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. H
is 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, Au
brey 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 look
ing 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.