CHAPTER IV
THE ELDER SON
Ralph had prospered exceedingly since his return from the SussexVisitation. He had been sent on mission after mission by Cromwell, whohad learnt at last how wholly he could be trusted; and with each successhis reputation increased. It seemed to Cromwell that his man was morewhole-hearted than he had been at first; and when he was told abruptlyby Ralph that his relations with Mistress Atherton had come to an end,the politician was not slow to connect cause and effect. He had alwaysregretted the friendship; it seemed to him that his servant's characterwas sure to be weakened by his alliance with a friend of Master More;and though he had said nothing--for Ralph's manner did not encouragequestions--he had secretly congratulated both himself and his agent forso happy a termination to an unfortunate incident.
For the meantime Ralph's fortunes rose with his master's; Lord Cromwellnow reigned in England next after the King in both Church and State. Heheld a number of offices, each of which would have been sufficient foran ordinary man, but all of which did not overtax his amazing energy. Hestood absolutely alone, with all the power in his hands; President ofthe Star Chamber, Foreign Minister, Home-Minister, and the Vicar-Generalof the Church; feared by Churchmen, distrusted by statesmen and nobles;and hated by all except his own few personal friends--an unique figurethat had grown to gigantic stature through sheer effort and adroitness.
And beneath his formidable shadow Ralph was waxing great. He had failedto get Lewes for himself, for Cromwell designed it for Gregory his son;but he was offered his choice among several other great houses. For thepresent he hesitated to choose; uncertain of his future. If his fatherdied there would be Overfield waiting for him, so he did not wish to tiehimself to one of the far-away Yorkshire houses; if his father lived, hedid not wish to be too near him. There was no hurry, said Cromwell;there would be houses and to spare for the King's faithful servants; andmeantime it would be better for Mr. Torridon to remain in Westminster,and lay his foundations of prosperity deeper and wider yet beforebuilding. The title too that Cromwell dangled before him sometimes--thattoo could wait until he had chosen his place of abode.
Ralph felt that he was being magnificently treated by his master; andhis gratitude and admiration grew side by side with his rising fortune.There was no niggardliness, now that Cromwell had learnt to trust inhim; he could draw as much money as he wished for the payment of hisunder-agents, or for any other purpose; and no questions were asked.
The little house at Westminster grew rich in treasures; his bed-coverletwas the very cope he had taken from Rusper; his table was heavy withchalices beaten into secular shape; his fire-screen was a Spanishchasuble taken in the North. His servants were no longer three or foursleeping in the house; there was a brigade of them, some that attendedfor orders morning by morning, some that skirmished for him in thecountry and returned rich in documents and hearsay; and a dozen waitedon his personal wants.
He dealt too with great folks. Half a dozen abbots had been to see himin the last year or two, stately prelates that treated him as an equaland pleaded for his intercession; the great nobles, enemies of hismaster and himself, eyed him with respectful suspicion as he walked withCromwell in Westminster Hall. The King had pulled his ears and praisedhim; Ralph had stayed at Greenwich a week at a time when the executionof the Benedictine abbots was under discussion; he had ridden downCheapside with Henry on his right and Cromwell beyond, between theshouting crowds and beneath the wild tossing of gold-cloth and tapestryand the windy pealing of a hundred brazen bells. He had gone up withNorfolk to Doncaster, a mouth through which the King might promise andthreaten, and had strode up the steps beside the Duke to make an end ofthe insurgent-leaders of the northern rebellion.
He did not lack a goad, beside that of his own ambition, to drive himthrough this desperate stir; he found a sufficient one in his memory. Hedid not think much of his own family, except with sharp contempt. He didnot even trouble to make any special report about Chris or Margaret; butit was impossible to remember Beatrice with contempt. When she had lefthim kneeling at his table, she had left something besides--the sting ofher words, and the bitter coldness of her eyes.
As he looked back he did not know whether he loathed her or loved her;he only knew that she affected him profoundly. Again and again as hedealt brutally with some timid culprit, or stood with his hand on hiship to direct the destruction of a shrine, the memory whipped him on hisraw soul. He would show her whether he were a man or no; whether hedepended on her or no; whether her woman's tongue could turn him or no.
* * * * *
He was exercised now with very different matters. Religious affairs forthe present had fallen into a secondary place, and home and foreignpolitics absorbed most of Cromwell's energies and time. Forces weregathering once more against England, and the Catholic powers were comingto an understanding with one another against the country that had thrownoff allegiance to the Pope and the Empire. There was an opportunity,however, for Henry's propensity to marriage once more to play a part inpolitics; he had been three years without a wife; and Cromwell hadhastened for the third time to avail himself of the King's passions asan instrument in politics. He had understood that a union betweenEngland and the Lutheran princes would cause a formidable obstacle toCatholic machinations; and with this in view had excited Henry by adescription and a picture of the Lady Anne, daughter of the Duke ofCleves and sister-in-law of the Elector of Saxony. He had been perfectlysuccessful in the first stages; the stout duchess had landed at Deal atthe end of December; and the marriage had been solemnised a few dayslater. But unpleasant rumour had been busy ever since; it was whisperedfar and wide that the King loathed his wife, and complained that he hadbeen deceived as to her charms; and Ralph, who was more behind thescenes than most men, knew that the rumour was only too true. He hadbeen present at an abominable incident the day after the marriage hadtaken place, when the King had stormed and raved about the council-room,crying out that he had been deceived, and adding many gross details forthe benefit of his friends.
Cromwell had been strangely moody ever since. Ralph had watched hisheavy face day after day staring vacantly across the room, and his handthat held the pen dig and prick at the paper beneath it.
Even that was not all. The Anglo-German alliance had provoked oppositionon the continent instead of quelling it; and Ralph saw more than onethreatening piece of news from abroad that hinted at a probable invasionof England should Cromwell's schemes take effect. These too, however,had proved deceptive, and the Lutheran princes whom he had desired toconciliate were even already beginning to draw back from theconsequences of their action.
Ralph was in Cromwell's room one day towards the end of January, when acourier arrived with despatches from an agent who had been following theSpanish Emperor's pacific progress through France, undertaken as a kindof demonstration against England.
Cromwell tore open the papers, and glanced at them, running his quickattentive eye over this page and that; and Ralph saw his face grow sternand white. He tossed the papers on to the table, and nodded to thecourier to leave the room.
Then he took up a pen, examined it; dashed it point down against thetable; gnawed his nails a moment, and then caught Ralph's eye.
"We are failing," he said abruptly. "Mr. Torridon, if you are a rat youhad better run."
"I shall not run, sir," said Ralph.
"God's Body!" said his master, "we shall all run together, I think;--butnot yet."
Then he took up the papers again, and began to read.
It was a few days later that Ralph received the news of his mother'sillness.
She had written to him occasionally, telling him of his father'stiresome ways, his brother's arrogance, his sister's feeble piety, andfinally she had told him of Beatrice's arrival.
"I consented very gladly," she had written, "for I thought to teach mylady a lesson or two; but I find her very pert and obstinate. I do notunderstand, my dear son, how you could have wished
to make her yourwife; and yet I will grant that she has a taking way with her; she seemsto fear nothing but her own superstitions and folly, but I am very happyto think that all is over between you. She never loved you, my Ralph;for she cares nothing when I speak your name, as I have done two orthree times; nor yet Master More either. I think she has no heart."
Ralph had wondered a little as he read this, at his mother's curiousinterest in the girl; and he wondered too at the report of Beatrice'scallousness. It was her damned pride, he assured himself.
Then, one evening as he arrived home from Hackney where he had slept theprevious night; he found a messenger waiting for him. The letter had notbeen sent on to him, as he had not left word where he was going.
It contained a single line from his father.
"Your mother is ill. Come at once. She wishes for you."
* * * * *
It was in the stormy blackness of a February midnight that he rode upthrough the lighted gatehouse to his home. Above the terrace as he cameup the road the tall hall-window glimmered faintly like a giganticluminous door hung in space; and the lower window of his father's roomshone and faded as the fire leapt within.
A figure rose up suddenly from before the hall-fire as he came in,bringing with him a fierce gust of wet wind through the opened door; andwhen he had slipped off his dripping cloak into his servant's hands, hesaw that his father was there two yards away, very stern and white, withoutstretched hands.
"My son," said the old man, "you are too late. She died two hours ago."
It was a fierce shock, and for a moment he stood dazed, blinking at thelight, holding his father's warm slender hands in his own, and trying toassimilate the news. He had been driven inwards, and his obstinacyweakened, during that long ride from town through the stormy sunset intothe black, howling night; memories had reasserted themselves on thestrength of his anxiety; and the past year or two slipped from him, andleft him again the eldest son of the house and of his two parents.
Then as he looked into the pale bearded face before him, and the eyeswhich had looked into his own a few months ago with such passionateanger, he remembered all that was between them, dropped the hands andwent forward to the fire.
His father followed him and stood by him there as he spread his fingersto the blaze, and told him the details, in short detached sentences.
She had been seized with pain and vomiting on the previous night atsupper time; the doctor had been sent for, and had declared the illnessto be an internal inflammation. She had grown steadily worse on thefollowing day, with periods of unconsciousness; she had asked for Ralphan hour after she had been taken ill; the pain had seemed to becomefiercer as the hours went on; she had died at ten o'clock that night.
Ralph stood there and listened, his head pressed against the highmantelpiece, and his fingers stretching and closing mechanically tosupple the stiffened joints.
"Mistress Atherton was with her all the while," said his father; "sheasked for her."
Ralph shot a glance sideways, and down again.
"And--" he began.
"Yes; she was shriven and anointed, thank God; she could not receiveViaticum."
Ralph did not know whether he was glad or sorry at that news. It was aproper proceeding at any rate; as proper as the candles and the shroudand the funeral rites. As regards grief, he did not feel it yet; but hewas aware of a profound sensation in his soul, as of a bruise.
There was silence for a moment or two; then the wind bellowed suddenlyin the chimney, the tall window gave a crack of sound, and the smokeeddied out into the room. Ralph turned round.
"They are with her still," said Sir James; "we can go up presently."
The other shook his head abruptly.
"No," he said, "I will wait until to-morrow. Which is my room?"
"Your old room," said his father. "I have had a truckle-bed set therefor your man. Will you find your way? I must stay here for MistressAtherton."
Ralph nodded sharply, and went out, down the hill.
* * * * *
It was half an hour more before Beatrice appeared; and then Sir Jameslooked up from his chair at the sound of a footstep and saw her comingup the matted floor. Her face was steady and resolute, but there weredark patches under her eyes, for she had not slept for two nights.
Sir James stood up, and held out his hands.
"Ralph has come," he said. "He is gone to his room. Where are theothers?"
"The priests are at prayers and Meg too," she said, "It is all ready,sir. You may go up when you please."
"I must say a word first," said Sir James. "Sit down, MistressAtherton."
He drew forward his chair for her; and himself stood up on the hearth,leaning his head on his hand and looking down into the fire.
"It is this," he said: "May our Lord reward you for what you have donefor us."
Beatrice was silent.
"You know she asked my pardon," he said, "when we were left alonetogether. You do not know what that means. And she gave me herforgiveness for all my folly--"
Beatrice drew a sharp breath in spite of herself.
"We have both sinned," he went on; "we did not understand one another;and I feared we should part so. That we have not, we have to thankyou--"
His old voice broke suddenly; and Beatrice heard him draw a long sobbingbreath. She knew she ought to speak, but her brain was bewildered withthe want of sleep and the long struggle; she could not think of a wordto say; she felt herself on the verge of hysteria.
"You have done it all," he said again presently. "She took all that Mr.Carleton said patiently enough, he told me. It is all your work.Mistress Atherton--"
She looked up questioningly with her bright tired eyes.
"Mistress Atherton; may I know what you said to her?"
Beatrice made a great effort and recovered her self-control.
"I answered her questions," she said.
"Questions? Did she ask you of the Faith? Did she speak of me? Am Iasking too much?"
Beatrice shook her head. For a moment again she could not speak.
"I am asking what I should not," said the old man.
"No, no," cried the girl, "you have a right to know. Wait, I will tellyou--"
Again she broke off, and felt her own breath begin to sob in her throat.She buried her face in her hands a moment.
"God forgive me," said the other. "I--"
"It was about your son Ralph," said Beatrice bravely, though her lipsshook.
"She--she asked whether I had ever loved him at all--and--"
"Mistress Beatrice, Mistress Beatrice, I entreat you not to say more."
"And I told her--yes; and, yes--still."
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