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(ALES OF ENGLISH HIsnORY.
By Wvelyn Bverett=Green
eR ae
THE CHURCH AND THE KING. A Tale of. England in the Days of
Henry VIII. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Price 5s.
LOYAL HEARTS AND TRUE. A Tale of England in the Days of Queen
Elizabeth. Crown 8vo, cloth extra. Price 5s.
THE LORD OF DYNEVOR. A Tale of the Times of Edward I. Post
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IN THE WARS OF THE ROSES. Post 8vo, cloth extra. Price 25. 6d.
T. NxeLson anp Sons, London, Edinburgh, and New York.
Cs
ESE Ve Reicha Ge EIN
HENRY VUL
AUSINE HSS ORNS ASE SONS
EOIN EON, TT aT ier we NR ay,
lhe Church
and the King
A Tale of England im the Days of
flenry VIII,
By
ee
‘EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN-
Author of “In the Wars f the Roses," “The Lord of Dynevor,â€
“Loyal Hearts and True,†“ Temple's Trial,â€
“ Dulcie’s Little Brother,â€
ECC,
ZT NELSON AND SONS
London, Edinburgh, and New York
2892 :
It.
III.
Ty,
Vv.
VI.
VII.
VILL.
IX,
Xx.
XL
AIT.
XIII.
XIV.
XY.
XVL
XVII,
XVIIL
XIX,
XX,
XXI.
EX ontents.
THE SIGN OF THE WIITE Wor,
THE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS,
WIERWOLD HALL,
HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE,
IN HIS FATHER’S II0USE,
GUY’S RESOLVE,
THE CLAIMS OF KIN,
ERMENGARDE,
CONSPIRACY,
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK,
SIR KENNETH,
IN THE HOUSE OF THR GARTHS,
THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED TEART,
THE ‘“ LUBBER-FIEND,â€
FATHER AND SON,
MONK FRYSTONE,
FAREWELL TO THIE OLD LIFE,
LONDON AND ITS KING,
THE KING’S COURT,
TIE DANCE OF DEATII,
WITHIN TILE CLOISTER,
347
366
384
405
Vill
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXXVI,
XXVII
XXVIIT-
XNXIX,
CONTENTS,
A TERRIBLE NIGHT,
THE MARTYR MONK,
NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED, HGS
THE HERALD OF THE STORM, ave
THE PILGRIMAGE OF GRACE,
THE ABDUCTION OF ERMENGARDE,
THE FATE OF THE FALCONERS,
TIIE MIND OF THE KING,
THE CHURCH AND THE KING.
CHAPTER I.
THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLF
is RAVELLERS on the road, Guy! They are e’en
L now crossing the Ferry in old Charon’s punt.
Belike they will pause here for the night, secing that the
daylight is on the wane. They have servants and are well
mounted, and make a brave show. I saw them at the
Ferry as I was crossing the fields. "Tis bitter cold. Me-
thinks they will be glad enough to turn in hither. The
glow from our windows looks right cheery over the white
snow. Leave thy book, Guy, and come out and let us
watch for them together.â€
“With all my heart,’ answered the second lad, springing
up from the rude bench in the Inn parlour snugly ensconced
within the warm ingle-nook, and thrusting the small
volume over which his head had been bent into the breast
of his doublet. He tossed on his cap, which lay beside
him on the table, and stepped out first into a flagoed
10 THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLFE
entry, and then into the chill, evisp coldness of a showy
December evening. -
“Cold!†he exclaimed, half laughing, as the keen
northerly air met his fire-scorched cheek ; “ ay, marry ib is
cold enough, in good sooth. If this goes on, old Charon’s
trade will soon be gone, and travellers will ride their steeds
over the river when and where they please. I warrant me
that no travellers will pass the door of the White Wolf after
sundown on such a night as this. Why, they might well
freeze in their saddles as they picked their way along the
snow-bound road. "Tis bad enough travelling by day; he
will be bold indeed who will brave the forest paths by
night.â€
The cold was indeed piercing, but the two Yorkshire-
born lads did not appear to heed it much as they stood
together before the door of the Inn, looking along the road
in the direction from which travellers from the Ferry might
be expected. They were dressed exactly alike in suits of
home-made homespun, with hose to match, and leather
jerkins which showed signs of having done service in their
day. Each lad wore in his belt a short, sharp hunting-
knife—a weapon of some kind being generally carried by
almost all classes of persons in these wilder regions of the
country—and the only difference to be observed between
the two in their dress was that Guy wore a small ruff of
plaited linen round his throat, whilst Diccon’s neck was
bare, and tanned a deep brown by exposure to sun and
wind. As the two lads stood thus together at the Inn door,
a casual observer would have supposed them to be brothers,
THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLE Il
but a closer scrutiny of their features and their bearing
might have done something to dispel that impression.
Diccon Holt, the son of the jolly Inn-keeper Nicholas
Holt, a right popular man in these parts, was a small copy of
his rubicund and jovial sire. His honest round face, with
features of an indeterminate but thoroughly English char-
acter, wore an expression of cheerful contentment and easy-
going kindliness which won him general good-will as well
as the friendship of his comrades and the travellers who
passed to and fro upon the road. lt was never a trouble
to him to do anything for anybody. He would tumble
out of his warm bed at night with the greatest good-will in
the world to saddle a horse and speed a parting guest, or
receive a late comer who had not succeeded in rousing the
sleepy hostler. He was always ready to amuse a party of
travellers with his gossiping stories, or to ride along the road
with them to put them in the way they wished to go. In
fact he was a thorough and complete child of the Inn, born
and bred to the life, and he had no greater ambition than.
to succeed some day to his father’s calling, and to remain a
fixture at the White Wolf in some capacity or other. And
something of this good-humoured complacency seemed to
be stamped upon his face and form, for he looked entirely
in his right place as he stood thus before his father’s door.
But of his companion the same could scarce be said; for
Guy Faleoner was cast in a different mould, and looked
something like a youne eaglet reared by some strange
chance in the nest of a barn-door hen.
As the lad stood there, in the clear light of the red
12 THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLF
December sunset, an artist or a physiognomist would have
been struck by thé power as well as by the beauty of the
face. Guy’s features were exceedingly good, and were very
finely and clearly cut: the brow wide and square; the
eyes, set rather far apart, well opened, shaded by dark,
curling lashes, their own colour a dark vivid blue, which in
moments of excitement looked almost black ; a firm, short,
straight nose, with well-opened nostrils, which had a trick
of dilating like those of a high-bred horse; a mouth full
and sweet, with a short upper lip, disclosing very white,
even teeth; and a small, square chin, expressive of resolu-
tion and firmness. These features, combined with a slight,
well-proportioned figure, a naturally commanding bearing,
and an air which would in these days be pronounced “ dis-
tinguished,†seemed to raise the lad above his surroundings,
although there was not either in hig face or in his voice
when he spoke a trace of discontent or hauteur, or any
indication of dissatisfaction with the home which sheltcred
him or with the persons with whom his life was spent.
It had indeed never occurred to Guy to find any fault
with either the one or the other. Although he knew him-
self as the foster-son of the Holts only—-knew that his
own father, Sir Ralph Falconer, lived at Wierwold Hall,
not more than five-and-twenty miles away, though he
had never seen the place himself, having been removed to
the care of Mistress Bridget Holt (then a servant upon the
place like her husband) almost as soon as he first drew
breath—he had never longed after his own home or kindred,
but had been more than content to remain where he was;
THE SIGN OF THE IWHITE. WOLF. 13
and his foster-parents, who loved him hardly second to
their own Diccon, only looked forward with dread to the
summons, which never came, for the boy to be sent to the
Hall.
Yet there was a very sufficient reason why this sum-
mons was delayed and delayed, until Guy had well-nigh
forgotten he was aught but Bridget Holt’s own child.
Hardly had the days of mourning for the first Lady Fal-
coner (who had died at Guy’s birth) been accomplished
before her place was taken by another—the retainers of
Wierwold Hall declared that their poor master had been
resularly entrapped into the marriage by the haughty
beauty who now ruled his house with a rod of iron; and
this second Lady Falconer had expressed a determination
from the first to have no concern with a “puling babe,â€
desiring that he should remain where he was, and hoping
that even his father would in time forget his very
existence.
Sir Ralph, who, if report speaks truth, was quickly en-
lightened as to the character of his second spouse, and was
bitterly sorry he had ever married her, was glad enough
that his second son should be safely removed from her
tyranny and caprice. His eldest son Geoffrey and his
daughter Ermengarde were of necessity subject to her
tender mercies, and he was unable to disguise from himself
the fact that she hated them with a steady, unwavering
hatred, which only increased with the birth of children of
her own, in whose light, according to her fashion of think-
ing, these elder children stood. There was little enough
t4 THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLF
reason why the father should bring Guy home to such a
step-dame’s care. He had established Nicholas and his
wife at the Inn (which was his property), and felt that the
lad was far happier and safer under their charge than he
would be at home. He did not go to see him. He believed
it better, whilst Guy remained where he was, that there
should be no connection at all between him and those at
Wierwold Hall. Probably he just knew himself as a son
of that house, but it would be better that nothing should
be said or done which might rouse within him the desire
to see himself acknowledged, and so draw upon himself the
malignity of his unknown step-mother. Thus reasoned the
father; and so time had fled by until he himself scarce
remembered that he had another son, whilst amongst the
kindred and friends of the Falconer family it was reported
that the infant had died with his mother—-a report which
the second Lady Falconer took care should be widely:
spread. She was resolved that if after his father’s death
he had the hardihood to put in a claim, he should have the
utmost difficulty in proving his right to the name he pro-
fessed to bear. Meantime his education and all other
expenses were amply paid for out of the funds of the Inn,
which the Holts held rent free so long as Guy remained
their charge. They had almost forgotten that it was not
actually their own property, although they religiously ex-
pended everything needful upon the boy, and secured for
him, through the good Brothers of a neighbouring monas-
tery, such an education as would fit him for his rightful
station in life, if ever he should be called to fill it.
THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLF. 15
All this Guy vaguely knew, without the knowledge
having ever taken any great hold upon him. He was
happy in the freedom and variety of the life at the Inn; he
had so far never desired to change it for any other. He
loved his foster-parents, Diecon was as a brother to him,
and the unknown erandeurs of Wierwold Hall failed to
exercise any fascination upon him. Not without dreams
and aspirations of his own, he was yet resolved to carve
out fame and fortune for himself. He was glad to know
that the blood of soldiers and nobles ran in his veins, but
for the rest he was content to win by his own prowess any
distinction which might come in his way. He had read
enough to stuff his own and his foster-brother’s head full
of tales of chivalry and romance, and to win the spurs of
knighthood was the dream of his boyish ambition, whilst
Diccon would be quite content to ride behind, and fill the
station of humble esquire.
Yet, as they stood together in the clear cold evening
light, a casual observer would have called them brothers,
and have decided that both were sons of the house. The
Inn itself was a charming old place—one of those ancient
hostelries which have well-nigh ceased to exist now. It
had a long, low frontage to the road, richly decorated by
carving in wood, and with great black beams of oak cross-
ing and recrossing in a species of network, and forming a
marked contrast to the whitewashed walls. The carving
was chiefly confined to the lintel and door-posts, and to the
gallery which ran along the one upper story of the house,
but it cropped out here and again in the crossing of the
16 THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLF:
beams, whilst a grinning griffin head ornamented the top of
the archway leading to the court-yard round which the Inn
was built, and where a great horse-block and rows of stalls
for horses showed that mounted travellers were frequent
along the road, and that the White Wolf was a favourite
halting-place both for man and beast. The roof was
thatched, and shone yellow and brown in the light of the
saffron sunset. The latticed windows gave out a ruddy
gleam which told of blazing fires within doors; and upon
this winter’s evening, when the ground lay a foot deep
in fresh-fallen snow, such a sight must have been wel-
come indeed to weary travellers and their patient, tired
horses.
“T trow none will willingly pass by the doors of the
White Wolf to-night,†said Guy, glancing up at the rudely-
painted sion which hung above their heads, groaning every
now and then as it swung to and fro in the breeze. “ Hast
thou told thy mother that travellers are on the road,
Diccon? I warrant me they will come in as hungry as
huntsmen, and will not care to tarry long for their supper.â€
“ Ay, I told her before I summoned thee, and there are
a pair of fat capons at the fire now, to say nothing of the
pics and pasties the wenches have been making all the
day. It would make thee hungry thyself to put nose
inside the kitchen door. But hist! here come the fore-
most riders. A brace of gallant gentlemen, in all truth.
Thinkest thou not so?â€
Habit and practice had given the lads a pretty sound
diserimination as to the rank and the following of the
(322)
LHE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLFE 14
guests who passed to and fro along the great London and
York road. The gentlemen now approaching were stran-
gers to the lads, but they saw at once that they were men
of station and substance, not mere “ swash-bucklers †or
roisterers ; and that though they were plainly habited, and
their attendants were not numerous, they were guests of
the right sort, who would eat and drink without indulging
in unseemly revelry, and would pay their reckoning in
solid coin before they left in the morning,
The two gentlemen were some distance in advance of
their attendants, who had crossed the Ferry later. They
had reached the Inn before the latter had more than
crested the little hill from the river, and ag they drew
rein before the door, the: two lads stepped forth with
alacrity, and stood each at the head of one of the horses,
a ready “Good-even, fair sir,†upon their lips.
“ Good-even, good lads,†was the ready response. “Canst
tell, boy, if there be lodging within for man and beast, for
a company of some half-score? We have ridden far to-
day, and the roads are heavy for the poor beasts. Can
the White Wolf harbour us for the night ?â€
“Ay, that it can,’ answered Diccon eagerly; “and
though I say it, I warrant you will not find softer beds or
better fare anywhere betwixt this and London, if you find
it there—Guy, show the gentlemen to the pazlour, and I
will take the horses to their stable-—My father will be
here anon. He has but just descended to the cellar for a
measure of his best canary. We had seen you on the roacl,
and my mother is a rare good hand at the spiced drinks
(392) 2
18 THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLFE
which keep the cold away; she will have it ready for
your worships in a trice.â€
“The sooner the better, good lad,†answered the gentle-
men, who had swung themselves down from their saddles,
and were stretching their cramped limbs and lifting their
saddle-bags down.— Methinks we did well, Ranulph, to
push on over the Ferry to-day. That last halting-place
was a villanous-looking house. You were right in think-
ing we should find better cheer here.â€
“Ay, I had a shrewd notion we should do well to
proceed. It is long since I have been in these parts, yet
I felt certain I had been a guest at some such hospitable
house as this before-—Lead on, boy, and we will follow.—
It seems that they understand the art of fire-making in
these parts. What a thing it is to stand beside such a
blaze after a ride like ours!â€
Guy had shown the way into the parlour, where the
great log fire blazed upon the open hearth. The table had
already been laid with a clean though coarse cloth, and
the trenchers and so forth set in order upon it. And the
next moment in came Nicholas Holt himself, his broad face
beaming like a rising sun, seen as it was through the
steam of the tankard of spiced wine he was bearing,
and very welcome to the eyes of tired travellers was the
sight he presented and the cup of which he begged them
to partake.
Whilst the host and his guests chatted amicably together
over the state of the roads, the severity of the cold, and
the distance the travellers had come, Guy stood a little
THE SIGN OF THE WHITE IWOLE 19
apart taking note of their dress, bearing, and speech, and
came to the conclusion that both were soldiers, and both
men of gentle birth, though, as he presently discovered,
only one of the pair had won the spurs of knighthood.
Sir Kenneth Fane was the elder of the two riders, a
man of some five-and-twenty summers, with a tall, erect
figure, well set off by his handsome riding-dress, and a
pair of keen, dark eyes, that matched his raven hair and
the drooping moustache which concealed the mouth. His
companion, Ranulph Ogleby, was fair-haired and more
boyish-looking, but strongly made and muscular. It ap-
peared in conversation that their friendship was but of
recent growth and only dated back a few days, when they
had discovered upon the road that both were bent for the
same spot——at least within a score of miles—and they had
resolved to unite their forces and travel in company.
“And methinks we cannot be far from our goal,†said
Ranulph, in the course of the discussion —* Say, good mine
host, is there not a place by name Wierwold Hall not far
hence, owned by one Sir Ralph Falconer, a gallant knight
of the King’s own making ?â€
Guy started involuntarily as he heard this question, and
fixed his eyes on the speaker.
“Ay, verily, and a right goodly gentleman he is, as none
know better than IJ, seeing that I was born and brought
up at Wierwold Hall. But if rumour speaketh truth, he
has fallen something into disfavour with the King’s Majesty
of late. It is long since he has been summoned to the
Court, aud——â€
20 THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLF
“Oh, as for that, times are changing fast in these hurry -
ing days,†answered Sir Kenneth, as he seated himself at
the table, which was being rapidly furnished with appetizing
viands. “I suppose Sir Ralph is one of those who hold
stanchly to the old opinions and the ‘old religion,’ as it is
the fashion in some quarters to call it. He has, doubtless,
sided with the hapless Queen Catherine through the matter
of the divorce, and those who have done so are scarce
likely to be welcomed at the Court over which our lovely
Queen, Anne Boleyn, presides.—Ranulph, it will behove
thee to speak seriously with thy kinsman and host that he
trim his sails more carefully to the wind; for if I mistake
me not, such a storm is brewing over this land as has
never been seen or thought on before.â€
“Now soothly that is what we hear on every hand,â€
quoth Nicholas, as he raised the cover from the dish the
serving-wench had just brought in, and began carving the
capons with no sparing hand. “No matter from whence
he comes, or whither he goes, or what be his station in
life, the same tale is in every man’s mouth — change,
change, change; the downfall of old customs and habits,
the uprising of notions that erst would have made all
godly folk cross themselves in pious horror. Speak, good
gentlemen, and tell us what it all portends; for verily we
of these country parts are sorely perplexed and ofttimes
troubled by it all.â€
“As also are we from the heart of the royal city,â€
answered Ranulph, with a laugh and a shrug of the shoul-
ders. “We none of us dare to say what will betide us ere
THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLE 21
the next moon comes and goes. But this much we do know,
that the King’s Majesty has some great scheme in his royal
brain which is like to change the face of England as it hath
never been changed by monarch before. Men are to have
the right to think for themselves. Holy Chureh is no
longer to bind their consciences as heretofore, and the word
of his Holiness the Pope is no longer to have sway in this
land. Whether or not the King will be himself a second
Pope—bhinding men’s consciences and ruling even the
Church herself{—remains yet to be seen, but there are those
who declare that—â€
“ Hist, Ranulph! speak not over-boldly,†said Sir Kenneth
with a smile. “These are days in the which it behoves
men to walk warily, which good lesson thou hadst best
instil into the mind of thy good host at Wierwold Hall.—
And now tell me, good Master Nicholas, is there not an-
other house in these parts owned by my Lord Osbaldistone
—Heatheliffe Castle is its name? We have made out, this
friend of mine and I, that it cannot be very far away from
Wierwold Hall, whither he is bent.â€
Guy approached a step nearer, and threw a meaning
glance at Diccon, who responded with a knowing wink.
Both lads were in attendance upon the guests, and their
presence in the room raised no comment or question, but
Guy was paying far more heed to the talk that went on
than to his duties as drawer or waiter.
“Ay, ay,†returned Nicholas readily, “ Heathcliffe Castle
is none so far away. It lies a matter of a dozen good
miles from here, and Wierwold Hall something over
22 THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLE
twenty.†Then the landlord hesitated for a moment, and
added after a pause, “But there is a long-standing enmity
between the dwellers at Heathcliffe and Wierwold, and if
you two gentlemen are going thither respectively, you had
best make your adieus in good time, You will not mect
again when once it is known that you lodge in the rival
houses.â€
“Rival houses! this is interesting,†said Sir Kenneth,
laughing.—* Ranulph, we must know more of this—
Wherefore, then, comes this vivalry, and what is its ob-
ject? My Lord Osbaldistone is high in favour with the
King’s Majesty. He obtained the wardship of my sister,
Mistress Beatrice Fane, to see whom is the main object
of my visit to these parts. Tell me, good mine host,
what is his quarrel with Sir Ralph, and when did it
begin ?â€
“Marry that is more than I ean tell, or any in this coun-
try-side. It hath been a quarrel of long standing, handed
down from father to gon, so long as Falconers and Osbaldi-
stones have been in these parts. Methinks it now rests
chiefly with my Lord Osbaldistone, who has set covetous
eyes upon the fair lands surrounding Wierwold Hall, and
would fain make them his own. He has amassed much
land of late. The King has given him grants of land, they
say, and now his property extends up to the very confines
of Wierwold Hall. It is said that he is resolved to possess
that too ere he has done, but I know not the truth of such
tales. It is long since I have been five miles trom mine
own doors. Much do I hear from the mouths of others,
THE SIGN OF THE IWWHITE WOLF 2
3
but it is little I should like to vouch for as to the truth
of these same reports.â€
The travellers appeared interested in all that was said,
and exchanged smiling glances.
“So we are to step into the midst of a long-standing
feud,†said Sir Kenneth. “This savours of the days of
romance, which some men say have gone by for ever.
What wilt thou lay, good comrade, that I pay thee not
a visit in the stronghold of the foe? It were a merry
pastime, m sooth, thus to meet, and to learn for ourselves
the truth of these same reports of which our good host
has spoken.â€
“Ay, and he speaks no more than the truth,†answered
Ranulph. “TI remember now, albeit it had escaped me
heretofore, that there was a bitter feud betwixt Wierwold
and Heatheliffe. It is so many long years since I was in
these parts that the matter had passed out of my thoughts,
but I well recall it now. Methinks, good Kenncth, thou
wilt scarce obtain entrance at Wierwold Hall if thou comest
from the castle of the foe.â€
“And yet my purpose holds to come,†answered Kenneth,
with that smile of conscious power which had from the
first attracted Guy. “I mean to come and to win mysclf
a welcome.—Say, mine host, are not all travellers received
with kindliness in these parts? And are there not to be
such gay doings at Wierwold as will secure to all comers
a joyous welcome ?â€
“Nay, now, I know not that, unless you speak of the
merry Christmas-tide, which is kept by high and low as a
24 LAE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLF. .
season of hich revel. Ay, sir, at Christmas all honest folk
ave made welcome to bed and board whatever their degree,
so long as they will help on the festive merriment of the
season. Tew questions are asked, and good-will is the
order of the day. Even a foe might haply find a weleome
at such a time as that.â€
“Ay, and it is not Christmas alone that will be thus
celebrated at Wierwold Hall,†answered Ranulph, “but
the coming of age of the heir, my young kinsman, Geoffrey
Falconer. It is to help to do him honour: that I have
travelled thus far to be present on the day. He first saw
the light on Christmas-eve, methinks ; wherefore on this
particular festival high revel is to be kept, at the which I
have long purposed to be present.â€
“Why, verily, that is sooth,†answered Nicholas reflect-
ively, rubbing his head. « Ay, I mind me well the showy
Christmas-tide when the heir was born. It must indeed
be just one-and-twenty years agone by now. And so they
are to keep the day right jovially! Well, I am glad to
know that it will be so, I had feared such festivities
would be little to the liking of her proud ladyship—â€
But at that point the man pulled up short, as if uncer-
tain of the wisdom of proceeding. It might not be safe
to gossip too freely of the Falconer family to one who was
bound for that house.
But Ranulph looked up quickly.
“Nay, now, be not afraid to speak, I have some notion
of thy meaning. What do they say of this second Lady
Falconer? She is no kindred of mine. Thou needest not
THE SIGN OF THE IWHITE WOLF 25
fear to speak. I have heard a whisper ere this that she
bears no tender love to those to whom she should stand in
the mother’s place.â€
“ Ay—that is what folks say—-she would fain see her
own son, the lad Ralph, in the place of heir of Wier-
wold. Mayhap such feeling is but natural in a mother;
still there is a whisper that it bodeth no good to the heir
himself. But it is only by hearsay that I speak. I have
had no knowledge of the place since the sweet lady dicd
who was the only mistress I ever knew there.â€
“But surely there is another son standing betwixt
young Ralph and the heirship?†remarked Ranulph, with
a reflective look. “Did not the first Lady Falconer die in
giving birth to’a son? What has become of that lad ?
Has he died likewise? I know so little of the matters
pertaining to the Falconers of late years, that I might well
have remained in ignorance had they lost a son.â€
Nicholas Holt coughed behind his hand, and stole a
‘glance at Guy, whose face had crimsoned over. It was
rather a difficult question to answer, the worthy man be-
ing uncertain how far Sir Ralph wished the lad’s identity
to be concealed from his present lady. It had sometimes
occurred to him that he might have some motive in thus
ignoring his boy, and if this were the case the secret ought
not to be too readily betrayed.
“Marry there is no second son living at Wierwold, save
only the youthful Ralph,†he said, after a perceptible pause.
“ But there is a fair daughter—the sweet Mistress Ermen-
garde, of whom all speak in high praise both for her
20 THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLF.
beauty and her saintly life. It is said that she will
shortly take the veil in some convent hard by; but I
know not with what truth men speak thus.â€
“Doubtless the step-dame would like well enough to
sec her there,†said Sir Kenneth, who had listened with
interest to this story. “But these are scarce the days for
young maidens to enter the religious life. If what men
say is coming come, there may soon be no religious houses
left in the land. The King, it is rumoured, has been
mightily stirred by what he has heard respecting the lives
of those who have taken the vows, and purposes to make
strict inquisition into the truth of the report. Men say
that matters will not end, as in past days, with mere ad-
monition, and here and there a fine. It is rumoured that
such houses as have fallen from their high estate will be
swept from off the face of the land; and it will be ill
indeed for those who have found shelter within their
walls,â€
The lads exchanged wondering elances, and Nicholas
crossed himself as though he had heard some blasphemy.
Despite the leaven of the new opinions, and the wave of
freedom of thought which was beginning to be felt through-
out the length and the breadth of the land, the traditions
and belietis of centuries were deeply rooted in men’s minds,
whilst matters which in London were being freely discussed
had not even been whispered abroad in the remotey parts
of the country. To speak a word against the religious
houses or the religious life seemed like rank heresy ; and
although men were beginning to read the Scriptures and to
THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLE 25
think for themselves as they had never done before, still
the name of heretic was odious to them, and they hugged
the phantom they spoke of under the name of Holy Chureli
long after they had come to see that the holiness had well-
nigh departed from her, and that the Church was some-
thing altogether broader and wider than they themselves
had ever dreamed of hitherto.
“Nay, now, the saints and the Holy Virgin protect us
from such a peril as that,†quoth the Inn-keeper piously.
“What would become of the poor and needy, the sick and
the dying, were our houses of religion to be closed? His
blessed Majesty can never lend his aid to such a deed.
Men said it was bad enough when he brought upon the
whole land an interdict from his Holiness the Pope (not
that I myself have been able to see that we have been a
penny the worse for it, to be sure); but to sweep away
our religious houses! for sure men must be dreaming to
think of such a thing. Why, the whole country would be
inarms. “T'would be a terrible thing.â€
Sir Kenneth laughed lightly. “Ah good mine host,
many things are done by slow degrees that men have
deemed impossible beforehand. But whatever may befall
in the future, take you this to heart, our bold King Hal
knows mightily well what he is about. He will not
plunge the kingdom into war for nothing. He has the
heart of a lion, but the head of a statesman. He has the
good of the nation at heart as perhaps no prince has had
it before. He who now styles himself the Head of the
Church will surely have the good of that Church steadily
28 THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLF.
before him in the policy he elects to pursue, be it what
it may.â€
By this it may be seen that Sir Kenneth was a man of
what may be styled very “advanced views†for the age
in which he lived, and that he could contemplate with
a certain exultation the prospective changes which were
making others shake with dread and rage, and were
causing a quiver of horror to pass through the minds
even of some amongst those who had drunk deeply at
the fountain of the new and as yet barely authorized
fountains of knowledge. Nicholas Holt himself was a
man who was well used to the airing of all shades of
opinion, and he had a decided leaning towards the re-
formed faith, although he had made no open schism from
the authorized Church. But he had never heard any one
of rank and knowledge speak in quite such a free way of
abuses and reform, and he felt rather as though a glass of
cold water had been suddenly dashed in his face.
Yorkshire, with its strongholds of monasticism at Selby
and York, was Papist to the core as regards the mass of
the people; and though Lord Osbaldistone had set the
example of blind adhesion to whatever the King might
say or do, the lower orders had barely awakened to the
consciousness that changes of some kind were impending.
And with the stolid conservatism which has been the
backbone of the English constitution from earliest times,
they tacitly and sullenly resolved to repel innovation, and
to stand by the traditions of their forefathers, whether or
not they understood them, or could be made to see that
THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLF 29
abuses had gathered about them which required strong
measures for their arrest.
Meantime, whilst Nicholas and Sir Kenneth chatted to-
gether on questions of public import, Guy had drawn
nearer to the other traveller, and was asking tentative
questions about Wierwold Hall and its inhabitants. Often
for months together he never thought of his ancestral
home. Of late years he had almost ceased to regard him-
self as aught but the son of the Inn. But something in
the words lately spoken had aroused in him a sudden and
vivid interest. Nicholas Holt had never spoken so openly
in his hearing before of the step-mother and her inunical
feelings towards his brother Geoffrey. Hitherto that
brother had been but a name to, him; now he suddenly
felt a kindling of interest in him. Was he in some
danger? Would the haughty step-dame try to make
away with him by some secreb machinations? In those
days sudden and mysterious deaths, said to be due to
poison, were by no means unfrequent.
woman might with small difficulty accomplish such a deed
were her mind set upon it. As he sat and chatted with
Ranulph, who appeared to take a decided liking to this
bright-faced, intelligent lad, he grew more and more in-
terested in what he heard. For the first time in his life
he began to entertain a wish to see his father, his brother,
and his sister. Their guest of the night had been an
inmate of Wierwold Hall many years gone by, and told
him much that aroused his curiosity. When the two lads
presently sought the chamber they shared together in an
20 THE SIGN OF THE WHITE WOLF.
attic beneath the sloping thatch, Guy was unwontedly
silent for a while, and then suddenly broke forth,—
“Diccon, I have a plan. I too will to Wierwold Hall.
I will be one of those who make merry there in honour of
the coming of age of the heir—my brother Geoffrey.â€
“Thou wilt go there! thou wilt declare thyself! Alas,
Guy, an thou doest so thou wilt never come back to be
my brother again.â€
“Ay, but I will,†cried the boy, throwing his arm about
Diccon’s shoulder. “I will return—never fear. I love
not halls. I love not the caprices of a haughty step-dame.
And listen: it is not as Guy Falconer that I go thither, but
as some wanderer or stranger. Dost think I will disclose
myself ere my father bid me come forward and own me
as his son? Never! Yet I will see him and my brother
face to face ere many more suns have risen and set.â€
CHAPTER IL
THE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS.
ie a
“Yes, Mother,â€
“ Where is the little one ?â€
“I have not seen her this past hour. Methinks she
must have slipped across to the Convent. Perchance she
hath run thither with the dried herbs and simples I was
preparing yestere’en for the Reverend Mother.â€
The hum of the busy spinning-wheel had ceased for the
moment, whilst the tall, slim maiden raised her head to
answer her mother’s question. An artist would have de-
lighted in the picture presented by the dark panelled room
and its one occupant. Possibly some slight description of
both may not be amiss here.
The house was only a farm now, but a century ago it
had been a Manor of some standing—one of those many
Manor-houses which had suffered so greatly in the Wars of
the Roses that it had never recovered its former erandeur,
and had sunk to the level of a mere farm-houso, to be
tenanted by a yeoman instead of a knight. But a few
relics of its former higher estate lingered within its pre-
32 THE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS.
cincts, and one of these was the lofty panelled chamber,
with its mullioned window and eroined roof, in which
the maiden now sat spinning, the bright December sun-
shine lighting up the braids of her golden hair shaded
by a light, veil-like coif, which, although she had not yet
aspired to the matron’s estate, she wore out of respect to
the wishes of her mother.
Esther Garth was the sister of the present tenant of
Friars’ Meads, as the house was now called. It was church
property, but was let on rental to one Roger Garth, who
farmed it with unwonted success and skill. His mother
and his sister passed the greater part of their time beneath
his roof, and acted the part of mother and elder sister to
his only child, the little Dorothy, who had lost her mother
before she had completed her second year, and had come
?
to regard her “Grandam†as the only mother in the world
for her.
Esther was a singularly beautiful maiden. Her face
was one that instantly riveted attention wherever she
went; and yet it was hard to define exactly wherein the
charm lay. Her features were not faultless, though the
curve of her thoughtful lips was very sweet, and there
was a certain calm nobility stamped upon her lineaments
which could not but arouse admiration and respect. Her
eyes were perhaps her most marked feature, so calm, so
clear, so steady in their luminous glance, and withal so full
of grave sweetness, and of that peculiar brightness which
takes the reflection of the soul within, and not that of the
glamour of the world without.
LHE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS. 33
“ Ter eyes were deeper than the.depths
Of waters stilled at even,â€
as a modern poet has written of his “blessed damozel ;â€
and the phrase fits excellently well with the impression
produced by the eyes of Esther Garth, who, even at the
early age of one-and-twenty, looked like a woman who
had a history of her own.
There was a wide doorway in one wall of the panelled
chamber which led through a short passage into the
kitchen ; and through this passage Esther’s mother came
stepping with the light, active tread of youth, somewhat
at variance with the snowy whiteness of the rim of hair
which peeped from beneath the widow’s coif. Upon her
small, pale face there was just a shade of anxiety.
“Thinkest thou, my daughter, that the little one goeth
too oft to yon cloistered house? I would not needlessly
disturb her innocent pleasures, and the good Sisters are
right fond of the sweet little maid, but—â€
Madam Garth (she was always so called from the fact
that foreign blood ran in her veins, and she was scarce
reckoned as an Englishwoman even now by the rusties,
although she had lived amongst them for many a long
year) paused with an expressive glance, and Esther looked
into her face with her calm, sweet smile.
“Thou needst not fear, little Mother,†she said, in her
full, caressing accents. “The child will leam nought to
harm her there, and it is a solace to those worn and weary
women to look upon anything so bright and sweet and
fearless as her merry child’s face. I trow there is more
(822) 3
34 THE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS.
than one amongst them who recalls in our Dorothy’s
innocent chatter the vanished childhood which for them
may never return in the lives of sweet-faced children of
their own. And Sister Bianca is sick, and craves to see
the little one each day. Our Dorothy will take no harm
in early learning to think for the poor and sick and suf-
fering.â€
“Nay, nay, I would that all young things were taught
that lesson early, and the Sisters aie indeed to be pitied in
many a way. I would not deny them the solace of the
child’s company, save for the fear that they would fill her
young mind with those false and dangerous notions which
might lead her to look upon the burial of the cloister as
the highest service for her Master above.â€
Esther smiled calmly and serenely. $
“ Methinks there is small fear of that, little Mother. I
soothly think that it is they who know little of such
matters who are most drawn thus to seclude themselves.
The sense of longing for the calm and peace and ceaseless
devotion of the cloistered life is natural in its way to every
woman in these hurrying, tumultuous days—more so to
those who hold by the ancient faith, and the belief in
works rather than simple Christian faith. But the eyes of
one like our Dorothy, eyes that have seen so much behind
the veil, are less like to be blinded than others. She
cometh to me times and again with such questions as these :
‘Why do the Sisters get so angry if the bread be not rightly
baked, or if their woman doth not wash their caps to their
liking 2? They scold far worse than Grandam ever does,
LHE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS. 35
however wrong the wenches be, and whatever trouble they
give her. I thought the Sisters were holier than the rest
of us. Why do they get so angry ?’â€
The mother smiled slightly, and the little pucker smoothed
itself from her brow.
“ Ah, the little one will find that not even the cloister
wall is strong enough to keep out the evil passions which
flesh is heir to. Perchance it may be well that she should
have her eyes opened thus young, for she hath somewhat
of the craving after that ideal goodness which hath led
many a young girl to take the veil. Thou dost not think
I need fear? Thou knowest that I would live in charity
with all men, and think the best of friends and foes alike.
And yet thou knowest too, my daughter, that there are
times when the lesson of charity is hard to put in practice.â€
And a strange shade crossed Madam Garth’s face, which
Esther was not slow to see, and the cause of which she at
once divined,
She rose, and came and put her arms about her mother’s
neck.
“ He would be the first to bid thee forgive, sweet Mother,
and not visit on others who it may be would never have
stood by to see the deed done that has robbed us of father
and husband.â€
A sort of shiver shook the woman’s frame. For one
moment she put her hands before her eyes, as if to shut
out some horrid sight, and then with a slight shudder she
let them drop to her side.
“That deed was done in the naine of the Church,†she
36 THE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS.
said, almost beneath her breath,— that Chureh which
hath stained red the ground with the blood of innumer-
able martyrs.â€
“That ‘noble army’ of which our father is one,†said
Esther, with a strangely kindling glance. “ Ah, Mother,
Mother, shall we grudge him that crown, now that the
suffering hath so long been ended ?â€
The woman raised her head, and there was a strange
mingling of horror and of triumph in her glance as she
replied,—
“Nay, my daughter, I grudge him not his place in that
noble army. There are moments when methinks I hear
already the triumph-song of the redeemed, and his voice
mingling in it. But there are scenes upon which mine
eyes have looked that will never, never be blotted out of
remembranee. It seemeth to me a fearsome thing for man
to bind himself over to blind obedience to any power—be
it even the power of the Holy Church, as she is called—and
reserve not to himself the use of his own reason, his own
conscience, his own interpretation of God’s all-wise and all-
merciful laws. Wherefore, whilst calling all men brothers,
and regarding all with brotherly love, I fear sometimes lest
the little one grow too fond of the cloister and its inmates,
albeit I love cach gentle Sister right well myself.â€
“T trow thou needst not fear for her, sweet Mother,â€
answered Esther, smiling. “The little one hath little love
for blind obedience, and her father hath taught her to
question and think as few children of her age have been
encouraged to do. She is loyal to the tenets in the which
THE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS. 37
she hath been reared ; and the remembrance of the history
of her grandsire at York she will never, never forget,
Child as she was at the time, what she heard and saw then
will never fade from her mind. Fear not to let her come
and go at will. She will never disgrace the martyr blood
that runs in her veins.â€
Madam Garth smiled her strange inward smile once
again, looking out over the white world with the far-away
expression in the dark eyes which her daughter had in-
herited. She was a small, slightly-built woman, a head
shorter than Esther, who had inherited some of her
father’s stately height and English colouring. Madam
Garth’s face was thin and pointed, and the complexion was
dusky olive, though the skin was very fine in texture, and
was seamed with innumerable tiny wrinkles. She was a
native of France-—one of those whose fathers had been the
pioneers of the Reformation—and her own parents had
sought the protection of the German States, where freedom
of conscience was not visited by the stake. Here Roger
Garth, flying his own land from the storm of persecution
his boldness had brought upon his head, found and fell in
love with her, and finally, when he thought himself safe,
brought her with him to his native land.
Religious persecution in England was carried on more by
fits and starts than in the systematic and relentless fashion
of other lands. It depended more upon the wave of feeling,
or the ruling statesman of the hour, than upon the existing
laws, which were in all conscience severe enough, but by no
means always rigorously enforced. It has seemed even
38) THE LORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS.
from early days as though there was something repellent
to the instincts of the nation in the thought of persecution
for conscience’ sake, and stanch Romanist as Wolsey was,
he avoided whenever he could do so inflicting death upon
heretics. But others less enlightened and less humane had
jurisdiction in the land. Wolsey fell under the King’s dis-
pleasure, and matters were left to the rule of those who
hated heresy with the bitter hatred of jealous fanaticism.
Roger Garth was seized red-handed in the act of adminis-
tering comfort of an unorthodox kind at the dying-bed. of
one who was called a son of the Church. He was carried
to York Castle and racked again and again to extort con-
fession of his “accomplices,†and to give up the names of
those who had listened to his “damnable words.†As he
proved obdurate, and would neither answer questions nor
renounce his errors, he was burned alive within the city, as
a warning to all others of like opinions, his wife standing
by and encouraging him to the last, regardless of the risk
she ran in thus doing.
But vengeance seemed glutted by this one martyrdom,
and no notice was taken of the family of the martyr.
They were given shelter by Robert Garth, a mercer of the
city, and a brother of the deceased, and lived beneath his
roof in safety until the son Roger was rich enough to rent
the Friars’ Meads, and make a home for his mother and
sister there. As he had married young, and was already a,
widower with one little girl, he was glad and thankful for
the presence of these relatives at his house.
The gradual change coming over public opinion had
5 5 oa
THE KORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS,
39)
rendered the Garth household secure from farther molesta-
tion on the subject of religious opinion. They stood in no
present peril of faggot or rack, but the scenes through
which they had passed were such as leave indelible traces
upon both young and old, and no one could be long in the
presence of Madam Garth or her children without being
aware of the existence of some past history which had left
its mark upon them all.
Mother and daughter did not often talk together of
those past days; perhaps in the future they might speak
more, when the keen edge of memory was somewhat blunted.
Now as they stood a deep silence fell upon them, which
was broken by Esther, who said,—
“ Here comes the little one back,â€
There was the sound of light childish footsteps across
the threshold, and in through the open door tripped a
sunny-faced child, wrapped in a brown duffel cloak and
hood, from beneath which the yellow curls peeped roguishly
out. She paused a moment on the door-sill to drop a
winsome little courtesy to the Grandam, as she had been
taught to do from her babyhood, and then came eagerly
forward, plainly waiting to be bidden to speak, though she
would not have opened her lips without leave.
“What is it, little one? thou mayest tell us all.â€
“Tam just from the Convent, Grandam. I ran thither
with the herbs the Reverend Mother wanted; and Sister
Bianca kept me a while beside her. She could not leave
her bed, and I thought thou wouldst let me stay to cheer
her. And as I was slipping out through the little door
40 THE HFORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS.
into our own orchard, there was Guy looking over the
wall. He told me that two strangers had lodged the night
at the Inn, and that they would like to visit this house,
and see the carving of our chimney nook, and the fretwork
of the roof here overhead. They are travellers, and are
pleased to see whatever the country hath to show them.
I dared not say yes till I had asked leave. Guy is waiting
without for an answer.â€
Madam Garth smiled. Guy was a favourite of hers; he
generally was a favourite with all with whom he came in
contact. She gave a ready assent to the request, and the
child darted out with the message.
It might have been ten minutes later when there was a
sound without of feet and voices. Guy entered the room,
doffing his cap to the ladies, and ushering into the panelled
parlour two stalwart and well-dressed travellers, who paid
their respects with all courtesy to the inmates, and looked
with admiration upon the fine fretwork of the vaulted roof,
and the coats of arms deeply carved in many of the panels.
“J trust you will pardon this our intrusion,†said the
younger of the pair, addressing Madam Garth, “but I have a
shrewd notion that my forefathers lived beneath this very
roof long years agone now.—-Ha! seest thou this shield,
good Kenneth? The cognizance, in truth, of the Oolebys
—three greyhounds cules, on ground argent; and see, there
are greyhounds everywhere, their heads supporting the
shelf, their slim tails curlme round the pillars. In sooth
it was no idle guess. This has been the home of my fore-
fathers at some far-distant period.â€
THE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS. 41
Madam Garth was interested in the young man’s family
history, as he traced it in some of the many quaint carvings
about the old house, and she gladly accompanied him
upon a tour of inspection over the rambling old homestead,
every spot of which had a charm for him. Sir Kenneth
meantime remained below in conversation with Esther,
Guy and little Dorothy standing by and listening, and
sometimes exchanging whispers on their own account be-
neath their breath.
But the travellers could not linger long, notwithstanding
that they appeared loath to tear themselves away. Their
horses and servants were awaiting them without, and they
had a good journey before them ere the brief winter's day
drew to its close. They said a courteous adieu to their
hostesses, and attended by Guy walked out to the gate
where their steeds waited.
“A marvellous fair maiden,†said Sir Kenneth, with a
backward glance towards Esther, whose tall, straight figure
was thrown into relief by the dark background of the
doorway, as she stood with the golden-haired child beside
her to watch the travellers away; “I trow she has gentle
blood in her veins. I have met fine Court dames whose
speech and bearing may not compare with hers. Who are
these same Garths, good lad? Surely they are something
above the common farmer folk around.â€
“Ay, truly, methinks they are the best and noblest
people the world e’er saw,†cried the lad, in honest en-
thusiasm. “The maiden’s father was a right godly and
learned man; one of those who suffered for his faith as a
42 THE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS,
heretic, albeit I am certain he never could have spoken or
taught aught but what was good and true. Madam Garth,
they say, is descended from a noble house, but she, too, has
been an outcast for the faith. Men have been wont to
look with disfavour upon them all, for fear the Church
should brand them with the name of heretic; but if what
people now say is coming to pass, there will be no need
to tremble for them in the future.â€
“Ay, boy,†answered Kenneth, with suddenly kindling
glance, “it is they and such as they who have paved the
way for the glorious day now about to dawn upon this
land, when every man shall have leave to think for him-
self, and worship his God as his conscience dictates, All
honour be unto them who have been foremost in the
struggle, and who have watered with their blood the sced
which their hands have helped to sow.†And with these
words, spoken with some vehemence, the traveller swung
himself to his saddle and set spurs to his horse, nodding
his farewell to Guy as he did so, and leaving the boy
looking after him with a good deal of honest admiration ;
for there was something very attractive in Sir Kenneth
Hane, and he gave the impression of being a strong man
very much in earnest.
When the last of the little cavalcade had vanished down
the white road, Guy turned back to the house once more.
From the way in which he went forward through the dim
passage, it was plain that he was very much at home
there; and he did not pause till he reached the panelled
chamber, where he found Esther and Dorothy sitting—
LHE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS. 43
o
Esther once more employed with her spinning; whilst the
little one had taken her favourite seat at her aunt’s fect,
and was watching the dancing flames as they roared up
the wide chimney. She turned her head as she heard
footsteps and smiled brightly.
“Here is Guy, Aunt Esther,†she said. “Did I not say
he would come back ?â€
Guy came forward smiling, and stood beside the chim-
ney, whilst he watched Esther's deft fingers turning: the
distaff and winding the flax with the ease and steadiness
of continual practice.
Tt had long been Guy’s habit to come to the house of the
Garths for advice or counsel in any time of physical or
mental need. Despite their opinions, which he did not
believe he shared, as he had been reared a Romanist accord-
ing to his father’s wishes, he thought them the truest and
best of all the persons he had ever known, and loved them
with that species of reverent love which is an elevating in-
fluence in a boy’s life. It had never occurred to him that
this love and reverence might lead to a loosening of the tie
which bound him to the form of religion he had been taught
by the Brothers of the Monastery of Monk Frystone hard
by. He was hardly of an age to concern himself ereatly
with these matters, and was content to take instruction in
a perfunctory way without considering greatly how far it
went home to his heart, and believing all he was told
without weighing matters for himself.
He never heard within the walls of Friars’ Meads any-
thing to startle or shock him, and the intercourse between
44 THE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS.
the inmates of the farm and the Convent close beside it
was pleasant and reassuring. Guy was certain that at
such a house as this he could get no harm, and his tre-
quent visits there were rebuked by no one.
Esther glanced up at the boy, and seeing that he was
unwontedly grave, she fancied he had some plan to un-
fold. He was looking thoughtfully into the glow of the
fire, and there was a set purpose in his face.
“Thou hast somewhat to tell us, Guy?†she said.
“Ay, I have,†he answered: “I have come hither for
advice. Esther, I have heard that my brother Geoffrey
comes of age this Christmas-tide nigh upon us, and that
there will be feasting and merry-making beyond the wont
at Wierwold Hall. It came into my head to ask, Why
should not I be there to see? Am I to grow up for ever
a stranger to mine own people? May I not at least
know what manner of semblance they wear, that I might
know them were it our lot to meet in the world in days
to come?â€
Esther gave him a quick, searching glance; whilst little
golden-haired Dorothy sprang eagerly to her feet and
caught hold of Guy’s hand, looking earnestly and. wistfully
into his face.
“Thou wilt not go away never to return, Guy ? thou
wilt not let them keep thee there? Oh, say that thou
wilt come back an thou goest! We should miss thee so
sorely didst thou go never to return.â€
A bright smile flashed over Guy’s face as he returned
the clasp of the child’s hand.
THE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS. 48
“Oh, I shall come back, little one—never fear for that ;
and I go not as Guy Falconer, a son of the house, but as
some lowly traveller in need of a night’s shelter. So long
as my father bids me not enter his doors as a son, I will
never thrust myself upon him. At such a time of revelry
all comers will be welcome, and few questions asked. Had
there been time to think of all, I might have joined the
party of Mr. Ranulph Ogleby, who is bound thither to be
present at these revels. But there may be others on the
road. I can soon find mine occasion an I watch for it.—
Tell me, Esther—do I right in this? I know not how it
is, but since I heard and took part in some converse
yestere’en, I have a strange yearning, never felt before, to
look upon the faces of mine own brother and sister. I
had scarce grasped before that they existed. Since I do
so now, methinks I must needs look upon them, that I
may know them.â€
“It were indeed a natural and brotherly longing,†an-
swered Esther. “TI see no reason why thou shouldst not
go. Thou knowest that the Mother hath always said it
were a strange and untoward fate that kept thee from
thine own home and kindred these long years of thy
youth.â€
“Nay, I think not so,†answered Guy eagerly. “I love
my home, the White Wolf. I love the freedom, the
change, the coming and going. I love to talk with every
kind of man, and learn what this great realm is thinking
and doing and like to do. I would not live mewed up in
rocky fastnesses, with scarce a soul to visit us through all
46 THE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS.
the long snowy winter days; and I would not be beneath
the hard rule of the haughty step-dame of whom all men
speak with fear. I am happier here with my foster-
parents, and with thee and thine for friends——Nay, never
think I will not return, Dorothy. It will not be long
before thou seest me back once more, to tell thee all the
adventures I have met with at the house where I was
born.â€
“Qh, then go, go, go!†eried Dorothy, clapping her
hands in childlike glee. “I would I might go with
thee. I would fain see the world and learn what adven-
tures are like. It will be like some minstrel’s song—how
that thou goest in disguise to thy fathers’ halls, and movest
amongst them all unbeknown. I would I were a poet
myself, that I could sing the lay. Thou wilt surely go
and come again, and tell us all that thou hast done.â€
“Ay, verily I will,†answered the boy, his grave face
lighting into smiles; and Esther, looking once more up at
him, saw the shadow of a new manhood stealing upon him,
all unknown to himself, as if he were leaving behind the
estate of careless boyhood, in which he had lingered
hitherto, and were beginning to realize something of the
duties of life, and to take upon himself some of its
responsibilities. His own kin had hitherto been but
names to him; he had scarce given them a thought.
After this prospective journey to Wierwold Hall, would
this state of calm indifference continue? and if not, would
it be for weal or woe that the boy recognized the claims
of kinship that had never been extended to him ?
THE HORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS. 47
“Methinks thou art right, Guy,†she said, after con-
sidering his face attentively for a few moments. “It hath
been a strange upbringing for thee, and perchance a happy
one; but the ties of blood are ties from Heaven, and
nothing can quite sever them. Go, and it may be thou
wilt learn to love thy brother and thy sister, and where
love is there is often power to succour and strengthen and
support. It may be that it is thy life’s work calling to
thee. If so, fear not to follow. Only pray for a blessing
on thy path, and guidance in all that thou doest.â€
Guy gave Esther a quick, erateful look. He felt him-
self understood down to the very deepest aspirations and
unformulated thoughts of his heart. He was not surprised
at the seriousness of the words addressed to him. It was
the way of that household to take life seriously, and Guy
had not found that its members were any less happy for
so doing. Even little Dorothy was the brightest of chil-
dren, though well used to the serious talk of her elders ;
and Guy was not sorry that there were those who did not
treat the step he proposed to take as a pure freak of hoy-
hood, a simple means of gaining amusement for himself.
At the Inn the idea was looked on more as a joke than in
any other way; but Guy felt it something more than that,
and was grateful to Esther for her clear and sympathetic
insicht.
- “Master and Mistress Holt fear not to let thee go?â€
questioned Dorothy, who was still hanging on his hand.
“Nay; they bid me do as I will. And Diceon would
fain go with me, but T fear his riotous spirits would betray
48 ZLHE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS.
the secret, and he is needed at home likewise. I would
not say for certain if I would go until I had seen thee,
Esther, and had asked thy counsel ; but I will return now,
and wait my chance. Maybe there will be others on the
road whom I may join, and so escape question.â€
Guy said a brief adieu, and returned to the Inn, to find
everything there in some bustle and confusion, owing to
the arrival of a troop of play-actors and mummers, who
were bound, as he quickly and to his great satisfaction dis-
covered, for no other place than Wierwold Hall, where
they were to hold high revel for the entertainment of the
household and its guests.
The commotion was caused in part by the arrival of
such a numerous company, and partly on account of the
sudden and alarming indisposition of one member of the
troop, a lad of some fifteen summers, who had been
seized with a sudden colic, as it was termed, not far from
the Inn door, and was so exceedingly ill as to rouse the
gravest apprehensions for his life. He had been carried
into a place apart in one of the outbuildings—for the fear
of the plague or some malignant fever was always upper-
most in the minds of those who entertained strangers from
no man knew whither
and already one of the nursing
Sisters from the Convent of the Sacred Heart had come to
attend upon the sufferer. Nobody else was allowed to
approach, save to bring the Sister what she needed; and
Guy made his way into the crowded kitchen, where
the rest of the travellers had assembled, and where
the chicf of the band was loudly bemoaning the mis-
LHE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS. 49
chance which had robbed him of one of his most valuable
assistants.
“The play will be ruined,†he was saying in mournful
accents: “it will be nothing without the lad, and not a
soul of these slow-witted fellows here can learn the part
in time. The Holy Virgin send him a speedy recovery,
else we are all undone! The play would be the making
of us. Without it we have nought but the common
Juggling and tumbling, of which the good folks of the
better sort are becoming aweary. Good lack, good lack !
what a thing life is! We could ’a’ spared anybody better
than the lad, and, for sure, it is he and he alone that goes
to fall sick.â€
Guy listened to this and a great deal more to the same
effect in silence, an idea slowly forming in hig brain; and
when a message was presently brought in that the Sister
had said the lad would be quite unable to travel for a
week to come at the least, even if he made the best pos-
sible recovery, he stepped up to the groaning master and
requested a word with him in private.
Much surprised, but taken by the handsome face and
mannerly address of the youth, the man at once complied ;
and Guy led him to a small room apart from the company,
where they could speak at their case.
“Tell me now, I pray thee, good sir,†said Guy, “ what is
this part thou speakest of in the play, and look me well
over and say, if I should be fit to play it, could I learn it
in the time? Iam a good scholar. If thou hast the part
in writing, T should not take long, methinks, to master it.
(322) 4
50 LHE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS.
Prithee, tell me what thou thinkest. I have a mighty
fancy for seeing these same revels, and would fain seek an
excuse which my good father would listen to†(Guy
always spoke of the Inn-keeper as his father); “and I ask
no pay for the work—only leave to go with thee and be
numbered in thy company. What thinkest thou? Shall
I do, an I learn to rehearse the words and gestures ? â€
“Do? why, thou art the likeliest young cockerel I
have seen these many days, and I would I could have thee
for one of us, if thou be half as smart as thou lookest.—
See here, boy,†searching in a wallet stuffed with parchment,
“this is the play. “Tis a right merry one, as thou wilt
see, an thou art a scholar; and the merriest part of all is
that of the young prince—the lad. The dress I have for
him would mightily become thee, and gladly would I have
such a gallant young spark, canst thou but master the
words and fit them with gesture appropriate. I could
teach thee much of the craft an we gave ourselves to it;
but “tis a brief time in which to learn, and perchance thou
hast never acted before.â€
“Try me and see,†answered Guy, with a smile which
told of the consciousness of power; and praying to be left
alone with the manuscript, he carried it up to his chamber
out of the way of all noise and stir, and was soon deep in
the study of a part which he felt was one that he could
play and play well.
The century which gave a Shakespeare to England must
of necessity have been one in which the drama was dear
to the heart of the nation, and in which her sons must
THE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS. 51
have had the power to excel. Guy was blessed with a
clear, retentive memory, a modest appreciation of his own
powers, and some decided histrionic skill, which had becn
exercised many times for the amusement of the houschold
and its guest by scenes and dialogues between him and
Diccon, in which Guy always took the leading part. So
when at dusk the Master of the coinpany sought Guy again,
he found him not only master of his part to an extent
far beyond his warmest hopes, but ready to play it with
the whole troop, with a spirit and humour and dash
that delighted them all; indced it was agreed on all hands
that it was a happy accident which caused the original
prince to fall sick, so as to leave his part vacant for such
a substitute. Guy’s noble bearing and refinement of voice
and gesture rendered his personification of a prince a
particularly happy one, and his desire to acquit himself
well in the eyes of his own relations made him throw
himself into the part with unwonted zeal, and won for
him the rapturous applause of all onlookers at the various
rehearsals instituted during the next two days.
“Marry, thou wilt one day be a great actor thyself,â€
said Diccon, as the final and dress rehearsal closed on the
eve of the start for Wierwold. “I would I were going
with thee, Guy. I would fain hear what thine own kins-
folk think of thee, when they see thee in such fine feathers
and hear how thou canst play the kine.â€
“Play the travelling mountebank rather,†laughed Guy.
“I trow my father would be little pleased to claim kin-
ship with such spawn of the earth. But I go not as a son;
52 THE FORERUNNERS OF THE PURITANS.
I go only as a stranger, and mayhap my performance
may win me some kind notice from mine own flesh and
blood. Something within tells me that they will be kind
of heart and friendly.â€
And Guy went to bed to dream of his unknown brother;
and started off upon the morrow in great spirits as one
of the company of strolling players bound for Wierwold
Hall.
CHAPTER ILL
WIERWOLD HALL.
g ISTER, my mind is made up. I will endure it no
S longer. I will away from this place, and that
soon. Life is barely endurable here.â€
A pair of soft, lustrous. dark eyes were raised wistfully
to the face of Geoffrey Falconer, and a voice replied in
gentle accents,—
“Home so soon from the hunt, Geoffrey? What has
brought thee back before the rest?â€
“Come out on to the terrace with me, Ermengarde; I
would speak with thee, and here even the walls may have
ears. I can never lose the sense that we are watched and
Spied upon, Wrap thy mantle well about thee, for it is
bitter cold. But come, and we will walk together. In the
free air of the outer world one ean at least breathe.â€
Ermengarde rose without a word, and laid down the
breviary she had been studying. She was clad very
simply for her rank in life, in a long black robe, which set
off the graceful proportions of her slim figure, and showed
up the dazzling fairness of her complexion. Her only
ornaments were the snowy ruffles at throat and wrist, and
54 WIERWOLD HALL.
the long rosary of carved ebony beads, with a silver
crucifix at the end. There was something almost suggest-
ive of the severity of a nun’s garb in the dress of the
young maiden, and the long and ample cloak she wrapped
about herself as she rose to follow her brother increased
this resemblance not a little.
Geoffrey, on his side, was dressed in a suit of hunting
green, and wore his plumed hat jauntily enough. He was
a very handsome youth, with yellow locks, blue eyes, and
frank, open face, to which distrust and suspicion seemed by
nature foreign. Yet his face was clouded just now by a
look of mingled anger and distress, and as he and his
sister passed through the hall on their way out of doors,
this look deepened upon his face, and a gleam of hatred
seemed to flash out of the well-opened blue eyes.
This look appeared to be directed towards a female
figure at the upper end of the hall. The back of the
figure was turned towards the brother and sister; and they
stepped softly across the warm and soft skin rugs which
lay about in profusion, as though they had no wish to
attract the notice of the one occupant of the place.
Next moment they were outside, in the keen freshness
of the December afternoon, and a few moments’ walking
brought them to the secluded terrace walk, cut in the
thickness of the rock upon which the Hall was built
rock which fell away rapidly on this side towards a
a
brawling stream sixty feet below—which terrace was pro-
tected by a wall, perforated by loopholes, and was even in
the coldest weather a sheltered spot.
WIERWOLD HALL. Be
This was always the place selected by brother and sister
when they wished to talk with perfect freedom without
the possibility of being overheard. The smooth wall of
rock on one side and the parapet on the other supplied no
lurking-place for eaves-droppers to hide in. The sound of
their voices could not reach any point whence it could be
overheard, and here they always felt safe and alone, which
was by no means the case when they were within the
walls of that house.
“What has befallen thee, Geoffrey, this day, that thou
art so displeased?†asked Ermengarde, laying her hand
gently upon his arm. “Is it some new thing ?â€
“New? nay; methinks no new method of annoyance
and petty insult can be devised whereby I may stand
humiliated in the eyes of all who are there to see. It is
nought beyond what I have suffered a score of times before
from that imp of malice and mischief young Ralph. But
they say the last straw will break the camel’s back. I
have borne with him till I am weary of bearing. The day
has well-nigh come when I shall stand a free man—free to
come or to go as I will. And, by my troth, it is little
that Wierwold Hall shall see of me when that day has
passed. I will brook this treatment no longer; beshrew
me if I will!â€
“What has Ralph done?†asked Ermengarde.
“Oh, nothing new; only the same spiteful, monkey-
like tricks, whercby he spoils my sport and makes me the
laughing-stock of the hunting-party whenever he can. He
is ever at my side, spoiling my aim, robbing my gun of its
56 WIER WOLD HALL.
charge, jerking my elbow when I am about to strike the
quarry or let fly an arrow; and so quick and lithe withal
that no man sees how the mischance happens. They are
but pin-pricks to one’s pride, but such pricks try the
temper and chafe the spirit sorely. And at home thou
knowest well how it is. That proud woman yonder would
gladly see me in my grave, so as her son might reign here
as heir. She is bitterer than ever, now that the season
draws nigh for these festivities to be held. I would the
day might pass unmarked. I am in no mood for feasting
and merry-makine. JI do but count the hours until I may
be gone hence.â€
Ermengarde made no reply for a few moments, and a
shadow seemed to fall upon her fair face.
“T shall miss thee sorely, brother, when thou art gone,â€
she said softly, and heaved a little sigh.
He turned and glanced at her, pity for her loneliness
and youthful impatience at his own surroundings struggling
together within him as he did so.
“Sweet sister,†he said, “methought that thou hadst
some plan of thine own for thy life in the days to come.
It would grieve me sore to leave thee here with her. But
hast thou not spoken ofttimes of the—â€
“ Of the Convent walls—the blessed cloister ?†said the
maiden, forestalling the words that he hesitated to speak,
a wonderful smile lighting her face as she spoke them.
“OQ my brother, thou canst little know how I long and
pine for the blessed rest and peace of that holy retreat,
where, shut out from all the turmoil, the greed, the striv-
WIERWOLD fHALL. oy,
ings of the world, I may give myself unto penance and
prayer; where I may be the humble companion and serv-
ant of the blessed Sisters who have kept themselves un-
spotted from the world; and where I may pray ceaselessly
for thee, my brother, and intercede with the Holy Virgin
to keep thee safe from harm and peril, as thou takest
thy way in the world. Oh, it would be such peace, such
bliss! There are moments when I fear even to let myself
think upon it, lest I repine too much against my present
lot.â€
Geottrey was pacing rapidly to and fro. Ermengarde
had loosed her hold upon his arm, and was gazing with an
expression of rapt intensity across the wide valley, and up
to the lonely heights, where the sun was sinking in a blaze
of saffron and crimson cloud. There was something so
ethereal in the expression of that lovely face that Geoffrey,
as he turned at the end of the walk and approached her
once more, held his breath in a species of awe. For a
moment he stood very still watching her, and then he mur-
mured a few words to himself.
“Surely it is the life for her. Men may mutter of
coming change; they may scoff at the truths which have
ruled the world hitherto, but have they anything half as
precious to give us in exchange? Dare I say she is too
fair, too sweet to be hidden away thus behind the cloister
walls? Can they be too beauteous, too pure and fair,
who are thus to be made fit to be called the Bride of
Christ? Nay, the thought itself were blasphemy.â€
Hastily crossing himself, as though conscious of some
58 WIERWOLD HALL.
temptation suggested by the Evil Onc, Geoffrey stepped
gently to his sister and laid a hand upon her arm.
“ Sweetest sister, and if such be thy strenuous desire, why
should it not be even as thou desirest? Far rather would
I leave thee in such safe-keeping than in the charge of yon
haughty dame, who wishes evil alike to me and _ thee,
though scarce so much to thee, I trust, as to me, who stand
in the light of her own son. Why should it not be as thou
wishest? Our father is a faithful son of the Church.
These new doctrines, of which we hear men speak, have in
no wise corrupted him. He abhors all manner of heresy,
and would sooner see a child of his in the grave than thus
tainted. Why shouldst thou not take the veil, if thy
heart is set on it? Hast ever spoken to him anent such
a matter?â€
Ermengarde’s thoughts returned to earth once more,
She turned her glance upon her brother and faintly shook
her head.
“Ay, many a time have I so spoken. I would have
told thee, my brother, but I feared to anger thee the more
against her. My father would fain accede to my wish, but
he may not let daughter of his enter the Convent walls
without making suitable provision for her there, as becomes
his rank in life. And that he dares not do for fear of the
anger of his wife. She preys upon him for more money
than he can well furnish her with, and grudges every mite
spent upon me. He can do nothing without her knowledge,
and he fears her, our poor father. I know that he fears
her. And his pride will not let him send me undowered to
WIERWOLD HALL. 59
any Convent, albeit I would gladly serve in the humblest
state, might I but feel that those blessed doors had closed
upon me, to keep me for ever from the hard and treacherous
world.â€
Geotirey heard this explanation with a kindling of the
eye and a contraction of the brow which bespoke rising
anger.
“If that is all the trouble, sweet sister, it may soon be
rolled away. Knowest thou that ere a week has passed I
shall be my own master, and master of such moneys as
were bequeathed me by our mother ere she died, which
moneys our father has kept for me, giving them over
into the safe-keeping of our kinsman Mr. Robert Aske,
from whom I am to demand my portion when I leave this
house anon? There is a dower, too, for thee in his hands ;
but it may not be given to thee till thou too reachest the
age of twenty-one. But when my portion is in my hands,
I will dower thee, sweet sister, so that thou necdest wait
no longer. Ié shall never be said that I, thy brother, went
forth into the world to leave thee alone and unprotected to
the mercies of yon hard woman.â€
A great light had come into Ermengarde’s face. She
clasped her hands together, and her eyes shone with an
almost unearthly radiance.
“Alone! ah, never alone! The Holy Virgin and the
blessed saints are ever with us on this lone pilgrimage, O
my brother. Methinks I can almost see them; and surely
they have heard the prayers ceaselessly offered to them by
these faltering lips. Surely it is their hands which have
60 WIERWOLD HALL.
thus opened the door through thee, my brother. Ah,
if they hear and answer prayers even now, what will
they not do when I may kneel night and day before
their blessed shrines, making intercession for those I
love, and above all for thee, so dear to me, so true, so
loving ?â€
Geoffrey put his arm about her and kissed her, feeling
as though he might indeed go forth fearlessly into the
world if he had such a sister praying for him in the
cloister at home. If a pang went through him at the
thought of seeing her incarcerated in this living tomb, he
checked it as a suggestion of the devil. At least he would
go away happier for knowing her safe within Convent
walls, and it had not entered into his mind or the minds of
those about him that a time might come when even the
cloisters should be found insufficient protection for the
inmates thereof.
But the sun was setting, and the air grew very keen and
chill. Ermengarde shivered slightly beneath the folds of
her heavy cloak, and Geoffrey urged her to return. As
they mounted some steps which led back to the castle
portal, they saw before them a stretch of white road,
trodden by the feet of those who had passed and repassed
since the snow first fell; and Geoffrey, shading his eyes
with his hand, looked long and earnestly out eastward, and
then spoke quickly.
“Travellers on the road, by my troth. Belike it is our
kinsman Ranulph Ogleby, who was to arrive this week. I
will to meet him. Go thou to the house and tell that
WIERWOLD HALL. 61
some guest is coming. Perchance our father may be by
this returned from the hunt.†The sight of travellers was
welcome to the youth, and he sped down the steep road
with a light foot.
Wierwold Hall occupied a commanding situation on a
rocky eminence surrounded by water. On one side, the
brawling stream leaped along its pebbly bed with cease-
less noise; on the other, the channel had been dug by the
hands of man, and the water of the little river, partially
diverted from its natural course, joined the parent stream
below. At the junction, which was both wide and deep,
stood the drawbridge of the castle, which formed the only
means of ingress or egress, unless we take into account
that afforded by a boat which lay moored up against a
small postern door at the opposite side of the small
island, which was occupied by the stronghold and the
quarters of the retainers and servants.
The drawbridge in those days of peace remained down
the whole day, being raised only at night. Geoffrey dashed
across it at a rapid pace, and was soon within hailing dis-
tance of the travellers. As he approached, the foremost of
the horsemen, who was plainly the lord of the small band,
swung himself from his saddle, and advanced to meet the
youth.
“My good cousin Geoffrey, I do not doubt,†he said, as
they grasped hands together. “It is long since we met,
and thou wert but a lad, and I a mere stripling;
but methinks I should have known thee again in any
company. Thou hast so strong a likeness to thy mother
62 WIERWOLD HALL.
—heaven rest her soul—whom I truly and tenderly loved
when I was a motherless lad.â€
“Ah, would she had lived!†said Geoffrey, with a deep-
drawn sigh; “life at Wierwold would have been another
thing had her gentle presence remained amongst us.â€
Ranulph looked at him with kindly sympathy.
“The step-dame, then, is not all thou wouldest have ?
Rumour has muttered as much before,†he said.
“She is—nay, it were an unmanly and unmannerly
thing to say what she is,†quoth Geoffrey, checking the
hasty words that rose hot to his lips.
He and Ranulph had played together as boys. Ranulph
was related to him on his mother’s side. _ He felt at home
with him after the first few words of greeting had passed,
and there was something very comforting in the companion-
ship of another man, not so many years older than himself,
who would be likely to see his side of the silent struggle
always going on in the house, and to understand how in-
tolerable his position was often made, in a way that his
father could scarcely be expected to see it.
“Fear not to speak to me,†said Ranulph, who had heard
enough at the Inn about Wierwold and its inhabitants to
have a very shrewd notion as to the state of affairs exist-
ing there. “Am I not a kinsman of thine own? I would
gladly help thee an I could. Why, if thou lovest not thy
home, dost thou linger there so long? Other youths are
up and away ere they arrive at man’s estate; why hast
thou remained beneath the old roof-tree when thou mightest
have been winning thy spurs elsewhere ?â€
WIERWOLD HALL. 63
“Ay, thou mayest well ask that,’ answered Geoffrey,
with a smile that was not without its bitterness. “But
the sons of knights may not ride abroad in the world
without horses and servitors, and money in their purses.
I would have been content with little. One horse, one
man, and money sufficient to take me to London, was all
I asked; but even that little I might not obtain. I know
not how it was. My step-dame hates the very sight of
me, yet she will not let me stir hence. It is her doing, I
know right well. My father would never thwart me. He
is kind to me when she is not by. But he fears her—I
know it. There are times when I almost believe she hates
him too. That she has deep-laid plots in her head I may
not doubt, and one of these has ever been to keep me fast
at Wierwold ; to what end I cannot guess, save only the
greed that grudges me the money to make a start in the
world.â€
Ranulph, who knew more of life, and had seen something
of the mysterious fashion in which superfluous and trouble-
some persons were oftentimes put out of the way, wondered
if there could be an ugly side to this desire to keep Geoffrey
at home. Ranulph had heard things about the second
Lady Falconer, although he had not been a guest at Wier-
wold sinee her rule commenced, and he had recollections
which tended to make him think that she had deal-
ings in what was called the Black Art and magic. The
youth was quite of the opinion that men could be done to
death by means of waxen effigies melted at the fire, or by
other fashions equally mysterious; yet certainly Geoffrey’s
64 WIERWOLD HALL.
athletic frame and bronzed face gave no indication of
premature wasting, and if such machinations had been set
on foot against him they had been singularly unsuccessful.
“But surely the time has come when thou canst choose
for thyself,†he said; and Geoffrey’s face lighted at the
thought.
“ Ay, she cannot hold me here for ever. I have reached
man’s estate, and my mother’s portion will be mine. Wier-
wold will not see me here much longer. A few weeks
for preparation, and to let this bitter cold pass by, and
then I will up and away, to seek my fortune in the wide
world ; beshrew me if I make not up for past misery in
the blithesome gladness of freedom then !â€
“Tf my Lady Falconer wishes to make away with the
heir before he leaves this place, she will have to bestir her-
self to better purpose,†thought Ranulph, not without a
qualm of uneasiness. “Well, I will keep a close outlook
whilst I am here. Perchance I shall see something to tell
me how far my surmise be right. Yet what will his death
profit my lady ? there is surely another son.â€
Then turning to Geoffrey, he asked,—
“Hast thou not a sister and a brother?â€
“A sister in all sooth; the others are but indifferent
brother and sister to us. Young Ralph, my lady’s son, is
the very pest of my life. Roxana is not a malicious elf,
yet a very elf for mischief and frolic. Methinks there may
be good in the sprite. Ermengarde is fond of her; but
I know less about her,â€
“But thine own brother—it was of him I spoke—the
WIERWOLD HALL. 65
brother who was at nurse when last we played together as
boys? What became of him? Surely he has since re-
turned to Wierwold ?â€
Geoffrey shook his head, looking as if the idea was
altogether new to him, as indeed it was, for it was years
since he had even remembered that he had another brother.
“The babe must have died,†he said slowly. “ We have
never heard his name spoken. He never came hither. He
must have died at nurse. I would indeed I had a brother
of mine own to roam the world with me—But here we
come to the Hall; and see, here is my father just returned
from the chase. Thou art welcome indeed to Wierwold; I
would thou wouldst remain long our guest.â€
Out from the open door of the Hall stepped a strong
knightly form, and Ranulph found himself confronted by
his kinsman and host. Sir Ralph had the dark eyes in-
herited by Ermengarde, but in features his son resembled
him the more. Ranulph was struck at the first glance by
the extent to which the man had aged since he had seen
him last. His hair had turned from brown to gray, and
the face had sharpened, and was deeply lined with furrows.
Still, when he smiled the wrinkles seemed to smooth them-
selves away, and his manner was cheery and hearty, as it
had been in old times.
Within the Hall itself a cooler greeting awaited him
from a very stately and haughty-looking dame, whose great
beauty was rendered almost devoid of attractiveness owing
to the hard and supercilious expression her face almost
always wore. At her side stood a tall boy of thirteen or
(822) 5
66 WIERWOLD HALL.
fourteen years, whose greeting was almost as cold as the
lady’s, and what was coldness in the one amounted to little
less than insolence in the other ; whilst frisking about the
lower cnd of the place, where the supper was being spread,
was a black-eyed girl of twelve, who sprang forward to
greet the guest, and put up her cheek for the customary
salute with the greatest appearance of friendliness.
“T am so glad you have come,†she remarked, looking
Ranulph over from head to foot with her sharp black eyes.
“{t is Geoffrey’s. birthday almost directly, and I think
birthdays ought to be very merry. You will help us to
be merry, will you not? Here everybody is as gloomy as
if the Day of Judgment were coming. You like Geoffrey,
do you not? So do I when he will let me; but as for
other people—â€
“Silence, thou malapert wench!†broke in the clear,
incisive tones of Lady Falconer. “How oft am I to tell
thee that I will not have thee thus free with thy tongue ?
T will send thee to thy chamber, and there thou shalt stay,
if I hear a word more of thine insolent chatter,†and the
mother significantly raised the ebony staff on which she
was leaning. The weight of that same staff was well
known by every serving man or maid upon the place, and
the menace checked the saucy retort that appeared to be
trembling wpon Roxana’s tongue. It did not appear to
Ranulph, who watched this family party with interest
aid some astonishment, as though the little girl stood much
in awe of her mother. There was defiance in the poise of
the curly black head, as the maid retreated to a shadowy
WIERWOLD HALL. 67
corner of the hall, and backed up against a dark figure
which had hitherto remained unnoticed by the stranger.
But the light of the declining winter’s day was just
‘shimmering through a neighbouring window, and fell upon
the fair face and sombre robes of Ermengarde. Ranulph
caught the dreamy gaze of the liquid eyes, and wondered
where he had recently seen just such a pair of dark eyes,
and something of the same contour of feature. But he
could not catch the fleeting memory, and the next moment
he was bending low over the taper fingers extended to hin,
and was renewing acquaintance with one whom last he
had seen as a little fragile child, to be worshipped and
waited on, and sometimes teased, in true boy fashion, but
who now had grown into a most lovely maiden.
The tice of cousinship was much stronger in those days
than it is now. First cousins were utterly prohibited from
marrying each other, and they no more thought of such a
thing than did brothers and sisters. This made the rela-
tions between them more frank and easy than would have
been possible had no such barrier existed, and Ranulph
found himself talking to his cousins before the evening
was over as fully and freely as though they had met
frequently during the past years.
It was at the supper-table that he had ventured to put
one question to his host, the only question which had been
in any way taken amiss. In speaking of his journey, he
had spoken of his travelling companion, and remarked that
they had only parted company some few miles away, he
being bound for the house of Lord Osbaldistone, who in-
68 WIERWOLD HALL.
habited a place called Heathcliffe Castle, nob so very far
away.
The face of Sir Ralph clouded over impatiently, whilst
that of his wife (only this was unobserved by Ranulph)
put on a look of interest and curiosity.
“Not far away? No; would it were ten times the dis-—
tance. Those Osbaldistones have been the curse of my
life. Thou must have known as much before this, surely,
Ranulph? Methinks thou mightest have found better
company than such spawn as they.â€
“Tt was none of the family I travelled with, only a
guest bound for the house, one Sir Kenneth Fane, a very
proper knight, as it seemed tome. The name awakened
no memories within me. I was but a lad when I was last
here. I had no memory of any ill-blood.â€
“Tt is of late years that the feud has awakened from
sleep,†answered Geoffrey, speaking in a low tone and
hastily. “It has been in the family for long, but troubled
us not greatly till these last years. But speak not of it
to my father; the thought ever troubles him, and oft-
times robs him of his sleep.â€
So Ranulph, with the tact of a man of the world, con-
trived to slip away from the forbidden topic by easy
stages; and Sir Ralph was soon pledging his guest in a
brimming cup, and telling of the coming gaieties by which
“his boy’s†feast was to be celebrated shortly.
Ranulph could not but fancy that he detected a sinister
light in the eyes of his hostess as the proud father talked
on this theme, and he felt disposed to eross himself as he
WIERWOLD HALL. 69
sab, and to mutter a prayer against witches and sorceresses.
He felt as though he would be loath to stand in Geoffrey’s
shoes, and was resolved to watch pretty closely all that
went on in the house during his stay there. He should
certainly advise Geoffrey to leave Wierwold as soon as he
could make shift to do go.
Early hours were the fashion of the day, and by nine
o'clock the party round the fire broke up, and Geoftrey
conducted the guest to the chamber prepared for him.
When this was reached an exclamation of impatience
passed the young man’s lips; for the fire which should
have been blazing on the hearth had been extinguished
by the fall of a mass of snow down the chimney, which
had so wetted the logs and wood that it was hopeless
to attempt to rekindle them that night. Ranulph made
light of the disaster; yet nothing would satisfy Geoffrey
but a change of apartments with the traveller, and as
he seemed so much in carnest over it, the elder man gave
way.
“For I sleep as sound as a dormouse the whole night
long, whatever betides within doors or without,†said
Geoffrey persuasively. “It is no manner of trouble to me
to be without light or warmth. I shall sleep so soon as
my head touches the pillow, whilst thou in a strange house
wilt maybe lie awake an hour or more.â€
So the youths settled matters in this fashion. Ran-
ulph lay down to sleep in Geoffrey’s chamber, and as the
other had divined, he did not all at once go to sleep,
but lay drowsily watching the play of the firelight in the
70 WIERWOLD HALL,
room, thinking of the day’s doings, and wondering into
what manner of house he had come.
Gradually his thoughts took less distinct form ; he was
uncertain whether or not he had dropped into a light
slumber, when he was aware of a sweeping sound along
the outer wall next to the corridor against which the head
of the bed was placed, and the next moment he was certain
that the latch of the door was softly lifted, and that some
person stood upon. the threshold listening intently.
Ranulph was not afraid of any material visitor, but a
superstitious dread of some presence from the unseen
world caused him to lie perfectly still, quaking slightly,
and drawing his breath hard. The even breathing seemed
to reassure the visitor, and the next moment a tall,
shadowy figure glided across the room—intercepting for a
moment the light of the fire as it passed—and Ranulph
saw by the flickering gleams still cast by the burning
wood that his mysterious intruder was none other than
Lady Falconer herself.
His ghostly terror vanishing, he was just about to speak
and ask the motive for the visit, when he remembered
that it was Geoflrey’s chamber that she thought she was
invading. Checking, therefore, the words upon his tongue,
he lay still, watching intently her movements, and saw her
cross to a small bracket upon the wall, on which stood, as
he had before observed, a pitcher of clear spring water.
Into this pitcher she dropped something that Ranulph
took to be a powder of some kind, and glided away as
noiselessly as she had come. The young man’s dreams
WIERWOLD HALL. 7
that night were troubled by dark fancies, and he awoke
with the first light of early day. A few birds, rendered
tame by the cold, were fluttering about the window. Pro-
bably kind-hearted Geoffrey fed them with crumbs in the
frost. Ranulph had no food to offer them, but he poured
out some of the water from the pitcher into a shallow
vessel and put it on the sill. They were thirsty, as birds
generally are in a hard frost, and sat long drinking from
it. Before the young man had donned his clothes, two of
the sparrows lay dead upon the window ledge, and he saw
a third corpse lying below. He flung the whole contents
of the pitcher angrily away, and went below with a
clouded face and anxious heart.
CHAPTER IV.
HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE.
$ WELVE arrows—and all in the inner round.
ae Marry now, Beatrice, methinks we may well
cease our sport and yest upon our laurels,†and the
speaker, a laughing girl of fifteen, threw herself into a
chair and drew off her archery gauntlets, looking at her
taller companion with a smile.
Beatrice, leaning on her long bow, and looking critically
at the position of the last arrow she had let fly, which was
still quivering in the target at the far end of the gallery,
replied by drawing a deep breath and unstringing her bow.
“T shall scarce better that last shot,†she said. “ Where-
fore I am the more content to lay aside my weapon. I
wonder if thy father will reach home to-night. If he is
to be here for Christmas he must not tarry much longer.â€
“T verily believe that Frank looks for him this day, for
he rode forth after the mid-day meal without either hound
or hawk, and took the road towards the south. But as
for me, I never look to see him till he comes. He loves
the air of Courts above that of these lone solitudes, and the
worship of the King beyond all else beside.â€
HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE, 73
“ Ay, the King—he must be a wondrous monarch; he
seems. to east a spell upon all who approach him, and
bring them to his manner of thinking, be it what it may.
Thou canst well remember the days, even thou, Margery,
when we were all as loyal to Pope and Church as human
souls could be; and, behold, we now are foremost in the
rank of them who hold his Majesty as lord in this realm, in
all matters temporal and spiritual alike. Thy father was
one of the first to swear that oath of supremacy, and now
here are we, a household rejoicing in our freedom from old
bondage, and thinking ourselves the pioneers of liberty,
when but a few short years agone we should have stood in
danger of the stake for rank heresy. Thinkest thou not
that it is something strange ?â€
Margery leaned her head against the uncompromising
back of her chair, and looked with half-closed eyes at her
companion. Her answer was scarcely relevant.
“Methinks, Beatrice, that thou growest handsomer
every day. Thou shouldst be at Court thyself. I trow
the King would cast an eye of favour upon thee. By what
Frank telleth us of the present Queen, Mistress Anne
Boleyn, as she used to be, she is none so wondrous beaute-
ous. Yet the coil that was made for her—â€
“Peace, foolish child,†answered Beatrice, laughing.
“Thy saucy tongue and bright eyes would doubtless do
more havoc at Court, be it our lot ever to go thither, than
any poor beauty I may boast, which, as thou knowest, has
not even done the work so confidently expected of it here
in these wilds.â€
74 HEATHCLIFVE CASTLE.
The girls exchanged a laughing glance, and Margery’s
face dimpled into the most mischievous look of amuse-
ment.
This dialogue took place in a long gallery of Heathclitte
Castle, between the only daughter of Lord Osbaldistone
and his ward, the beautiful and well-dowered Beatrice
lane, who had lived for many years beneath his roof, and
was almost as a sister to Margery. This gallery was a
favourite place with the two maidens when they were
alone and the weather was inclement; for here they could
take exercise and enjoy many sports of their own, and no
sounds from the court-yard or house reached them, the long
row of windows which lighted it looking away southward
over a wide expanse of moorland and wooded hillside.
Opposite to the row of windows was a wall hung with
tapestry, and at each end of the gallery was a fireplace
piled with blazing logs. Several noble hounds lay upon
the skins before the ruddy glow, and they seemed to ex-
perience no uneasiness from the pastime of their young
mistresses, who were shooting at the targets fixed above
the chimney shelves of each fireplace. During the long
winter months, when the deep snow and bitter cold kept
the girls much indoors, this archery practice in the long
gallery was a favourite pastime with them, and so skilful
were they both in the use of the bow that to miss the
target was rare, and to let fly a random bolt that could do
Injury to any of their faithful canine companions a thing
unknown. There was just sufficient furniture in the
gallery to make it habitable, but not enough to hinder
HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE. 75
the freedom of movement coveted by those who were
debarred from their accustomed exercises of hunting and
hawking.
The girls themselves presented a marked contrast, and
were an excellent foil each to the other. Margery was a
true English maiden, fair-haired, blue-eyed, with a round,
saucy face, softly-dimpled cheeks, and a peach-bloom upon
her cheek that withstood all attempts of the sun to tan
or freckle. She was just emerging from the awkward and
unformed stage of girlhood, and showed promise of grace
and beauty of figure in days to come. Her sunny hair
was unbound, and fell in natural waves and ringlets about
her neck and shoulders. Her dress was simple and homely
in character, and its only ornament a jewelled zone about
the waist.
Beatrice was of an altogether different type. She was
full five years older than Margery, and her figure had
attained all the dignity and graceful stateliness of woman-
hood. She was tall for her sex, but carried her height so
well that few observed that it was unusual. She had the
delicate oval face, the dark almond-shaped eyes, and the
clear olive-tinted complexion which we associate in our
minds with the daughters of the South. In moments of
excitement or exertion her check would wear a rich
damask bloom, but at other times it was pale. The
features were almost faultless, and the carriage of the
head peculiarly graceful and stately. Beatrice always
dressed with a certain sombre richness which well became
her, and save that she had not the covered locks of
76 HEATHCLIEFE CASTLE.
matronhood, would have been taken for a married woman
rather than a maid. Indeed, the caul of fine gold cord in
which her abundant raven tresses were frequently confined
encouraged the supposition in the minds of strangers that
she was beyond the pale of girlhood; but to-day the net
had slipped off, and her beautiful hair hung round her
almost like a veil. She tossed it back out of her way as
she took one of the tall-backed chairs, and replied to Mar-
gery’s laughing look with a slight grimace and brilliant
sinile; and then, before more could be said, the younger
girl sprang to her feet and sped along the gallery, erying
excitedly,—
“T declare they have come—they have come! Here is
Frank, and he has brought Kenneth with him.â€
Beatrice did not rise from her seat, but her eyes sought
the farther end of the gallery, and there, just within the
doorway, behind the arras, which they held aside with
their hands, stood two young men in riding-dress, one
being none other than the traveller we have seen at the
Inn, whilst the fair-haired youth, his companion, dressed in
the pink of perfection according to the most advanced
notions of the day, was plainly Margery’s brother, for the
likeness between them was so strong that no one could see
them together and not notice it.
Finding themselves thus observed, both the young men
advanced up the gallery, doffing their hats, and smiling
their response to the weleome Margery was eagerly out-
pouring, Beatrice awaited their approach with her cus-
tomary queenly dignity of mien, though there was nothing
HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE. 77
chilling in her air as she kissed her brother and welcomed
him to the Castle.
“Thou didst not say that thou wert coming, Kenneth ;
but when I heard of thee with my guardian in London, I
half looked to see thee here with him. But where is he?
Should we not go to pay him our dutiful respects? Surely
you twain have come together ?â€
“Nay; I have come as his herald. The King detains
him from day to day, and, for all I know, may hold him
captive longer yet. 1 tarried until I wearied of the long
delay, and then he bid me forth alone, to tell you not to
look for him with too great confidence. Bluff King Hal’s
will is law to him, as to all good subjects, and if it be the
King’s will he tarry, why tarry he will.â€
“Ay, and grow apace in Court favour,†said Beatrice,
“as it behoves all men to do in these troublous days. To
trim our sails to the shifting breeze is the secret of success
to all good mariners; is it not so, Kenneth? Methinks,
good brother, that thou hast learned somewhat of that
lesson. Hast thou not learned to move forward at a mar-
vellous great rate these past two years?â€
Was there some mockery in the tones of the girl’s voice,
or did she speak in simple good faith? People often
asked that question of themselves when they spoke with
Mistress Beatrice Fane. Her brother asked it now without
knowing what to reply; but he answered in a bold and
downright fashion,—
“To trim the .ails to the wind is indeed the duty of
every man who ventures forth upon the stormy deep, but
78 HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE.
to trim one’s convictions of right and wrong at the bidding
of man—be he monarch or no—is a cowardly and an un-
worthy thing. Sister mine, I know not how far thou
thinkest that thy brother is a mere time-server, pandering
to the dictates of prudence and policy, and listening not
to the voice of reason and conscience; but I tell thee that
as I think so I speak and act, and that whatever may be
the changes we sce in this land, whether a relapse to priest-
craft or a steady going forward to freedom, thy brother will
ever be one of those who will uphold the latter cause,
even if his life pays the price of his conscience.â€
Kenneth rose to his feet suddenly, and straightened
himself as he looked round him.
“So help me God,†he added, with unwonted earnestness,
“T will be true to the cause of liberty of conscience, so
long as I have a voice to raise in its defence or a hand
to strike a blow for freedom’s cause.â€
There was something both of admiration and of mockery
in the sister’s eyes as she raised them to her brother’s face.
“Good Kenneth, thou art ever so terribly in carnest,â€
she said, with a little deprecating movement of her hands.
“It has ever been so with thee since thy residence abroad,
when thou must surcly have consorted with some strange
persons, for ever since thou hast been another man from
thine old self. I say not that I like not the new man
as well as the old, but thou takest my breath somewhat
by thy vehemence. I take life more smoothly and easily
than thou dost, and I love the old was I have learned
from childhood. It is so casy to give one’s conscience
HEATHCLIFVE CASTLE. 719
into the keeping of Holy Church, and to fecl no qualms
as to what be right or wrong, but only to do as the good
Father bids. And if the Church may not grant absolution
for sins, where are unlucky wights to go who would fain
be shriven of their many slips and failings?â€
Kenneth did not.answer for a moment. It seemed as
if too many words rose to his lips, and he had to check
the torrent. Margery, who loved not earnest discussion,
and who thought that brother and sister would be happier
without her, had drawn Frank to the far end of the gallery,
and so the two Fanes were practically alone together.
Kenneth looked down at the. beautiful but half-mocking
face of his sister, and his own grew grave; yet his voice
was steady and calm as he made reply,—
“Thou knowest right well, methinks, sweet sister, where
the only true absolution is to be found. God grant that
the men of this realm may learn the lesson themselves.
Sure it cannot be new to thee. Still thou needst not talk
as though this same confession and absolution to and
through priests were a thing of the past, or like to be
these many years yet. Men’s minds are opening to re-
ceive the untrammelled truth, but it will be long ere
the old beliefs and traditions of men die away. The King
. himself holds to many of them right loyally, and—â€
“ And looks to all men to follow in his royal footsteps,â€
added Beatrice, quickly and with a little sneer. “ Ay,
there it is, there it is, Kenneth. Methinks his Majesty
has need to learn the lesson another monarch taught to
his subjects. It seemeth by all we hear that this royal
80 HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE.
Henry thinks he may stand upon the sea-shore and bid
the tumultuous tide come rushing on, and yet plant his
foot upon the margin of those seething waves and say,
‘Thus far and no farther, in the belief that all men
will obey him, and that the tide of thought will stay.
where he bids it. Oh the pride and folly of men—the
arrogance of that kingly man!†Beatrice started from
her chair, and shook back her raven locks with a passion-
ate gesture of scorn; whilst her brother gazed upon her
in amazement, not understanding her mood, not knowing
whither her sympathies and her wishes pointed. But he
was struck by her remark, and gazed thoughtfully out
of the window. It had not been his lot to come often
across a woman who thought for herself. He lived in
a world of men, and had unconsciously imbibed something
of the feeling that these deep matters were above the ken
of the softer sex. But there was nothing soft or helpless
in the aspect of his sister just now. She had stopped
short in her speech, and had checked the flow of her words,
but her pause had been quite as significant as language at
that moment,
“Tell me then, sister mine, what wouldst thou have?
Thou speakest one moment as though thou wouldst keep
the old faith unassailed, and yet the next moment thou
ravest against him who would stand ag a barrier between
those same old beliefs and their utter destruction. Art
a lover of paradoxes, Beatrice ?â€
“Paradox? nay, it is no paradox—I scarce know the
meaning of the word. Canst thou not understand? Are
HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE. 81
all men so dense of head and heart that they know not
how their ruthless ways pierce the hearts of us poor help-
less women, who have no voice in these great matters ?
Canst thou not see that thou hast robbed us of the faith
in Holy Church which has ever been our anchor and
groundwork, and hast given us nothing to put in its place?
Your cunning words, your ruthless hands, have torn away
the veil from our eyes. You have taught us that the
holy men we loved and reverenced are holy no longer.
You have disclosed to us their vices, their profligacy,
their covetousness, their simony. You have proved your
words but too well. You have shaken and sapped the
foundations of our faith. And having done so, having
laid our idols in the dust, you bid us go to them still to
confess our sins, and be shrived from them; and you expect
us to believe that they may yet be our guides, our coun-
sellors—almost our conscience-keepers—when you have
shattered the very foundations upon which such _ belief
was built! Nay, Kenneth, dost thou think we shall be
content with that? Thinkest thou that we can blindly
obey as before? Nay; give us back the sweet old happy
faith of the past—be it right or wrong—or give us some-
thing better and purer to take its place. We were happy
once; it may be it was the happiness of ignorance—
security, not safety. Now we have lost the one, and
have found none other. We cannot rest where the King
would leave us. We must go forward—or backward.â€
Kenneth was taken aback by this sudden attack. He
had not looked to find in his sister such an acuteness
(822) Fs
82 HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE.
of mind or such power of expression. He himself had
felt before something of the hopeless futility of half-
measures, with a kingdom in its present state of secthing
revolt against the tyranny of ages. He had felt before
now that the people would not be content to be held back
at the place where the King proposed to halt. He knew
that whatever might be the eventual high-water mark,
the spring-tide must first sweep far in advance of it, to
ebb back by slow degrees; but he had not looked to hear
his own opinions put into form by another, and that other
a woman.
Perhaps Beatrice divined this thought. It was not
usual for women to trouble themselves greatly over “ mat-
ters too high for them.†She paused a moment, and then,
with a light little half-mocking laugh, turned the conver-
sation into another channel.
“But good-lack, what do we thus troubling our heads
over these great matters, and you scarce out of the saddle
after a five days’ ride? Good brother, forgive me. Thy
earnestness hath bred in me a like disease, most unbecom-
ing toa woman. We will put aside all such mouldy and
wearisome matters, and thou shalt be refreshed after thy
journey. Where didst thou meet Frank? And how many
servants hast thou brought with thee ?â€
“One moment, Beatrice,†said Kenneth quickly, catching
ner by the hand as she seemed about to move across the
gallery towards the door by which Frank and Margery
had already quitted it; “there is one question I would
ask of thee whilst we aro thus alone. How stand matters
HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE. 83
betwixt thee and young Frank? I gathered from Lord
Osbaldistone that I might almost look to tread a measure
at the nuptials ere I turned my face southward again. I
asked Frank how things were, and gathered that he was
willing, but that he knew not how thou mightest receive
the proposal.â€
“Of the boy who is graciously ‘willing’ to be thus
hampered with a wife—to obey the dictates of parental
authority, and honour me with his noble name! Truly a
tempting and a glorious future to be tied for life to a youth
who is smilingly ‘willing’ to take me! O you men, you
men! methinks ye are all alike. You think it such an
honour for us to link our poor, worthless lives with your
mighty ones, that you have only to be ‘willing’ and we
come running to your embraces. No,†and here Beatrice
drew herself up with an air that was little short of regal,
“Tam not thus to be wooed—not thus to be won. The
man who sues for the hand of Beatrice Fane comes in
different fashion from that. Frank Osbaldistone, the boy
I have cuffed a hundred times, the fine young popinjay
ruffling in his feathers and laced doublet, and all the pride
of his recent knighthood! I thank thee, good my brother,
but thou mayest tell young Frank to look for a bride in
some simpler maiden who will be dazzled by his gaudy
frippery. I will wed a man when my time comes, not a
gilded boy; nay, not even though that same complaisant
youth be so graciously ‘ willing’ to honour me thus far.â€
Beatrice made a sweeping and mocking courtesy, whilst
Kenneth broke into a short, impatient laugh.
84 HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE.
“By my troth, Beatrice, thou makest a jibe of everything.
This mocking humour is scarce seemly in a maid. And
thou speakest with scant justice of Frank, who, for all he
is so fine in his outward man, is none such a popinjay as
thou wouldst make out. Let the time come for men to
show themselves in their true colours, and thou wilt find
that he can be—"
“A oreat and mighty Paladin—a lion among men.
Good Kenneth, I doubt it not. Let him have all the
virtues, all the graces of manhood under the sun. I deny
him them not. One thing alone I do deny him, and that
is this hand in wedlock. He hath not asked it, in truth,
and mayhap he never will. Let Lord Osbaldistone seek
another bride for him, for he will never get me.â€
Kenneth shrugged his shoulders with the slightly foreign
gesture which was one of the very few traits he had in-
herited from their Italian mother. Beatrice was full of
little un-English mannerisms, but her brother had caught
very few.
“My Lord Osbaldistone is greatly set upon it; Thou
wilt have to answer to a resolute man for thy decision,
Beatrice.â€
The girl’s head went up in a scornful gesture.
“Thinkest thou I fear my Lord Osbaldistone or any
other man? J will tell him to hig face the truth, an he
will have it. It will net be the first difference we have
had; but we generally make friends again after the storm
has passed by.â€
“It will be a big storm this time,†said Kenneth, with
HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE. 85
a half-smile. “But methinks thou canst hold thine own,
sister ; thou wilt scarce need aid of mine.â€
Beatrice laughed as she twisted up her hair into the
gold net, and without directly replying, gave her hand to
her brother to let him lead her down to the hall, where
they knew refreshments would by this time have been laid
out for the travellers.
Graver themes were laid aside whilst the riders discussed
the good cheer before them; and as this was not the cus-
tomary supper of the household, and the servants had
speedily withdrawn, talk was able to flow freely, and
Kenneth told of his friendship with Ranulph Ogleby and
his purpose to visit him at Wierwold Hall.
A sudden eager light came into Margery’s eyes as these
words were spoken, and Frank looked equally interested
and aroused.
“Nay, if thou goest, and my father be not back, prithee
take me too as thine esquire,†cried the youth “ Long
have I wished for entrance within those walls, but there
seemed no manner of hope of obtaining it.â€
“And wherefore wouldst thou go?†asked Kenneth.
“Is it not true that a deadly feud divides your two
houses ?â€
Brother and sister and Beatrice exchanged glances, and
Beatrice said, “Tell him all, good Frank; he may be
trusted not to divulge aught.â€
Beatrice was plainly the leading spirit in that household
when the master was away, and Frank obeyed her at
once.
86 HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE,
“The matter goeth something after this fashion, good
Kenneth. Our father is at bitter feud with Sir Ralph, for
that he ereatly desires his lands which now adjoin his own,
and there are grievances of generations back which can be
raked up to do service in the cause and embroil us deeper
and deeper. But for mine own part I cannot see that we
have aught to complain of, nor can I feel towards our
neighbours that deadly hatred my father thinks is their
due. Nay; rather would I be friends with all men, save
they be traitors to their King. And nought can be urged
against Sir Ralph beyond the fact that he and his are
Papist to the core, which until these last few years was
the highest praise a man could win.â€
“And thy wish is to make a secret friendship with this
household in the absence of thy father ?â€
Frank was not quite certain if this were meant as a
rebuke, and his check glowed whilst he answered hastily,—
“Nay, not that altogether. I would not let any man
know my true name. It would be as useless for me to try
to win a way there as for one of them to strive to enter
these halls. It is as an unknown stranger that I would
present myself, and my object is less to make friends with
those within, which might be a profitless task, than to see
what manner of woman my Lady Falconer may be; for
methinks that in her both we and the knight himself and
his first family have a, right bitter enenry.â€
“An enemy in his own wife?†repeated Kenneth wonder-
ingly ; “how may that be?â€
Again the other three exchanged glances, and Frank
HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE. 87
appeared to hesitate; whereupon Beatrice took up the tale
in her full half-mocking tones, and Kenneth listened in
amazement.
“Frank is too nice to put into words what has become
a fact patent to all who have eyes and ears and a modicum
of brains. But thou art a man of the world, Kenneth, and
wilt have come across treachery of a deeper and blacker
kind than this. Shortly, then, understand that we have
good reason to suspect that my Lady Falconer, second
mistress of Wierwold Hall, would gladly make a compact
with the lord of Heatheliffe Castle. She loves not her
husband ; she detests the son who is heir to the estates.
She would willingly lend assistance to any plan for com-
passing the death of one and the death or ruin of the other,
so as the reversion of the Hall might fall to her own son,
and she might reign at Heathcliffe Castle, as she reigns
now at Wierwold. In short, she is coveting to be the
Lady Osbaldistone, just as Lord Osbaldistone is coveting
the acres adjoining his own which lie on this side the
Wharf. She would yield up these, if her son kept the
remainder of the property, for the glory of her position as
a baroness. He would wed her to obtain her assistance in
the matter he has at heart—the disgrace, the death of his
foe, and the attainment of his pet ambition. To speak the
truth, I believe the wife is the more implacable of the two.
Disgrace would serve Lord Osbaldistone’s turn; death
alone will free my lady from a yoke of which she is weary.
There is the story, Kenneth, in brief, and you will under-
stand the interest we take in Wierwold Hall and its in-
88 HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE.
mates, and why we do not hate them—the father and the
son and daughter whose lives may be threatened——but
rather feel that we would gladly make common cause with
them against a common foe.â€
Kenneth took all this in without any appearance of
being over-much shocked to find a man with whom he
stood in friendly relation embarked in such an intrigue.
Times were somewhat brutal in their simplicity in the
fifteenth century; and matters that would scarce be
named in a whisper now were openly canvassed and dis-
cussed, Men of ambition and determination had often
half-a-dozen intrigues on hand of a more or less violent
kind, and to get rid, by fair means or foul, of a hated enemy
was a very ordinary course of proceeding, There was no
reason to suppose that Lord Osbaldistone was the only
person meditating evil in this long-standing feud. Sir
Ralph might have his own plot on hand for disposing of
his foe. There was little of the polish of the Court to be
found in the wilds of Yorkshire. Manners were rude, and
passions were easily roused. Even these young girls
talked and thought of such matters with a certain amount
of indifference, and had it not been that Frank and Mar-
gery’s father was one of those concerned in the intrigue of
hatred and revenge, they would have felt little concern in
the matter. As it was, the personal detestation they felt
for Lady Falconer, and their dread at the thought of her
possible rule in Heathcliffe Castle, made them indignant
against the suspected villany, and this not unnaturally led
them to desire to make common cause with the victims of
HEATHCLIFFE CASTLE. 89
the intended plot, notwithstanding the fact that they were
the traditionary foes of the house.
A further discussion on the matter, and certain questions
from Kenneth, showed him that the suspicion just im-
parted to him was of a kind that could not be proved.
The plot had been rather divined than discovered, and
would scarcely stand the test of close examination. He
did not doubt that something strange was going on, but he
was not as certain as his hosts that Lord Osbaldistone
really meditated carrying out such a plan. Rumours
picked up from servants, and bits of circumstantial evi-
dence, although all of value when they tended in one
direction, could scarcely be quoted as evidence. Kenneth
tried to make the best of what he heard, and advised
Frank and Margery to excite themselves as little as pos-
sible over the matter ; but he was more than ever resolved
upon the expedition to Wierwold Hall, himself to take
counsel with his friend Ranulph, and perhaps put him
somewhat on his guard; and Frank was as fully determined
to accompany him, if his father’s return did not prevent
him.
Lord Osbaldistone, however, showed no sign of return.
He sent letters announcing that business detained him at
Greenwich, and that he could not arrive before the close
of the year at earliest. And so upon the eve of the
Christmas Festival, Kenneth and Frank rode forth together,
soberly clad, like travellers upon the road, to present them-
selves at the door of Wierwold Hall upon the evening of
the coming of age of the heir.
CHAPTER V.
IN HUS FATHER’S HOUSE.
T’ was with strange feelings that Guy, after a long
I day’s march over snowy roads in the merry company
of the troop of mummers, arrived at last within sight of
his own birthplace, and saw the turrets of his father’s
house rising up solemn and gray against the clear yellow
of the evening sky. Strange it was, too, to be entering
that portal as a stranger and menial, when he might have
claimed the rights of son and brother. But Guy had no
sense of repulsion for the part he had elected to play.
So far the life within grim stone walls, far removed from
the haunts of man, had few attractions for him. He was
filed with a lively curiosity as to his kinsfolk, but he
experienced no desire to share their eloomy state—for such
did it seem to him after the cheerful bustle of the Inn.
Not that he saw Wierwold Hall at its gloomiest or
quietest by any means. Within the great kitchen, whither
the mummers were taken on their first arrival, all was stir
and life. Two huge fires were burning im cavernous
1es, and cooks and turnspits were hard at work prepar-
ing the baked meats and more delicate dainties that would
are]
IN HLS FATHER’S HOUSE. gt
presently be served up at the tables in the hall, where the
evening revel was to be held. The supper-hour was nigh
at hand, and Guy, who saw too much of drinking at home
for it to have any great attraction for him, declined the
tankard of huff-cap pressed upon him, and commenced a
little voyage of discovery on his own account, nobody heed-
ing whither his steps were bent.
The kitchens of the Hall formed a part of the boundary
of the court-yard, and Guy soon found himself in the open
air, the rough paving-stones of the yard beneath his tcet,
the clear sky overhead, a range of stabling opposite, and to
the right the long row of lighted windows which plainly
belonged to the banqueting-hall, where the feast of the
evening was to be held.
There were no curtains to the windows, and he could see
forms passing and repassing as the servants hastened to
and fro, setting out the tables and putting all in readiness.
Guy crept cautiously up to one of these windows and
looked curiously within.
It chanced that the window he had approached was one
at the upper end of the hall, and close to the dais where
the first table was set for guests of the higher quality. A
fine linen table-cloth, then something of a novelty, was
spread upon the board, and a plentiful array of costly
silver plate was laid upon it. But it was not the table or
its appointments which riveted Guy’s gaze, but the group
of figures gathered round the hearth and superintending or
watching the proceedings of the servants.
“My father,†said Guy beneath his breath, as his eyes
G2 IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE.
rested upon the grizzled head and worn features of one
who was plainly the master of the house. The boy was
filled at once with a rush of love and pity he could not for
a moment have accounted for or have analyzed. But it
scemed to him, as he stood there, that he read in his
father’s face the story of an embittered and disappointed
life, and his throat swelled and his breast heaved with
a strange rush of emotion as he turned his glance upon
the haughty woman at his side.
“Tt is she who has been the disappointment, the curse of
his life,’ quoth the lad, with the quick intuition of youth
and its accompanying hard, decisive judgment; “she looks
like it—she is just the woman I have pictured. I trow I
will never place myself beneath the yoke she sets upon all
beneath her sway. My father did well to leave me to the
care of Nicholas and Bridget Holt.â€
At that moment Guy felt his cloak pulled from behind,
and turning quickly round, found himself confronted by a
little girl in holiday ruff and kirtle, whose black eyes shone
with mischievous glee, and who had the appearance of a
veritable elf.
“ Boy,†she said, with an imperiousness of manner that
was entertaining in one of her small stature, “what are
you doing here, staring in at the windows like that?â€
“T crave your pardon, little mistress; it was something
unmannerly, I fear. But I was out in the court-yard, and
the lights attracted me. Yon is a noble hall, in good
sooth, and I see preparations for a right goodly feast.â€
“Certes yes; everybody knows that. It is Christmas-
IN ELS FATHER’S HOUSE. 93
eve, and my brother’s birthday to boot. But who are you,
boy, and what do you here? Are you one of our guests ?
If so, why does not some lazy varlet of a servant take you
to your own room?â€
“Nay, sweet mistress, I am amply well lodged with the
rest of our company in some loft above the buttery. I am
but a member of the troop of actors or mummers, who
come to make sport for the gentlefolk assembled here. We
have but lately arrived, and the kitchen is something full
to overflowing ; wherefore I came out hither to breathe the
night air, and the lights drew me to the window. I pray
you pardon me if I have done aught amiss.â€
“Puff! no harm in the world. So thou art nothing
but a strolling player?†quoth Roxana, with a long stare
of something like surprise. “By the mass, I took thee
for something better than that. Thou hast the air and
the speech of gentle birth, What is thy name, and how
camest thou to be such a thing as that? Methought
actors were little better than rogues and vagabonds.â€
“They call me Tony,†answered Guy, who had adopted
the name as well as the character of the lad who lay sick
at home; “I trust we are something better than the vaga-
bonds upon the roads. And as for what we can do, thou
wilt see that for thyself anon. We have many a merry
feat of juggling to show, to say nothing of the play, that
will best show what we are worth.â€
The child gave him a keen, quick look as the familiar
2
“thou†passed his lips. She had fallen into it herself as
a matter of course so soon as she had learned that he was
94 IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE.
but a mummer, yet she hardly expected him to do the
same. Guy, who knew that he was speaking to his little
half-sister, found it natural enough to address her so; but
something in her look recalled him to his assumed part,
and he added more formally,—
“But I may not keep you out here in the cold, fair
mistress. The frost is keen, and you have no covering for
your head.â€
“T eare not for that; I am no weakling,†answered the
child, with a laugh. “I love to talk with travellers who
have geen the world. I would hear more of thine adven-
iures. So follow me, I pray thee, and I will bring thee to
the lower end of the hall. We shall not be noticed there,
and thou canst tell me about the play, and what part thou
art going to take.â€
The child turned quickly and beckoned him to follow.
Guy willingly obeyed, and soon found himself beside the
elowine fire at the lower end of the hall, the tables
and the shifting throng of servants between him and the
dais at the upper end, and Roxana standing beside him,
eagerly questioning him and listening greedily to his
answers.
Guy was fond of all children, and was willing enough to
make fricnds with his little half-sister. He got her to
chatter to him, and she let slip a great deal which possibly
her mother might scarce have cared for her to bruit abroad
to a stranger; but the child was recklessly truthful by
nature, and had ceased to regard her mother in the light of
a beneficent presence in the house. Some of Guy’s vague
IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE. 95
fears and misgivings began to take more active shape, and
he felt that he had much eause for thankfulness in the
chance that had kept him from his step-dame’s power.
Presently he was roused from his brief reverie by hearing
Roxana say,
“And here comes Geoffrey, doubtless to chide me for
concerting with an idle knave like thee, Tony. But I care
not; Geofirey is never spiteful like Ralph, nor hasty, nor
sullen, if things please him not.—Well, Brother, what
wouldst thou? Hast come to call me to order?†and
Roxana lifted a saucy face to meet the glance of the tall
youth who approached. “This is Tony, one of the play-
actors, and a right honest youth, as I will answer for. He
hath played the gentleman so long, I take it, that he hath
grown into the part almost. He is to play the prince in
the play, and a right goodly one he will make, if I mis-
take not.â€
Geoffrey smiled, and laid a kindly hand on Roxana’s
dark head.
“Thy mother is asking for thee, little one. Thou hadst
better find her ere she finds thee,†said he; and Roxana
darted off without a word of protest, for Lady Falconer
was decidedly mistress of her own house. Geoffrey stood
looking at Guy with some faint stirrings of curiosity upon
his face; and as the boy lifted his eyes and met this
glance, the elder brother spoke.
“Methinks I have seen thy face before, yet I know not
how nor when,†he said. “Hast been in these parts before,
good youth ?â€
96 IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE.
“Not very nigh to this noble Hall, but I am not quite
a stranger to the neighbourhood,†answered Guy; “yet I
remember nob having seen your face before.â€
He was looking at it earnestly now—the face of his
brother—and experiencing that strange sense of love and
kinship which will make itself felt in our hearts, proving
the truth of the old adage that blood is thicker than water.
Every tone of Geoffrey’s voice thrilled him. An unreason-
ing affection, utterly unlike any other that had entered
into his life before, sprang up in his heart towards this tall
and handsome youth, whose face had been unknown to him
a few minutes before. He longed to fall upon his neck
and call him “ Brother,†but he restrained himself, and gave
no outward sion of emotion, only betraying an eagerness
and responsiveness which was not without its effect upon
Geoffrey.
He took to Guy at once. It seemed to him that a lad
of such gentle speech and manner was out of place in the
company of a mere band of wandering actors. No definite
plan entered his head, but he had some vague thoughts of
asking if the youth would not like to change his state in
life. He himself would require servants when he started
forth to see the world. Might not such a lad as this serve
him well in some such capacity 2
But this idea was too vague to be called a plan at
present, and Guy’s attention was at that moment taken
off by the entrance at the upper end of the hall of another
fieure. A tall, slim maiden, habited in a long black robe,
had glided silently in, and was standing gazing at the
IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE. Q7
festively-decked hall with a pair of dreamy dark eyes
which scarce seemed to take in outward impressions, but
appeared to be lighted by some illumination from within.
The hall was by this time almost clear. The servants
had done their task, and all was in readiness for the feast.
From where he stood, Guy could look straight at his sister,
and he recognized in her that strong likeness to himself
which explained why Geoffrey had spoken of having seen
his face before.
As Guy watched her, wondering at her ethereal loveli-
ness, and feeling as though so fair a creature could scarce
be sister of his, the hard-faced lady of the house bore down
upon the girl as she stood, and after speaking some rapid
words, which did not reach Guy’s ear, struck her twice
sharply across the shoulders with the ebony staff she
always carried.
With a stifled exclamation of anger and astonishment,
Guy made a step forward as if to interpose, when he was
recalled to himself by feeling the eyes of Geoffrey upon
him. Parental discipline in those days was freely adminis-
tered in such fashion, and there was nothing in Lady Fal-
coner’s action which would have been censured as trans-
gressing the prerogative of those in authority. But the
sight of the blows dealt to his fragile and lovely sister
set Guy's blood boiling in his veins, and drew upon him
the surprised regard of the son of the house, to whom such
scenes were familiar, although they never failed to awaken
a sense of deep indignation within him.
“I pray your pardon,†said Guy, colouring to the roots
(322 7
98 IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE.
of his hair, “ but it ever goes against me to see a woman
struck.â€
Geoffrey’s smile was rather bitter.
“Ay, boy, I know well the feeling; but the days of
chivalry are dead and gone, and the worship and protec-
tion of womanhood is no longer part of our faith. We
ave called upon to show our manhood now by despoiling
churches, by falling upon defenceless nuns and peaceful
monks—or shall be soon, if what men say is true. Men
in old days waged war against the heathen infidel in the
name of the Holy Church and her Lord. Now they are
to turn their arms against that Holy Church, and show
their love to Him by rending the unity of His sacred Body.
But enough; this is the day of revelry and feasting. We
must all laugh and be merry, and forget that there are
evil days coming upon the world.â€
And in effect at this moment a great fanfare of trumpets
sounded, and the hall became filled with a motley throng.
The guests at the high table had already taken their seats,
and Geoffrey, at an imperative summons from his father,
hastened across to his own chair. The lower tables were
quickly filled, Guy finding a seat beside those of his own
company ; and, with a great deal of laughter and cheering
and merriment, as well as a certain amount of solemnity,
the great boar’s head was borne in upon a huge dish, two
or three singers walking backwards before it, singing the
well-known words commencing thus :—
“The boar’s head in hand bear I,
All decked with garlands and rosemarie.â€
IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE. 99
And when the boar’s head had been deposited upon the
high table, the other dishes were brought in in -oreat
numbers, and the feast began in good earnest.
Whilst the revelry was thus sounding within the
halls, upon the road without two travellers were riding
briskly in the clear moonlight, smiling from time to
time as the lights of the Hall became visible, and won-
dering what manner of reception would be theirs at their
journey’s end,
“Thou hast not so much as set eyes upon them before,
then, Frank ; thou hast not even encountered them upon
the road ?â€
“No, never—at least not to my knowing. When the
Falconers journey, they journey not by the great main
route, perchance for the very reason that it passeth so
near our doors, and that our land is its boundary on one
side. They take the winding lanes for many miles, and
thus are seldom seen by travellers. Were my face known
to them, I should scarce dare to present myself thus at
their doors, even at this festal time of merry-making. Sir
Ralph is something fiery in his moods, and belike his son
takes after him.â€
“Then we must fain find names for ourselves that will
nob rouse suspicion,†laughed Kenneth, “for that of Fane
may be in as ill odour as Osbaldistone itself. I will borrow
my mother’s name for the nonce, and be Kenneth Wishart,
and thou shalt be Arthur Shaxton, my good friend and
fellow-traveller. Methinks Ranulph Ogleby will have too
100 IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE.
ready a wit to betray us by any inadvertent speech ; nay,
he will not so much as know thee.â€
By this time the travellers had reached the drawbridge,
and Kenneth blew a long blast upon the horn that hung
without. In a moment a man-at-arms appeared to answer
the summons, and on hearing a few words of explanation,
spoke words of ready welcome.
“Ride in, ride in, good sirs. There is a welcome for all
at Wierwold Hall to-night, be he gentle or simple. The
heir comes of age to-day, and we hold high revel in his
honour. The feast is even now commenced. Ride in, and
a hearty welcome will be yours.â€
2
“Thanks, good fellow,†answered Kenneth, dropping a
gold piece into the man’s hand; and in a few minutes more
they had dismounted from their steeds, and were being
condueted to the hall itself, from whence proceeded loud
sounds of revelry, music, and laughter, and the clatter of
knives and trenchers, together with the bursts of uproarious
merriment occasioned by any sharp speech or chance
mishap.
News of the sudden arrival of belated travellers had
gone before them, and at the door of the hall they were
met and cordially received by Sir Ralph himself and his
son, who, without pausing to ask any questions, led them
courteously to the high table, where the family and some
dozen guests of the better sort, including Ranulph Ogleby,
were assembled, eating off silver plate and drinking out
of costly cups and tankards of the same metal.
A quick glance passed between the travelling companions
IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE. IO!
of but a short while back, and then Kenneth advanced and
slapped Ranulph upon the shoulder.
“Ha, good comrade! thou didst not think to see thy
friend Wishart so soon again, I warrant. But these roads
buried in snow would puzzle any honest traveller not ac-
quainted with these northerly parts. And this is my very
good friend Arthur Shaxton. Hast ever heard me speak
of him? It is indeed a pleasant change from the cold and
darkness and perils of the road to find ourselves in such
good company as this,â€
The fact that the travellers were known to Ranulph, com-
bined with their own good looks and courtly manners, com-
pleted the satisfaction of their hosts, Lady Falconer gave
them gracious welcome, beckoned to the servants to bring
more covers, and placing Kenneth beside herself, she
signed to her step-daughter to make place for Frank next
to her.
Ermengarde had paid little heed to this new stir in the
hall. The sound of revelry was little to her liking, and had
it not been that this was Geoffrey’s feast, she would gladly
have absented herself altogether from the noisy scene.
Rather would she have spent the eve of the holy Christmas-
tide in telling her beads upon the cold stone floor of the
little chapel of the Castle, her only light the lamp burning
before the shrine which contained the Host, the symbol to
her of the Church waiting and watching for her Lord—the
bride awaiting the coming of the Heavenly Bridegroom.
The loud laughter of careless revelry jarred upon her.
The deep potations of the men were revolting to her, and
102 IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE.
the merry minstrelsy in the gallery above was almost
as little to her liking. She was wondering where she
should be next Christmas-tide—wondering whether it might
be her lot, in the blessed security and peace of the cloister,
to be keeping her vigil far differently from this, to the
sound of holy chant and psalm—when a, voice at her elbow
aroused her from her dream, and she found herself addressed
by a total stranger.
“Sweet lady, I pray you pardon me, but you are eating
nought, and your cup stands untouched beside you. Will
you not command me to serve you? Is there nought here
that pleases your fancy ?â€
Ermengarde raised her eyes with a start, and looked full
into Frank Osbaldistone’s face, and at that moment the
young man was conscious that a thrill went through him,
utterly different from any other he had experienced in the
course of his brief life; indeed from that hour he began to
know that his heart had passed from his own keeping, and
that it had been given to the daughter of his father’s old
and bitter enemy.
Love at first sight is sufficiently rare, but it is not un-
known, and in Frank’s case it was sudden and complete.
He scarce knew what it was that had befallen him, but the
world was unaccountably changed from that moment. He
felt as though he stepped on air, as though his drink was
nectar, his food that of the gods. Yet in truth it was
but little that he ate or drank, for he sat with his eyes on
Ermengarde’s face, and drank in every tone of her voice as
though it were a strain of sweet music.
IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE. 103
All the while that she conversed with the fair-haired
stranger she was sparing him scarce a thought, though
gentle and courteous enough in her words, and his ardent
glances met with no response, as her eyes were seldom bent
upon his face. There was something altogether so remote
and aloof in her whole aspect, she appeared to have
so little part or lot in the scene around (which was sufii-
ciently animated and picturesque to win a smile from most
young maids), that at last he ventured to hazard a remark
to that effect, and was rewarded by a fuller glance from her
fathomless eyes.
“Fair sir, how can such scenes please one whose heart
is not in them?†she gently asked. “These merry revels,
these roisterings and feastings, are scarce fitting for one
whose life is devoted to holier things. I would fain have
been away, but that my brother would have missed me
this last time from his feast.â€
“How mean you by ‘this last time, sweet lady ?†asked
Frank, with a touch of uneasiness in his voice. “Surely
there will be many gay Yule-tide feasts held in this hall
in years to come?â€
The company had just risen from the table, for the hall
having been partially cleared, the ceremony of dragging in
the Yule-log was about to commence. The whole company
were on their feet. Numbers of them held long lighted
tapers in their hands, and formed a procession, whilst
the huge log, which was almost a tree-trunk for size and
weight, was dragged in by cords, and pushed from behind
by the sturdiest and strongest of the men, the Lord of
To4 IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE.
Misrule (as the master of the Christmas revels was dubbed,
generally the merriest and wittiest fellow of the company)
being enthroned upon it with a plume of feathers in his
cap and a tankard of ale in his hand. The whole company
shouted and capered, and drank potations in honour of the
occasion, and the hubbub was so great that it was only in
the comparative tranquillity of the upper end of the hall
that any kind of conversation could be kept up. Ermen-
garde had instinctively withdrawn to the farthest corner
from the scene of riot, and Frank had followed her thither.
He was used to such scenes, and they raised no sense of
distaste in him; but the look upon the face of his com-
panion showed that to her there was something repulsive
in the noisy, untrained merriment of the people, so insepa-
rably connected, as it was in those days, with deep drinking
and the degrading scenes which must follow upon intoxica-
tion,
The family would withdraw shortly, and leave the
humbler revellers to drain the hogsheads provided for
them, and indulge in the riotous games of the day at their
own pleasure. There was nothing in such orgies repellent
to the tone of popular feeling. But Ermengarde was in
advance of the times in her instincts and feelings, and it
was small wonder if she looked forward with a great sense
of longing to the quiet, devotional repose of the cloister
life as she pictured it.
But Frank was waiting for an answer to his question.
They were standing together in a small embrasure, and the
clamour about them did but seem to isolate them the more.
LN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE. 105
He could see her better now than when they had been
seated side by side at table, and it struck him that the
plain black habit, without ornament or adornment of any
kind, was scarce like the festal robe suited to one in this
fair girl’s rank in life. The rosary she had lifted in her
hands, as if it could in some way preserve her from con-
tamination, told a tale of its own, and he added anxiously
and. earnestly,—
“Why speak you, sweet lady, as though some great gulf
would shortly divide you from others of this household ?â€
A beautiful light came into her eyes as she raised them
to his, yet seeming all the while to look beyond rather
than at him.
“A great gulf,†she repeated softly, as though the words
pleased her; “ah, may the holy Saints grant that it indeed
prove so! Fair sir, I know you not, yet methinks I necd
not hide so small a secret from great or small. I trust
and hope, long ere another year has passed, that I shall
be far away from these rude scenes, within the blessed
shelter which will protect me from the world; where I can
pass my time in fasting and prayer, and keep myself un-
spotted from the world as none may do who live without
those hallowed precincts.â€
A cold chill seemed to creep over Frank's spirit.
“Mean you, lady, that you will take the veil ?â€
“Ay, verily,†she answered, with a peculiarly radiant
smile. “It hath been my steadfast wish from childhood,
and methinks the day is not far distant now wees the
dream will become a blessed reality.â€
106 IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE.
A torrent of eager words rushed to the lips of the
impetuous youth, but was held back by the dictates of
common-sense and gentlemanly feeling. What right had
he—a perfect stranger, a foe, did she but know it, of her
house—to offer remonstrance or advice? Yet all the same
he felt as though life’s sun would have set for him did
Ermengarde Falconer fulfil her resolve; and yet what
could he say? For a moment he stood mute and motion-
less, and then ventured a timid remark.
“Lady, hast thou heard what men are saying in these
days ?—that the work commenced by the great Cardinal ere
his death and disgrace will be carried on, though in very
different fashion, by his successor and the proud King? It
is said that the Convent walls will soon cease to protect
those who retreat within them; that the religious houses
will be swept in a great measure from off the face of
the land. Hast thou heard this here in these solitudes ?
for, in sooth, it behoves all such as seek that life to
know the signs of the times, and they are not hard to
read.â€
For one moment a startled glance crossed the face of the
girl, but was quickly replaced by a look of ethereal calm
and peace which awed the youth as he watched.
“God will protect His own,†answered Ermengarde softly.
“The arm of man may not prevail against the Most High.
He may suffer them for a moment to threaten and destroy ;
but He will rise up to defend His own who trust in Him,
and put His foes to a perpetual shame. Let those tremble
who trust to an arm of flesh. Menace not those whose
IN IHS FATHER’S HOUSE. 107
hope and confidence is in the Lord God Almighty, the
Maker and Ruler of Heaven and Earth.â€
Frank stood for a moment silent and abashed. He knew
too much of what lay behind the scenes to stand in over-
much awe of priestly phrases or priestly threats. But the
pure trust of this maiden was different indeed from the
stock phrases of dissolute abbots and profligate priests.
Those who led the van of “ Reform†were but too often
forgetful of the minority who had kept the faith pure, who
had not defiled their garments, who walked in the clear
faith that had been handed down through centuries of
misrepresentation and error; were forgetful that what és
the Great Truth cannot be altogether sullied or overlaid or
hidden from the eyes that are pure enough to see it shining
through the cloud. Frank had lived in the midst of those
whose mission in life it was to detect abuses, and discover
impurities in the lives and doctrines of those who professed
the most attachment to the “old religion,’ as he mentally
phrased it. Small wonder, perhaps, that he had learned to
feel a fine contempt for it, and that he was prepared to
uphold the newer, less priest-ridden forms as purer and
higher in every way.
And yet, confronted by the clear, luminous gaze of this
would-be nun, he could not but ask himself if he had ever
experienced one tithe of that steadfast faith and joy which
was illuminating her whole face at this moment. Was
he, after all, to discover that there was life in the faith
he had often likened to a dead corpse—to learn a lesson
from one who had heard no whisper to disturb her love
108 IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE.
and trust in old forms and creeds? He knew not how
to answer either her speech or the question in his own
heart, and ere he had found voice to utter a word she had
slipped away from his side and was gone he knew not
whither, and he was left watching the flitting noisy crowd,
with eyes that took in nothing of the tumultuous revelry
about him.
CHAPTER VI.
GUY'S RESOLVE.
és ‘ A J OF to the house of Falconer; woe to the inhabit-
ants of Wierwold Hall! The Yule-log has gone
out. An evil year is before them.â€
This lugubrious prognostication was echoing from mouth
to mouth when Guy descended from his not too wholesome
or comfortable quarters the next day, with the intention
of attending the early mass in the chapel, the bell of which
was already tinkling, He met pale-faced women, worn out
with the revelry of the preceding night, wringing their
hands and uttering doleful lamentations; and a thrill of
superstitious dismay ran through his own frame as he
stood beside the huge fireplace in the hall, where the Yule-
log had so triumphantly blazed the previous evening, and
saw that the flame had smouldered and gone out before
the log was one-quarter consumed. Of course he, like
every other person in the house, was well aware that this
was deemed a sure portent of coming ill-fortune. Any
well-disposed Yule-log burned the whole of the night and
throughout the Christmas-day, and then there was every
prospect of a lucky year. It was bad enough when the wood
I10 GUY'S RESOLVE.
burned too fast, but for the fire to go out for no apparent
reason at all was far worse. Heads were shaken and dole-
ful words passed from mouth to mouth, whilst Guy went
to the chapel with an unwonted weight at his heart, only
taking some comfort in the certainty that Esther Garth
and her mother would smile at such a mischance as this,
and say that God’s loving care was something far too
strong and real to be averted by any accident, or indeed
by anything short of deliberate disregard of His laws. Guy
was at times in some doubt how far he ought to heed the
words of those whom his spiritual fathers called heretics;
but he had found them such trusty friends and stanch
counsellors in the trials and perplexities of his boyhood,
that he had come to put great faith in their words, and
to accept much of their teaching without questioning its
orthodoxy.
Mass had scarce been said by Father Gregory in the
little chapel, before the revelry of the past night broke out
with almost the same wildness as before. The omen of
the Yule-loe, which had thrown a gloom over the first hour
of the day, was speedily forgotten in the wassailing and
drinking with which the retainers tried to drown all
thought of care. The picture presented to us by historians
of the merry-making of olden times is scarcely edifying to
our modern notions, The Lord of Misrule and his numer-
ous followers had it all their own way, setting on foot
within doors every sort of mad revelling, and going round
the neighbourhood, levying a species of black-mail from
all persons they met, forcing all to give them money for
GUV’S RESOLVE. III
paltry little badges—*devil’s cognizances,’ as the chroni-
cler calls them—and shamefully flouting and ill-treat-
ing all who dared to resist, even to the ducking of them
in the nearest pond. For more than a week no one
thought of work, save that which was absolutely necessary
to keep the household wheels rotating. It was a time of
rioting and feasting and noisy merriment, and only ter-
minated with the Plough-Monday dance, which took place
on the Monday following Twelfth-night, when the plough-
men came up demanding money, one of their number
dressed as a woman, and executing a fantastic dance,
whilst another, habited in skins, with a long tail, which he
carried in his hand, played the part of fool or devil as his
humour prompted. A plough was brought up by the rest
of the company, and all who hesitated to give the men the
largess demanded were served with a threat that their
thresholds should be ploughed up.
It must surely have been a relief to many when the
Christmas season and its attendant festivities were ended.
When the nature of these revelries is studied, it is easier
to understand the fanatical reaction which followed in the
next century, when almost any kind of amusement was
ranked as a deadly sin by one portion of the community.
Jt is seldom that an extreme of laxity is not followed in
due course by an extreme in the opposite direction, as the
pendulum of public opinion swings to and fro.
Guy was saved from having to bear a share in all the
folly and frolic in which the mummers took their part,
owing to the fancy taken by Geoffrey and others in the
112 GUY'S RESOLVE.
house to the lad, who played his part in the drama so well,
and who seemed in all ways so superior to his companions.
The play was given on the evening of Christmas-day, and
gave creat satisfaction to all present, Guy’s acting being
especially commended. Frank Osbaldistone, Ranulph, and
Kenneth all recognized in the youthful prince the son
(as they supposed him) of the Inn-keeper, Nicholas Holt;
and after the play had ended, they sought him out, and
heard the story of how he had taken the part of the sick
Tony, without being one of the troop save for the nonce.
“And the less thou hast to do with them these next
days the better ‘twill be for thee,†said Kenneth, laying a
friendly hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “Thou knowest
well what manner of sport will be the order of the day
within and without these walls. If thou wilt take the
counsel of one better versed in the ways of the world than
thou canst be, thou wilt have little dealing with thy com-
panions now that thy part is played. Methinks thine
honest father would little like to see thee in such company.â€
For a moment Guy started and glanced at the speaker,
to see if he meant more than met the ear; but Kenneth
was merely thinking of the burly Inn-keeper, and Guy
smiled at his own passing suspicion.
But the lad was grateful enough for kindly notice, and
for the offer made him by Geoflrey of a separate chamber
to lodge in, away from the kitchens and their occupants.
The master of the troop made no demur to the boy’s with-
drawing himself from the company, so long as he was
ready to play his part whenever it might be required; and
GUY'S RESOLVE. 113
so it came about that Guy found himself in a fashion a
member of his father’s household, following his brother
when he went out to fly his hawk or to gallop with his
comrades and guests over the snow-covered moors, and
sitting at the table, below the salt, where his own family
were assembled, hearing them talk, and learning by rapid
degrees to know them one from the other, and to gather
something of their respective natures.
The presence in that house of Sir Francis Oshaldistone
astonished him not a little, though, finding that the knight
was passing under an assumed name, he had the discretion
to hold his peace and say nothing to any one about the
identity of the dashing young man with the son of the
ancestral foe. But he felt a not unnatural distrust of such
a visit to those of his own kindred, and was relieved when
the young man himself spoke to him upon the subject.
Ji had been with a qualm of dismay that young Frank
had discovered, after a three days’ residence in Wierwold
Hall—three blissful days spent as far as was possible at
Ermengarde’s side—that there was one in that household
to whom his real name might be known; and when Guy
appeared at the table, and seemed to have thrown off the
companionship of the mummers, young Osbaldistone cast
many uneasy glances at him, and once or twice fancied that
the lad was regarding him with a certain amount of won-
dering curiosity.
Guy’s good looks and air of breeding had always made
him a favourite with travellers upon the road, and Frank
had many times indulged in a chat with the bright-faced
(322) 8
14 GUYV’S RESOLVE.
boy. He was almost certain that Guy had recognized
him ; wherefore, on rising from table after one of the mid-
day meals, he followed the boy through the lower door used
by the servants, and laid a detaining hand upon his arm.
Guy turned quickly at the touch, and was scarcely sur-
prised to find himself face to face with Sir Francis. He
made a gesture of respect, and let the young man lead him
whither he would.
“Boy,†began Frank eagerly, so soon as they were out
of hearing of any other creature, concealed in the deep em-
brasure of one of the great windows of the main gallery,
“thou art surprised to see me here. I read it in thy face.
Tell me, hast thou spoken my name to any living soul
within these walls?â€
“No, sir. Methought you desived secrecy, as you were
called by a name other than your worshipful one. I have
said nought to any man.â€
“Thou art a discreet knave, and I thank thee,†said
Frank, slipping a gold piece into the boy’s hand. Guy
coloured slightly, but made no demuvr. Formerly he had
been accustomed to receive the guerdon of parting guests
as a matter of course as much as had Diccon, the true son
of the Inn. It would not do to draw back now. He
must be as discreet in his assumed part as the youthful
knight had to be in his; yet Guy felt a sense of repulsion
as he pocketed the coin and framed a word of thanks.
Young Osbaldistone hesitated a moment, and then spoke
with some freedom and fervour.
“Guy, Ihave heard thy good father speak well of the
GUY'S RESOLVE. 115
Falconers, and I trow that what thou hast seen of them
these past days has made thee share this good-will. Thou
mayest, therefore, regard me with suspicion, as one who
comes like a foe, creeping in at unaware to spy out the land.
But I give thee my word of knightly honour that this is
not so. It is as a friend, not as a foe, that I come. Did the
power lie with me, the feud which has sundered our houses
so long should be healed this very day. Sir Ralph is a right
knightly gentleman ; his son is in every way worthy of
him; and his daughterщۉ۪ Frank paused, and the hot
blood mounted to his face. Quickly changing his form of
speech, he launched forth into praises of Geoffrey, and ex-
plained that his mission in coming was to see if something
might not be done towards healing the breach between the
two houses, and that since he had been a guest at Wier-
wold this desire had been more ardent than ever.
“Guy,†he added at length, reading so much sympathy
and comprehension in the boy’s face that he was tempted
to speak more unreservedly than he had intended—* Guy,
I greatly fear, by all I hear and see, that some devilry
is at work here, and that my lady is at the bottom of it.
Our good friend Ranulph Ogleby tells us that he is certain
an attempt was made not many nights since to poison
Geoffrey, who stands in the way of my lady’s own son; and
methinks that she has other methods of compassing his
destruction, for she consorts much with necromancers and
astrologers, one such living as her servant in this very
place. We have learned that she believes her husband’s
son is protected from her malice by means of a charm
116 GUY'S RESOLVE.
which hangs about his neck, and that she seeks to weave
other and more potent charms which shall render this of
none avail, that she may work her malicious will upon
him.â€
Guy’s eyes suddenly dilated and flashed. He raised his
hand with a fierce gesture, and his words were spoken
with an intensity of purpose which at once riveted Frank’s
attention.
“She shall not succeed; that will I make my care.
She-devil or witch—I care not which she is—I will
watch over him, I will protect him. He purposes shortly
to leave this place, and seek his fortune in the wide world.
Until he does so I will remain with him, and no hurt shall
be done him. I will save him at the cost, if need be, of
my life.â€
The boy spoke with the sudden fervour of enthusiastic
youth. Guy had been falling under the spell of his
father’s noble bearing, his brother’s frank good-will, his
sister’s ethereal beauty, and had already begun to feel as
though he could never be quite the same careless, indiffer-
ent son of the Inn as of old. Manhood was struggling
within him for mastery over boyhood, and he felt at this
moment as though his life’s purpose took form and shape
before his eyes,
Frank looked at him in amaze, and as he looked he felt
a strange thrill run through him. The rush of generous
emotion which had filled Guy with this sudden enthusiasm
had kindled a light in his eye, and had brought a flush
upon his cheek which increased tenfold his remarkable
GUY'S RESOLVE. 114
likeness to his sister. In that moment Ermengarde’s eyes
seemed to look out from the boy’s face, and her wondrous
rare smile to show itself upon his lips) Frank gazed in
amaze, and then suddenly took the lad by the arm.
“Guy,†he said, in a low, hoarse tone, “thou art no son
of Nicholas Holt. Who art thou, boy? What is thy
name and rank? Tt is not for nought that we have all
said how thou differest from thy surroundings. Fear not
to speak to me. I will betray no man’s trust. But thou
art not what the world takes thee for; thou hast that in
thy face which shows it plainly.â€
Guy recoiled for a moment, and the flush faded from
his cheek, but there was something in Frank’s face which
inspired trust. He might not be the man to win the
heart of a woman such as Beatrice F ane, yet for all that
he was no mere weakling or babbler, and his face just now
expressed a great and generous purpose. Guy saw that
he was to all intents and purposes discovered. He was
even rather glad to share his secret with another, though
it was strange to him that that one should be the son of
his father’s bitterest enemy. But Guy had grown up far
from the centre of discord. He had known and liked
Frank Osbaldistone these many years. All that he had
ever heard of the young man had been in his favour; and
he was sharp-sighted enough to be well aware now that
Frank would never again call himself the foe of any who
bore the name of Falconer.
“T am not Nicholas Holt’s own son,†he answered,
speaking slowly and carefully, weighing his words as well
118 GUY'S RESOLVE.
as the excitement of the moment would let him; “I am
but his foster-child. I am the son of Sir Ralph Falconer.
Tam the boy whose birth cost our mother her life. I
believe that the Lady Falconer who rules here now re-
fused to permit my return to the Hall when I was of an
age to leave my foster-parents, and my father removed
them and me to the White Wolf; and there I have been
brought up, not even desiring the recognition which has
been denied me. And I crave it not now. I have told
no man what you know, and I will hold the secret yet.
All I wish is to be permitted to keep guard over my
brother so long as peril menaces him; and that I trust I
may surely do, for he has taken a liking to me, and is
willing I should remain about his person. He has even
talked of making me his servant in time, when he leaves
this part of the country for the great world of Court.â€
Frank drew a long breath, and studied Guy’s face
intently.
“Boy,†he said, “methinks thou hast well judged. Better
were it that my lady should not know that a second barrier
stands betwixt her and her ambition for that malicious
knave, her ill-conditioned son. It would not abate her
malice towards Geoffrey, and would only bring thee into
peril. Were there six sons, methinks she would strive to
compass the death of all. The marvel is that Geoffrey has
_lived through all her machinations. Belike she has put
over-much faith in her spells and sorceries, and we are
learning that there is little to fear from them.â€
“And my brother hath his charm,†said Guy, who was
GUY'S RESOLVE, 119
by no means so far emancipated from superstition as the
young knight who had seen more of the world. Frank
smiled and nodded, and then his face grew serious, whilst
he laid a hand affectionately on the lad’s arm.
“Guy,†he said, “I little thought when I called thee
aside what a discovery was before me, albeit I have seen
this likeness before, and have marvelled that none others
have marked it. Boy, thou hast told me thy secret; I
will tell thee mine. I love thy sister; I have known her
but these past few days, yet I love her as methinks woman
was never loved before. And she speaks of taking the
veil in some cloister—shutting herself out for ever from
the joy and light and blessedness of life. Guy, as thou
lovest her, do what thou canst to hinder her in this thing.
Knowest thou not that strange changes are coming over
this land? Canst read the signs of the times? If thou
canst, thou wilt do all in thy power to hinder any whom
thou lovest from this step.â€
“But I am nought to her. I have no power. And
how would she listen to an unlettered churl? Even were
Ta brother, I know not what words of mine would move
her. As I am now, she would scarce listen were I to try
to speak.â€
Frank sighed impatiently, and stood musing deeply.
“ Ah, if men in these parts could but see how the times
are moving! Methinks it is in Yorkshire alone where the
new leaven has hardly begun to work. But it will come,
it will come. Guy, thinkest thou that yon fair, pure saint
will find in the cloistered home the peace, the devotion,
120 GUY'S RESOLVE.
the sinlessness she fondly pictures? Boy, hast thou heard
nought of the fearful wickedness that men have already
discovered amongst those who in the estimation of the
world live unspotted from ib? Vows of poverty, obedience,
and chastity—dost know how these are kept? Was it for
small cause that the great Prelate-Cardinal swept many of
the smaller houses from the face of the land? Is it with-
out cause that the Bishops and Archbishops send remon-
strance after remonstrance to the proud Priors and Abbots,
and with what result? Believe me, boy, the world will
not long stand still to see its wealth absorbed by greedy
monks, who use it not for the good of others, but to
satisfy their own lusts, and live like princes, whilst the
poor starve at their very doors, or go to be shriven of
their sins to the very men whose lives are a scandal to
the world. No; I tremble to think of what that fair
maiden may have to see and hear if she persists in hiding
her head beneath the veil of novice or nun. As thou
lovest her and thine own kindred, strive all thou canst to
hinder her from that step.â€
Guy listened and partly understood, but he was as yet
far from fully sympathizing with the feelings of his com-
panion. Corrupt as the monastic system had become as a
whole, there were bright exceptions to the general laxity
and immorality, and Fyrystone was one of the few spots
where the contamination had hardly been.
Guy was well acquainted with the ascetic lives of the
monks, and was full of reverence for the good Sisters of
the Convent, who did such works of charity amongst the
GUY'S RESOLVE. 121
poor and the sick, and who were loved and revered by
all who knew them. He did not consider that possibly
these same nuns might have been kept from much that
was evil by the very fact that the terms of the benefac-
tion which gave them existence enjoined upon them the
ministering to the sick in their own homes, and did not
keep them shut up within their own walls, as wag so
often the case in Nunneries. What had been often criti-
cised as a peril and innovation on Convent rules might
well have done more than anything else to keep the lives
of the nuns pure and full of devotion and zeal. But a
mere lad was scarcely likely to see this, and Guy could
not quite assent to his companion’s words, though he had
no wish to see his beautiful sister buried alive in the
retreat of a cloistered home.
“What I can do, I will do,†he answered thoughtfully ;
“but methinks her mind is made up—and indeed she
scarce seems like a creature of earth. She will surely be
happier where prayer and praise fill the time and the lives
of those around her.â€
“Ay, could she but find such a spot,†said Frank, with
a smile not untinged with bitter scorn ; “but, boy, scest
thou not that if I might only woo and win her, she might
be removed from the loveless air of this house, and choose
for herself a life, far happier than that of the Convent,
surrounded by those sweet natural ties which are the best
gift of a good God? Could no words of thine or her
brother’s make her see that there is a higher life than that
of the cloister? Oh, would that this miserable feud were
122 GUY'S RESOLVE.
at an end, and that I might ask her hand in wedlock
now |â€
Guy had instinctively crossed himself, feeling half
scandalized at hearing the life of celibacy so lightly spoken
of, albeit there was much sympathy in his heart for the
youth, who was so generously and entirely mm love. But
he could scarce see how Frank could dream so confidently
of the future, and his next words were almost brusquely
spoken.
“But, good Sir Francis, you are a heretic, if what men
say is the truth; and beshrew me if your words smack
not of it right boldly. How can you think of woo-
ing a maid like Mistress Ermengarde? Methinks she
would sooner die than mate herself with such a one as
â€
you.
Frank started and winced. He liked not the word
heretic—no man did in those times, although there was
small dread now of faggot and stake. Perhaps he scarcely
knew till he reviewed his own feelings how far aloof he
stood from the creed in which he had been brought up.
Strange that it had never occurred to him that there
might be a barrier betwixt him and his love as strong as
the dreaded cloister wall; but Guy’s words showed him
how the matter struck an outside observer, and he turned
away with a sigh.
“I must e’en learn patience, it seems,†he said, with a
shrug of the shoulders; “for this fortress is strongly garri-
soned against me, and defended from within and without.
But I tell thee, boy, I will rest neither day nor night till
GUY'S RESOLVE. 123
I call her my own; and that not by force or conquest,
but by the winning of that heart in love’s true bonds,â€
Guy wished the young lover well with all his heart, and
this conversation did much to quicken his determination
to remain at Wierwold Hall until Geoffrey left it. There
was little difficulty in doing so. Amid the numerous
servants and retainers of such a place, one or more passed
quite unnoticed. Open house was the fashion of those
days for all who could afford it. Geoffrey had taken a
liking to the lad, and when the real Tony joined his com-
panions, and the mummer troop moved off, Guy was left
behind at Wierwold, and was in almost constant attendance
upon the heir, who liked to listen to his tales of life at
the Inn, and to learn from him what things men were
saying about public and private matters in these days
of change and movement.
Guy kept his eyes well open. It was little he saw of
his father, who appeared to be very much engrossed with
some private matters of which he never spoke. He was
closeted long hours together with Father Gregory and
other grave men, many of whom wore the habit of ecclesi-
astics, and who came and went in somewhat sudden and
mysterious fashion. Many of the neighbouring gentry
would ride across to be present at some conference which
always took place behind closed doors; and Guy felt a
vague uneasiness steal over him, although he could scarce
have explained its cause. He sometimes asked Geoffrey
what it all meant, and was not best pleased by the answer
he got.
124 GUY'S RESOLVE.
“T know not much of my father’s business. He speaks
not of it to me, and I ask no questions. But I shrewdly
suspect it hath some connection with the matter of the
King’s change of faith, Men say it will not and cannot
last. There is a whisper—no more—that he groweth
aweary of the smiles of his Queen, the Lady Anne, and
that he hath some doubt of her fidelity. I know not if
there is sooth in this; but those who whisper it, whisper
too that if his Majesty tire of his toy, he will tire too of
the faith which he adopted to win her. If this be so, no
stone must be left unturned to win him back to the-true
fold. That, at least, is what men like my father say.
Here, in the north, where heresy hath made but little
head, we may best make a stand for the truth. And here,
if matters go not as we would fain see them, we may e’en
unfurl the banner of the Church against those despoilers
who threaten to visit all the land, robbing and working
havoe amid all that is most holy and revered. Thinkest
thou, boy, that we will stand passively by whilst this
great sin is wrought? I trow if the King thinks to find
here, in the hardy north, the paltering and fickleness and
subserviency he has met with in the south, he will find
himself wofully deceived. Men are working and think-
ing even now, when the evil day may be far off; how
much more ready will they be when the day is at hand!
And methinks my brave and noble father will be foremost
in the van. He will lay down his life gladly, so as he
may win for the land the right to live and die in the old
faith, which nothing can ever truly sweep away.â€
GUY'S RESOLVE. 125
Guy was sufficiently attached to old forms himself to
listen with sympathy to his brother’s words; but he did
not believe in any change of opinion on the King’s part
with regard to his creed, although he might very likely
tire of a Queen whose chief merit had been a pretty face
and winning manner. The boy knew that the reformed
doctrines had the trick of rooting themselves with ex-
ceeding depth in the hearts of those who earnestly in-
quired into them; and he knew, too, that men had talked
significantly of coming changes long before the star of
Anne Boleyn was in the ascendant.
But what he heard about his father caused him much
anxiety. He well knew what a relentless enemy he had
in Lord Osbaldistone, and how every little thing would be
used against him by one who had the Kino’s ear in all
things. If plots of a treasonable complexion were being
hatched in this house, it might be a serious thing for the
master. Nor was Guy’s anxiety lessened by the attitude
adopted by Lady Falconer towards her husband.
That there was little love lost between husband and
wife was visible enough to all who dwelt beneath that
roof; but beyond this, Guy was certain that the lady
recularly played the spy upon her lord. Lookers-on often
see most of the game, and Guy had the sharpened senses
and acuteness of perception which had been trained and
fostered by the life of the Inn.
He surprised her ladyship on more than one occasion
with her ear at the key-hole of the closet in which some
private conference was going on, and as she did not see
126 GUV’S RESOLVE.
him either time, he was encouraged to continue this sur-
veillance, partly with the idea of protecting his brother,
partly in order to ascertain if she had any evil intentions
upon his father.
He learned a good deal that did not tend to make him
more comfortable from littl Roxana, who had taken a
ereat fancy to him, and would often coax him to a game of
hide-and-seek in the big house, or make him pace the ter-
race with her, whilst she chattered to him about every-
thing in her head. She had not the least reticence where
her family was concerned, and was much fonder of Geoffrey
and Ermengarde than of her own brother Ralph.
“It will be horrible at home when they have gone
away,’ the child sometimes said. “But they had better go.
T would not keep them back. Mischief may befall them
here. The magician may turn them blind, or they may
waste away like the little wax figures mother keeps locked
up in her chamber. I would I were grown and were a
man, that I too might ride away with them. Is it true
that thou art going to be Geoffrey’s esquire? He talks of
it sometimes,â€
“TI know not yet what may chance on that matter,â€
answered Guy. “I must. first speak to my parents; and
T love my home, and know not if I would leave it yet.
But I love thy brother too, and methinks he careth some-
thing for me. I have a longing to see the world myself.
But time will settle all that.â€
It was growing dusk as they were pacing, They had
left the terrace, and Roxana had coaxed Guy to cross the
GUY'S RESOLVE. 127
drawbridge and wander down on to the road beyond.
Suddenly the child paused and gripped him by the arm.
“There she goes, there she goes!†she cried excitedly,
pointing in the direction of the Castle. “Oh, I do so won-
der what she does when she glides out like that!â€
“Who is it?†asked Guy, who saw nothing.
“ Mother!†answered Roxana, still pointing excitedly—
“there in the boat ; canst thou not see her? Wrapped in
a great black cloak, thou wouldst not know whether it
were man or woman or goblin. But I know well. I have
seen her steal forth a score of times. Oh, where can she
go? Guy, canst thou not steal after her and see? Me-
thinks she must go to the witch’s cave; and maybe she
will be killed if she goes too often.â€
Guy was ready enough to follow and see, only hesitat-
ing to leave the child; but she divined his thought, and
thrust her small body into a cleft in the rocks which com-
pletely hid her from view.
“TJ will wait here till thou comest back,†she said. “Go—
go quickly. I always fear when I see her sally forth thus
alone. Wild men dwell in these woods sometimes, I fear
some mischance for her. Go quickly, and come again and
tell me. Jam her daughter; I have a right to know.â€
The little Roxana was an imperious maiden, but Guy
was used to her ways, and did not resent being treated as
an inferior. It was doubtful, he thought, whether childish
curiosity or a fear for her mother’s safety prompted this
appeal ; but he had no objection whatever to carry out her
behest. Indeed he felt a strong sense of curiosity upon
128 GUY'S RESOLVE.
him, for he thought it strange for the lady of the house
to sally forth thus alone and unattended by that remote
postern door, from whence alone she could obtain egress
and ingress unobserved.
He saw her ply the oars with some skill and strength
till the boat was lost to sight beneath the overhanging
trees ; but running fast in its wake, he kept well up with
it, and presently saw the lady land, and, drawing her cloak
about her head and shoulders, walk with quick elastic
tread into the forest.
Cautiously he followed, and in another moment heard
the sound of a low peculiar call, that might almost be the
hoot of an owl. This challenge was responded to in like
manner, and then Guy saw that a tall figure stepped out
from the dark, dense underwood, and that the lady gave
him cordial greeting,
The pair paused beneath the tree, and Guy could hear
the murmur of voices, but feared to approach near enough
to hear what was said. It was plain the conference was
of interest to both; and some papers were exchanged be-
tween them. Guy strove in vain to catch a glimpse of the
face of the man, which was as much muffled as that of the
lady. He feared to be seen, and was forced to keep at a
considerable distance ; but suddenly a bright idea entered
his head, and pulling off his boots, he swarmed up a tree
as silently and swiftly as a veritable monkey, and like a
monkey he swung himself cautiously from one tree to
another, till he had reached a coin of vantage which gave
hj See
sum all he required. For a moment the man’s cloak had
GUY'S RESOLVE. 129
fallen back ; Guy looked earnestly at him, and with a start
of surprise he recognized Lord Osbaldistone—the deadly
foe of all bearing the name of Falconer,
The interview, however, was at an end, The pair had
already parted. Guy remained in his tree for several
minutes, and then swung himself to earth and joined the
impatient Roxana in her niche.
It was impossible to keep the truth from the lynx-
eyed child, and she uttered a little short laugh on hear-
ing ib.
“Not goblins or witches—only Lord Osbaldistone!†she
said, in tones of disappointment. « Why, that is the name
of the man whom mother would like to marry, if only she
had not got one husband already.â€
Guy made no response other than was conveyed by
a start of astonished dismay. It was not a subject to
be discussed with a child; but he felt that he had food for
serious meditation, as he walked back with Roxana to the
Halli.
CHAPTER VII.
THE CLAIMS OF KIN.
4 H, Guy, I ever feared how it would be. Thou wert
ga full of lusty promises when thou wentest forth,
but thou hast never been the same lad since, and methinks
thou never wilt.â€
Guy turned with a start, and laid his arm familiarly
over Diccon’s broad shoulders, looking affectionately into
his honest face, in which an expression of regret and a
humorous twinkle of fun were contending for mastery.
“Thou dost not think I love thee the less?†questioned
Guy anxiously. “ Nay, Diccon, think not that I could ever
change towards thee and thine, but—â€
“Nay, content thee, content thee, good brother; for so
1 will call thee still, happen what may in this changing
world. Have not I always been the one to say that we
might not ever keep the young eaglet amidst the tame
poultry of the homely yard, when once his wings had
grown, and he had learned to know that he might soar to
higher regions? Nay, Guy, why shouldst thou look thus
conscience-stricken? T twit thee not with the change that
has come o’er thee. Methinks I would not have it other-
LHE CLAIMS OF KIN. 131
. wise. Thou wilt never make an Inn-keeper, and thou wert
formed for something else to boot. When thou wentest to
Wierwold for a few short days, and remainedst there all
those many weeks, I knew that the old Guy would never
more return to us. And now albeit thou art here in the
flesh with us, thy spirit is ever on the wing. Thine eyes
are for ever scanning the road to York, and methinks thy
feet would even be carrying thee thither, if thou didst
but follow the wishes of thy mind. Is it not so in all
sooth? Speak I not the truth?â€
“My brother Geoffrey is there,†answered Guy, with
something between a smile and a sigh, “and I fear lest he
be in peril.â€
“In peril still! nay now, good lad, thou art mighty
timorous and chicken-hearted. Thou didst linger at Wier-
wold, for that thou didst fear for him there, so long as the
haughty step-dame had him beneath her roof. And now
that he and thy father are away, and that thy brother is
with wealthy and prosperous men in the city, how canst
thou talk of fear? I trow that nob even the most far-
reaching malice of the dame could pursue him thither, un-
less thou fearest that he may waste away, even as the
waxen dolls she keeps in her chamber to work her mali-
cious will upon.â€
“Nay, it is not that,†answered Guy. “TI have asked
Madam Garth and Esther about it, and they bid me have
no manner of fear on that score. They say she cannot
hurt him by those devices, and in truth T believe that
they speak sooth, or she would have done him to death
132 THE CLAIMS OF KIN.
long since. It is not the step-dame I fear now, but the
King’s Majesty.†Guy looked cautiously round him as he
spoke, and seeing that they were quite alone, he drew
from his doublet a scrap of paper, closely written on both
sides.
Diccon regarded this paper with awe. Guy's scholarship
always filled him with a certain reverence. He himself
had never been troubled with the acquirement of learning,
and he was altogether ignorant of the art of penmanship.
Guy’s love for reading was a thing which always struck
him with wonderment, and now his round eyes fixed them-
selves upon the paper, as though it were some kind of
charm.
“Nay now, what meanest thou? The King’s Majesty,
sayest thou? What can he have against thy brother ?
Speak no longer in riddles. Tell me plainly what thou
meanest. What hast thou got there?â€
“Thou knowest that Master Robert Garth the mercer
has been passing a few days with his kinsfolk at the
Friars’ Meads?†said Guy, and Diccon made a sign of
assent.
“Master Robert is a notable man in the city of York,â€
continued Guy, speaking still below his breath, “and he
knoweth much of the world in which he doth not move
himself. The Lord-Lieutenant ig one of his best customers,
and he goeth often to the Castle, where he hath friends
unongst the men-at-arms and those of better degree. It
is thus that he heareth much that the world knoweth not
yet, and he is the more trusted in these days, for that he
THE CLAIMS OF KIN. 133
is known to hold as part and parcel of his faith the very
doctrines which men say we all must learn to love, so we
would keep in favour with those that rule over us.â€
“Ay; the Garths were ever a crew of pestilent heretics,â€
quoth Diccon, with a roguish twinkle in his eye. “I mind
well the day when it was scarce thought well that we
should run to and fro to their house lest the good
Brothers should fear for our souls. But thy paper, lad,
thy paper ?â€
“Hist ! not so loud, Diecon ; I would not that any heard
it but thee. For aught I know, it may be treason to have
it. Here, let us climb this leafy tree together, and I will
read it thee. It is a copy of a letter his Majesty hath sent
to the Lords-Lieutenant of every county. Master Robert
Garth had the chance to copy it, as he sat waiting for the
owner in his private room at the Castle; and whilst none
were heeding me yesternight, I copied the words myself, for
that I might warn my brother Geoffrey if he come this
way. Wilt hear it for thyself, Diecon ?â€
“Ay, verily will I,†answered the boy, who from his
training was greedy of news, and was more awake to what
was passing in the world than an ordinary lad of his age
and temperament would be. He settled himself in the
fork of the tree, and fixed his round, greenish eyes full on
Guy, in a glance which expressed the greatest admiration
for his capacity, together with a lively curiosity about
what he was to hear.
Guy carefully unfolded his scrap of paper, and read in a
low tone the following words :—
134 THE CLAIMS OF KIN.
“Henry R.
“Right trusty and well-beloved cousin, we greet you
well. Whereas it has come to our knowledge that sundry
persons, as well religious as secular priests and curates, in
their parishes and divers places within this realm, do daily,
as much as in them is, set forth and extol the jurisdiction
of the Bishop of Rome, otherwise called the Pope; sowing
their seditious, pestilent, and false doctrines; praying for
him in the pulpit, and making him a god, to the great
deceit of our subjects, bringing them into errors and evil
opinions ; more preferring the power, laws, and jurisdiction
of the same Bishop of Rome than the most holy laws and
precepts of Almighty God:—We therefore, minding not
only to proceed for an unity and quietness among our said
subjects, but also greatly coveting and desiring them to be
brought to a knowledge of the mere verity and truth, and
no longer to be seduced with any such superstitious and
false doctrines of any earthly usurpers of God’s laws, will
command you, that whensoever ye shall hear of any such
seditious persons, ye undelayedly do take and apprehend
them, or cause them to be apprehended and taken, and so
committed to ward, there to remain without bail or main-
prize, until, upon your advertisement thereof to us and to
our Council, ye shall know our further pleasure.â€
As this reading continued, Diccon’s eyes had grown
rounder and rounder, and at the close he looked up, draw-
ing a long breath. .
“ By the holy saints and the Blessed Virgin!†he eried,
ws . . . .
if we be permitted to invoke them as of old, we live in
THE CLAIMS OF KIN. 135
strange days. And this is the same great Henry who, a
short time back, won and wore the proud title of ‘ Defender
of the Faith! Why, methinks the world will scarce believe
its senses if this matter comes to be known.â€
“By what I have heard,†said Guy slowly, “men are
better prepared for it elsewhere than we in the north.
Thou knowest that it hath been the proud boast of the
Brothers and the Clergy that there was never so much asa
Lollard heard of north of the Humber. We know little of
the changes of thought that have been seething in men’s
minds these many years in other lands and in other parts
of England. Why, I learned as much from our kinsman
Ranulph and from Sir Kenneth Fane whilst I was at Wier-
wold Hall. They talked to Geoffrey in a fashion that was
not a little astonishing to him, but I fear he may not have
learned prudence. He has a plentiful courage, and loveth
the old faith as I have never done.â€
“ Nay, thou wast always half a heretic thyself,’ answered
Diccon, laughing; “thou wast far too fond of listening to
the grave talk of Madam Garth and fair Mistress Esther.
For my part, I care little who rules the Church; Pope or
King, it is all one to me, so long as the world wags merrily
on its way, and good folks are not dragged from their beds
to prison and to stake. Faith, there is nothing of the
martyr-spirit in me. I doubt all the doctrines and cavil-
lings of the learned are not worth so much as the good
timber they use to burn their heretics with. But be thou
careful, good Guy, and link not thyself with thine own
race just now, when evil days seem about to come upon
136 THE CLAIMS OF KIN.
those who hold dear the old faith as we were taught it in
our youth, It were a foolish thing to do, when thou hast
never known aught of them in past years, and thy father
cares not whether thou be living or dead. Thou hadst
better return to thine own former manner of life, and be
the son of the Inn once more. There is not a man in all
this country-side but knows that the Falconers are like to
draw upon themselves the displeasure of the King by their
love and loyalty to the Pope. With that letter in thine
hands, thou must see for thyself that this is not the time
to link thy fate with theirs. It may be only priests who
are threatened now, but, mark my word, that will be but
the beginning; there will be others to follow. Is not
good Sir Thomas More languishing in prison now, for that
he will not take the oath of supremacy to the King? If
his Majesty spare not him, how may others hope for
merey ?â€
Diccon’s unwonted eloquence, which, as Guy knew, had
been evoked by a generous wish to save him from possible
peril, won a smile of gratitude from the other lad, but there
was no direct response to the appeal; and Diccon, looking
into the thoughtful dark eyes, gave a half-impatient sigh,
feeling that there was only too much of the martyr-spirit
in Guy—the spirit of generous devotion to a losing cause
——and that he was far more likely to try to link his for-
tunes with those of his brother, did he deem him in any
kind of peril, than he would have been if he were prosper-
ous or swimming gaily with the tide.
One thing, however, he hoped would be something of a
THE CLAIMS OF KIN. 137
safeguard to him at this crisis of his life, and that was the
newly-found tie of kinship with the Garths. Mr. Ranulph
Ogleby, who had a northerner’s interest in matters of
genealogy, and had been much interested to find traces of
his own family’s residence at Friars’ Meads, set himself
whilst at Wierwold to examine the family archives, to
discover if there were any tie of blood betwixt himself and
the Garths, and he quickly made out that they were dis-
tantly connected both with the Oglebys and the Falconers.
This fact being communicated in due course to them,
reached Guy’s ears, and very glad was he to have the
right to style himself the kinsman of those whom he
so cordially loved and respected. Since his return to the
Inn, he had been more than ever constant in his visits
there. He talked over with Esther and her mother every
item of news which he had picked up, always feeling that
they were absolutely trustworthy and would betray no con-
fidence, and certain of getting sound and sympathetic
advice from them in any of the perplexities of his position,
which now threatened to become greater than before.
But the conference in the oak tree was suddenly brought
to a conclusion by the sound of approaching horse-hoof's
along the road. Diceon and Guy both had interests in con-
nection with travellers; and Guy, who possessed very
strong, keen sight, looked out from the waving branches,
and suddenly gave a glad, short ery.
“Tt is Geoffrey—it is my brother !†he exclaimed breath-
lessly, and then swung himself rapidly to the ground.
Diccon followed more deliberately, with a half-sigh as
138 THE CLAIMS OF KIN.
he realized how large a place this new brother held in the
heart of one whom he had ever loved as an only brother.
Not that Diccon repined; he had the good feeling and
sound sense that often accompany a temperament such as
his, and had always told himself that Guy could not and
ought not for ever to remain as the mere child of a wayside
Inn. He loved his brilliant and handsome foster-brother
with a love that was noble and true, and was untinged with
envy; and he was capable (for all his recent words as to
his own shrinking from martyrdom) of a very great deal
of self-sacrifice and devotion should need for such arise.
He did not grudge him his high-sounding name, or the
prospect of future wealth or fame; he only wished that
he belonged by blood to those who could be content to
swim with the tide now setting in this new direction,
instead of leaguing themselves with some amongst the most
devoted and hot-headed partisans of the Church that even
the obstinate and conservative north country was like to
know.
By the time he reached the door of the Inn, Geoffrey and
Guy were in full talk, and the hostler had led away the
horse, who was, however, only to be permitted one hour’s rest.
“JT wish to reach Wierwold to-night,†Geoffrey was say-
ig, with an anxious look in his eyes; “I have news that
all is not well with my sister there. Iam about to fetch
her to join me. I have discussed her future with those in
York who best are able to judge upon such matters, and
they with one consent bid her follow her own wishes and
enter the religious life. This storm will soon pass by.
THE CLAIMS OF KIN. 139
The King begins to weary of the new Queen, for whose sake
he inclined towards the heretic faction. With her fall
from favour will come the setting of the tide backwards,
and all men will return to the bosom of the Holy Church
once more. ‘So J am on my way to fetch my sister. And
when her health is re-established, she will enter upon
her novitiate, and will, I trust, find the peace and comfort
which she has never known in the troubled life of her
own home.â€
Geoffrey spoke thus openly not because he was aware of
any tie between him and this lad, so eagerly drinking in his
words, but because he had taken a liking to Guy, and had
seen much of him at Wierwold. Geoffrey had travelled in
his company as far as York, when he finally left home,
and had still some thoughts of retaining his services when
he should leave that place and go forth into the world to
seek his fortune there.
Guy thought it no degradation to stand and serve his
brother with the repast which the Inn quickly provided.
He learned a few details about his sister’s sudden and
rather sharp attack of illness, and divined that Geoffrey
suspected some evil practices on the part of Lady Falconer.
Of Sir Ralph nothing had been heard since he started forth
a little before his son; and Guy could not but guess from
Geoffrey’s manner that his mission was one that had better
not be openly canvassed or discussed. But there was not
much time for conversation, Geoffrey was anxious about
his sister, and in haste to depart ; and Guy consoled him-
self with the thought that he should see him again upon
140 THE CLAIMS OF KIN.
the following day, as he brought Ermengarde from Wier-
wold to York. It was more than probable that they might
stop for a night at the White Wolf; for as the lady had
been ailing or ill, she might very likely feel unequal to
the really hard day’s ride which would enable them to
reach York ere sundown.
Guy would have liked to offer himself as Geoffrey's com-
panion to Wierwold, but he had some of the diffidence and
self-consciousness of youth, which made him afraid to
excite suspicion by any such open advance. But he
resolved that the next day he would ride forth to meet
them as they came, for Geoffrey was very certain he should
not spend more than one night beneath his father’s roof.
He had warned Ermengarde of his prospective visit, and
she was as eager to leave as he was to remove her. He
knew that the joy of hearing she was free to enter the
cloister would in itself be almost enough to make her well
and strong.
Diccon might truly say that Guy was changed from the
careless, light-hearted lad he had been six months ago. It
seemed to him as though manhood had come upon him
almost with a bound. In outward appearance he was but
little altered
dignity of carriage was all that could be observed by
the most earnest scrutiny—but Guy was well aware that
new interests, new affections, and new duties and ties had,
entered into his life, and that it could never be quite the
same to him as it had been before.
a slight increase in polish of manner and
The following day he groomed his horse down with the
THE CLAIMS OF KIN. 141
utmost care, and started forth quite early in the day to
meet the party from Wierwold Hall. Somewhat to his
annoyance, a large company of noisy and roistering fellows,
many of whom wore the Osbaldistone badge and livery,
had come early to the Inn, and had announced that they
were to remain there until joined by some others of their
company.
This thing greatly vexed Guy on two accounts. He
knew enough of the ways of such swash-bucklers to be
certain that the White Wolf would be a very noisy place
so long as this visitation continued, and therefore hardly
likely to be selected as the halting-place of a delicate maiden
for her night’s rest. Also the Falconers themselves, and
certainly their followers, would be in danger of insult from
the men-at-arms of the Osbaldistone faction. None know
better than such fellows as these how blows the wind of
popular favour; and if they believed themselves secure
from reprisal, they would not hesitate to make themselves
particularly offensive.
So Guy’s face was somewhat disturbed as he rode for-
ward in the sunshine of the bright May morning; but he
forgot everything else when presently he saw the little
cavaleade advancing, which he knew was conveying his
sister from the ill-omened home which was proving so
poor a shelter for her; and in a few minutes more he
was at Ermengarde’s side, eagerly scanning her white,
worn face, and respectfully saluting her, proffering his
service and aid.
The girl knew him at once, and gave him a slight smile,
142 THE CLAIMS OF KIN.
speaking a few faint words of thanks; but Geoffrey, whose
face was anxious and troubled, drew the boy on ahead
with him, and spoke rapidly and with perturbation.
“Good Guy, I greatly fear the lady cannot journey many
more miles to-day. Methinks she is more sick than she
will say
I fear there have been ill-doings at Wierwold ;
but I trust—I trust I have come in time. I brought her
forth whether able for the.journey or no, for I feared, did
she not quickly leave that place, she never would quit
it alive. But she is little ft for this rough riding in
the heat of the fierce sun. ‘Tell me, I pray thee, how far
it is ere we shall reach the quiet and cool shelter of the
Inn, J trow we must tarry there this night, and per-
chance another likewise. I would not bring her sick into
the city. She would miss the freer, purer air she has
been used to breathe. I would fain tarry awhile here till
she is herself again.â€
A sudden inspiration had come to Guy; his face was
alight with pleasure and satisfaction.
“ Gracious sir,†said he eagerly, “I prithee listen to my
words. Methinks I know just the place where the sweet
lady will receive the very best of tendance, and where
she will be welcome to rest and refresh herself so long
as her condition needs it. Not far from here stands an
ancient Manor-house, now used as a farm, and those who
dwell there are kinsmen of your own—Garth is their
name—the truest, kindest, loyalest folk that ever drew
breath. In sickness they are second in skill only to the
Sisters of the Convent hard by, who often come to them
THE CLAIMS OF KIN. 143
for counsel and help, and they will think it an honour
to receive and tend the gentle lady until she be fit for the
road again. Let me ride on, I pray you, and give warning
of your coming. The White Wolf is besieged this day
with a crew of wild roisterers, who will be drinking huff
cap and singing ribald songs from morn till night. And
it would ill suit the lady to be lodged near such company,
and their rough words and noise would disturb and dis-
please her. But at Friars’ Meads she will have all she
needs, and the most loving tendance to boot, from the
gentle hands of kinswomen. I pray you be persuaded ;
let me go and give warning.â€
Geoffrey was only too thankful to hear of such a place,
for it was plain that Ermengarde, though struggling
bravely against illness and fatigue, could not ride many
more miles that day. Geoffrey had heard of the Garths
from Ranulph Ogleby, and was aware of the distant con-
nection, which made him the more willing to intrust his
sister to their care. He knew nothing of their religious
opinions, and the sound of Friars’ Meads, as well as the visits
of the Sisters, was reassuring, though Guy had not spoken
with any thought to deceive. He received ready permission
to proceed on his errand, and Geoffrey rode back to Ermen-
garde with the weleome news, and found that indeed the
gentle, patient maiden was well-nigh exhausted, and was
able to thank him only by a smile and a word of assent,
A dimness was stealing over Ermengarde’s sight. She
was beginning to feel that everything about her was
utterly unreal, and that she and her body were parting
144 THE CLAIMS OF KIN.
company in the strange fashion they had done from time
to time before. Long vigils and the rigorous fasts she
had kept all through Lent had reduced her slight frame
almost to a shadow, and as Easter had fallen late that
year, there had been little time for her to recover from
these fasts, even had it not been true that Lady Falconer
had been practising some of her foul arts upon the girl.
The long ride in the fierce heat of an early summer,
before the trees gave the protection from the sun’s rays
that they would furnish later on, had added the finishing
touch to her fatigue, and before she had ridden much
further, her brother had to support her light frame with
his arm. So she knew nothing of her arrival at the
quaint farm-house, nor of the tender welcome from loving
women, who carried her up to Esther’s spotless bed-
chamber, with its books, its prints, and the many little
accessories which she had collected about her, and laid
her weary frame to rest in the softest and whitest of
beds, there to lie in the luxury of perfect rest until time
should have done its work of restoration.
Geoffrey was advised not to linger if he had bus-
iness of any kind in York. Madam Garth plainly told
him that his sister could not possibly be up and about
again for more than a week, and advised that he should not
excite her even by his visits and conversation. She would
recover all the faster for the perfect rest and quiet which
would now be secured to her under Esther’s sisterly
care; and the youth, who fell at once beneath the spell
of the widow’s calm sympathy and kindness, allowed
THE CLAIMS OF KIN. 145
himself to be persuaded, only requiring a promise from
Guy that he would ride over at once and fetch him should
his sister require his presence,
When Ermengarde, after a long space of oblivion—how
long she did not know—opened her eyes to a conscious-
ness of her surroundings, it was to find herself in a strange
room, with a light dimly burning on a table, and a beauti-
ful girl, with a very calm, still face, seated at the same
table, with a large book before her, from which she was
steadily reading. The girl’s hair was unbound, and fell]
in a rippling mass below her waist, catching golden lights
from the dim rays of the taper. For a moment Ermen-
garde thought that this white-robed figure must be some
angelic vision, and she tried to raise herself in bed the
better to view it.
Instantly the figure rose—showing. a tall, commanding
height, and a dignified grace of movement which rather
tended to increase the delusion in the sick girl’s mind—
and glided softly towards the bed, laying the fragile in-
valid back upon her pillows, and smoothing the soft dark
locks with tender touch.
“Can I do aught for thee, sweet lady ?†she asked.
“Who art thou?†asked the patient, with dilating eyes,
“I am Esther Garth, and thou art our guest for the
honce—until thou art strong enough to join thy brother
in York.†j
The simple word recalled some faint memory of the
events of the day to Ermengarde. She smiled and sighed
at the same time.
(322) 10
146 THE CLAIMS OF KIN.
“ Methought thou wert one of the blessed saints,†she
said,
“Nay, I am but a sister, to minister to thee, sweet
lady.â€
“A Sister?†questioned Ermengarde, with kindling ear-
nestness ; “a Sister from some Convent home perchance—
such a home as I seek to enter anon.â€
“Nay, lady; I am not a Sister under vows, albeit I
know and love and revere the nuns of the cloister hard by.
But I will not tend thee less lovingly and well. I am the
servant of Him whom they too serve. Tell me, is there
aught I can do for thee? How may I serve thee best?â€
For Ermengarde’s eyes were wandering round her, and
sther saw she had need of something.
“My rosary,†said the girl softly. “I have not kept my
hours. I must tell my beads.â€
Esther placed it in her hands, and the girl strove to
rise to her knees; but she was too feeble, and Esther
lovingly laid her back upon her pillows.
“Thou must pray in thine heart; thou canst not kneel,
sweet lady. But what of that? Doth not God look upon
the heart? He seeth not as man seeth. He reads our
innermost thoughts. Thou dost not think that He will
fail to understand 2?â€
Ermengarde’s dark, lustrous eyes looked searchingly at
her companion. She was very weak and feeble. She felt
that in Esther there was a power she had never known
in any other person. She could not understand or argue
about it; but she had not lost the feeling that this fair
THE CLAIMS OF KIN. TA7
and stately being, who spoke with such gentle authority,
was scarce of mortal mould, and she listened the more
readily to her words. Her wasted fingers were toying
with the beads of the rosary Esther had placed in her
hands ; her lips moved for several moments, but then her
hands fell nervelessly upon the sheet, and her eyes closed
in exhaustion,
“Wilt thou not pray for me? I cannot pray myself,â€
she murmured faintly, and pushed the beads a few inches
towards her companion, as if to aid her in the task,
But Esther had no need of rosary or crucifix in guiding
her prayers. She knelt down beside the sick gitl’s bed
and lifted her heart in prayer, speaking half aloud, so that
Ermengarde could hear if she desired to listen, though
Esther was not certain if she had strength even for that,
Yet Ermengarde did listen. Her attention was arrested
by the fact that this prayer was not a string of Latin
petitions repeated by rote, often time after time in the
same form of words. Whence came these new words and
phrases Ermengarde knew not. She had never heard the
like before. They were spoken in the tongue of the land,
and they seemed full of wonderful meaning. She was
too weak and bewildered to follow. She had prayed pri-
vate supplications many times herself, and it was not a new
thing for her to empty her soul in prayer at the feet of the
Blessed Virgin, who was the maidens’ especial refuge and
hope for all the troubles which beset them. Ermengarde
never doubted that the Holy Mother of God had made in-
tercession on her behalf with her Son, and that it was her
148 THE CLAIMS OF KIN.
doing that the Convent walls were about to open and
receive her beneath their protecting sway. Ermengarde
had, too, a patron saint, whose intercessions she often
pleaded for, and to lose all sense of time and place in an
ecstatic outpouring of devotion was no unusual thing for
her. But this prayer prayed at her bedside was quite
unlike any such vehement stirring of spirit. Its language
was calm, confident, and full of intense faith in the will
and power of the Being addressed, rather than an out-
pouring of deepest self-abasement and an imploring to
be heard. There was no mention from first to last of
the Virgin Mother, not even an appeal to the holy saints
and martyrs. Ermengarde could not but listen—could
not but be soothed as the words proceeded; yet she was
perplexed to know at whose shrine such supplication was
being offered. And the very effort to listen and to under-
stand was followed by a species of reaction: the girl’s
hands relaxed from their clasp on the rosary, and she fell
into a deep sleep.
When she awoke again the sun was riding high in the
sky, and there were cheerful, homely sounds from the
outside world betokening the life of a farm. Ermengarde
lay still, pondering on the events of the past days, and
gradually vecollecting what had befallen her, and the fact
that she was a guest of strange kinsfolk in a strange house.
The remembrance of that midnight watch seemed to
her like a vision granted to her by the blessed saints
themselves in token of their loving watch over her in her
loneliness.
LHE CLAIMS OF KIN. 149
Might it not have been her own patron Saint, the blessed
Saint Hilda herself, who had thus appeared to her upon
the very night when she had started forth towards the
goal of the cloister? The light of a deep devotion glowed
in the girl’s eyes, and holding the crucifix to her lips, she
vowed herself anew to be the Bride of Christ, and to keep
herself unspotted from the world,
The door opened a little way, and a bright face peeped
in. When the new-comer saw that the lady was awake
she advanced further, with a shy but confiding smile, and
Ermengarde was soon learning the whole history of the
farm and its inmates from the lips of the merry little
Dorothy. The gentle girl was one of those who win chil-
dren by a look or a word, Dorothy perched herself upon
the bed, and took the thin white hands in hers with the
greatest confidence. She had heard that the lady was
very weak and ill, and had been prepared to be repulsed
in her first attempts to make friends ; but this reception
drove away all such fear, and the pair were friends from
the first,
In a short time Esther entered the room, bringing food
for the invalid, daintily prepared with her own hands,
She was dressed now in her plain gray habit, her beautiful
hair coiled about her head, and partially hidden beneath
its veil-like covering. Ermengarde was uncertain whether
to regard her as matron or maid; and though the face
did not appear quite unfamiliar, she did not recognize it at
once as that of the midnight visitor,
“Aunt Esther will make you well, lady,†said the child,
150 THE CLAIMS OF KIN.
with loving confidence, looking up smilingly into Esther’s
face. “She can cure all sick folks who are not too far
gone for her skill. The good Sisters ever come to her
when they know not what to think or do—Do they not,
Aunt Esther ?â€
“What Sisters are those ?†questioned Ermengarde with
interest. “T would know more of them, little one. What
canst thou tell me?â€
Esther had duties early in the day that claimed her
time, and seeing that Dorothy was in attendance upon the
patient, she was glad to have leisure to help her mother
over the daily round. Dorothy was always ready and
eager to talk of the Convent and its inmates.
“They are called the Sisters of the Sacred Heart,†she
answered. “They do not keep always within their gates.
If any person is sick, he may send for the Sisters, and they
may go into the homes of the poor to tend them. I know
not if they may tend the rich—I scarce think they may—
but they love the poor, and the poor love them; and I love
them too. The Reverend Mother teaches me the fine em-
broidery they do so well, and I may go in and out as I
will, We supply the Sisters with many things from the
farm. I love all the Sisters, and the Reverend Mother and
Sister Bianca most. But T would not like to be always
shut up there—always to be saying prayers over and over
again, and never going out save with a veil upon my head,
to see some poor sick person. ‘They cannot have much
joy; and TI love joy and happiness, and the Grandam says
I may love it without sin. But the Sisters do not say so;
THE CLAIMS OF KIN. 153
they only smile and look sad, and bid me wait till T am
old enough to understand. I do not wish to understand
that I may never be glad or gay.â€
Ermengarde smiled, half sadly half sweetly, as she said
after a thoughtful patuse,—
“I wonder if I might see the Reverend Mother myself.
I would fain have speech with her.â€
CHAPTER VIII
ERMENGARDE.
RMENGARDE’S desire was not immediately eratified,
kK for she was so weak and feeble for many days
that the smallest exertion or excitement was to be avoided.
She did not even name her wish to any of the adult
members of the household for some time, but lay in a
dreamy, passive state, conscious of a loving, tender care to
which she had all her life been a stranger, realizing some
of her old dreams of what life might have been had
her mother lived. She wag keenly alive to a brooding,
peaceful calm which she had never thought any place
but the cloister could possess, which soothed her weary
senses and acted like a charm upon her sensitive nerves,
till she felt the springs of life beginning once more to rise
within her, and could think and reason, and observe what
went on, whilst quite content to be for the present a mere
outsider.
She watched with an ever-increasing interest and wonder
the simple everyday life at this house. The hot summer
weather made the outdoor world attractive, and Madam
Garth had decreed that fresh air was the best physic for
ERMENGARDE. 153
the fragile invalid. So after the first three days, which
were mostly spent in languorous sleep, Ermengarde found
herself daily transported to an oak settle, well padded
with cushions, which stood beneath the pleasant flickering
shade of a magnificent lime tree Just without the house,
and very near the kitchen door, which was the door by
which the family came and went throughout the day. The
farm-hands and serving-wenches used the narrower en-
trance at the back; and the grass in front of the house
was kept close cut and planted with rose-bushes, so that
it wore something of the air of a garden. Ermengarde,
lying in this still, sweet place, watching all that went on
without being asked to take a share in it, free to think
her own thoughts and draw her own conclusions about
all she saw and heard, gradually found herself wondering
into what kind of community she had come, listening to
all she heard and watching with interest everything that
took place around her.
The glimpses she saw of family life were a perfect
revelation to her, and awakened a strange sense of mingled
longing and regret. All her life, notwithstanding the fact
that she had grown up one of a family party, she had been
in absolute ignorance of the tie of family love in its domes-
tie aspect. She had received tenderness and love from her
brother ; her father had been kind after a somewhat austere
and absent fashion; but her step-mother’s sharp tongue
and ebony staff had ruled the house both above stairs and.
below. She had appeared to have little veal affection even
for her own children, though her ambition for her son was
154 ERMENGARDE.
but thinly concealed, and her step-children were positively
hated, as they well knew. Conjugal tenderness between
the heads of the house there was none, and neither Geoffrey
nor his sister had been encouraged to show any outward
signs of affection towards their father. Ralph was a per-
fect plague and torment; Roxana, a queer mixture of elf
and tomboy, alternately getting into terrible scrapes, and
scrambling out in a fashion that was almost uncanny. If
at one moment she showed affection for her half-sister, at
another she would repudiate with scorn any little token
of sisterly good-will. She certainly did not love her
mother, and it might be doubted whether she really loved
anybody in the world.
Tt was no wonder that Ermengarde, coming from such
a household as that of Wierwold, looked on with surprise
at the life by which she was now surrounded, and mar-
velled greatly over much that she saw.
She learned to watch for the home-coming of Roger
Garth from his labours in the fields. His little daughter
would run to meet him with a joyful shout, and would
be tossed in his strong arms as she buried her face in
his thick brown beard, giving him such a hug as was
scarce customary betwixt children and their parents in
those days, only that little Dorothy was like the poor man’s
ewe lamb, and was the very apple of her father’s eye. The
two would walk hand in hand to the house, and forth from
the portal would step the widow, always listening for the
footfall of her son, and the smile would light her face at
sight of him that Ermengarde loved to see, as she loved
ERMENGARDE. 155
also to hear the tones in. which he said, “ Well, Mother,â€
as he stooped his head to meet her kiss,
“The Lord bless thee, my son,†was her almost invariable
response to this caress, and then the three would pass
within doors together, and the mid-day or evening repast,
as the case might be, would be served. Ermengarde did
not sit at the table with the Garths. She was served
alone in the pleasant green parlour made by the drooping
branches of the lime tree, Perhaps her rank divided her
somewhat from these yeoman folk and their simple ways ;
but besides this, she was still feeble and weak, and it was
thought better that she should not exert herself,
And then how pretty was the tie of love between little
Dorothy and the “Grandam†and Aunt! What new ideas
passed through Ermengarde’s mind about family life as she
watched the child flitting about the gray old house, heard
her constant, trusting appeals to one and another there,
saw her nestling herself upon or against Ksther’s knee
when weary of her play or her daily tasks, and heard the
gravely loving tones of admonition or approval in which
she was always addressed! The gentle fragile invalid
scarce knew which was the sweeter thing to look upon—
the love which bound together this sad-eyed mother and
her children, or the trusting, happy confidence of the little
child in them all.
Outside, too, there were other ties utterly unlike any
Ermengarde had known in her past life. Scarce a day
passed but some one from the hamlet came to seck help or
counsel or sympathy from one of the dwellers in the Friars’
156 ERMENGARDE.
Meads. And none were ever sent away without just the
thing, as it seemed to Ermengarde, that they had come to
ask. The atmosphere of love and care was not confined
merely to the dwellers beneath the roof; it seemed to ex-
tend to all who came within the circle of that influence.
The poor, the sick, the sorrowful, all came to that house
for comfort and relief, and were never sent empty away.
“I think it is because Grandam has known so much
sorrow herself,†said little Dorothy once, when Ermengarde
asked her what brought so many people to the farm—she
found it easier in some ways to speak to the child than to
any of the others. “They know that she understands ;
they know she feels for them.â€
“What sorrow has she had?†asked the girl, her interest
speedily aroused. “I have thought her face sad, and yet
she always seems so happy and content.â€
A little shadow seemed to fall across the child’s bright
eyes. Her words were spoken in little more than a
whisper.
â€
“Tt was when Grandfather—was killed,†she answered.
“They do not like to talk of it; but Grandam was there.
They say her hair twmed white in one day. Please, I
would rather not think about it any more.â€
Ermengarde was surprised, but asked no more questions.
She might know more some day; but she would not force
confidence. Was it a surprise to know that the shadow
of a great trouble lay upon this peaceful household? She
was not sure. There was something in the very quietness
and reserve and large sympathy and tenderness of Madam
ERMENGARDE. 157
Garth and her daughter which suggested the idea that
they had themselves passed through some ordeal of suf-
fering.
One small matter perplexed the visitor somewhat, and
that was the absence of regular attendance at any service
like the daily mass to which she was herself accustomed.
That the household was a godly one she could not doubt,
godly in word and in deed; but why then did they not
keep the hours of the Church, tell their beads, and attend
the matins or vespers at least, which she knew must be
held in the church hard by, from the tinkling of the bell at
specified hours? Not a word that could jav upon her had
ever been uttered in her hearing. Ermengarde felt great
love and reverence for the whole household; but as she
grew stronger, she did marvel about this omission, and
watched with ever-increasing interest the words and actions
of those about her.
One bright hot afternoon, when the sunshine lay brood-
ing upon the quaint old house, when the birds had sought
the leafy cover of the trees, and even the sounds of farm-
house life seemed hushed and still, Esther brought out some
work, and settled herself on a low log of wood close by the
couch upon which the guest lay, telling her with her full
sweet smile that they two had the house to themselves for
the remaining hours of the day, as business or pleasure had
called all the other members off to the market which was
held from time to time in the next town.
“I think I am glad to hear that news, Esther,†said
Ermengarde, after a momentary hesitation. “I have some-
158 ERMENGARDE.
times wished that I might speak with thee alone, secure
from interruption. I know not how it is, I have seldom
before wanted to speak of myself to others, but thou hast
been so very good to me. Say, may I speak to thee of one
or two matters in my heart?â€
“Speak of anything that thou wilt, sweet lady,†said
Esther, raising her clear deep eyes to those intently
fixed upon her face; “I will gladly listen, and most
gladly keep sacred all thou sayest, an it be for my ear
alone.â€
“T know that I may trust thee,†said Ermengarde softly,
with a far-away look in her eyes, as she glanced away over
the wide expanse of green pasture, where the sunlight lay
broad and full, and the cattle stood knee deep in rich grass
and buttercups; “I have been so strangely happy here.
Methought only such peace as this was to be found within
the walls of some blessed sanctuary such as I seek. Hast
thou heard that I do but wait till my health is established
to enter into such a home myself? Tell me, Esther. I can
see in thy face that thou hast thought, and that thou hast
suffered too. Tell me, hast thou never felt the same long-
ing for the quiet cloister which I have yearned for from
my very childhood? Oh, methinks thou too must have
known what it is to long to say adieu to the world and its
follies, its sins and its cares, and to give thyself utterly and
entirely to His service who is our Saviour and our Lord.
Ah, I see that thine eye kindles—thou hast known this
longing, this aching void. Tell me, sweet Esther, art thou,
too, pining after that peaceful life? J seldom see thee long
ERMENGARDE. 159
together but the thought comes to me that thou art just
the woman who must yearn and pant for a life of ceaseless
devotion.â€
Esther looked full into the ardent eyes of the would-be
nun, and after a pause spoke very gently and slowly,
“ Sweet lady—â€
“ Nay, call me not that; am I not thine own kingswoman ?
ft would I weve nearer of kin, for thou drawest my very
heart to thee, sweet Esther. Let me be as a sister to thee :
for may it not be that we may both be Sisters together in
some blessed cloistered home, where no clamour from the
cruel world without can ever mar the peaceful calm of our
lives; where we may give ourselves to prayer and pyraise,
and fit ourselves to be the Bride of Him who will some
day come to claim His own? Oh, I would fain think that
even so we might be together.â€
Esther’s glance was full of sympathy and comprehension,
yet Ermengarde could not entirely understand it, though
she was reassured by the warm clasp of Esther’s strong,
firm fingers upon her transparent hand.
“Sweet Ermengarde, if it be thy wish that I should call
thee so, I scarce know how to answer thee so as thou wilt
understand. But methinks if I do but point to my mother,
thou wilt the better comprehend that there may be lives
lived far away from cloister that yet are lived very nigh to
God—lives over which He seemeth to watch with all the
loving care of a Father, not keeping troubles away (for
doth He not chasten every son whom He receiveth 2), but
giving such strength, such faith, such hope and confidence,
160 ERMENGARDE.
that His children may verily say in their hearts, ‘It is
good for me that I have been in trouble.â€
Ermengarde’s earnest eyes were fixed upon the speaker's
face with luminous intensity.
« Esther,†she said, “I love thy mother well. Methinks
she is a very model for all those who live in the world and
share its cares and pleasures. But how can I look upon
that life as the highest? How can I revere it as I revere
the lives of them who have given up all for the service
of the cloister—father, mother, brother, sister, nay, even
husband and children sometimes? And doth not the
Church teach us that a special blessedness waits upon those
who have given up all for their blessed Lord ?â€
A strange light leaped into Esther's eyes.
“And has my mother given up nothing?†she asked,
with a strange intensity of emotion not altogether compre-
hended by her listener. “If thou, Ermengarde, hadst stood
beside the fiery pile and seen the loved one led forth to
cie, thou wouldst not thus talk lightly of these things.
Did she not give him up gladly
proudly.
Did not her brave, steadfast words comfort and strengthen
him to the very last? Thou talkest glibly of renunciation
—the renunciation of girls, who have little or nothing to
renounce! What do they know of the bitter pain, the
strange, unearthly joy, of such a parting as that? Me-
thinks those who know not the ties of love—the sweetest
willingly ?
God-given ties which can bind heart to heart in this weary
world of ours—know little of the significance of the true
renunciation of self†Esther clasped her hands tightly
LRMENGARDE. 161
together, and checked the flow of words upon her lips,
looking at Evmengarde with her full, gentle smile, as she
said,—
“T pray you pardon me if my speech hath been some-
what heated. There are things that lie deep within my
spirit, and when roused to life move me to unwonted
earnestness.â€
But Ermengarde was not in the least offended or even
shocked, only surprised and somewhat perplexed.
“Nay, tell me more; I would fain know what is in
thine heart. I had not thought that any but heretics
despised the life of the cloister—the blessed home for
troubled spirits.â€
Esther’s grave smile shone out again. She gently laid
her hand upon that of the invalid.
“T think, before thou hearest more from me, that thou
shouldst know we belong to that race whom men have
called heretics, and have done to death for conscience’ sake.
Didst thou not understand my words when I spoke of my
father? He died by fire because he would not renounce
his faith; and my mother stood to see him die, and would
fain, I verily believe, have stood with him in the fierce
flames. Men look eoldly on us no longer now. We are
not now branded with that name. But ask those who
have been through such an ordeal if it brings them not
very nigh to God. When man’s hand is against them, and
they know not from day to day what may lie in store for
them of torture and death, then indeed doth the power and
comfort from above seem very nigh, very strong. Thinkest
(822) 11
162 ERMENGARDE.
thou, sweet lady, that without such help and comfort we
could live through such terrible days ?â€
Ermengarde’s eyes were dilated with astonishment; bus
she did not withdraw her hand from the clasp of those
strong fingers.
“Heretics!†she exclaimed, and lay gazing at Esther's
pure, noble face; then recovering herself and smiling a
little, she added, “But I need not fear: the good Sisters
come to and fro to this house—I have seen them more
than once. I shall get no hurt from thee, Esther. I can-
not believe that thou art a foe to Holy Church.â€
“Nay; we claim an equal share with you of the love
and reverence of the Holy Church. It is but those things
within her that are not holy—that have been ordained of
man, not of God—that we would fain see changed. Men
say that she will be purged from these spots and stains,
and come forth as gold tried in the fire. Then indeed
will all her children rejoice with her, and God may hasten
the day when there shall be one fold under one Shepherd.â€
Ermengarde had crossed herself half-unconsciously as
these words proceeded. Her face expressed a strange
mingling of shrinking and interest. It was as sacrilege to
hear the Church spoken of in such terms as these ; and yet
there was no irreverence in Esther’s words or manner, but
a depth of earnestness the girl had seldom seen equalled.
But she had heard enough argument on the other side to
have words at command, and, gathering herself together,
prepared to do battle for her cause. If she could but win
this fair and noble woman back to the true fold, what
ERMENGARDE. 163
a glorious work it would be ere the cloister called her to
its holy rest and shelter !
“You would have your priests marry, they say ?†she
questioned, a look of repulsion in her eyes at the bare idea.
“Canst thou think that men absorbed in family cares can
give their best to the Lord they should serve by day and
night? Is it not said that the man who marries thinks
how to please his wife, and not the Lord? Is it not
enjoined upon the priesthood not to marry ?â€
albeit I
deny not that there are passages to be found here and
“Nay; I find it not so in God’s own Word
there which men may build upon if they desire to make
us think thus. When Christ chose His Apostles, He did
not make choice of men without wives; for Peter’s wife
is especially named in Holy Writ. And it is Peter whom
the Church takes as its head and pattern. St. Paul tells
us that a bishop must be the husband of one wife, and he
never tells us that priests are forbidden to marry, though I
deny not that he spoke words which show us that mar-
riage may become a snare.â€
“I have never heard that anent the bishops. How
knowest thou that St. Paul said as much ?â€
“JT read it for myself in the Bible,†answered Esther,
smiling. “TI will show thee the passage, an thou wilt.â€
But E:mengarde shrank back and shook her head,
saying, —
“Ay, I bethink me now. Thou art permitted to read
the Bible for thyself. That is one of the things the
heretics ever claimed to be allowed to do. But the priests
164 ERMENGARDE.
say it becomes to them a snare and an entanglement, each
man putting his own interpretation on the words, and
heeding not the teaching of the Church.â€
Esther’s face was grave and thoughtful, although the
smile yet lingered about the corners of her lips.
“My father used to talk to me upon that very matter,â€
she said, “Would that I could recall his words! He was
not as some men are—hot-headed, violent, rash, and intem-
perate, even in a righteous cause; and he loved the Church
right well, for all that he held her to have fallen from her
high estate. He never was one of those who bid men
disregard her voice and speak with scorn and hatred of her.â€
“And yet he was—â€
“Was burnt for heresy, wouldst thou say ?†said Esther,
calmly completing the sentence Ermengarde could not
frame her tongue to speak. “Ay, he suffered for his faith ;
but he loved his persecutors to the last, and died in peace
with all men. But to the matter we were discussing—the
freedom of the Scriptures to all men, whether lettered or
unlettered, whether of the priesthood or the laity. My
father would answer thus to those who argued for or
against this liberty. He was wont to say that in this sin-
ful world of ours we might never find an altogether perfect
way:
that we had ever to choose betwixt two ways, both
of which had flaws, and to seek to find the purer way of
the twain. He freely admitted that if the whole of God’s
Word might be freely read and taught and expounded to
the unlearned by a perfect and true-hearted priesthood,
who would add nothing and keep nothing back, it might
ERMENGARDE. 165
be better for the people than letting them too freely read
and discuss it for themselves, not having knowledge of the
meaning of the terms, nor comprehension of the difficulties
of the translators. He said many times that there would
be peril for the world from men of zeal, but of scant
learning, standing forth with the Bible in their hands, each
man interpreting it after his own fashion, and leading men
to the peril of schism and discord. He would fain have had
them listen still to the voice of the Church—but not to the
church that curtails and adds to the living Word, and
that holds back from her children the right to think for
themselves. A church who, in answer to the questions of
her sons, sends them to the stake, can scarce be the Church
as it was in the days of Christ and His Apostles. Let that
Church but be restored, and methinks heresy would be
swept from the face of the earth. But that is not the
Church as we see her now in this land or in any other.â€
“But yet if this is so, why do not the priests, the monks,
the Cardinals, and his Holiness himself find the remedy ?â€
asked Ermengarde doubtfully. “I cannot argue with thee,
Esther. My head is weak, and I am unskilled in such
matters; but surely the Pope must know better what is
for the good of his flock than even pious men of good
intent, such as I cannot doubt thy father was. They bid
us not listen to such words as thine; they say they are
the temptations of the devil himself. It is hard to credit
it; yet have not the holy saints themselves been tempted
and well-nigh deceived by fair shapes and delusive tongues ?
And how may we hope to discern the true from the false
166 ERMENGARDE.
when even they were deceived? And do not you of the
newer faith deny the blessed saints their intercession for
us, and even throw scorn upon the Holy Mother of our
Lord? Ah, how little canst thou know of the unspeakable
happiness and rest of feeling those motherly arms around
thee, of knowing that the Maiden Mother is watching over
and guarding her maiden children, and making intercession
for them with her Holy Son! I know not how thou
canst live without such assurance of peace as this know-
ledge gives. Methinks I should die were I to feel that
nought stood betwixt me and an offended God—nought of
that human love and sympathy and tenderness that only
one can feel who has lived within a mortal body, and has
felt its every pang and woe.â€
“Ah, sweet Ermengarde, I am with thee there. Sad
indeed would be the lot of mankind without a human
mediator betwixt his sinful soul and the great Judge of
quick and dead. But we have that Mediator—that Human
Mediator—in the Man Christ Jesus our Lord. What
brought Him to this earth of ours; what made Him endure
the hardship, the temptation, the toil? What made Him
face that awful agony and fear upon the Cross, but that
He might make Himself, not our Redeemer alone, but the
Mediator betwixt man and God. And why need we put
another in His place? Why need we ask the protection
and sympathy even of His holy and blessed Mother? If
on earth He could take little children up in His arms and
bless them, could lay hands on the sick and suffering, and
never turn away from the ery of the penitent sinner, why
ERMENGARDE. 16%
need we fear to go boldly to Him now in prayer? The
Holy Virgin is indeed blessed among all women, but she is
not divine
she is not an object of worship. Jesus Christ
needs no one to mediate betwixt Himself and His children.
He is the one Mediator—the one Intercessor.â€
Ermengarde said nothing. She looked into Esther's
face in a strange amaze, feeling as though the foundations
of her very life would be gone if she were to hold such
strange views as these, but not one whit shaken in her
own convictions on this last subject at least.
As she recalled the hours of ecstatic bliss she had spent
in the chapel at home before the shrine of the Blessed
Virgin, feeling wrapped about by that beatific Presence,
and certain that the Maiden Mother was hushing her weary
soul to rest by bearing her petition to the ears of her
Divine Son, she felt a glow of pity rise in her heart for
one who had never known what this strange sweetness
and blessedness could be like. She did not wish to think,
to reason, to argue such matters for herself; she wished
to be lulled, soothed, and guided by the authority of
others. How blessed the life would be screened from the
blast of adverse doctrine, from those perplexing questions
which were rending families asunder and invading the
sanctity of the Church itself! In the quiet cloister she
would pray for Esther that her eyes might be opened, and
surely the Blessed Virgin would make allowance for one
so tempted and nursed in heresy, and would receive her
back with open arms to the fold of the faithful.
But there was no time for more words, for Guy was
168 LRMENGARDE.
approaching. Guy, who never let a day pass without a
visit to the sister who knew him not, generally came with
some offering of fruit or flowers.
But to-day he was not alone. Frank Osbaldistone walked
at his side, an eager light upon his handsome face; and the
lad’s gift to-day was not the customary one, but a sealed
packet, the sight of which caused Ermengarde’s colour to
fly up.
“From my brother?†she said eagerly.
“Ay, lady. Yestere’en I rode to York to take him news
of you, as I had promised, and he gave me this packet to
bear back.â€
“T thank thee, good lad,†answered the lady, with a
grateful smile; and with a word of apology to the others,
who were talking together—CGuy had just presented Frank
to Esther—she eut the string and unfastened the missive,
her face lighting eagerly as she mastered its contents.
Frank’s eyes were fixed upon her face with a look which
betrayed his secret to Esther, though she spoke on in her
grave, serious way, disregarding the fact that he answered
at random, and scarce heard what he said. Ermengarde
looked up with a vivid light in her eyes. It seemed as
though she must communicate to others the good news
she had received.
“My brother writes that all is well. I may e’en enter
the cloister when and where I will. He has taken counsel
with our kinsfolk, and those of high standing in the Church
who best are able to advise on such matters, and they one
and all bid me to persevere. The storm has well-nigh
LERMENGARDE. 169
spent itself; the time is coming when men will smile at
their idle fears. The winds and waves will not prevail,
for the building in which we trust is founded upon the
Rock. Ah, how happy Iam! I know not how to make
thee understand, sweet Esther; yet methinks thou wilt
rejoice with me.â€
Esther’s face expressed much sympathy if a little tender
and lingering regret, but young Frank’s countenance fell
and changed as though the world had suddenly become
overcast, and Guy looked anxious and disturbed.
“Lady, lady,†cried the former, springing forward and
dropping on one knee beside the couch, “O take heed
what thou doest; be not deceived by the hopes of those
who know not the times, and who delude themselves with
false promises. Lady, I come from the south. But three
days ere I left the city of London, three Carthusian priors
and other ecclesiastics were committed to the Tower, and
all men say this is but the beginning of the hurricanc
which shall sweep the land from end to end, and the re-
ligious houses with it. Ah, lady, be not in such haste!
Why dream of those vows which will shut thee out for
ever from the world, from happiness and light, when thy
cloistered home will be no longer a shelter for thee? Have
pity on thyself, have pity on others. What may I say to
withhold thee ?â€
But Ermengarde, with dilated eyes, raised herself from
her couch, and stood before the ardent but impetuous youth
in all the stateliness of outraged dignity and fervent faith
in her cause.
170 ERMENGARDE.
“Sir,†she said; very calmly and decisivety, “I know not
the meaning of such wild words, nor how it comes that you,
being but a stranger, should thus seek to be an arbiter of my
fate. But know that the more fiercely the winds and waves
beat against the house of defence, the more it behoves her
children to rally within her walls and hold them against the
foe; the more that men speak evil of her, and seek to
gratify their own greed and lust at her expense, the more
must we love and cherish her. Sir, I will hear no more.
My mind has long been made up. I go to the cloister to
live a life of prayer and devotion ; and I will pray that the
enemies of the Church—of which I fear thou art one—
shall be shown the error of their ways, and return to the
true fold. Young sir, adieu.â€
For one moment she held out her hand, which he caught
in his and pressed to his lips; after which, with a slightly
heightened colour, she turned away and vanished into the
house, leaving the other three looking after her in deep
silence.
Frank stood gazing with his soul in his eyes, then he
turned impulsively to Esther.
“Have I offended her? Is she angry?â€
“Nay: methinks she is too gentle to harbour anger,â€
answered Esther with a smile; “but she is scarce like to
listen with favour to such words as yours.â€
“Would I had bitten out my tongue ere it had spoken
them!†exclaimed the youth ruefully. “But who can stand
by unmoved to hear so sweet a creature speak of burying
herself in a living tomb—and at such a time as this?â€
ERMENGARDE. rye
“J would she might be hindered,†said Guy; “but I
know not how that may be. She is wondrous bent upon
it.â€
“JT do not think she will be withheld from her purpose,â€
said Esther thoughtfully. “It is the only life which has
any charms for her. To her the cloister gate is as the
gate of Heaven. Poor child! God grant that she be not
too suddenly awakened from her dream.â€
Frank set bis teeth and uttered a smothered exclamation
that he would not have cared for Ermengarde to hear. It
seemed a cruel and mysterious thing that he should have
given the whole passionate love of his heart to one who
had not a single thought to spare for him.
“Can nought be done to hinder her?†he asked of
listher, who looked like a tower of strength in her calm
self-restraint and stately beauty.
“T have no power to hold her back,†answered the girl.
“Methinks she would not listen to any words which should
strive to make her break the vow of her heart. But be
not too much east down, fair sir; the novice takes no vow
till her year be expired, and many things may happen cre
that year be passed.â€
Frank’s eyes kindled. There was some consolation in
that thought. Who could tell what another year might
bring forth? Esther was looking away towards the walls
that shut in the Convent of the Sacred Heart.
“She will have learned ere that day comes what the life
she pines after really is. Perchance she will find in it all
that she has hoped and believed, or it may be that she
172 ERMENGARDE
will learn that these cloistered homes are but as broken
cisterns that hold no water, so that, when the choice is
once again before her, she will not choose again as she
chooses to-day.â€
Young Frank’s eyes lighted with a new hope.
“Sweet lady, 1 thank thee for that hope. I will trust
that ere the day shall come which may change novice into
nun, such a change will have swept over the face of this
earth as shall have taught its sons and daughters that God
may be worshipped in the family and round the hearth of
a natural home, as well as in the remote and lonely cell of
hermit or anchorite. If that lesson be learned, yon sweet
maid need no longer seek a death in life, but find a truer,
sweeter vocation in the home which one would make for
her, where love shall be the richest treasure, and where the
sweet tics of earth need be no barrier to the holier love of
the unseen and invisible.â€
And Frank, colouring at the earnestness with which he
had spoken to an almost stranger, strode hastily away and
was gone; whilst Esther, turning to Guy, asked,—
“Who is yon gay gallant?â€
“Sir Francis Osbaldistone.â€
“What! the foe of thine house ?â€
“Nay,†answered Guy, smiling; “he is no foe to us or
ours. Methinks by his love for my sweet sister, the family
feud may one day be healed.â€
CHAPTER IX.
CONSPIRACY.
& IST, Guy, hist! where art thou?â€
H “Here—up aloft in this tree. What ails thee,
Diccon ?â€
“Hist! stay where thou art. Make no ado. I will
come to thee up there. So.â€
Diccon was hot and flushed from much serving. It had
been a busy day at the Inn. A troop such as had halted
there upon the day when Ermengarde had taken refuge at
the Garths’ had been drinking and feasting there through
the long hours of that summer's day. Evening was falling
now, and still the revel continued, and was like to continue
the best part of the night.
Guy had of late taken little part in the serving of
strangers at the White Wolf. Since his visit home, and
the indefinable change which it had wrought upon him, his
foster-parents had steadily discouraged him from continu-
ing those old offices he used to fill as a matter of course
and without a thought. They were more jealous of his
birth and station than he was himself, and were beginning
to take an unbounded pride in his inereasing beauty and
174 CONSPIRACY.
manliness. They had furnished him with clothes different
from those that Diccon still wore, and encouraged him to
ride to and fro to York, to visit his brother, and to make
friends amongst those nearer to his own rank in life.
‘There were moments when Guy rebelled against such
treatment, and when he would go as before amongst the
guests of the Inn, and help in their entertainment, but it
was less of the actual serving he did. He would stand
beside the table at which a guest of the better class was
dining, and converse with him on many subjects of the
day. He had won quite a small reputation of his own
amongst travellers for his intelligence and good-mannetrs,
and was still a favourite with all, though his foster-mother
often shook her head, and bid him keep away from kitchen
or common-room, where the company was not fit for him
to meet.
Earlier that very day, Guy had been amusing the
soldier-band with some feats of sleight of hand that he
had learned whilst in the company of the mummers. He
had the happy knack of doing well anything to which he
put his hand, and notwithstanding that he felt the stir-
rings of a new spirit and a new ambition within him, he
had by no means cut adrift from the pleasant, free-and-
easy life of the Inn, and he liked to feel that he still be-
longed to the house, albeit his time there might be short.
As the day passed on, and the soldiers had been joined
by others wearing the Osbaldistone livery, and the revelry
and free drinking had increased, Guy had withdrawn him-
self from the Inn, and betaken himself to his favourite
CONSPIRACY. 175
tree within the sheltered orchard behind, and with his book
he had whiled away the hours pleasantly enough, till
roused by Diccon’s mysteriously cautious hail.
Next moment the lads were side by side upon the
gnarled branch of the ancient apple-tree, and Guy saw that
Diccon’s face was unwontedly grave.
“What is it, lad? what hast thou to tell?â€
“Guy, there is mischief meant to thine house,†said
the other cautiously, peering down through the leaves to
make sure he was unheard. “There is to be an attack
made upon Wierwold Hall in the absence of the lord and
master. There is no one there but women and children,
save a handful of retainers, who can be easily bought or
slain. J have heard them plotting it all as the wine
loosened their tongues. They are cautious in my father’s
presence. They maybe remember that he was once a serv-
ant of the Falconer family; but they are less cautious
when only Iam there. I have heard much, and when I
could I stole away to see thee.â€
Guy’s face expressed the liveliest interest and concern.
“Tell me all—tell me all. What do they purpose, and
when do they carry out the plan?â€
“To-morrow night, as I understand them. They are to
leave this place shortly after noon, and to march to some
spot where they will be met by other fellows serving my
Lord Osbaldistone. They will remain in the hiding of the
wood until daylight has waned and the night has come;
and then they will make a raid upon the Hall, which they
believe will fall an easy prey.â€
176 CONSPIRACY.
Guy set his teeth hard.
“Ts my Lord Osbaldistone to lead the attack in per-
gon ?â€
“Nay; he is too wary for that. He is yet in attend-
ance upon the King, and his instructions are that this
attack is to appear as if ib were made unknown to him ;
though it is plain enough he means to profit by the loyal
zeal of his followers. Once let him get his grip on the
lands and the fortress, and I trow no Falconer may win ib
back again.â€
“We will see about that,†said Guy between his shut
teeth, the light of battle gleaming suddenly in his eyes.
“And my father is yet absent, thou sayest ?â€
“ Ay, so they all agree—†Diccon paused, hesitated, and
finally asked suddenly, “Guy, where is thy father ? i
“Nay, I know not. He hath been long absent from
home, by what my brother tells me; nor do they seem to
have had news of him. His movements and his doings are
something mysterious. Why askest thou me of him?â€
“Why, marry, because I liked not the fashion in the
which yon men of my Lord Osbaldistone’s household spake
of him and his long absence from home. Methought there
was some malice in their looks and in their words. I trow
that they knew more of him than they professed. They
laughed as they told their comrades that there was no fear
that the Lord of the Manor would return with sudden
speed to reclaim his own. I misliked their words and
their looks alike. I wot that they know more than they
will say.â€
CONSPIRACY. v7
Guy’s eyes were shining strangely.
“Meanest thou that they have killed him—that they
have put him out of the way? Nay, if that be so, his
sons will know wherefore such deeds are done in this
realm without knowledge of his Majesty. Nay, hold me
not back, Diccon; I will go down and speak face to face
with these ruffans. They shall answer to me for the
safety of my father. I will—â€
“Thou wilt spoil it all an thou hast not more sense or
caution than that,†cried Diccon, holding his foster-brother
fast by the arm. “Hist, Guy! struggle not so fiercely.
Thinkest thou that thou art a match for a score or so of
armed men? Be still, and I will tell thee how thou
mayest have an ampler and fuller vengeance upon the
foe of thine house. Wilt listen to the words of wisdom ?
I have had long enough to think out the plan, as I have
been serving the worshipful swash-bucklers with the
strongest mead the cellar boasted, that it might the sooner
unloosen their tongues.â€
Guy had ceased to strive to loosen Diccon’s clasp upon
his arm. He mastered his impulse to fall upon the foe
single-handed, and was ready to listen to the voice of
counsel. Diccon had a shrewd head of his own, and his
advice was likely to be sound.
“This is what thou must do, Guy. Leave the men to
me. I will see that they have all that they need to drink —
and more—-and I will be there to hear all that falls from
their lips in their cups. And as for thee, take thou thy
good horse, and ride to York as fast as he can bear thee.
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178 CONSPIRACY.
Go to thy brother and his friends, and tell them what is
purposed against Wierwold Hall. They will not despise the
warning. They know the temper of Lord Osbaldistone, and
how any outrage committed against a Papist would in these
days be but lightly regarded by his Majesty. Let the Wier-
wold lands but pass away to alien hands, and to hands that
have signed the oath of the King’s supremacy, and thou may-
est guess what likelihood there is of getting them restored
to their rightful owners. Go to them with this news; bid
them fly to the defence of the Hall; and methinks thou
mayest yet save thy home from the despoiler’s hand. But
there is no time to lose.â€
“Thou speakest sooth, faithful Diccon. I will forth
without tarrying. Thou wilt explain all to thy parents;
for I may not linger to bandy words with them nor with
others.â€
“Thou art right there. Thou wilt find thy horse
saddled—I gave the order to the hostler as I passed out.
Would I were going with thee, my Guy! for methinks thou
never wilt come back to me here. Thy wings are spread
for a wider flight. The eagle will not return to the farm-
yard more.â€
Guy made no immediate response. The foster-brothers
had descended from the tree, and were standing together
in the clear glow of the summer twilight, looking each
other full in the face.
Were those words of Diccon’s true? A few months ago
Guy would have eagerly scouted such an idea; but of
late he had felt more and more strongly that the old life
CONSPIRACY. 179
must soon close for him for ever. Might it not well be
that the dividing-line was now reached, separating the past
from the future? Was this indeed like to be a long fare-
well to the White Wolf? A rush of sudden feeling came
over the boy, and he put his arm about Diccon’s neck,
whilst the dazzline tears rushed to his eyes.
“Thou wilt be ever as a brother to me,†he said. “Thou
wilt not forget me, my Diccon?â€
“Nay, never, never; more like that thou wilt. forget
me. Thou wilt go forth to adventure, to strife-—maybe to
elory and fame; whilst I, at home shall miss thee every
day of my life. But, Guy, if the day comes when thou
needest a brother’s strong arm-—a brother's help; if danger
threatens; if clouds gather about thee, and thou art lonely,
in trouble, oppressed with any fear, send but one word of
message to me, and I will come to thee. Nor peril by land
nor by sea shall hold me back, if thou dost but speak the
word.â€
Guy pressed his brother’s hand silently, and for a moment
said nothing. When he could command himself, he looked
into the round, honest face, a little pale now from stress cf
feeling, and said hoarsely,—
“YT will remember thy words. Come what may, thou
wilt ever be a brother to me. It may be that we may
face the world together, thou and I, as we have planned in
childhood. But whatever may betide, ] thank thee from
my heart.â€
Then the two passed out of the orchard together, and
Guy found his horse in waiting for him where Diccon had
180 CONSPIRACY.
desired the man to bring it, sufficiently far away from
the house, that none of the soldiers seated outside the
Inn should see that some one was riding forth towards
York.
and hasten the movements of the attacking party.
One lingering backward glance at the old familiar home,
one wave of the hand to Diecon, who stood at the roadside
watching, and Guy was gone—gone forth, as he himself
felt, never to return as the son of the White Wolf. A
presentiment of coming change was upon him, and though
he could not have told why this was so, he felt as if one
page in his life had closed for ever.
“T must be with mine own kindred in the hour of peril
that is coming to them,†he said, as his fleet steed galloped
steadily onwards through the dim darkness of the summer
night. “TI may no longer hide myself in the security of a
country Inn. If trial and danger is coming, I must stand
shoulder to shoulder with my brother to meet it. It may
be that I may help him better than I could have done had
it been my lot to have grown up at his side.â€
Guy was passing by the Convent of the Sacred Heart,
and he looked up at the high walls and thought of his fair
sister with a sigh. It was not many weeks since she had
entered within those walls, and none save Esther had seen
the novice, who was said to be absorbed night and day
in prayer.
“She is veritably a saint upon earth,’ said the lad to
himself. “ But methinks the time has come when we need
these saints in our own homes, to help us in our battle
CONSPIRACY. 181
with sin and temptation. Surely a woman like Esther
Garth does more for us by living amongst us, and helping
us with the trials and burdens of life, than she could
accomplish if she were shut up betwixt yon high walls,
only suffered to stir forth to tend the sick and suffering,
bound to keep her eyes ever on the ground, and to exchange
words with no man, save it be the sick one himself, They
say that these sweet souls pray for us, and that their
prayers keep evil far away ; but Esther prays too, though
she works with us and for us as well. Methinks there is
much truth in those words I have oft heard spoken of late
——Laborare est orare. IT trust I ery not in thinking and
speaking thus.â€
Guy's mind was in a chaos just now. He had grown up
in the old faith, which he had accepted without any
questionings, and to which, from constitutional and. heredit-
ary tendency, he was warmly attached. He had seen none
of the glaring abuses which had opened men’s eyes in other
parts, and raised a spirit of revolt which was gaining head
everywhere. Monk Frystone was singularly free from the
Worst aspects of Romanist error and abuse, and he saw
small reason to be discontented with Holy Church. At the
same time the leaven of the newer doctrines had been long
working within him, and his intimacy with the Garths
could not but have exerted great influence over him. He
listened to discussions with an openness of mind he could
never have acquired if his heart had been really bound up
in the old tenets, and he was constantly finding that he
quoted Esther or her mother to himself in an argument,
182 CONSPIRACY.
when others would have gone to the teachings of the con-
fessor.
Guy’s confessor was himself a man of liberal under-
standing, and he had sufficient knowledge of the world and
its ways not to be too rigid in his doctrines and admoni-
tions. Many of the old clergy were themselves aware that
the former state of things was passing away, and that a new
era was dawning upon the world. It was not in all cases
cowardice that made them submit themselves to the storm
sweeping over the land. Some saw the promise of better
things in this strange commotion and upheaval. Many
there were who took the King’s side in matters ecclesiastical
(and Henry VITL was a Romanist, though hardly a Papist,
to the last day of his life), and believed that some stringent
measures of reform alone could save the Church from utter
corruption. Such men as these were by no means severe
with those who were disposed to drink from the fountain
of knowledge hitherto sealed to them. They hoped to stay
the violence of the storm by bending to its first blast, and
foresaw as little as Henry had done in the first instance
that though it had been easy to set the stone rolling, no
power of theirs could stop its career until it had dealt a far
more widely-spreading destruction than had ever been con-
templated at the outset.
So Guy had not as yet had any hard struggle to en-
counter betwixt duty and inclination. To him it seemed
as if there were an easy way of adjusting matters betwixt
the old faith and the new. He had sympathy with and
for both, and could not see why men’s passions burned so
CONSPIRACY. 183
hotly, nor why all who read the signs of the times spoke
so darkly of coming disaster.
Night fell upon him as he rode, but the way was
familiar, and a young moon gave him light for a while,
after which the stars shone and showed him his road. At
midsummer it is seldom really dark, and the lad had no
fears as he pressed onward, and ere midnight had tolled
from the city clocks, he stood before the gate of York, and
was parleying with the sentry for admittance.
From the London road entrance was obtained into the
city of York through the Micklegate Bar—a very magnifi-
cent gateway supposed to be of Roman origin, though on
this point antiquaries are by no means agreed. Guy was
familiar enough with its triple arch and pile of Gothic tur-
rets, embattled and adorned with figures. He had no time
to admire it now; he was anxious only to press forward
into the city. Fortunately the name of Falconer was well
known there, and the fact that Geoffrey was the guest of
the Prior of St. Trinity assisted Guy to obtain entrance at
that untimely hour.
The Priory of St. Trinity was very extensive, being
bounded by Micklegate in front, by Trinity Lane on the
east, the city walls on the west, and its own walls on the
south. It contained gardens of which the Prior and
Brothers were not a little proud. At present there were
but ten of these Brothers besides the Prior—the Priory,
like so many of the religious houses of those days, keeping
but half or a third of its full complement, in order, as their
detractors said, that the full revenues, divided amongst so
184 CONSPIRACY.
few persons, might make them rich and luxurious, in lieu
of enforcing them to live in poverty and industry, as was
intended by the founders.
Guy had little difficulty in obtaining entrance into the
Priory, even at that unseasonable hour. His face was
known to the porter, and when he said that his business
was urgent, he was conducted at once within the building.
He was led up to the Prior’s quarters, and there, to his
surprise, he found a small company gathered together—a
company that comprised not only the Prior and some of his
ecclesiastics, but Geoffrey Falconer, Ranulph Ogleby, and a
man unknown to Guy, who was leaning over a map upon
the table, and talking in low but energetic tones as Guy
was ushered in. There was another stranger present too—
a dark, thin-faced man, with very bright eyes and a look of
keenness which could scarcely fail to rivet attention. Later
on Guy found out that this was a distant kinsman of their
own—a Mr. Robert Aske, whose name and fame he was to
learn more of in days to come; whilst the older speaker
with the flashing eyes and courtly mien was none other
than Lord Darey, whose name was often whispered abroad
by those who looked to see the country rise in arms before
the knotty point of the change in religious matters should
be finally settled.
Silence fell on the company as Guy was ushered in, and
Geoffrey sprang forward with a look of anxiety on his face.
“Thou comest with news for me,†he cried. “ Say not
that harm has befallen my sister. Surely she is safe in her
Convent home.â€
CONSPIRACY. 185
“ Ay, she is safe. It is not of her I come to speak, but
of thine inheritance, which is in danger. Thou and thy
father are both away. It is not known where Sir Ralph
may be; and Lord Oshaldistone has planned a bold attack
on his lands in his absence. To-morrow night he will send
a band of armed men to strive to surprise and take the
Hall. Then doubtless he has means to win over the King’s
favour, and his lawless gains will be made sure to him by
the royal warrant. I come to bring you warning of what
is threatened. I£ Wierwold Hall is to be saved, there is
little time to lose.â€
Lord Darcy sprang to his feet with flashing eyes and
threatening mien. He was the first to speak.
“Now Heaven be praised for this good hap. We will
meet that pestilent heretic in fair fight, and it will go hard
with me if my good sword give him not his quietus. It
is he and such as he that are the enemies of the land—
the subverters of the peace of the realm. So he thinks to
make himself master of Wierwold, does he? Let him come
on and see the reception he will meet. Beshrew me if he
think not to make himself master of all Yorkshire. My
lands will be the bait which will lure him next. It be-
hoves us to stand hand to hand and shoulder to shoulder
ere the man has increased in strength. Let us but meet
him in the field, and we will rid the land of one of the
most pestilent fellows that is like to trouble the northern
realms of this land.â€
“Content you, my good lord,†said Aske, with his subtle
smile: “the wary fox will not adventure himself within
186 CONSPIRACY.
arm’s-length of the foeman’s steel. His may be the head
that will plan the raid, but if I know the world, he will
not lead that attack in person; and as for his son, young
Frank is of different mould. I misdoubt me if he be man
enough to embrace his father’s quarrel. He will liefer be
paying court to fair Mistress Beatrice Fane than striving
to win his laurels by vanquishing women and children left
defenceless in the absence of their lord.â€
An eager discussion now went forward. Guy told his
tale in all detail, and was complimented on the speed and
secrecy he had observed. No one knew what special
interest the matter had for him, but his request to accom-
pany Geoffrey to the defence of Wierwold was granted
without comment or surprise. It was natural enough that
the lad should wish to see something of the world, and
measure his sword against that of an adversary. Geoffrey
liked him well, and was glad enough to augment his small
band of servants by any means in his power; but it was
Lord Darey whose help was the most to be relied upon.
He was to ride off to his own abode at dawn of day, and
bring with him some score of picked men who understood
the art of fighting. Wierwold Hall was so strongly situ-
ated, and so well fortified, that it would not be easily
taken by assault. Lord Osbaldistone’s plan plainly was to
carry it by surprise, and there were not lacking those who
suspected that treachery within might be employed to sur-
render it into his hands.
Guy had not forgotten the meeting he had surprised be-
tween Lady Falconer and her husband’s foe, nor the words
CONSPIRACY. 187
which Roxana had spoken about her mother. These
matters he confided to Geoftrey, who repeated them to the
rest, and a dark look crossed Lord Darcy’s face as he pon-
dered the matter in his mind.
“Tt is time thy father returned, good Geoffrey,†he said.
“Yon woman will betray all to the foe an he come not to
see after his own. But we will frustrate her treachery this
time. And now I must away to summon aid. Mect me at
sundown with thy following, at the ford three miles from
the Hall. We will join our forces, and march to its relief,
and see what manner of reception her ladyship gives us.â€
The light of a brilliant midsummer sunset was putting
the Heavens in a glow, when the junction of the little
forces was happily accomplished, and Guy with a beating
heart moved forward by Geoftrey’s side in the direction of
Wierwold Hall. Guy had had a stolen interview with
Diccon earlier in the day, in which he learned that the
attack was still in prospect, and that the enemy might be
expected to march upon the Hall from the northern side
about midnight, and strive to carry it by surprise. Diccon
had heard mysterious whispers which had led him to sus-
pect that some kind of treachery was meditated; but the
nature of the treachery he did not understand, nor had he
elicited any further information with reference to Sir Ralph.
But he still fancied that some of Lord Osbaldistone’s men
knew more about him than they would reveal even to their
own. associates.
The light had just faded from the clouds as the little
188 CONSPIRACY.
party advanced from the shelter of the woods, and saw the
eray turrets of the old Hall rising solemnly against the pale
sky. Geoffrey and Guy both looked with proud and loving
glances upon the battlements of their ancestral home, and
the elder youth’s face set itself into stern lines as he
thought how that fair inheritance might have been lost to
him through the treachery of one woman and the malice
of their insatiable foe. But that the enemy should have
planted his foot as it were in the very heart of the place,
by winning the aid of her who should have been his dire
foe, was a thought unspeakably bitter to both. Had they
not suffered enough already at the hands of this evil
woman? Must they lose all through her machinations ?
Not if strength and resolution could prevent it.
Geoffrey rode forward and demanded admittance, and
the faces of the old retainers lighted up at the unexpected
sight of him.
“Welcome home, welcome home!†cried the old man who
was in charge of the gate and portcullis. “We are fain to
see you back, good master. It is ill living in a place where
there is no head save a woman, and she such a one as yon
proud dame.â€
The last words were little more than a whisper, but both
the brothers heard them, and moved on with no decrease
of anxiety. Geoffrey looked round him in some surprise
as he crossed the court-yard, for he saw many new faces
amongst the men-at-arms about the place, and several of
the old and best known retainers appeared to be missing.
Bnt it was no time at that moment to ask questions or
CONSPIRACY. 189
pass comments. The whole place was in a commotion at
this sudden and unexpected arrival; and as the brothers
and Lord Darcy reached the banqueting-hall, Roxana came
rushing headlong to meet them, and sprang into Geoffrey’s
arms with a loud-voiced welcome.
“Now verily I knew that somewhat must happen ere
the day passed by. Mother hath been so strange and
restless and unquiet; but she would tell no word to me.
Oh, I am glad to see thee once again, brother! It is
dreary living here when there is no one but mother and
Ralph to talk to. And even the old servants are being
changed. I trow father will not be pleased when he re-
turns. Where is father? What hinders him from com-
ing to us? Mother says she does not know where he is.
But thou must know, brother: is he too coming back ?â€
“T will go and seek Lady Falconer, and communicate
to her the news we bring—if news indeed it be to her,â€
said Lord Darcy in a low tone to Geoffrey. “She will per-
chance hear it best from me: at least she will not dare
to treat me to her flashes of rage, as she might thee.
Find out what thou canst from the child; it may be her
sharp eyes have seen much. Ask her how matters have
been going in your absence. TI like not the look of what
I see here. There were sullen glances thrown on us as
we passed in. I misdoubt me that there is treachery
purposed. I shall have need of all my generalship here.â€
Lord Darey was one of the few men of whom Lady
Falconer stood in some awe. He had known more of her
past history—not too ereditable 2 one—than most others,
190 CONSPIRACY.
and he was not a man to be set at nought with impunity.
He and her husband, despite some disparity in age, were
stanch friends of the same cause, and were on intimate
terms one with another. Lord Darcy had often been a
guest at Wierwold before, and knew where to find the
mistress; whilst Roxana was only too glad to be left with
her brother and his young companion, to outpour her whole
story with eagerness and volubility.
She was quite certain something was going to happen,
her mother was so strange, and Ralph had become so un-
bearable. He talked as if everything was his own, swore
at the servants and struck them, and had been the cause
of the departure of a great number, who declared they
would stand his insolence no longer. Their places had
been filled by strangers, whom the child neither liked nor
trusted, and she was astonished at the hardihood with
which her brother behaved—just as though their father
were never coming back to punish and chide him, and as
though he were master of everything. Their mother en-
couraged him in his wildness, and Roxana was fairly per-
plexed. Just now she was certain something was about
to happen, for everything seemed going wrong, and she
knew not what to look for next.
Geoffrey and Guy thought that they knew only too well,
but said nothing to the child; only when Lord Darcy re-
turned, they were not surprised at his words, which were—
“There is undoubted treachery planned. We shall have
more ado to watch those that are within the walls than to
fight with those that are without.â€
CHAPTER X.
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
« OTHER, Lord Darcy has manned all the walls;
there are watchmen posted on the battlements.
Every soul in the place knows that there is to be an
attack ; and what are we to do now?â€
“Hist, my son! speak not so rashly: who knows if
there may not be spies at hand?â€
“Tush! every soul within the walls has mind and hands
full. Fear nothing on that score. But what will my
Lord Osbaldistone say when he hears the reception ac-
corded to his men? Belike he will think that we have
played him false; and so farewell to all our hopes.â€
These words were distinctly heard by Guy, who had
been roaming about the Hall, familiarizing himself with
its ins and outs, and had unexpectedly found himself at
the head of a narrow staircase which gave access to one
of the private apartments of the family. This staircase
was contrived in the thickness of the wall, and was of
spiral construction. A door at its head opened into the
room generally occupied by Lady Falconer, although the
door was completely concealed behind the arras, and was
192 A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
not known to many persons in the place. Accident had
led Guy’s footsteps this way. He had been visiting the
postern door which opened upon the moat, and had lost
his way in the intricate passages in returning. He had
known one occasion on which his step-mother had made
use of that door for purposes of her own, and it had
occurred to him that she might do the same thing again,
although he did not exactly see how.
When he found he had missed his way in the dark,
cold passages, he made no effort to find the gallery by
which he had originally reached the postern door. He was
anxious to make himself acquainted with the whole con-
struction of the house, and had pursued his way until the
sound of voices had warned him that he was reaching
the upper regions again. He had felt his way softly up
the spiral staircase, and had discovered that it led to a
door, now standing half open, behind some arras. Before
he had had time to show himself, these words spoken by
Ralph arrested his movements, and he stood where he
was, completely hidden from view, whilst the dialogue
continued.
Guy had never before played the eaves-dropper, and
the office was not one to his liking; but he felt that cir-
cumstances required him to learn all that he could of the
undercurrents of the life of this place, and the profound
distrust he had felt for Lady Falconer appeared in a fair
way to be justified.
* Boy, thou speakest idle words; albeit the events of
this night ave untoward to the last deeree. Knowest thou
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK. 193
how news of this attack was conveyed to Geoftrey? A
few hours later, and the deed would have been done. Hast
thou heard how he came to know it?â€
“Ay, I have heard what the men say. They declare
that it was through that malapert boy from the Inn—the
White Wolf; the lad who came hither at Christmas-tide
with the inummers, and played the part of prince in their
play. Mindest thou him not; and how Geoffrey and others
took such a liking to him that he stayed on many weeks,
and only left with Geoffrey himself? A fine fellow is
Geoffrey to take up with the son of a tavern - keeper,
even though he be a proper lad, with eyes as like Ermen-
garde’s as ever eyes may be. How now, mother? what
ails thee? Let go my arm: thou hurtest me with thy
close clasp.â€
“Boy! how sayest thou? Didst say that the lad from
the Inn was like unto thy sister Ermengarde? And
sayest thou that it was he who gave thy brother warning
of this attack ? How came he to know it?â€
“Why, that is easily understood. Our men gathered
at the White Wolf yesterday, and doubtless dropped some
hint in their cups. But who would have thought that
the birds of the air would carry the news to York on
the wings of the wind? How now, mother? art ill?
Thou lookest sorely perplexed and dismayed.â€
“Ralph,†said Lady Faleoner in clear, even tones, “I
like not thy words. They give me qualms I need not
explain to thee. It were better thou shouldst not know.
But remember this thing. That boy from the Inn is a
(322) 13
194 A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
secret and dangerous foe, and it may be in his power to
do thee some deadly mischief. Wherefore be on thy guard
2
against him; and if thy chance comes
Ralph interrupted her with a short, brutal laugh. For
his tender years—he was but fifteen—he was a remarkably
strong and precocious lad. He had grown up in the society
of grooms and men-at-arms and sucb-like characters, was
well used to taking a part in feats of brute strength, and
generally acquitted himself very much to the satisfaction
of himself and the company.
« As for that, my chance will come this very night,†he
said. “The meddlesome jackanapes himself is here in the
Hall. He came hither with Geoffrey, as though he had
some stake in the matter, the malapert knave. If he be
a foe, 1 will mark him down in the combat that is coming,
and he shall never leave the place alive. Ah, thou lookest
pleased at that, mother. Thou wouldst like to hear that
he was slain and safely out of the way.â€
“Ay, my son; that would be a good thing done. Geoffrey
sent to keep company with his father, and this lad slain.
Thus wilt thou clear the way for thine own advancement.
See to it, Ralph. Let him not escape thee. Thy brother
can. be left to the hands of the foe. They will know where
to find him; I have already despatched a messenger with
news as to that. I ask thee not to lift hand against thy
brother; but this low-born lad from the Inn, thou mayest
freely strike at him,â€
“ Ay, trust me for that. I will strike hard when the
time cometh, And hast thou sent word already what has
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK. 195
befallen here? Methought Lord Darcey had every outlet
watched. I warrant he guesses that we are—â€
“Cease, boy; even walls may have ears. I sent Jake to
swim the moat at the first warning of danger. They will
have some notion that all is not well; but they will not
yield without a struggle. They know that half the gar-
rison within these walls are ready to open the gates to
them. But in any case Geoffrey is to be made sure of; I
have settled that in detail. There is small fear that that
plan will miscarry. And with him safe with his father,
it will be almost as good for us as though the place had
been taken by assault. Indeed it may be better. Geoffrey
might have taken up arms and won back his own; but
when he is in such good keeping as he soon will be, there
will be no one to dispute thine inheritance. Perchance
it may prove a happy turn of fortune’s wheel that has
brought Geoffrey hither to-night.â€
With those words it seemed that mother and son
stepped from the room, for Guy heard the door behind
them close sharply, and their voices in conversation die
away along the corridor beyond.
Then he stepped cautiously out from his hiding-place,
his brow bent in deep thought. Certain words he had
heard just now rang in his ears with sinister import.
“Geoffrey to be sent to keep company with his father—
what meaneth that? Our father has not been heard of for
months past, by all I gather. Does that false-hearted
woman know some secret respecting him that she keeps
locked in her own breast? There is an evil sound in
196 A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
those words. I doubt not that some ill is meant to Geof-
frey.â€
Guy began to suspect that his father had met with
some evil fate, either at the hands of his enemy or by
some mischance known only to his wife, and that his
death was being kept secret from all until she had been
enabled to seize upon the inheritance for her own son.
Guy well understood her desire to get both himself and
Geoffrey out of the way, and to accomplish that end by
one stroke on the very same night. But forewarned is
forearmed, and the lad was no coward. He drew a deep
breath and set his teeth, vowing that he would circumvent
my lady yet. He would watch her as a cat does a mouse,
and he would take care that his brother was not lured to
his destruction by any artifice of hers.
Lord Darcy had taken command of the fortifications.
The Hall was so strongly situated, and so well encircled by
water, that it would not be an easy place to take, save by
surprise. He was fully alive to the fact that half the
garrison were myrmidons of Lady Falconer, ready to yield
the place to the foe after the smallest show of resistance ;
but he had so arranged that these half-hearted fellows had
none but the lightest and least important duties to fulfil,
and were so split up and divided amongst the old Falconer
retainers, burning with ardour in the cause, and the soldiers
who had entered with the defending party, ready to lay
down their lives for their leader, that no concerted action
of treachery would be possible; and as Lady Falconer
visited the outposts, and looked at the preparations mace
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK, 197
for repelling the attack, her face, beneath its outward mask
of smooth approval, wore a look of bitter hate and despite.
Lord Darcy, who paced courteously beside her, felt as
though he had the false woman safe in a trap. Guy was
less sure of this; but he kept his uneasiness for the present
to himself. He felt that the commander had sufficient
upon his hands in the defence of the fortress. The safety
of his brother should be his own private concern.
Long ere the hour of midnight sounded from the clock
in the central tower, all preparations had been made, and
the soldiers were worked up to a high pitch of frenzy and
zeal. The Falconer retainers were papist to the core,
and they had been hearing from their comrades, fresh from
the city of York, of the commencement of that long-threat-
ened scheme which is commonly called the “ Visitation of
the Monasteries.†The story of what had taken place at
Charter-House was in every man’s mouth—the noble re-
sistance, the unjust and cruel treatment of Prior and monks.
The story is a pitiful one even when read three centuries
later, with full light upon the proceedings, with the convic-
tion of modern days that some such measures were neces-
sary and right, and with evidence to show that there was
more moderation and consideration shown in the method
of carrying forward the work than was generally allowed
or believed. But the story as then told by Romanist priests
and partisans was one calculated to stir the very deepest
resentment and fury in the hearts of those who heard it.
And it seemed to these men, manning the fortress of Wicr-
wold Hall, that a blow struck in defence of those walls
198 A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
and their inmates—at the power of the proud baron who
had gone over to the side now becoming the popular one
—would be a blow struck at the new religion on behalf
of the old-established forms ; so that something of the zeal
of the fanatic mingled with the soldier-spirit of the men-
at-arms, and they resolved to fight that night as they had
never fought before. Even the myrmidons of her ladyship
caught some of the infection from their comrades, and Lord
Darey was well contented with the temper of his men.
He hoped himself to strike such a blow at the power of
Lord Osbaldistone as should be a warning to that proud
man not to presume too far upon his territorial rights or
upon his favour with the Kine.
Tt was just after the midnight hour had tolled that the
sentinel in the watch-tower at the northern angle of the
Hall cried out that he saw moving forms approaching
along the margin of the river, as if in search of the ford
which lay a hundred yards or so above the spot where the
river had been divided so as to form an unbroken moat
around the eminence on which the Hall was built; and
word was quickly passed along the ranks that the foe was
at hand.
Every true man within the walls heard the news with
exultation, looked to the priming of his gun or the temper
of his sword, and prepared to do battle to the utmost in his
power. Little Roxana, who had been flitting about the
battlements all this time like an unquiet spirit, was sternly
dismissed by Lord Darey to go below to her mother and
the women. It was with great and manifest reluctance
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK. i 199
that the child obeyed, and Guy was certain that they would
goon see her again.
Closely and intently did the watchers on the battlements
observe the motions of the advancing party. Lerd Darcy
was in the foremost place of observation, and appeared a
little surprised by their tactics.
“Tt looks as if they had had warning; they keep most
carefully out of the range of our pieces. I had looked for
a less cautious approach. Still they are making slowly for
the drawbridge, as though they hoped to find admittance
there. Jeep your eye well on their movements this side,
men. I must watch what that other detachment is about
on the other side of the stream.â€
Lord Darcey was just moving off towards the southern
end of the battlements, which overlooked the drawbridge,
when Roxana came rushing headlong up the tower stairs,
her face convulsed with excitement.
“The guard at the porteullis has been changed,’ she
panted. “The gate is always in charge of old Abraham
Trusbet, and he was there the last time I went to see, and
his two sons with him. Now I can find them nowhere,
and three of the new men and Ralph are at the gate. I
vowed I would come and tell thee. Methinks it is Ralph
who has changed them; he is ever at his mischievous
pranks.â€
“There is more than boy’s mischief in this,’ muttered
Lord Darey, as he hurried down the winding stair, quickly
followed by Geoffrey and Guy ; but as he reached the foot
he paused, and turned with a peculiar smile to the youths.
200 A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
“ Methinks it may be best perchance to give these fellows
and her ladyship a taste of their own dish of treachery.
Say, Geoffrey, can the outer court be cut off from the inner
one? If the gates were opened to the foe and a certain
number permitted to pass in, could we deal with them—we
and our trusty fellows here—with no chance of interfer-
ence from those half-hearted miscreants Lady Falconer has
chosen in her husband’s absence ? â€
Geoffrey's eyes lighted.
“To be sure that can be done. It needs but to pass the
word to our stanch fellows, and they will hinder any kind
of movement on the part of traitors, and we will close these
gates to keep out of this court-yard all whom we do not
ourselves admit. Let yon traitorous Ralph raise the port-
eullis ; let the court-yard fill itself with the foe. I will stand
by and cut the ropes unawares when enough have entered,
and thou with thy trusty band can fall upon them thus
penned, and methinks we shall be well avenged for the
treachery planned against us in my father’s absence.â€
“Tt is well spoken,†answered Lord Darcy grimly. “ Let
the men on the walls keep up a steady fire upon the larger
detachment, who will presently advance, and we will provide
entertainment for yon smaller band, who are doubtless
threading their way through the underwood so cautiously,
thinking to reach the gateway unperceived, where they
know what to expect, if it may be accomplished by their
friends within. Leave the ordering of the attacking force
to me. Go thou and warn thine own retainers, and tell
them to keep sharp watch upon their comrades, or we may
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK. 201
chance to find the foe too many for us. Then take up thy
station, unseen if possible, beside the portcullis, and act as
thou hast said. The rest shall be my care.â€
Lord Darcy hurried away, and the two brothers, filled
with the excitement of coming battle, hastened from ram-
part to rampart, exchanging whispered words with the
stanch retainers and soldiers who were to be trusted im-
plicitly in such a crisis.
It was as they were descending after this task was
accomplished, when already the first shots had been fired
which showed that the enemy was approaching within
range, that Roxana again hurried up, and this time addressed
herself to Geoffrey.
“ Brother, the postern door upon the moat—methinks
they have forgotten to set a guard there. And it is so
easy to get in from the water if a man can swim, or if a
boat can be brought up. I asked mother, and she said she
would place a guard there; but I like not the men she
chooses, and when I said so she seemed angry, and bid me
tell thee, and ask thee to guard it, if thou trustedst not her
men. O brother, prithee go thither thyself. It will not
be safe else. It matters little how they hold the walls and
the drawbridge, if the foe may slip in by yon little door.â€
“True, true! thou art a stanch maiden, with wisdom be-
yond thy years,†said Geoffrey, hurrying away. “I will sce
to it myself—Guy, do thou fulfil the office; thou knowest
what it is that I took upon myself.â€
He was gone before Guy could say a word, and the latter
turned to Roxana.
202 A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
“Thinkest thou that thy mother wished Geoffrey to be
there by the postern gate?â€
“ Ay, verily Ido. I did not think she would wish it. 1
looked for her to chide me roundly†(Roxana had evi-
dently a very fair idea as to how her mother was playing
into the enemy’s hand, though she was loyal herself to
her father’s name and all on fire for the repulse of the
foe), “but she did not: she bid me get Geoffrey to post
himself there, and to come and tell her if he did so or no.
Twill run and tell her that he is there by now.â€
“ Ay, do so,†answered Guy. “ Run and tell her all is
well, and that Geoffrey will guard the postern door with
such soldiers as she can send him.†And as the child darted
off with the message, Guy turned and raced after his
brother, overtaking him in the dark passage ere he had
reached the postern door.
“My master, let this charge be mine, and go thou to the
gate. I can hold this narrow way against a foeman as
well as thou; but the trick of cord and bolt I know not,
and my Lord Darey will want to take counsel of thee. I
prithee lose no time, but go at once. I can well do thy
work here.â€
Geoffrey was easily persuaded. Convinced as he was of
the necessity of placing a trusty person at the postern
door, he was by no means eager himself to lose all the
fighting and the excitement of the attack and repulse. It
was true that Guy could just as well keep watch here as
himself; whilst he might be far more useful where the
fighting was hottest. So with a few words of direction
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK. 203
and thanks he hurried away; and Guy, sorry to miss the
battle, but convinced that he should be savine Geoftrey
from some premeditated mischief by thus taking his place,
remained in the dark, narrow passage, waiting what might
befall him.
For a long time it scemed as though he might just as
well have left the postern door to guard itself. Although
he heard the sound of continuous firing overhead, and the
trampling of hurrying feet, and the hoarse shouting of men
under stress of fierce excitement, nothing befell him in his
quiet burrow. There seemed to be no manner of design
upon the postern door, and though he sometimes fancied
that he heard voices at the far end of the passage at which
he was stationed, he could not make sure of this, and he
certainly did not desire the company of the men his step-
mother was likely to send to his assistance.
But the sounds above became louder and more violent in
character. He believed that Lord Darcy’s stratagem was
being put in practice, and he tingled from head to foot in
the longing to be up and doing—striking a blow for the
honour of his father’s name, and for the vindication of his
own manhood. Why need he stay cooped up here? He
must have been deceived; Lady Falconer had perhaps dis-
covered the change of place, and might be already striving
to have Geoffrey killed or taken. Stung by the fear of
being outwitted by a woman, he was about to rush upwards,
and fight his way through the mélée to his brother's side,
when his attention was attracted by the sound of muffled
voices speaking from the outside, and in another moment
204 A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
there came the sound of three sharp blows upon the postern
door.
What happened next Guy could not clearly recall for
some time afterwards. It seemed as though there was a
sudden rush made from within and without at the same
moment. He had drawn his sword at the first sound, and
had placed himself with his face towards the door, so that
if it yielded to the blow of foeman’s steel, he might strike
down the intruder the moment he set foot across the
threshold. But hardly had he done this before there came
a rush from behind which carried him off his feet. He
was enveloped in the thick folds of a heavy riding-cloak,
which was tightly bound about him, so that it was all he
could do to draw breath; and the next moment he was
aware by the sounds about him that the door upon the
moat was opened, and that he himself was flung with some
violence into a boat which was evidently in waiting below.
“Is this the prisoner?†asked a rough voice; “is this
the heir?â€
“ Ay, verily: take him and begone, and lose no time;
for there has been villanous work within and without, and
our best fellows are foully trapped and slain. Somebody
will have to answer for this night’s work ; for my Lord
Osbaldistone will not calmly sit down under such an affront
to his arms. But take the prisoner. and be gone ere he be
missed. Make sure of the prize while we may. All is
triumph and confusion above ground. Get off cre the day
dawn, and be sure the prize escape not.â€
“Nay; he is safe enough with us,†cried with one voice
A MIDNIGHT ATTACKER. 205
the men surrounding Guy in what he took to be a flat-
bottomed punt. Such a craft as that could navigate the
stream for a considerable distance with muffled oars or poles,
and in the darkest hour that precedes dawn, might well
elude observation from the excited defenders of the Hall.
Guy lay still, not attempting any kind of fruitless
resistance, his heart beating with some triumph at the
thought that the foe had fallen into the trap, and that
Lord Osbaldistone’s soldiers had experienced a humiliating
defeat. He longed to be on the scene of action in person,
but perhaps he was doing better service where he was.
The men who were rapidly conveying him away seemed
to be good-hearted fellows: they loosened the cords that
bound him, and gave him more breathing-room ; and though
their comrades had just sustained great loss and defeat,
their own spirits did not appear to be greatly damped.
Most: likely they were but hired knaves, with no particular
heart in their work beyond the desire to earn their pay.
They laughed and joked when at a safe distance from the
enemy’s quarters; and by-and-by Guy became aware that
it was growing dimly light, and that the boat was grating
along the bottom of some pebbly shallow.
“We must unbind the lad and take to horse now,†said
one of the men. “Keep an eye upon him, but let him ride
with us an he will.â€
The next thing was that Guy felt himself lifted out of
the boat, and the heavy cloak taken from off his head and
shoulders, whilst his dazzled eyes met the first level rays
of the rising summer sun.
206 A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
For a moment he could see nothing, and before he had
had time to look round upon his captors, one of them broke
into a great cuffaw of laughter.
“Mates and comrades, here be a pretty piece of work!
Why, they’ve not given us the heir at all! This is young
Guy Holt, the son of the landlord of the White Wolf, who
sells the best mead and huff-cap to be had in all broad
Yorkshire—Why, lad, how camest thou there? Marry,
this is a fine story to go to Heathcliffe Castle withal! But
the fault was none of ours. We had but to bring over the
prisoner given to our charge. I fear me, boy, we cannot
let thee go. We must e’en treat thee as if thou wert him
we came after, and so deliver thee up to the Captain of
the Guard and claim our reward.â€
“With all my heart,’ answered Guy, who was quite
prepared to go forward with the adventure. He knew
that, his identity being unsuspected, he was in no personal
danger. Lord Osbaldistone and his men were not of the
brutal class who would revenge a mistake of their own
making upon the innocent victim of it. At Heathclitfe
Castle he might chance to hear news that would be of
value to him and his; and he could not quite forget the
words his step-mother had spoken about sending Geoffrey
to join his father. Might it be possible that he should
hear at Heatheliffe Castle some news of the absent sire ?
“T will go with you gladly,†he answered. “ What is
life worth without its spice of adventure ? Marry, I am
in luck’s way, methinks. First, I get a chance to join the
young heir on his way to defend his father’s Hall from the
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK. 207
attack of foemen, and then I get carried off in his stead
to see what yon grand Castle be like. I trow before I
return home to the White Wolf, I shall be such a hero
that Diccon will well-nigh tear out his hair for envy.
But I always was the lucky one of the pair.â€
The men laughed heartily, and pressed their rough food
upon the lad, whose gay spirit and careless courage won
upon them mightily. Guy had been well used to such
company all his life, and could crack his joke and indulge
his quip and crank at the expense of the company in a
fashion greatly appreciated by the bold fellows, who liked
humour to be broad and personal. They found their
prisoner capital company during the ride to the Castle, and
Guy felt no fear whatever as to his reception there.
“Lucky for me I was never known for a F alconer,’ he
thought to himself as the towering walls and turrets of
the great building rose before him. Heatheliffe Castle
was a larger and finer structure than Wierwold Hall, and
although it did not stand so commandingly, it was fortified
with a strength that had enabled it to withstand the
troubled days of the Wars of the Roses with scarce a scar
to show at the end. During the peaceful days of Tudor
rule much had been done to increase the comfort of the
living-rooms. Great windows had replaced the narrow
loopholes thought sufficient in olden times, decoration had
taken the place of fortification, and around the house fair
gardens lay spread, in which the ladies of the Castle took
great pleasure. Of course Guy did not see much of this
on his first entrance by the porter’s wicket in the thick-
208 A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
ness of the great outer wall, but he could see that the
Castle of the foe was a very magnificent place, far more
extensive and beautiful than his own ancestral home.
Indeed the lad had never seen anything quite so fine
before, and he by no means regretted the course of events
which had brought him to this place.
He was led into a spacious hall with a vaulted ceiling,
in which were lounging several retainers and soldiers, who
started up eagerly on observing the entrance of their com-
rades.
“What news, what news?†was eagerly asked on all
sides; whilst curious glances were fastened upon Guy, and
one of the men eried out,—
“By all the holy saints and the Mass, you have brought
the wench and not the heir. This is Mistress Ermengarde
in boy’s clothes; this is not the son. Yet John Redcap
rode hither over night to say things had gone other than
was looked for, but that young Geoffrey had arrived at the
Hall, and he was to be brought at all costs, living or dead,
to the Castle. A nice blunder you have made, men!
This is a maid in boy’s clothes.â€
“Ts that the erip of a maid’s hand, thinkest thou, good
fellow?†cried Guy, laughing, as he seized the man by the
wrist, and gave it such a grip that the fellow stared in
astonishment. “Dost know no better than that? Shall
I cross swords with thee to show how a maid can wield
weapon? Come on, then; I am ready for thee. I will
soon show thee of what metal these arms are made.â€
And the lad made a backward step and threw himself
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK. 209
into the fencer’s attitude, drawing the sword, of which he
had regained possession after his identity was discovered,
and indicating such precision and strength and agility by
his every movement that his first friends burst into a roar
of laughter in which the other man was obliged to join.
“Certes thou must e’en be acquitted of being a maid in
disguise,†said he good-humouredly, though still eying the
lad’s face with close attention. “But, by the rood, I had
said it was the face of Sir Ralph’s daughter. Thou hast
her eyes to the life.â€
“Tush! thy wits be wandering, good Nat,†cried his
comrade. “This lad is none other than the son of good
Nicholas Holt, whom thou must know well thyself, or at
least thou must know his good liquors; for I trow none
of us ever pass the White Wolf without stopping to
quaff a tankard of his mead. Why, I have known this
lad since he was a toddling child. ‘Twas but a few
weeks agone that he set us all in a roar over his merry
tricks learned from some travelling mummers. Maid, for-
sooth——daughter of Sir Ralph! The Falconers would not
thank thee for foisting an Inn-keeper’s son upon them.â€
A laugh went round at this; and Nat, who seemed to be
well content to be the butt of the party, kept his good-
humour unimpaired, only nodding his head, and saying,—
“He favours the lady marvellously well, whatever you
may say.â€
Guy laughed too, but he gave the man a nod.
“True, good fellow. That has been said before to me,â€
he answered carelessly; “and marry I hope they speak
(322) 14
210 A MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
sooth, for the lady hath a sweet face and bright eyes of
her own, though she hath chosen to hide them beneath
the nun’s veil, and is already buried in a Convent. I
saw her mine own self not many weeks back, and it was
said then that there was something of a resemblance
betwixt us twain. But the next time thou callest me a
maid thou wilt have to settle scores with me. I warrant
thou wilt find thy work cut out ere thou hast done with
the maid’s fists.â€
The laugh which followed this challenge was interrupted
by the entrance of the Captain of the Guard-house, who
had heard that the prisoner had been brought in, and was
a good deal disappointed to find it was not the right man.
The tale told by the men was straightforward enough.
They had done their part, and were not to blame. But
what they said of the disaster they had heard of from
their accomplices within the walls brought a heavy frown
to the Captain’s face. He gathered from their words that
the attempt to surprise the Castle had ended in failure
and loss, so that it was with no very gracious air that
he turned to Guy and questioned him as to his own part
in the affray.
Guy’s tale was straightforward enough. He did not
inform his captors that he had been the one to give
warning to Geoffrey and Lord Darcy of the meditated
attack, but he frankly avowed his own share in having
joined the party on its way to the defence of the Hall.
He said that he had received kindness from the Falconers
before, and was glad to serve them, and he told how he
A MIDNIGHT ATTACK. 20
had taken Geoffrey’s place at the postern door, though
not explaining how much behind the scenes he had been
all the while.
The Captain ground his teeth and muttered imprecations
on the ill-luck which had attended the expedition, and
finally told Guy that as he had been taken in the house
of the foe, he must remain a prisoner until Lord Osbaldi-
stone’s pleasure concerning him should be known. Guy,
though he doubted the right of the man to detain him,
made no kind of remonstrance, for indeed it suited his
humour very well to remain where he was. So he saw
himself handed over to the jailer with great equanimity,
more especially as, directly the man was out of sight of
the Captain, he broke into a rough laugh and clapped the
boy on the shoulder.
“Thou art a fine young springal, and I knew thy father
Nick well in old days, when we were boys together. Thou
shalt have no hard time of it here, my lad. I will have
an eye to thy comfort.â€
CHAPTER XI.
STR KENNETL.
i EATRICE—Kenneth—come hither and see! There
iB is such a coil going on below in the court-yard
as would make one believe some great battle had been
fought. Prithee come hither and gee, good Kenneth.
Thou art a man; mayhap thou canst better understand.
Beshrew me if ever I have seen the like before! Our
men are coming in battered and wounded as they scarce
can have been wounded in the chase. I know not what
ib can mean.â€
Kenneth started up with a smothered exclamation, and
Beatrice, who seldom excited herself visibly, followed his
example more leisurely. Sir Kenneth had arrived at
the Castle three days back, bringing despatches from the
absent owner to his Custodian and Captain of the Guard.
Of the nature of the instructions conveyed by him the
knight was not aware, but he had felt a faint misgiving
that his kinsman had been meditating some scheme of
which he did not care to speak openly, and these words
of Margery’s aroused the suspicion which had been slum-
SIR KENNETH. 213
bering since his arrival at the Castle, where all seemed
peaceable and in order.
“This way—this way,†cried Margery, flitting on before
them. She led them to a window at some distance from
the apartments generally used by members of the family
——a window of the older construction, narrow and deeply
splayed, which overlooked the inner Court. Here gure
enough was bustle and stir, and Margery had plainly not
exaggerated when she had surmised that there had been
fighting somewhere. Men were coming or being brought in
wounded, bleeding, and battered. It was such a scene as
might have been looked for after some battle or desperate
border fray; but here in the midst of peaceful England,
when the mutterings of discontent had only just begun to
be heard in any threatening fashion, it was strange indeed
to see such sights; and Margery’s face grew pale with ex-
citement and something akin to fear, whilst Beatrice’s dark
eyes flashed, and she spoke in fierce and threatening accents.
“They have been fighting on their own account, the
mannerless churls! Would I were the master of this place,
and I would soon teach them to break the peace of the
community with their senseless. strife. What! are we
back in the days of the Barons’ wars, when each lord
made war upon his brother at will, and ravaged his lands
in his absence? Shame on them! and shame on the
Captain to permit such things in his lord’s absence! Mar-
gery, were I in thy place I would go down amongst them
now, and rate yon fellow so roundly before his own men
that his ears would tingle ere I had done with him. Were
214 SIR KENNETE.
I but a daughter of the house in lieu of a guest alone, i
trow it should not be long ere he heard what I thought
of such conduct as his.â€
But Kenneth laid his hand upon his sister's arm. His
brow was overcast and gloomy.
“Nay now; fall not foul of the fellow till thou knowest
more, my sister. It may be he doth not act without the
sanction of his lord. Thou knowest I brought him de-
spatches from his master but a few days back. Until we
know what those missives contained, we must not blame
him too bitterly.â€
The girls both looked up at him with startled eyes.
“My father would not send forth his men to battle or
maraud,†cried Margery, yet with a certain hesitation in
her tones which showed that she was not fully assured in
her own mind on this point.
Kenneth made no direct response.
“T will go and inquire of the man himself,’ he said.
“Doubtless he will be able to explain something of all
this.â€
Kenneth departed forthwith to make inquiries, and the
girls stood looking at each other in silence. Margery was
the first to speak.
“ Beatrice, I fear me that there has been some foul
play. Did we not say that in this long absence of Sir
Ralph my Lady Falconer would begin her machinations
afresh? I know not what all this may portend, but I
misdoubt me if that wicked woman has not had a hand
in it. This fighting has been with the house of Falconer;
SIR KENNETE. 215
[am certain of it. I have seen strange men about the
Castle of late. I trow well they were emissaries from
Lady Falconer, come to plot treachery and mischief,â€
Beatrice made a gesture of comprehension, and her eyes
flashed.
“Truly the country is coming to a fine pass if things
like this may go on in times of peace. If it be as thou
thinkest
and belike thou art right—I will bid Kenneth
ride forthwith to see young Frank and tell him all. The
lad is an honest lad and a good one, for all his fine clothes
and fine ways that take not my fancy. He has no evil
intents towards the house of Falconer ; I have thought of
late that he hath shown a marvellous interest in and liking
for the whole race. Hast noted a change in him since
he went thither with Kenneth and was taken in as a
guest? If thou hast not, I have; and I shrewdly think
the youth must have lost his heart to the maiden there,
the fame of whose bright eyes has reached even to us
here. If it be so, young Frank will strive to put a stop
to such domgs as these. Were I he, I would go boldly
to the King, and ask him if it was by his wish that his
nobles took it upon themselves to make war upon each
other and harry their defenceless neighbours. I trow
that question alone would put Royal Hal into one of his
kingly rages. Thy father, with all his courtly eraces,
would scarce care to draw upon himself the red light
which glows in those lion-like eyes when the monarch
turns them upon an. offending subject.â€
But Margery scarcely looked reassured at this picture.
216 SIR KENNETH.
“Thou wouldst not that harm befell my father ?â€
Beatrice was surprised into a sudden laugh.
“Nay, child, nay ; I would not have it go so far as that.
But to be honest with thee, methinks it is time my Lord
Osbaldistone had a lesson taught him. Seemest it not
to thee that he begins to look upon himself as one not
to be thwarted in any matter? If he has done this thing
—has bidden his servants fall upon a peaceful neighbour in
times of tranquillity—in sooth, it is meet that he should
be checked in his headstrong course. But I trow Frank
is man enough to know how to act. And if things be
with him as I suspect, he will not be slack in his remon-
stranee when he heareth this tale.â€
Kenneth came back with a clouded brow.
“T have spoken to the man: it is as I feared. There
has been some secret undertaking planned betwixt Lord
Osbaldistone and Lady Falconer. It seems that this attack
was to have been but a bloodless one, as matters were
planned. The Hall was to have been given up by treach-
ery into the power of thy father’s men; and I suspect the
price to be paid was the hand of thy father in marriage
with yon daring, ambitious woman.â€
Margery uttered a smothered exclamation, whilst Beatrice
with glowing eyes exclaimed,—
“But she has a husband living yet. How can she wed
Lord Osbaldistone ere Sir Ralph be dead?â€
Kenneth shook his head doubtfully.
“T know not what to make of that. There are rumours
abroad of the death of Sir Ralph.â€
SIR KENNETH. 217
“Rumours? surely such a thing would be known. He
has been absent long; so much we know, but—’
2
“No man seems to have heard of him since he left his
2
own house early in the year,†said Kenneth hastily. “I
know not how that matter may stand; but there are dark
hints—rumours—-what not? I scarce know how much it
be well to heed.â€
Beatrice fixed her eyes upon her brother’s face. Her
quick wits leaped to a conclusion before those of Margery,
and she was more distrustful of her guardian than a
daughter could be expected to be of her father, though the
filial tie between Lord Osbaldistone and his children had
never been a close one. j
But she would not say out before Margery that she sus-
pected the possibility on her father’s part of secret assas-
sination—the matter to be kept dark until he had by force
or fraud gained the ownership of the property. Were the
facts of Sir Ralph’s death to be known, young Geoffrey
would take prompt possession, and it might be no easy
matter, without the treacherous assistance of Lady Falconer,
to oust the eaglet from his eyry. The Falconers were by
nature a fighting race, and would defend their own to the
death. Was it something after this fashion that Lord
Osbaldistone reasoned? And had he good cause to know
that his rival was dead, before he commenced playing so
bold a game?
Beatrice felt certain that her suspicions were shared by
her brother, and that with him they were something more
than suspicions. He gave them a rapid sketch of the
218 SIR KENNETH.
details of the attack and repulse as he had learned them,
and although it was their own servants who had suffered
severely, the girls could not but rejoice that the treacherous
Lady Falconer had been outwitted, and had been defeated
with her own weapons.
But Beatrice was eagerly anxious that Kenneth should
ride off to acquaint young Frank with what had occurred.
She not unnaturally felt that this stirring up of armed
strife betwixt neighbours in times of peace was an in-
fringement of the laws which might bring peril and dis-
aster to the whole community. True, it had been fondly
believed that bloodshed would have been spared; that
treachery would have done the work better than hard
blows. Still, as things had turned out, blows had been
struck, and some twoscore of Lord Osbaldistone’s men had
been slaughtered within the precincts of Wierwold Hall.
If such a tale, in garbled form, were to be brought to the
KXing’s ears, it might mean ruin for the race of Falconer, and
bring a lasting stain upon the eseutcheon of Osbaldistone.
Frank should learn the whole truth, and that speedily,
and act as he thought best. Kenneth saw this as clearly
as Beatrice, and resolved forthwith to ride back to London,
whence he had come, and outstrip, if possible, any messen-
ger that might be despatched from the Castle by the
Custodian to apprise his lord of the evil success of the
enterprise so confidently planned.
Already the day had long passed its meridian, and
Margery and Beatrice both suggested that Kenneth should
wait until the following morning for his start; but he
SIR KENNETH. 219
decided to be off without further delay, only, whilst his
horses and servants were preparing, descending once more
into the lower regions of the Castle to make a few further
inquiries as to the events of the past night.
He was not particularly well versed in the intricacies
of the great building, and instead of finding himself in the
euard-room as he expected, when he opened a door at the
foot of one of the staircases, he discovered himself in an
entirely different part of the Castle. The room he entered
was a large vaulted chamber, and within it was one oc-
cupant
a lad reclining upon a rude settle, with a great
bloodhound lying stretched upon the floor beside him.
Both the lad and the dog started to their feet at the
sound of the grating hinges of the door, and Kenneth saw
a face which he perfectly remembered, though he had no
recollection to whom it belonged.
But if he did not know Guy again, Guy knew him, and
doffed his cap with his pleasant smile, wondering what the
knight could have to say to him.
“ Good-even, boy,†said Sir Kenneth; “thou canst per-
chance euide me to the guard-room here. I am something
of a stranger with these walls, and have missed my way
thither.â€
“And I am a greater stranger than you, si,†answered
the lad, “for I was brought hither a prisoner only some
few hours ago. I have passed my word not to leave this
place till the jailer comes to take me to my quarters; but
methinks I might point out the way, for it was not many
steps from thence hither.â€
220 WLR KENNETH.
“A prisoner !†exclaimed Kenneth, shortly and sternly.
“What meanest thou, boy? Who has the right, save the
King’s Majesty, to make prisoners of loyal subjects ?â€
“Nay, that I know not, fair sir. But might is right
when one cannot save oneself. I was taken at Wierwold
Hall just before dawn to-day, and transported hither by my
captors, who dealt right kindly with me. JI have nought
to complain of. I mislike not the adventure. Doubt-
less when my Lord Osbaldistone returns I may obtain
release.â€
“Tush, boy! thou mayest be released now. I will take
that upon myself. I know not how these churls have dared
to make prisoners of other men’s servants.â€
“Methinks when I was taken it was not with the
thought that I was a servant only,†said Guy, with a flash-
ing smile. “It was the heir of the house of Faleoner—
Geoffrey himself—that the men thought they had safe in
their boat.â€
Kenneth’s brow was dark and stern.
“ How knowest thou that, boy ?â€
“Why, they made no secret of it, nor here nor any-
where,’ answered Guy. “ When they found that the heir
had had news of the attack, and had thrown himself and
some twoscore fighting-men into the walls, and that the
old plan of surprise might not be accomplished, the enemy
changed their plan, and desired above all to get him into
their hands. But fair Fortune stood betwixt them and him,
and it was I who was overcome and thrown in the dark-
ness into the boat, no man knowing the mistake till the
SIR KENNETH.
i)
nN
ms
time of danger for young Geoffrey had long gone by. This
is wherefore I am here now. But all men show me kind-
ness, and—â€
“ And thou shalt not remain a prisoner an hour longer,â€
eried Kenneth wrathfully. “I will call the Custodian, and
give him charge concerning thee. How now, boy? what
meanest thou? Thou dost not wish to remain in durance
here ?â€
“An’t please you, sir, I would fain do so for a while.
IT am in no peril. I have ever wished for adventure,
and here I have it to my liking.†Guy paused a while,
hesitated, and then said, in low, hurried tones: “ Good Sir
Kenneth, I have a weighty reason for wishing to remain.
I may not tell it even to you—I know not how to frame
it m mine own thoughts; but there is something I wish
to discover
something I may only hope to hear by con-
tinuing amongst the men of Lord Osbaldistone. I pray
you, sir, hinder me not; speak no word concerning my re-
lease. I would fain remain where I am; so shall I best
accomplish the thing I have next my heart.â€
Kenneth gave him a keen glance. It seemed to him as
though his own suspicions must have found a reflection in
the mind of this lad. But who could he be? and what
could be his motive for thus becoming so stanch a partisan
of the house of Falconer ?
He turned upon him a searching look.
“Boy, I know thy face, but not thy name. Tell me
who thou art, and what thou meanest by this wish of
1?
thine !
222 SIR KENNETH.
“T am called Guy Holt,’ answered the boy, without
hesitation. “ You may perhaps have seen me at the White
Wolt, the Inn on the York and London road, where
travellers are wont to halt. Nicholas and Bridget Holt
were born and brought up beneath the roof of Wierwold
Hall, and they love every one of the name of Falconer
right well. If you chance to pass that way, and would
tell them that I am well and happy, and that I am doing
my duty here by them we all love, I should be for ever
grateful. But hinder me not from staying. I may chance
to discover thus some—â€
Guy stopped short, hardly knowing how to proceed. He
remembered that after all this young knight was a friend
of the house of Osbaldistone, and might not be friendly to
the Falconers, though he remembered, from the conversa-
tion he had heard when first the knight had stopped at
the Inn, that he was no partisan in this particular quarrel.
Still it behoved him to be careful of his words, and he
checked himself in the impulse to confidence.
But Kenneth did not appear to wish to interfere.
“Have it as thou wilt, boy,’ he said. “Thou best
knowest thine own business. I will give no charge con-
cerning thee an thou desirest to remain. I will deliver thy
message to thy parents, and tell them that thou art safe.
And when thou weariest of thy captivity, Mistress Margery
will, I doubt not, give order for thy release, if thou wilt
get a message conveyed to her.â€
Guy thanked Sir Kenneth warmly, and directed him
where to find the guard-room. Shortly afterwards the
SSR KENNETH. 223
knight set forth wpon his journey, attended by his own two
body-servants, and by some half-dozen stout fellows wear-
ing the Osbaldistone livery, who were to go with him for
the first score of miles, after which he would probably join
himself to some other travellers riding in the direction of
London. .
it seemed late in the day to make a start, but the even-
ing light lingered long, and Sir Kenneth thought he might
easily reach the White Wolf before it became too dusk for
rapid travelling. As he rode along, a little in advance of
his troop in the declining sunshine, he recalled his last
night spent beneath the thatched roof of the Inn, and this
brought to his remembrance the visit of the day following
to the quaint house, half-Manor, half-farm, and the sweet
face of the stately Esther, which he had never quite for-
gotten. He found himself wondering if he should see her
again; if he might frame some excuse for paying his re-
spects to the Garth household, perchance to tell them news
of Guy, of whom they all seemed fond. Was there some
mystery about that boy? He certainly appeared superior
to his surroundings, and his interest in the Falconers was
rather peculiarly marked, What could be his motive in
desiring to protract his captivity at Heathcliffe Castle ?
Was it possible he too felt some suspicion that there would
be the best likelihood of hearing some news of the long-
absent knight Sir Ralph ?
Musing thus, Kenneth rode negligently along, and was
only roused from his reverie by the unsteady pace of his
horse, who suddenly began to limp; and the knight dis-
224 SIR KENNETE.
covered that a shoe was missing, which necessitated a halt
at the nearest forge.
This delay caused darkness to fall upon the travellers
whilst they were still some miles from the White Wolf;
but the road was good, the young moon gave a certain
amount of light, and the band pressed resolutely onward,
master and men alike desiring to reach the comfortable
shelter of the well-known hostelry in preference to halting
in any less desirable quarters.
Kenneth rode a little in advance of his party. He let
his horse pick his way at a steady trot along the road, and
was hardly aware how far he had outridden his followers,
when the sound of rapid horse-hoofs behind him caused
him to turn his head, wondering if he had by chance taken
a wrong turn, and his servants were galloping after him,
But as he drew rein, he became aware of the clash of arms
behind him, mingled with cries of rage and pain, and had
scarce time to draw his own blade before he was simul-
taneously attacked by three stalwart troopers, who flung
themselves upon him, shouting,—
“This is the master! this is Lord Osbaldistone himself—
the lord of those fellows behind who wear his livery! This
is the man who plots treachery to his neighbours, who
breaks the peace of the land by warfare and strife, and
midnight attacks on peaceful homes! Down with him!
Down with all such as he, who pull down churches and
desecrate monasteries, and fatten upon the spoil! Down
with him and all like him! Away with such fellows from
the earth! A Falconer, a Falconer !â€
SIR KENNETH. 226
These disjomted cries were shouted first by one and then
by another, though they fell continuously upon Kenneth’s
ears, as he sat his horse and in the dim, uncertain light
made gallant resistance against this utterly unexpected
attack. He understood well what had happened. Some
partisans of the Falconers, enraged (as well they might be)
at what had just occurred, had observed the Osbaldistone
livery of his guard, and had perhaps dogged their steps
for some distance, till in this dim, dark place they had
fallen upon the whole party, one detachment engaging the
servants, whilst others of their number rode forward to fall
upon the leader, whom they plainly took for Lord Osbal-
distone himself.
Kenneth was no mean swordsman, but he was at tremen-
dous disadvantage amongst these three assailants, and their
fury made them deaf to his words as he called out that he
was not the man they took him for, and bade them listen
to him a moment before they fell wpon him thus merci-
lessly. But they neither heard nor heeded, and laid about
them so furiously that Kenneth felt himself wounded in
more than one place before he had disposed of one of his
assailants ; and as his servants were plainly fully occupied
in defending themselves, it seemed to him that his chances
of life were small indeed.
He laid about him manfully nevertheless, and felt that
some of his blows told; but he was growing faint from loss
of blood, and spent through the effort of keeping three foes
at bay, and was just beginning to feel that he must drop
from his horse and lie completely at the merey of these
(322) 15
226 Sik KENNETH.
troopers, when a loud hail from out the darkness brought
some measure of hope and strength, and he called out
loudly, “Help! help! there is murder here—murder upon
harmless travellers seeking the shelter of yon Inn.â€
“Harmless travellers! say rather marauders and mur-
derers themselves,†cried one of the troopers, with a sudden
lunge at Kenneth, which caused his sword-arm to fall help-
lessly at his side. The next moment he was unhorsed ; he
felt himself falling, trampled upon, suffocated. He was
dimly aware that there were more men round him—that
ringing blows were being exchanged over his head. And
then he knew no more until he opened his eyes in a place
which at first seemed altogether strange, though presently
he felt as though he had seen it before in some distant and
half-forgotten dream.
“So! that is well. He comes to his senses,’ said a
gentle woman's voice not far away; and Kenneth turned
his head to encounter the keen glance of a pair of very
dark bright eyes, as a small-made woman in snow-white
coif and severely plain dress came forward with a cordial
for him to swallow.
He looked up into the face and felt that he knew it.
“JT thank you, lady,†said he. “Methinks we have met
before; but my head is yet confused. Will you not tell
me where I am?â€
“ At the house they call Friars’ Meads. It is the house
in which my son Roger Garth dwells. We remember you
well, young sir. You have been within these walls before,
six months back. Trouble not your head with questions.
SIR KENNETH. 227
You have been sorely battered and maltreated by those
troopers of the Falconers. Rest will restore you better
than aught besides.â€
“But how came I here?†asked the young man wonder-
ingly.
“My son heard the sound of strife on the road as he was
making his last round of the cattle-sheds, and calling his
men to take what weapons they could lay hands upon and
follow him, he ran out to see what was passing. Thus
it was he reached you in time to beat off the troopers, who
were attacking you so savagely, but not in time to save you
from hurt. I trust, however, that none of these cuts and
stabs are very deep or dangerous; but you must be con-
tent to rest where you are until you be sound and whole
again.â€
Kenneth had made out by this time that he was in a
panelled chamber—the one he and Ranulph Ogleby had
been taken to see on the day when they had paid this
visit to the Garths’ house six months earlier. He had been
laid in the huge bed with which the guest-chamber of
those days was generally furnished, and his hurts had been
tended and bound up whilst he had been yet unconscious.
He was too spent from loss of blood to do more than
utter a few words of thanks, and ask after the welfare of
his servants. These had been also brought in, and had
not suffered so much as their master. Lord Osbaldistone’s
men had been less lucky. Three of them had been Killed,
whilst the rest had made off in the darkness, and would
probably find their own way home,
228 SIR KENNETH.
Kenneth could not but think that it was a strange hap
which had made him the guest of the Garths at this time ;
but open-handed hospitality was so much the fashion of
the day that their reception of him, even in this maimed
condition, did not strike him as strange, although he was
deeply grateful for the good fortune which had made them
his hosts. He wondered dreamily if Esther were in the
house, and if he should see ler sometimes as his strength
returned. Next he was aware of the presence of a tall,
stalwart, bearded man, whom he rightly took to be the
master of the house, and the white coif of the mistress
faded from his view as he sank into a trance that was
half sleep and half unconsciousness.
Kenneth was not, however, destined to come off quite so
well from this adventure as it was hoped during the first
twelve hours. He had received a great number of wounds,
and had lost much blood; and this, together with the
intense heat of the weather, which became at that season
exceedingly sultry, set up a raging fever, so that for many
days his life was almost despaired of.
It was at this time that Esther suggested that she should
herself ride over to Heathcliffe Castle and inform the lady
there of her brother’s condition, asking if she would wish
to be with him whilst his state remained so precarious.
Madam Garth approved this plan, and so there came a
day when Beatrice Fane found herself face to face with
a tall and stately maiden, unlike any girl she had ever
seen before, who gently broke to her the tidings that her
brother seemed likely to be far more ill than had been at
SLR KENNETH. 229
first anticipated, and asked her if she w ould wish to ride
back with her to be with him.
Beatrice had heard of the misadventure, but the first
report had not roused any great uneasiness. Now she
turned pale as she asked;—
“Meanest thou that he will die?â€
“Nay, lady, I say not so. God may have work for him
to do yet. He may think fit to raise him up from the bed
of sickness. We all offer daily prayer on his behalf. But
we know not what the future may hold for him ; where-
fore, if you would wish to be with him at such a time, I
would ask you to come to him quickly,â€
“Hath he asked for me?â€
“He has spoken your name oft in the fever, but he
Scarce appears to know who is about him ; yet it may be
that your presence beside him will do him good.â€
“T will come,†answered Beatrice, with decision; “I will
be ready within an hour. Do thou refresh thyself and eat,
and we will forth as fast as horse can take us. I would
be at my brother’s side before another sun has set,â€
And thus it was that in the fierce heat of a July after-
noon Beatrice Fane and Esther Garth rode forth together
through the long tract of forest country that lay between
Heathclitfe Castle and Friars’ Meads, and in that ride many
words were spoken which long lingered in the’ memory of
both. Indeed the foundation of a friendship was thus
laid which was destined to be one of those close and warm
attachments that stand the strain of this hurrying life, and
are not severed even by the cold hand of death.
CHAPTER XII.
IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS.
i ADY, there is a young gallant without, seeking
ie speech of your brother. I bade him wait whilst I
asked you what I must say. ‘I told him the brave knight
was sorely sick, and might see none, and he seemed grieved
indeed at the news. But I said I would run and ask what
answer to bring him.â€
Little Dorothy had stolen into the sickroom through
the open door, as she did half-a-dozen times in the day, to
bring food or wine to the patient or his nurse, or to make
offerings to Beatrice of handfuls of flowers from the fields
or the Convent garden, which gradually converted the
room into a bower of sweetness and colour. The child was
ereatly fascinated by the handsome lady, whose rich robes
and imperious though high-bred air were so different from
anything to which she had been accustomed. She would
sit at Beatrice’s feet for an hour together, much after the
contented fashion of a faithful dog, and a gradual tender-
ness for the little sunny-haired maiden was growing up in
the mind of the girl, who had at the first been too much
occupied by anxiety for her brother to heed very much
what went on about her.
IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS. 231
She turned now with a smile to the child.
“And what may be the name of this gay gallant, little
one ?â€
“Nay, lady, I know not. [I did not like to ask. But
methinks he must surely be a knight; for he hath the
grand and courtly air of one who is so distinguished, and he
is tall and strong, and his looks are very kind; and though
he seemed so sorry about the poor gentleman, his face
seemed to shine all over when he smiled, and his hair is
yellow like gold, and curls all over his head.â€
Beatrice smiled and considered.
“Ts it Sir Francis Osbaldistone, thinkest thou, little one?â€
“Nay, it is not he. I saw him once, when fair Mistress
Ermengarde was with us here. He is taller and stronger.
Methinks he is a very proper gentleman. What message
shall I take him back ?â€
“Where is Esther, and where is thy Grandam?†asked
Beatrice. “And what hast thou meantime done with this
wonderful stranger ?â€
“JT bid him wait in the panelled chamber; every one
else is away, and it was so burning hot out in the sun.
Methought I might set somewhat to eat and drink before
him, for he looked as though he was aweary with his
ride. But I came first to tell you.â€
“ Run, little one, and ask him his name; and if he has
any message for my brother that I may hear, I will sce
him if he so desires it. But our patient may not yet be
disturbed by talk or questioning.â€
The child ran off, and presently returned with her reply.
232 IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS.
which she delivered with a certain amount of hesitation,
as though not quite certain how it would be received.
“Tt is Mr. Geoffrey Falconer who is here,†she said.
“We has ridden all the way from Wierwold Hall to-day.
He is staying at the White Wolf for the night. He craves
permission to see you, lady. I know not what he would
say, but methinks it is something important. He humbly
prayed that you would do him that favour. He will not
detain you long.â€
The message was rather timidly delivered. It was well
known by this time even to the child that there was bitter
hostility existing betwixt the houses of Falconer and
Osbaldistone. And the Fanes, if not actually of the kin-
dred of the Baron, were intimates and inmates of the
Castle
child rather a strange request on the part of the heir of
at least the lady was——so that this seemed to the
the Faleoners, the more so that Sir Kenneth was lying hard
at death’s door through the assault of some of his father’s
partisans.
Beatrice looked up quickly as the name passed the
child’s lips, but her face was not discouraging in its expres-
sion. A light flashed into her eyes, and she rose quickly
from her seat, glancing into a mirror opposite, with the
true woman's instinct, to see that she did not appear at a
disadvantage in thus presenting herself before one of the
adverse household.
But she needed not to feel any fear on that score.
Watching had neither dimmed the brightness of her eye
nor robbed her cheek of its damask bloom. The rich white
IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS. 233
robe she wore, with its heavy hanging sleeves, and the
close-fitting bodice of white cut velvet beneath the full,
sweeping outer dress, set off the grace of her fioure and
the glowing beauty of her face to the greatest advantage.
Her heavy dark tresses were twisted into a coronet, which
gave something of regal dignity to her countenance, and
as she swept across the room to the door, little Dorothy,
who had at her bidding taken her vacated seat beside the
bed, thought that so beauteous and splendid a being had
scarce been seen in all the world before. She wove a little
romance, as she sat in the dim, quiet room above, of how,
were she the gallant young knight below, she would fall
in love at first sight with this proud but winsome lady,
and go forth throughout the whole world, seeking peril
and adventure, that she might come home again at last,
crowned with fame and glory, to lay the laurels at the
lady’s feet.
Meantime Beatrice, with a very brilliant light in her
eyes, glided down the oaken stairs and into the cool, dim
panelled parlour, where Geoffrey Falconer was awaiting
her,
Beatrice was woman of the world enough to be tolerably
well aware of the impression everywhere produced by her
vivid and brilliant beauty, and she was by no means dis-
pleased at the start with which her appearance was re-
ceived by this young man. For her own part the girl felt
no hostility at all towards the house of Faleoner, save as
it was represented by the present wife of the knight, and
she was by no means displeased at this encounter, which
234 IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS.
gave her, for the first time in her life, the opportunity of
seeing one of the family face to face.
The pair glanced at each other, and exchanged the
formal salutation of courtesy. Then Geoffrey approached
a step nearer and began to speak very earnestly.
“Lady,†said he, “I come as a suppliant for pardon.
It was but yester-eve that I heard of the outrage committed
upon the person of Sir Kenneth Fane by those wearing
our badge and calling themselves our servants. In my
father’s absence I feel that upon me devolves the task of
conveying to the knight some expression of my heartfelt
contrition at such a breach of the peace, which has been
attended with disastrous results. Fair mistress, 1 pray you
eredit me in this that I knew nothing of the deed till days
after it was committed, and that on hearing of it I took
horse with the first light of day to bring in person the
apologies I feel to be due, and to bee for pardon in this
thing. J would sooner have laid down my own life in his
defence than know that the death of a loyal subject had
been caused by the headstrong violence of our partisans.â€
Geoffrey spoke gravely, yet with a certain amount of
impetuosity, and as Beatrice listened to an address which
was utterly different from anything she would have expected
to hear from one of the hostile race of Falconer, she could
not but own to herself that Dorothy’s words had been
true, and that this youth was a very proper and chival-
rous knight, whether or not he had won the right to wear
his spurs. She scanned his face with her far-seeing eyes,
and found something in it that interested her not a little.
IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS. 235
It was not the smooth, open, boyish face that generally
accompanies years as immature as Geoffrey’s ; it was the face
of a man who had suffered, and had learned self-control and
the mastery of his own spirit in a hard school. It was not
merely the smooth and handsome countenance of a youth
with whom life has flowed pleasantly ; it showed traces of
thought and care and purpose, and in the steady blue eyes
there was a look of wistful sadness, mingled with manly
resolution, which was indescribably pathetic in its uncon-
scious appeal.
Beatrice very well knew that the life led by the heir of
Wierwold beneath the step-dame’s rule could have been no
easy one, and could well interpret that look upon his face.
She made a single step nearer him, and held out her shapely
white hand.
“Fair sir,†she said, in her rich, clear tones, “I thank
you for this visit, and for the generous feeling which has
prompted it; but methinks there is little to forgive, for it
is scarce for us from Lord Osbaldistone’s Castle to fall foul
of those stalwart fellows who, in their mistaken zeal, fell
upon any traveller who appeared to belong to his household.
True it is that my brother knew nought of that treacherous
attack, and that he was riding forth to bear the news to
young Sir Francis, in the hopes that he would use his in-
fluence with sire or King to put down with a strong hand
these malicious breaches of the peace. But how could that
be known by the unlettered fellows, who only saw that he
was followed by Lord Osbaldistone’s people? Believe me,
sir, we feel that you and yours have been foully wronged,
236 iN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTIIS.
and that we bear no ill-will, albeit the stroke has fallen
this time upon the wrong head.â€
Geoffrey bent the knee and pressed his lips upon the
band he held. This gracious and generous reception of his
apology was so unexpected and welcome that for a moment
he wag without words. The very beauty of this fair
woman robbed him of something of his customary self-
possession, but he rallied his wits and spoke.
“ Gracious lady, my poor words scarce may tell of the
gratitude of my heart. I looked for a far different reception.
I know not how to speak my thanks. May I hope from
your smiling aspect that the knight will recover of his
hurt; that he is mending from his wounds, and will be a
hale man once more ere long ?â€
“T verily believe that he will,’ answered Beatrice, smiling.
“They all say now that the danger has passed, and that
when this lethargy of weakness leaves him he will make
rapid strides to health and strength. When this is so he
will gladly see you, if you chance to come this way again ;
but to-day he may not be disturbed, nor would he well
understand what was said to him.â€
Beatrice paused, hesitated, and then spoke with a slightly
rising’ colour,—
“Will it not please you to be seated, fair sir? You
have ridden far to-day, and must be weary; and since you
ave here, and this chance is mine, methinks I will speak
to you something frankly, for I have often said were such
occasion to come I would not let it slip by me.â€
Beatrice seated herself as she spoke in one of the un-
IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS. 237
compromising high-backed chairs of the period, and Geoffrey,
nothing loath, took another, laying his plumed hat upon the
ground, as he bent forward to give undivided attention to
the words of the lady.
A painter would have delighted to transfer to canvas
that picture: the quaint panelled chamber, with the shafts
of golden sunlight darting in through partially closed
curtains of thick tapestry ; the graceful white-robed figure,
thrown into strong relief by the sombre background of
the oak chair; and the gallant young soldier, in his pictur-
esque riding-dress, his fair open face lighted by present
pleasure and gratification, yeb with that underlying ex-
pression of thoughtful sadness which had made men say of
him ere this that his would be a doomed life, and that he
would never know success or worldly happiness.
“TI know not if I am in the right thus to speak openly
to one who is a stranger to me in all save name,’ began
Beatrice, after a moment’s pause, “but there are times when
methinks it would be well that a better understanding
were reached betwixt you, young sir, and others of those
whom you have hitherto ranked as foes. You know, I
doubt not, that my life has been for many years past spent
beneath the roof of my Lord Osbaldistone ?â€
Geoftrey bent his head in assent.
“And knowing that, you will understand that I have
full means of fathoming the feelings of those of his family
and household with regard to the long-standing hostility
which has existed between the houses of Osbaldistone and
Falconer.â€
238 IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS.
“T have always understood,†said Geoffrey quietly, “ that
my Lord Osbaldistone is our bitter enemy.â€
“ Ay, I may not deny that; but what I would have you
understand is that his son is not your foe—that he would
gladly be your friend, and that should occasion rise in the
which he might prove this to you or yours, he will do so
gladly and unflinchingly. If in time to come fortune
should throw you in his path, fear not to trust him asa
friend. He is a gay young gallant, but his heart is stanch,
and he has openly declared to his sister and to me that if
once the power be his, this feud shall be healed in all
brotherly good-will and concord. I trow that he would
rejoice to think you knew this, albeit his filial reverence,
which is strong
Oo?
to you himself, even were you to meet. Fear not young
might hinder him from speaking openly
Frank ; he is no foe of yours. But I fear you have both
a bitter enemy in the person of her who rules at Wier-
wold now, and—â€
Beatrice paused, for she saw by the flash in Geoffrey’s
eyes that he knew well to what she alluded.
“You know that too?†he said.
“Ay, truly we know it. We fear yon proud woman
little less than dost thou. Hast thou not seen what her evil
purpose is? She would fain become to Lord Osbaldistone
what she now is to thy father. And if that plan ever be
accomplished, thou canst see well what must first be done.
Geoffrey Falconer, where is thy father now ?â€
The young man started, and fixed his startled gaze upon
the speaker’s face.
IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS. 239
“T know not,†he said; “I have been asking news of
him everywhere. I was about to go to London to seek
him there, when this attack took me to Wierwold again,
and I fear to leave it in his absence. It is but a sorry
life we lead with Lady Falconer, yet in my father’s absence
methinks my place is there. What wouldst thou counsel
me to do, fair lady? for methinks thou art a true friend.â€
Unconsciously to themselves the pair had slipped into
the familiar “thee†and “thou.†A strong common interest
had drawn them together with marvellous rapidity.
“T trow that thou art right,†said Beatrice thoughtfully,
“and it behoves thee to be watchful and heedful ; for there
may be treachery within doors as well as hostility without.
Look well to thyself, for thou hast had a narrow escape of
being carried away by the foe into captivity that might
well end in but one way. Thou art a stumbling-block to
more than one plan. Take heed to thyself. But be not
far from Wierwold; and if I hear news of thy father, or
news of aught thou shouldest know, trust me and I will
find means to send thee tidings of such matters.â€
Then Beatrice told him many things that he had never
fully understood about the attack on the Hall, and the
capture of Guy in his stead. Geoffrey listened and took
all in with a countenance that betrayed little, though it
grew gradually more stern and manlike and resolute. When
he rose at length to go, speaking his thanks in brief though
earnest fashion, Beatrice gave him her hand again, and
looked long after his retiring figure as he stepped forth
from the cool shadows to the bright hot sunshine without.
240 IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTEHS.
“How is it,’ she thought to herself, “that a man is
never a man till he hath seen some of the trouble and
discipline of life? Young Frank Osbaldistone is older in
years than Geoffrey Falconer, yet he seems little more than
a gay butterfly flitting from flower to flower. This youth
hath tenfold his strength and purpose. Methinks if any
man in future days will come wooing to me, I shall quickly
send him away with itching ears, come he with a tale of
prosperity and success in his mouth.â€
And Beatrice smiled to herself as she mounted the stairs
to her brother’s room, scarce knowing what such a confes-
sion at such a moment might seem to imply.
Once again she saw Geoftrey ere he rode back to Wier-
wold; and they paced the shady pleasaunce together in
deep discourse, exchanging confidences with regard to
many things, and resolving that if anything might be done
to heal the bitter and long-standing feud, their co-opera-
tion and good-will should not be lacking.
Kenneth was by this time recovering rapidly, and had
heard the story of the attack and of Geoftrey’s visit. On
the second occasion of the interview between him and
Beatrice, Kenneth had seen his guest for a few minutes,
and had plainly showed that he bore no malice. He was
for Geoffrey had
ridden on to York to confer with Lord Darcy before re-
in the panelled parlour by that day
turning home, and Kenneth had made great strides during
the interval—and was fully aware of the length of time
which his sister had spent with the heir of the Falconers
in the shady precincts of the farm. There was a slight
IN BEE)! HOUSE ORD THE CARTLAS. 241
shadow upon his brow as she returned to him, and he
said, with a quick, searching glance into her face,-—
“A manly and a proper youth, in all good sooth; but
I would the son of the house of Falconer were not so
stanch a Papist as I fear he is: it runs in the blood with
them.â€
“And why should he not be?†asked Beatrice, with
kindling eyes. “A few short years back and such a term
as that would have been the highest praise a man could
earn. Are we all to turn our coats because it has pleased
the King’s Majesty to do the like? Is our creed go little
to us that we may wear it like a garment that may be
remodelled after the direction of the Court tailor, Me-
thinks that is something the fashion with the faith of men ;
I trow we women hold our faith differently.â€
Esther was seated at her wheel not far away, and she
glanced up with a smile as she heard these words. But
Kenneth’s face was grave. He took matters seriously, and
Was no mere turn-coat after kingly favour, as men truly said
of Lord Osbaldistone. These things went deep with him,
and he had often wished to know to what extent his sister
was in sympathy with him; but so far she had baffled him
by meeting his questions with raillery, or paradox, or some-
thing at times bordering on flippaney.
Now, however, she did not appear to be in flippant
mood.
“T would all men held to their faith with all their might
and with the best they have,†quoth Kenneth. “But, sweet
sister, if thou didst know the world as I know it, thou
(322) 16 :
242 LN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS.
wouldest have learned ere this that we of what thou art
fond of calling the new religion are those who love and
treasure and fight for our convictions. Those who are not
roused from their lethargy, and still cling to the old forms,
scarce know what they believe, and care less. Thinkest
thou that it be reasonable for us to deem that forgiveness
from sin may be purchased with money—money that goes
to fill the coffers of the Pope; money which may be by him
employed in warfare of some sort against these shores of
ours? Canst think that God has meant us to buy forgive-
ness with gold? Thinkest thou that it is His wish that
His word be hidden away from the people, to be doled
out to them in scant measure by men who keep back
much, pervert much, and only let us see with their eyes
and hear with their ears and think with their understand-
ings? Art thou content to go on thus? Hast thou no
yearning for a wider, higher creed than that of the ecclesi-
astics? Thinkest thou that men, too often steeped to the
lips in vice (vice tenfold more odious in them than in
those who have taken no vow of sanctity), are fit channels
by which the Grace of God may flow to us? O my sister,
pause and think. Does any great change come o'er the
world that is not sent by God? Is not this strange up-
heaval of old-time beliefs a sure sign that His Spirit is
working in the minds of men? And if it be the Spirit of
God, is it for us to strive against it? Is it a light thing
to be found ranged against the Most High ?â€
Kenneth spoke with unwonted unreserve. A man who
has been face to face with death does this more easily
IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS. 243
than another, and he knew that his sister was not un-
versed in the arguments of the times. She had not lived
in Lord Osbaldistone’s house without hearing the new ideas
of the day canvassed and hotly discussed.
Yet there was little to be read in her face, save a cer-
tain half-weary, half-bitter distrust and derision.
“Ah, Kenneth, thou speakest boldly ; but what volumes
lie in that small word—IF! If it all be the work of God,
then thou hast all on thy side; but thou hast yet to prove
that it is. Thou speakest glibly of the corruption of the
monks and priests; thinkest thou that they and they
alone are thus corrupt? What of the men who would lay
violent hands upon the lands and revenues given to the
Church by the pious devotion of men of old, who would
sooner have dreamed that the heavens would fall than that
the Church would be robbed of her dues? What right
have they to commit this act of sacrilege? What right
have they to despoil the Church because, forsooth, some of
her sons have been unfaithful? Thinkest thou that these
proud and covetous men who will shortly visit to despoil
and destroy—thinkest thou that they are better than those
they abuse in such round terms? Knowest thou not that
I have heard their consultations, their plans, their schemes
for aggrandizement? Do they care for the people—for
the faith? I trow not. They do but desire to subvert
the power of the Church, and give it in part to the King
and in part to the people. Thinkest thou that we believe
in them more than in the ecclesiastics thou canst so
roundly abuse? Are we children to believe at command ?
244 IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS.
Have we not seen something of the men who are pressing
into the foremost ranks—â€
“Beatrice, Beatrice,†interposed Kenneth eagerly, “ thou
art confusing the instrument with the cause. God knows
that the heart of man is wicked and deceitful—that it is
hard indeed to find purity of motive and godly zeal un-
tainted by earthly greed and ambition; but it is the cause
—the cause, not the men, by which we stand or fall. It
is this question: Shall we be ruled by the Pope and his
clergy, giving up to them our consciences, our Bibles, our
all; or shall we stand forth in the light revealed to us,
and learn to serve God as men of old served Him—-walk-
ing by His word, looking up to Him without the aid of
human mediators, knowing and loving Him as our Re-
deemer and our Friend? O sister, if thou couldst but taste
the blessedness of this knowledge in the hour of need,
thou wouldst not be held back because the instruments be
often so unworthy of the cause they uphold.â€
“Thinkest thou, brother, that we are without this hope,
this comfort, this assurance ?†asked Beatrice, with dilating
eyes. “Thinkest thou that Christ died but for thine elect
few who have chosen to cast off the yoke of the Church,
and walk on in the blindness of their self-will? Ay, if
thou wilt have it, thou shalt have it. It is not I who
have wished to speak; it is thou who wilt never leave me
alone—thou who wilt be ever trying to make me say
that I will follow what I abhor and reverence what I
despise. What are you going to give us in return for what
you take away? You take away our Altar, and you give
IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS. 245
us, forsooth, a pulpit. You take away from us the Body
and Blood of our Lord, and you give us bread and wine as
‘a remembrance’ of Him. You tell us our Communion is
idolatry, and you put in its place a dry discourse by some
of your divines. You take away our Food, and you think
to fill our souls with your homilies which we abhor. You
destroy the authority of the Church, which has been
handed down to us by holy men from the days of our
Lord and His Apostles, and you tell us to obey instead the
King and his advisers. You rob us of our faith in the
Blessed Mother of our Lord and in the holy saints, and
yet you look that we shall pin our faith upon these mush-
room divines who have sprung up in a night, and who
are cramming the world with their new doctrines, and
subverting the life and the faith of centuries, Thinkest
thou that I will follow thee? Never! TI have seen
enough of these men and their time-serving words and
ways. I will none of them. I have been born and bred
a true daughter of the Church, and a true daughter I will
remain. I have no longings to take your Protestant
Bible, full of blind and wilful errors as it is, in my hands,
and then pronounce myself wiser than the aged. I will
sit yet at the feet of the Church and hear her words to
her children. Thinkest thou that we are all so proud, so
puffed up, so self-willed, that we will turn upon our
Mother and teach her her errors, holding ourselves wiser
than she? Thou mayest judge for thyself, Kenneth, but
I will remain true to the Church ; and thou mayest yet
learn to rue the day when thou didst, in the pride and
246 IN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS.
vainglory of thy heart, think to cast away her authority
and despise her warning and counsel.â€
It was in some amazement that Kenneth heard this
sudden outburst. He was not yet strong enough to argue
with her, and though he struggled up upon his elbow as
if about to do so, Esther came quietly from her corner
and by a gesture bid him be silent; then taking Beatrice
by the arm, she led her gently away.
“He cannot talk with thee yet,†she said, smiling.
“Thou must wait till he be whole again.â€
Beatrice followed Esther out into the garden without
a word. But when there she suddenly put her arms
about her, and said with a strangled sob,—
“Thou art not wroth with me? I know that thou
holdest dear these same creeds which I abhor, and yet 1
love thee as though we held the same faith.â€
“We do hold the same faith,†answered Esther, with
one of her beautiful, luminous glances; “we are both bap-
tized into the same faith. We say the same Creed, we
own the same Saviour, the same God—â€
“But not the same Church—â€
“Yes, and the same Church. The Church of God is
one and indivisible. Men may do their utmost to rend it,
but it is founded upon the Rock, and no work of theirs
will prevail against it. Error may creep in, and men, in
their zeal after what scems to them to be purity, may rend
away more than they need, and destroy what is God-given
as well as what is human in its origin. But the Church
of God they may not and they cannot destroy, and into
LN THE HOUSE OF THE GARTHS. 247
that Church we are baptized, and to it we belong, let
factions fight as they will, and call us heretics and strive
to cast us out. In this strange, tumultuous world of ours
nothing is ever wholly right; nothing, perhaps, is ever
wholly wrong. Beatrice, I love thee—I would fain have
thee for one of us; but never so long as thou feelest that
thou art safer, happier, holier in those traditions in which
thou hast grown up. Thou hast the truth, the one and
great truth, when thou canst say that Christ is thy Re-
deemer. Thou sayest that we rob thee of His Body and
Blood. We say that you rob us of the bread and wine He
bid us use in remembrance of His last act with His chosen
followers. Our Lord gave bread and wine, and bread and
wine we now receive. He said that it was His Body and
Blood, and sacramentally we believe—ay, and we are sure
of it—that we do receive that Blessed Body and Blood.
Canst thou not see it, dearest? Is not what we partake
spiritually more to us than any carnal food? But I came
not hither to argue with thee. Methinks that such mys-
teries as these can only be learned by the silent communing
of the spirit with its God. I doubt if any soul was yet
won by the words heard with the outward ear.â€
Beatrice pressed a hasty kiss upon Esther, and fled to
her room. As she went she murmured to herself,—
“Kenneth might talk for a year and I should never be
moved one whit; but methinks she would charm the very
soul to her erecd if one listened long. And yet I will not
fear nor shun her, for such as she cannot be far from the
Kingdom of Heaven.â€
CHAPTER XIII.
THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART:
RMENGARDE, when the moment had come that
5 was to decide upon her future calling in life, had
elected to enter her novitiate in the Convent hard by
Friars’ Meads, amongst the Sisters of the Sacred Heart.
Tt was a natural choice enough under the circumstances.
The girl during her residence at the Garths’ had seen
something of more than one of the Sisters, and had even
been granted an interview with the Reverend Mother, with
whom she had promptly fallen in love, after the manner
of impulsive girlhood. Again, the Sisters of this particu-
lar foundation were not so rigidly shut in behind their
walls as those of many other religious houses. They were
pledged by their vows to offices of mercy which of neces-
sity took them beyond the precincts of their own domain ;
and before Ermengarde had left the Garths’ household, she
had received a number of impressions which had slightly
modified her original idea about the blessedness of perfect
and entire seclusion from her own kind.
Hitherto the ties and cares of family life—even the
love which bound its members together—had been re-
garded something in the light of a snare of the Evil One,
THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART. 249
a thing which was to be struggled against and overcome by
any one wishing to follow the higher life, a carnal tempta-
tion, drawing the soul towards earthly things,
Kven now Ermengarde fully believed that the life of
the cloister was the best and highest life that could be
chosen. Yet her opinions had been unconsciously modified
upon the point; and she was glad to think that the doors,
when shut upon her, would not close for ever, and that she
might without sin still hold some sort of communion with
her fellow-men, assist them by her ministrations as well
as by her prayers when they were in sorest need, and not
lose sight entirely of those whom she had learned to love,
and in whose house she had experienced a greater sense
of rest and happiness than ever before in her life,
But for three months after her entrance into the Con-
vent she never stirred beyond its walls, and gave herself
up wholly to the duties of prayer and fasting. She spent
the greater part of her time upon her knees in the exquisite
little Chapel, which seemed to her almost like the poreh of
Heaven. She would remain for hours together wrapped
in ecstatic contemplation or meditation, until she felt at
times that the gates of Paradise were opening before her,
and that she could catch a fleeting glimpse of the glory
within, or hear an echo of that eternal triumph-song which
she believed was being sung around the Throne by those
for whom the prayers of the Church had prevailed—those
who had been released from purgatorial darkness, and had
been carried up to the blessed keeping of the Holy Mother
of the Lord.
2x0 THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART.
The bliss, the rapture, the wonderful peace and blessed-
ness of these hours, was such that Ermengarde forgot all
else beside, and lived a life apart even from the other
Sisters—a life that seemed to her not far removed from
that of Heaven itself, and which deepened upon her face
that look of rapt, ethereal purity and radiance that had
been for some time its prevailing expression.
Ermengarde was the only novice in the Convent, and
the nuns were not numerous, and led busy lives. Apart
from their ministrations to the sick around them, and
their hours of prayer in the Chapel, which were more
fully and rigorously kept than in many of the sister es-
tablishments of those days, they had most of the menial
work of the place to do for themselves; for they had not
fallen into the fashion then coming into vogue of employ-
ing paid servants for all the hard work of the house,
and using for this purpose the funds which had been
bequeathed by founders to be dispensed in alms to the
poor.
The Sisters of the Sacred Heart employed only one
woman for their assistance in manual labour. They did
everything else themselves—baking, cooking,
giving up all the leisure left them after these duties
were done to the tendance of the sick poor, either in
their own homes or in the outer court of the Convent,
where at stated times these would assemble to be helped
by the Sisters—their wounds or sores dressed, their ail-
gardening ;
ments prescribed for, or their wants relieved, according as
the necessity of the case demanded.
THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART. 251
Of the busier life of the other Sisters, Ermengarde for a
long time knew little or nothing. She inhabited her tiny
whitewashed cell, where she retired if dismissed from the
Chapel by the Reverend Mother; but more often than not
she passed the night upon her knees before the little
crucifix set up there instead of in her narrow pallet bed.
The bell for Prime found her ever in her place in the
Chapel—sometimes she had been there the whole night ;
and when summoned to the refectory, her food was often
scarce touched,—and although nothing but the plainest fare
was ever seen upon the table there, and meat never save
on high festivals, she would always select the coarsest of
the viands, and frequently ate nothing for days together,
save coarse ravelled bread and spring water.
Small wonder perhaps it was that Ermengarde began to
see strange and wondrous visions, to hear sweet voices
around and about her, and to feel ofttimes lifted up above
the earth, and wafted through illimitable space amongst
bright, impalpable shapes, who seemed to be guiding her
ever upwards and onwards to some unseen region of in-
deseribable glory, to some inner Sanctuary wherein as yet
she had never penetrated, yet which she ever seemed to be
more nearly approaching.
Twice had the young novice been found stretched un-
conscious upon the Chapel floor when the nuns had
entered it for the daily service that ushered in the dawn.
Upon the second oceasion, Ermengarde had been borne to
the private apartment of the Reverend Mother; and when
she opened her eyes from her trance, it was to find her-
252 THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART.
self in the presence of the gentle-faced Superior, who was
seated not far away, regarding her with a look of calm
and thoughtful serutiny.
There was always something of blank depression follow-
ing upon the return to life from one of those glorious soar-
ings of the spirit, and the girl heaved a long, shuddering
sigh, whilst her eyes filled with tears. Why could she not
throw off once and for all the weight of this carnal frame
that always dragged her back and held her fast, even when
she felt nearest to the realization of her dreams? Was it
lack of faith, or was it some unrepented sin indulged un-
consciously, that always clogged her flight to the realms of
day? She ever seemed to be on the verge of seeing and
hearing unspeakable mysteries; but just when the very
Heavens seemed opening before her, the cloud would come
down again, and after a strange sense of blackness and
oblivion she would awake to find herself in her narrow
cell or on the Chapel floor, or in this case in the room of
the Reverend Mother, though how she came hither she
knew not.
The Mother did not speak ; but when she saw the girl’s
eyes open she rang a little bell, and almost immediately one
of the Sisters entered with a basin of steaming soup, which
she silently placed before Ermengarde and retired.
“Drink, my child,†said the Mother.
Ermengarde looked at her in shrinking amaze.
“Tt is Friday, Reverend Mother,†she said.
There was the least shadow of a smile upon the calm
face of the Superior as she quietly repeated her command.
THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART. 253
“Drink, my child. Thine is the duty of obedience. It
is not for thee to question the authority above thee.â€
The tears were very bright in Ermengarde’s eyes. It
seemed a cruel thing to give her this thing to do. Had
she not kept the Friday fast with the most rigorous pre-
cision ever since she was of an age to know right from
wrong ? and had she not these past three months.eschewed
meat in every form whatsoever? Even the sick craving
for food which assailed her seemed to her like a tempta-
tion of the Evil One. It appeared to her that to do this
thing would make a break and a dividing-line betwixt
her and those visions which had grown to be more to her
than life itself. The tears rolled slowly down her face.
tt needed all her self-command to avoid sobbing aloud
and openly remonstrating; but there was something in
the calm, resolute, yet benignant aspect of the Superior
which acted upon her as a compelling influence, and she
obeyed the command laid upon her, though with manifest
reluctance.
The sorely-needed nourishment brought some faint tinge
of colour to the girl’s white cheek. She looked somewhat
less like a marble image than when she had been found in
the Chapel. Then the quiet hush of the room, with the
murmur of the bees droning against the glass, engendered
in Ermengarde a strange sense of drowsiness, and before
she knew what had happened to her she had fallen into a
deep slumber, from which she did not waken until the sun
was low in the sky, and was pouring into the little parlour
in a broad shaft of quivering golden light.
254 THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART.
Ermengarde wakened with a start, to find the Reverend
Mother in the same spot as before, her breviary open
upon her knee, though her eyes at that moment were
fixed upon the face of the novice. The girl started up in
dismay.
“Holy Mother, I pray pardon—I knew not. What
hath befallen? How hath gone the day?â€
The answer to these disjointed exclamations was a calm
smile as the Mother beckoned the girl to come to her side.
Ermengarde approached, covered with confusion.
“Reverend Mother, is the hour of Vespers passed ?
What hath befallen this day? I understand it not.â€
“T understand it well. Thou hast worn thyself out,
child, with thy vigils and fasts; and thou hast been sleep-
ing this day, and will be the better for it. Blame not
thyself. It was my command that thou shouldst not be
awakened. Thou must remember, my child, that though
the spirit may be ready and willing, the flesh is ofttime
weak.â€
“T would subdue the flesh to the spirit,’ said Ermen-
garde, with a yearning glanee towards the sunset sky.
“Holy Mother, I must surely do penance for this day’s
idleness—and it is a Friday too. Let me return to the
Chapel; I am happiest there. Let me pass the night
there in penance and vigil, so may I perchance atone in
part for my negligence this day.â€
“Thou wilt pass this night in thine own bed, my
daughter,’ was the quiet answer. “And to-morrow thou
wilt not rise for Prime; it is I that bid thee remain in
THE SISTERS OF FHE SACRED HEART. 255
thy bed until the breakfast-hour be at hand. Thon
hearest me, and wilt heed 2â€
Ermengarde cast herself at the feet of the Superior in
an agony of remonstrance. She scaree knew what words
she said; but an impulse of confidence was upon her, and
she spoke of the deep longings and yearnings of her
heart, telling of all the wondrous visions vouchsafed to
her, and how that she was striving by fasting and cease-
less prayer to be worthy of a yet fuller revelation. To
tear her away from such a life of eestatic contempla-
tion would be like tearing up the very roots and fibres of
her heart. Others had been found worthy to be made
channels of Divine Grace (Ermengarde was thinking of
the Nun of Kent, and the wondrous stories circulated at
that time respecting the sayings and the visions of that
remarkable and self-deceived impostor), and might it not
be given even to her to receive some such Divine Com-
mission? Scarce had Ermengarde put into definite form,
even to herself, the yearnings and aspirations which had
been engendered by her Convent life, but out they all
came now, in one vehement torrent of words; and the
Reverend Mother listened with the calm and patient atten-
tion of one whose life has been given over to the care of
ardent souls, and who has ceased to feel surprise at any-
thing she may hear.
“My child,†she said, after Ermengarde had ceased to
speak, laying a firm hand upon her head, “inasmuch as thou
desirest to be the handmaid of the Lord—to fulfil in all
things His Holy Will—thou desirest a good thing. But
256 THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART.
thou must know that there are many ways in which He
may be served, and that we may not always choose our
own especial path. If thou hast desired the life of utter
seclusion and rapt contemplation of the Beatific Vision,
why hast thou elected to come to us?â€
Ermengarde’s face was raised with an inquiring glance,
“Why should I not come to you, Holy Mother?â€
“Because, my child, we have vows something different
to those of other communities. We give not our whole
time to fasting and prayer. We have work to do in the
world for which Christ died, beyond that of silent con-
templation and prayer. Our Lord toiled amongst men
Himself—amonest the sick above all—and many are the
commands He hath left with His followers to go and do
likewise. We are amongst those whose vows bind us to
this service. If thou wouldst be one of us, thou must be
content to follow us in this thing. Thou too must tend the
sick, and—â€
“ But, Reverend Mother, I gladly would. I have longed
sometimes to take my share in this thing also, but the
. other seemed the higher; and I have been given no work
to do. And surely I need not pray the less because I work
the more ?â€
“Thou needest not pray the less heartily and fervently,
iny daughter; but if thou art to tend the sick and suffer-
ing, either within or without these walls, thou must not
keep these long fasts and vigils, else wilt thou unfit thyself
for the work I may find thee to do.â€
“ But—â€
THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART. 257
“My child, it is thy duty to obey, not to argue,†was the
quiet reply; “thou art here as a child of this place, and
art subject to authority even as a child. Thou hast taken
no vows upon thee; it may be that thou wilt never take
them here—that thou wilt find thou hast mistaken thy
vocation, or that thou wouldest retire to some place where
thou mayest give all thy time to prayer and vigil, But
whilst thou art with us thou must obey the commands laid
upon thee. Thy first three months hath expired. We
seldom let any novice join in the work of the Sisters within
that time, and I have let thee follow thine own heart, to
see what manner of resolution and earnestness is within
thee. What I have seen maketh me think well of thee;
but from henceforth thou must obey rules, and not make
thine own. I have spoken to Sister Monica concerning
thee. Thou wilt from to-morrow work with and under
her until I bid thee do otherwise; and as it is needful that
thou be strong and able for the work——which is not light—
I must put a limit to thy abstinence, and set thee thy hours
of vigil and devotion, which thou must not exceed, Thou
mayest think this hard now, little one,†added the Mother
who had seen the shadow which fell over the face of the
young novice; “but thy place is to obey, not to think for
thyself. It may be that the day will come when thou wilt
thank me for what I am doing for thee now. We live in
strange and troubled times. God grant that we be found
faithful when the hour of trial comes, our loins girded,
our lamps burning, as they who wait for their Lord,â€
The girl raised her eyes and saw a strange look pass
(322) 17
238 THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART.
over the face of the Reverend Mother—a look which en-
chained her gaze, and sent a thrill of reverential love
through her whole frame. She was no longer fearful that
she had been misunderstood—that her aspirations had fallen
on unsympathetic ears. She could not fully understand
how it was that just when the goal of her dreams seemed.
as if is might be gained, she was bidden no longer to strive
to attain it, and there had been rebellion in her heart
but a few short minutes back. Now the rebellion was all
gone, and if there was still regret, there was perfect sub-
mission. too.
She was surprised that she was to be given into the
charge of Sister Monica. She was of all the nuns in the
Convent the one of whom the girl knew the least. She
was older than the majority of the Sisters, and had duties
to perform of a responsible kind.
Upon her devolved the main care of the sick without
the Convent walls—the sick who could not leave their beds,
but had to be tended by the nuns in their own poor homes.
Ermengarde knew that if she accompanied Sister Monica
on her rounds, she should have to leave the precincts of the
Convent, which she had not at all looked to do. However,
obedience and not questioning was her part, and she al-
ready began to feel stirrings of interest with regard to
her new duties. If she was about to lose much, there
might still be something to gain, and the habit of un-
questioning submission to authority, which has been in-
euleated by the Church for so many centuries, was well
ingrained in Ermengarde’s nature. Then there was some
THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART. 259
pleasure in the thought that she might perhaps see some-
thing of the Garths in her daily toil. She knew that
Sister Monica frequently encountered one or another of them,
and that she was sometimes sent on errands or messages to
the farm, from which many things were supplied to the
Convent. The memory of those days spent at Friars’
Meads had grown somewhat dim in Ermengarde’s mind of
late, but it came back to her now with a rush of warm
feeling. She would like to see Esther’s sweet firm face
again, and Dorothy’s sunny one always wreathed in smiles.
She had not caught a glimpse of the child so far, although
she knew she had been backwards and forwards to the
Convent, as was her habit. When her whole time and
thought had been spent in meditation and prayer, it had
seemed a good and profitable thing to forget the whole
world and shut it out from the mind,
The Reverend Mother dismissed Ermengarde with cer-
tain strict injunctions, in accordance with which the girl
was forced to make a real and sufficient meal at supper-
time, and to retire to her bed after her devotions had lasted
an hour, there to remain until the sun had been up for
two full hours.
The consequence of which was that Ermengarde arose
stronger than she had been for many days, that she no
longer felt it a penance to take the food put before her,
and that she looked forward to the day’s work with some-
thing of natural curiosity and pleasure.
Strict silence was enjoined in the early hours of the
day, and it was only by a gesture that Sister Monica
260 THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART.
bade her rise and follow her when the morning meal was
at an end.
First they proceeded to the Chapel, where for some ten
minutes the nun and novice knelt in silent prayer, pos-
sibly asking a blessing upon the work of the day; and
then Sister Monica, rising silently and swiftly, touched
Ermengarde upon the arm and beckoned her to follow.
She led the way into a place the girl had never seen
before
a large, bare room, fitted with many shelves and
drawers, where were stored the materials for the dressing
of hurts, whilst rows of bottles and phials were ranged in
due order there, containing the drugs and lotions most in
fashion in those days, as well as many preparations made
by the Sisters themselves and by the Garths.
Still silently, but very rapidly, Sister Monica selected
from these all such things as she needed, and whilst she
was doing this, Ermengarde regarded her with a closer
scrutiny than she had ever given her before.
Sister Monica had one of those thin, sharp-featured
faces that at the first glance often appear repellent and
plain, but which when regarded more carefully develop
traces of considerable beauty, and end by fascinating the
onlooker almost against his will. Certainly the longer
Ermengarde studied the lines of that sunken yet still
beautiful face, with its delicate, ‘regular features, and
the still, sad expression, the more surprised did she grow
that she had never before given a second glance at
the senior Sister of the Convent. Sister Monica had
reached an age which appears in no way interesting to
THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART. 261
the young. She had not the softened countenance, the
whitened hair, the benign, restful calm of real old age,
which possesses an attraction of its own, and yet all trace
of youth had for ever departed.
Perhaps it was in Sister Monica’s eyes that her main
beauty lay. They were very large, and of that pure deep
gray without any tinge of blue in it which, when com-
bined as in this case with long black lashes and well-
arched brows, gives such a peculiar power and attraction
to a face. The severe garb of the nun, with the close
white linen folds about the face, was not one to enhance
the charms of the wearer; but Sister Monica’s features
bore close inspection well, and Ermengarde no longer re-
gretted that it was into her hands that her training was
to be intrusted.
It was strange indeed to the novice to leave the Con-
vent walls behind, and to step forth once again into
that world which seemed to be no longer a part of her
life, but to be divided from her by a sharp line of de-
marcation.
The lessons learned in the homes of the poor soon
roused in the mind of the girl the quick interest in
her kind, the instinct of love, tenderness, and human
sympathy which she had once thought she must try to
kill; and before she had been three weeks at her new
duties, she began to feel in them as much satisfaction as
before she had done in those daily fasts and vigils which
had well-nigh worn her to a shadow.
Was it wrong? was it wicked? Sometimes she asked
262 THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART.
these questions of herself with a feeling almost like fear.
She confessed to her priest her innermost thoughts, but
she was not rebuked for them or bidden to do penance.
She went daily with Sister Monica to the miserable homes
where the sick poor lay in squalor and misery, receiving
no help or tendance save what was given them by the
Sisters, and invoking blessings upon their heads as they
came and went. If the girl shrank at first somewhat
from the repulsive sights she was called upon to witness,
and the offices she saw Sister Monica unflinchingly per-
form, at least she quickly conquered this repulsion, and so
soon as she had acquired the needful skill, begged to take
upon herself all that was most painful and most menial.
And whilst thus going about as a true Sister of Charity,
she grew daily to love and admire Sister Monica more.
The elder nun seldom spoke to the novice save as the
duties of the day demanded it. She was a strangely
silent woman, and though always very gentle with her
assistant, never indulged in the little harmless confidences
and bits of gossip which were eagerly exchanged between
the other Sisters. She never by any chance spoke of her-
self or of her past; and though Ermengarde would gladly
have learned more of her, as she had gradually come to
know something of the history of the other inmates of
the Convent, this impenetrable reserve was never broken.
But Ermengarde plainly saw that this Sister knew much
of life, that she was able to enter into the sorrows or the
joys of those to whom she ministered as no one could do
who did not love her fellow-creatures, and did not under-
THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART. 263
stand their feelings. Grave, severe, forbidding as some
held her to be, little children came to her at once; and
it was sometimes when she was tending a sick child, or
holding an infant in her arms, that Ermengarde saw a
look in her eyes which made her long to know more of
this silent woman’s history. But she never found the
opportunity to inquire, and never had the courage to make
more advance than was displayed in a little caress from
time to time, which Sister Monica received passively,
though with a softening of her expression which showed
the girl that it was not resented.
One bright, hot day in the early autumn, Ermengarde
was sent for the first time on an errand to the Friars’
Meads. It so chanced that although she had once seen
Madam Garth in the house of a labourer whose wife was
sick, she had never met Esther, and had searcely caught
so much as a glimpse of Dorothy. She had heard a
rumour of guests at the farm, but that had been some
little time back, when she had first emerged from her
solitude, and she imagined that they would now be gone.
To reach the farm the girl had not to set foot upon the
highroad, or she would not have gone alone. There was
a door in the Convent wall which led direct into the or-
chard of the Friars’ Meads, and thus easy intercourse was
obtained between the Sisters and the inhabitants of the
old house.
Ermengarde unlocked the door and stepped across the
threshold, then stopped short, not knowing whether to
advance or retire.
264 THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART.
It was upon a very pretty scene that her eyes lighted,
and one which engraved itself upon her memory, not
to be effaced for many a long day to come. It seemed
to her like the revelation of a new world, and one to
which she had hitherto been a stranger.
The work of the past weeks had not been without its
effect upon Ermengarde. No one can enter upon a labour
of love without learning something of the strange depth
and mystery of human love, without gaining some insight
into its possibilities, its capacities for joy and sorrow, its
sacredness, and its necessity for those who live in the
world. She had felt from time to time the stirrings of a
new spirit within her—-a new sense of comprehension,
sympathy, longing—scarce understood, and certainly never
analyzed; and the scene upon which she looked just now
brought home with strange force to her heart the true
sense of some of her vague musings, and the realization
of what life meant to some.
It was the slack hour of the day at the farm, and
Roger Garth had come in from the fields. The whole
family had gathered in the orchard, and mother and son
were sitting together beneath a gnarled apple-tree, his
hand resting upon hers in the way Ermengarde had so
often seen, whilst the laughing, rosy face of the little
Dorothy peered at them roguishly through the leafy
screen of the overhanging boughs. A little way off stood
one of the easiest chairs in the house, in which was seated
a man whom Ermengarde knew by sight as having been a
chance guest at Wierwold the previous Christmas. She
THE SISTERS OF THE SACRED HEART. 265
knew that he was Sir Kenneth Fane, and that he had
been set upon and wounded on the road, and had been
nursed back to health by the Garths. A single glance at
the stranger told her that this man was none other than he:
it was the same keen, intellectual, earnest face, tall, upright
figure (though wasted now by sickness) and commanding
air; but what struck Ermengarde more than this was the
strange softness and passionate intensity of the glance
which was fixed upon the bent head of Esther, who was
seated not far from his side, with a piece of embroidery in
her hands. Something in that gaze was a revelation to
Ermengarde ; it sct her heart beating, she knew not why.
Sir Kenneth was speaking to his companion—so much she
could see; and from time to time Esther raised her clear
glance to his, and an answering light seemed to shine in
her eyes. It seemed to the young novice standing at the
gate, not knowing whether to advance or retire, as though
she were looking upon a world that contained something
new and beautiful and mysterious, and something sweeter
withal than the girl had thought to find without the walls
of her cloistered home.
Half afraid of the sudden strange wave of feeling which
swept over her, Ermengarde would have turned and re-
tired, her errand unfulfilled, had it not been that she heard
her name suddenly pronounced by a familiar voice ; and
turning at the sound, saw her brother Geoflrey. He sprang
towards her, leaping up from the ground upon which he
had been reclining, at the feet of a very beautiful, dark-
eyed girl, and she slowly rose and advanced towards the
266 THE SISTERS O# THE SACRED HEART:
young novice, watching her face, as she returned this most
unexpected greeting from her brother, with a strange and
intense scrutiny.
“Thou here, Geoffrey!†cried Ermengarde, shrinking
back as if half afraid of the warm embrace in which he
folded her; but he would not let her escape him, and
smiled as he said,—
“Sweet sister, be not afraid; the Reverend Mother
knows that J am here. She has permitted me this inter-
view. Thou art not yet under the vows, and I hungered
for the sight of thy face; and greatly I desired to make
thee known to this sweet lady, Mistress Beatrice Fane.â€
CHAPTER XIV.
THE “ LUBBER-FIEND.â€
ff OWN there? Why, there is nought down there.
D Those are the old prisons of the Castle. They
were full enough times gone by, folks say; but in good
King Henry’s times men don’t put each other in ward in
their own castles. There is nobody down there.â€
The speaker was Giles Carew, the jailer’s son, and
these words were in answer to some question from Guy.
He was still at Heathcliffe Castle, and had not wearied yet
of his captivity. As a matter of fact, his detention there
was more his own doing than that of his captors, who
would have connived at his escape at any moment had he
desired it. The responsible officials of the place knew
well enough that the days were going by in which knights
and barons might infringe the liberty of the subject with
impunity; and although a plan had been organized for
the carrying off of Geoffrey Falconer, there was no law by
which the act could be justified, and the baron, had his
wish been accomplished, would have had to rely for sup-
port on his own favour with the King, had the matter
been permitted to reach the royal ears. ‘True, in these
remoter parts civilization advanced but graduaily. and
268 THE “LUBBER-FIEND.â€
changes were only slowly made. The recent Wars of the
Roses had plunged the country into a state of confusion
and gemi-barbarism, from which it was now only leisurely
emerging. So there was still in many strongholds a
person who went by the name of jailer, and whose office
was not yet entirely extinct. Petty offenders and dis-
turbers of the peace, men who had broken the game laws,
or had committed depredations on the estate, were still
brought to the Castle to be confronted with their offended
lord. These delinquents were generally the retainers, serv-
ants, or labourers on the estate, and in some cases lived
in or about the Castle itself. The decay of the feudal
system was felt less in these northern regions than in the
vicinity of the great commercial centres. The people still
looked up to their lord with considerable reverence and
awe. His word was practically law over his own domain,
and it was seldom indeed that his authority was seriously
resisted.
So when Guy found himself an inmate of the Castle,
he became one of some dozen or so rough fellows who had
been guilty of petty misdemeanours, for the which they
were to answer to their lord on his return. They were
looked after by Carew and his son—the latter a lad of about
Guy’s age—and did not appear greatly troubled by their tem-
porary detention. They herded together for the most part
in a large common-room, playing dice, and otherwise amus-
ing themselves, and were supplied with food and drink
by the jailer. Guy, who was obviously of different mould
from these, and who soon won his way to the confidence
THE “LUBBER-FIEND.†269
of the official, soon ceased to be kept under any kind of
control. He was practically free of the Castle—tree to
come and go as he would; a universal favourite with the
servants and men-at-arms, and a particular friend and
comrade to Giles Carew, whose duties he shared and whose
good-will he had completely won.
It was when Guy had been about a month in the
Castle, without having heard or geen anything to help
him to solve the mystery respecting his father’s fate, that
he began to ask Giles about some subterranean passages
into which he was never able to obtain entrance, owing to
the fact that the door which led to them was always
locked and bolted.
Giles’s answer was definite enough; but Guy was not
satisfied.
“But I have heard sounds inside,†he persisted; “I
have heard them more than once.â€
A look of uneasiness passed over the other lad’s face.
He shook his head and said,—
“Maybe there are rats down below. Rats will make
strange noises,â€
“Tt is not rats,†answered Guy, with decision; “least-
ways I do not believe it. There are footsteps that cannot,
methinks, be rats. I made sure there was some human
creature below there.â€
“Nay, nay; it is nought human,†said Giles, with a look
of something very like terror upon his face.
“Ah, but come thou and hearken for thyself; per-
sisted Guy. “I hear somewhat almost every time I go
270 THE “LUBBER-FIEND.â€
thither and listen with my ear at the keyhole. Come
thou and hearken too. It may be if we both are there
that we may discover more.â€
But Giles recoiled a pace or two, with a lively expres-
sion of horror upon his countenance.
“Not I, I thank thee, Guy. I would not go nigh that
spot for all the gold of the Treasury. There is not a soul
in the Castle, save my father, that will dare to open that
door, and methinks he would fain do it as seldom as pos-
sible.â€
“But why?†asked Guy in surprise. “What is there
to fear if the place be empty ?â€
“T said not it was empty; I said there was nought
human within. And that is the truth, and thou hadst
better ask no more.â€
“But I want to know,†answered Guy. “I would fain
go with thy father when next he opens the door. Goes
he often to those underground places? And if he does,
will he not take me ?â€
“Nay; he scarce unlocks that door once in a twelve-
month. Thou mayest wait long indeed if thou waitest
for that. Why shouldest thou wish to go? Thou arta
strange Jad, Guy. What can it be to thee what is behind
there ?â€
“Methought it was some prisoner,’ said Guy slowly,
eazing hard at Giles the while. “Methought Lord Os-
baldistone had some captive within yon prison-house.â€
Giles laughed at the notion.
“Nay, nay; the days are gone by in which those
THE “LUBBER-FIEND,†271
same underground ceils were used to bury poor souls in
away from the light of day. What thou hearest is no
human thing; it is the step and the voice of the lubber-
fiend.â€
“The lubber-fiend! And what is that?â€
“Hast not heard of the lubber-fiend? Hast thou heard
of a ghost then ?â€
Guy laughed at the question.
“T have heard of both; but never have I seen either.
Methought they were seldom heard of now, albeit there
be many old crones who tell stories of them at the fire-
side on a winter’s night. But tell me, hast thou seen this
fiend? and what aspect bears he? For my part, I have
never looked upon the face or form of ghost or goblin.
There be times when I tell myself that I would fain see
one. Tell me more of this same lubber-fiend of thine. In
what form comes he?â€
Giles was taken with a shivering fit at the bare thought
of such an encounter. He took hold of Guy’s arm, as
though to hold him back from deadly peril.
“Nay, I know not that. JI have never seen him; me-
thinks I should die of fright were I to look upon his
hideous form. They say that he is some fearful monster
who haunts this Castle, and that when he is heard pacing
to and fro, as men have heard him these many weeks
past, some dire misfortune is about to fall upon the house-
hold which he guards. Wherefore all men are in no
small terror now, for they say he hath never stayed so
long as upon this visit.â€
272 THE “LUBBER-FIEND.â€
«Then he is not always here?â€
“T know not how that may be; but he is not always
heard. There be months, ay, and years, when there is no
sound of him, and those are years of good luck to all.
But if his steps are heard about the place, then men know
that trouble is hard at hand; and if he shows himself to
any, then there is always death and mourning and woe.â€
“Then there be some folks who have seen him?â€
“So they say. There was an old crone who vowed she
saw him two nights ere our lady died, six years come All-
Saints-day. Thou knowest that at such a time as that
the spirits be abroad more than at any other. Since then
all hag been very quiet; we had scarce thought of him for
years. But he began to walk again three months or more
back; and they say he has never ceased.â€
“Doth he always walk in the same place ?â€
“T know not how that may be. Folks tell different
tales. There is old Jane Partlett, the scullion—she knows
most of such matters, there being a witch in her family
who was burned on the green in the last King’s reign;
and she says that the lubber-fiends cannot get through
locked doors, save they be opened for them; but that if
once they get through, no man can ever be rid of them
after. It seems like as if she spoke truth. For on this visit
the fiend has come in, so all men say, by the little door
from the moat, and is wandering up and down yon under-
eround passage, where all who listen for his steps may
hear him. My father was first to hear him, and since
then many have done so. But so long as the door remains
THE “LUBBER-FIEND.†273
oO
locked, they say he will stay there and do no hurt. But
so sure as human hand unlocks the door, he will escape
to these upper regions, and we shall none of us be safe.
They say that it is death within a year to look upon the
lubber-fiend; and the old crone who saw him last died ere
the year was out.â€
Guy listened attentively. He was not altogether free
from the superstition of the age in which he lived, and he
believed a great deal more in the legends of the country
places than he would have done had he lived a century or
two later. Still he had not that absolute credence in fable
that was common in those about him, and the Garths’
quiet incredulity when such matters had been discussed in
their hearing had not been without its effect upon the boy.
“Then thy father goes not ever into those dark places ?â€
he asked.
“No, not so long as the fiend remains. He would not
for worlds let it loose upon the Castle. Methinks my
father fears him more than most. He has bid me not even
go nigh the door, in case the fiend may be looking through
the keyhole, and cast some spell upon me. Be warned,
Guy; go not nigh again. I would not that harm befell
thee here.â€
“T will take care of myself,’ answered Guy, smiling ;
but presently, when he-found himself alone, he sat down
with his head between his hands, thinking deeply.
“Giles is honest; Giles believeth every word he utters,â€
he muttered in soliloquy. “But how about his father ?
Methinks I cannot be mistaken. I am certain that there
(822) 18
274 THE “LUBBER-FIEND,’
were marks of his boots upon the stairs—marks yet damp,
as if he had but lately come in through the rain. And I
was certain as I looked that his feet had passed within
the door. There was the impression of his foot half outside
the door, whilst the other half must have been within.
Giles does not believe he has unlocked that door for
months; I think he did so only two days ago. Will he
go there again? If he does, could I see him? What has
he got within those gloomy cells? Is it some prisoner—
some captive whose very existence he is bound to hide
from all, even from his own son?â€
Had not Guy been for long harbouring dark suspi-
cions regarding Lord Osbaldistone, he might scarcely have
hit upon this idea; but he had heard and seen enough
during his stay at Heathcliffe to gain a very clear notion
of the baron’s ambition, unsecrupulousness, and unswerv-
ing determination to succeed in any object he had under-
taken, The ruin of the Falconer family was one of the
objects nearest to his heart; this was no secret in the
household. And was it strange that he should take his
steps very cautiously but very relentlessly? The dis-
appearance of Sir Ralph was freely commented upon at
Heatheliffe, and Guy had often observed something a little
peculiar in the speech and manner of some of those who
discussed it. There was nothing’which exactly gave him
the clue, but the idea was many times suggested to him
that some of these men knew more than they professed
to do on the subject.
And was it possible that his suspicions were now to be-
THE “LUBBER-FIEND.†275
come something more? Was he on the verge of some
discovery? He sat pondering this matter over and over
again, and then he spoke once more to himself.
“At least I will watch and see. It might be so—it
might. They say he is a man to dare anything ; and
here, in this solitary place, he may do as he will. Giles
has known that for many months this thing he calls the
lubber-fiend has been pacing to and fro in the old dun-
geons of the Castle. It might be—yes, it might be so.
And if it be, is it not my place to discover and baftle the
malice of the enemy? These good people here are not
cruel or vindictive; but when my Lord Osbaldistone re-
turns, no man may guess what his action will be. They
ever talk of his coming, yet he comes not. Methinks the
favour of the King and his smile are sweeter to him than
even his own vengeance. Or perchance he thinks that if
he tarries, long captivity and privation will have done
their work.†Guy clenched his hand and threw back his
head, whilst an expression of wonderful determination
passed over his young face. He looked like one who
does not make a resolution for nothing. He rose from
his seat, and paced slowly to and fro, turning matters over
in his mind, and meditating his own course of action.
Three nights later Guy found himself rewarded for the
patience and watchfulness he had been exercising, He
had discovered a secure hiding-place not far from the
head of the stairs which led down to the door that was
always kept bolted and locked—the door to the old dun-
geons ; and this was the second night during which he had
276 THE “LUBBER-FIEND.â€
kept watch for the visit he fancied the man Carew must
pay from time to time to the prisoner, if he had such an
unfortunate being beneath his care. Long had been the
hours which the boy had spent both by night and day
since the first suspicion had entered his head. He felt
perfectly certain that the jailer had not gone thither unseen
by him, his watch upon his movements had been so careful
and ceaseless. And now he was rewarded by seeing him
approaching, lantern in hand, along the dim corridor, and
slowly descending the steps key in hand.
He carried other things beside—food and water and a
bottle of wine.
Guy had discovered before now that Carew was himself
a kind-hearted and jovial man. If he had a solitary cap-
tive under his care, he would probably treat him as well
as lay in his power. Loyal to his master, he would keep
the prisoner safe, but he would not in any way pine or
ill-treat him; and Guy could see that it was good enough
and sufficient food that he was carrying down.
Breathlessly and cautiously, like a veritable shadow,
Guy glided after the jailer. The heavy door, which was
made of the stoutest oak, had been left wide open (plainly
Giles’s story was a pure figment of imagination), and Guy
actually crept within it, pausing when he found himself
in the deep darkness of the damp passage, uncertain what
might be lying in front of him. The light had vanished,
but he by-and-by saw a faint gleam which seemed to
come from a distant door, a good way down the narrow
passage, and as the boy crept nearer, listening intently, he
THE “LUBBER-FIEND.†207
heard the murmur of voices proceeding from the same
direction.
He was afraid to approach nearer. Carew might at
any moment emerge, and would possibly see the moving
ficure in the passage. The boy remained where he was,
hidden in deep shadow, and stood his ground even when
the jailer reappeared, watching to see if he locked the
captive in any cell, many of which appeared to open from
this long subterranean passage.
But it was as he expected: there was no door locked,
save the outer one communicating with the stairs. The
captive’s pacings to and fro were easily accounted for now.
He had the range of the whole place. But what must the
weeks and months be like to one thus excluded from the
light of day, and shut up in such a dreary spot as this ?
Was it indeed his father, pining away in this terrible,
illegal, and hopeless captivity ? Guy’s blood boiled at the
thought. If his suspicion should prove to be true, it
should not be long before Sir Ralph was restored to liberty.
But how? Guy could vow to liberate him, but he was
well aware that the task might not prove an easy one.
However, the old proverb that the will can make the way
is often verified by experience of life ; and Guy was as reso-
lute as any Falconer of his race.
All would be simple if he could but gain possession of
the key of that door. There was but one barrier between
him and the captive. If this door could be unlocked, the
solution of the mystery would be in his hands. Carew had
fenced his prisoner in by a wall of superstitious terror
278 THE “LUBBER-FIEND.â€
which was really a better protection to him than any bolts
or bars could be. Not a soul in the Castle, as the man
supposed, would venture at any price to unlock that door,
even had the power to do so been his. The captive might
not be very securely guarded in the matter of bolts and
bars; but he was so hedged about with mystic terrors that
the idea of escape planned from without appeared out of
the question. As for any attempt on the part of the
prisoner, that was Carew’s affair to thwart.
At first Guy entertained the idea of trying to purloin
the jailer’s keys some night when he should be engaged in
a deep drinking-bout with convivial companions ; but this
did not appear an entirely satisfactory way of going to
work. Little could be accomplished in one visit to the
prisoner, and it was impossible to reckon upon gaining
frequent possession of the keys. Carew was a cautious
man, and would be likely, even in his cups, to have a
care for his possessions.
Guy had, however, noticed particularly which key upon
the man’s girdle it was that unlocked this subterranean
door; and the day following, when these keys chanced to
be lying upon the table before the jailer put them on to go
his rounds, he took the opportunity to examine it narrowly
and to acquaint himself pretty accurately with its size and
workmanship. Whenever he had the chance he examined
ib again, and was even able by-and-by to take a few meas-
urements of the wards, which were by no means complex.
The boy had seen in the guard-room a chest containing @
vast number of old keys that appeared to be of no present
THE “LUBBER-FIEND.†279
use. He had been told that they had belonged to various
portions of the older part of the Castle, which had been
pulled down and modernized of late years. The idea came
into his head that he might find amongst these some key
which would open the locked door; and he never lost
an opportunity of searching amongst them whenever he
chanced to find the place deserted.
Patience is generally rewarded at last. In time Guy had
amassed a collection of about a dozen keys of something
the right shape and size. He felt almost confident that one
amongst them would suffice for his purpose; but he must
be very cautious how he made his experiment, for the jailer
seemed to have no fixed time for visiting his one real cap-
tive, and he must avoid above all things the peril of being
caught in the act.
Fortunately for his patience, however, a day came when
Carew and his son were both summoned by business to the
nearest market town, and Guy was left to look after the
duties which usually fell to the lot of father and son.
He was by that time regarded as one of the houschold;
he shared the same lodgings as the Carews, and knew the
routine of their life as well as they did themselves,
He had the day before him, and could choose his own
time. He had been hearing a good deal of the “lubber-
fiend†lately. Carew had spoken of it more than once, and
had advised him, and others in his hearing, to be cautious
how they so much as talked about the malignant spirit. He
was fond of assuring them all that so long as it was kept
behind the locked door of the dungeons all was right, but
280 THE “LUBBER-FIEND,â€
that if any foolish or unwary hand opened that door, the
consequences might be disastrous indeed.
Guy listened to these tales with due gravity ; but it was
without fear of any fiend that he at last approached that
door, carrying in his hand a basket of ponderous keys.
First unfastening the heavy bolts, he fitted one key after
another into the lock; and as he tried them and found that
the wards would not turn, his heart almost failed him.
What should he do if none of them would fit? His breath
came thick and fast as he put the ninth into the lock; and
it was with a scarcely restrained ery of triumph that he
felt it turn smoothly and easily, and knew that the way to
the captive was open.
But the boy did not rush headlong to the prisoner. He
had still a misgiving that disappointment might lie before
him. Lord Osbaldistone might have other foes beside his
father. Things might not be as he had looked to find
them. He was not going to rush precipitately into the
adventure; and he had come provided with some rations
which he had contrived to purloin from the buttery, so that
the prisoner might not feel over-much surprise at this visit.
He had Carew’s lantern to light him down the passage,
and he proceeded cautiously along, after securely locking
the door behind him.
As he moved he looked curiously about him, and saw
that on each side of the passage were narrow cells, perfectly
bare of plenishing of any kind, and lighted only by tiny
apertures grated and barred, which probably opened upon
some upper corridor; for the light struggling in was of a
LHE “LUBBER-LLEND,†281
most meagre kind, and only one degree better than absolute
darkness. The boy’s blood boiled at the thought of what
his father or any other captive must have endured buried
alive in this living tomb without apparent hope of release,
or even of being put upon trial for his offence, whatever it
might be. Hurrying along, cager to put an end to his own
suspense, Guy began to fear that every cell would prove
empty, and that the prisoner had been moved elsewhere,
when at the very end of the passage a door opencd of itself,
_and a tall, gaunt figure emerged, the owner of which spoke
to him in a tone of surprise.
“What! another visit so soon? Thou seldom favourest
me thus. How now, boy? Who art thow? And how
camest thou hither? Not another wretched captive, I trust
for thy sake? What! hast brought me more food? I shall
grow stout and hearty if I be thus fed. Hast thou come
in place of thy father? Thou favourest him not much.
Yet thy face is not wholly unfamiliar to me. Let me look
at thee. Hast thou not a tongue in thine head? When
men live underground with nought but rats for company.
it is good to hear the voice of a human being again, be he
no more than a jailer. Tell me, my lad, who art thou, and
what has brought thee hither ?â€
Whilst the prisoner was speaking, Guy had moved for-
ward into the room, and had placed upon the table the
lantern as well as the food and wine with which he was
laden. He had recognized his father at the first glance, but
the rush of emotion which came over him had checked the
exclamation which rose to his lips. His throat swelled, his
282 THE “LUBBER-FIEND,â€
eyes were dazzled by a sudden rush of tears, half of pity,
half of indignation. The cell in which his father had
established himself was a larger, lighter, drier, and better
place than any of those he had seen. It was possible that
in the days when the prison had been occupied, this might
have been a room used by a warder or keeper of the cap-
tives. It was furnished with a table, a chair, and a bed,
and there were even a few books lying on the table. A
small grated window high up in the wall admitted a few
flickering rays of sunlight, although these were so dim and
ereen that Guy wondered whence they came.
All these things he took in with one comprehensive
glance round, as he laid down his burden whilst his father
was still speaking. As he heard the last questions addressed
to him, he suddenly turned and fell on his knees before the
captive.
“J am your son Guy,†he answered, taking the thin,
muscular hand and pressing his lips upon it; “and I have
come to set you free, which thing I will do, God helping
me, ere another week has run its course.â€
“My son! my son Guy!â€â€”the words were little more
than a whisper; and then Guy felt himself raised and held
at arm’s-length by the prisoner, whilst the light of the
lantern fell upon his face, and those keen eyes beneath the
bushy brows were scanning his features as though to learn
them by heart.
“Thy son Guy,†replied the lad, “the foster-son of Nicho-
las and Bridget Holt. Father, my father, dost thou not
know me? They tell me I am like my sister Ermengarde.â€
THE “LUBBER-FIEND! 283
“Thou art more like thy mother,†answered the knight
in strangled tones, as he folded the boy in his arms; and to
Guy’s astonishment a deep hoarse sob broke from the strong
man, and a scalding tear dropped upon the boy’s cheek.
“ My son, my son—the son whom I have disowned and
neglected—come to me thus! Boy, boy, surely this is all
some dream. How canst thou be here at Heathcliffe Castle ?
for well I wot, though they have told me nought, that I
owe this foul and unjust detention to my implacable foe.â€
“Ay, but thou shalt be even with him yet,†cried Guy,
whose breast was swelling with rage and indignation.
“Thou shalt not be at his merey long; and once free, we
will ride together to the King, and ask what his Majesty
will have to say to this detention of his loyal subjects. O
father, mine own father, fear not but that thou wilt soon
be free. I trow it will not be many days more before thou
shalt breathe the sweet air of heaven once again.â€
Sir Ralph seemed almost dazed by the suddenness with
which this strange thing had come upon him. A son—
almost unknown to him—a chance of liberty and life! No
wonder, after his long captivity, that his brain fairly reeled,
and that it was long before Guy’s story, eagerly told,
penetrated altogether to his understanding.
But Guy had leisure to speak long and fully. He knew
that for many hours they were perfectly free from inter-
ruption or detection. He told the whole story of his life
to his father, as they sat together in that narrow cell, and
from purely personal matters he proceeded to answer the
questions of the knight as to what had been passing in the
234 THE “LUBBER-FIEND.â€
world during the last months. Sir Ralph presently began
pacing up and down the narrow confines of his cell like a
caged beast, his step growing more and more rapid as Guy
related the story of the attack made upon Wierwold Hall,
and the chance that had brought his son to Heathcliffe
Castle.
“Thou camest hither to save thy brother from a fate
like unto mine. Boy, thou art a true Falconer, worthy of
the name thou bearest. I trow I have a son of whom I
may well be proud. Let me but gain my liberty, and thou
shalt be owned before all the world. Why did not I have
thee by my side before? Perchance the knowledge of thy
existence might have checked that wicked woman in her
evil designs.â€
“Rather would it have endangered my life,†answered
Guy, who knew too much of Lady Falconer by this time
to seruple to speak openly of her machinations. “I should
but have been another obstacle in the path of her ambition.
Let us not hasten to draw wpon me the eye of the world.
My obscurity has been my safety these many years. I
would keep my humble name, and live to protect from
danger my brother and sister, and thee, my father. But
tell me, how camest thou into this place, and how is it that
thou art detained without warrant ? for methinks none can
have been issued against thee, all men now thinking thee
dead or lost.â€
“They think that of me?â€
“ Ay; no man has heard aught of thee since thou leftest
Wierwold, in the month of February or March. Now
THE “LUBBER-FIEND. 285
summer is past her prime, and still thou comest not. Me-
thinks my Lady Falconer is counting the days till she may
wed with my Lord QOsbaldistone. So at least it is said
here. But they love not the thought of her rule in this
place. She has no friends, go where you will.â€
Sir Ralph set his teeth, and a fierce look crossed his
worn face. He knit his brow in anxious thought.
“ Let me but be free of this prison, and methinks I will
show myself to her ladyship in a guise she will scarce like
to see. I have suspected long that she was false, but not
so false as this. The holy saints be with us in this. Let
me but win my liberty again, and I will amply avenge
myself upon her, false woman that she is, and upon him
who has wrought me this foul ill. It is no doing of his
that I am alive this day.â€
“Would he have dared to lay violent hands upon thee?â€
asked Guy, with flashing eyes.
“Violent hands? Thinkest thou that without violence
they would ever have brought me hither?†asked Sir
Ralph, clenching his hand and knitting his grizzled brows.
“Why, boy, my stout servants were both of them slain at
my side, and I was carried off so sorely wounded that it is
a marvel I live to tell the tale. I trow it was no thanks to
my Lord Osbaldistone that I lived to recover of my hurts.
But yon honest fellow, to whom I was given in charge,
is kinder of heart than his lord, and he did all that he
could for me as I lay hard at death’s door. The Falconers
do not easily give up life, and I vowed that I would live
to be revenged of my foe. I recovered of my hurts, and
286 THE “LUBBER-FIEND,â€
this day am sound and strong once more. But there have
been moments when I have said that I had best have died
as Tlay. It hath chafed me sore, this inaction and soli-
tary confinement, and the hopeless waiting, knowing that
any moment my life might be taken from me at the will
of him who answers to no man for the deed. I see now
why he has tarried thus lone. He waits to see what men
say of this disappearance. If my son had sought for me,
and traced me hither, perchance he might have feared
inquiry, and I might have been released. But Geoffrey
has not suspected. He has not known but that I was
abroad, as I have been times enough before. There was
no one left to tell the tale, and my false wife has doubt-
less done all in her power to allay suspicion. Soon men
will cease to ask for me—will content themselves with
the belief that I have perished in some way unknown to
all. Then it will be easy for me to perish indeed. They
have but to leave me here a few short days, and they
would have worked their will upon me.â€
“Say not they; it is but one foe thou hast in this
household,†cried Guy eagerly. “The young Sir Francis
is no foe of ours. He would fain be a friend if he
might—†Guy would have said more, but that the frown
upon his father’s face deterred him. Sir Ralph could not
patiently hear of any friendship betwixt his house and
that of the Osbaldistones; and then the two set to plan
the escape of Sir Ralph from the prison, and the method
in which it might be possible to carry it out.
CHAPTER XV.
FATHER AND SON.
HERE is news from his lordship at last. He is
in York at this moment, and may be looked
for ere three days have passed. He has sent two of his
men before him to give notice of his coming; and this
time methinks there is no mistake.â€
Guy looked up with a start at these words. He was
seated at the table where the retainers of the household
were supping—such of the lower members of the party
as did not sit down in the large hall with the family.
Tt was the Custodian of the Castle who came in with the
news, and upon the faces of those who heard it varying
expressions might be seen. Lord Osbaldistone was not
a favourite even amongst his own people. He was a stern
and rather exacting master, and on the whole they were as
well pleased when his lengthy absences took him away by
the week and month together.
But Guy’s feeling was one of cold dismay. He had
found opportunity to pay three visits to his father during
the past days; but he was afraid to excite suspicion by
absenting himself too frequently from the company of Giles,
His abstracted air and fits of absence of mind had excited
288 FATHER AND SON.
remark already from the observant lad, and he had won-
dered sometimes if he were watched. It seemed to him
that there was more difficulty than of old in getting away
from the presence of his companion. Giles appeared to
follow him about in a way he fancied was strange. Could
it be possible that something was already suspected ?
As a matter of fact, all that Giles had discovered was
that Guy had some secret on his mind. It was not ditf-
ficult for any one who noted him closely to see that.
His abstraction was visible, and he had grown pale from
sleeplessness and anxiety. Giles suspected that the “lubber-
fiend†had something to do with this change in his com-
rade, and this new watchfulness was prompted by the
desire to screen him from harm.
Twice he had surprised Guy prowling round the cor-
ridor which led to the locked door behind which the fiend
was secured. The boy, full to the brim with the super-
stitions of the age, was convinced that Guy had looked
through the key-hole, and had fallen under the malign
influence of the spirit. Guy’s answers when examined
on this point had not been satisfactory, and the jailer’s
son considered it his duty to look after his comrade as
carefully as he could. Thus it had been that Guy, in
spite of his possession of a key that would open the prison
door, had not been able to make one-half the use of his
power that he had hoped and intended. And now, before
any definite plan had been decided upon with reference
to the escape of the prisoner, there was the certain intel-
ligence of Lord Osbaldistone’s speedy return; and Guy
#ATHER AND SON. 289
shuddered to himself as he thought what might be the
result of that return, when the haughty baron found his
foe, by this time commonly reported to have died in some
unaccounted way, wholly and entirely in his power.
Something must be done, and quickly ; of that there
could be no question. Before Lord Osbaldistone returned,
Sir Ralph Falconer must be beyond his power. Upon
that one point Guy’s mind was made up. The only
question was, how to contrive the escape.
“Tat least am free,†thought the boy; “I might have
gone before this had I wished. TI am not a prisoner; I go
and come as I will, How can I contrive that my father
shall accompany me when I fly hence ?â€
At this point his meditation was interrupted by a touch
upon the arm.
Hastily glancing up, Guy saw himself confronted by the
Custodian of the Castle himself,
“ Boy,†he said, with a searching look at him, “thou art
still here, it seems. That is well; I have a charge con-
cerning thee. Thou art to remain a prisoner until my
lord’s return, to answer to him for some matter, I know
not what, that he appears to have against thee. He speaks
of thee as the foster-son of Nicholas and Bridget Holt. It
was reported to me that thou wert their very son—of
their own kindred.â€
Guy made no reply. He was thinking deeply. An idea
flashed into his head.
“This is the work of my Lady Falconer,†he said to
himself. “I trow that she and my Lord Osbaldisténe
(222) 19
290 FATHER AND SON.
have met ere now, and that she hath told him the new
peril in the path of her ambition. I wot I have her to
thank for this. May the day but come when we may be
avenged upon her!â€
But nothing of resentment was apparent in Guy’s face,
as he looked quietly up at the Custodian and said,—
“T have been a prisoner these many weeks awaiting the
return of thy lord. Wherein is my state different now ?
I am and have been always the captive of Master Carew.â€
“ Good, good! I have nought to complain of. Thou hast
given satisfaction to all by thy docility and good conduct.
I have no cause of offence against thee. But hitherto
thou mightest have taken thy leave, and I should have said
nought to hinder thee, since Lord Osbaldistone tarried to
come; but now that he has expressly named thee in his
despatch, I must keep an eye upon thee. Carew must be
told to guard thee something closer.â€
Guy smiled. He was not going to betray himself; but
his heart sank within him. This was a turn altogether un-
looked for. He had reckoned confidently upon his own
practical freedom of action. What would become of his
cherished hope if he himself were guarded with greater
care ?
But at least his comrades were as indignant as he could
wish, and, as soon as the Custodian had withdrawn, broke
into loud expressions of sympathy and commiseration.
Lord Osbaldistone was known to be a man of a harsh and
unscrupulous character, and the message sent concerning
Guy boded no good to the lad. It was plain that their lord
FATHER AND SON. 201
had some occasion against him. The men-at-arms were
loud in their expressions of wonder and pity, and Guy
received many friendly hints to the effect that if he tried
to make good his escape before the baron returned, none
of them would be over-vigilant to stop him, or to give
early notice of his flight.
“J trow we can all be blind for the nonce an thou wilt
seek safety in flight,†said one burly man who did sentry
duty at the gate. “Thou art too active and quick to be
overtaken, once thou art fairly on thy way; and I wot
thou knowest every inch of these same woods and heaths
as well as we do ourselves.†;
“ Ay,†answered Guy; “I know this country well. Let
me but get free of these walls, and then he who will may
try to catch me.†He and the rest all laughed loudly, and
then a sudden inspiration seemed to fall upon Guy, and he
added with a sly look,—
“ And it need not be young Guy who steals forth from
the Castle. Supposing, men, it were to be an old man, spare
and gaunt, with a grizzled beard: you would take no heed
of him? He might be clad in a long, dark mantle, well
wrapped about him: you would not challenge him? You
would not think in that spare and stooping figure to see
young Guy, who has made sport of you so many times?â€
The men burst into hearty peals of laughter. Many had
been the occasions upon which Guy had dressed himself up,
and had painted his face so as to represent different ages
and different characters. He had a peculiar faculty for dis-
guise, and the idea delighted every person present, The
292 FATHER AND SON.
men had no wish to draw upon themselves the anger of
their lord if it could be avoided. They would have done a
good deal to connive at the escape of their favourite, now
that they feared mischief was meant him; but they would
certainly prefer that the least possible amount of blame
might attach to them. If Guy crept out of the gates in
disguise, nobody could seriously blame them, and they all
knew that he could make himself up into almost any
character he chose, even appearing taller or shorter than
his own height by affecting tricks of walking.
When the laugh had died down, one of the elder men
spoke—one who was more prudent in counsel than some
of his fellows.
“Thou hadst better get some kind of a paper from the
gentle Mistress Margery, giving permission to some kins-
man of thine to pass to and fro to visit thee. She will not
refuse thee an thou makest request to her. She has a
kindly heart, and she has certain powers in the absence of
her father, albeit she uses them not oft. With such a
paper in thine hands thou wilt be safe enough. We may
not stop thee if we would; and no blame can attach to us
or to her. It will all be laid to thine own cunning.â€
Guy was in great spirits. It seemed to him as though
the very thing that was like to have checked him altogether
was now to pave his way for his father’s escape as nothing
besides could have done. For himself he cared little. He
would gladly have let his life pay the forfeit were it neces-
sary. If his father could once stand a free man without
these walls, little did it matter what befell himself.
FATHER AND SON. 293
“ How can I see Mistress Margery ?†he asked.
“Why, were I in thy place I would go boldly to the
gallery where the ladies always retire after they have
supped. Sir Kenneth and the beauteous Mistress Beatrice
Fane are now back within the Castle, and may be with her
at that hour. But they will not eye thee with disfavour.
They have kindly hearts, and will doubtless forward thy
suit. I would see them this very evening.â€
Guy was willing enough to follow this counsel. He felt
as though a fire were burning within him, and inaction was
intolerable. Time pressed, moreover, and he had little to
lose. The very next night was the last one in which it
would be safe to make the attempt. Any time after that
might be too late.
It was, therefore, with a beating heart but a resolute
courage that Guy presented himself in the long gallery an
hour later, to make his request, and found himself in the
presence of the two ladies of the household and the knight
whom he had seen once at the Inn, and once in the Guard-
room of the Castle, and who had each time spoken to him
with kindness,
Tt was Sir Kenneth who was the first to address the lad,
as, in obedience to the injunction of the servant who had
conducted him thither, he walked up the long gallery to
the great fireplace at the end, where the knight and the
ladies were sitting round a cheery fire of wood; for even
now the early autumn evenings were chilly within these
thick stone walls, though the days were hot and bright.
Sir Kenneth still showed traces of recent illness, though
294 FATHER AND SON.
he had in a oveat measure shaken off the effects of his
wounds and subsequent fever. He looked at the fine, well-
grown lad with a kindly smile, and as Margery had asked
him to take the matter into his own hands, it was he who
spoke to the applicant.
“Still here, lad, and still a prisoner? How comes
that? There can be small cause of offence against thee
that thou shouldst linger on here so long. Methought thou
wouldst have been back with thy parents weeks ago. I
gave them thy message, and when I left them last they
begged of me to send thee home. I never thought thou
wouldst tarry here so long.â€
“T am bidden to await the return of my Lord Osbaldis-
tone,†answered Guy. “I know not why [I am thus de-
tained, but so it is. I am not afraid to meet either him
or any other man. I know not that I have aught to be
ashamed of. I have done nought of wrong.â€
“T trow that well,’ answered Beatrice, with an approv-
ing glance at the lad’s handsome, high-bred face. She too
was struck by the appearance of the boy, and by some
strong likeness she could not at once identify. Where had
she seen that face before, and where heard the same
penetrating and musical voice ?
“ And what is thy request, lad?†asked Kenneth.
“They bid me below ask for it, else would not I have
troubled the lady,†answered Guy. “I desire a pass for a
relative of mine who would fain see me, that he may be
permitted to pass in and out of the Castle. The men said
I must needs ask this boon, as I myself was in ward. They
LATHER AND SON. 295
axe all very good to me, but I would not that they did the
smallest thing which might bring them into trouble with
the Custodian.â€
Margery had already turned to a little writing-table, and
was penning down a few words upon a slip of paper. This
she sealed with her father’s signet, which in his absence she
had occasional need to use, and tendered it to him with a
bright smile, whilst Beatrice’s eyes had never moved from
his face.
“I thank you most heartily, sweet lady,†said Guy,
with a bow that was anything but rustic or awkward,
Beatrice looked yet more perplexed as she suddenly
asked,—
“ Where have I seen thee before, boy?â€
“T know not, gracious lady. I wot not that I have
ever looked on your face before. Methinks I should scarce
have forgotten it if I had.â€
The compliment was so artlessly bestowed that it pro-
voked a smile from all who heard it. Sir Kenneth gave
Beatrice a quick look, and Guy was allowed to depart
without further questioning.
“TI know not exactly who and what that youth may be,â€
said the knight, as the door closed behind him, “ but very
sure am I that he is not the son of the Holts; and I
have my suspicion that he may have a part to play in
some coming drama which will surprise many not a
little. When thy father comes, Margery, you and I must
stand betwixt that lad and his displeasure if he should be
angered against him. I marvel that he is yet here. I
298 LATHER AND SON.
thought he would surely have gone many weeks ago. I
spoke to the Custodian of the Castle respecting him, and
was assured that there should be little hindrance made to
his flight if it should be attempted. It is beyond thy
father’s rights to detain a free subject here.â€
Margery answered by a little grimace. She had a
shrewd idea that many things were done in Heathcliffe
Castle that were by no means in strict accordance with the
laws.
Meantime Guy, with his precious paper in his hand, had
betaken himself once more to the Guard-room and his
friends there.
“See,†said he, displaying it laughingly, “here is the
pass for my aged relative. Thou wilt know it well when
the time comes. It will be delivered to thee by a grizzled
man. bending beneath the weight of years. Thou wilt not
scan him too closely. Thou wilt let him pass without
parley. And not even the Custodian can blame thee when
he sees that paper in thy hand.â€
The burly sentry, who was about to go on duty—he was
generally at the gate in the later part of the day—laughed
aloud and winked his eye.
“Never fear, lad; the bearer of that slip of paper shall
have no trouble in getting free of the Castle. I will be
dozing at my post, and pay small heed to whosoever he be
that passes, so long as he bears my lord’s signet in his
hand.â€
So far so good. Guy felt that one great point had been
gained, but there was still much to think of and to do;
FATHER AND SON. 297
and his next care was to find Giles, who met him with
lugubricus aspect.
“Guy, good comrade, what hast thou done to draw
down upon thyself our lord’s displeasure? for men say
that this charge concerning thee bodeth thee no good. He
is a hard man, and one who may not easily be appeased.
How hast thou offended him? I understand it not.â€
“Nor I,†answered Guy; “and they are all telling the
same tale. Didst hear what was said at supper, Giles, at
our end of the table ?â€
“ Ay, verily. They wish thee to escape. Thinkest thou
that thou canst do so?â€
Guy laid his hand upon Giles’s arm.
“Thou art son to good Master Carew, Giles,’ he said,
“and it would be an ill deed on my part did I try to win
thee over to what might seem to some like treachery to
thy father. Therefore let us say no more regarding this
same matter. If thou knowest nought, thou canst say
nought ; and it will not be thy duty to warn thy father
when thou art kept in ignorance thyself. But there is one
thing I would ask of thee. Heed not too much whither
I go or what I do. Thou hast been a trusty friend and
comrade, and we have loved to be together. But seek not
my company in the days that remain till Lord Osbaldi-
stone’s return. J trow I need say no more to thee. Thou
wilt understand. If in the days that follow thou art
questioned as to what thou didst see or know, thou hadst
best be able to say that thou knewest nothing. It will be
better for thee and better for thy father. And if I am
298 FATHER AND SON.
out of thy sight, and thou knowest not where I am, come
not after me to spy upon me. I shall be best left to mine
own. devices.â€
Giles saw this point in an instant, and answered by a
knowing look and a pressure of the hand. He was far
from wishing to get his father into any trouble, so he
saw he must not be an accomplice in Guy's meditated
flight. He knew enough of the secrets of the Castle to be
as eager as anybody for the safe escape of the prisoner ;
but he was in sufficient dread of the power of Lord
Osbaldistone to have no desire at all to pry beneath the
surface.
So Guy gained his wish, and was able that very same
night to make his way along the subterranean passage and
acquaint his father with what had chanced, and with his
own design for the ensuing night.
“Tt will be perfectly easy, father,†he cried eagerly.
“ There is not a man in the Castle that will challenge thee ;
and if he does, the pass in thine hand will be thy answer.
Thou must go when the Custodian, the only man we
have to dread, is seated at supper in the great hall. I
will come for thee; and thou wilt wrap thyself in this
heavy cloak, shadowing thy face and walking with a
stoop, that none may see that thou art something taller
than I. I will see that a strong horse shall be waiting
for thee half-a-mile away—just by a knoll thou wilt see
to the south, where a knot of pine trees stands out against
the sky. I have friends and to spare in this place, and I
can well manage that for thee. They are all anxious and
FATHER AND SON. 299
eager to see me safe away. Fear not to walk boldly
past them all.â€
“And leave thee behind to face the bitter anger of our
foe when he sees how thou hast tricked and outwitted
him? What dost thou take me for, boy? Thinkest thou
that I have sunk to this ?—that I will purchase mine own
freedom at the expense of the liberty, perhaps the life, of
my son? Thou hast good cause, Guy, to think lightly of
thy father’s love, but thou thinkest too lightly of it if
thou thinkest that I will do this thing. Nay, take thy
pass; go out a free subject thyself, and then do what
thou canst for my release: but to leave thee here to our
relentless foe, who must have discovered something of
thine origin or he would not have sent that charge, is a
thing I will not do. Ask me no more. I am resolved.
Hast thou not done enough for me already—risked enough
for one who is well-nigh worn out by trouble and hard-
ship? Thou art young; thou hast life before thee. Heaven
grant it may be a happier and more prosperous one than
that of thy father!â€
But Guy flung himself impetuously at his father’s fect.
“Father, father, hear me!†he cried. “Thou must not
turn away. Thou must listen and hear, and heed the
voice of thy son. Thy country needs thee; thy Church
is calling upon her sons. Thou art asked for on all sides.
Thou mayest not be deaf to that call. Thy children need
thee—thy son defrauded of his inheritance, as he most
surely will be; and thy daughter, for whom the Sanctuary
may soon be no longer a safe home. Think of what they
300 FATHER AND SON.
have suftered already by this absence, albeit they have not
given up hope of thy return, Think of their orief, their
woe, and the tritmph of evil-doers if thy life is the for-
feit!â€
“But if my safety is to cost thy life—â€
“T¢ will not—it will not; I have friends within these
walls. And, father, if it will please thee better, I too will
make my own escape the same night that thou doest it.
Thou knowest that this window here opens upon the
bank of the moat? I will file through the bars, drop into
the water, swim across, and join thee on the other side.
The aperture is small enough, in all truth, yet 1 doubt not
but that I can squeeze myself through. Together we will
take horse—he will bear the double burden, I trow, or I
can run holding to thy stirrup; and ere the day dawns we
shall find ourselves within the walls of Monk Frystone.
The Brothers will welcome thee as one from the dead.
They have been sore grieved at thy absence from the
counsels of the sons of the Church in these tumultuous
days. That will be the plan. We will escape together.
But if we should miss each other in the dark, let neither
stay for the other, but each press on, thou on horseback
and I on foot, to the Monastery. There we shall meet in
safety, and there we can take counsel with the holy
Brothers what shall be our course in the future.â€
These words of Guy’s carried the day. ining as the
captive was for liberty—for a sight of the green earth,
the sunshine, the faces of friends—it was not hard to give
way when he once felt secure of his son’s safety. The
FATHER AND SON. 301
Falconers were a race to whom inaction was impossible,
and what the knight had heard of the events which had
taken place in the world since his incarceration had given
to him a vehement desire to be up and doing—to revenge
his own private wrongs, and the wrongs of the Church of
which he was a devoted son, upon the treacherous and
bitter foes by whom both were assailed. Only the fear for
his son’s safety had held him back in the first instance.
Therefore as soon as Guy had formed a feasible plan for
his own escape on the same night, the father was wildly
impatient to shake off his bonds and stand once more a
free man beneath the vault of heaven.
Guy procured a, file, and the captive spent the weary
hours of the following day in removing the bars of the
small window. Guy was by no means certain that this
plan for himself would be attended with success, even if he
succeeded in getting out at the window, for the moat was
well overlooked by the sentries posted on the wall. At-
tention would probably be called to the spot by the in-
evitable splash made when he should drop into the water,
and the sight of a swimmer landing on the opposite side
would probably cause a commotion which might end in
his recapture. But it was necessary to say something to
satisfy his father, and Guy cared little what befell himself
if only the knight were safe out of danger. They ar-
ranged to meet at a place three miles from Heathcliffe Castle,
but neither was to wait long for the other. Guy made an
especial point of this, not feeling in any way certain of his
own success in escape. What he did reckon upon with con-
202 HATHER AND SON.
fidence was the good-will of those within the Castle, who
would stand his friends. Nor did he think that Lord
Osbaldistone would take his life; he was not valuable
enough, so he reasoned, to be worth the risk, especially
when it was known that Sir Ralph was free and in the
midst of friends who would demand the lad’s liberty at
once, and, if harm befell him, would revenge it to the
uttermost.
All really hinged upon getting Sir Ralph safely out of
the Castle before the return of its lord, and this was to
be successfully accomplished the very next night.
Guy spent a merry day amongst his comrades, getting
them to drink to his good luck in unwontedly deep pota-
tions, and fully making them understand that he was
about to leave the Castle with his pass disguised as an old
man. When the day began to wane he suddenly dis-
appeared, and the men said amongst themselves that the
next time they saw him it would be in a very different
euise. ji
In the great hall the supper was proceeding as usual ;
and there were few men, save those on duty, in or about
the court-yard, as a stooping figure, wrapped in a long dark
mantle, passed slowly through, and, when stopped at the
gateway by the sentry, produced a small piece of paper
to which was attached a heavy seal.
“Pass on; good luck to you; good-bye,†said the man,
whose face expressed a great deal of satisfaction and
good-fellowship.
“Good-night; may the saints preserve you,’ was the
HATHER AND SON. 303
reply; and the two men on duty, as they dropped the
drawbridge and then raised it again, broke into a hearty
laugh.
“By the blessed Saint Peter, but that was well done!
I warrant me his own mother would not have known him.
Well, Heaven speed him on his way! for methinks evil
was intended him here. But we shall miss his gay quips
and cranks. He was a gamesome young cockerel, and we
shall not see the like of him for many a long day, I
take it.â€
The pall of darkness was just falling over the earth,
when the men at the gate heard the sound of a lusty
challenge from the walls.
“ Who goes there?†was shouted in stentorian tones, and
this question was followed by the loud report of an arque-
bus fired from the battlements.
“Man in the moat!†was the ery shouted from above.
“Seize him! stop him! Men come and go not so without
cause.â€
The alarm thus given, the court-yard becaine quickly
filled with excited soldiers. The drawbridge was instantly
lowered, and a party of men rushed out to seize and inter-
cept the person, whoever he might be, whose conduct was
of so suspicious a nature.
There was another shot from the walls, and loud voices
cried to those below telling them in what direction the fugi-
tive was running. The men pursued, and saw, not very far
ahead, a figure dashing through the underwood around the
moat, plainly endeavouring to gain the cover of the forest.
304 FATHER AND SON.
Several pieces were levelled at him, and triggers were
drawn. There was a shout of triumph as the fugitive
was seen to fall. But though he fell, he was next moment
upon his feet, and had plunged into the dark alleys of the
wood, which completely hid him from view.
“Follow and capture him!†was the order of the Cus-
todian, who had been aroused by the tumult, and had come
out to inquire into the cause. “By the lightness of the
figure and the speed with which it ran, I take it that it
is the lad whom they call Guy Holt. Lose no time. Fol-
low instantly. Your lord’s order is stringent that he be
kept safe till his coming.â€
The men obeyed, but all their ardour was at an end.
They exchanged wondering glances as they stepped smartly
on, unwilling to appear backward whilst the eye of the
chief was upon them, but not in the least desirous of
doing a bad turn to their favourite. When out of sight
of the Castle, they were far more concerned in exchanging
remarks than in tracking the steps of the fugitive.
“Can it indeed be he? Did he not pass the gate with
the paper ?â€
“ Ay, verily; or, rather should I say, some man passed
us by, a man just such as he had described him who would
come—old and bent, with a grizzled head and beard, but
well muffled in a dark cloak. We had said that he had
done it well—that not even his own mother would have
known him. Even the voice in which he returned our
salutations was not like his own.â€
And then the men looked each other in the face, and
FATHER AND SON. 305
began to suspect that some element of which they had
been unaware had entered the plot.
“T know not from Adam who it was; I knew not that
there was any other prisoner in the Castle. But I say,
Heaven preserve and the saints watch over him wherever
he be! He is a brave lad and a good one, and he deserves
to succeed.â€
And then the men went back to the Castle with the
news that the fugitive could nowhere be found.
(822) 20
CHAPTER XVI.
MONK FRYSTONE.
HE Monastery at Monk Frystone was one of the
most ancient of the Cistercian foundations, and
was still surrounded by the beautiful gardens and richly-
tilled lands which were always a marked feature of the
order. Originally the Cistercian monks had fled the
haunts of men, and settling themselves in wild and barren
regions, had set themselves to the task of converting those
desolate wastes into scenes of smiling beauty and luxuri-
ant richness. They had done immense and lasting good
to the country in the construction of roads, the draining
of swamps, the planting of hedges, and the embankment
of rivers; and, as the great St. Bernard (the most noted
of their order) had said, they had found more lessons in
woods than in books, and had gained more from the study
of Nature than from the learning of man.
Many centurics had passed since the first settlement
of monks at Frystone, and they and the world had alike
changed. Habitations and civilization had sprung up
around the lonely Monastery, and a certain amount of
change had gradually crept into the community itself.
MONK FRYVSTONE. 307
The corruption which had spread so far and wide through
ail the monasteries, of whatsoever order they were, had
not entirely passed Monk Frystone by, although this was
one of the few smaller houses that had been exempted
from the wholesale condemnation which followed upon the
famous “ Visitation,†now the talk of the country from one
end to the other.
Originally the Cistercians had been amongst the most
frugal and ascetic of brotherhoods. One meal a day was
all they permitted themselves in the matter of eating and
drinking, and that meal was of the plainest and commonest
food; their vesture was of rough and coarse kind; they
toiled with their own hands at the hardest of the tasks
they set themselves to accomplish, and lived in perfect
equality together. Now things were vastly different, at
least in many of the communities. Richness, luxury,
dainty living and ample service, characterized the Cister-
cian Monasteries. Wealth, and not poverty—luxury, not
asceticism—idleness, not industry, became the order of the
day, and there was little of the old spirit of St. Bernard
left in the degenerate race of monks who held the reve-
nues and the fair buildings of the Cistercian Order.
But at Monk Frystone something of the old spirit yet
lingered, although corruption of a kind had entered in.
The menial work of the establishment was done by lay
brothers or servants in the pay of the monks, and there -
was a well-spread table in the Refectory, at which the
Brothers gathered twice a day. The coffers of the Mon-
astery were well lined; and although much was done by
308 MONK FRYSTONE.
the younger men to relieve the necessities of the poor
around, the Prior and the older monks considered that
they had earned the right to live in ease and indolence.
The hours of devotion were still strictly kept, and there
was none of the disgraceful profligacy here that was such
a marked and shameful feature in many so-called “re-
ligious†houses. Yet things were vastly different even at
Monk Frystone from their condition three centuries back ;
although so changed were the times that neither the
Brothers themselves, nor the persons amongst whom they
lived, were in the least aware what a falling away was
indicated by many of their habits and ways.
The sun had set some hours, and most of the Brothers
had retired to the lone dormitory over the Refectory, when
a lay brother brought word to the Prior and some of his
special companions amongst the monks that two travellers
were seeking admission at the gate, and that one of the
pair appeared to be badly wounded.
Whatever other failings monks possessed, a lack of
hospitality was seldom amongst them. ‘Travellers of all
degree were welcomed at their doors, and the sick and
destitute received from them every care and attention.
“Bring them at once to the Refectory,†was the order
given by the Prior, “and see that there be good food and
wine set before them without loss of time; and if either
be sick or wounded, let Brother Basil be forthwith sum-
moned. Most like he will be found in the Chapel,
methinks he never retires to rest ere midnight tolls. He
is the most skilful with the sick, and is better than many
MONK FRYSTONE. 309
a leech. We will descend ourselves and welcome our
guests,â€
The lay brother hastened away. He had seen that the
persons asking admittance at this untimely hour were of
the better quality, or he would scarce have disturbed the
Prior over his comfortable fire and the tankard of hot
spiced wine, which was taken by him and some of the
Brothers before they retired to rest. The Prior knew well
that he would not have been interrupted had the travellers
been but humble folk, and he was full ready to go and do
them honour in person. But he was little prepared for
the surprise which awaited him as he made his leisurely
entrance into the Refectory, and his start of wonder was
followed by a look of beaming pleasure and satisfaction.
“Now the saints and the Blessed Virgin be praised! Is
it indeed thyself in the flesh, good Sir Ralph? Verily had
we begun to fear we should never look upon thy face
again, Dark whispers have been going about of late, and
hints dropped in confession, of which I may not more
openly speak, have given us good cause to fear the worst.
Wherefore be thou tenfold more welcome, true son of the
Church. God and His holy saints be with thee to pro-
tect thee. We need stout hearts and strong arms like
thine in these troublous days; for such a time is coming
for England as she hath, methinks, never seen before.â€
“Ay, so my boy hath told me; I gathered as much from
his words. Thou givest me warning looks; but I tell thee,
Holy Father, that I have owned the lad, and mean to call
him henceforth son of mine before all the world. He has
3210 MONK FRYSTONE.
saved his father’s life at peril of his own, and he is a true
Falconer, as thou wilt see when I have told thee all my
tale. But for him I had not been here this night; but
for him, ere three more days had passed by, I trow I should
have been lying stark and cold ten feet deep beneath the
waters of the moat about Heatheliffe Castle.â€
“Ha!†eried the Prior, with a start and a knowing look.
«Then thy long disappearance hath been in very sooth the
work of this son of Belial ?â€
“T have been his captive these past months. I scarce
know how the time hath gone; to me it hath been an
eternity. But for my boy there, I had scarce lived to see
the light of another three suns. I trow the first deed of
my. Lord Osbaldistone on his return would be to command
that which he hoped would ere this have been accomplished
by neglect, ill-usage, or the dire wounds his own men in-
flicted. But the man is sometimes more merciful than the
master, and I yet live to take vengeance on my foes.â€
The knight’s eyes flashed ; he made a fine picture stand-
ing there in the great Refectory, his tall, gaunt figure
drawn to its full height, his eyes flashing beneath their
grizzled brows, his gray beard and unkempt locks giving
him something the air of a pilgrim or hermit. He looked
years older than he had done before his captivity, and
yet there was a force and power about the man which
seemed to defy the advance of time.
The Prior’s eyes were averted from him for a moment,
and he made a step forward towards the ingle nook, where
a little group of Brothers was gathered about Guy.
MONK EFRYVSTONE. 3IL
“What ails the lad?†he asked kindly. “Is he worn out
with hard travelling ? â€
“Ay, and he carries in his shoulder the bullet of one
of Lord Osbaldistone’s men-at-arms, But in spite of his
wound he found me, and together we have ridden hard
and fast to take Sanctuary here with you.â€
“Which thou shalt have, good friend, let him who will
try to do thee il. Holy Church is not yet so robbed,
despoiled, and dishonoured but that she can give succour
and help to the oppressed. Good Sir Ralph, I rejoice more
than I can say to see thee at this time. Prithee come with
me to my private apartments, where we can talk together
at leisure. They shall serve us there with food and wine ;
and the boy will be well cared for by the Brothers, amongst
whom he has many friends. He shall lie this night in the
guest-chamber, and Brother Basil shall watch beside him.
Fear not but that he will be well done to; and I would
fain hold converse with thee alone.â€
Sir Ralph cast an anxious glance at his son, but saw
that Guy was in good hands. He was known to half the
Brothers of the Monastery, where much of his education
had been received, and was plainly to be trusted with these
good monks, who were full of sympathy and good-will.
The boy’s face was deadly pale with exhaustion and loss of
blood, but he met his father’s glance with a brave smile;
and the knight followed the Prior, well assured that Guy
would lack nothing that skill and good-will could do for
him.
The monks had been silent in presence of their superior,
312 MONK FRYVSTONE.
but his withdrawal was the signal for a host of comments,
questions, and exclamations of surprise or indignation.
Curiosity was by no means lacking to these holy men, and
the disappearance of one of their champions, Sir Ralph
Faleoner, at a time when the services of all stanch up-
holders of the authority of the Church were likely to be
sorely needed, had been a matter of much concern to the
Brothers of Monk Frystone. Guy’s relationship to the
knight had always been known to them, as it was to him-
self, but they had not felt certain of seeing him owned by
his father. Eager were they, therefore, to learn what had
happened to bring father and son together to their gates
that night; and though Guy was very weary and faint,
and had little strength for talking, he gratified his audience
by a brief account of recent events, before he was carried
off to the comfortable euest-chamber, and left there to the
tendance of Brother Basil, according to the Prior’s direction.
Brother Basil was a young monk, almost a stranger to
Guy, although he had been for some time a member of the
community at Monk Frystone. The boy just knew his
face, and had heard many stories of him, but the two had
never hitherto exchanged a word together.
Brother Basil had the reputation of being the most reli-
gious and austere monk in the whole Order. It seemed to
others as though he desired in his own person to revive the
simpler and more ascetic habit of ancient days. Through-
out Lent he had never tasted food save once in the day.
His diet at all times was most sparing, and it was reported
that he wore sackcloth next his skin, and that he frequently
MONK FRYSTONE. 313
chastised himself so severely that his shoulders were raw
for days afterwards. Through the bitterest cold or the
most scorching heat he would prosecute his labours with
untiring zeal. He would go long solitary tramps, whatever
the weather might be, to visit any needy person, or administer
the rites of the Church to the sick or dying. He kept his
hours with the utmost precision, and spent long periods of
time in the Chapel kneeling before the altar and pouring
out his soul in prayer. His fellow-monks stood somewhat
in awe of him, regarding him somewhat in the light of a
saint; but he never made any such claim for himself, and
shrank from praise or approbation with positive pain and
loathing.
Guy had heard enough of this Brother to feel consider-
able interest in him, and was not sorry for the chance that
now threw them together.
Brother Basil had plainly studied to some purpose the
science of surgery, so far as it was known in those days.
He probed the wound in Guy’s shoulder, and extracted the
ball with as much skill and a good deal more gentleness
than the average surgeon would have shown; and when
the wound was dressed, and the patient made comfortable
in bed, Guy could not refrain from asking where he had
learned such skill.
For amoment there was a slight contraction of the monk’s
thin face—not a contraction of anger, but as though some
painful chord had been struck which recalled memories he
would fain have forgotten. The answer was rather peculiar.
“My son, I learned this skill in a school I would to
314 MONK FRYSTONE.
God I had never entered. All that is left for me now to
do is to strive to use it in such fashion that He may look
upon it as atonement for what has gone before.â€
Guy was too spent for talk. He said no more, but fell
inte a doze, from which he was roused from time to time
to take the food his companion gave him. There was no
light in the bed-chamber save that of the flickering fire of
logs burning on the open hearth; and Guy, as he lay,
kept awake sometimes by the burning pain of his wound,
watched with a sense of fascination the face of the young
ascetic, who, when his services were not needed by his
patient, knelt beside the hearth, and told his beads with a
look of deepest devotion.
The strange power and character of that face haunted
Guy, and kept his glance riveted upon it. The cowl had
fallen back from the head, and the red gleam of the fire
danced over it. The features were very finely chiselled,
and cast in an aquiline mould. The brow was high and
broad, and the complexion pale—perhaps the result of
fasting and vigil. But what was chiefly remarkable in
the countenance was the intense brightness and searching
power of the eyes, which seemed to pierce through the very
soul and heart and read its innermost secrets, and the iron
force of will indicated by the set of the jaw and by the
lines of the mouth—a resolute determination of expression
which sometimes gave to the face the appearance of hav-
ing been carved in marble or cast in some unmalleable
metal,
Guy lay thinking and wondering—wondering what
MONK FRYSTONE., 318
the history of such a man could have been ; wondering
whether with that power, intellect, and energy, the life
of the cloister satisfied him; if he ever had misgivings
as to whether the monastic life was in reality the highest ;
whether he had felt something of the power of that wave
of feeling now sweeping the land from end to end, and if
so, Whether he would welcome it as a higher and_ holier
thing than the old beliefs and superstitions, or regard it
as the work of the devil and his angels.
As the hours passed by, Guy grew feverish and light-
headed, and rambled a good deal in his talk. He fancied
himself back at the Inn once more ; at the Garths’ house talk-
ing with Esther; at Wierwold Hall or Heatheliffe Castle.
For several days he had no idea of the flight of time.
By day he lay quiet in a sort of stupor, and at night the
fever came on, and he would lie and talk almost ceaselessly
of old times. Of course he was not aware of this whilst
the fever was upon him: he learned afterwards whither
his mind had strayed whilst his thoughts were no longer
under his own control.
One night he awoke clear-headed, quiet, and refreshed.
It seemed to him that he had been sound asleep for many
hours, and that some change very restful and pleasant had
come over him.
When he made up his mind to open his eyes, he wondered
if it had been minutes or hours or days that he had been
sleeping; for he was still in the same bed in the Prior’s
guest-chamber, with Brother Basil telling his beads not
far away, whilst the light of the fire played upon his fine
3x5 MONK FRYSTONE.
features, and danced over the walls and ceiling with flick-
ering fantastic figures.
Guy lifted his head from the pillow, and immediately
the young monk was beside him.
“Thou art better, boy,†he said, holding the cup to his
lips. “Thou hast had nigh upon twelve hours of quiet
sleep. Thou wilt do well now.â€
“Have I been ill?†asked Guy wonderingly.
“Thou hast been sick these past seven days; but the
fever left thee thirty-six hours ago, and since then thou
hast been mending fast. Thy wound is well-nigh healed.â€
“ Wound 2†questioned Guy ; and then memory began to
come back to him, and he asked eagerly,—
“Where is my father ?â€
“At Wierwold Hall, whither he quickly returned to see
how things were passing there. Be not afraid for him.
He is safe and sound, and hath his own faithful servants
about him now. Anon he will return and assure himself
of thy recovery. Then it will be decided what thy future
is to be.â€
Guy lay still pondering, memory returning fast with
inerease of strength. He was hungry too, and Brother
Basil was pleased to see him take nourishment so freely.
Tt seemed to the boy that he gained new strength every
hour.
“Am I to be owned as my father’s som?†he asked.
“ Methinks I heard somewhat of that on the night we took
shelter here.â€
“fT know not what the decision may be,†answered
MONK FRYSTONE. 317
Brother Basil. “There has been much discussion betwixt
thy father and our Prior, but I know not at what conclu-
sion they have arrived. They will act as seemeth for thy
greater good. There may be peril besetting thee from
which they would save thee.â€
“Ay; there be perils for the Falconers from all sides,â€
said Guy thoughtfully, “and I would not be a craven, and
shrink from sharing them, save only if I may serve them
better by keeping my own humbler name and letting no
man know who I be.â€
Brother Basil was silent a while, a strange look upon
his face. Guy wondered what had brought it there, but
asked no questions, and presently, as he had hoped, the
monk spoke.
“ Boy, there is no escaping peril in this world. Methinks
the peril to thee might be less by casting in thy lot with
thy father and brother than by walking, as thou hast
hitherto walked, in a different path from them.â€
Guy still said nothing, but only fixed a questioning
glance upon the speaker.
“Thou hast been in peril, in sore peril, as thou art
even now,†continued Brother Basil, in earnest accents.
“Heaven grant that thou mayest be freed from like peril
in days to come!â€
“Ay; I have been at Heathcliffe amongst our bitter
foes, but they did not know who I was. The shot, which
might have killed me had it been better aimed, was meant
for a stranger. I trow none of the men would have aimed
at me had they known who I was.â€
318 MONK FRYSTONE.
But Brother Basil’s intense gaze never changed nor
wavered. Guy began to grow restless under it.
“T spake not of peril such as that,’ was the reply, “ but
of one far more deadly in which thou hast been involved.â€
“Nay, then, I know not of what thou speakest,’ an-
swered Guy. “Art thinking of the jealousy of my step-
dame ?â€
“Nay; it is of none of these things of which I think,â€
answered Brother Basil. “What is the peril of this poor,
frail tenement of flesh as compared with that greater peril
which besets the soul, that peril which may make us cast-
aways at the last? Boy, boy, I have heard thee speak
terrible words as thou hast lain here. I see plainly
through what slough thou hast been passing. I have
prayed for thee night and day that thou mightest be saved
from that snare. Be warned ere it be too late. Schism
and heresy are stalking abroad in fearful shape. But listen
thou not to the voice of their pleading. Hear the Church
—hear her alone. In her only canst thou have peace and
rest, and the assurance of the life to come.â€
Guy was quite unprepared for this exhortation, and
looked fearlessly up into the monk’s face.
“Tam no heretic,†he said; “I love the Church. I would
see her ever on the throne of power. What meanest thou
by such words?â€
Brother Basil’s face softened slightly, but he drew a
heavy sigh.
“Perchanece thou approachedst the pitfall and saw it not.
But men may not touch pitch without defilement. Thou
MONK FRYSTONE. 319
hast spoken much of the Garths in thy wanderings; thou
hast quoted sayings and words of theirs—I trust they
were theirs and not thine own—which have made me
shudder as I stood beside thee, lest with such words upon
thy lips thou shouldest pass away into eternity. Boy,
boy, trifle not, I beseech thee, with such matters. Listen
with the faith of a little child to what the Church teacheth
thee. She will hold thee safe in her arms; thou wilt find
rest and safety in the one Ark. But if thou goest forth
into the stormy tempest now raging around her, thou wilt
find no rest for the sole of thy foot; thou runnest sore
peril of being swept away by the torrent. Men breathe
out great swelling words. The days of the end are coming
upon us, when Antichrist shall gather together his hosts
against the hosts of Michael; when the Church shall flee
into the wilderness from the face of the dragon; when
the vials of wrath shall be poured out upon the earth
and upon the Kingdom of the Beast. But be thou not
numbered with the host of those that are signed with
the sign of the Beast and with the number of his name.
Boy, boy, such days are coming upon the earth as she
hath never seen before; but there is a glorious promise
yet for those that overcome—for those that are found
faithful—for those who have not soiled their garments,
but have kept them pure and white. O throw not away
that blessing because the furnace of trial burns fiercely—
because the hour of temptation be dark-—because there
be more that be against us than for us—because the devil
rageth horribly, knowing his day is short. O boy. men
320 MONK FRVSTONE.
say that I have saved thee from death. Let me not live
to wish that I had seen thee die—die in the arms of the
Church, shriven by her, thy soul given up in her keeping.
Then indeed had all been well with thee. Canst thou
not dedicate the life that she hath saved to her defence,
her honour, her salvation? The days of tribulation are
coming upon her. She is to be tried like gold, in the
furnace, that she may be made pure and bright for the
Espousals of the Lamb. O my son, wilt thou not be one
of those who will be found faithful to the last? What
other reward, what other crown, can compare with the
one which will be given to those who overcome—to those
who are found waiting, with lamps burning and oil in
their vessels, for the coming of the Bridegroom ?â€
Guy was not a little moved and struck by this sudden
burst of eloquence from one whose nature it was to be
very silent. He had heard too much of Brother Basil to
suspect the least taint of insincerity, even had not the fer-
vent earnestness and enthusiasm of the speaker carried
conviction with it. Out of the fulness of the heart was
the mouth speaking; and true earnestness always awakens
a kindred spirit in the breast of those around,
“JT would fain be so found,†answered Guy, with the
simple truthfulness which was one of his most winning
characteristics. “I have ever loved and reverenced the
Holy Church. Tell me what I have said that seemeth to
thee to savour of ill. I knew not that I had ever heard
from those whom thou hast named aught that any man
might call evil.â€
MONK FRVSTONE. 321
“Boy, methinks thou must know that those persons are
heretics. Can a fountain give out sweet and bitter water
at once? ‘Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of
thistles ?? Take heed to what thou sayest and hearest.â€
Guy’s forehead showed a pucker of perplexity.
“T pray thee pardon me if I speak amiss. I will do
penance for my sin; but it seemeth to me that I have
heard nought but good words from these persons, heretics
though they be called. And I have confessed all my
thoughts to Brother Anselm all my life, and he hath never
rebuked me or bid me cease to go there.â€
The stern, sad face of the young monk did not relax;
rather it grew more dark, though not with the darkness
of anger. His voice was very gentle as he replied,—
“ My son, think not that I would condemn where no ill
is. Think not that I be one who hate and abhor the
persons of heretics. Nay; rather would I stretch out the
arms of love to them and bring them within the fold
onee more. Many, I trow, there be that are not far from
the Kingdom of Heaven, and yet how can we hope that
they will ever find the way thither when they reject the
ordinances appointed by God, and seek their own ways of
pleasing Him? Will He accept a gift from those who
deny Him His own due? He has said, ‘ This is the way,
walk ye in it;’ if men choose their own path because it
be pleasant, easy, flower-bordered, can they hope that it
will lead them to their goal? They may, in their own
God forbid that T
should deny it; but they are seeking their own way
(322) 2]
way, be seeking to do Him service
322 MONK FRYSTONE.
rather than His. Unlettered men stand forth, Bible in
hand, and reject the teaching of the Church. They say
that they find not in their Bible many things that she
enjoins. Why do they look to find them there? Was
all written down by the Evangelists? I trow not. Did
not our Lord Himself tell the very Apostles that He had
many things to tell them which they could not yet bear,
but that the Spirit of Truth should come and guide them
into all truth in the days to come? Did Christ ever pro-
fess to prepare his Church for his coming again? Never:
that was the task of his Stewards after He was taken
away. And His Stewards—of whom the Pope is the
suecessor—guided by the Holy Ghost, have been ever
since preparing and instructing the Church, as she has
been able to bear it, with the doctrines and ordinances
appointed by Divine Revelation.
“My son, canst thou not see the terrible peril of those
who recklessly cast away the guidance of the Church, and
seek to build upon foundations of sand? All that they
hold of truth is to be found within the Church; the rest 1s
but falsehood or misapprehension of true doctrine, in part
due to the errors of these new translators, in part to the
ignorance of those who read. Are they happy, these
heretics, who are rending the mystic Body. of Christ?
Are they at peace? Are they agreed? Nay; they are
but agreed in one thing—to destroy all that is destructible
(God be praised it is not much!) of the Church, the
visible Church upon earth. Let that once be accomplished
—if such a thing may be—and soon the world will see
MONK FRYVSTONE. 323
what will follow. Fresh sects will arise daily, and they
will fall, the one upon the other, without mercy, without
brotherly love; and there shall be none to heal their
differences, They have cast away the authority of the
Church ; thou mayest live to see what the world will be
like without it,
“ My son, my son, now, whilst thou art on the verge of
the precipice, whilst thy foot hath not yet overstepped
the boundary-line, listen, I beseech thee, to the voice of
the Mother, and leave her not in tke hour of her peril.
Thou wilt never find another tender, loving, merciful as
she. O be warned in time by one who hath trod the
difficult path of return to the fold, and knoweth the trials
and temptations that beset it. Go not forth ; think not in
the pride of the intellect to overthrow what the Church
hath taught. Give thyself up to her voice, listen not to
the voice of the charmer, Bitterly, bitterly wilt thou re-
pent if thou dost, as I too have repented for my fearful
sin of heresy.â€
The last word was little more than a whisper, and it so
startled Guy that he sat up in bed in his surprise.
“Thou—a heretic?†he gasped in amaze, half uncon-
sciously making the sign of the cross.
Brother Basil did the same, the strained look on his
face softening for a moment. The fire in his eyes had
been very intense, but it was succeeded now by a strange
dimness ; he spoke in hollow tones.
“Ay, a heretic—a man without God—one who rebelled
against all authority either from heaven or of man. Ask
324 MONK FRYSTONE.
me not too much of those days when I was led to cast off
the authority of the Church, and sought to find happiness
and glory and success in my own rebellious fashion. Men
have done the like before, and have as bitterly repented.
They have oft been cut off in their sins. To me it was
given to repent, and to be received back into the bosom of
the Church. I cannot think of those days without horrov.
And yet whilst I was living them, methought I was a
happy man. I said that no hurt should befall me. I
lived for self and self alone. I feared not God, I regarded
not man.â€
“But methinks that heretics do fear God,†said Guy.
“Why callest thou thyself by such a name 2?â€
“Because I called myself by it then. I feared not
God; but as man may not live without some sort of creed
to hold by, I joined myself to a certain new sect, who
walked after the imagination of their own hearts, who
contemned the sacraments, observed no fasts, confessed no
sins to the priest, and accepted or rejected whatsoever they
pleased. It was little I accepted; I know not what my
companions believed. There were but few of us, and we
roamed the country, fearing to abide long in one place,
lest we should fall beneath the ban of the Church, fight-
ing sometimes, and sometimes studying deeply, diving into
many kinds of lore which ofttimes led us further into sin.
And then, as we were abiding in a city of the south, a
ship came into harbour, and in her some poor wretches
who had the plague. It was in the midst of a ficrecly
hot summer. Like lightning the disease spread. Before
MONK FRYSTONE. 325
five days had passed the place was like a charnel-house.
Those who could fly had fled, the rest scarce sufficed to
bury the dead; and the streets were polluted by the corpses
of those who were daily stricken as they went about their
duties.
“The first to perish were mine own companions. At
night there were six of us, drinking to keep off the disease ;
we were about to depart on the morrow, having but just
heard of the plague, and were carousing after our manner
to keep up our spirits. The next morning. three lay dead
in their beds, two more were in the agonies of death, and
T alone rose to fly the place, when, as I passed along the
streets, a voice behind me spoke in mine ear. < Stay——re-
turn; thy work lies here. Return, O erring son; return
to the fold. Thou shalt yet be received back, and shalt
win a crown of glory. But first, thou must remain here
and minister to thy dying brethren; so shall I know that
thy repentance is sincere.’ Thus spoke the voice; and I
heeded its warning and its promise. I remained in that
place, and my life was not required of me. I spent my
time amongst the sick and the dead, caring for the one,
burying the other. Then when the sickness ceased, I pre-
sented myself at the door of the Monastery and asked to
be admitted; and here I am by thy bedside to-night. My
son, [ have been a heretic, an unbeliever, a scofter ; and I
have found that peace which is to be found in the Church
and the Church alone. Listen to one who can thus speak
from his own experience, and stray not from the narrow
path, which alone can lead to the life everlasting.â€
CHAPTER XVI.
FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE.
ICCON HOLT stood at the door of the White
iD Wolf, the sign-board swinging and creaking above
his head as the blustering autumnal wind swayed it to
and fro. The sun was shining gaily; the air was mild,
despite the strength of the wind. It was one of those
days, peculiarly English in character, wherein summer and
winter seem to be meeting in friendly accord. The blue
sky, the songs of the birds, the bright sunshine, came
charged with memories of the past glories of the summer ;
whilst the golden leaves fluttering down before the bluster-
ing wind, the shrill whistle of the blast round the angles
of the house, and the bareness of some amongst the earliest
of the trees, were full of suggestions that the winter season
was gradually stealing upon the world.
Diccon’s round, good-humoured face was as beaming as
was its wont. Guy’s absence, and the anxiety he had
felt concerning him, had not visibly preyed upon him, al-
though he had genuinely missed his comrade, and had suf-
fered considerable uneasiness on his account. However,
he had now known for some time that his foster-brother
was safe at Monk Frystone, and was certain that it would
FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE. 327
not be long before Guy found his way across to the Inn.
The Monastery was some two miles away, and Diccon,
though he had asked at the gate for news of his brother,
had not been admitted to see him. But he was certain
that the meeting would not be much longer delayed; and
as he kept his customary watch along the road for travel-
lers, his thoughts were all of Guy, and he was musing
with a spice of regret of those happy days of boyhood
when they two had been all in all to each other, and had
never believed that aught in the world would part them
one from the other.
“But I always knew things must change some day,â€
said honest Diccon, with a sigh. “He was never made
for the life of an Inn. There was that in his look and in
his mien that would not have ill-beseemed a prince. I
wot he will make a name in the world one of these days.
And maybe I may e’en be there to see. Come what may,
no man can rob me of this, that he is mine own foster-
brother, and that we lived as brothers for many long
years.â€
Diccon’s soliloquy was interrupted at this point by the
appearance on the road of a solitary horseman, and he
shaded his eyes with his hand to watch and see what
manner of man the traveller might be. It was not usual
for wayfarers of the better sort to ride unattended if
they had any distance to traverse; and yet Diccon did not
in the first instance recognize either man or beast, and
scarcely thought that either could hail from the immediate
neighbourhood. °
328 FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIl&.
But as the horse approached at a rapid and steady trot,
the rider waved his hand with a familiar gesture; and a
glad shout broke from Diccon’s lips.
“Guy—Guy! itis he himself! Did I not say I should
see him again ere long ?â€
Two minutes later Guy had reined up before the door,
and Diecon was devouring him with his eyes, his lips
parted in an expression that bespoke both wonder and
admiration, whilst a flush of intense gratification crept into
his brown cheek.
“Marry come up, but thou art marvellous changed,
good sir. I scarce dare to call thee Guy when thou com-
est thus equipped. Prithee let me hold thy stirrup whilst
thou alightest. Good-lack, what a day for me! Did I
not ever say I should live to see thee a gallant knight
yet 2â€
“Knight or no knight, but thy true brother ever,†cried
Guy, as he sprang from the saddle and warmly embraced
his old comrade. “Ah, Diccon, it is like sunshine itself
to see thy honest face. I was sore vexed that I had
not been permitted to see thee when thou camest to Monk
Frystone. But I was sleeping, and they would not have
g;
me wakened; and I knew nought of it till thou wast gone.
Thou didst not think that it was I who sent thee away?â€
“Not I. They told me thou hadst been sorely sick, and
that the Brother who had charge of thee would not have
thee disturbed. I would have come again, but these past
two weeks have been so busy I was not able to walk so far.
But come in, come in. The mother will be proud to wel-
LAREWEIL TO THE OLD LIFE. 329
come thee once more. Ah, Guy, I told thee how it would
be that day in the tree. Thou wentest away with a light
heart, but mine was heavy as lead. I trow I knew well
then that thou wouldest never come back to us again.
Thou wilt be no longer a son of the Inn; the White Wolf
will know thee no more.â€
“Come and let us put up the horse in the stable,†said
Guy, without giving any direct response to this remark,
“I have much I would say to thee, Diecon. Let us find
some safe spot where none can hear. I would have speech
with thee even before I see thy father and mother. The
hay-loft, where we have spent so many happy hours, will
clo excellent well for us to-day.â€
Diccon looked at Guy’s garments, which were of finer
workmanship and more fashionable make than any he had
worn in old days, and broke into a short laugh.
“Methinks the old loft will scarce know thee again.
Thou dost not look like the old Guy, who used to hide
away there with thy book when the company was too
noisy for thy taste.â€
“A truce to thy jesting, good Diceon,†answered Guy,
smiling yet serious. “Thou knowest better than to think
that the coat maketh the man, or that I am less loyal and
loving to those to whom I owe so much because I wear a
something different habit.â€
And then the foster-brothers, after having stabled the
handsome chestnut horse in the stall, mounted the ladder
to their own retired haunt, and Diecon sat on the ground
before Guy, who was accommodated on a pile of hay, te
330 FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE.
listen to the tale of his adventures, of which he had ob-
tained so far only the barest outline.
The story was a very entrancing one to him, and he
only longed to have been there to share the excitement
and the peril of the escape from Heathcliffe. But it was
of later events that Guy chiefly wished to speak, and it
was Diecon who gave him the opening by eagerly asking
if he were now going to adopt his father’s name and be
received at Wierwold as one of the family.
“That is what I would fain explain to thee,†answered
Guy. “When my father left me with the Brothers, and
went to Wierwold himself to see what had chanced there
in his absence, I knew not what he had decided to do;
but he came back, not many days since, with strange tid-
ings, and we talked the whole matter over with the Rev-
erend Prior and some of the elder amongst the Brothers,
and together we reached a decision.â€
“ And that is—?â€
“Marry, that I am not to be owned for a Falconer, but
only as a kinsman. Thou knowest that my mother was a
Leslie ere she married my father, and her name was given
to me as well as that of Guy; so it is as Guy Leslie
that I am to go forth to the world, rather than as Guy
Falconer.â€
“Guy Leslie, forsooth!†answered Diccon thoughtfully ;
“and how art thou to be furnished for this part?â€
“My father has taken thought for that. There are
certain moneys and lands that were my mother’s, which
have ever been set aside by him as my portion. These he
LAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE. 331
has placed in safe hands to be used for my use and behoof,
come what may to him and his. I wot no man had ever
a better or a kindlier father. I would that it may be my
lot to serve him truly and well. He has had but a hard
and evil life. Trouble and sorrow have long been his
portion, and I fear there is sore peril hanging over him yet.â€
“Peril from my Lord Osbaldistone ?â€
“Ay, and from my Lady Falconer likewise,†answered
Guy sternly. “Diecon, listen well to the tale I have to
tell. When I was sick with the fever, and knew not what
was passing, my father, who could not be of any service
to me, took horse, and with a band of faithful followers,
easily found and gathered in these parts, galloped forth-
with to Wierwold to see what was chancing there. He
had heard all the story of the assault and its repulse. He
knew that there had been treachery in the very air. He
went before any rumour of his escape could have reached
his false wife’s ears. And what think you that he found
in his own halls ?â€
“Marry I know not.â€
“He found his son in a species of captivity—cut off
from communication with the outer world—surrounded
by Lady Faleoner’s servants—scarce able to speak with
any of the faithful old retainers whom she had not
succeeded in ousting from the Hall. I trow that but for
the vigilance of our sister Roxana—who should by rights
be one of us, for the true heart of the Faleoners beats
within her—he would have met his death ere now by slow
poison. But the child had conveyed food to him, cooked
332 FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE.
and prepared by those who are loyal and true, and the
dainty viands her ladyship sent to him he had not even
tasted. Roxana says that all which came down from that
room was incontinently burnt—-not even the dogs were
permitted to touch it. What thinkest thou of that, good
Diccon ?â€
« Beshrew me if we burn her not as a foul witch!†cried
the lad, as he clenched his hands in wrathful indignation.
“Right glad am I, good Guy, that thou wilt not draw upon
thyself her malignant despite. Men say of her that she
consorts with the Evil One, and has many devices for
causing those she hates to pine away and die. I fear me
she may be thus charming away the life of thy sweet
sister in the Convent, who looks—so they say—more like
an angel or a spirit than a creature of flesh and blood.
But go on with thy tale.â€
«J will, and thou shalt tell me of my sister later. This
was not the only thing my father found when he reached
Wierwold Hall at the fall of the day. He entered without
permitting that his presence there should be made known
to the mistress, and he found her in her private apartment ;
but she was not alone. Canst guess who was with her in
eager discussion of some plan ?â€
Diccon shook his head.
“Some magician or soothsayer ?â€
“Nay; a more deadly foe to the house of Falconer than
that. None other was it than my Lord Osbaldistone, and
it was very plain that the two had met to talk together
of the terms of the marriage they hoped to consummate,
FAREWELL TO THE CLD LIEE. 333
when the knight, their common foe, should be safely in
his grave.â€
“His grave, quotha? Thought my Lord Osbaldistone
to send him there, thinkest thou ?â€
“Ay, verily Ido. I trow he hoped to find him already
dead ere he reached his home next day. The two con-
spirators had a rough map of the estate spread out betwixt
them, and were doubtless planning how the spoil should
be divided—how much of the fair lands should belong
to young Ralph, who was to have the Hall so soon as
Geoffrey was likewise put out of the way, and how much
was to be annexed to my Lord Osbaldistone’s territory,
who was also to be guardian to the boy, and draw the
full revenues so long as he remained a child. All these
things were found jotted down on the tables which my
father seized upon. Thou mayest guess what kind of a
welcome he received from his bitter foe and treacherous
wife.â€
“Marry, were I he I would have cast the traitorous
pair headlong from the battlements into the moat,†cried
Diccon, in whom the savage spirit of the age was by no
mneans extinct.
Guy’s story had aroused the greatest indignation, with-
out the horror and ineredulity which such a narrative
would have excited in later days. Rapacity, violence,
secret murder, were all too common, and to put an cnemy
out of the way by foul means, if fair ones were impracti-
cable, was a form of crime lightly regarded then.
“I trow there be many who would so have done; but
334 FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE.
my father is not of the number. Bitterly as he had
suffered at the hands of his enemy, he was too noble to
take advantage of him when he found him in his power.
It sufficed him to speak his mind openly to him and to
his wife; and then Lord Osbaldistone was sent forth from
the Castle, night though it was, with his servants, and
doubtless he has found his way to his own halls long ere
this. We have heard no more of him.â€
“And Lady Falconer ?â€
“She took to her bed in despite, they say,†answered
Guy, “and I trow she may stay there as long as she will.
My father quickly set to work to cleanse the house of the
scum she had brought in; and now our old retainers are
brought back within its walls, and he holds the reins of
government in a firmer grasp than ever. But he thinks,
as others do, that there is mischief meant to him and to
his children by foes both within and without the walls;
and so he lost little time in sending forth Geoffrey to
London, to be with kinsmen there, and to learn somewhat
more of life; and he resolved within himself that he would
conceal from his wife the existence of his second son, and
not summon me to Wierwold.â€
“ Doth she know that thou livest ?â€
“He thought not when first he reached home; but now
he believes that she has learned something of late which
has aroused her suspicion. She asked him concerning one
Guy Holt, the Inn-keeper’s son. And methinks this was
one reason why he resolved to send me forth hence, and
to give me the name of Guy Leslie.â€
FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE. 335
“Then thou art going away ?â€
“Yes, verily. My father says truly that these are stir-
ring and anxious days, and that it behoves men to walk
wisely and warily. It is well to go out into the world
and learn how things fare there. But I misdoubt me if
I should have been sent forth thus young were it not
that my father wishes me to keep some watch upon my
brother, and warn him against the evil devices of my
Lord Osbaldistone, lest he chance to do him hurt by his
machinations. None will suspect me. My kinship with
him will not be known—he does not even know it himself
as yet. JI am to speak or not as seemeth best when we
meet. It may be I shall be able to serve him better as
friend and comrade than if he knew me for what I am.â€
“And art thou going to London, and alone ?â€
“TI shall be provided with servants to attend me, and I
shall be furnished with funds for all things. Diccon, wilt
thou go forth with me? Thou hast never seen aught of
the world save what lies round and about the White Wolf.
Would it pleasure thee to ride with me to London and see
its sights? There is not much business to keep thee here
in the winter months, and by the time the spring comes
round thou mayest be free to return, whatever I myself
may do. How sayest thou? Will they let thee come ?
I should go with a glad heart an thou didst ride at my
5
side.â€
Diecon sprang to his feet and tossed his cloth cap into
the air,
“ Meanest thou what thou sayest, Guy ?â€
336 FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE.
« By the rood I do, Thinkest thou that it is a light
thing tc twn one’s back on all that is familiar, and to ride
out into the wide world alone? We are not yet eighteen
years old. We are but striplings, and all is strange to us,
It would be tenfold more merry to ride with a trusty
comrade at my side. Good Diccon, this is why I have
sought thee to tell thee all in private. I want to take
thee with me. What will thy parents say?â€
“I trow they will be well pleased to let me go,†an-
swered Diccon, who was too much excited to sit down
again. The love of adventure, so strong in the young,
had seized upon him with all its power. There had been
times when he had said that the life at the Inn would
always suffice him, and had Guy remained there with him
perhaps it might; but so soon as he heard that his foster-
brother was about to go forth into the world to seck ex-
perience and adventure, he was all on fire to accompany
him. He would have gone with Guy to the world’s end
to save him from peril; how much more to be his comrade
and humble friend when he went forth to win glory and
renown, a8 Diccon was certain he would!
The Holts raised no obstacle to Diccon’s entreaty, backed
as it was by the unconscious pleading of Guy's dark
eyes. Their pride in their foster-son was beyond all
bounds. They could scarce believe that this slim, grace-
ful young gallant, in his plain but rich riding-dress, and
with new power, intellect, and resolve stamped upon his
face, could be the Guy of the Inn, the boy who could con-
jure and tumble and crack jokes upon the guests in the
FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIEE. 337
bar, and had been wont to share with Diecon the cares
and toils of the Inn life.
Possibly they had not been very observant of the
gradual development of the lad, and had not realized how
little like Diecon he was, despite the warm affection which
always existed between them. Guy’s happy disposition
and ready adaptability to cireumstance had rendered it
easy to mistake his nature somewhat; but Diccon had
always been conscious of a wide divergence as they grew
up, and was, therefore, not a little proud to see how
rapidly his surmises and expectations were being real-
ized,
It seemed a happy chance for the lad, the parents
thought, to go forth with Guy to see something of the
world. Nicholas declared that the more knowledge an
Inn-keeper possessed, the better it was for him, and that
Diccon would find the advantage of having travelled when
he came to be master of the establishment. Then, too,
Bridget, who always felt for Guy as the mother-sparrow
does towards the young cuckoo she has reared amongst
her own brood, was glad to think he would have the
shrewd and loving care of his foster-brother when the
time came that he should finally leave the nest. Diccon
had a fund of common-sense and prudence which had
always stood him in good stead. He was every inch a
Holt, and the Holts had risen and prospered in the land,
always steering with the wind and tide, and finding them-
Selves landed in a pleasant harbour, As for the Faleoners,
they had the reputation of running into danger more reck-
(322) 29
338 FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE.
lessly and impulsively than any other of their neighbours.
They never trimmed their sails to the wind of popular
feeling, but rather fought the more fiercely the less hope
there was of victory.
it was an open question so far how much of the
family temperament was inherited by Guy, or how much
of the Holt caution he might have imbibed from his
foster-mother, or have unconsciously acquired during his
residence beneath their roof. But there would be satis-
faction in feeling that Diccon was at his side to warn and
counsel him, and it would be a rare chance for the lad
himself to see the world before the cares and responsi-
bilities of the Inn fell upon his shoulders.
Guy remained that night at the White Wolf, occupying
his old quarters in lieu of the best guest-chamber his
foster-mother would fain have prepared for his reception.
He wished on the morrow to see the Garths and have a
talk with Esther and her mother. His mind was much
exercised just now between the claims of the “new reli-
gion and the old,†as he called them in his own mind; and
he felt that the time when those rival claims must be
adjusted was fast coming upon him.
He was going out into the world where this seething
upheaval of old traditions and old forms of thought would
meet him at every turn. He felt as though he should be
like one swept round and round in a whirlpool, without
safe anchorage anywhere. He loved the Church he had
been taught to reverence and obey, but he loved too the
converse of the gentle women who were in a certain
FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE. 339
measure outcasts from that Church, and who had been
branded not long ago with the hateful name of heretic.
He loved his father and brother and sister with the
intense and instinctive love of kinship, and knew that
they were heart and soul for the ancient forms. He
detested the proud and treacherous Lord Osbaldistone, who
was a champion on the opposing side; and he reverenced
Brother Basil more than he had ever reverenced any single
individual before, unless it was Esther or her mother.
The enthusiasm and intense devotion of the monk, and his
absolute conviction of the righteousness of his cause, had
not been without effect upon the sensitive and impression-
able mind of the boy. He longed himself for some such
unchangeable and unchanging faith, and had listened with
close attention to every word that had passed the Bro-
ther’s lips in the long night-vigils, or the hours when they
had paced the sunny bowling-alley together when Guy had
reached the stage of convalescence. Had it not been for
remembrance of equally earnest talk with the Garths,
coupled with the same sense of restful conviction and
deep devotion which always characterized their words, Guy
might have made his choice once and for all to follow in
the footsteps of his father, and stand forth as the professed
champion of the old faith against any sort of innovation,
be the source and authority what it might. But he could
not shake off the sense that there was something behind
it all that he did not understand—something by which
the conflicting elements might be reconciled, if he could but
sce his way more clearly, At least he was certain that he
340 FAREWELEI TO THE OLD LIFE.
must see Esther once again before reaching any conclusion.
So with that intention he remained the night at the Inn;
and first thing upon the following morning he went across
to Friars’ Meads, to be received with glad shyness by little
Dorothy, who searece recognized her old playmate in this
tall and grave-faced youth; though she gradually thawed,
and became her old joyous self as Guy sat and talked with
her, and told her all his varied adventures.
Dorothy, who was just beginning to spring upwards
from the round and rosy child to the graceful stage of
early maidenhood, was Guy’s especial pet. He had long
told himself that if ever the day came when he should
think of marriage, sweet little Dorothy Garth should be
his bride. He looked at her now with a deeper interest
as she stood fearlessly at his side, looking up at him with
eyes alight with excitement and admiration. If he cast
in his lot with those whose name he bore, might he not
raise up a barrier which would for ever separate him from
a nearer union with this family? Was Roger Garth the
man to give his child in marriage to any but one who
would share her faith down to the veriest detail ?
Perhaps it was odd that so young a lad should trouble
himself with such considerations; but in those days men
married young, and Guy had grown much older during
these past weeks. He had thought much and suffered
much both mentally and physically, and had made a sudden
spring towards manhood with the rapidity seen occasionally -
in all stages of existence, but particularly when the outer
world is convulsed by party feeling and conflicting opinion.
FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE. 341
There is something of a hot-bed influence in the stir of
eager party strife, and the young are particularly sus-
ceptible to its influence.
But Esther had been summoned, and soon came in,
looking just her calm, serene, untroubled self. Guy, as
he greeted her, compared her tranquil, steady glance with
the burning gaze of Brother Basil, and wondered in which
heart the fire of truth burned most truly. Oh, if he could
but distinguish and learn to follow the guiding flame !
Esther was not surprised at the tone the conversation
assumed almost from the first moment. She knew where
Guy had been located. She knew that his father had
been with him. She knew that in Lord Osbaldistone’s
house he had probably heard discussions which were not
much like those he had listened to at the Friars’ Meads,
albeit professedly on the same side. She knew that with
his thoughtful temperament he would not be able to glide
along with the current, as many did, content to wait and
see how things would turn, and then give their adherence
to the dominant faction. Guy would have to be convinced
of the absolute right and justice of any cause he embraced,
and if once fully assured of that, would fight in its ranks
with all his power, and lay down his life in its defence if
called upon to do so. He was a true Falconer in loyalty
and devotion, but he might possibly take a different view
from that of his family about the matters now troubling
men’s minds.
Guy had Brother Basil’s story by heart now. He had
not fully understood the first hasty sketch, as he heard it
342 LAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE.
in the night of his recovery to consciousness; but he had
since made himself master of every detail, and it was this
story he now poured into Esther’s ears. For it was very
plain that Brother Basil had found no rest and peace out-
side the fold of the Church, and that he had returned to
it in penitence and tears, vowing to strive his hardest to
prevail with those who seemed to be hovering upon the
verge of the downward path, but who had not yet taken
the first fatal step.
Esther listened in silence and with great attention, a
faint smile flickering from time to time over her face.
When Guy had done, and turned to her for her opinion,
she began by asking a few questions.
“IT want to understand this matter better. Am I right
in saying that this monk first got amongst Lollards, and
that they unsettled his faith ?â€
“Ay; they taught him that the Church was corrupt to
the core, and bade him hear the truth from the fountain-
head, as they phrased their faulty translation of the Bible.
And he listened to them, and threw off all allegiance to the
Church forthwith.â€
“There he did wrong,†said Esther quietly. “It has been
the mistake of many. They think the Church is corrupt;
but I never have been taught so. The Church is of God,
and He will always keep her in the true faith so long as
she observes His Sacraments and ordinances, which, God be
praised, she does yet. Men are corrupt; men have over-
laid her beauty and purity with many idle and heathen
forms, which we would fain see stripped off her. But it is
FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE. 343
wrong to cast off her authority and turn again and rend her.
Men may try to cast her children out, but they cannot do
so in God’s sight. And we who are branded as heretics
claim our share in the Church—ay, and we have it too,
though the ecclesiastics deny our right. But leaving that
—it is a point many still dispute—surely it was not
amongst these Lollards that he learned to do evil and de-
spise good, as thou tellest me he did!â€
“Not amongst the first of those who would fain have
had him as one of them. But he found their yoke heavier
than that of the Church, and broke away in disgust. Then
he joined himself to others who had also been convinced
that there was nothing but corruption in the Church, and
had resolved no longer to obey her or her laws. I know
not what they called themselves, but they were heretics.
And they plunged into every sort of evil, till this plague
came and carried five of them off unshriven in their sins,
and Brother Basil found peace only by a return to the
Church and a life such as he leads within the walls of the
Monastery.â€
Esther’s smile was tinged with sadness.
“And thinkest thou, Guy, that it was because he had
heard some of the truths which men branded then as
heresy, though they are ceasing to do so now, that he lived
the life of a libertine, and fell into every kind of sin? Nay,
that is not so—â€
“Yet if he had stayed within the Church, methinks he
would not so have fallen,†interposed Guy quickly.
“That indeed may very well be,†answered Esther; and
344 FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE.
then, seeing the look of perplexity on Guy’s face, she added,
smiling, “ Canst thou not see that it is a very easy thing—
alas! only too easy in some natures—to destroy belief,
to tear away faith, to foster rebellion against authority,
but that it is a very different matter to build up, to teach,
to strengthen? Guy, think not that I would cast all blame
upon the men whom I hold to be in error, that I would
claim for Lollards and reformers more than is their due.
I trow they have made many and grievous mistakes, and
will make more. They have grasped a great and mighty
truth, and one which has been overlaid and denied. They
give to every man freedom of conscience, freedom to read
the Word of God, and they teach that there is none other
Mediator betwixt God and man than the Man Christ Jesus.
But with all this they are in error on their side. They
would teach men to destroy too much. They would teach
them only too often to despise what they should reverence,
to abhor what they should love, and to call too many
things the devices of man, when there is small reason to
doubt that they have been given for the strengthening and
help of the Church as the ordinances of God. And if they
thus strip and destroy, what is sometimes the result?
Verily, what thou hast seen in the case of this young
monk. They quickly taught him to despise and loath
what was wrong, but they taught him, too, to despise the
good with the evil, to break away in despite and self-will
from the Church in which he had been placed by God, and
to despise His ordinances, instead of seeking to purify them
and see wherein their true grace lay. It has been so before;
FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE. 345
it will be go, I fear, again. Men will be torn from their
old beliefs, will be shaken to the core, and then will see—
having been taught to look for them-——errors in the very
teachers and systems they have thought to pin their faith
to anew. And what follows then? Why, truly what fol-
lowed with Brother Basil, The Devil findeth the chamber
swept and garnished, and maketh his own home there.
And the last state of that man is worse than the first, until
the grace of God falls upon him, and he becomes as a
brand plucked from the burning.â€
Guy sat still, thinking deeply. He was beginning to
see a little light, but he knew that Brother Basil would
scarcely admit this explanation.
“He is happy now, and he returned to the Church—the
Romish Church, as sometimes I have heard it called at
Heatheliffe
fain send them all to the stake. He has found peace and
rest there.â€
the Church which abhors heretics, and would
“ And wherefore not, Guy? Is it not Christ’s Church,
for which He died? Deceived, led away after men’s de-
vices, filled with the corruption of her servants she may be;
but do we ‘heretics’ deny that she is the Holy Church of
Christ? Are we not baptized into her? does she not feed
us with the Heavenly food? Does she not teach us from
God’s Word, though she may keep part of that Word back?
Why should not peace be found within her? Will the
time ever come when all men will feel alike, think alike,
see alike? I trow not. And albeit there be those who
may not find the same rest within her shelter that others
346 FAREWELL TO THE OLD LIFE.
can, are we to deny them rest and peace, so long as they
hold as we do that Christ died to save sinners?â€
Guy was silent. He felt that he had received something
of new light—he generally did when he could get Esther
to talk to him; but he required time to adjust the new
ideas into place, and after a long silence began to talk on
other themes, and to tell Esther and Dorothy, who had
now slipped back to the room, of the prospective journey
to London with Diccon.
Esther well understood how at this crisis of his life, and
before he made the plunge from the quiet of the country
to the seething world of the city, he desired to get his
thoughts and opinions into firmer form; but she fully be-
lieved that he had within him that which would help him
through all troubles, and bring him safely out at the other
side. So when, some four or five days later, she and
Dorothy stood at the gate to see him and Diceon and their
stout serving-men ride by on their way to London, and
caught the bright, happy look upon his face, and the serious
underlying resolution of the lines of the mouth, she lifted
her heart in silent prayer for him, confiding him to the
One whose care was never asked in vain; and waved her
hand to him with a gesture of sisterly farewell, wondering
much what would be the next page in this chequered life,
one of which had been turned that day, whether for good
or evil she scarce felt able to judge.
‘CHAPTER XVIIL
LONDON AND ITS KING.
UY’S residence in London was full of vivid interest
(: for him. Jt was a plunge into a new world—a
world of which he had heard and dreamed, but with which
he had no manner of acquaintance—and the seething life
of the great city, its strange sights, its busy throngs, its
magnificence, its learning, its wickedness, exercised a strange
fascination upon him, and he marvelled how he had been
content for so long to remain in the wilds of the country,
ignorant of so much that was passing, content with
scraps and fragments of news, whilst weighty matters of
Church and State were being discussed in the centres of
the kingdom, and men’s minds were full to overflowing
with thoughts of coming change.
Guy, brought up as he had been at the White Wolf,
had contracted no expensive tastes, and had the knack of
making his money go far. He had no grand ideas as to
his own importance, and contented himself with a small
but respectable lodging not far from St. Paul’s, where he
and Diecon took up their abode, letting the other men go
248 LONDON AND ITS KING.
and take service elsewhere, as they decided that, save
for protection during the journey, they had no need of
them.
Guy was of course the master, and Diccon passed as his
servant, and a very faithful and good servant did he make.
But to all intents and purposes they were friends and
brothers, and had not Diccon steadily refused the offer,
Guy would have shared everything with him, and have
treated him with absolute equality.
Still they always went about together, and they were
very happy, and keenly interested in everything they saw.
They lost no opportunity of hearing and seeing all they
could. They visited churches and heard preachings—
preachings within buildings and in the open street. They
never lost an opportunity of attending when an address
was given by any noted priest’ or preacher at St. Paul’s
Cross, and besides hearing the discourses of learned and
eloquent men, they listened with eager attention to the
discussions upon these same discourses between men of all
shades of opinion who gathered at the taverns to hear and
discuss the news of the day, and in this way heard much
argument and controversy that was often exceedingly keen
and acute,
As for the other task Guy had set himself—that of
watching over his brother and euarding him from any
menaced peril—there did not appear at present to be any
cause for anxiety. Geoffrey was with friends. He had
taken up his abode with the Oglebys, kinsmen of his
own and of Ranulph, who was frequently with him when
LONDON AND ITS KING. 349
he went abroad; and Sir Kenneth Fane was an occasional
visitor at the house.
The Oglebys were attached to the Romish faith, but
they were not persons who took any active part in the
struggle that was going on, and they were in no present
peril of exposure or disgrace. As a matter of fact, publie
opinion was very equally divided on doctrinal points, and
many who were willing to be carried along by the current
secretly hoped that the time would come when the wave,
having spent its force, the waters would ebb back to their
former channel.
The eager, ardent spirits of the day were on the side of
reform, and it is generally such that carry all before them,
at any rate for a time. But the constitutional conserva-
tism of the English nation kept the mass of the people
more or less stanch to old traditions. Even those who
admitted that there were gross abuses in the papal system
as it now stood, would rather continue its slaves than rush
blindfold to changes which might lead to they knew not
what.
The King was popular, and personally beloved, and his
force of character made itself felt by all classes of the
community. Still it was whispered that he did not go
half as far as many amongst his advisers, and there were
those who shrewdly suspected that if the rumour were
true which alleged that the favour of the Queen was on
the wane, Henry would draw back considerably from the
advanced position which he had taken up. So insep-
arably were the divorce case and the reformation bound
350 LONDON AND ITS KING.
up together in the minds of men, that the public feeling
Was unanimous on this point, and already the Romanist
party were beginning confidently to look for a violent
reaction.
It is needless to state that history has quite a different
tale to tell. The conviction in Henry’s mind (and in that
of many of his leading subjects) of the necessity for religious
reform and for the limitation of papal agerandizement had
begun long before the King had cast loving looks upon
Anne Boleyn, and her death and disgrace made no manner
of difference to the great national movement, of which the
episode of the divorce formed only a feature and not an
integral part. But though these things are seen clearly
in after years through the perspective of time, those who
live during the struggle itself have little notion of the
force or velocity of the conflicting currents which are driv-
ing all before them.
When Guy visited the house of the Oglebys—present-
ing himself as a Leslie, and kindly received as a. collateral
kinsman
he heard little talked of but the approaching
disfavour and possible disgrace of the Queen, and the re-
vulsion of publie and royal feeling that was certain to
follow upon such an event,
So far from its appearing that the old Roman Catholic
families would be in peril from the zeal of the reformers, it
now seemed more likely that the latter would be those who
would fall into disgrace. The ecclesiastics were raising
ther heads. Conferences were frequently held to debate
over the steps to be taken to insure a general popular re-
LONDON AND ITS KING. 351
action; and Geoffrey, who had always been grateful to Guy
for his prompt assistance, and for his subsequent devotion
to his father, took not a little pains to try to convince
him of the justice and divine nature of their cause, and
to make him one of them heart and soul.
Geoffrey thought that he now understood well why Guy
had been so true a friend to the Falconers. He looked
upon him in the light of a youthful kinsman, the foster-son
of the Inn, who had always known of the relationship,
although he had not disclosed it save to Sir Ralph himself.
He did not know what risks Guy had run to save him
and release his father. The lad did not say more on that
subject than was necessary ; still Geoffrey felt a very warm
interest in him, regarding him with a considerable amount
of affection, and very gladly would he have had Guy enter
himself as a member of the Ogleby household, and league
himself heart and soul with the cause he held so dear.
But the latter preferred the independence of his own quar-
ters and the freedom to think for himself.
“Thinking is a snare to many, Guy,†said Geoffrey one
day, when he had once more striven to lead the youth to
see matters from his own standpoint. “It is thinking—
this thinking which the Church forbids—that hath made
many a man a heretic and a blasphemer. Canst thou not
see that it is the duty of the young to let themselves be
led and guided by the saintly men who have lived before
us, and have laid down rules for us to follow and obey ?â€
“ Holy men have lived and died without the pale of that
which yow call the Church,†answered Guy stoutly. “Nay;
352 LONDON AND ITS KING.
if thinking be a snare, I know not what to say to thee, for
I can no more cease to think than I can cease to breathe.
Thou wilt have to give me up for a lost one, Geoffrey.â€
“Nay; I love thee too well for that,†answered Geoffrey,
with sudden warmth. “Thou makest me think oft of my
sister Ermengarde, now a holy Sister in the Convent. Me-
thinks that surely the day will come when thou wilt think
as she doth. Thou canst not with that face of thine, and
with the blood of the Leslies in thy veins, fail to return to
the bosom of the Church.â€
Guy did not feel as though he had ever left it; but he
did not areue the point with Geoffrey, who would never
have comprehended his standpoint. Nor indeed had Guy
made any great advance from his original position. He
and Diccon still attended Mass and confessed with regularity
to the priest. The majority of those who ranked as reformers
and revolutionaries did the same, despite the clamour raised
against the corruption of the ecclesiastics. But with this
attention and compliance to outward forms was combined
a new freedom of thought and speech which a few years
back would have sent men by hundreds to exile or death.
Guy and Diccon listened and drank in all that they heard,
and were fairly perplexed, as well they might be, by the
conflicting testimony brought to bear upon each and every
question of the hour.
Their eager thirst for certain information culminated in
a desire to see the King, and to learn for themselves the
truth or falsehood of the report concerning him and his
relations with the Queen, wpon which the conservative
LONDON AND ITS KING. 353
nobles, if they may so be termed, were already pluming
themselves, in the expectation of coming triumph.
Christmas was at hand with all its feasting and revelry.
Guy could not but marvel as he recalled the last Christmas,
spent at Wierwold Hall amongst the mummers, and found
it hard to believe that only one year had passed since then,
so many and ereat were the changes it had brought for him.
The Court was then at Hampton Court, a Palace which
had not been very long in the King’s possession, and of
which he was not a little proud. It had been the gift to
him of the great Cardinal, not very long before his fall—
a gift, doubtless, presented under a species of compulsion,
in the fear that if not given it might be taken forcibly
by the rapacious monarch. Guy conceived the bold idea of
leaving London and travelling thither to see something of
the royal merry-making. There would surely be some
hostelry nigh to the Palace where they could find lodging,
and their past training had taught them the lesson of
accommodation to circumstances even of the rudest,
Diccon was enchanted by the notion. The weather was
clear and frosty. The sun shone brightly in a gray-blue
sky as the foster-brothers rode forth from the city gates,
and they were not Sorry to see green fields once more,
though the trees were leafless, and the world of nature was
still fast asleep.
Nor were the comrades disappointed at the nature of the
entertainments during the gay season in the proximity of
the Court. Feasting, revelry, and sport of every kind was
the order of the day, and in due course there came a day
(822) 293
354 LONDON AND ITS KING.
when the whole of the park and garden was thrown open
to the populace, whilst trials of strength and skill were
instituted amongst the people of lower degree, at which
the King and his gentlemen looked on, the great Henry
himself mixing freely with the poor folks, laughing and
chatting with them in his bluff way, and giving the prizes
to the victors with his own royal hands. ©
At his side, as he moved through the shifting throng,
was his son the Duke of Richmond. ‘This son, despite the
fact that he was born out of wedlock, was a person of no
small importance then. There were many who believed that
he might one day be King of England. The Princess Mary
had been pronounced to be illegitimate since the divorce,
and the Princess Elizabeth was but an infant. The King
had always showed marked favour to the Duke, and there
were many who looked to see the crown one day upon his
head, failing an heir male of undoubted legitimacy.
Amongst the Duke’s personal attendants was Kenneth
Fane, for whom he appeared to have a special liking. Sir
Kenneth also seemed to be something of a favourite with
the King himself, who not unfrequently leaned upon his
shoulder to whisper a word in his ear, and to exchange a
laughing remarlx with him or his son.
Shooting at the archery butts was a favourite sport in
those days, and one which Henry particularly countenanced.
Indeed he had made statutes enforcing upon the people the
practice of archery, fearing lest the introduction of fire-arms
should cause the ancient weapons to be cast aside. Guy was
a very skilful marksman with the bow, and had been always
LONDON AND ITS KING. 355
accustomed to carry off the prizes in the contests upon the
village ereen at home. Here things might be different.
He might have more formidable opponents to face; but he
stepped forward amongst the competitors, and it was only
as he was drawing his last arrow that he saw that the
King and some of his personal attendants were standing by.
From start to finish Guy had shot better than any of
his companions, and this last shot, which cleft the arrow
he had previously placed in the very centre of the butt,
elicited a storm of applause from the bystanders
applause
in which the King joined as heartily as any one.
“By my halliday, a clever shot! Thou art a mettle-
some fellow, and well deservest the prize. I would that
all my subjects were marksmen such as thou. “Iwas with
the bow and arrow that our sires won the battles of Agin-
court and Poitiers, and I trow that England’s glory will
never fade so long as her sons know how to handle their
bows and send their arrows quivering to the mark. What
is thy name, boy ? and whence comest thou ?— What, Ken-
neth! knowest thou the young cockerel? By thy looks
thou seemest to claim acquaintance.â€
“Ay, my Liege, I know him, and a brave and goodly
youth he is, I take it;†whilst Guy, in response to the King’s
questions, replied,—
“My name is Guy Leslie, an’t please your Grace, and I
was brought up by my foster-parents, and your very loyal
servants, who keep the Inn of the White Wolf, not many
miles from the city of York. Only a short time back I was
taken from them and sent out to carve my fortunes in the
356 LONDON AND ITS KING.
world, with my good foster-brother here for my comrade.
We have been these many weeks in London, seeking to
learn the news of the day; and then, as both of us greatly
longed to see your Highness’s royal person, we rode hither
some eight days back, and have been ever since striving
to obtain sight of your Majesty.â€
The King laughed genially, and clapped Guy upon the
shoulder.
“Well spoken, boy; thou art not afraid of thy King.â€
“Nay, Sire; I trow no loyal subject need fear him. It
is for traitors and evil-doers to cower from the royal glance,
but surely not for those who love and honour him.â€
This reply greatly pleased the King, who, like all men of
his disposition, loved popularity, and though violent in anger,
greatly desired to be trusted and beloved, and was never so
much disposed to wrath as when he felt himself feared.
“Thou speakest well, good lad,†he said. “Methinks thou
art of gentle blood?â€
“T trust I may not disgrace that blood,
â€
answered Guy
modestly, scarce knowing how to give account of his lineage.
This was not, however, desired. The King seemed satis-
fied with his look and bearing, and above all by the fact
that Sir Kenneth Fane appeared to know him.
“Tf thou hast come to see the world, thou shouldst not
depart hence till thou hast seen it at this Court of ours.—
Richmond, did I not hear thou hadst lost some amongst
thy gentlemen of late? Why not take this goodly youth
into thy service for the nonce? I warrant me thou wilt
not regret it.â€
LONDON AND ITS KING. 357
“With all my heart,†answered Richmond, who inherited
much of his father’s good-humour, together with some of
his passionate temper.—* Good Kenneth, I pray you look to
it—Wilt please thee to attend in my train for a while,
boy?†he asked, with a friendly though careless glance
at Guy. “Thou canst bring thy brother as thy servant,
and Sir Kenneth will teach thee thy duties. J am no
exacting master.â€
Guy bowed low. Had he desired it ever so, he could
scarce have declined this favour, offered at the King’s
instigation; as ib was, however, nothing could better have
fallen in with his wishes. He was not needed by his
brother Geoffrey at present, and he had set his heart on
seeing something of the Court, and of forming his own
opinions respecting matters there.
“T desire nothing better than to serve your Grace,†he
said; and then the royal father and son passed on together,
whilst Kenneth turned to the boy with a smile.
“So thou didst make thy escape from Heathclitte, good
lad?†he said, with a meaning smile; “and methinks thou
didst not go alone.â€
Guy looked up quickly and inquiringly.
“What knowest thou, good sir?â€
“Nay; I know little, but I divine much. Did not Lord
Osbaldistone return home in a towering rage? and did not
the news promptly reach us of the return to Wierwold
of the long-absent master ?â€
Guy was silent, but his silence was eloquent. Sir Ken-
neth smiled, and laid a hand upon his shoulder.
358 LONDON AND ITS KING.
“Thou needst not fear me, Guy. I am no friend to
violence and lawlessness, though I may be a friend to those
that are tempted by ambition to such acts. But enough
of this. I ask no confidence from thee. Thou art hence-
forth Guy Leslie, one of the Duke’s gentlemen. An thou
desirest to see Court life, thou hast fallen on thy feet:
the Duke is seldom absent from his father’s side.â€
Guy had made no ties since leaving home, and it was
easy to transplant himself to these new surroundings.
He had to spend a considerable sum upon the dresses
in which to appear amongst the gay knot of courtiers
always surrounding the persons of royalty, but his funds
were fully equal to the demand; and when he appeared
im the rich and dainty attire of a youthful courtier, his
appearance was so attractive that the King (who had all
the Tudor love of beauty) noticed him more than once,
and specially called him to his side. The youth’s grace-
ful and self-possessed though unassuming manners, and
his ready fund of humour and brilliant repartee, soon
made him a favourite in all quarters, and he was almost
always directed to attend upon the Duke, either to ride
with him abroad or to accompany him to the presence-
chamber later in the day.
Thus it was that Guy found himself, ere a week had flown,
in the actual presence of the Queen; and before the hour
had passed during which she gave audience to the Duke
and others of the royal household, she had singled him out
from amongst the gay crowd of courtiers, and he had had
the honour of kissine the white hand graciously extended
LONDON AND ITS KING. 359
to him, and of answering a few questions put by the
royal dame.
Apart from the glamour of her position and the gorgeous-
ness of her attire, Guy did not find in Anne Boleyn the
dazzling beauty he had expected. Possibly she had been
more attractive in her earlier years, before the trials and
temptations of royalty had fallen upon her. As it was,
she seemed to him to be faded and worn; and though the
King paid her all reasonable attention, he did not appear
to be a devoted husband, and his glance was often seen
to stray in the direction of the knot of ladies-in-waiting,
who were standing or sitting in the apartment, chatting
and laughing with the gentlemen of the household, when
their distance from royalty permitted them thus to indulge
their humour.
Guy himself wandered about the gorgeous room, and
examined both it and its occupants. He was much struck
by the exceeding loveliness of one of the ladies present,
and asked her name. He was told that she was Mistress
Jane Seymour, the daughter of a knight, and an attendant
of the Queen. Guy wondered why a smile went round
as he spoke of the lady’s beauty; but he himself found
his gaze often returning to the fair face, and he thought
it little strange that the King’s eyes should at times be
seen to rest upon it.
Mistress Jane’s face was lovely beyond the wont of
women, even in the flush of their first youthful bloom.
The features were exquisite, the complexion was dazzl-
ingly fair, and the whole expression so pure and spiritual
360 LONDON AND ITS KING.
and sweet, that the loveliness of the lineaments was only
the second thing noticed. This maiden was dressed with
less magnificence than the other ladies, but her simple
white robes appeared to set off her form and face to the
best possible advantage. Guy thought of that face many
times as he went about his daily rounds, and always looked
for it when admitted into the presence of the Queen and
her ladies. Nor was he long in hearing whispers which
seemed to give confirmation to the reports so rife amongst
the Romanist families with whom his brother consorted.
The King, it was said, was growing weary of his Queen,
growing suspicious of her conduct, and was already think-
ing of choosing a successor.
But hardly had the Christmas festivities been brought
to a close when news came from Kimbolton (the present
residence of the unfortunate Catherine of Aragon) that the
Dowager-Queen, as she was frequently called, was ill and
like to die; and before the first ten days of January had
passed, a messenger arrived at the Palace with the news of
her death.
Jt so chanced that Guy was in attendance upon the
Duke at the time the intelligence was brought, and that
the King and his son were together. A letter was pre-
sented to Henry, which had been written on her death-bed
by Catherine, whilst at the same time he was told that she
was no more.
The burst of grief with which the monarch received the
news was a thing for which Guy was altogether unprepared.
The tears coursed down his face as he read the touching
LONDON AND ITS KING. 361
missive, now so well known, and folding it gently and
reverently as he placed it in his bosom, he exclaimed with
a long-drawn sigh,—
“Ah, Kate, Kate, thou wert a true and faithful wife! I
shall never look upon thy like again !â€
Shortly afterwards a message of sympathy arrived from
the Queen; but Henry did not appear in the humour to
receive condolences from his spouse, and sternly demanded
from the courtier an account of the way in which the news
had been received by the royal Anne. The messenger,
evidently somewhat taken aback, hesitated and stammered ;
whereat Henry, whose patience was at no time very great,
took him by the shoulder and gripped him so hard that it
was all the fellow could do to repress a cry.
“Speak, sirrah,†thundered the King; “thou art hiding
something from me! Beware how thou triflest with me!
If I find thou hast deceived me, thou shalt swing for it
before this present sun has set. Tell me, what said the
Queen when she heard that the Lady Catherine, her late
mistress, was dead ?â€
Thus coerced and threatened, the man felt there was
nothing for it but to speak the truth, and the Queen
was no such favourite with the Court that its members
cared to run the risk of the royal displeasure to save her
from it.
“May it please your Grace, her Majesty listened to the
news with a smiling countenance, and then she rose from
her seat and skipped thrice into the air. ‘Now I ama
Queen indeed! now I am a true Queen!’ she said, and forth-
362 LONDON AND ITS EING.
with fell a-laughing to think that her old enemy was dead
at last.â€
The King ground his teeth together and uttered a string
of violent expletives beneath his breath, whilst the messen-
ger wished himself anywhere else, fearful of falling under the
displeasure of the monarch in such a mood as the present.
“A Queen indeed! a Queen at last!†he muttered, loud
enough for Guy to hear. “’Sdeath, did the vixen say so ?
She shall see; ay, she shall verily see.â€
The man made his escape as promptly as etiquette per-
mitted, and the King commenced moodily pacing the apart-
ment, his hands behind him, his brow sternly knitted.
Presently he paused and laid his hand on Richmond’s arm.
“ Methinks thou wilt yet sit on England’s throne, my lad,â€
he said; “for no child of yon vile woman shall reign in my
stead—I will take good heed of that. Sooner would I see
Kate’s daughter there than brood of hers.â€
Richmond made no response. Perhaps he had no great
faith in the durability of his father’s resolutions on such
a subject; perhaps he had little ambition to reign. He
always paid every befitting attention to his father’s wives,
and never appeared to regard either them or their children
as stumbling-blocks in the way of his own advancement.
That day the order was sent forth that the Court was to
go into mourning for the Dowager-Queen. All festivities
were at an end, and silence and gloom settled over the
Palace.
The King and Queen did not meet for three days.
Henry repaired to the Tower to give certain charges con-
LONDON AND ITS KING. 363
cerning the obsequies of his first Queen, and returned only
when his irritation had had time to subside.
Guy had not seen either the Queen or her ladies during
that interval, and he wondered if any of them had heard
of the displeasure of the King. He marvelled that Anne
seemed so blind to the change in the King’s feelings to-
wards her, which appeared to be patent to all the world;
still it seemed to him that, in his softer mood, he might
yet be won back to her, if she but acted with discretion
and wifely tenderness.
The King’s return was the signal for Court life to return
to its normal fashion; and the King signified his inten-
tion of visiting the Queen in her apartments, attended by
the usual galaxy of courtiers.
Both he and all the latter were in suits of sable black,
and all the servants wore the same sombre livery of woe.
The ladies, of course, were expected to be likewise attired,
that due respect might be outwardly paid to the memory
of the unhappy woman lately passed to her rest. ;
The doors of the Queen’s apartment were thrown wide
open, and the King and his train entered. Guy, who was
only a little behind the royal personages, could scarcely
restrain an exclamation of astonishment and dismay ; for
there, upon the raised dais of royalty, sat the Queen,
gorgeously attired in robes of brilliant yellow, whilst the
ladies who stood behind her wore the same tawny hue,
the whole effect thus produced being extraordinary in the
extreme. The astonishment occasioned was by no means
diminished by the gay and almost insolent laugh with
364 LONDON AND ITS KING.
which the Queen received the black assembly round her
lord. Evidently she had not heard how greatly he had
already been incensed against her.
“Why, by the mass, but here be a funeral assembly
coming to see us!†she eried with another silvery laugh.
“Good my lord, what manner of show is this? enough to
affright us poor, timid women, who have been rejoicing—â€
“Ay, madam, rejoicing in the death of one whom thou
wast not even worthy to serve,†cried Henry furiously, cut-
ting short the conclusion of the speech intended to dwell
with pleasure upon the King’s return. “I wot well how
thou didst rejoice at that news. But take heed how thou
tallest of funerals. Subjects have fallen before for dis-
obedience to their sovereign’s behests; and though thou be
a Queen, thou art nought but a subject too.â€
The Queen shrank back as if she had been struck, and
her ladies cowered behind her, whilst a dead silence fell
upon the band of courtiers. It seemed, indeed, as if the fall
of Anne could not be far off, if Henry thus addressed her
in public.
The King’s eyes roved round the bevy of ladies about
the Queen. Conspicuous amongst these, though hindermost
of all, was a slim figure clad from head to foot in black,
save for the pure whiteness of the head-dress in which the
pale and lovely face was framed.
Mistress Jane Seymour alone had dared to defy her
mistress and to don the sable garments of woe. She had
avoided the Queen’s eye until such moment as she was
protected from molestation by the presence of the King.
LONDON AND ITS KING. 365
Henry instantly singled out this maiden from the group,
and taking her hand in his, led her aside from the rest and
seated himself beside her, ignoring the Queen from that
moment forward, and addressing himself exclusively to the
black-robed maid.
The Queen, after exhausting in vain all her arts and
graces to lure back her recreant lord, rose in dire fear and
anger, and swept haughtily from the presence-chamber,
There were many who afterwards declared that from that
day onward the doom of the hapless Anne Boleyn was
sealed.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE KINGS COURT.
< UY FALCONER! and at Greenwich Palace! By
Cc my troth, thine was the last face I looked to
have seen here. What dost thou, boy? And by what
strange turn of fortune’s wheel do I see thee here in the
garb of a gay courtier ?â€
Guy turned with a start at the sound of the long un-
heard name, and found himself face to face with Frank
Osbaldistone. But laying a finger upon his lips he an-
swered,—
“Good Sir Frank, greet me not thus, I prithee Iam
not Guy Falconer here, but Guy Leslie, and for the nonce
in frequent attendance upon his Grace of Richmond. I
know not how long I may be here. I have other matters
to think of than ruffling it at Court in fine feathers ; and
doubtless his Grace would give me leave of absence an i
asked it. Yet for the present time I am well content to
stay. There is much to be learned in this place, and I
would fain see the end of the strange tragedy which men
say will soon be played out now.â€
Frank’s face expressed vivid interest and curiosity.
“Thou speakest of the jealousy and displeasure men
THE KINGS COURT. 367
whisper is poisoning the mind of the King against the Queen ?
Ay, I have heard somewhat of that already. Tell me,
what is in the wind? What cause has his Majesty for
such doubts and such wrath ?â€
“Nay, I know not. Methinks there be few who do; but
they whisper on all sides that the Queen showeth more
erace to Sir Henry Norris than it liketh his Majesty to
see, and others talk of favourites of her Majesty’s beside—
favours even to one as lowly as Mark Smeton, the musi-
cian, which thine scarce seems possible—to say nothing of
other foul rumours against her. It seemeth to me that
when once a whisper is set afoot touching the fair fame
even of a queen, nought is too bad and too strange for men
to say and think. Have you come to see the end of the
matter, Sir Frank? J knew not that you were at the
Court.â€
“T arrived but yestere’en. J have been in France these
many days, and have journeyed as far as the Emperor’s
Court likewise. Thou knowest that before the death of
Queen Catherine, England was in no small peril from the
triple alliance of those two powers with the Pope. His
Majesty’s Ambassadors had to walk warily and circum-
spectly, and my father sent me thither to learn what I
might of such diplomatic dealing. During these past
months, however, since her Highness’s death, matters have
greatly changed for the better, and it is confidently reported
that should the present Queen fall from her high estate,
the King will return to the bosom of the Church, and this
reform, of which men speak so much, come incontinently
368 THE KING'S COURT.
to an end. What thinkest thou on such matters? Thou
hast heard and seen much? Is the cause of religious
liberty bound up in the life of the Queen or no? Will
it fall with her, or will it not ?â€
“T trow it will not,†answered Guy gravely. “Methinks
ib is so bound up in the hearts of the people—of a vast
number of them, that is—that even the death of the Queen
would do no hurt to the cause. The King’s Majesty is hard
to be understood. One day it is scarce possible to credit
him with love of aught but his ease and comfort and royal
sports, yet again and he will be closeted long days together
with the wisest heads of the realm, and men will tell of
his learning, his zeal, his energy in every good cause; and
then we thank God for giving us such a King in such
troublous times. J know not which is his truer nature ; but
methinks that he is in deep earnest over this matter, and that
he will not rest until the changes some men long for and
others dread have been carried through with a high hand.â€
A little discussion upon public matters brought up the
subject of the contemplated suppression of the Monas-
teries and religious houses, which indeed had already been
begun; and it was this that gave Frank the chance he
was longing for.
“Thy sister, good Guy,†he questioned below his breath,
“where is she? Pray Heaven she has thought better of
her wish, and has not entered those gloomy walls. What?
she hath taken the vow? Prithee say not so. So fair, so
winsome, so young—tell me not that she is buried in a
ee peeake
living grave.
THE KING’S COURT. 369
Frank had before this betrayed to Guy his feeling to-
wards Ermengarde, and it was plain that time and pro-
tracted absence had not dimmed her image in his heart
nor turned his thoughts elsewhere. His eager look at Guy
told how much depended upon his answer; but the youth
could only shake his head.
“Jn truth I know not if her vows be taken or no. She
entered into the Convent of the Sacred Heart nigh upon
a year agone, and the time is fast coming, if it be not
passed, when she may have cast aside the garb of the
novice for the habit of the nun. I have heard but little
from home since I quitted it, and if this step had been
taken it is likely I might not have known it. She was
ever inclined that way, and thou knowest how it is with
the Faleoners: the more their faith is threatened and
assailed, the more firmly and loyally they cling to it. I
trow that Ermengarde hath all the spirit of her race. The
thought that men are about to rise up and plunder and
despoil will move her only the more to vow herself to the
religious life, come what may afterwards.â€
Frank uttered something very like a groan, but did not
dispute the conclusion, only looking curiously at Guy as
he said,——
“Thou speakest of the faith of the Faleoners as if thou
hadst no part nor lot in it. I know that thou wast
brought up differently from the rest. Is thy faith diverse
from theirs too?â€
Guy’s face flushed, and he looked out before him with a
glance of strange intensity ; it was not unlike the expres-
(822) 94
370 THE KING’S COURT.
sion often seen on the face of Ermengarde, only that there
was less of dreamy mysticism and more of purpose and
thought in it, which bespoke a keen reasoning faculty rather
than a habit of ecstatic contemplation.
“T scarce know how to reply to thy question,†he an-
swered. “There be times when I hardly know myself what
part I take in this great struggle. I love the Church—TI love
her through everything, albeit I see the corruptions which
have well-nigh been her ruin, and I long to see her cleansed
therefrom. TI would give to all men the Word of God—
the Lamp of Life. I would fight to the last against the
oppression and the false pretences of the haughty prelate
of Rome, who claims apostolic rights which never have
been and never can be his. J would have men worship
God, and Him alone, and only give love and reverence to
the Blessed Virgin and the holy saints and martyrs.
When it is of these things that these same reformers speak,
I am with them heart and soul, and would almost wish
to be ealled one of them. Yet again they speak other
words which go sore against me. They would pull down
and tear away much—very much that I hold sacred and
dear. They love not the Church as their mother; they
would take from her her food, rob and despoil her of her
own, throw down her altars, ignore her teaching, even
where such teaching is true and pure and God-given,
and let every man be his own guide, his own light, his
own master in all things, spiritual as well as temporal.
When I hear such talk, there be moments when T would
fain turn me back to the old faith once again—the faith
THE KING’S COURT. 371
that was child-like and teachable, and loved not to choose
its own way, but was content to trust and to be guided.
But I weary you with my idle words, good Sir Frank. I
am but a youth, struggling through these mists and per-
plexities into the light which methinks must surely lie
beyond. Thou hast heard all these things discussed a
thousand times before. The musings of a lad like myself
are of no value to any man.â€
“And yet, methinks, would men but learn some of the
moderation which thou speakest, matters might go less
hardly in these dangerous times. But it is well-nigh im-
possible to men to act calmly. They see the evil, and seek
not for the good; their hate waxes hot against the one, and
they rise against it, to plunder and destroy, careless of the
fact that in acting thus the good is swept away with the
evil. But thus it has ever been, and thus it will be, I fear,
so long as the world endures. And now, leaving these
vexed questions, upon which two men scarce can agree
together, tell me more of thyself, and what strange turn
of fortune’s wheel brought thee hither.â€
Guy told his story graphically, and Frank, linking his
arm within that of the youth, walked out with him into
the glades of the Park, where they might speak more at
their ease. His interest in the Faleoner family was very
great, and he was eager to do all in his power to heal the
long-standing feud with his own family, and to atone for
the treachery of his father.
He had heard through the letters of his sister, which
from time to time had reached him, of the strange events
372 THE KING’S COURT.
which had taken place in his absence. Now as he heard
the story in its entirety from Guy, he felt a painful sense
of humiliation rising up within him at the thought of the
malice and treachery of his father. It seemed to him
that it behoved the younger generation of the two rival
houses to band together against the machinations of the
treacherous Lady Falconer and the implacable Lord Os-
baldistone; and although Frank did not contemplate with
pleasure any rupture with his father, he felt that even
this would be better than to lend himself to a course of
action from which all that was noble and generous in his
nature revolted.
Young Frank had developed and matured during his
year of travel, and no doubt his love for Ermengarde had
assisted in this process. He was something more than
the mere butterfly whom Beatrice Fane had slightingly
contemned, and Guy was immediately aware of the
change.
“Has my father been at Court of late?†he asked
quickly, turning upon Guy with some eagerness of manner.
“Never since I have been here,†answered Guy. “ Me-
thinks he is busy on some errand of his Majesty’s, for his
name is mentioned from time to time. But he hath never
been to Greenwich, where the most part of the King’s
time has been spent. I believe he held conference with
the King at Windsor once, but I have not seen him.â€
“He is coming shortly,†answered Frank, who was
speaking musinely. “He bid me repair hither on landing,
as he looked to come himself ere long. Guy, I fear that
LHE KING’S COURT. 373
my father has evil designs against thy sire and thy brother.
What can be done to frustrate them? I would that thy
father would come to Court to plead his own cause. The
French have a shrewd saying, to wit, that it is the
absent ones who are ever in the wrong. And in truth
it seems as if it were thus, so easily is poison instilled into
the minds of those in high places against such as be not
at hand to plead for themselves.â€
“Ay, so I well believe,†answered Guy. “But I fear me
my father would do little to advantage his cause even
were he here. He is a partisan of the cause of the
Church, one who will not hear a word in her dispraise, and
he has grown bitterer than ever of late; as who can wonder,
since thy father, who is leagued to the other side, made
illegal capture of him, and would have done him to death
had not kind Providence watched over and saved him ?
Small wonder if he hates the cause of the reform with a
deadly hatred. It would scarce be safe for him to come
hither: he is not of the stuff that makes Kings’ favourites,
and methinks he might soon fall under the royal displea-
sure, in heu of winning good-will.â€
Frank could well understand this, recollecting something
of the uncompromising conversation of the knight which
he had heard at Wierwold more than a year ago; but he
could not quite give up his point. }
“There is thy brother Geoffrey ,; he is of less stern stuff
than thy father, and a goodly youth withal. Might he
not come hither and gain the notice of the King? He
would surely be able to restrain his speech and act dis-
374 THE KING'S COURT.
ereetly. His Majesty has a keen eye for a new face and
a courtly presence, and methinks thy brother has both.â€
“TI trow he has,†answered Guy, with honest brotherly
pride, “yet I know not if he would come. He loveth not
the air of Courts; and he might fear to run into peril.
Such families as his are looked upon but coldly, and—â€
“Marry go to; tell him that the Queen’s fall is about
to take place, and I warrant me that will bring him fast
enough. See here, good Guy. These May-day jousts
which are about to be celebrated will form the very
excuse we need. Let him come to see them. If he be
skilled in the sport, he might break a lance himself in the
lists. The King is striving hard to bring back again the
days of chivalry, and he will certainly be there to see the
tilting. Bid thy brother come. He would gladly see the
disgrace of the Queen, whom all good Catholics hate. If
report speaks truth, these be the last rejoicings she will
share with her royal spouse. Couldst thou not bring him,
Guy? I would strive that the King should give him
favourable notice, an he were to be there.â€
“T can try,’ answered Guy, whose manner was visibly
disturbed, so much so that Frank observed it, and asked
the cause.
“Marry none but this,†was the ready answer. “My
brother Geoffrey is no friend to the Osbaldistones, and
were the King to speak to him, or ask him of himself
and his kindred, I trow he would up and tell the tale
of this same outrage upon his father inflicted by my
Lord Osbaldistone. There be those who have bidden him
THE KING’S COURT. 375
go ere this to the King with his story, and strive to get
justice done upon his foe. He has never done this, not
certain how any Falconer might be received; but I verily
believe if this chance were to come, he would hold his
peace no longer. Wherefore, since we are speaking to-
gether as friends, I know not how to answer thee.â€
Frank mused somewhat deeply, but raised his head at
last and said,—
“Thou art an honest youth in all faith, Guy, and well
deservest the trust and love I cannot but feel for one so
like to her I love. It is no wish of mine to injure my
father with the King, but right is right and justice is
justice. The Falconers have been sorely wronged, and
ib is but their due to tell of these wrongs. Wherefore,
I say, let thy brother come, an he will, and let him say
to the King what he may please. My father is in favour;
he can tell his own story later. Why should but one
side of the history be known ? Nay; go and do as thou
thinkest best. I will wish thee all good fortune.â€
Frank had reached the stage of existence in which love
becomes a stronger passion than any other. He knew that
his father had planned the ruin of the F alconers, and that
ruin he meant to avert if he could. Eimengarde was
more to him already than the father whose policy he dis-
trusted and whose treachery he loathed. Leaving Guy
to make his way by barge to London to consult with
Geoffrey, he bent his steps again towards the Palace, which
was beginning to deck itself in holiday attire for the
coming gala day, when whom should he meet, round a
376 THE KING’S COURT.
turn in the winding walk he was pursuing, but his sister
Margery, together with beautiful Beatrice Fane.
He stopped short in the greatest amaze. Margery ran
forward and embraced him gleefully, whilst Beatrice swept
him one of her magnificent and half-mocking courtesies.
“Why, how came you hither?†asked the pleased and
astonished Frank. “Is my father here also ?â€
“No; but he will follow ere long. He is about the
King’s business) The dowager Lady Fane, Beatrice’s
crandam, has taken the charge of us. She has lived in
the air of Courts all her life, and knows well how to in-
struct us in the graces and behaviour seemly in the pres-
ence-chamber. When she saw Beatrice, she bewailed that
she had been kept buried alive at Heatheliffe so long.
Methinks she thought she might else have been the Queen
of the realm; for they all talk glibly now behind the
King’s back of a successor to the Lady Anne.â€
“Ay; but she is chosen already, an the voice of rumour
be true,†laughed Beatrice. “I have come too late to win
a throne. I must be content with such poor spoil as I
can find in the person of Duke or Earl.â€
“Or even with a belted knight,†said Margery, with a
mischievous glance at her two companions. Margery had
read between the lines too well not to be aware that no
marriage would ever take place between Beatrice and her
brother ; but she knew that her father’s heart was still
set upon the match, and that there would be a struggle of
will between him and his son,
Frank, however, ignoring the hint, plunged into the
LHE KING'S COURT. 377
history of his recent interview with Guy, and told of the
advice he had given. As Beatrice heard of Geoftrey’s
possible appearance on the morrow, a new light began
to burn in her eyes, and she gave Frank such a vivid
smile of approval as she had not accorded to him all his
life before.
“Thou hast done honourably and well in this,†she sald ;
and when she and Margery were alone in their room high
up in the palace, not far from the lodgings allotted to the
Queen's ladies, she spoke of the increase of manliness and
knightliness in Frank with unwonted warmth, and there
was a light in her eyes more brilliant than her companion
had seen there for long.
A day and night had come and gone. It was the eve of
May-day. The palace and gardens had put on their gayest
apparel, and were a sight to see; and when towards the
decline of day the King and Queen walked forth together
to look upon the fair scene, it scarce appeared as if a
cloud could be resting upon the horizon, so joyous, so gay,
So jocund was the picture which lay spread before their
eyes,
The Park was crowded with spectators of the humbler
sort, who had thronged to the spot, when leave had been
given them, to see their idol (for such Henry always contrived
to be amongst the lower orders), and to gain glimpses of the
gay bevies of courtiers and fair ladies who perambulated
aunidst the raised gardens, sometimes descending to look on
at the rustic sports with which the populace, as was usual
on such occasions, whiled away the time.
378 THE KRING’S COURT.
Henry had taken several excursions amongst these hum-
bler subjects, exchanging friendly jests with them, and
treating them with the bluff familiarity and friendliness so
characteristic of his humour; when he elected to wander,
attended only by some half-dozen gentlemen, through the
more secluded parts of the garden, whether from mere ca-
price, or in search of Mistress Jane Seymour, who was not
in immediate attendance on the Queen that day, no one
hazarded an opinion. Turning a corner of a winding path,
the King suddenly came to a halt, and casting a keen and
lively look at his attendants, drew their attention to a
little seene being enacted before their very eyes. The King
and his gentlemen were standing in the deep shadow of an
avenue of yew trees, which opened out upon a circle of
sunk lawn (as we should call it now), in the centre of
which stood a fountain casting its waters in silvery spray
into the sunny air. Upon the marble edge of this fountain
sab a young girl of some nineteen summers, whose dark and
rich beauty could not but strike all beholders with admira-
tion. This damask beauty was well set off by the pictur-
esque garb she wore—long, sweeping robes of white cut
velvet, richly embroidered all down the front with tiny
pearls and rubies. Little embroidered shoes of the same
peeped from beneath the hem of her robe, whilst the
plumed hat could not conceal the massive abundance of the
silky dark hair. The girl was leaning over the rim of the
fountain in an attitude that showed off the symmetry of the
graceful figure to the greatest advantage, whilst at her feet
lay a fair-haired and comely youth a year or two senior to
THE KING’S COURT. 379
the maiden, who appeared to be pouring passionate protes-
tations into ears that heard him not unwillingly.
“By my troth, but what have we here ?—a veritable
pastoral to delight all hearts,†cried the merry monarch,
who had a keen eye for beauty, meet it where he would,
and who was gazing on the pretty scene with real pleasure
and amusement.
Beatrice, trailing her white hand in the water, and
listening with glowing cheeks to words she had never
before permitted to be addressed to her, was a fair vision
in all truth; whilst the fervour with which Geoffrey was
speaking fired his eye and lighted his countenance in a
fashion that showed his whole heart to be stirred within
him.
“Who are they?†asked the King, turning to his gentle-
men once again; and Sir Kenneth Fane stepped forward to
say,——
“The lady is my sister, inay it please your Grace, brought
for the first time to the Court three days since.â€
“Marry we should have had her here before,†cried the
King, laughing. “Such flowers are nob made to bloom un-
seen. And the youth ?â€
“He is none other than young Geoffrey Falconer,†an-
swered Frank Osbaldistone in his tum: “a very proper
youth, as I trow your Majesty will find in time.â€
“ Falconer, Falconer,†repeated the King, as though the
name were faimiliar. “Methinks I have heard that name
before, and heard no good of it. Whence comes the youth ?â€
“From the north,†answered Frank. “ May it please your
380 DHE KING’S COURT:
Grace to hear his story from his own lips? Men are oft-
times somewhat evil spoken of behind their backs in these
days.â€
The King gave the speaker a keen glance, as though he
suspected that more was meant than met the ear; but he
was in gracious mood that day, and nodded his assent as
he moved forward out of the shadow and saw the engrossed
couple start up at his approach.
Beatrice was quite equal to the occasion when presented
by her brother to the King. The royal Henry chucked
her under the chin, called her “Sweetheart,†as was his
fashion, and asked her many questions about herself, all of
which she answered with charming frankness, and just that
spice of sauciness which most delighted the King when a
young and pretty woman was the speaker. Possibly Beatrice
was aware of this. Possibly she had wit to know that she
might do more for her lover with the kind-hearted but
capricious and changeful monarch than ever he would be
able to achieve for himself. At any rate she showed her-
self to him in her most fascinating guise, and succeeded
in charming him into the best possible humour before he
turned to the companion of her solitude.
“Come, young sir; I would know more of thee too,â€
said Henry, taking him by the arm, in his familiar way,
and pacing the smooth greensward with him.—* Nay,
Sweetheart, draw thou not back. I trow that this gay
gallant has nought to say to his King that his mistress be
not free to hear-—Speak I not the truth, boy? This is
the lady thou wooest for thy wife ?â€
THE KING’S COURT. 381
“ Ay, verily, your Grace, if I may hope to win her; but
I have nought to lay at her feet as yet save my name and
the good sword I wield in your Grace’s service, if need be,
and such small wealth as may scarce be called by the
name, I tremble to ask the boon of her fair hand.â€
“Yet methinks the lady looks kindly on thee, notwith-
standing,†answered the King, with a sly glance at Beatrice’s
glowing face. “And the days be coming when such youths
as thou may have cause to go forth and strike a blow in
defence of your liberties and your King that may end in
knighthood and who knows what beside? So pluck up
heart of grace, good lad, and seek to win thy spurs in
times to come. Then with such a fair lady upon thine
arm, thy King will not be slack to reward thy merits.â€
Geoffrey’s face flushed hotly, but Beatrice made him an
imperative sign to keep silence, and in her own fashion,
Which was sufficiently naive and charming to win favour
from a less indulgent listener, began to tell something of
Geoffrey's history, and the wrongs done to him and his by
the family foe. She named no names for long, but was
well pleased to note the wrathful flush that dyed the
King’s cheek. She spoke with the vehemence yet with
the self-restraint which always characterized her in moments
of excitement; and Frank Osbaldistone, who was eagerly
watching the movements and the gestures of the little
group, felt certain that Geoflrey’s cause was not doing
badly in her hands.
It was some time before the conference ended, and Geof-
frey was often called upon to speak before its conclusion.
382 THE KING’S COURT:
Frank was near enough to hear the last words of the
King before he dismissed the pair.
“T shall not forget thee, Geoffrey Falconer. Methinks
that thou wilt yet live to see matters something differently,
and to be a loyal servant to thy King. I ask not too
much of any man.- I ask not the half of what my Vicar-
General and many other godly men would have me. I too
love and reverence the Church, and would fain cleanse
rather than destroy her. I shall remember -thee in days to
come, and will not forget that thou hast received foul
usage from one of mine own servants, That shall nob be
forgotten. I will have reckoning for it sooner or later. I
would that thou couldest have accepted my offer. I would
fain be served by such as thee, whose conscience is not
seared, who will not stoop to sully it even to gain those
things which this world covets. But thou hast been reared
in a nest of Papacy, and time alone can show thee how
those who love the Church best hate the Pope most.
And now farewell; I shall not forget thee or thy sweet
lady. Meddle not in matters too hard for thee. Be
cautious, be wary, and the day may come when thou shalt
yet rise to fame and fortune on the wreck of thy former
cherished traditions and beliefs.â€
Geoffrey bowed low, hardly knowing whether to be most
astonished at the King’s moderation and generosity (so
contrary to his ideas of what the monarch was when any
ventured to differ from him) or hopeful as to his own future
and that of Beatrice, whose warm heart he knew he had
won. It was well indeed that he had come to Greenwich.
THE KING’S COURT. 383
And before the festivities were over, what might not have
happened to gild the horizon of his future 2
The King, after returning Beatrice’s graceful salute,
strode back to Frank Osbaldistone.
“Is it true that thy father carried off Sir Ralph Falconer
and immured him in a dismal dungeon, where he might
well have perished unknown to all the world ?â€
“I fear me, your Grace, it is but too true.â€
“Thou dost not uphold him in that act?â€
“Nay, your Grace. I would fain live at peace with all
men, and with these neighbours of ours above all. Nor
do I hold it a subject’s place thus to take the law into his
own. hands.â€
“’Sdeath I trow not. Thy father must answer to me
for it. The days may be lawless, the times strange, but
methinks things be come to a fine pass if the King’s sub-
jects act thus. I shall have to speak my mind to him ere
I trust him again.â€
And the King walked off with his gentlemen, leaving
Frank uncertain whether to rejoice or to tremble at the
result of his diplomatic attempt on Geoffrey’s behalf.
CHAPTER XX.
THE DANCE OF DEATH.
\ \ ]WATEVER might, under other circumstances, have
been the possible result of the King’s favourable
disposition towards Geoffrey Falconer, the terrible and ex-
citing events which closely followed upon the interview
served effectually to banish from the mind of the monarch
all present interest in minor matters, and to set the whole
Court and kingdom in such a ferment that individual
interests and ambitions seemed for a time merged in the
general excitement, dismay, or gratification attendant upon
the fall of one Queen and the rapid accession of another.
The story of the May-day jousts at Greenwich is too
well known to need repetition here. Lord Rochford, the
Queen’s brother, and Sir Henry Norris had been tilting
together, when the King suddenly rose up with every mark
of deep displeasure upon his face, left the Palace and Court
without a word of explanation, and rode off with a small
band of gentlemen to London. Rumour declared that the
Queen had, by accident or design, dropped a handkerchief
into the lists, which Norris had rashly picked up and
carried to his lips. But though this incident may possibly
have been like the match that fires the train, the train
THE DANCE OF DEATH. 385
itself had been laid before, and the explosion could in no
case have been long delayed.
Within three weeks from those fatal jousts five persons
had perished upon the scaffold, after their trial before some
of the most upright and illustrious men of the day. Lord
Rochford, Sir Henry Norris, Sir Francis Weston, Sir
William Brereton, and Mark Smeton died by the hand of
haneman or executioner; and more terrible still to read
of, on the nineteenth day of the same month the un-
happy Anne Boleyn was led to her death, speaking with
her last breath in’ praise of her royal husband, and making
no denial of her unfaithfulness to him.
Upon receiving the news that the late Queen was no
more, the King, who was professedly out hunting, set spurs
to his horse, and attended by a few of his most faithful
courtiers—-amongst whom was Lord Osbaldistone, who had
come to be with his King during these dark days of trial
and anxiety—rode off forthwith to the home where Jane
Seymour’s father dwelt, and where that lady had recently
retired. Upon the very next day the marriage between
them was solemnized, and Henry brought his third Queen
in state to his Court.
As the King had now to meet his Parliament, Westmin-
ster Palace became the home of the Court, and thither Guy
Falconer repaired, still in the train of the Duke of Richmond.
The position of this young man had become more import-
ant than ever. The Princess Mary had long been pro-
nounced to be illegitimate. The same fate now befell her
sister, the youthful Princess Elizabeth. Thus it stood that
(822) 25
386 THE DANCE OF DEATH.
the King had no lawful child of his own, and the crown
upon his death (should no more children be born to him)
would pass to the King of Scots. But surrounded by dif-
ficulties as was the present question of the succession, the
Parliament took an extraordinary step, and cut the knot
by a decree which gave to the King the right to leave the
Crown by will to whom he would,—thus placing in his
hands the power to raise any of his children to the throne
in his place, without regard to the slur upon their birth.
The confidence thus shown by the country towards the
King at such a juncture goes far to show that, with all his
faults and failings, there was something in the character
of the man which inspired trust, affection, and respect.
No other sovereign had gained from his people such a
tribute of confidence and subservience; and yet it was not
obtained by any desire or artifice of his own, but was
granted by the representatives of the nation as their own
free act.
The Court, as has before been stated, was at Westmin-
ster, and Guy was the first to take the news of this fresh
statute to the Duke of Richmond. By that time he had
become greatly attached to his young master, with whom he
was a decided favourite. The Duke had of late appeared
somewhat languid and ailing, and Guy had been much in
request to beguile the time by reading to him, or by playing
shovel-board within doors or bowls upon the smooth green
without. He and the Duke were nearly of an age, and
had many tastes in common. Guy could not but think,
directly the news was told, that the King might well con-
THE DANCE OF DEATH. 387
sider the advantage likely to accrue to the kingdom from
his entailing the crown upon a youth so like in disposition
to his own royal self. Doubtless if the new Queen had
children, they would stand first; but failing any such,
would not this son be the likeliest person to wear the
crown? Already it was whispered all through the Palace
that the Duke might well live to be King.
But when Guy went to his private apartments with the
news, his story was listened to by the young Duke with a
strange smile.
“Good Guy, thou art faithful and true; but methinks
thine eyes are blinded by thy love. Canst thou look
on me and on my royal father and think that I shall ever
wear his crown? Why, my name will almost cease to be
remembered amongst men long ere he hag given up his
kingly state.â€
Guy turned a startled, troubled face towards the Duke,
and it seemed as if the scales fell from his eyes. That face
was indeed hollow and white. Save in moments of anima-
tion, it looked strangely wan and worn. The young man
seldom rode abroad now as heretofore, and spent the greater
part of his time upon his couch. Guy had thought that
the heat of the weather and the excitement of recent events
had tried him, but had not believed him really ill. This
sudden revelation struck cold upon him; he threw himself
before his master, and besought him not to give himself
up, but to call in medical assistance and strive to regain
his lost strength. Only a few months back he had been
strong and hearty ; why might he not be so again ?
388 THE DANCE OF DEATH.
“Nay, that I cannot tell thee; but some voice within
me speaks in accents I may not choose but hear. That
voice tells me that my days are numbered—that I shall
shortly be called to my last account. What, then, is it
to me if all the empires of the world were mine? We
must pass alone and bereft of all worldly splendour into
that silent land beyond the tomb. ‘To reconcile myself
with my God ere I pass hence is all I need to think of
now. Trouble me not, good Guy, with any thoughts of
earth ; they come but too readily of themselves. It is of
the holy things and eternal that I would henceforth speak
and think.â€
Guy was terribly shocked and startled by this revelation,
which came upon him like a thunderbolt. He stole away
from the Duke, who shortly fell into a light slumber, and
seeking the King in his own private closet, he told him
with tears in his eyes what his son had recently said.
Henry was greatly perturbed, for Richmond was very
dear to him, and in the present state of affairs his life
might be of the greatest value to the nation. The King’s
own physicians were instantly summoned and bidden to
repair to the Duke’s apartments, where Henry himself fol-
lowed them; and after long consultation the young man
was transported by barge to Greenwich, in the hope that
the freer air of the country would be beneficial to him.
But this proved a vain hope. The insidious disease,
which had made great strides before its presence was sus-
pected even by the patient himself, was little understood
in those days. The young man took a chill upon the
THE DANCE OF DEATH. 389
water as he was being conveyed to Greenwich, and when
he was laid in his bed, in a pleasant apartment overlook-
ing the river, he turned to Guy and said in a low voice,—
“I never thought to love my bed so well. Methinks I
love it now so well that I would fain think I should rise
from it no more.â€
“Nay; say not so, dear my lord,†answered Guy, who
was only too much afraid that this anticipation would be
realized. But the Duke smiled and said,—
“Nay; why not? Rest is a marvellous pleasant thing
to the weary, and methinks this life is but a troublous,
empty thing at best. Send yon fellows from the room,
and stay by me thyself alone. I would hear more of
those good words thou tellest me thou hast learned from
the friends of thy youth. Were I not a prince, and
fettered by much that cumbers not the liberties of others,
I would fain have gone to some place where I might have
asked those same saintly women of whom thou speakest to
visit and talk with me. For when thou speakest as I
have never heard man speak before, thou ever sayest that
it was Madam Garth or her daughter who told the words
to thee. And I have heard the like of them from Sir
Kenneth Fane.â€
To talk of Esther and her mother, and of the influence
upon him of their home, was always a keen pleasure to
Guy, now that he was thrown entirely among strangers.
Even Diccon had had to leave him when the spring came,
his duty to his father calling him back to his work at the
Inn. He left Guy reluctantly, but could not see that any
390 THE DANCE OF DEATH.
peril threatened him. He seemed likely to swim prosper-
ously with the tide of popular favour, and was one of the
few individuals who appeared to conciliate the good-will
of all he came across, whatever their opinions and what-
ever their party might be. Guy was too obscure as a
simple private gentleman to win over-much attention, save
what his own charm of manner and graces of person
gained him, and these notices were always favourable.
Guy had not tried to keep his foster-brother with
him; indeed he had thought it his duty to urge him to
return to his father, as had been promised. He hoped
himself to return to the north before very long; but the
excitement about public affairs and the illness of the Duke
hindered him from forming any independent plans. Yet,
inasmuch as he did at times feel his loneliness and the
strangeness of the circumstances in which he was placed,
it was pleasure to him to talk of friends he had known
and loved, and of the teaching which had done so much to
enlarge his mind and give him a fuller appreciation of the
movements of the day, whether for evil or for good; and
the happiest hours of his life in these days had been when,
with Kenneth Fane or his own youthful master, he had
been engrossed in talk about the past, and especially when
his friends the Garths had been the theme of conversation.
The young Duke of Richmond sank rapidly after his
removal to the Palace at Greenwich, and died within ten
days of his arrival there. But no one, not even he himself,
looked for such a speedy close to his career, and until the
very hour when he fell into the swoon from which he
THE DANCE OF DEATH. 391
never recovered, he did not appear to be in any immediate
peril, and was able to take a considerable interest in what
went on around him.
His pleasant bedchamber overlooked a certain and
rather obscure part of the garden, bordering upon the
river, and from his bed the Duke could overlook what
went on upon the wide plain of water and within the
grounds of the Palace.
One day when Guy had been absent from him for an
hour or more, he returned to find Richmond looking more
animated and interested than usual. His eyes were fixed
upon the window, and without withdrawing his glance he
beckoned Guy to approach, and pointed to a pair of figures
pacing the secluded walk below.
Guy looked down, and recognized with a start the well-
known faces and forms of his brother Geoffrey and the
beautiful Beatrice Fane, who had been recently enrolled
amongst the Queen’s ladies.
“Dost know them?†asked Richmond, smiling. “I trow
they be the lovers my royal father surprised in the spring
time. I wot that Mistress Beatrice Fane was one of those,
and I may not believe of so fair a damsel that she changes
her lovers with every moon. He is a goodly youth.
Knowest thou his name and rank ?â€
Now Guy was a good deal disturbed at seeing his
brother here. He knew that Lord Osbaldistone was now
at Court, and high in the King’s favour. True, he knew
too that Henry had heard that of him which had appeared
at the moment to rouse his royal displeasure. But the
392 THE DANCE OF DEATH.
monarch had been treading in slippery places of late, and
had needed all his faithful servants about him. Lord
Osbaldistone was a man who well knew how to trim his
sails to the wind, and how to conciliate and cajole his
royal master. The exciting events which had immediately
followed the hearing of Geoffrey’s story would doubtless
drive all else from Henry’s mind. Whether or not he had
ever rebuked his ambitious servant was known only to the
pair themselves, and it was plain that the courtier was as
high in favour as ever. Geoffrey had been straightforward
and frank in his interview with the King, and his bold
honesty had won favourable comment from Henry. But
the moods of the monarch were never to be depended upon.
What might one day please him might upon the next give
dire offence; and if Lord Osbaldistone were to find the
youth hanging about the Court and paying his addresses
to his rich ward, there might be mischief done which
would be hard enough to undo. Hence Guy’s anxiety
at his brother’s unexpected appearance in the gardens of
the Palace. He had not seen Geoffrey, save at the house
of his own friends in London, since his one and successful
attempt to gain the friendly regard of the King.
“How came he here?†asked Guy quickly, and in a
voice which at once arrested Richmond’s attention.
“Marry by a small wherry that the tide carried bravely
to yon steps as it ebbed towards the sea. I trow he will
depart in like manner when the tide turns, as it shortly
will. He came all alone; a right goodly youth and faith-
ful lover, I take it. I wish him good luck with all my
THE DANCE OF DEATH. 393
heart. He has a marvellous beauteous lady to woo. Dost
know him thyself, good Guy ?â€
“Ay, verily, he is my brother,†answered Guy, speaking
on a sudden impulse, “and I fear me he is in sore danger
here. If it be known to my Lord Osbaldistone that he is
wooing Mistress Beatrice Fane, he is scarce like to escape
his malice in some form or other.â€
“Thy brother!†ejaculated Richmond. « Marry, if thou
hast a brother I will take his part, and all shall be well.
Bring him hither to me. For thy sake I will love him,
and for my sake my father will stand betwixt him and
danger. Let him come hither; I would fain speak with
him myself.â€
But Guy shook his head, and then, having told so much,
he poured the whole story of his strange and chequered
life into the Duke’s ear, Richmond listening with pro-
found attention, and gradually understanding the whole
of the complex relations which existed in the Falconer
family,
“Lord Osbaldistone is no mean enemy,†said he thought-
fully, at the close of the story, “and I wot well that he
has already done much to poison my father’s mind against
many of his subjects in the north, and especially against
one Sir Ralph Falconer, whose name I have heard upon
his lips many times. Thou wilé do well to warn thy
brother. Times are perilous, and these troubles have
preyed upon my royal father till his mood and temper are
not to be depended upon. He might promise me any boon
T'asked, now that I lie here sick to death. But such a
394 THE DANCE OF DEATH.
promise might well be forgotten later, and it were better
thy brother should not give fresh cause of offence to my
Lord Osbaldistone. I would bid him refrain from coming
wooing this fair maid. He and she may alike be in peril
from it. The gardens are public; the Palace is full of eyes.
If this same thing be reported to Lord Osbaldistone, it
may be the worse for thy brother.â€
“JT trow that well; I knew not that he came. I knew
that he loved Mistress Beatrice, and I have taken letters
betwixt them; but I would not that he adventured himself
into danger.†|
“Warn the lady; let her warn him. Maybe he will
heed her better than he would thee.â€
“JT will do so,’ answered Guy. “But Mistress Beatrice
hath a wondrous courage. She fears not any man, I ween,
and for herself would laugh peril to scorn.â€
“Ay, but not for her lover, as thou wilt see,†said Rich-
mond, with a shrewd smile. “Thou must tell her that
he is in peril; she will heed thee well then.â€
But Guy had no opportunity of speaking to Beatrice or
of visiting his brother during the days which followed, and
once again he and the Duke were witnesses to a meeting of
the lovers similar to that which had been observed by them
before. Richmond showed himself very much interested
in Guy’s true history, as related by him with the full
details as to his parentage and birth, and he made hin
go over all the particulars again and again, being greatly
interested also in Frank Osbaldistone’s love for Ermengarde,
and the prospect of the release of all novices from the life
THE DANCE OF DEATH. 395
to which they had not bound themselves by vow. There
was talk, too, of the vows of young nuns being cancelled,
which in any case might make Ermengarde legally free, if
she could only learn to look wpon herself as released. The
suppression of religious houses had been begun with ener ey,
and numbers of the younger monks and nuns were rejoicing
in their restoration to the world——some having been buried
in cloisters against their will by covetous or tyrannical
relatives; others having rushed into the religious life with-
out the least idea of the effect it would produce upon
them. Now the world of the Court was teeming with
stories of the abuse and corruption of the monastic system,
and the dire necessity there had been for drastic measures
of reform.
The other side of the picture was not heeded much by
those who surrounded the King. Guy and the Duke
heard of nothing but the evils laid bare, the corruptions
exposed to the light of day, and could not but think that
the gentle and pious Ermengarde, after her year’s experi-
ence amongst scenes such as were openly declared to be
the rule in all religious houses, would hail as a welcome
deliverance the measures which opened the Convent gates,
and enabled her to shake off the polluted dust from her
feet, and return to the home in which her pure and happy
girlhood had been spent.
“If she would but marry Lord Osbaldistone’s son, the
family feud would be healed,†said Richmond onee, And
then he lay looking out before him very earnestly, and
finally bid Guy retire and get some sleep whilst the priest,
396 THE DANCE OF DEATH.
whom he generally liked to visit him each day, was ad-
mitted to his side.
When Guy returned two or three hours later, Richmond
was holding in his hand a sealed letter which, as the lad
could not fail to see, was addressed to the King.
This letter he placed in Guy’s hands.
“ Keep it,†he said, in answer to the youth’s wonderine
glance. “T would have thee keep it until the day of need
comes,â€
“And when will that be?†asked Guy perplexed.
“Nay, that I know not; but I trow it will come,â€
answered Richmond dreamily ; and then rousing up at sight
of Guy’s look of bewilderment, he spoke more clearly and
intelligibly.
“See here, Guy,†said the Duke, “and I will tell thee
what isin my mind. Men say that these great changes
will not be wrought throughout England without more
turmoil and strife than we have known as yet. All who
come from the north, and notably from Yorkshire, where
thy father dwelleth, say that men there are not ripe for
reform, as we in the south, and that there be hundreds and
thousands who will rise in arms and repel force by force.
I trow, if this be so, that thy father will be in the foremost
ranks of those who make stand for the Church (as they
believe) against the King, and that thy brother will fly to
his side to be with him in the hour of peril. Thinkest
thou not this thyself ?â€
“Ay, truly, I fear it may be so.â€
“And inasmuch as IJ love thee, Guy, and should be sad
THE DANCE OF DEATH. 397
to think that harm might fall on thee or on thine—for
thou wouldst feel it as much if it befell them as if it befell
thee—I have written this letter upon my death-bed to my
royal father, and I give it here to thee, Tf in days to
come thy kindred have done that which shall make them
tebels in the eyes of the law, and shall on that account
incur the displeasure of the King, then be it thy place to
seek him and deliver to him this letter. I know not
what its power may be; but he loves me, and a message
from the dead may move him. It is all I can do, and it
is better to leave such missive with thee, to be given should
occasion warrant, than for me to speak now. He would
grant me everything I should ask, I doubt not; but- time
would erase the memory of such promise from his mind.
"Twere better he should hear my words when the moment
for supplication has come. Good Guy, it is all I can do for
thee in return for thy faithful service. Heaven send that
it may be useful in days to come, and be of value to thee
and thine !â€
Guy took the paper and carefully placed it within the
breast of his doublet, raising the languid hand of the Duke
to his lips as he did so, in token of the deep gratitude he
felt. That letter appeared to him almost in the light of a
talisman. He knew the King’s affection for his son, and
could well believe that a message from that dead hand
would powerfully affect him, even in the hour of his ex:
tremest wrath. Guy had never doubted for a moment
that if rebellions should break out in the north, against
these Sweeping innovations upon traditions that had al-
308 THE DANCE OF DEATH.
ways been held most dear and sacred, his father would be
foremost in the ranks of the rebels, and that Geoffrey
would be found at his side, from a sense of filial duty as
much as from ardour in the cause. With open rebellion
on the part of the Falconers on one hand, and with Lord
Osbaldistone’s machinations and malevolence on the other,
there had appeared little hope indeed of anything but the
most complete ruin for all who bore that name. What
Guy’s own course would be under such circumstances he
had been quite unable to determine; all he could resolve
upon was to do everything in his power to watch over his
brother, and shield him from harm if it were possible.
With this letter in his possession, he felt that this might
not be a forlorn hope, and the thanks he poured into
the Duke of Richmond’s ear were heartfelt in their grati-
tude and sincerity.
It was but two days later that the prince died. Guy
was with him to the last. The King was also present,
and gave way to uncontrollable grief, calling upon the
name of his son, and imploring him to answer, if only by
one word. But the youne man never awoke from the
state of death-like unconsciousness into which he had sunk,
and passed away with the first dawn of day. It was Guy
who had been the recipient of his last words, before he or
any one about him knew that the end was so near; ac-
cordingly during the next days, before the mortal remains
of the Duke were committed to the grave, Guy was sent
for almost daily into the royal presence, to answer questions
relative to his last hours, and to recall for the henefit of
THE DANCE OF DEATH. 399
the stricken father everything he could remember of words
recently spoken by him,
Each time Guy was so summoned, he was dismissed with
a handsome gift, either a costly jewel or a purse of gold
pieces ; and when the effects of the Duke were distributed
according to his wishes, Guy found himself a richer man
than he had ever looked to be, and had at his disposal
funds amply sufficient to support him in comfort and even
luxury for many a day to come.
But he had no desire to remain longer at Court, and
asked leave to return to his own home. This petition
was at once granted to him, and he was free from that
time forward to make his own arrangements.
He was just considering what should be his next step,
and whether he had better leave Geoffrey in the security
of his insignificance in London, where his movements had
attracted little or no attention, and where he seemed far
removed from the strife that it was feared would soon
shake the remoter parts of England, or whether he had
better persuade him to return to the north, where he might
be under his father’s roof,_when an incident occurred
which decided the matter, and which brought his own resi-
dence at the Court and in the neighbourhood of London
to an abrupt conclusion.
Lord Osbaldistone was of course utterly ignorant of
Guy’s true name, or of his connection with the Falconer
family. He had seen him in attendance upon the Duke of
Richmond, and knew that he was high in favour with the
King. He therefore, if they chaneed to encounter each
400 THE DANCE OF DEATH.
other in the Palace, passed him with a friendly word of
greeting ; and Guy would courteously respond, trying to
look upon him rather as the father of Frank and Margery
than the hereditary foe of his own house.
And so it came to pass that when Lord Osbaldistone one
day burst into the apartments of Sir Kenneth Fane (where
Guy chanced to be, talking with their owner) the presence
of the young courtier laid no restraint upon him, and he
spoke as freely as though he and Kenneth were alone
together,
Lord Osbaldistone’s face was distorted by rage; he
looked the impersonation of blind fury. Guy drew back
instinctively with a sense of repulsion, whilst Kenneth
asked what had happened so to disturb him.
“Marry, enough to set any honest man’s blood boiling in
his veins. Kenneth, where have thine eyes been all these
weeks? What hast thou been doing, that thy sister is thus
playing the wanton with any young gallant who may cast
his eyes upon her?â€
But Sir Kenneth drew himself up to his full height, and
interrupted Lord Osbaldistone with scant ceremony.
“YT pray you, sir, speak with more respect of my sister,
an you desire a hearing from me. Moreover it is you,
and not I, who have the guardianship of that lady. I am
not responsible for her conduct, albeit I will stake my life
that there be nothing in it but what is true and pure
‘and right. What wish you to complain of ?â€
“Verily, enough to put an honest man in a choler—
though I meant nought to the discredit of the lady,†an-
THE DANCE OF DEATH. 401
swered the other, changing his tone somewhat as he met
Kenneth’s stern eyes. “But thou knowest, good friend,
how that a marriage betwixt her and my son has long been
planned, and how that thou didst wish it as much as I.â€
“TI was ready enough to fall in with thy humour on
that point years back, when they were but children, and it
seemed like that they would learn to love each other. But
methinks my sister has never cared for thy son save as a
brother, and she is not a damsel to be coerced, as doubtless
thou knowest. But thou hast spoken of some gallant whom
she favours. Who may that same be? And what hast
thou against him? He may be an excellent match for my
fair sister, for all thou hast shown to the contrary.â€
“Marry, I know not his name—I know not who he
be; and the saucy minx, when I surprised her in the very
act of receiving his kisses, bade him begone to his boat
ere I could have speech of him, and he was far enough
away ere I could stop him. But I marked him well, and
T marked the wherry, and I can soon discover all I need
of him. He shall answer to me for this day’s work, be
he who he may.â€
Kenneth gave Guy one quick glance, and then said
quietly,—
“If his love be honourably tendered and received (and
if thou hintest otherwise thou wilt have to answer it to me
at the sword’s point), I know not by what law thou canst
interpose betwixt them. Thy power as guardian will not
last for ever. And I trow if thou wert tyrannous and
shouldst exceed thy just rights, the lady would appeal to
(322) 26
402 THE DANCE OF DEATH.
his Majesty straight—she is high in favour with both King
and Queen—and thou wouldst be taught that there be
limits to the powers of a guardian over a maiden’s heart.
But leaving that, what said Beatrice? Was she shamed to
be thus caught?â€
“Shamed! never a bit was she, the saucy vixen. She
waved a farewell to her lover before my very eyes, and
turning with a grand courtesy would have left me, but that
I caught her hand and held her fast.â€
“ And what said she?â€
“ My lady was first forced to listen to what I had to
say, and when I had done my discourse she made another
reverence, and bid me ask my son Frank what he thought
of the match betwixt them twain.â€
“ And didst thou follow this counsel ? â€
Lord Osbaldistone’s face was blacker than ever; the veins
on his forehead swelled and stood out. It was plain that
his interview with young Frank had been no more satis-
factory than the one with Beatrice.
“Ay, that did I—and to hear what, thinkest thou?
Why, that my son has thrown away his heart upon a
nun—a nun, mark ye that—and that the malapert boy
looks to the suppression of these religious houses to give
him back his lady-love. I will soon see to that.†Lord
Osbaldistone paused, and ground his teeth in such an ac-
cess of fury that Kenneth looked on in amaze, and was
scarcely surprised when the angry man broke out more
vehemently than ever,—
“And whom think ye this nun or novice may be?
THE DANCE OF DEATH. 403
Hard work had I to get at the secret: no wonder the
boy was shamed to speak such a name in my hearing.
A daughter of the house of Falconer, forsooth! A pest
on the whole recreant brood! T will destroy them root
and branch. The time is coming, the time is all but come,
when I may do this, and then I will strike and not spare.
The cursed brood shall cumber no more the ground. Nor
Convent wall nor fortress grim shall withhold them from
my hand. I will smite them hip and thigh, And as
for this fool’s fancy of a raw boy—phew! Beatrice could
drive it from his head by one loving glance from her dark
eyes. I will not be thwarted thus. I have laid my plans
—I will be obeyed. First to discover this gay young
gallant who dares to come wooing without my leave—I
trow he will not come again after I have caught him ;
then to show young Frank his duty, and get rid of the
nun; and then he and Beatrice shall wed forthwith, as
they might have wed a year or more agone.â€
“My sister shall not be coerced, Lord Osbaldistone,â€
said Kenneth gravely. “If she weds your son, it will be
by her own free will and by that alone. As for your
hatred to the Falconers, you know I have never agreed
with you there. I caution you how you proceed in that
matter. It has been reported here that the King has not
been best pleased by what he has heard touching your
action in this matter.â€
Lord Osbaldistone’s face flushed crimson. Plainly he
had received a rebuke which rankled keenly; but it had
in no wise diminished his hatred for the Falconers,
404 THE DANCE OF DEATH.
Guy stayed to hear no more; he had learned enough.
Lord Osbaldistone was a man of prompt action, unscrupu-
lous mind, and keen cunning. He would most certainly
track down Geoffrey ere many hours had fled; and when
he discovered that this gay gallant, who was on the road
towards thwarting one of his most treasured designs for
family aggrandizement, was but another of these same
hated Falconers, it was scarce likely that Geoffrey would
escape his malice. In the alleys and by-ways of the city
many a deed of darkness was committed which was never
brought to light, and the great rolling river carried away
to the ocean many dire secrets never revealed to man.
Guy knew this well and shuddered, and forthwith took
boat to London. Within twenty-four hours he and Geof-
frey were far away, journeying towards Yorkshire by the
indirect road of the eastern counties and Lincolnshire.
CHAPTER XXT.
WITHIN THE CLOISTER.
i ISTER MONICA, why dost thou, why does the
S Reverend Mother, bid me wait yet longer ere I
take my vows? I have been a full year within these walls.
I love the cloister as my home. Why must I yet wait ?
Why may I not vow myself for ever ?â€
It was Ermengarde who thus spoke, and she was seated
upon the side of the narrow pallet bed upon which Sister
Monica was lying. The Sister’s wan face bore traces of
recent illness, and her beautiful golden-brown hair, lightly
touched with silver, lay unbound upon the pillow, giving
a strange softening beauty to the wasted features and the
hollow brilliance of the large eyes. As the novice thus
spoke, the nun stretched out her thin white hand, and its
fingers closed close over those of the girl.
“My daughter, my child—for methinks I love thee as
though thou wert mine own—listen to the voice of one
Who has trodden the path before thee, and be not in haste.
How canst thou, so young, so ardent, so untried, know
thine own heart? Be counselled by one who has been
through deep waters—be not in haste.â€
406 WITHIN THE CLOISTER.
Ermengarde’s cheeks glowed with sudden joy at hearing
herself addressed in such terms by Sister Monica—at
hearing that she was beloved by the being within those
walls to whom she looked up with the utmost admira-
tion and veneration. Sister Monica was in general so
quiet and so reserved as to her feelings that it was not
possible to judge of their depth or intensity. But Ermen-
garde had felt, since she had taken upon herself the office
of nurse, when the Sister fell ill of a wasting fever, that
they were being drawn more closely together, and in these
words she received the reward for all her patient vigils
and hours of anxious tendance.
She bent her head and imprinted a kiss upon the hand
she held, and as a faint smile shone over the wasted
features she took courage to continue her theme.
“T have waited a whole year. What more should I
do? Is it not given to all novices to make their vows
after that ?â€
“ And how many of those who thus make them would
unmake them, were it possible, ere a few more years have
fled ?â€
Ermengarde looked at the Sister in doubt and wonder.
“What dost thou mean? What wouldest thou have
me think by such words?â€
“ Daughter,’ answered Sister Monica earnestly, “thou
livest yet in a world of thine own—that world which
surrounds us in the first morning of our life, when the
glamour of dawn hangs upon our steps, and the scorching
sun of the meridian of life hath not gained the power to dis-
WITHIN THE CLOISTER. 407
sipate those mists of sweet illusion and fond dreams which
throw rainbow tints upon the path we tread. Thou art
still in the rainbow mists; thou canst see life, even the
cloister life, as thy fancy paints it—a life of devotion, of
self-denial, of obedience, of communion with Christ. and
His saints. To thee it is such; long may it so continue!
But to how many others in this house thinkest thou that it
is such? Hast thou eyes and ears? What lessons have
they taught thee during this year which has passed ?â€
Ermengarde’s dark eyes dilated with something akin to
horror as she heard the dim misgivings with which she
had been from time to time assailed thus clad in the garb
of words. She strove to evade the question.
“T have lived so much with thee, Sister,†she said; “and
when I have not been with thee, I have been in the
Chapel, praying to the Holy Mother of God. I have not
seen much, have not heard much. What wouldest thou
have me say ?â€
“Child, child,’ answered the nun with glowing eyes, as
she fixed them keenly upon the down-bent face of the
novice, “ why dost thou fear to look around thee and listen ?
Why dost thou need to blind thine eyes and close thine
cars? Thou wouldest not do so but that thou fearest
what thou mayest hear and _ see. My daughter, I am
speaking to thee to-day from the very depths of my heart.
Thou must do likewise to me. Thou hast lived a full year
in this house, amongst us of the Sacred Heart. Tell me,
and tell me truly, what that life has taught thee. What
think the Sisters of their vows? What dost thou hear
408 WITHIN THE CLOISTER.
when thou sittest at work with them—when thou workest
at the daily tasks where speech is permitted to pass
betwixt them? Fear not to look into thine own heart.
Believe me, child, no good thing has ever yet come from
blinding the eyes and fearing to face the truth, be that
truth what it may.â€
“ But,†broke out Ermengarde with sudden vehemence,
“T find it not in thee, Sister Monica, nor in the Reverend
Mother. Why may I not be like unto thee and her?
Why need I—â€
The nun stopped her by a gesture.
“The Reverend Mother is truly one of God’s saints upon
earth. We may strive and pray to be made like unto her,
but it is not given to all to attain what she has done.
And as for me—child, child, didst thou know all that lay
within this heart of mine, never wouldst thou speak again
of me! O my child, it is perchance to save thee from
such a fate as mine that I warn thee to watch, and bid
thee heed well what thou hast seen and heard betwixt
these walls, ere thou speakest again of taking thy vows.â€
Ermengarde’s eyes were fixed intently upon Sister
Monica’s face: her words seemed to be drawn from her
almost without her own volition.
“There has been of late great unrest amongst the Sisters
—I know not why. They talk of things with which we
have no concern ; they abide not by the rules, as they once
did; and they are eager to hear all news from without.
They have spoken things adverse to their vows, and have
rebelled sometimes against the fasts, the vigils, the pen-
WITHIN THE CLOISTER. 409
ances enjoined. All this have I observed, but methought
it was sin to speak or think of it.â€
“ Nay, child ; if there be sin, the sin is not thine. Know-
est thou not the meaning of this same strange restlessness
which thou hast seen 2â€
Ermengarde shook her head. She lived too entirely in
her own world of dreams to heed overmuch the things she
heard.
“Then I will tell thee, my daughter, and be thou the
judge whether, knowing this, thou yet desirest to take upon
thee vows which shall bind thee to us for ever. The wave,
that erst would have been called a great wave of heresy
(now men give it another name), which is sweeping over
this land, and surging against all Convent doors, bursting
them open, and carrying away on its crest those who are
found within, is advancing steadily upon us. Ere long it
will be here. Ere long these gates will be forced open ;
our peaceful home will perchance be taken from us, Some
of us may find asylum within one of the few houses which
may be spared; the rest will have liberty to return to their
homes and their friends. The younger nuns will be re-
leased from their vows—by what authority let them who
lead this movement say. Others not so released will yet
dwell amongst their kindred again, and learn in some sort
to mingle with the world. The old life will be no more.
A new reign will begin; God alone knoweth how it will
end.â€
Ermengarde shrank back with a look of horror on her
face.
410 WITHIN THE CLOISTER.
“Oh, they will not dare—they will not dare!â€
“Child, child, the work hath already begun—it is being
carried on fast, and with what result thou wilt soon know.
Think what thou hast seen and heard even within these
walls alone. Is it with loathing and horror that our
Sisters hear and think of these things? Nay; rather is it
with a sense of exultation and joy. They have lived in
the cloister, they know what they find there, and they
are longing already for the world again, if they may gain
it by means of the change which is coming, the sin of
which may not be laid to their charge.â€
“ But not all of them—oh surely not all!†cried Ermen-
garde, with a look of horror and distress.
“Perhaps not all,†answered Sister Monica, thoughtfully -
and sadly, “but enough to show that this cloister life hath
proved a grievous disappointment to very many. I am
one of the oldest here. I have seen the Sisters come in
one by one, full of ardour, of zeal and self-devotion. Hadst
thou asked them, when the time came for them to take
the vows, whether they desired to draw back, they would
have said, even as thou dost, that nought could change
their earnest purpose. And yet, what say they now?
Where is that love of prayer, of fasting, of long vigils
and hard penances? And whose is the fault—the sin ?
Is it theirs? Are they not kind and loving and gentle
women? May we speak or think hardly of them in
this? But where is that ecstatic devotion which of old
would chain them to their knees, as it still doth thee, my
daughter, for long hours at a time? Where is that faith
WITHIN THE CLOISTER. ALI
which pierces even the clouds, and sees strange visions of
glory? Hear we of such visions, such glory now? And
yet are not these women the same? Have they broken
their vows? Have they openly fallen away? Whose
is the fault that their first love wanes, that their ardour
cools? Child, thy face is full of fear and pain. Dost
think that the day may dawn in the which thou wilt find
that thy love too has grown cold and dead ?â€
Ermengarde shrank back pale and trembling.
“Ah, say it not—say it not!†she implored; “sooner
would I die.â€
A strange smile passed over the face of the nun.
“That choice, my daughter, is not often given us,†she
answered, with deep and settled gravity. “The death of
the body is no hard thing to those who love not life.
Tenfold more hard and bitter is that slow death of those
bright hopes and visions and purposes which made the joy,
the happiness, the very soul of the life within these walls
—the gradual dying away of the beatific vision, the reali-
zation of the words of the Preacher, ‘ Vanity of vanities ;
all is vanity, â€
“ But, Sister Monica, Sister Monica, thou hast not found
it so?†cried Ermengarde, in a sort of agony.
The same strange smile was upon the wan face.
“Have I not, my daughter? Thinkest thou that I have
not lived through the blessed Hope of being found worthy
to be called the Bride of Christ ?—that I have not fasted
and prayed until the link betwixt body and spirit is so
slackened that the soul can go soaring away into illimitable
412 WITHIN THE CLOISTER.
space ? Thinkest thou that I have not lived through
that blessedness, that ecstasy, that vivid sense of the near-
ness of the Lord and His saints; and yet—â€
But Ermengarde put out her hand in a gesture of pas-
sionate entreaty.
“Nay: say not that it is all a fantasy, a dream, a
mockery,†she entreated ; “methinks my heart will break.â€
The nun stretched out her hand and laid it upon that
of the girl.
“God forbid, my daughter, that I should say aught
which should throw a weight upon thy spirit to check its
upward flight. The Lord is nigh to us; His Presence is
over and around us, here and everywhere. Ay, therein
lieth the whole core of the matter. We sought to reach
Him by hiding our heads beneath the shrouding veil, by
vowing ourselves to Him in our own way. And behold
the lesson of life is this: that He is no nigher to us within
these walls than He is in the world without; that we have
shut ourselves out from the joys and the blessings which
make the happiness of human life; and that we have earned
no greater right to call Him Father and Lord than we had
when we remained in the place where His hands placed us,
and sought after Him there in the daily offices of our life.â€
Ermengarde gazed in astonishment at the nun.
“ What, then, are these Convents for ?â€
“They are, methinks, for such as can find no rest in
their homes, for those who are hindered from serving God
by those about them, and for such as be weary and heavy
laden, and would crave to flee from the troubles and the
WITHIN THE CLOISTER. 413
battles of life to some safe asylum, where they may seek
shelter and rest for their declining days, and pray cease-
lessly for those who may yet be battling in the world, or
who may have been called to their account ere this, For
such these homes may indeed be blessed places. I would
not myself leave these sheltering walls, for within them
I have indeed received a blessing. But oh, my child, my
daughter, think not that this peace I now feel has been
won without a terrible battle. Think not that were I to
live my life once again I would seek the shelter of the
Convent, in which to pass the best and strongest of the
years of my life. I have been blessed in this: I sought
the shelter of one of the few homes where it is permitted
to us to leave the walls, and to minister to our sick and
suffering brethren abroad. Methinks without this I should
surely have gone mad. ‘There were times when my whole
soul cried out in revolt; when I loathed the silence of the
Chapel, the sound of chant and psalm; when the round of
daily mass and fast and vigil, ay and daily toil, sickened me
nigh unto death, and I asked in bitterness of spirit why I
had fled the world to find nought but ashes in lieu of the
bread of life I had looked for. O ehild, child, the human
heart, the life of man, is a wonderful mystery. I would
have thee pause and think. When thou hast gone forth
with me abroad on some errand of mercy, or when thou
hast visited that home beyond these walls, whither our
steps not seldom tend, hast thou never, as thou hast
Watched the life of those same simple homes, felt within
thee a strange longing, a strange yearning, which nothing
414 WITHIN THE CLOISTER.
within this place can ever fill? Ah, I see by thy face that
it is so. I have watched thee sometimes as thou hast
dandled a babe in thine arms, or watched beside the sick-
bed of a woman whose son or husband kneels at her side,
striving to catch her least faint whisper. My daughter,
thou knowest that there is no sin in such a love ag that.
Thou hast seen how love is the guiding star of life. Love
ig no sin—â€
“Not to those who have taken no vows upon them,â€
cried Ermengarde eagerly ; “but in those who have done
so, or who have dedicated themselves in their own hearts,
it must, methinks, be sin to think of it. And is it not a
higher, holier thing to purge away all such carnal affections?
to give up all—qall/—for the sake of the greater, holier
Love? O Sister Monica, tell me not that such love as that
is thrown away—that our Holy Virgin and her Son prize
it not more highly than the love which is shared with the
things of earth. I would fain give up all for that crown
of life which is promised to those who overcome. Surely
there is a brighter crown laid up for those who have left
all to follow Him.â€
Ermengarde spoke with flushing cheek and sparkling
eye. She was trying to fight down and crush out, as if
they were temptations of the Evil One, those impulses and
yearnings which were ever and anon rising within her.
Tt did indeed seem hard that the Sister should raise them by
her words ; but Ermengarde had schooled herself by long
and rigorous fastings and hours of ceaseless prayer, and felt
that she had attained the mastery over her sinful impulses,
WITHIN THE CLOISTER. 415
and could tread steadily the higher path which led, as she
believed, straight to Paradise.
But the face of the Sister expressed a depth of emotion
little to be comprehended by the ardent and untried gil.
“My child,†she answered very gently, “I am going to
say a strange thing to thee. Were thy vows taken, were
the times we live in less full of peril and confusion, IT would
hold my peace and not speak after such a fashion. But no
man knoweth what a day or an hour may bring forth; and
thou hast appealed to me for help and counsel. Wherefore
I will speak to thee freely of all that is in my heart, and
I do this best by telling thee the story of mine own life.â€
Ermengarde’s attention was instantly fixed. For the
whole of the last year she had been longing to hear some-
thing of the past of the Sister whom she loved with a
tender and passionate love; but no word upon the subject
had ever crossed Sister Monica’s lips, and the girl had not
believed that she should ever hear her story. Her eager
look brought a smile to the nun’s wan face.
“Thinkest thou, my daughter, that I have not known
how gladly thou wouldest have asked me of myself? But
the story was scarce for thy ears had not such days as
these been before us. Now thou shalt know all; and
may God grant that the tale may help thee to reach a
wise conclusion, for methinks the day is coming when
thou wilt have to choose anew whether thou mayest serve
Him best by shutting thyself away from thy fellow-men,
or by living for and amongst them, and proving thy love
not by ceascless fastings and long hours of prayer, but
416 WITHIN THE CLOISTER.
by the patience, the charity, the purity of thy life in the
difficult and slippery paths of the world.â€
Ermengarde made no response, but a sudden flash of
illumination seemed to break for a moment over the hori-
zon of her mind. In a second it had gone, but it left a
strange impression upon her—the impression that the
world was a wider place than she had ever dreamed it
before, and that there might be work to be done in it
of which she had no conception.
Sister Monica looked at her thoughtfully for a moment,
and then began her tale.
“I am the daughter of a noble race: I need not tell
thee more than that. I was one of three sisters and
four brothers. Our father had ambitious aims for all of
us. We were dowered with wealth and beauty, and he
looked to making marriages for us which should add to
the stability and glory of his house.
“T was ambitious too. Methinks had the throne of an
emperor been offered to me, I should have thought it
nothing too great for me to share. My hand was plighted
in childhood to a wealthy noble many years older than
myself, and I grew to maidenhood looking to be some day
his wife.
“It was shortly before the time when he would be
likely to come and wed me, when amongst the knights
and gentlemen who flocked to our halls in the train of
their masters there came one whom I will call Edmund—
for by such a name did I soon know him. When my
eye first rested upon his noble and knightly face, I felt
WITHIN THE CLOISTER. 417
a thrill pass through me which, had I but known it, meant
the awakening of a love different in kind from any other
I had previously experienced, and which turned the whole
world into a land of beauty and rainbow tints, and cast
a glamour over present and future alike.
“Tt was long ere I knew what had happened to us, for
the spell fell on him as well as on me. But upon the day
on which he asked me to be his wife (he knew not of the
troth-plight which already bound me) the scales fell from
my eyes, and I knew that I loved Edmund and him alone,
and that not death itself could rend our hearts asunder.
“T had never lacked the courage of our race, and albeit
I knew that my father’s wrath would be sorely kindled
against me, I went to him and told him all, imploring
to be released from the contract I loathed, and to have
liberty to be united in wedlock to Edmund.
“Thad been prepared for a storm, but not for such a
tempest as was awakened by my request. I need not
recall too closely what happened in the dark days that
followed. Suffice it to say that Edmund was driven from
the house, and that I was confined to my own chamber,
to be fed on bread and water till I was said to have
reached a better frame of mind; after which my mother
came and spoke long and earnestly with me of many things.
“My mother was different altogether from my father,
and I loved her tenderly. She had always striven to
stand between us and him in his gusts of ungovernable
fury, and albeit she showed us little open tenderness, she
was always our best friend, and could move me to sub-
(322) 27
418 WITHIN THE CLOISTER.
mission when no threats or blows from my father had the
least effect. Methinks she had suffered nigh as much as I
had at what had occurred, and I knew her heart bled for
me, even when she spoke most calmly and coldly.
“She told me that I must put out of my mind all
thoughts of Edmund. My father would never hear of
such a thing as giving his daughter in wedlock to a
simple gentleman of no name or fortune; and the troth-
plight given in my childhood to my powerful lover could
only be made void by the act of the Church, and that
act it was hopeless to dream of obtaining. I eagerly com-
bated this statement. I argued that our father confessor
was a kindly man, and would do all in his power to
forward our wishes on such a point if he could be won
over. My mother stopped me by a gesture, and with a
more serious face than before, broke to me the news that
Edmund, if not an actual heretic himself, was strongly
suspected of leanings in that direction. She told me
that the priests already had an eye upon him, and that
a union between him and me was utterly and entirely
out of the question. I listened in stony silence, despair
settling down upon my heart. Any other barrier might
have been broken down; but to be wedded to a heretic!
“And yet how could I think ill of him? Had we not
often talked together of holy things? and had his words
not seemed to me to be full of power and strength and
comfort, such as never I heard from the lips of our father
confessor? My daughter, thou hast, I trow, heard some
such words thyself from the lips of those who in the days
WITHIN THE CLOISTER. 419
of which I speak would have been branded as heretics,
Hast thou found them evil and rebellious words ?â€
Ermengarde looked up quickly, understanding at once
what was meant.
“No, Sister Monica. I have found comfort and peace
in them likewise. Methinks they are not words of heresy,
but of blessed assurance and peace.â€
“And such I found the words of Edmund to be. I was
a true daughter of the Church. With all my faults, my
self-will, my ambition, I loved my religion next to my
life; and methinks it was the pure faith I found in
Edmund which made him so doubly dear to me. I knew
not that there was taint of heresy in what he spoke.
Methinks he knew it not himself. How many hundreds
have there been such as he, loving all that is pure and
good, turning instinctively away from the corruptions of
man, yet never ceasing to love the fold, nor desiring to
depart thence, who have fallen beneath the ban of those
who have been in high places, and have paid a fearful
penalty for their love of truth !â€
Sister Monica paused a while, as if lost in painful
thought, and then in a low voice continued her tale.
“I saw Edmund once again—if it was sin, God pardon
me. I had to tell many lies and do many deceitful deeds
ere I could accomplish my purpose. We met once more.
He bid me be brave and true. He said that in the present
no way opened before us, but that time and patience
might do much. I vowed T would never wed another,
and he said that so long as I remained unwed he would
420 WITHIN THE CLOISTER.
yet hope. I asked him if it were true that he was a
heretic. He told me no, but that it was possible he
might be suspected. The day would come, he added, when
men would awake from sleep, and see that he was no heretic
who dared to look up straight to his Saviour, and give
worship to Him and Him alone, and ask forgiveness of
sin from Him direct, without the medium of priest or
the purchase of a worthless piece of paper. He would
not, he said, have me link my life with his so long as
peril threatened him; but if brighter days should dawn
upon the earth, if thought were freer, and he had won
his way, as he hoped to do, to the fame and fortune the
world holds dear, then one day he would come again to
me, and ask my hand of my father, if I had not given it
away elsewhere.
“T passionately declared that that would never, never be;
and I vowed that were it the only choice, I would bury
myself in a cloister sooner than wed any man but him.â€
Ermengarde looked up quickly, beginning to under-
stand. Sister Monica pressed her hand and continued,—
“But the words had scarce passed my lips before
Edmund checked me. He told me that such a step
would be but a cowardly shrinking from difficulty and
trial. If I longed for the Convent that I might give
myself to a life of devotion, poverty, and obedience, that
was one thing; but a flight to the cloister because a hard
struggle lay before me, would bring no blessing with it.
I was greatly surprised ; but he explained himself further,
and told me that God was as well served in the world
WITHIN THE CLOISTER. 421
as behind Convent walls; that to fly from the evil was
a less noble thing than to face it and to overcome it in
the midst of temptation and trial, And he added, too,
that I should find temptation of a kind I little dreamt
of within the Convent itself—temptation of a subtle and
insidious nature, far more difficult to grapple with than
the more open difficulties of the world; and that inasmuch
as this form of temptation had been deliberately sought,
and that it had been chosen by me and not forced upon
me from without, I should find it tenfold harder to with-
stand, tenfold more difficult to bear, than if it had met me
in the ordinary course of life. He told me that so long
as the cross we each carried was the cross laid upon us
by God, so long He gave us grace and strength to bear it;
but that as soon as we threw down the one He had given
and took upon us another not of His choosing, so soon
did the weight of it press us slowly to the very ground,
because He only helped us to bear the crosses He had
laid upon us.â€
Ermengarde’s eyes were strangely dilated.
“What did he mean?†she asked.
“That is what I asked; the answer I had to live
through ere I could understand it. I will come to that
later. Again Edmund bid me be brave and hopeful,
steadfast in doing what was right, but fearful of acting
upon impulse. He spoke of those sweet days which yet
might dawn for us, and I left him with a heart filled to
the brim with hope and purpose.
“A month passed away. No more was heard of Ed-
422 WITHIN THE CLOISTER.
mund. My father thought my fancy forgotten, and spoke
to me of marriage. I refused to listen, and he saw that
my heart had not changed. I scaree knew how long it
was after that, that he brought to me the news of Edmund’s
death. He had fallen under the ban of the Church. He
had tried to escape beyond the seas, but had been over-
taken, and was killed in the fierce resistance he made to
the officers sent to apprehend him. They showed me a
ring which I had given him and which was found about
his neck, and I believed their tale. I fell into a violent
fever, brought on by my passion of grief. When I arose
from my sick-bed, I announced that I would take the veil
and give myself up to the religious life.
“No one tried to hinder me. My beauty was gone.
My obstinacy had offended my plighted lord, who had had
our troth-plight annulled, and had wedded my sister whilst
I lay at death’s door. My father, having accomplished
this matter, cared little what became of me. I was per-
mitted to enter the Convent of the Sacred Heart so soon as
I was able to take the journey; and here has been my
home ever since.â€
“And didst thou not find peace and rest ?†asked Ermen-
garde, in a voice that was little above a whisper.
Upon Sister Monica’s face there rested a strange expres-
sion—a strange illumination. She spoke rather as if to
herself than to her listener, though Ermengarde strained
every nerve to comprehend and follow her.
“Child, child, how shall I make thee understand—thou
who hast never known the mysteries of love? He was dead,
WITHIN THE CLOISTER. 423
the idol of my heart; nought was left but the memory of
that consuming love. How better, I asked of myself, could I
spend the remaining years of my life—of course I thought
they would be few—than by praying ceaselessly for his
dear spirit, by renouncing for ever those worldly joys and
desires of which I had just tasted, and fitting myself, since
I might not be the bride of an earthly spouse, for that
Heavenly Spouse who awaits us on high? And go I threw
aside the cross laid by God upon me, and took the one of
mine own choosing. And lightly enough it weighed upon me,
in the early days of the Convent life. I too, my daughter,
spent my nights before the altar in the Chapel, and my
days in fasting and ceaseless acts of penitential devotion.
I too saw visions of glory, and felt that the Heavens would
ere long open before my longing gaze and show me him
whom I loved, and whom I was certain my prayers had
released from the pains of purgatory; and not only him,
but the blessed saints and martyrs also, who were making
ceaseless intercession for us. And I too had hope that I
should hear the voice of the Heavenly Bridegroom saying
to me, ‘Come up hither, and should pass at once to the
holy rest of Paradise ere my earthly pilgrimage had closed.â€
Ermengarde moved her hands nervously. Had she not
known this hope likewise, although not even to Sister
Monica had such words passed her lips? and yet the Sister
had divined it. Was it possible that all the nuns had known
such hopes as this—even those who had now grown
stout and idle, who spoke snappishly if the food were not
to their liking, and loved to gossip with the serving-woman
424. WITHIN THE CLOISTER.
of the nows stirring in the village? A strong shudder
shook the girl’s frame. Was it all delusion? Was it all
vanity and vexation of spirit ?
Sister Monica calmly continued,—
“This state of happiness and ecstasy lasted for nigh upon
three years. J had long made my vows. I was looked
upon as something of a saint. I hoped to become one in
very truth, when, going my rounds one day amongst the
sick, I met Edmund face to face.â€
Ermengarde gave a little cry. Sister Monica continued
quietly,—
“We stopped for several long moments, gazing without
speaking (oh but his sad eyes spoke all too eloquently !),
and then we parted, never to meet again. How that ring,
together with the report of his death, reached me—whether
my father himself believed him dead or not I shall never
know—it matters not; he is dead now. I went back to the
Convent with a heart that burned like fire. I went straight
to the Chapel, and I found I could not pray. My child, my
daughter, listen and heed me. I, who had spent three years
in almost ceaseless prayer, could not pray in the hour of my
deepest need. My senses were so strained, so worn with a
devotion which was not real—not the result of any actual
need upon my part—that when this crushing blow came
upon me, I found, to my terror and despair, that the power
to pray was gone. The heavens were brass above me.
There was no voice, no answer, no light. In my agony I
implored to die; my prayer was not heeded—I believed
it was not heard. After one long night upon the Chapel
WITHIN THE CLOISTER. 425
floor, I rose up and went forth in wrath and bitterness of
spirit, and I shut myself up in my cell to think,
“I thought of the life that, but for my own self-will,
might have opened before me—life with Edmund, his
supporting arm around me, his words of tender counsel
and direction in mine ear. I thought (nay, hear me, child;
it is the voice of the heart which God hath given us each
that spoke in those long hours) of the children who might
have been born to us, of the baby steps around our hearth,
of the baby voice of love in our ears, I thought of the
long years of such a life as might have been ours, lived in
the fear of the Lord and the communion of our fellow-men,
and I awoke from my dream to the bare walls of the
Convent cell, and the pressing weight of the fatal habit
Which eut me off for ever from Edmund and from such a
life as I had pictured.
“ Child, child, may the merciful Jesus preserve thee from
what I suffered then and for many years to follow! Me-
thinks I can speak of it no more. God in His mercy came
to me at last, and the cross has grown something lighter
with time, and with the sweetness which comes of toiling
with and for our brethren around. Without that, and the
loving sympathy of the Reverend Mother, methinks I
should have gone mad. And now, having told thee all, my
daughter, canst thou not understand why I bid thee wait;
why I dare not tell thee that this life within these walls is
the highest, the holiest, the best that may be lived? for I
have lived it many, many long years, and I dare not be-
lieve that it is.â€
CHAPTER XXII.
A TERRIBLE NIGHT.
HEN Sister Bianca came to relieve Ermengarde of
her watch beside the sick nun, the novice retired
to her cell in a strange tumult of emotion. This talk with
Sister Monica had been but the last of many fragmentary
conversations bearing more or less upon the same subject—
all tending to show the girl that those older and wiser than
herself, and those who had made most blamelessly and
devotedly the trial of the Convent life, had not found that
it in itself brought lasting peace and tranquillity of soul.
Both Sister and Superior had told her, with more or less
distinctness, that lives of devotion might be lived without
the cloister wall, and that though ceaseless prayer and
adoration was a holy thing, yet inasmuch as human flesh
was weak, the fervency of devotion was but too apt to
cooi and change to mere repetition of set forms; whilst
in the varied occupations such as came in the daily round
of a woman’s natural life, work might be found which
never excluded prayer, but which brought another and
perhaps a higher blessing with it, and was crowned with
A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 427
the Divine approval, as well as sealed with an earthly and
human love,
That dependence upon human love which Ermengarde
had once regarded as a snare and a temptation, how did
she look upon it now? She had seen it in some of its
Sweetest aspects in the household at Friars’ Meads, She
had had glimpses of it in some of its more romantic phases
since Esther had found a knightly wooer in the person of
Sir Kenneth Fane. There was one small window in the
Convent which overlooked the shady pleasaunce of the farm.
Ermengarde had from time to time looked out thence, and
had seen somewhat of that wooing, had felt that there was
ho sin or stain upon it—that it would be a blessed thing so
to love and be loved; but not for her—not for her.
That love had never yet touched her. From early girlhood
her heart had been set upon the cloister, and she thought
even now that she had not wavered. Here was her home ;
here were the ties which bound her to life. She pressed her
hands to her hot forehead, and thought more deeply still.
What was it she so loved within these walls? Was it
her hours of devotion in the Chapel? Ermengarde was
conscious that some of the first fervour of her vigils and
fasts had already departed. She was constant in attendance
ab all services, and her prayers were frequent and sincere ;
but she no longer spent long nights upon the stone floor, no
longer saw bright visions or felt raised above the earth. In
her work without the walls lay her chief happiness ; she was
conscious of feeling more satisfaction in acts of charity to
the sick and suffering than in her former solitary devotions.
428 A TERRIBLE NIGHT.
Was this a setting of the. human love in some form
above that of the Divine ?
Again she probed more deeply into her own heart. She
loved the Convent home; she loved it because her heart was
there. Her deep affections, lacking hitherto sufficient outlets,
had fixed themselves upon and entwined themselves around
two special objects—-the Reverend Mother, and Sister Monica.
Suppose that these two friends were taken away, or that she
herself were transferred to another Convent, as had been
done ere now with nuns who, in spite of all inducement to
the contrary, steadfastly refused to leave the life to which
they were vowed: what then? Would she still feel the same
eager desire for the religious life which had a year ago pos-
sessed her to the exclusion of all other desires or purposes ?
Ermengarde looked round at the bare walls of her
narrow cell, and a shudder passed through her frame.
What was the meaning of that look akin to terror which
shone out of her dark eyes? It was that the girl was
realizing for the first time in her life her dependence upon
human love, her inability to live without it; realizing that
the wave of ecstatic devotion which had appeared to render
her independent of all beside, if only she could spend her
nights and days in rapt adoration and contemplation, had
passed away and ebbed backwards, leaving her with all
her old timidity, dependence, and clinging affections—which
affections had twined themselves around the inmates of her
Convent home, but were none the less human loves and
carnal feelings, such as once she had hoped she should live
to subdue completely.
A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 429
The novice remembered well a strange thrill of some
feeling she could compare to nothing but secret exultation
when Sister Monica had declared her belief that the life of
“religion†was not of necessity the highest life. Ermengarde
had of late been combating with her whole will and power
the stirrings of spirit which had possessed so many amongst
those who had elected the life of the cloister. She had
listened with horror and dismay to some of the talk which
had been whispered around her. She had pleaded hard to
be permitted to take the irrevocable vow which should seal
her fate, and which she thought must lay to rest for ever
the silent strife that she was conscious of within herself—
the powers of darkness rising up against the powers of
light.
But those about her had hindered her from dedicating
herself in the present uncertain state of the country. Her
father confessor had himself advised her to wait, and had
even gone to Wierwold Hall to consult her father, bringing
back the message that although the knight highly approved
of his daughter’s vocation and trusted to see her faithful to
it through life, he yet advised her to wait ere taking upon
herself the vows, as it would be well to let the storm spend
itself first; so that should peril threaten her, she might
seek the safe asylum of her father’s house, which she scarce
might do if the novice had been merged in the nun.
And now, sitting in the dimness of her solitary cell,
Ermengarde found herself face to face with strange thoughts
and feelings. Were these thoughts but the provoking of
Satan to try her spirit? or might it be possible that there
430 A TERRIBLE NIGHT.
was yet a life as pure and as full of devotion which did
not involve the rude severance of all human ties? She
pressed her hands to her throbbing temples, feeling as
though the whole foundation of the universe were giving
way with her. She flung herself upon her knees before
the Crucifix, which was the only ornament to be found in
that bare spot, and prayed as perhaps she had never prayed
in her life before, since she prayed now out of the depths
of her own heart; in the midst of personal perplexities and
difficulties.
Yet for many days the life of the Convent went peace-
fully on in its accustomed groove, and Ermengarde, en-
grossed with her cares for Sister Monica, did not even
hear the rumours from without which became more and
more disquieting, or feel the tense excitement which was
but the forerunner of the coming tempest. The horizon
was black with storm-cloud. The mutterings of the gather-
ing tempest had already begun to be heard. But the
Sisters of the Sacred Heart went their accustomed way,
knowing little and trusting in the good-will of those about
them, only offering up ever more earnest prayer for help
and succour in the hour of need.
Sister Monica was recovering from the fever. She was
able to resume many of her former habits. She was too
weak to leave the Convent walls, and Ermengarde would
fain have kept her longer to her bed. But so soon as she
had the strength to rise she could not be withheld from her ‘
attendance at Chapel and from a resumption of many of
her daily duties; whilst Ermengarde followed her like a
A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 431
shadow, and was always at hand to help her when her
feeble strength was unequal to some self-imposed task.
It was a hot night late in August. The inmates of the
Convent were in the chapel for the service of compline.
The low chanting rose and fell upon the heavy air, and
the lamps burned laneuidly in their sockets.
For some few minutes before the service had reached
its conclusion, those within the Chapel had been vacuely
conscious of a subdued tumult without. There had been
heard the sound of galloping horse-hoofs along the road, and
surely that loud knocking, which now became distinctly
audible to all, was at the outer gate of the Convent itself.
The Sisters rose from their knees and looked at each
other with faces that grew white with terror. The knock-
in¢ continued louder and more imperiously. There was
the sound of voices too—yvoices imploring, commanding
that the gate should be instantly opened. The Sisters
were standing now in a frightened group outside the
Chapel—out in the open quadrangle, fully illumined by
the steadfast licht of a full moon. The Reverend Mother,
who had been the last to leave the Chapel, now stepped
calmly from amongst their ranks, and advanced resolutely
toward the gate, Sister Monica following one pace behind.
Before they had reached it, however, they were over-
taken by the aged priest, who had been conducting the
service in the Chapel, and who had only just been made
aware that something unwonted was going on without
the gates, he being somewhat deaf and infirm. He laid
his wrinkled hand upon the arm of the Superior.
432 A TERRIBLE NIGHT.
“Reverend Mother, be it my task to open this door,†he
said. “We know not what peril may be awaiting us from
without.â€
But she motioned him back with a gesture of dignified
command, though her words were very gently spoken.
“Holy Father, I beseech thee retire. This house and all
within it are my charge, and to our accusers, be they whom
they may, I will answer for all that is therem. Thou
canst not help us, holy Father, for ours be not carnal
weapons; and it were better for our cause that no man,
be he even an aged priest fulfilling his office, should be
found within our walls. Nor my white hairs nor thine will
gave us from the breath of calumny; wherefore, I beseech
thee, depart hence by thine own private way. We shall
better meet our foes alone and unprotected than with any —
of the help which thou couldest give.â€
The priest recognized the truth of these words, and fell
back, though with reluctance, and vanished into the Chapel
once again. The Sisters still stood together in a frightened
knot, whilst the knocking at the gate continued, coupled
with entreaties to those within to unbar it. But there
was no violence attempted, and the voices from without
contained nothing of menace in their tones, but only the
extreme of urgency. They were men’s voices, but the
intonation was refined and the words were courteous
though imperative. Some of the first speechless panic
began slightly to abate.
With steady hands the Superior unfastened the massive
bolts of the gate, and unlocked the door with the heavy
A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 433
key which, after sundown, always hung from her girdle
She opened the door wide, standing full in the view of all
persons clustered round the gate—a stately figure in the
long black robe and white cowl of her order, her fine face
full of lofty courage as she looked forth upon the little
knot of excited men around the portal.
Foremost amongst these were two gallants of goodly as-
pect, who doffed their hats in reverence—a mark of respect
instantly imitated by all who stood by ; and throughout the
interview which followed they and their followers alike
remained uncovered.
“Reverend Mother,†said the elder of the pair, who was
in fact none other than Sir Kenneth Fane himself, “we
come to warn you of a near and fearful peril. There has
broken out in Nottingham a revolt of those who hate the
old forms and the old ways, and who cannot be content
without hastening the work which is already in hand by
lawless action of their own. It is but a mad outbreak of
popular fury, but the mob swells as it rolls along, and it is
on the march hither, mustering by thousands. It is said
by some that these same rioters have heard of the Convent
of the Sacred Heart, which is one of the few of the smaller
houses with which the visitors of last year found no fault,
and that they are in full march hither themselves to plunder
and destroy. We have made a wide circuit, and have out-
ridden this lawless rabble, to bring word of warning here.
Believe me, Reverend Mother, the peril is great and nigh
at hand. I prithee flee to some safe asylum while yet
there be time. I and my comrades will give you every
(922) 28
434 A TERRIBLE NIGHT.
help; nay, we will fight to keep back the foe to the last
drop of our blood. But a handful of armed men can do
little against a mob that musters by hundreds and possibly
thousands. Over our dead bodies they would reach you;
and God alone knows what scenes of horror might not be
witnessed then. An ignorant mob led by fanatics is a
deadly and dangerous thing.â€
The Reverend Mother had remained motionless all this
while, listening to every word and weighing each carefully.
Her searching glance scanned the eager faces of both the
leaders of the little band, and it seemed as though she was
able to put trust and confidence in them; for she fell back
within the quadrangle and made a sign to them to follow,
and the next moment Kenneth Fane and Frank Osbaldistone
stood within the precincts of the Convent of the Sacred
Heart.
The Sisters, who had approached to listen to the words
being spoken without, retired in some confusion at seeing
men in the gay dress of Court gallants thus invading the
sanctity of their retreat. But the Reverend Mother and
Sister Monica stood ‘their ground without hesitation; and
clinging to Sister Monica, her face pale with terror and her
eyes dilated and glowing like stars, was the young novice
Ermengarde, upon whose face the ardent gaze of young
Frank was almost immediately riveted.
“T thank you, sirs, with all my heart for your zeal and
good-will. For myself I fear not. I have been placed in
charge of this house, and here will I remain at my post, be the
peril what it may. I wot the days have sadly changed
A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 435
since I left the world; and methinks if it is to be ruled by
those who teach their followers to fall upon defenceless
women, within the sanctuary of the Convent wall, that it be
no hard thing to quit such a place for ever. But I will
give you grateful thanks, gentlemen, if you can find some
sate asylum for these children of mine, these shrinking girls
and younger women committed to my care. They shall
not be exposed to the blind fury of the lawless mob; they
should be placed in some haven which will perchance be
respected more in these times than the Sanctuary even of
the Church. Good Sirs, know you of such a spot? Your
good-will you have proved; can you also show us where
these nuns may be safely hidden until this storm be past?â€
“There is no place more safe than the Friars’ Meads,â€
answered Kenneth quickly. “We have been thither first,
and I need not say with what readiness the door of that
house will be opened to all oppressed and persecuted per-
sons. ‘The name of Garth is well known in these northern
regions. Even this lawless mob will pass by such a house
as theirs. All who are within those portals will be safe. I
pray you, Reverend Lady, lead thither your flock, and seek
asylum with them. Let the despoiler find only bare walls
on which to wreak his wrath. Court not a peril which
may be more terrible than you can foresee, I pray you
go, and all these ladies also.â€
But the Superior, who had sprung of a race of soldiers,
drew herself up to her full height with a smile of peculiar
power.
“Good sir, I thank you once and again, but I move not
436 A TERRIBLE NIGHT.
hence. Shall we give cause to the enemy to blaspheme ?
Shall we put into his hand a weapon which he may
presently smite us withal? Shall it be said of the Sisters
of the Sacred Heart that they fled from peril, knowing their
deeds to be evil; that they dared not face the investiga-
tions of —â€
“Reverend lady, this is no matter of investigation or
lawful deed by order of Parliament or King. This is but
the wild uprising of the mob.â€
“ Ay, sir, of that mob whom they have taught to despise
and defy the Church, and to rise up in revolt against the
ordinances of God. I wot well this midnight raid be no
work of the King’s Highness or that of his ministers. Yet
none the less is it the act of them, since it is they who
have stirred up within the hearts of this people evil passions,
pride, vainglory, and will-worship, which they can no more
restrain than they can bid yon surging ocean keep its limits
in face of a furious hurricane. God pardon this wicked-
ness—God teach them aright; for assuredly every drop of
blood spilt by yon furious mob will be asked by Him at
their hands.â€
A silence fell upon the little group standing there in
the bright moonlight of that sultry night—a silence that
was not broken by speech, but by a sudden movement
amonest the nuns themselves. Out of the cluster, but now
cowering together in fear and trembling, three of the elder
women stepped resolutely forward and placed themselves
beside the Reverend Mother and Sister Monica, who still
held Ermengarde’s trembling hand. The action spoke
A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 437
more eloquently than any protestation: these women
would also stand to their colours, be found at their post
in the hour of coming peril. Be it for life or for death,
they would remain with their Superior, and by her side
await the coming of the mob.
Kenneth instantly divined the meaning of the move,
and once more began to remonstrate; but the Reverend
Mother stopped him by a gesture.
“Good sir, I pray you waste no more words. If you
will, in all honour and reverence, escort these younger
damsels in the care of Sister Bianca â€â€”here she signed
to one of the older nuns, who appeared about to join her
side, to remain where she was—“ as far as the Friars’ Meads,
where I wot they will be safe and well eared for, I will
give you hearty thanks. For us who remain take no
thought. We are in the hands of the Lord; be it unto
us according to His will. We will permit no bloodshed
in our defence. We will bar no gate against the foe. We
have nought we are ashamed for all the world to look
upon. We will not act as though we knew ourselves
guilty of offence against God or man. It is right the
younger women should find safety from the blind fury of
a lawless mob; it is right that there be others of us
found at our post.â€
Kenneth knew that further pleading was vain, and he
tuned with all his courtliness of manner to the score of
black-robed figures a few paces more distant.
“Ladies,†he said, “I know that you have an entrance
from this house to the precinets of Friars’ Meads. It
438 A TERRIBLE NIGHT.
you will permit me to guard you safely thither, you will
be met upon the other side by the friends you well know
how to trust. They will open their door to receive you,
and beneath their care you will be safe.â€
The Superior signed to them to move.
“Go, my daughters, and fear not,†she said. “It may be
that we shall yet meet again in this world; if not, strive
so to live and so to die that we may not disgrace the high
calling which we have embraced, nor deny the Heavenly
Bridegroom for whose coming we have waited.â€
The Sisters would scarce have gone, would at the last
have entreated to remain and share all peril, but that the
Reverend Mother was not to be disobeyed. The little pro-
cession moved silently away; but scarce had it done so
before Frank Osbaldistone sprang hastily forward and
addressed the Superior in tones of urgent entreaty.
“Holy Mother, see here! This fair maiden must surely
be one to seek safe asylum. Thou wilt not let her remain
here, a prey to the lewd and lawless mob. I beseech thee,
Lady, think upon her youth and beauty, and let me take
her to her companions who will be kept in safety from
?
the coming storm;†and the young man fairly trembled
in his excitement and eagerness.
The Reverend Mother looked round her, and for the
first time saw that Ermengarde was still with the older
nuns, clinging passionately to Sister Monica. She had
not seen her before.
“My daughter,†she said gently, “this is no place for
thee. Thou must follow thy younger Sisters. This gallant
A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 439
gentleman is in the right. Thou art too young to face
the peril that we may look upon in calmness. Go, my
child ; thou wilt soon overtake the others. Lose no time
in dallyine.â€
But Ermengarde broke away and flung herself on her
knees before the Superior.
“Reverend Mother, O send me not away. Let me
remain here, to live or to die with thee and with Sister
Monica. Thinkest thou that I love my life? that I would
not gladly lay it down a thousand times if so I might
show my love, my faith? Ah, send me not from thee in
the hour of peril. May I not choose rather to die with
thee if I will?â€
“Ah, my child, if death were the worst, I scarce think
but all would choose it in these days of desecration and
terror. But thou art young—thou knowest not what thou
askest. And thy vows are not yet spoken which make
thee one of us. My daughter, thou art yet under obedience,
and I bid thee go—Young sir, into thy care I give this
maiden ; take her to her Sisters in safety, Of thy hands
I will ask her again in safety if—â€
The sentence was not completed ; for Ermengarde, with
a low ery of intense bitterness and heart-broken sorrow,
sank down unconscious, and was lifted gently by the
Reverend Mother and so transferred to the cave of young
Frank, who received his helpless burden with a wildly-
beating heart, and quickly bore the novice away to the
safe shelter of the Garths’ house.
After the stir, the tumult, the wild excitement of the
440 A TERRIBLE NIGHT:
past minutes, a great silence settled down upon the Con-
vent. The Reverend Mother looked round upon the little
eroup about her, and said in low tones,—
“My daughters, let us pray.â€
The Chapel doors stood open yet, the lights still
burned. The black-robed figures glided within the portal
once again, and knelt before the altar for many long
minutes. How long they had thus knelt they scarce
knew; but the tread of feet without caused them to rise
from their knees, and again to go forth into the quadrangle.
It was Kenneth Fane, come back to tell of the safety
of the Sisters within a house which would prove a sanc-
tuary against all foes holding the advanced opinions of
those days. Once more he implored the Superior to join
them there, and once more was steadily refused; and then
the Reverend Mother pointed to the open gate, and said
with a smile full of dignity,—
“You have done all you can for us, sir, and I thank
you for your good-will; but I pray you now depart hence,
and strive not for a moment to meet force with force.
It shall not be said of us that we sanction bloodshed or
take human life in our defence. If there be lives to be
lost this night, let it be our lives; let us perish who have
confessed our sins, and received priestly absolution: let not
those be sent to their account unassoiled, unshriven, with
their hands steeped in sacrilege and vice. God is the
Judge. Let Him stand between us and our foes if it be
His will; but if not, let no blood be spilt on our behalf.
I say it and I mean it. I pray you, sir, to go, and take
A TERRIBLE NIGHT 44t
your men with you. You have done all you can. Fare-
well. God be with you. And may He show you, ere it
be too late, the peril of the path you are treading,â€
She extended her hand to the knight, and Kenneth
bent over it in deep respect and veneration. He knew
that she had judged wisely and well ; that to rouse up the
peasantry of the neighbourhood to try to meet and repel
the advancing torrent would only be to court violence and
loodshed. The mob would be far more easily checked
by meeting with no obstruction. Its members would grow
weary of purposeless marching, and would drop from the
ranks and return to their homes. News had been de-
spatched to York of the danger, and no doubt the military
would be in readiness shortly to check the onward march ;
but a few hundreds of unarmed peasants, headed by a
handful of gentry, would only serve to whet the savagery
of the mob without having the power to check its course.
With morning light efficient help might be at hand, but
for the present the wisest course was that which should
least awaken the fury of the ignorant and lawless crowd.
“God be with you; He will doubtless guard and protect
His own,†said the knight, as he retraced his way through
the open gateway. He knew that his presence within
Convent walls would be the greatest source of peril which
could menace its inhabitants, and he retired as he was
bidden, though it went against the grain of all that was
manly and knightly within him to leave helpless women
alone and unarmed to face the fury of the fanatic crowd.
He set his teeth, and muttered some fierce words between
442 A TERRIBLE NIGHT.
them as he strode back to the Friars’ Meads. Perchance
he was realizing for the first time that no movement,
even in a righteous cause, can be made without unloosing
mad passions which no power of man may bind. He had
looked upon his cause as so pure, so true, so noble, and
here was one of its early outcomes: a howling mob of
savage fanatics, rushing to the attack of defenceless women
—women who, with all their faults and failings, had been
striving after a lofty ideal, and who had never injured one
of those whose hands were lifted fiercely against them.
The Sisters and their Superior were left in the calm
broad moonlight of the quadrangle. In the distance they
heard a strange sound that somewhat resembled the break-
ing of the surf upon the shore. The Reverend Mother
lifted her head and listened intently.
“Tt is the sound of a human sea, my daughters,†she
said— the voices of those who would destroy us and all
belonging to us; who would rifle our treasure-houses and
show their zeal for the Lord by devouring the things set
apart for His service. Follow me, my children. We will
await their coming without fear. We can but die once,
and if we be called upon to lay down our lives this night,
surely it is a blessed death which is died for Him whose
servants we are.â€
The Reverend Mother led the way into the Refectory,
where the table was spread for the frugal supper which
had not been touched that night. She did not take her
place at the table, but seated herself upon the dais, in a
chair occupied at meal-times by the Sister who on certain
A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 443
o
days read aloud from a book of devotion to the assembled
nuns. The rest of the Sisters ranged themselves around
and behind her, forming a strange group in the light of
the lamp which swung suspended over their heads, The
Refectory itself was dim and dark, all the light being con-
centrated on these figures. If the faces of the women
were pale, there was no shrinking in their looks. They
had caught something of the spirit of their Mother, and
were calm and even serene.
“We will invite our guests to share our fare,†remarked
the Reverend Mother, with a slight smile, as she looked
at the slices of coarse brown bread and the pitchers of
water upon the bare board. “It may be that many of
them have come from far; they will be glad of some of
that dainty cheer with which we nuns indulge ourselves
contrary to our vows.â€
No answer was returned by any of the Sisters, for there
was no time for one to be spoken. The surging sound
had gradually grown and increased, till it was as if the
waves of an angry sea were breaking against the very
walls of the Convent. The nuns uttered faint gasps,
more of excitement than of fear; the Reverend Mother's
hands gripped the arms of her chair, but the calm and
lofty expression of her face did not change one whit. The
next moment the sound of wild voices hoarse with fury
was echoing through the quadrangle, and the Refectory
door was burst open to admit the entrance of a howling:
crowd of furious armed men.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MARTVR MONK.
HE riot, of which timely warning had been brought
by Kenneth Fane and Frank Osbaldistone to the
Convent of the Sacred Heart, was one of those ebullitions
of popular fury—spontaneous, savage, and purposeless—
without which no great movement of reform is ever carried
through, be the leaders thereof ever so little in favour of
unauthorized violence,
Since the reports of the Commissioners had been laid
before Parliament—those reports setting down in plain
terms the monstrous abuses of the monastic system, and
the hopeless corruption of nine-tenths of the houses in-
habited by men and women vowed to the religious life—
the feelings of the people towards those once honoured and
beloved institutions had been undergoing a marked change.
Parliament had dispersed its members back to their
homes, each one of them carrying the story of the gross
corruption, the sensual profligacy, the wanton luxury, and
the covetous greed which now distinguished those bodies
vowed to poverty, chastity, and obedience; and wherever
that story was told and heard, the deepest indignation was
THE MARTYR MONK. 445
roused in the hearts of the listeners. Wealth that pious
founders had directed to be bestowed in alms to the poor
was now hoarded up and disputed over by greedy monks.
Foundations were reduced to half the original numbers, that
those who remained might live in luxury and plenty ; and
the most degrading vices were not only tolerated within the
walls of the Monastery, but were the rule and the order of
the day. The Nunneries were in little better case: the
same vices tainted them; and although here and there a
house had been found which had not fallen from its high
estate, the exceptions were so few in number as to make
small impression upon the minds of those who read the
whole of that condemnatory narrative; whilst the people,
who only heard the matter at second hand, made no dis-
tinction whatsoever, but howled against the whole system
root and branch, and clamoured to see the destruction of
the tree which had become like a wpas-curse to the land.
Monasticism, like all human institutions, had worn itself
out. In the days when it had been established it had
done a great work: it had given to both men and women
the opportunity of giving themselves up to offices of charity
and devotion which would otherwise have been impos-
sible. It had been as a light in a dark world for many
centuries—the monks living up to a high standard, and
doing a great work amongst the ignorant and half-savage
people. But the zeal which had actuated its first sons
gradually died away. Prosperity followed the early days of
struggle and poverty ; kings and princes became the patrons
of the religious houses, and wealth flowed into their coffers.
446 THE MARTVR MONK.
Popish corruptions stole in; the old enthusiasm, the first
love, grew cold: the mainspring had broken; it was but
a matter of time how soon the ruin of the whole fabric
followed.
True, there might be exaggeration in the Commissioners’
reports. he visitations were in many cases hastily made,
and there was undoubted bias in the minds of those upon
whom the duty of interrogation and inquiry fell. Doubt-
less there was room for the ery subsequently raised; what
movement of reform is ever carried through without harsh-
ness and injustice? But when all allowance has been made
for bias and prejudice and animus, the evidence remains
absolutely overwhelming. The Monastic system was rotten
to the core, and instead of the institution of drastic reform
(which was all that was originally contemplated in the
matter), it was self-evident that there was nothing for it
but wholesale suppression of the great majority of the re-
ligious houses—that movement known by the name of the
“Suppression of the Monasteries.â€
This work of suppression had already been going on for
. sometime, but not fast enough for the popular impatience.
A. new source of irritation had of late arisen in the rumour
concerning the contents of Reginald Pole’s famous letter to
the King. This letter or manifesto, which had taken pretty
well a year in the writing, had reached this country the
previous May, and now whispers as to the terms in which
it was couched had been going about in high circles, and
were gradually, with all the inevitable exaggerations, filter-
ing down to the people. The leaven of Lollardism had
THE MARTYR MONK. 44]
long been working throughout the country, preparing the
way for this great movement of reform, whilst the bigoted
cruelty of the ecclesiastics had but added fuel to the flame
of popular hatred. Saints there might yet be found behind
Monastery walls, but the bulk of the monks and friars
were a disgrace to their calling. A long and heavy score
against them had been run up through centuries of per-
secution and oppression of a greater or less description.
When once the veil was torn away—when once the people
began to look upon them simply as men, and men faithless
to their vows—the magic circle of awe which had hitherto
surrounded them vanished into thin air ; the habit of the
mionk became no longer a protection, it was rather a source
of peril to its wearer—a mark for derision and hatred.
This riot had commenced in the north of Nottingham-
shire, where several acts of suppression had been going on.
There had been some stormy scenes between the partisans
of the ejected monks and the more turbulent of the Protest-
ant faction. The people in the neighbouring districts were a
hard-headed, hard-fisted race, and took these things deeply
and fiercely. The Commissioners, half afraid of the com-
motion they had stirred wp, resolved to leave the county,
and turn their steps towards Lincolnshire, where they
hoped the people would be more quiet and reasonable.
Yorkshire, as it had long been felt, would prove a hard nut
to crack. Lollardism had made but little way there. The
people were devoted for the most part to the old faith. It
did not appear desirable to court disaster by approaching
too rapidly to that locality. They would try the temper
448 THE MARTVR MONK.
of Lincolnshire first. If things went smoothly there, then
it might be time to think of the more northerly counties.
But this decision did not please the fanatical crew who
had followed the Commissioners of late, and who had looked
forward eagerly to the disgrace and despoliation of the rich
Abbeys and Priories of Yorkshire. Bidden by the Com-
missioners to return to their own homes quietly, they had
been loth indeed to obey, and after lingering in uncertainty
for some time, had been given just the impetus they needed
by an unlettered artisan of the name of Challice, who had
set their hearts in a blaze by a piece of intelligence he had
learned from one of the servants of the Commissioners.
Now from the very fact that the little ecclesiastical
colony at Monk Frystone had retained much of the purity
and sanctity of early days, and had not lapsed into luxury,
greed, or licentiousness, its reputation stood high and was
widely spread ; and there were those who whispered of mir-
acles wrought by the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, and spoke
of the zeal of the Brothers of the Monastery as being
worthy of canonization. But to the minds of the ultra-
Protestant faction it was just these very houses which most
needed putting down. It was these wonder-working monks
and nuns who were more dangerous than any. There was
the story of the Nun of Kent to hold up as an example.
If men did not take care, there would be a whole following
of impostors of the same kind rising up to deceive and lead
astray the credulous populace. Monk Frystone of all
places must be expunged from the face of the earth; and
yet the news with which Challice came charged was that
THE MARTVR MONK. 449
the Monastery and Convent there were amongst the few
religious houses that were not to be interfered with.
This was like the spark to the train: no sooner did the
people learn this than they resolved to take law into their
own hands.
Challice, inflamed by the zeal of what seemed to him
and his followers a righteous cause, called upon them to
follow him to this stronghold of Satan, and raze it even to
the ground. And with shouts and vociferations of assent,
the mob bid him lead them on; they would follow him
even to death.
There was nothing to hinder the onslaught of this wave
of human passion, The country was bare, and sparsely
inhabited, and the trembling peasants who saw the approach
of the mob believed the terrible Commissioners were com-
ing, and fled in terror and rage, unable to do aught to
hinder the destruction of their cherished institutions, but
in their hearts loathing and hating the act, and cherishing
a sullen flame of resentment against every person engaged
upon this work of destruction and renovation.
It was Diccon of the White Wolf who had the wit and
the promptitude to give warning at Heathcliffe Castle of
what was approaching. He had heard some hours before
the mob could possibly reach Monk Frystone of what was
coming upon it. And leaping upon the best horse in the
stables, he had ridden for dear life to Heathclitfe, where he
knew he should find some of those who would take due
steps for the quelling of this riot. Then whilst Kenneth Fane
and Frank Osbaldistone had galloped without drawing rein
(822) 29
450 THE MARTYR MONK.
to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, he had been despatched
on a fleet horse to York with a letter to the Lord Licu-
tenant; and military aid might be looked for before the
day had long broken, but not in time to meet the first
onslaught of the mob.
Chanting verses of such hymns as most took the popular
fancy in those days, and bawling out texts of Scripture
which bore upon the destruction of Baal and his followers,
and the doom of Antichrist, the Beast, and the False Prophet,
the crowd marched with steady, swinging stride through
the calm summer night, until the walls of the Convent
loomed in sight, when a fierce yell rose from all throats:
the hour of vengeance was indeed at hand.
“Forward, lads—forward in the name of the Lord!â€
cried the leader. “â€Tis the sword of the Lord and of Gideon!
Fear not the host of Midian! The Lord is with His own.
He will be with them when they rise up to smite the
idolaters root and branch, and make their houses a hissing
and reproach for ever.â€
“ Batter down the gate! pull down the wall if need be!â€
yelled those from behind. “Let the nuns work their
vaunted miracles an they can. Drive forth the daughters
of Jezebel! let them weave their vile spells no longer.â€
But when the foremost of the mob reached the gate and
found it wide open, they paused a moment in surprise.
“They have fled,†cried some. “‘ The wicked flee when no
man pursueth,†roared others; but the voice of Challice
made itself heard,—
“Nay: their gate is open; for that they are holding
THE MARTYR MONK. 451
some lewd revel, such as we have heard tales of before.
I see lights in their hall; we shall even catch them red-
handed in the midst of their wickedness. Follow me, men ;
but remember this—lay no violent hands upon the women.
We will drive them forth in their shame, and their treasure,
which should have been given to the poor, but which
they have amassed within their coffers, shall be taken and
given to such as need it. But no blood-guiltiness shall
be upon our heads. The men may indeed perish by the
edge of the sword, but the women shall escape with their
lives,â€
There arose a murmur from the crowd expressive of very
mixed feeling on this point, but all were too eager to press
on to the scene of the orgy within the Convent walls to
waste time in parleying. Guided by the light in the
Refectory, the leader advanced, a drawn sword in his hand,
and bursting open the door, he rushed into the hall, the
wild mob of followers pressing in after him.
And what did they sce there ?
A long table without cloth, with benches on either side,
and at the end a wooden chair with arms. Trenchers of
coarse brown bread and pitchers of water upon the board,
and nothing else.
And the revellers and guests ?
These were represented by some six gentle-faced women,
Who were grouped together at the upper end of the hall,
and who regarded the advance of the mob with pertect
calmness and tranquillity.
Challice and his immediate followers instinctively re-
452 THE MARTYR MONK.
coiled, and the man, hardly knowing what he was about,
pulled the ragged cap from his head.
Then the oldest of these women arose (it was plain even
to the eyes of the ignorant that she was the Mother
Superior of the house), and as she lifted her hand a deep
silence fell upon the crowd—a silence which communicated
itself to those without, who could not gain an entrance,
but were crowding round the many pointed windows.
“ Sirs,†said the Reverend Mother, in her clear, sweet
voice, full of dignity and resolve, “I hear that you have
come from far, and are doubtless weary with your march.
The Sisters of the Sacred Heart never turn from their
doors the weary wayfarer, be he who he may. Such food
as the house supplies is open to all. Therefore, if it please
you, be seated, and partake of such cheer as we may set
before you. We looked not for guests at this hour of the
night, but such as our larder contains shall be yours.â€
Challice was more than a little taken aback by this
reception, but he summoned all his bravado to his aid. His
followers were slinking away somewhat after the fashion of
beaten hounds; he must do something to rally their courage.
“Lady,†he said, “this fair show is well enough to
deceive those who are ignorant in these matters; but we
know too well the lewdness, greed, and corruption of such as
you to be thus cozened and blinded. We have come to see
the treasures you have laid up in this house: if you will
make them over to us, for rightful distribution to the
poor, well; if not, we will take them. And go ye forth
ia peace from these walls, else shall ye all be turned out
LHE MARTYR MONK. 453
o
by the hands of these honest men, whilst we raze these
polluted walls even to the ground.â€
Slowly, and with an air of dignity, before which Challice
himself felt abashed, the Reverend Mother stepped down
from her dais,
“Sir,†she said, “you shall have your wish: you shall
see the treasures of this house. Choose out from amongst
your followers twelve men to accompany you, to bear away
the spoil. Let the rest remain where they are until you
return to them with it,â€
This all seemed reasonable enough, and Challice gave the
order. A dozen stout fellows soon stood beside him, half
eager, half sheepish; whilst the rest fell upon the scanty
victuals and quickly made away with them, and the Sisters
brought to them, by order of the Superior, all the comes-
tibles which the larder contained,
The Reverend Mother herself walked on in front, signing
to Challice and his fellows to follow. All through the
silent house she led them, through rows of bare cells,
through offices which contained nothing save the merest
necessaries for the domestic regulation of the household,
Where were the soft beds, the silken hangings, the gold
and silver vessels of which so much had been heard ?
Where was the array of menials and servants? where the
evidence of greed, extortion, covetousness ?
Abashed and perplexed, the men still followed their guide
until she came to a door which she unlocked with a key from
her girdle, and turning round to the men behind, she said,—
“These be our treasures, good sir; sometimes we have
454 THE MARTYR MONK.
more, sometimes less, What ye desire ye may carry away.
There be many more to take the place of these when they
be gone.â€
With these words she passed within the room, and the
men pressed after her. A light was burning there, and
one black-robed Sister rose up from her knees before the
Crucifix in the corner. Five little beds were in this
room, and in three of them infants were lying. All the
plenishing of the room beside was some heavy oak chests,
a table, and a few chairs.
Bending over one of the sleeping morsels of humanity,
the Reverend Mother looked up and said quietly,
“These be the treasures of our house, gentlemen—the
helpless, outcast babes left at our gates. They be the
sweetest and most precious treasures given to us. Will it
please you to rob us of them? Will ye do as well by them
as Holy Church has done?â€
Challice stood silent and abashed. Only one of the
followers attempted to speak, and he pointed significantly
to the oaken chests, and asked what they contained.
“Thou mayest look for thyself,†was the quiet answer ;
“the treasure within these walls is not locked. We are
not wont to be disturbed by the visits of robbers.â€
The man lifted the lids, and immediately dropped them
again with a sound like an oath. The chests contained
nought save clothes for the babes, and such simple toys as
had been made by the skilful fingers of the Sisters.
The men had had enough of it. It had been easy to
boast of what they would do; but they were Englishmen, if
THE MARTYR MONK. 455
fanatics, and when it came to the point they were unable to
vaise their hands against defenceless women who had offered
them no resistance, and had acted with a high courage and
lofty dignity in a moment that might have struck terror
into the bravest heart. Moreover, there had been nothing
in this place to warrant the accusations with which they
had come primed. In lieu of going forth loaded with
treasures, driving before them the guilty inmates of a
polluted house, they themselves slunk out through the
gate, feeling that they had been shamed and worsted ; and
the Mother and Sisters were left in quiet possession of all
that they had ever owned.
‘ Fire the place over their heads!†eried a voice from the
ranks; but the suggestion was met by eries of “Shame!â€
The men stood uncertain for a moment in the bright
summer moonlight. Had they come out on a fruitless
errand after all? Must they go back to their homes to say
how they had been put to shame and silence by some halt-
dozen of those very nuns they had vowed to exterminate
from the face of the earth ?
Such a thing was not to be thought of for a moment.
They would be for ever disgraced in the eyes of the world.
“ Forward to Monk Frystone,†was the order given; and
with tenfold hotter fury burning in their hearts, the rabble
started forth once again, resolved that now they had men
to deal with they would not be balked anew of their prey.
It did not take long to traverse the two miles which lay
between the Convent and Monk Frystone, and another shout
of triumph went up as they beheld the walls of the Monas-
456 THE MARTYR MONK.
tery looming before them. A rush was made for the gate,
which this time was safely barred and locked, and it was
plain that here force would be met by force. There were
sounds behind the walls which told that the monks had
mustered against the foe; and with this knowledge the lust
of battle came upon the mob, and the onslaught commenced
with mad fury.
The gate was strong and firm, and resisted the efforts of
the besiegers gallantly ; but Monasteries were not built with
a view to defensive warfare, and the walls were neither
high, nor furnished with the means of repulsing attacks
from without.
A low place was found; a score of stout fellows were
over it in a moment. Brandishing their weapons, they
sprang down amongst the startled monks, and the next
moment had opened wide the gate to admit the rush of
their fellows within the precincts.
Then, indeed, did the ecclesiastics see that resistance was
useless. They had armed themselves—at least some of
them had done so—and more than one of the assailants had
received his death-blow from a stalwart monk ; but in the
face of overpowering numbers what could a handful of
ecclesiastics do? By common consent they retired, fight-
ing every inch of the way, till they reached the Chapel,
into which they retreated with a sudden, strategic move-
ment, barring the door after them, and uttering a terrible
anathema against any who would dare to invade the
rights of Sanctuary.
For a moment the mob, taken by surprise, paused and
THE MARTVR MONK. 457
recoiled. The old superstitions were still strong within
the people, and the anathemas of the Church had not
altogether lost their power. Moreover, it was something
more than idle superstition which recognized the sacredness
of the right of Sanctuary; and for a moment it seemed as
if the rioters were to be foiled again by the power of the
very weapons they most despised.
But this thought coming over them seemed to sting
them to madness. They looked at each other, and then at
the closed doors, and their wrath burst out again,
“Take them even from the horns of the altar,†cried one
fierce fellow,— the altar they have profaned with their
idolatries and blasphemies. They have polluted the house
of the Lord; let it be no more for them a refuge in time
a house
of trouble. They have made it a den of thieves
of Baal; let them perish in it, even as the worshippers of
Baal in old days.â€
That was enough. Where all were longing for the
excuse for violence, almost any excuse would serve, and
especially one that appeared to have the authority of
Seripture as its basis.
The battering-rams which had been prepared to force the
outer gate, were dragged forward and placed against the
‘door of the Chapel, and after some twenty minutes of hard
work——for the bolts and bars and stout oaken doors of
those days were no trifles to overcome—the deed was done:
the door fell inwards with a crash, and a yell of triumph
arose from the crowd outside.
And yet for a moment no one stepped within the
458 THE MARTYR MONK,
threshold. All appeared very dark and silent; and a
thrill ran through the men as they saw the thing which
they had done. But Challice was not one to let the
moment pass, or suffer a panic to seize upon his followers.
They had been balked once; for the honour of their cause
it must not happen a second time.
“Follow me, my men, and we will clear this house of
her abominations and her idols,’ he shouted, and sprang
across the prostrate door, followed by such of the rabble
rout at his heels as could obtain an entrance.
The Chapel lay dim and dusk before him, lighted only
by the faint gleam of the lamp which ever burned before
the Host upon the high altar.
And the monks? As the men paused and looked about
them, they thought at first that their prey had entirely
escaped them. And indeed it was true enough that, with
one exception, the whole of the brotherhood had escaped
through the crypt beneath the Chapel to a hiding-place
known only to themselves, bearing with them all the pre-
cious things they possessed, which were of a more costly
kind than the treasures of the Convent, and would have
stirred the rapacity of the rioters not a little had they
been found within the precincts. .
The one amongst the number of the Brothers who had
declined to fly, who had chosen rather to face the peril of
the present hour than to turn his back before the heretic
and blasphemer, was Brother Basil. And now, as the
surging crowd came slowly up the narrow aisle of the
Chapel, their eyes growing gradually accustomed to its
THE MARTVR MONK. 459
gloom, they saw before them a tall figure in monkish
habit, the pale thin face and glowing eyes lighted by the
gleam from the lamp almost over his head, holding on high
the Sacred Host, and signing to the invaders of the Sanc-
tuary to retire.
Again that nameless horror and shame fell upon the un-
tutored crowd. They would not fall back, but they ccased
to advance, and stood in the body of the Chapel, gazing
fixedly upon the young monk, who stood motionless before
them, sullen wrath in their hearts, but an ewe upon their
senses which for the moment they could not shake off.
And then a strange thing happened, which seemed for
a moment as though it might have changed the history of
that night’s work. The gloom of the Chapel was suddenly
pierced by a shaft of pale red light, which illuminated the
figure of the youthful monk as he stood with his holy
burden in his hands, lighting the gold and gems upon the
precious vessel until they shone as if made of lambent fire.
The rabble rout recoiled; a thrill ran through them as
they stood. .A whisper was passed from one to the other-—
“A miracle! a miracle!†and the terror of the super-
natural fell upon them.
Another minute and all would be lost; Challice felt that,
and with the keen instinct that had made him a leader at
this critical moment, he lost not a moment in taking prompt
measures to stay the panic.
“A miracle, say you, boys? Nay, no miracle. "Tis but
the first ray of the new-born day stealing through yon
east window, and lighting up this house with God’s own
460 THE MARTYR MONK.
blessed sunshine; even as we are the heralds of a coming
- dawn for men, which shall sweep away these old shadows
and deceits, and show us our beautiful world as He gave
it to us, free from idolatries and pomps and vain shows.
Onward, therefore, in His name! Cleanse His sanctuary
from its abominations, and let in the glorious light of day!â€
The words were magical in their effect. The mob
answered by a yell of triumph and delight, and pressed
eagerly forward. The tall, commanding figure was borne
down and trampled upon in the oncoming rush from behind.
The beautiful glass in the window was shivered into a
thousand fragments, and the golden glory of the dawn
came pouring in, whilst the carved images and delicate
tracery which everywhere adorned the Chapel were soon
left lying shattered in a thousand pieces. It was like the
fury of the iconoclasts—that fury which has ever and anon
broken forth where there have been abuses to overcome
and idols to be overthrown. Men will not be content with
destroying the bad and leaving the good, when bad and good
are mixed together. They wreak their fury upon all alike;
and it is the work of years, perhaps of centuries, to disen-
tangle the crossing threads, and see how much that is good
has been cast aside with the evil—how much has been lost
to the world by the blind fury of the destructive fanatic.
But no monks were to be found, and none of the treasure
so confidently expected from so ancient a house.
“The foxes have run to earth with it,†cried the disap-
pointed mob, in whom the lust of gold, so vigorously
condemned in ecclesiastics, was by no means lacking.
THE MARTYR MONK. 461
“They have hidden away and have taken their gold with
them. They knew their evil deeds would not stand the light
of day. They have gone, and our rightful spoil is lost.â€
But if the gold was gone, there were plenty of casks of good
wine to be found in the cellar, and these were quickly
broached by the thirsty crowd, who had been on the march
the whole of the previous day ; and wild sounds of revelry
soon began to arise from their midst.
And presently, when heated with wine, some of the com-
pany remembered the tall young monk who had succeeded
for a moment in holding them all at bay. No one had
noticed him since the work of depredation had begun, but
there was a loud call for him now, and there were many
present who vowed that he was worthy of death. Had not
he and such as he counted their victims by hundreds and
thousands? and was it justice that these persecutors and
tyrants should all escape ?
Whilst this question was being hotly discussed in the
Refectory, a band of men started off to find the monk, who,
it was feared, might already have effected his escape. But
Brother Basil was not of the stuff that shrinks from the
hour of peril. He was found upon his knees beside the
altar reciting the office of the mass, as though no wild
havoe lay around him. With a savage yell of fury his foes
rushed upon him, and he was borne, amid laughter, shout-
ing, and threats, into the presence of those who were
appointed to sit in judgment upon him.
“Let him have trial—let him have a fair trial!†cried
the mob, pleased with the new entertainment of trying a
462 THE MARTYR MONK.
monk. “Let him take the oath of supremacy to his
gracious Majesty the King! If he will not, let him die the
traitor’s death, as better men than he have done before. If
Fisher and More were not spared, shall a beggarly monk
go free ?â€
The young ecclesiastic stood before his accusers with
dauntless mien. In his dark eyes there gleamed a strange
fire. The oath was tendered to him with insolent bravado
by Challice, and as calmly and resolutely rejected by him,
as it had been by more illustrious men before.
“Tet him die the death! let him die the death!†was
shouted upon all sides. “String him up in his own Chapel!
He is a traitor to the King. Away with such a fellow
from the earth !â€
“Prisoner,†said Challice, with a mock air of gravity,
“have you anything to say in your own defence ?â€
And at that question the eyes of the young monk
gleamed with an intenser light.
“Not in mine own defence,’ he answered, in accents
which rang through the whole hall, and for a few moments
enforced silence on all who heard, “but in the defence
of the Church, whom you would outrage and defile—the
Church to whom you would give an earthly King, a carnal
ruler, and so degrade from the high estate in which she
has ever lived till now. Ay, go your way; choose ye
a King
o?
own inventions. The day will come when the poor rem-
as the people of old, and go a-whoring after your
nant of what you call the Church shall be split up into a
thousand factions, rent by schism and polluted by simony
THE MARTVR MONK. 463
and rebellion. Your Kine can never be the Church’s
head, call him so as ye will. The days will come when
men shall deny the ordinances of the Lord, shall cast away
the Holy Sacraments, and shall each worship after his
own manner. Unity will be gone from amongst you: ye
have put in the hand of every man that which will give
him the power and ofttimes the will to stand up before the
world as the prophet of a new religion. Every man will
interpret the Scriptures after the imagination of his own
heart; the sin of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram will stalk
rampant in your very midst—men throwing aside the
ordinances of God, and saying, ‘Follow me; is not the
whole congregation holy?’ Yea, all these things shall
come amongst you, and ye shall yet walk on blindly in the
imaginations of your hearts. Ye shall—â€
But here the ringing tones of the young monk were
drowned in the roar of execration with which these words
were received. The roar was such as might well make the
stoutest heart quail; but Brother Basil only folded his
hands calmly together and stood looking upon the rush
of wild fanatics with a strange and mystical smile upon
his face. Once more he strove to lift his voice, and those
nearest him could hear his words.
“Blessed Jesus, grant that it be mine to die ere the
Unity of Thy Sacred Body be thus torn asunder by blas-
phemous men. Take me to Thyself, the one True Shep-
herd, ere Thy fold is given up to the care of false pastors
and teachers, who will pollute the waters and foul them
with their fect.â€
464 THE MARTYR MONK.
Another furious roar, and the monk was set upon and
dragged outside the hall, where a hooting, yelling crowd
were awaiting him. The clamour from without had been
increasing steadily for some while; now the terrible shape
in which popular hatred was to show itself was only too
apparent.
In the midst of the quadrangle stood an iron stake,
around which broken wooden images from church and
cells and quantities of wood-work had been piled. It took
but one glance to see the meaning of that pile. Too many
had been lighted in the land for men to doubt its terrible
purpose.
“Let him die the death of the heretic!†shouted the
furious populace; “let him taste the death his Church has
decreed to so many before! Let justice be done—justice
—Justice !â€
Brother Basil looked round with a strange smile upon
the yelling crowd all thirsting for his life, and calmly
advanced to the stake. To attempt to speak was impos-
sible. He clasped his hands and raised his eyes to heaven
and waited in silence.
In the distance might almost have been heard the faint
thud of horses’ feet, as the military galloped to the scene
of the riot; but the match was put to the pile, and the
thick cloud of smoke rolled upward, whilst amidst that
column of smoke and flame a heroic soul was loosed from
the bands of the flesh.
CHAPTER XXIV.
NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED.
PON the night which had seen the onslaught of the
U rabble rout directed against both the religious
houses in Monk Frystone, was the Convent of the Sacred
Heart burned to the ground.
The origin of the fire was never discovered. Some
believed that it was the work of a few stragglers from the
mob, who had turned back after having been led away,
ashamed of their own clemency and _ better feeling, and
had revenged themselves by setting fire to the building.
Others were of opinion that the. disaster was the result
of accident. They believed that the confusion and alarm
within the building had resulted in some carelessness with
the lamps in the Refectory, where it appeared as if the
flames had broken out. It did not appear unlikely that
the marauders might have dropped some sparks about the
place whilst they had been sitting at their rude banquet,
and that these might have smouldered on unheeded till
they burst at last into a blaze.
The Mother Superior and her companions had retired
to the Chapel as soon as the mob had gone. There could
(322) 30
466 NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED.
be no sleep for them that night, and no security against a
repetition of the threatened violence, now for the moment
averted. They spent the time that remained to them in
thanksgiving for safety in peril, and supplication for
strength to meet the trials of the future; and were only
aroused from their devotions by the lurid glow of fire
bursting through the windows, and by the roar of the
blazing building nigh at hand.
At that moment they never doubted this to be the work
of incendiaries, and knew not what horrors might await
them without. For one minute they hesitated, wondering
if it might not be better to remain and perish in the
Sanctuary than to fall a prey to the fierceness of man;
but there wag no tumult of human voices to be heard,
and Sister Monica, with a muffled ery of, “The children,
the babes!†hurried out into the quadrangle, and they all
followed hey.
The children were with difficulty rescued from the
flames ; and Sister Monica, who carried in her arms the
youngest, tottered with her burden as far as the hospitable
shelter of the Garths’ house. Meeting with Esther as
she crossed the threshold, she had just time to transfer
her burden to those strong and tender arms, before she
dropped to the earth, and was carried senseless to the
chamber, where Ermengarde employed her whole time and
skill in restoring her.
The Garths were alone in the house now, save for the
presence of their own stout serving-men. The two knights
with their following had joined the party from York, and
NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED. 467
had ridden on in the track of the rabble. The dawn. was
breaking cold and clear over the green world, the beams
of day struggling for mastery with the terrible brightness
of the fire.
Ermengarde felt as if she were moving in some terrible
dream, from which she must sooner or later awake, She
and the unconscious Sister Monica were alone in that
plainly-furnished bedchamber, which had yet a look of
home about it which no Convent cell ever could possess ;
and whilst the distant roar of the flames told the novice
that her beloved Convent home would soon be no more, she
looked around her with a calmness that astonished herself,
and wondered if she should ever again be the same woman
that she had been before the advent of this terrible night.
The door opened quietly, and little Dorothy stole into
the room, her face pale with fear and indignation, her eyes
shining with excitement.
There had been no sleep in that houschold for any of
its members, and the child had seen and heard all that
passed. The memory of that strange night would never
be effaced from her mind.
“Lady,†she said softly, approaching and taking Ermen-
garde by the hand, “ the good Prior of Trinity—tfrom the
city of York, thou knowest—hath ridden hither himself,
with some of his Brethren, to see how he may best help
you atter this night of peril; and forasmuch as he finds the
Convent burned and destroyed, he has bid the Reverend
Mother be ready shortly to accompany him back to the
city, together with the Sisters. He will see them lodged
468 NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED.
then with the nuns within the walls, where they will be safe
from any molestation. They are even now making ready
to depart, for fear the wicked men come this way again.
But methinks Sister Monica cannot go with them. And
if she remains with us, wilt thou not remain likewise ?â€
Dorothy took Ermengarde’s hand in hers as she spoke,
and pressed her warm soft cheek upon it. A strange thrill
ran through the young novice at the touch ; she looked into
the sweet child-face through a mist of tears.
“Why dost thou ask me that, Dorothy ?â€
“Because I love thee,†answered the child simply ; “ be-
cause I would fain keep thee here with us. It seemeth so
sad when those we love tear themselves away from us, to
shut themselves up betwixt dreary walls, away from the
blessed sunshine, away from the love which the good God
bids us prize and cherish. Ah, go not with them, sweet
lady! God meant us to be happy; I would that thou
mightest be happy too.â€
Ermengarde looked smilinely into Dorothy’s face, yet her
heart was beating with heavy pulsations; she scarce knew
what she said.
“Thinkest thou, my child, that there is no happiness
gave in homes guch as thine? Ah, little knowest thou the
blessedness of living close, close to the Lord, kept by Him
from all peril, doing His Will in all things.â€
But the child’s eyes were full of brightness and com-
prehension.
“But lady, sweet lady, thou needest not live behind
Convent walls to be near Him-—to do His Holy Will—-to
NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED. 469
be indeed His child, His servant. Methinks they serve
Him best who serve Him amongst the cares and the toils
of life, in the place where His hand hath placed them.
Lady, sweet lady, stay with us. Methinks there is much
for thee to do if thou wouldst but remain.â€
“My child, I may not choose for myself; what the
Reverend Mother bids me, that must I do. Thou knowest
not, little one, of what thou speakest. There is blessing, I
doubt not, in every walk in life; but must not that life be
the most blessed which is lived for the Heavenly Bride-
groom and for Him alone?â€
Dorothy did not answer, but her eyes sought the bed
whereon Sister Monica lay, and rested on the worn face, so
unspeakably sad in its passive unconsciousness, whilst the
child’s look seemed to Ermengarde to ask as plainly as
words could do,—
“Here lies one whose life has been thus devoted ; what
peace or rest or happiness has it brought to her? Was it
meant that her life should be thus blasted, its sunshine
taken away, its hope of earthly happiness marred? And
if the sacrifice of all human joys brings with it such rich
blessing, why is nought to be scen on that face but the
the burden of a sorrow
stamp of an unspeakable grief
well-nigh too heavy to be borne ?â€
The novice looking at the nun felt a slight shiver pass
through her frame, but she made no attempt to speak,
for the door opened once again to admit the Reverend
Mother.
The hours just passed through had left their traces upon
470 NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED.
that calm face. Ermengarde sank at the feet of the Supe-
rior, and instinctively asked a blessmg from her. The
Mother laid her hand solemnly upon the girl’s head, hold-
ing it there long, and then she gently raised her and led
her a little apart.
“My daughter,†she said, “I have come to bid thee
farewell; it may be that the farewell will be a long one.â€
Ermengarde’s pale face grew a shade paler; she clasped
the hand of the Superior convulsively.
“A farewell, Reverend Mother? ah, say not so. Thou
wilt not leave me here alone? Where thou goest I will
go; forbid me not to follow thee. My heart will break ;
IT have none but thee to look to. Ah, forsake me not in
this hour of trial! What will become of me if thou leavest
me alone and helpless ?â€
“My daughter, calm thyself,†answered the Reverend
Mother, in accents of gentle reproof. “Trust me, my
child; Iam acting for thy best welfare in this. We go
hence anon, to find shelter within the walls of York with
the Sisters there; but I leave thee here to be with Sister
Monica, who may not be moved, and who will need thee
near her, my daughter, in her weakness and sickness.â€
Ermengarde’s brow cleared, and she kissed the hand
which held hers.
“ Forgive me, Reverend Mother ; I had thought that thou
wouldst take Sister Monica with thee too, I will gladly
remain beside her; and when she is healed of this sickness
we will join thee together, and—â€
But the Mother stayed her by a glance.
NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED. 471
“My daughter, methinks it will be another home than
the Convent that will ere long open for Sister Monica.
God in His mercy grant that the way thither be smoothed
for her. Thou wilt be with her through it all. In thy
tender hands, my child, I can leave her with a mind at peace.
Methinks I must presently look my last upon. the face we
all have loved. My daughter, thou must not weep for one
whose pilgrimage here has been long and hard, and for whom,
we trust, the golden gates of Paradise are opening at last.â€
Ermengarde’s tears rained down fast, but she had the
honesty to speak the whole truth.
“Reverend Mother, it is not for her, it is for myself I
weep. I have so few to love, and all seems slipping away.
Would that I too might die! © Reverend Mother, Holy
Mother, tell me this one thing, and I will try to bear it.
When Sister Monica is taken to her rest, I beseech thee let
me come back to thee. The dove came back to the ark, and
was not refused ; ah, tell me not that thou biddest me stay
without, in all the darkness of the tempest and storm.â€
And the girl flung herself upon her knees, and grasped the
robe of the Superior in a perfect agony of grief.
The Reverend Mother let her first burst of tears spend.
itself, and then she raised the trembling form of the novice,
and made her sit beside her as they talked. There was
aways something in the gentle authority of the Mother
which acted like a charm upon those about her, and
Krmengarde’s wild weeping was quickly hushed.
“My daughter,†was the quiet reply, “to me belongs
neither the will nor the power to rule thy future life for
472 NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED.
thee; but thou hast shown to me this very moment how
unfit thou art for the cloister life—how little thou knowest
what thou askest—how bitterly thou mayest repent thee
of thy vows if thou too heedlessly take them upon thee.â€
“But, Reverend Mother, I have lived with thee one
whole long yeav.â€
“ My child, thy words betray the thoughts of thy heart.
Thou hast lived this past year with me, with Sister Monica,
with those whom best thou lovest; and thou hast been
happy. My daughter, Sister Monica will shortly be called
to another than the life of the cloister, and I—I know
not whither I may go. These are days of trial and sore
temptation. It may be my lot to be sent far away; thou
mayest be unable to find or to follow me. My daughter,
were this to be so, ask thy heart, and seek earnestly for
the true answer, wouldest thou then still desire the life of
the Convent? Wouldest thou join some other sisterhood ?
Hast thou found true peace and rest in the life of devotion—
such peace as shall render thee independent of all human
companionship? Ah, child, thou shrinkest, thou weepest.
I read thy heart without words. Thou canst not live
without earthly love—â€
“ But, Holy Mother, I can learn to do so. Tam young, I
am full of faults and failings, but I can learn as others
have done. Have I not dedicated the best of my love to
Fim, and will He not give me grace to be faithful to my
vow? Will not the Blessed Virgin intercede for me that
I may be found faithful ?â€
“My child,†said the Reverend Mother, very solemnly,
WUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED, 473
3
“Iam about to speak words to thee which thou wilt think
strange upon my lips; but thou mayest yet live to under-
stand their truth. God ean give thee grace to live as truly
to Him without the cloister as within it—to be as faithful
to thy unspoken vow of dedication here in the world as in
thy Convent cell; and it may be that the days have come
when He would be so served rather than as we have sought
to serve Him. Far be it from me to say that those affec-
tions, the clinging tendrils of the human heart which He
has implanted, are nought but snares and weeds, to be cut
down and torn up and.ruthlessly destroyed.â€
She paused. Ermengarde made no rejoinder, and pres-
ently the Mother Superior spoke again, this time with the
faint traces of an emotion rigorously controlled.
“My daughter, thou hast this night been the witness of
a terrible scene. Thou hast beheld the fierceness of man ris-
ing against us in fearful force. Thou seest in this one of the
signs of the times—the pride and self-sufficiency of man,
his rebellion against authority, his love of power, and his
greed for wealth. My child, thou hast seen these vices this
night in their bare and hideous nakedness ; but thinkest
thou that these ignorant men are alone in their sins ? Alas !
the very wickedness we have seen in them has but been
borrowed from those in high places— from those who
should have been to them as an ensample, and as a light in
the darkness of the world. My child, these be hard words
to say, but they are words of truth. This outery against
the Church would never have been, had the servants of that
Church not fallen from their high estate. False shepherds
474 NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED.
have crept into the fold. Satan and his angels have been at
work. There has been fearful corruption on every hand,
and (God forgive us that this be so) nowhere more terribly
than within the walls of Monastery and Convent. If by
His grace we ourselves have been withheld from some of the
worst of the evil, be the glory not ours but His. My child,
my daughter, I am an old woman; the days of the years of
my pilgrimage are well-nigh told. For me there can be no
change, no drawing back. As I have lived so must I
die—a dedicated nun behind the cloister walls, if any be
left to shelter us after the storm. has passed by. But
thou, my child, art young; and as I love thee with a
tender and deep love, so I charge thee, act not in haste. 7
Ponder well ere thou takest the step which shall shut thee
out from the world for ever. Were I thy mother in the
flesh, as I have been in the spirit, I would withhold thee
from the ratification of thy vows. I trow the day is
dawning for England—hbe it for the weal or woe of the
land I know not—when these houses will be swept away,
and a new reign will begin. It may be that their work
is done, and that the hand of the Lord is in this storm,
as it has been in others of old time. Perchance He is
coming upon His Church like a refining fire, that from
the ashes there may rise up an edifice purified and made
meet for His service. May He indeed grant that it be so.
Then may we patiently and hopefully await the season of
trial. But that we have deserved it—that we have brought
it upon ourselves by our corruption and wickedness—I may
not in my heart deny. Wherefore, my daughter, I dare
NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED. 475
not bid thee follow in the steps of those so many of whom
have become polluted by the lusts and greed of the world
and the flesh. Walk on in the light that is ever given us
from above, and fear not to examine thine heart, and to
probe it to the very core; for no blessedness and no true
holiness ever yet followed when the foundation was one of
self-deception.â€
Ermengarde felt that this was a last charge, and her
emotion well-nigh choked her as the Mother arose to give
her the farewell blessing. It was a solemn moment for both,
neither knowing with any certainty what the future might
bring forth, or whether they might ever meet on earth
again, The girl was speechless from emotion, and there
were tears in the Reverend Mother’s eyes, but her firmness
and her self-possession did not desert her. She quietly
embraced the girl, kissed the unconscious face of Sister
Monica, and softly passed from the room. It seemed to
Ermengarde at that moment as though the doors of the
cloister had closed against her for evermore.
Days passed by, and Sister Monica still lay much in the
same state at the house of the Garths, watched over cease-
lessly by Ermengarde.
injury both to head and spine, and no hope was ever held
out of her life. Sometimes she was dimly conscious, and
would speak Ermengarde’s name, or feel for her rosary and
try to tell her beads; but for the most part she lay in a
state of semi-consciousness, heeding little what went on
about her, though showing a marked preference for the
ministrations of Esther or Ermengarde.
476 NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED.
Ermengarde had laid aside her Convent garb, and had
assumed the plain black dress which had been hers before
her entrance into the Sisterhood. Her mind was still torn
and distracted by doubts and fears, but she was conscious
within herself of a steadily increasing reluctance to enter
the walls of a strange cloister, to find herself amongst
strange Sisters, or to cut herself off finally and irrevocably
from communication with the outer world. She knew
that never again would she find such peace as she had
done within the walls of the Convent at Monk Frystone.
Every person who spoke on the subject declared that there
and there alone, save in a few other like communities, had
the vows of the order been kept. As she moved about as
one of the family in that pleasant homestead, and mingled
her own eares and sorrows with those of its members, a new
light came into her life, a new happiness upon her spirit.
Her prayers, if briefer, were less formal than they had
been of late, for she caught the habit of praying out of
the fulness of her own heart, as was done by all those here,
without hampering herself by the repetitions of familiar
forms which by no means always expressed the half of her
feelings. She sat many times in a shadowy corner whilst
Esther or Roger Garth read to their mother and the house-
hold out of that Bible which had been so long denied to
the people, and the more she listened the more light
dawned upon her soul, and the less reason did she see for
hiding herself within Convent walls. She heard no words
in that book which bid men thus shut themselves out from
each other. Rather were they bidden to go forth and
NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED. 477
spread the glad tidings of God’s goodness amongst those
who had not yet called upon His name, A call might
come to any to leave father or mother, brother or sister, to
go forth as bidden by the Lord; but that was a different
thing from rushing with youthful impetuosity into the
seclusion of the Convent. Christ had never bidden any
man do that. His words were few and sumple—* Take up
thy cross, and come and follow me.â€
There were frequent comings and goings at the Friars’
Meads, and Ermengarde, as she grew to shrink less from
the sight of strangers, became acquainted with many who
frequented the house. Foremost amongst these were Sir
Kenneth Fane and Frank Osbaldistone, the latter of whom,
for the very reason that he bore a name hated by the
Falconers, she treated with a gentle courtesy, such as should
plainly show him that she bore him no ill-will for the acts
of violence committed by his father, in which she knew
that he had had no share.
As for the other knight, he was the accepted lover of
the stately and beautiful Esther Garth, towards whom the
girl’s heart was again being strongly drawn; and she had
the opportunity now of seeing something of that mysterious
love, linking life with life for time and eternity alike,
which she had once thought to be the snare of womanhood,
and was now learning to regard as its crowning glory and
happiness,
The story of the tragedy at Monk Frystone on that
fatal night was told by those who had reached the scene
Just too late to save the life that had been sacrificed to the
478 NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED.
popular fury, and to that stern sense of retributive justice
which is the birthright of every Englishman. None in
that house—which had given its head to the flames of
martyrdom, at the bidding of the bigoted ecclesiastics whose
own son had but lately suffered the same fate—spoke one
word in defence of the murderers. Ermengarde noted that
with admiration and respect. They listened to the story
of the martyr monk with all reverence for his steadfastness,
with all compassion for his sufferings. Far different, as
the girl well knew, had stories of the burning of heretics
been listened to by the Papist faction of old days. Ermen-
garde, as she recalled the vindictive words of triumph
uttered in her hearing when those terrible scenes had been
described in the walls of her own home, marvelled at the
difference of spirit thus displayed, and asked the cause.
Esther’s answer was simple and brief.
“Was he not our brother? Is he not our brother?
Are we not all baptized into the one Church? Can any
strife betwixt party and party rob us of our brotherhood
in that one Sacrament? And can we rejoice to see our
brethren slain, even though we hold that in some matters
they are grievously in error?â€
“They never pitied heretics,†said the girl; “they never
called them brothers.â€
Esther’s full sweet smile shone out.
“ Perchance that showeth that they have somewhat yet
to learn from these same heretics,†she replied. “God
grant that in following our brethren of the older faith in
their zeal, we follow them not likewise in their intolerance
NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED. 479
and cruelty; grant that we may cleanse the Sanctuary
without destroying it—that we may live to see ourselves
united as one fold beneath one Shepherd.â€
Ermengarde’s face was very grave.
“Esther, didst thou hear of Brother Basil’s dying words ?
I ponder them day and night. I tremble to think on
what may be coming upon us if what he said be the truth,
And may it not be that dying eyes see into the future ?
and he was a holy man—a saint and martyr. Dost not
thou fear too?â€
“Fear that in casting off the authority of the Pope men
may lose the unity of the faith? No, Ermengarde, I do
not fear that, if they stop short there, and do not cast
away the authority of the Church likewise.â€
Hrmengarde looked perplexed.
“But the Pope is the Head of the Church.â€
“By what right? by what power?â€
“Ts he not the descendant of St. Peter, to whom were
given the keys of heaven and hell—upon whom the
Church was builded ?â€
“ He is not more the descendant of the Apostle than are
our own Bishops. He claims apostolic rights, but he is
no Apostle of Christ, and can by no right assume apos-
tolic authority.â€
“But men say he is; how can one know ?â€
Esther smiled, and laid her hand upon the Bible.
“Thou wilt find it all there, sweet Ermengarde—the
call that alone makes the Apostle. They are called not
of man nor by man, but by Jesus Christ. Thou knowest,
480 NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED.
doubtless, that the Pope of Rome holds his office by
election. Canst thou say that he is called not of man nor
by man, but by Christ Himself? He makes not even that
claim for himself, I trow. How may he be then an
Apostle ?â€
Ermengarde was silent. Esther looked out before her
and spoke very gravely and seriously.
“Krmengarde, long years ago—long ere this great change
began to convulse the country, long ere what was then
called heresy had spread throughout the land—my father
bid us prepare for the day that was dawning, that we
be not led away by false doctrine when it came. He
knew that England would not rest beneath the yoke of
Rome. Never has she become Rome’s true slave, never will
she. But by small degrees had encroachments been made.
The corruptions of Rome were infecting those in high
places ; the Church was losing her first faith, turning from
God to serve tables. He saw it all. He spoke of the
strugele which must come ere she should purify herself
and shake off the yoke. He told us that it would bea
time of trial and temptation; that the storm would sweep
so wildly over the land that it would tear up all in its
path, and leave a desolation behind which it might well
be the work of centuries to repair. I know not how much
truth there will be in his words, but this I do know—that
good and evil will never in this world be dissevered, and
that whilst a great work of good is going on, much that is
evil will be done ere that work be accomplished.â€
“But how can the King be Head of the Church ?†asked
NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED. 481
Ermengarde with a shiver. “It is like blasphemy to speak
of it.â€
“The Church has but one Head——Jesus Christ—into
whom we are all baptized,†answered Esther steadily ; “and
no other Head can she have, either Pope or King.
Doubtless she needs help from the powers of the world in
these stormy days, and well is it for her that God raises
up rulers to give her this succour and defence. But let
her beware how she learns to lean upon any earthly head,
any temporal power, lest she forget that God is her Head,
and lose the light which He alone may give. Then indeed
will come schism and confusion and darkness; but not
because she has forsaken and denied the headship of the
Pope—only if she loses her living faith in the headship of
Christ. Let her but keep her eyes fixed in faith upon
Him, and seek His guidance in everything, and she will
not stray from the narrow path, nor will her children
wander from her. God grant that, in the days to come,
men may live to see the blessing which has resulted from
this terrible awakening; that confusion and hatred may
be followed by peace and good-will ; that all may have
the Lamp of Life to guide their steps, and the gentle
authority of a Church with Christ Himself as Head to
teach and strengthen and guide them in that blessed path.â€
Ermengarde heaved a deep sigh. She could not shake
off all at once the traditions and beliefs of a lifetime.
Some of Esther's words still sounded terrible to her,
though others were comforting and strengthening. They
were together in Sister Monica’s room, and the darkness
(322) 31
482 NUN, NOVICE, AND BETROTHED.
had stolen upon them as they sat. Suddenly they both
started, for a voice out of the gloom spoke,—
“ Ah, it is there—it is there—the blessed truth—Christ
the Head, the Mediator! None else needed betwixt Him
and His people—not the King, not the Bishop of Rome.
‘Behold, I am He that was dead, and am alive again, and
have the keys of hell and of death. None other—only
Himself. He alone can unlock the door. He it is whose
hand leads us over the dark river—through the valley of
the shadow of death. ‘Surely I come quickly. Amen.
Even so, come, Lord Jesus.’ â€
Esther and Ermengarde hurried to the side of the bed.
Sister Monica had raised herself, and was gazing before
her with a wonderful light in her eyes. As she spoke the
last words she sank backwards, the strange mystic smile
still on her lips. Ermengarde uttered a sharp ery, whilst
Esther laid the still form down, and said,—
“She has gone home.â€
The girl uttered a terrified sob.
“ Gone—dead—and without the last rites of the Church!
Oh, it cannot be; it would be too dreadful! Esther, say
she is not dead.â€
“ Ah no, truly she is not dead. And fear not for her,
my child, for she has gone to Him whose blessed name was
on her lips as her gentle spirit went out to meet Him. She
needs no priest, no absolution now; she has received that
at the hands of the Great High Priest. Dear child, weep
not for her. She has assuredly gone home, where the
wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.â€
CHAPTER XXYV.
THE