By What Authority?

  CHAPTER IV

  A COUNTER-MARCH

  Isabel was sitting out alone in the Italian garden at the Hall, oneafternoon in the summer following the visit to Deptford. Hubert was downat Plymouth, assisting in the preparations for the expedition that Drakehoped to conduct against Spain. The two countries were technically atpeace, but the object with which he was going out, with the moral andfinancial support of the Queen, was a corporate demonstration againstSpain, of French, Portuguese, and English ships under the main command ofDon Antonio, the Portuguese pretender; it was proposed to occupy Terceirain the Azores; and Drake and Hawkins entertained the highest hopes oflaying their hands on further plunder.

  She was leaning back in her seat, with her hands behind her head,thinking over her relations with Hubert. When he had been at home at theend of the previous year, he had apparently taken it for granted that themarriage would be celebrated; he had given her the gold nugget, that shehad showed Anthony, telling her he had brought it home for thewedding-ring; and she understood that he was to come for his final answeras soon as his work at Plymouth was over. But not a word of explanationhad passed between them on the religious difficulty. He had silenced heremphatically and kindly once when she had approached it; and she gatheredfrom his manner that he suspected the direction in which her mind wasturning and was generously unwilling for her to commit herself an inchfurther than she saw. Else whence came his assurance? And, for herself,things were indeed becoming plain: she wondered why she had hesitated solong, why she was still hesitating; the cup was brimming above the edge;it needed but a faint touch of stimulus to precipitate all.

  And so Isabel lay back and pondered, with a touch of happy impatience atthe workings of her own soul; for she dared not act without the finaltouch of conviction. Mistress Margaret had taught her that the swiftestflight of the soul was when there was least movement, when the soul knewhow to throw itself with that supreme effort of cessation into the Handsof God, that He might bear it along: when, after informing the intellectand seeking by prayer for God's bounty, the humble client of Heavenwaited with uplifted eyes and ready heart until God should answer. And soshe waited, knowing that the gift was at hand, yet not daring to snatchit. But, in the meanwhile, her imagination at least might act withoutrestraint; so she sent it out, like a bird from the Ark, to bring her theearnest of peace. There, in the cloister-wing, somewhere, lay the chapel,where she and Hubert would kneel together;--somewhere beneath that greyroof. That was the terrace where she would walk one day as one who has aright there. Which of these windows would be hers? Not Lady Maxwell's, ofcourse; she must keep that.... Ah! how good God was!

  The tall door on to the terrace opened, and Mistress Margaret peered outwith a letter in her hand. Isabel called to her; and the old nun camedown the steps into the garden. Why did she walk so falteringly, the girlwondered, as if she could not see? What was it? What was it?

  Isabel rose to her feet, startled, as the nun with bent head came up thepath. "What is it, Mistress Margaret?"

  The other tried to smile at her, but her lips were trembling too much;and the girl saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. She put theletter into her hand.

  Isabel lifted it in an agony of suspense; and saw her name, in Hubert'shandwriting.

  "What is it?" she said again, white to the lips.

  The old lady as she turned away glanced at her; and Isabel saw that herface was all twitching with the effort to keep back her tears. The girlhad never seen her like that before, even at Sir Nicholas' death. Wasthere anything, she wondered as she looked, worse than death? But she wastoo dazed by the sight to speak, and Mistress Margaret went slowly backto the house unquestioned.

  Isabel turned the letter over once or twice; and then sat down and openedit. It was all in Hubert's sprawling handwriting, and was dated fromPlymouth.

  It gave her news first about the squadron; saying how Don Antonio hadleft London for Plymouth, and was expected daily; and then followed thisparagraph:

  "And now, dearest Isabel, I have such good news to give you. _I haveturned Protestant_; and there is no reason why we should not be marriedas soon as I return. I know this will make you happy to think that ourreligions are no longer different. I have thought of this so long; butwould not tell you before for fear of disappointing you. Sir FrancisDrake's religion seems to me the best; it is the religion of all the'sea-dogs' as they name us; and of the Queen's Grace, and it will be soonof all England; and more than all it is the religion of my dearestmistress and love. I do not, of course, know very much of it as yet; butgood Mr. Collins here has shown me the superstitions of Popery; and Ihope now to be justified by faith without works as the gospel teaches. Ifear that my mother and aunt will be much distressed by this news; I havewritten, too, to tell them of it. You must comfort them, dear love; andperhaps some day they, too, will see as we do." Then followed a fewmessages, and loving phrases, and the letter ended.

  Isabel laid it down beside her on the low stone wall; and looked roundher with eyes that saw nothing. There was the grey old house before her,and the terrace, and the cloister-wing to the left, and the hot sunshinelay on it all, and drew out scents and colours from the flower-beds, andjoy from the insects that danced in the trembling air; and it all meantnothing to her; like a picture when the page is turned over it. Fiveminutes ago she was regarding her life and seeing how the Grace of Godwas slowly sorting out its elements from chaos to order--the road wasunwinding itself before her eyes as she trod on it day by day--now a handhad swept all back into disorder, and the path was hidden by the ruins.

  Then gradually one thought detached itself, and burned before her, vividand startling; and in all its terrible reality slipped between her andthe visible world on which she was staring. It was this: to embrace theCatholic Faith meant the renouncing of Hubert. As a Protestant she mightconceivably have married a Catholic; as a Catholic it was inconceivablethat she should marry an apostate.

  Then she read the letter through again carefully and slowly; and wasastonished at the unreality of Hubert's words about Romish superstitionand gospel simplicity. She tried hard to silence her thoughts; but tworeasons for Hubert's change of religion rose up and insisted on makingthemselves felt; it was that he might be more in unity with thebuccaneers whom he admired; second, that there might be no obstacle totheir marriage. And what then, she asked, was the quality of the heart hehad given her?

  Then, in a flash of intuition, she perceived that a struggle lay beforeher, compared with which all her previous spiritual conflicts were aschild's play; and that there was no avoiding it. The vision passed, andshe rose and went indoors to find the desolate mother whose boy had lostthe Faith.

  A month or two of misery went by. For Lady Maxwell they passed withrecurring gusts of heart-broken sorrow and of agonies of prayer for herapostate son. Mistress Margaret was at the Hall all day, soothing,encouraging, even distracting her sister by all the means in her power.The mother wrote one passionate wail to her son, appealing to all thatshe thought he held dear, even yet to return to the Faith for which hisfather had suffered and in which he had died; but a short answer onlyreturned, saying it was impossible to make his defence in a letter, andexpressing pious hopes that she, too, one day would be as he was; thesame courier brought a letter to Isabel, in which he expressed his wonderthat she had not answered his former one.

  And as for Isabel, she had to pass through this valley of darkness alone.Anthony was in London; and even if he had been with her could not havehelped her under these circumstances; her father was dead--she thankedGod for that now--and Mistress Margaret seemed absorbed in her sister'sgrief. And so the girl fought with devils alone. The arguments forCatholicism burned pitilessly clear now; every line and feature in themstood out distinct and hard. Catholicism, it appeared to her, alone hadthe marks of the Bride, visible unity, visible Catholicity, visibleApostolicity, visible Sanctity;--there they were, the seals of the mostHigh God. She flung herself back fur
iously into the Protestantism fromwhich she had been emerging; there burned in the dark before her themarks of the Beast, visible disunion, visible nationalism, visibleErastianism, visible gulfs where holiness should be: that system in whichnow she could never find rest again glared at her in all its unconvincingincoherence, its lack of spirituality, its adulterous union with thecivil power instead of the pure wedlock of the Spouse of Christ. Shewondered once more how she dared to have hesitated so long; or dared tohesitate still.

  On the theological side intellectual arguments of this kind started out,strong and irrefutable; her emotional drawings towards Catholicism forthe present retired. Feelings might have been disregarded or discreditedby a strong effort of the will; these apparently cold phenomena thatpresented themselves to her intellect, could not be thus dealt with. Yet,strangely enough, even now she would not throw herself resolutely intoCatholicism: the fierce stimulus instead of precipitating the crisis,petrified it. More than once she started up from her knees in her owndark room, resolved to awaken the nun and tell her she would wait nolonger, but would turn Catholic at once and have finished with the miseryof suspense: and even as she moved to the door her will found itselfagainst an impenetrable wall.

  And then on the other side all her human nature cried out forHubert--Hubert--Hubert. There he stood by her in fancy, day and night,that chivalrous, courteous lad, who had been loyal to her so long; hadwaited so patiently; had run to her with such dear impatience; who was sowholesome, so strong, so humble to her; so quick to understand her wants,so eager to fulfil them; so bound to her by associations; so fit a matefor the very differences between them. And now these two claims were nolonger compatible; in his very love for her he had ended thatpossibility. All those old dreams; the little scenes she had rehearsed,of their first mass, their first communion together; their walks in thetwilight; their rides over the hills; the new ties that were to draw theold ladies at the Hall and herself so close together--all this waschanged; some of those dreams were now for ever impossible, others onlypossible on terms that she trembled even to think of. Perhaps it wasworst of all to reflect that she was in some measure responsible for hischange of religion; she fancied that it was through her slowness torespond to light, her delaying to confide in him, that he had been driventhrough impatience to take this step. And so week after week went by andshe dared not answer his letter.

  The old ladies, too, were sorely puzzled at her. It was impossible forthem to know how far her religion was changing. She had kept up the samereserve towards them lately as towards Hubert, chiefly because she fearedto disappoint them; and so after an attempt to tell each other a littleof their mutual sympathy, the three women were silent on the subject ofthe lad who was so much to them all.

  She began to show her state a little in her movements and appearance. Shewas languid, soon tired and dispirited; she would go for short, lonelywalks, and fall asleep in her chair worn out when she came in. Her greyeyes looked longer and darker; her eyelids and the corners of her mouthbegan to droop a little.

  Then in October he came home.

  Isabel had been out a long afternoon walk by herself through thereddening woods. They had never, since the first awakening of theconsciousness of beauty in her, meant so little to her as now. Itappeared as if that keen unity of a life common to her and all livingthings had been broken or obscured; and that she walked in an isolationall the more terrible in that she was surrounded by the dumb presence ofwhat she loved. Last year the quick chattering cry of the blackbird, theevening mists over the meadows, the stir of the fading life of the woods,the rustling scamper of the rabbit over the dead leaves, the solemn callof the homing rooks--all this, only last year, went to make up the sweetnatural atmosphere in which her spirit moved and breathed at ease. Nowshe was excommunicate from that pleasant friendship, banned by nature andforgotten by the God who made it and was immanent within it. Herrelations to the Saviour, who only such a short time ago had been thePerson round whom all the joys of life had centred, from whom theyradiated, and to whom she referred them all--these relations had begun tobe obscured by her love for Hubert, and now had vanished altogether. Shehad regarded her earthly and her heavenly lover as two persons, each ofwhom had certain claims upon her heart, and each of whom she had hoped tosatisfy in different ways; instead of identifying the two, and servingeach not apart from, but in the other. And it now seemed to her that shewas making experience of a Divine jealousy that would suffer her to besatisfied neither with God nor man. Her soul was exhausted by internalconflict, by the swift alternations of attraction and repulsion betweenthe poles of her supernatural and natural life; so that when it turnedwearily from self to what lay outside, it was not even capable, asbefore, of making that supreme effort of cessation of effort which wasnecessary to its peace. It seemed to her that she was self-poised inemptiness, and could neither touch heaven or earth--crucified so highthat she could not rest on earth, so low that she could not reach toheaven.

  She came in weary and dispirited as the candles were being lighted in hersitting-room upstairs; but she saw the gleam of them from the garden withno sense of a welcoming brightness. She passed from the garden into thedoor of the hall which was still dark, as the fire had nearly burneditself out. As she entered the door opposite opened, and once more shesaw the silhouette of a man's figure against the lighted passage beyond;and again she stopped frightened, and whispered "Anthony."

  There was a momentary pause as the door closed and all was dark again;and then she heard Hubert's voice say her name; and felt herself wrappedonce more in his arms. For a moment she clung to him with furiouslonging. Ah! this is a tangible thing, she felt, this clasp; the faintcleanly smell of his rough frieze dress refreshed her like wine, and shekissed his sleeve passionately. And the wide gulf between them yawnedagain; and her spirit sickened at the sight of it.

  "Oh! Hubert, Hubert!" she said.

  She felt herself half carried to a high chair beside the fire-place andset down there; then he re-arranged the logs on the hearth, so that theflames began to leap again, showing his strong hands and keen clear-cutface; then he turned on his knees, seized her two hands in his own, andlifted them to his lips; then laid them down again on her knee, stillholding them; and so remained.

  "Oh! Isabel," he said, "why did you not write?"

  She was silent as one who stares fascinated down a precipice.

  "It is all over," he went on in a moment, "with the expedition. TheQueen's Grace has finally refused us leave to go--and I have come back toyou, Isabel."

  How strong and pleasant he looked in this leaping fire-light! how real!and she was hesitating between this warm human reality and the chillypossibilities of an invisible truth. Her hands tightened instinctivelywithin his, and then relaxed.

  "I have been so wretched," she said piteously.

  "Ah! my dear," and he threw an arm round her neck and drew her face downto his, "but that is over now." She sat back again; and then an access ofpurpose poured into her and braced her will to an effort.

  "No, no," she began, "I must tell you. I was afraid to write. Hubert, Imust wait a little longer. I--I do not know what I believe."

  He looked at her, puzzled.

  "What do you mean, dearest?'

  "I have been so much puzzled lately--thinking so much--and--and--I amsorry you have become a Protestant. It makes all so hard."

  "My dear, this is--I do not understand."

  "I have been thinking," went on Isabel bravely, "whether perhaps theCatholic Church is not right after all."

  Hubert loosed her hands and stood up. She crouched into the shadow of theinterior of the high chair, and looked up at him, terrified. His cheektwitched a little.

  "Isabel, this is foolishness. I know what the Catholic faith is. It isnot true; I have been through it all."

  He was speaking nervously and abruptly. She said nothing. Then hesuddenly dropped on his knees himself.

  "My dearest, I understand. You were doing this for me. I quiteunderstand. It is wha
t I too----" and then he stopped.

  "I know, I know," she cried piteously. "It is just what I have feared soterribly--that--that our love has been blinding us both. And yet, whatare we to do, what are we to do? Oh! God--Hubert, help me."

  Then he began to speak in a low emphatic voice, holding her hands,delicately stroking one of them now and again, and playing with herfingers. She watched his curly head in the firelight as he talked, andhis keen face as he looked up.

  "It is all plain to me," he said, caressingly. "You have been living herewith my aunt, a dear old saint; and she has been talking and telling youall about the Catholic religion, and making it seem all true and good.And you, my dear child, have been thinking of me sometimes, and loving mea little, is it not so? and longing that religion should not separate us;and so you began to wish it was true; and then to hope it was; and atlast you have begun to think it is. But it is not your true sweet selfthat believes it. Ah! you know in your heart of hearts, as I have knownso long, that it is not true; that it is made up by priests and nuns; andit is very beautiful, I know, my dearest, but it is only a lovely tale;and you must not spoil all for the sake of a tale. And I have beengradually led to the light; it was your--" and his voice faltered--"yourprayers that helped me to it. I have longed to understand what it wasthat made you so sweet and so happy; and now I know; it is your ownsimple pure religion; and--and--it is so much more sensible, so much morelikely to be true than the Catholic religion. It is all in the Bible yousee; so plain, as Mr. Collins has showed me. And so, my dear love, I havecome to believe it too; and you must put all these fancies out of yourhead, these dreams; though I love you, I love you," and he kissed herhand again, "for wishing to believe them for my sake--and--and we will bemarried before Christmas; and we will have our own fairy-tale, but itshall be a true one."

  This was terrible to Isabel. It seemed as if her own haunting thoughtthat she was sacrificing a dream to reality had become incarnate in herlover and was speaking through his lips. And yet in its very incarnation,it seemed to reveal its weakness rather than its strength. As a darksuggestion the thought was mighty; embodied in actual language it seemedto shrink a little. But then, on the other hand--and so the interiorconflict began to rage again.

  She made a movement as if to stand up; but he pressed her back into thechair.

  "No, my dearest, you shall be a prisoner until you give your parole."

  Twice Isabel made an effort to speak; but no sound came. It seemed as ifthe raging strife of thoughts deafened and paralysed her.

  "Now, Isabel," said Hubert.

  "I cannot, I cannot," she cried desperately, "you must give me time. Itis too sudden, your returning like this. You must give me time. I do notknow what I believe. Oh, dear God, help me."

  "Isabel, promise! promise! Before Christmas! I thought it was all to beso happy, when I came in through the garden just now. My mother willhardly speak to me; and I came to you, Isabel, as I always did; I felt sosure you would be good to me; and tell me that you would always love me,now that I had given up my religion for love of you. And now----" andHubert's voice ended in a sob.

  Her heart seemed rent across, and she drew a sobbing sigh. Hubert heardit, and caught at her hands again as he knelt.

  "Isabel, promise, promise."

  Then there came that gust of purpose into her heart again; she made adetermined effort and stood up; and Hubert rose and stood opposite her.

  "You must not ask me," she said, bravely. "It would be wicked to decideyet. I cannot see anything clearly. I do not know what I believe, norwhere I stand. You must give me time."

  There was a dead silence. His face was so much in shadow that she couldnot tell what he was thinking. He was standing perfectly still.

  "Then that is all the answer you will give me?" he said, in a perfectlyeven voice.

  Isabel bowed her head.

  "Then--then I wish you good-night, Mistress Norris," and he bowed to her,caught up his cap and went out.

  She could not believe it for a moment, and caught her breath to cry outafter him as the door closed; but she heard his step on the stonepavement outside, the crunch of the gravel, and he was gone. Then shewent and leaned her head against the curved mantelshelf and stared intothe logs that his hands had piled together.

  This, then, she thought, was the work of religion; the end of all heraspirations and efforts, that God should mock them by bringing love intotheir life, and then when they caught at it and thanked him for it, itwas whisked away again, and left their hands empty. Was this the Fatherof Love in whom she had been taught to believe, who treated His childrenlike this? And so the bitter thoughts went on; and yet she knew in herheart that she was powerless; that she could not go to the door and callHubert and promise what he asked. A great Force had laid hold of her, itmight be benevolent or not--at this moment she thought not--but it wasirresistible; and she must bow her head and obey.

  And even as she thought that, the door opened again, and there wasHubert. He came in two quick steps across the room to her, and thenstopped suddenly.

  "Mistress Isabel," he asked, "can you forgive me? I was a brute just now.I do not ask for your promise. I leave it all in your hands. Do with mewhat you will. But--but, if you could tell me how long you think it willbe before you know----"

  He had touched the right note. Isabel's heart gave a leap of sorrow andsympathy. "Oh, Hubert," she said brokenly, "I am so sorry; but I promiseI will tell you--by Easter?" and her tone was interrogative.

  "Yes, yes," said Hubert. He looked at her in silence, and she saw strangelines quivering at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes large andbrilliant in the firelight. Then the two drew together, and he took herin his arms strongly and passionately.

  * * * *

  There was a scene that night between the mother and son. MistressMargaret had gone back to the Dower House for supper; and Lady Maxwelland Hubert were supping in Sir Nicholas' old study that would soon bearranged for Hubert now that he had returned for good. They had been verysilent during the meal, while the servants were in the room, talking onlyof little village affairs and of the estate, and of the cancelling of theproposed expedition. Hubert had explained to his mother that it wasgenerally believed that Elizabeth had never seriously intended theEnglish ships to sail, but that she only wished to draw Spain's attentionoff herself by setting up complications between that country and France;and when she had succeeded in this by managing to get the French squadronsafe at Terceira, she then withdrew her permission to Drake and Hawkins,and thus escaped from the quarrel altogether. But it was a poor makeshiftfor conversation.

  When the servants had withdrawn, a silence fell. Presently Hubert lookedacross the table between the silver branched candlesticks.

  "Mother," he said, "of course I know what you are thinking. But I cannotconsent to go through all the arguments; I am weary of them. Neither willI see Mr. Barnes to-morrow at Cuckfield or here. I am satisfied with myposition."

  "My son," said Lady Maxwell with dignity, "I do not think I have spokenthat priest's name; or indeed any."

  "Well," said Hubert, impatiently, "at any rate I will not see him. But Iwish to say a few words about this house. We must have our positionsclear. My father left to your use, did he not, the whole of thecloister-wing? I am delighted, dear mother, that he did so. You will behappy there I know; and of course I need not say that I hope you willkeep your old room overhead as well; and, indeed, use the whole house asyou have always done. I shall be grateful if you will superintend it all,as before--at least, until a new mistress comes."

  "Thank you, my son."

  "I will speak of that in a moment," he went on, looking steadily at thetable-cloth; "but there was a word I wished to say first. I am now aloyal subject of her Grace in all things; in religion as in all else.And--and I fear I cannot continue to entertain seminary priests as myfather used to do. My--my conscience will not allow that. But of course,mother, I need not say that you are at perfect liberty
to do what youwill in the cloister-wing; I shall ask no questions; and I shall set notraps or spies. But I must ask that the priests do not come into thispart of the house, nor walk in the garden. Fortunately you have a lawn inthe cloister; so that they need not lack fresh air or exercise."

  "You need not fear, Hubert," said his mother, "I will not embarrass you.You shall be in no danger."

  "I think you need not have said that, mother; I am not usually thought acoward."

  Lady Maxwell flushed a little, and began to finger her silver knife.

  "However," Hubert went on, "I thought it best to say that. The chapel,you see, is in that wing; and you have that lawn; and--and I do not thinkI am treating you hardly."

  "And is your brother James not to come?" asked his mother.

  "I have thought much over that," said Hubert; "and although it is hard tosay it, I think he had better not come to my part of the house--at leastnot when I am here; I must know nothing of it. You must do what you thinkwell when I am away, about him and others too. It is very difficult forme, mother; please do not add to the difficulty."

  "You need not fear," said Lady Maxwell steadily; "you shall not betroubled with any Catholics besides ourselves."

  "Then that is arranged," said the lad. "And now there is a word more.What have you been doing to Isabel?" And he looked sharply across thetable. His mother's eyes met his fearlessly.

  "I do not understand you," she said.

  "Mother, you must know what I mean. You have seen her continually."

  "I have told you, my son, that I do not know."

  "Why," burst out Hubert, "she is half a Catholic."

  "Thank God," said his mother.

  "Ah! yes; you thank God, I know; but whom am I to thank for it?"

  "I would that you could thank Him too."

  Hubert made a sharp sound of disgust.

  "Ah! yes," he said scornfully, "I knew it; _Non nobis Domine_, and therest."

  "Hubert," said Lady Maxwell, "I do not think you mean to insult me inthis house; but either that is an insult, or else I misunderstood youwholly, and must ask your pardon for it."

  "Well," he said, in a harsh voice, "I will make myself plain. I believethat it is through the influence of you and Aunt Margaret that this hasbeen brought about."

  At the moment he spoke the door opened.

  "Come in, Margaret," said her sister, "this concerns you."

  The old nun came across to Hubert with her anxious sweet face; and puther old hand tenderly on his black satin sleeve as he sat and wrenched ata nut between his fingers.

  "Hubert, dear boy," she said, "what is all this? Will you tell me?"

  Hubert rose, a little ashamed of himself, and went to the door and closedit; and then drew out a chair for his aunt, and put a wine-glass for her.

  "Sit down, aunt," he said, and pushed the decanter towards her.

  "I have just left Isabel," she said, "she is very unhappy aboutsomething. You saw her this evening, dear lad?"

  "Yes," said Hubert, heavily, looking down at the table and taking upanother nut, "and it is of that that I have been speaking. Who has madeher unhappy?"

  "I had hoped you would tell us that," said Mistress Margaret; "I came upto ask you."

  "My son has done us--me--the honour----" began Lady Maxwell; but Hubertbroke in:

  "I left Isabel here last Christmas happy and a Protestant. I have comeback here now to find her unhappy and half a Catholic, if notmore--and----"

  "Oh! are you sure?" asked Mistress Margaret, her eyes shining. "ThankGod, if it be so!"

  "Sure?" said Hubert, "why she will not marry me; at least not yet."

  "Oh, poor lad," she said tenderly, "to have lost both God and Isabel."

  Hubert turned on her savagely. But the old nun's eyes were steady andserene.

  "Poor lad!" she said again.

  Hubert looked down again; his lip wrinkled up in a little sneer.

  "As far as I am concerned," he said, "I can understand your not caring,but I am astonished at this response of yours to her father'sconfidence!"

  Lady Maxwell grew white to the lips.

  "I have told you," she began--"but you do not seem to believe it--that Ihave had nothing to do, so far as I know, with her conversion,which"--and she raised her voice bravely--"I pray God to accomplish. Shehas, of course, asked me questions now and then; and I have answeredthem--that is all."

  "And I," said Mistress Margaret, "plead guilty to the same charge, and tono other. You are not yourself, dear boy, at present; and indeed I do notwonder at it; and I pray God to help you; but you are not yourself, oryou would not speak like this to your mother."

  Hubert rose to his feet; his face was white under the tan, and the ruffleround his wrist trembled as he leaned heavily with his fingers on thetable.

  "I am only a plain Protestant now," he said bitterly, "and I have beenwith Protestants so long that I have forgotten Catholic ways; but----"

  "Stay, Hubert," said his mother, "do not finish that. You will be sorryfor it presently, if you do. Come, Margaret." And she moved towards thedoor; her son went quickly past and opened it.

  "Nay, nay," said the nun. "Do you be going, Mary. Let me stay with thelad, and we will come to you presently." Lady Maxwell bowed her head andpassed out, and Hubert closed the door.

  Mistress Margaret looked down on the table.

  "You have given me a glass, dear boy; but no wine in it."

  Hubert took a couple of quick steps back, and faced her.

  "It is no use, it is no use," he burst out, and his voice was broken withemotion, "you cannot turn me like that. Oh, what have you done with myIsabel?" He put out his hand and seized her arm. "Give her back to me,Aunt Margaret; give her back to me."

  He dropped into his seat and hid his face on his arm; and there was a sobor two.

  "Sit up and be a man, Hubert," broke in Mistress Margaret's voice, clearand cool.

  He looked up in amazement with wet indignant eyes. She was looking athim, smiling tenderly.

  "And now, for the second time, give me half a glass of wine, dear boy."

  He poured it out, bewildered at her self-control.

  "For a man that has been round the world," she said, "you are but afoolish child."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Have you never thought of a way of yet winning Isabel," she asked.

  "What do you mean?" he repeated.

  "Why, come back to the Church, dear lad; and make your mother and mehappy again, and marry Isabel, and save your own soul."

  "Aunt Margaret," he cried, "it is impossible. I have truly lost my faithin the Catholic religion; and--and--you would not have me a hypocrite."

  "Ah! ah!" said the nun, "you cannot tell yet. Please God it may comeback. Oh! dear boy, in your heart you know it is true."

  "Before God, in my heart I know that it is not true."

  "No, no, no," she said; but the light died out of her eyes, and shestretched a tremulous hand.

  "Yes, Aunt Margaret, it is so. For years and years I have been doubting;but I kept on just because it seemed to me the best religion; and--and Iwould not be driven out of it by her Grace's laws against my will, like adog stoned from his kennel."

  "But you are only a lad still," she said piteously. He laughed a little.

  "But I have had the gift of reason and discretion nearly twenty years, apriest would tell me. Besides, Aunt Margaret, I could not be such a--acur--as to come back without believing. I could never look Isabel in theeyes again."

  "Well, well," said the old lady, "let us wait and see. Do you intend tobe here now for a while?"

  "Not while Isabel is like this," he said. "I could not. I must go awayfor a while, and then come back and ask her again."

  "When will she decide?"

  "She told me by next Easter," said Hubert. "Oh, Aunt Margaret, pray forus both."

  The light began to glimmer again in her eyes.

  "There, dear boy," she said, "you see you believe in prayer still."


  "But, aunt," said Hubert, "why should I not? Protestants pray."

  "Well, well," said the old nun again. "Now you must come to your mother;and--and be good to her."