CHAPTER I
A SCHEME
The period that followed the destruction of Lewes Priory held verystrange months for Chris. He had slipped out of the stream into aback-water, from which he could watch the swift movements of the time,while himself undisturbed by them; for no further notice was taken ofhis refusal to sign the surrender or of his resistance to theCommissioners. The hands of the authorities were so full of businessthat apparently it was not worth their while to trouble about aninoffensive monk of no particular notoriety, who after all had donelittle except in a negative way, and who appeared now to acquiesce insilence and seclusion.
The household at Overfield was of a very mixed nature. Dom Anthony aftera month or two had left for the Continent to take up his vocation in aBenedictine house; and Sir James and his wife, Chris, Margaret, and Mr.Carleton remained together. For the present Chris and Margaret weredetermined to wait, for a hundred things might intervene--Henry's death,a changing of his mind, a foreign invasion on the part of the Catholicpowers, an internal revolt in England, and such things--and set theclock back again, and, unlike Dom Anthony, they had a home where theycould follow their Rules in tolerable comfort.
The country was indeed very deeply stirred by the events that weretaking place; but for the present, partly from terror and partly fromthe great forces that were brought to bear upon English convictions, itgave no expression to its emotion. The methods that Cromwell hademployed with such skill in the past were still active. On the worldlyside there was held out to the people the hope of relieved taxation, ofthe distribution of monastic wealth and lands; on the spiritual side thebishops under Cranmer were zealous in controverting the old principlesand throwing doubt upon the authority of the Pope. It was impossible forthe unlearned to know what to believe; new manifestoes were issuedcontinually by the King and clergy, full of learned arguments andpersuasive appeals; and the professors of the old religion werecontinually discredited by accusations of fraud, avarice, immorality,hypocrisy and the like. They were silenced, too; while active andeloquent preachers like Latimer raged from pulpit to pulpit, denouncing,expounding, convincing.
Meanwhile the work went on rapidly. The summer and autumn of '38 sawagain destruction after destruction of Religious Houses and objects ofveneration; and the intimidation of the most influential personages onthe Catholic side.
In February, for example, the rood of Boxley was brought up to Londonwith every indignity, and after being exhibited with shouts of laughterat Whitehall, and preached against at Paul's Cross, it was tossed downamong the zealous citizens and smashed to pieces. In the summer, amongothers, the shrine of St. Swithun at Winchester was defaced and robbed;and in the autumn that followed the friaries which had stood out so longbegan to fall right and left. In October the Holy Blood of Hayles, arelic brought from the East in the thirteenth century and preservedwith great love and honour ever since, was taken from its resting placeand exposed to ridicule in London. Finally in the same month, after St.Thomas of Canterbury had been solemnly declared a traitor to his prince,his name, images and pictures ordered to be erased and destroyed out ofevery book, window and wall, and he himself summoned with grotesquesolemnity to answer the charges brought against him, his relics wereseized and burned, and--which was more to the point in the King's view,his shrine was stripped of its gold and jewels and vestments, which wereconveyed in a string of twenty-six carts to the King's treasury. Thefollowing year events were yet more terrible. The few great houses thatsurvived were one by one brought within reach of the King's hand; andthose that did not voluntarily surrender fell under the heavierpenalties of attainder. Abbot Whiting of Glastonbury was sent up toLondon in September, and two months later suffered on Tor hill withinsight of the monastery he had ruled so long and so justly; and on thesame day the Abbot of Reading suffered too outside his own gateway. Sixweeks afterwards Abbot Marshall, of Colchester, was also put to death.
* * * * *
It was a piteous life that devout persons led at this time; and few weremore unhappy than the household at Overfield. It was the more miserablebecause Lady Torridon herself was so entirely out of sympathy with theothers. While she was not often the actual bearer of ill news--for shehad neither sufficient strenuousness nor opportunity for it--it wasimpossible to doubt that she enjoyed its arrival.
They were all together at supper one warm summer evening when a servantcame in to announce that a monk of St. Swithun's was asking hospitality.Sir James glanced at his wife who sat with passive downcast face; andthen ordered the priest to be brought in.
He was a timid, tactless man who failed to grasp the situation, and whenthe wine and food had warmed his heart he began to talk a great deal toofreely, taking it for granted that all there were in sympathy with him.He addressed himself chiefly to Chris, who answered courteously; anddescribed the sacking of the shrine at some length.
"He had already set aside our cross called Hierusalem," cried the monk,his weak face looking infinitely pathetic with its mingled sorrow andanger, "and two of our gold chalices, to take them with him when hewent; and then with his knives and hammers, as the psalmist tells us, hehacked off the silver plates from the shrine. There was a fellow I knewvery well--he had been to me to confession two days before--who held acandle and laughed. And then when all was done; and that was not tillthree o'clock in the morning, one of the smiths tested the metal andcried out that there was not one piece of true gold in it all. And Mr.Pollard raged at us for it, and told us that our gold was as counterfeitas the rotten bones that we worshipped. But indeed there was plenty ofgold; and the man lied; for it was a very rich shrine. God's vengeancewill fall on them for their lies and their robbery. Is it not so,mistress?"
Lady Torridon lifted her eyes and looked at him. Her husband hastened tointerpose.
"Have you finished your wine, father?"
The monk seemed not to hear him; and his talk flowed on about thedestruction of the high altar and the spoiling of the reredos, which hadtaken place on the following days; and as he talked he filled hisVenetian glass more than once and drank it off; and his lantern facegrew flushed and his eyes animated. Chris saw that his mother waswatching the monk shrewdly and narrowly, and feared what might come. Butit was unavoidable.
"We poor monks," the priest cried presently, "shall soon be cast out tobeg our bread. The King's Grace--"
"Is not poverty one of the monastic vows?" put in Lady Torridonsuddenly, still looking steadily at his half-drunk glass.
"Why, yes, mistress; and the King's Grace is determined to make us keepit, it seems."
He lifted his glass and finished it; and put out his hand again to thebottle.
"But that is a good work, surely," smiled the other. "It will be surelya safeguard against surfeiting and drunkenness."
Sir James rose instantly.
"Come, father," he said to the staring monk, "you will be tired out, andwill want your bed."
A slow smile shone and faded on his wife's face as she rose and rustleddown the long hall.
* * * * *
Such incidents as this made life at Overfield very difficult for themall; it was hard for these sore hearts to be continually on the watchfor dangerous subjects, and only to be able to comfort one another whenthe mistress of the house was absent; but above all it was difficult forMargaret. She was nearly as silent as her mother, but infinitely moretender; and since the two were naturally together for the most part,except when the nun was at her long prayers, there were often verydifficult and painful incidents.
For the first eighteen months after her return her mother let heralone; but as time went on and the girl's resolution persevered, shebegan to be subjected to a distressing form of slight persecution.
For example: Chris and his father came in one day in the autumn from awalk through the priory garden that lay beyond the western moat. As theypassed in the level sunshine along the prim box-lined paths, and hadreached the centre where the dial stood, t
hey heard voices in thesummer-house that stood on the right behind a yew hedge.
Sir James hesitated a moment; and as he waited heard Margaret's voicewith a thrill of passion in it.
"I cannot listen to that, mother. It is wicked to say such things."
The two turned instantly, passed along the path and came round thecorner.
Margaret was standing with one hand on the little table, half-turned togo. Her eyes were alight with indignation, and her lips trembled. Hermother sat on the other side, her silver-handled stick beside her, andher hands folded serenely together.
Sir James looked from one to the other; and there fell a silence.
"Are you coming with us, Margaret?" he said.
The girl still hesitated a moment, glancing at her mother, and thenstepped out of the summer-house. Chris saw that bitter smile writhe anddie on the elder woman's face, but she said nothing.
Margaret burst out presently when they had crossed the moat and werecoming up to the long grey-towered house.
"I cannot bear such talk, father," she said, with her eyes bright withangry tears, "she was saying such things about Rusper, and how idle weall were there, and how foolish."
"You must not mind it, my darling. Your mother does not--does notunderstand."
"There was never any one like Mother Abbess," went on the girl. "I neversaw her idle or out of humour; and--and we were all so busy and happy."
Her eyes overflowed a moment; her father put his arm tenderly round hershoulders, and they went in together.
It was a terrible thing for Margaret to be thrown like this out of theone life that was a reality to her. As she looked back now it seemed asif the convent shone glorified and beautiful in a haze of grace. Thediscipline of the house had ordered and inspired the associations onwhich memories afterwards depend, and had excluded the discordant notesthat spoil the harmonies of secular life. The chapel, with its delicatewindows, its oak rails, its scent of flowers and incense, its tiledfloor, its single row of carved woodwork and the crosier by the Abbess'sseat, was a place of silence instinct with a Divine Presence thatradiated from the hanging pyx; it was these particular things, and notothers like them, that had been the scene of her romance with God, heraspirations, tendernesses, tears and joys. She had walked in the tinycloister with her Lover in her heart, and the glazed laurel-leaves thatrattled in the garth had been musical with His voice; it was in herlittle white cell that she had learned to sleep in His arms and to waketo the brightness of His Face. And now all this was dissipated. Therewere other associations with her home, of childish sorrows and passionsbefore she had known God, of hunting-parties and genial ruddy men whosmelt of fur and blood, of her mother's chilly steady presence--associations that jarred with the inner life; whereas in the conventthere had been nothing that was not redolent with efforts and rewards ofthe soul. Even without her mother life would have been hard enough nowat Overfield; with her it was nearly intolerable.
Chris, however, was able to do a good deal for the girl; for he hadsuffered in the same way; and had the advantage of a man's strength. Shecould talk to him as to no one else of the knowledge of the interiorvocation in both of them that persevered in spite of their ejection fromthe cloister; and he was able to remind her that the essence of theenclosure, under these circumstances, lay in the spirit and not inmaterial stones.
It was an advantage for Chris too to have her under his protection. Thefact that he had to teach her and remind her of facts that they bothknew, made them more real to himself; and to him as to her there camegradually a kind of sorrow-shot contentment that deepened month by monthin spite of their strange and distracting surroundings.
But he was not wholly happy about her; she was silent and lonelysometimes; he began to see what an immense advantage it would be to herin the peculiarly difficult circumstances of the time, to have some oneof her own sex and sympathies at hand. But he did not see how it couldbe arranged. For the present it was impossible for her to enter theReligious Life, except by going abroad; and so long as there was thefaintest hope of the convents being restored in England, both she andher father and brother shrank from the step. And the hope was increasedby the issue of the Six Articles in the following May, by whichTransubstantiation was declared to be a revealed dogma, to be held onpenalty of death by burning; and communion in one kind, the celibacy ofthe clergy, the perpetuity of the vow of chastity, private masses, andauricular confession were alike ratified as parts of the Faith held bythe Church of which Henry had made himself head.
Yet as time went on, and there were no signs of the restoration of theReligious Houses, Chris began to wonder again as to what was best forMargaret. Perhaps until matters developed it would be well for her tohave some friend in whom she could confide, even if only to relax thestrain for a few weeks. He went to his father one day in the autumn andlaid his views before him.
Sir James nodded and seemed to understand.
"Do you think Mary would be of any service?"
Chris hesitated.
"Yes, sir, I think so--but--"
His father looked at him.
"It is a stranger I think that would help her more. Perhaps anothernun--?"
"My dear lad, I dare not ask another nun. Your mother--"
"I know," said Chris.
"Well, I will think of it," said the other.
A couple of days later Sir James took him aside after supper into hisown private room.
"Chris," he said, "I have been thinking of what you said. And Mary shallcertainly come here for Christmas, with Nick; but--but there is someoneelse too I would like to ask."
He looked at his son with an odd expression.
Chris could not imagine what this meant.
"It is Mistress Atherton," went on the other. "You see you know her alittle--at least you have seen her; and there is Ralph. And from allthat I have heard of her--her friendship with Master More and the rest,I think she might be the very friend for poor Meg. Do you think shewould come, Chris?"
Chris was silent. He could not yet fully dissociate the thought ofBeatrice from the memory of the time when she had taken Ralph's part.Besides, was it possible to ask her under the circumstances?
"Then there was one more thing that I never told you;" went on hisfather, "there was no use in it. But I went to see Mistress Athertonwhen she was betrothed to Ralph. I saw her in London; and I think I maysay we made friends. And she has very few now; she keeps herself aloof.Folks are afraid of her too. I think it would be a kindness to her. Icould not understand how she could marry Ralph; and now that isexplained."
Chris was startled by this news. His father had not breathed a word ofit before.
"She made me promise," went on Sir James, "to tell her if Ralph didanything unworthy. It was after the first news had reached her of whatthe Visitors were doing. And I told her, of course, about Rusper. Ithink we owe her something. And I think too from what I saw of her thatshe might make her way with your mother."
"It might succeed," said Chris doubtfully, "but it is surely difficultfor her to come--"
"I know--yes--with Ralph and her betrothal. But if we can ask her,surely she can come. I can tell her how much we need her. I would sendMeg to Great Keynes, if I dared, but I dare not. It is not so safe thereas here; she had best keep quiet."
They talked about it a few minutes more, and Chris became more inclinedto it. From what he remembered of Beatrice and the impression that shehad made on him in those few fierce minutes in Ralph's house he began tosee that she would probably be able to hold her own; and if onlyMargaret would take to her, the elder girl might be of great service inestablishing the younger. It was an odd and rather piquant idea, andgradually took hold of his imagination. It was a very extreme step totake, considering that she had broken off her betrothal to the eldestson of the house; but against that was set the fact that she would notmeet him there; and that her presence would be really valued by at leastfour-fifths of the household.
It was decided that Lady Torridon should be
told immediately; and a dayor two later Sir James came to Chris in the garden to tell him that shehad consented.
"I do not understand it at all," said the old man, "but your motherseemed very willing. I wonder--"
And then he stopped abruptly.
The letter was sent. Chris saw it and the strong appeal it containedthat Beatrice should come to the aid of a nun who was pining for want ofcompanionship. A day or two later brought down the answer that MistressAtherton would have great pleasure in coming a week before Christmas.
* * * * *
Margaret had a fit of shyness when the day came for her arrival. It wasa clear frosty afternoon, with a keen turquoise sky overhead, and shewandered out in her habit down the slope to the moat, crossed thebridge, glancing at the thin ice and the sedge that pierced it, and cameup into the private garden. She knew she could hear the sounds of wheelsfrom there, and had an instinctive shrinking from being at the housewhen the stranger arrived.
The grass walks were crisp to the foot; the plants in the deep bedsrested in a rigid stillness with a black blossom or two drooping hereand there; and the hollies beyond the yew hedge lifted masses of greenlit by scarlet against the pale sky. Her breath went up like smoke asshe walked softly up and down.
There was no sound to disturb her. Once she heard the clink of theblacksmith's forge half a mile away in the village; once a blackbirddashed chattering from a hedge, scudded in a long dip, and rose againover it; a robin followed her in brisk hops, with a kind of patheticimpertinence in his round eye, as he wondered whether this humancreature's footsteps would not break the iron armour of the ground andgive him a chance to live.
She wondered a thousand things as she went; what kind of a woman thiswas that was coming, how she would look, why she had not married Ralph,and above all, whether she understood--whether she understood!
A kind of frost had fallen on her own soul; she could find no sustenancethere; it was all there, she knew, all the mysterious life that hadrioted within her like spring, in the convent, breathing its fragrances,bewildering in its wealth of shape and colour. But an icy breath hadpetrified it all; it had sunk down out of sight; it needed a soul likeher own, feminine and sympathetic, a soul that had experienced the samethings as her own, that knew the tenderness and love of the Saviour, tomelt that frigid covering and draw out the essences and sweetness again,that lay there paralysed by this icy environment....
There were wheels at last.
She gathered up her black skirt, and ran to the edge of the low yewsthat bounded the garden on the north; and as she caught a glimpse of thenodding heads of the postilions, the plumes of their mounts, and thegreat carriage-roof swaying in the iron ruts, she shrank back again, inan agony of shyness, terrified of being seen.
The sky had deepened to flaming orange in the west, barred by the tallpines, before she unlatched the garden-gate to go back to the house.
The windows shone out bright and inviting from the parlour on theground-floor and from beneath the high gable of the hall as she came upthe slope. Mistress Atherton, she knew, would be in one of these roomsif she had not already gone up stairs; and with an instinct of shynessstill strong within her the girl slipped round to the back, and passedin through the chapel.
The court was lighted by a link that flared beside one of the doorwayson the left, and a couple of great trunks lay below it. A servant cameout as she stood there hesitating, and she called to him softly to knowwhere was Mistress Atherton.
"She is in the parlour, Mistress Margaret," said the man.
The girl went slowly across to the corner doorway, glancing at theparlour windows as she passed; but the curtains were drawn on this side,and she could catch no glimpse of the party within.
The little entrance passage was dark; but she could hear a murmur ofvoices as she stood there, still hesitating. Then she opened the doorsuddenly, and went into the room.
Her mother was speaking; and the girl heard those icy detached tones asshe looked round the group.
"It must be very difficult for you, Mistress Atherton, in these days."
Margaret saw her father standing at the window-seat, and Chris besidehim; and in a moment saw that the faces of both were troubled anduneasy.
A tall girl was in the chair opposite, her hands lying easily on thearms and her head thrown back almost negligently. She was well dressed,with furs about her throat; her buckled feet were crossed before theblaze, and her fingers shone with jewels. Her face was pale; herscarlet lips were smiling, and there was a certain keen and genialamusement in her black eyes.
She looked magnificent, thought Margaret, still standing with her handon the door--too magnificent.
Her father made a movement, it seemed of relief, as his daughter camein; but Lady Torridon, very upright in her chair on this side, went onimmediately.
--"With your opinions, Mistress Atherton, I mean. I suppose all that youconsider sacred is being insulted, in your eyes."
The tall girl glanced at Margaret with the amusement still in her face,and then answered with a deliberate incisiveness that equalled LadyTorridon's own.
"Not so difficult," she said, "as for those who have no opinions."
There was a momentary pause; and then she added, as she stood up and SirJames came forward.
"I am very sorry for them, Mistress Torridon."
Before Lady Torridon could answer, Sir James had broken in.
"This is my daughter Margaret, Mistress Atherton."
The two ladies saluted one another.