CHAPTER II
THE HALL AND THE HOUSE
Anthony Norris, who was now about fourteen, went up to King's College,Cambridge, in October. He was closeted long with his father the nightbefore he left, and received from him much sound religious advice andexhortation; and in the morning, after an almost broken-hearted good-byefrom Isabel, he rode out with his servant following on another horse andleading a packhorse on the saddle of which the falcons swayed andstaggered, and up the curving drive that led round into the villagegreen. He was a good-hearted and wholesome-minded boy, and left a realache behind him in the Dower House.
Isabel indeed ran up to his room, after she had seen his feathered capdisappear at a trot through the gate, leaving her father in the hall; andafter shutting and latching the door, threw herself on his bed, andsobbed her heart out. They had never been long separated before. For thelast three years he had gone over to the Rectory morning by morning to beinstructed by Mr. Dent; but now, although he would never make a greatscholar, his father thought it well to send him up to Cambridge for twoor three years, that he might learn to find his own level in the world.
Anthony himself was eager to go. If the truth must be told, he fretted alittle against the restraints of even such a moderate Puritan householdas that of his father's. It was a considerable weariness to Anthony tokneel in the hall on a fresh morning while his father read, even thoughwith fervour and sincerity, long extracts from "Christian Prayers andHoly Meditations," collected by the Reverend Henry Bull, when the realworld, as Anthony knew it, laughed and rippled and twinkled outside inthe humming summer air of the lawn and orchard; or to have to listen togodly discourses, however edifying to elder persons, just at the timewhen the ghost-moth was beginning to glimmer in the dusk, and the heavytrout to suck down his supper in the glooming pool in the meadow belowthe house.
His very sports, too, which his father definitely encouraged, wereobviously displeasing to the grave divines who haunted the house so oftenfrom Saturday to Monday, and spoke of high doctrinal matters atmeal-times, when, so Anthony thought, lighter subjects should prevail.They were not interested in his horse, and Anthony never felt quite thesame again towards one good minister who in a moment of severity calledEliza, the glorious peregrine that sat on the boy's wrist and shook herbells, a "vanity." And so Anthony trotted off happy enough on his way toCambridge, of which he had heard much from Mr. Dent; and where, althoughthere too were divines and theology, there were boys as well who actedplays, hunted with the hounds, and did not call high-bred hawks"vanities."
Isabel was very different. While Anthony was cheerful and active like hismother who had died in giving him life, she, on the other hand, was quietand deep like her father. She was growing up, if not into actual beauty,at least into grace and dignity: but there were some who thought herbeautiful. She was pale with dark hair, and the great grey eyes of herfather; and she loved and lived in Anthony from the very differencebetween them. She frankly could not understand the attraction of sport,and the things that pleased her brother; she was afraid of the hawks, andliked to stroke a horse and kiss his soft nose better than to ride him.But, after all, Anthony liked to watch the towering bird, and to hear andindeed increase the thunder of the hoofs across the meadows behind thestomping hawk; and so she did her best to like them too; and she wasoften torn two ways by her sympathy for the partridge on the one hand, asit sped low and swift across the standing corn with that dread shadowfollowing, and her desire, on the other hand, that Anthony should not bedisappointed.
But in the deeper things of the spirit, too, there was a wide differencebetween them. As Anthony fidgeted and sighed through his chair-backmorning and evening, Isabel's soul soared up to God on the wings of thosesounding phrases. She had inherited all her father's tender piety, andlived, like him, on the most intimate terms with the spiritual world. Andthough, of course, by training she was Puritan, by character she wasPuritan too. As a girl of fourteen she had gone with Anthony to see thecleansing of the village temple. They had stood together at the west endof the church a little timid at the sight of that noisy crowd in thequiet house of prayer; but she had felt no disapproval at that fiercevindication of truth. Her father had taught her of course that the purestworship was that which was only spiritual; and while since childhood shehad seen Sunday by Sunday the Great Rood overhead, she had never paid itany but artistic attention. The men had the ropes round it now, and itwas swaying violently to and fro; and then, even as the children watched,a tie had given, and the great cross with its pathetic wide-armed figurehad toppled forward towards the nave, and then crashed down on thepavement. A fanatic ran out and furiously kicked the thorn-crowned headtwice, splintering the hair and the features, and cried out on it as anidol; and yet Isabel, with all her tenderness, felt nothing more than avague regret that a piece of carving so ancient and so delicate should bebroken.
But when the work was over, and the crowd and Anthony with them hadstamped out, directed by the justices, dragging the figures and the oldvestments with them to the green, she had seen something which touchedher heart much more. She passed up alone under the screen, which they hadspared, to see what had been done in the chancel; and as she went sheheard a sobbing from the corner near the priest's door; and there,crouched forward on his face, crying and moaning quietly, was the oldpriest who had been rector of the church for nearly twenty years. He hadsomehow held on in Edward's time in spite of difficulties; had thankedGod and the Court of Heaven with a full heart for the accession of Mary;had prayed and deprecated the divine wrath at the return of theProtestant religion with Elizabeth; but yet had somehow managed to keepthe old faith alight for eight years more, sometimes evading, sometimesresisting, and sometimes conforming to the march of events, in hopes ofbetter days. But now the blow had fallen, and the old man, tooill-instructed to hear the accents of new truth in the shouting of thatnoisy crowd and the crash of his images, was on his knees before thealtar where he had daily offered the holy sacrifice through all thosetroublous years, faithful to what he believed to be God's truth, nowbewailing and moaning the horrors of that day, and, it is to be feared,unchristianly calling down the vengeance of God upon his faithless flock.This shocked and touched Isabel far more than the destruction of theimages; and she went forward timidly and said something; but the old manturned on her a face of such misery and anger that she had run straightout of the church, and joined Anthony as he danced on the green.
On the following Sunday the old priest was not there, and a fervent youngminister from London had taken his place, and preached a stirring sermonon the life and times of Josiah; and Isabel had thanked God on her kneesafter the sermon for that He had once more vindicated His awful Name andcleansed His House for a pure worship.
But the very centre of Isabel's religion was the love of the Saviour. ThePuritans of those early days were very far from holding a negative orcolourless faith. Not only was their belief delicately dogmatic toexcess; but it all centred round the Person of the Lord Jesus Christ. AndIsabel had drunk in this faith from her father's lips, and fromdevotional books which he gave her, as far back as she could rememberanything. Her love for the Saviour was even romantic and passionate. Itseemed to her that He was as much a part of her life, and of her actualexperience, as Anthony or her father. Certain places in the lanes about,and certain spots in the garden, were sacred and fragrant to her becauseher Lord had met her there. It was indeed a trouble to her sometimes thatshe loved Anthony so much; and to her mind it was a less worthy kind oflove altogether; it was kindled and quickened by such little externaldetails, by the sight of his boyish hand brown with the sun, and scarredby small sporting accidents, such as the stroke of his bird's beak ortalons, or by the very outline of the pillow where his curly head hadrested only an hour or two ago. Whereas her love for Christ was a deepand solemn passion that seemed to well not out of His comeliness or evenHis marred Face or pierced Hands, but out of His wide encompassing lovethat sustained and
clasped her at every moment of her conscious attentionto Him, and that woke her soul to ecstasy at moments of high communion.These two loves, then, one so earthly, one so heavenly, but both sosweet, every now and then seemed to her to be in slight conflict in herheart. And lately a third seemed to be rising up out of the plane ofsober and quiet affections such as she felt for her father, and stillfurther complicating the apparently encountering claims of love to Godand man.
Isabel grew quieter in a few minutes and lay still, following Anthonywith her imagination along the lane that led to the London road, and thenpresently she heard her father calling, and went to the door to listen.
"Isabel," he said, "come down. Hubert is in the hall."
She called out that she would be down in a moment; and then going acrossto her own room she washed her face and came downstairs. There was atall, pleasant-faced lad of about her own age standing near the open doorthat led into the garden; and he came forward nervously as she entered.
"I came back last night, Mistress Isabel," he said, "and heard thatAnthony was going this morning: but I am afraid I am too late."
She told him that Anthony had just gone.
"Yes," he said, "I came to say good-bye; but I came by the orchard, andso we missed one another."
Isabel asked a word or two about his visit to the North, and they talkedfor a few minutes about a rumour that Hubert had heard of a rising onbehalf of Mary: but Hubert was shy and constrained, and Isabel was stilla little tremulous. At last he said he must be going, and then suddenlyremembered a message from his mother.
"Ah!" he said, "I was forgetting. My mother wants you to come up thisevening, if you have time. Father is away, and my aunt is unwell and isupstairs."
Isabel promised she would come.
"Father is at Chichester," went on Hubert, "before the Commission, but wedo not expect him back till to-morrow."
A shadow passed across Isabel's face. "I am sorry," she said.
The fact was that Sir Nicholas had again been summoned for recusancy. Itwas an expensive matter to refuse to attend church, and Sir Nicholasprobably paid not less than L200 or L300 a year for the privilege ofworshipping as his conscience bade.
In the evening Isabel asked her father's leave to be absent after supper,and then drawing on her hood, walked across in the dusk to the Hall.Hubert was waiting for her at the boundary door between the twoproperties.
"Father has come back," he said, "but my mother wants you still." Theywent on together, passed round the cloister wing to the south of thehouse: the bell turret over the inner hall and the crowded roofs stood upagainst the stars, as they came up the curving flight of shallow stepsfrom the garden to the tall doorway that led into the hall.
It was a pleasant, wide, high room, panelled with fresh oak, and hungwith a little old tapestry here and there, and a few portraits. Astaircase rose out of it to the upper story. It had a fret-ceiling, withflower-de-luce and rose pendants, and on the walls between the tapestrieshung a few antlers and pieces of armour, morions and breast-plates, witha pair of pikes or halberds here and there. A fire had been lighted inthe great hearth as the evenings were chilly; and Sir Nicholas wasstanding before it, still in his riding-dress, pouring out resentment andfury to his wife, who sat in a tall chair at her embroidery. She turnedsilently and held out a hand to Isabel, who came and stood beside her,while Hubert went and sat down near his father. Sir Nicholas scarcelyseemed to notice their entrance, beyond glancing up for a moment underhis fierce white eyebrows; but went on growling out his wrath. He was afine rosy man, with grey moustache and pointed beard, and a thick head ofhair, and he held in his hand his flat riding cap, and his whip withwhich from time to time he cut at his boot.
"It was monstrous, I told the fellow, that a man should be haled from hishome like this to pay a price for his conscience. The religion of myfather and his father and all our fathers was good enough for me; and whyin God's name should the Catholic have to pay who had never changed hisfaith, while every heretic went free? And then to that some stripling ofa clerk told me that a religion that was good enough for the Queen'sGrace should be good enough for her loyal subjects too; but my Lordsilenced him quickly. And then I went at them again; and all my Lordwould do was to nod his head and smile at me as if I were a child; andthen he told me that it was a special Commission all for my sake, and SirArthur's, who was there too, my dear.... Well, well, the end was that Ihad to pay for their cursed religion."
"Sweetheart, sweetheart," said Lady Maxwell, glancing at Isabel.
"Well, I paid," went on Sir Nicholas, "but I showed them, thank God, whatI was: for as we came out, Sir Arthur and I together, what should we seebut another party coming in, pursuivant and all; and in the mid of themthat priest who was with us last July.--Well, well, we'll leave his namealone--him that said he was a priest before them all in September; and Iwent down on my knees, thank God, and Sir Arthur went down on his, and weasked his blessing before them all, and he gave it us: and oh! my Lordwas red and white with passion."
"That was not wise, sweetheart," said Lady Maxwell tranquilly, "thepriest will have suffered for it afterwards."
"Well, well," grumbled Sir Nicholas, "a man cannot always think, but weshowed them that Catholics were not ashamed of their religion--yes, andwe got the blessing too."
"Well, but here is supper waiting," said my lady, "and Isabel, too, whomyou have not spoken to yet."
Sir Nicholas paid no attention.
"Ah! but that was not all," he went on, savagely striking his boot again,"at the end of all who should I see but that--that--damned rogue--whomGod reward!"--and he turned and spat into the fire--"Topcliffe. There hewas, bowing to my Lord and the Commissioners. When I think of that man,"he said, "when I think of that man--" and Sir Nicholas' kindly oldpassionate face grew pale and lowering with fury, and his eyebrows bentthemselves forward, and his lower lip pushed itself out, and his handclosed tremblingly on his whip.
His wife laid down her embroidery and came to him.
"There, sweetheart," she said, taking his cap and whip. "Now sit down andhave supper, and leave that man to God."
Sir Nicholas grew quiet again; and after a saying a word or two ofapology to Isabel, left the room to wash before he sat down to supper.
"Mistress Isabel does not know who Topcliffe is," said Hubert.
"Hush, my son," said his mother, "your father does not like his name tobe spoken."
Presently Sir Nicholas returned, and sat down to supper. Gradually hisgood nature returned, and he told them what he had seen in Chichester,and the talk he had heard. How it was reported to his lordship the Bishopthat the old religion was still the religion of the people's hearts--how,for example, at Lindfield they had all the images and the altar furniturehidden underground, and at Battle, too; and that the mass could be set upagain at a few hours' notice: and that the chalices had not been melteddown into communion cups according to the orders issued, and so on. Andthat at West Grinsted, moreover, the Blessed Sacrament was therestill--praise God--yes, and was going to remain there. He spoke freelybefore Isabel, and yet he remembered his courtesy too, and did not abusethe new-fangled religion, as he thought it, in her presence; or seek inany way to trouble her mind. If ever in an excess of anger he was carriedaway in his talk, his wife would always check him gently; and he wouldalways respond and apologise to Isabel if he had transgressed goodmanners. In fact, he was just a fiery old man who could not change hisreligion even at the bidding of his monarch, and could not understand howwhat was right twenty years ago was wrong now.
Isabel herself listened with patience and tenderness, and awe too;because she loved and honoured this old man in spite of the darkness inwhich he still walked. He also told them in lower tones of a rumour thatwas persistent at Chichester that the Duke of Norfolk had been imprisonedby the Queen's orders, and was to be charged with treason; and that hewas at present at Burnham, in Mr. Wentworth's house, under the guard ofSir Henry Neville. If this was true, as indeed it turned out to be later,it
was another blow to the Catholic cause in England; but Sir Nicholaswas of a sanguine mind, and pooh-poohed the whole affair even while herelated it.
And so the evening passed in talk. When Sir Nicholas had finished supper,they all went upstairs to my lady's withdrawing-room on the first floor.This was always a strange and beautiful room to Isabel. It was panelledlike the room below, but was more delicately furnished, and a tall harpstood near the window to which my lady sang sometimes in a sweettremulous old voice, while Sir Nicholas nodded at the fire. Isabel, too,had had some lessons here from the old lady; but even this mild vanitytroubled her puritan conscience a little sometimes. Then the room, too,had curious and attractive things in it. A high niche in the oak over thefireplace held a slender image of Mary and her Holy Child, and from theChild's fingers hung a pair of beads. Isabel had a strange sensesometimes as if this holy couple had taken refuge in that niche when theywere driven from the church; but it seemed to her in her steadier moodsthat this was a superstitious fancy, and had the nature of sin.
This evening the old lady went to her harp, while Isabel sat down nearher in the wide window seat and looked out over the dark lawn, where thewhite dial glimmered like a phantom, and thought of Anthony again. SirNicholas went and stretched himself before the fire, and closed his eyes,for he was old, and tired with his long ride; and Hubert sat down in adark corner near him whence he could watch Isabel. After a few ripplingchords my lady began to sing a song by Sir Thomas Wyatt, whom she and SirNicholas had known in their youth; and which she had caused to be set tomusic by some foreign chapel master. It was a sorrowful little song, withthe title, "He seeketh comfort in patience," and possibly she chose it onpurpose for this evening.
"Patience! for I have wrong, And dare not shew wherein; Patience shall be my song; Since truth can nothing win. Patience then for this fit; Hereafter comes not yet."
While she sang, she thought no doubt of the foolish brave courtier wholacked patience in spite of his singing, and lost his head for it; hervoice shook once or twice: and old Sir Nicholas shook his drowsy headwhen she had finished, and said "God rest him," and then fell fastasleep.
Then he presently awoke as the others talked in whispers, and joined intoo: and they talked of Anthony, and what he would find at Cambridge; andof Alderman Marrett, and his house off Cheapside, where Anthony would liethat night; and of such small and tranquil topics, and left fiercerquestions alone. And so the evening came to an end; and Isabel saidgood-night, and went downstairs with Hubert, and out into the gardenagain.
"I am sorry that Sir Nicholas has been so troubled," she said to Hubert,as they turned the corner of the house together. "Why cannot we leave oneanother alone, and each worship God as we think fit?"
Hubert smiled in the darkness to himself.
"I am afraid Queen Mary did not think it could be done, either," he said."But then, Mistress Isabel," he went on, "I am glad that you feel thatreligion should not divide people."
"Surely not," she said, "so long as they love God."
"Then you think--" began Hubert, and then stopped. Isabel turned to him.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Nothing," said Hubert.
They had reached the door in the boundary wall by now, and Isabel wouldnot let him come further with her and bade him good-night. But Hubertstill stood, with his hand on the door, and watched the white figure fadeinto the dusk, and listened to the faint rustle of her skirt over the dryleaves; and then, when he heard at last the door of the Dower House openand close, he sighed to himself and went home.
Isabel heard her father call from his room as she passed through thehall; and went in to him as he sat at his table in his furred gown, withhis books about him, to bid him good-night and receive his blessing. Helifted his hand for a moment to finish the sentence he was writing, andshe stood watching the quill move and pause and move again over thepaper, in the candlelight, until he laid the pen down, and rose and stoodwith his back to the fire, smiling down at her. He was a tall, slenderman, surprisingly upright for his age, with a delicate, bearded,scholar's face; the little plain ruff round his neck helped to emphasisethe fine sensitiveness of his features; and the hands which he stretchedout to his daughter were thin and veined.
"Well, my daughter," he said, looking down at her with his kindly greyeyes so like her own, and holding her hands.
"Have you had a good evening, sir?" she asked.
He nodded briskly.
"And you, child?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," she said, smiling up at him.
"And was Sir Nicholas there?"
She told him what had passed, and how Sir Nicholas had been fined againfor his recusancy; and how Lady Maxwell had sung one of Sir ThomasWyatt's songs.
"And was no one else there?" he asked.
"Yes, father, Hubert."
"Ah! And did Hubert come home with you?"
"Only as far as the gate, father. I would not let him come further."
Her father said nothing, but still looked steadily down into her eyes fora moment, and then turned and looked away from her into the fire.
"You must take care," he said gently. "Remember he is a Papist, born andbred; and that he has a heart to be broken too."
She felt herself steadily flushing; and as he turned again towards her,dropped her eyes.
"You will be prudent and tender, I know," he added. "I trust you wholly,Isabel."
Then he kissed her on the forehead and laid his hand on her head, andlooked up, as the Puritan manner was.
"May the God of grace bless you, my daughter; and make you faithful tothe end." And then he looked into her eyes again, smiled and nodded; andshe went out, leaving him standing there.
Mr. Norris had begun to fear that the boy loved Isabel, but as yet he didnot know whether Isabel understood it or even was aware of it. Themarriage difficulties of Catholics and Protestants were scarcely yetexisting; and certainly there was no formulated rule of dealing withthem. Changes of religion were so frequent in those days thatdifficulties, when they did arise, easily adjusted themselves. It wasconsidered, for example, by politicians quite possible at one time thatthe Duke of Anjou should conform to the Church of England for the sake ofmarrying the Queen: or that he should attend public services with her,and at the same time have mass and the sacraments in his own privatechapel. Or again, it was open to question whether England as a wholewould not return to the old religion, and Catholicism be the onlytolerated faith.
But to really religious minds such solutions would not do. It would havebeen an intolerable thought to this sincere Puritan, with all histolerance, that his daughter should marry a Catholic; such an arrangementwould mean either that she was indifferent to vital religion, or that shewas married to a man whose creed she was bound to abhor and anathematise:and however willing Mr. Norris might be to meet Papists on terms ofsocial friendliness, and however much he might respect their personalcharacters, yet the thought that the life of any one dear to him shouldbe irretrievably bound up with all that the Catholic creed involved, wassimply an impossible one.
Besides all this he had no great opinion of Hubert. He thought hedetected in him a carelessness and want of principle that would make himhesitate to trust his daughter to him, even if the insuperable barrier ofreligion were surmounted. Mr. Norris liked a man to be consistent andzealous for his creed, even if that creed were dark andsuperstitious--and this zeal seemed to him lamentably lacking in Hubert.More than once he had heard the boy speak of his father with an air ofeasy indulgence, that his own opinion interpreted as contempt.
"I believe my father thinks," he had once said, "that every penny he paysin fines goes to swell the accidental glory of God."
And Hubert had been considerably startled and distressed when the elderman had told him to hold his tongue unless he could speak respectfully ofone to whom he owed nothing but love and honour. This had happened,however, more than a year ago; and Hubert had forgotten it, no doubt,even if Mr. Norris had not.
And as for Isabel.
It is exceedingly difficult to say quite what place Hubert occupied inher mind. She certainly did not know herself much more than that sheliked the boy to be near her; to hear his footsteps coming along the pathfrom the Hall. This morning when her father had called up to her thatHubert was come, it was not so hard to dry her tears for Anthony'sdeparture. The clouds had parted a little when she came and found thistall lad smiling shyly at her in the hall. As she had sat in the windowseat, too, during Lady Maxwell's singing, she was far from unconsciousthat Hubert's face was looking at her from the dark corner. And as theywalked back together her simplicity was not quite so transparent as theboy himself thought.
Again when her father had begun to speak of him just now, although shewas able to meet his eyes steadily and smilingly, yet it was just aneffort. She had not mentioned Hubert herself, until her father had namedhim; and in fact it is probably safe to say that during Hubert's visit tothe north, which had lasted three or four months, he had made greaterprogress towards his goal, and had begun to loom larger than ever in theheart of this serene grey-eyed girl, whom he longed for so irresistibly.
And now, as Isabel sat on her bed before kneeling to say her prayers,Hubert was in her mind even more than Anthony. She tried to wonder whather father meant, and yet only too well she knew that she knew. She hadforgotten to look into Anthony's room where she had cried so bitterlythis morning, and now she sat wide-eyed, and self-questioning as towhether her heavenly love were as lucid and single as it had been; andwhen at last she went down on her knees she entreated the King of Love tobless not only her father, and her brother Anthony who lay under theAlderman's roof in far-away London; but Sir Nicholas and Lady Maxwell,and Mistress Margaret Hallam, and--and--Hubert--and James Maxwell, hisbrother; and to bring them out of the darkness of Papistry into theglorious liberty of the children of the Gospel.