cane applied itself diligently tomaking a plantain leaf lie to the right of its neighbour instead of the_left_. 

"Mr Louvaine, did you ever hear that my mother and your grandfatherwere friends of old time?"

For the first time Aubrey turned his head fully, and looked at hiscompanion. The face which Mr Marshall saw was not, as he had imaginedit might be, sullen and reluctant to converse. It was only very, veryweary and sad, with heavy eyes as though they had slept little, or wereholding back unshed tears. 

"No, never, " was all he said. 

"My mother, " said Mr Marshall, "was an Oxfordshire woman, of MinsterLovel by her birth, but she wedded a bookseller in Oxford town, whereshe was in service to a lady. I think you were not present when I toldthis to my Lady Lettice. But do you remember your old friend MrsElizabeth Wolvercot, that she told me you were wont to call CousinBess?"

"Remember Cousin Bess! Of course I do, " said Aubrey, a tone of interestcoming into his voice. "What of her?"

"My mother was her sister Ellen. "

"Why, Mr Marshall! are you my cousin?"

"If it please you to acknowledge me, Cousin Aubrey. "

"That I will, indeed!" said Aubrey, clasping the hand of the ejectedminister. Then, with a sudden and complete change of tone, --"But, maybe, if you knew all I know, you were not over ready to acknowledgeme. "

"You are in trouble, my friend, " answered Mr Marshall sympathisingly. "Can I help you thereout? At least I can feel for you in it, if I maydo no more. "

There was another minute of dead silence. The next question camesuddenly and bluntly. 

"Mr Marshall, did you ever in your life feel that you had been a grandfool?"

"Yes, " was the short, quiet answer. 

"I am glad to hear it, though I should not have thought so. I thoughtyou had always been a precisely proper person, and I did not suppose youcould feel for me a whit. But I must tell my trouble to somebody, or Ishall grow desperate. Look you, I have lost my place, and I can getnone other, and I have not twenty pounds in the world, and I owe anhundred pounds, and I can't go home. "

"Thank God!" was the strange answer. 

"Well, to be sure, --Mr Marshall, what on earth are you thanking Godfor?"

"That your husks have lost their flavour, my son. So long as theprodigal finds the husks sweet, there is little hope of him. But lethim once discover that they are dry husks, and not sweet fruits, andthat his companions are swine, and not princes--then he is coming tohimself, and there is hope of making a man of him again. I saytherefore, Thank God!"

"I shall never make anything better than a fool. "

"A man commonly ceases to be a fool when he begins to reckon himselfone. "

"You know not the worst yet. But--Mr Marshall, if I tell it you, youwill not betray me, for my poor old grandmother's sake? I never gaveher much cause to love me, but I know she doth, and it would grieve herif I came to public hurt and shame. "

"It would grieve me, my cousin, more than you know. Fear not, but speakfreely. "

"Well, --I know not if my grandmother told you that I was intimate withsome of these poor gentlemen that have paid the penalty of their treasonof late?"

"I know that you knew Percy and Winter--and, I dare say, Rookwood. "

"I knew them all, and Catesby too. And though I was not privy to theplot--not quite so bad as that!--yet I would have followed Mr TomWinter almost anywhere, --ay, even into worse than I did. "

"Surely, Aubrey Louvaine, you never dreamed of perversion!"

"Mr Marshall, I was ready to do anything Tom Winter bade me; but henever meddled with my religion. And--come, I may as well make a cleanbreast, as I have begun--I loved Dorothy Rookwood, and if she had heldup a finger, I should have gone after. You think the RookwoodsProtestants, don't you? They are not. "

Mr Marshall sat in dismayed silence, for a moment. 

"I doubted them somewhat, " he said: "but I never knew so much as youhave told me. Then Mrs Dorothy--"

"Oh, she would have none of me. She told me I was a beggar and a foolboth, and she spake but the bitter truth. Yet it was bitter when shesaid it. "

"My poor boy!" said Mr Marshall, compassionately. 

"I thought Hans but a fool when he went and bound himself to yonmercer--he, the son of a Dutch Baron! But I see now--I was the fool, not he. Had I spent my days in selling silk stockings instead ofwearing them, and taken my wages home to my mother like a good littleboy, it had been better for me. I see, now, --now that the doors are allshut against me, and I dare not go home. "

"Yet tell me, Aubrey, for I scarce understand it--why dare you not gohome?"

As Aubrey laid the matter before him from the point of view presented byLady Oxford, Mr Marshall's face grew graver every moment. He began tosee that the circumstances were much more serious than he hadapprehended. There was silence for a few minutes when Aubrey finishedhis account. Then the clergyman said--

"'Tis a tangle, and a tight one, my boy. Yet, by God's blessing, we maysee our way out. Let us take one point at a time. These debts ofyours--will you tell me, are they `debts of honour, ' falsely so-called?"

"Only twenty pounds. The rest is due partly to Patrick the tailor andothers for goods, and partly to Tom Rookwood for money I borrowed ofhim. "

"How much to Tom Rookwood?"

"Twenty pounds. "

"I will see what I can do with him, " said Mr Marshall, thoughtfully. "If these Rookwoods are in no wise dragged into the plot, so that theyhave no land escheated, nor fines to pay, then I think he can afford towait for his money--better, very like, than the tradesfolk. But, Aubrey, you must get another place. Bear with me if I ask you, --Couldyou bring your pride down to serve in a shop?"

The young shapely head went up suddenly, as if in proud protest againstthis most unacceptable proposal. Then it dropped again, and the canetoyed with the plantain. 

"I thought my pride was down, " he said in a low voice? "but I see itmight be lowered yet further. Mr Marshall, I will try to humble myselfeven to that, if it be needful. "

Aubrey did not suspect that Mr Marshall had never come so nearrespecting him as at that moment. 

"Well, " he said, quietly, "I will do what I can to help you. I will seeTom Rookwood; and I know a bookseller in Oxford town to whom I couldspeak for you if you wish it. The question for you at this moment isnot, What is easy and pleasant?--but, What is right? `_Facilisdescensus Averni_'--you know--`_sed revocare gradum_!' It is alwayshard work turning back. There is a bitter cup to be drunk; and if youwould win back your lost self-respect--if you would bring help andcomfort to your grandmother in her old age--if you would light up thelamp of joy where hitherto you have wrought darkness--nay, if you wouldwin a smile from the blessed lips which said `Father, forgive them' _foryou_--then, Aubrey Louvaine, be a man, and drink off that bitterdraught. You will find it sweeter afterwards than all the dainties youhave been searching after for so long. "

Aubrey sat still and silent for some time, and his companion let himalone to consider his ways. Mr Marshall was a wise man; and never gavemore strokes to a nail than were needful to drive it in. At last thequestion came, in low, unsteady tones--

"Mr Marshall, did God send you up this road this afternoon?"

"I have no doubt He did, my friend, if anything I say or do can help youto the right way. You see, I knew not of your being here, and He did. "

"When you came up, " said the low voice, "I thought all was over, and mymind was very near made up to enlist as a common soldier, and leave notrace behind. I see now, it should have been an ill deed to do. "

"An ill deed in truth for your poor friends, if the only news they hadever heard of you were your name in a list of the dead. "

"Yes, I wished to be killed as soon as might be--get to the end as fastas possible. "

"Would that have been the end, Aubrey?"

The reply was barely audible. "No, I suppose not. "

"Take up your burden instead, my son, and bear it by God's grace. Hedoes not refuse that, even when the burden is heaped and bound by ourown hands. Unlike men, His compassion faileth never. He has maybeemptied thine heart, Aubrey, that He may fill it with Himself. "

Aubrey made no reply, but Mr Marshall did not think that a bad sign. 

"Well, come now, " said he, rising from the bank, and in a more cheerfultone. "Let us go to Shoe Lane, and see if Agnes hath any supper for us. The prodigal son was not more welcome to his old father than you shallbe to my poor lodging, for so long a time as may stand with your safetyand conveniency. My Lady Oxford, you say, was to give my Lady Letticeto know how things went with you? but methinks it shall do none ill if Ilikewise visit her this evening. `Two heads are better than one, ' andthough 'tis said `o'er many cooks spoil the broth, ' yet three may bebetter than two. "

The feeling of humiliation which grew and deepened in Aubrey's mind, wasone of the best things which could have come to him. Vanity andself-sufficiency had always been his chief failings; and he was nowfinding, to his surprise, that while his chosen friends surrounded himwith difficulties, the people whom he had slighted and despised cameforward to help him out of them. He had looked down on no one more thanon Mr Marshall, and Agnes had received a share of his contempt, partlybecause of her father's calling and comparative poverty, partly becauseshe was not pretty, and partly because she showed no power of reparteeor spirit in conversation. In Aubrey's eyes she had been "a dull, humdrum thing, " only fit to cook and sew, and utterly beneath the noticeof any one so elevated and _spirituel_ as himself. 

During the last few hours, Aubrey's estimate of things in general hadsustained some rude shocks, and his hitherto unfaltering faith in hisown infallibility was considerably shaken. It suffered an additionalblow when Mr Marshall led him into his quiet parlour, and he saw Agnesseated at her work, the supper-table spread, and a cheerful fire blazingupon a clean hearth. An expression of slight surprise came into hereyes as she rose to greet Aubrey. 

"You see, daughter, I have brought home a guest, " said her father. "Hewill tarry with us a little season. "

Then, stepping across the room, he opened a closed door, and showedAubrey another chamber, the size of the first, across which a redcurtain was drawn. 

"This is my chamber, and shall be also yours, " said he: "I pray you useit freely. At this end is my study, and beyond the curtain mybedchamber. I somewhat fear my library may scarce be to your liking, "he added, an amused smile playing round his lips; "but if you can findtherein anything to please you, I shall be glad. --Now, daughter, whathave we here? We so rarely have guests to supper, I fear Mr Louvainemay find our fare somewhat meagre: though `better is a dinner of herbswhere love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith. '"

"It is a dinner of herbs, Father, " said Agnes, echoing the smile; "for'tis a bit of gammon of bacon and spinach, with eggs in poach. "

"How say you, my friend?" asked Mr Marshall of Aubrey. "Can you makeyour supper of so simple a dish?"

"Indeed I can, Sir, and thankfully, " was the answer. 

Agnes Marshall, though very quiet, was observant, and she perceived in amoment that something was wrong with the magnificent youth who hadscarcely deigned to look at her when they had met on previous occasions. She saw also that his manner had greatly changed, and very much for thebetter. He spoke to her now on terms of equality, and actuallyaddressed her father in a tone of respect. Something must havehappened. 

Aubrey, naturally the less observant of the two, was looking on just nowwith quickened senses; and discovered, also to his surprise, that thesimple supper was served with as much dainty neatness as at LordOxford's table; that Mr Marshall could talk intelligently andinterestingly on other than religious subjects; that Agnes really wasnot dull, but quite able to respond to her father's remarks; that hereyes were clear and bright, her complexion not at all bad, and her smiledecidedly pleasant: and lastly, that both his hosts, though take a thusunawares, were exceedingly kind to him, and ready to put themselves toany trouble or inconvenience in order to accommodate him. He hadlearned more, when he lay down to sleep that night, in twelve hours thanin any previous twelve months of his life, since his infancy. Thelessons were of higher value, and they were not likely to be lost. 

When supper was over, Mr Marshall repaired to the White Bear, andAubrey was left to Agnes as entertainer. She was sewing a long seam, and her needle went in and out with unfailing regularity. For a fewminutes he watched her in silence, discovering a sunny gleam on her hairthat he had never before noticed. Then he suddenly spoke out one of histhoughts. 

"Don't you find that exceeding wearisome?"

Agnes looked up with amused surprise. 

"Truly, " she said, "I never thought about it. "

"I am sure I could not work at it ten minutes, " replied Aubrey. 

Agnes laughed--a low, soft, musical laugh, which struck pleasantly onthe ear. 

"My father would be ill off for shirts if I could not, " she answered. "You see, Mr Louvaine, things have to be done. 'Tis to no good purposeto be impatient with them. It doth but weary more the worker, andfurthers not the work a whit. "

"Would you not like to lead a different life?--such a life as otheryoung maids do--amid flowers, and sunshine, and jewels, and dancing, andlaughter, and all manner of jollity?"

He was curious to hear what she would say to the question. 

Agnes answered by a rather wondering smile. Then her eyes went out ofthe window, to the steeple of Saint Andrew's, and the blue sky beyondit. 

"I might well enjoy some of them, " she said slowly, as if the differentideas were passing in review before her. "I love sunshine, and flowers. But there is one thing I love far better. "

"And that is--?"

A light "that never was from sun nor moon" flooded the grave grey eyesof Agnes Marshall. Her voice was very low and subdued as she answered. 

"That is, to do the will of God. There is nothing upon earth that Idesire in comparison of Him. "

"Is not that a gloomsome, dismal sort of thing?"

There was Divine compassion, mingled with human amusement, in the smilewhich was on Agnes's lips as she looked up at him. 

"Have you tried it, Mr Louvaine?"

Aubrey shook his head. "I have tried a good many things, but notPuritan piety. It ever seemed to me a most weary and dreary matter, --aneternal `Thou shalt not' carved o'er the gate of every garden of delightthat I would fain enter. They may be angels that stand there, but theybear flaming swords. "

He spoke lightly, yet there was an accent in his voice which revealed toAgnes a deep unfilled void in his heart. 

"Don't try piety, " she said quietly. "Try Jesus Christ instead. Thereare no flaming swords in the way to Him, and the truest and deepestsatisfaction cannot be reached without Him. "

"Have you found it thus, Mrs Agnes?"

"I have, Mr Louvaine. "

"But, then, --you see, --you have not tried other fashions of pleasure, maybe, " said Aubrey, slowly. 

"Have you?" said Agnes. 

"Ay--a good many. "

"And did you find them satisfying? I say not, pleasant at the moment, but satisfying?"

"Well, that is a large word, " said Aubrey. 

"It is a large word, " was the reply, "yet Christ can fill it: and nonecan do it but He. Know you any thing or creature else that can?"

"I cannot say, for I have not needed it. "

"That is, you have not been down yet into deep places, methinks, wherethe floods have overflowed you. I have not visited many, in truth; yethave I been in one or two where I should have lost my footing, had notmy Lord held me up. "

A very sorrowful look came into the gentle eyes. Agnes was thinking ofthe faithless Jonas Derwent, who had cast her off in the day of hercalamity. Aubrey made no answer. He was beginning to find out thatlife was not, as he had always imagined it, a field of flowers, but avery sore and real battlefield, wherein to lose the victory meant tolose his very self, and to win it meant to reign for ever and ever. 

And then Mr Marshall's voice said on the other side of the door, --"Thisis the way, "--and another voice, dearly welcome to Aubrey, responded asAunt Edith came into the room--

"Mine own dear boy! God be thanked that we see thee safe from harm!"

And again, for the twentieth time, Aubrey felt as he kissed her that hehad not deserved it. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 

WHICH IS FULL OF SURPRISES. 

 "Ah, who am I, that God hath saved Me from the doom I did desire, And crossed the lot myself had craved, To set me higher?"

 Jean Ingelow. 

As Mr Marshall approached the White Bear that evening, he wasunexpectedly pounced upon by Silence Abbott. 

"Eh, Parson, I declare it's you! How fares Mrs Agnes this cold even?Marry, I do believe we shall have snow ere the day break again. TheWhite Bear'll be a bit whiter, I reckon, if he be well snowed o'er. Areyou going in there? You'll have some work to peace Mrs Louvaine; she'slamenting and weeping, you never heard!--and all for her son as comethnot home, and she is fair sure he'll be hung, because she saith he wasin with those rogues yonder. "

"He was nothing of the sort, " said Mr Marshall, breaking in sternly onthe flow of Silence's tide of words: "and let me tell you, Mrs Abbott, if you spread such a lie, you may have a death at your door, as like asnot. Mr Louvaine, I have no doubt, is safe and well, and had no moreado with the Gunpowder Plot than you had: and I saw you with mine owneyes talking with Fawkes, that rascal that called himself Johnson. "

"Eh deary, Parson, but you'd never go to tell on a poor woman, and ashonest as any in Westminster, if I did pass the time o' day to a fellow, that I never guessed to be a villain? I do assure you, on my truthas--"

"I hope you are an honest woman, Mrs Abbott; and so is Mr Louvaine anhonest man; and if you would have me keep my tongue off your doings, seethat you keep yours off his. Now I have given you warning: that is abargain. "

"Eh deary, deary! but I never heard Parson i' such a way afore!"lamented Mrs Abbott to her daughter Mary, the only listener she hadleft, for Mr Marshall had walked straight into the White Bear. "I'llsay the lad's a Prince of the Blood, or an angel, or anything he's amind, if he'll but let me be. Me talk to Guy Fawkes, indeed! I neversaid no worser to him than `Fine morning, ' or `Wet, isn't it?' as itmight be: and to think o' me being had up afore the Lords of the Councilfor just passing a word like that--and the parson, too! Eh, deary me!whatever must I say to content him, now?"

"I fancy, Mother, " said Mary, who took after her quiet father, "he'll becontent if you'll hold your peace. "

Mr Marshall found the ladies at the White Bear all assembled in theparlour. Mrs Louvaine had the ear of the House as he entered. 

"So unfeeling as you are, Temperance, to a poor widow! and my only childas good as lost, and never found again. And officers and third-boroughsand constables all going about, making all manner of inquirations, trying to bring folks to justice, and Aubrey in with those wickedpeople, and going to sup with them, and all--and nobody ever trying toprevent him, and not a soul to care but me whether he went right orwrong--I do believe you thought more of the price of herrings than youever did of the dear boy--and now, he's completely lost and nobody knowswhat has become of him--"

Mr Marshall's quiet voice effected a diversion. 

"Mrs Louvaine, pardon me. Aubrey is at my house, safe and sound. There is no need for your trouble. "

"Of course!" responded Temperance. "I told her so. Might as well talkto the fire-bricks, when she takes a fancy of this sort. If the lad hadcome to any harm, we should have heard it. Faith never will think that`no news is good news. '"

"I am glad Aubrey is with you, Mr Marshall, " said the gentle voice ofLady Louvaine. 

"I met with him, Madam, in a walk this afternoon, and brought him so farwith me. "

"And why not a bit further, trow?" asked Temperance. 

"That am I come to say. Madam, "--and he addressed himself to LadyLouvaine, --"having told you that your grandson is well in body, and safeat my lodging, I trust it shall not greatly touch you to learn that heis in some trouble of mind. "

"Didn't I tell you?" demanded Mrs Louvaine, in tones suited toCassandra amid the ruins of Troy. "I said I was sure some harm had cometo the boy, and you laughed me to scorn, and not one of you went tosee--"

"Nobody laughed at you but me, my dear, " said her sister: "and as togoing to see, when his mother did not reckon it worth while to budge, Idon't see why his aunts should not sit quiet. "

"Why, you never looked for _me_ to go?" responded Mrs Louvaine, with afaint scream of horror. "Me, a poor widow, and with my feeble health!When I haven't been out of the door except to church for nigh a month!"

"More's the pity! If you knocked about a bit more, and went to marketof a morrow, and such like, maybe your health would not be so feeble. "

"Temperance, you barbarous creature, how _can_ you?"

"Well, I know there are folks that can, Faith, and there are folks thatcan't. You never heard me ask my Lady Lettice why she didn't stir upand go a-marketing. She can't; she'd be only too glad if she could, andwould want no asking. But you could if you would--it's true, my dear, and you don't need to stare, as if you'd never seen me before thisevening. As for looking for you to go, I didn't indeed; I never lookfor aught but cumber, and so I'm not disappointed. --Mr Marshall, I askyour pardon; I'm staying you from speaking. "

Mr Marshall accepted the apology with a smile. 

"Well, the upshot of the matter is this. Mr Louvaine, though in truth, as I do verily believe, innocent of all ill, is in danger to fall insome suspicion through a certain jewel of his being found in the lodgingof one of the caitiffs lately execute. He saith that he knew not wherehe had lost it: no doubt it dropped out of his apparel when he wasthere, as he allows he hath been divers times. He never heard, saithhe, a word of any traitorous designs, nor did they tamper at all withhis religion. But this jewel being carried to my Lady Oxford--truly, whether by some suspicion that it should be Mr Louvaine's, or how, Iknow not, nor am sure that he doth himself--she charged him withal, yetkindly, and made haste to have him forth of the house, warning him thathe must in no wise tarry in the town, but must with all haste hie himdown into the country, and there lie squat until all suspicion hadpassed. She would not even have him come hither, where she said heshould be sought if any inquiry were made. The utmost she would sufferwas that he should lie hid for a day or twain in my lodging, whither youmight come as if to speak with Agnes, and so might agree whither heshould go, and so forth. My Lady paid him his wage, well-nigh ninepound, and further counted ten pounds into his hand to help him on hisjourney. Truly, she gave him good counsel, and dealt well with him. But the poor lad is very downcast, and knows not what to do; and hetells me he hath debts that he cannot pay. So I carried him to mylodging, where he now lieth: and I wait your further wishes. "

"I thank you right truly for that your goodness, " said Lady Louvaine. 

"There, now! didn't I say the boy was sure to run into debt?" moanedMrs Louvaine. 

"How much be these debts, Mr Marshall?" asked the old lady. 

"Twenty pounds borrowed from Mr Thomas Rookwood; twenty lost at play;and about sixty owing to tailors, mercers, and the like. "

"Ay, I reckoned that velvet would be over a penny the yard. "

"I see, the lad hath disburdened himself to you, " said Lady Louvaine, with a sad smile. "Truly, I am sorry to hear this, though littleastonied. Mr Marshall, I have been much troubled at times, thinkingwhether, in suffering Aubrey to enter my Lord Oxford's service, I haddone ill: and yet in very deed, at the time I could see nothing else todo. It seemed to be the way wherein God meant us to go--and yet--"

"Madam, the Lord's mercies are great enough to cover our mistakes alongwith our sins. And it may be you made none. I have never seen MrLouvaine so softened and humbled as he now looks to be. "

"May the Lord lead him forth by the right way! What do you advise, truefriend?"

"I see two courses, Madam, which under your good leave I will lay beforeyou. Mr Louvaine can either lie hid in the country with some friend ofyours, --or, what were maybe better, some friend of your friend: or, ifhe would be doing at once towards the discharging of his debts, he cantake the part Mr Floriszoon hath chosen, and serve some tradesman inhis shop. "

"Trade! Aubrey!" shrieked Mrs Louvaine in horror. "He never will! Myboy hath so delicate a soul--"

"He said he would, " answered Mr Marshall quietly, "and thereby won myhigh respect. "

"Nay, you never mean it!" exclaimed Temperance. "Bless the lad! Ine'er gave him credit for half the sense. "

"If Aubrey be brought down to that, he must have learned a good lesson, "said his grandmother. "Not that I could behold it myself entirelywithout a pang. "

Edith, who had hitherto been silent, now put in a suggestion. 

"Our Charity is true as steel, " she said. "Why not let Aubrey lie closewith her kindred, where none should think to look for him?"

"In Pendle?--what, amid all the witches!" said Temperance. 

"Edith, I'm amazed at you! I could never lie quiet in my bed!" wailedMrs Louvaine. "Only to think of the poor boy being bewitched by thosewicked creatures! Why, they spend Sunday nights dancing round thechurchyard with the devil. "

"And the place is choke-full of 'em, Charity says, " added Temperance. "She once met Mother Demdike her own self, muttering under her breath, and she gave her the evillest look as she passed her that the maid eversaw. "

"Ay, saying the Lord's Prayer backwards, of course. "

"Well, I can't say, " said Temperance, dubiously: "it did not seem to doCharity any ill. I shouldn't wonder, truly--"

"For mercy's sake, stop her!" cried Mrs Louvaine. "She's going to saysomething wicked--I know she is! She'll say there are no witches, or nodevil, or something horrible. "

"Nay, I'll say nought o' the sort, " responded Temperance. "Whetherthere be witches or no, the Lord knows, and there I leave it; but thatthere is a devil I'm very sure, for he has tempted me over and overagain. All I say is, if Charity could meet a witch, and get no ill, whyshould not Aubrey too?"

"I won't have it!" cried Mrs Louvaine in an agony. "My poor darlingboy! I won't have it! My fatherless child shall not go among snakesand witches and demons--"

"Now, Faith, do be quiet, or you'll have a fit of the mother[hysterics]. Nobody wants to send the lad amongst snakes--I don't knowthat there's so much as an adder there. As to devils, he'll find themwhere'er he goeth, and some of them in men's and women's bodies, or Imistake. "

"If your Ladyship liked better, " suggested Mr Marshall, quietly, "totake the other road I named, I am acquaint with a bookseller in Oxfordtown, that is a cousin of my sister's husband, a good honest man, and aGod-fearing, with whom, if you so pleased, he might be put. 'Tis aclean trade, and a seemly, that need not disgrace any to handle: andmethinks there were no need to mention wherefore it were, save that theplace were sought for a young gentleman that had lost money throughdisputes touching lands. That is true, and it should be sufficient toaccount for all that the master might otherwise note as strange in aservant. "

"My poor fatherless boy!" sobbed Mrs Louvaine, with her handkerchief ather eyes. "Servant to a tradesfellow!"

"We are all servants, " answered Mr Marshall: "and we need think noscorn thereof, since our Lord Himself took on Him the form of a servant. Howbeit, for this even, the chief question is, Doth any of yougentlewomen desire to return with me?--Mrs Louvaine?"

"I could not bear it!" came in a stifled voice from behind thehandkerchief. "To see my poor child in his misery--it would break mineheart outright. 'Tis enough to think of, and too-too [exceedingly]great to brook, even so. "

"Let her pass; she'll be ne'er a bit of good, " said Temperance in acontemptuous whisper. Then raising her voice, she added, --"Now, LadyLettice, don't you think thereof. There's no need, for Edith and I cansettle everything, and you'd just go and lay yourself by, that youshould have no good of your life for a month or more. Be ruled by me, and let Edith go back and talk matters o'er with Aubrey, and see whetherin her judgment it were better he lay hid or went to the bookseller. She's as good a wit as any of us, yourself except. Said I well?"

"If your Ladyship would suffer me to add a word, " said the clergyman, "Ithink Mrs Temperance has well spoken. "

There was a moment's hesitation, as if Lady Louvaine were balancingduties. Mr Marshall noticed how her thin hand trembled, and how thepink flush came and went on her delicate cheek. 

"Well, children, have it as you will, " said the old lady at last. "Itcosts me much to give it up; but were I to persist, maybe it should costmore to you than I have a right to ask at your hands. Let be: I willtarry. "

"Dearest Mother, you have a right to all that our hands can give you, "answered Edith, tenderly: "but, I pray you, tarry until the morrow, andthen if need be, and your strength sufficient, you can ride to ShoeLane. "

So Edith went with Mr Marshall alone. Even after all she had heard, Aubrey's condition was a delightful surprise. Never before had she seenhim in so softened, humbled, grateful a mood as now. They talked thematter over, and in the end decided that, subject to Lady Louvaine'sapproval, Aubrey should go to the bookseller. 

When the White Bear was reached on her return, Edith found Lady Oxfordin the parlour. The sternness with which the Countess had treatedAubrey was quite laid aside. To Lady Louvaine she showed a graceful andgrateful mixture of sympathy and respect, endeavoured to reassure her, hoped there would be no search nor inquiry, thought it was almost toolate, highly approved of Edith's decision, promised to send over allAubrey's possessions to the White Bear, and bade them let her know ifshe could do them any service. 

"Will you suffer me to ask you one thing?" she said. "If Mr Louvainego to Oxford, shall you tarry here, or no?"

"Would it be safe for us to follow him?"

"Follow him--no! I did but think you might better love to be forth ofthis smoky town. "

"Amen, with all my heart!" said Temperance. "But, Madam, and savingyour Ladyship's presence, crowns bloom not on our raspberry bushes, normay horses be bought for a groat apiece down this way. "

Mrs Louvaine, behind the cambric, was heard to murmur something about asordid spirit, people whose minds never soared, and old maids who knewnothing of the strength of maternal love. 

"Strength o' fiddlesticks!" said Temperance, turning on her. "Madam, Iask your Ladyship's pardon. "

"My dear lady, I cannot answer you as now, " was Lady Louvaine's reply. "The pillar of cloud hath not moved as yet; and so long as it tarrieth, so long must I also. It may be, as seemeth but like, that my next homewill be the churchyard vault, that let my Father judge. If it had beenHis will, that I might have laid my bones in mine own country, and bythe side of my beloved, it had been pleasant to flesh and blood: but Iknow well that I go to meet him, wherever my dust may lie. I amwell-nigh fourscore years old this day; and if the Lord say, `Go notover this Jordan, ' let Him do as seemeth Him good. Methinks the gloryof the blessed City burst no less effulgent on the vision of Moses, because he had seen the earthly Canaan but far off. And what I love thebest is not here, but there. "

Temperance and Edith accompanied Lady Oxford to her coach. She paused amoment before stepping in. 

"Mrs Edith, " she said, "methinks your good mother would fain see MrLouvaine ere he depart. If so, she shall not be balked thereof. I havemade inquiry touching Mr Marshall's house, and I find there is a littlegate from the garden thereof into Saint Andrew's churchyard. I willcall for her as to-morrow in my coach, and carry her to take the air. An ancient servant of mine, that is wedded to the clerk of SaintAndrew's, dwelleth by the churchyard, and I will stay me there as thoughto speak with her, sending away the coach upon another errand that I candevise. Then from her house my Lady may safely win to Mr Marshall'slodging, and be back again ere the coach return. "

"Your Ladyship is most good unto us, " responded Edith, thankfully. "Iam assured it should greatly comfort my dear mother. "

Lady Oxford turned with a smile to Temperance. 

"It seems to me, Mrs Temperance, that your words be something sharp. "

"Well, Madam, to tell truth, folks do put me out now and again more thana little. Many's the time I long to give Faith a good shaking; and Icould have laid a stick on Aubrey's back middling often, --I'll not say Icouldn't: but if the lad sees his blunders and is sorry for 'em, I'llput my stick in the corner. "

"I think I would leave it tarry there for the present, " said LadyOxford, with a soft little laugh. "God grant you a good even!"

The coach had only just rolled away, and four youthful Abbotts, whom ithad glued to the window, were still flattening their noses against thediamond panes, when a clear, strong, sweet voice rang out on the eveningair in the back road which led by the palings of Saint James's Park. Both Edith and Temperance knew well whose voice it was. They heard itevery night, lifted up in one of the Psalms of David, as Hans Floriszooncame home from his work with the mercer. Hans was no longer anapprentice. Mr Leigh had taken such a fancy to him, and entertained socomplete a trust both in his skill and honesty, that six months beforehe had voluntarily cancelled his indentures, and made him his partner inthe business. Nothing changed Hans Floriszoon. He had sung as cheerilyin his humble apprenticeship, and would have done so had he been LordMayor of London, as now when he came down the back road, lantern inhand, every evening as regularly as the clock struck four, Mrs Abbottdeclared that she set her clock by Hans whenever it stopped, which itdid frequently, for it was an ancient piece of goods, and suffered froman asthmatic affection. 

"There's Mestur 'Ans!" said Charity. "See thee, Rachel, I'll teem themeggs into th' pan; thou doesn't need to come. "

Rachel sat by the window, trying to finish making a new apron beforesupper. 

"That's a good lass, " she said. "Eh, but it's a dark day; they'll nonesee a white horse a mile off to-night. " [Note 1. ]

"They'd have better e'en nor me to see it any night, " said Charity, breaking the eggs into the pan. 

"Hearken to th' lad!" said Rachel. "Eh, it's gradely [excellent, exactly right] music, is that!"

"He sings well, does Mestur 'Ans. "

The words were audible now, as the singer unlatched the gate, and turnedinto the garden. 

 "And in the presence of my foes My table Thou shalt spread: Thou shalt, O Lord, fill full my cup, And eke anoint mine head. 

 "Through all my life Thy favour is So frankly showed to me, That in Thy house for evermore My dwelling-place shall be. "

Hans lifted the latch and came into the kitchen. 

"Here's a clean floor, Rachel! Tarry a minute, while I pluck off myshoes, and I will run across in my stocking-feet. It shall be `FebruaryFill-dyke, ' methinks, ere the day break. "

"He's as good as my Lady and Mrs Edith, for not making work, " saidCharity as Hans disappeared. 

"I would we could set him i' th' garden, and have a crop on him, "responded Rachel. "He's th' only man I ever knew that 'd think for awoman. "

"Eh, lass, yo' never knew Sir Aubrey!" was Charity's grave comment. 

There was a good deal for Hans to hear that evening, and he listenedsilently while Edith told the tale, and Temperance now and theninterspersed sarcastic observations. When at last the story was told, Hans said quietly--

"Say you that you look to see Aubrey again to-orrow?"

"Lady Lettice doth, and Edith. Not I, " said Temperance. "'Tis a casewherein too many cooks might spoil the broth, and the lad shall be allthe easier in his mind for his old crusty Aunt Temperance to tarry athome. But I say, Edith, I would you had asked him for a schedule of hisdebts. `Tailors and silkmen' is scarce enough to go to market withal, if we had the means to pay them. "

"So did I, Temperance, and he told me--twenty pounds to Mr TomRookwood, and forty to Patrick at the Irish Boy; fifteen to Cohen, ofthe Three Tuns in Knightriders' Street; and about ten more to Bennett, at the Bible in Paternoster Row. "

"Lancaster and Derby! Why, however many suits can the lad have in hiswardrobe? It should fit me out for life, such a sum as that. "

"Well! I would we could discharge them, " said Lady Louvaine with asigh. "Twenty to Tom Rookwood, and forty to Patrick!"

"Make your mind easy, Madam, " came in the quietest tones from Hans: "nota penny is owing to either. "

"What can you mean, Hans?"

"I am sure of it. "

"Who told you so much?"

"Nay, ask Mr Rookwood, and see what he saith. "

"I'll go this minute, " said Temperance, rising, "I wis not what bee thouhast in thy bonnet, but I don't believe thee, lad. "

"Maybe you will when you come back, " was the calm response. 

Away flashed Temperance, and demanded an interview with Mr ThomasRookwood, if he were at home. Mr Thomas was at home, and did notexpress the surprise he felt at the demand. But when the subject ofAubrey's debt was introduced, Mr Thomas's eyebrows went up. 

"Mr Louvaine owes me nothing, I do ensure you. "

"I heard you had lent him twenty pounds?"

"I did; but it was repaid a month ago. "

"By Aubrey?"

"So I suppose. I understood so much, " was the answer, in a slightlypuzzled tone. 

"He repaid it not himself, then?"

"Himself, nay--he sent it to me; but I gave the quittance as to MrLouvaine. "

"I thank you, Mr Rookwood. Then that ends the matter. "

Out of the Golden Fish, and into the White Bear, ran Temperance, withdrops of rain lying on her gown and hood. 

"Madam, " she announced in a stern voice, "I am that flabbergasted asnever was! Here's Mr Tom Rookwood saith that Aubrey paid him his moneya month gone. "

"Why, Aubrey told me this afternoon that he owed him twenty pounds, "replied Edith in a tone of astonished perplexity. 

"Hans, what meaneth this?"

"Methinks, Madam, it means merely that I told you the truth. MrRookwood, you see, bears me out. "

"He saith Aubrey sent the money by a messenger, unto whom he gave thequittance. Dear heart, but if he lost it!"

"Yet Aubrey must have known, if he sent the money, " said Edith in thesame tone as before. 

"The messenger lost not the quittance, " said Hans. "It is quite safe. "

He had been out of the room for a minute while Temperance was away, andnow, passing his hand into his pocket, he took out a slip of paper, which he laid in the hand of Lady Louvaine. 

She drew forth her gold spectacles, and was fitting them on, when Edithimpulsively sprang up, and read the paper over her mother's shoulder. 

"Received of Mr Aubrey Louvaine, gent, the sum of twenty pounds, formoneys heretofore lent by me, this fifteenth of January, the year of ourLord God 1605, according to the computation of the Church of England. 

"Thomas Rookwood. "

"Northumberland, Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham!" was the commentfrom Temperance. 

"Hans!" said Edith, a light flashing on her, "wert thou the messenger?"

"I was not sent, " was the placid answer. 

"Hans, thou admirable rascal!" cried Temperance, laying her hands on hisshoulders, "I do believe thou didst pay this money. If thou own not thetruth, I'll shake thee in twenty bits. "

Hans looked up laughingly into her face. 

"Methinks, Mrs Temperance, you should shake yourself in forty ere youdid it. "

"Answer me this minute, thou wicked knave! didst thou pay this money, orno?"

"I was there when it was paid. "

"I'll wager my best boots thou wert! Was any else there?"

"Certainly. "

"Who beside?"

"The cat, I believe. "

Temperance gave him a shake, which he stood with complete calm, onlylooking a little amused, more about his eyes than his lips. 

"Hans, tell me!" said Lady Louvaine. "Is it possible these debts werepaid with thy money? How shall I repay thee, my true and dear friend?"

Hans freed himself from Temperance's grasp, and knelt down beside LadyLouvaine. 

"Nay, Madam! do you forget that you paid me first--that I owe unto youmine own self and my very life? From the time we came hither I haveseen pretty clearly which way Aubrey was going; and having failed tostay him, methought my next duty was to save all I could, that youshould not at some after-time be cumbered with his debts. MrRookwood's and Patrick's, whereof I knew, have I discharged; and theother, for which I have a sufficiency, will I deal withal to-morrow, sothat you can tell Aubrey he is not a penny in debt--"

"Save to thee, my darling boy. "

"There are no debts between brothers, Madam, or should not be. "

"Hans, thou downright angel, do forgive me!" burst from Temperance. 

"Dear Mrs Temperance, I should make a very poor angel; but I willforgive you with all mine heart when I know wherefore I should do it. "

"Why, lad, here have I been, like an old curmudgeon as I am, well-nighsetting thee down as a penny-father, because I knew not what thou didstwith thy money. It was plain as a pikestaff what Aubrey did with his, for he set it all out on his back; but thy habit is alway plain anddecent, and whither thy crowns went could I never tell. Eh, but I amsorry I misjudged thee thus! 'tis a lesson for me, and shall be my lifelong. I do believe thou art the best lad ever trod shoe-leather. "

"Well, 'tis a very proper deed, Hans, and I am glad to see in you soright a feeling, " said Mrs Louvaine. 

"The Lord bless thee, my boy!" added Lady Louvaine, with emotion. "Buthow may I suffer thee to pay Aubrey's debts?"

"I scarce see how you shall set about to help it, Madam, " said Hans witha little laugh of pleasure. "I thank God I have just enough to payall. "

"And leave thyself bare, my boy?" said Edith. 

"Of what, Mrs Edith?" asked Hans with a smile. "`A man's lifeconsisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth. ' Iam one of the richest men in England, I take it, and my wealth is not ofa sort that shall make it hard to enter into the Kingdom of God. Thecorn and wine and oil may be good things, and are such, being God'sgifts: yet the gladness which He giveth is a better, and will abide whenthey are spent. "

Lady Oxford kept her word, and his grandmother and Aunt Edith had afarewell interview with Aubrey. His face was a study for a painter whenthe receipts were shown him. Tom Rookwood had refused him a second loanonly a few weeks earlier, and had pressed him to repay the former: HansFloriszoon had paid his debts without even letting him know it. Yet hehad lent many a gold piece to Tom Rookwood, while the memory of thatbase, cruel blow given to Hans made his cheek burn with shame. Had henot been treasuring the pebble, and flinging away the pearl?

"Hans has paid my debts!" he said, in an exceedingly troubled voice. "Hans! out of his own pocket? May God forgive me! Tell him, "--andAubrey's voice was almost choked--"tell him he hath heaped coals of fireon mine head. "

Edith asked no questions, but she gave a shrewd guess which was not faroff the truth, and she was confirmed in it by the fact that Hansreceived the message with a smile, and expressed no doubt what it meant. 

That night there were twenty-two miles between Aubrey and London: andthe next day he rode into Oxford, and delivered Mr Marshall's letter ofrecommendation to the bookseller, Mr Whitstable, whose shop wassituated just inside the West Gate--namely, in close contiguity to thataristocratic part of the city now known as Paradise Square. 

Mr Whitstable was a white-haired man who seemed the essence ofrespectability. He stooped slightly in the shoulders, and looked Aubreythrough and over, with a pair of dark, brilliant, penetrating eyes, in away not exactly calculated to add to that young gentleman's comfort, norto restore that excellent opinion of his own virtues which had beensomewhat shaken of late. 

"You are of kin to the writer of this letter, Mr Marshall?"

Aubrey admitted it. 

"And you desire to learn my trade?"

"I am afeared I scarce do desire it, Master: but I am content, and needsmust. "

"What have you hitherto done?"

"Master, " said Aubrey, looking frankly at his questioner, "I fear I havehitherto done nothing save to spend money and make a fool of myself. That is no recommendation, I know. "

"You have done one other thing, young man, " said the old bookseller:"you have told the truth. That is a recommendation. Mr Marshall tellsme not that, yet can I read betwixt the lines. I shall ask you noquestions, and as you deal with me, so shall I with you. Have you eatenand drunk since you entered the city? Good: take this cloth, and dustthat row of books. I shall give you your diet, three pound by the year, and a suit of livery. "

And Mr Whitstable walked away into the back part of his shop, leavingAubrey to digest what he had just heard. 

The idea of wearing livery was not in his eyes, what it would be inours, a part of his humiliation, for it was then customary forgentlemen, as well as servants, to wear the livery of their employers. Even ladies did it, when in the service of royal or noble mistresses. This, therefore, was merely what he might expect in the circumstances:and as his own meanest suit was not in keeping with his new position, itwas rather a relief than otherwise. But he was slightly disconcerted tofind how accurately his master had read him in the first minute. Alittle wholesome reflection brought Aubrey to the conclusion that hisbest plan--nay, his only plan in present circumstances--was toaccommodate himself to them, and to do his very best in his new calling. Almost unconsciously, he set Hans before him as a suitable example, anddusted the row of books under this influence in a creditable manner. 

His experiences for the evening were new and strange. Now anundergraduate entered for the Epistles of Casaubon or the Paraphrases ofErasmus; now a portly citizen demanded the Mirrour of Magistrates; alabouring man asked for the Shepherd's Calendar; a schoolmaster requireda dozen horn-books, and a lady wanted a handsomely-bound Communion Book. Psalters, at two shillings each; grammars, from sixpence to a shilling;Speed's Chronicle at fifty shillings, a map of England at thirty, theLife of Sir Philip Sidney at fourpence, a "paper book" at sixteen pence, an Italian Dictionary at fifteen shillings--classics, song-books, prayer-books, chronicles, law-books--Aubrey learned to handle them all, and to repeat their prices glibly, in a style which astonished himself. At the end of a week, Mr Whitstable told him, in his usual grave andrather curt manner, that if he would go on as he had begun, he should besatisfied with him. 

The going on as he had begun was precisely the difficulty with Aubrey. To do some magnificent deed by a sudden spurt of heroism, or behaveangelically for a day, might be possible to him; but that quiet dailyfulfilment of uninteresting duties--that patient continuance inwell-doing, which seemed as if it came naturally to Hans, was to AubreyLouvaine the hardest thing on earth. Had the lesson been a little lesssharp, humanly speaking, he would have failed. But Aubrey's consciencehad been startled into life, and he was beginning to see that it wouldbe too little profit to gain the whole world, if in so doing he lost hisown soul, which was himself. Men are apt to look on their souls not asthemselves, but as a sort of sacred possession, a rich jewel to be wornon Sundays, and carefully put up in cotton-wool for the rest of theweek--of immense value, theoretically, of course, yet not at all thesame thing as the "_me_" which is the centre of sensation to each one, and for which every man will give all that he hath. The mountain wasterribly steep, but Aubrey climbed it--only God knew with how muchinward suffering, and with how many fervent prayers. The Aubrey whosold Mr Whitstable's books that spring in the shop, at the West Gate ofOxford, was a wholly different youth from my Lord Oxford's gentlemanonly a few weeks before. 

Three months had passed by, and no further apprehensions wereentertained at the White Bear of any Government inquiries. If LadyOxford still felt any, she kept them to herself. 

It was a summer evening; Hans had come home, and the little family partywere seated in the parlour, when a summons of Charity to the front doorwas followed by her appearance before the ladies. 

"Madam, " said she, "here's one would have speech of your Ladyship, andhe'll not take a civil nay, neither. I told him he might ha' come i'daylight, and he said you'd be just as fain of him i' th' dark. He'snone aila [bashful], for sure. "

"Well, let him come in, Charity, " said Lady Louvaine smiling. 

Charity drew back, and admitted a man of about five-and-twenty years, clad in respectable but not fashionable garments, and with an amusedlook in his eyes. 

"I do believe your maid thinks I've come to steal the spoons, " said he. "I could scarce win her to let me in. Well, does nobody know me? Don'tyou, Grandmother?"

"Why, sure! 'tis never David Lewthwaite?" responded Lady Louvaine insome excitement. 

"'Tis David Lewthwaite, the son of your daughter Milisent, " said he, laughing. 

"Why, who was to know you, my boy?" asked his Aunt Edith. "We have notseen you but once since we came, and you have changed mightily sincethen. "

"When last we saw you, " said Temperance, "your chin was as smooth as thehearthstone, and now you've got beard enough to fit out a flock ofgoats. "

"Ah! I'd forgot my beard was new. Well, I have been remiss, I own: butI will expound another time the reasons why you saw us not oftener. To-night, methinks, you'll have enough to do to hearken to the causewhich has brought me at last. "

"No ill news, David, I trust?" asked his grandmother, growing a shadepaler. 

"None, Madam. And yet I come to bring news of death. "

"Of whose death?"

"Of the death of Oswald Louvaine, of Selwick Hall. "

There was a cry from Edith--"O David, can you possibly mean--is Selwickcome back to us?"

"Oswald Louvaine died unwedded, and hath left no will. His heir-at-lawis my cousin Aubrey here. "

"May the Lord help him to use it wisely!" said his grandmother, withemotion. 

"Amen!" said David, heartily. "And now, Madam, as I have not stolen thespoons, may I let somebody else in, that I left round the corner?--whom, perchance, you may care rather to see than me. "

"Prithee bring whom thou wilt, David; there shall be an hearty welcomefor him. "

"Well, I rather guess there will be, " said David, as he walked out ofthe parlour. "Dear heart, but who is talking fast enough to shame arace-horse?"

"Well, now, you don't say so!" was what met David's ear as he unlatchedthe gate of the White Bear. "And you've come from Camberwell, you say?Well, that's a good bit o' walking, and I dare be bound you're weary. I'd--"

"I cry you mercy, --Cumberland, " said a silvery voice in amused tones. 

"Dear heart! why, that's a hundred mile off or more, isn't it? And howmany days did it take you?--and how did you come--o' horseback?--and bethe roads very miry?--and how many of you be there?--and what kin areyou to my Lady Lettice, now? and how long look you to tarry with her?"

"My mistress, " said David, doffing his hat, "an't like you, I am alawyer; and to-morrow morning, at nine o'clock, if you desire it, will Ibe at your service in the witness-box, for two shillings the week and mydiet. For to-night, I wish you good even. "

"Lack-a-daisy!" was all that Mrs Abbott could utter, as David rescuedthe owner of the silvery voice, and bore her off, laughing, to the WhiteBear. 

"Madam, and my mistresses, " he said, as he threw open the door, "I havethe honour to announce the most excellent Mistress Milisent Lewthwaite. "

Tears and laughter were mixed for more than one present, as Milisentflew into her mother's arms, and then gave a fervent hug to her sisterEdith. 

"I would come with Robin!" she cried. "It feels like a whole age sinceI saw one of you!"

"My dear heart, such a journey!" said her mother. "And where is thedear Robin, then?"

"Oh, he shall be here anon. He tarried but to see to the horses, andsuch like; and I set off with Davie--I felt as though I could not bearanother minute. "

"Madam, I give you to wit, " said David, with fun in his eyes, "thismother of mine, that had not seen me for an whole year, spake but threewords to me--`How fare you, my boy?' `Help me to 'light, ' and `Now letus be off to Westminster. '"

"Well, I had seen thee in a year, " answered Milisent, echoing his laugh, "and them not for three years, less a month. "

A little soft echoing laugh came from Lady Louvaine. 

"Shall I tell thee, my dear heart, what I think Aunt Joyce should say tothee? `Well done, Lettice Eden's daughter!'"

"Ah, Mother dear!" said Milisent, kissing her mother's hand, "I may belike what you were as a young maid, but never shall I make by one-halfso blessed a saint in mine old age. "

"That must you ask your grandchildren, " said Temperance. 

"Nay, I will ask somebody that can judge better, " replied Milisent, laughing. "What sayest thou, Robin?"

Mr Lewthwaite had entered so quietly that only his wife's quick eyeshad detected his presence. He came forward now, kissed Lady Louvaine'shand, and then laying his hand on Milisent's bright head, he saidsoftly--

"`The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her; she will do himgood and not evil all the days of her life. She openeth her mouth withwisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness. Her children arise upand call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her. '"

Whether he would have gone further was never to be known, for a suddenrap at the door preceded Charity. 

"Madam, here's Mistress Abbott, and hoo will come in. I cannot keep herout. I've done my best. "

And they were all feeling so happy, and yet, for various reasons, sohumble, --the two are very apt to go together, --that, as Edith observedafterwards, there was charity enough and to spare even for SilenceAbbott. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. "On Candlemas Day, you should see a white horse a mile off, " isa proverb in the North, and perhaps elsewhere. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 

ENDS WITH JOYCE MORRELL. 

 "Vanished is each bright illusion; They have faded one by one: Yet they gaze with happy faces, Westwards to the setting sun:--

 "Talking softly of the future, Looking o'er the golden sands, Towards a never-fading city, Builded not with earthly hands. "

 Cyrus Thornton. 

"Well, to be sure! My man wouldn't let me come no sooner--'tis hisfault, not mine. But I did want to know which of them lads o' ours toldhis tale the Tightest. Here's Seth will have it you've had a thousandleft you by the year, and Ben he saith young Master Floriszoon's to be alord. "

"Dear! I hope not, " said Hans. 

"Well! but they're a-saying so much all up and down the King's Street, Ican tell you. "

"How could it have crept forth?" said Edith. "Then 'tis true? Eh, butI'm as glad as if I'd had forty shillings left me, --I am, so!" criedMrs Abbott; and she was sincere, for a fresh subject for conversationwas worth quite that to her. "And is it true, as our Seth said, thatyou've a fine house and a park in Northamptonshire come to you, andfifteen hundred head o' red deer and a lake to fish in?"

"Quite true, " said Robert Lewthwaite, with a grave bow, "allowing, mymistress, of four corrections: there is not a park, it is not inNorthamptonshire, there be no red deer, and the lake 'longeth not to thehouse. "

"And jewels worth ever so many thousands, as our Ben saith, for MistressLettice, and ten Barbary horses o' th' best, and a caroche fine enoughfor the King's Majesty?"

"Ah, I would that last were true, " said Edith. 

"My mistress, the Barbary horses be all there saving ten, and thecaroche is a-building in the air: as to the jewels, seeing they beMistress Lettice's, I leave her to reply. "

Lettice was in no condition to do it, for she was suffering tormentsfrom suppressed laughter. Her Uncle Robert's preternatural gravity, andMrs Abbott's total incapacity to see the fun, were barely endurable. 

"Eh, but you will be mortal fine!" said Mrs Abbott, turning herartillery on the afflicted Lettice. "I only wish our Mall had such achance. If she--"

"Mrs Abbott, I cry you mercy, but here comes your Caleb, " said Hanscalmly. "I reckon he shall be after you. "

"I reckon he shall, the caitiff! That man o' mine, he's for ever andthe day after a-sending the childer after me. "

"I rejoice to hear you have so loving an husband, " Mr Lewthwaite wassufficiently inconsiderate to respond. 

"Eh, bless you, there's no love about it. Just like them men! they'dshut a woman's mouth up as tight as a fish, and never give her no leaveto speak a word, if they had their way. But I'm not one of your meekbag-puddings, that'll take any shape you pinch 'em, --not I, forsooth;and he knows it. I'll have my say, soon or late, and Prissy, she's adownright chatterbox. Not that I'm that, you know--not a bit of it: butPrissy, she is; and I can tell you, when Prissy and Dorcas and Benthey're all at it, the house isn't over quiet, for none on 'em hearkenswhat t'others are saying, and their father whacks 'em by times--ay, hedoth! Now, Caleb, what's to do?"

"Nothing particular, Mother, " said slow, deliberate Caleb through theopen window: "only there's yon pedlar with the mercery, and he willn'ttarry only ten minutes more--"

"Thou lack-halter rascal, and ne'er told me while I asked thee!"

The parlour of the White Bear was free in another moment. 

"There's a deliverance!" said Mr Lewthwaite. "Blessed be the pedlar!--Have you been much pestered by that gadfly?"

"There's been a bit of buzzing by times, " replied Temperance. 

"Now, Mother, darling, " said Milisent, "how are we to carry you downhome?"

"My dear child!" was the response. "Methinks, if you would do that, itshould be only in my coffin. I have one journey to go soon, and it islike to be the next. "

"Mother, sweet heart, I won't have it! You shall yet win to Selwick, ifI carry you every foot of the way. "

"Nay, nay, my dear heart, I cannot hope that at fourscore. "

"Fourscore! ay, or forty score!" cried Milisent. "Why, old MistressOuthwaite journeyed right to the Border but just ere we came, and she'sfour years over the fourscore--and on horseback belike. Sure, you mightgo in a waggon or a caroche!"

"Where is the caroche, Milly?"

"Well! but at any rate we might find a waggon. "

"There is a travelling waggon, " said Hans, "leaves the Chequers inHolborn for York, once in the month--methinks 'tis the first Thursday inevery month. "

"That is three weeks hence. Why not? Sure, your landlord would sufferyou to let this house, and you might leave some behind till it were offyour hands. What saith Temperance?--or Hans?"

"That where my Lady goeth, I go, " was the answer from Hans. 

"Is it needful, Milly, to settle all our futures ere the clock strike?"humorously inquired Mr Lewthwaite. "Methinks we might leave that forthe morrow. "

Milisent laughed, and let the subject drop. 

Mr Lewthwaite and Temperance happened to be the last up that night. When all the rest had departed, and Charity came with the turf to bankup the parlour fire for the night, Temperance was saying--

"One thing can I promise you, --which is, if Aubrey return to Selwick aslord and master, you may trust Faith to go withal. As for me, I livebut in other lives, and where I am most needed, there will I be, if Godbe served: but truly, I see not how we shall move my Lady Lettice. Iwould fain with all my heart have her back yonder, and so she wouldherself, --of that am I right sure. But to ride so far on an horse, ather years, and with her often pains--how could she? And though thewaggon were safer, it were too long and weary a journey. Think you notso?"

Charity, having now settled her peat-sod to her satisfaction, left theroom, with a hearty--"Good-night, Mrs Temperance! Good-night, MesturRobin!"

"Truly, I think with you, " said Mr Lewthwaite, when she was gone: "butthere is time to consider the matter. Let us decide nothing in haste. "

The next morning, for the first time for many weeks, Charity asked for aholiday. It was granted her, and she was out till twelve o'clock, whenshe came home with a very satisfied face. 

Ways and means were discussed that day, but to little practical purpose. Of course Aubrey must be informed of the good fortune which had fallento him: and after some consideration, it was settled that if Hans couldmake arrangements with Mr Leigh, he should be the messenger in thisdirection, setting forth when Sunday was over. People did not rush offby the next train in those days, and scald their tongues with hot coffeein order to be in time. 

The Saturday evening came, and with it the calm quiet which most Puritanfamilies loved to have on the eve of the Lord's Day. While it was notnecessary, it was nevertheless deemed becoming to lay aside secularoccupations, and to let worldly cares rest. There was therefore someastonishment in the parlour when a sudden rap came on the door, andCharity's face and cap made their appearance. 

"If you please, Madam, when'll you be wanting your coach, think you?"

"My coach, Charity!" said Lady Louvaine in amazement. 

Everybody was staring at Charity. 

"It's ready, Madam, " said that damsel with much placidity. "He's onlygot to put the horses to, hasn't 'Zekiel, and they're at Tomkins' stableyon, by th' Tilt Yard--Spring Gardens, I reckon they call it. "

"Charity, lass, are you in your right senses, think you?" demandedTemperance. 

"Well, Mrs Temperance, I reckon you'll be best judge o' that, " saidCharity coolly. "Seems to me I am: but that scarce makes sure, Icount. "

"But, Charity!--what Ezekiel?"

"'Zekiel Cavell, Mrs Edith. He's i' th' kitchen: you can see him ifyou've a mind. "

"Ezekiel Cavell! Aunt Joyce's coachman! Where on earth has he comefrom?"

"Well, I rather think it was somewhere on earth, " answered the calmCharity, "and I expect it was somewhere i' Oxfordshire. Howbeit, herehe is, and so's th' coach, and so's th' horses: and he says to me, `Charity, ' says he, `will you ask my Lady when she'll be wanting th'coach?' So I come. "

Everybody looked at everybody else. 

"Is it possible?" cried Edith. "Has dear Aunt Joyce sent her coach tocarry down Mother home?"

"Nay, it's none hers, it's my Lady's, " said Charity, "and nobry else's;and if she's a mind to bid me chop it up for firewood, I can, if Mestur'Ans 'll help me. We can eat th' horses too, if she likes; but they munbe put in salt, for we's ne'er get through 'em else. There's six on'em. Shall I tell Rachel to get th' brine ready?"

"Charity, what have you been doing?" said Hans, laughing. 

"I've done nought, Mestur 'Ans, nobut carry a letter where it belonged, and serve 'Zekiel his four-hours. "

They began to see light dawning on the mystery. 

"A letter to whom, Charity? and who writ it?"

"To Mestur Marshall: and Mrs Joyce Morrell writ it--leastwise her mandid, at her bidding. "

"What said it?"

"I didn't read it, Sir, " responded Charity, demurely. 

"Come, I reckon you know what was in it, " said Mr Lewthwaite. "Outwith it, Charity. "

"Come forward into the room, Charity, and tell your tale like a man, "said Temperance. 

"I amn't a man, Mrs Temperance, " answered Charity, doing as she wasbid: "but I'll tell it like a woman. Well, when I were with Mrs Joyce, afore we came hither, hoo gave me a letter, --let's see! nay, it were twoletters, one lapped of a green paper, and one of a white. And hoo said, as soon as yo' geet [got] here, I were to ask my way to Shoe Lane, justoutside o' th' City gate, and gi'e th' letter i' th' white paper toMestur Marshall. And th' green un I were to keep safe by me, till itcame--if it did come--that my Lady lacked a coach either to journey homeor to Minster Lovel, and when I heard that, I were to carry it to MesturMarshall too. So I did as I were bid. What were i' th' letters Icannot tell you, but Mestur Marshall come to see you as soon as he geetth' white un, and when he geet th' green un come 'Zekiel wi' th' coachand th' tits. Mrs Joyce, hoo said hoo were feared nobry'd tell her ifa coach were wanted, and that were why she gave me th' letter. So nowyou know as much as I know: and I hope you're weel pleased wi' it: andif you please, what am I to say to 'Zekiel?"

"Dear Aunt Joyce!" said Edith under her breath. 

"Make Ezekiel comfortable, Charity, " said Lady Louvaine, as she drew offher glasses and wiped them: "and on Monday we will talk over the matterand come to some decision thereupon. "

The decision unanimously come to on the Monday was that Hans should ridedown to Oxford and see Aubrey before anything else was settled. LadyLouvaine would have liked dearly to return home to Selwick, but Aubreywas its master, and was of age, and he might be contemplating matrimonywhen he could afford it. If so, she would make a long visit--possibly alife-long one--to her beloved Joyce at Minster Lovel, accompanied byEdith. Temperance and Lettice were to return to Keswick: Faith mustplease herself. That Faith would please herself, and would not muchtrouble herself about the pleasing of any one else, they were tolerablyconvinced: and of course Aubrey's own mother had a greater claim on himthan more distant relatives. She would probably queen it at Selwick, unless Aubrey provided the Hall with a younger queen in her place. 

It was on a lovely summer afternoon that Hans rode into Oxford by theWater Gate or Little Gate, from which a short street led up northwardsto Christ Church and Saint Aldate's. Just beyond these, he passedthrough the city portal of South Gate, and turning to the left downBrewers' Street, he soon came to Mr Whitstable's shop under the shadow, of West Gate. Just on the eastern side was a livery-stable, where Hansput up his horse: and then, wishing to see Aubrey before he should berecognised, he walked straight into the shop. At the further end, Aubrey was showing some solid-looking tomes to two solid-looking dons, while Mr Whitstable himself was just delivering a purchase to agentleman in canonicals. Hans stepped up to the bookseller, and in alow tone asked him for a Book of Articles. This meant the famousThirty-Nine, then sold separate from the Prayer-Book at a cost of aboutsixpence. 

Mr Whitstable laid three copies on the counter, of which Hans selectedone, and then said, still speaking low--

"May I, with your good leave, tarry till my brother yonder is atliberty, and have speech of him? I have ridden from London to see him. "

The keen eyes examined Hans critically. 

"You--brothers?" was all the reply of the old bookseller. 

"Not by blood, " said Hans with a smile, "nor truly by nation: but wewere bred up as brothers from our cradles. "

"You may tarry. Pray you, sit. "

Hans complied, and sat for a few minutes watching Aubrey. He perceivedwith satisfaction that his costume was simple and suitable, entirelydevoid of frippery and foppery; that his mind seemed to be taken up withhis employment; that he was looking well, and appeared to understand hisbusiness. At last the grave and reverend signors had made their choice;Bullinger's Decades, at nine shillings, was selected, and Beza's NewTestament, at sixteen: Aubrey received the money, gave the change, anddelivered the books. He was following his customers down the shop whenhis eyes fell on Hans. Whether on this occasion he was welcome or not, Hans was not left to doubt. Every feature of Aubrey's face, everyaccent of his voice, spoke gratification in no measured tones. 

"Hans, my dear brother!" he said as they clasped hands. "When came you?and have you had to eat since? How left you all at home?"

Mr Whitstable was looking on, with eyes that saw. 

"I came but now, and have left all well, God be thanked, " said Hans. "Ihave not yet eaten, for I wished to see you first. I will now go andbreak bread, and we can meet in the evening, when you are at large. "

There was a momentary look of extreme disappointment, and then Aubreysaid--

"That is right, as you alway are. Where meet we? under West Gate?"

Mr Whitstable spoke. "Methinks, Mr Louvaine, it were pity to snatchthe crust from an hungry man. Go you now with your brother, until hemake an end of his supper; then return here in time to make up accountsand close. If this gentleman be the steady and sober man that his looksand your words promise, you can bring him hither to your chamber for thenight. "

"I thank you right heartily, Master. He is sober as MrVice-Chancellor, and good as an angel, " said Aubrey. 

Hans followed him, with an amused look, to the Golden Lion, where theysupped on chicken and Banbury cakes, and Aubrey heard all the news--theone item excepted which Hans had come especially to tell. The tongueswent fast, but no sooner had the hour rung out from the clock of SaintEbbe's than Aubrey sprang up and said he must return. 

"Thou canst wander forth for an hour, only lose not thyself, " he said toHans, "and when my work is done, I will join thee beneath the arch ofWest Gate. "

Hans obeyed with amused pleasure. This was an altered Aubrey. When hadhe cared to keep promises and be in time for work? They met presentlyunder West Gate, and Aubrey played cicerone until dusk set in, when hetook Hans to his own quiet little chamber at the bookseller's shop. Itwas very plainly furnished, and Hans quickly saw that on the drawers laya Bible which bore evidence of being used. 

"Thou little wist, " said Hans affectionately, when they were thus alone, "how glad I am to see thee, Aubrey, and to perceive thy good welfare inthis place. "

He did not add "good conduct, " but he meant it. 

"How much richer shouldst thou have been, Hans, if thou hadst neverbeheld me?" was the answer. 

"I should have been poorer, by the loss of the only brother I ever had. "

There was more feeling in Aubrey's look than Hans was wont to see, andan amount of tenderness in his tone which he had no idea how itastonished Hans to hear. 

"My brother, " he said, "you have had your revenge, and it is terrible. "

Hans looked, as he felt, honestly surprised. It was his nature toremember vividly benefits received, but to forget those which heconferred. 

"Dost thou not know?" said Aubrey, reading the look. "After my unworthyconduct toward thee, that thou shouldst take my debts upon thine own--"

"Prithee, shut thy mouth, " answered Hans with a laugh, "and make me notto blush by blowing the trumpet over that which but gave me a pleasure. I ensure thee, my brother, " he added more gravely, "that I had asufficiency to cover all was a true contentment unto me. As to revenge, no such thought ever crossed my mind for a moment. "

"The revenge had been lesser if it were designed, " was the reply. 

"And how goeth it with thee here?" asked Hans, not sorry to change thesubject. "Art thou content with thy work?--and doth Mr Whitstableentreat thee well?"

"Mr Whitstable is the manner of master good for me, " responded Aubreywith a smile: "namely, not unkindly, but inflexibly firm and just. Iknow that from him, if I deserve commendation, I shall have it; and if Idemerit blame, I am evenly sure thereof: which is good for me. As tocontent--ay, I am content; but I can scarce go further, and say I find apleasure in my work. That were more like thee than me. "

"And if it so were, Aubrey, that the Lord spake unto thee and me, saying, `Work thus no more, but return unto the old life as it was ereye came to London town, '--how shouldst thou regard that?"

The momentary light of imagination which sprang to Aubrey's eyes wassucceeded and quenched by one of wistful uncertainty. 

"I cannot tell, Hans, " said he. "That I were glad is of course: that Iwere wise to be glad is somewhat more doubtful. I am afeared I mightbut slip back into the old rut, and fall to pleasing of myself. Richesand liberty seem scarce to be good things for me; and I have of late, "--a little hesitation accompanied this part of the sentence--"I havethought it best to pray God to send me that which He seeth good, and notto grant my foolish desires. Truly, I seem to know better, well-nighevery day, how foolish I have been, and how weak I yet am. "

There was a second of silence before Hans said--

"Aubrey, what God sees good for thee, now, is the old home at SelwickHall. May He bless it to thee, and fit thee for it!"

"What mean you?" asked the bewildered Aubrey. 

A few minutes put him in possession of the facts. Nothing which hadpassed convinced Hans of a radical change in Aubrey's heart, socompletely as the first sentence with which he greeted the news of hisaltered fortune. 

"Then my dear old grandmother can go home!"

"Thou wilt be glad to hear, " added Hans, quietly, "that Mrs JoyceMorrell hath sent her a caroche and horses wherein to journey at herease. Mrs Temperance and Lettice go back to Keswick. "

"Not if I know it!" was the hearty response. "I lack Aunt Temperance tokeep me straight. Otherwise I should have nought save soft south-westairs playing around me, and she is a cool north breeze that shall braceme to my duty. But how quick, Hans, canst thou get free of Mr Leigh?for we must not tarry Grandmother at her years, and in this summerweather when journeying were least weariful. "

"Wilt thou have me, then, Aubrey?"

"Hans, that is the worst cut thou hast ever given me. I have a mind tosay I will not turn back without thee. "

Hans smiled. "I thank thee, my dear brother. I dare say that I can bequit with Mr Leigh as soon as thou canst shake thee free of MrWhitstable. "

Mr Whitstable smiled rather cynically when the matter was laid beforehim. 

"Well, young gentleman!" said he to Aubrey. "Methinks you shall make abetter country squire than you should have done three months gone, andmaybe none the worse for your tarrying with the old bookseller. "

"Mr Whitstable, I con you hearty thanks for your good and justentreatment of me, " said Aubrey, "and if ever your occasions call youinto Cumberland, I promise you a true welcome at Selwick Hall. "

That night, Aubrey seemed to be in a brown study, and the sagacious Hanslet him alone till his thoughts should blossom forth into words ofthemselves. They came at last. 

"Hans, thou wist it is customary for chaplains to be entertained ingreat houses?"

"Ay, " said Hans, smiling to himself. 

"I desire not to ape the great: but--thinkest thou we might not have aprophet's chamber in some corner at Selwick--the chamber over the eastporch, belike?"

"Truly, if the prophet were to hand, " said Hans, looking as grave as ifhe were not secretly amused. 

"The prophet is to hand rather than the chamber, " was the answer. "Couldst thou not guess I meant Mr Marshall?"

Hans had guessed it some seconds back. 

"A good thought, truly, " he replied. 

"That will I ask my grandmother, " said Aubrey. 

It was the evening after Aubrey's return to the White Bear when thatproposal was suggested to Lady Louvaine. A light of gladness came tothe dim blue eyes. 

"My dear lad, how blessed a thought!" said she. 

"But what should come of Mrs Agnes, then?" suggested Temperance. 

"Oh, she could easily be fitted with some service, " answered MrsLouvaine, who for once was not in a complaining mood. "Hans, you mightask of Mr Leigh if he know of any such, or maybe of some apprenticeshipthat should serve her. She can well work with the needle, and is adecent maid, that should not shame her mistress, were she not over highin the world. "

"Mother!"

The indignant tone of that one word brought the handkerchief instantlyout of Mrs Louvaine's pocket. 

"Well, really, Aubrey, I do think it most unreasonable! Such a way tospeak to your poor mother, and she a widow! When I have but one child, and he--"

"He is sorry, Mother, if he spake to you with disrespect, " said Aubreyin a different tone. "But suffer me to say that if Mr Marshall comewith us, so must Mrs Agnes. "

"Now, Faith, do be quiet! I've been counting on Mrs Agnes to see tothings a bit, and save Edith, --run about for my Lady Lettice, see you, and get our Lettice into her good ways. "

"You don't say, to spare _me_, " wailed Mrs Louvaine. 

"No, my dear, I don't, " replied Temperanoe, significantly. "I'll spareyou when you need sparing; don't you fear. "

Mr Marshall and Agnes were as glad as they were astonished--and thatwas no little--to hear of the provision in store for them. To pass fromthose three rooms in Shoe Lane to the breezy hills and wide chambers ofSelwick Hall--to live no more from hand to mouth, with little in either, but to be assured, as far as they could be so, among the changes andchances of this mortal life, of bread to eat and raiment to put on--tobe treated as beloved and honoured friends instead of meeting withscornful words and averted looks--this was glad news indeed. MrMarshall rejoiced for his daughter, and Agnes for her father. Hers wasa nature which could attain its full happiness only in serving God andman. To have shut herself up and occupied herself with her ownamusement would have been misery, not pleasure. The idea of savingtrouble to Lady Louvaine and Edith, of filling in some slight degree theempty place of that beloved friend whom Selwick Hall called "CousinBess" and Agnes "Aunt Elizabeth"--this opened out to Agnes Marshall aprospect of unadulterated enjoyment. To her father, whose active dayswere nearly over, and who was old rather with work, hardship, andsorrow, than by the mere passage of time, the lot offered him seemedequally happy. The quiet rest, the absence of care, the plenitude ofbooks, the society of chosen friends who were his fellow-pilgrims, Zionward, --to contemplate such things was almost happiness enough initself. And if he smothered a sigh in remembering that his Eleanorslept in that quiet churchyard whence she could never more be summonedto rejoice with him, it was followed at once by the happier recollectionthat she had seen a gladder sight than this, and that she was satisfiedwith it. 

It was but natural that the journey home should be of the most enjoyablecharacter. The very season of the year added to its zest. The fiveladies and two girls travelled in the coach--private carriages were muchmore roomy then than now, and held eight if not ten persons withcomfort--Mr Lewthwaite, Aubrey, Hans, and the two maids, were onhorseback. So they set forth from the White Bear. 

"Farewell to thee!" said Charity to that stolid-looking animal, as sherode under it for the last time. "Rachel, what dost thou mean, lass?--art thou crying to leave yon beast or Mistress Abbott?"

"Nay, nother on 'em, for sure!" said Rachel, wiping her eyes; "I'venobut getten a fly into my eye. "

Mrs Abbott, however, was not behindhand. She came out to her gate tosee the cavalcade depart, followed by a train of youthful Abbotts, twoor three talking at once, as well as herself. What reached the ears ofthe ladies in the coach, therefore, was rather a mixture. 

"Fare you well, Lady Louvaine, and all you young gentlewomen--and I hopeyou'll have a safe journey, and a pleasant; I'm sure--"

"I'll write and tell you the new modes, Mrs Lettice, " said Prissy;"you'll have ne'er a chance to--"

"Be stuck in the mud ere you've gone a mile, " came in Seth's voice. 

"And where tarry you to-night, trow?" demanded Mrs Abbott. "Is it tobe at Saint Albans or--"

"Up atop of yon tree, " screamed Hester; "there she was with a kitten inher mouth, and--"

"All the jewels you could think of, " Dorcas was heard to utter. 

The words on either side were lost, but nobody--except, perhaps, thespeakers--thought the loss a serious one. 

Under way at last, the coach rumbled with dignity up King Street, through the Court gates, past Charing Cross and along the Strand--aplace fraught with painful memories to one at least of the party--pastthe Strand Cross, through Temple Bar, up Fetter Lane, over HolbornBridge and Snow Hill, up Aldersgate Street, along the Barbican, and bythe fields to Shoreditch, into the Saint Alban's Road. As they came outinto the Shoreditch Road, a little above Bishopsgate, they were equallysurprised and gratified to find Lady Oxford's groom of the chambersstanding and waiting for their approach. As he recognised the faces, hestepped forward. In his hand was a very handsome cloak of fine cloth, of the shade of brown then called meal-colour, lined with crimson plush, and trimmed with beaver fur. 

"Madam, my Lady bids you right heartily farewell, and prays you acceptthis cloak to lap you at night in your journey, with her lovingcommendations: 'tis of her Ladyship's own wearing. "

It was considered at that time to add zest to a gift, if it had beenused by the giver. 

Lady Louvaine returned a message suited to the gratitude and pleasurewhich she felt at this timely remembrance, and the coach rolled away, leaving London behind. 

"Weel, God be wi' thee and all thine!" said Charity, looking back at thegreat metropolis: "and if I ne'er see thee again, it'll none break myheart. "

"Nay, nor mine nother!" added Rachel. "I can tell thee, lass, I'm fairfain to get out o' th' smoke and mire. Th' devil mun dwell i' London, Ido think. "

"I doubt it not, " said Hans, who heard the remark, "but he has countryhouses, Rachel. "

"Well!" said that damsel, in a satisfied tone: "at any rate, we shalln'tfind him at Selwick!"

"Maybe not, if the house be empty, " was Hans's reply: "but he will comein when we do, take my word for it. "

"Yo're reet, Mestur 'Ans, " said Charity, gravely. 

Four days' travelling brought them to the door of the Hill House atMinster Lovel. They had had no opportunity of sending word of theircoming. 

"How amazed Aunt Joyce will be, and Rebecca!" said Edith, with a happylaugh. 

"I reckon they'll have some work to pack us all in, " answeredTemperance. 

"Let be, children, " was the response of Lady Louvaine. "The Hill Houseis great enough to hold every one of us, and Aunt Joyce's heart is yetbigger. "

For a coach and six to draw up before the door of a country house wasthen an event which scarcely occurred so often as once a year. It wasno great wonder, therefore, if old Rebecca looked almost dazed as sheopened the door to so large a party. 

"We are going home, Rebecca!" cried Edith's bright, familiar voice. "How fares my Aunt?"

"Eh, you don't mean it's you, mine own dear child?" cried the oldservant lovingly. "And your Ladyship belike! Well, here is a blessedeven! It'll do the mistress all the good in the world. Well, she'svery middling, my dear--very middling indeed: but I think 'tis ratherweariness than any true malady, and that'll flee afore the sight of youlike snow afore the warm sun. Well, there's a smart few of you!--allthe better, my dear, all the better!"

"You can hang one or two of us up in a tree, if you can't find us room, "said Aubrey as he sprang from his saddle. 

"There's room enough for such good stuff, and plenty to spare, " answeredold Rebecca. "If you was some folks, now, I might be glad to have thespare chambers full of somewhat else--I might! Come in, every one ofyou!"

"We'll help you to make ready, all we can, " said Rachel, as she trudgedafter Rebecca to the kitchen. 

"Ay, we will, " echoed Charity. 

Warmer and tenderer yet was the welcome in the Credence Chamber, whereAunt Joyce lay on her couch, looking as though not a day had passedsince she bade them farewell. She greeted each of them lovingly untilAubrey came to her. Then she said, playfully yet meaningly, --"Who isthis?"

"Aunt Joyce, " replied Aubrey, as he bent down to kiss her, "shall I say, `A penitent fool?'"

"Nay, my lad, " was the firm answer. "A fool is never a penitent, nor apenitent a fool. The fool hath been: let the penitent abide. "

"This is our dear, kind friend, Mr Marshall, Joyce, " said LadyLouvaine. "He is so good as to come with us, and be our chaplain atSelwick: and here is his daughter. "

"I think Mrs Joyce can guess, " said the clergyman, "that the truemeaning of those words is that her Lady ship hath been so good as toallow of the same, to our much comfort. "

"Very like you are neither of you over bad, " said Aunt Joyce with herkindly yet rather sarcastic smile. "I am glad to see you, Mr Marshall;hitherto we have known each other but on paper. Is this your daughter?Why, my maid, you have a look of the dearest and blessedest woman of allyour kin--dear old Cousin Bess, that we so loved. May God make you likeher in the heart, no less than the face!"

"Indeed, Mistress, I would say Amen, with all mine heart, " answeredAgnes, with a flush of pleasure. 

There was a long discussion the next day upon ways and means, whichended in the decision that Aubrey and Hans, Faith and Temperance, withthe two maids, should go forward to Selwick after a few days' rest, toget things in order; Lady Louvaine, Edith, Lettice, Agnes, and MrMarshall, remaining at Minster Lovel for some weeks. 

"And I'm as fain as I'd be of forty shillings, " said old Rebecca toEdith. "Eh, but the mistress just opens out when you're here like aflower in the sunlight!"

"Now, don't you go to want Faith to tarry behind, " observed Temperance, addressing the same person: "the dear old gentlewomen shall be a dealhappier without her and her handkerchief. It shall do her good tobustle about at Selwick, as she will if she's mistress for a bit, andI'll try and see that she does no mischief, so far as I can. "

Aunt Joyce, who was the only third person present, gave an amused littlelaugh. 

"How long shall she be mistress, Temperance?"

"Why, till my Lady Lettice comes, " said Temperance, with a ratherperplexed look. 

"For `Lady Lettice, ' read `Mrs Agnes Marshall, '" was the answer of AuntJoyce. 

"Aunt Joyce!" cried Edith. "You never mean--"

"Don't I? But I do, Mistress Bat's-Eyes. "

"Well, I never so much as--"

"Never so much as saw a black cow a yard off, didst thou? See if itcome not true. Now, my maids, go not and meddle your fingers in thepie, without you wish it not to come true. Methinks Aubrey hath scarceyet read his own heart, and Agnes is innocent as driven snow of allimagination thereof: nevertheless, mark my words, that Agnes Marshallshall be the next lady of Selwick Hall. And I wouldn't spoil the pie, were I you; it shall eat tasty enough if you'll but leave it to bake inthe oven. It were a deal better so than for the lad to fetch home somefine town madam that should trouble herself with his mother andgrandmother but as the cuckoo with the young hedge-sparrows in hisfoster-mother's nest. She's a downright good maid, Agnes, and she isbounden to your mother and yon, and so is her father: and though, ifSelwick were to turn you forth, your home is at Minster Lovel, as mychild here knows, "--and Aunt Joyce laid her hand lovingly on that ofEdith--"yet while we be here in this short wilderness journey, 'tis bestnot to fall out by the way. Let things be, children: God can takebetter care of His world and His Church than you or I can do it. "

"Eh, I'll meddle with nought so good, " responded Temperance, heartily. "If the lad come to no worse than that, he shall fare uncommon well, andbetter than he deserveth. As for the maid, I'm not quite so sure: butI'll hope for the best. "

"The best thing you can do, my dear. `We are saved by hope'--not as aman is saved by the rope that pulleth him forth of the sea, but ratheras he is saved by the light that enableth him to see and grasp it. Hemay find the rope in the dark; yet shall he do it more quicklier andwith much better comfort in the light. `Hope thou in God, ' `Have faithin God, ' `Fear not, '--all those precepts be brethren; and one or otherof them cometh very oft in Scripture. For a man cannot hope withoutsome faith, and he shall find it hard to hope along with fear. Faith, hope, love--these do abide for ever. "

The party for Selwick had set off, with some stir, in the early morning, and the quiet of evening found the friends left at the Hill Housefeeling as those left behind usually do, --enjoying the calm, yet with asense of want. 

Perhaps Mr Marshall was the least conscious of loss of any of theparty, for he was supremely happy in the library over the works ofBishop Jewell. In the gallery upstairs, Lettice and Agnes sat in frontof the two portraits which had so greatly interested the former on herprevious visit, and talked about "Aunt Anstace" and "Cousin Bess, " andthe blessed sense of relief and thankfulness which pervaded Agnes'sheart. And lastly, in the Credence Chamber, Aunt Joyce lay on hercouch, and Lady Louvaine sat beside her in the great cushioned chair, while Edith, on a low stool at the foot of the couch, sat knittingpeacefully, and glancing lovingly from time to time at those whom shecalled her two mothers. 

"Joyce, dear, " Lady Louvaine was saying, "'tis just sixty years since Icame over that sunshine afternoon from the Manor House, to makeacquaintance with thee and Anstace. Sixty years! why, 'tis the lifetimeof an old man. "

"And it looks but like sixty days, no doth it?" was the rejoinder. "Thou and I, Lettice, by reason of strength have come to fourscoreyears; yet is our life but a vapour that vanisheth away. I marvel, attimes, how our Anstace hath passed her sixty years in Heaven. What dothey there?"

"Dost thou mind, Joyce, Aubrey's once saying that we are told mainlywhat they do _not_ there? Out of that, I take it, we may pick what theydo. There shall be no night--then there must be eternal light; nocurse--then must there be everlasting blessedness; no tears--then isthere everlasting peace; no toil--then is there perpetual rest andcomfort. "

"Go on, Lettice--no sickness, therefore perfect health; no parting, therefore everlasting company and eternal love. "

"Ay. What a blessed forecast! Who would not give all that he hath, butto be sure he should attain it? And yet men will fling all away, but tobuy one poor hour's sinful pleasure, one pennyworth of foolish delight. "

"And howsoe'er often they find the latter pall and cloy upon theirtongues, yet shall they turn to it again with never-resting eagerness, as the sow to her wallowing in the mire. There is a gentleman dwells amatter of four miles hence, with whose wife and daughters I am acquaint, and once or twice hath he come with them to visit me. He hath got holdof a fancy--how, judge you--that man is not a fallen creature;indiscreet at times, maybe, and so forth, yet not wholly depraved. Howman comes by this indiscretion, seeing God made him upright, he isdiscreet enough not to reveal. `Dear heart!' said I, `but how comes it, if so be, that man shall sell his eternal birthright for a mess of sorrypottage, as over and over again you and I have seen him do? Call youthis but indiscretion? Methinks you should scarce name it thus if MrsAletheia yonder were to cast away a rich clasp of emeralds for a pieceof a broken bottle of green glass. If you whipped her not well for suchindiscretion, I were something astonied. ' Well, see you, he cannotperceive it. "

"Man's perceptions be fallen, along with all else. "

"Surely: and then shall this blind bat reckon, poor fool, that he coulddevise out of his disordered imagination a better God than the real. Wot you what this Mr Watkinson said to me once when we fell to talkingof the sacrifice of Isaac? Oh, he could not allow that a loving andperfect God could demand so horrible a sacrifice; and another time, through Christ had we won the right notion of God. `Why, ' said I, `howknow you that? Are you God, that you are able to judge what God shouldbe? Through Christ, in very deed, have we won to know God; but that isby reason of the knowledge and authority of Him that revealed Him, notby the clear discernment and just judgment of us that received thatrevelation. ' I do tell thee, Lettice--what with this man o' the oneside with his philosophical follies, and Parson Turnham on the other, with his heathenish fooleries, I am at times well-nigh like old Elias, ready to say, `Now then, O Lord, take me out of this wicked world, for Icannot stand it any longer. '"

"He will take thee, dear Joyce, so soon as thou shalt come to thefurther end of the last of those good works which He hath prepared forthee to walk in. "

"Well!--then must Edith do my good works for me. When our Father callsthis child in out of the sun and wind, and bids her lie down and fallasleep, must that child see to it that my garden-plots be kept trim, andno evil insects suffered to prey upon the leaves. Ay, my dear heart:thou wilt be the lady of the Hill House, when old Aunt Joyce is laidbeneath the mould. May God bless thee in it, and it to thee! butwhensoever the change come, I shall be the gainer by it, not thou. "

"Not I, indeed!" said Edith in a husky voice. 

"`As a watch in the night!'" said Joyce Morrell solemnly. "`As a vapourthat vanisheth away!' What time have we for idle fooleries? Only timeto learn the letters that we shall spell hereafter--to form the strokesand loops wherewith we shall write by and bye. Here we know but thealphabet of either faith or love. "

"And how often are we turned back in the very alphabet of patience!"

"Ay, we think much to tarry five minutes for God, though He may havewaited fifty years for us. I reckon it takes God to bear with this poorthing, man, that even at his best times is ever starting aside like abroken bow, --going astray like a lost sheep. Thank God that He hathlaid on the only Man that could bear them the iniquities of us all, andthat He hath borne them into a land not inhabited, where the LordHimself can find them no more. "

"And let us thank God likewise, " said Lady Lettice, "that our blessedduty is to abide in Him, and that when He shall appear, we may haveconfidence, and not be ashamed before Him at His coming. "

CHAPTER FIFTEEN. 

APPENDIX. 

ROBERT CATESBY. 

He was a descendant of another infamous Catesby, Sir John, thewell-known Minister of Richard the Third, satirised in the distich--

 "The _Cat_, the Bat, and Lovel the Dog, Govern all England under the Hog. "

This gentleman fought with his master at Bosworth, and was beheadedthree days after the battle. His son George, who died in 1495-6, wasfather of Sir Richard, who died in 1552, and who was succeeded by hisgrandson Sir William, then aged six years, having been born atBarcheston in 1546. He was perverted by Campion in 1580, and developedinto a famous recusant; was cited before the Star Chamber in 1581, chiefly on the confession of Campion, for being a harbourer of Jesuitsand a hearer of mass; married at Ashby, 9th June 1566, Anne, daughter ofSir Robert Throckmorton of Coughton, Warwickshire; and died in 1598. The eldest of his children (four sons and two daughters) was RobertCatesby, the conspirator, born at Lapworth, Warwickshire, in 1573. Atthe age of thirteen--for boys went up to college then at a much earlierage than now--he matriculated, October 27th, 1586, at Gloucester Hall(now Worcester College), Oxford, a house "much suspected, " many of itsundergraduates being privately Roman Catholics. It was probably duringhis residence in Oxford that he became a Protestant; and his change ofreligion being evidently of no moral value, he also led a dissipated andextravagant life. In 1592 he married a Protestant wife, Katherine, daughter of Sir Thomas Leigh of Stoneleigh Abbey, Warwickshire; she diedbefore 1602. His talents were considerable, his will inflexible, and hepossessed that singular power of attraction inherent in some persons. Aportrait reputed to be his exists at Brockhall, near Ashby. "He wasvery wise, " writes Gerard, "and of great judgment, though his utterancenot so good. Besides, he was so liberal and apt to help all sorts, asit got him much love. He was of person above two yards high, and thoughslender, yet as well-proportioned to his height as any man one shouldsee. " Greenway adds that "his countenance was singularly noble andexpressive, his power of influencing others very great. "

In 1593, on the death of his grandmother, he came into possession ofChastleton, near Chipping Norton, county Oxford, where he resided until1602, when, in consequence of foolishly joining (like many otherRomanists) the insurrection of Lord Essex, he sold Chastleton for 4000pounds to pay the fine of 3000 pounds imposed on him for treason. Hehad in 1598 returned to his original faith, in defence of which he wasthenceforward very zealous. Nine days before the death of QueenElizabeth, Catesby, undeterred by his past experiences, and"hunger-starved for innovations, " joined Sir Edward Baynham and theWrights in a second plot, for which he suffered imprisonment. TheGunpowder Plot was his third treasonable venture; and to him principallyis due the inception of this fearful project, though John Wright, andafterwards Thomas Winter, joined him at a very early stage. UntilEaster, 1605, Catesby himself "bore all the charge" of the mine. Duringthe summer, he was very busy gathering volunteers, arms, and ammunition, in the country, ostensibly for the service of the Archduke Albrecht inFlanders, but in reality for the purpose of creating a general commotionat the time of the intended explosion. About September, 1605, he metPercy at Bath, when they agreed to take into the plot two or threemoneyed men, as their own means were fast failing. These were Digby andTresham; Robert Winter, Rookwood, and Grant followed a little later. Catesby, however, never ceased to regret the admission of Tresham. (SeeTresham. ) In London he had three lodgings: a chamber in Percy's housein Holborn; apartments in the house of William Patrick, tailor, at the"Herishe Boy" in the Strand; and also "in the house of one Powell, atPaddle Wharf. "

On the 26th of October, Catesby dined at the "Mighter" in Bread Street, with Lord Mordaunt, Sir Josceline Percy, and others; the last-named wasa brother of Lord Northumberland, and a frequent visitor of Catesby. After this he met his servant William Pettye, "in a field called thecommon garden in London, by druerye lane. " The story of the flight toHolbeach is given in the tale, and embraces many little details notbefore in print. Catesby was only thirty-three years of age at death. He left two sons, William and Robert, the latter of whom was with hisfather in London when the plot was discovered; they were subsequentlysent in Mrs Rookwood's coach, under charge of a lady not named, totheir grandmother at Ashby. Robert alone lived to grow up, and marriedone of Percy's daughters; but he left _no_ issue. "His posterity wascut off; and in the generation following, their name was blotted out. "

SIR EVERARD DIGBY. 

This weak and bigoted young man, who was only twenty-four at death, hadreally little part in the Gunpowder Plot. He was the son of EverardDigby, of Drystoke, county Rutland, and Mary, daughter and co-heir ofFrancis Nele, of Heythorpe, county Leicester. He was born in 1581, andlost his father, a Romanist, in 1592. His mother married again (toSampson Erdeswick, of Landon, county Stafford, who was a Protestant), and young Digby was brought up in a Protestant atmosphere. Until hismajority, he was much at Court, where he was noted for "graceful mannersand rare parts, " says Greenway and Gerard adds that "he was very littlelower [in height] than Mr Catesby, but of stronger making. . . Skilful inall things that belonged unto a gentleman, a good musician, and excelledin all gifts of mind. " He is also described as "of goodly personage, and of a manly aspect. " He was always strongly inclined to his father'sreligion, but did not openly profess it until he reached manhood. SirEverard married, in 1596, Mary, daughter and heir of William Mulsho ofGoathurst, county Buckingham, who survived him, and by whom he left ason, the famous Sir Kenelm Digby, who was little more than two years oldat his father's death. If her piteous letter to Lord Salisbury may bebelieved, Lady Digby was treated with unnecessary harshness. Shecomplains that the Sheriff has not left her "the worth of one penibelonging to the grounds, house, or within the walls; nor so much asgreat tables and standing chests that could not be removed withoutcutting and sawing apeses. He permitted the base people to ransack all, so much as my closet, and left me not any trifle in _it_. . . He will notlet me have so much as a suit of apparel for Mr Digby [the littleKenelm], nor linens for my present wearing about my bodi. " She imploresto be allowed to retain Goathurst, her own inheritance, during theimprisonment of her husband, for whose life she would give hers or wouldbeg during life. (_Burghley Papers_, Additional Manuscript 6178, folio94. )

GUY FAWKES. 

Guy Fawkes, whom his horrified contemporaries termed "the great devil ofall" the conspirators, but who was simply a single-eyed fanatic, oweshis reputation chiefly to the fact that he was the one selected to setfile to the powder. His responsibility was in reality less than that ofCatesby, Percy, or Thomas Winter. His father, Edward Fawkes, --in allprobability a younger son of the old Yorkshire family of Fawkes ofFarnley, --was a notary at York, and Registrar of the Consistory Court ofthe Minster. He could not of course have filled such as office, unlesshe had been a Protestant. Edward Fawkes died in 1578, and was buriedJanuary 17th in the Church of Saint Michael-le-Belfry, York. His widow, whose maiden name was Edith Jackson, is said by some to havesubsequently married a zealous Roman Catholic, Mr Denis Bainbridge, ofScotton; but Sir W. Wade gives the name of her second husband as "oneFoster, within three miles of York. " She was living at the time of theplot. Guy, who was baptised in Saint Michael's Church, April 16th, 1570, and educated at the Free School in the Horse Fair, did not becomea professed Papist until he was about sixteen years of age. He had astep-brother of whom no more is known than that he belonged to one ofthe Inns of Court in 1605. Guy was not eight years old when he lost hisfather, who left him no patrimony beyond a small farm worth about 30pounds per annum; he soon ran through this, sold the estate, and at theage of twenty-three went abroad, living in Flanders for eight years, during which time he was present at the taking of Calais by the ArchdukeAlbrecht. In 1601 he returned to England, with the reputation of one"ready for any enterprise to further the faith. " He now entered, alongwith the Winters and the Wrights, into negotiations with Spain for afresh invasion of England, which was put a stop to by Elizabeth's death, since the King of Spain declined to take up arms against his old ally, King James. Fawkes's own statements in his examinations have beenproved to consist of such a mass of falsehood, that it is scarcelypossible to sift out the truth: and all that can be done is to accept asfact such portions of his narrative as are either confirmed by otherwitnesses, or seem likely to be true from circumstantial evidence. Hiscontradictions of his own previous assertions were perpetual, and whereconfirmation is accessible, it sometimes proves the original statement, but sometimes, and more frequently, the contradiction. This utterdisregard for truth prepares us to discount considerably the descriptiongiven of Fawkes by Greenway, as "a man of great piety, of exemplarytemperance, of mild and cheerful demeanour, an enemy of broils anddisputes, a faithful friend, and remarkable for his punctual attendanceupon religious observances. " So far as facts can be sifted fromfiction, they seem to be that Thomas Winter, who had known Fawkes fromchildhood, came to him in Flanders to acquaint him with the plot, andsubsequently introduced him to Catesby and Percy; that Fawkes was in theservice of Anthony Browne, Lord Montague, about 1604; that in the summerof that year, when the mine was stopped on account of the prorogation ofParliament, he went to Flanders, returning about the 1st of September. During the progress of the mine, he served as sentinel, passing by thename of John Johnson, Mr Percy's man; and he was the only one of theconspirators allowed to be seen about the house, his face being unknownin London. He said that he "prayed every day that he might perform thatwhich might be for the advancement of the Catholic faith, and the savingof his own soul. " Fawkes provided the greater part of the gunpowder, and stowed it in the cellar, as is described in the story. His lodgingwhen in London was at the house of Mrs Herbert, a widow, at the back ofSaint Clement's Inn. Mrs Herbert disliked Fawkes, suspecting him to bea priest. On his return from Flanders, he took up his quarters in thehouse at Westminster, where the mine had been, and brought in theremainder of the gunpowder. At the end of October, he went to WhiteWebbs, whence he was sent to Town on the 30th, to make sure of thesafety of the cellar and its dangerous contents. He returned at nightto report all safe, but came back to Town not later than the 3rd, whenhe was present at the last meeting of the conspirators: but as to theexact day he made three varying statements. The circumstances of hisarrest are told in the story. It is difficult, however, to reconcilesome of the details. According to Greenway, Fawkes was taken as heopened the door of the vault; according to the official report, he was"newly come out of the vault;" while according to Fawkes himself, whenhe heard the officers coming to apprehend him, he threw the match andtouchwood "out of the window in his chamber, near the Parliament House, towards the water, "--which can only refer to the room in Percy's house. The one certainty is that he was not apprehended inside the vault. Hesaid himself that if this had been the case, he would at once have firedthe match, "and have blown up all. " The lantern (now in the BodleianLibrary) was found lighted behind the door; the watch which Percy hadsent by Keyes was upon the prisoner. Fawkes originally assumed anappearance of rustic stupidity; for Sir W. Wade writes to Lord Salisburya little later that he "appeareth to be of better understanding anddiscourse than, before, either of us conceived him to be. " (AdditionalManuscript 6178, folio 56. ) That Fawkes was tortured there can be nodoubt, from the King's written command, and the tacit evidence ofFawkes's handwriting. Garnet says he was half-an-hour on the rack; SirEdward Hoby, that he "was never on the rack, but only suspended by hisarms upright. " Nothing could induce him to betray his companions untilhe was satisfied that all was known: and with a base treachery andfalsehood only too common in the statecraft of that day, he was deceivedinto believing them taken before they were discovered. Lying iswickedness in all circumstances; but the prisoner's falsehood was basedon a worthier motive than the lies which were told to him. There was, indeed, in the fearless courage and unflinching fidelity of Guy Fawkes, the wreck of what might have been a noble man; and he certainly was farfrom being the vulgar ruffian whom he is commonly supposed to have been. In person he was tall and dark, with brown hair and auburn beard. 

HENRY GARNET. 

If Catesby be regarded as the most responsible of the Gunpowderconspirators, and Fawkes as the most courageous, Garnet may fairly beconsidered the most astute. Like the majority of his companions, he wasa pervert. His father, Brian Garnet, was a schoolmaster at Nottingham, and his mother's maiden name was Alice Jay. He was born in 1555, educated at Winchester College, in the Protestant faith, and was to havepassed thence to New College, Oxford. This intention was never carriedinto effect: his Romish biographers say, because he had imbibed atWinchester a distaste to the Protestant religion; adding that "heobtained the rank of captain [of the school], and by his modesty andurbanity, his natural abilities and quickness in learning, sorecommended himself to the superiors, that had he" entered at Oxford, "he might safely have calculated on attaining the highest academicalhonours. But he resolved, by the grace of God, upon embracing theCatholic faith, although his old Professors at Winchester, Stemp andJohnson, themselves Catholic in heart, together with another namedBilson, at first favourable, but afterwards hostile to Catholicity, madeevery exertion to persuade him to remain. " Unhappily for this rosynarrative, the "other named Bilson, " afterwards Bishop of Worcester andWinchester, has left on record his account of the matter: namely, thatGarnet when at Winchester was a youth of such incorrigible wickedness, that the Warden dissuaded his going to the University, for the sake ofthe young men who might there be corrupted by his evil example. Thereader can accept which version he may see good. On leaving school, Garnet proceeded to London, where for about two years he was employed ascorrector of the press by the celebrated law-printer, Tottel. At theend of this time, he was received into the Church of Rome, andsubsequently travelled abroad, first to Spain, and afterwards to Rome, where on 11th September, 1575, he entered the Society of Jesus. In theJesuit College at Rome he studied diligently, under Bellarmine andothers: and he was before long made Professor of Hebrew, and licenced tolecture on mathematics. In 1586, on the recommendation of Parsons, hewas appointed to the Jesuit Mission to England, where he landed on July7th. It is said that he was so remarkably amiable and gentle thatAquaviva, the General of the Jesuits, objected to his appointment on theground that the post required a man of sterner and more unyieldingcharacter. Bellarmine records that his sanctity of life wasincomparable; but Jesuits are apt to entertain peculiar notions ofsanctity. As was then usual, Garnet on coming to his native countryadopted a string of aliases--Walley, Darcy, Mease, Roberts, Parmer, andPhillips. Walley, however, was the name by which he was best known. Two years after he joined the Mission, he was promoted to be itsSuperior. For some years he lived in the neighbourhood of London, following various occupations to disguise his real calling, but chieflythat of a horse-dealer. That he was implicated in the intrigues withSpain before the death of Elizabeth, he never attempted to deny: butduring the lull in the penal legislation which followed the accession ofJames, Garnet purchased a general pardon for all past politicaloffences. He was frequently at Harrowden, the house of Lord Vaux, whosedaughter Anne travelled everywhere with him, passing as his sister, MrsPerkins. About 1599, as "Mr Mease, a Berkshire man, " he took the housein Enfield Chase, named White Webbs, for the meetings of the Romanists, after which he was "seldom absent from it for a quarter of a yeartogether. " (Examination of James Johnson, servant in charge of WhiteWebbs, _Gunpowder Plot Book_, article 188. ) This house was ostensiblytaken for Anne Vaux, and was maintained at her expense; her sisterEleanor, with her husband Mr Brooksby (whose alias was Jennings, andwho is described as "of low stature, red beard, and bald head"), beingoften with her. Catesby was a frequent visitor. Anne Vaux had also ahouse at Wandsworth, where she and Garnet occasionally resided. 

These details, gathered from the evidence of Anne Vaux herself, JamesJohnson, and others, do not, however, agree with some statements ofGerard. He asserts that Mrs Brooksby was a widow, and was the realmistress of the house; and he compares the two to the sisters ofLazarus, "the two women who received our Lord"! It is impossible toavoid seeing the tacit further comparison as to Garnet. When a Queen'smessenger arrived, Gerard writes, "rosaries, etcetera, all signs ofpiety [!] are thrown into a cavern; the mistress is hidden away: onthese occasions the younger sister, the unmarried one, passed for themistress of the house. " (Gerard to Aquaviva, quoted by Foley, _Recordsof the English Province of the Society of Jesus_, volume 4, page 36. )All the evidence, apart from this, tends to show that Brooksby wasalive, and that he and Eleanor were only visitors--though very constantones--at White Webbs, where Anne was the real mistress. In 1603, Garnetwas returned as living "with Mrs Brooksby, of Leicestershire, atArundell House. He hath lodgings of his own in London. " (_DomesticState Papers_, James the First, volume 8, article 50. ) These lodgingswere in Thames Street. A large house at Erith was also a frequentmeeting-place of the recusants. 

That Garnet was acquainted with the Gunpowder Plot from its verybeginning is a moral certainty, notwithstanding his earnest efforts toshow the contrary. He not only made assertions which he afterwardsallowed to be false; but he set up at different times two lines ofdefence which were inconsistent. He had been told nothing: yet, he hadtried to dissuade Catesby and his colleagues from the execution of theplot. If the first allegation were true, the other must have beenfalse. But Garnet's distinctly avowed opinions on the question ofequivocation make it impossible to accept any denial from him. Hebelieved that while, "in the common intercourse of life, it is notlawful to use equivocation, " yet "where it becomes necessary to anindividual for his defence, or for avoiding any injustice or loss, orfor obtaining any important advantage, without danger or mischief to anyother person, there equivocation is lawful. " He held, as some do at thepresent day, that "if the law be unjust, then is it, _ipso facto_, voidand of no force:" so that "the laws against recusants--are to beesteemed as no laws by such as steadfastly believe these [Romish rites]to be necessary observances of the true religion. . . That is no treasonat all which is made treason by an unjust law. " In other words, thesubject is to be the judge of the justice of the law, and if in his eyesit be unjust, he is released from the necessity of obeying it! This issimply to do away with all law at once; for probably no law was evermade which did not appear unjust to somebody: and it lays down the grandand ancient principle that every man shall do what is right in his owneyes. We have heard a good deal of this doctrine lately; it is ofJesuit origin, and a distinct contradiction of that Book which teachesthat "the powers that be are ordained of God, and whosoever resisteththe power, resisteth the ordinance of God. " Those who set up suchclaims, however they may disavow it, really hold that Christ's kingdom_is_ of this world, since they place it in rivalry to the secularauthority. "If thou judge the law, thou art not a doer of the law, buta judge. " One great distinction of the Antichrist is that he is _hoanomos_, the Lawless One. Even further than this, Garnet was preparedto go, and did go at his last examination. "In all cases, " he said, "where simple equivocation is allowable, it is lawful if necessary toconfirm it by an oath. This I acknowledge to be according to myopinion, and the opinion of the Schoolmen; and our reason is, for thatin cases of lawful equivocation, the speech by equivocation being savedfrom a lie, the same speech may be without perjury confirmed by oath, orby any other usual way, though it were by receiving the Sacrament, ifjust necessity so require. " (_Domestic State Papers_, James the First, volume 20, article 218. ) Garnet asserted that Catesby did him muchwrong, by saying that in Queen Elizabeth's time he had consulted him asto the lawfulness of the "powder action, " which was "most untrue;" butafter the preceding extracts, who could believe their writer on hisoath? Poor Anne Vaux, who undoubtedly meant to excuse and save him, urged that he used to say to the conspirators in her hearing, "Goodgentlemen, be quiet; God will do all for the best:" and Garnet's ownlast confession admitted that "partly upon hope of prevention, partlyfor that I would not betray my friend, I did not reveal the generalknowledge of Mr Catesby's intention which I had by him. " (_DomesticState Paper_, volume 20, article 12. ) He allowed also that about a yearbefore the Queen's death, he had received two briefs from Rome, biddinghim not consent to the accession of any successor to her who would notsubmit to the Pope: he had shown them to Catesby, and then burned them. Catesby, said Garnet, considered himself authorised to act as he did bythese briefs; but he had tried vainly to dissuade him from so doing, since the Pope had forbidden the action. (_Ibidem_, volume 18, articles41, 42. ) In September, 1605, Garnet led a pilgrimage of Roman Catholicsto Saint Winifred's Well, in returning from which, he and Anne Vauxvisited Rushton, the seat of Francis Tresham. Sir Thomas, his father, was then just dead, and the widowed Lady Tresham "kept her chamber"accordingly. They stayed but one night (Examination of Anne Vaux, _Gunpowder Plot Book_, article 212), and then returned to Goathurst, where they remained for some weeks, until on the 29th of October theyremoved, with the Digbys and Brooksbys, to Coughton, the house of MrThomas Throckmorton, which Sir Everard had borrowed, on account of itsconvenient proximity to Dunchurch, the general rendezvous for theconspirators after the execution of the plot. This journey to Coughtonwas considered strong evidence against Garnet; and his meaning has neverbeen solved, in writing that "all Catholics know it was necessary. "(_Domestic State Papers_, volume 19, article 11. ) At Coughton was theReverend Oswald Greenway, another Jesuit priest, who has left anarrative of the whole account, wherein he describes the conspiratorsand their doings with a pen dipped in honey. In the night betweenNovember 5th and 6th, Bates arrived at Coughton with Digby's letter, which afterwards told heavily against Garnet. Garnet remained atCoughton until about the 16th of December, when at the instigation ofhis friend Edward Hall (alias Oldcorne) he removed to Hendlip Hall. Garnet and Hall made up between them an elaborate story describing theirarrival at Hendlip, and immediate hiding, on Sunday night, January 19th;but this was afterwards confessed both by Hall and Owen to be false, andGarnet was overheard to blame Hall for not having kept to the text ofhis lesson in one detail. 

Nicholas Owen, Garnet's friend and servant, committed suicide in theTower, on March 2nd, from fear of further torture. Mr Abington, whohad "voluntarily offered to die at his own gate, if any such were to befound in his house or in that sheire, " was condemned to death, butafterwards pardoned on condition of never again quitting the county. Made wiser by adversity, he spent the rest of his life in innocent studyof the history and antiquities of Worcestershire. 

The remainder of Garnet's story is given in the tale, and is almost purehistory as there detailed. In his conferences with Hall, he made noreal profession of innocence, only perpetual assurances that he "trustedto wind himself out" of the charges brought against him; and when LordSalisbury said--"Mr Garnet, give me but one argument that you were notconsenting to it [the plot], that can hold in any indifferent man's earor sense, besides your bare negative, "--Garnet made no answer. Hepersistently continued to deny any knowledge of White Webbs, untilconfronted with Johnson; and all acquaintance with the plot before hisreceipt of Digby's letter at Coughton, until shown the writtenconfession of Hall, and the testimony of Forset and Locherson concerninghis own whispered admissions. When at last he was driven to admit thefacts previously denied with abundant oaths, he professed himselfastonished that the Council were scandalised at his reckless falsehoods. "What should I have done?" he writes. "Why was I to be denied everylawful [!] means of escape?" That the Government did not deal fairlywith Garnet--that, as is admitted by the impartial Dr Jardine, "few mencame to their trial under greater disadvantages, " and that "he had beenliterally surrounded by snares, "--may be allowed to the full; but whenall is said for him that honesty can say, no doubt remains that he wasearly acquainted with and morally responsible for the Gunpowder Plot. The evidence may be found in Jardine's Narrative of the Plot; to produceit here would be to swell the volume far beyond its present dimensions. One point, however, must not be omitted. There have been two raids onthe Public Record Office, two acts of abstraction and knavery withrespect to these Gunpowder Plot papers; and it can be certainly stated, from the extracts made from them by Dr Abbott and Archbishop Bancroft, that the stolen papers were precisely those which proved Garnet's guiltmost conclusively. A Manuscript letter from Dr Jardine to Mr RobertLemon, attached to the _Gunpowder Plot Book_, states that Mr Lemon'sfather had "often observed to me that `those fellows the Jesuits, in thetime of the Powder Plot (not the Gunpowder Plot) had stolen away some ofthe most damning proofs against Garnet. ' That thievery of some kindabstracted such documents as the Treatise of Equivocation, with Garnet'shandwriting on it--the most important of the interlocutions betweenGarnet and Hall in the Tower--and all the examinations of Garnetrespecting the Pope's Breves, is quite clear. _The first thievery Ihave proved to have been made by Archbishop Laud_; the others probablyoccurred in the reigns of Charles the Second and James the Second, whenJesuits and `Jesuited persons' had free access to the State PaperOffice. " An old proverb deprecates "showing the cat the way to thecream;" but there is one folly still more reprehensible--placing the catin charge of the dairy. Let us beware it is not done again. 

JOHN GRANT. 

Of this conspirator very little is known apart from the plot. Hisresidence was at Norbrook, a few miles south of Warwick, --a walled andmoated house, of which nothing remains save a few fragments of massivestone walls, and the line of the moat may be distinctly traced, while"an ancient hall, of large dimensions, is also apparent among thepartitions of a modern farmer's kitchen. " Before May, 1602, he marriedDorothy Winter, the sister of two of the conspirators. He had beenactive in the Essex insurrection, for which he was fined; and with hisbrother-in-law, Robert Winter, he was sent for by Catesby, in January, 1605, for the purpose of being initiated into the conspiracy: but he wasnot sworn until March 31. Greenway describes him as "a man ofaccomplished manners, but of a melancholy and taciturn disposition;"Gerard tells us that "he was as fierce as a lion, of a very undauntedcourage, " which he was wont to exhibit "unto poursuivants and prowlingcompanions" when they came to ransack the house--by which dubiousexpression is probably intended not burglars but officers of the law. "He paid them so well for their labour, not with crowns of gold, butwith cracked crowns sometimes, and with dry blows instead of drink andgood cheer, that they durst not visit him any more, unless they broughtgreat store of help with them. " Mr Grant appears to have anticipatedsome tactics of modern times. All else that is known of him will befound in the tale. His wife Dorothy seems to have been a lady of acheerful and loquacious character, to judge by the accounts of Sir E. Walsh and Sir R. Verney, who thought she had no knowledge of theconspiracy. (_Gunpowder Plot Book_, articles 75, 90. ) It is, however, possible that Mrs Dorothy was as clever as her brothers, and contrivedto "wind herself out of" suspicion better than she deserved. 

John Grant had at least two brothers, Walter and Francis, the latter ofwhom was apprenticed to a silk-man; the relationship of Ludovic Grant isless certain. He had also two married sisters, Mrs Bosse, and Anne, wife of his bailiff Robert Higgins. (_Gunpowder Plot Book_, articles34, 44, 68, 90. ) His mother, and (then unmarried) sister Mary wereliving in 1603. 

ROBERT KEYES. 

This man, who appears to have been one of the most desperate andunscrupulous of the conspirators, was the son of a Protestant clergymanin Derbyshire, who is supposed to have been the Reverend Edward Kay ofStavely, a younger son of John Kay of Woodsam, Yorkshire. His name isvariously rendered as Keyes, Keis, and Kay; he himself signs Robert Key. His mother was a daughter of Sir Robert Tyrwhitt of Kettleby, a veryopulent Roman Catholic gentleman of Lincolnshire, and through her he wascousin of Mrs Rookwood. The opulence of the grandfather did notdescend to his grandson, whose indigence was a great cause of hisdesperate character. He lived for a time at Glatton, inHuntingdonshire, but afterwards entered the service of Lord Mordaunt askeeper of his house at Turvey, his wife being the governess of hisLordship's children. He is described as "a young man with no hair onhis face. " (Additional Manuscript 6178, folio 808. ) It was about June, 1605, when Keyes was taken into the plot, and his chief work thereafterwas the charge of the house at Lambeth "sometimes called Catesby's, afterwards Mr Terrett's, since Rookwood's, " (_Ibidem_, folio 62), wherethe powder was stored. His only other service was the bringing of thewatch from Percy to Fawkes just before the discovery of the plot. Keyesleft one son, Robert (Foley's _Records_, volume 1, page 510), who wasliving about 1630, and was then a frequent visitor of his relatives theRookwoods (_Domestic State Papers_, Charles the First, 178, 43). 

HUMPHREY AND STEPHEN LITTLETON. 

These cousins belonged to the family of the present Baron. Sir JohnLittleton of Hagley had with other issue two sons, of whom Gilbert, theeldest, was the father of Humphrey, while Sir George Littleton ofHolbeach, the third son, was the father of Stephen. Humphrey was knownas Red Humphrey, to distinguish him from another of his name, and one ofthese two was a University man, of Broadgate Hall, Oxford, where he tookhis B. A. Degree 29th January 1580, and his M. A. , 2nd July, 1582. Hiscousin Stephen was born in 1575. With the plot Humphrey at least wasbut partially acquainted, for Catesby "writ to Mr Humphrey Littleton[from Huddington] to meet him at Dunchurch, but he, being then destituteof a horse, returned written answer that he could not then meet him, inregard of his unfurnishment before remembered: whereupon Mr RobertWinter sent a good gelding to Mr Humphrey Littleton, whereon he rodeaway to Dunchurch, and (saith himself) demanding of the matter in hand, and what it might be, Mr Catesby told him that it was a matter ofweight, but for the especial good of them all, which was all he wouldthen disclose to him. " (Harl. Manuscript 360. ) The account given inthe text, from this volume, of the escape and wanderings of RobertWinter and Stephen Littleton is somewhat varied by another narrative inthe same manuscript, according to which Humphrey "bade the officersbegone, or he would fetch that should send them packing. " He affirmedin his confession, 26th January 1606, that he "had intention toapprehend" the refugees, "in regard of the odiousness of their treasonsand the horribleness of the offence, which this partie in his heartdetested, " and that he deferred doing so "out of love to his cousin andaffection to their religion, " until he should be able to obtain counselof Hall. (_Ibidem_. ) Mrs John Littleton, the lady of Hagley Park, wasMuriel, daughter of Sir Thomas Bromley, and a Protestant; thoughrenowned for her hospitality and benevolence, she contrived to pay off9000 pounds of debt left by her father-in-law and husband. 

WILLIAM PARKER, LORD MONTEAGLE. 

Lord Monteagle was of very distinguished and ancient race, being theeldest son of Edward third Baron Morley of his line (heir of a youngerbranch of the Lovels of Tichmersh) and Elizabeth, only daughter and heirof William Stanley, Lord Monteagle. Born in 1574, he succeeded hismother as Lord Monteagle, and his father in 1618 as Lord Morley. Hiswife was Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Thomas Tresham, and his sister Marywas the wife of Mr Thomas Abington of Hendlip Hall. 

The chief interest attaching to Lord Monteagle concerns the famousletter: and the two questions requiring answer are--Who wrote it? and, Was the recipient a party to the plot?

The second question, which may be first dealt with, must be answeredalmost certainly in the affirmative. Nay, more, Lord Monteagle was notonly a party to the Gunpowder Plot, but there is strong reason tobelieve that in conjunction with Lord Salisbury and others, he got up acounter-plot for its discovery. The laying of the letter before LordSalisbury on the night of October 24th [Note 1], was probably not thefirst intimation which Salisbury had received, and assuredly not thefirst given to Lord Monteagle. The whole catena of circumstances, whencarefully studied, shows that the episode of the letter was acleverly-devised countermarch, designed at once to inform the public andat the same time to give a warning to the conspirators. The party gotup at Hoxton, where Lord Monteagle was not living; the mysteriousdelivery of the letter; the placing of it in the hands of Thomas Ward, aknown confidant of the conspirators: these and other circumstances alltend to one conclusion--that Monteagle was acting a part throughout, andthat it was in reality he who gave warning to them, not they to him. Ifthe conspirators had taken his warning, they might all have escaped withtheir lives; for the vessel designed to bear Fawkes abroad as soon as heshould have fired the mine was lying in the river, and there wasabundant time for them all to have made good their escape, had they notfoolishly tried to retrieve their loss at Dunchurch. This is made morecertain by the fact that the Government were, as Garnet remarked, "determined to save Lord Monteagle, " and that any reference in theconfessions of the prisoners which tended to implicate him wasdiligently suppressed. In one examination, the original words ran, "Being demanded what other persons were privy [to the plot] beside _theLord Mounteagle_, Catesby, " etcetera. The three words in italics havebeen rendered illegible, by a slip of paper being pasted over them, anda memorandum in red ink made on the back. Time, however, has faded thered ink, and the words are again visible. (Criminal Trials, page 67. )Garnet, too, confessed that "Catesby showed the [Pope's] breves to myLord Mounteagle at the time when Mr Tresham was with him at WhiteWebbs. " (Additional Manuscript 6178, folio 161. ) These facts raise adoubt whether the whole story of Tresham's anxiety to warn LordMonteagle was not false, and a mere blind to cover something else, whichperhaps is not now to be revealed. It remains to inquire, Who wrote theletter? It has been ascribed to three persons beside Tresham: Percy, Mrs Abington, and Anne Vaux. If it really were a part of theGovernment counterplot, as is very probable, it was not likely to be anyof them. If not so, Tresham seems the most likely, though it iscustomary to charge Mrs Abington with it. Lord Monteagle would at oncehave recognised his sister's writing, and perhaps that of her intimatefriend, his wife's cousin, Anne Vaux. Why Percy should be supposed tohave written it is a mystery. The handwriting is undoubtedly very likethat of Anne Vaux; indeed, for this reason I suspected her as the writeron the first investigation, and before I knew that she had ever beencharged with it. Dr Jardine votes decidedly in favour of Tresham. Thereal truth respecting this matter will in all probability never be knownin this world. 

Lord Monteagle was in the Essex rebellion, for which he was fined andimprisoned until the end of 1601; but he was in high favour with KingJames, probably owing to his strenuous efforts to secure his succession. He died in 1622, leaving three sons and three daughters. 

A characteristic letter from this nobleman is yet extant, which showshis style and tone, and has not, I believe, been printed. It is thatsummoning Catesby to Bath, and if it were written in 1605, ratherconfirms the supposition that the writer was an accomplice. Dr Jardineand others suppose it, I know not why, to belong rather to 1602. Itruns as follows:--

"To my loving kinsman, Rob Catesbye Esquire, give these. Lipyeat. Ifall creatures born under the moons sphere cannot endure without theelements of aier and fire In what languishment have we led our lifesince we departed from the dear Robin whose conversation gave us suchwarmth as we needed no other heat to maintain our healths: sincetherefore it is proper to all to desire a remedy for their disease I doby these bind the by the laws of charity to make thy present aparancehere at the bath and let no watery Nimpes divert you, who can betterlive with[out] the air and better forbear the fire of your spirit andVigour then we who accumpts thy person the only sone that must ripen ourharvest. And thus I rest. Even fast tied to your friendshipp, WilliamMounteagle. " (Cott. Manuscript Titus, B. 2, folio 294. )

THOMAS PERCY. 

The exact place of this conspirator in the Northumberland pedigree hasbeen the subject of much question. He is commonly said to have been anear relative of the Earl; but Gerard thinks that "he was not very nearin blood, although they called him cousin. " Among the varioussuggestions offered, that appears to be the best-founded whichidentifies him not with the Percys of Scotton, but as the son of EdwardPercy of Beverley, whose father, Joscelyn, was a younger son of thefourth Earl. The wife of Joscelyn was Margaret Frost; the wife ofEdward, and mother of the conspirator, was Elizabeth, daughter of SirThomas Waterton of Walton, Yorkshire--of the family of the famousnaturalist, Charles Waterton, of whom it was said that he felt tenderlytowards every living thing but two--a poacher and a Protestant. Thecharacter of Percy, as sketched by one of the Jesuit narrators, isscarcely consistent with that given by the other. Greenway writes ofhim, "He was about forty-six years of age, though from the whiteness ofhis head, he appeared to be older; his figure was tall and handsome, hiseyes large and lively, and the expression of his countenance pleasing, though grave; and notwithstanding the boldness of his mind, his mannerswere gentle and quiet. " Gerard says, "He had been very wild in hisyouth, more than ordinary, and much given to fighting--so much so thatit was noted in him and in Mr John Wright. . . That if they heard of anyman in the country more valiant than the others, one or other of themwould pick a quarrel to make trial of his valour. . . He had a great wit, and a very good delivery of his mind, and so was able to speak as wellas most in the things wherein he had experience. He was tall, and of avery comely face and fashion; of age near fifty, as I take it, for hishead and beard was much changed white. " The proclamation for hisapprehension describes him as "a tall man, with a great broad beard, agood face, the colour of his beard and head mingled with white hairs, but his head more white than his beard. He stoupes somewhat in theshoulders, well coloured in face, longe foted, smale legged. " Percy wassteward and receiver of rents to his kinsman the Earl, whose rents heappropriated to the purposes of the plot--without the owner's knowledge, if his earnest denial may be trusted. Percy married Martha, sister ofJohn and Christopher Wright, by whom he had three children: Elizabeth, who died young, and was buried at Alnwick, 2nd February 1602; a daughter(name unknown), who married young Robert Catesby; and Robert Percy, ofTaunton, who married Emma Meade at Wivelscomb, 22nd October 1615, andwas the founder of the line of Percy of Cambridge. Percy's widow livedprivately in London after his execution. 

AMBROSE ROOKWOOD. 

Second son of Robert Rookwood of Stanningfield, by his second wifeDorothy, daughter of Sir William Drury of Hawkstead; he becameeventually the heir of his father. Ambrose was born in 1578, and waseducated in Flanders as a Roman Catholic. According to Greenway, he was"beloved by all who knew him;" Gerard describes him as "very devout, ofgreat virtue and valour, and very secret; he was also of very good partsas for wit and learning. " He was remarkable for his stud of finehorses. Coldham Hall, his family mansion, built by his father in 1574, is still standing, and is a picturesque house, about four miles fromBury Saint Edmunds. Very reluctant at first to join the plot, (March31st, 1605), when arrested he "denied all privity, on his soul andconscience, and as he was a Catholic. " He was drawn into it by Catesby, with whom he had long been acquainted, and whom he said that he "lovedand respected as his own life. " Objecting that "it was a matter ofconscience to take away so much blood, " Catesby replied that he was"resolved that in conscience it might be done, " whereon Rookwood, "beingsatisfied that in conscience he might do it, confessed it neither to anyghostly father nor to any other. " (Exam, of Rookwood, _Gunpowder PlotBook_, article 136. ) Sir William Wade writes that "Rookwood can procureno succour from any of his friends in regard of the odiousness of hisactions, " (Additional Manuscript 6178, folio 34). He seems to have beenfond of fine clothes, for he not only had a "fair scarf" embroideredwith "ciphres, " but "made a very fair Hungarian horseman's cote, lynedall with velvet, and other apparel exceeding costly, not fyt for hisdegree, " (_Ibidem_, folio 86). His wife, who was "very beautiful" and"a virtuous Catholic, " was the daughter of Robert Tyrwhitt, Esquire, ofKettleby, county Lincoln. They had three children: Sir Robert Rookwood, who warmly espoused the cause of Charles the First, and was buried 10thJune, 1679; he married Mary, daughter of Sir Robert Townsend of Ludlow, and left issue: Henry: and Elizabeth, wife of William Calverley, Esquire. The Rookwoods of the Golden Fish, in the story, are allfictitious persons. The real brother of Ambrose was the Reverend ThomasRookwood of Claxton, the correspondent of Garnet. 

FRANCIS TRESHAM. 

Sir Thomas Tresham, the father of Francis, had suffered much in thecause of Rome. Perverted by Campion in 1580, he was repeatedlyimprisoned for recusancy and harbouring Jesuits, but remained the moreresolutely devoted to the faith of which he speaks as "his beloved, beautiful, and graceful Rachel, " for whom his "direst adversity" seemed"but a few days for the love he had to her. " By his wife Muriel, daughter of Sir Robert Throckmorton, he had two sons, of whom Franciswas the elder. He was educated at Gloucester Hall; and having been veryactively participant in the rebellion of Essex, was on his trialextremely insolent to the Lord Chancellor. His life was saved only bythe intercession of Lady Catherine Howard, whose services were purchasedapparently for 1500 pounds. Catesby never ceased to regret theadmission of Tresham to the conspiracy: but if as is probable (see_ante_, Monteagle), Lord Monteagle were himself a party to the plot, themuch-vaunted earnestness of Tresham to save him is in all probability afiction, and a mere piece of the machinery. Gerard says that he was "ofgreat estate, esteemed to be worth 3000 pounds a year. He had been wildin his youth, and even till his end was not known to be of so goodexample as the rest. " Jardine says, "He was known to be mean, treacherous, and unprincipled. " He vehemently denied, however, thecharge of having sent the warning letter to Lord Monteagle, of which hewas always suspected by his brother conspirators. Catesby and ThomasWinter had determined to "poniard him on the spot" if he had shown anyhesitation in this denial. He escaped the gallows by dying of illnessin the Tower on the 23rd of November. Lord Salisbury has been accusedof poisoning Tresham because he knew too many State secrets. But whythen did he not poison Lord Monteagle for the same reason? The factthat Tresham's wife and servant were admitted into his prison, andallowed to nurse him till he died, is surely sufficient answer. By hiswife, Anne, daughter of Sir John Tufton, Tresham left no issue. He"showed no remorse, but seemed to glory in it as a religious act, to theminister that laboured with him to set his conscience straight at hisend: had his head chopped of and sent [to] be set up at Northampton, hisbody being tumbled into a hole without so much ceremony as theformalitye of a grave. " (_Domestic State Papers_, 17; 62. )

ROBERT, THOMAS, AND JOHN WINTER. 

The Winters of Huddington are a family of old standing inWorcestershire; and Anne Winter, sister of the great grandfather ofthese brothers, was the mother of Edward Underhill, the "Hot Gospeller. "His grandson, George Winter of Huddington and Droitwich, was a"recusant, " yet was High Sheriff of his county in 1589. He married, first, Jane, daughter of Sir William Ingleby of Ripley, in Yorkshire, and secondly, Elizabeth, daughter of Sir John Bourne. By the firstmarriage he had issue two sons--Robert and Thomas; by the second, John, Dorothy, and Elizabeth. 

Robert, the eldest son, was born in or soon after 1565. Gerarddescribes him as "a gentleman of good estate in Worcestershire, about athousand marks a year (666 pounds, 13 shillings 4 pence)--an earnestCatholic, though not as yet generally known to be so. He was a wiseman, and of grave and sober carriage, and very stout (i. E. , courageous), as all of that name have been esteemed. " He joined the conspirators, March 31st, 1605; but he, like others, objected at first to the "scandalto the Catholic cause, " and was a half-hearted accomplice to the end. He is said to have been terrified by a horrible dream on the night ofNovember 4th, which made him more willing to desert the cause. Hemarried Gertrude, daughter of Sir John Talbot (of the Shrewsbury line)and of Katherine Petre, by whom he had four children, --John, who died in1622, leaving issue; Helen, of Cooksey, died 5th May 1670; Mary, a nun;and Catherine, died before 1670. All the daughters were unmarried. 

Thomas Winter, one of the chief actors in the plot, was probably bornabout 1570, and seems to have died a bachelor. He may have been the"Thomas or William Wynter, " apparently of Bradgate Hall, Oxford, whotook his B. A. Degree on 29th January 1589. He had served in the Dutcharmy against Spain, and quitted it on account of religious scruples, butso long afterwards as 1605, he is spoken of as Captain Winter(Additional Manuscript 6178, folio 62). After this he was secretary toLord Monteagle. He was, says Greenway, "an accomplished and able man, familiarly conversant with several languages, the intimate friend andcompanion of Catesby, and of great account with the Catholic partygenerally, in consequence of his talents for intrigue, and his personalacquaintance with ministers of influence in foreign Courts. " Gerardadds that his "elder brother, and another younger, were also broughtinto the action by his means. He was a reasonable good scholar, andable to talk in many matters of learning, but especially in philosophyor histories, very well and judicially. He could speak both Latin, Italian, Spanish, and French. He had been a soldier, both in Flanders, France, and I think against the Turk, and could discourse exceeding wellof those matters; and was of such a wit, and so fine carriage, that hewas of so pleasing conversation, desired much of the better sort, but aninseparable friend to Mr Robert Catesby. He was of mean stature, butstrong and comely, and very valiant, about thirty-three years or more. His means were not great, but he lived in good sort, and with the best. He was very devout and zealous in his faith, and careful to come oftento the Sacraments, and of very grave and discreet carriage, offensive tono man, and fit for any employment. " His "living was eight score poundby the year, by report of his man, " (_Gunpowder Plot Book_, article 41);namely, his annual income was about 160 pounds. Several letters of hisare still extant; three have been published in Notes and Queries (3rdSeries, one; 341), and are all addressed to Grant. One written toCatesby has not seen the light hitherto, and as it is characteristic, Iappend it. (Cott. Manuscript Titus, B. Two; folio 292. )

"To my loving friend, Mr Robert Catesby. 

"Though all you malefactors flock to London, as birds in winter to adunghill, yet do I, Honest man, freely possess the sweet country air:and to say truth, would fain be amongst you, but cannot as yet get moneyto come up. I was at Asbye to have met you, but you were newly gone; mybusiness and your uncertain stay made me hunt no further. I pray youcommend me to other friends. And when occasion shall require, send downto my brother's or Mr Talbott's; within this month I will be with youat London. So God keep you this 12th of October. Your loving friend, Thomas Wintour. "

John Winter, the youngest brother, seems to have had very little sharein the plot, and most fervently denied any knowledge of it whatever. Gerard (see _ante_) asserts that he was engaged in it, and GertrudeWinter bore witness that he came to Huddington with the otherconspirators on November 7th. His own amusing narrative is to theeffect that Grant asked him on the 4th of November, if he would go to ahorse-race, and he answered that he would if he were well; that on the5th, he went to "a little town called Rugby, " where he and others suppedand played cards; that a messenger came to them and said, "The gentlemenwere at Dunchurch, and desired their company to be merry;" that atHolbeach he "demanded of Mr Percy and the rest, being most of themasleep, what they meant to do, " and they answered that they would go onnow; and shortly afterwards he left them. (_Gunpowder Plot Book_, article 110). John Winter was imprisoned, but released. There is noevidence to show that he was married. 

JOHN AND CHRISTOPHER WRIGHT. 

Concerning the parentage of these brothers, I can find no more than thatthey were of the family of Wright of Plowland, in Holderness, Yorkshire. They were cousins of Robert Winter, perhaps through his mother; wereboth schoolfellows of Guy Fawkes, and "neighbours' children. " JohnWright originally lived at Twigmore, in Lincolnshire, and removed toLapworth, in Warwickshire, when he became a party to the plot. He wasthe first layman whom Catesby took into his confidence, Thomas Winterbeing the second, and Fawkes the third. Like so many of the others, thebrothers were involved in Essex's rebellion. They were perverts, andsince their perversion John had been "harassed with persecutions andimprisonment. " Greenway says he was one of the best swordsmen of histime. Gerard describes him as "a gentleman of Yorkshire, not born toany great fortune, but lived always in place and company of the bettersort. In his youth, very wild and disposed to fighting. . . He grew tobe staid and of good, sober carriage after he was Catholic, and kepthouse in Lincolnshire, where he had priests come often, both for hisspiritual comfort and their own in corporal helps. He was about fortyyears old, a strong and a stout man, and of a very good wit, though slowof speech: much loved by Mr Catesby for his valour and secrecy incarriage of any business. " Of Christopher he says that "though he werenot like him [John] in face, as being fatter, and a lighter-colouredhair, and taller of person, yet was he very like to the other inconditions and qualities, and both esteemed and tried to be as stout aman as England had, and withal a zealous Catholic, and trusty and secretin any business as could be wished. " But little is known of therelatives of these brothers. John Wright's wife was named Dorothy, andshe was "sister-in-law of Marmaduke Ward of Newby, Yorkshire, gentleman;" they had a daughter who was eight or nine years old in 1605, and probably one or more sons, as descendants of John Wright are saidstill to exist Christopher's wife was called Margaret, but nothing isknown of his children. The brothers had two sisters, --Martha, the wifeof their co-traitor, Percy; and another who was the mother of a certainWilliam Ward, spoken of as Wright's nephew. (_Gunpowder Plot Book_, articles 44, 47, 52, 90. )

By Greenway, Gerard, or both, it is asserted of nearly every one of theconspirators that they were very wild in youth, and became persons ofexemplary virtue after their perversion to Popery. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. "Thursday, 24th October, " (not 26th, as usually stated), is theendorsement on the letter itself (_Gunpowder Plot Book_, article 2), andalso the date given in the official account (_Ibidem_, article 129). 

THE END.