CHAPTER VI
A DEPARTURE
The months went by happily at Stanfield; and, however ill went thefortunes of the Church elsewhere, here at least were peace andprosperity. Most discouraging news indeed did reach them from time totime. The severe penalties now enacted against the practice of theCatholic Religion were being enforced with great vigour, and the weakmembers of the body began to fail. Two priests had apostatised atChichester earlier in the year, one of them actually at the scaffold onBroyle Heath; and then in December there were two more recantations atPaul's Cross. Those Catholics too who threw up the Faith generally becamethe most aggressive among the persecutors, to testify to their ownconsciences, as well to the Protestants, of the sincerity of theirconversion.
But in Stanfield the Church flourished, and Anthony had the greathappiness of receiving his first convert in the person of Mr. Rowe, theyoung owner of a house called East Maskells, separated from StanfieldPlace by a field-path of under a mile in length, though the road roundwas over two; and the comings and goings were frequent now between thetwo houses. Mr. Rowe was at present unmarried, and had his aunt to keephouse for him, a tolerant old maiden lady who had conformed placidly tothe Reformed Religion thirty years before, and was now grown content withit. Several "schismatics" too--as those Catholics were called whoattended their parish church--had waxed bolder, and given up theirconformity to the Establishment; so it was a happy and courageous flockthat gathered Sunday by Sunday at Stanfield Place.
* * * *
Just before Christmas, Anthony received a long and affectionate letterfrom James Maxwell, who was still at Douai.
"The Rector will still have me here," he wrote, "and shows me to theyoung men as if I were a kind of warrior; which is bad for pride; butthen he humbles me again by telling me I am of more use here as anexample, than I should be in England; and that humbles me again. So I amcontent to stay. It is a humbling thing, too, to find young men who cantell me the history of my arms and legs better than I know it myself. Butthe truth is, I can never walk well again--yet _laudetur JesusChristus_."
Then James Maxwell wrote a little about his grief for Hubert; gave alittle news of foreign movements among the Catholics; and finally endedas follows:
"At last I understand who your friend was behind Bow Church, whostuttered and played the Catholic so well. It was our old servantLackington; who turned Protestant and entered Walsingham's service. Ihear all this from one P. lately in the same affairs, but now turned toChrist his service instead; and who has entered here as a student. Sobeware of him; he has a pointed beard now, and a bald forehead. I hear,too, from the same source that he was on your track when you landed, butnow thinks you to be in France. However, he knows of you; so I counselyou not to abide over long in one place. Perhaps you may go toLancashire; that is like heaven itself for Catholics. Their zeal andpiety there are beyond praise; but I hear they somewhat lack priests. Godkeep you always, my dear Brother; and may the Queen of Heaven intercedefor you. Pray for me."
* * * *
Soon after the New Year, Mary Corbet was able to get away from Court andcome down again to her friends for a month or two at Stanfield.
During her stay they all had an adventure together at East Maskells. Theyhad been out a long expedition into the woods one clear frosty day androde in just at sunset for an early supper with Mr. Rowe and his aunt.
They had left their horses at the stable and come in round the back ofthe house; so that they missed the servant Miss Rowe had placed at thefront door to warn them, and came straight into the winter-parlour, wherethey found Miss Rowe in conversation with an ecclesiastic. There was notime to retreat; and Anthony in a moment more found himself beingintroduced to a minister he had met at Lambeth more than once--theReverend Robert Carr, who had held the odd title of "Archbishop's Curate"and the position of minister in charge of the once collegiate church ofAll Saints', Maidstone, ever since the year '59. He had ridden up fromMaidstone for supper and lodging, and was on his way to town.
Anthony managed to interrupt Miss Rowe before she came to his assumedname Capell, and remarked rather loudly that he had met Mr. Carr before;who recognised him too, and greeted him by his real name.
It was an uncomfortable situation, as Mr. Carr was quite unaware of thereligion of five out of six of those present, and very soon began to givevoice to his views on Papistry. He was an oldish man by now, and of someimportance in Maidstone, where he had been appointed Jurat by theCorporation, and was a very popular and influential man.
"The voice of the people," he said in the midst of a conversation on thenational feeling towards Spain, "that is what we must hearken to. Evensovereigns themselves must come to that some day. They must rule byobeying; as man does with God's laws in nature."
"Would you say that, sir, of her Grace?" asked Mary Corbet meekly.
"I should, madam; though I fear she has injured her power by herbehaviour this year. It was her people who saved her.--Hawkins, who isnow ruined as he says; my lord Howard, who has paid from his own pursefor the meat and drink of her Grace's soldiers, and those who fought withthem; and not her Grace, who saved them; or Leicester, now gone to hisaccount, who sat at Tilbury and did the bowing and the prancing and thetalking while Hawkins and the rest did the fighting. No, madam, it is thevoice of the people to which we must hearken."
This was rather confused and dangerous talking too; but here was plainlya man to be humoured; he looked round him with a suffused face and theeye of a cock, and a little white plume on his forehead increased hisappearance of pugnacity.
"It is the same in religion," he said, when all preserved a deferentialsilence; "it is that that lies at the root of papist errors. As you knowvery well," he went on, turning suddenly on Anthony, "our bishops donothing to guide men's minds; they only seem to: they ride atop like thefigure on a cock-horse, but it is the legs beneath that do the work andthe guiding too: now that is right and good; and the Church of Englandwill prosper so long as she goes like that. But if the bishops try torule they will find their mistake. Now the Popish Church is not likethat; she holds that power comes from above, that the Pope guides thebishops, the bishops the priests, and the priests the people."
"And the Holy Ghost the Pope; is it not so, sir?" asked Mr. Buxton.
Mr. Carr turned an eye on him.
"So they hold, sir," he said after a pause.
"They think then, sir, that the shepherds guide the sheep?" asked Anthonyhumbly.
Mary Corbet gave a yelp of laughter; but when Mr. Carr looked at her shewas grave and deferential again. Miss Rowe looked entreatingly from faceto face. The minister did not notice Anthony's remark; but swept on againon what was plainly his favourite theme,--the infallibility of thepeople. It was a doctrine that was hardly held yet by any; but the nextcentury was to see its gradual rise until it reached its climax in thePuritanism of the Stuart times. It was true, as Mr. Carr said, thatElizabeth had ruled by obeying; and that the people of England,encouraged by success in resisting foreign domination, were about to passon to the second position of resisting any domination at all.
Presently he pulled out of his pocket a small printed sheet, and was soondeclaiming from it. It was not very much to the point, except asillustrating the national spirit which he believed so divine. It was aballad describing the tortures which the Spaniards had intended toinflict upon the heretic English, and began:
"All you that list to look and see What profit comes from Spain, And what the Pope and Spaniards both Prepared for our gain. Then turn your eyes and lend your ears And you shall hear and see What courteous minds, what gentle hearts, They bear to thee and me!
And it ended in the same spirit:
"Be these the men that are so mild Whom some so holy call! The Lord defend our noble Queen And country from them all!"
"The
re!" the minister cried when he had done, "that is what the Papistsare like! Trust me; I know them. I should know one in a moment if heventured into this room, by his crafty face. But the Lord will defend Hisown Englishmen; nay! He has done so. 'God blew and they were scattered,'"he ended, quoting from the Armada medal.
* * * *
As the four rode home by pairs across the field-path in the frostymoonlight Mr. Buxton lamented to Anthony the effect of the Armada.
"The national spirit is higher than ever," he said, "and it will be thedeath of Catholicism here for the present. Our country squires, I fear,faithful Catholics to this time, are beginning to wonder and question.When will our Catholic kings learn that Christ His Kingdom is not of thisworld? Philip has smitten the Faith in England with the weapon which hedrew in its defence, as he thought."
"I was once of that national spirit myself," said Anthony.
"I remember you were," said Mr. Buxton, smiling; "and what grace has doneto you it may do to others."
* * * *
The spring went by, and in the week after Easter, James' news aboutLancashire was verified by a letter from a friend of Mr. Buxton's, a Mr.Norreys, the owner of one of the staunch Catholic houses, Speke Hall, onthe bank of the Mersey.
"Here," he wrote, "by the mercy of God there is no lack of priests,though there be none to spare; my own chaplain says mass by dispensationthrice on Sunday; but on the moors the sheep look up and are not fed; andsuch patient sheep! I heard but last week of a church where the folkresort, priest or no, each Sunday to the number of two hundred, and areled by a lector in devotion, ending with an act of spiritual communionmade all together. These damnable heresies of which the apostle wrotehave not poisoned the springs of sound doctrine; some of us here knownaught yet of Elizabeth and her supremacy, or even of seven-wived Harryhis reformation. Send us then, dear friend, a priest, or at least thepromise of one; lest we perish quite."
Mr. Buxton had a sore struggle with himself over this letter; but at lasthe carried it to Anthony.
"Read that," he said; and stood waiting.
Anthony looked up when he had done.
"I am your chaplain," he said, "but I am God's priest first."
"Yes, dear lad," said his friend, "I feared you would say so; and I willsay so to Norreys"; and he left the room at once.
And so at last it came to be arranged that Anthony should leave forLancashire at the end of July; and that after his departure Stanfieldshould be served occasionally by the priest who lived on the outskirts ofTonbridge; but the daily mass would have to cease, and that was a soretrouble to Mr. Buxton. No definite decision could be made as to whenAnthony could return; that must wait until he saw the needs ofLancashire; but he hoped to be able at least to pay a visit to Stanfieldagain in the spring of the following year.
It was arranged also, of course, that Isabel should accompany herbrother. They were both of large independent means, and could travel insome dignity; and her presence would be under these circumstances aprotection as well as a comfort to Anthony. It would need very greatsharpness to detect the seminary priest under Anthony's disguise, andamid the surroundings of his cavalcade of four or five armed servants, aFrench maid, and a distinguished-looking lady.
Yet, in spite of this, Mr. Buxton resolved to do his utmost to preventIsabel from going to Lancashire; partly, of course, he disliked thethought of the dangers and hardships that she was certain to encounter;but the real motive was that he had fallen very deeply in love with her.It was her exceptional serenity that seemed to him her greatest charm;her movements, her face, her grey eyes, the very folds of her dressseemed to breathe with it; and to one of Mr. Buxton's temperament such apresence was cool and sweet and strangely fascinating.
It was now April, and he resolved to devote the next month or two topreparing her for his proposal; and he wrote frankly to Mary Corbettelling her how matters stood, entreating her to come down for July andcounsel him. Mary wrote back at once, rather briefly, promising to come;but not encouraging him greatly.
"I would I could cheer you more," she wrote; "of course I have not seenIsabel since January; but, unless she has changed, I do not think shewill marry you. I am writing plainly you see, as you ask in your letter.But I can still say, God prosper you."
* * * *
As the spring went by and the summer came on, Isabel grew yet moresilent. As the evenings began to lengthen out she used to spend much timebefore and after supper in walking up and down the clipped lime avenuebetween the east end of the church and the great gates that looked overthe meadows across which the stream and the field-path ran towards EastMaskells. Mr. Buxton would watch her sometimes from an upstairs window,himself unseen, and occasionally would go out and talk with her; but hefound it harder than he used to get on to intimate relations; and hebegan to suspect that he had displeased her in some way, and that MaryCorbet was right. In the afternoon she and Anthony would generally rideout together, once or twice going round by Penshurst, and their hostwould torture himself by his own indecision as regards accompanying them;sometimes doing so, sometimes refraining, and regretting whichever hedid. More and more he began to look forward to Mary's coming and thebenefit of her advice; and at last, at the end of June, she came.
Their first evening together was delightful for them all. She was happyat her escape from Court; her host was happy at the prospect of hercounsel; and all four were happy at being together again.
They did not meet till supper, and even that was put off an hour, becauseMary had not come, and when she did arrive she was full of excitement.
"I will tell you all at supper," she said to her host, whom she met inthe hall. "Oh! how late I am!" and she whirled past him and upstairswithout another word.
* * * *
"I will first give you the news in brief," she said, when Anthony hadsaid grace and they were seated, all four of them as before; and thetrumpet-flourish was silent that had announced the approach of thevenison.
"Mutton's new chaplain, Dr. Bancroft, will be in trouble soon; he hathbeen saying favourable things for some of us poor papists, and hath ratedthe Precisians soundly. Sir Francis Knollys is wroth with him; but thatis no matter.--Her Grace played at cards till two of the clock thismorning, and that is why I am so desperate sleepy to-night, for I had tosit up too; and that is a great matter.--Drake and Norris, 'tis said,have whipped the dons again at Corunna; and the Queen has sworn to pullmy lord Essex his ears for going with them and adventuring his preciousself; and that is no matter at all, but will do him good.--GeorgeLuttrell hath put up a coat of arms in his hall at Dunster, which is agreat matter to him, but to none else;--and I have robbed a highwaymanthis day in the beech woods this side of Groombridge."
"Dear lady," said Mr. Buxton resignedly, as the others looked upstartled, "you are too swift for our dull rustic ears; we will begin atthe end, if you please. Is it true you have robbed an highwayman?"
"It is perfectly true," she said, and unlatched a ruby brooch, madeheart-shape, from her dress. "There is the plunder," and she held it outfor inspection.
"Then tell us the tale," said Anthony.
"It would be five of the clock," said Mary, "as we came throughGroombridge, and then into the woods beyond. I had bidden my knaves rideon before with my woman; I came down into a dingle where there was astream; and, to tell the truth, I had my head down and was a-nodding,when my horse stopped; and I looked up of a sudden and there was a man ona bay mare, with a mask to his mouth, a gay green suit, a brown beardturning grey, and this ruby brooch at his throat; and he had caught mybridle. I saw him start when I lifted my head, as if he were taken aback.I said nothing, but he led my horse off the road down among the treeswith a deep little thicket where none could see us. As we went I wasthinking like a windmill; for I knew I had seen the little red broochbefore.
"When we reache
d the little open space, I asked him what he wished withme.
"'Your purse, madam,' said he.
"'My woman hath it,' said I.
"'Your jewels then, madam,' said he.
"'My woman hath them,' said I, 'save this paste buckle in my hat, towhich you are welcome.' It was diamonds, you know; but I knew he wouldnot know that.
"'What a mistake,' I said, 'to stop the mistress and let the maid gofree!'
"'Nay,' he said, 'I am glad of it; for at least I will have a dance withthe mistress; and I could not with the maid.'
"'You are welcome to that,' I said, and I slipped off my horse, to humourhim, and even as I slipped off I knew who he was, for although many havered brooches, and many brown beards turning grey, few have both together;but I said nothing. And there--will you believe it?--we danced under thebeech-trees like Phyllis and Corydon, or whoever they are that Sidney isalways prating of; or like two fools, I would sooner say. Then when wehad done, I made him a curtsey.
"'Now you must help me up,' said I, and he mounted me without a word, forhe was a stoutish gallant and somewhat out of breath. And then what didthe fool do but try to kiss me, and as he lifted his arm I snatched thebrooch and put spur to my horse, and as we went up the bank I screamed athim, 'Claude, you fool, go home to your wife and take shame to yourself.'And when I was near the road I looked back, and he still stood there allagape."
"And what was his name?" asked Anthony.
"Nay, nay, I have mocked him enough. And I know four Claudes, so you neednot try to guess."
* * * *
When supper was over, Mr. Buxton and Mary walked up and down the southpath of the garden between the yews, while the other two sat just outsidethe hall window on a seat placed on the tiled terrace that ran round thehouse.
"How I have longed for you to come, Mistress Mary," he said, "and counselme of the matter we wrote about. Tell me what to do."
Mary looked meditatively out to the strip of moon that was rising out tothe east in the June sky. Then she looked tenderly at her friend.
"I hate to pain you," she said, "but cannot you see that it isimpossible? I may be wrong; but I think her heart is so given to ourSaviour that there is no love of that sort left."
"Ah, how can you say that?" he cried; "the love of the Saviour does nothinder earthly love; it purifies and transfigures it."
"Yes," said Mary gravely, "it is often so--but the love of the truespouse of Christ is different. That leaves no room for an earthlybridegroom."
Mr. Buxton was silent a moment or two.
"You mean it is the love of the consecrated soul?"
Mary bowed her head. "But I cannot be sure," she added.
"Then what shall I do?" he said again, almost piteously; and Mary couldsee even in the faint moonlight that his pleasant face was all broken upand quivering. She laid her hand gently on his arm, and her ringsflashed.
"You must be very patient," she said, "very full of deference--and grave.You must not be ardent nor impetuous, but speak slowly and reverently toher, but at no great length; be plain with her; do not look in her face,and do not show anxiety or despair or hope. You need not fear that yourlove will not be plain to her. Indeed, I think she knows it already."
"Why, I have not----" he began.
"I know you have not spoken to her; but I saw that she only looked at youonce during supper, and that was when your face was turned from her; shedoes not wish to look you in the eyes."
"Ah, she hates me," he sighed.
"Do not be foolish," said Mary, "she honours you, and loves you, and isgrieved for your grief; but I do not think she will marry you."
"And when shall I speak?" he asked.
"You must wait; God will make the opportunity--in any case. You must notattempt to make it. That would terrify her."
"And you will speak for me."
Mary smiled at him.
"Dear friend," she said, "sometimes I think you do not know us at all. Doyou not see that Isabel is greater than all that? What she knows, sheknows. I could tell her nothing."
* * * *
The days passed on; the days of the last month of the Norrises' stay atStanfield. Half-way through the month came the news of the Oxfordexecutions.
"Ah! listen to this," cried Mr. Buxton, coming out to them one evening inthe garden with a letter in his hand. "'Humphrey Prichard,'" he read,"'made a good end. He protested he was condemned for the Catholic Faith;that he willingly died for it; that he was a Catholic. One of theirministers laughed at him, saying he was a poor ignorant fellow who knewnot what it was to be a Catholic. 'I know very well;' said Humphrey,'though I cannot say it in proper divinity language.' There is theReligion for you!" went on Mr. Buxton; "all meet there, wise and simplealike. There is no difference; no scholarship is needed for faith. 'Iknow what it is,' cried Humphrey, 'though I cannot explain it!'"
The news came to Anthony just when he needed it; he felt he had done solittle to teach his flock now he was to leave them; but if he had onlydone something to keep alive the fire of faith, he had not lost his time;and so he went about his spiritual affairs with new heart, encouragingthe wavering, whom he was to leave, warning the over-confident, urgingthe hesitating, and saying good-bye to them all. Isabel went with himsometimes; or sometimes walked or rode with Mary, and was silent for themost part in public. The master of the house himself did his affairs, andcarried a heavier heart each day. And at last the opportunity came whichMary had predicted.
He had come in one evening after a hot ride alone over to Tonbridge onsome business with the priest there; and had dressed for supperimmediately on coming in.
As there was still nearly an hour before supper, he went out to walk upand down the same yew-alley near the garden-house where he had walkedwith Mary. Anthony and Isabel had returned a little later from EastMaskells, and they too had dressed early. Isabel threw a lace shawl overher head, and betook herself too to the alley; and there she turned acorner and almost ran into her host.
It was, as Mary had said, a God-made opportunity. Neither time nor placecould have been improved. If externals were of any value to thiscourtship, all that could have helped was there. The setting of thepicture was perfect; a tall yew-hedge ran down the northern side of thewalk, cut, as Bacon recommended, not fantastically but "with some prettypyramids"; a strip of turf separated it from the walk, giving a senseboth of privacy and space; on the south side ran flower-beds in the turf,with yews and cypresses planted here and there, and an oak paling beyond;to the east lay the "fair mount," again recommended by the sameauthority, but not so high, and with but one ascent; to the west the pathdarkened under trees, and over all rose up against the sunset sky thetall grotesque towers and vanes of the garden-house. The flowers burnedwith that ember-like glow which may be seen on summer evenings, andpoured out their scent; the air was sweet and cool, and white moths werebeginning to poise and stir among the blossoms. The two actors on thisscene too were not unworthy of it; his dark velvet and lace with theglimmer of diamonds here and there, and his delicate bearded clean-cutface, a little tanned, thrown into relief by the spotless crisp ruffbeneath, and above all his air of strength and refinement andself-possession--all combined to make him a formidable stormer of agirl's heart. And as he looked on her--on her clear almost luminous faceand great eyes, shrined in the drooping lace shawl, through which a jewelor two in her black hair glimmered, her upright slender figure in itsdark sheath, and the hand, white and cool, that held her shawl togetherover her breast--he had a pang of hope and despair at once, at the suddensense of need of this splendid creature of God to be one with him, andreign with him over these fair possessions; and of hopelessness at thethought that anything so perfect could be accomplished in this imperfectworld.
He turned immediately and walked beside her, and they both knew, in thesilence that followed, that the crisis had come.
"Mistress Isabel," he said, still looking down as he
spoke, and his voicesounded odd to her ears, "I wonder if you know what I would say to you."
There came no sound from her, but the rustle of her dress.
"But I must say it," he went on, "follow what may. It is this. I love youdearly."
Her walk faltered beside him, and it seemed as if she would stand still.
"A moment," he said, and he lifted his white restrained face. "I ask youto be patient with me. Perhaps I need not say that I have never said thisto any woman before; but more, I have never even thought it. I do notknow how to speak, nor what I should say; beyond this, that since I firstmet you at the door across there, a year ago, you have taught me eversince what love means; and now I am come to you, as to my dear mistress,with my lesson learnt."
They were standing together now; he was still turned a little away fromher, and dared not lift his eyes to her face again. Then of a sudden hefelt her hand on his arm for a moment, and he looked up, and saw her eyesall swimming with sorrow.
"Dear friend," she said quite simply, "it is impossible--Ah! what can Isay?"
"Give me a moment more," he said; and they walked on slowly. "I know whatpresumption this is; but I will not spin phrases about that. Nor do I askwhat is impossible; but I will only ask leave to teach you in my turnwhat love means."
"Oh! that is the hardest of all to say," she said, "but I know already."
He did not quite understand, and glanced at her a moment.
"I once loved too," she whispered. He drew a sharp breath.
"Forgive me," he said, "I forced that from you."
"You are never anything but courteous and kind," she said, "and thatmakes this harder than all."
They walked in silence half a dozen steps.
"Have I distressed you?" he asked, glancing at her again.
Then she looked full in his face, and her eyes were overflowing.
"I am grieved for your sorrow," she said, "and at my own unworthiness,you know that?"
"I know that you are now and always will be my dear mistress and queen."
His voice broke altogether as he ended, and he bent and took her handdelicately in his own, as if it were royal, and kissed it. Then she gavea great sob and slipped away through the opening in the clipped hedge;and he was left alone with the dusk and his sorrow.
* * * *
A week later Anthony and Isabel were saying good-bye to him in the earlysummer morning: the pack-horses had started on before, and there werejust the two saddle-horses at the low oak door, with the servants'behind. When Mr. Buxton had put Isabel into the saddle, he held her handfor a moment; Anthony was mounting behind.
"Mistress Isabel," he whispered; "forgive me; but I find I cannot takeyour answer; you will remember that."
She shook her head without speaking, but dared not even look into hiseyes; though she turned her head as she rode out of the gates for a lastlook at the peaked gables and low windows of the house where she had beenso happy. There was still the dark figure motionless against the pale oakdoor.
"Oh, Anthony!" she whispered brokenly, "our Lord asks very much."