CHAPTER XXII.
SIR ANTHONY'S PURPOSE.
Late, as I have heard, on the afternoon of November 20, 1558, a manriding between Oxford and Worcester, with the news of the queen'sdeath, caught sight of the gateway tower at Coton End, which isplainly visible from the road. Though he had already drunk that day asmuch ale as would have sufficed him for a week when the queen waswell, yet much wants more. He calculated he had time to stop and tastethe Squire's brewing, which he judged, from the look of the tower,might be worth his news; and he rode through the gate and railed athis nag for stumbling.
Half way across the Chase he met Sir Anthony. The old gentleman waswalking out, with his staff in his hand and his dogs behind him, totake the air before supper. The man, while he was still a hundredpaces off, began to wave his hat and shout something, which ale andexcitement rendered unintelligible.
"What is the matter?" said Sir Anthony to himself. And he stood still.
"The queen is dead!" shouted the messenger, swaying in his saddle.
The knight stared.
"Ay, sure!" he ejaculated after a while. And he took off his hat. "Isit true, man?"
"As true as that I left London yesterday afternoon and have neverdrawn rein since!" swore the knave, who had been three days on theroad, and had drunk at every hostel and at half the manor-housesbetween London and Oxford.
"God rest her soul!" said Sir Anthony piously, still in somewhat of amaze. "And do you come in! Come in, man, and take something."
But the messenger had got his formula by heart, and was not to bedefrauded of any part of it.
"God save the queen!" he shouted. And out of respect for the knight,he slipped from his saddle and promptly fell on his back in the road.
"Ay, to be sure, God save the queen!" echoed Sir Anthony, taking offhis hat again. "You are right, man!" Then he hurried on, not noticingthe messenger's mishap. The tidings he had heard seemed of suchimportance, and he was so anxious to tell them to his household--forthe greatest men have weaknesses, and news such as this comes seldomin a lifetime--that he strode on to the house, and over the drawbridgeinto the courtyard, without once looking behind him.
He loved order and decent observance. But there are times when a cat,to get to the cream-pan, will wet its feet. He stood now in the middleof the courtyard, and raising his voice, shouted for his daughter."Ho, Petronilla! do you hear, girl! Father! Father Carey! MartinLuther! Baldwin!" and so on, until half the household were collected."Do you hear, all of you? The queen is dead! God rest her soul!"
"Amen!" said Father Carey, as became him, putting in his word amid thewondering silence which followed; while Martin Luther and Baldwin, whowere washing themselves at the pump, stood with their heads drippingand their mouths agape.
"Amen!" echoed the knight. "And long live the queen! Long live QueenElizabeth!" he continued, having now got his formula by heart. And heswung his hat.
There was a cheer, a fairly loud cheer. But there was one who did notjoin in it, and that was Petronilla. She, listening at her latticeupstairs, began at once to think, as was her habit when any mattergreat or small fell out, whether this would affect the fortunes of acertain person far away. It might, it might not; she did not know. Butthe doubt so far entertained her that she came down to supper with aheightened color, not thinking in the least, poor girl, that the eventmight have dire consequences for others almost as dear to her, andnearer home.
Every year since his sudden departure a letter from Francis Cludde hadcome to Coton; a meager letter, which had passed through many hands,and reached Sir Anthony now through one channel, now through another.The knight grumbled and swore over these letters, which nevercontained an address to which an answer could be forwarded, nor saidmuch, save that the writer was well and sent his love and duty, andlooked to return, all being well. But, meager as they were, and loudas he swore over them, he put them religiously away in an oak-chest inhis parlor; and another always put away for her share something else,which was invariably inclosed--a tiny swallow's feather. The knightnever said anything about the feather; neither asked the meaning ofits presence, nor commented upon its absence when Petronilla gave himback the letter. But for days after each of these arrivals he wouldlook much at his daughter, would follow her about with his eyes, bemore regular in bidding her attend him in his walk, and moreparticular in seeing that she had the tidbits of the joint.
For Petronilla, it cannot be said, though I think in after times shewould have liked to make some one believe it, that she wasted away.But she did take a more serious and thoughtful air in these days,which she never, God bless her, lost afterward. There came fromWootton Wawen and from Henley in Arden and from Cookhill gentlemen ofexcellent estate, to woo her. But they all went away disconsolateafter drinking very deeply of Sir Anthony's ale and strong waters. Andsome wondered that the good knight did not roundly take the jade totask and see her settled.
But he did not; so possibly even in these days he had other views. Ihave been told that, going up once to her little chamber to seek her,he found a very singular ornament suspended inside her lattice. It wasno other than a common clay house-martin's nest. But it was so deftlyhung in a netted bag, and so daintily swathed in moss always green,and the Christmas roses and snowdrops and violets and daffodils whichdecked it in turn were always so pure and fresh and bright--as theknight learned by more than one stealthy visit afterward--that, comingdown the steep steps, he could not see clearly, and stumbled against acook-boy, and beat him soundly for getting in his way.
To return, however. The news of the queen's death had scarcely beenwell digested at Coton, nor the mass for her soul, which Father Careycelebrated with much devotion, been properly criticised, beforeanother surprise fell upon the household. Two strangers arrived,riding late one evening, and rang the great bell while all were atsupper. Baldwin and the porter went to see what it was, and broughtback a message which drew the knight from his chair, as a terrierdraws a rat.
"You are drunk!" he shouted, purple in the face, and fumbling for thestick which usually leaned against his seat ready for emergencies."How dare you bring cock-and-bull stories to me?"
"It is true enough!" muttered Baldwin sullenly: a stout, dour man, notmuch afraid of his master, but loving him exceedingly. "I knew himagain myself."
Sir Anthony strode firmly out of the room, and in the courtyard nearthe great gate found a man and a woman standing in the dusk. He walkedup to the former and looked him in the face. "What do you here?" hesaid, in a strange, hard voice.
"I want shelter for a night for myself and my wife; a meal and somewords with you--no more," was the answer. "Give me this," the strangercontinued, "which every idle passer-by may claim at Coton End, and youshall see no more of me, Anthony."
For a moment the knight seemed to hesitate. Then he answered, pointingsternly with his hand, "There is the hall and supper. Go and eat anddrink. Or, stay!" he resumed. And he turned and gave some orders toBaldwin, who went swiftly to the hall, and in a moment came again."Now go! What you want the servants will prepare for you."
"I want speech of you," said the newcomer.
Sir Anthony seemed about to refuse, but thought better of it. "You cancome to my room when you have supped," he said, in the same ungracioustone, speaking with his eyes averted.
"And you--do you not take supper?"
"I have finished," said the knight, albeit he had eaten little. And heturned on his heel.
Very few of those who sat round the table and watched withastonishment the tall stranger's entrance knew him again. It wasthirteen years since Ferdinand Cludde had last sat there; sittingthere of right. And the thirteen years had worked much change in him.When he found that Petronilla, obeying her father's message, haddisappeared, he said haughtily that his wife would sup in her ownroom; and with a flashing eye and curling lip, bade Baldwin see to it.Then, seating himself in a place next Sir Anthony's, he looked downthe board at which all sat silent. His sarcastic
eye, his highbearing, his manner--the manner of one who had gone long with his lifein his hand--awed these simple folk. Then, too, he was a Cludde.Father Carey was absent that evening. Martin Luther had one of thoseturns, half-sick, half-sullen, which alternated with his moods ofmerriment; and kept his straw pallet in some corner or other. Therewas no one to come between the servants and this dark-visagedstranger, who was yet no stranger.
He had his way and his talk with Sir Anthony; the latter lasting farinto the night and producing odd results. In the first place, theunbidden guest and his wife stayed on over next day, and over manydays to come, and seemed gradually to grow more and more at home. Theknight began to take long walks and rides with his brother, and fromeach walk and ride came back with a more gloomy face and a curtermanner. Petronilla, his companion of old, found herself set aside forher uncle, and cast, for society, on Ferdinand's wife, the strangeyoung woman with the brilliant eyes, whose odd changes from grave togay rivaled Martin Luther's; and who now scared the girl by wildlaughter and wilder gibes, and now moved her to pity by fits ofweeping or dark moods of gloom. That Uncle Ferdinand's wife stood indread of her husband, Petronilla soon learned, and even began to sharethis dread, to shrink from his presence, and to shut herself up moreand more closely in her own chamber.
There was another, too, who grew to be troubled about this time, andthat was Father Carey. The good-natured, easy priest received with joyand thankfulness the news that Ferdinand Cludde had seen his errorsand re-entered the fold. But when he had had two or three interviewswith the convert, his brow, too, grew clouded, and his mind troubled.He learned to see that the accession of the young Protestant queenmust bear fruit for which he had a poor appetite. He began to spendmany hours in the church--the church which he had known all hislife--and wrestled much with himself--if his face were any index tohis soul. Good, kindly man, he was not of the stuff of which martyrsare made; and to be forced, pushed on, and goaded into becoming amartyr against one's will--well, the Father's position was a hard one.As was that in those days of many a good and learned clergyman bred inone church, and bidden suddenly, on pain of losing his livelihood, ifnot his life, to migrate to another.
The visitors had been in the house a month--and in that month anobservant eye might have noted much change, though all things inseeming went on as before--when the queen's orders enjoining allpriests to read the service, or a great part of it, in English, camedown, being forwarded by the sheriff to Father Carey. The missivearrived on a Friday, and had been indeed long expected.
"What shall you do?" Ferdinand asked Sir Anthony.
"As before!" the tall old man replied, gripping his staff more firmly.It was no new subject between them. A hundred times they had discussedit already, even as they were now discussing it on the terrace by thefish-pool, with the church which adjoins the house full in view acrossthe garden. "I will have no mushroom faith at Coton End," the knightcontinued warmly. "It sprang up under King Henry, and how long did itlast? A year or two. It came in again under King Edward, and how longdid it last? A year or two. So it will be again. It will not last,Ferdinand."
"I am of that mind," the younger man answered, nodding his headgravely.
"Of course you are!" Sir Anthony rejoined, as he rested one hand onthe sundial. "For ten generations our forefathers have worshiped inthat church after the old fashion--and shall it be changed in my day?Heaven forbid! The old fashion did for my fathers; it shall do for me.Why, I would as soon expect that the river yonder should flow backwardas that the church which has stood for centuries, and more years tothe back of them than I can count, should be swept away by these HotGospelers! I will have none of them! I will have no new-fangled waysat Coton End!"
"Well, I think you are right!" the younger brother said. By what meanshe had brought the knight to this mind without committing himself morefully, I cannot tell. Yet so it was. Ferdinand showed himself alwaysthe cautious doubter. Father Carey even must have done him thatjustice. But--and this was strange--the more doubtful he showedhimself, the more stubborn grew his brother. There are men so shrewdas to pass off stones for bread; and men so simple-minded as to takesomething less than the word for the deed.
"Why should it come in our time?" cried Sir Anthony fractiously.
"Why indeed?" quoth the subtle one.
"I say, why should it come now? I have heard and read of the sectcalled Lollards who gave trouble a while ago. But they passed, and thechurch stood. So will these Gospelers pass, and the church willstand."
"That is our experience certainly," said Ferdinand.
"I hate change!" the old man continued, his eyes on the old church,the old timbered house--for only the gateway tower at Coton is ofstone--the old yew trees in the churchyard. "I do not believe in it,and, what is more, I will not have it. As my fathers have worshiped,so will I, though it cost me every rood of land! A fig for the Orderin Council!"
"If you really will not change with the younger generations----"
"I will not!" replied the old knight sharply. "There is an end of it!"
To-day the Reformed Church in England has seen many an anniversary,and grown stronger with each year; and we can afford to laugh at SirAnthony's arguments. We know better than he did, for the proof of thepudding is in the eating. But in him and his fellows, who had only theknowledge of their own day, such arguments were natural enough. Alltime, all experience, all history and custom and habit, as known tothem, were on their side. Only it was once again to be the battle ofDavid and the Giant of Gath.
Sir Anthony had said, "There is an end of it!" But his companion, ashe presently strolled up to the house with a smile on his saturnineface, well knew that this was only the beginning of it. This wasFriday.
On the Sunday, a rumor of the order having gone abroad, a largercongregation than usual streamed across the Chase to church, preparedto hear some new thing. They were disappointed. Sir Anthony stalked inas of old, through the double ranks of people waiting at the door toreceive him; and after him Ferdinand and his wife, and Petronilla andBaldwin, and every servant from the house save a cook or two and theporter. The church was full. Seldom had such a congregation been seenin it. But all passed as of old. Father Carey's hand shook, indeed,and his voice quavered; but he went through the ceremony of the mass,and all was done in Latin. A little change would have been pleasant,some thought. But no one in this country place on the borders of theforest held very strong views. No bishop had come heretic-hunting toCoton End. No abbey existed to excite dislike by its extravagance orby its license or by the swarm of ragged idlers it supported. FatherCarey was the most harmless and kindest of men. The villagers did notcare one way or the other. To them Sir Anthony was king. And if anyone felt tempted to interfere, the old knight's face, as he gazedsteadfastly at the brass effigy of a Cludde, who had fallen in Spainfighting against the Moors, warned the meddler to be silent.
And so on that Sunday all went well. But some one must have toldtales, for early in the week there came a strong letter ofremonstrance from the sheriff, who was an old friend of Sir Anthony,and of his own free will, I fancy, would have winked. But he wascommitted to the Protestants, and bound to stand or fall with them.The choleric knight sent back an answer by the same messenger. Thesheriff replied, the knight rejoined--having his brother always at hiselbow. The upshot of the correspondence was an announcement on thepart of the sheriff that he should send his officers to the nextservice, to see that the queen's order was obeyed; and a reply on thepart of Sir Anthony that he should as certainly put the men in theduck-pond. Some inkling of this state of things got abroad, and spreadas a September fire flies through a wood; so that there was like to besuch a congregation at the next service to witness the trial ofstrength, as would throw the last Sunday's gathering altogether intothe shade.
It was clear at last that Sir Anthony himself did not think that herewas the end of it. For on that Saturday afternoon he took a remarkablewalk. He called Petronilla after dinner, and bade her get her hoodand come with him. And the gir
l, who had seen so little of her fatherin the last month, and who, what with rumors and fears and surmises,was eating her heart out, obeyed him with joy. It was a fine frostyday near the close of December. Sir Anthony led the way over theplank-bridge which crossed the moat in the rear of the house, andtramped steadily through the home farm toward a hill called theWoodman's View, which marked the border of the forest. He did nottalk, but neither was he sunk in reverie. As he entered each field hestood and scanned it, at times merely nodding, at times smiling, oragain muttering a few words such as, "The three-acre piece! My fatherinclosed it!" or, "That is where Ferdinand killed the old mare!" or,"The best land for wheat on this side of the house!" The hill climbed,he stood a long time gazing over the landscape, eying first the fieldsand meadows which stretched away from his feet toward the house; thelatter, as seen from this point, losing all its stateliness in themass of stacks and ricks and barns and granaries which surrounded it.Then his eyes traveled farther in the same line to the broad expanseof woodland--Coton Chase--through which the road passed along a ridgeas straight as an arrow. To the right were more fields, and here andthere amid them a homestead with its smaller ring of stacks and barns.When he turned to the left, his eyes, passing over the shoulders ofBarnt Hill and Mill Head Copse and Beacon Hill, all bulwarks of theforest, followed the streak of river as it wound away toward Stratfordthrough luscious flood meadows, here growing wide, and there narrow,as the woodland advanced or retreated.
"It is all mine," he said, as much to himself as to the girl. "It isall Cludde land as far as you can see."
There were tears in her eyes, and she had to turn away to concealthem. Why, she hardly knew. For he said nothing more, and he walkeddown the hill dry-eyed. But all the way home he still looked sharplyabout, noting this or that, as if he were bidding farewell to the oldfamiliar objects, the spinneys and copses--ay, and the very gates andgaps and the hollow trees where the owls built. It was the saddest andmost pathetic walk the girl had ever taken. Yet there was nothingsaid.
The Story of Francis Cludde Page 23
