CHAPTER XII
A WINDING-UP
The curtained windows on the ground-floor of the Dower House shone redfrom within as Isabel and Dr. Carrington, with three or four servantsbehind, rode round the curving drive in front late on the Monday evening.A face peeped from Mrs. Carroll's window as the horse's hoofs sounded onthe gravel, and by the time that Isabel, pale, wet, and worn-out with herseventy miles' ride, was dismounted, Mistress Margaret herself was at thedoor, with Anthony's face at her shoulder, and Mrs. Carroll looking overthe banisters.
Isabel was not allowed to see her father's body that night, but after shewas in bed, Lady Maxwell herself, who had been sent for when he laydying, came down from the Hall, and told her what there was to tell;while Mistress Margaret and Anthony entertained Dr. Carrington below.
"Dear child," said the old lady, leaning with her elbow on the bed, andholding the girl's hand tenderly as she talked, "it was all over in anhour or two. It was the heart, you know. Mrs. Carroll sent for mesuddenly, on Saturday morning; and by the time I reached him he could notspeak. They had carried him upstairs from his study, where they had foundhim; and laid him down on his bed, and--yes, yes--he was in pain, but hewas conscious, and he was praying I think; his lips moved. And I kneltdown by the bed and prayed aloud; he only spoke twice; and, my dear, itwas your name the first time, and the name of His Saviour the secondtime. He looked at me, and I could see he was trying to speak; and thenon a sudden he spoke 'Isabel.' And I think he was asking me to take careof you. And I nodded and said that I would do what I could, and he seemedsatisfied and shut his eyes again. And then presently Mr. Bodder began aprayer--he had come in a moment before; they could not find him atfirst--and then, and then your dear father moved a little and raised hishand, and the minister stayed; and he was looking up as if he sawsomething; and then he said once, 'Jesus' clear and loud; and, and--thatwas all, dear child."
The next morning she and Anthony, with the two old ladies, one of whomwas always with them during these days, went into the darkened oak roomon the first floor, where he had died and now rested. The red curtainsmade a pleasant rosy light, and it seemed to the children impossible tobelieve that that serene face, scarcely more serene than in life, withits wide closed lids under the delicate eyebrows, and contented clean-cutmouth, and the scholarly hands closed on the breast, all in a wealth ofautumn flowers and dark copper-coloured beech leaves, were not the faceand hands of a sleeping man.
But Isabel did not utterly break down till she saw his study. She drewthe curtains aside herself, and there stood his table; his chair wasbeside it, pushed back and sideways as if he had that moment left it; andon the table itself the books she knew so well.
In the centre of the table stood his inlaid desk, with the papers lyingupon it, and his quill beside them, as if just laid down; even theink-pot was uncovered just as he had left it, as the agony began to layits hand upon his heart. She stooped and read the last sentence.
"This is the great fruit, that unspeakable benefit that they do eat anddrink of that labour and are burden, and come--" and there it stopped;and the blinding tears rushed into the girl's eyes, as she stooped tokiss the curved knob of the chair-arm where his dear hand had lastrested.
When all was over a day or two later the two went up to stay at the Hall,while the housekeeper was left in charge of the Dower House. Lady Maxwelland Mistress Margaret had been present at the parish church on theoccasion of the funeral, for the first time ever since the old Marianpriest had left; and had assisted too at the opening of the will, whichwas found, tied up and docketed in one of the inner drawers of the inlaiddesk; and before its instructions were complied with, Lady Maxwell wishedto have a word or two with Isabel and Anthony.
She made an opportunity on the morning of Anthony's departure forCambridge, two days after the funeral, when Mistress Margaret was out ofthe room, and Hubert had ridden off as usual with Piers, on the affairsof the estate.
"My child," said she to Isabel, who was lying back passive and listlesson the window-seat. "What do you think your cousin will direct to bedone? He will scarcely wish you to leave home altogether, to stay withhim. And yet, you understand, he is your guardian."
Isabel shook her head.
"We know nothing of him," she said, wearily, "he has never been here."
"If you have a suggestion to make to him you should decide at once," theother went on, "the courier is to go on Monday, is he not, Anthony?"
The boy nodded.
"But will he not allow us," he said, "to stay at home as usual?Surely----"
Lady Maxwell shook her head.
"And Isabel?" she asked, "who will look after her when you are away?"
"Mrs. Carroll?" he said interrogatively.
Again she shook her head.
"He would never consent," she said, "it would not be right."
Isabel looked up suddenly, and her eyes brightened a little.
"Lady Maxwell--" she began, and then stopped, embarrassed.
"Well, my dear?"
"What is it, Isabel?" asked Anthony.
"If it were possible--but, but I could not ask it."
"If you mean Margaret, my dear"; said the old lady serenely, drawing herneedle carefully through, "it was what I thought myself; but I did notknow if you would care for that. Is that what you meant?"
"Oh, Lady Maxwell," said the girl, her face lighting up.
Then the old lady explained that it was not possible to ask them to livepermanently at the Hall, although of course Isabel must do so until anarrangement had been made; because their father would scarcely havewished them to be actually inmates of a Catholic house; but that heplainly had encouraged close relations between the two houses, andindeed, Lady Maxwell interpreted his mention of his daughter's name, andhis look as he said it, in the sense that he wished those relations tocontinue. She thought therefore that there was no reason why their newguardian's consent should not be asked to Mistress Margaret's coming overto the Dower House to take charge of Isabel, if the girl wished it. Hehad no particular interest in them; he lived a couple of hundred milesaway, and the arrangement would probably save him a great deal of troubleand inconvenience.
"But you, Lady Maxwell," Isabel burst out, her face kindled with hope,for she had dreaded the removal terribly, "you will be lonely here."
"Dear child," said the old lady, laying down her embroidery, "God hasbeen gracious to me; and my husband is coming back to me; you need notfear for me." And she told them, with her old eyes full of happy tears,how she had had a private word, which they must not repeat, from aCatholic friend at Court, that all had been decided for Sir Nicholas'release, though he did not know it himself yet, and that he would be athome again for Advent. The prison fever was beginning to cause alarm, andit seemed that a good fine would meet the old knight's case better thanany other execution of justice.
So then, it was decided; and as Isabel walked out to the gatehouse afterdinner beside Anthony, with her hand on his horse's neck, and as shewatched him at last ride down the village green and disappear roundbehind the church, half her sorrow at losing him was swallowed up in thepractical certainty that they would meet again before Christmas in theirold home, and not in a stranger's house in the bleak North country.
On the following Thursday, Sir Nicholas' weekly letter showed evidencethat the good news of his release had begun to penetrate to him; his wifelonged to tell him all she had heard, but so many jealous eyes were onthe watch for favouritism that she had been strictly forbidden to pass onher information. However there was little need.
"I am in hopes," he wrote, "of keeping Christmas in a merrier place thanprison. I do not mean _heaven_," he hastened to add, for fear of alarminghis wife. "Good Mr. Jakes tells me that Sir John is ill to-day, and thathe fears the gaol-fever; and if it is the gaol-fever, sweetheart, whichpray God it may not be _for Sir John's sake_, it will be the fourteenthcase in the Tower; and folks say that we shall all be let h
ome again; butwith another good fine, they say, to keep us poor and humble, and mindfulof the Queen's Majesty her laws. However, dearest, I would gladly pay athousand pounds, if I had them, to be home again."
But there was news at the end of the letter that caused consternation inone or two hearts, and sent Hubert across, storming and almost crying, toIsabel, who was taking a turn in the dusk at sunset. She heard his stepbeyond the hedge, quick and impatient, and stopped short, hesitating andwondering.
He had behaved to her with extraordinary tact and consideration, and shewas very conscious of it. Since her sudden return ten days before fromthe visit which had been meant to separate them, he had not spoken a wordto her privately, except a shy sentence or two of condolence, stammeredout with downcast eyes, but which from the simplicity and shortness ofthe words had brought up a sob from her heart. She guessed that he knewwhy she had been sent to Northampton, and had determined not to takeadvantage in any way of her sorrow. Every morning he had disappearedbefore she came down, and did not come back till supper, where he satsilent and apart, and yet, when an occasion offered itself, behaved witha quick attentive deference that showed her where his thoughts had been.
Now she stood, wondering and timid, at that hurried insistent step on theother side of the hedge. As she hesitated, he came quickly through thedoorway and stopped short.
"Mistress Isabel," he said, with all his reserve gone, and looking at herimploringly, but with the old familiar air that she loved, "have youheard? I am to go as soon as my father comes back. Oh! it is a shame!"
His voice was full of tears, and his eyes were bright and angry. Herheart leapt up once and then seemed to cease beating.
"Go?" she said; and even as she spoke knew from her own dismay how dearthat quiet chivalrous presence was to her.
"Yes," he went on in the same voice. "Oh! I know I should not speak;and--and especially now at all times; but I could not bear it; nor thatyou should think it was my will to go."
She stood still looking at him.
"May I walk with you a little," he said, "but--I must not say much--Ipromised my father."
And then as they walked he began to pour it out.
"It is some old man in Durham," he said, "and I am to see to his estates.My father will not want me here when he comes back, and, and it is to besoon. He has had the offer for me; and has written to tell me. There isno choice."
She had turned instinctively towards the house, and the high roofs andchimneys were before them, dark against the luminous sky.
"No, no," said Hubert, laying his hand on her arm; and at the touch shethrilled so much that she knew she must not stay, and went forwardresolutely up the steps of the terrace.
"Ah! let me speak," he said; "I have not troubled you much, MistressIsabel."
She hesitated again a moment.
"In my father's room," he went on, "and I will bring the letter."
She nodded and passed into the hall without speaking, and turned to SirNicholas' study; while Hubert's steps dashed up the stairs to hismother's room. Isabel went in and stood on the hearth in the firelightthat glowed and wavered round the room on the tapestry and the prie-dieuand the table where Hubert had been sitting and the tall shutteredwindows, leaning her head against the mantelpiece, doubtful andmiserable.
"Listen," said Hubert, bursting into the room a moment later with thesheet open in his hand.
"'Tell Hubert that Lord Arncliffe needs a gentleman to take charge of hisestates; he is too old now himself, and has none to help him. I have hadthe offer for Hubert, and have accepted it; he must go as soon as I havereturned. I am sorry to lose the lad, but since James----'" and Hubertbroke off. "I must not read that," he said.
Isabel still stood, stretching her hands out to the fire, turned a littleaway from him.
"But what can I say?" went on the lad passionately, "I must go; and--andGod knows for how long, five or six years maybe; and I shall come backand find you--and find you----" and a sob rose up and silenced him.
"Hubert," she said, turning and looking with a kind of waveringsteadiness into his shadowed eyes, and even then noticing the clean-cutfeatures and the smooth curve of his jaw with the firelight on it, "youought not----"
"I know, I know; I promised my father; but there are some things I cannotbear. Of course I do not want you to promise anything; but I thought thatif perhaps you could tell me that you thought--that you thought therewould be no one else; and that when I came back----"
"Hubert," she said again, resolutely, "it is impossible: ourreligions----"
"But I would do anything, I think. Besides, in five years so much mayhappen. You might become a Catholic--or--or, I might come to see that theProtestant Religion was nearly the same, or as true at least--or--or--somuch might happen.--Can you not tell me anything before I go?"
A keen ray of hope had pierced her heart as he spoke; and she scarcelyknew what she said.
"But, Hubert, even if I were to say----"
He seized her hands and kissed them again and again.
"Oh! God bless you, Isabel! Now I can go so happily. And I will not speakof it again; you can trust me; it will not be hard for you."
She tried to draw her hands away, but he still held them tightly in hisown strong hands, and looked into her face. His eyes were shining.
"Yes, yes, I know you have promised nothing. I hold you to nothing. Youare as free as ever to do what you will with me. But,"--and he lifted herhands once more and kissed them, and dropped them; seized his cap and wasgone.
Isabel was left alone in a tumult of thought and emotion. He had takenher by storm; she had not guessed how desperately weak she was towardshim, until he had come to her like this in a whirlwind of passion andstood trembling and almost crying, with the ruddy firelight on his face,and his eyes burning out of shadow. She felt fascinated still by thatmingling of a boy's weakness and sentiment and of a man's fire andpurpose; and she sank down on her knees before the hearth and lookedwonderingly at her hands which he had kissed so ardently, now transparentand flaming against the light as if with love. Then as she looked at thered heart of the fire the sudden leaping of her heart quieted, and therecrept on her a glow of steady desire to lean on the power of this tallyoung lover of hers; she was so utterly alone without him it seemed as ifthere were no choice left; he had come and claimed her in virtue of themaster-law, and she--how much had she yielded? She had not promised; butshe had shown evidently her real heart in those half dozen words; and hehad interpreted them for her; and she dared not in honesty repudiate hisinterpretation. And so she knelt there, clasping and unclasping herhands, in a whirl of delight and trembling; all the bounds of that soberinner life seemed for the moment swept away; she almost began to despiseits old coldnesses and limitations. How shadowy after all was the love ofGod, compared with this burning tide that was bearing her along on itsbosom!...
She sank lower and lower into herself among the black draperies, claspingthose slender hands tightly across her breast.
Suddenly a great log fell with a crash, the red glow turned into leapingflames; the whole dark room seemed alive with shadows that fled to andfro, and she knelt upright quickly and looked round her, terrified andashamed.--What was she doing here? Was it so soon then that she wassetting aside the will of her father, who trusted and loved her so well,and who lay out there in the chancel vault? Ah! she had no right here inthis room--Hubert's room now, with his cap and whip lying across thepapers and the estate-book, and his knife and the broken jesses on theseat of the chair beside her. There was his step overhead again. She mustbe gone before he came back.
There was high excitement on the estate and in the village a week or twolater when the rumour of Sir Nicholas' return was established, and thepaper had been pinned up to the gatehouse stating, in Lady Maxwell's ownhandwriting, that he would be back sometime in the week before AdventSunday. Reminiscences were exchanged of the glorious day when the oldknight came of age, over forty years ago; of the sports on the green, ofthe quintain-ti
lting for the gentlefolks, and the archery in the meadowbehind the church for the vulgar; of the high mass and the dinner thatfollowed it. It was rumoured that Mr. Hubert and Mr. Piers had alreadyselected the ox that was to be roasted whole, and that materials for thebonfire were in process of collection in the woodyard of the home farm.
Sir Nicholas' letters became more and more emphatically underlined andincoherent as the days went on, and Lady Maxwell less and less willingfor Isabel to read them; but the girl often found the old lady hastilyputting away the thin sheets which she had just taken out to read toherself once again, on which her dear lord had scrawled down his veryheart itself, as if his courting of her were all to do again.
It was not until the Saturday morning that the courier rode in throughthe gatehouse with the news that Sir Nicholas was to be released thatday, and would be down if possible before nightfall. All the men on theestate were immediately called in and sent home to dress themselves; andan escort of a dozen grooms and servants led by Hubert and Piers rode outat once on the north road, with torches ready for kindling, to meet theparty and bring them home; and all other preparations were set forward atonce.
Towards eight o'clock Lady Maxwell was so anxious and restless thatIsabel slipped out and went down to the gatehouse to look out for herselfif there were any signs of the approach of the party. She went up to oneof the little octagonal towers, and looked out towards the green.
It was a clear starlight night, but towards the village all was bathed inthe dancing ruddy light of the bonfire. It was burning on a little moundat the upper end of the green, just below where Isabel stood, and a heavycurtain of smoke drifted westwards. As she looked down on it she sawagainst it the tall black posts of the gigantic jack and the slowlyrevolving carcass of the ox; and round about the stirring crowd of thevillage folk, their figures black on this side, luminous on that. Shecould even make out the cassock and square cap of Mr. Bodder as he movedamong his flock. The rows of houses on either side, bright and clear atthis end, melted away into darkness at the lower end of the green, whereon the right the church tower rose up, blotting out the stars, itselfjust touched with ruddy light, and on the top of which, like a large staritself, burned the torch of the watcher who was looking out towards thenorth road. There was a ceaseless hum of noise from the green, pierced bythe shrill cries of the children round the glowing mass of the bonfire,but there was no disorder, as the barrels that had been rolled out of theHall cellars that afternoon still stood untouched beneath the Rectorygarden-wall. Isabel contrasted in her mind this pleasant human tumultwith the angry roaring she had heard from these same country-folk a fewmonths before, when she had followed Lady Maxwell out to the rescue ofthe woman who had injured her; and she wondered at these strange souls,who attended a Protestant service, but were so fierce and so genial intheir defence and welcome of a Catholic squire.
As she thought, there was a sudden movement of the light on the churchtower; it tossed violently up and down, and a moment later the jubilantclangour of the bells broke out. There was a sudden stir in the figureson the green, and a burst of cheering rose. Isabel strained her eyesnorthwards, but the road took a turn beyond the church and she could seenothing but darkness and low-hung stars and one glimmering window. Sheturned instinctively to the house behind her, and there was the doorflung wide, and she could make out the figures of the two ladies againstthe brightly lit hall beyond, wrapped like herself, in cloak and hood,for the night was frosty and cold.
As she turned once more she heard the clear rattle of trotting hoofs onthe hard road, and a glow began to be visible at the lower dark end ofthe village. The cheering rose higher, and the bells were all clashingtogether in melodious discord, as in the angle of the road a group oftossing torches appeared. Then she could make out the horsemen; threeriding together, and the others as escort round them. The crowd hadpoured off the grass on to the road by now, and the horses were coming upbetween two shouting gesticulating lines which closed after them as theywent. Now she could make out the white hair of Sir Nicholas, as he bowedbare-headed right and left; and Hubert's feathered cap, on one side ofhim, and Mr. Boyd's black hat on the other. They had passed the bonfirenow, and were coming up the avenue, the crowds still streaming afterthem, and the church tower bellowing rough music overhead. Isabel leanedout over the battlements, and saw beneath her the two old ladies waitingjust outside the gate by the horse-block; and then she drew back, hereyes full of tears, for she saw Sir Nicholas' face as he caught sight ofhis wife.
There was a sudden silence as the horses drew up; and the crowds ceasedshouting, and when Isabel leaned over again Sir Nicholas was on thehorse-block, the two ladies immediately behind him, and the peoplepressing forward to hear his voice. It was a very short speech; andIsabel overhead could not catch more than detached phrases of it, "forthe faith"--"my wife and you all"--"home again"--"my son Huberthere"--"you and your families"--"the Catholic religion"--"the Queen'sgrace"--"God save her Majesty."
Then again the cheering broke out; and Isabel crossed over to see thempass up to the house and to the bright door set wide for them, and evenas she watched them go up the steps, and Hubert's figure close behind,she suddenly dropped her forehead on to the cold battlement, and drew asharp breath or two, for she remembered again what it all meant to himand to herself.
PART II